Tell It To COACHIE

Missed me? Hello? (echo, echo, echooo) Anyone??

In the past two weeks we’ve been back and forth to Bethany Beach for my sister’s wedding shower. We’ve had our parents and auntie Kate in for the HP’s promotion to Lieutenant Colonel (an event that led to the following moment of introspection: I wonder why no one made more “Major Dad” jokes over the past five years - oh, yeah, because it was a crappy show that no one, including me, watched).

Aislinn made her first confession and brought home another perfect report card (including attendance which happens about one quarter every school year but always comes as a shock to me). At my sister’s wedding shower, Lauren opened a fortune cookie and read me the contents, indicating that she had moved beyond anything that kindergarten has left to offer. Together with Lauren, Marty went on his first sleepover (they may need to work on the sleep part because a few hours after he arrived home, Marty lapsed into a three hour coma, and later Lauren passed out for the night at 6:30 pm).

In the midst of all these events, I began to see glimpses of my future. The kiddies growing up, the end of the “baby years”? Yeah, not really. What I experienced was a pretty good preview of what it will be like to be senile. For two weeks, I have not been able to hold a thought in my head for longer than 5 seconds. I think I’m alright, going about my day, but then if the sun glints off the windshield or anyone hiccups, whatever I had been planning to do or say immediately vanishes from my memory, leaving no trail for Anthony LaPaglia to follow.

When I was busily slaving away addressing my sister’s wedding invitations, I had all sorts of posts brewing in my brain, but no time to write them down. Once I turned the envelopes over to her, things went blank, at least I think things went blank, I really can’t remember. I think the drudgery concentration involved in getting the invitations done occupied enough of my brain to let the other part work. Now that I have the time to think about and plan things, I can’t get a foothold or find a place to start.

I’ve read that memories are like paths, and if you don’t keep stomping your way to them now and then, they get overgrown and hard to reach. Clearly, my whole brain is overgrown (fortunately, I have a very large head).

How did I manage to string together this literary masterpiece? I have found a new mindless chore to focus on - evaluating everything we own and determining whether it is destined for: a) the trash; b) the yard sale; or c) the moving boxes. Since I did not have the brain power to formulate a plan for this endeavor, my strategy is to start at one end of the house and go through everything until I get to the other end of the house.

We are pretty sure we know where we’re moving to, but the HP doesn’t have orders in hand yet, so I don’t want to tell you (plus, it only seems fair to call the family rather than make them wait until they are so desperate for reading material that they pull up this post). Let me just say it is not what anyone would consider “coastal.” In fact, when we asked Aislinn if she new where it was, she looked up from the TV long enough to say, “Yeah, tornado alley.”

Today I ran into the PX to buy 5 gift bags. Five identical gift bags, so the picking out part took about 30 seconds. Unfortunately, the checkout part took well over 25 minutes, because although the PX signs proudly state that they will open additional checkout aisles if they see three people in line, what they mean is they will open additional checkout aisles when they see three people in line for longer than 3 hours.

I was not in a particular hurry; I had 45 minutes before I had to pick up Marty. I stood there attempting to maintain my good humor, when my ears were assaulted by a series of the most sappy, trite, inane country songs that “Nashville recording star” David Joseph had written as a “tribute” to the soldiers and their families. This was not a CD over the PA system, he was there in the PX, guitar in hand, singing his little heart out into an excessively loud sound system. He was also begging people to come over and claim one of “500 free DVDs” of the video for his “Coming Home” anthem.

The gimmick of this “song” was to intersperse singing with recorded bits that were supposedly a soldiers wife and daughter talking to him on the phone. “Oh Honey, that’s wonderful news!” “Hi daddy, are you really coming home?” I can’t describe it further without spewing onto my keyboard.

After about 30 seconds, I was wishing that Rush Limbaugh was nearby to lend me some of his drugs and bring on sudden deafness. After about 60 seconds, I was frantically glancing about the PX, searching for red hot pokers to stick in my ears. After about 90 seconds, I was ready to run screaming for the hills, but I needed the stinking gift bags so I stood there as my ears started to bleed all over my jacket. (The woman behind me who kept yelling at her daughter and smacking her on top of her head added a great deal of enjoyment to the situation.)

Let me just say here that I don’t think you can write a song and then declare that it is an anthem, just because you say so. I also don’t think you can write one of the worst songs I have ever heard in my life and declare that it is music, just because you say so. And if the lyrics you write require you to use the names Renee and Barbara Jean because they are the only ones that rhyme, I think it is time to go back to the drawing board (unless your wife is Renee and you have actually named your daughter Barbara Jean, in which case, disregard).

Clearly the PX management had decided to trap all of us in line so that someone would stop and listen to this stuff. It’s too late for me - I’ve got his song in my head, but it’s not too late for you. So friends, let me offer you a small bit of advice. If you are ever given the choice between eating glass and listening to the inspirational songs of David Joseph, don’t hesitate. Bust out the ketchup and start chewing.

