government shutdown.

Yes. That must be what has happened here.

No funding. No posts. Without direction, without my own personal congress overriding any pork-eatin' shenanigans all efforts come to a screeching halt.

Naw. Really. On the way home from a stressful day at the office (I had to write that to justify the bourbon and ginger sitting beside me), I was listening to NPR and heart the term 'smoke and mirrors' uttered by a Republican in reference to the efforts being put forth by our President of the Democratic persuasion to keep things moving in our country's capital.
And I thought, "Smoke and mirrors???!!! By golly, that's MY trick. And I started feeling the guilt of not pulling my weight here.

But since I am (at least for now) a total and complete volunteer effort and do not in any way rely on taxpayers, product endorsements and / or schmoozing politicians gifting me and opening doors, it takes a great deal of oomph, commitment and discipline to get myself here on a regular basis.

So yes, there will be the occasional shut downs here at smoke + mirrors. Don't worry (and yes, I'm talking to you, Pop), the interior halls and inter-workings of my internal government is alive and well and might just need a mini-furlough to gather more writing material.

break ... as in spring.

Yes, I've absent in the written word as of late. It's because I have been in self-imposed rehab in a vain attempt to kick the Trader Joe's Blister Peanut habit. It's a tough one, this addiction, so please do not tempt me.

My unintended break in writing is also a result of just wanting to be a lazy-ass this month. It's my passive-aggressive retaliation aimed at the rest of my family who get to enjoy a real Spring Break while I get to work through the month. No break. At all.

And I decided instead of calling my failure to write on a regular basis what it is - Failure. To. Write. - let's just call it my own version of Spring Break - which, in Portland is a very soggy and gray season. A season where one must dodge life-sized fungi formations and puddles large enough to drown small children.

I promise to be back in absolute full force in April with regular posts ... or sooner if I feel like it ...

happy spring

...

these are a few of my favorite things ...

OK. I've been accused of being a little on the downer side (by my father). I have been busted for embellishing the truth (by my dear sister-wife-neighbor-friend). And I've been called very brave to be revealing such ugly and real aspects of my life (by almost everyone).

So, in the spirit of being positive and one with the world, I ask you to join me in song.

Don't pretend you don't know the tune, because we've all seen this movie more times than any of us care to remember.

C'mon...all together now. And if you really feel like maintaining the tone of this blog, sing it in a sad, minor key if you feel so compelled.

Hot cups of coffee made by my sweet daughter

Long lazy showers with lots of hot water

Spending my days writing all about bling

These are a few of my favorite things

Chocolate brown wedges and ultra-soft denim

White sheets and red wine and water with lemon

My sweet loving children who laugh when they sing

These are a few of my favorite things

Family dinners with everyone helping

Snowballs inside of the freezer not melting

Veggies we plant and then eat in late spring

These are a few of my favorite things

When the girls fight

When the wine's gone

When I'm feeling maaaaaaaad

I simply remember my favorite things 

And then I don't feeeeeel so bad.

an uh-oh project

The plan was easy-peasy.
A mini-redo for my oldest daughter's bedroom
Buy some lovely new bedding and paint the room.
Do it in a weekend, right?

Uh. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Remove everything from the little room attached to her bedroom. Done.
Vacuum. Done.
Dust the baseboards. Done....but wait....what is that little bubble down there? And a seam? WHAT?
Hmmm....what happens if I pull....
OOOoooOOohhhh.

Shit.

The walls aren't painted. THEY ARE WALLPAPERED and then painted. AAaahhhh.

So I pulled. And tore. And scraped.

And uncovered a circa-1915 paint job (pink), a circa-1930 paint job (green), a circa-1945 paint job (pink again) and some lovely but very stubborn circa-1955 wallpaper (flowered).

I also uncovered a job that will most certainly take more than a day and more than this little weekend can hold. And I had to call in the big guns. My husband AND The Shop Vac.

So much for the weekend project.

