Things About The Dead of Winter

Maybe "they" were thinking of the dormant trees and dead plants and how everything has the blue-gray sheen of a corpse when they coined the phrase "dead of winter", but I think maybe "they" were in touch with the spirit of the season, which is something along the lines of: BLAAAHHHHHHHHHHH.

Don't get me wrong, I like winter. I like snow. I like crisp, cold air and rosy cheeks and staying inside where it's warm. I like the idea of cuddling (I can't remember if I really enjoy it that much or not, because it's been a long time). I like sledding and Christmas and jingle bells and the smell of fresh cut spruce in my house. But once The Holidays come to a screeching halt on January 2nd, and we go back to school and work as if there was never any fun in the world at all, it's easy to forget the happy parts of winter.

Because winter really is about death. It is the dead zone of the natural year. It is the end of one life cycle and the rest before a new one begins. It is being "dead tired" from all of the holiday traditions and SO MUCH FAMILY.  It is the time of "bored to death" cabin fever, "dead broke" after The Holidays and the "death warmed over" look that we're all sporting after we recover from our "deathbed" of seasonal colds and flus. While we're all busy "freezing to death" we are simultaneously commenting on how the weather is "dead wrong" and we're moving to somewhere green and warm and ALIVE. Was it really only a week ago that I was jogging through town in glorious, glistening snowy sunshine, feeling like the world couldn't be more beautiful?

There is very little, in the dead of winter, to remind us that we are alive. Except driving on roadways covered in three inches of freezing rain. Or pellet stoves that decide to quit working in the middle of the night during the coldest week of the season. Or broken pipes, cantankerous hot water heaters, and shoveling snow. Lots and lots and lots of shoveling.

Other than mini-crisis management though, there is nothing in my life during the dead of winter that I can't do later. Some other time, Some other day. When people ask how I am doing, a normally honest response would be "BUSY! SO BUSY!" but right now, I have absolutely no where to be, and absolutely nothing I have to do. The laundry will be there tomorrow, staring at me all. day. long. So will the dirty bathroom. And a myriad of other little projects that I could take on. But I can do it tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next week. Heck, I don't have any plans until March.

With all of this time on my hands, I have been cooking. I have cooked all of the things. A Full Turkey Dinner with All of the Trimmings. Bulk quantities of shredded southwest chicken breast, black beans, chicken tortilla soup and all of the ingredients for cobb salads, and rice bowls. Exactly 83% of this food will go to waste, even though I took a quart of soup to Neighbor Joe and sent Turkey Dinner to my rehabilitating bestie and her family. There are not enough of us to eat the food that I make in my boredom. I had 5 overripe bananas today that I put in the freezer instead of making into banana bread because I knew it would sit on the counter and mold, like the three oranges, one apple and two onions I just threw away.

So many good intentions swirling around, but kind of like with my intentions to exercise and stuff, I am struggling to find the WHY. Why do I cook? Why do I work out? I am making no difference. Nobody eats the food. Nobody will really care if I lose ten more pounds, or thirty. I am doing just as much good watching 13 episodes straight of Orphan Black, and letting the girls have the macaroni they've been begging for. Why am I fighting it? Seriously. It's the Dead of Winter. The only thing that makes it better is comfort food like BLTs and Macaroni and Cheese and BEER.

There's the trouble right there. I don't have enough beer in my life. Since I started counting calories and all that crap, I have cut way back on my beer consumption, along with other things (like macaroni and cheese) that make life worth living. Is it any wonder that my existence has lost meaning? :) I think that some re-ordering of my priorities might be in order.

Maybe tomorrow I will wake up and it will all make sense - I will feel motivation and purpose again. Maybe I will remember why I want to be in shape, and eat healthy. Maybe I will put on my work out pants and they won't just be an accessory for maximum couch enjoyment. Maybe I will have a beer. Maybe I will remember that it's not just me, it's the Dead of Winter.

Things About Girls

It's not all sweetness and light.

It's not all sugar and spice and everything nice.

It's not all sparkling golden laughter and twinkling eyes and caring, warm hearts.

It's rodent sized hairballs in your shower drain every six months or so, because when you have girls, girls have hair. And they also have friends, and their friends have friends, and also cousins, lots of girl cousins. And all of the girls and their friends and their friends friends and girl cousins all somehow find a reason to use your shower, and put their long, glorious hair in your shower drain, until pretty much you have DNA samples from every female in Stevens County. Possibly Washington State. And probably much, much, much more scientific data than anyone in an Average American Household ever wanted to collect out of their drain.

It's also slamming doors and theatrical sighs and eye-rolling that just. won't. quit. It's year after year after year of "whatever"s and "seriously?"s and "ohmygosh"s, in addition to the everything in the world being "annoying", "not my fault" and "not fair".

It's glitter craft projects adorning every carpet and finger nail polish accents on every piece of furniture.

