Carpe Di-Cave

Early summer descended on Eastern Iowa packing all the heat and humidity usually reserved for much later in the season. In this weather, the corn shoots skyward, and the weak are culled from the herd until only the hardiest Iowa natives are left to complain about the weather.

The Princess and Little Prince had retreated to the cool solitude of their bedrooms, perfectly content to relax and stare at their smart phones in air-conditioned comfort. (“We needs the charger. Must recharge the precious.”) But underneath it all, I could tell they were longing for some quality, enforced family fun time.

It was time for a Mom-tervention.

It was time to pry them out of their man-made, air-conditioned, soft and cushy caves

and take them to some nature-made, naturally cooled, drippy and muddy real caves at Maquoketa Caves State Park. The King declined the opportunity, citing work deadlines (and lack of air-conditioning).

I had been to the caves as a kid – we made frequent trips to the area to visit relatives – but The Princess and The Little Prince had not. This trip was a chance for me to share old memories (which they loved – not) and create new memories (which I loved – totally).

Part of the reward for not selling off your children when they were pre-teens, is having them develop into people you actually enjoy spending time with. While The Princess and The Little Prince can, individually, be mutes, when they are thrown together in a car they become Laurel and Hardy. Their schtick began before we even left the house:

The King (from his air conditioned throne): Be sure to wear sunscreen.

Princess: Did Sacagawea wear sunscreen? Did Herbert Hoover?

Prince: And he became president!

Princess: And had a sport named after him! (http://www.hooverassociation.org/newsevents/hooverball/hooverball_history.php)

For more than an hour, I listed to their constant back and forth, covering everything from family trips (“Hey, remember that time you told The Little Prince it was time to go, and we searched the house for him for like, 30 minutes, because he thought you really meant it was time to go and he was waiting in the car? Good times.”) to my driving ability (“Are we lost yet? Are you sure we're not lost yet?”).

Gramma Anna at the caves, 1936

For the record, we weren't lost (yet), although I never did find the little wooded, copse my Grampa liked to point out as the spot where my Gramma Anna once hiked her skirts (literally) to answer nature's call. That historic location seemed to move each time we traveled those roads, but Grampa's delight in telling the story – and Gramma's adamant denial – never did. There's a slight chance hyperbole runs in my family.

Eventually we did make it to the park. I didn't remember it being quite so popular, but that day it was overrun with 20-something year-old hikers and rock climbers (“I think they're high on more than nature.”) and families with little children.

At times I watched wistfully as the parents held their child's grubby little hands, or boosted them up onto some of the small rock formations, arms outstretched to assist if needed, but giving them the chance to explore their independence.

Meanwhile I panted, trying to keep up with my little angels, letting them lead the way over rocky trails and trees, and cringing as they insisted on climbing to the highest points they possibly could. Every so often The Little Prince would scout out a trail, only to 

tell his sister it looked “a little sketchy.” They would silently lock eyes for a moment, then The Princess would smile and shout “Parkour!” and off they would scramble over mossy boulders, muddy logs, and loose rocks. This is why we say that when The Princess becomes the voice of reason, you know you're in trouble.

Still, there were times when the littlest hikers out parkoured us. While The Royal Procession picked our way cautiously across the creek (again), tottering on the slippery rocks, one intrepid 8-year-old sloshed right past us through the ankle-deep water. (In our defense, it was muddy, it looked much deeper, and it was cold.)

Fat Man's Lament

In between the daredevil feats of climbing, tentative spelunking, and creek fording failures, The Princess and Little Prince turned their comedy routine to a variety of topics:

The beauty of the park – “You know you're from Iowa when you learn to pronounce methamphetamine, but not aesthetic.”

The natural features of the park – “Fat Man's Lament? I thought they said Bat Man's Lament!”

Philosophy – “We have to cross the river again?” Me: “It's a creek.” “It has potential!”

In the end, the joke was on me:

“Why didn't you tell us to wear old shoes?” “Why didn't we bring flashlights?”

