Darling Hubby and I share a passion for many things; a love of hiking and the outdoors, strategic board games, and a fondness for the Canadian band Rush all come to mind. What we choose to watch on television stands in stark contrast. Case in point: the other night I knew he was viewing some form of sporting event because I'd hear an occasional sigh, slamming down of the remote control, or abrupt profanities. Trying to be a good wife and at least feign interest, I eventually sucked it up and asked what he was watching.

"Baseball, football, some hockey, and uh, the World Series of Poker is on too," he happily enthused.

I think I may have managed a "That's nice, honey," without rolling my eyes but you'd have to check with Jim to know for sure.

While I've been known to play the occasional sport, being forced to sit still and watch televised play requires serious bribery or at the very least, heavy sedation. Tailgating, I'm there; Super Bowl parties, count me in; actually watching a game, ain't gonna do it. No big surprise that I stick to chick fare and spend my evenings bonding with the Duggar, Gosselin, and Roloff families. Yeah, you ladies know who I'm talking about...but let me help out the men: that means I watch 17 Kids and Counting, Jon & Kate plus Eight, and Little People Bigger World.

If I get depressed watching Michele heard all those gorgeous little kids like so many Stepford ducklings, Kate and Amy's down-to-Earth attitude towards mothering always reassures any residual parental guilt leftover from my day. And if I'm really feeling down, a quick visit with Nanny 911 always cheers me. Where in the world do they find these people?

Being a far more patient person, Darling Hubby will occasionally sit through one of my shows. And this Fall, we had a few tender moments together under that flickering cathode ray glow courtesy of the Presidential debates. Thankfully, who we vote for is a carved-in-stone commonality in our marriage, unlike my parents. Though to save time, they have agreed to expedite the entire judicial process by not voting at all since, to their logic, their two opposing votes cancel each other out.

Outside of this self-imposed political dissonance, ironically what my parents do share is a love of sci-fi programming and they choose to spend most evenings watching television...together. What a concept!

Laura Douglass writes for The Seven Lakes Times where this column originally appeared.

• Read More »

According to America's finest news source, in a reluctant statement the 80's heavy metal giant Twisted Sister announced they are now willing to take it.

This credible tidbit was sandwiched in between reports from The Onion that the "I am under 18" button was clicked for the first time in Internet history and the U.S. Debt outgrew the debt clock. 

While deeply profound, all that satire put me to thinking.

Will Queen no longer rock us and what if Snickers no longer satisfied? Or there was no relief after I plop, plop, fizz, fizzed? Can I still reach out and touch someone if AT&T is now wireless? And what kind of world would this be without that 'across the pond' conceit that BMW is the ultimate driving machine or that British Airways is the world's favorite airline?

What if I can't get no satisfaction because I don't deserve a break today or can't have it my way at Burger King? What if my soup isn't Mmm Mmm good? And if I don't know how to cook, can I still trust Crisco?

I don't know about you, but the overplayed rock anthems and the crush of promotional overkill makes me a bit nostalgic for those illiterate Dark Ages. You know when homeless minstrels entertained with poetry and historical sagas and folks were attracted to favorite pubs or bakeries by following their nose rather than a shrewd and slick marketing plan crafted through a careful study of consumer behavior and habit. Face it, these days you can't turn on a computer or television, flip through a magazine, or even get through a quiet dinner without an advertising intrusion. [Authors note: If anyone is worried about their vehicle warranty expiration or the latest satellite dish offers, give me a call. I'll be happy to forward my phone to your number every evening between six and nine.]

At least when I'm online, I have control over my cookies and have figured out how to limit SPAM in my mailbox. Now if I could only get the post office to do the same thing! I recall Seinfeld's neighbor Kramer tried to opt out of mail. That didn't work out so well after his Absence of Malice moment with the Postmaster General: yup, just another government conspiracy controlling us dweebs.

So in preparation for the avalanche of holiday shopping catalogs, I've made extra mail box keys and emptied out our two-car garage. I figure that should be enough to hold a week or two's accumulation while I review bids from hauling contractors to take the whole mess to the nearest recycling bin. Quick, alert the press! In another stunning reversal of policy, I too have decided I'm ready to take it.

