Clinton Christmas 2017

The Christmas season is upon us. As always, we appreciate the opportunity to publicly humiliate ourselves. This year, it was in a serious amount of spandex.

You should be able to click on the picture (maybe) to make it bigger, especially if you want to see Fat Linda in her full glory.

Move to the Left

Sometimes when I start a blog, it’s easy because I already have it written in my head, I just have to type it out. But then other times, I have no idea where I’m going with it and know it will end up as a rambling mess. This blog will be of the latter variety.

I’ve been thinking about writing for a long time, but haven’t really done it because a.) there is never any time (cue the Jessie Spano voice in your head) and b.) it’s not in my nature to be inauthentic. Since I know no one wants to read a bunch of complainy crap, I usually knit instead of write.

Today, though, I’ve decided perhaps I will process through writing and it will be a healthy experience. Or, it will be absolute trash and I will delete it all. Either way, it will pair well with wine.

As a historical recap for anyone who doesn’t make the events of my life their first priority, a few months ago, my family packed up all our possessions (turns out I’m a hoarder), sold our house (see depressing blog from May) and slid over one state to the left. 

I sold my 2004 Civic in Illinois (goodbye, old friend!) and purchased a Subaru Outback in Iowa – I am hoping to fool people into thinking I go outside and sleep in tents… or own a bike.

We have new jobs, a new school, new soccer teams, a new church and new eyebrows (just kidding – I got going and it just felt right). Our lives have been altered. Sometimes I’m bewildered by how nothing is the same. A mere five hours away, but everything is different.  I’d like to say I’ve taken the changes in stride and have adapted beautifully, but clearly that would not be in keeping with my usual nonsense. Because, above all else, I do not like to lose control of the situation… and doggone it, it feels like I’m on the Hustler sitting in the outside seat (remember that trashy fair ride) while a nauseated co-passenger is slamming into me. How’s that for dramatic… ha!

So, class, what do we do when we start to complain and feel sorry for ourselves? Pray! And after that… get perspective! I’m actually making this up as I go, but I realize it is sound advice for me. I will officially declare this the year of learning and growing. 

Here is a list of things I have learned so far - sorry, I would make it a numbered list but I'm having some formatting issues that are making me feel quite violent.

• If you don’t try to make friends, you will have no friends.

• If you don’t have friends, don’t live near family and don’t trust internet finds, you will have no babysitter.

• If you have no directional sense whatsoever, total reliance on the GPS does not help build this skill.

• If you have four rakes and only two mini trees with 12 leaves each, come fall, you will desperately look for opportunities to rake and jump in the leaves. But unfortunately… refer to item number one on this list.

• If you exhibit impatient road rage in the car every morning while driving with your children, you shouldn’t be shocked to hear them call other drivers names. Following this, you should work to correct your behavior, but then expect to experience terrible traffic the day after just to test your resolve.

• It is possible to feel a constant yearning for the people who used to listen to all of your nonsense. 

• If you stop exercising cold turkey, your muscles will all melt. When you decide it is time to start again, you will be like a lawn mower after the winter with old gas. You will also snooze through your alarm every single day because there is no one waiting for you to show up at 5:11 a.m.

• There’s a feeling of liberation that goes along with being anonymous. You will find it totally acceptable to go without makeup and wear clothes made entirely of elastic.

• People one state over do everything differently.

• When you start a new job, you should eventually stop referring to your old job all the time. You will annoy people.

• Speaking of work, if you leave cooked cauliflower in your desk garbage overnight (and they don't clean until the following afternoon), the next day, you will come in and feel certain your desk neighbor is having extreme waves of gastro-distress. Finally, hours later, when you will realize the smell is coming from your garbage, you feel mortified to  count the number of people who have been by your desk that day... and who are likely suspecting you are wearing a soiled diaper.

• People want to eat dinner every night, even if you hate to cook… every night (this one is not state-specific).

• Sometimes your family needs you to step up and be present, even if you want to roll on the floor making whining sounds.

• In the midst of your struggle, it is possible to sit alone in your car, take a deep breath, look at the beautiful fall trees and feel peace, if only for 35 seconds.

• I am thankful for my family. I am thankful everyone is healthy. I am thankful I have people to miss.

I’m pretty sure I’ve exhausted the acceptable window of antisocial behavior and should now be transitioning into the grow chapter of my life. I have a lot of time for introspection, and there are a lot of corners to clean out. And maybe that’s what all of this is, a big stop sign that says, wake up you idiot! (which is a also direct quote from me in the car in the mornings)

Feel all the feels. Start listening to country music. Accept the healthy dose of humility being spoon-fed down your throat. And in the end, [cue the music!] I will rise up, rise like the dawn! Woo hoooooo!

