Sundays in My City: Politicking

'Tis the season for local politicking here in Southern Maryland. Usually, this doesn't mean much more to me than the occasional sign on the roadside, but this year, I have a vested interest.

The owner of my local liquor store is in the running. It's personal now.

When Paul and I first moved into our present home, we didn't have many friends. My parents came to visit, and the only person who knew us by name was Steve, the owner of the liquor store minutes from our home.

Let that sink in for a minute.

We had no church, few friends from either of our respective jobs, and no connections from our high school or college days. We just had Steve and his cooler of Yuengling.

I imagine my parents were thrilled by this development.

We have since made many connections in our little county, but we continue to enjoy chit-chatting with Steve when we pick up our adult beverages.

He asks about our family, calls me "dear," and always gives the kids lollipops.

Yes, I take the kids to the liquor store. Please stop judging me.

Thus, when Steve's name started popping up on lawn signs, bumper stickers, and roadside banners, I knew that he would get my vote.

This, my friends  is exactly what is wrong with American politics. I know nothing about Steve's platform, his political philosophy, or his views on really anything. That is, besides the his thoughts on the best Pinot under $12.00.

And yet, I like him. I like his family. I like the fact that he owns a small business in this era of Wal-Mart. I like that he puts up flags for Memorial Day and a big, ugly Santa sleigh on his roof each Christmas.

I like that there are always fresh flowers in the planters, and that his daughter sells watermelon from her garden on the porch of his store. Shoot, I like that his store has a porch.

Besides, honestly---he couldn't be any worse than our present batch of commissioners. One woman, who has been reelected since the beginning of time, walks around town pulling two humongous pigs on their own  leashes. I once saw her eating a pulled pork sandwich in a local restaurant, her pigs sitting quietly by her heels.

That's just messed up.

But here's the kicker. This woman--I'll call her Pig Lady---has campaign signs all over the county that say, "She knows that a million dollars is still alot of money."

"A lot," Madame Commissioner Pig Lady, is TWO WORDS. Not one. Perhaps when you are busy slashing local school budgets and horrifying your porky pets, you could take the time to proofread your own campaign signs.

Sorry. She may be a perfectly nice lady, but this issue makes me stabby.

Now, if my friend Steve is elected, that will mean that TWO of our five county commissioners will be owners of liquor stores.

It's perfect, really. We will never, ever, become a dry county.

That's something I can get behind.

There are serious elections in my fine state this November---there will be an epic rematch between Bob Ehrlich and Martin O'Malley for the governorship. Somebody will attempt, and fail, to unseat Majority Leader Steny Hoyer. There will be big money, and even bigger consequences to these elections.

But yet, I think I will have a greater thrill when I put a check-mark next to Steve's name this fall. After all, I like him. He's one of us. The politics is indeed personal.

Any politicking going around your parts?

Thanks to Unknown Mami for hosting Sundays in My City.

Sundays in Our City: Our Beach

When Paul and I were house-hunting, we wanted two things:

1) To buy a house---in the Washington DC Metropolitan Area---for less than $200,000 dollars.
2) For it not to be a shithole.

For those familiar with the real-estate market in 2004, this was no small task. 

Amazingly, we accomplished both of our goals. We found our little Cape Cod, with its green shutters and white siding. It looked like it was peeking through the trees with its dormer eyes. With three bedrooms, two baths, and a skylight in the upstairs bathroom, we had enough room for the (now deceased) dog and for the imaginary children of our future.

But, the kicker of the deal was when the Realtor said, "The community beach is about a ten minute walk away."

Sold.

This beach, on the Western edge of the Chesapeake Bay, is like opening a present, again, and again, and again. I'll forget that we live so close to the water until I drive by and see the sudden gasp of blue, or the lazy pulsing of a cargo ship, or the kite-like dance of the sailboats.

Owen and Joel have grown up by the shores of the Bay. It's a normal activity to hunt for shark's teeth and coral, or wade in the warm waters during the summer. Normal. As an Arizona desert kid, I went to the beach maybe fifteen times my entire childhood---and that's a generous number.

What lucky kids.

Here's my mother and Paul with Owen. He's about two weeks old, and it's early March.

He liked the beach more each time he visited.

See?

