Some days, everything is wrong. Just everything.
I know all of the routines about putting on gratitude and The Power of Positive Thinking, but some days, everything is wrong.
I know it's just the shadow of hurt and disappointment casting it's heavy darkness over the unforgiving demand of life.
I know that in the morning, or whenever the sun comes out next, everything will seem better.
I know that all of the things that seem MASSIVE and UNFIXABLE right now will resolve themselves somehow. They always do.
I know that no matter how unloved, unlovely and unlovable I feel in this moment, that someone, somewhere loves me, and it matters.
I know that ALL THE THINGS that need to be done and just aren't right are not that big of a deal.
But knowing doesn't make it better. I am not sure what does. I had a bad week. I don't even know where to start pulling it all back together, when the little things seem colossal and the big things seem absolutely insurmountable. Physically, mentally, emotionally I feel like I am sitting underneath a 50,000 pound bag of rocks that were designed specifically to Take Me Out. The only thing I can think to do is to take the rocks out one by one and laugh at them, chuck them over the side of sanity and move on.
Rock #1: (starting small) Dog pee under the table. Again. And who gives two shits if my house smells like dog pee. It could be worse. Like cat pee. Or carpet. Or in my bed. The constantly ready (because I never remember to dump it) mop bucket of pine sol is a temporary fix to an eternal problem - the Untrainable Wiener Dog.
Rock #2: $9.69 in my bank account and the immediate knowledge that the bills are coming in and I lost an entire week of work being gone this week. I know that I have checks coming in to cover it, but then there's next month, and the next, and more bills, and more broken things, and no dog food, and no gas, and not enough work... I can't even breathe. It NEVER STOPS, and it's all up to me to figure out. Every penny. Every light bulb. Every night under a roof and mile in a car. Every nugget of dog food and bottle of pine sol. Just me. But it always works out. Somehow it does. I haven't even had to cash in the quarters in the jar on my headboard yet. It won't ever stop, but it WILL be OK.
Rock #3: Kids I can't control. They don't go where I want, feel what I need or help with much of anything. They are selfish, disrespectful and immature - and that's what makes them kids. And me the parent, with no idea how to deal with them. The older they get the harder and more painful it is. And that's when it's time for me to step out of the way of the train and they learn about real consequences, not the Wrath of Mom or Demon Mom Voice. But real life, and how much it can suck. I have to let it go, and decide how much support I can give in every different situation. Parenting is the absolute worst job in the world. It's thankless, excruciating and it pays crap. In my next life I am choosing a different career.
Rock #4: An arm I can't use from a shoulder that I can't fix until the next round of doctors approve the next round of treatment through the next round of insurance. At least now I have insurance, and a doctor, and maybe someday, an arm I can use again. The nagging pain I have been in all week is an awesome reminder of how I used to live every day in pain for several years, and now, it's a rare event. So I am thankful. But still, let's fix this.
Rock #6: I am lonely. Someone once said that when you feel the loneliest, that's when you most need to be alone. That statement made me angry until I thought about it. It seems like a good hug from someone or having a shoulder to lean on every night would fix everything, when really, those shoulders and hugs bring their own set of problems. Having a good cry about having nobody isn't much different from having a good cry about having someone hurt you. Maybe I need to be alone until I can appreciate not being alone even more. Like pain all the time... to remind you how good it is to not hurt when it finally stops. I don't believe in being alone, but it definitely believes in me, so I might as well make the best of it and find a new TV show to watch.
There are still so many rocks left in the bag. And I am so tired from carrying it. And I can't tell if I am actually getting rid of them or just labeling them. But I don't know where else to start, but I am thankful for solutions. And I believe that it will get better - as soon as the sun comes out, the pine sol cleans and the paychecks post. Feel good is right around the corner...
Things About Wenatchee
Once upon a time a girl who really couldn't afford it but had all this faith in The Good Things To Come, traveled to a far away land for a class about things she thought she might be good at. So much speculation in that sentence. Story of my life. It's really all about speculation. Wondering if THIS STEP is the Best Good Decision she has ever made or the Worst Mistake of Her Life. Ever unpredictable, the coin lands as it will, with the dashing prince that turns out to be a dud and the lost cause that becomes a best friend. But as the snowboard full of beer sits before me, and with the full knowledge that I will be able to pay at least for this One Last Supper, all is well.
This week I am in Wenatchee. I am learning how to be a Public Information Officer for all-hazard incidents for the federal government, which is to say they are teaching me how to avoid saying anything of traceable importance or litigatable fact to the surging media that appears on any major fire, flood, earthquake, terrorist attack or Black Friday sale. So far the only definite thing that I have learned is that when I am shot on video for an interview, I look exactly like my dad in a really bad wig (no offense dad, but it's a good thing you aren't a woman) #notphotogenic. It's a good thing I am really good at Twitter, and Facebook, and Writing All The Things.
Being in the town of Wenatchee, which is not only geographically, but culturally dead center between Bend, Oregon and Kettle Falls, Washington, I am forced to do what any self respecting single-woman/beer-loving/unpaid-employee would: seek out the breweries and conduct an experiment in awkward drink-alone situations and creative bar-tab justification. It's working, y'all. I am winning. Not only have I succesfully ruled out the chance that I will EVER appear before a video camera again, I have determined that for the dedicated beer drinker, the only true micro-brewery in Wenatchee is Badger Mountain Brewing. While Badger Mountain doesn't offer a full menu, in the Happy-Hour I spent there with 6 of their noteably good beers, the brewer/cook came out and chatted with me, because he's cool. Well worth the visit. Don't even waste your time at Columbia Valley Brewing since apparently their brewing apparatus broke down months ago and they forgot to tell anybody. Their food also leaves something to be desired, namely flavor, and the place smelled like Pine Sol, which is totally cool if you're in a nursing home. Saddle Rock Brewing, on the other hand, while making the most mouth watering calzone I have ever experienced (it is a full-on experience), offers only one SRB beer on tap, calling into question their viability as a "brewery". Let's go with "Awesome taphouse with a brewing hobby" instead. That's better. To be fair, the one beer is decidely good, even for an IPA, which most of you know is not my favorite. But the WVC (Wenatchee Valley College) 4.0 IPA is an easy, not-too-hoppy drinker, so most IPA die-hards will be dismayed. Upon further "research" involving a 12 beer sample flight and a burly, tattooed, red-headed waiter, it appears that SRB releases one brew a month in addition to their 11 guest beers. Turns out their 45 gallon brewing system is truly a platform for brewing experimentation. Potential for better days (and brews) ahead. I don't hate it, especially when the guest taps are from Ninkasi, Deschutes (including Not The Stoic?!?!?) and 21st Amendment, a brewery I had been itching to try.
So even if I don't make a very good camera-ready PIO, I know that I can Tweet the rest of them to shame, and if all else fails: BEER.
Things About Teaching
I have been subbing this whole week, which is good, since that means that I might be able to pay my bills next month, maybe. The cool thing about being a substitute teacher is that there is a 7/12 chance that I will be in one of my kid's or one of my not-kid's classrooms. This is met with any imaginable level of enthusiasm, ranging from "oh noooo (groan)" to high-fives in the doorway. Lucky for my self-esteem it's usually a happy mix of the two. Yesterday I told one of my (not) kids that I would take their test for them if they gave me one of their green chocolate chip cookies. I lied. But I got a cookie, so all-in-all, the breach in trust was worth it. I also recruited them to help write some stories for me, but since it was a English/Language Arts class, it seemed TOTALLY justifiable.
Today I got to teach a weightlifting class, which involved a couple of the "experienced" lifters from the senior class demonstrating their impressive muscles to the newbies. And I did 3 incline sit ups, which means I don't have to work out again, forever. Then in a history class that isn't really history but Current World Problems, we got to research conspiracy theories. The class was evenly divided between I-don't-give-a-crappers and Oh-my-gosh-did-you-know-Obama-is-actually-a-lizardman-alienners. I definitely lean more toward the lizard man side so I chose to ignore the crappers and read all about how Madonna and John Cusack are actually vampires. I am good at teaching this stuff. Also: did you know that Russia made their own Men In Black, but it's a documentary and therefore TOTALLY VERIFIABLE FACT?!?!?!? Aliens are real, y'all, and they are here.
Tomorrow I am back in SPED, and while I am dreading the poop fingers, I am relieved to be escaping the incline sit ups. I am not a fan of teaching any grade level of math, which is suddenly the only thing we do in SPED, apparently. So I am lobbying hard for a reassignment to Middle School, where the cookies are accessible and source-able (this is critical to avoid lethal exposure to all fecally communicated diseases).
