Stuff to Say: Life, Love, Laughter...Trucking?

Skiing Break-enridge

2012-02-03T11:45:00.009-05:00

For those of you with hobbies you’re passionate about, you’ll understand when I say that “skiing is my thang.” I first hit the slopes when I was about 21 and have been swooshing just about annually ever since. And while I do hate to come across snobbish, I will anyway when I say that when I think of skiing, I can only think of the powdery, snowy goodness that falls from western skies. I learned to stand upright and slide down mountains on slick blades in the mountains of North Carolina and must say that’s more akin to ice skiing than snow skiing--difficult to master, a royal pain in the REAR when you fall. Literally.

When my family began taking annual treks to the Rockies to ski, I was quickly hooked on the quality of skiing you can get from 8-13,000 feet peaks and dry air than you can 5,000 feet, wet snowy peaks. And through marriage and the addition of my only child, we’ve put forth diligent effort to save our frequent flier miles and credit card points in order to enjoy ski trips
at least once a winter.

On those trips, there have been as few as three of us to as many as 25 of us together. I modestly say that I’m a fairly proficient skier; I’m no dare devil or downhill racer but I’ll take on any blue run and a few blacks that don’t involve those knee-demolishing moguls. I have helped friends, husband and children alike learn to ski or improve their skills and helped many a fallen skier back to their feet and into their skis from precarious slope angles. Usually while laughing hysterically.

So when my child got into his “traveling with only family is no fun” years and wanted to bring friends along, I wholeheartedly endorsed the idea to make his trips as much fun as ours--regardless of the friend’s skiing ability or lack thereof.

This season, after a few dismal economic years, we were able to piece together enough pennies to take an entire week long trip to Colorado and one of our favorite resorts: Breckenridge. We invited not one but two of Chase’s friends. One was unable to join us but Chase’s friend Peter was given the thumbs up from his parents to attend as his Christmas present.

Peter had been snowboarding once before, two years ago, and had taken three days of lessons before heading out. At the time, he felt like he had a pretty good handle on his boarding abilities. For this trip, we decided that we’d check him out for the first half day or so and determine if
another lesson was in order.

We left Atlanta the day after Christmas, bound for colder weather and snowier ground. Once in Breckenridge, we collected our lift tickets, rented the boys’ equipment and settled into our condo while taking note of the meager snow conditions and copious amounts of ice that were uncommon in years past. As I went on the obligatory grocery run, the boys grabbed their gear and headed out on the run by the condo, eager to test their memory of skills needs to board successfully.

When I returned from the store, the boys were back inside and I noticed Peter moving gingerly. An inquiry why revealed Pete’s first fall on the run resulted in a close encounter with a batch of ice in an area of the body I’ll call his booty: an official medical term. Nothing broken; just
awfully sore but not good considering he was likely to continue landing on said derriere as is often the case for beginning boarders. My warning: try and roll into future falls or aim for one cheek or the other. Whatever you do, don’t put your hands down to catch yourself or your wrists will be the next aching body parts, another common complain among boarders.

Our first full day was windy, cold, icy and lacking of the snow quantity the resort typically boasts. But we enjoyed ourselves nonetheless. Peter’s boarding skills were actually beyond what a beginning lesson would teach so we opted to skip the instruction and let him take it easy on green slopes. The falls were uncomfortable for him, clearly, but he was a trooper who never complained.

The second day, the boys wanted to get out early so we let them go solo for the first couple hours in a designated area only and planned to meet them at the base of a particular chair lift at 11. We never made it there. At 10, my phone rang: “Peter fell on his wrist and we’re in the medical center. The doctor doesn’t think it’s broken; it’s just sore and a little swollen.” Instructions: Ice it, ibuprofen, and he should be fine. Right? Nope. By the next morning, we were back in the medical center getting a cast for this broken wrist. Good news: he could still board since the cast would protect and prevent further damage. I, on the other hand, had taken an ugly fall the afternoon before and reinjured a knee that had suffered similar damage from a similar fall in the past. I was able to ski on it but could definitely feel something wasn’t right. Since we were there, I had my knee examined after Peter’s casting was complete and was told of a likely meniscus injury and given the order not to ski anymore.

Hold on a second. Broken bone = go on back out on the slopes and have fun! A POSSIBLE meniscus strain = sit miserably in the condo for the rest of the week while everyone else around you has a blast?

Now that that’s clear, I knew what I wouldn’t be doing for the rest of the week and that was sitting idle in the condo. Have brace, will ski. I consented to take off the rest of that day and resolved myself to be less daring and fast, and more “don’t hit me, I’m slow and injured” on the slopes but it was better than not skiing at all.

Day four we all returned to the slopes together: John, me, Chase, Peter, his orange cast, and my knee brace. My knee was sore but manageable and I never fell and no one bumped into me thanks to me bellowing “Don’t get so close to me!” at anyone who came within 10 feet. Who wants to get too close to a maniac like that? My feigned lunacy worked to keep a 10 foot protective bubble around me at all times.

Peter continued to hold his own but still fell from time to time thanks to the ice and his relative inexperience. I saw that jarring his casted arm was uncomfortable and by day’s end, I suggested he move to skiing, which would be more likely to keep him upright and off the arm. We determined he would take a ski lesson the next day. However, blustery 126 mph wind gusts derailed our plans. No lifts were open, no electricity in the condo, no internet, not even any cell service. The morning was spent catching up on sleep and the afternoon saved by the return of electricity and the onset of College Football Bowl games.

On our last day, Peter took and enjoyed his ski lesson. At the end of the day, the instructor gave him the thumbs up for green runs. We gave him the option to ski back to our condo along the green run he’d boarded several times earlier in the week or we could take the shuttle bus back. Peter wanted to ski the run—it was the last run of the trip, after all.

We went up the lift and began our journey down—John sent Chase on ahead to board at his own pace since it was the final blast of the trip. John, Peter and I began our much-slower trek down but we weren’t going slower for too long. A short way down, Peter blew past me with considerable speed, announcing as he went by: Whoa! I’m going really fast!

Slow down, slow down, slow down…the words escaped my lips into the cold wind but Peter was unable to obey though I could see he was trying. The ice under his skis was an accelerator regardless of his attempts to snowplow. Halfway across the run, he remembered what I’d said often and I’m sure his instructor reiterated: if you can’t stop, sit down. Bail out. He bailed but not soon enough. Like a baseball player sliding into home base, he sat down but continued his straight arrow shot toward the woods off the side of the run. With jaw-dropping astonishment I watched Peter sail into the air, busting through the ropes that marked the trail’s edge, and--like Wile E Coyote--he seemed to hover for a split second before plummeting out of sight.

The last words of his father before he left on this trip, jokingly: Just don’t run into any trees.

Peter landed against the base of a tree about 12 feet down a 45 degree slope. I beat the record for fastest time clicking out of my skis and flying down the slope to get to him while screaming “Call for help, call for help” to John and anyone else within earshot. Within minutes we were surrounded by Ski Patrol, of which it took about 12 of them to get the never-unconscious Peter onto a back board and up the steep slope to the waiting sled. At the Breckenridge medical center that we were now all too familiar with, he was loaded into an ambulance. I jumped in the passenger seat and we headed for the next town over and extensive checking for internal bleeding or other injuries. John had raced down the run after an unknowing Chase and agreed to meet us there.

After ultrasounds and CT scans, it was discovered that Peter had lacerated his kidney. Luckily the bleeding had stopped but he was ordered to stay overnight in the hospital to ensure it didn’t start again. After settling in to a room, Chase stayed with his friend while John and I raced back and packed and cleaned the condo like lunatics. We returned two hours later and I took Chase’s place and slept on the in-room makeshift bed-from-a-couch. I use the term “slept” lightly considering we had a steady stream of nurses checking and re-poking poor Peter every few hours.

We were released early the next morning, in time to head to Denver for our flight back home.

In all my years of skiing, surrounded by friends and family and skiers of all levels, never have we had such an adventurous trip. Never have I had to call a parent and report bad news and on this trip, it happened twice. But between the incidents and unique situations, there were certainly a lot of good times and overall fantastic memories of the year we skied BREAK-enridge.

Escape the Delete Key: 10 Tips for Applying for a Job

2011-11-14T09:11:00.006-05:00

In my 17 years in Publishing, I have hired (and had to fire! gulp) a fair number of people. Letting someone go is no walk in the park but the hiring process is excruciating, if you ask me. Which you didn't, but you are here reading, so please...continue. ;-)

In pouring over hundreds of resumes, I find that many folks are in desperate need of advice when it comes to submitting a resume that will actually be viewed and then hopefully saved in consideration for a job. Particularly in this day and age when the competition for jobs is so intense.

Over the years, I have literally seen hundreds and hundreds of resumes for various positions. I'm currently hiring an administrative assistant, which is what brings me to this blog entry: the freshness of the ridiculous mistakes people make that disqualify them immediately.

To hopefully help folks in their job pursuit, I thought I'd share some insight into the resume review process so you can see how a reviewer views what is sent in. These are tips for what to do and not do if you hope to have your resume get past a glance and a swift strike of the delete key.

1 - Most resumes are emailed these days so the first thing a hiring company will see is your return email address and name. PartyGirl123@xxx.com isn't doing you any favors. Neither is SweetThang@xxx.com or BonJoviRules@xxx.com. Email addresses can be had for free on any corner of the web--get one specifically for your job search that utilizes a respectable name/address. Your.name@xxx.com. You'll likely need to add some numbers to get a unique enough address. That's ok, but don't use your birthday or birth year.

For your name, be sure to use proper capitalization. I'm amazed at the number of emails that come in "john smith" or "mary anderson" or even "jerry k." Either you don't realize you should capitalize your own name as well as spell the entire thing out, you were too lazy to key it in correctly, or you don't care much about details. None of those are on my list of desirable applicant attributes. Resumes coming from ridiculous email addresses with names that aren't complete and shown in their proper form are deleted immediately.

2 - Follow instructions. If the ad you're responding to specifies a one page resume, only send ONE page. That doesn't mean send you should send only the first page of your normally three-page resume. That means figure out a way to get your experience and qualifications across in a one page document.

