Things About Dogsitting

Top Ten Reasons That Dogsitting is Better Than Having Kids:

10) Dogs are cuter. They can't help it. Even with runny noses, weird coughs and strange skin conditions, dogs are cuter.

9) You don't have unrealistic expectations that dogs will clean up behind themselves or help around the house with chores like dishes, laundry, etc, therefore, you live with much less disappointment and frustration.

8) Dogs are excited for EVERY bedtime and EVERY meal. No complaining. No arguing. Just pure, unadulterated excitement.

7) They don't interrupt your show. Or your book, or your sleeping in - ok, maybe this happens sometimes, but rarely.

6) They don't make the toilet overflow. If anything, dogs keep that water level DOWN.

5) Dogs, even visiting ones, are much better at expressing unconditional love and adoration than any kid I have met. Total self esteem booster.

4) Dogs don't have unrealistic expectations on you to drive them to various events, cook gourmet meals for them to complain about or buy them expensive things.

3) If you tell them to get off the couch, they don't get all butt hurt and not speak to you for three days. Ok, some dogs do this, but they bounce back much quicker than kids who expect couch space.

2) Dogs are blissfully unaware of your shortcomings as a human. They will not point out how fat you are, how terrible your apparel choices are, or how embarrassing you might be to them.

1) If you do a good job (which essentially means keeping the dogs alive) the owners bring you boxes of wine and giant bottles of Fireball. No kid has EVER provided such a kickback.

Authors note: I currently have 3.5 teenage girls available for rescue and/or adoption. They are adept at throwing fits, clogging toilets and being mean.

I am keeping the non-resident 18 year old child who occasionally makes a selfless choice which remind me that someday, all of this might be worth it.

Things About Writing

I know I have a lot to learn. I know I am far from a great writer. In fact, I can make a list of the things that I need to work on:

1) Focus and organization. I mean, my blog is all over the place. One day it's about rebellious teenagers and the next day it's about macaroni and cheese. What the heck? Can't I pick a subject and stick with it? I know some readers have expressed surprise that my blog "didn't go the direction they had anticipated". Which is really interesting, since it never goes the way I anticipate. But it would be hard to do so since I have never really anticipated it going any real direction. This is one of my weaknesses. If I was more focused and organized, I could have a foodie blog. Or a beer blog. Or a mommy blog, since I think a lot of people would like to lump me into the "mommy blogger" category. I am reluctant to commit to this, due to the fact that I am more or less a terrible mommy (see this blog) and I would rather be lumped into some category like "cool blogger" or "totally rad blogger". But I am a mommy, and I am a blogger, so apparently....

2) Writing less about alcohol. Or mentioning it less. Or drinking it less. I am not sure which of those would really work out IRL. (that's cool talk for in real life, in case you weren't sure.)

3) Following conventional writing rules. I have been told that my writing is missing dashes. A lot of dashes. And then sometimes, when I'm all "you-have-no-idea-how-frustrating-it-is-to-type-dashes" as such,  then I think you understand why. Sometimes the dashes just go without saying.

4) Going along with #1 and having more technical adherence to my writing style, as in, Mrs. Black's rubric for the five paragraph essay type stuff... I know that from paragraph A to paragraph P I tend to circumnavigate my creative theme, if I even have a theme.

5) Being less long winded. I have heard that my blogs are sometimes long and the reader might get bored and trail off. You'd think that my unpredictable writing direction would keep you interested. Jeeze.

6) Not having kids overflow the toilet every time I try to sit down to write. This really affects the focus and organization I don't have. Not to mention necessitating the frequent mention and/or use of alcohol.

(No, but really. That just happened. I just mopped up gallons of dirty toilet water with towels that just came out of the wash from the last catastrophic toilet event. Thankfully we hadn't gone to the trouble to fold them or put them away. Because then I would have cried. Clearly we need to discuss what does and DOES NOT go down the toilet. I think they're trying to flush the puppy sized spiders or dirty underwear or something. Or at least my washcloths that have all gone missing. Now my coffee is cold and I can't remember what I was saying. And I am pretty sure there is still toilet water on my feet. Which I am choosing to ignore. At least this time I had already ripped the carpet out of my bedroom so the flood just soaked into disgusting bare subfloor.) That was an extremely long parenthetical phrase.

Anyway, all of these grevious weaknesses lead me to one thing: I need help. In fact, I might need Way More Help very soon, and not just with my plumbing - I have an interview with a "newspaper" next week (ominous music in the background [Michael Jackson's Thriller is on]). But all of that question mark riddled suspense aside, I have an opportunity to go to a writer's retreat with a Way More Succesful than me mommy blogger who is intensely hilarious, and more importantly, she's bringing Smart Friends. Who know stuff about writing. The only catch is that the retreat costs some money, which should probably go to taking care of my power bill, etc. A friend of mine suggested that I ask for sponsorships. Which I feel like a schmuck doing. But maybe if someone rich and powerful, or several poor, powerless people, out there likes something I write,  but would like to see me write better, or maybe even someday get published, here is your opportunity to support me anonymously. (Don't worry, I won't tell.)

The retreat itself will cost $350. That covers my food, lodging, instruction and one solo session with a writing professor for Real Help. Gas to get there would be $266 more, since it's a five hundred mile drive (one way). It runs Thurs- Sun May14-17, 2015, but I have to pay now (I have an invoice waiting for me at PayPal). Here is the link so you can see how awesome this would be for me:

The Magic In The Mess

If something moves you, maybe pity, or desperation, or just the incentive to get me to go away for a few days and leave you in peace, you can send contributions to my account at GoFundMe,  just put in the comments or somewhere that it's for the writer's retreat, and not a new pair of Uggs or something, so I'll know. (I will take donations for the Uggs too. ) I will also accept cash, checks, Canadian Money, Monopoly Money, gas cards, bags of recyclable plastic bottles and postage stamps (these go for a lot on the black market).

