barefoot in winter

It’s been a weird winter here, weather wise. I’ve resisted blogging about it – carrying on about how awful things are because we haven’t gotten the snow we play in and our economy partly depends upon here in southwest Montana – in hopes that things would change.

But winter starts in November here, and November through February are generally hardcore winter months that spill over to the end of March, which then gives way to mud and brown in April. If you don’t live here because you love to ski, snowmobile, sled or otherwise enjoy the snow, well, you at least expect it and know that it will be served up with a few stretches of humbling sub-zero daytime temps.

Not this year.

We’ve had RAIN, several times this season. Seeing rain here in January is sort of like I envision folks in southern Florida might react to getting snow: Hey honey – c’mon outside and get a look at this!  I think it’s SNOWING, just like on TV…

Our in-town Nordic skiing is a patchy and treacherous ice sheet. The ski resorts are making do with a thin, rock-exposing white blanket that has certainly cost them business.

In my own house, my boys, who are usually building jumps and making videos up at the ski resort this time of year, have been unenthusiastic. For me, my lunch breaks on the Nordic ski trails have turned into lame little jogs. It’s hard not to be glum and a little fatalistic about it all.

Anyway, Shawn, our friend Erik and I decided to make the best of it by signing up for a trail race down on Antelope Island (on Utah’s Great Salt Lake) at the end of March. Erik is running 30 miles, and Shawn and I signed up for 15 miles. Just dumb enough to possibly be fun.

In honor of the event, I’m springing for new trail running shoes after wearing my old pair for years, and trying in vain to get the stench out of them. Henk the Cat -- SHAWN’s CAT -- peed on them.

Five times.

After each and every soaking, Shawn has noted my annoyance and offered to wash them in a magical-cat-pee-odor-eliminating-shampoo. When he’s done, he presents them to me: “See? Good as new,” he says proudly.

Then I sniff, and try not to pass out.

“What?” he says, bringing the shoes to his face to smell. “They’re fine. Absolutely FINE. Nothing wrong with these shoes.”

No siree.

If I don’t hide the shoes, then the cat finds them and pees on them again. Once Shawn patiently explained to me that the situation was actually my own fault, because my body produces foul odors – an ammonia-like foot odor that is very confusing to Henk the Cat and causes him to mistake my shoes for a litter box.

Well, my goodness.

I guess I owe Henk an apology.

Anyway, FaveAuntie sent me the link to the video above on Shit Barefoot Runner’s Say. It’s amusing, especially as it seems the barefoot running craze – inspired by Christopher McDougall’s book, Born to Run – is going on all over the U.S.  (Many of the video references are directly related to the book and the subculture it has inspired. Even if you aren’t a runner, the book is interesting, entertaining and worth reading.) There’s a whole series of “shit people say” videos on YouTube. If you’re into yoga, that one’s funny as well.

In any case, I’m probably not going minimalist with my running shoe purchase since I'd strap pillows to my feet if I thought I could run that way, and I’m hiding them from Henk so he doesn’t have to suffer any more confusing episodes.

END NOTE: I’m going to try something new. Every now and then I’m taking a week off of blogging and using that time to write something to submit for publication. (Please banish any images of me lying on the couch with the TV clicker and eating snacks, and instead envision me HARD AT WORK.) I want to write some divorce-and-kids-related stuff. I’ll let you know how it goes, and see you back here on the 13^th or 16^th. 

grudge

Fifteen months ago Middle Son gave me permission to write about his expulsion (along with seven other boys) from middle school for smoking pot.

Fifteen months, and I’m still pissed at how the situation was handled.

(Apparently, someone’s a little grudge-prone.)

The re-igniting of my anger was triggered by Middle Son’s first high school report card, which we received last week and damnit, was a 4.0, with glowing comments.

Middle Son was low-key about his accomplishment, but all three of us parents let him know how proud we are of him. It’s actually his third 4.0 ever. The first two happened during the quarters immediately following his expulsion.

