Lolly Pops and Unicorns

My son has played sports since he was four years old. As my first (and only) child, I learned a lot when he entered the arena of children's athletics and played season after season of various sports in his pre-teen years. I learned how to bite my tongue, what offsides means in soccer, that screaming "hit him!" is entirely appropriate in a sport that uses pads and encourages body blows, what the crease is in lacrosse, and the fact that you aren't playing to win anymore.

Huh? What's that last one, again? You read correctly. You're playing a sport against another team, fellows, but there'll be no winner and no loser. Why not? We don't keep score. That way, evvvvverybody wins! Go--have fun!

That last one was a toughie for most everyone to understand (everyone but the geniuses who came up with the scheme) because it goes against the natural order of things. Not keeping score in a game is like no popcorn in the movie theater, no syrup on the ice cream, no bacon on the filet. What's the point? It's better than nothing, I guess, but not nearly as good as it could be. Don't ask me why my analogies are all food-related. This no-score-nonsense was most apparent in baseball, where the scoreboards mocked us from the outfield, the lights as dark as night. No score. (I've got news for you though: there's always a score and someone always wins and loses. Just because it's not broadcast on a lighted board and we're not supposed to utter the numbers aloud in the stands doesn't mean they don't exist and that the kids aren't aware of them; oh, they know.)

I never agreed with this (can you tell?). When you play games, there is a winner and there is a loser (sometimes more than one). But that is life and the sooner you learn to win graciously and lose without it killing your spirit, the better. What I learned as Chase grew older and we've now reached an age where score is kept, is that kids are really, really bad losers because of all that no score business. They haven't had to figure out how to deal with losing and still move on with your head high. There are tons of life lessons to be learned through healthy sports activities--being a team player, working hard for something you want, encouraging a teammate who didn't do well, practice makes perfect...and yes, learning how to deal with the ol' "ya win some, ya lose some."

Chase just had his first official try-out for a sport. One where not just everyone who wants to be on the team plunks down some dough and poof! they're on the team. It was a try-out for his middle school spring lacrosse team. I'm not sure which of us was more nervous. But again, practice is key, try your best, understand you don't always get what you want no matter how bad you want it, and Chase was ready. And he made the team. I'm delighted for him; he's so excited it's cool to watch.

But here is what I loved: In the 15 sheets of information, forms to fill out, tallies to total up how much this will break the bank, rules, expectations, etc, there must have been five or six locations where it is spelled out that this is a competitive team. "...and as such, we play to win. Yes, we work on skills and yes, we will work to give everyone some amount of playing time, but we're also here to win and that means in certain instances, we will be putting our best players in, not necessarily whoever has played least in the game so far." And this is something they wanted to make sure parents and kids understood before accepting a position on the team. Just because you make the team, pay the loot for uniforms and myriad fees, you are not guaranteed playing time. If you have a problem with it, you may take it up with the board, not the coaches.

So refreshing...because this is how it is in real life. It's not all lolly pops and unicorns. Sometimes it's hardships and things not going the way you want them to. But you know, good things come from losing, too, or realizing you need to practice more, try harder, pay more attention. And those are investments that serve kids well in sports and in life. And if our kids grow up equipped to handle the ups and the downs, both sides of the coin, then didn't we, as parents, raise all winners?

Procrastination is Hereditary

Brian Regan is one of my favorite comedians. He can make any situation funny with his unique spin. And he does it without any foul language.

One of his best bits is called "Cup of Dirt." If you're familiar with Regan, if you're a big fan, you know this bit verbatim. You see, this comedian is among the ranks of those who have such fanatical...well...fans that they can recite his bits with him like any good 10th grader reciting "Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears..."

In case you're not familiar with Brian Regan, um, first, become familiar. Well worth an hour or more of your time. And two, Cup of Dirt references his childhood experience with the always popular Science Project. You know, the one that gets assigned early in the school year and should be worked on as the year progresses, ultimately due to be displayed for everyone's ridicule at the always popular Science Fair. Snort. Except Brian Regan--much like myself--did nothing on his project, and on the morning of the Fair, his head popped off the pillow with an "Oh no. That's due today. I had all year to work on it and I did nothing."

I won't spoil the way this turns out because it's Brian Regan at his finest and absolutely hysterical. Especially when you lived this same nightmare, as I did. My procrastinating ways originated at this time in my life, I'm sure of it. I figure if I pretended the Science Project wasn't actually assigned, maybe it ultimately wouldn't be. Wrong.

And a procrastinating nature has followed me ever since. Although I did enjoy learning from college professors that creative people are typically procrastinators. That's the way to put a positive spin on a negative trait. I like it.

Last night, my 6th grader had an Oh No moment. Not a Science Project, thank goodness, because I think I'll have to be committed if I have to relive that disaster again, even in the parent role. But on Sunday night at 9:00 at night, 30 minutes before bedtime, from the backseat of my car as we were driving his friend home, my son says: "Oh no. I have a language arts project to do. It's due tomorrow."

My response: "That's not even funny, Chase." I was sure he and his pal were yanking my chain. "I mean it, Mom," he insisted. "I really have a project to do and it's got to be turned in tomorrow."

"Ha, ha, Chase. Very funny. Because if you weren't kidding, I would be very upset," I said in my most threatening, knock-off-the-jokes voice. Unfortunately, he wasn't kidding. 1 language arts project assigned two weeks ago. 0 language arts projects completed a mere 12 hours before one was due to be turned in.

Ugh. I nearly exploded and believe me, I have more parental patience than most. But when he told me the project involved video-taping a scene from a book the class read (including the use of props, various "actors" to play multiple roles, and pyrotechnics) and then burning the whole she-bang to a DVD, my patience disappeared faster than a batch of cake frosting after a bad date in my younger years.

And then I thought: while this is a learning opportunity for Chase--who I ask daily if he has homework, what it is and if it's done (and he missed a good 14 opportunities to mention this little project to me)--can I really get too upset after realizing that procrastination is clearly hereditary?

Mother, May I?

I may have just turned another year older but I'm pretty sure it's my son who will age me more than that in the coming months. My 11 year old (12 in Feb) has his first real girlfriend. By real, I mean, he likes her and she likes him back. No more than that but up to now, there's just been a whole lot of he liked someone who did not like him back and even more she liked him but he didn't care so much.

But apparently, he's "dating" this one particular girl now. They're "going out." Little miss thing has adored my son since the start of the school year (they didn't know each other prior to this year--middle school brought three elementary schools together so there were lots of new friends to be had) and he has recently decided he likes her too. And in the span of a couple weeks, they've fallen deeply and hopelessly in love. They never knew rainbows were so pretty or the sky so blue, the flowers so fresh or...blah! Um, really? You're 11. You aren't "dating" or "going out" with anyone because that implies you have mode of transportation without a "Mom's Taxi" sign on top of it.

I get lots of eye-rolling these days. Why must I rain on their pre-teen love parade? Cause it makes me feel old, that's why. And replaced. I told Chase last night: never forget, you love ME most. Girls will come and go but you only have one mom. He just smiled. I was serious.

I stumbled onto an instant message conversation between them that was on my laptop the other day--he hadn't closed it out afterwards apparently so I got a keen eye view into the state of their relationship . It went on for three pages but there was a theme: a lot of "I love you"s and "No, I love you more"s, "I'm thinking of u" and "I can't wait to see you again"s. With tons of extra letters, like this: I looooooooooveeeeee youuuuuuuuu. Because it means more like that.

Last night, I finally caved and allowed him something I've been refusing for months: set up a Facebook page. He's begged to do this, saying that all his friends have them. And while they're all definitely ensconced in the electronic age of staying in touch (texting, IM'ing, Xbox Live), I thought Facebook was taking it too far. But I've been giving it some thought, wondering what potential harm could come from it. And realizing that while I want to keep him young and more interested in SpongeBob than in socializing, I couldn't stop his growing up from happening.

