Things.

Today a 96 year old matriarch in our community turned her sedan in front of a full sized pick up and she didn't come out on top. I held her hand, and held her sweet, bleeding face together and she smiled at me with broken cheeks and a broken nose and what was left of her jaw and told me that her ankle hurt. She joked about her first helicopter ride as we loaded her into the bird, and as she flew to Spokane where several dozen family members where already enroute to seige the hospital hallways for her, I prayed. I prayed that her tiny, broken little body would be healed by her sparkly spirit. That her light green eyes would burn through all of the injuries to hang on to life just a little longer. So that she could leave this earth on Her Terms. I prayed that I could be that woman. Strong. Joyful. Grateful.

This has been a week. A week that words aren't enough for. In my own small family and beyond. Days and events that no length or complexity of language can compress into something that would make any sense. So much wonderment at the pain of truth. So much sadness at the reality of time. So much anger at injustice. At the suffering of people. At the success of others who should not dare look success in the eye. At the failure of the Truly Worthy. At my own lack of control. At the helplessness of us, as mortals, to make anything right that is truly wrong, and the potential of us, as mortals, to make the terribly wrong things bearable. 

This week I am learning grace. I am learning hope. I am learning trust. This week I have discovered that there is not a choice for us other than to fight the evil we see and embrace the beauty we find. I am learning that in the scariest, ugliest, most surprising moments, there is joy. There is hope. There is something for me. For my children. My friends. That life, with all of its horror and frustration, is amazing, that every scar has it's strength and that every day has it's purpose.

Everything is out of my control. And that is exactly how I want it. Let Bigger Hands than mine embrace the suffering. Heal the wounded. 

I saw something that said that helping others + your gifting = purpose. It's so simple. But so very true. Find what you love. What fills your soul. What becomes beautiful in your hands and use it to make this world a better place. There is no better mandate. To be fruitful with the passion you are given. To multiply your talent to the betterment of everyone you touch. This is the Great Commision: Go into the world. Use what you are given. Make it Better. 

I pray that if I am given 96 years that I will have a soul to represent each one of them: to stand as a witness that I gave them a smile. A hand. A dinner. A poem. A beer. A hug. A lecture. A wad of gauze on a bleeding wound. A stinging medicine for a quick recovery. I pray that my giftings, whatever they are, are multiplied by my years, and my fruitfulness is measured not by the number of my offspring, but the imprint that I leave on everyone I touch. I pray that I can smile through a broken face and bring joy where there is none. 

This has been a week. 

Things About Hormones

I went to the doctor today to find out why I just keep getting fatter and fatter and why my body is falling apart even though I had all of the Evil Parts removed.

He told me that my body is still trying to figure out what I did to it, and it might be too soon to tell how my remaining ovary is going to react to being abandoned by all of my other girl parts. I supposed he sees a lot of emotional break downs in his office, but I was surprised by how unmoved he seemed when I tearfully explained that All Of My Clothes were too small and I was constantly sweating, and I wasn't entirely emotionally stable, in case it wasn't evident in my quavering voice. To make myself feel better, I asked him if my sister had cried in her appointment earlier in the day. She's 37 weeks pregnant and at least as hormonal as I am. But she didn't. Then I felt like a real heel. Here I am with only one ovary and I am all melodramatic, and my poor waddling sister didn't even shed a tear. Dr. Shannon made me feel better by explaining that Em's unusual high spirits were due to the fact that she had almost an entire hour without kids when she visited him, and things just seem much better in the universe when there are no kids. I heartily agreed, and insisted I was only crying because Aspen was in the waiting room, finishing off the dark chocolate M&Ms that I had tried in vain to hide from the girls. He did tell me I could double my Prozac dose, in a hushed tone, before he left.

As we were leaving the clinic, I was looking at my post-visit notes, and beneath the long line of awkward looking thing like "Pelvic Varices" and "Hysterectomy With Intact Cervix", it had my last menstrual cycle down as November of 2013. That, in and of itself, made me say a little thankful cheer inside, as I realized how AMAZING it is to only be in SOME back pain, and to be able to donate blood, because HEY YOU GUYS, I'm not anemic!!! I have so much to be grateful for. If I can just stop bawling for a minute.

And I was way better off than the poor guy that Christy and I saw today, who cut into his shin bone with a chain saw. Or the gal who drove her car into a stump and collapsed her diaphragm. I really can't complain. Except the chainsaw guy had an adorable red bone hound named Cooper in the back of his truck that I gave water to and then got slobbery kisses in return. It was by far the highlight of my whole day. And my only complaint is that he wouldn't let me take cooper home. I should have let him bleed to unconsciousness. (JUST KIDDING!!!) I should also admit that I had to wait for Aspen during her Irish Dance Lesson at Northern Ales, and that was Really Hard, because in addition to delicious beer, they had Gyros, which, in case you didn't know, are in my Top Five Favorite Foods Of All Time, and this one was in my Top Five Gyros Of All Time, Ever. And then I had to hold my nieces' new kitten named Cake, who is so "relaxed" (read: semi-catatonic from severe emotional trauma of belonging to a tank like 2 year old) that she lolled around on me with her head upside down and her soft fuzzy little face telling me I WAS AWESOME. Or at least that is my interpretation of her trancelike state.

I came home, sweaty and gross from the hot day. I am pouring a glass of wine since the beer has worn off by now, and I am going to watch my kids and dogs try to kill each other with a softball. It's almost paradise. I think I might have a good cry.

Things About A Very Long Day

Truth be told I volunteered for it. Why, You ask? I'm not sure. I think initially, I was being my usual reckless self. But then, even when I calculated the consequences, which included a very Real Threat to my sanity, and possible my physical health as well, I proceeded to make sure that I couldn't get out of it, no matter how hard I tried.

