Things About Getting MRIs

I was pretty sure I had done it before, but when they slid me into that tiny tube, I didn't remember it being SO DARN SMALL. I don't think I am claustrophobic, even though the thought of being buried alive has been one of my most vivid nightmares since I was little. Nothing gets to me like the fingernail marks in an exhumed coffin. I mean seriously. But when they put those squishy earmuffs on my and handed my a panic button, I started to have questions. I was in the tube faster than I could manage to sputter out my inquiries about why one would need a panic button, and then it hit me: Oh. Because, hello panic.

The instinctive, full-on freak-out started to take hold along with the realization that there were walls touching almost every plane of my body and I knew if I opened my eyes I would see cold plastic within inches of my eyeballs. I decided to engage my own mind in a battle of wills.

"Stop it. You're fine. It doesn't hurt. People do this all the time. Of course you can breathe - it just feels like you can't. Just do it. Take a breath. No seriously. A breath. You're not really trying. Quit being dramatic." I could imagine the face of my best friend laughing at me at the foot of the tube. Waiting to win $10 when I came screaming out, squeezing the life out of the panic button. I wasn't a baby. I was gonna do this. I have to admit that there was actually a minute or two when I considered a lifetime of shoulder pain was worth enduring to avoid what was certain death in this plastic shuttle to hell.

"Ok. 25 minutes. Take a nap. Nope. Alright then, distract yourself. Distractions... kisses on my neck, Jamie Fraser - Dang it. I need something more realistic, because God only knows if anyone will ever kiss this neck again. Small plastic tubes are no place for self pity. Switch gears. "

"What if this tube was actually a regeneration machine, and all of the loud noises and vibrations were the removal of layers of fat, wrinkles and blemishes. In 25 minutes I will emerge looking like a 110 lb 22 year old. I can almost feel it. Dammit. I am going to be so pissed when I roll out of this thing still fat and old. Forget regeneration. It's a time travel tube. You can go anywhere in history, you just have to pick."

This project consumed most of my time in the machine. I argued with myself about which era in history would suck the least for a woman, and after giving up on the dark ages, the dust bowl 30s and the old west, because they'd be too much work, and the renaissance because, well, hygiene, guys, and other eras simply because I have to believe that the food sucked,  I was struggling. To limit my options, I decided that I could only be transported to a time in the past in this exact location. Spokane, Washington. Then it was a toss up between the 1940s and the 1700s, until the food argument won out again, and I started thinking about what I would order for lunch at a diner in the 1940s. Or maybe even today, and what kind of beer would go with it. By the time they wheeled me out, my stomach was in full-on growl mode and I couldn't believe 25 minutes was over.

Needless to say, the next stop was lunch at The Blackbird, where I got heavily involved with a disastrously good mac n' cheese and a couple of killer brews. Hey man, I earned it.

Things About Being American in not-America

There are a few basic rules to international traveling. I am fairly certain that I don’t know any of them, but it was quickly evident to me that in addition to the real rules, like passports and visas and not being felons on the run or carrying any highly contagious diseases, there are a number of unspoken cultural things-to-avoid when outside of one’s own country. Most of these can basically be summed up into one: don’t be a jerk.

If you are going to travel to countries that are not the United States, it is important to remember several things, including the fact that you are traveling to countries that ARE NOT THE UNITED STATES. Sometimes, in these other countries, they do things differently. Like even speaking English. Turns out, this widely spoken language is actually spoken quite differently from place to place, which is interesting to discover when you, say, refer to that quintessential travelling necessity that us “Americans” call a fanny-pack, in a country like Australia and have succeeded in offended the young women in front of you by a careless mention of their genitalia.

clearly a language barrier problem here. 