I hope this posts contains enough grammatical errors to make you realize how badly I need this retreat. And not just for the wine and zumba, although they will help. I signed up for a top bunk suite, which means I will share a room with somebody at least as cool as me, but I have to remember how to get up on to a top bunk. I will start practicing now.

Thank you in advance for your support. I promise I will let you down less frequently in the future.

Things About Sweatpants: A really bad research paper done in one hour

How Soon Is Too Soon For Sweatpants?

by: Livia Stecker

Popular culture is overrun with references to the socially acceptable hour to begin consuming alcohol. Jimmy Buffet lends Country Legend Alan Jackson some aid in the quickly established mantra of alcoholics across the world in his ode to early drinking: It's Five O'clock Somewhere. Whether five in the evening, or the broadly established noon hour should be considered the norm for drinking commencement, it strikes me as particularly neglectful on behalf of society that we have yet to examine the equally critical issue of what time of day is appropriate for donning sweat pants. To examine this oft-ignored social question, we must first break it down into the three separate issues it creates. First: is the dilemma arising because the sweatpants in question are actually still on from the night before? Second: Are the sweatpants in question stylish/sexy and or passable for public activities? And third, but most critical, what events precipitate the necessity for early accouterment of aforementioned sweatpants?

When examining the first question raised by mid-day sweatpants wearing, we have to consider the demographic breakdown of our audience. Assuming that we are discussing neither morbidly obese redneck men, or young athletic professional men, or any men at all, other than Marky Mark or Colin 

graphic 1.0hhhhhh

Farrell (see graphic 1.0), it is safe to say that we are targeting women of all ages with a variety of issues to deal with on a given day. This brings rise to the discussion of whether or not the sweatpants that we are considering have been on since last night, or sometime in the previous week. If this is the case, we have to refer to the fourth paragraph of this essay to establish crises criterion with which to establish a baseline of long-term sweatpants wearing acceptability. Say for instance, your dog died last week. Obviously you haven't recovered from the trauma enough to have been able to change your clothes at any point. But this will be examined further in a later paragraph. Assuming no Major Catastrophe has befallen you, if the sweatpants in question have been worn since the previous evening or earlier, the move to change and/or upgrade to denim is based entirely upon the time of day that one enters into this decision making process. For example, if the question of changing clothes comes up sometime before noon or one o'clock PM, it's safe to say you may have a few successful denim wearing hours in the day. If this thought is not broached until after one in the afternoon, then dressing up is a foolhardy exercise in extra laundry inefficiency. The social justification for early-to-late sweatpants transition is far reaching and easily understood by everyone that matters, which is to say, all of the cool kids. (Echosmith, 2014)

Secondly, most of this debate is quelled with the answer to one simple inquiry: What Kind Of Sweatpants? Thanks to Jessica Simpson, circa 2004, when she was almost cool for a minute, if you had cable (In Review, 2004) (this is before the catastrophic Chicken of the Sea comment...), any sweatpants made by Victoria's Secret double successfully as sexy day wear. Just ask Mariah Carey, Jennifer Lopez, Meg Ryan, and all of your other high-fashion icons - slap a PINK! on it, and you're good to go. Hard Tail knits, Juicy Couture's remix of high-end velour track suits, and more recently (as in 5 years ago), Vanessa Hudgens sporting the Gypsy 05 sweats, are also emerging fixtures in the crossover world of lounge to party. Flo Rida and T-Pain give a nod to the "baggy sweat pants" in the '07 hit, Low (FloRida, 2007), giving instant justification to millions of stay at home booty shakers. That these events transpired more than five years ago is no reason to question the viability of acceptable daytime sweats everywhere, given the right label. More recent evolutions of the yoga pant to include demon-like 5 pocket styles and narrow bootcuts like a dressy pair of slacks, are a welcome edition to the  repertoire of almost-pajamas that qualify as day wear. Emergent brands like Athleta and LuLuLemon are fabulous examples of this trend. Yoga pants and the theme they present really belong to a separate classification which should be examined in a later essay.

The third and arguably most poignant question which keeps the answer to this puzzle shrouded in cloudy mystery, is that of motivation. Why are the sweatpants to be worn? What is the compelling factor in the acquirement of sweatpants early in the day? As we mentioned before, an emotional trauma such as the death of a dog, the loss of a job, the toilet overflowing, or the mechanical failure of a washing machine are all reasonable justifications for long term sweatpants wearing. But finding the appropriate rationale for day to day early sweatpants wearing can be somewhat more tricky, especially if one is expected to work or perform on a semiprofessional level at any point before traditional bed times and/or workouts. There are a few exclusionary situations that qualify for rapid sweatpant admission without question. These include but are not limited to: being on one's menstrual period, PreMS, or PostMS, recent unplanned weight gain and/or having a child any time within the last ten years. Other unforeseen factors, such as relationship ebbs and flows, misbehaving children, and general bad moods can easily be translated into solid justification with little to no argument, depending on the value one's spouse/parent/living partner puts on his/her own life. 

In conclusion, it is my personal experience that there are very few, if any, hours in the day that are exclusive of acceptable sweatpants wearing. Social settings, emotional events and demographic information notwithstanding, there is a reasonable argument for the propriety of sweatpants in most situations. How long a pair of sweatpants is worn acceptably is based entirely upon the surrounding circumstances and appropriateness of intimate support and/or antagonism from those closest to the wearer. The style, brand and appearance of sweatpants, with the advent of fashion forward lounge wear, becomes less of an issue than the Hanes Her Way quandary of the late 90s (I'm Sorry, 1995), when sweatpants in a nightclub would have been social suicide. And at the bottom of it all, the directing motivation for the wearing of sweatpants at questionable hours of the day is really the deciding factor in whether it is "OK" or if denim should actually be considered. Sweatpants have come a long way from the draw string gym pants of the 1950s (Steve McQueen, 19RAD )that some brilliant housewife thought to steal from her jock husband. The evolution socially, fashionably, and functionally of sweatpants cannot be understated for the frustrated woman who can only get her jeans zipped on six days of an average month. There is a time, and a place, for sweatpants, and the for daughters of this millennium, that time is all the time, and that place is everywhere. 

