One of the many ways that I identify is as a mom of two boys. Brothers. And here we are again watching two brothers who were not as lucky in life as my boys are coordinating to wreak havoc on a city.
The differences between my sons and the Tsarnaev and Kouachi brothers are, of course, vast. My sons are third, fourth, fifth, and sixth generation Americans, depending on which grandparent you care to trace. All of my sons' grandparents identified as Christians (Roman Catholic on my husband's side; Anglican/Episcopalian on my side) and as Americans. The Tsarnaevs were Muslims from Russia and the Kouachis were orphans in France raised as Muslims. My husband and I work hard to insure that our boys will have a good education and will have friends and will live in a nice neighborhood with friends and will know what hard work is. The Kouachis, especially, live in a place where unemployment for young Muslim men is upwards of 25%. The Tsarnaevs took advantage of all that the Commonwealth has to offer, had a mom who was calling for Jihad.
I cannot stop thinking that if Tamerlan Tsarnaev hadn't been run over by his own brother during the shoot out in Watertown, that something an awful lot like what unfolded in Paris today would have happened in Watertown. It's likely that Tamerlan executed three people about six blocks from my house before the Boston Marathon bombing and the assassination of Sean Collier. So, really, what was next? You've gotten away with murdering 3 people and assassinating a security guard, what else can we do?
My younger son, Finn, would follow Jack anywhere. Jack would defend Finn to the death.
I can only try to keep them following the path of peace and faith and love and tolerance.
God help us all.
How's Your Day Going?
Friday, January 9, 2015
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Don't Let the Door Hit You in the Arse on the Way Out: See Ya, 2014
Remember when HRH Queen Elizabeth II had her annus horribilis? Well, I do, and I wish that I had the honor of presiding over a dinner at Guildhall and making everyone listen to just how horribilis this annus was. Since I don't own a tiara (although I should), I'll just blog about it.
2014 was the year in which a well-financed group of terrorist thugs made sport of beheading journalists and aid workers.
It was the year in which a very nasty scab was ripped off of the wound of endemic racism in the United States and unarmed black males, including a twelve year old boy, were shot and killed by police; black and interracial Americans responded with protests and white Americans responded with everything from sympathy to patronage to confusion (I mean, I voted for Obama. And Deval Patrick. Aren't we post-racial?) to ignorance and undiluted racism. Meanwhile, protests, which were meant to be peaceful and didn't stay that way were met, in many situations, with overly armed and under-trained police officers. The protestors who came out to provoke and to riot managed to give reason to people who think that police forces are under-armed, as we watched violent people spit at, kick, throw bottles at, and otherwise provoke the police officers who were there defending the First Amendment Rights of the protestors.
Then, of course, because of the virtual non-existence of common sense gun laws in this country, we watched as a convicted felon with a documented history of mental illness was able to access a gun and use it to shoot his girlfriend and then take that same gun to New York City to assassinate two police officers. Two good police officers, one of whom wanted to be a chaplain and the other who was an immigrant and a newlywed in search of the American dream.
Sadly, journalists covering wars in faraway places, black Americans, and police officers weren't the only ones who made me hang my head in despair this year. As soon as the issue of sexual assault on college campuses was raised as a national issue and one which must be dealt with as a criminal offense rather than a youthful indiscretion of liquored up frat boys and football players, the pundits continued to blame and shame victims everywhere. Rolling Stone did a great service to sexual assault deniers everywhere by not using the basics of journalistic fact checking in their story about rape at the University of Virginia. Florida State University, alma mater of Aaron Hernandez, became the most egregious example of criminal cover up, rewarding its head coach with another lucrative contract, much of it violent crimes against women.
College campuses weren't the only place where women were serially victimized, as a hotel security camera in an elevator showed the brutal reality of what it's like to be the partner of a professional football player. And another case showed us what it's like to be the four year old child of another NFL pro.
Of course, there were the usual, run-of-the-mill things, like school shootings, a crazy Russian dictator, an even crazier North Korean dictator, more white GOP congressmen debating *legitimate rape*, Ebola in West Africa, the Ebola insanity in the US, and far too many other things for me to note here. NPR warns me about this.