All of us — Middle Son, parents, brothers, etc. — had no problem accepting that it didn’t matter if we thought 30-day expulsion without access to teachers for smoking pot was overly harsh or not. The take-home message was that when you break laws, you’re no longer in charge of consequences.

We got it.

What I’m trying-not-to-be-bitter-about-but-still-failing-miserably is the human aspect of how things were handled.

Middle Son will be the first to tell you he got in trouble a fair amount during his first 2 ½  years in middle school. Nothing too serious: mouthiness, late to class, underwhelming effort at times, worried more about friends than learning…So the principal knew him before the aforementioned Big Trouble happened. And I have an idea of what he thought of my boy — or at least what I might think of Middle Son if I were a principal, without the context of all his awesome qualities.

So anyway, when Big Trouble happened, his grades were not great, and report card behavior comments were even less great.

When he returned to school after the expulsion, the whole family had been through a lot between appearing before the school board for the expulsion hearing, taking time off work to home school Middle Son, along with the emotional stress of wondering if we were, in fact, horrible parents.

We all held our breath during the first tentative weeks Middle Son went back to school, trying to strike the right balance between padding him with support and love and hissing Don't you DARE do that again.

Middle Son did well, although part of the agreement in returning to school was that he would not be allowed on school property outside of regular school hours, and could not leave the campus with his classes for field trips, ski days, or any other special activities. On those days the choice was to sit in an in-school suspension classroom, or have him stay home "sick."

Fast forward six months, to the last week of school and 8^th grade graduation. Somehow, Middle Son reinvented himself. I was thrilled with his grades, but even more blown away by behavior comments from his teachers about how much he contributed to class, how respectful he was, and on and on.

I can’t tell you how much it would have meant at that point to Middle Son (and OK, to me) to have five more minutes of that principal’s time for closure. To have Middle Son called into the office and have the principal say that final week, “You know what, congratulations. Not only have you moved on from the incident last fall, but you’ve gone on to accomplish more than you’ve done your entire time at this school. I’m proud of you.”

And of course, as long as this is my fantasy, that principal would have allowed the expelled boys to attend the zip-lining and other 8^th grade graduation field trips with their class the last week, to let them know they didn’t need to feel alienated anymore and could move on.

Instead, Middle Son sat home, waiting for summer and trying to hide how sad he was that he couldn’t say goodbye to his friends.

I’ve been thankful for the fresh start high school has given him. And he doesn’t seem to be near as dysfunctional as his mother, brewing up a fresh batch of past internal anger and indignation upon receiving his latest report card.

I will move on.

But gosh, as long as I’m letting my ugly hang out here, grant me one last little immature fantasy: I pull up in front of the principal, that opportunity-lost feller who didn't make time to also acknowledge the good in eight boys who made a mistake, and watch as his gaze settles on my homemade bumper sticker.

END NOTE: There were many friends, family members, readers, etc., who supported our family and Middle Son during his expulsion. I'm really thankful for that. But still grudgy. (Less grudgy now that I've written this and blabbed it to the Internet, though. That's progress.)

coffee: a love story

Every night before I go to bed I grind coffee beans, and ready our espresso maker for my morning cup of espresso-strength coffee. (A notable contrast to the brown coffee-scented water that one might pay real money for at gas stations.)

While fellow mothers wake each morning and think of their sweet little lambs slumbering nearby, my brain reaches for caffeine, with thoughts of how it’s going to be a fabulous day because I have great coffee to look forward to.

Except yesterday a very bad thing happened.

I turned on the espresso maker, and sparks flew out from the knob like a Fourth of July sparkler, followed by a terrible burnt-hair sort of smell.

The neurons in my brain don’t fire very fast before coffee, but once it registered that what was happening was Not Good, as opposed to say, an extra-special impromptu show in celebration of my morning cup, I turned the thing off.

