I was sick for two days and the whole world fell apart. Or at least that's what it feels like. I don't remember parts of it, but as I pushed my way through a shower this morning, feeling half way human again, the consequences of my vacation in zombieland began to surface. The memories start to come back in flashes as a I pick up an old fabric softener sheet off the stairs that Aspen had been wearing for a hat. Oh yes. We did laundry yesterday. That explains the multiple pair of underwear in unidentifiable stages of cleanliness strung from the downstairs bathroom to the linen closet, where all unclaimed underwear go. It also justifies the stack of kitchen towels I was standing on at my bathroom sink this morning, confusing them in my post-sick-early-morning-blur for a bathmat. I'll wager that the laundry undertaking yesterday will ultimately result in MacKenzie coming home from school in my favorite Free People top since "someone" put it in her pile. Oh wait, Kizzie is home sick. I'd better go in and go through "her" clean clothes before she wakes up.
In my delirium I distinctly remember making an extra large pot of coffee for myself, thinking, completely irrationally, how I could heat up the leftovers this morning when I might be feeling a little better, thereby saving myself the extra work of making fresh coffee since I was sick the day before. When I am sick, things that make sense just don't really, at all. Sadly, the Extra Large Pot of coffee was completely gone. Like somebody had even sloshed some lukewarm water in the bottom to get the last dregs of coffee flavor out of it, gone. This compelled me to make fresh coffee, for better or worse, and question my sanity in remembering the giant pot I made and wondering where it went. And then I remembered Halle drinking something that resembled a mug full of chunks of hershey bar with a little splash of luke warm coffee-flavored water over it while we watched Murder She Wrote. Angela Lansbury ain't the only one solving mysteries here, y'all.
Being sick has also caused my jeans to not fit well. Maybe it's just that I don't feel that great yet, but I distinctly DO NOT remember eating much at all, especially when My Darling Husband sweetly offered to make dinner and it was an odd mix of chili dogs, top ramen and week and a half old stir fry. And yet this morning, my jeans were extremely difficult to put on, and unless I stand Very Still in One Position, they look terrible. All of them. Maybe I am swollen from being sick. Like my whole body is in a febrile swell that is causing nothing to fit and everything to tick me off. How one could possibly gain weight while lying around eating nothing more than chocolate cake and saltine crackers with butter is beyond me.
You know those days when every time you pass a mirror you just get sad because there is just no fixing what is going on in there? It's one of those days. It's just too much work to hold my arms up long enough to even put a bun in my hair, let alone makeup, or curls or anything that might give me the appearance of still being alive. Thankfully, Kizzie just surfaced from her sickbed and I have to say, I feel much better. It could be worse.
There are two more (visible) baskets of laundry to fold out here in the living room, which means I may be able to salvage part of my wardrobe once I reclaim my underwear from Aspen's drawers. I am WAY behind on avoiding all of my eBay responsibilities, a dereliction that I feel I earned by posted 1.5 years worth of feedback the other day. Feedback is not my primary concern when I am messing around on eBay. Unless it's reading my own. I do like attention. But now that my feedback is caught up, I really should take care of the auctions that I have been ignoring and questions like "is the inside seam of this item stitched with blue thread, or purple? and is the stitch a 1/4 inch or 5/16?". I don't know, and I don't care. And for the $5.16 that you will pay for this shirt, including shipping, neither should you.
Apparently at some point over the weekend, I painted my fingernails sparkly black. Not sure why. But I did. I even did a decent enough job I might not pin it on Aspen this time. So I guess being sick didn't turn out all bad. Maybe I will stay sick awhile longer. Then I don't have to wear my jeans just yet.
Things I Do
I tell people Aspen painted my fingernails because they look so bad.
Apparently all of those years of not painting my fingernails paid off in a severe lack of skill that I have yet to overcome. I suppose that if I keep doing it, I will get better, but I think I ultimately lack the patience to ever be a passable nail stylist. Or even keep the paint confined to my nail beds. I hate using red or any shade thereof because I inevitably end up looking like I just got done with a record breaking finger jello eating contest.
I also collect shoes.
Aspen was helping me pack my bedroom and I gave her a Very Large Box to put shoes in. Her first comment: "Are you SURE we will only need one?" No. No Aspen, I am not sure. Actually I am fairly certain we will need three. But just pile them on there for now. Except those. I want to wear those. Oh, and those! I forgot I had those! And that one pair there. I haven't even worn those yet. They can go in the next box. You know what, nevermind. Just pack these towels.
Another thing that I do is change my clothes at least three times every morning.
This habit of mine makes storing my clothes on the floor in front of my dresser a more sensible habit. Then all of my options are on display, waiting for me to try repeatedly and then cast aside. Like that one shirt with the lace in the back that is So Cute, but every time I put it on I feel fat. Instead of realizing that the chocolate cake I have eaten Every Night This Week is sitting right there on those shelves of fat above the top of my jeans (I won't call them muffin tops because I haven't indulged in a muffin in ages), I blame the shirt. But it goes back into the array of choices strewn out around the core of three or four pairs of jeans settled in the middle of the floor. I like to work from the base outward, like a color wheel of texture and style fanning out from the denim that I have to work with. I punctuate my fantasm of fashion with little dots of sundress piles and hoody wraps. It's all right there. Easy access. Calling to me to try it on.
I am a terrible packer.
I am such a bad packer, that I have intentionally decided to wait until my mom comes next weekend to pack Granny's china, even though I have all these specialized zipper pouches with foam and stuff that my grandma got for it and it should be simple. I will find a way to shortcut, and will, unquestionably, break something. I just packed the entire closet, which includes everything that Josh hasn't worn in the last six months, into two boxes complete with hangers, dust bunnies, and rolled into nice little multi-garment wads that will definitely need to be ironed someday, if anyone in this house knew how. I packed a (one, singular) box up in the kitchen, and I wrapped some things in newspaper, and stacked other, mostly unbreakable (ha!) items precariously throughout the rest of the box. It now sits in the garage "ready to go" like a yard sale treasure trove of kitchen wonders. I just hope that the people loading the truck (i.e. Josh) are intuitive enough to nestle that little gem of a box in a safe spot near the top of the load...
I bought my 13 year old daughter a push-up bra.
Accidentally. Hey, it was a Victoria's Secret Pink bra at a thrift store for like a buck. So the 4cm thick padding escaped my attention. Lucky for me she put it on and was mortified so I quickly tucked it away before Kizzie found it. I am sure I can sell it on eBay. To some other unwitting mother trying to prostitot their daughter out like I am. Sometimes I really question my own judgement as a mother. Although when Kizzie came home from school in a skirt that just grazed the bottom of her cheeks the other day (and not the ones on her face), we had a conversation about length appropriate attire. And why bike shorts were invented. So they don't all sneak by me. Just some.
Apparently all of those years of not painting my fingernails paid off in a severe lack of skill that I have yet to overcome. I suppose that if I keep doing it, I will get better, but I think I ultimately lack the patience to ever be a passable nail stylist. Or even keep the paint confined to my nail beds. I hate using red or any shade thereof because I inevitably end up looking like I just got done with a record breaking finger jello eating contest.
I also collect shoes.
Aspen was helping me pack my bedroom and I gave her a Very Large Box to put shoes in. Her first comment: "Are you SURE we will only need one?" No. No Aspen, I am not sure. Actually I am fairly certain we will need three. But just pile them on there for now. Except those. I want to wear those. Oh, and those! I forgot I had those! And that one pair there. I haven't even worn those yet. They can go in the next box. You know what, nevermind. Just pack these towels.
Another thing that I do is change my clothes at least three times every morning.
This habit of mine makes storing my clothes on the floor in front of my dresser a more sensible habit. Then all of my options are on display, waiting for me to try repeatedly and then cast aside. Like that one shirt with the lace in the back that is So Cute, but every time I put it on I feel fat. Instead of realizing that the chocolate cake I have eaten Every Night This Week is sitting right there on those shelves of fat above the top of my jeans (I won't call them muffin tops because I haven't indulged in a muffin in ages), I blame the shirt. But it goes back into the array of choices strewn out around the core of three or four pairs of jeans settled in the middle of the floor. I like to work from the base outward, like a color wheel of texture and style fanning out from the denim that I have to work with. I punctuate my fantasm of fashion with little dots of sundress piles and hoody wraps. It's all right there. Easy access. Calling to me to try it on.
I am a terrible packer.
I am such a bad packer, that I have intentionally decided to wait until my mom comes next weekend to pack Granny's china, even though I have all these specialized zipper pouches with foam and stuff that my grandma got for it and it should be simple. I will find a way to shortcut, and will, unquestionably, break something. I just packed the entire closet, which includes everything that Josh hasn't worn in the last six months, into two boxes complete with hangers, dust bunnies, and rolled into nice little multi-garment wads that will definitely need to be ironed someday, if anyone in this house knew how. I packed a (one, singular) box up in the kitchen, and I wrapped some things in newspaper, and stacked other, mostly unbreakable (ha!) items precariously throughout the rest of the box. It now sits in the garage "ready to go" like a yard sale treasure trove of kitchen wonders. I just hope that the people loading the truck (i.e. Josh) are intuitive enough to nestle that little gem of a box in a safe spot near the top of the load...
I bought my 13 year old daughter a push-up bra.
Accidentally. Hey, it was a Victoria's Secret Pink bra at a thrift store for like a buck. So the 4cm thick padding escaped my attention. Lucky for me she put it on and was mortified so I quickly tucked it away before Kizzie found it. I am sure I can sell it on eBay. To some other unwitting mother trying to prostitot their daughter out like I am. Sometimes I really question my own judgement as a mother. Although when Kizzie came home from school in a skirt that just grazed the bottom of her cheeks the other day (and not the ones on her face), we had a conversation about length appropriate attire. And why bike shorts were invented. So they don't all sneak by me. Just some.
Things That Are Of Little Consequence
Last night when I climbed in bed, half way through a non-committal fight with my husband about something petty and ridiculous, I felt as though someone had stuffed cotton balls into my ears, up my nose and packed my sinuses tightly with the dense fuzz. It was convenient that I was mad at Josh because then I could blame him for me getting sick. Somehow in my phlegm addled brain it made sense. This morning I woke up with Josh curled up behind me, cuddling me with a handful of wadded up tissue, prepared to catch either the snot or the drool escaping from one of my facial orifices. Not that he was at all in the right last night, but he can sure be sweet - even when I am not. He left for work and I immediately returned to a coma like state, mouth breathing because it's the only passage for air into my lungs at present, until 11 o'clock this morning. I thought I felt better after I started drinking coffee, and chased the rotten melted cheese taste of mouth breathing away, but then I took a shower and was immediately overwhelmed with everything that I needed to do and the pounding of kettle drums in my ears. Luckily, being sick means I have an excuse to sit down with my coffee and my computer and ramble on about making lists and planning an attack on this house that for all of the world looks like it could have been in the path of the Oklahoma Tornado. And then I realized that the difference between here and there is that all of my stuff in still in one place, and for the most part, whole. What a nightmare for them to endure. To lose everything. But watching the videos and seeing the photos of the mess, the overwhelming theme of many survivors is gratitude for their lives, and the ideal that the most important things in life are not things. Watch this video, by the way:
As I avoid packing my house for the impending move, the arguments between Josh and I about my hoarding tendencies echo in my ears, along with the throbbing pressure of snot infested sinuses, and I wonder if I should have less stuff. For me, stuff represents people. The china that belonged to a great grandmother that I barely knew, but somehow found myself following many of the same pursuits in life, means the world to me. Josh can't understand having dishes we never use. The vintage yellow high chair that stands at attention awaiting the visits of nieces and nephews and someday, grandbabies that I can't even fathom having, represents the ever-ready hospitality I want to offer my friends and family, along with the porta-crib and the the stroller (which we did sell at the yard sale. Some concessions must be made). The row of empty cheerwine bottles which I plan to transform magically into a swaying outdoor light fixture remind me of a wedding party that I picked everything for as a representation of the old fashioned, small town, unselfish, soda pop and front porch love that I share with My Boy and our whole family, not a token of my affection for The Avett Brothers, as Josh insists. The collection of band t-shirts that Aunt Tracey brilliantly suggested would make a great concert going quilt... All of these things are petty and impractical in and of themselves, but carry meaning and purpose to me. Maybe because of how I was raised and the importance of family traditions to me, the stuff has become too important. Or maybe because Josh has yet to develop these deep roots of family affection, he doesn't get it, but I have faith that he will. That someday Granny's china will be as important to him as his fire department badges and medals, because just like those represent who he is and has worked to become, so my family heirlooms speak of how I came to be who I am. I wouldn't die without these possessions, they are just things. But they are beautiful things that remind me of the beautiful life that we are given. I like to be tied to life by relationships and things. Not that being a wandering gypsy with only the guitar on his back wouldn't be fun for a moment, but relationships are the things separate living from being ALIVE.
