When I recounted my recent mechanical close-encounters-of-the-weird-kind, I never imagined there would be a Part II, but as anyone who's ever seen a movie knows, sometimes the sequel outstrips the original...with sheer goofiness, in this particular case.
You see, rather than learning my lesson, and lying low for a while, I decided instead to press forward with car-related maintenance tasks. I reasoned that I was being a responsible adult, caring for my property in the correct way, scheduling the required upkeep, blah blah blah. It seems like a low-risk, no-brainer, right? However, besides the aforementioned odd incident, the other thing holding me back was the fact that--having priced out all of the odds and ends recommended at the 105,000 mile checkup--I expected it to be a painfully expensive blow to ye olde wallet.
So after a few pathetic whimpers, I decided to suck it up, take a deep breath, and just get on with it. Now, for these sorts of appointments, I tend to visit a local shop that I trust, rather than trek all the way to the dealer. Therefore I dropped off the Forester at 9 a.m., caught a ride home with their driver in the Prius shuttle (because of course it is, in super-green Chapel Hill/Carrboro!), and puttered around the house, waiting for the magical phone call that would instruct me to come back and pick it up again.
Unfortunately--but not entirely unexpectedly, given the age and mileage--they found something that needed to be repaired (and which would freakin' DOUBLE the cost I'd made such a big deal out of preparing myself for...DANG IT!) After heaving an obligatory, gigantic "this sucks" sigh, I gave them permission to go ahead. However, at 4:30, I hadn't heard anything further; not only was this somewhat...worrisome...I also knew that they close at 5, so I reached out for an update myself. Reassuringly, I was told that a technician was currently tooling around town for a test drive, to make sure everything was running smoothly.
Aaaannnd, instead of that information, I received the following: "Um...when it was out, the clutch started making a...screeching noise...and we need to figure out what's happening." Oh, you've gotta be KIDDING me! After making 100% sure the sheepish manager and I were on the same page--that it had definitely NOT been doing this before they got their hands on it, and therefore would also not be my financial headache--I agreed to take a loaner car overnight, so they could keep mine and continue working on it the next day.
Ay yi yi. This was beginning to cross over into the territory of "somewhat surreal", in my opinion. But I graciously accepted the generous gift of a temporary (hybrid, naturally. Ha! Sorry...) Camry, and kept my fingers crossed that they'd successfully solve the mystery...and return a good-as-new (ish) Subaru to me as soon as possible.
The following afternoon, I got the "all clear" text, and piloted the borrowed Toyota back to the shop-- with some trepidation--to hear the verdict. When I arrived, the technician explained that they'd isolated the one part causing the cacophony...which was a circular connector...thingie?...that links the clutch to the engine. To illustrate, he showed me a photo on his phone, of a new, shiny, perfectly round one...then held up mine with an admirably understated flourish, to show me the filthy, misshapen, cracked and warped version they'd removed and replaced. Gulp.
After expressing sheer amazement at the difference...and abundant gratitude for their intervention and rescue...in a small voice I inquired as to how much they WOULD have had to charge, if not for the incredibly, unbelievably lucky timing (for me, anyway). "Well," he replied, "it's about 6 hours of labor...and we usually suggest replacing the clutch at the same time, since we have to take out the whole transmission to get to it." Oh. My. Goodness--or can you say "Holy Dodged-a-Big-Old-Bullet, Batman!"?
There's a footnote as well--something that only occurred to me later that evening. I remembered that I'd been noticing...and studiously ignoring...a barely perceptible...umm...squeak/whistle?...from the clutch for, oh, the past several months. It certainly wasn't loud or scary, and didn't seem to be affecting the actual performance in any way, so I never even thought to mention it to either the dealer or the local guys. In retrospect, or that proverbial 20/20 hindsight, if you will, it was probably our little plastic friend, slowly becoming more and more mangled over time.
So to sum up:
1. Some seriously crazy-ass four-leaf-clover timing on the clutch crisis.
2. An even more astronomical bill narrowly averted.
3. The car gods (and maybe even higher-up powers) totally had my back on this one.
4. Oh, and my clutch, which hadn't even been misbehaving, as I mentioned, now feels all kind of...I don't know...freshened up? (I guess maybe "tight and responsive" if I had to reach for any remotely automobile-related terms. But that sounds vaguely...naughty. I should just stay the heck away from car talk, yeah? Agreed...)
5. Finally, "thankful" doesn't even begin to express my feelings after this near-disaster. So now it looks like I might need to perform not only a cleansing ceremony, but also an offering of some variety. Or maybe they can be combined? Whew, gotta go--there's some very important research to be done!
Thursday, February 21, 2019
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Definitely not Christine...but a tad creepy, nonetheless!
There are many reasons why I call my ride the "trusty Subaru", not the least of which is that it's been with me for 9 years and over 100,000 miles, while mostly only demanding routine maintenance and a few parts replaced here and there when they've worn out. Therefore it was definitely out of the ordinary when, roughly a couple of months ago, the electronic door lock button quit working suddenly. I initially blew it off--I mean, I figured it was no big deal, because I could still secure the vehicle using the fob (which I carry at all times) once I got out. So I just made a mental note of it, and decided to have the issue addressed the next time I went in for service.
But then...it started to get weird. As in, one day I was just driving along, minding my own business, and the doors abruptly...locked themselves. Now, I do realize that some models--Husband's Hyundai, for example--automatically do this as a safety feature for the passengers once the car is in motion...but mine is NOT one of them! So yeeeeaaaah, I was, let's say, "mildly freaked out" by this event, and began to formulate a hypothesis that my beloved Forester might be...HAUNTED. (Because of course my mind immediately went there--I blame it on waaayyy too many years of being a faithful Supernatural viewer...that stuff starts to stick with you after a while...especially if you're blessed/cursed with an overactive imagination like mine...)
Anyway, it's all super-cool, no harm done, and all that, right? I'll just keep ignoring the up-to-now still somewhat cryptic signs of otherworldly tampering, and carry on as if nothing is wrong. Eh, what's the worst that could happen? Weeeelllll...evidently this attitude and/or plan of action didn't please the... spirits (or whatever)...at all, and they conspired to level-up their spooky game.
What happened was, on Errand Friday I gathered together some household recycling, and traveled to the county's Hazardous Waste Center to responsibly dispose of it. The site is set up so that you enter at the main gate, and then make your way around in a counterclockwise circle, stopping at each area that pertains to what you need to unload. It was a chilly, breezy, damp day, and I'd gotten nice and toasty in the driver's seat, with the heat vents blasting on me for 15 minutes on the way there. That, coupled with the fact that I didn't actually have too many items, led me to formulate what seemed like a perfectly valid plan: leave the car warm and running, and just hop in and out a few times as necessary to drop things in bins.
Thus I pulled up to the first station--for CFL and LED bulbs, in case you care--steeled myself for the blast of cooler air, and bravely exited the vehicle. So far, so good...all I had to do was walk around to the other side, remove a few recyclables, and continue on my merry way. However, as I began to push my door shut, my ears picked up a faint, but familiar "click". It didn't even have time to register in my conscious brain what that sound meant--one that's been repeated countless times in my journeys--because the door was already inexorably moving toward its closed position, and there was no stopping it.
The next noise, though, chilled me to the bone, and caused my mouth to drop open in shock: BEEP. That's right, the unmistakable signal that says, "Your car is now locked up tight, yes sirree--don't you worry about it, no one's getting in and stealing your stuff!" But...but...that's not even supposed to be possible! I know from one unforgettable experience in my distant past that there's some kind of fail-safe (or, you know, "stupidity-proof") mechanism that prevents my Subaru from being able to lock when it senses that the key fob is inside. Uh-huh...clearly its Spidey sense is All. Kinds of Messed. Up.
So there I stood, flabbergasted, glaring at my traitorous Forester and admonishing it for the stunning act of betrayal (out loud--yeah, I'm that "talks to herself...or inanimate objects...in public" person...). Naturally, this caught the attention of an employee, who wandered over and asked with concern if there was something wrong. (He was too polite and respectful to actually address me as "The crazy lady in my parking lot who clearly needs help". For which I was grateful.) I sputtered a (probably barely comprehensible) explanation, and he shuffled his feet, sympathetic for sure, but apparently completely stumped about how to address the situation. Hmm...perhaps I hadn't made myself clear...my PHONE is inside. He brightened instantly and replied with palpable relief, "Oh! Here, you can use mine!"
I only had one play, since my AAA card was of course also (ironically, right?) out of reach: I called Husband and crossed my fingers that he wasn't in the middle of an important meeting...or that he could claim a Family Emergency and come to my rescue anyway. Fortunately, he seemed to be between conferences, so he answered, retrieved my spare key (while I provided him with a gratuitously dramatic narration of my woeful tale), and brought it right over to me. Problem temporarily solved.
At this point, I'd had absolutely enough of this &%$# nonsense, so I contacted the local Subaru dealership and made an appointment...for an exorcism. (You know, they seemed so confused when I shared my sincere and well-thought-out theory that my car must certainly be infested with either a poltergeist...or a demon. I would've thought they'd appreciate the diagnostic assist, but noooo. Also, they reeealllly need to work on their sense of humor as applied to customer relations. Just sayin'...)
And the verdict? Was less than reassuring. "Uh, we're gonna start by replacing the Master Switch (What? Witch? Damn, I didn't look for hex bags--that wasn't even one of my guesses!)...and hopefully that will fix it." Ohhh-kaaay. I'd prefer a more confident answer...but I'll take what I can get?
Still with me? Hang in there for yet another ridiculous wrinkle: because they apparently wanted the luxury of spending hours and hours to figure this out, they sent me home using their Courtesy Shuttle. Now, one reason I almost never go to the dealership is that they're a good 20-25 minutes from my house--not terribly convenient. So, we were pulling up to my driveway when it suddenly occurred to me...I didn't have a KEY. It's just that I never have to think about it, because Husband works from home...except for the, oh, approximately four days a year he has to actually go into the Durham office...one of which was, of course, Friday. And because I don't need them very often, my own set of keys is tucked into a hidden spot...In. The. Car.
