The Simple Solution

By now, school has begun for all the kiddos around the country. Thanks to the lunatic occurrences and school shootings that have tragically taken place, the lock down procedures implemented at most schools have reached epic proportion. It’s sad, really. While children’s safety at school is absolutely, positively numero uno, it is too bad that things have to be unpleasantly extreme.

My son’s high school is laid out like an asterisk with a center section and many hallways that branch straight out, each ending with a door to the outside. When he first started there two years ago, the kids could change classes by walking the halls or they could exit the end doors, move to the next and reenter. This was a superb system as the flow of traffic had many options to keep it moving at a clipped pace—necessary when 2,000+ students have a distance to go and short time to do it in. It was also extra nice for parents to be able to deliver needed or forgotten items with minimal hassle. For instance, if you knew that your kid would be walking out of the 400 hallway door at 9:30, you could show up and park right outside along the sidewalk and as the kids were changing classes, hand off the goods to your child.

After the Sandy Hook tragedy, that came to a screeching halt and now all doors are locked when school begins. Kids can exit but cannot reenter other than through the main school entrance. Now, it’s a challenge to get to each class on time as the packed in masses result in severe “log jams,” and stress escalates as kids try to hurry and beat the dreaded bell. No more enjoying the sunshine and getting a breath of fresh air. No more easy drop-offs of needed items.

For the next couple years, when needing to go to the school, a parent had to enter, sign in and head to perform volunteer duties or drop off a forgotten lunch or homework assignment in your kid’s locker. As you were there for a legitimate purpose and were not a disruption, you could go in, take care of business and scoot back out. Now? No way. Now, you have to first be admitted to the building by pressing a buzzer outside. And then you better have a government ID, a spotless past, an approved reason to be there, a lack of tattoos, presentable hair, and a willingness to be strip-searched to enter the school. It’s more like prison. Only you’re trying to get IN versus OUT.

So what happens the first week of school this year? My son forgot his lunch. While not the end of the world because there is a buy-your-lunch option (which sucks thanks to our first lady who has decided she knows better than all other parents what kids should and should not eat), but we all recall what a zoo the lunchroom can be. 1,000 kids trying to scarf down a meal in 45 minutes. Often, Chase has told me that the lunch lines are so long that kids spend interminable time waiting in them and then have to gobble down their meals like they’re in an eating contest.

So I wanted to get him his lunch using my old drop-off-in-his-locker method. But to do so now would require extreme planning and foresight. I began sweating bullets immediately, trying to get a game plan together for how to accomplish the mission. I texted trusted friends inquiring about reasons that would pass muster with the drill sergeants at the front office. I thought about what I could hide the lunch in so my true reasons weren’t discovered. How should I look when asking to be buzzed in the front door--smile? be serious? wave? perform a can-can?

As I pulled up to the school, I sent one final text to my friends who knew what I was attempting: “I’m going in. Wish me luck.”

I buzzed the front door and decided last minute to skip the can-can. Instead, I was unassuming and casual. After 30 seconds of visual interrogation, I received the buzz to enter. First obstacle cleared. I entered the main office and was shown the computer check in that is used now—you enter your license info and they check to be sure you aren’t guilty of more than parking tickets and poor dancing skills, I’m guessing. I passed—nice. I was asked where I was going in the school and the information I decided would work best slid off my tongue in a convincing tone. No one blinked. With a printed badge featuring my driver’s license likeness, I was waved in.

I walked to the locker, dropped off the goods, and returned to the front office feeling like a million bucks.

As I was signing back out on the computer, a student I know walked up and I watched as a lady handed him a telltale brown paper bag. “Here’s your lunch,” she quipped. At my look of confusion, he said sheepishly: “I forgot it so my dad brought it up for me” and walked back toward his next class.

Stunned, I looked at the lady standing there, mouth agape. “Parents can just drop off forgotten lunches with you for kids to come get?”

“Yup,” she said. “We deliver forgotten lunches to kids all the time.”

Moral: don’t overthink a situation that may have a simple solution. 

Failure Makes Winning Sweeter

We all know the old adage: “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again,” right? Corny but actually true. Rarely does anyone hit the nail on the head on a first stab at something. It takes time to perfect a skill, to learn the ins and outs, and to fine tune your abilities so that the outcome is success. Last weekend, I lived the adage.

Anyone who has read this blog or my Viewpoint column in Trucker's Connection knows a few things about me. Let’s ignore the boring things (!) and focus on this tidbit: I have a son who is a teenager, a lacrosse player, and the light of my life. Even my husband jokes that on any given day, his ranking in my life falls somewhere between 4 and 5, behind Chase and all my animals. Ha!

