Missedcongeniality's Weblog

This week has been both a new education and a return to my roots. School was released last week to the jubilant cheers of students and collective groan of parents.

After the observations of how different the world is today and how quickly it can change, I took measured action to slow things down…for at least one of the children.

Saturday found us headed to my hometown. Although I am a Pacific North Westerner, my hometown can be found in central Eastern Oregon. Specifically, Baker City…which is also the hometown of Darling Husband.

Last weekend it was just us girls, youngest daughter and myself. Her world this past year has been moving way too fast, and the time had come for her to get a good old fashioned education. I took her to my brother’s ranch where we kicked it ‘old school.’ Awaiting our arrival was a considerably sized barn with stalls that needed a good mucking out.

We arrived late Saturday evening, had a quick visit, and then headed off to bed. Awake at first light, I rolled over to check the time; 4:45 a.m.! Because it was Sunday, we had planned to just relax that day and dig into the barn first thing Monday. I remained in bed for 30 minutes, and at 5:15 was unable to stay there a moment longer. My brother was already up, and the coffee was beckoning. We sat in the clear quiet light of dawn chatting softly about what needed to be done over the next several days. He called me ‘sis’. I’ve always loved that. Hearing it again brought peace, comfort, and reconnection for me, as well as the hope that youngest daughter (known as ‘Wee One’) will have those same feelings by the end of this trip.

At that moment she emerged from her slumber. Rubbing her eyes, she asked to go outside and play with the litter of ten puppies residing in the barn. Shortly after that, she joined her uncle to help change irrigation pipes, while I remained at the house and cooked breakfast. As a side note, there is nothing, and I mean nothing, better on a Sunday morning than bacon, sausage, and scrambled eggs cooked in a cast iron skillet. Hearing the sizzle & pop, and having the delicious aroma fill the house was just another thing I’d been missing! I don’t care about the cholesterol or calories…it was simply amazing. The remainder of the day was spent visiting with friends and family to catch up.

Then came Monday… the day planned for the barn. This was the primary purpose for our trip and it was time to get to it. As barns go, it’s fairly large with approximately 12 horse stalls, (six stalls on one side, six on the other) with two corridors, a calving pen in and a tack room between them. (I knew this would not be a one day job) Armed with pitchforks, hard rakes, shovels, and wheel barrows, the Wee One and I mucked out 4 of the six stalls on one side, the calving pen and most of that corridor. We finished the remaining stalls and second corridor the following day, and cleaned out the loft on day 3. The Wee One surprised me by attacking this job with gusto, and never once complained. When so many kids her age would respond with “gross” or “eew”, she dug in and tackled the whole thing with heart and pride.

She also learned a few things in the process:

Cowboy boots are also known as sh*t kickers for a reason
There is always work to be done on a ranch
Don’t leave a rake leaned/laying with tines out/up
Close your mouth when pushing a wheelbarrow of muck into the wind
John Wayne is an American icon.
Sometimes it’s okay to sit on the front porch, listening to the world, and just ‘be’.

I re-discovered a few things about myself as well:

I love the sweet smell of sage, juniper, and alfalfa after a summer rain shower.
Watching horses run through a field makes me smile.
Living on a dirt road means the car gets/stays dusty.
It’s impossible to stay mad when holding a puppy.
Spending time with my family can be fun and inspirational.
Sometimes it’s okay to sit on the front porch, listening to the world, and just ‘be’.

Wee One now refers to her uncle’s ranch as her ‘happy place’, and stayed an extra week without me to celebrate the 4th of July by watching a parade and see her cousins ride in the rodeo…

… and even though work obligations brought me back, I’m keeping the dust on the boots for a while.

All things considered, it appears that we both got much needed instruction and reminders about life in general, and my hope is that neither of us will forget the lessons learned about honesty, integrity, and the inherent value of a hard day’s work. Happy Summer everyone!

“Best. Day. Ever.” Came the text message from one of our kids. The certain sign that school is out for Summer Break, and that their reference as to what qualifies as ‘best’ is somewhat narrow. For the moment, it is ‘best’ simply because it is current, and nothing more.  Over the course of the next three months, we expect to be bombarded with requests for sleepovers, pool party invitations, and group gatherings with no specific purpose other than to ‘hang’, all of which will be interspersed with moments when they will announce “I’m bored.”

