Michelle Perin’s Blog

Raising children is the toughest job I’ve ever had. Currently, I have a surly 16 year old and an 11 year old on the verge of surliness in my home. I don’t believe my expectations for them are too high. Things like go to school when you’re supposed to, do your homework and classroom so you don’t fail, check in and always let me know who you’re with and where you are, etc. Ridiculous…eh?

So, in the last week or so, I’ve really been struggling with continuing to be a proactive, strong parent. Each time, I have to push and advise and mediate and model, I want to rebel against my role. Yes, it is a role of my own choosing, although I didn’t sign up for it to be a one woman show. I’m okay with this for the most part especially as I watch many of my girl friends have to struggle with co-parenting and dealing with serious differences in parenting style, expectations and consequences. Thank God, I don’t have to deal with sending my boys into an “unknown” environment I can’t control every other weekend and for two weeks in the summer. All I can think of is how long the damage control from that would take once they returned.

At times, I just want to give up or to run away…physically or mentally. It’s tough to guide people especially when it is there main goal in life to defy you to exert their own independence. I did it to my parents and it wasn’t that long ago, so I remember what was going on in my mind. I wasn’t mean in my actions or trying to be disobedient to hurt my parents. I just wanted to do my own thing. I try to keep this in mind as I parent my boys. I also keep in mind that this is a finite period of my life. It may not seem like it, but there is an end. They will not be adolescents forever and all I can do is try to guide them on the right path right here right now so that they can go into the rest of their life with the right kind of dust on their feet.

But it’s tough and it makes me tired. I don’t like my home to feel like a battlefield. I don’t like to feel like a police officer and prison warden at the same time. I don’t like having to try and sort through what is the truth and how to react to their acts. But, it doesn’t matter what I like, I’ll keep plotting through and hopefully release two very kind, gentle, intelligent, good natured, successful people into the world. God willing.

Being a mother is tough. Being a single mother is tougher. I’m struggling right now with Super Woman Complex and all the insecurities, doubts and guilt that come with trying to do it all and failing miserably because it’s not possible. Here’s the deal:

I love my kids dearly. I wouldn’t change a thing about where they came from, how they came about or who they are turning into. We’ve had struggles. We make sacrifices. Both my boys are at an age where much of our interactions are a back and forth dance in how to grow into good people. They push, I push back, they push a little more; we end up in the middle where it is good and balanced and right. Thank the Lord, He guides me in doing this because if there was an instruction manual for raising children they forgot to give me one at Naval Hospital Balboa and then again at Good Samaritan in Phoenix. In my life, right now, specifically, this is what I’m struggling with:

Homework.

Last night, I just sent Dean to bed 30 minutes early because he absolutely refused to finish his spelling homework. He is given his packet on Monday and expected to return it on Friday. This has happened the last three weeks. Today will be the third Friday, he doesn’t return it. He hates spelling and he will just make up words. If I don’t look it over, he will turn in a sheet with words that belong in a Tolkien novel. So, when I told him, he needed to redo it, he took the pencil and just scribbled out everything. The whole page was a mess. Erasing would have worked just fine, but wouldn’t have quite the same effect I suppose. His attitude was horrible and at 930 PM, I was just tired. I had been up since 5 AM, worked a 9 hour day at Jasper, did three interviews for my next Officer.com article, raced home, got his gear ready for practice and took him to the Rink. I sat at the rink trying to re-read the rough draft of my novel, so I can begin the “Page a Day” determination I so badly need (and what it will take to actually finish this. Did I really draft this in 11/2009? Where has the time gone?) After practice, I grabbed dinner at Subway and after I got home and ate, the homework challenge began. So, I was tired and just couldn’t deal with the attitude. (Did I mention that during my 30 minute lunch I was trying to edit some writing and I got a call from Marc’s school requesting a meeting with his teacher and the principal about behavior issues that have become too disruptive?) My parenting card is getting awfully heavy in my pocket.

