Pack a Lunch

I bet those Vanilla-Isis Y'allQaeda Walmartyrs wish they'd packed a lunch.
I wonder if their mom has the 12-hour rule.

I have a long-standing rule at the House of Lee:

You're responsible for keeping track of what's for hot lunch. If you don't like it, you must notify me the night before in order to take a cold lunch. If you forget, you're stuck eating whatever it is that you claim disgusts you. I will not throw together a lunch in the three minutes before you have to catch the bus.

I would say that it's because I'm trying to churn out self reliant and responsible citizens to the world. More accurately, it's just all I can do to keep track of my own shit without having wildcards thrown in. Hubs and I have different styles here. He carefully packs up their hockey gear. I tell them practice is in 45 minutes and if they don't get their poop in a pile, I'm not making a special trip home for something they forgot. Mornings are especially grinding on everyone's nerves, and I lose my marbles when they drop last minute requests on me.

So the lunch rule. This has resulted in many elementary cafeteria gagging sessions.  But they know better than to ask me morning of, because I have consistently applied this rule, and it works.

So it was really no surprise when I encountered a crumpled green post it note on the kitchen counter.

"I'm going to want cold lunch pretty much this whole month. Like a lot of times."

Esten. He had carefully reviewed the January lineup and decided to tap out. He thought his blanket request would cover him for nightly reminders. I wasn't biting.

"Good thing you're a bigtime fifth grader this year and you know how to make a sandwich so you can pack your own lunch. But so help me if I look in your lunchbox and see a bunch of crap in there, you will eat hot lunch from now until the end of time."

"Even the gross stuff?"

"ESPECIALLY the gross stuff."

He was prepared for a debate.

"I made a list of pros and cons for why I should or should not have cold lunch. For example, pro: I know I will like everything in there, so I will eat more. Pro: I won't be wasting food that I don't like. Con: I have to dig those freezy things out and try not to bump the beer glasses because they break. Pro: um...um...well I had like a whole list of things and to be honest I did not anticipate you agreeing right away."

He embarked enthusiastically on this little journey on Wednesday. He carefully packed up his portioned out ziplocs and we agreed that he would still always buy milk at school. He packed the items I insisted on; cucumbers and mandarin oranges. He gingerly placed the ice pack so it wouldn't smash his precious meal. He strutted like a peacock getting ready, brushing teeth, an air of responsibility swirling around him.

After fighting with Clayton over outerwear (like Groundhog day every day of my life) I shoved them out the door sufficiently protected against the elements. I finished getting myself ready for work. I pulled out my own lunchbag, packed it with approved foods for my perpetual diet, and set the Keurig to crank out another cup of coffee for the road.

I fulfilled ToddlerBandit's request demand for toast cut with cookie cutters; one star and one gingerbread man. I filled his cup with the appropriate amount of "appadouche". I found a leftover candy cane. I suggested to him that he might have it if he went on his potty chair today. I let him watch as I taped it to the bathroom mirror. I listened as he completely lost his shit.

Deciding I was having none of it, I relayed the candy cane plan to the Hubs who responded with something like "Yeah right. No. Thanks for ruining his day. Bye." but I couldn't really hear him over the constant piercing screams coming out of TB's cookie hole.

I stopped at the hall tree to slip on my shoes. As I grabbed my coat and badge from the hook, I glanced down on the bench. Right there, mocking me...Esten's freaking lunchbox.

Dammit.

I stopped by the school to drop it off. As usual, when met with the secretary's questions, I couldn't muster what his teacher's name was. Then I forgot which kid it was for. I don't know what it is about that office that makes me forget very basic information. Luckily I'd hastily written it on a piece of tape wrapped around the handle. Saved.

When we were all back at home last night he looked sheepish.

"Thank you for bringing my lunch."

"You're welcome. But that won't happen again. Next time you forget, tough luck. You will just have to eat whatever is for hot lunch. Even if it's so gross like octopus tentacles. I won't always have time to do that."

"I know."