I guess the question of values is one of the driving forces behind everything we do. The things that motivate us to get things done and accept consequences, good and bad, of actions. For example, I am not starting laundry right now because it is more important to me to not move my head than whether Josh has clean boxers in the morning. This value will probably shift as soon as I take some cold medicine and I rethink the effect of no clean boxers. Or chocolate cake. Is it a coincidence that my face broke out like a premenstrual 14 year old shortly after Josh brought me home one of those fantastic All-American Chocolate cakes from Costco and I embarked on a sometimes twice-daily adventure of 7 layered chocolate? But are the zits worth the bliss of squishy chocolate cake and a cold glass of milk? I should say so. At least for this week. Whether vintage high chairs or clean laundry have any intrinsic value of their own is completely subjective, based upon the beliefs of any given person. For My Loving Husband, he would be overjoyed to trade baby furniture with or without historic value for clean underwear. Lucky for me this is not a logical trade, but I will do the laundry to avoid him tripping over the space offensive high chair on his way to find his boxers in the pile. The beautiful thing about the differences in our values is the balance that it provides for us. Without Josh, I would be a messy hoarder in dirty underwear. Without me, he would be, well, other than WAY less cool, he would have only his fire badges to remind him that he is connected to the universe in some way. And Emmy. Those dogs are the ultimate reminders of how lucky we are to have relationships, and what unconditional love really looks like. Even if they vengeance pee every once in awhile.
And that brings me to tattoos, and the reasons that I want to paint a picture of the mixed up crazy person I am, full of passions and full of life, on my body for everyone to see. Since I was a small person I have been desperate to be known as an individual, someone set apart, different, unusual. There is no worse fear for me than going unrecognized in my hoodies and jeans and soccer mom car as just another somebody. I shop at Costco, I watch TV, I live life. But I also KNOW things. Like Russian words and latin words and hebrew words, and I have a big and complex family. I am a firewoman (there you go, Josh) and an EMT. I started out as a little butterfly, testing my wings. I have accomplished the feat of not killing four children, so far. There are so many more things I want to say about myself, in full color, to the whole world. So they know. I probably need counseling for this, but I'd prefer to spend the money on tattoos. Sorry mom. :( I know that YOU know who I am , but what if I go unnoticed? That would be worse than driving a mini van. Nothing makes me happier than telling someone about my AWESOME little brother that scripted the motivating words on my arm in Russian. Or the baby niece that came, ever so briefly, to remind us as a family of how important we are to each other, and what we are capable of. Or the proud heritage of the men in my family that have served for our country. Really it's just overblown self focus. I like to talk about myself and these pictures give me a foot in the door. Someday maybe when I tell my story and it's a worldwide best seller I won't feel so compelled to broadcast my awesomeness in ink on my body. But maybe I will. I can never get enough attention.
I am frantically sorting through my aching brain to think of more words to say so I don't have to go do laundry, which will inevitably lead to cleaning at least SOME sort of path to the washing machine, which will in turn lead to packing junk in the garage, spilling over into the eBay room and then my bedroom, and rendering my entire day of lazy sickness totally wasted. But clean boxers. THEY are important.
As I avoid packing my house for the impending move, the arguments between Josh and I about my hoarding tendencies echo in my ears, along with the throbbing pressure of snot infested sinuses, and I wonder if I should have less stuff. For me, stuff represents people. The china that belonged to a great grandmother that I barely knew, but somehow found myself following many of the same pursuits in life, means the world to me. Josh can't understand having dishes we never use. The vintage yellow high chair that stands at attention awaiting the visits of nieces and nephews and someday, grandbabies that I can't even fathom having, represents the ever-ready hospitality I want to offer my friends and family, along with the porta-crib and the the stroller (which we did sell at the yard sale. Some concessions must be made). The row of empty cheerwine bottles which I plan to transform magically into a swaying outdoor light fixture remind me of a wedding party that I picked everything for as a representation of the old fashioned, small town, unselfish, soda pop and front porch love that I share with My Boy and our whole family, not a token of my affection for The Avett Brothers, as Josh insists. The collection of band t-shirts that Aunt Tracey brilliantly suggested would make a great concert going quilt... All of these things are petty and impractical in and of themselves, but carry meaning and purpose to me. Maybe because of how I was raised and the importance of family traditions to me, the stuff has become too important. Or maybe because Josh has yet to develop these deep roots of family affection, he doesn't get it, but I have faith that he will. That someday Granny's china will be as important to him as his fire department badges and medals, because just like those represent who he is and has worked to become, so my family heirlooms speak of how I came to be who I am. I wouldn't die without these possessions, they are just things. But they are beautiful things that remind me of the beautiful life that we are given. I like to be tied to life by relationships and things. Not that being a wandering gypsy with only the guitar on his back wouldn't be fun for a moment, but relationships are the things separate living from being ALIVE.
I guess the question of values is one of the driving forces behind everything we do. The things that motivate us to get things done and accept consequences, good and bad, of actions. For example, I am not starting laundry right now because it is more important to me to not move my head than whether Josh has clean boxers in the morning. This value will probably shift as soon as I take some cold medicine and I rethink the effect of no clean boxers. Or chocolate cake. Is it a coincidence that my face broke out like a premenstrual 14 year old shortly after Josh brought me home one of those fantastic All-American Chocolate cakes from Costco and I embarked on a sometimes twice-daily adventure of 7 layered chocolate? But are the zits worth the bliss of squishy chocolate cake and a cold glass of milk? I should say so. At least for this week. Whether vintage high chairs or clean laundry have any intrinsic value of their own is completely subjective, based upon the beliefs of any given person. For My Loving Husband, he would be overjoyed to trade baby furniture with or without historic value for clean underwear. Lucky for me this is not a logical trade, but I will do the laundry to avoid him tripping over the space offensive high chair on his way to find his boxers in the pile. The beautiful thing about the differences in our values is the balance that it provides for us. Without Josh, I would be a messy hoarder in dirty underwear. Without me, he would be, well, other than WAY less cool, he would have only his fire badges to remind him that he is connected to the universe in some way. And Emmy. Those dogs are the ultimate reminders of how lucky we are to have relationships, and what unconditional love really looks like. Even if they vengeance pee every once in awhile.
And that brings me to tattoos, and the reasons that I want to paint a picture of the mixed up crazy person I am, full of passions and full of life, on my body for everyone to see. Since I was a small person I have been desperate to be known as an individual, someone set apart, different, unusual. There is no worse fear for me than going unrecognized in my hoodies and jeans and soccer mom car as just another somebody. I shop at Costco, I watch TV, I live life. But I also KNOW things. Like Russian words and latin words and hebrew words, and I have a big and complex family. I am a firewoman (there you go, Josh) and an EMT. I started out as a little butterfly, testing my wings. I have accomplished the feat of not killing four children, so far. There are so many more things I want to say about myself, in full color, to the whole world. So they know. I probably need counseling for this, but I'd prefer to spend the money on tattoos. Sorry mom. :( I know that YOU know who I am , but what if I go unnoticed? That would be worse than driving a mini van. Nothing makes me happier than telling someone about my AWESOME little brother that scripted the motivating words on my arm in Russian. Or the baby niece that came, ever so briefly, to remind us as a family of how important we are to each other, and what we are capable of. Or the proud heritage of the men in my family that have served for our country. Really it's just overblown self focus. I like to talk about myself and these pictures give me a foot in the door. Someday maybe when I tell my story and it's a worldwide best seller I won't feel so compelled to broadcast my awesomeness in ink on my body. But maybe I will. I can never get enough attention.
I am frantically sorting through my aching brain to think of more words to say so I don't have to go do laundry, which will inevitably lead to cleaning at least SOME sort of path to the washing machine, which will in turn lead to packing junk in the garage, spilling over into the eBay room and then my bedroom, and rendering my entire day of lazy sickness totally wasted. But clean boxers. THEY are important.
Things That TICK ME OFF
This morning at 6:16 AM (That's Pacific Time, Y'all) my darling husband woke me up to tell me that our bank account was overdrawn $555. American. Instantly my mind raced to any forgotten shopping binges that I forgot to calculate into the register, but came up blank since I have been So Darn Good lately. Of course Josh was having chest pain and on the verge of an all-out panic attack, since the 60+ hours a week he is working just don't seem to cover the bills anyway. I reassured him in my calm and laid back demeanor (which means I wasn't fully awake) that I was sure it was some technical glitch and all would be well. He was insistent, as usual, that it was fraudulent activity and probably our whole lives had been hacked. I think he then checked to make sure his gun was still in the drawer by the bed, which is wasn't because he hid it behind the TV for some reason. I have always casually poo-pooed Josh's paranoid ranting about identity theft and mocked his careful worrying, noting how it was HIS truck was broken into and wallet stolen, and not mine (never mind that this was due to the forgetfulness of a certain un-named individual who was not me. For once.) , and in all the years of carrying a debit card, I had never been hacked that I could remember. Although I think there was this one thing on PayPal... but that turned out to be a new pair of boots that I forgot I ordered. And I happen to be universally careless about locking cars, house doors, internet passwords, pin numbers... Josh, however, had survived a series of misfortunes due to fraudulent activities, in spite of numerous safeguards and anal attention to locking and passwording everything he owns, even from me. Before we go any further, I would like you to understand that I really dislike the word fraudulent. Especially before noon. ESPECIALLY in my bed. I feel as if there are legal proceedings going on and I am not even wearing a bra. So while Josh grated my early morning nerves by using THAT word several more times in his adamant protests that we had been HAD by those damned identity thieves running around out there, I was growing more irritable and was still trying to think of a shopping expense to blame it on. I even offered to bet him that it wasn't "fraudulent", which, thank goodness, he didn't take me up on. Mostly because he was too distracted googling "identity theft therapy" and the legal definition of self-defense in murder trials.
After waiting a pain-filled 44 minutes, the credit union call line opened and he was instantly connected to a nice young man who pulled up the details of over $750 in charges placed today through TicketMaster.
