Ski Trip Calamities, and a Spinach and Artichoke Coincidence

About a week before we left to take our youth group on a ski trip to Okemo Mountain Resort in Ludlow, VT, some boots went on sale and my daughter was about to pass a cow.  She was sure she wouldn't live if she couldn't have them, and receive them before we went on the trip.  I totally sympathized with her crisis, knowing the deliciousness of a new pair of Uggs on your feet, especially when you're visiting a ski resort.  I also felt that I was partly to blame, having recently acquired some sparkly ones myself. So after much delusional thought and consideration, I decided to strike up a deal with her.  I ordered the boots, but I gained possession of a gift card of hers that I'd been coveting (which she volunteered).  She'd also have to do the dishes for 2 weeks.  I even clarified, this wasn't gonna be an occasional dishwasher loading experience.  She would actually have to do "every dirty dish that happened."  She was elated, and I knew my life was about to be hard.

A few days later, the excitement over the boots, which had not even arrived yet, began to diminish.  Washing the dishes was gross, and not fun, and we began to sense a great deal of unhappiness.  I thought she was tracking the shipment of the boots online, so when they arrived on Wednesday, we hid them, just to see how long it would be before she had some big panic attack because the tracking revealed that a delivery had been made and they were missing.

Because that's the kind of parents we are.

On Thursday, Steve and I had to do some shopping for the trip, so we could feed all those people, and we left our kids alone for a few hours.  By now she'd really gotten behind on the dishes, so I said to be sure to get the dishwasher loaded.  That night, we had to take my car, "Cherry Pie" out because Steve's truck was in the shop because New Jerseyans can't stop crashing into him.  Steve had to load hundreds of bottled waters into little Cherry Pie, along with all the groceries we'd need for several days of feeding hungry teenagers.  I think that's when I began to sense the impending misadventures, that like any trip with our family, awaited us.

When we returned home, I checked the dishwasher, and found that Elizabeth had only loaded it with 1 large colander, 1 large bowl, a large pot, and a couple pieces of flatware.  Meanwhile, the sink remained full of dishes, the counters were loaded, and the table was covered.  I wasn't even sure how we'd eat breakfast.  I couldn't say she didn't load the dishwasher, because technically, it was mostly full.  She was already in bed, sleeping soundly. After overcoming my initial desire to squish her, I went to her Facebook page and posted, "Nicely played."

The next morning, I carefully planned a breakfast that wouldn't require me to wash anything first.  I wasn't gonna touch those dirty dishes, no matter what happened.  I didn't care what kind of infestation developed right there in our frightful family kitchen, be it flies, roaches, locusts, or wild animals.  Not that I wasn't afraid.

We were scheduled to leave for VT, bright and early on Sunday morning, and thankfully, by Saturday afternoon, she had all of the dishes sparkling, and even did some additional cleaning in the kitchen.  She even admitted that on Thursday, during her lowest of lows, she'd considered pulling clean dishes out from the cabinets, and loading them into the dishwasher, to avoid touching dirty ones. In all fairness, her schedule was unusually busy-bees that week. Then Steve called for her to come into the family room to grab a box to place into the recycling.  Moments later, we heard her pull at the unopened box of Uggs, pause, and say,

"You people are horrible."

We know. We didn't even mean to wait until the last minute to tell her they'd arrived.  I just kept forgetting.  So she was happy, finally.

By late Sunday afternoon, we arrived in our caravan of 4WD SUVs and truck pulling a UHaul full of skis and luggage, at the condo we'd rented for our group of 21 people. Or 20.  Whatever. The first thing we noticed, is that the interior of that condo is an assault on the eyes.  Bright coral paint and tacky wallpaper adorned the walls of the main living areas. It turns out, the "slope side" condo, isn't really slope side.  And much to our dismay, the bedding had been stripped from all of the beds, and lay in a giant, germ infested pile at the top of the stairs.  There were crumbs on the tables, and debris on the floors.  No one had cleaned.  I wondered if I would hyperventilate.

Then we sank into a deep depression, and even tried to see if we could get into the house we stayed at last year. But it was booked. We thought we might have to wash that gross bedding, or we'd have none, but I couldn't imagine touching that stuff to load it into the washer.  There's a reason I've never been a housekeeper. My friend, Sara, was even bothered that her boot touched it when she walked by it.  All seemed hopeless, when suddenly Steve found some extra bedding stashed in a closet somewhere.  Then one of the boys made all the beds.  Ethan was a hero!

Things began to look up.  Then we noticed there was a bathroom practically inside the kitchen.  We'd assumed it was a closet.  Having accepted that we were gonna be staying there, we announced to the kids, "This bathroom is for urination and hand washing only.  No BMs."  Then we claimed another bathroom as "Adults only."  Don't worry, that still left 2 whole bathrooms for teen number 2s..

Then we saw this:

About a week before the ski trip, Sara and I both just happened to be at the Cheesecake Factory at the same time, and were seated no where near each other. We were both wearing almost identical owl necklaces, and some Uggs. Out of a 20 something page menu, we both happened to order spinach and artichoke dip as our meal, and a slice of cheesecake. So at the condo, this luxurious shag carpet in the loft (boys' room) looked just like spinach and artichoke dip.. Coincidence? I think not..