(There is a slight chance I will snooze through my exercise time and roll on the floor making whining sounds tomorrow, but I am a book still in progress with the grow chapter still being written…)

Ramble, ramble, ramble…

To the New Owners

Tomorrow we move out of our house. This is the last night we will sleep here.

We've been surrounded by the chaos of packing for weeks and weeks. I've been in a get-it-done mode that doesn't leave much time for mourning the loss of my beloved space. I've decided to write this blog before I unplug my computer. Also, (jump to a random thought) we might be the world's worst packers. Check out the contents of the box I just taped closed. 

I've been really thinking about the next owners of this house. I know almost nothing about them, but since I am passing a treasured possession to them, I feel compelled to tell them things. Though these are things they will never really know, I want to write them out. Because that's what I do.

To the next owner of my house. 

While it is quite possible you will never read this, I write this to you all the same. 

I've been praying for you. I hope you will love these walls the same way we have. They have seen over a million hits by a flying soccer ball. We recently covered the scraped paint on the basement door from countless lay-ups executed there. You'll notice there is also a cat entry hole in the bottom of that same door where two cats passed through for years, then there was just one (remember what it took to install that thing!? See blog post from 2012).

There is a stove in the kitchen I insisted on buying because it had the biggest oven window. It doesn't cook any good food. It dries out all your meat. I blame it for over 600 tasteless meals. 

The kitchen sink may look a little battered, but that's because it has rinsed paint brushes and cat food cans, and cleaned out scraped knees and elbows. 

The cabinet on the right used to be crammed with sippy cups and plastic bowls. Yesterday it held Flintstone vitamins and coffee mugs. 

The basement is perfect for soccer and home to many spiders. You might enjoy the can lights which are a great replacement for protruding lightbulbs that can be repeatedly broken by flying sports equipment. 

If you leave the windows open, you can hear the birds. They are wonderful, though they occasionally try to take up residence inside your house (refer to 2015 bird blog). 

The stairs are best climbed at a full run. If you pile things on them, they may cause a fall. 

Upstairs, the bedroom down the hall on the left saw endless hours of cars, dinosaurs, planets, Legos and army men for years. Then it became mystery books, soccer trophies and brand name clothes cluttering the floor. On the right, that room loves make-believe with tiny pieces in a doll house, caring for plastic babies and a blasting karaoke machine. 

The master bath is the right size for setting up camp when you aren't feeling great. You can be the perfect distance from the toilet, as well as close enough to mom and dad. 

The laundry room floors may be dingy, but they have greeted us from work and school over 2,000 times. You could say the hardwood floors have character, earned from Matchbox cars, high heels and running cats. 

And outside... oh, outside. The yard is the right size for a sprinkler and a family soccer game. The nature has been a labor of love. The two trees on the berm almost killed those who attempted to plant them (reference to this blog post). Every plant - all 50+ of them - was hand-planted (hard work days in the burning sun followed by card games and champagne with the best companions). The lilies last all season. They are hardy. They are beautiful. They have laid on a beloved grave.

The green of these walls have comforted; they have celebrated; they have rung with laughter oh so many times. I hope they bless you, too. 

The end.

Self-Awareness, If Only

Self-awareness is a funny thing. It seems a lot of people believe they are self-aware, but it turns out they are not at all. In fact, it's so prevalent, I actually read about a study on this recently.

To my dismay, I have been learning I may not be overly self-aware. I used to think I was because I knew things about myself, like I talk too much (and so does my daughter). I also have funny knock-knees and a tomato face. I have virtually no ability to read people, and I always initially dislike the people I should like, and trust the people who are turds.

Where is all this coming from, you ask?

Well, recently I was reminded that I am actually terrible in adversity. This is a shock to the system because I used to think I had a cool head and could handle most anything thrown at me. This was a lack of self-awareness on my part. A control freak almost never reacts well to the loss of control.

And I am in a season where there is a definite loss of control.

The writing was on the wall. I should have remembered the time when I was young and at some kind of church retreat in the woods. There was a noise outside our cabin. I looked out the window, but since the light was on, I could only see my reflection in the glass. As I strained to see into the night, suddenly a hand flew out and slapped the other side of glass. I uttered a garbled shriek and collapsed onto the floor. It turns out it was a prankster from our group, not the killer I assumed. Even so, that day I learned a lesson. You know that fight or flight thing people talk about all the time? I am not made for the fight. I wish I was.

