To Do Lists

Things I did this week:

1. Got a new tattoo. My first one in color. The itching has commenced and it’s ridiculous! Sometimes lotion doesn’t even help. Can’t wait for this thing to be healed.

2. Got together with my friend and her adorable baby boy. We walked to a park that is just up the street from my house. I’m really glad there’s a park close by, because my boy loves to go outside!

3. Started work on a new story that could possibly be a series if I want to go that direction. I’m pretty excited about it, but I’m hoping it doesn’t turn out to be one of those things I get excited about for a week then peters out, because I think this could be epic.

4. Played with Jack in his room a lot. He’s starting to play more with action figures and his potato heads so it’s actually getting kinda fun to play with him.

5. Started about 50 new knitting projects. Ok, maybe not 5o but it feels like a lot, especially when I don’t actually get that much time to work on them.

6. Played a little Lego Pirates of the Caribbean. I’ve noticed among my friends who play video games, you either love the Lego games or you don’t. I’m not a huge gamer. I have a Wii and play Mario, but I haven’t really got into other games. Except the Lego games, I love these games. Mostly because they’re easy to understand and play. I get frustrated with complicated or difficult games. So I don’t play them.

7. Yoga, but only once this week, which is far from my goal of three times a week. My excuse for Monday and Tuesday was legitimate, I had goo slathered all over my new tattoo and it felt icky when my clothes stuck to it. My excuse for Thursday? My friend came over and I don’t like working out after dinner. So next week, I’m going to try for five times.

Things I didn’t do this week:

1. Write a blog. So I hope you liked my filler list.

The Snowy Days

Seattle has received it’s snow this winter. While I write this the snow is melting as rain falls on it. I greeted the rain today with great rejoicing. Before I moved here I didn’t know Seattle actually got snow. While I was in high school, considering SPU for my school of choice, no one mentioned snow. Perhaps one or two people did, but what they said was something along the lines of, it hardly ever snows in Seattle. Those people were dead wrong. It has snowed in Seattle every winter I have been here. I’m not saying it’s been a huge storm every time it has snowed. But it has, at least, made an appearance even if it melted away the next afternoon.

Being a desert rat at heart, I don’t like snow. I don’t like it because it traps me at my house. I’m not delusional enough to think I can handle driving in the snow. I can barely drive when it’s not snowing so when it covers the road I become terrified of actually getting in my car and driving. Part of that fear comes from other drivers on the road who are delusional enough to think they know how to drive in snow. Seattle drivers are terrible, just awful, so add snow and it’s an absolute disaster.

The thing that’s irritating me the most is Facebook. People keep talking about cabin fever. Seriously folks? It’s not as if we’re snowed in. Our doors open freely and you can leave your house. Sure, if you can’t drive, you can easily get bundled up and walk somewhere. I saw plenty of bars that were still open and I’m sure grocery stores were open as well.  It was what, a couple of days? We’re not trapped in our homes for weeks on end, it wasn’t even a full week of actual snow. I bundled up my two and half year old several times to get us out of the house. I felt confident enough to drive on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. It wasn’t until Wednesday that it felt like Jack and I were stuck at home. And even then it wasn’t so horrible to walk up and down the street a few times. If my two year old can stand the chill outside certainly a grown up could.  Besides when we came back in the house it actually felt warm for a change.

I prefer being too warm to being too cold. So when it snows my icebox of a house gets even colder. I’m bundled up in long underwear, sweats, long sleeved shirt, sweatshirt and parka all while huddled under a blanket. Alright…I may be exaggerating a bit here…but my house does get cold. Jack’s little feet turn to ice cubes no matter how many layers of socks and slippers he’s wearing.

All that being said, there are two things I like about the snow. I love how much it fascinates Jack. All he wanted to do after breakfast was go out and walk in the snow. He kept taking handfuls of the stuff and saying “I throw.” It was adorable to watch him brush the snow off a plant only to be delighted by the fact that it was covered again by the intricate, tiny snowflakes.

The other thing I like about the snow is that it is so very peaceful. It turns Seattle, to a silent wonderland. Even if it’s just a bit of snow, once things are covered the world seems a little brighter, a little more pure. The world seems innocent and I like that.

But those are the only things I like about the snow, otherwise I’m going to be a humbug about it.

The Calm

I had to stare at the title of this blog for about a minute to make sure it didn’t say “The Clam.” (Damn my slight dyslexia!) Because this post is not about clams, it’s about the weird calm after the whirlwind of holidays.

Anyway, on to the real writing.

Jack and I were the busiest of bees as of late. And now very suddenly the flurry is done and I sit stunned by the fact that we can get back to our regular, boring, old schedule. Part of me is so grateful for that and part of me is not.