Things About Mothering

I have been in this game for more than 18 years. In any other profession, I would be on the downhill slide towards retirement, and considered by most to be a relative expert in my field. But this is mothering, folks, and just when you think you've got it all figured out, those darn kids slip you a curve ball and you're caught with your pants down. Or off completely.

Last week I was starting to get a little bit too comfortable with my "success" as a mother. My oldest daughter who is now at college texts me for advice, which means I still hold some sway in her opinion, and my other three were mostly speaking to me. All of this winning was just a few blissfully unaware hours before I lost control of the G6 seventeen-year-old rocking the current exchange students, and infectious disease began running rampant in my house along with a  river of poop. Real poop. Believe it or not, none of these three are connected. Just separate ongoing episodes of terror. All unrelated, but all intent on reducing me to a quivering mass of useless parenthood.

In addition to being completely unable to correctly diagnose, treat or make disappear the weird rash on Aspen's forehead, I lost MacKenzie to an outbreak of Total Insolence and Blatant Disobedience this weekend, garnished by the unabated overflow of a toilet that nobody admits to pooping in. I am pretty sure the guilty depositor is also the mysterious nobody who leaves their feminine hygiene garbage lying around the bathroom to welcome me awake in the morning. I think this is what they mean when they say boys are easier than girls to raise. Well, this and the screaming, crying, cursing fights and monologues that happen daily here.

In the wake of all of this catastrophe, when Halle texted me last night for more social advice, which apparently I am an expert in, being so successful in my own social life, I ignored her. In my defense, it was the middle of the night, which for college students is about 3 AM but for me has been surfacing around 10:30. To make amends for my neglectfulness, as well as the recent uncovering that I have deprived my children of the unknown Joys Of Cuddling for the last 18 years, I am putting together a care package for Halle consisting of Candy Corn and Hi-Chew. Which is clearly the way to a college freshman's heart.

My solution to the adamant rebellion of MacKenzie is to first enlist the help of her father, which results in her convincing him that I am being irrational by requiring her to provide information about her whereabouts and proof of adult supervision, so then my secondary recourse is to just quit speaking to her and shoot eye daggers at frequent intervals. Because that's totally gonna fix it. In case you haven't noticed, punishing a teenager is much more difficult than one would think. If I take away sports, she doesn't graduate, and I am faced with another school year of rebellion. If I take away her phone, she uses someone else's. If I take away her job, there's a good chance she will never move out. Really every conceivable consequence is actually more punishment for me in the long run. And she knows it. That's the worst part.

My only hope is that Natalee and Aspen and Uyen (who is known and loved by all as Wynn, these days) catch the crossfire of the eye daggers and learn from the many and grevious mistakes of their older reprobate sister.

All of this has convicted me of my own insufficiencies as a parent and as an adult, a point never contended by me, but a sad fact for the casualties of my efforts.

In conclusion, Aspen's forehead rash is running amok, Halle is probably facing social demise, and MacKenzie is going to turn up with face tattoos and her own liquor cabinet soon, as a tribute to my Mad Mothering Skillz. It's all in a day's work, my friends. Or two decades. Whichever.

Things About Planning

 My mom and my younger (but much more mature) sister are all about spreadsheets. They really are master planners, whether it's homeschooling a half dozen kids or The Most Epic Trip To Disneyworld Ever, as far as planning goes, they've got it dialed in. Me, I'm more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-whatever-pants I may or may not be wearing (you can see there where I got tired of dashes) type of a planner, which is to say, not much of a planner at all. But today, y'all, I have to say, I think I've outdone even myself in the planning/not planning department. And as a tribute for the rip-roaring success I have found, I'm gonna lay it all out for you in twelve easy steps. Ready? 

1) Unrealistic Optimism. I have found this character trait to be the primary necessity when planning any family-style event. First you have to picture your ideal. You know, that 8 hour road trip when everyone is singing perfect harmonius rounds of Michael Row The Boat and all of The Alleluias sound angelic. Then add to it. It in this case, 17 people carving pumpkins merrily around a bonfire in the waning gray of a sweet smelling autumn evening while the auburn leaves float gently down around our laughing shoulders. 

2) Involve as many people as possible. Always plan on family, extended family, the rebellious teenager from down the street, two adopted kids and the special ed student who found out you live within bicycling distance of his weekend abode. Not to mention dogs. 

3) Don't sweat the small stuff. Like whether the propane tank for your barbeque is filled, or how many fallen leaves might suffocate your serene bonfire, or if a bonfire with 11 elementary aged children, combined with a minimum of 37 pumpkin carving knives, is even a good idea. These details have a way of sorting themselves out. 

4) Alcohol

5) Stage at least three major emergencies. This aura of panic lends itself to an atmosphere of relief when dealing with minor injuries such as roasting stick gouge wounds, carving knife lacerations and small burns to ten or twelve fingers. My standby favorites emergencies for this include (but not limited to): neighborhood dog (or cat) attacks, empty propane tanks and an overflowing toiletful of poop. 

(Note: this one is only useful if one of the invited extended family members has the presence of mind to turn off the poop covered toilet valve that you're too disgusted to touch.) 

6) Alcohol

7) Get inexpensive food to feed the kids. This provides a great opportunity for parental guilt when you're doling out Foster Farms "blended meat" hot dogs and all of the kids make a scene about the gourmet beer boiled brats that they would much prefer. Over the years this strategy has given me the side perk of developing a taste for raw Foster Farms hot dogs, and ultimately saves my grocery budget. 

