WCW - Crista

It's actually Wednesday this time. You know what that means.

No football practice! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Also, it's time to tell you about another wonderful woman, lovely lady, fantastic friend...

CRISTA

She is. Totally.

She makes me so happy it makes me want to give shit away. For real...stick around for that.

I first met Crista when she was one of those behind the scenes heroes that answer our calls for help, one of the women (and for a time maybe a dude, I believe) that kept a watchful ear out for and provided an untold number of annoying status checks to my better half.

"Twenty Five Zero Six, status check."
.
.
.
"Code Four."

We became friends because she has the same care and empathy off the job.  Also, she's a classy broad who says "fuck" a lot.

A lot. Yet just the right amount.

She rolls with the punches and finds humor in the everyday shit storms that can otherwise take a toll on you.  She gets my sense of humor and doesn't get her knickers in a twist too easily.

Her two kidlets, Amazing Alex and Super Sean, are her life. Super Sean, at seven now, once came over for a playdate and was too excited and involved in playing Legos or Ninjas or whatever it is that boys do, and I soon found him in the hallway in need of the speed cycles on my washer and dryer. I quickly found him some loaner drawers and told him to just go play and his clothes would be clean and dry before his mom even knew what happened.

You guys know I'm a sucker for a kid in a dilemma.

This sums up how much cooler of a mom
than me Crista is.

Amazing Alex has Tyrosine Hydroxylase Deficiency, a disorder affecting only about 40 people in the world, but neither Alex nor Crista lets it define her. Crista's supermom skills include making sure Alex gets the most out of life, and that others are able to reap the benefit of knowing her, too.

She up and moved on us in the name of love - falling for an Army Man who all-too-soon received orders for a move to Colorado. She didn't miss a beat, making new friends, learning new things, and growing in her new found role as an Army Wife while never letting go of herself.

I missed her on a visit home last year, so determined to see her beautiful face, I popped by the airport when she was last here just to catch her and  say "HEY" before everyone sucked her into a whirlwind stay that never ever lasts long enough. I was glad for that, since the day our friends gathered to see her fell on a rare and too often at the same time trip out of town for work.

There's nothing she can't do. She bakes up giant batches of bad ass Guinness cupcakes like a pro. She cooks, she sews, she huckleberry moonshines. She slices, she dices, she juliennes.

Just kidding. But it does seem there's nothing that intimidates her. I know that's not true, but at least outwardly, fear would seem to fear her. Even her failures are successes, since she's able to laugh about the lessons learned and share them with others.

She climbs mountains and takes us along for the ride. She keeps us posted on her happenings with her blog, My Worried Face.  She's open and honest and really allows us a peek into her dynamic life and how she manages it. She shows us that life is not all rainbows and puppy dogs, except for Ginger, her four legged partner in most outdoor antics and couch cuddles.

That's a lot of steps.

Her Elf won't stay on the Shelf, and she shares with us so that we might see the magic through children's eyes again.

Bill, proposing to his girlfriend.

She wears her heart on her sleeve, equally being a deeply empathetic and loving person while having zero tolerance for bullshit. She's always a supporter, a cheerleader, and a sound and solid voice in a sometimes chaotic world.

I'm so fortunate to call her a friend. I'm so happy for the way she found her way to our family, and no distance will make me let her go.

So to celebrate my special spotlight lady, I'm going to do my first giveaway here. Leave a comment below or on the Facebook link about either how awesome you think Crista is too, or how you haven't met her but you read this and she is obviously a super cool chick because you believe everything I say, and I will enter your name for a random drawing on September 3 (in honor of our official start of school) for a coffee coozie made by.....

CRISTA!!

See? She even has her own Etsy shop dedicated to coffee coozies. What caffeine addict doesn't love that? They've been a featured item in Spousebox, a monthly subscription care package for and by military spouses. You can visit her store at CozyCooziesCo or her Facebook page at Cozy Coozies Colorado to purchase these custom creations if you're not a winner. Or, if you are a winner and you decide you want to get your paws on more of these guys. I bet she could even make a Ben and Jerry's coozie if that's your persuasion. No judgement here.

