The Apple Cider Century

The Apple Cider Century

This weekend was our first weekend back to Michigan since ‘The Great Race’, of which my training consisted of one 20 minute stationary bike ride, all of 5 miles, in which I did not pass out as once feared. In other words, bring on the bikes and the kids, I’m ready to go.

We hosted a small army of cycling enthusiasts and children for the weekend, 25 total. Pre-race day activities included John’s Jambalaya, Su’s Swimming Hole (of which Su was amazing absent for), Molly’s Smores, and the highlight of Saturday evening, Dave’s Hornet Nest Dance. It appears in our absence from Michigan, a call was made to all hornets in a 100-mile radius to build the world’s largest hornet’s nest, likely large enough to place it in the Guiness Book of World Records. The hornets were so sneaky and crafty, that they built their Trump Tower of Hornet’s Heaven deep into a tree, and only came out to buzz and bite when small children walked by. I’m sure all of our friends are cursing us under their breath.

The hornet’s nest proved to be an IQ breaker amongst a highly educated group of professionals. The lawyer in the group suggested drafting a waiver for all overnighters to sign in case they got bit and wanted to sue us. The restaurant owner suggested luring the hornets out of its nest with food. The CNN Bureau Chief suggested calling in the camera men to tape what could be evidence in the Hornet’s Nest Trial, should all 25 people sue us. The 7^th grade kid in the accelerated program at Blaine suggested burning down the hornets’ nest, which was enthusiastically echoed by all of the kids when they chanted, “BURN IT, BURN IT, BURN IT.” Which was quickly then discounted by the fireman in the group that this was definitely not a good idea. Finally, the Internet Executive decided that we should search online for the perfect hornet nest removal system. Which of course, yielded the most logical solution, “Call a professional.”

But as men typically do, they don’t heed the sound advice and prefer to listen to their inner demons and construct a plan that seems only logical to the male species. They conferred and agreed to the “Ding, Dong, Ditch” plan and nominated Dave to carry out the ill conceived plan…after everyone had left. So, in the throes of “getaway day” at the house, after the last of the bikers had left, Dave revved the car, strapped Max in his car seat, donned his hornet repelling getup (which also looked like a general female population repellent) and did his best “Ding, Dong, Ditch.” Ding-dong…who’s there? A big ole bottle of raid sprayed into the door of the hornet’s nest, followed by Dave quickly ditching the premises to a waiting getaway car and high tailing it back the safe confines of the city, where the biggest pest we have are rats, not hornets. And those, we definitely call the professional for.

While you may find the hornet nest story amusing, many of you are asking the burning questions, “Did you pass out while riding your bike?” And the answer is, no! I managed to pull my 39 years of bicycling experience and make it a whopping 5-8 miles (depending on who you asked, we either went 5 miles or 8 miles, I like to say 8 but Dave quickly corrects me to 5) with Max strapped firmly behind me with his every encouraging words, “Geez mommy, can’t you go any faster? They’re passing us!” (The ‘they’ would be a small entourage of school aged children from Blaine) The boys in the group, and a few adventurous moms, completed anywhere from 25-50 miles so they are true heroes in my book. Perhaps next year, I can train a bit harder and just maybe, aspire to lead the pack instead of trailing the pack. Then again, next year, I’ll be 40 during the race, and rumor has it it’s all downhill once the big 40 hits. But downhill with a bike, may not be a bad thing….

The Rescue Pet

Yikes...sorry it's been 10 days since I posted last, a bit crazy at work/home but voila, enjoy!

The Rescue Pet

Most phone calls received at work from home fall under the ‘hmm…wonder if I should answer this one or not.’ Rarely do I receive the phone call with, “Mommy – I just wanted to call you and say how much I love you and miss you.” Instead, it’s usually “Mommy, (insert child's name) (insert bad behavior) me!” (i.e. Mommy, Max hit me!; Mommy, Jack took my cookie away from me!; Mommy, Delaney teased me!” Which usually has me saying, “Call you dad, I’m busy.” To which it’s almost always said, “But we only know your number, not his.” I believe I am going to get tattoo’s of Dave’s number inked on each of the kids, that way I can actually get 10 minutes of work done…in a row.

