Just a quick note: Yesterday I went with my buddy Clare, a local esthetician, to use my super awesome Living Social coupon at Angelina Skin Care, a local skin care boutique with products that are all natural, organic and YUMMY! Clare has been working with me at Luna - her studio, to come up with a fix for my perpetually troubling skin problems. Stay tuned for more details about this, as well as a review of the recent Jessner Peel that she gave me. If you live in Bend - check out both Luna Studios and Angelina's stuff.
Also - my new bed is awesome. We went shopping and pretty much bought the first one we laid on - maybe because I feel asleep and felt guilty, or maybe because we're just suckers for anything more comfortable than the mattress we've been sleeping on upside-down because it has a giant wallow in the middle. And by sleeping on upside-down, I mean that both the mattress is pillow-top down on the boxspring, exposing the firmer un-pillow-top side, AND we have been sleeping with our heads at the foot of the bed because we realized the wallow gave us new back and hip pain that was a reprieve from the old back and hip pain, and thereby somehow better. Anyway, the new bed is the "cheap" version of Temperpedic - the "Simplicity Soft" and after one night, I am pretty excited. Excited enough that I might defer a trip to Olympia until I get bored with sleeping on it. I will let you know if my enthusiasm about this un-researched, un-recommended wears off. However it does have a bunch of warranties and stuff so hopefully...
Things That I Disagree With
Mornings. Especially gray/grey mornings (authors note: both spellings of gray/grey are proper - which paralyzes me when prevailed upon to choose. I have decided to always use both). Josh says I have morning confused with mourning and therefore believe I need to awaken in despair. He's probably right, because I can't remember very many mornings before 9 o'clock or so that I didn't feel the heavy hand of death on my soul. Or maybe I just use that as an excuse to sleep later. Either way, today was particularly gloomy, and I probably should have just stayed in bed.
Mournings(sic) like this get particularly difficult when I have to get dressed. Mostly I try to avoid it as long as possible, since the decision making process is so completely overwhelming. This morning I have no pressing reasons to get dressed in the near future, other than a possible impromtu trip up to Olympia where my sister is visiting my mom, so I can crash the visit and steal all of mom's attention for myself. I may as well go, since the kids are going to hang with the D-Bag (bio-dad) for a couple days and Josh has to work pretty much forever. Or at least tomorrow. But then I would have to get dressed.
The only thing that I have established unquestionably to wear on this dark day, is a new matching bra and undie set. This is almost enough to make me cast off my mourning, but then I think about which jeans to squeeze into and my discouragement is renewed. Every time I wear matching underwear Josh gets a little bit suspicious, as if on this day of Ultimate-Self-Image-Despair, I have a secret rendezvous with someone who would appreciate it more than he does. Really, I save the NEW matching undies for days when I feel so gross that having cute underwear is absolutely the only reason a paramedic (other than my husband) would touch me if I was dying in the street from a car wreck: "Oh Lord - do we have to touch her?" "She's dying!" "Well, at least her underwear are clean. And they match" "Ok, CPR in progress."
Ever since I was little I have had this thing with matching underwear. I think it started with one of the college age girls that lived with us in Portland. I have never fully put together why we had a string of college age girls living with us, and whether they paid us or we paid them for putting up with 4.5 homeschooled kids, or if the arrangement was sans-financing, and they worked off their housing by driving us places like gymnastics classes in little green cars, and buying us snacks of dry roasted peanuts. I have several very brief but clear memories of these girls, and in addition to one of them boiling all the bristles off my dad's toothbrush after "borrowing" it, and a pet parakeet, I distinctly remember one of them INSISTING on the necessity for matching undergarments in case of a medical emergency, just as I described. It really makes sense. I mean, imagine cutting off someone's clothing and discovering the horror of fruit of the loom grannie panties paired with a Hanes Her Way Super Bra that clashed! GASP! I try to make certain, every day, that no such travesty will ever befall me or my potential rescuers. I will not deny that on my "off" days, when I am unmatched, I am an extra cautious driver and would obviously never risk something like a bike ride. Yes, I learned many valuable things from those young women, including how much you can fit into the rear seat of a vintage 70s hatchback, the immortal skill of perfectly feathered bangs, and how to short sheet a bed.
I guess now is that time of the day when I have to decide if I should actually take a shower and move on with my life, or continue my mourning in bed. For the rest of the day. Which doesn't sound half bad, especially with the Madeleine L'Engle books I just bought at a thrift store yesterday. I have a moderate list of productive things I would like to accomplish today, which makes jetting up north all the more tempting. And it's cloudy enough today in Bend that it isn't like I would be foregoing our normal sunshine for Olympia's perpetual gloom. Maybe these are decisions better made in the self confidence of matching underwear.
Mournings(sic) like this get particularly difficult when I have to get dressed. Mostly I try to avoid it as long as possible, since the decision making process is so completely overwhelming. This morning I have no pressing reasons to get dressed in the near future, other than a possible impromtu trip up to Olympia where my sister is visiting my mom, so I can crash the visit and steal all of mom's attention for myself. I may as well go, since the kids are going to hang with the D-Bag (bio-dad) for a couple days and Josh has to work pretty much forever. Or at least tomorrow. But then I would have to get dressed.
The only thing that I have established unquestionably to wear on this dark day, is a new matching bra and undie set. This is almost enough to make me cast off my mourning, but then I think about which jeans to squeeze into and my discouragement is renewed. Every time I wear matching underwear Josh gets a little bit suspicious, as if on this day of Ultimate-Self-Image-Despair, I have a secret rendezvous with someone who would appreciate it more than he does. Really, I save the NEW matching undies for days when I feel so gross that having cute underwear is absolutely the only reason a paramedic (other than my husband) would touch me if I was dying in the street from a car wreck: "Oh Lord - do we have to touch her?" "She's dying!" "Well, at least her underwear are clean. And they match" "Ok, CPR in progress."
Ever since I was little I have had this thing with matching underwear. I think it started with one of the college age girls that lived with us in Portland. I have never fully put together why we had a string of college age girls living with us, and whether they paid us or we paid them for putting up with 4.5 homeschooled kids, or if the arrangement was sans-financing, and they worked off their housing by driving us places like gymnastics classes in little green cars, and buying us snacks of dry roasted peanuts. I have several very brief but clear memories of these girls, and in addition to one of them boiling all the bristles off my dad's toothbrush after "borrowing" it, and a pet parakeet, I distinctly remember one of them INSISTING on the necessity for matching undergarments in case of a medical emergency, just as I described. It really makes sense. I mean, imagine cutting off someone's clothing and discovering the horror of fruit of the loom grannie panties paired with a Hanes Her Way Super Bra that clashed! GASP! I try to make certain, every day, that no such travesty will ever befall me or my potential rescuers. I will not deny that on my "off" days, when I am unmatched, I am an extra cautious driver and would obviously never risk something like a bike ride. Yes, I learned many valuable things from those young women, including how much you can fit into the rear seat of a vintage 70s hatchback, the immortal skill of perfectly feathered bangs, and how to short sheet a bed.
I guess now is that time of the day when I have to decide if I should actually take a shower and move on with my life, or continue my mourning in bed. For the rest of the day. Which doesn't sound half bad, especially with the Madeleine L'Engle books I just bought at a thrift store yesterday. I have a moderate list of productive things I would like to accomplish today, which makes jetting up north all the more tempting. And it's cloudy enough today in Bend that it isn't like I would be foregoing our normal sunshine for Olympia's perpetual gloom. Maybe these are decisions better made in the self confidence of matching underwear.