We took a bus full of kids to a construction career day at the fairgrounds in Spokane. I offered to take two of our most challenging special ed students and be their helper for the day. I even contacted both of their parents to make sure I got permission slips signed and logistics all taken care of. And at 7 am this morning, both boys were there, bright eyed and bushy tailed, with more or less NO clue where we here headed. The other 23 students were 8th and 9th graders. I know. I can feel your sympathy flowing already (maybe that's why I volunteer).  In addition to my two special charges, we had four other SPED kids on the bus. But they are mostly behaviorally challenged, so no big deal. #yeahright

The trip down was... Dare I say... Mellow? Maybe the kids were still half asleep. Maybe they saw the warnings flashing in my fake don't-mess-with-me grin. It really wasn't bad. And I had one of my not-sons by my side to help, and one of my daughters was there for me to embarrass. Which always seems to relax me. We arrived and made it through the acquisition of hard hats, safety glasses and ear plugs with no major fallout. Luckily most SPED kids don't care much about whether they look stupid, so they were content to sit there with earplugs (properly) installed and lip read the instructors.

By the time we got outside it was 117 degrees. American. Or at least for my winter-thick blood it felt like it. I learned pretty quickly why safety glasses and hard hats in direct sunlight suck, and why I am glad I am "only an EMT" on the fire line, and I can adhere safely to the engine slug L.C.E.S. (Locate Cooler Establish Shade). One of the two "real" teachers there took one of my charges around to try out all of the heavy equipment, which made me feel secretly relieved and slightly guilty. I took the other one and giggled like a first time mother at a kindergarten talent show as he stacked orange safety cones with a backhoe, proclaiming his resemblance to Bob the Builder, and lower a cement plug onto a target with an  80 foot crane. He also rode way up high in a man lift, all the way to the top of the American flag. Introducing himself to the obliging lineman/guide the whole time.

Then we went inside, where my sidekick became fairly distressed during a game which required donning work boots that didn't fit, other safety apparel, and hula hooping five times successfully. After forty five minutes the guy at the booth gave him a neon slap bracelet and helped him escape from the onslaught of PPE. We had lunch. And then left on the bus. With 27 kids and 63 snap bracelets. Someone's sick idea of handing out snap bracelets to kids on a bus for three hours is just vicious. By the time we got home, I am aware of at least four snap bracelets that were either thrown or accidentally lost  out the windows, welts on several arms from malfunctioning devices, and one attempt at strangulation with a snap bracelet. Happy to report: it was unsuccessful. I have to say that my two SPED kids were the most well behaved on the bus. Even if one wore his lunch on his face all the way home, and the other was semi-catatonic from overstimulation, I was never more convinced of their good manners than when a ninth grader in the back of the bus somehow nailed me RIGHT in the eyeball with a rubberband. My eye stills aches and I will probably be up all night plotting my revenge.  Stupid kids. I gave away my fresh, cold smart water  and sweated my buns off. All in all, it was a good today. I'm fairly certain that  between the ten hours with that crowd, an expedited bike ride to the store when I got home for olives, tomatoes and Jaunitas (yes, I came home and made dinner - please hold your applause til the end), and my new coffee sugar scrub, I'll wake up tomorrow ten pounds lighter. #bringonthedisillusionment

At any rate I'm tired. So I just laid apathetically and listened to the kids fight through their chores, through a kitchen water fight that was not In Good Fun, a broken bulk bottle of ranch dressing that oozed into the bottom of the frig... I just laid here. Ice pack scorching my back. Sunburn scorching my face (darn reflective safety glasses!) ,  1.5 PBRs in, and a weiner dog on my elevated legs. The fan is blowing cool air around the room and in T minus 10 minutes, the children-fighting noises will be isolated to one bedroom upstairs and I can fall asleep, beer in my hand, to some crappy tv show. It's a good life.

Things About Spilling My Guts

I've always been full of words. Over full. Overflowing with words that I've  splashed around wantonly. Careless at times about the damage they do and the repercussions. I can't contain them. They MUST get out. I need to be heard. I wear my words like the latest fashion, gaudy and superficial and then I look back sometimes and think oh.my.god. What was I thinking? Just like those lightening bolt hammer pants in 1990 and the puffed sleeves of my 8th grade graduation nightmare dress that were outdone in poofiness  only by my freshly permed bangs.

But then, much like my fashion sense, I go through dry spells, verbal constipation, when the moisture of life has been sucked out of the words caught up in my soul and they all get jammed together and can't escape. They just sit there at the top of my throat. The tips of my fingers. Drowning me with the passion pushing from behind them. I am choking to death on my own words that are dry and lifeless and do only damage as they tear out of me. They're all RIGHTTHERE. Getting jumbled together. The meaning gets switched and confused and I spew little gasps of harshness while my soul screams at me in protest.

The last couple of weeks has been a perpetual revelation of my recklessness. My whole life has been a series of reckless "leaps of faith" into unknown consequences of sometimes disasterous proportions.  So the question inevitably presents itself: how do I learn? What will help me think before I leap? Before I speak? When do the consequences teach me that the impulses aren't worth it?

The very definition of recklessness horrifies me. And at no time can I remember being utterly unconcerned about the consequences of everything. They often concern me a great deal. But I guess I somehow determine that the crime is worth the punishment. I have also been called careless, cavalier, and selfish, but that kind of goes without saying, although it is said to me quite often. I know right now I am resentful, and resent makes me an ugly person. I have many things to let go, but when they go unchanged and life just goes on... I have lived the lie of turning the other cheek. Of repetitive forgiveness. Of seventy times seven. But even Jesus didn't mandate infinite forgiveness. Even He had a limit. 490 times. Am I there yet? Because some days I feel like I am. And yet I know I am lumping all of the hurts that I forgave years ago into my forgiveness count, when really, it's only fair that I start from scratch with each new day. New person. New situation. If I were truly reckless, my life would look much different. It would involve a hut on a beach with rice and beans and ocean sunsets and nobody knowing where I am. If I were wholly selfish, I would not have the time to Keep Going. To a job that pays crap or a patchwork family that is full of rips and stains that must be fixed. If I was careless, I would cut my losses and run.