Imagine my surprise last week when I received a phone call without any of the above complaints or need to referee from afar. Instead, I received a phone call with the most ‘exciting’ news, “Mommywerescuedananimalfromthealley.” What? What exactly did he/she say? (When they talk that fast and that high pitched, they all sound the same). Which kid is this? “Mommy, it’s Delaney, weren’t you listening to me?” Umm…not really. OK, let’s try this again. “Delaney, what exactly did you say, and say it slower please.” “Mommy, we rescued an animal from the alley. We have a new pet, can we keep it?”

Of course, my first response, as any responsible city parent would say, “Delaney, PUT THE RAT BACK IN THE ALLEY!” In my world, there are really only a couple of animals that meander in the alley, looking all sad and “Please help rescue me.” 1. Rat; 2. Squirrel; or 3. Alley Cat. While all of the above are furry and range in order of cuteness from “Yikes” to “Hmm…maybe”, there is absolutely no way any of those animals are to find their way in to my house. Side story here…

…five years ago, when we were rehabbing our house we moved next door during the construction. In the middle of the night, while Dave was traveling, I heard the scurry of itty-bitty feet on the tile floor of the kitchen. With no one to yell or scream to, I did as any Kenmore neighbor would do at 3:00 a.m. I called our neighbor Adam. “Adam, umm, can you help me? There’s a RAT in the kitchen, and I’m home alone with the kids.” And in typical Adam fashion, he came storming through the door, made a lot of ruckus, grabbed a trashcan and went outside to the dumpster. He banged it around a couple of time for good measure, and came back in saying, “Your place is safe now, you can go back to bed.” Which at 3:00 a.m., was exactly what I wanted to hear.

The next morning at work, after I was clearly awake, caffeinated and reflecting upon the events of the evening, I called Adam saying, “Adam – you know, I recall hearing you throw away the rat in the dumpster with a lot of commotion, but I’m not sure if I actually recall seeing the rat that you threw away. Any chance you were just tired and going through the motions so you could get back to bed?” “Yep – gotta go!” And that is how we moved from Kenmore to the Hyatt while our house was being rehabbed.

I digress – when Delaney called with her rescue animal story, I immediately jumped to conclusions assuming that the rat from 5 years ago has come back to haunt me and now Adam moved so there was no where for me to go.

“Mommy – it’s not a rat!” Umm…okay. “Put whatever furry animal that looks all helpless and wounded back in the alley to die Delaney, after all, the alleys are like the island of misfit, hopeless animals. Stay inside.” “Mommy, it’s not furry.” Geez, what kind of animal did the kids rescue? “Mommy, we rescued a goldfish!” A what? A goldfish? Who goes dumpster diving in the alley for a goldfish? Ah, yes, my city kids. They also prefer to play on concrete as opposed to grass.

And so it turns out that someone at the end the alley decided to throw away their aquarium filled with nasty green water. For all I know, it could have been a science experiment gone awry. And lo and behold, there was according to the kids, “A little goldfish that needed a new home”. On my way home from work, I stopped at Target and bought the perfect, small, city-like aquarium for the fish that my children have affectionately called, “Fishy-Fish” because clearly, they are all captain of the obvious here.

When Dave and I returned home from work and moved “Fishy-Fish” to his new home, we looked at the fish swimming around in tight circles and eyed each other saying, “Umm…that’s not a goldfish, is it?” Nope, not a goldfish. More like a really large goldfish or a baby koi. Yep, that poor goldfish/koi traded in Shreks Swamp for the cleaner waters of the equivalent of a puddle. The fish will be like veal – tied to a small environment so it can never get really big.

And that my friends is the story of the Rescue Pet. You just can’t make this stuff up sometimes. Really.

The Workout Plan

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The Sneaky One

The Sneaky One

There were three wishes that we had for the first week of school:

1. The kids would actually be able to find their classrooms and subsequently be able to tell us which classroom they were in (it’s been a long summer….)
2. The kids would wake up before the first bell rings at school and at least have one eye propped up ready for learning
3. We would avoid at all costs any trips to the principal’s office, calls from the school counselor, calls from any of their teachers – in other words, good reports for all of the kids!

