Veggie Tales

I realized as I turned the calendar to April (that is, right after I paused to do a little happy dance celebrating the end of cold, damp March) that I'm approaching an Anniversary of sorts. It was 3 years ago this month that I finally committed to Vegetarian eating. It was somewhat gradual, since I'd been cutting down on meat for a while, leading up to the Big Change...but I clearly remember April as the month I made it publicly known that from then on, cows, pigs, chickens and turkeys would have nothing to fear from me (except in the supermarket, when I purchase meat for the Male Carnivores in my house, but shhh...no need to bring that up!)

When I look back to 2008, I recall bouncing through some Potholes at the start of my Meatless Journey. Suddenly there was quite a bit of explaining to do, when the boys and I joined friends for meals in their homes. People I've known for a long time had to adjust to the fact that I now wouldn't be sharing the steak, or pork chops, or chicken parmesan they would be preparing for everyone else. The last thing I ever wanted to do was be a difficult or demanding guest, but at times some delicate negotiation was necessary to ensure that I could avoid starving, but still remain meat-free. (And honestly, I'm pretty easy to please--give me the veggie and carb side dishes, and I'm a happy, well-fed camper!) Ironically, the most challenging dinner situation occurred when visiting my mom's house. You see, I grew up in a standard meat/potato/vegetable household, and my mother--who after all has been feeding me for decades--continued right on cooking the time-honored favorites that everyone loves...corned beef and cabbage...kielbasa and pork...hamburgers and hotdogs (even the salad has bacon bits!). After one memorable extended-family gathering in which I made myself a cheese sandwich in order to have something on my plate, we all learned to discuss the menu beforehand and plan accordingly!

Other issues have cropped up along the way, of course. For instance, I set off on my Vegetarian Route as a Flexible-Non-Meat-Eater. That is, although I had given up consuming legged-critters, I hadn't lost my taste for fish or shrimp or crab. I used to explain it: "Land creatures, NO; sea creatures, YES!" I wasn't too overly picky about reading labels on packaged items, either. For example, if a product contained "chicken broth", so be it. If the potatoes happened to cook in the same pot as the pot roast, c'est la vie. However, as on any life-changing trip, there are inevitable Detours along the way. I've found that I'm becoming a stricter to-the-letter Veggie Person the longer I spend in Vegetarian World. I've lost my taste for salmon (previously a favorite), and I suspect that shrimp and crab are not far behind. (Somehow I still enjoy canned tuna--go figure.) I now peruse the tiny print on cans to make sure I'm not being slipped any sneaky, hidden chicken stock. (Heck, I won't even take GELCAPS anymore, since gelatin itself isn't vegetarian...and is concocted with all kinds of animal parts you don't even want to know about...trust me!) Best of all: my dear, sweet mother--without even being asked--separates my veggies into their own pan on the stove, and mixes my stuffing away from the turkey at Thanksgiving, to avoid contamination with animal fat and...stuff.

And of course, there's always the juggling associated with being the Head Chef in a kitchen that serves a horde (in reality, only 3, but I swear they chow down like a huge, ravenous mob) of meat-lovers. Husband and I have an implicit understanding: I will throw fish sticks or breaded chicken patties in the oven, but if it's a raw, slimy piece of animal flesh, HE is responsible for handling and grilling it. I don't harbor any delusions about the boys in my life joining me in the Veg Club...although Riley is on a salad kick, currently...and he's the only one besides me who will tolerate tofu (covered in peanut sauce, but still!). Maybe there's hope for him yet! Derek, on the other hand, when asked what he'd prefer in his salad last night (expected answer: cucumbers, mushrooms, carrots), instantly replied "Ham, turkey, bacon...and crunchy little meat croutons!" (He was kidding...I think!) And honestly, the face he makes when I bring home a rotisserie chicken from Costco for dinner--that boy is one blissful Carnivore. Come to think of it, both of my sons have been known to CHEER about...Meatloaf Night. Sigh.

So, I've come a long way in my travels toward Vegetarian Nirvana...but I would say it definitely remains a Road Under Construction!

About the boys...