But, hey! The Dow is up, gas prices and unemployment are down, and, despite climate change, the sun still sees fit to rise everyday.
Here's to a better 2015. One with less accusation, less hate, less vitriol, less division, more understanding, more tolerance, more kindness, more peace. Cheers.
2014 was the year in which a well-financed group of terrorist thugs made sport of beheading journalists and aid workers.
It was the year in which a very nasty scab was ripped off of the wound of endemic racism in the United States and unarmed black males, including a twelve year old boy, were shot and killed by police; black and interracial Americans responded with protests and white Americans responded with everything from sympathy to patronage to confusion (I mean, I voted for Obama. And Deval Patrick. Aren't we post-racial?) to ignorance and undiluted racism. Meanwhile, protests, which were meant to be peaceful and didn't stay that way were met, in many situations, with overly armed and under-trained police officers. The protestors who came out to provoke and to riot managed to give reason to people who think that police forces are under-armed, as we watched violent people spit at, kick, throw bottles at, and otherwise provoke the police officers who were there defending the First Amendment Rights of the protestors.
Then, of course, because of the virtual non-existence of common sense gun laws in this country, we watched as a convicted felon with a documented history of mental illness was able to access a gun and use it to shoot his girlfriend and then take that same gun to New York City to assassinate two police officers. Two good police officers, one of whom wanted to be a chaplain and the other who was an immigrant and a newlywed in search of the American dream.
Sadly, journalists covering wars in faraway places, black Americans, and police officers weren't the only ones who made me hang my head in despair this year. As soon as the issue of sexual assault on college campuses was raised as a national issue and one which must be dealt with as a criminal offense rather than a youthful indiscretion of liquored up frat boys and football players, the pundits continued to blame and shame victims everywhere. Rolling Stone did a great service to sexual assault deniers everywhere by not using the basics of journalistic fact checking in their story about rape at the University of Virginia. Florida State University, alma mater of Aaron Hernandez, became the most egregious example of criminal cover up, rewarding its head coach with another lucrative contract, much of it violent crimes against women.
College campuses weren't the only place where women were serially victimized, as a hotel security camera in an elevator showed the brutal reality of what it's like to be the partner of a professional football player. And another case showed us what it's like to be the four year old child of another NFL pro.
Of course, there were the usual, run-of-the-mill things, like school shootings, a crazy Russian dictator, an even crazier North Korean dictator, more white GOP congressmen debating *legitimate rape*, Ebola in West Africa, the Ebola insanity in the US, and far too many other things for me to note here. NPR warns me about this.
But, hey! The Dow is up, gas prices and unemployment are down, and, despite climate change, the sun still sees fit to rise everyday.
Here's to a better 2015. One with less accusation, less hate, less vitriol, less division, more understanding, more tolerance, more kindness, more peace. Cheers.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Of Mean Girls, Cliques, and Exclusion
When I was 9, my family moved from our row home in Northeast Philly (Oxford Circle, to be exact) to a four bedroom duplex in an insular borough a stone's throw from the city line. We weren't quite suburban, like Abington and Jenkintown to our west and we were still no longer in the City. The family on the other side of the duplex had a daughter my age: Pam. Next door, there was a family with five kids, including another girl my age, Laura. Pam and Laura were close friends with Lori. I was quickly absorbed into their circle and, a few weeks later, for reasons apparent only to Pam and Laura and Lori, I was thrust out. And that was the first time I encountered Mean Girls and their power.
I survived that period of time and the many cliques and mean girls I encountered through the rest of elementary school, and junior high, and high school. I may have even been a part of a clique and I was likely mean to people. I chalked it all up to human nature and growing up and I moved on.
As I got older, finished college, moved to Massachusetts, got a job, made friends, got a different job, went through numerous roommates, met a boy, married him, bought a house, I had many different groups of friends. I had friends from work, friends I met through my roommates, friends I met through volunteer work, friends who I did sprint triathlons with, friends I played tennis with. I threw epic parties and invited all of these people and they all got along and sometimes even started new friendships. I never called any of these groups of friends a 'Clique' because, of course, I had left cliques where they belong: in the heated imaginations of pubescent Mean Girls and the girls denied membership to the clique at hand.
