O-R-E-O

O-R-E-O...  ...Nabisco... <Ding>

I love Oreos. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. I love them enough to rarely buy them. Lest I take on the general shape of an Oreo...

As previously stated, I am a traditionalist. I like regular 'ol Oreos. Double Stuf on occasion. Special occasion. Paired with Bud Light, now that I am an adult (a legal definition; I didn't say "grown up"). I used to love a good dipping in milk. But, now I have a much more refined palate. Clearly.

I twist and separate. Then eat. Methodical.

But, here's the thing. Oreos are chocolate and cream. Cream that is one step removed from Crisco. Nothing more. Nothing less. That's the beauty. The simplicity.

Blasphemy.

So, imagine my surprise when I saw rows and rows, stacks and stacks of different kinds of Oreos. The grocery store was littered with 'Oreos'.

It was horrifying. I may never recover.

Apple Pie? Peanut Butter? Birthday Cake? Heads or Tails? Red Velvet? Cinnamon Bun?

Wait, what?

Cinnamon Bun?

WTAF?

Those aren't Oreos.

They're cookies. I mean, I guess they are cookies... I don't really know. They are cake and pie... I think. I am unclear on the definition of a head or tail... 



But, Oreos they are not.

Oreos are chocolate and 'cream'.

Period.

Of course they are free... 

In Harmony

The teens. I assume they are bi-polar. Or, something. I'm fairly certain that this is temporary. I keep telling myself that it is. Some days are hard. Some days are fun. Others are purely exhausting. And others still are loud. So loud.

Considering I can't hear anything, the fact that I think they're loud is something...

All the noise, noise, noise... 

I took what felt like a pile of kids around town the other night. We had some errands to run, dinner to grab. Fitting in all that had to be done with all I wanted to be done. Hair appointments, dance rehearsal, kitten food purchased, stop at the hardware store.

A loud dinner out in a very busy restaurant with everyone one talking over each other. Car ride too. Bickering and poking at each other. The same thing I did with my friends and siblings and their friends. It's the age, I think. I hope.

And then, as we drove in stressful traffic where I had two hands on the wheel and was willing them to just be quiet, they all began singing along with the radio. 



To Paul McCartney.

The mood is right, the spirits up
We're here tonight and that's enough
Simply having a wonderful Christmas time. 
Simply having a wonderful Christmas time. 



In harmony.

Truth. And Justice.

I grew up on Superman. Christopher Reeve Superman. He didn't even really have muscles. Baggy tights. The movies were campy and fun. Lex Luther was a super bad guy. I've seen the 80's Superman movies many, many times. They were on Showtime. We had Showtime. Down in the basement on the orange shaggy carpet, watching Richard Prior try to be a bad guy.

Nice tights.

Not a lot of special effects. No part of it looked real. Even for me. A little kid. But, they were awesome. Awesome. He flew against the rotation of the earth and time traveled. Winning.

Wonder Woman was equally campy and unreal. But, beloved. She spun around... and kicked ass.

I've been highly skeptical as The Avengers and Justice League have been modernized. Worried that they wouldn't be good. Worried that all those memories would be wrecked.

Let me be clear. I'm a fan. They are funny and the special effects are good. They aren't going to win Oscars in any acting categories but if you want to go out and eat popcorn and be entertained, they work.

Last week I went to the new Thor and I loved it. I've long considered myself a Marvel kid... My affection for Captain America is probably unhealthy. But, now really, now that I really think about it, DC is where my heart is. Superman and Wonder Woman.

Never really cared for Aquaman. Until now. He's a badass merman with a drinking problem. And, I may have a thing for sparkly green eyes... Seriously.

Batman, Flash and Cyborg are all fine. Not particularly great. But, the thing works. They'll all get more of my money.

My only ask - bring back Lex Luther. Gene Hackman version.

Black Velvet

Marketing works.

Grandpa loved a Mac and seven. Or a BV and seven. Black Velvet and Seven is what I remember most.
The marketing worked on him. He was the prime demographic.

Now the amount he could drink was enviable. Mostly whiskey with a splash of seven. Just enough to change the color of the booze. Slightly.

Every night when he got home from the office, he'd have a stout drink. In an airplane glass. Then maybe one more. Reclined in his chair. Ruffles the cat at his feet. He'd sit and read the paper and enjoy his cocktail. Every night.

Then dinner. Dessert. Coffee.