Then I backed up, and walked around the house. Maybe it’s not so bad, I reasoned. Maybe some espresso makers continue working after sparks and god-awful smells? It wasn’t like I was an electrician, or one of those guys who hang out in their basements with broken toasters and VCRs and a homemade Repair Shop sign on the front lawn. So who was I to judge if it was really broken or not?

And why the hell is Shawn always gone whenever sparks fly?

I then approached the machine humbly, the way you might when you know your only shot to make things right is to admit that someone – or in this case something –  is in the power position and throw yourself at its mercy. I placed my hand gently on the side of the machine, smelling electrical death and decay setting in, and unplugged the cord. I lifted it off the counter, and swung it around gently, like one might a freshly-diapered baby to make them giggle. Certainly airing it out might help the overheated parts?

Then I gingerly plugged it back in, and turned the partially-melted-but-still-perfectly-usable knob…

...Nothing.

GAH!

Must. Have. Coffee.

Then in desperation I grabbed the tea kettle and began boiling water for the French press we use whenever we go camping.

Since then, I’ve been on a quest to figure out how to replace the perfect cup. How to make it so that I look forward to waking every morning again. While the French press might satisfy people in France, it’s not quite right for this coffee princess.

Our old espresso maker, I’m slightly embarrassed to admit, was a Mr. Coffee. But it was a gift, so the price was right, and despite the fact that it wasn’t imported from Italy and didn’t require that its metal parts be polished like counter art, it set a surprisingly high bar for good, strong coffee.

Some years ago, my sister- and brother-in-law introduced us to the AeroPress (pictured above) while camping – a contraption that can only be described as coffee science meets an enema.

Still, faced with a real coffee crisis, I realized we don’t have money set aside to purchase the type of espresso maker I’d like to replace the late Mr. Coffee with. So we tried the AeroPress for $30.

I was skeptical.

The first cup that Shawn prepared and ceremoniously presented to me, I wasn’t sold.

Then he did a very unmanly thing, and consulted the coffee-making directions that came with the thing. This morning he set to coffee making with the AeroPress once again, muttering about grinding the beans to the perfect degree of fineness, and using a thermometer inside the kettle to determine optimal coffee-pressing temperature.

Anyway, second cup: I’m a fan.

Life is good again.

END NOTE: I've never done product reviews in this space, and I don't have any former-but-still-nice-looking boyfriends working for AeroPress. (At least I don't think I do.)

second chances

Middle Son and I knock heads sometimes over curbing his video game usage, but I also try to keep the conversation open with him, to understand what he likes about the games. So the other day, when he excitedly told me he’d been playing with kids from Scotland, and the day before with some English-speaking teens from China, it made me think.

These are curious times.

(Please feel free to write that sentence down and refer back to it for guidance at any time. Or better yet, quote me: “These are curious times.” – Megan Ault Regnerus)

I’ve really enjoyed getting to know virtual strangers from near and far via this blog. So Middle Son might hook up with teens from China to play his game, but not know the kids down the street. I might feel all warm and fuzzy about a reader in Denmark, Virginia, or here in Montana (whom I’ve never or seldom met in person), for example, and yet not know my neighbors, who live less than 50 feet away.

In some ways, the blog relationships, which I’ve experienced as sincere, are easy. I don’t have to look anyone in the eye, have anyone over (unless it’s for the annual minor catastrophes hootenanny!), remember birthdays or bring chicken soup when someone’s sick. With neighbors, input often equals output (you don’t say hi to me, I don’t say hi to you), and it at least initially requires the willingness to extend yourself in possibly uncomfortable ways to get further than “Hi.”

Anyway, one of the first posts I ever wrote here was about how Angus ran inside my young neighbor-lady’s house early one morning (she and her soon-to-be-husband left a sliding glass door cracked for their own dogs to go in and out), and pounced on their bed while they were still sleeping. The very male, naked husband-to-be greeted me on their deck in what was definitely a “before-coffee” sort of way. Somehow, our relationship never progressed after that.