He does know. He knows that I'm serious. What he doesn't know is that he is just like me, and I'm just doing my darnedest to reset that part of his brain so things get easier. I will never ever say I'm a "have my act together" kind of person.

Just ask Hubs.

God, Guns, and Old Glory

Girl with flag and gun, 1952
photo: Seattle Municipal Archives

If I were a songwriter, I'd write that country song because America loves songs about America and Americans and the things that make us five million times better than any other country or culture on planet Earth. But I probably couldn't sleep at night, and not because of the piles of money stuffed under my mattress.

Our President is speaking today about some significant proposals in the world of firearms. Nothing sets off such a marked parting in my sea of friends as when that happens. Here in Idaho where we're in a race to the bottom for education (State motto: "Hey, if you can't be first, be last!") folks don't take too kindly to infringements upon their freedom.

Last week, open carry became a thing in Texas, and in true Texas style, Texans did not disappoint in their displays of enthusiasm.

"Two Knives" Takacs tore up his own clothes to make a point.
But he's definitely not looney-tunes. Trust him.
photo: Joe Takacs/Open Carry Texas, facebook

But that's not what this is about. This is about action on an individual level. This is about me. A mom. Pushing my children through to adulthood and doing a really lousy job of it. I'm the first to admit that. Last year when I took my tree down in January, I found something that set my hair on fire.

After that, the ornament owner went on through his year becoming increasingly aggressive. Stories of friend-based interventions on the playground filtered home. Clayton had one playdate with him, at his grandma's house, at her request, and she and I had THE TALK.

The talk. The one where I go first to put people's minds at ease. The one where people know there's a gun in our house because Hubs needs it for his job. The one where I let them know that it's locked up and that their kids might come home with a stubbed toe and a sugar high, but they won't have any extra holes in them when they leave. The one where I tell them that even though our kids know, KNOW that there are some things that are off limits like the Hershey bars we use for s'mores, like that they need to ask first before getting the iPad...and that ANY of Dad's work gear is not negotiable, that they needn't worry about them getting their grubby paws on a gun.

And our kids? They don't even think about it. The only time either has displayed an interest was one 9/11 anniversary when the teacher asked Hubs to swing by to collect some thank you notes the kids had written to firemen and police officers. Only after classmates began asking standard questions such as, "Have you ever SHOT someone?" and an over-sharer describing with his thumb cocked and finger tucked up under his chin how his uncle had committed suicide did our son act interested in the 98 pounds of gear strapped around his father's waist.

You know, typical second grader stuff.

Taking temptation off the table for our own kids is only part of it. We have no control over the wild pack of neighborhood ruffians who I freely let roam about, in or out. I look out our front window periodically to count heads, and I watch the numbers swell and ebb as pairs break off from the gang to run home for lunch or race one another to the park. They all know that Hubs is a cop, but I know how kids are. I know it's only a matter of time until just ONE of them suggests to one of my kids they should go find his gun.

Will my kid say no? I hope so. I hope they'd tell their friends that Hubs is going to have a chitty-chat with their parents for even suggesting it. But they probably won't. Kids just want other kids to like them. So we've taken that pressure off by making them inaccessible.

The friend whose house the boys play at the most has an accomplished hunter for a dad. He works in the hunting gear industry, and his livelihood depends on those who get excited to pop off a few rounds. He also has all his guns in a safe, and he has very open and strict ground rules about what's off limits to his kids (and to mine). I don't ever worry when they're visiting these kids that they're in danger.

We've pulled the plug on friendships over this. We've had to sit our kids down and explain to them in the most kid-appropriate terms that because their friend's parents did not take the same level of care to secure their firearms that we did, that they were not allowed to play at his house. We left out the parts about the domestic violence, the parts where there were threats made to family members, the parts where the dad was off his rocker. Kids don't need to be burdened with that. But it doesn't mean they don't play a part in the discussion at all.

Does this mean I prohibit toy guns? No. Our house has an arsenal of all kinds of Nerf guns. ToddlerBandit's favorite thing to do is walk right up and shoot you in the face with them. I know without a doubt if that kid got his hands on a real gun, he'd put a hole in something or someone with it in no time. He has no business having access. It doesn't matter how many times we redirect him. He sees big brothers having Nerf wars, and he mimics them. That's what kids do.