Our first episode concerns Riley...my little riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside a...goofball (since I mortified Will Shakespeare the other day, I figured butchering a Churchill quote seemed like a logical next step). Sometimes he's a typical 7-1/2 year-old boy, exhibiting an obnoxious fascination with potty humor (the word "weenie" being a current fave), as well as a tendency to interject random observations, then erupt into uncontrolled giggles without any warning. Case in point: Friday night we were all cozily snuggled on the couch, watching the Orioles' season-opener on TV. Manny Ramirez of the Tampa Bay Rays came to bat, and the announcers noted that he's 14th on the all-time homerun list with 555 dingers. Being a family of full-fledged (Husband and me) and budding (sons) Baseball Geeks, we reacted with astonishment and a flurry of color-commentary. Riley immediately chimed in with, "Who's number 1?" I answered, tentatively, "Bonds? I think?" Husband replied, "Isn't it still Hank Aaron, with 755?" Since I had my trusty laptop at hand anyway, I of course busily set to work looking it up. Apparently Riley continued to mull it over, because in the moment of silence that ensued before I had the correct answer, he abruptly, decisively stated, "Bonds is...FAT!" Which may or may not be relevant in any way, shape, or form, but it does neatly sum up our Family Policy on Barry Bonds and his--in our opinion--undeserved title of Homerun King (as he did, in fact, pass Hammerin' Hank...at least until they can prove he cheated, and he gets an asterisk, or wiped from the record altogether...fingers crossed.)

And other moments, he suddenly, shockingly, sounds older than his years. Another night, another baseball game, during which Riley had taken a break to go into the adjoining room and play his own imaginary contest (we could hear his play-by-play: "Oh, he hits a double off the wall, and the runner heads for home!"). When he wandered back in, he asked, "What's the score?" I answered, "2-2" at the same time that Husband piped up, "742 to 1 and-a-half!" Riley generally takes this kind of Dad-nonsense completely in stride, so he glanced at the TV screen himself to confirm. "Looks like Mom's right," he proclaimed (Well, DUH! The sooner he internalizes this critical fact of life, the better!). "Sometimes," Husband conceded. "Don't worry, you can rely on me, honey!" I added reassuringly. Riley said, very seriously, "Yeah, Dad's the Gooberhead, here...no offense!" (aww, how cute--already he's learned that catch phrase we adults use to mean "I'm going to insult you, but please don't get mad at me for it!")

Then we come to Derek, who presents the opposite conundrum: at times a maturing, pre-adolescent young man...but still my "baby" nevertheless. A deceptively-innocuous piece of paper came home from school a few days ago. Just a permission slip, like so many I've read and signed throughout Derek's 6 years of schooling. BUT...this one was asking me to allow my son to participate in the scariest thing a mother could imagine right now...no, not 5th-grade Bungee Jumping...even worse...the Family Life Unit!!! (cue Horror Movie screams--or was that just in my head when I read the page?) I swear my eyes teared up when I saw those words in black-and-white before me. My sweet little boy...is too young and innocent for this kind of thing! Right? I left the unsettling form on the kitchen table, intending to send it back sometime next week. At dinner that night, Derek inquired, "So, Mom, have you made a decision about this yet?" I told him I agreed to let him be involved in the instruction. Then, catching an uncertain tone in his voice, I asked, "What do you think about it?" I suspected maybe he had concerns, or doubts, or something he wanted to discuss beforehand. But his response was an offhand, "Well, I don't want to, necessarily--but I don't want to sit in Ms. W's class and do a special project, either." (That's my boy: practical to a fault!) Deciding to gently press him a little, I threw out, "Do you have any questions you want to ask Dad or me first?" And I got back the most nonchalant "Nah!" as he tucked into his dinner with gusto. Let me just say that, regarding all the human body and male/female relationship and reproductive issues: He has Never. Once. Asked. Anything. So I fear that the light-and-fluffy-sounding "Family Life" curriculum might turn out to be quite a bombshell for my guy.

I mean, c'mon, it was bad enough when we--as responsible parents, aiming to raise drug-free children who make informed, healthy choices--started feeling obligated to discuss Professional Athletes and Steroid Use...and now we've gotta do the Birds and the Bees, too? That just...sucks! No offense!

Shakespeare is rolling over in his grave

My older son is excitedly anticipating several milestones in the coming months. First, he will celebrate his 11th birthday in a couple of weeks. In a few days, he will begin the very last Academic Quarter of his Elementary School career. But perhaps most importantly: almost overnight, he has begun to display a level of Goofball Humor that is truly astounding. For example, take tonight's scintillating conversation, which occurred while we were all gathered in my bedroom, enjoying our pre-bedtime chat:

Derek: (clearly striving to appear innocent, but with a telltale sly gleam in his eye) "Do you want to hear a Fun Fact?"
Me (Having been his mother for quite some time now, I recognized the signs of impending...inappropriateness): "Will I like it?"
Derek: (slightly crestfallen) "Um...no."
At this point I just stared at him for a moment, struggling to decide if it was worth the inevitable reprimand to let him share the information. Husband beat me to it: "Oh, go ahead."
Derek: (visibly brightening) "Forty-two percent of Americans" (here he paused for suspense) "urinate in the shower!" (he finished with a flourish...and a wicked grin.)
I think he considered his effort a success, since he earned a Parental Glare from me, but Little Brother dissolved into hysterics and almost fell off the bed. Sigh. (And where did he obtain this fascinating tidbit? From a book one of his friends brought to school and showed him. Awesome.)