It's a fist sized hole that mysteriously appears in a wall, and the occasional plate glass window shattered by an imaginary javelin.

It's a thousand articles of clothing whom No One owns, and nothing to wear, ever. At all.

It's going to All Of The Games and All Of The Practices and buy All Of The Gear of All Of The Sports and All Of The Hobbies until you find the exact one that is "the favorite", and then it's doubling it up, because this is surely their destiny: to be professional tuba players/basketball stars/volleyball champions/irish dance professionals.

It's pony tail holders on the floor in every room, bobbi pins on every surface, and a hair brush and random intervals throughout the living spaces.

It's moody singer-songwriter tunes, angry rap and the inescapable Disney Artists from every generation, including the most unfortunate and most recent ones.

It's pictures of puppies, romantic poems and angry hate-notes of vengeance and tattle-taleing.

It's three thousand pairs of shoes that are totally inappropriate for any given event, and probably don't fit right anymore.

It's purple and pink and orange and CAMOUFLAGE and a rainbow of changing moods and favorites.

It's marathons of Glee and The Flash and Mario Cart, and crushes on Every. Single. Boy.

It's day after day, year after year, watching a herd of little women turn into fierce individuals with places to go and people to be.

It's a girl thing. 

Things About Roller Skating

Natalee is turning 16 tomorrow. Sixteen. Sweet 16. A top-end teenager. Which means I only have one young kid left. The rest are all old.

For her 16th birthday party, we went roller skating. We took a good percentage of her class from school, along with some relatives and friends from other grades, for a sum total of 19 people, to the roller rink in Spokane, where we skated our collective buns off.

That's right, WE skated. WE including (but not limited to) me, myself and I. I skated THE WHOLE TIME. All three hours I skated. I swooped and circled, I chicken danced and limboed and even tried to do the cupid shuffle on roller skates, which is a terrible idea if I ever heard one. Especially when he says "freeze!" and all you can do is fall on your face on top of several small children who were in front of you and apparently know how to stop instantly on 8 rolling wheels of plastic. I was just happy during one sequence when I got a "hop" and a "right stomp" in appropriately. My left stomps always turned into a weird rolling recovery sequence of waving my arms foolishly in the air for several minutes. Turns out I am NOT an ambi-stomper on roller skates.

My ankles hurt within about 45 seconds of roller skating, which is important to note since my sister with the perpetually broken ankle and detached tendons, etc, etc, etc, skated THE WHOLE TIME too. She probably isn't speaking to me or anyone this morning, if she is still alive. I almost wasn't alive. If hips were capable of murder, mine would have killed me in my sleep. Instead, they collaborated with my lower back to exact harsh punishment on me today.

I am not sure which was more fun, watching the adults (i.e. me) flailing around like wanton scarecrows, or getting to witness my three nephews on roller skates for the first time ever in their whole lives. It was pretty much a perpetual dogpile with wheels on top. Roller skating is a sport where no one can actually take themselves seriously, which might make it my most favorite sport ever. Check your ego at the door, y'all. Even you - that middle aged couple doing constant couples skate routines - I see your potential for imminent disaster behind those clever hand movement that mask your instability, you don't fool me. Admittedly, I thought I was pretty cool at 11 years old when I won an Amy Grant record doing the Hokey Pokey at homeschool skate night. Far cooler than my sister who won Sandy Patti doing the limbo. Even homeschoolers don't like Sandi Pattie. For heavens sake. Did they think it was grandmother skate night?

The best part about it was that my Fitbit app says that three hours of roller skating burns approximately 1288 calories. One thousand two hundred and eighty eight calories. Twelve hundred and 88 calories. That's so many. I could have had two pieces of cake if I wanted. Why does running, which feels like torture, burn like 5 calories an hour, but roller skating burns over 400? Roller skating is FUN you guys! If it wasn't, I would have quit like 37 minutes in. But it's super fun! I would go every day if I could, and after awhile, I would beat Em at the limbo, win the races AND probably defeat my ex husband in a professional couples skate dancing competition (more on this, contact Josh Weston). Not to mention ROLLER DERBY!!!!

I drove home alternately whimpering in pain and plotting how to get a grant to build a roller rink in Northport. I am sure that somebody is dying to give away a couple hundred thousand to get kids and housewives off of the streets and onto 8 wheels.

Addendum: A friend of mine posted this on Facebook about the same time I posted this blog, it seems appropriate...

"That thing you want to do that makes no sense on paper that everyone says is ridiculous? Go ahead. Because I tap danced while wearing roller skates. So there." - Gene Kelly

Things I Can Give Up

It is the last day of 2015. It's monumental, I suppose, this 38th year of mine, a year full of change, turmoil and triumph, highs and lows, work and play... but it feels like a Monday. Like I have to get up and get stuff done as soon as possible. Maybe a night of heavy drinking will fix that.

