Holy Matrimony, Batman!

It's hard to believe, but 20 years ago tonight, I was sitting in my room at the Grand Bay Hotel in Coconut Grove waiting for the next day, which would be our wedding day. We had gone out that night and then everyone left and the last thing I could actually do, was sleep. So I started writing a letter to my radio friend, Dr. Don Carpenter and his wife, Kay. I wrote pages and for hours. To this day, I really wish I had a clue as to what I wrote to them!

The wedding was lovely, the past 20 years lovelier. Marriage has its ups & downs, that's for sure, but one thing I've never questioned is whether my husband loves me. He shows it in lots of ways and I hope that I have shown him that I love him, too.

I am so proud to have met him and built the family and life we have built together and am looking forward to another 20 years and another 20 after that.

Going to the Park

When my kids were little, we spent much of our time at the neighborhood playground. It was a strong dose of sanity for me as a new stay at home mom to allow me to have other new stay at home moms to connect with. It also allowed me to recognize my mommy shortcomings. It never crossed my mind to bring snacks, for instance, and when my son would get cranky, we'd pack it in and go home. Or, the good moms would have bags full of Cheerios, Goldfish or pretzels that they would whip out of their diaper bags to share with all. Eventually, of course, I caught on.

Conversation at the playground centered primarily on our kids: What their latest accomplishments were, how many words they had, how close they were to being potty trained, etc.

I truly loved the playground and the park and the time we spent there, particularly when my boys were younger and even into elementary school, when a large group of us would meet at the nearby park after school for the kids to play and us to chat.

Then, the kids got older and time at the park became more scarce. It was less of an event and generally, one kid played at the playground while the other one had a ballgame on a field within shouting and eye distance of the game.

I admit I've kind of missed those times. That is, until this summer, when we discovered a new park. The dog park! That's right. A playground just for Elvis! It's a few miles away and the first time we went, no one else was there and he had no idea what to do. My son tried to get him to run by running back and forth a few times (in the 95 degree mid afternoon heat of an NC summer) and Elvis just looked at him as if to say, "Are you kidding me? It's really hot out here!" So after a few minutes, we got back into our air conditioned car and went back home.

That night, my husband and I tried again after dinner and there were more people and dogs there. He still really didn't quite know what to do, but it was fun watching the other dogs play. One time, one of the other guys ran and Elvis must have thought that was cool because he did it, too.

So we have made "going to the park" a new part of our weekend routine. There are two sides to the dog park, the over 20 pound side and the under 20 pound side. We usually stay on the under 20 pound side, but sometimes looks longingly at the over 20 pound side, certain I'm sure, that the dogs on that side have way more fun that the ones on his side. But I an happy to say that Elvis has made many new friends: Jetson, Dublin, Pumpkin (there are actually two Pumpkins that go regularly), Tiki and Teddy and others.

When we get to the park, all the dogs come running to greet us, as if Elvis was Norm from "Cheers." "ELVIS!" they all wag their tails in excitement. Then they smell each others' butts for a few minutes, Pumpkin and one of the other dogs bite on each others' necks, someone humps someone else and occasionally one of them gets the idea to run furiously across the length of the fence and the others think, "Ooh! I must follow!" and all run in a line behind the first one.

The dog park moms and dads are really not unlike the playground moms and dads from when my kids were little, either. The conversation is pretty much centered on the dogs. What they like to eat at home, what they play with, how much they sleep, how well they are doing on the potty training. And when the bad dog mom (me) doesn't think to bring any snacks for her dog? That's okay. Because the good dog mom (not me) not only has a bag with treats for her pooch, she has enough to share with all that are there and they gather around her, showing her how well they can sit and look pitiful until she finally relents and puts the treasured piece of liver snap (or whatever it is) into their mouths.

It's the weekend again. Elvis spent the day at the doggie day spa today and I'm sure he's dreaming right now of Sunday morning when we get in the car for a ride and he can show his buddies his fancy new 'doo!

Made it!

I went to Florida to spend the weekend with the ladies of my husband's family for a bridal shower for our niece. Fun times and in a 1-1/2 day trip, I managed to get in 3 trips to the beach, a sunburn and good laughs, too.

