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.....