Things About Judgement
Head Lice.
Misbehaving Kids.
Failed Marriage.
Weight Gain.
Alcohol.
Self Indulgence.
Poor Money Management.
Bad Taste In Men.
Spiritual Floundering.
The line gets blurry between what they (the outsiders) judge me for, and what I judge myself for. But there's always judgement, isn't there? And where it leaves off, guilt takes over. And there's always the "friend" that will gross out at your head lice instead of bringing the much needed wine. And there's always the family that knows that some things, you just can't control. But still, the judgement. And the guilt.
Part of me wants to crawl into a cave and hide. Part of me wants to give them the finger and leave a family of lice on their pillow. But the rest of me knows that I am just like them. Imperfect, slightly insane. Struggling to make it all work. The only difference is that I have a Moscow Mule in my hand, and I am just gonna shake it off... to annoy you.
Misbehaving Kids.
Failed Marriage.
Weight Gain.
Alcohol.
Self Indulgence.
Poor Money Management.
Bad Taste In Men.
Spiritual Floundering.
The line gets blurry between what they (the outsiders) judge me for, and what I judge myself for. But there's always judgement, isn't there? And where it leaves off, guilt takes over. And there's always the "friend" that will gross out at your head lice instead of bringing the much needed wine. And there's always the family that knows that some things, you just can't control. But still, the judgement. And the guilt.
Part of me wants to crawl into a cave and hide. Part of me wants to give them the finger and leave a family of lice on their pillow. But the rest of me knows that I am just like them. Imperfect, slightly insane. Struggling to make it all work. The only difference is that I have a Moscow Mule in my hand, and I am just gonna shake it off... to annoy you.
Things About Running Away
I'd had enough. Enough of the caterwauling. Enough yelling. Squealing. Snapping. Judging. Girls. Enough. I got up at 6:03 AM to go to Spokane so the doctor could tell me that my shoulder wouldn't get better unless I have a surgery that I don't have insurance for. And the girls. So many girls. Extra girls. I only had two with me, including a spare I borrowed. But I came home to two more. And shrieking. And giggling. And it just. Wouldn't. Quit.
The boy and I talked. My borrowed boy. Pseudo-son. Aiden, whom I call Spock, for reasons quite obvious to anyone who knows him. And it isn't his pointed ears. We settled the issue once and finally that girls are dumb. That dating in high school is dumb. That movies are cool. And so is hockey, and hunting camp. And there is really no reason to squeal. Ever.
And there was cold Canadian Beer. It was good. And a zamboni. And no Shinny Allowed. I don't even know what Shinny is but I am pretty sure I am glad there wasn't any, although at some point I will investigate it's origin. And $2 (Canadian) bags of gummy candies. And the Pseudo-son Spock wandered around and left me in peace with my beer. And the mascot, who is oddly a Panda bear, felt my need for silent camaraderie, and he stood by me. And when does a Panda Bear standing next to you not fix everything?
So I ran away.
Not to girls night and wine
Not to taco Tuesday.
Not to a drug induced stupor in my bed.
I ran away to HOCKEY.
I even took a boy. He wasn't mine. I had to borrow him. But he was willing enough.
And on the way there was a car upside down in the ditch, lights still on. No body. No blood. No one to save. So onward we pushed. Into the icy, far northern reaches of southernmost Canada.
We missed the entire first period. But it was worth it. Braving the icy roads, and Canadian Drivers. And American drivers who use being American as an excuse to drive badly in Canada. It was worth the $13 Canadian which used to only be like $10 in American but might be $20 now, I am not even sure.
The boy and I talked. My borrowed boy. Pseudo-son. Aiden, whom I call Spock, for reasons quite obvious to anyone who knows him. And it isn't his pointed ears. We settled the issue once and finally that girls are dumb. That dating in high school is dumb. That movies are cool. And so is hockey, and hunting camp. And there is really no reason to squeal. Ever. 
And there was cold Canadian Beer. It was good. And a zamboni. And no Shinny Allowed. I don't even know what Shinny is but I am pretty sure I am glad there wasn't any, although at some point I will investigate it's origin. And $2 (Canadian) bags of gummy candies. And the Pseudo-son Spock wandered around and left me in peace with my beer. And the mascot, who is oddly a Panda bear, felt my need for silent camaraderie, and he stood by me. And when does a Panda Bear standing next to you not fix everything?
The Smokeys lost, but it was a good game. And the first of many this winter. To make up for all of the ones I said I would go to last year and didn't. It was a good night. And a good running away. And when I came back, there were all the girls. With the squealing. And the noise. But I felt better.
