Joe and Bob's Carpentry and Plumbing

Nora Jane's class has been learning about business and marketing.  Part of this learning required the students to create a "product" of their own.  Nora's group product was a child's costume kit.  (A child's costume kit designed by eight-year-olds for use by ten-year-olds.)  Not a bad idea, I thought.  What child wouldn't like their very own costume kit?  Well, Nora loved her product SO much she couldn't wait to share it with me when she got home.

Said kit included two paper hats (of equal size?) and one paper moustache.  Apparently, donning a hat  (that promises to fit every head) and some facial hair are all one needs to radically alter their appearance. Additionally, the kit contained a camera.  I'm guessing this is to document said changes.

See what I mean?  You can hardly tell this is Nora :)

Nora, like her father, tends to dive head-first into her projects.  (Especially if cutting and gluing  are involved) And this was no exception.  So, not surprisingly, when she got home, she expanded on this project by creating her own version:  "Costume Kit, Super Deluxe Edition."

The New and Improved Version

This edition was similar to the original, but Nora added a few items to make her kit more specific, more appealing, to a certain demographic. (You know-- those kids, of any age, who really like dressing up as male plumbers and carpenters) So, she added several moustache styles because, obviously, not everyone feels comfortable wearing a handlebar moustache.  She also included two name tags (Bob and Joe) a much larger hat, one pair of glasses, a "nicer camera," and two pens (one for each of them). For recording things unbeknownst to me.  Or, perhaps they were to write up work orders.

And then it was time to play.  I expected to see a silly, physical change when Nora donned her costume.  What I did not expect, though, were the invisible ones. The changes in her demeanour, for instance.  Gone was the serious, focused, product creator.  In her place stood one of two crazy, spastic, male contractors.  Contractors who claimed they could "build me a chicken coop," or "fix my drippy drips," in no time flat.  And all for a very reasonable fee!

I'm not sure I'd feel comfortable hiring either one of these "professionals," however.  Joe, or maybe it was Bob, had a psychotic look in his eye.  Like he'd just as soon stab me with his screwdriver and abscond with my chickens.

Joe (or Bob, I'm not sure) of Joe and Bob's Carpentry and Plumbing

And his twin's glasses were so crooked (not to mention missing the lenses) that I feared putting a tool in his hand would only lead to him physically harming himself.

The Twin
The similarity is striking!

Nora's Costume Kit is still in the design phase, as there are some "bugs" that still need fixing.  Most importantly, how to prevent the staches from ripping during application.  (it's kind of a big bug) And based on this project,  I don't know if Nora will make it in the world of commerce.  I'm not sure it's the right "place" for her.  I do know, however, that wherever she goes, she's going to keep me laughing  until she gets there.

Keep on keeping on-
S-

P.S.  I received no compensation from Joe and/or Bob for this post, I'm simply spreading the word:  they're looking for work :)

My Ah-ha! Moment

This is what I read "in class" yesterday:

"When you start to write seriously, it's reassuring to realize that even simple stories about simple lives can be interesting."

--Ann Lindquist
Beginning Writer's Workshop

I was glad to read this.  I think that's what I'm trying to do here.  

S-

The Problem with Sticky Notes

Today was a sad day;
I didn't get much done. 
For I lost something of value,
of which there was only one. 

I lost my yellow sticky notes,
with words I wanted to save. 
(Until I could get back to them)
but they got thrown away.

These words, they were important,
some scribbled hopes and dreams.
And, now, I cannot find them.
They are nowhere to be seen.

I don't know how this happened.
Or, who did this to me.
Perhaps, some evil ne'er-do-well? 
No. It was probably done by me.

I thought I'd hidden them greatly.
I thought they were tucked away.
Somewhere safe, where they couldn't get lost,
but they did anyway.

I don't know where they went to,
or if they're coming back.
I'm hoping I will find them.
But not counting on that.

I've searched the house, from high to low.
Looked everywhere I know.
I cannot find them anywhere!
Oh, how this hurts me so!

Mine was not a perfect system; 
I know that this is true.
But it worked for me for a long, long time
In Red, Green, Yellow, and Blue.

But the problem with my sticky notes,
(the problem I have found)
is that even with their sticky-ness,
they don't always stick around. 

So much for my old system;
I see how bad it's flawed.
It's time I learned to modernize--
Update----or I'm lost.

So, today's writing is over.

I'm feeling like a dope.

And because my heart is broken,

I might just sit and mope.

I could sit here and wallow.

I feel like I could cry.

But I am WAY too old for that--

and THAT is NOT a lie.

So off I go to buy groceries.

Out I go into the sun.

For my cupboards, they need fillin,

and there's diggin to be done.

These tasks will keep me busy.