Recently, being a world traveler, I was in Dublin with my family, and my parents were not particularly amused when my cousin and I kept referring to the “crack” that locals were telling us we could find downtown. The more enlightened among us readily understood that “crack” is an Irish term based on the Gaelic word  “craic”, which means simply “a good time”, and was most likely stolen and perverted by American druggies in the roaring twenties. Once this miscommunication was ironed out we were all relieved that even mom and dad could join us for a bit o’ crack in the pubs of Ireland.

have a bit o' crack! and a creamy pint!

Another keen traveling tip for Americans Abroad is the vital importance of matching luggage. This is the ONLY way to ensure adventures such as mixing up the bags of 6’1”, 190 lb. Uncle Jim and 4’9” 92 lb. Aunt Janet when we split off to fly to separate countries for more exploring. Not that Aunt Janet wouldn’t have killed it in green gym shorts and a bicycling cap, but I am not sure the Netherlands would have recovered from Uncle Jim in a size 00 zip off quick dry skirt  – this could easily be misconstrued as some sort of cultural terrorism. Matching suitcases also offers the reassurance that EVERYONE will know that we are related, even English speaking people who don’t really speak English. I saw several American families following this important travel protocol, and was somewhat envious of their Disney Themed carry-ons. Next time, family. Next time.

You have to admit, they do look like they know what they're doing. 

Dietary differences are an important factor to consider when traveling as well. One of our family members has celiac disease, which proved problematic, especially when we were on “the continent”, where A) they didn’t even pretend to speak English and B) continental breakfast is actually a THING. As is continental lunch, and dinner. The four major food groups in France are bread, croissants, rolls and cheese. Lucky for Aunt J, we already knew the word for cheese was “fromage”, which offered a relatively safe source of protein for her. Also, it turns out, hot dog is a nearly universal term. Shortly into our trip, after a text-a-friend to the most recent high-school French student, we were able to eek out the French word blé – which I think is wheat, because once we said that (actually showed them in text, because pronouncing blé is much harder than one would imagine), they smiled and said, in a very frenchy accent: “AHHH! Oui! Glúten Free!” which happens to be exactly what we were saying the whole time, but in American. Lord Love a Duck.

Sanna spilled her unidentifiable French green gelatinous appetizer. We do fancy, yo. 

Now, in spite of hailing from Northport, I would consider myself a fairly well rounded, cultured and adaptable individual. We live in a multi-cultural world, and I like it that way. I am of the firm belief that both the Native Americans AND the Spanish were on this continent before us white European folks, so there’s absolutely no reason that Spanish or whatever language shouldn’t be spoken and taught here. We are as much of a melting pot as the world has to offer, and it turns out, after being in Ireland, England, Scotland and France, there’s a lot of melting all over the place. We had authentic Italian food with authentic Italian waiters in Edinburgh, we had German wait staff in Ireland, and we had Czechish service in London. And in every place we went, “English speaking” country or no, we seemed to run into communication barriers, which makes me feel a bit like the common denominator, and also the cliché American jerk. No matter how loudly or slowly I spoke, they still didn't understand me. #youredoingitwrong

Like the time that we ordered hamburger steak in France and had it delivered to our table pretty much raw. The polite European thing to do might have been eating hamburger tartaré, but… well, I sent mine back to the kitchen for a little bit of cooking, because: e-coli, you guys.

um, so the differences weren't ALL bad. This is a "Knickerbocker Glory" and I want one every single day for the rest of my life. @Temple Brewhouse in London

Also did you know that American Plumbing isn't the universal standard? For instance, I ran across a pit toilet in France, that I was happy to use in my urgent need. And some places don't have stand up showers. And some places have sitting showers for your nether regions (not to be confused with Nether-lands). Not to mention the variety of how-do-you-turn-it-on and how-do-you-get-hot-water dilemmas we faced in different locations. It's all quite complicated and confusing for the average 'Merican. I mean, it certainly wasn't a village in Uganda, or even a Chinese suburb, for that matter, but it was also not Colville.

this is where common sense and picture instructions come in real handy. 

