Blood & Tears

If I had a quarter for every day that I've found a tape measure in a kitchen cupboard...

...or duct tape on my walls...

Of course it would be right there.

...or a screw driver on the counter...

...or a huge, cardboard box with a sink or lighting fixture in my living room...

...if I truly added those days up, well, what's 365 by eight?

I guess I'd have about 2,920 quarters.

{Hmm...maybe I should be counting imaginary lattes instead of quarters. 

These years have demanded more coffee than I could get my hands on.}

As mentioned in my bio, we live in an old house. Built in 1938.

Back in 2007, our desire to live in the city overruled common sense.

We ignored major issues - such as livable square footage {860 sq. feet} and the general condition of the structure {who needs windows that open?} - in order to live in our dream neighborhood. 

I wouldn't say we purchased a lemon, 

because we've turned it into something so very different over the years, 

but it was dang close. 

This one cracks me up! 'Cause if it weren't for the tape,
I definitely wouldn't notice the plaster that needs patching. ;)

But seriously, we had absolutely no idea what we'd gotten ourselves into.

The Russian, and any friends/family who would lend a hand, 

spent the better part of a decade on this transformation. 

Almost eight years now to be exact. 

{Though we did take some time off after Mac was born.}

But truly, the rest of those years were game-on.

And this was formidable work. 

Random remodel stuff in equally random places.

These were big, Big, BIG projects, like, oh...

removing seven layers of old siding and putting up hardiplank, 

replacing ALL the windows, 

cutting massive holes in our walls for new windows, 

building two decks, 

knocking down a chimney, 

rewiring and replumbing everything, 

removing the octopus-shaped furnace, 

building a stairwell and stairs, 

and finishing {from the foundation up} the entire basement.

In the burning heat, driving rain, freezing cold. 

Before and after his eight- to sixteen-hour works days.

The Russian did it all. And not just to make things prettier.

This remodel saved our asses, because shortly after we bought our home, the recession hit. 

We had no choice but to dig in and stay put. 

To raise our family in a tiny house with no insulation, 

one that we'd only intended to live in for two to three years. Max.

Aforementioned sink in living room.
I think of it as an end-table now.

And for the record, I wasn't twiddling my thumbs, people! 

I had our three kidlets during those years. 

And, because the work was non-stop, 

there was also the constant job of making sure they didn't fall through actual holes in the floor, 

or step on roofing staples hidden in the grass, 

or inhale the never-ending clouds of drywall dust.

To say that The Russian and I have aged a bit throughout this process is a polite understatement.

But in the end, we doubled our square footage.

We created some lovely, new livable space.

We turned our lemon of a house into a cute, little home. 

A home in my most favorite neighborhood in Seattle. 

A home on the cheeriest, most wonderful block you could imagine.

Still, there's work to be done. 

Like a living, breathing thing, this house requires more from us.

The kitchen is rough. Real rough. 

And the walls need work, as does the upstairs bathroom. 

There are other projects, too.

Our make-shift pantry in the ROUGH kitchen.

Bottom line: a move is likely imminent. Not written in stone, but close.

And despite our love/hate relationship with this old heap of lumber and glass, 

admitting that we may leave often elicits a wide range of emotions. 

Typically the teary kind.  

But change is good. I know this.

A bigger space that requires less work will be best for our family. 

I know this, too.

And a part of me does long for adventure - the chance to start fresh.

So, we begin final projects on a structure 

that has stood through three quarters of a century. 

In all likelihood, this house and these projects will outlive me.

Despite the blood and tears, 

our little pain-in-the-ass home will be held in my heart forever. 

All the love and uncertainty and dreams and fear tucked safely away within its walls.

Funny how that works. :)

Holiday Detox

Christmas is quite the season.

All the festivities, the decked halls, and the love. 

All the baked goods.

Even in my thirties, I still get giddy with anticipation as the time draws near.

But dang if the holidays don't take it out of me!

And this last week - the last month and a half, really - has been particularly rough.

Rough in a mostly good way, I suppose. 

Though this season had its own unique {and sometimes torturous} quirks.

But here I am, so incredibly tired.

It's that bone-deep sort of weariness.

We've all been there.

And then the house needs a cleaning. And the luggage should be unpacked. 

And the gifts sorted. And the decorations shuttered away. 

And the piles of laundry addressed. 

And, mostly importantly, the desire to bake more cookies staunchly ignored.

'Cause what I wouldn't give right now for a plate of spritz. 

Or anything soft, chewy, and coated with sugar. 

Or a Christmasy beverage, heavy on the rum.

Yeeeeaaah. 

