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...

December 27, 2010

Bested by the Brine


For the holidays this year, we were unceremoniously nominated to host the Thanksgiving feast. Last year, we fried a turkey and managed to get through it without burning ourselves or the house down. (The stories you hear about turkey-frying catastrophes are mind-boggling.) This year, I wanted to go with traditional baking of the bird, stuffed with bread crumb goodness. But I feared what all turkey-bakers fear most: the dry turkey. Nothing like chalky consistency to ruin a holiday meal.

So I read up and decided that we would brine our turkey this year--insurance against a moisture-deficient bird. I found a great brine to use--the requisite water and kosher salt but also a few added ingredients designed to rev up the ultimate taste: garlic, Worcestershire, black pepper, onion, etc.

The recommendation was to let the bird sit in the brine for 24 hours or so before baking. And of course, you had to keep the raw meat cold. So, how to do that with an 18 pound previously feathered beast? With all the other food items I had prepared, I didn't have the sort of vacancy needed to accommodate the bird in my frig. But I read that folks had success using a clean cooler. Bird and brine in; then set it outside overnight in what is typically cool enough weather at the holidays. But in the south, you aren't guaranteed that level of cold so I decided to modify the storage by using a turkey-sized plastic oven bag. I'd place the turkey and brine in the bag, close it up, place all in the cooler, and then put ice around the outside of bag in the cooler to ensure it's kept at an appropriate temp. Even better, you could simply slit the bag in the morning to drain out the brine.

I told John I was mixing this all up and getting the bird going while he ran up for a couple bags of ice. "Just put the turkey and brine in the bag," he said. "Don't put it in the cooler yet because I'll put ice underneath it first." Made sense. However, attempting to hold the large, thin plastic bag with an 18 lb turkey in it and then trying to pour gallons of water in with it didn't work at all. I needed a couple more hands to have pulled that off. So I stuck bird and bag in the cooler anyway and then poured in the brine with the aid of the cooler walls keeping things upright and intact.

I explained all that to John when he returned and said that ice around all sides would work just as well. "When it comes time to lift this out in the morning, we'll definitely need all four of our hands to pull it off," I told him. "Between the bird and that amount of water, it's really heavy and unweildy." No problem since we both were getting up at the a$$crack of dawn to put the bird in the oven.

That's the part I hate most about cooking for Thanksgiving--in the south, the favored time for eating is noon or 1:00 for some reason. And when you have a 5 hour cooking time, that means getting up at 6 a.m. just to prep and get the thing started. I don't even like turkey THAT much...and I'm just not a morning person. But we said we would, so the alarm clock was set.

Bright and early the next morning, we stumbled out of bed to get the turkey baking. John brought the cooler with said turkey inside while I began mixing up the stuffing at the stove. All of a sudden, a loud commotion, a thud, and a cold spray of something wet all along my back and down my legs startled me. This was followed by a sting of expletives that would have impressed George Carlin, Eddie Murphy and Richard Pryor, all. I spun around to find the naked turkey in the sink, the cooler on the counter, a busted plastic bag dripping in my husband's hand and gallons of brine with bits of garlic all down John's front and all over the kitchen floor. His face was the only part of him not saturated with garlicy, worchestershirey goodness. As he stood there red-faced and with smoke pouring from his ears, I could see him trying to maintain control, the thoughts whirring--what to punch, what to stomp, what other colorful words might spew out?

And all I could do was laugh. You couldn't have scripted it all better in a sitcom. "I told you we'd need both of us to lift that thing out," I sputtered through tears. "That light plastic bag couldn't hold the weight."

As normal color seeped back into his face, John couldn't help but crack a smile then at the hilarity of it all. "I thought you just meant that you couldn't pick it up yourself--I wasn't thinking about the bag being the problem."

At 6 a.m. the kitchen now reeked, the floor was a sticky, puddled mess, and we were both soaked but at least the turkey had landed in the (clean) sink and not the floor--the up side of it all. Although, I thought, if it had, none of our guests would have been thus informed.

In the end, everything cleaned up spotlessly (including us), the turkey turned out wonderfully and we'll have a story to tell at future holiday celebrations of the year we were bested by the brine.

November 11, 2010

39 plus one


Well, I wrestled, kicked, screamed, gave it the old atomic-elbow, pulled some hair, gnashed some teeth...but 40 came along anyway, all smug and cocky. 40--a major milestone birthday. The first age at which you begin to wonder: am I now old?

40 is a big number, a notorious number, a well-known number with lots of cool connections to its credit. There's the Top 40 countdown, WD-40, the 40-year old Virgin, 40 days and 40 nights, 40 winks, 40-hour work week (wait, that's not cool), Rolling Stones: 40 licks, Reagan was the 40th president...

Lot to live up to. No pressure.

But I must say, it turned out to be one of the best birthdays of my life. I had a surprise dinner with tons of friends at a great restaurant (planned by my thoughtful hubby), a weekend getaway to the mountains with my favorite men, and the diamond stud earrings I've coveted for about a decade. Yep, since I still feel 39 and yet got to experience such great festivities and gifts, I believe I'll turn 40 every year.

October 18, 2010

A Tragic Loss, A Lesson to Learn


While you hope that most weekends are full of goings-on that you want to remember and cherish, this past weekend was a memorable one for me but in a very sad way. Mid-day Friday I received an email from one of my son's lacrosse coaches, delivering news that you hope you never receive. A lacrosse player who came up through our Junior program and now in 9th grade took his life the night before. It was a boy who'd been well known and well loved. There are no words to sum up the shock of the news.

As I digested what had happened, I remembered a college professor who was once disecting a poem about death, and he astounded us all by proclaiming death was not the worst thing that could happen in life. In fact, there was something far worse than death. What could that be, he asked us? The room was silent. Far worse than death, he revealed, was dealing with the death of a child. In comparison, it would actually be far easier to simply succomb to death yourself than to have to continue your life without a child that you created and loved more than life itself but could not save.

He was right; I've never forgotten it.

Will was a boy I only knew of through his younger brother--a friend, a classmate and an occasional teammate of Chase's. I know his parents since Chase's friend has spent time at our house and Chase at theirs. I know them also from games, seeing them on the sidelines and in the stands because they are extremely active and involved parents with each of their four children--Will having been the oldest. While I certainly don't have a close relationship with the parents, what I know of them from being around them and with them in various locations with our kids and kids' friends, what I know of them from mutual adult friends, they were a great family--good, athletic, outgoing kids; involved, hard-working, supportive parents. They attended a local church in town. Chase's friend is extremely well liked by his peers and from what I now know, his older brother Will was easily as well-liked. He was an athlete who had played multiple sports throughout his life, and he was a musician who played in the school band as well as his own personal band comprised of friends. His types of friends varied--his reach stetched beyond only one group of kids. And he had a way with them all--being a naturally quiet and reserved boy who was genuinely friendly with everyone, understanding and helpful when needed.

While it is always stunning to learn that a person was so tormented and unhappy that they chose to end their life, it is even more so when it's a child who hasn't even begun to live their life yet. And then even more so to know it was a child who--on the surface--appeared well-rounded, healthy, and happy, full of friends, activities and promise. Cleary, there were deeper issues going on but it is beyond heartbreaking trying to figure out why he didn't feel like he could turn to someone for help.

It's been tough for everyone to comprehend Will's actions, especially the younger kids--his own siblings, his fellow high school students, Chase's group of middle school friends who all know the younger brother and therefore knew or at least knew OF Will. And I cannot fathom what his mother and father are coping with. As a mother, I am devastated for them--for their loss, for their attempt to now understand a son who had more going on than they realized...amazing, considering how involved and interactive they were with him.

