Soup Is Not A Finger Food

Drama in the Bleacher Seats

THE SCENE: Friday night high school football game, somewhere in the Maryland suburbs. It's a perfect late summer evening - clear, warm. The atmosphere is electric: It's a big rivalry game, so the stands are packed. We arrived just as the first quarter began, so we watched the first half from field level.

At halftime, I decided I wanted to see the marching band from up in the stands. My friend and I thought we'd wait till people left the stands at halftime, then sneak up and grab a quick seat. Kind of like in the parking lot at work, when people leave for lunch and you can get a closer spot once they go. It's open seating, so we figured empty seats were fair game.

We attempted to sneak onto the end of the second row bleacher. Woman next to us says, "These seats are reserved," and pushes her string bag towards us.

"Oh, we just want to watch the band," we said.

"My husband will be back in a moment, this is HIS seat."

"I just really wanted to see the band," I repeated. "Someone should have told me how we could have purchased reserved seats," I muttered.

"Go over there," she says, with exasperation, pointing down the bleacher to... someone else's seat, presumably. So we squeeze by her to the next opening.

"These seats are reserved," says the lady. "My kids went down for refreshments."

"Oh, that's OK," we repeated, "We just wanted to see the halftime show, then we'll leave, we promise."

She was a bit more forgiving. "It's like church on Christmas Eve," we said - "Scoot on down, make room for another butt. Right?"

"Right, she said, with half a smile. We watched the halftime show. It was nice. The nicer woman's boys returned. I had a chat with one of them about how cool marching band is.

Then we got up to go. "Thanks for letting us watch the band from your seats," we said to the lady on our right.

"You're welcome," she said.

"Thanks," we said to the exasperated mom and her husband, who had returned to "his" seat, and threw them extra smiles. (I like being super nice to people who'd rather be hostile. It disarms them, makes them uncomfortable.)

As I passed Husband, he looked up at me and said, "Are you going to go find your OWN seats now, instead of taking some kids' seat?"

"Uh, we were just here to watch the band, and we're leaving now. But these really aren't 'reserved' seats..."

"Sure they are," He said. "But you're an adult, you should know that, right?"

I couldn't believe it. He was sitting, so I leaned down and a little closer to his face, and smiled. "Are you giving me a hard time?"

"Yeah, I am," he replied.

"Really??"

"Yeah."

"DUDE... Relax," I said. "Chill out. Jeez."

It's an understatement to say this exchange was disheartening. It's like, hey, sorry you got here late, but screw you, these are MY SEATS now and I'm going to stick my elbows out and save them and tough luck to the rest of you.

Obviously, these folks have never been to a game at Beaver Stadium, where you get your butt's width of bleacher and THAT. IS. ALL. There is zero elbow room. People come, you scoot over. Of course, those bleacher seats actually are reserved. They are numbered. Not so in our high school's stands. I get that they were saving seats for family members at halftime, but we were clear about wanting to be there only to see the band and we made good on our promise.

Who does this guy think he is, anyway? Is he the one who cuts into traffic at the last possible minute before the turn-only lane ends? Or road-rages when he perceives a vehicular slight? Or uses the express lane even though he has more than 10 items? Or waits until he gets to the drive-thru teller to endorse his checks? Or won't give up his seat on Metro for a pregnant passenger?

Next time, maybe I'll get there early and try "saving" my own bleacher seats. Perhaps my bleachermates will be able to teach me the unwritten etiquette concerning these so-called reserved seats. And maybe one of them will be able to help me understand why a fan of our high school football team, someone with whom I probably have a lot in common (he lives in the same zip code, shops where I do, drives on the same roads, has kids in the same schools) would have felt it necessary to pick a fight with a fellow middle-aged football fan during what should have been a fun Friday night.

After all, we were all there to root for the football team. Remember that? This happened at a football game. Which our team won, by the way. But the joy of the victory was certainly tempered by my experience in the stands.

So: What would you have done?

More breakage

IN JANUARY, I wrote a post about broken things... specifically, my car, my DSL connection, and Seth's foot. It was just one of those "bad things come in threes" times, where it just seemed everyting was breaking at once.