Does this make me less American that I want my kids nowhere near a bullet flinger without supervision? That I would expect other parents to do the same?

The paranoia fueled by our media is nothing new. The platform is different. In the pre-interwebz olden days, my mother slept with a gun. Loaded. I guess she was scared of intruders. Or whatever. She got her nerve-wracking, fourth-hand urban legends and world events the old fashioned way without a shareable meme or email chain to forward. We also spent every night eating dinner in front of the evening news during the years the Green River Killer was on the loose (which is a whole other thing for me). She worked at our local bullet factory for 33 years. It's a culture here. Guns. Bullets. Normal. Bullets put food on our table and clothes on my back for 16 years.

We were detained at the airport making our way back from Germany when I was five. I was questioned about who this lady was. Where we were going. Where we had been. She had a powder-less bullet in her coin purse, one that had been there as long as I ever remembered. A fixture in her pocketbook. I'd clanked it around digging change out for gumball machines and the candy cigarettes they sold in the front end of our neighborhood butcher shop. They found it. They didn't understand why, if she didn't mean any harm, she would have that. They pulled the head off my doll and looked down into its cavernous body for contraband. Once they determined us not to be a threat, we were sent on our way.

When I was older, I had to wake her up when I returned home after nights out with friends. Her 4 am schedule meant she was in bed early, but no matter what time I got home, I had to wake her. She was always jolted out of sleep like someone was attacking her, and more than once I had to let my eyes adjust to the dark first so if she made a move for her gun I knew where her hands were. Once she knew I was safely home, and once I knew I was safe from friendly fire, I headed to bed.

We survived. We, the children of the 70's. Except that not all of us did. Nor the children of the 80's. Nor the 90's. Nor of this year already. They're dying. Dying because gun owners are not being responsible. Dying because the paranoia is so great that we must have weapons accessible at all times. Dying because We the People value an amendment and our NRA window decals over the innocent lives of our fellow Americans. Especially the small ones.

No matter what side of the issue you're on, please give our children that gift. The one that says they won't die or be injured by accidental (or purposeful) gunfire under your roof. They deserve that much. And I think everyone should agree on that.

Keeping it in the Family: Grandma's Beaver

Before I came along Hubs hadn't attended the number of funerals (that he could remember outside very young childhood) that I had, so when death began touching those he loved, he began blaming my arrival.

"You're bad luck for me."
 

I felt for him. Nobody should be so well versed in the layout of a mortuary, the inner workings of the re-configurable curtained rooms and the protocols of receiving lines and sympathy card baskets and casseroles and having a black dress on standby and black pair of pants on standby for your chubby years.

 

 

So when in a few painfully quick years I said both hello and goodbye to some of those who had a hand in forming this man that I was in love with, it was sad. Every. Damn. Time.

 

 

We also saw the awful creep of dementia take over the minds of our grandmothers, mine too far gone before he met her, passing when our older two were small, his seeming to keep clarity until his grandpa began to forget. Him forgetting more and more, her remaining steady almost but not quite until we lost him too.

 

 

When it came time to edit down his grandma's belongings to those things that would fit in the room she was moving into where she would have around the clock care, my MIL set aside a few things, a box of books for my kids and she said she had something for me, too.

 

 

A fur. Not her mother's. Her GRANDmother's.

What the Hell?

"No. I can't take this," I had protested. I was sure someone else wanted it. I was sure someone else needed to have it.

She pushed back. Hubs had bought me a vintage Persian curly lamb fur for an obscene price off E-bay several birthdays back, and she thought I was just the person to keep this one. To treasure it.

I did what every normal person does. I carefully wrapped it back in the plastic JC Penney garment bag from someone's March 20, 1996 silk navy blue shell size small that was picked up at the Lewiston store #1165-0 (I only know all this because I worked there in high school and college) which someone had scrawled on in black sharpie:

 

 

• Extra sheets
• cases
• pad
• potpourri

And I hung it in the back of my closet so that my nutella-and-graham-cracker-crumb-fingered children could never ever ever touch it.


