Finding Serenity in Chaos

Once again, I find too much time has elapsed between posts... enough where I'm not even sure where to begin. In fact, at times I wonder if I should simply retire this humble little smorgasbord of thoughts and events and just stick to commenting on HBO. Lord knows I have enough in my life to keep busy- why complicate it with an online smattering of mundanity and miscellany?

I suppose the answer is that I feel driven to record at least some of what transpires in this chaotic jumble of joy and angst, be it once a month or every other day; whenever I feel the urge to type out my trauma or triumphs. I'd be willing to bet I'm not alone in this need- bloggers worldwide probably have similar motives.

This last month has been a mixture of why-me's and what-now's... starting with a theft which occurred at the Valley Mall while I was getting my son's one year photos taken. Laden down with the props (front-end loader, whirly-gig top, Horton the stuffed elephant), a massive diaper bag stuffed with several changes of clothes, Jameson himself strapped into his Jeep stroller, I opted to transfer some of the contents of my purse into a pocket of the diaper bag to lighten my load a bit. So in went my check card/ driver's license holder, keys, and cell phone. Thinking it would be all good as long as I locked up, I then stuffed my purse with its remaining contents under the seat, and headed on in to Penney's.
I returned after a wonderful hour of adorable shots (they do such a good job there) so I could stuff the crap back into the car and browse around with my son and sister while we waited for the photos to develop enough for us to pick out our faves. My first warning that something was amiss was when I noticed the door was unlocked, when I KNEW I had locked it. Next, I dug around under the seat and came up empty, when I KNEW I had stashed my purse there. Next, I noticed there was no ipod converter hooked up to my stereo, and the charger was gone as well. Funny enough, they left the book of cd's which was the entire Old and New Testament Bible collection. I almost wish they would've taken that, too- maybe they would've learned something about the selfish sin of thievery.

After realizing all this, I wasn't so much frantic as I was bummed out... I knew that nothing in the purse was irreplaceable, really. My checkbook was easily canceled out that afternoon, with my checkcard tied to the new account; my business cards can all be replaced. My lone credit card was maxed out anyhow, and a simple phone call solved that problem. The thing which I'm a bit worried about is the fact that my social security card was still in my purse- I had needed it for some forms earlier that week, and hadn't gotten around to putting it back in my files at home. But, like I was commenting on another forum, if whatever crackhead that stole my stuff wants to try to assume my identity, they're in for a big surprise: a criminal record, felony probation, and miserable credit that I'm just now in the long, slow process of repairing.

But I went through the obligatory process of alerting mall security; they said that there had been a rash of slim-jimming car break-ins as of late, and to not get my hopes up for the return of my purse. Or ipod and accessories, of course. Duh.

The upside of all this was how wonderful everyone I called to alert about the theft was... for instance, I had just purchased an area rug at St. Vinnie's, but hadn't gotten a chance to pick it up yet, since my husband's truck was over in Post Falls and I needed a babysitter before I could go pick it up and drive out to get the rug. I needed the claim ticket to do it with, though, and of course that was in my stolen purse. Once I explained the situation to the lady, she was super sympathetic and helpful to the point of even offering to have one of their guys deliver the darn thing, after the rough day I'd had. Now that's enough to restore one's faith in human kindness, don't you think? I didn't take her up on the offer, but it sure made me feel better.
I had also had a Bible study scheduled for that night, but by the time I was done with all the phone calls and other nonsense, I just dropped by the church and told the ladies I was just going to head home instead. They gave me a round of hugs and promised to pray for me, and that cheered me up immensely as well.

All this happened a couple days before Jameson's and my big trip over to the coast, and I was stressed enough about all the preparation for that, that I almost called the whole damn thing off before I realized I was working myself up a little too much, and needed to just give it over to God and calm the heck down. So I did, and after a good night's sleep, managed to get all our bags packed (you wouldn't believe how much STUFF a one-year-old needs just for a four-day trip!) and Tony settled in for a stretch at home alone (clean house, couple frozen meals for him to heat up- since we've been married he seems to have forgotten how to cook and clean).

Friday afternoon we loaded up the car- toys, clothes, carseat, portable highchair, stroller, car DVD player with his Praise Baby and Baby Einstein DVD's, and snacks for me and the mom, aunt and grandma- then hit the road. I mapquested it out to the ferry in Seattle, then the last leg of the trip to the Port Townsend island was only another hour or so; all in all it was only about 6 or 7 hours on the road. We had fun, though. Lots of stops, lots of pictures, a couple good meals... no rush, just good times with family. We made it to my aunt's house over there late in the evening, got a good night's rest, then packed our next two days with lots of trips to the ocean, a barter fair, some street performances downtown, even a ride on Uncle Frankie's Harley (a first for Jameson- he absolutely adored it). Then, a good breakfast and some tearful goodbyes, and what seemed like an endless drive home. We got back yesterday, and I think I'm still car-lagged. One of the best Mother's Days ever, though, I think- both for me, my mom, and my grandma (who is still recovering from her stroke, and thankfully handled the trip well, too).

More and more, I'm realizing that the best things in life are the memories we accumulate with our family and friends- especially when time flies by so quickly. You never know how long you'll have with someone you care about: their time- or yours!- could come before you know it, before you have a chance to say goodbye or to make peace, so sharing good times and cherishing every moment we have is paramount to just about anything else- be it material goods, careers, wasted time staring incessantly at either the idiot box or the computer... there's so much more to life, and why waste it on solitary activities when you could be sharing precious moments with our loved ones?

Why? Petty resentments, family feuds and spats, jealousy or envy of "the Jones's"- all these pale in comparison to the joys and fulfillment we can savor when we find it in ourselves to forgive those transgressions- both real and imagined- against us, and simply love those who love us as well- even if they don't quite know how to show it sometimes.

Think about it. Think about what's really important, and maybe try mending some bridges, if necessary. What do you have to lose? The chance to make some more precious memories, that's what- and those you'll never lose.

My Sweet Son Turned One...

...And the party was a smashing success. To think I was afraid that my little guy would turn his nose up at his personal cake- no, instead, he dove right in, to the delight of all the assembled friends and family.

I was actually really touched at all those who came and showered Jameson with gifts, not to mention hugs and kisses. He truly is blessed with many, many people who care about him- not just Tony and I. I think sometimes we lose sight of that, since we sort of keep him to ourselves a lot. I mean, how much of a social butterfly can a one-year-old be, anyhow? Especially when he has to rely on a set of parents who aren't exactly party animals themselves these days to ferry him around.

He sure seemed to enjoy opening the presents, though:





And we played some silly games...



And then of course, the gratuitous cake scene:



All in all, it was fortunate that we had both immediate access to a bathtub and a pickup truck, in that order... one in which to scrub off the frosting, one to pack up the gifts in.

Now, I have an entire year to recover- before we do it all over again.

Another Lonely Night...(no offense, Son)

Lately, I've become sharply aware of just how lonely it is, night after night, while my husband works graveyard.

The routine is fairly straightforward: I make dinner, we sit down and eat; making smalltalk, watching Jameson rub his baby food in his hair, up his nose, practically everywhere but his mouth- laughter breaks the tension a bit, and I get up to brew a pot of coffee.

Tony'll pick up the boy and wipe the worst of the mess off, then cart him off into the living room so I can pack up his lunch box without a small child weaving and worming his way between my legs, tripping or entangling me at every opportunity. It's actually getting hazardous to open the refrigerator door while our son is in the kitchen- Jameson will lunge into the opening, plunging his chubby little hands into whatever's close, or, barring that, will yank condiments off the shelves in a fit of glee.

But night after night, come 6:45 or so, I've managed to pack up my husband's "lunch" (to be consumed at 3:00 in the morning; can you believe he actually has me enclose a little baggie of jalepenos, too?) and restore order to my little kitchen, then we all snuggle up on the loveseat- aptly named- for a family hug, and to complete our evening ritual.

He'll say, "Well, babies, I'm off," and with his black coveralls donned, his work boots laced up, and his wool cap pulled down over his ears, he heads for the door. I tell him to please drive safe and not work too hard. He promises yes he will and no he won't. We exchange 'I love you's, and I stand in the doorway until his taillights disappear from view. Then I heave a sigh, say something silly to the child cocked on one hip, and withdraw into the dubious warmth of our home.

I don't know why, over time, this is getting more difficult to do- both sending him off for the night, when it's a job in Spokane or the surrounding area, or sending him off for the week when he's in Montana or elsewhere. Either way, it's so hard to be apart, night after night.

Lately we've talked about a change of careers for him- the mine has reopened in Kellogg, and Tony worked there years ago. He's fairly confident he could get back on, but there would be quite a few drawbacks as well.

As disruptive as this current job is to our little family, the pay is damn good. So is the company- the owner is a fair, generous man. He would give Tony different hours if he could, but working at night kinda goes with the job- commercial refrigeration for Safeways, they don't want you underfoot in their coolers and freezers throughout the rush of the day. One day, if Tony continues to get promoted, he may be able to just do service calls exclusively, which would mean 9-5, but that's so far off in the horizon it may as well be a dream to us.