**I always specify one page resumes because I do not have the time, nor inclination, to read beyond a page. If your recent experience doesn't qualify you, you're out. So I always tell my friends and family who ask me to compose or review their resumes to limit it to ONE PAGE. Unless you're hiring for a very specific position that requires loads and loads of proven experience, no one reads more. If a resume comes to me longer than the page I specifically requested, DELETE. Either you didn't pay enough attention to see what I asked for or you simply don't follow instructions. Neither shows up on the pros list of desireable hires.

3 - Pay attention to the file name of your resume. People will see it in order to click it open and it's also what the file name will be saved as (usually) if you make it that far. "Resume_thirdedit" or "Resume_updated_USETHISONE" or "MomsResume2009" aren't professional. Two, if saved as is, it gives no indication of who you are vs the other saved resumes when viewed on the hiring person's computer. A simple right click and you can rename to something simple like "YourNameResume."

4 - Do not address any cover letter or note within the body of an email as Dear Sirs. It isn't 1952. Women actually hire people these days--surprise!

5 - Your resume should not consist of paragraphs of text. It's cumbersome to read and folks usually won't bother. Instead, list your name and contact info at the top, then a short objective, your education, and recent experience. Wrap up with any special skills that pertain to the job. Your experience should be listed in bullet point form, each starting with a verb. Incomplete sentences are acceptable since you are trying to convey your talents succinctly:

Oversaw staff of 12 in creative department of national publishing company; tasks included graphic design, print layouts, communication with sales staff, interaction with printer

Checked incoming sales orders and corrected errors before AP created invoices

Worked on year end budgets to insure 20%+ profitability

6 - Format your document consistently and elect to ignore all spelling and grammatical errors. A page of company names and bullet point fragmented sentences will be full of red and green underlines because Microsoft Word abhors all of that. Have all the lines removed so that a person reading the resume sees your text and talents clearly, without the interference of Word's auto-corrects.

7 - No spelling errors. Not in your subject line, email, cover letter or resume. If you can't even get your own information typed in without error, why would I think you, as my new employee, can get my business communication correct?

8 - Use correct grammar and punctuation. Again, if you are hired, you will be representing a company that prefers its people realize that proper nouns should be capitalized and that a comma goes before the conjunction when joining two complete sentences. "I feel my career experience suits your open position at The Smith Company, and I would love the opportunity to speak with you further."

Leading your email with "I seen your ad..." or some other charming misuse of the English language is as far as I get before hitting DELETE.

9 - Tailor your resume to the job you're applying for. A single resume isn't a catch-all that will be suited to all jobs. Read what a company is needing and make sure your resume and qualifications clearly demonstrate that you're a match. It's usually a matter of highlighting some tasks at a previous job more than others.

10 - Never include a photo or any information about yourself that is irrelevant. I do not care if you were a cheerleader in school, a member of a sorority, babysat for the neighborhood free of charge, or took sewing classes. Yes, some people actually list those things.

I see these 10 mistakes made all the time, and when I have 100+ resumes for a single position, it only takes one of them to get an applicant deleted without looking any further.

If you're serious about landing a job, put time into your resume and into the email that sends it. Pay attention to details and scrutinize it as your recipient will. Next, have someone else look at it to be sure it reads correctly and easily conveys your best qualities before you hit Send. You only get one shot to make a good first impression.

The Highland Swing Hoax

2011-03-18T08:45:00.000-04:00

Writing about the Mind Bender episode of my childhood reminds me of another amusement park story--this one of me and my son and our trip to Six Flags a couple years ago.

As a 13 year old, Chase has just started to enjoy roller coasters. When he was 10, he wanted no part of them. This is much like I was at the same age, prior to being broken of my coaster fear by a wayward Mind Bender (see previous post). So while I tried to encourage Chase to give them a try, I wouldn't pressure or force him to ride roller coasters.

This particular summer, we decided to join some friends on a trip to Six Flags, friends who are roller coaster fanatics. The Doolittles consist of four: mom Melinda, dad Jimmy, sister Sydney, brother Connor (Chase's friend who we met them all through). I love them all, and they all love the high-flying fun that 60+ mph brings you on a hot summer day.

My husband could take or leave roller coasters--oh he of bad back--and most decidedly cannot stand 100 degree heat or crowds. Put the two together and it's John's personal Hell. Which makes going with him my personal Hell so we agreed this year to both do what we wanted (me to go and him to not go) and both be happy with the other's choice.

So Chase and I tagged along with the roller-coaster-loving Doolittles. Once at Six Flags, we zoomed straight for an area called Gotham City and one of the best rides in the park: Batman. The Batman coaster has passengers sitting below the tracks, hanging from them as it were. It's the coolest sensation. Chase was having no part of it. And as it turns out, he wouldn't have had any say in the matter because he wasn't tall enough to ride anyway. Which meant that Chase's pal Connor also wasn't tall enough. You could see the dejection written as clearly on Melinda, Jimmy and Sydney's faces as if I'd written it on their foreheads: No Batman for You! I took pity on them: You guys go on, I said. I'll take the boys up to the Highland Swings while you ride Batman.

The three of them scrambled away, racing off to get in line with barely an "Are you sure?" yelled over their shoulders. Positive! I yelled back and steered my twosome toward the swings that were nearby. Chase likes these a lot--nothing to fear here. But Chase and I were tight and he still liked the comfort of me being nearby so he was thrilled that I was the one taking them and would be riding with.

While in line, the boys stared up at the swings with each run the ride took. After a few, I thought I'd just see if I could tease Chase a little and see what his reaction would be if he thought he'd have to brave the swings alone. "Hmmmm, look at those seats," I worriedly commented.

"What about them?" Chase asked.

"I'm not sure I can fit in one of them," I tsked. "You and Connor might be going on this one without me."

Now, I'm a size 10 on any given day of the week and these seats were load tested for much more than I could bring. But I knew Chase wouldn't think that through; I was just trying to bring up a reason I couldn't go. Chase turned worried eyes to the swings, assessing the potential risks and how much greater they'd be for him if I wasn't in a swing five feet away. "I think you'll be alright, mom. You need to ride it with us... Yeah, you definitely need to ride with us. Don't you think it'll be ok? I won't ride if you can't ride..."

Just as I thought--my sweet boy was still a little boy. Didn't want to ride without his ol' mom. Warmed my heart. "Well, maybe it'll be alright," I told him, and he settled back into the excitement and anticipation of the ride.

A few more rotations and 20 minutes later, it was at last our turn. The gates opened and everyone raced forward, claiming a chain-held swing so they could at least be near others in their group. We were no different. In we charged and Chase grabbed an inside swing, Connor the one in front of him and I took an outside swing positioned between them. We all lifted the bars and took our seats, lowering the bar and hooking the chain. I was watching to be sure they did theirs correctly when Chase turned around to look at me and projected in a voice that was crystal clear and amazingly loud for a 10 year old: "See Mom? I told you that you wouldn't be too fat to fit in a swing!"

OMG. I bet I turned red to the tips of my toes as everyone in the vicinity swung around to take a look at what tub was trying to wedge into a seat and tip the potential weight limit of the ride. "I was just kidding," is all I managed to mumble. Lesson learned, I thought. Tease a 10 year old unnecessarily and you will pay the price.

Swings were fun though. :-)

The Mind Bender Debacle

2011-01-31T14:30:00.002-05:00

Once the new year kicks in and the holidays are another 11 months away, I almost immediately begin counting down to summer. While I love the Fall weather best, the only good thing about cold weather is Christmas and our snow skiing trip. After that, I've got no use for the cold. Bring on summer, sand and sun.

In addition to sandy beaches, aqua blue waters, and refreshing frozen fruity drinks in my tanned hands, I also love amusement parks. And the one nearest and dearest to me is Six Flags Over Georgia.

I used to be a frequenter of Six Flags as a child. We lived on the same side of town as the park and my mother worked close by. Oh, and child molestation wasn't nearly as rampant back then apparently (so it seemed), because there were more days than I could count when a friend and I would be dropped off at the front gate with a mere 10 or 12 years to our credit and $5 in our pocket for food and drinks. Snort! Can you imagine? I'm not sure which is more appalling--letting your 10 year old run free in a huge amusement park (surely a molester's hang-out of choice) or thinking that $5 would get you more than a box of cracker jacks, let alone a day's worth of nourishment. But we did it often and I'm still here to tell the tales.

Once my son was old enough to appreciate the chills and thrills of Six Flags, I took him for some amusement ride fun. Not alone of course. My fanny was always in tow. But Chase proved to be like me in my younger years: not a fan of roller coasters. It took my best elementary school friend Missy Davis taunting and harassing me into riding one that broke me of the fear. Today, I think there are eight roller coasters in the park. Then, there were two: the Scream Machine, a rickety, wooden coaster comprised of rolling, steep hills, and the Mind Bender, a new age coaster on steel tracks with twists, turns, and the mother of all coaster characteristics: the upside down loop.

Count me out.

But Missy wore me down with begging and coercing and at last, I caved (I thought: just this once) and in line we went. One middle seat for me please! I thought, where I could hide my fears between the pony tales and tank tops of the folks in front and behind me. However, once we got to the front, Missy informed me that only the front row would do. I was trapped--how could I make a scene in front of all the hot sweaty folks packed into the no-fan-blowing pavilion? I couldn't. After all, I was a mature 5th grader. (5th grade!) So onto the first row we went and after checking and assessing my safety bar 15 times, the coaster began its herky-jerky, lumbering progression forward and immediately up the steepest hill of them all. With each clank of the chain that advanced our train of terror (in my mind), I panicked a little more. Missy's reassurances meant nothing to me now--how could she do this to me?!

At the top, we swooped around in a half moon to crest the first of several plummets on the ride, this one immediately into an overhead loop. The terror in my eyes had to be visible from the ground. But before we could begin the treacherous, 60 mph descent, the car came to a sudden, grinding, most unexpected halt...right on the precipice of the mack daddy drop. And there we sat: static in an amusement world where dynamic is the name of the game.

After 15 or 20 minutes, our sky high party was joined by three-piece-suited guys who climbed the circling emergency stairs to investigate what had brought us to a stop. After another 20 or so minutes of quiet debate, they decided (I hope with an engineer's input) that they could push the coaster on down the first hill and the ride would safely carry us through the complete journey. Really? Just how sure were they??? But that's what they did. And made it through, we did, arriving back to the loading pavilion and a wildly cheering crowd.

