That Uncomfortable Itch

Outta here.

2011-08-29T12:23:00.001-06:00

I've moved. Mostly. Well, I've moved but just have yet to unpack everything and get it completely set up. But if I don't make the leap I'm gonna be all co-dependent on Blogger and then I'll never leave. So if you stop by here, please click another time and come visit the new Itch!

Flying the coop

2011-08-17T21:53:00.002-06:00

My baby is leaving me. Plain and simple, he's going. I get it and it's a natural trajectory of healthy behavior, but still. He is vacating. Loren will be moving to Denver this Friday because he should. He's 18 and ready to go.

So far I've been incredibly cool about the whole thing, thinking I'd break down sometime after we'd dropped him off and were heading west over the passes. This afternoon we spent a couple of hours in Target banging out a list of Must Haves. Things like a coffee maker, laundry hamper, hangers, etc. We visually went through every room and tried to gather as much as possible so he will have all his creature comforts when he looks out over the LoDO skyline from his new abode. His excitement was palpable as he chose a color theme for his bathroom and just the right trashcan for his room. I loved every moment of it as I pictured Lo in his new life with so much Wonder ahead of him.

Tonight while I was working and listening to Pandora, one of his favorite songs came on and out of nowhere I lost it; tears on my keyboard and the knowledge that my ribs would not be able to contain my breaking heart. Loren is the one person in the world whose soul I fully understand. He is my first, the one whose splitting cells began this whole adventure. I carried his undeveloped nubs, brought him into the world, nursed him, took him to the park, experienced all those Firsts with him and now this is the Ultimate First. He is going and I want to curl up and die just a little bit about it.

I can't be cool about this. There is no nonchalance. It will never be the same because this is real and while I am so happy for this Beginning, I am also grieving the End.

The aftermath of the Juice Cleanse

2011-08-16T15:03:00.001-06:00

As I've mentioned a few times before, this past winter was a bitch with a mission. First Matt had his stroke and scared the hell out of us with his weird blood vessels that want to fill themselves up with pearl-like bits of cellular material and then deprive his kidneys of blood. Then Matt's father was diagnosed with Stage IV melanoma and given five weeks to live. So Matt and Jen, his sister, went out to Utah to help out and ended up staying until the end of May because the five weeks stretched on to six months. Then I learned all the intricacies of planning a Mormon funeral, a good time for me since we just cremate people in our family and then leave them willy nilly in drawers and what not. Then I was working two jobs and trying to sift through the daily madness of keeping it all afloat while not being able to find footing on the bottom while simultaneously eating everything I could possibly fit into my mouth.

Sometime in July Matt sensed my brittle state and suggested he and I try a juice cleanse in an effort to spur order from the inner core on out, a ripple effect it you will. So I said sure, why not, anything to slow the flailing of my arms to a quiet whir. And so we did it. Sometimes it was hard, sometimes I wanted to snack on the softer parts of Devon because I have long suspected he tastes like vanilla creme. But we did it, I lost about 10 pounds and it was empowering. Now most of my panties fit, I have at least six pairs of pants in my rotation and I feel pretty good.

The next step in the efforts has been exercise. I've been doing a few bike training runs with my friend Beth who is one of the most graciously sassy woman I've ever known. Beth gives voices to children who have previously had none and looks as if she drinks from the fountain of youth because sister permanently looks to be about 29, maybe 32 on a rough day. Anyhoo, she and I are training for a century ride in late September and I'm trilled to bits to have this goal. Matt and I have also been going on some hikes. These usually involve me saying I know of a great place that's only slightly up hill and then feeling him staring heat seeking missiles into my ass as the mountain seems to go on for an infinity of painful hell. I've also been swimming with both Matt and Cassidy. Cass and I started our swim excursions a couple of summers ago, it's an activity she and I can do together without either of our heads exploding on the other and at the end we are both too tired to push the other's head under the water. It's a win-win with a side of mother-daughter bonding tossed in for some parenting points on my end. This morning Cass was exhausted from last night's first soccer practice of the season, she is playing a league age up and it seems like a brutal group, but a tired Cassidy means a peaceful night for me.

This morning I got to the pool right when all the old birds were lined up, lest they oust me from a prime swimming lane spot I quickly changed and hit the water. I knew from the beginning it was going to be a stellar swim and it was. By the end I had 52 laps, one mile, in a few seconds under 52 minutes! A personal best for me and a moment that made me feel like The Baddest Ass Mo-Fo of the pool. Sure, I got smoked by a couple of old grannies with flowered swim caps and skirted suits, but if those old broads are swimming a mile like that I'm gonna stay the hell out their way. Swimming like this is a huge step towards long term fitness for me but it also quiets the noise in my head and brings me serenity, a concept almost entirely foreign in my soul.

Attending church is going to send me to hell

2011-08-15T15:21:00.002-06:00

For reasons I can't entirely comprehend some of my least stellar moments occur at or during Mass. I'm not sure if it's because I'm trying to be good? Thinking I should be good? Fantasizing I could be good. Whatever the case, I more often than not fall flat and end up looking like an ass. Sometimes big, sometimes bigger.

This last Sunday all was going well and I thought I was even in line for some extra Jesus Points because it was the second Sunday in a row I was attending and taking Cass and Devon. And? My mom wasn't even with us, I was there all my own thank-you-very-much. True, part of it had to do with the $100's of raffle tickets I have to sell for Devon's first school fundraiser and dressing him cute so he can pimp out the tickets is going to save me some cash. But still, we were present and accounted for, that's gotta count. All was going well until we were downstairs for the after mass coffee and snacks. Devon loves this part of church the best so I always make sure he can run downstairs and be first in line for any goodies that might tempt his tender palate.

While the kids waited in line I secured us an empty table a bit out of the way that would give us the impression of being social while not actually forcing me to make small talk. Devon and Cass loaded up a couple of plates, I sat, they sat. A pair of our favorite friends came over to sit with us and that left only one empty chair. So far good. Until the daughter of my All Time Nemesis sat down by Cassidy and started talking high school with her. I can't stand this girl, she'll be a junior this year. She is conceited and drives me crazy, but spying that there were no more chairs available I figured I could grin and bear it. But then? First the dad and then her mom pulled two chairs from another table and squished in across from us. Oh. My. Fucking. God.

I can't adequately describe how much I despise this woman. She is vile on every possible plane of being a human being. Our past extends seven years back to when she and her bland, boring husband first came to our wee neck of the mountains. She inserted herself into every organization possible and is universally despised by all the other moms and their daughters. She is fake, tends to gloat and loves to share just how much she enjoys giving all her time to those in need. This past summer she spent in Spain at a language school and on Sunday when she first sat down she said in an accent as bad as Peggy Hill's, "Buenas dias! Como estas?" When our other friend asked why she was speaking Spanish, the woman's reply was, "Well, doncha know that a lot of people speak it and I was, after all, in Spain this summer learning to talk just like them?" Really? No shit. I contributed, "Yes, actually, in many countries people speak Spanish, but none here at this table this morning." Then I gave her a big, toothy, fuck-you smile. She then tripped all over herself, gushing about how loooooong she'd been gone and how glaaaaaaaad she was to be back among her own people. At some point I got so sickened I left the table, pretending to be minding Devon. Cassidy claims I muttered in a none to quiet voice, "I can't take this damn woman anymore." I'll not publicly confirm that.

After I played with Devon it was time to collect Cass from the table when my nemesis turned to me with a huge grin on her dumb face and said, "Oh Heather, I just wanted to extend a huge thanks you to you for the little invitation you designed for the benefit this year. It was so lovely, blah, blah, blah.Will ya be going?" Then she extended her hand for a high five and held that stupid smile in place. For the tiniest millisecond I considered reciprocating her gesture, but then my true, inner bitch took over and I stepped back while she continued to reach out to the point of almost toppling out of her chair. "Yes, I designed that for the folks who actually sit on that board. Gotta go." (Because this woman does not sit on this board, my mother and her friends do. They asked me to do the design work and it had NOTHING to do with this awful wench. She just loves to be in the do-gooder know of all things. I had forgotten about the invite since we had finalized it a few weeks ago and the fundraiser isn't until sometime in September. I don't know the date because I have no plans on attending since the small talk alone is enough to make me itch at the mere thought of it all.)

I left her there in front of a table of people with her arm hanging the air and the expectation that I was actually going to be decent to her. Did she think just because we were in the church that I would actually be nice to her? No way, sister. It made it even better for me. I love being horrid to this woman, love it in a way that is so wrong it feels good. This woman has terrorized me through emails, notes, phone calls. She assumes everybody else around her is less than she is and makes every effort possible to showcase her spectacularness. So leaving her hanging in the church basement felt good, good and good. So much so that I giggled on my way up the stairs until I saw Cass' face going all Christian Jimminy Cricket on me and she said, "You know you're totally going to hell. Even for you that was blatant." Oh. My. Hmmmm. "Yes, but honey, she's awful. Don't you think? And someday you'll likely have a Mom Nemesis and this is good training for you. I'm just trying to be a positive role model here." For that I got an eye roll as she sauntered up the stairs.

I compensate with cheese

2011-08-11T13:38:00.000-06:00

My love affair with cheese began in earnest sometime during my pregnancy with Loren. Up until that point I associated the word cheese with the word fat and that simply was not something to be allowed anywhere near my inner sanctum. But an unplanned pregnancy while still in college pretty much blew all my prior principles out of the water, and so when I met up with Sir Brie or his friend Blue I no longer shied away but embraced them as the true loves I now knew them to be.

When I stopped gobbling gluten a couple of years ago I think it was not as hard as I thought it would be because I still had cheese. Had my issue been dairy? Somebody would have had to pay and pay dearly for that loss. I can roll with rice crackers, but take away my dairy? No sir, that would be like taking away Sarah Palin's crazy. It just doesn't work. Also, cheese helped me to avoid that emaciated look celiac sufferers tend to get. Cheese left me with plenty o' padding.

During the most recent eating nuttiness, the juice cleanse, the hardest part of the elimination phase was cutting out dairy. Matt and I both saved it for the last day because we both love cheese so much. In fact, now that I look back on the time line of things...Matt knocked me up, and then introduced me to cheese and the happiness derived from consuming large quantities of it. Bastard. I'll have to remember that little nugget for future warfare. Anyway, during the cleanse we both talked about how happy we would both be to get right back on that wagon as soon as the fast was over. And he did. But me? Not so much.

Turns out I'm having a much more difficult time rolling with the solid foods. No, it's not from my days of ballet dancing and tendencies to not eat. It's my damn stomach. There were afternoons during the cleanse when I would fantasize about cheese and yogurt and all the fun things we would soon do together.We were going to frolic in meadows, take baths together, fall asleep thinking of each other. We had plans, dammit. But the few times I've tried to ingest them the results have been smelly, loud and not over all crowd pleasers. I didn't sign up for this and it's starting to piss me off and break my heart. What if I can't do it anymore? My social anxiety is bad enough, if at the few gatherings I do attend I can't busy myself with the cheese plate? What then? This is really no good.

Yes, I live with my mother. Shut up.

2011-08-09T12:31:00.002-06:00

As mentioned above, I do indeed live in my mother's house. No, I don't live in the basement, have pasty skin and litter the floor with Cheeto bags while I play Wii. My skin is naturally dead, fishbelly creme, I can't eat Cheeto's due to my gluten issues and the Wii resides upstairs, thank-you-very-much. I actually live in one of her lofts, that makes me a high class live-in if you ask me.

I've been at my mother's house for a smidge over five years now. Sometimes it's been good. Sometimes comforting. Sometimes it's so difficult I think my head might burst. I know this is a distinct possibility because of the one sided conversations I have in my head with her about the importance of boundaries. Sure, we could have these chats be two-ways but it wouldn't work. My role is, and always has been, to be agreeable, take it as it comes and not, and I mean ever, rock the boat. Right now though? Because my head axploded all over the wall this morning? I want to tip the whole damn boat over. Know why? Although she can swim, my mother hates to get her face wet. Yup. I wouldn't tip it in deep water but it might take her a few panicked moments to realize the water was just five feet deep before she found her footing. And being the mean, awful daughter I am, those bits of panic would bring me satisfaction. I'm not proud of my intentions, but the mental image has stopped the head noise and I already feel better.

(Sometimes being evil is the best way out of madness. Plus, don't judge until you're co-habitating with your family of origin.)

Because I'm wildly mature and a clear thinker

2011-08-04T13:45:00.000-06:00

So. I've quit my job. Yes, in this economy where stable jobs grow on trees or fall from the sky like rainbow covered gumdrops, I said thanks, but no, I gotta go now. Holy. Fuck. Yup. Sure did. In my defense I have to say that this year has been an ass kicker and it opened my eyes to some realities I hadn't before grasped. I also have another gig and a half lined up and big plans to work on a bunch of personal flotsam and jetsam that has been piling up and making noise in my head over the last couple of years. Again, holy fuck with a huge side of YUP!

My last day of office work is August 30, although I've been doing a tiny slice of my other gig at night for the last month or so. And? That job totally did fall from the clouds with a soft thud in my lap. And? It's for a company I would have willingly sawed off my left small toe in order to obtain employment there. Only now I get to keep my toe and get a paycheck. Not too slouchy indeed!

There aren't enough veggies in the universe to fill the void within me

2011-08-03T11:06:00.001-06:00

As I mentioned yesterday the juice fast has been going really quite well. Over the weekend there was an annual celebration, Mountain Fair, where there are crafts, jewelry, fabulous drinks and more food than one can possible dream of eating. It's what heaven would look like if I could make it so. Most years I plot which vendors I'll frequent and what drinks I'll have with them. This year I ended up buying a fabulous cashmere sweater because I spent no money on eats or drinks, and it wasn't a sacrifice to do so. Actually, the 100% truth to that last statement is that I had given the kids all my money and I talked Matt, who was perhaps or perhaps not delirious with hunger, into buying said sweater. But it's a fabulous sweater and once it gets cold again it will be amazing with a pair of leggings....

So no solid food was all good, juice was good, I had a new sweater and was shedding pounds left and right. Turns out yesterday I hit a wall. That wall was painted with the color bitch, it was still wet and I got it all over me. Yup. I was so hungry, as in HUNGRY, DAMMIT! Luckily Devon stayed the night with Matt so all I had to deal with last night was Cass and my mom. Fair enough. But no. Cassidy had been at her summer job all day, teaching swimming lessons and training to be a lifeguard for next summer and she had done a mile in laps on top of teaching three classes. Girl was hungry, too. And my mom was feeling slightly peckish from her day. So they decided to go all out. I'm talking soups with sausage in it, some sort of gourmet bread dipped in olive oil. And then, if that wasn't enough? Cass decided she wanted brownies. As they baked I thought I had died and gone to the hell I have long deserved for all my daily, hourly, caddy comments. It was a smell so divine I would have gladly sold Devon to the circus for just one bite. I informed Cass and my mom I believed them to be truly evil minions of Satan and they laughed as they informed me that the gluten in the brownies would send me to the ER. I told them it didn't matter, they were horrid, awful humans and I was planning to abandon them and go live in an ashram to find inner peace. Again they laughed. So I went to bed and fell asleep in a puddle of self-pity, which I tried to eat but it lacked flavor.

This morning I woke up hungry and shaky. I've had some juice: beets, carrots, spinach, a few grapes, apples and radishes. The scale wasn't overly kind this morning, I lost a quarter pound yesterday. Really? REALLY? For all that self-discipline all I get it a something the equivalent of McDonald burger and it doesn't even taste good? Namaste. Three more days of this and then I'm-a-gonna chew me some food.

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Below are a couple of pictures from the above mentioned fair. Devon had just finished singing on stage. He had spent the week at a singing camp and had learned such classics as "Crocodile Rock" and "Sweet Home Alabama". Precious beyond words. As far as family portraits go it's slightly awkward with Lo's hands stuffed in his pockets while he seems to be thinking, "Why is my mom doing this to me?" Whatever.

The next picture captures the true joy that is Cassidy and her BFF Ticah. The two have been thick as thieves since they were in diapers. Notice the cup of lemondae Cass is holding. I suspect after that she ate a funnel cake and then had a piece of pizza anf then perhaps a gyro. There are words for people like that....

Day 6 of the 10 day cleanse. I don't smell too bad anymore.

2011-08-02T16:28:00.002-06:00

As mentioned above, today is number six out of ten days of the juice fast. Depending on who you ask things are going really quite well. If one were to ask me, I would point out that my tongue is no longer covered in white goo in the mornings. If you one were to ask Cass, well she might point out that right before my feeding times I might appear slightly bitchy. Whatever, she's 14 and prone to drama. Not to be trusted , her. Thus far I've shed nine pounds. That's right, count those! I now have a staggering number of maybe five pairs of pants in the rotation and a couple of dresses. My breasts aren't bursting out of my bras and I'm even back into some of my fun panties, not just the extra large Hanes, five to a pack that I get at Costco.

Despite my new found wardrobe expansion I don't intend to stick out 60 days of this madness. This ends Saturday night. At that point I'm going to make friendly with a zu-canoe and then On Sunday some more veggies that I'll actually be able to chew. Simple things for simple minds.

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A couple of weekends ago, Matt, the kids and I went to Denver to check out Loren's soon-to-be new pad. We stayed in LoDo close to where Lo and his friend Evan will be spreading their wings and living out in the real world. It's going to break my heart when Loren leaves but I fully understand this is the natural progression of events and he needs to get out of the nest. Across from our hotel was an enormous blue bear peeking into the convention center. It made for some good fun.

