Light it up

Fucking Christmas lights.

Fuck.

That's almost all I have to say about that. Almost. Because if I didn't have much to say, why would we be here?

But, seriously.

I love the lights. They are a must have. It's just such a bitch to get them up. And take them back down.

My dad was pretty obsessive about them. And, I am too. I won't deny it. I love them but they have to be just so. Just so.

I would help dad get the lights out, they were perfectly coiled and put away from the year before. Stored in the box the garage door opener came in. His left-handed print across the box in several locations: CHRISTMAS LIGHTS. He would test them - big, glass, multi-colored. If an orange bulb was out, it was replaced with an orange one. We would do inventory and then drive over to Fred Meyer and buy the appropriate bulbs. Orange, green, blue, white, red. C9.

I drive by so many houses and just want to get out and help them. They have, in what must be a mistake, a horrible mistake, not replaced their bulbs properly. You can't have primary colors and then put a pink one in because a bulb is out and pink is what you had on hand. You can't have four pink, then a green, then a clear, then a yellow. I'm looking at you little cottage on Verboort Road. Looking at you.

One time on Golden Lane, I was holding the light string while testing was occurring. Perfect coil of lights in my hand. Standing there on the front porch, bit of a rain that day, when I was, for lack of a better term, electrocuted. A glass bulb was cracked, the wire exposed, touching my bare wet hands. Me standing there, shaking in pain while dad shouted from the garage, "Damn it! Why won't these light up?"

That was probably the beginning of my love/hate relationship with the lights.

Many, many years later... I was home alone at our first house.

The house was brand new. The neighborhood was gearing up for Christmas and it appeared to be getting competitive. Our first Christmas there. This is when you have to set the tone. Make the neighbors understand that you mean business. Christmas light business.

Went to Fred Meyer. Bought one million feet of lights. Clear. Big. Glass. C9.

Started with the bushes in the front flower bed. Small lights for that. Carefully wrapped each bush. Felt very successful to see them all lit up.

Moved on to the house. Got the ladder out. Started clipping lights around the garage door. Then moved up to the gutters. Using gutter clips and keeping them tightly lined up... snap, clip, move, snap, click, move. This is a change from my dad's approach. He was a staple gun man. I find that permanent hooks and plastic clips work better for me. I never told him that while he as alive. He would have been crushed.

During all this time, PacoDog was wandering around in the front yard. He was very interested in my technique and form. He sat for a moment in the drive way and watched me progress across the front of the house. Surely calculating how far I could go without adding another extension cord... wondering why I wasn't smarter.

And, then out of the corner of my eye I saw him get up, stretch, sniff, go to the first bush in the line and... now this next part happened in slow motion. I swear. His leg went up as I dove off the ladder.

But it was too late.

A whiff of smoke, and a yip followed by a loud boom.

Then the house went dark.

Paco bolted.

In good news, the dog didn't die. That night. The only death that night was my dream. My dream of having the best lit house on the block. Oh, and also that Rhody.

That Rhododendron died.

Why am I dredging up past Christmas light horror stories now... well... I just spent several hours updating C9 lightbulbs on LED strings. They are not indestructible old school glass lights. They are persnickety. They take care and feeding. They are a pain in the ass. Changed fuses, went Clark Griswald style and checked each bulb. Sat on the living room floor trying to will them to work properly. Gave up. Went to Freddies. Bought more. Added in some old school glass C9's to our front porch decor.

Light man came and put up lights. Well, the parts that require a ladder. This house has a habit of flinging people off the roof. Normally I'd be up for the challenge but I think it's better to pay a guy money and not cheat death at Christmas.

And in January they'll be taken down. Coiled up properly and put away. In their red Christmas totes. And yet, 11 months from now, the light fight will be back. I'll likely be making a mad dash to Freddies to buy more of something.

Worth it.

Dad would approve. Even without the staples.

Squirrel!

About 13 years ago we were buying our first home. On one of our visits to check construction and progress we heard a frog.

I remember thinking, 'oh, wow! We have a frog!'

Well, that frog turned out to be about 20,000 frogs. 20,000 loud, loud frogs.

They were cute, they were fun. I saved many of them. Pulled them off the side of the car, put them outside (after a reasonable amount of screaming), freed them after the kids caught them. I was a good frog steward. There are pluses to the frogs - there are no bugs anywhere near your home. None. You sleep incredibly soundly. You can't hear the television but you sleep well.

And so when we moved, I knew I'd miss the frogs. 

But what I got was going to be better. I got squirrels! They're funny. They're furry. They seem pretty smart. My goal in those early days was to tame a couple to come up to the door and take nuts from my hand. That sounded fun. At the time.

It turns out that squirrels are assholes.

Assholes.

And the squirrels in my neighborhood were not pleased when I moved in. With two children and three dogs.

Our house had not been regularly lived in for a few years and then vacant for another year or so. The squirrels had gotten quite used to lounging around in our backyard and sunning themselves on our balcony. 

Stop digging! Jerks.

They showed their displeasure often in the beginning. I was working in a flowerbed under a pine tree when I was hit on the head with an apple. One of then little bastards threw an apple at me. An apple. We don't have an apple tree near our yard. I swear he laughed.

Mating season is intense. And never ending apparently. Squirrels don't understand that no means no. I've been woken up in the early morning on multiple occasions to the sound of a lady squirrel trying to escape a randy male. Literally banging on my window to avoid banging him. No means no buddy!

The kids comment about the squirrels playing 'tag'. Yep. They're playing tag. Hopefully she doesn't get tagged.

But then, then one or two or many of them pushed it too far. They began hiding their nuts and winter food in the flowerpots on my front porch. I would be greeted after work with plant parts and dirt all over the front steps.

I got smarter. I moved pots around - I even brought the one that they loved the most into the house.

Which seemed to anger them. As they retaliated. 

I came home to a garden gnome face down on the front steps. Broken. Pieces of him everywhere. Hands smashed.

They don't know who they're dealing with.

Murder. Allegedly.

The Funeral

My dad died on May 14, 2007.

The 134th day of the year. 

A Monday.

The call came in the afternoon. My brother.

"I've got sad news, Stace. Dad died today."

I was standing at the bottom of the staircase. Speechless, sort of.

"Son of a bitch."