My flight back to NC was scheduled for 5:15 on Saturday; a car came to pick me up at 3:15 and off to the airport I went!

The plane was a small one. I said so as we boarded. "It's not a small plane," the flight attendant corrected me, "It's a skinny one." No difference, it was small and tight and somehow my row had nothing but wall where the window was supposed to go. Oh, and my overhead light didn't work, either.

We took off and had an uneventful flight, with an expected landing time of around 6:20. At 6:30, the pilot came on and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, you might have noticed that we have been turning left, then right, then left again." I hadn't. He went on, "On account of the storms in Charlotte, we have been circling the airport for the past 10 minutes and will continue to do so until we have clearance to land.

And so we did that for the next 15 minutes, until he came on again and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, there is no end to these storms in sight and since we don't have enough gas to keep circling, we will be diverted to Myrtle Beach, where we will land, get gas and wait." So we did.

When the plane landed in MB, I turned on my phone to find a text from my husband saying, "Am at the bottom of the escalator at Concourse C. Where r u?" So I answered, "Myrtle Beach." He thought I was joking. I wasn't.

Naturally, as soon as we landed and I realized I didn't know if they'd let us up or off, I instantly had to go to the bathroom and noticed that I was starving. Thankfully, they did let us off. I left my book and my bags (as they'd asked) on the plane and we got off, down stairs, onto tarmac, up stairs, through a jetway, into the fabulous Myrtle Beach airport, where there are two restaurants and a store. Not many options, but figuring the long line at Subway (where they make each sub while you wait) would take too long, I went with Pizza Hut. After my first bite, I remembered how I have never liked that weird green peppery taste of Pizza Hut pizzas. There was also a Caribou Coffee, I got a mocha and really was in good, jolly spirits for our wait.

I entertained my many Facebook friends with frequent status updates. I fretted about my book being on the plane and my charger, too. And finally gave in and went and bought a new book at the one store in the airport. From time to time, they would have us line up as if we were going to board our plane and leave, and then (while they didn't say it, the "Psyche!" was implied), we'd be sent out of line again.

As the storm approached Myrtle Beach, they decided it was time for us to finally board the plane and take off. So, with lightning flashing and heavy rain swirling around us, we all ran down metal stairs, onto the tarmac and up more metal stairs to board our (not little, but skinny) plane.

They were booking it, hustling us in, sitting us down and readying us for take off. They announced often that we would hit turbulence, which we did. I knew it would be a rough go when the flight attendant walked down the aisle carrying a fresh stack of throw up bags, for just in case. I looked at the woman sitting next to me and informed her that I would very likely have a panic attack during the flight and I was sorry in advance. But I didn't.

And then we made it home and that was that.

Funny thing...my whole reasoning for booking the flight for Saturday night rather than Sunday morning was just in case something like that happened, I would still be able to make it back in time for my son's play at school. And it turns out that it happened, but I did make it in time.

OMG...is that Tricia Yearwood?

Once upon a time, I was uninhibited and liked to perform. I begged for the right to sing on the morning announcements in elementary school and wowed my classmates with songs like "If," "Yesterday" and "Cats in the Cradle." Somewhere along the way, though, that went away. I always played guitar and played flute and other instruments through my school years, though hated things like solo competition because I ALWAYS messed up in some way (fly in my face, a friend's curious dad popping in during my time, nervous because my grandfather was accompanying me live). I even applied to and was accepted to college as a music major, but fear of an audition had me change majors before I ever started.

All that to say that there's a performer in me that never really got out. A couple of summers ago, I bought myself a few guitar lessons at the local music store so I could get better. I went in and told the guy that I knew how to play, I just wanted to sound like James Taylor...could he help me out? I think having an older woman who already knew how to play kind of threw him off and he really didn't know what to do with me. So for 3 weeks, I paid my $20 and he and I played and hung out together. He told me he thought I had a closet need to play publicly and I should find some open mike nights to play. "Yeah, right," I scoffed at him.

But the idea did take hold. At a restaurant in Weaverville, near my parents' & sister, they have Open Mike nights on Wednesdays. The night before Thanksgiving is a Wednesday, the only likely Wednesday we could be there. Last year, I planned to do it, but as we left for dinner, I "accidentally" forgot my guitar at the house. This year, nobody let me do that.