This summer I've been taking every opportunity possible to capture my three children in one place at the same time. Not an easy task and one that inevitably ends up with somebody pissed off. Big deal, they can just deal with it. In about a week Loren will move to Denver to work for a semester before attending film school so these moments will be even farther and fewer between.

TMI about my cleanse. Sorry. Sort of. Not really.

2011-07-29T12:04:00.003-06:00

Today is Day 2 of the 10 day juice fast/cleanse. All told we are two weeks into this gig and so far it's not bad at all. The food elimination was fine, well until we had to give up dairy which means no cheese. I love cheese like I love few other substances in this world. It doesn't matter if it's Velveeta or fine brie, I want to snuggle up to it and make it mine for life. My indulgent relationship with cheese is one of the reasons I find myself currently mourning its absence. The fast is fairly good for the most part, my energies aren't super-high but then I'm not a real go-getter under regular circumstance so an extra dose of slothdom isn't shocking.

A few things I've observed with the fast:

Beets aren't lovely. No. Almost any way you serve them up, raw being my case, they taste like dirt. They also make your pee and solids purple which when you're an edge past 40 can make bathroom time slightly unnerving.
Radishes are beets' sassy sisters. When juiced they have a slight kick to them, like a Catholic school girl gone naughty under the high school bleachers. I like radishes and will continue to host them in my juice.
Detox isn't so pretty. This morning I woke up with white goo covering my tongue. Smelly white goo. Of course I quickly brushed my teeth but now I'm not sure I can ever use that toothbrush again. I'm seriously grossed out.
I get seriously bitchy when I run out of food. This is nothing new, but when I've been downing liquid carrots and cucumbers all day and it's 4:30 and Devon wants a snack and Cass is wanting something -likely everything in her case- please leave me the fuck alone until I can inhale more juice.

Good things about the fast:

My underwear is totally fitting again! Oh yeah, baby! No more upper thigh fat poking out of the bottom of my panties, thank you very much.
I'm so exhausted at the end of the day that I'm actually sleeping well. Yes, I wake up in the same position in which I fell asleep, but sleep is sleep and not something I can always achieve.
My skin is supple and soft and looks 38 rather than 49. At least that's my opinion.
Did I mention my diminishing size? Every morning the number on the scale is less than the night before.
My worms are eating like kings in their worm bin!

Bad things:

The above mentioned tongue issue. I still have the willies from that.
Beets. Don't know if I can make that work.
Variety. I can see how I might hate carrots after this.
Turns out Cassidy also loves fresh juice multiple times per day. This just doubled my expense on this project.
What if I lose all this weight and then am petrified to ever put solid food in my mouth again? How will I cozy up to cheese then?

Hot wives, race cars and holy men

2011-07-28T10:08:00.001-06:00

I know that theoretically there is supposed to be a separation between church and state. What I didn't know is when it comes to Nascar Jesus totally rides shotgun. This one caught me offguard this morning as I was driving to work. I love the "smoking hot wife" blessing.

A buck fitty

2011-07-22T12:00:00.001-06:00

Back in the day I used to be a ballet dancer. Notice I didn't say ballerina, to me that means I was in a paid company and made my entire life be about dance. I was in a high school company and then a college company, I made no money and ballet was about 97% of my life. I loved it. I loved the daily ritual of warm-up at the barre, then centre work. I loved being totally in sync with my body and I looooooved being in wicked amazing shape. And although I probably could have eaten to my heart's content during those years, I didn't. Dancing eight hours a day and then skipping a couple of meals made me look all that more hot. God, I hope my 14 year-old daughter never reads that last sentence.

Fast forward to my early twenties when I got knocked up by a tall drink of cool water. Although my dancing days had tapered down to just a few classes per week, I still ate sparingly and kept in good shape. But sometime in the early part of my second trimester I got hungry. Hungry in a way that made me bitchy because I didn't know what to do. Yes, I was that out of tune with reality. I can't recall the exact sequence of events, only that Matt took me out to the Olive Garden and for the first time in my 22 years I discovered the joy of consuming food. Oh. My. Fucking. God. It was so good! It was beautiful! There were tastes. Textures. And the variety? Pastas with sauces! Breads with butter! And desert?????? It was truly a religious experience. So I kept eating. and eating. I ate in a way that had the OB team alarmed at my next visits. They thought I should maybe slow down. Could they not see I was eating for two? That food was good, dammit?

After I had Loren it took me about a year to lose most of the weight. The eating thing was still so amazing to me. Then I had Cass, nursed her and the weight came off again. Then seven years later Devon rolled on to the scene, I got post-partum depression, took Prozac and gained the equivalent of a baby. I hit the weight I was when I gave birth to Loren, 150 pounds. Then my dad died, I went on the cake and wine diet for a few months and maintained that awful number for a couple of years.

Two years ago I stopped eating wheat and luckily had the summer off from work. It enabled me to go for daily swims, long bike rides and I got down to nearly my pre-Devon weight. I felt good. I bought clothes and I vowed to never again get up over a buck fifty. This year has been a bitch in a half and apparently my way of dealing with it has been to stuff all the problems in my mouth and hide them in my belly where they'll never bother a soul. I have been harboring so much stress in my stomach that I got back up to 150. Fucker. It had gotten to the point where I had stopped wearing underwear and I could only where two pairs of my pants, both drawstring style. And although I totally rocked the drawstring, I suck at laundry and two pairs of pants simply doesn't cut it for me. But nor could I bring myself to buy more big girl pants.

As luck would have it, Matt intervened and suggested a juice fast. Then, since he has this summer off from work, he combined several plans and made it into a four week long effort. We are just finishing the first phase, food elimination. It started a week ago by cutting out one major thing per day. Friday was caffeine, Saturday, alcohol, And so on. Today is the last day of that, we cut out oils and vinegar today. Then it's on to three days of raw veggies, fruits, seeds and nuts. Then follows three days of smoothies, though they won't be a tasty without vanilla ice cream in them. Then it's 10 days of fruit and veggie juices, followed by a 5 day re-entry to regular foods.

So far I'm loving this. Maybe it's because when I cut out wheat two years ago, I learned how to make a big dietary change. Maybe I'm psychologically ready for next phase of life. Or maybe my body is just so damn tired of carrying around 25 extra pounds of me. In the last week I've lost nearly three pounds and I'm up to three pairs of pants in the rotation, one of them even has snaps.

I'm pretty sure that empty spot in hell is reserved for me

2011-07-20T14:44:00.002-06:00

I've never made any bones over the fact that I am a fair weather Catholic. I grew up with devoted Catholic parents who were, thankfully, liberal in most ways. I was baptized, sent to Cathechism, took First Communion. Short of going not through Confirmation and then marrying an ex-Mormon and having his babies in and out of wedlock, I'm a fairly upstanding church girl. At least that's what I tell myself.

A few years ago our parish got a new priest who I, and it turns out a majority of the congregation, despise. I'm not sure what his true name is because I alternate between calling him Father Higgins and Father Ass Hat. Higgins is the name of a friend's enormously dim Labradoodle, he's a waste of dog cells, quite possible the dumbest animal I've ever met. The Ass Hat name, well that's just plain bitchiness on my part. Anyway, this priest gives sermons that reference television shows. Every week he does this. I imagine him sitting about his priest pad, watching Thursday night prime time when it hits him, kapow, he must stick some religious words together for Sunday worshipers. Suffice it to say, his presentations are shallow and with very little spriritual fiber.

For most of the winter I skipped Mass. Partly I was working two jobs, partly I would rather stay home and clean than go hear Father A.H. spew his lack of knowledge to the congregation. But this past Sunday I was feeling jaunty and pure so I decided to accompany my mom and endure the fool on the pulpit. Luck would have it, or maybe God was smiling upon us, Father Higgins was out of town and we had a guest priest who actually had some lovely words of wisdom.

So we listened, sang, kneeled and then it was time for Communion. I lined up behind my mom and approached the alter with pure heart when the realization hit me: there's gluten in them there hosts and due to a food elimination thing Matt and I had started the night before, booze was no longer on my lists of can do's. Shitter. I couldn't just turn around, I was out of the pew with three more rows lining up behind me. I couldn't walk by and snub the offerings, that would be a faux pas. Before I knew it I was up and had no choice but to extend my palms and accept the body of JC.

Now, my reaction to gluten is pretty harsh. There are the red rash/hives that appear around my neck and face. There's the swelling of my throat, not breathing is no fun. Then there's the bloat and gas, perhaps the worst of all the effects for people around me. I couldn't eat the damn thing. Couldn't give it back. Couldn't turn to the person behind me and say, "Oops, I got an extra. Fancy a body wafer?" No. So I did what I had to and pocketed it. I know that like Superman, The Holy Trinity have X-Ray vision and totally saw the glowing wafer in my pocket. I also know they gathered in a huddle and made notes next to my name in their gaint Who's Who books.

After Mass my mother asked why I went to Communion and again I choked, I confessed my sin. She was all in a bind that between us in the car a bit of Jesus was riding shot gun in my pocket. Her instinct was to turn around and tell the priest. Mine, of course, was to cover it up. I assured I'd take care of it respectfully. And I did. After careful thought I buried it the planter of my hibiscus plant. That poor thing deserves to be in the tropics of Hawaii and is instead stuck on the confines of Matt's hot, dry deck. My thinking is that the plant could use a boost o' Sweet Baby J.

The next day my mother inquired about the host, apparently she'd been fretting over it. I told her not to worry, I'd taken care of things but that it was between Jesus and me. That didn't go over so well. But deep down I feared that if I told her the actual location of the waifer, she'd sneak down in the night and dig it up and take back to the church. But then again, maybe I lack faith.

Sky Beam, I think I hate you

2011-07-17T21:25:00.001-06:00

Dear People at Sky Beam,

If there was something the opposite of a sponsored post this would be it. Simply put, you suck.

You suck in the way that stepping barefoot in dog shit sucks. You suck in the way that bouncing a check sucks. You suck like a harsh hangover and thoughtlessly placed hickey suck. You suck like losing your only set of keys in the snow sucks. I think you see where I'm going here.

Your bandwidth is fully insufficient in the Western Colorado region. You know this because nearly everybody over here who is forced to use your slack-ass company calls on a monthly basis and tells you about this issue. You will usually give us $5 off our monthly bill and promise things will get better, perhaps some sort of tower will go up over here....

You have yet to deliver on any of your poorly expressed intentions of improving our service. Is it that you believe we here in the mountains are used to slowness and can be set aside? Or maybe you think if you keep ignoring us we'll just go away? Or maybe you assume we are all out hunting prairie dogs? None of the above are the case. We are pissed. Pissed in a way that makes us want to trudge over the Divide, find your offices and leave bodily fluids upon your desks to soak into your keyboards. then your computers won't work and you'll be screwed. Sort of like us on a daily basis.

Sky beam, if I were a super hero my Super Twin powers would be all about covering you in an icy waterfall cast. Were I a comet I'd be sure to land my flame kissed ass upon your buildings. If I could be a predatory animal, I'd be the lion and you a baby gazelle separated from your herd. Me a super virus? You an old lady with a weak immune system. And lastly, if I happened to be a big, ole gross booger? You'd totally be my wiping spot. Yup. That's just how much I am unhappy with your sloppy service and lack of caring.

Love and kisses,

Heather

Cherish

2011-07-12T11:04:00.004-06:00

Over the weekend Matt, the children and I are made the trek to Provo for his father's funeral service. The drive was long, as always, and hot. The visit was hectic and tense with all the issues surrounding a death.

There is so much that could be said, but I won't because there isn't really any point. But I will say this, if you've got something of meaning to say to the people you love, fucking-A just do it. Don't wait around and have people do it for you after you're gone. Life is short, the after time an unknown. What we have here and now is tangible and real. Not telling those close to you how you feel is a pussy ass way out of things. It does them no favors to yearn for affirmation, only to hear it from other people after the fact.

I'm going to take this to heart for myself as well. I'm going to let the people I love know how I feel and never have to question it.

The text bump

2011-07-05T15:47:00.002-06:00

About 10 days ago one of my most favoritest people in the whole wide world got married to her long time man love. Kelly Lynne and The Bird have been together for about ten years. They have an adorable four year-old boy, John-Kelly. They are devoted to each other and so sometime last winter-ish, he popped the question, presented the ring and she accepted. The pair happens to reside in the Deep South of Mississippi where remaining unmarried and living next door to one another becomes a bit odd once you've bred a wee child, but a Southern to-do can quickly become a TO-DO so they traveled to the Colorado mountains to escape the heat and get hitched.

Somewhere around Christmas, Kelly Lynne asked me to be her maid of honor. She said it was to be a simple affair, as she is a gal of few needs and streamlined tastes. In my head I wondered why she would ask me of all people to do this job, I suck at weddings, they make me itch. She might have sensed my fear over the phone because she said something along the lines, "It's my wedding, I need you." Can't turn down that sort of thing so I said I'd be honored and then promptly forgot about my duties. I am really cool like that.

Every now and then the subject would arise, we'd chat about why the term simple wedding is an oxy-moron and then I would again put it all out of my mind. It's not that I was ignoring the gloriousness of these two people committing to one another for life, I totally dig it for them. The winter was a crazy busy one and wedding details don't lodge themselves in my brain.

A couple of weeks ago Kelly and her crew arrived in town to prepare for the big weekend. I was to have corsages ready, accompany Kelly for her nails and hair, help her get dressed, just generally be there for her and support her on her big day. While I was getting a spray tan, a coincidence not a preparation for the nuptials, I got a text: Hey, I know you're dealing Matt's dad (he had passed away the morning before her arrival) so you can be off the hook for this weekend. I think we are good and we don't need to add stress to your week.

I read the message over a couple of times before it hit me. I was being bumped. By text. Really? Who does that? So I wrote back: You're totally bumping me.

She replied: I totally am. But honestly it is fine.

Me: You're bumping me. In a text. I'm totally gonna blog about this, you know.

The next day Devon and I made it to the reception. I had a hard time getting out of my bathroom and to the party. Devon had a hard time transitioning from the sidewalk to the actual party. We both calmed down, tried to act like normal, well adjusted humans and then we spent a couple of hours blending. It was a lovely affair, Kelly and Jay were radiant.

Later Kelly texted me: You know no matter what, no matter the circumstance, you will always be my BFF. You were here in spirit.

And that's one of the reasons we have remained friends through 24 years. When you can realize your maid of honor is going to drop the ball and then you accept it and text her all in one? And in turn she can get the text and be at peace with it? That's what it's all about.

Happy 18th, Lo-Lo!!!!

2011-06-30T12:32:00.001-06:00

Sweetest Lo,

Holy moly, today you're 18! It makes me teary to even write that in words. I know you're not a reader of this so you might not ever find this letter, or the one I penned last year, but I'm a believer of the Universe and knowing the words are somewhere out there for you brings me comfort.

This year, Loren, has been one of challenges and extreme growth. The choices you made were sometimes hard, but I firmly believe they will make you strong and bring you satisfaction. There are very few of us who know our passions as early as you have discovered yours. Rarer still is the person whose passion matches their talents. You, my love, have both. You make beauty with your camera, you put it to music and bring alive a message of joy and excitement to everything you make. I know taking your talent and transitioning it from high school to the Great Beyond has scared you to your bones, but again I see you forming a path and I know it will take you to wonderful places. As I write this, I see what I'm saying is that I have total and absolute faith in you, Lo. I don't know too many things, but I do know you and I believe in everything you are.

In the eyes of our society you are now an adult. As a mother that is sort of a difficult concept to accept, for you will always be my baby, my first born, the one who started this whole amazing ride. As I fell asleep last night I recalled that very late night/early morning 18 years ago. After some un-Godly number of hours I held you in my arms as the nurses and doctors cleared all the equipment from the room. I was 22, scared and so ill prepared to deserve such a miracle snuggled in my arms. The thought that your father and I were going to be giving you a life put the fear of the world in me. So I did the only thing I knew, I held you closer and made a promise in your ear, "I'll always be here for you. No matter what, no matter where. I will do whatever it takes." It was true then, now and always.

I love you, Lo. You are the light in my soul. I am honored to be here for the ride.

Always,

Mom

This is why

2011-06-29T16:30:00.000-06:00

There are spans of time so maddeningly packed with details, schedules, minutia...lots and lots of crap, really.

This is one of them.

I feel as though I'm chasing after kite strings but am not so successful because I've lost all my toes in a freak knife throwing accident and am shoeless because now none of my shoes fit, plus I'm all tippy due to the no toe thing.

Vampire tan

2011-06-27T10:35:00.002-06:00

I hail from a line of pale folks. To say we are melanin-ly challenged might be an understatement. My line of people belongs back on the misty hills of Ireland where we would be shielded from the sun's cruelty by soft fog. When my father's people immigrated to the states, they chose New Orleans for their home. The air there is tender and the low lying land far from the ozone. Unfortunately, as young man, my grandfather's health was not stellar and when he had a TB scare the family packed him off to the sunny hills of Colorado so that his lungs could heal. They did. He met a wee, feisty Irish woman. They bred a gaggle of red headed spawn. They, in turn, produced my generation. I met a fellow with my same complexion. We bred a small brood. And so on....

