Please Don’t Poop on the Dandelions

I was originally going to call this post “Please Don’t Poop on the Violets” because last weekend something amazing happened: a hearty little group of yellow and purple violets popped up out of the blue in my backyard which is mostly comprised of a loved and very tired inground pool, a hearty rosebush I have named Jezzelle, some planters filled with high expectations sitting upon irregular and wobbly concrete, and rocks, dirt and dog poop surrounding all of that. 

It was a pandDAMNic MIRACLE! 

According to my research, these violets are called Johnny Jump-Ups and need very little love to grow. They probably somehow migrated from the neighbors yard. Fools. (The violets, not the neighbors.) But I took it as a sign that this would be the year that there would be more than dandelions on the dirt and placed some river rocks around this little miracle bouquet thinking maybe I could keep them safe from the dogs. Cooper immediately pooped right next to the rocks. 

Fertilizer: it’s Cooper’s signature. He doesn’t give a shit what kind of flowers he poops on. He just does what dogs do: make manure and give unconditional love in exchange for treats and conditional love from his humans. 

This got me thinking about our hatred for certain people or things that if we were to look a little more deeply we might see a different perspective.

For example: the dandelion.

Who decided dandelions were a bad plant? Who made that a silly rule?

Now I’m not gonna lie. I feel a little shame for having them. Especially in the front yard where other people can see them, and these days there are so many more people walking all around who ordinarily would not be. I can’t wait for them to go back to work and stop judging me. I can FEEL the neighbor across the street seething and tisk-tisking when he looks at our yard, the guy with the perfect mow lines in his yard, in FUCKING APRIL. 

Seriously though, I think this quarantine is starting to affect me because not only am I being paranoid about what people think of my front lawn, I have begun to feel this deep emotion for plants.

I have been putting coffee grounds in my high expectation planters every morning while talking to them in sweet coaxing whispers “Here’s some caffeine my loves, it helps me wake up, so maybe it will help you.”

When I was cutting back a few wayward branches from the wickedly beautiful Jazzelle, I apologized to her. Actually what I said was “Sorry BITCH”. She and I have a weird relationship. We each think one is trying to kill the other and have this mutual respect for each other’s balanced power in that corner of the yard. Though my clippers have long handles, her roses make my heart sing.

The other day on my trail walk, I actually looked around to make sure no one was looking and put my hand on a tree that had been partially burned by a fire set by some jerk head kid a couple years ago and apologized for how stupid some people are. I somehow felt that by touching the tree I would help it feel better. I also asked for some forgiveness for the kid: he knew not what he did.

I did an actual happy dance for all to see when the little cherry tree baby I planted in the front yard last fall BLOSSOMED despite being surrounded with dandelions: a beautiful sign of coexistence.

I’m practically a white witch plant whisperer.

Yeah, I know. She’s going cray-cray folks.

But the dandelions: why do we hate them? They are the bee’s knees of plants. Really! The bees need them! PLUS their roots, leaves and pretty yellow flowers are edible and filled with potential healing power for humans. To top it off their mode of transportation to the neighbors yard populating is a simple wish and a faithful exhale of carefully directed breath.

I know that the wind whispers in collaboration with me, a fifty two year old woman, who has deep faith that her dandelion prayer wishes will help all people (myself included) dig deep into the roots of anything or anyone they think they hate, acknowledge the mutual thorns, nod and humbly and respectfully say “Sorry Bitch”.

UnFrienDead

The definition of the word friend in my trusty, dusty 1983 American Heritage Dictionary reads as follows: 

1) A person whom one knows, likes and trusts;

2) One that supports or patronizes a group or cause;

The word friend was a nice and simple noun back in 1983, when I was a sophomore in high school and could list my true friends on one hand. Actually if I’m honest, three fingers: I was shy back then. Also, not one of them to my knowledge was a Quaker:

3) A member of the Society of Friends; Quaker;

Not that it would have mattered if they were. Real friends don’t let religion, weird hobbies, politics, sexual persuasion, gender identification, hair or skin color, income level, education, or occasional moments of stupidity get in the way of soul love, regardless of definition number 2. 

