Author: Laura K. Bedingfield

I am not a skier. 

And while it’s no secret I have a near-cripping fear of flying, I also exhibit a wee bit of apprehension towards moving too fast. Roller coasters…snowmobiles…motorcycles…zooming down a mountain on two slats of fiberglass…all just a little too much for me, but I do try to grin and bear it. Sort of.

We spent the Martin Luther King holiday in Breckenridge, Colorado. It was the first time the boys have seen real snow (Atlanta snow, obviously, doesn’t count–even that ridiculousness that happened last week. Especially that ridiculousness that happened last week.)

I am not was not a skier.

But now, thanks to this amazing girlfriend below, I think I may have been bitten by the bug. 

They (and their awesome children) were one of the very best things about our old house and neighborhood. Theo has been known to let himself right on into their house and head straight for the covert candy drawer. Jack and Brian threw some type of ball every single day, and Tucker cannot come within 1/2 a mile of Brian without trying to tackle him. We spent many, many nights in our old cul-de-sac, shooting fireworks and building bonfires (yes, straight up in the cul-de-sac). They are the type of neighbors who feel like family. They are like family.

Way back before we moved, they suggested we all go skiing together. Fortunately, this plan required multiple gatherings over wine to come together–glorious evenings with all 6 of our kids tossed out in the backyard, reunited for a few hours. Valarie is a planning genius…next thing we knew, our itinerary was set. She’s better than a travel agent.

We landed in a warm Denver–warm for January. Other than the scruffy, small piles of black snow on the sides of the road, the ground was pretty much bare. But Theo kept begging us to let him touch the snow. He kept screeching from the backseat of the rental car, “LOOK at all that SNOW! It’s AMAZING!”

Then we drove through the Eisenhower tunnel on I-70, and he nearly fainted. We crossed under the Continental Divide and came out into a winter wonderland, the likes of which none of my children has ever seen. The true screeching then began. It was like Christmas morning combined with the 4th of July. We’ve rarely seen the boys more excited.

The boys went to ski school on Friday and Saturday; I cannot recommend this enough. They loved it, and it lasted until 3:30 each day. By the end of the first day, even Theo was going up the big ski lift (I found this out after the fact, and it made me terribly nervous).

We knew out of the gate that snow-skiing was likely going to be Tucker’s thing–it just fits his personality. He loves rock climbing and surfing, and we all know he is a daredevil. But he’s also tremendously athletic and has an uncanny sense of balance. He tried his hardest to convince us he didn’t need ski school, even though he’d never seen snow, much less put on a pair of skis. Tuck was a bit pouty going in, but his coach figured out that Tucker was a quick learner, and he was off that magic carpet thing in no time.

Jack was a little more cautious, but by the end of the first day, he, too, was barreling down the mountain. In the end, we think Jack enjoyed skiing more than Tucker–if that’s possible.

Dinner Friday night was at Russ’s favorite hippie joint, Rasta Pasta, a place which smells absolutely divine due to the 5,000 heads of garlic they use in their kitchen nightly. Plus, there was no wait–unbelievable for a holiday weekend.

After 2 solid days of skiing, our shins and thighs couldn’t take it anymore. Based on recommendations from folks who’d been here before us, we decided to go dog sledding.

I was not sure how it was going to go. I was worried about the dogs and worried about how on earth we were going to “drive” this thing attached to them.

As you can see below, that was a really stupid worry.

Maddy and this pup fell in love almost immediately.

Good morning to you, too.

Jack mushes and Tucker rides across a bridge.

Look closely and you can see the dogs smiling.

Cutest picture ever: Theo, in his penguin hat, drives the sled while his brothers ride along.

Maddy, Marie, and a whole slew of jubilant dogs

Everyone got a turn at mushing, and no one wrecked or dumped the sled over. Total success.

We went on trails deep into a forest. At one point we reached a clearing, and the guide stopped us and then picked up Theo and threw him into the snow…which came up to his waist. He loved it.

Hot chocolate after dog sledding was a must; it was 8 degrees outside when we started our journey.

We had lunch in the village and watched the Denver Broncos in the playoffs, not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

These giant blocks of snow were all over the village–waiting on the international snow sculpture contest the following week. The boys begged to stay the week to see what these blocks were going to turn into.

Valarie: “Look! Theo’s a pasta dude!”

Me: “What? A prostitute?”

[It’s hard to hear when you have 6 excited young people flocking around you…]

Even more novel than waist-deep snow was the concept of swimming outside in 10 degree weather. The resort had a pool that was half-indoors/half-outdoors (you swam under a wall to get outside). That pretty much cemented the deal for Tucker and Theo. They were in love with Colorado.

The little village area is so quirky and fun–and reminds me of Athens.

We packed up Monday morning and headed back to Denver, but made one pit stop along the way: Red Rocks, right outside of Morrison, Colorado.

The pictures in no way do this place justice. It was amazing.

All in all, it was a slam dunk of a trip. Our families had the best time together, and we are already looking forward to hitting the slopes again next year.

And by now you know that Atlanta was immobilized by an ice storm this past week–a whopping 2.5 inches of snow hit the ground. Tucker’s sage comment on the situation? “At least we’d been to Breckenridge, so we were accustomed to this kind of snow.”

Yep, that’s us. One time on the mountain, and we know it like a native. Shred the ‘gnar, dude.

Shred the ‘gnar.

(a rather short post filled with month-old photos…)

late December at the beach is awesome…

sometimes, it’s even warm enough to get in the water (if you are a wild-and-crazy-almost-8-year-old, that is)

…or a wild-and-crazy-almost-6-month-old puppy

or even, I suppose, a wild-and-crazy 5 year old…

Once when I was at the beach with some of my oldest friends, I found a stuffed possum. It was the most hilarious thing I’d seen in ages, so of course, I had to get it for Jack. Jack promptly named him Josh and hung him from his bunkbed. Thus began his obsession with stuffed possums (which, by the way, are rather hard to find).

