Midnight Pickups

I recently found myself in a warehouse in the middle of a snowy night. In my pajamas. Because this is the stuff that happens to me.

At the end of August I was entrusted with a cat. An old cat. While my very good friend was in the process of listing, selling and moving I was trusted with her cat. Or more likely the only person who said yes. After we split a bottle of wine...

He's grumpy, demanding and he talks a lot. We instantly bonded over our similarities. He came named, sort of. Named Fatboy. He's a little too regal, in my opinion for that name so I changed it. To Stanley. It sort of fits with his general grumpiness.

Again, he talks. A lot. Many nights I would put him in the basement so that I could sleep better as he tends to most enjoy a 4AM conversation. I don't tend to enjoy those as much... Two weeks ago I put him in the basement and went to bed. Little did I know that the basement door would blow open and Fatboy Stanley would disappear. In an ice storm.

I panicked. Honestly.

I lost NOT my cat.

He's 20. He hasn't really ever been outside. And, he doesn't have any business being outside. He's a house cat of the highest order. He moves between the couch and the bed. On a busy day.

He's slightly deaf and blind. He's a deadman on the outside. I knew it. His 'other' mother knew it. And, probably in his little cat mind, he knew it too.

I posted his picture on Facebook groups, the shelter and craigslist. Walked around. Called him. Left food out, just in case.

It snowed for days. Four snow days in two weeks. Temperatures hovering around 30. There is no way he's still alive. He's 20. It's freezing. He probably went outside to hide and die.

Reunited. And it feels so good.

And then, on Saturday night, 13 days after he disappeared... I found myself on the phone with the manager of a storage unit at 11PM. A cat had marched into her building and refused to leave. Pictures looked like him; attitude sounded like him.

It was him.

Found.

On the other side of the tracks.

And a highway.

He's thin. And very tired. But, happy to be home.

After two days back, his hoarse voice on the mend, he woke me at 4 AM.  Just to say hi.



Tonight that asshole sleeps in the basement.

Puzzling

I hate puzzles.

And boardgames.

Seriously.

Cards or dice I can do but boardgames... no way. I have no fond memories of board game playing or putting together a puzzle. Not one.

Fragi-lee...

But, the other night I was a little bored and there was an unopened puzzle in the closet. It was special puzzle. A leg lamp puzzle. Something interesting at least. In a mini crate just like the movie. I had a little fantasy of putting it together and then doing the puzzle glue and it would be a fun Christmas decoration.

So I thought, what the hell? Tore open the plastic and started sorting. About 15 minutes in I remembered that I hate puzzles. Like a lot. It's a giant mess. For a long time. 500 pieces of mess. Not a square, not a puzzle with an edge. Nope, this thing is actually shaped like a leg lamp.

When the boy saw me puzzling, he actually said, "Really? Really Mom? A puzzle? Really?" In my excitement that a tween talked to me I forgot to answer but yes, really. I really worked on a puzzle.

DONE! Or not.

I toiled. And I got lucky because the kids had a day off from school and they are total nerds who like puzzles. So, they helped. The family helped. Friends dropping by helped. There was help. A lot. A lot of help. But, after a few days of picking at it from time to time, making mistakes, unhooking pieces, swearing...

All the pieces were there. The mess gone. A completed puzzle.

Until I looked closer.

Oh HELL NO.

The house searched. Couch cushions removed. Children interrogated*.

Not 500 pieces perfectly put together.

499 pieces. A piece is missing.

Arms raised I shouted, "YOU USED UP ALL THE GLUE ON PURPOSE!"

And then filed away another reason that I hate puzzles.

But that damn thing is getting glued and framed anyway.

*In my family it would be absolutely expected to 'borrow' and hide a puzzle piece to drive someone bananas. In fact, I'm almost disappointed they didn't.

It's hideous.

Cranberries

Thanksgiving.

Here it is.

I can hear Billie Holiday playing from down in the kitchen. It's my Tony Bennett Pandora station. I'm up in my office. Because I needed a minute. Or ten. Or maybe longer. I'd like to blame it on the bourbon but, it's not that. It's Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving was my dad's favorite. He loved turkey. Like, holy hell, did that guy love turkey. Old Man Parker, you'll get worms, level of turkey love. It was like religion to him.

He wasn't a foodie, no, not at all. He wasn't a snob about food. He was a comfort food guy. Meat, potatoes, sweets. He would have had no use for artisan ketchups or any other Portlandia food item. Food carts? No, not for him. Turkey and potatoes and stuffing. And, cranberries. Not fresh. Not cooked on a stove. Just, from a can. Shaped like a can.

This is our fifth Thanksgiving without him. And, the fifth time I've eaten cranberry sauce from a can. I'm not sure why I never tried it. All those years, I think he was the only person who ate it. It was sliced up on a plate, sitting on the table. Just for him.

And, every year, I ignored it. I passed it by. I'm certain I made fun of him for it. I mean, come on, it's not even really food. It doesn't even require chewing.

It's things like that that you miss the most. The things you think will never end. Giving him a hard time over cranberries. One year you do, the next year you can't.

So, this year, I sliced up that can of Jellied Cranberry Sauce and ate three slices. And, tomorrow, I'll eat the rest. I'll think of my dad. I'll think of the littlest details. Like how that guy could eat pumpkin pie with a pile of whipped cream and turkey sandwiches for days.

I'll be thankful for the time we had.

I'll make sure that my kids know how much I love them.