WCW - Stephanie

Oh. It's not Wednesday? Too bad. I wish it was Wednesday. It's about the women more than the day of the week. It's my blog and I'll do what I want.

Now then. Today's WCW is someone whose path crossed mine in the distant past, only briefly, secondarily, and without real consequence, and who the universe brought back around to me in the form of: Cop's Wife.

The "and a half" to J-Flo's badge number, I first met her at some party or another and kept struggling to remember where we'd met before.

I'd never forget a face like this. Yowza.

I asked The Hubs, who is a terrible source of information.

"I don't think you know her. I think she's from Oklahoma, where Jerry's from. I don't know. I think maybe she used to live here, I have no idea."

Thanks to good old Facebook, I finally put the pieces together when a mutual friend joined a conversation.  Seeing the two of them in proximity set off the same reaction that Dory has when she sees the "Sydney" sign.

"ACK!!! NEMO!!!!"

Stephanie had been running the show at our local movie theater when one of my best friends worked there in high school.  I'd seen and talked to her whenever I went to bother visit Angie at work, and I recalled her always being very quiet but kind.

I knew that my friend had later ended up renting Stephanie's prior apartment, the upstairs of a Normal Hill Victorian with a weird closet area that always made me want to hide away from the world there. This may have been just me picking up on the spirit of a child-ghost, who was trying to hide away from the world there, I'm not sure.

I remember always feeling sorry for anyone who had responsibility of wrangling all those unruly teenagers into actually working and not just screwing off and fighting over who would have to switch out the soda canisters or take the garbage out.  I wondered if she ever got really mad, tore someone a new one or fired them, demanding that they leave their tiny vest behind for the next person to wash popcorn oil out of.

Surely not. She seemed too nice and laid back for that.

(For the record, I still don't have any idea, because I've never asked her OR my friend. These were just the dusty old memories I had of her for 20 years or so.)

Getting to "meet" her again, and actually getting to know her this time has been great. We're a lot alike. We're both hard to read. We both hold the same beliefs regarding the inappropriateness of not hearing from your husband by 2:15 when his shift ended at 2:00.  We both generally hate having the focus on ourselves. We're both generally kick-ass.  You get the idea.

She talked me into having family photos done.  And really, if you have a chance to experience that, you should totally do that with her.  She is patient and gentle and makes sure you look amazing.  She brings her posse of assistants with her that made the day fun and miraculously got my children to listen to her direction.

Four of my favorite people, as captured by one of my favorite people.

Here's her photography website.  Go there immediately to check out her work and ask whether she's taking new clients or whatever because she's truly so so great to work with:

Shots By Stephanie

It was a devastating blow to learn not many Cop Wife Friend years in, that the Big C had infiltrated her body. Cancer is such an asshole. We just tried to make sure they knew (and mostly in the way that can only be conveyed from one dude to another dude) that we were in the periphery. Fundraisers and schedule shuffles seemed like nothing, but it was what we could do in our roles. They had people closer to them for other support roles, and we held our breath.

Once her cancer returned this go-round, she started treatment in a trial in Seattle. She has bravely and level-headedly walked us through her journey in her own words here:

I Am Cart19

She (and her doctors) kicked cancer's ass, you guys. She's making history in one of those "forever referenced in medical books" kind of ways. When you hear about this treatment tomorrow or next week or five years from now, when someone you love is no longer under the thumb of that real dick of a disease, know that it was because of people like her willing to take a leap of faith and doctors willing to push for more than the status quo.

She asked The Hubs to take her out on the SS Lee so she could try her hand at surfing. Surfing. On a surfboard. In the water. She is not a "lay down and die" kind of person over here.  She's not a "lay down and just take about a month off after they just told me they cured my cancer" kind of person. She's got shit to do.

So we took her out. Hubs made her a tall cup of Boat Drink (pm me for recipe). He and the kids showed her the ropes (literally). She looked at me.

