Happy Holidays, A**holes

I reached my breaking point with humans over the past couple weeks. Before I get too deep into that, and since we're about to dive straight into the depths of Holiday Hell, let's reveal the winner of Jen Mann's latest and greatest: Spending the Holidays with People I Want to Punch in the Throat.

My personal list just got longer.

Kamas T. wins this round, which is ironic because she is one of those people that everyone wants to punch in the throat and strangle with her own Christmas lights because she won't settle the hell down about it. She thinks her cat, Pancakes LOVES being dressed in ridiculous holiday outfits, but we all know that poor kitty is just waiting to eat her mommy's face off in her sleep.

I kid. (Not really).

Moving on.

I have the privilege of belonging to a private Facebook group that scouts out customer complaints for the Hope That Helps page. It's run by a trio including Ben Palmer, the man behind the Battman page. It's opened my eyes to the level of ridiculousness and entitlement that folks feel appropriate to bitch about for free stuff, attention, or some other self-serving purpose. On a public forum. For people like me to see. And make fun of.

Then there's the other kind of people. The people who generate false information for distribution amongst the masses that are otherwise too uneducated or lazy to fact find on their own, so they'll perpetuate said information into eternity with emotions getting hotter than a cookie sheet fresh out of the oven with each batch of shares.

This last couple weeks there have been two that stand ahead of the rest. First, American Girl, the six thousand dollar dolls that make me ever thankful that I have boys published a story about adoption from foster care in its November/December magazine issue. People.Freaked.Out.

A family. With love and everything.

One Million Moms (you know, the hate group) published its stance on the issue here, including their call to:

"TAKE ACTION

Please use the information we have provided to contact American Girl (owned by Mattel) and strongly encourage the company to remain neutral and not take a position on controversial topics. Tell them as long as American Girl is pushing the homosexual agenda to children, your family will no longer be able to support the company, its magazine, or purchase its products."

What. The. Fresh. Hell?

I only have this to say. THANK YOU to the dads who stepped up to parent these children and give them a forever home. THANK YOU to American Girl, who I probably still won't have an opportunity to support financially, but not due to a boycott, for standing up to and answering almost every individual crotchety asshat who made some vile statement as a visitor on their Facebook page, defending their article and bringing awareness to adoption and foster care in this country.

Even Focus on the Family, who has done so much damage to those who never deserved it seem to get it. Here's their graphic comparing the number of churches to the number of kids in foster care, by state. If one in every three churches had a family willing to adopt, we'd no longer have children waiting:

But by all means, as we head into this gift-giving season, please cross AG dolls off your list because 1MM feels they're pushing the gay agenda onto our youth, and by that I mean they are trying to turn all my kids and your kids and their kids G-A-Y.


While you're out shopping for NOT an AG doll, you might have occasion to stop by for a caffeine fix at Starbucks, where the pretend war on Christmas started last week. #RedCupGate has everyone all up in arms over Sucksbucks introducing of all things, plain red cups to mark the return of their holiday drinks.

Holy shit.

Joshua Feuerstein even posted a video where he really sticks it to Starbucks, having "tricked them" by telling them his name was Merry Christmas so they'd be forced to write it on his otherwise plain red cup. He pushed them even further by unapologetically daring to wear a JESUS shirt in the store and packing a pistol. Because nothing says F*CK YOU like a Yahweh tee stretched over your beer gut and a sidearm.

And of course, everyone who watches that shit just blindly follows along and gets all outraged like he says to.

And of course, every time I see his mug on a video I start watching it because I think that asshole is Kevin James and he's going to say something funny. But he doesn't. And I'm left disappointed beyond measure.

And those Jesus folks don't bother doing any level of fact finding to realize that Starbucks didn't remove Christmas from their cups, it was NEVER THERE. Every year their design changes, and they've never had little baby Jesus in a manger on those things. Go check. I'll wait.

No Jesus, No "Merry Christmas"

No Jesus, No "Merry Christmas"

Still No. Just no.

Let me break this down for you: There is no "war on Christmas". There do exist other religions and whatnot, and you know, Jews are still a thing with their Hanukkah and whatnot. And it's funny how they don't get all spun up about their holiday not getting appropriate recognition in cup design and when store clerks are passing out well wishes.

Because they're not assholes.

Yep. If you are going to get upset over the design on a disposable paper cup, and not do the requisite research to know that they still carry Christmas blend and an Advent calendar before just sharing posts and joining in the chorus of outrage, you sir, are an asshole.