I'll work on being thankful. For the littlest things.

Like cranberries.

And, memories.

Woman's Work

I don't write political posts. Not my deal. And, this isn't a political post. This is a why this is a big fucking deal post. The votes are in. The voting is over. I, and the rest of America am exhausted. But, this is a big deal. My team lost. We don't have the first woman president. This time. The fact that it will be more than 240 years and 45 men to get there is disheartening. It's upsetting that the women before us had to fight and were literally attacked and jailed fighting for the right for us as women to even vote just 94 years ago. That some people thought the best way to get their candidate in this year was to repeal the very amendment that our grandmothers fought for.

I'm heart broken. It's not that I wanted Hillary Clinton because she was a woman. I felt and still feel that she was the best candidate. She also happens to be a woman. We've come so far and yet, not far at all.

I'm not a man hater. I don't want anything special. I want crazy things like equality and respect.

This is a big fucking deal for me, the nine year old who wanted to play the drums in the band and was told 'drums are for boys'.

This is for me the 10 year old who couldn't play soccer on the co-ed team any more because 'they were too rough'. Instead of encouraging me to push back or fight harder, I just wasn't signed up again.

This is for me the 15 year old who's first job was at Dairy Queen where girls were required to wear long skirts and panty hose. At Dairy Queen. Where I watched the much younger perennially pregnant wife of the owner work her ass off while being submissive to him. I learned a lot from them. Probably not the lesson they were hoping for.

This is for me working at a grocery store and being told that 'women just don't make good managers'.

This is for me who worked for two years with a man who never looked me in they eyes as he was constantly focused on my chest. When I went to my male manager to complain, I was told that there wasn't really anything he could do and that 'he's been like that for years'.

I've been sexually harassed, sexually abused and minimized. I've been told to dress appropriately so that I am not raped. I've listened as people who I love and admire say things like 'she was asking for it' or 'well, look how she was dressed'. Because when women are attacked, it's somehow our fault.

This is for me who went to a hardware store, explained what I was building and what I needed to buy and was asked who was helping me then told that it was a big tool 'for a girl to handle'.

This is for me who was asked just the other day if I needed to check in with my husband before signing off on a repair. (Um, there isn't a husband...)

This is for me, who was guided by someone well meaning to learn all the 'business machines' I could in school because being a secretary 'is a good job'. I'm sure it is, I'll go ahead and manage an engineering team at one of the largest corporations in the world. In a male dominated profession. Where I actually work on a team where I am the only woman. And can hold my own.

This is for me and all the girls, ladies and women out there who are pushing for equality, speaking up, and breaking through glass ceilings. This is for the parents raising children to be whatever they want. That there is no such thing as 'girl jobs' or 'boy jobs' that you can be anything you want - even the President of the United States. Someday. We'll get there someday.

I'll keep speaking up, even though I'm often referred to as a bitch or that I get feedback for being blunt or too intense.

I'll take it as a compliment when I'm told I have 'big balls'.

My response is usually 'I know. Brass ones.'

But, really, I'm happy with my va-jayjay. It's far more powerful.

100th times a charm!

Well, this is it. My 100th post. And, guess what? I have nothing to say.

Not literally. I generally have something to say... but, it's the height of the election season. I don't write blogs about politics which removes a lot of material...

I've had a bitch of a cold for the last week. I've barely left the house. For someone who tends to write observational stories, being stuck in the house for four days is a total downer. Not only stuck in the house but yesterday I accidentally took a four hour nap. I must have needed it but was totally shocked when I looked over at the clock and it was 1:27...

I took an actual sick day today. Normally when I'm sick, I still call in to meetings and respond to emails but this morning, when I could barely pick up my head I thought a sick day was in order.

So, I sat with the television on. All day. While texting a number of friends. Sorry friends... I was bored...

Watched a lot of news, finished up Stranger Things on Netflix. Pretty good show. Sort of weird to see a cast of average to homely looking people. I think they are actually made to look homely... It's set in 1983 and looks just like a lot of my old family photos. We've all gotten better looking with time. Although, I'm guessing that in 30 years, we'll look back at photos and shows from now and think, 'wow, we had terrible taste, we look so much better now!'

I do have some high hopes for the future now that I've watched that series and spent some time remembering my childhood home.

So much nope. 

1) That appliances are never again avocado green or harvest gold.
2) That carpet remains neutral. There is no need to have an orange floor. Especially one that is shaggy. Who thought that was a good idea? Don't even get me started on carpet on walls...
3) Wood paneling should be banished forever.
4) Couches do not need to be adorned with velvety wagon wheels.
5) Wall paper need not have velvet nor foil.
6) The waist of the jeans shouldn't touch your bra.
7) The ankle of the jean not be as big as the waist.
8) Ruffles should not be required on the shirt collar.
9) The frames of glasses should be less than 25% of the face.
10) Perms on men. I'd like to say comb-overs but I still see those from time to time. Especially on orange people.

I'm sure there are more. Many, many more... but, that's enough for now... and not really how I thought my 100th post would go... I guess I imagined it as something profound and thoughtful.

No, seriously.

What the Wilson Phillips?

2/3 Beach Boys, 1/3 Mamas and Papas. Plus, one cool short hair cut.  It's a recipe for 90's success.

Wore out the cassette.

This isn't a dig. I had that cassette. I wore it out. They sold 10 Million copies. Surprising. They were the best selling female group of all time. Seriously.