"If I do this, will you do it too?"

Out loud: "Sure, why not?"
In my head: "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK NO."

You see, I'm generally what you'd call an "observer" when it comes to water sports (or land sports for that matter). I'll watch. I'll cheer. I'll weight the boat down so you have a sweet sweet wake to surf. I'll toss you the rope until you're ready to quit. I'll toss you a dry towel when you're done. But I'm good not actually...what's the word?  PARTICIPATING.

But I wasn't about to leave her hanging alone.

And she did it. She banged it out like a champ. And I was like, "That's so awesome!!! I'm so proud!!! I'm just going to be over here not taking pictures of you because that's what lady-friends are for!!"

Her hubs was taking pics with his iPhone. But I'm not sure he knew what he was doing. I kind of hope he got some good ones so she can remember how awesome we thought it was for her.

She's really having one bang-up month.  It was a fantastic moment.  I was so happy for her.

When she was done it was apparent she hadn't hit her head hard enough on the surface of the water to forget that I'd committed.

Shit.

Didn't she know today was about HER?  Can't we focus on that?

Anyway, I figured Hubs would try to drag/drown me about ten times and we could call it a day.  But that didn't happen.  He only tried to drag/drown me about eight times before me and my one good arm finally hoisted my ass up out of the water and to be honest, as many times as I've watched lots of people on the back of our boat, I still thought "Well shit, now what?"

And Stephanie, giant professional camera at the ready, documented that shit. Me. In swimwear. Which gives me hives. But I'm glad for the proof that it happened. And I'm glad that if anyone was going to be taking a picture of that, that it was her. She's basically the only person allowed to do that from now until I die. She's the official photog of me in anything more revealing than a burka.

I hadn't told hubs about the four-page long questionnaire I'd filled out for my doctor in October. The one I saw when I started getting real sleepy eating ice cream. The one that asked me what my goals were and what my timeline was for those goals. The one I'd answered by saying by Summer of 2015 I'd like to finally join the boys in my family in learning something on the end of a rope on our boat other than "tubing". My broken and never-quite-healed-right left arm and my excess weight seemed to be significant enough barriers to keep me from trying again after one other "I'll do it if you do it" moment I'd had with my sister in law. That attempt did not end successfully.

So Saturday, at Stephanie's urging, I did it. And she did it. And for one short day the ladies were rulers of that ship. Both ceremoniously crossing a big to-do off our lists.

(Sidenote: I'm not going to write about Jerry's attempts until I get out of therapy for the PTSD I'm suffering from having watched a grown man sink and appear to be legitimately drowning while wearing an appropriate Coast Guard approved PFD with an attached rape whistle. I thought it was going to turn into a water-rescue-practice kind of thing for a minute, there.)

And today, I don't know about her, but I can't straighten my arms out all the way or lift ToddlerBandit at all. But I got enough movement back in my fingers to use this keyboard to tell all my friends just how cool I think she is. I don't want to wait two more days for that. I'm sure you'll get over it.

PS: She took a TON of pics of my shorties, including this one of Clayton, to work with some new editing tool.  It belongs to her, I stole it (that's the deal with my WCW victims), but I'm putting it here anyway and I think she'll get over it. You definitely should keep her in mind if you have an upcoming need for a photog.

via: Shots By Stephanie - Facebook

WCW - Ariana Martini

Today's WCW is taking me a bit off course.  All the way to Australia, to be precise.  Today's WCW is Ariana Martini, my 6th grade pen pal.

Ariana's photo not available, please paint a beautiful picture in your mind instead.

For those of you who weren't around for the olden times, there used to be this way of communicating with other humans called "writing letters" where you would put words on a piece of paper, put a stamp on it, and it rode in a jeep and a train and an airplane to be deposited in the box that today is commonly used for bills and birthday cards from your grandma (who had to mail it because you don't come see her often enough).

The year I was in 6th grade, stamps made the jump from 22 cents to a quarter, and boy did all Hell break loose over that.  Three cent stamps were a hot commodity for quite a while to prevent having to use TWO 22 cent stamps and running the risk of "overpaying" the USPS for their services, which was worse than blasphemy around these parts.