Me: “Because I didn't think I'd be able to get you out of the car.” Honest.

(Sharing an incredulous look.) “Why not? This is the best place ever!”

Parkour!

Will Run For Chocolate

Running can be an opportunity to spend some quiet time alone with yourself. A time to meditate, a time of mindful awareness. Whether alone, or at a crowded race, it's just the runner and their thoughts.

Some people may use this time to reflect upon their lives and make meaningful plans. Some people may think deep thoughts and build their character. Some people may get in touch with their spiritual side.

Not me.

For me, a 5k is really just an excuse for me to spend 30 minutes pondering any and all random thoughts that wander through my brain. For example, during this morning's Lagomarcino's Cocoa Beano 5K in East Davenport, my thoughts were a mix of highs and lows, goods and bads, just like the “moderately” hilly course.

The Bad: In a crowd of 3,750 plus, it is possible (I suppose) that a few people didn't read the multiple emails requesting walkers line up towards the back of the crowd. It is possible they missed the multiple signs towards the back of the crowd that said “Walkers Line Up Here.”

It is possible they didn't realize that your “pace” refers to how fast you intend to run the entire race (or most of it), and not how fast you plan on running the first three whole blocks before stopping abruptly to bend over, hands on knees gasping for breath in the middle of the road. Directly in front of me.

These people should be slapped.

The Bad: People who complain – even if they just think about complaining – about people who run three whole blocks before abruptly stopping to bend over, hands on knees gasping for breath in the middle of the road. Directly in front of me.

I should be slapped.

The Bad: People who get to the race at the last minute, find the small parking lot already stuffed to overflowing, yet insist on shoehorning their cars (and gigantic Escalades) into any semi-open space they can find, regardless of how that affects, or, ahem, almost completely blocks off traffic flow after the race.

These people should be slapped.

The Good: People who take the time to help other motorists maneuver their 72-inch wide vehicles through the 74-inch wide gap left between the back bumper of the shiny, new, black Escalade, and the driver's side door of the fragile, white Toyota Prius.

Those people deserve medals. Because if it weren't for them, I would have gotten out and hit those cars even if I didn't hit those cars.

The Bad/Not Inspirational: The runners who cross the finish line and then turn around and run the course backwards as a cool down, or to double their mileage. Especially if I meet them before I reach the half-way point.

These people deserve to be slapped.

The Good/Inspirational: The runner with the perfectly coiffed bun, designer sweats, aviator-style sunglasses and perfect running form. I want your hair and your style. If I can't run fast, I should at least be able to look good doing it. (Although I did pass her, so there's that.)

The Good: My music playlist for this race was amazing. I don't think many people would put Sammy Hagar, The Kinks, and Steve Winwood (and Billy Joel) on the same playlist.

The Bad: I MAY HAVE HAD THE VOLUME TOO LOUD. Wait? Is that even a thing?

Good, Better, Best: It's not called the Chocolate Beano for nuthin'. Runners got a piece of Lagomarcino's candy and hot chocolate at the end of the race. The only better way to end a race would be to have Billy Joel at the finish line. The only thing better than that? Billy Joel waiting at the finish line with Lagomarcino chocolates.

The Bad: People who think Iowa is flat. These people should be slapped and forced to run a 5K in a river town.

The Good: West Branch isn't near a river, but it has plenty of hills. I eat hills for breakfast. I love powering past others on hills. (I should probably be slapped for that.)

The Bad: Ending a 5K route with a long incline. You could hear the roar of the crowd, but you couldn't see it. That last quarter mile up hill was a real spirit breaker.

The Good: My spirit doesn't break that easy.

But I am going to lie about my pace next time.

Take the Long Run Home

It was a beautiful morning for a run.

Sunny and cool, with a slight breeze. A mostly-flat route, with a potential hill-filled detour if I was feelin' cocky.

Perfect for letting my mind wander. Luckily it sent postcards from the road....