So popular. I actually saw them at Disneyland in 1990. Walking around. Took fuzzy pictures of them at a distance. With my cheap 35mm.

Videos of them singing on the beach. With totally plausible video storylines. (You're visualizing now, you're welcome.)

And, then, well, then, they disappeared. Sort of. One of them married a not that interesting Baldwin brother, one was in a Progressive insurance ad.

I didn't think about them again. For years. And years.

Two years ago a BFF and I went to Oprah's Live The Life You Want Weekend. It was awesome. Oprah, Elizabeth Gilbert, Gayle King, Rob Bell and Another Guy I can't remember. Inspirational. Motivating. Life Changing.

Before the sessions started they had dance parties. Katy Perry and Maroon 5 mixed in with Gloria Gaynor. And, Wilson Phillips.

Wait, what?

Yup.

Wilson Phillips, blaring out 'Hold On'.

Just try not to sing along. You can't not sing along. It had been 20 years since I'd heard Hold On and yet the words came right on back. We looked at each other, giggled and sang along. When in Rome. Or, when with Oprah... Over two days the DJ must have played that song a dozen times. Probably more, now that I think about it.

But, the lyrics work for an event like that.

Don't you know things can change
Things'll go your way
If you hold on for one more day

Always on.

Left the Oprah weekend exhausted and ready to take on the world. And, forgot about Wilson Phillips. For a couple days. To torment each other BFF and I would text the lyrics back and forth at random times - it's an ear worm of the highest caliber. Once it's in. It's in. For hours.

Oddly enough I started hearing the song on the radio. I would giggle and sing along. And, of course, text those lyrics over for maximum torment. Or, better yet, text a photo of my XM screen with the song on it.

Every once in awhile the song would come on at a time when I needed to hear it. Maybe a frustrating work day. Or after an argument. Or a meeting at school. Or the day the dog died.



The lyrics work. Who would have thought that a cheesy 90's hit would sort of become my theme song?


Well, that and Brick House, but that's so obvious.

The mom slide...

So, I was the third kid. Third kids are different. They're funny. They're bold. They're totally unsupervised. I was out and about playing with matches and blowing up anthills with ladyfingers and blackcats. Had there been a fourth kid in the family it would likely be dead. Probably in some kind of fantastical bike riding explosion. (Combining my like of fire, my brothers bike crashing ability and my sisters general accident proneness, odds are I'm correct there.)

I've noticed that yes, I got a little looser with the kids - between #1 and #2. There isn't a #3. No need to be looking at myself at the breakfast table. Knowing that she's lying straight to my face but having no way to prove it... Nope, don't need that. Stopped at two. For my own mental health.

In the beginning though, with #1... the house was baby proofed. So baby proof that I was frustrated most of the time at my inability to get the cabinets opened. The food was organic. The clothes are organic cotton. The house surgical sterile.

The second one. Well, she's smart. Very smart. And, she had life figured out pretty early. Nothing was baby proofed. If something pinches your fingers, well, don't put them back in there... Clothes, well, the cute ones. Organic cotton doesn't usually come with the amount of glitter that she requires. Food? Whatever was on sale.

Pretty sure they'll both be just fine.

Minecraft cake.

Tinkerbelle for Tink.

Always homemade for the birthday cakes. Sometimes very ornate, up most of the night cakes. Well, this year... this year they had store bought. Mostly because they didn't really want anything specific. So, I just bought a cake. Or maybe even cupcakes. Oh man, I don't even remember! I do remember being upset about it at the time and feeling guilty. A very good friend, a straight shooter, said, 'Oh, honey, you've got to let that shit go. They're happy with that crappy cake.'



And, she was right. They were happy. No permanent damage done. Probably.

And, now as Halloween rolls around... well, they'll be putting on their Amazon Prime costumes. They seem happy with what they picked. Online. We didn't even go out shopping. I am happy with the level of effort. I guess it's a win.

But, it feels like a slide. The mom slide. There are things that I am just over. So. Over. Took #2 to the Fall Festival last week. She had a blast. I wrote a blog in my head while doling out tickets so she could do the cake walk and go 'fishing'. I got to thinking that this probably happens to a lot of parents. Sometimes you just have to phone it in. But, wait... what if my parents were phoning it in? Were they not really that stoked to watch me play ball or take me trick or treating or play some game or listen to some joke or impression? What about when I asked my mom to 'watch this' at least 900 times every time we were in a pool? Was she really not that into it?

Oh. My. God. My mom guilt has just spun out of control.


I think that I've somehow ruined my own childhood.

Shit.

Phoning. It. In.

The snack that smiles back...

So, yeah, I've written a number of times about my love of television. My memorization of advertisements. I can't help it. The jingles - they stick. I'm not sure that they prompt me to buy any particular thing, but I sure do sing along to a lot of them.

Rocket to heaven?

Tonight, while watching the news, I was horrified to see an ad from a company called Tomcat. Tomcat is a mouse killing product. Tomcat is apparently so great they 'send mice on rockets to heaven'. Yep. True. According to their ad. I'm not sure who the marketing genius was on this one. But, I personally, don't want to send mice on rocket ships to heaven. In fact, if heaven is real, I'd like to think there are no mice there... but, I digress.

Any way, it gave me that sickening feeling. Seeing the little stuffed mouse with X's on it's eyes, strapped to a rocket that explodes. A little too much imagery for me... And, side note - it exploded way before heaven...