Or maybe I can convince my daughter that the walls look like an old French castle and it would be just fine to just coat them in something clear and move on to the next room.

everything in its place revisited

...and I'm not talking about the condition of my house. Not even close. I'm talking about the ability to compartmentalize. To com.part.men.tal.ize. - you know, the very common (though baffling to me) ability to keep emotions in check rather than letting them run willy-nilly across the borders of relationships, the work environment or in the check-out line at the grocery store.

Remember my first 'everything in its place' post? My emotions are, much of the time, in the same state of disarray.

In a slightly confrontational conversation with a colleague, I begin to imagine their sad home life, the disappointing and lonely meals in front of the TV, the frustration they must feel everyday when they come to a job they are not cut out to do...and I completely undermine the professional intent of what I am supposed to be communicating. UGH.

Or in an attempt to discipline my youngest daughter, I will project into her future and see that my condemning words ("You need to keep your room clean!" and "Why are their things stuffed under your bed?") have caused her to make her television debut on the show "Hoarders", so instead, I stuff my words and clean her room myself.

I have been know to mumble under-my-breath-but-passive-aggressively-enough-to-be-heard, "You must have had a ROTTEN childhood to behave this way!!" to a former boss while silently psychoanalyzing her strange, anti-child behavior and wondering what horrible sexual experience convinced her to marry god and become a nun. She was a teacher. And crazy.

I have a friend whose emotions occupy a very clean and orderly apartment within her head. Each one of them comes out when needed then quietly retreats, closes the door and isn't heard from again unless invited to play. No one blares their music or talks so loud their voices are heard through the walls. Each of them keeps to themselves. No contact, no mingling, no trouble.

My emotions? Imagine a busy, inner-city street of row houses during the peak swelter of a hot and humid summer. You've got the fire hydrant open and streaming water, neighbors shouting to each other from window to window, dogs barking, kids jump-roping, playing tag and fighting, men lolling about, listening to music and drinking beer, car horns blaring...you get the picture. That's the emotional neighborhood of my brain.

It's quite a challenge to hold an organized block party or neighborhood association meeting with all of the shenanigans going on at all hours.

I have a lot to learn from the finely-tuned feelings of my friend. And while I initially thought her approach was cold, calloused and lacking of any tenderness, I can now see its strong, efficient and well-oiled advantages.

Like when her oh-so-perfect toddler son dumped his entire toy bin in our living room (yes, he keeps toys at our house due to his constant presence here...) and she proceeded to pick him up to take him home without nary a care to the destruction left in his wake.

That pesky tenant of my emotional apartment, the one who has her nose in everyone's business and refuses to bag the poop of her yippy rat-dog started to involve her wimpy self in the interaction - nearly enabling my neighbor to walk out the door scott-free of responsibility. I shoved her backwards into her abode, locked her up and knocked on the door of the strong, democratic, soft-voiced, big-daddy tenant who helped me construct my direct comment of, "Oh honey, you forgot to show him where the toys go before he leaves."

Direct. To the point. And without any emotional distractions.

voices inside my head.

"Mo-ommm, if I have to miss part of my friend's party, I'm not going to play select soccer! I've had to miss ... like, FIVE parties because of soccer!!!!!"

"You haven't missed any parties or sleepovers because of soccer and I'm only picking you up an hour early  you'll be there for about 95% of it!"

"FORGET IT MOM. I'm not playing."

"You are part of the team and they are counting on you."

"NO Mom. I'm not."

And then I hear the other voice participating in the conversation discussion debate convincing-of-my-child-she-needs-to-fulfill-her-commitment. And it says in a calm, reasonable and confident tone, "Honey, do not get into this argument. Don't fall into her verbal trap. Back down and let it go for now."

WHAT? How could my husband be part of this talk? He's at the rock gym climbing!

OHHhhhhh. It's just his voice. Inside my head. Again. Second guessing my approach and taking the appropriate, parent-like and mature high road in a no-win argument with our attorney-in-training-'tween.