Maybe it sounds shallow to say that I like the way we do things here in the good ol' USof A. Or maybe it just sounds like I am closed-minded and stuck in an American rut, which is ok. It's fun to experience things like accidentally peeing on your ankles, or eating raw hamburger every once in awhile, but for the most part, I'll take what we've got going on here. I just have to remember that when I DO venture out into the Big Wide World again, to take my travel etiquette and a couple of basic translation dictionaries with me. Just in case. 

Things That Go Bump In The Night

Let's just say that you get up at 11:30 PM to go to the bathroom. Being the Only Human Being in the whole house, you find it odd that the bathroom door is closed. Odder still, the door opens Very Reluctantly, as if, on the other side, is a heinous secret that it is loathe to unveil. And then let's say that you get the door open and figure out that some Super Villain has pulled all of the towels off the shelf behind the door that you folded and placed there yesterday. You know, the towels that you were looking for when you took a shower after 10 days on a fire and you realized that Noone had been staying at the house and getting All Of The Towels dirty and hiding them somewhere. So the towels that you washed ALL of, folded and put them away, were unfolded and blocking the bathroom door from the inside. But being the Only Human Being In The House, this is kind of weird. Because if say, any one of my 6+ daughters were around, that's totally normal, but just me... generally if I am unfolding towels it's to make a towel fort under the table and I just haven't had the energy.

Anyway, you fold up the towels again, and think it odd, but since it's 11:30 and you have been asleep for an hour, it doesn't seem worth freaking out about, or even solving. But then you see this:

And you think: What in the actual bloody heck?

And as you remove them, roll by roll, all five of them, you wonder what maniacal two-year-old snuck into my house in the middle of the night and threw All of The Toilet Paper into the bowl? And then you turn to throw the water logged rolls into the bathtub, because at this point, nothing else really made sense, and you see them.

Languishing like two ingenious Jagulars on the bath mat. Smugly proud of the strong work they had performed. These two delinquent brother a**hats who have knocked every picture frame on my wall sideways, chased a thousand headbands under the couch. These two reprobate felines who think that sneak attacks on sleeping heads of hair at three AM are almost as much fun as plastic bag wars at four AM. These arrogant poopheads that guard the dog door to attack unsuspecting dogs going in and out. THESE CATS. Seriously.

Things That I Got to Do

I realize it’s been a long time since y’all heard from me. I know that there’s a lot to catch up on. I’ve been busy, guys, traveling the world and experiencing things that are so overwhelming, I am not even sure where to begin.

For anybody who doesn’t know, I got to go over to Ireland with my family. Ireland, Scotland, France and England, actually, all made possible by my parents. Specifically my mother who has spent the last year planning and scheming (in a totally legitimate, non-subversive way, of course) and coordinating the perfect execution of a nearly three week, four country tour of the British Isles and beyond. Most of the expense of this trip was covered by airline miles and award points accumulated carefully and meticulously through a strategy so complex and precise, that I would imagine even the spreadsheets were outwitted. My mother is a master in the art of thrifty travel and making things happen. I am in awe.

The first half of our trip was spent all over the rolling green hills of Ireland, touring the three Cs – Castles, Cathedrals and Cliffs. Then we spent two nights in the fairy tale town of Edinburgh, Scotland, where I felt certain I had stepped into Diagon Alley and was watching carefully for Ollivander ‘s Wand Shop. After Scotland, we spent three nights in France, along the Normandy Coast, visiting beaches where thousands of Allied Troops disembarked in June of 1944. Then it was on to jolly old England for two nights in London listening to Big Ben announce the imminent arrival of our departure.

At no point, as I wandered through these long-lived lands, did the dizzying knowledge of Someone Before escape me. How many places that I stood had seen death, revolution, romance and intrigue. Thousands of years of history happened beneath my feet in these spots, before the New World across the sea was even imagined. Cities haunted by the superstitions of generations, faith that hangs in the air as thick as the ghosts that it tells about – stories whisper out of every wall about the destinies that came and went from these places.

