Earning my keep

You just can't make this stuff up.

This is why we ask for page proofs. ;)

One step closer to the edge

** I talk about a recent anxiety attack in this post, and that may be a trigger for those of you out there who are also suffering from anxiety. Sorry about that. I'm just trying to get it out.

It's been a rough week for my anxiety -- I kind of know why, it's hormonal, period kind of stuff -- but knowing why doesn't make it any easier. I've been practicing a mental exercise of sorts the last few weeks when the panic starts to surge, and that seems to help ... most of the time.

So it's a little alarming when it doesn't.

Anyway, I see my anxiety as an ill-behaved ferret. This thing likes to knock stuff off the table and cause as much havoc as possible. I'm almost fond of the dumb thing, I'm so used to it.

Looks cute, right?

Well, it's NOT.

The exercise: When AF ("anxiety ferret") pokes her head out to play, I'm all, hey there, I see you. My acupuncturist suggested that -- because there isn't always a reason for an anxiety attack, and just acknowledging that it exists, without trying to figure out why, can be helpful in stopping the rampage.

And that generally is all it takes.

But when AF starts a ruckus, I imagine calmly step over her. I used to do that when my kids were in that insane 3-year-old stage and they'd throw a fit. Step over those flailing little bodies, like, hey, I know you're upset, but I am not dealing with you when you're like this.

My acupuncturist was kind of pleased with me when we discussed my anxiety at my last appointment, just that I was able to make this connection and put it into place so quickly -- it had only been two weeks since we'd talked about it -- and honestly, I was feeling kind of proud of myself, too. I enjoy a good coping strategy. Especially when it seems to work so well.

After a perfectly lovely weekend, filled with naps and books and absolutely no stress, I headed back into the world on Monday, ready to face the week, cheered further by the reflexology appointment I had scheduled for 2 p.m.

I love reflexology! It's all the benefits of a massage without having to get undressed. ;)

My stomach had been acting up all morning -- yay fertility (I guess) -- and I was hoping that it would settle down by the time my appointment rolled around, but it didn't. I even took half of an Imodium Multi-symptom (those things are gold), and that sort of helped ... but not really.

So there I am, talking to my darling reflexologist and just trying to enjoy my foot massage, when AF peeks out with that stupid little head of hers.

And I'm like, hey there, not right now, please, this is my monthly treat and you are NOT going to ruin it.

And AF was like, you can't tell me what to do!

I actually thought about just getting up off that table, putting on my shoes and getting the hell out of there. It was torture to have to fight the panic while pretending nothing was wrong. AF didn't care if I acknowledged her; she didn't care if I stepped over her as she started throwing her fit. I breathed deeply. I went through my usual litany of, I am in no physical danger, I have control of my body, I have control of my mind. I clenched my teeth and bit my tongue and just concentrated on NOT GETTING UP OFF THAT TABLE.

And I didn't. But, as I said, it was torture.

And that totally bums me out. I've been getting reflexology monthly since the fall, and it has been so good for my general health. Just because it IS so relaxing. I get to lay on a heating pad with a cozy blanket for an hour and it's totally selfish and accomplishes nothing!

So basically it's just awesome.

Having an attack there, in what is usually a safe place, is discouraging. It means that next month I'm going to be thinking about it when my appointment rolls around, and then trying NOT to think about it when I'm back on the table.

And it also means I'm not really doing as well as I thought I was.

Well, whatever. Needs must and so on. (Life After Life? Anyone?)

The end? I'm not really sure how to end this, except with a sigh of relief that the week is over and I can start fresh tomorrow.

Good-bye, Walmart

Ah, it seems like just yesterday I was breaking up with Safeway,* and now here I am calling it quits with Walmart. It's kind of the same ordeal: I go in and I go in and I think about how great it would be to never go in again, but I always do. Until one day the proverbial camel's back is broken, and then?

It's over.

On Tuesday, Johanna and I were wandering around our local Walmart for well over an hour, trying to nail down a fairly modest list: Abby needed a few items, Eric wanted a certain brand of cereal, and I wanted to get Johanna's class obligations taken care of (i.e. canned food drive, class gift exchange present, mittens and socks for a warm clothing campaign of some sort, etc.). Having been going to this particular Walmart since it opened (1993? 1994?), you'd think I'd be able to find everything I need right were I'd expect it to be.

Wrong! Everything is always moving around in that joint anyway, but recently they've begun to really revamp the whole ordeal, putting in a grocery section (g.r.o.s.s.) and... I don't know. Adding self-service check-outs or whatever. But nothing is where it kind of should be, the rows are so close together that you can't have two carts pass each other in opposite directions, and it's so packed that you'd think there was no other show in town.

So as I'm walking down the same stretch of aisle AGAIN trying to find Abby's contact solution, it occurred to me that there is absolutely nothing in this world that I need so badly as to have to come to this store. When you want to punch everyone in the throat, and you are normally a very peaceful person, this is when you know it's time to say buh-bye.

As Johanna and I exited the building (she was getting a headache and I had just had it with finding everything on my list; Kenny Rogers was right -- you gotta know when to fold 'em), I announced that I was NEVER COMING BACK. I'm not going to list out all of the reasons I hate everything about Walmart (like I did with Safeway, which was rather entertaining, but I'm on a time crunch today), but I think it's safe to say that I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT WALMART.

