Find the Cost of Freedom

Hil and Pat were convinced I'd lost my mind. They looked at me like perhaps I needed a long bath and a chardonnay and some solitude. I kind of did, but that wasn't why I went berserk about the lifeguard.


Some jobs don't require much in the way of performance or productivity. For instance, you don't have to be especially gung-ho to be a toll taker on a bridge. The cars come through whether you are smiling like Pan Am stewardess or grousing like Scrooge. And the guy who pushes the buttons at the automatic car wash? He can pretty much get away with being asleep at the wheel for a decent portion of his shift. And while I am forever grateful for the school nurse, you have to admit it is a pretty cake job unless a brittle diabetic or severe asthmatic shows up on your watch. It's not like they sit there poised to respond to the next blunt force trauma. (Teachers aren't allowed to throw stuff anymore...)


But a lifeguard? I am sorry. This is not a job where you have the luxury of spacing out for a spell. There is a real possibility that someone will die. And be dead before you know it. While you are texting little emoticons like :/ to your friends to let them know your job sucks.


Hey, lunkhead! If you don't enjoy sitting in the big chair in your trunks twirling your whistle all day and earning a paycheck because you have a Red Cross card in your wallet and can swim, then go work at Abercrombie. Very few people run the risk of dying there!

OK, I will step down from my soapbox now.


Anyway, the next and last morning in DC, Hil and Pat and I pack our stuff to go and plan to spend a few hours doing a few things on the Mall.

After a few trips to the car, I check out of the hotel and give the GM a piece of my mind. And I let her know that I had booked and canceled another hotel for this trip, and spent much more because my kids enjoy the pool and I enjoy the convenience of the lounge and shuttle. I told her that the pool was a major stink fest with its disinterested and miserable guards. (She'd been made aware of the texting slacker...) And that the lounge being inexplicably closed was a major inconvenience, pointing out that they are not exactly at the epicenter of DC life. I couldn't just step out to another restaurant that easily. But that the one shining feature had been the shuttle and the driver, who were impeccable in every way. (I did not mention that he'd gone off the beaten path a few times to accommodate our plans...I am sure he'd get fired for coloring outside the lines like that.) She thanked me, but did nothing to reduce my bill.


Then Hil and Pat and I took to the shuttle to find the Aquarium. The National Aquarium is rumored to reside beneath the Commerce Building. How very Dan Brown. It was a glorious morning and we were very pleasantly surprised to find the rumors to be true. It is much smaller than the name "National Aquarium" would suggest, but we loved every tank and took loads of pictures. My favorite one is of Hil and Pat making fish lip faces.

Then we walked back toward the fountain section of the Hirshhorn Sculpture Garden. While seated on the benches there the prior afternoon, I'd noted the Archive Building. And while reading that night, I'd learned that that is where we'd find the Charters of Freedom. The Declaration. The Constitution. The Bill of Rights. How cool.

It is not a long tour. But it is powerful. And once you've recovered from seeing the Magna Carta and the Big Three, you see things like the letter offering the Statue of Liberty as a gift from France. The Executive Order designating Yellowstone as the first National Park. And you can learn about how things are selected for archiving and authenticated and preserved for all eternity. Wish we'd known about the damaging effects of the sun before we hung the Declaration in a window for a decade...

We cross the street and discuss lunch before heading for home. After being chased by an unrelenting rabid squirrel, we dine in the Hirshhorn Garden Cafe, a very French, very beautiful little slice of DC uniqueness.


And on the way home to greet my little Trinket and survey the lingering hurricane damage, I can't help but think what an amazing place the U.S. has been and has become, and how proud I am to instill the sense of pride in my children that every citizen should have when they are awestruck by its magnificence.

And I am shedding a tear, just one last time on this trip.

The Spy Who Loved Me

We decide to make our way to the Spy Museum by way of the Hirshhorn sculpture garden.

The Hirshhorn is a magical place of imagination gone wild in spectacular size and form. The 3-D house. The silver tree. The giant rolling eraser. Too cool for words. It is sprawling and inviting and before you know it, by making your way from one fabulous piece to the next, you've traveled 3 or four blocks toward your destination.

And the Spy Museum is one of our favorites. Even if it is a king's ransom to go in, and double that to be a double agent. A double agent, if you've never been, is the name given to patrons who participate in a spy mission, and then tour the museum. The spy mission requires a little imagination, but it is really fun to get lost in figuring out who has the gizmo that detonates the bomb made from whatever it is the Person of Interest is smuggling.

And in the museum, before you enter, you memorize an identity, and throughout your walking tour of the intelligence community's fascinating history, inclusive of dart-shooting umbrellas and exploding cigarette cases, you are regularly quizzed to see if you'd blow your cover if confronted. I was nearly perfect except I forgot what I was supposed to be doing at the Swiss Fusion Lab on vacation.

We found a familiar Irish Pub in Chinatown (what?) where we'd eaten the prior summer. Kid food, grown up food, and good beer. We decided that rather than trying to squeeze in any more sightseeing, after an early dinner, we'd take a cab to the hotel, change and promptly head to the pool for a dip.

This time, the lifeguard clearly had no interest in guarding anyone's life. (It's your life, you watch it!) Or listening to the sounds of children playing. (How dare they?) And after taking some floating devices from some joyfully shrieking children, sat with his back to the (defunct) lounge with a first aid kit on his lap, pretending to be alert to any trouble in the water.

I could not see his eyes for the RayBan's, and could not position myself behind him to observe with my own eyes, but could identify with ease the distinct hand motions he was making. They were those of a teenager engaged in texting. This little punk was not watching the kids frolic in the pool, or the senior citizen doing laps in his Speedo, or the teenagers going off the diving board. He was making plans for the evening!

Incensed, I slapped into the hotel in my flipflops and ring-a-ding-dinged the little desk bell. (I thought they only did this in the movies. It was fun!) A very nice woman came out and I asked when the GM would be available. When I learned that he keeps bankers hours, I told her I would compose a complaint for him, but of immediate and grave concern was the slacker guarding the pool. I told her that of all the complaints, and there were quite a few, this was the most serious, and I would insist that that kid get fired. I would volunteer to do it myself!

She stood blinking like I was a lunatic. I probably looked like one. But I'd rather look like a nut than sit idly by while a child's life is at risk. Apparently Slacker doesn't share my concern.

Eventually, she thanked me for my concern. She could not wait for me to be gone from her presence.

But I waited. I waited in the lobby to see what would happen. And only when a man in a blue suit exited his office and headed in the direction of the pool did I press the elevator button and leave it in his hopefully, capable hands. I hope Slacker's plans for the evening were a little less fun because he'd have to tell his friends he was fired.

Shake It Up

Some of our trip plans were curtailed by Mother Nature. That beyotch can hold a grudge.

Seems Hurricane Irene brought down lots of branches and leaves but wasn't nearly as big a deal as the unnamed 5.8 earthquake had been a few days earlier.

Evidently, we had no need to trek up past Georgetown and the embassies to the National Cathedral. They were going to be busy tarnishing some of its magnificence by installing a safety net inside to prevent the faithful and the awestruck from being bonked on the head with falling debris. Debris jarred loose from its moorings by the 5.8 quake. I am delighted to report however, that the piece of moon rock is still affixed to the space travel triptych. God only knows how it got there. It may be illegal for it to be there. In a completely unrelated story, (unless you are me who can connect any two dissimilar dots almost effortlessly) I recently learned that if I were to commandeer a piece of space junk that falls out of the sky when something like Skylab reenters the Earth's orbit and threatens to crash into my house, my car or my person, it would be unlawful for me to keep it. It is government property. So that little chunk of moon rock is illegal from a possession standpoint, and frankly, a separation of church and state standpoint, too.

Also, some of the spires and gargoyles were a little jangled. I can see why. Out there high atop the cathedral, exposed to the elements. Waving back and forth as the Earth moved.

And the flying buttresses. A few of those were damaged. Despite the fact that their name inspires giggles from 8 year olds the world over, they are serious architectural necessities. A crack in a buttress (no pun intended) is all I need to hear about to stay away.

And the Washington Monument. Evidently a bunch of chunks fell to the ground and there is some kind of crack somewhere that has everyone in a structural integrity uproar. (Hil swears she can see it.) Even the hill surrounding the monument is closed, again, to prevent any unfortunate bonkings on heads. But can you imagine the poor folks who were on their scheduled tour to the top the day of the quake, and were swaying back and forth for no explainable reason? It must have been pandemonium. I bet the tour guides all quit and that is why it's closed. Crack, schmack.

What to do, what to do? We had to find a plan B and quickly. DC is our oyster and we had no shortage of time or money, so we gathered around a kiosk depicting a map and the noteworthy sights nearby, and rock-paper-scissorsed our way to a game plan.