Things That I Am Terrible At
Riding Bicycles. There is something idyllic about pedaling your carefree way across town, in a pretty sundress with a basket full of daisies and a bottle of wine on the front of your turquoise beach cruiser, right? Yesterday, I needed to go pick up my car across town from Sargent's Stereo where they had installed an iPod port for me, the only thing missing from my blingmobile. I thought, no big deal. 3-4 miles - I did that often this summer, riding to the store, or more frequently, to Cuppa Yo, where the reward was much more worth it. Josh assured me I could make it 20 minutes "tops" since it was an easy 10-15 for him. Show off. Anyway, I waited for the outside temperature to break 45, since I am a wimp, bagged up my yoga mat with the noble intention of going to class after my two wheeled adventure. Look how athletic I am being!! I set out down the street and within 1/4 mile began to regret my optimistic decision. I will admit that part of my downfall on this fateful ride was not taking my husbands well-meaning advice and riding the longer, safer way down a less busy, less hilly, but out of the way street. I decided I was a full grown adult and could manage the traffic. And the hills, which, incidentally where NEVER there before, when I was driving my car. My fingers were numb at about 1/2 mile, which I think was also the 17 minute mark, and about the time I really started cursing my bike loving husband. As I pedalled in place up a hill that was at least 7000 feet, all I could do was mutter to myself about idiots on bicycles acting like this was fun and what a bunch of freakshows they were. I was all but obliterated by a Kia Rio that came screaming through a roundabout and into the crosswalk where I was innocently fumbling with my pedals before she locked up the brakes and skidded to a stop about 6 inches from me. I am sure she heard me cussing out Josh, because clearly ANY misfortunes on bikes are All His Fault. About 3/4 of a mile in I had come to the conclusion that I really really hate my bike. WHO in the world would choose a freaking mint green, 3,000 lb contraption with 4 lane handlebars and a 50 gallon basket hanging of the front. I looked like a behemoth 5 year old who just got off her training wheels. Lets just say balance and coordination on a bicycle aren't my strong points at this stage. I would like to take a moment to credit my mother for this un-skill, and from what I hear it's a knack she shares with my Aunt Janet as well. Mom, like me, struggles to keep a bicycle herded on a narrow path, such as a sidewalk, or a two lane highway, and any obstacle that springs up pretty much demands an all out panic and probably a crash of some sort. Imagine my dismay when my sidewalk turned into two, narrower, multi-level sidewalks that ended abruptly at a big, red fire hydrant. What choice did I have but jump both curbs and land in the busy arterial pretty much on the fender of a police car, and then fall over. Ok, I didn't fall ALL the way over, but I may as well have for the injury to my pride. I couldn't help but get really angry at the smirking motorists who witnessed my identity crisis between pedestrian and cyclist at every intersection. Crosswalk, no crosswalk? Green light with traffic or who is turning and does anybody see me on this monstrous bike? Half of me hoped they did because while I was certainly in a homicidal rage, I wasn't completely ready to die, but the other half of me was mortally embarrassed by my happy-and-carefree looking bike that was so obviously NOT any of those things. I have a chronic internal confliction about the dichotomy of bicycle laws vs. bicycle safety. Is it better to ride on the sidewalk and live or ride with traffic and certainly die?
Josh recommended I take back street A to back street B, which put me on the thoroughfare very briefly. I decided to take main street A to main street B, which changed after two near death experiences and a series of giant elevation gains to back street A, which seemed to be more or less hill-free. After pedaling/coasting for several blocks, crossing the railroad tracks twice, I realized I was going the wrong way, but since it was downhill, I didn't really care. At some point I knew I needed to get back over toward the main drag, and because I was too tired to find another legit railroad crossing, I picked up my bike (one end at a time because the thing weighs more than ghengis khan) and dragged it across the tracks in the dirt. I had half a mind to leave the stupid bicycle right there in the tracks to be destroyed by the next freight train that roared through, but decided against it since I was still formulating more gratifying demolition approaches. Most of the second half of my ride was filled with fantasies of twisted metal and snapping spokes. I wound up in neighborhood that I recognized as one Josh had recently done some remodeling in, and lost several tools to neighborhood thugs masquerading as schoolchildren. Somehow I had ended up about 5 blocks too far south, but I decided the downhill was worth it. I finally made it to my destination, sweaty, frozen, angry as heck that my husband would consider this harrowing experience "fun". No comment.
Anyway, I survived, somehow, all 3.4 miles and 15,000 ft climb. My RunKeeper app told me I only burned 143 calories. 143! That's like not even a cookie!! How is that possible. Sometimes I believe RunKeeper exists only to make me feel inadequate. Kind of like kids. And crappy vacuum cleaners.
I even went to yoga, mostly because I wasn't about to let the foolishness of carrying a retarded yoga mat on my back across town be for naught, and I had only burned 143 calories. I still had a scrap of pride left after all, until the yoga instructor spent 70 minutes demonstrating all of the things that my hips Will Not Do. I blame the hills. After all of my minimal-calorie-burning activities, all I could think about was a McChicken. But I was good. I drove home, I unloaded my $200 worth of Costco groceries and even the bike that I swore I would never touch again after jamming it into the back of the Yukon, and ate a little teeny cup of greek yogurt. And 16 candy corns.
We bought a new bed last weekend, and after a series of delivery faux pas, which resulted in 2 free latex pillows, it was just delivered. I am so excited to try it out. Can I just go to bed now?
Josh recommended I take back street A to back street B, which put me on the thoroughfare very briefly. I decided to take main street A to main street B, which changed after two near death experiences and a series of giant elevation gains to back street A, which seemed to be more or less hill-free. After pedaling/coasting for several blocks, crossing the railroad tracks twice, I realized I was going the wrong way, but since it was downhill, I didn't really care. At some point I knew I needed to get back over toward the main drag, and because I was too tired to find another legit railroad crossing, I picked up my bike (one end at a time because the thing weighs more than ghengis khan) and dragged it across the tracks in the dirt. I had half a mind to leave the stupid bicycle right there in the tracks to be destroyed by the next freight train that roared through, but decided against it since I was still formulating more gratifying demolition approaches. Most of the second half of my ride was filled with fantasies of twisted metal and snapping spokes. I wound up in neighborhood that I recognized as one Josh had recently done some remodeling in, and lost several tools to neighborhood thugs masquerading as schoolchildren. Somehow I had ended up about 5 blocks too far south, but I decided the downhill was worth it. I finally made it to my destination, sweaty, frozen, angry as heck that my husband would consider this harrowing experience "fun". No comment.
 |
| the nemesis. Don't be fooled. it isn't as innocent as it looks. |
Anyway, I survived, somehow, all 3.4 miles and 15,000 ft climb. My RunKeeper app told me I only burned 143 calories. 143! That's like not even a cookie!! How is that possible. Sometimes I believe RunKeeper exists only to make me feel inadequate. Kind of like kids. And crappy vacuum cleaners.
I even went to yoga, mostly because I wasn't about to let the foolishness of carrying a retarded yoga mat on my back across town be for naught, and I had only burned 143 calories. I still had a scrap of pride left after all, until the yoga instructor spent 70 minutes demonstrating all of the things that my hips Will Not Do. I blame the hills. After all of my minimal-calorie-burning activities, all I could think about was a McChicken. But I was good. I drove home, I unloaded my $200 worth of Costco groceries and even the bike that I swore I would never touch again after jamming it into the back of the Yukon, and ate a little teeny cup of greek yogurt. And 16 candy corns.
We bought a new bed last weekend, and after a series of delivery faux pas, which resulted in 2 free latex pillows, it was just delivered. I am so excited to try it out. Can I just go to bed now?
Things That Are YUMMY
 |
| I would have taken a better picture but I was too busy eating. |
Butternut Squash Casserole
I credit Lillian Cross for this recipe, got it at a Forest Service Potluck!
1 Butternut Squash at least medium size
(or pre-cubed from Costco)
3/4 C White Sugar
1 ½ C Milk
1 tsp Vanilla Extract
1 pinch of Salt
2 tbsp All-Purpose Flour
3 Eggs
¼ C Butter, melted
TOPPING
½ (160z) pkg. Vanilla Wafers, crushed, about 2 cups
(I used graham crackers -it works!)
½ C Butter, melted
1/2 C Brown Sugar
1.
Preheat oven to 425 degrees approximately
2.
Put butternut squash into the microwave and cook
approximately 2-3 minutes or until soft, making it easier to peel the skin
off. Cut in half, scoop out seeds and
cube. (or buy the pre-cubed stuff from Costco - awesome!!) Cook in boiling water,
approximately 15 minutes, until squash is tender and easy to mash. Drain then
mash.
3.
Combine 3 cups mashed squash, sugar, milk, vanilla,
salt, flour, eggs and the ¼ cup melted butter. Blend with mixer until
smooth. Pour into a 2 quart casserole
dish.
4.
Bake in casserole approximately 45 minutes or until the center comes out clean when a knife is inserted. combine wafers, butter, & brown
sugar. Crumble over casserole in the
last 15 to 20 minutes of baking.
