Why?

You asked me why I like that photo so much, why, of the scores of shots of your face, I love that one above all others. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, when you asked me, because it's not like you look any more beautiful than normal or that the photo is remarkably well-composed.

No, I love it because it is simply you, without pretense and unguarded. The smile on your face matches that in your eyes. Even your posture, soft and unposed, speaks to who you really are. Precious few shots have come close to that one. And they grow rarer with the passage of time. You, like all of us, have aged, but it isn't the lines on your face. No, in most of the pictures, the hardness in your eyes tells far more than the grin that belies contentment.

I love that one because it's real, because it's you, happy.

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The king of ...

I consider myself to be pretty open-minded about a lot of things and people, or at the very least it is something I admire in others and strive for myself. I try not to judge. However, I have a confession to make. I seriously look at someone differently if I find out they idolize Michael Jackson. A part of me doubts their grounding in reality and their ability to evaluate ... everything, really. OK, now once the laughing has died down, I'll continue.

I should note that gushing over celebrities is already something I just don't understand. But Michael Jackson gushers take things to a whole new level of absurdity. They go on and on about his talent and sexiness and loving nature and how misunderstood and giving he is. They name their dogs after him. Or their kids. Seriously? Can you imagine? "Honey, I named you after my favorite person in the whole world, a wonderful man, the king of pedophi ... I mean pop."

Perhaps fanatics just make me nervous. Still, I can get my mind around putting all sorts of people and things on a pedestal, and feeling irrationally passionate about those things. But a man who, while talented musically, was so disturbed as to do the sorts of things he did, to himself and to others? If you don't have the wherewithal to look at that scenario, at that person, and not see it for what it is, a part of me seriously doubts your ability to make ANY rational decision.

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Not meant to be landlocked

It's after midnight and the sounds of the city are background noise to the Atlantic rolling ashore. I'm restless and melancholy, knowing that tomorrow I'll return to places surrounded by little but land. I was born landlocked, but the few years I spent living by the sea defined where I belong. Every time I venture there, I am reminded. It's painful to leave. It always is. I'll sit here a while longer, enveloped in its sound, and try not to think about how long it might be before I find my way back home.

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Needed respite

Tonight, my friend's 2-year-old daughter spent several hours at my house while her mom worked. After I put my kids to bed, I put her into my bed in an attempt to get her to sleep. I slipped her little diaper-clad body between the sheets, pulled up the duvet and reclined beside her. I watched as she wiggled about, giggling to herself, rolling over and over, obviously delighted by the way the soft cotton felt against her bare skin. She was the personification of joyful sensation. She paused and turned her sweet face toward me, grinning and wiggling her fingers in front of her, that squeaky voice making some approximation of the word "spider." Five rounds of "Itsy Bitsy Spider" later, her mom came to pick her up.

In a week that has been, at times, blackened by some of the worst humanity has to offer, she was a beautiful, simple and welcome reminder of the best.

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The way it is

Overheard (and inspired):

"Yes, I am a person who is petty enough to look at people I don't really care for and think 'Oh, honey, you may not have the years, but you sure show the miles.'"

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Why I can fix that

Most people who know me would agree that I'm not very good at the word "can't." If something is broken or needs work, whether it be a relationship or a project or a light fixture, my first inclination is to break out the tools, roll up my sleeves and get started.

That I might fail, or not be up to the task at hand, rarely even occurs to me.

When I was younger, I chalked this up to being one of two daughters of a man who had no sons. We learned to shoot before we learned long division. We did yard work. We went fishing. We cut firewood. We helped build things. Now don't get me wrong, we were not complete tomboys. We took ballet lessons and learned to cook and sew too, but our experiences were certainly not limited to those reserved for the fairer sex.

As a young woman, I credited my father's influence almost exclusively for my willingness to charge forth when faced with a new situation or task. As I grow older, I recognize that while some of the technical ability came from my father, the mentality is one most accurately attributed to my mother.

She grew up in the midwest, one of 10 kids in a Catholic farm family. Her brothers and sisters all still live within about 20 miles of the farm. So do their children. So do their grandchildren. But she left, and she didn't stop at the next state. Not too long after high school, she packed up and first headed south, but found that not quite the right fit. She went, of all places, to Fairbanks, Alaska. I wonder if she was scared. Perhaps she just figured she would make it work.

Through the years I have watched my mother employ that technique in almost everything, from raising us to starting a business to running a household to home improvement. She just seems to step up and figure it out. And most times, it turns out OK.

When my chainsaw won't start or my water pump starts sucking air, I roll my eyes, curse a little, then pick out the right tools and figure out a way to fix it. My father taught me which tools too use. My mother taught me to have the courage to pick up the tools in the first place.

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Afternoon anthem

Sunshine streaming and sleepy eyes on a Saturday afternoon: It's perfect for drifting.

Come Away with Me

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Happy Cinco de Mayo

The air of warm-weather festivity was markedly lacking this afternoon. Yep, those are snowflakes. Apparently, nobody bothered to inform the weather gods that it was the fifth of May and thus snow was wildly inappropriate. Can margaritas be served hot?

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Comfort fail

My well-meaning 10-year-old has a friend whose mother is having surgery. She was attempting to be a good friend and comfort this other little girl, to empathize with her obvious concern for her mother. So she sincerely and sweetly looked at her and said, "That must be really tough, your mom could die." Her friend burst into tears. My daughter made a nice card tonight. Her friend's mother probably thinks my child is the meanest girl at school.

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Mini key

As if Twitter by text and RSS feeds weren't exciting enough, I thought I might really test my mad skillz by blogging on the Blackberry. 'Cause nothing says "hip and edgy" like pontificating with the phone carried by thousands of middle-aged white guys.

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Brave new bird

In the name of research, and not because I have no life, I'm now playing with twitter feed. Let's just call it "professional development" instead of "narcissistic boredom," shall we?

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The S word

I just filled a prescription for two new medications. Out of curiosity, I checked my receipts to see how much they would have cost, had I been one of the uninsured masses. I about choked: nearly $500 for a single month's supply. I recently heard about someone who has lousy insurance and has to purchase a similar medication out of pocket. That person pays about $65 for 100 days worth over the Internet. And where does this cheap medication come from? Why Canada, of course. You know, that continental neighbor that does the unthinkable: ensure that its citizens have affordable health care.

Those commie bastards.

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Everyday Prince Charming

A man and a woman, a couple not too much older than I am, were leaving their office. He went to the coat closet and helped her on with her coat. This simple, chivalrous gesture, carried out with obvious caring in his look and manner, was one of the sweetest things I have seen in a long time. Perhaps it's old-fashioned, but some things are classics for a reason. And it still makes me smile thinking about it.

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The conversations we're REALLY having

It's that special time of year, where couples profess their undying love and the singles pretend not to notice. "What? Oh yeah, is THAT why hearts and roses are plastered on every store end-cap?"

Yep, it's Valentine's Day, the ultimate holiday of the haves and have-nots. And nothing says "I heart u" like those chalky, sugary conversation hearts. This year, I decided to start some conversations that are a tad bit more relevant to my brothers and sisters who, like me, are braving the shallow and muddy dating pool of our 30s and 40s. Let's face it folks, it can be pretty damn scary out there.

So, without further adieu, I give you the "reduced for quick sale" holiday cookies:



Sometimes you're not really looking for something lasting. For those moments, the ONS Collection says it all:



Sure, we all have issues from our childhood, but every once in a while, you meet one of these. If they start saying things like, "I lacked male role models," run. The Parental Collection:



We've all been at this for a while, through the wringer, if you will. Embrace your secondhand status with the Salvo Armani Collection:



We all know the herd has been culled. Why lie? Tell it like it is with the Lowered Expectations Collection:



Raise your hand if you have experienced a crazy. You know what I am talking about. The ones who start using the word "we" after meeting for coffee once and start asking when you will want to meet their parents. The Cuckoo Collection captures this phenomenon with aplomb:



Happy Valentine's Day!