Things About Having Coffee
Today I had coffee with my sister. For anyone who doesn't understand the depth of that concise sentence, let me explain: coffee with one's sister, assuming that the aforementioned sister is doing her God-ordained job, is the cost-free equivalent of a session with a psychologist, a lawyer and Hedda Hopper (yesterday's answer to Perez Hilton), all rolled into one. In a brief couple of hours, all of the world's crises concerning rebellious teenagers, belligerent grade schoolers, inscrutable husbands/ex-husbands & friends (as appropriate), unsuitable matches, compelling vices (coffee creamers, Rasperitas with OJ, running away, etc.), and rapidly degenerating bodies were answered. Probably not fixed, but answered.
Just the very act of "Having Coffee" lends a therapeutic and nostalgic flavor to the afternoon, as if we were our very own Mother and Mrs. Mannan, or someone, which brings with it the reminder that it isn't just sisters, that "Having Coffee" with will divulge all of these social remedies. It's any girl, or maybe boy, if you find the right (or maybe left) one, that GETS you. "Having Coffee" with your sister/soul sister/GBF (thanks, Jesse) gives you the opportunity to vent about the injustice of having to make your own pot of coffee since The Other Party didn't do it before he left for work. Or maybe you can casually get that one recipe again that she's given you 8 times because you never save it, since you know she'll send it to you. AGAIN. Or maybe the heart to heart moment when you both confess to each other the unknown, but shared, issue of adrenaline rushes at second hand stores that make you have to poop immediately. Since this discussion I have noticed the trend in my children, indicating a generational/congenital problem. With a sister, over coffee, you don't find yourself having to explain what it means to "Indian/Davy Crockett" wrestle over some cool wooden trucks she found on the classified. You don't even really have to spend time rehashing the fact that when you arrived the kids were vacuuming baked beans from a broken crockpot on the floor, which was really just the precursor to a house sized cloud of drywall dust from a broken vacuum cleaner bag. Because with sisters, those things just take a Knowing Look. Like, "did I tell you about my applesauce?" with no words. But you can both bask in the glory that is the new single serve cups from Dutch Bros, combined with heavy whipping cream and peppermint Torani, and a sprinkling of drywall dust. And really, that broken crockpot? Good riddance. Somehow it had been labelled with a last name, which is potluck cardinal sin #1, removing all anonymity from the selection and dictating wholehearted responsibility to the cook with the labeled crock pot, Pinterest Fail or not. You just DON'T put your name on a crockpot. Ever. All of this occurred to me as I was boiling chicken for the recipe that she has sent me at least 37 times, and skimming the "impurities" off of the churning chicken broth. My mom always called them impurities. One of those things I have never questioned, that I would never have to explain to my sister, but daughters stare at me incredulously when I say. You skim off the impurities. Always. As if the reckless chicken had lived a life of hedonistic pleasure and we were forced to rid our soup of the remnants. I shudder to think of the impurities that I would render, if boiled. I hope to never realize those fears. Boiling OR revealing my impurities.
Anyway, it was a kind of terrible Monday, with no excuse really, since I got a job offer, and The Wonderful Timothy Davis fixed Halle's car and wouldn't let me pay, and things were not generally wrong, but there was still the undertone of terrible. Like the Direct TV guy showing up and telling me in no uncertain terms that there is NO Line Of Sight at my house and I will NEVER have television. And the Love of My Life once again refusing to show his face. And raking wet leaves. And moving cold, wet, muddy lawn furniture and bikes into the shed. And bemoaning the wasted and "beautiful golden transparent" apples that still hang, unreachable in the tree, serene and picturesque. And full body aches that may or may not be related to being inexcusably out of shape and/or raking wet leaves But coffee with my sister made it all better, or at least laughable.
Just the very act of "Having Coffee" lends a therapeutic and nostalgic flavor to the afternoon, as if we were our very own Mother and Mrs. Mannan, or someone, which brings with it the reminder that it isn't just sisters, that "Having Coffee" with will divulge all of these social remedies. It's any girl, or maybe boy, if you find the right (or maybe left) one, that GETS you. "Having Coffee" with your sister/soul sister/GBF (thanks, Jesse) gives you the opportunity to vent about the injustice of having to make your own pot of coffee since The Other Party didn't do it before he left for work. Or maybe you can casually get that one recipe again that she's given you 8 times because you never save it, since you know she'll send it to you. AGAIN. Or maybe the heart to heart moment when you both confess to each other the unknown, but shared, issue of adrenaline rushes at second hand stores that make you have to poop immediately. Since this discussion I have noticed the trend in my children, indicating a generational/congenital problem. With a sister, over coffee, you don't find yourself having to explain what it means to "Indian/Davy Crockett" wrestle over some cool wooden trucks she found on the classified. You don't even really have to spend time rehashing the fact that when you arrived the kids were vacuuming baked beans from a broken crockpot on the floor, which was really just the precursor to a house sized cloud of drywall dust from a broken vacuum cleaner bag. Because with sisters, those things just take a Knowing Look. Like, "did I tell you about my applesauce?" with no words. But you can both bask in the glory that is the new single serve cups from Dutch Bros, combined with heavy whipping cream and peppermint Torani, and a sprinkling of drywall dust. And really, that broken crockpot? Good riddance. Somehow it had been labelled with a last name, which is potluck cardinal sin #1, removing all anonymity from the selection and dictating wholehearted responsibility to the cook with the labeled crock pot, Pinterest Fail or not. You just DON'T put your name on a crockpot. Ever. All of this occurred to me as I was boiling chicken for the recipe that she has sent me at least 37 times, and skimming the "impurities" off of the churning chicken broth. My mom always called them impurities. One of those things I have never questioned, that I would never have to explain to my sister, but daughters stare at me incredulously when I say. You skim off the impurities. Always. As if the reckless chicken had lived a life of hedonistic pleasure and we were forced to rid our soup of the remnants. I shudder to think of the impurities that I would render, if boiled. I hope to never realize those fears. Boiling OR revealing my impurities.
