Things That We CAN Do

My parents taught me two very important lessons growing up: 1) life isn't fair and 2) just because you CAN do something, doesn't mean you should. The first one became very clear to me with little effort expended on their part, because when you have 5 siblings in a semi-isolated homeschool environment, basically nothing is fair, especially life. The second one was learned more gradually through a trial-and-error method that had my parents alternately scratching their heads and cursing the day that I was born - or sometimes both. Whether it was running away across the city of Portland at 7 years old to use the swing set at church, or jumping off the top bunk naked to land on a cold metal lunch box with my cousins and siblings, I was forever trying things that I COULD do, but definitely/probably shouldn't have. My parents used to say that if there was a line drawn in the sand, my oldest brother would wisely stay on the lawful side of the line a very safe distance from any possible infringement, while I would brazenly stick as many appendages across to see what would happen. My younger sister is the one who figured out the line the most to her benefit by denying it's existence and/or her knowledge of it in the first place. Typical third born.

Mom and dad were smart enough to know that at some point, external government wasn't enough. I think it was probably the 110th spanking when I wouldn't stay in my bed one night and ended up falling asleep in my bedroom closet in total defiance that really drove that home for them. So, to their credit, they pushed us from a young age to put on self-government. To make choices not based on what we could get away with, but what would bring the benefit we sought, whether that was "bringing glory to the lord", making and keeping friends, or not getting caught watching soap operas in the middle of the day when mom went out to coffee with her friends. Self government is something that I have tried to teach my own kids, with wildly varying results, but who are ultimately turning out to be reasonably well adjusted adultish type people. OK, so nobody is in jail or pregnant. It's a lot of win right there. Self government, y'all.

In light of recent socio-political events, the principle of self-government again and again seems to be the stress fracture where our world is breaking apart. School shootings, gang shootings, police shootings, protests, demonstrations, deleting emails and deporting immigrants... we live in a culture of doing things because we CAN. We CAN riot in our own neighborhoods in protest because freedom of expression, right? We CAN shoot people that we hate. We CAN say things without repercussion. We CAN get away with murder, sometimes literally, because nobody taught us that the actions we choose are bigger than the consequences that we might avoid.

There are more things out there on both sides of the fence that I disagree with than things that I really support, when it comes right down to it. I think people are crazy, liberal and conservative, religious and secular, gay, straight, rich, poor, black, white and everything in between. Bat. Guano. Crazy. The things that we will do to each other and ourselves, the liberties that we take (because we CAN), the actions that we justify, have gotten out of control. But the beautiful thing about where we live is exactly that: WE CAN.

We have this thing called the Bill of Rights that defines the liberty that this nation was founded on, and it promises us that we CAN do things. We CAN choose our own religion, or none at all. We CAN express how we feel. We CAN defend ourselves, need be. We CAN have privacy in our own homes... and on it goes. And no matter how much it angers me to see celebrities disrespect our national anthem - that flag and that song are the exact reason that those athletes CAN do that. People have fought and died so that Colin Kaepernick can have the right to express whatever opinion he wants to. People have fought and died so that Muslims can worship freely in this country. People have fought and died so that I can legally own as many cool guns as I want to. People have fought and died so that we don't have to live with an oppressive external government telling us who we can marry, which bathroom we can use, what we can eat, how we must live. I don't have to agree with Colin Kaepernick, Donald Trump, Hilary Clinton, Black Lives Matter or any other American, but we all get the same privilege of making our voices heard.

All of this CAN is powerful. And with great power comes great responsibility. Just as I don't take lightly the privilege AND responsibility of owning guns legally, neither should any freedom of expression be abused to harm and destroy communities, or exact some twisted form of vigilante justice through rioting, federal building takeovers or the murder of Peace Officers. Because we live in the Greatest Nation (without the help of a showboating political-celebrity hybrid) we have the ability and the charge of making the right choices in our actions to bring the benefit we seek: stronger communities, healthier families, safer schools and neighborhoods and a better world all the way around.

There are so many great things that we CAN do here, and so many terrible things as well. The culture of this country is entirely reliant upon the self government of its people. The choices we make as individuals define who we are as a nation, whether we are breaking out the windows of a 7-11 or candy striping at the VA Hospital, it's up to us. Whether we take a knee during the National Anthem or stand in the rain to memorialize a fallen hero, it's up to us. So while I won't defend Kaepernick, I will stand up for his right to express himself, and I will offer a nod of thanks to every Veteran and active duty Service Member throughout history that has guaranteed that right for him and for me.

What CAN you do? Or more importantly, what WILL you do with the liberties that you have? Voting this November is probably a good place to start...

THE BILL OF RIGHTS 

(In case you can't read the picture)

Amendment I

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

Amendment II

A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.

Amendment III

No soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

Amendment IV

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

Amendment V

No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a grand jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the militia, when in actual service in time of war or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offense to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

Amendment VI

In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the state and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the assistance of counsel for his defense.

Amendment VII

In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise reexamined in any court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law.

Amendment VIII

Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

Amendment IX

The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

Amendment X

The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are reserved to the states respectively, or to the people.

Things That Won’t Kill You (or make you stronger)

My underwear are inside out. I just discovered that when I made my first of what will be many forays into the ceanothus bushes on the side of the road today. In my defense it was dark and cold in my truck when I put them on, and also in my defense, at least they are clean. This fire assignment has been one of the ones where I break all of the rules, that, as a mother, are the cardinal guardians of health and propriety. Rules like:

Change your underwear

Don’t sleep in your clothes

Brush your hair

Take a shower

Call your mother

Wash your face

Put on clean clothes

Broken. All of them. I think of myself scolding Halle about her fire showering habits, and at ten o'clock at night as I stare at the line of grubbier-than-me firefighters waiting for one of the five shower stalls in spike camp, I decide that it’s just not worth it. I have deodorant. I have hardly broken a sweat in the last two weeks, except when I had that teensy-weensy fever the other day. I have been wearing the same shirt and pants for two weeks. I have changed my underwear, more than once, as well as my socks. We will leave it at that and allow you to extrapolate the worst. I have had three total showers since I got here 15 days ago. You do the math. And at night, when it’s dropping into the mid 30s and I know I will be waking up to sub-freezing temps, I crawl into my brand-new down sleeping bag in my two-week-old dirty clothes and drift off into a NyQuil induced coma, knowing I don’t have to wake up and struggle into freezing clothes in the morning.