Right? 

Now of course, thanks to social media the word friend is also a verb meaning “to add (someone) to a list of contacts”. 

The more people you friend, the better right? Likes equal love so long as you don’t post anything unlikeable. Or comment on something you don’t like. Or DO like. Then you’re shit out of likes. 

Or worse: unfrienDEAD. 

Have you ever been unfriended by someone on social media? 

I have been. Probably a lot more than I even realize. 

Just the other day I noticed a friend I sort of know but not really had unfriended me on Facebook, the old person platform. At first I was like: WTF? I’m COOL! Why did she DO that?  I rarely get into anything (too) controversial on any of my social media platforms. Most of my posts are pictures of my dogs, kids or some kind of silly thought that I am certain is going to change the world for the BETTER. Why on EARTH would anyone want to unfriend me? I’m fucking JOY

I actually found myself stewing on it and looking through my past posts in an attempt to see me from that person’s perspective and understand her motive for the SMS: Social Media Slap: I just made that up. I’m SO gonna get likes for that. Or not. 

Silliness. 

In all fairness, I have done it too, unfriend people on social media:

A few times I accidentally unfriended someone with the wrong touch of a button. EmbarrASSing. I’m not very savvy with technology. 

Political extremist peeps (left or right) who posted toxic content so often that it was interfering with my enjoyment of dog, cat and baby videos: those bitches have got to go. Take your vomit elsewhere unless you can be more like ME: a social media ANGEL.

The creepy guy on Instagram who I let follow me without realizing he was going to say “hey sunshine let’s talk live” a bunch of times in the chat spot. Too much following dude. 

People who have pissed me off in real life, like my husband: I unfriended him four times on Facebook. “Take THAT jerkface!” He keeps accepting my re-friend requests though, so he clearly is unphased by our breakups. Plus we got to celebrate our friend-versary more often. Others, including a couple of my sons, didn’t notice that they were Facebook-dead to me. Dinner time still feels the same. Weird. 

The night I dramatically quit my job to begin the process of starting my own company three plus years ago, I drank a whole bottle of wine and foolishly disconnected from a bunch of my old job colleagues on LinkedIn. “Fare thee well my dear friends. I will miss you all but I must make a clean crisp break!” That took some live phone call splainin in order to reconnect on a business platform not meant for dumb girl drama. 

Many years ago I unfriended two ladies I knew who were going on and on in a post about the homeless and how awful it was to hear such sad stories when they accompanied their kids on a field trip to one of the local shelters to help “feed the poor”. I excitedly piped in on the subject because I was pretty passionate at the time about helping out at that particular shelter. But in this weird dialogue shift, one of them started going on and on about how hard it was to keep up on maintaining their condo on the mountain, especially during the summer when they were busy tending to both the lake place and the house in the city, and ‘who do you hire to manage it all?’ sharing their “help” information right there on a hypocritical homeless pity post. “Are you kidding me?” I thought. “I hope I never get so rich (insert snort here) that I turn into someone like THAT.”  And with two dramatic ‘TAKE THIS LADIES’ pushes of a button, presto magico, these two women were eradicated from my life. Sort of. I still had to be nice to them at my kids’ school or at the grocery store but I was no longer tempted to read their conversations and try to pretend like I was a real friend.

I don’t do that anymore: unfriend people on social media. Nor am I going to get riled up by what people say on social media anymore or feel this overwhelming NEED to post a snarky comment about something I think is stupid. 

I’m changed.

If I can’t handle the platform, it’s ME who needs to get off of it. 

Besides, it’s just so silly to make matter what doesn’t, to get agitated on a platform that can simply be turned off or scrolled through without letting yourself have a single angry thought or making one snarky comment. It’s really about self control. And not scrolling when you’ve had some booze. Humans are quirky and sometimes need to vent. And one conversation or commentary does not make up their whole. See? We need to smile more at shit that bugs us on social media and just think inside our minds (WITHOUT TYPING IT) “yeah, I’m dumb sometimes too.” 

