Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Summertime schemes...

As the last few days of July slowly melt away, (like ice cream dripping down the side of a sugar cone...ooh, don't get distracted...where was I?) Team WestEnders has arrived at that magical point in the Summer...when the teenager starts each morning by asking the all-important, schedule-defining question: "What day is it?" Maybe it's related to the Big Move, or perhaps it has more to do with having two adolescent boys in the house, but this year more than ever before, the previously unimpeachable Family Rules have kind of gone out the window since school ended.

I mean, for the first time ever, neither kid has a Math or Language Arts packet to complete...so I've kind of forgotten to check whether they're actually, you know, reading at all...or not. And I haven't been diligent about monitoring their screen time, either. As long as they're hitting "pause" to go outside every couple of hours, that's good enough, right? (And watching reruns of Castle or Leverage in the evening with me constitutes quality bonding time...so that definitely doesn't count...she says defiantly...yet guiltily...)

Speaking of which, at least I'm glad--mostly thanks to Riley, the organized planner who seems to take after me--that they've gotten themselves into a kind of routine. At the breakfast table, Riley will ask his brother what he wants to do for the day...and when. Based on Derek's answers, he'll formulate an agenda that usually goes something like this: "Okay, after our food settles, we'll pack up our baseball gear, ride our bikes to McDougle (Riley's Middle School, across the street), and work on hitting and pitching for a while. Then we'll come back for lunch and video games. Afterwards we'll have a snack and play basketball." Meanwhile, Derek generally just shakes his head sleepily, and agreeably goes along with the whole thing.

Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled that they're mostly entertaining themselves. After all, this is the very first time I haven't arranged two weeks of camp for each of them, to help break up the long, unstructured vacation. And, of course, we skipped a family getaway this year, in lieu of, you know, transplanting ourselves and all of our stuff to another state. We figured that--and exploring our new environment--would provide adventure enough for 2014. So, bedtimes have been pushed later (generally when I decide they've been up quite long enough, thank you very much...and order them to turn in)...which of course means the wake-up-hour shifts as well. And meals? Eh, they sort of happen...whenever. (One giant perk of the almost-11 and 14-year olds: they pretty much arrange their breakfast and lunch without any help...or even presence...from me. And they refuse to eat anywhere except the screened-in porch. Thus, often I'll wander into the kitchen in search of sustenance, to find that they've already concocted their own well-balanced meal and have availed themselves of the outdoor seating arrangement...yaaayyyy for independence! Next step is clearly to train them to prepare mine, while they're at it...)

Another thing that's been great is that, since we now live in a neighborhood with lots of shady, winding, hilly roads, and very little traffic, the brothers have been heading out on frequent 2-wheeled expeditions. They're learning the layout and how everything meshes together...while also remembering to focus and stay On Mission (that is: to keep an eye out for similar-aged kids). Likely candidates have been spotted pedaling rapidly past our house, but thus far have proved elusive to actually catch, as they tend to disappear into the maze of cross streets before the boys can don helmets, jump on their bikes, and give chase. (In a "let's make friends" kind of way, totally not "creepy neighborhood stalkers"...I hope...)

Oh, and how could I forget? They've recently strapped on their shinguards and cleats to practice soccer, given that each of them faces a looming "tryout situation" on the horizon. For Riley, it was actually just a matter of showing up at the designated field, engaging in an hour or so of informal scrimmaging with kids his age, and thereby demonstrating for the League Director that he has the skills to play at this level. Now we just wait to hear what team he's been assigned, and where/when they practice. Derek, on the other hand, will be trying out for his High School team. This involves--as far as I can tell from the not-very-informative website--TWICE daily sessions for 3 consecutive days...including one slot from...7:30 to 9:30...a.m. Holy Teenage Nightmare, Batman! That's freakin' early to drag yourself out of bed in the Summer...actually wake up enough to function (without coffee, mind you...seems impossible to me...glad I don't have to do it)...and then run around...doing coordinated...stuff...with a ball...all in a graceful, "look at me, I'm a good player, pick me for the team" fashion. Yikes! I do NOT envy those kids...

So, with just over 3 weeks left until it's back to the old grindstone, the brothers are enjoying extensive athletic, electronic...gastronomic...togetherness. However, since they seem to be happily occupied most of the time, I reaaallly should make more of a concerted effort to get some important things done...such as...wait, what day is it? Oh well, there's always tomorrow...hey, maybe I should go try to order some lunch from the kids...you think that'll be enough accomplished for...Wednesday?