Now, this could have ended one of two ways--the more obvious and perhaps more likely being that I never set foot on another roller coaster again. But that's not the path I choose. Instead, the 45 minute pause at the crest of the highest hill broke me of my fears and the Mind Bender Debacle actually launched my love affair with roller coasters that continues today.

Me and My Shadow

2011-01-10T12:00:00.002-05:00

It was nearly a year ago that I lost my beloved Bailey--the Sheltie I'd gotten as a 6-week old puppy and who'd been my rock as I weathered many of life's storms and my celebration partner for the good times over the last 14 years. It nearly killed me to lose her.

Bailey was the first Sheltie I owned but the second I'd lost--for nine of Bailey's years, I also had Jess, a second Sheltie that I'd adopted at 7 months old. Dogs are pack animals and I believe they are happier with one of their own nearby. I adored them both--as a dog lover, having a couple of my own rounded out my life.

I lost Jess when he was nine: kidney failure. Knowing you're going to lose an animal because they're aging at least lets you prepare. Losing Jess came out of the blue and I cried for a week solid. My son remembers this time as when "you cried so much your face was purple." About six months later, we adopted a then-four year old Teddy the Beagle who was and still is 100 percent my husband's dog. They are inseparable. And for the next five years, I had Bailey and John had Teddy. Along with two cats we adopted, it was a great menagerie. (Poor Chase did wonder when he would have an animal. But animals choose their owners as much as we choose them.) And then I had to let Bailey go in February 2010. For the first time in too many years, I had lost the adjective "dog owner" and it was odd to me. As much as I love dogs, I didn't actually have one anymore. Sure, Teddy resided with us and would settle for my company if John wasn't home. But he isn't my dog.

I didn't want to rush adopting another dog for myself, however. I travel weekly and felt that if I got another dog, with me being gone so often, it would choose John as its owner/master. Not only would that put more responsibility on him, I'd be back at square one anyway. I felt like, when the time was right to adopt another fluff ball and when the right dog came along, I'd just know.

A couple weeks ago, I was on my iPhone and on a whim I downloaded the PetFinder app. Couldn't hurt to just look around, I thought. DJ was the second Sheltie I saw and there was something that drew me to him. I emailed an inquiry. He was nine years old and all I could think was that most folks aren't keen on adopting a dog that advanced in years. Like me, most are thinking how they'll fall in love with the animal and then only have limited time with them. But it was for that reason that I couldn't stop returning and looking at DJ. What life was he leading now if he was with a family who couldn't afford to care properly for him or just didn't want him anymore? After nine years. Dogs have much love to give--I couldn't shake how sad it would be for him to live out his remaining years alone and unwanted.

My first email lead me to Margie, the marvelous rescue gal, and before I knew it, she and I were swapping stories and information--me about my life, family, home; she about DJ, his past, current situation.

A week later, Margie pulled into my driveway with DJ in the front seat. I took one look and loved him instantly. A couple hours of time spent together to ensure he would blend with our family and that our animals would accept him, and he was officially mine.

DJ is a great addition to our home. He's a lady's dog--definitely preferring women to men--but he does like John as well...as his second choice. LOL He has certainly chosen to be my dog. In fact, he is my shadow--if I go from my office to the kitchen for coffee, he comes along. Upstairs to grab something quick, he's bounding the stairs with me. TV time or reading at night, he's laying beside me, content to simply be near. And working now, he's lying at my feet. I'm thrilled for me and thrilled for him because, whatever his history, I know the rest of his life will be a luxurious one filled with treats, fireside naps, a Beagle companion, and lots of love and attention.

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Check him out--outside by a fire pit, DJ had enough of lying by my feet and decided he needed to be in my lap. Up into the camp chair he jumped. It was precarious in that less-than-sturdy chair but he made it work.

Bested by the Brine

2010-12-27T12:19:00.003-05:00

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.

39 plus one

2010-11-11T11:08:00.004-05:00

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.

A Tragic Loss, A Lesson to Learn

2010-10-18T15:18:00.003-04:00

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.

The Carnage Conga Line

2010-10-03T22:01:00.005-04:00

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.

Tipping the Scales

2010-09-07T09:17:00.003-04:00

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.

The Pocketbook Doth Suffer

2010-08-11T22:50:00.004-04:00

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.

The Judicial System Nightmare

2010-07-14T11:53:00.002-04:00

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.”

Confssions of a Priceline Junkie

2010-06-30T13:06:00.003-04:00

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.

Adding a Pound

2010-06-22T14:40:00.005-04:00

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:

Waking Up to a Nightmare

2010-06-11T15:58:00.003-04:00

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.

Being Clairvoyant

2010-05-19T10:28:00.003-04:00

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.

A Bum Wheel

2010-05-13T12:51:00.004-04:00

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!

Sun, Surf, Sand and Strip Clubs

2010-05-04T12:09:00.004-04:00

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.

Blue-haired Epiphanies

2010-04-14T17:16:00.006-04:00

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.

Cheap Shots and No Morals

2010-03-23T18:28:00.003-04:00

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.

Our player in white getting pushed from behind: illegal.

Again, our kid in white...the one on the ground.

Meeting Noah

2010-03-10T15:32:00.006-05:00

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

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

Remembering Bailey

2010-02-09T13:47:00.005-05:00

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:

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:

Women Over 40

2010-02-07T13:10:00.004-05:00

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

Haitian Heartbreak

2010-01-16T12:53:00.004-05:00

My heart breaks for the people of Haiti. As I've gone through the past few days, handling the day to day business and dealing with my typical level of stress, I constantly drift back to what is going on in that devastated country. And I realize my concern over finances or relationships or the economy is nothing compared to what relatives are going through wondering if their brother, mother, son, etc are alive or buried under rubble, hoping to be found in time.

My son's French teacher is from Haiti and as of today, she has heard from all of her brothers who still live in Haiti except one. Her mother dials his phone hundreds of times a day, and the never answered rings are haunting. Is his phone lost or out of commission, are the lines too jammed to get through, or is it worse? She must be out of her mind with worry.

As I left for work yesterday morning, I caught a glimpse of a story on the news about an 11 year old girl who was trapped under a collapsed structure, all of her buried except for her face, miraculously. At least she could breathe and the rescue workers were talking to her and consoling her as they worked to free her as quickly as possible. Her inner strength was almost tangible as she merely looked around, far more calm than I would be in a like situation and particularly considering the pain she must have been in. As I cried, I thanked God for the safety of my own 11 year old and prayed for the strength of her parents to help their daughter and the strength of the workers who were working tirelessly to free her. The announcer revealed that she was indeed eventually freed but her injuries were extensive; they feared she would lose one of her legs but she was alive. A better fate than many faced.

It certainly gives you a new perspective on what you think your troubles are here. And it's good to see the world coming to the aid of these people who need everything: food, medical care, a place to sleep, water, every basic necessity. If you can, please help. $5, $10...it doesn't have to be much, but give something. One way to do so is via Food for the Poor, the largest international relief agency in the U.S. Or donate $10 to the Red Cross by texting "Haiti" to 9-0-9-9-9. And then count your blessings here and send up a prayer for the Haitian people and those who are working to help them.

The New Year Syllable Spectrum

2010-01-02T20:19:00.005-05:00

A new year, I can hardly believe it. The holidays were good ones; they usually are. Mine were heaped in lots of change, some of which affects me personally, daily. Some of which is remote but significant just the same. In my immediate family and circle of friends, however, all is good and for that I am grateful.

I was a little bitter not to be skiing over New Years, as has been an annual tradition for my husband and I for...well, ever. But the horrendous economy put a screeching halt to that. Oh well, we have our health and there were gifts under the tree and food on the table--we're fortunate, to be sure.

For my resolution this year, I'm keeping it low key. In fact, I don't usually even make a New Year resolution because I think if you only resolve to do something differently because you're now writing two different digits at the end of your dates, are you really committed to sticking to it? If you want to quit smoking, why does it have to be Jan 1st to do so? If you really want to quit, then quit. Even if it's October 10th or August 5th--as non-resolutiony as those dates seem. Anyway, I'm breaking tradition and do have a resolution this year, one that's really only appropriate because of the year it is: and that's to get comfortable uttering a single syllable as the abbreviated year in any date I say aloud. When does my credit card expire? "February Third, Ten." When's the wedding? "June First, Ten."

Ten. When all but two years out of a hundred are double, triple and even quadruple syllables even when abbreviated (even the first years of the decade--05, 08, etc--were offered as "Oh five and Oh eight"), now quipping "Ten!" is awkward. (Racking your brain for the other single syllable abbreviated year? Don't strain yourself. It's Twelve.) Sure, I could resort to coughing out the full "Two Thousand Ten," but geez, you could take a nap before you get that whole thing uttered. So rather than try to lose weight, exercise, halt the cussing (a commitment I've failed at often), or cut the chocolate consumption, I'll diligently work to find a cool way to say the new year without resorting to the opposite end of the syllable spectrum. After all, I need chocolate to cope with all the change.

Happy Ten, everybody!

Lolly Pops and Unicorns

2009-12-10T15:48:00.008-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Procrastination is Hereditary

2009-11-23T23:01:00.003-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mother, May I?

2009-11-10T09:29:00.003-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Birthdays in the Electronic Age

2009-11-04T08:43:00.002-05:00

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

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

Thanks to all for the Birthday wishes...

Haunted House Hell

2009-10-22T16:02:00.004-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Am a Multi-taskaholic

2009-10-21T20:47:00.004-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Say No to Pink Tu-Tu's

2009-10-11T20:21:00.003-04:00

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

Dogs don't like to be dressed in clothes.

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

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

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

Welcoming Addie

2009-10-09T23:03:00.006-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

Carlee Addison Beck:

Me and my sister Erin, pre-Addie:

Customer Service: It DOES Exist

2009-09-30T13:33:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Adventures of the Morning Commute

2009-09-24T10:27:00.004-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Atlanta May Wash Away

2009-09-21T11:15:00.005-04:00

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

I should just go back to bed.