Saturday night, a candlelight memorial service was held for Will at the high school stadium; hundreds and hundreds of people whom he touched in some way showed up to pay tribute to the friend and loved one now gone. Today is Will's funeral, and there continues to be a sadness and a heaviness in the community for a lost boy and a good family. His parents have three additional children to care for and they displayed their strength of character again by showing up to support the younger boys' sports activities over the weekend. And I'm in awe. All I can think is that, in their shoes, I'd have withered and died myself. I literally don't know how you carry on after the loss of a child. But they are already showing that they will carry on for their other children. They're already talking to their kids and their kids' friends about coping with difficulties--that everyone deals with issues and there is a right way to get through them: by being unafraid to reach out for help.

No matter how sure you are that your own child knows you're there for him/her, that there's no need to ever struggle alone, that they can talk to you anytime about anything, tell them again. Make sure they know you love them no matter what, that you know what being a kid is like and that life growing up isn't always easy but it's always worth it.

October 3, 2010

The Carnage Conga Line



We had a Halloween break-through this year. I've established that I hate haunted houses and scary movies and anything remotely in that genre of "entertainment" (Haunted House Hell, October 2009) And my 12 year old hates that type of scary stuff as much as I do (The Longest Night Ever, July 2009). Once again this Halloween season, these nightmare-inducing locations have popped up around Atlanta and there's some doozies: 13 stories (a mental institution that gets more intense the higher you climb--the challenge being to make it all the way to the 13th story--I hear few do), Chambers of Horror, and an infamous haunt called Netherworld, which is about 20 minutes from my home. Netherworld has been dubbed the "#1 Haunted House in the country" by USA Today so this place is not for the faint of heart. I have friends whose children have attended and made comments about it being "very intense," and "the scariest thing I've ever seen." My own brother in law reportedly "screamed like a little girl" through the entire thing (I did love THAT visual; LOL).



And once again, all my son's cohorts planned an excursion to Netherworld, and just like last year, Chase was sure he wanted to go and begged to do so. I spent days telling him he would hate it, reminding him of the crappy TV show last summer that kept him up all night, the fact that he won't watch scary movies. And even worse, experiencing haunted houses isn't like watching a flat screen you can turn off. These freaks are chasing you and seeming incredibly, incredibly real, I tried to make him understand. I recanted tales of kids he knew that I'd heard attended last year and ended up dissolved in tears. I shared my own horrid tales of ghastly behavior when I attended a haunted house once and only once and how I was haunted by it for years...not by the atrocities within the house but by the atrociousness of my own actions, having transformed into a sniveling mess, glued to the back of a guy I'd barely known and who certainly never called me again afterwards.



Chase was unaffected. The thoughts of headless men carrying their own skulls, the blood, the gore, the embarrassing behavior of a mother from 20 years past...none of it phased him. Evvvvvvverybody was going so surely he would be fine and couldn't he go too? After discussing with John, we decided that this falls into the category of him needing to learn for himself. No amount of me saying he'd hate it was going to convince him. So I figured if I was going to cave on this, then I'd stay nearby with phone in hand and if he hated it, I'd could easily go and get him.


So off we went last Friday night: him, 5 friends, a couple other moms, and me. The plan was to drop them off to meet up with a thousand other friends who were all going, and we parents would head to a nearby restaurant for a bite while they strolled through the halls of blackness and incredibly impressive costumed characters. I watched my phone like a hawk but in the 90 minutes Chase was there, I never got a peep. No call, no text, no flicker of terror from an impressionable pre-teen.

Huh. Amazing.

After eating and with still no word from the kids, we headed back to watch some of the activity at the house since I'd heard a lot of the characters walked around the parking lot. We ended up having a blast, watching kids and adults alike exit the house--some walking, some running, but all thinking they'd made it to safety, only to be chased by one last character: a mental institution-type with a "chainsaw." What a hoot watching that as well as all the other very realistic creatures that were strolling around the outside and along the line of waiting horror-seekers. It was like standing in some other world where the ghoulish and horrifying simply strolled around normal folks--making me think the name "Netherworld" is wildly appropriate.



Chase and all his pals were bundles of energy afterwards, recounting how they managed their way through the moving rooms, horrific creatures and suspiciously dark corners that were never as empty as they seemed. They jabbered and laughed about who cried like girls, who was the most scared, what the inside of the haunted house was like. I asked if they all walked through with linked arms like I saw a few others do and Chase told me about eight of them went through in a group and they were all holding on to each other's shirt backs. "Like a conga line, mom," he said.

Ah yes, carnage and conga lines. A natural combination. But they all reported having a great time. I heard reports that Chase was muttering "I don't know about this...I don't know if I can do this" but alas, he and everyone else in the group made it--and no tears from anyone. Not even me. He even slept through the night all by himself. So does he want to try another one now? "Um, no thanks."

Yeah. I figured not.

September 7, 2010

Tipping the Scales


In a country that has a mad obsession with weight (specifically, the need to lose it), it's interesting that in my house, we have the opposite scenario going on. Rather than trying to lose weight, I have a 12 year old desperately hoping to gain it.

My Chase has always been on the smaller side--except when he was born at a healthy 8 lbs 12 oz--so as his friends have shot up in height and weight in the past year, my guy has yet to crest 5 feet and every 10 lbs mark he surpasses is cause for celebration. When you're a lacrosse player, having everyone else bigger and taller does you no favors. Ah puberty--where are you? The moodiness has arrived; shouldn't the growth spurt come along with it? Get a little good with the bad? I'm feeling gypped at the moment.

The other night, Chase went upstairs to take his nightly shower and after the water shut off, I heard him calling for me: Mom! I need you to come here please!

So up I went, knowing this had nothing to do with needing help shampooing his hair or drying off since he's been handling this solo for quite a while. I walked into the bathroom and my still unabashed son was standing at the mirror in all his birthday suit glory, styling the hair. "I have to show you something," he gushed.

Hmmm, I thought. He's naked and excited about something worth seeing. Is this really something I want to see? I was leery. "Come here, come here," he insisted, whereupon he strolled (strutted?) over to the scale and stepped aboard. Our digital scale considered the new heft on it and ultimately pronounced him a whopping 91 pounds. A grin split Chase's face Cheshire-cat-style. He hadn't just hopped over the 90 lb mark, he'd gotten to a full ninety-one pounds.

He was thrilled; I was thrilled for him. And I thought: rare is the time you delight in seeing the scale inch up; we'll enjoy it while we can.

August 11, 2010

The Pocketbook Doth Suffer


So it's nearly back to school time around these parts. Actually it's past back to school time but my particular county is comprised of two halves that are polar opposites when it comes to the pocketbook size of the inhabitants, and managed from the lower end of that scale, it found itself with huge budgetary issues--surprise!--so our kids have gotten an added two weeks of summer. A nice benefit for us; too bad it takes colossal mismanagement of tax payer dollars to get it. And even after all the moola we shell into the system, we as parents still end up paying out the wazoo for school stuff, don't we? I hate to sound like I'm 67 but I swear it wasn't like this when I was growing up.

I do not recall needing extra hands to tote in all the extra school supplies my mother was asked to buy for me in middle school. Today, it's not just pencils, paper and notebooks you need to provide your child. It's also crayons, glue sticks, erasers, dry erase markers (but no board, hmmm...who are these for, exactly?), highlighters, red pens and blue pens (no gel), paper, 15 sizes of notebooks, notebook dividers, paper clips, pencil pouches, compasses, calculators, scissors, tissues, hand sanitizer, locker shelves, paper towels, and an extra $20 to grease the palm of the principal. Next thing you know, we'll be responsible for our own kid's chairs and a desk. And oh yeah, throw in a chalkboard while you're at it.

What have my tax dollars paid for? Union teacher salaries? School supplies for the lower end schools whose parents aren't dumb enough to be suckered into spending more money over and above taxes to buy all this? I remember when schools had scissors there--lots of 'em. And erasers too, amazingly.