I got to put my hands on ancient stones that have known the light touch of Mary Queen of Scots and the hard fist of Oliver Cromwell.

I got to bury my feet in the once blood-soaked sand of Omaha Beach.

I got to look out the window of Anne Boleyn’s bedroom.

I got to stand on rocks that could tell the stories of people more ancient than we have even discovered.

I leaned against walls that saw the death-slumped shoulders of chain-mailed knights, and bricks that held up generations of legend-drunk Irishmen and their singing heads.

I sat on benches that were grazed by the silk of fine, corset-ensconced ladies and where war-tired noblemen held their aching heads in their hands.

My feet got to travel the paths of age-old monks, following their trail of knowledge and faith throughout history.

I got to look up into the ceilings of castles and cathedrals that held secrets of conspiracies to thrones, illicit love stories and religious turning points that defined the destiny of the New World across the oceans.

I got to see the armor that grew to enclose the graduating form of Henry the VII as he evolved through his legendary reign.

I got to feel the cold salt water waves of the hard Irish beaches that hold a thousand stories of sailors and soldiers and saints.

I got to walk the same worn-smooth cobbled streets as witches and kings, abbots and invaders.

I got to stand beneath the floating feathers of Mont St Michel as they drift weightless in the still air, the suspended remnants of the archangel’s battle with the dragon of evil.

I got to lay eyes on the sparkling crown jewels of a Tiny Island that have been the reason for countless murders and wars and changes in religious trends.

I got to bear witness to centuries of traditions grafted from native beliefs onto imported rituals, a melding of spiritual, physical and legal forces compelling the people to their prescribed faiths.

I got to hear the story of religion used as a political vehicle over time, in turn redeeming and condemning followers, offering salvation and grace one minute, only to take it away at the whim of a ruling monarch and replace it with judgment and death.

I got to visit churches that swung wildly between different observations of faith and fell mercilessly on the people beneath them, seeking refuge. Places of comfort that became places of torture, and vice-verse.

I got to experience breathtaking landscapes, Kincaid cottages, adorable villages, intimidating fortresses, cozy chateaus, ancient metropolises, and in many places, the awkward clash of new and old, mixed up together in a land that still seeks to reconcile the bloody past with the enabled present. Elevators in 700 year old castles. Flushing toilets in rustic rock cottages. Glass Office Buildings alongside thatched roofs. These places know where they’re going but they’re careful to not forget where they have been.

These are dichotomies that we see rarely in our young nation. Old is torn down to acquiesce to new, and progress is not halted for tradition. We are the melting pot of the world, and rather than learning from our mistakes, we scorn them as erstwhile products of some other entity, and we start from scratch as though our slate was clean. We deny our torture chambers and internment camps and legacy of slavery.  We hide our face from the shame of bad rulers and poor legislative decisions. Granted, we have not the luxury of centuries to ease the pain of embarrassment, but the failures of our nation are carefully erased and tactfully avoided in polite conversation. And with the avoidance comes the perpetuation. Without looking back it is difficult to look forward, and we stay forever locked in our “just fine” state of being where equality is a trendy word and not a trend. So much we could learn from our cousins across the pond of adding the new to old and retaining the beauty that comes from gradual change through time. But we are young, we are impatient, we are revolutionaries. We’d prefer to knock down the whole tower of blocks and start over if it wasn’t constructed according to our tastes. We see no value in the experience of those who have gone before us, either for their successes or for their mistakes.

I have no idea where that ramble came from... sorry. But anyway, I feel like a pretty lucky girl for all the stuff I got to do, and I've got a lot more to write up

Things About Remembering

For some people, Memorial Day is really about remembering - faces, names, events... Some of the people we know have looked the Monster of War in the face and lived to tell about it. For many of us, myself included, there isn't a direct memory I can connect to, a lost loved one, a first hand impact that changed my life forever. But then again, maybe there is...