This fire is also a little unusual in that I have absolutely no contact with the outside world. Apparently people in this neck of the woods have never heard of AT&T. I am a cellular outcast, watching with longing as The Others run up to lookout hilltops to call their loved ones and check Facebook on their Verizon devices. I had access to wifi at the incident command post when I would walk All The Way across camp (it’s far) and stand awkwardly in a hallway in the way of all the important ICP people doing important ICP things. But now I am at Spike Camp, where the only cellular activity is the faint hiss-pop of brain cells exploding after constant contact with ambient smoke for days on end.

I got a head cold from a Division supervisor who got it from a crew of unshowered snot bags on the line - one of which might have been my own daughter. It’s like a mosaic of viruses out here, a pretty technicolor blend of upper respiratory and intestinal symptoms that swirl in harmonic cadence to the rhythm of a dry cough. I have been in a sinus-smogged haze for a few days, thinking everyday it is a little better and then waking up with razor blades in my throat or dizzy spells that convince me it is not. Luckily I am part of the medical unit and have All The Drugs to fix what ails me. But not. For the record, DayQuil is garbage. What I need is real sudafed and apparently in Oregon, that’s a prescription drug. So I suffer in semi-silence.

Being The Worst Mother In The World, I also missed my kid’s first day of school. I have been entertained with arguments against myself about whether making enough money to pay all the bills is more important than big landmarks like that, and so far both sides are winning, so it’s safe to say my guilt mechanisms are alive and well. I have gotten used to talking to myself - a habit that comes in handy for a line EMT who sits alone, with no cell service, at a drop point for 14 hours a day. All of the things I think I need to tell The Whole World become trivial information I feed to myself. Also I have read 17 books. That’s a lot.

I am living proof that neither dirty underwear, lack of connectivity, parenting badly or a virus pot-luck can kill you. I am reluctant to assure you that any of the aforementioned will make you stronger, although I can feel my immune system rallying in the form of thick yellow mucus every day.

Things About Independence

I've been a single mom for some time longer than I have had a man around to fix stuff. I've learned a lot over the years about the things I can, and CANNOT do for myself, but it seems like it's a perpetually evolving process that needs updating constantly.

There are some real benefits to being a single woman and Doing It All Yourself.

For instance, during a recent invasion of slugs, and then when a hoard of Giant Hobo Spiders moved into my bathtub, I had the opportunity to up my bravery game and take on the pestilence, head on, sans male protector. I salted the heck out of 6 inch slime monsters and watched them melt like the wicked witch of the west, feeling powerful and courageous. And on TWO different occasions, I battled four massive hobo spiders in my bathtub, with only scorching hot water on my side. The horrific arachnids were so big they wouldn't even fit down the drain, so I had to muster my bravery and scoop them out of the tub and transport them to the porcelain aqua-mausoleum. TWICE.

GIANT hobo spiders. in my tub. showering has just become optional. 

And then there is the Rosie the Riveter "We Can Do It" attitude that has me all cavalier and heading off down the road with my Thule carrier fastened to the top of my car BY MYSELF. Except it was fastened entirely upside down and backwards. Miraculously, the thing didn't blow off before I realized that it was on completely wrong, pulled over and reattached it almost completely wrong again. I feel somewhat brilliant that the right way of attaching the thing slowly came to me as I made a 500 mile drive, one step at a time. It's like rocket science, but easier. The 16 year old son-that-isn't-mine shakes his head in disgust at me.

The learning opportunities, folks. They're phenomenal. If I had some doofy guy around doing everything for me, correctly, the first time, think of all of the things I wouldn't learn.

My next undertaking is learning how to shoot. Guns. Real ones. All of them. And I feel kind of awkward about borrowing other people's husbands for lessons, so I am just gonna go out and teach myself. If this isn't the best idea I've ever had, I am not sure what is. I just have to figure out how to load the guns that I have to shoot. It can't be that hard. I will just YouTube dome do-it-yourself videos: How to load and shoot an SKS... What's the worst thing that could happen?

I mean it worked with plumbing. At least until I had to borrow someone's husband to finish the job I was botching royally. The text conversation went something like this:

me: *photo of toilet in pieces
Friend With Useful Husband: oh that doesn't look good
me: I think that one doohickey is the broken part, so Ima just switch it out. But I can't figure out where the whoozit in the left corner goes.
FWAUH: Hold on.
me: *girl from Ipanema instrumental
FWAUH: He says stop. Don't touch anything else. He'll be over after work.
me: I am pretty sure I can do it
Useful Husband direct text: STOP NOW
me: ok

Or there was that time that the hot water heater died. Like 8 times in a row. And I tried to fix it myself.

me to friend's useful husband (notice how the middle woman has excused herself): so if nothing is coming out of the hose and it's making a weird screaming sound, is that normal? Do water heaters ever blow up?
Useful Husband: BRT. Stop touching things.

Of course this is the same Useful Husband that I asked to check the trailer that I hooked up and was hauling home by myself. Guess the thing wasn't even latched on or something. Who knew?

Hey man, I tried.

Someday I should write a book called Useful Husbands and The Friends I Lost By Borrowing Them.

When I lived in Bend and all of my Friends With Useful Husbands were hundreds of miles away, I tried to rewire my dryer and in addition to nearly burning my rental down, I doubt I would have survived the 220 volts I tried to play conductor for. I placed an ad on Craigslist that went like this:

I NEED A HUSBAND

I tried to switch the cord on my dryer from a 4 prong to a 3 prong and I nearly lost my life and burned down the house. I am cramming food for 5 people in my tiny freezer because I don't have the means to tear out a bench to make room for my chest freezer. My six year old is dehydrating herself on a strike against drinking water because we haven't hooked the ice maker/water dispenser on the refrigerator up since we moved in and she insists that the only good water to drink comes from the refrigerator. I need a man, or a woman, who can re-wire my dryer without orphaning my children, make two ridiculously small cuts with a skill saw to take out a bench, and run the water line for my refrigerator. I will pay, or I will trade you for cookies and/or beer, and let you pet my dog, who feels severely outnumbered in a house full of females. If you need a really ginormous and comfy love seat, you could have that too, but either way I am terrified to make another attempt at being an electrician, and I just don't have the tools and/or time to do the other stuff. The last love of my life took all of my tools when he left, bless his heart. Please let me know if you can do these things for me at some ridiculously inappropriate time, since I work 7/ 10 hour days a week. I have the dryer disassembled, the new cord ready to go, and I have no idea what I need for the ice maker. Maybe you do. If you are lucky my 10 year old will give you her impression of a jump-roping pig while you are here. Someone licensed and bonded would give me peace of mind, but I am open to someone with experience. 