I suppose two out three isn’t so bad, is it?

It’s true, our last wish did not come true, perhaps we did not wish hard enough, or a more likely scenario we did not emphasize that seeing the principal so early in the school year is not necessarily a good thing.

There are many descriptions we’ve used for Max – if he was our first, he’d be our only; he’s ‘high-spirited’, he’s Dave’s son and not mine (really….), etc. And now we add one more moniker to him, The Escape Artist. By virtue of his new name, you can surmise the flurry of activity that lead to the dreaded phone call:

“Hi, this is Max’s teacher. We had an incident today.” Crap…we’re only on day four of school, couldn’t he at least get through the first week? “Well, as we were going to breakfast, we realized that we were missing Max. We immediately called the office and started a search for Max.” Great, now the principal knows that she has to keep an eye out for the sneaky one…I was hoping, as usual, to skate by the year flying under the radar, not above it. Thanks Max. “It turns out he left via the fire escape door and was found outside in the playground. A parent found him and brought him to the office.” Well, you have to give the kid some credit for knowing the playground is at least more fun than cafeteria food.

And that, my friends completed our first week of school. Dave and I quickly arm wrestled for who was going to get the ‘opportunity’ to pick up Max and steer him in the right direction of life, and at least directionally back to the inside of school, not outside. So Dave did as any good father would do – talked about life lessons of staying in school, the streets are a mean ugly place for a four-year old all over a hearty breakfast in the Loop. After all, he was outside freaking out the teachers while the rest of the kids ate their cereal, he was hungry. I know what you’re thinking, because frankly I’m thinking the same thing, ‘you rewarded his actions with breakfast?’ This small piece of information was not discovered until days later, apparently in the ‘don’t tell mommy’ category. Why is this important – well, if you acted up and your parents came and fed you breakfast, you just might think that was a good thing, not a bad thing. Parenting 101 – don’t encourage bad behavior by rewarding with a nice treat like breakfast.

Fast forward to yesterday, also known as “Day 5” of school:

“Hi, this is Max’s teacher, we had another incident today.” Why, oh why can’t my incidents be the ‘he wet his pants and had an accident and we don’t have a change of underwear at school? “We sat down to journal” umm…he’s four, what is he going to journal about…”and Max did not want to journal. He apparently didn’t want anyone else to journal either as he began to take their journals away and became very disruptive.” Apparently, so disruptive that the security guard and school counselor was called…on a four-year old.

And so we have learned the hard way that Dave’s son, also known as Max, is not just sneaky, he’s sneaky smart. I have also learned from my mother-in-law that Dave was the exact same way at this age, so I am genetically not responsible for his behavior….unless he’s sweet, loving, cute and funny. Then I take full credit! We are crossing our fingers that we end this week on a high note and I can stop my walk of shame to his classroom as other moms point their fingers mumbling under their breath, “Oh, there’s Max’s mom.” I’m thinking of putting in our application for ‘Super Nanny’ and see if she can herd cats or tame the wild child named Max. Our precious, beautiful, wonderful son Max who is never-hardly-some-of-time-ok-a-lot-of-the-time-Dave’s-son a little mischievous, a little naughty, but awfully cute and lovable.

The First Day of School

The First Day of School

Nothing says summer is over than my traditional last minute run to Target to scrape the bottom of the sales barrels trying to scrounge up a pink eraser that is not half chewed, pencils that actually have lead in them and paper that has lines on it…in a straight line. And every year I say, “Next year, I swear I’ll get my act together and shop earlier.”

Today was the official end of summer as Dave and I dressed, fed and got each blue and white dressed child with the most important first day of school accessory – the bribe. Yes, you heard correctly, I had to bribe my children to actually make it through their first day of school. “Don’t forget kids, when you get home, mommy left you 1^st day of school gifts if I get a GOOD report!” (aka, please don’t have the counselor call me on the first day of school – we’re already on a first name basis).

And thankfully, the bribes worked. Even Dave sent me an IM this morning with the following note, “Hey, did you get any calls from the teachers or counselors at school?” “Not yet, they’ve only been in school for 45 minutes, I’m sure we’ll get a call by lunch.” No calls, happy tired children – I call that success!