How would my life look if almost 5 million American Troops hadn't deployed to the battlefields of France in World War I? What if more than 16 million US Soldiers hadn't shipped overseas for World War II? 5.7 million in The Korean War, nearly 9 million in Vietnam, and over 2 million in the first Gulf War. And still counting. Since 1775 we have lost over one million active duty soldiers. How can the death of 1 million US citizens not have impacted my life, or the life of any American, directly? Another 1.5 million of the nearly 42 million veterans that have served were wounded in battle.

Freedom isn't free. It comes at the high price of our best, brightest and strongest young men and more recently, women (144 female soldiers have been lost in recent conflict in the Middle East. In Vietnam as well as the first Gulf War, 6 female soldiers died). It is won on the backs and blood of a part of each generation - the ones dedicated to a cause, to service and to their country.

War is evil. There is no reason behind it. It is an insufferable plague on humanity much like any epidemic that cannot be avoided. It is dictated by greed and power and the most basic human depravity. This evil must be answered, and lives lost unjustly for a just cause.

Memorial Day was created in 1868 by the Grand Army of The Republic, a group of Union Veterans, after the Civil War. Originally called "Decoration Day" it was set aside to remember fallen soldiers and decorate soldiers graves with flowers. It was renamed Memorial Day in 1885 but not federally recognized until 1967. Memorial Day has become synonymous with a three day weekend, barbecues and beer. It is frequently confused (by yours truly in the past) with Veteran's Day in November, which is set aside to honor veterans of the Armed Forces, living and dead.

Some times, in the sunny end of May, as school schedules are circling the proverbial drain and the lawn is finally starting to look good, it's easy to forget that Memorial Day is more than mattress sales and flag flying. Remembering can be difficult on any day, but distracted by recreational demands and family reunions, forgetting becomes easy.

But Memorial Day is personal for every American. Whether your life was forever altered by a lost soldier, or you have lived an existence that is unconsciously reliant on the liberties that were hard won with human life, you have a reason to remember. The tragedy of every battlefield death lies in the havoc it wreaks at home, and the victims of these losses are around us and among us. Remember the fallen, remember the remaining. We owe our freedoms to the Lost Ones, and their families. Let's never forget that.

http://www.infoplease.com/ipa/A0004615.html

Things About Doing It

A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog about running, or more accurately, not running.

I mentioned the personal life goal I had of passing the pack test. The 45 minute, three mile, 45 pound wildland fire fitness test, required for all line personnel. It's not a big deal, right? Thousands of firefighters pass this thing every single year like it's no big deal. Thousands of young, whole, healthy firefighters who aren't me...

I haven't been able to pass it for the past five. Five years ago, in Bend, when I tried to pass it, twice, I didn't finish it time. That was after 6 years of passing it. I even passed the moderate when I was pregnant with Aspen, because, you know, I am a badass. But there I was in 2010, testing with a new fire organization, a bunch of strangers... a bunch of firefighting strangers. Nothing like making a fool of yourself in front of a slew of firefighters. Twice. Turns out I had a vertebral disc that was working it's way out one side of the space between my L5/S1 junction. It just wasn't happening.

Then the Forest Service decided that too many people were dying of heart attacks taking the arduous pack test, so only firefighters with jobs that absolutely required that level of fitness were allowed to take it. For a few years, they considered line EMTs a non-arduous qualification, and I was spared the agony of not passing it for awhile. This was good considering I had three surgeries to try to fix or remove the female organs that were killing me slowly during this time, so I was heavily entrenched in excuses.

Then somebody up top got smart: of course the line EMTs need the pack test - they're on the freaking line. But for us broken old EMTs, they made it optional, with a pay raise for the young bucks who could crank it out. The choice was mine, and something inside of me wasn't ready to roll over and play dead just yet. Even though the disc that was slipping before had now degenerated to nothing, I started practicing with 10 pounds, then 15, then 20... All the while reminding myself that I probably couldn't pass it this year, and didn't have to, and that extra $4/hr wouldn't make THAT much of a difference.