Anyway, it was a kind of terrible Monday, with no excuse really, since I got a job offer, and The Wonderful Timothy Davis fixed Halle's car and wouldn't let me pay, and things were not generally wrong, but there was still the undertone of terrible. Like the Direct TV guy showing up and telling me in no uncertain terms that there is NO Line Of Sight at my house and I will NEVER have television. And the Love of My Life once again refusing to show his face. And raking wet leaves. And moving cold, wet, muddy lawn furniture and bikes into the shed. And bemoaning the wasted and "beautiful golden transparent" apples that still hang, unreachable in the tree, serene and picturesque. And full body aches that may or may not be related to being inexcusably out of shape and/or raking wet leaves But coffee with my sister made it all better, or at least laughable.
Things I Am Going to Whine About
You've been warned. Don't pretend like you wandered in here all blissfully ignorant. The Whining was foretold.
Every inch of my body hurts.
Aspen is trying to make macaroni and cheese and wants me to check and see if the water is "bubbling aggressively" enough for her to add the noodles, and the mere thought of moving that far is Totally Overwhelming. I refuse to give any energy to the thought that the body aches that have been chasing me for the last week could be the flu bug that is going around, although calling in sick to life sound a little heavenly. But I will wait until my TV gets installed tomorrow.
Yesterday between shifts at work I was driving home and got through most of Northport before I realized that I was driving in the wrong lane. The scary part was that I couldn't remember which lane was the right one. I think my brain is running on fumes.
I made it through a really ridiculous weekend, including an all-nighter with the high school drama stars. Actually I don't know if any of them are in drama. But there is always drama. I was the designated, self-inflicted, chaperone of the girls. It was 1:30 AM before we successfully got all of the boys and girls drawn out of dark outdoor corners, separated and into sleeping bags, or parts of sleeping bags, since apparently only 5% of teenagers know how to pack for an all-nighter. I had my sleeping bag, a foam pad of questionable origin, and no sweatpants, because I had secretly hoped to weasel my way out of chaperoning all night. Fail. I watched the clock All Night (technically morning) long until 7:03 when I got up and drove MacKenzie to work and got into my own bed and slept for a couple of hours. In spite of all of the teenage crises transpiring, the height of intensity for me was when I checked my Fitbit. After working two restaurant shifts that day, a total of 14 hours, I was super excited to see how many miles I had run. And fantasize about the the desserts I could eat if only there were desserts to be had. Anyway, the stupid thing said I had walked a quarter mile. 0.26 of a mile. I was livid. Absolutely distraught. Until I realized that it was 12:15 and my Fitbit reset at midnight. So really, I had walked a quarter mile just in the first fifteen minutes of the new day. Yeah. I am awesome like that.
So today is the day I try to remember who lives in this house of chaos and destruction and deal with the separation anxiety issues of three needy dogs and four detached girls. It started out well when I walked face first into a giant spider web in my sliding door. An attractive orange and white popcorn spider met a swift demise by screen door guillotine, as pulled spider webs off of my face and hair.
I went and got a coffee from Kizzie at Your Way Latte, who made it PERFECTLY my way, which might be the first time that has happened there, and now I am eating Aspen's macaroni, since the water was bubbling aggressively enough.
Every inch of my body hurts.
Aspen is trying to make macaroni and cheese and wants me to check and see if the water is "bubbling aggressively" enough for her to add the noodles, and the mere thought of moving that far is Totally Overwhelming. I refuse to give any energy to the thought that the body aches that have been chasing me for the last week could be the flu bug that is going around, although calling in sick to life sound a little heavenly. But I will wait until my TV gets installed tomorrow.