When we visited the Nature Center during our last trip to the beach, Jack was thrilled to see they were rehabilitating a baby possum. Obviously, it was the closest we’d ever gotten to a real, live possum. We can now confirm that Josh (and Wanda and Sissy) are much more cuddly.

Behold my bright pink nose and utterly freaky claws (and transparent ears)!

I’ve got my eye on you, boy-human. I could lash you with my hairless, ropy tail in no time.

Kirbs could not get enough of the beach.

New Year’s Eve with Tucker

And so 2013 came to a close…28 days ago. My New Year’s resolutions? Total fail. Twenty-seven days into the new year, and I’m still the same as I was on December 31. 

But hey, at least I don’t have creepy possum talons or see-through ears. 

(Yet.)

Just yesterday, my little hometown lost a beloved old coach and teacher. In a town whose population hovers around 10,000, I’d be willing to bet that just about everyone in Vidalia knew Coach Cravey–and if you didn’t know him firsthand, you’ve certainly been told some of the stories that made him a legend: stories about chewing tobacco, 8th grade P.E., his white towel and rolled-up pants leg. Chances are he trailed behind you as you slogged around the road course, honking the horn of the beaten-up little car he drove like a dune buggy. He might have thrown a pecan at you (that’s pronounced “PEE-can,” not “puh-CAWN,” by the way). He probably gave you a hug at some point–or at least a firm pat on the back or on the top of the head. He touched the lives of thousands of people. He was like Hoosiers and Rudy, Friday Night Lights and Remember the Titans, all rolled into one.

Hearing of his passing has flooded me with memories of growing up. And it’s also flooded me with memories of teaching.

I taught at an incredible school here in Atlanta for 4 years–British Literature to 11th graders, World Literature to seniors, 8th grade English and Composition, and 10th-through-12th grade Creative Writing. I loved my own high school experience and could not wait to do all I could to make my students love theirs just as much. I still keep up with many of my old students, and I keep my fingers crossed that they remember my classes as fondly as I remember teaching them. My classes were about literature, grammar, composition and analysis, but they were also about life itself. (Remember, class:  Polonius speaks the truth, and a ham is the best Halloween costume ever.)

Take, for instance, The Top-Loading VCR, which is the best named publication of creative writing in the history of the world, even if it did contain thinly veiled country-song lyrics and more passive voice that you could shake a stick at. (Poetic license allows me to end that with a preposition; my creative writers mastered this concept and then used it at every. Possible. Chance.) This class was the lone elective I taught, and after a summer in a creative writing seminar at Brown, I could not wait to see them during 2nd period. Just how awesome was this class? They snuck in a cookie cake for my birthday–a cookie cake they had specifically ordered to read, “Happy Berfday, Ms. B.” The cover of The Top-Loading VCR featured a photo of our class jammed behind a threatening sign in the media center which stated “DO NOT STAND BEHIND THIS SIGN.” Rebels, some might say. Poetic license, I say.

My other classes were equally as much fun, to me at least. I’ve already written about taking them outside to watch it snow when we were reading “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” We ate [terrible] homemade baklava while reading The Odyssey. We compared The Muppet Movie to the Restoration, Jodie Foster’s movie Nell to Hamlet‘s Ophelia, T.S. Eliot to absolutely everything. We learned why one should never name a baby Sorrow, and that trench warfare was worse than terrible. Heads don’t go in ovens, and hearts should not be plucked from funeral pyres. Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet proved to my 8th graders that a black and white movie could be good.

Some learned you should never eat a Happy Meal before Track practice, but a stick of butter and a beer before a meet was OK (no, not really…). (And if we’re going down this dark path, I’ll also confess that suggesting your cheerleaders make a run-through sign saying “Lovett can Shove-It” can work miracles for a JV football team’s morale.) My students heard more about my dad and my grandmother–and about Vidalia onions–than they’d ever care to admit. I tried to teach them that everything was a teacher, not just the grown-ups roaming the hallways of their school.

They taught me how to juggle; I taught them that you cannot catch a football while standing on a basketball (go ahead; try it. You will fail.) They taught me about Atlanta; I taught them about growing up below the gnat line. They taught me about faith; I taught them about love (what little I knew about it, that is). They learned that it was OK to be challenged, OK to lose, OK to cry. They can tell you why words like “encyclopaedia” and “orthopaedics” are sometimes spelled that way (darn you, Anglo-Saxons and your ash).

They taught me how to stay young; I tried to show them that you don’t have to grow old. We were a great team.

I still keep up with so many of my students, some of them even daily. It amazes me to see them as doctors and lawyers, mothers and fathers, happy and healthy and productive. They’ve run for office, battled cancer, and fought in wars. At least one is a priest. They are all teachers in their own ways, and they all mean the world to me.

My students are still very much a part of my life, even now, over 15 years after I’ve left my classroom. My own children fall asleep to the sounds of Brahms and Beethoven, performed on the piano by one of my old students, a copy of her cd–part of a successful application to Princeton–having been uploaded to the various devices we have around the house. Decorating my Christmas tree is a walk down memory lane; some of my most cherished ornaments came from teenagers, and I remember exactly who gave me each one–even if some of their mothers didn’t insist that they scribble their names on there with a Sharpie. The mother of 2 of my students is now my middle son’s teacher. In one of the strangest coincidences, one of my old students now lives in the very house where I brought home my babies.