Middle Schoolers: Shameless but Good Musical Taste

2009-09-14T08:24:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Little Personal Space

2009-09-03T16:00:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

Wearing Pants Instead of Pearls

2009-08-27T11:28:00.006-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The (Smelly) Test of Love

2009-08-21T09:19:00.007-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-08-18T10:21:00.006-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

The Meaning Behind the Markers

2009-08-11T10:08:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Running Toward the Weekend

2009-08-06T17:50:00.004-04:00

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

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

Lord, let some of them be good.

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

The Nocturnal Beagle

2009-08-03T10:00:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carny Thrills Now Available

2009-07-29T09:29:00.008-04:00

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

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

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

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

One Mean Wave

2009-07-24T10:06:00.007-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Theme Park Delusions

2009-07-19T22:37:00.004-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

River Tubing: Brrrrrr!

2009-07-14T10:32:00.006-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beating Down the Flames: Wild West Style

2009-07-10T14:12:00.006-04:00

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

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

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

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

2009-07-06T12:04:00.004-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

The Longest Night Ever

2009-07-02T10:01:00.009-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another hour.

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

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

What Not To Do on a Hot Summer Day

2009-06-28T20:25:00.006-04:00

Things not to do in the deep south, when it's nearly 100 degrees and about 90% humidity:

Run a marathon
Have a camp fire
Go to Six Flags

Guess which I did today? Three days ago, while sitting in my comfy air-conditioned house, my friend Tracy asked if Chase and I would like to join her and her two sons at Six Flags this weekend. In the air-conditioned house, the idea sounded great. When she told me she had coupons (gotta have the coups) to get us in for $10 each, even better.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice said: "Are you serious? In 100 degree heat?" But as is far too common, I squelched that voice of reason, telling myself that roller coasters offer lots of wind that is refreshingly cooling. And while this is true, the total 3 minutes that we spent on actual wind-refreshing rides wasn't quite enough to offset the hours spent in absolute broiling heat.

We arrived and hit the first roller coaster we saw, the Georgia Cyclone. This rickety piece of wooden thrills is an old fave of mine. And the line took a mere 20 minutes to get to the front. 20 minutes of me regaling the three boys with my work experience at Six Flags. It was my first job (the ugly truth comes out: I'm a carnie. Don't judge me; I gave up velcro shoes a long time ago). 20 minutes of standing in line and spinning carnie tales, and I was sweating like I'd just stepped out of a sauna. Not pretty.

And look, friends, I am not a sweater. And by sweater, I don't mean a piece of clothing, obviously. I'm not someone who sweats a lot. No Sweaty-McSweats-a-lot here. But today if you'd seen me, you'd be calling me a Bald-Faced Liar. Wow, it was a whole new level of H-O-T. So by the time we got to the actual ride, I couldn't wait. Here it is, I thought, the cooling portion of the day. And for the next 30 seconds, the breeze was heavenly but unfortunately the ride was excruciating. I'm not a fraidy-cat and love a good coaster. But this beast made me feel like my insides had been shaken up like a martini. What the hell? Are the weather worn tracks atop wooden slats covered in peeling paint advertising the coaster's age just that beaten up now or did I get old? Yeah, I agree--it's the former.

We proceeded to the Log Ride, Mindbender, Highland Swings, and Batman Ride. By the time we got through those, I looked like a hussie at a wet t-shirt contest. We decided to trudge our way to Thunder River, hoping for a cool splash off. The splash off became a soak down since I ended up in the wettest seat on the ride and was drowned from head to toe; it was excellent.

The last couple hours of Six Flags heaven were spent in the water park, Skull Island. Thank God for this gem. Too bad it's in the very back of the park but beggars can't be choosers. On our way out, Chase coerced me out of $2 to play the basketball game, which I spent 15 minutes telling him was a colossal waste of money. What's th' boy go and do? Sink his first shot and earn himself a Duke basketball. The show-off.

Great to spend the day with my favorite 11 year old and good friends. But lord, we gotta find something a little less sweaty to do next time.

Vacation Withdrawals

2009-06-22T14:21:00.007-04:00

Hello friends!

I know what you've been thinking: what a slacker this girl is. Who starts a blog and then lets it sit, un-updated for, like, nearly two weeks? I don't blame you. I'm disgusted with myself.

Ok, I'm really not. And it's because I have a really good reason for not having updated my blog in over a week: I was without communication (telephonic, textonic or blogonic) because I was sailing around the world (alright, the Caribbean) on a big old cruise ship. And if you think that technology today has advanced to the degree that I could have been blogging away with my right hand while sipping a CocoLoco frozen fruity concoction with my left (or vice versa cause I'm talented like that), you would be right. However, if you think that AT&T wouldn't take the opportunity to gouge you with through-the-nose charges for such luxury, you would be wrong. So alas, the vacation forced me to be away from technology for a complete week. Not a bad gig, really. Once I got through the withdrawal symptoms.

Now I'm back and so happy to see my menagerie; however, I'm going through a different kind of withdrawal: Surf and Sand Withdrawals. I'm particularly envious of independently wealthy people at the moment, wishing I could be one and spend 51 weeks in the Caribbean and 1 week working, instead of vice versa. The week was relaxing and we visited beautiful locations, best of all getting to show our son Chase our favorite place in the entire world: St John in the USVI. He loved it like we do. We had excellent weather on a superb boat (Freedom of the Seas by Royal Caribbean) with cool entertainment, the most hysterical cruise director who kept us all laughing, plenty of pool chairs, multiple cans of 30 spf that prevented the sunburn I'm notorious for getting, and lots of waiters walking around bellowing "It's CocoLoco time!" Man, I miss those guys.

Here's a little peek into the week...

Me and BFF Heather, getting ready to set sail:

Hubby, Chase and Me – how can you not be smiling on a cruise??

Three words: Where’s the buffet? No really: Belly Flop Competition. Believe it or not, this guy was not the winner…altho you gotta give him some style points.

Paradise on earth: St John, USVI

Chase demonstrating his (as he puts it) mad skills at the best place on earth: St. John

Health & Happiness: Don't Take it for Granted

2009-06-07T22:40:00.003-04:00

What a weekend--sunny days and plans for being outside and celebrating with friends. And then, in the span of a phone call, utter speechlessness over the unfairness of life.

We're one week down and one to go with Chase's camp experience. It's been tough as hell to be away from him, to have no communication other than the written letter. I've sent him several; I've received two, amazingly. But not seeing him or even hearing his voice...now that's hard. It's been a smack of reality, what life would be like if we had no children. And I don't like it a bit. Even worse, since I know I do have a child and I know how he looks, his personality, his quirks and mannerisms, being completely without him now offers some tiny understanding of what it would be like to have and then lose a child. And that has always been what I consider the most horrific of all life experiences. Thank God, Thank God, Thank God that is not my situation. And then, in the midst of thanking my stars that my child is merely three hours away, safe and sound, my close friend Tracy has found out that her one year old niece is most likely dying.

Abigail had a basic childhood cold about nine months ago; it was persistent and, it turns out, not just a basic cold. She was diagnosed with leukemia. And not only that, but she had the far worse type, called AML. It's rare (two in 100,000 cases of leukemia are AML), it's aggressive and has a propensity to return, tough to beat. Her best chances were to receive chemotherapy and then ideally, a bone marrow transplant. Amazingly, her older sister was a perfect bone marrow match.

Months of hospital stays, ration after ration of horrible chemotherapy and the side-effects that go with it, constant fear that the disease would be stronger than the medications. She survived the chemo and a few months ago, Abigail had a bone marrow transplant, with her sister acting as her possible savior.

Everything looked good afterwards--we thanked the Lord, thanked our lucky stars, praised her older sister and believed we'd never take for granted again a healthy child.

Last Friday, a slight fever triggered the discovery of the worst: the leukemia has returned. Not even 100 days since her transplant, the doctors say this is very, very bad. There are only a couple options now, neither of which look good. They would be incredibly harsh and have such remote odds of success, they instead could actually be what ultimately steals her life. Tracy's sister and brother in law aren't sure it's worth putting their little girl through it. And if they don't, they're looking at weeks Abigail has left, a month or two, tops.

It's a tragedy beyond words, a situation that every parent places at the top of their most dreaded list. I remember a professor of mine in college talking about death. As we listened, he told us all that death was not the worse thing in the world. What, we wondered? How could it not be? "How about watching your child die? Isn't that worse that losing your own life?" Bingo, I agreed. That is indeed the worst thing life could hand you.

Do you have a child? Of any age? Hug him or her or call them if you're not nearby, be thankful because a happy, healthy life isn't a given. And there are people out there who would give anything to trade places with you. And after you hug your child, send a prayer up for little Abigail and her family.

You Think YOU'RE Tired?

2009-06-01T21:40:00.007-04:00

I dropped Chase off at camp yesterday. So as to not dwell on my keening and the acute sense of loss I feel knowing my only child will be gone for so long, I will opt instead to share with you a great email story I just received. I loved this:

An older, tired-looking dog wandered into my yard. I could tell from his collar and well-fed belly that he had a home and was well taken care of.

He calmly came over to me, I gave him a few pats on his head; he then followed me onto my porch. Loving dogs, I let him come with me into my house, and he slowly walked down the hall, curled up in the corner and fell asleep.

An hour later, he got up, walked to my door, and I let him out.

The next day he was back, greeted me in my yard, walked inside and resumed his spot in the hall and again slept for about an hour. This continued off and on for several weeks.

Curious, one day I pinned a note to his collar: "I would like to find out who the owner of this wonderful sweet dog is and ask if you are aware that almost every afternoon your dog comes to my house for a nap."

The next day he arrived for his nap, with a different note pinned to his collar: "He lives in a home with six children, 2 under the age of 3 - he's trying to catch up on his sleep. Can I come with him tomorrow?"

Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah

2009-05-30T08:29:00.007-04:00

Today is a busy day around my household. It involves--unfortunately--the dreaded task of packing. I hate packing. It's tedious. Love to travel; hate to pack. A conundrum.

Today, however, I'm not packing me so much as I'm packing my 11 year old son Chase who is leaving tomorrow for...I can't even believe it...two weeks of camp. Two weeks. No communication except for the written letter--delivered by the USPS--actual print on paper, folded in an envelope, stamped and sent via pony express (practically! I just had a package I mailed three months ago get returned because the address was "insufficient." Three months it took to come back. Seriously?). Can you believe? How archaic, this letter writing, and yet, that's the only way I will hear from him. I've had to threaten an ice cream ban if I don't get at least three letters.