Yesterday between shifts at work I was driving home and got through most of Northport before I realized that I was driving in the wrong lane. The scary part was that I couldn't remember which lane was the right one. I think my brain is running on fumes.
I made it through a really ridiculous weekend, including an all-nighter with the high school drama stars. Actually I don't know if any of them are in drama. But there is always drama. I was the designated, self-inflicted, chaperone of the girls. It was 1:30 AM before we successfully got all of the boys and girls drawn out of dark outdoor corners, separated and into sleeping bags, or parts of sleeping bags, since apparently only 5% of teenagers know how to pack for an all-nighter. I had my sleeping bag, a foam pad of questionable origin, and no sweatpants, because I had secretly hoped to weasel my way out of chaperoning all night. Fail. I watched the clock All Night (technically morning) long until 7:03 when I got up and drove MacKenzie to work and got into my own bed and slept for a couple of hours. In spite of all of the teenage crises transpiring, the height of intensity for me was when I checked my Fitbit. After working two restaurant shifts that day, a total of 14 hours, I was super excited to see how many miles I had run. And fantasize about the the desserts I could eat if only there were desserts to be had. Anyway, the stupid thing said I had walked a quarter mile. 0.26 of a mile. I was livid. Absolutely distraught. Until I realized that it was 12:15 and my Fitbit reset at midnight. So really, I had walked a quarter mile just in the first fifteen minutes of the new day. Yeah. I am awesome like that.
So today is the day I try to remember who lives in this house of chaos and destruction and deal with the separation anxiety issues of three needy dogs and four detached girls. It started out well when I walked face first into a giant spider web in my sliding door. An attractive orange and white popcorn spider met a swift demise by screen door guillotine, as pulled spider webs off of my face and hair.
I went and got a coffee from Kizzie at Your Way Latte, who made it PERFECTLY my way, which might be the first time that has happened there, and now I am eating Aspen's macaroni, since the water was bubbling aggressively enough.
Things Coming Up
I am inordinately excited about The Holidays this year. I have no idea why. But I am. I have been eyeing my Christmas Baldies (Chuck Taylors) for a couple of weeks now, anticipating their seasonal release. I have resisted the temptation to break out the Christmas music. Ok fine. I snuck one "winter" song into a playlist. It's supposed to be 18 degrees on Tuesday, so I feel totally justified.
In the spirit of all of the upcoming Holiday goodness, all of the people are selling all of the things. For instance, I am selling Scentsy. If you didn't know that, are pleasantly surprised and relieved since you have been looking for a consultant, or have a bunch of friends and want to have a party, mostly just to hang out with me, here is my website: Liv's Scentsy Website. Now is absolutely the best time to get stuff because they have winter/holiday scents like Goody Goody Gumdrop and Everything Nice, which make me want to eat the air in my house. Which is kind of gross if you've ever been in my house.
After that shameless pitch, somebody else, namely my friend Susan, is having a Jamberry Nails party. (My friend Andrea also sells these I think, in case you know her or don't like Susan. But who doesn't like Susan, for Heaven's sake.) Someday I will write an entire blog about fingernails and why mine will always look like crap, but I accidentally/on purpose clicked on a link to these:
In the spirit of all of the upcoming Holiday goodness, all of the people are selling all of the things. For instance, I am selling Scentsy. If you didn't know that, are pleasantly surprised and relieved since you have been looking for a consultant, or have a bunch of friends and want to have a party, mostly just to hang out with me, here is my website: Liv's Scentsy Website. Now is absolutely the best time to get stuff because they have winter/holiday scents like Goody Goody Gumdrop and Everything Nice, which make me want to eat the air in my house. Which is kind of gross if you've ever been in my house.
After that shameless pitch, somebody else, namely my friend Susan, is having a Jamberry Nails party. (My friend Andrea also sells these I think, in case you know her or don't like Susan. But who doesn't like Susan, for Heaven's sake.) Someday I will write an entire blog about fingernails and why mine will always look like crap, but I accidentally/on purpose clicked on a link to these:
I have heard several people say that Jamberry is awesome. I haven't tried them because it's already been established that my nails will always look like crap. But reindeer? I mean come on. And especially when they are surrounded by little piles of poop. I can't resist. So I am taking the plunge. If my nails don't look like crap for a minute and have cute reindeers with poop on them because I have been successful, I will send you a picture. I am curious to get some Jamberry feedback from other users. But since my heart is somewhat set on the reindeers/poop, please hold your horror stories until after I experience my own to tell you. I am very disappointed that they don't have the "Gobble Me Up" turkey ones in grown up sizes, because, seriously? (As a disclaimer, I inherited my kitschy holiday-all-of-the-things ridiculousness from my Aunt Tracey.)