Mall Rats

So once I inadvertently sped down New York Avenue to my hotel, the kids and I enjoyed a rollicking good time in our nation's capitol.

But the trip was not without its ups and downs. To wit:

The hotel pool was scheduled to remain open for one hour following our check in time. The kids were thrilled. But they were also the only guests daring to set foot on the pool deck at 8 pm, so the lifeguard, who had been socializing with friends, did not welcome the sudden need to actually work. Left the deck lights off, removed all the floats and inflatables, and insisted that I remain at poolside so I could do his job. At least until 8:35 when his friends left and he decided he'd like to go with them, and closed the pool. Note to self: Speak with the manager.

The upside to that was a very accommodating shuttle driver who, when he noticed that we were the only party on the 9 am shuttle the next morning, took us directly to our destination, not the official stop nearest our destination. And for that he earned a nice tip.

I learned that the mere sight of the actual flag that flew over Ft. McHenry and thus inspired Francis Scott Key to pen the poem that became the words to our National Anthem could inspire me to cry and keep on crying for the duration of my tour of that particular exhibit. The montage of different well-known renditions of the song did not help curtail the tears.

I learned that the Ruby Slippers were intended to be silver according to the original script, that Roosevelt scratched out parts of his original speech and added the word "infamy" himself to the famous Pearl Harbor speech, and that all First Ladies, no matter their ages, shapes or sizes, feel like princesses when they step out on Inauguration Night with the most powerful man in the world, in a fabulous dress people competed to design just for her shining debut. And that there are 100s of things that move me to tears in the National History Museum.

The Newseum with its absolutely gripping, fascinating, magnificent exhibits and its amazing presentation of how the press has brought newsworthy moments to life in our homes for centuries, and its reasonable price, and its pass that is good for two days, is easily the deal of DC. It left me breathless but not penniless. And by the way, a blogger now has a White House Press Pass. That is how important good information is. The coverage of Hurricane Katrina was devastating. The images and heroism from September 11th were vivid and heartbreaking. The headlines from around the world were amazing. Without the press, what would we know about any of these things?

The biggest rip-off of DC is hands down the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. Free to get in, but even the map is $2. Half of the museum was off limits because they had to get 25 guys and 17 pieces of equipment to move a propeller plane across the room. (This evidently could not be accomplished on hours not open to the public.) But I didn't care. It saved me the energy it takes to produce a yawn. Most of the exhibits were ho-hum visually and forced you to do a lot of reading. We took part in a flight simulation demonstration, at $8 a piece, as a trade off to seeing one of two 18 minute movies or the planetarium, all of which were $9.50 per person, when a full length feature film with George Clooney is only $9 at home, and a whole lot more promising from a visual perspective. We spent the most time in the exhibit designed to demonstrate flight principles like drag and force to young people. It was like a great big science fair project. Or Yawn-fest.

I missed Scott on a visceral level when we went to the Elephant and Castle for lunch.

After an exhausting day but a reasonable cab ride to the hotel, I found out that the lounge by the pool was inexplicably closed during the week. There was a handwritten note on the door apologizing for the inconvenience. (What?) While the kids were in the pool, I had to fend for myself without the ability to order dinner for us or a glass of wine for my nerve endings. With starvation fast approaching, I had to order takeout from an assortment of menus at the hotel desk. I was not about to traipse out the door again looking like a hag. So we settled for greasy, MSG-laden Chinese food delivered by a man with a three-year-old in a car seat in the delivery car. Note to self: Mention to the hotel manager that the lounge is one of the only two things that make this quirky little way-off-the-Mall hotel acceptable (the outdoor pool being the other) and so far, they were zero for two.

Maybe we'd sleep well?

Shut Up and Drive

Don't misunderstand. I love having Betty in the car with me. She's like a little safety net. A belt with suspenders. A Sherpa. She won't have a laugh with me like Joy did when we turned off the highway in AZ and somehow wound up in downtown Tijuana, but she's not bad company in an emergency.


She just has a few bad habits.


I tend to forget that even with all the advances in technology that we take for granted (who doesn't remember driving with their frustrated parents and listening to Dad, who refused to stop to ask for directions, snark at Mom,who was frantically folding and unfolding a huge accordion pleated map of the Canadian provinces trying to find some obscure highway that would lead us away from the Arctic and toward The Falls?) that they are not living, thinking, logical things. They do one thing. And that is to say they do exactly what we tell them to do. If I told Betty to direct me to the third ring of Saturn, she would.

What she won't do is tell me when a new road has been built and there is no longer any need to go near the old road. Or through the tunnel. Or over the bridge.

And what she won't know is when a road is closed. Or a tree is down. Or a bridge has washed out. And so there I'll be, listening to Betty insist that I proceed as directed, sitting at a complete stop with my blinkers on, looking at construction vehicles and a large collection of artfully placed orange pylons, trying to think of how to convince Betty to get moving on that recalculating she's so famous for.

And what she won't do, like a living breathing backseat driver would, is tell me to slow down.

Which is why, weeks later, when the kids and I have long tucked the memories of our trip together into the far recesses of our minds, I am shocked to get a little note from the DC Police.

Evidently, their little electronic sidekick, Radar, picked up on the fact that I was going 46 mph in a 35 mph zone on New York Avenue. (Hello, have you ever driven New York Avenue? Let's just call it what it is and rename it "Cornerstone-Of-Ghetto-Living-And-A-Neighborhood-To-Be-Avoided-And/Or-To-Break-The-Land-Speed-Record-Getting-To-The-Other-Side-Of-At-All-Costs.")

And speaking of costs, since I was going an incredulous ELEVEN miles over the speed limit, in a neighborhood where drivers typically case the place at more reasonable, law-abiding speeds conducive to successful drive-by shootings with high body counts, my fine is inflated to $125. A cab ride from my house to DC would have been more economical.

And my choices are:

1- Admit that I was in flagrant violation of the law and pay the fine at once - quickly, before it doubles while I am hemming and hawing and grousing about it in my blog.

2- Deny any wrongdoing and attend a hearing in my own defense. Which would mean a return trip to DC to appear in court, presumably in the same precinct as the scene of the crime, to sit along side the drive-by shooters all day while justice is served. And note, the violation that was mailed to me has pictures, actual photos, of my car in the act of committing the crime. I am surprised at the quality. I'd expect a little blurriness in photographing anything moving at such neck-breaking speeds.

3- Admit that I was speeding and compose a letter asking for clemency, and if it pleases the court, a reduction in my fine.

I'll take door number 3, Carol Merrill.

I take to my laptop, accustomed to being used for creative pursuits, and compose a sappy single mother lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood panic attack story, ask for forgiveness, and request a break on the outrageous fee. Print, fold, send.

I am sure it will be reduced. I am sure it will be reduced by not much more than the cost of the stamp I just affixed to the pre-addressed envelope.

I am also sure the trip and the memories of my children's joyful faces is worth the cost. Multiplied a thousand times over.

The Magic of GPS

The kids are so excited to be going, they can not be more helpful. I should remember this tactic. The possibility that the trip would not come to pass had had a dramatic impact. Their little prepubescent-children-of-acrimoniously-divorced-parents-who-waged-a-bitter-custody-dispute-entitlement attitude, which found them habitually taking things of all shapes, sizes and values for granted was tempered in a way that did not compute.

And so, once the decision was made, we were on our way. Me, Hil, Pat and Betty, my GPS.

Or rather, Scott's GPS. Scott is a quick study. And nobody's fool. He is acutely aware that I am at my hissy-fit-meltdown-stop-the-world-or-I-swear-I'll-jump-off worst when I am lost on the road. To an even greater, epic degree if I am under pressure to arrive on time, or have what I perceive to be a half a cup of gas. Or less.

So he's given me his spare GPS - to save us both a lot of grief. I get the benefit of a fair, impartial, dispassionate backseat driver telling me what to do and keeping me from deferring to my inner compass, the feed for which is clearly scrambled. Scott gets to enjoy the relative serenity of knowing that I am not inadvertently driving 100s of miles out of my way to a neighboring town by way of East Jeezus, or getting horribly lost and driving off the road and into a ditch and bursting into flame, if only figuratively.

I named her Betty because when I first heard her voice I thought she sounded like a Betty. As opposed to the GPS built into Scott's BMW who gives her "advice" in a buttery soft seductive tone of voice that suggests her name is Tawny.

I would not argue with Tawny. I argue with Betty. Does anyone else talk to their GPS? (Thank you for nodding!) I do. Regularly.

It's almost as though she nags me. "Turn right. Turn right." In that monotone delivery. I will turn right, Betty. As soon as the senior citizen in front of me who appears to have died at the wheel, or at least has become genuinely confused, manages to move his vehicle to the shoulder and call the authorities on his I've-Fallen-And-I-Can't-Get-Up gizmo.

