everydayjill

That hot.

2013-06-13T16:28:00.001-07:00

Me- "Hey, did you know you put your toothpaste in the fridge?"

Timesboy- "Yep."

Me- "Umm, why?"

Timesboy- "Haven't you read the back, Mom? Store below eighty-six degrees."

Yep.

Monchichi and a bit of anesthesia

2013-06-06T18:19:00.001-07:00

Monchichi, a photo by lucaohman on Flickr.

So, I had a boob job today. *SNORT*

KIDDING.

Anyone who knows me knows that I have spent my life from eighth grade on trying to get rid of the boobs, so that first sentence is a LIE.

But, I did have general anesthesia for the first time in my life. This was a truly strange experience.

Several things were strange. First, apparently I was the first person that my primary nurse knew who had an eyebrowing plucking/rogue German ancestry chin hair plucking/teeth cleaning/face washing contingency in place in case I went into some long term coma from a freakish anesthesia reaction. It's not that I am vain or that I would even care if I was in a coma, but I would not want my monkeys to think that I was a monchichi when they came to see me. I thought everyone would have something like this in place, along with the Medical Power of Attorney. Which I have in place. Ahem.

Second, apparently I need to act up more. Suck air in and tear up, or complain a little about the IV and hawt attire. I need to request more heated towels and pillows and different magazines. I did none of this because I really just wanted to get through so that I could find a cup of coffee. For the love of God.

Third, General Anesthesia is NOTHING like Grey's Anatomy or any other show. There is no blurring of the edges as you drift off. Nope. There is an "I am going to put the mask over your face', and then ninety minutes later a different nurse standing there as you ask when they are going to put the mask over your face. An abrupt loss of a chunk of time. My new nurse did tell me that her husband kept talking about his 'B Danka Dank' while he was coming out of his first time with anesthesia. Pretty sure I did not do that for numerous reasons, one being I had to Urban Dictionary that one. I hope I didn't say anything awful or tell them about my dream last night involving a deceptively violent bullfrog with sharp teeth. Oh well, that is why they get paid the big bucks, right?!

Fourth, apparently there is a lingering issue with mental fogginess even after you can walk and talk. I heard five or six different nurses and doctors say "No major life decisions for the next couple of days". Doh. I can't even finish a compound sentence out loud, much less buy a car or change my will.

And finally, I don't really look like a monchichi. This is the anesthesia speaking.

Goodnight, buttercups. XOXOXO

Thanks @ lucuahman

One with the blueberry.

2013-06-03T20:23:00.001-07:00

Mindfulness.

One of my favoritest (If Sarah Palin can make up words, so can I...) people struggles mightily with insomnia. Not just a little bit of restless legs or to-do lists on his mind, but full on trying to function on an hour or two a night.

He has tried everything, with varying degrees of failure. His newest thing is awareness. Mindfulness. He was telling me about it today, and talking about being aware in everything that he does, especially what he eats. Really tasting every bite that he eats, and appreciating what he is tasting.

While the Insomniac was telling me about eating mindfully, I unsuccessfully tried to hide the container that I had hurriedly scarfed my sammich from. I pointedly put my Lavender Kombucha in between us, as if waving a flag of mindfulness to make up for said sammich scarfing. Let's be honest, you HAVE to be aware and mindful to appreciate Kombucha- otherwise you would think someone was giving you fizzy vinegar to poison you.

Later, I was eating my blueberries, and he brought up the mindfulness again.

I know, they are blackberries. I ATE the blueberries, okay?!

Me- "I am one with my blueberries."

Favorite Insomniac- Laughs. Then earnestly, "Really?"

Me- "Ummmm, yeah. No. Really, no. If I think about blueberries, they are kinda gross, pop-squishing in your mouth. But I am totally down with being one with blackberries and raspberries."

Favorite Insomniac- Laughs. Probably is aware that he wants to throw my blueberries at me.

Me- "They were organic though. So there."

Garden

2013-06-01T16:18:00.001-07:00

"Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them."
-A.A. Milne

When Superteen was little, she loved dandelions. I was granola, her dad believed the only good dandelion was a dead dandelion and that chemical warfare was a good thing, and the poor kid in the middle just wanted to admire her pretty yellow garden. She would wake up in the morning, look out of our huge picture window, and clasp her hands together in excitement.

"Look at my bootiful garden!!"

Those dandelions would spring up overnight, raising their heads defiantly even after he poured poison on them after my girl went to bed.

Life is kind of like dandelions. Some stuff just springs up, no matter how we try to get rid of it. I could probably take a lesson from Superteen, clasp my hands together, and learn to look for the garden in my weeds. Because it is there, even if it is not the one that I was intending.