Earlier today, while I was sitting in a carpool line thinking about Coach Cravey and his legendary, marvelous, one-of-a-kind self, I remembered–yet again–what an honor it is to be called a teacher; it is indeed a calling, nothing less. Thank you, Coach Cravey, for following your calling. And thank you, Marist students from 1995 through 1999, for helping me fulfill my own calling. Keep daring to disturb the universe, y’all. I think you’re doing a pretty good job so far.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair–

[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin–

[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

–from “The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot

Christmas was so last month. I know.

The Kirbinator was totally befuddled by the train. 

Despite having 2/3 of the boys knocked down by the flu, we managed to carve out a wonderful first Christmas here at our house.

was planning on getting a haircut before Christmas Eve, but having the flu took that task off the table, which was rather unfortunate. Theo resembles Cousin Itt in this picture.

This blue-eyed wonder was beyond thankful for Tamiflu. We were, too.

Time for a little wardrobe critique. 

Good gravy, that’s bad. Well, not exactly bad…more like bad-ish. Excellent choice of footwear: black high-top basketball shoes and crocs. Crocs. In December. The boys all hit growth spurts, and the puppy managed to destroy the largest pair of proper dress shoes we owned. So Crocs and high-tops it was…in church for the Christmas Eve service. 

Tucker has also hit the stage where he feels imperatively called to make ridiculous faces whenever the camera comes out. Not a fan of this stage, I must say…

Reindeer food time. Thank goodness it wasn’t raining again this year. Oatmeal that’s been soaked overnight on a driveway looks a lot like barf. We know this from experience.

A shot of the boys before they went to bed late at night.

Oh, wait. Just kidding. This was taken first thing Christmas morning, but it was early enough that it could have still been nighttime. Dark-thirty, to be exact…which was about 30 minutes after we had a boy come down to our room, begging us to get up. 

My 49 year old man trapped in a 9 year old’s body. Dog and the possums (Josh, Wanda, and Sissy) gave Jack a fuzzy robe which he wore all day and even slept in that night.

Another ridiculous gift Jack got was the Grumpy Cat book. 

After showing Popster a few pages of it, he retreated to the stairs and read the whole thing cover to cover while the rest of us opened gifts and celebrated Christmas. See? He really is a 49 year old in a 9 year old body.

We closed out the evening with a visit from our favorite old neighbors. It was just the touch of nostalgia we needed.

The first Christmas here is in the books though I’m still running into Christmas music boxes and figurines and snowmen here and there in absolutely random places (Dancing flamingo dressed like Santa in the bathroom? Snowman nightlight in the upstairs hallway? Funny how these ridiculous items just blend into to life after awhile. And tell me it’s like this in your house, please.). 

Nonetheless, our first Christmas here has come and gone. And it was a good one. A very good one.

Here we are two-and-a-half days before Christmas, and it’s been rainy and 65 degrees (or higher) here in Atlanta all weekend. Miserable. Add to this a child with the flu. Throw in two other non-sick kids who are stuck at home with mom and the flu-ridden one. What results is a case of cabin fever reaching epic proportions.

Enough with the rain already, Mother Nature.

Our first Christmas in the new house has been…different. Good, but different. I’m pretty sure that after 9 years of living there we had perfected the art of decorating of our old house. We’re back to square one here. Where we were Southern Living material last year, we’d be doing good to show up in a Lillian Vernon catalog this year.

Tracking down the boxes with the Christmas stuff was challenging, even though most of it was labelled. I kept envisioning it in our old basement, stacked like it’s always been. But movers don’t work that way; even though we’ve been here a little over six months, some days are still like sorting through the pieces of a gigantic jigsaw puzzle that’s been dumped out.

Part of our decorating dilemma has been this thing:

Sister-Girl is knee-deep in the terrible-twos (if you adjust her current age to dog-year-age). I quit counting how many ornaments she’s broken. The ornaments on our tree don’t start until about 4 feet up from the ground, but even this doesn’t stop Kirby from standing on her hind legs, mouth wide open and aiming at something/anything sparkly. She’s part shark, part carnival act, part hoarder.

This was taken the first night we had our tree up. It’s gone downhill rapidly since then.

Thank goodness this little guy made it here safely. I cannot tell you how many friends have sighed and said, “oh, my grandmother had this exact tree!” when they see him sitting on a table. Makes me smile every time I walk by, even though it’s no doubt a fire hazard with its frayed, circa 1978 cord.

Jack’s school Christmas concert was on Thursday morning. We sat up in the attic with all the squirrels. Seriously, the balcony at Trinity Presbyterian–for this event, at least–puts any kid’s table at any holiday event to shame.

Y’all like that untucked shirt and sloppy tie? And you can’t even see the tennis shoes he’s wearing…

What is it about seeing my child singing in front of a crowd that makes me tear up? Every single time. (Actually, I was probably crying because I was stuck up in the romper room with 3/4 of the pre-K kids, all of whom were so excited they could pop.)

See that cute guy in the green shirt on the front row? Mine. 

The most beautiful part of the morning? When the schoolchildren and alums face the rest of us and sing “Silent Night.” Talk about being teary-eyed…

I mean, really. How beautiful is that?

Tuck seems to be on the mend, I hear the rain is moving out tonight, and Christmas is only two-and-a-half days away. Methinks things are indeed looking up.

I hope you’ve been just a little bit better than Kirbo this year…we’re a little concerned about her status on Santa’s list. I’m willing to bet 4 swallowed socks, myriad broken ornaments, and a destroyed dog bed that she’s not exactly on the top of the Good List.

guarding/scouting the food at our family Christmas party

I guess we’ll find out for sure on Wednesday morning.

Been on a bit of a blogging hiatus, I’m afraid. I must confess I’m gun-shy after a narrowly averted blogging catastrophe. And, yes, I realize there are much bigger issues in the world, but in an effort to help anyone else who stumbles across this while frantically searching for a way to rescue a blog from the netherworld, I’m providing the shorter-ish version of the story. It’s your Christmas gift.