I was researching the tradition of New Year resolutions for a story I am writing in the Silverado Express, and it was fascinating to see that the custom of using the beginning of the year to make changes, to repent and forgive, to purge and cleanse and start over, is almost universal, whether the new year celebration is on January first, on the Chinese lunar new year, or Rosh Hashanah. The underlying theme of new year resolutions is sacrifice - the giving up and letting go of anything that hinders us: grudges, bad habits, clutter... Even the sacrifice of pride that keeps us from owning our failures or forgiving the people who have hurt us, or giving up something we love for the greater good. This tradition is rooted in the Catholic tradition of Lent which requires church members to forego the eating of meat among other things for a period of time.

In the spirit of the season, I laid in bed for awhile pondering what sacrifices I would make this year (because it was a great excuse to lay in bed for awhile), at the beginning of 2016, to start the year off unencumbered and ready to get some shit done. So here is my list of things to give up. Things I don't need hanging off of me in 2016:

1. Ungratefulness - this is something that has come up for me again and again and again. I have so much to be thankful for, but I habitually resort to complaining about what I don't have. And it's ugly.

2. About 30 more pounds - which means leaving behind the bi-weekly habit of cheesy bread and beer. I am on the path... just a little more paring!

3. Anger at situations that I cannot change or control. I am pressing hard after a deep seated peace, knowing that I am exactly where I need to be to get me where I am going.

4. Worry about my growing-up kids that are no longer under "my protection." I need to trust them to the Arms of Someone more powerful than me.

5. Substituting things for people. I pacify loneliness by shopping, and all that results in is a whole lotta stuff and still nobody here to make me feel better. When the urge hits, I need to reach out to a friend or pick up a book. Hey - imaginary friends are better than credit card bills!

6. Fleas, lice, round worms, ringworm, and all other vermin. You are no longer welcome in this house. Find somewhere else to haunt.

7. Relationships that are false, shallow or lecherous. I don't need to be sucked dry anymore, and in the same token, I need to evaluate how I relate to others and always make sure that I am giving and honest.

8. Neediness: I have been given everything I need to be a whole person, without being dependent on someone else. I forget this every day.

9. Judgement - I have enough of my own failures to focus on without being distracted by the shortcomings of others.

10. Excuses: For the first time in years, I am virtually pain free. I am capable and I am willing. It's time to be the person that I want to be, without letting my laziness and apathy slow me down.

Things Unseen - Why to Believe, and Why to Push It

It isn't just that I've had a couple of gin & sodas. It isn't just that it's The Holidays. It isn't that my good friend who really couldn't afford it footed my bill at the bar, or that by some weird God-related coincidence some random weird guy at the bar knew that this entire day swirled around and came back to It's a Wonderful Life and referenced it to me. It isn't because I am a spoiled brat and throw a lot of fits. Even if all of those things are true, that's not what it is.

What it really is, is that It Matters. No matter how much I feel like in any given moment, that it doesn't matter what I do, what I say, who I see or talk to, it really does matter. Just like if George Bailey had never been there for Mr. Gower, you never know when just being there matters the most. And you never can tell how the one time you made cookies with somebody, or read them a book, or made them watch a ridiculous Christmas movie, could be something So Big in their lives that they never fully recover.

Tonight I was feeling sorry for myself after sending my kids off to their dad's house for a Christmas celebration, and then I got into an argument with kids that aren't mine about Santa Claus and Christmas and believing. Even my own kids chastised me this holiday season about being too relentless with the Christmas Movies and the Christmas Music and TRADITION. Other kids think I am just plain nuts in my Santa Claus dogma.

I don't know how to say all of the feelings in my heart. All of the frustration for the 8 year old who tells me Santa Claus is a lie, because his parents believe in the importance of  teaching him to thank them for the presents they paid for. Or because perhaps they are afraid that as he grows older he will think that his parents lied to him about a mythical being. Or the 17 year old who doesn't even the know the name of Santa's reindeer because no one ever bothered to tell him. I probably sound petty when I say that it seems horrific to meet someone who has never seen White Christmas or Holiday Inn, or who has never laid awake all night listening for reindeer hooves on the roof of their house.

What baffles me is how you can expect your child to believe in a God that you cannot see or hear but banish so completely the wonder and faith of believing in Santa Claus. If there is anything of value that we can give our kids, it has to be the richness of believing in what we cannot touch or see. It has to be the mystery of Christmas Eve and the wonder of Christmas morning.