As a teen I hated my pale skin and went to great lengths to alter my whiteness. Some of that foolishness I now pay for with annual visits to my dermatologist. The other attempts left orange splotches on my clothes and much mockery from my family. At some point, maybe after I had Loren, I grew comfy with my color and the coverage of capris. But, alas, sweet Cassidy has hit 14 and hates her paleness. I truly believe her freckles look stunning against the background of her light skin, but sister has taken to wearing long sleeved shirts in the heat of summer to hide her limbs. I can't have that. She is devoted to sunblock and was easily talked out of slathering her body in oil and baking in the sun with the condition that she (we) give spray tanning a try. Cass had tried the lotion a time or two, this resulted in the above mentioned streaks and splotches. So it seemed harmless enough and I booked us for back to back appointments last Friday.

Now, I've been naked in front of doctors, given birth in the buff, had massages and waxes, but going full monty in front of the spray tanning lady was a humiliation of its own grandeur. Maybe because for those other nudey activities I have been lying down? Don't know. But I do know that standing tall and naked in front of that sticky spray spawned a motivation in me to battle gravity with Jedi fierceness in the near future. But I did it and then Cass went in and did it, though she wore a bikini for her session. I don't own a bikini and, with Matt's urging, figured go buff or don't go at all.

We paid the tan lady an obscene amount of money and went home to await the results. I had forgotten the stench of tanning formulas. I've tried them all and it doesn't seem to matter if they are Estee Lauder, Chanel, Copper Tone, they all stink like the QT of yesteryear. And they are sticky. Sticky like you don't want any part of your body touching another part.

After waiting an hour or two the color started to show. By night my arms, belly and ass were a lovely shade of Clementine. The next morning? OMG. My legs. Apparently spray lady didn't like to crouch? Maybe the view back there wasn't pleasing? I'll never know because I'm never going back to her. It's as if somebody stood, while blindfolded, and tossed orange coloring at my legs. There are splotches, white stripes, brown patches. Cassidy's results were the same: color until her knees, at which point she is pretty much leopard spotty to her feet. I should have gone back and demanded a refund or a touch up, but things are fading and now it seems like such an effort that I don't particularly care. Plus, I have my collection of capris.

Cassidy has not given up and we have been online looking for at home spray tanner machines. Turns out we can buy one for roughly what I paid Lame Spray Lady. Cass figures I can spray her. Maybe Matt can spray me. We'll be orange and happy and splotch free.

These days

2011-06-21T09:25:00.000-06:00

Today is Matt's 40th birthday. I met him when he was 20, he was the tallest drink of water in the dorm. He was smart, funny, gorgeous and we clicked. What more can I say? Tons, actually. We got pregnant, married, dropped out of college, went back to college, had another baby. We got divorced, had another baby. And there were a gazillion other moments in between everything else. I don't know exactly how or why the fates have brought us back together. Love? I sure like to think so.

This year Matt had a stroke and was diagnosed with a freakish vascular disorder that seems to randomly chew on him whenever it feels so inclined. There's something about looking mortality in its beady eyes and realizing there's still some shit you've got to get done. If we could go back and do it all again, would we? I don't know. This road has been bizarre and bumpy, but these days when I look at the man with the green eyes, the one I've known half my life, bared my soul to, and loved, I am so grateful to be right here right now.

So, here's what I think: Green, you still are the tallest drink of freshness I've ever met. You're wicked smart, funny, gorgeous. You make me laugh and we still totally click. I love you to the end of the road and back and I never intend to get off that road again. I know birthdays aren't your favorite but I hope to make the next and the next and all the nexts spectacular ones. Happy Birthday to you and thank you for being here, it means the world to me.

5 Years

2011-06-20T16:02:00.000-06:00

Recently I've gotten to the place where I can look at pictures of my father without crying. For so long I was unable to look at images, now I am finding comfort in them. I think Loren is about 9 and Cass 4 in this series.

I loved Cass' hair short. Looking at these pictures I realize how much Devon looks like Loren.

My father adored Loren, Cass and Devon. I always believed he got the opportunity to be the kind of father with them that he would have been to my brother and me had he the time and hindsight of age, but I think that's a gift that comes with being a grandparent. I know the children brought him immense amounts of joy.

I love the way Cass wraps herself around my dad in this one. It is so typical of her, her love is HUGE and envelops everything in its path.

In this last picture I am about 7 months pregnant with Devon. That summer was super hot and I took to wearing XXXL pajama pants in lieu of regular pants.

If I could I would say to my father, "Thanks, Dad. Thank you for everything you gave us, taught us, shared. We miss you. And I love you so very much."

Father's Day

2011-06-19T09:40:00.000-06:00

For the past five years Father's Day has been a weight of sadness around my neck. It falls just a day or two before the anniversary of my father's death and I've not been able to separate that loss from the celebration of the day, sorry Matt.

Recently, I went back through a bunch of posts I'd written for ParentDish and found a Father's Day post I wrote for my dad in the last few days before he died, it was a thing the entire staff did for each of their dads. At the time I obviously had no idea he would be dead in just a few days. I've been wanting to find that post for quite some time and now that I have it back I feel better.

This year Matt's father is dying, as truly in the process of passing. Sorry, Tom. But we are going to celebrate the beauty of this day because aside from the sadness of Matt's father, there is so very much to celebrate. Considering what is happening in Matt's family right now, I feel somewhat selfish about my giddiness for the day. We are packing a picnic, heading over the pass or West, haven't yet decided, to picnic, sample wine and enjoy the stillness of the air today.

Something I learned from Father's Day five years ago is that no one certain day stops what lies ahead. You can get caught up in that fear, and I have, and become paralyzed. Or, you can accept that change in inevitable and enjoy the moments of now.

So to this I say, Happy Father Day, Matt! I am so happy to have the day together and the adventures ahead. I love you, Green!

Penciling it all in

2011-06-16T13:08:00.000-06:00

There's is a scene in Broadcast News where Holly Hunter's character unplugs her phone and sits on her hotel bed and cries. I can't remember the exact details but I think she times herself and at the end of that several minutes she sucks it up, plugs in the phone and gets on with things. I was 17 or 18 when that movie came out and didn't quite grasp her sobs at the time.

Now? Oh, yeah sister, I sure as hell do. But silencing my cell phone lacks the flair of unplugging.

The karmic weight of a shit sandwich

2011-06-14T08:12:00.011-06:00

Yesterday sucked. Sucked in a way that makes you wonder what exactly it is you did to the universal balance to make it shit on your shoulder is such a spectacular way. It was really too bad because the weekend had been quite lovely, Devon and I stayed at Matt's house and had a quiet, relaxing time. Devon played in the communal courtyard with the neighbor kids on a new Slip and Slide we had hunted up in Target. Matt and I sat on his deck and listened to the children laugh. Truly, it was an island of bliss.

I still can't quite wrap myself around the events of yesterday, all I know is that by last night I felt as though somebody, probably of German descent, had sucked the marrow from all of my joints and it hurt to hold my head up on my neck.

This morning my body hurts and I'd like to hide under my desk all day. Though I will say this, while yesterday evolved into a mess of emotional guts, this morning the universe gave me a small pretty. Wade, my coffee friend who owns a local place called The Blend, made me the prettiest picture in my latte. (Yes, it's true, I hate making my own coffee and would prefer Wade or one of his beautiful barista sidekicks brew it for me.) It was such a vision that I had to take a picture of it and wonder why today of all days I got such a lovely leaf. Thank you, Universe. Let's call it even for today, please.

Life with Devon

2011-06-10T13:38:00.000-06:00

Matt and I weren’t planning on having a third child, if I were to be candidly honest I would admit we weren’t actively planning on having the first two children. But that’s a story for another time, or really not at all because it’s fairly obvious how they all came about anyway. My point is that life before with two children had a sort of balance to it, a chaotic yin & yang, but a balance. Then Devon came, he was born with that bum heart and everything seemed to get out of control; it was as if we’d all stepped on a treadmill gone awry and were all just trying to hang on lest we trip and get a toe ripped off in the process. And who want to be walking around a toe or two short?

Things with Devon have mostly worked out to the point where I’m not 100% on edge with worry. He is a healthy, rambunctious nearly 7 year-old boy who loves to play, make noise, get dirty and then snuggle. But there remains an issue with him, a sort of inevitability of fates when we are out and about. When walking with the dogs in a field, if there is cactus? He’s gonna end up with one embedded in each of his hands without even touching the damn things in the first place. If there is a loose splinter on a log upon which he’s teetering? It’s totally headed for at least one or two of his fingertips. A closed glass door? Dude’s gonna do a Wiley Coyote and end up flattened like a pancake and then slipping to the ground while muttering muffled, WHY’S????

It’s not that he’s a full on klutz, Devon is actually very sporty and coordinated. He keeps up in Frisbee with his older brother and his friends. He can do all sorts of flips on the tramp and off of taller objects on to the tramp, much to my horror. Devon is also a fabulous skier and, also to my chagrin, an amazing video gamer. He swims, flips off the edge of the pool, can almost ride a bike. But. If there’s a random accident waiting to happen…..

The other afternoon I took Loren and Devon with me while I ran some work related errands. One of them involved stopping by the Big Office to drop off some newsletters in employee mail boxes. I informed the boys that we would all be quiet and invisible while I went about my task, they were cool with it. All was good, the boys met some employees, made chit chat and then…as we headed upstairs somehow Devon became airborne. He was literally horizontal but hovering a couple of feet off the ground. Of course gravity got the better of him and he came to rest with his face mashed around a stair edge. When he sat up his two front teeth remained behind and two small faucets of blood began to stream from his precious mouth. Then came the screams, the trail of blood, the frantic wiping of blood from hands.

A couple of co-workers helped us fetch ice and wrap it in clean coffee filters for Dev’s mouth pain. I cleaned Devon up while he wiggled in pain and Lo retrieved the teeth, wrapping them in tissue. Then we got the hell out of there as quietly as possible. Devon went so far as to crawl under tables so as to remain low key.

The one tooth was super loose and ready to come out while the other one was only slightly loose. The Tooth Fairy was a big ole sucker for the story and so was super generous to Devon to the tune of $10. And now when people ask how he lost his teeth he either acts entirely oblivious or launches in to the gory tale. Because if there are tooth eating stairs out there Devon is the first they will encounter and engage for battle.

This is Devon's new smile, well sort of since he had just woken up and the sun's mere presence was annoying him.

He his mouth looks like it used to because his lower teeth are stuck in the enormous vacancy from the last teeth. I miss his baby teeth and am somewhat broken hearted to see my last baby growing up.

Aging lady bits

2011-06-09T13:49:00.000-06:00

Last week I visited a new ob/gyn I had heard was fabulous. Of course I cancelled about three appointments before actually stepping foot in the office. See, I have had three children and my body couldn't be bothered to kick into labor any of those three times, plus there was a surgery after Cassidy's birth and a tubal ligation after Devon; suffice it to say I have had more people looking up my girl parts than I will ever need in eight lifetimes. So I tend to dread these appointments. And put them off and then obsess over the possibility that I am jeopardizing my health....

The new doctor is a woman and so amazing I almost sat up in the stir-ups and gave her a hug when I barely even felt the metal and swabbing all that business. She was in, out and then just casually chatting with me. She told me. Yes, so basically you're body is just going to get more and more crazy as you go into menopause. I told her I'd started to notice a few things already. She replied, Yes. Be prepared, but remember you're not actually crazy, just your body. Everything just gets extreme.

And it's so true. Yesterday my boobs were just regular DD size. Today, as I approach my cycle, they are trying to reach my keyboard and take over for my hands. If they could they would hop out of my bra just for a breath of non-constricted air. It has long been my opinion that females got the short end of the stick in terms of hormones and messed up bodies. Not saying I want dangling man stuff or anything, but were it not for women's shoes and pedicures I might shuck the whole thing and look up Chaz Bono for some advice.

Under my skin

2011-06-08T16:14:00.000-06:00

Lately the crazies have been less than kind to me, instead of remaing a respectful 7-9 feet away they've been all up in my grill -crawling under my skin, pulling on my hair, snuggling in my ear-wells. They're clever little fuckers and will take any opportunity to get their claws into my soul. They have been so bold that even red wine, a crazy inhibitor if ever there was one, doesn't even phase them. In fact, I believe they've developed quite a liking for a hearty Cabernet. Bastards.

There are many people/places where I'd like to lay the blame for my current state: the kids, the kids being out of school for the summer, my job, my weight, Matt's health, my crazy ex-in-laws. The truth is that I'm neurotic, high strung and lean towards the obsessive side of things. The crazies love that in a gal and I'm beginning to suspect that's why they love me something fierce.

One of the healthier ways in which I deal with it all is exercise. Being forced to breathe in and out because my heart is screaming from exertion is a good thing and often silences the noises in my head. However, I guess a large part of New Mexico is burning and so the pristine Rockies of Western Colorado look like most days in Salt Lake City. I could have been going to yoga, but with Groovy Yoga Dude chanting his Ohms and the crazies clacking their nails on my brain, I can't find any fucking peace in class. So I've been spending a large part of the evenings curled up in a ball and hoping the children don't notice my rocking back and forth while I silently weep here and there.

Last night I had the lovely fortune of dining with Matt and while I watched him prepare the food some sort of stardust must have fallen upon my head and I decided I would go swim laps in the morning. Matt came swimming with me one morning last week before work and it was such a great way to start the day. This time I invited my mom and we left the house at 7 in order to be there at 7:30 for opening time. We reached the pass counter at 7:27 only to find the line already full up with a group of sassy old women in skirted suits and flowered caps, one might call them old broads if one were to be so bold. Apparently this is a group that meets most mornings, women on one side raring to get in and the old dudes on the other side with their canes and thick glasses. The women were croaking out remarks like, Have you seen Eunice? Another replied, Nah, she usually stomps in at about 7:50. She ain't gettin' a good lane today! Right then I knew I was afraid of these women and I chose to line up behind them old dudes and chance the possibility of tripping over their canes.

My mom and I managed to get a lane, the water was calm and the sun just starting to warm the day. I started in, planning on doing about 30 lengths but kept going until I reached 52, one mile. My mom swam hers and then sat in the hot pool while I finished. I love swimming, the rhythm, the silence of the water, the constant motion. Plus, everybody who has any sort of sense knows that the crazies hate water more than they hate Ativan. They hate it so much that they've stayed away all day, just sort of sulking in the distance -probably waiting for a weak moment when they can return. Heartless bastards.

My boot floweth over

2011-06-03T13:54:00.000-06:00

I always forget how insanely busy May is when you're a mom. One would think December would be the nightmare month, what with the pageants, all those damn teacher gifts and figuring out how to equally and affordably bring Christmas morning happiness to each child. But, no. May is the kicker. Not only are there pageants and more damn teacher gifts, but there is the prospect of the looming summer months and the scariness of what the hell am I going to do with all these kids for the next 90 days??? On top of that, this year we had graduates. A kindergartner, and 8th grader and a senior.

Oh. My. God. It was a slice of salami flavored madness to be sure. Three days in a row. Two ceremonies involved gowns and caps -Kindergarten and senior. One ceremony had a Mass. All three were followed by receptions. Much socializing, always a chore for me.

This week I feel like maybe I need a vacation from the next three months because I still haven't the foggiest idea what the hell I'm gonna do with all these damn kids this summer.

Smelly places

2011-06-02T15:30:00.000-06:00

The other day I learned a term, coined by my friend/ex-husband/lover, Matt. Ass clown. As in, Heather you are an ass clown. It brings to mind so many visuals, most of them frightening because clowns are totally scary. And to have one in my ass or to be wedged, Pooh-Bear like, between the buttocks of a clown? That would be most uncomfortable and likely quite stinky.

Hadn't heard that one before but it made me fully giggle and wonder what the hell he and I have been doing for half of our lives. Totally adore his smartassedness and love it that he's here.

The perfect summer song

2011-05-13T11:50:00.000-06:00

I never make any secret of how smitten I am with my children. Simply put, they all kick ass in their own ways. Something I so adore about Loren is his musical tastes. Our preferences are often similar and he has the time and energy to always be on the hunt for new tunes for his edits. Since he has mostly been at his dad's house for the past few months I have really missed the near weekly mix he used to make for me.

Earlier this week Lo was at The Manor trying to finish up some last minute assignments so he can graduate and get the pesky task of high school off his plate. While editing he introduced me to a young man named Mac Miller. I love the happy beat and simple approach to his songs. The below clip is something I would have embraced at Loren's age, it's chill, not too deep and not serious. Any time you have lyrics that talk about bagels and an Eggo things are good. Love it.

Disclosure: If I ever had days when I was cool, they are far from over. I have no idea if Mr. Miller has been around for awhile or if he's fresh and hip, it doesn't matter to me because I'm so out of it it's all new to me. And, yes, I know he talks of naughty activities. No condoning from me. Not my kid, not my issue.

I'm the luckiest mom. Ever. Really.

2011-05-12T08:00:00.000-06:00

On Sunday my mom, the kids and I all participated a charity fun run to celebrate the glory and glamour of being a mommy. It's a lovely event where you get a rose and apple pie at the finish line. I also love the fact that it's totally green and generates very little trash but lots of compost.

This year they had several starts, the youngest group going first, Cassidy's group just behind them. This meant Devon, at age 6, was among the very first ones out of the gate. My mom and I were fairly sure he would get lost somewhere along the one mile course so we ran/walked behind him while Cass took off and made the loop in a smidge under 8 minutes. Another mom felt she would also lose her son so she ran much more closely behind Devon and his buddy V.