Then later--after the boys were banished to Riley's room to continue their not-socially-acceptable Boy Talk unabated--I went in to ask them a routine question about something or other. Apropos of nothing, Derek blurted out, "I'm writing a story about Romeo and Juliet!" Oh, honey, that's nice...does it have feuding families, or star-crossed lovers? "No...Romeo and Juliet are MONKEYS!" Oh. Good. Grief. (Somehow I managed to squelch the juvenile impulse to retort "Oh yeah? Well, you're a monkey! But it was a very close call.) And if that weren't bad enough, did I place my hands over my ears and hasten from the room before being subjected to any more nonsense? Of course not! I stuck around for a while longer, to have the following exchange with Sir Silliness:

Derek: (actually NOT trying to be funny, just...vaguely confused) "Didn't Shakespeare also write a play called...'Omelet'?"
Me: (doing a darn good job of not snickering or rolling my eyes, I thought) "Do you mean Hamlet?"
Derek: (cracking up completely) "Oh yeah!" (then slightly more soberly) "Well, you can put ham in omelets..."
Me: (no comment whatsoever, but it didn't seem to even moderately deter him, as he plowed right into his next query...
Derek: (still not joking in the least) "And didn't he write 'MacDeath'?"
Me: (exasperation finally spilling over) "MacBETH, it's MacBETH!!!" (although at this point in the evening, my Goober Defenses must have been utterly eroded, because this thought immediately popped into my head: "MacDeath? Wasn't that a menu item at McDonald's that never really caught on? Can you just hear it? I'd like a MacDeath...with a side of fries...hahahahaha!" As I said, this portion of the dialogue was entirely internal, lest things get--Heaven forbid--even more weird...)

So, that's a snapshot of our latest Comedian in Residence at the moment. He might slay 'em in his 5th grade classroom (God Bless his teacher--I must remember to send her a gigantic hunk of chocolate one of these days) but he's killing us! (Ba Dump Bump!)

The price of beauty...

Sometimes, it's tough being a Girl (pause for the emphatic Amens of my Virtual Sisters to subside). And I'm not even talking about the obvious burdens, like childbearing, or monthly chocolate-covered-potato-chip cravings, or...attempting to have meaningful communication with Men. No, I'm referring to the things we willingly choose to undergo in the name of, say, preserving youthfulness, and maintaining beauty. Some of these procedures of course are simple and unobtrusive, and just become part of our daily routine, such as slathering on moisturizer with sunscreen, or (in my case) concealing dark undereye circles and brushing a smidge of color onto my pale Irish complexion. But there is one necessary, routine female task that absolutely has made me NUTS for years: shaving my legs. Let's see, what do I despise the most about it? The time-suckage...the required contortionism... the bleeding ...the unsightly missed spots...the fact that it starts growing back immediately after you've finished (grrrrrr!!!)...oh yeah, and the wiry, unattractive stubble.


Several years ago I seriously considered laser hair removal to put an end once and for all to the repeated torture of scraping my legs every couple of days. But I was thwarted by two things: the expense (in the thousands of dollars for a full course of treatment) and the pain. (About that--radio commercials use perky-sounding local celebrities to drum up business. In their chipper voices, they describe the "minimal discomfort", no worse than "a rubber band snapping against your skin!" Wow! I'd like to pay a boatload of money for someone to ping me repeatedly with a rubber band...over my entire calf, ankle, knee, and shin...for a half-hour or so! Sign me up!) However, in one of the womens' magazines that I read, I caught a blurb about a different option that has recently been developed. It involves using a naturally-derived enzyme gel, rubbed onto the skin, to "destroy the open hair follicles by breaking down the cells that produce hair."  You still need a series of treatments, but the cost is significantly less overall than the Star Wars Method (I can't help it, every time I think of lasers, I hear the whoosh of a lightsaber, and Darth Vader intoning, "Use the Force, defeat the...rebellious...hairs...)


So, I decided to become a Woman on a Mission--a hopeful Quest for (eventually) Bare Legs. I bravely shelved my razor (thank goodness it's still too cold for capris yet!) and arranged my first appointment. Oh, I did forget to mention one critical piece of information...the gel application occurs AFTER hair removal...via waxing. For those who have never willingly submitted to having sections of leg-hair ripped out at the roots, let me sum it up for you: YOWZA, that smarts like a...nevermind, just OUCH! But when it's over--and the tears have dried--you have baby-smooth legs and, fingers crossed, tiny little follicles shriveling up beneath the skin, nevermore to produce unwanted, unneeded hair! (Sounds kind of vicious, right? Too bad! After all, in an evolutionary sense, women haven't needed hair on their legs to keep them warm since...well, since Modern Civilization came up with such brilliant inventions as: Indoor Heat! And...Pants!)


