Things That I Got to Do

I realize it’s been a long time since y’all heard from me. I know that there’s a lot to catch up on. I’ve been busy, guys, traveling the world and experiencing things that are so overwhelming, I am not even sure where to begin.

For anybody who doesn’t know, I got to go over to Ireland with my family. Ireland, Scotland, France and England, actually, all made possible by my parents. Specifically my mother who has spent the last year planning and scheming (in a totally legitimate, non-subversive way, of course) and coordinating the perfect execution of a nearly three week, four country tour of the British Isles and beyond. Most of the expense of this trip was covered by airline miles and award points accumulated carefully and meticulously through a strategy so complex and precise, that I would imagine even the spreadsheets were outwitted. My mother is a master in the art of thrifty travel and making things happen. I am in awe.

The first half of our trip was spent all over the rolling green hills of Ireland, touring the three Cs – Castles, Cathedrals and Cliffs. Then we spent two nights in the fairy tale town of Edinburgh, Scotland, where I felt certain I had stepped into Diagon Alley and was watching carefully for Ollivander ‘s Wand Shop. After Scotland, we spent three nights in France, along the Normandy Coast, visiting beaches where thousands of Allied Troops disembarked in June of 1944. Then it was on to jolly old England for two nights in London listening to Big Ben announce the imminent arrival of our departure.

At no point, as I wandered through these long-lived lands, did the dizzying knowledge of Someone Before escape me. How many places that I stood had seen death, revolution, romance and intrigue. Thousands of years of history happened beneath my feet in these spots, before the New World across the sea was even imagined. Cities haunted by the superstitions of generations, faith that hangs in the air as thick as the ghosts that it tells about – stories whisper out of every wall about the destinies that came and went from these places.

I got to put my hands on ancient stones that have known the light touch of Mary Queen of Scots and the hard fist of Oliver Cromwell.

I got to bury my feet in the once blood-soaked sand of Omaha Beach.

I got to look out the window of Anne Boleyn’s bedroom.

I got to stand on rocks that could tell the stories of people more ancient than we have even discovered.

I leaned against walls that saw the death-slumped shoulders of chain-mailed knights, and bricks that held up generations of legend-drunk Irishmen and their singing heads.

I sat on benches that were grazed by the silk of fine, corset-ensconced ladies and where war-tired noblemen held their aching heads in their hands.

My feet got to travel the paths of age-old monks, following their trail of knowledge and faith throughout history.

I got to look up into the ceilings of castles and cathedrals that held secrets of conspiracies to thrones, illicit love stories and religious turning points that defined the destiny of the New World across the oceans.

I got to see the armor that grew to enclose the graduating form of Henry the VII as he evolved through his legendary reign.

I got to feel the cold salt water waves of the hard Irish beaches that hold a thousand stories of sailors and soldiers and saints.

I got to walk the same worn-smooth cobbled streets as witches and kings, abbots and invaders.

I got to stand beneath the floating feathers of Mont St Michel as they drift weightless in the still air, the suspended remnants of the archangel’s battle with the dragon of evil.

I got to lay eyes on the sparkling crown jewels of a Tiny Island that have been the reason for countless murders and wars and changes in religious trends.

I got to bear witness to centuries of traditions grafted from native beliefs onto imported rituals, a melding of spiritual, physical and legal forces compelling the people to their prescribed faiths.

I got to hear the story of religion used as a political vehicle over time, in turn redeeming and condemning followers, offering salvation and grace one minute, only to take it away at the whim of a ruling monarch and replace it with judgment and death.

I got to visit churches that swung wildly between different observations of faith and fell mercilessly on the people beneath them, seeking refuge. Places of comfort that became places of torture, and vice-verse.

I got to experience breathtaking landscapes, Kincaid cottages, adorable villages, intimidating fortresses, cozy chateaus, ancient metropolises, and in many places, the awkward clash of new and old, mixed up together in a land that still seeks to reconcile the bloody past with the enabled present. Elevators in 700 year old castles. Flushing toilets in rustic rock cottages. Glass Office Buildings alongside thatched roofs. These places know where they’re going but they’re careful to not forget where they have been.

These are dichotomies that we see rarely in our young nation. Old is torn down to acquiesce to new, and progress is not halted for tradition. We are the melting pot of the world, and rather than learning from our mistakes, we scorn them as erstwhile products of some other entity, and we start from scratch as though our slate was clean. We deny our torture chambers and internment camps and legacy of slavery.  We hide our face from the shame of bad rulers and poor legislative decisions. Granted, we have not the luxury of centuries to ease the pain of embarrassment, but the failures of our nation are carefully erased and tactfully avoided in polite conversation. And with the avoidance comes the perpetuation. Without looking back it is difficult to look forward, and we stay forever locked in our “just fine” state of being where equality is a trendy word and not a trend. So much we could learn from our cousins across the pond of adding the new to old and retaining the beauty that comes from gradual change through time. But we are young, we are impatient, we are revolutionaries. We’d prefer to knock down the whole tower of blocks and start over if it wasn’t constructed according to our tastes. We see no value in the experience of those who have gone before us, either for their successes or for their mistakes.

I have no idea where that ramble came from... sorry. But anyway, I feel like a pretty lucky girl for all the stuff I got to do, and I've got a lot more to write up

Things About Remembering

For some people, Memorial Day is really about remembering - faces, names, events... Some of the people we know have looked the Monster of War in the face and lived to tell about it. For many of us, myself included, there isn't a direct memory I can connect to, a lost loved one, a first hand impact that changed my life forever. But then again, maybe there is...