And the scolding when you miss a turn she suggests. "Recalculating...recalculating." Just to let me know she's got to get out the map and figure out how to get back to where we should be. Pain in the ass that she is. Sometimes I take her for a spin in my parking tower just to get her all confused listening to the satellites try to tell her how to get out of the jam we're in.

But we are DC bound, and for two thirds of the way I can let the car drive itself. Once in DC, I need a tour guide. Betty will be very handy.

Or so I think.

I've Got Sunshine

The hours pass and we bail and clean and salvage wet items.

By 1 pm the water level has dropped by half and I am hopeful. But nervous. I hate not knowing what I will be doing. My plan is only a start. For a planner like me, it is only half the job.

A minute later, the electricity comes snapping to life and with it, the sump pump. There is work to be done and now we might actually get somewhere. With two sump pumps cranking, and the dehumidifier choking on the fog in the basement, the water level begins to drop visibly. Hil and Scott continue to rescue damp things from watery graves and I begin inspecting the contents of the fridges for damages. I am thrilled to learn that even the half gallon of Cookies and Cream Ice Cream survived. I grab a pepperoni pizza, (still frozen!) and preheat the oven to prepare the first warm meal of the day.

By the time the pizza is baked and eaten, patches of actual concrete begin to appear across the basement floor. I am beginning to think I can consider making the trip to DC.

If:

The electricity stays on for the next few hours, and
the water has been reduced to a few damp spots, and
I am reasonably convinced that I do not have to replace any major appliances, and
I can get an hour of sleep so I don't slip into a coma at the wheel of my car, then
we'll go.

Always the planner, I prepare.
I write lists of things for each of the kids to pack. This many shirts, this many undies.
I call Lars and tell him to return Pat at once, even if he has to unplug the XBox and drag him here with the wires trailing behind him.
I haul out suitcases, and assemble a grocery bag of snacks for the hotel room.
Scott gets down to business trying to resuscitate my appliances.

No easy feat.

The good news is that the fridge in the basement has stopped sounding like a motor boat.
And I get the washer fired up without incident and can wash the basket of beach towels that were soaked and not only stank like God-Knows-What, but also weigh 2000 pounds.
A few false starts and the dryer eventually rumbles into action and finds its stride.

But Scott is in charge of the appliances I am afraid to touch. The hot water heater and heater have been snuffed out and he is struggling to bring them back from the dead. But he is determined to get them humming so I can relax knowing that I don't need to work up a sweat worrying about purchasing replacements, or scheduling a supremely inconvenient installation, and arguing with a claims adjuster from my homeowners insurance carrier. Been there. Done that. No desire to reprise the role.

I struggle to keep the right amount of distance while the mechanical genius toils. I stay close enough, so I hope, to suggest that I am supportive and appreciative (because I am) but far enough away not to be a distraction, or a pest, or a nag. Not the time to run out for some frivolous errand like a pedicure, but also not the time to pull up a stool and ask a lot of questions. To be truthful, striking this balance is something I struggle with. It's just the way I am.

I make myself useful, check in often, and eventually trot off to take a shower, prep Trinket's amenities in anticipation of days of solitude, and finish packing. And when I sit down to think about what I might be forgetting, fall asleep. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Eventually Scott comes to find me. He is proud to announce his success. All appliances recovered and working.

I am relieved beyond description, but at the same time sad that now that the work is done, Scott will be leaving to check on things all the way back at his house. And I am uneasy still about the trip.

I share my anxiety with Scott. He suggests I ask the neighbors for help.

I write my neighbor a note, the one with the coffee. I ask that he and his wife kindly call me on my cell, or Scott on his, if we lose power on my street for any length of time in the next few days. Or if a tree falls and pulverizes my house. Or it floats away and I should not expect to find it where I left it. Or if it blows away and lands on a witch. Anything is possible.

On my way back from dropping the note at their house, I stop and talk to a few neighbors who are on their porches catching their collective breath.

Some are still pumping out flood water.
Some had lost a lot of property and possessions.
Some lost hundreds of dollars of groceries.
Quite a few have appliances that are still on the fritz.

I show them empathy. Surely I can empathize.
I wish them each well. Of course I do.
But in my heart I feel profound gratitude. Grateful that I have the gift of Scott and his uncanny aptitude for handling situations like this, and his enormous heart - big enough to want to make the effort to help me. It has made all the difference in the world to me, and to my house, and to my kids. My silver lining on what had been a stormy, gloomy day.

They Came In By Twosies, Twosies

Truly, it was all I needed to hear.

Learning that Scott was about to fly in in his tights and super hero cape to save the day both motivated me and moved me to tears.

I hadn't realized how nervous I'd become during the hours of bailing in the darkness until I felt the rush of relief at reading those three little words.

"On my way."

Nearly as sweet as:

I love you.
It's a boy/girl!
Congratulations, you're hired.
Welcome home, sweetheart.
You're the winner!
You're finally divorced.

I can relax now. Somehow between Scott's unique genius and my willingness to indulge his creative solutions, we'll right the ship. I know we will.

And knowing this, I feel a surge of motivation. If Scott could brave the storm, and fallen trees, cresting waterways, downed electrical wires, and roads littered with debris to come 90 miles to help me, surely I could find a way to lift a few more buckets of water.

Trinket and I take to the basement once more. This time, she sits on a higher step (smart girl) and I wade more deeply in my Wellies. I can not believe how much water could silently, imperceptibly make its way into my home.

Some time later, I have no idea how long, maybe 200 bucketfuls, I hear my back door open and a bunch of equipment land on the floor. The door again, and more stuff. I look to the light at the top of the stairs in time to see Scott's legs, clad only in shorts, and his shoeless feet come down the stairs as he makes his way without breaking stride right into the drink. He kisses me warmly and then quickly gets to his work.

Gas can. Generator. Heavy duty cords. Extra outlets. Extra sump pump. Hose. In a matter of minutes we are humming with electricity and water is flowing down the street, having traveled the length of the hose with the force of an open fire hydrant. We are in business.

As the sun rises and my children begin to figure out the events that occurred while they were in the Land of Nod, I am feeling remarkably better. I have help, and it is Scott. I have far less water and no sense of panic about things to come. Hil and Pat have a sense of adventure, and even though Pat wishes he had some juice for his Playstation, Hil is in her polka dot Wellies and is bailing along side me. And the neighborhood has come alive with the same sense of camaraderie Scott and I enjoyed that night at Doyles.

One neighbor has knocked on doors to see that everyone is OK and keeping the trailer level. He's also gotten his coffee pot fired up with his generator and is walking around the block filling mugs on the go. I am handing out cookies to folks who come to check on me, and introducing them to Scott. Neighbors with generators are offering hook ups to neighbors without, and extension cords are criss-crossing the street so sump pumps can be brought to life. It is wartime camaraderie.

I can actually begin to think about something more than 2 minutes into the future.

The kids and I are supposed to take a trip to DC, but I am not sure that is such a hot idea, given the events of the last few hours. I have no idea if the hotel has been damaged by the storm and no idea what conditions are like 2 hours away. I hate to disappoint the kids and not go, but what if the electricity is out for days like the harbingers of doom on the news told everyone? I could be pumping and bailing until school starts. I need to make a decision.

What to do, what to do? It's for sure I have to do something.

I decide on a deadline. I pick a time. If the electricity and water problems are not resolved enough to even conceive of leaving by 3 o'clock, I'll make a call to the reservations line. Whether we'll postpone or cancel will be determined by conditions at that moment, and not a moment before.

I tell the kids the details very matter of factly and ask that they see it for what it is. A possible disappointment, but maybe not a total loss. The more they help, the better our chances.

Pat, not a fan of hard labor, decides to take flight to help Lars at his house. I know it's a ruse. Lars has power. And XBox.

Hil gamely rejoins us in the basement clean up and is proud to be included in the fun that Scott has made it.

With a plan in hand, I can immerse myself in the clean up. No pun intended.

Hands Across the Water

I lift and dump 100 buckets. Straining with the weight of every load.

I sit with Trinket. She walks around me leaning on me as she does. A sort of hug.

I lift 100 more.

I sit with Trinket. Sweating. She climbs in my lap.

I lift 100 more. I collapse next to Trinket on the step wondering if I have the strength to ascend the steps to dry land. And swearing a little, too, wondering if Trinket knows they are fightin' words.

At last I pull off my Wellies, grab Trinket with one arm and the lantern with the other and go up to lay across my bed. I need an hour of rest or I'll be toast when the sun rises and I need to make some competent decisions. I see my reflection in the mirror in the unflattering underlighting. Pure horror movie. Frizzies, pit stains, sweaty face, bags under my eyes, no bra. FEMA better not be coming. I'd need to shower first.