Saturday, July 26, 2014

High School Hysteria

My older son will be starting 9th grade in about a month…which in itself is shocking enough to his mother. (Who--despite all obstacles--still valiantly toils to remain firmly in her Happy Place known as…Denial…) Yes, even though he towers above me, outweighs me by 20 pounds, shaves, and speaks in such a deep voice that if I’m not right next to him I can’t immediately tell if it’s Derek or Husband talking…it still somehow snuck up on me that my oldest “baby” is preparing to launch into the uncharted Land of High School.

Yeah, yeah, I know I should have seen it coming; after all, one of the first things I took care of right after we moved was to register both boys in the local school system. After that was accomplished, I contacted the individual schools to set up meetings with the Guidance Counselors, so I could share information about my favorite students—such as their report cards, recommendations from their previous teachers about what classes they should take next year, and other “official stuff” like that. Oh, and with the brave new worlds of Middle and High School awaiting them, both Derek and Riley would need to choose some elective courses to round out their required academic load.

So Derek and I scheduled a tour with Mr. Thomas, and arrived ready to….storm the halls of academia…or something. The first thing that struck both of us was the sheer, overwhelming size of the place. Two floors--fine, that seems reasonable. But then we stepped outside, exiting what I had believed to be the entirety of the school…to move on to the next brick structure. I’m sorry, Building A…and Building B? “Oh, yes,” Mr. Thomas cheerfully assured me, “and Cand D!”

What the WHAT? Derek caught my eye and shook his head, both of us having similar unspoken thoughts, “Good luck finding your classrooms, dude!” Mr. Thomas continued, unaware of our consternation, “It’s really laid out sort of like the campus for a junior college.” Well, that’s reassuring…unless you’re 14, and new at all of this, and starting off, shall we say, “clueless”. (Eh, sink or swim, right? He’ll figure it out…maybe they have Prefects to point First Years in the right direction…)

But soon we (okay, at least “I”) got caught up in examining all of the cool spaces—like the Science hallway, with cartoon murals painted on the walls, depicting delightfully-geeky puns relating to chemistry and environmental biology and whatnot. Or the professional-looking Theater department, complete with a tool-stocked workroom for building sets. And the huge, appropriately messy and creative Art studio. And two—count ‘em, TWO gymnasiums, one boasting a rock-climbing wall. Which leads me to my next point: when Derek is a Sophomore, he will be permitted to take a PE class called “Healthful Living”, in which, according to the description on the website, they will do the following: hiking and camping, rock climbing, canoeing, sea kayaking, road biking, mountain biking, archery, frisbee golf and other outdoor games. Are. You. KIDDING. Me? How freakin’ awesome does that sound? Another option is a Sports Medicine/Athletic Training course. Or there’s always Journalism, so he can write for the school newspaper.

By the end of this, I could barely contain my glee. My inner Super-Nerd was doing a happy dance, excited for all of the possibilities available for my son’s education. (Or, you know, wishing I could partake of the learning opportunities myself. Whatever…) After we said our goodbyes to Mr. Thomas, promising to study the Course Catalog, make our selections, and get the paperwork returned as soon as possible, I turned to Derek and uttered one little sentence guaranteed to strike abject dread into the heart of every teenager on the planet, “Buddy, that sounds so great…can I come to class with you?”

Derek turned toward me, mouth hanging open (a hilarious mixture of terror, horror, and disgust clearly displayed in his expression) and blurted, “Mom! (a pause to gather his thoughts) “It’s not... ‘Take Your Parent to School Day’ (another moment for emphasis, in case I was unclear about the strength of his feelings on the subject)…like, E-V-E-R!” Well, rats! Fine, go have all the fun yourself. But if they ever need chaperones for any of these field trips, just wait and see how fast I fill out that volunteer form, baby!


(Silly me, I almost forgot to mention—what he ended up choosing was Principles of Biomedical Sciences, which is “designed for students to investigate the human body systems and various health conditions. They determine factors that lead to the death of a fictional person and investigate lifestyle choices.” One can only hope he’ll need consultation on his homework…so I can play, too…)

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

The Tao of Dough

Those who know me are well aware that I have a strong love/hate relationship with the whole notion of "cooking". It's really not hard to explain: I adore eating, but I find the actual concoction of a meal to be a chore. I don't harbor fond, misty memories of learning the culinary craft at my mother's elbow, in a steam-filled, cozy kitchen, surrounded by a blanket of enticing aromas. (Clearly I've been watching waaaayyy too much Food Network this Summer, yeah?) Nope--Mom was eminently practical, focused on getting the grub on the table in as efficient and timely a manner as possible...and I channel her spirit every evening that I'm in charge of feeding the ravenous masses...um, "the family".