8) Leave the kids unattended as much as possible. Kids will be kids, right? And I'm sure the "oldest" ones are looking out for the youngers, even if the age difference is a mere 7 months. And who can't learn a valuable lesson from roasting stick gouges and carving knife lacerations? 

9) Alcohol 

10) Paper plates and plastic cups. These make EXCELLENT festive decorations alongside the six dozen glasses, 37 regular plates and 97 bowls that people had to scrounge for to save the environment and the stack of disposable tableware present. I'm proud of our social awareness. 

Note: dish washing party at my house tomorrow

11) Lots of food. I'm getting better about outsourcing and potlucking. Gone are the days of solo hosting. Plan on feeding at least twice as many people as you intended, plus several dogs, a small hole in the front yard that mysteriously swallows whole packages of hot dogs, and the fire itself, which has a voracious appetite. 

12) Alcohol. And love. Always remember that these are the memories that stick. Ankle deep in somebody else's poop, blowing into a faceful of leaf smoke, and lighting your hand on fire inside of a acetone soaked pumpkin (don't ask...).

But seriously. These are the nights we remember. Not the perfect awards ceremonies and the flawless executions of holiday rhetoric. It's the (literal) crap that we face in the midst of the joy, or vise-verse, that makes family family, and life good, and me thankful. 

Things That Are Contagious

Here's the thing: pretty much if you spend enough time thinking about, talking about, researching and worrying about a given illness, you can manifest the symptoms if you want to. Which is why most of my children are convinced that they have Ebola right now. Obviously they don't, but the things they do have are enough to make me quarantine the whole house and become a manic OCD cleaner sometime tomorrow after I wake up and have coffee.

A few days ago Aspen casually remarked how she had some sort of a bug bite or something on her forehead that was itchy and very annoying. Being the good mother that I am, I told her to take a benadryl and go to bed without even looking at it. The next day she said it was even more annoying and it hurt, and I told her to take a tylenol and go to bed again, because I am a REALLY good mom. Today when she said it both hurt and itched and the annoying factor was on overdrive, I finally decided I had the time and courage to look at it, and I really wish I hadn't. At this point I am fairly certain that she has leprosy. Or maybe Shingles. Which would make sense since I had a friend here the other day who had shingles and even though they were never even in the same room together, somehow, it mutated into an airborne virus and squirreled it's way around the rest of us and onto Aspen. But if it's leprosy, that would make sense too, since my parents are visiting and we reserve those times for the presentation of All of The Worst Possible Illnesses To Be Shared Among Family. 

Being an extra good mother, I started googling this very scary looking rash type sore on my child's forehead, and since my good buddy has had a massive infestation of spiders that could double as lap dogs, it seemed reasonable to start with spider bites. This resulted in the discovery of the recent death of a 10 year old boy in Montana from a spider bite. On his leg. That killed him. Dead. Whatever we are dealing with here is apparently lethal. I couldn't quite process this whole idea so I skipped to some lighter reading about Poison Oak and other common childhood illnesses that include coughing, snuffling, and Really Gross Scary Rash Type Things. By the time I was done and had eliminated all of the possibilities except A) leprosy, B) Spider Bites and C) Ebola, all I could think to do was to watch the Walking Dead and wish for a zombie apocalypse. Because then I would know what to do. I have taken the Facebook quiz like 8 times, just to be sure, and my survival is not in question. But rashes? Coughs? GIANT HAIRY SPIDERS WITH DEEP VOICES AND EYE CONTACT? I can't deal, y'all. 

Because I couldn't send the airborne-sightborne-thoughtborne viral rash to bed without some treatment, I had to collect myself enough to take inventory of the interventions that I could perform as a poorly equipped wildland EMT with 37 boxes of fix-it gear piled in my dining room. We started with a shower, when it could not be determined when she had last bathed, if ever at all. After that I whipped out a $75 tube of Zanfel and treated the potential crap out of the potential poison oak. Then we assaulted it with hydrogen peroxide while Aspen spoke tersely of stinging fizz and gritted her teeth. Because I was still paranoid, we hit it with some alcohol swabs (which induced more teeth grinding and scrunched faces) and triple antibiotic ointment, washed bedding, quarantined a suspect pillow pet (these have been known to carry numerous childhood killers) and covered the offending rash to avoid contact with anyone or anything. Aspen went to bed with a forehead bandage the size of a Hershey Bar and of course her sisters are now petrified of catching Ebola from her. Because that's what bandaids mean here. 

Even after all of that I sit here, every molecule of my body itching and reacting to the deadly, undiagnosed virus seeping into the whole house from upstairs. Because we catch things by osmosis in this family. It's how we roll. Like my throbbing feet that only hurt because my buddy has all these bone spurs and bunions and is about to have foot surgery. So I am sharing in her pain with her. Now that I know foot pain is a thing. I can acknowledge it and become part of the pain with her. I hope that means I get to share in the post op pain killers too...

Although with Aspen's forehead there is no doubt in my mind that it came from her dad's house. Because that's where anything we can't explain, justify, escape, or just don't like, comes from. I will go to bed dreaming of Dagny sized spiders and flesh eating bacteria. Again, I will take Zombies ANY day. Already this week we've missed a day of school for coughing and a half day for a dentist visit, which I still haven't heard the results of, since the only thing she remembered him saying was that the culprit tooth was a baby tooth and she should wiggle it more. Another thing to blame on dad, since he took her to the dentist and hasn't reported back yet. I would assume the dentist told him more than to wiggle her remaining baby teeth. But who knows. Maybe all the teeth gritting activities of the evening helped loosen the offensive baby teeth. Maybe the Ebola-Leprosy rash is related to the teeth. Maybe it's just a little spot of poison oak and I should just quit freaking out for a minute. But where's the fun in that? Or the justification to find safety in the remaining Netflix episodes of Walking Dead, and drink medicine out of a stubby brown bottle labeled Session Lager? 