I call Scott. Tell him my plan. He asks if the bailing is helping. I am sure it is, though I can't see the fruits of my labor. The basement is the entire floor plan of the house. I can't begin to guess at what it would take to notice an appreciable difference when the water stretches across that much square footage. Maybe I removed 500 gallons? It's like a deck chair off the Queen Mary.

He tells me things are beginning to calm there.

How odd. Ninety miles closer to the storm and he's fairing better than the inland states. Further proof that is Mother Nature's vendetta against me. I am going to give some thought to composting. I swear.

I sleep fitfully for an hour. Or close to an hour. OK maybe 40 minutes. I awake to find Trinket on the radiator cover in her little pink plushy bed, leaning against the warmth of the lantern dome and watching the storm from the window. I sit up. She turns and leaps to join me on the bed at once. At the ready. Gonna help Momma bail some more.

We go down to the basement and I don't even bother to put on my Wellies. I can see that the water has risen considerably. It is at the top of the riser of the lowest step. Eight inches?

I return to the bedroom and assume a fetal position on the bed. I text Scott instead of ringing his phone. I have awakened him enough this night. It's not like he doesn't have a home and pets and other responsibilities. To say nothing of the nagging worry about his girls. They left on a Canadian cruise with their mother the day before. Visions of my first disaster genre movie, "Poseidon Adventure" flash through my head. I am sure he's gone there, too.

"Water is at the bottom of the second step. Scared a little. Will bail again when I have light. Hope you and the pups are still OK."

He texts back at once.

"On my way."

God Told Noah, There's Going to Be a Floodie, Floodie

Sometimes I truly surprise myself.

I can come epically unhinged from all things sane and rational when I get lost in a neighboring state, but when something like 2,000 gallons of water in my basement happens, I have the calm of a martyr.

I lit a few lanterns and took a seat on the sofa. Checked Facebook for interesting updates, thought about calling Scott for moral support and didn't. I also did not:

Dial 911.
Call my mother.
Alert the media.

Which all flies in the face of my normal autopilot response. I should be in a full on hissy-fit panic. I had just survived an earthquake. (OK maybe "survived' is a strong word...) and now this? Mother Nature is clearly coming for me and she has a bone to pick. She must know I'm not a very reliable recycler.

But instead, I am Googling and downloading apps to my phone.

And all the while Trinket is by my side. As loyal as any dog, she is curled up against me as if to say, "I know you are in a crap-your-pants panic, but I am right here with you." She's purring and rubbing her head against me. She probably really just wants a treat.

I check the basement an hour later. The water is up about an inch. I can tell because it was up to the rim of the wheels of the untouched-by-human-hands exercise bike when I looked before, and now it is up the the spokes. Honestly, I wouldn't mind that thing floating away. Maybe I should open the door and place it out in the street.

I call Scott. The voice of reason and the picture of calm. In a very upbeat voice, he suggests that there might be some merit to bailing some water into the utility sink. The idea is exhausting. I dismiss it immediately.

But by the end of the converstation, I decide to go. It's not like FEMA is coming or the rain is going to stop because that would be convenient for me. This is the first epic storm since Hurricane Floyd sent water flowing down my steps and into my foyer while I sat with no power and 2 infants clinging to my person and Lars stayed conveniently at the office doing God knows what of more importance. This is my home to protect.

I trek to the basement with the lantern and the flashlight. Trinket is at my feet. I put on my Wellies and grab the bucket and make my way into the water. Once there, I see the big rubber beverage bucket, the sight of which, when it is filled with ice and bottled imported beer, usually warms my little heart. Tonight, or shall I say, this morning, it is pure utility. It easily holds 5 gallons of water, and dammit, I will stand there in the dimming illumination of my little flashlight and fill and lift that thing to exhaustion.

Trinket sits on the step just above the water line watching me. I have an audience. Momma's got to bail.

The Tide is High

Upon arriving at my house after the fun day we’d had roller coastering and spinning and twisting and bouncing and flying and bumping all over the amusement park, I began my own version of Hurricane Preparation.

• I located exactly one flashlight. It was Scott’s and it had batteries. Check.




• I dug out several glass-domed candle burning lanterns. More mood lighting than survival illumination, but light is light. Aromatic candles in place, matches attached. Check. We may float away in the night, but we'll look and smell lovely while doing it.




• I collected a bunch of tapered candles and candlestick holders. Cringed at the thought of wax dripping all over my house. Check.




• Collected it all in a pile on the dining table where any idiot who is running around in the dark in a panic would find them. Check.




• While I still had the benefit of electricity, I paid both fridges a visit and cranked up the freezer and fridge temps to Artic Tundra. A frozen solid tuna steak is not going to turn to cat food in a few short hours.




• I also changed the bed sheets, washed and folded 4 loads of laundry, ran the dishwasher, vacuumed all the rugs, wiped down the bathroom, and mopped the kitchen floor. If my house floats away it will at least be clean and orderly.




• Then I moved all the stuff that normally resides on my porch or lawn, that would be very scary if they were to become airborn, to new homes in the house, garage and basement.




• I rolled the exceedingly heavy jute carpet that once graced my dining room floor but had done its last curtsy, into a long roll at the dry end of the basement. I would have lifted it to lay across the arms of several chairs, but that would have required me to hire Hulk Hogan.




• I made sure that everything else I remotely cared about was up off the ground. I was pretty sure I could go 4 or five inches deep without losing anything of import.

At 10 oclock that night, when Hil and Pat were reasonably convinced that we were not going to have to evacuate in our pajamas and take all the possessions we could carry, and we had all showered and settled in for the night, the lights flickered for the first time.

And came right back on.

By 11 o’clock, when there had been no more hint at drama, I took myself to bed. And took the cat with me. A night like any other.

I texted Scott. He said the wind was howling and he’d lost a tree branch, but other than that, he was doing just fine. The eye of Hurricane Irene was bouncing up the coast along side him and he was doing alright. Nothing remarkable to report. There would be nothing to suggest that anything at my house would go differently.

At 3:30 am I awoke to the soft sound of gentle rain. As I opened my eyes, I realized that my room was completely dark. The power had gone out, I had no idea when. But I was relieved that the storm was not so stormy; that was a good sign. Just the same, I took my flashlight and went to check the basement. If the power was out, my sump pump would be off, and the water could be rising. Or maybe not.

I reached the top of the landing to see Trinket’s kitty litter box just beginning to float away from the step. I tip toed down and snatched it from the water like Moses from the Nile before it was out of my reach …and therefore out of Trinket’s reach. Yikes.

And with my flashlight I could see that the water was about already about 3 inches deep. I knew the power could have been off for no more than 4 and a half hours and did the math. I went upstairs and got my cell phone and texted Scott.

“Taking on water. Staying up for a bit to see where this goes."

A Day That Will Live in Infamy

A word of advice. The best day to visit an amusement park, if, for instance, you are not amused by standing in long lines for hours waiting for a 90-second ride, is the day they are expecting to be memorialized by being decimated by a category 3 hurricane. Bar none.

We arrived at the park with our RVVs (Return Visit Vouchers, in the vernacular) and went promptly to the Guest Services desk. Beaten to the punch only by a father and son team of Goth aficionados who couldn’t care less about the location of the courtesy water fountains or lockers (With wallets chained to your Wranglers, why bother?) but needed to know the longitude and latitude of every smoking area in the park. So we were delayed momentarily, while the other window at Guest Services remained unattended so that the cheerful person whose face might normally appear in it attended to the parents of triplet 3 year olds and their giant stroller. (Again, why bother?) This was our only delay.

The rest of the day was amusement park heaven. Minimal waits. Choice seats. No crowds to get lost among. Quick access to bathrooms, food and drink, park personnel. Dark clouds and the threat of imminent rain keeping the temperatures moderate and attendance low.

It is hard being a party of three at a park. If my kids liked the same rides, I could sit each one out, or share a car with a stranger. But they are an adventurer and a conservative, and never the twain shall meet. I have to ride everything. From slingshot propelled suspension roller coasters to rider controlled flying cars. It is not easy.

But Pat and Hil have matured to the point of realizing the challenge, and while they are no less demanding, have found a way to understand that I can not be upside down in rail car and putt-putt-putting around the park in a model-T at the same time. So Hil will gamely go solo on some rides, and Pat will take his pocketful of quarters to the arcade when he needs to kill time and wait for me and Hil. It is a nice change from the Don’t Talk to Strangers and Don’t Dare Move From This Spot days. Everyone has a cell phone. Provided it doesn’t get tossed into the lagoon by a coaster’s centrifugal force, we can manage the trip quite ably.