"I know. But at least we've got closure. It's not what we wanted but at least we don't have to wonder anymore."

It was true. We didn't have to wonder anymore. Wonder when he'd actually call. Wonder when he'd wake up and realize that he'd abandoned his kids. Three of them.

The service was on Friday. Good thing we were all available. Jesus. Funeral planned without his own children involved. Shitty. But not surprising. The step mother comfortably sits at the right hand of Satan. It's not even too warm for her.

And so we did what our mother taught us. We were good citizens. We sent flowers in advance. Showed up in suits, looking like we'd stepped out of a Nordstrom catalog.

It felt like us against the world. Three of us, plus three spouses. A team of six. Heading into a disaster.

Stopped at Starbucks a couple blocks away. Ordered my usual mocha. Wished it was a whiskey with a beer back. 

Turned around and ran into our aunt and uncle. Thank God! Our only relatives on that side. My grandmothers brother. He's filled in a big role in my life. He taught me to ski as a teenager and rollerblade as a twenty-something. He danced with me at my wedding and he makes me laugh. Really hard. 

He's buried his sister, his brother-in-law and his brother. And now he's there to bury his nephew. He's proof that a life well lived isn't necessarily fair.

Our team of six jumped to a team of eight.

It's odd. When you're the stranger. The front row is a hard place to be when you know that the 40 or so people behind you have no idea who you are.

And so the service started. The obituary read by the funeral guy. Preacher maybe. Not sure. Might have just been the owner of the funeral parlor. No idea. The information was wrong anyway for the 10 years or so that he was married to our mother. Oh well. Let that go.

Funeral guy gave us each a task. Think of one word that reminds us of Phil. Our father. Half our DNA. 

Shit, he's going to ask us for our words.

So, I tried to think of an innocuous word. Think. Think. Think. Really wishing I'd had that whiskey.

Funny! That's it. My dad was funny. Really funny. 

True. 

Safe. 

And then my brother leaned over and whispered, knowing my favorite word, he asked, "Is your word, fucker?"

"No! Although that's true. My word is funny."

"My word is absent."

Although fitting, it didn't seem appropriate. 

For a funeral. 

Fortunately we weren't called on.

#momfail

I'm a big believer in 'It Takes a Village'. Big believer.

Mostly because I'm alone with the children a lot.

I need help.

Often.

Literally.

Fortunately I've got some great friends who help out. Run carpool. Feed us on occasion, watch beasties. All the things. Really, really good friends.

I try to keep the asks to a minimum. I do want to be able to handle everything. Kiddos, work, home. Plus, who wants to annoy their friends all the time with cries for help?

But, somewhere in there... the children have figured out at the ripe old ages of seven and eleven that I am not good at everything. Or, anything really. It's gone beyond needing help. It's not that they think I can't handle the extras. Now we're at the point that they don't think I can handle the basics.

It's Halloween weekend. On top of the kid focused day we had two soccer games and a soccer party to handle. Why have a mellow weekend when you can have a very busy one?

Saturday morning I had The Angels over for breakfast. I've had a couple stressful weeks, needed some girlfriend time to chill out and catch up. We don't often meet at a home for breakfast. We're dinner and drinks people. Normally. But, I'm alone with kiddos and the above mentioned activities. If we were going to see each other, the window was narrow.

Needed to adjust the belt for the Supergirl costume that would be worn later in the day. A few stitches. Nothing major. The girl is tiny and the belt needed to be taken in several inches. This is a basic mom task. Something I can handle. I may not be super domestic. (I got a C in Home Ec.) But, I can handle basics!

As I pulled out the sewing kit, the girl eyed me suspiciously. "Are you sure you know how to do this?"

"Yes. This is simple stuff."

"Um, but isn't Becca on the way?"

Braided by Becca.

Seriously? 

P.S. That belt didn't slip off after hours of trick or treating. There may have been some safety pins involved but that belt stayed on. On!

The girl has had a cold. Started with a sore throat, now it's a cough. Which doesn't seem to bother her much but it's super annoying to anyone with ears.

"Hey. Why don't you come in the kitchen and get some cough medicine?"

'No. I'm fine."

"I really think you should."

"I'm okay."

And then Tracey adds, "Are you sure? I think you'd feel better."

"Well then, okay."

Oh. My. God.

The girl then asked both Tracey and Becca to braid her hair. This is something I don't even attempt. I can ponytail.

After the interviews, she settled on Becca. Who put it in a French Braid. She then told Becca that she was welcome to stay over for 45 more hours. I'm pretty sure that I was free to go at any time though.

Later at her soccer game, a fellow mom asked if I did the braid. The answer was no. Of course, not. To which she responded, "Oh, I thought maybe you watched some Youtube videos!"

Um, yeah. No.

Make up by Dani.

And, the day progressed on. A little downtime in the afternoon. Followed by the Halloween costume prep. The boy was going as The Joker. Ordered the costume on Amazon and grabbed green hairspray and a basic clown makeup kit at the grocery store. Neither of their costumes took much effort. Only thing truly required was an Amazon Prime account.

While we were outside, me spraying him down with a can of green hairspray  (because, no way, no how is that happening in the house), he asked, "Can we wait to do my makeup until we're at Dani's?"

"I guess. But it's only going to take a minute to do."

"I just think that Dani would do it better."

Aren't they supposed to think I am the best at everything? Don't I have more time?

I'm not ready for this!

Le sigh.

Popped.

Where I come from popcorn is a big deal. A very big deal. Nearly a spiritual experience. From the time we were small children we sat on the stool watching grandpa make the popcorn. Only him.

Popped to perfection.

Air popper, roasting pan, butter and salted to perfection. Former cottage cheese containers as our serving dishes.

I am not as good at it. I must have watched him make it 50 times but I still cannot duplicate. Sad really. It's not a skill that just comes with genetics.

I've got the air popper. Bought it on Black Friday a couple years ago. For not much money. It's not as good as his. It flings popcorn all over the kitchen in some sort of angry fit.

The children are accustomed to the ease and taste of Orvile via the microwave.

But today, it's cold and rainy. We're catching up on our Halloween movies. Felt like the right time to bust out the air popper. The popper that we use so little it's stored in a cabinet near the ceiling. I have to get on a tall stool and then I still have to reach.