One thing is clear. We are in a separate circle of hell known as teendom.

With each passing year, teendom as a concept never changes. Parents vs. kids. Filled with angst and eye-rolling, (theirs and ours) life in our home has been tempered with random skirmishes whilst the ever-adolescing neo-humanoid-units challenge us daily for their independence. Not that we’re unwilling to let them have it, (for the love of God, we SO want to let them have it) but we’d like them to have an understanding about how rapidly this world, their world, changes.

Our parents had a console stereo with a turntable, 8-track tape player, and ‘albums’ were cellophane wrapped vinyl records. Television sets still had dials, and electric coffee pots percolated. Their world was rapidly changing, and they wanted us to understand that.

When my parents were thrust into my teendom microwave ovens, cordless phones and cassette playing boomboxes, were the raging and current technology. The 8-track player was going the way of the dodo, and VCR’s were bringing commercial free movies to television (unless you already had HBO on cable). Video games were the newest form of entertainment, Asteroids and Pac-Man challenged our reaction time and improved our reflexes.

This was our world, our time, and we couldn’t see why our parents were making such a big deal of it. They just needed to open up and embrace the fact that the future was here.

So in the course of a few short decades, time has brought us into the future that our parents could not have predicted. Everything that we thought was so cool back then smacks of cheesiness today. Photos of permed hair and acid wash jeans evoke fits of giggles from our kids. We don’t even talk about mullets. Their present day reality contains smart phones, wi-fi, self parking cars, and instantaneous online status updates.

The difference in what we knew ‘then’ and what the kids have now can best be identified like this:

1. “Friending” was something done by sharing the Twinkie from your lunch.
2. “Tweeting” was what the birds did outside the window early in the morning.
3. “Text” was followed by “book” and usually wrapped with a brown paper bag covering.
4. Writing on someone’s wall was NOT a good thing, and could get you in serious trouble.
5. Messaging was passing a note in English.
6. Laughing Out Loud was heard not read
7. Touch-Screen just meant you’d be wiping fingerprints off the T.V.
8. 3-D was a novelty, nothing more.

So how do we dinoparents keep ourselves relevant? We don’t. We can’t. The kids look at us and see big-hair, acid-washed, asteroid playing dodo birds. Just as we scoffed at our parents, our kids are scoffing at theirs. But not for long.  I have an idea, an idea that has morphed into a plan. They won’t know what hit them, there won’t be time to be bored, and for me it will be the:  Best. Day. Ever.

Stay tuned…

Being a parent in a blended family requires the ability to not take yourself too seriously. I never knew how much so until this week. In preparation for impending military deployment, my eldest son decided to send a ‘love note’ to his blended teenage siblings containing ‘insider information’ about yours truly.

The original list had 25 bullet points, but is abbreviated here due to space constraints. Here is his wisdom:

To my brother and sister.

This is for the very next time you think you are getting a raw deal…

I understand that you have been told (repeatedly) that you are dealing with Mom Lite™; but I recently came to realize that you probably don’t grasp what this really means. So, for your benefit and with your best interests in mind, I have compiled a list of Rules and Regs from the Old Regime of the Deity known as Mom. It is not complete, but I can assure you that it is accurate. Remember, this is a labor of love; Big Brother is trying to look out for ya here. The following rules are absolute. Disregard at your own peril.

Alright, here goes:

1. When Arguing with Mom: YOU. ARE. WRONG. You shall forever be so, no matter how logical your argument is. If you are proven right later, guess what: You’re still wrong. This is a fact of life; get used to it.

2. If you are summoned at any time before 10 am, you are to appear by Her bedside with a cup of coffee in hand, half creamer, two Splendas. This is not negotiable: sleep on your own time. Acceptable substitutes for your name are “COFFEE!!” or “BEAN JUICE!!”