The coolest thing about teaching at this school is that I live next door. This makes going home for lunch, a.k.a a nap, or a coke, or a handful of ibuprofen, super doable. It also means that I can look out almost any given window and see my house, and the bad dogs running around in the driveway, or the Mormon Missionaries that are knocking forlornly on my non-responsive door. The latter is unfortunate, since I have some serious raking projects in my yard that I could use some help with... they're always asking if there's anything they can do. I feel bad for never having anything, and then when I do, I am not even there to offer them reprieve from their boredom.
In spite of the obvious perks (?), all of this subbing has really cramped the escapist plans that I have been making since I got off of the prom bus Sunday at 3:27 AM. I was able to rush to town for a meeting last night, with grandiose plans after for green beers and shots of Jameson, but found myself home in bed by 9:30 like a good, responsible teacher. Working has also cut into my writing time, which means that the 37 stories I have to write this month will all be hammered out in about 1.5 days. To my editor (if I had one): I apologize preemptively. To the rest of you, if you want to hang out and drink wine and help me write 37 articles, not necessarily about Jesus or dinosaurs, hit me up. I will be awake all night.
Today I got to teach a weightlifting class, which involved a couple of the "experienced" lifters from the senior class demonstrating their impressive muscles to the newbies. And I did 3 incline sit ups, which means I don't have to work out again, forever. Then in a history class that isn't really history but Current World Problems, we got to research conspiracy theories. The class was evenly divided between I-don't-give-a-crappers and Oh-my-gosh-did-you-know-Obama-is-actually-a-lizardman-alienners. I definitely lean more toward the lizard man side so I chose to ignore the crappers and read all about how Madonna and John Cusack are actually vampires. I am good at teaching this stuff. Also: did you know that Russia made their own Men In Black, but it's a documentary and therefore TOTALLY VERIFIABLE FACT?!?!?!? Aliens are real, y'all, and they are here.
Tomorrow I am back in SPED, and while I am dreading the poop fingers, I am relieved to be escaping the incline sit ups. I am not a fan of teaching any grade level of math, which is suddenly the only thing we do in SPED, apparently. So I am lobbying hard for a reassignment to Middle School, where the cookies are accessible and source-able (this is critical to avoid lethal exposure to all fecally communicated diseases).
The coolest thing about teaching at this school is that I live next door. This makes going home for lunch, a.k.a a nap, or a coke, or a handful of ibuprofen, super doable. It also means that I can look out almost any given window and see my house, and the bad dogs running around in the driveway, or the Mormon Missionaries that are knocking forlornly on my non-responsive door. The latter is unfortunate, since I have some serious raking projects in my yard that I could use some help with... they're always asking if there's anything they can do. I feel bad for never having anything, and then when I do, I am not even there to offer them reprieve from their boredom.
In spite of the obvious perks (?), all of this subbing has really cramped the escapist plans that I have been making since I got off of the prom bus Sunday at 3:27 AM. I was able to rush to town for a meeting last night, with grandiose plans after for green beers and shots of Jameson, but found myself home in bed by 9:30 like a good, responsible teacher. Working has also cut into my writing time, which means that the 37 stories I have to write this month will all be hammered out in about 1.5 days. To my editor (if I had one): I apologize preemptively. To the rest of you, if you want to hang out and drink wine and help me write 37 articles, not necessarily about Jesus or dinosaurs, hit me up. I will be awake all night.
Things About Sickness
I think I have cabin fever. Maybe I have kid fever. Maybe I just have a fever. Either way I am sick. Definitely sick of my "cabin". And several other things that make up the majority of my life. Like small children who stick their fingers in their underpants and then smell them and announce their displeasure therewith. WHY? My friends at work (school, that is) and I debate about which is the lesser of the 3 evils: Elementary, Middle or High School. Give me high school EVERY DAY. At least by then when the kids are (we won't debate if) sticking their hands in their pants they have arrived at the understanding that is socially unacceptable to demonstrate, smell and denounce publicly. Usually. I won't say we don't have some exceptions...
Relying on work as a substitute at the school comes with the knowledge that I am not at liberty to turn down shifts that are offered to me. A) there might not be any other work that month and B) the office might decide you're not reliable, never call you again, and you end up homeless on the street. With as disgusted as I am with my house right now, the second problem seems slightly less disconcerting than usual, except that we got snow up on the mountain yesterday. The mountain right outside my window. So when they call, I go. Even when there is the distinct possibility that I might have the same stomach virus that kept Aspen puking the day before yesterday, and/or the same one that induced vomiting during the prom on Saturday night by a student on my bus, of course. He wasn't smelling his own puke at least. But he did take half of the high school boys outside to see it, because who doesn't want to test out newly acquired forensic skills by taking bets on what this kid's last meal was. Technicolor yawns never get old, y'all. Lucky for me, or not, I never vomit. Hardly ever. In fact, the only times I remember (<----key word) puking in recent history were emotionally induced. Like that one time that my husband left for reals. Or certain revelations about the activities of teenage daughters. But I win the fight with most viruses and rarely succumb to an intimate encounter with the porcelain throne. Which is good, since that sucker hasn't been cleaned in at least three eons (until today). No puking, so clearly I am fine to work. Even if my back feels like Chuck Norris tap danced across my lower lumbar and reduced all of my vertebrae to crumbs. I am fine to work. Of course. I would love to watch children rediscover the scent of their own butt crack all day. It's my favorite.
So I am sick. The only medicine that seems to be helping is a steady stream of 80s rock alternated with marathons of Criminal Minds. Because watching serial killers murder children makes poop fingers seem bearable - almost. My sanity revolves around the knowledge that I can and will escape the cabin and the poop fingers at some point this week to surface momentarily in the quasi-adult world of meetings, interviews, writing, and most importantly, beer. Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day, which means I don't have to come home until all of the green beer is gone. From everywhere.
Hopefully that will make up for the toilet that I just was forced to clean. My favorite child, Noone, presumably with an upset stomach, decimated it. I had just finished reading a great story about a plane that had just taken off from London and was forced to turn around and re-land due to a "liquid fecal excrement" event in the lavatory that was apparently overtaking the entire flight. I feel your pain, airplane people. I want desperately to get off of my poop-laden flight, but there are no maintenance people to call in, and no free hotel nights while they take care of business. I am captain, concierge and liquid fecal excrement scrubber of this voyage to insanity. And supervisory poop finger washer. I wear many hats, y'all.
I am kind of sick of it.
Relying on work as a substitute at the school comes with the knowledge that I am not at liberty to turn down shifts that are offered to me. A) there might not be any other work that month and B) the office might decide you're not reliable, never call you again, and you end up homeless on the street. With as disgusted as I am with my house right now, the second problem seems slightly less disconcerting than usual, except that we got snow up on the mountain yesterday. The mountain right outside my window. So when they call, I go. Even when there is the distinct possibility that I might have the same stomach virus that kept Aspen puking the day before yesterday, and/or the same one that induced vomiting during the prom on Saturday night by a student on my bus, of course. He wasn't smelling his own puke at least. But he did take half of the high school boys outside to see it, because who doesn't want to test out newly acquired forensic skills by taking bets on what this kid's last meal was. Technicolor yawns never get old, y'all. Lucky for me, or not, I never vomit. Hardly ever. In fact, the only times I remember (<----key word) puking in recent history were emotionally induced. Like that one time that my husband left for reals. Or certain revelations about the activities of teenage daughters. But I win the fight with most viruses and rarely succumb to an intimate encounter with the porcelain throne. Which is good, since that sucker hasn't been cleaned in at least three eons (until today). No puking, so clearly I am fine to work. Even if my back feels like Chuck Norris tap danced across my lower lumbar and reduced all of my vertebrae to crumbs. I am fine to work. Of course. I would love to watch children rediscover the scent of their own butt crack all day. It's my favorite.
So I am sick. The only medicine that seems to be helping is a steady stream of 80s rock alternated with marathons of Criminal Minds. Because watching serial killers murder children makes poop fingers seem bearable - almost. My sanity revolves around the knowledge that I can and will escape the cabin and the poop fingers at some point this week to surface momentarily in the quasi-adult world of meetings, interviews, writing, and most importantly, beer. Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day, which means I don't have to come home until all of the green beer is gone. From everywhere.
Hopefully that will make up for the toilet that I just was forced to clean. My favorite child, Noone, presumably with an upset stomach, decimated it. I had just finished reading a great story about a plane that had just taken off from London and was forced to turn around and re-land due to a "liquid fecal excrement" event in the lavatory that was apparently overtaking the entire flight. I feel your pain, airplane people. I want desperately to get off of my poop-laden flight, but there are no maintenance people to call in, and no free hotel nights while they take care of business. I am captain, concierge and liquid fecal excrement scrubber of this voyage to insanity. And supervisory poop finger washer. I wear many hats, y'all.