Besides, none of us can truly afford the time or energy getting so riled up. The reality is, according to one professor of evolutionary psychology, Professor Robin Dunbar, who knows a lot because he’s a PROFESSOR, we as humans can only maintain five close friendships and about a hundred and fifty “less close” friendships. Our brains are simply too small to handle any more than this.

No wonder we’re all bat shit crazy on social media! Our brains are too small for a whole internet of friends! 

I’m a mother of six (plus a few unofficial adoptions), wife to one (though according to Facebook, we may or may not be friends at this time) and a whole bunch of relatives, friends and clients, most of whom I adore. Among all of these cool people, there are a good number (more than 5 but probably less than 150) who 

4) I would walk through fire for*

Some people are going to unfriend me on social media. I don’t need to know why. Maybe they have a limit of 150 friends because they read what Doc Dunbar said and want to follow the small brain rules. Maybe they’re mad because I liked a pro-current-president post and/or an anti-current-president funny JOKE. Or maybe they’re offended because I don’t post enough pictures of my cat. I don’t know. People are just weird. Like me.

I’m going to save my emotional energy for worrying about my fire walking soul people. Though maybe I will purchase a few fire extinguishers in case I can’t handle the heat because of my small brain.

Have a great day everyone. I hope to see you all live and being your awesomely dumb selves on that new TikTok thing. I promise to heart you. That’s different than liking you but not quite walking through fire.

*Taken from an excerpt of “Heather Siwinski’s Dictionary of REAL Definitions of Important Words”.

Don’t Blame It On the Rats

Yesterday, I lost my stapler three times in two hours. Each time I found it in the same exact spot, five inches from my right hand, but not before the impulsive thought: “who the hell stole my stapler THIS time?” Of course I knew full well no one had been in my office all morning. It’s just my initial reaction to cast blame on something other than the true cause of what has me upset, which in the matter of the lost stapler: my failing eyesight. 

Isn’t that what we sometimes do: place blame elsewhere for things we are fearful about/don’t understand or shortcomings we are in denial of?

Like poor peripheral vision.

Or bad decisions.  

Bella discovered a dead mouse on our trail walk today. Her nose was in deep inhalation before I realized what she was so interested in. My intuitive response was to wipe her mouth and nose with my hand in a quick upward motion. Like many moms, I have held the super power of fearlessness for years, which has helped me to take potential deadly germs off my kids with one swipe of my magically immune hand.  Simultaneously my other hand grabbed a stick to gently flick the little body off the trail next to a bunch of yellow flowers, a more dignified burial for little Stuart. This is something I would have done with one of my toddlers. Each would have been very interested in the dead mouse for varying reasons. I can picture them squatting down in that curious little kid pose, his or her chubby, pink cheeked face concentrating, filled with a mixture of respectful, silent awe for the lifeless furry body and this deep, intrinsic  NEED to touch and poke at it. A couple of them would have undoubtedly tried to explore the little corpse with their mouths though I won’t name any names. But my toddlers are long gone, grown into five, giant man-boys and one beautiful queen of her own domain, my dog face wiping clearly a wistful remnant of my joyful but chaotic past as a superhero mom.

Bella’s face had a brief  ‘WTF?’ look before she scampered off to find other yucky things to smell, leaving me looking at my hand that now had on it dog snot/slobber mixed potentially with dead mouse disease. And GAWD KNOWS anymore if my body is capable of staying healthy from shit. My walk was now tainted with fear and I didn’t know what to do with my hand so I just held it out, away from me while we walked the trail loop so I wouldn’t touch my face. People who saw me probably thought: “Is this crazy chick going to take a left hand turn or what?” 

Here were my thoughts while I walked the trail with my turn signal blinking: 

I feel really mad that I no longer have my super power. 

THE MEDIA IS TO BLAME. They put all this damn fear into my head about dying or killing someone else from a virus that may or may not have a 98.9% recovery rate. So of COURSE I’m going to be scared about something even MORE worrisome like dead mouse disease harming me or worse, Bella. 