Anyway, we'd planned to have pizza delivered that night, but we were so traumatized by the dirty condo that we decided to get out of there, and go out for pizza, in hopes that housekeeping , whom we'd now contacted, would show up and scrub that place down.  Online, we found one place that was open, called "Outback Pizza".  The peculiar thing about Ludlow, is that the whole place shuts down by mid-afternoon, except for bars and a gas station or two.  It was now dark, and incidentally, only 11 freezing degrees outside.

On the way there, fully sensing the inescapable downward spiraling course of the evening, we began to speculate about what kind of place "Outback Pizza" might actually be. 

"What if it's a bar??," someone jokingly asked.
"Hey, maybe they'll have karaoke!" I exclaimed.

It turns out, the karaoke was only on Thursdays, and this was Sunday, but still, we had the entire youth group of our conservative Baptist church sitting in a big 'ol bar type place with loud music, where we soon found ourselves asking for group rates because they were out of large pizzas, and the smalls were $13 each.  And we wouldn't let anyone have anything to drink until we found out if they offered free refills. (Think that doesn't happen anywhere anymore?  Visit Vermont.) So they gave us a deal and we just told everyone to eat fast and try not to soak in the atmosphere..  Steve seemed to develop an insatiable thirst from all the anxiety, leading the server to eventually just bring him a pitcher with a straw.

With a new day, came new hope, and all the skiers were soon out for an exciting day.  I woke up pretty early because kids in ski boots sound like a houseful of rambunctious elephants.  I prepared a couple of homemade soups in slow cookers and went upstairs to take a shower.  I knew no one had been in the shower for quite some time, but I still barely had any hot water, which seemed to overshadow my concern about the pink hue on the shower curtain liner.  From inside the shower, I did have a lovely view of the raging snow falling outside, even though I had the improperly-hung blinds completely closed. 

By 10 am, housekeeping had arrived.  They cleaned some stuff, but they didn't give us any toilet paper, which no one noticed until about 10 pm that night.  In Ludlow, you can't just go out for a late night tp run.  So we had to spare squares, here and there, and hold out until morning.

There's nothing more refreshing than a cold shower after a day of skiing in 13 degree temps. So on our 2nd evening in that freak condo, we enjoyed piping hot soup and a "soup bar," and called the homeowner, yet again, because of frigid water.  We got no help from him, so then one of the teens found another hot water heater.  It was turned off, so we turned it on.  I was never sure if it made any difference.

Obviously, we are never staying in that jacked up condo again.

The four of us adults turn into a bunch of germaphobes when it comes to kids touching our food supply, particularly the younger ones.  So when Steve asked me to announce instructions for the "soup bar" we'd set up for dinner that night.  I said,

"Get in line HERE, at this kitchen-bathroom.  Wash your hands.  Use soap.  Then line up here, and take a bowl.  Ladle out whichever soup you want, and select the toppings of your choice.  Then walk this direction, and pick up a grilled cheese.  Touch only the one you're taking.  Don't do ANYTHING gross." By the end of the week we had drilled that "if you touch it, it's yours" rule into these kids, but that can backfire easily when donuts show up and big hungry guys are like, "Mine, mine, mine, mine." 

One interesting oddity about Okemo, is that they sale fresh Belgian waffles right on the slopes, from a little cabin.  I was beyond fascinated by this because I love waffles and I couldn't comprehend how it was possible to eat a waffle on the slopes.  I didn't get to ski this year because of health issues so Sara bought me a waffle, bagged it, skied down, caught TWO lifts, and skied to the condo just to give me a waffle!  She's so awesome!  And it was even still hot!  The waffles have the syrup built in.  And the sugar on the outside caramelizes a little.  Remarkable.. She said storing the waffle inside her coat had kept her warm.

That night, we'd planned to eat dinner at the ski lodge.  So at 5:00 we waltzed into the lodge, only to learn that the kitchen was closed.  Steve had mistakenly been led to believe they stayed open late.  So we were really nervous for a few minutes, realizing we'd pretty much eaten all of our food, since it was our last night.  We weren't sure that anything besides a bar would be open. So we were driving through quaint little Ludlow, when we saw this place:

Perhaps its beauty is what drew us in, or that it was called, "Pot Belly," or simply that it was the only place we saw open.  Of course we were terrified this would be another huge bar scene because then that would be even more unpleasant stories coming back to the parents.  Believe me, when kids get home, the first thing out of their mouths when they see their adoring parents' faces is stuff like, "We ate junk the whole time!"  "Pastor Steve took us to a bar!"  "We stayed up all night!"  (And only ONE of those things happened this time--except me and Sara staying up one night.) But it was actually quite nice inside the Pot Belly, and quiet.  In fact we were the only ones there because apparently, Vermontians don't eat dinner.  Then we realized the entrees were $30...  After we had a heart attack, having brought a whole pile of short-funded teenagers in there, Steve noticed that on the back of the menu there were sandwiches for around $9.  We all breathed a sigh of relief.  We then told the kids they'd need to plan to leave a minimum of 15-20% tip, which we never imagined would cause such panic and hysteria.  So then Steve and Dan spent some time at the kids' tables, giving math lessons, and explaining why it's extra important for Christians to give at least what's expected.  I learned myself that night, that servers only make $2 an hour before tips.  Tip your servers!