I would agree that I manifest some of the traits in all of the definitions. But I would also maintain that any human who lives in this world can say the same. So how did I strike it rich in the area of self-love and self-concern? What has brought me to this point and how do I fix it. It's taking each step and choosing to make it graceful. Make it KIND. Make it not about ME. Make it about THEM. Give love. Find love to give. Even after it's gone. Serve when you least feel like serving. Find joy in ALL that I am given. Not just the things I choose. Eat up the sunshine and shut out the rain. Believe. Hope. Cling to the high moments in the low ones. Always Be Thankful.

reckless
adjective


utterly unconcerned about the consequences of some action; without caution; careless (usuallyfollowed by of  ): to be reckless of danger.

characterized by or proceeding from such carelessness: reckless extravagance.

cavalieradjective


haughty, disdainful, or supercilious: an arrogant and cavalier attitude toward others.

offhand or unceremonious: The very dignified officials were confused by his cavalier manner.


careless
adjective


not paying enough attention to what one does: a careless typist.not exact, accurate, or thorough: careless work.


done or said heedlessly or negligently; unconsidered: a careless remark.
not caring or troubling; having no care or concern; unconcerned (usually followed by of, about,  or in  ):careless of the rights of others; careless about one's behavior; careless in speech.

possessed or caused without effort or art; unstudied: careless beauty.


selfish
adjective


devoted to or caring only for oneself; concerned primarily with one's own interests, benefits, welfare,etc., regardless of others.

characterized by or manifesting concern or care only for oneself: selfish motives.


(http://dictionary.reference.com)

Things About Things That I Create

So just before Christmas this year, I got all Pinteresty, and I was super proud of myself for making a couple of different flavors of sugar body scrub that was, in a word, miraculous. In fact, it worked so well, that I really ended up keeping most of it for myself. Sorry loved ones. But anyway, this spring, with the advent of an additional 15 pounds, combined with insta-sweat-a-thons, no pants that fit, and Things Like That, I have discovered, for perhaps the first time in my life, that the backs of my legs, and my butt (sorry Mom) look like lumpy bags of nickels, as my Adorable Husband would say. I have cellulite. I am sure I had it last year, but apparently I wasn't looking. Or the year before that. Or I have just lived in Denial for a Really Long Time, because sometimes, it's just better.

Either way, I have come face to face with the (literally) ugly truth, and combined with the gasp* CELLULITE, I have some fancy nerves compressed in my back that are directly related to the outsides of my thighs, which, being larger, are much more inclined to bang them themselves painfully into the corners of couches, and beds, and have small children collide with them, and bruise hideously, which I sometimes tell people is where Josh hits me with the phone book so there are no hand prints... And long story not shortened much at all, my thighs are FUUU-UUUHHH--GGLLLYY this year. And they hurt. And they are all tingly and numb and weird all of the time. It's super annoying. Sometimes I think that my pants are just all too tight because I have, ahem, expanded, but then I come home and wear loose sweatpants and they still feel like they fall asleep as soon as I sit down. It's weird, and I am sure you wanted to know all of that. Probably I am fishing for a miracle cure from someone out there, like dry brushing, or deep tissue massage that feels like what you would pay $60 for but is actually free, or something like....

Coffee Sugar Scrub.

It came to me, like in a dream. Except I was awake and it came more in stages, when I was asking Aunt Tracey to make me some of her awesome soap with coffee (she makes a Turkish Mocha soap, turns out!), and I was wracking my brain thinking of All Of The Ways to make my legs feel better, even if they look like crap. And I remembered my sugar scrub from Christmas, which I just ran out of, and I had an epiphany, like POW! Put coffee grounds in it! I was feeling pretty creative and cocky until I pinterested Coffee Sugar Scrub, and every one and their Aunt Margaret had already thought of it. So much for Denial. But after scanning some of the recipes, and taking mental inventory of my pantry, which was much too far away to walk to for a physical inventory, I just made up my own recipe, so I could be all "what up, Pinterest, I just totally created. Independent from you. so..."

Anyway, I made it. It's awesome. I am thinking of slathering it on really thick and letting it set for  few minutes to see if it works as a bronzer too. I will post pictures of my brown the-dyed skin later. If you're interested in cashing in on the awesome that is my creative power, here is my very own, and clearly far superior to Aunt Margaret's, recipe for coffee sugar scrub:

Coconut Coffee Scrub

2 cups of grape seed oil

(did some research and liked the properties of this oil, I ordered a four pack from amazon that was the best deal I can find, and it's a LOT.)

2 cups of warmed coconut oil

(obviously people like me, concerned with health and stuff, use organic. and also because it's cheap at Costco)

1 cup of coarsely ground coffee

(again, being cool, I used the organic cheap stuff from Costco)

3 cups of brown sugar

(I would rather use the organic raw sugar from Costco, but I was fresh out.)

2 dropper fulls of coconut scent

(this is optional. I also got this on Amazon. you could also use vanilla, or... choose your own ending.)

Things About Predictability

I am consistent in one thing: my absolute changeability from second to second. Maybe it's the Gemini in me, or the 2nd born screaming for attention and independence. Maybe it's the repressed, über-controlled former cult member who never was any good at following the directions. Whatever unhealthy thing is it that motivates me, I am seldom of the same frame of mind for more than a few hours at a time. Maybe that is why I have worked in 56 different job fields since I became the age that should count as adulthood. Maybe that it why we have moved 7 times since 2008 and it took me 12 years to finish an ever-evolving college degree. I have had it flung in my face that I don't finish things, which isn't true - it just takes me a little longer than the average bear and I like to take the scenic route. A friend of mine called me predictability many years ago, when he told me the only thing consistent about me was my instability. It's true, but my changes are small, and they roll in and roll out like storm clouds. The thing that I want, the things that I finish - they don't change as much as my responses to whatever it is that stands in the way of those things does. Some days I am tough, I am strong, I am forgiving and kind. A lot of times lately I am angry and brooding and bitter and frustrated. It drains me and leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth and my muscles aching from the hard work of resent. God help me find the will to get over and around the obstacles and make my way with joy.