Right now everything is changing -- jobs, homes, routines. I can do nothing about it. Just like the cabin, I've been in a collapse. And the collapse pulled the wool from my eyes.

I'm not patient like I once thought. Instead, I yell at my children every day, especially ones who get distracted easily. And reacting to my stress, they act out. Then I yell again. Dirty little cycle there.

To sate my anxiety, I eat things all day. Not healthy things. Over the last two days, I've eaten 600 Starburst jelly beans. That's in addition to the McDonalds fries I bought during lunch. Plus all that chocolate.

If you stink at adversity, even the mundane feels overwhelming. Last week, during the day, in a public bathroom, I realized I had my underwear on inside out. All I could think was, of course I do. But who can be bothered to take their pants fully off during the day in a public bathroom to rectify a little inside-out underwear problem. Certainly not me. It's all too much.

So what do you do when you realize you were wrong about what you thought you knew about yourself? Do you keep eating jelly beans and wearing your underwear inside out? Do you yell at your kids and cuss at your cat?

No, doggone it! You write a blog and call yourself out! You get your collapsed butt off the ground and you gain perspective. You throw away the jelly beans and you put your dishes in a box. You switch your underwear to the right side in a public bathroom. You remember that God is faithful.

So if you see me lying on the ground with fries hanging out of my mouth, please smack me and tell me to wake up! I don't control the world, and the world is much better for it. There are seriously valuable lessons to be learned as I realize who I really am, and what I am made of. I should not wish this time away. Because there is hope. There is always hope.

Pants Dance

There are times you suspect you may be an idiot, and then there are times when you have it confirmed. 

Allow me to illustrate my point. 

I occasionally buy things solely because they are a good deal, regardless of whether I need them or not. For example, when recently in a store that is going out of business, I may have wandered over to the juniors' department (we are talking high school age, not grade school) because they had a lot of stock left and it was 40% off. I may have picked up a pair of jeans made for a 19-year-old (who eats donuts) instead of a lady in her mid-thirties, because the price was right…

Then, because I owned these well-priced jeans, I felt compelled to wear them, knowing they would be a poor fit. Mostly I made this choice because I am trying to eat fewer donuts, and I assumed public shame was the best method. 

This morning, I took the jeans from the pile and attempted to apply them to my lower half. The progress was halted around my knees. Over the years, women have employed all manner of both athletic and not-so-athletic movements in order to master snug pants. I would categorized my next movements as not-so-athletic. 

I opted for the repeated vertical skip kick move. It looked a little like Tony Little on his Gazelle machine, only I have less impressive hair and biceps. 

I'm including this GIF to help you with visualization. 

Well, as you can imagine, this didn't go well. When the pants arrived at 85%, my vigorous progress had moved me to a danger zone. My back foot swung out and made violent contact with back end of the door and the door frame.

There was pain and humiliation (though hardly if I was willing to try the Gazelle jeans move while my husband was in the room - shameless).

My heel showed signs of swelling and bruising. All for the sake of the well-priced, tight, junior pants. I did eventually get them on. They squeezed even my knees throughout the day. Unfortunately I just unbuttoned them when it was time to eat the donuts (not in public), so this plan totally failed. Also, I may have a blood clot now, in addition to lingering heel pain.

I was half-hoping this would turn out to be a major injury so I could explain to the doctor how I acquired it, but it seems I will have use this forum to share my story. Perhaps it can be considered a cautionary tale.

As an aside, a friend stopped by my desk earlier to tell me she heard on the radio that the name Liliana was on a list of people most likely to be successful. I told her this story. We came to the conclusion the list might be incorrect... unless they meant successful at being ridiculous. 

Maxed Out Maturity

I am slightly to moderately positive my maturity level stopped developing at junior high. This is a dangerous admission since I have the task of raising two children.

I'm not one to make dramatic statements without the burden of logical proof (this may not be entirely true). So here are some possible facts.

There is not a time I don't find fart sounds absolutely hilarious. It doesn't matter where I am, even in the middle of a funeral, even while performing a complicated surgery (also a possible stretch) or beating someone up. If someone farts, I am laughing. Period.

Turns out my kids have inherited this gene, especially during many dinners of dried out meat. 

I may also overuse this Bitmoji:

Also, I can't resist doing inappropriate things all the time. A blank whiteboard is an unholy temptation. For anyone who knows the Birkman profile, this is called a high freedom score.

So when it comes time to make my daughter practice her unreadable cursive, there is no way I can give her boring sentences. I want her to stay engaged. I also happen to have advanced teaching skills. You know I am going to make those sentences dynamic. 