TIPS
If making for a larger crowd, double everything, including
squash. To make the casserole creamier, use evaporated milk. Of course, to make a healthier casserole, use
the healthier versions of all the ingredients. (Maple Syrup? I'm going to try that next time)
Things That Are Decided By Weather
Today, it is cold and blustery, and when I walked Aspen to the bus stop, I felt a raindrop. I immediately patted myself on the back for the astute decision to not make the 1.27 mile trek to walk her to school. Obviously I would have had pneumonia from that single raindrop had I undertaken such a feat. Already my immune system was compromised by the sweaty frenzy of searching first for Aspen's "missing since Wednesday" school bag, then her "also missing since Wednesday" "self-manager" bracelet, and then once again for her "missing since 5 minutes ago" school bag, which, incidentally, held her "self-manager" bracelet. I am not sure that enlisting your mother to help you tear apart your knee-deep-in-calico-critters-and-squinkies bedroom, looking for a red rubber bracelet, really leaves one eligible for the "self-manager" accolade, but since she clambered onto the bus sporting her bag, homework folder, AND the bracelet, I guess what her teacher never witnesses won't hurt her. Somewhere about 3/5's of the way through the whole house hunt, I realized that the fact that she had been missing both items since Wednesday obviously made sense since she had not been back to school since early release that day. While I was wondering what she used for the second half of the week to carry her homework folder and hide her self-manager bracelet in, it dawned on me that a half week of school conferences, trips to the swimming pool, pumpkin patch and dance classes had made any sort of mundanity like a school bag nothing but a vaguely obscure memory in the ping-pongish mind of my 9 year old. Thank god I decided against getting out of my sweatpants until some minor emergency later in the day forces me to, because I worked up quite a sweat, especially after the school bag was re-lost on the couch under the sleeping hound dog who seemed bizarrely unconcerned with the stigma of a missing self-manager bracelet. I might have been less moved to helping Aspen in her quest, except for the exasperated, arm flopping, acquiescent "I guess I am just not a self-manager", followed by a fake tear or two. She's good.Another good reason for staying in my sweats all day is that it really removes the question of whether or not I should shower. Obviously if I decided to shower I would have to take off the sweat pants, thereby removing the whole reason for keeping them on : i.e. utter laziness. At this point I can almost justify never getting dressed by the amount of dog hair that my sweatpants have cleaned off of the couch. Not only am I saving laundry by not hairing another pair of pants, I am doubling as an upholstery-hair-removal-machine. Changing into real clothes would be some sort of indicator that I have an agenda today, or something to accomplish. That is really kind of silly since we all know that I am jobless, schoolless, and all of my online shopping needs can be met in my sweats. It's really a win win situation, until Josh sees the bank statement and the Amazon.com boxes piling up by the front door. In which case I hastily don jeans, make a pot roast and get out the vacuum, so he thinks that I got the hair off of the couch through some movement other than simply rolling from side to side.
I have decided that I am not much good at winter. Or fall. Or most of spring. I like the IDEA of these seasons, the new smells and colors - and especially layering options. But somehow my attitude never keeps up with my lofty dreams of steaming pumpkin bread and children dressed in plaid and cable knit. I would really like to not get crabby when the temperature drops below 68, but it's kind of difficult. I blame my mother for this, not because I ever saw the ramifications of Seasonal Affective Disorder in her (mom's emotional ranges were very seasonally consistent), but because she hates the cold. Maybe she taught me that cold was something to really get depressed about, entailing suffering and misery and no more flip flops. Maybe I am bitter from the autumns when I had to pack my cookie monster shorts into the summer trunk, knowing that the next time I saw them, they would be Emily's. Oh, the tragedy. Maybe I associate the change of season with claustrophobic turtlenecks and tights that ALWAYS managed to get twisted at the top of my legs so that the crotch seam ran in a nice spiral around my hips, choking off circulation to my thighs and pulling the tights down so that I felt like a penguin when I walked. Yes, fall marks a certain sadness for me, in spite of the resurgent fashion trend of flannel that takes me back to 1993 and my doc martens. It brings back the chronic disappointment I feel that a pea coat always makes me look fat and scarves choke me. Alas. I look forward to the depths of winter when staying on the couch in sweatpants is mandated by snow days and flu season. Bring on the Five Mile Creeks (this is quintessential virus induced television in the Stecker Clan) and Lipton Chicken Noodle Soup. Give me the temperature related justification to only wear UGG boots that my husband hates. All I need now is a wiener dog puppy to lick my nose.
Actually, I love fall. I have this tremendous recipe for Butternut Squash Casserole (see next blog) that is ever so much more dessert than squash. I also found an awesome Baked Potato Soup recipe on Pinterest that is so easy and so yummy it is probably illegal. Cheap too. Really fall is all about the food. And the Flannel. And the memories. Like going to Central Oregon Pumpkin Company with good friends, spending over $100 to get lost in a Maize Maze that specifies you can only use DESIGNATED bathrooms in the maze, but fails to place any locatable designated bathrooms in said labyrinth. Granted, since I am pretty sure I was just going in giant circles until I cheated my way out of the maze (note: if you discreetly hint to the youngest kids that cutting through the corn might be the fastest way out, then you as a parent have no choice but to follow), I guess I probably never crossed paths with the designated toilet. I won't deny that the thought of sneaking into some tall corn rows to relieve myself crossed my mind, but every time I saw a safe spot, three little kids would come bursting out of the corn, followed by adults muttering about darn kids and cheating... Somehow we all made it out alive without having to eat one of us, although I think the general consensus was that we would sacrifice the youngest since they would be most tender for eating and none of us was really hungry enough to need more meat than Aspen and Ryder could have supplied. Fall is also all about football, and finding friends with cable TV and beer for mooching. We have done so pretty successfully, and saved a pretty penny on beer AND cable. Highly recommend.Anyway, I have to get back to my lounging, I have been way too productive this morning. I think I need to spend the rest of the day watching Bones so that I resist the temptation to cheat on Josh with the new season of The Office on Netflix.
Things That We Fight About
I'm a little crazy. There's just no getting around it. If you've known me very long you would definitely agree with me. Every now and then, or pretty much always, if you ask my Precious Husband, I get super crazy. Like full on. As the seasons fade gracefully from a busy summer to an I-have-absolutely-nothing-to-do-with-myself fall, I have had a couple episodes that were, well, doozies. The first happened a couple weeks ago when I caught Josh red handed in the crime of possessing store bought bran muffins. I know. The audacity. For some reason, the idea that my anti-carb husband went out of his way to buy muffins at the store communicated to me my abject, dismal failure as a housewife. Suddenly, every batch of muffins or other baked goods that I have produced and he has turned his nose up at went flashing before my eyes. I saw the muffins, and managed to control my rage until I drove away, at which point I fire off a text that reads:
"Am I just a terrible cook? You can just be honest with me and I will quit trying."
Yes. I said that. Obviously, the poor, blindsided oaf could do nothing but respond defensively, which only supported my theory that he was having a full blown affair with the Safeway bakery. I was pretty sure at that point that I could never stay in a relationship like this. Somehow my Saint of a Husband talked me out of packing my oven mitts and starting over where my culinary skills would be appreciated. The totally awesome thing about all of this insanity is that a) I was working on a fire when he purchased the incriminating muffins - making it impossible for me to bake for him anyway... and b) I wasn't even premenstrual. Men of the world, I challenge you to utter a single complaint before you have faced crazy Liv. The second lapse into Total Insanity came when Josh, giggling, showed me a silly Facebook meme that made a reference to women belonging in the kitchen. An interesting joke, I thought, considering MY cooking wasn't good enough for him. Now while I'll grant that my adorable guy isn't the best at doling out praise or reminding me continuously that I am the Most Brilliant Woman in the Universe, he hasn't ever exactly demonstrated a sexist side. On this particular day, however, you couldn't have convinced me that I hadn't married the Biggest Chauvinist That Ever Lived. Holy cow. Of course he's fine with me quitting my job. Barefoot in the kitchen is where I belong! Oh, you should have heard the tirade. And then, to really make the situation Most Awesome, Josh circulated the aforementioned picture to friends of various genders asking if THEY found it über-offensive, like his irrational wife did. Josh is a brilliant guy, but lets just say this wasn't one of his brightest moves ever. It was all I could do, in my fragile mental state, to not launch an all out Facebook-text-twitter campaign against the Worst Man Ever. It was a day, for sure. Luckily the only thing that hit social media was a snide comment on his over dramatic status update about choosing what we do with our time because life is short. I think he knew he was about to die.
I mean, Josh is actually a medal worthy guy for all the crap he puts up with, but I don't want you to think he's without his flaws too. For instance, we have this constantly repeating conversation about the style-less-ness
Of wearing a wrinkly button down shirt with no t-shirt layer underneath. It seems like invariably there is either a missing button or wrinkled placket that exposes just enough pastiness (sorry hunny - Hawaii in January!!) to scream White Trash!!! loudly enough to make me cringe. Today I talked him out of his favorite (wrinkled) button down and into a t-shirt because, after all, it IS the weekend, and then the poor boy throws on a hoody. Great! I bit my tongue at the temptation to remind him that mixing certain shades of blue really is a fashion faux-pas, and let him go. At least he's wearing a Broncos Shirt. For me. Because he loves me. Sigh. I guess I'll chalk that little loss up to choosing my battles, and remain ever vigilant in my watch for wanton baked goods.
Authors note: for worried readers, I HAVE restarted my Prozac. :)
"Am I just a terrible cook? You can just be honest with me and I will quit trying."