However, there is one priceless recipe she taught me, that I cherish to this day. That's right, folks, I'm talking about the iconic, the delicious: Toll House Chocolate Chip Cookies. If memory serves, I was about 12 when Mom imparted the great, mysterious secrets of CCCs (as my Dad dubbed them, and so they became forevermore). Apparently I did a good job, because they earned my father's approval, letting Mom off the hook from ever preparing them again--I mean "allowing her to pass the ceremonial Baking Torch to her eldest daughter"...or whatever. Over the years, first in my parents' house, then on my own as an adult, I made those cookies so much that I never even had to glance at the recipe for amounts or directions. And no matter what else was going on in my life, or the world at large, I could always count on those dependable dough balls to come out of the oven transformed into chewy, melty little nuggets of chocolatey goodness. Mmmmm...

You might wonder why I'm rhapsodizing about cookies, out of the blue. And I really wish I could tell you...but I can't remember exactly why chocolate chip cookies suddenly sprang into my brain the other day. I just know that the Male Posse and I were in the car together, and it occurred to me from something we were discussing that I haven't baked in...well, approximately forever--I mean, not counting brownies from a box (albeit a totally acceptable means of obtaining a pan full of gooey cocoa love, as far as I'm concerned) or those super-convenient-but-cheating pre-mixed break-apart packages (again, nothing at all wrong with it...just doesn't constitute actual "baking"). So I informed the boys that they would be assisting me in whipping up some dessert, using Grammy's classic recipe.

I'll be honest--I expected some excitement....enthusiasm....okay, maybe...mild curiosity? What I got instead was a dual...hissy-fit...like I'd asked them to do something absolutely heinous (scrub toilets...or shoot puppies...or dance with girls, for example...) "M-oooo-ooo--mmm, we don't waaaannnnnt to!" they whined. I just stared at them, astonished by their emotional over-reaction. I tried to reason with them, pointing out that rather than requiring an entire day tied up in back-breaking, boring, menial tasks with no discernible reward at the end....I was instead asking for 20 minutes of cooperation for what should be an enjoyable, bonding activity...at the conclusion of which there would be WARM COOKIES. Sheesh, eyes on the prize, people!

So...after the "tirade portion" of our little adventure came to a close, we finally got around to the actual fun stuff. I guess I didn't hadn't thought about the fact that--while they've helped in the kitchen before--neither of the boys has much experience with the precision required of baking. Husband and I both typically follow the "eyeball it" measurement technique and also the "go with your gut" seasoning corollary, but sweet treats demand that you actually follow the rules. Thus, we practiced filling and leveling the cups and spoons, stirring together the dry ingredients, slicing off the exact amount of butter called for, mixing the wet components...etc. (But not breaking the egg--the newbies still insist that I perform this delicate task...probably for the best, at this point...)

Once they got involved in the process, the boys really did find it entertaining. Especially when I instructed them to dump almost a full bag of chips into the batter. (Hey, I TOLD you it'd be worthwhile, didn't I? It's the way Mom taught me--extra love and attention goes in there with every little morsel of chocolate, I tell ya... ) And when the scent of cookies wafted out of the oven to permeate pretty much the whole house? Yeah, that's what I'm talking about! Not to mention the ultimate payoff: freshly-baked delights to the chefs. I think it's safe to say they get it, now. I suspect there will be no more complaining about being forced to help with the CCCs...hmm, maybe for next time I can even convince them to ride to the store and stock up on the ingredients, so we're always ready in case a sugar-deprivation...emergency...crops up. Mwah hah hah, Mom the Cookie Tyrant is born!

Thursday, July 17, 2014

E-I-E-I-Oh my goodness!