I wish I could say the same for everyone. Hil and I waited in one line for nearly 15 minutes we were so anxious to complete our run of coasters. In line a party or two in front of us were a trio of red heads. Not Susan Sarandon-Jessica Rabbit- Nichole Kidman redheads. No, Rubert Grint-Danny Bonaduce-Chuck Norris redheads. Two teenaged girls and their father. All engaging in generally rude behavior, especially considering that we were all confined to a line together. I sensed trouble.

Pat was off trying to win an enormous stuffed pig at the arcade and Hil and I were trying to keep up the nerve to ride the mother of all coasters, which enjoys a straight up lift and straight down plunge right at the beginning.

The ride was thrilling. Hil and I screamed our heads off and laughed out loud and high fived at the end. During one of the portions of the ride where we were briefly upright but in between death spins and plummeting drops, a camera mounted on a pole snaps a picture of the riders enjoying their brush with death.

I normally think that the prices for these photos are outrageous, especially considering that it is likely to get ruined when you walk across the path and get on the log flume, but in this case, I’d spend the money and take the risk.

Imagine our disappointment when we went to the photo counter and our picture was not available! The young man in the apron behind the counter sensed our initial confusion and asked us what was wrong.

“We don’t see our picture,” Hil replied.

“Were you in the middle car?” the boy asked.

“Yes!” Hil replied, brightly.

“Oh, we can’t print that picture. The girls in front of you, the two redheads, flipped off the camera and we can’t print that photo for anyone.”

Hil is confused. How could they turn off the camera?

The moment of truth. Not everyone is a Nice Person. “Sweetie, what that means, is those hideous poorly mannered girls with the unfortunate hair and freckles and buck teeth ruined it for everyone by making an obscene gesture at the camera. The park will not waste their money and ruin their reputation by distributing pictures with people giving the camera The Finger.”

And with that, Pat appeared out of the crowd and it began to rain. Time to head for home, pop some popcorn and watch the storm. Fortunately the last memory of the day could not undo the treasure that had been the rest of the day, or the lessons we all learned about patience and courtesy and enjoying your family.

Shop 'Til You Drop

Once in front of my house, I reconsider the drive by and take the time to exit the vehicle, say hello to the cat and preheat the oven, all while looking for a more comfortable pair of shoes to stand in line for hours in.

Once at the Superfresh, I am lucky to get a cart. There are exactly two. And from the looks of them they should have been sent to the junk yard years ago. I pick the one with the wheel that squeaks over the one with the alignment problem.

I start with what I know will be in short supply. Bread. There is nothing resembling the plain old white bread that is the only sliced bread my children will eat. I can have my pick of rolls and bagels, but not bread. I opt for some bagels. I know they’ll eat them, if only under duress.

There is no milk. No 1%, 2% or full fat. I can have all the soy milk or buttermilk I want. I bee-line it to the organic aisle. I know I can pass that off as regular milk. And if not, at least there is something to put in my coffee.

Eggs. Picked over and lots broken. I can buy the brown kind. I will just have to make sure I break them before anyone sees what’s going into the pancake mix.

Good luck getting water, Spam, Velveeta cheese, and a whole host of other things that I would never think to buy. I am surprised the shelves have been cleared of them. I didn’t hear anything about prying open and restocking the fallout shelters.

The rest of my trip is essentially uneventful, except for the madding crowd. People are clearly panicking and unsure of what they’ll need. It is hard to predict how you’ll manage if you lose electricity and refrigeration or water. But it is not like we live in some remote deserted location. I am sure if I need a roll of toilet paper one of my neighbors will give me a loner. My cart looks unlike any other I have filled this year, except I’ve had to go with some second string manufacturers.

I get in line. There are a few people willing to endure the harassment they will surely get for taking a full cart to the self checkout. I am not one of them. I get in a line with a half dozen other folks at a checkout aisle that is about to get a fresh cashier. Call to the Bullpen!

But the dynamics in line are hilarious. I chat up the woman behind me. She has a cart full of baby food, and diapers and wipes and formula. Clearly she wants to be prepared for a long stint of inconveniences without impact to her children. I applaud her. She also has a few items that could pass as staples for her and the hubby. And a treat or two. To eat by firelight, I presume.

The lady in front of me also has a full cart. She doesn’t have a single item of caloric integrity in her whole cart. Hummus. Pita chips. Doritos, Fritos, Cheetos, (all the Os) Onion dip. Vegetable dip. Salsa. Baba Ganoush. Chips, scoops, crackers, all manner of baked, fried, crisped vehicles with which to lift a high fat substance to one’s mouth.

Ice cream. Poppers. Bake at home soft pretzels. Cupcakes. Muffins. Bakery cookies. Prepackaged marshmallow treats. The complete line of Tastykake, Li’l Debbie and Hostess.

And I wonder, with all of us out doing our Apocalypse shopping, did this woman actually think she or maybe her loved ones would not survive a full day with out hors d’oevres and dessert?

The shift manager has come to his little desk to make change for a cashier. He can not be even 20 years old. It is his finest hour. I harass him, in a good natured way, about the lack of carts. The mother behind me gives him a hard time about the number of check out aisles with no one to check anyone out.

But I have a better suggestion. The aisles should be prioritized. Those that have a real genuine mission could get to the front of the line based on the nature of their purchases.

Staples and essentials. Those folks buying survival items to outlast the storm can an EZPass to a seasoned cashier.

Garden-variety shoppers. Those who are doing their regular shopping and would be here buying the same cart load of stuff whether Irene was on her way or not, get the next best thing. Someone who is on their second shift of a double, earning combat pay. Good but a little weathered.

Junk Foodies – Like the lady in front of me. The people out just clearing the shelves because they have an excuse to buy loads and loads of crap and then eat it before it all goes bad, get to self check out. And if they don’t know how, we’ll give them a rookie. Someone from the back of the house who will ensure that it is sheer torture.

Soon enough I am scanned and bagged and $140 lighter. I call my kids. One last stop and I will be home. I load up my car and coast down the lot to the liquor store. Irene is coming. Time to stock the bar.

Soylent Green is PEOPLE!

I refused to believe that Irene was actually coming. It’s all hype. She’ll be a big fat no-show.

Try telling that to the masses though. They were not buying it.

What they were buying was groceries.

But I wouldn’t find that out just yet. I had hair cuts to deal with.

Pat has really short hair and a fussiness about keeping it just right. Hil has really blonde hair that turns green in the pool. They are hairstylist nightmares – unless handled just so. And I am sure I don’t need to tell you which parent, between the two they have to choose from, refuses to make the effort at handling them “just so.”

It’s not that I go to a Hollywood stylist, or invite the follicle advisor to the White House to my home for a private clipping. I go to a walk-in only place in a strip mall that gives you your 13th cut for free. It’s just a matter of making sure that Pat’s stylist is there when we go. So really, it’s a phone call.

But the Chosen Stylist has been on vacation for two weeks (he must get some pretty good tips!) and Pat’s hair is Out Of Control. Hil’s has taken on the look of Kermit the Frog. School starts in a week. Gotta go get the locks done.

And of course, the only day that weekend that we are around, and The Golden Stylist is around is Friday. And I have already been delayed an hour in Exodus traffic.

But we go, and the kids are looking fabulous and I am shelling out fees, and tip money and buying the extraspecial, clarifying, superstripping shampoo that could take the finish off my kitchen floor for Hil, she is so thrilled with the texture of her hair an the fact that it has resumed a normal human shade.

It is well past prime afterwork shopping time, and I have not even been home yet. Time for plan B.

There is a tiny little Superfresh market in the strip mall. It is so small it holds one variety of everything and will be too small and too picked over to do my shopping in. It is really only there to serve the otherwise shut in population of the high rise across the lot that is occupied solely by retirees. It is where they take their daily walk to buy a bag of groceries that they carry home in an effort to thwart the threat of osteoperosis.

My plan is, I will fly in, grab two frozen pizzas for the kids to make for themselves, dump them at home to fend for themselves and feed the cat while I bomb at neck breaking speed to the BIG Superfresh on the other side of town.

Not so fast.

No really. Not so fast.

The store is mobbed. The lines are half way down the aisles. The self-check out is even crowded. But I have only two items so the self check out is the way to go.

The lady in front of me has made the same decision, but she has a full cart. Staples. Essentials. Non-essentials. Scotch tape. Videos. A magazine! Worse, she has evidently never used the scanner before (just released from prison????) and is confused that waving the bananas in front of the scanner is not recording their price. She needs the attendant, but the attendant is busy helping return carts and market baskets to the front of the store so the rest of humanity can come on in and shop. The lady gets frustrated with the uncooperative bananas and scans the video. Ooops. That’s way too much to pay for this dumb story. It’s not even Disney. Again. Will need the attendant. It’s got to be removed. She is still relocating carts and baskets. Let’s move onto packages of meat with Coupons attached…

In the mean time, the man next to me is completely losing his grip. He is holding just a bunch of fresh Cilantro. Can’t imagine how bland that recipe must have been for him to come out for THAT in THIS.

