Thursday, March 31, 2016

WestEnders Gone...Not Wild At All...

Okay, I have to admit, I have been verrrry spoiled by the fact that--even after I completed the academic portion of my life and moved on into the professional phase--I still managed to get a Spring Break every year. First as a speech-pathologist employed by public school systems, then as an interpreter for a community college, I always appreciated that week off to recharge, reboot, and relax. So--not counting last year, in which I was still searching for my Next Career--this is the first time...well, since kindergarten, really...that I have NOT had a March or April hiatus. And boy, do I miss it! (I know, I know, "Cry me a river", right?" Sometimes this whole "adulting thing" sucks, and you've just gotta pull up your skirt and deal with it, blah blah blah...I hear ya. Still doesn't change the fact that I want a vacation right about now...I mean, c'mon--don't we all deserve it...just for putting up with Winter? Yeeeahhh, that's it! New plan: Solstice Celebration! Who's with me? Oh...where was I?)

Anyway, don't get me wrong, I still love my "new" job (when should I stop calling it that? I've been there 5 months, now...) but while my children were lounging around the house this week, I was toiling away at work. Let's see, what sorts of things did I accomplish? I translated eight 25x30 inch poster sheets of notes, scribbled during a meeting (which I did not attend, so some of the content was...shall we say..."about as clear as hieroglyphics") into an organized spreadsheet. Researched and booked hotels, registration, and flights for several people attending conferences in other cities. Followed up on technical issues revolving around 1) final audio/visual setup of our conference room, and 2) our copier being a pain in the neck--I'm sorry, "refusing to scan and email to me when I asked it politely".

I also received training on how to test the functionality of surveys using the Survey Monkey platform. I remotely dialed in as my office's Safety Coordinator representative to a web-based meeting about emergency procedures. I did short-turnaround edit of several documents that needed to be submitted to a government agency. Oh, and finally, when all of that other "stuff" was taken care of, I got around to addressing the task I thought I'd be focusing on for the entire workweek: data entry of test scores, for an ongoing educational project . It was all fairly intensive...and ultimately satisfying...but let me tell ya, I'm soooo glad tomorrow's Friday...otherwise known as "My Free-Day".

So when I arrived home this afternoon, and Derek asked how my day was, I mustered a weary sigh and a one-word summary: "Busy!" He flashed an impish grin, faked a yawn stretched, and said, "Yeah, I'm tired too...all this time off is really wearing me out!" (Smart a...leck...) Speaking of which, what did the slackers--I mean "sons"--manage to achieve during all of their non-school-hours? Hmm...well, last Friday we did manage to meet a college friend of mine for dinner--she messaged me that, "due to a long story" she and her family would be at NC State for the night, and was that close enough to me to travel to see her? Um...dude! 45 minutes or less...we're on it! Mind you, Derek was slightly disgruntled, as it encroached on his standing "Friday night with my posse" date, but he got excellent Italian food out of the deal, so he sucked it up (literally--the boy decimated a calzone that was pretty much as big as his head.

Then on Saturday, the Male Trio took off for South Carolina to "hang out with the old folks" as Husband so charmingly says. During their special Grandparent Bonding Session the children particularly bask in the glory of being fed like kings. (All the Swedish Fish....sugary cereals....and meat-based meals....they can handle...it's an episode of decadence and indulgence for the adolescent set...) They always make sure to visit the beach--and apparently this time Derek actually DROVE there. (I'm told Riley clutched the passenger door-handle with a death grip the entire time, but everything turned out okay, apparently.) And reportedly they help out with such scintillating household chores as "clipping the cats' claws" and "weeding the shrubs". (Hey, at least they sort of earned their keep while being pampered at Camp Mimi and Pap Pap!)

And tomorrow--whoo hoo--the weather's not supposed to be terribly cooperative, so we're going on a little Retail Field Trip...to Dick's Sporting Goods. This may not sound overly thrilling to YOU, but trust me when I say, it's one of the boys' favorite places on Earth. For two athletic guys, I swear it's like...Gear  and Equipment Heaven. Then--and yes, I have given fair warning, so I'm not springing this on them--we're making a quick stop at DSW so I can look for replacement running shoes. Man...I don't know if we can handle all this crazy fun and excitement. I know: we'd better come home afterwards, wrap ourselves in blankets, and watch TV on the sofa. Yep, that sounds just about the right speed, to head into the final weekend of Spring Break 2016!

Saturday, March 26, 2016

Veggie Tales...and other silliness...

Ever since the Writing Bug (which I have carried for as long as I can remember, but which had lain dormant for some years due to the pervasive state of Brain Fog that accompanies raising young children) reared up and reinfected me with the need to...I don't know...express my innermost thoughts in unapologetically rambling fashion for all the world to share on a regular basis...one corner of my brain is always on alert for suitable (or at least...semi-appropriate....or whatever) stories to tell.

(And...WOW, that's an absolutely terrific example of an egregious run-on sentence, complete with accompanying...ahem..."creative non-standard punctuation", wouldn't you say? Eh, it's not like I'm getting graded on this--thank goodness--so I'm gonna go ahead and flash my Poetic License...and leave it as-is. Yep, that's me: proudly making English teachers cringe since 2008...)