I feel good about this breakup. I'm okay with spending three total extra dollars to get my items somewhere else, especially when it means A) I won't have to go into that hellhole and 2) I'll be able to get in and out much more quickly and C) maybe I'll be able to find what I'm looking for in the first place.

* Turns out I broke up with Safeway in 2011. How times flies! In my defense, I'm at that point in my life where 10 years ago and yesterday are pretty much the same in my mind.

The five stages of grief are dumb

It's been a hell of a week and a half, and I'm just... I don't even know. Mostly I'm just trying to exist until this whole ordeal gets easier.

I have no idea if it will get easier. I assume it has to. But I don't know.

I keep trying to figure out where I am with the five stages of grief. Like maybe if I can pinpoint where I am with all that, I'll be able to predict when I'll be able to breathe again. But you know what? The five stages of grief are stupid.

Because no one grieves the same, of course, and anyway, some of them don't even apply to my situation. How can I bargain if I have nothing to bargain with? So does that mean I just skip to the fourth stage, depression, or does that mean I'm stuck here at stage three forever?

Also, why can't denial, stage one, last longer?

Why did I marry someone who doesn't even know how to fight? I haven't been able to vent any of my anger. That's stage two. I want a proper stage two!

And why can't I be angry and depressed and in acceptance? I'm a realist, you guys, I know what happened.

So it turns out the five stages of grief are too black and white for my tastes. And P.S., I have written this post and written this post, and erased a thousand words at least, and all I can come up with is this: Grief sucks. All the stages in the world can't change that.

Talk about pointless.

I've been spammed!

I've been probably a little too excited lately because I've actually gotten a couple comments here on the blog -- and from people who don't know me, either.

So imagine my first reaction when I saw I had a new comment Monday! Hooray!

But upon reading said comment, I could tell right away that it wasn't legit. First of all, the writer complemented me on my "excellent article" that contained "just the information" they were looking for. It was TOTALLY going to help them with the paper they were writing, and here were a couple of links I could check out because obviously this was a topic of interest.

Riiiiiiight. The article they got so much useful information from? Doughnut Lottery. So I can only assume A) they were searching for the word "lottery" and stumbled upon my "article," or 2) they were writing a paper on board games invented by 10-year-olds.

Well, it IS pretty awesome.

Also: Did they not even bother to read my tagline? (I chose "Because there's enough useful content online already" for a reason.)

Well, whatever. The moral of this story is that I removed the comment and wished I could also remove the spammer's name, which is highlighted and therefore a live link, because I don't want ANYONE to click that thing EVER.

Also: Note to spammers, maybe at least skim the post you're commenting on so you have kind of an idea of what's going on. Otherwise the tip-off is just too easy.

Eh, what's a little slander, really?

I'm not entirely sure what to write, and it doesn't help that I'm bone tired thanks to a kind of hectic week at work. But this is just to say that one of my stories Wednesday drew a letter to the editor claiming I'd slandered someone. Um, technically it's libel when you're talking about print -- slander is spoken word -- but really, I'm just splitting hairs here.

The fact that what I wrote was no where near libelous is beside the point, too, since when people respond, they're really just going from their gut, but it bothers me anyway. I guess because I tried so hard (and in particular with this story, since the topic was a wee bit contentious) and got so far, but in the end, it doesn't really matter.

No, wait. That's Linkin Park. My bad.

(That's plagiarism, by the way. I'm going for broke.)

(Also one of my all-time favorite songs.)

I kind of forgot what my point is, except that I'm tired and this doesn't help my self esteem any, even though my self esteem is ridiculously high. Every time I start feeling good about myself, I get a lesson in humility.

Probably not the worst thing.

The end, I guess.

Maybe the lesson here is that we just shouldn't go out to eat

Once upon a time, like on Sunday, my little family celebrated the gift of motherhood by giving me the day off. And you guys, I don't care what the jewelers try to tell you, THAT is what mothers really want.

Not having to deal with anyone? Priceless.

Me and my girls and some random lady.

Since we're still trying to use up the gift certificates I won in that May Basket drawing last year, Eric and the girls took me to a restaurant for dinner. It's one of the nicer ones in town, and as we were seated, Eric and I joked that at least we wouldn't be forgotten this time.

Ha ha ha! We're so funny!

So our waiter this time wasn't a hipster guy; in fact, he looked like he was in his later 20s to early 30s, which gave us great hope at his responsibleness. He was a little late taking our order... and he forgot the sugar for Abby's ice tea for like 20 minutes, but hey, he apologized, and to be fair, Abby didn't miss the sugar anyway.

Maybe because we had the kids there to distract us (we need to take them out more because wow, we're lacking some special social skills), but we failed to notice that an hour had slipped by without getting served.

And once we did notice, it was hard not to stare at the people who came in after us who got their food before we did. Um, those fish and chips they were munching on? Yeah, mine and Jo's.

Hey, tangent, once I read that being forgotten is the worst human fear out there. I think that's probably true. Once you think you've been forgotten, you just sit there and stew. Do I speak up? Do I sit here and just be patient?

Have I really been forgotten? Am I not good enough to be noticed? Is there something wrong with me? What is wrong with me?!

(Why, yes, I do have issues! Why do you ask?)