So, I am off to order my reindeer/poop nail sticker thingies, and believe in good success. And take on this holiday season, because I AM READY!
Things About Weekends Right Now
Friday
Substitute @ school: 8 AM- 3 PM
Interview in Colville, 37 minutes away: 2:30-3 PM
Waitress @ Mustang: 2:30 PM- 8:30 PM
Help on Ambulance @ Football Game: 6 - 9 PM
Saturday
Waitress @ Mustang: 7:15 AM - 11 AM
Aspen's out of town Basketball game: 12 PM- 4 PM ish
Waitress @ Mustang: 2:30 PM- 8:30 PM
Chaperone Overnight Bonfire Party 20 minutes out of town : 6 PM Sat - 11 AM Sunday
Sunday
Drive Kiz back to work: 7:15 AM
Go home and die (<------ this part is my favorite. I am already planning which sweatpants I will wear)
See how that works out? Yeah, not at all. So, working backwards, the process of elimination. First off the list: what doesn't pay? Oh, yeah, volunteering at the football game. It's fun, I really like it, and since I didn't get fired yesterday during our drill, I am still one of the only two people in town that can (or will) do it. But that one has to go.
The interview, while it doesn't pay, per se, it has POTENTIAL for eventual payoff, so it has to stay, which means some artful negotiation with BOTH of my bosses to cover that 2/3 hours where I am supposed to be working two jobs. That done successfully, I have just enough time to dash into town, wow the interviewers, pick up two chubs of hamburger for meatloaf dinner Saturday, and make it back in time for the club meeting that is encroaching on our Prime Rib dinner at the Grill.
Then, Aspen's basketball game, obviously doesn't pay, other than the emotional pride-swelling that is customary when watching your 11 year old make her first lay up. Or lay in. Or lay over. Or whatever they do in basketball. Maybe a slam dunk? But either way, it has to go.
Next, the chaperoning. Now, even though I have Children That I Cannot Trust (you know who you are) and as a result don't wish the chaperoning of them on any other adult, again, this is a non-paying and somewhat non-rewarding job, so it will be eliminated except for the hours I am not working, which are the same hours when I should be sleeping. Perhaps this is where I will exert the tremendous influence I have over the high school kids as a substitute teacher and they will all follow me joyfully to an early bedtime. (If you can't hear the sarcasm dripping off of that entire sentence, then it's a good bet that my whole blog is lost on you.)
Pretty much any waitressing hours I can get have to stay, cause they're the money right now. And the teaching stuff too. The teaching stuff is nice because A) it pays a little more hourly, B) I can sit down, C) I can drink coffee slowly out of a big mug, and D) I have time to do this blog unless the principle catches me online. The waitressing stuff is fun because A) my Fitbit One (1) says I can have pie then, B) If I am nice I make more money (sometimes), C) I can drink coffee out of a small cup quickly, and D) I can usually sneak in a killer bacon/blue cheese/pineapple hamburger patty sometime during my shift.
Really the priorities are fairly cut and dry. I am a little fuzzy on where I am going to fit in sleeping, showering, parenting and Feeling Sorry For Myself, but I am sure it will work out somehow. It always does. Next weekend is shaping up very similarly, and I feel emotionally prepared. Because, kind of like fire season, you work when there's work. And at any given moment, there could be no work. And somebody has to pay the $25 a month cable bill. At least I don't have to wear Nomex.
Things About Rainy Days
It's pouring. Raining hard. The power was out for 45 minutes, which I slept through, but when it came back on, my iPod lept mysteriously to life and started a random playlist that may be the only bright spot in this day.
A quick phone call told me that the divorce is filed. Three months from now and it will all be over. As if it never happened. Except it did. But it's done. Divorce sucks. It just shouldn't be. It's unnatural, legally tearing yourself away from someone you loved. The rain seems appropriate.
This afternoon we have an EMS drill, a fake car wreck at the highschool with a bunch of different agencies responding. We (Northport First Response) have to look our best and perform at our best. I am not feeling it. The rain. The divorce. All of it. I might be the crabby responder out there telling the fake patients to suck it up. I hope I don't get fired.
Anyway. It's a rainy day, inside and out. And tomorrow will be better. And the playlist helps. But some days are just rainy like that. We have to stand in the rain to appreciate the sunshine.
A quick phone call told me that the divorce is filed. Three months from now and it will all be over. As if it never happened. Except it did. But it's done. Divorce sucks. It just shouldn't be. It's unnatural, legally tearing yourself away from someone you loved. The rain seems appropriate.
This afternoon we have an EMS drill, a fake car wreck at the highschool with a bunch of different agencies responding. We (Northport First Response) have to look our best and perform at our best. I am not feeling it. The rain. The divorce. All of it. I might be the crabby responder out there telling the fake patients to suck it up. I hope I don't get fired.