Later I was about to run in what I thought was my group when my mother pointed out that, no, I was not included due to my age. I had seen the number 40 and assumed it meant me, with my aging eyes I hadn't read that it said under 40. I had to run in the next heat with the 40+ runners, the old farts. Needless to say most of them kicked my sorry ass when I came in at over 12.5 minutes. Who knew some of them could whip out a 5.75 minute mile? Then my mom and I walked the last heat, the one where they don't even time you and all the children joined us for the very last leg to walk across the finish line together. I was to touched I got tears in my eyes.

When Loren asked me what I wanted for Mother's Day I told him I wanted an edit of his little brother. In truth I would love an edit of his sister as well, but Cass and Lo are at that age when just the site of the other sibling causes them to curl their lips. This morning the below clip was in my email. It is classic Loren and Devon. As always I am awed by the vision of my oldest child, his talent for color, timing and editing is truly an art. Lo perfectly captures Devon's whimsy for life in the clip. All in all it was one of the best Mother's Days I've ever had. My children are amazing, my mother is kick ass and I hope the years to come hold as much happiness for us all as this day did. Thank you to Mia, Loren, Cass and Devon. And thank you to Matt for giving me these beautiful beings, I hope next year we can all run this day together.

A date with Jesus or My Friend the Nun

2011-05-05T09:59:00.000-06:00

Next Tuesday Cassidy and the rest of her 8th grade class will get Confirmed. It's an occasion to which I have given very little thought until recently, as in the last two days. This is partly because Cass seems cool with the whole thing and has managed any classes/information about it on her own. But the other part is that I'm just so overwhelmed right now that if something in my life isn't actively broken or screaming it doesn't hit my radar of what needs to be addressed. The only reason it's hit me that in five days my daughter will promising herself to the Catholic Church is because we have been out and about shopping for a dress, slip, shoes, etc. Yes, I am still crossing my fingers for that Mother of the Year award, with my stellar parenting skills I'm fairly certain I'll get it.

I was never Confirmed. At the age of 10 my Catechism teachers informed my mother I hadn't been to class in several weeks. My mom confronted me, at which point I told her I would never again be attending a class, I didn't believe in the whole crazy scheme and it wasn't working for me. My brother was 14 at the time and creating far more havoc than my wee religious rebellion. Picking her battles, my mom decided to let me take gymnastics instead.

I sort of assumed Cass was in the Confirmation thing for a new dress and some gifts. This week she has surprised me with the depth of her consideration regarding this step. While shopping the other day she talked about "Her Friend the Nun" who had been visiting with the class in preparation for the big day. I expected an eye roll followed by a tirade about how lame the nun was. No. Red Sister adored the God Sister! In fact, Cass went on to explain, in great detail, this nun's liberal views of Catholicism and how it applied to modern day life. I was floored by Cass' exuberance and perhaps a bit scandalized by her devotion to it. We had an Adam/Eve discussion about free will vs logic. I offered up that even if there was a pair of scantily clothed folks named such maybe they had simply evolved enough from the fight/flight status to reach emotions, but fucked it up purely because it was all so new. To this I did get an eye roll. It went on, her giving testimony and me shooting it down with my lack of faith.

When I sent Cass to Catholic school it had nothing to do with religion on my part, much to my mother's sadness. It was a good fit for Cass and that was that. Now I find something has taken root in her, something she appears to cherish. It has prompted me to spew my liberal views tenfold, testing where her other beliefs stand. So far my half-assed mothering is successful, I don't have a young republican on my hands...yet. For that I think the Mother of the Year statue should defintiely be mine: I'll be turning out a faith holding liberal with a healthy side of aggression both at work and at play. Oh look, it's all about me once again.

Under Pressure

2011-05-04T15:34:00.000-06:00

This spring has been brutal in terms of many things. To begin, the weather here has sucked in a huge way. True, the Colorado Rockies don't get tornados or tsunamis or earthquakes so as far natural disasters go I guess I shouldn't bitch too loud. But neither are our springs what one would call delicate; we don't bloom from one season to another. Nay, the bulk of the snow melts and then Mother Nature holds on to cold, gray and more cold for as long as she bitchily sees fit.

Where I'm going with this is: all this crazy weather means huge barametric pressure shifts, which if you're a migranie sufferer means pain. Big pain. Ongoing pain. Work-stopping pain. The kind of pain that makes one want to scream and rant at everybody that there's a bomb exploding in my head, goddammit and thank you very much.

Migraines a funny, not in a ha-ha way but in an odd way. They are, literally, all in your head. They don't have the weight of a broken limb or the glamor of a stroke. If you get them, you understand. If you don't, you find the person who does get them to be an enormous pain in the ass. There are times when I can go for a couple of months without one. Then there are times like now when my life nearly comes to a standstill because my head hurts so much, my arms are going numb and I can't see for all the black fuzzies in my eyes.

I know I can't blame it all on the weather, there is stress galore in my life right now. But to pick on The McStrokey would not be sporting, plus I don't have a bone to pick with him right now anyway. Shooting at his dad, whose body fills with more cancer everyday, is not lady-like -though sometimes I do it just for shits and giggles anyway. Then there are all those kids of mine with their daily demands of dinner and clean clothes. Whatever. All I know is that I hope the sun comes out soon, stays out and I can again move my head without wanting to scoop out the innards and toss them in the compost bin.

Henry

2011-05-02T08:11:00.002-06:00

I have never met the Granju family but there is something about Henry's story that has gripped me like few other things have. Perhaps it is because Loren is a similar age to Henry. Maybe it's because I can indentify with a mom having a baby at a yong age and then the experiences of being so young with a child. Or possibly because Henry was an artist much as Loren is. Whatever the case may be, since I first read about Henry's death I find myself thinking about him on a daily basis. I think about his siblings and the void they must feel. I think about Katie's pain and the unthinkable hurt she faces every day. I think about Henry and how he must have been so worn out from addiction and wanting to get clean.

Addiction is such a cruel foe. We know it well in our family. It tears everybody apart.

Below is a clip Henry's family has put together. The song and pictures are absoultely beautiful. My love and hope goes out to Henry's family that the people who hurt Henry will be brought to justice.

Jesus Juice

2011-04-29T11:32:00.001-06:00

It's no secret that I'm socially stunted. I like company, but the effort of interacting especially with other parents I don't particularly know scares the crap out of me. The occasions most always leave me feeling exposed and vulnerable and in need of cover. Whatever. We all have our issues.

Last night Cassidy's class had a BBQ at one of the children's homes. I dreaded this most of the day and made up various scenarios in which I could avoid the dinner and hide in my room where I could talk to my hands and pretend they were actual people. Unfortunately most of my visions involved the emergency room or me quietly sneaking away to the desert, neither option had good outcomes because the ER would involve blood and bills and the desert required packing and sleeping in the sand. So the end of the day came, I collected Devon from a play date and off we went, Devon covered in playground dirt and me completely unmedicated in any form.

Here I'm going to mention that Catholic school was not always Cass' academic path. When she was younger both Cass and Loren attended a Waldorf school. It was lovely, time intensive and social occasions were rather strict, by this I mean the menus were exclusively, militantly organic and there was no alcohol at them.

When I walked into the house last night I was expecting something along the same lines and dreading it because I don't know any of the parents of Cassidy's peers. In fact I've made no effort whatsoever to know them and I was unmedicated, i.e, no Ativan because for some reason I'm trying to experience life without it and get a grip on my anxieties. As I walked up the sidewalk I saw that most of the other eight sets of married parents were carrying totes filled with wine bottles and six packs of micro brews. Huh. When I arrived in the kitchen the first thing the hostess did was stick a wine glass in my hand and offer me white or red, or something harder if I so desired. She saw me hesitate and said, "You're new here, not to worry. Enjoy!" Later as we sat around the table for chat and chew I told The Other Moms my earlier exposure to Waldorf dinners, their mouths fell open and they shook their heads in horror. One of them said, "Honey, we're Catholic. Wine is how we roll." I wanted to reply, "Praise Jesus! I am home!" Thinking better of it I raised my glass for a toast. I'm not sure I'll ever be a team player in terms of TOM's, but I might be able to hang with this crowd if it involves wine.

Striaght to hell

2011-04-28T10:31:00.000-06:00

A couple of days ago I tried to take the high road regarding my feelings about my ex-in-laws. Well, perhaps not so high because were I to be truly gracious or noble about the whole thing I would just shut the hell up and turn the other cheek. Today I’m not feeling either of those, in fact my if I possessed the energy I would muster up something of a rage at the pair of them.

Yesterday Matt returned to Provo for what he has assured me will be the last extended stay with his parents. On May 9, Jen will be flying back to Missouri with both parents and then helping them to get situated in an assisted living facility. She clearly is footing the noble shoe in this case and to her I give a salute. Me? I can’t wait for them to board that plane and go two states away because I’m a bitch that way.

I’d be happy to leave it at that were it not for the fact that this last stint is simply so hard on all of us. Last night I picked Cass up from a movie and sensed some teen angst coming off her. When prodded she burst into tears, real tears not the drama ones she sometimes uses to get something shiny.

The tears escalated to sobs, in between which she said: “Mommy, I’m so worried about Dad.”

Me: I know babe. Me too.

Cass: No. You don’t understand. I’m so afraid he’ll die. He had that stroke and he’s so tired from going to Utah and they don’t understand that. They’re going to use him all up and he could die any day.

These are the exact same thoughts I’ve had rattling around in my brain for the past few months. I was startled by our similar thoughts and heartbroken that under her tough shell of badassedness Cassidy has been harboring this fear.

Me: Honey, this is his last trip. You’re right, he is super tired and that is why he took the train out this time. He is really trying to take care of himself.

Cass: Yes, but if he dies our family will be more broken and then you’ll get depressed again and I might lose you too. Then Mia will raise us and Devon will end up freakier than ever.

Here I paused because as a parent it is always fascinating to hear just how much your children understand what’s happening underneath all the day to day grind. And which depression was she thinking about? The one after Devon was born? After my dad died?

As if reading my mind she said: The time when you went to bed for a year after Pop died. That was awful.

Me: Cass, I can’t promise you anything I can’t deliver, but here are my hopes…. Your dad is coming home in about two weeks. Then he will be going to Denver to meet with specialists about his condition. He has being seeing doctors here when he is home, but we’re going to get an in depth look at his issues. Then we are going to work on all of us moving in together in the next few months. Yes, our family is somewhat broken but we are working on that as well. This too shall pass. As for me getting blue again, I work on that everyday and I’ll try to prevent us from ever having that happen again in the way it did.

I can deal with many things but nobody puts my baby in a corner. This Utah thing has gone on long enough and the folks at the other end of it are just too damn self-absorbed to understand the ramifications of their demands. My kids are a mess. I'm worn out -seriously worn out, not just bitching worn out. Yes, I totally get a man has cancer and a woman is suffering from dementia but neither of them are doing it with any grace or flair and it's pissing me off. There you go, now my ticket to hell is a gaurantee.

My head smells like a hippie's ass. And not in a good way either.

2011-04-27T09:42:00.000-06:00

Early onset grayness runs deep on my mother's side of the family. My uncle Mark was entirely white by the time he was 27, my mother was gray by 30. For my uncle it was the stunning sort of silver beauty only men seem to get with gray hair, as a small girl in the 70's I remember his amazing afro coupled with piercing blue eyes. I also recall a large assortment of women in his company. My mother took the route of frosting, dying and tinting her hair until the late 90's when she let it go and it became a gorgeous silver bob that still sits upon her head today.

I was sitting in a figure drawing class when I got my first gray hair. I was 18 and more than horrified to realize I was a recipient of the family curse. Were I blonde it might not be so bad, but dark haired and young it was not a welcome find for me. Since then I have been coloring my hair on a far too regular basis, and lately it's been taking a toll on my hair. In all fairness I have to say it isn't just the harsh store bought hair coloring kits, after Devon was born I had a tubal ligation -because I believed my contribution of three spawn to this earth was more than sufficient, if not overly so. Since that procedure my body has kicked into to peri-menopause and things just aren't quite the same. First there was that wheat thing where I itched for two years straight. There has been weight gain. And my skin and hair are aging at an alarming rate. Not really a great plate of fun but at least I can't get knocked up ever again. So suffice it to say my hair has been an issue for me lately, among so many issues....

I have contemplated whacking it all off, sort of a la angry, power woman pixie style, I totally would if I had the face to carry it off. I'd pretty much buzz it, stop coloring it and get a diamond stud for my nose. Sadly that sort of carefree look isn't for me. Though perhaps if I were to get a full facial reconstruction....probably not practical. So I have recently been considering henna. Why not? It's natural, seems harmless enough.

Yesterday I went to Vitamin Cottage, picked out a couple of brownish/reddish packets and took them home. After I put Devon to bed I figured I'd mix them up, slap the color on and let nature's goodness pamper me with the color my hair ought to be rather than the old lady hag color it wants to be. Not to be. First there is boiling of water to be done, though NOT in a metal container, then the goop is mixed and it has to cure for up to three hours. The mixture stank like a rank combo of skunk and ass, basic hippie scent if one were to ask me. After an hour I started putting the stuff in my hair, it was both the color and consistency of green baby poo. I was super tired at this point so I gloved up and started coating my head in liquid ass. SO GROSS. Really. Occasionally some would fall on the floor and I had flashbacks to my children potty training and not quite making it to the toilet. After an hour of having ten pounds of clay on my head and heating it every five minutes or so I stepped into the shower to rinse it out. Again, not so simple. It had hardened in some places, flaking off in big gritty poo chunks.

By the time I was finished I was out of energy and truly considering shaving the whole damn mess. Instead I wrapped my head in a towel and went to say goodnight to Cassidy. As I tucked her in she wrinkled her pretty nose and said, "Ew, Mommy, your head smells like ass." Yes, she's my tender one.

This morning things are better. My head still stinks but the color isn't too bizarre. We'll just have to see if it holds for longer than the store bought dyes. If so I might be able to endure a bit off hippie stank every six weeks in return for non-hag hair.

Blue

2011-04-26T11:15:00.000-06:00

I'm just going to preface this with the fact that I know I'm fairly vile, and if such a place exists I will be heading straight to hell as soon as my cells stop moving. It's okay, I'm cool with it. And yes, I know bashing on a dying man is pretty much a no-no, but I'll try to be soft about it.

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There's a song by the Fine Young Cannibals containing some lyrics that go something like this: Blah, blah and I'm mad about that. Another blah, blah, and I'm mad about that. If memory serves the singer is pretty much just blowing off steam about all the things that piss him off on a daily basis. Sometimes when I'm feeling particularly bratty I'll start singing that song in my head but add things like: My panties don't fit and I'm mad about that. I hate sitting in my cubicle and I'm mad about that, too.

Lately I find myself singing this song when I think about my ex-in-laws. (This is where my horrid nature comes in to the equation.) There are so many directions to go here, but I'll stick with the selfish one and make it all about me. I know there are some people who love their in-laws, good for you and congratulations you are worthy individuals. In the best of times I was never open-my-heart close to Pat and Tom, but we were always civil, well at least until I somehow got on Pat's Permanent Shit List and when she occasionally saw me there were always comments about the unfortunate length of my poofy hair or my weight gain. Whatever, I didn't want to grow up to be her so I figured I would mostly ignore it and strive to not be her. I could also go on about my almost phobic aversion to her, but I won't, I'll save that bitch card in my pocket for later.

So anyway, my frustration comes into play somewhere around here: Matt and I are getting back on track, we're excited about the future, a household consolidation, etc. All super good stuff in my book. But. Dude keeps getting uprooted every few weeks because he has to go back to Utah to care for his dad and babysit the train wreck that unfolds on a daily basis at Pat's nursing home. I'm not saying I'm not grateful for the few weeks he is home because that means Jen is out in Utah, away from her kids and man doing the same. For the record Jen has been Queen Conductor of the Pat Train for the past few weeks and her stint at her own home is beyond warranted.

So I should be happy? Yes. And mostly I am, but I'm really quite pissed in some ways. One, the little detail of that stroke Matt had last November. One doesn't usually just willy nilly have a stroke at 39, get diagnosed with a degenerative vascular disorder and then bounce right back into an active lifestyle. There are appointments with specialists and oodles of follow up care. That should be understood, however when your doctors are in Denver and you are 500 miles away in Utah the care doesn't happen, especially when the person you are caring for doesn't seem to grasp this -or in my Book of Bitch interpretation- care. Again, my selfishness jumps back in because if Matt's own health is somewhat precarious and his father uses up all this time that should obviously be spent with me? I'm gonna be pissed.

Two. The kids miss their dad. Devon's little heart breaks every time his dad leaves town. He curls up in my bed with me at night and we count the days until his father will be back. When Matt does come back to town Devon spends nearly every moment he can with his dad. The older two miss Matt as well, they just lack the pitiful drama of Dev.

Three. I have three children, none of them drive, we live in a rural area, gas is crazy expensive right now. Just the logistics of transporting them all, even with my mother, is such a challenge. It's hard for me to even get 40 hours in a week at work because of the schedules.

There is more. I could get personal thereby ensuring my place in hell will not be a glamorous one, but I'll try to keep this clean. However, I will say this, if our new Glee karaoke had the FYC's Blue on it I'd totally have fantasies of driving out to Utah, standing in the ex-in-law's living room and belting out a few lines. They wouldn't get it but it sounds fully therapeutic.