Years ago, as I slogged through the mess of my own spirituality in the wreckage of my soul as I was living in a hell on earth, I wrote a poem for my mother. It was shortly after my Grandma had passed away, the Grandma who had told me stories of brownie kiss freckles, mermaids at Twin Rocks on the Oregon Coast, and stories of fairies dancing in the ferns around Multnomah Falls. She told me the legend of The Bridge of The Gods, the ancient Klickitat brothers who fought over a fair maiden and wreaked havoc on the villages and lands of their people, ultimately destroying the naturally formed bridge over the Columbia River. In Punishment, their father, the Great Chief, struck all three down and they became the mountains: Adams, Hood and St. Helens, standing as mournful sentinels of caution to the native people. My grandma, with all of these stories, taught me faith in ages that have gone by before me, belief in knowledge that can not possibly be proven, and she is the reason I will always love, and always believe in Santa Claus, and even more, God. Don't tell me that there is an unseen world but that you are the only one with accurate information about it, according to your badly translated book of stories.

Christianity is in such an all-fired hurry to shun traditions and legends that originate before the advent of Jesus, because of their "pagan" roots - which interestingly, are ALL of our roots. There is history before Christ, y'all. Deal with it. There were miracles and mystics, and if God is yesterday, today and always, then most likely he was hanging out with the pagans before Jesus wandered along. Our little box of religion that is a few thousand years old puts a lot of limits on an omnipotent God, who, incidentally created all of the cultures behind all of the legends and stories and mysteries.

Here is the poem I wrote, and the belief that I feel compelled to share with my children and any others that I come into contact with. Because this is faith. Because it probably matters. Because I think my grandma had it figured out.

I believe in things unseen

In brownie kisses and faerie rings

I believe in gnomes and elves

And pixies that disguise themselves

I believe in sprites and nymphs

Mermaids and mischievous imps

Little things we never see

That hide in toadstools, rocks and trees

I believe there is a world

Of unseen things as we’ve been told

With lots of different creatures there

Irksome ones, and some that care

Now I think I understand

Why Grandma told me faerieland

Was not something I had to see

But trust my heart and it could be

Although this world I cannot see

I know it is as real as me

This trust has grown throughout the years

Throughout the joy and all the tears

And things unseen have grown beyond

Faeries dancing on the lawn

To faith in God and heaven above

And giving unconditional love

for Grandma Schiffman, 1997

Things That Are Disgusting

I have decided that if there is anything gross in the world that it will happen to me. While I will spare you some of the more sordid details of my long past, I will bring you up to speed on the manifest disgust that I have had the pleasure of enduring recently.

It would be easy to just tell you to imagine the grossest things you can and then take it on faith that those things are going on at my house.

Say for instance, you imagined something as horrific as the idea of roundworm larva that live on the microscopic backs of fleas. And say for instance, that you imagined a demon-possessed kitten with the face of a miniature tiger that came to live in a house that was equipped with a dog door, and you couldn't actually keep the kitten out, but it brought these back-packing little parasites with it and shared them with All of The Dogs.

Then say for instance that the dogs, after a few months of chewing the obnoxious fleas off of their itching spots, swallowed enough with the happy little round worm larvae on their backs, that the little worm-eggs hatched out and then the dogs (and probably cat) all had round worms. And then say that the worms started crawling randomly out of your dogs anus on to the living room floor as he slept angelically. I mean just imagine that. Wriggling little white round worms on your living room floor. All around the vicinity of your dog's precious rear end.

And just imagine if the same cat who basically ruined your ENTIRE life, along with 30% of your Christmas tree ornaments which he flung wantonly off of the Christmas tree and into the waiting maws of a vengeful dachshund who got left behind on the last trip to town, imagine that this cat was also a fierce and ferocious hunter, and his favorite activity was bringing half-alive and all-the-way dead, and best of all, ripped-in-half baby rabbits and birds into your bedroom to tear apart and devour. Ripped in half, folks. Little furry halfs of baby rabbits. With fuzzy little cotton tails and hind feet. Under your dresser.

The carnage of an ornament. But slightly less gross and more photographable than anything else in my house. 

I mean, I am sure you've already heard the horror story of the people with the kittens who infected the Entire 12 Grade School with ringworm? And also the story about the poop floods at Christmas time.  Or even better the poop floods and head lice! Those things? They all happen here. All of them. And more.

All of these things are of course survivable, as is the bean soup that I fed the kids with the drowned fly in it. It's just that I thought that throwing a splash of "vintage cooking" wine (i.e. I opened it last summer and then left for fire season) in for flavor was a great idea. How was I to know there was a long-dead fly floating in the corked bottle? The internal moral debate that ensued was tumultuous. I could have thrown the whole pot out in a paranoid frenzy. Or I could calmly scoop the fly and surrounding soup out and let it boil for a very. long. time. Obviously I settled for the latter. Mostly I did it because one of my loving offspring announced to me recently that I am the only one in the house who likes soup anyway, and I have clearly been force-feeding this terrible slog to my children against their will. Who cares if it had a dead fly in it?

The good news is that nobody died from the fly-soup. The worms and the fleas have been routed (God willing!?!?!), and there hasn't been a trace of ringworm in well over a year. At least not here, which means things are getting less gross, right?

Things About Getting In Trouble

Of all of the things in my life that I am good at, Getting In Trouble is hands down my specialty.