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Kitchen table breakthroughs

I long ago figured out that the dinnertime conversations my children and I have are not exactly of the "Leave it to Beaver" variety. My eldest was musing the other night about things like LSD and 'shrooms and how he wondered if drugs really could expand your mind, like some people say.

"Maybe that's how people could find a cure for cancer. They get super high and then ..."

Well, maybe, sure. It could end with a cure for cancer. It could also end with screaming and fleeing from the scary clown peeking in the window. To-MAY-to, to-MAH-to.

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Farewell friend

He was my next-door neighbor for 12 years, from the first day I bought my house. Everyone else has changed over the years. He stayed put, an aging and fiercely independent widower with no family here in town.

Each spring, I planted an extra basket of petunias and pansies and hung it outside his garage. He always kept it watered. He wasn't overtly social, certainly not the Ned Flanders model of a neighbor, but he was happy to stop and chat about the latest goings-on with his daughter in the Lower 48 or local politics or my job or his health. He watched my children grow up and always had kind words for and about them and about the horde of other kids that now live on our street. He even liked my obnoxious dog and took time to pet her when he went on his forays out to the mailbox. I watched him grow older and I worried, sometimes, about him living alone.

During the winter, if the snow got too deep, I or my teenage son or one of the other neighbors would clear it from in front of the garage. During the winter, he usually only came and went to take the garbage to the dumpster and get the mail. We checked in on him during the holidays. I always sent the kids over with a plate of goodies on Christmas.

And once April and May rolled around, like the rest of the Alaskans, he would emerge from his winter abode into the sunshine. We'd stop to chat in the driveway and he would remark that the kids had grown a lot over the winter.

He won't be meeting me in the driveway this spring. The state troopers stopped by tonight with a familiar and foreboding scenario. Had anyone spoken to him recently? A lone trooper watched the house for a couple of hours. Then the white van arrived. And the gurney. They went into the house and came out carrying a body bag.

It's not that he is gone. He was at least 70 years old. I know his aches and pains had become harder and harder to bear. He and I had talked about aging, and I know that he wanted to die on his own terms, in his own home. Still, I can't help but wonder if we should have checked on him more often, if I could have done something differently.

The spring won't be the same this year. I'm not sure what I will do with that extra flower basket. I'll miss those perfectly prosaic driveway conversations. Each of those moments are, taken alone, of little consequence. Together they form a presence in my life and the life of my family that will be missed. He will be missed. And I hope he knew that before he died.

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Overheard

"When I get an e-mail from her, I feel like the back of my head is in a vise."

Raise your hand if you have one of those people in your life.

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Recession? Reality?

I just did my taxes and found the entire experience quite depressing. Despite a promotion, I'm pretty sure I didn't even keep up with the increased cost of living this year. I'm one of the lucky ones. At least I still have a job. At least I still have a home.

All that said, I am 15 years into my career and am not sure there will ever come a day when I am not holding my breath until the next paycheck. And if things continue at this rate--skyrocketing health insurance rates, less-than-inflation pay increases, energy costs at triple the national average--it will get worse and worse every year. I find myself wondering how I might cope with the possibility of simply not making ends meet and how I ended up even having to think about something like that in the first place. And I wonder how many other people are out there thinking the same thing.

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Come, meet, come (if you're lucky)

A local hotel and restaurant are hosting a "Single Mingle" this weekend. Appetizers, drinks and, well, mingling. The flier boasts, "things are about to get more exciting in the dark ..."

I won't touch on the capitalization. Nor will I say anything about the clumsily executed sexual innuendo, which meshes quite nicely with the wavy Word art.

They dispense with the subtlety in the next section: "Rooms available for $59 plus tax."

C'mon out! Have a food. Drink a little wine. Meet new people. Score.

The waiter said that every call about the event has been from men. I'm shocked (and almost tempted to go and watch.)

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A bubble off

Tonight I sat in my bed in my pajama pants and wrote a press release about my ex. Then I processed pictures of him. It was unnatural. I didn't like it.

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Tenacious past

What if it never goes away, that thing that twists the knife like no other? So many attempts at exorcism, yet the images still remain; it still feels like yesterday. What if there is no finding a way out?

We all go through trials in our lives and time and distance usually renders them harmlessly soft. They are memories--painful, perhaps--but viewed through fog, their jagged edges no longer close enough to slice.

But what of those that refuse to sink into the fog?

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You put in on with what?

Ever heard someone say that a woman looks like she puts her makeup on with a putty knife? Well, apparently L'Oreal has come up with something pretty close:

True-Match roll-on foundation

I wonder if you can buy it at Home Depot along with your putty knife.

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Responsibly busted

Every once in while, my genetic Catholic guilt combined with frustration over lack of money prompts a budget check. I never have any money left over at the end of the month. I must be spending irresponsibly, right? I am 15 years into my career and one of the senior people in my field at my company. I should have money left to save, right. Paycheck-to-paycheck is something for 20-somethings in college, right?

So I pull up Excel and make little rows for my expenses: Utilities, credit cards, transportation. Expenses are high, but my debt-to-asset ratio is ridiculously good, given that I own my house outright. I don't have any expensive habits like smoking or gambling. I don't even have cable TV. I keep my thermostat at 60 degrees at night. I am typing in the dark right now.

Then I plug in my income. I'm feeling very proactive and organized and grown up right about now. I'm being Responsible. I am creating a personal Budget. I am an Adult.

Click, click. Tap, tap. Digits entered. Formula in. What the hell? Seriously? I am supposed to feed and clothe and pay medical expenses for my family of 4 on $1,100 a month. Shit. Groceries are at least $200 a week.

I'm not irresponsible. I'm just effing broke!

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Budding lefties

My children screeched when they found a picture of Dubya in their old school papers. One read the form letter out loud. Another said, "This was not written by George Bush. This was written by someone who actually knows what a comma is."

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Seriously?

Apparently I don't even have to be present to crunch up my pickup. Nor did I have to leave it parked in the middle of some road somewhere.

Here is a picture of my truck innocently parked all straight and proper, exactly where I left it at 9 a.m.:



Here is the front end of my truck when I returned at 6:45 p.m.:



Wait a minute. Rewind. WTF? How the hell does a vehicle parked head-in up against an embankment end up with a crunched front end? That was exactly my thought when I saw the note on my windshield and walked around the truck to see the crushed grill, bent bumper and obliterated front headlight assembly.

An errant boulder? A couple of hockey players in a parking lot brawl? Joyriding considerate thieves who decided to return the vehicle to the exact same parking space? Demonic possession? Climate change?

I called the number on the slip of paper and was greeted by something nearly as absurd.

My truck was attacked by an embankment-jumping Ford Focus that had been parked right about where that bumper from another car is poking out in the left-hand side of the first photo. Seems the person starting the Focus didn't know about that pesky quirk standard transmissions have. You know the one. It dictates that a person would be wise to take the vehicle out of first gear before starting it. One turn of the key and apparently this little Focus popped right over the curb and down the embankment, neatly lodging its tenacious self in my front grill.

Super Focus was gone when I got there this evening, a note from the driver and a crunched truck all that remained from the circus. I still have no idea how they got the damn thing dislodged. I'll have to ask the kid next time I talk to him.

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Final count

Posted today at the borough's Web site. Questioned and absentee ballots are included in this count.

Tammie Wilson--8263 (47.57 percent)
Luke Hopkins--9107 (52.43 percent)

Whew!

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Three dozen

It's after midnight and I have entered the last half of my 30s.

I'm always a bit contemplative at anniversaries of any sort. I find value in pondering the past, seeing where I have come from. And I have, but just briefly. The last year was, by most accounts, among the darkest in recent memory. I know where I was this time last year. It warrants just a glance. An acknowledgment, and little else, of how much of the present I missed then.