Please email me and let me know how much you would charge, and if I should make you dinner. 

thank you,
Liv

Out of that ad, I ended up getting a guy who ran a company called Aspen Building somethingoranother, and by his correspondence seemed less expensive than the only other email I got, from some licensed and bonded dude who, several months later, would end up being my next ex husband (that's a whole different tale to tell). Aspen Building dude charged me plenty for doing about 25% of the work, and proceeded to ask me out. Maybe I really missed something there. Or maybe I should have just tried it again on my own.

All in all, the fact that both I and my children have survived my solo flight as a "functional" adult so far is nothing short of impressive. I continue to learn, sometimes at great expense, and burn out friendships. Because the only thing worse than being a third wheel is being a squeaky one that needs to borrow your grease all the time.

In all seriousness, I am eternally grateful to the Useful Husbands and the wives who have loaned them with no grudge, as well as the brother-in-laws, dads, uncles, neighbors and friends who have saved me from my own independent capabilities more than once. I CAN do it, but it's much easier with someone who knows how.

Things I Learned in Alaska

Did you know that moose love bananas? It’s true. And after extensive research on the internet and a heated discussion between mostly rational adults from 4 different moose-harboring states, the final consensus was that bananas cause no great detriment to the diet of your average moose.

Recently on a fire assignment outside of Anchorage (my first time in Alaska, by the way), I was thoroughly educated on the eating, or more appropriately, snacking habits of moose across the world. In fact, a moose farm (who knew there was such a thing?) in Sweden feed bananas as treats, especially to a moose named Ludwig who has a special penchant for the tropical fruit. This piece of information wasn’t the only semi-useless thing I learned during my time in Alaska, which was riddled with torrential rain and gusting winds. I also learned that more people are hit by lightning in Florida than anywhere in the world, but the places with the highest density of lightning strikes in the world are actually Venezuela and the Republic of Congo. There was some speculation that the human strike statistics have something to do with the high rate of walker and metal cane usage among retirees in the Sunshine State, but it’s more likely the sheer numbers of outdoor recreators that contribute to the issue.

It seems like in the land of the midnight sun and eternal winters people have come up with a lot of interesting ways to kill time. Because time is one limitless thing in Alaska - either daytime or night time - it stretches on forever like the tundra under the horizon. During my week long stay, I was informed that we lost 7 minutes of daylight every day, which means by the time I left, it was “dark” almost a full hour earlier than when I arrived. Similar to experiencing the heat of the sun in sub-Equatorial summers, it makes one keenly aware of the celestial dance in which our floating rock is a participant.

In Alaska, they make things like Gyro Pizza, and Red Bull Smoothies, and put Apricot jam in really inappropriate places like pizza and hamburgers. (If this sounds tempting to you, visit The Bombing Blue food truck in Colville where they must draw on their formerly Alaskan imaginations in the kitchen.) I also noticed drive through coffee stands sprinkled generously though every area I drove past. As if drivers might have to jump from stand to stand to get enough caffeine to survive the extra long days and nights like a game of hot lava on the couch cushions.

Contrary to all of the horror stories I had heard, I never saw a single mosquito during my week in Alaska, much less falling prey to the vicious, piranha-like feeding frenzy that I was braced for. Of course I was in Anchorage, in late July, which is Alaskan civilization at the peak of it’s best season, and it was pouring rain. Like, torrential downpours. As if the good Lord just knocked over his titanic mason jar of rain water right over my tent and didn’t notice. Lucky for me I got a brand new tent and sleeping bag just before I flew out, so I got to take them for an honest-to-goodness test run, and they were AWESOME.

Really, Alaska isn’t that different from Northeastern Washington. I mean, rubber boots are still a major fashion accessory through all seasons in both locations, and I am sure our moose like bananas too. It’s a small town vibe that makes you want to leave your doors unlocked and make an extra huge pot of coffee just in case friends drop by. The beauty of the jagged peaks surrounding a stormy body of water are steady reminders that it’s the outside world that brings us all to these places - the drama and the beauty that far surpass our own achievement. And in small towns, we know drama AND beauty.

On my last morning in Anchorage, I saw a little black bear - smaller than the one that frequents my Stevens County yard, but a black bear nonetheless. I guess even though I didn’t get to climb ice falls and glissade down glaciers, or eat whale blubber or hunt seals, I still feel like I got a good taste of the 49th state and it’s wild appeal. The weather was as tempestuous as the terrain, highs and lows of sunshiny meadows and thundering mountains. I would love to go back and really explore, but I am grateful for the glimpse that I got, and I’m pretty sure it will be there when I have time to go back and learn some more nearly-useless trivia and really put my camping gear to the test.

Things About Slime

It all started so innocently. I came home late one night from work and saw it - a dark and ominous presence lurking underneath the kitchen sink as comfortably as you care, clearly making himself at home. It was a slug. Not a huge one, a smallish, dark green, garden variety slug. I am not afraid of slugs. They remind me of growing up in Portland and the dank undergrowth of rotting bark and fern leaves. In some twisted way, I almost think they’re cute. Like a beauty-challenged shell-free version of a snail, and who doesn’t love snails?

Thinking I was brave and tolerant, I grabbed the slug and tried to disengage it from my kitchen floor. I was rewarded with slime covered fingers. I don’t know if you’ve ever had slug slime on your fingers, but I learned very quickly that it doesn’t wash off. Not with soap. Or vinegar. Or scalding hot water… Nope. Only time and violent abrasion remove slug slime. Lesson learned. Revising my extrication strategy I grabbed the little bugger with a paper towel and pulled him off the floor. It was an experience similar to stretching melted caramel off of a surface, and reluctantly, at last, the slug let go his gastro-clutch on the laminate and was relocated compassionately to the out-of-doors.