Laura Douglass writes for the Seven Lakes Times where this column originally appeared.

• Read More »

I've come across some pretty strange phenomena in my life but a few weeks ago I encountered something completely new.

"Laura churns through the North Atlantic" screamed the headline.

Huh?

Reading more I discovered I have a maximum sustained wind of sixty miles per hour and would only be a threat to shipping interests in the far north. Well, that's good to know. I mean if I'm going to blow around some hot air the least I can do is knock a few ships and migrating birds off course.

But the real irony is that those cold ocean waters are, quite literally, the last place on Earth you're likely to find me. This Laura can't swim, gets motion sick, and wears wool when it's seventy degrees. Not exactly a hardy seafaring soul: hence, why you, dear reader, will find me living happily here in the drought-ridden and abundantly warm Sandhills. What's not to like?

For the sake of my kids, I admit I pretend to enjoy water sports. You know, throw on a swimsuit, grab some shades, and try to look casual on the boat. It's a sham. I'm actually white-knuckling the seat, completely absorbed as I focus on the horizon, trying not to notice the bobbing...up and down, up and down. Ugh.

And don't even get me started on my teen angst terrors after spending too many weekends sailing the Chesapeake with the ‘rents. Come to think of it, I really hate flying too. I guess I'm just a terra firma kind of gal.

Certainly astrology didn't get it right. With a late July birthday, I'm not an earth sign but rather fall on the cusp of Cancer and Leo: one water, the other a sun sign. Hmm, a confused water and sun-borne baby who favors dirt.

That's it, I'm mud. I knew it!

At birth the doctor should have warned my mother, "Yup, look at the calendar, looks like mud to me." Maybe I could have avoided damaging childhood traumas such as fishing trips, flying the friendly skies, and sleeping in the v-berth.

Oh well. The weather service said Laura drew energy both from the atmosphere and the ocean surface. Yeah that's right: the great sucking sound isn't NAFTA from the south but Laura gathering strength in the north. Now if I could just figure out which way to blow the wind down Wall Street.

Laura Douglass writes for The Seven Lakes Times where this column originally appeared.

• Read More »

 

Day One - 109 Photos.

I laughed out loud: that was the name of the emailed file. In his first six hours, little Cooper had already scored more photographs than my shutter-neglected offspring will probably see this year.

And here's the kicker - Cooper isn't number one or even two, he's kid three!

So allow me to stop for a moment and give props, that is proper respect, to Coop's ‘rents for not adhering to the old standby: you know, hundreds of pictures of your firstborn and a few of the second. Heck, any kids after that are lucky to find a photo predating their first day of Kindergarten.

Though by week's end, I expect my friend's new little bundle of joy will exit the hospital ward like a hounded paparazzi darling, shielding himself from flashbulbs with his baby blanket before diving into a waiting limo - or minivan as the case may be. Another hapless victim of modern conveyance and convenience.

Yes, I blame technology.

Once upon a long lost time, say about ten years ago, film was an expensive, precious, and finite resource. For most events, you had twenty-four shots or less to get your picture right: a bar set way too high to assure success. Trust me, with a shelf full of family albums featuring timeless moments forever documented with half-closed eyes, turned heads, and open mouths, I speak from experience.

The purchase of my first digital camera freed me from the misery of scrapbooking yet another lousy photograph, or worse, developing print after print of the inside of my purse. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know - put the lens cap back on! But that early digital, while handy, had a very limited memory.

Not that this was a bad thing.

Digital gadgets have evolved to store hundreds of images. Kids born into today's media savvy, digitally-mastered universe will have their every milestone documented and Photo Shopped to perfection. Red eyes, corrected; sky not blue enough, no problem; blurry image, delete.

It kind of makes me wonder about that iconic Kindergarten picture. Will they be so memorable if they aren't so inherently bad?

Mine reflects a tomboy's existence, with an overabundance of freckles on skinny bashed knees, straggly red hair, and a standard issue horrid school uniform. Maybe some historical revision is in order - get rid of the dress, straighten the hair, airbrush the knees and freckles...voila. On second thought, perhaps not: I'd probably end up looking like an Olsen twin.

Instead I think I'll just busy myself surfing my email - only 108 photos to go.