My teenage son woke me up this morning with "Mom, can I have $5? Oh, and happy birthday." I slipped him the cash, laughed and dozed off. My colleagues brought cake and coffee. My phone and chat window and e-mail chirped with greetings throughout the day, short, but noticed, reminders of the richness of my life.

After work, I joined some friends for dinner at a local restaurant. I looked around the table. My youngest daughter and my friend's daughter were giggling at the far end. My teenage son and daughter sat across from them, looking genuinely happy and amused at their antics. At my right was a man I adore and across the table was a woman who took time she could scarcely afford to spend a few hours with us. My dear friend, and architect of the evening, and her husband rounded out the group. And as they sang and I blushed, I wondered if any of them knew how happy I felt just to have them all there.

I arrived home to a message from my father, wishing me a happy birthday. My children scurried to their bedrooms to gather the gifts they had wrapped two days prior, the ones they bought when my parents drove 220 miles round trip to take them shopping for me. My son rummaged for candles, his voice, childlike with a man's tenor, directing me to sit down at the dining room table. They sang as they marched out carrying presents and cake, their faces bright. A flurry of paper and singing cards and "open this one next, Mom" followed, the little one wiggling with excitement and the teenagers simply themselves; cool doesn't matter.

At times in my life I have expended great amounts of energy chasing some distant happiness. And while goals are important, I hope that I can remember the value of looking, not ahead, but around. So much of what I need, I already have.

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Munkisms overheard

This is what your kid is REALLY doing instead of paying attention in class.

"I do all sorts of things when I am bored: play with pencils, stare at the zipper on my pants."

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The virtual I, resurrected

Cocktails

Looking for results? Visit the Fairbanks North Star Borough online.

Grab a beer, sit down and join us:




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Black hole

I was reminded yesterday of how truly awful people can be to each other. It is remarkable how, under the guise of some twisted idea of love, a person will hold on so tightly to another. His suffocating grip first extinguishes all joy from the life of the object of his obsession. And as this poor soul, like a kitten in the grip of a clueless toddler, tries to escape, her captor simply holds on tighter. Eventually, joy is not the only casualty. Eventually the life leaves her eyes, her ambition dies, as does every other thing that gave her worth as a human being. What's left is limp, empty, lifeless, a shadow of its former self. And still the captor clings desperately to his possession. She might be nearly dead, but she is still his.

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Fear of hose clamps

I just realized that it has been the better part of 9 months since I changed the water filter at my well head. As a result, the water is nearly at "drool" stage coming out of my shower head. The water's clean, but the water pressure is less-than-ideal, given that the filter between the pump and the house is clogged with rust.

Usually I am so good. But, confession time. I think I may have an unnatural fear of my water filter. To be more specific, I fear the hose clamps that surround the water filter. The last time I tangled with those bad boys, I ended up with this:



Lemme tell you, stitches on your knuckle are SO not fun. Neither is seeing your bone through the jagged flesh of your mangled knuckle.

But, alas, if I ever hope to take an invigorating shower again, I had best learn to get over my clamp-o-phobia, grab the strap wrench and get my scaredy ass down in the basement.

And don't even get me started on the spiders.

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Fire! Fire! Fire!

Starvation Gulch, the annual fall tradition at my alma mater:



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The aficionado

Overheard:

"I have discovered that boxed wine can be pretty fabulous because there's a lot of it in there."

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Boggles

Let me get this straight:

If someone loves you, she is naturally going to hurt you. One way to prevent this from happening is to deliberately do things that push her away or make her understand that she can't possibly REALLY love you. This goes hand-in-hand with assuming that everything she does has some ulterior and harmful motive. It's important to regularly inform her that she is trying to hurt you.

If you love someone, that very fact means that she will hurt you. The best course of action is to reject what your heart knows and pretend it doesn't exist.

Really, the safest course of action is to push away those who really love you and embrace those who don't. People who don't love you are the only ones you can be sure won't hurt you. They don't care enough to hurt you.

This, near as I can tell, is the reality for the bruised souls, the lessons they learned too early from the people who were supposed to love them the most. It's frustrating. It's heartbreaking. And, at times, I wonder if that damage can ever be repaired.

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Court-ordered abuse

I am close to two women who have children with men who were unable to communicate without using their fists. We're not talking losing their temper. We're not talking getting carried away once or twice. We're talking people who beat the crap out of the mother of their child. These individuals are manipulative, controlling and utterly without remorse. They don't have anger management problems. They have problems with the women in their life being autonomous human beings.

So when these women finally were brave enough to escape the control and violence, what did the court system, in its ultimate wisdom, do to protect them and their children? Why, it ordered 50-50 legal custody, of course.

For those of you who do not have joint custody situations, this means both parents must agree on most of the stuff that lies outside the basic day-to-day routines. Things like medical care and education and activities must be agreed upon. Sometimes, the requirements are even more specific than that. The idea, on its face, is to ensure that both parents contribute equally to the raising of the child and that they cooperate to the child's best interest. It works very, very well for lots of functional co-parenting arrangements.

When you award joint legal custody in a domestic violence situation, however, the dynamic is different. It forces the victim to continue interacting with his or her abuser. It forces the victim to ask permission for basic parenting actions. It gives the abuser a very powerful tool to continue controlling and mentally abusing his or her victim.

It amounts to court-sanctioned abuse until the child hits the age of 18, and it is utterly inexcusable.

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Perhaps I should go shopping

My 15-year-old observed this evening, "All we have in our fridge is beer and mayonnaise." The sad thing is, he's not too far off. Bad Mommy. Time to hit the store.

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An experiment

This from a friend on Facebook:

"My sources confirm that there's a rumor in wasilla that sarah palin is an extra terrestrial. sources say a small mole at the base of her neck covers the "data port" she uses to upload information about her conservative base to the mother ship, a piece of which recently crashed into the planet jupiter. (ok, now i just have to sit back and wait for the blogosphere to pick up on this)."

I am reposting for the sole purpose of watching the Web stats and seeing how many people really ARE Googling "Sarah Palin" and "extraterrestrial" in the same search. It's social research, right?

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Chilly

I could see my breath when I got home from a friend's house early this morning. It was 44 degrees. Fall in Alaska is manic, at least for me. It's as if that first chilly morning flips a switch and all of the sudden I realize the snow is coming. And that means I need to harvest the garden and pick berries and cut that firewood I have been putting off all summer long. Faster, faster, faster. Every morning is a little voice whispering, "It's coming. It's coming. Hurry."

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Soulful songs

I am lucky to have friends with diverse musical tastes. Every once in a while, I fall instantly in love. Leonard Cohen was one. Rocco DeLuca and The Burden: brilliant. This guy is another. Heard it late Friday. Bought his most recent album Sunday.

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Overheard

Not a lot to add to this one:

"All you gotta say is 'I am roasting an entire pig' and I'm there!"

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Life ring?

The list of stuff I need to do is growing as quickly as my motivation is declining. I'd like to say that it's an unusually large wave of things I'm responsible for, but that would be an incorrect metaphor. It's more like a large river: constant and over my head. No wonder I feel like I am drowning most of the time.

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Time travel

Simply looking out the window isn't enough. She needs to be higher, so she drops the tailgate, picks her way around the bicycle and camp chairs stashed in the back and crawls up to the roof of the pickup.

There. The city spreads out below, finally visible above the tops of the trees. A cigarette burns in her hand, her eyes scan the sky above, a hint of wispy clouds visible in the sky, barely light from the late summer sun. The air is cool, laced with the sound of those songs playing against the hushing wind.