In the wake of record hot and dry summers, this one so far is going down in the books as one of the wettest in recent history. It’s the only thing I can fall back on as an explanation for the sudden emergence of slugs at my house. I have lived for 20 years in the area and never seen a slug. A few nights after the first sighting, I let my dachshund out into the yard and watched her sniff another specimen on the porch with curious disdain. I was happy that she wasn’t more interested as I flashed back to my parents wiener dog who liked to eat them, and could never get the slimy goo completely off of his teeth. Ever. The whole process involved far more chewing than I would imagine is healthy, and resulted in terrible breath for an extended period of time. In Edgar the Dachshund’s defense, I learned recently in my investigatory research that slugs are actually part of the human diet in some cultures. Although they can also result in violent gastro-intestinal illness and even death. I hope they’re tasty with that kind of risk involved. *shudder

Some important things you should know about slugs: They are referred to as Gastropods,drawing from the root words Gastro = stomach and pod = foot. Which basically means they walk with their stomachs. Based on everything I read I feel like it’s safe to assume that MOST of a slug is the stomach, followed by a collection of even weirder anatomical parts and pieces. Slugs are also hermaphrodites, which means they all possess both genders and have successfully surpassed humans in the evolutionary race as we are still trying to decide amongst ourselves which gender we should be. Interestingly, slugs are REALLY good at two things: eating and breeding - I guess something else that they share in common with basic humanity.

In fact they are so good at breeding that in the event they can’t catch the whiff of a romantic slime trail, they can reproduce with themselves. How’s that for self-sufficiency? Catch up, humans. There are the drawbacks among certain species of slugs that involve mating processes that require the chewing off of genitalia and oh yes, cannibalism, but when you’re as highly evolved as a slug, who’s gonna complain about little things like that? They are also not choosy about their mates (as self-reproduction would indicate), and have been known to cross breed with other varieties of slugs, creating hybrid super-slugs of greater size and tenacity.

After the midnight kitchen invader and the porch sitting slug encounter, I figured it was a fluke thing, until last night, when my best friend went to visit my bloodhound, who had gone on a neighborhood walkabout while I was out of town. My best friend likes to visit my dog. Mostly because she enjoys the thrill of driving around town to find him, chase him and tie him up to his leash in the backyard where he should have been in the first place. It’s pretty much her favorite pastime. Especially at 11:00 at night. On the particular evening in question, as she hunted through the sketchy overgrown grass (remember I am out of town) of my backyard for a camouflage dog lead, she accidentally flashed her phone light up on the outside corner of my house. Four giant slugs were making their merry, slimy way up the wall and probably toward my bedroom window, because that’s where most small creatures go to die (a story for another day).

In my reading, I discovered that in addition to being prolific reproducers, because they are totally boneless (like chicken tenders?) they can squeeze through the smallest of openings. I have several smallest of openings around my bedroom window, I am quite sure, where even the largest and most tenacious super-slugs could squish through. All the grossness.

While my best friend enjoys tracking down my reprobate bloodhound in the middle of the night, she was not keen on picking ½ pound slugs off of my house, so by the time I get home my bed will probably be the local nest of feasting and revelry for six generations of giant slugs.

The main point of my slug research was to determine the best way to exterminate the wet-weather invaders, but mostly what I discovered was that they are impervious to many of the recommended remedies. Natural repellents supposedly include coffee grounds, egg shells and human hair (that one would be easy to supply out of my house), but most of the comments led me to believe they were less than effective. Of course, many of the online sources were gardeners concerned for their crops and not panicked defenders of bedrooms. When I was a kid I learned that salt kills slugs, and might have performed a scientific experiment or two on resident slimers. Most gardening experts don't recommend salting garden spaces as the salination of the soil can affect crops, but I am not against salting my bedroom. I seriously doubt it would be as salty as I will be if I come home to a slug-fest in the house.

So, as an alternative to burning the house down and starting over, I will probably be salting slugs when I get home if anybody wants to come witness the scientific effect of osmosis when slug meets sodium chloride. You’re welcome to stop by and help me scrape the gooey remains of fatally dehydrated slime balls off my floor. Or I can just send pictures if that’s better.

Things About Judgement

I have many, many shortcoming and failures in my life of which I am keenly aware and generally not proud of. Let's just get that out of the way. 

Perhaps I am much less likable than I imagine. 

There's a good chance that I have fewer shining talents than I fantasize about. 

Maybe I'm not nearly as kind or quite as non-judgemental as I want to be. 

I would like to think I have a certain level of self awareness, but the last few weeks have made me question all of this. 

But even the worst human beings are still human beings, and several national and a few local - even personal - issues lately have brought my humanness and that of all of the people around me into startling clarity lately. 

More than just your run-of-the-mill, single girl, circling the drain of her 30s self pity, I've had a few legitimate kicks in the gut lately that might have been uncalled for, unjust, or just plain mean, but they've made me examine myself and how I treat other people. All the other people. Not just the ones I like. 

I know certain things about myself. I know I'm not lazy. I know I love my family. I know I try to live a good, ethical life. I know I fail more often than I'd like. 

And I know this can be said for many people that I might easily judge for their different lifestyles and beliefs. 

Along with an entire nation, I witnessed the murder of five law enforcement officers who did not deserve to die. Officers who were protecting people that they probably disagreed with philosophically. It would be easy to blame ignorance and lack of education for the violence. But sanity does not require a diploma. 

So far 84 people have died at the hands of a ruthless killer in Nice, France. People celebrating Bastille Day - their independence. Murdered with a truck. Proof positive that people don't have a gun problem, they have a heart problem. In Nice. A place that, for name alone, should be exempt of such horrors.

I read about the horrific slaughter of people of many religions for radical ideals across the world. It would be easy to generalize about debauched cultures and rampant evil... Which is out there. The same generalizations could be made about Christianity for centuries.

 

Everybody has a solution: take away guns. Buy more guns. Ban certain religions. Enforce stricter laws. And everybody's solutions share common traits: they are mutually exclusive, black and white, and require global adherence.  

Cruelty comes so naturally to human beings. Kindness is such an exercise for us. We're so busy needing to be RIGHT that we forget to be GOOD to other people. We've declined so far that we have to actually specify out loud which lives matter. We lash out in self-preservation. In offense for countless wrong against us and our ideals or perhaps just our lifestyles. And what does our lashing out gain us? 

It gains us a world fraught with senseless violence. It gains us ridiculous public figures. Our celebrities are criminals and criminals are our celebrities. It seems to be the only way to keep our radical individuality entertained: Like the Gladiator in the arena, mass murderers of every variety, from terrorists to pharmaceutical giants and our political candidates stand with the blood of innocents dripping from their hands screaming "are you not entertained?" 

And we feign shock and horror and abomination and change the channel and share the post and create a hashtag and add our two cents to the debacle that is humanity. 

