tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46254789907139498822024-02-18T23:37:28.984-08:00DayLee FixFrom rainbows to reality in a heartbeat.DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.comBlogger142125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-61795795581666696822020-01-16T10:53:00.001-08:002020-01-16T10:53:20.690-08:00LC Lightning’s Devastating LossI doubt anyone knows this.<br />
<br />
Jen Short made me a hockey mom.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCyiWNz1hSYWGV_9JZ4C0pGJmo4FRKNMLdLqoceNqLL-E_TjUvcPjXaHLo8BBDiv4ZH0Kp9SGarqt7QdL-jilM_OCKM4bwy3oiOjq3IquWo319kBqV4N8WeuCiXfIOD8q9uoxITvgnWGM/s1600/jen+by+arnzen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="958" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCyiWNz1hSYWGV_9JZ4C0pGJmo4FRKNMLdLqoceNqLL-E_TjUvcPjXaHLo8BBDiv4ZH0Kp9SGarqt7QdL-jilM_OCKM4bwy3oiOjq3IquWo319kBqV4N8WeuCiXfIOD8q9uoxITvgnWGM/s400/jen+by+arnzen.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jen and her team | photo by J. Arnzen</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
It was Jen there in locker room #4 with her laptop, not at all bothered that I interrupted a meeting that day I found the rink's open sign lit and came in with questions about getting my kids started in hockey. And boy, did I have questions. She didn't just give me the answers, she helped me do it. She signed us up and put together enough borrowed gear to throw us head first into an already-swinging season so that the boys might at least know some of the rules before an actual game.<br />
<br />
She advocated for Clayton, who was younger and should have started at a lower level, but helped me appeal to the board and to convince the coaches to give him one shot to change their minds. If not for her helping to jump-start Clayton's career in a challenge/growth environment, he likely wouldn't be competing at the level he is today. Looking back, it was a ludicrous request and she had an equally ludicrous faith in my kids' potentials for knowing them and me all of about thirty seven minutes.<br />
<br />
Jen made me stop being the kind of mom who was terrified to let my kids ride with anyone else on frozen highways for away games. She loved my kids with her whole heart, and while they're not the only kids she pulled in and declared family, she did so in a way that made each of them feel special and important. She insisted that she enjoyed taking Esten because he sat up front and chatted with her while others, zapped and exhausted (100% because they played harder than him, probably), snoozed in the back seat. She was one part second-mom, with her nurturing and life lessons, and one part cool aunt, buying him and letting him spend his money on things he (and she) thought I wouldn't, like an eight dollar necklace and white sunglasses.<br />
<br />
Jen was TB's favorite, which any other hockey parent whose affections he has rejected over the years will confirm. Don't get me wrong, he rejected hers, too...but she rejected his rejections. The more he acted shy, the more she'd get in his face until they were best friends. This was a technique she passed on to Jayden, who I hope never ever ever leaves TB alone for the rest of his life.<br />
<br />
<i>"I see your best friend, Jen!"</i> I'd sing when I saw her truck as we pulled into the parking lot. He'd dash in ahead of me, circling the periphery, floating closer and closer waiting for her to notice him. She'd say, <i>"HARRISON LEEEEE!! Do you want to go home with me to MY house?"</i> Then he'd chirp <b><i>"NO" </i></b>at her, then always asked me on the ride home when we were gonna go to Jen's house.<br />
<br />
We have grand views of Waha from our back porch, but we stopped calling it Waha after we met Jen. Instead, it's "Jen's house" and we'd say things like, <i>"oh look! There's snow at Jen's house"</i> or <i>"whoa that lightning is too close to Jen's house!"</i><br />
<br />
She fiercely loved our community and wore it like she couldn't be prouder to live here, the same as she showed pride from where she'd come from before that, too. She didn't just volunteer for hockey, she did it all. She was everywhere, gathering up new friends as she went. She pitched in for fundraisers and filled volunteer spots for causes she wasn't involved with, but she knew and loved someone who was, and that was good enough for her. She showed up to help me for a PTA family skate night, helping me pass out and tie and put away skates for a student body she didn't know.<br />
<br />
In the stairwell of the rink in Kennewick, she pulled a handful of us together as we made our way to the bleachers before a game. There was a lump. She wanted us all to know. Jen's the reason I scheduled my first mammogram.<br />
<br />
Jen was the one who added me to the Facebook group Hockey Deals and Discounts. While they do indeed offer deals and discounts, they also launched The PenaltyBox Foundation in 2018, providing grants and donations to individuals and organizations in and around a broad hockey community. They also created National Hockey Mom Day, to give thanks and bring awareness to hockey moms across the globe for the dedication those moms show their players, teams, and families in and out of the rink.<br />
<br />
It's infinitely sad that she died on this National Hockey Mom Day, because she truly embodied every best thing about a hockey mom.<br />
<br />
For the LC Lightning family, this is our most devastating loss ever. Despite having devoted fans, putting in the best players, calling a time out, hoping for a one-timer, we still just ran out of time. We know there's no appealing the score and nothing about it is fair.<br />
<br />
There are so many people who loved Jen that it feels selfish to be so gutted to lose her. Our world is darker without her, but man, do I feel lucky to have had her to make my world better in ways that will reach far beyond the time we had. It just wasn't long enough.<br />
<br />
Jen had an unofficial designated seat and mine was usually as close to her as I could be. She never got mad at anyone else for sitting in her seat, but it was the place where she'd lay out her blankets before others filtered in. From that spot she always cheered and cheered HARD. She never uttered words of disappointment or defeat. She was such a positive, gracious fan that it was hard to not find even more love for this cold, smelly game just by sharing a wooden bench with her.<br />
<br />
That's why I committed some light vandalism at the rink this week. I asked another mom to come too because she and her family were also always Jen-adjacent. And she and her daughter and I chalked and taped and painted and tried to keep the tears to a minimum. And while we feel helpless and sad for Jesse and Jayden and Connor and their family and ourselves and everyone in Jen's orbit, we know that grief is the price we pay for love.<br />
<br />
And so, as we try to navigate this world without her, let's look for those best parts of her living on in others, and let's save her a seat.<br />
<br />
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<br />DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-90368202876020665502019-04-19T17:17:00.000-07:002019-04-19T17:17:47.673-07:00Pick-Up ArtistsMy kids got phones when they each turned 13.<br />
<br />
Then they promptly began to ignore my calls. The excuses varied, but were usually because of a do-not-disturb setting while they were gaming with friends, a measure to prevent their army of other friends from interrupting with SnapChaps and whatnot.<br />
<br />
This has not gone over well, as you can imagine.<br />
<br />
You know who never doesn't answer the phone? Dispatchers. At least in my experience. Emergency or non-emergency lines alike, they're the most reliable pick-uppers around.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mendy, Erinn, Tiagh, Amanda, Ashley, Lindsey, Bobby,<br />Jaclyn, Monica, Kerry, and Morgan.<br />Also, Hubs on the hunt for candy. He knows it's here somewhere.</td></tr>
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<br /><br />
This week was National Public Safety Telecommunicators Week. And while treats were had and appreciations extended, none of those behind the consoles took their eye off the ball. This week was a hard one and tested nerves, training, and resolve - and those serving the agencies in our community came through.<br />
<br />
I've always appreciated the routine and mundane way these women and men have systematically kept tabs on Hubs during his years on the road. Some have come and gone, but they're still part of our family, even if he's moved into administration.<br />
<br />
The trust borne out of the communications between this team, dispatchers from other jurisdictions, and the officers serving all have built a unique safety net in our community - an assurance that no matter where help is needed in our geographically interesting area, there's no delay in getting someone to you.<br />
<br />
This week <a href="https://www.isp.idaho.gov/massMailer-web/loadNewsRelease.action?domain=opr&newsReleaseId=10632">our community suffered a tragic event</a> - an officer ambushed at his home, followed by an unbelievable pursuit where no other officers or bystanders were injured and the suspect was stopped quickly. Not many details have been released publicly at this time from the agency charged with untangling the web of evidence to piece together what everyone is asking:<br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b><span style="font-size: large;">Why did this happen?</span></b></i></div>
<br />
I'm sorry that it happened. I'm sorry that the officers involved were put in that situation. I'm sorry for every sleepless and nightmare-filled hour that everyone will endure.<br />
<br />
Lots of speculation is floating around, but I'm proud of the compassionate and professional way the officials who've touched this have handled things. Sometimes the wait for details is excruciating, but it's necessary to ensure the facts come to light.<br />
<br />
I'm proud of the seamless way that everyone jumped in to ensure coverage - an act of humanity, not of execution of a required plan.<br />
<br />
I'm proud that this won't keep any of them from answering the next call.<br />
<br />
I'm proud that when shit hits the fan, our agencies are all-hands-on-deck, and that all colors of uniforms, all manner of stripe and rank showed up at the hospital to check on Officer Rigney, that despite agency affiliation, they were all claiming him as their own.<br />
<br />
Especially Hubs, who referred to him simply as "Mike's kid" in a quick text to me when he told me where he was. Hubs, the one who has never ever ever looked at these events, no matter how close to home, and said he wanted out. Times like this, he says he misses being on the road the most.<br />
<br />
For now, he will do what's in his control to do: to make sure technology is available to keep communications reliable and safe in order to protect responders and best serve our community, to advocate for amended status for dispatchers, whose 24/7 high-stress service hasn't been recognized in the same way other first responders have historically, and finally, and probably most importantly, to make sure everyone working for and with and around him knows just how much he cares about them, and wants them to succeed in their pursuit of public service.<br /><br />If you'd like to help Officer Rigney, an account has been set up at <a href="https://www.lewisclarkcu.org/" target="_blank">Lewis Clark Credit Union</a>, as well as several other fundraising efforts around the Valley. Lend your support however you're comfortable, but as always, please verify the fundraiser before donating.<br /><br />If you'd like to support Public Safety Telecommunicators, visit <a href="https://p2a.co/PzAhdr2">NENA.org</a> to express your support of reclassifying dispatchers as first responders vs. clerical staff.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, everyone at the House of Lee sends all the speediest recovery vibes as Officer Rigney heals, and every relieved deep breath that the other responding officers were physically unharmed. We'll continue thinking of everyone as they work through the aftermath, and know our community will rally around you all with the same ferocious protection that you provide every day.<br />
<br />
And night.DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-20375651563402389552018-10-02T19:12:00.000-07:002018-10-02T21:48:45.394-07:00Schedules, String Cheese, and EmmA's Homework<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I keep a calendar. It's where all the upcoming important things and events and places I need to be and also the people I am responsible for need to be when they need to be there live. Usually on Sunday afternoons I sit at the dining table and fill in and review what's coming up for the week.<br />
<br />
I don't do this because I am an organized person. I do this because the inside of my brain looks like a "worst of" episode of Hoarders they haven't even dreamed of yet. Also see previous post re: how my brains are LITERALLY spilling out of my skull so there is that.<br />
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<br />
I also don't do this to establish an alibi, unless my dental appointment will clear me of suspicion of murder, in which case go ahead and ask me.<br />
<br />
If you have ever tried to make social plans with me, I have likely told you to check with The Hubs because he's in charge of our social calendar. That is true. He inherited the gene from his mother wherein he can tell you where we are going for 4th of July for the next five years straight.<br />
<br />
My brain is filled to capacity with other things, and thanks to scoring a 14/14 on this <a href="https://greenwichuniversity.eu.qualtrics.com/jfe/form/SV_e3xDuCccGAdgbfT" target="_blank">Greenwich University test</a> I know it's also filled with the faces of everyone I've ever looked at, which explains why I randomly point out people in grocery stores and bore my spouse to literal death with stories like hey there's the guy that did such and such ten years ago and in exchange he looks at me like he is calculating the amount of insurance money he could get if he killed me in my sleep so he never has to hear another story like this and he can't decide if it's worth it. <i>(Also spoiler: NOT MUCH!!)</i><br />
<br />
In the end he decides not to because he needs me to use my skills to tell him who an actor is or what other movie we saw him in because we can't enjoy entertaining things until I tell him and I couldn't very well tell him if I was dead.<br />
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I keep a calendar to remind myself of the what-and-who-goes-where because with all the faces in my head and also all the other useless trivia IN THE WORLD lodged there <i>( hey Mandy, you wanna know why that horse has ribbons braided into its tail?)</i> and also the knowledge required to do my actual day job that they pay me money to do, this being able to remember normal things business is my shortcoming. Like on Friday, TB stayed home with Dad-Dad with a fever and I was at work at 9:30 midway through a meeting before it occurred to me I'd forgotten to call the school and tell them.<br />
<br />
What's that you ask? Why did not Dad-Dad whom he was staying home with call the school? Unsure. Dad-Dad would probably say he does not know the school's telephone number. I do not know of all the things that occupy Dad-Dad's brain hoard, but I think the corner where there could be room to store the telephone number for the school is occupied by the fine print of the Dairy Queen buy-one-get-one-free coupons, which up until he had to go and ruin it for everyone, there didn't USED TO HAVE TO BE an exclusion for ice cream cakes on.<br />
<br />
Who knows whether this will ever improve? In all this, I'm arming my kids to be more self sufficient.<br />
<br />
I sent TB to school on Monday with a Costco-sized package of string cheese in an insulated bag in his backpack. I heard him tell EVERY SINGLE kid at the bus stop, <i>"Guess what I have in my backpack! STRING CHEESE!"</i>. I made a mental note to email his teacher about it.<br />
<br />
And then I forgot.<br />
<br />
Later in the day, I emailed her:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><b>"I *hope hope hope* he told you he has string cheese in his backpack before it got warm."</b></i></div>
<br />
She answered back:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><b>"He was responsible. He told me as soon as he got to the classroom."</b></i></div>
<br />
Today, I asked him to please give Ella back her free-draw picture that had accidentally come home in his folder. He asked how I knew it was hers. I knew because Ella's mom had given me back one of TB's papers that had gone home with her by mistake. I also knew it was THIS Ella and not a different Ella because we'd chuckled over both our kids stubbornly making capital As not in the beginning of their names.<br />
<br />
I knew when I saw -EllA- across the top it was hers.<br />
<br />
Could I have given it to Ella's mom myself? Yeah. We both go to the bus stop in the mornings. But this was a chance for him to see that someone made a mistake (their mailboxes are next to each other), fix that mistake even though it was not HIS mistake, and to give back a thing that didn't belong to him. Things like that take practice when it's a little insignificant thing like a free-draw so that when it's a big thing like someone's valued personal property, the decision comes like muscle memory to do what's right.<br />
<br />
It's one thing to preach theory to someone and hope they do it when the time comes, but it's a gift when you have a chance to practice.<br />
<br />
Because when my boys grow up, I want them to know how to do the right thing, especially when it affects other people. As they're getting older, I'm realizing that as much as things like grades are important to me, how they treat others is importanter. So far, I think they're doing okay, but we've had A LOT of chitty-chats along the way, especially lately.<br />
<br />
<b>Yes, </b><b>about Kavanaugh, too. Especially about that.</b><br />
<br />
When TB got off the bus today, I asked him whether he had a fun day, and whether he gave Ella back her paper. He said yes and yes, but that he waited until they got all the way to school to give it to her. I was irritated.<br />
<br />
<b>"Why didn't you give it to her on the bus?"</b><br />
<br />
<b>"Because it was raining, mom. I didn't want her to have a tricky zipper on her backpack on the bus and not be able to zip it up and it would get all wet and rainy. I waited until we were inside at school in case she needed a grown up to help with her zipper after she put it away."</b><br />
<br />
I'm going to forget things again. A lot of things. I will forget and get lost in the minutiae of times and dates and appointments and the things I need to write down because I cannot seem to make them stick like post-its on my brain.<br />
<br />
I will remember that today, TB was my favorite.<br />
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<br />DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-78851615612627213162018-08-01T12:30:00.000-07:002018-08-01T13:03:04.363-07:00Key Are What?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Hey hi.<br />
<br />
I've been absent a while.<br />
<br />
The words aren't coming very easily these days. If I'm honest, they haven't for a while. I'd gotten used to the idea that they had to sit and steep for a long time. Edits were part of the deal.<br />
<br />
I'm going to try to make this short, you can go down the Google rabbit hole for the rest.<br />
<br />
In preparation for a referral to a migraine specialist, my primary ordered an MRI.<br />
<br />
It showed a Type 1 Arnold Chiari Malformation.<br />
<br />
Long story short, part of my brain is squishing through the hole that my spinal cord is supposed to enjoy unfettered exclusive real estate on and it restricts the flow of spinal fluid in and out of the brain.<br />
<br />
Gross.<br />
<br />
Even grosser? The fix for it. Which is why I baby-step tippy toed around telling Hubs about it because I didn't want him to freak out. But then he Google machined it and now the cat's out of the bag and I'm probably going to end up with a super sexxxy haircut one day. Maybe.<br />
<br />
And as soon as I realized what it was and the havoc it wreaks on your body, the last oh...I don't know...<i>all of my entire life</i> came suddenly into sharp focus. All of the things and the instances where I knew something was wrong but I didn't stand up for myself. I'm kicking myself for letting this go for so long that now my question is:<i> can they do something about it now, and will I know whatever it is to feel normal?</i><br />
<br />