Keep back tears that want to come.

But if they do,

that's what I get--

THAT'S WHAT I GET--

for being so dang dumb!

The End

Outta the Mouth of Nora Jane

Tonight, while hugging Nora Jane goodnight, she said, "it's always so cozy in your arms mama."

I love you too kid-

The Monkey on My Back

I am moving through The Animal Kingdom. I have gone from chickens to monkeys.  Not real monkeys, mind you.  Those pesky, invisible ones.  The ones only you can hear, yet wish you couldn't.  The ones that wake you up at night, set your heart racing, put your brain into over-drive, and keep you awake until morning with their annoying whispers.  Their taunting reminders of the deadlines and projects you'd like to forget.  The projects you thought would be fun, easy, quick.

Instead of writing the quick and easy stories like I'd planned, however, I've spent the first eight lessons of my writer's workshop agonizing over word choice and verb tense. I've learned that I should "avoid hedging words."  Words like rather, appears, somewhat, seems.  Apparently, (oops) these words are too vague. I've learned that most sentences fall into three parts, or syntactic slots.  Say that three times fast! And I have spent so much time obsessing and revising and rewriting, that without that nagging monkey, I wouldn't have made some of my deadlines.   

Now, I wish I could go back in time and reselect the topic for my final project, because it's about the death of a loved one. I know what you're thinking: how morbid!  But it's really not.  Morbid, that is.  It is difficult, though, because it brings back to life a whole slew of forgotten memories and emotions.  But, in all fairness, I picked it, so I brought them on myself.  Additionally, I have learned that sometimes our topics "choose us," rather than the other way around, because they need to be written.  Thus, while I'd rather spend my free time writing about happier topics, or any topic that doesn't have a due-date, I am enjoying this exercise.  Painful though it may be.  

So with Monkey's help, I have learned to push through, to persevere.  And, it has paid off.  Despite my subject matter, I have gotten very positive feedback from my instructor and my classmates.  People who've actually gone through what I'm only writing about.  This makes me feel good.  

As my kids will attest to, I'm a firm believer in the "you've got to finish what you've started" philosophy.  Which is why I am sitting here, in front of the computer screen, on a beautiful sunny Saturday morning, instead of baking Dave's birthday cake, or going outside to weed the flower beds like I'd planned.   But this is where the monkey lives.  Not to mention I can't bear the thought of having an "Incomplete" out there on my cyber-student record.  Plus, it's still cold out there. 

So, here I will stay; thinking, typing, twisting my hair around my fingers, drinking coffee, eating the perfectly delicious cookies I baked yesterday just for Anna, until I can, finally, shut. that. monkey. up.  Or until it warms up outside; whichever comes first.  

Keep on keeping on-
S-

Absolutely Incredible Kid Day

As I mentioned earlier, my calendar indicates that today is "Absolutely Incredible Kid Day." Personally, I believe EVERY DAY is all about kids, but since I am always on the lookout for a reason to celebrate with doughnuts, I decided to hop on board this "holiday" train.   

So, when this incredible kid 

My "Incredible" Nora Jane

came downstairs this morning, rubbing eyes that were barely open, and curled herself onto my lap, like she has done every morning since she could walk, I knew this was a good decision.  

After I kissed her good morning, though,  like I always do,  she said, "mom, your breath smells like coffee."  (You can see why I love her so.)  

So I pushed her head away from my face, into the fresh-air-zone, and told her what today is.  When I asked her if she knew anyone who could "fit the bill,"  she brought out her sweetest smile and said, "my whole class!"  (More proof of her absolute incredible-ness)

Thus, when breakfast was over, and her backpack was loaded up, we drove to Pao's (the BEST donut shop in town) and picked up fifty donut holes, "so we can all have two mama," and then flew back to school.  Since we barely made it before the warning bell rang, she had to hustle across the field carrying a large box of donuts and her lunch bag all while wearing a backpack that is much too large for her.  It's one of her sister's cast-offs, however,  and she will not part with it.  So her "hustle" was really more of a quick-stepped, hunched, shuffle.  But she made it.  When I could no longer see her, I drove home and started my day. 

 Anna,  my other incredible kid,

Anna (front) and Amanda (also a cool kid) enjoying
Bellingham's absolutely incredible sunshine &
the end of finals

is coming home today, (after acing her finals!)  and because I want her to be absolutely, incredibly clean and comfortable in her bed tonight, I am going to wash her sheets.  Why,  I may even bake her some incredible (okay, enough with the incredibles) cookies.  Since she was at school, she didn't get to enjoy any of the ones I made the other day.  And they were delicious!  The perfect trifecta of cookie goodness.  Full of peanut butter (for Dave), LOTS of chocolate chips (for the girls), and just the right amount of oatmeal (for moi). 