As I was going through the kids back packs, I came across CPS’s Student Code of Conduct handbook. While school started today (9/2), the book actually says, ‘Effective September 11, 2008’. Which just had me wondering if the first week of school was a free ride. Could the reason we received no phone calls and only glowing reports is because even if they did misbehave, the code of conduct does not go in to effect until next week?

There are six groups of inappropriate behavior categories in the Code of Conduct book. After reading the book, I’m happy to report that while the counselor has called us on three separate occasions (you can guess which kid, let’s just say if he was the first, he’d be an only), my children have for the most part avoided virtually all of the behaviors listed with exception to the following:

Running in the hall or building - Come on, seriously, we need a parent teacher conference for this? All of my kids have violated this rule.

Displaying behavior that is disruptive to the orderly process of classroom instruction – It’s true, Jack was affectionately referred to as the “Kissing Kindergarten Bandit” for excessive kissing of both the boys and girls in his class. Thanks to Jack’s over-affectionate personality, there was a no-kissing rule established in Kindergarten.

Fighting – two people, no injuries – O.K., Max is guilty of at least trying to slam his teachers fingers in a drawer, but it ended fairly when at the conclusion of the day, Max jumped on his lego tower puncturing his groin, a trip to the ER and just missing his testicle sidestepping the dreaded nickname, “One Nut Max”.

Gambling – I’m not really sure if this counts as gambling vs. just enterprising, but Delaney is guilty of trying to sell lined paper (bought from the Bargain bin at Target) for $0.05 per sheet. She was in first grade at the time, I just think she’s a chip off the old capitalist pig parents block.

And so after reading the Code of Conduct book, I am rest assured that at least for the next week, my kids can misbehave, act up, even plagiarize or bully without recrimination from the school. Of course, they’ll have to deal with terrors of mom and dad, which can likely be more frightening and minimally I’ll have to take back their 1^st day of school bribes.

After reading this evening’s post, for those of you that think my kids are really mean and naughty, they are. I mean, they aren’t. They’re actually good kids. Most of the time.

The Bomb Bag

The Bomb Bag

The travel curse comes in small, medium and large sizes. And on some occasions, super-sized. I’m never quite sure when I travel, which travel happy meal I’ve ordered, and it’s not typically until I’m at home and can finally reflect on my trips, that I can classify what falls where.

Only super-duper, “you’ve got to be kidding me” curses fall under the Super Sized category. Like when I actually, truthfully, got on the wrong airplane and flew to Madison, WI instead of Houston, TX. Imagine my surprise when we landed only 45 minutes after take-off! Or how about the time when I got stuck on a runway for four hours, to turn around, go back to gate and subsequently find out they gave another passenger my first class seat…on the same flight apparently to no where. And when I complained, “Missy – one more word out of you and I’m calling security!” Or finding out on my way to Florida that we were being denied boarding because Delaney was on the no-fly list.

Which brings me to a recent trip to Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, or more importantly one of two cursed hubs that I fly between. It all started out relatively calm. Well, I suppose I should know better. My flight landed on time, my first set of meetings went without a hitch, which only meant the travel gods had a good one in store for me.

After leaving the confines of the Sofitel and catching a cab in Philly to the train station, it appears that I had picked up the cab driver who either was sidelining as a suicide driver, or was gunning for the world record of how long he could stay awake. I should have gotten out of the cab when he almost, literally, hit a pedestrian crossing the street. Both the man he almost hit, and myself managed to lock eyes with a look of, “Help!” But no, it was too early, I was too tired and the train station was only 5 blocks from the hotel.

As we’re pulling up to the train station, I reach down into my purse (also known as the black hole of every scrap of paper less than 3” square) to find the small fortune it costs to go a mere few blocks. And after the squeal of screeching tires, foreign language cursing and shattered glass, I found myself in a small heap in the seat well of the taxi. It’s true, my taxi driver had chosen apparently to maximize every last mile on the trip and step on the gas, instead of slowing down and stopping at the train station. I made quite the entry, and unfortunately, there were no red carpets, lights or camera for my grand entrance. I believe I literally said as I hobbled out of the car to find a policeman, “And I’m not paying for that ride!” Ah, such clarity of thought, huh?