On December 9th, my domain name expired. Sigh. Out of the gate, I’ll admit that it’s totally my fault for not just sitting down and ponying up the $10 ($10, people! Makes my apathy even more embarrassing) to renew the registration. I have no excuses–or at least I thought I had no excuses. Come to find out, Google/Blogger actually did provide me with an excuse. They/It deleted my login, so there was no possible way for me to access my account to pay the renewal fee, had I chosen–you know, like a responsible adult–to renew it in a timely manner.

That’s pretty sneaky. And pretty uncool. It’s not like this domain name is the cat’s meow. There wasn’t a queue of whackos lined up waiting to snag it. J, T and Theo B. is not snazzy or clever or supremely well established. But it’s mine. I have close to 5 years’ worth of essays and photos stored under it, so it’s important to me–to say the least.

When I woke up on the 10th and realized I really needed to renew, I finally sat down to knock it out…only to find the dreaded “holder” page up–chock full of lame ads–courtesy of Big Brother…er, Google.

I had no way to sign in. After spending a gut-wrenching afternoon trying to figure it out, I was in full-blown panic mode. There was no way to access my work; however, I must give a huge shout-out to my 9-year old who suggested I take screen shots of cached pages and then print them out–a process which, as you can imagine, takes a ton of time. And ink. And paper.

I called people all over the country. I emailed the Google machine about 15 times. I searched and searched for answers online–which is obnoxiously ironic since Google was the beast that was causing this problem in the first place.

Finally, on Monday, I received the following email. A friend of mine pointed out that the line about “kindly informing [me]” was a nice touch, especially when they’d “migrated” my stuff without my knowledge.

That screenshot’s a little tricky to read, and this message is a gem, so I’m giving it to you again.

See for yourself:

Hello Laura,

Thank you for your message, I called you but couldn’t reach you so I let a voice message. I understand that you are trying to renew your domain name jtandtheob.com. 

I kindly inform you that we have migrated all our customer from Google Wallet to our new online billing system, now you have an Admin console were you’ll be able to manage the renewal options and billing information for your domain name jtandtheob.com. 

In order to access this Admin console you have a user ending in “@jtandtheob.com” and a password. I’ve sent you a message to laurabedingfield@me.com that contains your user and the option to reset your password. Once you set your new password please continue with the steps below: 

1. Go to admin.google.com (try using and incognito window in Chrome).

2. Enter your user “@jtandtheob.com” and your new password. 

3. Accept the terms and conditions and proceed to verify your billing information. 

4. On the left upper corner you’ll see an arrow to go back to the dashboard. Click on it and go to “Billing.” 

5. Next to Domain registration there is a plus sign”+” click on it to display more information. 

6. Make sure that the renewal option is set to: “Auto-renew my contract.” You can change it by clicking on the blue link “change.” 

I’ll give you a call tomorrow to follow up on this case.

This case will remain open while I work with you. Feel free to reply to this message anytime. 

Regards, 

Diana

Google Enterprise Support

To this Diana’s credit, she did call and prove she was a real person, despite the above garbled email. She explained that I was not the only one affected by this sneaky “migration”. That was a nice touch, too. But finally landing upon this point of human contact was beyond frustrating, and tracking down a way to talk/email with a live person took the skills of an M.I.T. graduate, which, clearly, I am not.

Just so y’all know I’m not over-reacting, here’s the convoluted information at the dead end of about 15 searches for how to renew an expired domain:

Renewing Domain Registration

Your initial domain registration is valid for one year. If subsequent registration renewal fails, you’ll have several opportunities to change your billing information and renew your registration:

On your renewal date – If you’ve chosen automatic renewal and the charge fails, we’ll send you a notification of the failure with instructions on updating your billing information. If you update your billing information within three days of the attempted charge, we’ll detect the change and bill you for the renewal using the new information. Within 19 days of your renewal date – If you don’t update your billing information within three days of the attempted charge, contact the support team for assistance with your renewal. If you contact our team within 19 days of the failed charge, we’ll send you information allowing you to update your billing information and renew your registration. More than 19 days after your renewal date – If we’re unable to bill you for registration renewal within 19 days of your expiration date, you won’t be able to renew your domain through Google Apps. Instead, you’ll need to contact your domain registrar directly. You may experience an interruption of service after your domain expires.

If you don’t renew domain registration within the 19-day window of opportunity, your domain name will be ‘vaulted’ by the registrar company (GoDaddy.com or eNom.com). A ‘vaulted’ domain name is not publicly available for registration, nor can it be redeemed without additional charges.

To recover a ‘vaulted’ domain, you must contact the registrar company to re-obtain the domain at an additional fee of $89 for GoDaddy.com and $250 for eNom.com. You can find contact information for Godaddy.com or eNom.com in the Advanced DNS settings section of the control panel.

If you don’t take action, the registrar company holds the ‘vaulted’ domain name for up to six months before releasing it for public sale.

Expired domain registration

If you get the error message that Domain has already expired, please contact customer support, your domain name registration with GoDaddy or eNom has expired and can no longer be renewed through Google Apps. To retrieve your domain, please contact your registrar directly with the following contact information. Please be aware that there will be a fee associated with retrieving your domain.

eNom: phone 425-974-4623 email googleclients[at]enom.com

GoDaddy phone 480-366-3700 email gdomains[at]secureserver.net

These support channels are dedicated to Google Apps administrators who registered a domain during the sign-up process. Please note that if you don’t retrieve your domain, you will disrupt your Google Apps service and could lose all data associated with your account.

Thanks, Google; that’s very informative. You’ve cleared it all up and my blood pressure is back to normal.

Not.

(By the way, eNom is zero help, and the GoDaddy phone number doesn’t work.)