Livin' La Vida Loca

My MIL does this thing at holidays. She gets out these really nice dishes and this really nice silverware and it's all super old and belonged to her grandma and then she gets all certifiably crazy by letting our children eat off it.

So many bodies this time she had to
break out the Fiesta Ware, too.

And EVERYONE gets a wine glass.

Cheers to grandma! She's the best! 

And all us moms are like "do not be rough with grandma's dishes or we will murder you" and she's all like "it's fiiiiiiiiine, my grandma used to cook for like 47 ranch hands every day on these things and dragged them across the mountains on donkeys or something".

And then they get banged around in the sink and my FIL yells in there to make sure nobody is putting mashed potatoes down the disposal (note: THEY'LL TURN TO CEMENT IN THE PIPES!!!) and then she puts them back in the china cabinet for the next gathering.

Easter. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.


And I thought about this as I spent New Years Eve 2014 snuggled up to my sewing project: finally moving on from a wrongdoing by the fur cleaners and giving new life to my Persian curly lamb fur by attaching new buttons to replace the ones they'd removed to clean and just...well...just nothing. Ever.

And since we were smack in the middle of hockey season, I decided that bad boy was gonna get some use. I'm not really the kind of person who would support the NEW fur industry, but these baby lambs have been dead since 1940. What am I gonna do about it now?

Anyhoo, something pretty amazing happened.


People gave me a little extra space on the bleachers. They didn't get too close. Probably because I smelled like an old wet dead sheep. But still. And it was a little bit great. And to be honest, I think the other team looked at me like I was bat shit crazy and thought my kid must be too. And so I just started wearing it all the time. And Hubs and I look RI.DICK.YOU.LUSS. together.

#powercouple

This hockey season started again without Hubs having taken me to a Governor's Ball. Or a Presidential State Dinner. Or to Red Lobster for that all-you-can-eat shrimp thing. We missed that, too. So I was like:

 

"You know what? What am I saving this thing for? For a DAUGHTER to hand it down to? The closest we can hope for is that one of our boys would be into wearing lady-clothes and even then...would he be into vintage? Probably not."

Or maybe he will, and if he IS into vintage, I'll love him just the same. But for now, I'm not letting this fur collect dust in my closet. So I started wearing it. And the results are in: people are kind of in love with the fur. Both of them.
 

Me, my sweet MIL, and The Beav.

 

An older woman approached me after today's game in Coeur d'Alene. She had to have been the grandma of one of the Thunder players. She petted my sleeve.


"I LOVE your mink."


"Thank you. It's a beaver," I told her. "It was her grandmother's," as I pointed to my left.


"Oh I knew it had to have belonged to someone and been passed down. It's beautiful."

Of course, you know I think that things are just things. Stuff. It's the stories the things tell that interest me the most, and the best story this fur has is this:


One night in her older years, Great-Grandma Verle was in a drinking establishment with her daughter (Hub's grandma) when it began to rain. She got fussy and lipped off to her ride:


"Let's go. I have to go right now because if my beaver gets wet it will start to stink."


Yes. This is definitely mine now. Forever.



Book Review: Warren the 13th

Come to the Warren for the illustrations, but stay for the story. Warren the 13th and the All Seeing Eye hits bookshelves today, and it's a must-give-gift for your book lovers this holiday season.

This is likely to be the most beautiful book you'll see this fall. Gleaming foil embossing kisses the cover and every page...you heard me...EVERY PAGE brings you perfectly vintage feeling illustrations and graphics to unfold this story.

It's beautiful. Find one. Touch it.

Nobody is ever too old for a book with pictures.

This is the brain child of illustrator Will Staehle, whose story lay in his mind and drawings and was brought to life with words lent by Tania del Rio.

Warren is a kid running a dilapidated hotel with his uncle under the menacing watch of his uncle's new wife who seems to have sinister motives. A mysterious guest and ensuing adventures leave questions at every turn.