Anyway, sometimes a funny moment will occur and I'll think, "Ooh, maybe I'll blog that!" but later I decide not to, because it's too small an incident to stand alone. And then, a couple of these pile up, and perhaps they even revolve around a common theme, and BAM--a post in the making. Now, I know this is going to come as a huge shock...to no one...but today's leitmotif (sorry--I was dying to use that) is (dah dah dah DAH) FOOD. (Right? Who didn't see that coming?)

Let's set the tone with Derek, my almost-16 year old son who--for a wiry, not-one-ounce-of-spare-body-fat athlete--seems to be able to consume his own weight in edibles...on a daily basis. (Seriously, I gave up watching what he packs in his lunch, and what he gobbles down after school to fuel his utterly ridiculous--and frankly enviable--adolescent boy metabolism, because I found it equal parts fascinating...astonishing...and horrifying...)

So, we were in the car driving to one of his soccer practices, and I mentioned that while he was running around with his teammates I'd be visiting Costco...as I do EVERY DANG WEEK these days. He laughed appreciatively (but not at all sympathetically), then sobered up to comment thoughtfully, "Yeah, I realized recently that my backpack really wouldn't be that heavy...if it weren't for all the food I bring to school!" (That actually explains a lot, since I've noticed that his bookbag appears so full that it strains the seams, at all times, regardless of such factors as, you know, how much academic material he's carrying around at the moment. Huh...who knew?)

Then, on the way home a few hours later, with all available cargo spaces now taken up by, apparently, Derek's Provisions, we were chatting about the tons of assignments he has due this week, since it's the end of the 3rd quarter. He was particularly concerned about needing to access his laptop to complete something, and in trying to help him figure it out I suggested he might take his computer to school to work during his Study Period. He glanced sideways at me before proclaiming firmly, "Nope...can't! FOOD!" (Siiiighhhhhh....we'll have a conversation about "priorities", my child...another day, perhaps...)

Our next tale fits neatly under the heading of...Stupid Sibling Smackdowns. One day Riley asked me, "Does Derek make his lunch every night, or does he sometimes wait until the morning?" Oh...kay....that's random...but I believe he generally packs it before going to bed...whyyyyy? Riley nodded sagely and replied, "Because he refuses to separate the carrots, so if it's a new pack, he waits for me to do it." (Note: For their school meals, I buy 4-packs of individual baby carrot servings, which are held together by a sticky label that wraps around the stack. Yes, this is crucial information for the ensuing nonsense, trust me...) He continued in what could only be described as a triumphant tone, "But when I have to take the tape off, I get my own carrots out, then wrap them back up and leave them for him!"

Oh, for the Love. Of. Pete--are you kidding me with this? Of all the petty, pointless things to argue about...reeeaaally? This is what you're going to fixate on? So, of course I was unable to help myself--I had to enlighten Derek regarding what his younger brother was doing. And you know what? The even-tempered teenager just shook his head in a bemused fashion and responded with, "That whole thing is in his head; I don't pay any attention to the whether the carrots are open or not." Actually, this made perfect sense to me, but the saga wasn't finished quite yet. A few mornings after that, when we were all in the kitchen before heading our separate ways for the day, the subject came up again while Riley was assembling his lunch.

And let me tell ya, there was much shouting ("You open the carrots!" "I'm not gonna do it--and you throw away the tape!")--albeit teasing, not truly angry--culminating in Riley attempting to fasten the tape to Derek's shirt and escape out the door. To which Derek retorted, "Oh, you have started a Carrot War, my friend! You did NOT want to do that!" Ay yi yi. This was delivered in what I assumed he meant to be a menacing tone, but the presence of his usual enormous, goofy grin nullified any potential threat he could have mounted. Meanwhile, Husband slapped his forehead and shuffled off to his office down the hall, muttering something half-jokingly about how "Some days it's not so great to work from home"...while I called after his retreating back, "See what you missed, being an only child?" (I'm not sure just what's to come in the Carrot War...but suppose time will tell. Or, you know, they'll just let it completely drop, as guys so often do, and we'll never hear the slightest peep about it ever again...fingers crossed...)

Finally, brace yourself for an outrageous discussion surrounding the topic of: asparagus. (You heard me, folks--what, doesn't everybody's family talk about...woody stalk vegetables...in their house? Oh, of course not...never mind...) Bear in mind that this transpired at the barely-coherent-or-civilized hour of 7:30 a.m., when Team WestEnders was running over the evening's agenda, since both of our footballers (as Riley's coach--who sounds like he should be British but most assuredly isn't--likes to call them) had workouts scheduled that would require parents to chauffeur them in different directions. At the conclusion of the exchange, Husband called from his desk, "You're on your own for dinner, Riley!" To which I indignantly chimed in, "Hey, I'll be with him! Who needs you guys--we'll eat the fresh asparagus that came in our produce box this week!"