Mining is hard, thankless work, a hot steamy pit in the ground full of rocky dirt and grimy men digging deeper and deeper. Fraught with danger, too, I think, although Tony tries to persuade me otherwise. He can't quite argue the fact that both his father and grandfather died either directly or indirectly from Sunshine Mine- his grandpa in the big fire, his dad after an injury led to hospitalization, then a fatal medication error. So of course the pattern could continue, at least in my morbid fantasies.

The Silver Valley is beautiful, sure, but is it where I want to live? raise my young son? I'm not sure. All our family is here, as well as friends, our church, everything we know and love. It's kinda scary to think about just packing up and starting over. We've done that several times before in our relationship (and for me, countless times throughout my troubled life) and I was actually looking forward to staying put and putting down some roots for a change. Sigh.

So we're talking about it. I'm worrying about it. Jameson, thank God, is blissfully oblivious to all of it. And I will-for now- continue to spend night after lonely night here, alone, waiting for my man to make it home safe so I can put him in the bed I've just arisen from.

Momentous Occasions

After a month of mysterious silence, I'm returning to regale all of cyberspace with a deluge of pent-up creativity, lyric soliloquies dying to escape from my fingertips to the keyboard, tired of swimming in the dizzied soup between my ears, ready to burst forth in a swansong of sweet... something or other.

Scratch that. Let's go for more of a realistic tone, shall we?

As I type this, I can't help but gaze out my office window at the swirling mini-blizzard and then snicker at the calendar next to it... after a lull of semi-decent weather, the snow began to fall, and fall some more, on- irony or ironies- the first day of Spring.
Of course all of our winter paraphernalia was stowed away when we were fooled into submission by several sweetly sunny days of the faux-Spring. (Then Mother Nature said, "Psych!")
We use the abandoned chicken coop at the back of our yard as a storage shed (for sturdy items immune to residual gunk left behind by said chickens) and although I refuse to step foot in there (not knowing what I might step in), Tony trudged back there to fetch the snow shovel, ice melt, and what-not. He's pretty gung-ho about snow removal, something I suppose I should be grateful for, but at the moment I can't seem to summon up any emotion besides a sort of dull resentment towards the elements at large.

So... I've entitled this entry "Momentous Occasions", and believe it or not, the fact that my calendar claims Winter is now over was not what I am referring to.
Instead, I was thinking of a few other things that are happening in my little universe, things that once I sit back and count off on my fingers, seem faintly surprising.

One: Tony's and my wedding anniversary was yesterday. We've now been officially together for a scant year, although the unofficial length is more like six. I simply had one of those fits of old-fashionedness last March, and demanded that we tie the knot before our son was born. So we did.
Two: Speaking of our son, he was born ten days after that glorious event at the Hitching Post, so will be turning one year old April 10th. Unbelievable. Never has the expression "time flies" been so apt. I mean, looking back, it just seems like a blur of oohing and aahing over baby milestones- him rolling over, sprouting teeth, crawling, sitting up, graduating to juice and baby food, then walking- first with staggering hesitation and lots of falling down, then more confidently... now he's mimicking sounds and gestures (making him say, "ma-ma-ma-ma" is my personal favorite, of course) and I've had to install child safety latches and gates throughout the house to quell his insatiable curiosity. Amazing.
So of course we're planning a big to-do... well, I should say I'm planning one- Tony's never been much for social niceties like birthday parties. Although I think he'll make a point of at least coming to this one. To give him credit, he remembers the date (the guy remembered our anniversary, too- even brought home roses and a card!) and has mentioned buying Jameson a Tonka front-end loader to go with his dump truck for a birthday gift.
But back to the party- we'll be having it at my grandmother's house, as sort of a way to have all the family over to see her as well. She's had lots of health issues as of late- I've mentioned her several times on this blog- and they culminated with a major stroke about six weeks back. Now that she's home and had the benefits of time and therapy, her speech and gross motor skills have begun to return to normal, and when I brought up the idea of having Jameson's party at her house, she seemed more animated and excited than I'd seen her since the event, so that sealed it. Hell, the party'll be mainly for our benefit, anyhow (it's not like the little guy will really know what's going on, other than his having a cake to plunge his pudgy little hands into and make a massive mess with, then more toys and the boxes they came in to play with after) so having the whole family together at her house will be nice, I think.
But back to the list...
Three: I got a raise at work. My boss actually informed me of this a little over a month ago, but it only recently took effect, as I only get paid once a month. I'm on salary, and since I've begun to take on new responsibilities- with additional hours necessary to complete them- my boss asked me to estimate how much time I was putting in, and when I figured it to be around 30 hours a week, she gave me a $500 raise. Sweet, huh? I now make $1500 a month for doing a job that I love, from home, with my son trying to "help" at every opportunity (this usually involves attacking the keyboard, tugging on the mouse cord, and wadding up important papers).
It's been a bit more challenging than usual with the new duties, but I think I'm beginning to get a system down to be a little more efficient. I mean, I say I work 30 hours a week, but if I'm going to be completely honest, I spend a lot of that time dinking around online, or while I'm going to the post office to mail things for work, I take care of personal errands, too. The real blessing of the whole deal is how flexible it is- I can pace out a couple of hours worth of work throughout the whole day, taking breaks to change diapers, feed the boy and myself, do housework, etc. Or just spend the day being a wife and mom, put both the little guy and the big one to bed, then do what I gotta do for work, with the added benefit of some peace and quiet to do it in. Sure, I end up burning the midnight oil a bit when I do it that way, but after my son's first six months of life, I'm used to surviving on less sleep than the average human.
And last but not least, Four: Tony and I were made members of our church, His Place, in a short ceremony in which we stood up in front of the congregation with our pastor, then we were presented a little certificate and sat back down amid lots of clapping and cheers. I guess we're still sort of semi-celebrities, or maybe a better way of putting it would be 'well-known success stories'... everybody seems to know our shady past and our battle to overcome it. Which, after a lot of hard work and overcoming others' skepticism, we've managed to give the saga a happy ending of sorts. Sometimes I almost feel like God awarded us our son as a prize for turning our screwed-up lives around- for getting clean and going straight.
Not that he's the only good thing we've gotten out of the deal- the church membership is a good example of some of the other changes for the better. I can count on one hand the amount of times I went to church while Tony and I were still using and dealing and living outside the law- and one of the two times was a funeral. Now, we both go every week, have a growth group we attend fairly regularly as well, and have a whole new circle of friends and acquaintances from there, too. An actual social life! With people who want nothing more than our company! Wow. It's pretty sad when I look back and realize, out of the hundreds of people I knew and interacted with in my previous life, how shallow 99% of the relationships truly were. Most of them were merely based on what we could get out of each other- drugs, money, etc. No wonder I was so resentful and lonely feeling all the time, even surrounded by people, with my phone ringing off the hook.

I guess that concludes my little list of amazing, momentous events in my world of today. Perhaps not everyone reflects on their own lists of anniversaries of birth or wedlock, milestones of promotion or membership, and feels such pride and joy- but it's hard for me to take these things for granted when I've never had such reasons to celebrate before.

The Unseen Battle

This was so powerful for me, I thought I'd share it here on Soul Doubt- Christians and non-Christians alike, you gotta admit: this is good stuff.

I'd go on and on in my usual manner, were I not recovering from a trip to the dentist yesterday. I got a filling and an extraction, and I don't know what it is- whether I have some weird reaction to the gas or anesthetic, or if I'm just so tensed up throughout the whole yucky process- but I always wake up the next morning feeling as though I just ran a major marathon the day before. I mean, every freakin' muscle in my body aches! Everywhere but the tooth! Or should I say, where the tooth used to be?

Plus, being in recovery, I turned down the pain medication and am opting for just ibuprofen and ice cream. So far, so good... I think I'll feel better if I take advantage of this semi-sunny day and bundle up the boy and go for a stroll. Stretch those muscles and garner some appreciation for my surroundings instead of staying cooped up in front of the computer all day, batting at little Jameson's chubby hands as they tug at the mouse cord (tail?).

Headless Chickens (of which I am one)

At least at times this last week I have felt like one... running to and fro, frantically trying to get this or that together with never enough time, a memory which seems holier than the Pope's oldest pair of boxers (strangely enough, I seem to be able to vividly recall the most arcane details from kindergarten, junior high, and an insane amount of useless trivia- just not where I put the car keys or which bills remain unpaid this month as of yet), and most of all, I can't seem to keep that even, mellow keel going, which I've always prided myself on and others compliment me on quite frequently.
"How come you always seem to know the right things to say at the right time?" or, "Man, I wish I could stay as calm and collected as you always seem to be," they'll say.

I credit much of this from being lucky enough to spend most of my formative years being raised in Kihei, Maui, Hawaii; a dream come true for an 11-year-old with a troubled home life and who was about to become a ward of the state. Aunt Marcie and Uncle Larry stepped in and rescued me, whisking me off to what I was sure was paradise on Earth.
Well, my young envision wasn't far from the truth. It was more beautiful that my limited writing skills can convey on this humble blog, more breathtakingly majestic in every area: the sandy beaches (both white and black sand), the dormant volcano Mt. Haleakala, which as teenagers we'd drop acid and wander the ancient hollowed out dried lava tunnels, spooked but thrilled to be in the heart of a forbidden zone of exploration; the ocean... oh, Mother ocean. God, how I miss the salty warmth of turquoise caressing currents of what feels like a living entity, serene one moment but easily capable of tossing one about like a shred of kelp if she feels like it.