For as long as I can remember these are the things that I've thought were "normal" or were explained away:<br />
<br />
The baseline constant feeling of having just stepped off a tilt-a-whirl.<br />
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The always dilated pupils which were especially fun all the times I was accused of being on drugs which was especially fun because I have literally never done drugs ever.<br />
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My childhood dentist who said <b><i>"her mouth is too small for her teeth, so I'm going to just start pulling a bunch of them out until they fit."</i></b> [THIS MAYBE SHOULD HAVE BEEN A CLUE THAT MY SKULL WAS ALSO TOO SMALL FOR MY BRAIN HELLO]<br />
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Thinking I keep pulling my neck muscles every morning like I am trapped inside the body of an 80 year old. Then blaming myself for not eating enough vitamins or doing enough yoga.<br />
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That time in 5th grade that I blacked out for no reason in the gym and Sarah Cameron caught me and kept me from busting my teeth out and Mr. Bruce walked me home and my mom said I was probably just sad because my grandpa died.<br />
<br />
Other girls: "<i>look at my cute headband</i>." Me: "<i>get it off me before I vomit</i>".<br />
<br />
Crying for no reason. Or because I yawned wrong.<br />
<br />
So sleepy.<br />
<br />
That lump in my throat I blamed on things like my feelings.<br />
<br />
All the activity-a-thons for various entities I was involved with, including an overly ambitious youth group bike ride some combination of from and/or to Hells Gate and the church, where one and/or both of The Studer Boys graciously stayed back and pedaled circles around me with their 9 foot long legs while I likely begged them to go on ahead and leave me there to die.<br />
<br />
That time I blacked out for no reason when I worked at JC Penney (because I had my head tilted way back getting something off a high rack with a pole/hook) and the customer thought I was dead and I went to the doctor because you better not be pregnant and no I wasn't but my blood pressure was wow super low so my doctor said hey you're young just eat more salt and you'll be fine so I got to do fun things like eat pickles and peanuts at every special occasion where someone thought I might be getting nervous and clammy.<br />
<br />
That time I blacked out for no reason during a preop Q/A session before a laparoscopic cleanout of the endometriosis crime scene in my abdomen when I couldn't hear the nurse's question over the ringing in my ears so I turned my head wrong, and they did an EEG but that was normal and my mom said oh this has happened before she's probably just nervous!<br />
<br />
That time pre-labor that my blood pressure crashed after the epidural when I laid flat on my back.<br />
<br />
Every time I lay flat and I start to see stars. Or when Jason throws his leg over mine and presses down on my legs and I freak out because I can't breathe.<br />
<br />
Every time one block feels like five miles. If it's hot? I get stupid. Quickly.<br />
<br />
I've always had the upper body strength of a wet noodle.<br />
<br />
My hands and feet go numb but hey I'm probably just not active enough for good circulation!<br />
<br />
Falling down! Tripping over nothing. Misjudging distances. Stairssssss. Oh God. The stairs.<br />
<br />
So now I wait. I'm waiting because that's what we do when you're in line to see a specialist who specializes in special problems. But it's not an emergency, and I know now I've had this forever. And honestly, who here is surprised that my brains are literally too big to fit inside my skull?<br />
<br />
I'd like to get some answers soon, though. It's been a month now and that feels like a long, long time to wait to make a plan. Although I guess now I know why none of the migraine meds that I've tried over the past 20 years have worked. Shout out to those who've been patient with me in the past when I know this has shown its face, when it's robbed me of my energy or my words or seemingly my personality. And to those who've known about this and who've said they'd do whatever, whenever. You guys are the best. Who knew such an invisible thing could be so clear if someone just knew where to look?<br />
<br />
Humans are so weird.<br />
<br />DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-55030181318642911022018-02-15T14:44:00.000-08:002018-02-15T14:44:58.270-08:00Tattle Tits<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifxPIoe2dDOAjYCP8LbOAAbthKXkxQHOssO8Wgu6YAd2vPP1Mhw6rEjq-dVLE_Mcz05YzuRwopcKVZHVm_1QGf0LPRl-JApLpgko7fs7RIKa4dTPHu5gdY2Zsj1fhnCGe8xa4qDrAAxLY/s1600/5118951829_630a8ce1a5_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="838" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifxPIoe2dDOAjYCP8LbOAAbthKXkxQHOssO8Wgu6YAd2vPP1Mhw6rEjq-dVLE_Mcz05YzuRwopcKVZHVm_1QGf0LPRl-JApLpgko7fs7RIKa4dTPHu5gdY2Zsj1fhnCGe8xa4qDrAAxLY/s320/5118951829_630a8ce1a5_b.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>
<br />
You can call me Tattle Tits.<br />
<br />
Last year I witnessed an incident at a retailer that ended in an ambulance call and left me with a gut feeling that someone might lie about it.<br />
<br />I don't even know why I felt like that. Something was just off. The reaction wasn't what I expected.<br />
<br />
Other people saw it, someone else called for the ambulance, there were surveillance cameras.<br />
<br />
Still, I stopped by later that day when the hubbub died down and asked to talk to the on-site contact for loss prevention. I could tell he wasn't quite sure what he was doing, so I jotted down a quick statement with elements I knew were important. I wrote down my name and telephone number.<br />
<br />
Today, I got a call from their corporate loss prevention division. The claim is something wildly different than the facts. They found my name and knew from the first written narrative scribbled sideways on a scrap that the statement on the claim wasn't adding up.<br />
<br />
Here's the kicker. Those cameras? They only SOMETIMES work. They didn't that day.<br />
<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
Why had I even been paying that much attention?<br />
<br />
Am I a five-alarm stalker?<br />
<br />
Only kind of.<br />
<br />
It was July. Go ahead and look up what the weather was like or I'll save you the trip to the Googlemachine because it was HOT AS BALLS.<br />
<br />
This lady had on layers and by layers I mean like A COAT and gloves and I noticed this because she had those gloves up on the handle of an empty cart she was pushing into the store from the parking lot and I was like, <i>"how unfortunate, maybe she has eczema or something but Jesus that sucks because it's so freaking HOT she is going to have a heat strooooooOMG what is happening????"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Because I watched as her feet STOPPED MOVING like, you know how when you're walking but you have to sneeze but you don't want to pee your pants? No? Just me? Anyway. Like that. Just stopped. But the top part of her body KEPT ROLLING with the cart.<br />
<br />
She twisted around, never letting go of the cart until she was on the ground and the cart was partially on top of her. I thought this lady just dropped dead in front of me but honestly I wasn't that surprised because I was JUST thinking she was going to roast to death.<br />
<br />
I can see this happening even now in my head because I was walking behind her in that way that one does where you kind of give a person room so they don't think you're being a crowdy asshole, but when I saw her start to twist and fall, I threw my purse to try to catch her which of course didn't work because I'm too slow but fortunately since my purse wasn't zipped I did manage to dump the contents all over the front entryway.<br />
<br />
Her husband hadn't noticed.<br />
<br />
<i>"Um, hello? HELLOOOOOO!!! Um, your, uh...wife? She fell."</i><br />
<br />
<i>"Oh yeah. She does that."</i><br />
<br />
He stood there with his hands in his pockets while I held her head off the concrete while she wailed because it was her bad leg that apparently already had a hip replacement. Two other women who'd been behind me called for the ambulance. They stayed and conveyed the information to the ambulance crew and I left to finish my errands.<br />
<br />
Later I'd just gotten a bad feeling about it. I mean, I felt for the woman. I still do. I believe she was legitimately injured. I have no idea how it ended up for her. But I also got such a weird snarky vibe from the husband, or whoever was with her, that I felt like someone probably needed to say something, in case the camera hadn't picked up the right angle. Or something was blocked.<br />
<br />
And today, I got that call. They're being sued. The claim is that she tripped over an object due to the store's negligence. They said my statement was key in this. That they'd gotten him to admit that he didn't see it because I specifically said <b>he did not see it happen</b>.<br />
<br />
I got an education I didn't want in logging objective observations as a victim. I felt awful for those witnesses who got dragged in to speak to the things they'd seen and heard. It opened my eyes to just how beneficial it is as an outsider with no connection to a case to be willing to speak up and attest to what you've seen, sometimes boring details you encounter in your everyday life can make or break a criminal or civil case.<br />
<br />
Fixers, speak up. Don't ever assume that there are cameras rolling everywhere. Don't duck out and say you don't want to be involved. Sometimes it's hard to find someone to report things to when something is chaotic. Wait until it dies down, then go back and leave your name and number and a short statement.<br />
<br />
<b>Be a tattle tit.</b><br />
<br />
<br />DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-16488786149227897282018-01-01T14:45:00.000-08:002018-01-01T14:45:03.509-08:00Don't Look Back - (But Totally Look Back)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuGrTi7H5AdOozREHp8KjUgOAV1EnMJxdY28qNdHe3OTepz8pl7qCpT-nMNXK9cFVt-He9MaOLw6w1mREx9EKL83OwakSBxn09G7cdQJeC9Zo1jgNCKyJEeP_QuvKoJQJs3m7eRMztIn0/s1600/48af051714d53f33055e49d531863ff3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="564" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuGrTi7H5AdOozREHp8KjUgOAV1EnMJxdY28qNdHe3OTepz8pl7qCpT-nMNXK9cFVt-He9MaOLw6w1mREx9EKL83OwakSBxn09G7cdQJeC9Zo1jgNCKyJEeP_QuvKoJQJs3m7eRMztIn0/s400/48af051714d53f33055e49d531863ff3.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my office. Mine is in a dungeon. With much more clutter.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
As I turned the lights off in my office for the last time in 2017 on Friday, after everyone else was already gone and an eerie hush crept through the building, I felt great. Not because I sifted through and tossed most of the multiple piles of post-it notes and outdated materials while I'd been waiting on a report with more data than my computer was prepared to handle on the last working day of the year.<br />
<br />
Not because my desk was a fresh blank slate (minus all the coffee rings I'd collected since the last scrub down).<br />
<br />
Not because I'd made the deadline on things like expense reports and time cards.<br />
<br />
This year I spent my December 29th compiling some unsolicited summary documents, outlining major accomplishments that accumulated during the year, projects that were borne out of weekly meetings and eating the elephant one bite at a time. I'd pushed a lot of stuff forward at what felt like a snail's pace, and the groups I belong to had done a lot too, but asking what exactly those things were required a 12 month archaeological dig to articulate.<br />
<br />
There's still SO MUCH WORK that I'm stressed out about having left unresolved for the year. So why do this? Why not just keep pressing forward, leaving yesterday in the dust?<br />
<br />
Value.<br />
<br />
By sitting down and pulling together a highlight reel for the smaller team, for our peers, and for our leaders, we can see the tangible results and the larger effects on quality, efficiency, and growth as a group.<br />
<br />
It was no different than sitting down to write the letter that accompanied my family Christmas card, really. The audience and contents were different, but both exercises gave me a chance to reflect on the year behind so that the year ahead had perspective and purpose.<br />
<br />
But why me? Why not someone else? If this wasn't a mandatory assigned task, why put myself through that?<br />
<br />
<b>To remember why I started.</b><br />
<br />
There's no better time than a fresh year to ask yourself why you got into this business in the first place, what brought you here, and what drives you to return every day. If you find yourself out of love with what you're doing, it might drive you to set your sights in a new direction. If you find yourself compelled to continue, it's a chance to recommit to your cause and look for new ways to do it even better.<br />
<br />
I like what I do. I'm good at it. I get paid authentic paper money to do it (j/k I have direct deposit). It affords me a chance to make other people's lives better.<br />
<br />
That's what it's all about, right?<br />
<br />
So as you sit today with your fresh new planners, preparing your next week's worth of clean food bento boxes and filling gallon jugs with all the hydration you can handle and dusting off your jazzercise wardrobe, remember to take time to recognize what you did last year. Even if it feels like it was just a dumpster fire.<br />
<br />
Write down what you did, but more importantly, what impact it had. Did you improve a process? Did your team reach a noteworthy goal? Demonstrate that. Doing so will have a ripple effect - you'll be prepared for performance evaluations to talk about how you didn't just show up on time every day, but that you also positively contributed to the bottom line. By reminding yourself of these important metrics, you may find it less daunting to put pants on tomorrow as we all head back to the grind.<br />
<br />
Can't get started? Ask for help. Find someone you trust, your people who you'd go to for an assist if you were refreshing your resume. Some people find it hard to toot their own horn, so practicing this on a committee or team effort is sometimes much easier.<br />
<br />
That was the case for me, anyway.<br />
<br />
May 2018 bring satisfaction in your professional life, and may you find balance and perspective between it and your home life.<br />
<br />
<br />DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-77331633078076210222017-08-18T11:03:00.002-07:002017-08-18T11:03:53.359-07:00I Won SNL Tickets!<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">You Guys. I won SNL tickets. I'm not even shitting
you. For real.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Every
August, Saturday Night Live opens up its lottery for tickets. You email them
and they tell you if you win and what show you're scheduled to see. You don't
get to request any date. That's how it works.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
Hubs told me he put in for them. I didn't tell him I'd done it a few days
before that. This is what real love is, people. It didn't matter, neither of us
was going to win.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
I'd gotten an auto-reply which I initially regarded as spam, but it went over
some additional requirements such as that you had to have your full name and
email address in the body of your email, so realizing that I had not done that
in mine, I sent another. Mine read as follows:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<i>Hubs and I are DYING this summer without our weekly dose of SNL (so we are looking forward to the upcoming Thursday weekend updates!). So is the rest of America. So to say that we are more deserving of tickets than everyone else makes us selfish assholes. But we really need to get away from our three children who like to sneak around the living room corner late at night on Saturday to see what the hell is sooo funny that's making us laugh so hard when we are generally scowling at them when they're trying to be funny by jumping on the nice furniture and farting on one another.</i><br />
<div>
<i style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i style="font-family: inherit;">We promise to laugh harder and
clap louder than anyone else. We are from Idaho, which everyone thinks is Iowa,
but it's not. My husband in particular would love any musical guest because his
iPod on shuffle plays Metallica, Christmas music, Hanson, Olivia Newton John,
Adele, Lady Gaga, The Wiggles, Willie Nelson, Justin Bieber, Volbeat, Sia, and
Carlos Santana.</i></div>
<div>
<i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;">I promise to write all about our experience on
my blog, which has a far-reaching exposure of 3.6 human readers known to me
personally and 47 Russian spy b</span>ots at http://<a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?hl=en&q=http://www.dayleefix.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1503008615197000&usg=AFQjCNH4ZoOP3F8Trxt0w20CBSWh4AMPcQ" href="http://www.dayleefix.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">www.dayleefix.blogspot.<wbr></wbr>com</a></i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Thank you!</i></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
On Tuesday (8/15), I received the following email from NBC Universal:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>CONGRATULATIONS! We are thrilled you are one of Saturday Night Lives’ biggest fans and would like to invite you and a guest to be a part of our “Weekend Update Summer Edition” audience on August 17! We are holding two (2) tickets under your name! To confirm your tickets please reply to this email within 24 hours of receiving it or the tickets will be forfeited. </i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I checked my day planner.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://media.giphy.com/media/3o6EhDRMFQHWJ7dRMA/giphy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="265" data-original-width="480" height="176" src="https://media.giphy.com/media/3o6EhDRMFQHWJ7dRMA/giphy.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
And then I immediately cried more tears than I did at the births of all three of my children combined. How could I be such a winner and such a loser all at the same time? I texted my boss:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>"Hey. I won tickets to SNL, but it's for this week's Weekend Update. So I'm gonna need three days off and like $50,000 for last minute plane tickets and the fee to kennel my children. K thanks."</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Luckily, he's pretty nice so he said yes, but also he has like zero authority so it didn't mean shit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<h3 style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<u>Anyway, a promise is a promise so I'm gonna write about my experience here.</u></h3>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
The seats were amazing. Front row. Super comfy. Normally there would have only been tickets for two, but this time the entire family was there. I finally broke the news to my kids as they looked at me, wide-eyed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i>"Guys, I have news. I won tickets to this show. Like THIS ONE that we are watching right now. But it didn't work out and dad and I couldn't go, because I didn't realize when I entered the drawing that they were also giving away tickets for these 30 minute Thursday shows. Now...you know that I love you very much, and even though Grandma is out of town and couldn't watch you, had this been a Saturday Night show, I would have left you with a dirty hobo in North Lewiston and high-tailed it to New York City."</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
And Clayton was like, <i>"Yeah, duh."</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
And then the show started. And for thirty minutes including commercial breaks I died inside.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Jimmy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Seth.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
TINA.MTHRFKNG.FEY.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://media.giphy.com/media/xT39DfLQ4ZauMUYzKM/giphy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="202" data-original-width="359" height="225" src="https://media.giphy.com/media/xT39DfLQ4ZauMUYzKM/giphy.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://media.giphy.com/media/3oEhmNLxk9uiTbL9Be/giphy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="264" data-original-width="474" height="222" src="https://media.giphy.com/media/3oEhmNLxk9uiTbL9Be/giphy.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My feelings right now. Accurate.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