This is where it started to get weird, as Husband's comeback consisted of, "But...you don't pee the right way!" Sadly, I knew EXACTLY what he was getting at, but Derek's flummoxed expression was priceless as he turned to his father and sputtered, "W-What????" A little background is required, here: you see, several years ago we were having dinner with some friends of ours, and asparagus was on the menu. In pre-meal conversation, the couple (who both happen to be physicians, but I'm almost 100% certain it was the man who brought it up, because, well, it involves bodily functions...) informed us that asparagus changes the odor of some people's urine, but not everyone's. It evidently depends on whether your body produces a certain enzyme or not, and therefore is genetic.

Okay, back to the present, where I noted that I DID, in fact, experience the...altered...output, just as Husband does. However, neither of our offspring follow in our footsteps on this particular hereditary path, as it were. "Hmm," I mused, "that's kind of strange, for both parents to possess a trait, but neither child." And I swear to you, Riley looked around at his family matter-of-factly, and the following words flew out of his mouth, with precision and without pause: "You guys must be heterozygous dominant...and we have two recessive alleles."

Holy....hereditary...hoopla, Batman--what the HECK is going on around here? As we all stood around gaping at Riley, he added, "What? We did just finish our genetics unit in Science!" Alrighty then, I'm...pleased?...that you were paying such good attention. And that, fortunately, wraps up our... compendium of...culinary kookiness...for now. Until next time, may your pantry shelves be stocked, your crisper drawer peaceful, and your...forget it, not going down the slippery asparagus slope. Let's just say...Bon Appetit... and leave it at that, shall we?

Monday, March 21, 2016

Funeral for a Friend

Last week Team WestEnders mourned the loss of a friend--in fact, Husband's oldest friend, since they'd known each other since they were toddlers, and grew up together. For him, it was one of those situations where, the two families are so close that you think of the other set of parents as your own "extra Mom and Dad"; the kids are your siblings (especially since Husband is an only child, making these his surrogate brother and sister); you call each other's relatives by their title rather than last name (Aunt So-and-So instead of Mrs. XYZ); and you even spend holidays and vacations together, as one big festive, somewhat chaotic, extended clan.

Over the years and across the miles, Husband and BF (Boyhood Friend) maintained ties...from the mundane (keeping one another apprised of the ups and downs of Family News) to the more significant (serving as groomsmen in each other's weddings, Husband asking BF to act as Riley's godfather). Along the way, the rest of us--first me and then the kids--got to know and enjoy spending time with Husband's Bonus Relatives as well. So when we heard of BF's passing, not only were we shocked and saddened by the unexpected event, we also were thrown into turmoil about how to handle it.

Obviously, Husband would be traveling up to BF's hometown in Maryland, to attend any and all memorial gatherings and help support the grieving family as best he could. But we wondered what to do about the boys--take them out of school for the trip, or tell them about it, but have them stay home with me? After we discussed it amongst the adults, in the end we decided to present it to them, and then let them make their own choice. And when we did so, they absolutely, adamantly wanted to be included in everything.

Honestly, this really shouldn't have surprised me at all. It's not like they've never experienced a funeral before; they've lost people close to them and been part of the remembrance ceremonies. But it kind of amazes me a little bit, how they have no fear or worry about...any of it. I don't know, maybe it's because they're males, and handle emotions differently, or perhaps it's due to the fact that we've never tried to shield them from the natural phenomenon of death and coping with its aftermath that helps them manage. I'd like to think also that the fact we attend church might offer some solace, as we're taught--and believe--that the souls of our loved ones continue on in eternal life when they leave us.

Whatever the case may be, it was determined that the Husband/Son contingent would head north on Thursday morning, while I would report to work early, put in my hours, then join them for the evening activities. It's worthwhile to note--in fact, it's essential background information, as you'll see--that BF came from a strongly Irish heritage. And the visiting times at the funeral home were scheduled...for St. Patrick's Day. Oh, and BF was a charismatic, much-loved, popular and social individual who had many friends and admirers, in addition to his rather large family. Therefore it was entirely to be expected that there was a mingling of tears...and storytelling...and reminiscing...and hugging...and yes, even laughter, among the many, many attendees.

There was even the chance to catch up with folks we hadn't seen in a while--mostly due to geographical distances, not lack of caring. Speaking of which, this was the part that was just a wee bit surreal for us grown-ups: those of us who'd known each other since waaaay back in our...mildly raucous...Single Days, now watched as our children got re-acquainted. For example, in what has to qualify as the most bizarre moment of the night, the eldest daughter of someone Husband has known since college DROVE her two brothers and my two sons to a nearby Target...so they could purchase a basketball to play with outside the funeral home. (Well...at least they're not playing drinking games yet, right? Wait, what? Never mind, that never happened. Memo to Self: hide all old photo albums before the kids get any older. Oh, yeah...and did I mention it was the parents who happened to be passing around a flask of Irish Mist, both in comfort and camaraderie, and in honor of BF.)

Having foregone the whiskey, I had my chance to raise a glass of ale a bit later, as some of us made our way to a local restaurant for a late snack. (Or, you know, "Second dinner", for my guys--seriously, could they ever NOT eat? Pffttt...) Then it was time for my crew to check in to the hotel for a bit of rest before the church service the next morning. Husband had been holding it together--with great effort--but the funeral itself was noticeably tough for him. It was an utterly heartwarming, beautiful tribute, with touching speeches delivered by his wife and another close college friend, stirring musical numbers, and a passionate message from the pastor. It was a wonderful celebration of a life well-lived, fully embraced, and ended much too soon.