Mile 1

My old buddies the cows have stopped grazing to watch me. It really creeps me out when they stare like that. Wait a minute, they're turning... turning... and Holy Crap! They're out-sprinting me! Damn show offs.

Now they've stopped to wait for me. Have you ever heard a cow laugh?

Not cool, cows. It's a marathon-ish, not a sprint.

Cows suck.

Mile 2

The farm dog has a better memory than the cows. He takes his own sweet time, meanders out to the edge of the driveway, sits down, yawns, scratches, takes out a Thermos of coffee, opens up the paper, shakes his head at the grain futures report, and gives a half-hearted “Woof” as I run by.

Then another “woof” just for good measure.

Not cool, dog. I'm running as fast as I can.

Smart-ass dogs suck.

Mile 3

Running downhill! Yay!

On a rutted, washed-out dirt road!

Dirt roads suck.

It's a long, slow decline with a short, steep incline. Steep like "climbing out of a ditch" steep. Like "where's the ladder" steep.

Morris Day launches into “The Bird” on my playlist (Honest. I couldn't make this up):

“Last call for alcohol/ If you ain't got what you want/You got to get the hell up outta here!”

Thanks for the boost, Morris!

Popping up over a hill rocks.

Mile 4

Finally get to leave the gravel roads behind.

Gravel sucks.

I have to make a choice. Should I take the flat, shady trail, or the sunny, quarter-mile-long hill?

Hill it is.

Hills suck.

Mile 5

The good thing about going uphill is that eventually you get to go down hill.

Yay!

Forgot that this side-route has more hills. Lots more hills.

Uphill sucks.

Downhill. Yay!

Up. Suck.

Down. Yay!

Suck.

Yay!

Mile 6

If I finish six miles, I can have a cup of coffee and half a monster-sized cinnamon roll.

Another freakin' hill?

Make that the whole cinnamon roll.

Cinnamon rolls rock.

Mile 7

I have a cramp in my ass. Who gets a cramp in their ass?

How can my ass cramp up when it feels like it's bouncing around back there like a basketball?

Wait a minute, it's only the left side that's cramping and bouncing. The right side feels... nothing.

Holy Crap! My ass cheeks have merged into one giant, lop-sided, crampy basketball.

Ass cramps suck.

Mile 7.5

One more.

Hill.

Suck.

The end is near.

Yay!

Not near enough.

Suck.

This run was too far.

It's taken too long.

I've outlasted my playlist and my iPod has switched to shuffle. It's like musical Russian roulette at this point.

And the winner is (I shit you not): Billy Joel's “I Don't Know Why I Go To Extremes.”

Me neither Mr. Joel. Me neither.

I DO know finishing a 7.5 mile run ROCKS!

HARD!

I'ma hava cinnamon roll!

And a steak!

Take that you smart-ass cows.

Fun and Photos in the Chili Chilly Extreme 5K

Last November when I ran the Chili Chilly Extreme 5K (Nov. 30, 2014, post) I got so caught up in trying to cover it for the local newspaper that I forgot my number one rule for running:

Have fun.

I mean, I did have fun.... But I was so worried about everyone else finishing and leaving before I could take pictures or get quotes that I didn't really have fun.

So, when they moved the Chili Chilly to March, I had to try again. But this time I wanted to focus on having fun instead of focusing on photos.

Which is a really good thing, because now I'm thinkin' pictures during a race – especially an “extreme” one – might be a really bad idea. Or a really, really good source of blackmail material.

For example...

The Chili Chilly starts on semi-solid ground before going off-road through a field. The established trail quickly turned into a slippery, slidey, bog of sucky, sticky mud, so I decided to blaze a new, more solid route by doing a “high, wide knees” run to straddle the corn stubble next to the trail.

The only problem is that I am about as graceful as a water buffalo when running on dry, solid surfaces. Add in the slippery-slidey mud and high, wide knees and I was about as graceful as a drunken water buffalo.

Then, just for kicks and giggles, let's say there were cockleburs mixed in with the stubble. The stubble that I was straddling.