Why am I the one who seems to forget that I AM THE PARENT?

----- 

They arrive in one day. I cannot wait! The bed is ready. The half of the room they use is clean and even has a gorgeous fuchsia colored orchid on the table. The kids are totally excited to the point where they can't even sleep.

Everything is vacuumed. The pillows on the couch have been fluffed. There is a fresh and cool flower arrangement on the coffee table. The house is pretty much spotless. No ugly corners anywhere. 

"What about the cat box? I'm not sure having it in the bathroom is a good idea. And we need to go to the store to buy a bathmat. My feet ache on the porcelain. And we also need to go to the grocery store. I need organic, non-sweetened soy milk for my non-coffee drink...which we also need to get because that's what I drink in the mornings. And have you thought about giving away any of your cats? Five iiiiiis an awful lot!"s

MOM? What? Where are you? I thought your flight didn't arrive for five more hours?!?!? 

OOoooOOoooohhhhh....it's just your vooooice. Inside my head. Again. Weren't you just here an hour ago? And then again yesterday evening? And also the day before that?

-----

A snow day and no one but me has to get up early. And ahhhhhhh, boy does it feel nice to sleep past 6:15 without having to wake up, act alert, get dressed, make breakfast, oversee the lunch-packing and look semi-presentable for work....

But if I sleep for an extra hour, I'll get to work at 9 instead of 8. But is that ok? Considering the amount of work I do off the clock at home? I mean, it's the one time for me to chill and cuddle with my kids in bed while the snow falls outside.

WHAT??? Where are you? I thought I left you at the library! What? You followed me home! It's the voice of my reasonable, responsible, mature and career-oriented self telling me I'm LATE. FOR. WORK. And that I'm SUCH. A. LETDOWN. Shit.

Be QUIET fergodssakes!

----- 

Friday night.

It's been a looooong, busy and invigorating week at work.

Feel like relaxing.

Husband working out.

Two glasses of wine and too many chips and salsa into the early evening to feel like doing anything productive, wholesome or homemade for dinner.

Let kids watch 1/2 hour of TV (...DISNEY even...the horror!!!!!). 

And...ordered....the forbidden...the once-every-four-years...the staple of my pre-teen Friday night dinners way back when...yes...I know....sugar-carb-artificial-ingredient-laden-right-wing-supporting....Domino's pizza.

WHAT? Did you say something? HUH??

"You know it's really easy to throw together some veggie pasta, sauce and a couple of turkey meatballs. Stock up and have them ready so you don't have to resort to the diet of middle America in weak moments. It's soooo easy and uncomplicated."

How the hell did my wholesome, does-not-own-a-TV-and-eats-all-organic-homemade-food friend get here? Because I thought she was on a silent yoga retreat in the mountains!!!!!

Oooohhhhhhh. It's just her voice. Inside my head. Telling me I'm going to bad-mom-hell for allowing my kids to dip in the pool of bad nutrition and mediocrity.

-----

I can't do anything right.

Dammit.
My kids should be painting and crafting and writing plays and baking vegan muffins and reading Shakespeare during their down time.
And what are they doing instead?

They are learning about balance, moderation, real life and how to handle situations with grace, realistic expectations and humor.

And THAT? That's my own damn voice!

because every leader follows something

there are only leaders in my followers.

see that little button over there?

yeah...to the right and under the photo of me pretending to be all zenned out in joshua tree.

click it and follow the smoke.

lurking in the corners ...

I never promised this would be a pretty ride. And, come to think of it, I think someone might have told me that when I got married and decided to produce offspring and move into a larger house. But. BUT, I really try to keep it all together. At least most of the time. In most parts of my house.

Tonight, however, I noticed many of the corners were beginning to get away from me, to revolt, to create little enclaves of their own. These spaces seem to be completely independent of the interior themes permeating the rest of our living space instead choosing their own signature look. A look that will never EVER make it to the home page of any cute design blog.