Laura Douglass writes for the Seven Lakes Times where this column originally appeared.

 

• Read More »

8:52 am: Three suitcases, backpacks stuffed with toys, a few bikes, two joyous children, and one sleep-deprived mother hit the road for one last Summer adventure.

8:55 am: Contorting to retrieve a spilled juice box, I narrowly avoid catastrophe as I pinball my way out Seven Lakes gates and point the minivan towards the Atlantic.

9:03 am: Passing an idyllic rural homestead populated with goats and chickens, I reconsider my choice of residence.

9:04 am: Waving to the sun-kissed farmer spreading fresh manure, I decide that life in the ‘burbs ain't so bad.   

9:15 am: Demonstrating uncanny diplomatic grace, I deftly negotiate a truce and my children agree which DVD movie they'll watch.

9:35 am: Losing interest in the movie, the kids resume kicking each other for entertainment.

9:40 am: Hoping a sugar rush will alleviate my headache, I hand out bowls of dry breakfast cereal.

9:41 am: A sweetened honey puff is launched past my head.

9:41:0004 am: Threatening to return home, I suggest an alternative vacation plan of spending the week cleaning up bedrooms.

9:42 am: Peace prevails for ten sacred minutes.

9:52 am: One hour, mark.

9:54 am: "Are we there yet? How much longer?"

9:55 am: "Hours! Mommy, how many minutes are in hours?"

9:59 am: "I dropped all my cereal on the floor. Can I have some more?"

10:01 am: "Jack ate my cereal!"

10:02 am: "Waah! Mommy, Jack hit me when I grabbed his bowl."

10:03 am: "Can we watch a movie?"

10:05 am: After another intense period of negotiation we settle on listening to a CD of "kids music."

10:10 am: "Can you play that song again?"

10:12 am: "Can you play that song again?"

10:14 am: "Can you play that song again?"

10:15 am: I decide that investing in two iPods, or at least liberating a few old Walkmans from storage is probably a wise parenting decision.

10:26 am: Pretending the car stereo is broken, I suggest we try a different CD to see if it works better.

10:28 am: The kids sniff out my plan to inject my music into the player and demand Hannah Montana.

10:31 am: I fantasize about ways to torture Billy Ray for creating this corporate pop rock drivel. I'll Achy Breaky your...Wait, hey that song she's singing is kind of catchy.

10:32 am: "Who would have thought that a girl like me could double as a superstar, yea, yea, oh, oh, oooh."

10:52 am: Two hours, mark.

10:59 am: "I'm hungry! I want lunch. Me too! Yeah, Mom, when are we gonna eaaaat!"

11:00 am: Assuring my children that somewhere ahead there must be a town of some sort, I silently pray to the hamburger gods.

11:03 am: "I'm so hungry! Mom, I'm starving to death. Look at my tummy, see?"

11:04 am: "I see a gas station. Mommy, let's eat there."

11:05 am: "Kids, we are not eating at a place called Uncle Buck's Truck & Pluck. I'm sure we'll see something soon."

11:32 am: Redemption dead ahead! Ah, nothing like the nutritious goodness of grease and salt at the drive-in window.

11:42 am: "I dropped my soda, Mommy. Wow, neat! It's making really cool bubbles on the floor!"

11:52 am: Three hours, mark.

11:54 am: Arriving at the ocean, I contemplate throwing myself in. I settle for a cool drink and decide to throw the kids in instead.

Yes indeed: nothing like a trip to the beach to relax and unwind.  

Laura Douglass writes for the Seven Lakes Times where this column originally appeared.

• Read More »

 

"Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la...." Oops, right sentiment - wrong month. Maybe I'll look instead to Alice Cooper for inspiration and belt out, "School's out for Summer, school's out forever!" - though maybe you'll agree that the correct celebratory tune is probably "99 bottles of beer."

Yes indeed Summer is here and school bells atop scores of fine institutions of higher learning will soon rest quiet while our roads, parks, and waters buzz with the excited sound of freedom. A freedom defined by that ever-so brief time when we enjoy an unbridled, innocent sense that the world is our oyster...the last days of school.