And now I’m off to research the best way to destroy my short-term memory.
(Something I saw online said that an Army chaplain had asked Mr. Joseph to write this song. Doesn’t that just figure?)

Last Saturday we decided to take the kiddies and visiting Auntie Kate to a Richmond Braves game. The weather here on Saturday was borderline, but it stopped raining and the sun came out a little, so we decided to risk the $6 a ticket ($4 for the kiddies) and head to the ballpark for some All-American fun.

We had never been to the Richmond stadium before, so we were not exactly sure how everything worked, but having attended many many baseball games in our lives, we thought we could figure it out. Apparently things have changed since we were young (actually, since 2 years ago, when we last took the family to a game).

At the gate, the security (?) guards asked to look in our bags. The HP was carrying a bag full of raincoats and blankets that also happened to contain three Capri Suns and a ziploc bag of jelly beans. At least I thought they were Capri Suns and jelly beans - actually they were contraband. The guards checked with each other, and then delivered a half-hearted lecture in three-part harmony to let us know that “No outside food or drink is allowed.”

[Let me pause for a moment in this fascinating tale to say that if outside food and drink were not allowed in major league parks in the past, I probably would have seen 1/10th the number of games I saw as a kid. I know security concerns are different now and that the security guards might lose their jobs if they don't do them when the crowds are small. I know that the rules are the rules (and they were probably instituted because it is also the ballpark of a local college and God only knows what those kids would bring in). But really, are three Capri Suns on a gloomy Saturday so early in the season really going to do any harm? And shouldn't families be allowed to try to do somethings on the cheap? I can't really get myself all worked up about this because the concessions were relatively cheap.]

Since it was not very crowded and we were quite early, the HP decided to take the drinks back to the car and meet us at our seats. Kate and I did not make it to the seats in the time he was gone however, because after that lengthy 40 minute car ride, all three kiddies had to go to the bathroom.

With the rest stop completed, the kiddies and I wandered back to the entrance to wait for the HP, and Kate asked an usher where our seats were. Our tickets were general admission, and the usher told us to go to the upper level and sit anywhere. When we were all reunited, we made our way upstairs and found seats down the 3rd base line.

Once we were all settled into our seats, an usher came over to “check our tickets” and “make sure we were in the right seats.” I started to say that an usher from the lower level had sent us up, that we knew we were supposed to be in the upper level, but he had another issue. The park has silver seats and gold seats in the upper level, and we had claimed silver seats. He informed us that the silver seats were not for general admission; we needed to pack up and move to the gold seats. As you can see, seating was at a premium, and it was crucial that the ushers confine the mobs of general admission ticket holders to the proper area.

You can see from the picture, there is a guy at bat. The crowd was not still working its way in from the parking lot. If I was running this stadium, I think on days like this, I’d have one price for all the tickets, and let the fans sit wherever they wanted. That way I could lay off some of the power-mad ushers and guards who are more concerned with pushing people around than improving the fans’ experience.

As their own form of protest, the kiddies decided to drag Kate with them and attempt to sit in every seat in the gold level. At one point they also sat on the steps, and the usher was dying to tell them to move, looking over his shoulder at them and once or twice starting to come towards us, but since no one else in the stadium was using the stairs, even he couldn’t think of a reason to tell them to move.

Although this post is more than a little whiny, we had a very good time at the game. Unlike every professional team that we follow, the Richmond Braves are actually pretty good, and they won. The weather was just warm enough and the rain held off until we were safely in the car. We’ll definitely go back again (if we don’t move), and this time we’ll be prepared to follow the rules.

[For the record, we bought them peanuts and crackerjacks, in addition to hot dogs, french fries, and soft pretzels. If we had brought in our juice boxes and jelly beans, we still probably would have bought the exact same stuff. When the HP returned from the car, one guard helpfully told him that if we'd had baby formula, we could have brought that in. I'm not sure if the kiddies will go for that, but I guess it's worth a try for next time...]

I watched part of Saturday Night Live this past weekend, all because I wanted to see if Shia Labeouf has in fact stepped up and claimed his place as the “next Jimmy Stewart” as one recent reviewer claimed. I have seen brief glimpses of him on his little Disney show, and then on Project Greenlight when he was somehow fooled into starring in what appeared to be a horrific movie. He was a funny looking kid, but he seems to be growing into his nose, and he does seem to be maturing into a likeable everyman (or everyteen). I didn’t see his monologue, but I did see a few of his skits. With my curiosity satisfied, I should have turned off the TV and gone to bed.

Unfortunately, I didn’t. Right around midnight a “SNL Digital Short” came on. This didn’t send up a red flag to me, because I saw the “Chronicles of Narnia” one and the Justin Timberlake one, and they were pretty funny. This one was not. It was a skit of cast members sitting around together, and then, for no apparent reason, shooting each other with handguns, and then two cops coming in and shooting each other, also for no apparent reason. All the while some horrible song was playing in the background. It was so bad that I went to bed before the stupid thing was over, partly because I couldn’t stand to hear one more second of the song, and partly because I don’t really see the humor in people shooting each other.