Currently I'm about a week away from my second session, and the legscape already looks less hairy (not yet cropped-pant-ready, but definitely better). I even went so far as to discuss it with my Female Posse at--of all places--a recent NCAA Basketball party thrown by a friend. As we sat around the appetizer table, munching on olive tapenade and artichoke-spinach dip, I regaled them with my narrative...even going so far as to hike up the leg of my jeans to demonstrate the progress (after taking a surreptitious glance around, to make sure no unsuspecting guest wandered in and got a Free Show). This led to a riotous comparison of Hair Removal Battle Tales, which not only had us snarfing our snacks, but also provided the added Bonus of keeping all the Males far, far away from the conversation. (For example, one of our Guy Friends happened to meander past us through the kitchen, picked up the words "bikini wax", and with a priceless facial expression--filled with equal parts shock and horror--practically tripped over himself sprinting away from the area!)

At this early stage, it's safe to say I am cautiously nurturing high hopes for this process. But please note: shaving between treatments is strictly forbidden, so this Summer may be a bit more... prickly than the norm. If you run into me at the pool, and you notice something...unusual...kindly pretend you don't notice, and refrain from mentioning it. Unless of course a group of Men walks by; then by all means feel free to throw out the code phrase (you know, "Bikini Wax") and launch into a Girl Story that'll have them diving into the Deep End to escape. And we can go back to our cheese, crackers, and chatting...

I miss Mayberry...

Well, my little Suburban Daydream--you know, the one where we live in this semi-out-of-the-way, quasi-idyllic, serene-and-safe town--has taken a major hit recently. I guess, looking back a bit, the very first sign of Potential Peril in Paradise occurred about a year ago, when the bank across the street from my sons' Elementary School was robbed. In broad daylight. During school hours. The Principal immediately implemented a Code Red Lockdown, resulting in the kids being held in the building for a while until it was decided that the threat had passed, and they could board their buses and go home. Now, I should mention that Olney does have a Police Outpost (a trailer, not a full station), which I believe has always acted as a reassuring presence for our citizens. Officers snagging a morning coffee in Dunkin' Donuts? Awesome! Officers riding police-issued bikes to patrol the sidewalks and streets? Super cool! But if it's all the same to the Criminal Element, I would rather our esteemed Police Men and Women NOT be forced to pursue bad guys into a School Zone. We don't need anything more thrilling than Safety Patrols issuing citations for running in the hallways, thank you very much!

But all lighthearted joking aside, lately things have taken a distinct turn for the worse. Last Friday night an elderly man was found murdered in his home, near the Middle School Derek and Riley will attend. Then on Monday, another man was shot outside McDonald's...about a block from the Elementary School. At this point I think it's not overly dramatic to say that we've blown right by Community Concern and landed squarely on Public Panic. There was a TV News Truck parked outside the building where I take dance class, and my fellow Hip-Hoppers were all abuzz with the latest updates. Later at a local restaurant (having earned my lunch by shimmying and shaking), I ran into an acquaintance I hadn't seen for months, and in lieu of "Hi, how are you" she led off with, "Have you been following...?" People are understandably horrified and upset at the senseless taking of human lives. But we're also confused...our tiny city lies about 45 minutes away from both of our bigger, tougher cousins--Washington D.C. and Baltimore--so how could this happen in "our neck of the woods?" (to borrow a phrase from my mother...who incidentally doesn't live in the woods, but you get my drift.)

It used to be that all we had to worry about around here was receiving the dreaded Traffic-Camera Speeding Citations in the mail (well, not ME, of course, since I know where all the traps are...I mean, since I always drive under the speed limit, of course!) Now all of a sudden our small corner of the planet has gotten a bit less predictable and a lot more frightening. I really don't want to remember 2011 as "the year big-time-crime arrived in Olney to stay." I'd prefer to return to The Good Old Days: that earlier, simpler time when the most excitement the Police Officers could expect in their day was setting up a sneaky Speed Zone, lurking in the parking lot of the Shopping Center, zapping passing cars with their handheld radar guns and handing out tickets.