If anybody is bored tomorrow, after we get back from the ER we'll be sanitizing the house with rubbing alcohol and a blowtorch. Feel free to stop by. 

Things About (Bad) Driving

Dear Friendly Car Insurance Company:

Recently, you sent me a thing-a-ma-jiggy to install in my car that would track my driving habits and potentially qualify me for a reduced insurance rate on my car.

Before you render judgment based on the feedback you receive from this gizmo, I feel that I should be allowed a chance to explain what you are probably seeing on my report.

First of all, you will notice a nine-hour period of driving on a recent Friday that contains numerous hard stops and sudden accelerations. I would like to point out that my oldest daughter is learning to drive, and given the size of my engine and excellent working condition of my brakes, that day when I let her drive all the way to Bend really shouldn't be counted against me. The times when the vehicle exceeded 90 miles an hour were her well meant passing trials, during which I may or may not have been unconscious in paralyzing fear. I feel the wear and tear to my tires and the amount of rubber we left at the launch of every stop we made is more than enough to pay for her driving education, and my insurance rates shouldn't reflect this learning experience.

Also, regarding the recent Tuesday morning when I am sure you noticed a particularly sudden stop, it was only because I had missed the turn to the closest Dutch Bros, and even you would have to admit that locking them up was a better option than an illegal u-turn at a busy intersection.

In the driving hours clocked after 2 AM, I would like to submit for your consideration that while many people drive at this time inebriated, or at least suffering from sleep deprivation, my own road hours were clocked in an attempt to avoid driving with a car full of awake children. This is a specialized tactic in travel safety, reducing in-vehicle distractions and avoiding the well known swerve-while-swatting-blindly into the backseat to separate fighting kids that is a continuous daytime driving hazard.

Please also remember that while traveling 12,000 miles in a month and a half might seem excessive on an average scale, I live in a very remote location, requiring a lengthy commute to groceries, irish dance lessons, doctors visits, family weddings, various sporting events, counseling sessions and of course beer runs. I would like it noted to my record that I have maintained religiously, the three thousand mile oil change regimen at a variety of northwest Oil Can Henry locations, since I don't have to get out of my car and they give me a free newspaper and pretend to like me (shout out to Carlos in Walla Walla!)

In regards to the Saturday before last, my sister drove my car, and I don't feel that I should be held responsible for her poor driving choices, lack of seatbelt wearing, or the cookies she spun in the walmart parking lot.

Finally, I know that on Friday of last week you will see another series of fast takeoffs and urgent stops, as well as that one time when I drove for about 6 miles with my emergency brake on. In this situation I had visited British Columbia and was confused by all of the road signs which are posted in Canadian.

I appreciate the time and consideration that I am sure you will give my appeal, and the adjustments you make to my policy accordingly. I know that you appreciate fastidious clients like myself who are also good communicators.

Sincerely,

Liv

Things About My Life Right Now

I am going to work in three hours. It's 9:17 PM. You do the math. But somebody offered me good money to go to work at midnight, and far be it from me to shun the almighty dollar. I should be sleeping right now. But I have been trying to put the kids in bed and they think I am nuts for insisting that Everyone Go To Bed Early two nights in a row.

But that's how it is with teenagers. They all have opinions. They think they know stuff. Like when is a good time to go to bed. And they all want to hang out and watch TV shows with me. When clearly it is MY time to be by myself with my TV shows. When did they stop being 8 years old with early bedtimes and no viable opinions? And when did I start buying cars and iPhones and grown-up things for MY KIDS? Something is terribly wrong with this picture. How can a person who can't grow up possibly raise grown up children? It just doesn't work. Already I am playing out in my head the scenarios where I take my kids out to dinner, like my parents take me out, and they insist on paying. But here I am thinking - wow - now that their 18 I don't have to pay any more, right? Wrong. You never stop being a parent. Not ever. No matter how old and/or irresponsible your children get. My parents could speak to that one.

As one would expect, in a household of girls, and mostly teenagers, a day rarely goes by that isn't fraught with emotional turmoil and several crises of massive proportions, like a misplaced aqua flat, or someone having someone else's favorite shirt in their drawer, or somebody listening to headphones Way Too Loud. And always, of course, Doing It On Purpose.

A few weeks ago, on a particularly emotionally charged day, which may or may not have been a day when I Sincerely Wanted To Put My Children Up For Adoption, my sister went somewhere fun without me, maybe a thrift store or a yard sale, I am not sure, and she found a couple of adorable vintage tablecloths. Knowing that I was having a bad day, and knowing that she possessed one of the Only Known Cures for a bad day (i.e a vintage table cloth), she delivered it to my house post haste.

The thing about a vintage table cloth is that when you put it on a table, no matter how battered or ugly or even dirty the table is, suddenly All Is Right in the world around that table. There is happiness and joy and order. People smile. Because how can you not smile around a vintage table cloth? Maybe it's because it represents a better time, when priorities had to do with things bigger than missing shoes and noisy earbuds. Maybe it's because it ties us back to growing up and all of the people we love and the values that we adhere to. Maybe it's because all of the merry color overpowers the gloom of selfish fits and petty arguments. Or maybe it's just that it functions like a bandaid to cover the ugliness of day to day junk.

I could use a bandaid today. To cover a whole lot of fail. As a mom, as a person - a bright little tablecloth might have helped. Except it's lost. Somehow it got put away somewhere Very Safe, where no one will probably ever find it again. No bandaids for me. Just have to go on with all of my ugly showing. I guess that's why they make wine. So at least I won't notice so much. And dogs, who love you unconditionally, even when you are a jerk. Teenagers tend to tell you when you're being a jerk. And apparently I am being a jerk a lot of the time, because they tell me so. But not the dogs. Or the wine. They both treat me with unconditional devotion and care. Until I find the tablecloth, I guess that will have to do.