My son wanted to play piano, too, which I was fine with, though there was no way I'd follow him. I mean, really...44-11/12-year-old woman vs. cute, talented 12-year-old boy? I don't think so.

So we lugged in all our gear. We were signed up to go 1st and 2nd, which really meant 2nd and 3rd because the host had to warm up the crowd with 7 or 8 songs. Then it was my turn.

And you know what? It was fun! I've been playing and singing at school events for the past few years, and that still makes me a bit nervous. But last night? Yes, I was scared before...I couldn't decide if I should do the songs I'd planned or not. But as I got started, I didn't even feel any of the anxiety I normally feel before playing. Other than giving up on my Indigo Girls song after the first verse & chorus, I just played on.

I thought it would be weird and even intimidating to play with my family staring at me, but it actually was fun and I could feel their encouragement as I played.

My husband later told me that as I got up on the little stage, a guy at the bar behind him said, "Oh my G-d...is that Tricia Yearwood?" How funny is that?

So... yay me!


(here's video of some of our songs...feel free to watch some, all, or none if you prefer!)

Just Your Average Sunday

My husband took my youngest to ride rides at Carowinds for a few hours. Said they'd be home by 1. At 11 or so, he called and said his keys had fallen out of his pocket on a ride and they couldn't sweep looking for lost things till they closed. I'd need to find his extra key and bring it down and there was no guarantee that it would work anyway (he's had a hard time with his spare key before).

So I went into his drawer and grabbed the Volvo key that I saw along with mine and my eldest's Carowinds passes (so I could get in without paying to park) and left. It's about 30 minutes to there. On the way down, there was a torrential downpour and I almost hydroplaned on the interstate.

I got to Carowinds and handed the attendant my son's gold season pass (gold pays for your parking; mine is silver because I hardly ever go). The guy scanned the card and looked in the car and said, "Is he with you?" And I said, "No," (clearly he wasn't), "But here's what happened. My husband lost his keys on the Borg and I just came down here to give him another key. Here's my pass, the one you have is my son's. Trust me, I had no intention of coming to Carowinds today and I'm not trying to pull anything over on you. I just want to find my husband's car in the parking lot." The guy said, "I want to help you, so you can pull out here, turn left and park in guest parking. You'll then need to cross the pedestrian bridge and give the key to the worker over there." As if. So I paid $10 to park and pointed out that with all the money we've given them over the years, they should be thanking me and not making me pay when I'm not going into a park that I don't want to be at and really don't even care for. He gave me my receipt and said brightly, "Have a great day."

I went down every aisle of the parking lot and finally found his car. I parked my own a few down (people were leaving because of the rain), got out with the key and went to open it. It didn't work. That's when I got a little nervous and walked over to my own car and pushed the button and it instantly unlocked the door to MY Volvo. Uh. Oops. With a feeling of doom, I walked to the gate to look for the two of them, debating whether I should try and go all the way in or not.

I finally saw them coming out and was gearing up to confess my huge mistake when I realized that he had keys in his hand! Turns out that because of the rain, the only ride they closed was that one, which meant the attendants could do their sweep and found his keys and key fob (which had all imploded). We walked over to the cars, he tried it all out to be sure it worked.

I gave him my parking receipt so he could demand a refund from within at Guest Relations and then I left them to ride more rides in the rain.

Good times.

Just for you, Marianne

I'm clearly a very sporadic blogger. Here's this year's blog post.

Filled with excitement for our high school's big ribbon cutting event last night, my family and I headed to the Egg in Davidson for dinner first. We figured that, since we were asked to park away from school and walk, we'd just eat, leave our cars and go to the school. Very sad to find that the Egg is no longer open for dinner. Bummer. So we headed for the high school (knowing they were grilling hot dogs there and had ice cream), my 15-year- old was booking it, walking around 200 yards in front of us, his brother ahead of us, too and then the two of us taking up the rear.