Face, meet Palm. Seriously, could this get any more bizarre? It was sooooo lucky that this particular lightning bolt hit me BEFORE I got out and watched the van drive away. So I sheepishly confessed my predicament to the driver, who kindly didn't laugh or call me an idiot, but offered to return me to the dealership so I could retrieve my key. But at least my brain had woken up by this time, and I remembered that Riley has his own house key.
Thus if the very nice gentleman wouldn't mind chauffeuring me 5 more minutes to the High School, I could disrupt my son's class, borrow his key, and get into my home. (Because yes, I would like to be known as someone who causes as much trouble as humanly possible, thankyouverymuch....) The lovely ladies at the front desk listened to my plight, took pity on me, and directed me to Riley's 2nd period. At least it was Spanish, so when I poked my head in the door, I was able to tell la profesora y mi hijo what I needed en Espanol--which made up for the interruption? Sure, let's go with that...
So, shall we sum up what we've learned?
1. My Forester is perchance under some kind of electrical--but more likely paranormal--attack.
2. There may be a larger puzzle regarding keys (of any kind) and me....and how we just don't mix.
3. After Subaru completes their variety of repair, I might also have to perform a...I don't know...purifying ritual? (Or something...open to suggestions, y'all!)
Meanwhile, the new rule is: whenever I stop, for whatever reason or any amount of time, I will turn off the ignition, remove the keys, and place them somewhere on my person immediately! Please keep your fingers crossed that all of this works. (Oh, and if you know any spells that might be useful, feel free to pass them along! Kidding...sort of...)
But then...it started to get weird. As in, one day I was just driving along, minding my own business, and the doors abruptly...locked themselves. Now, I do realize that some models--Husband's Hyundai, for example--automatically do this as a safety feature for the passengers once the car is in motion...but mine is NOT one of them! So yeeeeaaaah, I was, let's say, "mildly freaked out" by this event, and began to formulate a hypothesis that my beloved Forester might be...HAUNTED. (Because of course my mind immediately went there--I blame it on waaayyy too many years of being a faithful Supernatural viewer...that stuff starts to stick with you after a while...especially if you're blessed/cursed with an overactive imagination like mine...)
Anyway, it's all super-cool, no harm done, and all that, right? I'll just keep ignoring the up-to-now still somewhat cryptic signs of otherworldly tampering, and carry on as if nothing is wrong. Eh, what's the worst that could happen? Weeeelllll...evidently this attitude and/or plan of action didn't please the... spirits (or whatever)...at all, and they conspired to level-up their spooky game.
What happened was, on Errand Friday I gathered together some household recycling, and traveled to the county's Hazardous Waste Center to responsibly dispose of it. The site is set up so that you enter at the main gate, and then make your way around in a counterclockwise circle, stopping at each area that pertains to what you need to unload. It was a chilly, breezy, damp day, and I'd gotten nice and toasty in the driver's seat, with the heat vents blasting on me for 15 minutes on the way there. That, coupled with the fact that I didn't actually have too many items, led me to formulate what seemed like a perfectly valid plan: leave the car warm and running, and just hop in and out a few times as necessary to drop things in bins.
Thus I pulled up to the first station--for CFL and LED bulbs, in case you care--steeled myself for the blast of cooler air, and bravely exited the vehicle. So far, so good...all I had to do was walk around to the other side, remove a few recyclables, and continue on my merry way. However, as I began to push my door shut, my ears picked up a faint, but familiar "click". It didn't even have time to register in my conscious brain what that sound meant--one that's been repeated countless times in my journeys--because the door was already inexorably moving toward its closed position, and there was no stopping it.
The next noise, though, chilled me to the bone, and caused my mouth to drop open in shock: BEEP. That's right, the unmistakable signal that says, "Your car is now locked up tight, yes sirree--don't you worry about it, no one's getting in and stealing your stuff!" But...but...that's not even supposed to be possible! I know from one unforgettable experience in my distant past that there's some kind of fail-safe (or, you know, "stupidity-proof") mechanism that prevents my Subaru from being able to lock when it senses that the key fob is inside. Uh-huh...clearly its Spidey sense is All. Kinds of Messed. Up.
So there I stood, flabbergasted, glaring at my traitorous Forester and admonishing it for the stunning act of betrayal (out loud--yeah, I'm that "talks to herself...or inanimate objects...in public" person...). Naturally, this caught the attention of an employee, who wandered over and asked with concern if there was something wrong. (He was too polite and respectful to actually address me as "The crazy lady in my parking lot who clearly needs help". For which I was grateful.) I sputtered a (probably barely comprehensible) explanation, and he shuffled his feet, sympathetic for sure, but apparently completely stumped about how to address the situation. Hmm...perhaps I hadn't made myself clear...my PHONE is inside. He brightened instantly and replied with palpable relief, "Oh! Here, you can use mine!"
I only had one play, since my AAA card was of course also (ironically, right?) out of reach: I called Husband and crossed my fingers that he wasn't in the middle of an important meeting...or that he could claim a Family Emergency and come to my rescue anyway. Fortunately, he seemed to be between conferences, so he answered, retrieved my spare key (while I provided him with a gratuitously dramatic narration of my woeful tale), and brought it right over to me. Problem temporarily solved.
At this point, I'd had absolutely enough of this &%$# nonsense, so I contacted the local Subaru dealership and made an appointment...for an exorcism. (You know, they seemed so confused when I shared my sincere and well-thought-out theory that my car must certainly be infested with either a poltergeist...or a demon. I would've thought they'd appreciate the diagnostic assist, but noooo. Also, they reeealllly need to work on their sense of humor as applied to customer relations. Just sayin'...)
And the verdict? Was less than reassuring. "Uh, we're gonna start by replacing the Master Switch (What? Witch? Damn, I didn't look for hex bags--that wasn't even one of my guesses!)...and hopefully that will fix it." Ohhh-kaaay. I'd prefer a more confident answer...but I'll take what I can get?
Still with me? Hang in there for yet another ridiculous wrinkle: because they apparently wanted the luxury of spending hours and hours to figure this out, they sent me home using their Courtesy Shuttle. Now, one reason I almost never go to the dealership is that they're a good 20-25 minutes from my house--not terribly convenient. So, we were pulling up to my driveway when it suddenly occurred to me...I didn't have a KEY. It's just that I never have to think about it, because Husband works from home...except for the, oh, approximately four days a year he has to actually go into the Durham office...one of which was, of course, Friday. And because I don't need them very often, my own set of keys is tucked into a hidden spot...In. The. Car.
Face, meet Palm. Seriously, could this get any more bizarre? It was sooooo lucky that this particular lightning bolt hit me BEFORE I got out and watched the van drive away. So I sheepishly confessed my predicament to the driver, who kindly didn't laugh or call me an idiot, but offered to return me to the dealership so I could retrieve my key. But at least my brain had woken up by this time, and I remembered that Riley has his own house key.
Thus if the very nice gentleman wouldn't mind chauffeuring me 5 more minutes to the High School, I could disrupt my son's class, borrow his key, and get into my home. (Because yes, I would like to be known as someone who causes as much trouble as humanly possible, thankyouverymuch....) The lovely ladies at the front desk listened to my plight, took pity on me, and directed me to Riley's 2nd period. At least it was Spanish, so when I poked my head in the door, I was able to tell la profesora y mi hijo what I needed en Espanol--which made up for the interruption? Sure, let's go with that...
So, shall we sum up what we've learned?
1. My Forester is perchance under some kind of electrical--but more likely paranormal--attack.
2. There may be a larger puzzle regarding keys (of any kind) and me....and how we just don't mix.
3. After Subaru completes their variety of repair, I might also have to perform a...I don't know...purifying ritual? (Or something...open to suggestions, y'all!)
Meanwhile, the new rule is: whenever I stop, for whatever reason or any amount of time, I will turn off the ignition, remove the keys, and place them somewhere on my person immediately! Please keep your fingers crossed that all of this works. (Oh, and if you know any spells that might be useful, feel free to pass them along! Kidding...sort of...)
Monday, February 11, 2019
Extra-Curricular Adult Academia
It's no secret that I've always been a bit of a nerd. (Yeah, yeah--pipe down everyone out there yelling "Wait, a BIT? Is that supposed to be a pseudonym for, like, 'colossally'?" Your protests are noted...) I always loved school--and learning in general--even more so now that I'm all grown up, and have the freedom to choose educational opportunities that capture my interests, on my own time, with no pesky strings attached, like tests, or projects, or grades.
Yep, no stress, all fun--that's how I prefer my "classes" these days. So, there's a teacher at the boys' High School who offers an evening lecture series several times a year, for whoever wants to sign up and pay the nominal cost. I've always been intrigued by this, but never pulled the trigger, for whatever reason...perhaps mainly because Derek never had Mr. M, so although I knew him by reputation and community esteem, I'd never gotten an insider's glimpse, as it were, of what he might be like in the classroom.
However, this year Riley happened to end up in his section for AP World, and began coming home with stories almost from the first day of school. For instance, Riley raved about how great Mr. M was as a lecturer, in terms of imparting information in a manner both clear and compelling. But he also relayed highlights of Mr. M's apparently riotous tangential anecdotes; according to Riley, much like a sports broadcast's Color Commentator, Mr. M injected the dry play-by-play of people, events, and dates in history with lesser-known details that tended toward the scandalous or hilarious, thereby making the material deeper and more real, and bringing it to life for the students. (And according to Riley, also providing them breaks from note-taking, in the midst of intense lessons. Brilliant!)
Then I met Mr. M at Back to School Night in the Fall, and encountered the combination stand-up comedian/gifted speaker/veteran educator in person...and quickly decided that I did, in fact, need to experience his unique brand of instructional mayhem for myself. Thus I registered for the first 4-week block, focused on the War Between the States, with presentations entitled "Causes of the Civil War", "Portraits of Leadership", "Shiloh: Waking America Up to War", and "Lee Rises to Power: the Peninsula Campaign".