Sweet, Sweet Divine Thing

2011-04-22T07:27:00.000-06:00

My Dearest Red,

Lordy, lordy but today you are 14! Fourteen. Four plus ten. Obviously I am somewhat flummoxed by this fact. Truly, it seems as recently as yesterday I was enduring the end of my pregnancy with you, trying to keep what little sanity I had, and getting ready to have a baby girl. It feels nearly impossible all this time has flown by and now you are taller than me. In fact you are many things -er than me: smarter, cleverer, patienter, slyer, prettier....I know not all of those are real words, but they are all true.

I know lately things have been challenging for you. Eighth grade is not the kindest of years and the children not always at their top form. You , being tall, willowy thin and graced with deep red hair, strong brown eyes and freckles don't look like most of the girls your age. I get it that at this age those attributes might not seem as such, but one day in the not too distant future you are going to wake up and be the most beautiful of swans the earth has witnessed in recent history. For me you always have been that swan, for you to see her it might take some time. My hope for you is that you understand this and can ride out these years where sometimes boys are mean and have nothing better to offer than their observations of your unusual hair color. And sometimes girls are mean just to be mean. But it will pass, I promise you.

This has been a challenging year for our family. Your father's stroke was such a shock. Then having him be gone for the last four months in Utah has been a strain. I know the drama of your older brother getting through his last year of high school is sometimes draining. Then there is day to day life with your little brother. Not to mention the fact that you were really quite ill most of the winter. Yet you have sucked up your guts and plundered on, getting stellar grades, kicking some serious butt on the soccer field and maintaining your amazing sense of humor.

Cass, you are my only girl, the sandwich child in between two needy boys. You're my self-sufficient one and so I sometimes over look your needs in order to put out fires with your brothers. I do this because I know you're taking care of business, it's not fair to you but sometimes that's just how it works. I'm sorry. I'll try to be more focused.

I love the times we share together, especially when it's just the two of us. Your sly observations never cease to crack me up, you are so much like your father this way. Your verbal combat abilities are also stunning, never is there a dull moment with you.

Red Sister, I love the child you were, the young lady you are evolving into and the woman I can see one day becoming. You are and will continue to be strong, smart, kind, gracious, funny, humble and absolutely beautiful inside and out. I can't wait to see it all unfold for you.

I think I can speak for your father here when I say we are so blessed to have you in our lives. You are Briar Rose, Red Sister, Cassula, Fifi. You are my Cassidy Jane and truly the most divine creature I have ever met. Happy birthday, my love. Go forth and kick ass today just as you have done every single other day of your life, it is your destiny.

I love you ~Mom

A secret on Thursday

2011-04-21T16:06:00.000-06:00

I have a secret love, almost fetish, for aprons. I don't own a single one, usually when I cook I just tuck an old washcloth in the waist of my pants and call it good. But from time to time when I need a little pick me up I'll go on Etsy and ogle the aprons.

This following one is very sexy in an I Love Lucy/Marilyn way.

This one is beyond cutey fab! The polka dots make me feel bubbly.

I love the functionality of this half apron, plus the retro greens are uber hip.

Okay then, I feel much better now. Deep in my psyche I now believe I have ordered all of these and they will be arriving on my doorstep early next week. I didn't and they won't, but a girl can dream. And in those dreams I don one of the above, whip up gluten-free appetizers for my arriving guests who are as equally easy-breezy in their attire as I am. We sip bubbly drinks, snack on finger foods and everybody admires my amazing domestic style and skilzzz. I'm very grounded, thank you.

Can I just bitch about Colorado's lack of spring ambiance?

2011-04-20T15:05:00.001-06:00

Spring in the Colorado Rockies is nothing if not completely un-fucking-predictable. It's a bi-polar buffet of snow, rain, wind, clouds, sun and mud. By far, spring here is my least favorite time of year. It's not just because I'm ready to chuck everybody's unmatching socks in the trash and go barefoot for the summer, well only partly. It has much more to do with my head and the migraines that come with INSANE weather patterns.

The barometric pressure changes every five minutes around here. The wind stirs up the barn owls and then they come and stomp on my roof which keeps me awake at night. The pressure and lack of sleep add to the already fragile environment inside my head. Then? BOOM! Migraines.

Today I've managed to lose my sight -twice. Had my right arm go numb, at least I knew it wasn't a heart attack since it wasn't on the left side. And I lost my breakfast in the office bathroom in a loud and not so graceful way. I feel as though I've been turned inside out and wrung from side to side. Someday I'm going to move to the equator where I hope there will be a glorious equilibrium and I never have to wear socks again, dammit.

It's hard to be me today

2011-04-18T09:02:00.002-06:00

Spring in the Colorado rockies is probably the most brutal season of all. Every year I hope the transition between snow and warmth will be a short and seamless one and every year I am smacked down by April and most of May. One day there might be sun and the next eight inches of heavy snow covers the budding trees. Right now things are still mostly brown and soggy while the snow retreats, not a visual treat. Needless to say I'm feeling rather blue about it today, that and I'm still on the Lenten no caffeine wagon.

The clip below is from last fall when Loren got his new 7D camera. I watched it this morning to remind myself that color and light will return and with it happy moments. And, yes, the 40 days will be up and on Easter morning the Easter Bunny will be serving me a vanilla latte followed by a mimosa.

First 7D edit. from aidan sheahan on Vimeo.

Nothing is quite like a Southern bred mother-in-law

2011-04-14T11:45:00.000-06:00

Most days I find it super hard to be me. There is the maintenance involved to deal with my ever multiplying phobias, and the knowledge that even if I think I'm coping with them I'll probably end up with some bizarre medical affliction as a result. It's really quite exhausting. One of the only people I've ever met who is as flummoxed by just being as I am is my dear friend Kelly Lynne. Of course she made her life a gazillion times more difficult by leaving the liberal hot bed of the Colorado mountains and transplanting herself into the Deep South where rules run deep and mother-in-laws are a breed crazy like no other. My daily early morning routine is to lie in bed for a few minutes and check the email on my phone, this morning the snippet from below awaited me. It made me giggle and want to go to the bathroom.

Lord, please oh please help me navigate the murky underworld of Southern Bridal Shower Etiquette. And please remind me, in the future, that sneakers are not proper foot attire for such an event. Even for one held immediately after work, by your co-workers, at a job for which you wear sneakers frequently. Especially when your MIL and her very own SIL (a woman she detests and lives in competition with) are invited. Lord, I know this is my second marriage, that I am 42, and that I have a 4 year old with the man to whom I am betrothed, and Lord, I know that totally labels me a 'tart' (but seriously: what a fun word!! worth the label, IMHO.) And, Lord, I know that my MIL dies a thousand deaths every time she is reminded of the fact that every. single. person. in. this. town. knows. we. are. not. already. married. But I beg of you that a public party (or you know, six or eight of them) dedicated to this single fact will not kill her dead until after the wedding. Because, really, a death in the immediate family within a month or two of the wedding would darken the doorstep of our marital bliss, and I have already paid for the honeymoon. And Lord, thank you so much for reminding such a high percentage of the shower attendees that we have plenty of cloth napkins, scented candles, prepackaged waffle mix and casserole dishes, and not nearly enough of (whispered desperately at the start of the shower gift opening) "don't display the bottle part of my gift!!!"s. We like those.

And God, an issue not as important as the impending nuptials and all the chaos that surrounds that, I would like to discuss a couple of minor issues in relation to the Episcopal Choir I recently joined: Look, the other Alto and I (We are Episcopalians, and therefore a single step away from HELL in this town.. so our congregation is small, as is our choir) are not cradle Episcopalians and are not even from the South. Therefore we cannot sight read music, we cannot understand the choir director when he speaks, and for the most part, we cannot sing. So really, just, I don't know, just do something. Anything. While I am not willing to sacrifice anything to this request, the other alto might be. She is from California. She has practice in the sacrifice arena.

Namaste, bitch

2011-04-12T16:02:00.000-06:00

I like organic foods and natural fibers but I would never go so far as to classify myself as crunchy or hippie. Yes, I'm a hopeless tree hugger and would like to save all the sea mammals from nets and clubs, but it's the hippie look and smell I can't quite grasp. Plus, I have the kind of ankles that look so much better with a heel, flats just don't work for me. That said, I love yoga. Love, love, love it.

For a number of years I was singlemindedly a Bikram follower. For a number of reasons the simplicity and repetition of the classes soothed my soul. Plus, that co-dependent part of me always seeking the forever elusive perfection element struck a chord with me. Bikram's is slightly abusive in condescending way, sort of like a favorite family priest, I can fully identify with that.

Right now I don't have it in me to do Bikram's yoga. For one thing a 90 minute class requires a total of about 2 1/2 hours in terms of cleaning up from the sweat, etc and that sort of time isn't a luxury I have right now. So I've defected to a different yoga studio where the rooms are not heated to 105 degrees and the teachers are so sweet I sometimes think about giving them a lick just to see if they even taste like sugar, or in their case agave nectar. At this studio we get all sorts of accessories for every class: wooden blocks, straps, blankets, even lavender scented eye pillows. If we can't keep our balance we can use the walls for support. At the end of most classes the teacher goes around and gives us a little back rub. It's pretty much a 90 minute scoop of affirmation, not bad for those of us who incessantly seek approval.

So it's a lovely studio, beautiful environment, teachers with fabulously peaceful yoga names. But. Last night when I went to class there was a serene barefoot man on one side of the class playing some sort of funky guitar. I put my yoga mat down, got out the provided toys and sat down to get a grip when he started playing his music, it sounded something like this: Ooooooooom, numa-numa-numaaa gotta paaaarrttttttaaayyyy.... Looking around I realized I was the only one who understood this guy was saying we needed to party. What the fuck? Really? Because I was there to find some inner peace, not throw back a shot and whoop it up. But no, music fellow was over there, eyes closed, and crooning crazy yoga words. Then he would mix his voice into his electronic thing and several of his voices would sing out: Ooooooooom, numa-numa-numaaa gotta paaaarrttttttttaaaayyyy....

I stifled a few giggles but got on with class until about an hour into it. Then groovy dude started getting a bit louder and on top of his other party bit he starting randomly tossing out in a breathless Dave Mathews voice: BREATHE. Or LET GO. Or my favorite: FLOW LOKE A RIVERRRRRR. ECHO LIKE THE MISSSSSSST. Some seriously funky shit. During the final cevasana and lavender eye pillow stint I couldn't help but let a few quiet giggles escape. After class we all bowed, said our namastes and then everybody else went over to thank groovy guitar dude. In complete seriousness they were all so touched by his bizarre musical contribution and he was equally giddy over our yoga poses.

I don't get it. Maybe I'm not evolved enough. I like to think my sense of humor is such that a grown man making up yoga words to electronic music merits a chuckle or two. Hopefully the rest of the students and teacher aren't on to me.

These small hours

2011-04-07T11:00:00.000-06:00

As a baby, and well into childhood, Cassidy worshiped Loren with every fiber of her being. In the beginning she would sit in her car seat or perched on a baby blanket watching his every move with her dark intense eyes. One time when she she was particularly entranced with his activities she rocked her car seat to the point of tipping it over and clawing her way out so she could have a better view. At nine months she pulled herself up and started walking, I believe, simply to keep up with him.

Loren and Cass are nearly four years apart, a difference that lent him an aura of mystique and fascination for her but gave him an edge on her overly ambitious small self. It lasted until Lo hit high school and then he was off, gone in his own world and leaving Cass behind. Loren doesn't do anything in increments, he's either totally interested in something or absolutely not at all. As he entered puberty his social life reigned supreme and his little sister was no longer even on the radar.

Last night was a rare one, Devon was at Matt's for the night and I had the older kids all to myself. It was a fabulous arrangement since Devon knows his dad will only be here for a few more days before again heading out to Utah and he wants only to be with his father right now.

Loren, Cass and I chose a dinner we knew we would all eat, picked out a movie and went home. Loren had received a bunch of new camera toys in the mail yesterday and he opened them while Cass hung out with me and I cooked dinner. The three of us then sat on the kitchen island and ate food as it came out of the oven. Later we all snuggled into my bed and watched Due Date. We laughed, joked, talked about life pre-Devon, discussed the upcoming busy weeks and just relaxed.

I love it when I have all my chicks in one nest but I also love these quiet times when I can focus on Loren and Cassidy. Lo will be graduating high school in seven weeks. At the end of June he will turn 18. He's chosen to take at least one year off before pursuing film school, but is still unsure of what next year will bring in terms of concrete plans. Right now I feel what we have is a known, the unknown will soon arrive. These small moments are beyond precious for me and I am so grateful.

Starfish & coffee, maple syrup and jam

2011-04-05T19:51:00.001-06:00

I remember when Matt and I first got married, people, who at the time I thought were super old but who were likely the age I am now, used to tell us how important it was to have "us" time. I didn't get it, thinking what did they know in their aged state. And so we rarely did anything on our own without the children. If we did get away it was usually one of us off with friends and the other at home. It obviously took its toll and things went the way they went.

With age comes some sort of wisdom, I like to believe, and so now we are taking that time and fostering something really quite fabulous. On Saturday we went to see Donovan Frankenreiter, and Matt Nanthanson at the Wheeler. Aside from seeing Jack Johnson there is nobody I wanted to see perform more than Frankenreiter, and Matt Nathanson turned out to be obscenely sassy and fun. It was all guitars and just plain beautiful. Matt and I sat in the balcony and soaked in the music and fun of it all.

I know I am the luckiest of fools to have this chance, a do-over of sorts, and I am so grateful to whatever sort of fates that have dropped this in my lap.

His brilliance awes me

2011-04-04T13:37:00.000-06:00

I can never get enough of Lo's work. this one was featured at the Independence Pass Foundation Film Fest at the end of March.

A little Taste.. from Loren James Creer on Vimeo.

The return of Red

2011-04-02T18:32:00.000-06:00

Cassidy spent the last week in Las Vegas with her best friend Taylor and his mom and dad, Jennifer and Richard. I missed her. Lots. On the other hand the silence was really quite lovely. Golden if one were to be entirely honest. Yes, I know there will be no Mother of the Year for me regarding that comment. The thing about Red Sister is that she is just so encompassing. Engulfing. She's been home for two hours, an hour of that I had to lie down just to collect myself. I have to get ready for the assault that is my beautiful daughter.

Below is a poem I came across recently. It nails nearly everything about Cass. And at the end of the day, no, I simply can't imagine living without my Red.

Red is a sunset
Blazing and bright.
Red is feeling brave
With all your might.
Red is a sunburn
A spot on your nose.
Sometimes red, is a red red rose.
Red squiggles out when you cut your hand.
Red is a brick
And the sounds of a band.
Red is hotness
You get inside
When you’re embarrassed
And want to hide.
Fire-cracker, fire-engine
Fire-flicker red –
And when you’re angry
Red runs through your head.

Red is an Indian
A Valentine heart,
The trimmings on
A circus cart.
Red is a lipstick
Red is a shout
Red is a signal
That says, “Watch out!”
Red is a great big
Rubber ball.
Red is the giant-est
Colour of all.
Red is a show-off,
No doubt about it –
But can you imagine
Living without it?

The art of dating my ex-husband

2011-04-01T11:17:00.000-06:00

My mother is inquisitive by nature, which means she's nosy but I'm being polite and phrasing it softly. Whenever there is even the teensiest strand of something secretive she is all over it like a hungry dog on a rotting carcass. This means if I have something at all personal I don't even let myself form it into words in my head lest it somehow leak out into the universe and she might smell the vulnerability of my soul.

Lately I have something of a golden nugget in terms of juiciness that she keeps trying to get her teeth into and the fun of keeping her out tickles me to no end. She very much wants to know just what it is I'm doing with my ex-husband. Her latest attempt went something like this:

Her: So, you know when I'm out and about this weekend people will likely ask questions about your D Status.

(This is because we have friends coming into town and she is seeing them all at a party Saturday night. A party I won't be attending because I'm going to a concert with the above mentioned man.)

Me: D Status? What's that? Death? I'm alive. Divorce? Been there for about 8 years now. Dusty? Well,, I'm not exactly shiny...

Her: Dating. Duh.

Me: Oh, yes. That doesn't seem like a very interesting topic. I'm practically middle aged and really not all that glamorous. By the way, is Peg still dating that one guy? I haven't seen them together lately.

Her: I'm not sure. You know he doesn't hear so well in crowded situations.

Me: Too bad. They seem like a great pair.

Her: Yes, well. But back to you. What shall I tell people?

Me: Tell them whatever you like. I just don't think there's really anything of interest there.

Her: ........
__________________________________________

Here's the thing, Matt and I have been married, divorced, had a post-divorce child, separated and now are giving it another go. Is Elizabeth Taylor the only one who gets a stab at this sort of Jerry Springer move? I think freaking not. Further more, this time around I see no reason to discuss it with anybody other than our children. I suspect there are those who might have a comment or two regarding our reunion, but frankly I just don't give a rat's ass anymore. Life is short and depending on what you believe there is but one go around at it.

The stunning arc of barf

2011-03-31T10:16:00.000-06:00

For the most part I’m a fairly lenient parent. It could be said this is borne of laziness or fear of confrontation, I’d like to believe I’m just super cool. But whatever, I rarely put my foot down and insist the children do something against their will or not fitting into their social schedules. A recent exception to this was Loren’s film festival presentation last Friday.