Whoooaahohohoho... now hold on. Not only were these charges actually fraudulent (at this point I breathed a sigh of relief for the untaken bet, or lord knows what I would be liable for), but they were fraudulent purchases of TICKETS. Now, if anybody is gonna be bouncing our account for ticket charges, it had better damn well be me. This was like the ultimate insult. Like someone robbing a double amputee to buy a pair of prosthetic legs! I was immediately irked, and simultaneously more comfortable using the word fraudulent. Even in bed, with no bra. I was irate in spite of the crow I had to eat to admit that we had, in fact, been taken by those damned identity thieves running around out there. My first and most important question was to inquire about what the tickets were for and whether they would be mailed to my address. Turns out some jacka** in New York with an email address: stliv@goldenpages4u.com had bought a slew of tickets to the Rangers games. Not that I wouldn't like to see the Rangers, but it was immediately apparent that no tickets would make it to Bend and no Bendites would make it Rangers games, so any incurred charges were completely and utterly unjustifiable. I was also a bit peeved that I didn't think of the email stliv@whatever first. Oh, and I checked into this goldenpages4u crap and it doesn't even exist. I was contemplating emailing the thief but in addition to it probably being a fake email, I didn't want to risk stliv having access to even more of my information, so I will sic the credit union on them like a hound dog. That is slightly less lazy than Truck. Ok maybe more like a pit bull, or a border collie. Those little guys never quit. Maybe if nothing else, for all of our trouble the Rangers would feel sorry for us and comp us some box seats next time we're in New York in two thousand and never. It's a nice thought.
The really convenient thing about a financial crisis of this caliber is that I can stay in my sweatpants longer while I am making phone calls and doing a little sleuthing of my own, rather than packing any boxes. At this point I have run out of leads to chase and may have gotten distracted by Facebook. But if stliv@goldenpages4u is hanging out on Facebook I should probably know. Josh had to go to work and I am sure that the morning has been almost as stressful for him as yesterday when I yelled at him for yelling at me for calling him at work with unimportant information about a pair of certain teenagers and their wish to get driving permits. I forget sometimes that there are more important things going on in the world that no insurance premium raises and the fact that I am making pulled pork for dinner.
The pulled pork turned out awesome and Josh even said it was the best ever, maybe to reassure me that pulled pork is at least as important as a siding job. After slow cooking in two bottles of beer, it better be.
At any rate, I think I am now out of excuses to avoid getting dressed and going to the credit union to sign an affidavit of fraudulent activity. At least I will have a bra on by then.
After waiting a pain-filled 44 minutes, the credit union call line opened and he was instantly connected to a nice young man who pulled up the details of over $750 in charges placed today through TicketMaster.
Whoooaahohohoho... now hold on. Not only were these charges actually fraudulent (at this point I breathed a sigh of relief for the untaken bet, or lord knows what I would be liable for), but they were fraudulent purchases of TICKETS. Now, if anybody is gonna be bouncing our account for ticket charges, it had better damn well be me. This was like the ultimate insult. Like someone robbing a double amputee to buy a pair of prosthetic legs! I was immediately irked, and simultaneously more comfortable using the word fraudulent. Even in bed, with no bra. I was irate in spite of the crow I had to eat to admit that we had, in fact, been taken by those damned identity thieves running around out there. My first and most important question was to inquire about what the tickets were for and whether they would be mailed to my address. Turns out some jacka** in New York with an email address: stliv@goldenpages4u.com had bought a slew of tickets to the Rangers games. Not that I wouldn't like to see the Rangers, but it was immediately apparent that no tickets would make it to Bend and no Bendites would make it Rangers games, so any incurred charges were completely and utterly unjustifiable. I was also a bit peeved that I didn't think of the email stliv@whatever first. Oh, and I checked into this goldenpages4u crap and it doesn't even exist. I was contemplating emailing the thief but in addition to it probably being a fake email, I didn't want to risk stliv having access to even more of my information, so I will sic the credit union on them like a hound dog. That is slightly less lazy than Truck. Ok maybe more like a pit bull, or a border collie. Those little guys never quit. Maybe if nothing else, for all of our trouble the Rangers would feel sorry for us and comp us some box seats next time we're in New York in two thousand and never. It's a nice thought.
The really convenient thing about a financial crisis of this caliber is that I can stay in my sweatpants longer while I am making phone calls and doing a little sleuthing of my own, rather than packing any boxes. At this point I have run out of leads to chase and may have gotten distracted by Facebook. But if stliv@goldenpages4u is hanging out on Facebook I should probably know. Josh had to go to work and I am sure that the morning has been almost as stressful for him as yesterday when I yelled at him for yelling at me for calling him at work with unimportant information about a pair of certain teenagers and their wish to get driving permits. I forget sometimes that there are more important things going on in the world that no insurance premium raises and the fact that I am making pulled pork for dinner.
The pulled pork turned out awesome and Josh even said it was the best ever, maybe to reassure me that pulled pork is at least as important as a siding job. After slow cooking in two bottles of beer, it better be.
At any rate, I think I am now out of excuses to avoid getting dressed and going to the credit union to sign an affidavit of fraudulent activity. At least I will have a bra on by then.
Things That Are Intended
I have a very vivid imagination. I can vividly see the end result of any undertaking that I decide is worth the effort, and sometimes it motivates me enough to follow through, cut a few corners, and end up with a result that is nothing like the original dream. Kind of like those Pinterest fails (go to this website, you'll thank me.) that we see pictures of. Josh didn't understand why I was laughing until I cried while I scrolled through other imaginative mom's attempts at something cute that resulted in a cataclysmic, but hilarious mess. It's so relatable. That's why it's funny. I live that. For me, dressing for work poses the exact same problem. I will lay in bed until the Last Possible Second, planning a new, edgy outfit to wear to work that day, get up, put at least most of the pieces of the outfit on my body, omitting the ones that have been wet in the washer for three days and should probably be run through again to kill the mold spores, and trying to cover the stains on some that I forgot happened when I was burning pinto beans and chocolate chip cookies yesterday. I make some passable (or so I think) substitutes and look in the mirror. It's at that point that I realized that the image I had in my head while lying in bed was of me 20 lbs from now and I forgot to stick to that diet that I think about so much that I can't understand why it's not working. Turns out thinking and doing are two totally separate things. The girl in the jerry-rigged outfit staring back from the mirror does NOT look good. She looks like a meatloaf wrapped in draperies and accessorized with Christmas tinsel. If I could take a picture of what I had imagined and put it next to the finished product, it would be just as funny as those Cookie Monster cupcakes that look like the dude on Raiders Of The Lost Ark with his face melting off.
Another area of imagination letdown is childrearing. For about 6 years (from just before Natalee was born until I got my first pair of designer jeans and moved on to more important aspirations) I woke up every morning with that 1970s Amy Grant song about Brand New Start Each Day (listen to this, you won't thank me) stuck in my head, trying to brush away the condemnation of my mothering faux pas from the day before and ready to conquer parenting for REALS this time. Some mornings I would even make breakfast, wash the dishes, and by 10 AM at the latest I was sidetracked by ANYTHING more interesting, which my kids would unavoidably interfere with, sending me into a downward spiral of frustration and poor verbal responses to my herd of toddlers. This pattern continued until I gave up the Brand New Start thing and just skipped straight to the frustration upon waking. It's much easier anyway, since few things irritate me as much as waking up.
It's hard, really, to think of an area in my life where this principle of failed intentions doesn't carry over. Certainly in the "customized" recipes I adapt to whatever isn't moldy in the refrigerator. And in the house cleaning that gets as far as a box of old photos I keep meaning to scan into the computer but can't stop looking at. Lately, even the errands that I run fall prey to a combination of laziness and/or forgetfulness, as I leave the house minus the things that I was supposed to have dropped off but can't remember why I showed up at a particular business anyway. I know that making lists is supposed to help all of this, but I have this tendency to forget my list. Even though it is on my iPhone, which we all know is never out of reach.
Also sewing. It turns out that cutting corners in sewing is almost always a recipe for certain disaster.
That old saying that "Good intentions pave the road to hell" carries profound truth. To an extent. No amount of WANTING to be a good mother, wife, housekeeper, cook, friend, or fashionista will make it so. Just the step by step DOING of it. One little choice at a time. Don't yell at Aspen when she wakes me up to show me Truck's lips. Remember to turn the beans down FINALLY. One less toxic drug into my body. One less cookie. Be nice to My Boy even when it is Grossly Apparent that every problem in the whole world (a.k.a. my broken and hormonally altered body) is all his fault. Take the time to get that one ingredient for a recipe that May or May Not be vital to the outcome. And maybe not getting the house clean but scanning some of the more precious memories into the computer and plastering them all over Facebook where they will be enshrined forever.
The funny thing is that good intentions and even right actions is that you can't always circumvent the failures. Even when you follow the directions to every jot and tittle, sometimes things just don't come out right. Like a necessary vet bill for a very sweet dog that wasn't even ours. Like devastating your children by doing the right thing for your family. Like making the best call you can imagine in any given moment and causing years of hurt and frustration, or following the "will of God" right into a cesspool of human error. Like making the "right choice" that you find out later, really wasn't. Like all of the careful non-shopping I have been doing and then somebody uses TicketMaster to charge over $700 to our checking account. Like going to Costco with a short and specific list and realizing there is a new coupon book. It gets sorted out somehow, but sometimes things are just beyond our control.
This tendency of mine holds an ominous foreboding for the coming move to Washington. All of the best intentions to pack neatly give way to hurriedly dumping into boxes and hoping some things break so that we have less stuff when we get there. Rooms that I can daydream about in pretty colors and über creative themes that will stay the same drab off-white until after Christmas sometime when I kick into early January nesting as a result of post-holiday depression.
Lucky for me, the memories that usually stand out for me, and (thank God) for my kids, are the ones that DO happen, not the missed opportunities. Although I still kick myself for a few things that I "meant" to do and never followed through. Like sponsoring that little girl in the Ugandan school that we took off of the Christmas tree at Church. Or using my Living Social voucher for 10 sessions of Hot Yoga. But all-in-all, the things that we actually pull off are the things that we recollect. Like that road trip to Reno with 4 kids for a concert. Or melted crayon rainbow hearts that are MOSTLY recognizable. Or a pineapple curry in the crockpot that is slightly customized, but delicious nonetheless.
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| survive-continue |
Things I Like To Do
Yesterday was Mother's Day. Of course this meant that I could do anything that I wanted to do. Apparently what I wanted to do was eat leftover pizza for breakfast, go to work, come home to a trashed house and very crabby children and leave again for a BBQ at the Bob's. Or maybe it's the Sikorsky's. Both names are cool last names but I kind of like to say the Bob's. In between work and The Bob's I made Josh ride his bike to the Old Mill so we could wander aimlessly for an hour or so and I could try on a random assortment of shoes and chairs. The chairs were definitely more comfortable than the shoes and I think I successfully guilted Josh into buying me this for Mother's Day:
Super appropriate for fire season, concert season and just hanging out on the floor at REI for awhile. Which is totally what I did. Plus it's orange. The other options, including the Alite Monarch Butterfly and the REI version without an interesting name were nice, but after at least 37 minutes in each, the Mayfly maintained a comfort level that the others couldn't compete with. Josh is of course waiting for Friday when we each get a 20% off of one item coupon, and I will probably buy him one for Father's Day with my coupon, except in Tactical Black. For his special ops outings.
So it's not like I can say that mother's day was a total bust - I got to sit around all night and solve the world's problems with Halle and Josh and The Bob's, and stuff myself on delicious food that I didn't have to cook (always a win for me!). And today, I don't have to be anywhere in particular all day long. That's just nice. I should be cleaning/packing/freaking out that I have about a month to have my messy self removed from this location. But there's always tomorrow for stuff like that, right?