As one of our friends--one of those we hadn't seen for a couple of years--commented, "We're too young for this." And the one who'd spoken at the service said firmly, "We really need to make a point...and an effort...to get together for some happy occasions." And I think this sums up the thought that settled into my consciousness over the course of the two days of commemorating a special person's time on Earth: life is short--and you never know when the end may come--so strive to reach each day's fullest potential...figure out what matters to you, and then try it, or do it, without making excuses for why you can't or shouldn't...and finally, spend as much time as possible with those you care about, because nothing is more important . BF was a teacher, both as a gift of his personality and by vocation, and I like to believe he'd be pleased if each of us who came to say goodbye to him took this away with them when they parted.

And next time we meet, hopefully soon, we'll raise a toast for a joyous reason--and consider it a lesson learned. Cheers, indeed.

Thursday, March 17, 2016

What the WHAT, Wednesday?

Well, folks, it’s been one of those days…just a series of…oh, let’s lump them all under the heading of “misadventures” and leave it at that, mostly because at this point I’m honestly far too tired and brain-dead to try and figure anything else out. (Also, this post might not be my best, in terms of…what is it? Um…right “vocabulary”. Oh, or “clarity”. Or heck, even “basic sentence construction”. I’ll do what I can, but I’m not promising much—there, you’ve been warned!)

Well, I suppose if I had to choose a moment when the whole ridiculous thing started to slip off the tracks, it would be when the copier at my office decided it hated me. You see, it’s printing and duplicating things just fine and dandy, but it utterly refuses to perform my perfectly reasonable request to scan and email a document to me. It used to do this, back when we were on good terms, and I really don’t have any idea what I did to offend the blessed machine, but this is something I need to do quite frequently as part of my duties, and when I’m thwarted by technology that’s simply acting up for no good reason, I get…increasingly…peeved. And possibly employ some…”work-inappropriate terms”…directed at the recalcitrant hunk of metal….under my breath. Hey, at least I refrained from kicking the damn thing. (And how about the use of “recalcitrant”, eh? Without a thesaurus, I’ll have you know! Maybe I’m not as far gone as I feared…yeah, jury’s still out on that one…)

Then, not much later, I received a text…and an email….and a voicemail message…about “possible fraudulent activity” flagged by the credit card company on our account. It was a ludicrously small amount (I’m not kidding—ONE DOLLAR) and I figured perhaps Husband had left the confines of his home desk, as he sometimes does, and gone out for…maybe a soda, or something. So I ignored all of the communications until I could go home and confirm…that he in fact had NOT used the card today.  Many, many very bad words ensued, NOT delivered quietly at all, as I cursed everything from unforgivably jerky crooks to insecure technology to…the perils of living in the modern world, for crying out loud.

Why all the drama? Well, the last time this happened was: January 7th, 2016. That’s right--we went through this whole delightful process just over 2 months ago. Oh, and all together, this is the 4th time….in 3 or 4 years…that we’ve been hacked. In each case, both of our actual pieces of plastic have remained firmly in our possession, so I haven’t a clue what’s happening, here. In this case the…person…who’d been using our number for a couple of days had made several trips to McDonald’s—which for a moment almost made me sympathetic, like “Aw, he or she is hungry and needed breakfast”—that is, until I spotted the $150 at Dick’s Sporting Goods. Duuuude! Buy your own freakin’ sneakers! I spend enough money on those for my own family, thankyouverymuch!
The worst part is, I can’t figure out how to prevent this from repeatedly occurring. I mean, short of pretending it’s the 1880s, and we live on the prairie, and travel into town once a month to make all our purchases…with bills and coins. Or, you know, bartering with…livestock…or pretty rocks…or what have you.

So, dealing with all of this left me feeling quite hyped up and frazzled—but wait, I know the solution: I’ll take a bike ride! It’s a gorgeous 84 degrees in March, what better time to set off on the first pedal-around-the-neighborhood tour of the year? I went to the garage to grab my helmet…and noticed a suspiciously large pile of dry leaves that seemed to have somehow accumulated in it over the course of the Winter. “That’s weird,” I thought, as I removed it from the package it came in, where I usually store it when not in use. Aaand…the entire box was also stuffed with a plethora of…naturalstuff. Suddenly I vividly recalled the small bundle of feathers that had gone whizzing past me one day recently, exiting the garage in a flurry of panicked chirping. Ah…that little….birdbrain….had obviously—albeit foolishly—chosen to construct a nest…in my athletic headgear. With a sigh, I unceremoniously dumped the ragged bunch of nature’s leftovers into the yard--and of course I immediately went inside to relay the latest episode of silliness to Husband and boys. When I came back to the garage, I swear to you, the creature was sitting in the exact spot previously occupied by its box-nest, with a scrap of something or other I suppose it wanted to add, looking around in what can only be described as a perplexed manner, as if asking, “Hey, lady—you seen my crib?  I left it right here!”

