Monthly Archives: March 2012

Blended families are at the very best complicated, and at the very least a pain-in-the-arse.  (Although, to be fair, I know plenty of normal, non-blended families that are a pain-in-the-arse, too.)

Ok, to rephrase:  Families are a Pain-in-the-Arse.

But blended families in particular carry their own complexities.  For instance, my ex-husband and I divide the holidays every year, in order to be with the kids an equitable amount of the time.  For the most part, it works out smoothly.  And really, the kids tend to make out like bandits on Christmas and Birthdays because they get twice as much loot.

Guilt is a fantastic economy booster.

This year the kid’s Dad has them for Spring Break.  Knowing this, My Captain and I decided to make last weekend our “mini-Spring Break” with the kids.   We had a bonfire with them on Friday, took them to Hershey Lodge on Saturday, and bought and planted fruit trees on Grandma’s Orchard on Sunday.  (ok, ok, what Sunday REALLY looked like was My Captain and I planting trees while Critter was playing Wii comfortably in Grandma’s living room, and Varmint was out having lunch with friends….)

I mentioned the Bonfire in my previous post ~ Easter Massacre ~.  It was a lot of fun, and definitely made some memories for the munchkins.  (Or scars, depending how you look at it.)

Our trip to Hershey Lodge was, er, maybe a little weird for a 9 and 10-year-old’s spring break.

We drove over 2 hours to have dinner in one of the Lodge’s way-cool restaurants, then wandered into the gift shop where I repeated “No.”  “No.”  “No.” “No.”.  and they repeated, “But I’ll pay you back!” “But I’ll pay you back!”  “But I’ll pay you back!” in increasingly whiney decibels.

Ahhhh, Good Times… Good Times.

Then we went to the lobby and loitered.

We parked it near the bar and My Captain had some kind of weird beer, which made him happy.

And I had a White Chocolate Martini-thingy.

Wow, THAT photo is not nearly as appetizing as it was in real life.  That is a Hershey Kiss in the bottom of the glass, not a ….well….oh never mind.

Critter and Varmint had Virgin Daquiris and Pina Coladas.  Because we like to start these habits early, apparently.

Did I mention that I’m up for “Mother Of The Year” again?

But they were happy as clams and thanked My Captain profusely for making the time and effort and expense to bring them to “The Sweetest Place On Earth.”

I didn’t fix the red eye in this photo because I wanted you to see that both have red-devil eyes….co-incidence?  I think not.

“Mom said if I kiss you on the cheek, she won’t beat me tonight.”   (I’m KIDDING.  Please don’t call Children’s Protective Services because of this post.)

As we sipped and enjoyed our liquid sugar, I pulled out a pack of playing cards, which, funnily enough, said “Hershey” on them.  We go to Hershey often, apparently.

It must be the clean air that attracts us.

We played a couple of stupid kid games.  And by stupid, I mean boring-as-snot for a 9 and 10 year old.

So we decided to teach them BlackJack. But BlackJack really only means something if you are betting, so I went back to the gift shop and bought one of the bags of jelly beans that I had previously said, “No. No. No. No.” to.

I’m consistent like that.

And we taught them how to gamble playing BlackJack, complete with proper phraseology and hand motions.

Despite the fact that he kept eating his winnings, Critter had the biggest pile of Jelly Beans, by far.

We had a ball!  We were laughing heartily and hugging and drinking our sugar-laden drinks and stealing each other’s Jelly Beans.

People stared.  Patrons whispered behind their hands.  Managers looked concerned.

The bartender loved us.

Look, the way I see it, they are going to be exposed to these types of things when they’re in college (or prison) anyways.  I’d rather they not get taken for all they’re worth then.  So sue me if I think it’s harmless to make them a little street-smart.

Next year for Spring Break we’re going to teach them how to pan-handle.

It was brutal.  Sick.  Uncalled-for.

Delicious.

We had a spur of the moment bonfire at Grandma Jane’s house (a mini-orchard of sorts….4 acres of the world’s most neglected fruit trees).  Sadly, the closest town’s grocery store, Selby’s, closed, and I had no choice but to hurry over to CVS in the hopes that they would have the fixins required for ‘Smores.

Graham Crackers?

Check.

Hershey’s Chocolate Bars?

Check.

Marshmallows?

…..

Marshmallows?

…..

Marshmallows?  Bueller?

Nope.  Nada.

CRAP!  I don’t have time to drive 15 minutes down the road to Harris Teeters for  Marshmallows.  I’m about to have a bunch of kids descending on my mom’s property and if they don’t have marshmallows to burn, lord KNOWS what they’ll come up with.

And then, like a rainbow-colored beacon of light on a stormy sea, there they were.

Every color.

Different Shapes.

They would work.  It was a crazy idea, but they. would. work.

I grabbed six or seven packages of them and hurried to the check-out counter, where, once again, I was reminded that I forgot to bring my bags in with me.  ( And so, once again, refusing to pay the County’s bag tax, I juggled every package out to the car, in my arms.   Cheap I may be, but not stupid.)

I had several children, all ten and under who would eat their ‘Smores, and be happy, by golly.  The ends would justify the means.  There was too much at stake…I couldn’t afford to be picky.

No Jury would convict me.

Everyone arrived.  My Captain had a blazing hot fire roaring and crackling in the bonfire Ring in Grandma’s Orchard.   Songs were already being sung.  Spring Peepers were peeping.  It was time to make the ‘Smores.

I took a deep breath,  pulled out and skewered….