I have to say that one of the things I've come to enjoy most so far about our new surroundings is the presence of the local Farmer's Market. From April to November it operates both on Wednesday afternoon and Saturday morning; the first time I remembered to check it out was actually during the weekday slot. I was delighted by the tables full of ripe, rainbow-hued, mouth-wateringly-delicious-looking fruits and vegetables laid out before me. For a while, all I could do was wander around, gaping in wonder, oohing and aahing over the bounty. I mean, there were cucumbers and zucchini and potatoes and watermelons and peaches and blueberries and...more shades of cherry tomatoes than I even knew existed. (I had to bring home some of those, just to prove to the boys that I was not, in fact, inventing--or hallucinating--the purple and orange and yellow ones.)

Eventually I got hold of myself and managed to actually purchase...some ears of corn...for dinner. When I asked the vendor if the Saturday offerings were more extensive, he gave a quick look around and answered, in a slow and bemused tone, (like "what are you, NEW here?" why yes, yes I am...) "Yeah...it's about 3 times as big." "Yaaaayyyy," squealed my inner...enviro-ganic-vegetarian, (that should totally be a thing, dontcha think?) who vowed to return for the main event in a few days.

And let me tell ya, it is a Big. Honkin'. Deal. First of all, I made the mistake of driving...even though our house is situated, oh, approximately 2 miles or so from the market location. In my defense, having spent most of my life in the car-centric D.C. metro area, I just haven't quite gotten into the habit yet of hopping onto my 2-wheels and pedaling everywhere as a viable alternative. I couldn't be too embarrassed, though, as there were TONS of other cars...turning parking into a sort of "mall-at-holiday-time" proposition. I ended up meandering a few blocks away and finding space on a side street...and then walking over with the other slackers who had brought their motorized vehicles. On the way, I had plenty of time to reflect upon another phenomenon that has come to my attention of late. You see, we have moved to the outskirts of a very artsy community...and I have noticed that I am distinctly...shall we say..."under-tattooed" for the general population. Let me hasten to add that this fact is not about to change anytime soon--or ever--but I do enjoy (discreetly) checking out and admiring the inked body decorations that are so prevalent around here.

Anyway, the guy who told me about the weekend market being much more extensive...was neither fibbing nor exaggerating. In addition to the previously mentioned goodies, there were also such delectable items as: a smorgasbord of gluten-free treats, locally-sourced honey, freshly-grown herbs, eggs (I'm assuming from non-caged, non-medicated...100% happy and free...poultry), organic meats...and so, soooo much more. (I swear it was like...Tree Huggers' Disneyland...or something...okay, without the thrill rides...but with super-tasty snacks!) However, when I was rhapsodizing about it to the Male Posse upon their return from South Carolina, the response was much more tepid than I'd expected. (Not that I pictured them jumping up and down with glee while dreaming of tables filled with...produce...but I kinda thought that at least the mention of "animal products" would inspire some enthusiasm...)

Husband, unexpectedly, led off the tirade, "What difference does it make if the PIGS are organic? They're just pork! We don't care!" "Oh, fine," I countered (with an inner eye-roll, or maybe it was actually visible....yeah, probably...) "but you should still come see it...and we should all ride our bikes over!" Of course he readily agreed, with the idea of an idyllic family jaunt, to pick up some fresh salad and fruit for our evening meal, right? Hahahahahaha! His sarcasm-oozing response was something more along the lines of, "That's just great...I'll be sure to bring my cloth bag...and wear some...hemp socks!" Oh. Good. Grief. Before I even had time to formulate a suitably scathing comeback (perhaps something alluding to the fact that those who still own Grateful Dead CDs shouldn't cast the first...well, you know...) Derek piped up in an utterly bewildered voice, suddenly joining the conversation with the query, "Wait, Dad....did you just say...PIMP socks?"

As you can guess, this lovely dinnertime chat was O-V-E-R at that point. Riley was in hysterics, and didn't even really know why. I had retreated (after the inevitable slapping-of-the-forehead) in surrender. On the other hand, Husband gamely stuck around to try and explain exactly what "hemp" was. Ay yi yi. Obviously I have serious work to do, in terms of upping my family's...crunchy...granola...ness. We'll start by riding under our own power to the market on Saturday, perusing the plethora of yummy stuff, and buying something tasty to bring home (yes, in our reusable fabric bags). But don't worry, I feel absolutely certain that it won't be necessary for ANYONE to get a tattoo...

Saturday, July 12, 2014

Oh...deer...(sorry!)