Ay yi yi. With that resolved, I was free to take my lovely time-out on 2 wheels, right? Ha! I began to walk my bicycle down our very steep driveway, as is my habit…but I noticed something wrong. It was a familiar “sticking” feeling, and I knew it meant that the chain had slipped. Now, I might be able to diagnose the problem, but this doesn’t mean I can actually, you know, fix it. But Husband can, so I went back inside yet again to seek his assistance. As soon as he turned the bike over to address the chain, however, he realized that the rim on one of my tires was bent, and therefore scraping the brake pad on each revolution…making my nice bike ride an impossibility until I get it repaired at one of the (fortunately plentiful) local shops.


Okay, I. Give. UP! Already dressed for workout-ish-activity, I opted for a stroll in the nearby forest instead. And—thank the heavens above—absolutely NOTHING out of the ordinary happened on my foray into the Great Outdoors. Perhaps the Wednesday Curse ended with the…Bird-and-Bike Incident (as it shall hereafter be known).  Please join me in crossing my fingers that this is true? And perhaps, just for good measure, I’ll get some cash (I know, right: what the heck is that?), buy some bird seed, and put out a peace offering for the avian I insultedevicted….whatever. Getting Mother Nature on my side? It can’t hurt, at this point…

Saturday, March 12, 2016

The Science of Scheduling....

I feel like this is a recurring theme (or, you know, "broken record", but I was trying to put a positive spin on it...ooh, get it? Record...spin? Sorry, let me get back on track...) but it's time once again to discuss the hot topic we like to call the WestEnders Weekly Agenda.

The ship sets sail on fairly calm waters on Monday, with the only event being my dance class, which due to certain factors--such as the venue having changed to a less convenient spot, and the cost having risen into, shall we say, "cha-ching" territory--I'll only be attending a few times a month.

Things get considerably choppier on Tuesday, with 2 soccer practices. Riley needs to be at a (luckily) nearby field at 5:30, a feat which I can easily accomplish, as Husband is typically unavailable to chauffeur at that time, as a result of trying to finish up the last of his work-related calls. Then Derek requires shuttling to a faraway stadium, meaning that he and I leave the house at 6 to arrive by the start of his workout at 6:40. And incidentally, I do have to say that I'm enjoying our bouts of car-bonding. We have some amusing chats--sometimes he'll tell a funny story about school, or something goofy one of his friends recently did. (Actually, there are a LOT of these, not surprisingly, as Derek predictably likes to hang out with guys who share his sense of humor...) 

And then occasionally, if I, oh, pose a question such as this: “Give me best-case and worst-case scenario for UNC and Maryland in terms of seeding for the NCAA Tournament.” I'll be the recipient of a lengthy, well-thought-out, in-depth analysis of each team, related to strengths and weaknesses, likely opponents, probable outcomes, and resulting placement in the bracket. I tell ya, it's like my own, personal ESPN show!

Then later, while he's running around with his teammates, I pop around the corner to Costco for our regularly-scheduled "buy enough food for my own adolescent boys as well as anyone they choose to invite over" stock-up trip. At 8-ish, I retrieve a sweaty Derek and shuttle him back to home base. On the drive, the poor child eats an improvised "dinner" consisting of the bag o'snacks he's brought, including pretty much one of each item from the pantry's inventory. (Now you see why Costco is a weekly occurrence, yeah?) When Husband wraps up his daily business...stuff...he picks Riley up and returns him to the fold...and presumably feeds him something. (File this under If It's Tuesday, This Is Not My Problem, and leave it at that...)

Wednesday is a bit smoother sailing, as Derek is the only one who needs to be delivered to his training. Husband takes this commuting shift, while I remain en casa for our special mother/son shindig known as Dining with Riley. Typically it goes something like this: I knock on his door at about 6:45 and ask, "Whattya want for dinner, dude?" He looks up from whatever he's doing on his phone and invariably replies, "I dunno. Whatta we have?" I present several options--none of which necessitate much actual prep or, heaven forbid, "cooking"--and he chooses an acceptable one. Then the two of us sit at the table and talk...kind of like what his brother and I do in the vehicle, as a matter of fact...but not necessarily with the evening edition of SportsCenter. Hey, at least one child gets fed a more or less proper meal...we do what we can, folks.

Thursday it's back to Double Bonus Soccer again, this time with me handling the Riley duties, and Husband getting extra Derek time. Riley's session is at a local facility, situated in a nice residential area, so while he's kickin' it with his squad, I tend to take a walk or run through the nearby streets to pass the time and accomplish my own physical activity for the day. And although Husband's journey takes him to what we've come to refer to as...ahem..."the 'hood", he recently discovered that he can catch the American Tobacco Trail a few blocks away, run 2 miles to the Durham Bulls' stadium, and return before Derek's drills are done. Somewhere in all this...nonsense...I guess people forage for some food...or whatever. Fortunately, they're old enough to figure it out, because I'm kinda losing my focus by this point in the week, quite frankly...