So, here are my feelings on the whole homework issue: Why does he even have to have homework? I wish I had the time to sit at the kitchen table with him after school and work through a page a day. Then, I wouldn’t have the “let’s finish it at 9 PM” dilemma that always drags into Thursday night. But, I don’t. By the time I get home it’s off to activities and even if we didn’t involve ourselves in other activities, quite frankly, I wouldn’t want to do it anyway. My time with my kids is my time. Why does the school get to ooze into my time? They have him all day. I don’t want to spend my time with my boys doing school work. It’s frustrating. I’m at a loss. **Sigh**

October 8, 2011 (360)

I slept in today…until 1130 A.M. I haven’t done that in forever, but it was wonderful. Then, Marc (my teenager) made and brought me coffee in bed (I still wonder what he was after but I knew already. I just ignored that and accepted the coffee). I got up and putzed around for a while before heading off to the gym. I got in another great arm workout (I’ve up-ed my weight for all exercises by 5 pounds and I’m actually sweating again when I lift them). I will be able to bench press my body weight in no time (See Da Book)…(especially if I increase the weights and lose my weight). After my fabulous workout, I decided it was time to get back to work on Rudee (my trailer…yes everything needs to be named, thank you very much). I had finished the floor and now needed to insulate and start with framing the walls. Hence, the introduction of myself and insulating foam aka crack filler aka my new most fun thing ever.

I headed over to Bi-Mart (or La Tienda Bi-Mart as my Spanish teacher would remind me…over and over and over and over…) to get the foam, picked some out after thorough inspection of all available kinds (why would anyone want to fill a crack less than an inch I have no idea) and headed to the counter with one bottle. Once I got back to Rudee, I swept the floor for the millionth time and began to spray. Immediate addiction, I tell you. It was so so so so so much fun. Unfortunately, about three quarters of the way through, I ran out. So, I stripped off my latex glove (If I wore one of these, I could use my finger to squish and smear the foam as well as spray) and headed back to Bi-Mart. This time I was smart enough to buy two cans. I don’t need that much right now but I’m sure there are lots and lots and lots of cracks that will need to be foamed in the near future. I LOVE that stuff. It was more fun than whipped cream (okay, maybe not THAT much fun but that’s another story that I’m probably not going to share with my readers, sorry). It was just fabulous. After the foam, I put together a bit of framing for the back wall (Oh, I didn’t mention that I took out the window I had broken and when I went to tarp it realized I did not have any duct tape. WTH! Why can I not have the supplies I need when I need them? I truly should have a hardware store attached to my house that I can access for free 24 hours a day. Truly.)

After the glorious framing and foaming, I cleaned up (I did really. Ok, just a bit. That’s why I still had foam on my hand) and went to CG for my Saturday Night Candle Light meeting. I got to talk about raising teenagers (did I mention Marc had wanted something by the coffee? Why yes he wanted me to change my mind about letting him go to the corn maze with his friends after he broke his part of the bargain. No dice, darling) and being grateful for the gifts I’ve been given. Afterwards, my sexy blue eyed biker boy and I watched Transformers with the boys (Dean had a sleepover. Why do parents do this to themselves?). All in all, a very good day.

October 7, 2011 (361)

As if spending three days a week at hockey practice with Dean (anticipating the coming schedule of three days of practice and then at least one if not two weekend days filled with games) I thought, “How fun would it be to go see the Eugene Generals play tonight?” After all Friday is date night and my sexy blue eyed biker boy and I try to go do a variety of fun things together on that night. He’s never been to a hockey game before so what a wonderful time to test whether or not we are truly compatible. (He had no idea but his reactions at the game were definitely going to make or break this relationship…JK…Maybe.) So, after work we headed to the rink.