It was a great show. Nobody better than Tina Fey could have appeared the one time I won the (ticket) lottery and couldn't go. You know why?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Here's a rundown of my week, the things that kept me from saying, "screw it, let's hop a flight":</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
</div>
<ul>
<li>A group of current members of a professional association I belong to asked to meet to discuss forming a new local chapter. This foundation-level participation may not have moved forward if I'd missed it. I'm the Vice President now, and I'm not sure how that happened.</li>
<li>Stuffed 800 million pieces of paper with things like school district calendars and instructions to apply for free or reduced lunches or milk and permission slips for field trips and vision testing and the "hey, so you got boobs-n-pubes now no big deal, or also hey, so you don't have boobs-n-pubes yet no big deal" talk into manila envelopes for 400 children to crumple into the abyss that is their backpacks in a week.</li>
<li>Provided insight into the job that I do for actual paper money to other people so that maybe the world is a better place tomorrow (but probably not).</li>
<li>Hockey meeting because even when it's 105 degrees outside, we still have to talk about the hockey.</li>
<li>Gathered materials for another entity who sought out my expertise on one particular topic in preparation for a week-long faculty opportunity in the town I went to once and luckily didn't get stabbed and I really feel like I'm getting sassy with the universe by going back there, TBH.</li>
<li>Ordered one mascot costume for 2ndKid as a gift from our family to the school for the purposes of smearing school spirit allllll up in there.</li>
<li>Also like, my normal job and also like Hubs' normal job that we do for money.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
All this shit. This stuff that could have waited. This stuff that takes precedent and we fall back on when something fun or amazing or once-in-a-lifetime comes up. All of it is the reason I woke up today okay with having watched it from the living room with the fam. Because if I've ever learned anything from Tina Fey, it's that bitches get stuff done.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-58190454392971374422017-06-17T14:21:00.000-07:002017-06-17T14:21:43.295-07:00Father's Day, Here in the Upside DownIt's Father's Day here in the Upside Down. Or rather the Right-Side-Up. Depending on who you ask, I guess, because it is pretty nuts here.<br />
<br />
If you don't know what the <b>Upside Down</b> is, stop reading immediately. Go take your pants off and bingewatch <b><i>Stranger Things</i></b> over on the Netflix machine and I'll talk to you in three days.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
If you're still with me now, you might regret it.<br />
<br />
Whenever I have tried to explain my family tree to other people and how I got from point A to point B and enjoyed a fist full of name changes by the time I entered Kindergarten, and how some people are one human but two different kinds of relatives to me, their brains short circuit.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://media.giphy.com/media/l0IypeKl9NJhPFMrK/giphy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="443" height="233" src="https://media.giphy.com/media/l0IypeKl9NJhPFMrK/giphy.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wait...say that again? Slower this time.</td></tr>
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<br />
Over the past year or two I realized that my three boys are spaced out the same in age that I was with my older sisters. It's like they're the not-upside-down version of my past life. That is my B.A. life <i><b>(Before Adoption)</b></i>. They're like the normal version of the dark, cloudy, sticky version of me and my sisters. And if anyone is keeping track, I'd be the ToddlerBandit one, which is creepy because he is the only one who was as obsessed with his belly button as me (#nozippyjammies) and also he was an accident.<br />
<br />
Very long story short, there were three of us, and our parents couldn't keep their collective shit together, and yada yada yada, father with a pregnant girlfriend in another state, blah blah blah, <i>"my new wife doesn't like you so go find a place to live"</i>, etc., etc., then I got adopted and my sisters did not. If you would like the detailed version, just let me know, but you should probably have a couple drinks first.<br />
<br />
Having a father choose a woman over his children was something my Mr. understood, so I've never had to try to explain what a hole that leaves in a kid. Even an adult kid. His situation was a little different, and he grew up with all his sisters. We both enjoyed replacement dads for most of our lives that were just right for us.<br />
<br />
Mine died when I was pregnant with ToddlerBandit. I hate that they never got to meet.<br />
<br />
This whole couple years I held my breath, waiting. Waiting for a phone call or a knock on the door or a letter. I waited for someone to yank the rug out from under me, to find out about Mr. Fix having a pregnant girlfriend in another state.<br />
<br />
<i>For the record, my scheduling him for a vasectomy against his will had nothing to do with this.</i><br />
<br />
And ToddlerBandit turned three and then he turned four and then...nothing. No other woman, no sudden departure, no abandoning his children.<br />
<br />
And then just before this weekend, Mr. Fix drove off. Alone. East. One quick goodbye in the hall and he was out the door. And I didn't care.<br />
<br />
I didn't care because he is headed to New Jersey to pick up a boat. A replacement for the SS Lee, Mr. Fix found a good deal on the Internets. And he left.<br />
<br />
Father's Day weekend.<br />
<br />
The reason I don't care is because we don't get hung up on Hallmark holidays. And because I know when he gets there he's turning around and coming home. He's doing it because he values family time, and some of our best family times are on the water.<br />
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<br />
And our kids are unfazed by it. I've told them a dozen times where he is, and two dozen times they've asked, <i>"Where's dad? Did he go for a run? Is he asleep? Is he working today?"</i><br />
<br />
And all the while I'm up his ass to check in every day. But it's not because I'm paranoid he's left us and that my kids will have to grow up without their dad (or, unthinkably, each other). It's for the normal reasons like that he might be dead in a ditch somewhere and I'd like to know which cops to call to report him missing. As of yesterday, I believe that was Illinois. <br />
<br />
You know, normal worry-wart type things. Normal is nice.<br />
DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-29472588177040224162017-06-09T16:52:00.001-07:002017-06-09T16:58:47.850-07:00That's Just My Face<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjad3u1AuN9fOzvJpqTJZmHFexkuSiyqlMQ-CcHnD3caFwZmrawZrAziguOUzD8sxS4LMZ6lPxtbJYLGe5eJya9ZdrjeDXQ4IqEjO7VUmcfJm7m7NaqeHA3BHLWL4Gidi6h9l4xWmHWGqs/s1600/grumpy-cat-dude-im-not-angry-thats-just-my-face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjad3u1AuN9fOzvJpqTJZmHFexkuSiyqlMQ-CcHnD3caFwZmrawZrAziguOUzD8sxS4LMZ6lPxtbJYLGe5eJya9ZdrjeDXQ4IqEjO7VUmcfJm7m7NaqeHA3BHLWL4Gidi6h9l4xWmHWGqs/s320/grumpy-cat-dude-im-not-angry-thats-just-my-face.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
At least <strike>40 million times</strike> twice a day Hubs asks me if I'm mad, and I have to remind him that no, and that's just my face. My Resting Bitch Face. I'm happy. Ecstatic, even. No, really.<br />
<br />
So I'm always surprised, if I journey this Earth looking stuck up and unapproachable, why the Hell do so many people in stores approach me and ask,<br />
<br />
<h3>
<i>"Do you work here?"</i></h3>
<br />
I am careful not to wear my name/photo badge when I shop. So I can only guess my being mistaken for store employees is from the way I float around the store. I worked retail about four lifetimes ago, and you get an eye for certain things. I tend to swoop around, hitting all the clearance racks, and while I'm sorting through for sizes, I will refold scattered stacks of jeans, regroup the shirts on the rack by color, and will hand a cashier random things I find on the floor, like popped-off security tags sticking up like a tack waiting to go through the bottom of someone's foot.<br />
<br />
I will always leave your store in nicer shape than I found it.<br />
<br />
I often don't have anything in my hands because shopping is OFTEN not fruitful for me. Or I might be wandering back from the dressing room to put the clothes away that I just tried on, annoyed and depressed. But I never leave things in the dressing room and really don't like leaving them on a generic rack outside the dressing room. If I got it out, I'll put it away. Which, I suppose normal people don't do. So I am mistaken for an employee any time I'm out and about without ToddlerBandit right at my side, up my butt and demanding payment in chicken nuggets and french fries for his time.<br />
<br />
Today, twice in one store.<br />
<br />
Two women were hovering around a rack of clearance dresses that I was rehanging my failed sizing attempts at.<br />
<br />
<h3>
<b><i>"Do you work here?"</i></b></h3>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>"Um, no...I mean, I did...like 25 years ago. But not now, why?"</i></div>
<br />
<i><b>"We need dresses for a wedding and they have to be silver and we're having a hard time. Where do they keep their fancy dresses?"</b></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>"OOooohhhh, Yeah. So their formal stuff is generally on these two racks but there might be a few on the clearance rack here. And Macy's has some but they're kind of just prom dresses but they do have ONE rack where they keep things that are returns from other stores, it's in the clearance area too."</i></div>
<br />
<i><b>"I like this one but they don't have my size and also it needs to be silver."</b></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>"You should look online to see if they have that style in another size or color."</i></div>
<br />
<b><i>"I don't have internet."</i></b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
[*Gets phone out. Scrolls. Finds a dress.]</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>"You can have them order it in the back, but this way you'll know what to ask for. </i><i>And since you don't live in town, just have them ship it to your house."</i></div>
<br />
<b><i>"Oh sweetie, thank you so much!"</i></b><br />
<br />
So I left them to make one swath through the men's department to see whether they had any clearance fancy suit britches or shirts that I can spend my Sunday night ironing for Mr. Fix (they didn't) and got stopped by an older gentleman.<br />
<br />
<h3>
<i>"Do you work here?"</i></h3>
<br />
I had noticed him just standing between two shelves of jeans. I thought he was waiting on someone else.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>"Well, no. Not now anyway. </i><i>I probably still know enough to help you though."</i></div>
<br />
He was heading out of town on a work job and was utterly perplexed by the pre-shrunk or shrink-to fit sizing conversion and durability differences of Levi's 501s and needed help. This was something I could do in my sleep. I helped him get what he needed, let him know about Levi's quality guarantee and reminded him to keep his receipt and that he could probably take them back to the same store wherever he was heading if there was a problem.<br />
<br />
<b><i>"Gosh, thank you so much. I just so appreciate that. You've been such a big help. You say you used to work here?"</i></b><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>"Yeah, well it was a long time ago, but Levi's haven't changed."</i></div>
<br />
<b><i>"Well, you're sure nice to help me out. You have such a nice smile. I won't take up any more of your time, honey."</i></b><br />
<br />
And then he gave me a card in case I need any construction or remodeling work done (when he gets back from his big out-of-town job, I guess).<br />
<br />
And I left, empty handed (except for the business card). And when I get home the conversations will go more like this:<br />
<br />
<i><b>"Mom, do you know where my</b></i> [fill in the blank here with anything from toothbrush to hockey stick to underwear to shoes]<i> <b>is? I can't find it."</b></i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~or~</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<i style="font-weight: bold;">"Mom? Are we out of </i>[grocery item that is literally staring them in the face]<b>?</b><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>"Oh.My.Gaaaaaaaaaaaah you guys. Seriously. Open your eyeballs. Jeebus H. Crisco. Are you going to do this all summer? Because if you're going to do this all summer I'm going across the street and telling the Superintendent that you would LOVE to come over and cut his lawn by hand with a pair of scissors all summer for free and pick up dog poop in Mrs. Byrer's yard."</i></div>
<br />
And Mr. Fix will say, <b><i>"What's wrong? You look mad."</i></b><br />
<br />
And I'll say, <i><b>"I'm not mad. That's just my face."</b></i><br />
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<br />DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-57326078497176211802017-05-10T19:33:00.001-07:002017-05-10T19:33:45.694-07:00Kids Are Gross (Recipe!)Hey, come closer. I wanna tell you a secret.....<br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<em>Kids are gross. Boy kids especially.</em></h3>
<br />
I know girls can do anything boys can do, including being disgusting. My sweet MIL not only watched all the precious little Lees while Hubs and I left the country and were trying to remember such things as, <em>"hey, what was that last drink I had because I want another one of those,"</em> and <em>"do you think it's time to put more sunscreen on?"</em>, but she also did it over Easter. She made sure the door was unlocked for the Easter Bunny, and then she had a party for everyone that was not us, at our house.<br />
<br />
She is the cool grandma.<br />
<br />
After life got back to normal and the guilt sunk in that we went on Spring Break without the kids and without doing the Spring cleaning first, I decided to maybe bust the carpet cleaner out and scrub the sofa in the TV room*. That is to say, <strong><em>Holy Mother of God I am so sorry to everyone who came to my dirty-ass house for Easter. It's a good thing Jesus forgives me, but I'm not sure you guys should.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">*Also Hubs thinks it is hawwwwt when I clean and I do what I can to keep the romance alive.</span></em></div>
<br />
This is a process that is undertaken in steps, never cleaning more seats than would leave still dry the right number of seats for current asses in the house because math. Eventually though, everything gets a turn.<br />
<br />
I started with the ottoman because for some reason that piece catches the brunt of everything. But before I started in on the other sections, I sauntered into the front room, that living room that if you were just walking by the house, or rang our doorbell to try to sell us newspapers or books because otherwise your host family will send you back to Estonia, you would think that in a normal home this might be the "nice living room", or the "sitting room". The one where kids aren't allowed and it's just for grownups.<br />
<br />
Not in this house.<br />
<br />
Here is our "front living room" under normal, routine usage:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-PBgIlN_G8SrFOLKojNkyp5Fmc8MRCXv4THbLQDxEOulGZqfrUq-xI9GhZlMtcgo39ZJHNR5Ule6UOyjNViQBQqG01bx1VMoMRlqiW0K1rPgEJJJqbv7PbHPbgZ53W475_cOKDZP8io/s1600/10376145_10153257981493678_8057916501750227174_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-PBgIlN_G8SrFOLKojNkyp5Fmc8MRCXv4THbLQDxEOulGZqfrUq-xI9GhZlMtcgo39ZJHNR5Ule6UOyjNViQBQqG01bx1VMoMRlqiW0K1rPgEJJJqbv7PbHPbgZ53W475_cOKDZP8io/s320/10376145_10153257981493678_8057916501750227174_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
It's also the site of all pillow/blanket forts, most Nerf wars, silent reading, not silent fart contests, and the parking lot for ToddlerBandit's entire fleet of vehicles.<br />
<br />
The couch came with the house, and is in pretty good shape, except for when my kids do what-in-the-everloving-Hell it is that they do to make it look like this:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFJu0bp7M3yX7CK11L53PwSuGjbZJpXTDXZV_UK1uj76W2WAFM9IGMBkfetoJLkmM3lDsdyf_Jq6pjyXBuPIVfnQrC7hx1iJoAJYBTyt8-L3oRbZHwau110grhgKKU-sfHvPkG1ca4IFw/s1600/18342341_10212782977399888_2591535743304647738_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFJu0bp7M3yX7CK11L53PwSuGjbZJpXTDXZV_UK1uj76W2WAFM9IGMBkfetoJLkmM3lDsdyf_Jq6pjyXBuPIVfnQrC7hx1iJoAJYBTyt8-L3oRbZHwau110grhgKKU-sfHvPkG1ca4IFw/s320/18342341_10212782977399888_2591535743304647738_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvtcSr8IgIvLuSxJ6ROXZtIDhobMO-TCxk2_gT3myxsSleUWEBZS5MBIKHbJ_HIuc0dXSUQGzQmY8Z3K1-mYnm2kwEZeoWiJOM8wbl8lSg3erC657z7YHDVJZ8Y4uih7TlSCQE85XRi0I/s1600/18423677_10212782978079905_5728481407001225679_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvtcSr8IgIvLuSxJ6ROXZtIDhobMO-TCxk2_gT3myxsSleUWEBZS5MBIKHbJ_HIuc0dXSUQGzQmY8Z3K1-mYnm2kwEZeoWiJOM8wbl8lSg3erC657z7YHDVJZ8Y4uih7TlSCQE85XRi0I/s320/18423677_10212782978079905_5728481407001225679_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Srsly. WTF is happening here?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So I cleaned it. With this recipe:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtoCB8P2U7RfBt8mYhKeZLd61lwyvqlQFoscvsoR6ilPiV25z24ITH6ie6uwVpCqrG05KyfBA2EE-TnGuFC9c9F3jB8BrVSdbh9AfESbx9ApeIG2UYvGlU1VxVcxcSRcaFWhF1aIP6aPM/s1600/18341947_10212782973199783_3913621579762837622_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtoCB8P2U7RfBt8mYhKeZLd61lwyvqlQFoscvsoR6ilPiV25z24ITH6ie6uwVpCqrG05KyfBA2EE-TnGuFC9c9F3jB8BrVSdbh9AfESbx9ApeIG2UYvGlU1VxVcxcSRcaFWhF1aIP6aPM/s320/18341947_10212782973199783_3913621579762837622_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Vinegar<br />
Dawn dish soap<br />
Downy fabric softener<br />
Peroxide<br />
Enough hot water to dissolve things so a spray bottle wouldn't clog<br />
<br />
I filled a spray bottle with part of this and the cleaning solution bottle of my carpet shampooer with the rest.<br />
<br />
Oh, you wanted measurements? Sorry. <br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Not too much Dawn or you'll never rinse it out.</li>
<li>Just enough Downy that the fabric isn't stiff when you're done.</li>
<li>Everything else is dependent on how much I have left, for example Clayton biffed it in the canyon Sunday and I used up some of the peroxide cleaning the gashing wounds on his face, so I used part of what was left, leaving some for later.</li>
</ul>
<br />
You know....eyeball it. Doesn't everyone cook that way? Hmmmm. Maybe why this isn't normally a cooking blog.<br />
<br />
Moving on.<br />
<br />
I sprayed the entire cushions from the spray bottle, the stainiest parts in particular. Then I shampooed with the upholstery attachment on the high traffic setting, then ran just water over it twice. And sucked. And sucked. Aaaaaand sucked.<br />
<br />
Then I dumped out the collection basin in the sink and threw up until I was dead because ewwwwwwwwwwwwwww.<br />
<br />
And now they look like this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5d1pilPbiuzXawDmCp_-p-Sur5PwZp4JpBuh6TPJkruLBvJmIKrpnuCEcnjPvax87LqBoxhL8D5pBCtere7qsjYG6U4bPvsmem1b8zxavn00LYnU0VtH0YKD6QEpad6VQWbXjWass1os/s1600/18485502_10212782977839899_7760267612787749138_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5d1pilPbiuzXawDmCp_-p-Sur5PwZp4JpBuh6TPJkruLBvJmIKrpnuCEcnjPvax87LqBoxhL8D5pBCtere7qsjYG6U4bPvsmem1b8zxavn00LYnU0VtH0YKD6QEpad6VQWbXjWass1os/s320/18485502_10212782977839899_7760267612787749138_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And now nobody is allowed to sit on them ever again in their lives or I will kill them.<br />
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Just kidding.<br />
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I have done the alcohol thing before because it's supposed to dry faster or whatever because you're not using water but I wasn't as impressed with that to be honest. Maybe it's just because there's no clean like the clean that is dumping out a bucket of mud when you're done. I should have just drank the alcohol at a measurement consistent with however much is necessary to not give a shit how dirty your couch is.<br />