She takes a long drag off the cigarette and exhales slowly, time traveling. Countless hours spent in this spot. The windows were always closed then, the music loud enough to shake the windows and dampen her cries, screams, sobs, but little else. It never mattered how loud it was, how the bass reverberated through her body, it couldn't distract from the agonizing twists and tears. Screaming was really the only option in those moments when her soul was flying apart.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Come back.

She looks up and finds quiet in her insignificance under the sky.

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Darkness descends

Yesterday afternoon, I watched from my office window as the column of smoke rose from the flats on the other side of the Tanana River. By evening, it had grown to a boiling cloud, sickly gray, visible above all the trees and buildings.

Today, the wind shifted, and the blackness rolled toward town, apocalyptic. The sun, first tinged red by the choking cloud, eventually disappeared as ash began to fall from the sky.

The world flattens when the smoke comes. The trees and hills become nothing more than silhouettes, cardboard cutouts stacked indeterminable distances away. The light is jaundiced, a symptom of air unfit to breath. And it is quiet. The birds don't sing and the ashy blanket seems to dampen every sound, save the waves of wind that fan the flames and bring more smoke.

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Mortal deity

"God is dead," the little one informed me. "He lives up in the sky and that's where dead people live."

Oh really?

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Who's in charge here?

A friend and I had an interesting discussion about love and relationships the other night. She is a pragmatist, a trait she would likely tie to watching some of the women in her family go through hell as a result of following their hearts and ignoring their heads. Falling hard, especially early on, makes it too easy for men to treat you badly, she reasons. It's a valid point.

My history is different. My model of romantic relationships is as close to ideal as most people get. I am a romantic. I believe in love and its strength and endurance. I know that falling completely and unconditionally in love can lead to a lifetime of happy companionship, passion and mutual respect.

We agreed that in order to find happiness in a partner, the elements of head and heart must synch. You must know that it both makes sense for you to be together, as well as being completely indefinable. You must be completely open and vulnerable to each other, know and accept even the less-than-desirable parts, while not losing sight of what is and is not practical and acceptable.

Still, that knowledge does not answer the underlying questions.

Do you lead with your head, find a partner who makes sense, and risk finding out five years from now that you simply don't love that person enough to stay?

Do you lead with your heart, find a partner you love without condition, and risk finding out five years from now that the practical hurdles are insurmountable?

Which path is wisest?

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Second-hand math

OK, let me figure this out:

We made about $210 at the yard sale today, between myself and my mother.
We paid about $50 for the newspaper ad and sign supplies.
210-50=160

The sale went for six hours today. We spent two hours this morning getting ready. We spent another hour breaking down and covering things for the next day. We spent about four hours the previous evening putting things out. And, let's be really conservative and say we spent four hours gathering all of the stuff.
6+2+1+4+4=17

So 160/2=80. We each netted $80 today.
And 80/17=4.70

What? I busted my ass for $4.70 an hour? This, friends, is why the wine at dinner was accompanied by a solemn pledge, "Never, never, never have another yard sale."

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Just a quick note to tell you that your son ...

I really do appreciate that the school makes an effort to keep me informed of my child's tardies via handwritten explanations from him. That said, it MIGHT be useful if I received those around the time they happened in March instead of in, you know, JUNE.

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So unusual?

This from today's Fairbanks Daily News-Miner police report:

"Indecent exposure

Fairbanks police received a report of two people having sex behind the Midnite Mine on Monday afternoon. Officers dispatched to the scene did not find anything unusual."

The question here is whether it is unusual for people to be having sex behind the Midnite Mine. How are we to know whether copulation really occurred?

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Felonious broccoli

Food battles this evening in my household. The little one informed me that she was going to call the cops if I made her eat broccoli. After several minutes of screaming and howling and weeping, Captain Ranch Dressing saved the day. After dunking the spear of broccoli in enough ranch dressing to supply the Safeway salad bar, she remarked, "I can't taste it at all."

No. Way.

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Mother, may I?

This has to go down as one of the more bizarre stories I've heard in recent months, if for no other reason than the ridiculous set of facts, courtesy of a night on the deck of a local establishment.

This guy was irritated, and vocally so. He wasn't sure WHAT he was going to do. You see, he is a filmmaker in the, ummmm, adult, genre. And he found himself in quite a pickle when the star of his locally produced sci-fi porn film decided to quit just as filming was set to begin. Was it stage fright? Was this aspiring giant of the adult film industry unable to perform? Did he move on to bigger and better things?

Not exactly. Apparently, he asked his mother if he should do it. She said, "no."

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Employment criteria

My 15-year-old son made an astute observation as we were waiting at one of the local espresso stands. All of the baristas were young women, he noted, and cute ones at that. The technical term, or so I was told once, is "coffee hottie." My son wondered why no young men worked that the coffee stands. I said that perhaps none of his peers applied for the jobs because they were seen as jobs for girls.

As he glanced through the window at the girl making our beverage, he piped up, "If they were SMART, they would apply."

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It is NOT!

"It is what it is."

I don't recall when I was first introduced to that string of monosyllabic meaninglessness, but it's a phrase I have grown to hate and then some, as it seems to be the mantra of those too paralyzed by laziness or fear to make decisions. It is often accompanied by a half-hearted shrug and look of sheepishness. Even worse, my life has, on occasion, been completely tossed into upheaval by those who have that mentality.

Let me make it clear:
It is pathetic.
It is miserable.
It is bullshit that you are such a pussy.
It is the antithesis of being human and adult.
It is intentional, even if you are too clueless to realize it.
It is causing the people around you to suffer.
It is what you have chosen by default, for us and for yourself.
It is what you have made it.

But, "it is what it is?" Hardly. It is not. Please, people, quit trying to use that ridiculous phrase to defend the indefensible.

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Needing backup

I backed out of the driveway at 5:45 p.m. The 15-year-old was riding his bike to football practice. The 13-year-old was just getting started on the dishes she should have done 8 hours ago. The 9-year-old was sitting quietly in the back seat as we pulled out to go to her soccer game, which was supposed to start in 15 minutes. I was late and harried and grouchy and worn thin by a day of the angst of others.

Halfway down the road, her voice piped up quietly from the back seat, "Mom, it's pictures today."

Crap. Yep. It sure is. And pictures start about 40 minutes before the game starts. I was a liberal arts major, but let's look at this for a minute: 6 p.m. minus 40 minutes equals 25 minutes before I left the house. "I'm sorry, honey, we're gonna miss pictures," I said. Her face got that blank look. I said I was sorry again. She cried. So I cried too, guilt and weariness entwining into a knot in my chest.

The evening has a happy ending, as I was mistaken, by an hour, about the time for the game AND pictures. In this instance, I was thankful for my inability to keep all the balls in the air. I screwed up the time. Good thing, or she would have missed pictures.

It isn't always that way, though. Sometimes I drop the balls and then some. It is just as likely that, despite all my calendars and alarms and attempts to keep four schedules, a household, a career and volunteer activities, that I would completely miss something important. Usually I can maintain perspective and push forward. But today, seeing my daughter's face fall in the mirror, the tears on her face, was just too much. All I could do was feel overwhelmed and guilty and realize that no matter how hard I try, I will never be as effective as two parents. Just like the mathematics of making a 5:20 photo shoot when you leave the house at 5:45, one is not two. Never has been. Never will be. And when you are one, that reality is a jagged pill.

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Going to the penalty box

OK, time to feel shame, or at least the blogger's equivalent. I was informed that I was (again) slacking in the post department. Profundity to follow soon, or at least the late-night-at-the-Korean-restaurant-get-me-more-booze-and-fire-up-the-karaoke version.

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Out of the mouths of ...

My 9-year-old was peering over my shoulder at my Facebook feed when she noticed someone's posted picture of Michael Jackson:

"Mom, who IS that woman?"

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Xanax cocktail?