Please go on about how they've taken Christ out of your coffee.

Literally an exclusively Christian item.

This holiday season, let's teach our kids better lessons than getting wound up about stupid shit like plain red cups and adopted kids with two dads. Let's show them how we can give to those in need, how we can share our good fortune with others, and how we can love one another despite our differences. Those are real gifts that will last a lifetime.

Also:
Happy Festivus.
Happy Hanukkah.
Happy Kwanzaa.

DayLeeFix Domestics

If there's one thing I try to be here, on my social media accounts, and in person, it's genuine. I just don't have the energy to be fake at this juncture in life. So much weird and wonderful has happened that I've learned to ignore the bad is to miss out on some of the best and most hilarious memories your heart can hold. I also want other people to learn to laugh at themselves and to put down their walls.

We're all guilty at some point of looking toward other individuals, couples, or families and thinking that they have it all together, and feeling a twinge of jealousy. Of making mental notes to get our own shit together so we can be more like them. My message is this: nobody knows what the hell they're doing. We're all winging it. Quit beating yourself up.

That said, since Hubs doesn't want me to talk about the domestic we almost got into a couple weeks ago when I had to shave his man bits pre-vasectomy, I'll tell you about ridiculous argument we had this morning over hot rice in a sock instead.

Hot rice in a sock.

I would have just used these, but they're packed with the Christmas shit.

Most folks know I have migraine issues and other nerve problems around my head and ear region. Last night I had reached my limit after a week of constant pain on the side of my face, the kind where it hurt to touch it, hurt to have my hair brush against it, felt like it was being scraped by hot needles. I needed a heating pad on it, but my heating pad is too sharp and plastic-y, so I decided to make a hot rice pack.

Knowing he usually has a stash of brand new socks, I ventured into his side of the closet. There I found two pair of new black work socks. I took one, filled it with dry white rice, tied off the end, nuked it for a minute, and settled in to let the warmth begin quieting my nerves. It worked, and I was able to get to sleep quicker than I had the nights before.

This morning, I laid it out on the counter so I could take it to work with me. He rolled in off his graveyard shift, and when he saw it began questioning me.

"What is this?"

"Rice in a sock."

"My sock? Why couldn't you use your sock? Gross. It's ruined now."

"No it's not. I needed a new sock, and I didn't have one. It's just dry rice. It's fine."

"No it's not. It's CONTAMINATED."

Contaminated. OK. Let's back up. I was looking for a container for rice. I was going to put said container in the microwave, where we put our food. I was going to put said container on my face. I did not sew the sock shut even, out of courtesy so that he can have it back when I'm done. See how nice I am?

"Um, do you think rice is more gross than your foot? Because I've filed your feet before. And I can say for sure that NO, that rice is not more gross than your foot and that sock is NOT contaminated."

And I know that when I am done with this sock, even if I wash it and fold it back with its mate, he will pitch it in the trash, because in his mind it is contaminated and too disgusting to slip onto his highfalutin fancy foot.

I guess now we're even for last month when, after all this time, I found out it's been HIM rinsing and squeezing all the soap out of the SOS pads, thinking there was some foreign goop in regular steel wool, making every one of my pot scrubbing sessions a mystery that even the Scooby Doo gang couldn't solve.

Yes folks, these are the deep-seated things going on behind closed doors at the House of Lee. We are all weird. We are all winging it. Please keep putting your best (peculiar) foot forward because pretending is too much work.

What dumb stuff gets squabbled about at your house?

I See You, Too-Old Trick or Treater

Image: Freaks and Geeks

I see you, finger hesitant on my doorbell and costume half-hearted.

I see you, never alone, the safety in numbers, fearing a monster much different than that which scares ghouls a full head or more smaller than you.

I see you, your apologetic eyes looking at the ground, your oversized sneakers kicking at my door mat.

I see you, jockeying for a position in the back of your group instead of elbowing your way to my door.

I see you. You're too old to trick or treat.

You're scared of being judged. You're scared that one time, one of these houses, one of these doors will open and you'll be greeted with a hearty "GET OFF MY LAWN!" You weren't going to go this year. You're too old. Your mom told you so. Your dad told you it's for kids. Then, one of your friends called. Came over. Texted you.

"Wanna go get candy?"

And you are relieved for that because you really want to go, and now you're less embarrassed that one of your friends wants to, too.