What Warren lacks in looks, he makes up for in heart.

When I first got it, I flipped through its pages and admired the art. It can only be called that. Art. Staehle is a gifted artist and this book is filled with pages your eyes will enjoy exploring. It carries the weight of an instant classic, a book you feel has been around forever, and one that children love pulling off the shelf time after time because they loved it so much the first seven times. I kept it for myself at first, rendering my children jealouser and jealouser until I snapped it shut with finality.

My favorite illustration. Those are tattoos, BTW.

"OMIGOSH. I cannot BELIEVE it!!! I know the secret of the All Seeing Eye. And you don't."

Yes. I never miss an opportunity to motivate my children to read, even if it's in a very immature neener-neener-chicken-weiner manner.

They fought over who would be the next to read it. I stepped in to referee and offered a solution. I would read it to them together during our usual bedtime reading slot. They both agreed.

It gave us many discussion opportunities for new vocabulary words. Dumbwaiter, ascend, descend. References to some old-timey things. Discussion around Warren himself and how despite how others treat him, he persistently plugs along, always being kind and doing the right thing. Guesses about what will happen next....I have a strict two chapter maximum then it's lights OUT.

Every chapter greets you with clues

A hearty congrats and job well done to del Rio, Staehle, and the people at Quirkbooks for making this story come to life. I urge anyone looking for a fresh literary gift idea to check it out. You'll fall in love.

Recipe: Pumpkin Pie for Mediocre Mothers

Trust me, I'm just as surprised as the next guy.

Here at the DayLee Fix I pride myself on setting the bar low. My shorties' expectations correlate with my efforts. Usually. They know better than to ask for too much. Usually.

On occasion, however, they throw out a request that leaves me questioning once again:

"Should I shoot up my face with Botox to control my maniacal expressions?"  

Pro: Would help out in my professional life for those times when I'm able to keep my cake hole shut but my eyebrows betray me.

Con: Couldn't silently give my kids "the look" that has thus far kept me from having to beat the daylights out of them at the Walmart.

Last week, Clayton chose a day that I was knee-deep in my own mucous and wishing for death to depart from their usual cold cereal or untoasted pop tart breakfast. He wanted pancakes and had zero problem seeing through my red and watery eyes and waited patiently for me to finish my coughing jag to approach me with the Bisquick box.

"Are you kidding me right now?"

"No."

"Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. FINE. Even though I am DYING, but nevermind that, I'm happy to cater to your every whim."

"Thanks mom, you're the best."

He continued his brown nosing as he shoved those fluffy sticky stacks into his face.

"These are the best pancakes I've ever had in my entire life. They're perfect."

He knows. He knows that even if they taste like the inside of his shoe, he better just slather on another layer of shut the hell up and gag it down and pretend he likes it because I might cook with love, but my secret ingredients are guilt and bitterness.

I thought the pancakes would buy me a week of reverting back to their being happy with frozen Eggo waffles and chicken nuggets.

No.

Sunday, which Esten declared as "official relax and no pants day", Clayton casually approached me with a can of pumpkin guts from the baking cabinet.

Our Inspiration Station, courtesy of Esten (E-Money$)

"Hey mom, can you make a pumpkin pie today?"

WTF? It's less than two weeks until Thanksgiving, and we don't even have any whipped cream, and this kid couldn't care less.

So I give you my recipe for:

Pumpkin Pie for Mediocre Mothers.

Step 1: Log into your Pinterest account. Locate a pin containing a picture that looks good along with recipe titles preferably containing words like "fool proof", "easy", or "three ingredient". Follow the link to the recipe.

Step 2: Never get all the ingredients out at once. I prefer instead to just jump to the instructions, and then refer back to the measurements. For example:

One can of evaporated milk

Locate your evaporated milk. Realize that you have three cans of sweetened condensed milk and zero cans of evaporated milk. Decide to use regular milk instead. Carefully measure  dump however much looks good because there's probably some kind of replacement/conversion information out there but you are just fresh out of f*cks to give.