I was over the moon tickled that he had been invited to this particular film fest. It wasn’t in his usual line up of ski porn, a bit more off the path because it was an environmentally based presentation. I bought our tickets a couple of weeks early, even getting extra just in case. Cassidy and Devon were both informed they would be attending. Cass was a bit put out because this meant her spring break trip to Vegas wouldn’t start until Saturday morning and just when the hell did Loren last come to something of hers, she wondered. In return I promised her he would be at her upcoming Spring Concert. Devon wasn’t thrilled about the evening either because it meant riding in a car for more than five minutes and sitting through dinner at a restaurant he didn’t know. I sent Loren with my mom and a friend to eat and then Loren had to get to the festival a bit early. Matt and I brought up the rear.

Time management is not in my bag of accomplished tricks and by the time we hit the road I realized we would be running late no matter where we stopped for dinner. We opted for one of Cassidy’s favorites and Devon announced he wouldn’t eat a single bite there. But eat he did, with such zest that I knew something unruly would eventually become of our evening. Sure enough as soon as we hastily paid the bill and hit the car Devon started complaining of tummy pains. Within a couple of miles his pain was unbearable and I asked Matt to pull over at a convenience store. Dev and I trotted into the bathroom where he promptly stripped from the waist down, his typical move when doing a big job, and then perched himself over the lid in a sort of yoga stance, again typical for Devon. And then we waited. And waited. And he strained. And nothing more than a slight plop. It hurt, it was pointy. I informed Devon he was constipated , likely from the medicated cough medicine he’d been taking for his week old cough, at which point he hurled himself off the pot and into a ball of tears. “I can’t go like Elvis did, Mai-Mai! I’ll die. He died on the pot because he was constipated.” I assured Devon that Elvis used and abused far more the codeine cough medicine to end up in his sorry state.

Once back in the car we raced to Aspen and made it in time for the opening act. Loren was a mess of nerves. Devon stretched out across Cass, Matt, Lo and me while each of us took turns rubbing his neck, arms or back in order to distract him from his Elvis fears. When Lo’s movie finally did show I was beyond thrilled and even shed a few tears of pride. He got to announce a few things about himself before the feature and then retired to the back of the movie house to be alone and watch it. Matt, Cass and I left shortly after because Devon was so wiggly. On the way home, a 45 minute drive in good weather, the conditions were a nearly white out snow storm and Devon started wailing about 25 minutes in to it. Matt concentrated on driving while Cass and I tried to keep Dev calm. Once to Matt’s, Devon tottered up his stairs, clutched his belly and wailed at the top of his lungs. He staggered to the edge, vomited a lovely yellow spew once over the balcony to a flower bed below and I scooted him into the toilet where the real barf show began. It was spectacular.

It’s most often like this with the three children spaced so far apart in ages. All I wanted was to peacefully watch Loren give his small talk and then view his film on a large screen. I waited six weeks, planned more than a few schedules around it and anticipated nearly every mishap, except Devon. God love that little guy, but it’s never easy with him. And, of course, the Cassidy the Sandwich child in between was lost in the shuffle. At least she’s in Las Vegas for the week living it up and having a blast. And regardless for the amount of drama in the evening, it was so amazing to see Lo’s work on a big screen and hear the whistles and applause for him, a beautiful gift. And to sit in that theatre, the five of us together as a family, laughing at the absurdity of the evening, that was just pure beauty.

Gratitude and grace

2011-03-25T10:31:00.000-06:00

This morning my mother informed me a dear and lovely friend of ours, T, has been diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer. This woman lost her daughter to brain cancer a handful of years ago. She then went on to marry a wonderful man who had previously lost his wife to cancer. She is hard working and one of the most courageous women I have ever encountered. She and her husband, J, helped my mother find her bearings after my father died. They held Devon close and accpeted them into their hearts in those awful months after my father's death when Devon would often ask if J was his beloved Pop-Pop. My mom, the children and I have found a second home of sorts at their home over the last few years, a place always filled with love and kindness.

It breaks my heart and pisses me off something fierce to hear this news today. I love these kind, gracious people and am so deeply saddened for them and the multitudes of people who love them so very much.

It's not always hard to be me. Just sometimes.

2011-03-23T11:49:00.001-06:00

It’s quite easy for me to slip into self-pity and not entirely uncommon for my brain to take up a full on monologue about how hard it is just to be me. It’s really exhausting and often leads to migraines, like the one currently nesting atop my skull and digging its claws into my gray matter.

This morning I left work to take Devon to the doctor, he’s had a lingering cough for five days which seems to be getting more hackish, and the synapses in my head were up to their snarking ways so I turned on the radio to shut out the noise. And then. Who’s name should I hear on the news? My own son’s, and not in a bad way either. It was an interview of a fellow with the Independence Pass Foundation and their upcoming film festival this Friday. The announcer was asking about the various clips to be shown when he prompted the IPF rep about a special feature new to the festival this year.

“Yes, we have a young, local student named Loren James Creer. He’s very talented and his work features Torin Yater-Wallace and Aiden Sheehan.” He then added a bit more about the skiers and ended with something like, “These young men all have amazing promise!”

Tell you what, those voices in my head shut the hell right up and I let out a shrieking, “WAHOOOOOOOO!!!!!!” Loren has two more film festivals lined up this spring and I have feeling there will be many more in his future. I couldn’t be more thrilled with my boy! Not so hard to be me anymore today. Go figure.

Addendum to my whiny Monday crappola

2011-03-21T15:50:00.000-06:00

Sometimes a girl just needs an indulgence. For the most part I'm not a shopper. Yes, I love shoes but to get me clothing shopping it takes at least a couple of glasses of red wine. But today I needed a pick me up and I've had something very specific in the back of my mind for a couple of months now. Oh yeah, baby!

My old 3G seemed suddenly ghetto and when Loren told me he had dropped his old phone in a puddle once again, it all clicked together like a fabulous planetary alignment. I'm gonna be getting me some good phone with this one, I can totally feel it. And the best part? Monday doesn't feel so blue anymore! Yay!

Monday Blues

2011-03-21T08:38:00.000-06:00

When I finally finished college with one of the most useless degrees in the entire history of degrees, I became a home loan hostess for the big red wagon. I loved helping people realize their American Dream of home ownership. I also loved the thrill of the chase as I tried to help those people who sometimes were square pegs trying to fit into round holes. Then there were the long chats with the sassy underwriters and convincing them in the loveliest phone voice possible to bump my files to the top of their priority lists. However, I hated the meetings, my boss, my boss above her and all the political bullshit that goes with working for an over-sized corporate beast. At the height of the re-fi boom I resigned because I knew what we were doing was wrong. My clients were over extended and, all too often, just a payment or two away from trouble. My colleagues thought I was nuts but couldn’t wait to snag my 1-800 number and my client list. So I found several part time jobs, I walked away and never looked back.

Devon was born a couple years later. Madness ensued and I have been pretty much doing odd jobs until he reached Kindergarten, that was last fall. Now I’m back in a cubicle eight hours a day, five days a week. And mostly I hate it. I hate office politics. I hate meetings. I hate the gray of my cubicle. I love the steady paycheck. As much as I hate insurance companies, I love the benefits. But for as beneficial as it all is, I can’t help but wonder if there is something better out there just over the horizon and beyond my reach. In this economy, not too likely, but as I sit here on a Monday morning and think of the next five days trapped in this gray lined corner it’s an enticing thought.

Another Donkey Rant

2011-03-17T10:36:00.000-06:00

I've mentioned it a couple of times lately but I'll say it again, the single parent thing/other parent in a different state thing is wearing thin. As evidenced in the following text chat, I believe Matt is also feeling the strain. Other than sex texting I find sass texting to be right up there on the list of good fun, and it always brightens my day if it's slightly combative as well.

Me: Rough night?

Matt: Bite me.

Me: So hostile.

Matt: Get bent.

Me: Cranky fart

Matt: Donkey-hating bitch knickers

Matt: Furtle furtle furtle furtle.

Me; A side of madness for dinner tonight?

Matt: Spawankkeeeeeee.

Me: You need to come home.

Matt: Spanston doesn’t think so.

Me: Who the hell is Spanston?

Matt: You wish you knew.

Me: Maybe you should talk it out with Donkey.

Matt: Donkey and I talk all the time. HE says you’re crazy.

Me: Donkey is a vindictive fiuckhead. Plus, he’s a pathological liar. He says the same crap about you.

Matt: Donkey is the wisest of all of us. You sound like you’ve been in Spanston’s furtle again.

Me; Well, there is that. You should try it.

Matt: I highly doubt that. Donkey loves everybody but you.

Me: Don’t be deceived by his cunning ways. That good ole boy bucktooth act is a bunch of crap. He’s a bad egg.

Matt: What the hell are you talking about? It’s a fucking donkey. God, you’re weird.

Matt: Please don’t contact me anymore.

Me: Gonna go play with Donkey?

Matt: Weirdo. Seriously

Me: I have to go parent your children. I’m very busy. And important.

Matt: Be careful not to drown them in the tub. The voices aren’t real. Nutjob.

Insurance companies belong in hell

2011-03-16T14:34:00.001-06:00

There are few things/people I can say I truly detest. Spiders? Check. Hangovers? Definitely. Torn nails? Very much so. But right near the top of that list, that actually might really be quite long now when I come to think of it, is insurance companies and the assholes who passionately work for them.

Up until Devon was born I had never dealt much with them. When Dev was born with his heart defect and we entered the hospital I had no idea my life for the next two years or so would be riddled with stacks upon stacks of bills. Who knew that every single person present in the operating room billed separately? And on top of that there were hospital bills, supply bills, radiology bills. It sucked and I remember the overwhelming sense of helplessness I would feel upon attempting to whittle them down to zero balances.

Lately the bills have been again escalating. I’m almost done paying off Loren’s knee surgery from last May. His bills included an anesthesiologist from California and a radiologist from North Carolina. I totally don’t get that because we live in the Colorado mountains.

Right now Cassidy’s bills are piling up because we have been trying to figure out why she continually sheds blood into her urine. Ew. But yes, it is a mystery and it prompts the doctors to have her pee into a cup at every chance possible, sometimes repeatedly into a jug for 24 hours at a time. Gross. After opening a gazillion of bills last night I discovered each every one of those little pee cups runs about $130. The blood screens that go with most every visit are up to $600. Seems like insurance would pay this, yes? No, they’re not really so eager to do so.

Then there are Loren’s wisdom teeth. I totally thought that one would be cut and dry, usually dental bills are. Again, no. Phrases such as “sedation is not reasonably necessary or customarily performed in conjunction with the services submitted”. Or, this one is nice too, “your dental plan does not provide coverage for this service.” Really? No? Because if you’re going to have teeth out does it really matter how far embedded they are? Just pull the damn things already. Wisdom teeth are gnarly by nature, that’s why we get them removed. Do insurance companies really need to jack us around that extra step just because they can? Or do they do it just to fuck with us?

So I’m just gonna say it, I hate insurance companies. HATE THEM! I hate the bajillions of trees they kill with all their damn bills and reminders and, a personal favorite, the non-bills that are just stating what they might pay. As if they need a tad bit more time to figure out how much they feel like screwing one individual or another. I hate all their code numbers that make you go to the bottom of the statement only to be enraged to discover it’s just another way of them saying, “Fuck you, sucker. Not gonna pay.” And most of all I hate the fact that every month I pay them, thinking they are providing some sort of safety if I should ever need them but knowing deep down that if I do they’re going to be asshats about it. Fuckers. Fuckers. Fuckers.

Okay then. I feel slightly better now. And that there? It was free, thank you very much. I didn't have to see a therapist, do a co-pay and later get nailed in the ass for another unapporved use of funds. Who's the sucker now....

Bitch on wheels

2011-03-15T14:22:00.002-06:00

I can roll with a lot of things, things like chaos, noise, kids and the like, but something I can not abide by is ignoring safety. Perhaps it was growing up with a defense lawyer for a father who freely told us the horror stories of what happens to careless people. Paralysis, decapitation, drownings, fires, you name it and he had taken a case to trial over somebody’s lack of good judgment. One might argue for an already sensitive child these tales were a bit over the top, but in terms of rearing a cautious child who is still alive today I think he did a decent job.

There is a middle aged fellow who occasionally drives his SUV up our country road in the late afternoons to run his dog. When I say run I don’t mean man and dog get out of the vehicle together and trot up the road. Nay, this guy sits in his late model Range Rover and drives while his German shepherd tries to keep up with him. There is nothing physically wrong with the guy, I’ve seen him let the dog out at the beginning of the walks and dude has a spring in his step. Our county road is about two miles long and once this man reaches the end he turns around and the dog trails after him, panting and looking like he wishes he didn’t have that dog/master relationship that dictates he MUST follow the car.

Every time I see this guy I get so enraged about his carelessness with his dog. If you want to let your do run behind your car in the driveway? I say it might be a bit sketchy but as long as your toddler isn’t also in the drive you’re probably ok. But to make a dog run without any stops at a fast clip for four miles? I say no. It’s inhumane and insulting to this beautiful animal. Also, when it’s winter, the roads are icy and a herd of deer are bounding across the road it is dangerous for other drivers as well. I witnessed this exact scenario last winter. It was later in the day, the road was icy and the deer were leaping the fence to cross. Of course, dumbass in the white Range Rover didn’t slow down but actually sped up, perhaps hoping his dog would be too focused on him to notice the deer. No. The dog started chasing the deer in front of other cars, the deer went ape shit and several animals nearly got hit.

This is where I finally got fed up. Once the deer all cleared up I drove up next to the guy, rolled down my window and attempted to explain to him that he was an asshole. Fuckhead ignored me so I started beeping and giving him the universal finger that states loud and clear “You suck, fucker!” He still ignored me and continued to drive. Ever since this incident I freely flip the man off, I believe it is my given right to do so since he repeatedly abuses his dog and refuses to acknowledge that he is a fool.

Yesterday was a long one and as I drove into town to attend a dentist appointment, there the asshat was running his dog up the road. Without thinking I rolled down my window and gracefully extended my arm all the way to my middle finger as I passed him by. I have to say it was the best part of my day and liberating in a way I haven’t felt for quite awhile. I would like to know if he gets it or if he just wonders why some crazy woman in a blue bug habitually flips him off when all he is trying to do is get his dog some fresh air.

Starting out the week with a touch of heart break

2011-03-14T09:35:00.004-06:00

Matt has been gone in way or another for nearly four months. After his stroke on November 21, he spent 10 days in the hospital followed by about six weeks where he was so exhausted that he often fell asleep for about 20 minutes out of every hour. Then in mid-January he headed out to Utah to help put his mother in a nursing home and take care of all the details concerning his dying father, Tom. Since then the kids and I have been in Utah for a week and Matt spent about two weeks home nearly a month ago. So, yes, all in all it’s been almost four months now of absence.

I’m independent by nature, a bit of an island if you will, but this situation is starting to wear at the edges. At this point I’m working seven days a week, dragging Devon to my weekend job where he is forced to take ski lessons to pass his days. It’s all been tiring and, back before the holidays when Matt was sicker, scary. This morning it all came to a head with Devon. It’s not unusual for me to find truth from Devon, he is simply more sensitive to the universe and his expressions of this are often what spur me to realize just what is what.

Because of our crazy schedule right now my timing, usually not my strong point, is even worse. This morning as I was reading the Friday Notes from Devon’s teacher I noticed it was his turn for Show and Tell. I neglected to inform him of his last few turns and thought I’d make amends by informing him. Of course this led to a frenzy of what he should take and the upset that I’ve not bought him anything cool for a long time. Then he got real quiet and I found him pulling out his drawers of Legos and pawing through them pack rat style. When Dev gets focused there is no interrupting him, so I left him in peace to figure out if I had anything to pack in his lunch since I hadn’t been to the store for the usual Sunday shop. After a time he popped into the kitchen to show me his treasure, an old wallet and coin purse Matt had given him when he upgraded to a new wallet.

Devon: “Look, Mai-Mai! Dad’s wallet! He gave it to me and I found my piggy bank for monies for inside it.”

Me, still searching for lunch foods: “Nice, Dev. That is a super cool thing to share with your friends.”

Devon: “And, look, it even still smells like my dad! He isn’t here, you know, but I can smell him now! I will show my friends and they can all smell my daddy now. Wanna smell Dad?”

Me, hugging him and wanting to cry: “Oh, wow! I’m so glad you found that.”

Devon, so pleased with himself and patting his pocket of treasure, “Yes, I will carry it all the time now.”

And then I did go cry just a bit.

___________________________

Of course, life could be worse. This isn't Japan and life here is a breeze compared to the heartache of so many people and families there. For all those people suffering I wish health and hope.

Donkey Talk

2011-03-09T13:17:00.007-07:00

This last time I was in Utah to visit Matt while he stays with his father was different than other I've spent there. For one thing his mother is now in a nursing home, which is really a good thing for everybody involved because she has 24/7 care and the home is a wee bit more peaceful now. Matt's father is also dying of cancer and so the house had a much different feel this time around. One other thing is that now Tom, Matt's dad, is in a smaller bedroom on a hospital bed and no longer in the room he once shared with Pat. Because the lower level is in some bizarre state of perpetual sub-arctic temperatures year around, the kids and I stayed upstairs in the master bedroom in the enormous king sized bed with a charming view of a field populated by llamas, sheep and a lone donkey. Picturesque, yes? Tranquil? Hell and no.