I think people confuse my whiplash way of doing things with indecision, or not knowing what I want at any given time. They call it discontent and ungratefulness, and while I am certain that I have all of Those Things, I would have to insist that I know EXACTLY what I want at any moment in time, but it happens to change Very Suddenly And Without Warning. And also, quite often, EXACTLY what I want is EXACTLY what I can not have. I am not sure if that is so much my temperament and personality as it is my human nature showing through. Every morning I wake up, determined to CHOOSE to love the life I have, and everyone in it, and everything about it, but usually within 17 minutes I forget my resolve when someone uses all the hot water in the shower or makes a comment about me having too many clothes... a subject very sore to me right now since only 5% (and the  most recently acquired 5%) of my wardrobe fits. And if that doesn't happen then certainly within 17 minutes I remember that 95% of my wardrobe is too small. And oh yeah, I am fatter than I have ever been, and it doesn't feel good. And all of my muscles hurt from working out, and my stomach is growling from counting calories the day before, and my back is Just. Plain. Broke. And nothing seems to help. And even though everything in my head knows how very much worse I could have it, I find a way to block my well-meaning conscience and feel sorry for myself.

Nobody ever promised that life would be a long timeline of everything-you-ever-wanted, but somehow I watched enough Disney movies and read enough bible verses to actually believe that all of my dreams would come true and I would have the desires of my heart. And truthfully, I have. Some of them. They are wedged in between failures and frustrations and moments of Absolute Despair, which fall at strangely coincidental times of the month... or what used to be times of the month until I lost certain internal organs and now I have no idea when I am being irrational or when The Other Party is just being a total poopface. I have come to assume that if a crazy fit of sweating and chills accompanies the Absolute Despair, it's fairly safe to say that I am being irrational and I should let my hormones heal before I make any life decisions. But if there are not hot flashes combined with the mood swings... Well, let's just say The Other Party feels like he's living in a lot of uncertainty, which maybe isn't as uncertain as he's hoping it is. With any luck (for both of us), I will mellow back out to a monotone lasséz-faire take on life and the living of it.

It will help when I am not spending a large portion of my time every month for a $400 paycheck. I mean, even for a high school kid, it's kind of a ridiculous slap in the face. Even if I did miss two weeks of work. $400? For a month? Jeez. No wonder my self-worth is crying quietly in the corner. I don't mind my job. Some days, it even resembles something that could be rewarding, in an I-changed-the-world kind of a way. But other days, when parents of Very Difficult students hand my rear end to me in a tongue lashing for something that was either A)nothing I did, B)something I did do with the BEST of intentions or C)something I plan on doing because it's the thing their gosh darn kid needs to survive the week, and I just want to hand them my four hundred dollars, kidnap the poor kid and hope the parents get lost and starve to death in their own pot field. It is surreal to me how un-parented some kids are. I know that we are there to teach them, but some days I swear it's also the only place they are loved. For all of my lost mom-of-the-year awards, after seeing what I have this year, I will be the first to say that not only do my kids have it pretty frakking good, but they probably ought to swap roles with some of the students I work with for a week or two before they tell me again how I hate them and I am ruining their life.

I don't even know what I am complaining about really. Again, I have it good. Really good, depending on the hour, and the day. And who I am hanging out with. Or NOT hanging out with sometimes. And if the sun is shining, or it's raining like Olympia in October. I am predictably inconsistent. But I am always that way. I always have been. I DO know what I want, and eventually, I will get it. My goal is to get there without killing anybody. Or hurting anybody. Or heck, maybe even helping a couple of people out here and there. Maybe leaving behind the world a better way. Maybe a few more smiles. A laugh or two. I remember when I was a teenager and I was "witnessing" to a heathen that I worked with and I posed the poignant question to him of what he wanted people to say about him when he died. I expected a somber and confused response, as it dawned on him that he didn't have the Light of the Lord to share with people that they could proclaim from the pulpit at his death. But instead, he looked at me, without even pausing, and he smiled a big goofy smile, and he said, " I hope they say that I made them laugh." I think that I was the one saved that day, a thousand years ago behind a subway counter late at night. It became my goal too. If I can't revolutionize the whole world, maybe they can laugh at my instability and predictability. Lord knows I do.

Things To Eat. A lot of. (MACARONI & CHEESE LOVERS, UNITE!)

You guys. I found this recipe.  For homemade mac & cheese. And it's easier than the boxed kind.



Everyone knows that I am a Mac&Cheese aficionado. You know that if any restaurant has M&C on the menu, I am duty-bound to try it. Now that I have relocated into the boondocks, restaurant M&C has become rare enough that I am no longer gaining ten pounds a month from it (don't worry y'all, I am maintaining my city weight beautifully). So I have had to resort to making my own, and so far, this one is pretty epic. I love Pinterest. It's just so... all engrossing. It's like the tar baby that swallows you whole and you can't escape, but really, it's so warm and squishy and nice, why would you want to? In one of my romantic Pinteresting sessions, I found this recipe, and it was so easy, I almost didn't even have to recheck it. In fact, I only rechecked it once to make sure I did it right because it seemed WAY TOO EASY. Which is pretty much my favorite way to cook.

This:

Creamy Yogurt Mac & Cheese

http://cookingalamel.com/2013/08/creamy-greek-yogurt-mac-cheese.html?crlt.pid=camp.wQI0ejUBdpOm

And it actually even LOOKED like this when I was done. Which is how I could justify not taking my own picture, just using hers. (copyright © 2014 | Cooking ala Mel by Melinda Novak) Here also, is her (stolen) recipe. Thanks Mel! 