Well here we are again, friends, it's the sequel, and it's bigger and badder than the original! The biggest issue right now is our roof. You know, the one on the house that keeps the rain out. It was aging when we bought the house and we've been talking about how one of these days we'll have to replace it. We even joked a little bit after last year's fire about how if only the firemen hadn't been so prompt, we might have gotten a new kitchen roof. But we didn't really mean it.

Apparently we have a big bullseye hovering over our property that says MOTHER NATURE AIM HERE!, because there a rare derecho muscled through our area on June 29, and it sent one of our neighbor's fire-weakened trees right into our roof:

...and it punched a small-ish hole right through. A nice man with a chainsaw happened by, took some of our cash and removed the thing from the roof, then Curt went up into the attic and ghetto-patched it while I started calling roofing contractors. Please know that in a couple of weeks we will be inviting everyone to a party here, where we will make everyone scale a ladder to admire our new car kitchen  major dental work roof. We will serve drinks up there - Solo cups only! - and we will be expecting you to shower us with compliments on shingle color selection, the new skylight, and in particular, the jammin' new roof vents. Bonus points if you also compliment us on our new gutters and downspouts. 

That's the biggie. But at the same time, there was a series of smaller malfunctions: Our high-end Simple Human trash can's lid stopped working. (Don't judge; how many times do you go into your trash can each day? It's worth spending money on a good one.) One bolt that secured the toilet seat in the main bathroom broke clean off, and the plastic nut on the other bolt is stripped and we can't remove it. That was enough to send Curt outside to grill dinner, only the gas line seems to have stopped working. The grill's old anyway; we can try cleaning the line, but it needs new burners again and till you buy four new cast-iron burners you may as well buy a new grill. After that frustration, he decided to mow, only he ran the push mower over a small stump and it... broke. The mower repair guy flipped it over, took one look, and said, "You know, we sell mowers here, too..."

So there you have it. Things breaking left and right. But things can be replaced. When the CHILDREN start breaking, it's a whole new ballgame:

 

Peezer fell off the monkey bars at camp last Thursday. He cried, but "hockeyed up" and hardly complained. He went to camp Friday, then we dragged him up to PA for a family weekend. Saturday afternoon, I noticed he was still holding his arm still and it was still swollen. So yesterday, Curt ran him to the doctor, then for X-rays, then back to the doctor, then over to the orthopedist, and now Peezer has a full arm cast to protect the aligned distal ulnar fracture. And of course, I'm feeling like Mother of the Year for telling him to take a Tufferin and quit complaining. 

And that's the second broken bone in our family this year. But at least it wasn't a BAD break! And now Peezer has a cast - he chose red, for the Washington Capitals and Nationals - and he thinks he's pretty cool. Of course, this puts the kibash on swimming for a few weeks, and also puts taekwondo on hold for a while. 

I don't like to wallow in self-pity or bitch and moan too much, because when it comes down to it, we really do have it much better than so many people. Things could have been so much worse! That said, we've had more than our share this year. I'm done with breakage. OVER. IT.

 

What to wear

LET'S SAY YOU ARE a 40-something, somewhat pudgy, suburban-dwelling working mother of three. And your husband has scored tickets to a casino night event in DC, for which the requested dress code is "cocktail attire." And that your current, seasonal leaving-the-zip-code wardrobe consists of boring but comfortable, conservative dark neutral pants (always pants, never skirts), with which you most often pair with a cotton twinset and Sensible Shoes, and that your current, seasonal not-leaving-the-zip-code wardrobe consists entirely of cotton capris and T-shirts, none of which you ever bother to tuck in, and flip flops. Because they don't hurt your hammertoe. And let's say that your fashion sense tends more towards Frumpy Conservative than Fashionable Cocktail.

Let's say the event in question is scheduled for this Friday Night - as in THREE NIGHTS FROM NOW. This does not give you nearly enough time to lose the 40 25 pounds it would take in order to fit into anything you already own that could remotely be considered "cocktail attire." And it barely gives you time to do anything other than Emergency Shopping, the kind you wedge into your schedule during the 25 minutes between the when you get off the commuter train and you have to shuttle one of your kids to taekwondo. But, shop you must! 