Now, it's his playground, another place to explore.

Joel likes the beach too, but this was the only picture I could dig up. I suppose that's the reality of having two children under the age of four that LOVE the water and exploring. I need to keep them from drowning while still drinking my coffee. And taking pictures of said coffee.

Thanks to Unknown Mami for her hosting of Sundays in my City, an opportunity to tour our world, one mouse click at a time!

Friday Fragments: Scrapbooking, Spying, and More Talk of Chickens

A few weeks back, I canceled a scrapbooking forced march social gathering at my house, saying something along the lines of "Eff scrapbooking, let's get cocktails instead."

I really don't like to scrapbook. It's detail-orientated and fussy and time-intensive. Basically, it's the crafty version of bamboo shoots under the fingernails.

However, I had plunked down a large amount of money for the digital scrapbooking software, a fact that Paul has pointedly shared with me many times. My reasoning was that if I must do the odious activity, I would rather be clicking a mouse than slicing off the top of my finger with a paper guillotine. (I'm sure there is a proper term for "paper guillotine" Those-Who-Scrapbook, but I don't speak your strange language very well.)

I had run into the woman who sold me the software at the gym, and  we determined that if I was to get scrapbooks-as-presents sent by Christmas, they must be made by Sunday. And so, as with most things in life, I had a deadline, and sudden motivation.

I must confess, I liked it. It was relatively painless. The pages are already made, and all I needed to do was choose the pictures and plunk them in the templates. It took me about two hours total to complete a 21 page book.

I feel so not bad-ass about this whole thing. But, yet, when I look at pictures like this...

...I realize that I can stomach some of my personal distaste to record the history of my family.

Speaking of recording history, I'll record some the fragments of my week, courtesy of Mrs. 4444's Friday Fragments. 



***
Owen is planning on asking Santa for a "kid mailbox." I don't get it. What's so cool about a mailbox? You can put the letters in the mailbox...and take them out. Maybe get some toddler bills or toddler junk mail?

I'm hoping to buy the Melissa-and-Doug version shown above, but I know that this is not Owen's first choice. He wants a mailbox that looks like a fishing lure, just like That Guy up the street.

I mean, how cool is this?

If like me, you thought, "Hmmm, not cool at all. Kinda stupid, actually," then join me in the mental picture of my son, shaking his head sadly and saying, "You just don't get it."

***
One of the neighbor's chickens broke free and was running around my back yard last night. Joel stood by the window, hands pressed flat against the window pane, yelling "Quack, quack, quack!"

Owen said, "No Joely, ducks don't live in our backyard. Just chickens."

Yeah, Owen. For now. Who knows what neighbor Jimmy has up his sleeve? Thanks to him, we have five random cats, twelve chickens, and all sorts of feral teenagers running wild through these parts. I'm just waiting for the donkey, or better yet, the Emu.

I will say I appreciated the dozen fresh eggs this morning.

***
Finally, I had the brilliant idea of doing a post about a trip to grocery-store Nirvana, aka Wegman's last week. For those unaware, Wegman's is to Safeway as Ann Taylor is to Old Navy. Same product, worlds apart.

(And by the way, Trader Joe's is not that awesome. It's just...okay. Yes, I said it.)

Anyway, I was taking pictures of the heirloom tomatoes, sushi bar, and imported fine cheeses before an employee told me to put the camera phone away. The "or else" was implied, but present.

I dutifully put it away, but not before asking the employee for a sample of her lovely goat cheese.

If looks could kill...

Who know the grocery business was so cutthroat?

I'm off to enjoy some goat cheese, and then sell a bunch of secretly-obtained film to Safeway. Happy Friday to you all!

Daydream Becomes Reality

In one of those ha-ha, wouldn't-that-be-crazy conversations that Paul and I are wont to have on hour four of a six hour car ride, we discussed our future, theoretical home.

In the course of this conversation, we agreed that our future home would have: solar panels, a composter,  a flat backyard, and a sun room. A bit crunchy perhaps, but nothing unreasonable.

Than, fueled perhaps by the unnatural goodness of Ranch-flavored pretzel bites, we began to discuss our theoretical land.

Paul said "We would have a least ten acres."