It started when I was a nice little girl and all of the things that seemed like Really Good Ideas at the time ended up being exactly what my mother was not hoping for in a nice little girl. Like being mean to my even nicer little sister. Or cutting my bald-until-four-years-old cousin's hair off when she was five. Or sending fan mail to Christian Bale after I saw Newsies. Or running away on a black and hot pink ten speed bicycle to the payphone at Ronnie D's where I called my aunt and she sent me packing right back home on that hot mess of a bike.

It continued into my adult(ish) years in a religious community where my shirts were too tight, my house was too messy, my music was too sensual and I was an unsubmitted nightmare of a wife and mother and churchmember. It continued when I got the ambulance stuck in 2 feet of snow out meadow creek road, and when I qualified for a payment plan on a computer so I could start going to college against The Will Of The Lord. It went on when I got a divorce, then a boyfriend, then another divorce, and it hasn't showed any signs of slowing down.

Anyway, if somebody could make a living out of getting in trouble I feel like I could NAIL the interview for that job. Recently I have curbed my trouble-garnishing habits to less socially irresponsible things than boyfriends and bad credit. I have learned to invest my mischievous energy into Saying All Of the Wrong Things and probably soliciting certain death at the hand of either a terrorist, a republican, or my mother (they might have to leg wrestle for the privilege).

I recently wrote a blog post about Fear, and being the attention seeker that I have ALWAYS been, I used a bunch of tags like "terror, terrorist.." etc. The next day I had 900 hits on my blog from Israel. The country. I should be more concerned, especially after the  Boxcutter Incident, but knowing I have a brother who works for the NSA makes me feel reasonably safe that I would have a few mintues of warning if an attack was imminent, to make my way across the border into Canada and the polite safety of our Northern Neighbors.

As if beckoning international attention wasn't enough, with all of this political bruhaha smothering the food and beer posts right off of my Facebook feed, I might have inadvertently posted something not conservative enough, or much too conservative, which inevitably leads to a comment fight between my dad and my Most Liberal Friend, a smattering of  snarky comments from an assortment of cousins, and makes me want to delete my entire online life which would spell the end of my attempt at fame. You can take your pick of gun rights, #coplivesmatter, #idiocracy ala Donald Trump, Kim Davis, Syrian Refugees or Planned Parenthood, but there's a 102% chance that I will be on the exact wrong side of the fence from everyone. Not that I mind really, because it is a maddening world.

To top it all off, my friend Beth Woolsey, of Five Kids Is A Lot Of Kids fame, generously ran one of my old blog posts about Wetting The Bed, because if you're going to be exposed to a whole new audience of readers, it might as well be about one of the most shameful experiences of your life, right? Anyway, my poor Mom, God Love Her, can't understand why bed wetting needs to be mentioned ever at all. Here I go reverting back to doing All The Wrong Things Again. I have to say that she's come a long way in that she's able to love me unconditionally through my Poor Life Choices these days (really Mom, I appreciate your tolerance for reals). Plus I imagine she doesn't want to leg wrestle an Israeli or a Republican for the privilege of attacking me. (Now I will probably be in trouble for saying I was in trouble when I wasn't really in trouble at all. Story of my life.)

I would say that I am making a resolution to quit getting into trouble so often, but we would all know how grossly shallow that promise would be. And it's not like I ever run into mischief INTENTIONALLY. Well, not usually. But for the time being I will try to keep my misbehavior limited to using my cell phone in class, liking inappropriate memes on Facebook, and eating too much cheesy bread (don't tell my challenge group).

Things About Fear

Last week the world blew all to heck. Literally. I have heard reports from the towns south of me, I have seen the pictures on social media to support the claims. In the dark, cold hours of the night, I could heard the angry roar of the wind, like a bear unleashed from a long captivity, wreaking vengeance on his captors. I imagined the giant dying tree above my bedroom crashing down through the roof. I imagined what many people faced in reality that night.

I was afraid. I was afraid for the daughter who lives in Spokane, where she listened to perpetual sirens as the giant trees fell like blades of grass around the neighborhoods. I was afraid for my youngest daughter and the entire bus full of middle school basketball players trekking back from a match across a mountain pass in the violent storm. I was afraid for all of my friends and family who were at the mercy of the wrath of nature.

The word afraid means "to be filled with fear or apprehension." I believe that fear itself is a gift, but to be filled with it is death.

Fear is an unavoidable human reality. It is easy to demonize fear and make it the enemy, but fear is often the one thing that keeps us safe. Fear is the only reason we don't leap unprotected from skyscrapers or dive unguided into the darkest depths. Fear keeps us alive, but it can also keep us from living. Fear, left to spiral out of control, can dominate our existence and paralyze us from movement. When fear fills us up, and we are afraid, it can monopolize our time with useless worry and wasted days of what-ifs and but-maybes. It can be the still small voice that tells us which side of the street to walk on, or it can be the screaming howl of senseless paranoia. Fear is a gift, but like any gift without moderation, can cause death.