So Happy Absolutely Incredible Kid Day! 

Phew--That's a mouthful! 

And to all the other Absolutely Incredible Kids out there, I hope your day is filled with cookies, doughnuts and lots of love. 

yep, definitely incredible

Keep on keeping on-

S- 

Gettin Fancy

I decided to snazz up the old blog today.  So, thanks to You Tube, I now know how to make those beautiful little tabs running across the top of my home page.  Thank you You Tube!   Now I just have to learn how to link a post (i.e. My Fine Feathered Friend) to the "What I'm Reading" tab.  (it's a process-ha!) 

Additionally, after a LONG deliberation, I decided to change the title of my blog. I even had a new name picked out!  The Write Life.  Perfect, right? I was so excited, I couldn't wait!    

But then I learned that it's not that easy to just change your title.   Apparently, there are a LOT of bloggers out there with the word WRITE in their title:

  

The Write Life

The Write Life For Me

The Write Life 4 Me

and so on and so on and so on....

Ugh...

So, for now, I will continue to put my life into words (Yes--even Mylifeinwords was taken) just as I always have. 

Keep on keeping on! 

S-

My Fine Feathered Friend

I've been thinking about chickens lately.  A Lot.  Which is not normal for me.  I usually spend my days thinking about kids, chores, whether or not I'm going to get in a bike ride, or what's for dinner.  Chickens are never on my list.  Livestock, of any kind, for that matter.  And why should they be?  I'm not a farmer, though I think I could be.  I do grow some of my own vegetables every summer, and I love to grow flowers, in particular zinnias.  But that's about it.   

Until recently, the only pets I've ever been interested in owning are the ones usually found dwelling in the burbs: cats and dogs.  Over the years, though, I have  cared for a handful of others:  Spook, the goldfish Anna received while trick-or-treating one year (no lie), a few betas, (very unsuccessfully, I might add) two hamsters, one turtle that my Aunt kindly gave Anna when my cousin could no longer take care of it.  In other words, he grew up, moved out, and didn't want to take it with him.  And then, of course, there were The Brothers.  Dobby and Ruggle were two rat brothers that Anna received AS A GIFT, from one of her girlfriends, on her fourteenth birthday.  The brothers that turned out to be SISTER and BROTHER, who then turned out a batch of babies.  Babies which the sister/mother then devoured.  I never cared for her.

And that's it.  That's as far as my animal rearing goes.  Although, honestly, some day I'd love to have goats.  How cute are they?  And who doesn't love goat cheese?

So why chickens?  Why now?

Well, they seem to be the all the rage right now.  Urban chicken farms are cropping up all over the city.  (no pun intended) Their owners selling their eggs at my local farmer's market every Saturday.   The nursery I spend too much time and money at even sells chicks now.  Chicks that I have to go look at every time I am there.  That Nora begs for every time she goes there. They even offer chicken classes once a month from February through September.   Why T-Town even offers chicken coop Tours in the summer.  And, now, even my neighbors have gotten in on the action.  Yep, right across the street, there are currently seven baby chicks  living under the glow of a red light until they are old enough to move outside,  into their new coop.  The new coop that was built by another of our neighbors.  The coop that was then loaded onto our trailer,  which Dave then towed one long block, to the assembled mass of strapping young men and boys waiting to unload it and place it in the back yard.

My fixation could also be a result of the farming books I've read lately.  And the ones I currently have on hold at the library.  The ones I probably shouldn't read.

So, ya.  It's been all chickens.  All the time.

So last weekend when I was at the library, waiting for Nora to pick up her new batch of farm animal books, (did you know there's a book called "Horses for Dummies") I perused the surrounding shelves, and, of course, my eyes gravitated right to the chickens.  Thus,  over the past week I've read: "Keeping Pet Chickens, " the "4-H Guide to Raising Chickens," and "Keep Chickens, Tending Small Flocks in Cities, Suburbs, and Other Small Spaces."  (Note---my back yard is a VERY small space.)

And I learned a thing or two.  I learned that egg color is determined by the color of the chicken's earlobes.  I learned that the little red thingy on the top of their head is called a comb.  And that it can freeze and fall off in the cold, dead of winter.  Unless you smear it with Vaseline first.  I learned that the more greens they eat, the yellower the yolks will be.  I learned that they clean themselves by bathing in dust.  I learned that they have a vent, aka a hole, which both their droppings and their eggs come out of.  (I hope this wasn't too gross or graphic, but I assumed there would be at least one exit point for each purpose.)  Lastly, I learned that there are way more breeds than the Leghorn.  Although if you are looking for a good layer,  this may be the chicken for you.