I was excited to learn there was a grass fed local Vermont beef burger on the menu.  I normally won't touch ground meat in a restaurant, but that sounded safe, and I was ready to shove a big juicy burger into my face.  So after devouring some delicious bruschetta with melted cheese and topped with a basil and arugula pesto, my burger was placed before me.  I took my first bite, and immediately was troubled by a strange taste.  Then another.  Then I got creeped out and stopped eating it.  So then I scarfed down the best fries I've ever eaten.  But the funky burger did nothing lessen my love for "Pot Belly."

Later, back at the condo, I admitted to others that my burger tasted "too fresh." -like maybe it had been mooing earlier in the day.  Steve thinks I'm a big nut bag and he gave up on that conversation.  So I began to ask others if they'd experienced the same thing, but no one had really had the Vermont burger.  Except for one apparently nonobservant person.  Then Sara told me she totally understood what I was saying.  She said, it's as if my cow was slaughtered that morning, and the beef spent some time at the farm, just sitting around, absorbing the farm animal smell, and then arrived on my plate soon after.  She understands me so well!  Her only regret, was that she didn't realize it at the time because she wished she had tasted my farmtasticly fresh burger.  Sigh.  If only we could turn back the hands of time.  I could have had some support on this.  Because I KNOW, her discerning taste buds would have noticed it too. Meanwhile, Steve still thinks I'm a loon.  But we loved the Pot Belly, except they didn't give free refills which causes me to experience anxiety, because I have to make careful decisions about rationing out my beverage, but we're going back next year. We'll have the kids practice tipping beforehand. 

Steve sat comfortably by the roaring fire each night, and preached on the life of Joseph, while wearing his flannel Steelers pajama pants.  The kids and adults listened attentively, while the aches and pains of a day of sliding down the mountain, sometimes violently, set in. This was usually followed by a game of hide and seek that involved a lot of very loud screaming. 

We were very thankful to return from the trip with NO injuries this year. Days later, when Steve suggested that we might not go back next year, the kids all went insane.  So, we know we have to go back, or face an angry teenage mob.  I'm already looking forward to it too. I have a complaint about Vermont though.  They claim to have moose there.  I've been twice and kept my eyes fixed on every field and woods, the whole time, and I've never once seen one of these alleged real moose.  I'm convinced it's all a sham.

Here, Vermont pretends to have moose.

More delusions..



Products aimed at promoting the deception..

Ethan- Teenager. Computer genius. Boy Scout who took charge of the bedding crisis! Known for saying,  "When I was packing, I actually, LITERALLY, wrote on my list, to bring my swag."

We've made some great friends in NJ.  This is Dan and Sara.  Not that you can see them.  Known for saying:

Dan:  "These kids are soft, like butter in the desert."

Sara:  "I brought you a waffle." ♥
 

That's Elizabeth, in the middle.  Known for posting this on facebook:
  "Just crashed into the waffle house...that's right folks....hit the waffle house, scared the poor waffle lady, and did a split and fell under the window... Thus concludes my skiing adventure..."
"

Little Noah and one of the junior high boys connecting over ipad games.

Those tongs had just been in the fire.



Evening Service. 

The dueling Keurigs.  An annual tradition.

 

I don't know...

When I first saw this, I couldn't remember what it was called and I said, "Look, it's a snow scraping thing."  Southerner problems.

 

Steve and his favorite new toy- a GoPro camera.  Several of these cameras, worn by Steve, Dan, and Derek, gave us countless hours of amazing video footage.

Noah making a snow angel.

 

It snowed like crazy!



Noah sliding down a snowbank, face down.



This is what it looked like the whole time we were there!



Okemo Mountain Resort

Here's something that's actually real in Vermont, unlike those fake moose.. Delicious, real Maple syrup!
 

The also have maple popcorn.  I wish I had more!

This year's catchphrase:  "Happy, happy, happy!"
Last year's catchphrases:  "It flipped!"
                                                   "Are you serious??"

Dark, the Halls. With Boughs of Faux Tree

The creepiest place our family ever visits, is our mini storage unit.  We seem to always go at night, when there's not a soul around.  The enormous facility is the biggest I've ever seen, and quite modern.  The super long hallways are dark, and motion sensors turn lights on and off as you walk.  A glance in either direction, as you pass by the multiple intersecting hallways, leaves you expecting to see a character from a horror movie, who knew you were coming and has been waiting.  So last night, Steve and I were nearby, and we decided to stop in and pick up our Christmas tree.  After stepping into the elevator, signs warned us that the lights were not working on the 2nd and 3rd floors, and we'd need a flashlight.  We began to laugh hysterically, not knowing if we were really brave enough to continue on.
 
"Let us go die now, shall we?" I cackled.

The elevator dumped us off on floor #2, and I tried to hold the doors open for a few extra seconds, not wanting to give up the light. Once the doors slammed shut, we noticed an eerie glow nearby.  They had suspended some kind of dim work light from the ceiling.  While it did provide some light, it was mostly creepy. Then we began to walk.  After a couple of turns, we realized there were no other lights provided.  We had a cellphone flashlight that was gonna die any second, and expose us to the unknowns of the darkness. This atmosphere was a ghost's dream. The deafening sound of our lonely footsteps, rattling the metal flooring, was all that could be heard. After a very long walk, the faint white light from the cell phone barely revealed our mini storage number. Then it took Steve several agonizing minutes of searching to find the right key.