I also remember when school lunches came in one variety and cost $.50 a day. And even then, I was on the reduced meal plan--please go to a completely different area of the school to purchase your "I can't afford the entire $.50" lunch tickets--and when you get them, they're red and all the normal priced tickets are green so everyone knows you're at the lower end of the socioeconomic scale. No humiliation there.

Tonight, I had to factor my son's lunch costs into my household monthly budget because it's not the kind of coin you just pull out of your pocket when your child says he needs lunch money. It runs us about $100 a month; and Chase is not a big eater. $5/day he spends on lunches because the school offers choices. There's the traditional mystery meat + 2 mushy vegetables + fruit cup lunch. Or there's the lunch line with stars and glitter and neon flashing lights, where all the cool kids shop for buffalo wings, fries, big pretzels, milkshakes, Gatorades, Nestle Quik chocolate milk and other fantastic food options I myself wouldn't mind having for lunch. Naturally, where do all the kids migrate like moths to a flame? Hmmm, Sh!t on a Shingle or food that's good enough to serve outside of school? And thus, $100 a month for lunch. But after my days of walking around with the red tickets instead of the green, I won't foist the mystery meat option on him, even if it does taste pretty good with enough gravy.

Ah, the days of 6:30 a.m. wake-ups and homework will soon be back. In the vernacular of the great Shakespeare: And thus, my pocketbook doth suffer.

July 14, 2010

The Judicial System Nightmare


I spent Monday of this week frolicking in the hollows of the Atlanta judicial system performing my civic duty as a potential juror. And by frolicking I mean sitting in a barely cushioned, straight-backed chair in a huge, eerily quiet white room until my fanny and mind were equally numb. And I enjoyed that all the live-long day.

I understand that our Constitution guarantees potential wrongdoers and those who’ve been wronged the right to a fair trial in front of their peers. But you would think a country great enough to have churned out the iPhone, Scream Machine and the Big Mac would be clever and savvy enough to find a more efficient and expeditious method of executing this due process.

I arrived at 8:00 a.m. along with about 400 of my fellow compatriates, and by 10:00, all that had occurred in the two hours we’d been there was the showing of a flick about how jury duty works and how it should really be seen as a privilege, not a burden. I must say, if I’m being completely honest, that by the end of the movie, I still felt burdened. Granted, they were going to pay me a whopping $25 a day for my service but that just felt like a cheap buy off to win me over to the “privilege” side of the debate. It didn’t work.

The silence of the room was broken at last around 10:30 a.m. from a podium bearing a microphone, a la college classroom. (Correction—there had been previous audible revelations coming from said podium but they were limited to “Do not use your cell phones in this room!” admonitions; nothing exciting.) But at 10:30, the jury wrangler stood up and announced that she would be calling names that were members of the first set of potential jurors for a particular case.

The first thing I noticed was that she overused the word "Please." And I never thought you could overuse that particular word but I was wrong.

“Please listen for me to caw yo nammmmme please,” a lady of mature years bellowed so loudly that the microphone was merely overkill. “When you hear yo nammmmme, please, be sure to answer so I can hear you please.” And henceforth she proceeded to butcher every single name on the list. At last, some entertainment. It only took a few of these before it became apparent why her own volume level was a notch or ten too high: she had to be deaf as a doorknob. She’d stumble through a name and the owner would call the required “Here!” or “Yes!” A beat later, she’d hark out the same name again, to which another “Here!” would resound. Finally, the group of folks around the chosen one would all be yelling “He’s HERE—right HERE! He’s HERE!” until she finally heard them. At which point she’d utter into the microphone: “Well you have to speak up please or I can’t hear you please.” Speak up? If they yelled any louder, we’d be disrupting Alabama courtrooms.

She continued on this way for each set of 60 names on the lists. Occasionally we were even rewarded with an “Ah Lawd” as she gazed at the name before her with too many consonants and not enough vowels. By the end, I was disappointed when she broke down and started spelling some of the names. Quitter.

But while wildly entertaining, my name was never among those she called. (How could one mess up Megan Elizabeth Hicks? I couldn’t wait to find out and felt gypped that it never happened.)

By 11:00, she’d annihilated all the superior court jurors’ names that she needed. There were a few more rounds of state jurors called and then…nothing. Hmmm, now what? I’d never run into this situation before, having always been called before to at least go into a courtroom with 59 others and hear what wrongdoing someone was accused of...well...doing. An hour went by and she strolled to the pointless mic again. “I’m afraid I cannot let you go just yet please. The judges think they might still need some of you just in case. You’re free for an hour lunch and please report back here by 1:00. Please.”

Just in case? What’s worse that being a juror? A just in case juror. Even worse: the not-knowing exactly how long we’d have to continue sitting in that big, now fairly empty room before finally being called or set free. Reminds me of how I heard labor described before I experienced it myself: It’s not that contractions are so bad you cannot tolerate them. It’s the not knowing how long they will continue to hit you that is the mental killer.

From my past experiences with jury duty, I thought it stunk. But this sitting there, not even getting called into a courtroom to enjoy the legal banter and watch the accused squirm, this was torture. And besides, if I wasn’t ever called into a courtroom, how would I get the chance to provide the answers I’d drummed up to ensure no sane individual would want me on their jury?

“Am I married? Oh yes, I’m the fourth wife of my second cousin who is also the nephew of my great aunt Rosalee who always said… Oh, that’s enough? Ok.”

“What do I do for a living? I’m an artist. A sandwich artist. You want tomatoes on that?”

“Which one’s the guilty guy? Yeah, he looks guilty alright…”

Out at lunch I scarfed a sandwich and juiced up my phone in the car—stupid me didn’t bring a phone charger. Apparently I thought that court holding rooms were void of electrical outlets. And wifi. Didn’t bring a laptop but lots of other forward-thinking bastards had. Damn it.

Back at 1:00, we all trudged in and sat once more, waiting. 2:00 showed up but no more announcements did. About 2:30, the gal stepped to the podium that now mocked us and announced that she still couldn’t let us go because a judge said so. Apparently we might be needed still. Groans were heard like waves through the room. Didn’t they each have their 60 folks? If you can’t get 14 impartial people out of those, it seems like someone’s just being overly picky.

As the minutes ticked by, folks everywhere began assuming odd and awkward positions in the hopes of attaining comfort the chair-designers didn’t dream possible. After awhile, it looked like Jim Jones’s place. One clever guy arranged three chairs together in such a way that he could stretch out and fall asleep; thus adding snoring to the fun of the day for the rest of us. I worked from my phone as long as I could but just after 2:30, the battery went kaput and I was left with only my books and a continuous mental scroll of my To Do list that was only getting longer as I remembered more crap I needed to be doing if I were anywhere but a court-holding cell. And of course, I was pleading to God that this nightmare be over soon.

At 3:20, the voice of doom again came over the loudspeaker. We were being granted a 10 minute break but still couldn’t quite be released. Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. She promised to check with the judge again in 15 minutes to see if anything had changed. Good, I thought, that usually works for my son on me: keep asking the same question every few minutes until you get the answer you want.

At 3:45, she at last gave us the nod to get the hell out of dodge. You’ve never seen folks rush an exit door the way we all did.

At least now I have the luxury of knowing I won’t be called again for another 18 months. Oh, and the $3/hour I earned for the “privilege.”

June 30, 2010

Confssions of a Priceline Junkie


I love to travel so you might imagine I'm proficient with all the ins and outs of booking travel-related services online. I'm also a sucker for a bargain, but for some reason, I'd been leery of ever using Priceline--the old "name your own price" site that claims big savings on hotel rooms, car rentals, etc. The big catch here is that you do not get to know the actual hotel/car rental co/etc you'll be using until after you have provided a price you're willing to spend and it's been accepted. At that point, you are fully committed. Well, fully committed to paying what you offered--even if you don't end up using the room/car.

