Thursday, December 31, 2015

Maryland Holiday Trip 2015 (Part 1: Looks Like We Made It)

For the first time in...well...EVER...Team WestEnders spent Christmas in our own house. This confused the children mightily, as they're used to traveling to my dad's for the holiday. One evening Derek approached me wearing an extremely bewildered expression--you could just see from his face that he was struggling to work out something profoundly difficult--and said, "Wait...Mom...when are we going to open our presents?" Um...that would be "on Christmas morning", dear, as is the custom. Now, I know in the past we've sometimes had to move it up to Christmas Eve, due to out-of-town family obligations and whatnot, but trust me, you'll be fine. He took my word for it, although he walked away with a frown, as though he needed some time to process this earth-shattering change to his way of life (...or something....who knows what's going on in there, really?)

So, our annual Winter Break journey northward was re-scheduled for New Year's instead. It just so happens that the friends who normally put us up when we visit were hosting the Big Bash time around; thus we'd be conveniently located in Soiree Central, without having to resort to any crazy behavior like, you know, "leaving the house". (Score! In fact, we can remain in our pajamas if we so choose...beverages, snacks, people coming to see us...it's a Perfect Party Scenario, I tell ya!)

But first, we had to get there...which involves the sometimes-arduous trek on those evil twins, Interstates 85 and 95. (aka "The Goshawful Boring Highway with Terrible Refreshment Options" and the road that unfortunately passes through "Are You Freakin' Kidding Me? What the HECK is Wrong with Virginia?" But obviously those are much too long to print on signs, so it's...implied...)

Aahhh, it started so well--we left the house at 10:15 a.m., pretty much according to schedule. Aaannnnd, it went straight down the drain from there. You see, while we unknowingly went about the business of finishing packing and loading the car, it began to rain. (Yes....A-G-A-I-N. Don't even get me started on how I never signed up to live in bloody England, for crying out loud...) But on second thought, "rain" is such an innocent, inoffensive word....so it reeaaaalllly doesn't apply here. Nope, this was more like, oh, let's call it a "downpour of Biblical proportions". Seriously, I think we would have been better off in an Ark...rather than an unassuming little Hyundai.

How can I sum up?  Hmmmm, oh, I know: visibility was damn near nonexistent, there was standing water on the road that made skidding out of control a very real danger at any given moment, and the pounding of the sheets of water on the metal vehicle was so loud it drowned out conversation and the radio--or on the plus side, I suppose, any screams of terror inspired by the horrific conditions. At one point Husband--who despite everything was able to maintain at least a semblance of his usual sense of humor, bless his little pea pickin' heart--turned to me and marveled, "This isn't even rain anymore; it's more like...disaster-movie special effects!" (Sadly, he was dead-on, by the way. Good call for the cinema...terrible IRL...) Anyway, as a result, the maximum velocity achievable was waaayyy below normal, which set us up for a very bad domino effect...as we still hadn't even reached the 7th Circle of Hell--I mean Northern Virginia.

Finally, after 2-1/2 valiant hours, Husband gave up the wheel and we all stumbled out of the death-box...um, "car"...to perform the necessary road-trip activities. (You know what I'm talking about: re-fuel, pee, buy drinks and foodstuffs, stretch the legs...try to make the past hundred miles a distant memory if possible...) Then it was my turn behind the wheel--and things were absolutely GREAT...for approximately an hour. Although the storms had let up (or we'd finally out-driven them) they had delayed us enough that the next booby trap was sprung...that's right, I'm talking about the dreaded T-thing...TRAFFIC.

Not gonna go into a whole lot of details here, except to say that from Quantico to--hmmm, let me think--yep, all the way to our exit in Maryland, was a pretty much continuous crawl. Suckage. Major. How bad was it? We were forced to stop and, ahem, "use the facilities" a second time. (Believe me, we NEVER do that on our return-to-the-hometown trips. It's typically a one-intermission excursion...) Aaaannnd, we got a bit loopy in the latter stages of Highway Fatigue. My sister texted me to ask how it was going, and I sent back a reply full of tasteful symbols in lieu of the VBWs (Very Bad Words) I wanted to use to describe our experience. The boys curiously asked what I was doing, and when I told them Derek responded, "Why? Does your phone auto-correct you when you try to use a curse word? 'Cuz mine changes it to 'duck'!"

Okay, hold on just a minute, mister, what's this I'm hearing? He was quick to add, "I just did it to see what would happen!" (Uh-huh...she says suspiciously...while choosing to give him the benefit of the doubt...for now, anyway) But I was having a low-blood-sugar moment (the Clif bar I'd purchased for lunch from the lousy little convenience store at the gas station wore off a looong time ago, apparently) so I crowed, "Oh yeah? Well...Rush Hour ducking sucks!" Much hilarity ensued, I tell ya, which speaks eloquently to our collective state of mind at that particular instant.

But, we survived the meteorological mayhem and gridlock grief, and arrived at my dad's house safe and sound...if also a bit weary and shell-shocked. From here on out, it's All Social Events, All Weekend for Team WestEnders, as we say goodbye to the old calendar page, and welcome in 2016 with an abundance of family, friends, and F-U-N. Bring it on! Well...after my nap, that is...

Friday, December 25, 2015

Hindsight is 20/20...unless of course you misplace your glasses, that is...

A bit of background before we dive into today's story: Derek has been wearing glasses since he was 4 years old. Because his eyes have an extreme imbalance in the acuity between them, and also due to the fact that we always get the scratch-resistant coating (duh, he's a KID), transitions option to protect from UV rays, and the warranty (hello, he's a BOY) the lenses tend to be quite expensive. Fortunately, his prescription doesn't change much between appointments, because insurance only covers even a portion of the total every two years--so he pretty much gets a new set on that schedule. Out-of-pocket costs still run several hundred dollars, but obviously this is the price of doing business...um, I mean "raising a child".

So, this Fall happened to be the time when he was due to pick out some fresh specs. We went to the store and did the whole "evaluating the different alternatives...rejecting those that I think make me look like a nerd...determining which ones exude a sufficient degree of  'coolness'"...or, you know, whatever the heck goes through the mind of a 15-year old as he tests eyeglass frames. About a week later, we were called to pick them up. (This was November 19th--yes you DO need to remember that, as it will be critically important to the rest of our tale.)

Here's a second bit of relevant trivia pertaining to the ensuing events: there's a stream that rambles through our neighborhood. Now, normally it's a merry little trickle, bubbling over a rocky bed, only a couple of inches deep at most. However...we've had a tremendous amount of rain lately--really the entire season has been extremely wet. And with the 3-3/4 inches of extra special water-from-the-sky that fell this week, that typically-docile creek was channeling its inner...raging rapids. (Seriously--it was flowing fast enough to have an actual current...you couldn't see the bottom any more...debris was swirling and being carried away to far-off points...it was our own River Wild, I tell ya.)

As it happened, on December 23rd (a day that will, in fact, live in infamy...at least in the WestEnders household) Derek and some of his buddies had a brainstorm (okay, "storm" might be a strong word...maybe "light drizzle" would be more accurate) that it would be an excellent idea to tromp through the muddy woods, following the path of the aforementioned waterway. (What could possibly go wrong, yeah? Right, these are teenage boys...just wait for it...) Well, Derek--my usually strong, athletic, agile son--slipped off the embankment, and splashed right smack into the creek. In the process, he banged his head, which knocked his glasses off his face...after which they promptly disappeared from view. According to his recounting of the incident, he and his friends immediately scoured the immediate area, and even traveled downstream for quite a distance, doing their best to locate and retrieve the errant spectacles.

Finally, he was forced to concede defeat...so he steeled his nerves...and called me. He had to know I'd be livid when informed that he'd managed to lose his ONE MONTH OLD glasses--and he was not wrong.  I joined him in the forest to add my efforts to the Search and Rescue Mission...to no avail (alas). After confirming that there didn't seem to be any damage to his noggin, I admit I expressed no small degree of...unhappiness...that we'd be returning to the eyeglass emporium after 4 short weeks...to purchase an identical pair...with even less allowance from the insurance company than the first time. (Grrr....)

I know, I know, it was an accident, these things happen, blah blah blah. But it only seems fair that that kid owes me an appropriate period of...shall we say "remorseful groveling". Hmm, now that I think about it, it also seems like some ahem..."reparations"...may be in order...which of course I will graciously accept in the form of chocolate. Hey, maybe this could even count as a valuable Life Lesson: Derek can just consider it an introduction into the complicated world of "co-payments". Mwah hah hah!

Thursday, December 24, 2015

'Tis the Season...for Nonsense, Apparently...

Aahhh, the holidays...they have a tendency to inspire nostalgia and warm memories, don't they? For example, like when my kids were wee munchkins (hard to imagine, I know), and would make adorable Christmas Wish Lists that included items such as "Thomas train set" or "new baseball bat" or "whatever video game I am currently desperate to play". (Actually, the last one still appears, every yuletide season. Boys may get bigger, but they never grow out of their electronics, am I right?)

The last few years when we've quizzed them for...inspiration...though, it's felt like pulling teeth to get them to actually voice any ideas. (Yeah...maybe not as painful...but definitely equally difficult...) "Um....I don't really need anything." "I can't think of anything I want right now." Now, don't get me wrong--I'm super-glad that they're happy and content with their...stuff. But...it does kind of cut down on the element of...I don't know...Santa Surprise? (My Inner Elf is unsatisfied, I tell ya! Perhaps that's a personal problem...never mind...)