Then, I wrote about their building a large privacy fence right before they moved out and put the house up for sale. FINE, I thought. The house sat empty for two years while the couple lived in “his” house a few blocks away. Sometimes my former neighbor-lady’s dad would stay in the for-sale house while visiting, and we got used to the intermittent emptiness, broken up by the occasional dad visits or an open-house hosted by their realtor.

Still, a long-empty house is a lonely sort of thing. So when I saw my neighbor lady surveying the yard of this house they just couldn’t seem to sell, now sporting a little baby bump, something shifted inside me. It struck me that my lack of relationship with her had a lot to do with me.

So I walked over and congratulated her about the baby, told her how much we’d enjoyed getting to know her dad’s dogs whenever he visited. With that, she looked at her husband, then back at me, clearly fighting tears.

“My dad committed suicide last August,” she said quietly. “I found out we were pregnant a week later.”

And that’s how I ended up openly crying with this neighbor I hardly knew; a three-year relationship — or lack thereof — changed and melted via compassion during a single conversation.

Turns out she and her husband are moving back into the house and attempting to sell his house now instead. Which makes me happy. A second chance! Happy day! A second chance to not be an asshole!

Because I really am a dipshit when it comes to this stuff, I need ideas. I want to do something to say, “Welcome Back,” and start anew. I could make and deliver food, but have no idea what they like. Should I invite them to dinner? (Please say no. The thought makes me scratchy.) Their baby is due next month. Maybe a baby gift? Got any other bright ideas? Something not too spendy that says I’M ACTUALLY SOMEWHAT NICE. LET’S FORGET ABOUT THE FACT THAT I HARDLY SPOKE TO YOU THESE PAST YEARS AND BE FRIENDS NOW.

permission to dine: meg's groovy smoothie

I’m not a martyr when it comes to eating. I don’t choke down things that taste disgusting just because I’ve heard they’ll make my insides smile. But I really love it when I discover recipes and foods that are both tasty and healthy.

Lately I’ve been listening to Michael Polan’s In Defense of Food (as an audio book), and watched Dr. Terry Wahls TED video on “Minding Your Mitochondria,” where she says that if you want kickass vitality, one should aim to include three dinner plates full, or nine cups, of veggies every day. So between these voices and my stated desire to increase veggies as a New Year intention, I’m just feeling mighty free range and Portandia these days.

Perhaps we could hang out and be groovy together?

I’ll bring the tofu and you bring the sprouted couch cushions for meditating.

Also, I might be writing this post on Saturday night while sipping a glass of wine on an empty stomach before dinner. Blogging while almost tipsy is not a crime; in this case it just makes me your highly-affordable and talkative date.

Anyway, I would make you one of my delicious smoothies, which I concocted myself, and have been drinking practically every morning for the past few weeks.

Also, please do not listen to Shawn (who would happily pack a box of Little Debbie snacks as his sole food cache for a long day of hunting) who said the following after trying my latest smoothie addiction: “Where I grew up, we called this ‘silage,’ Megan. It’s meant for feeding animals, not humans.”

Pfft.

“Now if you could create a meat smoothie, then you’d be on to something,” he added.

The taste of this drink is earthy and slightly sweet.

Should you care to join me in superior health and good taste, then please assemble the following:

 Meg’s Groovy Smoothie

1/3 cup of beets, shredded

1/4 cup of carrots shredded

Fresh ginger, grated  (to taste)

Handful of Swiss chard or spinach, torn to small pieces

1/2 cup frozen, sweet cherries

1 cup orange juice

Put everything in the blender and push the most powerful button you have on the damn thing while holding the top down. If you need more liquid, add a bit of water to get things moving. (If you’re lucky enough to own a Vitamix, well, mixing all of this into uniformity is sissy stuff. Lucky you.) Let it run for A WHILE. If you like your smoothies cold, add a few ice cubes at the end, once you no longer see chard bits floating about, reminding you that this is a “healthy” shake. Pour into a tall glass, and enjoy.

END NOTE: Do let me know if you end up trying this recipe, and what you think.