Peace and love and pretty yellow flowers, friends! XOXO

Catnip, Creativity, and a Neon Cathedral.

2013-05-30T21:20:00.000-07:00

Random Post. Just a few things that I am watching, reading, listening to, and loving...

This woman. She is me, and she is you. She is your sister, your best friend, that woman who you see every day at school dropoff. She just writes it better than most of us. My friend Julie told me about her weeks ago, and I could not find her book , no matter how hard I looked on Amazon. Her blog fell into my lap, pure serendipity, and I cannot stop reading her words. (Oh, and I was looking for the wrong book on Amazon. Oopsie.).

http://momastery.com/blog/

Macklemore. This guy is pure creativity, poetry, and hard truths, all with catchy hooks. Get beyond the poppin'tags and listen to Same Love and Neon Cathedral. Wow....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlVBg7_08n0

Brene Brown. Vulnerability. This is a hard one, but important. I tend to prefer tucking in and protecting to being open and vulnerable, but Brene Brown is spot on.

<iframe src="http://embed.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html" width="640" height="360" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" webkitAllowFullScreen mozallowfullscreen allowFullScreen></iframe>

My friend. And really, her cats are this deadly. Two words. Catnip. Melatonin.

http://006point7ekgo.wordpress.com/2013/05/29/an-unexpected-guest/

All right, peeps. These are my loves today. Peace and love and mushy patience. XOXOXO

My mushroom fix...

2013-05-28T21:46:00.002-07:00

This may look like I am storing someone's liver in a Mason Jar (Hello, Drunk Pinterest...), but it is nothing quite that morbid. Nope. This is the Mushroom, the beginning of the magic of Kombucha. Sterilized glass, raw organic sugar, black tea, spring water, and this...

Mother, SCOBY, or Mushroom- Pure magic!

Closeup of the Magic....

It is on my countertop and I am quite sure that the monkeys will try to scare each other with it, or double dog dare the other one to touch it. It goes into the tea tomorrow, and then sits in a dark timeout corner for seven to ten days to grow and ferment. Then, hmmmm. A little lavender, some pineapple juice, or chia- who knows?

Thank you, Derek and J9! And Bruce, for scooping it into my jar with only a slight shudder...

Memorial

2013-05-27T16:17:00.001-07:00

Memorial Day.

I am not going to lie. I spend the weekend getting plenty of sleep, barbecuing, enjoying killer Margaritas (Who knew the best margarita recipe ever would come from a geneticist from Jersey?!), buying flowers, riding my bike, and enjoying the third day off in a row. I do. I enjoy every minute of it, and I am not going to sit here and say that I don't enjoy all of these things to try and prove that I am more of a Patriot than someone else.

However.

(Come on- you know me. You knew a 'however' was coming).

However, my weekend has been interspersed with thoughts of those who have fought for freedom. My Pepa- Memorial Day always brings memories of going and putting flowers and tokens of love on gravestones. Memories of his war stories- I thought he was bigger than life, but in reality he was still a teenager, sent to fight. Memories of some of his serious stories and of some of his funny stories- one of when he was in the chow hall with his friend Tiny (I saw pictures of Tiny, and this name was definitely an ironic one). They were eating lunch, when planes started flying overhead, dropping bombs. Everyone flew into ditches and trenches, but Tiny managed to roll in with my Pepa, his lunch still in hand.

I think of my friends who have been deployed numerous times, and come back changed forever from what they have seen. I think of my friends who have seen their spouses deploy time after time, and yet they carry on every day because this is also their service to their country. I think of the sacrifices and worries and hurts that I hear about every day- more sacrifices than I will ever make. I think of the veterans I know, who have scars both physical and psychological- my friends who left limbs and peace of mind behind.

So I appreciate and love every moment of my three day weekend. And I am more grateful than words can express to every veteran for what they do so that we can enjoy our days. I am grateful today, and I will be grateful every day, which is how it should be.

That being said, hug a veteran. Listen to your grandpa's stories- not a lot of our WWII veterans around. Buy coffee or a meal for someone in uniform. Give a little love to your friend whose spouse is on their third deployment. Appreciate every time you get to speak or vote or educate your daughter- someone paid for that right with their life.

XOXOXO

Douchecanoe

2013-05-21T16:35:00.001-07:00

Soooo.

At a recent gathering of women, there was one woman whom I did not know. I started talking to her because she was just standing off to the side.