Things About Sundays

Here it is, Sunday afternoon once again. Somehow it works out to be my day off more often than not, which shouldn't be surprising since there is no school (hence no work) and the restaurant is closed for dinner (again, hence no work). But it always takes me by surprise that I have absolutely nowhere that I need to be. More surprising is the complete lack of children altogether from my house. It makes for an eerily quiet afternoon.

Last night after work, and a long Ambulance drive out to the boondocks for a nothing call, I went to bed with noble aspirations of Getting All Of The Things done today. But I woke up with even stronger aspirations of Staying In Bed All Day. Luckily, the latter hopes were dashed by a giant black hairy horse-like beast howling on my front porch. How he got onto my front porch and why he was howling still remain mysteries to me, but I let him in and decided to worry about it all later. We are having a 7+ day sleepover party with two of our best dog friends, Charlie and Stella. It's going really well, other than the grouchy words exchanged periodically between Truck, who thinks his only mission in life is to sleep on the stairway landing and say grouchy things to other dogs, and Charlie, who is much younger, bigger and more confused about his only mission in life, but feels certain it has something to do with sitting on top of my vintage record player to watch out the window for his people.

 Stella is a small hairy mop-like object who likes Dagny Very Much, and the feeling seems to be mutual. Their favorite pastime is fighting like two tiny Big Horn Rams, rared up on their back feet and punching and biting with tiny paws and teeth. Dagny is at a serious disadvantage in this activity, as A) her legs are much shorter and her punching distance reduced, and B) every mouthful of Stella she manages to grab is always primarily hair. She holds her own though, and this goes on for hours. Usually until Truck says something mean to both of them and they decide to take a nap on the back of the couch together. The other favorite thing for both of the visiting dogs to do involves foraging for unknown and as yet, unlocated treasures in the flower bed outside and then bringing half of said flower bed into the house to show off. Other than Penny, who is too fat to jump over the flower bed edging, the other dogs are totally unimpressed. As though they have already found ALL of the treasures to be had in that flower bed, so who really cares. Stella is so proud of her dirt acquisitions, that as soon as I swept up two cups of dried mud and at least one Pekingese worth of dog hair in the living room, she had to run through it three times to keep some souvenirs. Truck gave her a dirty look and continued to shed actively on the couch. Dagny successfully taught Stella that unwashable Pendleton Wool blankets are the best ones for getting mud off of ones paws, as well as sticking unwanted fur to. They have had a good time redecorating my Acadia National Park Blanket, which is foolishly made of black wool. I am pretty sure I am ready to give up this fight until next spring, when all of the dogs will be banished to the outside. (famous and false last words)

In addition to this endless entertainment, I am absolutely transfixed by a mountain of clean laundry facing me on the other couch. I am sure you think that I exaggerate when I say mountain, but seriously. Ten loads of laundry barely fit on the full sized couch, piled at least 4 feet from the seat. It is a veritable mountain. One that requires folding. And sorting. This particular mountain however, is cause for celebration, since 48 hours ago, every single stitch of clothing was piled on the floor in "Aspen's room" which is the space of the house where all family members throw anything they don't want, don't claim or don't know what to do with, and then protest loudly about the youngest child's messiness. Some well meaning friends of sisters came in and "cleaned" "Aspen's room" which resulted in ten load of laundry consisting of every costume piece, long missing bath towel, matched pair of socks and rejected hand me down that has ever existed here. I am waiting until the kids get home tonight to fold and sort the mountain, which is the best excuse I can find to avoid doing it right now.

Sunday might be my favorite day, if I had TV to watch football on. And friends to drink beer with. But this weekend they all abandoned me. As if I were nothing to them. So for all I know the Broncos could be losing a tremendous battle with the NY Jets and I am not there to strengthen their morale. Instead, I am avoiding eye contact with a mountain of laundry and a very muddy black horse-like creature who is pretty sure he wants to sit in my lap. My only escape is in the kitchen, cleaning out a refrigerator that tells the sad tale of a mother never home at dinner. It is time for the weekly ritual of throwing away fruit fly infested apple crisp, moldy corn bread, vegetable soup that NO ONE will eat, and all of the remaining scraps of top ramen and macaroni and cheese that seem to be the only edible thing in the house if I am not cooking. I need to sponsor some starving children somewhere to compensate for all of this waste. It really irks me. Apparently I need to leave detailed notes telling the children to EAT THE CORN BREAD that was once moist and delicious. I guess it doesn't go well with top ramen and olives right out of the can. The one piece of chocolate raspberry truffle cake that accidentally came home with the groceries the other night will need to be dealt with as well. To avoid future temptation. I guess since it's Sunday it's up to me to do it.

Things About Fantasies

Disney really has nothing to do with the disillusionment I face in this very real and often sinister world. In fact, Disney has yet to produce a love story that makes me swoon, much less a prince that I would even consider pining for. For that matter, until Sleeping Beauty came along with the dashing Prince Philip, there wasn't a personality to be found among the heroes of the animated fairy tales. No, I cannot, in good faith, condemn the Walt Disney studios for designing the dream  world that would come crashing down around my nineteen-year-old ears. 

That responsibility falls entirely on the silver screen image of every debonaire, crooning, tap dancing, damsel-rescuing hero of the black and white films that I cut my teeth on. Gene Kelly led me to believe that there are men who can move like angels. Jimmy Stewart made me yearn for a puppy-doggish awkwardly adorable romantic that would give up his fondest dreams to protect me. And Frank Sinatra. The biggest devil of them all. Lulling me into the adamant belief that the words he crooned so sweetly, so easily into my ear were every one, heartfelt. Of course he would do anything for me. Of course I make his heart sing. Of course he'd never stray... That man MUST exist. And how sure I've been that I would find him, ambling down a sunny sidewalk in a cockeyed fedora, with that adorable glint in his eye and every intention of showering me with all of the Big Screen, John Wayne-Maureen O'Hara passion that I could handle. Complete with swept away kisses and starry eyed whisper-sung promises of forever. 

