Hubs Needs More Vodka for This News

There's this thing that my husband's face does when I say things like "SURPRISE! You're getting a vasectomy tomorrow", or "I'm pregnant again", or "Hey, have I ever told you I have a cousin named Vodka?"

Yeah. So I just hit him with that last one. And he stood there at the sink half wondering if I was lying and half wondering how I haven't mentioned it AT ALL in you know...the THIRTEEN YEARS that we've been hanging out chatting about stuff. The thirteen years that he has grown to love these things in this order:

1. Our children
2. Me (I hope I'm here. I HOPE)
3. VODKA
4. His boat

Keeping this info from him and dropping it on him so suddenly may have just bumped me to the bottom.

What fun fact have you surprised your mate with?

Stick a Fork in Me

Hubs was at the ice rink again tonight (shocker, I know). And all the time we've spent there got me thinking of the days I spent there, long before it was an ice rink, dreaming of the day I'd get married.

Of course, you know what I'm talking about. WAYYYY back when it was that store? You know, the one where you'd pick out your thing? The one thing on the shelf, and then you'd wait for the magical Keebler Elves behind the wall to shove it out onto the looooong conveyor that would wind around and you'd see your shit coming and you'd get all excited over your order.

"I SEE IT COMING!!!"

Yeah. My friend NancyPants was a cashier there, apparently. Small world.

Shopping there for toys was a real treat. But the real magic was when I was tiny, and to distract me or make me stay put or whatever (?) my mom would hang a hard right just inside the front doors and there in the corner was a display to the ceiling...of silverware.

I'd park my ass there to pick out a pattern. You know, for one day when I could get married? It was only like one of thee biggest decisions of your life.

Some bullshit they've been selling us forever.

And however the hell old I was, I took that job seriously. We also weren't going to wait around on a wedding day for that flatware, no. Before BoxTops for Education, Betty Crocker had her own thing. You could cash in points for FREE shit. Boom.

So in our house, for who-knows-how-many years before I ACTUALLY got married, we had this:

It's a fork.

Yeah. One fork. But it was MY fork. And I used it. I'm pretty sure my mom still has it. And I'm sorry for all the stupid shit that we used to and continue to tell little girls about what is important in life.

And because now that I hang out in that building where the blades are on the bottom of ice skates, not in boxed gift sets of steak knives, I do it (usually) in shifts with a dude who I share dishwasher loading-and-unloading duties with, among other things. And we agree on a lot. First off, that our silverware SUCKS, and that there's things that he's good at and things I'm good at.

This is not a listicle. If it was, it would be called "27 Things My Husband Does Better Than Me, and Vice-Versa, You'll Be SHOCKED When You See What He Does With The Onion!"

And you'd have to click through each page and you'd accidentally click on a bunch of ads. But I'm not a jerk like that.

1. Stuffing the pillowcase. Okay, so this is really more like tucking the excess pillow case. We have king pillow cases and these really annoying standard foam pillows that the Costco cashier said were THE BEST and I have hated them since day one. I must have been a hotel maid in my previous life because I just have a habit of easily wrangling the pillow in and tucking the excess fabric in on itself and the Hubs will stand there IN AWE trying to figure out how in the hell I do it. He cannot.

   

   Me stuffing the pillowcase. Easy. It practically stuffs itself.

   
   

   

   Hubs stuffing the pillowcase. RAWWWWR!