I do realize I voluntarily signed him up for this--nine months ago, I knew it'd be tough but now that it's here, I think I should contact the camp and advise them to question the sanity of the applicant. She might not have it all together. (A sentiment I find myself thinking more frequently these days in general!)

No trepidation for Chase though; he can't wait to get to camp. He went last year for a week, his first stayover camp. He absolutely loved it, coming home bubbling over about the things he'd done, and the things he had not done (like shower frequently). The taste of independence for him was heavenly--choose what you want to eat, when to bathe (or if to bathe), what to do each day. He's talked about it since the minute he came home. Not surprising. This place, called Camp Cosby, hasn't been around since 1922 without knowing how to show children the time of their lives. The camp is set on a huge parcel of wooded land in eastern Alabama alongside a lake. The kids stay in cabins with AC (it ain't that rustic), eat all three meals in the "mess hall," have nightly campfires and entertaining skits by counselors, sing big group funny songs and every day they choose any five activities they'd like to do out of the umpteen offered. And we're not talking drawing and storytime. We're talking outdoor adventure. He can wakeboard/waterski (which he loves doing), ride dirt bikes, ride the zip line, go horseback riding, shoot b-b guns, jump on this enormous inflatable, swim, try his hand at archery, and much more. What a kid's dream! And Chase even saved his money all year from holidays, birthday, goals scored to go for a second week this summer. I was proud of his accomplishment and dedication and he can't get there fast enough. But now that it's time to send him off, I'm wondering how I'll survive.

Here's one thing I do know: If I can get the old song "Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah" out of my head, the weeks will go much better.

Summertime & the Social Butterfly

2009-05-27T12:27:00.003-04:00

So ensues the first week of summer around my house. My 11 year old finished his last elementary school year last Friday and the social butterfly has already got a full dance card. I'm wondering when it's appropriate to begin asking him and all his friends to kick in for gas.

In the 5.5 days he's been done with school, I've done more schlepping around that I think I did the entire month prior to school wrapping up. Taxi anyone?

Friday night: school's out swim party at a Friend A's house
Saturday night: school's out party at Friend B's house
Sunday: spending the night at Friend C's house
Monday: retrieval from Friend C's house--bring Friend C and his brother home with us to spend the night
Tuesday: soccer tryouts; Friends again spend the night
Wednesday (today): return Friends to their house, more soccer tryouts tonight

And still, I've been asked, amazingly: Mom, what can I/we do? We're bored!!

Here are my new options: 1. Entertain yourself or 2. I've got some math problems you could work on. Amazing how attractive Option 1 suddenly becomes.

Welcome to Summer!

In God We Trust

2009-05-20T14:36:00.006-04:00

Here in the south, we've had some screwy weather lately. It went from our typical winter directly to highs in the high 80s in the blink of an eye and we've been deluged by rain (a rare occurrence). Then for the past couple days and even today, there's a brisk snap in the air and the highs are now barely stretching to the 70s. Add a few 25 mpg wind gusts, and I don't know whether to don a parka or opt for sunscreen and tank top any given day.

In the nail salon yesterday, I was talking to a gal of Asian descent and she mentioned the odd weather. I agreed that it was bizarre indeed and I wish we could just settle into a routine. She told me that ancient Chinese tradition says that odd weather like this--cool when it should be hot, up and down, etc--is an indication that God is displeased with authority. That was her word, and she was unsure if it translated precisely, but basically, government, leadership, Congress, the President--those who hold authority. The strange weather pattern was God's way of showing that what the "authority" was doing was unwise or not His desire.

Interesting. There are many views on what the good ole government is doing these days--many opinions on the bail-outs, nationalized medicine, taxes, the fledgling economy. I try to avoid discussing politics because you're just going to tick off one side or the other and rarely can you alter someone's opinion on this sort of thing. You're pro-O or anti-O, waving the red flag or the blue one. But one thing is for certain: the country is torn over it all and I wonder if God's voice is coming through in a way that most modern folks wouldn't consider but the ancient Chinese follow closely. It's rare that you hear of God and politics together these days anyway, unless it's the token speech culmination "May God Bless America" or when people begin discussing the removal of our national motto--voted on and resoundingly passed by Congress in 1956--"In God We Trust" from our currency, or taking God out of the Pledge of Allegiance. Incidentally, how contradictory to wish for God to bless America but then want to remove all traces of Him from currency, pledge of allegiance, school football games, prayer in schools, etc.?

Every wonder why God is distanced from politics now? It wasn't so long ago that God guided everything we did--from the top of the government to the poorest of people.

Abraham Lincoln said: "The way is plain, peaceful, generous...if followed, the world will forever applaud, and God must forever bless."

JFK said: "...the belief that the rights of man come not from the generosity of the state but from the hand of God."

Martin Luther King Jr said: "Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, we are free at last."

God is the foundation of conscious--personal conscious and national conscious. These leaders and many before and after them strove to follow God's will when helping to direct our country. It helped them determine what was morally correct. Yet as recently as our last president, George W. Bush, it seems more popular to now ridicule any leader who openly walks with or mentions God favorably.

Regardless of religious choosing or political views, it's scary to remove a higher power from our everyday life. If you remove God from politics, what then drives our national conscious and helps guide our leaders to choose right from wrong? Over 200 years ago, God's values drove our forefathers as they created a new country. Why would that be different today? And if it's not God who helps to determine right and wrong, what does?

I don't mean to come across preachy; it's something that I really wonder about and consider alarming. What the gal said to me yesterday reminded me of a two part sermon given at my church a few weeks ago. If you have some time on your hands, check it out. A message titled God & Country, it really gives you something to think about--delivered by an absolutely dynamite speaker, Andy Stanley. He's not a fire and brimstone guy shoving religion down everyone's throat, so don't worry. He's just down to earth, drawing parallels between the Bible and what's going on today, and giving us all food for thought in a way that is enjoyable to listen to. Find it here:

http://www.northpoint.org/messages

Scroll to the God & Country Messages and watch one or either parts. Well worth the time.

Rules for the Gym Locker Room

2009-05-18T14:33:00.006-04:00

Why is it that all sense of propriety goes out the window in a public gym locker room? Where are these people coming from who think the locker room is the place to bare it all? "Go naked or go home" is clearly the motto...if you're over 60 years old or 300 pounds. Since no one else strutting their stuff in the nude is under 60 or under 300 pounds, do they think it's a club to which only their elite can be part of? And what about other general, keep your nudity to yourself standards that seem to be exempt in this place?

My husband and I were chatting about this the other day after he returned from a gym visit that offered up some particularly attractive sights post-workout. And by attractive, I mean scary-ugly. John and his bad back have decided to give the steam room a whirl after working out--loosen the muscles, sweat out the bad stuff. And there is a sign that specifically states you are supposed to wear a towel in the sauna. For women, I've never known this to be a problem. Everyone discretely wraps a towel around themselves, doing the little tuck-in number at the top to hold it in place.

For the men's sauna, the sign is evidently more necessary--No junk flop allowed--but also apparently given little regard by these naked anarchists. (Screw the establishment!) And what you end up with are guys who go in, sit down and just drape the towel over themselves. Ok, so you're not exposing all your glory to the world (or, you know, the sauna crowd) but what about the nudie parts that are on the bench with no protective towel keeping the creepy crawleys from going into unpleasant places? If you're not concerned about what you might be leaving behind for the next guy who sits down, at least think about what you might be picking up from the dude before you. Penicillin shot, anyone?

Inside the sauna, it is appropriate to be dressed in only your skin (with the appropriately wrapped towel, thank you) but outside the sauna, I've got news for the birthday suit-wearing folks cruising the locker room sinks and counters. You're putting on a show no one wants to see.

To the guys reading this, thinking: wait, I wouldn't mind seeing that show in the female version. Trust me, you don't. Because we're not talking the old movie scenes (think: Porky's and other Oscar-worthy classics) where beautiful chicks walk around in panties alone (or even panty-less, if you were lucky) in the ladies locker room. Yeah, that doesn't happen. If you were to cut a hole in the wall of my gym, oh you'd see nudity and plenty of it. But it'd be of the Sharpei-variety as opposed to the Greyhound-variety, if you catch my drift. The old gals do love to show off what life has done to their wizened bodies. It's quite the sight. Just not one you'd want to see and I wish they'd realize the rest of us women do not care to see it either.

In the men's room, I'm told that the same problem exists but rather than age being the requisite for baring it all, weight is. You have to have 40+ inches around the waistline to qualify and a hefty shoulder to hold the towel that's slung over it, mocking everyone who walks by because it isn't where it should be: around the owner's waist. Shaving, blow-drying hair, brushing teeth...all done gloriously naked with a pot belly offering up not quite enough party hat to cover the clown below.

If you're one who thought this was a great club you'd earned admission to through the consumption of extra calories or the passing of many years, please stop. Go screw some other establishment but the rest of us at the gym ask that you please adhere to the rules: No Junk Flop Allowed.

Happy Mutha's Day, Soccer-Style

2009-05-11T21:59:00.004-04:00

Happy Belated Mother's Day to all you mothers out there (not to be confused with mutha's). I realize I'm a day late on this but since I'm a day late and a dollar short for most things in my life, this is really just par for the course for me.

On Mother's Day each year (well, for the last 11 years), I remember vividly when I was a child on Mother's Day and asking with a sneer--as I'm sure all kids do--"Mother's Day? When is it going to be kids day?" And what's the answer? Of course: "EVVVVVERY day is kids day." That answer ticked me off at the time because there was certainly no special day of gifts and presents that came kids' way, not counting, you know, Christmas, Easter or birthdays. But lord, once you are a parent, is there any more true statement than EVERY day is kids day? And now, my own son asks me that same question each Mother's/Father's Day. And he gives me the same look of disgust I'm sure I wore when hearing the infamous answer.

So in keeping with every day being kids day, we spent Mother's Day weekend at the soccer field. And not just any soccer field, but one that was a gazillion miles away, playing games that were scheduled just far enough apart that it was senseless to drive home between them but a long enough duration that we had some serious time to kill.