There I was, trying to run and pick cockleburs off my crotch when I looked up and realized I was quickly approaching a volunteer who was directing us out of the field and into the woods.

And laughing. Really, really hard.

I was really, really glad he did not have a camera.

Half a mile later I looked down and saw a gigantic spider climbing up my thigh. My forward progress was eclipsed by my skyward progress as I flailed about trying to dislodge the... mass of cockleburs.

“Not. A. Spider.” I explained to the policeman who was directing traffic on this portion of the course.

And laughing. Really, really hard.

Really, really glad he did not have a camera.

A few hundred yards later the trail ran smack-dab into a huge, fallen tree tagged with a sign indicating we could go over or under.

“This one's for you!” race course designer and evil mastermind Jerry cheerfully announced. Note to self: Quit taunting evil mastermind race course designers.

Faced with the option of hard or harder, I, of course, chose harder. Placing my hands on top of the log (about chest high), I gave a mighty jump, hoisted myself up, and flung one leg over. Relieved to have more or less made it to the top, I lay there straddling the trunk.

Then I realized I still had to get back down... before Jerry could quit laughing and grab a camera.

I managed the dismount with all the grace of a drunken water buffalo and scrambled off up the trail. A couple of twists and turns and 30 yards later the trail circled back to a small rise beside the Sequia obstacle. I was just about to call out to Jerry and tell him how glad I was that he didn't have a camera when SCHWA-LIP my feet shot out from under me and I slid down the trail on my cockelbur.

Really, really glad.

The final, big obstacle involved sliding down a creek bank to wade across the Mississippi River... or maybe it was just a creek. A really, really cold creek that was ankle deep on one side and chest deep on the opposite side.

The drunken water buffalo was finally in her element.

I am really, really glad there were no cameras to prove otherwise.

After the race I was trying to clean off the worst of the muck when a chipper girl from the youngest age group asked if I had gone through the creek.

“Of course!” I answered. “That was the best part!”

“I know!” she said, excitedly. “Some people skipped it, but me and my friends sprinted to get there!”

An ear-to-ear smile lit up her mud-covered face and she laughed really, really hard.

She really, really had fun.

And I really, really wished I had a camera.

Fear and Loathing in the Chili Chilly Chill

Runner's high is real.

Any doubt I had of that vanished when I tried to interview a bunch of runners post-race at the Chili Chilly Extreme 5K in West Liberty last weekend.

It was like trying to talk to a bunch of drunks.

Focus, people. Focus. Bunch of Chatty Cathys, all talking at the same time and none of them finishing their...

“Oh look! A picture! You gotta see this! And I was all runnin' and then it was muddy.... And the water was so coooold.... Only up to my knees they said.... I didn't expect that much shrinkage...”

The drunks/runners parallel only hit me when I tried to read my interview notes. They looked suspiciously like the checks I used to write at the bar at 1 a.m.

After the run I was too busy scribbling illegible notes and trying to keep up with the 7-minute-mile pace talk to work off my own post-race energy. So the Princess got it all (and then some) when I took her to lunch. After I had taken a warm shower and finally quit shivering, that is. Not only did she get my race-course recap (the same as my interviewees'), but I got to share their stories with her as I organized my slowly thawing thoughts.

“There I was, finally changing out of my wet clothes in that tiny bathroom stall, shivering so hard I coulda' been twerking, wishing I could have had a bowl of chili while I was asking questions because it looked so good and everybody else was enjoying it while I was scribbling and dripping all over the floor and my paper was all wrinkly because my sleeve was still wet. Still wet! But anyway, I thought “What's that awful smell?” And I realized it was me because we had to go though the creek  and the culvert once -- and I don't know what died in there! -- and my shoes REEK, and I mean REEK like you wouldn't believe! And then I wondered how I managed to sweat so much because my bra was still wet and I realized I SLIPPED in the creek and the water was up to my pits and it was SOOOO COOOOOLD, but I only brought dry sweat pants AND why does my thumb hurt? How could I have hurt my thumb running?”