That damn donkey woke me up every morning at about 4:00 with the most horrendous "EEEEEH-HAAAAAWWWWW! EEEEEH-HAAAAWWWWW!!" This would go on for about five minutes and leave me pissed off and yearning for ass meat with a side of scrambled eggs when I got up for the day. It sucked. The odd thing is when I would mention this in the mornings to the other folk in the house it was if I was insane, because not only had nobody ever actually seen the donkey out in the field, they had obviously never heard him. Of course this only added to my ever present pocket full of paranoia when I'm in the Land O" Mormon. I fancy myself as a bit of an outcast since Matt and I have been divorced for eight years, Devon is six, Matt and I have been off and on so many times that his family doesn't really have a category for me any more other than The Mother of the Children. So my imaginary donkey night frights made me even more self-conscious. Whatever. Anyway, now that time is dragging on, Matt remains in Utah and the children and I miss him I sometimes scroll through our texts to fill time. Here I have to add that one of the things I have always held dear about Matt is that he can make me laugh and he is wicked good with words. Following are some excerpts from the last month or so, straight from the donkey's foul mouth.

Matt: Donkey just said, "Good Morning." He misses you. He told me so.

Me: You tell Donkey I'm gonna make him into a stew and eat him.

Matt: Donkey told me he really thinks you're a bit of a fucktard. He was just afraid to say so.
_ _______________________________________________________

Matt: Donkey was bitching about you this morning.

Me: Donkey can kiss my ass.

Matt: Donkey might be right about you, you know.

Me: Donkey is obviously a fuckwit. He's jealous of my orthodontically fixed teeth.
______________________________________________________

Me: How's Donkey doing today?

M: Ok. Donkey still hates your guts though.

Me: Have you told him lately that I'm gonna cook him up into a gluten-free stew and chew on his stringy ass meat?

Now I'm feeling hungry.

Growing and flying

2011-03-08T13:57:00.003-07:00

There are certain heartbreaks that come with children growing up, one of them is fact they will someday leave the nest and try their wings. Loren has been slowly taking flight over the last year or so and has recently been away from me for longer and longer spans of time. This is partly due to his father being gone in Utah for the past two months and his home stands empty and a mere block from Lo’s school. A year ago it would have made me a nervous wreck for Loren to spend a week at a time away from me, on his own without any adult supervision. But now it really doesn’t bother me as much. I miss him terribly, but I also know he’s involved with his filming efforts most of the time and doesn’t have enough spare time to get into much mischief. Also, he doesn’t yet have his driver’s license so that gives me some peace of mind knowing he isn’t on the roads maneuvering a vehicle.

Last night Loren decided to come home and spend the night with us, so I drove the five miles into town to pick him up from his dad’s house. Our custom is to run by the store for an ice cream stop when I pick him up, and during this time he always asks how everybody has been doing during his absence. When I came to his sister I told him how she had been crying after school because the boys in her class are making fun of her. Loren and Cassidy are like oil and water right now, she is the studious book worm and he the free spirited artist, so when he got angry about the boys mocking his sister I was somewhat surprised. We chatted it over and he added things like:

“You know what though, Mom, she’s such an easy target, Long. Tall. Red. Braces. I would have had a hey day with her when I was in 8th grade.”

And:

“She’ll be all right. She’s smarter than the rest of them. Plus, once she gets her braces off it’ll be better. You and dad gave us all these enormous mouths and the braces just make them bigger. It’s kinda freaky but we’re a bunch of lookers, Devon, Cass and me.”

And even:

“Yeah, we have late bloomer genes, but super good ones.”

It’s times like these when I realize just how much I will miss my son and how
deeply it will hurt when he flies away for real. It’s one thing for him to be a few miles away where I bring him groceries and lunch money every few days, but for my sweet, silly, flippant boy to venture out into the world, that will smart something fierce. In the meantime I treasure our chats and sniff his head when he isn't looking.

Social anxiety isn't necessarily the best of mixers

2011-03-07T13:00:00.002-07:00

I’ve been through nearly 18 years of parenting at this point, or 36 years if one were to add all the children’s ages together. There are a few things I’ve accomplished, some I can even say I own, but there are others at which I continually fail. One of these is The Other Mothers or TOM’s. Damn if they don’t scare the shit out of me as much now as when Loren was just a toddler and I’d encounter them at the playground. The TOM’s just seem to get it more than me. They’re better put together. And most of all, unlike me, they don’t seem to feel that the effort of interacting on a small talk basis is grounds for popping a pill or hiding in the car until the park empties out. Personally, I prefer an empty park because I know there will be no itching or hyperventilating on my part…. Just saying.

A couple of nights ago Devon and Cassidy’s school held their annual wine tasting fundraiser. Yes, leave it to the Catholics to get everybody sloshed on Jesus juice and then encourage them to bid on items they neither want nor need. Sure, I’d love a spa weekend but I don’t want to get drunk and enter a bidding war with the TOM’s. But I had bought tickets, contributed money to the class auction baskets and I’d bailed on the event last year and knew it would be noted if I skipped another year.

Armed with my mother as my date I got cleaned up, left my check book in the car and tried to muster up some courage. As we arrived I could feel the small kitty cat prints of anxiety seeping into my lungs and grabbing on to my inner ribcage. My mom heard my breath catch and asked if all was well. I told her I had maybe 30 minutes in me, perhaps less. She was cool with that and so off we went. The closer we got, the louder the music, the more people. And there it was, a room full of well dressed TOM’s with their Significant Others in equally nice garb. Damn if they didn’t all look so freaking happy and fully at ease.

This is usually the point where my GAD fully kicks in, my chest closes and the effort of pasting a smile on face becomes painful. It seems like everybody’s mouths are moving at once and, in my flightier moments, all their hands are fluttering and performing some kind of secret sign language that obviously informs them all that a social buffoon is in their midst. Yes, it is that bad. My mom talked me into picking up our tickets and complimentary wine glasses and entering the gala. Needless to say I made it about 30 feet in, had a horrendously painful conversation where I couldn’t hear TOM and could only blink at the amount of sequins on her dress. Then I did a small circle, pretended to be at ease and then made a beeline for the door with glass still in hand. Once out, I encountered a small handful of other folks, mostly over the age of 85, who couldn’t handle the noise either. I like to fancy us a small and exclusive crowd, but I suspect they were all just old. Once my mom made the rounds and had some wine we headed home to sweetness of silence. A social failure on my part for sure, but not an entirely unexpected one. Next time I think I’ll just stay home and drink wine in silence. That sounds super healthy.

This is what a Catholic education does

2011-02-25T14:37:00.004-07:00

Devon has always been a bit of an odd duck, a clever duck, but an odd one for sure. I don’t feel bad saying this; I would totally say it to him. Then we would perhaps proceed to have a long chat about it, maybe drawing him in particular instances of strangeness or even acting out parts of his life –with him as the director, of course. That’s just Devon, several degrees off to the left and marching to his own guitar.

A couple of weeks ago I went to fetch Dev from a play date and ended up chatting with his friend’s mom for a spell. I like this mom quite a bit as she seems equally immersed in the same neurotic struggle with motherhood that I battle everyday. She, I’ll call her K., takes her son and Devon to tap dance lessons every Friday and then the boys often have a good long play afterwards at her house while I finish up work. K. always has a fun story or two to share, and this most recent will rank among one of my all time favorite Devon stories.

Right now Devon and his friends have reached that age where video games are new and exciting, they reign king among the 6 year-old set. I personally loathe video games and regret the day I introduced Devon to his Nintendo DS. Unfortunately, at the time we were spending hours on end with Matt in his hospital room, and in a desperate attempt to keep Devon from tripping over somebody’s oxygen tubes, I broke down and bought him the game. When I’m not banning him from it, Devon is glued to the damn thing.

K. has yet to buy her young son a Nintendo and so Devon always makes sure to bring the contraption to the play dates. K. also hates video games, Devon knows this and so has tried to sway her to realize her son’s dreams and get him a “Tendo. When I picked up Dev, K. said to me, “I didn’t know that Nintendo made religious themed games. Devon told me he has a game called ‘Jesus Lives!’.” This was news to me and I told her, “Um, no. Mario? Yes. Sonic? Yup. But, no, no Jesus here.” And then she began to tell me the tale.

The boys attend a Catholic school and are in Kindergarten together. K. is able to volunteer in the classroom and so she had a clue as to where Devon got the info. It seems he incorporated the week’s religious classes into his game and then he tried to sell her on it. We laughed, both of us either fallen or half-assed Catholics at this point; neither of us upset about the fact my son had told a bald faced lie in order to help his friend attain the game. At least it was a creative lie.

On the way home I asked Devon about it, he grinned a sly smile and said, “Well, it’s like this, Mai-Mai. The first level there’s Jesus, and he’s going around a field getting all these different sized crosses. He has to get enough until he can stack them up high and then rise to Heaven….” There was the second level, that one was about Egypt and the death of firstborn sons. If you saved the babies then you got to the third level where Michael the Archangel cut down all evil with his magic sword. The fourth level involved a plague of sorts. The fifth was about avoiding lightening bolts of sin. There was a sixth that I can’t remember and then the seventh level was all about giving a son anything he wanted because he had accomplished so many good deeds. I’m not sure if the seven levels somehow coordinated with the seven days of God’s earth works or if it was just a handy coincidence.

Being his mother I felt as though I had to impress some sort of lesson here and so we discussed the differences of tall tales, exaggeration and outright lies. He maintained his was all in good fun and even for the better of the good as far as his friend was concerned. And me? I was just so damn impressed by his creativity that I had to agree.

The first cut

2011-02-25T09:07:00.002-07:00

Typically a second chance is the one following the first mistake. That first time you stumble, blunder, stick your foot in your mouth. Some falls are more spectacular than others. Some are more wounding than others. Some are small and inconsequential so the second chance seems almost nonexistent. So my question is can you run out of grace? Is it like a cat’s nine lives? Does the pool run dry?

Matt and I got married when we were so absurdly young that now when I look back on it I can’t believe we actually went through with it. Yes, being 7 ½ months pregnant definitely pushed us into it, but we could have waited. He could have balked. I could have said no. But we did do it. We said our vows, took the step. I used to trick myself into believing that it was a colossal mistake, our marriage. My memories were that we only hurt one another.

Our timing was abominable. When I was ready to commit and build a family, he was still licking his wounds from my pre-marital inability to stay focused. In turn when he was ready, I couldn’t breathe. And so it went. Then we divorced. Had Devon 20 months later and then split again after my father died. There was a span when we tried to pick it up but, again, timing was not what it could have been.

In November when I saw Matt in the ER something shifted from within. Something let go as I was standing next to his high walled bed where he writhed and looked so scared because his damn kidneys caused him to have a stroke. In those moments, with Loren and Cass at my side and Devon crouched in the doorway, I knew we were somehow still a unit. Broken or no, there was a bind that still existed. And nothing else mattered.

In the past I’ve been bound up by crippling self-esteem issues, fear of success or nearly any other psychological affliction I could slather on my being. There was some sort of satisfaction in calling it a failure and then living out the results, a self-fulfilling prophecy if you will. No longer. I’ve screwed up beyond words in the past but at this point I really don’t give a flip. Life truly is short and I don’t intend to skulk about the edges wishing I had something only to push it away when it presents itself. I want a family. My family. Like Stitch said, it is broken but it’s still a family. And I want it back. For true this time. In our case I believe there will be enough second chances to go the distance. I believe there is hope and love.

It's a thin line between madness and PMS

2011-02-23T15:34:00.002-07:00

By nature I’m not the most stable of individuals. Most of the time I’m cool with that and can roll with the punches. I mean I totally get that living with my mom, mothering the three kids while Matt is mostly out of town right now, loathing the extra 20 pounds below the expanse of my bust line and working a job at which I am entirely incompetent is bound to get a gal down. It just stands to reason. But lately that balance is just slightly off, and I have to say the urge to pull out all of my eyelashes and hide under the enormous pile of dirty laundry that can be found in most any room of the house is nearly irresistible.

My crazies aren’t necessarily bad crazies, there’s no puppy kicking here or baby pinching for pure pleasure. So it’s not all bad, in fact I like to fancy my instability as somewhat optimistic in nature. Were it to have a color it might be a soft salmon. And. I like to think the balance won’t go so over the edge that that pretty in pink won’t turn to bottom of the outhouse sludge brown.

There are factors that might push me over, the teenage girl child for instance. She’s the sort who all her teachers refer to as a star. “We wish they were all just like your sweet angel, “they tell me whenever I set foot in the school. She routinely wins scholastic awards and I always see her surrounded by the other children when I stop by the school. But, red sister? Angelic to me? Hell and no. Simply put, it’s psychological warfare at some point every day. She’s smarter than me. Faster. More cunning. And far more persistent. She’s going to eat me alive. And afterwards she’ll pick her teeth clean with my smallest rib, smile and look for her next conquest who will likely be her littler brother. Beacuse he's vanilla flavored. That’s the way she rolls.

The small boy child has been pushing me to the edge for the past month or so. This is a first for him because if one were to look in the dictionary for the word cherub, his pink cheeked face would be right next to it. During his six years I have rarely reached and edge with him, but the other night when he looked at me and said, “Mai-Mai you are using your tired voice again. I think you are at the end of your throat with me” I knew I needed a break. Luckily Matt has been in town and for the last three nights I have been without the constant halted chatter of his sweet, grating robot voice. I miss him like hell but the silence has been beautiful.

Strangely it has been the oldest who hasn’t been making me nuts lately. A year ago I was negotiating five F’s into at least C’s, this year he has nearly straight A’s and is so buoyed by the recognition he is getting for his filming that he has stayed out of trouble. The blessing of this is truly a weight off my soul.

So it’s not all bad, really. There is the beautiful bouquet of lilies that Matt sent me and I can smell them as I sit at my desk and pretend that I know what I’m doing. I’ve started yoga again. I have a prescription that is helping me sleep more than 90 minutes a night. And, speaking of sleep, the horrible water and tornado dreams I had for a couple of months are down to only a night or two a week. So really, maybe it’s all just PMS.

Losing it. One jacket at a time

2011-02-14T09:39:00.005-07:00

The strain of having the kids full time for nearly three months is beginning to show. Most days I can sort of wing it, but lately it's becoming apparent that I serious lack some basic skills when it comes to full time single parenting. On Saturday I had to work my second job at the ski mountain, which isn't a huge deal it's just that after a full week of working at my other job I'm pretty beat. Luckily my tasks at the ski mountain are fairly low key and the people I work with are amazing. Another benefit is the kids all get free ski passes and lessons for a minimal fee. For Loren and Cass the lessons are optional but for Devon, unless Loren has the time to take him out on the slopes for a day, they are mandatory. And Devon hates this. I know, poor kid lives in one of the most beautiful places in the world, gets to take ski classes on world class mountains with incredible teachers and he's devastated. My heart bleeds for the poor little bugger. Really.

So Friday night I set out all his stuff, we got up early and donned our ski costumes and headed up to work. When I take Devon with me it means I have to leave my post to get him signed up for a daily lesson since earlier in the season he insisted he wouldn't do the eight week long course. This means an extra 20 minutes or so every Saturday as I sign him up, find a teacher, explain that I have to leave him early so I can get back to work and assure the teacher that, no, a ski lesson will not be torture and that Devon will cheer up and actually have fun. This Saturday was a bit more cumbersome because Devon had left his parka in Utah and was wearing a light jacket of mine that came down past his knees and required several rolls at the sleeves. I thought he looked rather fetching in an orphan sort of way but his ski teacher was not of the same mind set, "Oh dear. We can't have that. Let's just see if we can find something in lost and found so he won't be so uncomfortable." To this Devon replied in his robot voice, "No thank you. I like this jacket. But I don't like ski lessons and this will be the last ski lesson I will ever take." The teacher pleasantly ignored him and proceeded to find him a jacket while Devon hung on me and kept whispering how hard his life was into my ear.

Once clothed, I had to explain to his teacher how Devon would likely not eat the offered lunch, found his borrowed snow pants (he had left his at school and had to borrow a too small pair from a friend the night before) scratchy and wrong and that he truly does enjoy skiing. "He's just a bit of an Eeyore sometimes. But he'll get over it." Now the teacher truly did pause and take a good long look at me before she pipped up, "Oh, now. We'll have him out on the hill and being a Tigger in no time at all." Here I wanted to swat the giant smile off her face while simultaneously sink into the floor that my child heard I had just referred to him a sullen donkey. I also work for the same ski giant where everything-is-always-happy-the-children-are-great-and-nothing-sad/bad-EVER-happens-dammit. Instead I knelt down to Devon and gave him a huge hug and whispered into his ear how much I loved him. Over his shoulder I started to say something more to his teacher. But how can you put into a short sentence the you-see-his-dad-had-a-stroke-and-hasn't-been-able-to-take-care-of-him-for-nearly-three-months-and-now-his-dad-has-been-gone-for-a-month-with-his-dying-father-and-likely-won't-be-home-for-more-than-a-few-days-here-and-there-for-another-few-months-so-it's-just-me-on-the-front-line-and-you-can-see-I-am-a-hot-mess-at-this. No. Instead I said, "Our life has been slightly tumultuous lately." And that's when I knew. She saw the madness in my eyes and decided I was That Mom. The one who believes there is a crisis where there is none and so makes everything a drama. I know because I have seen those moms where I work at the same mountain and my staff and I have had good fun gossiping about them. We love to pick them apart, saying things like, "Did you see how she actually expected us to let her 6 year old ski in a grown woman's coat??? She must be nuts. Poor kid."

