She who slays dragons

Okay, not exactly dragons...but at midnight in a dark house, it seemed almost as daunting as a dragon!

When we moved in two years ago, we were not happy to find quite a number of cockroaches living it up in the house. Why there were so many, we are not quite sure; could be because the house had been vacant for several months or because no one had ever taken the time to seal up cracks and crevices or because he previous owners were careless and trashy (my personal choice) or some combination of all three. It did not really matter to us why they were there or from where they had come, we just wanted them gone. Especially me. I huddled in the corner of the kitchen and cried the night we found three huge cockroaches peeking out from under the countertop KitchenAid stand mixer. Even Spenser the cat was afraid of those mothers.

It took months of pest control services (indoors and out), diligent cleaning, new siding, and the sealing of cracks and crevices to finally get rid of our unwanted freeloading guests. For the most part, on the rare occasions now when we see a cockroach, it is either dead or on its way to being dead - a much better situation than the cockroach rodeo we had when we moved in.

But that all changed last night. My nerves were on edge anyway, since it was J's first night out of town for a week-long business trip. Although it makes me sound like a ninny, I admit that I don't sleep as well when he is gone and that I freak out at every odd sound. Spenser was parked at the top of the stairs, staring at the wall and meowing. I kept shushing him and making him move away so he would not wake up A. But the silly cat kept returning to the same spot until I thought that the squirrels had found their way back into the house (that's a pest story for another time). I even stood at the top of the stairs in the dark for about five minutes, trying to listen for any squirrel-like sounds. No luck.

I finally had enough of Spenser's behavior and decided to get him moving along. I flipped on the light at the top of the stairs in the upstairs hall and then saw the object of Spenser's attention: at the top of the wall was a cockroach, about an inch and a half long (body length only - legs and antennas made it even longer). It was located just above where I had stood for my five minute listen session and it was Very. Much. Alive.

Great. I armed myself with the rod from the towel bar I had broken earlier in the evening (again, a story for another time) and one of J's shoes - no way was I going to use one of MY shoes! I poked at the cockroach with the rod, trying to stay at an angle from the beast should it fall straight down. It took several jabs before it fell to the floor and ran straight at Spenser. So much for my fearless burly cat - he turned tail, literally, and ran down the stairs. I chased the cockroach and pounded it with J's shoes until it was Very. Much. Dead.

Sometimes a queen must do the work of a knight. But did I mention that the pest control service will be here on Friday for our quarterly treatment and will be spraying inside?

Baseball has been very good to me

If not already evident, I am wild about baseball. I adore the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd and all the zillion different traditions of teams and stadiums throughout North America. There is no falling on the ball to run out the clock, there is no ditching of the ball, there is no onside kick; every out is played at its own pace.

One of the things we miss most about North Carolina is the Durham Bulls. Each summer, we usually bought an eight-game package and spent many hot summer nights at the Durham Bulls Athletic Park (DBAP), which has to be one of the nicest minor league ballparks in the country. Minor league baseball is, admittedly, an entirely different species than major league ball but on most days, I prefer it. The players are still humble and hardworking, the seats are close to the field, the tickets are economical, and the people watching is spectacular.

And the DBAP is just where it should be, in the heart of downtown Durham. The modest Durham skyline is visible from the seats and the trains that chug through the city just beyond the outfield always sound their whistles and disrupt the game. The food at the DBAP is great and I always started every game with a burrito from the Flying Burrito, washed down with a cold beer. There are many other tasty treats available but that was always my absolute favorite. And it wasn't a great burrito unless I ended up wearing part of it!

Out here in Green Acres, there are no minor league baseball teams within an easy drive. And, there is no way in hell that I am going to see the Atlanta Braves - 1) too expensive and 2) can't abide the Braves. So we have been missing our minor league baseball in a big, big way.

When we visited my mother in Knoxville in late July, J and I went to see the Tennessee Smokies, the AA minor league baseball team out in Sevierville. What a cute little ballpark, and "little" is the operative word. It was Natural Gas night and I was almost sorry that A had stayed home with Mom since he could be their poster boy (except the poster would be blown off the wall - the child is toxic sometimes). We had great seats in the second row behind home plate and had an excellent time, drinking beer and people watching.

Unfortunately, the food at that park is not even close to the great eats at the DBAP so we left hungry. Can you imagine? Leaving a ballpark hungry? Shut up! We stopped at a Krystal burger on the way back to Mom's house and let me tell you, that is a great place late at night when you have a slight beer buzz - everything is funny instead of scary. And believe me, in the clear light of day and stone sober, the sights would have scared me speechless.