Looks like a leader to me-
Apparently, though, Leghorns are skittish and take quite a
while getting used to human contact.      

Take this beautiful Buff Orpington, for example:  

Not only are they beautiful, but, if the literature is true, they are docile and good with kids.  Well I know I could just sit and hold this sweetie all day.  

And how's this for crazy hair:  

Hello there Gorgeous!

Not only is the Buff-Laced Polish bantam a popular layer, but they are tame and easy to pick up (since they can't see you coming).  I don't think I'd want one though.  They are harder to keep clean and that puff of feathers on top is a breeding ground for lice and mites.*  (eww!)

Despite the lice, the mites, and the scaley leg build-up, however, I still believe there are some good arguments for owning my own chickens.

A.  We'd have fresh eggs!

B.  Nora would LOVE it! 

C.  Dave would just LOVE another building project.  (the man lives for them)

D.  Maybe they'd even make a fun pet.

Which brings me to the last chicken book I read; "My Fine Feathered Friend."  

A short, quick, funny, touching tale.
Read it.  You'll be glad you did.  

This book was written by William Grimes, a New York Times restaurant critic, and is the story of how he woke one day to find a black chicken in his tiny, little back yard.  A back yard that was already over-run with stray cats.  The Chicken didn't mind the feline company, however, and, after a while, settled into its new home and eventually became a beloved member of the Grimes family.  Until one day, just as suddenly, it disappeared.  At which point Mr. and Mrs. Grimes were left broken-hearted and, then, confused about how best to deal with their recently purchased fifty-pound bag of chicken feed.  While I, too, was sad to see Chicken disappear, I enjoyed this sweet, funny book for it reminded me how we can find love in the most unexpected places.  

Unfortunately, as much as I'd love to own a few of these little beauties myself,  I know there are evil forces working against me.  

Number one being Mr. Larson.  But he's probably right.  We probably are gone too much in the spring and summer.  Off playing at the Gorge, or hiking and biking the hills of the Methow Valley.  Sometimes we can't even bring our dog with us on these trips and we have to ship him off to Grandpa's for a sleep-over.  And as much as my dad loves me, I don't think he would appreciate  having to tend to a flock of silly chickens. Secondly, as much as I love my dog, (and I LOVE him) scooping poop is not that fun.  Thus, cleaning up after a flock of chickens sounds even less enticing!

So, for now,  I will just enjoy the occasional visits from the Woodpecker, who likes to bang on the wall outside my bathroom when I'm getting ready in the morning, and the Dark Eyed Juncos Nora Jane loves to watch as they devour the food in their feeder.  As I've gotten older, I've learned that there's a time and place for everything.  So, who knows, maybe somewhere down the road, I may be lucky enough to find a chicken (or two) in my own back yard.  

Until then, I have my memory of The Chicken and a few sweet words:

**Ich wollt' ich war' ein Huhn,

Ich hatt' nicht viel zu tun,

Ich legte jeden Tag ein Ei,

Und Sonntags manchmal zwei.

----A German nursery rhyme

I wish I were a hen;

I wouldn't have much to do.

I'd lay an egg most every day,

And Sundays sometimes two.  

Keep on keeping on--

S-

* Information on the above referenced chickens was borrowed from "Keeping Pet Chickens," by Johannes Paul and William Windham

**Nursery Rhyme borrowed from "My Fine Feathered Friend,"  by William Grimes.

Speaking of Pie...

When Nora got home from school on Thursday, she informed me that it was  National Pie Day.  So, of course, I asked her if she got to eat any pie.  To which she smiled and replied, "Apple!  But some of the other kids picked Blueberry or Dutch Apple!"  

I then asked if her teacher brought in all these pies.  "Of course!  For Pie day!"  Apparently, she was still high on pie.  "Mom-- then,  L-  recited the number Pi!  For a long time!"

And then we were on the same page.  

3/14 was National 3.14 day.  

I didn't know. According to MY calendar, 3/14 is the beginning of National Agriculture Week.   Didn't know that either.  Apparently, I don't look at my calendar close enough.  For I also learned that 3/21 is Absolutely Incredible Kid Day.  

I circled that one.   

S-

Easy As Pie

Remember way back when, (I'm talkin WAY back, Elementary School Way Back) when you were just learning how to interact with the written word?  When you were learning that it was okay to question what you read.  In fact, sometimes it was even expected. Especially when your second and third grade teachers asked you why the author wrote the story you just read together as a class?  And you had NO idea?  

Well, Nora is at that point in her education and, unlike her mum at that age, seems to have a pretty good grasp on this.  Oh, she gets stuck from time to time, and defers to her mum's expertise only to balk indignantly when I, too, am stumped.  "YOU don't know the purpose! MOM! It HAS to be pie!"  (PIE being the acronym for (a) persuade (b) inform, or (c) entertain.)  