Friday (oh, blessed day) no one has anywhere they have to be, at any specified hour, It's a beautiful reprieve, with much relaxing...and recharging...and whatnot. And believe me, this brief hiatus is absolutely essential, because on the weekend horizon...there are games. Riley, for some inexplicable reason, has most of his matches at a gigantic sportsplex in Raleigh....a tidy 45 minutes away. But as it turns out, that's the EASY trek--some of Derek's upcoming contests take place in Greensboro, Morganton, and Asheboro, all of which lie an hour to 90 minutes west of here. Yikes! Between the two players, we often have one game each weekend day. So, Husband and I arrange Strategy Meetings to determine the Divide and Conquer Plan...in an attempt to ensure that--regardless of how much we really do love it--no one has to concede their entire weekend to the Beautiful Game. (Yeah, and theoretically there's time for homework, and hanging out, and family togetherness...and, who knows, maybe even bona fide meals...)

Then...yeeeaaaah...we start over again. But don't worry--everything returns to normal by Memorial Day, when our athletes...and their biggest fans...wrap up their seasons and take a break. Right...I think I'm the one taking Derek to his match tomorrow...so I'd better go look up directions...check the weather so I know how to dress...and of course set aside a cooler full of provisions for the hungry footballer! (Costco, here I come...again...)

Thursday, March 10, 2016

March Musing...

When Team WestEnders resided in Maryland, I always thought of March as some kind of...supervillian...and pretty much my archenemy. By the time it rolled around, I was invariably completely fed up with the frigid months, and longing deeply for balmy breezes and mild temps. Yet uncooperative March never failed to callously stomp on my Spring dreams, with its damp, chilly, all-around unpleasant demeanor. Then we moved to North Carolina, and people promised us that Winter (such as it is around here) ends when you flip the calendar over from February, signaling the onset of...at least a more-Spring-like atmosphere.

And they were not lying, I'm very pleased to report--but there's a whole other side to the story. You see, our soccer-playing children are already at this point in full action-mode. Derek, in fact, began practicing around Thanksgiving and--with a several-week hiatus for the holidays--has been going on all cylinders ever since. His initial game of the "Spring season" happened the first weekend in February...not a month known for its...favorable conditions, shall we say? (Yeah, I left that game at halftime, seeing as how I could no longer feel...various body parts...and had reached the limits of my spectator tolerance...) And then, right around that time, Riley's team began workouts as well.

And while things are undoubtedly muuuuuch nicer in the Great Outdoors these days, I still was forced to borrow Husband's "emergency sweater" that he keeps in the car in case of a situation where he gets stranded on a cold night, or something. (Thankfully, he's never needed it--but boy, it totally saved me! He bought the thing in Ireland...on our honeymoon almost 18 years ago, and never wears it because of the itchy...woolness factor. But let me tell ya, when I tossed it over the 2 shirts I already had on...I was so jealous of the oversized...blanket-like-quality of it, that I went on Amazon and found my own. Now, I've most likely missed my opportunity for it to help me out this season, but at least I'll be ready for the Fall, right? Some folks have flares and jumper cables...we have pullovers. It's a different kind of preparedness, y'all. Don't judge...)

So, this week the mercury has taken a delightful little jump into the 70s, making all of us quite giddy with Spring Fever. However, it also led to the following conversation between Derek and me a few mornings ago:

D: (standing by the garage door, ready to exit for the walk to the bus stop) "Going to school without a jacket for the first time in a while. Feels good!"
Me: "Yeaaaaah...I’m probably still going to wear a sweater."
D: (mouth falls open, expression a mixture of flabbergasted and amused) "Mom! You’ve gotta be kidding me! And long pants? What’s up with that!"
Me: (stating the obvious to the teenager, adding an appropriate amount of sarcasm) "Um…I’m going to work, you know. They tend to appreciate it when one wears pants."
D: (with a glimmer of comprehension) "Riiiiight...but…how warm does it have to be for you to put on shorts, anyway?
Me: (somewhat sheepishly) "Oh…around 75."
D: speechless, shaking his head...
Me: "Hey, I’m…delicate!"

Postscript: when he arrived home in the afternoon, he applauded me (literally, with the ironic slow clap--smart aleck) for having changed into shorts...although I still had a light jacket over my tee shirt. What can I say--the rule is entirely different for arms! (80 is a safe bet, in case you were wondering...)

On a quasi-related note, it always aggravated me that, for the entire duration of the utterly improperly-named "Spring Semester" at the community college where I interpreted, I felt unable to pull the trigger, so to speak, on donning sandals or even something crazier...like capri pants. Chilly toes and ankles are just not something I want to deal with, okay, people? And then, today...the forecast threw out a wild prediction of 81* for a high...and I still couldn't quite make the "bare legs" call for the office. 

Nope, that was me, in a skirt...with semi-open shoes...and tights. (Sigh...) Yeah...I just can't quite overcome the fact that it's MARCH. Also, concrete evidence in my defense (since, you know, I work with a bunch of research scientists now, and they appreciate that sort of thing): our suite's thermostat is set to 72, which clearly falls below the cutoff for my "uncovering...stuff" guidelines. So, just call me the Queen of Layers--wait, on second thought, that's a terrible title, don't do that. Hmm...ooooh, I know! The Countess of Cardigans! BOOM!