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| http://www.rei.com/product/846401/alite-mayfly-chair |
Super appropriate for fire season, concert season and just hanging out on the floor at REI for awhile. Which is totally what I did. Plus it's orange. The other options, including the Alite Monarch Butterfly and the REI version without an interesting name were nice, but after at least 37 minutes in each, the Mayfly maintained a comfort level that the others couldn't compete with. Josh is of course waiting for Friday when we each get a 20% off of one item coupon, and I will probably buy him one for Father's Day with my coupon, except in Tactical Black. For his special ops outings.
I used Mother's Day as an excuse to buy myself a couple of new shirts at the Buckle as well, since they were 60% off this week for employees. It made sense at the time, when I was grumpy at my kids for not lavishing me with an extraordinary breakfast and strings of diamonds that morning. The new pair of jeans that I put on layaway was a bit of a stretch to justify, but since I listed a ton of my old jeans on eBay (go here: Liv's eBay stuff to be like me) I figured it was almost ok. And layaway is totally different than impulse shopping. Right?
Maybe this morning is a better version of Mother's Day for me, since I am doing my favorite thing: laying on the couch with coffee and dogs and more or less wasting time. I really enjoy the exhilaration of not HAVING to be anywhere right this second. OH CRAP. I forgot to get meat out of the freezer. Stand by.
Ok. Crisis narrowly averted. I have discovered, as the years go by, that all of the best intentions in the world (and this includes walking all the way into the garage to get the meat out but forgetting why I was there) do nothing to make frozen steaks thaw faster. Hot water, however, does. The plan is to BBQ tonight, and sometime between now and 630ish I need to make potato salad and banana bread with a million overripe bananas that Aspen brought home from school to help us out with the oft-complained-about grocery bill. because she is awesome. She is so awesome, that not only was the she first and only kid to tell me Happy Mother's day yesterday morning, she made me this, wherein she details 10 reasons she loves me, including my Smokey Bear Decor and my forgetfulness:
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| best mother's day present ever! |
Lest y'all think that I am competely lazy (not that I am not) I must say in my own defense that I have done laundry and listed several many auctions and almost finished my coffee this morning. AND I am dressed. Bra and all. That should count for an industrious morning, no? Next step, pre banana bread and potato salad, is cleaning up "Josh's" office (which I use twice as much and prefer messy) and my room, which is daunting enough to make me need a nap just imagining it. And since I have nowhere I HAVE to be... OK fine. I'll go run my errands.
Things To Discuss
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Penny is an Ewok? |
To be honest, other than the pastime of dressing dogs up as Star Wars Characters, I feel as much in the dark about what's going on in my life as a lot of people who live very far away from me. Which is a little silly since I live with myself. I can say that I feel amazingly loved since Kizzie read my last blog and has made me coffee TWO mornings in a row now. That is one of the most fabulous things ever. It makes me want to unground her from the ROTC trip to see Iron Man 3 tonight. It would be easier to unground her if I could remember why she was grounded in the first place and make more efficient excuses for her. Or maybe I can just go and chaperone other Cadet Corps kids unsolicited. It is somewhat frustrating to not be able to remember why Halle and Kizzie are grounded but be capable of reciting names of the entire line of woolen mills tribute blankets for Pendleton, or the 7 distinct BKE gals denim fits we stock in the store right now. My theory is that I only have so much room in my brain and anything that doesn't have to do with the thankless task of parenting feels like a better use of space. And about parenting, and thanklessness...
Is it just me or is Mother's Day the second biggest letdown of the year next to Valentines day? My theory is that Mother's day only gets good when either A) you have a rich and performance-oriented husband who dresses up his overachieving gifts and acts of service as the ideas of several ungrateful children, or B) your kids get old enough to feel guilty for everything they've done for you and they have money with which to show their remorse. These are best case scenarios since I am fairly certain that I fall under category B by now with my mom, but probably demonstrate an amazing level of fail every year at Mother's day when her card is three days late and I am still giving her homemade coupons for free yard work and a neck massage that I never intend to fulfill. Actually this year I feel pretty good about the fact that I outdid even my own gift giving panache for Mother's day and I can't wait to hear the gushing. (you're welcome, Mom)
It is my firmly held theory that Mother's Day, like Valentines day, Secretary's day, Father's Day and possibly even Easter are just deeply embedded ploys that we have fallen prey to over the last several decades. They are masterminded by Hallmark and American Greetings, whom I hope are facing their demise with the advent of self-expressive stamping, paper making and scrapbooking designs from home. These holidays were created with the diabolic intent to turn every human relationship into a landmine of destructive possibility.
These are the annual days when we are reminded that our kids are selfish and don't give a darn about the woman who birthed them violently and painfully, or the man who breaks his back 365 days a year to keep food on the table and designer jeans on their self-absorbed rear ends. Our lack or prior planning is rubbed in our face when aforementioned children see their jerry-rigged, half-assed easter baskets that lack the shining glory of the Neighbor Kid with the giant purple stuffed rabbit. I mean, so what if I split a bag of Christmas jelly beans that I found in a drawer 4 ways into paper sacks for easter baskets? It's the thought that counts?
And how have we escalated to the expectations of breakfast in bed or lavish date nights regardless of the inability of offspring to prepare more than crunchies for breakfast and the perpetual restraints of a designer-jean-taxed budget? It's time for a holiday revolution, where rather than heaping inevitable disappointment on the top of unreasonable expectation, we are motivated purely out of the competitive desire to be the Best Giver Ever.
I believe that birthdays should be an opportunity for the celebratee to give gifts to everybody that has put up with them for the last howevermany years. Why do they deserve presents for getting born? They should be rewarding the loved ones that tolerate them through the years (especially their mom)(but if we could change this tradition AFTER June 12 that would be great).
And Valentines day, if we must have a holiday to celebrate romantic love, should be nothing more than a night of requisite foot rubs for the ladies and intimate provision for the oft-deprived man - the one night that headaches and all other excuses are moot. All this flowers and chocolates stuff is ridiculous. Everyone knows that a foot rub is way better than chocolate. Although it is my vote that we do away with any specific day for this and make it a way of daily living. Yes, these un-holidays should be reformed. Christmas is great just the way it is, but maybe with more decorations. And of course Halloween is fine. I am so full of great ideas that it is amazing I can even focus on real life. Not that I do.
But as far as updates on my life go... we are still moving. Not sure exactly what our living situation will be yet, but we will be outta here June 15th. It has been decided. It is bittersweet, because I do love this place, especially with the sun shining and the mountains standing guard over bend like big snowy angels. But I am starting to get so excited about living life with my family. Cousins growing up together the way it was meant to be from the start. Friends that have known my kids since they were running around in red capes and cowboy boots. Neighbors who holler offerings of cold beer across the road, three front yards and a chicken coop. Sun faded big wheels parked in front of my driveway of unknown origin. A 5th dog who tries to pretend he's always been part of the pack when it's dinner time. Walking to the river and not caring what we're late for. A cozy, messy fireplace that keeps us either raging hot or frozen stiff in the winter time. Boxes of peaches, cherries, apples... A piece of ground with our name on it, that Russians or Koreans or Talibanis or Zombies or mean landlords can't take away from us. A house that makes us crazy while we make it Exactly What We Want. I am looking forward to that. And mother's day, which is already awesome if Kizzie makes my coffee again. What more could a mom want? #footrub
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This Pendleton mug is designed after a blanket called "Female Storm". Strangely appropriate. |
Things About The Day
Coffeeless mornings are the worst. It's nearly impossible to function when one doesn't wake up to find oneself standing in front of a puttering coffee pot that somehow was filled with water and grounds and turned on while still in a sleeping state. Coffee is miraculous. It makes conversations less boring, drives more delicious, and any event worth attending, like, say, morning. This morning there was no cream, and being the spoiled developed-world child that I am, coffee without cream is something like having sawdust for dinner to me. I could have gone to the store for cream, but without coffee to remind me that I could do that, I feel as though all I can do is stare helplessly into the kitchen from the couch and wonder how to get on with the day. Clearly there was no way I was going to make my 9:30 hot yoga class without coffee. I toyed with the idea of buying a coffee on the way there but that seemed like a terrible idea, for many reasons, mostly the one involving a big iced coffee just before hot yoga. So obviously yoga was out. Now I know there are many things I should, or at least could, be doing, but I find myself hopeless and despondent and unable to focus. I wonder if this modern epidemic of depression is merely population wide coffee deprivation.
I have a lot of things to get done today, if I can ever find my way out of this coffeeless abyss. A chain of events that began in a hot tub in Hood River has escalated to the point of surety that we are moving back to Washington in June. Hot tubs are amazing for epiphanies. As are people like Christy, who say the most profound things accidentally. All at once, almost simultaneously (once I told him), Josh and I realized that we were Doing It Wrong. All of it. That as much as we love Bend, all of the reasons we love it are things that we can not access. We are working our buns into the ground to have a lifestyle that we still can't afford. The recreational opportunities cost too much for 6 people - the amazing beer makes me really fat, and the job field in a tourist town isn't letting us break past survival. Maybe if Josh had gotten a fire job. Maybe if I didn't need surgery and he hadn't joined the air guard. Maybe if we had less kids, or they were more into video games than expensive things like skiing and cellos and skinny jeans. Maybe if we liked to never see each other or eat dinner together or put any money into savings - then Maybe Bend would be a better home for us. But as it stands, those are NOT the things we want, the lifestyle we desire. I have always wished for a more rural setting, but Bend seemed like a happy compromise between big city and small town. Lots of opportunity, a little less traffic. And it is, if you can afford the opportunities. Floating the river is free, so is the river trail, and the snow parks for snowshoeing and sledding and stuff, unless you don't get a winter pass and forget to pay the parking ticket that said pass would have avoided and end up with fees and stuff. But beer isn't free, neither is happy hour (although it's close), or any school activity that I have found so far. We miss each other. We miss life. We miss watching the kids play their sports, or having time to chaperon/embarrass offspring at dances. I don't worry much about the bills since I have a sugar daddy now, but Josh has been awfully crabby for the last couple of years for some reason. I think that keeping up with the Bendites is killing him. I think having a wife that shops to fill the lack of social connection and psychological stimulation is also killing him. I think having kids that jealously watch their friends go skiing on their season passes to Bachelor, and take vacations to Fiji, and spend more money on their wardrobes with their parent's platinum cards, is suffocating him. Never mind that our kids have almost exclusively designer closets, thanks to a totally RAD mom who bargain shops like a son-of-a-biscuit, and every hair product known to man, and good bikes and cellos and computers and every bit of whatever it is that is necessary to be a teenager in 2013. Never mind all of that. Never mind the food on the table and the chauffer waiting outside the dance at 11:30 for a kid who got a ride with someone else and forgot to text. Never mind a big, weird family with lots of adventures and stories and giant crazy trips to Disneyworld and Hawaii and Olympia and dogs and roadtrips and all kinds of fun that we have had. My kids are spoiled, unquestionably, but by Bend standards, they are among the deprived. Because we don't buy their "Cougar Pal" presents for them. Because we don't stock energy bars and sports drinks for their highly active lifestyles. Because they get second hand gear for their sports (unless Grandma and Grandpa happen to be visiting). We are all spoiled. I am ready to go back to a simpler lifestyle, where the once-a-year new pair of shoes is the envy of the whole 8th grade. Where I can can peaches and jump in the river and have coffee with my sister instead of talking to myself in the aisles of Goodwill on any given morning. I am looking forward to the necessity of planning dinner every night instead of remembering that Costco is 5 minutes away and they have $1.50 hot dogs. I am excited for that once a week latte in "town" when I go for groceries and Irish Dance.