2. Our social calendar. This is 100% Hubs. If you try to make plans with me, expect my eyes to glaze over.
3. Medical appointment calendar: This is 90% me. I schedule all medical visits, but refuse to schedule dental appointments for my husband. Because I am not his mother.
4. Lawncare. I trim three shrubs one time a year. This is known as the "one day I go outside". I think one of Hubs' coworkers was lucky enough to witness a sighting of this a few years back. Lucky. Probably won't happen again. I used to trim four shrubs one time a year but one of them died. Because I suck at keeping things alive. All other green (and other colored things) outdoors are his thing. He is excellent at it. People call him for advice.
5. Knowing when we are out of aluminum foil: Him.
6. Knowing when we are out of bleach: Me. All day. And we are always out because there is not enough bleach on the planet. Ever.
7. Scrubbing toilets with a brush: Him.
8. Scrubbing toilets with a pumice stone: Me.
9. Operation of electronics: Him. All of it. Ask anyone to testify to his DJ skills. I can just barely turn on the TV. I'm like everyone's 84 year old aunt, visiting from out of town. Every day. Can't run the remote. He tries to make it easier for me by having one password for everything. Which I have to ask him ANY TIME I try logging into anything. And he gets annoyed that I forgot it. Again.
10. Birthday cards for everyone in his family: Me. If you did not get a birthday card on one or more occasion, this is because I kind of suck at this too, but not nearly as bad as he does.
11. Teaching the children mildly dangerous stunts: Him.
12. Teaching the children mildly boring trivia: Me.
13. Following recipes to include carefully measuring ingredients: Completely him. And he is completely annoyed that I totally eyeball everything I cook. Everything. I might use a measuring cup AS A SCOOPER, but that's about it. If a recipe calls for butter, I'm probably just going to use the whole stick. If you've seen him bust out his beaker collection for cocktails, well...
14. Speaking of cocktails: Him. Expert mixologist. Me if you want like, a beer. Or a REAL clammy clam digger.
15. Cleaning out the dryer's lint filter: Him.
16. Cleaning out the washer's disgusting as hell water filter: Me.
17. Squeegeeing the shower: Him.
18. Yarding the hair out of the shower drain: Me. (It's mine, so this seems fair.)

There's like a million other things that we have divided and conquered over the past 13 years. More than that, I am so glad I am where I'm at today, looking back at some of the ludicrous expectations women have had in the past as a measure of happiness.

What is your spouse awesome at that you suck at? What flatware pattern did you dream of as a little girl?

Off-Target

People are losing their shit today. All over Target's Facebook page.

*I refuse to block out peoples' names or faces because well...they put that shit out on the interwebz so they must want everyone to know their position. 

This is partially because Target announced they could give two shits what's in a person's pants when they have to take a tinkle at their store. It's also probably partially because some asshole who likes to hear himself talk whose name rhymes with Flat Qualsh told all his followers to be pissed about it. I don't know. I'll be go to hell before I give that dick a click or link to his garbage ever.

This landed on my radar thanks to Ben and Nick of Hope that Helps , the Facebook page that infamously trolls entitled assholes complaining about (usually) first world problems.

They were nice enough to invite me backstage to scout around, but they're the ones with the public personas. I'm happy to get to see some of the best stuff that never goes public. It's so stupid. People are so stupid. I'm happy to relegate myself to the shitty grunt work, silently hoping from across the country that Ben might get a big break one day. Because I think he's funny. And because I think he's a good person. And when I find straight white guys who actively speak up about things like feminism and racism and homophobia and transphobia, I like to tuck them in my pocket like a tiny mouse.

Shout out to all the mouse dudes who are living in my pockets....please introduce yourselves and mingle while I finish up here.

So of course the HTH page has been BIZZAY today responding to all of the completely enraged people that are dunzo with Target, which is funny because they seem to be all the same people that said they were never stepping foot inside Target after the whole no-more-boy-or-girl-toy-aisle fiasco.

Weird.

Anyway. I know that folks are sitting squarely on one side of this fence or the other. And for those who are scared of the El Molestario boogie monster? I get it. That fear has been instilled in children since the beginning of time. Mostly out of ignorance. Mostly out of our own inability to face the facts surrounding who the ACTUAL predators are. You know...in REAL LIFE CRIME CASES.

I see your wall posts. The ones that say "confused people should have their own so we don't have to be around them".

Please. Before you get caught up in this ignorant hysteria. Stop. Realize that it's very likely that you either know someone or know someone who loves someone who IS TRANSGENDER.

Yes.

Fact.

And they will see your words and it will sting. It will sting in a way that you cannot imagine. It will push not only that person away that you fear "getting any on you", but it will also push people you love away, because they won't want to get any of your hateful emotions on them. Or on their children.

As for the House of Lee, it's not welcome, that. I am proud of my husband for a good many things, and while this is only loosely related*, one of the nicest things he has ever said about me was to one of his friends who made an off-color remark about "the gays":

"Dude. Do NOT bag on gay people around my wife. She might hate EVERYONE, but she fucking LOVES the gays."

Yes.

Fact.

*Disclaimer mostly for your education, not mine: Being transgender and being gay are completely separate things. Please educate yourself and engage in meaningful, supportive, forward-moving conversation.