Imagine my surprise when, after having two kids, and getting involved in the goings on at their school, I was accused of belonging to a clique. Wut? For reals?
All of the definitions of the word 'clique' include 'exclusive' in the definition. Meaning that a clique works actively to exclude others. So, when I served as Board President of the PTO at my kids' school, a time spent begging parents to step up and volunteer, who, exactly, was I trying to exclude?
I met a few friends last night and they were astonished that I didn't think that there is a PTO Clique. And I am still stunned by this thought. I see people who can and want to do things and people who can't or who don't want to. I'm grateful to the parents who can adm do, because my kids benefit from that, which is why I step up and do whenever I can. If, in the process of doing, I meet other parents who do, and we become friends, how does that count as exclusion? Isn't a benefit of being a volunteer the ability to meet new people?
I am a born extrovert. I understand that there are people who are not; in fact, I married one (proving that we can get along). And I understand that it can be hard to step forward when you think that you are going to be judged or unwelcome.
I also understand that people choose where to live based on all sorts of reasons: proximity to work or family, cost of housing, the schools. And then we are all mashed together: those of us born and bred here, those of us here because we couldn't afford Newton, those of us who work in the 128 belt or take the train to Boston every morning. And then, our kids all end up in school together and we are
forced to acknowledge each other: Republicans and Democrats, cat people and dog people, parents of boys and parents of girls, sports parents and dance parents.
Can we leave the Mean Girl cliche behind? Be done with the concept of exclusion? Teach our kids that they can do anything they want to do without worrying about fitting a mold or others' perceptions?
Or is being a parent of a school -aged child nothing more than an awkward return to the days of Pam and Laura and Lori?
I survived that period of time and the many cliques and mean girls I encountered through the rest of elementary school, and junior high, and high school. I may have even been a part of a clique and I was likely mean to people. I chalked it all up to human nature and growing up and I moved on.
As I got older, finished college, moved to Massachusetts, got a job, made friends, got a different job, went through numerous roommates, met a boy, married him, bought a house, I had many different groups of friends. I had friends from work, friends I met through my roommates, friends I met through volunteer work, friends who I did sprint triathlons with, friends I played tennis with. I threw epic parties and invited all of these people and they all got along and sometimes even started new friendships. I never called any of these groups of friends a 'Clique' because, of course, I had left cliques where they belong: in the heated imaginations of pubescent Mean Girls and the girls denied membership to the clique at hand.
Imagine my surprise when, after having two kids, and getting involved in the goings on at their school, I was accused of belonging to a clique. Wut? For reals?
All of the definitions of the word 'clique' include 'exclusive' in the definition. Meaning that a clique works actively to exclude others. So, when I served as Board President of the PTO at my kids' school, a time spent begging parents to step up and volunteer, who, exactly, was I trying to exclude?
I met a few friends last night and they were astonished that I didn't think that there is a PTO Clique. And I am still stunned by this thought. I see people who can and want to do things and people who can't or who don't want to. I'm grateful to the parents who can adm do, because my kids benefit from that, which is why I step up and do whenever I can. If, in the process of doing, I meet other parents who do, and we become friends, how does that count as exclusion? Isn't a benefit of being a volunteer the ability to meet new people?
I am a born extrovert. I understand that there are people who are not; in fact, I married one (proving that we can get along). And I understand that it can be hard to step forward when you think that you are going to be judged or unwelcome.
I also understand that people choose where to live based on all sorts of reasons: proximity to work or family, cost of housing, the schools. And then we are all mashed together: those of us born and bred here, those of us here because we couldn't afford Newton, those of us who work in the 128 belt or take the train to Boston every morning. And then, our kids all end up in school together and we are
forced to acknowledge each other: Republicans and Democrats, cat people and dog people, parents of boys and parents of girls, sports parents and dance parents.
