I've been biting my lip trying not to laugh at things my kids say because they are just so serious when they say them but it is also so funny.

First there's this afternoon as my daughter and I walk to join Nels and Ralph in their photo-shoot at our downtown favorite deli / eatery (Ralph's working on some new menus et cetera for the proprietor).

"Oh man! I forgot to put Harris' ass outside," I exclaim, deliberately using bad language because Sophie loves when I talk that way about the cat.

But she's having no playful banter in this case: "The point is, it's not our fault. It's Harris' fault," she says in clipped, decisive tones. "He should have gone outside when we opened the door."

"The point is ..." ?! Who talks like that in this house?

Then tonight as my son runs through the living room top speed with my quilting ruler (look, there was some reason he was doing this - none of us knows what it was) and suddenly the ruler, only three inches shorter than he, stutters on the ground and scrapes the top of his foot. And he cries. Then he sees some of his skin is gone and he really cries. I mean Nels hardly ever lets life get the best of him; he's either belligerent, angry, or whining but in this case he's actually afraid. His chin lowers and trembles and everything. Ralph is trying to explain to Nels his skin will grow back; patting Nels tenderly on his tiny, bandaged toe.

Sophie steps in: "Nels," she says sagely, "When I lost my toe..."* she goes on reassuringly, with all the veteran wisdom of like, some kind of grizzled old Marine telling combat stories.

Ah yes. Belly up to the bar, young 'un - Ole Stumpy can regale ye with thrilling tales.

Labels: hilarity, Nels, Sophie, verbatim

Tonight I walked the kids to my mom's to have dinner. She was in a muddle of what her current state often is: stress / drinking to relax or relieve stress / over-giving / enjoying herself. The part that was enjoying herself was the part that invited us for dinner, made a lovely stew, and had rented some family movies. The part that was over-giving was the part that tried to make the stew "perfect" for us then (and this was the part that was stressed and used drink to manage it so inhibitions were dropped but not the underlying stress) used an angry tone on my children for preferring their cornbread and eating it first. My dad took some special medicine and seemed to be feeling better than he had over the last few days (something tipped this week and he has now become someone "dying", no longer someone coping with illness. I'd like to feel differently on that one if I could) but this meant he retreated for our viewing of Harry Potter and I didn't get to see him much. It was a nice dinner and I really did enormously appreciate the night out and the homecooked meal. But I can't get away from the the strain and bad feelings that my life's dinnerplate seems to hold when I look down at what I'm eating.

I'm getting that really paranoid, really perfectionist sense of angst. If anything goes wrong I am a wreck (internal, so as not to inconvenience anyone). Sometimes I get a vision of who I might be when age and senility set in. And it feels small, like tiny wheels turning in my head, mucked up and in semi-darkness and doubt, unsure of myself unless someone tells me they love me or not just that they love me, but they promise not to be mean to me. Today I missed two appointments I had. One I was able to recover OK; the other I just completely missed. This is rare for me. And when I screw up like that on a commitment I make to others, or something I told myself I'd do, or whatever, I really just hate myself and it eats away at me for an indeterminate amount of time.

I don't think but two or three people close to me realize what a perfectionist I am. I laugh at the term "perfectionist" a bit because no one who knows me would think my life looked perfect. Yet that drive, that insatiable unsettledness, has a strong a grip on every aspect of my waking hours. I hold myself to ridiculous standards and then feel bad, like pit-of-the-stomach bad, when I inevitably screw up. I have to have a clean house or if I don't, a plan to get it clean. I can't relax until housework is taken care of; then I'd better relax correctly. I hate myself if I have something to drink, or if my husband and I aren't getting along for the evening, or if somehow during the day I was amiss in my parenting. I have to take care of my kids properly which means clothing and grooming and brushing and flossing and if they miss a night of this I have to demand my husband help but if he doesn't do it I feel like a failure that we don't provide this to them. I have to meet my commitments on the three volunteer leadership positions I'm in. If I don't meet them I feel I can't get over it or make amends to those I might have (usually only minorly) inconvenienced. No, for me if I mess up, it means people hate me and they have a right to hate me. It takes me a lot of internal thought and sometimes discussion with a friend (Ralph, my mom, or Cyn mostly) to "talk me down" from the ledge of I-Suck.