Our teacher was retired from the US Army and he let us know every.single.day.  First, by wearing short sleeve shirts and refusing to cover the faded and blurry green ink of his "service tat" on his forearm, and secondly by making us do calisthenics on the grass outside our classroom door.

Burpees in wet grass first thing in the morning has somehow not ever been my strongpoint.

Pantyhose were a thing.  For 6th grade girls.  You know, before they were merely "fat strangulation appliances", they were...socks.  Have you ever tried to do a squat-thrust in a skirt and pantyhose?  Try it, I'll wait....

So much WTF going on in this picture. The only one I have, courtesy of Chris Oglesby, who I'm sure only "accidentally" cropped Kari Harris out. Me and Chanda Smith rocking our pantyhose. Mr. Rooper, badassest teacher ever.

Anyhoo.  Sixth Grade taught us a lot.  We learned about the gunk that builds up in a smoker's lungs, thanks to an unprepared presenter who had his whole setup but...not a cigarette...and Mr. Rooper who let me run home 4 houses to get some from my parents' stash, an inordinate number of cartons obtained on any number of stops on an Indian reservation to or from a visit with relatives.

We learned how to measure a tree's height using a tape measure and a shadow and how to survive in the wilderness.

We learned the most about the importance of Veteran's Day that year when our teacher's tough exterior cracked and faded away with his tears as he addressed the whole school.

I learned that my heinous haircut (and perm) from 5th grade would grow out, even if it was a permullet that year.  There was hope.

I learned of the dark hearts beating in those who would harm our children in the place they should feel safest when a new student shared the terrors she and her siblings had survived in the school in the town where they lived before.

We learned about the world around us, which is where Ariana Martini comes in.

Until then, my view of the world beyond our borders was fed by Dan Rather.  Dinners were often in front of the TV, and it was a blur of somber and shocking events until we heard his signature "That's part of our world tonight" sign off.  Libya, Beirut, Iran, Russia.  It sounded as if everywhere but the US was terrible, and the only clips worth showing were sandy, dirty, bloody.  Fighting.  Yelling.  If the people were brown, they were angry.  They wanted to kill each other.  They wanted to kill everyone in their neighboring countries.  They wanted to kill Americans.  Local news was peppered with grim tales of the Green River Killer. There were never any positive messages coming through the boob tube at dinner time.

Dinner: The evening meal best served saturated in depression sauce with a side of anxiety from your favorite news anchor.

So when we were each assigned a pen pal from a school in another country, my eyes were opened to the possibility that we needed to learn and explore these places outside the 6 o'clock news.  I will readily admit I was a shitty pen pal.  I think I just felt like the person on the other end was so much more interesting, had such a better idea at how she fit into the world than I did, after getting her letters I was simply left with nothing to say.  I probably wrote something stupid like asking her if her toilet flushed backward.

First of all, Ariana Martini.  Her name, even.  Hello.  It's a grown-up glamour beverage.  With a special glass and all.  I went into this encounter fully believing that Australia was truly just covered in red dirt, koalas, and kangaroos, surrounded by an ocean full of great white sharks and crocodiles. We had not yet traveled with Nemo and Marlin and Dory to 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney and the dental office of P. Sherman.  Her words chipped away at my ignorance while forcing me to acknowledge it.

She sent carefully taped coins so I could see what their currency looked like.  She sent a picture of herself, a picture of her family's car, one she was currently upset over her father deciding to sell because all her siblings couldn't fit in and it was no longer practical.  It was a Corvette, black and silver, and it looked like a shark, its shiny underbelly eager to consume its prey.  It was just like one I've seen the last month or so parked on the street on my way to work, which is what's been making me think of her as of late and the sneaky way her very brief presence has influenced my life.

She was automatically the coolest person I'd ever known.