Oh, right... PIE!  

It's moments like these when I'd like to give her a piece of pie! But then I tell myself, she's eight.  She doesn't mean to be insulting.  I think she truly believes that we, as parents, (aka old people) do know everything.  Should know everything.  And for the most part, her dad does.  Really!  Oh, he'd deny, deny, deny, but the man is smart.  He reads everything.  And the more technical the material, the better.  You put a map, or a manual, in his hand, and you can practically see him salivate.  Which is why, for the most part, (okay for the math parts) Nora always seeks him out at homework time.  Which is FINE with me!  

But I am digressing.  I am not identifying this author's purpose at all.  

Well here it is:  my purpose in writing this post is to link my daughter's learning with where I am in my life.  

So here goes:  

The other morning, (at 6:25 a.m.) when I was tired and didn't want to get out of bed, Nora, (as usual) fully-dressed-and-ready-for-the-day, tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Mom we should get up now.  It's breakfast time."  

After I pried my eyes open, I thought, shouldn't I be tapping her on the shoulder?  Shouldn't I be asking HER this question?  But I've never had to be too motherly to Nora.  She's always been so independent, so capable.  Why, on the weekends, she's been known to bring ME breakfast in bed!  (Cold toast with a smear of peanut butter and a glass of O.J.)  She's never wanted too much help with her homework either, preferring the "do-it-myself" approach.  And, thanks to the Internet, and the fact that she's an excellent reader, if she doesn't know something, she simply looks it up.  So basically, all I had to do to set her on her path in life, was teach her to read and pee in the toilet. Which, in her early days, often occurred simultaneously. Thus, between her eight-year-old independence, and Anna living "on her own" in Bellingham, I have days when I feel as if I've been set adrift, left without a purpose.  

I know how cliche this must sound; another case of Empty Nest Syndrome.  But, in my defense, my nest isn't completely empty.  Just on weekdays, from 9:00 to 3:30.  And don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining.  I will be the first one to tell you that I have a great life.  I love my life!  I love my family and I LOVE being here for them.  And, apparently, I love saying "I love!"  I'm just wondering if I shouldn't be doing something more during the time we are apart.  And by more,  I mean more meaningful, more purposeful.  

Living a life with purpose, (living the life I was meant to live, or at least I want to live) is something I've tried to do forever. But what, exactly, does living a life with purpose look like?  Does it mean getting up every morning and going to work?  Collecting a paycheck twice a month?  Even if the job you go to is a job you hate?  Or does it mean sticking to your dreams, following the path you believe was chosen for you, chosen by you?  I realize the latter definition can be seen as idealistic, unrealistic.  Something that not everyone can afford to do.  Not when there are bills to be paid, chores to be done.  I also realize it's VERY easy for me to sit here and philosophize about life, as I go through my day folding laundry, shopping for groceries, and "stringing sentences together for pleasure,"* while my sweet husband is at work earning our bread and butter.  Nevertheless, the question What am I here for is one I've always struggled with.  And that struggle has gotten even stronger lately.

A few weeks ago, the only thing I had on my calendar was a haircut at 1:00.  And after taking Nora to school, I was fidgety.  Admittedly, this could have been the result of the Grande coffee I purchased from Starbucks on the way home from school.  But then again, maybe not.  I tend to be fidgety and anxious by nature, a result of the freakishly similar DNA I inherited from my Grandma Dahl.

It was 9:00; four whole hours until my appointment.  The weather didn't help either.  It was cold.  It was icy.  Too icy to ride my bike.  So I turned on the fireplace (Ah... the perks of modern living) and got out my knitting. After just a few rows, however, my cat intervened and started batting at the yarn. Eventually, I gave into him and drug it around the coffee table for him, so he could feel, a bit, like the predator that he is not.  After a few laps, though, I saw my reflection in the window: bed hair, yoga pants, and the t-shirt I wore to bed last night.  And it hit me: I'm becoming my father! So yes, some days, having a purpose would be good.  

And I don't think it has to be something huge. I'm not looking to save the world, just my sanity from time to time. Writing on this blog provides me with a  great sense of purpose, a creative outlet that I don't get anywhere else. Yet, it's really only meaningful to me. Is that enough?  Or do I need validation from others? I used to be a teacher. That was definitely meaningful.  I was shaping young minds, after all.  Okay, so I was just teaching six-year-olds how to read, but I was preparing their young minds for future shaping.  And it provided me with everything I seem to be currently seeking: a sense of service, respect from my peers, a sense of belonging to a community greater than my nuclear family, a place to go every day.  And let's not forget--that all-mighty paycheck.  But does my history as a teacher mean I must always be a teacher?   I hope not.  For I don't think that's the path I want to take any longer.  Recently, someone told me "you just need a new passion."  Oh is that all?  But how does one go about this?  Is there a web-site for those seeking a new passion, a new purpose?  And, if so, does it list part-time options? I'd still like to be home at 3:30 when Nora gets out of school.  I've got my priorities ya know..