Creamy Greek Yogurt Mac & Cheese

• 8 oz. (about 2 cups) elbow pasta (I used whole wheat)

• 8 oz. (about 2 cups) shredded cheese (a sharp cheddar is great)

• 1/2 cup plain greek yogurt (I love Chobani)

• 2 cups fresh spinach

• salt & pepper, to taste

• 1/4 tsp. onion powder

• 1/4 tsp. garlic powder

Place the spinach leaves in the bottom of a strainer, and pour the pasta over top to drain and wilt the spinach. Save about 1/2 cup of the pasta water. Return the cooked macaroni and wilted spinach to the pot.Cook the macaroni according to the package’s instructions (about 8-10 minutes), until al dente.

Add about 1/4 cup of the reserved pasta water to the pot, and stir in the cheese until melted. Stir in the greek yogurt, onion powder, garlic powder, salt, and pepper, until smooth and creamy. Stir in the remaining pasta water to thin, if necessary. Serve immediately.

And that's it. 

Lest you labor under the misconception that I go without fancy M&C altogether now, I should fill you in on what I found at the Manito Taphouse when I spent a debauched (as in: drinking 8 beer samples before a doctor's appointment) afternoon drinking beer samplers with my cousin. In addition to two million different beers on tap there, which is reason enough to plan an entire weekend on location, they make a Green chile Mac & Cheese with chicken that was, in a word, heaven. It ranks right up there with Ten Barrel Brewing in Bend and their Pancetta MnC. So. Fracking. Good. And for the record, I will include my top 5 M&C's (to date) from around the region in NO particular order:

1. 10 Barrel Brewing , Bend, OR - 10 Barrel Mac & Cheese (used to be made w/ pancetta but appears they use  andouille sausage now. I'd be willing to try. If forced.)
2. Manito Tap House , Spokane, WA -  Green Chile Mac & Cheese - just, yum. 
3. Brother Jon's Public House, Bend, OR - The Creamy Mac & Cheese is just plain divine comfort food. The Spicy Buffalo Mac is crazy awesome. If you're in a crazy awesome mood. 
4. Deschute's Brew Pub, Bend, OR - Mirror Pond Mac & Cheese. If you've ever had a Mirror Pond ale, there isn't much explaining needed. 
5. No-Li Brewhouse, Spokane, WA - Spicy Mac & Cheese, with that andouille sausage again, you know it's gotta be good... 

Each of these should be tried along with beer. Plenty of beer. And maybe something chocolate for dessert. Because life is too short to not eat chocolatey things whenever they are available. Which is why I make brownies (interpret:coerce teenage daughter to make brownies from comfy spot on couch) to chase my homeade Mac & Cheese. I just gave you all of the reasons to eat comfort food tonight. Consider the rain outside an added bonus.

Things About Kids

They come and they go, you know. They seem to come a lot more than they go, but when they go, it's awfully noticeable.

I could probably pretty easily nominate myself for an international award for Most Complaints About Children Placed, and I am fairly confident that I would win. I don't generally make it a big secret that kids can be, stated indelicately: a pain in the rear. It probably feels like something more of a secret, especially to my kids, that I actually love them fiercely, and in spite of the Vociferous Protests and Strong Objections, I have put the time and energy into them that they have needed to stay alive and know better than to cuss out a teacher or spray paint a church wall. Which is why it is concerning to me when one of them does something like that. Not that any of them actually would... But much more apparent than their delinquent behavior or the scream for attention that is what teenage angst is really about, is the lack of presence when they are not here. This has been clear in a very tangible way this year, with Halle in Bend, and our family quickly reduced to a 3 child  consortium that feels imbalanced. We still haven't quite figured out how to cover all of the household chores with only three kids, especially when two of them are perpetually at practices for whatever athletic undertaking has swept them along in it's undertow. Any given night, we are reduced to a family of four, at best, and  all of the flack I have heard for years about Aspen being spoiled and not doing enough chores has been answered nightly as she is our only remaining captive slave and ends up with the short end of the chores stick a lot lately. She can't wait to be old enough for sports, so that Josh and I will have to ro-sham-bo for who does dishes and who mops the floors.

It is this absence that I hold responsible for the momentary lapse in judgement that led to ringworm infested kitties who poop in the corner of the house behind the pile of wood that I think was supposed to be our new floors someday, but nobody can quite remember. It is also this empty nest syndrome that is perhaps responsible for the fact that we have signed up to take on an exchange student for the next school year. We have been assigned a young (15?) Vietnamese girl named Uyen, and I can't wait to meet her. Already she emails and calls and is perhaps foolishly eager to come here and play American for a little while. I think having another daughter will be good for us. To give us someone else to take care of and worry about. It's so easy to get caught up in our own pettiness. But to experience life through a whole new set of eyes should be interesting. And you can never have too many teenage girls under one roof, right??? Glutton for punishment. I also blame this lack of children underfoot for the total void of productivity this weekend, as I sleep until 11 am and then spend the rest of the day thinking of reasons to not fold laundry. Or mop floors. Or even get dressed. Since it was obviously the kids' fault that I never got anything done when they were little, why should it changed now?

But seriously, in all fairness, I haven't been completely useless, moping around the house in my pajamas and feeling sorry for myself. I have listed junk on eBay and designed my next tattoo and even washed the crock pot. Since I don't have money to go GET my next tattoo today, or a pedicure, both of which feel like compelling needs, I will probably read a book that my brother gave me for Christmas and keeps waiting for me to finish so we can compare notes. And then maybe I will fold all of those clean clothes that are stacked sadly in the laundry room, wondering if they will collect enough dust to be washed again before they are ever folded or worn. Then I could burn through the rest of House Of Cards, which would embitter me against humans for another week. To make up for that, I would have to watch some episodes of Arrow, to remember who the good guys are, and then eat a pan of brownies and then go to bed and have really weird dreams about Stephen Amell killing Kevin Spacey to save me... Sounds like a winning plan.

Things About Me. Or not.