I am kind of sick of it.
Things About Harrison Ford
If you are a girl my age and you're not in love with Harrison Ford, there is something wrong with you. If you are a girl of any age and you don't know who Harrison Ford is - you poor thing. Here, let me help you:
Since the passing of the Man's Man, The Duke, The Quiet Man: John Wayne, there has not been another hero of the big screen that could exude heroic manliness with a side of rogue quite like Harrison Ford. Somewhere in the midst of all that, Sean Connery was working deftly behind the scenes to add his name to the list, immortalizing James Bond and definitively making a scottish accent HOT, and of course Christian Bale is a sweet boy, but Harrison Ford is without question, the Reigning Quintessential Male of my life. It's the crooked smile - that spark of mischief in his eye, the swagger of a man who knows how to work with his hands but prefers to work with his sharp wit and rampant charm to make stuff happen. It's the deadly combination of kick-your-ass and cuddle-on-the-couch. The keen intellectual crossed with the caveman protector instinct. Hero and Scoundrel, Testosterone and tenderness. It's everything a woman could possibly need.
Princess Leia didn't stand a chance, for all of her protests and feminist rhetoric, she was putty in the hands of the Scruffy Looking Nerfherder. Just enough trouble to activate the unavoidable tractor beam of a bad-boy, Han Solo was the epitome of "I'm gonna kiss you and you're gonna like it," as his predecessor the Duke was, leaving a trail of breathless, swooning girls behind him.
Semi-intellectual college girls everywhere were weak in the knees when Indiana Jones introduced the world to a messy-geek-heartthrob and dictated the outcome of my whole life. I was less than 12 years old when I resolved to find the Arc of The Covenant, which we all know was a clever guise for my pursuit of the dashing Doctor Jones. I don't remember when I accidentally saw The Raiders Of The Lost Ark for the first time, but it was with my not-homeschooled cousins in Walla Walla in my granparent's upstairs and my mom and dad would NOT have been happy. All that face-melting business was a bit traumatic for my G rated movie experience level, but the swashbuckling and brilliant Harrison Ford defined forever what a man should be for me.
Maybe Harrison Ford is the reason that I am single today. Still searching for my Han Solo/Indiana Jones/Jack Ryan superhero with genius intellect and a heart of gold. Maybe nothing else will do. And why should it? If there are Harrison Fords out there flying vintage WWII airplanes into the ground at 72, why would I settle for anything less?
Since the passing of the Man's Man, The Duke, The Quiet Man: John Wayne, there has not been another hero of the big screen that could exude heroic manliness with a side of rogue quite like Harrison Ford. Somewhere in the midst of all that, Sean Connery was working deftly behind the scenes to add his name to the list, immortalizing James Bond and definitively making a scottish accent HOT, and of course Christian Bale is a sweet boy, but Harrison Ford is without question, the Reigning Quintessential Male of my life. It's the crooked smile - that spark of mischief in his eye, the swagger of a man who knows how to work with his hands but prefers to work with his sharp wit and rampant charm to make stuff happen. It's the deadly combination of kick-your-ass and cuddle-on-the-couch. The keen intellectual crossed with the caveman protector instinct. Hero and Scoundrel, Testosterone and tenderness. It's everything a woman could possibly need.
Princess Leia didn't stand a chance, for all of her protests and feminist rhetoric, she was putty in the hands of the Scruffy Looking Nerfherder. Just enough trouble to activate the unavoidable tractor beam of a bad-boy, Han Solo was the epitome of "I'm gonna kiss you and you're gonna like it," as his predecessor the Duke was, leaving a trail of breathless, swooning girls behind him.
Semi-intellectual college girls everywhere were weak in the knees when Indiana Jones introduced the world to a messy-geek-heartthrob and dictated the outcome of my whole life. I was less than 12 years old when I resolved to find the Arc of The Covenant, which we all know was a clever guise for my pursuit of the dashing Doctor Jones. I don't remember when I accidentally saw The Raiders Of The Lost Ark for the first time, but it was with my not-homeschooled cousins in Walla Walla in my granparent's upstairs and my mom and dad would NOT have been happy. All that face-melting business was a bit traumatic for my G rated movie experience level, but the swashbuckling and brilliant Harrison Ford defined forever what a man should be for me.
Maybe Harrison Ford is the reason that I am single today. Still searching for my Han Solo/Indiana Jones/Jack Ryan superhero with genius intellect and a heart of gold. Maybe nothing else will do. And why should it? If there are Harrison Fords out there flying vintage WWII airplanes into the ground at 72, why would I settle for anything less?
Things About Clothes, Part II
I finally managed to get some laundry detergent and after minimal procrastinating, got all of my laundry caught up. And by caught up I mean washed, mostly dried and piled so high in the one empty basket in the laundry room that I couldn't successfully relocate it without making 18 trips. "Catching up" laundry has absolutely nothing to do with folding it, I realized about 16 years ago when I had two small children and finding something that had been washed was nothing short of a miracle: folding and putting away be damned. Since the kids were almost as excited as I was to have detergent, their "caught up" laundry started to encroach upon mine, so I was forced to move the mountain to the next most logical place: my bed. Dirty clothes go on the floor, clean on the bed. This is a well established ritual in the life of Single Girl Liv. I like to sleep next to the pile and imagine it's a large man cuddling with me. A large, cold and unaffectionate man made up of jeans and t-shirts and socks. Someone once suggested that I put my clothes away where they "actually" go, and after a few moments of confusion when I finally figured out that they weren't talking about the floor, I told them how lonely my bed would be without my clean laundry on it. And if I didn't keep my dirty clothes on the floor, there would be nowhere for the wiener dogs to build a fort to sleep in. This is how I adult.
But after the other day and a ruthless conversation with my closet, I have this pile of clothes that I want to get rid of. In the past I have done quite well selling my old clothes on eBay or the classifieds or wherever, but lately I have spent so much time judging the crappy clothes that other people sell in such a manner, that I am terrified to list my junk for the same public ridicule. And I am so busy hating all of my clothes that I am fairly certain everyone else will too. So the pile stares at me from a corner of my room and lures the wiener dogs into it's depths. And the longer it sits, the greater the chance that I will remember that one sweater that I put in there, and dig it out for an outfit. First world problems, you guys. I need to just swallow my materialistic pride and get rid of this crap, yo.
More importantly, and speaking of materialistic - my new boots showed up. This means the beginning of a whole new Liv, the cultivation of the Bohemian Tomboy, the end of black hoodies and Uggs - or at least the occasional reprieve. Right off the bat my daughter and a couple friends were jealous, so I will take that as a win for Liv's Fashion Sensibility. I wore them around the house for awhile and they definitely made me feel cooler. Which is saying a lot since cool has not been my middle name lately. But who doesn't feel awesome wearing Frye Boots and making chicken enchiladas for dinner? Best of all - they are SUPER comfortable - I can't wait to try them out for an entire day and see how my back does. I am sure these are the cure all I have been looking for. Now that I have clean clothes to wear them with I am golden.
But after the other day and a ruthless conversation with my closet, I have this pile of clothes that I want to get rid of. In the past I have done quite well selling my old clothes on eBay or the classifieds or wherever, but lately I have spent so much time judging the crappy clothes that other people sell in such a manner, that I am terrified to list my junk for the same public ridicule. And I am so busy hating all of my clothes that I am fairly certain everyone else will too. So the pile stares at me from a corner of my room and lures the wiener dogs into it's depths. And the longer it sits, the greater the chance that I will remember that one sweater that I put in there, and dig it out for an outfit. First world problems, you guys. I need to just swallow my materialistic pride and get rid of this crap, yo.
More importantly, and speaking of materialistic - my new boots showed up. This means the beginning of a whole new Liv, the cultivation of the Bohemian Tomboy, the end of black hoodies and Uggs - or at least the occasional reprieve. Right off the bat my daughter and a couple friends were jealous, so I will take that as a win for Liv's Fashion Sensibility. I wore them around the house for awhile and they definitely made me feel cooler. Which is saying a lot since cool has not been my middle name lately. But who doesn't feel awesome wearing Frye Boots and making chicken enchiladas for dinner? Best of all - they are SUPER comfortable - I can't wait to try them out for an entire day and see how my back does. I am sure these are the cure all I have been looking for. Now that I have clean clothes to wear them with I am golden.
Things About Having A Cold
I kept telling people that I was sick. Everybody else was, and it seemed silly that I wouldn't be coming down with it, especially when Aiden was dying of the plague and drank out of my cherry pepsi at the movie - or when Andrea pulled that one giant booger out of Calvin's nose and we aren't sure where it ended up. There is no way to avoid exposure, and hence, succumbing to the various and assorted community diseases going around. But for all of the times I have said: "yep, this is it. I am finally going down!" so far this year I haven't fallen prey to anything.