3. MOMMA’S CHOCOLATE IS MOMMA’S CHOCOLATE. Get your own.

4. You are not Chuck Norris; SHAVE. YOUR. FACE.

5. This is not GQ and you are not a body builder, so put on a damn shirt and cover your hairy self. NOW.

6. The Impending Apocalypse is not an acceptable excuse for getting out of school. If these be your last moments, then sucks to be you, now get outside, you’ll miss the bus.

7. When asked your opinion, “Whatever you say” or “Yes, Ma’am” are your options; quit fooling yourself.  ”I’m on it” is also acceptable.

8. You can’t use the Force, so quit telling Her that “these aren’t the droids you’re looking for” and walk the damn dog.

9. It doesn’t matter if you just walked the dog, do it again, he needs to poop. Don’t agree? See Rule 1.

10. No goose-stepping around the house. You aren’t that funny.

11. If the word “Revolution” leaves your lips, you better be reviewing history.

12. If She says you did it, you did it. See Rule 1.

13. Chores are not “slave labor,” now do the dishes.

14. If She tells you more than once, IT. IS. A. WARNING. So get off your butt and take out the trash…

As a final note: I admittedly laughed through the entire thing, until I came to the realization that compared to his life with me, Basic Training must’ve seemed easy for eldest son. So, to him I say, “Thanks for helping the younger ones, and I’m sure they will have a response in the coming future. We love you, Pookie!”

As my cat yakked up her breakfast this morning, I looked out the window at the seven thousandth day of rain, and muttered a quiet curse. Not that the one had anything to do with the other, but it’s Friday, and I really wish I didn’t have to deal with either situation.

But my reality is, on THIS Friday I need to take a breath. While the rest of the world is concerned with American Idol (Can you believe Scotty won?) and the Governator’s Love Child (only one, really??), I am reminded that we live in a pretty remarkable place.  Despite its flaws, (don’t get me started on that) ours is still a pretty great nation.  We have the freedom to express our opinion…blahbity, blah, blah…and not get thrown in jail. Unless your opinion happens to challenge the parentage and fashion sense of the cop who just pulled you over for speeding; then you may have to make a little trip downtown (and that’s on you).

So, as you savor an extra day off this weekend; looking for the perfect barbecue sauce, matching napkins or margarita, give just a moment please. Give a moment to those who have given to us. You don’t have to discuss politics, or agree with the current military action. Just know that without our Armed Forces men and women who chose to serve, we would not be protected as citizens. For all those who are planning to attend festivals, cookouts, or just lounge around in jammies, please remember this: You get to do so at the donation of our military service personnel. They have all volunteered to dedicate their lives to protect and defend of the Constitution of the United States. So, go ahead and offer a simple “Thank You” to those who have, do, and will continue to perform dutifully…here’s mine:

Thank you, Keith. This is the last Memorial Day that you, my big brother will serve as active duty in the Air Force. Your retire one week from today having given nearly three decades of your life to the job. Sorry I can’t be there in person to shake your hand and hug you. Thank you for 28 years of putting your commitment to this nation ahead of your own personal wishes. Thank you for going where you were sent, even if it didn’t make sense to the rest of us. Thank you for the things you’ve seen and must keep tucked in the far corners of your mind that you can’t tell us about. Thank you for serving proudly and with as much dignity as your broad shoulders could bear. Thanks to your wife and daughters, too. They endured your obligation with grace and support.

And most especially, thank you for explaining to me what I need to know as a mother of a son who now proudly serves. Thank you for the patience I hope you will have with me as I try not to worry during his upcoming deployment, and keep the Xanax and margaritas handy for me, just in case. I love and admire you for all you have done!

Gotta go now, the sun is trying to shine, and I need to clean up the cat barf.

For all of you who are reading this locally, I hope you have been able to enjoy the beautiful weather we’ve had the last few days. For those who read this column from distant time zones, it’s a Des Moines, WA thing…you had to be here to understand.  For the first time in over 6 months we’ve had 3 days in a row of temps that reached the sizzling 60s, and today we anticipate finally reaching at searing 70!

That’s the upside of the upcoming predictions…the downside is, according to Harold Camping a civil engineer-turned-biblical-scholar the ‘Rapture’ is set for 6 pm tomorrow night. Well, at least we got some good weather beforehand.