I must say, though, with all the uncertainty and speculation surrounding the incidents, this is one of those times I'm SOOO glad my kids are oblivious to News Reports. Of course as parents, over the years we've tried to instill Rules for Safety and encourage a measure of good old-fashioned Common Sense as the boys make their way out into the Big Wide World (since apparently I can't just confine them in a protective bubble until they reach adulthood--drat!). And you know how I jest about waving the busload of kids off to "jail" every day? Soon the reality of their Suburban School Life will include a brand new Security System (that's right, as in "all-doors-locked, press-buzzer-to-enter, smile-for-the-camera"). Peace of mind? I suppose. But it is my most heartfelt wish that my sons--and everyone else's children as well--be allowed to continue feeling young, and carefree, and innocent for as long as possible. And since I'm making wishes (where's a Genie when you need one?), I'll throw in a blanket request for people of all ages: We'd like our neighborhoods secure and lawful once more. Thank you very much. Please drive carefully.

Marching into (early) Spring...

Yesterday was the first official day of Spring, according to the trusty calendar on the wall. But even without the paper-and-ink reminder, I could tell the season had changed. How? Oh, the usual--daffodils bursting into bloom in the backyard; shorts-wearing, soccer-playing boys tracking mud into the kitchen 10 or 12 times a day; gusts and rain showers in the weather forecast...and let's not forget the sneezes, itchy eyes, and gunky heads that Riley and I must endure as a result of the Prolific Pollen swirling about the Great Outdoors (as a woman, I can understand: it seems that even for Mother Nature, beauty must come at a price)!

However, I can tolerate the perpetual nose-blowing for a month or so, when taken along with the considerable upside of Spring. For example, although I won't go so far as to break out the Bermudas, I am feeling wild and crazy enough to...leave the house without a coat! Okay, sometimes I take a step out the door and immediately turn around to go back and grab my fleece. But I draw the line at gloves! So there!

Even better, now I can delegate one of my least favorite chores--cooking dinner--to Grillmaster Husband! It's no longer dark and freezing when he gets home from work, and (dare I say it?) the possibility of snow diminishes every day we creep closer to April (NOT to jinx us or anything)...so let the Carnivore Club have their flame-seared meat! (While I relax inside with a martini and a magazine. Or am I confusing my fantasies with the Real World again?) But...Friday evening Husband arrived home, fully prepared to grill hamburgers for the Male Meat-Eaters. I left to take a pre-dinner stroll. When I returned, Husband greeted me with a thrilling tale of how the grill had been...set ablaze in my absence. Evidently the coating on the metal had caught fire and begun to melt off, while also sparking the dry leaves on the ground around the base...it sounded like quite an invigorating...Near-Miss-Disaster. But I took a quick glance around and noted with relief that the entire house seemed to be intact, and there certainly weren't any firetrucks in the vicinity, so I assumed all had ended well. Except, no grilled dinners for a while, obviously. (Hey, maybe I'll get him a grill PAN, and still put him in charge of Meat Duty...I can make this work!)

Speaking of culinary concerns--already, with the lengthening daylight hours, and the slowly-warming temperatures, it's becoming tougher to convince the boys to step inside for such mundane reasons as, say, dinner. (And when Derek resists food, you know he must be having a blast!) In fact, the only way to know my beloved sons have safely returned home from school is the daily occurrence of the following routine: SLAM (door blasts open to admit children...why they are incapable of quietly turning a knob and entering the house is a Boy Mystery, beyond my power to comprehend), THUMP (backpacks land on kitchen floor); SQUEAK (pantry door slides open); CRINKLE (cereal bar is grabbed); SLAM (outside door bangs shut behind the exiting dervishes). No "hi, Mom, we're home!" anymore. No "how was your day?" conversation. No heartwarming chats about school and life and whatnot. Nope, unless someone gets hurt or we happen to bump into each other when one of them comes in to use the bathroom, that's the last I'll see or hear of them until I drag them in for a meal. Then, if I insist they--gasp--shower off the thick coating of dirt crusted on their knees and elbows before sitting down to eat, their protests are as vehement as if I'd...banned video games for life, or something. And after all that drama? I get to enforce the ever-popular Homework Time! Yay! (Next week it gets somewhat more complicated, when soccer starts back up for the next several months and we get to add in practices, and games, and even more frequent cleaning of the sweaty, grassy bodies...)

So, Spring has flown in and wrapped us all in her busy, breezy embrace once again...and I must say, despite the puddles and the sniffling, it still beats Old Man Winter any day!

Lessons in History...and Preparedness!