For a half year I wouldn't allow myself to buy the family clothes but had to scrump, sew or thrift them. This was a fun and interesting project, sure - but it also became a burden at some point. I hold myself to the standard of preparing nutritious meals without taking culinary shortcuts. I feel bad if I buy anything "extravagant" or even buy anything without having it on a list first - or else I eschew cooking altogether and go out to eat (which, for some reason, feels like a tremendous ease on my daily cooking burdens). I choose to, for God's sake, plan, write, edit, layout, and design for a zine which I then have to publish on our shoestring budget. I have to balance my marriage such that I support my husband and manage my own needs without asking for his emotional help when I'm fragile - which I am all the time these days, whether it's apparent to others or not.

Some reading here may think these confessions mean I'm a miserable person all the time. That is precisely the problem; I'm not miserable, I love doing so many of these things. Every effort of mine is born of love and energy. I thrive on creativity, on learning now to do things well, on pushing myself just a little bit because it seems like I can. I do sometimes congratulate myself on the fact that I can "coast" as a housemom on some days and do well at providing for my loved ones. I love every single thing I write, or sew, or every meal I cook or the way my counter looks when I wipe it down. It is precisely the dual love-hate of the work vs. the drive to do the work right, every time, that makes for tricky terrain.

Perfectionism, as far as I can tell, has no easy cure. It isn't a matter of, "Why don't you do less?"* That question is like asking, "Why don't you stop having the Kelly-brain?" or, "Have you thought about leaving your tits at home before you go out in the day?" It's a non-sequitur. It doesn't follow. My struggle with perfectionism could probably only be helped by - no offense to any reader who thought I was more hip in some way - prayer and discourse with God. My struggle with perfectionism was manageable in PT. It has become at least trebly difficult since moving here. I have my ideas of why this would be; for now it's enough to recognize it's happening.

One thing, the walk with the kids over to my parents' was nice. I'd prepared us for the cold - coats, hats, gloves and good shoes - but the rain started falling intensely and there was nothing to save us from the wet of eight blocks. How to explain a Pacific Northwest winter rain? It is not violent at all but rather like a cold spell that covers us, the air filling with rain that is safe, nourishing, life-giving. You expect rain so you don't begrudge it except a few weak moments, here and there, in the five solidly soaking months we get per year. You get home and strip off your clothes and put some in the dryer and towel your hair (we don't generally use umbrellas here) and fix coffee and look outside at our beautiful weather. Tonight I watch my children on the walk. Sophie walks self-protectively. She puts her hat on firmly and zips her coat and steps carefully but purposefully. Nels just barges out into the elements, sure that he will be fine. I start to know he's cold and wet when his hand creeps into mine and he falls silent. The children act as if they were born for this weather.

* If any well-meaning friend writes or says, "You should relax your housekeeping standards," or "Why don't you give up such-and-such?" I will deliver a cock-punch via Airmail.

Labels: film, FOO, food, homesteading, Mama's crazy, nerves, on foot, walking

It's official. I like vacations. I don't really get tired of the kids being underfoot. I like sleeping in with the kids, cooking for them, and doing projects with them and all this is far, far easier during schedule-less times of the year. Case in point: Christmas break. My children have been off of school / "school" (the second option being the handful of hours Nels attends his co-op during the week) and we just screw off all day in between the work I have to do. They are pretty good at taking care of themselves if I also make sure to put in some solid game time or, now that they're old enough, include them in chores.

