When I visit other places, I don't really care about architecture or landmarks. I want to meet people. I yawned through the Louvre, but I had quite a thrill participating in a worker's rally in the middle of Paris. I'm not sure what we were protesting, but it was fun anyway. People are what make the place, at least for me.

That's why I love Moore County. We have some really cool people, and I want to introduce you to a few of them. None of these people have any idea that I'm writing about them, so please feel free to tell them I did. That would be fun to watch. In separate blogs, I will introduce one or two people at a time.

Charlie McWilliams

Charlie is one of my heroes. Born in the New Jersey/New York area, Charlie has known both privilege and poverty. We met through the Moore County Leadership Institute (MCLI) when he was a banker with First Bank. Charlie is one of those guys that you want to have around if you're ever in a burning building. He's not particularly assertive or physically imposing, but if he said, "Follow me," you would. He has such a quiet strength and calm demeanor. Both traits are polar opposites of myself, which is probably why I like him. Charlie has always been the guy I go to for business advice, not just because he's knowledgeable, but because he cares enough to tell the truth. I haven't always followed his advice, but I later wished I did. The great thing about Charlie, though, was he was there for me with a pat on the back, a kick in the rump and a story of one of his own failures. We all have failures. Some of us more than others. The goal in life is not to avoid failure, but to grow past them into success.

Thanks, Charlie, for leading the way.

When Dan isn't busy telling Charlie about a crazy new business idea, he sells real estate with Fore Properties. He can be reached at 910-528-7003 or Dan@DanAskins.com.

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It seems that every "mom" website you go to or news about families is always focused on how we as women can be better mothers to our children and more efficient. I recently saw an article on MSN.com title "50 tips to for moms" dedicated to keeping us moms more organized and better at managing our families. Somehow, we as moms have bought into this idea that we aren't good enough as we are and we somehow need to improve ourselves in order to be quality parents.

For many years, I bought into the hype surrounding motherhood. I read books on how to be a "good" mom, join the "best" mom groups and watch parenting experts on TV all in an effort to be the "perfect" mom. Instead of being supermom, I was the just "good enough" mom who was slightly overweight, frazzled and usually sleep deprived. What I soon realized was that I was a "normal" mom and the "perfect" mom for my family with all of my quirks and flaws.

As a result of this new found realization, I gave up reading parenting books and comparing myself to other moms. I stopped trying to find ways to be the "best" and accepted "good enough". What I have learned is that even those "perfect" moms have their flaws they just may not be as obvious as some of mine.

But most of all, I gave up "MOM GUILT". I made a conscious decision to no longer feel bad about myself as a parent or for taking time to sometimes step away from being just mom and enjoy being "Rollie" for awhile. And this year, I took it a step further and decided to live a Year Without Guilt.

So what does that mean? Well, simply put, I will not allow Guilt to be my guide in 2008. This year, I will not feel bad about.......

• Locking the door when I go the bathroom for privacy.
• Putting a cartoon on the TV for the kids so I can fix dinner in peace and quiet.
• Going out with a few friends for an evening without little people.
• Taking time to take care of myself both physically and mentally.
• Driving through McDonald's for Happy Meals instead of cooking.
• Hiring a babysitter so I can go to the store without tantrums.
• Dropping my daughter off in the carpool lane instead of walking her to class.
• Spending time with my husband with a child in sight.

But most of all I won't feel guilty for the little mistakes I make along my journey in parenthood. Because believe it or not, I am more than a mom - I am also human.

So this year, throw the expert advice out the window, enjoy your life as a parent, accept who you are and live a Year Without Guilt!

 

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It's official. My husband will be heading home in a few weeks. And although I don't actually have a date and probably won't find out when he's coming until the plane takes off (I once had 4 hours notice - not cool!), I have confirmed through a reliable source that the wheels are in motion for his safe passage home.

So, what does that mean for me? Well, if you're not a military spouse you probably think I'm on cloud nine swooning about the house dreaming of seeing the love of my life. While that is a wonderful thought, it's definitely not reality. Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled that he is finally coming home but I am also stressed out about the upcoming reunion.