I have one thing to shout out during this blog and I really should back it up with a letter to the rink, the Ducks and the county in reference to parking (I realize this has nothing to do with Friday’s game but I was thinking about the rink and it reminded me). I love the idea of people being all green (ok, they’re really doing this because they don’t want to find and then pay for parking at the stadium, but we can act like it’s environmentally motivated) and using the “Park and Ride” at the fairgrounds, but here’s the problem: on game day, there are still those of us who are actually patronizing the ice rink and therefore need to have parking in front of the building. When I got there for Dean’s practice, I had to search and then squeeze into a space just to go inside. Seriously, I think the first three rows should be blocked off for hockey moms (ok, ok dads too). That’s not too much to ask, is it? Anyway, back to the Generals.

As we were walking up to the door, a gentleman asked if we had tickets. We said no we hadn’t bought them yet. Then, he comped us two tickets, said enjoy the game and come out and support the Generals again. Score!!! Once inside, Carla (Marc’s old team manager and mother of future hockey star Jalen Drath (nice shout out, eh?) was sitting at a table assisting with Chuck a Puck. The high school team would be the beneficiary and I figured since I didn’t have to pay for tickets, I should get a bunch. So, I did (we didn’t win the pot but my sexy blue eyed biker boy’s response to the split pot “Can’t we just give back out ½ to the team if we win?” won him major points with me).

As far as the game, we were playing Vancouver (WA) Victory and on the ice they were a much stronger team than we were. They had great puck handling, played more aggressively and really just dominated even when we were 5 on 3 in a Power Play. At the end of the game, we lost 3 to 5 and I was surprised it was that close after watching the first period. I’ll admit the Generals adapted and came out the second and third period matching up better to the style of the Victory. I think as the season continues, they will get better. I need to look at the roster, but I believe we have a very young team (many under 18 years old). I also need to find out where Edwards is from. My sexy blue eyed biker boy says Long Island; I think Alaska. We both just liked saying his name because it’s become a kind of joke between us (Prince Eric Edward, lol). And, I must say, he passed the hockey test with flying colors. He was loud, enthusiastic and loved it. I think I’ll keep him.

October 6, 2011 (362)

I just have to take the time to sing the praises of having a good mechanic. Okay, I don’t only have a good mechanic—I have a great mechanic. He keeps talking about retiring and that makes me want to cry. Actually, no, I don’t want to cry because I made him promise he would continue to do side work and I was his favorite client. There’s something to be said about strong-arming someone into doing what you want. (Just kidding, Jim. I know you do it out of the kindness of your heart because you adore me and my car.) Anyway, to preface my adoration of my mechanic, let me tell why.

I scheduled a tune up for my 85 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am (yes, it is necessary to say the entire thing because it sounds cool. Hopefully as cool as it will when it’s done getting a tune-up cause right now all I can say is, “Damn.”) This morning, I brought it over to the shop and was ready to go back and crank up Marc’s suburban to take to work (No heat, only 2 windows work, the back window is perpetually down and lets rain in, but it’s lifted and really, really bad ass.) As I went to leave, Jim slid a key across the counter. “Need a vehicle?” he asked. I got this gleam in my eye and replied, “Is it your truck?” When he answered in the affirmative, I practically jumped with joy. I love driving his truck. It’s an older Ford F350 4×4 extended cab with a diesel engine. It’s just the bomb. It sounds so cool when I start it up. Nothing compares to the rumble of a diesel (except maybe the purr of my Trannie when it’s running well. Both make me shutter with excited glee). I jumped in and headed to work. One of the awesome things about taking your mechanic’s truck is mechanics have the best running vehicles and usually they are clean inside. Jim’s is no exception and along with the rad sounding engine and clean interior, it has this particular smell. I love it. I just breathe deeply when I drive it just experiencing it the whole time. I don’t even want to open a window because it might get out. I realized later that the only description is “dirt and cigarettes.” Now I’m sure you’re wondering what is wrong with me but I unabashedly just think it smells awesome. I’ll keep it all to myself, thank you.