We had some serious weeping from the little one this evening, about, in no particular order, the fact that she cannot have an early birthday, that I have not yet sewed the two-millimeter hole in her stuffed bear, about going to bed and about wanting "my own pet, a bunny pet, I've always wanted my own pet." Oh yeah, and pants, I believe there was some crying about pants. Summer school starts tomorrow. A little anxiety anyone?

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Gentle surrender

From the beginning, I walked with you with my eyes open. I saw your soul, the parts with diamond-like perfection so brilliant it burned, the rotten and gnarled parts, putrid in their ugliness. And I loved you, in a way so simple that I cannot seem to make anyone else understand. I grasp for the words and they slip away. It just is. It always was.

So I stood before you, our hands twined and my face uplifted, seeing every familiar line, the smell of your soap and skin bringing me home. And you say that you loved me, that you still do, but you cannot stay. It was right, but right is not what you know. You know misery and pain, so you retreat to the darkness, always back to that blackness that brings you to your knees. I offer my wish for you: that you find your way to a place were you can love and be loved. You assure me you are not gone forever. I hope you are right, but I fear you will never escape the monster that keeps you in sadness. I fear that, no matter how much you are loved, it will never be enough. I know what awaits you in the darkness you have chosen, and it breaks my heart to know how much you will hurt, that you will be alone there.

I know I have to let you go now, but I drop my head to your chest once more, that place where I fit so perfectly beneath your chin, and sob, your arms circling around me. I wonder if I will ever belong this way again. I silently scream in protest at how wrong it is, at how unfair, that you are too broken to stay in this peaceful place we found in each other. I pray to every power in the universe that you find your way home.

Then I cut the ropes and drift on gentle surrender. I did all I could. The rest is up to you.

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The definition of absurdity

There are days when I watch the chaos that is my life and I can do nothing other than laugh hysterically. Today was one of those days. I preface this with a little scene-setting.

It's 11:25 p.m. and I have shut my bedroom door because my youngest child kept coming in here, zombie-like, arms outstretched and whining for "just one more hug." I can still hear her saying "Mom, mom, mom, mom" about every 10 minutes from her bed. I'm thinking that if I could go back and teach her a more interesting name to use for me, I probably would ... or at least a quieter one. The "mom" cadence is punctuated by periodic screeching at her sister for, near as I can tell, breathing too loudly. Oh yeah, and before you say I'm awful for ignoring my poor, needy, loving little one, I would note that she is nine years old.

5:50 p.m.
I'm still working. I get a call from my teenage son. He wants to ride his bike over to the ice cream shop with his friend. This is the son who hasn't so much been, how shall I put this delicately, doing ANY homework for most of the semester. Yeah, here's the thing, my dear offspring, how 'bout you and I log into the school district's grading system and take a little look at your grades. Hmmmm. There is an odd phenomenon, here. Someone seems to have misplaced the first three letters of the alphabet. And why is it, that everywhere the code for "homework" goes a zero seems to follow? Let me say this slowly for you "hell, no." Louder? Oh yeah, I can do loud.

5:58 p.m.
Crap. I am so not getting my work done tonight. I have to be at the school for "Imaginarium" in a half hour. Crap.

6:10 p.m.
In the car, crank up the latest addition to my iPod for the truck test and drive home. Realize that this school activity might cost something and that I spent my last three bucks cash on soft serve for lunch. Call friend to ask if I need money. No luck.

6:20 p.m.
Arrive home. My parents are there. Damn, I forgot that they were coming by tonight. It occurs to me that I have no idea what I am going to feed my kids for dinner tonight. And where are my pants?

6:22 p.m.
Realize the little one is missing. Ummm. I thought she wanted to go to this thing.

6:23 p.m.
What the hell?!? The dog puked all over the laundry room. Enter oldest child. Important lesson: bad grades = cleaning dog puke.

6:25 p.m.
God, child, why are you wearing Sorel boots? It's 75 degrees outside.

6:29 p.m.
Bye Mom. Bye Dad. You'll feed the kids? OK, sure, whatever you want to do. See ya in an hour. I avoid a face plant when I trip over all the kid-related crap by the door.

6:32 p.m.
On the way to the school. Missed a call from my friend, who is at the school with her kid. Hooray! I don't need money.

6:39 p.m.
Arrive in school gym. Want to run away from the cacophony of noisy kids. Can't, on account of mine is there and I kinda have to stick around because of that.

7:02 p.m.
It's funny to trick my child with the magnets. Hee hee.

7:25 p.m.
1,2,3 GO! Escape from the school. Consider checking my mail while driving out of the school parking lot, since I haven't managed to get to the post office in about five weeks. Blow it off ... again.

7:35 p.m.
Back home. Am greeted by my dad's declaration, "We have beer and pizza." Did I mention that my parents rock?

8 p.m.
Dang it, child (the middle one this time) quit watching the dancing cats on Youtube and do the goddamn dishes!

8:03 p.m.
Where the heck is the little one? She needs to bathe.

8:45 p.m.
Bid parents goodbye after having spent an hour discussing my less-than-motivated eldest child. My dad gives him a little prod on the way out the door.

8:46 p.m.
Aforementioned eldest child doesn't like it when mom forms alliances with the grandparents, apparently. Spend a half hour discussing this.

9:10 p.m.
Forehead bloody from brick wall conversation of "I'll get my grades up, Mom" followed by "Just DO it and quit talking about it." Pretty sure I failed this lesson in parenting school.

9:12 p.m.
The little one is sobbing and hanging off me like a condemned woman. She is despondent because ... I will not buy her the first Twilight book. Did I mention that picture books are a challenge for her?

9:14 p.m.
Call my friend to ask if we are walking tonight. The little one is sobbing in the background and won't go to bed. My friend says "yes" as soon as she deals with her kid drama. Oh baby, I SO get that.

9:16 p.m.
The little one is still sobbing, but is now sitting crosslegged on my bed, her arms folded petulantly. She says it's likely that she is the only one in the world who will never have the Twilight book. That she will likely die never having read it. She also figures that if I don't rush over to Barnes & Noble right now, they will probably sell out of it and she WILL be condemned ... to a life without the foundational story of Bella and Edward.

9:18 p.m.
The little one asserts herself. She informs me that she will not go to bed and will not be leaving my bed. She will sit here until 7 o'clock. She'll show me.

9:23 p.m.
My friend walks in the house. We leave. Buh-bye. We spend the next hour cracking up at our absurdly dramatic children.

10:30 p.m.
We are pretty sure that reproduction is overrated.

11:25 p.m.
I haven't the foggiest idea what I did for the last hour, but I don't think I killed anyone. I know this because there are no blood spatters anywhere.

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Going with the flow?

Someone with far more expertise than I once told me that the only thing I need to know about water and sewer systems is that it all flows downhill. Nice. Simple. Calm. Direct.

That's a wonderful concept. Problem is: My water and sewer system, right around springtime, turns into a raving lunatic bitch or a demented toddler. Pick your metaphor, but I have had enough.

These days, my well emits a sound like sucking the last drop out of the bottom of a fast-food milkshake. That, of course, results in air in the water lines, which makes my aged copper pipes shake and my shower spit at me like a pissed-off alley cat.

And on the other side? It's a load of crap, literally. Some brilliant prior owner decided that a vented wastewater system is overrated. Usually it works fine. But not so much in the springtime. These days, the drains are slow and emptying the kitchen sink causes the toilet to bubble like a stew pot. And about that toilet: Flushing adequately is a matter of roulette. No rhyme, no reason. Sometimes it flushes. Sometimes it just swirls around and then ... nothing.

Once the ground thaws, all will reset to its normal balance, at least until the river rises and pushes the groundwater up through my well head and into the basement. Guess I better go check the sump pump.

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A visit from Lily

Catchy as hell and cynical too, by way of recommendation from my dear friend in the home of America's hottest mayor. Sing along, now.