Anyway. It's a rainy day, inside and out. And tomorrow will be better. And the playlist helps. But some days are just rainy like that. We have to stand in the rain to appreciate the sunshine.
Things That Are Small
But if we IGNORE the small stuff, it can get REALLY BIG. Like, you know, lice in the Whole Entire School. Or stuff like that. And also, if we aren't paying attention to the small stuff, we miss some of the best parts of life. Not head lice, or fleas, or toilet floods. But we miss things like how the bathroom air freshener at the Northside Costco smells EXACTLY like a brand new Strawberry Shortcake doll from 1984. Which smells EXACTLY like my birthday.
Or we might not notice that when we walk in to the house and Fun. is blaring on the stereo at 7,000 decibels that it probably means that an 11 year old is doing her Best Job Ever on the dishes. Like 15 minutes scrubbing and drying each Hydroflask lid. The small stuff. Nevermind the pile of crockpots full of applesauce we made with Lofty Intentions for canning last week and forgot about. And the stuck on mashed potato pot. Those lids are SPARKLING. The small things. And Fun. is loud. And it's good. Especially since Aspen probably has no idea what "getting higher than the empire state" in the bathroom really is.
If you weren't paying attention to the small stuff, you might forget that you finally got a flipping HEATED MATTRESS PAD at like 70% off, and that means that even if NOONE brought in pellets for the stove, once again, and your rotator cuff/laboral tear and bulging disk absolutely dictate to you that you sure as HECK ain't doing it, you will still sleep warm tonight. And you might forget that your sheets are tossing all warm and clean in a Brand New Dryer sitting by a Brand New Washer.
Or you might not have read that piece of junk mail that offered you DirectTV for $29.99 a month, and you might not have called and talked to Jared at CenturyLink, who would not only refund all of the overcharges/late charges that were NOT YOUR FAULT, but he'd hook you up with some sweet NFL Sunday Ticket action for $25 a month AND a $50 cash card AND could quite possibly be the love of your life. If only he wasn't married.
If the small stuff didn't matter, then you wouldn't care when a very tiny wiener dog confided in you that Nobody Can Replace You, and also: You Are The Best Mom in the Whole World.
It's because I was foolishly ignoring the small stuff that I left my Fitbit 1 (one) home this morning and now I don't know if I should really be drinking this one glass of wine. Or why in the heck my hip hurts so bad. Not that they need to be sweated, but at least remembered. So you can get credit, and have ice cream and stuff. And ignoring the small stuff led to me not paying attention when Kiz told me that her boyfriend had a high fever and sore throat for three days, and not COMMANDING her to not visit him, to prevent the spread of the plague into our house.
Even though there is some BIG STUFF this week that maybe needs to be sweated, like divorce papers, which are the printed equivalent of a big fat kick in the gut, and double shifts at work, followedimmediately (<---- see how I did that?) by all-nighter at a BOY'S house his birthday for all the older girls, which I will obviously be chaperoning, and figuring out how to deal with teenagers that probably think they got away with "borrowing" the car and driving it sans licenses... all that stuff can, and will be sweated about. Probably through my tear ducts and into my pillow, but there's still the small stuff. There's really loud Fun. when you would have probably played some terrible sad song over and over to go with the continuous rain. The small stuff that doesn't have to be sweated, when you realize that mayonnaise as a lice remedy is also a kick-a** hair conditioner, and all this pestilence equates a Really Clean House (someday), and life is actually really, really good. Because of the small stuff. Heated mattress pads. Wiener dogs. Fun.
(please note: the one minor reference to alcohol in the preceding blog is compensated for in this drink riddled but very happy video. Here's to the small things... Carry On!)
Things About Ballots
It's voting day, everybody, and if you haven't mailed your ballot, or aren't on your way to wherever it is you vote, then clearly you didn't read my Voting Blog and should do so immediately. In the spirit of democracy and everybody having a say, I am reaching out to you, the voter/blog reader to help me choose some of my best blog entries for compiling a book-type thing.
All of you guys supporting me in my endeavors has totally gone to my head, and now I think that I am cool enough to write a book. But because I am insecure in spite of my recent ego-boosting campaign, I need feedback from y'all.
Because you are already in the groove, I am including a ballot for you to cast your vote. I had to do some research about ballots, after my mom misspelled ballot and made me question everything I have ever known. That little emotional upheaval led me to the Wikipedia about ballots, which was quite interesting, because they used to be little balls that you cast according to your preference. (It also explains Blackballing, a related term.) But my ballot is a) not secret like it should be and b) does not involve balls or paper. It only has a few options, so really, all of your write in candidates can go in the comments below. Or text me. Or Facebook me, or whatever. But seriously, which ones are the best?