Yes. I said that. Obviously, the poor, blindsided oaf could do nothing but respond defensively, which only supported my theory that he was having a full blown affair with the Safeway bakery. I was pretty sure at that point that I could never stay in a relationship like this. Somehow my Saint of a Husband talked me out of packing my oven mitts and starting over where my culinary skills would be appreciated. The totally awesome thing about all of this insanity is that a) I was working on a fire when he purchased the incriminating muffins - making it impossible for me to bake for him anyway... and b) I wasn't even premenstrual. Men of the world, I challenge you to utter a single complaint before you have faced crazy Liv. The second lapse into Total Insanity came when Josh, giggling, showed me a silly Facebook meme that made a reference to women belonging in the kitchen. An interesting joke, I thought, considering MY cooking wasn't good enough for him. Now while I'll grant that my adorable guy isn't the best at doling out praise or reminding me continuously that I am the Most Brilliant Woman in the Universe, he hasn't ever exactly demonstrated a sexist side. On this particular day, however, you couldn't have convinced me that I hadn't married the Biggest Chauvinist That Ever Lived. Holy cow. Of course he's fine with me quitting my job. Barefoot in the kitchen is where I belong! Oh, you should have heard the tirade. And then, to really make the situation Most Awesome, Josh circulated the aforementioned picture to friends of various genders asking if THEY found it über-offensive, like his irrational wife did. Josh is a brilliant guy, but lets just say this wasn't one of his brightest moves ever. It was all I could do, in my fragile mental state, to not launch an all out Facebook-text-twitter campaign against the Worst Man Ever. It was a day, for sure. Luckily the only thing that hit social media was a snide comment on his over dramatic status update about choosing what we do with our time because life is short. I think he knew he was about to die.
I mean, Josh is actually a medal worthy guy for all the crap he puts up with, but I don't want you to think he's without his flaws too. For instance, we have this constantly repeating conversation about the style-less-ness
Of wearing a wrinkly button down shirt with no t-shirt layer underneath. It seems like invariably there is either a missing button or wrinkled placket that exposes just enough pastiness (sorry hunny - Hawaii in January!!) to scream White Trash!!! loudly enough to make me cringe. Today I talked him out of his favorite (wrinkled) button down and into a t-shirt because, after all, it IS the weekend, and then the poor boy throws on a hoody. Great! I bit my tongue at the temptation to remind him that mixing certain shades of blue really is a fashion faux-pas, and let him go. At least he's wearing a Broncos Shirt. For me. Because he loves me. Sigh. I guess I'll chalk that little loss up to choosing my battles, and remain ever vigilant in my watch for wanton baked goods.
Authors note: for worried readers, I HAVE restarted my Prozac. :)
Things That Used to Be
This is a two year old ramble that I came across. Maybe you already read it. I am sure I did, since I actually wrote it, but I didn't even remember. So maybe you forgot too...
Seven year old rockstar: Aspen. The pantsless wonder. No
matter how many pairs of jeans I buy her, without fail, every morning it is the
same pitiful cry that she has no pants. Finally, after what seems like hours of
endless back and forth trans-story hollering, she emerges downstairs with what
appear to be more holes than clothing on her bottom half. How can such a small
child make such large holes? Or sometimes it’s a whisp of tulle vaguely masked
in the guise of a tutu, over the remnants of what must have been once a pair of
tights, but have obviously lived through one too many easter egg hunts before
they crawled out of Grandma Donna’s basement and into Aspen’s undie drawer. The
odd swirls of grass stains and mud and what is questionably some sort of melted
candy can almost pass for tie dye. But not quite. Every few days I go upstairs
to the wreck that is a bedroom and see if I can find something for her to wear
before I am overtaken by the chaos. I can usually retrieve two or three pairs
of at least semi clean pants off of the floor from underneath Kizzie’s pee-chee
collection or a contraband stack of cups that have been missing from the
kitchen for three months. I stuff as many salvageable articles of clothing as I
can in her drawers and reemerge for air. This is the child that I swore would
never walk out my door: The one who goes to school with a rat’s nest on the
back of her head exactly where her pillow was stuck when she woke up that
morning. The one with last night’s chocolate ice cream high on her cheekbone,
obviously from the rim when one licks the bottom of the bowl, still worn
proudly on the bus the next day. The child that I wake up in the middle of the
night in a panicked sweat about, realizing that it has been at least two weeks
since I last asked her if she has showered lately. It breaks my heart at times,
because she’s such a pretty little thing, even with her missing teeth and
raggedy clothes, to know that people look at her and shed a little tear for her
sad parentlessness. This poor child. I remember in my early days of parenting,
when everything would be sunlight and roses and my children would always have
combed hair and color coordinated outfits. Now my youngest is conveniently
coordinated with all of the furniture, draperies and the 8 foot braided rag rug
on my living room floor. And she did it herself. I couldn’t be prouder. All the
ideals of the fairy tale life that I was to have… The shining princesses and
dreamy castle like home that is now a silly jerry rigged little hovel that Halle
delights in because of it’s similarity to the Weasley’s Bourough, if you will
excuse the HP reference. I have relinquished all visions of sparkling windows
and fluffy pillows and bury my head in the cleanest bedding I can find to catch
enough sleep so I can face another day of missing the mark. Days like this when
I have a head cold and feel like I can’t pull my brain out of the fire safe
that it’s locked in are extra hard. Just getting out of bed at 6 20 something
to get the girls on the bus is confusing. Getting clothes on myself and
remembering where I am supposed to be is extra tricky. Yesterday I was standing
in a store staring blankly at an aisle of something, when slowly I turned my
head to see a clock on the wall come rushing up at my face and crowing loudly
at me that it was 20 minutes after I was supposed to be at work. In the five
minutes it took me to process this reality, I think I must have stumbled out of
the store (hopefully with no unpurchased items, but I don’t remember) and
called one of my supervisors. I must have made up a semi-passable excuse
because nobody yelled at me later. These are days when my kids are lucky that
they get to eat, if I remember dinner. In this case it was apples and peanut
butter and popcorn, which they gallantly made themselves when they realized I
was a total basketcase and probably not gonna get around to feeding them until
the next morning sometime. They are troopers, these girls. They don’t have the
worst life ever, but it isn’t cake. I watch the younger ones eat up any one on
one attention they can find and feel bad that the hours I have to give to them
are poor quality and unfocused. But they’re doing alright. They have their
little niches and they keep plugging away. And so do I. and we keep on forging
our little world of mayhem and color. And Aspen still has no pants.
Things I Noticed
I'm a pretty lucky girl. I have TWO wedding rings. One is my "work" ring, which matches Josh's and I won by protesting that I did manly work too and needed a "tough" ring. The other is a FAT *SS diamond. I suppose that sounds crass, but I really want you to understand that I am sporting a diamond bigger than the spiders that live in my basement. Yes. That big. My "girl" ring is about 1.1 carats of vintage 1930s gorgeousness. I am in love with it. The idea is that I wear my "work " ring on fires and when I am doing my manly jobs. Like riding quads on dusty trails and cleaning toilets. And my "girl" ring is for my days off (???) when I'm home, shopping, making dinner, and cleaning toilets (why does that sound familiar)... But something that occurred to me, when I got home from this fire and went to change into my girl ring, that it was kind of representative of the whole persona transformation that I go through at least twice a year: leaving for my first fire, and coming, finally, home. Granted last year was the first fire season that I've had any kind of a ring to wear, and last year I was sans diamond, but I know the switch took place nonetheless. Truthfully it's just a really good parallel to the dichotomy that is my life every year, before and after any rings. My "work" ring is a simple band of titanium, accented by a channeled stripe of white gold. The metal is strong, and only the soft white gold in the middle shows the wear and abuse that my hands endure. It's identical to Josh's, only smaller, obviously, because if my fingers were as big as his we might have issues. I noticed when I put my "work" ring back on after a few months of girliness, that it is thicker and much more noticeable than the delicate white gold filigree of my "girl" ring. The titanium is unbending, thick, and would easily compromise the frail bones of my fingers if the appropriate pressure were applied. It's like the me that walks into fire camp every summer. I'm strong, I'm confident. I know why I'm there and EXACTLY what to do. This Me is the only one who has absolutely no issue with self-defense and establishing authority in most settings. (Granted, you introduce a "para-god" like my adorable husband into the scene and I'm basically reduced to a blood pressure machine and oxygen tank hooker-upper.) But the fire line is the one place I have come to KNOW securely, that I am where I should be and what I need to do. I get home, slip back into my fragile, if (maybe?) pretty role of the diamond and filigree mother/housewife. Begging forgiveness for the epic failures in child rearing, housekeeping, and all around dismal nurturing skills. It's not that both of the MEs don't have their place, their strengths and weaknesses, but I find it a puzzlement how strong I feel, in my non-flattering nomex and 17 pound boots, and how moveable I am when I am stripped of this uniform. I have no authority, I am a jellyfish of ignorance and misguided judgement when it comes to the role of mother. But I try to make it look good. Shiny like a 1.1 carat diamond. Polish it up and smother it in Scentsy and convince the world that you've GOT IT TOGETHER.