My two oldest daughters are heading off in a couple of weeks to a country in a different hemisphere from me. They will be "alone". Traveling teenagers with no supervision during The Holidays in South America, away from me, out of reach of any futile protection I imagine I can offer them. It brings me back to the place I was in 2009, when I lay on a bed under a mosquito net full of holes and I realized that from my location in Northern Uganda, it would take me no less than two days to reach my kids back home if something went wrong. In that moment I began to panic, to regret my decision to travel, to hate myself for abandoning my post as sworn protector. But in that moment I also had to find peace, and the only way I could do that was by reminding myself that they are in The Hands of Someone who has loved them much more and much longer than I have. That even sitting next to me at the dinner table, they are no more under "my protection" than they are 10,000 miles away. They do not belong to me, they belong to themselves and they world they were created for. They have a reason to be here, and their purpose as human beings is certainly not to sit "safely" by my side.

I have to remember this when Halle is working all night on an uncontrolled fireline. I have to remember this when MacKenzie rides the bus alone in Spokane. I have to remember it when Aspen is at the top of Sherman Pass with her classmates in a windstorm, and when Natalee doesn't come home from a sleepover on time. I have to remember this when there are kids being murdered on college campuses almost daily, our Protectors in Blue are being killed on the streets, and there are terrorist threats close to home.

My delusion of control and protection over the ones I love I owe entirely to the safety that they have been granted thus far by a Power far greater than me. I have not kept them safe. I have not prevented their harm. The One who made them has sheltered them, and will continue to do so until their purpose is served. There is no other way to live life with healthy fear and respect for the dangers of this world, than to believe that Someone Bigger is in charge. All I can offer is wisdom and prayer.

In this ugly world of terror, surrounded by human beings intent on destruction, our wisdom has to be grounded in healthy fear and our fear has to be driven by wisdom. I carry a gun not because I am afraid of the bad people, but because I know they exist and I am not afraid to counter them if I must. I wear a seatbelt not because I plan to be in a wreck, but because I know that no accident is planned and I have seen the consequences of not using that protection.

One of my best friends is a police officer - I do not fear the real danger he faces every day but I do pray for his protection every shift. One of my best friends is facing health challenges that could be terrifying, but I trust in her strength to overcome anything. The things that we fear the most: death, pain, suffering... are the things that none of us can avoid. Bad things happen every day, to good people. Our only choice is to embrace the purpose behind the things we suffer, before the things that kill us and make every step count along the way.

Which is why I am not harping (very much) on the girls' trip to Brazil. I am trying very hard to remind them to be wise, but to not nag them to quit living. This world is so vastly different from the one I knew as a teenager. More connected, more open, in some ways better, in other ways, immensely more dangerous. But again, they fly under the Wing of a Bigger Bird than me, and I am thankful.

I am not afraid anymore. I am not filled with fear. There are fearful things, to be sure, but they do not own me. Like that night in Uganda, there are moments when I have to make the conscious decision to put aside my fear for my faith. I have done it a thousand times before, facing the suffering and the struggle to find the joy on the other side of fear. I did it when I  left a destructive marriage and a damaging community, I did it when I pushed through the nightmare of getting a college education, of single motherhood, of starting over in a new town. I do it every time the pager goes off in the middle of the night or I see the burning forest ahead of me. Fear is always there, but I am not afraid, and because I am not afraid, I have oodles of stories to tell. I can only hope the same joy for the ones I love.

READ: The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker, and Deep Survival by Laurence Gonzales. Both of these books have been game changers for me.

Things That Qualify As a Workout

I was the special education teacher today. (Chris Hoops, this means I am no longer your inferior. I am now your professional equal.) In case that doesn't mean much to you - which it should, because there isn't one person I know that hasn't been personally touched by the world of special needs, learning disorders, or other disabilities - it's basically 6.5 hours of explaining, affirming, re-explaining, affirming, patiently enduring  accidental insults and vague threats, affirming, explaining again, affirming, directing, affirming, redirecting, affirming, and on and on and on. The REAL SPED teachers that do this every day (like Chris, and Bethany [just kidding, I will NEVER be your equal]), are absolute educational heroes, along with the barely-over-minimum wage paraprofessionals that do all of this and more every. single. day. I see you. But seriously. It's a work out. I had to remember how to both add AND divide fractions, not to mention explaining why a cited source quote has to be verbatim and should somehow connect to the rest of the annotated bibliography. I mean seriously. I couldn't even do that in college!!! But dang it all, I NAILED it. And I even checked the answer book to make sure. I can teach math, you guys, and even some English. I can. Badly, and with questionable communication skills (I didn't swear any actual swear words), but I did it. I have the LCD and the GCF and the MLA guidelines DOWN. PAT. LIKE A BOSS. Because, obviously, I am.