The Princess: “Yeah. You know, with this mix-and-match thing I could just order eight pieces of bacon.”

She has quite the way of putting things into perspective.

Speaking of perspective, some of the race participants and organizers said they hoped the event could some day draw closer to 100 runners. The numbers were way down this year (only about 30, being generous). It's a fundraiser for the Muscatine County Fairgrounds and it was a lot of fun, so I can see where they're coming from.

But.

I managed to place first in my age group.

I kinda like that. In fact, the last three races I've participated in, I think I've placed first in my age group. Granted, I've been the only one in my age group each time. There is something to be said for being old, decrepit and stupid enough to run in November.

Of course next year I'll be one of the youngsters in the really old age group, so I may still have a chance to place in the top-ish for my age group. It brings to mind that venerable quote from Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe: “Face it honey, I'm older and I have more knee cartilage left than you.” At least I think it went something like that.

Then there's the fact that this Xtreme run involves a lot of narrow trail running – in other words, single-file. Once you've established your running order it's tough to move up the food chain (and unless you're the lead dog the view never changes).

Not that I would know about moving up. I was pretty well occupied just trying to keep the runner ahead of me within view so I didn't veer too far off course. But I did feel sorry for the poor soul (souls?) slogging along behind me.

And I need to apologize to them and all of the south end of West Liberty for the foul language I used when I fell. And when I crossed the really, really cold creek. And when I climbed up the really, really muddy creek bank. And when I realized we were no where near the end of the run. I can either control my feet or my mouth, but not both at the same time.

One good thing about being at the back of the pack: the trail is well established. One bad thing about being at the back of the pack: the trail is a well-established smooshy, wet, slippery, mud fest. And the creek banks are nothin' but a sheet of slime, which makes for fun sliding down but not so much fun trying to crawl back up.

I did manage to improve my position early on in the run when I sprinted out ahead of a pack of runners so I could take pictures to accompany my newspaper article. Unfortunately that burst of energy – and stopping a couple other times to take pictures – ruined my planned pacing-strategy. I was just never able to get my head back in the game, and I think my time really suffered because of that.

Yep. I can explain my slow time and frequent walk-breaks.

Runners also have a lot in common with fishermen.

And did I mention that I hurt my thumb?

Just wait until next year.

Carpe Birthday

I wanted to make my 49th birthday special and -- boy howdy! -- was it ever! I started celebrating by preparing a bribe for Billy Joel and ended up on stage at a concert.

But first, the backstory.

I realize 50 is supposed to be the milestone year, but I figured why not celebrate everything leading up to the milestone? It’s like celebrating Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve, or TGITh.

Forget carpe diem. Carpe anum!

In that spirit I began celebrating my birthday, which officially occurred Sunday, on Thursday. How else to kick off a big celebration, than by baking nearly eight dozen cupcakes and almost as many chocolate chip cookies? Those treats were the key to my brilliant plan: Operation Bribe the Students to Bribe Billy Joel.

Carpe Piano Man.

I figure Billy Joel might be able to ignore my request for an autograph, but how could he ignore a bunch of junior high and high school students writing him in support of their teacher's request? In exchange for a cupcake or a cookie, I asked students in my classes (and any random student who happened to wander by) to write a short note to Billy Joel explaining what makes me so special and why he should send me his autograph.

What I wanted was an autograph. What I got was a day as one of the most popular teachers in the school (who doesn’t love cupcakes, cookies or the person who gives them to you?), and a bunch of complimentary notes that made me feel warm and fuzzy. 

Carpe Sugar Rush.

Not everyone who took a treat wrote a letter, but that’s ok because the smiles and thanks (and puzzled looks of disbelief) they gave me were a gift, too. I had almost forgotten how much fun it is perform random acts of kindness.

Carpe Pay It Forward.