However, I think it was around October when Derek finally uttered those words we'd been expecting...but dreading....pretty much since he entered the High School Era. You see, this is the first year that the nightly homework for both boys involves the computer most of the time. From researching and typing papers, to online Math problems, to Study Guides posted on Google Classroom...they've had to negotiate a complicated schedule, to make sure they each get adequate use of the family PC. So one evening when he was--rather impatiently--waiting his turn, Derek matter-of-factly stated, "Mom, I think I need my own laptop for Christmas."

Aaarrrgh! And he was absolutely right, of course...but STILL. So after I managed to put aside the shock, I diligently got down to work researching like crazy--weighing brands, technical specs, features, cost...and whatnot.Then I made my decision, placed the order...and squirreled the package away when it arrived, so there would be no chance whatsoever of anyone catching sight of the telltale box and setting that proverbial feline free from its sack.

All good, yeah? But I faced a slight dilemma: I wanted Derek to be able to open it up and get right to goofing around with it, so I needed to take care of the "housekeeping" aspects--such as entering the WiFi password and "configuring the settings" (whatever the heck that means). The only instructions provided by the manufacturer also recommended charging it for 3 hours before making any demands of the system. (Whether this is "mandatory" or merely a "polite suggestion" I have no idea. I just follow directions...okay, mostly...well, when it suits me...eh, you get the picture....)

Let me explain why this is so challenging: there's not one room in the house where I can plug something in...secretly...out of sight and safe from the investigations of curious passers-by. After wracking my brains for a while for creative solutions, in the end I simply put it in my bedroom with a self-explanatory note taped to the door. ("Keep door closed", in case you were wondering. It seemed best to be clear...and firm. It IS the season of heightened anticipation...and nosiness, after all...and I've met my kids...)

Sooooo...this morning, as Husband (who correctly ascertained that he was allowed access to..."St. Nick's Workshop, Southern Mid-Atlantic Division"...tried to stealthily sneak through the aforementioned entry, the children pretended to muscle around him and peek past the barrier. "No, no, no," he warned, in a tone of...mock-stern-ness, "You have to wait; it takes time for the The My Little Pony inflatables to be ready!" I was still shaking my head at this ridiculous notion...and image...when suddenly both of the gooberheads rushed to me, Derek smothering me in a bear hug and exclaiming, "THANKS, Mom--how did you know that was just what I wanted?" Riley followed a second behind and chimed in, "Best. Mom. EVER!"

Siiiighhhh. Yes, this is my...beloved family. God bless....their little pea pickin' hearts...every one.


Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Say "cheese" (a whole LOTTA cheese...)

When we lived in Maryland, we were very lucky to have a neighbor who had spent some time as a professional photographer. You see, on Team WestEnders, I'm usually the chronicler of momentous events...the capturer of precious memories...the recorder of large amounts of silliness. But for our annual holiday photo, in which I actually, you know, wanted to appear....with my family...we required a trusted outsider to do the job. And let me just say, he was absolutely wonderful. He made sure that my wish got granted every year: Just. One. Nice. Picture. For. Crying. Out. Loud. (Even if I clearly didn't dictate what they should wear. Eh, they wouldn't look like my actual children if they were matching, or something crazy like that. It's also notable that this was the very last year that Derek was shorter than me. Aaahhh, those were the days...)

And the deal was, if they managed to contain themselves and behave for just a couple of minutes, I would then allow them to let loose and express their more...customary personalities with some goofy shots...that would never, EVER be placed on something mailed to family and friends:

(Incidentally, no, I don't know why Riley's channeling his inner...Supermodel. I don't even try to figure these things out any more...)

Then we moved to Chapel Hill, and lost our next-door picture-taking connection. Last year, I asked the very nice man from one-house-over to stop by and snap a few frames. However...the perfectionist amateur shutterbug in me--the one who's been fiddling with cameras since she was in elementary school, decided to take her mom's Instamatic away from her, and never gave it back--was...unsatisfied...with the results. (He did his best, bless his heart--it's just not his forte.) We made do for the time being, but we needed to formulate a new plan.


Aaannnnd, the festive season rolled around again, as it tends to do, bringing with it the same dilemma. What to do about that pesky group photo? And then it hit me: (in one of those "Well...DUH!" instants) of course my Nikon has a dandy little thing called a "self-timer" just sitting there waiting for me to learn how to use it. Fortunately, like everything else about my neat little contraption, it was fairly intuitive and easy to master. So, while Husband shuttled Derek to soccer practice one evening, this happened...

Ta da! Right...it's definitely not gallery-worthy, or anything, but it's a credible first attempt. Yeah, yeah, you can see the edge of Derek's ginormous Chemistry textbook I borrowed, to level the device on the uneven sofa back (my own creative way of McGyver-ing around the fact that I don't own a tripod). And I totally agree that the decoration on the coffee table that's visible in the lower right detracts from the composition. Not to mention the fuzzy pajamas...but these are all just minor details that can be manipulated with some practice, right? Flush with m yearly success, I set about addressing some of those issues....in a somewhat lengthy trial and error period...emphasis on the latter...and perhaps a couple of...ahem..."colorful words" were thrown about as I accidentally took numerous shots of the tree...by itself.

When I was confident that I'd gotten the process down to a science (as much as possible, anyway)--and was a bit giddy with excitement, to be honest--I called Riley downstairs to participate in the...whimsically entertaining Mother/Son bonding opportunity (or...whatever...). And my goodness, did we have us some fun...oops! About that pesky "push the 'okay' button" step that I keep somehow forgetting....sorry, sweetie! (Doesn't he look thrilled? Yep, "quality time", I tell ya...)

At last, the planets aligned...I remembered to tell Nikon it was "okay"...and voila: (In this case, referring to the less common usage, which translates roughly to "Hallelujah, it worked; are we DONE now, Mom so I can go back to my room and hibernate like the pre-teen boy I am?")


The only thing left to do was spring this whole experience on the entire gang. Naturally this had to be scheduled around a plethora of factors--such as the aforementioned soccer training...whether I was having an acceptable hair day...how sweaty and/or dirty Riley had gotten playing outside after school...etc. Oh, and Husband threw in there that he wanted to be freshly-shaven for the occasion. AND he insisted that the boys "dress nicely"....which caused yet another Delay of Game due to the grousing and protesting inspired by this decree. (In the probably-slightly-misquoted words of the immortal Crash Davis, "We're dealing with a lot of [stuff] here!")

Fi-na-lly we all gathered around ye olde Christmas tree for the 2015 WestEnders official fa-la-la photo. The "nice one" will show up on the cards (which weren't even ordered this year until December 17th, so don't hold your breath. Therefore, let me just take a second to sincerely wish you a most joyous holiday season and a very happy 2016, Your New Year's greeting will be mailed eventually, I promise...). But here's the "come as you are"...and "be as you will" version:



Sigh...yep, those are my boys. Now can somebody please pass me the sugar cookies? And maybe some eggnog? I've certainly earned them...





Thursday, December 17, 2015

Not an actual emergency...only a test

Last Saturday morning, Riley had the opportunity to take part in a rite of passage, of sorts...one in which he joined tens of thousands of students across the nation who were gathering at the same time, to do the same thing...take the ACT Test. (I'll pause for a moment here to allow the shrieking to die down, as you deal with the painful, unpleasant memories of your own experience involving this particular...Instrument of Teenage Torture--which by the way would be a MUCH better acronym for it, right?--or its equally loathsome cousin, the SAT. Okay, we good now? Right, back to our story...)

Once you've recovered your wits, I know it'll begin to dawn on you that there's something definitely... fishy...about this whole scenario. Hmm...what could it be? Ohhhhh, yeah: Riley's in 7th grade, not going to college anytime soon...heck, not even thinking about high school yet, for crying out loud...so why in Heaven's name would his evil, sadistic parents sign him up for such an agonizing event? Eh, it seemed like a good idea at the time. KIDDING! Well, sort of...but that's only part of the reason.

Let me back up--during the Summer we got a letter from Riley's school, informing us that he'd been identified as eligible for this "special program", based on some outlandish Standardized Test Score that he'd achieved during the academic year. Frankly, I almost tossed the paper into the recycling bin unread, because it had that nearby "4-Letter-University that shall not be named" in its title...but I decided to give it a once-over anyway. Basically, it stated that he could take either the SAT or ACT, and his performance would determine what, if any, other benefits would be granted him based on the results.

Aha! This set off alarm bells in my brain, as I myself had gone through the very same process back when I was a 7th-grade lass. (And no, I don't recall why my own loving parents subjected me to it, either...but I figured hey, I survived...relatively unscathed...my kid'll be just fine...) The memories came flooding back--how I had been fitted with braces on my teeth the day before, and was therefore wrapped in Utter. Freaking. Misery. from the pain of new brackets and wires tugging and scraping at my mouth. (In fact, I can still vividly conjure how it felt trying to manage the tiniest of nibbles from the peanut butter sandwich I had brought as a snack...owwwwww...) To add to the overall atmosphere of sky-high-stress, my dad was supposed to drop me at our local high school, where I would catch a bus, which would then transport me the rest of the way to the testing center. Well, for reasons that completely escape me all these years later, we totally missed that sucker....forcing my father to drive me the extra hour. And then, of course, the 4-hour exam. Just a delightful Saturday, I tell ya.

