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.