Seriously, I could NOT have been more excited. Not only would I get the chance to gain knowledge and understanding of an important topic...but I've always been utterly fascinated by this particular period in our country's development. (It's a well-documented contradiction in my personality: I'm vehemently anti-violence and opposed to armed conflicts in general...yet am somehow also enamored with battlefields and cemeteries, having driven all over the East Coast to tour and photograph them. Make of it what you will--I've never been able to figure it out...)
Really, the only remaining question was: given the fact that I would absolutely want to recall key ideas from the 90-minute talk, would I completely geek out and bring my laptop? Or just go the old-fashioned route and use a lower profile notebook and pen? (Either of which made me feel slightly self-conscious...but not nearly enough to consider foregoing the process. Hey, the struggle of...an over-aged student...is REAL!) I couldn't resolve my dilemma beforehand, so I ended up bringing both, and making my choice in the parking lot--with the less obvious paper and ballpoint winning the mental coin toss.
As it turned out, I needn't have worried about feeling conspicuous--or even anyone noticing me at all--since Mr. M's hallowed hall of learning was bursting at the seams, with approximately 40 people filling every available seat. It was a crowd buzzing with palpable anticipation and excitement...and the veteran showman/historian at the front of the room did not disappoint. He led us through the roots of slavery...the Missouri Compromise...the Underground Railroad...the Abolitionist movement...up to the sowing of seeds that would grow into the ultimate bitter separation between the Northern and Southern states. Aaannnd It. Was. RIVETING.
(How rapt was his audience during all this? At one point he was describing the plotline of Uncle Tom's Cabin, and became so animated that he yelled and banged on a desk with his fist...causing all of us hanging on his every word to jump in our seats. I swear, the whole session was like a dramatic performance, wrapped up in a continuing education course...good stuff!)
Anyway, it should surprise no one that I scribbled 7 pages' worth of notes. It was actually exactly what I was hoping for--while I feel like, growing up where I did, I received a pretty thorough exposure to the Civil War, Mr. M both refreshed my memory on things I'd long since forgotten about the era and the conflict itself, and added to my comprehension with tidbits and nuances I hadn't picked up the first (or second, or whatever) time around.
In short, it was a highly satisfying...and super-entertaining...way to spend a Wednesday night. When I came home, I converted my questionable handwritten sheets into a neatly organized electronic format, so I'm all ready for the next installment. But this time, I'm planning to arrive early...bring my computer so I can type as I go...and mentally prepare myself for those occasional extra-thrilling and/or loud moments! Week 2: Bring it!
Yep, no stress, all fun--that's how I prefer my "classes" these days. So, there's a teacher at the boys' High School who offers an evening lecture series several times a year, for whoever wants to sign up and pay the nominal cost. I've always been intrigued by this, but never pulled the trigger, for whatever reason...perhaps mainly because Derek never had Mr. M, so although I knew him by reputation and community esteem, I'd never gotten an insider's glimpse, as it were, of what he might be like in the classroom.
However, this year Riley happened to end up in his section for AP World, and began coming home with stories almost from the first day of school. For instance, Riley raved about how great Mr. M was as a lecturer, in terms of imparting information in a manner both clear and compelling. But he also relayed highlights of Mr. M's apparently riotous tangential anecdotes; according to Riley, much like a sports broadcast's Color Commentator, Mr. M injected the dry play-by-play of people, events, and dates in history with lesser-known details that tended toward the scandalous or hilarious, thereby making the material deeper and more real, and bringing it to life for the students. (And according to Riley, also providing them breaks from note-taking, in the midst of intense lessons. Brilliant!)
Then I met Mr. M at Back to School Night in the Fall, and encountered the combination stand-up comedian/gifted speaker/veteran educator in person...and quickly decided that I did, in fact, need to experience his unique brand of instructional mayhem for myself. Thus I registered for the first 4-week block, focused on the War Between the States, with presentations entitled "Causes of the Civil War", "Portraits of Leadership", "Shiloh: Waking America Up to War", and "Lee Rises to Power: the Peninsula Campaign".
Seriously, I could NOT have been more excited. Not only would I get the chance to gain knowledge and understanding of an important topic...but I've always been utterly fascinated by this particular period in our country's development. (It's a well-documented contradiction in my personality: I'm vehemently anti-violence and opposed to armed conflicts in general...yet am somehow also enamored with battlefields and cemeteries, having driven all over the East Coast to tour and photograph them. Make of it what you will--I've never been able to figure it out...)
Really, the only remaining question was: given the fact that I would absolutely want to recall key ideas from the 90-minute talk, would I completely geek out and bring my laptop? Or just go the old-fashioned route and use a lower profile notebook and pen? (Either of which made me feel slightly self-conscious...but not nearly enough to consider foregoing the process. Hey, the struggle of...an over-aged student...is REAL!) I couldn't resolve my dilemma beforehand, so I ended up bringing both, and making my choice in the parking lot--with the less obvious paper and ballpoint winning the mental coin toss.
As it turned out, I needn't have worried about feeling conspicuous--or even anyone noticing me at all--since Mr. M's hallowed hall of learning was bursting at the seams, with approximately 40 people filling every available seat. It was a crowd buzzing with palpable anticipation and excitement...and the veteran showman/historian at the front of the room did not disappoint. He led us through the roots of slavery...the Missouri Compromise...the Underground Railroad...the Abolitionist movement...up to the sowing of seeds that would grow into the ultimate bitter separation between the Northern and Southern states. Aaannnd It. Was. RIVETING.
(How rapt was his audience during all this? At one point he was describing the plotline of Uncle Tom's Cabin, and became so animated that he yelled and banged on a desk with his fist...causing all of us hanging on his every word to jump in our seats. I swear, the whole session was like a dramatic performance, wrapped up in a continuing education course...good stuff!)
Anyway, it should surprise no one that I scribbled 7 pages' worth of notes. It was actually exactly what I was hoping for--while I feel like, growing up where I did, I received a pretty thorough exposure to the Civil War, Mr. M both refreshed my memory on things I'd long since forgotten about the era and the conflict itself, and added to my comprehension with tidbits and nuances I hadn't picked up the first (or second, or whatever) time around.
In short, it was a highly satisfying...and super-entertaining...way to spend a Wednesday night. When I came home, I converted my questionable handwritten sheets into a neatly organized electronic format, so I'm all ready for the next installment. But this time, I'm planning to arrive early...bring my computer so I can type as I go...and mentally prepare myself for those occasional extra-thrilling and/or loud moments! Week 2: Bring it!
Thursday, February 7, 2019
Fancy Friday Field Trip
Well, it's technically Winter in these parts (although you wouldn't know it right now, as I'm sitting here next to an open window, basking in the 75 glorious degrees flowing into the house on a gentle breeze...), which means the Great Outdoors is kind of drab and not terribly...visually exciting, let's say. Therefore, when I was seeking something interesting to do last week, I opted to lean in a more cultural direction, and finally spend some time in the institution that I've been meaning to visit for, oh, approximately 4-1/2 years.
The Ackland Art Museum is situated just off of Franklin Street, on the edge of UNC's campus. It's fairly compact, but it also doesn't charge admission--so obviously a no-risk endeavor! You're basically free to just wander in off the sidewalk and meander through the exhibits, taking as long as you want on things that appeal to you, and skipping those that don't ring your particular bell, so to speak. (After all, no cost = no guilt, amiright?)
So, the ancient Chinese pottery? Gorgeous, impressive, cool to glance at briefly, but not really my thing. Kooky modern sculpture made from old keyboards and other random electronic devices, centered around an optometrist-type eye chart? Worth a moment to stop and shake my head in bemusement. But colorful impressionistic still lifes and landscapes, or super-realistic portraits painted with exquisite detail? Those grab my attention, and sometimes I realize I've been standing in front of one for a while, examining it from all angles and marveling at the creator's skill and talent. (NOT that I'm an expert--or even particularly well-educated about art. I just know what I like, and gravitate toward it!) |
| Labyrinth of the Inner Ear 1908 |
 |
| Saturated Reconstruction of a Volume of Neocortex |
After strolling through all of the rooms on both floors--taking both pictures and notes, lingering extra minutes in front of items that I, personally, found compelling, and revisiting those I'd deemed my favorites--I felt slightly more educated than when I'd entered, and also (more importantly) supremely pleased and satisfied with my artistic venture. The best part is, while the permanent pieces obviously won't change as much or as often, the traveling collection switches several times a year, tempting one to check in periodically and see what's new.
Hmm, let's review: a free museum...3 miles from my house...across the street from the only Starbucks in town? I'd say this is going to become a regularly occurring adventure, y'all!
Tuesday, January 29, 2019
January in the rear-view...
Hey, there--long time, no...type! Which represents something of a personal struggle for me, because whenever it's been a while since I've created a post, I start to get...twitchy. As the days go by without me being able to come up with a funny story worth sharing, or an interesting adventure to recount, I start to feel certain things bubbling to the surface: stress ("I should be writing something!"), guilt ("I'm letting people down!"), and eventually, a dollop of panic ("What if I just don't have anything to say anymore--forever?" All delivered with steadily increasing amounts of dramatic sighing and tortured self-pity. Okay...not really--but I'm trying to paint a picture here, so just go with it, yeah?)
Now, of course the logical part of my brain (however small and sheltered it may be) recognizes that this is patently ridiculous. After all, this isn't my livelihood, so no one's starving if I come down with a case of Writer's Block. And I'm not delusional enough to believe that anyone's out there anxiously waiting to hang upon my every word, for sure. Furthermore, I recognize that it's probably a holdover from my decades of schooling, where my...perfectionistic tendencies...were born, nurtured, and solidified into an integral part of my personality (which it's faaarrrr too late to modify at this point in my life). Still...I can't quite shake off the idea that I'm somehow--I don't know...failing, maybe?--in my "duties"...or whatever.
And then, as the final days of the month bore down on me, increasing the...let's go ahead and call it mental anguish, for the sake of argument....as though I had an actual deadline to meet, rather than a self-imposed, arbitrary "quota", it suddenly hit me in a flash of clarity: it's just...JANUARY. That long, frosty, dark period after the fun and festivity of the holidays, when nothing much happens, and the prevailing mood leans toward the...blah. So yeah, I'm gonna go ahead and blame the calendar for stealing my missing spark. ('Cuz that seems like a totally healthy, mature way to address it, right?)
