Tattoos and Self Adoration

Time for a blog rename! It's been time - for a long time. I never really intended on the 'Staci's Random Rants' name. Ever. But, when it came to starting a blog, I couldn't think of anything. Anything at all. I tend to rant. A lot. But, it turns out that when I sit down to write, I don't rant. Oh, some posts are angry. And, some are sappy. And, yet some, I hope, are funny. My favorite posts are written quickly. Post Bourbon. I'll never tell.

But, until today, I still hadn't been able to think of a new name. I had sort of given up. But then...



In a conversation today, my friend, Tracey, described the 21st century as 'tattoos and self adoration' -  in response to my NEED of the new iPhone. It has a better front facing camera for selfies.

Awesome selfie. Bad t-shirt choice for visiting Denver.

Here's the thing about selfies... I've been taking them forever. I was awesome at it with a camera. Real one. You know, the kind that use film? And, I was pretty good at it when phones just had one camera. But, it was like they were speaking directly to me when they added the front facing camera a few years ago. They said something about video conferencing in the sales pitch - but, we all know they're for selfies.

Because, me.

I wouldn't say I'm a total narcissist. In fact, I think that word gets thrown around a little too much. It's losing its true meaning. Like literally. Literally. But, I'm a medium narcissist, if there is a measurement. So, yes, I'm a fan of myself. I adore myself. I'm adorable for crying out loud! And, if you don't agree, it's just because you don't know me well enough. Or, I don't like you. I'll never tell.

Then on to the tattoo front. Well, there is an awesome story there. Stars the same good friend. Plus my other favorite cast of characters. But, that's for another post.

Anchor on the achilles. Ouch.

Once you get one, you can't stop. It's something in the ink.

So, I'll keep on adoring myself and getting inked.

(Did you hear that? It was my mother screaming.)

And, I'll try to write an occasional post under the new blog name. Most likely staring me.

Title IX

I'm a post Title IX kid. Thankfully. Quite honestly, I love sport. Playing. I prefer watching in person over television but would rather be playing than watching - any day. I was lucky that I had a mom who wanted to play sports but couldn't (pre-title IX) and as a result signed me up for everything. Soccer, basketball, softball, swimming and track. There's a year of dance in there too but I can't even write about that… Yet.

It's been over 40 years since Title IX became a law. Signed in by Richard Nixon. (That makes me giggle just a little bit…)

You'd think we'd be past all the sexism in sports and all the rest but we aren't. How is it that we're in the 'modern world' and yet when I run through town I get honked, whistled and yelled at. Some teenagers recently yelled out, 'NICE ASS!' as they passed me in a car.

My thoughts on that - A) I don't have an 'ass'. My back goes right into my legs. It's a miracle I can even sit. B) If these teenage boys think I do in fact have a nice ass, the quality of the porn they are accessing is poor. Very, very poor. Do they not know how to use the internet? C) Do they think that this is flattering? Or are they just little assholes?

I mean, really, is this where we are in 2014?

More girls are playing sports than ever before. When I was a kid I was the only girl on the co-ed team. I'm pretty sure I was the only girl in the league. I love seeing all the little kids signed up for U6 soccer now - it's almost even between boys and girls at that age - quite different than the 80's - in North Idaho at least.

Girls who play sports get better grades, are less likely to become a teen parent and have a lower chance of getting cancer. Not to mention the health benefits of just getting out and playing. Plus teamwork, camaraderie and all that goes with it.

So with all this data, with more financial equality in sports than ever before, with more girls getting out on the court, pitch, track and field…

Well, just imagine my surprise when I read a recent soccer scholarship request.

Most scholarship requests are filled out by parents. Due to a layoff or other family hardship they request a discount. In return, we ask for volunteer hours. Painting lines on fields, sorting forms, delivering registration forms to schools, etc. This particular form was filled out by what was clearly a teenage girl. Bubble printed letters.

I asked the usual questions to the other board members at the meeting - does the family have an outstanding balance, how many years have they played for us, how many family members are in our club?

My friend and fellow board member shifted in her seat.

"They've played with us for years. The balance on the other kids in the family is paid in full."

"Okay. What's the situation now?"

"The dad thinks that this is too much to pay. For a girl."

We all exchanged looks. And then the rage came.