Case in point: devising a children's mail system (pictures soon). Nels, Sophie, and I have also been practicing jumprope. Sophie jumps and smiles, Nels swings his arm (the full radius he can actually swing it) and screams laughter. Today we got up to twenty jumps sequentially.

Yesterday we discovered Queen's "Bicycle Race" on the iPod - which if you think about it, is just a perfect children's song - as we were running our errands for Ralph. The kids were just - entranced. I sometimes forget how cool it is to be a grown-up and show someone something new for their unadulterated reaction (they absolutely, absolutely carry on for this one - in fact now they are currently listening top-volume while jumping on my bed, and yes I confiscated the pick-up stix they were holding while jumping like crazy because I am a good Mama). The three of us also have been pretending - all day long - the three of us are hobgoblins*, living in rags in the forest and stealing things. Mostly food I make (I am apparently a human woman when I make the food, a hobgoblin mommy for all the snuggling and errands we run). They filch blankets and make nests of "lemon leaves and twigs" and twine their arms around me and whisper in my ears.

Reality does occasionally set in. "Blackie horked on my bed," Sophie tells me, dismayed. We peel off the offending quilt and put on a new sheet. You can hardly get the cats to go outside these days because we have the fire on so much. They lie around like hair-puddles, exhaling hot chum when they yawn and expecting life to be easy.

* Inspired by my current bedside fiction.

Labels: Nels, pets, Sophie

(Apologies that this is, in fact, a commercial. Thanks MF!)

Christmas was good this year. I even had a cat-nap - can't remember the last time I did that. Great food, good company, and nice, thoughtful presents. In fact, there are only - out of all the gifts that came across my stoop this year - two teeny tiny items that will be moving on from my house. It's not what my brother gave my family if you were wondering, because, you know, he didn't. Get us anything. It's the fact I'm so goddamned controlling no one buys my kids Barbie or plastic hoo-ha or anything they aren't sure I'm OK with. On one level I feel like some kind of present-Nazi about this but, yet, light as a feather and guilt free when looking at the high quality comic books, handmade clothes, coloring pencils, free-trade dry goods, cotton kitchen towels, dye-cast cars from antique stores, and locally-bought t-shirts that now grace our home. Also, more Strangers with Candy. Yesss!

I want to stress that I really am grateful for the loving friends and family but of course I play favofites: I've got a soft spot for the a homemade "Double Deuce" shirt from my husband. It truly was the craziest - the Swayziest - Christmas I've had so far!

Labels: birlo, holidays, Ralph, swayze

Now seems as good a time as any to reveal that for ten months now I have been really, really timid regarding writing about my new life here - and by my "new life" I specifically mean my friends and peers. I find that I just don't want to write about school (which takes up a lot of my time and thought) and upset my kids' teacher(s), or offend a schoolmate's parents, or write about my friends and upset the three ladies who have taken me under their wing since we moved (I know they don't think of it that way as everyone seems to think of me as an Alpha Bitch who needs no help nor coddling). Yes, surely, I am being paranoid: none of these people read my blog so let it fly, eh? But in fact I have learned over the last four years that I really don't know who's reading the blog, sometimes not until I get an email either offended (once) or, more likely, having followed me for a couple years and heretofore remaining silent.

Today is the day that I throw off caution and decide to just be me and quit writing about the safer subjects of my father's illness, or cuddling the kids, or whatever, and write about who I see during the day and what I do. Yeah, HQX is a small town; but so was PT. Yeah, I don't have enough friends to spare but I'm willing to work my ass off to keep them. Yeah, I'm not really "established" here but c'mon - when am I going to feel like I am, anyway?

Oh and in case you thought the last couple paragraphs were preludes to some great dirt: they weren't. I'm just officially acknowledging yes, I've been letting you down, dear reader. And as of today I'm going to grow a pair and write on.

