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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On occasion, I'll leave my comfort zone of home, hearth, and keyboard for a little culture. Last Friday was just such an evening, as I ventured into town for dinner and to see Angelina Jolie's much-anticipated, or at least mass media-saturated movie, A Mighty Heart.

Trying to avoid the crushing Women's Open dinner crowd, my friend and I opted for burritos. We picked a rather rowdy bunch -- the servers not the burritos -- as the staff insisted on hollering greetings to every person entering said establishment. After gorging on a traditional fare of rice, beans, and cerveza, we headed over to the theater.

While Jolie may be the film's name of marquee consequence, indeed, the real star is the city of Karachi, Pakistan. From the opening sequence showing this vibrant, writhing sea of people and vehicles, each city scene was overwhelming in its chaos. At times, it reminded me of the streets of my former domicile, Washington, D.C. on a Fourth of July holiday. Dupont Circle in particular was always a steaming cauldron of taxis, pedestrians, road rage, and poor municipal planning.

Of course, Karachi notwithstanding, this is a serious film dealing with tragic circumstances involving the lives of two outstanding journalists.

Daniel Pearl worked for the Wall Street Journal: his wife, Mariane for French radio. I, on the other hand, serve here in the mostly peaceful - read, it's not election season - Sandhills.

My kids seem proud, however, of my modest literary achievements. Last week, they were delighted to discover that they could flatten Silly Putty over my column photograph and reproduce my sunny visage. Once my head had been suitably stretched to absurd proportions, they would giddily squash me and start anew.

For some reason, I don't think I'll include this on my resume: though it does lend some credence to the newspaper cliché of being an ink-stained wretch.

Now to be frank, though I consume plenty of print material, my sphere of influence does not usually include Wall Street's elite reporters' take on world-view topics. Worse, the preferred national news source in my home is The Daily Show, which tells you a lot about my satirical bias and distrust of the government machine - a side effect from living too close to the epicenter. I think it's probably like sitting in the sunshine: seems innocent enough at first but before you know it you're scorched.

I think I'll send Jolie a letter suggesting that her next foreign adoption should be from that most alien place, the District of Columbia. Maybe she'll write back and advise me how I can convince my kids that the hours Mommy spends sitting in front of the computer, wearing her pajamas, is actually work. I'll return the favor and send her offspring some Silly Putty.

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

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Did you feel it? The earth shook this week!

Well, at least at my house it wobbled perceptibly on its axis as two incredible events that have never occurred came to pass. It didn't rain on my birthday and, are you ready for it? My mother forgot!

That is like violating one of those immutable laws of physics - a mother must remember her child's birthday.

I mean how could she forget? Whether it is one year or four decades since the momentous event, it's not as if her memory of labor and delivery would dim. Truly, ask any mother and without hesitation she will recite day, hour, attire, lighting...literally a moment-by-moment playback of the whole sordid affair.

I figure public humiliation in the free press is reasonable restitution for my mother's crime against nurture.

As for Mother Nature's lack of appreciation for my big day, I am utterly disappointed.

As a child, I hated the guarantee that a late July afternoon squall would sabotage my annual soiree.

When we moved to the Middle East, my parents tried to sell me on the idea by promising a desert-dry cake and candles day. Yes, you know what I'm going to say - it still rained. And no, watching our Iranian neighbors celebrate this unexpected life-giving blessing did not make me feel any better.

Last week, as an only slightly more mature birthday girl, I was finally looking forward to the obligatory glisten of precipitation that would fall upon my drought-parched garden and trees.

I think in sports, you'd say my week was 0 for 2.

Redemption was found on Friday when a lovely friend's regrettable loss of a job prompted an occasion to ditch kitchen and kid duty for an evening on the town to commiserate.

Braving the dinner crowd, we were finally seated at our restaurant of choice. A rather charming, not to mention good looking, server took our beverage requests - margaritas all around, of course. After repeating our order back to insure accuracy, he dropped the bomb: he wanted to see our ID's.

Since the statue of limitations surely must have expired, I'll be honest and tell you that I have fake ID's older than our young hero.

That said, he dutifully looked over each license and to his credit did not laugh at us: at least out loud.

My life is difficult enough trying to remain even slightly hip these days. My wardrobe selections hinge primarily on any given item's ability to hide juice stains. I drive a minivan encrusted with playground sand and cereal crumbs. And my children want to know what the dinosaurs were really like.

The threat that a college-aged cutie would address me as Ma'am would have been the last straw.