So, Tedeee (my Trannie) stayed with Jim and I got a call at lunchtime about the work that needed to be done. The conversation left me wondering why in the world do I drive an old car. I posed that question to my sexy blue eyed biker boy who replied it was because I look cool. Oh, yeah, that. I agreed to the maintenance and made arrangements to pay (one of the reasons I think my mechanic rocks) and proceeded to just throw a fit for the rest of the day about how expensive cars were. I felt better after venting and after driving Jim’s lovely truck (breathe in, breathe out) to do some errands before I had to give it back. I picked up Tedeee who now sounds like the pretty kitty she is and headed into Eugene to go to the rink (where I will now spend the next 6 months practically living at. I might bring a sleeping bag and just set up next to the concession stand). Dean’s looking amazing on the ice. I was a little worried on Monday, but the look of determination on his face again left me with pride. My boys are amazing and I love who they are becoming. I also love hockey, so good kids on ice make mommy happy.

October 5, 2011 (363)

This morning I so did not want to get out of bed. It wasn’t because I was tired; it was just dark and rainy outside and I was so cozy and warm inside. As soon as I opened my eyes (due to the incessant beeping of my alarm clock—after all I had to open my eyes to see it and turn it off) I smashed them back together. I had to get up, make coffee, take a shower, fill out Dean’s school picture list, finish outlining an article, get dressed, get Dean up, get Marc up, make lunches, pack my work back, figure out where my 2010 tax stuff is so I can re-do my student loans with the public safety loan forgiveness program attached, get Dean out the door, drive to work, etc, etc,. All before 8am. No wonder, I just wanted to keep my eyes shut. So, I did for another half an hour. Then, I realized I now had 30 minutes less to get all that done in so I got up.

I’d love to say I completed all those things in the allotted amount of time, but I’m a real person and outlining will need to happen at lunch time, the boys and I can get hot lunch and the taxes can wait until after work. Besides, I got a pleasant surprise when my sexy blue eyed biker boy came over to give me a morning kiss. That’s so much better than doing all those other things. I’m such a lucky girl.
So, yesterday, I started my conversational Spanish class. I took several semesters in college but if you don’t use it you lose it played heavily in my life. I also have a tendency to mix it with the German I learned. So, when I try to speak I end up speaking Gerspanglish  I’m sure everyone, German, Spanish and American understand when I say, “Quero to read das buch!” Maybe not so much. Oh, well, I can sound like an idiot in three languages. That takes talent.

My professor is a white guy in a button up shirt and tie. I don’t know why that always throws me off, but I feel my teacher should actually be a native Spanish speaker. Must be because I’m desperately trying to not sound like a white girl speaking Spanish (my second semester professor said that once when I kept pronouncing dondé like dahnday. I told him it was because I am a white girl speaking Spanish. I’m lucky I passed the class). I like the style of this new class because it’s all story telling. We hear and say the same phrases over and over as we expand the story. Maybe some of this will stick. I at least (one day later) can tell you I drove through Sisters in January in my blue Trans-am, need chains, but have snow tires instead and it is very cold. (En enero, paso por Sisters en mi Trans-Am azul. Allí, hace mucho frio. Necessito cadenas. Tengo llantas de Goodyear para la nieve. Aren’t you all impressed?) So, the class ran two and a half hours and by the end I was tired of talking about tires, Sisters, cheese and Bi-Mart (a whole different story) and my head hurt. I walked back to my Trans-Am azul. I like downtown Eugene at night. It’s a whole different world. I managed to not get all depressed about the homeless teens at least. I got home, my house was a mess, the boys were on the computer watching movies, and I really just needed to eat. Next week, I’m bringing dinner with me. Trying to make it to 830pm on just lunch and the large coffee I had at Starbucks wasn’t going to work. It was nice to meet up with Eric there. I never thought it was possible to be completely absorbed in another person when you’re with them, but he is proving this a possibility in life. Seriously, when I’m with him, no one else exists. Weirdly fabulous!