We have created this world. By our protest, by our silence. By our petty insecurities and our late thirty-something pity parties. I have not been the change I want to see in this world, I have been another creaking cog in the machine of destruction. I have been too intent upon being right. 

Humankind will never agree on one religion or political platform or for that matter, whether Sting made good music. The power of humanity is in the differences we hold. The strengths and weaknesses. The balance we can bring one another. The power of humanKIND is in the end of the word. The kindness. Love is Kind. 

Whether you are bible thumper, a Muslim, a pagan or a hedonist like me, as a human being you have to know in your heart of hearts that we're all on this tiny spinning rock together, bleeding red and beating hearts across continents and cultures. 

So here is what I am learning: know your own conscience and act accordingly. Do not be swayed by bitterness or frustration over those that are so different than you, because really they're not. Vote your conscience in the upcoming election. Not for the lesser of evils. Choose kindness with your friends and neighbors regardless of the color or creed they belong to. We are all the same race: the human race. 

Trust your selected gods to intervene in the affairs of men. Govern your own heart. Your own actions. Your own words. See the lack of self government in this world and thank your selected gods for the instruments of external government in lieu of men who will choose kindness. Respect the law whether you agree with it or not - your action or inaction put those laws and the ones who made them into power. Support the ones who hold the thin blue line between us and the unkindness that runs rampant. Support the Warriors here and abroad who defend our right to disagree and still live peacefully together. Back the forces that guard us from the lawless and deliver justice swiftly on our behalf. 

Be the change. Be the love. Be the hope for a kinder world. 

Things About The Dentist

I don't care how bada$$ you think you are, getting dental work done is just plain miserable. And this coming from a girl who has her mouth wide open and flapping most of the day...

But I also struggle from a mutant strain of claustrophobia that makes me cut all the necks out of my t-shirts so they don't "choke" me, and keeps me from tucking sheets under any edge of my mattress - in case any random body part needs to make a rapid escape. So imagine my delight at a plastic-and-metal contraption rammed sideways in my mouth preventing me from closing it, swallowing effectively or even worse... Talking! 

I went to the dentist, I thought to have my teeth cleaned the other day. NBD, right? Apparently I had my teeth cleaned in March and my memory (like a steel trap) withheld the information that this was a cavity filling. A cavity of proportions much larger than expected, according to the very nice and not at all judgement Doctor. Who told me that it actually "wrapped around." What that means exactly, I have no idea. Wrapped around the root? The nerve? My entire jaw?

Anyway, I got lucky this time and they actually offered me nitrous. You know - laughing gas? Actually the way the conversation went was this: 

Dental hygienist: you don't need nitrous right? 

Me: is that an option?

DH: sure if you need it!

Me: how do I know if I need it? Is it fun? 

DH: well, I guess... Do you want to try it?

Me: um, obvs. 

So anyway, they hooked me up to this fighter pilot mask and started pumping this air into my lungs that smelled faintly of juicy fruit gum. I was waiting for the irrepressible urge to laugh (because why else is it called laughing gas) or some euphoric sense of peace and tranquility. But mostly what I noticed as she crammed the massively invasive dental dam in my mouth and smothered me in drool bibs and germy sunglasses, was an innate sense of every-little-thing's-gonna-be-alright. 

I mean in the back of my head, there was a certainty that I was going to suffocate on a pool of my own saliva and a collection of foreign objects piling up in the back of my throat, but for whatever reason (I.e. Nitrous Oxide) it seemed perfectly alright. I nearly choked to death when the dentist and his hygienist were talking about popcorn chicken from KFC and I tried to participate in the conversation. I guess the laughing gas made me forget that I wasn't really able to talk around all that paraphernalia, no matter how dear the subject matter to my heart. I gave up in a fit of coughing laughter and gave up trying to be garrulous during the procedure.

Really, the filling went pretty quickly, and despite not being able to opine on the merit of KFCs popcorn chicken vs a new local burger joint, I made it through with only one near drowning experience an no full-blown panic attacks. So I would give the nitrous a thumbs up for making a terrible hour and a half slightly less terrible. I have been thinking a bottle of that stuff would make life in my house more bearable on certain mornings when Everyone wakes up fighting. 

Things About Dreams

Maybe it was the too-late at night dinner that we ate after nine o'clock when middle school softball finally got over. Maybe it was the clip from a some late night show where Emilia Clarke sang MMBop in dothraki. Maybe it was the fitful sleep from the day before, or the cumulative anxiety of trying to direct a herd of cats in a high school drama production. Who knows what it was, but I had the strangest dream a few weeks ago. I was riding a bicycle along a gravel road and I came across two loitering mountain lions. Both immediately decided that I was an excellent dinner-to-go option and I spent what felt like an eternity (in my dream) using my bike as a shield/weapon, flinging it at them and crouching behind it, while screaming incoherently until a car came along the road and scared them off. I woke up exhausted (in real life), with my arms and legs feeling like I had just scaled a cliff wall, and my voice hoarse from yelling. Dreams are funny things. Who knows where they come from, and who knows why... I do know that throughout the grueling ordeal I was in total control of the outcome, which is interesting since I willed the random car along just when my strength was gone. I suppose it's a metaphor for something, this dream, but I can't think for what.

I know for a fact that my dreams are usually jam-packed full of whatever it is I am longing for in my life but lacking... often a gallant hero with his strong manly arms around me... but occasionally a frantic hunt for a toilet and a dramatic sense of urgency. Lucky for me when I wake up from that one, the porcelain throne is just across the hall. The former situation finds no respite in real life awakening. It would be nice if I could dream about eating all night and wake up full, just like I wake up tired and sore after fighting imaginary cougars in my sleep all night. Then maybe I wouldn't want to eat all the day long and would actually break through this weight plateau that taunts me - but much like the dreamland romeo, this is a wish that will probably never be realized.

Sometimes I wish I had more control over the subject matter of my dreams, and not just the plot. But then again I think it's a fascinating glimpse into the recesses of my brain that I either cannot (or choose not to) access. Like for instance last night when I dreamt that for my birthday, my friends hired a cohort of ridiculously good-looking male celebrities to come to a party for me so that I could choose any one that I wanted to kiss. Obviously I bypassed Ryan Gosling and Brad Pitt to lock lips with Bradley Cooper, who instantly fell madly in love with me for the rest of time. Or at least until I woke up. *Sigh*. The rest of the guys were nice enough to hang out with all my friends and family for some beer and laughs, even though none of them were the lucky recipient of my birthday kiss. Well, we can't all be winners, boys. And this is EXACTLY why we call them dreams.