The thought of paying half as much as the best advertised deal was enticing but still, I have been to nervous to try it. The hangup of not knowing exactly what you're going to get and yet you've plunked down your money and are stuck with it was insurmountable to me. What if the deal sucks even if the price was right? It's like the Survivor Auction where Jeff Probst harks a covered plate that the famished players assume is a juicy hamburger or steak or cookies and milk. They proffer their limited funds only to learn in the unveiling that it's a plate of elephant intestines or some other equally disgusting, I'd-rather-eat-my-own-hand-than-eat-that type of thing.

What happens if, say, you're in need of a rental car in Chicago and the best rate for a full size is $50/day. So you Priceline it and offer $25/day. The deal is accepted and you are now committed, only to learn the rental company is Joe's Clunkers, whose motto is "You'll be lucky if you get there but at least we're cheap!"

Now, you wouldn't think a company the caliber of Priceline (with the kind of ad budget they clearly have) would be working with C-tier companies and lower but again, it's that not-knowing-for-sure factor that threw me off and prevented me from taking the plunge.

So the other day, I sent two sales reps on the road--two grown men. They asked if I could book them a hotel room in Indy and another in Nashville. I searched around, called some places and pointblank asked for better rates (denied) before finally visiting Priceline. You can do a basic search on there of hotels and rates rather than the "name your own" so that's what I did first. Found a three star hotel in the Indy area for only $74.

Hmmm...3 stars for $74. Pretty good. Dare I try the Name Your Own option? I realized that by being able to put in a minimum star-quality along with your price, maybe that was the safety valve to ensure you didn't end up at the House of Roaches No-Tell Motel. And besides, it wasn't ME who was going to have to sleep in the place if it did stink. Why not try it out with some guinea pigs? Hehe. Alright, I joke but I truly would have felt bad if they got stuck staying in some crappy location. Particularly since one of the travelers was my spouse, who I'd never heard the end of it from. Still, men they were and they could tough out a place even if it was somewhat sketchy, and best case, I scored big time with a nice place for sketchy-place-prices.

I decided to gamble and keyed in a three star minimum hotel for $60 a night. Hit the Submit and held my breath. A short while later I was rewarded with a "Your price has been accepted" page. Sure, sure, great. But where? Turns out, the FOUR-star downtown Marriott was desperate enough to fill rooms that they took a $60 offer. YES! A Marriott. Synonymous with: stylish hotel. Never have run up on a crappy Marriott. I was positively thrilled--big time, name brand hotel for a reeeee-diculous price. I saved the company money and the guys would be sleeping high style. I texted them the news and they were thrilled.

Wow--what had I been so scared of, I thought? I should've been using Priceline all along! Dare I press my luck with the Nashville room? Why the hell not!

I keyed in another three-star for $60 request in the hoity-toity Brentwood area and was kicked back a "too bad, so sad, no one would take those peanuts" message. I could either up my ante or expand the area I was willing to have them stay. So I expanded the area and tried my $60 luck a second time. This go'round, I scored again. A 3.5 star (again, the upgrade!) hotel accepted my offer. Where, where? I breathlessly scanned the page. My rate was accepted at the Hotel Preston.

Wait. What? The Hotel What? Oh lord, I've never heard of the Hotel Preston. Visions of roach infested hallways and hairy bedspreads raced through my mind. A sleazy, neon- and smoke-filled joint that offered coin-operated beds and towels you could see through. The guys would never forgive me--but I'd already committed my $60. They had to stay there. I was sick. Damn you, Priceline! Suckered me in with the Marriott and then hit me with the Hotel NeverHeardOfIt.

After googling Hotel Preston as fast as my fingers would type with a nauseated stomach, I came up with the hotel's website and relaxed a bit. It may not be a major chain location but it looked pretty good, I had to admit. Dubbed a boutique hotel, it did look swank. I only hoped they company hadn't shortchanged the sheets and carpet in favor of investing into a fancy website.

With gushing assurances that the hotel would be great (just great!) I let the guys know their Nashville location. Upon arrival the next day, the two reported that the place was indeed magnificent, with plush robes in the rooms, a modern feel, a Pillow Menu (huh?) and even a Spiritual Menu (Koran, anyone?).

The Hotel Preston scare proved to be pointless. Priceline came through not only with a fancy-big name hotel the first night, but the NeverHeardOfIt also ended up being well worth the pittance I paid for them to stay there.

My fears about Priceline were for naught. I've now reserved cars through them as well and learned that they only deal with quality places. Best of all, if you key in an offer and don't find a taker, it's no harm, no foul to you. So it doesn't hurt to at least try. I love finding good deals so I could resist sharing this story. If you like to travel or you travel for work, give it a whirl. I myself am officially now a Priceline junkie.

June 22, 2010

Adding a Pound


I hate that Summer days rush by faster than Winter days, but I'm doing my best to soak up every minute of them. Have big news of late. After three+years of cohabitating with us, my mother in law just moved into her own apartment. That is exciting for her and cool for us too. I actually love my mother in law. She's not your typical nosey, give her opinion whether you want it or not type of mother in law. Rather, she was a great addition here, always willing to house-sit, baby-sit, pet-sit or help wherever else needed. She was a joy to have around, not to mention being a great sounding board when I was having an off day.

But she decided after a life of living with and relying on someone else, she wanted to try living alone. I can appreciate this because I lived alone for a long time and loved it. And though I love her very much and welcome her back at any point, there is something nice about having our house back to our immediate family only. So about a week ago, we helped her move to an apartment. And it was then that our immediate family grew by one. One pound, that is.

After pulling into the parking lot, we hopped out, ready to muscle up the couch to her (thankfully) ground floor apartment. And it was then that a welcoming sentry called to us from outside my mother in law's new front door: the soft, squeaky meow of a baby kitten too soon away from her mother and too long away from food.

A calico sprite no bigger than your hand beckoned us. She couldn't have been more than 4, 4 1/2 weeks old and was the sweetest thing. We scooped her up and with eyes that couldn't be refused, I turned to John. No way could I leave her behind. I knew this about myself; he knew this about me. Chase had her named before we got her back home: Snickers, in honor of her black and brown coloring and sweet self.

My two Biggie-sized cats were not thrilled with the newcomer and were audible with their displeasure. But just a couple days in, Raven--the mushier, sweeter of the two--had already adapted and was playing with the kitten and having a big time. Max--the larger and more ornery of the two--still cares not for a fellow feline a fraction his size. But he's learning to tolerate, if not exactly like, the little fluff. Dr Adams, the world's greatest vet, cleared her of all terrible feline diseases, weighed her officially as a scale-tipping one pound, and she was flea and smell-free, leading me to believe she isn't feral but simply left in a populated area for some kindhearted sucker to take in. That's me: the sucker.

So Megan's Menagerie has grown by one. Meet the Snicker doodle:

Snickers

June 11, 2010

Waking Up to a Nightmare

So the only people reading this who do not realize I love dogs more than any other human being on the planet loves dogs are those reading for the first time. A close second--I'll give him that--is my husband. And ranking 3rd in line for the most love exhibited between man and dog is Teddy the beagle, my husband's dog who loves and adores John more than I can explain. He's practically co-dependent. Check that; he is co-dependent.

It is very sweet though; Teddy truly is a great, very loving and lovable dog.

Except when he's waking us up every 2-3 hours at night to be let out of his crate so he can slurp down a gallon of water, hit the yard for some "business," and then return to the comfort of his pillow for more snooze time. I realize that the gallons of water nonsense is what most logical folks would think is the hiccup in curing this hellish disruption of our beauty sleep. Gallons of water at 2:00 am just begs for a 4:30 wake up. But Teddy is constantly suffering from UTIs and it's usually the extreme thirst that has him barking that notorious Beagle bark from his crate more so than the need to relieve himself. And to deny the water seems cruel.