So at last I decided to let him set up a Facebook page, provided I knew the password to the account, could access everything he was doing/seeing on there and he only accepted folks as friends that he knew. He got set up and sure enough, there must have been a hundred middle school students he knew on there--friends and friends of friends. He spent the first hour chatting with five friends simultaneously ("This is hard, mom!"). I think that's the main reason they have Facebook pages at that age--he didn't have a clue what a wall was or how to post photos. But the boy could sure do some chatting!

Girlfriends, now Facebook...the teen years loom closer and closer and already the socializing and drama of teen interaction has begun. I've always heard your kids grow up fast but it seemed he just took five giant steps forward overnight and he never even asked Mother, May I?

Birthdays in the Electronic Age

Birthdays have really evolved since the take over of computers, the almighty internet, texting and the subsequent reduction of everyone's social lives to communication via Facebook and Twitter. By 9 this morning, I'd received birthday wishes from folks around the country via text (while I do appreciate the wishes, setting my phone to jangling an hour before my alarm is set to go off in the morning ain't exactly the happiest wishes a non-morning person could receive...I'm just sayin'). I've even been text messaged by my child's friends (cause I'm a cool mom). I've gotten lots of notes posted to my Wall on Facebook, which are usually entertaining because people know others get to see exactly what their wishes are and "Happy Birthday" seems so bland when you can say things like "Another year older, Geezer? Are parts falling off yet??" Heck, I've even been bombarded by well wishes from machines--auto generated from companies I'm pretty sure don't even know my name: my savings account company (ING), Webshots (who cleverly allows me to post pics here occasionally), a Market Study company I've helped out, the Squirrel Board and more. It brings a tear to my eye that they all remembered too.

Yes, birthdays in the electronic age are like no other. Now if only people could send sweets via email--I'd be set! :-)

Thanks to all for the Birthday wishes...

Haunted House Hell

Haunted houses are near the top of the list of things I most hate. Right above green peppers and just below animal abusers. I can't stand watching scary movies; I don't like that "edge of your seat" feeling, etc., so you can imagine my delight at strolling through a live version of bloody, chainsaw toting teenagers in make-up that looks way too real for my taste. And no amount of chanting: "None of this is real. These are just regular people being paid to dress up and scare the bejeesus out of normal, everyday citizens" convinces you not to be scared out of your freaking mind. (Incidentally, this chanting draws a lot of dirty looks from the people in front of and behind you in line.)

So why on earth spend $27.50 to walk through a haunted house then, you ask? I only did this once, actually. Only one time because I do know this about myself, this distaste for being scared. But I was 19, on my first date with a boy I'd secretly worshiped since the seventh grade, and it was his suggestion. What was I going to do? Embarrass myself by declining the invite on the basis that I would be too scared? Of course not. Better, instead, to go along with the idea, as if haunted houses are no big deal, and then embarrass myself worse by my antics walking through the dreaded place.

We arrived with 2,000 or so folks who think being scared out of their wits is the ideal entertainment on the Saturday night before Halloween and paid the ridiculous fee to get in. How ludicrous that people will pay to be traumatized. Yet, we plunked down our cash and said "Where does the party begin?" Every step we inched closer to the front of the line, my heart began to beat faster. I ceased making any sort of conversation because my trembling voice betrayed how I really felt, dispite my boasting about haunted houses being no big deal.

No sooner had we taken five steps inside that monster mansion that some boogey man leapt out at me with such force and such surprise that the 2' space I'd respectfully left between me and Greg disappeared and I crawled halfway up his back. Literally. I also may have been shrieking. This startled Greg more than the dude in a black trenchcoat and blood-stained face and hands, and I backed off pretty quickly, nervously chuckling about how that guy just caught me a little off guard. From there, things most decidedly did not improve. I spent what seemed like an eternity but probably amounted to 20 minutes in gut-wrenching terror. Each turn in the house brought something else unexpected, extremely real and very, very scary. I gave up any pretense of being cool and sucked up so close to the back of Greg you couldn't have gotten a whisper between us. I don't think he appreciated it too much because it's probably hard to move with an extra buck twenty-five attached to your hip but I didn't care. I felt like I was losing my mind. My heart was beating so fast, I began envisioning the news reports about the girl who was literally scared to death in a haunted house. My death from extreme fear would be the reason haunted houses everywhere got banned. I'd be hated by the freaks who live for Halloween, those darker souls of the world who love a goulish holiday and the houses that accompany it. I decided then and there that I wouldn't die in the haunted house and attach such shame to my name forevermore. And I didn't but I came real, real close. I'm sure of it.

I left there with my heart in tact but my dignity long gone. I could barely look at Greg the whole ride home and I don't recall him saying much. Hard to make pleasant conversation with a girl who'd practically molested you because of fear in a silly ol' haunted house.

So this Halloween, once more the haunted houses have popped up everywhere. And while they have me to thank for their existence--for, you know, not dying during my one and only haunted house expedition--you can bet I won't be frequenting any of them. But guess who asked if I'd let him join a friend at one this weekend? Right. My 11 year old. The one who is even more afraid of scary stuff than I am. You might recall The Longest Night Ever from earlier this summer: the only night I've had to sleep in his bed with him because he was so scared after watching a scary television show. Tel-e-vision show. Relive that episode here. And yet he's asking to go experience that horror in person. See, his friends think it's cool and I'm betting Chase thinks that folks jump out and yell Boo! and then the lights come on and everyone laughs. He doesn't realize it's non-stop fear and terror that you believe is real no matter how sane you are or how much chanting you do otherwise. No, I think he'll be passing on the Haunted House this year--I like sleeping in my own bed.

I Am a Multi-taskaholic

Hello. My name is Megan. And I am a Multi-taskaholic.

I swear, if there is such a thing, I suffer from it. I am addicted to multi-tasking.

I've always been a big believer in maximizing time but lately it seems like the multi-tasking is almost out of hand. Can such a thing be? It's not just juggling a few things simultaneously--millions do that, of course. No, I've reached a point where if I'm doing just a single task, I almost get a little frazzled because I think there are other things that I should be doing but aren't doing. Crazy.

This occurred to me when I was making coffee this morning and as I was pouring the water in the back of the pot with my right hand, I couldn't resist rearranging the canisters on the countertop with my left hand. This isn't like patting your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time--this requires a level of real dexterity I'm not sure I actually possess. And yet, standing there just pouring water seemed like I was wasting time I could be getting something else done. Like, moving the canisters so the big one is on the left instead of the right. Real necessary stuff like that.

I can't seem to help myself though. I don't walk up our stairs that I don't carry multiple items. In fact, I've learned to stack stuff on the steps so that as I make any trip up or down, I can move stuff from the bottom deck to the top deck in one trip. Because to make multiple trips seems like a colossal waste of time and energy that just doesn't sit well with me.

Here's my typical morning getting Chase ready for school: we come downstairs and I grab Chase's standard breakfast fare: Eggo waffles (only the healthy, homemade stuff for my family!). Pop the waffles in the toaster. While they cook, get the butter and the milk out of the frig. Plate from the cupboard, fork from the drawer. To the pantry for Carnation breakfast drink packet and syrup. All of this is done quickly because I need it all done before the waffles are done and Chase likes his light. Waffles pop, butter them, cut them up, syrup on top. Plate into the microwave to warm up the syrup. While that cooks, I mix the breakfast drink and milk and bam--everything is ready to be served at once.

And while Chase eats, I pour some coffee while admiring my organized countertops.

These are just a few examples that I'm willing to admit to the world. So. Uber-organized? Or is this just normal stuff?

Say No to Pink Tu-Tu's

Dogs cannot actually speak for themselves but some special individuals feel like they can communicate with them on a level that not just anyone can. I am one of these people. That's right. I'm not a cracker jack--I just understand these furry creatures because I pay attention. And many of them have collectively asked me to share a particular message with all you folks who don't seem able to communicate with their pets but do love them and have the best intentions, however misguided they end up being. Ready for the message? Here it is:

Dogs don't like to be dressed in clothes.

Gasp! I know, I know. Were you sitting down? I should've warned you but alas, it's true. Amazingly, there aren't doggie clothing stores in the wild and yet, dogs of all breeds manage to survive cool--even cold--weather in just their skin and--get this--fur.