So, if you are facing down the covert Google wallet migration, welcome! I so hope this helps you out.

Here are a few V.I.P. tips:

1) You have a 19 day window to renew your domain name before it goes into the “vault”. Once it goes into this mysterious vault, you are looking at a serious cash investment to get it back. Why an odd, nonsensical number like 19? Who knows. It’s Google.

2) If you try to call Google, you will not succeed. Instead, you’ll want catch the next flight to California, walk up to the front door of Google’s HQ (1600 Amphitheatre Pkwy, Mountain View, CA, by the way) and slap the first 50 people you see. A computer answers the phone and asks you to input your DNS number or your Google Apps for Business PIN, neither of which you have because if you did, then you could sign in to your flipping account on your own, and you wouldn’t be in this pickle in the first place. Maddening, I say.

3) Don’t fall victim to the endless sign-in failure loop like I did. You will not win. You do not know the lucky Admin Email the powers that be at Google assigned to you. You do not have the ridiculous password (you’ll find it’s something totally logical like “Fc45Th89HTr”) they/it also assigned to you.

To escape this loop, you have to make contact with a real person so that real person can send you the email address and password Google magically created for you. You are just treading water until you establish a project number proving that you’ve filed a complaint.

Here’s the link to get that “support ticket number” rolling down the pike–> https://support.google.com/a/contact/domain_registration

4) Remember the squeaky wheel gets the grease. I filled the above form out about 10 different times and received a few computer-generated answers that did nothing but infuriate me even more. Keep at it, Warrior. Keep at it.

5) Once you get the magic email (and, if you’re really lucky–or, more likely, really squeaky–a phone call) you’ll be informed of your newly assigned Admin Email that enables you access to your console. Login–hear the Hallujah Chorus in your head?–and fork over the damn $10, and your site will be immediately re-established. (Look at all that techie-lingo! Console? Admin Email? It’s like I work for Google!)

6) Save all email correspondence with Google, and save your receipt from your renewal. Trails, folks. Trails.

It’s a good time, no? Trust me; it almost put me off this whole blogging thing forever. That link above is the Golden Ticket, though.

Good luck! And be sure to set the registration to “auto-renew” this time around. 🙂

Ah, Thanksgiving. You overwhelm me.

Nearly all of my Thanksgivings have been spent in a house jammed full of people. Spending a day surrounded on all sides by folks of all ages wears this only child out. 

When I was a child, we celebrated Thanksgiving 3 hours away at my grandparents’ house with relatives from places I’d hardly even heard of. I’d spend as much of the day as I could either sequestered away in an upstairs bedroom or outside in the highest branches of a tree. When nighttime finally came, the relatives, slightly pickled from whatever it was they’d been marinating in all day, would slowly filter out of the house. I’d tuck myself into bed and sneak a listen to Fox97–a now defunct oldies radio station. Each year, I’d patiently wait, feeling smug about my covert rebellion, until I heard the first few notes of “Abraham, Martin and John”–the song that to me finally signaled the end of another Thanksgiving. 

I’m not that good with crowds, even if they are swarming with one’s own blood relatives.

My grown-up Thanksgivings haven’t been much different:  the day is filled with folks of all ages and futile attempts at hiding. Thank goodness I am now old enough to partake in the human marination. Viva la vino.

We boarded the plane up to Virginia on Thanksgiving morning. This in itself was a huge victory seeing as the St. Christopher medal I wear on every single flight I take was sitting inside a safety deposit box somewhere in north Atlanta, not hanging around my neck for me to clutch like a crazy person. 

Y’all know I don’t like to fly, right?

Since Russ likes to be the first person on the plane, he and the boys practically sprinted down the jetway, dragging me along. We almost beat the pilot onto the plane. When he asked to slide around us, he also said to bring the boys over to visit the cockpit.

I love me a kind pilot. He put the boys in the captain’s and co-captain’s seats and even let them pull back on the yoke and pretend to steer. Meanwhile, I kept frantically repeating, “please don’t touch anything! Dear Lord, please don’t touch anything!” while gripping and worrying the sheet of paper with my printed out St. Christopher (thank you, internet). The pilot, whose name I somehow never caught, glanced up at me, put his hand on my shoulder and gently said, “it’s all going to be alright.” I could have kissed him right then and there.

Funny how it’s the littlest signs of compassion that can make all the difference.

Bolstered by my new found courage (for this flight, at least) and because it was Thanksgiving after all, Russ and I decided to have an adult beverage on the plane. So I was sitting in my seat sipping a Bloody Mary and simply holding–not clutching–my internet-blessed St. Christopher when Theo yelled out across the row, “Mama, why you like vodka so much?“

Let the record state that this was the first liquor drink I’d had in well over 23 years. Not only has Theo never seen me drink vodka before, Russ hasn’t either. 

Leave it to Theo to make the comment of the holiday.

We tumbled into a house filled with family, and way too much time was spent doing this:

5 (of the 8) kids, 4 (of the countless) electronic devices

Minecraft online

Football online

Subway Surfer online

There are a few terrific family traditions over Thanksgiving while in Virginia. The Barracks Road Christmas Parade is certainly one of them. More beauty queens and rescue vehicles than you can shake a stick at. A truly scary Ronald McDonald (all Ronald McDonalds are scary to me by default of them being clowns…but this one is particularly eerie and pasty-faced). A giant dog riding a bicycle. Cloggers. People carrying banners advertising Smoothie King and My Gym.

But along with this menagerie of randomness comes hot chocolate. And the first glimpse of Santa.

Yes, that would be a moose hat. Jack has barely taken it off since he got it (he even slept in it).

Back at the homestead, there’s more land to roam than the boys can comprehend.

Each year, the tree fort gets a new addition–Tuck was pumped about this rope swing!