Then I came home, and because all of that brain exercise wasn't enough, I decided to take on every single flea in my infested house in hand-to-hand combat. What this actually looks like is bathing 2 dogs and 1 cat. Anyone who has bathed a cat really doesn't need to read any further, because THEY KNOW. I look like a botched suicide attempt after Crookshanks tried to pull both radial arteries outside of the skin of my wrists. I'm not sure if you've ever seen anything other than a rainforest frog climb a window, or one of those sticky hands out of the vending machines, but Crookshanks succesfully climbed the window. And not the screen, as is traditional feline behavior. No, he made his way nimbly up the glass while Aspen was helping me apply direct pressure to my right wrist. Believe it or not, the cat got his bath AFTER I bathed the 85 pound aptly named Truck, who hasn't had a bath since last summer when a sun-warmed garden hose met its  doom at his perpetually extended claws. Ok, to be fair, it was a reclaimed toy hose from a fire somewhere that already had 37 leaks, but he contributed his share. Tonight he also ran away from the bathtub twice. Which was a 170 pound rebellion that my bad shoulder and Aspen (who weighs slighly less than Truck) were clearly surprised by. The good news is that all of the animals, myself, Aspen, and the entire kitchen were bathed in a mostly non-toxic dishsoap and vinegar solution that won't harm any of us if it didn't get ENTIRELY rinsed out.

Anyway, I was supposed to do a PiYo or PLYO or FYALL video tonight, except I can't help but agree with my shoulder that we have done enough. My brain has been stretched, my body has been contorted in every imaginable defensive position, as one will when cats are climbing windows. Truck says he's sorry, but Crookshanks still isn't speaking to me. The surviving fleas, however, are throwing a party on the carpet that I just vaccuumed with Borax in yet another Pinterested solution to the crisis at hand. All in all, it's a #winning day. I've earned this mason jar of wine, you guys.

Things About Being Crabby

Do you ever open your eyes in the morning just knowing that it's the Worst Morning Ever? I mean, it could be because you slept like crap, tossing and turning until 2:30 AM with aching joints and twitching muscles, which are alternately punishing you for working out hard all weekend and then not working out at all on the Longest Monday of Your Life. It could also be the constant, relentless gray frozen drizzle outside - the water sogged leaves on the ground and slippery mud underfoot.

I had to work hard to not snap at a certain 11 year old. First for hogging the bathroom. Then for coughing. Then for breathing. I had to bite my tongue to avoid using it to lash at a 15 year old for eating breakfast, and then daring to look at me. Even Dagny wasn't cute this morning.

My stupid prescribed supplement shake was cold and disgusting. My reheated coffee tasted like goat piss. Nothing was ok this morning. I was on the verge of tears when I had to face a classroom of students who had no idea how terrrible the world was. How ignorant can they be? And why is it the rule of classrooms everywhere to be kept at -45 degrees? Don't they know about the negative effects of hypothermia on the learning process, not to mention teacher's attitudes? Is it bad that I am somewhat relieved to be the second hand recipient of one of the reprobate students' too loud headphones playing angry, school inappropriate rap? Eminem just speaks my language some days. Mainly the cuss words.

It feels like a day to hate everything. I hate politics. I hate people needing to be "right". I hate religion. I hate methodologies and psychologies and pathologies and apologies and technologies and all of the ologies. I hate requirements and expectations and demands and standards.

I believe that today should be the Internationally Declared Holiday of Sweatpants and Not Talking to Anyone.

I want my heated blanket, my wiener dog and an unlimited supply of some sort of delicious soup, along with all-I-can-eat cheddar bay biscuits from Red Lobster. I want to marathon episodes of Arrow to restore my faith in humanity and the power of a well-defined 6 pack. I wish it would just snow already and make perpetual couch time socially acceptable. And I probably need someone to tell me to quit being a big baby.

If anyone tells you that you can't have PMS without a uterus, just send them over here, we can have words. In the meantime, hopefully this will help....

Things About Doing Veteran's Day

I was supposed to substitute teach today, but the teacher I was subbing for actually didn't have the training he thought he did, so when I showed up, you can imagine the awkward conversation that ensued about how much he didn't need me to be him.

So I came home feeling a bit lost and also a bit disappointed that I no longer had a good excuse for avoiding the Eternal Plague of Unattended Things here at my house. After a few minutes of staring at Facebook, wherein are found all of the answers to life problems, I dug into the pile of severely neglected stuff and tackled it, all the while thinking there must be a better way to occupy my mind than long wait times on the phone for insurance issues, googling green chile mac n' cheese recipes and pretending to balance my checkbook. (Is that even a thing anymore?)