How did they have an American car?  I was flabbergasted.  I thought the only people in foreign countries with American cars were American servicemen who had their Mustangs and their Camaros and their Made in the US of A pick-em-up trucks shipped to them because they refused to drive some "RiceBurner" or "Nazi-KrautWagon" while they were protecting us from the Ruskies in a far away land.

She poured out about her life and her surroundings, carefully explaining that her favorite actress turned new pop star, Kylie Minogue, was as popular there as Madonna was here.  She wrote with intelligence about the things outside of her country in a way that I wasn't used to.  I secretly wished I had an updated set of encyclopedias at home.

Encyclopedia: Again, for you newcomers, it was Google version 1.0.  There were about 38 volumes arranged alphabetically to instantly access information that was at least up to date at time of printing.  They were also useful for pressing flowers and hiding money.  Mine had their own special rack, even.  You could basically decorate your room around where you were deciding to place your encyclopedia shelves.

I held onto her writings for a long time like love letters.  Her words inspiring me to look beyond myself, beyond my comfort zone, to learn more than Dan Rather was offering.

It's a big reason I don't allow my children to watch the news.  Ever.  I want them to know more than the bits of filtered information, sensationalized to sell ad minutes.  I want them to know about Malala Yousafzai and her amazing life as much as I want them to know about the Taliban and their awful manners.  We talked about the Dalai Lama a little over a week ago on his birthday and Clayton only had to be corrected four times when he referred to him as "The Llama Man".

Kids are curious.  They WANT to know about other places, other cultures, other kids like them that may not speak the same language but who feel the same feelings.  We watch documentaries like On the Way to School so they can see that education is SO important to those in other countries that they're willing to endure an unbelievably difficult journey just to get there.

It's streaming on Netflix. Go watch it right now.

And so, Ariana Martini, wherever you are in this world today, I thank you.  For inspiring me as a 6th grader to open her eyes and heart to the world, and as a mother who wants desperately for her kids to not have the same narrow views that I did at their age.  You gave me a window.  You showed me how important it is to let others look through your lens.  You put yourself on paper for judgement and consumption and you did so without apology or hesitation.  It was such a welcome gift.

I'm sorry you got the short end of the stick on our arrangement.

WCW - My Mother In Law

Yeah.  She's WCW worthy you guys.

Sunshine and BadAssery on two wheels right here.

My MIL.  JoAn.

Not Joan. Jo. An.

Bucky.  Grandma Bucky.  The glue that holds our family together.  The pint-sized Polly Pocket that is like concentrated sugar and fireworks and a quilt and leather and a party and love all squished into an impossibly tiny package.

With parents no bigger than a couple of Keebler Elves, it's no wonder you can stash her in a hospital waiting room chair for a long wait for labor...she can sleep anywhere.

She's been there always.  For everything.  For everyone.  The births?  I wasn't there, but I did hear grumblings that one person couldn't brush their teeth and another not allowed to poop for fear that she might be late to a grandchild's arrival.  She takes her attendance track record very seriously.

She makes sure we have traditions.  Each kid for their first Christmas now gets a rocking chair.  To mark their second birthday, their photo on her old rocking horse.

Lucky #13

#12 Rocking It

Everything is fair.  She makes things special not only for everyone and makes sure all are included, but she makes each person feel like the ONLY one.  She has a knack for celebrating the individuality in each of the points of light that makes our family, giving each the attention and nurturing they need to thrive and contribute back, that makes the tapestry so rich.

You wanna rock a pink tux? She'll support you!!

We are a giant, interesting bunch.  And we are chaotic and overwhelming.  And she seems to handle us all with ease like a champ.  I honestly don't know how she does it.

She wrangled us all into one place at one time.

ToddlerBandit was pissed about this, but she was determined to get all 13.

She's fun and funny and is always up for anything and never says no to a plan.  And by "plan" I mean she is always all in for "Do you want to go see Wicked in Spokane?" just the same as "Will you drop everything to watch my barfing kid?"

Always there.  For everyone.  For everything.  The only thing she says NO to is when you tell her not to bring food to your party.  "No."  She always shows up with something.