How can people claim to adore their pets and then proceed to humiliate them by dressing them in clothes? Sweaters, rain coats, sparkly beaded shirts. The look of discomfort and humiliation on the animals' faces who are relegated to walking in front of their doggie friends in such a display is so sad. Usually it's the smaller dogs who are subjected to such nonsense (why is this? Probably because more people who really wish they had children to "baby" end up with small dogs they can more easily child-substitute with: holding, cradling, pushing in strollers and, yes, dressing) but today was the ultimate indignity that finally prompted me to make this announcement on behalf of dogs everywhere. Walking down the street was a grown man in a Chicago Bears jersey walking a big black lab wearing--you guessed it--a Chicago Bears jersey. Really? This is how you "man up" your dog? As I drove by, the dog literally rolled his eyes at me and gestured up at his moronic owner. All I could do was roll my eyes back and shrug my shoulders. And off they went--the man walking unencumbered, and the dog walking, with his legs stuck through sleeve holes, encumbered.

Please, if you truly love dogs, let them be dogs. And dogs do not wear sports jerseys, sweaters, hats, sunglasses or pink tu-tu's. Ever.

Welcoming Addie

I'm an aunt again. My new niece was born in the wee hours of the morning yesterday, October 8th...at 1:05 a.m. Her name is Carlee Addison and will go by Addie and she is the cutest thing. I know everyone says that but this time, it's actually true. I know it's rude to give a gal's weight and all but this time, I think it'll be ok. She made her grand debut at 7 lbs, 14 oz and is already nearly two feet tall--21" to be exact.

Erin is my only sister, 13 years younger than me (never mind the math), and it went without saying that I would be at the hospital when Addie was ready to show up. Even if it was a two hour drive to get there. But I was so excited to be there when she embarked on a whole new part of her life. We parents know it'll occasionally be the toughest thing she's ever done but also the most rewarding. As much as she loves Addie now, she has no idea the depth her love will reach over the next days, weeks, months, years.

Miss Addie might've worked a little magic for her favorite aunt (that's me) and rushed her arrival a bit more than she did since it was a school night and all, but obstinacy runs in our family and she was clearly already exerting her family traits starting on her very first birthday. She's a night owl, evidently. Something that I hope doesn't continue as the days march on, for her parents' sake!

She arrived at 1:05 a.m. and by 2, the crowd at the hospital had spent an hour ooh'ing and ahh'ing over this little pumpkin with a head full of dark hair just like my sister. But Erin was tired and the amount of sleep hours available to those of us needing to work the following day was dwindling fast so we all said our goodbyes and congratulations and headed out the door. Unfortunately I had a two hour drive to get home. It was from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. that I gained an entirely new respect for drivers who drive these hours regularly--and I saw a lot of them out there. For the first 20 minutes, I was pretty awake and thinking the drive would be no big deal. For the next hour and 40 minutes, I drove with the windows down in the chilly air, shivering with the radio blaring and singing at the top of my lungs (a real treat for the cars I drove alongside on the interstate) to make sure I kept the heavy eyelids at bay. I got home at 4 and me and my fully clothed self with a face of make up and unbrushed teeth plopped into bed by 4:02.

I love this sweet little Addie already, am so proud of my sister and excited for the experiences that are coming her way. Reminds me of when my Chase was born. I wrote about it here if you care to reminisce: A New Baby, a Dose of Hysteria & the Dog Food Fork

Carlee Addison Beck:



Me and my sister Erin, pre-Addie:

Customer Service: It DOES Exist

How unfortunate that good customer service these days is so rare, that when you come across it, you're surprised. But I've had a couple instances here lately that make me want to give my over crappy customer service cynicism (say that five times fast) a rest.

You might be familiar with Five Guys Burgers & Fries. It's a chain of franchised restaurants that's blanketed a fair amount of the country, serving up--you guessed it--burgers and fries. Plus other stuff you would expect to find in a burger and fry kind of place. One finally showed up not far from my home and having heard rave reviews about the burgers (and fries), my son and I stopped in for lunch one day. You order at the counter, receive an empty cup for your beverage that you fill on your own and then seat yourself and wait for your order number to be called. At the beverage station was a sign posted that read a little something like this (I'm paraphrasing because I'm going off my memory, which is poor at best, but you'll get the point):

Dear Customer. Thank you for your business. We want to be sure you know how much we appreciate you coming to eat with us today. You are the most important aspect of our success and we do not ever forget it. We are here to serve you and want you to have a great meal with great service. We do not believe that you are doing us a favor by eating here. Rather, we receive the benefit because you choose to dine here. We thank you for that. If there is anything that you need to make your visit here better, please do not hesitate to ask and we will do everything possible to make it happen. And please come again soon.

The food was outstanding and the service we received very much embodied the sentiments expressed in that sign. What a surprise in the days of restaurants and stores who more often treat customers like it's an imposition to serve them. My biggest beef is saying Thank you to a store employee and getting You're Welcome as a response. The answer should be: "No, thank you." Since, after all, if I and my fellow customer brethren weren't spending money at the locale, the employee and all his brethren would be job searching.

Another great example of the elusive customer service happened today. I was in the Anniston/Oxford area of Alabama yesterday for work purposes (because God knows I wouldn't have been there for the sheer enjoyment of the town) and was scheduled to stay overnight at the Comfort Suites, my usual hotel of choice there because they're in a great location, clean, smoke-free with great rates and complimentary breakfast. About 6:00, minor emergencies dictated I return home to Atlanta instead of staying over. I called to cancel the reservation and was told by the kind receptionist that the cancellation policy states a 4:00 cut off or you get billed regardless. She could not make an exception for me--emergency or no--but suggested I call a manager today. I did just that and learned that the manager had already heard of the situation and had called the hotel owner on my behalf to explain I was a good, regular customer and needed an exception this one time. The owner agreed and I was not charged for a stay I did not actually complete.

How refreshing to be appreciated for loyalty and monetary contribution to the business. The receptionist was nice, the manager went above and beyond, and they've earned my business for all future stays, no doubt.

If you ever have a need to stay in Oxford, Alabama (for the Talladega race, perhaps?), the Comfort Suites is your best choice of hotel when you want to stay somewhere who knows how to treat its customers. And besides that, the cookies they make most nights are to die for.

The Adventures of the Morning Commute

Every morning's drive to Chase's school is a lesson in how to drive and how not to drive for my son. Naturally, we have no choice but to head out during the high traffic time when everyone else is also hitting the road to go to work or school. Plus, you've got the moving obstacles stopping at every school bus stop with flashing lights that few seem to understand (flashing yellow means you can continue past them cautiously; only flashing red means you need to stop). It's hectic, and there's nothing you can do about it.

I personally have an unfortunate amount of left hand turns on my route from home to school. One light in particular is a true test of patience for all involved: the traffic is so backed up in all directions, each light change finds a multitude of cars blocking the intersection in a desperate attempt to not have to wait one more cycle of light changes. Which means the alternate flow can't move anywhere until halfway through their green light, which allows about two cars to squeak through before the light changes again and the dance starts anew. We are all familiar, right?

The sketchiest part of the drive is a T that I encounter each morning. Like a breath of fresh air, the traffic as you approach the T greets me about 20 car lengths out. About 80 percent of the cars approaching the T (a 1-way stop, not a 3-way) need to go left, including myself. There's those damn lefts again. And from all three directions, the traffic flow is very heavy with a healthy dose of buses sprinkled about thanks to four schools in the proximity. So those of us approaching from the stem side of the T with the stop sign must rely on the courtesy and generosity of the drivers cruising the top side of the T to allow us schmoes to get out. And when turning left, we need the generosity and kindness of two souls to help us get out. Now you're asking a bit much. Particularly at 7:45 a.m.