One can of Pumpkin Guts

Locate your can of pumpkin guts. You know right where this is because it's the thing Clayton has been shoving in your face all morning asking you "when you're going to make the pie". Realize that the can you have came from Costco and is bigger than the recipe calls for. Carefully measure dump however much looks good because you don't want to reach into the utensil drawer for a measuring cup because you'll be pissed if you jab yourself with the corncob holders again like last time AND you have to wash something when you're done.

Butter and Shortening

These go in the freezer. Don't ask why. Remember vaguely that your grandma who kicked ass at pie crust emphasized that everything had to be cold. Which is weird. But her pie was good, so you do it.

Vodka

Locate the vodka. This shouldn't be difficult, but you find it daunting to sift through the 87 bottles of foo-foo flavored vodka in the liquor cabinet to find the one "plain ol' vodka" bottle. Realize that it is really spendy vodka. Remember that for the last cup of tea you made to burn the phlegm out of your face you couldn't find "plain ol' whiskey" either, only an expensive and gift-worthy brand. Realize that this probably means you are now officially an adult. Carefully measure dump however much looks good into a small cup and have your kid put that in the freezer with the butter and the shortening.

Get into a fight with your kid who doesn't want alcohol in his pie. Tell him if he's going to be obstructive he can get out of your kitchen or you'll tell him how bacon gets made.

Eggs

Be secretly surprised that you actually have eggs. Be secretly resentful because eggs are the one thing that never let you down when you have to say, "Sorry, I can't make that, we're out of eggs."

Step 3: [Netflix and] Chill the dough for a while, I don't know how long. Long enough for a documentary or three episodes of Hoarding: Buried Alive. Long enough to fight with your kid about why you're not just "continuing to make the pie". Tell him you're not going to touch the pie again until ToddlerBandit takes a nap and if he continues yapping about it and keeping him from going to sleep, then it might just be never.

Step 4: Roll out the dough. Maybe wipe the encrusted cocoa pebble residue off the counter first, or not. Whatever. It doesn't matter how thin or thick you roll it out, there's no way it's going to do what you want it to anyway and it will all fall apart. 

Step 5: Transfer dough to pie pan. Realize you do not own a pie pan. Shit. Well that would have been a good thing to remember before you committed to making A PIE. Don't panic. You own 39 round cake pans. Just use one of those because you are fresh out of f*cks to give. Smooth the crust down evenly apply the crust to the pan in a patchwork manner to create a functional container for the pie juice. Smash remaining scraps around the edge all willy-nilly for a rustic feel.

Step 6: Fill the crust with the liquid mix. Feel like something's missing, like you should have prebaked the crust like you do with the bottom crust of your chicken pot pie. Feel like they're punking you, but do it anyway. It will either turn out or it will not. This is how you learn to "move on" in life.

Step 7: Bake. Know that the instructions will not match your oven. For example, the recipe I followed said to bake at 425 for 15 minutes and then to turn it down to 350 and bake for another 40-50 minutes. I have a convection oven that is the devil, and ended up baking at 425 for 15 minutes and convinced it was going to burn, turned it down to 350 for 30 minutes. Notice how filthy your oven is. Vow to clean it (once it cools) but know in your heart that you will not.

Step 8: Fight with your kid about the fact that the pie has to cool before he can eat it. For like two hours. "No, you can't have any at dinner. Maybe when we get back from hockey. Keep on and maybe you won't get any at all tonight. Maybe I'll throw it in the trash." Etcetera.

Step 9: Serve your pie to your children, issuing your usual warning: "Now then. I don't care what this tastes like, you're eating it and I want zero complaints." Watch them devour it. Hear them ask for seconds. And thirds. Be unsure whether they really like it or whether they know they turned your guilt dial up to ten and they're making sure you don't flat out refuse to cook anything for them in the future. Be secretly pleased that you banged out a half-assed recipe that worked. Forget half of what you did and which pin it was, and know that you'll never be able to replicate it again.

Step 10: Clean your cake pan let your cake pan soak overnight...there's less scrubbing. Especially if your husband happens to get to the dishes before you do.

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?