It’s hard to beat a bonfire–unless it’s an all-day long bonfire.

But Sunday eventually came, and “Abraham, Martin and John” played, and we headed home to our own beds in our own rooms. 

This Thanksgiving was a good one. A really good one.

Now move along, Mr. Turkey. You had most of November…28 days of it, you big lard.

Christmastime is here!

 “Why you like vodka so much?”

It’s right around this time of year when the internet is flooded with hilarious posts detailing what not to buy.

Like this, for instance: The Power Nap Head Pillow.  Go ahead; click the link. Just consider yourself forewarned that whatever you’re drinking might come out of your nose.

I’m pretty sure that between Hammacher Schlemmer and the Delta Sky Mall, you can have all of your gag gifts covered.

Once you have that taken care of, you can settle down and focus on tracking down cool gifties for the littles. Legos are so three years ago. Same with Transformers (thank goodness).

Because we’ve been receiving holiday catalogs since mid-July, my boys and I have had ample time to cull through them and pull out the coolest things imaginable. And because I’m nice, I’m going to share some of this insider awesomeness with you.

1. The Grommet. A friend of mine actually shared this website with me. The site has all sorts of funky, unique items for all ages–none of which are vulgar or risqué or pointless like the above mentioned Power Nap Head Pillow. This is the Thinking Man’s Red Envelope.

2. Marbles, The Brain Store. Wowsers. Jack, Tucker and Theo went nuts on this catalog. It’s chock-full of science-y/math-y fabulousness. Don’t believe me? They have a game called Rock Me, Archimedes, which prompted Jack to give me a 2-minute bio of Archimedes himself (say what? I was a bit impressed, to say the least.). If you have builders or tinkerers or kiddos who love strategy games, grab a pad of paper and head to this website. [Here’s my insider’s tip, though: many of the items can be found for much less on Amazon. Poke around on the Marbles site and then double-check on Google to see if you can find it for a lower price.]

Speaking of Amazon…we do love us some books in this house.

3. Rosie Revere, Engineer.  If you’ve been on FaceBook in the past 48 hours, chances are you’ve seen the GoldieBlox commercial blasting out the Beastie Boys while 3 adorable yet brainy girls build a life-size Mousetrap contraption that would make any building fiend salivate. We have no girls in this house, but we do have a 5 year old obsessed with building things, so I’ve purchased this terrific book by Andrea Beaty which features a powerful young female protagonist who wants to be an engineer. It’s the follow-up to the equally as marvelous Iggy Peck, Architect. Trust me on these. Perfection in a children’s book. Amazon will tell you they are for the 4-8 year old sect, but my older ones still love to have Iggy Peck read aloud to them. I can’t wait to add Rosie’s lyrical story to the mix, and you’ll find yourself wishing you could be in Miss Lila Greer’s class, too.

4. Great books Tucker has read lately–> The 13-Story Treehouse by Andy Griffiths and Terry Denton, My Big Fat Zombie Goldfish by Mo O’Hara, and Einstein the Class Hamster by Janet Tashjian. Nobel Prize winners these ain’t, but when you are a 7.5 year old dyslexic and you can’t leave home without one of these books, you know they are special.

I am a reader; hear me roar!

5. Not to be outdone, our 9 year old has discovered a few incredible reads lately, too–> Escape from Mr. Lemoncello’s Library by Chris Grabenstein, Pi in the Sky by Wendy Mass, The Whizz Pop Chocolate Shop by Kate Saunders, and The Fantastic Family Whipple by Matthew Ward. Jack loves puzzle mysteries–books that are filled with riddles or brain teasers or multi-layered problems to solve. All of the books listed above fit the bill. (Truth be told, I enjoyed reading parts of them, too.)

6. Ornaments. We get one new, special, dated ornament a year, typically from Lisa Leonard Designs. Her pewter ornaments are spectacular–heavy, shiny and laced onto a bright red ribbon–and it comes beautifully wrapped and with a velvet bag so it won’t get scratched up when you pack it away. These make perfect gifts for a baby’s first Christmas or for anyone on your list who loves personalized, extra-special gifts.

Have you uncovered any awesome new finds this season? Please pass them along!

*****

Kirbinator Update.

This little brown dog is a piece of work. Today, she threw up a water bottle cap. I should thank her for saving us thousands of dollars by yacking it up herself instead of requiring a trip to the vet (I have no idea where she found the water bottle cap, by the way, and did not know she had ingested anything odd.). She barks at leaves and the wind and her reflection (still)–all activities which have earned her the nickname Mensa. She hates one particular hydrangea in our back yard and has made it her solitary goal in life to uproot it. She only goes after this one plant. All the other hydrangeas quiver in fear when she comes outside. And they should.

On the watch for malicious flowering plants.

Mensa enjoys watching television and going for rides in the car. Her main mode of transportation is jumping, often off all 4 feet like Buttermilk, the baby goat (by the way, this ridiculous video never gets old). Her main source of entertainment (other than hydrangea hunting) is shoe collecting. Kirby constantly has about 7 or 8 shoes stacked up by her bed. Thus far she hasn’t chewed them up–just hoarded them. Weirdo.

We can’t wait to see how she handles a Christmas tree.

Don’t let this mellow shot of me relaxing by the fire fool you; I am The Kirbinator!

“I’ve walked for miles; my feet are hurting…”

–“Beast of Burden” by the Rolling Stones

This past weekend, I went for a walk around Atlanta.

A 60 mile walk, that is.

A standing llama. Or maybe it’s an alpaca. 

I’ll circle back to her in a bit, I promise…

Gosh, Tina.

The Susan G. Komen 3-Day Walk has always been on my bucket list, especially after I ran my first half-marathon. When that ING course split off and the marathoners shuffled down one way and the halfers went the other way–back towards the city–I knew that I would never run a marathon. But walk one? Twice in a row? Oh, yeah, I could do that.