Yesterday, in preparation for my writing season, I brought out my zip drive and began going through the old stuff. I was looking for Desert Ice but realized I have actually saved that on my Rocket Fish. That, for some reason, won’t pull up on my computer here. I had a couple interesting files: one was some scene creation from Melted Ice the romance/chick-lit novel I’m working on reference hockey (of course) and a journalist. Quite funny, if I do say so myself. I guess that’s the sign of a true writer when you re-read your words and they amuse you or better yet, make you laugh out loud. Reading this made me think I should really work on both novels at the same time. Sometimes my brain wraps around the young adult mentality (read “I can be super immature”) and other times the whole romance, steamy wrapped up in the arms of someone who has that “I just came off the ice” smell (ok, sorry I guess I should stop writing this blog and write a sex scene for the novel if I want to go off that tangent). Anyway, I’m going to work on both. The other literary work I found was titled 367 Days. I have no idea why I picked that title and that specific amount of time. It seems a little odd but I also started writing that in April of 2006 which was an odd period of my life. I moved up to Northern Michigan from Arizona in December 2005 (that’s a whole other story) and bought a house in late February and started dating Dave, my sexy teacher, somewhere around the beginning of the year. I also stopped drinking. So, it was very transitory. I have often said that my relationship with Dave was very defining for me. I changed a lot as a woman during this time. I kind of came into my own, I believe. The woman (or girl depending on how you look at it) I was when I was living in Arizona, working for the police department and married to the kids’ dad was changing. The interesting thing about reading my words (I tried to write everyday and did so for a few months) is I realized how I struggled each day to transform. In relooking at myself and my transformation, I realized, “I really do only have today because even my memories fade.” all those defining moments made me who I am but I don’t have specific, factual, vivid thoughts that show how the changes happened. It all fades away leaving only the residual changes. That’s how it will be today as well. Where I’m at. The changes I’m making. The things I’m choosing to do. The work I’m doing within myself and within my relationships will fade leaving only the result. That, to me, is proof that I can only live in today. Today is the only thing that’s real. It’s the only thing that has substance. I know. I know. I’m being all philosophical today, but I guess that’s how I need to be.

On a literal, fact-based note, the idea of writing every day for 367 days is intriguing especially since I’m in my creative mode. So, I believe I’ll use this blog for that. Welcome, dear readers, to my world. I’m going to share just a bit about how Michelle thinks. If you want to enter, please do so and share my journey.

I have not been a good writer over the last six months or so. But, I will not beat myself up over it or dwell on it. Instead, I will move forward. This is something I’m practicing in many different areas of my life. Some days are better than others. Some days I just want to bury my head in the pillow and scream until I’m hoarse. Actually, my MO looks more like just stuffing it deep inside. I have to say I’m amazed at the capacity God has given me to continue stuffing and stuffing and stuffing. I can’t imagine the abyss is infinite but the amount of crap I’ve stuffed and never dealt with over the last three and a half decades of my life seems to be enough to fill quite a crevasse. (Do I really have to dig that stuff up and eventually deal with it? My therapist thought so. I don’t see her anymore.)

Anyway I digress. Today is the first day of hockey season. Dean will be on the ice this evening and it’s time for me to get back to my novel. Summer is over so I don’t have the excuse of needing to be outside in the sun. (I must remember I am not a solar panel. I am not a solar panel. Ok, maybe I am.) I’m going to side-track myself right now and look at the week’s forecast. I’ll keep you posted…

Rain. Rain. Rain. Rain. It might stop for a while on Saturday. That’s nice. Guess I need to be living in the real. I live in Oregon. It’s October. Rain makes sense.

Guess that means I should be inside writing while drinking tea. No more excuses.

I pulled out my Book in a Month book and found my zip drives with Desert Ice on it. Where do I even begin with editing? Maybe I should dialogue with Marilyn Meredith. She would know. Now I’m going to go check with her (ha ha, anything to keep myself from writing. I’m such a naturally-born writer.)

I sent out my email and will wait for her words of wisdom.