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I would never trade our gross weird kids (or other peoples' kids who add to the stew) for a clean house, but it's nice to have like five minutes of booger-free surroundings once in a while.<br />
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What's your secret go-to cleaning solution?<br />
DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-8797512589843584152017-05-08T12:38:00.000-07:002017-05-08T12:38:09.898-07:00TrippyRemember <a href="http://dayleefix.blogspot.com/2017/04/pre-trip-tips-and-tricks.html" target="_blank">that time I freed up all the space for pictures before our trip</a>?<br />
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We need to talk about that.<br />
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First off, it was amazing. All of it. No parts of it sucked. <br />
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We took this camera bag/backpack that has our camera and video camera all through seventy million airports and customs and whatnot and took exactly eleven less pictures than we did when we went to Jamaica.<br />
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That is to say: Zero.<br />
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In Jamaica the camera glitched eleven pictures into our vacation. This time, I don't know, I guess we were just too lazy.<br />
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Lucky for you, who follow me here or other places, I'm not one of those annoying people who posts every picture of everything on my vacation. No. This vacation? I took five on my phone. I thought I took four but I was scrolling through my phone yesterday and found an extra. Are you ready?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjVPT_Bydi0XybqwY6GiVKkAfzAhl4GlZiZ3BejIdkPR2yTjHT5MHRlVoKJgculfeAPkhD_1VXCKvSUjC5KY0pRdgmEr6vENdYPvPquBZh076ElT5_d0tCuvzCG-KW-nbAVktH6C9Sm48/s1600/18300997_10212760557479404_2157722856057802613_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjVPT_Bydi0XybqwY6GiVKkAfzAhl4GlZiZ3BejIdkPR2yTjHT5MHRlVoKJgculfeAPkhD_1VXCKvSUjC5KY0pRdgmEr6vENdYPvPquBZh076ElT5_d0tCuvzCG-KW-nbAVktH6C9Sm48/s400/18300997_10212760557479404_2157722856057802613_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Idaho Potato. We travelled a bajillion miles to eat a tuber from the Gem State. That is all.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrDXEVAdj6brg5uQaG_bKLLUCLX0-H_nMha72CHhQ17kLUIxwLyGMI8q7g26ntN9yJ33hYSLbH01we12hyphenhyphenrC6-ZXAMQmivpmd2a_KFYyGIAWiEGtFDz9lVXcYujuuUzW_dmuR9mBP264/s1600/18301854_10212760557519405_4848241597981341974_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrDXEVAdj6brg5uQaG_bKLLUCLX0-H_nMha72CHhQ17kLUIxwLyGMI8q7g26ntN9yJ33hYSLbH01we12hyphenhyphenrC6-ZXAMQmivpmd2a_KFYyGIAWiEGtFDz9lVXcYujuuUzW_dmuR9mBP264/s400/18301854_10212760557519405_4848241597981341974_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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My view just about every single day. I am an expert at doing nothing. My consulting services are available. Call for prices.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlh4DgicRkrBLS9RCgdxvbd9cq7qJh6g8DtQzN-8nKGZLdNCSQeKd4iCtWTkIvAPEBv0vGb_-jSE8yQZFrjSy-nhDhkQ4tGKyeBn8M_Y_PnOfQOaKrFmBWUz5mPiM7HxBnGxYpNJMb64/s1600/18342121_10212760557999417_1817706371671574672_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlh4DgicRkrBLS9RCgdxvbd9cq7qJh6g8DtQzN-8nKGZLdNCSQeKd4iCtWTkIvAPEBv0vGb_-jSE8yQZFrjSy-nhDhkQ4tGKyeBn8M_Y_PnOfQOaKrFmBWUz5mPiM7HxBnGxYpNJMb64/s400/18342121_10212760557999417_1817706371671574672_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Hubs was being annoying and made me take his picture. That drink is called an Avalanche, and is blended margarita mix in a beer. I thought they were disgusting but it's a good way to keep your beer cold.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyPiITu-nk-TwpZ-YivapFzlXKypHTM41d_XKUYzxmKAfGy3mmJnZ40zMNFNm4oQvC_O9jfuQt7_pKNNxOzoyf2ykWCrjmBphhgx0SW4PY346e8P04EnxAbuyJ7kJkfJHJobXsew7ct34/s1600/18342588_10212760557559406_2656216702877540395_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyPiITu-nk-TwpZ-YivapFzlXKypHTM41d_XKUYzxmKAfGy3mmJnZ40zMNFNm4oQvC_O9jfuQt7_pKNNxOzoyf2ykWCrjmBphhgx0SW4PY346e8P04EnxAbuyJ7kJkfJHJobXsew7ct34/s320/18342588_10212760557559406_2656216702877540395_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Random poster in a restaurant that had the word "Clayton" on it, so I snapped this and texted it to him at probably 3am or something. He didn't respond. :( It also says "Seamen" but he was too young to get the joke until this week when they had <em>the</em> talk/video at school. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAugK3EHy6T4PaUcIlDZ8ezTUi6xQK_BVVSzU0BgTgftvnyjtf8e4EeqKOwKa8LoS47O5N4YPcodVa1UpUymjZQ8s1Mru74EFeaVLP0lIPm5XP6TM84PYq-6QePOAo5CzfXrZLf3I6jow/s1600/18301695_10212760557399402_8901046788262477113_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAugK3EHy6T4PaUcIlDZ8ezTUi6xQK_BVVSzU0BgTgftvnyjtf8e4EeqKOwKa8LoS47O5N4YPcodVa1UpUymjZQ8s1Mru74EFeaVLP0lIPm5XP6TM84PYq-6QePOAo5CzfXrZLf3I6jow/s400/18301695_10212760557399402_8901046788262477113_n.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
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I found this in my phone yesterday and literally had no recollection of having taken it. For a minute I didn't even know who it was. I asked Hubs about it. He said <em><strong>"Yeah. That was the day we got super drunk and I showed you how to use your Snapchat,"</strong></em> which totally makes sense now. I am including it mainly for the pleasure of my in-laws who claim to "never have seen me drunk," and who say they "would like to see what that looks like". Apparently this is what that looks like. Also I still don't know how to use Snapchat.</div>
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Luckily there is this thing called the internet where you can find actual pictures of the things we saw and did because TBH Barbados is a really small island and the stuff that's there isn't going anywhere anytime soon. Also our travel mate took a shit ton of pictures of every damn thing, so let me know what particular thing you would like to see such as a tree or a flower or a bird or a piece of sand, and I will have her locate it in her photography index.</div>
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Here are some things we saw:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimsVsQLMMBFeEoEg2zJylH98WbQD8a0fbbzomtPWi-teMdZ9IX9asu_2zJWTnF85tLoeEFE-hc9SYL1gU6crDd4gfQetpHggKgchP-YQ4fFRlqZrxMZ55qu1ftOIv0TPrd5zlufsBbe8s/s1600/wreck_med_hr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimsVsQLMMBFeEoEg2zJylH98WbQD8a0fbbzomtPWi-teMdZ9IX9asu_2zJWTnF85tLoeEFE-hc9SYL1gU6crDd4gfQetpHggKgchP-YQ4fFRlqZrxMZ55qu1ftOIv0TPrd5zlufsBbe8s/s1600/wreck_med_hr.jpg" /></a></div>
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The Cornwallis shipwreck in Carlisle Bay. Our guide tried to tell us this was from Pirates of the Caribbean, but it was actually a Canadian ship that got torpedoed by a German U-Boat in WWII. The above-water view looked like this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUIiNc2xbHEyD2KxvKiXL1YFUCZA9d_XBSjsar9DdzYzHkOyG-Zm_t50Nne1ptB1lbMJGb84-XWa7wvSJJvNKM76oMqOudbf7AsnLsB-CLbAbaqh8Wb64Jx0iQmVtMOrmguq29Onv4Lz0/s1600/boyceterous-catamaran.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUIiNc2xbHEyD2KxvKiXL1YFUCZA9d_XBSjsar9DdzYzHkOyG-Zm_t50Nne1ptB1lbMJGb84-XWa7wvSJJvNKM76oMqOudbf7AsnLsB-CLbAbaqh8Wb64Jx0iQmVtMOrmguq29Onv4Lz0/s320/boyceterous-catamaran.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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If you know me, you know snorkeling was a HUUUUUGE deal for me. I pretended that I wasn't scared to death but to be honest it was probably the three liquor-laden coffees I had in the morning before we left that allowed me to do it without losing my shit. The minute I hit the water someone yelled gleefully, <strong><em>"Oh loooooook! There's a SHARK!"</em></strong><br />
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FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.<br />
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I have never been so thankful that my stupid uterus took a brief break from sapping me of all my iron deposits in my life.<br />
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But don't worry. That shark? It turned out to <strong>only be a barracuda</strong>.<br />
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FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.<br />
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Other than that my mask kept fogging up on me and the strap on my vest kept brushing up against my leg and freaking me out, I had a good time. Everyone really just wanted to see these guys:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrozh6YWA0aRZ-Ea4pLtxHPOe5fAzTSOXf3k9-iMHgoCXiur_5sT15isOhLItHkxWE-bKqw4RBj3CcpQm9LZdmaqTHggld_z8NB2P7JGX1RIsobX6d4gx0txjlo5K0kXPGgQUplVCW6ZM/s1600/shutterstock_557762509.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrozh6YWA0aRZ-Ea4pLtxHPOe5fAzTSOXf3k9-iMHgoCXiur_5sT15isOhLItHkxWE-bKqw4RBj3CcpQm9LZdmaqTHggld_z8NB2P7JGX1RIsobX6d4gx0txjlo5K0kXPGgQUplVCW6ZM/s320/shutterstock_557762509.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Turtles. That they kept telling everyone not to touch but I was like, "no shit. I'm not touching that thing. And that thing also better not touch me."<br />
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We saw the Coast Guard ship, and it didn't make me feel better about their rescue abilities, because the ship looked like this:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8hPswAlmVtLhepoKJt4sFpp3bL9jntOSuZtK7W0y2xQKjP3KYCJwbjqB9u35HGht7fhxGteSDmc6nbItPRwNrPqytyk9GscgQZipZe8s__DJBrdPsb77xTmVy0HkixZB1FoIeXML_yFw/s1600/1920347.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8hPswAlmVtLhepoKJt4sFpp3bL9jntOSuZtK7W0y2xQKjP3KYCJwbjqB9u35HGht7fhxGteSDmc6nbItPRwNrPqytyk9GscgQZipZe8s__DJBrdPsb77xTmVy0HkixZB1FoIeXML_yFw/s400/1920347.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#trustyRusty</td></tr>
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And the crew looked like this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg27GTbOnDJliNpPJcu1Vk-6QznwYIJ9CMH1D48citDNvBBGqmSHORWL-6i-NF_UdqEaMYkcllRG9S8iMuKyF3p6QcSKjDbxpWCFQrwyZJ0sJbU4iWQCsr9mhdKng0fUo1U8JGVBcjfkFk/s1600/rob-gronkowski-022016-ftr_tac47azorvoy1ibmjf7uz0jih.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg27GTbOnDJliNpPJcu1Vk-6QznwYIJ9CMH1D48citDNvBBGqmSHORWL-6i-NF_UdqEaMYkcllRG9S8iMuKyF3p6QcSKjDbxpWCFQrwyZJ0sJbU4iWQCsr9mhdKng0fUo1U8JGVBcjfkFk/s400/rob-gronkowski-022016-ftr_tac47azorvoy1ibmjf7uz0jih.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Which made complete sense after we met the local cops and found out they <strike>pretty much just work drunk all day</strike> can have two drinks per shift and would like you to make that happen please and thank you.<br />
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We also saw a Sea Horse like this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcK6Ik4BYgfcjUiaAUKtG3qe1M7bHxLrWkHkLeUgiV-tFyQhpV7lisRZuArS5SolO2NCNcuk7JWOT2NGv2jbm37aV-eRE4pfYZP5QtV3DDSmNwOI8BNd0-kwGghu73R5JWoV9_4UH4L8/s1600/2016-12-01t142346z_1592032017_rc1c5da395a0_rtrmadp_3_barbados-horses__tcp_gallery_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcK6Ik4BYgfcjUiaAUKtG3qe1M7bHxLrWkHkLeUgiV-tFyQhpV7lisRZuArS5SolO2NCNcuk7JWOT2NGv2jbm37aV-eRE4pfYZP5QtV3DDSmNwOI8BNd0-kwGghu73R5JWoV9_4UH4L8/s400/2016-12-01t142346z_1592032017_rc1c5da395a0_rtrmadp_3_barbados-horses__tcp_gallery_image.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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But he was probably just training for all the water on the track at this year's Kentucky Derby, now that I think of it.<br />
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We drank a LOT and ate a lot of great food including sushi almost every night. Hubs got in a little kerfuffle with the host at the Japanese restaurant over our reservations, which were under our name, and he was disappointed that we were not Asian, then acted like he thought we were stealing someone else's spot.<br />
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We weren't. Calm down. We get that a lot.<br />
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Overall, it was a fantastic trip. We missed the kids, but we were able to facetime them everyday before doing crazy things like laying in bed and watching Willy Wonka and an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie marathon.<br /><br />I can't wait to do it again.<br />
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<br />DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-36001634449150487942017-04-07T18:25:00.001-07:002017-04-07T18:25:21.271-07:00Pre-Trip Tips and TricksIt's not a big secret that the Hubs and I are preparing to embark on our first trip away from the kids since SecondKid™ was two years old. Today that kid is in Canada hitting the ice in big-boy hockeylandia in a size youth large warm up jacket.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UUyIeQ9xv8cDmNucyWdr0zit21OjL4l2GdzJqFhQBLSy1Dre-lpBDZHPOySICcrrVwUYt6PLIyIYONnOGqeqDUjAjDI5qg4i7TDKHP8bFcyd1buDuwvhE4wNIwipRZ7vMbo2WaR8iuo/s1600/barbados_drink_CoconutCocktail-xlarge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UUyIeQ9xv8cDmNucyWdr0zit21OjL4l2GdzJqFhQBLSy1Dre-lpBDZHPOySICcrrVwUYt6PLIyIYONnOGqeqDUjAjDI5qg4i7TDKHP8bFcyd1buDuwvhE4wNIwipRZ7vMbo2WaR8iuo/s320/barbados_drink_CoconutCocktail-xlarge.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These drinks are long overdue.</td></tr>
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I.KNOW.<br />
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So naturally, every Goddamn thing on the planet has to happen all at once and I'm preparing the best way I can: going day by day and flying by the seat of my pants, and remembering to make note of no more than three things at a time that I dutifully load in the notes app on my phone so I can strategically mark them off as complete.<br />
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Let me pass along a couple tips from today's to-do list that will help you prepare for your next vacation.<br />
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<u><b>To-do item #1: Replace the Battery in that Smoke Detector that won't STFU</b></u></h4>
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This item is a "bonus" item as you didn't really plan it, but it showed up anyway. Wonder why the batteries only seem to go dead when Hubs is away. Wonder which one of those sonsabitches it is because it really sounded like it was that one last time but now you're not sure. Make FirstKid™ and ThirdKid™ sit criss-cross applesauce on the floor under each one until they can tell you where the chirping is coming from. Cry when they successfully locate it in one of the rooms that has ceilings taller than the boost the bar stool will give you.<br />
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Locate the shorter of the two ladders in the shop. Do this after you retrieve the garbage can, basketball, cushion storage box, smoker, and related accessories from around your yard and your neighbor's flowerbeds. Stupid wind storm.<br />
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Try not to break your neck or put any holes in the wall. Decide Hubs is getting a 6-foot ladder for his birthday. <br />
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<u>To-do item #2: Spray Tan</u></h4>
<br />
Decide that you want one last even-ing out of your skin before you stuff your carcass into a swimsuit because tan fat looks better than pale fat and also because you have a hard time keeping all of your jiggly bits contained in any amount of lycra, and your travel mate SUCKS at telling you when one of your tits has escaped. Decide to do it Friday because that's when the tanning place has a discount on spray tans. Realize you're unsure whether it's for a quick spray in the automatic booth or a human shooting a hose at you. Decide you better wear underwear just in case.<br />
<br />
When you arrive, realize it is for the automatic booth. Decide against putting the underwear back on after the spray because you'd rather not get spray tan on them, even though earlier you were fully prepared to sacrifice them in the spirit of sparing another human's eyes from witnessing your entire lady garden. Put them in your purse.<br />
<br />
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<u>To-do item #3: Replacement Razor Blades</u></h4>
<br />
Try to remember the last time you bought replacement blades for your razor and come up short. Realize this may be the reason your current blade sucks. Realize you will probably be shaving your legs more in the next 10 days than you have in the last 10 years. Proceed to Walgreens.<br />
<br />
Be thankful they still make replacement blades for your antique razor. Proceed to the checkout. Flounder with the machine where you input your phone number and be silently disgusted to realize you only have 7,000,000 loyalty points to go until you will get a $5 coupon. Attempt to retrieve your debit card, and slowly watch as your card holder catches your sunglasses which catch on your previously unneeded underwear and launch them into the air. Listen to the 100-year-old man cashier tell you to wait until the light appears to swipe your card. Walk your bra-less and brown speckled body to the car while dying a thousand deaths even though you know you are not even close to being the weirdest thing at Walgreens.<br />
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<u><b><br /></b></u></div>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<u><b>To-do item #4: Free Up Space on your Phone for Vacation Pictures</b></u></h4>
<br />
Think back to the last time you tried to take a picture of your adorable kids and your phone said <i>"not enough storage to take picture,"</i> or other nonsense things like <i>"this phone has not been backed up in 86 weeks"</i>. Plug your phone into the computer to transfer pictures. Complete this with only mild difficulty. Watch as iTunes hijacks your process and attempts to sync your phone. Notice while waiting for it to restart that iTunes has automatically logged into your husband's account. Don't think much of it because he is the one in charge of all things tech and entertainment. Notice it syncing a lot of apps you don't have. <b><i>Like, holy shit that's a lot of apps but ok I'm sure it will be fine.</i></b><br />
<br />
Delete most of your emails, including the 2,600 unread ones while you're waiting via a secondary access point. Hockey season is over and you don't really need to keep those 829 notifications of when every practice was.<br />
<br />
Walk your phone through the restart welcome screen. Be slightly confused when it tells you that you have entered the wrong appleID and password. Notice that the screen on your phone looks <b><i>exactly </i></b>like your husband's phone screen. Realize you just turned your phone into your husband's phone.<br />
<br />
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.<br />
<br />
Text your husband who is currently in ANOTHER COUNTRY from your kid's iPod and hope to Hell you didn't just screw up his phone. Realize you did not. Read his 80,000,000 texts asking you why you have done such a dumbfuck thing, respond that you don't know.<br />
<br />
Because you really don't know. That is why he is in charge of all things tech and entertainment.<br />
<br />
Attempt to recover an older version. Pick from the following list of options to locate your phone:<br />
<br />
iPhone<br />
iPhone (2)<br />
Jason's phone<br />
Jason's phone (2)<br />
Jason's iPhone<br />
Jason's iPhone (2)<br />
Phone<br />
Phone (2)<br />
iPad<br />
iPod<br />
iPod (2) <br />
Jason's iPod<br />
Jason's iPod (2)<br />
<br />
Wonder why those assholes at Verizon didn't just name ONE of those things something like, oh I dunno..."HEATHER'S GODDAMN PHONE".<br />
<br />
Remember your <a href="http://dayleefix.blogspot.com/2016/05/small-town-big-deal.html" target="_blank">two flights sitting next to DoucheBag McGhee</a> and know exactly why they don't have any common sense at all.<br />
<br />
Watch the progress bar hit the end of the third attempt just as the power goes out because of the Godforsaken wind today.<br />
<br />
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.<br />
<br />
Explain to your kid just like you do every time the power goes out that no, you do not know what time it will be back on and that no, you doubt the xbox will work even for games that don't take wifi, and that yes, you can still flush the toilet so calm down with your nervous poops.<br />
<br />