Now, this wouldn't be the first board meeting that has had me me in a twist or the first (and certainly won't be the last) where I haven't been able to contain the profanity. Sometimes it just comes out. I'll spare you all (mostly my mom) the actual transcript of what I said. Rest assured that my favorite word was used. Repeatedly.

But, really? Seriously? 42 years after Title IX? 58% of medals in the last Olympics to female athletes?

There will always be jerks in the world. No amount of anything will stop that.

So, all we can do is get out there and play.

Dear Madison

Dear Madi, Madison Aileen, MadiBig, Little Miss ~

It's sneaking up on us, Little Miss. The first day of first grade. Supplies are purchased and organized. 'Perfect' first day school dress is ready to go. We will get up and make pancakes and take your picture on the front porch - posed with your book bag. You will have a big smile. You won't be nervous. School is your thing. You, my little girl, are wicked smart. And confident. And Every Thing. 

You make this former first grader very proud.

First grade was my favorite. Mrs. Evans. She looked like one of Charlie's Angels. She did the single most important thing in my life - she taught me how to read. When I was a kid, the first word we learned to read was 'Look!'. There weren't a million learning shows, my parents didn't have a computer with access to learn-to-read websites. It was Mrs. Evans. You will enter first grade with a big advantage. 

I laugh every time you read a couple dozen words, don't know one and flip out that you 'don't know how to read!' I try to patiently explain that you read 25 words before you found one that you didn't know. But, I don't really do 'patient' and neither do you. We'll get through this reading thing. I promise.

You need to do me a favor though MadiBig - you need to keep your head up. Take it from me, Dick and Jane and Mrs. Evans - Look. Look around. Be curious. Keep your silly sense of humor. Ignore me any time I tell you 'not to be silly'. At some point I'll probably tell you to 'act your age' too. I'm sorry. Oh God, am I sorry - in advance. I will do my best to support your growth and your childhood. You have to do your best not to grow up too fast.

When the doctor said, "It's a girl!" I couldn't have been more surprised. I expected two boys. Figured it would be easier. Girls. Girls are tricky business. And, it's not that you're a girl. It's that you're a girl. You're the damnedest thing I've ever seen - running around in your soccer uniform plus tutu.

You're yourself. And, I love that. And, I love you.

Love, 

Mom

The Angels

This is about friends.  Real ones. This is not Chick Lit. These aren’t the friends you’ve had since childhood. These aren’t friends you met at college or the girlfriend of your husband's college roommate. These are the friends you made on your own. Not in Mommy and Me class, not a parent of a kid that is a friend of your kid. This is the real deal. The adults that you as an adult, have chosen. The call you can make in the middle of the night when a parent dies, when there has been an accident or when you just need a shoulder because you’re thisclose to losing it.

I consider myself to be very fortunate. I have a number of friends. Of good friends. I have a lot of what experts call, ‘functional friendships’, meaning that I have school friends, work friends, neighborhood friends and friends that are parents of kids on one of my kids sports teams. These are all good friends to have; everyone needs these friends and friendships. Many of those women are very close friends and would take the 2AM call.

Ready to fight crime. Obviously.

But, The Angels, well, they’re just more than that. They’re my people. My soul mates.  

The name, ‘The Angels’ started off as a bit of a joke. Our post-couple drinks traditional photo pose. A rip-off of Charlie’s Angels. And depending on which of our male friends you talk to we’re either ‘Rob’s Angels’ or ‘Keith’s Angels’. Maybe one day they’ll cage match it out and we’ll have a true winner. I’m hopeful for that scenario but skeptical. We’ve just shortened it to The Angels. And, really there isn’t anything very angelic about us. That’s what makes it funny and us fun.

On the surface it probably doesn’t look like we’d have a lot in common. One from New Jersey, one from California, one that moved a lot for parent job changes and one, me, who moved when her mother remarried and divorced and remarried. We’ve got five kids and six marriages between the four of us. Twelve years separates the youngest from the oldest. For two of us, in an odd twist of fate, our grandmothers were friends. Long before either of us existed. But somehow, we all ended up in the same place at the same time. Because we were supposed to.

Three of us bonded over work and morning walks to Starbucks, late night deadlines and difficult developers.

And our annual Valentine’s Day lunches.