Speaking ToddlerBandit: Snacks

ToddlerBandit has his own language and he expects you to be fluent in it. Here, to help guide you through one of the most critical periods in his day (snack time) in order that you may minimize the trauma inflicted upon yourself, is a list of things commonly requested demanded by our bite size ThirdKid, in no particular order of preference or indication that he will actually eat said item once his demands are met. If you are unfortunate enough to find yourself in charge of said child, I thank you in advance for your unselfish sacrifice to our family.

GAY OLD BAR

APA DOUCHE

APA SAW

COOKIE BEAR PARTY

MESH MOM OH'S

PAW PORN

BLUE BOOBIE COOKIES

KNEE-NUTS

GREEN GREENS

CHING CHEESE

JOE DIRT

WE HAVE THESE?

Shifting the Sails

Do you ever go through those periods where you don't know whether to shit or go crazy?

Yeah. Me, basically.

And by that I mean it's a REAL fine line every day between "do I get my shit together" or "should I just go check myself into a mental institution for a little 90 day vacation"?

Of course I have to pick the first thing, because who else is going to sign off on the children's homework?

Also, Idaho is SIGNIFICANTLY lacking in mental health beds, and I would feel selfish taking one from someone who really needs it. Really. No joking there even a little. I'm looking at YOU, little Bitch Otter and the rest of the Idasshole Legislature...

No, I'm talking about that thing everybody [I hope] goes through where your skin starts to crawl a little and you want to cry a little and hug everyone a little but also kill them a little too and maybe rearrange the couch or start doing yoga or Pilates, but you're just not sure which.

Luckily, I had my very first chai latte and it magically calmed me right the fuck down. How come nobody ever told me about that before? You guys are all assholes.

I know there is Zen here somewhere, but all I'm getting is a Blair Witch vibe.
photo: Margie Savage

Now that hockey is OVAH and I have had a second to breathe (without inhaling any locker room stench into my lungs), I am regrouping. And I feel like I might be getting it together. And I am NOT really blaming this on hockey, though the timing is suspect....

I got back to the doctor. The one who doesn't treat her patients like cattle, but encourages me to eat a lot of cattle. And to only look at the wheat field across the street but to not ever eat any of the wheat. Because thanks to some messed up genetic gifts, I am screwed. I love wheat and all its carby-deliciousness. And it makes me so tired. And my ass as big as a truck.

I cleaned out my office. My actual work office where I go to do work for American dollars. I purged. In the chronological, legal, we-must-retain-this-for-xx-years way as well as in the how-many-of-these-dried-up-markers-do-I-need way. I slowly lifted cardboard lids to smell the perfume (or lotion, she always swore she didn't wear perfume) of my long-retired coworker. I missed her. Just like I miss her every damn day. I found this, misfiled. It went in the "keep" pile:

I got back to writing more. Differently. This one is tricky to explain but has had the biggest impact on my insides. Strike that, because it may be a solid tie with fish oil, TBH. I heard directly and indirectly about a few people who had either been following me or wanted to follow me but couldn't find me. I had never experienced stalking in a positive way before. I keep a mugshot of my negative stalker in my office just to keep the ever-rotating HR and building staff up to date so I am a professional card-carrying stalker-haver. There are now six people reading this.

I found a new platform - actually revisiting an old app I'd deleted from my phone in a rousing game of "you are out of storage space" brought on by Facebook's dumb functionality where every damn article you read lives on your phone forever so you can access it faster if you ever want to read it again. Unfortunately, I have a handful of incredibly intelligent friends who share some fantastic links and between them and NPR, I either have to clean out periodically or delete other apps. This one got cut at one point and I only recently added it back.

And I suddenly realized how much I needed it. It was like having come up from underwater and breathing air again. It is Pinterest, for readers. Or writers. And I am in love with it. I have written a few pieces under another name...to stretch my legs and exercise writing muscles I knew I had but wasn't quite sure about. And it has been amazing. Mostly I have read and read and read some more. And I have told a couple people that I know are like minded that they have to go to there immediately so that they can breathe, too.

I got very gun shy here in 2012 and walked away completely after realizing how a few people can completely shit on what you have written. How "you're heartless", "this disgusts me", "you are so insecure", and "that was horrible" can hurt you worse than that which you wrote about to begin with. And I gave up. And then I came back.

