These are a few of my favorite things

For the first 13 years of my life, I lived in rural Pennsylvania. We literally lived on the side of a mountain. I think there was one other kid about my brother's age who lived close enough to play with, but he was a little strange so we didn't play with him that much.

As a result, my brother and I had to entertain each other. Not such a hard thing, really. After all, we had acres of forest to roam around in, a dilapidated farm house further up the mountain to explore, a nearby creek (that my brother almost drowned in once), a monstrous tree house my dad built us and about 30 cats and one toy poodle (who was perpetually annoyed that the cats out-sized him) to play with.

My mom was big on trips to the library, but those books only lasted so long. We played a little Atari, but for the most part our indoor fun revolved around Legos. It became a kind of challenge for us and my dad to build whatever was on the outside of the box before we just did our own thing. Without fail, we perfectly replicated everything Lego put on the boxes.

I have to say, looking back, it's no surprise what a good job my dad and brother did building those massive constructions considering that they're both custom home builders now.

What toys bring back childhood memories for you?

V-Day recap

I wanted to spend Valentine's Day with the family so I asked them to go to the horse races with me. My youngest son was very excited, my oldest son--NOT SO MUCH.

It was a good day. Actually I won $77 off a $10 horse. We won't talk about the next bet and how much I didn't win, though. LOL

The whole point of the day was spending time with my boys. Rader (my youngest) was so into the math side of betting. He was constantly picking horses based on their odds. He didn't like to go for longshots (30:1 or so) but he did like 7:1-15:1 odds a lot. And he did surprisingly well with his method.

By the end of the day, Ian's attitude had changed some. Which was a good thing. Otherwise, I wouldn't have gotten this picture.

too much family?

We host Thanksgiving every year (except for last year when we were busy painting our new house). This year, we had 23 people. Not a record, but still, that's a lot of family and friends.

At one point, when I was being chastised about my political views and my weight gain, I was quite sure there is such a thing as too much family. But then I realized, this year was special. We had 3 generations of aunts in the house for the first time ever. Me, 2 of my aunts, and my great aunt.

That was pretty darn special for my kids and my niece and nephew. And who knows if we'll be able to have that happen next year?

So yes, there is a thing as too much family. At times they have no boundaries and no tact. But all the inappropriate conversations and huffy political attitudes aside, too much family is the only way to experience the holidays* because sometimes, history is made.


*not recommended without a lot of wine...

I'm a survivor!

I survived a holiday weekend.

You might be thinking this is a snarky comment geared toward my b-i-l and family; but I assure you, it is not.

They were fantastic. It was great to see my niece again. It's been two years. She's 13 now and looks 16. They need to keep her locked in a room with blacked out windows. Our families get along well, even though we're vastly different. We had a great time.

Until Saturday afternoon.

No. I didn't survive my family. My family and I survived Mother Nature.

We got up early and drove the hour and a half to Lake Ouachita where my parents have a lakehouse and a party barge at our disposal. It was a beautiful day. Sun was shining and a breeze was blowing. Perfect for working on my tan.

About 1:00 we see some clouds building to the west of us. (Okay, I was told they were to our west. Frankly, they looked like they were directly in front of us to me...)
My dad calls and tells us not to worry, the storms were going North of us...we would be fine. We get the kids out of the water as the lightning show begins about ten miles away. The breeze turns to gusting winds, and we have to hustle to tie the boats up better.

But we decide to wait it out because they were clearly going North. (or, if you're me, they were going to the right of us.)


Until a Low Pressure system moved in.



It was bizarre. I practically grew up on the lake and I'm a pretty good judge of when to pack it up and get moving. I did suggest we might want to think about leaving, but when Daddy called and said "Don't worry." we carried on.

Bad idea.

The waves on the lake shifted and we realized that big, ugly storm system was being pushed right back toward us. Lightning was streaking to the ground and icy rain pelted us like darts. At this point, we had to try to wait out the storm, there was no way the party barge could withstand the winds and rains.

After about 45 minutes of terrifying weather, it calmed. Of course, the storm was headed directly toward our harbor, but since we were traveling via pontoon (aka the snail boat) we would just follow the storm in. Right?

Wrong.


The storm stalled over the lake so we had to drive directly through the belly of the beast. My husband, Captain Fishdog, managed beautifully.

It was pretty exciting. And scary. At one point I thought it was sleeting, the rain was so cold and hard. It actually felt good when we'd hit a big wave in the lake and we'd get sprayed with the ultra warm lake water.

We ended up beating the storm to the harbor. It was bizarre. I guess it just hung out over the lake about 2 miles from the marina. We pulled into the dock and warned several families who were loading up their boats not to go out there, but they didn't listen. Methinks they regretted that choice about twenty minutes later.

I wish I'd known then...

That my parents weren’t the dim bulbs I thought they were.

When they said things like, “What? You think I wasn’t your age once? You think I don’t know what kids say or do?” I’d just roll my eyes and say, “Whatever.”

Mom would say: “Don’t get your heart broken in high school. They’re stupid boys and they aren’t worth the heartache. You’ll realize what a waste of energy it was when you’re an adult.” I would roll my eyes and say, “Whatever.”

They would both say, “Enjoy your summers while you have them. Don’t piss them away sitting inside watching TV and playing Atari…” (yes, Atari. I know. That makes me old.) Of course, my very appropriate response was, “Whatever.”