So finally, Eric and Abby get their meals, and the waiter assures Johanna and me that ours are coming right up. I gave them permission to dig in, but they refused; as the minutes dragged on, I finally told them to just hurry up and eat already because by the time we got served, their meals would be cold.

And hey, it was only 10 more minutes. I guess we should have taken waiter guy up on the extra bread basket after all.

The moral of this story is that it took us two hours to eat, but unlike our Elks lunch fiasco, this time no one seemed to mind that it took forever. Eric was like, at least we were all together! It was family time! (He's very relaxed when he's not trying to get back to work.) And the food was pretty good. And the girls were happy. And we were all dressed up and looking pretty hot. And we were all together.

(Johanna's observation: "They were late getting us our food, but they were quick getting us the check!")

Well, anyway, we're 0-2 now, in case anyone is keeping track. Eric and I are thinking that maybe these waiters can just tell we have gift certificates and aren't real people, or maybe we just look exceptionally kind and not prone to pitching fits over food. (Well, Eric does, anyway. Pitching fits over food -- or, more accurately, the lack thereof -- is actually something I would do. Have done. Will probably do again in the near future.)

But hey, all this is not to say that Mother's Day was a wash because of a late meal. It wasn't. It really was the perfect day. I got to sleep in,* do morning yoga on the lawn, read and read and read, not clean the house, take a nap, go out to eat, visit with my favorite in-laws, and get homemade cards from the girls.

See? That's pretty damn perfect.

Thank you, family.

Well, thanks Abby!
(P.S. She did this freehand...)

*Johanna brought me breakfast in bed: An omelette and a cup of coffee. Since she notices everything, she knew exactly how to brew a cup in my fancy coffee cone. Anyway, she came to snuggle, and told me that when I'm "too old to chew junk," she'll make me scrambled eggs instead.

Thank you, kid. That's love right there.

Lunch date fail

Once upon a time, like last Thursday (this was supposed to be my May 1 post but I never got around to writing it. Oops), Eric took me out to lunch at our local Elk's club restaurant. If you remember how we had this exact same date last year (um, it's okay if you don't 'cause I barely do. Well, I'm old), then you'll know that I dissed the place hard and then was utterly amazed by the artisan bun on my cheeseburger.

So this time, I kept my mouth shut and just went along with it. Besides, Eric had two $10 coupons, which meant lunch was free, so really, what was the downside?

Doesn't this look delicious? Yeah, not what we ate.

Like last time, we were the youngest in the joint by a good 40 years. Well, except for the bartender / waiter dude, who was a total hipster and who had two speeds: Slow and stop. We chose a table in the corner with the best view of the river, and then proceeded to chat. And place our order for two cheeseburgers. And then chat some more.

We'd been chatting for a full 35 minutes, still sans cheeseburgers, which was a little odd because all those old dudes at the bar who had come in after us were all eating their meals. Eric stands up to talk to Hipster Waiter Guy, and before Eric can even get a word out, he's all, I'll go check.

So at this point it's been 40 minutes and we've kind of run out of things to say to each other because we've been married 19.5 years and we'd just seen each other that morning and hadn't had enough time to come up with any new stories. Hipster Waiter Guy slowly makes his way to our table and is all like, the cook is just putting the toppings on your burger, won't be much longer, and then after he slinks away I'm all, uh, that's code for, 'oh shit, we forgot.' That made Eric laugh, so I felt pretty good about myself.

So at 12:55, we finally get our two cheeseburgers, which are just okay. No artisan bun, that's for sure, and frozen fries, not that there's anything wrong with frozen fries, just wasn't what we were expecting after last year's extravaganza. Eric is determined to get back to the office ASAP and is pounding his cheeseburger like he's going for the gold at a food eating contest, and I'm just trying to keep up, plus I was pretty sure all signs were pointing to food poisoning or, at the very least, one of my fun stomach attacks because I had my doubts about the naturalness of my meal.

Whatever, pound pound pound, now we're done, it's 1:05, and Eric is ready to go. Hipster Waiter Guy isn't even trying to make eye contact, and Eric is like, do we actually have to tip for this?, and I'm like, oh hell no, 55 minutes, yo!, and he agrees. He pulls out his two $10 coupons -- our burgers were $9.50 yeah -- and puts them on the table, takes my hand and we're out of there.

I'm like, uh, we can't just leave, because I knew Hipster Waiter Guy was going to stop us for apparent dining and dashing, but that dude gave zero craps and didn't even bother to turn around to watch us leave, let alone yell at us about being delinquents. 

That was probably the coolest thing I did all week.

You'd think our sad tale would be over, but alas, not yet. Eric is on a mission to get up the hill and back to work -- we'd walked to lunch -- and he's practically running and dragging me along behind him. Finally he looks at me and is all, are you okay?, and I'm like, dude, I just pounded a cheeseburger in like 8 minutes and this is all uphill. Been better, and he just laughs because he thinks I'm a riot.

I'm a riot, all right. I can't believe I didn't puke on his shoes.

Anyway, I am happy to report that I did not get food poisoning or have any sort of reaction to my meal, so yay, calling it a win! Also, doesn't this make a much better story than if we'd gone to eat and had a delicious meal served in a timely manner?

Well, whatever. I think it's going to take more than a couple of coupons to get us back to that place.