Oh to be one of the chosen:  The blessed MLKs of the world.  The Gandhis, the Mother Teresas. It must be such a comfort to know, inherently, what you want to do, what you must do.  My dad told me recently that he knew, when he was only six-years-old, that he wanted to be a fisherman when he grew up.  And, luckily for him, he did.  For a while.  Until the fishing could no longer pay the bills.  Then, like so many, he tucked his dream away, and settled into life as a family-man.  Oh, his true self would emerge from time to time: summer vacations at Pillar Point when he'd get in two fishing excursions a day, or early on Saturday mornings when he'd go fishing with my Grandpa. But come Sunday evening, that part of himself would get tucked into the closet along with his fishing poles and tackle boxes.

Despite her short time on this earth, my eight-year-old has been telling me for years that she is going to work with animals when she grows up. As a vet, or  a wildlife biologist.  And because I know her so well, I, wholeheartedly, see this dream becoming a reality.  So why is it that she, and my dad, and those like them, know so early on which path in life to take, while the rest of us struggle?  Or is it just me?  Me and my unemployed idealism with too much time on our hands.

When I started this post (weeks ago) I initially thought I'd wrap it up by saying something about how I'll use this blog as a means of exploring.  Searching for my purpose, my true calling, if you will.  Because I know there's still more to come for me. More than washing dishes, folding laundry, and making peanut butter sandwiches.  But then I read Jessie Knadler's book, "Rurally Screwed; My Life Off the Grid With the Cowboy I Love," a hilarious memoir about a thirty-something New Yorker who gave up the life she knew and loved in the city to become a chicken-farming-wife in rural Virginia. Becoming this new version of herself had many challenges and at times she felt extreme discontent.  Eventually, though, she realized that she needed to stop "looking outside myself for happiness and contentment."*  

Her words hit me like a slap in the face.  And I'm so annoyed with myself for not coming up with them on my own. For they seem so simple, so obvious. Apparently,  I am living proof that you CAN over think things.  But she's right.  I do need to stop looking for fulfillment outside of myself.  Deep down, in my heart, I know who I am, what I am.  And it doesn't matter if, to the world, it looks like I'm just a dish-washing, stay-at-home mama. 

So I've decided, for now, that writing this blog isn't going to help me find my purpose, it will BE my purpose. My job, if you will. The job that will give me a place to go everyday, to write freely.  The job that will allow me to question, to record, to commentate.  (Not a bad gig, despite the crappy pay)  So that's what I'm going to do.  I'm going to ramble on about my thoughts, my life with two amazing kids, one bicycle-building husband, and one way-too-hairy-hound-dog, because, sometimes, life just isn't always as Easy As PIE.  And, who knows, I may even throw in a little persuasion, information, and entertainment.  Just for good measure.  

Keep on keeping on--

S-

**totally stolen from Jessie Knadler's book, 
"Rurally Screwed; My Life Off the Grid With the Cowboy I love."

What's for Dinner?

One of the inherent risks of spending your day blogging, writing, and writing "homework," is that you lose track of time.  And, before you know it, the time has come to pick up your daughter from school and you haven't even thought about dinner.  Thus, you rush to open a new window and run a quick search of some of your favorite cooking sites.  Of which you have many since cooking is not one of your favorite pastimes, and, sadly, you've found yourself in this predicament on more than one occasion.  

And what do you come across?  Barbecue Sauce, of course.  Then your mind races to the fridge.  To the left-over chicken breasts, the dwindling red onion floating around in the vegetable drawer, and,--thank the Lord--the two rolls of Pillsbury pizza dough that nearly roll out onto the floor  every time you open the door. And voila!  

Dinner is served.

One cute jar of home-made BBQ

Well, will be served.... Later, on my BBQ chicken pizza

The recipe I followed made more than you see here, but since everything looks so much cuter in a mason jar, I opted to split it between this container and a boring, old, Tupperware bowl that has since been deposited into the freezer. 