How would my life look if almost 5 million American Troops hadn't deployed to the battlefields of France in World War I? What if more than 16 million US Soldiers hadn't shipped overseas for World War II? 5.7 million in The Korean War, nearly 9 million in Vietnam, and over 2 million in the first Gulf War. And still counting. Since 1775 we have lost over one million active duty soldiers. How can the death of 1 million US citizens not have impacted my life, or the life of any American, directly? Another 1.5 million of the nearly 42 million veterans that have served were wounded in battle.

Freedom isn't free. It comes at the high price of our best, brightest and strongest young men and more recently, women (144 female soldiers have been lost in recent conflict in the Middle East. In Vietnam as well as the first Gulf War, 6 female soldiers died). It is won on the backs and blood of a part of each generation - the ones dedicated to a cause, to service and to their country.

War is evil. There is no reason behind it. It is an insufferable plague on humanity much like any epidemic that cannot be avoided. It is dictated by greed and power and the most basic human depravity. This evil must be answered, and lives lost unjustly for a just cause.

Memorial Day was created in 1868 by the Grand Army of The Republic, a group of Union Veterans, after the Civil War. Originally called "Decoration Day" it was set aside to remember fallen soldiers and decorate soldiers graves with flowers. It was renamed Memorial Day in 1885 but not federally recognized until 1967. Memorial Day has become synonymous with a three day weekend, barbecues and beer. It is frequently confused (by yours truly in the past) with Veteran's Day in November, which is set aside to honor veterans of the Armed Forces, living and dead.

Some times, in the sunny end of May, as school schedules are circling the proverbial drain and the lawn is finally starting to look good, it's easy to forget that Memorial Day is more than mattress sales and flag flying. Remembering can be difficult on any day, but distracted by recreational demands and family reunions, forgetting becomes easy.

But Memorial Day is personal for every American. Whether your life was forever altered by a lost soldier, or you have lived an existence that is unconsciously reliant on the liberties that were hard won with human life, you have a reason to remember. The tragedy of every battlefield death lies in the havoc it wreaks at home, and the victims of these losses are around us and among us. Remember the fallen, remember the remaining. We owe our freedoms to the Lost Ones, and their families. Let's never forget that.

http://www.infoplease.com/ipa/A0004615.html

Things About Doing It

A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog about running, or more accurately, not running.

I mentioned the personal life goal I had of passing the pack test. The 45 minute, three mile, 45 pound wildland fire fitness test, required for all line personnel. It's not a big deal, right? Thousands of firefighters pass this thing every single year like it's no big deal. Thousands of young, whole, healthy firefighters who aren't me...

I haven't been able to pass it for the past five. Five years ago, in Bend, when I tried to pass it, twice, I didn't finish it time. That was after 6 years of passing it. I even passed the moderate when I was pregnant with Aspen, because, you know, I am a badass. But there I was in 2010, testing with a new fire organization, a bunch of strangers... a bunch of firefighting strangers. Nothing like making a fool of yourself in front of a slew of firefighters. Twice. Turns out I had a vertebral disc that was working it's way out one side of the space between my L5/S1 junction. It just wasn't happening.

Then the Forest Service decided that too many people were dying of heart attacks taking the arduous pack test, so only firefighters with jobs that absolutely required that level of fitness were allowed to take it. For a few years, they considered line EMTs a non-arduous qualification, and I was spared the agony of not passing it for awhile. This was good considering I had three surgeries to try to fix or remove the female organs that were killing me slowly during this time, so I was heavily entrenched in excuses.

Then somebody up top got smart: of course the line EMTs need the pack test - they're on the freaking line. But for us broken old EMTs, they made it optional, with a pay raise for the young bucks who could crank it out. The choice was mine, and something inside of me wasn't ready to roll over and play dead just yet. Even though the disc that was slipping before had now degenerated to nothing, I started practicing with 10 pounds, then 15, then 20... All the while reminding myself that I probably couldn't pass it this year, and didn't have to, and that extra $4/hr wouldn't make THAT much of a difference.

But in the back on my mind there was this thing. I saw it in a counselors office, as I sat there and listened to how my trust issues and lack of money management skills were making me impossible to live with, and trying to think how I could prioritize these things over keeping four girls alive to adulthood and somehow not lose myself in the process... It was a little sign that said only : "She Thought She Could and So She Did". It haunted me. As if I knew deep down that the only thing holding me back was the permission I was giving myself to not succeed.

With the gentle nudging of my best friends, I began to buy into it. Maybe I can. No, I know I can, if I can just meet this one goal first. And then the next... I met each of my workout landmarks, and I started to panic as I removed my excuses for not at least attempting the test. The reality that I understood was that if I started it, failure was not an option. I would not strap that pack on for a second attempt this year. I would not admit defeat again, like I had to in Bend. So I lost sleep for two weeks, arguing with myself about the ridiculousness of it all. I kept practicing, and psyching myself up. And then it came.

The day of the test, my buddy promised to pace me. Just like my best friend at home, I told him to keep on pace, just ahead of me, so I knew where  I needed to get to for a passing speed. The guys administering the test were good friends of mine and I watched with sweaty palms and minor palpitations as they weighed the vest and adjusted it to be sure it wasn't an ounce over 45 pounds. I have some awesome people in my life, you guys. The boys helped me get into my harbinger of doom, which almost didn't feel that heavy, until the walking started.

I could feel my hips creaking and my back grinding with every step, and the shin splints were burning within the first quarter mile. But it was do or die. I almost quit at a half mile. The pace seemed impossible and the weight was literally choking the life out of me. But I kept chanting in my head "she thought she could. she thought she could. I think I can, I think I can." I was like the Little Engine, chug-chugging across the pavement, red faced and not pretty at all. My buddy was a few steps ahead. Every time I gasped or grunted he turned to make sure I wasn't face down on the sidewalk in a puddle of aged regret.