Yesterday would have been his 96th birthday. I was busy and didn't get home until late. And, so, tonight, a bit late, I sat on the couch and had a whiskey. I don't drink it with seven. Just with a splash of water on the rocks. Because I've studied it and... there is a reason it tastes better with water. ...water interacts with the molecules of the whiskey... but, I digress...

Here's the thing, I'm not 6'6" like him. Not even close. Although I am a sturdy girl, I'm an average sized adult.

But, kind of feeling 6'6" tonight.

Post drink.

The last glass.

The Office of Sisyphus

In the move and shuffling around I lost my office. My writing room.

Oh, don't be sad, that space is now an awesome closet. Because, clothes. And, shoes. And, scarves. And, hoodies. I could go on and on but I'd like to think you get the gist.

When touring a friend through the 'new' closet she said, "But, where are you going to write?"

Brighter. And, yet, soul sucking.

My heart skipped a beat. I knew where I was going to write. I was moving down to the recently vacated actual office. With the built in shelves and crazy ass purple walls. And ceilings. The ONLY room I hadn't touched. 15/16 rooms painted. Some more than once.

It was time. To paint.

I couldn't write in there. It was too dark. Dreary. Sad.

First thing, I have to brighten up that ceiling. White. Ceiling white. It's a thing. I really like the ceiling paint that goes on pink and dries white. It's really handy so that you know where you've been and don't miss a spot. Turns out with a purple ceiling, it's hard to miss a spot. Four coats later, that ceiling wasn't purple any more. I couldn't move my shoulders but, that ceiling is white.

For the walls I wanted gray. A nice relaxing gray. Started painting. Kept painting. I didn't have to be terribly careful as I had to repaint the trim and the crown and the built ins. Really, all the things. Painted.

Four coats. Of one coat guarantee paint. There must be some fine print there that I missed. Because, four coats.

I was sitting on the couch in the living room, looking through the doorway into the office, thinking of all my hard work. Looking at my nice relaxing gray walls. That are baby blue. Baby. Blue. Not relaxing. At. All.

It looked terrible. Truly.

All the paint.

I ran off to the hardware store. Grabbed every sample of gray paint they had. Freshened up a small patch of the trim so it was bright white and started taping all the gray samples to the wall. There was a clear winner. The perfect gray.

Started again. This time only two coats.

Then the trim. The crown. The shelves. Hours and hours and hours.

I got to hopeless. I actually stopped. I took days and days and then weeks off of painting. I avoided the room. Forget writing in there. I didn't even step in there.

Forget Sisyphus and his rock. Staci and her paintbrush is now right up there with Greek Mythology.

And, now... I love that room. I leave the lamp on just so I can admire it from other rooms. I sit at the desk. It's so relaxing. It's cozy. It's becoming a favorite place.

Oh and that gray? I didn't notice in the frantic gray sample pulling. But, that color? It's called 'Tin Man'.

Me and that Tin Man, we've got a lot in common.

Feel free to review. If I Only Had a Heart.

Surely a novel can come out of this...

What the... why?

I find myself saying that a lot.

What the...?

I can't say want I want to say because there are children around, so I censor.

Sometimes.

I'm not going to lie and say the children haven't heard some words.

From time to time.

But, seriously. Why? I think it and say it. All. The. Time.

The kids. They come in. They shed belongings. Shoes. Backpacks. Jackets. All over the middle of the kitchen.

Seriously? Is school that exhausting? So tiring they can only carry their belongings two feet into the house?

They shed and leave items. Wherever. They just leave it.

A random sock in the middle of the staircase.

A half eaten cookie behind the coffee maker.

Glasses. Bowls. Plates. Under the bathtub. True story. Completely f***ing true. 

They can't seriously think it's a good idea. Right?

They aren't dumb. Pretty smart, in fact.

Tonight was a bowl in the dishwasher. Right side up. Still had cereal in it. Now, I know they know better. After a quick friendly chat (really) it was corrected. But, seriously. What the... why?

Do they think I'm dumb? I almost always catch them in their shenanigans. Maybe they are hoping for that one time... and they'll win? Because it they want to go competition mode, I'll step up my game. BIG.

Am I being tested? Have I lost a bet with God?

Likely.

Goodbye Earl

I haven't really written much about our European adventure as I am still processing. It was an amazing whirlwind trip. We quickly moved through five countries. Or I should say, we ate, drank and laughed our way through five countries.

And then today, a song came on the radio. I was quickly transported to a sketchy karaoke bar in Paris. Bangkok Karaoke.