Last night was our final epic performance of Peter Pan, put on by the Northport Highschool Drama class, where I got to live backstage, and whisper-yell at 25 reprobates and catch falling palm trees and flying pirate boots from backstage bunk bed props piled with bored elementary acting extras. And shout captain Hook's lines from behind the curtain when he mysteriously disappears between scenes because the spirit gum on his mustache tore all of the skin off of his upper lip. No really, that happened. And really, the girl who played Wendy and I took turns shouting his lines from offstage. It takes a village to play a pirate. And inevitably, one of our youngest pirates had to go potty three minutes into the first act. And two of the lost boys either "forgot" or just refused to wear their hoods, thereby reducing them to nothing more on stage than a crabby teenager in ripped jeans carrying a bow and arrows. After two hours of applying makeup, pinning consumes, yelling cues and silencing freshmen, I was a hot mess. Literally, and not in the attractive way.

Yesterday, before the show, I had a little bit of an emotional meltdown at Josh, which involves yelling at him for a Lot Of Things that aren't his fault and aren't even a real problem until I circularly-reason my way to the crux of the issue, which is that I feel like crap. And when I feel like crap, which is always, I either have to take it easy and feel crappier because I am not doing the things that I need to do and that need to get done, or not take it easy and feel crappier because I am not taking it easy. I feel like the latter is the lesser of the two evils, which is obviously flawed thinking, but as I get farther and farther behind in everything, and less and less "healed" overall, the frustration becomes paramount to wisdom. 

After the show, and running myself in silly circles about silly things that couldn't be fixed or controlled anyway (i.e spirit gum avulsions), I stepped back and watched the glowing students and the glowing parents, and as much as it's s thankless job, and as much as I now have worlds more respect for teachers in their underpaid positions, there is something to be said for watching a kid (even one who just told you off backstage) enjoy the rush of OWNING a character, and a story, on the stage, and selling it successfully to their parents (even ones who just chewed you out backstage) and know that years from now, they won't remember you whisper-yelling backstage, but they will remember that play. Their part. Probably even their lines. And maybe you helped with something worthwhile. Even if there were no glowing parents to take your picture afterward (in fact I don't have a single photo in my possession to even prove it ever happened),  and instead of thanking you they glare at you for whisper-yelling at their child, and nobody even knows that if you hadn't been there that palm tree would have landed on Wendy's head, or Captain Hook would have been absolutely wigless for the entire last scene, or that one pirate would have definitely been short  one boot. Even if you spent the rest of the week on the couch, you were part of something big for a couple of hours. 

Ultimately, in the end, all of my frustrations and bad tempers can be attributed to A) a long winter, B) an uncooperative body and C) not getting to play Peter Pan. I'm still a little bitter.  Just a little. 

Things About The Weather

Ever since I was a kid, I've had this sneaking suspicion that while God probably doesn't give a whole lot of credence to my rambling, nonsensical, teenage girl prayers for the most part, He always seemed to get my weather requests. If I prayed hard enough for rain. Voila! Rain! Same with sun, snow, or temperatures over 70 degrees so that my mom would let us wear shorts. Sometimes I forget about this wizard-like-control-of-the-weather deal that me and God have, so when it reoccurs to me I have to test it out. Now don't get me wrong, I am one of winter's biggest fans. Two weeks ago I was singing Christmas Carols and still relishing the soft white blizzards. That hit every. single. day. But today I realized that half of my physical problem is that I have been wearing shoes for almost 5 months, non stop. This has got to end. Much like most of your body heat escapes from your head, most of our earthbound joy is absorbed from our feet (I totally just made that up, but let's go with it). And encapsulating all ten toes, crusty heels, paint-chipping toenails and even plantar warts, inside of fuzzy boots and warms socks and suffocating shoes has nearly killed me. It's time to wage war on winter. It's time for flip flops. 20 years ago in February I was playing soccer on a muddy field with snow and ice around the edges BAREFOOT. I know some of you were there, Pete, Amber, Em... Michael... And all of you WaterHooligans... Don't deny it. I have been so busy growing up and being smart and doing the Best Things that I have forgot how to determine my own seasons. How to reconnect with the outside world. How did I get so distracted? How do I ever expect to get better if I don't get a fracking pedicure and get back out there???

please note the footwear... this was clearly not a barefoot game -
unless Justin is back there putting his boots back on?

Rise with me, army of toe-breathers. don your springtime footwear (or none at all) and claim this season as officially Springtime, come heck or higher snow lines. (It's ok if you wear a beanie with your flip flops, since most of our body heat escapes out of our heads...) Crank your car heaters up full blast on the floor setting and embrace the enlivening burn of snow between your toes. Remember being young and stupid and making bad choices that nearly caused frost bite! Live in the now that is this lionlike baby March - dominate it with your bare feet and transform it into a lamb with me!

Ok, so maybe I have been reading too much Shakespeare and Divergent and I am looking for my own French Castle Wall Held By Rational Adults to storm. But seriously. A week on the couch and what do you expect?

Things That Hurt, and Things That Don't

This morning I woke up to a phone call from a young girl in Vietnam who is coming to live with us for the next school year. I spoke to her and her parents in small and confusing sentences, about how excited we all were to meet each other.

When I got out of bed and shuffled out of my room, I found a letter from another young girl. One who already lives with me. One who is not excited about living with me and whom I have hurt and mishandled.

The letter was brutal. It was young. It was carelessly honest, spewing out words that will never be retracted, but will be remembered. The first thought that went through my head was : oh man. Did I ever say these things? To my mom? Because the sting was real. Even though I know that this is part of growing up. I know that growing pains aren't just felt by the kids that are growing, they are felt by the people growing them. I know I can not take it personally, however personally it was written. I know all too well how the lack of maturity is also the lack of a filter. I know to set the letter on a shelf and put it away, inside of me, and take out the things that I can hear: You Never Listen; You Humiliate Me; You Judge Me; and work on those things. Address them with my actions more than my words. This anger is not remedied with seven hour long conferences. It is remedied with compassionate parenting, but firm parenting. I have given all of my children, and in fact all of the people in my life, far too much liberty with me. I have allowed them to blame their poor choices and bad attitudes on me. I have enabled their excuses and I have tolerated their justifications. Me, of all people. I have spoiled them. I am an enabler. A DIS-abler. Because really, I have disabled them, thus far, to being successful in relationships and taking responsibility for their actions and attitudes and behaviors. I will try to listen, and respond with truth, even if it is inconvenient for them. I will try to discipline without humiliation. I will try to never judge, and always remember my own careless youth. There is no perfect parent. There is no manual on raising girls. Trust me, I have searched. There is only heartache and joy and learning on both sides. And I am learning. So it she. But it stings. For both of us.