Speaking of which, I looked back on the past 4 weeks' activities, just for research purposes, to see if I was, you know, making stuff up (as I have been known to do on occasion...wink wink...). So, here's what commanded the attention of Team WestEnders in the first merry month of 2019:
--We drove back from our Maryland visit, and took another quiet day at home day to recover from all the celebration mayhem. (And so begins the list of Boring but Necessary Life Activities...you've been warned...)
--I employed a handyman to install the new over-the-stove microwave we had to purchase, after the one that came with the house died abruptly...but not entirely unexpectedly, when we checked the sticker and discovered it was manufactured in 1998! (RIP after a long life, well-lived, ye olde GE...).
(Side note: I felt much less lame about hiring a professional to do this, rather than tackling it ourselves, since it took him several hours, including what appeared to be some pretty technical reconfiguring of wiring and general fiddling about with the cabinet structure--all of which falls well beyond Husband's and/or my basic DIY skills! Besides, this reinforces my policy about when to assign tasks to a contractor: if it could cause a fire or a flood, get an electrician or a plumber in here to address the issue!)
--My job search continued, with one interview and several back-and-forth inquiries with other companies, none of which felt like quite the right fit. Thus, still looking...
--In the Caring for Self and Others category (which I just coined; feel free to use it), I accompanied the boys for their 6-month dentist visits...scheduled my own haircut appointment...and defied the early-morning frigid Great Outdoors by attending my regular Sunday bootcamp group. (Whoo hoo! Look, I TOLD you it was mundane, didn't I? Still with me? Moving on...)
--Classes recommenced for Riley after his 2-week break. Then Husband drove Derek back to South Carolina, first to have a short visit with the grandparents, then to return to UofSC for the Spring semester. Suddenly the house was quiet and empty...which did nothing to dispel the dreaded Winter Doldrums, I'm tellin' ya...
--However, I took time out of a dull weekday to catch a showing of Mary Poppins Returns...which proved to be a peppy, uplifting interlude of whimsy...and a lovely antidote to all the prevailing January...ness. And for a second dose of the artistic genius known as Lin-Manuel Miranda, I also signed up for this month's Pop-Up Chorus event...singing a trio of numbers from HAMILTON. Needless to say, it was a rousing, supremely entertaining, entirely satisfying way to spend an evening belting out exquisite songs...with 350 of your newest friends (and several fellow fitness pals from bootcamp, whom I'd enlisted to come with me!). What. A. Rush.
--Whew! Back to everyday household affairs: I'd arranged for Duke Energy (our electricity provider) to come out and perform a "residential audit", where they'd inspect the house, identify areas in which we might be operating in a less-than-optimal manner, and make suggestions for how to improve our usage (and therefore possibly decrease our bills). I know, right: riveting stuff. (Okay, nerd confession--I actually did find it fascinating to walk around with the examiner and hear her comments about the ways our home runs efficiently--quite a few, fortunately--and not so much...)
--Finally, Riley registered for a practice SAT...so he could have the privilege of getting up early on a weekend, and voluntarily subjecting himself to a 3-hour test. He decided to get a jump on this long before it would technically be required, so he could see his scores, figure out what weaknesses he needed to shore up, and be better prepared when it comes time to take the one that counts toward college admissions. Well, never let it be said that the dude isn't motivated...
And there you have it...January in a nutshell. As you can see, none of these little anecdotes warranted a full retelling on its own. But I see now that when you put them together, it does make me think we accomplished more than I originally gave us credit for, I suppose! Eh, howzabout we just chalk it up to...the vagaries of a month named for a two-faced Roman god...and kiss it buh-bye, 'kay? Alrighty, then...February, here we come! (And frankly, not a moment too soon, amiright?)
Now, of course the logical part of my brain (however small and sheltered it may be) recognizes that this is patently ridiculous. After all, this isn't my livelihood, so no one's starving if I come down with a case of Writer's Block. And I'm not delusional enough to believe that anyone's out there anxiously waiting to hang upon my every word, for sure. Furthermore, I recognize that it's probably a holdover from my decades of schooling, where my...perfectionistic tendencies...were born, nurtured, and solidified into an integral part of my personality (which it's faaarrrr too late to modify at this point in my life). Still...I can't quite shake off the idea that I'm somehow--I don't know...failing, maybe?--in my "duties"...or whatever.
And then, as the final days of the month bore down on me, increasing the...let's go ahead and call it mental anguish, for the sake of argument....as though I had an actual deadline to meet, rather than a self-imposed, arbitrary "quota", it suddenly hit me in a flash of clarity: it's just...JANUARY. That long, frosty, dark period after the fun and festivity of the holidays, when nothing much happens, and the prevailing mood leans toward the...blah. So yeah, I'm gonna go ahead and blame the calendar for stealing my missing spark. ('Cuz that seems like a totally healthy, mature way to address it, right?)
Speaking of which, I looked back on the past 4 weeks' activities, just for research purposes, to see if I was, you know, making stuff up (as I have been known to do on occasion...wink wink...). So, here's what commanded the attention of Team WestEnders in the first merry month of 2019:
--We drove back from our Maryland visit, and took another quiet day at home day to recover from all the celebration mayhem. (And so begins the list of Boring but Necessary Life Activities...you've been warned...)
--I employed a handyman to install the new over-the-stove microwave we had to purchase, after the one that came with the house died abruptly...but not entirely unexpectedly, when we checked the sticker and discovered it was manufactured in 1998! (RIP after a long life, well-lived, ye olde GE...).
(Side note: I felt much less lame about hiring a professional to do this, rather than tackling it ourselves, since it took him several hours, including what appeared to be some pretty technical reconfiguring of wiring and general fiddling about with the cabinet structure--all of which falls well beyond Husband's and/or my basic DIY skills! Besides, this reinforces my policy about when to assign tasks to a contractor: if it could cause a fire or a flood, get an electrician or a plumber in here to address the issue!)
--My job search continued, with one interview and several back-and-forth inquiries with other companies, none of which felt like quite the right fit. Thus, still looking...
--In the Caring for Self and Others category (which I just coined; feel free to use it), I accompanied the boys for their 6-month dentist visits...scheduled my own haircut appointment...and defied the early-morning frigid Great Outdoors by attending my regular Sunday bootcamp group. (Whoo hoo! Look, I TOLD you it was mundane, didn't I? Still with me? Moving on...)
--Classes recommenced for Riley after his 2-week break. Then Husband drove Derek back to South Carolina, first to have a short visit with the grandparents, then to return to UofSC for the Spring semester. Suddenly the house was quiet and empty...which did nothing to dispel the dreaded Winter Doldrums, I'm tellin' ya...
--However, I took time out of a dull weekday to catch a showing of Mary Poppins Returns...which proved to be a peppy, uplifting interlude of whimsy...and a lovely antidote to all the prevailing January...ness. And for a second dose of the artistic genius known as Lin-Manuel Miranda, I also signed up for this month's Pop-Up Chorus event...singing a trio of numbers from HAMILTON. Needless to say, it was a rousing, supremely entertaining, entirely satisfying way to spend an evening belting out exquisite songs...with 350 of your newest friends (and several fellow fitness pals from bootcamp, whom I'd enlisted to come with me!). What. A. Rush.
--Whew! Back to everyday household affairs: I'd arranged for Duke Energy (our electricity provider) to come out and perform a "residential audit", where they'd inspect the house, identify areas in which we might be operating in a less-than-optimal manner, and make suggestions for how to improve our usage (and therefore possibly decrease our bills). I know, right: riveting stuff. (Okay, nerd confession--I actually did find it fascinating to walk around with the examiner and hear her comments about the ways our home runs efficiently--quite a few, fortunately--and not so much...)
--Finally, Riley registered for a practice SAT...so he could have the privilege of getting up early on a weekend, and voluntarily subjecting himself to a 3-hour test. He decided to get a jump on this long before it would technically be required, so he could see his scores, figure out what weaknesses he needed to shore up, and be better prepared when it comes time to take the one that counts toward college admissions. Well, never let it be said that the dude isn't motivated...
And there you have it...January in a nutshell. As you can see, none of these little anecdotes warranted a full retelling on its own. But I see now that when you put them together, it does make me think we accomplished more than I originally gave us credit for, I suppose! Eh, howzabout we just chalk it up to...the vagaries of a month named for a two-faced Roman god...and kiss it buh-bye, 'kay? Alrighty, then...February, here we come! (And frankly, not a moment too soon, amiright?)
Friday, January 18, 2019
Epic fail, perhaps...but can I get an "A" for effort?
When I was in college, back in the...ahem..."olden days"...the process of obtaining one's textbooks each semester was arduous, time-consuming, and frankly, a downright pain in the...patootie. I mean, this was pre-cellphone, and before computers took over the world. (Yep, I TOLD you it'd been a hot minute!)
Therefore, the steps involved (as well as I can recall, after all these years): attending the first session of all the classes you were taking in order to collect the syllabi, then writing down the volumes required by each professor on an actual sheet of paper. (Right? Dark. Ages.) Next, you'd carry that order form to the physical bookstore on campus...where you'd stand in line with dozens or even hundreds of other students, for however long it freakin' took, until you reached the front, handed off your request, and received back a stack of materials. Ay yi yi. Suffice it to say that these do NOT represent fond memories for me of my post-secondary educational journey.
These days, of course, the situation is vastly different....which you'd imagine would also be a huge improvement, given the benefits of electronic communication, and the Internet, and whatnot. Well, I'm here to tell you that it's not that simple (or maybe, this being only our second stab at this thing, we're still somewhere on the learning curve. I'll let you be the judge...).
You see, one thing that unfortunately hasn't changed since way back when is the outlandish prices they charge for textbooks. Sure, there are now more options than there used to be...in theory, at least. But although the choices abound--such as "new" vs "used" tomes, ebooks, looseleaf versions, and rent-rather-than-purchase--some courses still demand nothing other than the most recent edition, which only exists in the "just-published, as expensive as possible" incarnation. As a parent footing the bill, it's absolutely maddening, I tell ya...