My Family Thanks You:  http://www.simplyscratch.com

What I Learned From My Weekend in Portland

Last weekend was our big getaway, our grown-up getaway, and it was fan--tastic!  After Dave made a brief appearance at work, we dropped Nora at school, stopped at Starbucks, stopped for gas, stopped to fill my tire with air, then stopped at a second Starbucks (because I wasn't hungry at the first one) before FINALLY hitting the road. Despite all the coffee stops, however, and the Mumford and Sons playing in the CD player, and Dave's best attempts to poke me in the ribs whenever he saw me nodding off, I dozed on and off for two hours. I simply cannot stay awake in a moving vehicle.  Unless I'm driving, of course.  I blame this phenomenon on the fact that my parents used to drug me up on Dramamine, throw me in the back of our canopy-covered pickup truck and whisk my sisters and I off for a weekend of camping-- just so they wouldn't have to stop mid-way and clean up puke. I can't say that I blame them.  However, I also believe this is why I have no sense of direction.  

I didn't have any expectations for this trip other than sleeping, eating, and bike riding.  I like to keep things simple, and I hate to plan.  So I was very surprised to find that this trip also taught me a few things about myself, and my kids.  

In order of least to greatest importance, here they are:

First, I learned that I DO like beer.  Okay, I actually already knew this.  But I thought I only liked some beer, light beer.  Beer so light it's almost transparent.  Beer that has little to no calories.  Beer that pretty much tastes like water.  Beer that I can drink after a run, or a ride in the hot sun, and not pass out.  Beers like Corona, PBR, or the lovely, bubbly, Taj Mahal I drink to cool my mouth off when I eat  Indian food.  But Portland showed me another side. I wouldn't go so far as saying "the dark side," because I don't think I will ever have the stomach, or the taste buds, for Guinness, Stout, and whatever other dark beers are lurking out there.  But it did show me a different side: a creamy, thick, malty, delicious side.  

From The Lucky Labrador Brewing Co. I learned that I like ales, at least their seasonal Winterdog Ale.  

I also learned that it pairs surprisingly well (that's my wine snob self talkin) with their Chicken Bento in peanut curry sauce.  I also learned that I don't like the Hellraiser ESB so much.  Maybe because I'm not a hell raiser.  Maybe because it's bitter.  But who wants to drink a beer that's bitter? Isn't that why we have coffee?

The next day, Bailey's Tap Room, confirmed my likes. While making my selection at this bar was a bit more difficult due to their vast array of beers on tap, I did find one that I liked.  Initially, I was going to choose the IPA from Astoria.  In honor of my dad who used to fish there, and who still has very fond memories of his time there.  But the description said it was made with raspberries and, for some reason, that just didn't appeal to me.  So, again, I opted for an ale.   Thus, despite my fear of looking like the light-weight that I  truly am, and unlike every other patron in the place,  I ordered mine in the  baby glass  10 ounce glass.  

But in my defense, it was only 4:00 which meant I still had one long night of vacation ahead of me and I wasn't planning on wasting it by falling asleep early. While this beer wasn't as sweet and creamy (are these even adjectives beer snobs use to describe beer?) as the Lucky Dog's Winterdog Ale, it was still pretty darn good.  

So Sonja likes beer.  Who knew?

Second, for those of us unaccustomed to city riding, I learned that urban cycling definitely has its challenges.  From where I live in T-Town, it is very easy to go for a bike ride and have very little interaction with cars.  All I have to do is pedal through a few quiet, North-End neighborhoods before finding myself at Point Defiance Park.  Once here, I can ride the five-mile-drive as many times as I want without seeing anyone or anything except the growing pack of no-longer-nocturnal raccoons waiting for their handouts.  Or, if I feel compelled to ride in a different direction, I can head out to Steilacoom, or Dupont, and still encounter pretty minimal traffic.  

Not so in Portland.  The Rose City may very well be ALL ABOUT BIKES, but it takes a bit of work to learn to navigate the bright green bike lanes, the car-traffic, the buses, and the all-too experienced cyclists who know exactly where they are going and seem to be in quite the hurry to get there.  We were not those cyclists.  Knowing we had a little investigative work to do before we were ready to be included in the tally of cyclists that are automatically counted by some magic counting-machine on the Hawthorne Bridge, we headed to The Bike Shop.  Of which, there are eighty-nine.  Eighty-Nine! (according to our hotel's valet)    

After leaving River City Bicycles the first time, my bag was filled with cliff shots, cliff bars, and a cute, new pair of Pearlizumi gloves.  (They were half off!) Dave's head, on the other hand, was filled with all the information pertaining to  Saturday's ride; route, hills, landmarks etc.  When I asked him about it on our way back to the hotel, he simply replied, "about thirty with a little climbing for about the first mile."  Okay, I thought. I can handle that.  

So over oatmeal at Peet's the next morning, I mentally prepared for the ride by perusing face book, instagram, and just to be well-rounded, a little bit of news.  Dave, on the other hand, poured over the map, locking our route into that steel trap of his.  Then it was back to the hotel to change.  While we got our bikes out of the van, Dave and the valets discussed our route.  "Oh ya," I overheard one of them say with a smile (although in retrospect I think it was more of a smirk) "that's a good climb."  Oh boy, I thought, I might be in trouble.  