Wednesday is Veteran's Day. Originally, the holiday began as Armistice Day at the end of World War I, but evolved over time into a day set aside to honor all United States soldiers, men and women who have served, at home and abroad, throughout history. Commonly confused with Memorial Day, the distinction lies in the recognition of every service member on Veteran's Day, vs. the fallen heroes we honor on Memorial Day. It made me start to wonder if there was a more tangible way to do this than posting a flag-themed meme on FB and saying something nice and poetic.

But there is a more tangible way. Several, in fact, beginning with the simple act of a personal thank you to the veterans that you meet all day long. There are 23.2 million veterans living in the United States today. That is SO many. That means you can't get far without tripping over one of them. Tell them you see them, and tell them thank you. I personally have many friends on social media who have served. A private message to them holds a little more weight than a meme.

My friend Justin Peterson has headed up a program since he was 9 years old, raising money to sponsor military veterans for honor flights to Washington DC every year. Since 2009, Justin has helped to send over 1100 vets to DC. You can help out through his website jp4vets.com or directly at the Inland Northwest Honor Flight  site as well. (Justin takes no overhead/operating costs from his donations, FYI). What better way to recognized their service and sacrifice than by sponsoring an expenses paid trip to the war memorials in the Nation's Capitol.

Many national and local business offer discounted or free meals and services to vets on Veteran's Day. Military.com compiled a list of some of them, which is a great resource for our service members and their families. Additionally, while they might not be making any friends in the easily-offended-christian camps with their generic holiday cups, Starbucks announced an expansion to their college tuition program for veteran employees and their families, and that's a win in my book.

So in case you were confused about what Veteran's Day was supposed to be, other than a federal holiday that is a get out of jail free card from work and school, or in case you have considered DOING something about it...

Korean War Memorial in Washington DC

Things That Solve Everything

I just found the answer to one of life's most difficult questions: How do I muster up the internal fortitude to clean the dang floors?

Well folks, I am pretty sure that this is it, right here:

This little gem popped up on my Facebook feed like a shining beacon of hope in the darkness of housework drudgery. How Groupon and Facebook knew that I couldn't face the reality of my own floors is a mystery I might never solve, but somehow they captured my slipper fetish in a useful, practical and altogether stylish answer for the perpetually disgusting floor. 

Obviously I ordered three pairs. As well as some for all of my Very Best Friends for Christmas, because I want them to partake in the the solution of global concern as well. It's a big thing you guys. Now every time I go into the kitchen to mix a Moscow Mule, I will be cleaning my floor WITHOUT EVEN MEANING TO. It's as if the Lord smiled down upon all of my good intentions and made a pathway. 

I can't wait to get them and start accidentally cleaning. I am excited enough that I might actually even get up off of the couch to wear them occasionally. Or strap them on to Truck's paws. I would imagine Aspen would never take them off if I let her wear them. My floors will be so clean that I won't have profound guilt when my crawling nephew comes to visit. 

This is the best thing to hit the market since Pajama Jeans. I wonder if they make a vacuuming version for carpets? Googling now, BRB...

Things That Are Dirty (TMI) And Should Maybe Stay That Way

My guts, apparently, needed a cleaning. Like a thorough scrub down, rinse off, exfoliating wash. So I tackled this "3 Day Refresh" along with a 30 day challenge thingy that I am doing, to just give my body a little help in getting better at it's job, which, incidentally, involves not letting me down All Of The Time.

The 3 day refresh promised all kinds of things, like instant weight loss, newfound energy, reduced junk food cravings, blah blah blah, all without feeling hungry.

I must be doing it wrong, because in 2.5 days, I have gained about 10 pounds, turned into a slug and all I can even think about is cheesy bread. Oh, and also, I am starving.

I started out with fear and trepidation about the consequences of avoiding almost all food, cramming packets of fibery goodness down my gullet and waiting for the aftermath. I even chose days that I specifically didn't have to go anywhere, just so I could remain chained to my toilet. What I have discovered instead, is that if you cram enough packets of fibery goodness down your gullet, along with sixteen thousand gallons of water, and some shakes that taste like cardboard that sat under the snow all winter frosted with rancid vanilla, that all of that junk will just get together for one big "celebrate another sucker" party in Liv's gut. I am fairly certain the "fiber sweep" packets joined forces to turn the party into a lock-in so that nobody could escape the fun. If you tossed me into a pool of water right now I would sink like the rock that is in my stomach.

All of those skinny people with shiny faces on the packets? Yeah. They are liars. Don't trust them. I am hungrier than a bear in March, but luckily I have no room in my digestion tract to fit a single bite.

Maybe as soon as the fiber sweep nazis pass out from their non-stop partying I can look forward to an epic cleansing rush that either sends me to the hospital with a ruptured anus or at least relegates me to a full day of Netflix and bed. Most likely it will happen while I am subbing at school for the drama teacher all day. Oh what a lesson in acting that will be...

Once it all works out I will let you know how thin I have become. And how much better I feel about life. But if I don't come out of this weighing 110 pounds, married and rich, I will probably just be ticked off.