Today, it seems even less funny, if that’s possible. I don’t agree that shooting people works as a punch line (although I’m not saying that I see any link between that skit and what happened today). I have already given my opinions on guns and school shootings, so I’m not sure what else there is to say here.

I sometimes think about the genocides in Africa, and how scary it must be to live in such a violent place where your own house provides so little protection. But although I live on a well-protected military base, in a brick house with doors that lock, if someone really wanted to come in here and shoot me, he could. Similarly, while some people think it is scary to send their kids off to school, I think just having kids is scary. Anything could happen to them whether they are standing right next to you or sleeping down the hall.

I know I can’t just keep our kiddies at home, and I can’t protect them from everything. I never stopped to consider the part of parenthood that includes this measure of helplessness. I suppose I could continue to torture myself with the uncertainties, but I’m more of a “fix-it” kind of girl. Today I’ve decided that although I can’t protect our kiddies from everything, I can try to make sure they never become so desperate that they would shoot someone or so mean that they would torment someone else into picking up a gun. Clearly our cute little kiddies show no signs of such behavior, but I can’t bank on that. Who knows how they could change or what they could learn from other people if I don’t keep an eye on things?

I hate to make the kiddies feel guilty when they’ve hurt someone’s feelings, because it’s almost always unintentional. Still, maybe if I point it out to them they’ll become more empathetic. Maybe if I compliment them more when they treat people well or stick up for their friends, they’ll become more confident. Maybe the three of them can grow into a little force for good. Maybe they’ll turn into people that can recognize a person in crisis and have some knowledge of who to notify or how to help. Maybe if all these things happen, I’ll feel the tiniest bit less apprehensive when they leave home.

Raising these little humans is a huge pain in the neck sometimes, and in some ways I can’t wait until they are more self-sufficient. But they are going to need more character, more self-reliance, and more skills than I ever did to make their way in the world that’s waiting for them. And when I agreed to bring them into the world, I agreed to help. So that’s my plan.

* I realize this is also the title of a very violent movie, but I really need to go to bed, so feel free to insert your own title.

This weekend was rather exhausting.  On Friday, the HP, his sister Kate, and I were at Kate’s house, having a relaxing evening, enjoying a delicious shrimp dinner, some Clos du Bois and salad.  Inexplicably, around 11:00 pm we decided to call one of the neighbors and invite her over.  We all love to spend time with her and she is highly entertaining, but in retrospect, we really should have gone to bed instead.  When the dust settled, we had been up to almost 2:00 am (in a house with the kiddies who were undoubtedly going to be up by 6:00 am) and plowed through an amount of wine that would not encourage family services to leave the children in our care.

On Saturday we were scheduled to attend my cousin’s wedding (which I may or may not describe later) and we were in no shape for such an event.  I spent most of the morning and early afternoon wandering around the house in my pajamas, hoping that somehow an opportunity to nap would arise (it didn’t).  Kate keeps a computer in the guest room, so I sat down at one point to read the paper and check in on Coachie.

I must say I was horrified by what I found.  I have had a hate/hate/blinding rageful hate relationship with Internet Explorer for quite some time now.  Every version I have ever encountered is so full of bugs that even the simplest tasks are almost impossible to complete.   For a long time I used Netscape, until I got a new computer that didn’t have it.  I tried Explorer for a few weeks on the new computer, but eventually downloaded Firefox and I have never looked back.

Earlier this year, Windows begged me to install the latest version of Explorer, until I finally relented because I was so sick of the popups.  I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that it installed itself incorrectly, yet managed to make itself my default browser.  For weeks I would uninstall it, then it would beg me to take it back, so finally I would, and it would screw up again, until I was ready to fly to Seattle and kick Bill Gates in the head.

Eventually the stupid thing was up and running, but I don’t understand why all of the buttons have not only new places but new icons.  I hate the new Explorer and so never started to use it (although the kiddies do on occasion for advanced gaming on Nickjr.com).  I use Firefox, always, and in Firefox, my blogs come up looking perfectly nice, with the sidebars where they belong and the pictures properly sized.  But at Kate’s house, on an older version of Explorer, suddenly the sidebars were pushed down by oversized pictures that I had posted.  That is the sort of thing that makes me very, very unhappy.  While I realize that no one would ever mistake me for a web genius, I hope you all know that I would not leave a crappy looking blog up for weeks if I had known about the problems.

I can’t promise that this sort of thing won’t happen again, because I hate Explorer so much that I have no plans to check it regularly to make sure the blogs look good.  Instead, I will encourage you to download Firefox.  It is SOOO much better, and it makes this blog look much better, without all the crazy font sizes in the sidbar.   Please, if you take no other piece of advice from me (and I’m not going to lie to you, that is probably I wise life philosophy) take this:  get away from Explorer.

(Also, please comment or e-mail me when the  blogs look like crap.  I’m having flashbacks to my post where I said  Marty was combined to his crib rather than confined to his crib and no one told me.  That was a hard, hard time)

Invitations Update: 54 completed; 78 or so to go. Carpel tunnel syndrome symptoms ~ 75% of the time.