Yesterday I started to really feel it. I woke up with that thick stuff in the back of my throat and the sense of impending doom. But, having cried wolf often enough this year I decided to keep it to myself. Plus I had consumed enough beer the night before and danced for A Very Long Time, and it was hard to tell where those aches and pains stopped and the viral ones began. But this morning the telltale drip onto my pillow of an unstoppable nose sealed the deal. This time for reals, I am going down. It's almost a relief. Like giving into an inevitable death that has just taken it's sweet frakking time.
The thing about a good old fashioned head cold is that it makes you notice All of The Bad Things In Your Life that you didn't notice before. Suddenly the daily suffering you do is highlighted by an accompanying misery. Like the entirely long walk from my bed to the couch. It's insufferable. I thought I would never get here. And how cold the tap water is. It's like the water nymphs of Northport are trying to kill me with brain freeze. Or how flipping heavy a bag of pellets is. Brutal. Life is especially hard when you have a cold. The tap-tap-tapping of my keyboard keys and the snoring of an old hound dog are like machine gun fire raining down from a 747 about ten feet over my head. Why are you all so loud? And since when? My legs muscles and butt muscles and those little tiny muscles just above my hips that I had no idea existed are screaming at me about the folly of a dance marathon on the night before Viral Invasion.
Soon, Aspen will be home from school to practice her violin. My eyes and ears are already bleeding in anticipation. And thank goodness there are two weeks worth of leftovers for dinner because cooking would be unthinkable. I was able to get the rest of my stories written with only a few tears this morning, but I did quit an entire job because it just seemed like WAY TOO MUCH now that I have a cold. (Don't worry, it wasn't lucrative) Even my sweatpants are offensive today. They either squeeze my ankles or they aren't soft enough. I managed to put a bra on to go to the post office and remember why life in the outside world just isn't worth living. One more push today to deliver a check next door and then I am out. It's all about top ramen and Criminal Minds and probably some saltines if they aren't too crunchy - and since those are pretty much my favorite things in the whole world, it turns out that I don't actually mind having a cold after all. :)
Yesterday I started to really feel it. I woke up with that thick stuff in the back of my throat and the sense of impending doom. But, having cried wolf often enough this year I decided to keep it to myself. Plus I had consumed enough beer the night before and danced for A Very Long Time, and it was hard to tell where those aches and pains stopped and the viral ones began. But this morning the telltale drip onto my pillow of an unstoppable nose sealed the deal. This time for reals, I am going down. It's almost a relief. Like giving into an inevitable death that has just taken it's sweet frakking time.
The thing about a good old fashioned head cold is that it makes you notice All of The Bad Things In Your Life that you didn't notice before. Suddenly the daily suffering you do is highlighted by an accompanying misery. Like the entirely long walk from my bed to the couch. It's insufferable. I thought I would never get here. And how cold the tap water is. It's like the water nymphs of Northport are trying to kill me with brain freeze. Or how flipping heavy a bag of pellets is. Brutal. Life is especially hard when you have a cold. The tap-tap-tapping of my keyboard keys and the snoring of an old hound dog are like machine gun fire raining down from a 747 about ten feet over my head. Why are you all so loud? And since when? My legs muscles and butt muscles and those little tiny muscles just above my hips that I had no idea existed are screaming at me about the folly of a dance marathon on the night before Viral Invasion.
Soon, Aspen will be home from school to practice her violin. My eyes and ears are already bleeding in anticipation. And thank goodness there are two weeks worth of leftovers for dinner because cooking would be unthinkable. I was able to get the rest of my stories written with only a few tears this morning, but I did quit an entire job because it just seemed like WAY TOO MUCH now that I have a cold. (Don't worry, it wasn't lucrative) Even my sweatpants are offensive today. They either squeeze my ankles or they aren't soft enough. I managed to put a bra on to go to the post office and remember why life in the outside world just isn't worth living. One more push today to deliver a check next door and then I am out. It's all about top ramen and Criminal Minds and probably some saltines if they aren't too crunchy - and since those are pretty much my favorite things in the whole world, it turns out that I don't actually mind having a cold after all. :)
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| if you need me I'll be right here, with Truck. |
Things About Clothes
I haven't got a thing to wear.
No seriously. In my wardrobe that consists of a minimum of 1374 items, I hate it all.
Maybe it's PMS. Maybe it's springtime and the dark plaids of Pendleton are mocking me. Maybe I am tired of black hoodies and Ugg boots. I am not sure, but either way, I need new clothes. I generally find myself needing an entirely new wardrobe right about the time of year that I can least afford it... crawling my way feebly out of the winter doldrums, shedding winter pounds in my head and imagining all of the size 6s that I will fit back into next week. That's part of the problem right there, half of my 1347 piece wardrobe are throwbacks to another time that I am absolutely refuse to give up on completely. I still have some Levis from when I got married - the FIRST time. I am adamant that they will fit again. Along with the bohemian sundress from Valentines day 2003, and the black velvet Audrey Hepburn shift dress with the boning in the size 4 bodice. I'll get back into it someday - and maybe then I will have an excuse to wear it.
Either way, right now, in my size 10 reality, the stuff that does fit involves black hoodies and Ugg boots. Enough is enough.
I told my sister last night about the emergent need I had for new boots. New boots are the starting point for building a new wardrobe and hence, a new style. She obviously agreed with me, because who doesn't need new boots RIGHTTHISSECOND? But I am torn about what kind of boots. Spring is coming. So tall boots with cozy socks and layers of sweaters might be a little much in the very near future. And let's be realistic: while I like to dabble with the idea of skinny jeans and patterned leggings, probably the only person that wants to see me in those is my good friend Noone. I might never escape the clutches of the low-rise bootcut jean that took me prisoner in 2001. Granted the "bootcut" has waxed and waned over the years, but the fit, other than going up several sizes, hasn't varied much for me. So any boots I get have to be bootcut friendly, which is redundant, since aren't all bootcut jeans cut to go with any boots? But NO! I protest. I think we can all easily imagine some footwear styles that just should not be rocked with any jeans, especially bootcut. If not, here's this:
Additionally, with my back being like, the worst it's ever been for the last month or so, I am desperate to find shoes that don't make it worse (if that is even possible) This means no heel height and hopefully a little bit of squish. But I've also realized that a good, solid pair of shoes that aren't Baldies, Uggs or flip flops, might actually help a little bit. Not to mention the fact that if I ever felt like dressing like a civilized adult I would be totally screwed.
No seriously. In my wardrobe that consists of a minimum of 1374 items, I hate it all.
Maybe it's PMS. Maybe it's springtime and the dark plaids of Pendleton are mocking me. Maybe I am tired of black hoodies and Ugg boots. I am not sure, but either way, I need new clothes. I generally find myself needing an entirely new wardrobe right about the time of year that I can least afford it... crawling my way feebly out of the winter doldrums, shedding winter pounds in my head and imagining all of the size 6s that I will fit back into next week. That's part of the problem right there, half of my 1347 piece wardrobe are throwbacks to another time that I am absolutely refuse to give up on completely. I still have some Levis from when I got married - the FIRST time. I am adamant that they will fit again. Along with the bohemian sundress from Valentines day 2003, and the black velvet Audrey Hepburn shift dress with the boning in the size 4 bodice. I'll get back into it someday - and maybe then I will have an excuse to wear it.
Either way, right now, in my size 10 reality, the stuff that does fit involves black hoodies and Ugg boots. Enough is enough.
I told my sister last night about the emergent need I had for new boots. New boots are the starting point for building a new wardrobe and hence, a new style. She obviously agreed with me, because who doesn't need new boots RIGHTTHISSECOND? But I am torn about what kind of boots. Spring is coming. So tall boots with cozy socks and layers of sweaters might be a little much in the very near future. And let's be realistic: while I like to dabble with the idea of skinny jeans and patterned leggings, probably the only person that wants to see me in those is my good friend Noone. I might never escape the clutches of the low-rise bootcut jean that took me prisoner in 2001. Granted the "bootcut" has waxed and waned over the years, but the fit, other than going up several sizes, hasn't varied much for me. So any boots I get have to be bootcut friendly, which is redundant, since aren't all bootcut jeans cut to go with any boots? But NO! I protest. I think we can all easily imagine some footwear styles that just should not be rocked with any jeans, especially bootcut. If not, here's this:
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| exhibit A: Just don't. |
Additionally, with my back being like, the worst it's ever been for the last month or so, I am desperate to find shoes that don't make it worse (if that is even possible) This means no heel height and hopefully a little bit of squish. But I've also realized that a good, solid pair of shoes that aren't Baldies, Uggs or flip flops, might actually help a little bit. Not to mention the fact that if I ever felt like dressing like a civilized adult I would be totally screwed.