So yeah, let's absolutely have Riley do it! Husband and I discussed it amongst ourselves briefly, but we were in solid agreement that he should participate in this...um..."occasion for growth"...so the poor kid never really had a prayer. When we presented it to him, his immediate reaction was predictably "strongly opposed", with a large amount of "incensed" thrown in for good measure. There was the expected "Whhhhyyyy are you making me dooooo this?" followed by "WHAT? 4 HOURS? On a SATURDAY? Are you nuts?" as we carefully leaked more of the pertinent details.

Yep, it's safe to say he was a weeeee bit grumpy about the whole endeavor. I tried to bolster his enthusiasm by sharing that--after I lived to tell the tale--I got to do some pretty cool stuff. Now, to be perfectly honest I can't actually tell you the Math-related outcome, since it's not my favorite subject. However, what I do remember with utmost clarity is being invited to take a 2-week Creative Writing course...at Hood College in Frederick. Yeah, it was during Summer Break, but so what? I was 13, and sitting in a college classroom--I felt like the biggest badass...nerd...around. And I can't say for sure, but maybe that class helped me become a better writer, or motivated me to continue cranking out my own personal brand of nonsense...such as this. I ask you: why on Earth wouldn't I want to expose my own kid to that kind of potentially life-changing...blah blah blah....and whatnot? (See? Only a semi-professional Maker-Upper-of-Stuff could get away with those kinds of...prosaic liberties. I rest my case. Or, you know...whatever...)

As the day approached, the protests did not diminish...until at last, with about a week to go, Riley appeared to become somewhat resigned to his fate. Husband even convinced him to log on to some of the helpful practice websites that had been provided for us, as a way to familiarize himself with some of the content, and learn valuable test-taking strategies. Riley seemed outwardly calm--especially when Derek's friends came to dinner last weekend and one of them revealed that he would also be taking the ACT, offered by their high school as an ungraded, trial-run for the real thing. That's right, Derek could have done the same, but laughed hysterically...then flatly refused...when we suggested it. Hey, at least Riley got to bond with SOMEONE over the impending doom--I mean "learning opportunity".

On the actual T-Day, you had to be there to check in at approximately o'damn early. But Riley was relieved to see other kids who were clearly in Middle School, scattered among those who were pulling out their driver's licenses for identification purposes. When his room was called, I watched him walk away with mixed feelings...Pride ("Way to go, buddy!). Sympathy ("Sorry, but it'll be over before you know it...er...kind of...")  Encouragement ("You've got this!") And finally, nostalgia...with a hint of melancholy ("My baaaaaby!")

Also, I did mention it was much too early for this foolishness? Yeah, I needed more coffee, and badly. When Riley returned home, he was obviously thrilled that it was done and not hanging over his head any more. But he also (at last) admitted that he was glad he'd taken it when it didn't count for anything, because now when he's a Junior and it actually matters, he'll know what to expect and not feel so nervous. (Um...yeah...can I just add a great big WE TOLD YOU SO! Love, your father and me.), Now, we wait for the scores...and cross our fingers that he doesn't get contacted by that "You Know Who" school for any enrichment activities!

Sunday, December 13, 2015

A Very Silly Supper Club

One of the benefits of living in our neighborhood (that we didn't know about before we chose the house, but were super-jazzed to discover after we'd moved in) is that both boys have friends within walking distance. For the high schoolers, this has led to the evolution of a Friday Night Routine, in which they pick someone's house to terrorize--I mean "congregate for dinner...and associated nonsense" (in fact, an enormous dose of the latter, as you'll soon see).

We're never quite sure when it's our turn in the rotation, as there doesn't appear to be an actual, you know, "schedule" of any kind. (No surprise there--I did mention they're 15-year olds, right? Truth be told, we're generally pretty darn happy if they remember to get fully dressed before they leave the house. You see, the key to happiness as a parent can sometimes be summed up thusly: "Maintain Low Expectations, and You Shall Be Rewarded". Okay, okay, I may be exaggerating just a wee little bit...but you get my drift....)

Anyway, sometimes Derek just calls Husband or me about an hour before the usual mealtime and says one of two things: either "I'm eating at so-and-so's house" or, as it happened this week, "I'd like to know if we have supplies available to feed 3 extra teenage boys tonight?" Now, this is somewhat of a trick question, since Husband generally does the evening food prep...but I'm the one who does the shopping, and therefore tend to be more aware of what's on hand in the pantry/fridge/freezer. Buzzing through the options in my head, I quickly determined that, "Sure, we could throw something together."

Now, one would think that this would be the natural end of the conversation, yeah? I mean, obviously he'd thank me profusely for offering hospitality to his buddies, and they'd all graciously accept the invitation and shower me with gratitude...hahahahaha! What, are you delusional? (Don't worry--me, too...) No, our heartwarming little chat continued with the following, "What can I tell them we'll be providing?"

I'm sorry...hold on a cotton-pickin' minute...are you freakin' kidding me? What do they think this is, Cafe WestEnders? Are they imagining that they actually have a menu to select from? Crazy 10th graders--they've got another thing comin', I tell ya! The previous rant occurred entirely in my head, of course, as I simultaneously considered what the "right answer" would be...in this potentially delicate situation. (I mean, what if they reject my child based on his mother's unacceptable offerings? He could be scarred for life...he could be a social outcast...oh yeaeeaah, but they're GUYS, so the more likely consequence is that they simply forget about the whole idea, and chow down at their own dang houses. Problem solved. Moving on...) I finally settled on, "Um...we have ham steaks...and french fries. How's that sound?"

I could hear him turn to relay the information to his pals, whose responses were also clearly audible as they boisterously interacted in the background. One of them, who I easily identified by his voice, enthusiastically replied, "Ooh, that's good, we can do that!" In contrast, there was the OTHER one, who scoffed, "Ham steaks? What does THAT mean?" The first boy tried to explain it to him, but it was apparently a losing battle, as the next thing I heard was Derek, in a tone of barely concealed amusement..."He wants to know if they're... fresh."

"What. The. HECK is he getting at--did I kill the stupid pig myself?" (This was actually conveyed out loud to my son, in an appropriately outraged tone.) Derek laughingly replied, "Yep, that's his question!" Unsure at to why I was condoning this ridiculous exchange by prolonging it any further, I nevertheless yelled, "NOOOOOO!" But wait...there's more (if you can believe it): "Do we know the person who killed it?" At this point I couldn't help but retort, with as much sarcasm as could possibly be conveyed via Samsung, "Suuuuurrrre....COSTCO!"

Undaunted, Derek  brightly agreed, "He says that's fine--he knows them." Sadly, I didn't even have time for a world-weary sigh, as Derek pressed on to the next burning topic, "He also wants to know if there's any...non-alcoholic wine." No worries, I've totally got this one--"Absolutely. They're called juice boxes." I hoped that definitively wrap the discussion, but fortune was not yet favoring me, as Derek queried, with a slight hint of concern, "But we have the vegetable ones, right?" Evidently Fruitables are not necessarily preferred by the more annoying pain in the--ahem--"pickier" members of the visiting diners. Having by now worn out every ounce of patience I possess (which admittedly is not a whole lot to begin with), I said curtly, "He can have a milk box, then."

Derek came back with an air of finality, sounding for all the world as though this had been a contract negotiation and the terms has been settled to his utter satisfaction, "Okay, that'll do. See you soon!"
As he ended the call, I thought, "Oh, GOODY. Can't. Wait." And now, I've gotta go wake Husband up from his peaceful (hopefully restorative) nap, and warn him that he's about to be invaded...by a finicky bunch of adolescent males...that he's in charge of feeding. Mwah hah hah! Excuse me while I go hide somewhere and wait it out...perhaps with a grown-up "juice box"...

Friday, December 11, 2015

Looking Forward to LESS Complicated

You might remember me describing how, for 9 weeks this Fall, I'd be driving all over God's green earth...like a chicken with its head cut off...mad as a wet hen (Okay, not really the last one, but I was kind of enjoying getting carried away with the...colorful homespun language). To recap: the non-profit that hired me in October graciously allowed me to finish out the semester of interpreting, which was already in progress. Thus I spent Mondays and Wednesdays with the Chapel Hill team (of researchers in the early childhood development field), and traveled Tuesdays and Thursdays to provide ASL services in...let's just call it "Remotesville"--past Raleigh, in Wake County. (Fine, I'm sorry: "Fuquay-Varina"...which I just never get tired of saying, either....even if it does sound like I'm making it up. I'm not, by the way...)

As time passed, I found myself liking my new "office job" more and more--for one thing, I've gotten to learn new things, as well as put some skills I already possess to good use (Wait...I guess that's technically two things...but they're related...maybe Part A and Part B? Ack! Sometimes semantics can be a cruel...mistress...) Also, each day is different, which as anyone who knows me can attest, keeps me stimulated, and therefore satisfied.(Yeah, I don't do "bored" well...) "Here are some receipts, can you do an Expense Report for me?" Why, certainly. "Would you check my calendar and set up a meeting for us to discuss this new project I'll be needing your help with?" Of course! "Do you have time to copy-edit this blogpost that we want to put up this afternoon?" You betcha. "Could you create a spreadsheet with all of the conference attendees' contact information?" No problem.