Last night I was joined by eight local ladyfriends for a gift exchange and holiday party. I had a great time and I was honored to host. Because it was a group of women, we had plenty of food and a comical amount of beer stacked in my kitchen (I think a few guests left with more booze than they brought). Because it was me, the food was overly coordinated and excellent (I ate one hundred thousand servings of Jasmine's asparagus appetizer) and included an Aztec sherry cake - both delicious and hilarious. Because it was a group that doesn't see one another all that often, we only got about twenty minutes into the 80s movie before we stopped due to a lack of interest (not me! But I'm a dork like that). With the exception of two gals, I'd known all of them for 20 or so years. Isn't that just incredible? I felt so fortunate to have my girlhood friends, and my own mom - dressed like a rockstar BTW - all under my roof to share our lives together. And no, Ralph, we did not strip down to panties and have a pillow fight, although I hope you're envisioning that with my mom and all.

After a night staying over at my parents' (I joined my family there after my last guest left) my family returned home and centered our schedule around wrapping presents for our 4 PM delivery to our adopted Christmas gift family (pictures and details pending post-holiday). Dinner tonight was at Shannon's with her lovely family of five and after a lovely homecooked meal we stayed until 10 PM. It's like last night kicked off the final couple days until Christmas. Tomorrow morning: no school for the kids. Sleep-in for three of us as Ralph heads in to one day of work before the Big Night.

I am not as ready as Bonesaw, but I am pretty ready for Christmas. How 'bout you?

Labels: film, food, friends, holidays, HQX, party animal

Just ten seconds ago I was reminded of a parenting "tip" I'd heard years ago which goes as follows: your kid asks for a giant ice cream cone or to go on the merry go round or whatever you don't want them to have at the moment so you say, "Yes, after dinner," or "Yes, the next time we come to the park!" So goes the wisdom: that way "your child sees you are saying 'yes' to them but you get to set the limit."

Hey guess what, this is total bullshit. Because about 0.3 seconds into your deferment even the least bright youngster realizes you are saying "no" to what they want - which is to eat the ice cream or whatever immediately. I was reminded of this stridently just now when my daughter approached me with last night's Christmas Concert DIY decorated cookie (there were concerns that last year's guest Santa had provided empty calorie candy so, um, this year there was a cookie underneath the candy? I dunno) and I said, "yes, after dinner" with predictable results.

At 6 PM tonight the children and I are off to a church to wrap presents - for other children in the area. We'll see how well they handle it.

Labels: food, holidays

Early this morning our daughter woke us with crying in her sleep. This interrupted a dream I was having; a dream that we'd moved to a new house. The house was nice, but larger than our current house. We had no furniture. Everything was just a little threadbare but it was a good home. We were sitting in our bare living room wondering what we were going to do next.

Then this morning I got up, made my daughter's breakfast, lunch, and got her to school, fed my son breakfast and began to clean my kitchen. I scrubbed and scrubbed the eighteen layers of paint on the walls and cupboards. I wondered if my family was losing ground. For the first time I wondered if we were headed towards, not away from, poverty. I thought about how we aren't gaining any of the material items of the American Dream in our lives. At all. We aren't putting money toward equity. We have no college fund for our children. We are paying off on a family vehicle that is fast deteriorating and the one that's paid isn't any better off. We have no financial assets whatsoever besides my husband's kernel of retirement and social security. I don't think I'd be thinking about our lives in this way this except I'd listened to an excellent program on our local indie radio recently. I'd heard that families were saving less and owing more; they were working more in two incomes but hating it. I'd heard it was near-impossible to survive on one.

I am grateful not to be one of the "two income trap" families referred to in the radio program. This primarily means our lives have non-material assets instead of quantifiable ones. We live and thrive in creativity, something I wouldn't have guessed would be such a large part of family life. We help others and give to the community of our time - a lot of our time. We have a warm home that we enjoy and feel secure in. We have excellent health insurance that we don't use because we have excellent health. We are feeding, raising, clothing, and loving our children about 89% right (this is a lot, lot of work). We don't have credit cards. We are OK walking or biking where we need to go. We have family nearby that we see often. We are adventurous, purposeful, and try not to be wasteful. We take good care of and treasure the things we do own. Even if I have dreams that hurt, or moments that break my heart, I want to always maintain perspective on what I do have.