Then the inevitable happens -- the collision of high freedom and low maturity. 

This is unfortunately the result. If you can't read our writing, you can click to enlarge (like Fat Linda's butt).

I think now comes the time when everyone is rejoicing in the fact I never chose to pursue education as a career choice. A whole generation of kids could have stunted maturity. 

Unfortunately, this has been a lifelong struggle for me. I remember being at a friend's house in junior high when I made some reference to a yeast infection commercial. Her mother informed me that they don't talk like that in her house. I was chagrined. I was ashamed. I am the same girl today (as you may recall, my maturity stopped advancing about that time). 

Is it any wonder that every time my children are given a creative writing assignment it is littered with references to bodily functions and stories about Bad Brain Linda. Or of elephants that can't get drunk. 

If you happen to need help with your handwriting, please contact me. I know someone who can help. [Insert fart sound followed by giggles.]

For the Love of Lorenzo

Once upon a time, a boy and a girl met in college... They were both a little odd and a little rebellious; it just made sense.

During their many years of dating, they would often visit an animal shelter and dream of the day when they would bring a dog home. The sad eyes would call out to them and break their young hearts.

Years later, just after the boy and girl married, they moved to a foreign land with few acquaintances. They were lonely, still full of love for abandoned animals and still rebellious. One day, when walking randomly through a PetSmart, they came across a cat adoption event. One adolescent cat reached his paw out of the cage repeatedly to grab the boy's hand. The boy pleaded with his new wife to adopt the little fellow. Since the girl had only ever owned a dog, she felt distrustful of the small hand-grabbing feline. The boy had owned cats in his youth and swore it would be a good decision. Because of the common rebellious spirit, they gave no thought to the no-animals rule at their apartment complex.

The adoption was made. They immediately discarded the name on the adoption sheet since it was totally lame. They opted for a more refined one - Lorenzo. Upon bringing the contraband kitty home, they noticed something. He was incredibly needy. He would not allow anyone to sleep because he wanted to get closer and closer, until he breathed the air directly from his owners' lungs. When the boy and girl banished him from the room, he would cry at the door and reach under to paw the doorstop repeatedly, making a "bonnnng" sound.  

The boy immediately regretted his decision. He declared the cat would be returned to the store. Having a strong sense of responsibility, the girl would not allow it. She declared they had made this choice, they would see it through to the end. Since she had no previous experience with cats, she couldn't have known the true weight of this declaration.

Eventually, all residents of the small apartment adjusted and life continued. The boy and girl learned the cat had no problem using his urine to make a statement (like he didn't enjoy a full litter box) and that a king size comforter does not fit in a standard washer. Since the cat repeatedly busted out the boy and girl to the other apartment residents by sitting in the window, the girl was forced to cover all the windows with lovely deer print fabric. 

A year later, the boy and girl were ready to buy their first [town]house. They soon learned their cat was kind of awesome. In the new house, he behaved like a dog. He had a chicken toy that he would fetch from any part of the house and carry it around in his mouth. He could catch it out of the air. He would go crazy when asked, "Where's your chicken?" He also enjoyed being carried around like a child, with his paws propped up on a shoulder, looking out at the world. He discovered sleeping on the girl's head was his favorite place to spend the many hours of the night. 

Then the boy and girl had a baby. The cat used his urine to communicate his displeasure (all over the clothes the rebellious boy and girl had strewn about the room). The cat once attempted an attack on the baby and earned himself some physical discipline. He was made aware that his position in the family had been altered. 

Years later, the boy and girl moved again, this time to another state. In that time, the boy and girl learned their cat could trigger the most underlying allergy in any houseguest. Over the years they had also discovered he would bite people at random. He was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a good cat, but man did he love the boy and girl (and their baby a tiny bit). 

One day, when shopping at the local Petco, trying to pick out a cat for a family member with a mouse problem, the boy did the craziest thing... he decided he wanted another cat. The girl was astounded. After many persuasion tactics, the girl finally relented. A tiny second cat came home. This one, it turned out, had a bad brain. The first cat was not a fan of bad-brain cats. He beat her regularly from that day forward. Then the boy and girl had a second child who particularly loved cats. 

For years, the push and pull continued with the original cat. He could snuggle and play like no other cat, while fiercely loving his owners. His attachment disorder was in full force when they went out of town, like the time when he bit the girl's cat-sitting sister and she lost feeling in her arm. 