Furthermore, it’s the government’s fault that the mouse is dead to begin with. I’ve heard that rats are going crazy in the big cities and EATING each other because there is no food in the dumpsters on account of the government shutting down all the restaurants.

NO WAIT. It’s the MEDIA’S fault that I even know this bullshit. The government and the media are clearly in cahoots trying to make me afraid of everything. 

ACTUALLY it’s the media’s fault that my HUSBAND knows about the rats. He’s the one who told ME. 

THIS IS ALL MY HUSBAND’s fault. He has always been jealous of my super powers.

That’s when the writer in me finally took the left turn, in a quirky trip back full circle to my superpower of fearlessness: 

That little Stuart mouse clearly starved to death because he had morals and refused to be a cannibal like his rat cousins. What a wonderful creature to be so stoic and strong and disease free!  Bella and I are BOTH going to be just fine regardless of whether or not the media, government or my husband gives reasons why we should be afraid. Rest in peace under the yellow daisies little Stuart! 

In summary, as though this were some kind of logical dissertation:  

First, do you see how silly it can be when we don’t take full responsibility for our own shortcomings, beliefs and decisions? You’re welcome for being a good example of this.

Second, clearly we need to stop wasting so much food if we want the rats to go away. 

Finally, for what it’s worth, I made it the whole way home without once touching my face. And despite my renewed fearlessness, I made it a point to wash my hand before I touched my husband, who may or may not be vulnerable to dog slime. There’s no sense being reckless with my super power.  

Treasure Hunting with Heather

The other morning I woke up and immediately said “575” out loud to my husband. I’d had a very vivid and what felt like an all night long dream about this number. I was walking along the trail I always go on with my dog Bella and kept seeing rocks with the number 575 painted on them.

Oh My Goodness: SO COOL! Right? 

I’ve always been a dreamer. By that I mean I dream a lot, both day and night. I tend to take many of these dreams very seriously and often put a plan of action together to get my dreams into a place of reality, especially if they are recurring dreams, like owning my own business or making a cool piece of recycle-art or launching a blog site, the kinds of recurring dreams that usually happen during the day but maybe get a little work done on them when I’m sleeping. 

I will note that I do NOT intend to ever put a plan of action on how to make being chased by bears a reality, which is one of my recurring night dreams. When I have that dream, I instead turn to my book  “12,000 Dreams Interpreted” and assure myself it’s just my competition chasing me. Which is GOOD. The recurring earthquake dream thing? That’s just one I don’t want to talk about. When we had an actual earthquake the other day, I was sitting at my desk and it felt like someone was pulling on my chair and I thought to myself: “I KNEW we had a ghost in the house! I have always known!” and just when I was going to go run and tell everybody the good news Mitchel came running out of his room too saying “Did you feel that?!!!”. I was deeply disappointed that instead of my ghost,  it was one more sign of the end of the world as we know it. And despite me feeling mostly fine after, it certainly nagged at my psyche just a tad.  

But a NUMBER DREAM??? That’s a fucking TREASURE HUNT! 

The first thing Grant did was look up what area code 575 was. I love that he takes my dreams as seriously as I do. He SO gets me. He also knows by now he might as well just dive in willingly.

New Mexico. Kind of weird. I don’t know anyone from New Mexico. When I looked up current news for New Mexico, all I found was shit about covid-19 (like every other state in the US) and I don’t want to talk about that. I did discover some fun facts about New Mexico. It is a very experienced ‘wine country’. A monk started a winery along the Rio Grande in the early 1600’s. Wine is always good news. Good wine even better news. It’s the home of the largest hot air balloon festival in the WORLD. New Mexico also has more PhD’s per capita than any other state AND there is a law that says idiots are not allowed to vote in New Mexico. I do not know which of these two things has more to do with the fact that the first atomic bomb was exploded there, but I do know (now) that the cows in New Mexico (which outnumber the humans in New Mexico) are thriving. So I think New Mexico is going to be just fine. 

