Those Tempting Toaster Pastries

I was just cutting out the coupons from the Sunday paper, when I came across one for Pop-Tarts. We don’t eat Pop-Tarts. We love them, but we don’t eat them. My kids have, of course, sampled them a time or two in their limited existences, but I can’t rationalize making them a staple of our diets. There’s too much research about the benefits of eating healthy, not to mention too much evidence of the results of eating junk food. (I have pictures of me in sixth grade if you need to see some evidence.) And it’s too bad that there’s so much press on good nutrition, because even when I was a kid this whole health movement was in its infancy and nobody judged you for Pop-Tarts in your shopping cart. In fact, I remember how we sprinkled straight sugar on top of our Frosted Flakes. Guiltlessly! Though not without waistline consequences. But, lay people weren’t supposed to consider nutrition back then.

For an example of how far we’ve come, last week, when my son was in summer camp, a friend of mine was talking about how crazy things were by Friday. She said that she had to wake up her boys, rush them out the door, and let them eat Pop-Tarts on the way to camp. And bananas. It was important to mention those lest the child welfare department launch an investigation into the unhealthy eating practices of her family. And the way she told the story was in the everything-is-so-chaotic-I’ve-had-to-resort-to-Pop-Tarts kind of way. Isn’t strange how much guilt and shame we feel over feeding them Pop-Tarts for breakfast, when back in the day the only discussion would have been over flavor varieties?

This brings me to my next Pop-Tart point. Have you seen the flavors they have now? My choices were strawberry, blueberry, or brown-sugar cinnamon. (A disadvantaged friend of mine had parents who only bought the unfrosted variety. She liked to sleep over at my house.) Now they have, S’mores, Hot Fudge Sundae, Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, Strawberry Milkshake, and many more dream concoctions. I mean, there’s a virtual Baskin-Robbins of breakfast options. It just goes to show how divided our country has become. The FDA powers that be come out and indoctrinate us with all of these food pyramid, whole grain, low-fat, low-carb, sugar is the great satan messages, then the drug pushers over at Kellogg’s, Frito-Lay, Nabisco, etc. develop more provocative products to seduce us. The naughtiness of blueberry toaster pastries wasn’t enough, we became immune to that, now they’re selling us dessert in a pouch and suggesting we start our day with it. Like everything else, it’s taking more and more to shock us.

Yet, despite the statistics and evidence that convince us to buy Special K, or take the time to prepare an egg-white omelet with bell peppers and low-fat cheese, America still turns to Pop-Tarts. And Kellogg’s Pop-Tart business clearly isn’t suffering either, because they have enough money to hire those genius marketing people who keep coming up with exciting, dare I say dangerous, flavors, and art directors who make the box look so appealing it practically jumps off the shelf at us. And so that we don’t feel too bad about buying dessert pouches for breakfast, they advertise (on the page with the coupon) that Pop-Tarts have 25% less sugar than leading toaster pastries. I have two reactions to this claim. 1. Pop-Tarts isn’t the leading toaster pastry? Isn’t that a bit like saying Jell-O isn’t the leading gelatin? And reaction # 2. I could be feeding them something worse, so I shouldn’t feel too bad about the Hot Fudge Sundae Pop-Tarts. Actually, when you think about it, I could be making them an actual hot fudge sundae for breakfast, though that would be hard to feed them in the van when we’re running late and in a hurry to get somewhere. And, surely that would qualify me for some kind of child endangerment investigation. My kids, however, might nominate me for mother of the year.

But, before you start thinking I’m judging you, or that I’m the “Carrot-Stick Mom” that is ever-mindful of my kids nutritional needs, I should say that this morning my daughter had to use a snow shovel to dig out her chocolate chip pancake from the Everest-size mountain of Redi-Whip I let her pile on top of it. I make observations, people, not good decisions.

Can I Get That To Go?

Vacations don't just happen. Someone has to plan them (my husband) and pack for them (me). And, since I'm not the most decisive person, the 24 to 48 hours prior to a trip keep me pondering what each of my family members might need and what they should wear. I can't actually consult with the four of them on any of this because I'll get such wildly varied answers as Star Wars Legos, my horse, Christmas tights, Pringles, and, from my husband, "Just whatever." Really, honey, we can go to the beach for three days and you'd be fine with sweatshirts, rain boots, and snow skis?