You see what I mean? So far, I'm having a grand old time, and as a super-special-bonus, my co-workers seem pretty awesome (there are only 6 of us at the moment, with one more coming on board--moving down from the Maryland headquarters, as a matter of fact--in the next few weeks. We'll have an instant topic over which to bond...) And I've already mentioned how nerd-jazzed I was about having my own cozy little room, so I won't blather on about that any more...except to say that I now have pictures on my bookshelf...and framed posters hung on my walls. (Yes, I AM sometimes quite easily amused...)

Oh, and the commute? Takes 15 minutes because of stoplights, but it's 5 miles. Which brings me to my OTHER trek, which in contrast is 40 miles each way, comprising an hour in the car, on a combination of urban-highway-ish routes, Interstate 40, and verrry rural, winding roads. Also, due to the schedule of classes I was given, I change campuses in the middle of my day, adding another 30 minutes to my total behind-the-wheel time. So....yeeeeaaah...even if I totally adored the gig--which I reaaalllly don't, for reasons I'm not free to discuss here--it's a slog, and it was killin' me, I tell ya

But don't get me wrong--I'm very glad I gave it the old college try, as the saying goes. It would have undoubtedly bothered me to have a question mark lingering in my brain, about whether I was missing out on continuing my interpreting career here in NC. Now I have my answer, and I can close the book on one phase...and begin writing the next chapter with a clean slate. (Brushes hands together briskly, with a sense of...I don't know...contented finality, maybe?) So on Monday, I'll start settling into the new routine--spend a short period in the Subaru...make a cup of coffee ('cuz, yeah, we have a Keurig...yaaayyyy!) to savor while I catch up on emails...and then do whatever anyone needs me to take care of for them. Here's to the Next Adventure!

Monday, December 7, 2015

Good Help is Hard to Find...

Well, it was a verrrry productive weekend here at Casa WestEnders, I tell ya. There was cleaning! Some errand...ing! And even a bit of Christmas tree decorating! As for the first two, the less said about those, the better. I can sum up thusly: busy little worker bees (okay, okay--not so much on the "little") buzzed around the house, vacuuming and wiping and...whatnot. This was not without its drama, mind you. Specifically, when asked to make their beds with the clean sheets I had just provided them, they responded with the following--Derek: "I'd rather...remove my spleen...with a spoon!" Riley: I'd rather...run a lemon zester...over my stomach!" (First of all, does that not seem like an exorbitant amount of nonsense for a relatively simple request? But more importantly, how in the HECK does Riley even know what a lemon zester IS? I promise you that such an item does not exist in this house...therefore I have no choice but to blame the Cooking Channel.) Anyway, then I was forced to drag the wayward sons (...to Kansas! No, just kidding...sorry...) to Bed Bath & Beyond briefly...and we all survived the experience...but barely. (Don't ask me what's going on with the alliteration. Sometimes these things just happen. Aaaannnd we're moving on...)

Finally we got around to the piece de resistance. (Which I'm quite certain must be French for "Defiant peasants....enlisted to deck the freakin' halls". Perhaps it's a loose translation...) Every year the artificial tree comes out of its box to be lovingly assembled and adorned with twinkling lights by the able team of minions--um "male family members". For example, here's an adorable bit of nostalgia from way back when....the boys were charmingly mischievous munchkins:


I know you must be thinking: "Wow, things must be soooo much easier, now! They can actually help unsnarl the (inevitably) tangled strings! They can be trusted to handle the delicate ornaments! They know how to place things in an aesthetically pleasing and balanced arrangement--not too crowded or too sparse, with the most cherished keepsakes front and center!" (Hahahahaha! Whew, I'm joking about that last part.. NO ONE can actually meet those criteria...to my complete satisfaction, that is. I just allow them to stick things where they wish...then go back and...fix stuff...when the "official family tree time" is done. At this point, everyone knows this...teases me about it...and it's all in good fun.)

So, here's how my assistants looked, just prior to being called into action, THIS year:


Yep, those are some...raring-to-go young men, aren't they? Shortly after taking this...pre-festivity shot...I retired ("fled") upstairs to allow the Y-Chromosome Contingent to tackle their task. I figured it was in my best interest to get as far away from the fray as possible--this proved a wise choice, as the next things I heard were mysterious thumps...alarming cackles...and Husband calling up to me in exasperation, "Dear! The elves are defective!" Ay yi yi.

Then, when I did rally my courage to venture down and check on their progress, I found Riley hiding in the large Rubbermaid container that houses the tree parts in the offseason. He popped his head out for a moment (like some sort of, I don't know, hyperactive prairie dog, or something) to instruct me, "Shh! Don't tell Dad I'm in here; I want to jump out and surprise him!" (Oh, suuuuure, honey. You mean, exactly like you've done EVERY YEAR since you could crawl into that thing? Who's gonna see that coming?) After he'd proudly performed his "trick", and Husband shook his head with a long-suffering sigh, Riley gleefully concluded, "That never gets old!" (Um...we beg to differ...but--short of squashing his somewhat admirable...youthful exuberance...what can you do?)

But...there was a final...punctuation mark...to the whole fa-la-la-ing session. The older son, who should absolutely know better, but was clearly suffering an unfortunate episode of Teenage Boy Brain...picked up one of the cheap, generic "fill in the blank spots" glitter-covered plastic balls from Target, made some crack to the effect of "Here's what I think about decorating"...and hurled it in the direction of the tree. The next sound was one of shattering glass, as the sparkly projectile connected with--you guessed it--an irreplaceable memento from one of our vacations. (Niagara Falls, in case you were wondering.) So you see, sometimes they're NOT actually as...well-behaved...as when they were small, sweet tots. (Or...I might just be looking back through those proverbial rose-colored glasses...or whatever....)

Nevertheless, the job got finished, and the results (after just a smidge of tinkering, I swear, just a tiny amount!) were genuinely lovely, if I do say so myself:

Now the only thing that's left to do is...wait, it'll come to me...oh, yeah: snarf holiday cookies and chug hot chocolate! Yesssss!!!!
The happiest of seasons, indeed...

Thursday, December 3, 2015

New Heights (well, for ONE of us, anyway...)

When racking my brains to figure out what to write about in this little ramble of mine, I usually try to hit upon the most relevant topic or event of the week. Like all families, we have our slow times, when things are just routine, moving along as they normally do (here at Team WestEnders, we tend to call those "soccer off-season"), and there's not really much "news of note", if you will. Right now we're experiencing one of those lulls, after the Thanksgiving holiday, and right before the full Yule-and-Whatnot season kicks into high gear. So while I don't have a big funny anecdote or deeply meaningful episode to share, it wasn't difficult at all to decide on today's subject matter...because THIS just happened:



Okay, I hear ya--so what? That's Riley...and you...aaannnnd...the fireplace...some decorations...are we missing something, here? I can practically see you scratching you heads (Yep, I'm just that intuitive) so I'll give you a wee hint.  Here we are a just one short (Ha! Sorry...) year ago:



Now do you see where I'm going with this? I can even remember joking, last Christmas when we took this photo for the greeting card, that it was most likely the final one in which I would NOT be the...most...er..."height-challenged"...person in the house. Oh, well...it's official...the 12-year old has outgrown me (but only in the physical sense, of course. Thank goodness he still needs his Mommy...um, "mother").

I mean, it's not like this is a total shock, or anything. When I had boy children, I knew that one day they'd tower over me, as is the...Natural Order...and stuff. I just somehow had this delusion--to which I clung for as looooong as possible--that they would be in high school before having that inevitable growth spurt that shot them toward their adult size. Uh-huh...guess how old Derek was when he sprouted? That's right, between the ages of 12 and 13, he stretched 7 inches. So really, ever since his birthday in August, Riley has been gleefully awaiting his own...personal invitation to puberty.

First, we noticed that his hands and feet dwarfed mine. (This was obvious due to the fact that he wears goalie gloves for soccer, and, you know, runs through his shoes ever couple of months and requires new ones. And by the way, ever seen a cute little puppy, with enormous paws? You just know it's gonna grow into those suckers one day, right? Yeah, same concept. Just...slightly less fur...) And then, suddenly, it happened. I swear, last week I could still look at the top of his head. Those days are obviously O-V-E-R. Now he's gazing up at his brother, going "Watch out--you're next, dude." I can hear the wheels turning in Riley's brain, recalling all the times his older sibling has used his superior size and strength to evade/detain/pummel him. And I sense some epic payback coming, not too far down the road.

As for me, I'm just going to stay the heck out of the way of that nonsense...except when I need to step in and issue a Parental Decree: take it outside, boys! After all, no matter how much height and weight advantage they might eventually have over me, they will still have to abide by the--okay, not Golden Rule...maybe Bronze?--Mom Always Wins. Also the lesser-known but equally-important: Don't Call Me Shorty. Hmm...perhaps I'd best give them both a quick refresher on these salient points tomorrow, just in case they've forgotten. I'll stand on a chair....siiiiiiigh.....

Sunday, November 29, 2015

My new pal...Charlotte

So, there I was, soaking up the stillness in my quiet house, relishing the brief period of solitude that is awarded to me once or twice a year...when I recognized the stirrings of a familiar, undeniable urge beginning to overtake me. That's right, the Travel Bug was whispering in my ear, "It's time to get the heck out of Dodge. C'mon, you know you want to...just gooooo!" Well, who am I to ignore such a clear and compelling mandate, really?