All of that being said, I really need to get going today. Sorting, packing, folding, selling. Getting ready for a moving sale, eliminating EVERY POSSIBLE PIECE from the overwhelming mountain of stuff that will be transported across two states. But first, I must find coffee.
I have a lot of things to get done today, if I can ever find my way out of this coffeeless abyss. A chain of events that began in a hot tub in Hood River has escalated to the point of surety that we are moving back to Washington in June. Hot tubs are amazing for epiphanies. As are people like Christy, who say the most profound things accidentally. All at once, almost simultaneously (once I told him), Josh and I realized that we were Doing It Wrong. All of it. That as much as we love Bend, all of the reasons we love it are things that we can not access. We are working our buns into the ground to have a lifestyle that we still can't afford. The recreational opportunities cost too much for 6 people - the amazing beer makes me really fat, and the job field in a tourist town isn't letting us break past survival. Maybe if Josh had gotten a fire job. Maybe if I didn't need surgery and he hadn't joined the air guard. Maybe if we had less kids, or they were more into video games than expensive things like skiing and cellos and skinny jeans. Maybe if we liked to never see each other or eat dinner together or put any money into savings - then Maybe Bend would be a better home for us. But as it stands, those are NOT the things we want, the lifestyle we desire. I have always wished for a more rural setting, but Bend seemed like a happy compromise between big city and small town. Lots of opportunity, a little less traffic. And it is, if you can afford the opportunities. Floating the river is free, so is the river trail, and the snow parks for snowshoeing and sledding and stuff, unless you don't get a winter pass and forget to pay the parking ticket that said pass would have avoided and end up with fees and stuff. But beer isn't free, neither is happy hour (although it's close), or any school activity that I have found so far. We miss each other. We miss life. We miss watching the kids play their sports, or having time to chaperon/embarrass offspring at dances. I don't worry much about the bills since I have a sugar daddy now, but Josh has been awfully crabby for the last couple of years for some reason. I think that keeping up with the Bendites is killing him. I think having a wife that shops to fill the lack of social connection and psychological stimulation is also killing him. I think having kids that jealously watch their friends go skiing on their season passes to Bachelor, and take vacations to Fiji, and spend more money on their wardrobes with their parent's platinum cards, is suffocating him. Never mind that our kids have almost exclusively designer closets, thanks to a totally RAD mom who bargain shops like a son-of-a-biscuit, and every hair product known to man, and good bikes and cellos and computers and every bit of whatever it is that is necessary to be a teenager in 2013. Never mind all of that. Never mind the food on the table and the chauffer waiting outside the dance at 11:30 for a kid who got a ride with someone else and forgot to text. Never mind a big, weird family with lots of adventures and stories and giant crazy trips to Disneyworld and Hawaii and Olympia and dogs and roadtrips and all kinds of fun that we have had. My kids are spoiled, unquestionably, but by Bend standards, they are among the deprived. Because we don't buy their "Cougar Pal" presents for them. Because we don't stock energy bars and sports drinks for their highly active lifestyles. Because they get second hand gear for their sports (unless Grandma and Grandpa happen to be visiting). We are all spoiled. I am ready to go back to a simpler lifestyle, where the once-a-year new pair of shoes is the envy of the whole 8th grade. Where I can can peaches and jump in the river and have coffee with my sister instead of talking to myself in the aisles of Goodwill on any given morning. I am looking forward to the necessity of planning dinner every night instead of remembering that Costco is 5 minutes away and they have $1.50 hot dogs. I am excited for that once a week latte in "town" when I go for groceries and Irish Dance.
All of that being said, I really need to get going today. Sorting, packing, folding, selling. Getting ready for a moving sale, eliminating EVERY POSSIBLE PIECE from the overwhelming mountain of stuff that will be transported across two states. But first, I must find coffee.
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| reminder of better days... |
Things About Forgiving
How much grace is too much grace? When is it ok to stop turning the other proverbial cheek, or should one ever start?
Can you forgive a lie told to "protect" you, but not a foolish, whimsical teenage blunder?
Can you forgive a betrayal from a friend, but not a lie told to avoid confrontation?
How many times can the truth be mocked before it's too many? How many times do you go back for manipulation and mistreatment from friends and family before it's too much? When are lies actually justifiable, for any reason? I have certainly found ways to justify them. I can't imagine someone who hasn't. As a young child I remember being shocked when I heard my mother tell a manager at ToysRUs that the box to a toy she was returning had been destroyed, knowing full well it was out in the car. I tried to correct her and remember being swept aside quickly. It shattered some lofty ideal I had in my head and probably led to the downfall of my absolute faith in fairies. Mom, you a responsible for the death of a thousand pixies (just kidding). Years later when I shared this memory with my mom she was absolutely mortified, and no surprise, couldn't even remember the incident. To this day my mother would rather be chained to the rack and forced to eat a thousand spiders than tell the smallest white lie, knowing the impact that made. It's really inconvenient when I try to pretend it's my birthday for a free coffee in front of her. But it's a good way to get her to pay for my coffee, reminding her where I learned my dishonesty skills...
I believe in grace. Without it, I would be friendless, loveless, homeless, childless, and most likely dead. I am the chiefest of all sinners and have not a stone to cast toward a lesser sinner than I. There are people that I have chosen to distance myself from because the heartache and the dishonesty that go hand in hand have become too heavy a tax on the life I have chosen. And yet how many people have I taxed to exhaustion that still love me? I believe intensely that for every spotless person you introduce me to, you will find a closet of filth and shame that they simply can not acknowledge. Some people say this is cynical of me, and if this truth made me avoid people, I would agree. I believe in the depravity of man. How can I not, when I live it? I am depraved. We are all animals with instincts of self-preservation and self-indulgence and curiosity and driving needs. The thing that sets us apart from many other animals is our ability, our privilege to chose to forgo our comfort for that of others. We see this act of will in other animals too - dogs are the great protectors who will shiver in the cold to keep a lost child warm, or bark until they lose their voice to alert us to danger (imagined or otherwise). This is selflessness. This is a response to a duty that they have adopted. Much like we adopt the duty to care for one another. For our children. For our lovers. For our friends. I have been guilty of the worst imaginable violations of this duty. To my children. To my lovers. To my friends. Every day I examine myself and am no longer surprised to find the messy remains of selfishness that are spilling over into my relationships. But every day I try to chose to be right to the people I love, at the expense of my ego, my reputation, my sterling innocence. I still mess up. I still have things that I hold so tightly protected inside that I can't imagine sharing them with anyone. And maybe some of these "secrets" are ok. But where is the line. How many secrets can a person have before he becomes nothing more than a liar? One? Two? Sixteen?
It is apparent to most people who know me that I have some issues relating to trust. These issues would probably be easier to deal with if people would stop lying to me. Certain people would love to remind me about the deliberate dishonesty I have issued them. Which is true. I have and probably will again. Where is the line between a white and a black lie? Does telling my mom I love the sweater she knitted equate grossly under exaggerating the amount of money I've spent to my husband? Does omitting the fact that I hate lima beans to my friend who served them for dinner cause the same damage that omitting information to my husband about someone who propositioned me at the bar? Why do we hang on to information that should or could be shared? Is it fear or kindness. I have almost as many honesties as lies in my life that I regret. Maybe because the consequences simply weren't worth it, but is that because in the same breath that we issue forth lies we deny grace for admissions of guilt? What is wrong with us people. Why can't be honest like dogs and children. Your shoes are ugly. I crapped on your bed. I am sorry. Please love me again. I didn't do it to hurt you. Only very, very troubled people enjoy inflicting pain. Like body piercers and tattoo artists. Right, Ariel? But by and large, as humans, we tell lies to avoid accountability, to spare pain, to cover our asses. How much is too much? Is it ok to tell my husband that I cleaned the house spotlessly and hope he never finds the bill to MerryMaids? What he doesn't know can't hurt him right? Why would I withhold information about a guy flirting with me online, unless I enjoyed the flirting, or somehow thought the inappropriate contact made him a good candidate for a family friend and wanted my husband to not hate him?
I have given to others almost as much grace as I have been given in my life. Some would argue that it was too much in both directions. For my part I cannot imagine withholding grace because I deserve so much for it to be withheld from me. Of all of the depraved human beings, who am I to judge another? I have enough to sort out in the hereafter with the Big Guy without needing to tattle tale on a bunch of other losers. Unfortunately sometimes too much damage is done to a relationship to salvage it. I understand this. It doesn't really mean there's no grace, but luckily as human beings we get to choose how we live our lives and who we surround ourselves with. Not like dogs or kids who are stuck with whatever fateful lot they are assigned. It's a crap shoot for sure. I know that I got damn lucky as a kid. And I know my dogs got damn lucky too. It only makes sense that my kids get to be damn lucky and I give a little bit of the thankfulness I have for the life I was given back to some other people. It isn't that mom and dad did everything perfectly - I have yet to meet parents who have. But they were surely selfless, and responded to the duty that they were assigned. This is as much as a child can ask for. Or a dog. Or a friend. "Freedom's not your right to choose. It's answering what's asked of you."
I have no control over the honesty, integrity, motivation or response to duty over any one but me. I have come to believe that dishonesty hurts the person carrying the lie exponentially more than the one being lied to. For all I am worth I hope to be the one who can own my mistakes, uncover my lies and be the person that the people around me need. And full of grace.
Can you forgive a lie told to "protect" you, but not a foolish, whimsical teenage blunder?
Can you forgive a betrayal from a friend, but not a lie told to avoid confrontation?
How many times can the truth be mocked before it's too many? How many times do you go back for manipulation and mistreatment from friends and family before it's too much? When are lies actually justifiable, for any reason? I have certainly found ways to justify them. I can't imagine someone who hasn't. As a young child I remember being shocked when I heard my mother tell a manager at ToysRUs that the box to a toy she was returning had been destroyed, knowing full well it was out in the car. I tried to correct her and remember being swept aside quickly. It shattered some lofty ideal I had in my head and probably led to the downfall of my absolute faith in fairies. Mom, you a responsible for the death of a thousand pixies (just kidding). Years later when I shared this memory with my mom she was absolutely mortified, and no surprise, couldn't even remember the incident. To this day my mother would rather be chained to the rack and forced to eat a thousand spiders than tell the smallest white lie, knowing the impact that made. It's really inconvenient when I try to pretend it's my birthday for a free coffee in front of her. But it's a good way to get her to pay for my coffee, reminding her where I learned my dishonesty skills...