Several years ago, the WestEnders household began composting. Now, I'm not talking about a full-on, save all your leftovers, make sure you have the optimum ratio of components in the mixture, water and aerate and...whatnot...kind of operation. For us it was just about putting out food scraps so they could decompose naturally, rather than filling up our garbage bags with perfectly biodegradable organic material. When we moved, we had to leave behind our simple wire contraption, situated in the far right, back corner of our property. So in looking for a relatively inexpensive replacement, I ended up ordering a no-frills plastic tube that could basically be used to contain the items. We set it up one afternoon in a jif, and thought we were good to go. However, the very next morning, this is the scene that greeted me out the back window, when I awoke and wandered downstairs in search of my first hit of liquid caffeine:


"Oh my goodness," you might be thinking, "it must have been really windy the night before!" Or maybe there was a monster thunderstorm! Or...some other type of natural disaster occurred, to have caused the very sturdy bin to topple over like that, exposing all of the...tasty morsels...inside. Hmmm...you know, the other day--before the parcel had arrived--Husband had been forced to dump one load of compost-heap-bound stuff into the ditch behind our house. After a few hours of observing the increased...nature traffic...in the back yard, he cheerfully noted, "Wow, that's pretty much like leaving...Deer Takeout!" I have mentioned before the absolutely astonishing number of bucks, does, and fawns who pretty much treat our neighborhood like it's...well...their own...Deer Kingdom. With that in mind, I managed to capture a few of the likely suspects--literally by opening my front door, sitting on the steps, and snapping the photos. Here they are:


Seriously, don't they look TOTALLY untrustworthy? And guilty as heck? And....downright adorable...but whatever, leave my compost alone, you darn...little...Bambis! So, in the spirit of "get off my lawn, wildlife"...or some such nonsense...I determined that I would W-I-N the battle of the vandalized compost container. Since I was going to Lowe's anyway (Heaven help me...) I purchased some wire, which I then threaded through the holes to secure the plastic cylinder to the nearest tree. (I swear I don't know if I felt like McGyver...or the biggest yard-obsessed-dork on the planet. That was rhetorical, by the way, feel free NOT to weigh in...thank you, your restraint is appreciated...) When I was finished, this was the end result:


It looks great for now, and feels very firm...but will it hold under the determined pushing and prodding of a hungry deer in search of a snack? Only time will tell--like when I peek out tomorrow morning, with bated breath, at java-thirty, to assess the situation. Fingers crossed...

Thursday, July 10, 2014

New Realities

One of the appealing reasons to make the move to North Carolina was that Husband got permission from his company to become a home-based employee. He likes his job and had no interest in looking for another one, but his commute in Maryland was sucking some of the enjoyment out of his life, for sure. He's definitely not a complainer (like I would be in his shoes--ranting every day when I arrived home about the crazy congestion and slow roads) but you could tell it was wearing on him nonetheless.

And now that he's been operating under the revised guidelines for a few weeks, you might be curious as to how it's going. Well, let me just sum it up thusly: "my, how things have changed". These days, he rolls out of bed, strolls down to the kitchen to grab some breakfast (which, can I tell you, is just NUTS...did no one ever teach the man the Golden Rule: "Caffeine Before Calories"? Or perhaps that's just me...), then meanders...into the next room...to begin his work day. When he first contemplated this radical option, one of his initial, much-too-gleeful comments ran something along the lines of, "I don't have to drive! I don't have to leave the house! Heck, I don't even have to wear PANTS if I don't want to!" (Don't be alarmed--this subversive notion was quickly squashed by...well, me...as I firmly informed him that yes, indeed, he would in fact be required to don...at least a pair of shorts...to wear to "the office".)

And overall, I would say it's been smooth...if a bit weird...having him around so much. Fortunately, he has the self-discipline and attention required to actually close his door and focus on his professional tasks. On the other hand, he can just pop out for a snack when the mood strikes...or like the other day, when he was finally ready for his coffee and emerged to hit up the Keurig for a fresh cup. (Later he told me that he was a few minutes late for the start of a conference call because I had happened to be brewing my own java at the same time. So he blithely apologized with the excuse, "Sorry, there was a line at the coffee machine!" His poor colleague was evidently quite confused by this...)

And he's suddenly available in ways that weren't possible in the previous paradigm...such as being around to cook dinner every night...a chore which he doesn't mind, but I loathe, so that works out beautifully. Then there was the incident yesterday when Riley came in crying because he was having some sort of trouble with the gears on his bicycle. Out came Dad to the rescue, with tools and...other mechanical-looking...stuff. As he was tying his shoes to go out and save the day, I noted that his desk phone was ringing. "I'll call them back," he said cheerfully, "right now I've got to handle a bike emergency!"