Even though Russ suggested several times that I do the 3-Day Walk, I never followed through on it any more than to say, “yeah, I should.” I was full of excuses. I didn’t even know where to begin. I’d never spent the night in a tent before (seriously). Those 3-Day folks get up early, and I am not a morning person, especially not for 3 days in a row. How could I convince someone else to do it with me? And Lord knew I didn’t want to ask folks for donations.

Then I began to see women around me being diagnosed with breast cancer. A friend’s grandmother.

A friend’s mother.

A friend.

Thanks to my baseball playing son, my paths crossed with a new friend, Carolyn, who is the captain of a team of women who do the 3-Day every year. Fast forward a few months, and I’m signed up to walk this year’s 3-Day with 3 other moms from our baseball team. One blog post later, I’ve hit my initial fundraising goal. Next thing you know, it’s Friday, October 19th, and Carolyn is picking me up in my moonlit driveway at 5:35 a.m. (Remember that part about me not being a morning person?)

5:35 is early, people.

With my main companion group of walkers:  Meredith, me, Alice, Gina, and Cynthia.

The best girls around. And certainly some of the funniest.

We headed out of Stone Mountain on foot around 7:30 a.m. (that’s still early to me, people).

This would be what sunrise looks like.

We walked around Stone Mountain. Walking around Stone Mountain is slightly boring. We walked down many, many miles of the PATH foundation trail. The PATH trail, while a fabulous addition to Atlanta, is also slightly boring. We crossed 285. Twice. We walked down roads I’ve never been on in my life. We joked about how we had no idea where we were.

At some point, we began to pass cheering stations and spectators. Strangers handed out Chapstick and Kleenex, shiny pink beads and stickers, high-fives and pats on the back. Volunteers handed out snacks and Gatorade. I gave my necklace to a tiny preschooler whose class came out to cheer us on. We started to talk to each other. We met John and learned about his amazing journey. We met Glen, who told us a similarly amazing story about himself. Glen and John then told us this beautiful little girl’s story. We did all this before we even made it to lunch on the first day.

This was going to be a long walk, indeed.

A little over twenty miles later, we ambled into camp at the Georgia World Congress Center. The ever-energetic Carolyn had already done the grunt work and pitched our tents and even hauled our duffels off the truck to us. Over 1,000 of us settled in for the night in a sea of bright pink tents. I’d never met my tent-mate before.

With tentmate Mary on our first night at camp.

She turned out to be lovely–smart, clever, dry witted…just what I needed from a stranger who was sleeping 5 inches away from me.

Alice and Gina, ready to brave day 2.

The pink dawn came early:  the lights were flipped on both mornings at 5:30. That’s a.m. again, people.

Sleeping on an air mattress after walking 20 miles pretty much insures you will be sore and tired. My hips and ankles, of all things, were what hurt; they felt stiff and locked up. My friend Gina said she felt like a donkey had kicked her in the thigh. But we were the lucky ones; the lines for the medical tent were long as people waited to get giant blisters lanced, to have toes wrapped with moleskin, to gather up Advil for the day’s journey.

Saturday greeted us with rain and lots of hills.

Stiff-ankle-girl on the left, donkey-kick victim on the right.

The morning slowly dragged on, but eventually we started seeing spectators again. Today’s rounds of impromptu cheering stations often featured creative costumes and crazy, borderline-raunchy posters–all of which made us laugh.

(These ladies happily informed us that the nipples on their costume squeaked if you squeezed them. We took their word for it.)

Is that responsible attention to hydrating or a jello shot? I’ll never tell.

But no matter how you slice it, 20 miles is a freaking long way. Twenty miles for the second day in a row is even longer.

Thank goodness for escalators. There’s no way Meredith and I could have managed the stairs.

The pink dawn on Sunday came even earlier. My hips were even stiffer. It was icy cold outside in the pre-dawn when we made our way out of camp. We walked the first few miles in relative silence, speaking only to point out the college girls enduring a walk of shame through the Georgia Tech campus (truth) or the empty beer cans lining a fraternity house front porch. I was tired of walking. I was tired of being away from my family and my puppy and my house and my bed and myself. I was tired and grumpy and very uncomfortable. If I could just muscle through this last day–I told myself–I’d mark this sucker off my list and move on, relieved to be done.

Then, the catharsis.

[It’s hard to sound like anything but a brat when I write this next paragraph, so please forgive me.]

When I backpacked Europe a zillion years ago, I spent the majority of the trip in a state of discomfort. I was nervous, homesick, exhausted, frustrated by my inaccuracies with languages and currencies, and just plain over being cooped up with the same 4 people for days on end. But once I finally accepted all of these inconveniences as a defining part of the grand adventure (a seriously emotional breakthrough I had on a balcony in Corfu), the world opened her doors to me.

I tend to forget this aspect of life’s journey every now and then. When it reaches up out of anxiety and fatigue and shakes me by the shoulders, I can’t help but listen.

The last 5 miles of the walk were nothing short of beautiful. The group of 4 companions with whom I’d begun the walk was determined to finish the walk together. We laughed so hard at so many things that were funny only to us: titanium “power-necklaces” we were given at mile 16 but couldn’t figure out how to open; bikers treating the PATH trail like the autobahn and nearly running us over; get-rich-quick schemes involving food trucks and non-traditional milk; speculations on a certain podiatrist’s object of affection. The laughter was soul cleansing. In the end, I had fortified four new friendships.

Finally at the last pit stop!

This giant thing against the bluest sky ever. 

Has to be a metaphor.

Walking into Turner Field was a breathtaking experience. I am still basking in the feeling of accomplishment. We set out to climb one big huge mountain, and we did it.