Try again when power is restored and still have no luck. Revert to factory settings. Feel super accomplished because you now have almost ALL your storage space free. You might have zero contacts, you might have zero evidence of texts or proof that you told your kid's teacher the plan for next week, but you now have <b>plenty of space for pictures</b>.<br />
<br />
<h3>
<b>I love getting my to-do list done. </b></h3>
<br />
<br />DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-55254664550764373712017-03-16T16:08:00.001-07:002017-03-16T16:08:52.610-07:00Book Review! Going Green by Heather S. Ransom<br />
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You guys. I have tried for like a week to do this book review and I'm too stupid. It's obvious I'll never write a book. Not like Heather Ransom, anyway.<br />
<br />
So, disclaimer. Heather is, to start, a Heather - so I am biased.<br />
<br />
She is also my sister-in-law's sister-in-law. So I got a super sneak-peak advanced copy, but, you know - it was electronic.<br />
<br />
And you know how I am with the electronical things. So here we go.<br />
<br />
Heather Ransom managed to tackle a slew of issues in one YA fiction that's just begging for a sequel. Tech. Environmental issues. Weird new ear buds. Politics. Young love. Changing yourself for others. Popularity. Privilege. Racism. Elitism. Media manipulation. Government and police corruption.<br />
<br />
She takes us through the first brown-then-green eyes of Calyssa Brentwood, who is 18 and has chosen to "Go Green", something that was a no-brainer, since her father's in charge at the sprawling secretive complex where they're perfecting humans since a virus hit the plants. They've decided to take out the middle man, and the most efficient people only need sunlight, water, and nutrient shakes.<br />
<br />
She doesn't have much worry in her protected life until Spring Break takes her out of her element to a farm, leaving her exposed to danger. Who are the rebels who visit the farm with guns? Are they there to protect her friends? Or are they really behind the terrorist attacks in the news?<br />
<br />
Ransom has been working on this story for a long time, telling and retelling, refining with the help of her students. She teaches in Oregon. Who knew that fiction so long in the making would be so relevant today?<br />
<br />
It's like a bonus episode of Black Mirror. It's a great book with a strong, smart female lead.<br />
<br />
I loved it.<br />
<br />
You can preorder on Amazon <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Going-Green-Heather-S-Ransom/dp/0989635260/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1488426109&sr=8-2&keywords=going+green" target="_blank">here</a>. It goes on sale March 21st. I'm hoping to snag a signed copy to give away. If I can, leave a comment here or on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/heather.watkinslee" target="_blank">Fakebooks</a> (if we're friends) or the <a href="https://www.instagram.com/dayleefix/" target="_blank">Instantgrams</a> (if we're not) to say <b>GREEN IS GREAT</b> to be entered. I'll draw on my birthday for a winner.<br />
<br />DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-62631446244662481872017-02-25T15:38:00.002-08:002017-02-25T18:51:47.486-08:00Bag Lady<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Can we talk purses for a minute?</div>
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<br />
I cleaned mine out today, and I'm trying to establish whether:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>I may make other women (or men - no judgment) feel normal</li>
<li>Other women (or men - no judgment) may make me feel like I'm normal</li>
</ol>
My purse - that giant grey bag that looks like it might have been made from an entire elephant's worth of skin, except that it's probably "vegan leather" or something. It's Nine West, and I can't remember but very likely got it at TJ Maxx for no more than 40 bucks. I'm not a purse snob, and I'll never have anything by Coach or that is otherwise covered in logos like LV or anything else of significant value. My main criteria for a purse is that it has to look semi-professional for business travel, fit a book, and be booger-proof and wipeable with baby wipes, those miracle cloths that get shit off your kid and any literal thing else off of any other literal thing you don't want that whatever it is to be on anymore.<br />
<br />
A friend recently did a clean-out and copped to her apparent addiction to Chap Stick. So I thought I'd gut mine and take a good hard look at the absurdities, all in one place. Here's a rundown of the contents, most of which admittedly found their way back into that black hole, because, it turns out, I actually need most of this shit all the time.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Three smaller purses. Yes. Inside my purse are other purses. This is the only way I can keep things straight. I sort of categorize things in the smaller purses so they don't get lost in that cavernous space. One is designated for ID and money and whatnot so that I can grab it out to not pack that monstrosity into places where it would be a pain to drag, or where there's a "bag inspection" line so other participants don't glare at me like I'm packing a shotgun in there or otherwise holding up the line for no apparent reason.</li>
<li>One each of a black glove from two different pairs. They're both black so it's ok.</li>
<li>Card holders. Credit/Debit cards, ID, store cards, business cards. Every card except the Queen of Hearts.</li>
<li>Two packages of tooth floss</li>
<li>One each lip balm, chap stick, and lipstick</li>
<li>Ear plugs</li>
<li>Hand sanitizer</li>
<li>Shampoo, conditioner, and lotion from our last hotel stay. One of our hockey moms collects these items for crisis kits for kids and families from her school. I've been meaning to give them to her for a week.</li>
<li>Ten bandaids because last time I cut Hubs' hair I butchered my knuckle and that sonofabitch would NOT stop bleeding.</li>
<li>Ten different options for periods, because my uterus likes to surprise me.</li>
<li>One normal size hairbrush with one hair tie</li>
<li>One tiny hairbrush with one hair tie </li>
<li>Two teabags - one mint and one peach</li>
<li>Three packages of magnesium powder</li>
<li>One honey bear</li>
<li>A fork</li>
<li>Pill crusher - which I use for crushing chicken bullion cubes because I'm too impatient to wait for them to dissolve.</li>
<li>79 cents. The only real cash in there.</li>
<li>Lemon gum, which I have no idea why I even buy because chewing gum makes my jaw hurt and gives me a headache, and the artificial sweeteners give me a headache and tear up my guts.</li>
<li>Gonzaga ticket from the game against San Fran that put them at 27-0 for the season (thanks to a very generous brother-in-law - THANKS ERICK!!)</li>
<li>Sunglasses case</li>
<li>Eye glasses</li>
<li>Sunglasses</li>
<li>Backup sunglasses</li>
<li>One Cars PullUp with the side panel torn out in a panic to wipe a snotty nose</li>
<li>Miscellaneous unused napkins in case someone wants to wipe their nose with not-a-PullUp</li>
<li>One Army guy</li>
<li>A rubber bracelet</li>
<li>One bouncy ball</li>
<li>Two colors of post-it notes</li>
<li>Ten pens and markers</li>
<li>Five cough drops</li>
<li>Enough Dramamine to choke a donkey</li>
<li>Methylated vitamin B because my stupid cells won't absorb regular vitamin B</li>
<li>Purse hanger that I lost in my in-laws' driveway once but then my FIL plowed snow with the tractor and found it</li>
</ul>
And that's it. Very little of this didn't go right back in. I plan to get rid of the travel-size Bath and Body Works items TODAY, but in reality I will likely forget and continue schlepping those around for another month. Maybe the person I need to give them to will read this and remind me because - obviously I am either prepared for EVERYTHING or I am a hoarder.<br />
<br />
What about you? What's in your purse? More than this? Less than this? What's the weirdest thing that you're willing to admit that you've been packing around in public this way? DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-9968791030743641792017-02-02T15:27:00.004-08:002017-02-08T10:45:57.196-08:00Cheese Touch Update<u><b>Caution:</b></u> "Super happy sharks" ahead, in case that kind of thing offends you.<br />
<br />
Esten did <a href="http://dayleefix.blogspot.com/2017/01/ethics-covered-my-ass-then-and-now.html" target="_blank">that thing he said he was going to do</a>, and I asked him for the lowdown.<br />
<br />
He had gotten up in front of the class and declared:<br />
<br />
<h3>
<i>"You guys. We HAVE to get our act together. We are in the SIXTH GRADE. We should know better than to bully other kids by now. The little kids are watching us for how to act. We're better than this."</i></h3>
<br />
The teacher agreed. So naturally at recess five minutes later, he received feedback from one of his peers, thusly:<br />
<br />
<h3>
<b><i>"That Sharks hoodie is so GAY, just like YOUR'E GAY, Esten."</i></b></h3>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not gay.</td></tr>
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4PIGUhe6wzsOy12GW5jYzC7GHBAZQaJdLxxg4ro05V0p-AjXCF9V2JFgo4Fvw2BP_BZ_lvf9QbODU5ZdHFH5W3nndudTeyyUFIOhyphenhyphenHZydzK1BQCSZ_Ds4OxFAvOsl_dj2XPlgBRh-xOA/s1600/5f8cd69fb1313e22ce4e9598459ebeef.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4PIGUhe6wzsOy12GW5jYzC7GHBAZQaJdLxxg4ro05V0p-AjXCF9V2JFgo4Fvw2BP_BZ_lvf9QbODU5ZdHFH5W3nndudTeyyUFIOhyphenhyphenHZydzK1BQCSZ_Ds4OxFAvOsl_dj2XPlgBRh-xOA/s320/5f8cd69fb1313e22ce4e9598459ebeef.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe a little gay.</td></tr>
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<div>
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<br />
<br />
Because of course this is how the kid that probably needed to listen to Esten's advice the most would react to this, right?<br />
<br />
And just like that, my kid finally realized that it doesn't matter how much you shame someone for their shitty behavior. Assholes abound.<br />
<br />
<i>(Who'da thunk it? He should see my Facebook feed.)</i><br />
<br />
Of course, when Esten relayed this followup to me he never said the word <b><i>gay</i></b>. Instead, he said the kid had said "<i>that other word for super happy</i>" in both instances.<br />
<br />
As in:<br />
<br />
<h3>
<b><i>"That Sharks hoodie is so "that other word for super happy that's not super happy", just like YOUR'E "that other word for super happy that's not super happy", Esten."</i></b></h3>
<br />
And he did it with air quotes, which I ADORE and which Esten does a LOT when he's telling me how his day went and especially when I can tell he has been holding it in all day and trying VERY hard not to be a retaliatory little butthole to others <i>and also because he knows he would get his mouth washed out with soap for talking like that, generally</i>.<br />
<br />
Like the day he said P.E. sucked because Little Johnny <b><i>"acts like it's the Olympics all the time"</i></b>.<br />
<br />
We still have things to work on. I know it's hard seeing others act out without consequence, and this year he's testing some new limits. And occasionally my patience. This though, this made me proud that he was brave enough to speak his mind. He knew the backlash would come and he did it anyway.<br />
<br />
I know there are kids in his class that said nothing. They didn't and haven't reacted. But they know that Esten is on their side. And THAT will leave a bigger, more lasting impression on them than his silence.<br />
<br />
<b>Today he is still my favorite.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
PS: Another kid informed my children that they are "trash" because they do not currently wear Nike brand shoes. I'd like it noted now that when they're due for new shoes (which is always so any day now, really) I WILL get them Nikes, but only because of their CEO's recent statement, which you can read <a href="http://sneakernews.com/2017/01/30/mark-parker-releases-statement-opposing-president-trumps-ban-refugees-muslims/" target="_blank">here</a>. Mark Parker is my second favorite.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-31876725336207514662017-01-19T10:57:00.000-08:002017-01-19T10:57:52.948-08:00Ethics Covered My Ass - Then and NowToday is a big day.<br />
<br />
Maybe.<br />
<br />
If Esten's plan goes to plan, anyway. And things could go either way, really.<br />
<br />
Maybe.<br />
<br />
It took me over an hour of prying between his sobs and snotty tears last night to pull it out of him. He finally managed, <i><b>"Tomorrow I'm going to do something that will either make you proud or really mad."</b></i><br />
<br />
Oh shit.<br />
<br />
What happened? I wondered. <i>There have been....things....going on this year.</i> He was vaguebooking me and it was pissing me off.<br />
<br />
It's the moments as a parent that suspend time, when all of the bad things flash through your brain, what could it be??<br />
<br />
And then, he finally spit it out.<br />
<br />
A girl at school is being picked on for the way she dresses. He feels bad because this has happened to him this year and also because he had participated in the picking once. His classmates who are standing by her in line will cover their noses with their shirts and move to the back of the line, saying they'd rather be last than have her germs on them.<br />
<br />
<b>Cheese Touch, you guys. This is a Cheese Touch situation.</b><br />
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<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
His plan, which he had already discussed with his teacher and expected that she would have emailed me about (she did not) was to apologize either face to face or in writing to the girl for his actions, and to take five minutes out of the classroom time to do a presentation to the rest of the class about why they all needed to stop acting like a bunch of little assholes. And he planned on wearing a super shitty outfit to do it.<br />
<br />
Which, to be honest, was about par for what he usually wears. Navy v-neck dress sweater that's <i>just about</i> too small and he rotates through usually on PE day, gray sweatpants that are also <i>just about</i> too small with the right knee blown out, and snow boots.<br />
<br />
He left today on a mission, his jaw set, his eyes filled with resolve (and only a little tiny bit of tears), and tummy full of the eggs I promised him last night if he would stop crying and go to bed.<br />
<br />
And all I could offer by way of advice was this:<br />
<br />
<b>Talk to your teacher. Partner with her to solve this problem. Don't further disrupt her classroom. Don't further embarrass the target of the bullies. Stand by her in line. Find other friends to stand with you standing with her in line. Be prepared for others to make fun of you for doing it. Know that there are a million reasons WHY others might act like assholes, and none of those reasons are probably okay. Maybe they don't get breakfast or attention or sleep or love at home. Maybe they're hearing or seeing the way the adults in their life treat others and they think it's okay. Maybe they think Trump's awesome. Maybe they think they're bigtime tough shit now that they're in the SIXTH GRADE and it's their turn to distribute the shenanigans.</b><br />
<br />
I've been there, but it was junior high for me. And it was jeans. Ethics jeans. Remember those? Other girls had them and I wanted SO BAD to be cool like them and also they were super stretchy and fit me when others didn't because I had a waist/hip ratio that has been described as "the most junk in the trunk I've ever seen on a white girl" by not-a-white-girl, to my face and not in an offensive way. I think.<br />
<br />
They were expensive and my mom would NEVER let me have them.<br />
<br />
Luckily I waited until she was sick and managed to talk my dad into taking me shopping at the Big V - where they had Ethics jeans and also the giant Levi's wall. And by giant I mean they had the pair of preemie infant Levi's nailed to the wall next to the over-sized giant pair of 60x50s or whatever they were. It was a ridiculous way of acknowledging that boys and men come in all different sizes and they were the go-to place to accommodate and cover them all. But women? You get like...four choices, and if you can't fit into one of them, there is obviously something wrong with you.<br />
<br />
So I located these popular pants, and since my dad was generous Mr. Moneybags who kept his "small bills" like twenties and under in his front pockets so his wallet wouldn't put his hips off-kilter, I bought two pairs. I made sure they were identical so my mom would only think I had ONE pair.<br />
<br />
I was a manipulative, genius, mastermind little underage ball of hormonal assholery.<br />
<br />
I rotated those pants between my body and the washer until one day in the halls at school some dickhole announced that I had <i>"worn the same pair of pants for two weeks straight"</i> and thus was a <i>"dirty disgusting ho bag".</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Time stood still. Kids stared. They were flipping back through their memories to validate his claim.<br />
<br />
<b>Cheese Touch.</b><br />
<br />
Of course, all these years later I can look back and laugh and forgive him for his off-the-cuff comment.<br />
<br />
Just kidding. All these years later I still think that fucker is a fucking fucker and he can rot in hell and I haven't seen or spoken to him since school but if I did the only thing I would tell him is <b><i>FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING FUCK.</i></b><br />
<br />
My point is, especially during this week when so many kids and adults are unsure and on edge, I am overwhelmingly proud that my kid is willing to admit through big fat sloppy tears that he was unkind and take steps to fix that, and to demand that the leaders in his school start setting a better example for others in their class, and for others in lower grades. Knowing this world has another human - <i>a BOY human</i> - who is willing to stand up for others - <i>for GIRL humans</i> - makes me happy.<br />
<br />
Today he is my favorite.DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-12672852699382638282017-01-03T10:05:00.000-08:002017-01-03T10:06:14.674-08:00New Year's Evolution<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafQDXR_F1PYTXt5chkJ_fUnja8rxtI5Kwt3qYkRGdrN76bWZojoGSJzdnr6-19RiyvdzIJ1Da2C6gIPHg_sbVVUcGiTYCFmOjYdAOMcd8aQxhFkKhthuDOHPTmDYEtXoAez1yVWU12Ds/s1600/Funny-New-Year-Resolutions-sayings-2016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafQDXR_F1PYTXt5chkJ_fUnja8rxtI5Kwt3qYkRGdrN76bWZojoGSJzdnr6-19RiyvdzIJ1Da2C6gIPHg_sbVVUcGiTYCFmOjYdAOMcd8aQxhFkKhthuDOHPTmDYEtXoAez1yVWU12Ds/s320/Funny-New-Year-Resolutions-sayings-2016.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
My social media feeds are overflowing with new recipes, exercises, and handy tricks to remember to drink four gallons of water a day.<br />
<br />
You guys are gonna kill it this year. I just know it. Many of you are ALREADY recovered from your NYE hangovers and we're only three days in.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Maybe that's because I saw a recipe for homemade Gatorade, indicated as perfect for hangovers (and no chemicals!!) with only 6 ingredients that you can easily source from a health food store or grow yourself and seems very easy to measure and combine and whip up when you feel like you've been hit by a truck and you barely remember your own name and you have no idea where your pants are currently.</i><br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
As for me...I have a different kind of list this year. I hope it's no less transformative than everyone else's goals. It's just that I'm rounding out to 40 and I've had an especially reflective 12 months, which maybe I'll post about on its own.<br />
<br />
Here are the things I want to nail down in 2017, in no particular order:<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Learn how to make salsa</li>
<li>Learn how to salsa</li>
<li><strike>Find a great cinnamon roll recipe</strike></li>
<li><strike>Not fuck up the cinnamon roll recipe</strike></li>
<ul>
<li>(<i>completed this one yesterday!</i>)</li>
</ul>
<li>Make new recipes that my family doesn't bitch about having to eat</li>
<li>Post recipes here to share that my family doesn't bitch about having to eat</li>
<li>Post recipes here that my family bitches about eating but screw them I like it</li>
<li>Nail a great red lip</li>
<li>Nail a great nude lip</li>
<li>Start drinking french press coffee</li>
<li>Knit myself a hat because everything itches</li>
<li>Find a migraine expert</li>
<li>Set rules for my email to disappear all the shit I don't want to see</li>
<li>Unsubscribe from retail emails</li>
<li>Stretch</li>
<li>Figure out my hair</li>
<li>Figure out the remote and the stereo and the blue-ray player</li>