Mom: “We know when you’re lying to us, honey. Save yourself the trouble and just tell us the truth. The first time.” Guess what I would say? “Whatever! I am telling you the truth! You just never believe me! Ever!” (defensive much?)

Now I’m a mother to two boys and I’m in the middle of watching history repeat itself. Do you know how many times a week I repeat my mother??? The very woman I barely acknowledged from the age of 12 to 22?

I’m not a stupid mother. I see and hear almost everything my kids do…even when they think I don’t. And I try very hard to advise them in the right direction, but they are stubborn and foolish. Just like I was. And it’s so frustrating because I could teach them so much if they’d be willing to learn from me. But they’re not.

None of us were.

I really, really, really wish that I could travel back to my teenage self and say, “Dude. Pick your battles. You don’t HAVE to argue every point your parents make and like it or not, when you’re 39, you’re going to realize they were right 9 out of 10 times. So shut up and listen.”

Since I don’t see time-traveling in my near future, I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with trying to advise my 14 year-old son like I would’ve advised my 14 year-old-self and hope my words will stick.

I’m not holding my breath.

Heroes Falling and Flapjacks Flying

I'm a sports chick. I used to play with the guys, though I never did see they mythical "all guy plus one" teams alleged to pepper the neighborhoods of America. When I was a kid there were both girls and boys on every corner lot with baselines carved into the grass by wear and tear. The notion that girls liking sports made them "tomboys" always confused me. I never knew "girly girls" really existed. All the girls in my neighborhood loved kickball, dodge-ball, and dirt. We wore makeup in high school, liked boys, and would slug anybody who said a word against our home team. And everybody-- regardless of gender-- loved the Sox. Which wasn't always easy... we waited 86 years for that series win, you know. I mean, they let school out early back in the day when Pudge waved a dinger to glory, and when Buckner made a small ummm... error with a ball... we've moved on from that one recently. Not going to talk about that.

So my fan loyalty is serious. I know my Red Sox obsession can, on occasion, be unhealthy. I'm owning it, k? Cut me some slack. Yet, regardless of my adoration, when a relationship is in trouble, pretending everything is fine doesn't work. If we ignore the problems they grow. So I'm putting it out there. I'm facing it. There's an elephant in the dugout.



What was up with the in-house spat? I'm not saying that Red Sox Papa figure Curt Schilling is wrong in his dismissive assessment. Guys who are like brothers, guys who work together closely, guys who are passionate about what they do... they're going to have occasional releases of steam. And maybe it means nothing. Honestly? The other night, when Coco Crisp started a bench-clearing brawl the other night... I wasn't shocked. I'll admit I wasn't even all that disappointed, though that's probably the wrong attitude.

But when Manny Ramirez and Kevin Youkilis-- two very significant Red Sox icons, for the sports-impaired-- had a dust-up right there in their own dugout I felt cold dread. Ice in my veins. Pain. Hurt. Confusion.

It reminded me of the tangled knot of feelings I would feel, as a little girl, when my brothers fought. I mean, they'd roll around in the dirt and pound the daylights out of one another. You'd swear on your life they hated eachother and were out for blood. It looked that way.

In that moment, in the dirt, with the insults and fists flying, they probably thought they hated eachother. And it used to freak me out. And I would get upset, and scared, and sometimes when I was really small I would cry.

In retrospect, those fights-- and even the recent scrap between my Fenway boys-- actually represented a level of intimacy that has to be pretty deep. We are most willing to hurt those closest to us for a reason. We trust them, unconsciously, to forgive us. We are passionate in our pride and love for them, so our disappointment goes just as deep.

And heroes do, now and then, stumble.

So Curt Schilling, that grampy old guy who knows a thing or two about heroism, is right. They're not just team mates; they're not just two guys in uniforms; they're brothers. Even the generally vitriolic Boston press could find absolutely no hostility between the two guys a day after the incident. A couple of lockers apart, they puttered around the locker room as usual.

So it's probably just like it is with all of us. Families, even really good ones, fight. It looks bad if it takes place in public, sure. I mean, if you chuck a flapjack at your brother down at the IHop people will probably think you were raised by terrible parents and hate one another. They don't know your history. They don't know you tell that story every Christmas and laugh. It's over, and now it's funny. But you know the back-story. There were comments about a certain boy, a syrup situation, something involving sneakers borrowed without permission...



Like Jonathan Papelon (pitcher, for the sports-impaired) said, he has had pretty bad fights with his own brothers, but it's normal. "Josh broke my nose," he said, but "when it's all said and done, you still have love for eachother."

Way to out your baby brother there, Pap. Watch out for flying flapjacks. I'm just sayin'...

So ok. I once cut nasty strips into my oldest brothers' sideburns right before he got called to National Guard duty because he didn't give me notice before demanding the haircut. And I used to mess up the back of his head pretty bad and wait to see how long he'd go without noticing it. My baby brother got me in trouble for nothing once and I convinced him he had neglected his teddy bear and it was dead. He tearfully agreed not to confess to anyone and let me bury it in the back yard to "cover for him," while he watched and cried. (Dad unearthed the corpse while rototilling the garden years later. The look on my brother's face as the memory flooded back was pretty scary. It was like CSI Green Harbor... the body in the garden came back to haunt me.) One of my brothers had a bulls-eye burn scar on the end of his nose for months after a car cigarette lighter incident in the back of an Oldsmobile.

So... what magnificent torments have you inflicted on the siblings you love? Spill it!