Then one day, the cat was particularly naughty with his urine, requiring a visit to the vet. They took many expensive tests and diagnosed him with a liver issue. They also prescribed Prozac for his mental issues, which the girl felt a bit odd requesting at Walgreens (after a week, they gave up on the medication). The boy and girl were concerned for their cat. They were exceptionally kind to him. Then months went by. He acted like nothing was ailing him. He went on biting people, snuggling and peeing on things. Years went by. 

Then houseguests began to comment on how the cat looked a little rough. He was very thin, but still ate every day. Then he turned yellow all over. Still, he acted normally (perhaps with more errant pee than usual). He slept on the girl's head at night and wanted to be carried around all the time. He still beat up the bad-brain cat daily. 

It was time to take him to the vet for another check. The girl learned his liver had turned on him and was slowly starving him. She was told it was time. 

The boy, the girl and their two children spent the next five days loving on the overly attached cat. They let him roll on concrete, eat grass, eat 500 treats a day -- all the things he loved. They wept for their loyal friend.

His final day arrived and it was almost time to take him in. As the girl looked across the living room at the shell of a cat she begrudgingly loved, she knew their lives would never be the same. There would never be another Lorenzo. It felt like the end of an era.

He was their Lorenzo. He was the cat that reached his paw out of the cage to grab the boy, and somehow grabbed onto all their hearts for almost 13 years. 

Allow Me to Stress My Point

There is a well known fact in my family - Lily suffers from stressitus. Since this is my natural state, I don't always notice it. Recently I complained of a headache that lasted for 6 weeks. Rather than go to the doctor, I self-diagnosed (cheaper). It was either a cavity making its way down to my jawbone, a flu taking longer than usual to set, or a growth in my brain. I maintained my rotating hypothesis until I woke up one night and realized my jaw was clenched. Ah ha!  I had been secretly stressed and it was manifesting in my sleep (since then I have tried to remain slack-jawed at night - not as easy as it sounds).

As I said, I might not notice I am stressed because it appears to be knit deep down in my DNA. Here's what I mean by this. In almost any scenario, I have already thought of the many possible outcomes (most of which are only distantly possible) and prepared for them. So, when some random kid suddenly looks like he is about to puke in public, I pull out a grocery bag from a secret compartment in my purse. This is the emergency puke bag. Those who scorn my stress-preparedness are quickly grateful their shoes aren't full of digested food.

I may be married to someone who does not share the stress DNA. He is often confounded by my thinking. This is actually fortunate because I'm not sure it would be a good thing to put two stress-heads together. It might result in a houseful of ulcers, or high dental bills, or all kinds of stressful, bad things.

Since at the beginning of every year I attempt a positivity campaign (Positive Lily 2017 - which was the result of a postponed 2016, 2015 and 2014 campaign), I am making an effort to mitigate my hidden stress levels. The method I am choosing: public shame.

Here is a list of some of the ridiculous things I privately worry about.

• I fear the toilet clogging and overflowing in the guest bathroom when we have guests visiting. When I hear them flush at night (somehow in my sleep), I tense until I hear the toilet stop running. All the while, I'm poised to dash down the hall if I think I hear the sound of water hitting the floor. This has never happened even once. But it might...
• Almost every time I have to go to the bathroom urgently, I have a thought go through my head when I first sit down: I hope I am really on this toilet and not just dreaming I am, when I'm really sitting in a meeting.
• Each time I hear a noise in the night, I'm pretty sure it's one of my children getting ready to throw up (you may see a vomit-theme forming).
• When all my family loads in a car and goes somewhere without me, I feel a wave of fear they will get in an accident.
• When the wind blows hard at night, I often think my roof is going to blow completely off my house. I envision myself lying there staring at the ceiling fan one minute, then seeing clouds over my head the next.
• Most of the time when houseguests pet my cat, I would cringe and wonder if he was about to bite them with his teeth of terror. 
• Several times a week I can't remember if I closed the garage door on my way to work. 70% of the days of the week, I have to turn down the next street, then drive back to my house. I picture my empty garage inviting everyone to party at my house all day long. It has never once been open when I drove back to check.
• It is well known that I am a terrible cook. For some reason I fear sickening people with undercooked meat, so I cook it until it ends up tasting like a bite from the sandbox. Perhaps it was my 7th grade Home Economics class making me memorize the names and symptoms of food borne illnesses. It's a relief to make it 4-6 hours after a meal without diarrhea. While I have never given anyone salmonella that I am aware of, I imagine it would be mortifying to do so. 

So there you have it. A public shaming of my own doing. I will likely sleep in slack-jawed peace tonight... as long as the wind doesn't blow the roof off my house.