One more day, home from work, endless hours to face my physical pain, my failures as a mother, a wife, a friend. Free from distractions. I have all day to read books or watch TV, and I find myself staring at the wall thinking: Ok, what next? How do I take the next step? What is the next step? Where do I go from here, other than the bar? The bar. That sounds very appealing.

Too much snow, too much gray, too much hurty couch time. I need to go for a jog in the sunshine with a keg of beer at the other end and happy dancing daughters singing my praises. Wouldn't it be loverly? Soon. It's coming. I can taste it. There was a speck of blue sky this morning when I got up that was pushing back the clouds. It lost the battle, but maybe tomorrow. Maybe winter will give up the ghost and springtime will come. Or maybe I can make my own sunshine out of hope and determination. (and a little bit of whisky?) I am ready. Or I will be, as soon as I shave my legs...

Things I Should Give Up

Everybody is yammering about Lent, and, being a Recovered Homeschooler, it is against my religion to miss out on anything that everybody is doing, so I am here to yammer about Lent as well. Last year, for Lent, a day or two after it started when I finally realized what Everybody was yammering about, I decided to give up alcohol, which went great for 4-5 days until I began rationalizing that wine isn't the same as other alcohols because it's Biblical, and started the slippery decent into wanton abandonment of self-deprivation.

This year, rather than kidding myself about giving something that I may or may not be addicted to up, I find myself forced into yielding another layer of self-image that I have fought so fiercely since I was 15 years old to establish and maintain. This lent, I sit on my ever widening rear end and I release the adamant insistence that I am Peter Pan. At least physically. I will somehow come to terms with the Peter Pan in my soul that my nursemaid nana exterior can't keep up with, and I will accept the limitations that years of abuse and neglect have put on my body. Since the lat surgery, and the accident, I have gone progressively downhill and can't muster up the gumption to take painkillers and push through. Probably because taking painkillers and pushing through in the past has taken a higher toll than I could see through my Peter Pan eyes. Suddenly I realize that if I do not heal properly, this level of immobilization could become lifelong and permanent. I am terrified of being always in this state of pain and exhaustion. And so I relinquish, this Lent, my need to be tough. My need to be be there for every drama practice, every minute of work, all of the places that I believe I am needed. Somehow I will overcome the panic I feel of missing out, and letting people down, and being forgotten when I cannot carry my share of the burden. That's the real thing. Peter Pan's greatest fear. To be forgotten. To have the nursery window closed because he was away for too long and there is no place for him. Or for Tiggger to find out that he is not the only one and that his bounce has turned into more of a geriatric wobble.  Growing old is hard, especially when denial has compromised your ability to heal, and your ever youthful mind is up against a body that has been taken advantage of. I know that I will get better. And I also know that by then, I won't be forgotten and not very window will be closed. But letting go of the burning NEED to be ever present in the lives of as many people as I can is as hard to give up as wine. Almost.

I struggle with immense guilt for not being at work. Not cleaning my house and proving myself useful. To the extent that I asked the doctor for a note, excusing me from school, errr, work, and I tried to give it to all of the office ladies so they would know that I wasn't faking or being lazy, and they all looked at me like I was... Well, homeschooled. My house is trashed. Every cell in me itches to just pick up That One Thing. And then the next, and the next, and OhMy look at that dust... But no. Tonight, people will walk in my door and I will judge myself through their eyes and think "man, she was here all day on her butt (sorry mom) and look at this mess!" when in reality, if they are like me, they are thinking, oh thank god,  I'm not the only one. This lent, I am going to work on not allowing myself the judgement. Not clinging ferociously to some image that is really not me anyway. Peeling off a layer of that ugly onion of Trying To Impress People, and just breathe. Accept where I am, plan for the future. Hope I don't lose my job and trust that I will still have value in the eyes of the people I are about. Even if I am not Peter Pan. On the outside.

Things That I Shouldn't Talk About

Let's get this out there:

I am a reluctant believer. As in, I believe in God against my own stubborn will. If you have questions about this, then read : Things That I Believe . 

I am also against politics. As in, I hate them. I think they should go away. I think people spend so much time worrying about GREAT BIG THINGS that really don't matter that they miss out on all of the Best Little Things that are really what life is all about. If I didn't face immense guilt for not voting, I would not vote, but being related to the people that I am related to, the guilt is immense and imminent. Not that the ballot doesn't occasionally slip into the envelope missing a few marks here and there. Most of the problem is that I am uneducated. And in order to feel like I am not making The Worst And Most Uninformed Decision Ever, I would need to educate myself, which would require reading a lot of things and trying to weed through the biases and getting Really Ticked Off at people who can't just Be Logical and Do The Right Thing, but have to make laws about it. Then I just start writing my own laws about death penalties for petty people and mandatory sterilizations and it really isn't healthy. So I am against politics. 

Every once in awhile though, a Facebook rampage catches my eye and I feel compelled to say Something. But once again, I am forced to educate myself, which I did a little bit this time, really by reading some heavily biased articles on both sides and trying to read between the lines to see what the issue really was, but I also went to some government websites to check things out. I was pretty proud of myself. And if you correct my incorrect referencing in this blog, I will probably block you. 