On another note, I again was made aware of how my reality isn’t. I’m trying to do things differently in the way I deal with other people especially those I care about. I’m in a new relationship and am trying not to fall into the same old patterns. All I can say about that is…It’s hard. Wish me luck and I could use all the prayers you can spare.

Let me start out by correcting my last blog. I was informed that I incorrectly titled the event involving Gross Old Guy and since I believe my readers need the full impact of the scene (or so I was led to believe by my date of the evening) I want to correct myself. The event should have been titled:

80’s Big Hair Moment of the Night

I’m sitting in my office with the sun shining through the window. I’ve written my to-do list and have a few things, including setting up some interviews that I need to get done. I have a relatively light in-box and only a few tasks that have urgency today. I’ve checked my emails and my phone message isn’t lit. I do have an annoying fly buzzing around me and it’s driving me crazy. None of this is unusual. A typical day in my life. What’s not typical?

I smell like campfire and my feet are filthy.

Why? I’m glad you asked. A group of my very best friends are camping at Cottage Grove Lake for the weekend. I love these people. We are all members of AA and I don’t think I’ve ever met more loving, kind, generous and good hearted people. We have all stood on the edge of hell staring down into the depths fire lapping our faces. We’ve felt the scorching heat blistering our skin. We stood alone, having alienated most of the people that loved us, loathing ourselves and wishing the fire would just consume us and put us out of our misery. We look at each other and acknowledge the survival that comes with having learned to surrender, the peace of crawling to the feet of our Higher Power and the joy of giving and receiving from others.

Our camping adventure started last night after the Thursday Night meeting where my sponsor and a glorious woman celebrated 16 years of sobriety. When she told her experience, strength and hope her voice caught in her throat. Tears formed in her eyes. Love exuded from her. I wanted to weep with her. It was beautiful. When the meeting was over, I headed home collected the boys, our camping gear and Ursula the War Wagon. We got to the campsite around 930pm. I began setting up my tent with Rick shining his light on me and reminding me that I didn’t need help (inside joke from Wikieup last year), Eric standing nearby wanting to assist me but not getting into my space (my opinion not based on any verifiable facts) and Marc being as helpful as a 15 y/o boy can be. (Please pull the pole through. Yes, that one. Pull. Actually pull it through. Marc, please pick up the pole. It won’t go through with your foot.) When the tent rose, I realized the pole was still broken (I had asked Marc to fix it weeks ago and he had just used the kit to do so {or so he said} that afternoon). We tried zip tying it but just when I put the tarp on, I heard, Crack! And, down it fell. Thank goodness, Rich had an extra pole. By this time, the call of Pammie’s KFC on the table was too much, so I ran off to get a plate having full intention of going back to putting up my tent when I didn’t feel I was going to starve to death. Alas, I did not have to. Rich and Eric took control and got the tent up. And, for once, I allowed myself to just let them. I didn’t need to go over and micromanage or do it all myself. I told myself, “It doesn’t matter. No one thinks you can’t take care of yourself because you are eating while they put the tent up.” As simple as it was, it was a growing moment for me.

We hung out around the campfire for a couple hours and Dean ran off to Rich’s site. He befriended Rich’s daughter and they were searching for frogs and just being playing. At bedtime, I crawled into my tent and closed my eyes. I had set my alarm for 5:15am (a whopping 5 hours away). As I tried to drift off to sleep wondering if I could hear the sound of Eric’s breathing in his tent right outside of mine…a baby started crying. The sound was of a very small child and it resonated through the campground. Nice, I thought. At first, my mind went to, “Why in the world would someone bring a child that young camping?” Then the frazzled mother in me replied, “Dude, mothers need to have fun too. Remember what it was like being stuck at home with a 5 year old and a newborn, all by yourself, with nothing but their cries and wants to keep you company? A nice evening by the lake would have been a God-send.” Instead of feeling irritated, I instead sent her prayers of peace and relaxation.