Lily Allen, "LDN"

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Embracing a ghost

I was crying, those deep, mournful sobs born of unfiltered pain. I was adrift, with nothing to ground me. My mind struggled to understand, to find reason and meaning and logic in the senseless. Then, without warning, you were there, that sweet face that I can barely see anymore. You gathered me to you, pulled my damp cheek to your shoulder, one hand softly entwined in my hair and the other tightly around my waist. You did not speak, for I can no longer remember your voice. But your head rested on mine, your rough face touched my cheek and your eyes were soft. And for a while, everything fell away but us. It didn't matter what made sense and what did not, because you were there with me and I knew quiet in your embrace.

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Falling into spring

The sky is gray and the air chilly, a few errant snowflakes riding the gusty wind. And if I close my eyes during my evening walk and inhale, it smells like fall.

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No spin

A man held a cardboard sign at the corner of University and Airport today:
"Why lie. I want a BEER."

Wonder how many beers he got out of that.

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Colander people (and other kitchen metaphors)

It's Sunday noontime. I have Norah Jones on the stereo and strong coffee. The early afternoon sun is streaming through my window. It's perfect for time traveling.

Someone once explained to me that our hearts are like a cup or a pan or a bowl. The love of the people around us and the love we have for ourselves stays with us, helps keep us satisfied and healthy in our lives. Like water, it fills us and gives us something to hold onto during even the roughest times. Sometimes the toils of life leave our hearts feeling depleted, but those are often the times when friends and family come to our aid and offer so much love that our cups overflow. The watertight nature of our cups, pans and bowls is what allows us to accept the love of others and to give love in return. It is what makes the world a bearable place.

Some are not so lucky. Through biology or the cruelty of others, some among us have no capacity to hold water. Instead of a cup or a pan or a bowl, their hearts are more like colanders, so punched full of holes that they can hold nothing. And they long to be filled, to know what it feels like to love and be loved, to feel at peace. They grasp desperately at everyone who comes close to them, but every time they are loved, the water just drains out through the holes, leaving their hearts empty and aching. They need. They hurt. They long. They rage. And nothing is ever enough.

This wise person who introduced me to the concept of these colander people pegged it precisely: They are the saddest of human beings. For some reason, I have found myself close to several colander people in my lifetime. They are heartbreaking in their need and unable to find quiet strength in the love that is given them. They are achingly beautiful in their vulnerability, the personification of our most basic human needs. But to most, they are also incredibly dangerous.

For some reason, these people are on my mind this morning. And I am saddened by how they ache. I am angry at those who made them the way they are. We all can name the grand atrocities of humanity. But what about the everyday atrocities that create these colander people? That warrants outrage as well. These people deserve compassion, and I continue to wonder if there is truly anything that can patch the holes in their hearts and allow them to know love.

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Definition of insanity

Why are so many of us compelled to take action that almost guarantees we will not get what we want and need the most? I do it. I see people around me doing it too. It sometimes seems a wonder that we survive at all.

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Like bunnies

I am loving Wal Mart this holiday season. My friend and I stepped into the absurdly color-coded Easter aisle and found it impossible not to be immediately giddy. The experience was akin to the stereotypical acid trip. You find one fantastic thing and, just when you think it can't get any better, you find something even more bizarre.

My dad used to tell me that there isn't anything in nature that is both edible and blue. Apparently, that doesn't matter anymore:



Not interested in food the color of summer sky? How about a tasty nibble of traffic-cone bunny?



Still no good? Want something a bit more natural? It doesn't get more natural than green, green grass.



For those who prefer old-school, they offer this lovely twosome of white and milk chocolate. Is it just me, or do these bunnies look REALLY friendly?



And this? "Dude da bunny," complete with frosting bling. Watch out, or he'll bust a cap in your egg. And all that gangsta goodness for only $6.88.



Happy Easter!

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Retail WTF?

Two things:

• Why in the world have they color-coded the Easter candy in Wal-Mart? I mean, really, are people really that anal retentive that they could not possibly have an Easter basket in which the yellow Peeps and the pink malted milk eggs coexist with the green jellybeans and the orange M&M's? Is this sort of like those color-themed Christmas trees? I'm troubled.

• What is this new display technique--I call it "pile of crap that might fall and crush your toes"--that the local grocery store has adopted? They use it with everything from cans of soup to potato chips to pepperoni sticks: these big square tables holding a pile of merchandise that leaves the shopper to approach at his or her own risk. What happened to nice, tidy stacks on end-caps?

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Social skills commentary from the expert

My 15-year-old son has diagnosed my "problem." Apparently, according to him, the reason I "have no friends" is that I have a tendency to jack up the country music and sing and dance in my living room while doing housework. Not quite sure how all those alleged people who refuse to be my friends know about said tendency, but apparently it is a serious social handicap.

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Scowling at my chat window

I think I have finally settled on the surest way to create conflict in all but the most longstanding interpersonal relationships: spend time talking on online chat applications.

I would suspect that the rise in popularity of chat--for everything from work conversations to meeting that special someone to catching up with the grandkids--has been accompanied by a rise in interpersonal conflict and misunderstandings.

And why not? Online chat combines the worst of two primary human communication vehicles. It offers the immediacy, and therefore lack of forethought, of face-to-face conversation. It offers the lack of facial expression, intonation and body language of the written word. Shake those shortcomings with a tendency to misspell things and forgo punctuation and you have a nasty swill.

I say all these things from the perspective of someone who is a Gmail and Facebook chat addict. My best friend lives in another town. She and I talk nearly every day on chat. And we seldom have misunderstandings. That said, we both think a lot alike and know each other very well. I don't need to see her face or hear her voice to understand what she means. And it's OK if she says exactly what she is thinking. That's what you are supposed to do with close friends.

But put the inadequacies of the vehicle to test with someone you don't know well and it's a bloody minefield. I've experienced mild to severe examples of this in the last few months and am starting to get irritated as all get out, both at myself and others.

If human relationships, both personal and professional, are going to survive this means of communication, we all will need to tweak our mindset a little. We all need to work harder at giving others the benefit of the doubt. We need to stop the rapid-fire back and forth typing and clarify rather than making assumptions. We need to be mindful of the possibility that the person we are chatting with may not "read" our conversation in the same way we intended it to be delivered. Holding a chat conversation to the same standard as either the spoken interchange or e-mail exchange is unfair to all involved and serves only to create frustration.

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The war on ... heroism

This from an online news feed headline:

"Troopers make heroine bust"

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TGIF?

Sorry, just not feelin' it. Am I the only person in the world who finds Fridays completely overwhelming?

Got up late, 'cause by the end of the week, the lack of sleep is catching up with me. No time to make coffee. Forgot to play tooth fairy (bad mother, bad mother). And after a week of everyone and their brother wanting something from me for a good 16 hours a day, I feel both picked over and guilty for not being able to get to half of the stuff I was supposed to. The avalanche of work that builds all week long, I suspect, will let loose and bury me right about 4 p.m., resulting in a 12-hour day. Is it fair to throw up your hands and just say, "enough, already, I give."

Fridays make me want to find a cabin in the woods, far away from everyone, and just hide there for a while.

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A little disturbed here

Child: I want to see Hannah Montana in real life.
Mother: (eye roll) Why?
Child: Because I've been dreaming about her.

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Reduced for quick sale - part deux

Oh my, my, my. A quick perusal of a VERY small range of choices on a unnamed online "find your true love here" sort of site garnered some ... interesting ... prospects:

• One soft-hearted gent made sure to highlight his emotional strength, noting that he is "honist and sinsere." Great, he can't even spell the characteristics.

• “sugar daddy for you” plus undersized straw cowboy hat and cheap sunglasses ... can buttless chaps be far behind?

• "If you like tall dark and handsome, then your probably not looking in the right place." and “Single Man, nothing special” Points for honesty and a little self-deprecation. Points off for improper use of "your."