I almost quit again at one mile. I was losing steam and my pace was barely on time. My shins were screaming, and if I had been able to see out of my eyes I was pretty certain there would have been a steady flow of blood pouring out from under the bones in my legs. "One more step. She thought she could. One more step. A little quicker. I think I can."

Two miles in and I was over time. I wasn't going to make it.  I almost cried but I was too exhausted. Clearly I hadn't trained enough. As if any amount of training makes the weight seem OK. Sometime after the second mile marker the burn in my shins started to die down, the spasmed muscles let go and my pacer turned with a concerned look when he heard my sigh of delight. I put my head down and picked up an awkward joggy rhythm that probably looked sort of like an emu running in place. Not finishing on time was clearly an unacceptable end to this mini-drama that I had created for myself. I had half a mile left when one of my good buddies showed up along side me and started to give me crap, which is always a useful motivator for me. A little while later and another bestie popped up on my other side. Then my boss was there, and some random lady I don't know. With a quarter mile left I had half a dozen cheerleaders jogging alongside me like my own personal fan club. Even my the guy formerly known as my husband got in on the pep rally.

The pacer kept me moving, and as I crossed the finish, with 30 seconds to spare, he came back and somehow wrung me out of the vest that had become one with my frame. There were at least 5 people pawing at that stupid vest to get it off me, half of them I am sure because they wanted to be ready to hook me up to a defibrillator when I collapsed. I was done. It was done. I had passed it one more time in my life.

The pep squad made me walk a little longer to cool down, which seemed like the cruelest part. But they did all offer to buy me a beer. I have every intention of holding them to it sooner or later.

After about 15 minutes of tottering on the brink of death, I recovered, and I felt like I had just won the lottery. I even jogged through the parking lot, humming the Rocky theme triumphantly, on the way back. I thought I could, and I did, but more importantly, all of them thought so too, and they made it happen. That's the beautiful thing about friendships - there is so much confidence in having the right people around you to hold you up when a 45 pound vest has beaten the shit out of you. I wonder if this means I have to split my wage increase with them?

this is me in the weight vest, pre-test. the smile is fake. 

PS - I haven't done a single lick of exercise since the test. FOR SHAME!

Things That I (Don't) Understand

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. When my oldest daughter called me for dating advice, I never imagined it would be on these terms. If I was talking to a son who was taking a girl out for the first time, I would say many things: Be sensitive. Be kind. Be a gentleman. Be curious about her: listen, learn. Have fun - without the pressure of expectation. But what should I say when it's my daughter that is taking out the girl? Maybe that advice doesn't change...

Even though the signs were there from day one in the curious, indomitable tomboy who would never wear pink. While her friends were being princesses, she had an imaginary cowboy named Jarrup for a best friend. It was there when she challenged the dress standard norms for gender suitability in early middle school. When she watched the other girls with peculiar fascination, as though they were alien creatures. 

Gay wasn't a thing in my family. In fact, it was an abomination. While my own beliefs had bent and swayed as my understanding of God and The Whole World evolved, GAY was still something that I hadn't made eye contact with. Avoid the awkward conversation, and dealing with rigid, archaic religion that still surrounded me. It was a conversation that we didn't need to have, that I didn't need to have with myself.

Halle came home for Christmas from college and there we were, sitting in my messy bedroom. In an awkward talk full of medium smiles, stifled tears and uncomfortable silences, she was telling me that she didn't know about sex, or about love, but that she was pretty sure that men weren't in her future. She cried about a girl that she adored - one who had pushed her away, and used her, and hurt her. She had been devoutly committed to the girl. All of her words painted the picture of the loyal hound dog that would do ANYTHING for his friend and master. To keep the one she cared about free from pain and anxiety and stress were paramount motivators in Halle's life.

I knew this story. I had lived these feelings. The emotions she described and the dedication she expressed were a mirror image of thelove that I once felt for a man. As she cried, I flashed back to the physical pain I experienced when the one I loved was hurting - Halle was expressing total empathy. I UNDERSTOOD, but somehow, it was different. It made no sense to me, feeling the draw of intimacy, of discovery, to another woman. I had moved beyond the absolute belief system that would give me cause to reject my daughter for her lifestyle, but there was still some flimsy cardboard wall inside, keeping me from embracing the Whole Halle. I couldn't fathom her absolute desire to please another person who wasn't a man. I have very close girl friends, but what Halle described were feelings that I had only known for the love of my life, who was very much male.

I couldn't translate it. Or figure out how to take it away from that conversation and into the real world. How to say to Everyone Else: "yes. I understand her heart. and I support her love. for whomever she chooses." But that is truly as simple as it needed to be. Even so, I couldn't speak that language to her. I tried, in a clumsy and brutish way, to express my unconditional love for her, but the words that came out sounded more like tolerance and avoidance than support and compassion. I was doing it wrong, but I wasn't sure what right looked like.

It took me a few weeks and some less-than-gentle moments of introspection, but it finally occurred to me that the dating advice that I would give my daughter, as well as the things I would say to the Whole World were no different than they would be for a straight kid. Be sensitive, be kind. Whomever it is that you love, love unconditionally, the way that I have taught you.

More than being gay, she is my daughter. The fears that I have for her and the mistakes that she could make are universal. The risks are the same for all of us, gay or straight, every race and creed, down to the last imperfect person on the planet. Fear is born from ignorance, and while I might not understand her attraction, I understand my daughter, and I understand the love that she experiences. I know her, and as time goes on I will know her better. None of this can change my love for my girl - but my curiosity to know her has grown.