It reminded me of the old Goldfish ad. It had a catchy tune.

The snack that smiles back... oh, what a catchy song.... until you bite its head off.

WHATTHEHELL?

I don't want to think of the goldfish smiles as I'm throwing them by the handful into my face. These are not things I want to think about. Not that I'm apposed to mouse killing - I've done it. Lots of them. Snapped their little necks with the classic trap. Tossed them into the trash. No rockets to anywhere. But, still... don't want to see it on my television. With a CATchy song.

The bees knees

Shit. I'm broken again. Again! Seriously.

Toward the end of August my right knee started to hurt. But not really my knee... Sort of the back of my leg on the upper part of my fibula. This was a new pain. Not the IT band, not the sprains, not the shin splints... something new.

Ran on September 4th. Haven't run since. Had three half marathons scheduled between September and December. September didn't happen. November is highly unlikely. Holding out hope for December.

Had anyone told me three years ago that I wouldn't be able to run and that not running would make me cray-zee I would have laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

But, I'm not laughing. I'm grumpy. And sitting on a stationary bike for way too long. Plus, I joined a gym. Because that's where bikes that don't move are located. In gyms. Where you drive to work out. At 5:00 in the morning.

Xray has been done, physical therapy ongoing, MRI done. Results on Wednesday. Fingers crossed. Hoping for running soon. As is the very frustrated doggie. She stares at her leash, then me, then the ice pack. Then rolls her eyes and throws herself on the floor.

I could write for hours about how I am worried I'll become a homicidal maniac in my current non-running state. Or how I'm really worried about the pounds I've added with my limited calorie burn.

But, I can't. Because it's 9:20. And I have to get up at 4:30. To ride a bike that doesn't move.

Oxymorons...

Oxymoron. It's one of my favorite words.

With that in mind, let's talk about clowns. Yes, clowns. I have no idea what the original intent of a clown was. I'm assuming it was an effort at humor. In the least, clowns are creepy. But, really, let's be honest, clowns are down right scary.

Scary. Period.

There is a whole new thing in the US right now. Scary clowns. They're popping up everywhere. Running around scaring people of all ages. Reports of scary clowns in multiple states. Even some arrests. I have no idea what my reaction would be if I came face to face with a scary clown on the street. I'd like to think I'd punch it and run. But, in reality, I'm pretty sure I'd go deer in the headlights and just stand there in total awe of the situation.

But, really... do they need to be classified as scary? Scary clown. While it seems like an oxymoron, it's actually a pleonasm. Yep, I looked it up. In simple terms, it's redundant. Like tuna fish. Why not just say tuna? Why not just say clown? A clown is scary no matter what makeup is on it's face. On it's creepy, creepy face.

Just ask my sister - she's terrified of clowns and balloons. One incident. Creepy clown gets in her face just as a balloon pops.

And, done.

Childhood ruined.

Because. Clowns.



Feel free to visit a previous post regarding my feelings about clowns and jack in the boxes.

If I Only Had a Heart...

When I was a little kid, The Wizard of Oz was only on once a year. On television. On a network. With commercials. We generally tuned in.

We'd sit down in the basement on the orange carpet scared nearly to death when the monkeys came out. And, seriously, if those flying monkeys didn't scare you, you were a child robot. I don't really care for them now and I'm 40.

When I was 10, my mother remarried. She married a Wizard of Oz super fan. The yearly viewing wasn't just sort of mentioned in passing, it was an event. It was NOT to be missed. Singing along was allowed; talking wasn't. Again, sitting on the floor, but now on cream carpet.

I'm a Tin Man fan. The Dad Guy, well, he was a Cowardly Lion guy.

Tin Man.

The Tin Man and I have a lot in common. That whole missing heart thing...  Now, I'm not totally heartless. Maybe I'm more Grinchy and my heart is just too small. Two sizes too small, in fact. Maybe I'm just mostly heartless?

I asked my sister once if maybe I had Asbergers. She was quick to correct me. No, she said, you don't have Asbergers. You have assholers.

Maybe that's more true. Plus, the combination of my directness and sarcasm often makes me seem less caring than I actually am. Or was.

Until recently. I've gotten older, I'm figuring out who I am. I've sort of grown up this past year. Yes, I know that I am an adult. That's a legal definition. Actually being a grown up is a different thing. Maybe turning 40 was the wake up call. Maybe the kids getting older... Maybe the realization this year that life is really, really short... But, it has come to my attention, that I do indeed have a heart. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Because, it kind of sucks. Hearts are fragile. And, as the Wizard said, 'Hearts will never be practical, until they can be made unbreakable'.

This heart thing, it's making my crunchy outside difficult to manage. It's exposing my soft nougat middle. It's making stuff come out of my eyes.

Fortunately, The Wizard of Oz is now on TV all the time and available on DVD and all sorts of digital downloads. I can check in with the Tin Man any time I want. Or feel I need to.

I sit on the couch now though. Because, I'm a grown up.

My favorite ink.

When a man's an empty kettle he should be on his mettle,

And yet I'm torn apart.

Just because I'm presumin' that I could be kind-a-human,

If I only had heart.

I'd be tender - I'd be gentle and awful sentimental

Regarding Love and Art.

I'd be friends with the sparrows ...

and the boys who shoots the arrows

If I only had a heart.

Picture me - a balcony. Above a voice sings low.

Wherefore art thou, Romeo? I hear a beat....

How sweet.