According to Mr. Camping, the estimation of 200 million people will be raptured, which is about 3% of the earth’s population. Although I haven’t seen any schematics on the geography of this world event, I’m pretty sure that the line at Starbucks will not experience any significant reduction. Alien invasion and nuclear apocalypse combined won’t shorten that wait.

Based on my brief research, (because Googled and found an entry in Wikipedia) I discovered that the predictions are formulated using calculations involving Jewish feast days in the Hebrew calendar, the lunar month, and the Gregorian calendar.  Which begs the question, is there an app for that for my smartphone? Anyone who knows me knows that I’m about as open minded as it gets, but this is a stretch even for my twisted little brain.

I cannot disprove him, but the debate I can offer up is more simplistic. It’s simply impossible to perform this particular arithmetic: Rosh Hashanah + Yom Kippur x 365, divided by 13,025 (his assertion of the earth’s actual age in years) = May 21, 2011. That comes out to the best example of ‘fuzzy math’ I’ve ever seen.

Besides which, I have asserted for DECADES that Algebra isn’t even real math.  Numbers added, subtracted, multiplied or divided to, from, and with each other is “math”.  When you throw letters into it, you begin to turn it into words.  Call any English teacher, they’ll confirm this. Don’t even get me started on Geometry; otherwise known as “Art.”

Mr. Campings followers are also convinced of their impending departure and have taken to the streets of New York with signage attesting the fact.  I’ve yet to see anyone on Marine View Drive making a statement about it, so I have to assume that his shortwave broadcasts haven’t reached us yet. Maybe I’ll stop in at the Lighthouse today to check if they’re having a Rapture Party tonight; and if so, does that include music by Blondie?

Ultimately there’s a lesson to be learned in all of this. Never take anything for granted, live each day as if it were your last, and go ahead and pay your utility bill. There isn’t a customer service department anywhere that will accept “my check is in the mail, pending the outcome of the Rapture” as a payment option.

And quite frankly, although I do not share this particular belief, I’m not making fun of it. Okay, maybe I am. But there are plenty of people and faith systems that I do not agree with, and this one just happens to fall in the ‘unlikely to be true’ category. If by chance it is, well, I’ll miss the 3% of you that will be gone, and I’ll hold your place in line while I’m waiting for my Caramel Macchiatto.

In a recent chat with a friend of mine, I came to the realization that I am blessed to have a pretty amazing support network.
“So, how’s your daughter?” Jeananne inquired.
“You mean the turd?” came my cheeky reply.
“Uh-oh. Okay. Tomorrow. Coffee.”
Jeananne is a true friend, indeed. She knows, she really knows. Like me, she has grown children whose decisions have often left us confused. She understands my frustration.
Everyone needs a friend like that, and I think it ought to have its own title and Facebook setting too. Simply calling them “Friend” doesn’t really cover it, and I just can’t bring myself to use “BFF” with a straight face.
What I’m talking about is a top-tier relationship; people who deserve supreme acknowledgment. These folks are First-Rate-Friends or FRFs (Pronounced: Furffs). It is possible to have more than one Furff. In fact, it’s generally better if you have multiple Furffs…for different situations.

Furff qualifications can fall along the following lines:

1. Someone whom you have known for several years and with whom you have mutual blackmail material.
2. Someone who has been in the room with you for childbirth, tattoo application, or removal. (Super-Furff status is granted if they have been there for all three)
3. Someone who will take you to, or pick you up from the airport at 4:00 a.m.
4. Someone who knows your weird habits and idiosyncrasies yet never mocks you publicly. (privately is ok, because of item #1)
5. A Furff can be a family member, but being a family member is not qualifying criteria in itself.