This wasn't the way I planned it, and yet here we are. Without knowing how, it's my job to include my daughter as she is, who she is, into the greater world of our extended family, the church, the judging masses. It's my job as her mother to speak love and acceptance to her, and bridge her way through self-discovery. Halle has an opportunity to live her life as an answer to how she was created by the same God that the rest of us will negotiate our own expressions of life with. It isn't necessary for me to understand, it is only necessary for me to love.

Always My Hallelujah. 

Things That Make You Stop

I had an awesome weekend. I learned so much, met some great people, and slept in a top bunk, which is therapeutic in the same way as those weird shrinks who make you squeeze your way out of a fabric tube to re-experience birth. If you haven't heard of that then you aren't watching enough Law and Order SVU. I came home knowing that I would have a lot to catch up on. I mean, I have been gone for the last 23 out of 30 days, so if you were beginning to wonder where I live anymore, me too. It's almost the end of May now and my yard hasn't been mowed since April. Of last year. Ok that's a slight exaggeration, but it does look a lot like no one has lived at my house for four years. The good news about me ignoring my yard is that I haven't had a chance to kill the surviving raspberry plants that are back there defying the odds of existing in Liv's world.

I have had work to go to since I got back, which is great because no matter how much laundry I do, or dishes, or how many times I mop the floors, nobody will pay me for it and the Bill People don't like that. The downside of working when I am home and then leaving is that All Of the Other Things don't get done. Yesterday, before hitting it hard on a mission from hell to Do It All, I took a night off with the kids and we went to see Avengers: Age of Ultron. It was awesome.

So I came home from work today all psyched up to get shit done. Like, f'reals. This was after a long day of data entry, directing a bunch of eye-rolling sophomores in the school production of Mean Girls, and having my 17 year old daughter tell me flat out, NO, that she would not come home with me on the school campus in front of God and Everyone, then ride off into the sunset on a bicycle with her boyfriend. In my heart, I grabbed her by the hair and drug her down the sidewalk, but luckily my shoulder wouldn't have endured it, and I probably would have ended up in my best friend's cop car, parked conveniently 10 feet away from the altercation. Turns out that in spite of the fact that she is FAILING two classes that she must pass to graduate in three weeks, her dad told her she can run wild and free all over town with her boyfriend. Effective parenting right there, folks. Also: PUBLIC SHAMING.

Anyway, Aspen cranked up an odd mix of Frank Sinatra, Fun., Justin Timberlake and Pink and we started cleaning out the camp trailer that has been inhabited only by a colony of ants, a family of small spiders, and MacKenzie and her boyfriend over the last few months. When even got in on the spider killing action, and then we moved on to the back porch which has been doubling as a garbage dump/where we put all the crap we have no idea what to do with it, and let the spiders take over. We swept and stacked and tossed and hosed and got that junk wrangled. Then I cleaned the bathroom, organized the laundry room, washed ALL of the rugs from the floors, the shower curtains, and nearly every towel we own.

I was washing the trays from two food dehydrators that we discovered under a pile of cardboard on the back porch when it happened. I was bent over the sink a little and all of a sudden I couldn't breathe. Or move. Or anything. There was something that I can only compare to The Hammer Of Thor pounding into this spot in my spine and I was rendered completely useless. After a few minutes of dry heaving in the sink from the pain and planning my funeral, I managed to slowly twist down onto the floor, where I belly crawled out of the kitchen. I learned two things in this moment: my core strength could really use some work, and the floors need to be mopped badly.

I tried crawling onto the inversion table to "stretch it out" which ended with Aspen helping me get back on to the floor. Then I got on my feet in a very graceful knees-to-couch rolling twist up again and figured out if I stay perfectly straight upright I could finish making dinner. I did a stint on the foam roller which my kids watched in amusement, and Dagny thought was strictly so I would have a better ball throwing angle for her. Now I am in bed on an icepack with a bottle of wine.

I asked my sister if spines can bleed, because I am pretty sure mine is. She said no, unless someone stabbed you in the back, which we could, within rights, pin on MacKenzie today, especially considering I had just written a $50 check to cover her cap and gown and year book. I wonder if I can cancel that check?

I am curious to see how work goes tomorrow, and if they will send a wheelchair to pick me up because I can't feel one of my legs...

Things I am Winning

Mother's day is the perfect opportunity for those of us with children to step back and really take a good look at how well we are performing as parents.

On a scale of breakfast in bed -----> kids not speaking to me, I am about at a 4.5.

It's very easy to become consumed with all of the things that I am doing wrong.

For instance, my dating advice to daughter number one goes something like this: "Don't do it, it's stupid." She asked my opinion on sex in college, and I said emphatically that it should be avoided at all cost. So much for that fragile window of opportunity to plant seeds of understanding and enlightenment to grow my young child into healthy and mature relationships.

My second daughter showed up to eat the dinner I made for Mother's Day, steal the resident teenage boy's clothes and leave, while trying to hide her self inflicted belly-button ring from me. All kinds of parental triumphs there.

My third daughter scratched her long and triple jumps at the pre-district track meets today because I failed to pack her a decent lunch or snacks and she was hypoglycemic before she even hit the hurdles.

And Aspen, who is currently rocking an Avante-Garde haircut that I performed with dull kitchen shears, made no-bake chocolate cookies today with about 1/8th the called for oats. At least she persevered on her puddles of chocolate goo, while I was too busy doing Something Important to help her find a solution.