I think this is the real reason people are nice to me now.

I read a piece that spoke to writing as if you're already dead. As if you have no job to jeopardize, no relationships to dash, nothing to lose. That then you can be authentic in your writing voice. But really, come on. I have come a LONG WAY in not letting some of those things influence me. I do not have advertisers here so there's no corporate sway (or cash!). I realized that those whose loyalties fell solidly in a camp other than mine were never on my side from the start. That the loss was...no loss.

Instead I chose another name. A coward's way out. Not even original, Ben Franklin had Silence Dogood and a whole slew of her friends at his disposal.

And now I have been invited, because someone noticed those writings, to join another publication. I have no idea what it will entail. I have no idea what I will write. That's the rub. I am not an assignment writer, which is why writing will never make a mortgage payment for me. So help me if someone held a gun to my head and told me to crank out a poem, a short story, another blog post tomorrow...I couldn't do it. Hats off to those who can. For now, I'm just rolling up my sleeves and recognizing that it's okay that I don't just have one "style". That ToddlerBandit has his breakdowns, that DayLee Fix has her ramblings, and maybe there's just more styles. Maybe I don't have a brand. Maybe I have multiple personalities and I really do need that 90 day vacation.

I may still rearrange the couch. Which The Hubs will absolutely hate. But what he doesn't hate is that I put off his overdue haircut until my rage was contained and I found a bit of zen again. To those who encourage others to write, thank you. Please know that sometimes it is only your push that gets us back to it, even if you never see our words.

One Hundred!

This is the ONE HUNDRETH post at the DayLee Fix!

I know, I know...for "bloggers" that's nothing. But I keep saying I'm not really a legit blogger so I'm gonna maintain that it's a big deal for me. Like, if you've ever noticed, there's no annoying ads and whatnot littering up my page here. I'm not getting paid. There are three of you reading this right now. Let me have my little moment. I don't have a lot of accomplishments in life, so I have to celebrate where I can.

I have accomplished things. Like, I have pushed three humans out my vagina. The same vagina. And I still have that vagina. And those humans. Somewhere.

I have done other things, too...like passing a grueling certification exam that I'd rather not talk about because it's for my super boring actual real life job that I do for a real life paycheck.

That's why I say I'm "not a writer" I guess. Because I have a job.

Ha.

Anyhoo.

So last week The Hubs reminded me like forty eleven times to get the oil changed in the hockey wagon before our last weekend tournament journey and I was all, "shuuut uuuuup" because he is so OCD and it's super annoying. Like I need to be reminded. Duh. The sticker is RIGHT THERE on the windshield.

And then all of a sudden it was Friday and I was like, "SHIIIIIIT." But luckily the dealer has a quick lube so I just ran over there real quick in the morning and then...because of course they did...they closed it and now all they have is their regular service area. And it was going to be a TWO HOUR WAIT. And of course I had to submit to their game because otherwise I'd never hear the goddamn end of it from you-know-who.

As I sat in the waiting area I cleaned out my purse, updated my calendar, and realized I had...time. Time to...write.

All of a sudden the unused Starbucks napkin in my purse that was destined for the trash became a valuable vessel for words. I could commune, in public yet alone, with this tiny rectangular space that suddenly became precious and sacred. I scribbled feverishly until that brown crumpled cloth was covered in ink, then I tucked it inside my Anne Taintor calendar, satisfied and less chafed over my extended wait for a simple oil change.

Over the weekend in the car, I would pull that napkin out, the only thing in my purse suitable to blot my lipstick. Seeing the black scrawling, my husband recoiled like he just caught a glimpse of a serial killer's manifesto.

"What the hell is that?"

"What? This? Nothing."

"What does that say?"

We argued incessantly over why I wouldn't let him see it. I explained that he just didn't understand and needed to respect the process of a writer, that sometimes there were things that I didn't want him to see, that it wasn't done, that it was...private. That it was difficult to explain.

He looked at me like I had three heads.

And I wondered, does this make me weird? Or does this make me...a writer?