Most importantly, Furffs know when your kids are being turds, but wait for you to say it first. They know when their own kids are turds too, and concede that fact completely. They know you well enough to know if you need a margarita and a meal or chocolate chip cookie dough and a bottle of Bailey’s.
My personal Furffs have existed in many forms throughout my life. My Bestie Furff is the pal that I have known for the past thirty years; a stinging reminder of our age. She and I have been to and through mutual weddings, births, divorces, deaths of parents…and the biggest challenge ever; teenage daughters! That is a Furffdom for the ages!
It should be noted that spouses can also be Furffs, but it is a shaky status and subject to revocation:
“I’m having coffee with Jeananne tomorrow, I need to vent about The Daughter.” I informed Darling Husband at dinner.
“What is going on with The Daughter?” He inquired.
“You mean the turd?!? I’ll tell you what’s going on…she is out there in the world making ill-advised decisions with no grasp of long term consequences…”
“Know what her problem is?” he cut me off as my crazy train was chugging full steam.
“Yes, she won’t listen…”
“That’s not it, but you’re probably right about that too.” He countered.
“Oh, no. No, no, no…. I know where you are going, so don’t.” I cautioned.
“Yep. Not hard to figure out, really. She’s just…” this is where he jeopardized both his Furffdom and his health.
“Don’t. Say. It.”
“She’s her mother’s daughter.” Status revoked.

Furff coffee chat the next morning was fueled by major caffeine and minor chagrin. We laughed about our kids while we determined that sometimes adult children need to make their own decisions in order to learn life’s lessons. The rest of the visit was most enjoyable.
“So, how’s the husband?” She asked next.
“You mean the butthead?”
Some days there just isn’t enough coffee.

As a non-native, out-of-towner that moved to Seattle three years ago, I wasn’t sure how I would be received by the locals because, well I’ve been the ‘new kid’ a few times in my life and I’ve developed a healthy paranoia about it. Having just spent the past decade living in the Deep South, I was ready to begin a new chapter of my life, even if that meant being an outsider again. What I discovered in my first weeks here was that I needn’t have worried.

People here take things as they are, plain and simple.  Live and let live is not just a motto, but a way of life. To each their own, so to speak. I wasn’t used to that mentality having just come from the ‘fiddle-dee-dee-you’re-new-here-ain’t-ya-bless-yer-heart’ area of suburban Atlanta. And believe me, I’ve had my heart blessed quite a bit thank-you-very-much. Although the South has a well-earned reputation for hospitality, it can also be a little passive/aggressive. Insults come wrapped with concerned looks and an almost apologetic “Bless Your Heart.” (that’s a whole ‘nother column, to be sure). Which explains my initial nervousness about what to expect here. Like I said before, I needn’t have worried.

My first exposure to the easygoing way of life here in Waterland came unexpectedly on a sunny summer day.

While grocery shopping at QFC (actually it was after grocery shopping) I spied a gal in the parking lot whose glowing hair caught my eye. It was purple. Not like: I-tried-to-dye-it-red-and-came out-burgundy, but PURPLE. Barney the dinosaur PURPLE, and styled somewhere between a beehive and spiky-punk ‘do. At first glance, I just thought that this was a rebellious teen expressing her individuality, and didn’t give it a second glance. Primarily because, I had raised two teens of my own, and am well aware of what they will do for simple shock value. That’s when I gave her a second glance; and realized she wasn’t a teen.

My initial thoughts about her rebellion could not be chalked up to coming-of-age…because she was, well, more going-of-age. A woman of maturity, to be oh so very PC…and what had really taken me by surprise was; apparently, no one noticed. Really, no one.

My prior 10 years spent below the Mason Dixon line had conditioned me to anticipate that someone would have acknowledged this woman. Someone would have taken pity on her, because going out…even to the grocery store…required strict attention to one’s appearance; and being seen at the Piggly Wiggly with purple hair simply wasn’t done.

“Oh my, you poor thing! Let me give you the number of my girl…she’s a miracle worker and can fix you right up.” With a knowing nod, a phone number would have been folded in to her palm, and the well intended Stepford-Belle would have sashayed away.

But not here. Granny’s got her purple on. With her strappy sandals, Capri leggings and Bedazzled shirt she was positively rocking her look; and no one minded it one little bit.

As I loaded the groceries in my car, it occurred to me that I liked it. I liked seeing public displays of purple hair. I liked feeling free and confident again. I liked breathing in the marina air, and savoring the sounds and fragrances of the Farmer’s Market.  Headed down Marine View Drive I thought to myself, “You Go Grandma!” followed by, “Welcome home, Joy, welcome home.”