As of now it's 11:30 and I haven't yet had a shower. An hour ago I finished deep cleaning the kitchen and I'm currently working on a handful of Christmas CDs for friends. Nels hangs out, decorating and re-decorating our tinsel tree while wearing Sophie's swimsuit and demanding his favorite song (currently Peaches' "Boys Wanna Be Her"). I'm sitting here wondering why I want a smoke; it's been since Amore's last visit months ago. Luckily it's easy to stave off the craving; remembering my son last summer pawing at my smokes really turns me off. I guess I do need a bad habit though; ideas, anyone?

Labels: bad habits, financial panther, holidays, music, Nels

I miss Port Townsend. I miss our old life. I like our new life. I miss our old life. That's all for now.

Labels: random, sorrows

Nobstreater - fifteen 30 from ralph hogaboom on Vimeo.

D'oh!

Takes me back. I think I missed only one show in their two years.

Labels: music, Ralph

Last night I spent five thousand television hours introducing myself to season one of "The Wire", which is now in my opinion the best TV I've ever seen. In the middle of episode five or whatever I was suddenly and surprisingly favored with a guest appearance by Steve Earle, whom I'd never seen in person but recognized immediately by his voice. Probably no one would understand why at 12:30 AM I sat up on the couch, grinning ear to ear at the large, tattooed, partially balding, mumbling former addict who held me in total enthrall.

Today included a last-minute join to shopping with my parents' and a dinner guest invited by Ralph. Also notable: Ralph did every single chore of the day and made dinner to boot. If this is what my husband's day usually feels like it was pretty great. Coupled with his trip to Seattle with the kids, this weekend was nice and relaxing for me. If only I had, oh I don't know, about four more days just like it.

Crossed off my to-do list: besides the TV watching I sewed Nels' Christmas pants, finished Sophie's socks, and started a pair for the Boy.

Labels: film, music

First of all, the following is NSFW. Now, you don't really need to watch the original:



To laugh yourself until you pee watching the re-imagine:



It's like seeing the evil internal monologue of the twin she ate in utero.

Sara and Stephanie, for some reason I was thinking of you when I was laughing. I miss you ladies, big time.

Labels: hilarity, random potty-mouth

It would be untrue to say the reason I didn't respond to Chris' IMs - 2:12 PM through 2:24 PM - was due to "the largest poop event I've had to deal with in my life." The truth is, it's more like the biggest event for about a year. It really did come abruptly and without warning. Nels called me in the bathroom and - well, he was trying to take care of things himself and failed. As I ran a bath and cleaned the bathroom he said, "I'm sorry, Mama. Thank you for cleaning up the mess," but I told him the truth is, the whole thing was so out of nowhere and impressive I was amazed. I wasn't even mad.

No, what surprises me is how easily it was for me to go from being used to dealing with someone else's poop - on demand, at any time day or night - to being so, so blissfully happy and used to not having to do so at all after less than a year of reprieve. It seems one's default state of humanity is to not have to clean up excrement on a regular basis. Interesting.

A few minutes later, post-bath, he wraps the towel around him and strolls into his sister's room to select his wardrobe (his latest fad is dressing in sister-drag). After a selection from head to foot Sophie I tell him we have to head out to the van to go grab The Girl from school. Nels descends the steps and grabs at the back of his dress (actually his favorite rugby knit casual frock over a Mary Kate and Ashley full white skirt serving as a petticoat - he's the prettiest girl at the ball) and I ask what's up and he says in surprise, "My underwear!" Because of course, it isn't his underwear, it's his sister's. And apparently a set of boy tackle - even a miniature set - disrupts the fit significantly.