"Amy, Hold the light steady. I can't see what I'm doing!"
"Well, you told me to periodically shine the light in every direction!"

We couldn't see more than 3 feet in front of us, or behind us, or beside us.  Soon we had our tree and I was saying, "Oh, I'll get the wreath!  Grab that box of lights, too!"  Then we speedily locked the unit back up and RAN as fast as we could with a big box of fake tree and other relevant decor.

Thankfully we survived our ill-lighted adventure.  But if my beloved  fuzzy, red cardinal ornament doesn't turn up, we'll be going back. I just hope Steve will store our stuff in the garage after Christmas, which is also very scary, but lit.

Psalm 119:105 "Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path."  I am so glad that as we spin around on this crazy planet, we don't have to be overwhelmed by the darkness and uncertainty. God's Word lights our path and reveals to us all the right and wrong turns, dangers, bumps, and rocks in the road. It enables us to safely and successfully navigate the path He's made for us.  It's a light that will not go out when you need it most. In fact, it is then, that it will glow brighter.

A Late Night Visit to the Funny Pharm

**May this serve as a warning to anyone who's ever thought, "Hey, Sleeping pills sound like a great idea!"**

It all began a bunch of years ago, when my doctor starting thinking I was gonna die if I didn't start going to sleep.  He was all, "Your blood pressure is going up," and bad things were beginning to happen.  Then there was the other sleep disorder-- the one where I open my eyes in the middle of the night, and the spiders, and monsters, and other various and sundry things are coming for me.  Or closet doors appear to open and close.  And I start screaming, and fall out of bed, and then run, terrifying the entire household.  (This is why I don't get to have my own gun.) Then sometimes real things would happen, like one of the kids would come in during the night, and I would think it wasn't real.  I'm told it's a problem with my REM sleep. I suppose it puts us all in danger.

So then pills were prescribed.

That's when I met Ambien. My Dr warned me that eventually, this fun-filled sleepy goodness in a pill would create different problems, but he felt that we had no choice.

And then life was really good.  They say you should take these pills, after you get safely into bed..  And miss the hilariousness? I don't think I ever did that, even one single time.  I've heard of people being found, face-down in the garden, but no pills ever force me into sleep. They are no match for me. In fact, they actually improve my mood so much, I would wait until the ambien mellow arrived, to wash the dishes and get in a quick workout.  Sure, sometimes I would accidentally walk into a wall or something, but for the most part, I found it to be a productive time.  And soon, everyone noticed that I would agree to absolutely anything.  The family loved it.  Here's one example:

"Mom, I think we should breed bearded dragons."
"Oo0o0o that sounds like a great idea!  Puffy is spayed, but we could buy NEW boy and girl lizards. We could breed them and then go to REPTILE SHOWS!"
"Yay!  I'm so excited!"
"Me too!  We will make lots of money..."

The next day: 
"Ummm.. NO WAY.  We are not bringing additional lizards into this house, or into the world." I mean, I love them and all, but people already think we're weird."

Clearly, the family took advantage of my drug induced agreeableness.  On the plus side, when I'd go to bed, I'd sleep like a happy baby. I never tried to drive a car, or binge eat during the night like some ambi-maniacs do, though I do remember eating some raw meat one time.  And dancing in the kitchen at 2 am... alone... with no music.  But those were isolated incidents, and posed no risk to anyone.  Except I could have contracted salmonella or E. Coli.  Thankfully, that didn't happen.

And then I began to experience what my doctor had warned me would definitely happen-- sleeping pill dependency.  Only when I describe it, I refer to it as "ambien addiction" because I think that's a little funny, but sometimes that is frowned upon by others.  And then people think I have a "problem."

Well one night recently, there WAS a problem.  It had been an enjoyable Friday night.  Steve and I had gone to dinner, and then continued our exciting date night at the grocery store.  Yes, we know how to live it up.  Then on the way home, we stopped by the pharmacy to get more pills filled because I was completely out.

 Then the pharmacist said, "This is a new drug, and we don't even have it in stock yet."
 And I said, "OH NO! Did he prescribe the new sublingual ones?"
"Yes"
"But I don't even want those.  I mean, we talked about it, but that's not the ones I meant for him to give me..  Ok, look, it's the weekend; my doctor won't be in until Monday.  I've been on these pills for many years.  I won't sleep for even one minute, the whole weekend, without them.  Can you let me have 2 or 3 of the normal ambien, until my doctor can straighten this whole thing out on Monday?"
 "No."
"Why?"
 "It's a controlled substance."
 "Yes, and I have a prescription for that controlled substance.  Look at my info.  I take these every day."
"Sorry, I can't even give you one."

-All because that little piece of paper said "sublinguals" and not "orals"... And by now, most CVS pharmacies were closed for the night.  So I went home and panicked.  And I called every 24 hour CVS within a 50 mile radius of our house.  And they all said, "We don't have that drug yet." followed by "No, you can't have the other ambien."

Then I got THIS guy:
"Good evening, CVS Pharmacy."
"Yes, do you have the new sublingual ambien?"
"Yes."
"Really?! You do?  Are you sure?  Because I'm getting ready to drive there.  And it's far."
"Yes, I'm looking at them right now."
"Ok.  I have a prescription.  Is there any way to get this process started now?"
"No.  But it will only take a minute when you get here."

It was 1 a.m. now.  And I promise this story gets better.  I think.