After taking the scenic route through my twenties - an adventuresome journey withlots of turns, twists, and Twinkies - I went from the surreal life to real life in my thirties, and now sit on the threshold of the big 4-0. Perhaps it's because Darling Hubby and I stretched that youthful glow out to ridiculous lengths, like a dwindling string of Silly Putty, that we now take such joy in reliving all the pleasures of childhood with our brood: especially the school countdown.

Not that those hardworking teachers weren't feeding that frenzy each day by X'ing off days on the calendar. Every afternoon, my tots would scurry off the bus announcing that magic number....eleven days left, ten days left!

Like an eminent shuttle launch, I could see the white cloud of smoke curling up around their ankles. By the final day, the fevered pitch of excitement was a volcanic spew.

For my money, being an adult just can't compare. Sure I look forward to vacations - but that enthusiasm is equally tempered with the knowledge that the week will inevitably end in an avalanche of dirty laundry, spent energy, depleted funds, and great piles of unopened mail. In fact on a day-to-day basis, it seems the only tangible benefit to adulthood is eating potato chips for lunch, at least when no one is watching.

All those other adult perks come with baggage. You get to set your own bedtime, but work and bosses determine when the blasted, ‘stop-that-ringing-noise' alarm goes off. You get to pick your spouse, hopefully, but your mother - his mother - the travel agent - and the caterer all seem to get the final word on wedding plans. You get to pick what vehicle to drive, sort of.

Let's see, I need a car that seats at least half a baseball team, is easy to load, and can tow a camper a few weekends out of the year.

"I know what you are looking for, ma'am. You want the minivan, right?"

Wrong! No, dear car dealer, I want the zippy little two-seater, in red, with the convertible top and...hhmph,

"Okay the van. Does it come in red?"

Alas, at least my Mother Earth-size cruiser came with a moon roof and a reasonably hip sound system so I can blast my past: "Sometimes I wonder what I'm a gonna do, but there ain't no cure for the summertime blues."

Laura Douglass writes for the Seven Lakes Times where this article originally appeared.

• Read More »

   In the end, it was a strawberry and I was quite surprised. For weeks there had been much wobbling, wiggling, and tugging, to no avail. That first little lost tooth was not to be yanked or hurried it seemed, much like its owner, Lindsay.

   Now I assure you reality television has nothing on the drama of raising a six-year old girl. Unlike my courageous son who lost his first tooth to a karate sparring match, my tiny princess of pink spilled many tears over the horrible pain of her "looth tooth." Luckily, that sweet strawberry finally saved the day.

   Per tradition, the tooth fairy was summoned that evening and produced something quite grand...girl money. Yup, a good old Susan B. Anthony dollar for my pink-wearing, tutu loving, Barbie lunchbox- carrying, Ugh - I'm going to make her a feminist if it kills me - daughter.

   For a chick who spends three mornings a week beating the stuffing out of punching bags and passionately enjoys throwing back a well-crafted brew, I know that someone up there must have had a great sense of humor when they sent me down this little angel to raise.

  We're like a cartoon team, Tough and Fluff.

   With seventeen months more experience at life and that wily creature, the Y-chromosome, on board, my son has also proved to be a mothering challenge. A much more jaded seven and half year old, recently when he lost another incisor Jack wanted to know if the tooth fairy would bring him $100.

   In my most understanding Mommy-tone I explained how that was a lot of money and the tooth fairy couldn't possibly lift it.

   "She could if it were a $100 bill," suggested my way-too-clever boy.

   Drat, foiled again. I think I liked Jack better last year when he got his first gift from the tooth fairy, a gold dollar. When he took that shiny treasure to Kindergarten for Show and Tell, a classmate exclaimed, "Now that is tooth fairy money!"

   Unfortunately, Darling Hubby and I expect to be on the tooth fairy's destination list for at least three or four more years. So far we've drained our coin cups of gold and silver dollars plus a few stray Loonies and Twonies from our frozen neighbor, the Great White North.

   At some point we may have to abandon our thrifty fairy route in favor of the more hip Hilton-esque model. I've heard the tooth fairy is known to toss around ten dollar bills these days. Yikes, and I thought my gas bill was outrageous!

   Thank goodness that economic stimulus check is in the mail - or is it? Maybe I'll just check under my pillow tomorrow morning. Come on, somewhere flying around there must be a tax fairy too, right?