So, how do you handle this? Why, you check your beloved son's online booklist, note the (ridiculous) cost of each text, then do some comparison shopping to see if you can come up with a way to save a few bucks here and there, naturally! This seemed like a no-brainer, especially when we immediately scored a deal on Amazon, for his Calculus monstrosity. From there, however, the whole thing became somewhat...murkier. Because the other volumes he needed didn't seem to be available anywhere other than what appeared to be a consolidator-type website, which was unfamiliar to us, and thus felt...a wee bit risky.
But hey, we're nothing if not daring and adventurous (or, you know, "reckless and foolish", but whatever...), so we took a chance, placed an order with the dark horse company, and crossed our fingers that everything would work out. Yeeeeahhhh....about that. No sooner had I clicked "Submit" than I realized I'd made a fatal error: you know when you dutifully type in your credit card information, like you've done countless times before, and without stopping to give it a second thought, because it's what you always do, you automatically click the box for "Yes, indeed, the shipping address is exactly the same, you betcha!"? Except in this particular instance, you want the package sent to your student's home-away-from-home, where it'll actually be useful? (Because heaven know, I'M not tackling his Chemistry homework, nothankyouverymuch...)
Like I said, luckily I noticed it the minute it happened...but it was after business hours, so I couldn't do much at the time, except shoot off an email to Customer Service, and hope they'd be on-the-ball and fix it for me right away. The next morning, though, I was feeling nervous enough to also reach out by phone--but their recorded message indicated that they weren't able to handle calls at the moment, due to it being an extremely busy time. So I resorted to the last possible method of contact: online chat... which resulted in a pleasant and helpful representative assuring me that she was able to successfully change the information.
Whew! Problem solved, right? You'd think so...that is, until I got the handy-dandy confirmation message that "Your order has left the warehouse...and is on its way...to Chapel Hill!" Aaaarrrghhh! Not only that, but the boxes would be arriving here on Derek's first day of classes, too late for me to turn around and send them to him. So, guess what we had to do? That's right--buy the damn things from the university's bookstore anyway, and suck it up to pay whatever they were charging. So much for shaving off a couple of Andrew Jacksons here and there...siiiighhhh...
When the rogue parcels were dropped on my doorstep (right on time, I might add) I once again got in touch with the company--this time to admit my mistake, beg their forgiveness...and humbly appeal to them NOT to subtract the (substantial) restocking fee from my refund. The kind gentleman to whom I spoke cleared up the shipping confusion by informing me that the original chat-lady had in fact updated the address as she'd promised...but between me placing the order at 7:45 p.m. and interacting with her early the next day, the books had already been packed up, labeled incorrectly, and whisked out of the warehouse in the wee hours of the night. (Huh. A rare case of "too efficient for their own good"? Or mine, anyway...)
Oh well--upon reflection, I still believe it was a solid plan...albeit poorly executed. However, we have definitely picked up some valuable insight into how we can improve the outcome next time, such as: start earlier...and double-check the destination! As an unforeseen plus, Derek received an up-close-and-personal peek into just how pricey college supplies can be, and afterwards he mused, "Hmmm...now I understand why all those small scholarships [the counseling department talks about] might be worth it. A thousand dollars here and there doesn't sound like much, but it sure would help with books every semester!"
Aaahhh, grasshopper, I'm pleased to hear you express this newfound understanding. Perhaps this means he'll actually apply himself to seeking out some of that extra moolah...BEFORE the next time we have to go through this rigmarole? One can dream...
Therefore, the steps involved (as well as I can recall, after all these years): attending the first session of all the classes you were taking in order to collect the syllabi, then writing down the volumes required by each professor on an actual sheet of paper. (Right? Dark. Ages.) Next, you'd carry that order form to the physical bookstore on campus...where you'd stand in line with dozens or even hundreds of other students, for however long it freakin' took, until you reached the front, handed off your request, and received back a stack of materials. Ay yi yi. Suffice it to say that these do NOT represent fond memories for me of my post-secondary educational journey.
These days, of course, the situation is vastly different....which you'd imagine would also be a huge improvement, given the benefits of electronic communication, and the Internet, and whatnot. Well, I'm here to tell you that it's not that simple (or maybe, this being only our second stab at this thing, we're still somewhere on the learning curve. I'll let you be the judge...).
You see, one thing that unfortunately hasn't changed since way back when is the outlandish prices they charge for textbooks. Sure, there are now more options than there used to be...in theory, at least. But although the choices abound--such as "new" vs "used" tomes, ebooks, looseleaf versions, and rent-rather-than-purchase--some courses still demand nothing other than the most recent edition, which only exists in the "just-published, as expensive as possible" incarnation. As a parent footing the bill, it's absolutely maddening, I tell ya...
So, how do you handle this? Why, you check your beloved son's online booklist, note the (ridiculous) cost of each text, then do some comparison shopping to see if you can come up with a way to save a few bucks here and there, naturally! This seemed like a no-brainer, especially when we immediately scored a deal on Amazon, for his Calculus monstrosity. From there, however, the whole thing became somewhat...murkier. Because the other volumes he needed didn't seem to be available anywhere other than what appeared to be a consolidator-type website, which was unfamiliar to us, and thus felt...a wee bit risky.
But hey, we're nothing if not daring and adventurous (or, you know, "reckless and foolish", but whatever...), so we took a chance, placed an order with the dark horse company, and crossed our fingers that everything would work out. Yeeeeahhhh....about that. No sooner had I clicked "Submit" than I realized I'd made a fatal error: you know when you dutifully type in your credit card information, like you've done countless times before, and without stopping to give it a second thought, because it's what you always do, you automatically click the box for "Yes, indeed, the shipping address is exactly the same, you betcha!"? Except in this particular instance, you want the package sent to your student's home-away-from-home, where it'll actually be useful? (Because heaven know, I'M not tackling his Chemistry homework, nothankyouverymuch...)
Like I said, luckily I noticed it the minute it happened...but it was after business hours, so I couldn't do much at the time, except shoot off an email to Customer Service, and hope they'd be on-the-ball and fix it for me right away. The next morning, though, I was feeling nervous enough to also reach out by phone--but their recorded message indicated that they weren't able to handle calls at the moment, due to it being an extremely busy time. So I resorted to the last possible method of contact: online chat... which resulted in a pleasant and helpful representative assuring me that she was able to successfully change the information.
Whew! Problem solved, right? You'd think so...that is, until I got the handy-dandy confirmation message that "Your order has left the warehouse...and is on its way...to Chapel Hill!" Aaaarrrghhh! Not only that, but the boxes would be arriving here on Derek's first day of classes, too late for me to turn around and send them to him. So, guess what we had to do? That's right--buy the damn things from the university's bookstore anyway, and suck it up to pay whatever they were charging. So much for shaving off a couple of Andrew Jacksons here and there...siiiighhhh...
When the rogue parcels were dropped on my doorstep (right on time, I might add) I once again got in touch with the company--this time to admit my mistake, beg their forgiveness...and humbly appeal to them NOT to subtract the (substantial) restocking fee from my refund. The kind gentleman to whom I spoke cleared up the shipping confusion by informing me that the original chat-lady had in fact updated the address as she'd promised...but between me placing the order at 7:45 p.m. and interacting with her early the next day, the books had already been packed up, labeled incorrectly, and whisked out of the warehouse in the wee hours of the night. (Huh. A rare case of "too efficient for their own good"? Or mine, anyway...)
Oh well--upon reflection, I still believe it was a solid plan...albeit poorly executed. However, we have definitely picked up some valuable insight into how we can improve the outcome next time, such as: start earlier...and double-check the destination! As an unforeseen plus, Derek received an up-close-and-personal peek into just how pricey college supplies can be, and afterwards he mused, "Hmmm...now I understand why all those small scholarships [the counseling department talks about] might be worth it. A thousand dollars here and there doesn't sound like much, but it sure would help with books every semester!"
Aaahhh, grasshopper, I'm pleased to hear you express this newfound understanding. Perhaps this means he'll actually apply himself to seeking out some of that extra moolah...BEFORE the next time we have to go through this rigmarole? One can dream...
Thursday, January 10, 2019
Well-fed guinea pigs--ahem..."loved ones"
Is anyone else out there like me: doesn't particularly enjoy preparing food myself...but gets a kick out of observing other people chef-ing it up on TV? Don't get me wrong--I've definitely expanded my culinary vocabulary, and picked up lots of useful tips from all the Food Network and Cooking Channel shows I've indulged in, whilst lounging on my sofa. Occasionally I even stumble upon a recipe I want to test out...such as last week on The Kitchen, when a guest presenter demonstrated how to make a dessert that I found both intriguing...and suspicious.
You see, she concocted a blondie-type cookie bar without using any flour at all, which of course rendered it gluten-free. I also noticed that--as an extra-special bonus for me--it didn't require any eggs. Which leads me to the "skeptical" part of the equation, because while it sounded (and looked) undeniably delicious, I couldn't quite understand how it held together without any apparent binding agent (outside of possibly...I don't know...faerie magic? Or what have you...).
Well, then...challenge accepted! So I proceeded to attempt a super-secret assembly behind closed doors, to prevent anyone from figuring out what was actually included in the dish. I knew the Male Trio's opinions would be irrevocably colored by knowing ahead of time what healthy components were hiding inside the sweets. I crossed my fingers that the more taste-forward and visually recognizable ingredients...namely peanut butter and chocolate chips...would do their jobs and adequately disguise the stealthy good-for-you qualities.
I even went so far as to throw away the one tell-tale can before anyone could see it, and I was feeling smugly satisfied that my complicated ruse had worked. That is, until Derek wandered into the kitchen, after I'd put the baking pan into the oven, and spotted the printed instructions. At that point I thought the jig was up for sure...but his gaze had fallen upon the title and he immediately fixated on that, exclaiming indignantly, "Orange and chamomile! I knew it was weird! Ewww!"