I spent mother's day trying to fix Aspen's bike, which resulted in the successful remounting of a new tire and inner tube, only to poke a hole in said inner tube directly after installation. Then I tried to mow the lawn, and since the gas mower is broken, and poured a gallon of dear-bought gas onto to lawn from a broken gas line, I decided to be brave and use the decrepit old manual push mower. I got two passes done, re-tore my worst shoulder and gave up. I did notice there are less dandelions in the 1.5 foot swath I mowed. I weeded about a square foot of the raspberry patch, then conceded my loss. I ran 150 feet of leaking wild land toy hose across my yard to wash my car, or really to give it soap scum stripes and a flat tire from the questionable yard driving. I tried to restring my weedwhacker and did something wrong, because it wouldn't go back together. Finally, after all of this, I gave up, went inside, made myself a drink and thanked the gods that it wasn't father's day, or my failures would have been catastrophic.

My bank account is, once again overdrawn.

My long haired dachshund is currently relocating half of the driveway in weeds and gravel into my bed with her fur, on freshly washed sheets.

My shoulder HURTS.

I have two days of training and a writer's retreat this week that are taking me far from home, yet again. I know that I am the luckiest girl to get to go to All Of the Places, but I am tired. This is the last push and then I can stay home and persist in failing miserably at all of my responsibilities here.

It's been awhile since I felt like I did something right. Since I nailed it. Since I was wildly successful, attractive, WINNING.

But in all this, I see my friend hurting for a daughter who is literally fighting for her life. I see families of fallen police officers trying to figure out how to go on with their hero-less lives.  I see hopelessness, homelessness, and loss all around me, and really, I am winning.

I have four(six) beautiful, smart, talented, HEALTHY girls. I have a safe, quiet, messy, wonderful home. I have a running car. I have a huge, loving, ridiculous family. I have work. I have groceries. I have dogs.  I have it all. I AM winning.

Things About Justice

I rarely, if ever, post anything political here. I am not politically inclined. I do not willingly affiliate with any political party or assert my opinions on issues very often because I have people that I love very much on every side and I believe firmly in the idea that our difference in thought is the only thing that sets us apart from instinct driven animals.

But this is too much. The injustice that I cannot wrap my mind around is too close to home, too much in the face of every neighborhood, friend, and relative in this beautiful nation we live in.

I believe in free speech. I believe in freedom of religion, freedom of thought, the right of EVERY man to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

These rights are forfeited when we break the established laws. Laws that have been established by governments both local and national, laws that have been established by religions of all varieties. Laws that have been established by nature. Do no harm. Do not injure. Do not steal. Do not destroy. Do not kill. When these laws are violated, actions must be taken. This is the agreement we, as free people have entered into as citizens in a civilized world. Accountability. Answering for our wrongs. The external government that WE MUST HAVE is the only answer to the self government we refuse to demonstrate.

Our law enforcement systems are flawed because they are human. Our police officers are imperfect because they are men and women, capable of the same mistakes and trespasses that every single one of us has potential for. But they are necessary and vital to the survival of a civilized culture.

I have spent this entire week in our nation's capital. Less than an hour away from where violent, destructive riots took place to protest the unnecessary death of a young man. Freddie Gray's death was tragic, and probably avoidable. Just as Michael Brown's, and Eric Garner's probably were. They shouldn't have died. Their lives do matter. There should be an investigation, and justice should be served. But in ALL THREE of these cases, these men found themselves on the other side of the law. Things that all of us, as citizens, have obligated ourselves to accountability for. Were their crimes worthy of death? Absolutely not. Should these tragedies be addressed? Absolutely yes.

But rioting in the streets? Destroying the very neighborhoods that these men called home? Injuring other people, law enforcement officers; stealing; destroying... How in God's name does this translate to justice for anyone, black, white - human?

And then we encounter the death of law enforcement officers. Not one, but many.

Brian Moore was 25 years old. Following in the footsteps of his father and uncle to become an officer of the New York Police Department, he had just enough time in to establish his reputation as a good cop. In five years he had perpetuated the good reputation of his family in the department. On Saturday, May 2, Moore was fatally shot while investigating a suspicious person.

Sergeant Greg Moore was young. A father. A husband. As a police officer he had passed the background checks, the written tests, the physical tests, the psychological tests, the lie detectors... he had proved himself not to be PERFECT, but to be accountable to the laws that we have all agreed upon. Interested in the welfare of his community, his neighborhood, his FAMILY. On May 5th, Sgt. Moore was shot while following up on a suspicious person report and died hours later from his wounds.

In neither case was there rioting in the streets. There was no destruction. There was no violence. There was no harm. Because these men had committed to this ideal: To do no harm. To bring peace, and safety. Two families are left alone, their heroes gone forever. Two departments feel the gaping hole left by the loss of  a good officer. But there are no burning cars in the streets for them. No looted shops or destroyed neighborhoods. Because these men that died believed in a different world. Not one of opportunistic greed or following an angry mob to destruction. They believed in building up - not tearing down. The BELIEVED in the system. The imperfect system. And they died from it. In the same way that Freddie Gray and Eric Garner and Michael Brown did. The difference was that these men hadn't broken the law. They hadn't violated the terms that we all agreed to as part of this society.

Where is the justice for Brian Moore and Greg Moore?

I spent a week visiting every war memorial and museum in DC. I have read about the annihilation of the dinosaurs, the founding of our country, the pillaging of Native American Cultures and the rise of this society that we call the Land of The Free. From where I stand, those freedoms are turning to entitlement and victim mentalities that result in the justification of murdering cops and stomping on flags. We are doomed. The zombie apocalypse is upon us and it is the soulless, mindless, self-destructive path that our entire nation is walking down. We are gnawing on our own tail and it's only a matter of time before we work our way up to the neck and realize that it's too late.