Speaking of Nels' garb, I found out I have only six days to get his little Christmas velveteen suit sewn up in time for the Christmas program. Time to get on it!

Labels: chaos, holidays, Nels, sewing, shit

Today as I awaited my young daughter's exodus from the hot showers post-swimming lesson I saw another woman in a an angry tableau with her daughter while the grandmother watched. The little girl had done something - I don't know what - and was receiving a lengthy scolding, right there in her bathing suit. The mother and the grandmother's faces were molded in lines of intense displeasure. The object of their ire was avoiding eye contact while making angry grunts. "Look at me. Look at me," the mother fumed, gripping her daughter's upper arms. At this the grandmother marched over from a few feet of observational distance, grasped the young girl's head, and forcefully turned it. "Look at your mother," she grimly intoned. I lost track of the conversation as my daughter skirted past the trio, giving them a curious glance, and into my waiting towel. A few minutes later, out of eyesight at the locker bank, I heard the sound of a slap and the mother's voice again, angrily: "Behave." I thought, impossible. If the little girl was weak-natured, she would be terrified and ashamed. If she was strong-willed, she would be angry and ashamed. At best, she'd be cowed into submission. Adults can win this sort of conflict because they are larger, meaner, and scarier. And the worst thing is adults who behave like this often never reflect on doing things a different way; never learn to take care of their anger, only to unleash it at the expense of their dependents.

I remember episodes like this in my childhood (I was of the strong-willed variety, in case you hadn't guessed), the full (if momentary) anger and shaming language directed at me by the supposedly loving figures in my life. These incidents were awful, simply awful, and when I see a child treated in this way I remember it like it was yesterday. Only slightly less uncomfortable than witnessing tonight's unpleasantness was the knowledge that I have myself talked to my child this way, have felt that angry at my child - although I know I have never permitted adults to gang up on my children in any way (at least, not as long as I've been present to stop it). It was so easy for me to see, looking in on someone else's child, that no matter what this girl did she in no way deserved this browbeating. It was so easy for me to imagine this grandmother treated her daughter this way and the cycle continued - at least in this moment there was no growth, no healing.

Alone on our locker room bench, I gather my daughter in my arms, towel and all. She permits the embrace and I have a few blissful seconds of her warmth and dearness. She is tough and smart and almost the age she could physically forage for herself in the world. But in the moment she feels like a tiny bird, all fluttering heart and fragile wings. Gentle, gentle, I think to myself. Can I return to being gentle to my children? I know today's example will stay with me. I also know I'm not being so gentle to myself lately. Take a breath; tomorrow is a new day. I can do it.

Labels: other haters, Sophie, verbatim

Last night I was talking to a certain person on the phone who shall remain nameless* and I told him how Ralph had stayed home yesterday but today he was returning to the college and that today I'd be "back to work." My conversational companion said, "What work?" When I laughed at him because what I do is harder than any job I've done before he still didn't seem to get it. I enjoyed some mental pictures of what the house would look like if he, or most people I know, had to take a week in my shoes.

The fact is I work very hard and do a good job. Many people probably couldn't take care of my children and run my house as well as I do. Certainly none of the childless people I know although there are a couple who might come close. They'd catch up, sure. And I'm not bragging about my (average, really) prowess or disparaging, in any way, those who don't have a life like I do. I'm not complaining about my work either. I'm stating my reality that being an at-home parent to my children is hard work, it's inspiring, and it's full of physical, mental, and emotional challenges that I personally find more varied than paid employment.

Having children is endless. It stretches out from the moment of their arrival in your life until the day you die. As it turns out, having to provide every single meal for two, three, eight extra people is kind of a big responsibility. As it turns out - at least for a couple decades - clothing them and teaching them and nurturing them never lets up for any significant amount of time. As it turns out, I have been changed and I don't mind at all. As Bill Murray said in a line from Lost in Translation, "Your life, as you know it... is gone." Nothing, besides complete abandonment of the child - and even that's arguable - could make history reverse itself or transform the experience into an episodal one. There is no "do-over" or eraser or even a pause button. I think the closest thing to a brief escape is sleep. Even then, how much of an escape could that really be when the smallest sound from my child can rouse me at any hour, often preternaturally before the child wakes and cries or wakes and vomits or wakes and runs into my room and into my arms, to immediately settle?