So yeah, I suppose it's safe to say he's quite invested in his new circumstances...but I can see how there might have to be some...boundaries....established. For example, this morning Derek--who I might have mentioned is oblivious to, if not openly scornful of, "fashion" in any way, shape, or form--actually caught on to something that seemed amiss. I heard him ask his father, "Hey, wait a minute, are you wearing the same clothes as yesterday?" Husband glanced down at himself (in a slightly startled way, as if just now noticing that he had apparel on at ALL...and was congratulating himself for it...) and admitted with no self-consciousness whatsoever that yes, he was. When pressed by the teenager, he also confessed that he couldn't remember if he'd even showered in the previous 24 hours. Ay yi yi. Almost as an afterthought he hastened to add, with a disturbing note of triumph in his voice, "But...I changed my underwear!"

I don't know if it was the actual concept (I know--don't think about it too closely) or the fact that he sounded so darn proud of himself? But I couldn't help shooting back, "You sound like you want a STICKER for it, or something!" Oh. My. Goodness. You should have seen his face--his eyes brightened, he grinned from ear to ear, and he enthused, "Yeah! We could put a mark on the calendar for every day..." Here he trailed off, as he must have noticed my blistering stare, which thankfully quelled that whole misbegotten plan before it could be implemented. Even Derek, sitting off to the side, was shaking his bowed head in disbelief at this point. So...um....in my new role as Administrative Support Personnel for WestEnders, LLC, it seems I'll need to be creating some sort of...coffee distribution schedule...and sports management schedule...and, um "hygiene schedule"...for the employees. Sigh. At least I'm compensated in home-cooked meals, right?

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Extremely alarming! (sorry...)

As you go through life, there are some "firsts" you want to remember forever, so you can repeatedly bring them up and reminisce about them fondly over the years. Your first boyfriend or girlfriend, your first paycheck, your baby's first smile--these are special and should be treasured. However, there are other "firsts" you just want to sweep into the closet immediately and bury, never to be thought of or mentioned...ever, ever again. (Ahem...of course I mean "after chronicling them for posterity in blogdom", or whatever...) I'm talking about a random, this-just-popped-into-my-head example that has no relevance to me, personally, whatsoever--such as the first time that a representative of...law enforcement...pays a visit to your new home. (Sigh...yeah, this is a good one, alright...and believe it or not the teenager wasn't even to blame...)

You see, we moved into this house almost 2 weeks ago, and ever since the very first night, the control panel for the alarm system, which is situated on the wall directly across from where I sleep, has been bugging me. It emits this annoying bright green glow 24/7, effectively lighting up the entire room at night and ruining my dreams of a perfectly dark, cave-like snoozing environment. So last night, I'd finally had enough. I approached the box with the intention of finding a way to cancel the background light feature; it would be perfectly safe, I figured, considering that the previous owners had canceled the service contract when they moved, and therefore the electronics would be completely inert. Ha! I had experimentally pushed no more than 2 or 3 buttons when something ominous happened: the red light marked "Armed" began blinking...and counting down. "Crud crud CRUD!" were my approximate (G-rated for sensitive readers) thoughts as I stared, panic-stricken, at the stupid device. But all might yet be well, I reasoned. Because we don't subscribe to a monitoring plan, after the warning period, it will just turn itself right back off, yeah?

Uh-huh...and that's just about the moment when the piercing siren began to wail. I swear, it sounded like we were under an aerial attack, centered on our property. AWESOME...yay, me. Springing into action, Husband and I quickly located the instruction manuals left by the former homeowners...which helpfully informed us that the only way to silence the damn thing was to input "the code". Well, that's just freakin' dandy, as they didn't happen to write down anything that resembled a "shut-the-hell-up code" in the book. But, we're intelligent people with problem-solving skills...so we called the phone number on the sticker. (You know, the one that warns potential criminals to stay away, as this residence is protected by an alarm--yeah, that'll be hilarious in just a second...) I'd like to say that assistance was immediate and decisive, and the situation resolved itself right then and there. Except that what we got was a recorded message that politely wished us a happy holiday...and suggested we call back Monday to speak to someone. What the HECK? (And can I just say, "Secure-Tek", my ass! Heaven forbid there had been an actual burglar...that they would be pleased to address...during scheduled working hours...but what a relief to be defended from those pesky...inhabitants...who might be mucking about in their OWN HOUSE...sheesh...)