So we had a fun outing to the ballpark but it didn't even remotely compare to our beloved Durham Bulls. Sigh.

It's a beautiful day for baseball

The Cleveland Indians clinched the American League Central Division championship today with their 6-2 victory over the Oakland Athletics, on none other than Fan Appreciation Day. We are off to the post-season, which is a good-bad scenario for J. On one hand, he is happy for me, but on the other hand, he knows that he has to suffer through my baseball angst for at least a few more weeks.

GO TRIBE!

Herding cats

Yesterday was my first volunteer stint in A's classroom, which confirmed my belief that there is no amount of money that anyone could pay me to be a kindergarten teacher. Holy cow, it is difficult to find just the right words to describe the activity, the noise, the energy. And through it all, Mrs. G was in charge, calm and in the know about what was taking place in every inch of the classroom. For once, my role as the Queen was deposed and I was glad of it!

My task yesterday was to give a computer-based book quiz to all 20 students in the class. Mrs. G had read the book several times to the class so the quiz tested their comprehension and memory. One student was absent and one was in speech therapy, but that still meant that I read the same five questions 18 times. Just ask me about school bus drivers - I know it all now! The students were very polite and sweet but it will take me to the end of the year to tell one little blonde-haired girl from another!

A, of course, was not having a great day behavior-wise; the parapro had warned me when she saw me checking in at the office. Most of the time, he gets reprimanded for not listening and not following directions, which are the same behaviors that most often get him in trouble at home. Yesterday, however, he also had been doing forward rolls when he was supposed to be doing work at his seat. The teacher and parapro tell him to stop doing things before he gets formally reprimanded; I tell him over and over that when he is told to do something (or not do) by a teacher, then he is to do it immediately and that will keep him from getting into trouble.

But my discussion with Mrs. C (the parapro) yielded that he is not unusual, that it is normal for a child his age to have this difficulty in school and that with work, he will get better. And my time giving the book quiz showed me that in comparison with his classmates, A's speech and comprehension are excellent. Working in his classroom will provide me with those comparisons, help me see how he acts in class and what is expected of him in class.

I was exhausted after only 90 minutes. Mrs. G and Mrs. C - my crown is off to you!
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THREE! THREE! THREE! The Cleveland Indians beat the Detroit Tigers yesterday afternoon, so the magic number is now 3. Bring on the Oakland Athletics and let's get this done.

Party like a pirate!

Avast, me hearties - it's Talk Like a Pirate Day! This be t' one day that we land lubbers can pretend t' be pirates on t' sea. So hoist a grog and make a toast t' the pirate way o' life - eye patches and peg legs optional.

Why celebrate? Why not?
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Arrr! Me Cleveland Indians are back on t' track to win the AL Central Division with last night's 7-4 victory over those bilge rats, the Detroit TIgers. Aye - t' magic number be FIVE now!

Down on the farm

Yesterday we went to Inman Farm Heritage Days at Minter's Farm and had a FABULOUS time. In addition to what seemed like a gazillion tractors and engines, there was a steam traction engine, sawmill, syrup mill and pot, grist mill, threshing machine, log cabin, and blacksmith shop. I read later on their web site that there was also a moonshine still, but we did not see it.

A got to hull corn, pet donkeys, pick cotton and ride on a huge John Deere tractor. The people there were so kind and friendly, and we enjoyed hearing about how things used to be done. The only downside is that I kept getting verklempt as I thought how much my dad would have enjoyed such an event. Every time I saw a little old man wearing a cap (and there were a lot of them there), I thought of Dad - and while I like thinking about him and remembering him, I teared up each time.

Of course, the people watching was spectacular. As the morning progressed and more people arrived, the sights got more and more entertaining. The best sight of all took place as we walked to the car: a guy wearing a full-out mullet hairstyle! He had it all, the bangs cut straight across his forehead and the long hair in the back down to the middle of his back. Completing his look was the Michael Vick football jersey.

The sky was overcast, the humidity was low and the temps in the mid-70s, so it was very pleasant. It was nice to have something nearby to do, since it seems that very little takes place in out here in Hooterville.
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The magic number for the Cleveland Indians is 9. The Detroit Tigers have won five in a row and the Indians have faltered a bit, so the number has slowed down in its progression. Oh, the drama!

Book chat

Thursday evening was the monthly meeting of the book discussion group at the library. I have been a part of this group since its beginning, just over a year ago. I enjoy reading books that I might never choose on my own and discussing the monthly book with other people who also enjoy reading. Five of the usual members were there, plus two new people. Since our numbers have dwindled over the year, it is good to see new people joining us.