<li>Figure out once and for all who did it because I figured out in 2016 that Steven Avery didn't</li>
<li>More Netflixing documentaries</li>
<li>Go for walks - to the Little Free Library</li>
<li>Tell others like the shorties' teachers and like two coworkers how awesome they are on the regular</li>
<li>Bring my office mug home to bleach and run through the dishwasher on the regular</li>
<li>Remember to take my vitamins</li>
<li>Remember to take my regular meds</li>
<li>Remember to pack my meds when we go out of town</li>
<li>Get new contacts</li>
<li>Craft more</li>
<li>Find out what all the hubbub is about Snapchat</li>
<li>Find out what all the hubbub is about Twitter</li>
<li>Write more - in general and here on the DLF</li>
<li>Consider posting a "dirtbag of the day" series just like WCW but different <i><b>(thoughts?)</b></i></li>
<li>Update the DLF, in layout or migration to another platform</li>
</ul>
Stand by, Fixers. I'm hoping to drag you along on this boring-for-you and self-centered for me endeavor. I'd tell you to subscribe for updates, but I'm still too dumb to figure out how. <i><b>(For now)</b></i>. It's going to be a great year.DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-80677998874310455242017-01-02T10:35:00.000-08:002017-01-02T10:35:14.646-08:00Fictional Frustrations It's been a while, I know.<br />
<br />
I blame a combination of mojo drain and that I've been stretching my writing muscles elsewhere. I've been working on a mix of true things that might meet with disapproval (something I'm no stranger to but I'm just not in the mood for anyone's bullshit opinions at this stage in my life), a little poetry, and something I feel like I suck at: fiction.<br />
<br />
Someone I know is on the downhill slide finishing up edits on a young adult fiction novel. Two bloggers I follow who are heavy on real-life writing are taking the plunge. One talks about structured writing theories and disciplined writing schedules. These are things that I just can't do. The thought of deadlines and editors and others getting involved gives me a rash.<br />
<br />
I tend to just write what I write, and if someone likes it, great. Last year a quote from my little insignificant blog was printed in a glorious book with fantastic photography on every page. As a contributor, I was in good company with writers from around the globe.<br />
<br />
<b><i>I'm still hesitant to call myself a writer.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br />
</i></b> So<i style="font-weight: bold;"> </i>I'm glad the Fix offspring are learning to be confident fiction writers, thanks to an amazing teacher who breaks down very complicated theories and drives them to love writing-and reading.<br />
<br />
I was cleaning out some clutter to feel like I'm accomplishing something in this new year and found Esten's folder from parent teacher conferences (my life is set about two months slow all the time) and found a sample of his writing. I'm going to share it here, mainly because I'm sure this paper will get tossed at some point and I can save it for all of eternity this way. I give you:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Winter Warfare</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The wind on my face felt like A.C. in the summer. The heavy snow was on me like rain on a window. I put one arm up to help block it. I looked at the ground and saw footprints - snow boot footprints.<br />
<br />
I took a further investigation. They lead down the hill. "Gather some snowballs," I said. "I'll gather some powder," my teammate Hannah told me, "lots of powder."<br />
<br />
She got it done relatively fast. We got on our blue sleds, wielding snowballs. We were following the tracks until..."STOP!" Hannah yelled at me. I looked back at Hannah and before I could ask why, I was in mid-air.<br />
<br />
It felt like flying, for three seconds. I landed on the semi-icy, very bumpy road. The worst part was that I was still backward. The ice spun me 180 degrees and I went face first into a pile of plowed snow.<br />
<br />
I was too weak to get out. It was just me and the cold, and also the dark. After a minute I saw light. Hannah got me out.<br />
<br />
"Esten, you might want to take a look at this!" I looked and saw the same footprints as before. "Let's go," I said. And we walked off into the fog and snow...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>To be continued...</i></b></div>
</div>
DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-19334291310934675392016-10-04T17:36:00.000-07:002016-10-04T17:36:42.891-07:00Shut Up, It's So Bright and My Skin Hurts<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<i><b><br /></b></i></h3>
<h3 style="text-align: right;">
<i><b>"Jesus. Take those off. You're being....narcissistic."</b></i></h3>
<br />
I tried to laugh it off, but his words stung. He thought I was being stubborn, which didn't surprise him. We also got in a debate over whether the debate (!) would be the cold open on SNL that night. I would like to publicly declare here, in writing, that he was right and I was wrong, which I have been more of than right lately.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Mark your calendars.</i></b><br />
<br />
But I wasn't budging on the sunglasses. I wouldn't take them off. He threatened to post my picture to Facebook and say so, which he knew I'd hate. This is how it ended up, though he ultimately chose his words more carefully:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihYrMEt0Xo-DtvgamqptbcyyjAHFu1RnZb7HKUxaVNJ_akT2yUFZ1b5_a3LIWOBwEmsd-Yv2dn4JWizp8uz1ofxgfk12zJV5EsA6i877tuLiqk5ws_SNhV-eP-E8oMJ7CWd11MUhUWdVQ/s1600/14462759_10154672218958678_3047835268299255846_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihYrMEt0Xo-DtvgamqptbcyyjAHFu1RnZb7HKUxaVNJ_akT2yUFZ1b5_a3LIWOBwEmsd-Yv2dn4JWizp8uz1ofxgfk12zJV5EsA6i877tuLiqk5ws_SNhV-eP-E8oMJ7CWd11MUhUWdVQ/s320/14462759_10154672218958678_3047835268299255846_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><i>At the Spokane Chiefs home opener and yes, Heather has not<br />taken her sunglasses off and has no plans to.</i></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I had finally discovered a way to tolerate navigating my own personal nightmare and it was pissing him off. He looked around to see if people were staring at me, this woman who was wearing her shades inside.<br />
<br />
Honestly, if they were I didn't give a shit.<br />
<br />
Here's a little not-so-secret-secret about me: things like concerts and sporting events and carnivals and amusement parks and raves and parades and some kinds of church and monster truck shows and smash bashes and things with loud music and bright flashing lights like the sun or the moon above a sliver and big crowds and loads of stimulation? Not for me.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i.giphy.com/3o6MbjfAiNRtT1Rty8.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://i.giphy.com/3o6MbjfAiNRtT1Rty8.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very disorienting.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the rest of my family thinks it's tits. So I can either be a Sad Sally and stay home for the rest of their lives and miss out, or I can go with them and be miserable (and sometimes get legitimately sick) or I can go and block as much stimulation as possible and look, according to hubs, like a narcissist.<br />
<br />
I think he's missing the right description here. A narcissist would be like taking a million selfies or something. I will admit I look like a lunatic. Or someone with a bad case of pink eye that I'm woefully ashamed of at minimum.<br />
<br />
Oh, and I'm also wearing ear plugs, which you can't see, thanks to my hair.<br />
<br />
Oh. My hair. Let's talk about that for just a second.<br />
<br />
Does anybody else do that thing where you give somebody hundreds of dollars to make your hair look like the basic bitches drinking PSL's in UGGs and soft scarves and perfect messy buns in the Pinterest pins you're showing them, and you tell them you'd like your highlights specifically "not stripey" and they never write anything down and the next time they do something totally different and they always massage the shit out of your head which is like, fancy and part of the millions of dollars that other fancy posh women who go there pay for them to do and so they must like it so you sit still and pretend that it's nice because it must be nice because everyone else likes it but it really feels just like this sounds (as in your head is still dirty and trapped between two things you don't want touching it anymore):<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
And then the next day when you look exactly the same as you did the week before you think, <i>"<a href="http://dayleefix.blogspot.com/2015/04/wcw-kimberlie.html" target="_blank">bloody hell, I should have just sent all my hair money to Kim to fly here to fix my hair instead</a>."</i><br />
<br />
No? Just me? Ok.<br />
<br />
So here I am at this hockey game just overwhelmingly happy that I have made this discovery wherein I can participate in the happy fun time activities with my family and not be completely miserable. I am thinking of the other things that I will be able to do. I slowly start to realize how effed up I am.<br />
<br />
Rue 21? Maurices? NorthTown Mall? Have you been there? I cannot concentrate. I have had to just up and leave because l literally cannot. It is so damn loud. It makes me want to cry. Because I desperately need some new leggings because there is a hole square in the crotch of my old ones and I already know this but one of these days someone else is gonna let me know this and it's either going to be a very old woman or a very young boy and they will let me know very loudly in front of an audience of no less than twelve of my peers and five strangers who already have a shaky regard for me, plus like three people who hate my guts and wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire.<br />
<br />
Costco. Walmart. So.Bright. So many things. So many people. I mean, OK. Costco and Walmart SHOULD make people want to cry. We usually go on Friday night when people aren't there. But the thought of it paralyzes me.<br />
<br />
I have already talked to my doctor about this in the context of my headaches because they want to know E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G so I tell her just that and also I have a calendar for things like when and how bad and what kind of headaches I have and also I get to keep track of things like how often my uterus turns against me (often) alongside things like quarterly infoshares and hockey tournaments and dental cleanings and reminders for creative writing submission deadlines (which I miss on the regular). I have told her that things feel like "too much" as in <strong><em>sensory overload</em></strong>. Lights too bright. Sounds too loud. Smells too strong. Clothes feel like they're tearing my skin.<br />
<br />
A sensory deprivation tank would be an ideal gift for me.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYfHwuTEnWAQ3YAhIU1q2JNFCfsC0khxYt4RMo-Kt_zgEo110GR-uhCKcUxhe4ZWDDjdir5x2YOf0F6J1FIubmEInSe2Cj9M4Sb1pscTFyu1ex0bWQU-TNQ6ZE-JCUOx9KM-d6YZad1A/s1600/I9QdiAX.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYfHwuTEnWAQ3YAhIU1q2JNFCfsC0khxYt4RMo-Kt_zgEo110GR-uhCKcUxhe4ZWDDjdir5x2YOf0F6J1FIubmEInSe2Cj9M4Sb1pscTFyu1ex0bWQU-TNQ6ZE-JCUOx9KM-d6YZad1A/s400/I9QdiAX.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bring me 5,000 pounds of salt and some science goggles. Stat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<b>But...aren't all moms' nerves fried? I mean...at some point don't we all want to lock ourselves in the bathroom with the lights off and tell everyone to shut the fuck up?</b><br />
<br />
My doctor said sensory processing disorders are a thing, but they usually show up and get diagnosed in childhood. So...you know. I'm not a kid, so everybody settle down because I'm a full grown ladyperson and that means I must be OK.<br />
<br />
Whew. I was worried there for a minute.<br />
<br />
Now, if I can only figure out why my ear holes are getting so sore...DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-73087811673913553042016-09-27T18:39:00.000-07:002016-09-27T18:39:27.079-07:00Stop Paying Your Medical Bills ImmediatelyI mean it.<br />
<br />
If you're one of those people like my husband who doesn't let your papercut heal from tearing open the envelope on a bill before you're licking another one with your still-wet-ink check payment and raising the flag on your mailbox,<br />
<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
STOP IT.</h2>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'd like to say that I'm a professional expert about this because of my hard-earned credentials. I'm not. I'm a professional expert about this because of my hard-earned status as a patient, a mother, a daughter, a wife, a friend, and a remember-we-sort-of-met-one-time-can-I-ask-you-a-question-about-my-ladyparts-bill? Oh, and as big giant askhole when I notice that things don't look right.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
On my way to work yesterday, being on time (for once!) I got a text from a friend. One of those friends who is like, a super close friend from the way back but who generally doesn't text me before 9 am on a Monday.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>Hey - are you around?</b></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I wonder what's wrong. Is she broke down? Is her kid sick? Is she in jail? Whatever it is, I better call DaBoss and let him know I'll be late today.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Turned out there was no need. She just had some insurance questions. She was trying to sort out her dad's bills and nothing was adding up.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
THIS WAS NO SURPRISE TO ME AT ALL.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Other than my dentist, I have literally never gotten a bill from a doctor or hospital that was EVER correct.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
EVER.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
EVERRRRR.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And these questions? I get them ALL THE TIME. I'm the designated expert in our family. And I am happy to help. So I think it's time to just lay out my most frequently needed tips in one spot that have been relevant to everyone, no matter who you are. This is not intended to spark a debate about Obamacare or how you're pissed about how expensive it is. That's a whole other conversation that I'm happy to have in person, but on the surface I will tell you that every year EIGHTY FIVE BILLION DOLLARS is lost to fraud.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's just sucked up in a fraud tornado and doesn't help anyone's broken arm get fixed or get rehydrated after a nasty bout of the flu or get a camera up the keester for fun or not for fun or to cure cancer. It just disappears into pockets of hucksters and quite-literally-gangsters and human traffickers and terrorists and low level greedy bastards and some soccer mom who is pissed that she has a high deductible so she thinks she deserves it.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
And it's been happening since wayyyyy before Obama.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Anyway. Back to your bill.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<b>1. Check your EOB first.</b> Your EOB. Explanation Of Benefits. This is the thing from your insurance company that says "this is what they charged, this is what we paid, this is what you owe after all that". This is usually something like "member responsibility".<br />
<div>
<br />
<b>2. It's best if you can check your EOB online if your insurer has that option. </b>If you saw the doctor and had labs done, a paper EOB will usually just have two lines that say "medical, lab" and related dollar amounts. Electronic versions of this will have the capability for expanding to see the exact description of the level of service you had (there are 10 office visit codes!) or which lab you had done. Make sure the service billed is the service you had done. If this doesn't match, call the office and dispute this.<br />
<ol>
</ol>
<div>
I did this when Esten broke his arm in Kindergarten. If you remember, he got a baby blue cast that matched Blue Bear. When the bill arrived, it looked pretty normal. Setting the arm, putting on a cast. They billed insurance, insurance paid their part, I had my part left over. Simple, right?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkuzyhNbLbi4y0IKYZSH8-kAoBNbGSyDzv62z47eBgywd_zsmspW4VEN4Q2o1Fii7BApQX9t58XniqnyB9ll_DG3nuj3Td7D73p1z75RBJHfpDIWd-HzyPP3bGopIgvfVKW1Y2o4Ye21o/s1600/252769_1990649976520_7996619_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkuzyhNbLbi4y0IKYZSH8-kAoBNbGSyDzv62z47eBgywd_zsmspW4VEN4Q2o1Fii7BApQX9t58XniqnyB9ll_DG3nuj3Td7D73p1z75RBJHfpDIWd-HzyPP3bGopIgvfVKW1Y2o4Ye21o/s400/252769_1990649976520_7996619_n.jpg" width="391" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little crinkly crinkle on his wrist, way far away from his armpit.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
NOT SIMPLE.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There are TWELVE different codes for casts in this body region depending on how long it is, whether it's plaster or fiberglass, and whether it's applied to a person 0-10 years of age or a person 11 years of age and older.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Remember, he was five. Or maybe six, depending on how far into the year it was. So, let's say he was in that 0-10 years of age category.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So there are SIX codes that would apply. Depending on length and material.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
His was fiberglass. Remember? It matched Blue Bear.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So there are THREE codes that would apply. Depending on length.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
His went mid-way to his forearm. There is ONE code that would apply.</div>
<div>
<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
<div>
<i><b>Q4012 - Cast supplies, short arm cast, pediatric (0-10 years), fiberglass.</b></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But the code on the claim was:</div>
<div>
<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><b>Q4008 - Cast supplies, long arm cast, pediatric (0-10 years), fiberglass.</b></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
No biggie, right? Except that there was about a $90 difference in the fee. And about a $40 difference in what my portion owed was. Which is not going to make or break me, but 1) it wasn't right to begin with and 2) they overbilled my insurance.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I called them. I explained that they'd billed for a long arm cast but my kid got a quite obviously short arm cast and that could they please look to see where they'd made an error. She pulled the "charge sheet". These are one of the laziest piece of shit documents that have ever been invented and have been the bane of my existence since my days as a records clerk. It's a pain in the ass piece of paper with eight hundred million tiny check boxes on it that goes from the doctor's hurried hands to the billing clerk. Sometimes YOU carry it to the front desk to check out. It's a mess. It's not the "official" medical record, either.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So of course, THAT was was she looked at. <i><b>"According to the charge sheet, the doctor said he applied a long arm cast."</b></i></div>
<div>
<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
<div>
[Naturally, the boxes are literally one atop the other in about 5 point font.]</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><i>"No. Please pull his medical record. I know your office is not that big. They're literally within an arm's reach of your desk right now."</i></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><i>"Sorry. It's right here. We billed it correctly."</i></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><i>"Look. This kid came out of my vagina. I have looked into his tear-filled eyes and counted down the days that he will have to wait until this NOT A LONG ARM CAST has to come off and he can swim. I would PREFER to not belabor this point with you. I would PREFER to not report this as fraud." </i></b></div>
<div>
<b><i>[inside joke here to everyone who knows me]</i></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><i>"Sorry."</i></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I blew the gas it took to drive down there and ask the same thing face to face. And this time they pulled his chart. And LO AND BEFUCKINGHOLD, the chart doth proclaimeth, one short arm cast had been applied.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, shit.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