Dear Eddie Bauer: We're through

Dear Eddie Bauer,

It pains me to write this letter because you and I have always been tight. When we got together, I was used to trying to find pants with the biggest hem so my Mommy could take it out and thus make me longer pants. That's not as much fun as you'd think (but my mother is a trooper), and when I found your tall sizes--honest to God 36" inseams!--it was perhaps the best thing that had ever happened to me on the clothing front.

Figure 1: Sweater seam rip in arm area.

Figure 2: Sweater seam rip at collar.

(Although... remember when Northern Reflections was in the US? They had some pretty long pants, too.)

We've had a great run, Eddie Bauer. I've been faithful because I appreciated those pants so much. I branched out to long sleeve t-shirts (at one point I probably had 15, no joke), and I had a bunch of your sweaters and cardigans, and even some blouses. Ninety percent of my wardrobe at any given time was yours. The quality was super high; I was able to hold on to some items for years.

But I've noticed recently (well, the last year or so) that the quality of your clothing is now lacking. Of the three pairs of Eddie Bauer tall pants I own right now, all three have hem stitching that has come completely undone. I've used safety pins to try to keep them in service a little longer, but they are in desperate need of replacing. Especially since my black pair is also missing a bracket I need to button the waist. (That's just awkward.)

Figure 3: Black pants need just one more bracket.

Figure 4: Same black pants with crappy hem.

Figure 5: Grey pants with NO hem.

Figure 6: Beige pants (2 months old) also with NO hem.

A closer inspection of my other EB wear has brought similar conclusions: Busted hems, busted seams, holes everywhere, no matter if its a sweater or a tank top. My newer items seem to come apart within the first month or so of purchase. I've replaced items with holes just to get new holes.

I think this might be the definition of insanity: Doing the same things over and over and expecting a different result. I think it's time to face the hard truth, Eddie Bauer, which is that we need to break up.

Figure 7: Tank top hole. It didn't want to be left out.

And no, we can't be friends. I'm sorry about that, because you will always hold a special place in my heart for those wonderful long pants circa 1998, but we'd just be kidding ourselves. It's time for us to see other people. Actually, I've already begun to see other people. And it feels good.

So goodbye, Eddie Bauer. Thanks again for the memories. Good luck in the future.

Sincerely,
Trisha

Anxiety Level: High

Source

Remember how George W. had that terror warning system that told us where the national threat level was at? That's what came to mind this week in regards to my anxiety. Anxiety Level: High. Scratch that: It's super high. What's higher than high? It's a red alert kind of ordeal.

I feel terrible.

I'm at a loss in regards to why my anxiety is through the roof. I filter all my emotions through my stomach, but as I tried to think of what might be causing me stress, I kept coming up blank.

Work is going well. My house is uncluttered and relatively clean, thanks to a Monday-night all-family on deck dirt smackdown. I've been eating well (no three-ingredient mints or chips for me). Eric is fine, the girls are fine, even Skilly is fine. Things are fine.

So why is my stomach all DANGER DANGER DANGER?

I have no idea.

Maybe there's nothing to analyze. My first instinct when things go south is to try to figure out why. Maybe there is no why. Maybe this is just what it's like to be me. Maybe I'm just anxious because I am.

Huh.

The dumb thing is that, as I've written this (the whole ten minutes that took), I've started to feel better. So either the meds are kicking in (a couple hours late, the jerks) or writing helps. It's probably both.

Hey, have you guys heard about the gut brain? Here's some junk I found on the internets that explains all that:

Here
Here
Here

I think it's rather fascinating, and it makes me feel better in a general kind of way, like I'm not really crazy, it's just that I have a highly developed gut brain. Although, irony, as I was researching, I started to feel worse. And now that I've stopped, I feel okay(ish) again.

Whatever, I guess. My stomach sucks.

School supplies, or alternatively: I feel a rant coming on

So you guys, I really hate shopping for school supplies. I hate the whole ordeal. It's one big gimmick, and it's stupid and wasteful and dumb. We get a new list every single year and you're expected to buy it all new. Even if your kid comes home with a backpack AND grocery sack filled with leftover supplies at the end of the previous year, most of which is still perfectly usable.

It just drives me nuts.

Well, I was going to step off that train THIS year, thank you very much, so at the end of last school year, I had the girls put every single reusable thing into a box. The Box of Awesome. I figured it was just a matter of organization, really--if you have a stash, that should logically cut down on the shopping and waste, right? I even included the fourth grade list Johanna brought home (although I failed to actually read it because hello, summer vacation. I don't like to think about that kind of thing until the very last possible second. True story). Then I put the top on and let everything stew for roughly three months.

Since school starts next Tuesday (for Johanna, at least; I just learned Abby doesn't start until Thursday. High school is awesome), Johanna has been very anxious to get her supplies nailed down. She cares not one iota for new clothing, but wow, all she could talk about is the calculator she needs.

It was time to open the box is what I'm saying.

Why does Jo look like she's expecting something to jump out at her?

Hey, there's that aforementioned school list right on top! Um, what does it say again?

English and Spanish 'cause that's how our school rolls.

One glance through and it suddenly occurred to me that all the folders and markers and paper in my Box of Awesome are not even listed. 

Well, damn.