Typically, I'm not the Scrooge type, 

but tonight, as I find myself simultaneously ignoring a killer headache, 

whining kiddos {no, you may not take out every toy at once, and yes, it's an utter travesty}, 

and a family room strewn with left-over wrapping paper and ribbons, 

the answer is glaringly clear: 

I need a holiday detox. 

That's the bottom line here.

Less crazy, more calm. 

And so, I bid this season a heartfelt adieu.

Give me 10 months, and I'll be ready to dive in head first once again.

Fingers crossed. ;)

Thank You, Panty Claus

The holidays bring to mind many things, 

but panties aren't usually among the contenders.

I'm pretty sure they don't even make the list of second-tier contenders.

In fact, admitting that you think of panties during the holiday season 

may actually get you kicked off a Christmas card list or two. 

Ahem, funny thing: 

for me, panties are right up there with Christmas trees and manger scenes. 

Go ahead, remove me from your list if you must, 

but let me qualify the above statement by saying that panties really are the gift that keeps on giving. 

Day after day, year-round, people. That's some kinda hard-working gift.

I will also divulge that there are, in fact, a handful of other women in this world that would agree with me.

For the past 13 years or so, 

some of my favorite people have gathered on one special night in December.

The Pink Door in Seattle.

We've all known one another for much longer - 

before real jobs, marriages, and children entered the picture -

but this night out has become one of the defining points in our shared histories. 

After a year of the good and the bad, it's one of those events that we long for.

 It's on our calenders months in advance, and we always find a way to make it happen.

We dress up, 

grab drinks in a swanky, little bar, 

dine in a fabulously chic restaurant, 

and forget everything else in the whole, entire world. 

Champagne and oysters arrive at the table.

There is wine and non-stop chatter,

decadent entrees and desserts.

It hasn't always been this fancy, but the heart of the evening never changes.

We go around, and, one by one, share our thoughts on the year - 

our hopes, our successes, and our tragedies.

Generally, these are topics we've all discussed at some point already, 

but it's cathartic to speak of them again. 

One last time before the slate is wiped clean.

Before they're history. Our history.

And then, as if that weren't enough to wrap it all up with a pretty, little bow, 

we bring out the tiny packages.

I do mean tiny.

Panties for all, that's the theme of the night, 

and we buy each pair with a particular friend in mind.

We pass them around. 

We look at them from all angles.

We compare fabrics.

We laugh at the shockingly big or ridiculously small.

Or the seriously funny.

Panties, sexy or understated, remind me of Christmas.

Of lovely friends and a few hours of carefree fun. 

Thank you, Panty Claus, from the bottom {tee-hee} of my heart.

~

I wish you all love, panties, and a merry holiday!

Meggie

I Heart Bend

"Over the mountains and through the woods 

To grandmother's house we go

The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh

Through the white and drifted snow."

~~~

I have always loved that song.

A family, all bundled up and filled with excitement as they travel through the wilds of winter
to see their loved ones. What an image. 

Normal Rockwell classic.

But truth be told, it's also not as glamorous as it sounds.

We made such a journey a couple weeks ago, and I can attest to that fact.

There was no sleigh, just a sturdy mini-van with low-profile tires
and a flimsy bag of chains in the trunk.

We weren't heading to grandmother's house {though MomLady was in attendance}.

I saw plenty of white and drifted snow, which was lovely,
but when semi-trucks are skidding out, it's slightly less charming.

And if we're getting nit-picky about stuff,
I'll just specify that the mountains were quite large, Cascade Mountain Range style,
with miles and miles of deep, dark woods on either side
 - the kind that freeze your ass in an instant, should you befall engine trouble.

There were some frozen lakes, too. And Lord knows how many miles of icy interstate.

It was quite the adventure,
and I'm not ashamed to say that The Russian white-knuckled most of it.

But we had good reason to trek southeast some 330 miles.
The Russian's family gathered together - all 17 of us
{not counting one bun in the over...and no, not my oven}. 

We stayed in a large rental property on the outskirts of Bend, Oregon - one of my
most favorite places on this round and magnificent earth. 

The house was tucked in among the pines, hiking trails,
and countless roundabouts of Sun River, a family-style resort and residential community.

Although it didn't snow during our stay, we enjoyed the spoils of that early storm that
blew in before our arrival. 

Obviously, sledding ensued. All seven of our Littles squealed and slid for two days,
and it was pretty great. 

They stumbled around outside, thickly padded arms and legs
like the ornamental stick appendages of snowmen.

Even though its kind of mean, I always laugh when they topple over face first. 

I woke with Mister, Honeybee, and Mac every morning, before the sun fully rose in the sky, before the rest of the family stirred, and we watched the light filter down through the tall, thin trees. We tiptoed out onto the decks and listened to the crackling quiet of ice. We cuddled on the couch and watched cartoons as the coffee brewed. 

And at night, after the kids went to sleep, the adults watched movies, talked about life,
and carried on the fine and admirable tradition of beer sampling. 

There is always much savoring and discussion, because in the immortal words of Stephen King,
"A man who lies about beer makes enemies."

So, there you have it. Just trying to promote world peace one beer at a time. :)

On our second day, we drove into town, and this turned out to be a most enlightening experience. One of my sister-in-laws led us down Tin Pan Alley to a hidden,
hole-in-the-wall cafe - Lone Pine Coffee Roasters. 

And there I tasted the best cup of coffee I've ever had in my Whole Entire Life.

This Lemon Cream Latte - true nirvana. 

Is it possible to be smitten with a delicately flavored, caffeinated beverage? Absolutely yes.

Long story short, it was a fun trip.

I wasn't sure what to expect of Bend in the off-season,
but I should have known that the time of year wouldn't matter. It's just one of those places...

...one of of those always cool, big sky, woodsy smelling, outdoor crazy,
coffee innovating, brewery laden places.

Exactly my kind of place.

I heart Bend.

A Fine, Fine Layer

It's back, the silvery shimmer in the air. 

I love that about this time of year. 

As the months wear on, and the icy winds of dark winter come down from the north, 

our atmosphere takes on a periwinkle hue. 

But for now, silver twinkles in the sky. 

A fine, fine layer of fairy dust.

All hours of the day, especially on those clear and sunny ones, it's there - just above the trees.

On the horizon-line.

Above the water.

Riding the rare sunbeams that burn away the grey.

And everything seems more brilliant, the fiery shades of Fall amplified.