But in the back on my mind there was this thing. I saw it in a counselors office, as I sat there and listened to how my trust issues and lack of money management skills were making me impossible to live with, and trying to think how I could prioritize these things over keeping four girls alive to adulthood and somehow not lose myself in the process... It was a little sign that said only : "She Thought She Could and So She Did". It haunted me. As if I knew deep down that the only thing holding me back was the permission I was giving myself to not succeed.

With the gentle nudging of my best friends, I began to buy into it. Maybe I can. No, I know I can, if I can just meet this one goal first. And then the next... I met each of my workout landmarks, and I started to panic as I removed my excuses for not at least attempting the test. The reality that I understood was that if I started it, failure was not an option. I would not strap that pack on for a second attempt this year. I would not admit defeat again, like I had to in Bend. So I lost sleep for two weeks, arguing with myself about the ridiculousness of it all. I kept practicing, and psyching myself up. And then it came.

The day of the test, my buddy promised to pace me. Just like my best friend at home, I told him to keep on pace, just ahead of me, so I knew where  I needed to get to for a passing speed. The guys administering the test were good friends of mine and I watched with sweaty palms and minor palpitations as they weighed the vest and adjusted it to be sure it wasn't an ounce over 45 pounds. I have some awesome people in my life, you guys. The boys helped me get into my harbinger of doom, which almost didn't feel that heavy, until the walking started.

I could feel my hips creaking and my back grinding with every step, and the shin splints were burning within the first quarter mile. But it was do or die. I almost quit at a half mile. The pace seemed impossible and the weight was literally choking the life out of me. But I kept chanting in my head "she thought she could. she thought she could. I think I can, I think I can." I was like the Little Engine, chug-chugging across the pavement, red faced and not pretty at all. My buddy was a few steps ahead. Every time I gasped or grunted he turned to make sure I wasn't face down on the sidewalk in a puddle of aged regret.

I almost quit again at one mile. I was losing steam and my pace was barely on time. My shins were screaming, and if I had been able to see out of my eyes I was pretty certain there would have been a steady flow of blood pouring out from under the bones in my legs. "One more step. She thought she could. One more step. A little quicker. I think I can."

Two miles in and I was over time. I wasn't going to make it.  I almost cried but I was too exhausted. Clearly I hadn't trained enough. As if any amount of training makes the weight seem OK. Sometime after the second mile marker the burn in my shins started to die down, the spasmed muscles let go and my pacer turned with a concerned look when he heard my sigh of delight. I put my head down and picked up an awkward joggy rhythm that probably looked sort of like an emu running in place. Not finishing on time was clearly an unacceptable end to this mini-drama that I had created for myself. I had half a mile left when one of my good buddies showed up along side me and started to give me crap, which is always a useful motivator for me. A little while later and another bestie popped up on my other side. Then my boss was there, and some random lady I don't know. With a quarter mile left I had half a dozen cheerleaders jogging alongside me like my own personal fan club. Even my the guy formerly known as my husband got in on the pep rally.

The pacer kept me moving, and as I crossed the finish, with 30 seconds to spare, he came back and somehow wrung me out of the vest that had become one with my frame. There were at least 5 people pawing at that stupid vest to get it off me, half of them I am sure because they wanted to be ready to hook me up to a defibrillator when I collapsed. I was done. It was done. I had passed it one more time in my life.

The pep squad made me walk a little longer to cool down, which seemed like the cruelest part. But they did all offer to buy me a beer. I have every intention of holding them to it sooner or later.

After about 15 minutes of tottering on the brink of death, I recovered, and I felt like I had just won the lottery. I even jogged through the parking lot, humming the Rocky theme triumphantly, on the way back. I thought I could, and I did, but more importantly, all of them thought so too, and they made it happen. That's the beautiful thing about friendships - there is so much confidence in having the right people around you to hold you up when a 45 pound vest has beaten the shit out of you. I wonder if this means I have to split my wage increase with them?

this is me in the weight vest, pre-test. the smile is fake. 