I am finally past the full-cart mess, and onto my scanner. I am tempted to just treat the guy to his cilantro, but instead hurry to pay and leave. I am not at all sure that what awaits me in the big Superfresh is not full on Soylent Green chaos.

Come On, Irene

The next day, as I toiled away at the office, the Governor of the state where Scott lives ordered mandatory evacuations. So by the time I joined the rush hour follies, all of humanity had packed their cars a la the Clampets and were heading for higher ground. Higher ground that they must have expected to find in my state. I was on the road with a cast of thousands. All in a panic, all jockeying for road position. All a life-sized pain in the ass to be sharing the road with.

An hour later, when I was still on the bridge when I should have been pulling up in front of Lars house to retrieve my jubilant children, I felt the responsibility to call him. Hateful task. Someone has to be the bigger person.

He wasn’t too concerned with my arrival time, he wasn’t exactly engaged in actively responsible parenting. But being true to his Larsishness, he had been watching TV all day. The news. Weather updates on the storm, specifically.

I barely watch the news. If it affects me, for sure, I will find out about it. Snipets of top stories on the car radio. The front page headlines on the paper delivered to the office. Grousing around the microwave in the office kitchen…typically inclusive of the political landscape, the economy and stock market activity, who won what games. Surely, a war or gas rationing won't catch me by surprise.

The reasons are simple. I have enough crap to contend with right under my own roof and in my own office. I am not inclined to invite in a whole other world of S*** to make the picture that much more grim. And after having seen “Bowling for Columbine” I had heeded Michael Moore’s warning that the news is not the news like our parents watched. It is driven by political or other agendas, and intended to scare us. Illicit a specific response by making us fear something or someone. If you watch a variety of networks, imagine how confused you’d be! Do this or you'd be in financial ruin! Do that or there won't be any green grass for your children's children to enjoy!

But Lars, the couch potato, does not subscribe to this line of thinking. Instead he has listened to the harbingers of doom at the Weather Channel (Hello, how will they stay in business unless they can make the weather dramatic? It’s hard to get ratings with a drizzle and a light fog. The Storm of the Century? Now there is where your Nielsen’s are.)

He begins with a question. Sort of.

“Uuuhh, the kids tell me you are going to an amusement park tomorrow?”

“Yes, we have free passes that expire next week. Because we got rained out before.” Unflappable.

“Have you kept up with the news? You know there is a hurricane coming, right. Irene?”

Hurricane? What hurricane? Next you'll be telling me that John Lennon is dead!

I don’t answer. My only really thoughts on Irene were that it should have been named Estelle. You know. The devastation. The chaos. The WTF feeling when she's come and gone.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean…It’s a hurricane. Mass exodus. Panic time.”

I am sure I know what he’s trying to say. He just isn’t saying it with any clarity. What he’d like to say is, “Have you lost your freakin' mind going to an amusement park while a hurricane is coming? You must be the worst mother on the planet! It’s completely irresponsible!”

“Well, I intend to check the website before we leave tomorrow. And we’ll have some stuff with us in case the weather turns. We can always stay at Charlotte’s cottage. It is not far away.” Again. Unflappable. So what else is new?

“Ooookkkkkaaaaayyyyyy,” he says with that you’re-an-idiot-but-I-can’t-stop-you tone he likes to take when he’s sure I am gambling and sure to lose.

Truth is, I’ve had these very same doubts about our plans and my credibility as a mother all day, but as I sat, literally in park, in my car in Exodus traffic, I Googled the amusement park, clicked on the alert, and read that given their distance from the path of the storm, they intended to remain open all weekend.

So there. Until the park tells me otherwise, me and Hil and Pat were going to go enjoy a few rollercoasters and a really overpriced lunch. And hopefully some short lines for rides because the hurricane will surely keep more sensible folks away.

Bring it, Irene.

Water, Water Everywhere and Not a Drop to Drink

It’s funny how the prediction of doom brings people together.

Scott and I sat at a table at Doyle’s for about 5 minutes before the conversation started. The people next to us had looked at a house on the water that they liked enough to buy, but were afraid would not be there after the weekend. Scott’s boat was afloat and tethered to a floating dock, but if the floating dock floated away or the torrents of water exceeded the life of the batteries backing up the bilge pumps, we’d be saying goodbye to weekends on the water. The waitress was a little nervous about what might be happening at home while she served food and drink to people who would rather watch the game than watch the water rise at home.

Soon after dinner plates had been cleared and a last round of cocktails had been ordered, Scott’s daughters appeared at the window of the restaurant having been evacuated from the barrier island where they were working for the summer. Presumably, no one would be on the island to go for a spin on the Bumper Cars. Scott’s sister had boarded the house and fled as well, taking with her the elderly tenant from the first floor apartment and all the memorabilia her car could hold. The girls were looking for a grocery shopping list and volunteering to shop for us. In the spirit of the night, we all headed out together for Apocalypse Shopping.

Acme was reminiscent of the Tickle-Me-Elmo frenzy from a few years ago. Panic. Chaos. Madness. Rock-Paper-Scissors to get the last cart. Debate over who needs the last gallon of bottled of water more. Bribes offered for the last dozen eggs. Insults slung after being beaten to the punch in the bread aisle.

I am not sure about you, but I could survive for weeks, literally weeks, on what is in my house on a given day, with or without the benefit of refrigeration or the ability to cook. Weeks. I am not suggesting we’d all be happy with the menu, but we’d sustain life without difficulty. Even the cat.

But that got me thinking. With all the running around I’d done this week, I’d blown off grocery shopping myself. I had no milk for coffee. No bread for sandwiches. No frozen pizza the kids could make for themselves. And thus would have to join the cast of thousands on Friday evening after having retrieved the kids from Lars’ house.

Yippee. Another trip to the bowels of Hell itself.

Rain Rain Go Away

And as if an earthquake were not quite enough, a hurricane was headed our way. Hurricane Irene. That bitch.

Always the optimist, I ignored all the hype for days, even as heavy rain began to make its way up the coast to Scott's neck of the woods. Gamely hopped in my car after work to trek over hill and dale, blueberry farm and lakeside community, in torrential, teeming rain to Scott's town where we were supposed to go out for dinner.

In a complete funk and what I would describe as a pisspot mood, I pulled into Scott's driveway hours later to find him standing on his front step, waiting for me to arrive and holding a gigantic umbrella. He ran out to my car and greeted me as I opened the door.

"I would choose starvation over going out to dinner," I said as I grabbed my overnight bag and let him escort me to the door of the house. I dumped my bags on the bench in his room that I've claimed for my own and promptly curled up on the bed in my work clothes, assuming a grousing posture.

Scott began to explain. "Dear, I have not been grocery shopping. The girls have been at my sister's so I have maybe a Cup O' Noodles and a pack of crackers."

"I don't care."

He curled up with me and let me brood in silence. Occassionally he'd look over at me scowling and look away quickly before I'd hiss.

After a few minutes, and starting to sound patronizing, but just a little, probably out of hunger, he said, "I can go to Mike's Subs and get us some sandwiches. Maybe something warm. Or a salad. You like their Chicken Caesar. No onions, like you like."

"I know I like their salads." No help from me. In a funkola like no other was I. It is not everyday you nearly hydroplane into a lake.

A few minutes later I abruptly get up and begin to peel off my work clothes. Scott thinks I am getting into my pajamas, which, I won't lie, seemed like the most appealing option I had before me.

He jumps up ready to leap into action. "Should I call Mike's? What would you like?"

"No, I'm putting on something comfortable. We have to go out."

"No really, I can go out! Stay put! What can I order for you?"

"Scott, unless Mike's Subs has a bottle of wine they can sell to you, we need to go out."

"Oh. Is that what you want? Ok, then I guess we'll go to Doyle's."

Yes we will. For wine, food, football and Irene. Crappy dinner company that she is.

The Sky is Falling

I have vertigo. Have I mentioned that?

It was actually a Monday morning following a Girls Weekend that I discovered I had it. Couldn't seem to stay upright. Fell down while drying my hair. Fell down while trying to sit on the toilet. Fell down shaving my legs. It was like my head gained 600 pounds. I just could not keep it off the ground.

And since at the time I was married to Lars, and he was away on an educational rotation in another state, I did what every grown up does. I called my mother.

My mother lived inconveniently an hour away at the time, so she called my Dad, who was living a mile away. He came into my house, threw a sheet over me like a lunatic and called the ambulance. And the games began.