Laura Douglass writes for the Seven Lakes Times where this column originally appeared.

• Read More »

  A blur of fur and fury is all that I saw and I couldn't help but wonder, "Can dogs be bipolar?"

Not that I am in the habit of making light of serious medical conditions, but bipolar is characterized not as a single disorder but an entire category of mood disorders. Anyone who has ever been owned by a cat could tell you that this is the very definition of a feline.

However, I had always thought of loyal Fido as being slightly more stable. That is until last month.

Succumbing to the mind-numbing pressure of parental guilt, I opened my house and heart to the sweetest set of brown eyes you ever saw. Two-years old and of mostly Labrador retriever heritage, Biscuit spends the majority of her day camouflaged as a speed bump. Her pale fur blends nicely with ourcarpet - a real plus for the maid. Yes, that means Mom.

Now there were no big surprises as our new pup negotiated territory and her place in the pecking order against the stone-cold killer cat that also shares our domicile. A quick study, Biscuit is wary of those well-armed swipes of pure evil.

In true testament to her manic species, Milkshake can purr contentedly, bat her bedroom eyes, and draw blood - all at the same time. Worse, like a spider, she'll draw in unsuspecting victims with a simpering little meow and friendly cocked head...right before pouncing.

I've considered posting one of those signs at my door that reads, "Warning Attack Cat on Premises."

It's probably no wonder that I prefer to play with my daughter's Webkinz kitten. Fast becoming my number one guilty pleasure, these fuzzy stuffed toys are your ticket inside a magical world of internet games, chat rooms, and dress-ups. An award-winning computer program for children, I must confess its appeal works on big kids too.

My princess has amassed a collection of four pets; my son lags behind with only three. Each child has built their own cyberspace house, furnished with toys, appliances, clothing, food, even windows and gardens - all selected and purchased with points acquired by playing on-line games. I remind myself that my little darlings are learning valuable skills like budgeting, math, and reading. But of course, as a fellow addict - I know it's all about having fun.

If only bathing, feeding, and exercising my real pets were so easy. And don't even get me started on vet visits!

Luckily Biscuit arrived with a clean bill of health, though her behavior of late has left me thumbing the yellow pages for a doggy shrink.

An absolute angel while houseguests are seated, Biscuit's latent herding instinct kicks in as soon as anyone walks or stands. Forgetting all her good hostess manners, she'll growl, pace, and even on occasion nip at the offending ‘wolf.'

Though after years of sustained chronic fear of our predatory cat, most of my guests are fairly nonplussed to find I've also adopted a bipolar dog.

Maybe I should rethink that entrance warning sign, remove my Welcome wreath, and look to Dante for inspiration: "All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

Laura Douglass writes for the Seven Lakes Times where this column originally appeared.

• Read More »

 "Is that a Christmas card?" asked my five year old with great anticipation as it is her job to set out for display all such incoming holiday greetings. Amusingly enough, the card in question was not from family or friend, but was instead an advertisement from a global lingerie distributor - one with very few secrets from what I can tell. Darling hubby had thoughtfully placed the card in question in a position of prominence on our kitchen counter so I wouldn't inadvertently overlook the enclosed coupon. Enough said.

 

Trying to maintain some measure of dignity, I informed my impressionable daughter that no, this was not a card that needed to be displayed in our living room. But, as usual, my undernourished proper side was overwhelmed by my all-too-healthy wicked side and I couldn't resist asking if she thought we should send out a similar card.

"Oh no, Mommy, you can't do that! She's showing her belly button," protested my wise little angel.

Ah, the blessing of celebrating another December in the company of such innocence. There is simply no substitute for kids when sharing the joys of tree-trimming, present wrapping, or better yet unwrapping, and all the other little pieces and parts that makes each Christmas season so special.

I should come clean and admit that as a single adult I would hang a tree-shaped piece of green construction paper and call it good. What a Grinch! Of course, I blamed my meddlesome housecats as my handy excuse. They spent plenty of quality playtime suspended from the curtains, I saw no need to add another climbing structure to the room: especially one with tinsel, lights and other alluring feline delicacies.