~~~

Here's what I see: a silvery-shimmer spectrum of light.

A seasonal dimension of color.

Bloody Apples

The final product.

In the spirit of autumn and all things harvesty, I jumped on the baking-with-apples bandwagon the other day.

See, I have this habit of apple over-stocking.

They're always in our house. Always.

And yet, whenever I make a grocery run, guess what I buy?

More bloody apples, no matter how many exist in various states of waxy limbo at home.

Not sure if its a compulsion or a mental block or what.

So, what did I do?

I got a little Pinteresty.

{pause for eyerolls}

Let me state that I cautiously enjoy Pinterest. And, really, it's quite the thing these days.

Many skeptics are of the mind that it's a wormhole time-suck, luring people deeper and deeper into a world of make-believe and domesticity on steroids.

I get that, but still, I enjoy it.

Cautiously. Like one might adore the creative genius of a crazy person.

Thanks to Pinterest, I decided to put my apple stash to good use.

Apple Cinnamon Fruit Leather, to be exact. A whimsically unpractical choice.

Frankly, it's easier to just go out and buy the stuff. I can say that with authority, having now spent the better part of a day making fruit leather from scratch.

But can't that be said for pretty much everything? Take gnocchi, for example. Easy to buy, but so very satisfying to make.

Back to fruit leather, though.

I really did enjoy the whole process, and my house smelled like heaven.

I also loved knowing that my children found deliciously healthy treats in their lunch boxes for a couple weeks.

Will I do it again?

Weeeeell - I'll get back to you on that...after we finish the ginormous box of fruit leather recently purchased from Costco.

But come berry season, I might just try my hand at it again. :)

Mac's sneaky finger, trying to snag a wedge!

I divided them all up like this and kept them refrigerated. 

High-5, Honeybee

Today, Honeybee turns five.

She was born on October 15, 2009, at 8:16 PM. She had a mop of dark hair, a round head, and fiercely clenching fists.

In all honesty, she resembled an adorably angry heirloom tomato - all reddish-purple and ready to burst.

But then, she wrapped her tiny hand around my arm and rested her head there, and in the midst of the nurses and the doctor and the bright, glaring lights, she settled.

Fight replaced with the solid, serious weight of trust. And I was in love, even before I got a good look at her. Even before I found out she was a girl.

Fast forward five years, and here I am, trying to sort through my thoughts. 

I look at Honeybee, with her thin body and lanky legs, her blonde hair and hazel-green eyes, her tinderbox temper and snuggle-bug charm, and I don't know what to do with myself.

I want to hold her in my lap indefinitely, but the world inches closer.

With it's questions and adventures, horrors and beauty - one day, she'll see it for what it is: a place worth exploring.

And with more than a little pride, I can see that she'll be ready.

With her tender heart and steely spine, someday, she'll be a fine explorer.

Someday.

But today, she's only just five, and she doesn't seem that different than yesterday. Or the day before that, or the day before that.

Four, five, or years beyond my mothering grasp, she'll always be my sweet Honeybee.

And I will always be here for her, a place to settle and rest. Her mother.

Happy birthday, Little Tiny.