But what do you wear?

You dig out your football uniform. It's disgusting. It reeks. But who cares? You'll be outside.

Thirty minutes later, you're at my door, being too old to trick or treat.

Except at my house, you'll never hear that. Ever. You'll prowl our neighborhood on this night and you'll have the same sense of responsibility to look out for the younger kids as you do in the day. I depend on you to lead my kids by example, even when it means letting your guard down to have measured and imaginative fun.

The boys especially. We put such pressure on you to grow up, act mature, be tough...you end up hearing that dress up is for babies. Girls seem to look for any excuse to gather in herds in get-ups. They put so much effort into looking like someone they're not every day that what's one more night among 364 others? It's not fair that they get a pass in this deal.

Please let these years linger on as long as you can. The day will come when you'll be stuck in a Halloween waiting room, done making the rounds in a giggling crowd for chocolate, but not old enough to hit the over 21 Halloween parties, heaving with terrible wigs and thighs squishing between the strings of fishnet stockings and men in ever-escalating competitive offensiveness. The saddest of those will refuse to dress up for that party too, always fearing the "costume party" portion of the invite is a trick, a joke that they refuse to be the butt of.

Knocking on my door is not about the candy to you. You could shove enough down your gullet to put you in a sugar coma if you just stayed home and ate it out of your mom's bowl destined for tonight's tiny revelers. No, this is about a part of your heart that's not ready to let go of this one night that you can be what you want, roam the streets after dark, and despite your lack of Celtic/Pagan roots, your soul longs to ring in the official end to Summer and embrace the new day coming in November.

One of my kids asked from the way-back of the car how old was too old to trick or treat. My heart sank a little. They can't possibly be thinking of this yet. My plan is to make them take their little brother when they start feeling like they are (since I have to stay home to give you candy) and to suggest that while they're taking him, they might as well make it fun and dress up, too.

Saturday, I will send them out the door as a trio, two lumberjacks and a pine tree, along with their dad for the first leg, and I will listen dutifully for the ding-dong of the doorbell and the thump-thump-thump of little feet racing along the path to our step, eager for treats. I will be sure that the thump-thump-thump of the big shoes, bigger than your mom's now even, are met at my door with kind eyes and enthusiasm for your participation. It's in your eyes that I see my own shorties in a few painfully quick years, and I only hope that others will treat them gently as they awkwardly navigate their own teenage purgatory.

I will also do this so that you're not pissed at me and smash my pumpkins in retaliation. But mostly it's the first thing.

WCW - Is A Man. With Two Ns and Giant Balls.

Today's WCW is...a Man. A Man with two Ns and giant balls.

Jen. Jen Mann. Of People I Want To Punch in the Throat.

It's not like she needs the advertising, either. She has a bazillion followers already. I have like, three. Which is fine, that's how I like it. I couldn't write on command or because an editor told me I had to meet a deadline in order to sell widgets anyway. You know I don't endorse much, so when I do it's like a big deal. She tells it like it is and spells shit correctly. She doesn't sugar coat anything and isn't sucking up to anyone just to fit in with the cool kids.

Plus, she looks like one of my most BFF-iest F's in the Universe (who also has giant balls), so I think once I laid my eyes on her I was smitten even after being swayed by her smooth talk.

She took her blog to book form. And it.is.fantastic.

Let's just take a second to appreciate the similarities between
her cover cupcake and my "stand up" Pooh Bear, shall we?

If you asked my children what this was, they'd think I wrote it and that it's just a straight up list of about six thousand specific names including Mr. Mountain Dew Skate Park and the kid who just called Esten "a retard" three days ago. But it's not. It's a great book, digestible one chapter at a time (perfect for moms who can't get through anything thanks to their Offspringus Interruptus).

She is convincing because she is approachable and believable (even the unbelievable parts) and real. She is my people and part of my tribe.

Today she is my lady crush.

I hate e-readers, but I took a chance on the Kindle version because it was on sale. After reading it I almost wanted to log back in and pay full price. It was so worth every penny. Except the time I started laughing and the Kindle fell out of my hand and I dropped it on my face because I read in bed. That sealed PIWTPITT's fate of being the first and last e-book I will purchase.

That said, I did go back and purchase this work again in a glorious stack of cold, dead trees, and I'm going to give it to one of you. All you have to do is comment below here or on the Facebook link about someone YOU recently wanted to punch in the throat (you don't have to name names, unless you want to), and you'll be entered to win. That's it. Plus, you're competing against like...three people so your odds are fantastic. You're so lucky that I'm so unpopular and that half my redneck friends have blocked me and my liberal nonsense from their feeds and whatnot.