Another thing I noticed, which is TOTALLY unrelated, has to do with fire - specifically, fire fighters. The men in the ever stylish yellow and green, storming the forests to save the world from Certain Demise. On my last fire assignment, I worked with a handful of smokejumpers from the Redmond Air Center. For the layperson (i.e. not fire savvy), let me clarify a few things about wildland fire: as much as I love the dramatic lauds of glory ascribed to me for my bravery in being one of these stalwart soldiers, defending trees everywhere, I do not actually fight the fire. I have in the past. I am trained to do so, but somewhere along the line I wised up and realized I could make way more money do way less work as an EMT that follows the actual fire-FIGHTERS around, ready to swoop in and catch fallen heroes. Mostly I sit in my truck and read Cosmo or US Weekly. And to quell another commonly held misconception (for the generation basking in the glory of Howie Long's Firestorm), even the actual fighters of fire do not parachute out of helicopters. Or throw running chainsaws in the air from the back of a motorcycle. OK, maybe we do that sometimes. Just to be cool. Smokejumpers are an elite, or maybe the Most Elite (sorry hotshots) echelon of wildland firefighters. Most smokejumpers are older than the average hotshot, engine slug or type 2 firefighter, because it takes years of experience and maturity to be responsible enough to parachute out of AIRPLANES into burning conflagrations. They really do that, and it is pretty epic. In a not-kitschy-and-diluted-sense of the word. To clear up any confusion, Hotshot Crews consist of 20 firefighters with at least some experience who are trained, expected and required to hike crazy amounts of ridiculous terrain to attack a fire head on, carrying their own tools, gear and enough food and water to be self sufficient for at least a few days. They are, in a word, bad-*ss (sorry mom). Engine slugs are, well, slugs who work on engines. They work with water and pumps and usually stay closer to roads and the relative movable safety of their trucks. They work hard, or at least some do, don't get me wrong. Most hand crews are type 2, and the type 2 firefighter is the meat and potatoes of every wildland fire. They are the boots on the ground that scratch hundreds of miles of fire line in the dirt every summer, mop up acres of ash, and populate the crazy tent cities that spring up overnight on any large incident. But back to the smokejumper: there is an unspoken rule that in order to be a smokejumper, you must prove yourself as a master storyteller. What is most interesting about these stories is that the smokejumper delivers them in a manner that would have you believe that the very act of jumping out of an airplane at a couple thousand feet strapped to approximately 120lbs of gear, into a burning forest, isn't actually the most interesting part. Usually the story line kicker is something about criminals inside the fire that started it as they were running from the law, or saving someone from a bee attack on the edge of a cliff, or hiking out (because it turns out you CAN'T actually parachute OUT of a fire) to the road on two broken ankles, or something like that, while you (the listener) are still processing that 2000 ft drop into Trees That Are On Fire, the jumper is cracking up about How Funny it was that his buddy's chute got hung up in a tree and he had to cut himself free with a two inch pocket knife. If ever you get the chance to listen in when one of these guys is storytelling. Don't miss it. It's a stark contrast to the slightly less mature storytelling of hotshots which usually have to do with burnouts, R&R days and memorable bars, or type 2 guys who are still talking about the hot chick on Engine 62. I really have a ton of respect for all of these hardworking guys (and girls!!!), jumpers, shots and FFT2. I have met some of the best people I know working on these fires, and will never lack gratefulness for the experiences I get to have every summer, and get paid for it. Yep, I'm a lucky girl.
Another thing I noticed, which is TOTALLY unrelated, has to do with fire - specifically, fire fighters. The men in the ever stylish yellow and green, storming the forests to save the world from Certain Demise. On my last fire assignment, I worked with a handful of smokejumpers from the Redmond Air Center. For the layperson (i.e. not fire savvy), let me clarify a few things about wildland fire: as much as I love the dramatic lauds of glory ascribed to me for my bravery in being one of these stalwart soldiers, defending trees everywhere, I do not actually fight the fire. I have in the past. I am trained to do so, but somewhere along the line I wised up and realized I could make way more money do way less work as an EMT that follows the actual fire-FIGHTERS around, ready to swoop in and catch fallen heroes. Mostly I sit in my truck and read Cosmo or US Weekly. And to quell another commonly held misconception (for the generation basking in the glory of Howie Long's Firestorm), even the actual fighters of fire do not parachute out of helicopters. Or throw running chainsaws in the air from the back of a motorcycle. OK, maybe we do that sometimes. Just to be cool. Smokejumpers are an elite, or maybe the Most Elite (sorry hotshots) echelon of wildland firefighters. Most smokejumpers are older than the average hotshot, engine slug or type 2 firefighter, because it takes years of experience and maturity to be responsible enough to parachute out of AIRPLANES into burning conflagrations. They really do that, and it is pretty epic. In a not-kitschy-and-diluted-sense of the word. To clear up any confusion, Hotshot Crews consist of 20 firefighters with at least some experience who are trained, expected and required to hike crazy amounts of ridiculous terrain to attack a fire head on, carrying their own tools, gear and enough food and water to be self sufficient for at least a few days. They are, in a word, bad-*ss (sorry mom). Engine slugs are, well, slugs who work on engines. They work with water and pumps and usually stay closer to roads and the relative movable safety of their trucks. They work hard, or at least some do, don't get me wrong. Most hand crews are type 2, and the type 2 firefighter is the meat and potatoes of every wildland fire. They are the boots on the ground that scratch hundreds of miles of fire line in the dirt every summer, mop up acres of ash, and populate the crazy tent cities that spring up overnight on any large incident. But back to the smokejumper: there is an unspoken rule that in order to be a smokejumper, you must prove yourself as a master storyteller. What is most interesting about these stories is that the smokejumper delivers them in a manner that would have you believe that the very act of jumping out of an airplane at a couple thousand feet strapped to approximately 120lbs of gear, into a burning forest, isn't actually the most interesting part. Usually the story line kicker is something about criminals inside the fire that started it as they were running from the law, or saving someone from a bee attack on the edge of a cliff, or hiking out (because it turns out you CAN'T actually parachute OUT of a fire) to the road on two broken ankles, or something like that, while you (the listener) are still processing that 2000 ft drop into Trees That Are On Fire, the jumper is cracking up about How Funny it was that his buddy's chute got hung up in a tree and he had to cut himself free with a two inch pocket knife. If ever you get the chance to listen in when one of these guys is storytelling. Don't miss it. It's a stark contrast to the slightly less mature storytelling of hotshots which usually have to do with burnouts, R&R days and memorable bars, or type 2 guys who are still talking about the hot chick on Engine 62. I really have a ton of respect for all of these hardworking guys (and girls!!!), jumpers, shots and FFT2. I have met some of the best people I know working on these fires, and will never lack gratefulness for the experiences I get to have every summer, and get paid for it. Yep, I'm a lucky girl.
Things That Are(n't) Mistakes
Today marks the 17th anniversary of the day that the trajectory of my life took a new and fateful course. For all the world, I would call October 7th, 1995, the worst day of my life, but when I step back and understand the unfolding of events from a 17 year standpoint, I wouldn't change it.
I know that there are schools of thought that believe that fate is fate and destinies are set in stone, and every step we make was already predestined. While I agree that some things are fixed points in our lives, how we reach them, or postpone them, is determined by the choices we make.
Part of me wishes there was a me of the now to reach back and tell the me that I was then about the pain that I was blissfully stepping into. But if I had had a fair warning, wouldn't my 18 year old emotions have won out and compelled me to the fate of a disastrous marriage and a lifetime of lessons compressed into nine years of pain anyway?
I can't say with any certainty that changing my course at any point along that rough and angry path would have kept me from where I am today, but in all honesty, I wouldn't run the risk.
Aside from the obvious, irrevocable and questionable gift of parenthood, the things that I learned from my first marriage both set me up to fail, and offered me the keys to success, depending on my response. Marrying a man who did unthinkable, unspeakable things, taught me simultaneously to trust no one, and to cling to any Beauty I find. I would give my Terrible Experience of a husband at least half of the credit for both the good and the bad in my life. In teaching me the poignant depth of pain a soul can taste, he also exposed me to the joy of freedom from pain. In oppression I learned the power of liberty, and in frustrated helplessness I was forced to learn independence and the efficacy of my own soul. I learned my most painful weaknesses, and my most triumphant strengths. In him I saw all of the worst of humanity, which gave me a deep and resounding love for the truly good people.
He tore my heart into a million pieces so that I could experience the healing salve of real, wholesome, honest love. The torture I learned from him drove me into the place of peace I could only create for myself, surrounded by the people that gave me leverage and cheered me on as I scaled the wall of Total Impossibility. Without knowing his hateful selfishness, how would I know the loving selflessness I have found?
I am thankful. Not for the pain itself, but for the knowledge of it. And the freedom from it.
I believe my real life was waiting on the other side of the cruel test that he was. Looking back, I have come full circle to my childhood dreams. I AM who I dreamed I would be, with a few unforeseen quirks and maybe some unnecessary baggage. But the most beautiful thing is that I found somebody with matching baggage, and the broad, manly shoulders to carry it all. I found my hero. How would I have recognized him without the things I have seen?