Our busyness started around Thanksgiving. We went out of town to spend the day of thanks with the Crouch side of the family. I was excited because we had looked at a new place, put in an application for it and been approved. It was finally official, we were getting out of the old army barracks that barely passed as a liveable “townhouse style apartment.” Upon our return to Seattle, we (that is I) began packing and sorting through all of our crap. Holy cow, we have a lot of crap. A. Lot.

Finally on December 17th it was time for the epic move to take place. By about 1pm everything was moved from one place to the other. Due to the fact that living out of boxes makes me crazier than normal I immediately began to try to put everything in its right place, even though there was very little method in the madness. By the 18th, Jack’s room was in fairly alright order, the living room was coming together with ease, the kitchen was looking stellar, but my bedroom…that was another story. Everything that couldn’t find a place in the common rooms was put in my room. So I slept in a bedroom full of boxes for a couple nights.

On the 19th I cleaned the old place and washed my hands of it. It was the most half assed cleaning I’d ever done. And then the next day I was up “early” to pack and leave town again to spend Christmas with my parents. Even though I was aware that the reason for leaving was a holiday during which you exchange gifts, I forgot the presents anyway. My little sister had to get them from my new place before she left.

The Christmas holiday was spent with the Goerz side of the family. We had a fabulous time with them even though my  mother had just had some pretty major surgery about three days before Christmas. My sister and I vowed to help out as much as possible. So we were put in charge of decorating the tree, wrapping gifts, stuffing stockings, and making the all important Christmas dinner. As a child and even in my early adulthood I always saw Christmas as a time of relaxation. After taking on so many of my mother’s duties this year I see it’s truly not. I always wondered why my mom felt so busy and why she couldn’t get cards out in time. I see now. My eyes have been opened. It’s because during the holidays moms don’t really get a break. In fact it’s like overtime. I don’t think I’ve experienced this properly yet because my son is still young and I’ve never hosted Christmas at my house. But it really is a squeeze to get everything in that you want to, even if you do start right after Thanksgiving, (which is the only appropriate time to start preparing for Christmas). I did get at least one afternoon off when my parents offered to hang out with Jack, so my sis, bro-in-law and cousin could go downtown for some shopping.

When the time came to leave I was sad to go, but for the first time in two years I was actually excited to get home. It was odd for me to feel that again. I think what was even odder was the fact that I didn’t realize how truly miserable I was in that townhouse. I feel like a different person in my new place. It feels like a home, not just some temporary place I am while I wait for my life to reset itself. It was odd because at the time I knew I was unhappy I just didn’t realize how much my location had to do with it.

So now here I sit tapping away while I listen to the glorious silence of not sharing walls and a neighbor who is hardly ever home. So lovely. Things are winding down again and soon we’ll fall into a routine and I’ll long for something to break the monotony of life. That’s when I’ll go on vacation! I may love where I live now, but vacations are truly outrageous.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

How a two year old can break my heart. He’s sitting in his rocking chair after nap time looking at a photo album full of pictures of him and his daddy. I’m putting some books back on the bookshelf. He looks up at me and says as he points to the picture, “Mama, Daddy, Jack.” There’s a small pause, then asks with all the sincerity a two year can muster, “Mama, where my daddy?”

Instant broken heart and I can feel the hot lump of tears in my throat as I choke out, “He’s in the picture sweetie. See there’s your daddy!” Tight smile, then I turn away to compose myself. Cause how can you explain to a two year old where his daddy really is? Especially if you don’t understand it yourself?

Three New Year’s Kisses

Almost four. Luckily I avoided the fourth kiss. You must be wondering what sort of ill mannered frivolity I participated in this year. Well I’ll gladly tell you, but I warn you it’s not as scandalous as you may think.My dear friend usually throws a largeish New Year’s party complete with formal attire and plenty of booze. This year however, she joined forces with some friends of hers that live in a mansion. Yes…a mansion. They combined their powers to throw an epic party complete with people biffing it as they drunkenly danced, a photo booth and even giant Jenga. There was so much going on at the party I didn’t get a chance to do it all.

It was a relatively mellow night for me since I drove to the party and planned on driving myself and possibly others home safely. Still I had a good time, danced and rung in 2012 with a glass of champagne. The night began to get interesting after midnight.

Of course, since I never get to, I had to wear my sparkly spike heels. I was gleeful and happy until a bout of dancing made my toes numb. So I happily plopped myself down at a table full of empty drink glasses and babysat one of girlfriends drinks while she danced. I was happy to do it, no one wants to be rufied on New Year’s…or ever, come to think of it.