There's so many of us she can't be everywhere at once, so her calendar is sometimes full, and we laugh when she calls and her questions go like:

"Hey, what do you guys have going on for 4th of July?  2016?  I'm looking at camp spots and wanted to get the best one."

She's a planner, she's organized, she keeps us in line.  She gifts us calendars at Christmastime filled with everyone's pictures from throughout the year with everyone's birthdays and anniversaries marked, including those we are missing but who are still very much in our hearts.

She pre-guts the pumpkins every year.  This alone.....I mean....a pre-gutted pumpkin?

She comes with her own gear, prepared for anything, anytime, all packed in a Trader Joe's bag:

• 1 box of wine if she thinks you don't "already have one uncorked"
• Assorted snacks/treats she has baked at various times for holidays to deliver to children
• Assorted candies because some other grandkid got candy and she felt guilty leaving yours out
• 1 Quilting project for a baby or an upcoming graduate or other lucky recipient
• 1 Assorted item that was left at either her house or someone else's house, deliverable to you
• 1 Bag of assorted clothing hand-me-downs from another person's child to your child
• 1 Cell phone with an unusually surprising ringtone
• A cosmetics bag and/or complaints that she has helmet hair if arrival was via motorcycle

I've seen evidence of her skills with the scissors through the years and can confidently say I strive for that same level of excellence with my own children:

This photo will never die.

It's ok - it grew out!!

She has four children but treats us like her eight children.  Four sons and four daughters.  We are equal, we are unique, we are each special to her.  She lets us know that.  There's no distance she won't drive to sit in the rain to watch her grandkids succeed or at least try their hardest, no amount of time that she feels a waste to see that each of us that belongs to her is honored by having her spend her precious time with us.

And her love doesn't stop at the leaves of her own family tree.  Her heart is equally as dedicated to her extended family, her friends, and her community.  She is always there.  For everyone.  Always.

For all of that, I love her tremendously, and I'm so lucky to have her.  Today, my Mother In Law gets this spot this WCW.

(And my FIL. He has a hand in all that punkin' gutting too. And the clean up.
And the presents. He's the man behind the woman.)

WCW - Cop's Wife

Today is WCW, and the woman is actually a group of women, a club, a Sisterhood.  The Cop's Wife.


She is all the cops' wives I know and those I've never met.  The ones I'm friends with and the ones I'll meet one day.  Especially today, she is Lindy Moore, wife of Coeur D'Alene Police Sergeant Greg Moore.

Photo: Amanda Talbott, Cop Wife and Compassionate Jailer, a craft project she'd rather not.

 We hold our collective breath waiting for a glimmer of good news, and when we hear hope is gone, the wind is knocked out of us.  Now we are heartbroken for another member of this Sisterhood, this club that reaches far and wide, its chapters and charters nameless and without meetings or minutes or a guide for newcomers, its dues draining your emotions instead of your wallet.

I purposely stayed away from media as long as I could.  I thought I could will him to pull through by ignoring news updates.  Hubs, out of town this week, asked whether I'd heard any official outlets confirming what he'd heard from someone - the worst - but in our family we've learned to respect the process of official press releases.  It affords officials closest to tragedy the opportunity to inform us of the facts and it's there that we refer when games of telephone get out of hand.

I checked.  Damn.  It was true.  The official end of watch status had been reported.  I forwarded the notice in a screenshot back to him.

Shit.

The kids were hammering me with questions about dinner or whether I'd seen a slap shot or a rock they found that looked like Abraham Lincoln as we sat in the parking lot at the hockey rink.

"Mom?  Moooom...Mom...Mom...Mom?  Hello?  Mom?"

I knew if I opened my mouth to answer them I'd cry.  If I cried I'd have to tell them why.  That some asshole shot a policeman just like their dad out on a stop at the same time of night their dad works and even though I was really really hoping that the doctors would fix him, they couldn't and he died.  He died and he didn't have to.  And now kids like them didn't have a dad and a wife like me didn't have a husband.  And that asshole was sitting in jail and I wished he would just do everyone a favor and hang himself in his cell with his underwear, but that even if he tried to do that, the jailers would save his worthless fucking life, because they're also compassionate humans with their own job to do.  I had to get my shit together.