I sing. Not well.

So, here's the thing. I can't sing. Well, not true. I can physically sing. I know the words. (To all the songs.) I've been known to give a power concert or two hundred to my steering wheel whilst the people in the cars around me stare. But, suffice it say, I should pour all my focus into my day job. ALL of it.

We were in Paris looking for a bar to enjoy a glass of wine or two. Or maybe even a cocktail... We Yelped. Just around the corner from our hotel was a Thai restaurant, seems odd to hang in a Thai place in France but there wasn't much else close by and none of us were really in the mood to get a cab.

Bonus - karaoke.

We arrived to the place to what I would consider a shocked hostess and waitstaff. 10 Americans walk into a Thai Restaurant in Paris... there has to be a joke in there somewhere... They were out of most of the alcohol on the menu. We settled for some cheap wine and beer and a couple poorly made cocktails. We ate peanuts.

I started to wonder if this wasn't a money laundering joint.

I pictured them in the back, "I don't know! Figure out the karaoke machine! These Americans want to sing!'

We sang all the karaoke standards. Sweet Caroline, Rockstar (hey, Nickelback mostly sucks but they do have some catchy hooks), Your Love by the Outfield and some Patsy Cline for good measure. And then, my karaoke go to: Goodbye Earl.

As the song started, my newfound and lifelong (hopefully he agrees!) friend, Jay, quickly made his way up on stage announcing it was now a duet. The Dixie Chicks Fly CD was the only CD in his car. He knew all the words to all the songs.

She held Wanda's hand as they worked out a plan
And it didn't take 'em long to decide

That Earl had to die, goodbye Earl
Those black-eyed peas, they tasted alright to me, Earl

And that is how a retired school counselor from South Carolina and a 40 something engineering director from the Pacific Northwest brought a little country to France.

In a Thai restaurant.

B-I-N-G-O

We walked into the bar. Dark. Low ceilings. The bartender, June, took one look at us in the doorway and loudly announced, 'We only serve beer and wine."

The four of us were standing there clearly looking ready to order a round of cosmos or lemon-drops. Or whatever fresh organic fruit martini they may have on special.

But, no matter. No cocktails? That's okay. We may look like cocktail girls, but, we can hang.

Rainer on tap (for incredibly low prices)? Cool. Michelob Ultra in a bottle? We're in.

We had a purpose. We were there for bingo. Rock and Roll Bingo. We had a chance to win tens of dollars. Not our original destination but while waiting for a table at our favorite breakfast place we saw the ad in the paper. What is Girls Weekend if not adventurous? And, set at a bar with the word 'shack' in the name... how can you go wrong? You're going to find adventure whether you mean to or not.

After we sat down we were informed that they were on a limited menu that night. No pizza. Because the band. I'm not sure what one has to do with the other but... okay. No pizza. It wasn't a vegetarian friendly menu either but I ate a grilled cheese and a bag of chips and washed it down with a Mike's Hard Lemonade. Felt like a reasonably solid meal. Plus, we were there with a purpose.

To win.

There were a few regulars in the place. They were watching us closely as we poorly played shuffleboard. And laughed.

The band was warming up. The term band may be a little generous. Just two guys. Drummer and guitar player/singer. Not good, per se. But, fun. They knew their role: play songs people know, people sing along and have fun.

The bar got busier. With a crowd that seemed like it came straight out of Central Casting. It seemed they all took a minute to stare at us. One of these things was not like the other.... 

The band played a lot of hits. When Doves Cry followed by Scrubs. It's pretty safe to say they aren't locked into a particular genre. Nor do they care. And, oddly, they didn't know, Don't Stop Believin'... but, per our request they played it. Which sounded an awful lot like Scrubs with the Don't Stop Believin' lyrics. During each song they would stop singing and call the bingo numbers. We were warned early that the bingo set came from Walmart and there may be duplicate numbers. And, there were.

We started chatting with other folks in the bar. The mother and girlfriend of the singer,

Not winning. 

the lady who brought cupcakes for everyone as it was her birthday and she didn't have any other plans.

Turns out the limitations of beer and wine didn't please the band. They wandered out during their breaks to enjoy some tequila in the parking lot. Because, why not?

And, as our focus was fun and adventure, perhaps a couple of us joined them. Where else can you listen to a band and drink tequila in a parking lot with strangers?



We laughed. A lot. And, there were a couple winners in our group.

Not me.