For your reference, my older blogs are all listed as links right over there, feel free to read them all again. ---------->
All of you guys supporting me in my endeavors has totally gone to my head, and now I think that I am cool enough to write a book. But because I am insecure in spite of my recent ego-boosting campaign, I need feedback from y'all.
Because you are already in the groove, I am including a ballot for you to cast your vote. I had to do some research about ballots, after my mom misspelled ballot and made me question everything I have ever known. That little emotional upheaval led me to the Wikipedia about ballots, which was quite interesting, because they used to be little balls that you cast according to your preference. (It also explains Blackballing, a related term.) But my ballot is a) not secret like it should be and b) does not involve balls or paper. It only has a few options, so really, all of your write in candidates can go in the comments below. Or text me. Or Facebook me, or whatever. But seriously, which ones are the best?
For your reference, my older blogs are all listed as links right over there, feel free to read them all again. ---------->
Measure #77: To be considered for use in imminent publication
Things About Contentment
If you were to ask the Experts On My Life (i.e. my Mom, sisters, BFFs and Kids) what my deepest, darkest flaw is, other than impulse buying, I can imagine with little to no hesitation that my standout weakness, and also probably The Only Thing Wrong With Me (ahem) that they would point out is my lack of contentment.
I have been examining this "issue" in my life more closely lately, as fate has given me ample opportunity to do some self examining in recent days. Living without a husband to examine yourself for you creates such windows of time for introspection. Oddly enough, lately I have been more content in my life, even going without certain things, like cable TV and kisses, than I have been at any memorable time in my life. I have been wondering why. And don't really have answers, but I do have some speculation...
The last few days/weeks/months have been a laughable cavalcade of ridiculously bad luck at my house. I am inclined to think that bad luck was one of the many things left behind when HE moved out. I am even more inclined to think that when I hear that maybe HE probably has a new girlfriend, and that HE is now a search and extraction heli-rappeller for the Air Force (do they have those?) and a Keynote Speaker at Events Of Regional Importance, and other almost unbelievable good-lucky things, so perhaps HE left all of HIS bad luck at our house. Which is why we have flesh eating bacterial diseases, fleas, and a myriad of other pestilent diseases, toilet floods, late charges on internet bills that we payed ahead, auto-payed and double payed because they sent our pay-ahead money to HIM as a refund when HE took HIS name off the bill, doubled phone bills because HIS iPhone contract is still sitting on my bill to the tune of $360, speeding tickets, disobedient teenagers, canine aural hematomas and much, much, much more going on. But then I remember that HE always had lucky-sounding things happening, or about to happen, even when HE was getting slammed with bad luck, like losing the Woman of HIS dreams and her four awesome kids and three awesome dogs, even with flesh eating bacteria and aural hematomas. So I feel like it's safe to say that HE probably took HIS luck with him, good or bad, and all of this is just a chance for me to learn contentedness in the middle of the storm.
And the craziest thing about it all: I am content. Maybe because even with the raging storm of crazy-bad luck, there is peace at home. In spite of the vicious teenagers and tottering-on-the-brink finances, there is peace. The flesh-eating bacteria healed. The fleas went away. The money comes and goes just like always, and a year from now I won't remember the stupid $500 that went to fixing all of the dumb-luck issues that popped up. We have food on the shelf of a house that is warm and we have each other. And if that is no good, we have other people too. Even in my loneliness I am content. Because I have tasted enough of uncomfortable and unhealthy relationship to know that peaceful loneliness is better sometimes.
November is the month of gratitude. Really, it should be one of twelve months of gratitude, but people like to talk about it more in November, so here I am, being all trendy.
I am grateful. For the money to pay the silly bills. For the medicine to cure the plagues. For the insurance to pay for the medicine so the money can pay the silly redundant bills. For the people that we love. The ones who take care of us. For the chilly fall weather and sweaters. For awesome healthy kids, even when they're incorrigible. For Halle NOT being the student randomly stabbed in her dorm (prayers to that family). For no pregnancies, no deaths, no shut off notices, no starving, no major losses, except to the Gosh Darn Patriots (I am NOT content about football right now). For dogs, even with their pestilences. For work, even when it sucks. I am grateful. And because I am grateful, I am content. Because gratitude leads to contentment. And ingratitude leads to discontent. And I am tired of both of those things.
Happy November. And happy gratitude. And happy contentment.
I have been examining this "issue" in my life more closely lately, as fate has given me ample opportunity to do some self examining in recent days. Living without a husband to examine yourself for you creates such windows of time for introspection. Oddly enough, lately I have been more content in my life, even going without certain things, like cable TV and kisses, than I have been at any memorable time in my life. I have been wondering why. And don't really have answers, but I do have some speculation...