Asked her if she had kids. Yes. Close to Timesboy's age. Asked where they went to school. The school that we tried last year for the monkey and pulled him out of because it was such a milquetoast experience. I didn't say this because everyone is different and we all have different experiences. She then asked me where Timesboy went, and when I told her, she wrinkled her nose and said she wouldn't put her kids there. Dumbass me, I was curious.

Why? Oh, because they dumb the curriculum down there so much in comparison to the school her kids go to and all of the other schools in our state. At which point, I tried the mature "Wow, that is really interesting because we have not had that experience at all. Timesboy has had a wonderful experience and is doing great in the GT program with his learning."

Cue to Douchecanoe to stop talking.

She did not get it. "Oh, the GT program there isn't even the regular program at other schools."

Really? So, even though a lot of school board member's kids and grandkids go this school, it is subpar in an excellent school district? The GT program is subpar for my fourth-grader who is testing in the 99.5% percentile on state tests and doing 7th grade math for fun?

Another cue to Douchecanoe to stop talking.

She did not get it. "Oh, I don't mean anything by it. I think they just dumb it down because of all of the poor people there."

Doh.

No more cues to Douchecanoe. Some people are just assholes, no matter how many rhinestones and crosses they slather on. Funny thing is, this person owns a business in the same small town that she was slamming right and left. I think I would rather pull my pubes out with tweezers than support her business.

After wanting to smack my head against the wall in frustration, I realized that I love the little town that she was slamming. I adore the little school and am continuously in awe of how amazing all of our teachers and staff are. And even though I may live in a poor town and send my monkey to an "inferior" school (Yep, that word was actually used), I much prefer that to being a Douchecanoe.

I also obviously like the word Douchecanoe. Thanks for the highbrow vocab, Bloggess and RedheadWriting. :-)

Poor Peace and Love, Buttercups. XOXO

Ten year old wisdom.

2013-05-14T21:19:00.004-07:00

Happy Spring! Or Summer. Whatever, I will take it!

Upside Down? This is how we roll, peeps.

"What do you want for your birthday, my man?"

"Stocks. Maybe a little Microsoft. A little Echostar. And Home Depot. Oh, and I want a riding lawnmower. Stocks and a riding lawn mower, okay?"

Silence. What do you say to those requests for the big ELEVENTH birthday?

"So you get to stay home for a few hours today by yourself? What are you going to do?"

"Vacuum a little. Scoop a little dog poop. Maybe some laundry."

Silence. Then, a hopeful and proud "really???"

Snort. "No, mom. More like Spongebob and cookies. But I will shower."

SLOG

2013-05-13T22:06:00.001-07:00

Slog- V.
1. to work or progress with a slow, heavy pace. Plod.
2. to work diligently for long hours.

This. This was me tonight.

About a month ago, I pulled my hamstring. Sheer stupidity, and I knew the exact moment that I did it. I ignored this, tried to tell myself that it was just a sore muscle, but I knew exactly what I did.

Cue the countless trips to the chiropractor-doctor-massage therapist. Throw in numerous ice packs and some wicked menthol-eucalyptus-magical ingredient salve. All of this, and I still hurt.

I normally have a very high tolerance for pain, or a high pain threshold, if we must dip into semantics. I can give birth with nary a tylenol in sight. I can have four impacted wisdom teeth removed, with only a local anesthetic and some classical music to distract me. Stitches- I take mine with no anesthetic, thank you very much.

This hamstring has been a different story.

I hurt. Twenty-four seven. I hurt when I sit, when I stand, when I sleep. Mostly a low-level buzzing ache, but with a wallop of knock-me-sideways hurts just often enough to keep me on my toes. (Literally, keep me on my toes, because this takes some of the pressure off of my hamstring. Go figure....) I have become a whiny woman who complains about my arse hurting to anyone within hearing distance. I have become the kind of woman who walks around wearing Eau de Icy Hot, with an ice pack attached to my backside.

This fact annoys me more than Jimmy John commercials.

So, tonight, I ran. Or slogged. My time was embarrassing, but I did it. Three and a half measly miles, with my hamstring hollering the entire time. I may have told her to shut it- she protests whether I stay still or move, so I might as well move. My other muscles were loving me. My calves were stinging. My quads were aching. My lungs were burning. My feet were anticipating aching.

I did it. My hamstring does not hurt any more than the normal at this point, but I did come right home to an ice pack and Old Lady Salve. Any pain that I feel in my hamstring cannot best how good the rest of me feels from my slog. I may well return for more tomorrow.

Kind of like life, if I over-think it while on the trail. Even when it hurts, you move forward. Might as well move, because you are going to hurt either way. Why not be moving forward, in that case?