I'm good at a lot of things but bingo isn't one of them. Fortunately laughing and drinking tequila is.

FALL!

OK, now. Now it's fall. Now. Today. Not yesterday. Not three weeks ago. Today.

Order up your pumpkin spice. Start burning pumpkin candles. Do ALL THE THINGS. Beginning today.

Yesterday was rainy and a bit foggy and a little chilly. But, it was the last day of summer. Even though a double-tall-non-fat-no-whip-pumpkin-spice-latte would have been delicious, and, yes, that is the coffee order of an utter asshole, it was the last day of summer. As such, I abstained. I waited. I like the anticipation.

And, go. Now. Go!

I love fall. I love everything about it. I love pumpkin everything. I love changing the summer flowers in the flower pots to grasses and mums. I love pumpkin candles, pumpkins on the porch, soup in the crock pot, hoodies, raking leaves, watching movies snuggled on the couch while it rains. I love all of the things as long as they begin on September 22nd. Not a day sooner. Not a damn day.

Starbucks started serving Pumpkin Spice on September 1st. I say to you Starbucks, with love, 'slow your roll'.





Stop, slow down, suck up the last days of summer. Love them. Then move into fall. Then Halloween. Then Thanksgiving. Then and ONLY THEN enjoy Christmas.

For the love of Christ, and it's his birthday after all, wait until after Thanksgiving for Christmas.

Happy. Place.

Noodle Salad

Some of us have great stories, pretty stories that take place at lakes, with boats, and friends, and noodle salad. Just no one in this car. But, a lot of people, that's their story; good times, noodle salad. What makes it so hard is not that you had it bad, but that you're that pissed that so many others had it good.

- Melvin Udall, As Good as It Gets

Noodle Salad. Or in my family, Macaroni Salad. My Grandma used to make it. Regular Grandma. She made it every year for the Farmers Festival and numerous other family or church potlucks. It's not typical macaroni salad. It's nothing like what you'd get in a grocery store and I've never had anything like it. It's amazing. It's special.

Perfection.

I made it 15 years ago or so for the first time. I called her to get the recipe. She thought that was silly. Why would I want to make that old salad? I've made it a few times since but not with the frequency that she made it. Probably has something to do with the amount of church potlucks I don't attend.

Now I have her recipe. Framed. Clipped from a newspaper when God was a boy. It's faded and discolored. And well loved. And freaking* delicious.

I entered that salad into a contest today. In the Side Dish category.

Cooking contests aren't really my thing. I've never done it before. But I packed that salad up in the vintage pyrex my grandma used and I entered.



Before I left for the event, my mom texted me, 'Good luck! I hope you win, you're a terrible loser.' A pretty true statement, there.

While the votes were being tallied, the boy, now 13, looked at me and said, 'If you win this, it's all on Grandma Aileen!'

Indeed.

And, I won.

Or, rather, Regular Grandma won.

*Even with the win, Grandma wouldn't appreciate that language. 

#winning

The Girl

The girl started fourth grade today. She's grown from the nervous first grader that I walked in everyday to the kid that throws herself from the car each morning with gusto.

I shout, "win the day!" as she unbuckles.

"I will!" comes back at me as the door slams.

She's nine. An experienced nine. Far more mature than her age. She's very comfortable in most conversations with adults and has a biting wit. Biting. She doesn't much look like me but... the personality. That's mine.

Eight years ago today she got her first haircut. Her baby mullet removed. In the easy days of a quick brushing and a plastic barrette. Now it's in her style (just hanging there) with a streak of some color as 'all the other kids' have one.

Mullet Removal.

Now, I can remember a lot of things. But, I didn't just off the top of my head remember the date of the baby mullet removal. No. I have Facebook to thank for that.

Those Facebook memories have a nasty habit of punching you right in the feels. This morning I was greeted by that cute little baby getting her first haircut by my mom while my dad distracted her.

My dad who was hopelessly in love with his little Tinkerbell.

She hasn't been called Tinkerbell in a long time. Thankfully she remembers that and him. He is and will forever be known as 'the grandpa that called me Tink'.

Tonight we'll do 'high/low' at dinner and she'll tell us about her day. Then she'll read and go to bed, exhausted from being back into the grind of elementary school. She and the cat will be sound asleep and I'll peek in and creepy watch her for awhile.

I'll revel in her nine-ness. I'll will her to remain a kid for just awhile longer. Beg a little even. Just like I have so many other nights.

Unfortunately, it never works.

On her way.