And it's at this intersection that the ratio of considerate drivers to inconsiderate drivers is abundantly clear. In case you couldn't guess, we're severely lacking on the considerate side. Here's how it operates in a perfect world: Driver #1 is in a car approaching from the right and wishing to turn left onto the street I'm on. So he's forced to stop and wait for a break in the onslaught of vehicles approaching from the opposite direction. Fortunately (for him), lots of these cars are turning right onto my street. So we have one coming along, planning a right hand turn onto my street; this is Driver #2. As long as Driver #2 is a nice, observant driver who sees Driver #1 needing to go left, he slows down to create enough of a gap to allow this. Now ideally, Driver #1 would have observed Driver #3 (that'd be me) sitting at this same intersection with her signal flashing a need to go left and when he gets his go-ahead from Driver #2, he would first allow #3 to hop out, he'd then turn left in front of the still-patiently-waiting #2 and all is right with the world. Make sense? Clear as mud? You'd get it perfectly if you could see the intersection. My main point here is that it's rare that Drivers #1 and 2 both get this or are in the kindhearted mood to allow it.

Since almost everyone in this particular show is in it daily, everyone is familiar with the intersection and the steps that must be maneuvered for all to finally make the turn they need. So when it doesn't flow properly, I tend to blame it on inconsiderateness more than obliviousness.

So each morning I tell Chase the rules of driving: 1. Safety first. 2. Be a defensive driver because too many others out there aren't as concerned for your life (or their own) as they are getting somewhere fast. And 3. Be aware of what all is around you and be considerate of others. As often as you have the opportunity to help another driver, you will need the same sort of help yourself. And if the world were full of nothing but inconsiderate people only looking out for number one, it'd be a pretty miserable place to be...not to mention impossible for any of us to get anywhere.

Atlanta May Wash Away

It's raining again in Atlanta today. When you live in the south, it's either feast or famine where the rain is concerned. Either the rain clouds bypass us altogether as if we aren't on the map (sometimes I wonder if we are) and the entire area is so parched, there's no car washing, lawn watering, boating or slip-n-sliding to be had. Or we have a year like this year where it rains so much, new rivers are created every day (usually in my front yard). Today, some area schools are actually closed because of flooding; in the Midwest, around the great Mississippi, this probably isn't unheard of but here? We're far more familiar with the word "drought" than "flooding." One area--thankfully not mine--got over 10" of rain in the last 12 hours alone. And this is on the heels of a string of rain-soaked days. I'm pretty sure I hear the ground screaming "Uncle!" while Mother Nature screeches a high-pitched, hysterical laugh as she waves her Rain Wand a bit more.

I should just go back to bed.

Middle Schoolers: Shameless but Good Musical Taste

Last Friday, my son's middle school had a dance and because Chase hasn't yet reached the point of mortification-when-mom's-around, I volunteered to help out. I was manning the candy sales desk and learned a few things about today's middle schoolers. One, even at 11, 12 and 13 years old, kids still love candy the way Boston loves its Sox. Two, said-children will stoop to low levels to get their hands on it after realizing it requires $1 cash that they don't have. Here are a few ploys thrown my way:

"Could I have free skittles since I know Chase?"

"Could I have free Reece's because I look pretty today?"

"Could I have free M&M's and I'll pay you Monday?" (As if I'd be hanging out at the school Monday.)

"Could I have free Kit-Kat today and I'll pay you $1.50 on Monday?" (Tempting but still, I won't be loitering at the school Monday with a black trench coat on and a bunch of my Italian friends looking for kids to pay up or else.)

"Could I have a free Snickers? You're the prettiest mom here." (I'm flattered, really, but still, no.)

It was enlightening haggling with the sneaky creatures. But what was even more so was strolling into the gym later to watch the actual dance and hearing the music that was playing. Moments after I walked in, the speakers were flooded with none other than Michael Jackson's Thriller. The original version, not some doctored up techno version. And the place erupted. The kids went crazy and proceeded to sing every word of this 1983 hit. Good lord, I was 13 years old when this song was huge. And now my nearly-13 year old child is running around moon-walking (attempting to anyway--the boy needs help with his moves) and doing the up-on-your-toes move that MJ made popular. Next up? Journey's Don't Stop Believin'. Seriously? This came out in 1981. Again, the place went nuts. I was speechless. This wasn't some retro dance; there was no 80s theme. The kids even had the opportunity to provide requested songs leading up to the shin-dig. These were the tunes they wanted to hear. I have since learned that the Journey hit is the most downloaded song not released in the 21st century from the iTunes music store.

So apparently, at least parts of middle school are unchanged since I attended as a student. Kids still love candy, they're not above begging or giving shameless complements to get their hands on it, and their taste in music is amazingly good.

A Little Personal Space

Is personal space something you need to be taught? I thought a sense of others' personal space was one of those "you just know" types of things. Like you know you shouldn't pick your nose, you know you shouldn't insult your friends' kids, you know you shouldn't date a friends' ex, you know that So You Think You Can Dance is a better show than Dancing With the Stars, you know that Georgia Tech is a better school than UGA. You know...you just know these things.

But apparently not everyone does know the personal space rule. If you're one of them, let me clarify. If you're in public or around someone with whom you are not intimate, you should generally give them a good 3 foot radius. Don't stand any closer. You can come in and out of the circle if you have a legitimate reason to do so but if you're just loitering, being any closer to someone than this gets uncomfortable in a hurry. And if you're in, say, a store that typically necessitates a buggy/shopping cart, you also don't allow this cart into that radius.

Case in point: I'm standing in a checkout line at Target and it's gotten to be my turn. The cashier is scanning my few things and I feel something bump against my hip. I turn and the older lady behind me has her cart so close to my body, it finally came in contact with me. She is oblivious to this so I slide down a smidge and return my attention to the cashier. And it happens again. She moved her cart to fill the gap once again and a slight lean by me to reach the credit card swipe I was no longer in front of had me banging into her cart again. She does notice that and next thing I know, she has moved her cart (already empty of her items that have been placed on the belt) alongside of me so that she herself could encroach on my personal space. She sidled up until she was standing a half a foot away from me. I looked at her, stunned that she wasn't as uncomfortable being so close to me--a perfect stranger--as I was to be that close to her. In fact, I was stunned speechless, a rarity for me. Oh, I thought of lots of things to say. Like, "Are you hitting on me?" or "If you stand any closer, you can tell what I ate for lunch" or "I'm flattered but I prefer men" or "Shall we dance?"

In the end, I bit my tongue because my manners are ingrained enough that I know not to be rude to perfect strangers, even when they are out of line socially. I did, however, slide her my phone number and, with a wink, mouthed "Call me" as I walked away. Maybe she will.

Wearing Pants Instead of Pearls

My friend Lori gave me a great compliment one time: "In my next life," she told me, "I'm coming back as a dog in your house." I'm flattered, but it got me thinking: What if you did get to come back and live a different life? I know what I'd come back as, but it's not a dog. I'd come during the 1950s. Only, it wouldn't be as me. It'd be as a corporate-level, white man in the 1950s.

That's right. Gotta be male; gotta be white; gotta be in that decade. Why? I'd have it made.

After hearing rave reviews about a show on AMC called "Mad Men," I decided to try an episode as it was beginning its third season this year. I guess I've had my head in the sand because I hadn't even heard of it until this year but the show has already won an Emmy for Best Drama. Clearly, it's good, and clearly, it hasn't been hurting for fans, sans me.

So the hubby and I tuned in, thinking maybe we could just pick up who is who and what's happened already. Not so much. The show was looking pretty awesome...the characters, the dynamics, the raciness...but we were lost because obviously much has happened with the characters before now. So on the recommendation of a cousin, we went back to the beginning and have been watching the first season on DVD. Wow. I love this show. It's set in 1960 and surrounds the lives of men who work in the advertising industry on Madison Avenue. Hence the slang term "Mad Men," a term they coined for themselves.

And while the drama of it is spectacular, what I have realized is that living during that time as a white man would have been heaven. Living as a black man or--heaven forbid--a woman would've stunk.

Sure, men had to be the sole bread winners but I've never minded working so that's hardly a drawback. Speaking of work, downsides: a suit and tie daily and every flippin' body smoking constantly. Upsides: being an esteemed member of a clearly male dominated environment, a personal secretary to do all the grunt work, and daily booze consumption.