So, I pack. And, in order to pack economically, I try to ask myself what's essential. Kind of like packing a "go bag". The kind it was highly recommended we keep on hand post 9/11. (Those people at FEMA are all about being prepared, ya know.) And anyway, once that train of thought left the station for me, I started wondering what I would pack in a real "go bag". The obvious approach is to say, "What could I not live without?"

1. My glasses. I'm not sure if this unknown and hypothetical emergency is an "on the run" scenario or a "fleeing disaster" one, but, either way, I'm supposed to take my contacts out at night and would love to be able to see where I'm going.

2. My cell phone. How our world made it so many eons without cell phones is a complete mystery to me. And I even lived in those very dark ages. If the emergency is so serious that I need a go bag, I don't know that calling 911 would be a viable option, but I'd still need to text my friends. Like. . .No tennis 2nite. Running from Attila & Huns. Or, to my Texas friends, East Coast destroyed. Can we come 2 ur house 4 dinner?

3. My iPod. I can't run from anything without music. And, don't worry, I already have a "go playlist".

4. A ponytail holder. The only thing more annoying than being forced from my home and running for my life is not having anything to put my hair up with.

5. Chapstick. I seriously question my will to live with chapped lips.

6. Running shoes. Should be self-explanatory.

7. Water. I'm not the kind of girl that could sniff out and identify a safe fresh water source during an emergency. I could sniff out a Sonic and they have many drink choices, but I'm not sure I should count on that.

8. Cash. I'll still use the Visa if I can because it has cash back rewards, but if the Huns are holding my husband hostage and I have to buy his release, I might need the cold hard stuff.

And, if there's room for just one more item (and isn't there always), it would be white-chocolate covered pretzels. Because if my time on Earth is limited, which a go bag would imply it may be, I'm done counting calories.

FEMA suggests a compass (I don't know how to use those things at all), and your passport (mine's expired, but I have considered investing in some fake ones, a la Jason Bourne), and duct tape. What's with the full-court press on duct tape, anyway? Is duct tape the official sponsor of the end times and all natural disasters until then? I'm almost 33 and have never needed duct tape, so I'm not wasting valuable go bag space on it. I'm pretty sure it would just get stuck in my hair.

Okay, back to our vacation. I packed for everyone, and, for the most part, efficiently. I did somehow get talked into eight sand shovels in six different sizes and fourteen different colors for only three kids, but my son wasn't sure what kind of construction jobs awaited him and his sisters at the beach, and it seemed like a valid point.

Next, it was time to load the van. My husband and I both like working that puzzle and love it when you fit something smoothly into an odd shape of available space. We'll even take along items we don't need just because they round out the stacking job we're doing. Like, "Oooh, we could slide the tent bag right in here!" Nevermind that we're staying at a hotel. Or, "Look, my high school yearbook fits perfectly in this gap!" You get the picture.

But, we're on our way as I compose this blog, to be posted later. My husband's driving, I'm writing, and the kids are watching a movie where vegetables are singing about the Wild West. You haven't lived until you've seen an armless gun-slinging tomato. Still, here's hoping that's not the highlight of my vacation. I'll let you know.

You Procreated This Mess!

I had a really busy week last week and it was a struggle just to keep my head above water, so that’s why I only posted one blog. The weekend itself was devoted to attempts, successful and failed, to honor my husband for Father’s Day. It’s only fair to make it a Father’s Weekend as Mother’s Weekend is the custom for me, and I’m thinking of stretching that to a full week next year. I figure by the time I’m forty, I can convince my family to consider the entire month of May a mother’s holiday extravaganza. But, back to this weekend and my husband’s turn to be pampered by our three miscreants.

It really all started in Target (doesn’t everything?), when we were picking out his Father’s Day cards. Originally, it was going to be a Father’s Day card, singular. But, to keep with traditions of conflict, the kids couldn’t agree on one. The ridiculousness of this is confounded by the fact that only one of my children can read, so clearly the disagreement was picture based. One of the girls had actually picked up a sympathy card as her first choice. Sadly, there are days of fatherhood for which her card would’ve been appropriate. I decided to guide them in the right direction with the cards and let each choose their own, since they wouldn’t be involved in the purchasing of the gift. Neither would I, and I’ll get to that part of the story later.