Anyhow, it was at this juncture, when I was content to sit and watch the drunkies dance that I began to be “flirted” with. All night I was hoping someone would flirt with me. The second I think “Aw screw ‘em. Every one’s too drunk now,” that’s when I get flirted with.

One man came up and asked me to dance. I smiled and politely told him my feet hurt and I’d like to sit for awhile. After I declined a second and third time he wandered off promising to “come back.” Super duper I thought to myself. I watched the people dance; chatted with my friends that came and talked with me before disappearing on the dance floor again. I was just starting to relax when suddenly out of nowhere another man flung himself onto the stool next to mine and leaned terribly, ridiculously close to my face and requested a dance.

I leaned away, again smiling through clenched teeth and gestured to my shoes. Telling him my feet hurt, I declined the dance. He pointed to his own shoes and said they hurt his feet but that he was dancing anyway. I nodded and said I didn’t like to dance when my feet hurt but he could go right ahead, with some one else. He leaned closer and slurred in my ear, “I only dance with the loveliest ladies and that is you.” Pause. “I am French.” Then he kissed my cheek. When I say he “kissed my cheek” what I mean is he sloppily ran his sopping wet lips against my cheek and expected me to turn and swoon.

I wiped my cheek said how wonderful it was that he was French, but I still did not care to dance as the pain in my feet remained unchanged and now I needed to go wash my face. A friend came and talked to me and she managed to distract him enough, probably by the mere fact that she was standing near the dance floor and not grimacing at him. Thank you dear friend for that. I turned back to the dance floor. Just as I was contemplating getting up and going downstairs so I would stop being assaulted by Frenchmen wanting to dance, even though their shoes hurt their feet, the first guy showed up again.

He asked me to dance again, I just said no thanks, abandoning all courtesy and honeyed words. He pointed to some barefoot girls dancing a little ways away. I replied that the floor was disgusting and I liked my shoes and wanted to wear them, not loose them. So he insisted on staying to chat. We talked a little and I thought perhaps he would leave it at that, but he kept getting closer. I thought my body language was clear; turned away from him, not really looking at him while we talked. Apparently being drunk blinds even the most socially savvy person, because he did not get it. Finally he leaned in, asked to kiss me on both cheeks and did so. Again saying he “kissed” me means sloppy wet lips met my cheeks and made me wish there was a clean napkin somewhere close by. He asked to kiss me on the lips, I said no, then informed him I was going downstairs to find my friends.

I left shortly after that. The persistence of the first man was disturbing flattering but really, he couldn’t even remember my name and after being drooled all over (literally) I just wanted to go home and go to bed.

It was a fun party, and I have some funny stories to tell people, which is always nice. The only downside is I don’t think my cheeks will ever be the same again.

Christmas Memories #3- Gingerbread Men

I missed last Friday because I was moving the next day and my parents came into town. So I was distracted, now it’s Wednesday and I’m probably going to miss this Friday too. Sorry it’s Christmastime and moving time and I’m busy. So this post about Gingerbread Men will have to suffice for both Fridays.

Each year since I can remember my mother has made Gingerbread Men. The recipe she uses is one that has been in the family for years. It also includes a ton of flour, but has no exact measurement for it. You add the flour last and keep adding it until a wooden mixing spoon stands up it in the dough. Needless to say, in the days before the glorious, wonderful Kitchen Aid mixers this required a lot of elbow grease and arm strength.

Once Elise and I were old enough we would volunteer to help make these delectable cookies. Mom would stay in the kitchen until it was time to add the flour. Then she would suddenly remember she needed to wrap some presents, or she needed to “check the mail real quick” and mysteriously disappear until all the flour was added. As quickly as she disappeared she would reappear in time to help us roll out the dough and cookie cutter it.

My favorite part of making Gingerbread Men was decorating them with red hot candies. I guess traditionally those candies are called “Red Imperials” or something like that, but we always called them red hots. We’d each get a little plastic Tupperware cup full of the candies and would meticulously decorate each man with, at the very least, three buttons, two eyes and a nose.

Of course while baking you can’t help but sneak a taste here and there. One year Elise happened to take one too many tastes and Gingerbread was ruined for her for years. I think she had her first bite of Gingerbread again last year or something ridiculous.

Happy Holidays my friends! Have a fantastic time doing whatever it is you’re doing this season!

Christmas Memories #2: Presents & Being Psychic

Holy crap, it’s Friday! You’d think with my psychic abilities I would stay on top of this. What the crap is she talking about you may ask? Well read on and find out!