But just so you don't think we live in complete squalor and disarray, I'll begin with the corner that won't shock you into throwing yourself from the under a truck or sticking a sharpened pencil into your ear.

This evening when I came home, dropped my free-weight purse on my desk only to glance underneath and notice the faux-organization beginning to tower toward the bottom of my desk:

Uh-huh. See, I pretend if all of my unpaid bills and old bank statements and important papers are crammed into white leather and shiny lacquer boxes thus hidden from the naked eye, they will not cause clutter. What never really occurred to me is when you have seven of these boxes all piled on top of each other in a small space it's certainly not pretty.

Quickly removing myself from this trying-to-look-nice eyesore and motivated entirely by the desire to be in my pajamas NOW, I lumbered into the foyer to deposit my shoes only to find a marching army of them coming toward me under the decisive command of a pair of  sassy, 'tween-sized cowboy boots:

Upstairs in my bedroom, where I go for serenity and solitude and where I ignore the pile of clothes by my side of the bed, I found this stealth creature trying so so hard to blend its sea foam green body into the fog blue walls. Who did it think it was fooling? Uh ... apparently me since it has been there for about a week:

To the bathroom I went so I didn't pee myself in fright. 

OH. But on the way, out of the corner of my eye and down at the end of the hall, I spotted a low-lying stack of unwanted books discarded from my youngest daughter's room. I'm sure she slyly slid them juuuuuust outside of her door and spread them into several shallow stacks thinking I'd never notice. Hmmf. Wrong she was. And there they sit:

Not moving. Not being read. And falling all over the damn place. 

In the bathroom (pre-pee), the corners became even more horrifying. Cue the eee-eee-eee sound please. You'll need it to distract you from the fright.  Of this:

OH. HELLO OVERFLOWING WASTEBASKET! And how might you be today? Waiting to tip yourself over and command your contents to scurry across the floor like so many plague-ridden mice? Yeah? Thought so. I see you tried to test the waters by letting that little crumble of I-don't-even-know-what escape your high walls early. And look how far it got! WOW! It must have thought it was going to find cleaner pastures in its escape to the other corner of the bathroom - where the gravel is always grayer: 

Oh, but what a cruel trick this corner has played. That little crumble of garbage will march right back to whence it came when it realizes that a big cat poop is waiting for it. 

I know. EW. But you were warned. You were.

So at wit's end with the anarchy of small spaces, I retreated to my bed where I was hoping to hide under the tangle of my duvet. 

But no. Another corner was waiting:

What you can't see is the glass of water hiding behind War and Peace. 

There may be a dead fly floating in it.

well loved possessions

Ah...the early 1970's. The hey-day of my childhood. When I belted out Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds in sweet innocence (after watching The Yellow Submarine with my hippie uncles) - nary an idea of its real meaning. When cigarettes were advertised on TV and M*A*S*H was on way past my bedtime. When Coke was still the real thing and was made with real sugar. When baby clothes were fabricated in crazy, psychedelic patterns and when Sesame Street still took place on ... well, a street, not a cartoon filled wonderland.

I realized this evening, as I scoured one of my favorite skillets (the first one I ever owned in my very first apartment in my very early twenties), that I have in my possession many well loved items from my early existence. In my house. Being used. Today.

Not all of them originated from the era of The Exorcist and The Partridge Family (save that funky fabric above which covers one of my chairs), but many of them go back to the last days of disco. Scary. 

The chair I am sitting on right this very moment - a lovely simple bentwood - was part of my family's 'dining set' when we lived in an apartment. Kinda old. Still being used.

The crib in which I slept - a blond, Scandinavian basic - is stored in our basement after being used 30 years past its date of purchase to hold my babies. (I know, I know, I know - it most certainly did NOT meet any contemporary safety requirements, but since I wasn't dumb enough to get my infant head stuck between the rungs, I assumed my offspring wouldn't either...and guess what, they are still with us today). 