When my alarm went off this morning, I rolled over and turned it off. Then, I remembered I told Eric I would wake him up (read, kick his tent) in case his alarm didn’t go off. So, I rolled out of bed, gathered up my ditty bag and work clothes and stumbled out of the tent. I made a couple trips to the campfire chairs so I could put things down. The grass felt cool and awesome on my bare feet. Have I mentioned I hate wearing shoes? Well, I do. I think they’re superfluous. Just when I finished stumbling and thank goodness before I started mumbling to myself, I looked up. Eric was already up sitting at the picnic table. I immediately thought, “Good, one less thing I have to do this morning.” JK. It was actually more like the thought that runs through my head over and over like a scratched record ever since I met him, “Damn, he’s cute.” (This thought occurs even more so now that I can actually unabashedly stare at him, unlike before where I had to try desperately not to.)

I had a bit of time before I had to go to work, so I went to the lake shore and sat down. I oohed and aahed over the yellows and blues that streamed the sky. Birds nearby sounded like they were laughing and frogs or fish kept breaking the surface of the smooth water. The light splashing was soothing. I’ve always loved water. It calms me. I feel connected when I’m near it. I almost went for a swim this morning. I should have (this is frustrating for me because I’ve been trying not to hold back when I want to experience something. We’re not guaranteed another moment and how pompous of me to believe I can just wait until later. My Higher Power wants me to live right here right now. He’s not given me a time line for when my dash ends and I can’t live like I know how long I have). The sun began to rise over the hills and I just sat there with my knees pulled to my chest and my arms wrapped around them. This is what life is about. It’s about going camping even if you have to work the next day. It’s about taking chances even when you feel your past wounds aren’t healed. It’s about pulling up your sleeves and exposing your scars. It’s about loving who you are because God made you perfect and if you think less of that then you think less of God’s work.

I peeled myself away from the sunrise, so I could kick Marc out of the truck (where for some reason he thinks it is more fun to sleep than on a mattress in a tent. Whatever! Teenagers). Eric had gone home to clean up before he went to work, but he teased me by texting he had hot coffee and since it was on my in to work and because it seems no matter how often I see him I want to see him more (I know gross, huh?)but mostly because I just really needed more coffee than the stuff I had put in a mason jar from yesterday’s pot that I was drinking cold as I stumbled around the camp site, I went over. I’m glad I did because not only did I get a hot cup of coffee but I got to watch him ride his Triumph in front of me all the way from South Cottage Grove to the freeway. All I can say is, “Damn! Some guys just have IT.”

So, my point? I’m sitting at work, my feet are filthy and I smell like campfire.

**A disclaimer*** I wrote this after the fact. Not when I was supposed to be actually working…Hi, Julie***

Wow! What a weekend I had. I feel it will take me a decade to recover. Of course, some people will look at my adventures and think, “That’s incredible!” and others, “As if?! I could so do better than that!” All I have to say is, WHATEVER. (Can you tell what kind of mood I’m in this morning? My daily reflection actually talked about mood and embracing the swings and honoring the spectrum. Again, WHATEVER).