Case in point: I went to do an interview with a semi-famous soul singer the other day (I only say semi-famous because nobody around here knows who he is. Real people do.) and I nearly panicked about what to wear -you, know, that didn't say: "I have four kids in school and I had to drop them off before I came to meet you and they used all of the hot water so I didn't get a shower and also I am out of laundry soap and there is dog hair on everything I am wearing. You're welcome." I talked myself out of a total freak out, because it wasn't like I was interviewing Bono or something, in which case I would have probably booked a ticket to New York, hired a stylist and sold my two youngest children for one outfit and a pair of grown up shoes. Instead I made do with my traditional bootcut jeans and a frumpy t-shirt. What famous musician doesn't love a frumpy t-shirt? I mean seriously.
I started out this blog in 2012 with a post about Things That Moms Wear, wherein I decided to start dressing like an adult. Sort of. It didn't work out very well and I think I have the exact same wardrobe now that I had then, plus a few Pendletons. I was supposed to write a follow up blog about accessories but I have been in a long term argument with necklaces since then and haven't been able to reconcile. Looking back, and, to be honest, forward, there are a few non negotiables in the fashion (or lack thereof) world of Liv. One, I like holes in my jeans. I pretty much have since the day that Kurt Cobain died. I have, unlike some kids in the highschool, established certain limits about these holes. For instance, this will never fly:
But tasteful holes, which I have paid extra for, are just something I can't get away from. I've tried. It's like beer and saltines with butter. It's just my thing.
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| exhibit B: why wear pants? |
But tasteful holes, which I have paid extra for, are just something I can't get away from. I've tried. It's like beer and saltines with butter. It's just my thing.
Also, I hate collars. I hate anything around my neck. Probably why necklaces and I aren't on speaking terms. Turtlenecks are right out. I even cut the necklines of some of my best hoodies because I can't breathe in them. I love Pendleton enough to tolerate an occasional button down collar, but otherwise, just no. This rules out cowl necks, mandarin collars, and even a lot of vintage crews that choke me. It is somewhat limiting, I will admit. And given our family fixation with Dickeys, it's somewhat frustrating that I just can't make it happen.
So basically I am operating out of a wardrobe that consists of holey bootcut jeans, deconstructed hoodies, scoop neck t-shirts, flip flops, baldies and Uggs. It's time for some help. But not too much help. We've established the unreality of heels, collars, skinny jeans and necklaces, but I know that there is more out there... I guess that will be my quest this spring - reinventing the bohemian tomboy redneck. But not too much.
But first.. new boots.
Things About My Life
There is no question, when I am spending the better part of a weekend with 30-something-year-old Lost Boys that my life is far from perfect. If I had a perfect life I would probably spend most weekends on white sandy beaches, sipping ice cold beer with lime and getting bi-daily massages by a cute cabana boy in flannel with a beard. But since my life is not perfect, I spend my days chasing down fourteen different occupations with an odd assortment of companions and miscreants.
I complain a lot, I know that. I complain about my bad (terrible, awful) back pain, my weight, my filthy disgusting house that is 1000% INFESTED with dog hair right now. I whine about my bills and the General Impossibility Of Success in my life. I moan and groan about being lonely and having no one to cuddle with that isn't comprised of 47% fur, 12% slobber and a lot of toenails (actually, minus the toenails, it doesn't sound half bad). I am the quintessential first-world whiner. I own it. I could write a book on the finer nuances of Appropriate Whining and how to be most successful at perpetual complaint. It would probably be a best seller. But every once in awhile, all of the good in my life implodes like a collapsing white dwarf - which is probably a terrible analogy since white dwarfs are probably stars that are forming and not collapsing, but I am not the family astronomer, so we'll go with it - and converges on me in an overwhelming wave of knowing just how lucky I am.
In spite of the dog hair. And the 11 year old who won't quit wearing the boot cast that When finally got to take off. In spite of the fact that I ran out of laundry detergent several days ago and am tottering precariously on the brink of underwear recycling after the four-way fire camp fashion. I am lucky even spite of the giant wad of blond, red, and black hair, and what is undeniably dachshund fur, that just fell out of my sacred and well hidden hairbrush. My fortune is not reversed by the indisputable smell of dog pee on a corner of the living room rug when I do my one yoga move a week. I am not rendered unlucky by the fact that we have gone through no less than 47 rolls of toilet paper in the last 12 days. My luck is fixed. It is unconditional and unchanging, because my good fortune is the people that I have in my life.
At this very minute, as I watch a dust bunny the size of a football blow serenely into the bathroom, I have one brother booking me a flight to visit my other two brothers and a sister-in-law that I am pretty sure aren't pretending to want me to come visit. My other sister in law is redesigning the blog layout that I gave up on weeks ago, because she "wants the experience." My close-to-home sister is making plans (I just know she is) to come visit and repair my broken sewing machine, hem the new jeans that I got for Natalee two months ago for her birthday, and help me design a bedroom remodel. My brother-in-law has become my personal gun-shopper, and my baby sister is getting ready to drive her brand new car over for a visit. I am loved. All the way around. I am known, and I am loved. My friend came for coffee yesterday and stayed for 8 hours. My other friend built me a shadow box to hold all of the precious ticket stubs I have saved diligently over the years of reckless concert going. My kids mostly did their chores tonight without very much complaint, and Taylor Swift was BLARING over the amp while banana bread that they made from scratch was cooling on the counter.
I got two stories done today, three yesterday, and still have three whole days to crank out the last few details. I limped my way to a parent meeting for softball that starts in less than a week, tomorrow it's a track meeting for my all-star hurdler, and Thursday we meet about our graduating seniors. I subbed in SPED today, had lunch with one of my besties and got almost all of the paperwork done that I needed to for another new job.
My life is full. It's rich. It's glorious. I have friends from shore to shore and curb to curb and couch to couch. I have family coming out my ears that I actually LIKE. I have dogs that I could honestly sit and just watch sleep, because they're that wrinkly and cute. I have a house that I love, in spite of the dog hair, and the destroyed couch, and the ruined rug, and in spite of the fact that I may not get to stay here forever like I planned, I am comfortable. I am safe. I am home. Every wall speaks my name and the names of my children and tells our story. Every scratch on every cupboard is another part of living that makes it real.
I love this place. My place. My people. It's not perfect, but it's mine, and it's good. I am thankful.
I complain a lot, I know that. I complain about my bad (terrible, awful) back pain, my weight, my filthy disgusting house that is 1000% INFESTED with dog hair right now. I whine about my bills and the General Impossibility Of Success in my life. I moan and groan about being lonely and having no one to cuddle with that isn't comprised of 47% fur, 12% slobber and a lot of toenails (actually, minus the toenails, it doesn't sound half bad). I am the quintessential first-world whiner. I own it. I could write a book on the finer nuances of Appropriate Whining and how to be most successful at perpetual complaint. It would probably be a best seller. But every once in awhile, all of the good in my life implodes like a collapsing white dwarf - which is probably a terrible analogy since white dwarfs are probably stars that are forming and not collapsing, but I am not the family astronomer, so we'll go with it - and converges on me in an overwhelming wave of knowing just how lucky I am.
In spite of the dog hair. And the 11 year old who won't quit wearing the boot cast that When finally got to take off. In spite of the fact that I ran out of laundry detergent several days ago and am tottering precariously on the brink of underwear recycling after the four-way fire camp fashion. I am lucky even spite of the giant wad of blond, red, and black hair, and what is undeniably dachshund fur, that just fell out of my sacred and well hidden hairbrush. My fortune is not reversed by the indisputable smell of dog pee on a corner of the living room rug when I do my one yoga move a week. I am not rendered unlucky by the fact that we have gone through no less than 47 rolls of toilet paper in the last 12 days. My luck is fixed. It is unconditional and unchanging, because my good fortune is the people that I have in my life.
At this very minute, as I watch a dust bunny the size of a football blow serenely into the bathroom, I have one brother booking me a flight to visit my other two brothers and a sister-in-law that I am pretty sure aren't pretending to want me to come visit. My other sister in law is redesigning the blog layout that I gave up on weeks ago, because she "wants the experience." My close-to-home sister is making plans (I just know she is) to come visit and repair my broken sewing machine, hem the new jeans that I got for Natalee two months ago for her birthday, and help me design a bedroom remodel. My brother-in-law has become my personal gun-shopper, and my baby sister is getting ready to drive her brand new car over for a visit. I am loved. All the way around. I am known, and I am loved. My friend came for coffee yesterday and stayed for 8 hours. My other friend built me a shadow box to hold all of the precious ticket stubs I have saved diligently over the years of reckless concert going. My kids mostly did their chores tonight without very much complaint, and Taylor Swift was BLARING over the amp while banana bread that they made from scratch was cooling on the counter.