Just to register emotion, jealousy - devotion,

And really feel the part.

I could stay young and chipper

and I'd lock it with a zipper,

If I only had a heart.

Charts and graphs

I'm a bit of a nerd. Never really denied that. But, also fought it a bit too. I mean, who wants to be a nerd? Especially when I was growing up... In the 80's and 90's. Being a nerd wasn't a good thing. Now, well, now, nerds kind of rule the world. So, there.

I like writing. A lot. Being a full time writer would be a fantastic thing. Doesn't pay as well as the nerd thing does. At least the things I want to write. If I could bring myself to write about teenage angst and vampires... I hear that pays pretty well. But, alas, I cannot.

I like shiny stuff. And, I like solving problems - that's why I love my job. I get to solve problems all day. Plus look at charts and graphs. And, oh my God, trends. Numbers are sexy. Super sexy. Winning.

I'm not really a blogger, more of a story teller. I just use a blogging platform because it's easy to share. A true blogger writes multiple posts a day (not 30 a year), has hundreds of thousands of followers and makes a living. I have one follower. One. (And, no, it's not my mom!) The most hits I've ever gotten on one post is 216. I average around 80. Number of hits is directly related to time of day posted. And day of the week. My trouble is that I get so excited to share I post as soon as I'm done writing rather than waiting for the 'perfect' time. Trends be damned!

The added bonus of using a blogging platform to share stories?

Um, charts and graphs.

Middle School

The boy starts middle school tomorrow. Middle. School. Holy. Hell.

It's not just that he's starting middle school, it's all the kids I know are rapidly growing up. Not so much kids any more. (Although, they'll always be kids to me...) I've had the privilege of knowing a pretty big group of kids for a long time. I've coached them, I've laughed with them. I've given an occasional lecture. Some of them are seniors in high school now. Some are freshman. And, my own, and his little buddies are 7th graders. Middle School.

-----

To all the 7th Graders in America (but mostly my own),

This is the big leagues kids. You've got lockers, passing times and electives. And, a good chunk of you will become little assholes. For a couple years. Little hormonal zitty jerks. The awkward phase hits. Nice girls will become mean girls. Cool boys will be jerks. 'Going out' starts... jealousy, gossip and everything else.

That'll all roll through 8th grade too. General Jerkdom.

The awkward phase passes.

In good news, most of you will find your way shortly. You'll regroup in a few years. You'll have some hurt feelings and you'll be sorry for some things too. You'll realize that most of the stuff that happens over those couple early teen years is meaningless. In the moment it's horrible. That thing that happened at the school dance? Yeah, that'll be horrifying for awhile. You'll get teased. But you and everyone else will forget about it. And then one day, that'll be a great cocktail party story. When you're 40.

So, my advice...

Hunker down. Do the work. Play sports. Sing. Dance. Be yourself. Hang with your friends. Forget the small stuff - and remember that most of it is small stuff.

Middle school will be a blur. Then you'll hit high school. That's a whole different story...

You'll be there soon enough. As time seems to be passing at an incredible rate.

Love,

Mom

AKA Coach Staci

When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school, it's a wonder I can think at all.

- Paul Simon

Rainy Days and Mondays

The Duke.

When we were teens, the grandparents loaded Dana and I up in the motorhome and took us on an adventure. To Silverwood. It was, at the time, an 'Old Fashioned Town'. Just Regular Grandma's speed. A step back in time, where we could possibly learn something too. There was no giant wooden roller coaster, no waterpark, no delicious junk food. It was people in old-timey outfits and us watching The Flying Leathernecks at an old fashioned theater. In black and white.

That is not a complaint, by the way.

There was a train and an air show too. I'm not saying that it was a downer or anything. It was actually an amazingly good time.






And, where I learned the words to every Carpenters song.

Every. Song.



I long to be... close to you.

Now, you're probably wondering... what?

Stick with me here...

On the afternoon of our Silverwood adventure, it began to rain. Like really rain. Not the nice Oregon mist I live in now but the heavy, dark cloud, hot summer day in North Idaho kind of rain. We retreated to the motorhome. 30 feet of Winnebago in the pouring rain isn't that exciting...

Crank it.

We were playing gin rummy. Probably getting schooled in gin rummy... We needed some background music to liven the place up. My grandparents, like most, had the suitcase thing of cassettes. In it, there were one million cassette tapes. One had songs with words. One. The Carpenters. Greatest Hits. Available now on eBay for 12.99. I'm almost tempted. But, alas, have no technology in which to play a cassette.

So, I did the only thing I could. I put the Carpenters in the cassette player of the RV and cranked it up. All the way to 11. Now, imagine two teenage girls, rocking to Rainy Days and Mondays with their mid-sixties grandparents playing rummy. In the rain. That, my friends, is a solid afternoon. Enough of an afternoon that I'm writing about it all these years later...

The beauty of the Carpenters is that they stick with you. 25 or 26 years later, I still know all the words. To all the songs. You want to freak out your tween? Sing to the Carpenters. Loudly. Then text a picture of said embarrassment along with the lyrics to your sister, their aunt. Because, nothing makes a day better than knowing you embarrassed your tween and planted an ear worm in your sisters ear - right as she's starting her work day.

It's true that Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.

But, don't they get everyone down? If they don't, you might just be on the top of the world. Looking down on creation.

The only ride in 1989.