After work Friday, I went to the bank and then picked up a couple items of clothing at my favorite upscale shop, Goodwill. (Black jeans that go down past my ankles and a purple and black checked shirt with ruching-SCORE!). Then, I headed to my friend and co-worker, Terri’s house for a work-related bar-b-que (Read, the girls in the front office get together to eat and gossip). I couldn’t stay too long because I had a date. I won’t get into all the “fun” of dating at my age in this blog. Maybe I’ll actually go there in another. (Dear Readers, let me know if you’d like to hear all about that by leaving a comment). My new “friend” (I really hate labels) picked me up at 8 and took me to the country fair (If that sounds like a country song it’s because it is). I haven’t been to the fair in years (well a county fair, I went to the State fair last year to see Cinderella and Queensryche—They still rock. And the hair? Swoon.). We walked around and looked at the flower arrangements (I want to turn my bedroom into a tropical oasis. I wonder if I can get a couple parrots that don’t make any noise…or poop.) and the animals (instead of a rich girl with a Chihuahua in my purse, I could be a lower-middle class girl with one of those fuzzy headed/footed chickens in my bag. At least if I end up stranded on a desert island, I’ll have dinner.) Speaking of hating labels, Eric and I were walking around when a young woman approached us. “Is this your woman?” she asked Eric. Responding to his blank and seemingly uncomfortable expression, she elaborated, “Your wife? Your girlfriend? You know, your woman?” He stammered something about me being his date, and she stated she just wanted to complement me on my outfit (black shirt with glow in the dark bat over black swishy wide legged pants and black sequined flops. It was cute). I was flattered but the moment…awkward (we got over it). At the end of the evening, we rode the Ferris wheel (totally cliché especially on a third date). That in and of itself is a story all its own (I’m sorry Eric. I really do have a filter and maybe someday possibly I might learn to not be so brutally honest). Anyway, in line with my blog about my weekend, I stayed out until around 2-2:30am. (I did sleep until 10am).

Saturday was the big event of the weekend even though I didn’t know about it until Friday night. Apparently Creswell has a big music festival every year. Cresfest it’s called. Now that I’ve lived in town for over three years, I finally get to know about it. Yay, I’ve arrived. Must be like when my Yooper friend Dave was nice enough to correct my pronunciation of Mackinac (Michelle, it’s Mack-i-naaaaw). Why didn’t anyone say anything before (it had been a year or so since I’d moved to the Keweenaw). “Because you weren’t important enough to,” he replied. Snap. Well, in this year of the Lord, 2011, I not only found out about Cresfest, but was invited (and I got in for free with the photographer to the main act…so hah). Now let me tell you about this festival and how it really enhanced my life. I will break it down into categories and blog a bit at a time. I don’t want to overwhelm anyone.

80s Rockin’ Hair Moment

About a year and a half ago, I went to see Last Band Standing at the WOW Hall in Eugene. Now, I like the WOW Hall because it’s one of those small venues that plays great music and you’re all up close and personal with the stage and band (I don’t know about you, but it’s not good music unless I’m standing right in front of the speaker and I can feel it in my chest…One…Two…CLEAR!). I also like it because of teenage memories. My bad boy first love Eric/Jason took me there one night and…well that’s another story too. Anyway, about halfway through the show, I started watching this gentleman who was in his mid 50s rocking the most fabulous 80s hair. He was like the reincarnation of Don Johnson, George Michaels and Chuck Norris. (FABULOUS!). He had a rocking leather jacket on and blue jeans. He just screamed–”I am so stuck in the past!” That’s okay, I don’t have a problem with that (stop with the comments about my 85 Trans AM screaming by with Skid Row, Poison, White Lion or Slayer blaring….mmmmmhhhhhmmmm boys with long dark hair and eye liner…). What ruined this WOW Hall moment for him was that he was all skeezie. He stood behind the (younger) girls just watching and dancing all gross. Hence, his new nickname, Gross Old Guy. I laughed and laughed about the memory until I ran into him at the supermarket down from my house. Oh, No, Gross Old Guy lives in Creswell! Then, I saw his car…a bright red Corvette with the plate, “Rock Ya” OMG…seriously??? Then I saw his truck, “Rock Me” Too much! (I will add the disclaimer before I move on to talk about Cresfest…he actually works at the lumber yard by my house and helped me with wood one day. He was very nice.)

When I saw Gross Old Guy at Cresfest, I immediately started laughing (I can’t help it, I’ve been laughing like an idiot about everything lately. I’m going to have six-pack abs and laugh lines in no time). After the bands were playing a while, I looked over and saw him walking around the dance floor towards the back of the stage. Right before he walked out of sight, he did it…he blessed us with the most fabulous hair toss you’ve ever seen. It was superb. What layering. I must ask him where he gets his hair done.

Dear Readers, stay tuned for I Didn’t Do It guy.