I got two stories done today, three yesterday, and still have three whole days to crank out the last few details. I limped my way to a parent meeting for softball that starts in less than a week, tomorrow it's a track meeting for my all-star hurdler, and Thursday we meet about our graduating seniors. I subbed in SPED today, had lunch with one of my besties and got almost all of the paperwork done that I needed to for another new job.
My life is full. It's rich. It's glorious. I have friends from shore to shore and curb to curb and couch to couch. I have family coming out my ears that I actually LIKE. I have dogs that I could honestly sit and just watch sleep, because they're that wrinkly and cute. I have a house that I love, in spite of the dog hair, and the destroyed couch, and the ruined rug, and in spite of the fact that I may not get to stay here forever like I planned, I am comfortable. I am safe. I am home. Every wall speaks my name and the names of my children and tells our story. Every scratch on every cupboard is another part of living that makes it real.
I love this place. My place. My people. It's not perfect, but it's mine, and it's good. I am thankful.
Things About Being In Between
It was an odd weekend for me. The home school prude that still reigns stealthily under my swaggering, brash exterior was given a run for her money.
I am in my late 30s. I am the mother of four teenagers. I am an EMT. I like television. And the Internet. At this point in my life, it would seem safe to assume that I have seen and/or done it all. And it wouldn't be far from wrong. But being home schooled like I was, and married early, and all college-educated online, there are a lot of crucial life experiences that I missed out on - most of these are thoroughly documented in a plethora of crass movies starring people like James Franco, Zac Galifianakis and Seth Rogen. I have seen some of the movies - or at least the parts that I could manage without total embarrassment (enter the prude), and the parts I haven't seen have been mostly explained to me or re-enacted by the middle school boys I know. This weekend was kind of a mini immersion into para-maturity and quasi-responsibility.
It started with a stop at a wedding expo so I could write about it for the paper. I tried to get my "colleague" to pose as my fiancee and do a mystery shopper routine through the show, but he declined once he saw a bevy of younger, more attractive girls to network with.
After the expo I had an interview for the paper. A local musician who was wearing what I can only safely call a dress, which is fine, unless you are a 27 year old male singer/songwriter. If you are a 27 year old singer/songwriter coming from a tiny town in Stevens County Washington and you have made it to the relative Big Time, selling out international shows and dating an Australian Yoga Instructor, I guess you can wear whatever you want, including a dress. It really only feels a little awkward when you are scratching your balls. But I get it, you just came from yoga class. In your skirt. It was a fun interview.- my first semi-celebrity one. My "colleague" insists I was all fan-girl fluttered out, but I protest. After the interview, I drug the "colleague" down to Spokane then on a mission to do some investigative journalism for work, and meet with my "real journalist" cousin. She has a college degree that gives her legitimacy, plus she's fun. She gave us some good pointers and shared a pitcher of beer with us and we went on our merry way.
I dropped my "colleague" off at a buddy's house and I did what any full-grown 37-year-old adult would do with a night off in the city all by herself. I checked into a cheap hotel, took a long hot bath, and watched Law and Order SVU all night. To be fair, and with every good intent, I kept my iPad open in front of me with a blank document staring me in the face all night, so I could get some "writing done". I was able to stave off the need to order in delivery pizza, only because none of the delivery places reached my hotel. The few people who know me well know that the secret to my eternal happiness lies in a hotel bed and delivery pizza. Nothing feels more decadent, luxurious, and PRETEND-GROWN-UP. After rationalizing the $50 the room would cost me compared to A) a bar tab at a brew pub, B) a fitful night on a couch and/or C) staying up way later than I really felt like, it seemed like the appropriate course of action. So, spurning all of the judgement from friends and family with couches, beds and Good Financial Decisions, I took a night for myself. Ironically I laid awake half the night thinking of the stories I could make up about where I stayed so people wouldn't make fun of me for staying at a hotel alone. In the end I decided one-night-stand alibis were probably not the best course of action, so here I am, truthing it out. Luckily most of the friends and family won't ever read this so I have nothing to fear.
In the morning, I went to pick up my "colleague". Enter the James Franco narrative. I've been in college apartments before. I've slept on air mattresses and used jerry-rigged faucets and cooked on hot plates. Ain't no thing. But this morning, I got to settle in on a futon-type set up on the floor of a studio apartment between two guys that were mostly my age and watch really ridiculous Australian TV shows all morning. What else do kids in their late 30s do on a Sunday morning? I couldn't think of a single thing. When that got old we went downtown and watched Hot Tub Time Machine 2 at the theater, because apparently that movie needed a sequel. The best part was listening to the two boys giggle like 12-year-olds at every penis joke. I suppose this goes back to my not having boundaries, getting pushed into ridiculous things like this, but then again, why not? Maybe I can never get those hours back - but if I had been home I probably would have wasted them scrubbing toilets or doing laundry.
I have a lot of "responsible adult" friends. Ones with mortgages and retirement plans and life insurance. I have a lot of young friends who don't even know what those things are. But I find myself more closely related to the friends of mine that aren't young any more, but they certainly aren't "responsible adults". We shouldn't be going to movies at 10:30 on a Sunday morning. We should be paying bills, or going to church, or raking lawns. We shouldn't be sleeping in hotels when there are couches and beds and Real Expenses to worry about. We shouldn't think about going to Iceland when we might not be able to make the car payment. We should be concerned about mortgages and life insurance and retirement plans. It's a hard balance to find. Living life or letting life run you over. Being responsible but still making life worth being around for. A responsible adult would probably be watching the Oscars right now, not Animaniacs, which I am absolutely DELIGHTED that Aspen seems to have discovered in my absence. Here I go making poor adult choices again, and never quite regretting it. I wonder if I started to make Good Choices if I would regret those? I should try it and see...
I am in my late 30s. I am the mother of four teenagers. I am an EMT. I like television. And the Internet. At this point in my life, it would seem safe to assume that I have seen and/or done it all. And it wouldn't be far from wrong. But being home schooled like I was, and married early, and all college-educated online, there are a lot of crucial life experiences that I missed out on - most of these are thoroughly documented in a plethora of crass movies starring people like James Franco, Zac Galifianakis and Seth Rogen. I have seen some of the movies - or at least the parts that I could manage without total embarrassment (enter the prude), and the parts I haven't seen have been mostly explained to me or re-enacted by the middle school boys I know. This weekend was kind of a mini immersion into para-maturity and quasi-responsibility.
It started with a stop at a wedding expo so I could write about it for the paper. I tried to get my "colleague" to pose as my fiancee and do a mystery shopper routine through the show, but he declined once he saw a bevy of younger, more attractive girls to network with.
After the expo I had an interview for the paper. A local musician who was wearing what I can only safely call a dress, which is fine, unless you are a 27 year old male singer/songwriter. If you are a 27 year old singer/songwriter coming from a tiny town in Stevens County Washington and you have made it to the relative Big Time, selling out international shows and dating an Australian Yoga Instructor, I guess you can wear whatever you want, including a dress. It really only feels a little awkward when you are scratching your balls. But I get it, you just came from yoga class. In your skirt. It was a fun interview.- my first semi-celebrity one. My "colleague" insists I was all fan-girl fluttered out, but I protest. After the interview, I drug the "colleague" down to Spokane then on a mission to do some investigative journalism for work, and meet with my "real journalist" cousin. She has a college degree that gives her legitimacy, plus she's fun. She gave us some good pointers and shared a pitcher of beer with us and we went on our merry way.
I dropped my "colleague" off at a buddy's house and I did what any full-grown 37-year-old adult would do with a night off in the city all by herself. I checked into a cheap hotel, took a long hot bath, and watched Law and Order SVU all night. To be fair, and with every good intent, I kept my iPad open in front of me with a blank document staring me in the face all night, so I could get some "writing done". I was able to stave off the need to order in delivery pizza, only because none of the delivery places reached my hotel. The few people who know me well know that the secret to my eternal happiness lies in a hotel bed and delivery pizza. Nothing feels more decadent, luxurious, and PRETEND-GROWN-UP. After rationalizing the $50 the room would cost me compared to A) a bar tab at a brew pub, B) a fitful night on a couch and/or C) staying up way later than I really felt like, it seemed like the appropriate course of action. So, spurning all of the judgement from friends and family with couches, beds and Good Financial Decisions, I took a night for myself. Ironically I laid awake half the night thinking of the stories I could make up about where I stayed so people wouldn't make fun of me for staying at a hotel alone. In the end I decided one-night-stand alibis were probably not the best course of action, so here I am, truthing it out. Luckily most of the friends and family won't ever read this so I have nothing to fear.