If Take Two of my life were during the '50s, my office would be like everyone else's: sporting a tumbler of preferred alcohol and a set of glasses. I'd look forward to meetings that boasted cocktails to better ease through them (who couldn't use that today, huh?). My secretary would handle the grunt office work, my personal errands and even hang up my coat and hat, even though I walk right by the coat rack myself. After a tough day of meetings and boozing at the office, maybe I'd go out with the guys and not bother calling home to say where I was, or I'd come on home to dinner on the table, prepared and set up by a cute wife in a dress, heels and pearls, who would then clean up the kitchen afterwards while I relaxed. She wouldn't question a thing I do or where I've been. Yes, what a life.

The worst thing to come back as? The wife in this scenario. Check this out: a page from an actual 1954 Home Economics school book detailing how to be a Good Wife.

HOW TO BE A GOOD WIFE
Home Economics High School Text Book, 1954

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal, on time. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal are part of the warm welcome needed.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so that you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the home just before your husband arrives, gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc. Then run a dust cloth over the tables. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift, too.

Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair, and if necessary change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer, dishwasher, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and be glad he is home.

Some don'ts: Don't greet him with problems or complaints. Don't complain if he is late for dinner. Count this as minor compared with what he might have gone through that day. Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest he lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soft, soothing and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax and unwind.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first.

Make the evening his. Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or to other places of entertainment. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure, his need to be home and relax.

The Goal: Try to make your home a place of peace and order where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.

Now, that's some good stuff there. I actually laugh out loud reading those.

Yeah, living life, round 2? 1950s here I come, as long as I'm wearing pants instead of pearls.

The (Smelly) Test of Love

I am a huge fan of animals: dogs, cats, squirrels, etc. Animals of the fur-wearing, snuggle-with-you, devote-their-undying-loyalty-to-you variety. In fact, I would challenge anyone who claimed to love animals--particularly dogs--more than me. But if there was any animal that might make me rethink my stance, it'd be the Beagle currently living like a king in my residence.

Last night was yet another Teddy adventure. Dog behavior issues are always so much more fun at 1:45 a.m., aren't they?

After a round of bladder infections (his, not mine) in which Teddy learned that barking in the middle of the night from his previously-beloved crate brought us steppin' and fetchin' to do his bidding (namely, let him out of the crate and into the yard, then a stop at the watering hole multiple times a night), my husband and I have determined that Pavlov was no fool. Though the physical need to go outside 4-5 times throughout the night is long gone, Teddy has been continuing to bark his displeasure at being in the crate for an entire six hours all throughout the night. After our vet (the best in the world, if you live in the ATL area, you must go to see him: Dr. Sam Adams of Creekside Animal Hospital) gave the all clear on any physical malady, we knew that the barking in the night and wanting to be let in and out, in and out, in and out was simply a behavior problem: one that needed correcting before we lost our minds along with all the sleep.

We moved his crate to the farthest possible point from our bedroom. Each evening, we make sure Teddy has been out one last time before he heads to the crate for the night. We close the door of the room he's in and head off to a peaceful, non-barking night of sleep. It was going pretty well for a week or so.

Then last night, with my hubby laid up with a bad back, I was zonked and ready to crawl into bed at 9:45 for some reading and then shut eye. Though 9:45 was a bit early for Teddy to hit the hay, I knew that many a morning, I've been up at 6:45 and Teddy hasn't exactly been dying to get outside so I know he can last longer than 6-7 hours in the crate. So in he went at 9:45.

Fast forward four whole hours and I'm awakened from a dead sleep by the incessant barking I've become all too familiar with. It's loud enough that I hear him through a closed door, up a level in the house, to the opposite quadrant of the abode from where he is... I stumbled downstairs and opened the door to a scene straight out of a horror flick. Apparently, when I put Teddy into his crate four hours earlier, either he went in with a shiv, bobby pin or toothpick strapped to his inner back leg like the criminal he is, or I didn't latch the crate door properly. I'm going with the shiv/leg/criminal theory. I should have expected as much. The bandanna around his head, the sneer and glower that said What the Hell?! and the way he flipped me a bird when being put up at such an early hour were indicators.

Alas, Teddy sprung himself from the pen and was running around barking up a storm at the aforementioned 1:45 a.m. Unfortunately, it must've been about 1:15 that he apparently decided nature's call was urgent and he made the room his own personal backyard, if you know what I'm saying. The good news is that the room has a wood floor. That made clean up much easier than if it'd been carpet. The bad news is that the room has a wood floor. Add to that the fact that Teddy doesn't have the sense God gave a Yorkie and he had proceeded to run around the room, oblivious to what he was tracking through and, thus, all over the room.

Truly, a nightmare. Fitting, since it was the middle of the night. A roll of paper towels, a thorough mopping, a heavy dose of Febreeze, a fair amount of swearing, and one appropriately positioned fan later, and the T was back ensconced in his crate--after he'd been patted down for various lock-picking paraphernalia, the hoodlum--and I was back in bed.

I love animals but sometimes the test of true love can be mighty smelly.

I'd Walk to You if I Had No Other Way

I haven't written in awhile. I've just been feeling very "blah" lately. Likely because of the loss of a child recently from within my circle of friends. Trying to return to normal (whatever that is) after such a loss ain't easy, and in trying to get out of the funk, writing just hasn't been the salve it usually is for me.

Or maybe I'm just a slacker. That could be it.

Regardless, here's the catch up: Chase officially began middle school. This is his second week in and for the first time ever, he's still coming home reporting that he likes it. Maybe it's the changing of the classrooms for each subject, the lockers, the added freedom and independence he's now given, the concept of "dressing out" for PE (altho I remember that as a nightmare, myself). But whatever it is, I'm glad. He's come home each day having completed most of his homework already (nice for me) and also reports that apparently homeroom these days is a time allotted for catching up on homework you didn't complete the previous night. Gee, I remember homeroom being for that same reason although it wasn't listed that way officially. It's just what happened--frantic scribbling on papers as you kept one eye on the clock, willing it to slow the hell down. All we had in homeroom was 10 minutes--enough to count you here or not here--and then you were dashing to the first period of the day. Now, Chase gets 30 minutes or so. Lord, I could've written an entire paper in 30 minutes; what a luxury!

Chase did say something pretty cool the other day, something that makes me realize that middle school or no, he's still little and still encompasses the sweetness that I'm afraid will disappear as the middle school years progress. We were in the car listening to my ipod and the song "Hey There, Delilah" came on. Chase loves this song and loves to hear songs he knows the words to because he belts them out, largely out of tune, but it's still cute. He came to the part that says: "1,000 miles seems pretty far but they've got planes and trains and cars, I'd walk to you if I had no other way." And Chase looked at me and said: "If I was 1,000 miles away, I'd walk that far to get to you, too."

What a heart melter. What's that, you say? You'd like a new bike, skates, Rita's Italian Ice? Lets go get it for you right now! He could've asked me for the world after that sweet comment and I'd have gone to the ends of the earth to get it for him. Even if I had to walk to get there.

The Meaning Behind the Markers

I love cemeteries. Always have. Sort of an odd thing to love, I know. But I guess it's the history of them, the silent tales told by names and dates etched in stone and flanked by flowers typically fake but still indicative of someone's love for the person below. Cemeteries are quiet places as well and in today's times, I welcome the solitude.

Most particularly, I enjoy strolling through very old cemeteries--those with markers that aren't simply rectangle boxes short in stature but rather, mini monuments to the deceased. Markers that are centuries old are usually tall structures, often ornate, and indicative of the person or surviving family's wealth or social standing. Sometimes there are fences marking off the section, with elaborate landscaping. There are all sorts of things I infer about the person from the style and detail of their marker and gravesite. And then there are the really, really old cemeteries like in Boston and Savannah, Ga. The ancient markers in those are again rectangle, usually, but they are huge slabs of concrete that spell out paragraph after paragraph about the people they each represent: a mini biography of the dearly departed. Savannah has some super cool ones that are so old, many of the stones so weathered, the etchings are barely discernible and you have to jump from word to word, filling in the blanks with what makes sense.