Sometimes in discussing parenthood it can sound an awful lot like a bore, a chore, a tedium. Sometimes - and this is worse - it can sound smug and Hallmark-cornball like, "You haven't lived until you're a Mommy." For the record, bullshit on either descriptor. I try to think of myself as not one of a myriad number of parents and parenting style who managed the not-so-remarkable experience of birthing children but a person, an individual, who has been marked forever with the sacred duty of caring for another who is flesh and bone and blood of their own. Most parents know this feeling, it runs deep. It's personal but I'd imagine it's rather universal. What I know is, it's powerful. It's beautiful, too.

I was listening to very, very loud shoegazer a half hour ago when my daughter ran past me, crying at some way her father hurt her feelings, and disappeared into her room. She was gone so long I started wondering if she'd fallen asleep and just now when Ralph checked, sure enough she had taken the early train to Slumbertown. She is catching up, poor thing. I remember the last time she went to bed early (before eating, before bath and PJs) the next morning she opened her eyes in the morning and told me, "I'm sorry I skipped dinner."

And now; a bubble bath with my son and a freshly-made bed.

* My brother Billy.

Labels: family life

I think the kind of day like today, where one stays at home and asses out and asks Husband to stay home with the kids, eating poorly all day because one is sick and isn't cooking well, and gets nothing done - someone who say, prides themselves on working hard and usually experiences some self-esteem to say at the end of the day, "I did such-and-such and nailed it" - for someone like that, a sick day with junk food and no ambition, the kind of day that only happens about once year for that person -

Anyway like I've said, today is precisely the wrong type of day to idly sit down at the computer and end up on the MySpace clickaround... you know, looking at other people's pictures, reading comments, starting to believe everyone else does more traveling and has better times and killer inside jokes. They've been drunk with fun friends more often and have nicer clothes and their kids are more fun and less work than mine.

Some voice of reason would tell me there is no way to know someone's existential reality by their uploaded persona-bytes. An even smarter voice of reason tells me I loathe MySpace, I really do (except my friend Jessica's blog), and never have benefitted from using it, much. And that I should get back to watching a movie and knitting socks for my daughter, instead of feeling flaccid and sick in front of the computer screen.

On the other hand, there's a way to lift my spirits almost unfailingly: spending time "doing nothing" with my family. In this case, a ride to the video store instead of staying home. As we drive through the rain-soaked evening, snug in our car, we offer the kids a choice - two movies, simplified as "one with aliens, the other with weird creatures". Sophie votes "Creatures!", Ralph and I concur on aliens, and Nels' vote stands in sway. Finally he says, "Aliens," decisively, prompting a total crying breakdown of our daughter who throws her head back and howls, "Noooo....!"

The car is briefly quiet except for her crying. After a minute Nels says quietly, "What about creatures?" Reconsidering. For his sister's feelings. And I wish I had a recording of what his voice sounds like, saying that. His voice is attached to my heartstrings.

Labels: film, illness, Nels, Sophie, verbatim

don't think this movie is as funny as I do.



RAINDANCE!

Grays Harbor Wind Storm - The Hogaboom Report from ralph hogaboom on Vimeo.

Seriously, I will love Shannon for the rest of my life with how much she thrilled Nels during this. As she was pulling Allison (her own daughter, the first child you see "stranded") Nels got the biggest, and I mean biggest grin and started crying out, "Shannon, Shannon, help me! Help!" and was like the girl elected as Homecoming Queen when she went back for him.