Hugging these guys on Sunday made my heart skip a beat.

Climbing Mt. Everest is an unbelievable success certainly worthy of celebration. But it would be an impossible achievement without the Sherpa guiding you, right?

Well, sort of.

The real hero in this scenario is the yak (not a llama or an alpaca, by the way) who hauls all the stuff up the mountain. Repeatedly. With little to no acknowledgement, save a bowl of yak-kibble or two along the way.

But have you known anyone to follow the chain of gratitude that far? The climber gets the glory; the Sherpa has merely done his job. But the yak? The beast of burden has just listened to its life’s calling.

This old girl is a llama, not a yak, but she has likely earned her little rest.

Spend 58 consecutive hours and walk 60 miles with a few people, and you’ll start to talk about such pseudo-philosophical things. The great catharsis experienced by pushing oneself to the limit is not about just enduring discomfort or learning from it–it’s about embracing it as well. 

There are times when we are climbers and times when we are Sherpas. 

There are also times when we are yaks.

Endure. Learn. Embrace. What a glorious trio of tenets to have been reminded of this weekend. 

Maybe it’s because it’s mid-September and still hotter than the asphalt outside of the gates of Hades. Maybe it’s because yesterday was the anniversary of something truly terrible. Maybe it’s because we are down to having mere hours left with our sweet pal Buckley-Dog.

Whatever it is, I’m feeling a bit compelled to do a little preaching…er, teaching. So gather ’round, folks, and let me tell you a few things about being nice.

ML over on I Miss You When I Blink recently posted a marvelous article on the mantra she sends with her children as they walk out the door each morning:

Be Brave. Be Wise. Be Kind.

Beautiful, no? Just because most of us are past fifth grade doesn’t mean we shouldn’t strive to live this way on a daily basis. Being brave, wise, and kind are great guidelines for behavior for us all–all of the time–not just when it’s convenient.

Not just during Lent.

Not just at the Thanksgiving table.

Not just on the 11th of September.

Undoubtedly, I have a lot of work to do. I’m a chicken. And despite the plethora of gray hair on my head, I’m far from wise.

But I am kind, darn it. And I work really, really hard at being so.

Once you really focus on making kindness a priority in your life, you start to see how truly unkind the rest of the world can be. And then you find yourself being even kinder to make up for all the curmudgeons and misanthropes and jerks out there. There are certainly worse addictions than trying to be a good person.

[And with that, this warm and fuzzy, feel-good post is about to get down to business.]

Want to be a good person?

Take your grocery cart back. Or at least take it over to the cart carrel. Come on, people. Don’t be donkeys. Leaving it between two parked cars in the middle of the Publix parking lot is being a donkey. Someone has to come fetch that cart, you lazy scoundrel. Someone else’s car is going to get dinged when the cart takes off rolling once you pull away, blazing back to your uber-important life. Take the extra minute and put it back. Please.

No.

Nope.

Not even close.

Respect funeral processions. If you can’t pull over to the side of the road when a funeral procession passes (I’m talking on two-lane roads, not I-75; let’s not split hairs here, folks), at least give it the right of way. Aside from being in active labor or otherwise en route to the hospital, you are not in that big of a hurry. Watching a hearse and a long line of cars filled with mourners roll by is one heck of a memento mori. One day, that procession will be yours. [I actually did a little research on this one after worrying it was solely a Southern thing and that my non-Southern friends were going to insist I catch the next pick-up truck back to the onion farm. Try again. There are actually laws about this–> Bam! Funeral processions have the right-of-way.]

Don’t litter. Seriously? You’d think we’d be well past this by now, but then I’m constantly seeing things like this:

and this:

What, you’re too neat and clean to keep that trash in your car, so you chuck it out the window? Talk about being a donkey.

Please, unless you have one of these…

photo credit: NCDOT

don’t park in one of these:

photo credit: Love That Max

Really, folks?

Say “please” and “thank you.” Especially when ordering food. Nothing makes me cringe more than seeing some knucklehead look at the menu and grunt, “Let me have the fried chicken,” unless it’s a different knucklehead grunting at a different server, “gimme the fried chicken.” Seriously? You’re taking that “order” thing literally, huh? Look your server in the eyes, and politely ask him or her for your food. Please. I don’t care if you’re at the White House or the Waffle House. Use your manners.

Thank people. If someone goes to the trouble of doing something for you, thank him. If someone brings you a gift, thank her. If someone is doing something nice, thank that person. And while I’m a huge fan of the handwritten thank you note, I realize that there are a few times when that’s just not feasible–like when a total stranger lets you merge ahead of him in traffic. Give him a wave and a smile. Or even a nod. Just acknowledge it. That policeman directing traffic outside of the school at 3pm on August 30 is melting in that solid black uniform. Give him a shout out. Those folks painting your house or fixing something for you? Offer them a bottle of water. That young man with special needs who bags your groceries? Read the name on his name tag and use it when you thank him. Being thankful is not just an activity for the month of November. Come on, y’all:  Just be nice.

You know what? All of these things are actually small components of my major grievance with this world–being inconsiderate. Yesterday, September 11th, we all walked upright and were genuinely considerate to everyone around us. We hugged more, said “thank you” more, chatted more. We were nicer. We brought happiness with us. We were good.

Today, September 12th, we’re back to business as usual. We’re honking horns and slamming doors and abandoning carts. We’re not good. And that’s not cool.

Please think about it–whatever it is–before you do it. Be considerate; it’s the freaking Golden Rule, for crying out loud. (Mankind really shouldn’t need a tutorial on how to do this, but lo and behold, there’s one out there. Thanks for that, Wikihow.)

Now go out there and be considerate, gentle reader, today and every day. Make the world a better place.

I know you can do it.