And that's how I found myself throwing together a little overnight jaunt to Charlotte, a heretofore unexplored (by us, anyway) city about 2 hours down Route 85 to our southwest. Armed with a list of potentially interesting sites that might be worth checking out, and having secured a ridiculously-sale-priced hotel room--presumably due to holiday vacancies they were trying to fill--I packed a bag and got underway.

My first destination was the Latta Plantation, which actually lay in a town called Huntersville, in the northern part of Mecklenberg County. They were re-enacting "One Hundred Years of Christmas", with the focus on the Colonial, Regency, and Victorian eras (1768-1868, to be specific. Thank goodness for informative brochures). Many of the buildings--the main house, separate kitchen structure, slave quarters, and mercantile cabin--were decked out in historically-appropriate festive fashion. All over the grounds, volunteers in authentic period costume answered questions and gave demonstrations, such as roasting a whole chicken on a spit over a fire (very smoky), playing yuletide tunes on homemade instruments (surprisingly melodic), chopping wood using an ax (exhausting, I'd wager), weaving a rug on an old-fashioned loom (incredibly impressive and complicated), and loading Civil War rifles (um...dangerous and scary). There was even a suitably jolly Saint Nick wandering around, to the delight of the hordes of young visitors.

As you can imagine, that was all super-gratifying to a history nerd like myself. Once I'd had my fill of the farm, as it were, I headed for my next stop, a compound dedicated to President James K. Polk. When I arrived, however, I found it closed, with no explanation provided. (Everyone's gone shopping on Black Friday? Who knows...) Eh, it wasn't like he was one of the more significant past leaders of our country, right? No great loss--scratch that one off and move on to the next option: checking in to my home for the evening. While I don't need to bore anyone with every tiny detail, it was definitely among the nicest hotels rooms I've ever rented. Glass shower, wet bar (sans alcohol, but swanky nonetheless), sectional sofa...suffice it to say that I felt quite pleased...and spoiled...during my short stay.

As an unexpected bonus, it was situated very near one of the main avenues into downtown, making my subsequent activity an easy choice. One thing that I noticed very quickly that's pretty cool about Charlotte is that it has a high-profile skyline, due to some soaring skyscrapers clustered in the heart of the business district. Therefore, approaching it from either a highway or a through-street, as I was, you have an extremely visible landmark towards which to point yourself. On the other hand, despite the tall buildings and urban bustle, it somehow gives the impression of being a small-ish, pedestrian-friendly place. In fact, I parked my car (in the Bank of America Tower...60 stories and the loftiest one of the bunch) and left it as I wandered around the entire central area on foot.

I had a grand old time peering into shops, admiring the twinkling lights that were already installed for the upcoming season, (and speaking of which) watching a crew assemble a large artificial Christmas tree in the retail district...photographing interesting architecture. (Hey, I'm just a regular tourist with a camera when I go on a field trip, what can I tell ya?) I even managed to meander into a couple of the picturesque older neighborhoods--such as Dilworth and the 4th Ward--to ogle the charming 19th-century homes and peaceful sidewalks lined with stately, mature trees. The most fascinating thing about these was that if you just lifted your eyes a fraction toward those treetops, your gaze crashed right into the aforementioned modern-day edifices, looming hugely in the background, mere steps away. I found the juxtaposition of classic and ultra-newfangled to be an appealing quirk of Charlotte's personality.

Finally, the setting sun clued me in to the fact that I needed to get moving toward my final engagement of the evening: the Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden, which supposedly offered a fancy light display in honor of the imminent season o'celebrating. I programmed my GPS to get me there, and started the trek...but after a while, I couldn't help feeling that I was going....out into the Middle of Nowhere? The kind of place where, you know, you can dump a body...and no one would ever find it? (Not from experience, mind you, just as a METAPHOR. Sheesh, people...) I just pictured pulling up to this rinky-dink, sketchy little outpost...being the only one there...and panicking, turning around and fleeing for my life. So it was with no small amount of trepidation that I--at long last, it seemed--approached the entrance....and breathed a huge sigh of relief. The path leading in beckoned with sparkling tree-shaped light fixtures. The parking lot, far from the deserted scene I'd been dreading, overflowed into an adjacent field, where extra rows had been cordoned off to accommodate, apparently, the enormous amount of guests they were expecting.

And the line? Let's just say it was reminiscent of, maybe, Disneyworld, wrapping around the front of the Visitor's Center, winding through several lanes of rope. (Oddly enough, I didn't mind, as this appeared to indicate that the whole thing would be worth it when I made it in there. I did hear several folks joking about needing a Fast Pass. Alas, there was no such thing...so we waited....) Once you gained admission....it was sooooo awesome. Everything was constructed of lights--palm trees and a grape arbor and flowers and...lots of other stuff. All of the permanent features, like the pond and several bridges, were also adorned with an array of dazzling lights and colors. Everywhere you turned, there was something beautiful for your eyes to feast on, while you oohed and aahed in wonder (Yep, "big kids" too).

At the end of a very full and satisfying day, the oasis--um "hotel"--was calling my name. I'd earned some rest, before tackling one more item on the Charlotte To-Do List. So the next morning, after tanking up on free coffee at the Hyatt's breakfast bar, I navigated back into the south end of the city to Freedom Park, an alcove of nature nestled into the outskirts of the metropolis. According to my research, it's 98 acres; from my own walk-through I can report that it encompasses a bubbling stream, a small lake ringed by all kinds of foliage (some of it surprisingly-still-green for almost-December), baseball and soccer fields, tennis and basketball and even beach volleyball courts, playgrounds, picnic tables and shelters, and of course the path I was busy enjoying (along with quite a few other walkers, joggers, and bikers). It was an absolute treasure in-and-of-itself, no doubt, but it also looked to be plopped in the midst of some stunning communities filled with majestic red-brick homes and manicured lawns that were an added delight to behold. All in all, a very scenic end to my Charlotte excursion.

Of course, I posted several of my "here's what I'm doing" photos to Instagram...where my children both follow me...and thus got myself in a weeeee bit of hot water for going off and having fun without them. Derek, in fact, made uncharacteristically snarky comments to let me know just how grumpy he was with me. But I assured them that I certainly didn't exhaust the fun-to-be-had in Charlotte, by any means, and that we'll all go back one day soon TOGETHER. I was just, you know "scouting it out" for them, doing some valuable "recon"....or what have you. Anyway, it was a blast, time to go home...and rest up for Monday. See ya, Char...thanks for the memories!

Thursday, November 26, 2015

Let's try a turkey (or, you know, "Tofurkey") trot...

Here it is, Thanksgiving, and the male 3/4 of Team WestEnders has gone to visit Husband's parents in South Carolina for the weekend. As for me, this year I decided--what with the extra-crazy-busyness of my Fall--that what I would be most grateful for right about now was some good old fashioned...downtime. "I'll just stay here and relax," I thought to myself. "No cooking, cleaning, laundry...it'll be like an honest-to-goodness...stay-cation!" BUT...then I saw a reminder for the upcoming Gobble and Gorge event, the last leg of the amusingly-named Tour de Carrboro (which is the town that conveniently lies 2 miles from my house, making it an easy choice for races).

We had all participated in the first part, "4 (miles) on the Fourth" (of July), and prudently opted to skip the second, a 10k that we deemed "too much distance for us". This last one tempted me, but there were several...factors...I needed to carefully consider before committing.
1. It was on Thanksgiving. Actually, though, this wasn't such a big deal, since I'd already determined that I'd be remaining in town...alone. Never mind, check that one right off.

2. 8 a.m.--NOT my favorite time to run. But...I've certainly done it before, so I can suck it up, right? Sure...check.

3. Late-November--even in our region, could potentially be quite chilly, which is also not my preferred conditions. However, this offered me the undeniable opportunity to go shopping for appropriate gear--specifically a pair of toasty exercise tights (preferably fuzzy on the inside--if I'm gonna be working hard, I should at least feel pampered while doing so, yeah?) that I could then use all Winter. When I found some at Dick's...for half-price...it seemed like the Running Gods were giving me a thumbs-up sign that this was meant to happen, so: check.

4. The distance itself...8k. Gulp. We typically do the 5k thing...and even though I regularly put in 4 miles or so on my own neighborhood jaunts, to the best of my knowledge I'd never run 5 continuous miles...for any reason whatsoever. Well...no time like the present, right? I mean, what's the worst that could happen, I don't finish? Hold on--I'm waaaay too stubborn for that. Okay, then, maybe I have to walk part of it. Eh, who cares? After all, just because they call it a "race", doesn't mean you're actually required to, you know, "compete", or anything wacky like that. So...let's do this thing! (Check.)

5. Finally, there was one rather large obstacle that I had to address--approximately a size 7-1/2, that is: my left foot. You might recall that I went to the podiatrist about a week and half ago, and (foolishly, in retrospect) allowed her to apply a noxious chemical to the persistent callouses that periodically become bothersome, one near where the ball and arch meet (the very spot that incidentally strikes the ground on my running stride, naturally), and one on the outside of the pinkie toe where it bumps a shoe when you walk.

Both of them are quite uncomfortable when they build up over time...but not nearly as torturous as the "treatment" turned out to be. Suffice it to say I had to attempt to get around for 2-3 days without putting any pressure on that foot..at all. Yeah, I was a pathetically gimpy sight, I tell ya. For several more days, footwear of any kind caused agony. When I finally attempted a "let's see how this goes" run last Sunday, it was extraordinarily slow...painful...and difficult. And yet...on Monday...after I'd made sure my foot didn't fall off from the trauma, and I could still move...even if "gingerly"...I went ahead and registered myself for the punishment--um "race". (Because yes, I AM Just. That. Bullheaded. Check?)