I believe in grace. Without it, I would be friendless, loveless, homeless, childless, and most likely dead. I am the chiefest of all sinners and have not a stone to cast toward a lesser sinner than I. There are people that I have chosen to distance myself from because the heartache and the dishonesty that go hand in hand have become too heavy a tax on the life I have chosen. And yet how many people have I taxed to exhaustion that still love me? I believe intensely that for every spotless person you introduce me to, you will find a closet of filth and shame that they simply can not acknowledge. Some people say this is cynical of me, and if this truth made me avoid people, I would agree. I believe in the depravity of man. How can I not, when I live it? I am depraved. We are all animals with instincts of self-preservation and self-indulgence and curiosity and driving needs. The thing that sets us apart from many other animals is our ability, our privilege to chose to forgo our comfort for that of others. We see this act of will in other animals too - dogs are the great protectors who will shiver in the cold to keep a lost child warm, or bark until they lose their voice to alert us to danger (imagined or otherwise). This is selflessness. This is a response to a duty that they have adopted. Much like we adopt the duty to care for one another. For our children. For our lovers. For our friends. I have been guilty of the worst imaginable violations of this duty. To my children. To my lovers. To my friends. Every day I examine myself and am no longer surprised to find the messy remains of selfishness that are spilling over into my relationships. But every day I try to chose to be right to the people I love, at the expense of my ego, my reputation, my sterling innocence. I still mess up. I still have things that I hold so tightly protected inside that I can't imagine sharing them with anyone. And maybe some of these "secrets" are ok. But where is the line. How many secrets can a person have before he becomes nothing more than a liar? One? Two? Sixteen?
It is apparent to most people who know me that I have some issues relating to trust. These issues would probably be easier to deal with if people would stop lying to me. Certain people would love to remind me about the deliberate dishonesty I have issued them. Which is true. I have and probably will again. Where is the line between a white and a black lie? Does telling my mom I love the sweater she knitted equate grossly under exaggerating the amount of money I've spent to my husband? Does omitting the fact that I hate lima beans to my friend who served them for dinner cause the same damage that omitting information to my husband about someone who propositioned me at the bar? Why do we hang on to information that should or could be shared? Is it fear or kindness. I have almost as many honesties as lies in my life that I regret. Maybe because the consequences simply weren't worth it, but is that because in the same breath that we issue forth lies we deny grace for admissions of guilt? What is wrong with us people. Why can't be honest like dogs and children. Your shoes are ugly. I crapped on your bed. I am sorry. Please love me again. I didn't do it to hurt you. Only very, very troubled people enjoy inflicting pain. Like body piercers and tattoo artists. Right, Ariel? But by and large, as humans, we tell lies to avoid accountability, to spare pain, to cover our asses. How much is too much? Is it ok to tell my husband that I cleaned the house spotlessly and hope he never finds the bill to MerryMaids? What he doesn't know can't hurt him right? Why would I withhold information about a guy flirting with me online, unless I enjoyed the flirting, or somehow thought the inappropriate contact made him a good candidate for a family friend and wanted my husband to not hate him?
I have given to others almost as much grace as I have been given in my life. Some would argue that it was too much in both directions. For my part I cannot imagine withholding grace because I deserve so much for it to be withheld from me. Of all of the depraved human beings, who am I to judge another? I have enough to sort out in the hereafter with the Big Guy without needing to tattle tale on a bunch of other losers. Unfortunately sometimes too much damage is done to a relationship to salvage it. I understand this. It doesn't really mean there's no grace, but luckily as human beings we get to choose how we live our lives and who we surround ourselves with. Not like dogs or kids who are stuck with whatever fateful lot they are assigned. It's a crap shoot for sure. I know that I got damn lucky as a kid. And I know my dogs got damn lucky too. It only makes sense that my kids get to be damn lucky and I give a little bit of the thankfulness I have for the life I was given back to some other people. It isn't that mom and dad did everything perfectly - I have yet to meet parents who have. But they were surely selfless, and responded to the duty that they were assigned. This is as much as a child can ask for. Or a dog. Or a friend. "Freedom's not your right to choose. It's answering what's asked of you."
I have no control over the honesty, integrity, motivation or response to duty over any one but me. I have come to believe that dishonesty hurts the person carrying the lie exponentially more than the one being lied to. For all I am worth I hope to be the one who can own my mistakes, uncover my lies and be the person that the people around me need. And full of grace.
"and I would give up everything, if you were to come up clean, to see you shine so bright in this world of woe."
Things That Make Me Cringe
I had a little run in with the teenage wasteland this weekend, in the sense that Kizzie came home from a Sadie Hawkins dance with a Hickey on her neck and Josh wanted to waste both her and her "boyfriend". Not quite certain how to deal with the scandal of the child, or the scandalized father, I reached out to the world of Facebook for answers, and I got some great ones.
I remember being 15 and so completely swept away by the emotions that I identified surely as love and devotion that ran as deep as my core and a boy a year younger than I was. It's like karmic de-ja-vu to watch my very-much-like-me daughter go through the same death throes of childhood and make decisions that are really embarrassing. Like when I was ignorantly wearing my ugliest full support sports bra the first time I got felt up, and he had to open his eyes to make sure his grandmother hadn't traded places with me. Or the time I showed up in church as a newlywed with so many hickeys that the resident holy-loud-mouth commented vigorously on the type of bed mate I must have been. Or the time I wrote that note to a boy that made me swoon with every one of his manly chuckles and I was riveted upon, yet so grossly spurned my affection. It's hard for me to freak out about One Little Hickey when I am torn with understanding WHEN exactly WHAT level of physical involvement is permissible? Advisable? Safe? OK? I mean clearly none of my daughters will ever be old enough for sex. Neither was I. Kissing? Is it harmless when you're 5? How bout 10? 15 it becomes deadly? 20 it returns to safe? Holding hands? That benign little gesture of affection. Oh Lord, I remember the sweaty palms and trembling excitement. I still get it sometimes when he grabs my hand unexpectedly and squeezes it to remind me that I am the One Thing That Consumes Him. I have difficulty throwing stones from my glass tower of do-what-I-say-not-what-I-do. A certain dad-in-the-picture has no such issue casting iron clad judgements from his throne of righteousness and never-faltering will of integrity soaked steel. Maybe he remembers too well what a boy of 14 is thinking. It's hard to swallow though, considering he paints a picture of himself as an innocent, shy and sincere 14 year old boy. I really can't decide whether the rebellious, hormonal, emotional teenager or the panic-driven, emotional, losing the chokehold of childhood disciplinary control man is harder to deal with. I have no question that the motives of each of them is so pure that they can taste the pristinity. I have no doubt that he fears, agonizes, heart wrenchingly about her safety: mentally, emotionally, physically. And she longs for him, for me, for ANYONE to understand the depth of her swollen heart (for the record, I've already addressed this: Things That Don't Get Enough Attention). It's a story that is thousands of years old and the common theme to any story involving despair, insanity and death, trying to reconcile the compulsion of love with the consequences of physical involvement. The old adage of waiting for marriage sounds ideal, but I have yet to meet a couple that has both waited until their nuptials to consummate their passions, AND remains happily married with a solid sex life. I am sure they are out there, I just haven't met them yet. Conversely, some of the most solid couples I know are still not married. But what is marriage? A certificate from the state? A covenant before God? A nod of approval from the father? And how does any cultural understanding of marriage suddenly make physical intimacy safe and good and whole? I would contest that sex is dangerous at any age and with any person and should be handled as tenderly as fine china. Obviously this advice springs from lessons learned painfully. All of my china got broke. Bad. If anyone has answers to these questions and at least 16 examples of the good fruit, please email me. Seriously.
Since I have no answers, and the ones from Facebook were all over the place, many excellent in totally opposing ways, I decided to just have a chat with the boy who inflicted the scarlet mark on my daughter. Publicly, via Facebook. Which was cheating a little since he and I are not FB friends (yet). I was fairly confident that he would see it, especially since I posted it on his "girlfriends" wall. I was concerned with the reaction Josh was going to (and did) have about the hickey, ahem, "curling iron burn" and decided to beat him to the punch by denouncing it publicly and slightly tongue-in-cheek to try to temper the temper. It didn't really work, because I got a very throaty lecture about having no standards and not having control of my kids, blah blah blah blah.
Anyway, here is the Facebook appeal to said boyfriend to pretty please, back the frack up off my kid:
Dear Boyfriend of my 15 Year Old Daughter:
I remember being 15 and so completely swept away by the emotions that I identified surely as love and devotion that ran as deep as my core and a boy a year younger than I was. It's like karmic de-ja-vu to watch my very-much-like-me daughter go through the same death throes of childhood and make decisions that are really embarrassing. Like when I was ignorantly wearing my ugliest full support sports bra the first time I got felt up, and he had to open his eyes to make sure his grandmother hadn't traded places with me. Or the time I showed up in church as a newlywed with so many hickeys that the resident holy-loud-mouth commented vigorously on the type of bed mate I must have been. Or the time I wrote that note to a boy that made me swoon with every one of his manly chuckles and I was riveted upon, yet so grossly spurned my affection. It's hard for me to freak out about One Little Hickey when I am torn with understanding WHEN exactly WHAT level of physical involvement is permissible? Advisable? Safe? OK? I mean clearly none of my daughters will ever be old enough for sex. Neither was I. Kissing? Is it harmless when you're 5? How bout 10? 15 it becomes deadly? 20 it returns to safe? Holding hands? That benign little gesture of affection. Oh Lord, I remember the sweaty palms and trembling excitement. I still get it sometimes when he grabs my hand unexpectedly and squeezes it to remind me that I am the One Thing That Consumes Him. I have difficulty throwing stones from my glass tower of do-what-I-say-not-what-I-do. A certain dad-in-the-picture has no such issue casting iron clad judgements from his throne of righteousness and never-faltering will of integrity soaked steel. Maybe he remembers too well what a boy of 14 is thinking. It's hard to swallow though, considering he paints a picture of himself as an innocent, shy and sincere 14 year old boy. I really can't decide whether the rebellious, hormonal, emotional teenager or the panic-driven, emotional, losing the chokehold of childhood disciplinary control man is harder to deal with. I have no question that the motives of each of them is so pure that they can taste the pristinity. I have no doubt that he fears, agonizes, heart wrenchingly about her safety: mentally, emotionally, physically. And she longs for him, for me, for ANYONE to understand the depth of her swollen heart (for the record, I've already addressed this: Things That Don't Get Enough Attention). It's a story that is thousands of years old and the common theme to any story involving despair, insanity and death, trying to reconcile the compulsion of love with the consequences of physical involvement. The old adage of waiting for marriage sounds ideal, but I have yet to meet a couple that has both waited until their nuptials to consummate their passions, AND remains happily married with a solid sex life. I am sure they are out there, I just haven't met them yet. Conversely, some of the most solid couples I know are still not married. But what is marriage? A certificate from the state? A covenant before God? A nod of approval from the father? And how does any cultural understanding of marriage suddenly make physical intimacy safe and good and whole? I would contest that sex is dangerous at any age and with any person and should be handled as tenderly as fine china. Obviously this advice springs from lessons learned painfully. All of my china got broke. Bad. If anyone has answers to these questions and at least 16 examples of the good fruit, please email me. Seriously.
 |
| I should have seen the signs back then I guess. When will they make an anti-grow up drug? |
Since I have no answers, and the ones from Facebook were all over the place, many excellent in totally opposing ways, I decided to just have a chat with the boy who inflicted the scarlet mark on my daughter. Publicly, via Facebook. Which was cheating a little since he and I are not FB friends (yet). I was fairly confident that he would see it, especially since I posted it on his "girlfriends" wall. I was concerned with the reaction Josh was going to (and did) have about the hickey, ahem, "curling iron burn" and decided to beat him to the punch by denouncing it publicly and slightly tongue-in-cheek to try to temper the temper. It didn't really work, because I got a very throaty lecture about having no standards and not having control of my kids, blah blah blah blah.