In the morning, I went to pick up my "colleague". Enter the James Franco narrative. I've been in college apartments before. I've slept on air mattresses and used jerry-rigged faucets and cooked on hot plates. Ain't no thing. But this morning, I got to settle in on a futon-type set up on the floor of a studio apartment between two guys that were mostly my age and watch really ridiculous Australian TV shows all morning. What else do kids in their late 30s do on a Sunday morning? I couldn't think of a single thing. When that got old we went downtown and watched Hot Tub Time Machine 2 at the theater, because apparently that movie needed a sequel. The best part was listening to the two boys giggle like 12-year-olds at every penis joke. I suppose this goes back to my not having boundaries, getting pushed into ridiculous things like this, but then again, why not? Maybe I can never get those hours back - but if I had been home I probably would have wasted them scrubbing toilets or doing laundry.
I have a lot of "responsible adult" friends. Ones with mortgages and retirement plans and life insurance. I have a lot of young friends who don't even know what those things are. But I find myself more closely related to the friends of mine that aren't young any more, but they certainly aren't "responsible adults". We shouldn't be going to movies at 10:30 on a Sunday morning. We should be paying bills, or going to church, or raking lawns. We shouldn't be sleeping in hotels when there are couches and beds and Real Expenses to worry about. We shouldn't think about going to Iceland when we might not be able to make the car payment. We should be concerned about mortgages and life insurance and retirement plans. It's a hard balance to find. Living life or letting life run you over. Being responsible but still making life worth being around for. A responsible adult would probably be watching the Oscars right now, not Animaniacs, which I am absolutely DELIGHTED that Aspen seems to have discovered in my absence. Here I go making poor adult choices again, and never quite regretting it. I wonder if I started to make Good Choices if I would regret those? I should try it and see...
Things About Boundaries
I has come to my attention lately that one of the Great Problems in my life has to do with my lack of boundaries. It turns out, after 37 years, I am just now realizing that I get pushed around by things that I allow to get too close to me and my family to control. So I have been looking into this issue, fully intent upon resolving it.
In an effort to analyze exactly where I am lacking boundaries, I decided to start by looking at problems that might be arising from this root, so I started with, of course, the kids.
Do my kids talk back out of disrespect to me because I lack the boundary that would not allow it? How have I raised them with no fear of repercussion for their insolent tone? I look at my own childhood, and that of most adults I know. We didn't talk back because we knew that the retribution would be swift, painful, and humilating. So, out of fear for the slap across the face, or whatever form of corporal punishment a disrespectful tone warranted, we wouldn't dare. Clearly, my kids do not have this fear. Have I failed to establish this boundary by not slapping my girls? Have I modeled disrespect toward other people, of any age? Is there a way that I could have firmly established this boundary without inflicting the insult and injury that I remember from my own childhood, but even moreso from the moment that I DID unleash that punishment on one of my girls? Would it be worth it?
Do I not establish a firm enough boundary of who comes to my house when I allow most of the high school to visit for a party, including teenage boys who will be tempted to break the Cardinal Rule of The Doghouse: NO BOYS UPSTAIRS? Is there a line in the sand I am missing that would have avoided the awkwardness and frustration of chasing him and my drop dead gorgeous 17 year old out of an upstairs bedroom? Are these teenagers running all over me because I am an amoeba without standards (this I have been told repeatedly)?
How about the boundary I lack in my willingness to spend time with, unsupervised, single guys my age? Knowing full well and being informed of the absolute certainty of gossip and judgement springing from such folly, I am still lured into the trap of thinking that I am an adult (even a single one) and can have friendships with people of the opposite gender without EVERYONE deciding that we are "hooking up". Clearly I need to be more firm in my absolute refusal of quality time with anyone male, single, within 20 years of my own age, and never, ever alone.
In both of my marriages and nearly every "serious" relationship that I have had, my lack of boundaries have produced toxic relationships that I am rendered powerless to escape or avoid. Well, not exactly, but if I had had more boundaries, would my relationships all have been healthy and preserved?
Where am I missing boundaries?
Is it when I won't confront a teenager filling their pockets from my snack box, because I know what their life at home is like?
Is it when I help my daughter get a dress for her senior prom, even after she's been completely rude and impossible to me, because I know deep down, that her impossibility is the tough-guy show of her fear for the imminent and unknown future of Growing Up?
Is it when I override the guilt of condemnation and gossip to sit down with a scandal and begin to create something that I think could really be a part of my life in the next few years?
Is it when I eat the moutains of debt from a terrible marriage just to get a signature on a divorce decree without anymore heartache?
Is it when I consider letting my kids see the man they considered their stepfather for three years, even when he's toxic for me? They are so hungry for affection from any man... Am I bullied by my own longing for that kind of affirmation?
Boundaries are walls. Walls are hard, unforgiving. They don't change. I have yet to experience anything in this life that doesn't change over time.
Maybe I am looking at the wrong kind of boundaries. The only things that I really want to wall out of my life are the guilt and judgement that keep me from breathing, the anger and bitterness of responding incorrectly to life's disappointment that make my ears ring, and the aged coldness of not trusting, not believing in anyone that makes my heart ache. These are the boundaries I want to set - the rest is all learning. Sometimes from mistakes. But where there is a life with no mistakes, there is no life.
In an effort to analyze exactly where I am lacking boundaries, I decided to start by looking at problems that might be arising from this root, so I started with, of course, the kids.
Do my kids talk back out of disrespect to me because I lack the boundary that would not allow it? How have I raised them with no fear of repercussion for their insolent tone? I look at my own childhood, and that of most adults I know. We didn't talk back because we knew that the retribution would be swift, painful, and humilating. So, out of fear for the slap across the face, or whatever form of corporal punishment a disrespectful tone warranted, we wouldn't dare. Clearly, my kids do not have this fear. Have I failed to establish this boundary by not slapping my girls? Have I modeled disrespect toward other people, of any age? Is there a way that I could have firmly established this boundary without inflicting the insult and injury that I remember from my own childhood, but even moreso from the moment that I DID unleash that punishment on one of my girls? Would it be worth it?
Do I not establish a firm enough boundary of who comes to my house when I allow most of the high school to visit for a party, including teenage boys who will be tempted to break the Cardinal Rule of The Doghouse: NO BOYS UPSTAIRS? Is there a line in the sand I am missing that would have avoided the awkwardness and frustration of chasing him and my drop dead gorgeous 17 year old out of an upstairs bedroom? Are these teenagers running all over me because I am an amoeba without standards (this I have been told repeatedly)?
How about the boundary I lack in my willingness to spend time with, unsupervised, single guys my age? Knowing full well and being informed of the absolute certainty of gossip and judgement springing from such folly, I am still lured into the trap of thinking that I am an adult (even a single one) and can have friendships with people of the opposite gender without EVERYONE deciding that we are "hooking up". Clearly I need to be more firm in my absolute refusal of quality time with anyone male, single, within 20 years of my own age, and never, ever alone.
In both of my marriages and nearly every "serious" relationship that I have had, my lack of boundaries have produced toxic relationships that I am rendered powerless to escape or avoid. Well, not exactly, but if I had had more boundaries, would my relationships all have been healthy and preserved?
Where am I missing boundaries?
Is it when I won't confront a teenager filling their pockets from my snack box, because I know what their life at home is like?
Is it when I help my daughter get a dress for her senior prom, even after she's been completely rude and impossible to me, because I know deep down, that her impossibility is the tough-guy show of her fear for the imminent and unknown future of Growing Up?
Is it when I override the guilt of condemnation and gossip to sit down with a scandal and begin to create something that I think could really be a part of my life in the next few years?
Is it when I eat the moutains of debt from a terrible marriage just to get a signature on a divorce decree without anymore heartache?
Is it when I consider letting my kids see the man they considered their stepfather for three years, even when he's toxic for me? They are so hungry for affection from any man... Am I bullied by my own longing for that kind of affirmation?
Boundaries are walls. Walls are hard, unforgiving. They don't change. I have yet to experience anything in this life that doesn't change over time.
Maybe I am looking at the wrong kind of boundaries. The only things that I really want to wall out of my life are the guilt and judgement that keep me from breathing, the anger and bitterness of responding incorrectly to life's disappointment that make my ears ring, and the aged coldness of not trusting, not believing in anyone that makes my heart ache. These are the boundaries I want to set - the rest is all learning. Sometimes from mistakes. But where there is a life with no mistakes, there is no life.
Things About Valentine's Day
Things About Valentines Day
Valentine Throw Down at The Doghouse:
Step 1
Wake up at 7:44 from a nightmare wherein your best friend accidentally runs over your only true love (Dagny) when your daughter accidentally throws a ball in the highway for her to catch. Interpret the meaning of this dream as the unintentional heartbreak all around you. Happy Valentine's Day.