Peace and Menthol Rubs and sore muscles moving forward, my friends. XOXOXO

Happy Monday!

2013-05-13T07:26:00.001-07:00

Happiness is...

A wickedly weird sunburn from six hours on a motorcycle yesterday. And NOT on the back of one ;-) Party tip- don't push your sleeves up while wearing gloves and a leather bracelet cuff in six hours of sun with not enough sunscreen. The four inch swath of red is hard to explain.

The best ribs ever for Mother's Day. And Kale. And More Kale.

Flowers in every nook and cranny, signaling that spring is here. Or summer. Whichever.

Watching my monkey ride his newish Specialized around as I sit on the front porch with my coffee.

Taking Superteen to school with curlers in my hair. I saw one dad laugh out loud, so it was worth it.

Mother's Day Card...

Stalkerazzi listening to his secret recordings of me. Oomph.

Superteen, giving me the look.

Motherhood is a Team Sport

2013-05-12T16:59:00.001-07:00

Facebook and Hallmark and Pinterest have really raised the bar on Mother's Day. Cards that sing, rose petals leading to spa treatments at home, hand tinted portraits of the children posing as the words Happy Mother's Day. Platinum rings cast with children's fingerprints for the non- Angelina Jolie mamas amongst us who cannot quite handle putting the latitude and longitude of each child's birthplace on our bodies. Mother's Day brunches done up in a delightful Lilly Pulitzer theme, complete with homemade sodas encased in Lilly Pulitzer prints to match the tablecloth and treats.

This stuff is all a big fat lie. Motherhood is not the perfect floral print wrapped around organic fair trade coconut macaroons. Motherhood is terrible and wonderful and joyful and painful, wrapped up in your favorite shirt that has snot and glitter paint permanently affixed to it. Motherhood is staying up all night with a colicky baby or a croupy toddler, drenched in sweat and tears because you don't know how to survive on thirty minutes of sleep. Motherhood is hurting when your child experiences bullying or rejection- wanting to go Mama Lion and roaring against the perpetrators even though you should not.

Motherhood is watching your toddler sleep peacefully at night, their chest rising and falling so regularly and miraculously that you can scarcely believe it. Motherhood is catching your teen sneaking out at night, and marveling at their stupidity and lack of forethought. Motherhood is teaching your preschooler the joy of books, whether they choose Curious George or Captain Underpants. Motherhood is nagging your high schooler to study study study so that they have the most choices at their fingertips.

Motherhood is wishing they would wear more deodorant and less kohl eyeliner and bathe more and watch less TV and choose the kale over the Pop Tarts. Motherhood is wishing they would hear you about flossing. Motherhood is ADHD times a hundred, trying to make sure that you are raising PEOPLE who will make their way in this world. Motherhood is hearing your mother's words come out of your mouth, and realizing she was onto something.

Motherhood is learning to hang on tight, while letting go. Motherhood is letting go of the story you wrote for your children so that they might write their own. Motherhood is recognizing the wisdom of all of the other mamas, grandmas, sisters, aunties, and friends. Motherhood is recognizing yourself as both a mother and as a daughter, and recognizing this in your mama also. Motherhood is loving them always and forever, no matter what, even when they are pretty darn unloveable.

Motherhood is a messy miracle. Turn away from your Pinterest and all of the advertisements and expectations that are foisted upon us. Call your mama and thank her for loving you when you were completely unloveable. Call your mema and thank her for the patience of a saint and for all of the chocolate pies. Call your sister and tell her you think she is a fabulous mama. Call or text or Facebook your friends and tell them thank you for being in the thick of things with you- this mama business is a team sport. Hug your kids tight. And realize that the best Mother's Day gift may not come in a baby blue box, but it might be hand drawn on notebook paper.

Peace and love and mush, my mama friends! XOXOXO

Two wheels and a wailing hamstring.

2013-05-07T20:37:00.003-07:00

In like a lion, out like a lamb. My arse.

Not a lion or a lamb, just a gratuitous Lucky Humperdink shot...

If I possessed a magic wand to erase both March and April from my thirty-ninth year, I would so use that bad boy to wipe those two months from my memory. Eight weeks of trauma and drama, more tears than I thought I could shed. Countless loveys telling me that I look like shit, albeit in a loving way. Sleepless nights, worrying and scurrying, and feeling helpless because I cannot help those who don't want to be helped. Anger and exhaustion and fear, knowing that my love is not enough to pull someone up. Throw in a wicked cold, a pulled hamstring, the inability to run more than a few hundred feet without my hamstring kicking my arse ( no, literally, seizing up and kicking my arse into stopping that incessant attempt at movement), a couple of biopsies, enough whining in my noggin for a lifetime, and I have been right on the dark edge of despondency.