Well, in normal circumstances, a taxi ride accident would only qualify as a large-sized travel curse. The combination of the taxi ride, and my subsequent return flight home, more than qualifies as “super-size” material, and definitely ranks as one of the top five travel curses of all time.

I have to do a side story here for a minute. My husband Dave and I are both independent, stubborn, and occasionally share things. For example, we both have the same eye prescription and share contacts and glasses. We share a glass of wine when the kids are in bed. We share the same work title, the same birthday month, the same kids. We used to even share the same car when we were a one car family. And the one oddity that we share – yes, we share one rollerbag. It’s strange, it’s weird, I don’t even understand it. The theory, being of course, is that we should never both be out of town at the same time, why get two rollerbags? And so it goes, that while we both travel extensively for our jobs, we rotate the one black rollerbag between us.

Back to our regularly scheduled program, and on with my story. After limping along after my taxi ride from hell, getting to Harrisburg, PA in one piece, returning back to Philly to catch a flight home, I landed the equivalent of the TSA lottery – the dreaded SSSS, which stands for “Secondary Security Screening Selection.” In other words, bend over, strip down, let the magic wand, paper wipes and TSA agent feel you, your bag, and other belongings in front of dozens of other happy travelers.

Myself and another gentleman were having our bags scanned. Have you ever had them wipe the inside of your bag with the “baby wipe held with tongs” to be processed on an itty-bitty machine? I often wondered if that machine actually picked up something, or if it was really a teleprompter for the TSA agents, “Don’t touch your bag.” “Hands up, palms down.” “I’m going to pat your front, is that okay?” (Umm…do I actually have a choice?”) You get my drift. Well, wouldn’t you know it, the poor guy next to me clearly had all the bells and whistles go off. The blinking red lights, the silent alarm, the knowing glance of the agents, “Oh, one of those.” And as I was looking the poor soul up and down, in the corner of my eye, I see multiple agents gathered around my bag inspecting every last item in there. Why are they holding up my underwear and scanning it? Those TSA’s are perverts, I knew it! Crap – it wasn’t the old guy’s bag next to me, it was my bag!

No sooner did my internal panic button go off, than I noticed some very official looking men headed my direction with clipboard, pen and stern faces. Ugh, I’m screwed. I had vague recollections of Dave using the roller briefcase (yes, one more thing we share), and filling it with the contents of his desk including a box cutter, glue stick and string. That was an experience in Florida at the security line. Or how about when the TSA agent literally ran after me in the Philly corridor because they failed to fill out the proper paperwork for me? (I forgot my license at home).

“M’am, we’d like to ask you a couple of questions.” Great – they’re calling me M’am, just like the 16-year old bag boy at Jewel. I feel older than 39, but like a kid caught with my hand in the cookie jar. “Can you tell me the last place you’ve used this bag?” Crap…where did Dave go, where did he go? Crap – I don’t remember. Ah, let me just tell them the truth. “Well, it’s not really my bag.” S***. Wrong answer. Lesson #1 – Never tell a TSA agent that it’s not your bag, when it has all of your stuff in it. That will get you nowhere. “Excuse me, it’s not your bag? Did you know that this bag has not passed the bomb inspection?” Clearly now, they have moved over the “If they answer B, go to questions C through Z” which meant another 45 minutes of questioning. Lesson #2 – Sometimes, it’s okay to have the small white lie and not air your dirty laundry about sharing a rollerbag with your husband. “Let me get this straight, you and your husband share the same suitcase? Do you happen to know where your husband traveled last?” “Umm, not really, I think maybe he went to California last week…or was it Detroit. I don’t really know.” Lesson #3 – back to that white lie thing, just make something up. Now it looks like Dave and I don’t talk – which is true some of the time, but the reality is, neither of us rarely remembers where the other flew to. Hard to believe, but true. “I’m thinking California because there’s a Pebble Beach golf hat in the front pocket.” Hah – I’m on a roll now! “Do you think he went golfing?” “Duh, didn’t I say he left his golf hat in the front pocket of the suitcase?” And so it was, the TSA believed that not only did Dave leave his golf hat in the front pocket, but also a piece of Pebble Beach with him in the bag. To the best of our knowledge, Dave wore his golf shoes, picked up some fertilizer with his shoes, packed the shoes in the bag, took the shoes out, but managed to leave the fertilizer in the bag, thus creating, “The Bomb Bag.”