His impending return means that my "To Do" list just got enormously long. You see, military spouses work incredibly hard to create the illusion of having everything under control while their husbands are away. I'm not saying we don't have it all together but we do run things a little bit differently when our men are across the ocean.

If fact, I think I run a pretty tight ship when he's gone. The bills get paid, the kids are fed and the house is still standing when he returns. In my book that is success. Granted we eat a lot more Mac-n-cheese when he's gone and the kids spend more time sleeping in my bed then their own, but who says that's a bad thing? Plus, I have complete and utter control of the most prized possession in the house - the remote control. Although, this may sound like the good life it is certainly better with him home. So, in the next two weeks I will graciously prepare to hand over the remote and welcome him home.

First and foremost on the list is shaving my legs. While I might appreciate the break from razors, it certainly won't be appreciated by him. Then I need to clean up the many little "gifts" the dog left in the backyard and fill in the holes from digging paws. Oh, and let's not forget the garage. God help me if he comes home and finds "his" garage in disarray. Especially since he "organized" it before he left. And did I mention the car? I still need to get the oil changed and the carpets cleaned before he sees what Libby did in the back seat!
 
Plus, he has no idea that I bought a new headboard for the bed and a matching quilt (It's from Pottery Barn!). Somehow I forgot to mention that. It's probably better if I explain that purchase when he gets home. So I definitely need to make sure the sheets are clean....and of course the check book needs to be balanced, the house dust busted, the towels washed, the frig stocked with his favorite food and a good twelve pack of beer. Oh, I better check his laundry basket to see if he left any dirty clothes when he left. That would be bad if they were still there when he returned. And the list goes on....

At this point you're wondering why anyone would create this much anxiety about having everything "perfect" and if my husband is some kind of control freak. Shouldn't he just be happy to see me? Well, as far as my husband is concerned he has only two requirements when he gets home - to see us and a goodnight's sleep. A cold beer is considered an added bonus. As far as the rest of it, that's all me. It's my gift to my husband. I want to make sure when he walk's through the door after spending 48 hours traveling home from some God forsaken location that everything is in order. Not to prove that I can do it alone but to assure him that he doesn't have to worry about us when he's gone. It's sort of my insurance policy for his safe return. My theory is simple, if he doesn't have to stress about his family falling apart while he is gone then he can focus all of his attention on his job and come home in one piece.

And so far, it's worked. Which means if you see me in the next few weeks talking to myself, neurotically checking my "To Do" list or just looking a little more frazzled than usually, remember it's all part of my re-deployment ritual. Feel free to offer me an adult beverage, I'll probably need one!

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 "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.

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The other night, about 1:30 AM, I heard a loud crash and breaking glass. I jumped up, ran into the hallway and yelled out in my deepest, baddest voice, "WHO'S THERE!!". I was also carrying my weapon with me. I looked down, and I was holding onto my pillow in a very menacing way. I hate it for the fool who dares endure the wrath of the pillow. Turns out my Christmas tree had fallen over, and a few of the ornaments broke in the process, but I now know what I would do in a fight. :)

Merry Christmas.

Dan.

When he's not out fighting crime with his pillow, Dan Askins is a Realtor with Fore Properties.

"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.

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No one knows the art and finesse of planning birthday parties better than a mom. And in my generation's ever escalating quest to ensure our kids have a unique and special day, the process has become downright daunting.

If you think throwing a child's birthday includes blowing up a few balloons, lighting the candles, and sharing in song, well, let's just say you probably haven't spend much time lately in the Wal-Mart toy aisle either.  

Birthday parties have become competitive sport out here in Suburbia. And I, Douglass Family Team Captain, am surely headed for the play-offs in this race to nowhere.

I think it all started with my son's third birthday when a firefighter friend offered to bring the ‘real deal' right to our house. Nothingsays birthday like a massive fire engine terrifying the neighbors and crushing your landscaped driveway plantings.