So alas, we have fought this battle for an eternity and after much medication to ensure there was no medical reason for getting up so often, we and our vet decided this must be bad habit now and we devised a new plan designed to get us back to wakeless nights of sleep. The new plan is to put Teddy in my son's playroom which has a door to our fenced back yard. That door is equipped with a dog door through which the T can go in and out for water or pee time as often as his furry self desires. We have to close off the playroom because of my two cats that are not permitted outside.

Other than the occasional chirp from outside in the middle of the night, this has been working pretty well until about 6:30-7 a.m. when Teddy's patience with being separated from John runs out and he expresses his irritation with that incessant "I know you can hear me and I'm not going to stop disturbing the peace until you give me what I want" Beagle bark outside the back door. Our neighbors love us, I'm sure.

The other morning, we hit 7:00 and hadn't heard Teddy "calling" to us to come in all night. Shocker. John went down to let in the pup and discovered the reason the back yard was suspiciously bark-free. We'd left one of our gates unlatched and Teddy's Beagle nose had led him into the free world. He'd been out all night long and there was no telling where he'd be.

We do have a collar on him with a name/phone number tag, but naturally, who would've been up to spot him throughout the night? No one. He could've wandered quite a ways away, been struck by a car on the busy main road, or been picked up by someone who decided they'd like to keep such a sweet, friendly dog. We were scared to death.

John hit the streets walking and whistling for Teddy. I hopped in the car and drove the neighborhood, stopping to ask all I saw if they'd spied a wandering Beagle. No one had. I ventured out onto the main road and instinct told me to turn left. We're surrounded by neighborhoods; surely one of the umpteen joggers had seen him. Still, no dice. One guy told me he'd just run from all the way up that road in the direction I was headed and did not see a dog. And Teddy is friendly enough that he'd definitely have come and jogged along with someone he saw out there. My hopes dashed.

I pulled into a neighborhood with the intention of quickly turning around in a driveway and going the other way. But something told me to drive on ahead. "A few more houses and then I'll turn around," I thought. I drove by a few more houses, and something said to just keep driving. All the way to the end of the road I drove and entered the culdesac, forced to turn back. But suddenly, there he was. Out of the corner of my eye came the T, running after my car.

I scooped up his smelly, dew and grass covered self, never more thrilled to see him. We found John walking and headed home.

If you love dogs, you know the fear we felt that morning. It ended well, thank God, but talk about waking up to a nightmare.

Note: It is upsetting the number of people who lose a beloved animal and never had a collar or tag on them with owner's name and number. Regardless of all the precautions on the world, your pet could get away when you least expect it. The odds of him/her returning is 100 fold if they have your name and number on them somewhere obvious. Invest in a $5 ID tag and rest a little easier.

May 19, 2010

Being Clairvoyant

I've always thought it'd be cool to be clairvoyant. I've heard some stories that were astounding--things that people just knew. Like my friend Melinda who struggled to have her first baby and was sure she'd not have another. A coworker named Tom was in his office and as she passed by, he called her name and she backpedaled to stick her head in the door. Tom asked her if she planned to have any more children. She told him she'd love to but didn't think it was in the cards for her due to medical reasons. He just smiled and nodded. The following day she discovered she was pregnant again. When she asked him about it, he told her that as she passed by his door that day, he simply got a sense that she was with child.

Months later, the day prior to her midterm sonogram that would reveal a due date and the baby's gender, Tom told her the due date would be May 16th, that she was having a boy and that there was something extra he could sense, perhaps a twin. The following day, the doctor confirmed the due date of May 16th, told Melinda that she was carrying a son and that he also found a cyst on her ovaries that needed to be tended to. Later in the pregnancy, Tom told her that the baby would actually be born near the 16th but not on the 16th. Connor arrived--on his own terms, not induced--on the 17th of May.

Uncanny. I wish I had that sense. But I do know this: in my job field, it didn't take clairvoyance to know during the lowest of recession days, the trucking industry would eventually flourish once more. Only, we'd be in for a rude awakening because as economic bliss returned and demand for goods grew, the available pool of drivers to haul such freight wouldn't come close to what we need. After all, trucking has never had enough drivers to satisfy demand. Then during the rough times when there was little freight and trucks sat parked along carrier fences, many of the drivers we did have turned to other occupations, stepping away from the wheel.

The economy picked up steam so quickly that many companies were caught off guard. For so long, they didn't need drivers and then suddenly they needed 20, 50 or more. Like, yesterday.

So we find ourselves once more in the midst of a driver shortage--nothing new for trucking--but it's worse than it ever was. This spells good things for drivers and potential drivers as benefits increase and encompass new perks perhaps not seen before. And you can also expect to see avenues opening up to welcome men and women who would like to hit the road and get paid to see the country as professional drivers.

If you have friends and family in need of work, trucking is the answer. The unemployment rate in this country is still ridiculous. If we can connect folks needing work with a great industry needing workers, we can make a real dent in an area needing attention in the U.S. Check out trucking schools offering excellent training (there are nearly 300 around the country) and also keep your eyes open for carriers who are again ramping up their own student training--often the best way to get into the industry because recent graduates have an instant job upon completing their training. Plus, the cost of the training is usually deducted from the newly earned paycheck.

If you're already a driver who'd love to drive as a team, thought of bringing your spouse along to see the U.S. with you, want to help your brother, uncle, cousin or aunt find work, steer them to the industry now looking for all the help it can get.

Trucking keeps America functioning--drivers are needed now more than ever and the perks that come with being in demand are often second to none.

May 13, 2010

A Bum Wheel


We're on the final countdown for school--just one week and one day left to go and then we're home free and summer is upon us. And what better way to celebrate the coming of the hazy lazy days of summer packed with trips to the beach, a wedding appearance, and summer camps than with a broken toe?

Not my toe (I gave up summer camp ages ago). Chase's toe. Swollen, bruised, broken.

Yes, seasons of playing soccer--known for its heavy foot involvement--and seasons of playing lacrosse where the name of the game is to get the ball into the net while the other teams beats you with sticks, shoves you around, knocks you down and tramples right over you never resulted in a broken anything. But toss the boy into a seemingly harmless, indoor kickball game in P.E. at school and voila! an injury that will rear its ugly head at the most inopportune times to disrupt all sorts of planned fun for the next 4-12 weeks. Hell, it couldn't even have a more dialed in and specific healing time for crying out loud. Nothing positive coming out of the broken toe experience yet. Other than Chase's shortlived excitement over his "first broken bone." First?

In the overall scheme of things, a broken toe is far from the worst thing that could happen, I know. But the timing stinks for him just the same. It'll sure make hobbling down the aisle at my brother's beach wedding interesting.

Still. Better to be sleeping in mornings with a broken toe than waking for school at 6:30 a.m. with a perfectly good wheel. Come on, summer!

May 4, 2010

Sun, Surf, Sand and Strip Clubs


As the Summer season races toward us--thank the Lord, 6th grade didn't kill me--I'm reminded of my all time favorite beach story.

I've always loved to travel. Love to check out new places, but there are also tried and true trips that can't be beat and plenty of places I gladly return to time and again. The beach is easily one of those places. I say "the beach" in general terms since living in Georgia offers plenty of opportunity to hit any number of nearby beaches. So I can't even pin point one particular favorite--but just about any beach will do.

Naturally my son has been quite the traveler in his 12 years as well. He took at cruise at three--his first beach was one in the Caribbean. Not too shabby. And he, too, is a lover of sun, surf and sand.

All this is background info to keep in mind for this, my favorite beach story, which doesn't even involve sun, surf or sand.