Yes, it's all come home to roost. I'm not that mom, I don't think. But I'll cop to a bit of craziness for sure.

Artists and asses

2011-02-11T08:08:00.003-07:00

I come from an artistic family. That statement means that most everyone on our family tree is fairly nuts, but it's all good and we're all down with it. Yesterday I was at a local cafe that I appreciate for its wide selection of gluten-free baked goods when I apporached the owners about hosting an exhibit of my mother's work. It was a lovely exchange and the low down of it is that I will soon be bringing them some examples of her photos for a possible showing in May.

Later I called my mom to inform her she would have to get off her duff, find some good stuff and start cranking for the show. She was excited but then said, "So when are you going to get off your ass and have a show there?" To which I replied, "My head is so far up said ass that I can't even go there right now. In fact, if you really must know my true state, I don't even have on underwear right now. Haven't in days. I'm too pudgy for them and even if I wasn't they're all dirty." My mother paused and replied, "Right. Well. Okay." While it didn't leave her completely speechless it did slow her down.

Getting the hell out of dodge

2011-01-27T09:28:00.001-07:00

This Saturday Devon, Cass and I are getting on a plane and heading out to Salt Lake City and then on to Provo for the week. Loren can't go with us because he is filming an up and comer at the Winter X Games all weekend and then has to have his wisdom teeth out late next week. We are going out to bid good-bye to Matt's dad who is dying of cancer and to see the kids' most favorite Auntie of all, Jen. Matt and I are also going to sort through all his medical bills and attempt to get a handle on them. The one I opened yesterday from the hospital where he spent 10 days had a number so enormous on it that I just had to giggle. Really? A person could buy a fancy Porsche for that amount. Or a spacious home in deep Arakansas. Or me and 15 of my closest girlfriends could get boob lifts. The list could be endless. So, yes, tackle his insane stroke bills we will do.

Despite the fact that parts of our trip will be sad, I am really looking forward to getting out of town for a week. My first choice for a respite might not be Provo, I would opt for someplace warm and sandy, close to a bar where drinks served in coconuts could be easily had. Provo is cold, filled with fresh faced Mormons with good intentions and getting a drink is not the easiest of tasks in that town. But to get away will be good for the soul. One of the aspects I'm most looking forward to is seeing Matt. When he came home from the hospital in early December I saw him every day until he left for Provo over to weeks ago. I made sure he got out of the house, went to the store, visited Starbuck's with me. We haven't spent so much time together in nearly five years and it was truly lovely. I had forgotten that he can make me laugh like no other and how when we are getting along it is so easy to just be. So, yes, I can't wait to go see my ex-husband. Go figure.

Humilitation should always be served in a public arena

2011-01-25T20:09:00.000-07:00

There are moments when I wish the Universe would toss me a bone of mercy or just swallow me whole to put me out any further self-inflicted foolishness. Yesterday afternoon was such a day. I had visited the doctor in the morning to discuss with him my ongoing sleep issues, meaning my inability to perform the task of sleeping. Since the Texan exited the picture I have been able to dispense with most of my need for Ativan but I still can't sleep. And I haven't been able to sleep for a little over six years. Oh, right, since Devon was diagnosed with his heart defect and I had to get up hourly to check on him just to satisfy an obsessive need to make sure he made it through to the next hour. Yes, that bit formed a pattern that to this day screams in my sleep deprived ears, "NO SLEEPING, BITCH. YOU SLEEP AND EVERY PERSON YOU LOVE WILL DIE!". We all have our issues, one of a handful of mine is the above mentioned issue of everybody I know and love perishing in a blink of an eye. Whatever.

So anyway, yesterday. Long line at the pharmacy. I was getting some Lunesta so I can fall asleep at night and not wake up in a cold panic and quietly sneak into the children's' rooms with a mirror to check their breathing. It's a small town pharmacy where I am always sure to encounter at least 12 people from my childhood. Sure enough there was my Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Fisher. We shared the regular exchange of how cute my kids are, my how they've grown, etc. When it came time for me to get my new subscription I answered all the questions: no, I don't want drug counseling, yes, I really want this prescription, etc. And then I slid my card though the machine. It was denied. I can't remember the last time this happened because I am so careful. If I don't have it, I don't spend it. Also, I know if I don't have it and try to spend it the cashier will say in an obnoxiously loud voice, "Ma'am, your card was denied. Do you have another form of payment?" No. I don't use other cards, was out of checks and never have cash. Duh. I slunk away, waved good-bye to my old teacher while Cass and Devon kept asking what was wrong, and just wanting to be absorbed into the earth the entire time.

Once home I opened up my account only to see that the biggest of all my auto payments, the one I had rescheduled to run in a couple of weeks because I have so many other bills right now, yes that one had been run early. It's for the children's tuition and the school has been fairly flexible since the whole my-ex-husband-had-a-stroke-can't-work-and-can't-take-the-kids thing. I couldn't bring myself to call them and bare more of my nakedness idiocy to them. So. I called Matt and did something I haven't done in a super long time, I asked for money. Yup. My ex-husband who is helping to take care of his dying father, get his mom in a nursing home and has to take enough blood pressure medication everyday just to stay alive. I'm classy like that. He said he would transfer me some funds because he's cool like that.

This morning I checked my account again. No bounced checks or drafts. Only one check out. Of course that was the one to somebody I know. Another childhood teacher. She's in by book club, friends with other friends, I see her driving on our shared road on a near daily basis...and I could totally see the tellers at the bank having to inform her that, no there was no money in my account because I'm an irresponsible buffoon. Fortunately, the bank paid it, the transferred funds got there in time and I accrued no fees. This afternoon I was again waiting in the absurdly long line at the pharmacy and hoping when it was my turn they wouldn't all point at me, laugh and say, "Ooooooh, go away, no money girl!" And that is when it dawned on me, I have a shiny new, fully loaded flexible spending card in my wallet. The one for things like co-pays and prescriptions. Duh. The one that had been there all along. Because me? I'm clever like that.

It might be just slightly about me

2011-01-24T10:36:00.000-07:00

I love my kids. How could I not? It is my firmest of beliefs that they are the most brilliant, funniest, gorgeous creatures to roam the face of the earth. But that said, I have to admit how much I treasured the shared parenting schedule Matt and I worked out a couple of years ago. It was slightly choppy, but hello? There were weekends when I had more than 48 hours. To myself. And now, in this post-stroke life where Matt is healing and is now in Utah where he and Jen are putting their mom in an assisted living facility and their father is dying? Ain't no 48 minutes without at least one of our spawn demanding something. And? I'm so damn tired. Not that I'm counting, but I've been with Devon for 64 days and nights in a row. That's a lot of 48 hours all strung together.

I totally get that Matt's stroke is not about me, nor is his father's cancer or his mother's dementia. But it's hard on my side of the fence too. Today by 6:57 a.m. Cassidy had already decided I fully sucked as a human being and totally sucked ass at being her mom. I can't exactly recall where I went wrong but I suspect she heard the dreaded word NO from my lips, it pertained to her and her rights to exist peaceably as an individual and she decided I had to go down for the count. Then Devon had to argue that is was simply impossible to keep his uniform pants cuffed to avoid ruining yet ANOTHER pair of khakis, and really it was my shortcomings that lead to him ruining his school pants. Whatever. All I know is that the relief of getting to work where my children were not was nothing short of bliss.

There have been a gazillion wonderful moments during this time with the kids, I'm not claiming otherwise. It has also been a time of healing and, before Matt went to Utah, an amazing time of reconnecting. Having the kids, Matt and me together in the same room at the same time and feeling the small tendrils of hope that we can somehow be a family under some definition is nothing less than a beautiful cosmic gift. So I am grateful. And, I'll admit, other than the hormonal roller coaster of another child entering puberty, it isn't always an invite only pity party for one. I'll definitely accept guests.

Dead dad guilt

2011-01-18T20:29:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when people talk to me about their dads I have noticed a hesitancy, as if they are somewhat uncomfortable discussing their living paternal figure while mine is dead. I can roll with it, after all it totally sucks that my seemingly healthy father dropped, rather fell over, dead while riding his bike. This doesn't arise too often but when it does there is always a small awkward moment until I reassure that person that, no, I won't go all psycho on them out of some sort of demented dad jealousy.

Yesterday while chatting on the phone with Matt I encountered such an odd pause. Matt has been back in Utah for the past week tending to his father who is dying of Stage 4 melanoma. He was relating to me how Tom, his dad, seemed so much happier now that he is out of the hospital and home on hospice care. I could hear the elation in his voice when he paused and started to change the subject. When pressed as to why, he replied, "Well, I feel a bad talking about my dad and how great it is that we have this chance to say good-bye. I know you never got that with Pete." No, I didn't. And it sucks. Everyday. He was ripped from our lives. There for breakfast and never again home for dinner. But I don't begrudge Matt and Jen this time to say their good-byes, I am thrilled they will get some sort of closure. So I said, "Dude, no dead dad guilt. There's enough guilt in this world and to have it over this simply doesn't work. Save it for something flashier and be at peace with where you are."

There isn't a day that goes by when I don't miss my father. I hate it that we never got to hug him good-bye, that laying my head on his cold chest when he was on a gurney was the only way. But the truth is that for him to be here one moment and gone on to wherever the next was a beautiful gift for him in terms of dying. Sucks for us, no doubt about it, but for him I am grateful he never suffered.

The incredible lightness of breathing

2011-01-18T08:54:00.000-07:00

As a general rule I'm fairly uptight. By the end of most days I am so tightly wound that the children know better than to suddenly bump or touch me, because if they do? It's quite likely I'll start quivering and scratching at my face in a not so reassuring way. This sucks for them, I'm sure, to know their mother is such a freak that simple day to day life wigs me out. It's not uncommon for Cass to ask me, "What gives, Mom? It's just a normal day: work, school for us, homework and dinner. Nothing bad happened. Nobody died today. We all still have our complete set of toes and fingers. That's a good mom thing, huh?"

To which I reply, "Um, yes, but do you know the incredible amount of work needed for me to simply breathe in and out from hour to hour? Toss in the fact that you and Devon need lunches made, Loren needs food money, you all have to get out of the house and to school before 8 am, then I have to go to work where I have to interact with other adults without either stuttering, spitting my food on them or appearing to be a dundering fool. Then. Then there is the afternoon of pick ups, homework, bitching kids, errands with more bitching kids, then I have to entertain you all. And then? THEN? You all want dinner. Like with meat and veggies and fiber and crap. Yes, at the end of the day I have to pull a nutritionally balanced meal out of my ass. Then it's homework, reading and tender tuck ins for you guys."

This sort of reply always takes Cass back a step or two while she mulls it over. Inevitably she ends up shaking her head and walking away from what is obviously a train wreck. Can't say I blame her. Sister is a survivor and she knows that just standing next to me marks her as vulnerable in the herd. But after a spell she will often return, give me a hug and say something along the lines of, "It's okay, mom. I love you even if you are a weirdo. But can I have that dinner, like now?" And then, then I quietly itch at my arms while the task of cooking sustenance looms.

The low down skinny

2011-01-05T09:28:00.001-07:00

....If I don't start write this down I'll forget about it and then someday wonder if any of it really happened or if I'm just making shit up because the children have grown and flown and I'm all alone making collages of kittens from old calendars....

The Sunday before Thanksgiving of this year was a normal one, it was to have been Matt's weekend with the children but he had planned to work extra so he could take the kids to see his parents in Provo so I took the kids. It was a hectic couple of days but as Sunday approached all was evening out, laundry was being done, grocery lists compiled. The usual, except for the fact that Matt wasn't bothering to return my calls, a fact I found mildly irritating at first but I chalked it up to him blowing me off and I thought I could get pissed about it later over a glass of red wine and a bubble bath. At about 3:30 in the afternoon he finally did call, as I answered I was prepared to be slightly aloof to him until I heard that it wasn't his voice on the other line but that of his best friend, Craig. "Heather. Matt's in the ER. He's had a stroke. It's bad. You need to come." As with another time when speaking with somebody from the ER my breath caught, my stomach dropped and silence plugged my ears with a screaming WHAT THE FUCK???

From the ER Matt was transported to a hospital about 90 miles away where he could be in a neural ICU to discover just why exactly a perfectly healthy 39 year-old male randomly has a stroke. The first couple of days Loren and I spent our waking hours in ICU before he had to return to school. Then Devon and Cassidy came to spend two days with their dad after he had been sent from ICU to neuro-acute care for further tests upon test. After a week the doctors were still flummoxed but zeroing on Matt's kidneys as the culprits. I had to leave at the end of the week to return to work and a few days later a friend brought Matt home. The diagnosis: fibromuscular displasia. Turns out Matt's left kidney only gets about 40% of the blood it needs because his arteries leading to the kidney are a train wreck -either thickened, strung out or dead ending. This pisses off his blood thirsty kidney, it then releases a hormone that spikes his blood pressure, not usually too much of an issue unless you have the same condition in your carotid arteries and the increased BP rips through the vertebral artery, causes a bleed and then invites a stroke over for dinner. Yup. All in all a good answer to how a healthy young male starts flopping around on the floor with a stroke.

And so now? Now life is is different than before in ways I haven't the energy to write about quite yet. I will, so at least I'll be able to remember it all one day when perhaps this is sorted out and understood. But right now there appointments, CT scans, MRI's, a soon to be transfer to a teaching hospital in Denver where maybe the other four patients in Colorado's population who have the same disease will be. Hopefully the doctors there won't just scratch their heads, shrug their shoulders and say: "Sorry, nothing more we can do for you here. Good luck keeping that blood pressure down because that vertebral artery of yours doesn't have much left in her!"

One small breath at a time

2011-01-04T13:10:00.000-07:00

There are spans of time when the weight of everyday life seems to be so much that I wonder if my vertebrae have what it takes to remain upright and functional. When I envision myself somewhat like a sardine in a can, my spine twisted and scattered hither and yon simply because I didn't have the get up and go to keep my shit together. Considering how out of whack life has been for the past six weeks I'm pleasantly surprised to find myself not a total basket case. Yes, at the end of the days the above mentioned backbone wants nothing to do with gravity and everything to do with a stiff shot of tequila and some horizontal memory foam. But compared to the trainwreack I can potentially be? I'm fierce stable.

There have been just a small handfull of crying-jag breakdowns. I have only lost my lost my cool with the children once, and though it was huge, it passed and we all got over our bad selves. My Ativan intake hasn't increased to Lindsay Lohan levels of scariness. Red wine intake is down, as is other alcohol related beverages. Really, I find myself rather cool with the entire situation. So much so that I am slightly suspicious of an anxiety attack, the likes of which could break California into the ocean, to creep up on me and say boo while I fall into a pile of spineless, blubbering cells.

Bring on the New Year!

2011-01-03T10:15:00.000-07:00

Some new years I make, and break, resolutions. Other years I think about making resolutions, but knowing I will fall off the wagon of whatever it is I have pledged to stay on, I think better of the idea and go watch a movie while eating extra butter on my popcorn. This year is different though. I believe 2010 was one of discovering that I can accomplish things if I put my mind to it, so what the hell, in 2011 I'll say up front that I'm gonna write down some goals and stick to them.

The last 6 weeks have been out of control crazy. Right before Thanksgiving I got the call that my ex-husband had a stroke, yep 39 and in perfect health with a brain bleed. Who knew? Turns out after 10 days in the hospital he has a rare degenerative vascular disease, the extent to which we still don't know. So since his future is somewhat uncertain and I have (Very willingly) stepped into the role of caretaker I have hopes that my goals for this year can bring some structure to what has been a very free form environment as of late. So here goes:

BUDGET. Might be time to make one, write it down, be realistic and honest about it (no, I can't take my oil change allowance and switch it over to the wine category).
ORGANIZATION. I so suck at this. It's not uncommon for all the really valuable things, my cell phone, the one clean pair of panties I own, a fork or a spoon to be found amongst my bed covers. I know I'll end up there at some point during the day so why not keep all the good stuff there? No longer. I've got bins with dividers and the like, and by golly I'm-a gonna use 'em. Also under this category follows chores lists for the kids where if they don't do the work they get no allowance, this cleverly follows back to my first goal. I'm a thinker that way.
CREATIVITY. One of the things sadly lacking in my life for the past couple of years has been color. When I took up with the Texan, who ended up being a tacky, cheap ass bastard, I stopped painting, gluing, cutting and making pretties. All my extra time was spent on the phone listening to him. So now I'm going to earnestly open an ETSY shop and do it right. I've got the vision for the packaging and photos. Now all I need is some budgeting and organization to pull it all together.
BEING PRESENT. One of the side effects of being riddled with panic is that I tend to crawl up inside my head and curl up in the furrows of my brain, where everything is warm and dark and the only noise is that of heart beat, rather than be in the here and now. This sucks for the kids and makes me end up feeling guilty. Gotta stop this one. It's a crutch and although I really like that snuggly place of oblivion where no one can touch me, I'm going to brave the world.

That's about it. Those four are sort of broad but they are honest and leave little wiggle room for my usual bullshit of of avoiding reality. Here's to it....