What I learned during that time to kill is that the parents of our soccer team are the coolest. And I have seven years of soccer parents to compare them to, so I should know. We were mostly all unfamiliar with one another this season, all coming into a relatively new program. It took awhile to learn who everyone was, let alone get to know them. But I'd begun to suspect recently that we might have a Grade A group and this weekend confirmed it. Too bad it took dang near all season before we figured it out. I believe we had more fun laughing it up together this weekend than we had all the rest of the season combined. Better late than never tho, right? I learned valuable things during the Cool Parents Soccer Extravaganza:

1. A soccer tournament is better played with cleats (eh hem, you know who you are)
2. Boys who are big enough to drive themselves to the field probably aren't 11 years old
3. Boys who are two heads taller than you give them a distinct advantage when playing soccer
4. Adult men running around with 11 year olds pre-game + wet grass = A 10 from the judges but an aching hip later
5. Folks giving you a hard time for buying a 4WD in the snow-deficient south shut up quick when it comes to creative parking in an overfull soccer parking lot
6. Boiled peanuts are under-appreciated everywhere but in the south
7. Eight boys eat two large pizzas in 45 seconds flat...and then expect parents to have a bottomless coin purse of quarters
8. Even driving around an area they grew up in, men still get lost.
9. Italian ice vendors can alter their "free samples" sign remarkably fast when they realize a kids soccer tournament is in town
10. A forfeit from the other team is still a win

Like every other day, Mother's Day still surrounded my child but I wouldn't have had it any other way. Thanks to all who made it a great holiday to remember...

Memorable Dance Moves--You Know You Did Them!

2009-05-05T22:31:00.006-04:00

I had a winning combination moment this evening--winning the lottery while scoring a free margarita on Cinco De Mayo? I wish. Actually, my spectacular combo came in the form of finding yet another awesome iPhone function that also made me laugh. Read on, non-iphone users. This is good stuff even if you're a non-believer.

See, I think the iPhone is the greatest invention ever (Tivo comes close, as does Italian ice) and I'm also determined to keep the laughter flowing in my life, even amid the chaos of an economy that's harder to stomach than a wanna-be singer on karaoke night--I know you've all seen her; hell, I've been her. And tonight, I scored a new discovery that feeds my desire for both iPhone awesomeness and laugh-out-loud fun.

There is a You Tube application on the iPhone, which I was fully aware, but what I never noticed before on there is the option to choose Most Viewed videos. Hmmm...what's this, I thought. Choose it and you can look at the most viewed videos of today, this week, or...ever. Ever? And the most viewed video ever on You Tube has been seen a whopping 119,000,000+ times. This had to be good; I had to look. It was six minutes of HI-sterical. That's right, my friends, with a capital HI. You must see it. I shall make it easy for you to do so by pasting the video below. For those of us...eh hem, for those of you who grew up creating your own funky dances to popular tunes through the years, you'll laugh even more as you remember perfecting many of these moves yourself.

Enjoy!

A Barbecue Celebration

2009-05-04T13:42:00.005-04:00

Today is my wedding anniversary. Another year of wedded bliss has passed. Neither of us has killed the other. Now that's worth celebrating! :-)

Alright, I truly am celebrating this historic day. As one who used to hoot at the top of her lungs about how I'd never, ever get married (again) because I'd tried it once and it just wasn't my cup of tea, it's pretty amazing that I not only took the plunge again but we've lasted and been happy while doing so. Turns out, I'm not a commitment-phobe after all. It was the pathological liar I married the first time that put a dent in the Mustang of all life commitments. Luckily, John persevered; he patiently waited me out until my anti-marriage blustering had passed, and here we are today.

So what was our big celebration? Well, I hate to show up all you other couples out there or make you sick over our sugary-sweet sappiness, but we had a weekend full of 11 year old sports games (most of them in the rain) and then today, on the big day, we went all-out romance by going for lunch at a local barbecue joint. Settle down, ladies. He's taken. Get your own husband to whisk you off your feet at a romantic greasy spoon. :-) This will make more sense when you learn we watched a special on TV last night about Atlanta's best barbecue restaurants so naturally, it seemed perfect for today's agenda.

It may not have been wine and roses, but actually, we never go that route to mark a special occasion. After all, roses die and John will take beer over wine any day. Instead, I'll be getting the spa day I'm desperately in need of, and John got another round of golf that he can never get enough of. Tonight, we'll cook our famous chili for dinner since it's a nasty, rainy day, and we'll celebrate in a simple way what I'm grateful we've still got together after all these years: the laughter, the shared likes and dislikes, the ability to look across a room and know exactly what the other is thinking about the conversation and people around us, the knowledge that there's someone else out there that cares if you're late, lost, upset or in need, the halved burdens in life because we shoulder them together, the vacations we enjoy together, the child we're raising who makes us proud, and the simplicity of being loved. That's what I'd have missed if I'd continued my anti-marriage rant. So ironically, I'm most grateful for the patience my not-very-patient husband actually showed in the area it paid off for us both most: waiting me out.

Thanks babe, and Happy Anniversary!

Adios Woolly Mammoths, Au Revoir Elementary School

2009-04-28T14:11:00.008-04:00

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!

Ultimate (Hedge) Fighting Challenge

2009-04-24T14:43:00.007-04:00

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.

Circle of (a Dog's) Life

2009-04-21T15:51:00.002-04:00

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!

FORE! Pasture Pool Anyone?

2009-04-14T23:27:00.009-04:00

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

2009-04-14T12:53:00.001-04:00

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.

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.

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

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).

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?

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:

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?

The Nightmare of Packing

2009-04-07T22:24:00.003-04:00

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.

Bum Shoulder Saga

2009-04-05T11:59:00.003-04:00

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.

No Risk, No Glory

2009-04-02T20:48:00.006-04:00

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.

Did I Say I Was a Survivor? Clearly, a Challenge

2009-03-30T22:29:00.006-04:00

What's up with my last post and my bold claim that I'm a survivor? Not on the show (snort! As if!) but in life. Clearly, God (or Fate) felt I was asking for a challenge and He served it up. Which wasn't really what I was doing. My claim was more a segway into my examples of how bad I'd be on the show Survivor. To be funny. You know, funny ha-ha. But since my last post, I believe I've been hit with more back to back curve balls in a short span of time than I've ever experienced. And I'm thinking, ok, this is good. Ok God? You've given me some stuff to prove I'm a survivor. Now let me get after it, but please, no more.

We all feel this way from time to time, I feel sure. An analogy I heard about labor contractions comes to mind and absolutely applies here. I read that contractions were like getting hit with a hammer on the thumb, repeatedly but with only medium strength. One hit is certainly tolerable. A couple hits, you can cope. But over and over and over? It's the constant repetition and the uncertainty over how long you'll continue getting hit that eventually consumes you and drives you mad. It's more mental than physical--each hit? No big deal. Unending hits without anyone to tell you how long you need to deal with it before it gets better? Goodnight Gracie!

In today's day and age, lots of people are getting hit over and over with that hammer--each hit might not do you in but lots and lots of hits? Yeah, you get it. How you cope with this type of stuff is what shows what kind of stuff you're made of; after all, everyone can be rosy, happy, generous, friendly, charitable, giving when the hammer's safely out of sight and the good times are rolling. But character is truly revealed during the tough times. I also absolutely believe that God doesn't serve us more than we can handle. But sometimes (oh, say nowish) I still just want to call Uncle: "Eh hem. Um God? Me here. Hey, listen. I know I said I was a survivor and that I could handle whatever comes my way. And that's true, it is. But seriously--I'm good now. No more please."

Me and millions of other folks, right? I know. Just thought I'd share...you're not alone.

Survivor? In Life--Absolutely. On TV--Not Hardly.

2009-03-26T14:37:00.007-04:00

Sometimes, my mind gets to going 90 to nothing, and one thought quickly leads to another and that leads to another and before I know it, what started out as thoughts about what to make for dinner ends up with what the heck was I thinking wearing a white dress to prom my junior year of high school (sadly, that is true--I was all Gone With the Wind and stuff; it was as bad as you're envisioning).

Today, I was thinking about how Fox News reported this morning that there were some brief indicators showing we might, just might--nobody jinx this--be nearing the end of the economic catastrophe. Things like the increase in new homes purchased, existing homes bought and sold, refinancing homes, goods ordered in the month of February. That last one is key when it comes to trucking, because goods ordered must then become goods shipped. And we all know most of our stuff--whether you wear it, drive it, eat it or just show it off--got to us by way of a truck. One with 18 wheels. Hallelujah for us. And when trucking picks up, the rest of the country follows--this is proven.

From that thought, I considerd all the good folks who would benefit by the increase in goods ordered and needing to be moved. How these guys and gals in trucking are survivors (along with their families) and will be able to look back and go: wow, now that was bad, but I made it through.

Which then lead me to the show Survivor, a favorite of my son's and mine. And while I am a survivor in the real world sense--no matter what's dumped in my lap, I'll handle it. Don't know how necessarily but I know I will--I would actually be a horrific candidate on the show Survivor. Here's why:

1 - I prefer to be clean

2 - I hate bugs. Living with them would be bad enough but having to eat them, like in a challenge? Just vote me out now.

3 - I'm not a fan of flashing my chest for food--although I'm sure I would end up doing it because

4 - I like food. And if that's what it took to get something to eat after weeks of rice, beans and mud pie, what's a couple boobs between me and several million of my closest friends. But then would I have a job when I got back to the civilized world? I mean, who employs a girl willing to flash a national audience in exchange for pizza or a moon pie?

5 - I hate fish. Hate seeing them, smelling them, swimming with them, touching them, or trying to catch them. Just recently, I've learned to eat them (breaded or blackened) but if I had to see it gutted first, count me out.

6 - My tolerance for idiocy is slim. And then I'd have to speak up about it but everyone knows the person who tries to direct the rest of the clowns gets axed. Quickly.

and 7 - My idea of making fire involves matches, not flint and a knife.

Safe to say you won't see me on that show, but I do love to watch it. And I love even more that the survivor days for those of us in trucking might be approaching the final days. There's a flicker of light at the end of the tunnel anyway. And I know this: those challenges filmed for television in some remote part of the world sure didn't hold a candle to the one we all endured right here. Bug eating or not.