Can we leave the Mean Girl cliche behind? Be done with the concept of exclusion? Teach our kids that they can do anything they want to do without worrying about fitting a mold or others' perceptions?
Or is being a parent of a school -aged child nothing more than an awkward return to the days of Pam and Laura and Lori?
Sunday, November 2, 2014
My Facebook Life may not be as Pristine as it Appears
A friend posted today on Facebook that a local toy store would give kids a $5 gift certificate for bringing in one pound of Halloween candy, which the toy store would donate to active duty members of the Armed Forces. So, after the Flag Football games, which were played in 50 mile per hour winds and very wet snow, just so that we get some New England cred in this age of climate change, I took my two sons to the toy store, each carrying a pound or so of Halloween candy.
The toy store did a fantastic job of patiently weighing the candy and issuing the gift certificates. It should have been blissful: the store was well stocked with art supplies upstairs, lots of books, a small but significant supply of sports-related toys, a great selection of games: just charming goodness oozing from the walls. There was a section for littles and a section for babies; an area that would appeal to girls; science-themed toys; buckets and buckets of fun toys that cost $5 or less. In short: toy nirvana. There's even a separate room upstairs where there are classes in art and magic and yo-yos.
Immediately after being give the $5 certificate for his candy, my 8 year old imploded into a 2 year old version of himself. "Help me find something!" "What do you want?" "I DON'T KNOW! YOU DO IT!" Gah. The 10 year old poo-pooed most of the offerings, settling on a glow-in-the-dark football and glow-in-the-dark paint, with which he plans to paint a trash barrel to use as a target for the football. [BTW, he brought his own money to pay for the $14 in excess of the $5 certificate.]
The charming little shop was crowded with kids and staff. It was late. I was hot. The 8 year old couldn't decide. On anything. He picked out a $60 remote car thing and was told "No." He picked out an amphibious truck thing for $30 and was told that we had just SOLD the exact same thing at our Yard Sale because he never played with it and insisted on selling it. He was directed to Pick-Up Sticks, and Gyro-Wheel, and Stomp Rockets, and Sky Raider Foam Gliders, and Metallic Markers, and games and NONE of these were any good. I told the 8 year old that he needed to decide and he then realized that he had lost the gift certificate AND the two dollars that he had brought with him and had refused to let me hold for him. My immediate inclination was to drag him from the store, while his brother followed with his head down, embarrassed of his mother, and get to the car. Then, the 8 year old smashed his finger on something and started to bleed and cry at the same time.
I took a breath, applied pressure and a hug, and told the 8 year old to find the certificate and money. We searched the store and couldn't find either. I told him that I would front him the money for a toy if he would just please for the LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS GOOD pick out a toy so that we could LEAVE THE STORE. As the very last straw of my entire being was getting smashed into a hay bail, the kid acquiesces and agrees that a $10 stop watch will be OK.
We went to the register to pay. The shops owners were very sympathetic and asked us to come back in a week or so to allow them to check off all of the certificates that had been given out that day and that they would then give us another certificate. I asked the 8 year old if he could choose a small toy of less than $5 and then get the $10 stop watch when we come back in a week.
And, oh!, the quivering of the chin and the indignation of the 8 year old! The kid deserves an Oscar, an Emmy, and a Tony, and probably a Palme d'Or. I bought the bleeping ten dollar stop watch and thanked the shop owners and got the eff out of the charming shop before I was arrested for screaming at children while under the influence of gift certificates.
So, here's the thing: if you are my Facebook Friend, you will see that I posted a lovely little check-in at the toy store! 'Cashing in our Halloween Treats!' or somesuch. And yet, the sturm und drang is missing from the missive.
My perfect little Facebook life.
The toy store did a fantastic job of patiently weighing the candy and issuing the gift certificates. It should have been blissful: the store was well stocked with art supplies upstairs, lots of books, a small but significant supply of sports-related toys, a great selection of games: just charming goodness oozing from the walls. There was a section for littles and a section for babies; an area that would appeal to girls; science-themed toys; buckets and buckets of fun toys that cost $5 or less. In short: toy nirvana. There's even a separate room upstairs where there are classes in art and magic and yo-yos.