Recap: Esten got one of these:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtohTS1JIgQkq3eLPij_r7-8XvMifck_Plyq3l46e0H4MGsKZb6XSXBNNcZSmKXtM-Io8gkBW1W2tWwET4kJqz1rNeJRDQXYrcxnD93czfE20GMtL1fiSqJXSyno33qKTGKumT3AVBQbY/s1600/Make-a-Fake-Arm-Cast-Step-08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtohTS1JIgQkq3eLPij_r7-8XvMifck_Plyq3l46e0H4MGsKZb6XSXBNNcZSmKXtM-Io8gkBW1W2tWwET4kJqz1rNeJRDQXYrcxnD93czfE20GMtL1fiSqJXSyno33qKTGKumT3AVBQbY/s320/Make-a-Fake-Arm-Cast-Step-08.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Except BLUE</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And got billed for one of these:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://apocxxx.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/anigif_enhanced-29708-1414876213-10-1428002802.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://apocxxx.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/anigif_enhanced-29708-1414876213-10-1428002802.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Except FIBERGLASS and for little baby biceps.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Ok. So now what?<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"I did all that. All the services match, but the dollar amounts they say I owe don't match. My insurance says I owe $93.75 but the doctor/ambulance/voodoo priestess bill says I owe $745.26"</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i>
<br />
<div>
This is the part that two people in my life that I love almost more than everyone else come in, and I'd venture to guess that they're so much alike here because one of them came out of the other one's vagina like a couple of Russian nesting dolls.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>3. DO NOT PAY THE $745.26</b>. Tupac and Elvis will come back to drop a duet remake cover of <i>"Islands in the Stream"</i> before you see a refund for the difference once you realize you've overpaid your bill. Oh...and it has to be YOU that brings it to their attention that they owe you money because they're never going to randomly call you and be like, <i>"You know what? We were just doing our taxes and realized that last year we totes overbilled you after your insurance paid. Sorry, sweetie."</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nah. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>4. You write a check for $93.75. </b>You enclose a COPY of your EOB that says they can collect $93.75. You write on your statement that you're enclosing $93.75 because that's what your insurance says they can collect and that they can kick rocks for the rest.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Or whatever.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And hopefully you have gone to a participating provider. If you believe your claim has been processed incorrectly, denied, etc., reach out and ask. There is an appeals process for that. People make mistakes. Computers make mistakes. Honest people and companies are willing to look again and make things right when that happens. Don't be afraid to ask if something looks wrong.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And when all else fails, find your person who knows about all these things and have them look over your bills before you pay. In our family, that's me. For my friend, this week, that was me. Taking the time to call me probably saved her dad from waiting around on a $600 refund. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm sorry that things like this are so hard to navigate. I wish it weren't that way. I wish things were easier. Until they are, I will call on those who know the system to help those who need it until we're all equipped with the tools to make good calls on our own.</div>
</div>
DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-41546905751554381432016-08-19T14:03:00.001-07:002016-08-22T16:39:27.164-07:00Whose Pants are Wetter? Gypsy Wedding Crasher or Ryan Lochte?<br />
<br />
This week. Holy cow. I wanna talk about a couple of dudes who got shitty drunk, made "bad decisions" that impacted others, and who now are just befuckingwildered that people would like to hold them accountable. Ryan Lochte and our own <a href="http://dayleefix.blogspot.com/2016/07/marriage-commitment-cake-and-criminals.html" target="_blank">Fat Gypsy Wedding Crasher</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Yeah, we had a wedding crasher. I was waiting until the juicy judicial system did its thing before I talked publicly about it, because witness influence or tampering or whatever. You know. I just wanted to zip it. I know. Shocker that I'm able to do that on occasion. I promised I would talk about it. What excellent timing that it wrapped up the same week as these shenanigans of:<br />
<h2>
<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
LITERAL OLYMPIC PORPORTIONS</div>
</h2>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOPa4fA-oTdd_V1Hcs1s_03d3aWM-KaVTm5NsJsSHPG2sRt1UN7xklOHx7zyZx8YhGhj0thOV_zrdltmRmAMehL2Y_5Gt1hyphenhyphen5CJTlvga0TtUKMUP7-3RtE-H16HdJMXPfnFVgIyaHTuI/s1600/giphy+%25285%2529.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOPa4fA-oTdd_V1Hcs1s_03d3aWM-KaVTm5NsJsSHPG2sRt1UN7xklOHx7zyZx8YhGhj0thOV_zrdltmRmAMehL2Y_5Gt1hyphenhyphen5CJTlvga0TtUKMUP7-3RtE-H16HdJMXPfnFVgIyaHTuI/s320/giphy+%25285%2529.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My kids try this face. Even ToddlerBandit. I'm immune to its powers.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
If you just woke up, <a href="https://twitter.com/search?q=lochtegate&src=typd" target="_blank">#lochtegate</a> is happening on the interwebs.<br />
<br />
<br />
Condensed version:<br />
<br />
<br />
Ryan Lochte called his mommy and said he and his buddies got robbed at gunpoint by some group of banditos pretending to be cops. You know, in Rio, where that kind of thing happens and where the story was accepted as truth.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h2>
<em>Oh my goodness! Our poor, sweet, exceptional, American athletes! How scary for them!</em></h2>
<br />
<br />
Upon further investigation and review of crime scene footage, the actual crime was that Ryan Lochte and his buddies were all drunked up in the wee morning hours, wearing skinny pants (a misdemeanor in itself), kicked in a gas station bathroom door, peed everywhere, and were held by a security guard who demanded they pay for the damages.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h2>
<em>What. A. Dickbag.</em></h2>
<br />
<br />
Full disclosure: I've not ever really been a Ryan Lochte (or his mom) fan since the whole "he doesn't have time for relationships so he just has rando-sex" thing happened. For one, it's a little trashy. For two, it makes his mom make the Toddlers & Tiaras moms look VERY hands-off when she is THAT involved in his pee-pee-poking-around business. For three, if that had been said of any female athlete, she would have been slut shamed. Instead, women the world over slobbered over that POS wishing they could get in line to be the next Ms. Rando.<br />
<br />
<br />
Barf.<br />
<br />
<br />
Today, after he, his mom, his attorney, and his agent sat SILENT all week, he issued this piece of crap statement and called it an apology:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVr-R3eMV__ULwF5IvOhHCMoZFhCzjOkbKmWkxaOkJy_dqIqry0T7HhuOOA_DR74Dc_ZzF3M5i-dFDPT4ukYY6BsCL9JnoVTdpp63j94pO53Tm-4nikHjgpHxRf_6iu4jisZMfcq1YeQA/s1600/CqOl6TGWEAINCml.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVr-R3eMV__ULwF5IvOhHCMoZFhCzjOkbKmWkxaOkJy_dqIqry0T7HhuOOA_DR74Dc_ZzF3M5i-dFDPT4ukYY6BsCL9JnoVTdpp63j94pO53Tm-4nikHjgpHxRf_6iu4jisZMfcq1YeQA/s400/CqOl6TGWEAINCml.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Anyway. Apology not accepted. I think we should be shipping his ass back to answer for any charges like...filing a false police report and being a general asshat. And that's the last I really ever want to hear about him, really. He selfishly stole the spotlight from the people who were there and humbly tumbling or swimming or running or diving or shot-putting their hearts out and quite literally MAKING HISTORY that he doesn't deserve a second longer of our attention.<br />
<br />
<br />
This brings me to Tuesday.<br />
<br />
<br />
Tuesday I sauntered down to our grand old court house to view the late morning session of Misdemeanorees, Miscreants, and Mayhem Masters, starring only half the originally booked cast<i> (the others will still get call-backs via bench warrant, don't worry).</i><br />
<br />
<br />
I was only there to see one star, the one that tried to steal the show at the BFGW. Let's just call him for the purposes of my silly little story:<br />
<br />
<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Walter William Phillips</h2>
<br />
<br />
Because that's his name and all this shit is public record, if anyone cares enough to go digging around if they think I'm wrong.<br />
<br />
<br />
I'll even give you a "nice guy" picture of him instead of his mugshot so that you won't think I'm TOTALLY trying to paint a picture of him all one-sided and whatnot (<em>even though I did consider filling out a public information request to obtain the booking photo. I did. Ask the ladies at the S.O.)</em>:<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkL_xx0sFpkG8Vatbjvp7k6I1Tmtj8yk5iq9s7K2aSx__arSZPDno_NXStS4QPS40_AODMlOEuRg9ir0cjr6Orkz9gg5Uqyag3UTx5RxQGXPt3LhG7AXakSTOgWdD3zlr4yeubsn0thHA/s1600/562c6df822f3a_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkL_xx0sFpkG8Vatbjvp7k6I1Tmtj8yk5iq9s7K2aSx__arSZPDno_NXStS4QPS40_AODMlOEuRg9ir0cjr6Orkz9gg5Uqyag3UTx5RxQGXPt3LhG7AXakSTOgWdD3zlr4yeubsn0thHA/s400/562c6df822f3a_image.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo: lmtribune</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Oh, where's that from? That's from the newspaper. From when he tried to get a spot on our CITY COUNCIL last election cycle. This guy wanted to make the rules for the REST of us.<br />
<br />
<br />
Moving on.<br />
<br />
<br />
I am a chronic observer. I always have been. So I made my way to the end of the hallway, checked each posted docket until I found his name, saw that he was there and looking very much soberer than the last time I saw him, and planted myself on a bench with the other defendants. Prosecutors and public defenders buzzed back and forth, only one was familiar to me from the wayback. He stopped when he saw me there.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em><strong>"Heeeeeeey. How's it going? What are YOU doing here? You're not on MY list, are you?"</strong></em> he asked nervously, knowing that I didn't fit the profile of the group that I was with.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>"Waiting for the 10:45 group."</em></strong></div>
<br />
<br />
<strong><em>"Oh. Ummmm. Good luck, I guess."</em></strong><br />
<strong><em><br /></em></strong>
They called name after name, people disappearing this way and that. They called name after name to which there was no response. They'd whittled the group down to a handful and just started asking OUR names, deciding to take cases out of order. They looked at me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em>"What's your name?"<br /><br />"I'm not on your list."</em></strong><br />
<strong><em><br /></em></strong>
<strong><em>"Oh. Are you on the County list? I'll see if he can move you up."</em></strong><br />
<strong><em><br /></em></strong>
<strong><em>"No. I'm not on any list."</em></strong><br />
<strong><em><br /></em></strong>
<strong><em>"OH."</em></strong><br />
<strong><em><br /></em></strong>
And as they whisked the only other woman away, dressed in her fanciest thin white tee shirt with a neon pink bra showing through and a pack of Camels just begging to be taken out for a walk, a man struck up a conversation with Walter.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="color: blue;">"What are you in here for?"</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></em></strong>
<br />
It sounded like two cell mates meeting for the first time. Cute.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="color: magenta;">"They got me on a bullshit misdemeanor for disturbing the peace."</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><br /></em></strong>
<strong><em><span style="color: blue;">"Oh. Dude, I've been there. That sucks."</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><br /></em></strong>
<strong><em><span style="color: magenta;">"Tell me about it. I went down to that Black Lives Matter thing they had, you know, because...well SOMEBODY had to stand up to those fuckers. You know?"</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><br /></em></strong>
<strong><em><span style="color: blue;">"Oh yeah. TOTALLY. So they arrested you for that? Whoa."</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><br /></em></strong>
<strong><em><span style="color: magenta;">"Oh, no....no...I don't even know, dude. All's I know is I was there and then next thing I know, I woke up in jail strapped to a chair and my fucking pants are wet."</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><br /></em></strong>
<strong><em><span style="color: blue;">"WHAT? That's nuts."</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><br /></em></strong>
<strong><em><span style="color: magenta;">"Yeah. And now I've gotta go back East for a job and I have this bullshit to deal with, and it's a complete waste of the judicial system's time and taxpayer money, if you ask me."</span></em></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
Yes. It did take every fiber of my being to sit there with my mouth shut and listen to this garbage when all I wanted to do was either bash his head or my own repeatedly into the cinderblock walls of our Halls of Justice. Fortunately, his douchebaggery didn't stop once his name was called and he met all side-bar like with the prosecutor before going before the judge.<br />
<br />
First off, she's about forty-eleven feet tall and has a "go fuck yourself" haircut. Having never met her before, I had to put aside my sudden lady-crush until I knew whether she was going to hold him accountable for his actions.<br />
<br />
She began by giving him a chance to tell her what happened.<br />
<br />
<i><b><span style="color: magenta;">"Well, I went to that Black Lives Matter thing. You know? And I guess maybe I was riled up and had too much to drink. I'd went to BoJack's with my boy for his birthday. I don't know, really. And then I just woke up in jail and my pants were wet. It was a pretty bad deal."</span></b></i><br />
<br />
She let out a sigh.<br />
<br />
<b><i>"Well, according to the report, you showed up at a wedding reception to which you were not invited, you were intoxicated, you touched the breasts of some of the female guests there, you rubbed the face and head area of a black person and yelled racial slurs at him, you yelled "ALL LIVES MATTER!", and then when you were asked to leave you jumped in a fountain."</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><span style="color: magenta;">"Well, I don't recall any of that. I was just at the Black Lives Matter thing. I don't know if you know my family history, but we maybe have a problem when it comes to...you know. Maybe it's time to quit drinking again. I was sober for a long time, you know. Cuz I don't even remember any of that. So how can I plead guilty if I don't remember it?"</span></i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>"It took four men to hold you until the police arrived. And then you fought the police. And then you kept fighting at the jail."</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><span style="color: magenta;">"Ok, so if I fight this plea, four people could say I was there."</span></i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>"Probably like a hundred people would say you were there."</i></b><br />
<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i><b>"Well, like I said. I don't recall. And I'm just trying to earn a living and I'm headed to Wisconsin on a job and I don't know if you've heard what's happening in Milwaukee with <u>THE BLACKS</u> but they're all rioting and it won't be safe <u>FOR ME</u>."</b></i></span><br />
<br />
<b><i>"I'm filling this form out, recommending that you change your plea to GUILTY and I will recommend fines ONLY at this time."</i></b><br />
<br />
This asshole never ONE TIME acknowledged what he did nor did he apologize for the impact his actions had on other people, including AND ESPECIALLY that he put his hands on a black person and then said HE is not safe from BLACK PEOPLE.<br />
<br />
He went on to blather about how he didn't want this misdemeanor on his record because it would make him look bad, <i>UNNECESSARILY</i> as he was just a goody-two-shoes WHITE GUY out there in the world trying to earn a living and the justice system was squishing his balls. Because, of course, all these options came with like...probation...or some other nut-squeezing restriction on his ability to just be a LAW ABIDING CITIZEN.<br />
<br />
For real.<br />
<br />
He asked to plead No Contest. She explained that is a Washington thing, not an Idaho thing. This got my cackles up as to his unusually intimate knowledge sitting at the WRONG table in the court room. And rightly so, he has a history of DUIs and license suspensions.<br />
<br />
Ultimately, she and the judge allowed him to enter an Alford Plea. He has $350ish in fines and fees. And not one goddamn intention of being a better human after this.<br />
<br />
When he left and she saw me standing in the hallway listening, she assumed I was next on her list. I assured her I was only there to make sure he was held responsible for his actions. Because while the day was beautiful and memorable in all kinds of OTHER ways, this was a disruption that absolutely did not need to happen.<br />
<br />
I had the opportunity that day to stand up for/stand in for some other folks that aren't keen on the navigation of our court system. I get that. I AM keen, so I went. I also had the chance to meet some new (to me) prosecutors that I'm proud to see carry forward and complete the cases that folks like my husband have to start. Their job sucks. Everyone they deal with hates them. Maybe because they don't get to hear from victims in these cases to hear <i><b>THANK YOU</b></i> enough.<br />
<br />
I know they don't always see eye to eye. Especially when they schedule hearings on Hubs' day off. Or too early on his days on.<br />
<br />
He hates that, by the way. But he goes. Because deep down, they're on the same team. He thanks them, too.<br />
<br />
So now that the Phillips case is resolved, I'll only mildly be listening for Ryan Lochte's airplane engine to fire up as they extradite him to answer a few more questions. Because totally forgetting about it is exactly what he (and USA Olympics) wants us to do.<br />
<br />
But I'm going to be right here. Not forgetting about Ryan. Not forgetting about Walter. May they forever be plagued by fungal issues in their nether-regions from all their wet pants-shenanigans.<br />
<br />DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-5108275602473261642016-08-17T17:49:00.001-07:002016-08-17T17:49:32.288-07:00Drunk Uncle: Career Influencer, Accidental Speech (and blog!) Topic<br />
I herded kids into bed the other night with aggravated enthusiasm. I had too much to do.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>"Hurry up. I don't have time for this. I have a thing tomorrow."</i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b><i>"</i></b><b><i>What kind of thing?"</i></b></div>
<br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>"A thing. A speaking thing. I have to go talk."</i></b><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<b></b><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b><b><i>"Are they paying you to talk? That's good for you, since you like to talk."</i></b></b></div>
<b>
</b>
<br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>"Well, I get paid anyway. From my job. But people are driving from out of town to hear me talk. And unlike YOU yahoos, they'll probably listen to me."</i></b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b><i>"OMIGOSH. You're like...like...that's so cool."</i></b></div>
<br />
<b><i>"Go to BED."</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<br />
I'll spare you the gory details about my job and whatnot because this is kind of a job-free zone. But I did have to give my listeners some background about myself and some sense of how I might have ended up where I was. It was also a group of all women*, and being a lady-type-person myself, I like to never pass on an opportunity to remind other women that they should always grab life by the balls.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>*If there had been a man in the room, I would have equally believed he should go grab life by the balls. I am equal opportunity that way. </i></span></div>