This was actually hilarious....since I'd also decided that those two items sounded odd and unnecessary, and I'd therefore purposely left them out! However, it was enormously difficult to convince my son that I was being truthful. (Apparently he has deep-seated and disturbing trust issues when it comes to me...and experimental edibles. Who knew? I guess we'll have to address that at some point...) Finally I snapped in exasperation, "Look around you. Do you see oranges? And have you EVER known me to zest....anything, for any reason? Or for that matter, to drink chamomile tea? Okay, then, there's your answer!"
Ay yi yi. He finally let that go, but then he declared that he wasn't trying it until I revealed exactly what was in there. And of course my response was, "Sure I'll tell you...after you have a bite." Ahhh, you see what we have here? I think this is what they refer to as a (slightly smaller version of a) Mexican Standoff, my friends: determined opponents, firmly dug into their positions, unprepared to compromise. Aaaannnnd that's how we arrived at dinner time--the only thing the fam knew for sure was that the dessert was free from both wheat and huevos.
I swear though, the stark trepidation on their faces made it seem like I was asking them to choke down crickets, or something. Heck, Riley even tried to avoid the whole scene by slipping up to his room the second he finished his meal, forcing me to drag him back down to join the...um...palate-expanding adventure. It was utterly ridiculous...and it became even more so when they just sat there staring at their innocent chocolate-chip laden squares, refusing to touch them until I demanded that they for heaven's sake just freakin' pick them up and take a nibble. (I even sarcastically offered to help by feeding them a forkful...making the "airplane" noise. Yes, like they're all FOUR year olds...)
Eventually they realized I wasn't going to give up (seriously, have they MET me?)...and agreed to all go in at the same time. (Big brave dudes, yeah?). And whattya know--not only did they survive...they admitted to being pleasantly surprised. (Granted, their expectations were abysmally low, but still, I'll take it...) Furthermore, Derek was curious enough to start trying to guess the mystery ingredient. "Spinach? Nah, I don't see any green. Carrots? Sweet potatoes?" After a few minutes of increasingly unlikely stabs in the dark, he concluded with, "Um...seaweed?"
I rescued him from further mental gymnastics...before he hurt himself during his vacation...by announcing that the super-food masquerading as a tasty treat was actually: CHICKPEAS. The guys proclaimed themselves suitably astonished...and impressed...and even graciously went so far as to concede that they were yummy...and no one would know about the beans unless you told them.
So, I still don't exactly understand the...alchemical process...that makes them successful. But I'm willing to let them remain somewhat of a riddle, because not only are they full of nutritious things, but they also passed the rigorous Team WestEnders Taste Test. I'm gonna have to call this a WIN, folks! (And as a matter of fact, I definitely deserve some kind of reward for all my efforts...so I should go have some, right now...)
You see, she concocted a blondie-type cookie bar without using any flour at all, which of course rendered it gluten-free. I also noticed that--as an extra-special bonus for me--it didn't require any eggs. Which leads me to the "skeptical" part of the equation, because while it sounded (and looked) undeniably delicious, I couldn't quite understand how it held together without any apparent binding agent (outside of possibly...I don't know...faerie magic? Or what have you...).
Well, then...challenge accepted! So I proceeded to attempt a super-secret assembly behind closed doors, to prevent anyone from figuring out what was actually included in the dish. I knew the Male Trio's opinions would be irrevocably colored by knowing ahead of time what healthy components were hiding inside the sweets. I crossed my fingers that the more taste-forward and visually recognizable ingredients...namely peanut butter and chocolate chips...would do their jobs and adequately disguise the stealthy good-for-you qualities.
I even went so far as to throw away the one tell-tale can before anyone could see it, and I was feeling smugly satisfied that my complicated ruse had worked. That is, until Derek wandered into the kitchen, after I'd put the baking pan into the oven, and spotted the printed instructions. At that point I thought the jig was up for sure...but his gaze had fallen upon the title and he immediately fixated on that, exclaiming indignantly, "Orange and chamomile! I knew it was weird! Ewww!"
This was actually hilarious....since I'd also decided that those two items sounded odd and unnecessary, and I'd therefore purposely left them out! However, it was enormously difficult to convince my son that I was being truthful. (Apparently he has deep-seated and disturbing trust issues when it comes to me...and experimental edibles. Who knew? I guess we'll have to address that at some point...) Finally I snapped in exasperation, "Look around you. Do you see oranges? And have you EVER known me to zest....anything, for any reason? Or for that matter, to drink chamomile tea? Okay, then, there's your answer!"
Ay yi yi. He finally let that go, but then he declared that he wasn't trying it until I revealed exactly what was in there. And of course my response was, "Sure I'll tell you...after you have a bite." Ahhh, you see what we have here? I think this is what they refer to as a (slightly smaller version of a) Mexican Standoff, my friends: determined opponents, firmly dug into their positions, unprepared to compromise. Aaaannnnd that's how we arrived at dinner time--the only thing the fam knew for sure was that the dessert was free from both wheat and huevos.
I swear though, the stark trepidation on their faces made it seem like I was asking them to choke down crickets, or something. Heck, Riley even tried to avoid the whole scene by slipping up to his room the second he finished his meal, forcing me to drag him back down to join the...um...palate-expanding adventure. It was utterly ridiculous...and it became even more so when they just sat there staring at their innocent chocolate-chip laden squares, refusing to touch them until I demanded that they for heaven's sake just freakin' pick them up and take a nibble. (I even sarcastically offered to help by feeding them a forkful...making the "airplane" noise. Yes, like they're all FOUR year olds...)
Eventually they realized I wasn't going to give up (seriously, have they MET me?)...and agreed to all go in at the same time. (Big brave dudes, yeah?). And whattya know--not only did they survive...they admitted to being pleasantly surprised. (Granted, their expectations were abysmally low, but still, I'll take it...) Furthermore, Derek was curious enough to start trying to guess the mystery ingredient. "Spinach? Nah, I don't see any green. Carrots? Sweet potatoes?" After a few minutes of increasingly unlikely stabs in the dark, he concluded with, "Um...seaweed?"I rescued him from further mental gymnastics...before he hurt himself during his vacation...by announcing that the super-food masquerading as a tasty treat was actually: CHICKPEAS. The guys proclaimed themselves suitably astonished...and impressed...and even graciously went so far as to concede that they were yummy...and no one would know about the beans unless you told them.
So, I still don't exactly understand the...alchemical process...that makes them successful. But I'm willing to let them remain somewhat of a riddle, because not only are they full of nutritious things, but they also passed the rigorous Team WestEnders Taste Test. I'm gonna have to call this a WIN, folks! (And as a matter of fact, I definitely deserve some kind of reward for all my efforts...so I should go have some, right now...)
Monday, January 7, 2019
O, Canada (watch out, here we come...eventually!)
First of all, let me wish everyone a happy 2019! In keeping with what has become a New Year's tradition in our house, Team WestEnders took some time over the boys' Winter Break to brainstorm ideas for our next big adventure. Well...that is, "I announced that it was time to think about a Summer trip, and the Male Posse gave me their award-winning blank, open-mouthed expressions while trying to formulate smartass comments".
But I've been at this long enough by now to expect such a reaction, so I was prepared to take control of the conversation, short-circuit the nonsense, and keep us on track. Therefore I knew better than to allow them time to get wound up; rather, I followed up immediately with "It's an international year, so I was thinking maybe....Dominican Republic?"
Surprisingly, this was met with an outburst of vehement rejection. Some of the responses included Riley's "Ugh. Aren't we DONE with tropical beaches?" (To which I simply must pause and reply: "I'm sorry, I recognize all of these words, but in this particular order, they don't make any sense to me whatsoever. And by the way, are we absolutely sure you're related to me? I mean c'mon...'tired of sea, sun, and sand'? I can't even...") Then there was Derek, who firmly stated that he intends to follow his own personal travel ban against the DR...when pressed for an explanation, he shrugged and added, "Eh, because it's...sketchy." (Pues, lo siento, Republica Dominicana. I tried...)
Ohhh-kaaaay, then. No amount of actual, you know, "facts" that I was able to present about the island--and its safety--were successful in swaying them to my side. So before they lost their focus, and I'd be forced to waste valuable time and energy wresting their attention back on topic, I moved on to Plan B, a radical departure in terms of geography, location, and climate: Vancouver, BC. I had various reasons for throwing it out there, some of which were: crossing the border into our friendly continental neighbor satisfies my every-other-year "must use passport" requirement; it seems like a cool city to explore; the weather should be a pleasant relief from the hot, drippy NC July; and there are abundant outdoor activities, including opportunities for hiking.
They were...let's go with "cautiously amenable" to this proposal--with the caveat that they wanted more information before committing to a week in the Great White North. Husband jumped right on that with admirable gusto, scouring the Internet for nature adventures in the surrounding area. Meanwhile, I took a low-tech approach and picked up a visitor's guide from Barnes & Noble, so we could all page through it for inspiration. And whattya know: in relatively short order, we came up with enough potentially interesting and/or exciting stuff to get everyone on board. Whew!
Now came the hard(er) part, which of course was figuring out the logistics of actually getting from here to there, and where to stay once we'd arrived. Husband talked to a coworker who grew up in that region and recently moved back, and he indicated that Vancouver is a popular Summer destination, which tends to make it crowded and expensive. So I felt some pressure to nail down at least the most important aspects of our excursion--namely airplane tickets and lodging--as soon as possible.
This led to a looooonnng day of computer clicking, as I fiddled with travel dates and flight options to try and find the happy intersection between A) an acceptable price, and B) sensible arrival, departure, and total travel times (6 a.m.? Nope. 3-hour layover in LAX? Uh-uh. 16 hours en route? Um....not a chance in...Hades!) Once I was satisfied that I'd procured the best deal I could under the circumstances, I turned my attention to the question of where we'd be sleeping during our Canadian quest.
This turned out to be an even more challenging undertaking, believe it or not, as I quickly discovered that Vancouver hotels seem to charge exorbitant rates during the tourist months. Furthermore, the places I would consider to be "within budget"...didn't appear to meet my minimum standards for quality, shall we say. (For example, besides one-star motels, there was the YMCA...or multiple youth hostels...which I used to frequent when I was young and single, for sure--but they wouldn't be the best solution for our family of 4!) And once you widened the net to include higher-end brands, it quickly spiraled into the $250-$400 per night range. Ouch! (Oh, and also: "no freakin' way, y'all"...)