We arrived, and I approached the pharmacy counter. 
"Can I help you?"
"Yes, I'm here for some ambien."
He took the prescription and his slender fingers began to roll across his computer keyboard.  With a dead expression, and his face locked on the screen he said, "I'm sorry.  We don't have these in stock."

Now I knew immediately, there were 2 possibilities:
1.  He was joking. OR
2.  I was going to kill him.

I stared for a moment.  Then he looked up and chuckled slightly. I calmly responded, "You have no idea what I've been through tonight.  I could go insane in here, ya know."
"Well, we have pills for that too," he said.

So he was a FUNNY MAN.

And then I asked why no one would let me have the oral pills and how just a quick peak at my profile would make it clear to him that I didn't have a drug problem. I had a sleep problem.  And "Couldn't a whole weekend of not sleeping kill me?"  But again, all he or anyone could say was, "No, blah, blah, ..controlled substance, blah blah." CVS totally didn't care if I died. I decided not to mention that my sleep disorder was gonna bring scary space aliens into my bedroom in the middle of the night if these sublinguals didn't work.  And it was gonna be his fault. 

Suddenly, a loud shrilly voice filled the store, "EXCUSE ME, Are you two together?"  Slowly, and nervously, I turned around, and just inches from my face was a wild-eyed woman with orange hued, bright clown lipstick covering her lips, her teeth, and half of her face.  Now, if I'd already consumed my ambien, I probably wouldn't even have cared about such a display.  But I was already stricken with frayed nerves.  Then Steve, who is kind to all humans and creatures, sweetly and calmly answered, "Yes, we're together."  Then, she lost her mind, (just like I would have if the pharmacist hadn't been joking earlier).  She started yelling, "I WAS JUST ASKING!  YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO ACT LIKE THAT!" And on and on the old bat (obligatory bird reference--if you normally read this blog, then you get it.) went. Steve handles nutty people so gracefully.  I'm not sure how or when he developed that skill, though I have some idea. He was a senior pastor in a Baptist church for 8 1/2 years.

So then the funny pharmacist called us over to another window, in order to escape the psychotic ramblings of Clown Face, and in a low, monotone voice, sarcastically began to ramble, "Welcome to our pharmacy.  As you can see, we have lots of fun here.  It's like this every night, from about 2-4. Crazy people are everywhere.  There's no where else for them to go.  It's either here, or Wawa.  And Wawa makes them leave.  So then they just have HERE.  We have a great time."  Then he said to Steve, "I really wish you would stay.  We could use a guy like you around here.  We really need a bouncer.  I know you could handle it." ... "Are you sure you have to leave?"  "Oh, and your insurance isn't gonna pay for this Ambien.  It's $20 a pill."...

So I bought 2 pills.  I was surprised he considered us to be  the normal people, since moments earlier I'd been all, "JUST GIVE ME THE DRUGS!!!"

On the way out of the pharmacy, I popped one of those dissolvable, sleep-promising babies under my tongue, and then quickly realized it was already disintegrating, and tasted horrible, and I wasn't gonna be able to talk.  So I said, "Oh no, Steve!  I can't talk now.  I wanted to talk to you on the way home.. and sing." which came out all garbled. "That's ok, Amy. Just sleep now."  And he reached over to close my eyes by wiping my face in a downward motion.  Very funny, Steve.  And then he got to enjoy boring silence for the whole ride home.  I hated it.

Once we were home, the new ambien failed to work, and I stayed awake for most of the weekend anyway. So all of that happened for nothing.

I know some people don't really enjoy my prescription drug humor, with the "percs" references or sleeping pill amusements, but I'd rather laugh about fun side effects, than focus on the negative ones, or cry about the reason I need them.  And my personality... it doesn't come from a pill.  This is allllll me.

Shark Bait OOH-HA-HA and Other Tales from a Carolina Vacation

I wrote the following, months ago, but I didn't get it posted because my kids were home all day for the Summer.  The weird cartoons blowing up my tv, fighting, and extreme noise made my brain stop working.  So you're getting this now.  And frankly, it's not my best work, but whatever.

In late June, we departed from Jersey, for a big, fat Carolina vacation.  We visited family in eastern NC, and then the kids finally got to see their closest friends in SC, whom they'd not seen in a year. 

Days later, we went to the Wilds Christian camp, which is tucked into the mountains of NC.  NC mountains... pretty to look at, but kinda scary. Then we met up with the youth group from our church in Jersey, and we began our stay as sponsors for the week.  I'd not stayed at the Wilds for about 10 years, so it was kind of exciting to be back.  The only thing I really dreaded was meals, because I don't eat "camp" food or any kind of mysterious meat.  And I've seen what a bunch of Baptists will do to save money. But I was strong and brave.  And I showed up for dinner the first night.

I don't know when they started cramming 10 adults to one table on that warm, humid porch of the dining hall, but I sat there with my elbows tucked and my entire shoulder to elbow, touching the men on each side of me.  Now, one of them was my husband so that was ok and all, but the other one was a total stranger.  Then the power went out.  At first I didn't think there was any reason to panic because it was daylight still, and I figured it would come back on in a minute.  So the ceiling fans silently whirled a few final times, delivering their last fleeting moments of relief, and I sat there touching these men while trying to contort my arms in a way that would lead the last of my pizza towards my mouth without someone taking an elbow to the face.  Once the meal was over I said, "I'm never going in there again. I'd rather starve."