Johanna was more than happy to reuse her scissors from last year, and her pencil box was in surprisingly good shape. She had two used pink pearl erasers in various degrees of disrepair that she claimed, even though the list called for white polymer (we're rebelling). The earbuds threw me, but Johanna ran to her room to get an extra pair Abby had given her earlier this summer. 

So four things crossed off a list of 14. Let's compare piles:

Reusable.

Purchased. 

P.S. The top photo does not include her old lunch bag; the bottom does not include her new backpack. Oh, or the bottle of hand sanitizer she wanted because, and I quote, "What if there's a booger emergency?" It's hard to argue with that logic.

I'm trying to be grateful for the fact that Johanna is able to reuse things at all, but it's hard not to get too bogged down in the utter failure that was my brilliant Box of Awesome idea. I really thought I'd be able to write an amazing post about how great we did on the zero waste school supply front this year, but instead, the box is still full and is taunting me. I guess Abby might end up using some of it, but for now, she's thinking as long as she has a pencil, earbuds and a pack of gum, she's all set for the first day of her sophomore year. Sounds legit.

So I failed is what I'm saying. Ah, well.

Wednesday "Art," on sale now at Walmart!

Rocks. I'm not sure what else to say about this.

Wrong number

For the past couple of weeks, I've been getting random phone calls from people who think my name is Lisa and that I'm putting on a garage sale. Since my name is not Lisa and garage sales are not something I like to organize, I disappointed a few people. I kind of liked it better when they just went to voice mail and I didn't have to talk to them.

Deb in reception (never again to be confused with Deb in Sales because she moved last month to another newspaper) and I even looked through our garage sale section to see if my number had somehow gotten published accidentally. We don't put phone numbers in our garage sale ads, though, and nothing there seemed out of the ordinary. It looked like this would forever be a mystery. And the phone calls seemed to stop on their own.

Until Saturday morning (at 7, I might add). I was already awake, technically, because Eric is insane and was up staining the deck (dude, sleep in once in a while, jeez), but man, I was tired, and also a little disillusioned now that my plans for sleeping until 8 were never going to get off the ground.

I ask for so little, people. Just let me sleep.

Whatevs. When the phone started ringing, I got up, just in case it was an emergency, but I didn't recognize the number so I let it go to voice mail. And headed back to bed.

But I immediately got another call from the same number. Okay, FINE, it's probably important, right? I answered.

The lady on the other end was already talking by the time I got my "hello" out. She was calling me Christie, which was a little confusing, but then she identified herself as Lisa and started in about that damn garage sale, so finally I interrupted to break the news that she had the wrong number.

She was confused and apologetic and quickly hung up, and I figured that was that.

But! Not two seconds* after I hung up with Lisa, Christie called. And was, of course, calling me Lisa. Christie is a talker, though, so after I told her my name is Trisha and I am not, contrary to popular belief, having a garage sale, she wanted to tell me what was going on.

Hey, cool, I like stories, and I was already up anyway, so what the hell.

So apparently there was supposed to be a huge, multi-familly garage sale at the corner of XYZ that very day, but the ad, which has been running for two weeks, didn't appear in the paper that morning and she was wondering what was going on. And I'm like, where are you?, because XYZ was an unfamiliar corner to me, and, working for a newspaper that sells subscriptions, I've heard just about every street name in the county at this point in my career.

Turns out she lives in Eugene. When I told her where I was (um, two hours north), she was actually shocked into silence for a second (seriously, she was a talker). Then I told her how I worked for our newspaper and had gone through our classifieds trying to figure out how my number got published, but not finding anything, and how this was all making so much more sense now, since these phone calls had been going on for a while.

So I got a few you poor things and also a few laments about what she was supposed to do now. Since technology is amazing, I was all, hang on, I have Lisa's  number, let me hook you up.

Lisa's number is NOTHING like my number, by the way, not even close. That part will just have to stay a mystery.

Christie was ever so pleased with me, and then we said our goodbyes. I like it when a puzzle comes together, except I like it even better when the puzzle comes together later in the morning.

So that's how I spent the first 15 minutes of my Saturday. The end.

*Not even an exaggeration.

A Very Walker Vacation part III: Edmonds, a ferry ride and Port Angeles

So, to review: On our vacation this year, we decided to tour Washington State. Mt. Rainier came first and Seattle second. After the Mariner game, it was time to embark on the next leg of our adventure.

We drove literally like a half hour from Seattle to Edmonds, where we'd gotten a motel next to the ferry that would take us to Kingston. There was some pool time, plenty of wi-fi, and even reusable tableware. (At the risk of sounding like a crazy head, I actually brought plates and silverware so we could just say no to the Styrofoam most motels favor for their "continental breakfasts." Nobody said environmental activism was easy.)

Oh, and while trying to find some restaurant we'd Googled, we found this little burger joint that Chris Pratt has apparently eaten in and you know what? It was delicious. We ate outside and savored our burgers (except Johanna ordered calamari). It was fun.

We were on the ball the next morning because we'd heard the ferries leave RIGHT AT DEPARTURE TIME and if you miss yours, tough luck, you have to wait for the next one. Since our motel was approximately a quarter mile from the ferry, getting in line was easy. We were one of the first ones there because that's how Eric rolls. So we waited a while.