Melted the butter, readied the salt. Let the popper throw its fit. All over the kitchen.

The children, well, they were not impressed. First off, the popcorn wasn't fluorescent yellow and 'buttery'. 

The boy said, "It's buttered. Like on two pieces."

Not a glowing review, I'm afraid.

I will not let a bad review bring me down! I will try again! I will persevere!

Perhaps as a start I should buy a new popper. 

One that is slightly less temperamental.

Fit thrown.

Friday Night, 80s style

Friday night... 1980 something.

The General Lee.

Three kids sprawled out on the floor at 1052 Hemlock Avenue in the grooviest basement of all time. Orange carpet, two red brick walls, two paneled walls. Mom sitting on the tan tweed couch. Working on her latch hook. Microwave popcorn is ready. Dukes of Hazzard is on.

But, really, we're waiting for Dallas.

Dallas, Dallas, Dallas.

I was truly too young to be watching Dallas. But, it was Friday night and I got to stay up until 10. There was no VCR, DVR or any other technology to record it and watch later so, if I was up until 10 and my mom wanted to watch Dallas, well, I got to watch it too.

It's disheartening to report that neither show holds up. I've caught a couple of marathons in recent years. Last time I had the flu I stumbled onto a Dukes marathon. At the time I thought it was a fantastic stroke of luck. Sick, miserable, catching up on some 80's tube. Turns out, the writing is terrible. Really terrible.

Best. Bad. Guy.

No part of the Dukes is even plausible. Starting with the car. Really? Was everyone that gullible in the 80's that they thought you could jump that car over every manner of barn, bridge or gully?

And then there's Dallas, where the writing is bad but the direction is worse.  How did all of America watch and wait through all those cliff hangers? JR, Bobby, Sue Ellen, Pamela, Cliff... I remember all of them and the fantastical drama.

JR Ewing was the best bad guy around. Everyone in America waited an entire summer to find out who shot him, that's how bad he was. If there is a list of people who might murder you, you're seriously bad.  He called every woman in his office 'honey' or 'darling'. I dare a guy at work to call me either one. There won't be a cliff hanger. It'll be obvious who pulled the trigger.

I was pretty young to be learning about affairs, murders, rehab... plus, you can die and come back to life all via dream... Turns out you're just in the shower... When you're angry you throw wine glasses - full. Seems like a horrible waste of wine to me, now that I'm an adult. I can get pretty angry. Scary angry, in fact. The only thing I've ever thrown across a room in anger was my own glasses. Which, was really stupid as then I just had to find them, blindly...

I think part of me thought that when I was a grown up, life would be a little more dramatic. Turns out there are no evil twins, there's not a list of people who want to kill me (that I am aware of), I've never had amnesia, there's no mansion where we all still live with our mother. You're supposedly rich, but you've never bought your own place? You still live with your 'momma'?

The producer of Dallas was Philip Capice. And my brother loved to wait for that pause, the freeze frame at the end of the show and he'd shout out, "Philip Capice!" just as the name flashed up on the screen.

And then, Friday night was over.

Forget the Charger, this is the car for me!

Step Ball Change

Back when I was ten, I was forced into tap dance lessons. Forced. Totally against my will. It was an effort to make me 'graceful'. If you actually know me, you understand that this attempt was a total failure.

Holy Hell.

Thirty years before, my mother asked for dance lessons. Instead she was given a piano and lessons for years. When I asked for piano lessons, the piano was sold. Because, 'I'd never practice'. And yet she seemed shocked when I didn't practice tap...

There were five kids at the start of the class. Just two of us stayed the whole year and were in the recital. I remember standing there - an angry, hands on hips smart-assed ten year old staring at the teacher, refusing to move my feet.  (I'm certain she hated me right back, rightly so.) Our first steps were to Dipsy Doodle. In 1986. Dipsy Doodle.

I fractured my ankle that year. You'd think that four weeks in a cast would have gotten me out of tap, but no. She drug me right on down to the studio, where I sat in a chair and practiced. Tap shoe on my left foot, bulky cast on my right foot.

Step, ball, change.

I was desperate. I had to get out. I went to my only possible option. Grandma. I was on the green stool in the kitchen while she cooked dinner - the best time to have a BIG conversation. And then I begged.

Her response, "Give it time. It will be fun. I'm sure the music is modern and something you like. It's not like you're learning to dance to Dipsy Doodle."

Um, actually... 

My last hope. Dashed.

As you can imagine, the recital was a total disaster. Grandma was wise enough to not attend. We moved soon after. Probably unrelated.

And nearly 30 years later. Guess what I'm doing? Taking tap dance lessons on Friday nights.

So shocking to some of my friends, that when I was asked to join in on a Friday night girls night out, and said I could, but it would be after 8:30 when my tap dance class was over, one burst out laughing. In her defense, I'm sarcastic most of the time and she had no idea that I was serious.

Know what? Tap dancing is f***ing hard. It's a super challenge. I will beat it. I will be in the recital. I will own that dance.

Own.

And, my mother is going to pay for it. She just doesn't know it yet.

Tied!

I learned to tie my shoes when I was four. Bev taught me. She watched me four days a week while my mom worked. I remember emerging from my bedroom, the next morning, shoes tied, very proudly telling my mother that, 'I did it all by myself!'

She looked down at my blue and red sneakers and said, 'No you didn't. You slipped those on'.

Concentrating.

Don't worry, I proved I could. I'm pretty sure she felt bad about her lack of faith. And, just one of the things that's made me a pretty damn tough adult.

I don't remember if it was hard to learn but I'm assuming Bev had the patience of a saint because over the years I've tried to teach my children and suffice it to say, it's not gone well.

I tried and tried to teach the boy. Finally one afternoon he learned. Not by me. By the baby sitter. The one who watched him four days a week while I worked. The one who probably has the patience of a saint.

The girl though. Holy hell. Loop, swoop and pull. She couldn't do it. Add in her need for perfection and we would often have tears over shoe tying.  All the while I'm thinking, 'come on! I could do this when I was four!' She's seven. And a half.

Enter Kelly. Kelly runs the before and after school program. Got a text from her today - the girl can tie her shoes! Probably because Kelly has the patience of a saint.

Clearly proof that it takes a village.

VICTORY!

To the pain

Here I am again. Icing.