The Arabic poet Al-Khansa was born in the year 575. Upon first discovery I assumed Al-Khansa was a he. Turns out that she, according to wikipedia, is the best known female poet in Arabic literature. She wrote beautiful mourning poems (elegies) for her brothers who died in battle. This was the role of the female poet in her time. Ironically, she much later converted to Islam where mourning is forbidden. After her conversion, all four of her sons died in battle and it is said that she did not cry over their deaths but instead sung praise of their martyrdom. While I can not speak to the religion of Islam with much intelligence, I bet she cried inside. She lived to the age of 70 ish. That’s a long damn time to be stoic. 

Page 575 in my bible is Psalm 311: A Prayer from David in Distress and Thanksgiving for Escape. Maybe my son Dave needs to get out of the house today. Page 575 in the Catechism of the Catholic Church is a summary of why sex before marriage is a bad idea. How does one have that conversation with their kids and not be a hypocrite? Page 575 in my mom’s Alcoholics Anonymous book is THE VERY LAST PAGE of the book. WHAT???? Is that a sign I should not have spent more on alcohol than groceries during this quarantine? Five fellow recoverers wrote notes to my mom there about what an inspiration she was to them. One person said “your stories cracked me up”. Another said “I have grown to love you and feel like I have known you forever”.

According to a little numerology research, 5 signifies life lessons gained through experience or MAKING important life decisions about personal freedom and other cool life changes. The number 7 signifies spirituality. The term ‘lightworking’ came up a few times in my reading about the number 7 which in a nutshell is a mission of sending nothing by positive love vibes into the world in order to help heal the world. This means even to the assholes. You can’t fight bad with more bad. I did an internal giggle-clap of delight at that idea. Lightworking sounds so much more fun and fruitful than selling carpet. The number 8 comes from 575: (5+7+5=17=1+7=8). Hello. It’s MATH PEOPLE! The number eight symbolizes inner wisdom, karma, business, manifesting abundance and wealth. AND is the number in my blog site.

So it has become very CLEAR to me that angel number 575, is telling me three things: 1) keep looking for treasure 2) keep writing on peaceof8.com 3) maybe not use the word fuck so much if I want to be a lightworker instead of sell carpet for a living. 

Fuck. 

Running to Truth

I have been running a lot more these days. 

Running from the news. 

Running from fear.

Running from sobriety. 

Running from emotions.

Running from growth. 

Running from faith. 

But of course everywhere I run, there I am: a ball of rigid resistance. I did finally cry on the yoga mat the other day for what logically seemed like no good reason. I wasn’t even doing a difficult pose. But I felt better after so I decided not to over analyze it.

Later that day I took Bella out on our usual route which is about five blocks down to Wyakin Park where we do about a mile of trail walking before heading back up the hill home. 

Recently, I noticed that I sort of sing/chant in my head to my breath when I walk. Usually just a weird repeat over and over of whatever song I most recently listened to, implanted into my mind and in rhythm with my steps.  I thought on this day to replace it with prayer instead of mumble rap which is what I’m hearing a lot lately with my three youngest boys all home, quarantining with me. I inserted Hail Mary’s into my breathing. It’s been forever since I prayed like this: meditative, prayer chanting. I arrived faster than usual at the trail park. 

I let Bella off her leash and she jumped into her routine of darting ahead, whipping back and forth across the trail and then falling way behind so she could then run fast to catch up to me, all the while sniffing and snorting and dog smiling. 

Bella’s not worried one single bit about anything except maybe the robins, who have recently come out in full force and on this day were friskily taunting her into chase before flying up, untouchable. The robins aren’t worried either. They are unwavering in their praise of the day, singing it loud for all to hear. They do not question that there will be water to flicker-splash their wings into and dip their faces in deep satiating drink. They have no doubt that the worms and bugs will be there for them and their babies to eat.

I stopped in my tracks in stunned recognition and remembrance of this basic fundamental truth: the joy of being cared for so deeply and lovingly that one need not have a worry in the world.

“Oh!” I whispered. “I forgot for a minute.”

Just as I whispered this a huge woodpecker with a stunning head of red feathers flew across our path and landed on a tree about six feet from us. Bella and I both just paused in awe while he stared at us for the longest time. When I reached for my phone to try and capture him in a photo, he flew away. I swear he whispered “You’re welcome my love.”

