legal step-par(un)t material

(un)domesticated goddess-ish is about the life of a 20 something single city girl gone *gulp* soon-to-be-wed mountain step-mom.

To those who thought maybe I decided to drop everything and live off the grid with no internet and no sewer—don't worry, I didn't. And also, I'm slightly offended...you know I can't live without frozen yogurt. I DID, however, get ~married~, which pretty much became my second job for the last year.

Enough about me, let's get back to our regularly scheduled programming....about me.

My whole life, I put very little thought into what type of parent I thought I'd be. And by little, I mean none. If someone were to ask me how many kids I want, I'd manage something like "whatever these child-bearing hips can handle, am I right?"

If or when I do have them, I assume it'll go something like this: they enter this world without causing me any physical change or pain, sleep peacefully through the night, every night, and grow up to invent the first non-invasive bunion surgery.

But becoming a step-mom to a 9 and 11-year-old at 28? Probably one of the last scenarios I imagined. But now that I am one, I'm not sure why it wasn't at the top of my list from the start. They can dress, feed, and entertain themselves (for the most part). Plus, they think I'm cool, which is exactly the kind of positive reinforcement I never knew I needed.

What I didn't think through, though, was that I'd be on the hook for more than the occasional "don't forget your jacket" one-liners. I also have to answer parentaly-type questions, too, like "Why do I have to shower? I showered YESTERDAY." Sometimes I have another adult to back me up. Other times, I'm on my own, like a lost little bunny encircled by two hungry hawks. To be clear, in this scenario, I am not a hawk.

I'm met with questions all day, starting before I finish my first cup of coffee. How I answer determines if my awesome-ness is reinforced or I'm about to be confronted with a tsunami of pre-tween sass. One time they asked me if they can please please please have two scoops of ice cream. I said yes. The girls were really pumped. The fiancé was really not.

Sometimes they eat their vegetables with minimal bribing. Other times I have to ask for the eighth time please, for the love of god, just brush your teeth. Asking them to clean their rooms can be like trying to potty train a grizzly bear. And trying to figure out who started the latest fight rarely ends quickly or smoothly. But then they reach to hold my hand while we watch a movie, and my heart is like "OMFG they like me! they really like me!"

I usually snap out of it when I realize their hands are covered in melted chocolate/popcorn butter/ice cream/some other unidentified liquid.

backco(un)try livin'

(un)domesticated goddess-ish is about the life of a 20 something single city girl gone *gulp* soon-to-be-wed mountain step-mom.

Here's my camping history: one time when I was 10, my stepdad suggested he, my mom and I camp in our backyard. Working toilets were within reach and the only fire we needed was our grill - I could do this. My mom was another story. In the middle of a scary story, she politely excused herself to "use the bathroom".

She never came back.

Twenty something years later, jumping right into backpacking seemed like the logical next step. Thinking about my mom doing it makes me snicker since she's about the same size and weight as my backpack. But this story isn't about her. It's about me. Because it's always about me. #OnlyChildSyndrome

Dave suggested a two or three night backpacking trip in northern Colorado over the fourth of July. "It's a long weekend, let's just do three!", said the totally inexperienced, doe-eyed half. And so we're clear, I had no idea I'd be pooping under a rock at this point.

We obviously had to make an REI run because I/we/everyone always needs more gear - freeze-dried food, a couples sleeping bag (yep, that's a thing), a backpack. Just a few basics to make the trip a little more comfy. I won't bore you with the packing process, but I was about as useful as a wet Kleenex. I did learn, though, that packing a pack is an art. And no matter how much weight your partner volunteers to take on, it still feels like a car parallel parked on your back.

I never thought I'd see the day when I'd have wake up as early as when I played soccer, but there we were rocking a 4am wakeup call. Homemade burritos and coffee in tow, we loaded the truck and headed out. I wouldn't say waking up that early put me in a BAD mood, but I was pretty useless. Until I had to navigate. Dave prepped me the night before by showing me maps of the route to the trailhead because at a certain point, we'd lose cell service and he'd need my help staying on course. Fantastic. I nodded meagerly and promised him I totally got it. I didn't totally get it.

An expert car napper, I managed to hold a conversation with my sweet Dave for about 20 minutes into the 4 hour drive. He woke me up when he needed me to navigate and I white knuckled the maps until he was sure we arrived at the trailhead. What lay ahead? An eight mile approach, creek crossings, and an unpredictable quantity of wild animals with hooves and antlers.

Committed to proving my strength and toughness, I barely winced as I strapped into my 40lb backpack, climbed over and around tree fall every 15 yards and walked 20 feet across a log six feet above a raging creek while balancing the aforementioned backpack. But about six miles in, and my mountain man by my side, we still couldn't pinpoint ourselves on the map. Actually let me rephrase, we had no idea where we were on the map. He said, "I think we're somewhere around here" some 10 times before I started to passively lose my cool. But damnit, we were gonna get to that lake if that trail - or an unidentified wild beast - killed us.