A few years ago there were career shifts and one by one we left the company where three of us met.  Eventually, we all ended up together again - similar jobs, different place. And met our fourth. After over ten years of seeing each other almost every day, I got an offer for a more interesting job, closer to home for more money. And yet, I almost didn’t take it because I wouldn’t see The Angels as much. I told them each individually. And then later that night, alone, I cried.

We’ve bonded over coffee, wine, rum runners (now on the ‘never again’ list) and tattoos. We can communicate fully with an eye brow lift or eyelids closed for just a millisecond too long. Between the four of us we know the words to nearly every song and can have full conversations in lyrics. There have been a number of times where we've intentionally not made eye contact - lest we dissolve into laughter in an important meeting.

Basic words like: sand dollar, soup, asparagus or ovaries can send us into hysterical giggles. The kind where you can’t open your eyes and have to sit down.  Non-angels don’t get the jokes. Sometimes I feel bad about it but other times I’m glad they don’t ‘get it’. Our little private jokes and moments make our little circle special.

We all have friends. We all have best friends; we all have friends that will help us move. This is bigger. These are the friends that will move a body. And be an alibi.

This is loyalty and love mixed, shaken and poured out into a sugar rimmed martini glass.

Make it a double.

Held up. Literally and figuratively.

Footloose

Ah, I've seriously got to stop writing about injuries. Seriously. First step - stop the injuries. I hate to even consider that perhaps I'm getting too old for something... I'm not. Absolutely not. It's just that what my brain tells my body to do, well, it still does, it just does it slower and sort of clumsily...

So, the latest...

Let's start at the beginning, shall we?

The mullet makes you run faster.

I started playing soccer at, I don't know, five or six. Probably one of the many efforts of my mother to 'slim me down'. To her dismay, I turned out to be a big 'ol sturdy girl. I think it horrifies her. To this day.

But, turns out, I liked it. A lot. Played on a co-ed team - 11 boys and me. For a number of years.

Played in high school, played for my dorm team at Idaho, coached little kids for a long time.

Volunteer a lot of hours to the soccer club. Go to pro-games, sing the songs. Be 'that parent' on the sidelines - although, I'm working on that. Really.

A few months ago at a soccer board meeting, a friend mentioned that a group of adults was going to start playing indoor. Oh, I'm in. I'm so in. First game we got beat. Crushed. 8 - nil. Terrible. But, we improved. I took a couple slides on the turf, had some bloody knees. Couple of good collisions. But, so much fun. Getting a goal in your late thirties feels just as good as it did as a kid. Maybe even better.

While the indoor soccer playing has been happening, I've also been running. Anything that is a game or contest, I'm in! The challenge was 100 miles in July. I did that. Plus 10. Noticed on the running app leader board that a good friend beat me by four miles. Threw down a challenge. I'd run more in August. She accepted. Cue karma.

Game on Saturday. I was tired. Kind of moving slow. Warm ups were bad. I wiffed a few easy passes. Ugh.

Now, I often describe myself as sturdy. I am. It doesn't bother me. I'm a tad under 5' 10". My weight is just barely in the 'normal weight' - .02 from 'overweight' on the BMI chart. I am more linebacker than princess. And, I'm okay with it. It comes in handy. Plus, proven fact that tall people make more money. So there's that.

Red headed girl. Giant Amazon. I was small, comparatively. She has the ball. I want the ball. Bad. BAD. I go to take the ball. Collision. She loses her balance. And regains it by putting all of her weight in the middle of my left foot. I didn't even think about it. My knee was twisted in the crazy and I was more worried about that.

I subbed out for a few minutes. Rubbed the knee. Didn't even think about the foot. Played the full second half.

Changed shoes after the game - pulled on the flip-flops. Nothing feels better. Ran an errand at Home Depot. Standing in the lumber area... the foot doesn't feel right. Got home. Iced. Are those toes a bit swollen?

Sunday morning - time to do miles! Must do miles. Foot feels better. Maybe. It really feels like my toes need popped or adjusted. Five miles should do the trick.

About a mile in, I'm starting to think this is a bad idea. Stopped running. Started walking. Slow pace. Running app voice is telling me my pace is slow. Bitch.

Who's fat weird foot is that? Oh, shit.

At about mile four, I'm struggling. I see a friend drive by. She waves. I wave. For a second I think I should call her and ask her to drive me home. But, it's not that bad...