Anyway, here is the Facebook appeal to said boyfriend to pretty please, back the frack up off my kid:
Dear Boyfriend of my 15 Year Old Daughter:
Last night Kizzie came home from the Sadie Hawkins dance with something on her neck that appears to be, for all the world, a hickey. Of course Kizzie is insistent that it is a Curling Iron Burn, which is fascinating since the only curling irons in the house are purely decorative as they haven't worked in at least three years, and we just keep them to jazz up the back of the bathroom door. Assuming it is NOT, as Kizzie insists, a hickey, and believing it to be a Curling Iron Burn, my only thought is that you must have inflicted the injury on her neck with YOUR curling iron. Clearly one does not come by such perfectly flowing locks without a little mechanical aid. That being said, I am going to have to ask you to be more careful with your curling iron in the future, at least until Mackenzie learns to treat such wounds with ample amounts of cover up. Don't get me wrong, I really like you a lot. Which is why I stopped Kizzie's dad when he emerged from the basement in his stealth tactical medic suit, complete with drug kit and several tubes of superglue, for which I can only IMAGINE his intended use, to head to your house for a friendly chat. The last person that I saw him outfitted in this manner for ended up with his hand glued to his mouth for a few weeks. Josh was nice enough to leave a hole for a straw so he could still get liquid nourishment, so at least you wouldn't have starved. The after effects from his knock out drugs are nasty, though. I managed to talk him down and convince him that every body has curling iron accidents now and then, and it won't happen in the future, I AM SURE. I am really glad that you like our daughter so much and take such good care of her, so we can certainly forgive ONE little slip up. Take care and have tons of fun at the next dance. In 2017.
yours truly,
Kizzie's mom
It probably won't help, but it's worth a shot, right? I am beginning to think that I really suck at this mom/wife thing, since I currently have 3.5 people ticked off at me. Some for being too strict, some for not being strict enough and some just for fun. Maybe I should really devote myself to the peddling of designer jeans. I could probably be good at that. All I really know is that the sun is out, my random playlist of crazy music is fun, and I am ready for some warmer weather and potato salad.
Things About A Paid Vacation
Every year, for a week in April, the federal government pays for my time and food and lodging to get 40 hours of the exact same training that I got the year before. It's great repetitive information, which facilitates napping and the accomplishment of many overdue tasks. I have spent most of this week setting up a Hydroflask fundraiser for Aspen's Irish Dance competition and catching up on the Facebook world that has been sorely missing me. I've also been reading the news a lot, which has been a terrible thing this week. I told Josh that if we hear news of one more catastrophic explosion, we are moving back to a remote corner of Steven's County - maybe we will join the Love Israel family this time. They have more wine and a croquet league. There have been moments this week when I have been tempted to imagine the end of the world taking place one fiery blast at a time, creeping quickly across the nation. It only makes sense to go and live in a place that most people would rather not visit, much less waste valuable explosives on. Northport is the logical choice. Josh has not been sold on this idea, so we are once again looking at the Wenatchee area. We can't go for a year, so I just hope that Bend isn't sighted in for any attacks between now and then. I figure we are probably safe until next ski season - which is theoretically Bend's biggest tourist season. Truthfully I think that beer drinking is the regional sport of choice for central Oregon, and given the burgeoning industry of beer garden/fire pit outdoor seating at the brew pubs, maybe summer is going to be a threat as well.. a random explosion near Ten Barrel's patio would be devastating on a massive level, as I have seen what appears to be several thousand people congregated there on a regular basis.
In spite of the national tragedies, our week "off" in Hood River has been a much needed recuperation, involving too much wine, not enough hot tub, and food that I will be cursing next week in my daily bathroom scale entanglements. but it's sooooo good! I have been trying to make sure that I have Josh finish off at least the last 10th of most of my meals so that I can convince myself that I didn't eat The Whole Thing. And I am also pretending that my calorie counter app (hateful thing) doesn't work. Of course it doesn't work, if I don't ever turn it on.
You'd think that this week being a week "off" and having few to no physical requirements put upon me, and considering that I have been as close to pain free for the last couple weeks, that I would be enjoying a reprieve from the nagging pain that constantly reminds me I still own a uterus. Instead, thanks to that "little too much wine", a hefty sampling of local beers and some imaginative tequila mixers that The Adorable Bartender/Husband concocted, in true Liv form I felt the need to express myself in a wild assortment of dance moves, cartwheels, underwater acrobatics and other bizarre antics that I have left me in a newly re-invigorated level of pain that makes me shake my fist at the God of Eve who decided that women should be perpetually punished for her stupid mistake. One apple, girl. Let it go.
Other than all of that - I am so entirely thankful to have a week off, with my boy, that is making us more money than it's costing us (this is rare in my employment situations). Apparently I am so relieved that it completely escaped my mind to tell Susanna, who is riding herd on the girls this week, that Aspen had Irish Dance practice Tuesday night. This would be pretty bad all on it's own except that I was doing absolutely nothing on Sunday and forgot to take her to dance practice myself. Pretty sure her teacher decided we had died or skipped town because the stress of three practices a week was too much, but I was trying to make amends with the hydroflask fundraiser. Needless to say I have already told Susanna about tonight's practice, so if she forgets to take her, I can disavow all responsiblity.
All of that being said, go here:
hydroflask 21 oz standard mouth, choose your color,for $24 or just get a PINKADELIC flask engraved for $26. All profits go to helping Aspen's Irish Dance team to Anaheim for the Irish Dance National Competitions in July. You can order through me, I take checks and/or Paypal. I can ship to you, or deliver if you live in Bend, Olympia, Spokane, Colville, Northport, or plan on seeing me anytime this summer. If you do not already own a Hydroflask, they truly are the BEST of all of the stainless water bottles that I have tried. They really do keep cold cold and hot hot for 20+ hours. They're amazing. I have even dropped mine on the ground, out of the truck repeatedly, and broken the lid - Hydroflask has replaced it without question twice. I can't speak highly enough of these flasks. And not only are we selling them slightly below retail, they are benefitting the cutest Irish Dancer ever! Win/Win! Buy one, or ten. They make AWESOME gifts. They also make awesome transportable hot tub drinks. We've tested it thoroughly.
In spite of the national tragedies, our week "off" in Hood River has been a much needed recuperation, involving too much wine, not enough hot tub, and food that I will be cursing next week in my daily bathroom scale entanglements. but it's sooooo good! I have been trying to make sure that I have Josh finish off at least the last 10th of most of my meals so that I can convince myself that I didn't eat The Whole Thing. And I am also pretending that my calorie counter app (hateful thing) doesn't work. Of course it doesn't work, if I don't ever turn it on.
You'd think that this week being a week "off" and having few to no physical requirements put upon me, and considering that I have been as close to pain free for the last couple weeks, that I would be enjoying a reprieve from the nagging pain that constantly reminds me I still own a uterus. Instead, thanks to that "little too much wine", a hefty sampling of local beers and some imaginative tequila mixers that The Adorable Bartender/Husband concocted, in true Liv form I felt the need to express myself in a wild assortment of dance moves, cartwheels, underwater acrobatics and other bizarre antics that I have left me in a newly re-invigorated level of pain that makes me shake my fist at the God of Eve who decided that women should be perpetually punished for her stupid mistake. One apple, girl. Let it go.
Other than all of that - I am so entirely thankful to have a week off, with my boy, that is making us more money than it's costing us (this is rare in my employment situations). Apparently I am so relieved that it completely escaped my mind to tell Susanna, who is riding herd on the girls this week, that Aspen had Irish Dance practice Tuesday night. This would be pretty bad all on it's own except that I was doing absolutely nothing on Sunday and forgot to take her to dance practice myself. Pretty sure her teacher decided we had died or skipped town because the stress of three practices a week was too much, but I was trying to make amends with the hydroflask fundraiser. Needless to say I have already told Susanna about tonight's practice, so if she forgets to take her, I can disavow all responsiblity.
All of that being said, go here:
Things To Do
For some unexplicable reason, the words to the Mt. View NJROTC chant have been stuck in my head for the last few days. Really only two phrases: highly motivated, truly dedicated - and I am not even sure if that's exactly how it goes, but it won't go away. I really only heard it once or twice last year, when the NJROTC was still a thing. I don't think the cadet corp even uses it... I will have to ask. I think that the refrain is haunting me because I am lacking motivation, and dedication toward my duty, and my subconcious will not allow it.
Today is almost like a day off. I only work five hours and not until tonight at 4. And on this almost day off, I am leaning heavily towards replacing my slightly overwhelming to-do chore list with a to-do play list. I wonder what the long term consequences of trading house cleaning for a pedicure, or eBay listing for a nap. Or laundry for a shopping spree... ok, that one is probably ill advised, both because I need clean clothes and don't have money for shopping. Or a pedicure for that matter. But I do have all of next week to sit in a hot tub and aren't pretty toes a prerequisite for public hot tubs? I am pretty sure that I read that somewhere. I had planned on sleeping in today, until 6:50 when Natalee reminded me that her cello needed a ride to school. It was a smart play on her part, since all of my grumbling was thereby directed toward her cello during the 7 minute drive and 8 minute wait in stupid school morning traffic. In fact, the cello was informed that it was no longer welcome to go to school but would be kept at home, reserved for practice, if it continued to drag me out of bed at such ungodly hours. I feel like it wasn't listening. But I am hoping that Nattie can relay the message more poignantly. So now since I have an extra couple of morning hours to waste, I can totally justify a nap, right?
Rarrr. Ok. Highly motivated. My eBay piles are calling. As is my un-boss for a lunch date. Which means frivolous time later and busy work now. Truly dedicated. I hardly recognize my own house, it's been so long since I cleaned a single counter. I did try to do some laundry last week, but the ultimate result of my thoroughness was a complete lack of towels in our bathroom which meant that Josh was forced to drip dry in the cold mornings. My bad. That whole follow-through thing eludes me some days. I got them washed, even into the dryer, and then - SQUIRREL! Oh wait, that was work. It wasn't until I stumbled out of the shower yesterday morning onto the cold tile and immediately saw angry red at my irresponsible husband for taking ALL of the towels to some unimagineable location and leaving me to shiver nakedly. As I hollered for Aspen to come down and locate me a towel, I realized that the vortex that had actually swallowed all of my towels was my own laundering fail, but I still had to talk myself out of blaming Josh. What good is having a husband anyway if you can't blame them for stuff? Poor, poor, slightly hypothermic man.
Highly motivated. Getting off my rear end. Gonna put on a bra and get after this day. If I work really hard for awhile maybe I will forget that I don't get paid to do my own chores and I will feel like I can afford a pedicure. Truly Dedicated. I'm just not prepared to get out of my sweatpants yet - so it's a good time to crank out some productivity at home, right? Watch me go and kick the booty of both my work and play lists. And maybe just a little shopping...
Today is almost like a day off. I only work five hours and not until tonight at 4. And on this almost day off, I am leaning heavily towards replacing my slightly overwhelming to-do chore list with a to-do play list. I wonder what the long term consequences of trading house cleaning for a pedicure, or eBay listing for a nap. Or laundry for a shopping spree... ok, that one is probably ill advised, both because I need clean clothes and don't have money for shopping. Or a pedicure for that matter. But I do have all of next week to sit in a hot tub and aren't pretty toes a prerequisite for public hot tubs? I am pretty sure that I read that somewhere. I had planned on sleeping in today, until 6:50 when Natalee reminded me that her cello needed a ride to school. It was a smart play on her part, since all of my grumbling was thereby directed toward her cello during the 7 minute drive and 8 minute wait in stupid school morning traffic. In fact, the cello was informed that it was no longer welcome to go to school but would be kept at home, reserved for practice, if it continued to drag me out of bed at such ungodly hours. I feel like it wasn't listening. But I am hoping that Nattie can relay the message more poignantly. So now since I have an extra couple of morning hours to waste, I can totally justify a nap, right?