Labels: film, friends, Nels, Ralph, weather

My daughter's croupy cough continues. The Hogabooms eat three healthy meals daily and get very good sleep at night; during this week as we wait for Ralph's job duties to resume we take walks in the chill and administer meals to those without power (two other families, last night). Meanwhile our local paper makes sure to report the various dramas (we did have three examples of smash and grab / looting - in a county of 36,000) while neglecting to cover in any detail the tireless work of emergency personnel and the PUD / Bonneville workers to which we owe our relative comfort.

Otherwise, P.S., a storm is just boring. I have discovered I only like sitting around doing nothing when there is the option to do other things. Our blackout provided for a lot of reading, a lot of snuggling, a lot of cooking and cleaning, and a lot of singing and playing guitar. On the second day I finally picked up a book many friends have recommended to me and in the last day and a half have thrown myself into cooking dishes therein - the basic beans, banana bread, chicken coconut soup, caesar dressing, 24-hour chicken stock (which had the benefit of feeding my cats and the 93-year-old neighbor's kitties with tender chicken goodness scraps), homemade cream cheese and whey, and sprouted almonds (for apricot bars). This morning I even started the day with a whey tonic (surprisingly refreshing), feeling silly and hippie-ish.

Tonight: sci-fi family movie night and yes, I'm looking forward to it.

Labels: family life, food geekery, weather

This morning at 1:15 AM our power came on. I woke up, lay in bed and thanked God (it had been three full days), then got up to re-arrange my fridge (we'd packed all into the freezer with ice bags and I would now have to re-rescue the food from the other end of the temperature spectrum) and start some laundry. Last night my daughter had kept me up with a croupy cough. With the candlelight and lack, completely, of anything to do when the darkness fell I was starting to feel like we were living a throwback existence.

It took me a while to get to sleep after our lives suddenly were put back to normal in a snap. Life had become very different. We'd started marking off our days in terms of experience (the first day was "Novelty Day", then we were on "Ice Day" and heading into, "OK, Now I'm Really Cold Day"... Thursday was slated for "Shit-Water Day" and frankly I'm glad we missed out on that).

My parents arrived over about 8:30 for heat and breakfast as their power, like so many others', has not returned. Their well-insulated house had finally achieved the outdoor temperature. My father is especially sensitive to cold as a side effect from his platinum-based chemo. To his credit, he hasn't complained once. This morning I cooked honey biscuits and broccoli quiche. In fact we've been eating well enough, because there's not much else to do except think about what to cook and how to cook it. Last night I succeeded in a homemade pizza on top of my gas insert.

Hoquiam's west side is fully up and running. Minus many fences, pieces of roof, trees, and skipped school and work days. Ralph's work servers are still down and I know many around the county are still suffering cold and wet and some major property damage.

Labels: family life, rain, weather

I recently found an anti-Walmart piece by an author I respect, for publication in my zine. In fairness, ideally, I'd like to put in a pro-Walmart or rebuttal piece (Walmart is a big deal here on the Harbor). So yesterday I'm telling my parents about my desire to find someone to write an article I could put side-by-side in the publication.

"You know..." I say, "Someone who can tell me some positives or a piece by a Walmart supporter."

"Problem is, they don't know how to read or write," my dad snorts.*

"Oh come on," I roll my eyes, annoyed with the put-down and wanting real conversation.

"Gap-toothed hicks..." he's continuing on, mostly to himself.**

"Um," I say, "As opposed to your gaps, and all the metal, and the pieces coming out like a messed-up drawer of silverware?"

He draws himself up with dignity: "A missing tooth isn't a gap," he imparts, offended. ***

* I hope the fact he's currently dying from cancer alleviates some of my readers' annoyance at his asinine, snide nature.

** No really. I am so sorry. He's terrible.

*** My father did indeed stop being a jerk and come up with the idea to publish a call for a rebuttal or feedback, in case I don't find someone to pen the pro-W piece this time around.

Labels: consumerism, SNF, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard, writing