But! Eventually we boarded, parked the car and went above deck (I'm sure that's the correct boating term) to check out the sights. We learned that ferries move fast. We also learned that it's quite windy at the bow. Yes, there were some Titanic "I'm king of the world!" moments because: boat.

Bye, Edmonds!

JUST LIKE THE MOVIE.

Trying not to get blown overboard.

It only took about 30 minutes to get from Edmonds to Kingston. The girls had a complete ball. While I spend much of the trip sipping coffee from a bench, they were running around having a grand ol' time. I was slightly afraid Johanna would end up overboard somehow because, well, this is Johanna we're talking about, but! We all arrived safely. We spent approximately five minutes in Kingston--just enough time to get out of town and head for Hurricane Ridge.

Hey, fun fact, I get kind of car sick on windy roads, so this trip wasn't necessarily an easy one for me at times, and wow, getting to Hurricane Ridge was interesting. I solved this problem by closing my eyes and drifting off. I can't sleep for crap at night in a comfortable bed, but throw me in a car and I can sleep like nobody's business.

It turns out Hurricane Ridge is quite beautiful. We had a picnic lunch, then walked to the visitor's center, took some pictures, hit the gift shop, took some more pictures, took a hike, met a deer and--you won't even believe this--took pictures. Well, there's not much else to do there.

We named her Pip.

My snuggle bunnies!

The altitude was getting to me, obviously.

And then we headed for Port Angeles.

So you guys, here's where our story again gets sad. We'd heard from one of Eric's coworkers that Port Angeles is like a mini Astoria, but I can only conclude that she was drunk because nope, not even close. You'd think a town that was basically the gateway to Vancouver, British Columbia, would have something going for it. But you'd be wrong.

It turns out that Port Angeles is kind of grimy and dingy and windy and cold. We got to town in plenty of time, checked into our "Euro hotel" (Abby loved it, I was kind of grossed out by the falling plaster) and walked around. Not a whole lot to see. Well, there was a wicked awesome bookstore and a rather fun candy shop. There was an organic coffee shop. There was the restaurant Bella and Edward had their first date (yes, I'm talking Twilight). There was a Dairy Queen (Johanna is still taking about the huge ice cream cones she, Abby and Eric got). The pizza shop we ate at had bugs crawling around in its window display of pasta that we noticed after we started eating. Not a big confidence builder, that, but it kind of seemed par for the course.

I don't even know what else to say about Port Angeles. It was there and we survived.

Um... my only photo of the town.

Next morning! There was an organic bakery across the street from our hotel, but wouldn't you know it, it was closed when I went to procure my breakfast. (Eric and the girls opted to eat oatmeal in our room's kitchenette. Except it wasn't oatmeal I could eat, thus my singular adventure.) So I walked around a little and found that organic coffee shop I mentioned above. The coffee was organic; the food was not.* The owner, who was very nice, suggested I try the organic market down the street. Problem solved! Sipping on my very yummy vanilla latte, I walked to the market... to see that it didn't open until 8 a.m.

It was 7:33. You know what? We may have decided to mosey the hell out of Mt. Rainier, but we got the hell out of Port Angeles. We were just... done.

And were in Forks by 9 a.m. I'll tell you about that on Wednesday. Because! Forks!

*I wasn't being snobby. It's just that I've got a sensitivity to artificial colors, flavors and preservatives, and I was trying to keep my shit together. Literally.

Well, that was unexpected

So remember how on Easter our family went to the local blossom craft fair so I could take pictures for the paper and generally be awesome? And then I got my ego crushed? AND had to explain that Eric isn't my brother?

Ah, good times.

So, funny story, a friend of mine was selling tickets for the Lionesses annual basket raffle, and naturally we stopped to chat, buy tickets (6 for $5) and take her picture (which ended up in the paper and it was just darling, if I do say so myself). That was the only thing we spent money on all day. Minimalism in action! Although I did feel bad for some of the vendors. Turns out Easter weekend is a pretty crappy time to try to sell people your homemade items. Anyway, Eric joked about her making sure to draw our tickets, and she joked about how she definitely would, and we all laughed and said our goodbyes and that was that.

I totally forgot about it until Monday evening, when I got a phone call while trying to eat a rather late dinner of nachos (Johanna had a softball game and Abby and I ran concessions... that's kind of another post for another time, now that I think about it). There's this lady screaming in my ear, and she's apparently got me on speaker phone because there are actually a LOT of ladies screaming in my ear.

Turns out I won that basket. I mean four baskets. It was a lot of stuff. Um, $2,400 worth of prizes.

Holy shit!

Abby and I model two of the 15 hats donated by one local manufacturer.
My big hair prevented me from keeping any of the
truly cute ones. Ah, well. I'm not big into hats anyway.

Since I hadn't entered to win (and to be truthful, hadn't entered at all--Eric bought the tickets and wrote my name down because he's silly that way), I didn't pay attention to what was being raffled off. It turned to be a lot of hats, shirts, skin care products, coffee mugs, socks, a watch, women's gloves, golf balls, kitchen towels, cute girly toys, cookbooks, jewelry and a boatload of gift certificates.

Just unpacking this made me laugh. It's just so dang much stuff. Eric was like, so much for being a minimalist, but I was like, hey, it's cool. We are going to be really popular with our friends for a while.