The voice comes up. Pace is 15 minutes a mile. Ugh. I have to shut that crazy bitch up. I run. 200 yards. Maybe less. The pain is too much. And then, like a vision, I see my own car. It honks. It's the husband! Saved! I frantically wave. I'm pointing at the corner and screaming, "Stop!" He turns the corner. I've got my second wind! I run to the corner, limping, my foot is throbbing. He's not there.

And so, now pissed and in pain I slowly limp the last mile. He's sorry, but according to him pointing and screaming 'stop' is the same as a parade wave...

X-ray scheduled for Monday. Severe sprain. Off the foot and on crutches at least two weeks, if I'm well behaved. Friends have started a betting pool. I believe there is a bet for four weeks, two days.

Will not make 115 miles in August. Disappointed. Don't do well with no activity. Foot must be up, iced, no weight. But, I'm determined to be 'well behaved' and kick these crutches to the curb.

I'm just not exactly sure what 'well behaved' looks like. Suggestions appreciated.

It's getting hot in here

So take off all your clothes.

Wait a minute. I'm home alone. This just got awkward.

But, in all honesty it's damn ass hot in here. In some sort of weird weather sitch we've gone from 77 to 99 and then back to the low 80's tomorrow. It's sketchy. I'm pretty sure we should have listened a little closer to Al all those years ago.

H-H-Hot.

I could make it less hot in here. But, sadly, I'm a bit short on window air conditioners.

Now, in the 'new' house we don't have A/C. In the 'old' house we did. We had a bid done for A/C in this house. Kind of expensive and then also mentioned that our furnace is close to the end and we should probably replace it too. At the same time. For a wheelbarrow full of money. I'm also short on wheelbarrows full of money.

Our bedroom is a corner room. Two very large 100 year- old single pane windows. The sun blasts in. Madi's matches. Last year we had window units in both rooms. It helped a lot.

As the weather turned from warm to cold, the window unit in Madi's room was still there. I was an angry wife wanting that thing put away. It's on the list. TAKE IT OUT. I didn't put it in. I didn't want to take it out either. But, we were in the middle of a rain/wind storm. Cold air was rushing into the room around the unit. Ugh. How hard can this removal be?

Pretty damn hard, it turns out.

Well, not really. Just hard to do alone.

Mainly because the window was jammed.

I called in the boy for assistance. Got him up on his knees on the window seat, spindly nine-year-old arms pulling hard on the window at the same time I was twisting the unit to get leverage.

And then the window came free.

And the air conditioner fell.

Out.

I frantically grabbed the cord. Which sort of stopped the fall for an instant. The unit swung backward. And paused. Then swung forward.

Through the living room window.

The swung backward and up. Hung there frozen in time for a millisecond. The cord pulled free. Then, in an impressive smashing display disintegrated into a million pieces in the flower bed. Crushing my newly wired (took me the entire previous weekend) yard light on its way down. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the neighborhood.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

I KILLED THE HOUSE.

I looked at the boy. He was in shock. Still on the window seat on his knees. Frozen.

I ran down the stairs and into the living room. Glass was everywhere. Now the rain and wind was blowing right in through a giant opening (that I created) in the house.



The husband, familiar to these types of incidents, went to the garage for plywood. Without saying a word.

Smart. That one.

The Duke

I haven't posted a blog since May 8th. I just haven't really felt like writing. End of the school year, kids are busy. Work is busy. Life is frankly, busy. I've started a number of posts but nothing I really like.

Tonight I sat down - going to force myself to write. Exercise my brain. Post something funny. Because I'm funny, dammit.

Sadly, this is what came out. I didn't want to write about it. But this is what is coming out so this is it. And, when I really think about it, I have been sad lately. Maybe getting this out of my brain will help. Get the sad blocker out of the way, something funny will fall out later.




My dad died suddenly March 8th, 2011. I went into a bit of a spin. My biological father had died a few years before, also suddenly. We weren't close. I had always felt like an abandoned kid. And now, it was official. I was dad-less.

We went 'home'. For a week. Did all the things. All the plans. Stood up and cried in front of a couple hundred people. Not my favorite thing to do. Came home.

Welcomed home by my 105 year old Border Collie. The week away magnified his issues and it was clear. It was time.

I spent several nights lying on the floor with him. I wasn't ready.