So hours passed, and we endured the Summer heat, without power.  We hadn't even brought a flashlight. We flopped onto the bed that we'd not put sheets on yet, and began to spiral into negative delusions, caused completely by the torturous heat.  Here's a few statements/questions I can remember:


"I hate the Wilds."
"I hate this hard bed."
"I hate no power."
"I hate camp."
"I hate the dining hall."
"Why do they want us to suffer?"
"Even when the lights were on, I didn't like them.  They were too bright."
"I hate the toilet paper."


Then I suggested that we put sheets on the bed while we could still see how to do it, but Steve said he didn't want to get up, so he'd just go outside later and turn the headlights on, and they'd shine into the room, providing a beacon of light over the bed, and then we'd make the bed. And then I laughed hysterically at his procrastination.


Meanwhile, over in the kids' dorms, we had no idea how the kids were doing, but later learned that some of the campers didn't have running water.  Elizabeth's group had to bathe in the stream that night, and she was terrified because of her fear of sharks..  Yes, you just read that.  My kids have always made fun of my weird phobias, not understanding that crazy is genetic. Now Elizabeth is getting a taste of her own genes.


The night grew dark on that isolated Carolina mountain, both literally and figuratively. When the power finally came back on, we were exceedingly happy!  And our outlook changed completely, until we found out that the outage, involving 3 counties, was caused by a snake that slithered into a transformer, causing major damage, and another outage was expected for further repair.  So we lived in fear after that, but thankfully they never had to shut it off again. The rest of the week was awesome, except for having to drive 40 minutes into town, every single day, to avoid starvation.  I actually like the Wilds, but next year I will take a grill, slow cooker, cutting board, knife, toaster oven, and small refrigerator. And Steve's completely on board with this because he's slowly turning into me.  He says I've ruined him.



Elizabeth on the big horrifying swing.



Noah, soaking wet.

Think "Deliverance"

So after a week of mountain fun, spiritual growth, and intense suffering, we were headed to Myrtle Beach.  All the way from the mountains to the coast, the kids filled our heads with all of their wild stories of fun, misery, and one particular "psychotic" counselor.  The heat wave that swept across the country was upon us, and I was ready to be neck deep in the ocean. 


From the moment we arrived, Noah harrassed us about visiting Ripley's Aquarium for the 497th time.  It's always the same, but he feels that it will offer him new excitement with each and every visit.  And sure enough, the highlight of our entire trip happened at the aquarium.  Elizabeth timidly stepped onto the moving sidewalk thing that takes you into the tunnel, underneath the massive tank of sharks.  And then it happened.  This is a story I wouldn't even tell if there had not been several witnesses.  Midway through that jawsome sidewalk ride, one of the sharks slowly drifted by Elizabeth, then turned back, looked her square in the eye, and snapped it's mighty tooth-lined jaws at her! 3 times! I'm not saying it charged the glass or anything, but I think it wanted to scare her!  Can sharks sense fear, through like a foot of acrylic?  It was so epic!  Needless to say, she was quite relieved when the sidewalk spit her out on the other end.  Here's a few pics of her experience.

Later, in the ocean, some big fish bumped into my leg.  It could've been a shark, but who knows?  I screamed and attempted high speed underwater running/swimming/flailing, but it didn't scare me enough to get out. I still played in the waves, and watched the seagulls diving for fish all afternoon. I actually think sunscreen is far more dangerous than ocean life.  It gives you a false sense of security and then you lay on the beach all day like an idiot, and leave looking like an angry lobster.  It's hard to be a white girl.

And lest you think I'm crazy for suggesting that a shark could have touched me, check out this picture taken by my friend, Becky, in the exact same location, the day after we left.  A few seconds later, the lifeguard cleared the people out of the water.  I always miss out on all the cool stuff like this. *Cue the Jaws music* 

On one of our last nights at the beach, I woke up around 4 am and listened to the soothing sound of a gentle rain coming down on the roof of our travel trailer.  Then I heard thunder and began to worry. Perhaps you remember what happened last time we were at the beach?  Our canopy and lights were still out, just like that fateful stormy night.  I wondered if I should wake Steve.  I grabbed my phone and got a weather update.  "Myrtle Beach: Some Thunder in the area," which sounded like absolutely nothing, so I assumed everything would be fine.  About 15 minutes later, lightning was flashing every single second, hard rain was pounding on the roof, the camper was shaking, and the awning was popping up.  Steve woke up, flew out of bed (he remembered his shorts this time), and our entire family had to get up and deal with the storm.  We went back to bed around 5.  Thank you, phone weather people.


We made another overnight visit to my hometown, and my Mama had picked up some fresh Dixie Lee peas for me to take home.  Hooray!  That's my favorite vegetable in the whole world! Then we ate a lot of pulled pork ("BBQ" if you're a North Carolinian) before leaving for Jersey.  It was not hard to return to our Jersey life of new friends, and where I can get an organic burger from Elevation Burger, or a real cheese steak from Tony Luke's in nearby Philly.  Or just go hang out at the shore.

But I can't get this..

The Legend of the Traveling Turd Pants

Ok, so I wrote this first part days ago.  Because that's totally not even where I am right now.  Not that it matters.
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As we head South on I-85, the sun is shining and it's a really beautiful, sweltering hot day in the glorious Carolinas.  In fact, we're about to pass the water tower which our family affectionately refers to as the "peach butt," as I type.  I feel a flood of mixed emotions as we get closer to the place we called home for almost 9 years.