I enjoy reading all these markers, envisioning what the person must have been like in their time. I calculate how long he lived, how much longer he lived than his spouse (if that marker is beside his own), how many children they perhaps had (often obvious by looking at neighboring gravesites). How did he/she dress, what did they eat, what did the area around them look like then as opposed to now? Did they live and die during wartime, famine, an epidemic? Did they themselves perish due to an epidemic that no longer or rarely exists today such as Yellow Fever, Scarlett Fever, Spotted Fever, Polio, Small Pox, etc. What that must have been like when a town was infected with such a silent killer. I would bet folks hovered indoors, trying to stay away from whatever caused these deadly diseases, and what must it have been like to learn that someone in your family was showing symptoms. I'm fascinated that vaccinations were discovered after people realized someone who had experienced one of these illnesses and survived could then treat others without becoming sick again.

Walking among cemeteries, taking in the names of people long gone and speculating about their lives is a way of honoring their memories even though I didn't know them personally. But what gets to me most in cemeteries far and wide, recent or old, are those tiny plots with small markers noting the children who lived too few days or none at all. Sometimes you see them with matching birth and death dates. Some have full names, others might simply say "Baby" before their family name. It's more disheartening to calculate the time lived in these cases, realizing it's a matter of months, a year, maybe three. How devastating for the family members who endured the tragedy of losing a child before they'd even entered school. And I always think: I just can't imagine it. How did the parents cope, how did they move on with their own lives after watching a toddler die before he knew so much of what life has to offer. And then, like all the other markers, I move on past.

Now, however, I've seen firsthand what losing a child so young does to you. There is so much more that goes on behind the dates etched in stone. My close friend's niece battled leukemia for almost a year and finally succumbed to the tremendously aggressive disease last Sunday, just one week shy of her second birthday. Sobbing with grief so deep it shakes you to the core...watching her parents say their goodbyes and then figure out how to move on is tragic and heartbreaking beyond words.

And I realize that as much as I thought I understood, while pausing at the smallest of grave markers in cemeteries, how horrible it must have been for the family and friends to endure such a loss, I really didn't know the half of it. Now I do.

Running Toward the Weekend

It's Thursday and I can't decide if I should be running toward the weekend or away from it. Are you crazy, you're thinking? Towards it! Always run towards the weekend. Any fool knows that. Yeah, yeah. But here's the thing: after this weekend we start school again. And yes, I do mean we because the crud they throw at kids these days could not possibly be done by them without parental assistance. So if I feel like I'm facing projects, posters, protractors and all sorts of other unappealing P words that have to do with daily homework. I smell the fumes of Sharpies in my near future and I don't like it one bit. You'd think that having completed some 18 years of schooling myself would buy me a reprieve from book reports, but turns out, it doesn't.

Not only is it school cranking back up, Chase will begin 6th grade. Middle school and the drama and headaches that will entail. I could cry. It means he's growing up, no longer a child. And this is tough stuff for a mother with just one child. I'm sure it's tough for moms everywhere, but particularly hard when you get to experience all the cool parts of raising a child only once. Because once it's done, it's done. No second, third, fourth child coming up behind him to re-live the fun stuff only kids appreciate. Am sure I'll survive this like everything else. In the meantime, I'll try to focus on the things he'll be doing in the middle school years that are new that we haven't experienced yet.

Lord, let some of them be good.

For now, it's one last weekend blast of the summer before we're back to reality. Here's me and my mini-me from our trip to Florida for our family reunion:

The Nocturnal Beagle

Critters of the night: Owls, rats, opossums (um, gross), foxes, flying squirrels...beagles. Who knew? But it's true. Lately, our beagle Teddy is akin to a baby who has his days and nights mixed up and it's really encroaching on our beauty sleep.

We adopted Teddy (aka T-Bear, the T, T-Bones, or my personal favorite: Bones) when he was almost four years old. He'd been a laboratory dog, sadly. Although we choose to look at it like he was doing his duty for his country and his dog cohorts the world over because he was in the Auburn University laboratory as a test subject for a now popular and effective flea and tick treatment--the kind you put on the back of the neck and is absorbed into the skin. Once Teddy's patience understandably wore out for the repeated surgeries he endured to have his skin biopsied, they gave him an honorable discharge into the capable hands of a Beagle rescue who worked to re-socialize him and turn him back into the adorable, affable, lovable, spoiled guy who's lived with us for the past nearly five years.



Since we've had him, he's spent the overnight snoozing hours in his crate in his very own "bedroom" (my hubby's office). Why? Couple reasons: one, the dog snores like a freight train. I'm not even exaggerating. He could wake the dead, snoring so loudly that I swear the walls bow in with every intake of breath. And two, he is absurdly co-dependent on my light-sleeper husband and needs to be as close as humanly possible to him at all times. Like a second skin. So for John to get any sleep at all, we have to make it so the T cannot sleep with us. Thus, he is removed to his crate in another room completely.

Before you get all "I can't believe you cage that sweet pup up" on me, know that Teddy was raised in a crate and he loves it. It's "his space." When the crate was in our downstairs family room, he would go in there voluntarily for naps. He hides bones in there, toys in there, etc. It's not a negative place to him at all so this system worked well. For about...how many years did I say we've had him? About five? Then this system worked well for about four years and 11 months. It all took a turn for the worse when Teddy decided that he didn't want to sleep in his crate at night. Not for more than an hour or so, anyway. Instead, he wants to make frequent trips to the back yard throughout the night, a few stops at the watering hole, and oh yeah, while he's always preferred to sleep in our room with us, he's decided to become adamant about it. And there's no ignoring all this because he barks from the crate when he's ready for an out-of-crate excursion. And he barks as loudly as he snores.

At first, we determined he had a bladder infection, which explained the frequent back yard needs and slugging down more water than the winner of a peanut-eating contest. Once that was cleared up, we thought we'd ease right back to the routine. Not so much. I think the T has decided he likes that barking in the middle of the night fetches one of us to spring him from the crate. And he's enjoying his control much too much.

So last night was one of the worst nights--filled with four out-of-crate-experiences between midnight and 3 a.m. and more expletives uttered from my husband, at increasing volume with each bark, than I've heard since the last Ga Tech loss to UGA.

So we're dragging a$$ this fine Monday morning, needless to say. And trying to figure out how to remedy this little situation. Thank God the T can catch up on his beauty sleep today just behind my husband's office chair. Lord knows he's got to get good and rested for tonight's round-the-clock soiree.

Carny Thrills Now Available

I have exciting news. On my visit to the local grocery store last night, I saw a fantastic scene: guess what's popped in to my little neck of the woods? Hint: lights, rides, food on a stick, Velcro shoes. That's right. The carnival is a'comin' to town!

You know these little gypsy mini-fairs--they slink into town in the dead of night, and the following day, where there previously stood only a plot of dirt, some sparse grass and enough dust to put Arizona to shame, is now a world of garish lights, obnoxious carousel music and a passel of workers each sporting shoes with a slap-down-strap and one full set of teeth between them. None of this is meant to be derogatory, of course. I myself have Carny blood that stems back to when I hawked the games at Six Flags over Georgia as the first step in my illustrious career as a professional hawker--the written word having replaced the days of bellowing to overeager kids about the ease of winning these impossible-to-win games while their parents gave me the stink eye for doing so.

For all the cheap thrills and dusty paths created in this gaudy world, I actually love these little carnivals. I don't know if it's the food on a stick, the cotton candy (I'm a sucker for cotton candy), the atmosphere, or the 30 second thrill of taking your life in your hands as you perch atop a ride that could come tumbling down like a Jinga game any second that enchants me most. I do find myself scrutinizing the nuts and bolts that hold these rides together each time I'm in line, however. Is there some sort of Carnival safety department approving the abilities and knowledge of these Carny Ride Engineers who put these things together with just a flashlight and a Leatherman tool? I'm thinking probably so.

So we'll be trotting up to the exposition soon, I feel sure, with $107 for ride tickets, my sweet tooth, and the desire to place my life in the capable hands of my Carny brethren. Bring on the fun!