The first thing the girls do, when they are involved in any preparations for gift giving, is to inform the recipient of what they will be getting and what has been purchased thus far. This time it was only the cards and comments on a gift my husband was already aware he was receiving, but they are devoted to ruining any and all surprises for Christmases, birthdays, and special anniversary dinners. It’s genetic; a trait they inherited from my mother that skipped a generation in my case. And in both my daughters’ and mother’s case, it seems completely uncontrollable. They are confident they can keep a secret right up until they see the person from whom the secret is being kept, and then suddenly it’s as if someone has slipped them some truth serum and they’re being tortured for information by Russian operatives. Suffice it to say, these are not the ladies we should trust with the nuclear weapon launch codes for our country.

On to the gift segment of our story. . . My husband really enjoys basketball, so I thought it would be nice if we could get a basketball hoop to put up in our driveway. The idea stage was as far as I could take it though, because what do I know about picking out a basketball hoop? Or purchasing it? Or loading it in the van? Or assembling it? The logistics were above my pay-grade. So, basically, I said, “We want to get you a basketball hoop for Father’s Day. Can you go get one and put it together?” He obliged our request and went on to pay for, pick up, and assemble his own Father’s Day gift. I don’t think this can be considered the royal treatment in our society. Especially because the assembly took about a fortnight and involved a few minor injuries.

“We” made him a big breakfast on Sunday, and were accomplices in his unhealthy cinnamon roll choice on Saturday morning. And even though he didn’t need a break from the cooking he never does, we decided to go out to dinner on Saturday night. We went with our neighbors to Texas Roadhouse, where we were seated in the “family section”, a.k.a. the corner they stick everyone that has very small children and babies in. That was a good move on their part, since during the course of our meal I saw our combined six children do everything you can imagine; including, but certainly not limited to, screaming at the top of their lungs for food, dancing, arm wrestling, laying down to rest, full-throttle cackling, and knife-wielding. My husband got the “honor” of sitting between the twins and serving as food-cutter and drink-controller. And, as I’m income-challenged, he even got to pay for our raucous steak dinner.

And, of course, like all American holidays, this one called for the consumption of surplus calories. In honor of fathers, I ate two and half preliminary rolls with cinnamon butter before attacking and conquering my entrée. The food offerings went on all weekend and I rationalized things like ice cream and fresh from the oven peanut butter cookies in the same day. Because my husband’s a good father.

Yesterday, at least, he got to enjoy his hard-earned basketball hoop. We had another family over to help us break it in. We let the children have the first turn, and their ranks diminished quickly through face/head injuries, distraction, and the heat pushing them back into the air conditioning. After all of the kids were tucked away with sugar and a movie, we played a couple of games of two-on-two. This was an experiment in extreme street ball because it was the middle of the afternoon and 400 degrees outside. I think the actual thermometer reading was 95, but the heat index was 127ish. That portion of the weekend was made possible by the scientists at Gatorade.

But, on a serious note (not that possible heat stroke isn’t serious), I know that yesterday was about honoring the strongest of men – Fathers. Guys that know no amount of personal toughness can prepare for them for battlefield of fatherhood. A service that calls on you to be strong when everyone else around you is crying, to provide, to protect, to give affection and correction, always digging deep in yourself for unending patience and unlimited forgiveness while balancing the weight of your family’s world on your shoulders. And that’s tough.

And I’m so thankful I married a man that is fully committed to making our children be the best people they can be. I’m thankful he’s more patient with them than I am, so that they know there are other options besides sheer frustration. I’m thankful he’s capable to handle all three on his own (some men aren’t) while I pursue my dreams and hobbies from time to time. And I’m thankful he put together his own Father’s Day present, because outside of a cake or a lasagna, I’m completely assembly-handicapped.

We’re heading to the beach for vacation, and I’ll be keeping you posted!