That's the other thing about cop wives.  They bend over backward to see that cop kids have fairly normal lives and aren't riddled with anxiety about their dad's work life.  Nothing to see here.  Move along.

As much as what one does to earn a living does not define them as a person, cops are different, and so are their mates.  They're held to a higher standard both on and off the job, their personal lives under a microscope and subject to judgement.  We chose this.  Maybe it chose us.  We know that it requires a balance of work and play.  We know that we can't make it without humor, flexibility, and empathy.  We have a different sort of pride, one that we know we can't always show off.  Advertising our status can make us a target and can be counterproductive to keeping the peace.  We are happy to support from the sidelines without ceremony.

We know that sometimes our dinner takes a back seat to criminals.  Sometimes it's a grieving family.  We learn to share our husband with others.  We want him back when they're done, though.  That's the deal.

We are shocked because these are the supermen of our society, the invincible heroes that run toward danger while others run away.  The bravest of the brave fighting forces of evil to protect us.

Nerdy Apple (Sarah) used to write as Cop's Wife before she updated her blog.  Her hubs, The Detective, is never named nor can she show us his undoubtedly handsome face because he deals with the dirtiest dirt bags in his work and can't risk blowing his cover.  She continues to share herself and her shorties with us, including those parts that make her part of the Sisterhood, stretching the web from the Northwest to the Bible Belt.  I am thankful for her, otherwise a stranger, now a sister to me.  Someone who understands what others cannot.

I'm also thankful for Amanda, Ashley, Darcy, Cindie, Stephanie, CodyAnn, Ingrid, Lacie, Dana, Cass, Victoria, Deena, Kit, Andrea, Teresa, Jaclyn, Sara, Erin, and the others who may have griped about the sound of velcro coming off a vest in the middle of the night, but who all actually prefer waking to that than a knock at the door.

She's never really rested from sleeping with one eye open until he's home, but feels guilty for saying so because she knows that he gets less time in bed than she does.  She knows that his fatigue can be a safety issue and it just makes her worry more and sleep even less.  She loves him for the man he is and for the selfless choice he makes to give himself to others every day.

Cop's Wife.  She is us.  We are her.  We grieve with her for her loss.  For our loss.

WCW - Kimberlie

It's WCW - Woman Crush Wednesday.  I think I might make a series out of this, but please set your expectations low.  Everyone knows I joke about how I have no friends.  The reality is, I have a lot of great friends.  They take all forms, and my relationship with each is unique and deserves celebration. My goal here is to introduce them, one at a time, so that others can see what I see in them, and so that they may see what I see in them. And well, we as women tend to be harsh on ourselves and could use some nice words from others.  I might rip off your pictures, but I make no apologies for that.  Be forewarned.  Also, fingers crossed that nobody takes offense either to being included, along with my well intentioned narrative, nor those thinking there is a hierarchy to my love. It's random and spreads like glitter in the wind.

Today's WCW is Kimberlie.



She gets this kick-off spot because I got my hair done on Tuesday after a long absence from professional help.  The young receptionist at Esten's orthodontist cheerfully asked me, "Who does your OMBRE? I love it!!" Through my gritted-toothed smile, I thanked her but assured that it was only due to months' worth of neglect.  Also, people my age don't call it "ombre", we call it "trailer trash roots".  I suppose the fashion world can slap a cute name on anything and people flock to it.

I found myself in front of a new stylist again, for the umpteenth time since I last saw Kim, explaining to our reflections in the mirror the reason for my hair's sad state to a sympathetic ear:

"My regular hair lady [yes, she still has that title] moved away, like MOVED MOVED.  To the Virgin Islands.  I was in denial for a long time.  I thought she would come back.  I thought she would visit and want nothing more than to spend her precious time here cutting and coloring my hair as she filled me in on island life.  She didn't come back.  She isn't coming back.  My hair has been a shit show since she left.  I miss her.  No offense that you weren't my first choice."