Eight miles, two damp socks, a couple of blisters and a bruised ego later, we arrived at a junction. Dave was visibly excited. I was cautiously optimistic. "We're here!" he said. "Fuck", I responded. 'Here' meant we had four miles left. I had sweat marks in places I didn't know could produce sweat, felt like I was carrying a full-grown elephant and the mosquitos were having a field day.

But I was not going to cry, god damnit.

Dave did his best to keep me in good spirits, but all I could muster the final four miles were either inaudible grunts and expletive grunts. Finally, he claimed he saw water. I questioned his judgement. Primarily because if what he said was true, I was concerned I'd break into a sprint and as a result, collapse. But it was true, after 12 farking miles, four more than originally promised, we made it.

I was *this* close to diving head first into the lake, but I didn't want river water sitting on me for three days. Looking back, I was already swimming in my own sweat, so what was another layer?

Now, the three day camping experience itself? That's another story all together.

l(un)ch prep

(un)domesticated goddess-ish is about the life of a 20 something single city girl gone *gulp* soon-to-be-wed mountain step-mom.

New job, new car, newfound inspiration to prep lunch a week in advance.

Homemade lunches were never really my thing, though. They don't hold a soft spot in my heart. I was non-committal about sandwich crust, I didn't have one of those perfectly portioned Pringle holders, and I was pretty much banned from Tupperware because I usually threw it away (along with my retainer). In college, I heavily favored refilling my college card on a weekly basis - which linked directly to my parents' bank account - and bought lunch instead of shopping smart at the local grocery store.

Striving for consistency, New York encouraged my habit of paying someone else to mix lettuce with croutons. When my brain finally caught up to my bank account, I admitted defeat and decided it was time to actually MAKE a grocery list instead of grabbing toilet paper, crackers and almond butter and four of whatever was on clearance.

I promise I really did try to hone my Home Ec gene but the lack of kitchen prep space and my general disinterest did me no favors. Lunch largely consisted of precut lettuce drizzled with some pre-cooked chicken and maybe a squeeze of lemon. Dinner was Greek Yogurt with granola. Supermodeldom was within reach, but beer was always closer.

My roommates culinary skills did nothing to help my lackluster lunch-making confidence. She ALWAYS made breakfast, lunch AND dinner. As she'd cook, she'd notice me lurking and ask if I wanted some of whatever she was making. I'd quickly retreat and wave my hand saying, "oh no no, just wanted to see what you've got there. Looks great!" as a river of drool escaped the side of my mouth. My politeness only lasted about two months.

I'm getting married in a year, inheriting two step kids and my vision's getting worse. It's time to get my shit together. PB&J is only cute for so long. I went through my internal rolodex of 3-ingredient meals my mom made for me as a kid and remembered a few of her easiest, most delicious salads. They're ideal for undomesticated humans such as myself - you can make them in large quantities, they're great by themselves, on crackers or on sandwich, and they take forever to go bad.

What are these ~mythical~ salads, you ask? Tuna and egg, two of the top five most hated office foods - up there with reheated salmon and Brussels sprout - that will get you instantly blacklisted from perspective lunch mates and office happy hours.

Welp. Guess it's time to diversity *bookmarks every Martha Stewart recipe ever*

meet the (un)nuclear family

(un)domesticated goddess-ish is about the life of a 20 something single city girl gone *gulp* soon-to-be-wed mountain step-mom.

Some say I'm in an unconventional relationship. At the ripe, baby-makin' age of 27, I'm en route to marrying a man who has two children, and an ex and her boyfriend who, like me, packed up and moved from NYC to Colorado, too. We're like The Brady Bunch! Except instead of an Alice we have a Roomba and none of the women have Florence Henderson haircuts.

We spend weekends in the mountains at their place. We sleep in one of his girls' rooms, pink comforter and all. We ski together, make dinner together and take the girls to school together. It's a soft intro to motherhood, and I'm surprisingly into it save the fact I'm 100% faking it till I make it.

I still can't figure out how to work the Nest thermostat, but whatever, wear a sweatshirt. This is my nuclear family: 2017 edition.

So when the ex told me she was taking her man and kids on a California cruise that would culminate in Santa Monica, not only did I continuously forget to put it in my calendar - and therefore INCESSANTLY ask "when's that trip again?" - but was also asked to set up a meet, greet and sleepover with my parents.

Yep, my mom hosted her soon-to-be son-in-law's ex wife, her children and boyfriend. Nothing to see here, people. Move along.

In the days leading up to D-day, I was a roller coaster of emotions: excitement, nervousness, but mostly curiosity as to what kind of fro yo everyone would have.

Everyone asks "Wait, you weren't even THERE?! How'd it go???". Well, there was no proverbial hair pulling or backhanded compliments, so I'd consider that a success.

But seriously, the moment my mom met those kids, I'm pretty sure her grandma spidey senses went full throttle (whee?). And now she and my fiance's ex text. Sweet, a direct line between the Type-A matriarchs of the families.

So to answer the aforementioned question: the meet, greet and sleepover couldn't have gone better. Was I surprised? Not in the slightest....I have the greatest families ever - yes, that's completely objective - who just want to eat fro yo together.