The down-side to my brilliant plan is that kids are already asking me if there's been a reply yet. Obviously I didn't think this through. Some how, some way, someone's autograph is going to have to be hanging on my wall by May.

Carpe Snail Mail.

Flash forward to Sunday and the concert.

After I managed to not embarrass The Princess at the One Direction concert this summer, she graciously invited me to a concert for my birthday: a concert she wanted to go to, but couldn't convince any of her friends to go with her (or they couldn't convince their parents to let them go, not sure which).

Carpe Cool Mom.

And that's how I wound up at a bar in Iowa City on my 49th birthday with a bunch of 21-and-youngers at a concert by hip-hop artist Huey Mack.

I'm going to give you a moment to let that soak in.

I'd like to say I was offended by the language. But let's face it, I'm the woman who gives up swearing for Lent. Every. Year. (Or as they would have said at the concert, “every mother f****ing year.”)

Carpe Potty Mouth.

I'd like to say I'm appalled by rap and hip-hop lyrics. But let's face it, as an English major and writer I admire the story-telling and that poetic ability to create rhythm with words.

Carpe Mad Writing Skills.

I'd like to say I didn't like the music. But let's face it, I was jumping up and down and waving my arms just like everyone else.

Carpe Dance Shoes.

I'd like to say I didn't get a kick out of it when Huey Mack said “We've never had a Mom in the audience before. Come on up here!” But let's face it, I did.

Carpe Are You Kidding Me?

I'd like to say I didn't chug a beer on-stage with a 22-year-old hip-hop artist. But of course I did.

Carpe Budweiser.

I'd like to say going to a concert with my daughter, laughing and dancing with her, and having her think it was cool that I was on stage with Huey Mack was probably one of the best birthday presents I've ever had.

Because it was.

Carpe Birthday.

We Danced All Night to the Best Blog Ever

“You two are having too much fun!”

That's what the Dad sitting behind the Princess and me at the One Direction concert in St. Louis last week said to us.

And you know what?

He was right.

I should point out that when he said this we were chair dancing enthusiastically during the hour long – that's right hour long – break between the five-song opening act and the main attraction. And did I mention the opening act started late, too? And that we waited in a glacially-slow moving t-shirt line before the opening act?

In other words, approximately two hours into our 1D concert experience we had not yet seen a glimpse of the lads, and we were still having fun. Or already having fun, however you want to figure that.

So, how was the concert? Well, One Direction is no Billy Joel. But then again, I doubt the real 1D fans (tweens, teens and post-teens) know who Billy Joel is.

And you know what?

That's OK.

It's probably a sign that all we have to look forward to during our handbasket ride to heck (or during music time at the nursing home) is non-stop Muzak versions of bubblegum pop. But that's OK.

And I'll tell you why.

But first, I'll admit I was somewhat less than excited about going to this concert. My reasoning:

     A. I had just seen Billy Joel live and in concert. Really? What could possibly compare to that, besides another Billy Joel concert? Nothing. But....

    

    B. Screaming tweens, teens and post-teens. This was even worse than I had imagined. They screamed whenever a new video started (during the 2-hour wait). They screamed whenever the safety announcements were made (in English accent). They screamed whenever the cotton-candy vendor walked by. (OK, I made that one up, but I did scream when the beer vendor walked by.) But....

     And 3. According to the Ticketmaster map, our seats were somewhere above the nose-bleed section in an area of the Edward Jones Dome accessible only by trained Sherpas carrying oxygen. But....

But....

You know what?

     3. Our seats weren't that bad. Sure we were in the third tier, but we were only three rows up from the edge of the balcony. Granted, that was straight up. And I do mean Straight. Up. But the Princess and I had trained earlier in the day by riding the ferris wheel on the roof of the St. Louis City Museum (my hands never unclenched from the safety bar). And by sitting in the school bus that hangs over the edge of the roof – 20 stories up. And by going down the 10-story slide. Best. Museum. Ever.

     And... the 1D stage cat-walk extended out to at least the 50-yard line. Combined with the obligatory Jumbo-Tron Screens this made our seats... not bad.