Woman Versus Wild

More than once during my weekend getaway I heard “Don’t put this in your blog.” So, as I embark on recounting my adventure know that this is a partial retelling and the full one requires security clearance. Luckily, the last forty-eight hours provided a wealth of storytelling material to choose from.

Why don’t we pick it up with my nighttime arrival back in the state of Virginia. A state that misleadingly claims to be “for lovers” when indeed it is “for driving obstacle courses”. I made it to level three in this game on Friday night when I successfully navigated narrow, winding, two-lane roads in the pitch dark without hitting a single animal the encroaching woods threw at me. Animals like deer, raccoons, opossums, and possibly a warthog (I didn’t get a good look at that one.) The next morning, as I left from my first night’s destination to go to my friend’s mountain home, I noticed that other motorists didn’t fare as well. And judging from the carcass strewn highway, the animals fared even worse. I’m not sure what type of training is required for taxidermists, but I do know where they can pick up some practice animals if they need them.

We’ll come back to how I made it to level four in the rural driving obstacle course game later, because I actually have another animal related story to share at this juncture. And let me start by assuring you that I’m not making this up. My half-sister and her mom, who I spent the night with on Friday, found themselves pet-sitting for two different sets of neighbors who had gone away on beach vacations. That’s what neighbors are for, right? And checking in on and feeding someone’s dog or cat or even gecko is no big deal. But I think at the point the owner starts telling you where to bury the dog if it dies while they’re away, you have to draw the line on the pet-sitting. I’m pretty sure that when the conversation took this turn, my half-sister and her mom were at a loss for words and just followed the woman out to the sacred burial tree out of confused curiosity. My step-mom did say, “But you’re not expecting the dog to die, right?” The owner assured them that, “No, no. Not really. But let me just show you the blanket you should wrap him in if he does.” Seriously? I think we can all agree that shrouding and grave-digging would warrant a few surcharges to the pet care bill. I, for one, would not bury any friend or neighbor’s pet for less than two hundred dollars. I guess I might do a goldfish for like twenty bucks.

Back to the driving experiment: I had to find my way to my friend’s mountain log cabin using only my trip gauge and random markers like green mailboxes, tiny concrete bridges, and abandoned settlements, circa 1700s. And level four came when I had to mount what they graciously term the “driveway”, a gravel speckled path that went at a 90 degree angle toward the sky. This was no easy feat in my Mazda 6. The precarious climb was worth it, though, as they have built for themselves a paradise on a mountain top. It was breathtaking. And while I don’t know that I could ever sacrifice the conveniences of city-dwelling, I must admit the beauty their lifestyle offers is tempting.

But I think the main reason I couldn’t live that way is my complete reliance on civilization. I don’t know how to live off the land, fend for myself, etc. My friend, P, on the other hand, along with her husband, Tarzan of the jungle, ooze competence and independence. They literally built their own home whereas I can barely hang a picture frame in mine. They grow their own vegetables, which isn’t so uncommon, but I personally harvest my crops at the grocery store. And remarkably, despite being brought up in the same county as the two of them, I wouldn’t even know where to begin with the whole planting a garden thing. Even when forced to work in my family’s garden as a child, I paid little attention to what I was doing. My mind was always elsewhere, plotting out my future stardom no doubt.

At some point, when we were discussing hunting (their forte being wildlife, mine being discounted shoes), I learned they could survive in even the worst of times, as they are willing to eat not only deer (venison) and the even more obvious turkeys, but also have killed and eaten wild chickens, rabbits, and squirrels! Okay, number one, I know that even the most lackadaisical animal lover is outraged over the rabbit thing and needless to say vegetarians probably started weeping during the first sentence. But in my friends’ defense, they hunt for food, not sport, and one can certainly understand how it might be beneficial to cut down on the bunny population, as there is a common saying of things multiplying like rabbits. And number two, yes, I said squirrels. I was as surprised as you. But, apparently, they taste like chicken if you cook them right. You know what else tastes like chicken if you cook it right? Chicken. And I’m more of a Tyson boneless, skinless, prepackaged girl.