The last few days/weeks/months have been a laughable cavalcade of ridiculously bad luck at my house. I am inclined to think that bad luck was one of the many things left behind when HE moved out. I am even more inclined to think that when I hear that maybe HE probably has a new girlfriend, and that HE is now a search and extraction heli-rappeller for the Air Force (do they have those?) and a Keynote Speaker at Events Of Regional Importance, and other almost unbelievable good-lucky things, so perhaps HE left all of HIS bad luck at our house. Which is why we have flesh eating bacterial diseases, fleas, and a myriad of other pestilent diseases, toilet floods, late charges on internet bills that we payed ahead, auto-payed and double payed because they sent our pay-ahead money to HIM as a refund when HE took HIS name off the bill, doubled phone bills because HIS iPhone contract is still sitting on my bill to the tune of $360, speeding tickets, disobedient teenagers, canine aural hematomas and much, much, much more going on. But then I remember that HE always had lucky-sounding things happening, or about to happen, even when HE was getting slammed with bad luck, like losing the Woman of HIS dreams and her four awesome kids and three awesome dogs, even with flesh eating bacteria and aural hematomas. So I feel like it's safe to say that HE probably took HIS luck with him, good or bad, and all of this is just a chance for me to learn contentedness in the middle of the storm.
And the craziest thing about it all: I am content. Maybe because even with the raging storm of crazy-bad luck, there is peace at home. In spite of the vicious teenagers and tottering-on-the-brink finances, there is peace. The flesh-eating bacteria healed. The fleas went away. The money comes and goes just like always, and a year from now I won't remember the stupid $500 that went to fixing all of the dumb-luck issues that popped up. We have food on the shelf of a house that is warm and we have each other. And if that is no good, we have other people too. Even in my loneliness I am content. Because I have tasted enough of uncomfortable and unhealthy relationship to know that peaceful loneliness is better sometimes.
November is the month of gratitude. Really, it should be one of twelve months of gratitude, but people like to talk about it more in November, so here I am, being all trendy.
I am grateful. For the money to pay the silly bills. For the medicine to cure the plagues. For the insurance to pay for the medicine so the money can pay the silly redundant bills. For the people that we love. The ones who take care of us. For the chilly fall weather and sweaters. For awesome healthy kids, even when they're incorrigible. For Halle NOT being the student randomly stabbed in her dorm (prayers to that family). For no pregnancies, no deaths, no shut off notices, no starving, no major losses, except to the Gosh Darn Patriots (I am NOT content about football right now). For dogs, even with their pestilences. For work, even when it sucks. I am grateful. And because I am grateful, I am content. Because gratitude leads to contentment. And ingratitude leads to discontent. And I am tired of both of those things.
Happy November. And happy gratitude. And happy contentment.
Things About Fitbit One (1)
So, in a long and convoluted exchange of designer clothing, Scentsy bars, and ground beef, somehow I got a brand new Fitbit One (1) out of my sister. For some reason it didn't work out for her. I'm not sure why, because my Fitbit 1 (one) is my new best friend.
[For those of you not in the know, a Fitbit is a glorified pedometer that records activity, and apparently sleep patterns, and will sync with you computer or whatever. I haven't gotten that far. And also, I don't want anyone else to remind me how terrible my sleep patterns are. I am keenly aware of the tossing and turning and aches and pains throughout the restless night. (See future sleep pattern post)]
In addition to telling me how awesome I am by adding every step I take all day long into a grandiose total and compiling them all into building stories and miles covered, my Fitbit One (1) also tells me when I can have a slice of cheesecake or a piece of apple pie. With ice cream of course. It also forgives me for the hot Dr Pepper(s) I drank and the beer.
We had one heated disagreement when I checked my steps after a long shift at work and the Fitbit 1 (one) said 1720. In addition to threatening to throw the tiny piece of Brilliant Technology for being a cruel and hateful liar, I maybe cried a little. Then my Fitbit One (1) explained that I was actually looking at the calories burned screen, and as I had walked 11,573 steps, I could actually have the cheesecake.
The most amazing thing about my Fitbit 1 (One) is that even when my dog had fleas, my daughter Actually For Real Stole The Car and drove it around town, the Fitbit One (1) still told me that I was awesome and Good Job.
I keep expecting my jeans and other items of clothing to start agreeing with my Fitbit 1 (one) and loosening up a bit. It's not like they can't appreciate the 11,573 steps too. And maybe the cheesecake.
Really this is just the beginning. The honeymoon phase of a newly blossoming relationship. Many new and exciting things are ahead for us, my Fitbit One (1) and I. Like sleep patterns. We will keep you posted.
And just think. If a Fitbit 1 (one) can do all this, what will the Fitbit Two (2) be able to accomplish?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)