Sometime over last winter I hurt my shoulder. I noticed that it hurt to put my arm into the sleeve of my coat. I can't really pinpoint the injury. I can sort of pinpoint the time - cold enough to need a coat.

It's possible, but not confirmed, that I was injured when some of the guys in the office thought my football skills were lacking. I can throw. I can put it on your numbers. But, it doesn't spiral. They practiced with me, gave me tips. At the time, I thought, "man, I'm going to be sore in the morning."

At no time did I think, "shit, this is going to hurt so bad you'll cry nearly every morning for 10 months."

Now, I'm no pansy. I'm sturdy. I'm pretty tough. I've had broken bones and waited to go to the doctor until the next day. But this. This grinds on you. Day after day. 

I can't lift anything over my head. It's my right shoulder too. I'm hopelessly right handed. My left side is so pathetic I can't even really use it. My left arm just sort of hangs there. Like an ornament.

I've been to the doctor. She thought bone spurs. And if you read up on that, the symptoms fit. 

Negative on that X-ray. 

Torn deltoid. Negative.

Impingement. Still possible. But then they started second guessing that diagnosis because it seems like torn labrum is a possibility. That's surgical.

Now, it's possibly tendonitis and bursitis. Bursitis sounds like an old people disease. I'd prefer it to not be that. Because I'm not old. Dammit!

To treat the latest, we're working through stretches, ibuprofen, twice daily icing and an occasional muscle relaxer. Which I have no business taking. The other night, I decided, while medicated, that I'd like to be a mermaid. For a number of reasons. One of which was 'no pants'.

If someone told me they could fix it by stabbing me with a rusty spoon, I'd be game. Seriously. I just want it fixed. 

It seems to be down to a hardware issue. It's essentially hinges and pullies. Someone should be able to figure this out. So far, four highly educated people are struggling.

After a few more physical therapy appointments I'll finally be able to get a MRI. At least there will be some type of confirmation. Hopefully.

Because, I'm about to punch someone. If I could. But.. I can't punch for shit with my left arm.

Medicated.

TV!

I love television. Probably because I love stories. And, TV is stories. Right at your finger tips. Any time day or night.

Today while doing the drive to soccer practice, the boy asked what my favorite show was when I was a kid. I had to think about it. Impossible to answer. Love too many shows. Too many genres.

And then he followed it up with, 'When you were a kid, were the shows in color?'

Um, what?! I'm an 80's kid! We had color!

Why, I oughta!

That got me thinking... I was a latchkey kid. On top of that I was sickly. I was home in front of the television a lot. A lot.

Your fresh breath goes on and on.

I was stuck on Bandaid brand, cuz band aids stuck on me. I raise my hand because I'm Sure. I take the nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head fever so I can rest medicine. From Vicks of course. I also know spaghetti doesn't really grow on trees but if it did, nobody would grow spaghetti like American Beauty. And I kiss a little longer, longer with Big Red.

The Facts of Life are all about me. I bet we've been together for a million years and I bet we'll be together for a million more. As long as we've got each other, we've got the world spinning right in our hands. Baby, you and me. Different Strokes rule the world. It's time to light the lights.

I grew up on sitcoms and game shows. I watched The Price is Right when they were called 'Barkers Beauties' and if you had the exact amount on a bid, you reached into Bob's pocket and pulled out a one hundred dollar bill. I wanted big money, no Whammies. And stop! From the center square Joan Rivers, Jim J Bullock and me, I'm Shadoe Stevens.

I wanted my mom to be like Mrs. Huxtable and my grandma to be a little bit like Sophia. Not Blanche though, because, does anyone want a slutty grandma? I wanted a retired boxer to be our housekeeper and our house to be decorated by Sugarbakers.

(Note to self: the above would be a great show.)

I love television. And maybe I could have been a neurosurgeon but my brain is full of commercials and theme songs. I'd prefer if all challenges in my life could be wrapped up in 28 minutes and the worst thing that happened was to be continued until next week.

On a very special episode.

The most beautiful thing I ever saw in 1984.

Running, with dogs.

So, got up early the other morning to get my run in. I’ll be honest, I’ve been slacking. The dark mornings are not very motivating. And, I’ve had a cold. Not feeling great and certainly not well enough to run. At least very well.

Got a puppy this summer. Her sole purpose (other than snuggles) is to be my running partner. She’s a Border Collie. She needs a job. She has great ‘eye’. This means that she doesn’t just look at you, she looks into you. Her face and eyes are black and even though she’s as sweet as pie, if she thinks you’re a threat to me, she doesn’t look friendly. And when the hair on her back goes up, you should probably cross the street. I have no fear running in the morning or evening with her – she sees everything.

Running Buddy.

I’ve had this cold, it lingers. Puppy was restless. Hadn’t had a run in four days. 

The alarm went off at 5:30. The dog pack jumped up. Well, some of them. Yes, it’s true. We have four dogs. 

One senior, two small dogs and the border collie. And, yes, I know it’s too many. But, the senior is three paws into the grave so it’s just a matter of time until we’ve got three dogs. Which is actually much more manageable and honestly, the perfect number for our house. Senior rolled over and refused to get up. The young three ran out to do their business. I let them back in when I went to the kitchen to have my pre-run toast with peanut butter. Small, spoiled girl dog went back to bed. Small boy dog sat there. With sad eyes. He clearly wanted to go run too.

Here’s the thing. He’s a hypoallergenic hybrid. He wasn’t cheap. He was flown cross-country. He’s the sweetest funniest little guy. And he has an adorable face. His legs, well, his legs are, to put it mildly, jacked up. He’s bow-legged. And his left foot is turned so far it almost looks like it’s on backward. Running is not for him. He needs a trip to the doggie version of Shriners hospital. He needs some Forest Gump braces on his legs. But, he looked so sad. And, well, if he wants to run, who am I to shatter his dreams?

For a 20-pound bow legged dog, the dude can pull. Border Collie runs on a gentle leader – goes around her nose. She doesn’t pull at all. Trots right along side. Gentle leader rules. So, I figure, I’ll put him in the gentle leader. 

Put Border Collie in a regular leash. She looks slightly offended that he’s using her collar and lead. We head outside. Turn on my running app and snap the leader on his face. 

And then all hell broke loose.