Immediately after being give the $5 certificate for his candy, my 8 year old imploded into a 2 year old version of himself. "Help me find something!" "What do you want?" "I DON'T KNOW! YOU DO IT!" Gah. The 10 year old poo-pooed most of the offerings, settling on a glow-in-the-dark football and glow-in-the-dark paint, with which he plans to paint a trash barrel to use as a target for the football. [BTW, he brought his own money to pay for the $14 in excess of the $5 certificate.]
The charming little shop was crowded with kids and staff. It was late. I was hot. The 8 year old couldn't decide. On anything. He picked out a $60 remote car thing and was told "No." He picked out an amphibious truck thing for $30 and was told that we had just SOLD the exact same thing at our Yard Sale because he never played with it and insisted on selling it. He was directed to Pick-Up Sticks, and Gyro-Wheel, and Stomp Rockets, and Sky Raider Foam Gliders, and Metallic Markers, and games and NONE of these were any good. I told the 8 year old that he needed to decide and he then realized that he had lost the gift certificate AND the two dollars that he had brought with him and had refused to let me hold for him. My immediate inclination was to drag him from the store, while his brother followed with his head down, embarrassed of his mother, and get to the car. Then, the 8 year old smashed his finger on something and started to bleed and cry at the same time.
I took a breath, applied pressure and a hug, and told the 8 year old to find the certificate and money. We searched the store and couldn't find either. I told him that I would front him the money for a toy if he would just please for the LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS GOOD pick out a toy so that we could LEAVE THE STORE. As the very last straw of my entire being was getting smashed into a hay bail, the kid acquiesces and agrees that a $10 stop watch will be OK.
We went to the register to pay. The shops owners were very sympathetic and asked us to come back in a week or so to allow them to check off all of the certificates that had been given out that day and that they would then give us another certificate. I asked the 8 year old if he could choose a small toy of less than $5 and then get the $10 stop watch when we come back in a week.
And, oh!, the quivering of the chin and the indignation of the 8 year old! The kid deserves an Oscar, an Emmy, and a Tony, and probably a Palme d'Or. I bought the bleeping ten dollar stop watch and thanked the shop owners and got the eff out of the charming shop before I was arrested for screaming at children while under the influence of gift certificates.
So, here's the thing: if you are my Facebook Friend, you will see that I posted a lovely little check-in at the toy store! 'Cashing in our Halloween Treats!' or somesuch. And yet, the sturm und drang is missing from the missive.
My perfect little Facebook life.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Work
I had my annual physical exam today, which gave me an opportunity to kick back and read a magazine titled "Working Mother." In case you wondered what, exactly, Working Mothers look like, here is a photo:
I confess that I look nothing like this. I don't look like this now, in my dotage, and I didn't look like this when I was young and, if not *hawt*, then somewhat simmering. I also do not dress like this when I go to work: that white shirt and light pink jacket would have coffee all over them before I managed to merge onto Route 128. Which leaves me to conclude that the woman on the cover of the magazine is not an actual "Working Mother," but rather someone who poses as an idealized version of a Working Mother for magazine covers that make us all feel bad.
Surprisingly, my blood pressure was still in normal range when it was measured.
The cover of the magazine got me thinking about the Zellweger Conspiracy Theories. I hadn't thought much about Zellweger in some time and, when I saw the recent photos of her, I thought that she looked good: she's slim and her skin is all Hollywood glowing and her hair is wavy. However, I am NOT supposed to think that she looked good. I am supposed to think that she looks HORRIBLE! And that she may have had the euphemistic *work* done, which means surgery to help her look like an idealized version of herself. And she should not be allowed to have had *work* done unless done by the doctors who have never met her who say that she looks like she had the *work.* Gah! It's not like anyone expects actors and celebutantes to look good and perfect ALL of the TIME even when they have just given BIRTH or gotten out of a SWIMMING POOL or off of an AIRPLANE or while they are eating or anything.