So it goes that I’m now on the hunt for the most girly looking travel bag that Dave would be horrified to use, ending the decade long sharing theory behind the single travel bag. And this my friends, would indeed be classified as a Super-Sized, I can’t believe it, travel curse.

The Travel Curse - Her name is Fay

The Travel Curse – Her Name is Fay

I amazingly had an uneventful trip to Philly last week – so smooth it was actually proclaimed by co-workers in my office that perhaps I had kicked the Travel Curse. Of course, I knew that it only meant the calm before the ‘storm’ and a smooth trip only means the curse accidentally fell asleep and once the travel gods are woken up, beware!

The case in point, please note my e-mail string to my client in Florida below:

07/24/2008 12:53 PM
Subject: Boca meeting

Su;
Can you give me some specific dates w/o 8/11, 8/18 or 8/25 that work for you.
Bill

Here’s my response to Bill:

07/24/2008 02:06 PM
Subject Re: Boca meeting

Bill,

Alright, here's my availability:
8/12 p.m. - 8/14 a.m.8/19 p.m. - 8/21 a.m.
I am not available the following week.

As hurricane season is upon us, I highly suggest making sure you have appropriate flood and "act of God" insurance on hand, as it's highly likely any travel by me during this period will make the travel gods restless.

Su


And so with the above e-mail, we scheduled that ever important planning meeting for August 20th and 21st and by so doing, tempted the travel gods to whip up a storm, after all, I ‘kicked’ the travel curse according to my boss! Read today’s e-mail:

08/18/2008 11:50 AM
Subject Re: Boca meeting

Bill,

As predicted on my e-mail dated 7/24, making plans during Hurricane season to come visit the fine folks at your company has made the travel gods restless, and in turn, they have churned up a nice little storm named Fay. Terri reminded me this morning, as other people in the office that knew I was traveling, that Fay only exists due to my impending travel to Boca. In addition, United is now on my case with notes of "Reschedule without Penalty", "Waivers available", "Avoid Florida at all costs between 8/18 - 8/21". In order to save the citizens of Florida, and more specifically my friends at your company, I believe it's in my best interest to reschedule our meetings for Thursday. As luck would have it, I could probably get there and then be stranded, or end up in the black hole of the travel curse never to be seen again. By rescheduling our meeting, I believe I am giving you the best opportunity to have Fay die at sea before it hits land, in which case, you can personally thank me in September.

Thanks,Su

P.S. If there was a Travel Curse Olympics, I would definitely medal, if not win gold.

So there you have, proof to some that even the thought of flying sends the travel gods in a tizzy. I highly suspect that by simply averting the potential curse and canceling my trip, the travel gods will have a ‘special’ trip planned for me next time.

On a side note – Dave and I were discussing the merits of Michael Phelps, the Olympics, and who is truly the greatest athlete ever. While arguably Michael Phelps can not only swim, he can also breathe like a bull frog, eat like a champion chicken wing eater and likely run laps around me while I sit on the couch training for my 2-person Luge Olympic moment. I believe the best way to determine who the best athlete is to create the “Olympic Shuffle”. While you are entitled to enter the Olympics in your chosen field, you are also subject to compete in unrelated events to find out who is truly the best athlete by luck of the draw. Just think, the Equestrian rider jumping hurdles on land instead of on a horse. The swimmer trying their hand at Table Tennis. The volleyball player holding a sword fencing instead of a volleyball spiking. Let’s get one of those Jamaican sprinters to use their speed and run towards a gymnastics vaulting event. How about the “barely 14” gymnasts trying their hand at the high flying stakes of basketball. More like Bitty Basketball. The list goes on and on. I truly believe that if each athlete performed in a series of events they never trained for, it might actually be an interesting Olympiad. Either that, or let’s include animals in the Olympics. For example, how about giving the Pigeon a medal for surviving a round of Pigeon Shooting. I suppose there is good reason I publish cookbooks and not the Olympics.