This week marked "Spring Break" at the college where I work. Long gone of course are the days when this mid-semester recess might inspire escapades involving Bikinis, Bars and Beaches (actually, for me it never included "bikinis", but you get my drift). Nowadays it's more along the lines of Plans, Projects, Meetings, and Motoring. I made the usual To-do List (as long as my arm, naturally, but broken down into day-by-day chunks...which didn't make it look any less daunting somehow) and dived in on Monday. My goal: toil diligently, accomplish all tasks, cross items off the list--so that by Friday, I could schedule a purely Me Day.  And...success! After I found out that Friday's forecast called for 75 sunny degrees, all I lacked was a Destination. Where could I go while the kids were locked up--I mean "experiencing the joys of learning" in school? I hit a snag when I realized that all of the "Cool Spots" I could come up with seemed to be 1) two hours away; 2) on my Forbidden List (i.e: "Derek wants to come along"); or 3) BTDT (Been There, Done That).  I racked my brain, I combed the Internet (thanks Google--NOT), and finally came up with a smidgen of information about an obscure Civil War site that may or may not be interesting and/or worthwhile. But hey, on my Free Day, I was going to give it a shot (Get it? Battlefield...shot? Sorry.)

So, Subaru, Nikon (the film version--this is an important detail for later), Babs (GPS) and I headed west toward Frederick. All appeared to be flowing according to plan...traffic hummed along smoothly; Babs actually plotted the route correctly (NOT always a given); the drive clocked in at a pleasant 55-minutes. Off the highway, the countryside changed to rolling dairy farms and quiet 2-lane roads. When I arrived at South Mountain, I found a delightful well-kept secret of a State Park, complete with the promised Civil War plaques as well. Extra-Special Bonus: the Appalacian Trail crosses right through the area, for your (in my case, unexpected) hiking pleasure. Eagerly I sought Explanatory Marker #1 and began my tour. I learned (and I'm going to tell you, too--so pay attention, there may very well be a Quiz later!) that after his victory in the Second Battle of Bull Run (Manassas to us Northerners), General Lee wanted to cross South Mountain to advance on Harper's Ferry. General McClellan sought to prevent him from passing. The skirmishes that occurred in the vicinity, while relatively small and minor, acted as a prelude to Antietam (Sharpsburg), known as the "bloodiest single day of the War." (In case you're wondering: YES I read each and every one of the plaques....because I knew I'd be coming home and...writing a totally voluntary report about it. I'm working on my Battlefield Badge...in the Dork Scouts of America.)

Then, ready to move on to photographing the scenic ruins and monuments, I pulled out my trusty camera...and found completely dead batteries. I could chalk it up to the fact that I so rarely use my "old-school" camera anymore...but really it took an entire sequence of Rookie Mistakes for this to happen. First, at some point the power toggle-switch must have gotten clicked "On" to drain the battery. Second, I neglected to check before I left the house. Third, I didn't have a spare set (DOH! I do now, let me tell you!). And finally, although I thought about it, oh, 3 or 4 times, I did NOT grab my digital Nikon (which incidentally turns itself off, by the way) while running out the door. All of which combined to result in the aforementioned Camera Catastrophe. What's a girl to do? Walk part of the Appalacian Trail, of course! I had really dressed more Casual Tourist than Serious Hiker Chick, but what the heck? It's not like I was going to tromp all the way to Maine, after all. And I must say, after puffing up and down some hills (they aren't joking about the Mountain part), listening to the birds, feeling the sun warm my nose and the breeze ruffle my hair...and getting jumped on by a couple of enthusiastic, muddy-pawed canines...my day felt complete.

So I didn't get photographic evidence...I'll just have to go back (with proper clothing, and snacks...and batteries)!

Country Girl, City Girl

When I was but a wee lass of 6 tender years, my parents moved “to the country.” This is not just the timeworn, exaggerated perception of a young girl talking--honestly, at the time, our little street was in the exact center of NOWHERE (okay, okay, it was Maryland, not the peat bogs of Ireland, but you get the point). Our house, which my parents and I visited periodically as it was being built from the ground-up, was only the third one in the budding neighborhood. Gently-rolling farmland surrounded us, and our dog used to escape the yard to run away and frolic with the cows (who were unamused, as I recall).  It was pastoral, and peaceful…but as I grew older and started chafing at my isolated, car-dependent existence, I made myself a solemn vow. I swore that when I struck out on my own and chose a place to settle down, I would plant my roots near an actual town (with pedestrian walkways! and eateries! and maybe even a coffee shop! I dreamed big in those days, I tell ya.)

Decades later, Husband and I began looking for a house. I put him in charge of narrowing down, oh, the entire East Coast, to a few select areas that I would then consider. (Do you like how I delegated the really annoying task?) When—after much rigorous, in-depth research--he presented Olney, Maryland, I distinctly remember gasping in shock and horror, then blurting out, “But…that’s way out in the sticks!” (which to me, Urbanized as I had become, during my adult years of living in the Greater Baltimore/D.C. Metro Region, was roughly akin to Siberia in terms of desirability.) To quell my fears, he quickly whipped out a map and proved that, not only did Olney lie only ½ hour from where I grew up, it boasted a Town Center with shopping and dining options galore. Then he triumphantly delivered his Coup de Grace (which I believe translates in Husband Speak to “See? I TOLD you so!): Starbucks…smack-dab in the middle of Olney, reachable via a pleasant stroll on lovely suburban sidewalks. (Incidentally, the house we eventually bought happens to be located about 1.5 miles from both Starbucks AND Dunkin’ Donuts…allowing for exercise and Coffee Nirvana in one fell swoop!)