But I couldn't even think about the climb yet.  I had more important things to think about. Like traffic.  And getting through the traffic to the bike lane.  Oh and not wiping out on the light-rail track.  And let's not forget about getting out of these still-new pedals.  At every stop sign.  And every stop light. Apparently, tired of hearing all of the clicking and unclicking behind him, Dave said, "you've gotta learn how to balance."  Ya, I'll get right on that, I thought. So, no.  I wasn't thinking about the hill yet.  

Eventually, though, we left the city core behind us, and started up.  And up and up and up!  I got so hot I had to stop and strip down to just my jersey.  My short sleeve jersey! In March! I don't know if it was the unseasonably warm weather, (I am used to riding in 40 degrees and it was nearing 60) or the stress of navigating a new city, but I was sweating like a pig at only a few miles in.  Maybe I should have paid more attention at the bike shop when they were discussing this ride.  Maybe I should have questioned the valet further.  But it was too late for all that.  We were on our way. We twisted and turned and climbed until eventually (eventually meaning 4 miles!) we were at the top: Skyline.  And it was worth it. Once my breathing regulated, I realized we had a great view of the city below us, lots of open space around us, even a few cows here and there for company.  So I put my jacket back on,  zipped up to my chin, and settled in.   

But then, all too soon, the road dipped, and turned, and dipped and twisted.  Of course!  What goes up.... And so my heart rate, my nerves, my blood pressure--everything that had just returned to their normal levels--were about to skyrocket again.  Dave, however, was experiencing none of these symptoms.  His panic level was off.  I don't think he even has a panic level.  As such, I knew he was ready to go!  I knew he wanted to fly.  Despite his modest, unassuming demeanour, I've heard tales of him flying down hills, mountains at speeds close to 50.  Miles per hour!  Knowing I could NEVER keep up with him, and not wanting him to wait for me, like he always does, I just told him I'd probably be pretty slow on this part.  Given the green light, he smiled (like a kid) and was gone.  Tucked into his handlebars, leaning into each curve, relishing in each twist of the road.  

I was doing none of those things.  I do not enjoy descending.  Especially descending on winding roads.  And, yes, I realize this means I will never be a real cyclist.  And while climbing is definitely hard,  I'd rather do it any day.  I mean I can grit my teeth,  and grunt and grind and curse my way up with the best of them. Okay, maybe not the best of them, but you get my point.  But when that yellow streak I try so hard to hide makes its appearance,  there's not much I can do.  So I gripped my brakes, pulled myself in tight, and held on. I had no desire to be aerodynamic, to go fast. I merely wanted to survive, to get to the bottom in one piece.  So, yes I may have held up traffic a bit, I may have severely worn down my brake pads, and I probably sweated as much going down that hill as I did climbing up it in the first place-but I did it.   

In the end, due to some road construction and closures, our thirty mile ride turned out to be about twenty-five.  But that was fine.  That was enough for me. By the time we got back into town, I was physically and mentally spent.  Between the climb, the harrowing descent, and dealing with the obstacles of urban cycling, I was ready for a shower and a drink. Thank God it was after noon.  As we loaded our bikes back into the van, the valet asked us how the ride was.  When we told him, he smiled and said, "ya, that's one good climb." (I think he was just trying to make me feel good-)

The third, and most surprising thing I learned from this trip, is that my girls can survive without me.   Not that I'm planning on going anywhere, for a long time!  But at least I know that when that day comes, they will be fine.  

They totally enjoyed their weekend without any parental supervision. Okay Grandma did take them out to dinner two nights in a row (even though I did leave them a delicious casserole, home-baked banana bread, and a pantry full of food). They stayed up way too late (and by they, I mean Nora.)  They went out for coffee, ice cream, and cupcakes.  They watched movies.  They built a fort in the t.v. room, and slept in it.  They laughed together.  They played together.  

So, NO--they may not have done things the way I do.  They may not have eaten well.  But they took care of each other.  Watching them say goodbye when it was time for Anna to return to Bellingham, Nora clinging to her sister's leg like glue,  I felt comforted in the fact that they will be there for each other as they grow. That they will be friends and love one another like no one else will. I texted Anna later that night, just to thank her once again for all her help.  She responded, "No problem.  Anytime.  I had fun!" Those six little words melted my heart.  So did I girl.  So did I.

So thanks Anna.  And thanks Portland.  Thanks a lot!  It was a good trip!

S-

P.S.  Oh--and I remembered how much I like hanging out with my husband. Even if I will never be a match for him on the bike.  But then, that's what he's got the boys for..