Alrighty, then. Armed with some fancy-schmancy insoles the doctor had recommended to try and prevent this from re-occurring...and feeling no small amount of trepidation...I made my way to the Starting Line. And was immediately buoyed by the festive atmosphere that always prevails at these gatherings. There's music, pre-race snacks if you want them, (alas, no matter how yummy they look, I can't put anything more than a banana in my stomach prior to running) and of course the inevitable costumes. I'm not kidding, besides the tutus that are so commonplace I've become accustomed to them by now (although these were admirably adorned with an array of harvest colors to perfectly suit the occasion), there were MULTIPLE people in knit turkey hats. And my personal favorite: a couple of bold folks (adults, mind you) sporting a headpiece made to resemble a stuffed slice of pumpkin pie...complete with a dollop of whipped cream. Utterly. Priceless.

Oh yeah, then there was the day's activity! Given the challenges I described, my goals for this little folly were ever-so modest. Specifically, in decreasing order of importance: A) complete the course; B) run the whole way, if possible; C) clock in at 50 minutes or less. And I've gotta admit, it was a loooong trek for me. But I kept chugging along (sometimes literally--danged hills!) and talked myself out of slowing down to a walk several times. (Honestly, I wasn't hurting at all, just TIRED...and it came down to the simple fact that I didn't want to walk in front of the other runners. Even though others were doing so, and I have nothing but respect and encouragement to offer them. Um...I might have a teensy bit of a...competitive streak....just sayin'...) It was super-tough, no doubt. but I hauled myself past the blessed Finish marker at 49 minutes according to my trusty GPS watch, having averaged 9:47 per mile. As far as I was concerned, this was a huge W-I-N!

Later when I checked the results online, I found out that I'd come in 844th overall, out of 1,461, and 58th out of 111 for my age group. So I'd have to conclude that by cleverly setting the bar so low, I definitely exceeded my expectations for the race! Don't get me wrong, I'm not entirely certain that I need to run 5 miles again in my life...I suppose we'll see how I feel about it when Turkey Day rolls around again next year. For now, it's awesome to have recorded 13,000 steps before 10 a.m...and to have earned whatever the HECK I want to feast on for the rest of the holiday! Mmmm....bring on those post-workout carbs, baby!


Sunday, November 22, 2015

Food for Thought (in a manner of speaking)

Occasionally Husband will jokingly remind me of the days (ah, that glorious bygone era...or whatever) back when we first met. We were both professionals, gainfully employed, supporting ourselves. While he shared a townhouse with a buddy from college--and therefore also split the grocery shopping and cooking duties--I rented my own apartment in the pricey little enclave of Bethesda. Therefore we used to trade stories about how he and his roommate would buy bagloads of food, including various kinds of meat products, and crisper-drawers-full of salad fixings, and more starchy side dishes that you could...I don't know....shake a stick at? (Although why you would choose to do that, I have no earthly idea...) Meanwhile, the single woman--who even at that time hated to cook--would often opt to dine on the ever-so-classy "bowl of cereal" for dinner.

So when we got married and I suddenly had to learn to stock a refrigerator for two people, the bill came as a bit of an...unpleasant surprise...for a while. I would come home lamenting about how much I'd spent, and he would attempt to soothe me by pointing out all the delicious, nutritious meals we were getting for our hard-earned money. If this failed to take my mind off the uncomfortably large number staring at me from the bottom of the looooong receipt, he'd default to indisputable-but-somewhat infuriating Guy Logic, nonchalantly shrugging and tossing out, "Hey, we've gotta eat, right?" Then along came the children...and the sticker shock seemed to increase exponentially. Not only did I have to buy more edibles, but I also found myself running to the store more often, to replace perishables like fruits and vegetables every few days. (Darn that healthy produce, with its delicate nature and short shelf life!)

And...the kids kept growing, of course, as they do. (Aaargh! Boys and their rapid metabolisms and endless appetites!) Now it became (what felt like) a constant shuttle between the supermarket and Costco, to try and maintain a full fridge, freezer, and pantry. Add in the extra calorie-burning from the sports they participate in, as well as the "puberty factor", and, well, you have a recipe for a couple of bottomless pits--um, "always-hungry-sons"--munching their way through mountains of food on a daily basis (that's how it appears to ME, at least, as I can practically watch the supplies disappearing before my very eyes...I swear it's like some sort of...Animal Planet documentary on the feeding habits of young, male homo sapiens in the wild....or something. Sigh...)

Then there are times like last night, when Derek texted Husband (who fortunately for me has mostly taken over the evening meal chore...bless his little pea pickin' heart) to ask if he could bring several friends home with him to hang out...and eat dinner. Suddenly we went from our usual two adolescent boys at the table, to Riley...plus four 15-year olds. Gulp. Naturally we immediately gave him the thumbs up on his plan--they're a delightful...bunch of goofballs...and always welcome here, after all. Shortly thereafter, however, realizing that I hadn't been on a true "replenishment-run" this week, I asked Husband with trepidation if there was actually enough sustenance in the house to satisfy such a crowd. He shrugged with good humor, "Eh, I'll cobble something together."

In fact, he did somehow manage to place full plates in front of each of them. I didn't examine them too closely to see what was actually included in the menu, but I also didn't hear any complaints, so it must have been acceptable. I'll say this for them: they're not overly picky, as long as they're satiated. I do know that they were given both veggies and dip AND roasted broccoli; thus I'm content (as the Quality Control Inspector...sure, it's totally one of my jobs...) that we provided a balanced entree. ('Cuz that's very important at Cafe WestEnders...however, it should also be noted that several of the guests only pretended to consume the array of vegetable offerings....rather than actually ingesting them. I'll be reporting this transgression to their parents...just kidding!)

I must say it gave a whole new dimension to "family mealtime", with much (more) silliness and a definite increase in the decibel level. Next time they'll probably hit up someone else's parents to provide their dining experience, as they tend to rotate from one house to the next. I'll miss out on the teenage-boy-talk...and the chance to observe the fascinating behavior of packs of young males in kitchen captivity up-close-and-personally. BUT I'll also get to take advantage of the much-needed grace period...to make those expensive forays to Costco and the grocery store and pack the shelves to overflowing again! I'd better go start making my lists...

Monday, November 16, 2015

One more soccer season down...

As the unofficial Travel Agent for Team WestEnders, I've certainly done my share of arranging excursions, both big and small. Road trips, foreign countries, a cruise--none of which quite rivaled the complexity of Riley's season-ending soccer tournament this past weekend.

On paper, it sounded relatively simple: 4 games, spaced over 2 days, in Greensboro, NC--which lies approximately an hour west of where we live. Upon closer inspection, however, things got a bit... murkier...in the Logistics column. You see, Saturday's matches for U13 Arsenal were scheduled for 10:30 a.m. (hey, no complaints so far...'cuz that even leaves time to pick up the all-important java-to-go on the way out)...and 7:15 p.m. I'm sorry, whaaaat? Exactly how would you suggest we pass 6 hours in between contests, pray tell? (She pretended to query the tournament organizers...who remained shockingly silent and unhelpful in response to her imaginary plea. Oh, maybe I should have actually asked someone out loud? Riiiiight...)

Okay, if that weren't enough to try to figure out, let me just go ahead and toss in the REST of the factors. Ready? Yeah, me neither. Here we go anyway: they'd be finishing up around 8:30 in the evening, having played through their normal dinner time. This means we'd have a squad full of ravenous adolescents needing to be fed immediately. Then they (and their chauffeurs--um, "parents") would potentially face the hour return trip to their houses and beds, where they'd fall into slumber by about, say, 10:30 or so...only to rise the next day and hightail it back for Day 2 of the competition.

The options for handling this were numerous, but not particularly appealing. We could drive all the way home, spend a few hours there, then turn around and make the commute all the way back again. We could hop from place to place around Greensboro, nomadically exploring our surroundings throughout the afternoon and early evening. Or we could reserve a hotel room for the night, giving us a place to crash for a while during the day, and a local sleepover option to eliminate 2 hours of driving around in circles on I-40. Ding ding ding, I think we have a winner! (Or, you know, "the lesser of...all the evils"...or what have you...)

The next step involved deciding exactly where to plant ourselves for the night. It turns out that the soccer action was taking place not at 1 venue (oh, don't be ridiculous--that would be far too sensible and easy!) but rather 3 different parks...as much as a half-hour apart from each other...2 of which incidentally weren't even technically in Greensboro at all. Oy. I was beginning to develop quite the Planning Headache. In the end I decided to book a room very close to where Riley's team would be finishing up their day's work. I figured that way we could minimize our travel--and maximize our sleep--when the soccer wrapped up. (As you'll see, it was a pretty good idea...at least in theory.)

Oh, and I haven't even mentioned the fact that, should both parents wish to watch their beloved son compete in his final soccer matches of the year, it would amount to the entire family conceding the entire weekend to the cause. Thus, with all of the information accounted for, the Final Agenda looked like this: I would attend Saturday's events with Riley, and stay in the area overnight. Then on Sunday, Husband would come out to meet us at the field, relieving me and taking his turn supervising the Sunday activities. Alrighty, then, let's set this thing in motion!