Now for the actual story: there is a stretch of roadway that we drive along near my home pretty frequently. It's a six lane highway that leads from my house to the infamous I-285 perimeter that circles the city of Atlanta. This highway has an access road along it filled with apartments, restaurants, gas stations, corporate buildings and more. One particular exit is crowded with establishments loaded with brightly colored signs: a QT gas station, a Barnacles seafood restaurant, a shopping center with a gym and other storefronts, a Waffle House (can't throw a stone without hitting one of those around here), and more all clustered tightly together, fighting for space and passerby attention. Wedged among the hub-bub also sits one cement building painted with palm trees and beach scenes and adorned with neon lights, all designed to brighten up a windowless exterior. Hmmm, you say. Lively scenes, no windows, neon. All of that translates into one type of establishment: a gentlemen's club, nudie bar, shoe show, strip club.

So we pass this establishment along with all the others off this exit fairly regularly. And one day when Chase was about eight, we'd returned from one of our summer excursions and he pipes up from the back seat: "I know what's in that building."

"Oh really," laughed my husband. "You know what's in there? What is?"

"The beach," said my innocent son, very sure of his answer.

"You're exactly right," I jumped in, shooting my husband the evil eye. Palm trees, sunny scenes...what else could it possibly be?

From that point on, each time we drove past that exit with the cornucopia of facilities, that colorful, eye-catching building was the one Chase zeroed in on. Of course, John helped this along by pointing it out and reminding him that the "beach" was in that building--wink, wink, nudge, nudge in my direction, laughing all the while. I'd sigh and roll my eyes. Man humor.

After awhile, the novelty wore off and the infamous building ceased to be a topic of conversation every time we drove past. Fast forward a year or so and one day, when Chase was about 10, we were driving by and out of nowhere he questioned from the back seat: "What was it that was in that building, again?"

Before John could pipe up with his beach references and start another multi-month extension of the nudie club humor, I spoke up quickly, thinking to myself: You know what, he's 10 years old. I'd heard that it was an age where you should stop giving kiddie answers to important questions like "Where do babies come from" and just give the facts. Time to stop sugar coating reality and just shoot straight. So why not in this case too?

"You know what's in that building, Chase?" I said, before John got a word out of his mouth. "Women take their clothes off and dance around for men in that building. That's why there aren't any windows."

Chase's eyes were the size of golf balls and he was all ears.

"That's right. Men like to look at naked ladies so women in there take off all their clothes and dance around to music. Men like to see that and they pay them money."

Silence greeted me. You could hear a pin drop in the back seat as Chase absorbed this dose of reality.

And then I heard him: "But the sign says Barnacles Steak and Seafood."

Ah yes, plenty of good stories have stemmed from vacations to the beach but none quite so memorable as that one.

April 14, 2010

Blue-haired Epiphanies


There are those among us who are fair of skin with nary a blemish on them. Me? I grew up in the land of Freckles--a place that still haunts me today. No Ruby Slippers getting me out of this place. My arms, legs, back...you name it and I could offer you up a multitude of tiny brown dots. And these were exacerbated by days in the sun sans sunscreen as a child and then--worse--oiling up and crisping in the harsh rays as a teenager. Horrible I know--when you think of the permanent and potentially serious damage that kind of sun causes but who knew there'd be an issue back when baby oil was the logical first step in stepping up my popularity since pastey white girls were never in favor at my school? Sprinkle a little Sun In in my hair and voila! Brassy, bright yellow hair to complement my charred skin. Very natural looking.

Now, me and my freckles pay the price. The dermatologist loves me--sends me Thank You cards from her visit to the Islands. She should. I paid for the trips. But when you have abused your skin the way I did, have to take precautions now. So I trot off to be examined regularly.

Funny side story--the first time I did this, I assumed there was a machine that examined your body. Nope. Turns out, you get to stand in just your birthday suit while you're humiliatingly scrutinized from head to toe and crevice to crevice by a human being who is undoubtedly collecting memories to entertain guests with at dinner parties.

Anyway, a couple weeks ago I endured my first freezing process on not one, not two but three spots on my legs. I was assured by the nurse ahead of time that it wasn't really painful--just really, really cold.

She lied.

I discovered this about 5 seconds after she put that torture device against my skin. Expletives might have escaped my mouth. She apologized throughout the entire 30 seconds that thing sat against my skin but it didn't help a bit. And there were two more of those to do to go along with one tiny spot in the middle of my back.

After receiving bandaids and polysporin that really do not "make it all better," I was sent merrily on my way. I was on fire. Freezing is more akin to burning, right? We all know that something so cold can burn you. It's unpleasant. And I had to figure out how to drive myself home.

My legs didn't want to move. I hate a burn more than any other kind of pain and I found myself taking no more than half breaths. I started envisioning how much it would hurt if I had to make a sudden stop and hit the brakes. On the way home, I had planned to run into a grocery store. That was before I realized the condition I'd be in, yet I rationalized that I was really making more of a deal of this than it truly was. And it seemed a waste of time to go all the way home and then have to go back out again later. So into Publix I went. Only I wasn't "running" anywhere. In fact, I moved at a snail's pace, leading on my cart like a crutch and trying not to wince with every shuffle forward but failing miserably.

It was during this excruciating 20 minutes (what grocery store trip can be accomplished in less than 20 minutes no matter how few items you think you're going to get?), that I realized what it will be like when I'm 80ish and moving impossibly slow, regardless of the fast pace going on around me. Speaking as one who is always going 90 to nothing these days, it was a unique perspective: forced to slow down because you physically cannot move any faster. It was not awesome--this glimpse into my elderly self. My hair was an odd shade of blue/purple/gray and I had shrunk so it was a struggle to see over the steering wheel. But I tell you what I learned from seeing that slow-moving, blue haired future old me: we need to stop racing around long enough to appreciate the health we have now because there'll come a day soon enough that we're not moving anywhere quickly.

Yes, through a pain-filled haze I had an epiphany. Rein it back a little before you have no choice about slowing your pace. Oh, and always wear sunscreen.

March 23, 2010

Cheap Shots and No Morals


As life marches on through a spring time that's less enthusiastic to arrive than I am to have it here, my 12 year old is in the midst of his spring lacrosse season. It's a blast but I gotta tell ya, the competition beats anything we've endured in the past. The competing parents are also a completely new breed.

Now, lets establish first that few folks could top me in competitiveness. Lets say I like the feel of winning. Don't most? But when your son is on a younger team and your school has lost half its athletes to a new school that opened down the block, you get used to finding value in the level of play and that can-do spirit than you do in the final figures on the scoreboard. It's a building year, shall we say?

We don't have a goose-egg in the win column but we're about 50/50. We can edge out the teams from south of the city because they don't have nearly the programs that are in North Atlanta. But up here? Talk about some seriously dominant programs and teams. The coaches typically bark at the players in voices normally reserved for basic training. In the Marines.

One team in particular we played in a brutal game pretty early in the season. They are clearly one of the (if not the) top team in the area, and that's saying something when you remember the area is full of really good teams. We arrived on a balmy Saturday with the winding whipping 30 degree temps through their majestic wind tunnel of a stadium. And there, as Popsicles in the stands, we watched this team walk all over us 15 - 0. All the while their coach was still screaming at their players like they were the ones losing horribly. It wasn't enough that they were running up the score--they weren't doing it quickly enough. Apparently they needed to crush our spirits faster.

Best of all: they were on our schedule to play again. Super. At least the second game was farther into the season when our former motley crew had more time to play together and form some cohesiveness as a team (that team had played together for years under the same coach in addition to being a year older) and we had more practice to perfect some actual plays.

When we arrived for bout number two, this team was still undefeated and still a powerhouse. But our attitudes were great; the boys were actually excited to play this team again and at least show them that while they may have the age/size/experience advantage, we are not as dismal a team as we may have displayed originally. We went into the match up believing that if we could just put some points on the board, we'd consider that a win.