I hate whiny people. Seriously, I hate people who revel in telling you about their gout and corns and hinky step-cousin and bad childhood. I loathe the people who gain their identity from how things happen to them. And yet, here I am. Whiny and just a step shy of telling the intertubes about my fallopian tubes, family trauma and Redneck-Sopranos upbringing.

So I switched gears this weekend. Literally switched gears. With this finicky girl.

Notice she is named Pretty Girl, Not Nice Girl with a Smooth Shift...

Call it a bucket list check, but I took a class. To refresh what it feels like to ride a motorcycle. Sixteen hours of counter-weighting and swerving and tight turns and stopping on a dime. FYI, Pretty Girl had the shittiest shifting I could have imagined, and she was pretty herky jerky. And by the end of the class, on a windy, drizzly thirty degree day, I was as herky jerky as Pretty Girl was. So much so that I am going back this weekend for a bit more punishment/joy.

Pretty Girl was kind of a mean girl, but she reminded me how much I like feeling free. When I was shifting up and pulling the throttle, I actually forgot about my hamstring screaming at me and all of the heaviness that awaits me. I was in the 'right here, right now', with no room to think about anything but the two wheels underneath me.

This might be a love affair. If my hamstring will stop the incessant wailing.

Go to the nest.

2013-05-01T06:39:00.001-07:00

I have no reason for this picture, except that I love it. My friend has these HUGE antique flashcards in her office, and I have this urge to be like the bad step-cousin and mentally put a tag on them in case she gets lost in a Paraguayan jungle or the such. This would be highly inappropriate, so I just enjoy them in her charming office.

Go to the nest, peeps. And stay away from our May storm, Achilles. Yep, our storm named Achilles...

I hear you now.

2013-04-10T21:49:00.003-07:00

I always took hearing for granted. Warrant concerts, Pink Floyd blaring in Ronda's Firebird, crickets chirping on summer nights, church bells ringing on a Sunday morning, whispers from a friend behind a cupped hand, a cat purring as he stretched out, my baby girl crying in the other room as she awoke- these were all gifts that I did not even recognize.

Until I didn't hear things. I just thought church bells quit ringing and crickets did not exist in Colorado. I thought that our doorbell was broken and my cat was too grumpy to purr.

Lo and behold, crickets do chirp and bells do ring here. When I was prego with Timesboy, I had a freakish case of hearing loss. Hereditary, kicked into high gear with the hormones that often surge in pregnancy (they tell you about stretch marks, but hearing loss???), my ears just quit working.

Amazingly enough, my hearing loss is much more correctable than nerve damage that older people often have. I am blessed beyond compare that I can walk out of my audiologist's office and hear someone's high heels clicking against a cold tile floor. I can hear bells and crickets and music and a child's cry. My ears have actually relearned some things, in that I can hear some things that you won't hear- I can hear your voice in a crowded concert, as clear as a bell's peal. I can hear a dog's tags jangling in the park across a football field, so clear that I will look around and assume it must be something within a few feet. I can hear birds warbling on a vacation morning, and I now know this is so precious that I will awaken at five just to sit and soak their songs in.

Interesting thing about correcting hearing loss. It is a far cry from correcting vision. Vision, when you correct it, you correct to 20/20 and see as well as the guy next to you who maintains perfect fighter-pilot vision. Hearing, you can spend eight thousand dollars on hearing aids (that insurance NEVER covers), and still only hear bits and pieces of what a 'normal' person hears. This piece on NPR helps clarify, for a sentence, what having hearing loss feels like.

http://www.npr.org/blogs/health/2013/04/06/175945670/the-real-sounds-of-hearing-loss

Listen to it. Please and thank you.

Mushy stuff, chirping crickets, and bells ringing. XOXOXO

Selfies, a stalker, and striped underwear.

2013-04-08T20:33:00.000-07:00

Having a stalker makes me aware of several things. One, I wear WAAAY too many stripes. Seriously. I obviously took those college J Crew catalogues to heart, because all of these stripes are ridonkulous. People probably place bets on whether my underwear are striped.

Two, I don't get selfies at all because I have no need for them. Why would I, when I have this adorable little creeper stealing around corners and taking pictures of me all the time? Over nine hundred on my phone, at last count. Some, I am aware of the snapping away, but others, I am engrossed in conversations with friends or looking at my salad or sleeping. Nothing creepy about that. No sir.

