Hello and welcome! An introduction for you: I'm a mom, wife, friend, animal-lover, and lacrosse parent who also happens to write, edit and manage a publishing company for a living. So why not start a blog, I thought? And here ya go...

April 28, 2009

Adios Woolly Mammoths, Au Revoir Elementary School


Skipping from from 50 degree high temps to 85 degree high temps in a matter of days in the South can only mean one thing: the hot air spewing out of Washington D.C. has actually infected more than our economy--it's screwing with the weather too. It also means we're getting dangerously close to the end of the school year. I don't usually breathe these words aloud for fear some warped Father Time figure senses my excitement and turns back the clock to September again. But short of that happening, my 11 year old should be footloose and fancy-homework-free in exactly 18 days...not that I'm counting. And this start of summer is bigger than the others we've rejoiced in. Not only is he out of school, but he'll actually be out of elementary school for good.

That's right, friends. That peanut that surprised me by arriving a little over 11 years ago is now grown up enough to face the most difficult and daunting task of his short life so far: middle school. (Cue the ominous music.) Nothing like days of acne, wondering if you'll always be the shortest kid in class and getting snubbed by girls with serious hormone issues to celebrate the passage from child to teenager. You remember the fun.

But before we hit the Mother of All Childhood Roller Coasters, there's 2.5 months of sleeping in past 6:30 a.m., no math homework cutting into nighttime TV viewing, and no projects involving balls of twine, a hot glue gun, Cheerios, feathers and 3 lbs of sand to do. And I'm sure Chase has his reasons for enjoying the summertime as well. In just a few short weeks, he'll begin his days off from school, and I predict it'll be about 2.3 days in before he's walking into my office complaining of boredom. But hey, better to be bored without a project on the Woolly Mammoth looming than the alternative. And there's always plenty of yard work I can offer him if he's desperate enough. I'm betting the boredom dissipates fast when he hears that option.

For now, we'll be planning an end-of-elementary-school bash (EESB) to include a plethora of 11 year old activities that aren't yet considered humiliating...like dancing in front of your friends. (gasp!) Mix some boogieing with some games, fruit punch, and the obvious absence of pre-historic animals and let the party begin!

April 24, 2009

Ultimate (Hedge) Fighting Challenge


In case anyone was thinking about calling me today to ask my opinion about yard work, I'll save you the time and the cell phone minutes: I officially hate it. Now you know.


It's a slow week in the magazine business--actually, it's a slow year in the magazine business but that's an entirely different discussion--so I decided to use a beautiful Friday in Atlanta (no rain, it's a miracle!) to take time off and get some much needed yard work done. My delusional self actually thought it'd be great to get outside in the not-yet-too-hot-sun and exercise some muscle, work on my tan and breathe in some fresh air while I trimmed down the most unruly row of hedges you ever set eyes on.

My house sits in a cul-de-sac so our backyard is a little funky shaped. It starts wide at my house and goes back to a smaller back fence. So I have this one side of fence that goes diagonally all the way down my yard. And some genius (not me) decided to make that diagonal fence less unsightly by planting a row of small-at-the-time shrubs. Fast forward 14 years: that small row of shrubs has blended together and grown up so massively into a solid row of hedges, it's as daunting as the Great Wall of China and in line to be the next Wonder of the World. It actually looks pretty attractive when manicured but like a monstrosity straight out of a horror flick when it's not. It was desperately overdue for a manicure. And the issue here is that it takes several months to reach this state and that's just enough time to dull my memory of the nightmare it is to trim them down.

I got outside first thing this morning and began my purposeful stroll toward the far end of the hedge row. I think I heard the theme song from Rocky playing faintly in the background, but that might've just been in my head. I was equipped with my chosen weapon in hand: an electric, extendable trimmer that weighs an unGodly amount of poundage for an item whose center of gravity is going to be 3 horizontal feet directly out in front of me. But rather than shrink back in fear like any self-respecting perennial should, it practically shot up higher and denser before my eyes. The beast. Like the competitor I am, I didn't back down from this--my own personal ultimate (hedge) fighting challenge.

It took six hours of butchering, cussing and cutting that culminated in my bellowing "WHYYYYY does this have to be so harrrrrrd?!" at the top of my lungs, drawing a few covert looks from neighbors, but alas I had gotten all 100+ feet of that hedge row down to an even 5 feet tall. My arms and stomach looked like I'd lost a fight with an angry cat and I couldn't lift my spaghetti arms enough to even turn the back doorknob but ultimately I'd triumphed over the Hedge That Couldn't Be Tamed.