Let us further say that - forget the current state of your body - you have longstanding issues with dressing appropriately. That you are still, amazingly, dragging around BAGGAGE from 7th or 8th grade, from that one time when you begged your dad to take you to a sports award banquet, because hey, you played junior high girls' basketball, where "played" equals "wore a uniform like all the other girls", and doesn't that make you an athlete?, and that in selecting attire for said banquet, your logic was, these are athletes, no one will be wearing dresses, only when you arrived - late - you weren't and THEY ALL WERE (the girls were, anyway) and you immediately, tearfully, asked your dad to take you home where you could bury your mortified head in your pillow and figure out how you were going to show your pathetic, underdressed, preteen face at school the next day.

Let's just say that's you. What do you do, given this set of circumstances?

Naturally, you turn to Facebook! You ask your friends if they were you, where would you shop for sassy, stylish cocktail attire that is age-appropriate and flattering, yet won't break the bank, owing to your recent cash outlay for a new refrigerator and near-future ones for some electrical work, repairs to a vehicle, and the possible replacement of two of your stove burners (since buying a new stove is financially out of the question right now)?

Your friends, bless 'em, will provide all kinds of helpful suggestions. Dress Barn. (Why is it still called a "Barn"?) Lord & Taylor. Chico's. (Chicos??) Coldwater Creek. Go the off-price route - Marshall's, TJ Maxx, Ross. Or try Ann Taylor or Talbott's.  This is helpful stuff! And you live in the suburbs of a major metropolitan area, so you have access to all of these stores! The only thing you barely have enough of - besides money - is time.

Some of your fabulous Facebook friends will make style suggestions, too. They'll say, why don't you dress up a sexy blouse with some chunky costume jewelry and wear it with your favorite black skirt or dressy pants and fabulous shoes? Which sounds like a good approach, until you remember that your bunions and hammertoe preclude fabulous shoes and mandate comfortable ones. 

And while you are considering The Shoe Dilemma, another quirky hang-up rears its ugly head: Whenever you wear chunky costume jewelry, you feel like Wilma Fintstone:

Or Marge Simpson.

Clothing and accessories are only part of this equation. We haven't even discussed the fact that your hairdresser is out of town for another three weeks. When she told you in March about her trip, you decided it would be a good time to let your hair grow out, but now it just seems like you'll resign yourself to arranging your shaggy in-between quasi-bangs into something resembling a Style, because there are only so many hours until this shindig and you will have time for either a manicure OR a pedicure, only one of which can be crammed into the 50-minute time slot when Seth is at therapy on Thursday afternoon. There's no time for a haircut. Besides, it's risky at this juncture. Hairdressers can smell desperation.

By now, your darling husband is gnashing his teeth and wondering why he even bothers. All he was trying to do was to provide a night on the town, a chance to dress up and get tipsy on fancy cocktails and fake-gamble and bid on silent auction items (maybe they'll have a salon package I can snag?). He is thinking, you always say you want us to go out more? Well here it is, on a silver platter, and now you're all stressed out and splattering over a thousand words (!) onto the Internet and unearthing long-buried hang-ups that he wasn't entirely aware existed.

But you will reassure him that, really, this is the stuff that normally goes on in your head. And he'll be all "Really?" And you'll say "Yes, really. Trust me." 

...at which point, he will go to his closet and pull out his nice suit - the dark one - and a crisp, new white dress shirt, select a tie, quick-shine his shoes, and BAM, he is ready to go and looks like a million bucks, and what is taking you so long??

 Men have it so easy.

You will have to further reassure yourself that while you *have* gained some weight (and yes, losing some would open up new wardrobe possibilites AND be good for your overall well-being), you really are quite content with who you are. Extra flab and all. Life's too short to sweat the last 40 25 ten pounds, right? Ninety percent of the time, you don't care. It's only when you try to buy fancy clothes, or a bathing suit, that it ever becomes an issue.

So, you will determine that Wednesday evening will be when you bravely drink to excess venture out to buy two burners for your old stove some fabulous Cocktail Attire and Flintstone-esque costume jewelry. And you will wear your new clothes on Friday night, but you will also don your winning smile and your sparkling sense of humor. And you and your handsome, suit-wearin' husband will charm the bejeezus out of the other partygoers because seriously, the two of you together? You're a lot of fun to be around.

People like you. They don't like your clothes - they like YOU. 