     B. After while I became immune to the screaming. In fact, I started to rely on it. All those 1D songs sound alike to me, so the only way I could tell they had cued up a new one was when the girls started screaming.

     True Confession: I did scream. Once. Harry (or one of the lads, they all look alike to me, too) asked if anyone in the audience was having a birthday. The Princess and I looked at each other, shot our hands in the air and started screaming like... well, like teens at a 1D concert.

     And finally, A. It wasn't a Billy Joel concert. It was a One Direction concert for One Direction fans. I wasn't the target audience. The pre-teen-posts were. And they loved it.

They danced, they sang, they screamed, they cried, they laughed, they smiled. They beamed. They radiated happiness.

They had the time of their lives.

I finally recognized one song near the end of the concert (after only 90-minutes, as opposed to 65-year-old Billy Joel's 2-hours... just sayin'). And as I sat there watching the Princess singing and swaying, I thought about how the lyrics to that bubble-gum, boy-band song summed up how I felt:

“Baby you light up my world like nobody else...”

I looked at the Dad behind us and I could tell from the smile on his face as he watched his girls that he felt the same way.

Oh yeah. We had fun.

“You don't know you're beautiful. That's what makes you beautiful.”

Disc-go Golf

Hot on the heels of our successful family canoe/paddle board outing (I left with two kids, returned with the same two kids) we headed out on another family favorite summer fun activity: disc golfing.

Disc golf, for the un-initiated, is an ancient Greek term that means “exercise in futility.” It is also a modern Collegiate-Greek term that means “drink beer in the woods.”

Disc golf is similar to traditional golf in that you start at one point (“tee off”) and count your strokes/throws as you make your way to a goal (cup/basket). The difference is that instead of chasing a little white ball hundreds of yards towards a hole in the ground with a skinny metal club, you try to throw a flying disc (similar to a “Frisbee” but not trademarked and twice as expensive) hundreds of yards towards a metal basket without beating yourself senseless with a wooden club (also known as a tree).

Between the “tee” and the “hole” the challenge is to keep your throws on the “fareway,” or cleared, semi-maintained and designated area. It is in your best interest to avoid natural hazards such as trees, oceans of deep grass, creeks, deer, giant rabid squirrels, drunk college students, ticks, chiggers, mosquitos, gnats, poison ivy, and stinging nettles, all of which produce force fields that suck your disc into the “rough,” also known on Eastern Iowa area disc golf courses as “ravines” or “gorges.”

The biggest advantage to disc golf is that is is less formal than traditional golf. Which is not to say that disc golf players don't take their game seriously. They do. Serious disc golfers warm-up by stretching and practice their “putts.” They carry a multitude of different discs, each specially weighted and shaped for long distance, middle distance, approach and/or putting. And they use them. Each of them. At the correct time.

We don't. Do any of that. At the correct time. And we yell a lot.

We do usually start our games with some traditional golf etiquette. We take turns on the first tee, complimenting each other on our first shot – even if it rebounds off a tree, landing behind the tee box. This has happened. More than once.

First shot out of the way, we fan out to help find the discs (on the off chance one of them has gone farther than 20 yards), because it's hard to see where your disc went when you're laughing so hard you're doubled over. And we stand behind the other players as they make their next throw.

This is a key rule of safety, etiquette and support. No one likes to have to ask the other players to move so you don't hit them with your disc. Especially when they know, and you know they know you know that there is no way you could possibly throw it that far.

Our first time out this year was particularly ugly. I'd like to say our skills were a little rusty after a long winter and wet spring, but the truth is we didn't have any skills to begin with. In a true show of group effort, the three of us combined for a record high seven tree hits. On one par three hole. That does not include “leaf-burners” (throws that ripped through the canopy) or discs that rolled up to hit a tree. Let's see Tiger Woods top that!