I'll let the Lee Boys fight over who's going to draw a winner on September 25 when I get back from Detroit if I don't get stabbed or mugged for my old ugly green carry-on with the busted zipper and my Shopko purse.

You can tell us about as many people as you want because if you're like me, it's tough to narrow down the field of candidates. But you're still only getting entered once. And I'm not responsible for any fights between spouses that want to punch each other in the throat. Nor for husbands who are missing out on this because it's "hunting season" and there's no wi-fi on the mountain. Tough shit, guys.

Retrieving Keys Locked in Your Car - In 10 Steps or Less

I don't typically do tutorials here at the DayLeeFix. It's not really a DIY kind of blog.

You won't find a recipe here (but I'm thinking about sharing a new cookie with you!).

You won't find directions for a craft or sewing project here, though I'm thinking about taking up voodoo doll-making, for no reason in particular.

But today, I'll walk you through a tutorial on how to retrieve keys that have been locked in your car. You may need more or less steps depending on the make and model of your vehicle.

Step 1: Lock your keys in your car.

This may seem irrelevant, but the manner in which you complete this step is crucial to the remaining steps in the process. For best results, find a busy parking lot, preferably one outside a store that you don't normally patronize because stepping foot inside makes your skin crawl. This is also best achieved during a short period of time wherein you are trying to multitask and are sort of in a crunch for time.

For example, in my case, after dropping Clayton off at football practice, I decided to remedy our "out of eggs and squash" situation at home. I could run to the store, put the groceries away at home, and be back in plenty of time to pick him up.

On arriving at the entrance of the store, I saw that they had frozen fish on sale. It was a much better deal than our usual store, so two went in the cart. Zucchini, squash, chicken, olives, alfredo sauce, and finally....the eggs. Debit card through the reader. Sack the groceries. Note that ToddlerBandit keeps grabbing my phone out of my purse. Peel it out of his protesting little sausage fingers. Shove it in my back pocket. Dodge traffic out to the car, put the groceries in the open lift gate. Put purse in the open lift gate. Close lift gate.

OK...so here's where things get weird. My car is equipped with this idiot proof feature that will NOT allow you to lock your keys in the car.

Except that apparently this only works with the DOORS, not with.....the lift gate. Once I pushed the automatic close button on the hatch, it slowly lowered and locked. With my keys securely inside. I didn't know this until I tried to open the rear driver door to insert my child snugly in his car seat and realized the door was locked. The lift gate was locked. Every.damn.thing.was.locked.

SHIT.

Step 2: Text your spouse. He has the companion set.

Keep your message precise.

For example:

"Are you anywhere around win I with car keys?"
"Win I"
"Winco"

Stupid goddamn auto correct. Stupid goddamn Winco. I don't even like this store. My phone doesn't want to acknowledge its existence. It never changes COSTCO. It knows Costco, because Costco is not an asshole.

Wait for a response and get no response. Proceed to step 3.

Step 3: Call your spouse. 

Call your spouse. Let it ring. Let it ring and ring and ring. Hear the stupid lady on the outgoing message tell you that the person you are trying to reach isn't answering because he obviously doesn't count you high on his priority list of callers whose calls he would like to accept. Hang up without leaving a message.

Assume that he is busy. He is working, and he's pretty professional, and even though we live in the most goddamn boring town where nothing ever happens (which you are thankful for) some asshole must have picked RIGHT NOW to commit a crime. Or he might just be out of cell range. Since you know that there is a group of women who stalk his every move when he's out of your sight, proceed to step 4.

Step 4: Text the two dispatchers you think MIGHT be working and whose numbers you have in your phone.

Those bitches always know where he's at.

For example:

"Are you working?"

Times two.

Wait for a response and get no response.  Proceed to step 5.

Step 5: Get the Hell out of the sun.

Begin to realize that Fall has arrived, which means you need a scarf in the morning and a thong bikini in the afternoon. The schizophrenic weather pattern (and the stress of the situation) are making you sweat. Wonder if you should switch to Degree pit stick.

Take ToddlerBandit into the far area of the mall that nobody seems to give a shit about. Notice that they have put small tables and chairs in that area for no apparent reason. Notice that Bath and Body Works is having a sale. Remember that your purse is in the car. With fish. Begin a plan to feed your spouse tainted hot car fish for dinner tomorrow.