Thus, I did eventually realize my dream of Small-City-Living, but did this mean I was forced to sacrifice the wonder and beauty of the Great Outdoors? Happily, not at all. Our house was built in the 70s, and is surrounded by large--mostly maple--trees. Throughout the year, we can spot robins, cardinals, hawks, buzzards, crows…and lots of other avian creatures I can’t identify (without geeky binoculars and a Handbook, anyway). On the ground, we share our 1/3-ish acre of grass with: hyperactive squirrels, skittish rabbits, the occasional chipmunk (I suspect the reason we don’t spy more of these is that they’re perfect hawk-snack size), a fat grumpy groundhog, a multitude of mice, playful foxes, and placid deer. Throw in the marauding pack of untamed Boyus Cacophonous that shows up back there at any given moment, and we have a perfect example of Suburban Wild Kingdom!*

*(Hmm…I wonder if the Nature Channel would like to do a documentary on them…hello, College Fund! Or—stroke of genius--maybe my sons could star in their very own Tide commercial! It might be the only chance for them to achieve mud-free pants between now and adulthood…) 

Talking (and Texting) Technology

Over the weekend, in the midst of a personal Gadget-Upgrade Frenzy (more on that later) I gained some small insight into myself and my life. The result was that I reached two irrefutable conclusions: 1) Technology threatens to overrun our household; 2) (and this is the self-realization I arrived at after much profound, thoughtful contemplation) It's All My Fault.

First, let's take stock of the actual hardware that exists in our domicile. I'm typing right now on my Laptop, which generally resides in my bedroom (although obviously it can migrate to any point in the house). Its nickname is "The Upstairs Computer", for reasons which may become clear in a moment (or not--you know how confusing this techie stuff can be). I use it for such tasks as composing this Blog, checking in on Facebook, and managing emails. Sometimes the boys borrow it to play games, or to work on a school project. However, if you want to print something, you must either email it to yourself and receive it downstairs, or save it to a flash drive and schlep it downstairs manually to the printer. So travel with me now if you will, to...

The Desktop Computer, with a full CPU, monitor, keyboard, mouse, and printer setup. It perches on a desk in the room loftily called "The Office". This hulking machine is informally known as "The Downstairs Computer" since it obviously remains in one location. It contains the memory-sucking software like iTunes and our Finance program. Husband uses it for his job-related, Database Management...whatever complicated things he does...BUT it has been socked with several invasive virus-creatures over the last few years, and although it's supposedly been wiped clean and fresh each time, it still screws things up on occasion. Thus, for example, when my mp3 software started acting up, I removed it from the hard drive downstairs and re-installed it on my Laptop. So, you must download songs onto the Big Computer, but then must transport them upstairs to load onto my music player. Are you confused yet? Tired of walking back and forth? Forgot where you're supposed to be, and just what the heck you're meant to take up or down the stairs? ME TOO!

(To review: typing upstairs, printing downstairs, social-networking upstairs, entering receipts downstairs, purchasing tunes downstairs, uploading upstairs--it's a virtual (ha ha) workout getting everything done! Our own little Stairmaster 2.0!)

Then...I contracted a bad case of Phone Envy. Since my last upgrade (only a year ago--see why I might have a teensy problem?) my cell phone was perfectly serviceable. I specifically chose one with a full, comfortable keyboard so I could easily text-message. It had a decent screen, good sound quality, and reliable coverage. To be perfectly fair, it did everything a phone was supposed to do--you know, like call people when necessary--but it didn't excite me. You see, I had started to be jealous of all my friends who had touch-screen, Android-based Smart Phones. I felt like the kid whose friends all were playing with the latest, most thrilling, super-cool toys...while I sat in the corner and built a tower with my wooden blocks. My inner Bratty Child wailed, "I WAAANT one!" while my outer Rational Adult countered with "Yes, but you don't NEED it." Then came the proverbial straw that took down the camel (wait, am I making myself out to be the camel in this metaphor? Scratch that...). Several stores had my Wish-List Phone on sale last week for twenty bucks off. It was more than my already-feeble resolve could withstand, and I cracked like a icicle in the Spring Thaw. (Incidentally, I was so hyped for this thing that I drove to 3 different stores to get it, since they had all sold out...I really need a Therapy Program for Tech Toy Junkies, right?)