It is almost compelling enough to give up all gainful occupation and resign myself to a strict sleeping schedule. Maybe I will find someone in my dreams to pay all of my bills too. Or I will just finally succumb to the treacherous mountain lion(s) or whatever they represent and won't have to worry about any of it. They say if you die in your dreams that you do in real life too, I wonder if I marry Bradley Cooper in dreamland if that would come true as well? Guess I don't know, yet...

cue next weird dream...

Things About Summertime

If you grew up in northern Stevens County, there's a pretty decent likelihood that you have been to the beach at Evans Campground. If you have been to the beach at Evans Campground as a young teenager, there's an even better likelihood that you have both pushed and been pushed off the dock by a peer of the opposite gender. And there is almost every chance in the world that you also swam out to the floating logs and worked tirelessly for hours to stand up on them and walk across. Lord knows I did all of those things, over and over and over and over, and I can't remember now if I ever successfully made the log crossing or not - but judging by my experience last weekend and my desperation to preserve self respect, I am gonna say I didn't.

I am 39 now. A semi-well composed adult who is capable of making good decisions and surviving Real Life with all of it's twists and turns. But even a semi-well composed 39 year old can fall prey to childish whims and nostalgic dares. I wasn't at Evans Beach last weekend, as it happens, but my 16 year old daughter was, and I can probably tell you her exact activities moment by moment. I, myself, was out at Bradbury Beach, which could be a clone of Evans except there is no adjacent campground so it's strictly a day use beach. If you didn't grow up at Evans Beach, then you were most likely at Bradbury. Bradbury is equipped with the exact same floating dock apparatus that serves functionally as a launch pad for flying teenagers and a warming center for smaller children who watch the antics of their older siblings with rapt attention. And the beach also boasts the same floating log perimeter, beckoning cruelly like a ropes-challenge siren to be mastered by the well-balanced and coordinated teenager. Or in this case, 39 year old.

I dared some of my peers to the same challenge that we aspired to more than 20 years ago. For some foolhardy reason, my peers accepted the thrown gauntlet and we waded into the frigid Lake Roosevelt murk late on a hot June evening. And then we swam.

Nobody remembers how hard swimming is until you're right in the middle of your swim and you realize that it's exactly the same distance between your point of origin and your destination, and for all of the backstrokes, breaststrokes and sidestrokes in the world, neither of those distances appear to be decreasing. It's a weird and frightening phenomenon, unless you're distracted by the numbing of your limbs. Once you figure out that the top 6 inches of lake water is a significant 20 degrees warmer than the rest, you roll over into a back float and start flutter kicking, which covers even less ground than all of the other strokes combined. While you're mid traverse in what has become a Major River Crossing of at least 10 miles, you begin to wonder to yourself if the water at the top is so much warmer because of the drifting island of middle school boys that just wafted past on a cloud of water wings and dollar store floaties. You start doing the math about how many of them would have to have peed to make the temperature difference, and whether with that much urine pooling around you would be able to smell it over the nostalgic dead fish and mud scent of the opaque river water. No matter, you can feel your limbs again so it's all good, and surprisingly, the logs are now only 5 feet away. Another hour and you'll be there for sure.

We got to the log and immediately began laughing about how funny it was that we had joked about getting up on them. The laughter ebbed away into chattering teeth as we contemplated the long swim back, pools of urine and how warm the sunshine on top of the slippery logs felt. Soon we were all bobbing and heaving like a trio of top heavy buoys, trying to mount the listless, rolling logs. It wasn't long before (being responsible and intelligent adults) we started to develop a strategy. If two of us stabilized the log, at least one could get up there and balance. We attempted stabilization at both ends of the log and in the middle, and the only thing getting any traction was the spin of the log underneath our bare arms, and torsos, and occasionally legs as we clung desperately to the bucking ponderosa. Soon a husband emerged from the water to help the screeching and squalling damsels in distress, but he turned out to be almost as useless as us girls against the 16 foot tree which was determined to have the last laugh. We fought the log for a long time. How long, I am not sure, but all of a sudden I realized that the sun had just gone behind the mountain and we were about three days from shore with an ocean of freezing water between us and no middle school boys in sight to assist our plight.

I guess you could say we gave up, although I'd like to imagine that the log was at least as tired as we were when we got back to the beach in the twilight and began comparing welts and scratches. That part I don't remember from my teenage years, or the bruises and sore muscles that emerged the next day, as if I had just done a submarine crossfit sesh with a pine tree for an instructor.

But the rolling log reminded me of hours spent as a girl, with any assortment of friends, on those logs, talking about boys and bathing suits, injustices and italian sodas, parents and plans for the future. I remember the shivering cold and the sun-warmed wood of the dock on my back. I remember dares to swim underneath and the big spiders that lurked there, and the naughty boys who would try to scare us from below in the murky water, and the ones who pushed, pulled, lifted and carried us over the edge into the water. The boys that later on maybe would be a first kiss, or a last crush, or at least shape the vast canyons of our hearts with a river of adolescent emotion.

This is summertime. I have missed so much of it in the last few years, since I am usually working - too busy to remember how important clinging to an expanse of rolling timber can be. I can only hope that my kids will have the same memories and scratches and triumphs from a split second upright... making the whole struggle worthwhile. I hope they know the unstable sanctuary of the middle of the dock, away from the edge that tempts too greatly the run-by pushes from the boys. And before the strength of their upper body, their center of balance and their recovery time changes, I hope they fight a few logs.

Things We've Overcome

It's Tuesday night and I should DEFINITELY be writing all of the newspaper stories that are due in a couple days, but I am not. I am drinking wine and pretending that I have no responsibilities. No high school play in 7 days that is a nightmare of epic proportions. No newspaper deadlines. No more every day trips to Colville or Spokane for track. No Major Reasons (such as land lord visits) to not leave my house in this perpetual state of disrepair. No softballs games, rehearsals, graduation parties, birthday parties, papers to grade, lessons to plan, leaking dishwashers, broken fences, bills to pay, dogs to govern, kids to keep alive... just me and my wine. And a snoring hound dog and a naughty dachshund clicking around in the other room looking for snacks - well, at least somebody is cleaning the kitchen floor.