Let ToddlerBandit push the button on the automatic door repeatedly until he purposely gets his head wedged between the door and the safety rail. Tell him to stop. Watch as he refuses to listen to you. Watch as the two bitches power walking laps around the mall give you side eye like you're a shitty mom. Ignore them. Begin to get anxious about a lack of response from the three texts and one phone call you have made. Begin to wonder if some major event is tying up the law enforcement resources and has the dispatchers shagging more calls than they can handle.

Realize that you're sweating despite the air conditioning. Realize that it's definitely stress-sweat. Realize that you have to pee. Curse the fact that the mall doesn't have a public bathroom and the other fact that you JUST WENT before you left the house and you shouldn't have to pee right now. Wonder whether you might have a UTI and whether you should see a urologist. Decide that no, if anyone is going to see a urologist, it should be your spouse. For a vasectomy. Remember that you've forgotten for the last almost 3 months to make him an appointment. Wonder why he can't make his own goddamn appointment because he is a grown.ass.man. Decide it's best you make the appointment because it's the closest you'll get to cutting him with a scalpel yourself. Wonder whether the urologist would LET you do the cutting. Realize the urologist would still bill your insurance even if he let you do all the work. Asshole.

Proceed to step 6.

Step 6: Text the jailer who you think MIGHT be working and whose number you have in your phone.

That bitch is my backup to the other bitches, she just works a little further away.

For example:

"Are you working?"

Get immediate response that she is, but she is getting ready to leave.

Let her know what your situation is. Read the response that she is on it and know for all the times you have said you don't have any friends, you really have some really great friends who absolutely don't let you down.

Read her response that they located him. At home. Eating his lunch. And that they've radioed him to tell him to call me.

Respond with a litany of words, including the F one.

Vow to kiss her right on the mouth next time you see her anyway.

Proceed to Step 7.

Step 7: Answer call from spouse.

Explain the situation. Know that he is on his way. Except for the stop by the office first. Because he left his keys there. Of course.

Step 8: Wait

After the sweating has subsided, you may return to the outdoors. Find a Red Box. Spend six million hours randomly pointing at letters and numbers in the picture titles while ToddlerBandit rattles them off like he's in the third grade. Accidentally point to a title with a skeleton face on it and spend six million hours calming down a kid screaming "SCAWEEEEEEEYYYYY" at the top of his lungs. Place your hand over the offending title and proceed with your game.

Say "Thank you" to seven hundred and eighty two people who stroll by and remark on how adorable ToddlerBandit's hair is.

Say "Thank you" to the Norse God of Kirkland Diapers for letting him not shit his pants in the past 45 minutes.

Step 9: Receive text from dispatcher #1

Receive text indicating she is not at work. Respond that the crisis is averted. Chat about her upcoming career move. Know that you are really happy for her, but sad for the remaining dispatchers and note that you will need more contacts in dispatch going forward. Obviously.

Step 10: The slow-roll unlock

Once you see your spouse arrive, begin walking toward the car. He will slow-roll next to it and push "unlock" on his fob. He will not get out of his car. You do not run to his window and slobber kisses upon him because people already think he's there to arrest someone and you don't want to look like a skank who is trying to avoid jail. You do not want him to look like the kind of cop who exchanges favors. He is a professional and you help to maintain that standard. Casually talk to him through the passenger door. Tell him "Thank you" and proceed to check the door before he leaves the parking lot again.

And that's it. Ten easy steps. And you can, too! Good luck with YOUR next keys-locked-in-car project. I hope it turns out as successfully as mine.

PS: Step 11: Receive text from dispatcher #2

Who in all fairness was probably sleeping through this whole thing. Thank her anyway. Know that you really, REALLY do have some great friends. Know that you only know them because of your spouse. Add to list of things you love him for. Like rescuing you in your situation. And being a great dad. And opening the really hard jars. Decide to postpone his appointment for a little while longer.

WCW - Crista

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

No football practice! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

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

CRISTA

She is. Totally.

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

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

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

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

A lot. Yet just the right amount.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's a lot of steps.

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

Bill, proposing to his girlfriend.

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

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

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

CRISTA!!

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

WCW - Stephanie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"ACK!!! NEMO!!!!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shots By Stephanie

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

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

I Am Cart19

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

via: Shots By Stephanie - Facebook