And since then I've learned that I can no longer rollerblade, that I can't walk around in the dark, and that if I can't see the ground that I'm walking on (because maybe I've looked up at the clock on the tower on City Hall) I will not only walk crooked, I may actually not stay entirely erect. It's an ugly little affliction. But one I control by keeping my eyes open and my hand on the railing if I have to look at the person I'm descending the stairs with. No one needs to be accused of being drunk at work.

So imagine my confusion when I was standing in a colleague's office last week and felt the Earth move. I chalked it off to vertigo and thought I'd better refill that allergy prescription until she said, "Liza, is the building moving?" And then I noticed that it was not just my wacky little inner ear follies, it was actually environmental. Her shades were swaying. Because the building was moving.

And being a life-long East-Coaster, the last thing I thought it could be was an earthquake. Honestly, I work in such a low budget, slum-lord style, paint-and-carpet-are-only-lipstick-on-the-pig building in the nation's crime capital with the largest privately held collection of derelict buildings, I assumed that the building was about to collapse.

And nearly came unglued.

When all the inhabitants of the department came out into open office space with looks of confusion, my boss ushered us into the hallway. And from there we could see that the building was truly trembling. And it wasn't improving. It was getting worse. We could see that we were in and out of alignment with the parking garage. The attached parking garage.

Into the fire stairs we went. Me in my kitten heel flowered sandals and impossibly straight skirt, running down 5 flights of stairs, pit stains forming on the cool blouse Charlotte just gave me. I began to say Hail Mary's loud enough for the whole lot of us to hear. Surely Mary would hear.

Once outside I ran from the building hoping to dodge whatever debris would surely be falling by then, but not looking up because taking my eyes off the ground would make me fall down... damn vertigo.

I boldly stopped traffic to let all the building occupants cross the street. Feeling safe somehow next to a dilapidated brick house that probably would crash to the ground from the force of our building collapsing. A no win situation.

And once there, a colleague got a text from her husband. It was not that our building was finally just crumbing, but a 5.8 earthquake in Virginia that would be felt from Georgia to Canada. It was just getting rolling when it rumbled through my little corner of commercial office space.

I was at once relieved to learn that my building was not slum enough to actually be falling down(though I wanted a word with the fire department when they cleared the building to be entered occupied again.)

But what I realized next was my deepest fear that day. It was not that I feared being bonked on the head by a flying chunk of cinder block. Or that the world had gone mad. Or that we were the object of an attack of some kind.

It was that suddenly and all too soon, I would die. And that I was not prepared. I have living to do, and love to give, and things to accomplish and lessons I need to teach my children.

And the worst part of that was, if I were to die, my innocent children would be left to be raised solely by Lars. The nut. The ogre. The bully. The Very Bad Person. That they would feel so lost without me. That they would dispare. They would have No Way Out.

And when we were allowed back in our building and had climbed the stairs to resume our work and finish the day, I quietly closed my door and cried. Just a little. For reasons I still can't completely explain.

Labor of Love

I pause from my own follies to reflect for a moment on Labor Day. Which was yesterday, in case in the rush to get your kids out the door to the bus and into the classroom not looking like they were raised by wolves, you've forgotten.

Yesterday, I joined Scott on the boat for the first time since the storm (which we'll get to...) We were lucky to have not had it sink and luckier to have it in one piece after floating with the floating dock to unfamiliar places before settling right back where we always expect to find it.

I knew Scott would be busy hosing it down and cleaning it to make it sparkle, and we were taking Charlie (the neurotic King Charles Cavalier) and I would need to find something to do to entertain myself. I took the laptop.

And as I sat in the morning sun, firing up the Internet to answer e-mails and muse about the week that was, I saw in the smooth dark screen, my own reflection, most prominently, my hands. And I was struck by their appearance. Not their age, not their grooming, but their similarity to my father's hands.

I think I may have paused watching them, in their natural position of work, for a full 3 minutes, which if you are me, may as well be an eternity.

My dad's hands were massive. Mine are tiny. So it is not that. But the shape that I saw today was most distinctively his. My hands have matured to their own character. And they have grown to resemble his. The shape of my nails. Their length. The depth of the beds. Their strength. I am not sure how to describe the familiarity of them. It was the same sense of wonder I felt the first time I observed Pat cock his head in the mirror at the same particular pitch that my dad cocked his own, to part his hair. Almost ghostly.

And then I heard the song.

One of Scott's projects this day on the boat was to fix the stereo. Make it operable from the wheel rather than having to leave it unattended to go change the station rather than endure a Miley Cyrus ditty unnecessarily. He got it fired up and blaring and within minutes, I heard "I need a sign..." the familiar beginning of the tune by Train that always compels me to be alert, pay attention. Dad is talking. Listen hard.

Apropos that it is Labor Day. The day originally intended to celebrate the indefatigable spirit of labor unions, but has since come to be a day of rest and barbeque's, and symbolizes the official end of summer, will always remind me of Dad.

He would have begun the day manicuring the lawn, washing both cars, and listening to a baseball game on the radio. He would be tirelessly tinkering with something. Extending a hose. Unclogging a sprinkler. Repairing a porch screen. Fixing a window so it would not rattle any longer. His hands would be black. Scraped. Raw. I recall a day when he got overly anxious to remove clumps of wet grass from the blades of his Lawnboy and sliced his fingers deeply. With the lawn only half done, he placed duct tape on the wounds, hoped for the best and kept mowing. His labor of love. I will always remember him working.

I was a bit of a hoarder as a kid. Rock collections. Coin collections. Foreign stamps. Bits of beach glass. Shells, arrowheads, all manner of crap, stowed in shoe boxes for all posterity. I had removed an article from a Reader's Digest called "My Father's Hands" and had saved it for years, never having shared it with anyone. At this point, I can recall an illustration in the article, but not a single relevant other thing, except that it made me cry. And when I would occasionally go through a purge and think about discarding it, I would read it one last time, and it would make me cry, and through tear-filled eyes I would find a spot for it among the things I'd keep.

And so maybe the image of my own hands and the song by Train were just to make sure I remember. Like I would ever forget. And so, for Dad, I offer a song from Dan Fogelberg, who, reminding me of the article with this song, also makes me cry, just a little:

"An only child alone and wild
A cabinet maker's son
His hands were meant for different work
And his heart was known to none
He left his home and went his lone
And solitary way
And he gave to me
A gift I know I never can repay

A quiet man of music
Denied a simpler fate
He tried to be a soldier once
But his music wouldn't wait
He earned his love through discipline
A thundering, velvet hand
His gentle means of sculpting souls
Took me years to understand

The leader of the band is tired
And his eyes are growing old
But his blood runs through my instrument
And his song is in my soul
My life has been a poor attempt
To imitate the man
I'm just a living legacy
To the leader of the band.

My brothers' lives were different
For they heard a different call
One went to Chicago
And the other to St. Paul
And I'm in Colorado
When I'm not in some hotel
Living out this life I've chose
And come to know so well

I thank you for the music
And your stories of the road
I thank you for the freedom
When it came my time to go
I thank you for the kindness
And the times when you got tough
And, papa, I don't think
I said, 'I love you' near enough"

- The Leader of the Band (http://www.elyrics.net/)

Thank you, Dad, for your tireless work. You were a fine ship to steer by with your work ethic, and did an enviable job at keeping a lot of plates in the air at home. You did the work of two parents, and never let me forget how very much you loved us. Today I was reminded of your powerful, gentle hands, and am thankful to have had them to hold as a little girl.

In Celebration of Girlfriends

One of the things I love about Girls Weekend is the ritualistic fun. And the fact that a really great Friday makes the weekend seem endless.

We routinely go to the hotel restaurant for the breakfast buffet. We order gallons of coffee and have to get terse with the waitress when she brings us demure little cups that she will happily return and refill 4 dozen times, but we'd rather have a pot. Just bring the pot. Don't make me go into the kitchen and take one.

We will wait for hours for a made to order omelet, eat half and go for French Toast and sausage. We'll get some fruit and ignore it. What we need is fat and carbs. Not pulp and vitamins.

We rehash the escapades of the evening before. Fill in gaps for each other. Piece together each person's story so we know what was happening when each of us was engrossed in our own drama. Or bar fight. Or crime spree.

And then Kate, who is a "maybe" for breakfast, and I head out onto the beach to walk to the next town over for shopping and talking and a trip to a convenience store for a life saving hoagie and vats of unsweetened ice tea. And then return to the pool for sun, napping and Girl Talk.

The Girl Talk is the best part. We get the true, unabridged, full strength, shameless scoop on each of our lives. Our kids, our sorrows, our careers, our parents, our worries, our diets, etc etc etc.