PS - I haven't done a single lick of exercise since the test. FOR SHAME!

Things That I (Don't) Understand

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. When my oldest daughter called me for dating advice, I never imagined it would be on these terms. If I was talking to a son who was taking a girl out for the first time, I would say many things: Be sensitive. Be kind. Be a gentleman. Be curious about her: listen, learn. Have fun - without the pressure of expectation. But what should I say when it's my daughter that is taking out the girl? Maybe that advice doesn't change...

Even though the signs were there from day one in the curious, indomitable tomboy who would never wear pink. While her friends were being princesses, she had an imaginary cowboy named Jarrup for a best friend. It was there when she challenged the dress standard norms for gender suitability in early middle school. When she watched the other girls with peculiar fascination, as though they were alien creatures. 

Gay wasn't a thing in my family. In fact, it was an abomination. While my own beliefs had bent and swayed as my understanding of God and The Whole World evolved, GAY was still something that I hadn't made eye contact with. Avoid the awkward conversation, and dealing with rigid, archaic religion that still surrounded me. It was a conversation that we didn't need to have, that I didn't need to have with myself.

Halle came home for Christmas from college and there we were, sitting in my messy bedroom. In an awkward talk full of medium smiles, stifled tears and uncomfortable silences, she was telling me that she didn't know about sex, or about love, but that she was pretty sure that men weren't in her future. She cried about a girl that she adored - one who had pushed her away, and used her, and hurt her. She had been devoutly committed to the girl. All of her words painted the picture of the loyal hound dog that would do ANYTHING for his friend and master. To keep the one she cared about free from pain and anxiety and stress were paramount motivators in Halle's life.

I knew this story. I had lived these feelings. The emotions she described and the dedication she expressed were a mirror image of thelove that I once felt for a man. As she cried, I flashed back to the physical pain I experienced when the one I loved was hurting - Halle was expressing total empathy. I UNDERSTOOD, but somehow, it was different. It made no sense to me, feeling the draw of intimacy, of discovery, to another woman. I had moved beyond the absolute belief system that would give me cause to reject my daughter for her lifestyle, but there was still some flimsy cardboard wall inside, keeping me from embracing the Whole Halle. I couldn't fathom her absolute desire to please another person who wasn't a man. I have very close girl friends, but what Halle described were feelings that I had only known for the love of my life, who was very much male.

I couldn't translate it. Or figure out how to take it away from that conversation and into the real world. How to say to Everyone Else: "yes. I understand her heart. and I support her love. for whomever she chooses." But that is truly as simple as it needed to be. Even so, I couldn't speak that language to her. I tried, in a clumsy and brutish way, to express my unconditional love for her, but the words that came out sounded more like tolerance and avoidance than support and compassion. I was doing it wrong, but I wasn't sure what right looked like.

It took me a few weeks and some less-than-gentle moments of introspection, but it finally occurred to me that the dating advice that I would give my daughter, as well as the things I would say to the Whole World were no different than they would be for a straight kid. Be sensitive, be kind. Whomever it is that you love, love unconditionally, the way that I have taught you.

More than being gay, she is my daughter. The fears that I have for her and the mistakes that she could make are universal. The risks are the same for all of us, gay or straight, every race and creed, down to the last imperfect person on the planet. Fear is born from ignorance, and while I might not understand her attraction, I understand my daughter, and I understand the love that she experiences. I know her, and as time goes on I will know her better. None of this can change my love for my girl - but my curiosity to know her has grown.

This wasn't the way I planned it, and yet here we are. Without knowing how, it's my job to include my daughter as she is, who she is, into the greater world of our extended family, the church, the judging masses. It's my job as her mother to speak love and acceptance to her, and bridge her way through self-discovery. Halle has an opportunity to live her life as an answer to how she was created by the same God that the rest of us will negotiate our own expressions of life with. It isn't necessary for me to understand, it is only necessary for me to love.