Maui was particularly unique in that it had a curious blend of locals (Hawaiians, Tongans, Samoans, Filipinos, Japanese, Chinese, various other Polynesians- then us. The haoli's. Whites. Foreigners. Or, if you were lucky enough to pick up the accent, dress accordingly, and look down your nose disdainfully on the tourists and hopelessly mainland whites, you could be referred to as "Kama'aina". That was me. I'd always been chameleon-like, figuring out my spiel as I went, if necessary, so fitting in was never a problem. So not only was I buds with the bradduhs, but I made friends with all the second-generation New-Agers, hippies, and Euros, too. Like I said, quite a blend there on the island. But I loved it. I hung out at the beaches where only the bravest of the white surfers went, haoli friends in tow- hey, they're with me- was all that needed to be said. In return, the ritzy, "trustafarian" rich kids dragged me from party to party up in the multi-million dollar beach homes out in Lahaina and Hana, providing the designer drugs to go with the designer clothes and Daddy's Lexus rides. It was a blast, years of experience I wouldn't trade for the world, and sometimes miss so sharply it's almost a physical ache, a twinge of longing for the sea air, a bonfire shooting sparks high into a star-studded sky on a sandy beach with a bunch of dancing, drunken kids cavorting late into the night- high on not only grass and beer, but the sheer ecstasy of youth and fearlessness, knowing we could do anything we wanted at that moment in time. No one could stop us- baby, we were born to run...

But back to the present, before I drown in nostalgia. There's just been a hell of a lot going on, to be blunt about it. Doctor's and dentist's appointments, probation officer meetings (the latest just informed me she'd been promoted so to finish out my last several months I'd have to have another guy take over my case. I'm sure he's overjoyed to have me, as I'm about as low-risk and low-maintenance as they get- I turn in my monthly reports, he files 'em. Nuff said). My boss had a surprise birthday party, where we all showed up at her yoga class to start off the evening, then caravaned to a gorgeous home of a lady friend of hers who put on a gourmet five-course meal, probably the best I'd eaten in months. Of course I sat through it in yoga garb, not having had time to change, while all these elegant female professionals reclined gracefully in their Donna Karan and their Givenchy suits. Bitches. Nah, it was okay. If anything, it made me vow to keep a gracious self-assured smile on my face throughout the evening, while I keenly observed every mannerism, every nuance, every possible hint I could glean of how they got where they did. I too have plans, and one way or another, I will get there. Not just naked ambition for status, success, whatever. Just... satisfaction that I have attained the goals I've set for myself, that I've reached the gold ring, and found it all I'd wanted. It may not be the multi-million dollar beachfront home, or even the six-figure income. But I feel certain that it will be joy in what I do, joy in how I've raised my son, joy in how my relationship with my husband is, and joy in my faith. That's my goal. Not peace, not power, not Cheshire-cat satisfaction, but sheer joy in life. And in living. If, meanwhile, I'm going through a phase where my head seems to have detached itself and I resemble nothing more than a barnyard fowl circling frantically, so be it. This too shall pass. It always has before. In fact, come to think of it, it's usually the precursor to a time of extreme relief in all I've managed to overcome despite all the obstacles stubbornly obstructing my path. And I find my faith strengthened as well, knowing that there's no way I could've possibly pulled off all that without some help from you-know-Who.

Side note, before I call this a night and get to work (yes, I keep oddball hours- it's easier to do my online stuff while Jameson's crashed out and we don't have to fight for possession of the mouse cord)...
The Blogfest was fantastic. I was super self-conscious of wearing my t-shirt which Digger was so kind enough to design- because although I warned him I'm just a little slip of a gal, he still ordered it in a Ladies' small (which hung to my knees like jammies). So, I walked in trying to look all cute and well put-together, not like your typical ex-junkie, but a regular 30-something who, yes, looks more like a teenybopper, but the effect was ruined when I had to drape myself in a giant shirt just because my name was on it and I felt like no one would recognize me or want to talk to me otherwise, were I not wearing it. So please, if I looked ridiculous, try not to tease me mercilessly about it- my ego actually is somewhat fragile, believe it or not, and I will probably obsess about any comments made (in good humor or not) about how silly I looked with my pigtails and pajama top at the 'fest. Sorry, I'm insecure like that. Being just recently digging ourselves out above the poverty line, I can't exactly afford an overflowing closet of trendy duds, so I was wearing the cutest, classiest outfit I could conjure up on short notice, and it got covered up by the (super-well-intentioned and very much appreciated, just ill-fitting) shirt. Wah!

Enough. I have a whole 'nother year to clothe myself in gloriously colorful verbs, adjectives and nouns of nonsensical alliteration, so hopefully by the time next year rolls around, you'll completely forget about my gargantuan tee and instead remember my pixie-ish smile and ready compliments to all you online commentors who, I hope to presume, I can now call you my friends. Believe you me, I am now indeed yours, so in the spirit of blogidarity, let the feelings be mutual.

Over Ten Years of Meth Use

What could've been me had I not changed my life and realized I was about to serve a life sentence on the installment plan.

Shoveling my Way Out of the Chasm

After perusing my latest post, I fear I may have sounded a bit maudlin, perhaps even on the verge of an actual full-fledged funk. Not that it wasn't entirely true at the moment; I did indeed forsake clothing for jammies, wandered aimlessly for the better part of a week around our home, and got very little accomplished besides slogging through and endless swamp of negative introspection.
But hallelujah, the fog has lifted. Being the analytical type I am, I can't help but try to pick apart my own fragile psyche, wondering which buttons were pushed by whom, what catalyst flung me from the morass of sluggitude into this latest plateau of pleasantness, why my angelic child didn't seem enough to bring multiple smiles onto my face last week, when usually he transports me into realm of maternal nirvana at the slightest babble or coo. And not to make too light of this, but I truly did need to ask myself some pretty uncomfortable questions...
Was I trying to fool myself into thinking "Problem Solved!" Got a little baby to keep me on track and living in a white picket fence world?
Am I slacking on the necessary tools I need to keep using on a daily basis to stay clean and sober (and therefore sane)?
Is it PMS? Or that other thing, what's it called, the syndrome where you get all depressed after having a kid... brain fart. I forget.

Whatever it was, is, or will be again, this one I survived none the worse for wear. And I feel as though this deplorable winter weather may have necessitated me coming out of my funk, if only to summon up an ounce or two of much-needed energy. You see, Tonydaddy was out of town for the week, hard at work doing commercial refrigeration in some podunk Northern Washington town, so it was just me and the little guy. When it decided to dump several feet of snow on us, I had to (ahem) rise to the occasion. (You'd get the joke if you knew me: I'm 4'11''. And am so immune to the short jokes by now I even make them myself.)

We were out of formula, diapers, assorted foodstuffs, and my disgusting, temporarily unvanquished vice- cigarettes. Not having a snowblower, plow, or snowshoes, I had to settle for a shovel and my ipod. After laying down the boy for a noontime nap, I suited up for battle. We're talking thermal everything, Sorels, Glacier Grip gloves, my Southpark beanie... the works. Grabbed the shovel, cranked up the tunes to the point where I could barely even hear myself singing along to it (Alice Cooper's Greatest Hits- the old stuff) and attacked that white shit with a vengeance. Two hours and several layers peeled off later, the snowbanks were towering on either side of our gravel circular driveway, and I thought I had a better than average chance of making it out with my front wheel drive Mitsubishi and its elderly- but studded- tires.

I was wrong.

I'd packed up Jameson, putting him in his little snowsuit which always reminds me of the kid from The Christmas Story; you know, the little brother who falls down in the snow and is too puffy and Michelin Man-ish to get up? and had him loaded in his carseat. I warmed the car up for a ridiculously long time, enough to where we couldn't see our breath anymore, at least. Broomed off the worst of the snow accumulation on the hood, trunk and roof, thinking the car might somehow run better without it. Ha.
The moment I gently pressed the accelerator, I heard the sickening sound of spinning rubber on ice. No traction whatsoever. Couldn't even back up- there was nowhere to back up to! I hadn't shoveled back there. Why would I? It was a massive job as it was just to do what was in front of me, let alone the remaining half of the circle (a good 40 yards or so).

So, realizing it would be fruitless to sit and spin (no pun intended), I hopped out and waded toward the defunct chicken coop in our backyard which now serves as a shoddy storage unit. Scavenging through the side area, the best I could come up with for traction stuff was a big bucket which I filled with some ancient straw, much of it caked with substances I really didn't want to inspect too closely. Tromping back to the driveway, I strewed and shoved and kicked and scattered, cursing a blue streak the entire time. Then I got back into the now gloriously warm car, glancing back at my sleeping son, and said a fervent prayer for the ability to get the hell out of this hated frozen stretch of drive.

Miraculously, I was able to do just that. With a jubilant shout, I gunned my way up and out onto the sloppy side street we live off of, fishtailing and skidding the entire way. Once onto safer ground (or asphalt, rather- at least that's what I remember it to be before it disappeared under all that white) I drove straight to the hardware store, intent on buying bags and bags of sand and ice melt.

They were out.