The Lonely Plant

About a year ago I bought a succulent. Pretty basic little short plant. He, yes, he's a he. He was planted in an old metal measuring cup. Dented. I liked the look of it. And, for a year or so he just sat there. Didn't change. Didn't grow. Nothing. Every once in awhile a leaf would fall off. He was pretty pathetic. Kept him watered. Put him in the sun. Put him out of the sun. Near a window. Away from a window. Still nothing.

A couple months ago, the boy and I were wandering around Lowe's. It's one of our favorite places. I like to picture all the things I could do if the project budget was infinity dollars; the boy likes to picture himself with his own show on HGTV.

Maybe someday.

On our rambling shopping adventure, we came upon some succulents. A four pack for four dollars. They were all small. One looked mostly dead and another one probably dead.

I figured what the heck. I like succulents. They are pretty popular. And for that price, there wasn't much risk.

Took our little four pack home and put it on the kitchen counter. I didn't have time to plant them for a couple days. Almost instantly the mostly dead and probably dead ones died. Out of desperation and in a hurry, I stuffed the two still alive into the metal cup with the other super-lame-refusing-to-grow-plant.

Good luck guys, that metal cup may be the kiss of death.

Rapidly outgrowing their cup.

And then, a strange thing happened. The original little plant started to grow. And grow. He's more than doubled in size in two months. His leaves are open. He actually looks happy. The other two have grown too.

I think the little guy was just lonely.

He, like most of us, needs his friends.
















*If you think it's weird that I just wrote a post about a plant, don't. It's not the first. Plants are cool.

Identity

So, there are things you don't really think about until they are upon you.

Getting to the 'new world' involves a lot of forms. A lot. (Money, too. But, let's focus on forms.)

There is a line and a check box on one of the many forms:

Return to Maiden Name?

Well, yes.

But. But, here's the conundrum. I sort of don't really have one. I mean, I have one. As stated in previous posts, I was born. Not hatched or anything.

The trouble is... the parents. They divorced. Like about 70% of the parents of the 70's. I had my dad's last name. We weren't close. I felt abandoned. Because I was. Well, we were.

After one particularly terrible phone call with him I changed my last name. Took my step fathers last name.

In the early 90's this was easy. You got a new student ID, new social security card and new drivers permit. Took an afternoon.

You had a new identity.

Then I got married. Turned in a form. Took the married name.

Now, what follows is my opinion and my feelings. I don't care if you changed your last name or didn't.

I did. I got married really young.

I didn't really think about what that really was. Or meant.

As I got older I thought about how much I didn't like it - not the name, per se, but the idea that I took it and was now sort of owned. It seemed so old fashioned. Having the same last name doesn't make you any less or more married.

I didn't dwell on it. And I didn't really think about my birth certificate name. Until I applied for a passport.

Post 9/11.

You see, my dad was adopted. The name on his birth certificate isn't the same as his name on my birth certificate. My birth certificate name appears no where else and there is no legal document stating that I changed my name from one to the other prior to marriage.

I walked the woman at the courthouse through this. A few times. She nodded and said 'I can totally see the path. There must be a good story here.'

'Oh, there is.'

And so, a few years later, I sat filling out forms, staring at that check box and line. I do want to return to my maiden name. But, I also don't really know who that is. Or which name to choose.

I thought about it. A lot.

Tried them both on. Practiced saying and writing them.

Staci Lynne Crow.

Staci Lynne Larkin.

Staci Lynne Crow-Larkin.

Stewed.

The other day the boy was trying to get my attention. His preferred method is to say mom. Over and over and over and over and over again. A la Stewie.

"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mommy. Mom. Mom. MoMMMMMM. Mama. Momma. Mom. Mom"

Then finally, "Staci Crow, will you answer me?"

And there you have it.

Signed the form.

Hair

This is a turn your cheeks red post. If you don't want to have red cheeks... turn back now.


Sitting at dinner last night. Tired after a long week, hot, worked at the office and then at home on a messy project. Needed pizza and a beer(s). Schmizza it is.

Two adults. Four kids. The table is loud as is typical with four kids. I am so hungry I can only focus on my slice. And guzzling my beer.

The boys start talking about hair. As they are 13 and 11, this is coming up more and more.

11 year old says, 'I didn't use any gel today.'

My boy says, 'I usually just brush mine back into a queef.'

I freeze.

Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Don't laugh. 

...too late....

OK. Laugh. But don't make eye contact with the other adult at the table. That would be suicide. Just look down.