Presents are awesome. I love getting presents. I love giving presents. I love giving presents because getting people things they want is awesome. This can make the actual shopping a little difficult if I’m unsure of what to buy a certain person, but when I know them well and know what they like, oh man! I love giving them the package and watching their face as they open it; so great.

Like many families we have some traditions as far as presents go. Two spring quickly to mind; Christmas Eve night we are allowed to open one gift and each year we receive hot chocolate mix from “Santa” (aka Grandma and Grandpa). I look forward to that hot chocolate mix every year. When I was living at home mom had hot chocolate mix anyway so for awhile I had so much I didn’t have to buy any for years. In fact I think the first time I actually purchased hot chocolate mix was after I was married.

There was one year when I was convinced I was psychic because of an incident with a present. I don’t remember exactly what year this was but my cousin, aunt and uncle came to visit and had, of course, brought presents. They arrived at the house with the gifts already wrapped, giving no hints as to what we might be opening on Christmas day. I saw one wrapped up for me. I picked it up and shook it a little, not much rattling. I felt it a bit and wondered for a moment what it was. I looked at the tag and saw it was from my cousin James. Immediately the image of a makeup kit in a purple box with a black handle came into my head.

Feeling silly I put it back down. I don’t know why but I was absolutely convinced that it was a purple makeup kit wrapped in that paper. I could even envision the details of the box down to the logo on the corner of the front of the box. Because of how certain I was and because I did feel silly I didn’t tell anyone about my prediction for said gift.

Christmas day came and I was astounded to see that I was, in fact, correct. It was a gigantic makeup kit, in a purple box with a black handle complete with a logo emblazoned on the front. That is how one Christmas gift convinced me of my supernatural psychic abilities.

Christmas Memories #1: Trees

Looking back on my blog it seems things have gotten a little serious around here. A little less about reminiscing about growing up and more wallowing in the drudges of today. And I’m sorry to say that come January it could get a little more serious. So in an effort to get away from that for awhile at least, I present Christmas memories! The first being about trees! I was going to include some artwork, but the week got away from me.

November and December are the months when I get the most nostalgic. And also homesick for the desert. Being nostalgic and homesick always make me remember the traditions I grew up with. The first thing I usually think of when getting homesick during the holidays is the countless Thanksgivings spent with my aunt, uncle and cousin. But Thanksgiving has passed and this is called Christmas memories, so the next thing I think about is Christmas trees.

Every year since I can remember we would buy our Christmas tree at a nearby lot called Arnie’s. Arnie and his family were from Oregon so of course they had the best trees. We would arrive on the lot in the evening after my dad got home from work. Then we’d browse the rows and rows of evergreen trees looking for the perfect one. Eventually we started bringing chili and cornbread to Arnie and his family when we went to pick out tree. They usually had a small fire going in a pit and sometimes dad would sit there chatting with the men while we went to find a tree we wanted.

We’d watch as Arnie’s boys took our selection and trimmed the trunk for us. They sometimes helped dad strap it our roof then we’d take it home, shove it through the front door, spreading pine needles everywhere.

We had a special process for decorating the tree. There were about a gazillion ornaments to put on the tree, but there was a certain order you had to follow. Lights first, then the cranberry garland, then the little Coca Cola Santa boxes, then the apples, and then whatever we uncovered in the remaining twelve million boxes.

My sister and I would run out of steam pretty quickly, even with a steady stream of Christmasy goodness coming through the speakers and playing throughout the house. We’d stop and watch mom put a few ornaments on before taking it up again. I’m pretty sure there were a couple years when Elise just opted out and watched us do the whole thing.

Last to go on was the angels at the top. Angels, plural, is correct. My mom has four antique angel ornaments from her grandmother (my great grandmother) Eva. Those four surround the one that tops the tree which is a beautiful crocheted angel. I’m not sure where my mother got it, but I love it and all angels I’ve seen that are meant for tree toppers pale in comparison. The gorgeous simplicity of her crocheted angel makes all those gaudy doll looking angels seem as if they’re trying to hard. Since I can’t find an angel as good as my mom’s, I’ve settled for a sparkly silver star as my tree topper, when I get a tree that is.

After the angels had been properly placed, we’d sit back and admire our handiwork, usually sipping hot chocolate and eating gingerbread. I think what I’m most nostalgic for is that kind of simple happiness. The kind only a pretty tree can bring.

Happy Thanksgiving

I hope everyone had a wonderful day of full of thanks and delicious foods of all kinds. I don’t have a post for this Friday but will have one next week. Have a great weekend all!

Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros- Home

After driving in the pouring rain, I’m feeling very homesick for Palm Springs.