The highlight of my weekend was hiking/mountain climbing/rock climbing up to a beautiful waterfall. And I felt such a sense of accomplishment for making it up there unscathed, even surmounting an enormous boulder at the top that once we climbed over brought us to the other side where the waterfall emptied into a sparkling pool of water before it meandered gradually down the mountain. My lifelong friend and I rested there, enjoying the majestic view and recounting many highlights of the past 32 years of our lives, which turned out to save me some time later as I tried to scale my way back down the boulder on the edge of a cliff and didn’t have to fool around with the whole life flashing before my eyes thing since we’d just gone over that. I just had to choke on my fear and go for it, knowing there was some delicious chicken salad back at the house for us to enjoy at lunch. At least I think it was chicken.

The War On Mosquitos . . . We're Losing!

If terrorists ever successfully weaponize mosquitos, I’m in trouble. (Ditto white chocolate covered pretzels.) Because, for whatever reason, I’m a mosquito’s favorite dish. My scent is so preferential to them that the White House should consider having me travel alongside President Obama, just in case. But, until they call on me to serve my country, I’ll be managing all outdoor evening activities by perfuming myself up like a Chemistry lab. My only other option to smelling so artificially toxic (we’ve established I must smell naturally sweet) is to risk being feasted on by enough mosquitos to ensure a subsequent Benadryl induced coma. And while I could use the rest, I really don’t have time for a coma.

Why are mosquitos so viciously angry anyway? Are they still holding a grudge because we nearly annihilated them in the 40s and 50s in the heyday of DDT? DDT being the thing I missed out on most by being born in the late seventies after bird-loving environmentalists convinced weak-minded elected government officials to ban its use because it may cause cancer (and definitely makes birds sick). Um, excuse me, but is there anything out there that doesn’t cause cancer? We live in a world where preservatives in our food, compounds in our shampoo, and invisible beams from our microwaves all threaten us daily. So, why can’t we risk sitting outside comfortably at dusk? I argue that the insecticidal DDT got a bad rap and people spent too much time speculating about its potential harm to bio-ecosystems (this may or may not be a real word), and too easily discounted how it saved millions of lives by reducing malaria and typhus, subsequently diminishing their mortality rates. And, DDT is only classified as “moderately toxic” by the U.S. National Toxicology Program, whereas mosquito bites are classified as “severely annoying” by anyone who’s ever been plagued by them. And, for the record, there are McDonald’s menu items that have been classified as “extremely toxic” by the same U.S. National Toxicology Program and no one’s banned the Big Mac.

When I was sixteen, I spent two weeks on Merritt Island, off the coast of Florida, where mosquitos are bred, indoctrinated, and then sent forth into the continental United States to bleed us dry. Had I known in advance that I would be given over as an offering to the irate throng of bloodsuckers, in order to spare the lives of fellow teenagers, I certainly would have chosen a different summer adventure. Because there, at Mosquito Central Command, over-the-counter bug repellents and home remedies were scoffed at. These mosquitos had evolved and mutated to be resistant. I would have given my right arm for some DDT that summer. Though no one would have taken it because it was mutilated by the mosquitos.

And now mosquitos have the greater threat of West Nile Virus, a disease that claimed the lives of thirty people last year. And yeah, thirty isn’t a lot. Not even close to the mortality rate that can be attributed to McDonald’s. But if you’re as sought after by mosquitos as me, it’s cause for concern. The CDC assures us that most people infected by West Nile Virus only suffer a fever or possibly a coma and convalescence. Yeah, that sounds great, sign me up for that. On second thought, maybe I’ll just stay indoors.

Strict Interpretations

As I am completely enveloped in my new writing assignment, I spent most of the day yesterday planted in front of the computer, leading to flare ups of both carpal tunnel and tunnel vision. My husband would say things like, “Can you get her some ice water?” And I’d say, “Hold on, Luke just crashed his car.” But don’t worry, I went and got the drink as soon as help arrived on the literary scene. And my husband has been very supportive this weekend, even going so far as to make dinner last night. He’s picked up dinner before, eats it on a regular basis, but making it was a new venture. And let me state for the record that he has grilled and warmed things in the oven. And the record I’m stating that for is the marriage record where if I don’t concede that point, he’ll never make dinner again. But last night’s meal was a far removal from his previous warming and grilling experiences. I had planned on making a new bacon, linguine, and tomato pasta dish. (BLT). He agreed to give it a shot.