"Oh, yes," I replied, forgetting the fact that ten acres of land usually means living far away from essentials like grocery stores that have neither the words "Food," "Lion," "Piggly," or "Wiggly," in their titles.

I added, "And, we would have a chicken coop. With at least ten chickens." I imagined the fresh eggs each morning, the gentle cluck-cluck as I sprinkled the feed from my apron. (Of course I would wear an apron).

Paul considered the idea. "Well, if we had a chicken coop, we would need a big dog. To scare off the foxes. Some kind of herding dog."

"Like the dogs on Babe!" I replied, revealing in an instant my entire knowledge of farming culture. "And, oh! We should get some sheep, too! That way, you wouldn't have to mow the lawn! And (brother) Tom's girlfriend could spin the wool. It's perfect."

"Yes," Paul said, seriously considering the idea, "But you would have to do the shearing."

"Of course," I said. "I love me a good shearing. But you're cleaning out the coop."

"Hmmm," Paul answered, his standard non-reply.

"You'll have the time, since you don't need to mow the lawn," I countered.

Paul nodded, "That's true."

This conversation continued for a good while, our utopian farm becoming more natural and beautiful. It finally petered out when we discussed making our own organic goat cheese, and  expired completely when I suggested bringing a donkey into the mix.  

These day-dreamy conversations became a bit more real when I saw Owen doing this: 

"What are you looking at, Buddy?" I asked, as he peered through our backyard fence.

"The chickens," he replied.

Ah yes, the chickens. Our neighbor, Jimmy, had gone and built himself a chicken coop last weekend. We now have three chickens thisclose to our backyard. Despite my hysterical reports on Facebook, he did not add a rooster to the mix. I stand gratefully corrected.

So, our daydream has become a reality, and the jury is still out about my feelings about all this. It's easy to imagine the graceful agrarian life, but what will this look like one day to the next?

All I know is that Owen goes outside each day to say hello to Dora:

And Charlotte:

And while I never expected to live this close to livestock (at least this soon), I appreciate that there is now another wonder for my little scientist to explore.

We could do a lot worse.

                                                                                 

The Great Questions, Yet Unanswered.

1. Why do I need to buy party favors for a baby's birthday party? The whole concept of party favors---buy cheap junk, preferably choking hazards and then assemble it into cutesy bags---fills me with rage.

If Joel was in charge of party favors, he would have me buy filthy, germ-laden shoes for his guests. Shoes are, after all, his favorite toys. With this thoughtful gesture, the babies could have something to chomp on, with the added bonus of Hepatitis or Hoof and Mouth Disease.

Now THAT'S a favor.

2. Am I morphing into a Redneck? I bought a plastic baby pool from K-Mart. I brought it home, put it on the deck, filled it up, placed two boys in it, cracked open a beer, and dipped my toes in the water while they played.

Paul came home and told me it was the most redneck thing he had ever seen. I said, "Shut yer mouth and get me some Fritos."

Tell, me, loyal readers. Am I...changing? How's my neck looking?

(P.S. Owen says "water" like the Southern Maryland native he is: "wa-dur." I correct him most voraciously. "Wa-ter, ya'll, Wa-ter!"

3. Good God! What else can I do with all this zucchini? It's been a gratin. We've grilled it. We've put it on pizza. In omelets. We've made zucchini bread. I'm considering a zucchini birthday cake.

I fear the zucchini will rise up and smother us all in our sleep.

4. How much will I regret letting both boys nap until 5:45 PM? I'm guessing quite a bit.

Those People

If there's one thing Paul doesn't like, it's a snob. It's too bad he married one.

I not proud of the fact, but it remains a fact nevertheless.

For example, I don't like shopping at Wal-Mart. It's not because I have a zeal for social justice or workers' rights. It's because I think that I'm better than some of the people that shop there. When I see a boy with a rat-tail yelling at his NASCAR tank-top-clad mother, I roll my eyes. I mean, really.

When I write it down it sounds as petty and awful as it is. I don't know those people. I don't know their stories, I don't know their circumstances. I make a few cursory judgments and mentally declare myself superior.

God must want to drink moonshine straight from the spout when I think like this. He uses the same adoring gaze when he looks at the rat-tailed kid that I use when I watch Joel sleep. He does not discriminate.