As I write this, the Sister Hazel song "Change Your Mind" is on. How many years I wished to be free of every tie to the life that I walked into that crisp October day. How many years it took me to realize that it was those ties that threw me headlong into my dreams, and the Right Life. I didn't need to change my past, my life, ME. I needed to change my mind. Standing on this side it's so clear. I know standing in the middle, how UNclear it was. I know. And for my own girls, my friends, my sisters - anyone who stands in the pain right now, hear me when I say that what doesn't kill you WILL make you stronger, better, more you.
I know that there are schools of thought that believe that fate is fate and destinies are set in stone, and every step we make was already predestined. While I agree that some things are fixed points in our lives, how we reach them, or postpone them, is determined by the choices we make.
Part of me wishes there was a me of the now to reach back and tell the me that I was then about the pain that I was blissfully stepping into. But if I had had a fair warning, wouldn't my 18 year old emotions have won out and compelled me to the fate of a disastrous marriage and a lifetime of lessons compressed into nine years of pain anyway?
I can't say with any certainty that changing my course at any point along that rough and angry path would have kept me from where I am today, but in all honesty, I wouldn't run the risk.
Aside from the obvious, irrevocable and questionable gift of parenthood, the things that I learned from my first marriage both set me up to fail, and offered me the keys to success, depending on my response. Marrying a man who did unthinkable, unspeakable things, taught me simultaneously to trust no one, and to cling to any Beauty I find. I would give my Terrible Experience of a husband at least half of the credit for both the good and the bad in my life. In teaching me the poignant depth of pain a soul can taste, he also exposed me to the joy of freedom from pain. In oppression I learned the power of liberty, and in frustrated helplessness I was forced to learn independence and the efficacy of my own soul. I learned my most painful weaknesses, and my most triumphant strengths. In him I saw all of the worst of humanity, which gave me a deep and resounding love for the truly good people.
He tore my heart into a million pieces so that I could experience the healing salve of real, wholesome, honest love. The torture I learned from him drove me into the place of peace I could only create for myself, surrounded by the people that gave me leverage and cheered me on as I scaled the wall of Total Impossibility. Without knowing his hateful selfishness, how would I know the loving selflessness I have found?
I am thankful. Not for the pain itself, but for the knowledge of it. And the freedom from it.
I believe my real life was waiting on the other side of the cruel test that he was. Looking back, I have come full circle to my childhood dreams. I AM who I dreamed I would be, with a few unforeseen quirks and maybe some unnecessary baggage. But the most beautiful thing is that I found somebody with matching baggage, and the broad, manly shoulders to carry it all. I found my hero. How would I have recognized him without the things I have seen?
As I write this, the Sister Hazel song "Change Your Mind" is on. How many years I wished to be free of every tie to the life that I walked into that crisp October day. How many years it took me to realize that it was those ties that threw me headlong into my dreams, and the Right Life. I didn't need to change my past, my life, ME. I needed to change my mind. Standing on this side it's so clear. I know standing in the middle, how UNclear it was. I know. And for my own girls, my friends, my sisters - anyone who stands in the pain right now, hear me when I say that what doesn't kill you WILL make you stronger, better, more you.
Things That I Read
5 days into this fire assignment and I have polished off that many books. Whether that is because I haven't had good enough cell service to keep up on my perpetual rounds of Trivie, or I was just desperate to keep myself distracted from the Snickers bars calling to me from my lunch sack, I will leave to you to determine. Either way, I'm fairly proud of my accomplishment, even if the sum philosophical total of all 5 books didn't even sweep the periphery of Atlas Shrugged and its thoughtful depths, 5 books is pretty good. I'm not sure my attention span has seen this much discipline since I took an EMT class from an incredibly sexy teacher with a really adorable and distracting mouth.
In addition to the basic feat of reading these books, I would like to give mention to the vast disparity of subject matter they cover, all while weaving intimately together in a Kevin-Baconesque-7-degrees sort of way. Imagine if you will, beginning this literary barrage with the trite mystery novel by Iris Johansen "What Doesn't Kill You", and chasing the sickly sweet and cardboard flatness of a boxed Gewürztraminer with a sharp and complex shot of Oak Aged Whiskey, in this case "Inside Of A Dog" by Alexandra Horowitz, and then moving on to a good solid red ale microbrew in Sandra Brown's "Envy". If your palate isn't already reeling a little bit, throw in the dark, tangy merlot of Toni Morrison's classic "Tar Baby" and a thick, syrupy jägermiester chaser of viral contagion that is E.L. Brown's "50 Shades Of Grey".
(Authors note: the blogger mobile app has no italic-ability, and otherwise limited annotation options, hence improper citation format. Please forgive.)
(Authors other note: I get the vague impression that by using E.L. Brown instead of her full name the author would nearly like you to believe she is sexually ambiguous, a laughable consideration after reading a few short paragraphs that could only POSSIBLY been conceived from the needy, if not relatable, and emotional female soul.)
But let me give you my brief and altogether non-authoritative reviews of these 5 wildly varied reads:
In chronological order, since this is how I endured them.
"What Doesn't Kill You" nearly did. Kill me. I grabbed it, in all honestly, at Target in Wenatchee, because it was a) the cheapest paperback there that didn't have a bodice ripping woman on the cover, and b) it didn't have a bodice ripping woman on the cover. Not that there's anything wrong with bodice rippers, au contraire, in this instance I would ALMOST rather be reviewing "The Secret Mistress" by Mary Blalogh which was such a disappointment that I wouldn't even bother commenting on the one romance scene that I wallowed through almost 250 pages for. All I have to say about that book is that the picture in the front was HIGHLY misleading. But back to Iris Johansen, apparently a NY Times #1 best selling author, and the singular reason that I have so much hope that I too, can find someone desperate enough to publish my writing. This book was a murder/CIA/Russian mob/Chinese drug overplayed plot that was so hard to stay interested in that I actually used it to lull me into naps. Apparently some old Chinese dude developed this "superdrug" called Pandera (pantera and pandora, both much cooler sounding, were words already used) which the bad guys are trying to get in order to poison the One Good American Presidential Candidate, because Russian mobsters are largely concerned with making sure that good guys never win, right? But anyway, it comes out eventually that Pandera (SPOILER ALERT - quit reading if you are rushing out to spend $5.99 on the least bodice-ripping paperback in Target) is actually, in appropriate doses, the chemical fountain of youth that preserves life, heals traumatic injury miraculously and lets you live forever. The one glitch is that your hair will still turn white. Bummer. All that stem cell junk for NOTHING. Unfortunately in this book, most of the main players survived to go on to the next terrible plot line, but all of the totally ineffective bad guys died. The worst problem I had with this book wasn't even the dreadful plot, it was the dialogues between characters that worked as an extension of the writer's need for backstory and detail deliveries, which ended up reading like the most ridiculously unrealistic conversation ever. It's not as if we greet each other with an acknowledgement of a) your outfit in detail or b) the fact that we know your recent personal history. I.E.: "why hello, John. That cream colored chunky cable knit sweater and classic black jeans complement your salt and pepper conservative hairstyle so well. How are you recovering from the recent death of your stepfather from overzealous use of his massaging armchair. I was so sad to hear that you have been in inconsolable bereavement for nearly three months over it." Yeah. Don't write like that. Ever.
On to my next tackle: "Inside Of A Dog" - a self-help(?) guide to knowing exactly what your dog is thinking, extrapolated from years of testing, experiments, and the author's delightfully vivid interpretation of dogisms. The best part about this book, other than learning random doggie factoids about blind spots and urine message boards, is Horowitz' awe inspiring vocabulary. Her bio says that she worked as a lexicographer before her current gig as a professor of psychology, and I am not sure what a lexicographer does, but I am pretty sure that's where she came up with most of the really rad words she used throughout this entertaining book. White knuckle, hold-your-pee-cause-you-have-to-turn-the-page thriller it is not, but if you're into dogs, and I am, it's interesting. And extremely well written.
Book three was intended to be a chaser to Johansen's disappointment when I scrounged it out of a box of free bodice rippers that someone donated to the fire camp, but since Sandra Brown was also labeled as a NY Times Bestselling author, I proceeded with caution. "Envy", however, was a good book. Well written, gripping characters, and even though I had the plot unravelled 1/3 of the way in, it's a great plot. I'm just super awesomely talented at plot unravelling. It's all the Bones I've watched. (Speaking of which, Bones almost exclusively ends with the revelation that the first character they interview in any given crime IS the perpetrator. Watch a few episodes and you'll see.) But "Envy" was definitely a page turner for me. Just as you're getting over the all too familiar disgust of a debauched villian revealing himself, the bad-boy, damaged-goods hero sweeps you right off your feet, even through the infliction of necessary pain-for-justice temporary betrayal of true love self-flagulation. There were Charade-like elements of suspense and misguided romance, and if you don't know what Charade is, I strongly suggest you track down that Audrey Hepburn classic and avail yourself of a truly good plot line. But also read "Envy". If you're bored.