April 21, 2009

Circle of (a Dog's) Life


As I stood at the door to my backyard at 6:00 a.m. this morning waiting for my 13 year old Sheltie to do her business and head back inside, it occured to me that--much like what happens with humans--dogs have a circle of life that is ironic in that the end of their life is much like the beginning. Bailey was a gift to me; she was a mere 6 weeks old when I got her. I had no children so this was my "baby." As much as I love animals, this was the first time I was personally responsible for a new puppy. I'm a big believer in crate training so that's what I did with her. She had "her" space that contained a comfy pillow and toys. It's where she could go to get away, it was a happy place for her. And it's where she slept throughout the night.

Except a 6 week old puppy doesn't exactly sleep throughout the night. Like an infant, her belly could only hold so much food which meant once it was depleted, hunger made her sick of that crate and fast. And her bladder could only hold so much, so at about 6:00 each morning, the whining began. Up I got, out she went, in the bowl went some food and I attempted to put her back in that crate so I could hit the hay again. This girl doesn't see 6:00 a.m. if there's anyway out of it. But as you might guess if you're also a dog owner who's gone the puppy route, she wasn't having any part of that crate after being in it all night. She'd whine so that there was no going back to sleep for me. She wanted out; crank up the kazoo's and whistles! It was playtime.

I hated it. Loved her but hated the 6:00 Saturday morning wake-up call. I determined right then and there that if there weren't already 1000 good reasons to adopt an older dog, now I had 1001. I'd never stroll the puppy route again.

In no time, she outgrew the 6:00 mornings. Her belly and bladder could last longer and her anxiousness to get out and play at the first peek of the sun waned. Time crept by and now, here we are, 13 years later and back to 6:00 wake-ups because her now-old-girl bladder can't hold it any longer. Bless her heart. She can't hear well anymore so she doesn't whine (strange but because she can't hear herself, I guess she doesn't think she's making any sound so she doesn't bother) but she plods around my bedroom, unsettled, and I hear her every time. Down the steps we go, out the door and back again in 5 minutes time.

Like humans who can regress to childhood as we age, it's interesting that dogs apparently do the same. One major difference now though: after getting up at 6:00, my old girl is as eager to go back to bed as I am!

April 14, 2009

FORE! Pasture Pool Anyone?


My love of writing stems from my love of reading. This isn't an earth-shattering revelation--it's probably true for all writers. But for me, when I originally loved reading, I had zero interest in writing. But life takes you down unique roads sometimes, and here I am today earning my living as a writer for two of the best magazines in trucking. While writing is a big part of my life now, so is reading. And one of my favorite things to read, strangely, is a column in Golf Magazine. Why is this strange? I don't golf.

My husband golfs, however, so Golf Magazine adorns our mailbox (and then our bathroom) monthly. And the final page in Golf Magazine is a column written by a clever Scotsman named David Feherty. I don't only love him because we share a heritage (on my dad's side, who is himself a fan of boldly claiming how cheap he is and then chortling about how it's his Scottish heritage; someone--not me--should point out that "cheap" is not flattering). Anyway. Feherty is clever with words in a way I aspire. And thanks to my hubby's hobby, I know enough of the game to get most of Feherty's barbs, jabs and analogies. Oh, and he also owns multiple dogs including a beagle. Give the man another check in the Pro column.

You might think with my enjoyment of golf on tv--as long as Tiger's playing--and perusing Golf Magazine and considering my husband's own love of the game, along with my grandparents, boss, colleagues and damn near every male friend I have, I'd want to grab some clubs and hit the links myself. Apparently my husband thought the same thing because he bought me a set of clubs a couple Christmas's ago, a set I have played exactly...never. Unless you count swinging a club at my flat tire when I went to leave my house one day. For the record, hitting your flat tire with a nine iron does not help. Maybe I should've went with the driver.

But I have a few legit reasons for keeping golf a game I watch rather than play. For starters, my husband and I are together a lot already. We live together, work together, vacation together, hang out together, hit the town with all our same friends together. Believe me, adding golf to the mix might throw us over the edge. Well, one of us might throw the other off an edge somewhere anyway. I'm doing him a favor by reserving those clubs for um, car repair. And two, don't tell my friends, but I can be a little competitive. And frankly, I don't need the added frustration that I see many others experience with the game. Yeah, yeah, it's about enjoying yourself, relaxing. But how many golfers are happy with the way they play? It never seems to be good enough. And then there's all those hindrances on the courses designed to thwart your perfect shot. Water, sand, trees, cart paths, other players. Without a doubt, I'd hit them all more than I'd hit the green. Anything green. And don't get me started on the cost. Like I need an expensive hobby? Pass.

But play the game or not, it's hard to resist the humor of David Feherty. If you don't play either, don't spend your hard-earned money on a Golf Magazine. Just grab one at a store and loiter in the aisles as you sneak a read of the last page. Yikes! Did I just say that? My Scottish heritage is coming out. Dad would be so proud.