Always My Hallelujah. 

Things That Make You Stop

I had an awesome weekend. I learned so much, met some great people, and slept in a top bunk, which is therapeutic in the same way as those weird shrinks who make you squeeze your way out of a fabric tube to re-experience birth. If you haven't heard of that then you aren't watching enough Law and Order SVU. I came home knowing that I would have a lot to catch up on. I mean, I have been gone for the last 23 out of 30 days, so if you were beginning to wonder where I live anymore, me too. It's almost the end of May now and my yard hasn't been mowed since April. Of last year. Ok that's a slight exaggeration, but it does look a lot like no one has lived at my house for four years. The good news about me ignoring my yard is that I haven't had a chance to kill the surviving raspberry plants that are back there defying the odds of existing in Liv's world.

I have had work to go to since I got back, which is great because no matter how much laundry I do, or dishes, or how many times I mop the floors, nobody will pay me for it and the Bill People don't like that. The downside of working when I am home and then leaving is that All Of the Other Things don't get done. Yesterday, before hitting it hard on a mission from hell to Do It All, I took a night off with the kids and we went to see Avengers: Age of Ultron. It was awesome.

So I came home from work today all psyched up to get shit done. Like, f'reals. This was after a long day of data entry, directing a bunch of eye-rolling sophomores in the school production of Mean Girls, and having my 17 year old daughter tell me flat out, NO, that she would not come home with me on the school campus in front of God and Everyone, then ride off into the sunset on a bicycle with her boyfriend. In my heart, I grabbed her by the hair and drug her down the sidewalk, but luckily my shoulder wouldn't have endured it, and I probably would have ended up in my best friend's cop car, parked conveniently 10 feet away from the altercation. Turns out that in spite of the fact that she is FAILING two classes that she must pass to graduate in three weeks, her dad told her she can run wild and free all over town with her boyfriend. Effective parenting right there, folks. Also: PUBLIC SHAMING.

Anyway, Aspen cranked up an odd mix of Frank Sinatra, Fun., Justin Timberlake and Pink and we started cleaning out the camp trailer that has been inhabited only by a colony of ants, a family of small spiders, and MacKenzie and her boyfriend over the last few months. When even got in on the spider killing action, and then we moved on to the back porch which has been doubling as a garbage dump/where we put all the crap we have no idea what to do with it, and let the spiders take over. We swept and stacked and tossed and hosed and got that junk wrangled. Then I cleaned the bathroom, organized the laundry room, washed ALL of the rugs from the floors, the shower curtains, and nearly every towel we own.

I was washing the trays from two food dehydrators that we discovered under a pile of cardboard on the back porch when it happened. I was bent over the sink a little and all of a sudden I couldn't breathe. Or move. Or anything. There was something that I can only compare to The Hammer Of Thor pounding into this spot in my spine and I was rendered completely useless. After a few minutes of dry heaving in the sink from the pain and planning my funeral, I managed to slowly twist down onto the floor, where I belly crawled out of the kitchen. I learned two things in this moment: my core strength could really use some work, and the floors need to be mopped badly.

I tried crawling onto the inversion table to "stretch it out" which ended with Aspen helping me get back on to the floor. Then I got on my feet in a very graceful knees-to-couch rolling twist up again and figured out if I stay perfectly straight upright I could finish making dinner. I did a stint on the foam roller which my kids watched in amusement, and Dagny thought was strictly so I would have a better ball throwing angle for her. Now I am in bed on an icepack with a bottle of wine.

I asked my sister if spines can bleed, because I am pretty sure mine is. She said no, unless someone stabbed you in the back, which we could, within rights, pin on MacKenzie today, especially considering I had just written a $50 check to cover her cap and gown and year book. I wonder if I can cancel that check?

I am curious to see how work goes tomorrow, and if they will send a wheelchair to pick me up because I can't feel one of my legs...