Beginning to feel a tiny bit of desperation creeping in (not to mention, no small amount of fatigue by this point), I turned to Air B&B to take my chances with the mixed bag of listings you get for people's private rental properties. Lo and behold, after sifting through the virtual mountain of "too far", "too costly", "too small" offerings, I happened upon a lovely 2-bedroom, 1.5 bath townhome, available during our dates...and snatched it up (so to speak). Plus, we'll have our own kitchen, space to spread out, and a centralized HQ to use as a jumping-off point for all of our wanderings.
With some of those critical pieces settled (and after taking some deep, cleansing breaths to dispel the remainder of the lingering vacation-planning stress), Husband and I have begun marking up the guidebook with colorful sticky tabs on things that sound like entertaining places to go and things to do, and saving websites for later perusal and family discussion. But the best part is that we have 6 more months to hammer out the rest of the details. Whoo hoo--my work here is done (for now)!
But I've been at this long enough by now to expect such a reaction, so I was prepared to take control of the conversation, short-circuit the nonsense, and keep us on track. Therefore I knew better than to allow them time to get wound up; rather, I followed up immediately with "It's an international year, so I was thinking maybe....Dominican Republic?"
Surprisingly, this was met with an outburst of vehement rejection. Some of the responses included Riley's "Ugh. Aren't we DONE with tropical beaches?" (To which I simply must pause and reply: "I'm sorry, I recognize all of these words, but in this particular order, they don't make any sense to me whatsoever. And by the way, are we absolutely sure you're related to me? I mean c'mon...'tired of sea, sun, and sand'? I can't even...") Then there was Derek, who firmly stated that he intends to follow his own personal travel ban against the DR...when pressed for an explanation, he shrugged and added, "Eh, because it's...sketchy." (Pues, lo siento, Republica Dominicana. I tried...)
Ohhh-kaaaay, then. No amount of actual, you know, "facts" that I was able to present about the island--and its safety--were successful in swaying them to my side. So before they lost their focus, and I'd be forced to waste valuable time and energy wresting their attention back on topic, I moved on to Plan B, a radical departure in terms of geography, location, and climate: Vancouver, BC. I had various reasons for throwing it out there, some of which were: crossing the border into our friendly continental neighbor satisfies my every-other-year "must use passport" requirement; it seems like a cool city to explore; the weather should be a pleasant relief from the hot, drippy NC July; and there are abundant outdoor activities, including opportunities for hiking.
They were...let's go with "cautiously amenable" to this proposal--with the caveat that they wanted more information before committing to a week in the Great White North. Husband jumped right on that with admirable gusto, scouring the Internet for nature adventures in the surrounding area. Meanwhile, I took a low-tech approach and picked up a visitor's guide from Barnes & Noble, so we could all page through it for inspiration. And whattya know: in relatively short order, we came up with enough potentially interesting and/or exciting stuff to get everyone on board. Whew!
Now came the hard(er) part, which of course was figuring out the logistics of actually getting from here to there, and where to stay once we'd arrived. Husband talked to a coworker who grew up in that region and recently moved back, and he indicated that Vancouver is a popular Summer destination, which tends to make it crowded and expensive. So I felt some pressure to nail down at least the most important aspects of our excursion--namely airplane tickets and lodging--as soon as possible.
This led to a looooonnng day of computer clicking, as I fiddled with travel dates and flight options to try and find the happy intersection between A) an acceptable price, and B) sensible arrival, departure, and total travel times (6 a.m.? Nope. 3-hour layover in LAX? Uh-uh. 16 hours en route? Um....not a chance in...Hades!) Once I was satisfied that I'd procured the best deal I could under the circumstances, I turned my attention to the question of where we'd be sleeping during our Canadian quest.
This turned out to be an even more challenging undertaking, believe it or not, as I quickly discovered that Vancouver hotels seem to charge exorbitant rates during the tourist months. Furthermore, the places I would consider to be "within budget"...didn't appear to meet my minimum standards for quality, shall we say. (For example, besides one-star motels, there was the YMCA...or multiple youth hostels...which I used to frequent when I was young and single, for sure--but they wouldn't be the best solution for our family of 4!) And once you widened the net to include higher-end brands, it quickly spiraled into the $250-$400 per night range. Ouch! (Oh, and also: "no freakin' way, y'all"...)
Beginning to feel a tiny bit of desperation creeping in (not to mention, no small amount of fatigue by this point), I turned to Air B&B to take my chances with the mixed bag of listings you get for people's private rental properties. Lo and behold, after sifting through the virtual mountain of "too far", "too costly", "too small" offerings, I happened upon a lovely 2-bedroom, 1.5 bath townhome, available during our dates...and snatched it up (so to speak). Plus, we'll have our own kitchen, space to spread out, and a centralized HQ to use as a jumping-off point for all of our wanderings.
With some of those critical pieces settled (and after taking some deep, cleansing breaths to dispel the remainder of the lingering vacation-planning stress), Husband and I have begun marking up the guidebook with colorful sticky tabs on things that sound like entertaining places to go and things to do, and saving websites for later perusal and family discussion. But the best part is that we have 6 more months to hammer out the rest of the details. Whoo hoo--my work here is done (for now)!
Monday, December 31, 2018
Closing out 2018 in the Motherland--um "Maryland"
Team WestEnders' Maryland Excursion 2018, the Winter Edition began on a somewhat inauspicious note, with nasty weather (of the foggy, rainy variety) that impeded our progress and slowed us down considerably, from NC all the way to Richmond. After that, however, conditions improved enough for us to start booking along and making up time--so we ended up with a pretty typical journey, length-wise.
We settled into our home-away-from-home on Friday night to rest up for what we expected (and hoped) would be an extended weekend full of...various shenanigans. Well, for the Male Posse, this wouldn't start out with anything too ambitious, since their entire agenda for the next day consisted of "watch college football games back-to-back from noon to midnight". Although I don't participate in this sort of...couch potato tomfoolery...as an impartial observer walking through the living room once in a while I can report that their plan seems to have gone off without a hitch.
As for me, I'd scheduled my twice-yearly lunch date with college girlfriends. We're always on the lookout for cool vegetarian/gluten-free friendly places to meet, so this time I'd found something in Frederick called Sanctuary Modern Kitchen that sounded like it could be promising. It turned out to be a tiny, inconspicuous cafe tucked behind a retail strip near the heart of downtown. It seems like the bulk of their business lies in the food that you can buy to take home and prepare yourself, but they also offer a very limited eat-in menu as well. All three of us chose the burrito bowl--which are cooked fresh for you individually when you order them, and which proved to be absolutely delicious.
The bonus was that, in a city with few free parking options, the small shopping center has its own lot. So we could leave our cars where they were, and take advantage of the pleasant late-December weather to walk around and enjoy the holiday decorations and quirky shops that abound in the historic section of town.
Next up, a day with the extended fam at my dad's house, for cousin-bonding, Ravens-viewing (although the game has serious playoff implications, so depending on how it goes, the experience could either be tremendously exciting and positive...or more along the lines of "Whoa, howzabout we just turn off the TV now, so Pop Pop doesn't blow a gasket"? Obviously keeping fingers crossed for the former scenario...), and....whatnot. (Update: the boys from Baltimore pulled it out, but it literally took until the last minute of the action to decide their fate, so needless to say, it was thrilling...and tense...and required much yelling at the television to achieve the desired result. Good grief, the whole thing was simply exhausting...)
When we weren't all absorbed in sports mania, one of the random activities involved my sister's and my annual attempt to wrangle the younger generation into an at-least-semi-presentable holiday photo--you know, one that doesn't involve any poking, wild waving of limbs, obnoxious faces, insults, or threats (the last one admittedly being issued by the adults, in exasperation after 5, 10, or however many failed shots). As you can see, we were eventually...um...moderately successful? (Hey, you work with what you have, yeah? Although someday, in the elusive "future", I dream that they'll all calm the heck down and hold still at the same time...siiighhhh...)
Then on Monday, the social whirlwind will continue: a coffee catch-up with an old pal from my interpreting days, followed by the New Year's Eve shebang, which conveniently will be taking place at the very house where we're staying...so basically, we're living in Party Central, and all the fun will come to us. Win! (I mean, let's be honest: that's my kind of fiesta, for sure--hang out and chat with people for as long as I want...hold on until the ball drops to usher in 2019...then sneak downstairs to bed when the finite power contained in my Extrovert Battery has drained away for the evening.)
And with that, the seasonal follies will conclude, and Team WestEnders will hit the road again, for the return trip to Chapel Hill, and whatever awaits us in January. Hasta luego and thanks for the memories, Northern friends and relations--we'll see you in 6 months or so!
As for me, I'd scheduled my twice-yearly lunch date with college girlfriends. We're always on the lookout for cool vegetarian/gluten-free friendly places to meet, so this time I'd found something in Frederick called Sanctuary Modern Kitchen that sounded like it could be promising. It turned out to be a tiny, inconspicuous cafe tucked behind a retail strip near the heart of downtown. It seems like the bulk of their business lies in the food that you can buy to take home and prepare yourself, but they also offer a very limited eat-in menu as well. All three of us chose the burrito bowl--which are cooked fresh for you individually when you order them, and which proved to be absolutely delicious.
The bonus was that, in a city with few free parking options, the small shopping center has its own lot. So we could leave our cars where they were, and take advantage of the pleasant late-December weather to walk around and enjoy the holiday decorations and quirky shops that abound in the historic section of town.