So, once the kids were settled in with their babysitters, Charlie & Lola, my husband launched into making dinner while I worked on revisions. I had typed approximately three words when he said, “Where’s our Santoku Knife?” Ah, yes. This was a Pampered Chef recipe, the people who bring us many great kitchen tools, but also write their recipes in a manner that would lead you to believe your family may go hungry if you don’t invest in each and every product they offer. I went in the kitchen and handed him an old-fashioned regular knife. From our knife block, of all random places. “This’ll work?” he asked. I looked at the first line of his recipe. “Slice bacon crosswise using Santoku Knife.” Yeah, honey, I think this knife can cut the bacon crosswise. I’ve seen it do things as impressive as slice through a chicken breast. What I really said was, “Yeah, it’ll be fine.” I went back to the computer and typed four more words. “Wait. We don’t have this Large Micro-Cooker, either?” No, but I’m sure my friend, N, would let you come to a Pampered Chef show and buy all of these items you’re missing. “What do you need that for?” I asked. He paused then said, “I’m supposed to cook the broth and tomatoes together until hot.” Gee, let’s see, didn’t we have something around here that worked for warming things? What was that? Oh yeah, the stove. “Just do it in a pot on the stove,” I offered helpfully. I managed to finish an entire sentence in my book when he came into the office (so I didn’t have to be interrupted again?) and said, “It calls for four garlic cloves pressed.” Sometimes, I have fresh garlic on hand, sometimes I don’t. Depends on if vampires are in town. But, as I did not, I said, “Just use a tablespoon or two of the minced garlic in the refrigerator.” He sighed and walked away mumbling, “Well, don’t blame me if this doesn’t come out right. We don’t even have the right stuff.” Okay, minced garlic is not THAT big of a departure from pressed garlic. And to think that not using that Japanese knife to slice the bacon crosswise would alter the taste of our dinner was an even bigger stretch.

Not that I got much work done as he was preparing it, but dinner was great! I loved it, my husband liked it, and one kid ate it. So, we’ll probably never make it again. My son, who will not eat spaghetti in any form or variation, said, “We should have this instead of spaghetti from now on.” I was proud of him for trying something new, and even more pleased that he liked it, but I had to break it to him that, “Four of us like spaghetti and only three of us like this bacon and tomato linguine, so it makes more sense to have spaghetti.” Why? Because it’s the difference in making one supplementary grilled cheese and two. One being more time and cost effective than two. My daughter, who (coming off last weekend) is still stuck on the idea of Mother’s Day (God bless her), suggested that for Father’s Day, I make dinner. Yeah, what a great idea. I could make dinner for a change. What a treat that would be, as I only do it three hundred and sixty some days a year. But, maybe I’ll be doing it much less after my husband stocks up at the next neighborhood Pampered Chef show.

Road Hazards!

It had been a while since I had gone on a road trip by myself, but yesterday I drove to Richmond, Virginia, grateful for the freedom to listen to my music and have my bladder be the only one of concern. And on my way there yesterday, I saw a familiar sign as I crossed into Virginia. One that always makes me smile. The big welcoming one that says, "Speed Limit Enforced By Aircraft". You'll encounter these signs when you cross into Virginia from any of its neighboring states. And I'm not sure how anyone could read that without it giving them pause. Because it doesn't say, "Speed Limit Monitored By Aircraft", which would lead you to believe someone in a crop duster is radioing the make and model of your speeding automobile to a police cruiser on the ground who will lie in wait for you. No, it says, "Speed Limit ENFORCED By Aircraft", which I can only take to mean F-16s will fire missiles at you from overhead if you dare to break the limit, thereby enforcing you not to speed. Or draw another breath. Something they left off the sign because it's implicit.