God does not create economic or moral caste systems. It's easy for me to declare somebody to be "Redneck" or "So Calvert County."

I choose not to adorn my bumper with plastic dangling testicles. Have I considered it? How could I not? It's a look both classic AND timeless. Yet, my bumper remains ball free. Does that mean I'm a better person? I would say "yes." God would disagree.

I do not agree that the Confederate flag is a sign of "Heritage, not hate." It seems pretty hateful to me. I can honestly say I've never taken the time to hear the other side, because I've considered myself better than those people. It occurs to me that slave owners thought they were better than those people too.

It's not up to me to do the judging. I'm sometimes the "worst kind of liberal." I'm tolerant of people, as long as they agree with me.

It's God's challenge, and my directive, to attempt to listen and understand, even when the ideas seem backward or the exterior appears rough.

Truly seeing other people as God's creation---without deciding which creations are better--may be one of the hardest things I'll ever do.

And probably one of the most important.

Obama's Neighbor

In November, I say to my good friend, Joanne (while she's still in the hospital, having just given birth), "Hey, let's go to the inauguration!"


She responds, God love her, "Oh, I'm so there!" We email our congressmen, hope for tickets. Time passes. The brain cells we (okay, I'll speak for myself, I) lost during pregnancy and childbirth grow back. We realize that perhaps, perhaps, it wouldn't be fun to stand on the National Mall for five or so hours, infant sons strapped into Baby Bjorns, as the Arctic winds howl and our sons demand to be breastfed. All to point at a speck in the distance and say, "That's Obama!"


So, instead, we're going to watch the inauguration from her house, eating pizza (which we're pretending is Chicago-style) while the older boys play with monster trucks and the infants demand to be breastfed (some things never change).


The main drag of my home, Calvert County, is Route 4. If you follow Route 4 long enough, it eventually turns into Pennsylvania Avenue. Consequently, I tell out-of-towners that I live "just down the road from the president." If one visits Calvert County, he or she will discover that we have a Wal-Mart AND an Applebees. We're pretty metropolitan-- that is, if you're visiting from Ghana or the Navajo Reservation. However, most people would find Calvert County to be....lacking in fine dining or culture. To that, I reply, "Yes, but I live right down the road from the President..."


I get a kick out of the concept that I can drive to DC and do interesting, even historical things. I rarely do any of these things, but I could, I could! Pre-children, Paul and I would take the Metro in and go to museums, restaurants, and even performances. Together, we attended the International Spy Museum, ate with our fingers at an Ethiopian restaurant, and attended a reading by my literary hero, David Sedaris. It was so cool for a girl from suburban Arizona to be in a big city, doing big city stuff.


With the boys, our trips to DC have been far less frequent. Okay, Joel hasn't been there at all, yet. The focus has changed, too. Instead of Irish pubs or walking tours of Georgetown ("Here are the famous steps that the priest fell down at the end of The Exorcist"), we take Owen to the National Zoo to see the Pandas, or the National History Museum to look at the dinosaur bones.
Owen has also seen his father and uncle run the Marine Corps Marathon. Although these are not necessarily the things I want to see the most (except for the marathon, of course), I love experiencing them with Owen and Joel's fresh eyes.


So, while I won't see Obama become president in person, I still have the gumption and the need to do something big, something historic in The District with the boys and Paul. Someday, I will dress them up in their finest, and make them roll Easter Eggs on the White House Lawn. I will drag them downtown during the height of the Mid-Atlantic Summer to see the fireworks on Independence Day. They will march up and down every inch of that Mall, and see every monument...even the Jefferson Memorial, even though it is far away and inconvenient.



Who knows, maybe we'll even see a speck, and one of us will say, "Hey, That's Obama!" He is our neighbor, after all.

A Morning in the Life

It's 6:30, I'm in bed and listening to Joel thrash about on the monitor. He's always such a happy baby in the morning...unlike Owen, who woke up screaming, Joel will coo, examine his hands, and kick the air joyfully for a good fifteen, twenty minutes.

This would be the quietest part of my morning by far.

Fast forward through breakfast, getting dressed, etc. to Joel's morning nap. Or, I should say, lack of it, since he was awake after snoozing for a whopping twenty-five minutes. I pile the boys into the car, pleased as punch that there will be enough time for me to run a few errands before Joel's four month well visit with his doctor.