I have been spending an extraordinary amount of time in IKEA these days. In my stripes. I draw the line at eating Swedish Meatballs or wearing yellow, but there are far too many pictures of me standing in an IKEA line.

I hate pictures of myself ninety-nine percent of the time. The one percent, are usually taken by the Stalkerazzi. He gets me. The me that isn't cheesing for the camera, showing all my teeth, or smiling so that one eye squints. I actually love this picture, even though it is not the most flattering. He caught me in deep conversation at my favorite restaurant (Hello, Bella!!) with one of my favorite people as I was soaking up her words.

...and he lets me be stupid. I can stick my head in a shark's mouth, lick a lucky dollar, belt out a Sugarland song, pet a stingray and sing it a lullaby, crawl through the kiddie tunnel at IKEA, or get a chocolate milk mustache, and he will not only encourage it, but also get the proof on camera. Just in case there is blackmail money to be made in the future, I suppose.

Look. IKEA. Color me surprised.

Occasionally, I tell him to knock it off. Tell him I am going to get a bodyguard. Until I remember he IS the ten-year-old bodyguard. Oof.

More stripes. At Ikea. Judge away. I totally would...

And yet, when I try to photograph the photographer, this is what I get. A shock of hair, and nothing more. Turkey kid.

Prayer.

2013-04-07T21:48:00.002-07:00

http://edwardsharpeandthemagneticzeros.com/news/
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1qAZpQllC9w

I. Love. These. Guys.

This song- this song has made me think more than any other song in a very long time. Sums it all up for me- I don't want to be the pray-er, I just want to be the prayer....

Get off my lawn....

2013-04-01T20:41:00.002-07:00

I find myself getting annoyed a lot lately. This is not my usual- I can normally let things roll off my back. Unless these things involve wet towels or dog hair in my toothbrush, but I digress.

No, I find myself getting annoyed in a way that I want to kick people in their shins or trip them. Often. Instead of doing this, because I am old enough to know that my liability coverage won't cover intentional misdeeds, I am just making a list of things that annoy me.

Jimmy John commercials. Every time I hear one on the radio, I vow to never step foot in one of their sammich shops. Really, who thought it was a good idea to yell in a staccato and increasing way for me to buy your shit?
Colored fog lights. When you drive up behind me with your pink fog lights on the I, I want to slow down to the speed my ex-mother-in-law would drive. That's right, forty slow miles an hour. Your pink fog lights are glaring and obnoxious and your money would be better spent lasering off that bad tramp stamp you probably regret.
Assholes- you know who you are. You really try to harsh my gig, and I am not even letting you in the door. No, really. You cannot come through my door, even if there are zombies who are chasing you and wanting to eat your brains. In that case, you better learn how to climb a tree, because your annoying self is not coming through my door.
IKEA screws. Annoying little pre-stripped things.
Selfies- I don't understand. I realize this is because I am old.
Getting old- I realize this, and it pisses me off. I am getting old because I don't understand the idea of going to the mall and hanging out, or selfies, or duck faces, or mean girls. And the fact that everything is annoying me confirms that I am getting old. Or turning into a fourteen-year-old. Whatev.
Thinking about herbs and supplements- I just want my iron and calcium. Seeing bottles with words like 'slippery elm' and 'red yeast rice' makes me feel a little sickly.

That is it for now, buttercups. I am annoyed with being annoyed. Peace and wet kisses, unless you are an asshole. In that case, get off my lawn.

Knock Knock....

2013-03-19T12:24:00.001-07:00

Insurance. What a conundrum this is. I have spent the last four hours- FOUR HOURS- on the phone, online, trying to unravel and understand their terminology, trying to find appropriate providers, trying to pay bills, trying to get anything done. Four hours, trying to get someone to clarify a legal definition of 'usual and customary' that they apply to their decisions to pay or not pay. Good times.

Usual and customary, my arse.

Insurance companies decide to pay on claims based on what is "usual and customary" in your area. There is no one that I have come into contact with who can define this for me. Does it mean "usual and customary" in Denver? In the midwest? For normal healthy children? For someone in the same demographic with the same diagnosis? For North America? For what and for whom?

Apparently, they don't know. I don't know. Google doesn't know. The insurance website and customer case manager don't know.

I have excellent insurance, a plan that makes most of my friends green with envy. I am very grateful that I have insurance because it opens doors that might otherwise slam shut. However, opening those doors should not require four hours of secret handshakes, whispered codewords, and headstands. Just let me walk through the door and take care of business. Period.

Itty Bitty Truths.