Our daughter's gonna visit some friends for a few days, and I'm gonna stop at a roadside stand and buy some fresh, juicy SC peaches. Then we're headed to the Wilds.. which made me start thinking about the infamous brown pants I wrote about last year, which sadly have mysteriously disappeared since..  Some of my friends will remember having read this before, but this is the first time this story has appeared on my blog.  It's an old favorite of mine.  Enjoy...
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The Legend of the Traveling Turd Pants

Well, it's that time of year again. Elizabeth says her annual trip to The Wilds Christian camp is how she survives in this world. It's her vacation from us. She comes home refreshed, and ready to face another hard year in the Wise household. Without it, she believes her mental state would deteriorate. For us, it's another thing entirely.

It all started one year, when Elizabeth didn't have the clothing she needed for camp. She had outgrown her summer attire from the previous year, so a shopping trip became necessary. The Wilds requires that kids wear knee length shorts that are reasonably loose fitting. So we drove to the mall, and a I knew the night would be long. Teen stores, like American Eagle and Hollister, and junior departments would not be the place to find this Wilds-appropriate apparel. I suggested the misses dept at Belk. From there, things would only go quickly downhill.

"Ok, Elizabeth, there are racks and racks of long shorts and capri pants. Have at it." ...... But she was all, "These clothes look like vomit." And I was all, "They do not. There's some perfectly good stuff here." And she was all, "I hate everything. It looks like old people." and blah, blah. I said, "Well I shop in this dept..." Soon the hideous clothing was hanging in the dressing room and the trying on was underway. She actually liked one thing, which seemed to make the ugly purchases go a little smoother.

So the next day, she began to assemble outfits, and pointed out the extreme horribleness of one particular pair of brown pants. Now there was nothing at all wrong with these pants, but in her mind, they were well below her standards for appropriate style. Now, if she had been more cooperative the night before, and even once suggested that I'm a great mom, and I'd found the perfect camp clothes, but perhaps this one pair of pants just wasn't right for her, then I wouldn't have bought what would soon become known as the "turd pants." But now, they're here, camp is only days away, the tags were already removed, so she owned the pants.

Now, I wasn't born yesterday, so I knew the likely fate of these pants. She would pack them, they would visit the Wilds, but they would never actually see the light of day. She would just double up on something else, and go around dirty for a day. In fact, there was a great chance she would wear the ONE pair she liked, every single day.

So in the days that followed, there would be many wise cracks about the turd pants, and their insane awfulness, and I began to sense that I had completely wasted money on turd pants. So, we declared that the required outfit for day one of camp, would be the turd pants. It was the only way we could be sure we would get our money's worth out of these pants. She would wear them in the car, we would drop her off, and she would wear them for at least 5 minutes at the Wilds. She thought this would be a totally embarrassing way to begin a week of camp and meeting people, but we had to be sure that the turd pants were used, so, this was the way it had to be.

I still remember the green shirt that was paired with the turd pants. She looked amazing. So we dropped her off, screamed, "WE LOVE YOU, ELIZABETH!!!!" and gave her many dramatic hugs as the others looked on. And that was how the tradition of the traveling turd pants began. From that day forth, we have forced her to wear the turd pants for the ride there, and drop off, which brings us to today.

Today, the packing and preparing for her annual pilgrimage to the Wilds, her camp of sanity, began. And the turd pants were brought out, dusted off, and prepared for the trip. I suggested she try on all the pants/shorts to make sure they still fit. Moments later, she emerged from her room, all decked out in turd pants. She walked by and these pants looked terrible. They were WAY too small. "Oh... you've finally outgrown the faithful turd pants." But something didn't seem right. There was a twinkle in her eye... a mischievous smile on her face. Suddenly Steve says, "Lift the bottom of your shirt." She nearly died laughing and revealed that she'd hiked them up to her ribs and cinched them tightly with a belt. The reality was, the turd pants still fit. The tradition will live on. I just can't decide if Sunday should be the day of the turd pants, or Monday, when they'll actually arrive at camp...

The Turd Pants

Fire On the Poop Deck!

"I feel like we live in a mansion." -Elizabeth


It's been almost a year since we sold our beautiful home in SC, and moved to a small condo in NJ.  A couple of weeks ago, we began the move to a house, in another town.  We're super excited because it's really hard to find a house for rent in NJ, for under $2,000 a month, that's not gross, and allows you to have pets.  And we're just not ready to buy anything up here yet.  I was afraid the kids wouldn't like the new place, because they actually had huge bedrooms at the condo, but even they appreciate the roomy kitchen and extra living space.  And we have a fenced backyard now, so I can shove the dogs or kids outside and say, "Get some fresh air!"