And you know what? We have been. Minimalism has taught me that you don't have to keep everything you receive. I've donated items to our school's annual carnival raffle and taken hats and shirts to work (one company donated 15 hats; another, at least 20 shirts. Crazy). I've given things to my mother and favorite mother-in-law. I've had friends pick out hats for themselves and their daughters.

We've made a lot of people happy. It's been fun.

Now, just so you don't think I'm mean, I did let the girls keep a few things of their choice (for Abby, that was a couple of t-shirts, a hat, and hairspray; for Johanna, art supplies and a Webkinz lion)... but you have to understand that they're minimalists, too (well, Johanna is technically a hoarder, but she doesn't require new stuff, she just really hangs on to her old stuff), so they did not require much. That made me very proud, actually.

I found a couple of treasures, too, namely shampoo and conditioner, hand cream, and a funky watch. Since the basket was geared towards women, Eric got snubbed, but he didn't seem to mind. Maybe that's because the best part of the whole ordeal was the gift certificates. We are going to have a couple of fancy date nights, as well as several family date nights, and that is amazing. We love experiences!

P.S. One certificate is to some laser skin care center. My mother pointed out that this meant I could get my upper lip hair zapped off, which sounds kind of painful and really weird. I'm totally in.

Anyway, the remainder of the items will grace future Care Package Projects, birthday parties and showers, and that's also kind of fun. You know how sometimes you hold something in your hand and it tells you the person it's really meant for? That happened.

Watch your mail, people, that's all I'm saying... :)

P.P.S. I'm 98-percent certain I only won because I didn't mean to win. I feel guilty about winning, but excited about sharing. I can't decide if that's irony or just coincidence.

And so it begins

I found something in Johanna's backpack this morning that has me fairly furious: A series of notes between her and a friend, written during the after school program, with Johanna asking the friend why she was mad at her, the friend responding that it was how Johanna was acting, and Johanna saying she was sorry, but how was she acting?

And the friend couldn't say.

Here's why it makes me furious: I know what it's like to be on the receiving end of such a note, of not knowing what you've done, left only with a vague sense that you are not good enough without any idea of what "good enough" even means.

I just spent an hour writing about my own experiences with being bullied by my supposed friends, from elementary school on up. Including college. But it's too raw, and much more than I ever show people. Even people I'm the closest too. So I can't bring myself to put that out there on the internets for the world to see.

Here's the gist of the thing: I had a hard time. The only thing that saved me was that I ended up with some real friends who taught me that I was okay just the way I was, that I didn't need to act a certain way to make people like me; that just being me was enough. They will never know how much that meant to me, and means to me still.

God, that's still saying too much...

Um, anyway, so as you can see, this note in the backpack of my 8-year-old has stirred up some rather deep emotions. Because I don't want my precious, eternally happy child to feel that she has to be anyone less than herself. Her second grade teacher told me last year that she's never met a kid so young who so completely knows who she is already.

I don't want her doubting who she is.

When I asked Johanna about the notes, she got embarrassed and tried to take them away from me, but finally she told me what had happened. I told her that she does not need to change "the way she acts" because how she acts is fine. Then, seeing her confused face, I told her how girls sometimes try to make other people sad just to feel better about themselves. She seemed to grasp what I was trying to tell her. I certainly hope so.

But now I'm wondering if I should mention it to the after school care coordinator. I don't want to be one of "those parents," but I don't want my child bullied under the guises of friendship. I also don't want to start something worse.

Girls can be so, so mean. It's been that way forever, which makes me wonder: How do we ever make it stop? Bullies come in all forms, and from "good" families, and at all age levels. My worst bullies were college-aged Christian Evangelicals. (And I'm not saying that to blame Christian Evangelicals, just to make the point that people you assume would act one way often don't.) What makes us this way? Why do we have to tear down other people just to make ourselves feel better? Why not lift people up instead?

So... no one ever comments, and that's cool, people, but I'd really like some thoughts on this other than my own. Because I've got a lot of baggage. And I'm not sure I'm seeing what is really there.

Today's news

SALEM -- The Oregon Legislature has agreed that mothers who've just given birth should be able to take home their placentas.

"For cultural reasons and other reasons many families like to take home the placenta after the baby is born," said Sen. Elizabeth Steiner Hayward, D-Beaverton.

The state Senate unanimously approved the bill, HB 2612, Monday, as the House did in March. The bill goes to Gov. John Kitzhaber. The governor's spokesman Tim Raphael says Kitzhaber anticipates signing the bill, but will review it first.

Under current state law, hospitals are prohibited from releasing hazardous medical waste, which includes human placentas. Oregon hospitals, however, have allowed mothers to take home their placentas for cultural and religious reasons.

Some mothers have their placentas put into capsules, which they consume in the belief it boosts their energy and staves off post-partum depression. Experts have said there is no scientific evidence of a health benefit.

***

This little AP report is how I woke up this morning, thanks to Eric's alarm, but I thought the guy said "casseroles" instead of "capsules." Holy shit! That got me up, I tell you what. Obviously I had to Google this one, which is how I learned it was actually "capsules," but wow, is that any better, really? Probably less chewy. Except if you read the entire article, it also talks about lasagnas and tortilla soups. Oh, and making prints and holding burials, but that seems boring compared to the rest of it.

P.S. Oregon is weird and also kind of awesome. I'm glad I live here.