Wake up, America. Let your hearts be broken for the good men that are lost, who fight FOR US. Don't take our hard-won liberties for granted. Honor the standards that we all live by. Do no harm. Love others. Let the lives of Brian and Greg Moore, and countless others, mean something more than a picket sign and a burning tire. Let their sacrifice be the catalyst of change. Not more tolerance for entitlement and lack of accountability, but a reckoning for our choices, a renewal of our commitment to community and the laws that guarantee our liberty. ALL LIVES MATTER.

To support Greg Moore's family,  go to: http://www.gofundme.com/ttgu73b

Things About Planning Ahead

Everyone knows how put together I am: the 37.95-year-old picture of poise, perfection, and polish. I am the epitome of organization. I have mastered the art of efficiency and getting All Of the Things Done.

Case in point:

I did a really really good job packing my bag for an 8 day trip to Washington DC to visit my brothers and sister-in-law. I thought every angle through: weather, comfort, travel, occasional propriety... and I nailed it. I packed the quintessential combination of things that I need and nothing I don't. I even called my mom to brag about my packing skillz. They were THAT legit.

Some important packing tips that I have gleaned in my vast globe trotting experience:

1. Always pack vitals like prescriptions and toothbrushes in your purse or carryon, you know, just in case. Unless you're so organized that you know you can rely on your real bag to be with you at all times.
2. Don't pack anything you really won't wear, no matter how "practical" or "cute" it is. Be realistic - the heels are nice, but seriously? And don't forget the Fire Tactical Underwear Rule of four (FTUR4): front/back/inside/out.
3. Utilize the relatives that you are visiting whenever possible. For instance, don't pack unnecessary items like shampoo, toothpaste, razors, deodorant or sweatpants when you know you can just use theirs.
4. If you've been secretly looking for an excuse to buy something new, conveniently "forget" to pack the old version. This plan doesn't work well on the months that all of your paychecks seem to be taking an awfully long time to get into your empty bank account.
5. Always wear or keep socks on the plane. A) feet get cold B) ew, germs.
6. Never pack a book for long flights, because you might miss an amazing opportunity for networking and conversation with the stranger that you are sharing intimate space with. Like that one time I traveled with the unshowered Berkeley professor/closet distiller to Amsterdam and learned how to make vodka when I was 16.
7. It's ok if your bag is overfull. You will never be bringing extra stuff back with you. Ever.
8. Create an exciting iPod playlist by going to your iTunes library and putting ALL SONGS on shuffle. For me the result was an eclectic delight of Simon & Garfunkel,  Super Adventure Club, Lionel Richie and Steve Green.
9. Make sure your earbuds are as ill-fitting as possible to avoid the temptation to use them constantly to eliminate the joyful sounds of children in the back rows. This is just antisocial and says you're a terrible human being.
10. Bring the heaviest water bottle you can find. This is useful for dropping and rolling maneuvers that MIGHT result in your seat-mate/new BFF asking to be relocated. You can only take someone's face accidentally in your lap so many times before it just gets weird.
11. Remember anything (or everything) you forget can always be mailed to you by whichever sister/friend has not become completely burned out on crisis intervention in your life.
12. Always wear your favorite clothes/shoes (BRA!) while traveling in case you somehow become seperated from your luggage. Hey, it could happen. Don't be stuck with the chafe.


So these are just some of the most important tips I have found in my uber successful travel planning.

I decided to perform an unexpected experiment in ultra-light travel when I left for DC this morning. Ever efficient, I had budgeted my time wisely for maximum sleeping-in time in order to make the airport with just enough time to check in, which is great when you decide to go with out the bag that you carefully packed using the steps aforementioned. I am sure it's getting much more use sitting on my bedroom floor anyway. Due to my excellent timing, going back for the cumbersome (and clearly unnecessary) bag was out of the question, so without questioning my sister's burn-out status, I had her mail the important things, like, oh, you know, prescriptions and bras, and will figure the rest out when I arrive in D.C.

Because who doesn't love an ADVENTURE!!

Authors Note: FYI I do not share deodorant or razors with ANYONE. Toothbrushes are negotiable.

Things About Bad Calls

Last weekend we had a bad one. There was an ATV wreck way, way, way up in the mountains. It took us almost two hours to get to our two patients, who were banged up pretty bad. It was the worst case scenario kind of an emergency call. The one that you hope never happens but you kind of fashion your drills around. The one with every WHAT IF included in it. Lucky for us, this scene didn't involve anyone dying - then it would truly have bee the absolute worst.

It felt like one of those calls where nothing goes right. Everything we tried to do was harder than usual. Even accessing the patients was Way Too Hard. On some scenes, everything flows smoothly, we work together, it's fluid and graceful and efficient. This was not that scene. This was all miscommunication and frustration and Not Doing Enough.

I have spent some time going over in my head and with the other first responders that were there what it was that went wrong, and other than EVERYTHING, we couldn't quite pin down the worst parts. All of us feel like we underperformed, we were not at our best, and I think the biggest reason for that is that we were dealing with an injured friend.

Sometimes as EMTs, we're able to compartmentalize the emergency that we roll on because we can separate ourselves from the injury - it isn't our emergency, we are just here to help. But when it's a friend - or family - there's a built in need to FIX, and wondering what we could have done to prevent or avoid or help. I know that for me, there was nothing I could have done that night that would have  felt like enough. And it made me angry. My friend was hurting and I couldn't fix it. All I could really do is hurt her more to get her where she needed to go. It's a terrible feeling to add to someone's pain, even if it's necessary. That's one of the reasons I am not IV qualified anymore. I know how important that stuff is, but I don't like being the cause of any pain. That's not a valid excuse and I am considering getting my advanced certification, because if my friend had been any worse off I would have been hating myself for not being able to give her an IV.