One Mean Wave

In the interest of maintaining myself as someone who will admit when I've made a mistake, I want to own up to one now so I'm not misleading anyone considering travel to the Orlando area, my current locale. (Interesting side note as I jot this from my hotel room: I'm subjected to listening to a future virtuoso practicing very wobbly scales on some type of brass instrument...over and over and over and over. What a perk!)

My previous entry was a big old rant about the outrageous cost to get into one of Disney's water parks. I discovered this price through the Disney website and found that it was $75/adult (of which 10 year olds and up were considered adults--that's still ridiculous). However, I have learned that I was incorrect. While this steep fare is accurate for the standard parks--Epcot, Magic Kingdom, etc--the cost for the water parks is actually $45/adult. I didn't realize the water parks had different pricing so I just wanted to say, in all fairness, that I misrepresented the water park cost. So while still not cheap, and still not any lower than it was when times were booming, it is $30 less than I'd have had you believe. If you're thinking of going to the non-water variety parks, still plan to shell out a portion of your life savings.

Anyway, we did go to Typhoon Lagoon yesterday and had a good time. It's a very neat water park and one of the most unique aspects of it is a gigantic wave pool that sends the most enormous wave throughout the pool every 5 minutes or so. I've seen many a wave pool but they consist of rolling waves that go on for a few minutes every 20 minutes or so. Not so here. This wave takes the cake. Starting from perfectly calm water, you hear a buzzer and then everyone in the pool screams their fool heads off. And from nowhere, you see a mass of water created that's about six feet high and comes marching through masses of people who are all screaming and losing their minds in general.

Folks body surf on this water monster and that part is pretty cool to watch except that they're body surfing into hordes of other people. Not so cool whether you're the surfer or the obstacle. Lots of chaos going on.

So in the interest of protecting life and limb, we chose not to venture out farther than about waist deep. (My cousin actually just tore her rotator cuff in said-wave-pool.) And what do you know...later in the afternoon, Chase was playing in the pool at the shallow end, body surfing in the wave that's left at about 2-3 feet deep and the thing still had so much power, it flipped him over and proceeded to drag him along the extremely rough bottom of the pool. Next thing I know, he's stumbling toward me, crying, his back covered in "road rash," bleeding in the worst spot. He also received a terrible scrape on his knee and his elbow. He looked like he'd tangled with a stretch of asphalt and most decidedly lost.

After some Anti-Sting Bactine and bandaids and a very pricey cup of ice cream, I snapped this picture, although it doesn't do the damage justice:

You can see I bribed a smile out of him with some ice cream. Ah well...what's a trip to an amusement park without also stopping into the First Aid stand? If you visit the Happiest Place on Earth and check out the monster wave, wear body armor.

Theme Park Delusions

If there was one thing I was sure of these days, it's that the economy is in the tank. You know it, I know it, you'd have to live under a rock not to know it. So you can imagine my surprise to learn there apparently is one entity with their heads in the sand about the financial struggles going on.

Let me preface: My family reunion is next weekend so me, my favorite husband and favorite son will be heading south to Orlando. Are we flying? Nope. Train? Don't make me laugh. We have to cruise south more efficiently than that. We're hitchhiking. Going old school--schlepping luggage down the highway in 100 degree heat with our thumbs stuck out. It'll be an adventure! Alright, maybe it's not that bad. We're driving. But trust me when I say our budget isn't thrilled with the idea of a vacation right now. But it's a family reunion and I cannot let my grandmother down by missing it. So the whole trip is going to be, lets say, "on the cheap."

And then we got to thinking, since we'll be in the capital of all mega vacation spots and it's the last summer fling for my 11 year old, maybe we'd surprise our son and do something we never do during the many times we've visited Orlando to see family: go to a theme park.

Since we don't frequent these places, I had no idea what it costs to get in. Our neighborhood theme park, Six Flags, is about $40 admission usually but there are so many "offers" out there for discounted tickets, if you pay more than about $10 to get in, you got ripped off. The park clearly realizes that folks' pocketbooks are pinched tight and if they hope to have any visitors, they better make it cost effective for the people who'd like some roller coaster thrills but only if they're reasonably priced. With this as my reference, I checked online to see what the cost is for one of Disney's water parks. And here's where the delusion comes in. A one day adult admission to one of Disney's water parks costs a whopping $75. That's an awful lot of smackers and mysteriously reminiscent of the cost to get in while we all lived in economic bliss.

And look, I'm a big fat fan of Capitalism. It's why America is great--companies can make pot loads of money if they offer a great service/product people are willing to pay for. But you would also think that a company whose success comes from its patrons, there might be some slack cut when said-patrons are struggling but still want a little love, fun and It's a Small World After All in their lives. Alas, no. And get this, if you're 10 or over, you're an adult and get to pay the adult price. That's right, Chase. Go register to vote, pay your own bills, start supporting your mom, you're an adult now! Seriously? $75 to get in is ridiculous and then to slap that kind of fee on a child's admission is even worse.

It was disappointing to learn The Happiest Place on Earth continues to charge an ultra-premium price, though most folks' finances are mere fractions of what they used to be. Let me give credit where credit is due, however. If you buy more than one day's admission, you do get a discount. We don't have the funds or desire to go more than a day but if we were looking for a two day Mouseketeer excursion, we could save big bucks: 50 cents a person per day. 50 cents. For us three, $1.50. Maybe that'd buy lunch at the park.

River Tubing: Brrrrrr!

I hit the river this past weekend. My girlfriend Tracy called to see if me, my husband and son would be interested in going to North Ga with her, her husband Tom and their two boys to tube the Chestatee River. In a moment of delirium, I said Yes.

See, it's not the tubing of the river that I don't like. It's the temperature of the water that I have a strong aversion to. My river experiences consist of three trips that all have one common denominator: ridiculously cold water. First was when I was a junior in high school and our church group took a trip to Tennessee to raft the Nantahala River, a feat you should definitely be impressed by. I know I am. We wore helmets and everything. We even had a made-for-movies moment where my friend Jenny nearly fell out of the raft. After all the warnings we received about what to do if you go overboard and how you have to lay on your back and make sure you're heading downriver feet first otherwise you risk hitting your head on a rock and dying...or at the very least receiving a nice gash for which no 80s hair style would cover, we were petrified of said-falling overboard. But sure enough, we hit a rough rapid and next thing we know, I'm watching Jenny beside me, her eyes as wide as saucers, getting thrown so far out of the side of the raft, her body weight was more out than in. I reached out and grabbed her flailing hand that was straining toward me like I was the last pair of lacy white bobby socks in the store during the Madonna socks-with-heels fad. I yanked her back in and we huffed and puffed until our heart rate returned to normal.

It wasn't 20 minutes later that the one man in our boat of 6 (lucky him stuck with 5 screaming teenage girls) actually did fall out of the boat. Luckily, he kept one hand on our raft and was able to climb back in on his own. Good thing since I'm not sure all of us combined weighed as much as he did.

When white water rafting, a lot of water gets into the boat so you're supposed to pull over in the more docile areas and empty your raft. We attempted this once. We pulled to the side and everyone began to climb out. I stepped knee deep into the water and my leg immediately began to burn from the frigid water, it was that cold. Redefined "cold," actually. With a few words you probably shouldn't use on a church trip spoken at a level thankfully drowned out by the rushing water, I scrambled back in the raft faster than Tony Stewart throws a punch. We decided that a little water in the boat never hurt anything and proceeded on down the river. I'm sure the trip itself was a fun one but the cold water just spoils it for me. I'm too thin-skinned. Literally.

That's my only white water rafting experience. There is a Class 5 on the Nantahala. Take one guess whether I went down it or not. I have, however, also tubed down the Itchetucknee River in north Florida. This is a very cool thing to do and if you have good balance, I learned you can perch atop the tube, not touching the freezing water at all for the entire 4 hour trip.

Another river experience: Cave tubing in Belize. We strolled through a rain forest until we reached a point in the river that we could hop in and float down partially uncovered and then partially through caves that hung pretty low in places. Which meant no perching on the tube; I was in the actual water. Lovely. We wore hard hats that held spotlights on the front like coal miners. There were bats hanging in the caves--nearly as scary as watching Jenny's brush with river death. And of course, the water was unpleasantly cold...the part I remember most.