Whew! Sorry about that--it seems that the pollen is reeeaaallly getting to me, and I'd better go...I don't know...get some iced tea, or lie down for a while, or what have you. Oh, and perhaps add a long-sleeved shirt to my ensemble, now that the sun has gone down. Don't worry, I'll figure out this Spring thing...by Summertime!

Sunday, March 6, 2016

Small town talk

When Team WestEnders relocated to Chapel Hill, North Carolina in 2014, we were well aware that we were moving into what could only be called a college town. I mean, literally--the university was founded in 1793, and the rest of the area developed around it. If you park your car anywhere on the main drag, Franklin Street, you can wander up and down the sidewalks to peruse stores selling the inevitable spirit gear, eclectic boutique-y shops, and a variety of dining and drinking establishments, both "chain" and "unique". And if you just take a slight turn, you'll find that you've wandered onto the campus itself. (It's okay--they're friendly down here, so go ahead and look around...) But be careful if you continue in the same direction a wee bit too far, as the scenery won't have changed from stately, distinguished brick-and-stone edifices...but suddenly they'll be sporting an array of Greek letters--that's right, you've made it to Frat Row...turn around and head back!

Now that we've been here for a while, we've learned that there are certain implications to living 3.1 miles from the entrance proclaiming Welcome to UNC. For example, traffic patterns very much ebb and flow with the academic year schedule. Hence, there are noticeably fewer cars on the surrounding roadways during the periods of mid-December-to-late- January and mid-May-to late August, when the students for the most part return to their homes. That one was pretty obvious and easy to figure out. However, something we learned the hard way was: do NOT under any circumstances attempt to patronize a popular eatery...in the heart of town...on a weekend...during the semester. Ay yi yi. The waitlist will be daunting; the decibel level will be deafening; the atmosphere will be hopping...but not necessarily what you'd call..um..."family-oriented". 

An even more amusing factor--to me, at least--is that, you know those solar-powered signs Highway Departments sometimes place by the side of the road to display illuminated, informative messages? All around Chapel Hill, you'll notice those at all times as part of the landscape from September to April. You see, if they're turned sideways (and blank), that means the Tarheels--football, basketball, or baseball--are either idle that day, or are away at a rival school. But if the screen faces traffic, pay attention, because it means A) an increase in drivers on your route, as they try to get to the game and B) extra police presence at every exit directing fans to the sanctioned lots, and herding them away from neighborhood streets and sneaky illegal parking attempts. Oh, and there's a verrrry small municipal airport on university-owned land that caters to private planes up to a certain size. I've been told that there are more flights coming in and out when there's a Big Game, since that's how some wealthy alumni travel back to cheer on the old alma mater. (Like I said, this is unconfirmed, but it still Cracks. Me. Up.)

And then...of COURSE...there's the absolutely crazy-ass-passionate support for any one of the three local institutions--the hometown UNC (aka "Carolina". Yeah, yeah...never mind that there's also South Carolina that reportedly uses the same moniker. No one seems bothered...), NC State (simply known as "State") and...that other 4-letter place that shall not be named (Seriously. Not going there.) What we quickly discerned when we arrived (well...because people told us...) is that Chapel Hill is one of those locales where not too many (adult) folks were actually born here; rather, they came for education or work or whatever and just...liked it so much that they stayed. Therefore, although their parents hail from a plethora of places, a lot of the boys' friends are native...and typically root for whatever school graduated Mom and/or Dad. (Some families, though, contain ...ahem..."mixed marriages"...and then the kids just have to pick one...sucks to be them...)

Anyway, my point is that this little burg goes a teeny, tiny bit...NUTSO...when, for instance, UNC faces you-know-who on the b-ball court. Especially given the fact that the ACC foe came calling last month and had the utter nerve to beat the home team at the Dean Dome--so you can imagine (or perhaps you really can't--just give it a shot for me, 'kay?) the gravity of the rematch...in enemy territory. I'm not kidding, Derek informed me very early in the week that his entire Saturday was going to revolve around watching the contest at someone's house--to be determined--and that the rest of us should not make plans that interfered with this. When they actually decided on a location, it turned out that it was the home of one of Riley's pals as well, so the 7th-grade contingent would be represented. Shortly before tipoff, they went over and began the adolescent version of "tailgating"....which as far as I could tell involved a great deal of snacking...and adolescent-boy rambunctiousness.

So, not that you probably care all that much, but the good guys prevailed this time--although they did make it entirely more exciting than it strictly needed to be towards the end. And there was much rejoicing. Oh, you think I'm exaggerating? (Who, ME? Perish the thought!) Let me tell ya, the next morning, in church, the Associate Pastor shared this: "Last night, I was thinking about what I wanted to say to you today, and I did some praying. I prayed for about two hours, actually--dramatic pause and just a trace of a mischievous smile--from 6:30 to around 8:30." Now he was forced to stop entirely, as the place caught on to the joke and erupted in appreciative laughter. After a few seconds he concluded triumphantly, "And it worked; there were some tough moments, but it all turned out okay." 