Personal note here: my nephew (and one of my son's best friends) Brody's birthday is today and I'd like to send him a big cyber smooch and tell him Happy Birthday. Also earlier this month was my neice Rileigh's birthday; I missed talking to her that day (bad Aunt!) but think that announcing it on this world stage might get me back in her good graces. Happy Birthday to the pair of you!

Brody and his mom/my awesome friend, Heather:

Rileigh (on the right) with her sister Sydnee and cool cousin Chase:

Another Year, Another Mid-America Gone

2009-03-25T17:52:00.009-04:00

I used to measure the years by each Mid-America Truck Show that went by. This beauty, the largest trucking show in the country and held each March in Louisville, Ky., is a staple in our industry. I've been attending it since I first stepped foot into the world of 18 wheelers, team drivers, payloads, hometime...green as Joey Logano at Talladega. If I thought I knew what was up, Mid-America taught me I was wrong. But at a show like this, I could learn a lot in a hurry. Mid-America indoctrinated me in a way no other three day whirlwind of walking, booths, exhibitors, drivers, entertainment, food, concerts, parties and beauty contests could (truck beauty contests, not women--it ain't that kind of show). And last week's show was no disappointment for me.

Oh, I'd heard the stories about how it'd be dead this year, how the economy was driving folks away, but I had faith the drivers would show up in droves and that's who I care most about. And you didn't let me down. There are three wings utilized for the show at the convention center; our booth was in the west wing and I think the foot traffic there was super. I was lucky enough to see some of my oldest and dearest colleagues/friends in the industry (you know who you are) as well as seeing some of my oldest and dearest trucking friends in the industry. Folks like Tony Hamilton of Operation Roger, featured in our March Trucker's Connection; John and Sheila Ewing who lent me some electricity and have, in fact, never let me down anytime I've needed their help; and William Scott who was probably the very first driver I ever met and got to know personally. William and I have a storied history together that involves donuts, baseball bats and public speaking engagements. How's that for a past? I was saddened to hear about the passing of his mother and hate like hell that I missed seeing his dad, who attends every year and is as much a joy to know.

But William's dad wasn't the only person I missed--in fact, I missed more folks than I caught up to and that's a real testimony to the crowds and the action that was going on this year. But I do hate missing all the folks who've emailed to say: Where were you??! I was there, I promise!

I actually got to spend a good amount of the show walking around with a new greenie to the industry, a terrific gal named Elizabeth Haman who works with our sister publication, the famous The Trucker newspaper (you know it, you love it, I know). It was her first rodeo and I talked and pointed out so many things, it's a wonder she'll retain any of it. But it's way cool to be bringing more folks into the industry. And this will be a year for a lot of that. I saw companies missing from the show but what I also saw were a lot of hungry drivers eager to hit the road. I think we'll be seeing some fresh faces on the scene throughout '09 and next year as well. Small player companies will be the giants of tomorrow. Drivers getting started now will be earning their million safe miles before we know it. Yeah, these times, they are a'changing. But I'd like to say for the better. For how long was our biggest problem the need for quality drivers to take the roads in charge of 80,000 lbs of the nation's needed goods? Now, we have thousands of drivers looking for the challenge. As an old boss of mine used to say: Shoooooot, that's a high-grade problem to have.

What hasn't changed is the reliablity of getting together for three days in Louisville each March to shake hands, give some hugs, and laugh about the days we were all fresh faced on the scene.

Another year, another Mid-America gone by. If I missed you this year...there's always next year, friends. There's always next year.

St Patty's, Layoffs & Green Bling

2009-03-20T22:09:00.009-04:00

Irish or not, you gotta celebrate St Patrick's Day. That's my personal philosophy. And we have a little Irish pub up the street called (appropriately) Harp that is perfect for this particular occasion. It's our own personal spot to go drink green beer, wear green martian stars on our heads and green light up beads around our necks, and punch out a few green jello shooters. Just like they do in Ireland.

Funny thing about St. Patty's Day, last year it took on a new meaning to some great friends of ours, Clark and Patty Korbisch. Or as we call them, the Korbi's. (Nicknames are a sign of true friendship in our house.) See, last year, we arranged to meet up at the pub for corned beef & cabbage, Irish whiskey and all the green bling we could stand. My hub and I arrived on time and promptly found some other friends we hadn't seen in awhile and struck up a chat. Two hours later, still no Korbi's. What? Stood up? Seriously? We were rethinking the nickname already.

But then there they were, strolling in with a look on their faces that I interpreted as either sheepish because they were late and clearly were working up an excuse that would salvage their nickname or there was something that was actually wrong and they needed beer fast. They didn't even care if it was green. This was serious.

Turns out, our pal Clark had been let go that day from a job he'd held for over a decade. Laid off?! On St. Patrick's Day? How...uncouth! I was aghast. But Clark and Patty were acting--strangely--pretty ok with this new revelation. They'd spent the last couple hours explaining to their four children what had happened, reassuring them that the house would still be paid for and no drama, band, xbox live or sports activities would be sacrificed. And then they headed up to see us, where Clark explained that while he was shocked, sure, because he didn't realize this was coming, he was actually somewhat relieved. And this guy was no grocery store clerk (not that I'm knocking the proud scanners of all things food related around the country) but this wasn't someone who could find a replacement job with the snap of a finger. A decade in, this guy had seniority, experience and a handsome paycheck you can't just replace from a want-ad in the newspaper (not that anyone uses newspapers to find jobs anymore anyway--you get my point).

But Clark explained that really, he'd been unhappy with his job and employer for quite sometime but it was the investment he'd made in the job, the paycheck he earned, and the sheer loyalty to his company that made him stay. He told us, unhappy or no, he knew he never would have quit. So being pushed from the nest was actually the best thing that could have happened.

Huh. Laid off, but mysteriously ok with it. It was a new perspective for me but then I thought this is another of those "all things happen for a reason" deals. And I'm a big, big believer in that concept. I'd just never applied it to the loss of a job. But now that a year has passed since that fateful night, and so many thousands of folks have lost their jobs as well, it's a perspective for many to consider. Will life be tough, is it a struggle because jobs are now scarce across the board? Oh yes. I don't mean to make light of any of that. The trucking industry isn't unlike all the rest. But maybe if you find yourself in this position, you'll discover that the ultimate outcome from such a shocking deal will land you in a better position in the long run.

In the last year, Clark got some needed work and some very cool updates done around his house and did indeed land a new job along the way. So this year, we celebrated not just St. Patrick's Day but also Clark's Layoff Anniversary with gusto and green bling. Check us out (us, the Korbi's and another cool friend, Pam):

The Middle-of-the-Night Voice

2009-03-16T13:14:00.005-04:00

Has anyone figured out a way to make your middle-of-the-night voice show up in the day time, you know, when it might actually be helpful? You know what I mean by middle-of-the-night voice? Which I'm going to call the MNV because that's already become a headache to write out. It's that voice that comes to you in the middle of the night when you're just a little bit awake after maybe turning from your right side to your left or after your kidneys came a'knockin' at 3:00 a.m. and you've just settled back in but haven't fallen asleep. This is when the past day's events seep back into your fuzzy mind, reminding you usually not about the happy-go-lucky times but rather the stressful, more unfortunate times. Because that's how minds work: just when you are ready to fall asleep and forget the day's worries, it slams you with the crap you really would like to forget.

But here's the kicker: as you think over the events that didn't go swimmingly and the horrible way you handled a situation, your MNV kicks in and serves up the perfect response, the one you should've given whoever you tangled with. And it's good, too, this MNV. It's very clever, very cunning, very "you ain't got no response to this." Right?

Like, lets say you had a little run in with the gal who's always using your coffee mug at work and then putting it in the sink unwashed, where it sits, taunting you with cooties you know aren't yours that the cooty-owner didn't even have the courtesy to clean off. Yesterday, you walked up just as she put the cooty cup in the sink. Caught: red-handed. And now, it's your chance to clarify a few things about personal effects and respecting others' stuff. Yeah, that's right. She needs to know it's rude to use others' things and then, to boot, not even wash it when done. Uh huh. You go on wit'cha bad self. So what'd you say when given this opportune chance to set her straight? "That's my cup."

Stunning.

And she said: "So?" You: Well, it's rude to use it because it's mine and then you don't even wash it either. And what'd she say? "Whatever." And walked away, leaving you and your cooty cup alone by the sink.

But after switching from left to right at 3:00, you begin to rehash this event. And your MNV gives a much more appropriate ending: "Whatever?" you call after her, making her stop and turn around. You walk toward her, slowly. "Whatever? No. I don't think so. The next time I see you using my cup, you'll find something of your own missing and it'll be more valuable than a cup," you say in a low voice no one else can hear, narrowing your eyes so you look just a little crazy. "Whatever that!" Bam! Nice.

Or maybe your girlfriend dumped you, saying it's because she needs her space but you know it's really because she's eyeballing her neighbor. "I just feel closed in and emotionally encumbered," she tells you. "Well, give me a call sometime," you utter, shocked by her audacity to lie and unable to think straight. Cue 3:00 a.m. and your MNV says: "You are breaking up with me?! Well," you snort, "good luck seeing how long the stud next door puts up with your whining, your unrealistic demand for constant ego-stroking, and your ridiculous mood swings. Oh, and your legs do look fat in those shorty shorts."

Wow, your MNV is mean. But oh the satisfaction of picturing the scene the way it should've gone. If only that MNV would pipe up before the incident rather than after because nothing trumps a MNV response. Now you and your smug satisfaction, go back to sleep.

Wait, one more thing! Will you be at Mid-America this week? Stop and say hello, would ya? Booth 69067.

Lets Make A Deal, Mid-America Style

2009-03-14T16:03:00.003-04:00

Is it just in Atlanta or do rainy days always seem to fall on the weekend everywhere else too? Not that I can be knocking any of the wet stuff here in the south since we get it rarely and have been in a drought since...oh, the summer of '62. So beggars can't be choosers, I realize. After all, it wasn't so long ago that Georgians and our southern neighbors had adopted the island philosophy of "If it's yellow, let it mellow..." Oh yes, the water shortage has gotten that bad.

But when it does rain, it never seems to fail that it's on the weekend. And today is one of those weekends. This morning, as I meticulously mapped out the details of my two week grocery shopping excursion (it takes a ton of planning to make a two week meal plan fly when you don't plan to return for any oops-forgotten items), my mother in law was perusing the channels looking for anything entertaining. A non-NASCAR weekend leaves our usual must-see TV open for alternatives. There isn't much. What she did stumble on was the Game Show network. Have you seen this thing? Lotta entertainment here.