Laughing at that sign made me remember laughing at it with some friends of mine when we drove back from college. The prologue here is that I attended college in Longview, Texas, which is quite a long drive from Floyd County, Virginia, the land of the perpetual 1930s and banjos where I grew up. When I left for school my freshman year, I went by plane, but did not enjoy life without a car. So, when I came home for Christmas break, the plan was to drive back to Texas. I had driven all of one hour from home before, so what was sixteen? And I wasn't going to be doing it alone because my freshman roommate was from New Delhi, India, and she came home with me for Christmas break. The one hiccup in the original plan, which is different than the many hiccups in the secondary plan, was that my roommate couldn't drive. Not only was she licenseless, but she had never driven at all. She did have other skills to contribute, though. She would be able to help me stay awake and entertained, and, more importantly, she would also be able to use her high IQ (probably triple my own) to navigate. These were the days before GPS, so it was common practice to use a genius-level Indian girl to guide you on long journeys.

The second hiccup, which was more akin to an epileptic seizure, was the snowstorm that arrived just prior to our departure. And it wasn't just any snowstorm, it was the North American Blizzard of 1996. (Actual name, look it up.) As it was too early to predict that classes wouldn't resume as previously scheduled due to this weather catastrophe, and there was no way I was forfeiting my chance at having readily available transport at college, my roommate and I took off in the pre-dawn hours to "beat the storm". Because obviously, storms travel by interstate. I should also add that my own driving skills were in question, since I was eighteen and had barely passed driver's ed. I'm actually quite certain the instructor only passed me out of the fear he would be stuck riding with me again after my failure. But, even though the odds were not in our favor, we made it. Thanks almost entirely to my father's good advice about driving in the tracks of an eighteen wheeler. And, in a stroke of luck, there was exactly one on the interstate that day. After an unscheduled detour and layover, we eventually made it Texas, physically unscathed, if not emotionally. And that was my first road trip, making all others easy by comparison. I've seriously digressed, though, because she wasn't the friend I was laughing at the sign with.

By the end of my freshman year, I had become close friends with two guys who lived in the Eastern Corridor with me. One was from Pennsylvania and one was from Delaware. In case you don't know your geography, Virginia is on the way to Pennsylvania from Texas. And on a separate geographical side note, Delaware is also a state in America. Thanks to this relative proximity, I had a much easier system of getting my car back to Virginia. The system was letting my friend's cousin drive my car back home as part of our three car caravan. His cousin was also from Delaware, and I hope that you are impressed that I knew not one, BUT TWO people from Delaware. I would wager many of you know none of its 25 citizens.

Even though I didn't have to drive, I did have many important tasks on our journey. I was responsible for entertainment (alternating which friend I rode with by switching at each stop), and stereo control, and some minor navigation. I was pretty good at two of those jobs and not so much the other, and if you know me, or know someone who knows me, you know which one gave me trouble. I think the highlight of my navigational career was when my friend "Dover" (a geographical nickname) asked me to look something up on his Road Atlas. Thankfully, he had one of those fancy high-dollar desk reference type atlases that even a novice like myself could read. Unfortunately, there were other unpredictable obstacles to my helpfulness. One was we were driving with the windows down. Being unfamiliar with all the laws of physics, I held the atlas a little too close to the window as I scoured it for our next exit. Apparently, at speeds of 90ish miles per hour, a vacuum is created by an open window and it was "So long, Directions". Honestly, after I experienced the force of that thing flying from my hand, I was thankful just to have my arm.

Since we were the lead car, Dover signaled and got off at the next exit, so we could all "regroup". My other good friend, the driver of car two in our line, jumped out of his car and said, "Man, something just hit my windshield!" He inspected it, and his hood, for damage. To my surprise, he found none. But he didn't know what had hit him, and Dover and I were laughing so hard, we couldn't tell him right then. Cousin Delaware got out of my car and mentioned how he had narrowly avoided hitting something himself. He had seen the UFO bounce off of the middle car and been forced to utilize his defensive driving techniques. When we could finally speak again, we told them what had happened and then thought to ask if either of them got a look at what exit we were supposed to take next. (I did have it open to the right page at its time of departure.) They hadn't caught it, but luckily these guys had an innate sense of direction and we were very shortly crossing into Virginia, where we were warned that if we broke the speed limit, we'd have a lot more than flying atlases to worry about!

In loving memory of Rick Seachrist.