We turned down the street when suddenly, my foot felt, well, weird. And wet. And gross. I looked down and saw that there was some sort of poop thing on my toes; and because we were out (in the wild!) and had nothing with us, I picked up a leaf and wiped my toes off. All was well, except my hand was kind of wet feeling, so I wiped my hand on the back of my shirt; realizing as I was doing it that my hand might not be clean.

As we kept walking, I got a bit in front of my husband, when he said, "My G-d, Jennifer (not Jen, which denotes irritation on his part), what did you do to your shirt? And something smells bad, too." So I turned to him and whined, "Well, what am I supposed to do now?" He pointed out that the sports boosters would be selling spirit wear, so I could probably find something there.

We got to school, where a crowd of around 500 was gathering. I ran up to the booster's booth and asked a friend if I could grab a shirt, noting that I had no cash, but was good for it. She said it was fine and I ran inside, where the air was blissfully cooling things off.

I got another friend to help me pick out a shirt and we found one that was cute. There was a stack of mediums and one large and I really would have preferred an XL. I took the shirt and went to the bathroom, where I stripped off the dirty shirt and, without thinking, turned on the sink and started scrubbing out the spot with soap & water. It was then that I realized I hadn't yet tried on the shirt. Oops. I looked at the shirt, scared it wasn't going to fit and did what all respectable women do when they are sure a shirt won't fit: Put my hands inside and stretched like crazy! I put it on and it fit well enough.

I thought all was well and went outside to join my husband, who was talking to another couple. As we were chatting, she pointed out that she liked my sandals. I thanked her as I looked down at my feet to tell her where I got them, when I noticed that my toes were brown and, yes, a bit poopy still. I looked at them and said, "Uh...I think I need to go back to the bathroom now," and bolted back inside, where I basically gave my foot a bath in the sink.
I'm realizing as I've been typing right now that out of 5 or 6 blog posts in the past 3 or 4 years, this is my 2nd post about poop. Says a lot about what I find interesting in my life.

RIP, Reebok (4/5/92-6/19/09)

We got Reebok in May of 1992. We'd been married around 6 months and decided it was time. We found him listed in a newspaper ad and drove over to the woman's house, where we chose the smallest of the litter of "purebred dachshunds." We had no idea what to name him. As we drove home, I kept throwing names around: "Mozart?" (the movie "Beethoven" was popular at the time). I looked down at him in my lap and as I looked at the swoosh on my sneaker, I said, "Nike? No...Adidas?" I thought I was funny. I said, "Reebok?" and we both agreed that it totally fit him and that became his name. He was unique looking, with a long black "skunk stripe" down his back, but he had floppy dachshund ears and was cute as can be.

Several weeks later, there was a thunderstorm in Savannah and it was loud. Reebok's cute floppy ears suddenly popped straight up at the crack of thunder, and they stayed that way! A couple of my co-workers at Oldies 98.3, who'd had dachshunds, assured me that that was a normal thing to have happen to dachshund ears and he'd be fine. That is, until I brought him into the station to let them meet him. We were met with laughter and "Uhhh, no, sorry, those ears aren't going anywhere. I've never seen anything like that!" At the vet's office not long after, we ran into the breeder, who was stunned to see him and asked us to give him back. "No way!" I said. Instead, she gave us back our still uncashed check and he became our free dog. Near as we can tell, as his hair grew long and more Yorkie like, his mother had been a bit of a floozie and may have had a little side game going with a Yorkie in addition to the dachshund she'd been matched up with.

Reebok was a great friend and companion and like most young couples with a dog, became our "first child." He was happy with life, at least until "the intruders" came along. The first one in 1995, the second in 1998 and later, in 2007, a canine one. Still, he was a great member of our household for the past 17 years and making the decision to put him down was difficult, but watching him walking, blind, into walls all day long, knowing his quality of life was very low makes it clear that it was the right choice to make and it was time. No world record breaking 21 years for this guy, but he gave it a good run! He had a super breakfast this morning of many of his favorite foods: scrambled eggs, cheese, bacon and a tiny little cup of milk.

At the vet's office, the kennel ladies all came to say goodbye to him and then it was time. It was quick and he went peacefully. Still, we'll all miss him terribly. And it's going to be really weird getting used to saying, "I have one dog" again. I imagine he's off romping with all his friends from over the years by now and in a happy place.