Yesterday Once More

When I was young
I'd listen to the radio
Waitin' for my favorite songs
When they played I'd sing along
It made me smile

Those were such happy times
And not so long ago
How I wondered where they'd gone
But they're back again
Just like a long lost friend
All the songs I loved so well.

Every Sha-la-la-laEvery Wo-o-wo-oStill shinesEvery shing-a-ling-a-lingThat they're startin' to sing's
So fine.

When they get to the partWhere he's breakin' her heartIt can really make me cryJust like before
It's yesterday once more.

Lookin' back on how it wasIn years gone byAnd the good times that I hadMakes today seem rather sad
So much has changed.

It was songs of love thatI would sing to thenAnd I'd memorize each wordThose old melodiesStill sound so good to meAs they melt the years away.

Every Sha-la-la-laEvery Wo-o-wo-oStill shinesEvery shing-a-ling-a-lingThat they're startin' to sing'sSo fine.

All my best memoriesCome back clearly to meSome can even make me cry.Just like beforeIt's yesterday once more

Goodbye Ruby Tuesday

I sees it. I takes it.

I honestly never thought I'd have to write this post. Mostly because, Ruby appeared to be indestructible. She could eat anything. She could swim for miles, in a swift river or in the ocean and be fine. Her favorite thing to do was to swim out past the breakers and surf back to the beach. She dodged traffic - on her multiple trips around town. She even survived the slammer after the dog cops picked her up on one of her adventures.

But, in the end, she couldn't beat liver failure. It came on her quick.

Now, often when someone dies, they become a 'better person' after death. People tend to forget that they weren't that nice and they end up being a little softer around the edges. I'm here to say, that is not and will not be the case with Ruby. She was truly a bad dog. A bad, bad dog. That doesn't mean she wasn't hilarious. But, when you've got a dog ruled by an over active nose and what even the most amateur psychiatrist would call a serious eating disorder, you end up with a lot of bad dog behavior.

There was really no way to discipline her - it was worth being sent to the garage in exchange for two dozen cookies - even if they were technically for Santa.

Socks! My favorite!

We tried to make her uncomfortable with her decisions i.e. steal socks, wear socks... All we had then was a dog walking around in mismatched socks.... Which in and of itself was hilarious. Even to her.

She was great with the kids and she tolerated dress up, lip gloss and being snuggled with blankets and various stuffed animals. She would then steal one for fun. And, we'd have a crying kid...

Her food stealing skills were to the level of legendary and I'm sure she was a cat burglar in a previous life.



She could steal whole meals without disturbing the plate or silverware.

Some of her favorite foods include, but are not limited to, the following:

They were delicious!

Pancakes
Garlic bread
Frozen chicken
Gingerbread houses
Chocolate chip cookies
Pizza
Birthday cake
Candy melts (that was a really, really bad night)
School lunches
Beer
Cupcakes (especially if they need to be taken to a party)
Hamburgers (she preferred deluxe, with tomato and pickle)
Hotdogs




Now, will it be nice to not have to store cupcakes and cookies on top of the fridge to keep them from her reach?
Yes. Of course.

Will it be nice to not sweep and vacuum up piles of retriever?
Yes. Of course.

Will the house be quieter?
Yes. Of course.


And, that. That is the part that gets you...

Ruby Tuesday.

The most wonderful time of the year...

It's on. The countdown. To back to school.

I love summer. 

For the weather. 

What I strongly dislike is the lack of daily schedules. Bedtime routine is shot. Morning routine is shot. Dinner is late. Oh, there's fun. There's soccer in the yard. There are barbecues. There are parties. There's shenanigans. All of which contribute to no schedule.

Stupid unscheduled fun.

Even though it's busier, the school year is easier. Schedules. Homework. Bedtime. Wake up time. Breakfast time. The day divided by units. My favorite thing.

And so it is with glee that we wind down the month and get school supplies and school clothes and school shoes. We pack backpacks and book bags. Everything is organized and hung on a hook. It's a beautiful thing.

But, lets talk school supplies for a second, shall we. I revolted a little last year and didn't buy every single God damn thing on the list. Because, well, it's stupid. It wasn't enough to write about, just enough to complain about. Until this year.

Because this year...

For the 7th grader. He's to have 12 mechanical pencils with lead refills. AND three pencil sharpeners. What in the hell might he be sharpening? Because last I checked, the mechanical pencil negated the sharpener... Sharpening the colored pencils? Doubtful. The colored pencils go to school in August and return home in June in the same condition. They appear to hardly get used. Even if the sharpeners are for the colored pencils - are THREE required?

TANGENT: Now that I read that, does 'colored pencils' sound sort of racist?

Then the 3rd grader. Well, she needs 4 dozen pencils. Sharpened. I'm certain that I, in my lifetime, haven't used 48 pencils. How much writin' is she doing? Or going to do? In third grade? Are they raising money for schools by having third graders scribe books in the basement or something?

Back in my day...

Well, from what I remember, my mom bitched about the list back in my day too. 

Jaywalking. Or failing to follow pedestrian signage...

I've been a little lax in writing lately. Not for any reason really. Just busy. And, well, nothing super story worthy has happened lately. Until Independence Day.

Let's have a little review of recent history...

I ran a marathon in April. It kind of beat me up. I followed up with a half marathon in early May. And, frankly, following that, I was kind of burnt out on running. Needed a break. Started feeling like running the end of May, pounded out a few miles. Felt pretty good. Then got rear-ended. Threw my back out. Doctor says no running. Then some running. Light miles. No more than two. Every other day.