You’ve seen those fishing shows where they hook some giant shark or something and it runs to the end of the line and then throws itself in the air while trying to kill the person who hooked it. I’d have been less scared if a shark was on the end of this leash. It was quite a show.

I stopped and readjusted the lead. He calmed down and trotted along for a half block or so. Then had another utter meltdown.

Running app is not pleased with my distance or pace.

Stopped again. Adjusted.

Things were going better. He was right behind me - that seemed to work for a few blocks. He wasn't pulling at all.

And then, (the 'and then' is always the best part, you know?) the leash tightened behind me. I kept going, he's got to learn at some point. I stopped under a street light and glanced back. It took a moment to realize what was happening. He, with his desire to get the leader off his face, was hopping down the sidewalk on his back feet while desperately trying to push the leader off with his front paws. He was a small dog possessed. 

The readjustment, jog, readjust continued on. Until he won. At about mile 2. 

What was supposed to be seven miles, adjusted to five because of the cold ended up being 2.76. 

I didn't get my miles. Border Collie didn't get her miles. Spoiled boy dog slept for two days.

There's a winner in there somewhere.

What? These legs are fine!

Old?

At some point, I'm not sure exactly when it happened, I became old. I think. I'm 39. That doesn't seem old, really. Right? Oprah says 40 is the new 30 and if Oprah says it, it must be true. So. I'm young. Yes?

I don't really feel old, per se. Well, I feel old the morning after.

Went to Costco today after work, kid pick up, cleaned out the fridge, made dinner, went for a run (5M), watched cartoons with the kids (Phineaus and Ferb are making a title sequence!).

In bed at 9:30. On a Friday. Exhausted. Now, in my defense, that is a lot of stuff. But a few years ago I would have done that stuff, met up with some friends and stayed out late. Would have crawled into bed giggling and smelling (reeking) of bourbon.

All I could think about tonight was how I need to get up early and have a big list of stuff to get done this weekend and how it's better to go to bed early than be miserable and tired for days...

Perhaps that's a sign of maturity? Mature sounds better than old. Except when I hear about 'mature men' on dating sites - then that's code for 'old'. Just like houses listed with 'easy freeway access' equals 'under an overpass'.

I did spend an hour watching cartoons today so that should count for something. And, I'll watch some in the morning. It'll be Saturday after all. Looney Tunes is on.

Maybe I'm just tired.

Scars and Gravel, Gravel and Scars

I've been the victim of attempted murder on more than one occasion. Mostly by people who claim they love me. And/or are related to me...

He doesn't look like a killer. But, that's what they always say.

In this particular case, I was horribly disfigured. It's a miracle I even leave the house. Because, my brother.

One afternoon we were unsupervised. It was cloudy. I had my pink and white jacket on. I'm guessing it was spring, probably right before my fourth birthday.

Remember, I'm a small town girl...

Out in front of Tyke's store there is a flat spot next to the road. The fertilizer companies would bring big tanks and stage them there - now, to keep people from killing themselves or others with the chemicals, they were up high with a ladder hanging down. If you were a fertilizer man, you had a ladder that connected to this and you could get up there. If you were a kid, you saw a challenge.

The challenge: ride your bike under the ladders. And not die. Or, more importantly, don't kill your passenger. Your much younger passenger.

'Hey Stace, you want to go on a ride?'

'Yeah!' Big brother fun times!

'Okay, do you know what duck means?'

'Yeah.' Geez, I'm almost four, but I'm not an idiot.

And so, trusting him with my little tiny human life, I got on the back of his bike. Or, more likely, he put me up there.

We were moving so fast! So fun!

So stupid and trusting.

'Okay Stace, you ready? When I say duck, you duck.'

'Ready!'

'Okay, Duck!'

'WHERE?!' I looked to the sky, searching for the duck. Or better yet, ducks. Ducks are fun.

Now, there's a sound. A distinct sound. It's the sound of aluminum hitting your skull. Followed by the more dull sound of your tiny body slamming onto the gravel. And, you see Jesus for a second or two. Then, well, then, you taste blood. That has trickled all the way down from your forehead.

In his defense, he did freak out at the sight of me. My sister looked a little disappointed. From what I could see. Through the blood.

So we walked to get help. Can't go home with a face like that. We were stupid, but not that stupid.

I hope that everyone has an Aunt Nancy in their life. An Aunt Nancy will save your bacon - numerous times. Most of them will involve an injury and blood. Sometimes stitches too. With the added benefits of a cookie to make you feel better after. In the least, she'll clean you up and carry you up the road to your mothers house. Better to walk in blood free. Lest we get ourselves killed.

And now, I have a scar on my forehead and an almost paralyzing fear of being hit in the face. As I age and wrinkle, the scar gets deeper and deeper.

I'll get it fixed at some point. And send him the bill.

Somehow able to laugh with the hideous scar.

Music and Time

So, here's the thing. I don't really know what years things happened in. As in the number. I just know songs. We grew up with music. Both the parents listened to a lot of music. There are songs that I hear that instantly take me back to a specific time. Often to an extremely vivid memory.

Most of my friends knew my 'dad'. They didn't really know he wasn't my biological father. He was at the things. All the things. The games, the prom, the stuff. That dude held his breath for a lot of soccer games. I got scored on anyway. But, he felt it too.

I remember my stepsister, who is as close to me as any blood relative, see me hug a man just before my sisters wedding...

"Who is that guy?"

"Um, that's my dad."

It as awkward for everyone. But, especially as we'd lived in the same house for a number of years and she had no idea what the other half of my DNA looked like.

He and I weren't close. Which is a bummer; I've heard he was a pretty fun guy.

And then, well, he died. Years after that, but still kind of youngish. 62. Just before my 31st birthday. Don't think that I haven't thought about being halfway through. A lot. I plan on living a lot longer than 62 years. But, I do whatever I want. No regrets. Just in case. Because, hell, it could all go boom tomorrow.

What's the whole reason for this ramble... and how the heck does it tie back to music? Well, stick with me...

Dad moved to Olympia in the early '80's. We went for a week or so. I have no idea how long we were there. But, he had this new channel. MTV. Music Television.

COOLEST. THING. EVER.

It was the summer  of '84. There are a number of songs that I can equate to that summer. Cars, Corey Hart... But, really, it was Huey Lewis. And the News.