My fourth read was by far the most socially challenging read. More than intellectual, less than philosophical, inspiring and thought provoking, apparently Toni Morrison is required reading in those darn public high schools that I know so little about. I ordered this book off of Amazon as a feeble gesture of involvement in my buddy's book club. I had guilt for skipping several months of books and thought I'd try to dive back in. I'm glad I dove in on this one. The thing I took away from "Tar Baby", which is a story about black vs. white, black vs. black, white vs. white, man vs. woman, and all of the other myriads of struggles that come up in the quest for human identity, was the power of love between to people, balanced on a knife edge of choice. It seems like I have revisited, in at least three of these books, to some degree, this theme of how much can/will you sacrifice for love? How far our of your comfort zone can you be stretched, what principles and beliefs can you compromise, and still love yourself, to love the one you love. "Tar Baby" leaves that question unanswered but Morrison vividly describes a passionate love that made me realize I need to solicit WAY more sweet nothings out of my boy. Read it, even if you're not bored.
Book number 5 - part of me is totally resistant to even saying anything about this book because of the overhyped hype that it has already gotten out there. Skip the bodice ripping and go straight for whips and chains in this one (sans Rhianna, thankfully). I was reticent to read this book, because anybody that knows me, knows that for all my bodice-ripping, skip-to-the-dirty-pages talk, I'm pretty much a prude. BDSM is NOT something I am comfortable with really even knowing about, much less glorifying, but I was out of books, and the other EMT (who had also read it out of bored desperation) said it was really only PG-13 and not much of a guilty pleasure even. Of course, he was a boy, which makes his opinion highly questionable. I started out really liking the ultra-emotional affair that developed between the characters. Mostly because I'm still a 15 year old girl at heart and I also got sucked into Edward and Bella's romance before they were annihilated on the big screen. If you like reading about sex (scandalous), this book is right up your alley. Especially "vanilla sex". As soon as Christian Grey starts in on his self justified perversion (oops, is my prude showing?), however, I started to lose interest, but when I heard the resounding theme from Ana of "How far can I go for him" and saw her stretch, but ultimately draw a line in the sand, I was if course, smitten in true middle school form, by his crushing need for her that even stripped him of his control. Deep book? No. Strong plot, well developed characters? Meh, so-so. Relatable passion? Heck yes. In addition to sweet nothings, I'll be expecting Christian, er, Josh, to be throwing a lot more "baby"s my way. And while he's doing that, I'll be figuring exactly how far I would go to make him happy. Because I love him.
In addition to the basic feat of reading these books, I would like to give mention to the vast disparity of subject matter they cover, all while weaving intimately together in a Kevin-Baconesque-7-degrees sort of way. Imagine if you will, beginning this literary barrage with the trite mystery novel by Iris Johansen "What Doesn't Kill You", and chasing the sickly sweet and cardboard flatness of a boxed Gewürztraminer with a sharp and complex shot of Oak Aged Whiskey, in this case "Inside Of A Dog" by Alexandra Horowitz, and then moving on to a good solid red ale microbrew in Sandra Brown's "Envy". If your palate isn't already reeling a little bit, throw in the dark, tangy merlot of Toni Morrison's classic "Tar Baby" and a thick, syrupy jägermiester chaser of viral contagion that is E.L. Brown's "50 Shades Of Grey".
(Authors note: the blogger mobile app has no italic-ability, and otherwise limited annotation options, hence improper citation format. Please forgive.)
(Authors other note: I get the vague impression that by using E.L. Brown instead of her full name the author would nearly like you to believe she is sexually ambiguous, a laughable consideration after reading a few short paragraphs that could only POSSIBLY been conceived from the needy, if not relatable, and emotional female soul.)
But let me give you my brief and altogether non-authoritative reviews of these 5 wildly varied reads:
In chronological order, since this is how I endured them.
"What Doesn't Kill You" nearly did. Kill me. I grabbed it, in all honestly, at Target in Wenatchee, because it was a) the cheapest paperback there that didn't have a bodice ripping woman on the cover, and b) it didn't have a bodice ripping woman on the cover. Not that there's anything wrong with bodice rippers, au contraire, in this instance I would ALMOST rather be reviewing "The Secret Mistress" by Mary Blalogh which was such a disappointment that I wouldn't even bother commenting on the one romance scene that I wallowed through almost 250 pages for. All I have to say about that book is that the picture in the front was HIGHLY misleading. But back to Iris Johansen, apparently a NY Times #1 best selling author, and the singular reason that I have so much hope that I too, can find someone desperate enough to publish my writing. This book was a murder/CIA/Russian mob/Chinese drug overplayed plot that was so hard to stay interested in that I actually used it to lull me into naps. Apparently some old Chinese dude developed this "superdrug" called Pandera (pantera and pandora, both much cooler sounding, were words already used) which the bad guys are trying to get in order to poison the One Good American Presidential Candidate, because Russian mobsters are largely concerned with making sure that good guys never win, right? But anyway, it comes out eventually that Pandera (SPOILER ALERT - quit reading if you are rushing out to spend $5.99 on the least bodice-ripping paperback in Target) is actually, in appropriate doses, the chemical fountain of youth that preserves life, heals traumatic injury miraculously and lets you live forever. The one glitch is that your hair will still turn white. Bummer. All that stem cell junk for NOTHING. Unfortunately in this book, most of the main players survived to go on to the next terrible plot line, but all of the totally ineffective bad guys died. The worst problem I had with this book wasn't even the dreadful plot, it was the dialogues between characters that worked as an extension of the writer's need for backstory and detail deliveries, which ended up reading like the most ridiculously unrealistic conversation ever. It's not as if we greet each other with an acknowledgement of a) your outfit in detail or b) the fact that we know your recent personal history. I.E.: "why hello, John. That cream colored chunky cable knit sweater and classic black jeans complement your salt and pepper conservative hairstyle so well. How are you recovering from the recent death of your stepfather from overzealous use of his massaging armchair. I was so sad to hear that you have been in inconsolable bereavement for nearly three months over it." Yeah. Don't write like that. Ever.
On to my next tackle: "Inside Of A Dog" - a self-help(?) guide to knowing exactly what your dog is thinking, extrapolated from years of testing, experiments, and the author's delightfully vivid interpretation of dogisms. The best part about this book, other than learning random doggie factoids about blind spots and urine message boards, is Horowitz' awe inspiring vocabulary. Her bio says that she worked as a lexicographer before her current gig as a professor of psychology, and I am not sure what a lexicographer does, but I am pretty sure that's where she came up with most of the really rad words she used throughout this entertaining book. White knuckle, hold-your-pee-cause-you-have-to-turn-the-page thriller it is not, but if you're into dogs, and I am, it's interesting. And extremely well written.
Book three was intended to be a chaser to Johansen's disappointment when I scrounged it out of a box of free bodice rippers that someone donated to the fire camp, but since Sandra Brown was also labeled as a NY Times Bestselling author, I proceeded with caution. "Envy", however, was a good book. Well written, gripping characters, and even though I had the plot unravelled 1/3 of the way in, it's a great plot. I'm just super awesomely talented at plot unravelling. It's all the Bones I've watched. (Speaking of which, Bones almost exclusively ends with the revelation that the first character they interview in any given crime IS the perpetrator. Watch a few episodes and you'll see.) But "Envy" was definitely a page turner for me. Just as you're getting over the all too familiar disgust of a debauched villian revealing himself, the bad-boy, damaged-goods hero sweeps you right off your feet, even through the infliction of necessary pain-for-justice temporary betrayal of true love self-flagulation. There were Charade-like elements of suspense and misguided romance, and if you don't know what Charade is, I strongly suggest you track down that Audrey Hepburn classic and avail yourself of a truly good plot line. But also read "Envy". If you're bored.
My fourth read was by far the most socially challenging read. More than intellectual, less than philosophical, inspiring and thought provoking, apparently Toni Morrison is required reading in those darn public high schools that I know so little about. I ordered this book off of Amazon as a feeble gesture of involvement in my buddy's book club. I had guilt for skipping several months of books and thought I'd try to dive back in. I'm glad I dove in on this one. The thing I took away from "Tar Baby", which is a story about black vs. white, black vs. black, white vs. white, man vs. woman, and all of the other myriads of struggles that come up in the quest for human identity, was the power of love between to people, balanced on a knife edge of choice. It seems like I have revisited, in at least three of these books, to some degree, this theme of how much can/will you sacrifice for love? How far our of your comfort zone can you be stretched, what principles and beliefs can you compromise, and still love yourself, to love the one you love. "Tar Baby" leaves that question unanswered but Morrison vividly describes a passionate love that made me realize I need to solicit WAY more sweet nothings out of my boy. Read it, even if you're not bored.