On July 1st I was cleared to run. Encouraged to take it easy. Timing was good because I was feeling ready to run again. Really run. It's a mental game now. My body can do it. But, sometimes my brain is lazy. I have a half marathon scheduled for the end of September. Training plan in the app, training day 1 is set for July 4. Independence Day.

There's something special about the first training day. The first green light on the training plan. It's hopeful. It's the beginning of a long goal.

It also makes the dog incredibly happy.

Happy Dog.

And so, on a holiday, the 4th of July, I was up early. As was the dog. First run is only three miles. Decided on an out and back - that's the easiest. App set for three miles. Dog on the leash. Let's do this.

I was feeling good. So good. Shelby Dog was settled in. Pace is really good. For a first run in a while. Almost home. Pushing the pace. .4 miles to go. Headed down Cedar St. Nearing the stop lights. Glanced up at the light. Turned yellow as I stepped off the curb. In the cross walk. I'm not going to stop with this pace. At 7:30 on a holiday. With NO cars around. Because, it's 7:30 in the morning on a holiday.

I'm through the intersection and about 30 feet down the street when I hear the siren. I turn my head and see the officer. He looks pissed as he's waving me back.

Seriously?

Now, in hindsight, this is where I blew it. I felt my eyes roll. The kind of eye roll that involves the whole face. The kind of eye roll that is visible even in sunglasses. And then, well, I probably made it worse when I very dramatically paused my running app before walking toward him.

I'm not going to screw up my pace, for God's sake.

He asked me why I ran through the light. I answered, 'the light was yellow when I stepped off the curb.'

This was apparently the wrong answer. Because he lost his shit. Lost. His. Shit.

"You don't watch that light. YOU WATCH THAT LIGHT." He pointed to the pedestrian sign.

Umm, what? I spend a lot of time in Portland. Where thousands of pedestrians walk wherever the hell they want to. Every minute, of every day.

He asked for my ID.

Umm, yeah, I don't have any on me.

Cue lecture on what would happen if I got hit by a car.

Well, all my contact information and 'ICE' is in my phone. Which paramedics and hospital personnel know how to access. But, I'm not going to give a technology lecture back, as he's obviously not in the mood.

Plus, I'm kind of a big deal around here. People know who I am.

He's clearly frustrated with me.

"You probably don't know your license number do you?"

Of course I do. 

I rattle it off. Complete with expiration date.

Then he asks me stats. It should be noted that he is a tiny human. Tiny. A tiny angry human.

Height?

5' 10".

I'm not. 

I felt myself lean into my toes to add a little.

It was all I could do to not say, what's yours? 5' 2"?

I stand there waiting while he calls me in. Having a really hard time holding in a giggle. Expecting at any moment a friend or two will drive by and honk and wave. At me. Pulled over. For running.

But, then I remember, it's a holiday. And, it's 7:30 in the morning. On a holiday. There are no people. Because, it's a holiday.

The dog and I make eye contact. I swear she rolled her eyes.

I'm expecting a warning. An additional lecture. Because, I didn't run a light. It was yellow. Plus, I'm a ped. I always have the right of way.

Right?

I watch him get out his code book.

Wait. What? Really? So obscure that you don't even know what it is?

Oh well, I'll get a little fine. What's jay walking? 20 bucks? It'll be a funny story.

It's not 20 bucks. 

It's 110. Dollars. American.

Father's Day

Father's Day is here.

I'm not a fan.

Which sort of sucks for the husband - I participate, of course. I make the favorite breakfast, I take the kids out to find gifts, I follow that up with steaks for dinner. I produce a solid day. Even if I don't like it. Because, it's not about me. It's about the father of my children. And so I fake it.

I don't have a father. I mean, I did. Obviously. Half my DNA comes from somewhere. Contrary to popular belief, I wasn't hatched. Or anything. My start was typical.

DNA.

I was two when my parents divorced. I have no memory of them being married to each other. I've got six photos of me with my dad. All before the age of two. Plus a couple group photos at later graduations and weddings. That's it. Not a real strong relationship there. Saw him a handful of times and spoke to him on the phone twice as an adult. He died when I was 31.

When my brother called to tell me he died, he said, "Dad passed away today. We've got closure. Not the kind we wanted but we don't have to wonder any more."

And he was right. No more in the back of my mind wondering if he'd maybe call on Christmas. Or be in the area for some reason and want to meet for lunch. He was only three hours away, but that might as well have been another planet.

I was fortunate though. I had a step-dad. A good one. One who took me to the dentist and stood in the rain at track meets and soccer games. And even though he knew nothing of either of those sports, he cheered. He was invested. I needed him.

Doing Dad Stuff.

He died a little over five years ago. I've hated Father's Day ever since. I'm too old to really need a dad. But, damn, sometimes they come in handy. Even if it's just for silliness. Sometimes, you need a dad. Dad's know stuff. Like fertilizer and lawn watering schedules. When to change the oil in the car. All stuff I'm capable of but don't want to do.

Dad's teach your kids things that get you phone calls from school... Because they want to be awesome grandpas. I used to get those calls. The boy would do something, I'd get the call. I'd call my parents, because that's what you do... and the dad guy would be awkwardly silent after I described the incident...

There used to be a race. Who would call first on Father's Day. I would call early, like seven, to try to win. I would send a funny card. Sometimes. I wasn't a very good card sender. Probably could have done better there.