I don't know if it was an effort to cheer me up. Or just looking for a change in the house but the husband found an ad in the paper for some seriously cute puppies. Seriously cute. Mother was a Cavalier King Spaniel. Dad was a Shih-Tzu.

Cava-Tzu.

I was adamant. No puppy. Paco was nearing the end. Dad had just died. I just couldn't do it.

Then he did something evil. He showed a picture of the puppies to the kids. With the question of, "Should we get mommy a puppy?"

He called the number.

There were two left. I wanted no part of it. But, if he was going to force me - it should be the brown one. His name should be: The Duke. It fit his picture. Dad died while watching a John Wayne movie - it just fit. And face it, little dogs with big names are hilarious.

On March 23rd, I drove up to Goldendale and picked him up. Spring break, time to bond with the little guy. But, he wasn't mine. He belonged to the husband. I just happened to have the day off. I didn't want him and wasn't going to take care of him. NOT MINE.

Picked him up from an odd dog lady. Well, odd if you think large oil paintings of your dogs is a good decorating call.

MINE.

Put him in the kennel. He was riding in the kennel. Not going to start yet another dog off with bad habits.

Got through Goldendale and down onto I-84. Trucks going by. Loud. Raining. He started to cry. From that day on, MY little dog sat on my lap in the car. And slept in my arms.

He was what I needed then. He was something to focus on. A distraction. And, damn he was cute.

We took Paco in on March 31st and helped him leave. I closed out the month. Declared it the worst month ever and wrapped it up.

Took my cute little funny dog everywhere. Baseball games, soccer games, Home Depot. Everywhere. He was my little guy. I joked that we would have had a third baby but we got The Duke instead. He wore clothes. I became 'that' person.

Even though I loved my previous dog. It just didn't compare to Duke. It didn't. We bonded instantly. I joked that if he lived to be as old as Paco, I'd be 50 when he died. That's what I hoped anyway. But somewhere, somewhere in the back I had a feeling I wouldn't have him that long.

He could do exactly two tricks. 'Sit Up' and 'Say Please'. But hey, when you're cute and have a good personality, that's really all you need. (Trust me on this.)

Never stressed.

He charmed people that didn't even like dogs. He sat in flower pot full of Daisies. All the time. His job was to cheer me up. And, he did.

Grandma died late that fall. I sat with Duke and sobbed. Maybe that makes me pathetic. I don't know. I do know that year sucked. Back at moms house after the funeral he 'worked the room'. Sat on laps. Charmed all the people.

On New Years Eve I gave 2011 the F YOU.

Spring came. The sun came out. Duke got sick. Oddly sick. I had been out of town and he had gotten some treats that weren't his normal. The vet was pretty sure it was just an upset stomach. Treated the symptoms. It should clear itself up.

I sat on the floor feeding him boiled chicken and rice while telling to get better soon because I wasn't going to sit on the floor feeding him boiled chicken and rice for another 14 years. Knowing that I would, of course.

He didn't get better. Our vet referred us to another vet. A specialist. As an after thought, she mentioned that the one thing we knew it wasn't was cancer. He was too young for cancer. Cancer never even crossed my mind until then. My stomach fell.

The specialist saw a problem in his kidney. On a Friday night. We were to take him in on Monday morning to have the kidney removed. It happens they said. The kidney had probably never functioned properly and now that he was older it was causing a problem.

And then the second vet said at least we know it's not cancer.

The vet on Monday morning didn't like the diagnosis of the Friday vet. Sent Duke to another vet. A specialist with a human grade ultrasound.

That was the end. It was cancer. A cancer the specialist had never seen. All of Dukes organs. Everything. Full of cancer.

So for the second time in 15 months I sat with my dog and said goodbye.

I believe that everyone and everything has a purpose. When you're done, you're done. You move on. You learn your lessons and it starts again. Maybe Duke's purpose was to help me through a really shitty year. Might have been better had he not caused another one... Maybe picking 'the brown one' was a dumb idea. Maybe one day he'll tell me.

I have another Cava-Tzu. Actually two this time. They're funny and silly and love to snuggle. They do ride in a kennel in the car. They don't sit up or say please. Just like him, they know when I'm sad. It's apparent right now as they are on my feet as I type this. They are almost two. If they live as long as Paco, I'll be 51 when they die.

And, boy, I hope that we all make it that far.