Hmm...I can think of few better ways to encapsulate the experience of living in Chapel Hill: college basketball...referenced during a Sunday morning sermon. Amen (y'all)!



(Oh, and this was the local paper's Sports section today--the entire portion above the fold devoted to one amateur hoops grudge-match. Loooove it!)

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Learning...about learning...

Ahhhh, Spring. (Well, I suppose it's "Pre-Spring", if we're gonna be all accurate about it...) If you're looking for signs, we've got some undeniable ones: the neighborhood featherbrains are chirping up a storm...a handful of hearty and ambitious buds are popping out on the previously naked greenery...and, perhaps most telling of all, it's time to start giving serious thought to...the upcoming school term. Yep, that's right, folks--February and March usher in the the big excitement of "signing up for next year's scintillating roster of classes"! (Yippeeee!)

For me, this requires showing up at Derek's high school's annual Parent Information Meeting...'cuz, ya know, heaven forbid I ever skip one of these things and miss something important, or new, or different...or whatever. Besides, my oldest baby is going to be a....Junior...in the Fall (one moment: sniffle, gulp...okay, I'm ready to continue) and you know what this means: stuff is about to get all kinds of real...and scary...up in here, y'all.

Now, I know what you're thinking--"C'mon, it's just high school, for crying out loud. How much does it actually matter?" Well, I know it's not Rocket Science...but it's kind of a brand new experience for my teenager and me. For example, the shadowy world of AP courses looms just over the horizon. And with these challenging options available--and with only 2 years remaining in which to fulfill your graduation requirements--you have to begin to consider WHAT to take, and WHEN to fit it into your schedule, in order to 1) choose subjects that interest you; 2) check all the necessary boxes so they actually hand you your diploma in June of Senior year; and finally, 3) balance academic rigor (which is of course appealing to potential college suitors) with the very real need to not spontaneously combust, as an overeducated ball of stress and nerves at age 17 or 18.

Oy. My head was spinning around in circles...and I'm not even the student in this scenario. (Memo to Self: next year, send Husband to this thing. It's absolutely got to be his turn by now...) Thankfully, the meeting itself proved to be the most overwhelming part of the process, because when I got home and talked it over with Derek, we were able to pretty quickly and easily map out his next 2 years' worth of study...more or less. (At least for his mandatory classes--as for Electives, he's on his own.) Whew! Mission accomplished, right? I can just sit back, relax and cruise through the rest of this journey with a frosty beverage in a lounge chair!

Yeah, about that...a few short weeks later the weekly email update from our local library included an invitation to a free seminar given by a "former principal, counselor, and administrator" on the topic of...College Planning. (Sigh....there goes a perfectly good Tuesday night.) This couldn't have had "me" written all over it more clearly, unless perhaps I'd received a personal engraved Golden Ticket. So off I went...and having just gotten back a little while ago, I can assure you that I found the material utterly fascinating...and equally horrifying...and now I pretty much just want to curl up in a ball and cry.

"But, hold on just a cotton pickin' minute! Why didn't your SON--you know, the one who's actually staring down this daunting task in the very near future--accompany you?" you might interject, with a healthy dose of supportive, righteous indignation that I very much appreciate. (And please pardon the colorful Southernism...somehow that's just how I hear it in my head...I really have no earthly idea WHY...) In this case, the short answer is: he was at soccer practice. (Come to think of it, that's the response to a great many fill-in-the-blank "Where's Derek" questions...)

Therefore I had no choice but to bravely go it alone, into the uncharted (for us, anyway) realm of...How to Get Accepted into an Institution of Higher Learning. And I've gotta say, the lady seemed extremely knowledgeable, and spoke for 90 minutes, providing what seemed like an enormous amount of useful wisdom. I mean, she touched on a whole array of subjects--from how to write a compelling admissions essay, to what questions to ask during a campus tour, to advice for taking the (onerous but unfortunately necessary) standardized tests, and even suggestions for narrowing down a selection of schools you might want to attend.

And me? I sat there with my pen, furiously scribbling notes all over the handouts she gave us, trying to absorb as much as I possibly could, to relay it to the rest of Team WestEnders at a later time. (Hey, according to the speaker, it's never too early to start...Riley? I'm looking at you, sweetie...) All of this naturally got me thinking back to my own high school days--and I don't recall doing ANY of this stuff. For me, it was pretty straightforward: I knew I wanted to go to somewhere small-ish...not so far away that coming home would be impossible...and with a strong, well-respected Speech Pathology program. If I remember correctly, I took the SAT once, applied to all of 2 schools...and when my first choice accepted me, I was D-O-N-E.

Somehow, I suspect it's not going to be quite that simple in today's climate of super-competitive...ultra-expensive...college education. Thus, as we navigate our way out of the safety of our home port, into the choppy, shark-infested waters of College Prep, I just hope we can summon the strength, patience, and perseverance to make it through. But hey, I can always turn the boat around and go back to shore for that chaise and icy cold drink, right? Right? Yeah, it's definitely Husband's shift at the...tiller? Bon voyage... (and fingers crossed...)