Party dress codes are important to observe. If you were to show up in your not-leaving-the-zip-code duds, you run the risk of well-dressed people looking askance at you as if to say, hey, the suburbs called, they want you to come back now. Or, you could be denied admittance to the event and cited for failure to comply with the stated dress code. But when it comes right down to it, that isn't the stuff that really matters. It's who you are that speaks louder than any extra 25 40 pounds or fake-bling can. 

A New Year

2012 HAS ARRIVED and poof! - just like that! - 2011 is but a shrinking speck in our collective rear-view mirror. The first morning of the year dawned with mild temperatures and sunny skies, and so while everyone else in my family was snoring away the first morning of the year, I decided to take my personal color commentator almost-seven-year-old son and Mac the Dog for a Long Explore.

We live within spitting distance of all the Starbucks, grocery stores, McDonalds and 7-Elevens anyone could possibly need, and yet we don't have to venture too far beyond our back gate to find this:

 We hiked up the Pepco power line right-of-way to Seneca Creek. Along the way, Peezer was all

...and all

 ...because you can't take a boy into the woods and expect him NOT to climb a tree, right?

So we're hiking along and we realize that we're close to a new bike trail that's opened within Seneca Creek State Park.  We hop on the trail and follow it in the direction I imagine will eventually bring us out to the main road that goes by the entrance to our neighborhood. We walk and we walk and we walk and we're not exactly lost, but it seems to be taking a Very Long Time to get to where I think we'll end up. We finally spied a clearing, so we hiked up the hill and found this:

 There was a paved path and several wooden structures, all of which appeared to be defunct, and piles and piles of blue-dotted tree trunks:

The blue dots reminded me of when our friends at Pepco came by our home recently. They were concerned that several of our larger trees might, if they were to fall, be at risk of tumbling into their power lines, and would we allow them to take these trees down? We said Have at it, because they were ones we, too, were concerned about falling (though thinking they'd be more likely to crash into our bedroom versus the power lines) and it ain't cheap to take down a tree.  Meanwhile, Pepco has been on a mighty PR campaign, talking about how they're Hard At Work, in Our Community, clearing branches away from power lines which will, they say, improve reliability. However, you need only drive down some of the roads in our community to see the significant removal of numerous big old trees along the road to wonder if perhaps our power company hasn't gone a wee bit overkill on their campaign. But hey, they sure do look Busy! Busy! Busy! And it dovetails nicely with their latest media blitz.

So apparently, my kid and I stumbled upon Pepco's tree trunk graveyard, which, it turns out, is on the defunct National Capital Skeet and Trap Club, just up the road from where we live, that closed five or six years ago. (Interesting reading here about the as-yet unsuccessful campaign to petition Maryland to reopen the Club.)

By this time, we could hear traffic, which was a reassuring sign that we were close to the road. Before we got there, we poked around the old structure that's at the entrance to the club lands:

...and a closer view of the window:

We ventured home from there, Peezer happy in having completed a first-day adventure and Mama content in having earned her Holiday Nap.

The Greenest Grass

AS THE LATE NOVEMBER AFTERNOON DARKENS, I exit my client’s office building onto 17th Street NW, into the gray rain. It is that misty kind of rain that is enough to instantly unstraighten my hair, regardless of whether I use an umbrella.

I pull my wheeled bag down the street, past the back entrance to the Mayflower Hotel,  and I’m immediately stricken with a fantasy. In my head, instead of continuing down the street, I enter the hotel, nodding friendly greetings to the familiar bellhops as I board the elevator to an upper floor. I slide the card-key into the card slot and hear the electronic tweets as I enter my warm, welcoming suite. I kick off my heels (I’m wearing heels in the fantasy, not sensible commuter shoes, and they don’t hurt!), and notice that a bottle of expensive red wine and two glasses are waiting. Wait - is it wine, or champagne? Or is it an icy cold, extra dry, three-olive vodka martini? And are those… cheese straws? And cashews??

And isn’t that just like me to become mired in the ridiculous details? Because it doesn’t matter; whatever consumables are in my fantasy room, the point is that I have conjured myself into a place that is the polar opposite of where I’m headed tonight in real life: A semi-clean ranch home in the outer suburbs, full of dog-hair tumbleweeds and rogue dirty socks and laundry that needs folding and sheets that really ought to be changed and three growing boys who need things NOW. Milk, for starters.