Now I carry the entire World Wide Web on a cute little device that fits in my pocket, so I can get the latest weather (jacket or not? critically important in March! at least that's my rationalization...), do a quick email scan, update FB on the run (be afraid, be very afraid!), all without waiting for the computer to boot up. (Colorful Tidbit: it's called the Optimus V, which makes it sound like I have a Transformer at my beck and call...just another geeky reason to love it.) Oh, and after I spent a large chunk of my free time this weekend programming and playing with my awesome gadget, Husband sarcastically pointed out that I can make phone calls too. Ironically, that's the one thing I haven't done yet!

Epilogue: when I switched phones, I transferred my previous device to Husband, leaving his out-of-service. Derek asked with great hope in his voice, "Does this mean I get Dad's old phone?" Um, how shall I put this nicely: NO WAY! Sorry, kiddo, this is Fun for Adults Only. Wait your turn! (Since I didn't get my first cell phone until I was probably in my 20s, it doesn't seem unreasonable to make my kids hold off...until at least Middle School!) Now if only my trusty Optimus V would make the trip to Costco for me...(maybe my next one will actually be a Robot! I can dream...)

Let the Goofy Times Roll

Fat Tuesday is upon us, and you all know what that means--Laissez les bon temps roulez! Which roughly translated from French means:  "Eat and Drink All Night!" (no, that's not the one...) Is it: "Dance in the Streets and Wear Colorful Beads?" (that doesn't sound right either). Wait, I've got it: "Pancake Breakfast at Church!" Whew, that's much more our speed these days. Driving home after the satisfying flapjack-fest, I brought up the fact that today marks the beginning of the Lenten Season. From the backseat I heard Riley sigh and remark in a plaintive little voice, "No more jokes for a while."  I rushed to reassure him that although Lent is a time of "seriousness", that doesn't mean he can't laugh at all (although in retrospect, I really wish I'd been thinking more quickly, so I could somberly agree that Jesus would like us to lay off the groan-inducing puns (Derek) for at least the next 40 days. Drat!) Instead, I explained that in this period leading up to Easter, we ought to ponder the sacrifice Jesus made for us, and consider ways that we might be able to improve ourselves, or do some good in the world, to honor his Spirit. I was feeling fairly pleased with my 5-minute-car-ride, elementary-school overview, when suddenly Derek piped up, in a weary tone, "My mind is too occupied with girls to think about Jesus right now." I'm sorry, WHAT?

It seems that he and and another boy in his 5th-grade class (who I incidentally used to like, right up until this conversation) have made a bet to see who can get a girlfriend first. (Memo to Me: call Eddie's mother right away and find out what she knows...and how long she thinks the Grounding should last...I'll suggest until age 16 or so.)
Okay, I will probably regret this, but, "How's that going?"
"Not so well," he laughed.
"How do you ask them?"
He yelled, "Hey, wanna be my girlfriend?" (And yet there haven't been any takers so far, imagine that!)
"Do I even want to know who you've tried?"
"Maybe," he retorted, "but that's my personal life!" (Of course, approximately 4 seconds later, he told me anyway. His middle name really should be Open Book! If in the course of his natural development over the next several years, the Adolescent Privacy Gene manifests, I'm going to be so upset!)
"And whatever happened to 'Girls are Icky'?" (you know--that beautiful, carefree era when a mother could be confident and secure that her little boy regarded the Opposite Sex with the proper amount of distrust and dislike.)
 "Oh, it's just to win the bet, for bragging rights!" (and yet the Rogue Romeo wonders why young ladies appear less-than-entranced by his charming proposition...)

Finally, we pulled into the driveway (after the longest 3-mile trip EVER) and Derek wanted to know, "Is Dad home yet?" And here's where my inability to bite back a sarcastic quip lands me in trouble: "Well, do you observe any lights turned on in the house at all?" (and bless him, he answers even when it's clearly a rhetorical question) "Noooo..." "Then use your powers of deduction." At which point I was rudely interrupted by an explosive snort of laughter as he choked, "My powers of seduction?" He continued to guffaw as Riley--alarmed that he'd missed something--started demanding, "What? What did he say? What's so funny?" Alright, that's it, get out of the car, go to your room, and don't come out until.....until you're old enough to even know what that means! (So there! Wait, did I win that one? I'm not at all sure...) And so I decided that our new Lenten Commitment will be: Less Gooberheadedness. Oh wait, that'll never work. We'd better stick to something with a better chance of success--like cutting out chocolate or something. Except, some days I need chocolate to put me in the right frame of mind to deal with the children. Clearly, this requires some more reflection (fortunately I have the next 40 days to figure it out...and I have to believe that God, as a parent himself, will surely understand!)