I chose this month's book and led the discussion: Wait Till Next Year: Memoir by Doris Kearns Goodwin. Ms. Goodwin tells her story of growing up a Brooklyn Dodgers' fan on Long Island during the '40s and '50s. It is a tender, sweet book that tells of a period in the US that will likely never exist again, when life centered around your immediate neighborhood and the baseball team that you cheered for seemed to really be a part of the community. Ms. Goodwin, a Pulitzer Prize-winning historian, has a damaged reputation due to charges of plagiarism in other books, but this book is delightful example of good storytelling.

One particular passage in the book really jumped out at me: "But thanks to teachers of uncommon skill and breadth, patriotism would never again mean unthinking adherence to things as they were. I would not confuse the temporary leaders of a country with the country itself." I read this passage aloud and a rather spirited discussion of patriotism ensued. One of the women asked if we thought that free speech had been suppressed in the period after the terrorist attacks on 11 September 2001, and I said yes. Another woman said that she thought it was not what you say but how you say it that is important, and somehow the Dixie Chicks were mentioned. I won't go into the entire discussion but what it boils down to is that two of the women believe that US citizens should never criticize - or "trash" in their words - the US in front of foreigners. I said that thoughtful criticism is not the same as trashing but then one said that there was a fine line between the two...I said that in my mind the line was much broader.

I was glad to finally see a difference of opinion in this group, because too often we all think the same about a book and the conversations aren't too complex. Although I heartily disagree with two of the participants, that is fine by me...no one got upset or rude, and thoughtful opinions were expressed.

And I don't see anything wrong with pointing out what I dislike about our country, no matter who is listening. I believe that our system of government works better than any other system in the world, and that the US is one of the leading countries in the world. But that doesn't mean that we still don't have room to improve and that we make mistakes. And I don't ever want the citizens of the world to think that everyone in this country is just like and shares the opinions of the President, whomever he or she may be. I certainly don't want anyone to lump me in the same category with George W. Bush - "That Man" as I usually call him.

"Dissent is the highest form of patriotism."

Tiny chairs

Until you walk into a kindergarten classroom, you forget just how small those chairs are and how large your own tookus has become. I went to curriculum night at A's school the other night, to find out more about what he will learn this year and how his day is organized. And since we met in our children's classroom, the only place to sit was in those tiny, tiny chairs...I am not the tallest nor the widest person around, but I still felt like my butt cheeks were hanging over the sides and my knees were around my ears. And after an hour in that chair, my hindquarters felt as though they were having an out-of-body experience.

Despite my physical discomfort, it was a useful hour. I really like A's teacher, Mrs. G, and the class paraprofessional, Mrs. C. Both are seasoned educators (in other words, not 20-somethings just out of college with more enthusiasm than pragmatism) and exude knowledge, confidence and pleasure in teaching children.

Of course, several of the other parents annoyed me beyond all reason. One woman, who was pushy and possessive of Mrs. G's time back at Open House, had a comment about EVERYTHING and made sure that everyone there knew that Mrs. G had been her 2nd grade teacher. Not only did she talk often, she talked at length about her child (Jake) and, most damning in my mind, she talked in that nasally nasty hick Georgia accent. I am sure that I involuntarily shuddered (or voluntarily, who knows?) each time she opened her mouth to speak. Thank goodness that Mrs. G, despite being a Georgia native, does NOT have a similar accent so at least I know that Jake's mom did not learn it in her classroom.

There was another woman who also talked a lot, although not nearly as much as Jake's mom, but she wanted everyone to know that she couldn't volunteer to help in the class because she works every day, 8 to 5. Well, bully for her. Her comment was in response to the appeal for help from the perky co-room parent - nice enough woman (and well put together, dress-wise, which is always a rarity out here in Green Acres) but I just know that if we lived in a more urban area, she would be a member - and probably an officer - in the Junior League.

I had already agreed to volunteer in A's class two hours every other week so I was off the hook on the "please help" plea. My first tour of duty is next Wednesday, and I am sure it will be interesting. I wonder if there are any exercises I can do to prepare my bottom for those chairs?

Eleven

After last night's 8-3 win over the Chicago White Sox (and Detroit splitting their double header with Texas), the magic number for the Indians is 11. Woohoo! Or, rather, Wahoo!

13

The Cleveland Indians are at the top of the AL Central division with a lead of 6 games over the second place Detroit Tigers. Their magic number - the combination of wins by the Indians and losses by the Tigers that will clinch the division title - is now 13. Go Tribe!

Baby, it's cold outside - not

Sometimes I think that we have an odd child - the broccoli and carrot snack incident supports that theory. I hear tales of children who absolutely refuse to wear coats or jackets, no matter how cold the temperature or how rainy the weather. Not mine!