So was the next place I went, and the next after that. I was this close to pulling into Shwab's for a set of chains when I decided to check Napa instead. Thank God they had everything I wanted, and the man must've seen the desperation on my face, because he even packed it out to the car for me. Of course, I had a squirming baby on my hip, too- that probably upped the sympathy factor a bit.

Now that I was feeling a tad more prepared for braving the elements, it was off to the grocery store for vittles and whatnot. By now I was ravenous, and you know what they say about shopping while hungry. Seventy dollars and a bunch of junk later, my trunk was once again slammed shut and I was on my way back to my refuge from the storm.

The next two days were actually a blast, believe it or not. I said to hell with keeping up with the shoveling- I'd merely push the shovel around the walk each morning til I found the newspaper, then scurry back inside and watch the flakes swirl outside the windows. My son, as usual, brought me untold amounts of joy with his precociousness and boundless curiosity. I got lots of work done, scoured the house from top to bottom (easy to do when the man of the house isn't leaving messes quicker than I can clean them up) and devoured my way through the rest of the "Left Behind" series. Not bad for Christian fiction. Being the incorrigible bookworm that I am, I would love to read more worthwhile faith-based fiction, but quite frankly, most of it is sappy tripe. Of course you have your Bill Myers, your Randy Alcorns, and the greatest of greats: C.S. Lewis, but on the whole, secular writing is way meatier and more satisfying.

Okay, I kind of went off on a rabbit trail there. Back to what this post was really supposed to be about: I believe my angst was alleviated through good old-fashioned pioneerism, to coin a phrase. I had to buck up and get 'er done, so I did. No more moping around, aimless and lackadaisically losing my momentum which I had built up over these last several months; no, I had to kick it back up a gear and participate in my life again. If not only for me, for the sake of my son as well.

When my husband got back, he immediately commented on my newfound upbeat state, and lavishly complimented me on the "Mexican plowjob" -shoveling- I accomplished. (We can say that, he being Hispanic, and me being, um, Mexican by injection...) Another joke he likes to crack is: Q~ How do you turn your dishwasher into a snowblower? A~ Buy your wife a shovel. Ha. Ha. Ha.

It strikes me as somewhat curious that much of what I write here I attempt to filter and slant to make all seem quite well in my life. And don't get me wrong- I think that overall, I'm a fairly happy person these days, with most of my demons long since exorcised or at least beaten into submission. But of course things aren't always A-OK, I still live daily with doubts and fears and misgivings and guilt, and at times my happy face is just that: a face.

I would say that this last week has been more difficult than most. I've caught myself several times slipping into a semi-daze of depression- never quite getting going throughout the day, just spending my time wandering through the house in my pajamas, drinking cup after cup of coffee but not eating... bouncing aimlessly from site to site but finding little of interest online... attempting to escape through the reading of a good book, but having to put it down after scanning the same paragraph a half dozen times yet still unable to have told you what I'd just read... electing to not answer the phone when it rings, for no other reason than instinctively needing to jealously guard my solitude...
Sadly enough, that's how it's been for me lately. I wouldn't categorize it as a full-fledged depression- after all, I'm still devoting a certain amount of time to the necessities. I guess I'm more just drifting on a sea of apathy, really.

Financially, things could be better; maybe that's part of it. There's a certain amount of strain between my husband and me in regards to my spending- we avoid talking about it, because it invariably leads to arguing, but the money issue lurks silently around the edges of our conversations nonetheless. I agree that I'm careless with money at times; he obsesses about the green stuff entirely too much, to the point where I end up calling him a stingy, greedy bastard- words I instantly regret the moment they tumble from my mouth, but of course cannot take back nor assuage the sting of their having been flung. The bills always get paid, and it's rarely that we're significantly late in doing so. We want for very little, in my opinion. But with a child, come goals, and long-term ones at that- perhaps that's the source of the tightly controlled panic I hear in Tony's voice when he speaks about our future. It's difficult to imagine buying a home, paying for good schooling, and achieving a higher standard of living financially when we have loused up our credit so badly in our past, are still somewhat in debt with various creditors, and literally live paycheck to paycheck. Sigh. Now that I'm keying this paragraph onto my computer screen, I can empathize so much more with Tony- how stressful the role of "Man of the Family" must be, his overwhelming desire to provide for us coupled with guilt for not being "good enough", "rich enough", or "smart enough" to figure out a way to propel us up the ladder another rung or two. I want so badly to assure him of his worth, his success in MY eyes as a husband and father, in a way that truly hits home, but hesitate to even bring it up, afraid that I might fail miserably in my approach and just end up making him feel all that much worse, a subject of pity to be consoled. He's a very proud man, my Tonydaddy. But aren't most of them, for that matter?

So I stay silent, as does he, and we talk about inconsequential matters- I, still in my pajamas at 2:00 in the afternoon; him, outwardly his regularly upbeat smiling self, but with shoulders knotted tense with the stress of trying to hold it all together. Both of us watching our precocious son intently as he struggles to keep his balance in this new, upright position, standing on wobbly bowed legs with a beatific smile on his face.

Good Times, Bad Times, You Know I've Had My Share

This last week has been one of ups and downs, smiles and frowns. Some of the bad news is that my hundred hours of community service (which took me nearly eight months to complete, and I finished back in December of '06) somehow has gotten lost in the labyrinthine system of the courts, and my probation officer called me this morning to inform me that it was my responsibility to rectify this error. She had looked through my file there at Probation & Parole, saw notations that it was being completed throughout the months, spoke with my former P.O. and gotten her assurance that yes, I had completed it, and that I had shown her the slips; but the Community Service Office at the courthouse apparently has no record of any of it being done, so she was assigning me the task of going down there and finding out what they needed to verify it was done. Something that, frankly, I am not so confident in being able to do. I mean, like they're gonna just take my word for it? Of course I don't have any paperwork anymore- I turned it all in to them! And my P.O. said to not be so sure that just my putting a face to my name by going down there will do anything- they've gone through numerous staffing overhauls throughout these last couple years, and chances are slim that anyone from back then still works there. So it looks like my only hope will be to go down to the places where I actually did the community service, and seeing if they had records of it still, or would be willing to attest to the fact that I did it there. I can only hope and pray that they do... if not, I'll bet I have to redo the entire one hundred hours, all because of someone else's misfile. Arggh!

Another lousy thing is my grandmother's deteriorating health- this Tuesday I spent all day, from eight that morning til nearly three in the afternoon, hustling her from appointment to x-ray to blood draw to pharmacy... all in the hopes of avoiding another hospital stay. Well, this morning she was once again admitted to KMC, so all our efforts were for naught. Her congestive heart failure is causing fluid to accumulate in dangerous amounts in her lungs and extremities, and the diuretic her doc prescribed isn't working, so once again we're waiting with bated breath to see if she'll come out the other side of this. It's both disheartening and exhausting for all of us, the family, so I can only imagine how difficult it must be for Grandma.

On the bright side, tonight we'll be hosting my little sister and her fiance for a spaghetti dinner and some Scrabble. It's something we don't do nearly enough- entertain, I mean. All too often, I just toss together something quick and easy- why toil away all afternoon at a five course meal for just the two of us? So, this'll give me a chance to cook a great- albeit simple- dinner, have some great company and conversation, and kick some serious ass at Scrabble!

Another cool thing going on is Tonydaddy's great escape this weekend- he's going on a men's retreat through our church, or rather our church's denomination- the Evangelical Free Church of America. This is so awesome how it came about: someone actually donated the funds for his ticket, knowing we couldn't really afford it, which was why he had planned on skipping it. We could've swung the cost of the trip, but there was also going to be skiing, shooting, meals, etc., and that would've been a bit out of our reach. This way, he'll be able to enjoy the whole thing, thanks to some nameless Christian's generousity! Amazing how God works like that, when it's something worthwhile. I'd been praying for Tony to realize we could afford it, even if it would've made this month's finances a little tight, just because I knew how much he would enjoy himself. I mean, being with a bunch of other Christian guys out in the middle of nowhere, blowing stuff up, skiing his heart out (something he grew up doing almost daily but has had to give up in recent years)... of course I wanted him to go! And now he is. Thank you, God. Thank you, Good Samaritan.

This'll also give me a chance to spend some time with family during the four days it'll be just Jameson and I- we'll be going to dinner with my aunt and uncle, my good friend plans on accompanying me to church Sunday, and who knows what else will pop up. Probably a couple visits to Grandma in the hospital, too. And while part of me will be missing my man, I'll also have the contentment of knowing he's having a blast. Literally.