As my children have reached each successive milestone, I have attempted to provide equally amazing thrills and chills. We've rescued stuffed animals from peril in the yard, blown up mountainous bouquets of pink balloons, and laid acres of train track throughout the house.

In my defense, I do eschew the glitzy store-bought cakes in favor of much simpler Mommy-made fare. Perhaps I feel compelled by the memory of my own mother's heroic effort to craft the fantasy castle cake featured on the cover of one of her massive cookbooks: I had begged for years. Truly, it was a work of art with chocolate bars for doors and a roofline turreted with mini-marshmallows.

This year - utterly swamped with life and laundry - my fabulous Mommy varnish was duly threatened as I was flat out stumped and the clock was ticking.

A moment of inspiration!

I was headed North, up yonder towards our county seat - getting ready to improve the view at a recent Board of Commissioners meeting - when I happened upon a most unusual storefront.

‘Wow,' I thought upon entering, ‘How little we chicks know about what you men-folks do during your off hours!'

I had discovered the underground world of outlaw slot-car racing. Eyeing up this hundred-foot long, eight-laned monster, the words couldn't tumble out of my mouth quick enough.

"Can I reserve THIS for a herd of seven year olds?"

To my surprise and enormous relief, the deal was sealed with only a fair hit to my purse. Hey, it's not as if hosting eight kids in my living room was going to be a picnic, right?

So once again I have kept my self-imposed birthday party ante. As my poker friends would say, "The pot is good."

I'm thinking come March, on the occasion of my daughter's next big day, I'll be forced to conjure something even more outstanding - like delivering fresh snow.

Good thing I've still got plenty of time to plan.

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

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I've been carving pumpkins since I was a wee child on my father's knee. Back in the day, my father would grab his trusty black marker and butcher's knife to create his masterpiece. It was a childhood memory that has become a family tradition for me.

So each year (even those before kids), I have faithful handpicked the perfect pumpkin for carving. This year was no exception. Even without my husband home, I was not about to let Halloween pass us by. The girls and I picked out four pumpkins at a local farm and set out to carve them on Sunday.

This is a task that I have done every year for as long as I can remember so why would this year be any different? Well, for starters, the girls where more interested in the final product then the work to get there. So after cleaning out the pumpkins and making a mess of guts and seeds all over the garage, they bailed on me to go ride their scooters.

My sister and I were left with four pumpkins to carve. We decided to start on the largest two which turned out be too thick for our store bought carving tools. After a little cursing (on my part) and elbow grease, we finished them without any kids in sight to marvel at our beautiful creations. At this point, I had know desire to carve two more pumpkins but because they were already cleaned out I had to do something with them.

So I did what any "good" mom would do - I took a lesson from Martha Stewart and pulled out the power tools. I grabbed my husband's brand new Firestorm Drill (he's not here so who's going to complain) and three bits of various sizes. For the next 20 minutes, I worked out all my anger issues on two pumpkins. When I was done, I had two "holy" pumpkins that would have made the Queen of Domestication proud.

Tonight, our pumpkins - all four of them. graced the front porch with all of our other Halloween paraphernalia (talking head, skeleton, eyeballs, tons of lights, etc.) and the two pimpkins with holes were the talk of the neighborhood. Who knew that power tools and Halloween where the perfect match. Thanks Martha, I owe you one! 

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I sense something new in the air, and to quote a dead rock star, "it smells like teen spirit."

Lately I have been surprisingly inspired by football - a sport I am not particularly fond of and generally avoid. Other than occasional Super Bowl parties with their lure of snacks, suds, and those million dollar commercials, I'll go years at a time having not watched a single game.

Sporting events on an average day mean one thing to me: time to take a nap. Hmm, since we're discussing football, perhaps I should rephrase that and say "time to take a down."

This year is different.

I was thrilled when Appalachian State capped their fifteen-game winning streak with their Cinderella story upset at Michigan. And no, I didn't actually watch any of their games. But I did read all about it.

Here in the Douglass encampment I have been following any and all news of Brian Leonard: the youthful running back for the St. Louis Rams. Leonard hails from the same thriving upstate New York metropolis, Gouverneur, population 7,000 [not including cows], that my darling hubby calls home.