As parents, most of us have had to pry a kid's hand (or head) out of the back of a chair, or a railing somewhere when they got it stuck. Invariably they cry and it hurts, but as parents, we know what has to be done and we do it. It's the same deal on a bigger scale. If only we could keep our friends and family from sticking their damn heads in the railings. But life is chaos. It's messy and crazy and shit happens. All the time. To everyone. We are massively blessed that this kind of an accident doesn't happen every single weekend up here because the craziness always does. And it's craziness that could just as easily been me, or my kids or any one of us. Those of us that insist on enjoying life and getting the most out of it are sitting ducks for disaster at one point or another.

It violates my sense of control-freakishness that I can't prevent every accident from happening, or know what terrible choices my children, or siblings, or friends might make, or what insane accident they might wander into at any given moment. I can't make bad things not happen to the people I care about, no matter how much I will it. All I can do is be there and try to help. But when it's my people that are hurting, it never, ever feels like enough. It's an almost paralyzing sense of inadequacy. Like my skills are totally worthless. Why am I even here? I want to click my heels and get back to Kansas and not be the one that is Not Fixing It.

The patients from our wreck made it out ok, finally, after way too many hours, being manhandled by 37 people, three ambulances,  and two helicopters. The sense of relief from handing a patient over to someone who has more training than me is immeasurable. That's probably why I stay a basic - so I can pass the buck. But in the moments (or hours) that there's no one to pass to, it kills me to not have more tools in my backpack. Maybe that's the motivation I need for that advanced class. Maybe my friends should just stop getting hurt.

Things About Commitment

We lost part of our family today. Somebody that came into our lives almost by mistake. Somebody that almost wasn't one of us. Somebody that we chose, in spite of all of the very good reasons not to.

We lost a friend that was unconditional. One that was always thankful, always loving, always kind. She was optimistic in spite of every obstacle in her way. She was dedicated and up for anything. She was the one that you knew you could count on to back you up in any crappy spot - as long as you could help her get there. 

We spent the better part of 4 years with Penny after we found her eating herself to death with no hope of escape. She came to live with us, and learned to love rabbits (or at least barking at them), to love long walks (or at least all the naps she took along the way) and to share her food. Penny lost a few pounds while she was with us, but in spite of the physical limitations of a belly that hung lower than her legs, she kept up with us and became part of our silly family. 

She made us laugh every day with her constant cheerfulness, her heroic attempts to climb stairs and her respectful begging for more food. She made us appreciate the heart that's inside an imperfect body, and even when she lost her eye sight she seemed to have a better idea of what was going on than a lot of humans. She knew when somebody needed a chin on their knee for comfort. Or an excited Cadillac dance for no reason. She knew the power of a good snuggle and the value of a squishy bed. 

She was Dagny's scolding grandmother, Emmy's comrade, Nattie's confidant and Truck's lower bunk. Penny took nothing for granted but loved every minute of her life. Her little stubbed tail was always working in thankful circles. We loved that silly obese dog. She's in her next home now. Probably chasing chickens and flopping down for a quick rest in the tall grass. Wearing angel wings like a flying pig, some of us think. And it would only make sense. 

There were times after we adopted her that we wondered if we'd made the right choice to commit to a dog with so many struggles and imperfections. Really, we were the ones that needed rescuing. We needed Penny's blind, unconditional love of all people, and her steadfast faith in her family. Her willingness to ask for help and offer affection. We needed to be reminded that beauty is what we give to each other, not how we look. We needed Penny, and thank goodness she chose us. 

Things About The Toilet

I have a semi-famous toilet. You know, the one responsible for The Great Flood of 2014 and the 2nd Great Flood of 2014? Yeah, that one.

"clean" water tank

Yesterday the Celebrity Toilet decided to start spewing water all over the floor every time some one flushed. The beauty of this latest incident is that instead of poop-contaminated water, it was dripping "clean" water straight from the tank. I say "clean" because one look inside the tank leaves reason to doubt the validity of that claim. How can a tank that circulates fresh water look like a cesspool that four zombies drowned in? Anyway, upon closer inspection, which revealed that A)someone had recently thrown up in/on the toilet and B) we're clearly not doing a good enough job when we have bathroom cleaning duty, it appeared that the water was coming from somewhere in the dark recesses between the tank and bowl.



Being the strong, knowledgeable, independent and self sufficient woman that I am, I immediately texted three experienced plumbers that I am also privileged call friends and relations. Within a short time I had learned that most likely the gasket that goes in between the tank and the bowl was shot, but it was an "easy" DIY fix, and I even got a swell brother-in-law to grab me a new part at the hardware store since he happened to be in town. It was Saturday evening, and since the options of a leaking toilet all weekend or even worse, going without a toilet until I could get the parts were both less than appealing, it seemed like a relief to pin down a solution. As if.

This is wrong. All of it. Especially that Noone has painted behind the toilet in at least four color changes. 

Sunday afternoon is the perfect time to set aside for toilet repairs. I mean if stuff goes really bad, you only have to wait until Monday morning for a hardware store less than an hour away to open up.  Plus it's easier to farm kids off to their dads house or wherever they can use a bathroom, because inevitably and invariably, as soon as you get the toilet into various and assorted pieces all over the bathroom, everybody needs to use it. I know this because it happened to me, who was the only one home post-toilet deconstruction. Lucky for me it's baseball season and the school set up an über-convenient Blue Room right across the driveway by the dug-out. I have a lot of experience with Blue Rooms so I wasn't afraid.