Returning to the Zoo


One of the greatest things about vacation is returning home to the comfort of your surroundings: your own bed, your own bathroom, your comfy couch, a pantry of food that doesn’t require a waiter or a tip. For me, returning home means coming home to my menagerie. There is nothing like the love and loyalty of a pet. And I have that in spades. They’re my extra kids—needing attention, occasionally misbehaving but usually staying in line, having to be fed and cared for but giving back to me 1000x the joy. Currently residing in the Hicks Zoo are the following:

Bailey—my 13 year old Sheltie, who can’t hear very well anymore but clearly remembers the sound of the vacuum and still hates it with a passion when the dreaded beast makes an appearance.

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Teddy—technically my husband’s Beagle who shows such a clear devotion to him that it’ll bring a tear to your eye. I’ll make do in a pinch, if John’s not around to shower attention on him. I feel so honored.

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Max—my humongous Maine Coon cat who eats small children as snacks and who, I’m pretty sure, thinks HE runs the house.

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Raven—my ditsy black cat whose main job is to look pretty, defy Max, and choose the least opportune times to want to get cozy (3 a.m. is not when you want purring in your ear and 15 extra pounds sleeping on your chest).

Raven

Then I have my two outside squirrels that I raised and then released, Suzie and Rocky, aka the Q and the Rock Star. They visit each morning and each evening at dusk. If there aren’t nuts in the bowl outside, they will come and tap on the back door like the trick-or-treaters they are. “Pssst. Hey in there. The buffet’s empty out here. Hook us up.” I imagine their voices with an Italian mob accent. They’re oblivious to the indoor cats who are outraged at the audacity of squirrels marching boldly to the back door like there’s no danger there for them at all. But seriously, who messes with a mob squirrel?

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And last, I currently have three squirrel babies I’m raising and who call my master bathroom their own personal play area. I work with licensed rehabbers in my area, learning from them and helping when they get overloaded. These critters are 7-8 weeks old and just learning to play and explore. These shots are from when they first arrived:

One Baby
ThreeBabies

Coming home from Spring Break, it was great to walk back into the zoo. The love in their eyes was apparent as they gazed up as if to say: Did you bring us a surprise?

April 7, 2009

The Nightmare of Packing


Hey, I know trucking's a tough job but of all the hard parts about it, the part I don't think I could handle would be the constant packing for each trip back out on the road. Home two weeks, gotta wash, dry clothes and then re-pack again in probably about 48 hours time? I don't think my heart could take it. Packing myself to go away from my own home for a few days is enough to throw me into heart palpitations. Which is not good considering I've already racked up a crap shoulder (sprained rotator cuff) and a bum foot (torn joint capsule or something). If I had to add my heart to the mix, you might as well just put me down. Stuff's just gonna start falling off of me pretty soon. Damn shame too; I'm not even 40 years old. Should've gotten the extended warranty.

So we decided to take a very, very, very (did I say very?) last minute spring break trip to Florida this week. This is extremely unusual for me because of the magazine deadline that always falls right around spring break. And as much as I petitioned the Fulton County School Board to change spring break week to something other than the busiest week of the magazine month for me, they staunchly refuse. And, yes, in case any of them are reading this, maybe the world does revolve around me.

This year, instead of singing the same "Sorry, we can't travel" tune to my son who lists for us every single friend of his who does get to do cool spring break stuff, we're going to bite the bullet and head to Florida for some luxurious vacation time mooching off relatives. But before we hit the highway, I have to endure the stress and hated task of packing. At least the task of packing my son has now been passed to him. He's old enough that I just make him a detailed list and send him off on his pre-pubescent way to pick his own stuff.

On his list included items for entertainment in the car such as movies for the DVD player, his cell phone and his Ipod. His iPod was last seen in the company of his best friend Mary Kate who was playing with it as we schlepped Chase to the dentist this morning, because what spring break is complete without some metal objects scraping your teeth and a set of bargain basement priced (snort--hardly!) xrays? Tonight, Chase comes across "iPod and headphones" on his list and proceeds to race around the house looking for it.

Can't find it, can't find it. Looking upstairs, downstairs. I finally said: "Maybe it's still in my car."
He said: "No, it can't be."
I said: "Why can't it be? MK was playing with it in my car today."
He insists vehemently: "No, someone took it out of there."
I said: "Someone?"
He said: "I think it might've been me."

I don't know why but I think that is so funny. "I think it might be me." He looked genuinely confused about it too. So he looks some more, looks some more and finally bites the bullet and goes outside to look in my car. In he comes again and announces: You were right.


Mmmm, thought so.

Well, I've procrastinated long enough. From my computer in my office, I can hear the suitcase from all the way upstairs, sounding like Vincent Price in the Thriller video, laughing at me like the horror that it is.