Chase has played sports all of his life (somehow he was blessed with athletic skill, not from my genes, I can assure you) and since 4^th grade, he’s been a pretty good lacrosse player. Through the years, he’s played a couple different positions, finally dialing in to the attack position like he was born to be there.

We’ve had ups and downs, wins and losses; he’s usually on a strong team, a contending team, but not always the top team. He plays fall recreational, spring high school, and summer travel ball. He’s tasted victory and championships in the fall and summer seasons but the spring school season—arguably the most important of the three—hadn’t quite hit the championship benchmark.

In the spring 2013, he was captain of the Northview High School freshmen team and lead them as the top scorer to an undefeated season before being brought up to Junior Varsity and then finally to the big show for the end of the Varsity season. For the first time in school history, our team went to the state championship game. It was cool that Chase could be a part of it but it was with a sideline view as a player who hadn’t been there since the beginning. In fact, many of the players who HAD been on Varsity since day one of that season didn’t see the field because it was such a tough, high stakes, close scoring game that we ultimately lost to a team we’d bested earlier in the year.

Talk about highs and lows—to make it to the end for the first time was gigantic. To lose once we got there was horrific. We were new to the scene and like a teenager driving solo for the first time: ecstatic and maybe a little dangerous. The regular season win gave the team a false sense of superiority, and a great group of players came unglued in the high pressure game when much of what they did successfully all season wasn’t evident when it counted most. The loss was devastating and as we licked our wounds and massaged bruised egos, we began looking to the next season and redemption.

This year, Chase made Varsity from the get-go and was the only sophomore to be a starter all season. They charged through the regular season 17-1 with just a single loss to a close town rival who beat us by 3 goals. Post season, we went through each playoff game strong, beating each opponent by more than 10 goals, and we made it once more to the state championship game. This time, we faced a team we hadn’t played at all this season. It was a clean slate; they were a tough team; we came in with the lessons we’d learned last year.

The fans showed up in droves, all decked out in neon colors as a show of vibrant spirit and support. For an hour and a half I was on the verge of tears and do not think I breathed as the game stayed incredibly close—with no more than a one-goal advantage at any point and it fluctuated which of us had it. Toward the end, we stretched our lead by 2 goals. With 12 seconds to go, they scored to tighten the differential to a lonely single point but we held them off for the final seconds to win the state championship, 9-8.

Indeed, the loss from last year was a powerful motivator to see us through to the biggest win ever this year. Chase (#6) played most of the game, and was one of only six players to score. Talk about the icing on his state championship cake!

When it’s happening, it’s hard to realize that losing (a game, a relationship, a business, etc) can one day be a tremendous, maybe even necessary, gift toward a future success. The memory of this success is even sweeter because of the history that lead us there.

Sweet & Spooky Savannah

Most cities around the country where folks reside have their close-in-proximity cool location to visit, right? Maybe you're three hours from a beach so you get to dip your toes in the sand pretty often. Or, you're two hours from Niagara Falls and practically hear the roar of the water from your back porch. Or you're a stone's throw to D.C. and can almost see the tip of the Lincoln Memorial if you squint hard enough.  

Some folks are close to little towns and cool places that aren't as widely known but they're great little getaways that are ideal to those in a decent driving radius. For us in Atlanta, one very popular destination I love that is relatively close is Savannah, GA. If you saw the movie Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, you've already seen a bit of the 250-year old streets and Spanish-moss draped trees among the nice different squares sprinkled around the historic district.

Savannah is one of the oldest cities in the U.S., being situated along a river in the 13th colony: big boom area back in the day thanks to shipping operations. It has cemeteries dating back to the 1700s that you can stroll through today, with headstone's so old and weathered that you can barely read the etched words. The street along the river is original cobblestone, hard to walk on because it's so uneven but it's so cool, and I am mesmerized just strolling along, wondering about all the other feet that touched the same stone 50, 100, 200 years ago and more.

The hub and I went to Savannah for a weekend trip earlier this month with three other couples and had a blast. We stayed at the Sheraton in the historic district, and spent each day strolling, eating, drinking, shopping and laughing. Since Savannah considers itself the most haunted city in the U.S. (New Orleans would disagree), we simply had to venture onto a Haunted Pub Crawl. Of course, the pub part wasn't entirely necessary but if you're going to stroll around the haunted streets of an old city after dark, what better way than to intersperse a bar here and there along the way? We thought it would certainly add to the enjoyment because many bars are housed in old, old buildings that MUST be inhabited by creatures not entirely human.

Unfortunately, this particular Haunted Pub Crawl was a bust. The guide was uncomfortable, occasionally offensive, and took such long pauses in his story-telling, my anxiety skyrocketed because I felt like he had forgotten the story, and the discomfort of the group waiting to see if he'd pick it back up was palpable. Oh, those pubs that sounded like a good idea? We didn't venture into a one. Not one pub in a Haunted Pub Crawl.  After 70 minutes of the 120 minute tour, we vanished like the ghosts we thought we'd be hearing more about.