I got all fixed up, but explaining the pain her absence has left in my heart again has made me think about her, and not just for the selfish reasons that I need her around.  She is an amazing lady and people fall into two categories: those who have met Kim and those who have not met Kim.  Those who have met her never ever forget her.

I met Kim when I started dating my husband, a package deal you get when you marry someone who graduated with an uber-tiny class from a small town.  She was a lot to take in at first.  Her skin was as dark as her teeth were white, her hair standing in defiance to the elements.  Over the years, I got to know what was under all that, and under each layer I was more surprised than before.  She shares the good and bad with us, and despite any physical fakery to her appearance, her heart is nothing but honest.

She had some steady and serious boyfriends, but ultimately she is the living essence of Miss Independent.  Once, when a relationship fizzled out on a vacation in Mexico, she said "f*ck it" and stayed, making new friends and enjoying the rest of her time in the sun and sand....single.

She spent time in the military - and minimizes the significance of being the first female to participate in a ceremony that I believe deserves more recognition than she'd be willing to accept.

She takes on challenges that seem nuts to us.  She ate what she described to me as "prechewed tuna" and other ridiculous foods and literally worked her buns off to participate in fitness competitions.  Plural.  More than once.  Which of course, required her to spray to a whole new level of bronze than before.

She is the first to laugh at herself, making it safe for us to laugh at her ourselves too.  She's mixed up aerosol hairspray and Raid and PAM.  She once killed a spider that turned out to be her eyelashes on the rug.  A grocery store "stalker" was actually a man who couldn't quite find the right words to let her know that her extensions had fallen out a few aisles back.

 

OK, to be honest she has a lot of
hair issues.

She loves with her whole heart - her dogs, the Zags, NASCAR, her friends, her parents, her brother who was taken too soon.  Her heart is twice as big as her hair and overflows for those she cares about.

And wine. She also loves wine.

She took a leap of faith and moved from her own house in the neighborhood she lovingly referred to as "Methlehem" to halfway around the world to make others feel beautiful, often on their wedding day.  She has embraced a new life and caved to the fact that she would have to up her technology game to stay connected to those of us she left behind.

I miss her.  We all miss her.  We are grateful that we get glimpses into her life, even when it's freezing-ass cold here and she's posting pictures of her life in paradise like an asshole.  For that, she is my WCW.

 

Will You Be My Galentine?

I just completed an incredibly difficult assignment.

I submitted a description of why a certain friend, a special gal....is my Galentine.

But I had to do it in 100 words or less.

I know...right?

First off, I could write a million words about a whole lotta ladies that deserve a special spotlight every day of the year. So many women have my heart in a unique way these days since I've gotten over myself that makes me appreciate the passage of time and makes me say things like "you couldn't pay me to be 22 again".

That's not to discount the men in my life. They're important, too. I value them, I respect them, I treasure friendships and the honest feedback that those brave souls who have stuck it out through tumultuous years with me provide.

But this is not my Palentine.

Here are the 100 words I managed to edit down to, thinking how ridiculous it is to even attempt to condense her into this tiny space:

Emaline. Emmie. Em.

She’s been a sister, soldier, artist, traveler, and runner.  She’s run for a firefighter to drape a Tiffany necklace around her neck at the finish.  She more often runs for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and to remember those we have lost.

She doesn’t just face adversity bravely, she shows us all how to dissect and defeat it.  Though her heart’s been broken open, the love that flows out of her for others is immeasurable.

She knows when to hold on and when to let go. I’m so happy she holds onto me.

She is my Galentine.

She is so much more than these 100 words. She is infinitely more than this to me, to everyone who is lucky enough to know her, to have her in their lives. She's a lifelong friend despite the sands of time and more miles than anyone is happy about. She is loved more than she knows by more people than she realizes.

And so, for this submission assignment, win or lose, I love her. She is my Galentine.

Who is your Galentine?