April 5, 2009

Bum Shoulder Saga


Interesting event going on for me. Yesterday, after a few days of excruciating pain in my left shoulder radiating down to my elbow, I went to a doctor. I figured I’d hear: "You under some stress? Because you have knots the size of grapefruits in your trapezoids and this is the source of your muscle pain in your arm. Work it out, stress less and you’re good as new." Easier said than done these days but I could handle it.


What I heard was “you have a sprained rotator cuff.” Clearly my years as a major league baseball pitcher have finally caught up to me. Damn that spring training.

What's that saying about bad things happening in threes? That can't be it because I passed three a few miles back with nary an exit from the Crappy Happenings Highway in sight. Maybe it's bad things happen in eights. Or fourteens. I'll let you know when I get to end of my run. For now, I'll just laugh thru the therapy.

April 2, 2009

No Risk, No Glory


Like mother, like son? We look alike, we share the same sense of humor and enjoy doing the same things. But my 11 year old dynamo is an athletic wonder the likes of which this girl surely never was. Now, we do have one more thing in common—he’s lightning fast and I was also a fast runner at his age. I remember that most glorious of all days in elementary school, Field Day. It was the relay races—my son’s favorite activity because he smokes everybody, the show-off. But at my own baton race, my three teammates wanted me to run last since you put your fastest runner last, right? I refused. There was no way I was running last because if we lost, it’d be viewed as my fault. Doesn’t matter that there are four runners on the team—if your fanny doesn’t bust through that finish line ribbon, you cost the team. I ran third instead. We won, and sure enough, the winner of the last leg got the lion's share of the spotlight. It was then that I realized that without risk, there’s no glory.


Fast or not, I didn’t play any sort of sports. In that regard, my son is the absolute opposite of me. If there’s a ball involved, count him in. Soccer, baseball, football, lacrosse…he loves it all. And he’s played it all. Well. Clearly, the hand-eye coordination gene mysteriously lacking in me managed to find its way to him.

Lacrosse is on his current agenda; it's a very aggressive, very physical sport. Chase dons pads, helmet, gloves and stamina, grabs his stick and hits the field for 60 minutes of body checking, stick checking, nonstop running, lots of hitting the ground, blood, sweat, tears and in the end, hopefully, glory.

The teams are comprised of fifth grade boys and last weekend we played the best team in the league. They have a distinct advantage of having played as a team for at least three seasons as well as being considerably bigger than our boys. I think I saw five o’clock shadows on some. It was cold, windy, and wet. We knew it'd be a tough game.


The coach put Chase in as a defender, a position he’s never played in lacrosse before. Because of his speed, he usually plays as a midfielder and is a blur running up and down the field, stealing the ball and trying to rack up goals. But I knew the coach was expecting the ball and the action to be at our end of the field a whole lot more than it wasn’t.

He was right. For 55 minutes, Chase was a defensive dervish. All 70 pounds of him was in their business every time they were on our end of the field. He stole the ball, he outran them, faked them out, attacked them. He launched himself at them and though he usually bounced off the other players who boasted such charming nicknames as Tank and Thunder, he was messing them up. They might not have hit the ground, but he threw them off balance, blocked their shots, tripped them, shoved them out of bounds. It was a tremendously hard fought game.

With only five minutes to go in a game he'd played the entire time, he stole the ball away began his trek toward midfield, picking through the muddy players as smoothly as if he were tip-toe’ing through tulips.

And then there he was: Tank.

Running full speed toward Chase, he was twice the weight and twice as angry. As Chase slowed up to consider a path around this charging bull, another of the opposing team gained on him from behind. The ensuing collision among the three is burned in my mind, a mass of tangled legs, arms, helmets, and sticks. As usual after hard hits in lacrosse, the players jumped up and scrambled after the ball that had plopped hopelessly from Chase’s net. But one player did not get up. Guess who? I’tweren’t the Tank.

I perched on the end of my chair, breath held, a voice in my head screaming: “Don’t do it. Don’t go out there. Don’t make him look like a big old baby whose mom charged the field.” Out trotted the coach who inspected the site of the injury: his ankle. After a few moments, both of them stood up and my muddy, sweaty, spectacular player walked off the field, gingerly, to a round of applause. That’s when my heart started beating again.

Turns out, Tank’s stick had delivered a nasty gash to the inside of Chase’s ankle, topped off by a bruise that only someone who weighs…oh, about what I do…could leave. The ankle smarted but I knew he’d loved that game. And afterwards, the icing on the cake: the coach highlighted two players: one, our goalie, who thwarted that team’s usual double digit scoring and held them to a mere four goals; and two, Chase, who he said played the best lacrosse game he’d ever seen any player play, ever, at this level.

I looked at Chase's face and knew that he knew what I hadn’t at that age. To get the glory, you take the risk. And man is it ever sweet.