We weren't deterred in having fun, however, and spent another awesome day in and around the city. The next night, still feeling like we needed a pub-fix as well as to hear some of the cooler things about Savannah and the comings and goings of the past 300 years, we signed up for one of the coolest things we did that weekend: the Savannah Slow Ride. It's a 15-person bicycle that looks like you're bellied up to a bar except that each seat has pedals and inside the center is where the driver sits who merely steers, brakes when necessary, and motivated us to get to pedaling when it was time to move. His colorful encouragement for getting us pumping the pedals? "Pedal, bitches!"

For two hours, we pedaled and laughed our way among the streets and squares of Savannah, visiting pubs we never would have tried otherwise and hearing stories that were fantastic and memorable. We had a blast.

While we were in Savannah, Paramount Pictures was filming the Spongebob Movie. Part real life and part animated, we saw where they had put up fake store fronts along one of Savannah's best streets of shops. These stores bore clever names of stores befitting an underwater sea town that is called Salty Shoals. There was the Sand Barber, The Seashore Everything Store (a Goodwill in real life), Seashell Shake (aka Smoothie King), and the Barnacle Bun, among others. That was merely a bonus to an already fabulous town.

If you haven't ever been but find yourself in the Land of Cotton, it's worth the visit.

Annie Sloan to the Rescue

So I have these monstrous-sized built-ins that flank my chimney and mantle in my family room. They strolled right out of 1994 and set up camp to stay awhile. They were glaringly WHITE. I mean, shield your eyes and put sunglasses on the dog white, and they filled nearly one entire wall of the room. I really wanted to do something different with them but they were daunting. Lots of crevices and decorative edging that looked pretty but I felt sure would eat a paintbrush right out of my hand.

So I looked and I loathed but never made a move to change them. They sat there smugly, like they knew they'd won the battle. Until I saw a friend's Facebook post about a very cool type of paint called chalk paint, and specifically, Annie Sloan Chalk Paint. Touted as not needing any surface preparation, this paint would adhere to anything, cover in one coat (usually) and was actually designed to be more messy than precise. Ultimately, it would create an Old World style, antique looking finish that would be full of character. I was giddy at the find and delusional enough to think that I could pull it off.

After researching online, I decided to go with Country Grey (deceptively named since it is really a butter kind of color, not grey at all). And the even cooler thing you can do with Annie Sloan products is add a clear and then a dark wax over the paint to give it an even more weathered look.

Here's the key--the paint itself is applied messily and dries so that you can see the brush strokes. The dark wax you apply settles into these and that's what gives it such a cool look. I was all about it.

I went and (foolishly) bought ONE quart of paint (it only comes in quarts and it is pricey, I'll warn you), one can of clear wax, one can of dark wax and two wax brushes (specialty brushes, worth the investment). We removed all the doors and shelves from one built in and laid them out in my garage on plastic covered tables. I was ready to begin.

I started by painting the doors and shelves, making sure to use sloppy stokes in a diagonal direction. The paint went on super easy and not having to be precise made painting a dream. The stuff dries in about 20 minutes. I moved onto the actual built-in itself where I discovered that a quart of paint wasn't going to go nearly as far as I'd thought it would. After a quick run to the store for more paint, I got the entire thing covered in a single coat. I left it all to dry overnight just to be safe.

The next day was waxing day. I was nervous about this because I'd seen tons of tutorials online and there were a lot of admonitions about how NOT to do it and the mistakes folks typically make. It seemed to be common to apply too much wax which then takes forever to buff down and leaves your piece tacky to the touch. That wasn't going to be me. I put a dollop of wax on a paper plate, grabbed a wax brush and dipped only the tip into the wax and applied to the doors and shelves in a circular fashion, very thinly, and using an old tshirt to wipe off any excess as I went. 

This part definitely takes some elbow grease but it wasn't horrible. After the clear wax was on everything, I next applied the dark wax, using the same method but with a different wax brush. this was the scary part b/c that was is really dark. But you put on what you want and then wipe off with a clear tshirt, leaving only as much as you want to get the look you desire. Big tip--any dark wax that is tough to remove, you can dab clear wax onto, and it's like an eraser to the dark wax, taking most of it right back off with your tshirt.

Looking at a door that was done (left) vs one that was only painted (painted) really shows how much more character the dark wax gives you:

After the arm work-out I realized the wax requires, I thought that I was probably ambitious in taking on such a huge piece of furniture for my first time using Annie Sloan products. But I plowed on, completing the built-in and the following weekend, tackling the second. Along the with fireplace mantle that I painted but did not wax, the difference it makes in the room is astounding and I couldn't be happier.