'If This Is It' must have played 10 times a day that summer. You all remember the video. The family searching for the perfect place on the beach while hauling around a ton of stuff... as Huey is trying to call a girl. On a pay phone.

Went to see Huey the other night. Live. Felt like 1984. Except I drove myself there and had a couple beers. And Huey is 65. Other than that. It was just like being eight.

Took me back. Made me think about that summer. My dad. That was the last time I really spent with him. When I was eight. Saw him for a night two years later. And, for a few minutes at graduation and my sisters wedding. He was at my brothers wedding too. But, at that point I was pretty much pissed off. I marinated in anger for about 15 years, after all. I called the hospital when he had the first heart attack. Sent flowers. I wasn't a total ass. Just mostly.

Refused to go to the viewing. Sat there stunned at the funeral.

Lot of regrets there. Can't be fixed. Packing up the lessons learned. Vow to do better myself.

For now, I've got Huey, Corey and the Cars and that summer in 1984.

6th Grader?

Somehow there are some milestones that stick out more than others... For instance, I'm a little blown away that I have a sixth grader. Sixth grade. I started a new school for sixth grade - probably why it sticks out so much in my mind.

Kindergarten. So far away.

Anyway, the boy. Headed off to sixth grade in a couple days. I think I'm slightly in shock that I have a kid old enough for sixth grade. Might be easier if he was a really smart 8 year old that was going into sixth grade. Sixth grade. Sixth grade. It's just ringing in my ears. But he's the correct age and everything.

He's a tween. Which I think is code for asshole. But, they can't say asshole on television. So, it's tween. All in all, he's a pretty good kid. Any time I complain, my friends say, 'oh, but he's such a good kid'. Really? Because if he rolls his eyes at me one more time, I'm going to punch him in the head. Maybe. Probably not. Well, not a chance. I'd like to think that the look I give is enough. But those eyes keep on rolling.

Sixth grade is where things start to happen. Girls call. Or text. Or, I don't know. I really have no idea what happens these days. 'These days'. Because I'm suddenly old and out of touch with a tween. Who hates the clothes I buy and rides in the front seat and reaches over and changes the radio station. Holy hell.

So, anyway... he's headed off to sixth grade. I'll be white knuckling through the whole thing. And, really I don't have a lot for advice other than, 'most of the stuff you're going to run into is really stupid and will have no impact on your life'. Except in that moment, when it's the worst thing ever. EVER.

I'm pretty sure that's my job though. Just keep him going. Give terrible advice. Hold my tongue when I want to snap. Let him change the radio station. Show up. Be present. Even when some times I'm just pretending and have no earthly idea of what he's talking about.

Because the years are ticking away. There aren't many left. Six years from sixth grade... well, that's heading out the door.

Jesus.

I need a drink.

Teeth!

The tooth fairy assigned to our neighborhood is at best lazy, or at worst, has early onset dementia. She often forgets to drop by, is often without quarters and generally disorganized. She's even had to hide teeth in the cup holder on the treadmill - more than once - in an early morning panic.

Gappy.

So, this morning when I got a call from the boy that the girl had lost a fang (his words, not mine)... I mentally filed it away.


Don't forget the tooth fairy. Don't forget the tooth fairy.


Trouble is, he called me just as I was walking into a meeting. File instantly archived.

When I got home this afternoon the kitchen was a little bit of a disaster. Plates out, cereal spilled on the table, the usual summer day untidiness that I'm finding lately. Loaded the dishwasher, started it, we ate dinner... typical night.

Until about 9:30. When the girl, hysterical, screamed, "Where did the glass go that was right here?"

"You mean your milk cup? It's on the table."

"NO. The water glass that was right here!" Tears are now coming, she can hardly get the words out.

"There's a water glass in the living room on the coffee table. Is that it? I think someone is tired."

"I DON'T WANT WATER! My tooth was in it. RIGHT HERE!" She slams her little hand down on the counter.

Oh, shit. 

I quickly run over to the sink to see if it somehow survived the kitchen clean up.

She's now sobbing at the thought of the tooth having been washed down the drain. I assure her that the tooth fairy can find it in the drain. As long as she doesn't have a glass of wine later.

And then, light bulb.

FOUND!

Here's the thing. I don't like to waste water. When I come upon a water glass on the counter with a bit of water in it, I pour it into the dog bowl. They drink out of the toilet so I'm pretty sure they're okay with backwash.

And, there it was, resting on the the bottom of the water bowl. Tooth!

Tears are gone, smile is back, "It's so good that one of the dogs didn't swallow it, the tooth fairy would have had to fly into the dog!"

Yep, that forgetful bitch would have had to fly into a dog...

Summertime and the livin’ is easy…

I love summer. Love. Love. Love. Although not my favorite season, fall wins there. Chilly in the morning, warm in the afternoon, orange leaves and pumpkin flavored everything.

But, back to summer.

Until I was 11, I lived in either Eastern Washington or Northern Idaho. Close to the sun. Where I used to be very tan and blonde; I am now pasty and “blonde”.

I achieved this fantastical tan through the over-usage of Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil. Because, I was eight. And it smelled good.

Spent a lot of time on the Snake River. A lot of time. I can still hear it. There is a sound, distinct. Drop under the water, just cover your ears. The muffled sound of laughing and playing in the water and behind that, the hum of boat engines. It’s meditative.

We’d head to the river, Hells Gate State Park, when we lived in Idaho. When we lived in Washington, we walked out the front door. Hells Gate was nicer. It cost a dollar per car to get in. Relatively early in the morning. To get a good spot. Spread out the blanket. Green plaid. Start the process of blowing up the air mattresses.

Break out the snacks: Sour Cream and Onion chips, soda pop, light beer (mom only!) and oreos. The beer and oreo thing has stuck with me. If you haven’t tried it, you’re missing out. Truly.

It would be hot. Often 100 degrees or more, it was Hells Gate, after all. You’d run from the grass to the water to try to not burn your feet on the sand. That run got longer as the river receded later in the summer.

Start at the top of the swimming area, float to the end. Flip over and do it again. Again and again. Jump in. Dive. Somersaults. Handstands. You need to have an even base burn. You should be absolutely red, blistered is even better, by the end of the day. You’ll be miserable and unable to sleep for a few nights and then you’ll peel. And peel. And peel.