Which is what I should have done before THIS happened:


The kids were running through the house, shooting each other with Nerf guns, when suddenly, there was a great commotion. Now, I don't ask a lot of questions about what goes on around here, because frankly, I don't want to know everything. But I was soon given some information about a Nerf dart floating hopelessly in the toilet.  I asked, "Who shot it into the toilet?"  And a quick confession flowed freely from Elizabeth's mouth.  So my response was, "She who shot it, gets it out," which I thought was gonna be the end of things, but then I heard there were further negotiations going on down the hall, which I was later told, went like this:  "Noah, you are gonna HAVE to get it out somehow, because there's NO WAY I'm putting my hands in your poop." (She's never gotten over accidentally grabbing one of his poops when they were in the bathtub, when they were little)  So the presence of poop was a detail I was unaware of.  She'd shot him while he was on the pot.  Who shoots a person mid-poo?  And if his little behind was covering the hole, how did it even get in there?  They explained that it happened during some process of ducking to escape the heavy rapid Nerf fire.  I know how terrifying foam can be.


Soon Elizabeth walked away, and all was quiet.  Noah went in for the dart.  I began to listen carefully, because  I know this child, and I knew to be ready for what would happen next.  One might would assume that once the dart was retrieved, that it went straight into the trash.  If you know Noah, you know that didn't happen.  Noah's not gonna throw a cheap toy away, just because it was swimming in feces. So then I was all, "Noah, throw the dart in the trash."  And he was all, "But why??  I washed it when I washed my hands." At least he thought to wash his hands.  With much effort, we finally got it into the trash, but I can't be certain that it didn't find it's way out, and back into the Nerf supply.  Elizabeth.. play at your own risk.


So the house is a 1969 ranch style home, which thankfully has been completely updated inside, though there's nothing I love more than a nice retro feel.  There is one wall that still has brown panelling on it.  I'm shocked by this, given how that's the only outdated thing here.  We may change that very soon but I'm gonna be sure and ask the owner first, because I've known some people who were very much attached to their faux wood wall products, as bizarre as that may seem.  And it would appear that there are no restrictions in this community because one of the neighbors doesn't like to cut their grass, and another still has Christmas lights up, so everyday we are in the Christmas spirit. "Why are you living this way, Amy?" you might ask. This is Jersey, baby!  We've actually talked about buying it, if the owner decides to sell, because we really like it! And you have no idea how much thought I've given to having a few strategically placed plastic pink flamingos on the front lawn.  The possibilities of how to decorate with them, throughout each season, are endless.  Imagine this:  Christmas comes, and I have pink flamingos in Santa hats, pulling a sleigh full of toys.  Or next to a lovely nativity scene. Also, they could hang out with Pedro the turkey, for Thanksgiving...  Guard nests of Easter eggs in the Spring...  And can't you just see them standing proudly next to a snowman in the Winter, wearing their little knitted hats and scarves?  They'd be that perfect pop of color on an otherwise rather monochromatic snowy day. It'd be like a tropical Alaska.  And I'm not joking.  If I find some, this will happen.  I've spent too many years living in stuffy, snotty-pot neighborhoods with tons of ridiculous rules.  Now I'm free to have trailer park plastic birds, and out of season decorations, and I intend to make the most of it.  And fourth of July is coming... how about flamingos with bunting strung from beak to beak??  Recently, I heard on the news that you can defend yourself with a plastic flamingo, by attempting to impale a bad guy with it's wiry legs.  At least that's what somebody tried. I can't imagine this need arising, but it does seem nice that these birds pull double duty as decor, and a weapon.


Before we could move in, we were forced to paint, mainly because Noah's room was hot pink, with flowers.  So he chose a lovely shade of green, which he matched up to his stuffed alligator "Bob's" eyeball color, but our friend Dan realized it was also exactly the color of the Grinch.  So now we call it the Grinch room, which doesn't make Noah really happy but that's what happens when you insist on a freakishly green room.  And Noah kinda IS a grinch.. Then Steve told me he wanted our room to be brown, so I excitedly chose brown paint, and then they painted, and then I found out that brown was NOT what he wanted, but after seeing it on the wall, he liked it.  So I was all, "Wait... You said you WANTED it brown!  You're the reason it's brown."  And he was all, "I meant brown like we had in SC." .... "You mean, a medium tan???"  But now we both really love the brown, and I think it's also important to mention, the shade was called "Wild turkey."  Clearly, it was meant to be. It looks like really dark chocolate milk, and you can't go wrong with that. And with the wall being brown, and the duvet cover being black and ivory, I decided I should bring in some color-- which I knew could be accomplished using bright pillows and PAPER LANTERNS.

Steve should probably learn to describe colors the way I do, as in these recent descriptions I gave to others about rooms in the house:

"Our bathroom is a muted limish sagey color."

"For the kitchen I chose a very soft 1950s seafoam green, because I like it, and because I thought it might remind me of the ocean, though it may be a little green for that. But it's very  soothing.  The lemon yellow that was there made my eyes and brain hurt."

"E's room is now a very dark plum, grapish color.  Her zebra and pinks will pop beautifully."

"The garage is the scariest green I have ever seen."

See, I bet you can totally visualize all of those colors.

 
So anyway, we got everything painted already, except for the garage.  I just won't go in there for now. And since I sold my dining room furniture to some morons before we left SC, we're gonna put our black-light foosball table in the dining room, because that's how awesome we are.  I have the rest of my life to get new furniture, but my kids will only be young for a little while longer.

I used the worst camera ever to take these, but notice the neutral... neutral... neutral, then BAM! Red on the ceiling!  I'm still working on finding some pillows.

And here you can see the green one too.  And they're not actually made of paper.  It's some kind of material. I'm gonna put flameless candles with timers inside them.  Genius.  You're welcome, Steve.