2013-03-07T21:32:00.002-08:00

Someday, I want to write all of the truths. Lay them bare, with no gentleness or blurring the hard edges. I jot bits and pieces of the truth here, but I hold so many close to my chest, both to protect me and to protect my loved ones.

Sheer happiness.

Lisa tells me to write my story. She tells me to tell my truth, but I always resist laying it out there.

This week has made me want to just do it. I have been surrounded this week by other parents and loved ones who are going through what we are going through. I have been moved to tears more than I thought I would be, both by other people's hurts and the realization that my experiences are shared. I have seen myself in other mothers' and fathers' eyes this week and I have wanted to make their pains go away, along with mine. I have found the strangest sorority I would have never thought I would be a part of. And yet, here we are. None of us want to be here, and yet we are so relieved to finally be here.

Truths. Itty bitty ones. Right here. Some people will think that you can cure illness like a run through the washer- soap, rinse and spin. Maybe a second spin cycle just to be sure. It doesn't work that way. a lot of illnesses, you have to work at being part of the cure. You have to show up. You have to fight for it. It isn't easy or convenient, but you fight the good fight for your loved one.

Take the good for what it is. No matter how small, how tiny, a victory is a victory. Celebrate it. Those tiny blessings will give you strength during the hard times.

Hug your kiddos. Hard. And often.

On that note, hug everyone you love. Hard. And often.

That quote that we have all had flit across our Facebook about "Be kinder than necessary, for everyone is fighting their own battle"- remember that. It's true. Except for He Who Must Not be Named. He's an asshat, so you can actually connect your steel-toed boots to his dangly bits. Everyone else, yes, be kinder than necessary.

Recognize that no matter how alone you feel, you are not. There is someone else, or an entire community of someone elses out there that are going through exactly what you are going through. Search them out.

Breathe. In and out. Repeat.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Transport

2013-02-27T19:05:00.001-08:00

Books transport us to a different world.

I forget this until I have a chance to slow down and read. Whether I am reading about a Googler living amongst make believe worlds in San Francisco, or a Quaker girl helping slaves to Canada in 1851, I then am transported somewhere other than a world of insurance and doctors' visits and karate lessons. I hold my breath as Ms. Haymaker brings a scrap of bread to a twelve year old slave on his way to freedom. I root for the hungry kid working at a bookstore waiting for his big break on the inter tubes. I read frantically, trying to absorb history from a world perspective about the Sandinistas and the contras. I come up for air, astonished every time, almost as if I have come up from a dark tunnel into the midday glare. Each time I close a book, good or bad, I am startled that the world has continued on its path.

And I am also aware of the world I want to get lost in, now more than ever. I am taking notes, almost feverishly, because I want to record every bird's conversation, every smell, every interaction that carries a quiet weight. I read and I plot. I read the words, scribble them on napkins, record them in my Evernote, and marvel at the thread that runs through us all.

"It took real skill to remove the gardener's hand from the garden."
-Tracy Chevalier

Mah boy.

2013-02-07T21:36:00.000-08:00

I found another one while going through old papers. This one is circa 2009-2010. For those of you who are not fluent in first-grade writing, I believe the monkey wrote "I have the best mom in the universe."

He also signed his name in parentheses above but I am not showing it (looking at you, Mr. Saudi Arabia lurker....).

I hope he ALWAYS believes this. Even during his teen years.

Ribs

2013-02-06T21:34:00.002-08:00

I had this roommate in college with a little thing for medical textbooks. She was a dance major, but she had more NCLEX and DSM titled tomes than any med or nursing student.

If I had a cough- she was there waiting to diagnose a rare fungal lung infection. If I had a rash- obviously something stemming from a rare autoimmune disease found primarily in Hasidic Jewish men. Anxiety over a breakup- there was a diagnosis for that.

She obviously rubbed off on me. Twenty years later, and here I was yesterday...

"My. Ribs. Hurt."

"K. Sometimes things hurt."

"No. Not a good hurt. Like a HURT hurt."

"Ok. Sometimes things hurt hurt. Give it a day."

You don't understand. It HURT hurts in a weird place. In between the ribs. I think I have rib cancer."

"There is no such thing as... Never mind."

And today....

"Hey, guess what?!"

"What?"

"My ribs don't hurt anymore. I don't think I have rib cancer."

"I told you that it was just a twenty-four hour rib cancer."

I love when people get me. Without questioning my fear of developing
micropsia or triskaidekaphobia.

Reality Trumps the Fairy Tale

2013-02-04T20:54:00.002-08:00

This happened.