Taxes, Faxes, and Waxes

Taxes~
I got a packet from the IRS in the mail Friday. You know, the standard "Forms and Instructions" crap. I've been eyeballing it off and on all weekend, and although it's just an innocent sheaf of cheaply inked newsprint, it still has an ominous aura to it, in my opinion.
This may be due to the fact that I'll be filing quite differently than ever before. First of all, I now have a dependent! Two, actually, as my husband's daughter from his previous marriage lived with us for most of last year. Second, after lengthy discussion with the hubby, we decided the pro's outweighed the con's and we'd file jointly- also a first for me. And thirdly, but certainly not leastly- actually the most terrifying I think, I've been employed as an independent contractor these last six months since my release, so will be swimming in unfamiliar waters when it comes to filing; listing all those deductions and what-not. I've heard sharks and other dangerous creatures swim in those seas, just waiting to devour the ignorant souls such as I. And who the hell can afford an accountant? Certainly not I. How I long for the days of the good ol' online short form direct deposit, rubbing my hands together gleefully as I waited for my almost guaranteed return. Now, who the heck knows what's gonna happen. Will I owe? Will I do it wrong and get audited? Little old me? My man's the one who makes the big bucks, even after child support, so it just doesn't seem fair that my piddly little income has to be so darn complicated to compute. Yeah, I've tried to save some receipts of stuff I had to buy for work. Yeah, I've done my best to keep track of mileage. But, I just have this nagging voice sneering at me, one of the more unsavory characters from the committee who live in my head:
"You fool, Kendra. You're gonna get screwed, and you know it. Who do you think you're kidding? You don't know how to work a real job- the only thing you were ever good at was selling dope! And Uncle Sam will never forget how bad you took advantage of him when you were "serving your country". He'll get back at you one of these days, and don't be surprised if this is how he gets ya."
I hate that guy! Wish I could get him to shut up, but you know how that goes. They pick the middle of the night to whisper their negative nonsense, when you're at your weakest and all you want to do is sleep but can't 'cause they nag you to death, reminding you of all the embarrassing moments you've had since second grade and all the woulda coulda shoulda's in your life. I wish one of those fluffy sheep I try counting would crush their heads with a feces-encrusted hoof and silence them for good!

Faxes~
Normally I'm blessed with the ability to do my job from my own computer in my own office, in my own home. This is wonderful- if it were any different, my son would either be in some daycare (which I swore to myself I would never do unless absolutely positively necessary), or I would get very little done chasing him around at my boss's place- a non kid-friendly house, unfortunately. Here, though, Jameson's content to play with his myriad toys scattered strategically throughout our home, so no matter where his chubby little arms and legs crawl him to, he's bound to be sidetracked somewhere along the way, preferably before he reaches my keyboard to reach up and bang out things I really didn't want in whatever I'm happening to work on. He also can't seem to resist the cords- the ipod cord, the power strip ("AAHH!" I always shriek when I see him going for that one) or especially, his favorite: the mouse cord, which when he sees it wiggling while I mouse around, he assumes that must mean it's a game where he must tug on it in return, preferably with enough force to rip it out of my hand and onto the floor, where he then must immediately inspect it with his mouth..... Ah, the joys of motherhood.
But I digress. This little section was supposed to be about my ongoing war with FedEx, and their incredible assertion that 48 of the little boxes we mail every week, and which our company has been doing so for years, this time all happened to weigh 24 pounds apiece. Exactly. These packages were in 9x6x6 boxes, which is about shoebox sizes, except a bit shorter in length. Normally, once packed and labeled, they weigh between just under 2 lbs. or just over 5 at the most, depending on what's in them. So this claim of 24 pounds was freaking preposterous! What the hell did they think was in 'em- plutonium? Obviously someone screwed up somewhere, hopefully on accident- I'd hate to think a company as large and well-established as FedEx would stoop to overcharging by putting B.S. weights on mass mailing companies such as ours and just hoping no one would notice. Well, my boss is a stickler for details, and she certainly did notice. Her being the busy lady she is, she assigned moi the job of straightening the whole mess out. So I put together a graph of tracking numbers, dates, their incorrect estimate next to my exact weight (yes, I actually reproduced every single shipment by looking up what was sent in our records, and weighed it to get an exact number, down to the ounces and grams, even), and package dimensions. You shoulda seen me- I despise Excel, so slogging my way through this was quite the process, peppered with obscenities and shouts of frustration. But I got 'er done, and whipped out a subtly nasty cover letter to go with it- the easy part, for me.
After I was done- I had been given a week to do this, because of all the research involved, but my Virgoan tenacity and perfectionism caused me to finish it over the course of the weekend- I submitted it to my boss for approval before faxing it off, and she was absolutely floored. After showering me with compliments (me brushing it off like it was nothing but knowing inside I was nowhere near as skilled as she was thinking), she offered me a promotion on the spot. I'm not sure if any significant raise will be included, but doing the bookkeeping and invoicing will be a damn sight better than all those cursed trips to the post office. And, after the training- which I'll have to do at her house, I'll still be able to work out of my own home office, thank God.
Meanwhile, however, little Jameson is getting chased around my boss's office by me or her while we attempt to train me on the Namaste Food accounts receivable and payable. Don't know which one is more challenging, learning all these new data entry and filing methods, or trying to concentrate while corralling my child, too.

Waxes~
Ever been struck by the urge to purge one's house of all the accumulated crap and detritus of day to day life which does nothing but create clutter? Well, I got bit by the spring-cleaning bug (yeah, I know it's the dead of winter) and have been boxing up stuff for St. Vinnie's, tossing out bags upon bags of garbage, going though the overstuffed closets of my son (how could he possibly have more clothes than Tonydaddy and I put together?!) and recklessly ripping out the stuff he doesn't wear or has outgrown and bagging it up for the exchange store (I love those places- kids outgrow their stuff so quick; might as well just swap 'em out. [the clothes, not the kid] My faves are Kidlets in Post Falls next to the Post Falls Press, and Switcheroo in the Spokane Valley). I've rearranged both bathrooms. The office, too- difficult since I have baking mixes which I mail stacked every-dang-where, floor to ceiling, and I'm trying to organize it to the point where I can fit a futon in here for when Tony's girls stay the night, so they won't have to sleep on the couch. The operative word here, however, is "try"- not sure if I'll be able to downsize that much, no matter how creative I get. I did get rid of Fifi the lime-green IMac, which I was babysitting for a friend as collateral for loaning him some much needed money. Since she was just taking up space, unused and unloved (I'm entirely Mac illiterate), I blew off the loan and just gave her back to him.
I've been washing windows, waxing floors, cleaning the bathrooms almost daily now that Jameson likes to stick his hands in the toilet, or throw whatever's handy in there if so inclined. He also loves bathtime so much he'll crawl into the master bathroom, where the taps are facing up vertically, rather than horizontally in toward the tub; he can reach them, so he'll turn them on, wait and see if someone will come in when we hear the water running, and if we do, he'll break into a toothy grin, banging his pudgy little hands excitedly against the wall of the huge oval tub, like, "C'mon, Mommy, let's take a bath! Can we, can we, huh huh huh?" Now, if we happen to not hear the water running, he'll get impatient and look for things to throw into the tub. Like a spare roll of toilet paper (I no longer keep those behind the toilet, that's for sure) or the toilet brush. Yep, it's fun fun fun.
Anyway. Hope this nesting urge doesn't mean I'm preggers again! Nah, actually not possible. But something weird's definitely happening- I'm usually not THAT much of a Suzie Homemaker...

Fun in the Sun, I Mean, Snow

Okay, here's me trying to figure out how do to this- after all, it's been about twenty years...



Work in progress....



The finished product, hurray!

Just What Exactly Does "Auld Lang Syne" Really Mean, Anyway?

Although I'm still a little shell-shocked, exhausted from making the rounds over the holidays (Grandma's house for gift exchange, Mom's formal Christmas Eve dinner, etc.) I feel pretty good about this new year and all it may bring. And I'm not the only one! After going to my half-sister's house for a little gift exchange and visit, a few days after the actual holiday, she showed me one whopper of a ring- Ron, her man, had finally popped the question, and did so in style. I had to ask: "Angie, did he go to Jared?" Alas, the answer was no, so I didn't get to do the corny commercial cliche I was hoping on. Seriously, though, this was some really good news for them- it was getting to the point where they needed to either commit or split. I for one was very happy that they chose to get married; I like Ron. For that matter, I like Angie; they're both really great Christian people. Amazingly enough, I only just met this sister a little over a year ago, so am still getting to know her, too! She's another one of my father's offspring which keep popping up here and there every couple of years... he was quite the stud in his day, and sowed his wild oats all over town. Angie was introduced to me through my dad, and ironically enough, her and I are closer now than I am to him anymore. And as for her and Dad, forget it. She wasn't too impressed with him and his rather nonchalant attitude in regards to his offspring, and I can't say I blame her. I've had about enough of it myself. He disowned me one too many times, and unfortunately now that I've changed so much for the better, he has no idea what he's missing out on. But like I said, I don't need it; neither does Jameson. We have plenty of worthwhile family members to spend our time and energy on.

So, speaking of time and energy, I don't really have any set-in-stone resolutions, but a few ephemeral plans are wafting around my psyche, and some possibilities which the man of the house and I have discussed may very well solidify too. But I've been finding it hard to live outside of the here and now, something I ascribe to my having to chase a VERY active, adventuresome nine-month-old around the house most of the day. It's pure joy (mostly), but much more demanding than I ever dreamed. Instead of my life revolving around me, with perhaps my man a close second place, with work, home and leisure trailing behind that, my child is the epicenter of our little universe- his needs of course paramount to ours, and he seemingly devotes much of his time to foiling any attempts to impose a schedule where I can get anything done during the day. So I find myself scrubbing toilets at odd hours, juggling the boy while I cook meals, and gravitating towards toys which amuse him while keeping him captive- literally.