Easter Peeps,

And purple Easter Bunny Peeps (and pink and yellow and green and orange, but I didn’t have the heart to show you the depth of my sacrilege.)

It was wrong on so many levels.  I felt like I was committing some heinous sin…  I feared I would cause nightmares or at the very least the foundation for years of counseling in these kids’ adulthoods as we watched the cute little critters melt.

But no.  I’d forgotten that TV and other media outlets had already numbed them, and they merely laughed.

Uproariously.   (Bloodthirsty little heathens)

Turns out, the sugar coating carmalized nicely and we ended up with a crunchy toffee coating on our toasted, er, Peeps.

And those ‘Smores, well, they were pretty dang yummy.

Like I said, the end has to justify the means.  Otherwise, I’ll be smokin’ turds in Purgatory for YEARS.

and YEARS.

and maybe a few more years, for good measure.

We live in a utopic place called “The Agricultural Reserve” within Montgomery County, Maryland.  It has been set aside by the wise elders of the area to be the one part of Montgomery County that cannot be impacted by suburban sprawl and all that entails.

There are many different kinds of farms here on the reserve.  I happen to live on a street that has several orchards, one of which is named Lewis Orchard.

Everything about this orchard is beautiful.  This is Route 28, the road that takes you to Lewis’ Orchard.  I love their rock wall.

It affords a sweet view of all the fruit trees, the ponds, and the surrounding woodland.

And in the spring to drive by, you get a fantastic view of many different hues of pink peach blossoms.

Peach Tree Road, where I live, is the cross street for this orchard, and when you turn down my road, you are greeted by hundreds upon hundreds of beautiful peach blossoms.  It’s breathtaking.

But make no mistake…this is a WORKING orchard.

It’s not just for aesthetics, man!  Many local people depend on working the orchard seasonally.  And it’s a wonderful place for neighbors to meet and greet each other.  It’s become a true landmark.

If you illegally park on their private property, which I hope to heavens you never do, you would see that there is a serious order and method to their stone-fruit madness.  Immaculately kept rows of trees.

Well pruned.  Perfectly pruned, really.  By experienced, capable hands.

And OHhhhhh the scent….

They grow other produce as well.  Each season the orchard stand sells their raspberries, peppers, broccoli, maters, and all kinds of apples, in addition to their peaches.

And they are the kindest neighbors.  Linda and Robert….two of the hardest working people I know.  Linda and My Captain grew up together!

Linda and Robert bought the land from Robert’s grandma’s estate in 2001 and put it into preservation…though they had to keep 5 acres of it as a potential building lot for insurance in case they had three bad years for the farm.  They never want to lose the land since part of it has been in their family’s hands since 1888!

I took Linda some RumBalls (my rumballs are famous, you know!) last year, and she offered me a box of apples!  The woman doesn’t know how to receive because she’s used to giving….people are constantly hitting them up for something!

Bicyclists, motorcyclists, and people who like to drive in the country to get away from the rat-race, find serenity here.  Find a slower, cleaner pace here.  Find beauty here. They like to peddle past the orchard and the horse farms and the wheat and corn fields.  It reminds them of something they miss in urban life.  And its air that is sweeter than they could possibly have back where asphalt reigns.

Imagine if the County had not reserved this land from development.  This could be a subdivision!  This could be a strip mall!  Had it not been for the wisdom of the planning commission, this beautiful farmland might be paved…. in the interest of growth and progress, of course.

And, sadly, there is a developer who is trying to put over 30 houses on Peach Tree Road!  The owner won’t even show his face or admit his name..last I heard all we could find out was that the landowner,  a Saudi Arabian Prince, had moved the land into the hands of an offshore company in the Netherland Antilles.  And this foreigner is trying to develop this part of Montgomery County’s beautiful Reserve…our  county’s last bastion of true rural heritage.

Some local groups have tried to stop it.  But it looks like the developers have so much say and pull within the County’s planning board, that the foreigners will win and ruin this beautiful area.

I fear for the Lewises.  I fear for my home.  I fear for the place my kids are growing up.

I’m not stupid… I know change is inevitable.  But it’s not uncontrollable.  All we can do is hope that the current Planning Board has the wisdom their predecessors did when they built the Reserve.

In the meantime, I’m going to eat all the peaches I can!

This sign hangs in my Varmint’s room, given to her by a friend who was cleaning out her own daughter’s room at the time.

I’ll be straight with you:  It makes no sense to me.

I mean, I get that the gist of it is not to make such a big deal about young boys who make young girls cry…or even older ones for that matter.  But there is something in the wording that makes me cock my head like a dog who is desperately trying to understand English.

If no boy is worth making you cry, then the second part of that sentence isn’t workable.  ‘The one that is’, isn’t.  We’ve just established in the beginning of that sentence that he cannot exist.

Spock would be having a conniption.

I know that there are thousands of these signs hanging up in little girls rooms all over the country…but doesn’t anyone else see the problem…both grammatical and in meaning?

And let’s be frank, I’ve had many very worthy boys make me cry.  It’s a lie to infer that a worthy boy wouldn’t.  It’s the very fact that we are 1) human and 2) can care enough about someone, that they are able to do just that…make us cry.  Maybe not on purpose…but it’s life.  We are destined to hurt or disappoint eachother….by the very nature that we are human and we care.

So if I have such a problem with this sign, why do I still have it hanging up on my Varmint’s wall?  Well, like I said, it was a gift, and I don’t want to hurt my friend’s feelings.

I don’t want to make her cry.