Sharpen Your Zombie Stick

The me from two weeks ago wrote these words  at the bottom of my long list of to-do’s right about the time when reality was setting and the repercussions of this virus were real:

‘Love the Day but Sharpen My Zombie Stick’

It was of course meant to be funny. 

As IF the zombies were really coming. 

Silly. 

Silly that I didn’t realize that silly is my zombie stick. 

If I don’t keep it sharp the zombies will actually get me. Fighting them off has for sure been touch and go since things got serious. I didn’t think it would be so hard.

The me a week ago still felt impervious to zombies:  

What’s this?  A virus you say? 

As IF that’s going to make my steadfast optimism waiver one damn DROP. 

All you who are feeling dark and gloomy? STOP IT!  Optimism is a CHOICE. Life is good if you let it be good. Just do a bunch of things that bring you JOY you sillies! Take advantage of this time! 

I’m fucking happy being quarantined! I’m an introvert anyway. 

The only thing this virus is going to change about ME is that I’m going to have much cleaner hands from now on.

Blah blah blah. The old me from a week ago was SO obnoxious and peppy.

On a side note, I need to confess that it’s very embarrassing that it took a global panDAMNic to get me to wash my hands more. I’m not going to lie, I pretty much used to reserve hand washing for when obviously gross things happened like having to clean up dog vomit or if I accidentally peed on my hand from a premature or poorly loaded tp wipe. But now I look at my hands like they are evil weapons of mass destruction that can only be conquered by soap, water and homemade hand sanitizer. Who knew my hands were so nasty.

So, the me from yesterday, though still optimistic,  had a little shame brewing about my years of unclean hands. Plus the worry that I didn’t remind my children enough when they were young to wash THEIR hands unless they were visibly covered with dirt or what not. In my defense, I was busy just trying to keep them alive by remembering to FEED them. 

Then as though intentionally trying to push my peppy optimism all the way into the dirt and step on it, my husband told me I needed to be more patient. WTF? We were having a business talk about a specific work situation I had ‘allegedly handled inappropriately’ by not shutting my pie hole until a more strategic time to speak. Patience. Something I have never owned much of. I know it’s true but it still stung. So I sort of wanted to lash out and find the voodoo doll I keep in my closet that weirdly looks like my husband and do a little needle work. 

Instead I went to my office and sulked. There was no sense going to that extreme until absolutely necessary. We’ve all got a long haul ahead of us with this quarantine. Besides, he is also my business partner and human resources frowns upon the use of voodoo during business hours.

Anyhow, I got to wondering if my lack of patience was potentially flowing into how I was viewing this quarantine and how other people might be handling things and tried to get my empathy skills back in place:

The people who felt the need to buy all the toilet paper and eggs, did they have childhoods where they were not provided for properly and consequently had a deep seeded fear of not having ‘enough’?

Did I, a mother of six, actually forget how hard it is to be home with little kids and not loose your shit when you are trying to do your job as well as you can AND take care of their needs, which involves a damn snack every four minutes and help doing math you no longer know how to do properly?

I put myself in the shoes of people who live alone and are quarantined as such and would easily trade places with those parents, even if it meant learning new math and not getting to pee by yourself. I imagined what it would feel like to know that you might not touch another person for thirty or more days or possibly ever if the virus got you. 

The people who are sick and in the hospital from this nasty fucking virus: scared, alone, their lungs failing them. Are they lamenting that they didn’t live the life they had intended, this anxiety causing further decay? And the nurses and doctors taking care of them knowing that this very act of care could possibly give them the very virus they are trying to conquer. 

Am I depressing you? Yeah. Fuck empathy. It hurts. The empathetic me CRASHED. Hard. The cocky arrogance of being “GREAT” through all this replaced by a dark cloud of gloom.

So I made the brilliant decision to just quit work early and numb myself from all this damn empathy and binge watch ALL. SEVEN. EPISODES. of “The Tiger King”. 