Instead I find myself morphing slowly into Buelah Bondi (with much worse cooking) in the version where George Bailey never existed. 

Lies, all of them. There are no Joe Bradys, no Mark MacPhersons, no Quirt Evans wandering the world in search of me. In fact - when it comes right down to it, they were all scoundrels in the first place. Delicious, enticing scoundrels; Requiring nearly as much rescuing as they offered - gamblers and outlaws and wolves. But such lovable ones. 

Really I'd be better off with Disney's original faceless Prince Charming. Safer. More predictable - happily ever aftering... And richer. 

But oh, the pinstripes and the promises that led me on the quest for my three piece clad antihero. My own Donald Lockwood to captivate - And Nathan Detroit to tame. Shame on me for not seeing them for the cads they always were, however handsome.

 No Disney, I do not owe my cynicism to the lofty ideals you bestowed upon recent generations. My pitfalls stem from a different era. One when a lovable bad guy or a troubled good guy really were the best you could do unless you wanted a Ward Cleaver, but that's just comedy. I learned that real love comes with a dark and mysterious side. Always the hint of a threat... Always a roll of the dice. 

And here I am. Like another cast off of the oft-married rat packers and silver screen showboats. But somehow, every time they start singing, Or glide across a set, Or draw a gun, mount a horse, prop their spit shined shoes up on a massive oak desk and light a cigar, I go all week in the knees again like an unteachable fool. I still believe in scoundrels. 

Things That I Am Sorry For

Yesterday I woke up with a head cold that I am fairly certain is trying to kill me. In fact, even though I had a quasi-job interview (that's a sort-of interview for a sort-of job) and ran a zillion errands in town, the only thing I really remember was the 15 minute nap I took in my car when I was waiting for a lady to buy some of my too-many pairs of shoes.

Being in a perpetual, possibly fever-induced fog like this has given me time to think about some of the things that I am (perhaps) doing wrong these days. The first one that stuck out to me like an arrow point right between my eyes was sending Aspen and the other girls to school mercilessly with this same head cold that has rendered me Absolutely Dysfunctional. What kind of a cruel person, lacking all empathy and understanding, would do that. Where were the Episodes of Five Mile Creek and the popsicles and hot tea and chicken soup? I am a jerk mother. That's just all there is to it. So I am sorry, kids. That I made you suffer through math and PE and even running hills in volleyball, feeling like a Yeti swallowed your entire head. I was wrong.

Also, my sister pointed out to me that I should probably quit writing blogs and write a book, after I pointed out to her that people keep thinking I am writing about them when I am not. If I write something negative or remotely connotative thereof, I know of at least Three People within my inner circle who will automatically assume it is about them and tell their henchmen so. Conversely, if it is shining praise and uber-niceties, an overlapping circle of three or four will assume that it is about them and that it is reverse-flattery, written with a stinging slap of self righteous judgment, which isn't usually true. I will say, to these 5-7 individuals, whom I May or May not be writing to/about, that when I am having a particularly hard time Processing Certain Things, I will write an oppositional view for myself. One about All of The Good Things that perhaps I am not feeling at the moment. I will write gratitude and appreciation to displace my frustration sometimes. Which I believe is a healthy way to deal with a bad attitude in myself. So to my fellow ego-centric readers out there: Sure, I am writing about you: IF THE SHOE FITS. If not, maybe I am ranting delusions on a fever ridden couch. But long story short, my intent is never to hurt or wound or insult or defame. I love you all. Even ex husbands. Mostly.

Another thing that I am sorry for is overcooking. Not in the sense of burning food. But in the sense of Way Too Many Leftovers and How Have I Still Not Figured Out That Three Little Girls Eat Nothing. I have thrown away so. much. food. lately. And it kills me. Every noodle and every leave of lettuce. I have to learn to cook for three people, because on average, that's what I am feeding. Or less. These teenage girls eat like birds and I am not sure that I have ever learned how to cook for less than 10 people. It's awful. The waste. Not to mention that anything I make industriously from scratch they turn their nose up at. If I kept a box of Lucky Charms on the counter continuously, I wouldn't ever have to worry about cooking again. So much for all of those Pinterest crock pot recipes. If there is enough food to cover the bottom of my enormous crock pot, I know I have cooked too much. It's sad really. I have all these lofty aspirations for fall recipes and deliciousness, dashed to bits by picky under eaters. Fine then... after our fourth "leftover night" of the week tonight, I will quit with the bulk healthy cooking and revert to boxed dinners and two portion meals. Because the only thing worse than wasting food is wasting Good Food.

And now I am going to take another nap, my third for the morning, and see if I can pull my head out of the Yeti's mouth. Maybe when I am lucid again I will write another blog, apologizing for this one. Probably.

Things I Can Brag About

I'm just gonna go right ahead and say it: I have THE best family. Not the "perfect family". Not the flawless, fight-less, infallible family, but I know with all certainty, the BEST family.

Last Sunday my younger brother got married to a girl that brought our family a lot of things that we were missing without even knowing it. Like MORE Courageous Honesty, a Masters Degree, and a Democrat. I love this girl. Almost as much as my brother does. And nothing could be cooler than all of us getting together for a party all about them, #benjamaia.

Actually, not true. Something WAS cooler - it was that we all got together and I stood back and watched my uber talented, totally dedicated, and completely selfless family pull off the coolest wedding I have ever seen. Every detail, and there were a lot - because Amaia is a detail person, was sewn up, often literally. It was gorgeous. Amaia did all of her own planning and arranging, from across the country, and delegated parts and pieces to my mom and sisters and aunt. And while they all got nods and thank yous and pats on the back while we were there basking in the glory, I couldn't get over how totally grateful I was to be related to these people.