And the show of the moment was Lets Make a Deal! This puppy brought back some serious memories. And before you go getting wise and making some crack about me attending this show in some ridiculous Little Bo Peep costume, you're wrong. I wasn't old enough to have attended the show when it was on; I was only preschool age. Me and my Little Bo Peep costume watched from home.

But what it really brings back memories of is the years at the Mid-America Trucking Show that we played Lets Make a Deal with attendees. As you likely know, the Mid-America Trucking Show is the granddaddy of all trucking shows--held each March in Louisville, Kentucky. It's three chrome-filled days with over 1,000 exhibitors showing off everything from shiny new trucks to small, fit-in-your-cab products, services, a truck beauty contest, media (magazines, satellite radio, WBAP), and a ton more. If you like trucking, your eyes will pop to see all that's squished into one convention center for three days in March. Just be ready to face thousands and thousands of folks who attend this thing. Between exhibitors and attendees, you literally cannot squeeze through the aisles to get anywhere with a purpose. I used to make it a game to see just how creative I could get to move from one end of the hall to the other. I may have ticked off a few exhibitors as I strolled through, feigning interest when really all I wanted was to take advantage of the vast open space of their booths to progress farther, quicker than the aisle would allow. My best time might have been 14.5 minutes to get from one end of the South hall to the far end of the west hall. My calves were screaming and I was wishing folks would throw out cups of water like they do marathon runners but that was damn good time to cover that kind of space with those kinds of obstacles. Thank you very much.

Anyway, one year, we came up with the idea to do a big giveaway sweepstakes at the show offering all sorts of products and items that had been donated to attendees at the show. We started by getting folks to register and then return at a set time for the drawings we scheduled throughout each day of the show. Too tough--no one, I mean no one returned. The show is just too big to have to plan to be back at a certain point by a particular time. We bagged that concept in a hurry. And I thought up my "Lets Make a Deal" scheme. Up I climbed onto a tall chair we had and used my gift of gab and a loud mouth to draw the folks over. I felt like a circus hawker calling over the rubes.

Once we had a fair amount of attention, I'd begin the whole who has a safety pin? First person to show me a safety pin will get this tshirt/coffee cup/satellite radio. Alright, now who has a photo of their child or grandchild? Or, who has the most children and grandchildren? Who can tell me Tony Stewart's nickname, or who the 1998 NASCAR Cup champion was. We had an absolute blast doing this periodically throughout the days of the show. The years we held this giveaway are just a few of the past 15 years worth of Mid-America's that I've attended and remember best.

Are you going to the show? It's next week. Same place--March 19-21. We're not playing Lets Make a Deal this year, but there is a concert by Aaron Tippin and the show will still offer all the gadgets, products, services and companies you could hope to check out in the span of three days. Be sure to come by and say hello to me @ Booth #69076. See you next week!

Shooting, Scoring & Losing Your Mind

2009-03-07T20:50:00.003-05:00

It's the weekend and today was the first soccer game of the spring '09 season. It's Chase's 13th season and today, I behaved myself pretty well, if I do say so myself.

Yeah, yeah, I used to hear about all the parents who would scream and get into fights with other parents at their kids' games and I'd think: tsk, tsk, grow up would you? But once it's your kid on the field getting pushed when the ref isn't looking or trying his hardest but having an off game that the other parents cheer a little too heartily over...you realize the insanity that takes over otherwise-sane adults.

Chase is playing on a new team this season--a stepped up team, if you will. It's in between recreational ball and academy (travel) ball, giving us the best of both worlds: the professional coaching and training that academy teams receive but without the high cost, intense travel schedule, and yearlong commitment. We're excited about it but today was the first game for the new team that had never played together before. And we were playing an academy team that had been together at least since the start of the school year, if not longer.

We won 1 - 0. The only goal came from a Chase-assist to his old teammate William. I might have went a little berzerk when it happened; I can't be sure. The blood pounding in my head cause some slight dizziness and memory lapse. LOL But is there anything better than seeing your child, your offspring, the star in your sky succeed at something they try so hard at? I venture to say the answer to that question is a resounding Nope.

There have been so many soccer games in our life already. Chase will play any position but he excels on offense thanks to his speed and willingness to take the shot or find a teammate with a better opportunity. So he has quite few assists as well as goals to his name. Probably the coolest game of his life, he scored 5 of the team's 6 goals to take a shut-out win. And then there was his very first goal.

When Chase first began playing soccer at 4 years old, it looked like any other group of kids who aren't sure what to do other than follow the ball wherever it went on the field--all in one huddled mass. Amazingly, considering the atypical soccer strategy, the kids still managed to score some goals. But for all Chase's running and a whole lot of kicking, the ball just never seemed to go the direction of the goal. My heart broke for him because he tried so hard. We did a lot of teaching about playing for fun, being part of a team, etc. But still. The glory in soccer comes from scoring. At his final game of the season, the two teams played their usual game of crowding the ball and moving like a hovercraft slowly back and forth along the field. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Chase kicks the ball away from the group, runs it about 10 feet toward the goal, shoots and scores.

I...Lost...My...Mind. I was jumping up and down, screaming, yelling, clapping, throwing my hands in the air like I was possessed. Or at a southern Baptist church revival. Naturally everyone was cheering but you could have heard me above a helicopter, had one landed there right then.

When the noise finally settled, you could hear my husband behind me standing with some other parents remark: "Wow, who's mom is that?" We all fell apart laughing. But I tell you, every personal accomplishment paled in comparison to how it felt to see him finally get that elusive goal. I can still see him and his teammates run around the field with their arms out like airplanes, their tradition after any goal.

We also won that game 1 - 0. And today, though there was no running around with arms out like airplanes and I've learned to control myself slightly more than then, the excitement was certainly no less.

Need a Laugh?

2009-03-04T17:15:00.003-05:00

These days, it seems laughter has disappeared as fast as our 401Ks. What with all the stress, freaking out, hair pulling, crying (is that just me?), who actually laughs anymore? But I saw something today that was so funny, even though I was in the midst of four crises and 15 regular daily events, I laughed out loud. Truthfully, I didn't bother watching this when it was first sent because I thought: Oh chil', I certainly don't have time for no entertainment today because the work is piling up faster than I can beat it down. But I was urged to take 25 seconds and watch it. It'd be worth my time. So I did. And I laughed until I cried. And that was the biggest stress-reliever.

So I want you to watch this. Don't give me any sass about not having time because we could all use a little laughter these days. You gotta see Bizkit:

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Is that hysterical? I gotta have that dog. I'm going to call the owner and see if she'll give him to me.

Be Noticed, Be Different

2009-03-03T12:08:00.007-05:00

Hey, I received something so cool late last week and I've decided to share it with the world via this here lil' blog. I've worked with Trucker's Connection magazine for about 15 years now. If you're in trucking, you know this magazine. If you're not in trucking but you know me, you know this magazine. It's a magazine for truck drivers, coming out monthly, digest sized. You know, Reader's Digest, Golf Digest...altho somehow Golf Digest manages to call itself that while being a full size magazine. How does that work? Truth in advertising, anybody, anybody?

I digress. When I first came on board here, we used to feature a fancy, pretty, shiny truck driving down the road on each and every cover. We were original that way. Then we transformed into having topic-specific front covers. If the main feature inside were about money, we might have a driver standing with a wad of cash in his hand. If we were talking about who to trust to fix your rig, we'd have a guy waist deep under the hood on the cover. And in those years, we occasionally had an illustrator draw a front cover, still featuring an article inside, but we could be more clever because when you work with an artist, the sky's the limit.

We noticed quickly that the hand-drawn covers were wildly popular with drivers. Magazines flew off the racks when we had illustrations. And when you're in publishing, being noticed among all the competitors sitting alongside you is critical. These illustrated covers were different and we were noticed more because of them. So after a couple years, we made the genius leap to having every cover be illustrated. And that's where we are today. We have fun with these images--sometimes greatly exaggerating the theme of a feature, sometimes just capturing an idea in a way that a photo can't. To be noticed, be different. And that's what we are.

So I meet with my illustrator Joe every month to bounce ideas and sketch rough covers for consideration. And when he heard I'd started a blog, Joe did a caricature of me. Actually, this guy is known to sit in any public place and just start sketching on paper or even a napkin someone around him. He's very astute when it comes to bringing out the traits of someone's personality through features in the sketch. Take a look at my animated mug to the left. Here's a bigger shot:

He's talented, right? And clearly thinks I have a much bigger rack than I actually do, but hey. Perks of knowing an illustrator. Ha! The two things I noticed (after the rack) were the size of my mouth and my hand gesturing. Ok, the hand thing I gotta give him because I'm Italian and absolutely always talk with my hands. I don't even realize I'm doing it until I hit someone nearby accidentally or knock over a drink of notoriously hot liquid. Hand-gesturing? Guilty.

But the mouth? What's the implication there? Big mouth. Of course, this is the typical female in me managing to turn something that might be intended as flattering into a derogative. "Wow, your hair looks great today" is heard in my mind as "Your hair typically looks like crap and yet you somehow managed to make something work with it today. Amazing." Right? Ladies? I'm not alone in this. "Have you lost weight?" I actually hear this a lot (thanks to my preference for comfy clothes rather than fitted stuff; I'm no slave to fashion) and I think it'd be a great complement if indeed I had lost weight. But since I haven't, it just means someone thought I was fat before. It's just the way my mind is wired. Turns out, Joe said my smile was one of the most eye-catching things about me so he played it up. Yeah, fast thinking.

Anyway, I thought it was a cool to have a snapshot of me in the same look of the book I've poured my heart and soul (and rack) into for so many years. And I thought it'd be cool to include it here. Now you now me, now you know the cartoon me and now you'll instantly recognize my magazine that I insist you pick up, read cover to cover and then call a few advertisers out of because that's who pays the bills.

And I'm going to give Joe a plug. If you're ever interested in a caricature of you, your kids (kids love these), for a birthday present, etc, check him out here: http://www.joedinicola.com/ or http://joedinacola.blogspot.com/ Ask him for the Big Rack Special; he'll know what you mean.