Speaking of naughty dachshunds, I am pretty sure that my kid figured out how to curb the nasty habit a certain wiener dog proudly boasts of dropping a deuce in the dining room every morning. Turns out that pooping outside is HARD. The grass is either cold or wet or cold and wet, frozen, snowed over, overgrown or green, and therefore very difficult to poop in. That's what they make dining room floors for, apparently. Anyway, when we were cleaning the other day, we came across a little pile of fake poop that somebody brought home from Boo Radley's and left on my pillow. Precious. Nat had the genius idea to set the faux-poo in Dagny's sacred pooping grounds (i.e the dining room) to mess with the pea-brained dachshund. So far the dog has been totally miffed that someone else used her zone and actually went outside IN THE RAIN to poop. Ok, granted it was on the covered back porch but still, not the dining room. WINNING!!

Another lofty accomplishment today happened after school. After rehearsal. After softball practice. After a quick jaunt to Taco Tuesday when I came home to cook more tacos for Aspen. And then it hit me. The smell: B.O. The real deal. Full on, grown up, sweaty armpits, coming from my youngest offspring. It is the end of an era, folks. No more baby Aspen. She was marched directly to the shower, handed a fresh stick of deodorant with firm instructions, and thus launched into her pubescent career. To the middle school softball team at practice today: sorry mom was so slow on the uptake.

One problem that we didn't successfully solve this week was the red sharpie marks all over the kitchen walls from a remodel project that was rudely interrupted by a divorce and that are a constant reminder of best-laid plans and how they don't work out. Nat and her buddy Belli helped me paint the hallway and kitchen in an attempt to scourge the marks of failed intentions from the walls, but alas the demon red kept seeping through. The walls look better, so there's that, but I finally resorted to just hanging random things on the wall over the tell-tale henscratchings. Sometimes Band-Aids are just the way to go, folks.

Oh yeah! And the yellow iris "volunteer" that decided randomly to grow in my half barrel planter that is really just a few pieces of rotten wood leaned agains my also rotten wood porch step. I am hands down the most unsuccessful gardener that ever was, partly because I am gone all fire season, letting plants die, and partly because I just don't bother to try. But it warms my heart to see the happy yellow flower smiling defiantly in the face of utter adversity: hail storms, digging wiener dogs, giant flopping hounds, and of course, me. It stands tall and bright, promising beauty and hope in a world of falling apart, rotten wood and holes dug by a neurotic dog. I am sure it's symbolic on some level but I haven't had enough wine yet to interpret it.

All of this overcoming and finally, at 9:38 PM, I settled down on my couch and decided to catch up on season 6 of Game of Thrones. The whole reason I subscribe to HBO Now - and all of the episodes so far this season that I have been saving to binge watch. Obviously I don't need sleep to teach school. Or direct a play. Or write stories. I have faith that it will fulfill a deep seated need to find resolution since the cataclysmic end of Season 5 when I swore I was done with all of it. So here I am, hoping beyond hope that Jon Snow isn't really fully dead, yet. Maybe a Band-Aid for him, too?

Anyway, I have a lot going on right now with all of the wine and Targaryens to catch up with, so I will just leave you basking in the warm happiness of all of my successes of late. You're welcome.

Things About Time

The trouble is, you think you have it... Time, that is. These words have been attributed to Buddha but they are actually a paraphrase of something the Yachti shaman Don Juan said in Carlos Castenada's Journey to Ixtlan: 

"There is one simple thing wrong with you – you think you have plenty of time … If you don’t think your life is going to last forever, what are you waiting for? Why the hesitation to change? You don’t have time for this display, you fool. This, whatever you’re doing now, may be your last act on earth. It may very well be your last battle. There is no power which could guarantee that you are going to live one more minute."

Living in the constant reality that any moment may be your last, or that of the people around you that you love changes the whole game. We wander around like zombies, already dead to the phenomenon that we live finite lives with an absolute ending that is totally unpredictable. We walk through life rituals, many that we hate, punching the proverbial clock until it runs out. Every single day death chases a cocentric ring around my own life, circling ever closer to me as it hits families and friends that I know without warning, taking husbands, daughters, mothers, sons, wives and fathers. Best friends, cousins, aunts and uncles... Every minute the larger "We" loses another loved one and the circle tightens down a little smaller, a little closer to home. 

Even if you believe that life goes on after death - some glorious golden-streeted, angelic-chorused hall of eternal bliss - there is no escaping the fact that for those of us left behind, death means the end of relationship here, the end of seeing, touching, talking to the ones that we lose. 

We all know this, but at the same time we make decisions every day to put off  chasing the things and the ones that we love and doing the things that make us who we want to be. We avoid hardship and inconvenience and pain, we take the comfortable pathway to a paycheck, to conflict-free relationships that require as little of us as possible. And at any moment, the chance to rise to a challenge could be gone forever.

 Our grandparents lived in a time that had their mettle tested through some of the roughest turmoil that our country has ever seen, and it produced a generation greater than any in our history. They raised their children, however, with the ultimate goal of getting past hardship, glorifying convenience and comfort and enjoying the enablement of technology developed in answer to back breaking labor and time consuming menial work. Two generations later and we are technology dependent, and the worship of convenience has escalated to shocking heights. Injustice has become a hashtag, and battles  have left the trenches of foreign wars for the mud slinging campaigns of social media offenses. We lack the motivation to tackle the worst enemy of our destiny: the person in the mirror. It's easy to armchair quarterback the failing world around us than it is to be the change that we want to see in the world... We can get to that later, right? Later is a myth. 

We get the college degree of least resistance to get the job of maximum benefit to achieve the optimum number of vacation days for golf and video games. Retirement is the golden standard of success. To be able to STOP doing things we hate. But retirement is as mythical as later. Why don't we stop now? Why don't we chart a new course through some rough waters to do the things we love for the rest of our lives? The conversation of destiny and passion is all but forgotten. And to risk financial stability for the scary reality of launching into an unknown dream is relegated to Hollywood. Heck, we're so scared of failure that we don't even leave our parent's basements.  

And time goes by. Every minute is one closer to whichever end we are fated. One more opportunity to seize the day, capture the moment, has passed. I feel it keenly when my friends and family members lose loved ones suddenly. There really is no time like the present, because it's the only time that we are guaranteed. I hope that where I am in this moment is exactly where I need to be to realize exactly who I am. I was created for the purpose of loving deeply, sharing broadly and pushing limits. Even here and now in a high school classroom, watching the rain slither it's way out of a dark grey sky, I can do that, and intend to. 