But then, well, you’ll be a perfect golden brown. Repeat each Saturday or Sunday - after church of course. And as you’ve completed the task of the base burn, you don’t burn again all summer. Just a deeper and deeper tan. Which translates into some amazing sun damage as an adult.

My children have no idea what this is like. The 80’s seem like another planet now. They’ve never been in the sun without massive quantities of sunscreen. Nor have they ever been encouraged to work on their base burn. In turn, neither one is as comfortable in the water as I was. Probably due to the distance from Western Oregon to the Snake River. And, my fear of damaging their perfect innocent skin.

They do know about beer and oreos though. Because I'm raising them right.

Regular Grandma

July 9th would be Regular Grandma's birthday. I miss her everyday. From little things like the way her lotion smelled to bigs things like long talks on walks on gravel roads. She in her Keds, me in my Nikes. Until I got her to wear Vans.

Coolest. Grandma. Ever.

She was a poet and always encouraged me to be a writer. Turns out starving writer wasn't the direction I wanted to go. I do think she'd like most of my posts - if they didn't contain the occasional profanity.

When she'd write something, she'd get out the blue electric typewriter. I think she'd be amazed that I wrote and posted this from a phone.

Below is her eulogy. It's not enough but it's all I can do today.

~~~

I know that a lot of people think that they have the best grandmother.  They'd be wrong.  They can't because I had the best one.  

We called her Regular Grandma.  Not because she was regular but because we had a lot of other grandma’s:  Green Grandma, Great Grandma, Grandma Gladys.  Jeremy, Derek and Drew had Seattle Grandma.  So she was just regular.  Regular Grandma.  

She grew up in Seattle and worked for the Army during the war.  She met our grandfather there.  It must have been the incredible Henley charm that got her, with her severe hay fever, to leave Seattle for Hay, WA.

When my mom and uncles were young, she would set snacks out after school.  What was there was what they got.  Even if they were 'starving'.  

When we were kids, we could get our own snacks, but we were warned when we headed to the kitchen.  "Don't spoil your dinner".

When the great grand kids arrived, it was a whole new world.  One afternoon she got Oreos out for Henley and Cole.  After they each had one, she gave them two more - one for each hand.  When I reacted in horror that she was aiding them in spoiling their dinner, she rolled her eyes and said, "Relax.  It's not like I'm giving them marijuana."

Holding a baby. One of her favorite things.

There was nothing regular about her.  She was a fun grandma. On a dare she rode my BMX bike up to Filan's.  Probably because I was so shocked when she said she could ride a bike.  There was no way she'd not prove it to me.  

She loved teaching us things and reading to us and with us.  I know my love of reading comes from her. 

Once on a long trip in the motorhome she spotted a historical marker.  Pioneer Woman's Grave.  She loved history and wanted us to love it too.  Pioneer women don't have graves with easy freeway access.  We barreled down a narrow dirt road with grandpa at the wheel.  

Any moment with them was a teachable moment and I learned a couple things that day.  1) being a woman on the Oregon trail was tricky business and 2) how to back a 30 foot motorhome a couple miles down a narrow dirt road.

There are a lot of things people probably don't know about my grandma.  On top of being kind and generous, she was hysterically funny. She would laugh so hard that she couldn't breathe and it was contagious. 

She made the most amazing bread and cookies.  She found a mammoth tooth. How many people can say that about their grandma?

I was very fortunate to get to spend Tuesdays with her when I was young. (And a lot of summers and breaks.) I can remember sitting up on the green kitchen stool counting cups and teaspoons for whatever she was baking that day.  I bake many of those same recipes now.  They don't taste the same.  I don't know what ingredient they are missing.  But, I can tell you it's not tangible.

Jammin'

We're headed into summertime. Just a few days away. This is the time of year I most think about my grandma. Probably because I spent a lot of summer days with her.

Most summers I get the itch to do some canning. Seriously. Stop laughing. I'm not being sarcastic. I put up food. It's in my DNA. Country mouse style. I don't think canning has anything to do with food though - for me.

It's the process. Hot jars, fruit, the steam in the kitchen, the familiar pop of the seal. It takes me back to being a kid. Makes me remember being sprawled out on the floor, just about ready to fall asleep in the afternoon, listening for the metallic pop followed by her saying, "there's another one!"

I wonder what she'd think about this canning business today. I'd say something like, "what? you canned all the time."

To which she'd respond with, "I didn't have a job. I wasn't busy like you."  Because running that house with military precision wasn't a job to her...

She 'wasn't busy' and 'wasn't in a hurry' - just two of the many reasons she didn't have a microwave. Why cook things fast if you aren't in a hurry?

Now there's a pretty big difference between Aileen Henley canning and me canning. I'd really like to be more like her, but, the Moore* blood...

I find canning goes a lot better with a couple beers. Maybe more than a couple. I'm fairly certain that she never had a canning buzz. I'd love to be wrong on that one...
Side Note: I'm pretty sure that she'd be a little disappointed in my level of social drinking. Unless the Ladies Aid or the F.A.N. Club were more fun than I suspect.

She listened to music in the kitchen and hummed along. KHQ on the old radio. So, in this case we're sort of similar. Except, I'm 'singing' at the top of my lungs to Bob Marley. Because, it's funny to me to sing the 'Jammin' song while literally jamming.

I like to keep it casual - it's a hot and sort of miserable set of tasks. I wear Converse, she wore Keds. I wear shorts. She would never. Also, they're too short. Are not.

She would can first thing, before it got too hot. I tend to can later in the day, sometimes even late at night when it's more socially acceptable to have a couple drinks. Oh, and it's cooler then too.

Our berries this time were picked at a U-pick - not quite on a whim but pretty close. I didn't even have all the things I needed to can that day. I didn't plan days in advance what I was going to do. Not only was I not fully prepared for canning, I picked berries in the middle of the day. Without a giant sunhat. Without. A. Hat. I should be ashamed of myself.

I never really learned how to do any of this. I think I just imitate what she did. When a jar doesn't seal I flip it over, this confused the husband.

I couldn't really tell him why, it's just what she did. And that thing sealed.