So, all brave and fearless and pretty sure I could handle it ("THAT'S THE SPIRIT!" said the swell brother-in-law), I set out to take apart the vintage almond Kohler with a seashell seat. They don't make them like this anymore, and I was fairly concerned about being able to match pieces if the taupe porcelain were to break. I had watched four different YouTube videos that alternately gave me hope and panic attacks, including one guy with a great Brooklyn accent and another one who kept doing it wrong and starting over. YouTube is great for figuring out all of the things you should probably never try to do yourself.

I got half way into trying to remove the first corroded and rusted-on nut and was in tears. It was about 20 minutes of struggling to understand how Guys That Do This Crap make it look so easy, why toilets are crammed in tiny corners,  and whose idea it was to put the bolts underneath where you have to hang your head down and try to reach up with a bulky wrench thingy and get them loose. In addition to earning undying respect for professional plumbers, I learned that it's very important to have the right tools for a job like this. Turns out that none of these were them:

HEART OF DARKNESS

After an hour and a half of deciding I couldn't do it after all, crying, cussing a lot and trying again, I managed to get all three bolts off and remove the tank. It was one of my most triumphant personal moments to date, and I did actually yell "I am woman, hear me roar!" quite loudly upon completion. Unfortunately that was only the first step of the process, and depending on which experienced plumber you ask, also the easiest. Looking at the monster that I had just unleashed, I realized that I probably was dealing with more than just a gasket problem, since the plastic thingy in the middle of the gasket, but totally unrelated to it, was disintegrating to the touch. After a few texts to The People That Know, and a very in-depth but confusing conversation about ball-cocks, shaft-nuts and screwing flappers, I was given strict instructions to step away from the tank before things got any worse. Nothing in the world makes me as grateful to live here as the people that I know and love and that I can count on to jump in to the rescue, even when it means spending a super unfair amount of time in close personal contact with a semi-famous toilet. I am a lucky girl, and I only hope someday I can give something back to make up for all of the getting that I have got.

Finally got the right tool for the job. And once again, a working toilet.

Just kidding Jess, you're totally not a tool. Nice vintage ball-cock there, though. 

Things About Where I Live

It's true. I watched the neighbors sawing a 6 foot fence post down to about 2.5" the other day, with a Sawzall, for the perpetual bonfire in their yard that they like to drink around. All day. Every day. They have the cleanest yard in town. They have raked it down to mineral soil. To keep their fire going. Safe to say they are the shining expample of a defensible space in our town. A safe space? Not so much, consider the less-than-advisable undertaking of sawzalling your fenceposts drunk. But still, quite tidy.

There was really no way to top off that reality-not-tv experience other than going to Taco Tuesday at Kuks. There I had a lengthy conversation with Jesus about the redeemability of my ex husband, and sat audience to an expert lecture on facial hair in romantic relationships. I am just going to leave that one right there and walk away.

I love where I live. People (ok, person) were standing in line to tell me how awesome my newspaper stories are while I discussed the bitterweet dilemma of doing absolutely nothing for spring break with half of my neighborhood.

I have friends who will faithfully jog/walk just ahead of me like a carrot on a stick so that I can make time on my practice runs for the pack test. I have people who feed me beer. And burgers. And Bananas. And ones who buy me tickets to super fun music shows and take me out to dinner and make me laugh and are just the coolest.

Everything in my life isn't perfect right now, but it's just right. Just the right amount of ache from working out. And tension from barely making it. It will be ok and it will be fun on the way there.

Things About Being Who You Are

A long time ago, when I had the coolest job in the world that involved cutting trail for ATVs on Forest Service land, and also cleaning bathrooms for all the riders that used the trails, I wore Carhartt pants every. single. day. They were the best protective equipment from chain saw exhaust, outhouse backsplash and juniper branches at 45 MPH.

Then I married a guy who hated Carhartts. He called me bad names when I wore them and told me only a certain type of girl would dress that way. I acquiesced to his taste and gave them up. Consequently I tore through about 5 pairs of jeans in the last few months of that job, once I quit wearing double-knee cotton duck. But I packed all of my trusty Carhartts away sadly, never to be worn again. They sat collecting dust in a basket until today.

See, yesterday I decided to rearrange and clean my room. Turns out that I haven't done this since I have been living alone, and I have found all sorts of amazing things in the process. Like those important EMT papers that we were looking EVERYWHERE for. I guess under the bed is as good a place as any to lose an entire box of manila folders. Stands to reason. Got those safely handed off to more responsible persons, and I came home and launched a mountain of about 51 pairs of Nomex pants and a full basket of Carhartts.

I think I forgot how much these pants had become a part of me until I pulled them out. I really had every intention of getting rid of them, and then all of a sudden I couldn't remember why. I put on my favorite pair. They are all customized. I started from stiff-starched brand new ones and washed them into buttery softness, perfectly worn in. I cut the waistband out so I can fold them over and they don't go up to my armpits. They're like the indestructible version of fold-over yoga pants. I used to roll them up and wear them with flip flops like the baddest-assest pair of capris ever. I can't remember why I quit wearing them. Something about a boy.

Putting them on was a flashback to a girl that I used to be. Someone tougher, cooler. Before the last husband, before the Buckle and blingy jeans. Before I decided I needed to try so hard to be something else for somebody else. So much in my life then changed who I was. Living in constant pain and trying to figure out a doomed relationship and raise wild teenagers while I was working full time - there wasn't even room for me in my own life any more. Now I have ample time to fit myself in and I stare and the mirror of introspection and can't figure out what's out of whack. But in my mind I think that surely something must be, or I wouldn't be alone. Maybe it's that I forgot the Carhartts. I forgot who I was. Who I am. And now that the pain is gone, the world has stabilized a little bit, and all of this alone time is just a chance to remember how I got here, and to find that girl in the Carhartts again.

just because they're work pants doesn't mean I have to work in them...