Anyway, all this child-rearing stuff by nature trumps my old habits of spending long hours in a bubble bath or on a quiet walk, musing and/or debating different facets of my life, making deeply thought-out decisions in a logical fashion while drifting through a rootless, independent lifestyle. So these days, any decisions are either made by necessity- again, revolving around the youngest member of the family- or simply talked about by Tony and I in a wistful, those-were-the-days tone, knowing full well our lives are too chaotic and full to do anything drastically different just for the hell of it.

Some things that have been batted about, however, are:
*Shopping for a new bed (ours simply is NOT big enough for two adults and a squirming, crying baby when he feels the need to be cuddled back to sleep in the middle of the night)
*My possibly accepting a lateral promotion from my boss, which would change my job from miscellaneous mailings and other shipping and filing duties, to handling the invoices and other sales-related chores. This is something I'm looking forward to, as I will still be able to do most of it from home, but will eliminate most of the trips to the post office. Sweet!
*A mini-vacation, just Tony and I- time and finances willing- that will use up our two free nights accommodations at either Seaside, Las Vegas, Vancouver (nope, that won't work, as Canada doesn't like felons) or lil ol' Coeur d'Alene itself.
*And finally, though certainly not the least in level of importance.... QUITTING SMOKING AGAIN!!! Yes, I'm confessing to the horrible fact that after almost two whole months of beating down that yucky nico-demon, the bastard got ahold of us again. Arggh! It started with just one or two here and there, but I'm ashamed to say that I'm back up to at least six or seven a day, and Tony's puffing away at the rate of almost an entire pack. Sheesh.

So there you have it. My tentative agenda for the next month. Which will be interspersed with, and possibly encompassed by all the musts and have-to's of day to day life with a young child and that ever-present four-letter-word: responsibility. Keep me in your prayers, nameless, faceless online friends, okay? As I will you.

Life Goes On (and on, and on, and on....)

What a blogging slacker I am! I'm not sure how long it's been since my last post, but I know I have been severely remiss in my online record-keeping. Of course I am a virtual paragon of good intentions (as I used to be every single year I would receive yet another diary; transcribing every little event, right up until January 18th would roll around and the poor leatherbound pretty would commence collecting dust for eternity). Ah well, I would venture to say things are different these days: this, rather than some chronological bore-fest of Jameson's diaper changings and my trips to the grocery store, is more of a collection of, how did I put it? "musings and mutterings", I think- more of a smattering of the more memorable events, interspersed with recurring thoughts I feel are worthy of publication.

So, now that I've applied the balm of justification on my rash of slacker guilt, we can proceed.

Grandma is out of the hospital, the whole family breathing a collective sigh of relief yet again. After a bevy of tests and bushel of Medicare dollars (I'm sure) not one of those snooty specialists will venture a diagnosis; no, their prescription pads instead held up to mask expressions of clueless dismay, they simply scribble more painkillers, anticoagulants and advisements to "take it easy" while we just "wait and see". Grrr.

* * * * * * (a short time later) * * * * * * * *

The house seems remarkable empty, as it's just myself and my just-turned 8-month-old child. The man of the house is out of town, as his occupation all too often requires him to be, and today of all days I find myself missing him terribly. It's not so much the challenge of chasing around our son by myself as I try to get work done(although since our boy started crawling and pulling himself up on things a few weeks ago, things have gotten really interesting around here). Nor is it the loneliness of an empty bed at night- if anything, I welcome the chance to leave the bedside lamp on, reading grittty police procedurals into the wee hours of the night. No, instead I think it's that lack of comfortable back-and-forth communication that I've come to expect and love, a privelege of marriage that comes when you know your spouse inside and out, and they you. The anticipation of, and meeting, each other's needs. The little touches, insignificant to a stranger's eye, but carrying hidden meaning between two people who are still in love after how ever many years. Those are the things I miss when he's gone, and that's what makes this little house seem cavernous with his absence.

When I said "today of all days" I was referring to the fact that, today, December 11th, is Tony's birthday. Now, my hubby has never made a big deal out of his anniversary of birth, and since he's recently crept into his fourth decade of existence, it's even worse. I, on the other hand, am a huge celebrator of any holiday, and the birthdays of those near and dear to me are no exception. So, of course I was devastated when he informed me of his being down in Walla Walla on this date, his time of return uncertain. Not only could I not cook some lavish dinner and present his gifts to him on this day, I couldn't even plan for a belated soiree. No, instead I am left bereft and melancholy, bemoaning his lack of interest in what I wish I could make a perfect day for him, but cannot.

So this morning found me maudlin and edgy, wandering through the house with my coffee cup in hand, distractedly smiling at my son's conquering instincts but preoccupied with thoughts of his father. As the day has progressed, the fog has lifted somewhat, but I still yearn for the homecoming of my other half, as I can't seem to fill the void of his presence with busyness or escapism of other kinds. All too often, I feel as though we take each others' existence for granted, and I just can't wait to frame his face with my hands and look into his eyes, and tell him all I've just written and more.

Working Through the Worry, Praying Through the Pain

What a crazy last week this has been. Crazy enough that I haven't even considered surfing the 'net, let alone blogging on it.

I'm swamped at work. For some reason, my co-workers (spread out over all five regions of the U.S.) decided to up their "blitz box" requests. This is a small complimentary 9x6x6 box filled with either a baking or pasta mix, replete with a glossy paperwork packet and cover letter, that is sent to either stores possibly adding new lines of our product, or prospective clients we're trying to court with a free sample. Normally I send out about 80 of these a month, putting the flat-packed boxes together myself, stuffing everything in it as neatly as possible, printing a FedEx label for it off their site, then recording the data into our database/scheduler.
Well, this last week I got almost 50 of these requests, each one imperative that it gets sent within a day or two. I've kept a lot of late hours, let's put it that way. And this doesn't even take into account the cookbook orders I get, usually 5 or 6 a day, which, since Click-N-Ship still won't send media mail, I have to package and cart down to the post office myself rather than having them picked up. The daily average on those have been at least a dozen. Arggh!

What else... well, a teething son who seems to bonk his head about every ten minutes, necessitating me dropping everything and running frantically over to comfort his wailing woe sure doesn't help. I know it's a process, this learning to crawl and pull himself up on stuff, and we've baby-proofed as much as possible, but dammit, the little guy is just precocious, I s'pose. And/or clumsy.

But let me dispense with the miscellany and get down to the real tragedy, the real reason my heart is aching too much for any typing to have gotten done as of late.

My grandmother is in the hospital for what we first thought was a heart attack, but after endless testing now seems to be some sort of internal bleeding thing. It breaks my heart to think that just now when I've finally become a source of pride to her, and my son is bringing her untold amounts of joy- that we very well may lose her. So I've been at KMC a lot, letting her hold Jameson when she feels strong enough, carrying on these painful one-way conversations that seem utterly inane to me, but I'm hoping she's listening and just liking the human contact. It hurts, though. God, it's tough to lose someone you love when you're actually in touch with your feelings enough to drown in them.

I've had people die in my arms from overdosing. I witnessed a point blank beach party shooting of a girl by her jealous teenaged boyfriend, a kid we all knew. I was 15. I spent that night in the shower until the water ran cold, scrubbing all the blood and bits of brain and bone that I swore I could still feel on me. I've walked in on other dead bodies here and there throughout the years, mostly drug-related; and of course both my older brother and my uncle have both committed suicide.

So there's been a lot of death in my life. Even me, spending time in a hospital bed pumped full of Narcan after an overdose, have been told I was clinically dead at one point. I'm no stranger to the Reaper.

But I'm begging God not to take my Grandma B from me now, not when we're just starting to get to know each other again. The roles have changed- it's now me who comes over and cleans her house, drives her on her errands, fights with her doctors and pharmacists when she's too timid to do it herself. I do most of the talking- she's not the same old spitfire bartending Seahawk fan who raised up three daughters and then had to take care of some of their offspring as well. She's quiet now; spends alot of time in front of the television, sometimes watching Westerns, sometimes just staring at the blank screen. I wonder what she thinks about, but when I ask, the one or two word responses just don't ring true. It's the stroke she had several years back, I know, but it doesn't make it any easier when I compare this virtual stranger to the woman who partially raised me, before I hit my teenaged years and was off and running, not to be raised by anyone anymore.

We all love her just the same. My mom is lost in her own alcoholism a bit too deeply to really devote the time away from her drinking that it would take to visit more often; my other aunt lives way over on an island off the coast of Washington; so my
Aunt Marcie and I are the ones who are there for Grandma these days, but I know the heartache is not something her and I hold an exclusive patent on. My cousins have all been to visit her in the hospital, sheepishly holding their heads down as they mutter excuses why it had been so long since they'd seen her prior to this. Same with the more distant relatives- aunts, uncles, in-laws.

I'm bracing myself for the worst, but I console myself by the fact that she was able to bond with her first great-grandchild (I was the last child, thirty years ago!) and that her and I become, if not truly close friends- due to her condition resulting from the stroke- at least close in many ways.

Thank You, Lord, for these last months of bonding with this amazing woman whose ancestral blood runs in my veins. Thank You for blessing us with the opportunity to share the joy of my son- I've loved seeing those huge smiles: one on her wrinkled face, one on his cherubic toothless one. If You choose to bring her home to You, I will understand, Father, since nothing in Your world happens on accident, but by Your design and divine timing. I only ask that You ease the pain of our loss by filling our hearts with the joy of memories of how she used to be, and with the peace of knowing she's passing on to her eternal reward.