Hats off to all of you, my friends, who have dared to risk greatly and win the day that you are living in. I see you and I love you for it! 

Things About Getting Old

I don't care what you say, I still like staying in hotels. There's something about the pristine white sheets that don't have filthy swirls in the foot region, gently reminding you how long it's been since you mopped your floors, or perhaps took a shower. There's something about someone else cleaning the toilet for you, and the shower, and fresh towels that don't smell suspiciously like a middle schooler used them and refolded them just to fool you. Don't tell me about the hairs you've found when you pulled back the covers, or the documentary about the glasses washed with toilet rags, or the blood stained carpets, or the fact that the comforters are never, ever washed. Don't steal my joy. Let me bask in the glory of a bedroom that isn't plagued with mountains of questionably clean laundry which apparently has no permanent resting place, or bird feathers all over the floor from Crookshank's latest love offering. Let me enjoy the rhythmic lull of the soft pounding from the room next door - kids jumping on the bed, I am sure. Let me embrace the rare privacy of knowing both locks AND the do not disturb sign are doing their cock-sure best to keep out children, animals and housekeepers.

I got to spend two glorious nights in Spokane at a hotel this week, and I am can't decide if I am mildly embarrassed or just a smidgeon proud of the fact that I went to bed before 8 PM one of those nights. It's just that the bed was so clean and big and wonderful... I couldn't even muster the fortitude to venture to the hotel basement for my two complimentary drinks during the reception hour. I must be getting old. A few years, maybe even months ago, I would have been so consumed with the  FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out, ICYMI), that I could easily find myself wandering the streets of any city I was visiting to see what mischief I could find at all hours. Now, there are precious few motivators to get me out of my hotel room.

I have outgrown many impulses it would seem - spontaneous excursions, loud parties and late nights have all begun to lose their appeal for me. Instead of taking inventory of who I might run into at a party, I now take inventory of how much I actually LIKE who I might run into, and whether it's enough to rally me out of sweatpants and into public. At one point in my life it was all about being seen, getting out, and HAVING FUN. Now it's all about being well rested, and couches are really a lot of damn fun once you get to know them. I have officially become a lightweight with a 3 beer cap which occasionally gets blown with dire consequences and many days of regret. The flip side to this is that I am not succesfully functional without those three beers on any given day, but don't tempt me into more unless you'd like to assume my responsibilities for the next three days. I am old. I will be 39 in three weeks and two days. 39 seems SO. OLD.

I am not sure when a 'party' in my life began consisting of a sleeve of saltine crackers, a cube of butter and an entire season of Justified on Netflix. Something has gone terribly wrong. I began packing a chair to sporting events at some unidentifiable point in time. Next thing you know I will keep an umbrella in the car next to the safety blanket in case of spectating induced hypothermia. Maybe the first warning sign was those jeans I bought because they were comfortable. Or maybe it was when I asked for a blender for my birthday. I am not sure exactly, but it's happened so sneakily around the edges of me playing Peter Pan and pretending that I couldn't grow up that suddenly here I am: with full time work and sensible footwear.

It's too soon folks. Too soon to throw in the towel and call it quits. Too soon to quit bouncing on the hotel beds (DEAR JESUS) and much too soon to go to sleep. There's a lot of sunshine to chase, adventures to be hard-won and excitement to live through. I'm not dead yet. Only almost 39. But I think that is part of the enamorment I have with hotel rooms - I can't help but feel like a little kid pretending to be a responsible grown up with enough going on to stay in my own room. It's so fancy and sophisticated, and I know it's really just a big joke on those hotel people that they have a kid crashing in one of their large adulty beds. I suppose the intruige of not being entirely sure that I will have a successful method of payment adds to the whole experience, but...

Things That Are GREAT

It's almost like God shrink wrapped this week in pink cellophane with a whole bunch of curly ribbon and handed it to me like an early birthday present. And it's only Monday. Usually by 11:21 on Monday morning I am having a recurrent discussion with The Diety about when I will quit suffering the consequences of poor life choices every.single.day. But it's Monday morning, and things are looking UP this week.

For starters, I came home yesterday after a long day with a good friend and Aspen had CLEANED HER ROOM. Voluntarily. Without Instruction. Or reminders. All the way. Clean. To the point that there is identifiable CARPET visible! Holy cow! By herself! All these years and I thought she was developmentally delayed in organizational functions. Turns out, she's totally capable. This knowledge will probably not serve her well in the future, but I couldn't be happier. I am not even gonna mention the collection of questionable items peeking out from under the bunk beds. Or her bed making skills. I am super impressed. Of course Natalee is mildly disgruntled that I am not as ecstatic over her clean room because, well, it's old news. But seriously, super proud of you, Nat. And Aspen - I am still reeling.

And then it dawned on me after I showed up for school and the teacher's meeting that I usually sit through feeling TOTALLY lost got cancelled AND Mrs. Wilson had come back for a weeklong cameo appearance to teach sex ed in 9th grade health, so I was off the hook for first period! I think she had a twinge of guilt asking a substitute (who, incidentally, was homeschooled for all 12 school years) teach sex ed. Drugs and alcohol was enough of a stretch when I realized that my students knew more about the subject than I did. Don't worry, parents, I enlisted one of my cop buddies to bail me out of that awkwardness.

So all in all, my week is looking pretty up. I get to play hooky from school for two days for some fire training stuff, which is always fun. Sort of. But lest you think I live a charmed life, I just spent half of my lunch break trying to open the straw for my sack of milk. Did you know that school milk comes in sacks now? Yeah, and like a Capri Sun, you stab a little straw into the plastic and hope for the least amount of spray back possible. That's assuming you can get the straw out of the cellophane wrapper. School lunches FTW! I am unsuccessful enough in these endeavors that I mostly undertake them in my classroom when no one is looking except that one weird kid that likes to come in and talk to me as a cover for snitching his computer to play games on during lunch break. I think he was too preoccupied with The Dinosaur Game to notice the milk that I accidentally squirted all over my lap. Hey guys, I didn't choose the thug life...

So here's to a golden week of slightly fewer stresses than normal and a couple of lucky breaks. Including FINALLY having the school stage relinquished to me from the archery classes so we can spend the last two weeks of rehearsal for the school production actually being productive. HAHAHHAHAAHAHA. Or whatever. Hey man, I have a handful of teenagers spewing Shakespeare. I'm calling it a win.