Along with the denizens of this tiny slice of American dairy land, we have cheered Leonard's every success: in high school, college, and now the NFL. My in-laws, like other Gouverneur families, are planning their Fall vacation around the Rams season schedule: this after four years of vacationing to New Jersey for Rutgers University games.

And now each and every day, it seems, I hear another good thing about Moore County's own new superhero - Chris Metzger.

In just a few short months, Coach Metzger revived the flagging football program at Pinecrest High School from a team whose very existence was on the budget chopping block, just a year ago, to a reckoning force of strength and talent.

Equally impressive is how Metzger stretches that energy well beyond the visible varsity squad, illustrated beautifully when he included over 300 students in a recent junior varsity pre-game event. The undefeated JV team emerged onto the gridiron to join with over 150 middle school-aged and freshman football players. Also on the field were the school's marching band, color guard, and cheerleaders. Even for a disinterested non-fan, like me, football is starting to shine.

I will go out on a limb and suggest that my disdain for all things pigskin is securely underpinned by my complete and utter ignorance of the rules and strategies of the sport. I ask you, what woman - other than Condoleezza Rice - really does get it?

A childhood spent living abroad and attending eight schools in twelve years, a modest statistic among military brats, surely stunted my interest in team sports and certainly did not allow time to develop school spirit. That said, I always coveted the sense of ownership and excitement felt by locals when their team or athlete does well.

Having kept residence in the Sandhills now for over five years - a new lifetime record - I find myself, for perhaps the very first time, sharing in that hometown pride. So today, here and now, I vow to uphold the timeless American tradition of cheering on my very own local high school football team. Go Patriots!

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

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I have a confession to make: despite coming of age during a rather enlightened and liberated period in human history, I have allowed many traditional gender roles to creep into my life. You know, he earns the bacon and I fry it up in the pan, that sort of thing. However, it's not the frying pan that I'm afraid of - it's the gas grill.

Yes, that hulking chunk of stainless steel with its menacing propane tank, various dials, extra burners, and spider web-laced rain cover is what strikes fear in my heart. There is something quite sinister and flammable about the whole affair.

I'm not sure when this grill-phobia began; I expect early in life with repeated harsh admonishments at cook-outs to give the hot coals a wide berth. Perhaps it stems from watching male relatives saturate stacked charcoal briquettes with enough lighter fluid to send flames shooting skyward like fireworks, blackening the leafy canopy of less fortunately positioned trees. Or maybe it's because despite the many safety features installed on our own silver monster, my dear husband still managed to singe our son's eyebrows off one day as our erstwhile tot stood to close while Daddy used the self-ignite button.

No doubt about it, grilling falls within the masculine sphere of household chores. On many a fine summer day, we ladies watch in wonder and alarm as members of the Y-chromosome persuasion take to the deck or patio to incinerate the family meal: the meaty portion anyway.

My husband exudes confidence no matter the challenge; fish, chicken, or steak. Of course, his self-empowerment is fortified by cracking open a bottle of frosty courage and only then  daring to scrape the charred remains off the grate - evidence of past culinary crimes.

I expect I am not the only member of the smarter, oops, I meant softer sex who finds one pressing reason or another to cower behind the fridge door while hubby fires up the coals, or, worse, flips open the fuel tank. My throat tightens when I hear that ‘tick, tick, tick' sound as gas floods the belly of the beast. I know that it will be soon followed by the terrifying ‘Whump!' of combustion.

Once I'm reasonably sure that the yard and /or the children have not been set ablaze, only then do I emerge from the kitchen bearing a platter piled high with some variety of raw carnivorous delight. As if enacting an idyllic scene conjured by Rockwell, I lovingly hand over the plate and thus the task of preparing dinner.

Perhaps, to appeal to modern sensibilities it would be better to frame this transition of nutritional servitude to the context of television, say CSI. Only this program's acronym would stand for Cuisine Sparks Indigestion - Special Vittles Unit.

Tune in on Sunday's, we're on at five o'clock sharp.

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

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