Next up, a day with the extended fam at my dad's house, for cousin-bonding, Ravens-viewing (although the game has serious playoff implications, so depending on how it goes, the experience could either be tremendously exciting and positive...or more along the lines of "Whoa, howzabout we just turn off the TV now, so Pop Pop doesn't blow a gasket"? Obviously keeping fingers crossed for the former scenario...), and....whatnot. (Update: the boys from Baltimore pulled it out, but it literally took until the last minute of the action to decide their fate, so needless to say, it was thrilling...and tense...and required much yelling at the television to achieve the desired result. Good grief, the whole thing was simply exhausting...)When we weren't all absorbed in sports mania, one of the random activities involved my sister's and my annual attempt to wrangle the younger generation into an at-least-semi-presentable holiday photo--you know, one that doesn't involve any poking, wild waving of limbs, obnoxious faces, insults, or threats (the last one admittedly being issued by the adults, in exasperation after 5, 10, or however many failed shots). As you can see, we were eventually...um...moderately successful? (Hey, you work with what you have, yeah? Although someday, in the elusive "future", I dream that they'll all calm the heck down and hold still at the same time...siiighhhh...)
Then on Monday, the social whirlwind will continue: a coffee catch-up with an old pal from my interpreting days, followed by the New Year's Eve shebang, which conveniently will be taking place at the very house where we're staying...so basically, we're living in Party Central, and all the fun will come to us. Win! (I mean, let's be honest: that's my kind of fiesta, for sure--hang out and chat with people for as long as I want...hold on until the ball drops to usher in 2019...then sneak downstairs to bed when the finite power contained in my Extrovert Battery has drained away for the evening.)And with that, the seasonal follies will conclude, and Team WestEnders will hit the road again, for the return trip to Chapel Hill, and whatever awaits us in January. Hasta luego and thanks for the memories, Northern friends and relations--we'll see you in 6 months or so!
Friday, December 28, 2018
Merry and Bright (and silly, of course)!
Now that it's come and gone, I can say that Christmas 2018 pleasingly mixed some familiar traditions with a few updated twists on the classics. For example, this was obviously the first year we had to actually perform a retrieval operation in order to bring the college son home for the holidays. Then he ended up being responsible for one of those "new favorites", when he requested that we watch Frozen (DVRd during Thanksgiving, during a brief span of temporarily-free movie channels) on the 24th, rather than one of our customary choices (Grinch, Peanuts, Muppets--all of which are much-loved...but also viewed approximately a million times...each).
As we gathered on the family room couches, snuggled under warm blankets, laughing at the onscreen antics (and--mostly successfully--forcibly restraining oneself from singing along. You're welcome, child!), Derek noted, "I think we should do this every year, now! It totally counts as a holiday movie!" (Apparently, "containing a lot of snow" is the only criteria one needs. Eh, fair enough...if they're willing to tolerate a Disney princess flick...repeatedly...then who am I to argue?)
With regards to the gift-giving component of our festivities, as the kids have gotten older, it's become increasingly difficult to figure out what to get them on my own. Long gone are the simpler days when it was easy to tell which toy they wanted; therefore we've resorted to including them in the same process Husband and I use for each other--namely, asking for a specific list of items. Hey, it might take some of the...magical Santa surprise...out of Christmas morning...but it also relieves a great deal of the potential shopping stress...and at least you receive what you actually want, right?
So, Husband and Riley each requested a "non-blue hooded sweatshirt" (since oddly enough the only other ones they already own happen to be that color): Kohl's sale, check. Both the boys struggled to come up with anything else for a while, but finally Derek asked for a couple of new titles for his PS4, and a long-sleeved shirt for those balmy SC "Winter" days. I took care of the games myself, but Riley decided that he'd pick out the clothing for his bro.
Which is how he and I ended up at Fleet Feet, since each of us had won a gift certificate from a recent 5K, and they were expiring at the end of the month anyway. And, in what instantly became a part of WestEnders Family Lore, we found a really nice Nike dry fit quarter-zip, originally extremely overpriced (in my opinion, anyway) at $65, but currently located on the clearance rack for 25% off, which after applying our reward money came to a total of (drum roll) NINE DOLLARS. Riley proceeded to derive waaaayyy too much glee out of teasing his sibling over the next several days, about the "cheap gift", and how proud he was for obtaining it. So I'm not sure what Derek was expecting, with all the misleading information Riley fed him leading up to Christmas--but when he finally got his hands on his new apparel, it's safe to say that any misgivings he might have been harboring were safely dispelled.
Meanwhile, Riley himself did some research (naturally) and selected two paperbacks from the popular line of "[fill-in-the-blank] for dummies" that he wanted to add to his collection: (are you ready for this?) Thermodynamics...and Alternative Energy. You know, so he could have a little light reading over his vacation. Sheesh. Oh, and he emailed me the links so I could quickly and easily purchase them on Amazon. (I just...I can't even with this kid...)
As for myself, my wishes ran toward the practical (removable seat covers for the Subaru, to protect from passengers who are sweaty, or dirty, or sunscreen-covered, or what have you) and the healthy (a pillow that, when plugged in, delivers a heated massage sensation to wherever you apply it--such as my perennially cranky neck and shoulder region).
And then...there was the Elf usually known as "Derek", who decided this year that he'd do some of his own recon, and come up with something special for each of us. Thus Riley came to possess Pittsburgh Penguins slippers (because Derek admitted he was stumped as to what else to purchase)...I was able to add a University of South Carolina ornament (which we'd been conspicuously lacking) to ye olde tannenbaum...and Husband somehow became the proud owner of...a decorative, inflatable, Christmas NARWHAL. (Because really, what says "deck the halls" better than a fun, candy cane colored sea creature? Please don't answer that...)
Clearly, the boy knows his dad well, because Husband could not possibly have been more delighted, and immediately texted photographic evidence of himself with his new blow-up pet to both of his best buds (who quickly conceded that he had, in fact, won Christmas. Bunch of big honking gooberheads, ALL of them, I tell ya...).
So there you have it--a pretty cool yule for 2018 is in the books. Now Derek can plop himself in front of the TV and manipulate some virtual soccer and basketball players...Riley can learn more about the topics he thinks he might want to study when he reaches college age in a few years...I can spend some relaxing time having my on-call massager work out the knots in my back...and Husband can....I don't know, perhaps sample his bounty of unique snacks while lounging in his warm hoodie and gazing upon a cheerful ocean pal? Anyway, I'd call it a Christmas that is not likely to be soon forgotten, that's for sure.
And now, we commence packing for Maryland, and the next set of adventures. Whoo hoo!
As we gathered on the family room couches, snuggled under warm blankets, laughing at the onscreen antics (and--mostly successfully--forcibly restraining oneself from singing along. You're welcome, child!), Derek noted, "I think we should do this every year, now! It totally counts as a holiday movie!" (Apparently, "containing a lot of snow" is the only criteria one needs. Eh, fair enough...if they're willing to tolerate a Disney princess flick...repeatedly...then who am I to argue?)
With regards to the gift-giving component of our festivities, as the kids have gotten older, it's become increasingly difficult to figure out what to get them on my own. Long gone are the simpler days when it was easy to tell which toy they wanted; therefore we've resorted to including them in the same process Husband and I use for each other--namely, asking for a specific list of items. Hey, it might take some of the...magical Santa surprise...out of Christmas morning...but it also relieves a great deal of the potential shopping stress...and at least you receive what you actually want, right?
So, Husband and Riley each requested a "non-blue hooded sweatshirt" (since oddly enough the only other ones they already own happen to be that color): Kohl's sale, check. Both the boys struggled to come up with anything else for a while, but finally Derek asked for a couple of new titles for his PS4, and a long-sleeved shirt for those balmy SC "Winter" days. I took care of the games myself, but Riley decided that he'd pick out the clothing for his bro.Which is how he and I ended up at Fleet Feet, since each of us had won a gift certificate from a recent 5K, and they were expiring at the end of the month anyway. And, in what instantly became a part of WestEnders Family Lore, we found a really nice Nike dry fit quarter-zip, originally extremely overpriced (in my opinion, anyway) at $65, but currently located on the clearance rack for 25% off, which after applying our reward money came to a total of (drum roll) NINE DOLLARS. Riley proceeded to derive waaaayyy too much glee out of teasing his sibling over the next several days, about the "cheap gift", and how proud he was for obtaining it. So I'm not sure what Derek was expecting, with all the misleading information Riley fed him leading up to Christmas--but when he finally got his hands on his new apparel, it's safe to say that any misgivings he might have been harboring were safely dispelled.
Meanwhile, Riley himself did some research (naturally) and selected two paperbacks from the popular line of "[fill-in-the-blank] for dummies" that he wanted to add to his collection: (are you ready for this?) Thermodynamics...and Alternative Energy. You know, so he could have a little light reading over his vacation. Sheesh. Oh, and he emailed me the links so I could quickly and easily purchase them on Amazon. (I just...I can't even with this kid...)
As for myself, my wishes ran toward the practical (removable seat covers for the Subaru, to protect from passengers who are sweaty, or dirty, or sunscreen-covered, or what have you) and the healthy (a pillow that, when plugged in, delivers a heated massage sensation to wherever you apply it--such as my perennially cranky neck and shoulder region).And then...there was the Elf usually known as "Derek", who decided this year that he'd do some of his own recon, and come up with something special for each of us. Thus Riley came to possess Pittsburgh Penguins slippers (because Derek admitted he was stumped as to what else to purchase)...I was able to add a University of South Carolina ornament (which we'd been conspicuously lacking) to ye olde tannenbaum...and Husband somehow became the proud owner of...a decorative, inflatable, Christmas NARWHAL. (Because really, what says "deck the halls" better than a fun, candy cane colored sea creature? Please don't answer that...)
Clearly, the boy knows his dad well, because Husband could not possibly have been more delighted, and immediately texted photographic evidence of himself with his new blow-up pet to both of his best buds (who quickly conceded that he had, in fact, won Christmas. Bunch of big honking gooberheads, ALL of them, I tell ya...).
So there you have it--a pretty cool yule for 2018 is in the books. Now Derek can plop himself in front of the TV and manipulate some virtual soccer and basketball players...Riley can learn more about the topics he thinks he might want to study when he reaches college age in a few years...I can spend some relaxing time having my on-call massager work out the knots in my back...and Husband can....I don't know, perhaps sample his bounty of unique snacks while lounging in his warm hoodie and gazing upon a cheerful ocean pal? Anyway, I'd call it a Christmas that is not likely to be soon forgotten, that's for sure.
And now, we commence packing for Maryland, and the next set of adventures. Whoo hoo!
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