A Glimpse Into My Past

Last week there was a holiday which never fails to give me a little jolt of surprise when I realize that I am one of the people for whom it was enacted- Veteran's Day.

I am indeed a veteran, at least I served in the U.S. Army. But it somehow feels hollow, because from the very get-go I chose a duty station that was non-deployable, a cushy stateside medical post. And I never pictured myself on the frontlines of any war, defending my country- although I'd have gone, had they ordered me to, sure- instead the main things on my mind when I enlisted were the travel, my sign-on bonus, and a chance to go to college.

So I guess that's why I forget that Veteran's Day honors all this country's servicemen and women, including myself. I know I provided a necessary service, as did lots of say, Reservists and whatnot; but we just seem so inconsequential compared to those who fought wars, served hardship tours in far away lands, and shed their blood on foreign soil... I dunno.

On Huckleberries Online, one of my favorite blogs, there was a post by a veteran of the Vietnam War, describing his trip to D.C. to take part in a reading of all the names on the Vietnam Wall. He was so humble and matter-of-fact in his description of the experience- the way he shared about not getting this kind of laudatory welcome when he and his "brothers" came home from the war back then, so it was nice to finally receive it now; his conversing with the many luminaries attending the event, some veterans themselves, and how he respected them; and how he photographed a grave belonging to the son of a local veteran, who, because of his full disability, was unable to travel there himself.

Humbling. For me, anyhow. Put things in perspective.

When I enlisted in the Army, I was barely nineteen years old, and already had made some bad decisions. As a sophomore, I had dropped out of high school; although it was a breeze for me, I thought at the time my social life- one big party with much older people- was more important. I had vague plans for a GED and then some higher education, but wasn't very energetic in pursuing them; in fact, it was sheer luck that I was able to take advantage of a program called "Challenge" that allowed me to attend Maui Community College on a grant and earn my high school credits back through tests I was able to pass. Nevertheless, I blew off the rest of the program once I got my diploma, although I would've been able to continue accruing college credits had I not dropped out. So when by chance I spoke with a recruiter, I made an on the spot decision to sign up, dazzled by the promise of a $15,000 G.I. Bill, a $5,000 sign-on bonus, and the chance to attend college part-time while I was enlisted, for only 25% of the cost.

So I took the ASVAB, testing out at the 96th percentile, which would've allowed me to choose whatever MOS I wanted, had I not already had a bit of a criminal record. Having gotten expelled from a high school for possession and sale of LSD did not look good to Uncle Sam. Did I mention I had already started to make a mess of things even at that tender young age?
I ended up settling for enlisting as a combat medic/ 91B, the civilian equivalent of which is a medical assistant. Not the most glorious job (I was leaning more toward code-cracking, or perhaps foreign languages) but oh well, it offered the above-mentioned sign-on bonus, so that sold me. I swore in, got my traveling papers, and found I was to report to basic training at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri, then AIT (school) at Fort Sam Houston in Texas.

Basic was all I'd been warned about/ promised and then some, but I sweated and groaned and fought my way through it, coming out on the other side a lean, mean, fighting machine. Or something. I remember being both relieved and sad that it was over- I think that was the closest taste to the "real" Army I ever got.
Then AIT... that was more of a mixture of a frantic cramming of information down our throats in the limited time they had to dispense it, as well as continued physical torture, I mean training. I tied for the top score in my graduating class, and was offered the opportunity to train further, what was called a secondary MOS (Military Occupational Specialty). I recognized a one in a million opportunity for being just that, and accepted. I chose veterinary medicine, which in the service is more of a research position- working with laboratory animals mainly. This was okay with me, as it insured I would remain stateside, rather than being deployed to Korea, where most of my former classmates were going.

So I ended up being stationed at USAMRIID (Gosh, the military just adores acronyms, don't they?), the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Disease- this is the military counterpart to the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. Very high-tech, very high-security, lots of important stuff going on there. It was a blast. I think I felt challenged for the first time in my life- I was learning new things every day. And I was a part of something huge, one little cog in a massive machine. I felt at first like I could do this forever, become a careerist, maybe enlist in the "Green to Gold" program and become an officer. I loved it.

But real life intervened, as it always seems to do. After a couple years there, what seemed novel and dignified, paled and became mundane and unnecessary, with stuck-up officers and archaic customs. The high security was a huge pain in the butt. I was exhausted, and since the Army pays a salary, not hourly wage, it wasn't like I could lower my hours. The community college I attended was pissing me off- they didn't offer the classes I needed to take during the hours I had available, so why was I killing myself by going? I was thousands of miles away from my family and old friends, all that was familiar, and the East Coast began to seem cold and forbidding, rather than a wondrous cluster of landmarks, museums, natural beauty and culture. In short, I was burnt out.

This story does not have a happy ending. Not really, anyway.
I ended up having to have a major surgery, getting deathly ill from a burst tubal pregnany or cyst, no one seemed to know which. Too busy doctors compounded the problem by prescribing bottle after bottle of heavy-duty pain medication, which my addiction-prone self eagerly accepted. Months of convalescent leave turned me lazy, sulking at the prospect of having to go back to the chaos of Ft. Detrick. By now I lived off post, separated from the other half of a doomed from the start marriage, and was consorting with civilian friends, smoking pot (after all, we all worked in the lab- we knew when the UA's were coming and how to avoid them) and hosting endless parties. When the prescriptions finally began to peter out, I started making runs to D.C. to score heroin, which I smoked or snorted, thinking that since I wasn't shooting it, I wasn't really a junkie. Ha.

I got deeply in debt, and was calling in sick so often that finally my commander and his staff put two and two together. After a tearful confession, I was placed in rehab at Andrews Airforce Base, on the top floor. I was amazed at how many others there were there- apparently drug and alcohol addiction is more common than you'd think in all the branches of the service. My roommate was a female marine sergeant who got caught stealing injections of morphine from the ER in which she worked, and we cried and sweated and cramped and detoxed together, until she broke down and walked out, going AWOL from treatment when she couldn't handle it anymore. I was so envious, I too plotted to leave, but chickened out. After all, I only had seven months left in my four year hitch, why blow it?
This changed when my sergeant from my unit came to visit. He informed me that they were considering an early discharge, dishonorable at that. I kept my cool, nodding and promising to meet with him and the C.O. as soon as I was released, but the minute he left I went to my room, threw my stuff in a bag and took the staff elevator the hell out of there. My logic: why suffer through all these awful withdrawals when they were just gonna boot me out anyway? So I ran.

Called my estranged husband and promised reconciliation if he'd come pick me up. He eagerly accepted, driving up from South Carolina to meet me there in downtown D.C. By then I had scored some dope, so was feeling just fine about the whole stinkin' mess I'd once again gotten myself into.

Suffice it to say that the next year or so was a mindless blur of drugs, travel and fear. Fear of getting caught- after all, I was a federal fugitive- fear of not getting caught and having to live like this forever! and fear of just about everything else you could imagine a young girl facing alone and on the run. It was a nightmare. When I was finally apprehended at a motel in Las Vegas, it was with relief that I confessed who I was and what I was wanted for.

The anticlimax of the whole thing was spending a bit of time in the out-processing center at Fort Sill in Oklahoma, where I was set up with a JAG attorney to represent me throughout the process. She looked over my file and decided we had a slam dunk case, and promised to get me a medical discharge under honorable conditions. Which she did, to my surprised relief. I'm not sure if I was deserving of it, but I guess the upshot of the whole thing was the fact I had served about three and a half years out of my required four with a spotless record- in fact, I'd gotten promoted several times, a commendation or two, and plenty of good reviews from my commanders. The threat of early discharge from my sarge was just that- a threat- and had I not panicked and ran, I most likely would have just suffered a demotion in rank to PFC from Specialist, and perhaps some extra duty. But no, instead I was lucky to get off with what I did- loss of my G.I. Bill, most of my benefits, and my pride in having served.

That was the big one, and I think the reason why I usually don't mention having even been in the service. It's humiliating to have to admit how the story ended.

But nowadays, I don't see that sort of pride as such a necessary attribute. I'm okay with having some humility, and admitting my past mistakes. There's only One who I'm interested in impressing- and I think I've made myself right with Him.

Anyway, there's the story with how I (sort of) qualify as a veteran. Thanks for reading.

What Do You Suppose The Dog's Praying For?

A Day In The Life...