Topics this year included:

• My ex-husband's pending marriage and what a laugh riot that could be to watch unfold



• Joy's job, new since last summer, and the high drama behind the scenes



• Kate's frustration with having to attend sexual harassment training when it was some other moron who sent a picture of his testicle to a married co-worker. Well, not a picture of his testicle. A scan of his testicle. With a growth on it. I am not sure that makes it any less horrifying. Or less hilarious.



• The final wrap up with the Life and Times of J. Good riddance. No further discussion needed.



• Penny's plans to override her sadness over the breakup with her beau with multiple flings with delicious men of all ages but only certain incomes. Girl's gotta eat.



• Jill's thoughts on past loves - particularly those that she still bumps into, since that can't be discussed anywhere but here.



• My over-the-top happiness with Scott and the pinch-me-I-can't-believe-I-have-it-all giddiness that goes with it.



• All of our hopes and fears and worries and other developments in our kids lives. They have grown up under our noses. Where did the time go? We don't feel any older. How can they be?



• And of course the out-loud reading of the Cosmo sex quiz. And a little color commentary on what our own experiences can add to the article.

And what I reaffirm this Girls Weekend as I do every Girls Weekend is:

• There are no friends like girlfriends. We are so lucky to have even one. Blessed to have this many.



• Your girlfriends never judge you. But will ask you to look at yourself if they think you are making a mistake, and let you figure it out. But if you are happy with your choices, so are they. And if they turn out to be bad choices, help you weather the storm.



• Your girlfriends will never tell you that you look fat, but will not let you walk out the door in an outfit that does make you look fat. Even if they have to accidentally set it on fire with a cigarette.



• Girlfriends root for you. They want you to look and feel great and will lend you anything they have to that end. It makes for good karma when you step out together. And the laughs will surely follow.



• Girlfriends are amused by the ways that we are different from each other. Who needs 5 clones when you can have 5 wonderfully unique ladies at your side?



• Girlfriends will allow you to momentarily question your faith in yourself, but will never question their faith in you.

And this is why Girls Weekends should be national holidays. If we can set aside a day to honor the flag, and remember the war dead, and celebrate independence, we can set aside a few days to revel in the love that we can only get from Girlfriends.

Band On The Run

The band is hard to describe. I am not encouraged by their appearance.

The bass player takes the stage and begins to tune his guitar. He is dressed like an Amish man. Could have easily just stepped out of a horse and buggy. Or the movie Witness. But then the electric instrument would be a code violation.

The lead singer looks like Uncle Fester. Had he been adopted by the Clampets.

The drummer is pure Deliverance.

I am expecting Dueling Banjos.

But what happens next is magic.
Safety Dance. Gaga. REM.
Dance party utopia.

Kate and I are on the floor jamming. Liberty and Bunny are on the prowl. Penny has been asked by some men (boys?) half her age to go to a bar where people half our age hang out. I can't find anyone else but assume a good time is underway.

Not long after, when the band has taken a break (a break from what?) I come to the realization that we have all had too much sun and too much fun:

- Jill is mad as hell that Liberty is hitting on a guy she thinks is cute. And Jill already has a guy she thinks is cute. So cute she married him.
- I am finding it hard to dance in my flip flops. Really.
- The guys that invited Penny to the youngsters bar are back at the oldsters bar but Penny is not. And we are not really sure we care.
- Kate has begun a life of crime.

I had been admiring the cool graphic on the band's T-shirts. Not that they were wearing them. They were dressed as Amish. But the bartenders were wearing them. And they were kinda cool. When you have had 27 drinks and 6 hours of sun and a Cheeto for dinner.

Kate, thinking she's slick, has maneuvered herself over to the display of T-shirts near the band's equipment and has oh-so-slyly checked the sizes. She's picked her target and is now waiting for opportunity to present itself. And when you are Kate, it always does.

The house music has come on and some great anthem is blaring. A thousand people take to the dancefloor.

Kate makes her move. She removes the T-shirt from its hanger and unobtrusively begins to stuff it down the back of my pants, the waist of which made even smaller by the fact that I've taken off my hoodie and tied it there because of one of my poorly timed hot flashes.

Like no one is going to notice that. I now appear to be wearing a diaper. As if the hot flash didn't scream "Senior citizen in the house!" in the first place.

Sure that we are going to be caught pilfering and forever be ejected from the bar we intend to grow old in, I suggest we leave. And out of nowhere, Jill and Joy appear to join us in the Great Escape.

And we do escape, sans Penny who is still MIA. We wave to her friends as we leave.

But when we pass the old section of the old person's bar, the section where the truly elderly sit and sip cocktails quietly while they pry open their pill cannisters and discuss AARP membership benefits, Kate has a second wind and drags me and my contraband T-shirt in for one last drink.

I am sure I am going to die momentarily, but Kate orders a glass of water at my request, and a beer for each of us because she is sure I am going to spring to life any minute now like the undead. She goes to pay the tab with her hotel key card and I am sure we are doomed. Only Kate can harass a server like Kate. The fun is just beginning. Again.

It is a classic Girls Weekend beginning. And it is only just the beginning.

Safety Dance

She points to a woman at the bar. We'll call her Crazy Lady.

Although we could have just as easily called her:

• Doesn't Get Out Much, or
  



• Needs Socialization Skills, or
  



• Dangerously Unbalanced, or
  



• Forgot To Take the Mood Stabilizers Today.

Even from the back in her odd little ensemble she looks like a kook. And this is going by No Shower Happy Hour standards, which start off pretty minimal.

"What happened?" I ask. Kate is not one to conflict with many people. She is the one who people gravitate toward. Give tickets and freebies to. Allow her to take outrageous liberties.

Kate gives a very animated, wild eyed re-enactment of Crazy Lady's interaction with her, which stemmed from Kate inadvertently encroaching on her bar space while attempting to get a fresh drink.

The nerve.

Evidently Crazy got very close to her face and acted overly friendly and inquisitive and stood a little too close. At first Kate played along, thinking her caretakers from the nervous hospital would be along any minute to throw a net over her head.

But then she got wise and realized the woman was making a point. Or trying to, however lamely.

"Am I in your spot?" Kate asked, demonstrating complete calm.

"Yeah!" the woman screeched, in a little too high pitched a voice, with a little more shaking and nodding than would be customary, and with her eyes spinning noticeably in her head.

Sensing that the woman was just released from the Booby Hatch, Kate said, again, as calmly and cooperatively as she would ask me, "Would you like me to get out of your way?"

And again, Crazy Like a March Hare waved her head around on her scrawny neck and came close enough to Kate's face to examine her tonsils. Again, a high pitched, two syllable, "Yeah!"

Clearly Crazy Lady had dropped anchor at the bar hours ago and felt that she owned several square feet of space for all eternity. Kate moved out of the widening path of lunacy that surrounded the woman.

"I'll get you a drink," I say, knowing that Crazy is no match for me. I have Crazy three meals a day. Lars, work, you name it, I get a full daily dose of Crazy 7 days a week.

I hand Kate my drink to reduce the chance of getting it thrown on me, and make my way through the crowd to the bar.

I come along side Crazy and squeeze sideways in with my money hand extended. A nice gentleman to my front side acknowledges me and makes room. Even waves the bar tender over pointing to me as though I should be next. He's been here before, I guess. I turn to face the bar with the room he's made for me.

So where Crazy had to my back, she is now right next to me, and not happy to be sharing her real estate. At all.

Next thing I know, she is behind me. Right behind me. You might say, "on me."

Dancing wildly and waving her arms and giving me a full body slam against the bar, acting like it is an inadvertent consequence of her dancing. She'll show me!

Having ordered already and not needing to maintain eye contact with the bar tender, I turn around to place my back against the bar. Crazy Lady is now doing her Crazy Encroachment Dance on the front of me. All up and down my fabulous person!

Somehow, without making a face of total disgust, but instead, maintaining a posture of complete calm, I bring my hand up between us, clutch her blouse and the front of her bra, a la Jerselicious but without the 2 inch nails, and resisting the urge to push her, just relocate her forcibly to arm's distance. And hold her there momentarily. And tell her, "You need to stand here. And get a grip while you're at it."

She begins to wildly flail and somehow manages to stay upright while someone I assumed was her husband, but might have been her Constant Attendance Sitter from the Locked Unit, enveloped her in his arms and moved her away.

I turned to retrieve my drinks from the bar and pay. The guy next to me already has paid. "That was priceless," he says.

I turn with my drinks and am immediately confronted by the man who took Crazy Lady away.

Uh-oh. Never really been in a bar fight before. Where's the bouncer? I am not equipped for this.

Instead he leans in and says in my ear, "I'm sorry about that."

I know he's mortified. I say,"Thanks. It happens sometimes at Happy Hour."

I find Kate just as the band takes the stage. Crisis averted. Time to dance.