Probably not. But on that note, and to celebrate the big One-Zero-Zero, I'm sharing my favorite writer quote of all time and deconstructing what it means to me:

"Write drunk, edit sober." Whether or not Hemingway said it, I return to it time and again to simplistically peel back what it means to pour out your authentic self on the page. To open your floodgates and let the words flow when your inhibitions are lowered, when you're tired, when you're buzzed on love or seething with hatred, when your fire is burning hottest. Then pulling back in the morning light to edit. To view your words anew with a level head, stark and raw and in need of a shave.

I hope that those three readers have felt that with me. I am genuine. I can't say that 99 posts have made people happy, made me any friends, made me famous, or made me any money, but they have showed my soul and told the truth. Thank you to those who have stuck it out with me from the beginning, including and especially my partner in crime, The Hubs...who supports everything I do and say and rolls with the punches like a sport.

I love you.

But you still can't look at my napkin.

ToddlerBandit: Unofficial Reporter

ToddlerBandit ended up with a small following this year, thanks in part to his accidental sports reporting and his status as the unofficial (and sometimes unauthorized) mascot to his brothers' hockey teams.

He dutifully followed them like a groupie, always trying (but mostly failing) to keep a good attitude about being dragged around three states like an unwilling sack of sugar. He went where he pleased, scoping out the perimeter of any given rink and having his way like he owned the place. He loitered in locker rooms, was mesmerized by the Zamboni all alone in the cold and unsupervised, and lay like a starfish in the middle of high-traffic lobbies, unapologetically making spectators and players step over him. Much of his attitude and actions depended heavily on how close it was to, or whether he had missed: NAPTIME.

I decided to have a little fun by documenting his point of view for the games so that people who were missing the action wouldn't feel left out. And by "people", I mostly mean "Grandma" and maybe like one or two aunties. I expected that very few folks would have any interest in a recap written by a second year hockey mom who barely knows the rules, writing from the view of a kid who got his nickname from being little, looking cute, and stealing your heart (and all your shit).

The first breakdown? Not even called a breakdown.
It's was ToddlerBandit's analysis of LC Squirts' two losses to Tri-Cities.
*They would only have one more for the entire season.*

When we called it a breakdown. He was obsessed with Red's
shoes and completely over his own snowpants.

He didn't report on every game. There were times that he couldn't be there. I relied heavily on the official scoresheet to get the facts straight, though if anyone has ever really looked at one, it's apparent when they attribute a goal to a jersey number your team doesn't have, it may not be the most reliable information source. I also depended on the scoresheet because, thanks to TB, I would miss half the action myself with his constant demands for snacks and electronics and general wiggle issues.

He's a shitty bleachermate. For real.

I did my best to spread the love around, giving kudos to everyone on the team. This isn't because I have an "everyone deserves a trophy" mentality, but rather because the coaches in this chilly sport shoved the new kids out on the ice like baby birds out of the nest, the same thing they did to my kids last year when we didn't know a shin guard from an elbow pad. Everyone had a part to play, and those who showed up and did their best, well, it showed in the game. And on the report. But for any shining stars, the teams as a whole were the focus, and I hope that nobody took the writing to either glorify or embarrass anyone. Especially with the nicknames I assigned them in any given game.

I know that "Hell No Silflow" stuck a little too hard, and for anyone who was offended by that or by the subsequent screaming of it by any...certain...loud...like...a FOGHORN parents in the stands, I apologize.

Not really. Jack is a bad-ass goalie. He earned that name.

But now the season is coming to an end. The Squirts finished out their last game last weekend (until the parent/kid game which promises to be...injurious) and the PeeWees will battle it out in a Coeur d'Alene tournament this coming weekend.

And then the ToddlerBandit Breakdowns are going to retire. And it's bittersweet. The love from this extended weird family, those who Harrison knows are his "people" when we're in strange places, the kids that he has grown to love chasing and wrestling with and watching for hours and hours and hours...we will miss this.

I hope that one day he looks back on this and appreciates my marking his participation in what was really his big brothers' thing. And I hope that those who weren't able to be there in person had a little more feeling of inclusion in what was a fun, frozen, and sometimes frustrating and long sport season.

*To revisit any of the ToddlerBandit Breakdowns, look through the scrolling photos in the banner at the top of this page and click on the picture of the breakdown you want to read. The link will take you to that post on my Instagram account -  @DayLeeFix.

Which ToddlerBandit Breakdown was your favorite?