Saturday dawned cold but stunningly gorgeous as Riley and I headed westward. After a minor GPS snafu (which would become an underlying theme of our day, unfortunately) we located the sports complex, united with his fellow footballers (as their coach--adorably--refers to them) and engaged in a chilly Game 1...in which Arsenal played well, but suffered a tough 2-1 defeat. Afterwards, their spirits apparently undaunted by the unfavorable result, the rowdy boys declared, "We're going to Moe's!" (A local Tex-Mex fast food chain, for the uninitiated.)

We were given some vague instructions along the lines of "It's near the mall...over there somewhere." This was accompanied by equally non-specific hand waving, which did absolutely nothing to clarify the situation. As it turned out even our phone's Google Maps was utterly unable to identify just where the heck, on God's green Earth, "Moe" actually happened to be. (We later were told it was IN the mall...but not listed on the Directory that we checked.) Riley and I finally gave up, procured our own lunch, then headed to the hotel to initiate the Relax Phase of our long day.

Yeah...about that Internet deal I scored for a verrry inexpensive room at a budget national chain...let's just say I got a crash course reminder of the time-honored truism: "You get what you pay for." I'd have to guess it was the smallest room I've ever rented--no space for a closet (armoire instead), and no tub in the bathroom (just a stand-up shower). This in-and-of-itself would have been perfectly fine, because there were 2 beds, and that's really all we needed. BUT (yes, it's a biiiig "but") although the establishment advertises itself as "100% non-smoking", it was clear that our particular domicile had at some point allowed people to light up inside. How could I tell? Only by the fact it smelled like--this is the best analogy I can make as a vehement lifelong anti-smoker--an ashtray, piled to overflowing with 20-years worth of stale butts, the stench of which pounded you right in the nostrils the second you opened the door. It was, in a word, revolting.

Had this been a vacation scenario, where this was going to be our "home base" for several days, we would have been out of there faster than the door could hit us in the patootie. (Well, this is useless speculation anyway, as I never would have selected such a place for a "real" Summer getaway.) Since it was so temporary, I reluctantly decided just to suck it up. Sigh. On to better things...the second contest was held under the lights at a soccer park near our stinky hotel. The temperature had dropped when the sun went down, of course, so we shivered through a tense, evenly-matched...eventual 2-1 victory for Arsenal.

And then...the insatiable beasts began crying out for food once more. (Jeez, does it never end with these guys? Oh yeah...they're growing boys, so no, it really doesn't...) This time there was a more coordinated effort, to meet up at Panera in Greensboro. (20 minutes back on I-40...again...) I turned to Riley--normally my impervious part-polar-bear child, who was clutching his hands together, trying to restore some warmth to them--and said excitedly, "Hey, you know what they have at Panera?" His eyes lit up and he enthusiastically crowed, "Sooooouuuup!" Our dreams for toasty mugs of brothy goodness were dashed, though, when we arrived expectantly at the door...only to be told that they were closing. That's right, you heard me...at 9 p.m...on a Saturday night....on a major retail cross street in the middle of the city...in the midst of a teeming mass of shoppers still clearly out-and-about. What. The. HECK?

Undeterred, one of the hungry players yelled, "Moe's!" (Again with that guy? Well, it WAS right across the parking lot, pretty much.) So we trooped over there...to be met with the same end. Fortunately, Noodles & Company--another few steps away--remained open, and allowed our somewhat sweaty, slightly grassy, cleat-wearing, near-mutinous-by-this-point goofballs to breach the front door. And they gave us a delicious meal, too! After this little interlude in continued team bonding, Riley and I repaired to our sleeping quarters, and called it a night.

In the morning, after a peaceful sleep and free breakfast, we tackled the next challenge: a 30-mile trek to yet another group of soccer fields, which ended up being in the middle of N-O-W-H-E-R-E-sville, with one-lane roads leading in and out, flooded with traffic as everyone attempted to arrive for their matches. Luckily for me, my work was almost done. I fought my way in, created a parking spot on an unoccupied patch of the surrounding lawn, handed Riley off to his father, conveyed my "goodbye and good luck" message, and got the heck out of Dodge (or, um..."Browns Summit", for what it's worth).

Throughout the rest of the day, I got updates from Husband and son about their progress. From Husband: "Won first game 3-0." (Whoo hoo!) "Lunch at Panera." (Aw, man! They're having my sooooouuuuup!) "Going bowling between games." (Oh boy...with a bunch o' rambunctious pre-teens, that oughta be good!) And finally, from the player himself: "Won second game 2-1, came in 2nd in tournament, we all got medals!" (Yeah, it's all about the hardware...) Even disregarding that finale (which is, of course, awesome) he had a fabulous time and enjoyed himself to the hilt. So despite all of the....nonsense...involved with this weekend's...extravaganza of soccer mayhem (that's what the tournament should totally be called, by the way)...I'd have to conclude that it was well worth it in the end.

And now...we try to recover for Monday. Ay yi yi...goodnight!



Friday, November 13, 2015

Riley Tells It Like It Is...(Heaven Help Us...)

Raise your hand if this ever happens to you: you're chatting with someone close to you...let's say--just hypothetically, of course--a "son"...and they say something that makes you shake your head and go, "Huh....do I even know you at ALL?" (Upon further reflection, I guess that little "classroom poll" idea doesn't really work in the virtual world But I'll just assume for argument's sake that you're all with me, hands waving in the air in a supportive show of solidarity. Moving on...)

So, at dinner time the last night (as these things so often happen) Husband began ranting about how certain items in the refrigerator/freezer are dwindling, and have reached the point where only inconvenient quantities are left, "There were TWO hotdogs. TWO salmon burgers. Enough ravioli for TWO people. TWO servings of sweet potato fries. But nothing that will serve all THREE of us! (Referring, of course, to the Male Carnivore Trio that typically eats together at the evening meal. Me, I tend to stay safely out of the way of those meatheads....um "meat eaters". And by the way, how's Male Carnivore Trio for a band name? Ha!)

At this point Derek--who appeared to be thoroughly amused by this little tirade--snickered and interrupted him, "Well, Dad, sounds like you and Mom need to have a nice...hotdog and sweet potato fries Date Night!" I gave him the raised-eyebrow-and-frown combo and shot back, "Yeeeeah, he should go ahead and invite his OTHER girlfriend....the one who's not a vegetarian." Derek and Husband both burst into appreciative laughter, but Riley was the one who surprised us by responding, in an utterly serious and thoughtful tone, "I don't think Dad has another girlfriend. If he did, there would be...tension."

Holy. Guacamole. Obviously, much hilarity ensued, and we all took a moment to fully enjoy and absorb the wisdom of the TWELVE-YEAR OLD representative on Team WestEnders. But was he finished? Oh, noooo, not even close. He continued, undeterred by his giggling family, "Hmm...Dad would be all awkward. And Mom would get suspicious. And, yeah, it just wouldn't work."

Well...I can't say he doesn't make some very valid points. What I can do is wonder, with a mixture of fascination...fear...and horror...where the HECK he gets these notions? I know for an absolute, indisputable fact that the kid is NOT watching any Real Housewitches of...Anywhere...so I fail to understand what's shaping this scarily mature worldview of his. That's it, perhaps I should interrogate...um "interview" some of his 7th grade buddies to try and figure out if they're feeding him this stuff. Otherwise, I might be forced to take radical action...like reinstating a policy from back in the good old days: All Disney Channel, All the Time!

So you see, these are the consequences when I join them at the table...clearly I'm much better off making myself scarce, and leaving them to their ESPN-fueled discussions from now on...yep, that's my plan, and I'm sticking to it!

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

My Own Version of Office Space

Okay, folks, I've got a couple of weeks under my belt on the New Job, so it must be about time for a status report. (Yeah, yeah, I know I'm only there Mondays and Wednesdays, but it'll suffice for a First Impression, right?) So, in a nutshell (or, you know...a whole passel of 'em...) here's what I like about working there:

I feel compelled to start with three small but oh-so-significant words: My. Own. Office. Seriously, I'm talking about a room just for me, with a real door, and a nice, big window, and a bookshelf, and a file cabinet, and a desk, and a computer, and...some kind of odd instrument that emits an alarming tone once in a while at random intervals. (Stay tuned for more on that later...) And (squealing excitedly, unable to contain her Geek Girl Glee) all the SUPPLIES one could want! Now, you might find yourself thinking, "Sheesh, could she overreact just a wee bit more, here?" But you must understand that the last time I actually had a work space was waaaaay back in the day when I was a Speech Pathologist...before Derek was born.

Since then, I've been...well....I guess "itinerant" would be a nice way to put it, ("Bag Lady" being the slightly more accurate but far less appealing term.) carrying around my purse, and lunch, and water bottle, and whatever else I need, from room to room and building to building,...all the while hoping I don't forget anything along the way. So believe me when I tell you that I'm fully appreciating the joys of "not schlepping one's life around in a tote". Because not only do I have my choice of spots in which to safely stow my handbag, the suite also boasts a kitchen, with a refrigerator...and a microwave...and a Keurig machine. Evah-so-civilized, I tell ya. And it just goes to show, sometimes it really IS the little things...)