 Said destination is a world away in my head at this moment, yet it’s only a one-hour commute from this fantasy spot. That’s assuming Metro is running on schedule. Add time if it isn’t. Also, add 15 extra minutes if you include picking up the kid from extended care, and another 15 minutes if you must choreograph a mad dash through the grocery store on the way home because the boys are killing a gallon of milk every other day lately.

I and my wheelie bag descend into the Farragut North Station. All the escalators are running tonight, which bodes well, and indeed I am rewarded with a mere two-minute wait for a train that is destined for the very end of the line, where my large gas-guzzling, holds-a-family-of-five-plus-a-large-dog vehicle is parked. I grab a sideways seat near the center doors of the car and resign myself to 30 mildly motion-sick minutes on the train.

The thing about Downtown DC is that evokes in me strong memories and emotions. DC was where I began my career, over 20 years ago, two blocks north of the Mayflower at the corner of Connecticut and N. I was fresh out of college and had spent every minute of my 22 years living in Pennsylvania, and I was so ready for a change. DC ended up being perfect for me; I took to city life like a duck to water. I loved it. I thrived.

I sometimes long for those relatively carefree days. I lived alone, I was responsible for only myself. I paid my bills on time, and no one else depended on me. If needed, I could stay at the office for a few extra minutes to wrap up some work without the pressure of having to leave RIGHT NOW in order to pick up a child from daycare or cook dinner for a hungry family.  No one would wake me up in the middle of the night but me. My commute was a mere two stops on the Metro, but on nice days I would sometimes walk the 45 minutes between uptown and the southern part of Dupont Circle.

Not long after I moved to DC, I met the man with whom I now share our 0.87-acre slice of suburban heaven. Curt and I had such fun back in the day! We were two country kids from central PA, ramming around the city, discovering our new selves, soaking in the energy, taking advantage of all the city had to offer. Three years later we were married. That was 18 years, three kids, eight vehicles, and three mortgages (not counting the refis) ago.

And that’s what’s funny about my little fantasy: it almost always includes this man with whom I have shared everything for more than two decades. Except that in my fantasy, we are us NOW, not us THEN. We have nowhere to be but in the present.  Don’t misunderstand: I love everything we have. I have the man, the kids, the large automobile, the home in the suburbs in a Very Good School District. And I am happy; I wouldn’t change a thing! It’s just that sometimes, the weight of all the responsibilities in our life overwhelms me. And then this fantasy that I have, the one about just walking away from it, tugs at that part of my brain that won’t let me utter these thoughts aloud…

...and before you know it, I have changed into a chic ensemble that includes sexy high heels that don’t hurt my bunions OR my hammertoe, and I’m skinny and my hair is fashionably sassy and has been professionally highlighted, and I am carrying a really expensive handbag – without guilt over the cost! (or maybe it was a gift!) – and I am sipping a sophisticated, $14 cocktail in a trendy downtown establishment and I’m out late and I’m not tired! I’m having witty repartee with Very Smart DC types, who may or may not include my husband (wait, where’s Curt?), because while he is without a doubt my better half, I am me, after all, I’m an individual, and…

Well, it goes on and on, but eventually it ends, because I have to come home sometime, right? I mean, these three human beings that my husband and I have created? They really do need me. They need US, here, together. And really, they’ll be grown and gone in the blink of an eye, won’t they? This is what I’m told: Don’t wish these days away. Enjoy every single moment!

This picture came from here)

So, I’ve come to regard my fantasy as therapeutic (without the copay). It’s a necessary mental break. A reboot. A pushing of the reset button in my addled brain. Because this fantasy reminds me that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.  I mean, it would be fun for a day or two, but after that? Wouldn’t it become boring? Might I not start longing for the husband and the children and our cozy home on our quiet street?

I’ve learned from observing others around me that the grass mostly isn’t greener on the other side of the fence. And when you look at it all, the metaphorical grass where I live is the most vibrant shade of green! (The real grass where I live is another story entirely.) I’m truly blessed; I couldn’t  - wouldn’t! - ask for anything other than what I have.

…But that doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize every so often that my life was carefree and my commute was but a short walk to a funky establishment in a happening ‘hood. As long as I always remember where I am meant to be, where I truly belong.