The boy, confused by my hysterical giggles, follows it up with, 'You know, a queef. It's a hair style.'

I jerk my head up and we make eye contact. Shit. I start to choke. I grab my napkin and cover my eyes. I let myself slump over and giggle. Loudly. So loudly. Tears running.

He's now really confused and saying things like, 'wow, my mom has totally lost it!'

I can't breathe.

Finally, I muster all the strength I have and say, loudly, 'you have a coiffure!'

'Oh, yeah, that's it!'

Yes. That's it.

And it's a much different thing.

You'll have to look the other word up yourself.

me casa es su casa

I have been the worst blogger ever. Literally. The worst. I have been so slow at writing. Sort or uninspired of late.

(And, I don't really consider myself a 'blogger', more of a story teller, but... you get the drift.)

Vodka also works.

Two things happened today. One, I used some new soap I got for Christmas - yes, I have that much different soap it takes me seven months to get to it... most importantly the soap is called 'soap for writers block'. Maybe it actually works. Two, I am actually beginning to process the amazing whirlwind European trip I was recently on. Time to take pen to paper. Or, keys to monitor...

Day one we flew into Frankfurt. From there we headed to Rothenburg, in Bavaria. It was beautiful. Completely amazing. Even better, we got to meet up with some of my college friends who are currently residing in Germany. We had an amazing dinner, beer, dessert and a tour of the town. And, in what I consider an added bonus to the tour, Deb also heard my accent. You know the one... the one I only have when I'm with Jeanna Brown.

"Um, did you just start speaking with an accent?"

Me, giggling, "maybe!"

"Wait until she says sandwich!"

So, while our dinner and evening with friends was awesome, it also meant that we had separated from our official tour. One of our friends and fellow tour goer arranged our room and took our luggage in for us. (We clearly have very good friends!) We received a text: when you go in go up the stairs, you're in room 102.

Seems simple enough. And thanks to GPS and The Browns we were delivered right to the doorstep of the hotel.

"We'll wait here to make sure you're all set."

This is called foreshadowing, if you couldn't tell.

The hotel had a welcoming wrap around porch. The large front door was propped open. We could hear talking and laughing coming from inside. We entered the wide hallway, with a view of a bar and a woman filling a beer stein from a tap in the wall.

We're on the high of the day.

So excited. We're in Germany!

As we turned to go up the stairs, the woman called out, "Can I help you?"

"No. Thank you, we're just going up to our room." Always say thank you... we don't want to be perceived as ugly Americans...

She was standing right next to us now. For a rather large German woman, she was incredibly fast.

In her thick German accent, "Uh, no. This is my house."

20 feet away. Just 20 feet.

Or 6.1 meters. Away. From the hotel door.

Kickball!

Everyone has those moments. The moments of, 'I can't believe this is actually my life'. Sometimes those are in hard moments. Probably more often than not.

But, not this time.

This time was one of those times. The I can't even believe this is my life moment. In the best way.

The. Best. Way.

Standing on a soccer field playing kickball while the sun goes down. Giggling. Talking a little smack. Maybe not just a little. It is me after all. And, we were playing high school kids. I'm certainly not going to play quietly...

In Switzerland.

Kickball. Giggles. With people I love.

Switzerland.

One of those moments.

The Graduation of the U6ers

It sounds so cliche... but, damn. That happened fast.

My first little team, 12 years ago. Me a wide eyed assistant coach with the idea that I would be awesome at coaching little kid soccer. The head coach thinking something similar. How hard can it be? They're just little kids.

Holy hell.

Well, that's what you want to say... but they hear you... so you mouth words and censor yourself...

But, at any rate. My first little team. U6. They were four and five. My own son secured in the backpack during practices and games. He was one.

Those kids. To call them The Bad News Bears would be a disservice. A disservice to The Bad News Bears.

Reading the roster was like reading the treatment for a Nickelodeon show:

• Small for age.
• Allergic to dust and grass.
• Poor vision.
• Very shy.

They were not good. And, in their defense we were terrible coaches (in the beginning). We had them in lines. Running drills.

They were four.

In the end, we just yelled what they should do across the field. They listened. Actually, no. They didn't.

But, they grew and learned and we grew and learned. I coached another 10 years. Met a lot of fun little kids. Coached both my own for a few years. Until I realized I wanted to watch my kids from a lawn chair a lot more than I wanted to blow a whistle at them. Now I sit on the sidelines. Sometimes pace. But, very little yelling. I've learned. And, grown up.