I know that I look exactly the same as I did 15 years ago, so why shouldn't RZ? The audacity of aging! And of cosmetic surgery!
So, I am off to crawl into a hole because I do not look like the Working Mother that I am and because I think that RZ looks good and that it's her beeswax if she wants to have surgery.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
On Gin
If you are drinking a drink that does not contain gin, it is not a Martini. I don't care how cute the name is -- Chocotini, Limontini, Pumpkintini -- it's not a Martini. Because a Martini has gin.
There are more brands of gin out there than ever: lovely, small batch potions, with various levels of Christmas trees. Hendricks Gin, which has become popular, is botanical and flowery and tastes best with cucumber. I like my gin with lime and simple syrup (a classic gimlet), and the best gins for that are Beefeaters and Gordon's: they don't compete. I also like the occasional iconic Martini, and, for that, it's a dash of vermouth, Bombay Sapphire, and as many olives as I can get (this is also called 'dinner'). If you are drinking gin with tonic water, please use decent tonic water, fresh limes, and don't waste money on name brand gin. Get some Gordon's. Same for a Negroni: spend the money on Campari and good rosso vermouth, and use some Gordon's or Beefeaters. For an Aviation, spend on Creme de Violette and Maraschino liqueur and fresh lemons with those lovely neutral gins.
A colleague today told me that gin is the only spirit distilled on the basis of taste instead of time. I say, bully to that.
There are more brands of gin out there than ever: lovely, small batch potions, with various levels of Christmas trees. Hendricks Gin, which has become popular, is botanical and flowery and tastes best with cucumber. I like my gin with lime and simple syrup (a classic gimlet), and the best gins for that are Beefeaters and Gordon's: they don't compete. I also like the occasional iconic Martini, and, for that, it's a dash of vermouth, Bombay Sapphire, and as many olives as I can get (this is also called 'dinner'). If you are drinking gin with tonic water, please use decent tonic water, fresh limes, and don't waste money on name brand gin. Get some Gordon's. Same for a Negroni: spend the money on Campari and good rosso vermouth, and use some Gordon's or Beefeaters. For an Aviation, spend on Creme de Violette and Maraschino liqueur and fresh lemons with those lovely neutral gins.
A colleague today told me that gin is the only spirit distilled on the basis of taste instead of time. I say, bully to that.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Apple Picking. Or Purgatory
When I picked up the kids from their basketball clinic yesterday at 12 (because of the faux-holiday), I had plans. It would, I thought, be a great day to either go hiking at Purgatory Chasm; do a little Urban Hiking in Boston, hitting the MFA and the ICA to get some culture on; or to ride bikes along the Charles into Harvard Square. I presented these options at lunch and the options were immediately dismissed because the Friends were going to Honey Pot Hill Orchard to go Apple Picking!
I knew that I was defeated. This is because of the power of the Friends. I used to be cool and I used to have the best ideas and now I am only as good as the amount of time I spend doing what all of the other parents do so that my kids are with their friends as close to 16 hours per day as possible. I tried. I laid out my three paltry substitutes for Honey Pot Hill. They were rejected. Immediately. On the grounds that there would be no Friends at any of the places I wanted to go.
And so we got in the car and drove for 45 minutes (it was a pretty drive and relatively traffic- and construction-free) to get to the land of Chaos and Bedlam. I should have turned around and gone hiking along the Assabet River as soon as I saw the first police officer directing traffic. The second police officer directed us to a parking lot where parking lot attendants directed us to a parking space. I wondered if Bono or Taylor Swift or Tom and Gisele were picking apples, too.
No, they were not. Everyone else in the world was, however.
So we parked and immediately there was a scramble for my PHONE to see the TEXTS from the FRIENDS' mom so that we could find the FRIENDS.
The Friends had not yet arrived, so we went to look at the animals, which made me very sad, because there were hundreds of people staring at three little pink pigs, two goats, two sheep, some chickens, and some rabbits. Less farm animals than sideshow. The pigs were even made to hang out in front of three dog houses -- you guessed it -- made out of bricks, straw, and twigs, respectively. I was grateful that there was no wolf in evidence.