I could have been better in so many ways.

I could have done more than call.

I could have forgiven. I could have made that call. I didn't.

Now, that lesson seems to be an important one to learn. And, one I will be working on.

Forty

Well, this is it.

I guess.

I'm forty. 40.

Barbie Mom.

Turns out, not a big deal. Just a number. I am not, in fact, over any hill.

I'm a bicentennial baby. Born in Spokane. Not a big illustrious start.

I imagine that my birth was a bit of a shit show... Starting with just the car ride. Two hours from our house to the hospital. Our house on the Snake River, in the middle of an alfalfa farm. JPC Farms. The trip on gravel roads to the highway. My dad rushing; I'd like to hope.

My mom wasn't actually in labor that day. But, it was so far back home, they induced her. And, out I came. A big ol' Taurus of a baby. A girl. The third. Boy, girl, girl.

Third kids are different. Especially when born after all the characters are collected. My parents weren't trying to have a boy or a girl. Not trying "one more time" for a particular sex. They already had them. Blonde, blue eyed ones.

Why add to the collection?

Well, I'm not sure. But, at the same time I'm thankful that they did.

Ken Doll Dad.

Or else, I'd be someone else. And, not nearly as adorable. My parents literally looked like Barbie and Ken. I'm adorable but yet somehow the least attractive. That's how attractive my family is. I'm the ugly one.

Over the years, I've done some living. Honestly, probably saw more by age twelve than most people see their whole lives. Barbie Mom and Ken Doll Dad divorced, the moves, the crazy, the lessons learned. The never agains.

Barbie + Ken > Skipper

But, here I am. On the other side of all of that. With a family of my own. I'm married with children. I'm not in jail. I haven't even been arrested. Which, is shocking to a lot of people.

Some of it, in addition to my family, is due to my friends. My pals. My people. My appreciation grows as I try to hurdle through the challenges of being a grown up. Especially in years like this when there is much joy mixed with much sadness.

Friends who have been there to mend the heart that was broken, encourage me to take on something new, like tap dancing on Friday nights or sweet potatoes. Friends to cheer me on, sit with me for inking, make me laugh until I cry, finish my sentences - and make those sentences funnier - teach me how to install a car seat. And, most importantly, make sure I wake up in the right place.

I'm so fortunate. So lucky. So everything.

In good news, I plan on living another 100 years. So, plan on attending more parties. Because, we're friends. We're pals.

We're in this show together until the end.

And, so, here's my birthday candle wish. I'm going to tell - I don't think that will affect the outcome - I wish for you to all have what I have. Laughing, silliness, friends and love. Because, I have a feeling that this next 100 years is going to go by really, really fast.

Frank!

I bought Frank for 1.97 at the Walmart in Moscow, ID in 1994.

I wouldn't say the years have been kind. When my mom is in town, she trims him and tries to make him look a little better. Better is relative. 

Frank has grown substantially in 20 years from the little sprig he started. I think I've gotten my two bucks worth.

When our first house was for sale, Frank had to go into 'foster care' and live with friends as he could have been a distraction to buyers.

Seriously.

The amazing house could have been brought down from the ugly Walmart plant from 1994.

Now, house sold, Frank lives happily on a table in the master bed room. He likes the windows. He's gotten bigger and somehow less attractive. If that is possible.

When I painted the table he sits on, the husband said, "You know, the table is a little too nice now for Frank. I think you should move him."

"Um, I've had Frank longer than I've had you. Why should Frank leave?"

He gave me a look. But, honestly I get it so often I don't even really notice anymore.

But, he does sort of have a point. Frank has seen better days and maybe the master bed room isn't the place for him now. But, it's Frank. I'm sort of attached.

I've been working on the third floor of the house, mostly guest space. Here's the thing, there is a perfect place for Frank. On the third floor. In the perfect light. Displayed 'just so'.

But, in true 'me' style, I don't want the husband thinking this is because of him. I am moving Frank upstairs. Me. Because that place is perfect for him. NOT because HE wanted Frank out of the bedroom. Just because I wanted a perfectly styled third floor landing.

So, I moved Frank. I am now sleeping without Frank. For the first time in years.

We've come a long way, Frank and I.

From that crappy dorm room in The Tower to our own grown up mortgage.

I can't wait to see where we go next.

Frank. On display.

Youngest

Went home again. For a funeral.

Again.

Although the house isn’t where I grew up, the small town is. Purchased when I was 18; I was mostly on my own and out of the house at that point. But, it’s where my people are and importantly where my stuff is. Thus, home.

Home.

Slept one night in ‘my room’. My room as in I picked the paint color, sleep there when I’m in town and where my stuff is.

Woke up in the middle of the big squishy bed with my one eared dog (His other ear is in the dresser; it’s been there and on the to do list at least 20 years. I’m fairly confident, it won’t get done.) and my Amy doll. Strawberry Shortcake looking on.

Something comforting in that. Going home. Waking up to the sounds of people in the kitchen, smell of coffee and bacon.

The house was full of people and energy. Very loud, so much laughing. Because, even when we’re sad, when we’re together, we’re laughing. And loud. It’s kind of our thing.

But, in true youngest kid style, the second night I spent on the couch. The house was at max capacity. Been awhile since I’ve slept on the couch in the TV room. Tucked in with a quilt and a pillow, just like it was when I was seven.

Because, even at nearly 40, when you’re the youngest, and home, it doesn’t matter.

You’re seven.