Step 2
Make waffles (which you hate, thereby reducing risk of overconsumption) with strawberries and whipped cream, bacon and eggs for 6 teenage girls, two of whom say thank you. Feed the leftovers to dogs, all of whom thank you.
Step 4
Go back to bed and make sure no dashing romantic has sent a surprise Valentine Facebook message, text or IM.
Step 5
Give up on all such fantasies and go on a 2 mile "run", pounding out all of the negative thoughts.
Step 6
Wait two hours for the hot water to come back before you can shower, since three teenage girls took 45 minute showers as soon as you got back from your run. Eat the leftover bacon that you hid from the dogs.
Step 7
Get dressed in something as unsexy as possible. Because who cares. Make sure you are wearing unmatching underwear, since obviously no one is going to see them unless you get into a car wreck, which really isn't on the agenda.
Step 8
Giggle when fourth teenage girl attempts shower after you used all of the hot water. Then realize the joke is on you as you are locked out of the bathroom and your hair is drying after the fashion of Ramona Quimby. But hey, who's going for sexy anyway?
Step 9
Leave the house in an undecided foray into fun... it's 7 hours until the basketball game you will be at, but sitting at home in the meantime just seems like a waste of a Saturday.
Step 10
Get the mail. And then go home because sitting at home actually sounds pretty fun.
Step 11
Go back to bed and turn on the matress heater and force Dagny to snuggle for most of the afternoon.
Step 12
Finally get out of the house for a pizza and a beer and to watch the NPHS boys NEARLY win a loser out regional finals game. It was worth the drive. I am proud of our boys. And girls. Even when they use all my hot water.
Step 13
Go home and collapse into bed, once again, and finally. (with Dagny, of course)
Valentine Throw Down at The Doghouse:
Step 1
Wake up at 7:44 from a nightmare wherein your best friend accidentally runs over your only true love (Dagny) when your daughter accidentally throws a ball in the highway for her to catch. Interpret the meaning of this dream as the unintentional heartbreak all around you. Happy Valentine's Day.
Step 2
Make waffles (which you hate, thereby reducing risk of overconsumption) with strawberries and whipped cream, bacon and eggs for 6 teenage girls, two of whom say thank you. Feed the leftovers to dogs, all of whom thank you.
Step 4
Go back to bed and make sure no dashing romantic has sent a surprise Valentine Facebook message, text or IM.
Step 5
Give up on all such fantasies and go on a 2 mile "run", pounding out all of the negative thoughts.
Step 6
Wait two hours for the hot water to come back before you can shower, since three teenage girls took 45 minute showers as soon as you got back from your run. Eat the leftover bacon that you hid from the dogs.
Step 7
Get dressed in something as unsexy as possible. Because who cares. Make sure you are wearing unmatching underwear, since obviously no one is going to see them unless you get into a car wreck, which really isn't on the agenda.
Step 8
Giggle when fourth teenage girl attempts shower after you used all of the hot water. Then realize the joke is on you as you are locked out of the bathroom and your hair is drying after the fashion of Ramona Quimby. But hey, who's going for sexy anyway?
Step 9
Leave the house in an undecided foray into fun... it's 7 hours until the basketball game you will be at, but sitting at home in the meantime just seems like a waste of a Saturday.
Step 10
Get the mail. And then go home because sitting at home actually sounds pretty fun.
Step 11
Go back to bed and turn on the matress heater and force Dagny to snuggle for most of the afternoon.
Step 12
Finally get out of the house for a pizza and a beer and to watch the NPHS boys NEARLY win a loser out regional finals game. It was worth the drive. I am proud of our boys. And girls. Even when they use all my hot water.
Step 13
Go home and collapse into bed, once again, and finally. (with Dagny, of course)
Things About Time Travel
Yesterday I drove over Sherman Pass to Republic for a cello concert. The concert was amazing - more about that to come. But the drive...
Ten years ago, I made that drive a million times a week. Sometimes twice in one day. The memories of that summer wash over me like a rough cold wave on the Oregon coast, taking my breath away. The songs, the sights, all flash through my mind. The Forest Service campground where I spent weeks excavating. The creek bed where I waded up to my waist on survey. The brilliant smile of a beautiful boy with a soot-blackened face. Camo pants, Dollar Bets, karaoke at the Hitching Post. Sweet Home Alabama, Tim McGraw and Watching The Wind Blow By, rope swings and watermelon. Falling asleep in an exhausted pile of over-sung, over-danced, over-worked and over-funned boys and girls still wearing nomex and boots.
The memories make my heart race and my stomach flutter like it hasn't in years. Funny how a drive can transport you back in history to a different time. Every curve of the road had a different memory, a conversation, a song - this is the spot where I lose cell service, and this is the other spot where it comes back and 37 text messages from a waiting boy flood my screen.
I remember a little blonde baby and a 4 1/2 year old who ate so much watermelon that she threw it up all over my car. An 8 year old tomboy and a 7 year old fairy princess. Missing plenty of teeth but not one minute of life. I remember liberation from the tyranny of a terrible marriage. Years of pain washing off of me in the lakes of Ferry County. I remember stepping off of the blind precipice that is leaving A Religion behind, to find out if there is really A God instead. I can still feel the freefall into learning that absolute truth is defined in the burning trees and tumbling rocks of nature. I can still taste the tiniest trace of unconditional love on my lips. Love without judgement, only curiosity and the desire to Know Me. I can feel the wonder of being my own person, valued and sought out and enjoyed, finally escaping years of condemnation and failure and never, ever, ever Getting It Right. For a little while, I didn't have to. I just had to be. Honest, open, trusting, seeking, learning.
That drive was my road home. My pathway to freedom. To knowing my own soul and who I was Created To Be. That mountain pass was the crossover from incarceration to liberty. I learned to fly on that road, and not only when I was going 75 MPH, trusting in the false security of friendship with the county cops and the entire staff of the Colville National Forest. After an insular life of overprotection and sheltering, I finally found a safe place in the wild country over the hill. I fell out of the nest and into a whirlwind of freedom and grace and learning. My instructors were rough and clumsy. My classmates were unruly and uncouth. And I loved them all. Still do. I am thankful for that summer. For all of the steps leading up to it and away from it. For the memories and the baggage that it gave me. I am thankful for that time machine of a road.
Ten years ago, I made that drive a million times a week. Sometimes twice in one day. The memories of that summer wash over me like a rough cold wave on the Oregon coast, taking my breath away. The songs, the sights, all flash through my mind. The Forest Service campground where I spent weeks excavating. The creek bed where I waded up to my waist on survey. The brilliant smile of a beautiful boy with a soot-blackened face. Camo pants, Dollar Bets, karaoke at the Hitching Post. Sweet Home Alabama, Tim McGraw and Watching The Wind Blow By, rope swings and watermelon. Falling asleep in an exhausted pile of over-sung, over-danced, over-worked and over-funned boys and girls still wearing nomex and boots.
The memories make my heart race and my stomach flutter like it hasn't in years. Funny how a drive can transport you back in history to a different time. Every curve of the road had a different memory, a conversation, a song - this is the spot where I lose cell service, and this is the other spot where it comes back and 37 text messages from a waiting boy flood my screen.
I remember a little blonde baby and a 4 1/2 year old who ate so much watermelon that she threw it up all over my car. An 8 year old tomboy and a 7 year old fairy princess. Missing plenty of teeth but not one minute of life. I remember liberation from the tyranny of a terrible marriage. Years of pain washing off of me in the lakes of Ferry County. I remember stepping off of the blind precipice that is leaving A Religion behind, to find out if there is really A God instead. I can still feel the freefall into learning that absolute truth is defined in the burning trees and tumbling rocks of nature. I can still taste the tiniest trace of unconditional love on my lips. Love without judgement, only curiosity and the desire to Know Me. I can feel the wonder of being my own person, valued and sought out and enjoyed, finally escaping years of condemnation and failure and never, ever, ever Getting It Right. For a little while, I didn't have to. I just had to be. Honest, open, trusting, seeking, learning.
That drive was my road home. My pathway to freedom. To knowing my own soul and who I was Created To Be. That mountain pass was the crossover from incarceration to liberty. I learned to fly on that road, and not only when I was going 75 MPH, trusting in the false security of friendship with the county cops and the entire staff of the Colville National Forest. After an insular life of overprotection and sheltering, I finally found a safe place in the wild country over the hill. I fell out of the nest and into a whirlwind of freedom and grace and learning. My instructors were rough and clumsy. My classmates were unruly and uncouth. And I loved them all. Still do. I am thankful for that summer. For all of the steps leading up to it and away from it. For the memories and the baggage that it gave me. I am thankful for that time machine of a road.
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