Playing with Paint

When John and I first married, he told me that there was not much he wouldn't or couldn't do when it came to fixing things around the house with one giant exception--he hates to paint. He'd happily unclog a drain (gag! when it comes to wet hair clumps), replace plumbing, install lights, clean carpet and perform any number of yard work duties, but keep the paint and the brushes as far away as possible.

This seems fair enough, right? Except that I, too, hate to paint.

Certainly there are a lot of folks out there who would gladly come and slap some paint on our walls for a fee, but the miser in me hates to do that. I'm perfectly CAPABLE of painting but I'm not great at it and the perfectionist in me hates to have squiggly lines where there should be a straight edge.

It's a conundrum.

But I have learned that when it comes to painting in a style that doesn't require precision, I'm all over it. So recently, after extending the invite to my Florida family to join us for Thanksgiving, we began a list of tasks and upgrades that we wanted to knock out prior to having guests. I do love having a reason to be motivated. And on that list was painting. I wanted to redo my kitchen in a faux painting style which is easy to do but it was involved, simply because my kitchen/breakfast area are one big room with lots of corners and edges and funky spaces around my cabinets to have to cover. Luckily, my mother was up to the task of helping and together, we knocked it out in a day. It looks awesome:

Before:

 After:

I was very pleased with how this turned out. We refaced our kitchen cabinets not long ago from white to chocolate maple with a black glaze, and I felt like lighter walls would complement them better. 

After this success, I was feeling bold in my painting abilities. The next project I fixed my attention on were the two built-ins and fireplace mantle in my living room that were a pristine and way-out-of-style WHITE. They had to go!

 

How to tackle these? They were daunting with their size and finish that I felt sure would repel paint and any attempt to improve them. But I had recently discovered a decorating secret weapon who was going to change all this: a little lady named Annie Sloan. Stay tuned for my next remake!

Be a Better Blogger

I have always been one to think that if you needed to wait to do something (start something, quit something, etc) until it was New Year's Day and you had a reason (New Year's Resolution), I'm not sure how committed you are going to be. I think you need to start something or end something you want to start or end NOW. What are you waiting for? If smoking is bad for you, quit NOW rather than smoking it up for another 2, 3 or 4 months while you wait for January 1st to roll around.

So I'm taking on a resolution now: to be a better blogger.

I loved writing here for a couple of years and then it dwindled off. Maybe I had no excitement to write about; maybe I was crazy busy; maybe life was too mundane to be entertaining; maybe I became a worldwide superstar and forgot my roots. All that may or may not be true but I've decided to return to blogging, and that return begins today.

So how've you been? You look good. How's your mama?

I'm still getting on getting on. My son Chase has moved up in grade (into high school now) and up in vertical feet, surpassing me in height as of not long ago. My husband continues to work in the same field I do (trucking publishing) while golfing and (currently) fantasy footballing his weekends away. We went to Siesta Key for our annual family reunion and went on a cruise over the 4th of July last summer. Along with Chase's travel lacrosse, we were home about two weekends of the summer. The countdown is currently on for a couples getaway to Savannah in October and after that, the holidays and our annual ski trip out west. Between all that I'll try and get some work done.

We're in the midst of a house interior overall--miscellaneous projects we've desperately needed or wanted to take care of are getting knocked out slowly but surely. Nothing like the impending visit by family for the holidays to knock you into gear. House embarrassment is a great motivator. We recently redid our entire half bath downstairs: removed wallpaper (goodbye 1980s!), refinished the sheet rock, painted and added a new vanity and potty (with a double flush: fancy!). With one more piece of decor, I believe I'll call that room Done. 

Currently, I'm elbow deep in a huge project I bit off: repainting two tall built-ins that flank my fireplace/mantle in my family room. I repainted the mantle as well (goodbye white, hello chocolate brown). And now I am tackling my built-ins one at a time, courtesy of Annie Sloan chalk paint, clear and dark wax, a lot of elbow grease and a smidge of not knowing any better. I'm nervous. I hope it turns out well and my level of profanity is reasonably contained. 

Once complete, I'll do some show and tell on here. :-)

Skiing Break-enridge

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

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The Highland Swing Hoax

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 and riding with them.

While in line, the boys stared up at the swings with each run the ride took. After a few, I thought I'd 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 commented, worry clearly heard in my voice.

"What about them?" Chase asked, looking at them now through narrowed, suspicious eyes.

"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 as I chuckled to myself, 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," my voice rang out followed by a forced laughter. Lesson learned, I thought. Tease a 10 year old unnecessarily and you will pay the price.


Swings were fun though. :-)

The Mind Bender Debacle

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 tails 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, 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

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

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.