• “if you'd like to take a chance” So basically, what you are saying is that it's pretty damn risky to even send a little icebreaker note?

• Any use of the words "teddy" or "bear" together or separately. Not a plushie. Not looking to become one. I'm just sayin'.

• Blurred photo plus no capitalization in the title plus all caps in the body text equals ... RUUUUUUNNNNN!

• Note: You really should wear clothing when you shoot your profile picture. Trust me on this.

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It's not about getting along

Something is out of kilter in the universe, I have decided, as many people around me seem to be awash in misery lately. One friend--one I suspect is growing weary of all the sadness--expressed the sentiment that he wished everyone could get along.

It's a worthy sentiment, to be sure. That said, I think that simply getting along isn't the action but rather the result of another change that would fix so much of the misery.

Enter reality. How much easier would it be for all of us if people would simply mean what they say and follow through with action? How much misery could be prevented if all of us would quit spinning things and telling half-truths? How much better, and more secure, would we all feel if when someone looked at us and said, "This is what I want," we could believe that to be true?

I am no saint, to be sure, and I have made some monumental mistakes in my life. I have paid for those mistakes. I'm sure I'll continue to screw up on a regular basis. That said, one thing I count as a defining part of my personality is that what comes out of my mouth reflects what is, not what I think someone wants to hear, not what is convenient at the moment. I simply don't see the point of insincerity. If I say I will do something, then I will. If I say I want something, it's because I do. If I give you my friendship or my love, you can take that to the bank. It is.

And as I look at the misery around me, it's not rooted in conflict. Conflict is not bad. It's rooted in insincerity, in the words and actions of people who have made promises they had no intention of keeping, of people uttering tiny deceptions that snowball into a giant, nasty wad of lies.

Getting along? That will happen as soon as all of us can count on "yes, I will" or "no, I don't" meaning exactly that. Until then, we'll continue to feel baffled and betrayed when we find that "yes" turns out to mean "no" and that having any faith in the word of others seems to be a fool's errand.

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Woooooooo!

My stat counter matches my birth year. Scaaary. Stuff. Things.

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Back among the living

OK, momentary technical difficulties ... or something like that. Back up. Won't be going back down. Sorta like a Tom Petty song, or some such nonsense.

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Looks pretty, feels ugly

This was the view of my town this evening as the sun set. While it looks gorgeous, I should note a few things:

The temperature down there is at least 40 degrees below zero.

The temperature down there has been that cold for a week and will be for at least another.

There is actually a town down there, not just a sea of fog.

While it is pretty up on the hillside, I do not live on the hillside. I live in the fog. It sucks in the fog. I think that, until I ventured out of town, I was starting to grow horns and grunt like a cave troll.

I'm just sayin'.

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Finding center and strength

I have been blessed with a life in which those I love are always close. My parents are still married to each other. Throughout my childhood, they were both there at every special occasion. I was never that child who had to shuttle back and forth on the holidays or who felt alone as I looked out at a school play or dance performance or graduation. I have been surrounded by a large extended family. I have grown up surrounded by that mantle of security, knowing that, in this world, I am not alone.

I realized this year that I have never experienced a Christmas where someone was missing. When I was a child, I and my sister and my parents were always there. As a young adult, I went home for Christmas or spent it with extended family. When I was married and had children, we were always all together at Christmas. And even after my divorce, which was a long time coming, Christmases were complete, with my children always there along with, oftentimes, my parents. I have never known that hole in my heart when I look around at the holiday festivities and know that someone I love is not there ... until this year. It doesn't really matter why--circumstances or choices, deployment or delayed flights--that bring-you-to-your-knees, yawning emptiness that so many people feel every year was a new experience for me.

He assured me that we would all be together next year. He told me to focus on the kids, to find comfort in their joy. And I did that. I donned my Santa hat and listened to music and wrapped presents. I cleaned house like a mad woman. I took pictures of the mounds of paper and ribbon and a friend took pictures of me. I documented the whole thing on film so I can share it with him. I cried once, early on Christmas Eve, and refused to cry again. He wouldn't want me to be sad. I was proud of myself for holding it together. I thought that he would have been proud of me too. I had a good Christmas, despite his absence. I surrounded myself with my children and my parents and my sister's family and I found center and strength in that security that has been a baseline in my life since I drew my first breath. Without it, I'm not sure I would have been able to cope half as well.

So I sign off tonight on a day that was a first for me, that showed me that perhaps I am stronger than I thought. Tonight I feel thankful for the foundation that my family gives me. I feel thankful for strength he and I find in each other and ourselves. I feel hopeful that this will be the last year that either of us know anything other than the completeness of being with all of the people we love on Christmas.

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Damn, my kid rocks

My middle child, commenting on the Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus phenomenon:
"Her father raised someone even more annoying than he is."

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Climbing the ladder

An acquaintance on Facebook wrote the other day about, among other things, how she is enduring her boyfriend's deployment to Iraq. She likened it to a ladder, with his departure being the bottom rung and his return the top. In between, each major event in her life--holidays, big work assignments, his leave--were another rung. And she noted that the best way to make it to the top was not to keep her eyes on the top of the ladder, but rather to focus simply on the next rung up.

I think her words show great wisdom and I hope to work harder to adopt that mentality in my own life. I always have believed that as long as I have a target in sight, a light at the end of the tunnel, that I can endure almost any hardship. I have always been confused and troubled when, even though I have that target, I continue to feel stress along the way, that having that focal point is still not enough to calm my anxiety, that the obvious progress brought by the simple passage of time does not reassure me.

I have been focusing on the top of the ladder. And at times in my life when the ladder is a tall one, that's often enough to make me dizzy and nearly fall off. I think, perhaps, that the wisest thing lies in finding the courage to take your eyes off that beautiful light, that shining reward at the end of the tunnel, or top of the ladder, pick your metaphor. If you can simply lower your eyes to the next task, the next hurdle, the next joyous occasion or the next milestone, then perhaps you might look up and realize the top of the ladder is right in front of you.

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The herd has been culled

Overheard in regards to dating in your 30s:

"It's like going through the reduced-for-quick-sale meat bin and all that's left is cow tongue. It tastes OK if you can get past those funny little bumps on the surface."

Followed by: "I must be cow tongue too. I'm what's left. Dammit!"

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Giant meat

Holy carp! I just bought 17 pounds of ham. 'Nuff said.

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It's my fault, I just know it

I didn't grow up in the ___________ (pick your religion) church. I didn't do it. I didn't cause it to happen. I didn't even wish it to happen. Why do I feel guilty about it, then? My mother is Catholic. Can guilt be carried in your DNA?

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1+1=357

I just don't understand how other people think, I guess. Today someone said something to me that was so far outside the realm of logical that I was nearly left speechless. I suppose it would be more accurate to say this person reacted to something I said in a such a way to paralyze my vocal abilities, actually. Let me grasp for an appropriate parallel to protect the innocent.

Say, for example, I have a favorite food, some exotic type of food that most people have never gotten the chance to try. I cook this fabulous food for you, because I want you to get a chance to try this food. I think you will like the food. You try the food. You like the food. The next time I talk to you, you tell me that you liked the food so much you got the ingredients and made some at home for yourself.

My response? Is it, "Great. I am glad you liked it so much." Nope. Instead, I am obviously bothered and say, "Wow, I am surprised that you would make it without me."

What the ...? I think I have stepped into a parallel universe where one plus one equals something ... else.

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The cure

Something about strapping a couple of sticks of fiberglass to my feet and heading into the woods for an hour does wonders for the psyche. Skiing as Prozac. Maybe so. This is the beginning of one of my favorite sections of trail. Bad cell phone picture. Maybe I'll shoot some nicer ones tomorrow. Today, the snow was fresh enough to make skiing almost noiseless and warm enough to make it nearly effortless. I know I'll never be able to live in the big city. Without the quiet of a day so still that the branches still hold more than an inch of fresh snow, I think I might simply blink out.