The monkey boy writes random little snippets in the strangest places, as if he has to ground the thoughts in reality before they float away.

This one, I found in a random spiral notebook. I was going through the piles that inevitably build up and reproduce, making sure there was nothing tax-related or important. And I found this.

Once upon, crossed out hard, and replaced by a simple truth. Almost like the monkey was saying, in a ten-year-old, non-cussing way, "fuck the fairy tale."

We grow up with all of those "once upon a times" and they kind of set us up for failure. There are very few daddies who are kings, and even fewer princes waiting with the life-giving kisses. Lots of frogs and trolls, more than enough of the wicked stepmonsters and warty stepsisters. And plenty of really good villagers and politically incorrect dwarves.

Reality might well be where it's at. If we stick to the simple truths, to what really is, we might be much better off than looking for the 'once upon a time'. Sometimes, a kiss is just a kiss. wonderful but not life-restoring. Sometimes a bully is just a bully, and there is no jeweled crown that will fix that. Sometimes, a mean girl is a mean woman who brings other mean women into the world. (Party tip, don't eat their apples, even if you are not in a fairy tale). More often than not, we are surrounded by good villagers and politically incorrect dwarves who write the happy endings to our chapters.

Today was a rough day. Second hardest day of my entire thirty-eight years. I wanted the fairy tale, the 'once upon' that ends happily. Didn't happen.

What did happen was a chess game of sorts that takes an awful lot of concentration. And support from a lot of wonderful friends. Thank you for the best wishes 'rushing towards me', the 'peace swirling all around me', 'good vibes' and so much more. you, buttercups, are better than any fairy tale.

to me...

2013-01-30T21:38:00.001-08:00

As a thirty-eight year old with too many scars, I would love to talk to eleven-year-old me. Twelve-year-old me. Thirteen-year-old me.

Things I would tell me? Hmmmm.

Best sweatshirt ever and a most epic Swatch watch. Winning.

You are beautiful. You. You with the buck teeth, coke bottle glasses, permed bangs, and the baby chubbiness. You are absolutely beautiful in your purple plaid shirt and your purple cowgirl jeans. Know that and feel it. You will lose the glasses, grow into the teeth, and grow out the bad perm, but even if you don't- you are beautiful. Inside and out.

You matter. You have as much of a place in this world as everyone else. You may not feel loved, you may feel invisible but you are seen and adored by more people than you know. You make a difference in this world, big and small. You may feel so invisible that you think you cannot hurt people because you don't even count, but you do. Handle people's hearts carefully, and realize that you matter- your pebbles skim the water and create bigger waves than you can ever understand. You are not, nor will you ever be invisible.

Eat the peach from the tree. Eat the Mississippi mud cake that your Mema makes. Drink the horchata from the vendor in Monterrey. Taste it all and savor it twice. Remember to put food in its place. Enjoy it for what it is, your grandmother's love or a bit of sweet on a summer day. Don't give it your power. Don't use it to stuff down sadness, or push your feelings away. Don't waste your time obsessing about it's fat grams, carb grams, calories, glycemic whatever. Make sure it helps you, not hurts you, and savor the bite.

Don't give away your power. Ever. It is far too easy in this world to give away your power without meaning to. You may make bad choices. You may marry an asshole. You may love an addict. You may heap bad choice upon bad choice, but take ownership of each choice and learn from them. If you spend your life blaming the asshole or being the victim of the addict, you give away any power that you actually have. Hold onto tight to your strength and power- they will often be what gets you through. Being the victim will work for a time, but the price is higher than anything you will want to pay. Own your choices, learn from them, and move forward.

You are going to encounter wonderful amazing spirits in this world, along with some epic douchebags. Embrace the amazing ones, be grateful for them, and surround yourself with their goodness. Look at the five people you spend the most time with, and realize that you are holding a mirror. Surround yourself with the wonderful you want to be.

Be present. Simple enough. Hug your loved ones. Tell em you love em. Eat the peach. Drink the wine. Run til your lungs burn. Sing at the top of your lungs. Hula hoop. Turn off your connected gadgets and connect with what's around you.

Speak kindly to yourself. You would never tell your bestie the horrible things you tell yourself. Speak to yourself like you would speak to your best friend. Or your dog. Be your own biggest fan, and tell your inner critic to suck it. And if she appears again, whispering snarls and asides, tell her again. Be gentle with yourself, be your own best friend. You deserve grace and gentleness.

I'd tell her all of this. And I would tell her she is loved and adored. No matter what.

(Thanks to my Evelyn for the picture- doncha wish we had known how beautiful and amazing we were then? XOXO)