One year my decorating resolve weakened and I was rewarded for my effort with months of vacuuming pine needles out of the shag rug and one whopper of a vet bill. Yup, you guessed it. The world's stupidest cat - truly no exaggeration - stripped the tree of a silken thread-wrapped ball, enjoyed her own private holiday feast, and was promptly rushed to the hospital for major abdominal surgery.

Alas, now that I have more kids than cats in my house, I was forced to embrace all manner of yuletide cheer and can honestly say that I am no longer the Scrooge of my youth.

Just recently, I was utterly charmed when my son announced that he had "this whole Santa Claus thing all figured out." In perfectly reasonable seven-year old logic he opined that Santa knew if you'd been bad or good because God passed along that information. He came to this conclusion, he said, by reciting for me the opening prayer read each week at our church, which states "Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid..."

Surely no sticks and coal would ever be placed in the stocking of a child so precious. Nope, this year it's more like a heap of Legos for him and oodles of glitter pens and fancy paper for my daughter.

Now if I could just find that phone number for my, um, friend, Victoria: I could finish my shopping!

Laura Douglass writes for The Seven Lakes Times where this column originally appeared.

• Read More »

"Whoever said you can't take it with you has never packed their car for vacation!"

Isn't that a great quote? Certainly prophetic of my own impending woes as I, once again, get ready to load down the family jalopy - this time around to see The Mouse.

While we aren't scheduled to leave until Saturday, I'll start packing suitcases on Tuesday: and that's just the clothes. I still have to stockpile the snack hoard and cooler cache, videos for the portable DVD player, extra film, batteries, and medicines. Oh, and don't forget spare pillows and towels, first aid kit, each kid's favorite blanket and toy...the list nears endless.

Why is it that I go into survivalist mode whenever we have to leave the house for more than twelve hours?

It's not like we're fleeing a hurricane and have to pack up our most precious belongings for a trip of indeterminate length. I mean really, I'm leaving the comfort of home for the comfort of a Disney hotel room: not exactly roughing it!

Though I guess in everything, one can always look back on this trip or that one when a little better planning could've saved the day.

Darling hubby and I had our own Donner Party-vacation moment during our honeymoon. While planning this romantic odyssey, for some reason, the province of Nova Scotia looked deceivingly compact, and populated, on the map.

Our arrival in Halifax, a wonderfully clean and modern city, was inauspicious enough but then we turned north. Once past the municipal limits, we crossed into no-man's land. I say ‘no man's' because that's what we saw; no man, no woman, no child, no gas, no grocery store, no restaurant.

When you read in a cultural tour guide that an area's population was greatly reduced after the fishing industry bust, trust me, take their word for it.

Our first night in the Great White North was spent in a race of time between locating the quiet, little lakefront cabin we had booked and finding something to eat other than leaves and twigs.

You see unlike our usual overstuffed car excursions, this trip we flew. Rules on luggage size and weight seem to have a profound limiting effect on one's typical packing habits.

So on that October eve, we drove for hours ever nearing our cabin destination with a few darkened houses for company but no real sign of civilization, meaning no food! It didn't help that we missed the end of the traditional tourist season by a month or two.

Behold, a light beckoned to us from out in the gloom. We couldn't believe our good fortune: a restaurant! And even more unbelievably, within a mile or - oops! kilometer or two of our nuptial bed.

Be thankful for small blessings. We surely were, as we had no choice but to become first name-friendly regulars at this establishment with the two or three other people touring Eastern Canada that week. The meals were delicious, but with no other dining option for a hundred kilometers in every direction, that hardly mattered.

The remainder of our honeymoon was fraught with other exciting adventures such as moose loitering in the road, desperately searching for Petrol and then trying to calculate liters versus gallon pricing, exploring the survival huts placed with alarming frequency along Nova Scotia's roads, and avoiding getting shot - who's bright idea was it to plan a hiking honeymoon during hunting season?

So this year as I set my sights on Florida, I hope those flying missiles sporting Canuck license plates charging down I-95 will forgive our sluggish, snack-laden, toy-burdened, jam-packed van as we too head out on vacation - this year in search of a mouse and not a moose!

Laura Douglass writes for the Seven Lakes Times where this column originally appeared.

• Read More »