In case you aren't aware of it, I was homeschooled throughout my K-12 lifespan. I guess there were like 5 days in a Christian Kindergarten, but I only remember the potato stamps and the tape decks with headphones and Sarah T wearing a zip sweatshirt with nothing underneath which violated my accelerated 5 year old fashion sense. It was purple though. Kudos on color choice, Toed. So back to being homeschooled: I was. And I don't regret it. Not for one second, as if I had any choice. But watching my 16 year old Tigger daughter go through several public high schools is enough for me to know that homeschooling was probably not a bad choice for me: someone else's 16 year old Tigger daughter (thanks mom and dad). I am not against homeschooling. But even with aforementioned 16 year old, I wouldn't consider doing it myself for my own kids for many reasons, the first of which is the ENORMITY of information that I didn't receive and have spent years chasing (also not a bad thing), as well as the total unabashed humility to admit that I Do Not Have (really any) All Of The Answers So Don't Ask Me, and the athletic and vocational opportunities I didn't get. 

If done well, homeschooling can be a powerful thing. I have RARELY, very very rarely, seen it done well. My mom, bless her heart, was the Champion of Effective Homeschooling, and my siblings and I have her to thank for our above average communication and questionable, if subjective, reasoning skills. However, I'd venture to say that she will admit that somewhere in the middle of educating her 6 kids and the drama that life with all of them brings, some of her hardcore educational steam wore off. I personally hold Bill Gothard and his ATIA booklets from Hades responsible for her loss of motivation, along with the implosion of our family and the loss of a brother and some other cult-like dealings we faced. But if homeschooling was ever done right, my mom was on that track.

All of that being said, I see this story pop up on Facebook about this persecuted homeschooled family, the Romeike's. Of course all of my remaining Christian Home Schooling friends (some of which ARE doing it right, I believe) are posting it because, oh the horror, of seeing religious liberties, the thing this nation was founded on, revoked or withheld. My other friends, (you know who you are) of the left wing bent, anti homeschool and anti god in some cases, are posting the story because, oh the horror, of the hypocrisy of supporting immigrants with threatened religious beliefs in the face of denying immigrants who seek survival outside of their impoverished homeland. And of course, according to some, it's all Obama and his nasty administration's fault. And according to others, homeschooling is a privilege not a right and we can't support the brainwashing of children by crazy parents any more than the German government can. Strong feelings on both sides. I read the articles. On both sides. I did some hunting. Because for me, homeschooling is my heritage, and I am curious about it's ramifications; I have also been to Germany and was profoundly impacted by the governmental regulations on religious practice, where the pastors are all state employees. And so I wonder, what is the right thing? Morally, ethically, legally, in this situation. The cynic in me supports deporting over-productive families who are against Harry Potter. The libertarian in me stands staunchly in their defense. The rationalist that I would like to imagine being says that the ISSUE is very much NOT the issue. So back off, Michael Farris. 

So where did the Romeike's go wrong, and ethically, what is the right answer? Which might not coincide with the correct legal answer...

The Romeike's have found a friend and a defender in Mike Donnely, a lawyer for The Homeschool Legal Defense Association. While Mr. Donnely makes many valid points about religious freedom and the right in the US to homeschool, he is overshooting the legal issue of how the Romeike's got here: seeking political asylum. The constitution grants political asylum or refugee status to "to people who have been persecuted or fear they will be persecuted on account of race, religion, nationality, and/or membership in a particular social group or political opinion. "  http://www.uscis.gov/humanitarian/refugees-asylum . Refugee status is legally granted to "people outside of their country who are unable or unwilling to return home because they fear serious harm." While the Romeike's were denied the right to homeschool in Germany, it can be questioned whether they truly qualify as refugees. If the Romeike's had immigrated to the US for work opportunities and acquired their citizenship according to the same path that workers from Mexico or other countries would, this issue would never have presented itself to the federal court system. But the Romeike's seem intent on making this an issue of religious liberty and "persecution" they may have faced in Germany, which I am sure makes the German government feel very supportive of them, as well as Obama or any president or administration. The Romeike's would have you believe that 'serious harm' would include the mandatory public education or state approved private education of their children or having their children removed from their home. The main objection to enrolling their children in state approved public or private school is their lack of opportunity to teach their children Christian principles. Unless Germany is doing something totally weird, most school days are less than seven hours, leaving a large remaining chunk of time for parental influence. The "serious harm" might refer to the very large fines that the Romeike's were faced with paying, but most likely the thing they fear the most is having their children's thoughts directed by someone other than themselves. Which for many, is the most terrible thing. Homeschooling, in my best and most well informed and experienced opinion, is by ALL MEANS a privilege, and should probably be a right. If it is not, are parents precluded from educating their children in any religious vein that they choose during non-school hours?

For me, the legal thing is not the ethical thing, and vise verse. Sure, they should be allowed to stay and work their way toward citizenship, assuming they are "a person of good moral character, attached to the principles of the Constitution of the United States, and well disposed to the good order and happiness of the United States during all relevant periods under the law". http://www.uscis.gov/us-citizenship/citizenship-through-naturalization/path-us-citizenship But to attempt to do it through the pathway of political asylum is where, in my mind, they went wrong. If I was a judge, I would have to rule that they do not qualify under that status. Much the same as the jury who will side with the plaintiff for a giant settlement against an insurance company that was in no wise responsible, just because "they have more money than they know what to do with" (I sat on this jury, ladies and gentlemen), the court cannot grant asylum just because it would be "really great" if the Romeike's can stay. They need to find a legal pathway that has nothing to do with homeschooling or persecution, unless someone is missing some fingers....  But that is just my two sense, and what do I know?

I guess my point in saying all of this is that I shouldn't ever host political opinions, because I realize I open myself up for an onslaught of debate, and I really can't stand seeing it on my page even if I initiate it. I also openly admit that I am SURE that I am missing some facts and don't know the whole story. Do we ever? But since my Facebook page was slathered with this stuff anyway, and since anytime I see the words HOMESCHOOL, MICHAEL FARRIS, or PERSECUTION on my page I get a little bristly, I just wanted to throw out there some considerations that might not be the BLACK/WHITE that the media is feeding us. In closing, I hope that the Romeike's can stay. Not as political refugees but as good people concerned with the raising of their children in the best way that they know how. I do not hold Barack Obama or anybody in the judicial system responsible for the loss of their appeal. And once again, I hate politics, and we are missing the big picture.