Book number 5 - part of me is totally resistant to even saying anything about this book because of the overhyped hype that it has already gotten out there. Skip the bodice ripping and go straight for whips and chains in this one (sans Rhianna, thankfully). I was reticent to read this book, because anybody that knows me, knows that for all my bodice-ripping, skip-to-the-dirty-pages talk, I'm pretty much a prude. BDSM is NOT something I am comfortable with really even knowing about, much less glorifying, but I was out of books, and the other EMT (who had also read it out of bored desperation) said it was really only PG-13 and not much of a guilty pleasure even. Of course, he was a boy, which makes his opinion highly questionable. I started out really liking the ultra-emotional affair that developed between the characters. Mostly because I'm still a 15 year old girl at heart and I also got sucked into Edward and Bella's romance before they were annihilated on the big screen. If you like reading about sex (scandalous), this book is right up your alley. Especially "vanilla sex". As soon as Christian Grey starts in on his self justified perversion (oops, is my prude showing?), however, I started to lose interest, but when I heard the resounding theme from Ana of "How far can I go for him" and saw her stretch, but ultimately draw a line in the sand, I was if course, smitten in true middle school form, by his crushing need for her that even stripped him of his control. Deep book? No. Strong plot, well developed characters? Meh, so-so. Relatable passion? Heck yes. In addition to sweet nothings, I'll be expecting Christian, er, Josh, to be throwing a lot more "baby"s my way. And while he's doing that, I'll be figuring exactly how far I would go to make him happy. Because I love him.
Things That Make Me Happy
I just got an iced white chocolate toasted marshmallow breve mocha. Instead of dwelling on the fact that with this one drink I have not only consumed my daily allowance of calories AND regained the 5 pounds I was so proud of losing on the last fire, I'm going to focus on the delicious crunchy Crystals of white chocolate that clog up the straw. The key to a good IWCTMBM is finding a coffee stand that A) has white chocolate POWDER, and B) has a barista that is not too snobby to approach with the intricate directions of proper composition. (i.e. one scoop of white chocolate powder, one splash of toasted marshmallow, two shots 16 oz, extra ice and Most Importantly: UNSTIRRED. That's how you get the crystals. Mmmmmm.) I found just such a coffee stand today in Sisters, Oregon. Sara's Coffee met every requisite and it. Is. Awesome. Never mind the calories. Or the guilt. Maybe I can blame that five pounds on the Pineapple Curry Thai Food I had yesterday instead.
Another thing that makes me happy is jeans. I was back in my jeans for three whole days, and it was heaven. For those of you who have never had the entirely dubious thrill of wearing nomex, maybe the enjoyment of a pair of jeans seems trite. But after several multi-day stints in forest green pants that neither breathe, wear, or look good (well), it is so nice to relocate my actual crotch and quit trying to find a way to pretend that my work pants fit me. Because they don't. At all. It's like every manufacturer of nomex pants conspired against the human race to design the Worst Pants Ever, and when they found out that pleated slacks were already taken, they had to settle for second best: alien shaped cargo pants. I saw somebody that actually fit nomex once, and I'm pretty sure that they WERE, in fact, alien. No human being Actually has an 18 inch crotch. I don't care what you say, not even Ron Jeremy needs this much room. Unless the pants are actually supposed to double as a jumpsuit/unitard. Then I could understand the amount of fabric between crotch and waist. I really could pull the stupid things up over my boobs and just skip the ultra stylish yellow shirt. It's not a bad idea. Someday, a rocket scientist will redesign nomex for actual people. And maybe even in a less 1993 shade of green. But I'm not holding my breathe to see it in this lifetime. I wonder who thought forest green was a really good idea for wild land firefighters. Like "ooh, look how outdoorsy we look!" I wonder if Eddie Bauer was on the design team when they decided denim blue was just too urban for the rugged individualists battling the flames. At least we have yellow shirts, because there are lots of really good reasons to have yellow shirts. For example: ... Oh yeah. Bees like yellow. You attract a lot of bees. And dirty sooty sweat stains are black, which contrasts nicely with yellow. And everyone basically looks good in bright effing yellow. Especially when it turns to grayish vomit colored beigy yellow after a season or two. Next time they decide to revamp wild land wardrobes, can they get Vera Wang or anybody with taste? Even Aspen does better than this. Maybe it's just so I can go home and appreciate my jeans. Lovely, soft, go-anywhere blue jeans. That fit. Or did before my mocha.
On the last fire assignment I got to work three whole shifts with my Favorite Boy Ever. I think some people are surprised that my husband is still the one person in the whole world that I'd rather hang out with than anybody else. Maybe it's just because he's still playing hard to get, and if he didn't have that silly wedding band to say otherwise he would still be denying to the world that we're in a relationship, so I feel like I have a conquest to make still. I think sometimes he likes to forget that he accidentally married me all of a sudden one day last summer, and really wants me to be chasing him still. So I do. Maybe one day I will turn the tables on him and make him chase me. I'll bet if I wear nomex it would drive him wild.
So I was driving home from the last fire and the radio station said to call right then to win a VIP table at a downtown bar for the next Ducks game (which is tonight). Being the easily directed drone that I am, I obeyed and somehow happened to be caller 10, which meant I had 30 seconds to list off three celebrities that had first and last names starting with D's. after about 45 seconds I had come up with Daisy Duck, Donald Duck, and with prompting from the DJ, Daffy Duck. I won the VIP table, though certainly not for originality. As Josh chastised my lack of creativity, I offered him the same challenge, but all he could come up with was Daisy Duke. Of course. SHE doesn't have to wear nomex. Anyway, we got the VIP table tonight, which I will be late for, since apparently I have to work forever. Also: if I get there late enough tonight can I count the calories from the hot wing for tomorrow? I love hot wings.
Another thing that makes me happy is jeans. I was back in my jeans for three whole days, and it was heaven. For those of you who have never had the entirely dubious thrill of wearing nomex, maybe the enjoyment of a pair of jeans seems trite. But after several multi-day stints in forest green pants that neither breathe, wear, or look good (well), it is so nice to relocate my actual crotch and quit trying to find a way to pretend that my work pants fit me. Because they don't. At all. It's like every manufacturer of nomex pants conspired against the human race to design the Worst Pants Ever, and when they found out that pleated slacks were already taken, they had to settle for second best: alien shaped cargo pants. I saw somebody that actually fit nomex once, and I'm pretty sure that they WERE, in fact, alien. No human being Actually has an 18 inch crotch. I don't care what you say, not even Ron Jeremy needs this much room. Unless the pants are actually supposed to double as a jumpsuit/unitard. Then I could understand the amount of fabric between crotch and waist. I really could pull the stupid things up over my boobs and just skip the ultra stylish yellow shirt. It's not a bad idea. Someday, a rocket scientist will redesign nomex for actual people. And maybe even in a less 1993 shade of green. But I'm not holding my breathe to see it in this lifetime. I wonder who thought forest green was a really good idea for wild land firefighters. Like "ooh, look how outdoorsy we look!" I wonder if Eddie Bauer was on the design team when they decided denim blue was just too urban for the rugged individualists battling the flames. At least we have yellow shirts, because there are lots of really good reasons to have yellow shirts. For example: ... Oh yeah. Bees like yellow. You attract a lot of bees. And dirty sooty sweat stains are black, which contrasts nicely with yellow. And everyone basically looks good in bright effing yellow. Especially when it turns to grayish vomit colored beigy yellow after a season or two. Next time they decide to revamp wild land wardrobes, can they get Vera Wang or anybody with taste? Even Aspen does better than this. Maybe it's just so I can go home and appreciate my jeans. Lovely, soft, go-anywhere blue jeans. That fit. Or did before my mocha.
On the last fire assignment I got to work three whole shifts with my Favorite Boy Ever. I think some people are surprised that my husband is still the one person in the whole world that I'd rather hang out with than anybody else. Maybe it's just because he's still playing hard to get, and if he didn't have that silly wedding band to say otherwise he would still be denying to the world that we're in a relationship, so I feel like I have a conquest to make still. I think sometimes he likes to forget that he accidentally married me all of a sudden one day last summer, and really wants me to be chasing him still. So I do. Maybe one day I will turn the tables on him and make him chase me. I'll bet if I wear nomex it would drive him wild.
So I was driving home from the last fire and the radio station said to call right then to win a VIP table at a downtown bar for the next Ducks game (which is tonight). Being the easily directed drone that I am, I obeyed and somehow happened to be caller 10, which meant I had 30 seconds to list off three celebrities that had first and last names starting with D's. after about 45 seconds I had come up with Daisy Duck, Donald Duck, and with prompting from the DJ, Daffy Duck. I won the VIP table, though certainly not for originality. As Josh chastised my lack of creativity, I offered him the same challenge, but all he could come up with was Daisy Duke. Of course. SHE doesn't have to wear nomex. Anyway, we got the VIP table tonight, which I will be late for, since apparently I have to work forever. Also: if I get there late enough tonight can I count the calories from the hot wing for tomorrow? I love hot wings.
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