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A moment of clarity?

This from a teen I know, if I recall, as an explanation for some truly irritating behavior:

"I can't change the fact that I have my head up my ass most of the time."

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Past blast

I just went to a hockey game in an arena I haven't been in since high school. Talk about flashback. I remember countless Friday and Saturday nights spent meandering aimlessly around in circles with my friends. I don't recall much about the hockey games. It was much more an exercise in flirting with the herds of guys and finding out where the good parties were that night. Life was simpler then. I just didn't know it at the time.

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We're not gonna

I can't believe it. Stevens is leading. I don't know what to say. Does anyone else know whether another state has elected a recently convicted felon?

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Stevens convicted

Just moved across the Anchorage Daily News alerts:
Jury finds Stevens guilty of lying about gifts

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A few trust issues?

"If I'm drowning in two feet of water, I don't know whether the rope that's thrown at me will be one that pulls me out or pulls me under."

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Back in track

Hallelujah! Two snows and several inches means they were able to roll the trails. It was ski swap at 10 a.m., errands all day and then five miles on my favorite loop. I can feel my stress levels diminishing already. No track yet, but it still felt great to be back in my ski boots, listening to the sound of my poles squeak in the snow. I even saw a fox on the back side of the hill. It peeked over its shoulder at me before bounding off into the bushes. A few strands of bushes and grass still poked through the snow, but it wasn't enough to cause any real problems. I don't seem to have lost any time over the summer. Mind you, I am slow as all get out anyway, but even without track, I was able to complete the loop in an hour. With track, I suspect it'll come down to 45-50 minutes.

Task one: Teach my walking buddy to ski. She has one rather bad experience with skiing. Still, she bought a passable set of skis at ski swap and is ready to give it a shot.

Task two: Teach the man to ski. He's much more fond of downhill, so this will be tame to him. There's also a distinct possibility that he already knows how to cross-country ski and is just screwing with me because apparently it is hilarious when I explain things to other people. Strike teaching. Maybe I'll steal his poles and shove him in a snowbank.

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Throwing the life ring

What do you do when someone you love is drowning in the life they have created for themselves? What do you do when you watch them, day in and day out, struggle and gasp, barely staying above the waterline and growing weaker by the second?

People make bad choices, I understand that. Many times, when we find ourselves drowning, it is because of those bad choices. I also understand the value of learning from those choices, of finding a way to solve your own problems. Still, it's hard to be the one on the shore, watching, when the solutions are so obvious, it's akin to wanting to shout, "Stand up, dammit! The water's only four feet deep."

At what point do you finally accept that the one you love simply will not put their feet down and wade out and haul them out of the water, despite the fact that they are so panicked that they might just try to drown you in the process? Walking away simply isn't an option, is it, if you truly love someone?

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Me-0, hose clamp-1

I think a little piece of me now lives in the basement next to the water pump. I mean that quite literally. I suspect a piece of what's left of my knuckle is now spending quality time with the hose clamp on the well hose. The damn water filter housing was being a bit more stubborn than usual, and I reefed on it a little harder than usual. 'Twas the perfect storm of force, resulting in me saying "fuck" a lot when I looked down and glimpsed the white of my knuckle bone. Enter teenage son, who helps me put the filter back together so that I can turn the water back on and stand sobbing hysterically over the bathroom sink, fighting nausea as I unsuccessfully try to sluice god-knows-what out of the ragged wound, all the while thinking, "This is utter bullshit. Why the hell wasn't Prince Charming down in the basement fixing the water? And where the hell is that guy anyway?"

Screw fairy tales. Screw hose clamps. Stupid stainless steel bastards. Long live narcotic painkillers.

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Matrimonial moments

Overheard: "F--K! I have a month until I get married. Do I have everything?"

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Oh, to be weak

I was in the midst of yet another home improvement crisis that I did not know how to handle and was declaring that I felt incredibly weak. And he said to me, "It's OK to feel weak, you're a girl." Now before you go bashing him as a thoroughly unenlightened clod, I assure you, he is not.

All that said, however, the truth is that when you are single, a mother and a homeowner, it really isn't OK to be weak. It's not a luxury afforded those of us who waded into the shallow end of the gene pool. There is no moral support. There is no shoulder to lean on. There is no financial support. There is no room for weakness. You are the mother and the father and the cook and the electrician and the laundress and the plumber and the mechanic and the nurse. You are the nurturer and the disciplinarian. You must keep a job and keep the house. When all goes to hell in a handbasket, guess who has to deal with it? Bingo! You. Don't waste your time looking for someone else to step up and do it for you, 'cause honey, there ain't nobody there.

It's the thing they don't tell you about single parenthood. It sucks, and it sucks at least half of the time. It's lucky that most have so little time, they don't notice how much it sucks. But make no mistake, weakness is not an option available to us. You stumble, and the fall can be catastrophic and impossible to recover from.

It is no mystery to me why so many single parents seek to get remarried as soon as they can, even if the relationship is less than perfect or the odds say it won't succeed. I can almost taste the sweetness of those six words, "Honey, you take care of that."

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Meh

Not sure what the heck is up. Maybe it's the change in seasons. Maybe it's the mountains of things I never did or got to do this summer. Maybe I'm just tired. Whatever it is, I have been struck with a terrible case of indifference as of late. I'm a country song. My give a damn's busted.

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Sometimes it actually works

Apparently, an Internet slide show, a screwdriver and a cheapo socket set really are enough to qualify me as an appliance repairwoman. Go figure.

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Praying to the porcelain

In this case, it was porcelain on steel, in the form of my immobile washing machine tub. You see, normally, they fill with warm water and do useful things like agitate, spin and drain. Mine? Not so much. I was clued into the problem when I tried to push down the lid switch and parts of it started falling off. This is bad because without the lid switch, there will be no agitating of the clothes, no spinning of the clothes and no draining of the water. None. Nada. So, I was left crying and swearing last night at the foot of my full-of-clothes-and-water washing machine--now reduced to little more than a bloated paperweight with the potential for serious swamp syndrome--wondering why the hell things have to be so bloody difficult 99 percent of the time.

Tonight I'll use my considerable appliance repair expertise, gleaned from a slideshow on some fix-it site online, to tear apart the damn thing and put a new switch in. Oh yeah, this ought to be interesting. I wonder how hard you have to pitch a screwdriver to get it to stick like a dart in a sheetrock wall?

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Put a rock on my ...

I came home from work today and was greeted by a lovely sight. That's right: a whole dump truck load of D-1 nicely spread the length of my driveway. If I ever doubted his devotion, those doubts are long gone. Keep the chocolates, honey. You wanna show me you love me? Bring me a nice blend of rock and fines, you know, the good stuff that packs down really hard.

Now that's true love, baby.

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Got wood?

Oh stop. Not that kind. My friend and I spent the day loading up two pickups with firewood for the winter. I suspect we will both pay dearly in the morning, but we were quite proud of ourselves for our efforts. We did really well at pretending that we knew what we were doing. Alas, we were so hard at work that we did not take the time to document our in-the-field efforts, but is suffices to say that we discovered that cutting notches in trees actually works, as does gravity, and that when you push really hard on a tree, it seems to fall away from you, which is a good thing, because there were a lot of rose bushes and roots on our "oh-carp-the-tree-is-falling-toward-us" escape path. Oh yeah, and I didn't cut anything but wood with the chainsaw, which is always the marker of a successful adventure with power tools. Yep. We are certified. Rugged Alaska divas. Training complete. No boys allowed (though the diva in both of us probably wouldn't argue too terribly hard if said boys were to say, "Honey, it's OK, you go shopping, we'll cut the wood.") But we'd probably go to Home Depot.



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