Moving happily along through the decades ... actually, let's just skip right through the 80's ... not sure I'll admit to owning a-ny-thing from that era at present. And the pics of my asymmetrical haircut - which are as close as you'll get to an objet d'80's in my house - are locked up to be shown only to the highest bidder. 

Oh fine.

I still use the soft, mohair blanket my mom bought me when I moved to NYC. It was the sole bedding upon the flat-as-a-blazer-without-a-shoulder-pad futon in my cramped apartment. Yes, it has been professionally cleaned. I think. 

And there might even be a scarf or two in my closet from my days of living in the city that I still twirl around my neck when I am feeling nostalgic and retro.

The vintage mirrored side table I used in apartments 2-5 as a night table is now in our upstairs hallway holding things of no importance. And despite my husband's strong dislike for its reflective facets and bordello-esque appearance, I still love seeing it in our home.

Those of you who know me well will wonder why I have slyly chosen to eliminate the story of the 30 year old feather pillow I hauled around with me from city to city, continent to continent, crib to bed to bed. And I can hear you ... the collective 'Ewwwwww's' ... jeez ... NO sillies, IT IS GONE ... trust me ... my mother and husband had to do an intervention to grab that health-hazard out of from under my head. After all, would you admit to sleeping upon a little bag of feathers and other microscopic creatures well past its prime?

Thought not.
Just don't tell me you still sleep with your teddy bear.

APPropriately wasting time

"God no. I'll never be one of those. Totally ridiculous. Those things are just a big, fat waste of money."

I do believe these words exited my mouth prior to the possession of my first iPhone and introduction to the infinite APPs out there. It was a challenge for me to wrap my brain around not only paying for a service so I could be annoyed by phone / text / email / reminders / alarms at any and every given second of my day, but admitting to and paying for even more distractions from organizing my life? Absurd.

And then I met this little guy:

I named him Loogi and helped him tirelessly bounce, fly and rocket to ... well ... I'm not sure what our destination actually was and, come to think of it, I'm not sure he even knew where the hell he was going... but we tried and tried and jumped and jumped and jumped and if he weren't just an electronic doodle, he'd be broken into a thousand pieces from all the horrible sailing to the ground he did, poor guy.

Then these little creatures won my heart:

Oh little colorful Sneezies with your sweet, innocently blinking eyes, if it weren't for me and my magic touch dispersing sneezing powder in your midst, you would forever be looking wistfully from your tiny bubbles. Forever and ever and ever. So I'm here for you, listening to the repetitive loop of rather fast-paced ambient music you play for me while I try to free as many of you as I can until I fail and the chilly wind and leaves of autumn once again blow you all away.

But sometimes I need a break. I need to work my mind. I need to at least pretend I waste my time being smartish. So I have about 18 of these games going on:

Please take notice of the score. Clearly I need to focus on more educational endeavours. The thing about this game is I can make up words to submit and sometimes, SOMETIMES, they are actual words in the Words with Friends language and I end up catapulting myself into the lead with my imagination. This, however, is not a frequent occurrence. And I have lost game after game after game. Mostly to my husband. And I have become bitter. And tempramental. And have had feelings of rage and thoughts of violence pulse through my body.

So it's a godsend I found this little band of creatures:

They are ANG-ER-YYY. And they should be. Those righteous pigs with their passive-aggressive smirks and black eyes and stupid helmets. Talk about catapults. Shoot, I'd catapult myself right into a box of TNT too, if I needed to get those porky faces out of my buildings. And I'm sorry, this game is not about physics, the geometry of arcs or the ability to judge minute distances between objects. It's alllll about wasting time and pretending to be productive doing it. Oh, it's also about getting those pigs and YES. I BOUGHT THE GODDAMN EAGLE. Throw a can of tuna out there and SWOOOOP, my friend the eagle takes care of it so I can move to the next level.

At 2:04am.

Buuuye-bye.