So now you understand why my acceptance of a trip tubing down the Chestatee River in North Ga was out of character for me. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson. But it always sounds like a neat idea and though I have 20 more years on me now, I did think I could probably still pull off my Itchetucknee balancing act, if push came to shove.

So we headed off. And I'm happy to say that the water didn't compare to Belize or the Nantahala. It wasn't balmy by any stretch but my legs weren't minutes from hypothermia while in the water either. It was a fun day--we coasted the river about three times (you could hop out at a certain point and walk a nature path back up and repeat the excursion as often as you wanted). There were a few points you had to navigate the rocks but it make for a fun challenge. Somehow most of my trips down the river, I got caught up in just the right current that I spun around and around in circles like a teacup on the Mad Hatter ride at Disney. But really, what adds more fun to a day than the possibility of vomiting? At least the water wasn't too cold this time!

Beating Down the Flames: Wild West Style

It's a good news day today--it's Friday, I'm alive, employed, and Mother Nature is clearly in a good mood. And it all kicked off swimmingly last night, thanks to an uneventful...dare I say...successful grilling episode.

Just when the outside gas grill thought it had successfully taunted me enough to keep me at a distance (the bastard), I boldly walked up, ignited that baby and cooked six--that's right, cooked, not charred--six hamburgers for the family. There were a couple stressful moments where the flames burst out and rose high thanks to remnants of grease still clinging to the grate (mmm, healthy) but luckily the oxygen mask and handy-dandy fire extinguisher strapped to my belt like a Colt 45 gave me the confidence to boldly fight the flames down. With my water bottle. I'm a beast.

Really, it went well which was a feat for me and I'm feeling particularly proud. What's the big deal, you're thinking? Check out the last episode of Megan's Back Yard Catastrophes: Charred Life Lessons

Celebrating the Red, White & Blue...in English

You know what bugs me? Ok, lots of things but I recognize you don't have that much time to read my whining so lets just focus on what's bugging me today.

The past three day weekend was marvelous. We celebrated America's birthday and heritage with good friends, good food, and good times. But as Monday marches on, I'm faced with an irritant that's struck me as particularly...well...irritating just after cheering the Red, White and Blue all weekend. And this is it: I hate when I call up a customer service number (to any company--phone company, satellite, Internet provider, etc) and the first option is "For English, press 1."

Really? Since we are living in America, can't we just assume that English is the language spoken and then give an Option to press 1 for other language choices? Spanish, Hungarian, Russian, Pig Latin...

We all know America is the melting pot of the world, and lots of folks living here came from other lands and speak other languages. I am very proud to be an American and know that living here means that we welcome non-native citizens with open arms (except when they arrive via the sea with 20 of their closest friends clinging to a makeshift raft, or running under the cover of night across someone's pasture in Texas). But whether immigrants stepped ashore legally or they snuck in, newsflash: our native language is English. That should at least be the automatic default for...well...anyone or any company. You shouldn't have to request English be the language you receive service in.

The need to be politically correct these days is taken to ridiculous extremes. American companies (or Americans) should not need to worry about offending someone because we have the audacity (gasp!) to think they should be able to speak English. Welcome to America--enjoy what we have to offer but follow the rules and speak the language. If you don't like it, the makeshift raft goes both ways.

The Longest Night Ever

As a general rule, I do not watch scary movies. I have friends and family who love scary flicks but I cannot stand that "on the edge of your seat" feeling, followed by something that startles five years off your life. But somehow, I began watching the television show "Harper's Island" when it first aired last Spring. Maybe it was the incredible amount of advertising they did for the show beforehand. Huh...power of advertising. Go figure.

Anyway, when the show began, we were in Florida at my cousins' house and the entire clan ended up watching it, including my son. And what I discovered was that my 11 year old hates scary stuff as much as I do. But because his similarly aged cousins were there, unafraid and engrossed, he wasn't about to walk away.

As Spring and the end of the school year consumed our time, the episodes of Harper's Island stacked up on our Tivo. That was ok because the Summer re-run time would give us an opportunity to catch up at our convenience. And last weekend, we decided to tune in to a few of the episodes. I wasn't even going to tell Chase we were watching because I didn't think he really liked the show. But he strolled into the living room about 15 minutes into the first one we watched and sat down with us. "What's the big deal," I thought. "He's old enough to understand it's fake, and a TV show isn't bound to be as intense as a movie."

Turns out, they've done a pretty darn good job with this show and making it pretty realistic and very scary. We watched three episodes back to back (the hook they give you at the end of each really compels you to keep watching if you have the next show lined up). All the while, I was whispering to Chase: It's not real. I mean, look at that blood...fake! No one would walk in the woods alone if a madman was really on the loose. Get out of town! As if a girl that pretty would be with a dufus like that. All clearly pretend.

At 11:30, it was time to hit the hay. I stood up laughing about the fakeness of it all, looked at Chase and knew instantly from the ghost while pallor of his face that he wasn't as convinced. I'd be laying down with him at least until he was firmly in Dreamland. This is a rarity for us because I believed all my friends who told me 11 years prior that it was a colossal error to ever let your child sleep in your bed. They'd never leave. So I didn't go the sleep-with-me route. Once, when he was a year old and pretty sick, I took a chance and laid him down in my bed. Two hours, several elbows to the ribs, kicks to my knees and two full counterclockwise turns in the bed (by him, not me) later and I picked his fanny up and deposited him back in his crib. There was no way I could sleep side by side with the non-stop mover.

But he's older now and was clearly not buying my "The show's not real" proclamations. So we laid down side by side in the double bed, bottom portion of his bunk beds. And here's how the night went:

Me: Remember, the show's a fake, ok? None of that stuff happened, no one can get in our house, just close your eyes and go to sleep.
Chase: Are you sure? I think I see someone in the hallway.
Me: There's no one in the hallway. I'm right here. Close your eyes.

Fast forward one hour and Chase has most decidedly closed the gap between us and was on me like white on rice.

Chase: Mommy, are you sleeping?
Me: What? Oh, um, I was. Are you ok?
Chase: I think I hear something.
Me: You don't. I promise. Remember: fake. All fake. Now please go to sleep.

Fast forward 30 minutes. I'm pretty sure he's drifted off and I'm trying to fit myself comfortably in about 8" of space he's left me on the bed. I gently roll off the bed, check to be sure he's undisturbed and tip-toe to my room and my big Tempur-pedic mattress. Lay down and am out within 5 minutes.

Screaming. Someone is screaming bloody murder. I jump up and stumble back to Chase's room where he is sitting up and howling hysterically.

Me: I'm here. I'm here. It's ok. Lay back down. I told you, nobody is in the house but us. You're fine. I'll stay in here all night.

We lay back down and after awhile, eventually settle back in.

Chase: Mom?
Me: Yes?
Chase: I'm not sure I can sleep. I really don't like that show.
Me: I know it. You won't watch any more of it but still, please remember it's not real. That was fake blood, no such actual place, all a story. Please try and go to sleep.
Chase: I'm hot. Are you hot?
Me: You're bundled up with a shirt on, socks, under a blanket. Take off all that stuff, Parka-boy. No wonder you're hot.
Chase: I gotta leave the blanket on.

Apparently, the blanket was going to keep him safer from the boogey man than I could. I was too tired to be offended. Fast forward an hour.

Chase: Mom? Are you sleeping? I hear something in the hall.
Me: Chase, I told you. There's no one here. That show wasn't real. Those people are all actors and none of them are actually killed, ok? I can find you a magazine tomorrow that will show those people cavorting in Miami at a nightclub, half clothed or walking down Wilshire Blvd drinking a half-caf, soy milk latte or exiting the local gym because working out is what they do.
Chase: What's cavorting?
Me: Go to sleep.
Chase: I'll try.

Another hour.

Chase: What time is it?
Me: Three...forty...five.
Chase: This is the longest night ever.
Me: Yes (sigh). It most certainly is.

I think he might have actually fallen asleep at that point as I also did but not before the last thought went through my head: He'll never, ever (ever) watch Harper's Island again. Ever.