I watched my Mom pull every little loophole taut and make things happen. All of the things. As if the cutting and sewing and cooking and shopping and decorating weren't enough, she had a spreadsheet for every moment of every event and somehow channeled my new sister's imagination through all of it. And I didn't see her lose it once, all weekend. She was composure and grace and stamina. She was the spine of the whole beautiful skeleton.

And my Dad. The faithful doer. Runner. Goer. Fixer. Make-it-happener. Never was there a better fall-back guy.

And my sister Em, with 37 little kids clamoring at her, sewed and cut and picked flowers and arranged flowers until the wee hours of every night we were there. She literally ran herself into the ground and earned a three day nap, which I am sure she didnt get, to create a spectacle that enthralled every guest.

And Phil. The understated brother in law. The quiet plodder in the background. I watched him lift and pack and clean and move and herd kids and run errands and figure stuff out when the rest of us were just done. Even after the wedding, he was the first one cleaning up and one of the very last to leave. And never a complaint. I have witnessed his gentle strength firsthand as he swooped in to pack me up and move me across the state more than one time. For not being born a Stecker, he sure makes his place indisputable.

Sanna pitched in. Picked up anything she could from mom. And Lindsey, creating and designing and printing and imagining all of the little details for the reception. And The Cousins. The Aunts. The Uncles. Throwing together a sweet rehearsal dinner because they could. Many creative and caring hands make light work. Even my own kids babysitting their cousins, albeit in a disorderly fashion - but nobody died. And some days, that's a lot. Especially when there are 15 kids in one hotel room along with pink and orange paint and a hot iron.

A lot of families do a lot of things. And you'd think, being people, being human, that in order to get along, we'd all have to be cut from the same cloth. But really, with similar roots, we've all grown up in a million different directions, living as many different ways from each other physically and philosophically, as you could dream up. And with all of that, and only a few little tense hiccups, we pulled it off again. One more notch in the memory belt of Feats We Have Accomplished because we can set aside Judgement, Hurt Feelings, Strong Opinions and even sometimes, Arguments, to make it all work out in the end.

I am proud of us - the people I am related to. We pretty much rock.

Things About Defrosting A Freezer. At Night. In the Dark.

Found out today that we have a cougar in our neighborhood. Obviously this is in addition to the middle aged female down the street who is dating high school boys. But this one is actually of the non-domesticated feline variety, with claws and big teeth and excellent vision in the dark.

So I decided at an extremely inopportune time of the day - right before I should have been feeding kids dinner and after rewarding myself for mowing the lawn with a beer - that the inevitable necessity of defrosting the chest freezer could be procrastinated no longer. Because 15 months of avoidance makes the next 12 hours IMPERITIVE in this process, apparently. I think it was a combination of the picturesque ice waterfall in the southwest corner of the freezer, and the fact that my freezer content is at an all time low, that made This Very Second the "right" and "necessary" time to undertake the ominous task.

Never mind that there is a MOUNTAIN LION living in those trees right behind me. Nevermind that I am piling three boxes of semi-frozen, raw and slightly freezer burned meet right here on my back porch. Never mind that it is Dark. And Very Dark, and Slightly Frightening Outside, and all of those things.

It took me three gallons of hot water to realize that while the beautiful ice sculpture was gradually shrinking, the plug in the bottom of the freezer, even when removed, led to absolutely no where, so every drop of water that went in combined with every crystal of ice that had lovingly developed to embrace the s-l-o-w-l-y decomposing food in the morgue of my kitchen, and none of it was coming out. I consulted with the semi-resident-semi-expert, i.e. my little sister, to confirm the fact that tipping a chest freezer on it it's side would A) upset the freon equilibrium and prolong the wildcat baiting experiment I was running and B) probably hurt my back and disrupt several GIANT spiders that I have no interest in knowing exist anywhere, let alone between my freezer and house. This left me with nothing to do but scoop water and ice, in much the same physical movement as that weird routine that the PE teacher made me do with one of my SPED kids and a medicine ball earlier today. Shoveling water isn't nearly as easy as it sounds. It's slippery stuff. It took a lot of coercing to get it corralled and shipped out, as well as two dirty dishrags and an old roll of paper towels that some rodent or angry wiener dog had chewed one end out of.

End of story is a successfully defrosted freezer, with no Cat Encounters, and a back patio that looks like someone plundered Arendelle and took all of the fun out of Queen Elsa's ice age. Plus a few bags of random unidentifiable substances that are probably better off luring Cougars in to the mountain of trash that I have NO IDEA what to do with than being consumed by human beings.

All of this, combined with mowing a yard that more closely resembled a jungle, earned me more than one beer. And that's not even counting the day I had at the the job that I quit several weeks ago. I will never understand how stupid around-the-house jobs like this don't burn more calories than running. It's a total racket. Also, on a related note, I am eternally grateful that my scale broke and my only choice now is to quit looking.

Now that the yard feels semi-managed and the freezer will close properly, I need to see about getting it back up on the covered porch where it was replaced by a house-sized table saw that I can neither move nor use. If you know of anybody who wants one.... My freezer needs to get out of the rain. And snow. I feel like there are half as many hours in the day for what I need to get done. Before winter hits. Slowly, painfully, I am chipping away at my list of junk to get done. Pounding on that ice waterfall with my BBQ utensils until it gave way was like a metaphor for my life right now. I don't have the right tools, but I will figure it out. Without upsetting the freon equilibrium or, Lord willing, getting eaten by a cougar. Really the motivating force was the buried hope that underneath all of that, somewhere, just maybe, there was a couple scoops of leftover double chocolate fudge brownie ice cream. But no joy. Here I sit with a glass anticlimactic water and a trio of exhausted dogs from working mountain lion and freezer scrap patrol.

So for future reference: when defrosting freezers, pick a time when you have more than an hour to kill, or if you drank a bunch of caffeine and can't sleep. Not on a night when you're being stalked by a huge cat AND you know that they're gonna call you in to work in SPED in the morning AND when you already did all that junk with a medicine ball earlier in the day.