I go to the dump, which, I'm frustrated to find, is staffed by Old Cigar-Chomping Man, who is too busy talking about the Redskins game to help me with my trash. I far prefer slightly less old Elmer Fudd Cap Wearing Man, who always helps me heave the bags into the dumpster. For those of you reading this outside of Calvert County, yes, I have to go to the dump, usually at least two times a week. You have to pay for trash pick up in these here parts.

Dump run complete, I arrive at Educate and Celebrate, the only place in town besides Wally World that sells toys---we have two birthday parties this week. Naturally, it's closed for another fifteen minutes. We walk over to Safeway, buy some coffee, and then go to the Hallmark store to kill some time. Bad idea. EVERYTHING in Hallmark is breakable and makes noise. So, I have Joel in the Bjorn, I'm attempting to hold Owen's hand, and a cup of hot coffee (away from Joel's head, thank you very much) teeters in my remaining free hand. As soon as the clock strikes ten, I head next door to the toy store.

I enter the store, and literally, as soon as I enter the store, a woman asks me if she could interview me for the local paper, The Calvert Recorder. How could I refuse this, possibly my fifteen minutes of fame? (Okay, total disclosure: I was in The Calvert Recorder a few years back for a "Meet your Teacher" feature. So, let's call a spade a spade and say that I am a publicity hound and take any opportunity for attention, no matter how fleeting...) Anyway, she asks me what I'm getting my kids for Christmas, and how the recession is changing my spending habits. Since I wasn't planning on buying much for the kids to begin with, I'm not a very interesting interview topic. However, I do steal an idea from my friend and say that I'm going to take Owen to the dollar store so he can learn how to "give, not just get" by buying small gifts for family members. Thanks, Jamie, for the idea. We'll see if it makes the paper this Friday...

So, after my interview, I realize that I have five minutes to select three gifts, pay for them, pile the boys into the car, and make it to the doctor on time. I can so do this. I'm racing around the store, putting items in the cart, and then, I hear it:

"Mommy, I need to go poo-poo." Naturally, I have no diaper bag, since I need my hands to hold my coffee, lug around the baby, and push the cart. If Owen poos his pants, it will be a disaster of epic proportions. The cleaning alone would make us late for Joel's appointment. My eyes dart around the store, frantically looking for the bathroom.

"Moooommmmy, I need to go poo-poo! It's a very, very big one!" Oh dear! I finally make eye contact with the lady behind the counter.

She helpfully says, "There's too much dangerous stuff by our bathroom. You'll need to take him to Safeway."

Damn. "Okay! Thanks a lot!" I say, leaving the full cart in the middle of the store, dragging Owen by one hand, swigging coffee with the other, Joel hanging limply from the Bjorn throughout it all. We make it back to Safeway, as Owen lets the baggers, managers, fellow shoppers, and deli employees know that not only does he need to go poo-poo, but it's a poo of epic proportions.

We make it, Owen does his thing, there is much rejoicing, and we all race to the car. I screech up to the doctor's office, and use the valet service because, as usual, there is no parking AND we're ten minutes late. We arrive, panting, to the office.

And proceed to wait twenty minutes.

After sitting for ten minutes, a twitchy dad (who, incidentally, came in after me), lumbers up to the receptionist and asks, "How much longer will I have to wait?" The nurse explains that there are two patients ahead of his daughter. He proceeds to announce, "I'm gonna order a pizza, since I have to wait so long. Anybody else want anything?" So. Calvert. County. I mean, really? You need nourishment to sustain yourself during a twenty minute wait? You would rather scarf down a pizza in the waiting room of a pediatrician's office than just...wait?

I couldn't restrain myself, "You're having it delivered here?"

He said, "Damn straight. You'll wish you ordered some, too."

I never had the chance to. Joel's name was called next, and we went back and learned that he is growing well (75% percentile for height, weight, and head), that he has an ear infection, and despite my suspicions, does NOT have an extra nipple. He also got three shots, and cried like, well, a baby.

We left, Rx in hand. Joel was done. I was soooo done. Owen? He was still talking about the size of his poo.