Our parents decided to show up to the 8:00 a.m. match with coffee, donuts, cow bells and big voices to show our boys some support no matter how big the Goliaths across the field were. And the game started with a bang as we racked up the first two goals, unanswered. We were more shocked than they were. But it was then that the other team realized this would be no lay-down encore and they turned up their game. For the remaining time, it was close. We even went up on them another time, winning at 6-5. But it became very physical, very quickly.

Chase had told me after the first sparring that the other players were real smack-talkers, uttering put-downs and crappy insults sprinkled liberally with four letter words muttered low enough for the recipient to hear but not for the refs or coaches. Classy. And this game, if anything, was worse. The team was clearly not used to being beaten or coming anywhere close to it, and their attitudes turned as sour as the looks on their coaches' faces with every goal we scored.

Mid-way through the first half, one of our defenders, a great athlete of Asian descent, got into a heated tussle with one of their players. They were both going after the ball on the sidelines at first but then the focus shifted from the ball to each other and it got ugly. I imagine the kid calling our player a "stupid Asian" probably sent him over the edge and as the refs pulled them apart, our kid ended up on his feet sooner and it was then that he saw--and took--the opportunity to get in the final shot with a kick to the gut.

Turns out, the parents of the opposing team don't like to see one of their kids get a kick to the stomach. This was completely uncalled for, no doubt. Way, way out of line. But it's also not like that was the only thing that happened in the skirmish. Name calling, pushing, shoving, punching, etc took place as the refs trotted over. But what happens last is what's remembered best and that kick was not good. Certainly far from a proud parenting moment, right? It's not like parents encourage their kids to be crappy on the field--at least we don't--but kids, like most, get caught up in the moment and sometimes, anger surpasses all other emotion. We were all stunned silent after that occurred.

The parents of the other team...not so much. "Nice morals!" one yelled. "Great sportsmanship!" "Oh you're a real class act." " You all must be so proud!" And the cat calls continued.

In the face of such an extreme act, we were contrite in the stands. But the longer they continued to insult our parenting and values, the more I boiled. Probably not the best idea to sit the rival teams side by side in the same stands but come on, you're questioning our morals when your middle schoolers know more creative uses of cuss words than I do? And issue racial epithets as they take more cheap shots than my Aunt Hilda on Swinging Oldies Night down at the VFW? Maybe it's that they're all so far up on their own moral high horse they can't hear their own kids resorting to underhandedness and foul mouths when they're in danger of losing a competition. Hmmm, you might even call that behavior... unsportsmanlike.

game
Our player in white getting pushed from behind: illegal.

ry=400[2]
Again, our kid in white...the one on the ground.

March 10, 2010

Meeting Noah


Recovering from the loss of my Sheltie Bailey is slow and sad, but life goes on and each day is easier. The minutes, hours, days right after losing Bailey was incredibly difficult. Her last days, the trip to the vet, and missing her consumed my every thought. For 14 years, part of what defined me was "dog owner." It was ingrained in me, part of my fabric. But now, I no longer was and it was a profound change. (No offense to Teddy the Beagle, but he is clearly my husband's dog.) So I felt...I don't know how else to say it...lost. Out of sorts.

Just two days after Bailey passed away, my family was scheduled to take our annual ski trip out west. What was the very last thing I felt like doing after losing my dog? If you said travel, ski, vacation, fly, pack a suitcase, try to have fun...you would be correct. But I certainly wasn't going to let my husband and son down so not going was not an option. Besides, I thought it'd probably be good to remove myself from the house where everywhere I looked reminded me of my pup.

Once we arrived, the change of atmosphere and scenery did do me good. Since I wouldn't have been with Bailey out in Colorado regardless, her absence wasn't as keenly felt. But even still, I never completely forget and though we were having a good time, everything was a little less cheery and fun.

We had four days of skiing and on the morning of the third, I sent Chase and John off to hit the slopes before me. It had snowed every blooming minute we'd been there so the skiing was challenging, the visibility was horrible, and my legs were screaming. To buy my legs a little rest before they revolted on me entirely, I offered to go ahead and make dinner for all of us so it'd be ready to go at the end of the day, assuring John and Chase they should head out for a few runs without me and I'd find them once I got on the mountain.

And that's what we did: they clamored out, barely remembering to shout a half-hearted "Are you sure you don't mind?" as they were already dressed and halfway down the stairs. So I whipped up my famous macaroni and cheese and after stalling for a little longer, I dressed in many layers and trudged to the nearest lift. There, I buckled into my boots, stepped into my skis, popped in my ipod and got ready to get in line when I heard him. "Are you solo?" I glanced over and realized this young boy was talking to me. I told him I was and together we shuffled to the lift and hopped on what is one of the longest chair rides on the mountain.

It's not uncommon to be riding up lifts with folks you don't know and to strike up casual conversation about where you're from, etc. My chair companion was a very personable boy and immediately began asking me questions: was this my first day out, was it my first time skiing, who was I there with, was I alone that particular day, where was I from, and on it went. He was so pleasant and I was inquiring the same info of him. His name was Noah, he was from Nebraska, 13 years old, in 7th grade, plays hockey, and he was there with his mother but alone on that particular day because his mother's friend was coming up from Denver to spend the day with her.

What a friendly, cool kid, I thought. "So since you're skiing all alone today," I proposed about six minutes into an eleven minute lift, "you could come ski with us if you'd like. I know my son would love to have someone his age to ski with."

"That'd be great," he told me. "Chase will be thrilled," I responded. "It's just the three of us this year but we usually bring a friend with us on trips since Chase is an only child--makes vacations a lot more fun for him. Are you also an only child?"

Since he was traveling with only his mother, I figured either he was or his siblings were too old or too young to be on such a trip. But his answer wasn't any of those explanations. It was one I was completely unprepared for: "Well," he said, "I am an only child now... My older brother just died last Friday."

I was stunned and whipped my head toward the young man beside me but reading facial expression was impossible thanks to the goggles and face shield that barred any glimpse of his features. "What do you mean, Noah?" I asked.

"My brother," he said, "he was 15--he always helped my uncle with his snow-blowing business. But when he went to wake him up last Friday, he just didn't wake up. We don't know yet what happened because the autopsy report hasn't come back yet."

I was stunned. I told Noah how sorry I was to hear about his brother and we talked a bit more about how his mother was devastated but trying to think positively. He told me she was grateful for the 15 years she had with him, that he was such a positive, happy person and really impacted many people that he met. I listened to him but all the while comparing the loss I'd been coping with to the loss his mother was coping with. It put things in a new perspective for me.

Noah spent that day skiing with us; he and Chase hit it off as beautifully as I knew they would. He also connected with us again the following morning. At the lift, I met his mother who was clearly distraught but told me she felt like she couldn't let Noah down by canceling the trip that was supposed to have included his brother. She was grateful that Noah had met us and had someone his age to spend the days with. Again, I was struck by the extremely sad situation this mother and child were in and when I compared our situations, I knew that I was the luckier of the two.

Make no mistake--I loved my Sheltie and am distraught to have lost her. But meeting Noah and seeing the strength he exhibited and hearing his mother's outlook helped me tremendously. His mother was glad Noah had met us but she'll never know how much it helped me to have met him.

Chase Noah on lift
Chase & Noah riding up a lift with us (Chase in green; me and John visible in Noah's lens)

Chase & Noah
Chase & Noah in our condo, which was right up the street from where Noah and his mother were staying

February 9, 2010

Remembering Bailey


Someone once said that pets may not be your whole world, but they make your world whole. This is the case for me and it always has been. Since I was little, I’ve felt a connection to animals that runs deep. I find it ironic that I was born in the Chinese Year of the Dog. Astrology might be a bunch of hooey to some but what the Chinese say about people born in the Year of the Dog applies to me in a way that is almost eerie, it’s so accurate. So I think there just might be something to that.