On a related note, remember when I mentioned that strange device? You guessed it, friends: I have my own telephone, with an assigned extension...but (here's the happiest part) I'm not responsible for answering anyone else's. In fact, the whole suite is soooooo quiet that when it rings, I invariably jump like a startled rabbit. (Wait, do rabbits get surprised? Or are they just naturally twitchy all the time? Eh, it's my simile, and I'm just gonna go with it...) Then I stare at it in bafflement for a few seconds while it continues to persistently make that "Pay Attention to Meeeee" noise. Finally I gather my wits about me....and answer it. (Hmmm...somehow my Orientation Training failed to include "How to Respond When the Telephone Rings"...perhaps I should suggest that for the future....or, yeah, it's probably just me...)

So, about that...peaceful silence. You see, we're a verrry small outpost of a larger non-profit located in Maryland. (I know: ironic!) Our entire office contains 6 people...and that's only when we're all present...which seems to be, oh, approximately NEVER. Furthermore, when people are on-site, they tend to spend a large amount of their days on conference calls, behind closed doors. Hence the lack of noise...and sometimes long periods of solitude. (Fortunately, as we all know, I'm someone who does relish her "alone time" when it happens. Although I have to admit, there have been moments when the atmosphere begins to resemble something like a ghost town...and I catch myself combating the eerie stillness by thinking out loud. NOT "talking to myself"....because you know, THAT would be crazy...) Anyway, this makes for a productive environment, free of distractions...and besides, no one minds if I stream music while I'm busy. (Because why? I'm in my own office! And I can shut the door! I swear, this is not getting old any time soon....)

But don't get me wrong, when I do get to cross paths and interact with my co-workers, you couldn't ask for a more personable, intelligent, enjoyable group of women. Which brings me to my final point: I get to use my brain on the job, and can I tell you how much I L-O-V-E that? (What? Shocking! Said no one who's ever met me...) In fact, I've already learned how to do some...stuff...that wasn't in my particular skill set before. And up to this point it seems like my tasks are generally going to be different from one day to the next, depending on what people need. Furthermore, while our local staff is small, as I mentioned, whenever I have a question I can reach out to the parent location, where help is just a quick phone call or email or even video chat away (Ah, the wonders of modern technology).

So, yeah, to sum up: So Far, So Good. Hopefully things will keep sailing smoothly along...I most solemnly promise to do my best not to let the K-Cups run out...and I'm sure my phone and I will eventually reach some sort of mutual understanding. Fingers crossed!

Saturday, November 7, 2015

Hey, you wanna pizza this?*

Sorry! (She types, cringing...yet completely helpless to stop herself, nonetheless...) So, yeah, it's been THAT kind of week. Not bad, mind you, just...draining. Case in point: we got to Thursday night--with Husband still out of town, remember--and I realized that I had....how shall I put this..."less than 0% interest in toiling away to concoct a hot, nourishing, home-cooked meal for my beloved children's dinner". Or even, you know. throwing together cold sandwiches for them, for that matter.

You see, their father generally takes care of dinner (bless his little pea pickin' heart) since he doesn't mind cooking, while I find it a tedious chore. However, he's been traveling so much lately that I'd run through my standard repertoire of quick/easy/minimal fuss dishes already. And with the whole "running between 2 jobs and supervising after-school...stuff", I was just D-O-N-E.

So after a bit of careful deliberation (yeah...approximately 10 seconds or so...) I determined that the absolute best thing to do in this instance was take the path of least resistance...or as it will forever after be known, "The Way of...Papa John's". Then I knocked on Riley's door to inform him of the plan. "I don't want any argument about this," I began sternly...then paused for maximum dramatic effect..."but we're having pizza tonight." He gazed at me calmly while absorbing this tidbit, then nodded sagely and said, "Ahhh...sarcasm...I get it." (Bwah hah hah! Well done, grasshopper...)

That was tremendously amusing to me (I told you I was slightly loopy by this point in the week, right?) so I approached Derek with a similar angle. "I have to tell you something, and I don't want you to even think about giving me a hard time, okay? Just deal with it--we're ordering pizza for dinner." His face briefly broke into a huge, delighted grin before he smothered it and whined "But....Mooooooom! I don't WANNA eat pizza!" It was a losing battle, however, and he gave up as quickly as he'd begun, as the impish twinkle returned to his eyes and his mouth regained its smirk.

But next, he startled me by suddenly getting super-serious and asking, "How many are we getting?" His follow-up question was a very calculated, "And how many pieces is that?" I could see where this was going, but I played along anyway. (All the while feeling like I was being grilled in some kind of...Italian interrogation...or something...) Continuing his line of inquiry, he wanted to know, "So, you'll eat, what, like 3 slices?" "Um...probably 2", I corrected. "Hmm....even if Riley wants 5...that leaves 9 for me!" he triumphantly crowed. Oh. Good. Grief. (Well, I suppose that could be viewed as an example of some Real Life Math for ya, if you want to look at it that way...or perhaps teenager using his considerable Deductive Powers for Good? Let's hope...)

But the final goofy punctuation mark on the whole...scenario of silliness...occurred when the steaming, fresh-from-the-oven boxes of goodness actually arrived on our front doorstep. As I took them from the very friendly delivery guy and we made chit-chat during the transfer he laughingly noted, "I always bring y'all pizza! I pulled up and said 'Hey, I know this house, I've been here before'!" Uh-oh. I swear we resort to the Pizza Solution only about once a month...but apparently we always happen to call when this particular driver is working.

Eh, whattya gonna do? As far as I was concerned, I fulfilled my Parental Responsibilities to feed my children--and for Bonus Points, I even made them a salad to go with it! But there was no required boiling/baking/sauteeing...microwaving...what have you, and very little cleanup. So yeah, it was definitely a Win-Win for Team WestEnders. Better yet: Husband will return....and pull Dinner Duty this weekend. Yaaayyyyyy!


Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Hey, who made off with the afternoon sunlight? (And my brain.....)

Okay, raise your hand if you've ever had the kind of week where you're like, "Seriously, what day is it? Who needs to be taken where? And while we're at it, does anyone know what the heck I'm supposed to be doing?" Yeah? Whew--me, too. (Wait...I'm talking to myself right now, aren't I? Um...I mean "thinking out loud again"...uh-huh, that's totally it.)

Anyway, let's try to figure this thing out, shall we? Well, the week started off with the dreaded "change your clocks" decree. Why does this cause such...discombobulation...in Casa WestEnders? I'm not completely sure, to be honest. I know that I personally feel extra-tired for a few days. (Due to my circadian rhythms taking their own sweet time to shift and get with the updated program? Your guess is as good as mine....) But what we all agree on is that we LOATHE the fact that darkness starts descending upon us by 5:30...after which it quickly appears to be oh, around 10 p.m...making us all want to just curl up and go to bed. Which is why I suggested to Derek that we just get real and call it Daylight Suckage Time from this point forward. (Go ahead, feel free to use that, I don't mind at all.)

Then, all of a sudden it was Monday. (No, I don't have any idea how it snuck up on me. Clearly, though, it cannot be trusted.) Now this particular day always brings its own...challenges...of course, but in this case they were compounded by the fact that Husband had to hightail it out of here for yet another business trip. So, I went to the office (Right? It was...Monday...so yep, that's the one. See, I told you I was confused...) after informing the children that they would be arriving home before me by just a little while.

When I returned, it was to find a forlorn Derek standing on the back porch waiting for someone to come and let him into the house. The sheepish teenager had been unable to locate his key--but at least he was under cover. (Sigh...) On the bright side, we received a reprieve from the sports practice merry-go-round, because steady rain and puddly fields prompted the league to cancel soccer workouts for the evening.  (And by the way: AGAIN with the wet stuff? Reeeaalllly?)

Aargh, what are we up to? Oh yeah, Tuesday. Let's see....the kids had Election Day off from school (which they cast their ballots strongly in favor of....ha!) but I had to leave for a few hours in the afternoon to go to my other gig, interpreting at the Ends of the Earth. I'm sorry, I mean "Fuquay Varina". (In case you're wondering, I believe it's North Carolinian for "the middle of freakin' nowhere...y'all".)

Moving right along, Wednesday I repeated the pattern of heading to my desk for a full day of...Program-Assistant-type-tasks. The grass was still quite soggy, but Riley's coach (bless his highly motivated little futbol loving heart) scrambled to relocate their practice to a nearby park that wasn't closed. AND the dear man offered to drop my son off at home afterwards, since pickup time directly conflicted with something verrrrry important...my once-weekly dance class. (I mean really, I shuttle these guys around all the livelong day--mostly willingly and without complaint. But I must firmly draw the line at giving up my precious hour of...boogie-ing.)

Before setting off to shake what my mama gave me...or some such nonsense...I prepped salads for the ravenous beasts. (Or, you know, "adolescent boys"....Huh, it's basically the same thing, isn't it? Never mind...) And I left them with instructions to microwave hotdogs to complete their meal. Actually if I recall correctly, what I implored them to do was "Pleeeeease, for the love of Pete (whoever he is), feed yourselves before I get back!" It must have worked, because they were just sitting down to dinner when I pulled up. (Yaaaayyy! Self-sufficiency....sort of....WHATEVER, it's good enough for tonight!)

And that brings us up to date. Wait, it's still Wednesday, yeah? Okay, that means tomorrow is another "drive drive drive, interpret for a while, drive drive drive" day. But just...hang in there...Friday's coming! Hey...maybe if I go to bed NOW, it'll get here sooner. After all, it's so pitch black outside that it sure FEELS like it's about midnight...zzzzzzzzz. (Wake me on Thursday...and remind me what the agenda is, will ya? Thanks...)