No wait, that's not my last straw. I have a ready stocked boxful in the van: we mom's have to be prepared for any and all juice-related emergencies.

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

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The pencils were sharpened and packed securely. Breakfast was a hurried affair. Then off they went: my oldest and my youngest. Their excited smiles and cheerful hearts burdened only by cumbersome backpacks filled with delicious lunchtime promises.

Yes, the school year has begun anew again. And I, as always, am rejuvenated as Summer wanes.

Whether as student, parent, or bystander, in my heart, the New Year does not begin in January. The countdown to midnight, the song for forgotten friends, and the dropping of lit apples do not herald for me anything other than a great excuse to have fun.

My homage to the passage of time rings in harmony with the first chime of the schoolyard bell.

Each August, I find joy perusing the brightly colored stacks of school supplies that sprout up in the stores. Like seeds in a freshly planted field, the rows of lined paper pads, pens, and highlighter markers speak of patience: waiting to yield their harvest in creativity, not fruit.

Not one to be swayed by seasonal marketing, I cringe aghast at the premature display of Valentine's candy the first week in January and the springtime sandals and swimsuits in chilly December. Surely the worst offense is found each Autumn, when the fake firs of Christmas share aisle space with clearance sales of leftover sand pails and beach towels.

However, back-to-school shopping is a retail ritual that I do enjoy. I see inspiration and boundless potential in those unblemished pages of paper - each sheet, a perfect representation of the proverbial clean slate.

At no point ever again within a lifetime will one's slate be as clean as the one upon which we write our first day of school memories. Every turn and class is another beginning; a new teacher, a new book, a new friend, a new experience.

I find, as an adult, were it not for the natural rhythm of the school calendar, my year would simply dissolve from one into the next. As for new experiences, these days this would include benign forays into cookbooks looking for something extra zesty, or taking a different street home while out walking.

On occasion I will find myself blessed by a truly novel experience, however, nothing compares to a first day at a new school. And as a military brat, I endured more than a fair share of those.

As children, we are under a near constant assault of new ideas and experiences and possess a unique perspective of time. I suppose when a few short months represent such a tremendous portion of a young life, it is not profound to view each year as an enormous epoch. Juvenile years then being even further broken down into eras, halves and quarters, especially when it comes to declaring an exact chronological age.

My daughter is not five, I assure you. Indeed she is five and a half years old. A very important distinction within the Kindergarten set.

And so it was as my no longer five, but not yet six-year old, princess stood proudly on her first day of school this week. With notebook and pencil at the ready and lunch sack stowed neatly in a cubby, she grasped her new teacher with one hand - and waved goodbye to me with the other.

As if it were midnight on a late December eve, when we gather those we love in an embrace, I gave her a hug and a kiss, and thought, "Happy New Year, honey."

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

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My oldest daughter was invited to a friend's house for a sleepover on Saturday. So my husband and I thought we would just spend an evening hanging out with our youngest (she's 4) child. What we didn't expect was an invitation by my mom to keep the little one overnight. I wasn't sure Libby would go for it, but before I knew it both girls were packed and standing at the door waiting to head out to their destinations.

You're probably wondering what the big deal is? Well, it was the first time since children have entered our home that my husband and I have been in

our house, by ourselves for more than a few hours never mind an entire night. So, what do you do when the kids are gone and the house belongs to you again.....

If you're us, you probably spend a little time looking at each other trying to figure out whether you stay in or head out. At first we thought about going to dinner or a movie, but we ended up vetoing waiting to be seated or hanging out at the cinema with someone else's kids. This left us with Option 2 - Staying Home.

We went with Option 2, but decided not to waste a night alone. Instead we planned an evening reminicant of our pre-kids days. First, we did a little shopping at the Fresh Market and picked up a bottle of wine. Then we spent the evening cooking a meal that was anything but kid friendly. After a quiet dinner with no fighting, meltdowns or complaints about the food, we watched a movie of our choosing that didn't include cartoon characters or a "G" rating.

As far as the rest of the night, that went well too.....And the next day was spent sleeping in, walking the dogs and going out to a late breakfast without kids. By the time our children arrived home, we were ready and excited to see them.

Although, I missed them while they were gone (not enough to go pick them up!) I am gratefully to have finally entered the world of the double sleepover and intend to arrange a few more of those in the near future. It was nice to spend an evening alone with my husband without the cost of a babysitter! Who knew sleepovers could be so much fun for everyone!

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