I knew that I was defeated. This is because of the power of the Friends. I used to be cool and I used to have the best ideas and now I am only as good as the amount of time I spend doing what all of the other parents do so that my kids are with their friends as close to 16 hours per day as possible. I tried. I laid out my three paltry substitutes for Honey Pot Hill. They were rejected. Immediately. On the grounds that there would be no Friends at any of the places I wanted to go.
And so we got in the car and drove for 45 minutes (it was a pretty drive and relatively traffic- and construction-free) to get to the land of Chaos and Bedlam. I should have turned around and gone hiking along the Assabet River as soon as I saw the first police officer directing traffic. The second police officer directed us to a parking lot where parking lot attendants directed us to a parking space. I wondered if Bono or Taylor Swift or Tom and Gisele were picking apples, too.
No, they were not. Everyone else in the world was, however.
So we parked and immediately there was a scramble for my PHONE to see the TEXTS from the FRIENDS' mom so that we could find the FRIENDS.
The Friends had not yet arrived, so we went to look at the animals, which made me very sad, because there were hundreds of people staring at three little pink pigs, two goats, two sheep, some chickens, and some rabbits. Less farm animals than sideshow. The pigs were even made to hang out in front of three dog houses -- you guessed it -- made out of bricks, straw, and twigs, respectively. I was grateful that there was no wolf in evidence.
Still awaiting the Friends, we selected a pumpkin to bring home and walked with our 26 pounder, which cost $14, back to the car.
The Friends arrived. The kids were hungry. There was a farm store with a long line and there was a grill with a longer line and there was a bakery with a line that rivaled the lines outside the Apple Store when the new iThings are released. We were told that the caramel apples were not in the Farm Store, and so we got out of line and went to leave, only to see a tray of caramel apples near the register. We got back in line. As we got to the tray of caramel apples, they were purchased, one by one, until there was only one left. With nuts. We had five kids with us. We got out of line again.
We went to another window without a line, where we were told that that window was for Family Fun Pack, which came with a caramel apple, an apple cider donut, and apple cider. Only we couldn't BUY the Family Fun Pack there, we had to buy it in Parking Lot B. Wherever that was.
So, we walked over to the hayride, where we were allowed to buy a Family Fun Pack, which cost $16 and included a small bag for apple picking and a hayride and a Hedge Maze. For one person. We figured that took care of one kid's rides and three kid's snacks, and the apple picking, so we bought one, paid $2 each for everyone else for the hayride, and got on the hay bails. The tractor dumped us in the middle of the orchard, which actually was lovely, except that there were 10,000 people there and smooshed apples everywhere, making it slippery, so, inevitably, my younger kid fell in the smooshed apple and got smooshed apple all over himself. The other kids were all climbing precariously perched ladders. How much do these people pay for insurance at Honey Pot Hell?
When we got back to the Maze, we discovered that the Family Fun Pack ticket was lost. The kids did the Maze (at a cost of $4 per kid), and the other parent found a nice Honey Pot Hell Employee, who believed her that her ticket had been lost and got her a caramel apple, a cider donut, and an apple cider. This took care of the 3 youngest kids. The two bigger kids went back to look at the pigs and I got in the Bakery Line, which was not a line but a chaotic crush of people wanting their donuts and caramel apples. I waited 20 minutes. The line was no closer to the bakery window. I pleaded with the two older kids to allow me to get out of the line and told them that I would find them a caramel apple somewhere else. I did not specify a time frame for this.
We got back in the car and my older kid, the one who didn't get a caramel apple, asked where we would get one. I drove the 45 minutes back to Waltham and then to the other side of town and, once there, went to the little Wagon Wheel farm stand, where they had caramel dipping sauce for apples, but no caramel apples. So, the older kid, who was stoic, opted for a chocolate Dracula head on a lollipop stick.
We got home and I swore to my husband that I will NEVER go apple picking again, unless it is at an orchard where there are apples on trees and no amusement park accoutrements and no other people.
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