But, that first little team. They just graduated from high school. They sent announcements. I went to parties. I gave gift cards. They are grown up now.

Not true.

They are adults.

Gratitude

Two and half years ago I attended an Oprah weekend. Big things. Oprah talks of big things. It was exhausting and awesome at the same time. We were given homework. A years worth. I haven't done well in that category. At all. (Especially considering it's taken me more than two years to even really think about it...) Which is sort of odd because I typically do whatever Oprah says.

One thing I work on from time to time is my gratitude journal. I miss a lot of days, it comes and goes, waxes and wanes depending on time or mood. That's a big Oprah thing. Write in the journal. Every. Day. Never. Miss. A. Day.

Well, I've missed a lot of days. Probably around 900.

And then, Lent came around and gave me the push I needed. I am pretty well known for totally failing at Lent. It's my super power.

I aim too high.

I go for unattainable.

I've tried to stop swearing.

I've tried to give up alcohol.

I've tried giving up chocolate.

Yeah. Me.

None of those have gone well. At all. All #epicfails

Instead of giving something up, I did something this year. Added. I wrote in my gratitude journal. And, I actually liked it. To just stop at the end of the day and be grateful. It's powerful. I didn't hit every day. But I hit most days. Improvement. Progression.

So here goes a sample... a number of items I am grateful for. In no particular order.

Soft sheets. I'm pretty cheap on some necessities. But, you will find, on my bed at least, really nice sheets.

Hot water. If you don't step out of the shower scalded, what's the point?

A nine year old with an attitude. Any small child who starts a conversation with, 'Listen Genius' is destined for big things. Big things.

A teen boy who totally cracks me up and still tells me he loves me. Enough said.

A job that is rewarding and challenging. Even on days where I'm swearing.

The ability to find humor in damn near everything.

The roof that's over my head.

A plan to run. Normally I'd be thankful for miles. Miles and miles. Today I'm thankful for a plan to get me off the bike and out on the street. Even though I am only running a few minutes at a time - I am grateful!

Friends. I'm very fortunate that I hang with some pretty awesome people. Really awesome people.

Love.

Family. They're pretty cool. And with the added bonus of being tall and looking the same, they're easy to find in a crowd.

All I have to do is look up.

Doing what Oprah says.

White!

I was 23. It started small. A few strands on my right temple. Just a few gray hairs.

At first I had blonde highlights added to mask them.

Then more highlights.

Then roots plus highlights.

In the ultimate betrayal, the gray spread like a virus. Across the front and then down my part and then the majority of the top of my head.

I was diligent on my color appointments. There was no way that I was going to be so young and have gray hair. No. Way.

I often joked that not only did I have no idea what my actual hair color was, I couldn't remember what color it used to be.

When I was in my early 30's I read an article about going gray and when you should let nature take its course. The recommendation was to go gray at 40. 40. Clearly the woman who wrote it was insane. Insane.

Who in their right mind would go gray at 40?

My hair was becoming a constant battle. After a touch up, it only looked good for a couple weeks. Then I'd have grow out and had to start getting really creative with how my hair was parted. I couldn't pull it into a ponytail lest someone see how white it had become. Because now it wasn't gray, it was white. It was taunting me every morning.

And then... well, and then, I turned 40.

And I decided I just couldn't do it any more. I'm letting it happen. I'm going gray. Or white, rather. Because, it's WHITE.

I haven't had my hair colored in seven months. Oh, don't get me wrong, it's a bit weird. I miss the monthly appointments. Having grown up in a hair salon, I feel quite at home hanging out in one.

The hair and I have made peace.

And, I've never felt better.

White!

Choose Your Own Adventure

I am not a 'mommy blogger'. It's not my thing. But, sometimes the mom in me comes out. As I do 'momming' a good amount of time.

This teenager business. It's tricky. That's all the unsolicited advice I'm ever going to give: It's tricky.

Because, you won't believe it any way. Or, you'll think it can't possibly be that hard. Or, it won't be that hard for you. Because you're awesome. You're fun. Neighborhood kids love you. All that? All that means nothing. NOTHING!

I think back to 15 years ago. The months and months and months of trying to get pregnant. All I wanted was a baby. A boy specifically. And, I got him. Later than I had planned. But, still. Mine.

Pregnancy. That's hard. I threw up a lot. I got extremely large. I had gestational diabetes and an emergency C-section. All that stuff? Mere child's play compared to parenting a teen. Child's play.