I do a lot of jam and I've done peaches and applesauce. She did those and cherries, apricots, pickled beans and pickles. Those others seem intimidating to me. Plus, I'm slightly afraid that if I start eating canned apricots, I'll also start eating molasses cookies. If I do that, I'll forget how to adult. I'll regress into that eight year old falling asleep on the floor. 

I wonder if my kids will have nostalgic canning memories. They have fun picking berries and fruit and they're possibly addicted to toast and homemade jam. Maybe it skips a generation and their kids (shudder) will want to participate. Or maybe buzzed canning grandma won't be that inspiring...

Jars and jars.

*Anytime any Henley ever did anything wrong, Dorothy Henley attributed it to 'The Moore' blood. Works for me.

There's No Place Like Home

In a recent conversation with some friends, I mentioned that I love the house I live in but it doesn't seem like home. The couldn't understand, "because it's so awesome!" It is. It is an awesome house. I wouldn't want to live anywhere else.

It's been two years, feels like it should be home by now. Don't get the wrong idea, I love the house. A lot. And, as my hobbies are puttering and tinkering, I love having a project at my fingertips at all times.

Bottled beer taste in a can.

I'm starting to think that it doesn't feel like home because 'home' is so much more than where you sleep. This past weekend I went 'home'. To where I was born. And spent most of my childhood. I went for a run on my favorite gravel road. I had a Keystone Light in The Pastime Tavern. Two actually. That my mom had to buy for me because they only take cash. And, I only carry plastic. Where some other 'kids' I grew up with were also hanging out for a beer on a hot summer night.

Is it that home is where your childhood memories are? That spot on the sidewalk you can point to where you fell and earned your first stitches? The old dirt road where you learned how to drive? How you got that scar on your forehead? Which is a post all on it's own...

I come from a small town. Very small. Where there is one pay phone. That makes local calls. For free. Where the road is clearly marked, 'Primitive Road. No warning signs.' Out in the dry alkali dirt. Dirt that feels like powder. A place that is so cold in the winter your nostrils freeze shut and so hot in the summer you can see the heat waves rise off the road and water evaporates before it hits the ground. It smells like wheat, dirt and grease. Heaven.

It's quiet and still and when it's dark you can see the stars. All of them.

Favorite road.

As I sat at a kitchen table with people who have known me my whole life, laughing and catching up over a couple cocktails, let's go with a couple... I got to thinking... this is it. This is home. This place is what made me who I am. The women at the kitchen table (and a couple others who weren't there) all had a hand in that. These women, my mother being one of them, to put it bluntly, get shit done. I've never thought I couldn't do anything I ever wanted to. Because the example I always had was that I could.

Home is where you become who you are, where you grow up. Literally and figuratively. There's no place like it. So says Dorothy.

I believe that where I sleep will be home to my children. This is where they'll become who they'll be. Where they'll sneak in late and make a lot of memories with their friends and our friends. Their home is a nice house in a nice neighborhood with sidewalks and a lawn with a sprinkler system. There are no rattle snakes to avoid and there's no worry that the house cat will be eaten by a coyote.

Their home is rather boring, I'm afraid.

Ruby Tuesday

It occurs to me that I've never written about Ruby Tuesday. Probably because there is just so much material there that it's hard to pick out the funniest and/or least horrifying stories.

Sweetest face.

Ruby was a gift from Santa. Sometimes Santa makes decisions after a glass or three of wine. She technically belongs to the boy. And by 'belong to' I mean he throws the ball for her once or twice a week, scratches her belly on occasion and I buy all the food and pay for all the vet bills. So, that seems good.

I had a vision of a boy growing up with a Golden Retriever. They would be best pals. She'd be like Lassie but a Golden. She'd wait at the bus stop, sleep on his bed and listen to him when he had girl trouble. So far, exactly none of that has happened.

A) random dogs at the bus stop get hauled off by animal control.
B) he would love to sleep with her and has a few times but she wants to play with him - no matter what time it is - co-sleeping had to be stopped.
C) she's not a good listener.

Here's the thing. I love her. I love her stupid idiotic doggie things. She's more entertaining than TV. But, she's also a total disaster on four legs. A bull in a China shop. That sheds. And steals. Socks. Shoes. Toys. Food.

One thing no one tells you - if you've ever had a Border Collie - or probably any herding dog, do not get a retriever. You will want to shake it until it sleeps. Forever. And I would too except she weighs a metric ton and I can't pick her up.

For years I thought she was really, truly dumb. But over time, I've mostly changed my opinion. She's not dumb. She's smart-ish. She just finds certain things worth it. She knows she's in trouble if she eats food off the kitchen table. But that pizza is worth it.

Need some Tums?

Or the ginger bread house.
Or two dozen cupcakes.
Or four pounds of candy melts.
Or a couple pounds of uncooked frozen chicken.

The gingerbread house eating has happened more than once. And, now we just don't make them at Christmas. We may be slow learners but we've finally figured that one out.

The cupcakes happened at my moms. The night before a big family party. Two dozen chocolate cupcakes on the cooling rack in the kitchen - cooling before I put frosting and sprinkles on. They essentially disappeared - not a crumb or paper left. The cooling rack undisturbed, not a sound made. The look on my mothers face when I asked, "Hey mom, where'd you put the cupcakes?' Classic.

The candy melts... I don't even have the strength to relive it enough to write it. Suffice it to say, pounds of candy melts don't stay down. Pink candy melts. All over.

Chicken. Frozen chicken. Now, the recipe was for pulled chicken sandwiches. You put the frozen chicken into the crockpot, dump in a bottle of barbecue sauce. TA-DA! - six hours later, delicious sandwiches. But, my mom is a mom of the 70s. Thus the idea of frozen chicken into the crockpot is foreign. You gotta let that thaw on the counter first. And so she did. On a plate. Then went to pick the kids up from school. Returned home to disappeared chicken. Plate undisturbed.

Ruby lives the good life. Gourmet food. Sleeps in a big cushy bed. Trips to the beach where she body surfs like a pro. Couch naps. Plays in the sprinkler. All the things.

Aleve for me, thyroid pill for her. One day there's going to be a mix up...

She's in the double digits. She's slowing down. No more running. Constant panting and shortness of breath, medication. Some follow up blood work later this week. She's a senior citizen now. And yet, even with the health challenges of being a senior dog, she can still stand on two legs long enough to steal a meal from a seven year old -  right off the table.

Silently.