I will never ever get this time back.

And the zombies, they had me pinned down right where they wanted me: already wounded from way too much empathy for my own well being and now crying over how awful people treat animals and no fucking wonder the word is going to hell and… 

…maybe we deserve this. 

Don’t be mad at me for putting the words in my head on to the page. I know more than a few people have thought these words. 

Maybe the universe is fighting back. Maybe God is pissed off. Because we are all such damn assholes to the earth and to each other and to TIGERS! Oh the TIGERS! And I am clearly the biggest asshole because I wanted to try and save all these beautiful big cats, which clearly meant I am either destined to be a drug lord, a meth addict or a husband killer. I mean after all it’s HARD being quarantined with a bunch of men: four of my five sons who mostly don’t talk about their feelings and a husband who thinks I’m impatient with the world. And he’s RIGHT! Which makes it even WORSE.

The zombies. They almost got me. But today’s me escaped from them long enough to tell you all that no, you don’t deserve this even if you didn’t wash your hands enough in the past like me.  Also, regardless of how good or bad you might feel during all this, sharpen your zombie stick, whatever it’s made of: humor, empathy, love, art, writing, exercise, cheez-its: whatever the hell you need it to be made of.. just sharpen the damn thing and use it to fight the happiness sucking zombies that sneak up on you when you least expect it and try to trick you into thinking there is no cause to be happy in the midst of all this super scary chaos.

I promise to try and be more patient with you and with myself and I also promise my hands will be mostly clean the next time you see me. Which I hope is soon. In the meantime, sharpen the stick my loves.

Love, Heather

Teach Them to Make Coffee

The sky might actually be falling. 

Whatever. 

I think we can handle it. At least most of us. 

I’m not gonna lie, I was more perplexed than worried when our governor announced on Friday the 13th that all bars, restaurants and saloons in Washington would be closed for at least two weeks. I was mostly just obsessing on the use of the word ‘saloon’. I mean who uses that word anymore? But I figured Governor Jay used the word saloon because he thought maybe using just the word ‘bar’ would not be clear enough to get the point across: NO PUBLIC DRINKING IS ALLOWED ANYMORE in ANY PLACE except alone in your closet, hiding from the man-boys who might find your booze stash and either judge you or sneak some. Plus, there are usually spittoons in saloons and that would DEFINITELY spread the virus fast, in a super gross way. I totally concurred with GJ’s decision.

But then my husband told me to either get my glasses on or learn to read because the word was SALON not SALOON.

Dear Sweet Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the very tired angels: Armageddon has come for us all and she has very bad hair.

But really? I have been wanting to grow my hair longer anyway. Besides, on Monday the 23rd, G.J. announced that in 48 hours all non-essential businesses must shut down and that in order to flatten the curve, people would be required to stay in their homes for at least two weeks, save for essential getting out reasons, like drive through coffee orders (because apparently no one knows how to make coffee at home anymore). So the only people who will be seeing me and my bad hair are four of my five sons who probably don’t notice that I even HAVE hair, my husband, whom I quit trying to look good for years ago, and my daughter on Facetime who for SURE cares about how good or bad my hair looks but soon won’t be able to see me through her own overgrown bangs.

Really, I’m not stressing about bad hair, no public drinking or eating, a tanked 401k (we don’t even HAVE a 401K so why would I worry about that?) or whether or not our kids will fall behind in school. The boys are disciplined enough to do the minimum requirements via online schooling and I have been stepping in every now and then to help them stay focused. For instance I requested that Mitchel shout into his video game headphones in SPANISH ONLY this week, so that we can ALL learn how to swear in Spanish, which somehow seems so much more polite. My plan for next week is that everyone needs to be up and at ‘em by at least 11 am. Mainly so that while I’m uber busy obsessing over the latest news and statistics from the CDC and the WHO (which according to my daughter is NOT a band, who knew?) someone can bring me coffee. Coffee that they learned to make at HOME. That right there is about as good of a mother as I’m going to be until Armageddon gets her bangs cut.

Stay safely sane and make the coffee at home my beautiful friends.