Remember how bad you wanted a baby? Channel that. Hold onto that. Because, no one says 'I can't wait to be the parent of a sullen teen!'

Because no one does.

And, hey, I don't even have it bad. I just have it annoying. Today. I have a pigsty of a room. Laundry all over the house and a whiny attitude. It's not terrible but it's also not the sweet little four year old I used to snuggle and giggle with.

Not all moments are bad. Some are downright awesome. Like tonight when we were belting out 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' in a totally awesome kitchen dance party.

I think that's the issue - why can't there be more kitchen dance parties and less shoes all over the house?

Why are these teens essentially Choose Your Own Adventure books without page numbers?

And, I swear, if I have to say 'no food on the second floor' one more time...

Fact.

Grown Up!

Well, maybe. Likely not. But, making strides in the right direction. I'm an adult, by legal definition. I can pay bills on time, get to work, feed the kids - some grown up things. For sure.

In other areas I'm terribly lacking. I have the humor of a 12 year old boy. I wear sneakers. And t-shirts. I've turned down excellent job opportunities because they were 'dress up jobs'. I eat peanut butter and jelly. A lot.

This balance of grown up and not has served me well. Until recently.

Driving to Bend a few weeks ago my passenger cut her finger. Pretty bad. Stitch worthy. On the pass. A long way to get help. Me with literally no supplies. Other than a partially used napkin. Don't worry, she didn't get any blood on the leather.

It got me to thinking. I was sort of screwed with just a cut. What would happen if there was something more? Double screwed, I'd imagine.

The only safety item I have in my car is the glass breaking seatbelt cutter thing. And, that's mostly because I crossed the river twice a day for a lot of years. Odds of a water landing were high. A thing to smash windows, yes. A bandaid, no.

I'm also the proud owner of heavy duty jumper cables. They hang neatly in my garage. You know, where I'll never need them. At home. I have no idea why they aren't in my car other than my dad stored them in the garage, so I store in them in the garage.

That all ends now. As of today, I have an orange back pack with a first aid kit, flash lights, emergency blankets, battery powered flashers AND jumper cables. Flares are probably a better idea than battery powered flashers for safety but anything with fire seems like a bad idea for me.

The mere act of assembly made me actually feel a little more responsible. A little more grown up, if you will.

So, be on the lookout for me, cruising around, looking for emergencies.

Stuff. And things,

Figuring

Still a little pissed. Need to get over that. Get through. Figure it out. But, in my defense, I can be a bit of an angry gnome. Just a bit. And, if gnomes were tall. Maybe a low simmering pissed is just my typical state? 

Or, am I sad?

I don’t know the difference any more.  

It's been six years. Tomorrow. Since my stepdad died. And, I only use the term stepdad as a notation. So people don’t get confused. He did all the dad stuff. He should get the title.

This year when his birthday rolled around, I thought of him. But it wasn’t at the forefront of my mind like in years past. It hit me later in the evening. Like a lightbulb moment of ‘Oh, yeah. His birthday.’ Tomorrow isn’t like that. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. I know it’s coming. The scab is less, for sure. More scar, less scab. I still remember my stomach dropping, my legs letting go and then sinking to the floor. That empty feeling in the pit of my stomach there for days, then weeks, then gone.

In two months it’ll be 10 years since my dad died. The actual dad, but doesn’t deserve to have the title, dad. That guy. Funny, handsome, absent. I don’t know anything else. That sadness is different. It’s what I didn’t have and never will have. Not the actual loss of him but the loss of the I don't know... The mourning is so different. Anger? Confusion?

But, for both of them, it’s bigger than what I am missing or missed. It’s about what they missed – either in absence or in death. They are missing the amazing children that are here; the amazing kids that we were. Five grandchildren. Grade school to college. Successful. Smart. Funny. And, adorable, of course. Those five are missing out on a lot of fun and unsolicited advice. Missing out on sing-a-longs. Musical marathons. White Christmas. Singing in the Rain. And, of course, The Wizard of Oz.

For me, well, I’m missing out on bad car advice and lawn care tips.

I finally feel like I’m figuring out life at 40. I wonder sometimes what dad would think of where I am now. The direction I am headed. The decisions that I have made.

Then I remember that I’m not a kid. I am 40. And, as much as I’d like those lawn care tips, as the lawn looks like utter shit right now, I can figure it out.

I will figure it out. All of it.

Title winner.