Chinese calendars notwithstanding, I am an animal person through and through. After reading a favorite book of mine called 1,000 White Women in my book club, I challenged my fellow members to come up with Indian names for each other. These were obvious things like “She who is beautiful” or “Walks with a Temper,” etc. Of all the colorful things that might’ve been said, I was dubbed: “She Who Loves Animals.”

And anyone who knows me knows this passion I have for my pets and all pets. So it’s with a sad heart that I write about my Sheltie Bailey and the fact that she has passed away. After 14 years with me, her old bones couldn’t take anymore and it was time to let her go. I knew, without a shadow of doubt, that it was the right thing to do but it certainly didn’t make letting her go any easier.

Bailey was officially—by AKC records—known as “Noel’s Funny Valentine.” She was born in the early morning hours of Christmas Day, 1995 and given to me as a Valentine’s gift seven weeks later. But Bailey was the name she went by.

This sable-colored Sheltie was a mess when she was little. For the first few months, she was a nuisance to this single girl’s sleep schedule. Who the heck gets up at 6:00 a.m. on a Saturday? But this was Bailey’s witching hour—when she was sick of her crate and needed out to potty and then to play. There was no returning to the crate after she came out for the morning. That’s when Bailey taught me the benefits of adopting older pets, a lesson appreciated by all of the subsequent pets I or my husband and I adopted (Sheltie Jess at seven months, Beagle Teddy at four years, cats Max and Raven at eight months each).

Bailey loved to play as a puppy—like all puppies do--and would do so tirelessly. I’d come home from work and play with her for an hour, thinking it could then be time to grab a bite to eat, maybe sit down and rest a bit. But Bailey never wanted to be done after only an hour. She eventually learned my cat Roo made a decent enough companion when I couldn’t be persuaded to play longer. Bailey would chase Roo up the hallway into my bedroom and then they’d come tearing back out again, this time Roo chasing Bailey. I could watch them do that for hours; it was hysterical.

Six months after getting Bailey, I adopted my Sheltie Jess so they’d have each other, particularly when I wasn’t home, which worked well. Then three years later, my son Chase arrived, much to Bailey’s dismay. Her place as my second in command of the “pack” was usurped by this little bald guy and she wasn’t the least bit happy about it. Only once did I have to remind her that Chase held a higher rank than she did (barely) and after that, she kept a respectful distance from him as an unsteady toddler that might use a furry tail for balance. When he got older, she adored him, often creeping into his playroom to lie beside him while he watched TV or played, and sleeping at night in his room.

Bailey loved playing tug with a rope and she loved to fetch a ball or Frisbee outside. If one wasn’t available, she’d deliver to me a pine cone she’d happily retrieve as often as I’d throw it. Anything to be active… If people were outside playing with a ball of any kind, she expected—ok, demanded—to be included. If we skipped her turn, she’d come and bark her displeasure at us, lest we forgot she was there and perfectly capable of catching the ball as well. She was a great car rider and I’d often just bring her along to grocery stores or out on quick errands. She’d ride in the back, happy to be along with me for any length of time. When she was younger, I tried saying “You want to go outside?” and “You want to take a ride?” with the exact same inflection in my voice but she always knew when it was the “ride” version and that’s the one she’d jump up and dance around to.

Here we are, a couple years ago:

MegBaileyuncropped


Bailey07


Throughout her 14 years, she was very close to me and was everything a gal could as for in a loyal pet. Bailey wanted to be wherever I was, always. I couldn’t get up and walk into another room to grab something quickly that she wasn’t already up and following. After her arthritis kicked in and her hearing conked out, I’d first try to sneak away so she wouldn’t realize I was leaving and not bother with trying to stand and follow, since that was no easy move for her bones. Once I saw she knew I was leaving, I’d run to the other room and back so she’d know there was no reason to get up. Once she could no longer climb the stairs, she’d lay at the bottom of them when I’d go up there for something and she’d look up, watching and waiting for me to come back down. At night, I carried her up with us to sleep nearby. When she required a middle of the night potty run, all she had to do was walk to my side of the bed and just stand there looking at me. I sensed her there and I'd carry her out to do her business and then back upstairs again. She lay beside me in my home office every day, often in the way of my wheeled chair, but I’d tip toe around her or work in uncomfortable positions so she could be undisturbed. After all she’d given to my life, the least I could do was keep her comfortable in her old age. Being together so much at the end of her life makes it hard to be without her now, but how wonderful it was to have that much time together and I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

I’ve known the days were nearing an end for awhile now. She’s moved slower and slower lately, eating less and less, and becoming more frail, though still as beautiful as ever. I prayed that I would know when the time was right to let her go. And then that time arrived. Super Bowl Sunday was a rough one for my girl. She was unsettled and didn’t want to lie still, yet her old bones didn’t want to carry her where she wanted to go. She ate well that day—chicken breast with broth and scrambled eggs—but I knew she wasn’t doing well and I didn’t want her to suffer. Yesterday morning, Bailey didn’t want to get up at all. She was tired—not from the night but from a long life. I picked her up and Bailey and I took our last car ride together to see the greatest vet on the planet, Dr. Adams. The doc had cared for Bailey for many years and anytime we saw him, he knew what was going on with her just by looking at her. On this day, he told me that her arthritis had moved into her back and there was a suspicion of neurological issues. He said: “You do all you can for them, but there comes a day you can’t do anymore and you have to let them go because it’s the best thing for them. You’ve done all you can do. It’s time.”

I knew he’d say those words and thought I’d be ready. But are you ever ready to let go of something you love so much? Absolutely not. I wrapped my arms around her and whispered in her ear the entire time so that, hopefully, the last thing she heard and smelled was me and she knew we were together.

Missing her is excruciating now. I know she had a great life and I know letting her go was the right thing to do but it doesn’t change how different life is without my sweet girl nearby. I know one day the tears will be less and the laughter more common when it comes to thinking about Bailey, but through either, I’ll forever treasure her and the happiness she brought me for so long.

If you got all the way to the end of this, thanks for humoring a dog-lover who wanted to share a bit about the fur-ball who made her life whole.

Bailey in my office, one of the rare times she got on her pillow rather than right by my chair:

Bailey

February 7, 2010

Women Over 40


It's Super Bowl Sunday and as much I love a good game with the pigskin and look forward to watching the clash between the Colts and Saints, I find myself staring down a long list of stuff I need to get done for work. Working on a Sunday sucks, as I'm sure many of you realize. But on Wednesday, John, Chase and I are escaping to a place with a lot more snow, a lot lower temperatures and plenty of mountains and ski runs nearby so all the work I'd normally be able to get done on those days must get done in advance. So here I sit, watching football pre-game but writing about trucking. And then I came across an email from a friend that really hit the spot and I thought I'd take a minute to share it here. It's a monologue by Andy Rooney of 60 minutes about Women Over 40.

And while I'd like to point out that I am not over 40 :-) every bit of this applies to me already as well as all my fabulous over- and nearly-40 friends. So this is for you, ladies!

"As I grow in age, I value women over 40 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why:

A woman over 40 will never wake you in the middle of the night and ask, 'What are you thinking?' She doesn't care what you think.

If a woman over 40 doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it. She does something she wants to do and it's usually more interesting.

Women over 40 are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you if they think they can get away with it.

Older women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it's like to be unappreciated.

Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to a woman over 40.

Once you get past a wrinkle or two, a woman over 40 is far sexier than her younger counterpart.

Older women are forthright and honest. They'll tell you right off you are a jerk if you are acting like one. You don't ever have to wonder where you stand with her.

Yes, we praise women over 40 for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed, hot woman over 40, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year-old waitress. Ladies, I apologize.

For all those men who say, 'Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free,' here's an update for you: Nowadays 80 percent of women are against marriage. Why? Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig just to get a little sausage!" --Andy Rooney