Although I don't really have anything drastically deep to impart, no nuggets of wisdom to bestow, no burning desires I feel the need to extinguish, it's been a bit since my last post, so I thought I'd jump in and just let my mind wander as my fingers tap the keyboard.
I know one thing that's been surfacing over and over again lately is my marveling at how drastically different my life is these days. I know everyone experiences lifestyle changes of one sort or another, but at times I really have to shake my head in wonder, laughing at how I'm a complete universe away from, let's say, five years ago.
How 'bout I illustrate. Today was fairly typical of the way things are for me these days, so I'll list some of my activities...
6:30~ Got up with my husband and infant son, fed them both while watching the morning news. Packed a lunch for the man, packed the diaper bag for the boy. Hubby left for work, I did my morning ablutions and headed out with the baby as well.
9:30~ Bible study at my church (His Place). Laughed, prayed, drank coffee with around 35 other Christian women as we studied "Women of the Bible". Made a date for "Mom's Connect" later in the week- clothing exchange and chance to get together with other moms of little ones, yay!
11:45~ Will be turning in a shoebox for "Operation Christmas Child" this Sunday, so spent a few bucks at the Dollar Store on toys, toiletries and candy. I picked a boy, aged 4-9, to shop for. My shoebox will most likely be his only gift, and it made me feel all warm and fuzzy to pack it up as I imagined the joy on this Third World child's face when he opens it.
Noonish to Five-ish~ Worked. In my home office, on my new desktop computer, on our satellite internet connection (read: expensive). I'm blessed with a super-flexible yet lucrative position with a natural foods company, doing a wide variety of online tasks. This allows me to stay home with my beautiful baby boy, instead of having to farm him off at some daycare, while making a necessary contribution to our finances.
5:30~ Dinner and a movie. Literally.
7:30~ Read a few chapters of a Tanenbaum novel. Played with my son, making him laugh until he got the hiccups (this brings me untold amounts of joy). Told myself repeatedly how great quitting smoking feels- it's been a month- and the urge to chew on my fingernails would soon pass.
9:00~ Hanky-panky with the man of the house.
9:07~ (just kidding) 9:45~ Made a cup of Apple Cinnamon tea (reading on the box while I waited for the kettle to whistle that in ancient Egypt cinnamon was valued more highly than gold- hmmm, learn something new every day). Wandered into the office, where I proceeded to mouse around until I landed here. My blog.

Interspersed with the above, there were lots of other miscellany: diaper changes, housework, errand running, chatty little phone calls, snacks. You know. Stuff.

Now, although I won't be able to retrieve an exact timeline of any particular day from my past, I can certainly remember enough gory details to give a convincing facsimile. So here goes....
3:17(a.m.)~ A carload of shady characters, spun out of their minds, show up at my run-down apartment's door wanting to buy some dope. Including all the other losers crammed about the premises, all in various states of intoxication, this makes 14 people in my house. My stress level is rising proportionally, and I put the meth pipe down long enough to search through my drug stores for some sort of downer. The phone won't stop ringing, so I assign someone (can't remember their name right offhand) the task of answering it for me while I step into my office (read: bathroom)in order to weigh out the tweek for the latest customers so they'll get the hell out.
4:20~ I throw a mini temper tantrum. I have the biggest sack of dope, so I feel entitled to do this. Only a couple things get broken, and the upside is that several scumbags are intimidated into leaving. An older guy with tattoos on his neck and track marks on both arms invites me to smoke some pot with him. I accept. The phone still won't stop ringing.
6:05~ Time to re-up. I assign the task of guarding what's left of my belongings to one of the more trustworthy crack whores, telling her I'll throw in an extra quarter gram if she does some housework while I'm gone, as the place is a freaking disaster.
I jump in my beat-up car (extremely well-known to the police by then) and screech off towards Spokane, digital scale hidden in a secret compartment under the hood, stereo thumping obscenely loud music from a top-shelf stereo system, every component of which was stolen. I justify this by saying, "It wasn't ME who stole it. I paid someone for it." The phone won't stop ringing, but as I'm out of "shit", I don't answer.
7:25~ I sit at some crack shack in SpoCompton, fidgeting because my dealer's too paranoid to come out of his closet at the moment. He shouts instructions from within to his many syncophants. I watch some fat guy covered in sweat surreptitiously masturbate in the car out front, a girl who looks all of fifteen try to shoot up in her neck with the aid of a mirror, and an emaciated dreadlocked black guy pick at what he says are bugs crawling out of holes in his dog. I feel sorry for only the dog. Finally get my ounce of meth and peel out, nose upturned at all those horrible addicts.
9:00~ Back in business. Deciding to answer the unceasing ringing of my cellphone, I rack up so many potential sales, I can't remember them all. Having run into this problem many times prior, I'm prepared with a dry-erase marker. I use this to write the customers' names on the inside of my windshield as I drive erratically back into town. They'll be wiped off as I make the stops. I'm swerving because it's hard to drive straight when I've been up for several days, as well as hit the pipe, apply makeup, and change CD's.
12:15~ Eight stops later and six hundred dollars richer, I realize I can't remember the last time I'd eaten or showered. I'm avoiding having to deal with all the riff-raff at my house, so I hole up at a motel for the hell of it, peeping out the window to make sure I wasn't followed. I become absorbed with the mindless task of blowing another glass pipe, and forget about everything except the hissing of the propane torch. Time gets away from me. Since the phone won't stop ringing, I shut it off.
7:29~ Cramped muscles and blistered fingers warn me it's time to stop messing around with the glass tubing. I've blown four pipes and ruined another six feet of tubing as I tweeked, as well as almost set fire to the motel room. Solution: handful of pills and a dozen hits off one of the new pipes, then slink off under the cover of darkness.
8:00~ Turn the phone back on. It immediately rings, with a collect call from my estranged drug-dealing boyfriend, currently a guest in Kootenai County Detention Center. He begs me to be careful, as I lie my head off regarding what I've been up to. I promise to visit, write, bail him out eventually and be faithful and careful until then. All are lies.
8:15~ Back on the road, this time to rescue a fellow dealer. It's kind of a "boy's club", but I do my best to fit in by pulling off crazy stunts such as the one I'm about to undertake: the guy's in an altercation with a rival, so I show up waving a butterfly knife around and threatening to cut off his nuts. It works, and we celebrate by another round of meth smoking. A couple people scamper off to go shoot up instead. I realize I've left my apartment full of people who I promised I'd see shortly, and by now it's probably been picked clean and someone might be cooking a batch of dope in it. I go to leave but someone has slashed my tires, busted my windows and stolen my stereo system. I freak out, raging about idiot thieves with knives... and the phone STILL won't stop ringing.

This is by no means a definitive description of how things were back then. No, it was WAY more psychotic. And x-rated. And sad. And exhausting. I think, no I know, when I was finally arrested and I knew it was over, it was with a feeling of relief that I crawled into that police car, like a great weight had been lifted from my skinny little shoulders.

So do you see what I mean? If it weren't for the publicity I've been afforded as of late, I doubt most people would ever even have the slightest inkling of how different my life used to be. I think even I forget sometimes, and I'm not sure that's so good. I think sometimes I need to be reminded of how crazy and sick it all was, how much better things are for me now.
Yeah, after all the nonstop excitement it gets a little monotonous sometimes these days. Yeah, I'm not a big-time power-tripping dope dealer anymore, I'm just a wife and mom who's just about done cleaning up the wreckage of her past, but has lots of mundanity ahead. But that's okay. Because with the mundane, there is also great joy, inner peace, and the gift of looking into the eyes of my innocent sweet son and knowing I'm doing right by him- that he'll never know that person who his mommy used to be.

All Things Considered...

I'm not sure if I mentioned here that I was the designated chaperon for the little ones this year, that for some bizarre reason I actually volunteered for the driving/ escorting/ supervising (and disciplining if necessary) of my monstrous young nieces and nephews as they tricked and treated their way across town, silly overconfident aunt that I am. Not to mention my own little monster- well, he was costumed as a bat, actually, and an adorable wee bat he was, to be sure- which, although too young to understand the whole to-do, or eat candy, I still was obliged to dress him up and lug him around for the candy-hander-outers to ooh and ahh over.
All in all, there were six of us, the children ranging in age from eleven to seven months, and we made quite the little troupe as we traipsed from neighborhood to neighborhood, candy buckets shaped like jack o'lanterns in hand.
I knew I was, if not in over my head, at the very least swimming in deep waters when I began dismantling costume parts in order to buckle in the youngest into their four carseats. It was a cacophony of "are we there yet" and "Skyler poked me with his light saber!" while I drove to the first upscale cul-de-sac, and a relief to all once we parked, unpacked, and reassembled ourselves at the curb in time for sunset.
The ground rules were set, the littlest were instructed to hold hands with the biggest, and off we went.
* * * *
Three hours later, the buckets were overflowing, the noses were running and bright pink with the cold, and the two youngest were crashed out in the backseat. I caught myself fervently wishing for a nap as well, but quashed the thought and made sure everyone was happy with their haul before buckling them all in for the last time and heading to Grandma and Grandpa's for pizza and a treasure hunt.
That was a blast, and we all stuffed ourselves with Papa Murphy's Cowboy pizza, laughed at the old folks (dressed like pirates), and searched for our goodies with the provided clues. No one was excluded, not even the grown-ups. Or the baby, for that matter- the other kids were happy to "help" find and unwrap his gifts, too.

I wound up sitting alone at one point in the evening, reflecting on how good it felt to be a part of this family, even when it entailed some hard work at making everyone happy. Thinking, "I wouldn't trade this for the world," then realizing, wait a minute, the whole time I was shunning these very same events for my massively selfish drug habit, and ignoring the very people who cared about me the most, that's exactly what I was doing- I had traded them in. For what, now I don't know. An ephemeral sense of well-being? a temporary high? the swollen ego of a drug dealer?
Ha. All that pales in comparison to a room full of laughing people you love, your belly full of good food and your heart full of promise, looking forward to tomorrow.