P.P.S. Oh, hey, what about cord blood? I thought that was more of a thing for like curing diseases, but whatever, I guess. 

Let's hear it for navy blue

I tell you what, you haven't lived until you've been afflicted with pink eye at a Very Advanced Age (aka 40). I've missed the last two days of work because of goopy gloppy eyes, and, quite frankly, I'm going a little stir crazy over here.

So yesterday I went to the doctor because I had HAD it. My ears itch, my throat hurts, I have a cough, my sinus' are congested, and my eyes, obviously, are pink. Also, my thumb has a scratch and my skin is dry and I can't find any Chapstick. I mean, come on! There are limits, people!

My beloved doctor doesn't work on Tuesdays, so I saw this other character. Who was actually pretty cool. But he did NOT give me antibiotics, which I was hoping to score. Um, because whatever this is is viral and antibiotics won't help.

Be sicker next time, he joked when I booed his diagnosis, and I was all, I thought I was! Then he was all, cough syrup with a DM in the title, the drops you're putting in your eye aren't helping, and take 3000 milligrams of vitamin C daily.

So that was a waste of a $20 copay is what I'm saying.

But he did give me a note saying I am not contagious and can go to work, with the warning that before I help anyone at the front desk I need to load up on the hand sanitizer.

I thought I wasn't contagious? I'm an English major, though, which is probably why I don't understand the finer points of medicine.

My husband and my mother were NOT impressed. I won't lie, I kind of got in trouble for failing to procure Big Medicine. When I woke up with morning with my left eye all crusty, Eric was like, FORGET the doctor, go get the drops. He's very bossy, that one.

Wait, here's what we're dealing with:

Better, right? But still pink. And wow, I am BRAVE posting pics without make-up, so give me props right now.

Well, anyway. I'm going to be rocking sunglasses all day long, who cares if it's rainy and so dark it's practically twilight at 9 a.m., because A) Abby has an awards ceremony today--she won an essay contest--and B) Chris the Office Manager says that since I have a note, it's fine to go to work, goopy eyes or no. Notes are handy that way.

Oh, the sunglasses? I'm just sensitive to light, I will say if anyone ventures to ask (which I doubt they will--it's my ugly shirt theory: Everyone is so worried about their own ugly shirt that they don't even notice yours) because that will be less humiliating than admitting I have pink eye. Abby votes I just pretend to be blind, but that seems like a big commitment.

Blerg! When's spring? (Oh, right...)

Stirring myself

As I've said many a time, the real success of Eric's and my parenting is that we've managed to raised our kids with zero expectations. As I recently told Abby, there are parents out there who actually do stuff with their kids: Plan activities, play games, give treats, and go on adventures... and then there's her father and me. Look, having kids is exhausting. I've given up sleep, and personal desires, and the last bit of milk that would have been ever so tasty in my coffee... and now you want me to pay extra attention to them?

What the hell, man?

Actually, Eric recently read this generation of kids is the most pampered since the Ming Dynasty. Well, everyone but my kids, I guess. And even they aren't doing so bad.

So all of that is to say that somehow I let Johanna rope me into taking her to the school's Friday Skate Night yesterday. I'm not sure who thought getting a huge group of kids together in the gym and putting them on wheels while pumping in loud pop music was a good idea, but the school has been doing it for years and apparently no one has ever questioned it.

source

Abby was never interested and she never went ever in all her years there, or maybe she was interested and I just didn't notice because we had a baby in the house and everything between 2004-2010 is kind of a blur.

But Johanna is all about movement. And the kid is fearless. Actually it would be kind of awesome if she had a little caution to temper the unabashed enthusiasm, but you can't have everything.

I took her once last year and it was horrifying. Well, she had no idea what she was doing, so I had to run around with her on my arm to help her get the feel of it before some of her more skating-pro friends turned up and took over the job themselves. Squished toes is what I'm saying, added to the usual headache that groups of children normally produce.

This was the first skate night of the season, so you know that means we're in for a long haul. Anyway, though, the kid had a ball. They've been skating on Mondays at her after-school care program, except half the time she doesn't wear socks and can't participate (her feet get hot, she hates socks, who cares if it's twenty degrees outside?), but she kept mostly on her feet and even entered a "race" with her fellow second grade girls and took third. Or fourth. She wasn't sure, but she was thrilled.

Also: I got to sing along to "Call Me Maybe," which is pretty catchy.

Anyway, I guess it wasn't so bad. I mean, it was cold in the gym, and the music was terrible, and Johanna kept crashing into my legs every time she came around to where I was sitting, but aside from THAT, seeing all the laughing, happy people? Especially my kid? That was cool.

Well, that was unexpected

I needed to clean out the fridge anyway,  I guess.

Thursday morning, making lunches, nowhere near the fridge, BIG BOOM that sounded like the ice maker exploded, open the door and see this. Close the door and hope it's all just a misunderstanding. Open the door and realize not so much. Close the door and wait for Eric.

"I guess I shouldn't have drilled it yesterday," he says thoughtfully as he examines the destruction.

Lesson learned, people. Tempered glass is NOT to be messed with. Good news: He's ordered a new shelf, which takes care of the problem he was trying to rectify with the drill (i.e. the meat drawer or whatever it's called came off and he was trying to fix it).

The end.