<br />
So I started with a question of this room full of women who carried in their various purses at least one same credential as me:<br />
<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>"Does everybody have one drunk uncle?"</i></b></h2>
<br />
I knew from the mix of those that laughed and those that didn't what I was getting myself into. I told my story anyway.<br />
<br />
Drunk Uncle, in my case, sloshed up to me about seven drinks in at my high school graduation to ask what I wanted to do with my life.<br />
<br />
This was really the first time I remember anyone posing it in that way - so open ended - instead of inserting their opinion on one end or the other. I didn't hesitate to answer him.<br />
<br />
<b><i>"I want to be that person with the video camera that follows the guy around, you know, the guy who is putting a new roof on his house with his butt crack hanging out, the guy that's on workman's comp? I want to be THAT person."</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>"PPPPPPPFFFFTT,"</i></b> he slobbered at me. <b><i>"There's no money in that. Get a REAL job. I'll put in a good word for you at the mill."</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<br />
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<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b>AT. THE. MILL.</b><br />
<br />
You know, because in this mill town, if "the mill" is nice enough to extend you a job offer, you take it and you are thankful for that opportunity to have a giant pile of money in exchange for your life span to be cut short and quality of life to be zilch. It's a great deal. Ask anyone who's sold their soul to the company store. And so I did. Not immediately, but still. When I did, they had 1,500 applicants. 130 interviews. 13 people were hired. I was one of them. I believe this says their Human Resources sucked ass at the time.*<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">*I say this because I personally know at least one person in Human Resources at present and I do not believe that she sucks ass. I also believe strides have been made to select candidates more befitting that work than I ever was. I also believe they have made strides to actually enforce their own workplace violence policy, which used to also suck ass, and which is what initially motivated me to leave. I did not wish to die and become a piece of your milk carton.</span></i></div>
<i><br /></i>
I let Drunk Uncle pour his drink over that fire in my belly in an instant. I forgot all about what I really wanted to do. What I - as a SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD GIRL - had a glimmer and a drive to want to pursue. And it would be years and years before I would be like:<br />
<br />
NO. I'm better than this. I like solving puzzles. I like getting to the bottom of things. I like discovering the truth and calling people out on their hijinks and shenanigans (which are different). I like standing up for and protecting people who can't do it for themselves.<br />
<br />
And I reignited that fire by myself. And when I did, the light was bright enough to find the rest of my tribe by.<br />
<br />
I hoped these ladies wouldn't let THEIR Drunk Uncle or whatever lingering voice was in their heads keep them from maybe doing something even more awesome than they were already doing.<br />
<br />
I continued the rest of my talk with the room staring at me, stunned at my lack of any Power Point presentation (I don't like to depend too heavily on technology - what happens when the power goes out and you don't have anything to talk about??) and talked about a lot of very boring and very shocking and scandalous things and included a quite very maybe inappropriate amount of me just pointing to various parts of my body, including my armpit, and sloping toward fan girl obsession with colonoscopies*.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Spellcheck is certain the word I'm looking for here is <b>kaleidoscopes</b>.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">I am certain it is not. </span></i></div>
<br />
All throughout, my trusty sidekick held door duty and her composure, most likely outlining her resignation in her head and counting down the days until she could distance herself from my theatrics, hoping to blend into the wall and have nobody associate her with me.<br />
<br />
Just kidding. She's a big weirdo just like me.<br />
<br />
And I woke up today to a <b><i>"Thank You"</i></b> email and not a <b><i>"Your membership has been revoked effective immediately"</i></b> email, so I'm going to take that as a sign that things were received positively. Either way, everyone got their CEUs and I still get to do what I should have been doing all along, even though I spend most of my days wanting to put my head straight through a wall.<br />
<br />
<b><i>WIN-WIN.</i></b><br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Go forth, my fellow Fixers...follow your <i>own</i> fires.</h2>
<i><br /></i>DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-59204399926429056732016-08-08T12:18:00.001-07:002016-08-08T14:35:51.287-07:00Date Night Makes Me So HornetWhen two thirds of the shorties are out of the house, we like to drag ToddlerBandit along to dinner, stick a screen in his hand, pretend he's not there, and call it:<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<br />Date Night.</h2>
Which is exactly what we did this weekend after a day of boating. The biggest littles went with their buddies for their first ever smash bash and a sleepover, which they reacted to thusly:<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
We went to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/kcsburgersandbrews/?fref=ts" target="_blank">KC's</a> where I had my usual meat salad and where Hubs had the burger of the week and made me SWEAR to him that I would make him get the mac and cheese burger for sure next time. For sure. He says they have the best ever buns and that I need to get off my "high horse" about the carb thing and just eat one already because I'm missing out.<br />
<br />
<br />
I believe him.<br />
<br />
<br />
We spent the rest of our romantic dinner arguing over whether another couple was a couple or a mother and her son. His vote was mother and son because there was about forty years difference between them. My vote was that they were very early in their Match.com relationship because I saw them making out when they first walked through the door. She also appeared to be wearing pants for the first time in a long while in direct conflict with the religion that was dictating her hairdo, which didn't match what he had going on with his appearance. So there's no way that was her son.<br />
<br />
<br />
We never did find out, so let's just say that I was right for the purposes of our marriage continuing down a happy path.<br />
<br /><br />
I also decided that people would assume that we were brother-and-sister and that ToddlerBandit was HIS kid based on the fact that my body just screams, <em>"there's no way she has pumped out three children, I mean come ON...look at those narrow hips."</em><br />
<br /><br />
...and then he choked on his delicious caramel milkshake and rolled his eyes at me.<br />
<br /><br />
To really spice things up, we stopped by the Home Depot for more bee killer spray because those assholes are back again. And before everyone gets all uppity about how the bees are an integral part of our ecosystem, these aren't bees. They're wasps. Umbrella wasps, to be exact. I know this because those stupid charts that say "how long are the legs on your bees?" say so and also because I finally found their dumb houses that they build on the eaves.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS1kSL8SZu3UECiUNRJg4yuk8JoM3zerq3Uq4Q5pwq8iNsrd3Q28opVJBQ7oovxgZkkVtCPxgyDgb8biFSdWKK4Ops8XYMIQpOHzN_SrtOSYBsb_pkfKdQER1z_aAEaGdNjMLvyxFwUBw/s1600/imagesVPYMXU5Z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS1kSL8SZu3UECiUNRJg4yuk8JoM3zerq3Uq4Q5pwq8iNsrd3Q28opVJBQ7oovxgZkkVtCPxgyDgb8biFSdWKK4Ops8XYMIQpOHzN_SrtOSYBsb_pkfKdQER1z_aAEaGdNjMLvyxFwUBw/s1600/imagesVPYMXU5Z.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Architecturally annoying as hell.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Oh, by the way, too...<a href="http://dayleefix.blogspot.com/2016/06/ill-dove-you-forever.html" target="_blank">the doves are back</a>. Well, they never left really. I took their nest down but they were all like,<em><strong> "No. We live here now. We will rebuild that tomorrow. Knock it off."</strong></em><br />
<br />
<br />
So. Birds and bees. And Mr. Fix is all like, <strong><em>"Hey...I'll go get you the ladder so you can get on the roof and take care of that."</em></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
So I hike my ass up the ladder in my sandals, which I kick off at the top rung, the one that says, <em><strong>"Hey, don't step here, dummy"</strong></em> but I do anyway. And suddenly the only thing in my mind is:<br />
<br />
<br />
1982. 1982. 1982. My parents got their new roof in 1982. If anyone needs to know when my parents got their new roof, it was 1982.<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm sure there's been another shingling since then, but that was one of them. I know this because I was five years old when my thighs last fit properly into corduroy pants, and my favorite ones were red and they had Strawberry Shortcake on them because duh, <em><strong>1982</strong></em>. And they were reroofing the house and I was on the roof and I was throwing old shingles down and I was scootch-sliding instead of standing up and later in the day my mom was like, <strong><em>"what did you do to your pants???"</em></strong> and I suddenly realized I had an assless chaps situation going on.<br />
<br />
<br />
My pants. My underwear. My ass was out. Back when it was teeny tiny and super cute.<br />
<br />
<br />
And I'm up there thinking <strong><em>WTF were my parents thinking letting a five year old hang out on the roof?</em></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
And this was all I could think of as I sat perched and frozen and barefoot on the roof in my newly favorite leggings, gravity and mass calculations different from my five-year-old self. Still unable to stand, I rolled into position to spray the nests. One by one, as I sprayed, I could see there were more. And more. And more. These things had set up residence in the hidden recesses of our roofline. I ran out of murder juice and asked for more. Then I waited for the poison to sink in so I could annihilate them with the power washer.<br />
<br />
<br />
And while I waited for Hubs to get back from wherever he was (seriously, he was off dicking around somewhere and I was annoyed that I could have fallen and he wouldn't even know), I had a chance to just sit on the roof and take in the quickly setting sun. And the sky was indescribably beautiful. And the moon was an impossible sliver of a crescent. I was in a Michael Parkes painting.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<strong>Or I might have been high from huffing all that wasp spray, now that I think of it.</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
The next day, I set out to observe our newly bug-free outdoors and was met with the swarm. Again. I found ANOTHER five nests further around back in a vent. But since I have a "nobody gets on the roof alone" policy (which only I adhere to around here), it will have to wait until at least Thursday again so I can finally show these jerks there's only room in this house for ONE queen bee.<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<em>Me.</em></h2>
I can't wait, really. Because that's the day when Hubs and I see each other again, and we only have two more episodes of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt4574334/" target="_blank">Stranger Things</a> to pound out on Netflix. Because when we do Date Night, there's no Netflix and Chill, there's only Netflix and Play Next Episode. You know, when we're finally done with all the super romantic stuff.DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-46841949041447998592016-08-03T17:48:00.001-07:002016-08-03T17:48:05.947-07:00A Brake-through, Without TherapyLet me take this opportunity to acknowledge one of the seven hundred million things I do on the regular that make Mr. Fix absolutely bonkers.<br />
<br />
It's no secret that he hates driving my car. It's the newest in the Lee fleet. It's also got the thickest crust of goldfish guts, a latte spatter pattern that would stump Dexter, and a permanent layer of BabyChuck sole-patterned mud on the back of the driver's seat. And usually a pair of underwear in there somewhere.<br />
<br />
He can usually stomach all of that. But when he puts her in drive and we go:<br />
<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
NOWHERE,</h2>
<div style="text-align: left;">
He's annoyed. Always.</div>
<br />
<b><i>"Why is the parking brake on? We are literally on flat ground. You're being ridiculous."</i></b><br />
<br />
Let me brake (<i>ha</i>) it down for you. Because things dawned on me today as I absentmindedly set that sucker at work again. Just like I did yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that.<br />
<br />
Long, long ago, when I was a wee child, my mom loaded me up and carted me off to the babysitter before she went off to work. EARLY. Like....EARLY, early. Like, so early I went back to bed at the babysitter's house. And this was summertime, and I had one of those plastic kiddie pools because we didn't have air conditioning and it's hot as Satan's vagina here (still), and when we got in the car she noticed it was still out and full from the day before.<br />
<br />
Not wanting it sitting there all day smashing the grass or whatever, she got out of the car, dumped the water out, and dragged it over to rest against the garage. This was when the car began rolling backward down the driveway, across the street, through the fence, and into the field opposite our house. With me in it.<br />
<br />
Now. I will tell you that from this moment forward, I haven't had a particular likening to carnival rides. But I particularly began being a little OCD about setting the parking brake in a car way before I ever started driving one. Especially if I was in it. Because just barely being able to see out the windows is just about the most traumatic view of all. The world whizzing by. Your mom, through the windshield, in a dead sprint, but really, it's mom speed...so there's no way she's gonna catch you and you know it. And you want to close your eyes but you just can't.<br />
<br />
I'm sure it was all very very slow-mo. But at the time? It felt very much like this:<br />
<br />
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<br />
Was it life changing trauma? No. I mean...I tripped and fell right behind the riding mower once and she almost backed over me with it. That was pretty effing scary. I have a healthy respect for the John Deere and I keep my distance when it fires up. I also absolutely do not let my kids play out in the yard while Hubs is mowing. ToddlerBandit likes to help, but he rides WITH him and wears ear protection.<br />
<br />
But this? I mean, so what if I have a compulsive habit of setting the parking brake. All the time. On flat ground. Wouldn't you? What childhood traumas have carried over into habits that annoy your significant other?DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625478990713949882.post-40195964913573321612016-07-31T13:27:00.000-07:002016-08-01T13:59:23.409-07:00An Open Letter to the Woman Who Laughed at My Son's BunsYou were waiting just like me, perched on the edge of a wall that wasn't really a bench.<br />
<br />
It was early in the day still, but you looked like you knew what kind of special hot hell the day had the potential of delivering, and you, like me, were getting the most of the shade before the noon hour stole it away.<br />
<br />
We sat, you and I, flanking my husband, sprawling amusement park not-yet-quite-so-crowded that we couldn't give you a little buffer. You watched me back my overloaded jogging stroller up so that it wouldn't trip up the crowd but my little passenger could still have a view.<br />
<br />
You were alone, probably relishing the fact that yours were old enough to be out there on that ride. Maybe yours were too little to ride alone and your husband was on the ride with them. Maybe your ovaries started twitching for another. Maybe you were so happy to be past pushing a stroller around that you made a mental note to schedule a hysterectomy next week. Maybe your husband will get a surprise vasectomy text like mine did, instead. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
You looked nice enough to sit close to, but we gave you a little room anyway. We didn't want to impose too closely on what might be a rare four minutes of quiet for you. But we were close enough. <br />
<br />
You smiled when you saw my kid. People usually do. His hair has its own fan club.<br />
<br />
You watched as I asked if he was hungry, knowing he would grow restless by just sitting, knowing we were too far from lunch and he'd want a snack soon, knowing this was my best window to get him to eat one before he got distracted by the next ride.<br />
<br />
You watched me unzip my ultra tiny backpack that we use as a diaper bag these days. You waited for me to pull out a granola bar. Or goldfish crackers. Or an applesauce packet. And then you burst out laughing when I pulled out a full package of <i><b>hot dog buns</b></i>.<br />
<br />
Thank you. Thank you for laughing at my kid's buns. Thank you for seeing the ridiculousness that is parenting. When your kid is going through a phase where you for sure know that he will eat a hot dog bun (and sometimes the hot dog, but never together) so you throw a whole package of them in just for him. When you sail past that point in your mom career where you care about people judging you for it, but you realize that someone not only <b>not</b> judging or scolding or other-mothering, but<i><b> actually laughing</b><b> at it with you</b></i> makes your day...it's the highlight of your day.<br />
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And that day had some pretty high highlights.<br />
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Our family was the first through the gates. I'm fairly certain that's a first for us, and maybe won't happen again ever in this lifetime. My sister in law cracked a Lampoon's Vacation Wally World joke about it being closed and half the internet believed her. <br />
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That same sister in law donkey kicked me in the vagina as a prize for waiting in line for seventeen hours to ride a tube down a tunnel (not my vagina) for 36 seconds where she demanded the entire time that my husband should immediately "turn this tube around" because she believes he has the strength of a hundred elephants<i> (he only has the strength of about seven elephants because he skipped arm day at the gym last week)</i>.<br />
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That same sister in law and I were the lowly lollygaggers of our group and as a prize had delivered to our feet one bikini clad lady-person who nobody in the crowd seemed to be bothered by, because apparently if you're having too much fun in the water the lifeguards get all whistle-happy, but if you suddenly go from being vertical to completely horizontal and el-no-respondo on the concrete with bloody knees and two old ladies waving their arms about, it's like<i><b> "Oh, you silly sillies and your little sorority girl flippy flop over there. Carry on."</b></i><br />
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It was eventful. We owe a huge thanks to my brother in law and his company for arranging such a special day and including us. We owe a huge thanks to my MIL and FIL for dragging their camper to give everyone a home base.<br />
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And to you. For such a small gesture. You have no idea how much it means to me that you laughed at his buns.<br />
<br />
Thank you. Really. There were a LOT of parents there, from a LOT of different backgrounds, all doing things differently with one goal: to have fun and get home in one piece. We did that at almost Midnight. And my curly-haired cargo woke me up early again today, like usual. And as my coffee brewed, I thought of you and I wonder how you're holding up today.<br />
<br />
Solidarity, sister-mother. Solidarity.<br />
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<br />DayLeeFixhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16995709590593282311noreply@blogger.com6