As I write, it is 67 degrees F outside. It feels good but I won't go so far as to say it is cool; it just feels much better than the morning temps of 80 that we recently experienced. The high today is forecasted to hit 90 so it is in no way time to break out the parkas. But try telling that to A. He announced this morning that he needed to wear a jacket to school because it was cold out. 67 degrees is cold? To whom, a Floridian?

I told him - honestly, I thought at the time - that he didn't have a jacket to wear. He has outgrown last year's jackets and I have yet to get him another one. It is, after all, mid-September in Georgia and jacket weather is not an imminent threat. He insisted that he needed a jacket and opened the door to the hall coat closet, where he spied his bright yellow raincoat. I bought it last year off Ebay and although it is labeled a size 4T, it is the biggest 4T anything that I have ever seen. And it now will probably fit A just right. So he started his campaign to wear the raincoat to school and I dug in my heels. I had forgotten about the gargantuan yellow raincoat but at this point, it was a matter of principal. He didn't need to wear a coat of any kind!

So A left without any outerwear, which was a terrible situation in his mind. As he and J left the house, I could hear him start up about how he was shivering. That's our five year old Drama Queen!

He said what?

After I meet the school bus each afternoon and we walk back to our house, A has a snack. He is usually hungry and since I have no idea at what time he has lunch at school*, a snack is a good idea. He has a glass of milk and either some Nilla Wafers, fruit juice snacks or fruit. But yesterday, he asked for something completely different.

Wednesday was not a good day for A. I think that Grandma leaving for her home bothered him more than he cared to admit; he came home in a cranky mood and with a notation from the teacher that he had misbehaved in class. We went to Tae Kwan Do class that afternoon and he had trouble focusing - even Master Shim noticed. So we all decided that Wednesday was an "unkus" day for A and that Thursday he would do better.

Yesterday, Thursday, he had a great day. He woke up in a good mood, was all smiles when he got off the school bus and proudly told me that he had been a good boy in class. When I congratulated and hugged him, he asked if he could have a special snack since he had done better at school. I said that would be fine, within reason, and waited to see what he would request.

A opened the fridge door, pointed to the crisper drawer and said, "I want veggies! Can I please have some broccoli and carrots?" BROCCOLI and CARROTS? That's a special snack? After I regained consciousness, I said "Sure you can" and fixed his special snack. He has always been a good eater but I never thought I would hear him choose vegetables as a special snack.

Just when you think you have heard it all, you hear something you never thought you would hear.

*During the first week of school, I asked A at what time they eat lunch each day. He looked at me like I had sprouted antlers and said, "At lunchtime!" Silly, silly Mommy...

The sound of silence

My house is quiet. Well, I can hear the birds chirping outside and the thump of the dryer, but that is all. It is just Spenser the cat and me in the house and that is lovely.

My mother left this morning after a week-long visit. We had a good time and I am always glad to have her here, but I am not used to having someone around all of the time. Combine that with J and A being home for the three day Labor Day weekend and I have been experiencing people overload. Aside from being in the bathroom, I have not been by myself for a week, and it seemed as though someone was always talking to me. I missed my time alone...time to read the newspaper without interruption, time to think random thoughts, time to read my current book, time to watch Rock of Love (yes, you read correctly - it's a guilty pleasure).

So I am enjoying the quiet house and I think that Spenser is, too. He is off napping somewhere and I probably won't even see him until A gets home from school.

A good sigh.

Fresh grated parmesan, sir?

Newsflash: Raccoons like spaghetti! And, of course, the first question that should come to anyone's mind after reading such a statement is "How would you know?"

We ate sketty and meatballs for dinner one night last week and had quite a lot of cooked pasta left at the end of the meal. I packed up the leftover sauce and meatballs to freeze for another meal, but did not want to keep the leftover spaghetti...while I like most foods as leftovers, that courtesy does not extend to plain cooked pasta. I do try to be economical but since a pound of spaghetti is less than $1.00, I can't get all worked up about throwing out a few cents' worth.

So J suggested that instead of tossing into the garbage, we see if the raccoons would like it. We simply dumped it out on the floor of the deck and wondered if it would be there the next morning. Before we went to bed that night, I turned on the deck light and interrupted a raccoon mid-feast. There was spaghetti scattered over a four foot radius! I didn't know if that meant the raccoon really liked it or was really annoyed to find out there was no sauce or garlic bread.

The next morning revealed a pristine deck - not one bit of spaghetti remained. There may even have been a few lick marks still showing. So apparently raccoons have not bought into the no-carb trend and are more than happy to help us get rid of leftover pasta.