Rarrr. Ok. Highly motivated. My eBay piles are calling. As is my un-boss for a lunch date. Which means frivolous time later and busy work now. Truly dedicated. I hardly recognize my own house, it's been so long since I cleaned a single counter. I did try to do some laundry last week, but the ultimate result of my thoroughness was a complete lack of towels in our bathroom which meant that Josh was forced to drip dry in the cold mornings. My bad. That whole follow-through thing eludes me some days. I got them washed, even into the dryer, and then - SQUIRREL! Oh wait, that was work. It wasn't until I stumbled out of the shower yesterday morning onto the cold tile and immediately saw angry red at my irresponsible husband for taking ALL of the towels to some unimagineable location and leaving me to shiver nakedly. As I hollered for Aspen to come down and locate me a towel, I realized that the vortex that had actually swallowed all of my towels was my own laundering fail, but I still had to talk myself out of blaming Josh. What good is having a husband anyway if you can't blame them for stuff? Poor, poor, slightly hypothermic man.
Highly motivated. Getting off my rear end. Gonna put on a bra and get after this day. If I work really hard for awhile maybe I will forget that I don't get paid to do my own chores and I will feel like I can afford a pedicure. Truly Dedicated. I'm just not prepared to get out of my sweatpants yet - so it's a good time to crank out some productivity at home, right? Watch me go and kick the booty of both my work and play lists. And maybe just a little shopping...
Things That Are Contradictory
It's almost like I don't have a life. Or I have too much of a life. It really depends on how you define life. I guess I have come to a point where to me, "having a life" means having as much time as you want to drink wine and gossip with friends, as opposed to having a successful career with a 6 digit income and other forms of financial status symbols, like owning my own house or having college funds for all four of my kids, or being the chairwoman for a global charity or something. Maybe my priorities are skewed. Maybe I just don't get what "life" is all about. I saw a quote by somebody smart that I can't remember earlier today that said the purpose of life was to create and share. I would like to assume that means creating AWESOME stories and sharing wine with my favorite people. So, all of that being said, it is almost like I don't have a life. Two jobs, even part time, and a bunch of other commitments leave me lacking the leisure time that I have come to crave. And to top it all off, my faithful husband is putting in longer days at work and I feel like I never see him. Or my kids. Or my dogs, which may be the Very Worst Of All, especially when I walk in the door and Dagny is sitting at the top of the stairs with her eyes big and her ears back disapprovingly, as if she knows I am not going to be home for enough time to cuddle properly, or even to help find her squeaky pig, which has been missing for at least two and a half days. And poor Josh. I see him so rarely that he has been extra nice to me, but that might be because I haven't had enough time to shop nearly as much as usual.
All that aside, I guess I am enjoying my non-life. I like my new job and the challenge it provides me on many levels. Working for commissions gives me the chance that I have been missing to determine my own reward for the hours I put in. It requires me to be proactive and assertive about my place in the store, and with my teammates. I think it's a little funny that we are called teammates in a competitive setting where assisting another player to a win results in lost commissions for ones self... Even so, the people I work with seem to have a good handle on personal proactivity and relationship preservation. It will be interesting to see things unfold at this job. I am enjoying it now, and will ride that wave as long as it will carry me. For a minute, having two little teeny weeny paychecks almost makes up for having no life, until I calculate that the paychecks combined equal less than my phone bill or my car payment or the last outfit I bought at work... dang it.
I definitely am feeling the lack of depth to my existence these days. Feeling out of touch with the facebook world, which, for better or worse, might be the best representation of a social life that I have. I don't have time to sit and drink coffee and think of profound things to blather about, which makes me feel like I am missing out on something important in my life. As if anything I have to say is really vital to the race of mankind. Isn't it strange in our world how the things that "matter" can also be the things that really tear you away from the things that actually mean something. My whole life I have rebelled against the wife-and-mother death sentence that was pressed upon me from my most formative years. Now I find myself in a quandary between fulfilling (and somewhat happily) this long-rejected role, and kicking and screaming my way to pseudo-independence with my pitiful jobs and stubborn need to convince myself, if no-one else, that I am self-sufficient. It's really quite funny when I step back and look at the fact that my employment has never accomplished any more than justifying my shopping habits, and without the financial support of my Devoted Husband, my children would be starving and homeless. God knows their own father doesn't chip in enough to cover the toilet paper and maxi pads they go through. All of my prideful pretenses about being self-sufficient are nothing more than a cover for the hours I work to make just enough to cover my own expenditures on non-necessities. To admit this is painfully humbling. God forbid Josh ever read this. I want to help, really I do. But I also want to buy things. I want to justify my buying with my hard work, but when my hard work barely produces enough hourly to cover the non-necessities that I seem to think I need, one has to question whether I really have a clue about what is important in life. Granted, the non-necessities that I am transfixed on this week can be easily translated into realistic needs - like jeans for Josh, since he has only 1.5 pairs now that are not completely missing their crotches, and a pair of boots to wear at work that have air cushioned soles (yes. ok. they are doc martens.) and would REALLY help my back. I actually have an entire wardrobe picked out for Josh, including hybrid shorts (in case you didn't know, Nike bought out Hurley and makes Dryfit hybrid shorts that are AWESOME for golf/beach/date night... whatever) Sanuks, jeans and a couple of t-shirts that he will look um - YUMMY in. This is hard, because my paycheck tomorrow is already slated to cover a Scentsy order that will pay back within the next couple of weeks, meals in Hood River next week (which will be reimbursed eventually) and a small pile of treasures back at Pendleton that are quietly, pervasively calling my name... Oh yeah, and an overdue phone bill. Blast. Priorities really suck. Priorities like food and gas and a working telephone for children who are stranded at track meets to call you on. And wine. There is always the basal need of wine. Luckily, I found Rex Goliath Free Range Red at Food-4-Less tonight for $3.98 a bottle. It helps settle the necessity vs. luxury issue when necessities like wine are so reasonably acquired. Now to get ultra bulk discounts on tampax, ibuprofen and peanut butter.
But now, since I have polished off my first bottle of Free Range Red and I am not even in sweatpants, I need to remedy this plight and get on with living my life tonight - which involves another bottle of wine, a million Dagny kisses, relocating a squeaky pig and maybe slide tackling my neglectful husband who has replaced me with a new MacBook and a paint sprayer. For the record I already had a prolonged conversation with a hyper-emotional 15 year old, put curlers in a (finally showered) 9 year old's hair, forgave the 13 year old for using salt instead of sugar in her latest chocolate chip cookie attempt and thereby wasting the last of the chocolate chips, and allowed the 16 year old to escape to a high school talent show without doing her chores. I also made pork fried rice and cheater egg rolls (costco freezer style) for dinner which won me accolades near and far, even if it was at 7 o'clock, since I had to race to Irish Dance class directly after work. Tonight feels like Friday night, partially because I have had a whole bottle of wine and partially because I don't have to work until 4 pm tomorrow. I almost have guilt about this. The work part, not the wine. It's only $3.98 a bottle. I think I will have another. And get on with this living thing...
All that aside, I guess I am enjoying my non-life. I like my new job and the challenge it provides me on many levels. Working for commissions gives me the chance that I have been missing to determine my own reward for the hours I put in. It requires me to be proactive and assertive about my place in the store, and with my teammates. I think it's a little funny that we are called teammates in a competitive setting where assisting another player to a win results in lost commissions for ones self... Even so, the people I work with seem to have a good handle on personal proactivity and relationship preservation. It will be interesting to see things unfold at this job. I am enjoying it now, and will ride that wave as long as it will carry me. For a minute, having two little teeny weeny paychecks almost makes up for having no life, until I calculate that the paychecks combined equal less than my phone bill or my car payment or the last outfit I bought at work... dang it.
I definitely am feeling the lack of depth to my existence these days. Feeling out of touch with the facebook world, which, for better or worse, might be the best representation of a social life that I have. I don't have time to sit and drink coffee and think of profound things to blather about, which makes me feel like I am missing out on something important in my life. As if anything I have to say is really vital to the race of mankind. Isn't it strange in our world how the things that "matter" can also be the things that really tear you away from the things that actually mean something. My whole life I have rebelled against the wife-and-mother death sentence that was pressed upon me from my most formative years. Now I find myself in a quandary between fulfilling (and somewhat happily) this long-rejected role, and kicking and screaming my way to pseudo-independence with my pitiful jobs and stubborn need to convince myself, if no-one else, that I am self-sufficient. It's really quite funny when I step back and look at the fact that my employment has never accomplished any more than justifying my shopping habits, and without the financial support of my Devoted Husband, my children would be starving and homeless. God knows their own father doesn't chip in enough to cover the toilet paper and maxi pads they go through. All of my prideful pretenses about being self-sufficient are nothing more than a cover for the hours I work to make just enough to cover my own expenditures on non-necessities. To admit this is painfully humbling. God forbid Josh ever read this. I want to help, really I do. But I also want to buy things. I want to justify my buying with my hard work, but when my hard work barely produces enough hourly to cover the non-necessities that I seem to think I need, one has to question whether I really have a clue about what is important in life. Granted, the non-necessities that I am transfixed on this week can be easily translated into realistic needs - like jeans for Josh, since he has only 1.5 pairs now that are not completely missing their crotches, and a pair of boots to wear at work that have air cushioned soles (yes. ok. they are doc martens.) and would REALLY help my back. I actually have an entire wardrobe picked out for Josh, including hybrid shorts (in case you didn't know, Nike bought out Hurley and makes Dryfit hybrid shorts that are AWESOME for golf/beach/date night... whatever) Sanuks, jeans and a couple of t-shirts that he will look um - YUMMY in. This is hard, because my paycheck tomorrow is already slated to cover a Scentsy order that will pay back within the next couple of weeks, meals in Hood River next week (which will be reimbursed eventually) and a small pile of treasures back at Pendleton that are quietly, pervasively calling my name... Oh yeah, and an overdue phone bill. Blast. Priorities really suck. Priorities like food and gas and a working telephone for children who are stranded at track meets to call you on. And wine. There is always the basal need of wine. Luckily, I found Rex Goliath Free Range Red at Food-4-Less tonight for $3.98 a bottle. It helps settle the necessity vs. luxury issue when necessities like wine are so reasonably acquired. Now to get ultra bulk discounts on tampax, ibuprofen and peanut butter.
But now, since I have polished off my first bottle of Free Range Red and I am not even in sweatpants, I need to remedy this plight and get on with living my life tonight - which involves another bottle of wine, a million Dagny kisses, relocating a squeaky pig and maybe slide tackling my neglectful husband who has replaced me with a new MacBook and a paint sprayer. For the record I already had a prolonged conversation with a hyper-emotional 15 year old, put curlers in a (finally showered) 9 year old's hair, forgave the 13 year old for using salt instead of sugar in her latest chocolate chip cookie attempt and thereby wasting the last of the chocolate chips, and allowed the 16 year old to escape to a high school talent show without doing her chores. I also made pork fried rice and cheater egg rolls (costco freezer style) for dinner which won me accolades near and far, even if it was at 7 o'clock, since I had to race to Irish Dance class directly after work. Tonight feels like Friday night, partially because I have had a whole bottle of wine and partially because I don't have to work until 4 pm tomorrow. I almost have guilt about this. The work part, not the wine. It's only $3.98 a bottle. I think I will have another. And get on with this living thing...
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