Now we were officially entering full-blown hysteria, as we imagined the disturbance we were unintentionally causing the entire block at 10:30 in the evening. (Gulp...sorry, new neighbors! I promise I'll get started on some yummy "forgive me" cupcakes...as soon as this infernal racket is over...) And then, a new noise punctuated the proceedings: the cheerful jingle of the doorbell. Why, hello, Officer W...we can explain! Meanwhile, Husband had managed to contact a real, live person...who was utterly unable to help him...but provided various OTHER telephone contact numbers to try. Oy. Several of the options were located in New York. Most of them yielded either an "out-of-service" automated message, or were answered by a groggy "Hello?" at what could only be assumed to be a person's private residence rather than a corporate office. Everyone we spoke to seemed confused and had no advice whatsoever to offer. Aaaannnnnd, the shrieking above our heads continued, unabated, adding to the stress of the entire situation.

Officer W, though--he was a G-E-M. He maintained a demeanor of calm, friendliness, and good-humor throughout this ordeal. In the end, he helped us carry out the only course of action that made sense...we dismantled the idiotic thing to force it to cease and desist with the cacophony, already. Yep, boxes removed from the walls, wires disconnected, battery backup yanked, fuses pulled. It was total destruction...and it was finally QUIET. Officer W, his duty admirably done, bid us an amused "Welcome to town" and took his leave (after we apologized oh, about 350 times). And I got to slumber without the obnoxious radioactive aura permeating my bedroom, so that's a plus, right? And...um...we didn't get written up for a noise violation? I'm sure this will be a side-splittingly funny story in WestEnders family lore someday. ("Hey, remember when the police came to our house, and it was MOM'S fault? Good times...") But for now, I've got some serious sucking up to do, up and down our peaceful little street...better get baking...

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Going forth on the Fourth

Because here at Team WestEnders, we're nothing if not conventional (pause for merry, disbelieving laughter...continue) we honored our country's birthday by celebrating in a completely traditional way. You know, lounging by the pool...picnicking...oohing and aahing over fireworks displays. Or...wait...we did absolutely NONE of those things, whatsoever. Uh-oh, does that make us bad Americans? Are we going to be penalized on some kind of--I don't know--Stars and Stripes Point System, and have to make it up with extra time spent grilling hotdogs (or veggie burgers, as it were)...and watching baseball...and sipping cold beer, to prove our patriotism? (That doesn't sound bad at all, actually...just go ahead and sign me up for that program...)

But we have plenty of excuses--I  mean "valid reasons for ignoring our cultural heritage...and whatnot". You see, we haven't found our way to the local pool yet. (Sure, I looked up the location, and the hours, and even ascertained that it's FREE...but we just haven't actually made the trip so far...) And while we have been (well, Husband has been, at least) barbecuing regularly with the new grill, we haven't yet acquired patio furniture, forcing us to eat the fire-cooked meals indoors. (I did order the table and chairs, does that count? We'll be dining alfresco in 7 to 10 short days, baby...)

As for displays of pyrotechnic grandeur, we had plans to attend the one offered on UNC's campus, in the stadium. However, earlier in the day we had opted to explore a nearby recreational area that we'd been wanting to visit. (For such a long time--you know, like the almost-2-weeks we've lived here...) So when we finished our approximately 3-1/2 mile hike at Jordan Lake, we were too dusty, sweaty, tired and hungry to contemplate anything more strenuous than showering and ordering pizza. (Hey, that counts as a legitimate pastime in the good old US-of-A, right? I'm talking about the pizza consumption, not the showering...although of course that's highly encouraged as an appropriate American activity as well...oh, never mind...)

Anyway, I'm sure our forefathers would appreciate our tromping through the woods and admiring unspoiled nature on their behalf--yeah, that's it, we were just being "pioneer-like"! Ha! Furthermore, tomorrow we're going to a Durham Bulls baseball game, so that should help send our Red, White, and Blue cred skyrocketing once more. Whew, no National Detention for us, thank you very much! Now if you'll excuse me, perhaps I can do something about that frosty brewed beverage...strictly for a show of All-American loyalty and pride, of course...