Like traditional golf, a disc golf course typically has either nine or 18 holes. Unfortunately our limit is 12 holes. It take those three extra holes to prove to us we aren't getting any better and that the longer we play the longer it takes to find our lost discs. This also get us as far away from the parking lot as humanly possible.

The last time we played at Turkey Creek I exercised Mom Authority and we packed up after the front nine. It was slightly after noon, the college boys had woken up and it was getting crowded (they were all playing faster than we were: play a hole, let they boys play through, repeat). At first it was OK. The boys were polite and helpful, offering to help look for our lost discs while they played through. Then I realized they were really only trying to help The Cute Teenage Princess (in shorts and a tank top) look for her disc. The Prince and I were just two more natural hazards to avoid.

This reminds me of most outings with the Princess lately. I've noticed a distinct increase in customer service from young men (plentiful in a college town) when accompanied by an attractive young girl. I've started to think about renting her out when speedy customer service is required, but I think there's another term for that.

I could tell the kids were loosing interest in the match when they cheerfully announced we were adopting Street Rules: a  literally no holds barred phase of the game. There was anarchy before, but now it was perfectly legal to distract the thrower by any means – yelling,jumping, hitting them with your disc and full-body tackling. It was also acceptable to deflect any throw and to defend the basket at any cost.

Forget loosing a disc, someone was in danger of loosing a tooth or and eye.

In other words, another typical day at our house.

Momma's Little Angels & Demons

Approximately 16 years ago we brought a darling little angel home from the hospital. She was so sweet-tempered, even at age 2 ¾, that we decided to press our luck and bring home another.

Since then our lives have been blessed with two little rays of sunshine. There were a few grey clouds here and there but they cleared quickly, never more than a passing shower or minor squall.

Then... WHAM!

Just like that they both turned into sullen, surly teenagers. Over night. Last night to be precise.

I tucked them in as Momma's Little Angels, they woke up as The Reasons Momma Drinks Before Noon.

I shouldn't be surprised. I mean, they both are teenagers now. But The Little Prince has been 13 for a whole month without a personality downgrade. It must take a while for hormones to spin completely out of control.

The Princess has been a moody teen for three years so we've learned to expect her anti-parental behavior. She's always made it clear that I have absolutely no idea what it's like to be young. When these situations arise I roll my eyes, sigh in a put-upon manner and ignore her the best I can (behavior I obviously learned from her, having never been a teenager myself).

Unfortunately it is not legal to list surly teens for sale on Craigslist. Read the fine print. Also, it is no longer politically correct to threaten to sell surly teens to a band of wandering Gypsies.

Since The Prince began his descent into sullenness, The Princess has moved on to unbearably perky, chatty and goofy – becoming a stereotypical “Blonde,” although she's not blonde (but she wants to be and would be if only her uncaring, clueless mother would let her bleach her hair).

So I have one child who communicates monosyllabically, and one who communicates non-stop-o-syllabically.

Put the two of them together? God have mercy on my soul.

Today was a textbook example of life in the eye of the perfect hormonal storm....

The Princess arose uncharacteristically early – before noon – and asked what we would be doing for fun. I realized with a shock that summer is almost over (SUMMER IS ALMOST OVER!!!) and we haven't done anything fun together yet.

They have been wanting to go paddle boarding (Princess) and fishing (Prince), so with Dad at work (lucky, lucky man), I figured this was the perfect day to hit the open-ish water. I told the little former-angels they had an hour to get ready.

Fortyfive-minutes later I was the only one not wearing pajamas.

At this point I reminded them that they should dress appropriately for boating and/or fishing. I continued to make this announcement every two minutes until it was time to go.

My mistake was assuming that my children knew what constitutes “appropriate” clothing for boating and/or fishing on a hot, humid Iowa afternoon (eg: swimsuits/grubby clothes).

They do not.

They do, however, apparently think it's perfectly normal for me to randomly decide to wear a spandex miniskirt (AKA skirted “hide-my-ass” swimsuit) in public. My example, like my announcement, was completely ignored. But let me sing one little Billy Joel tune in the car... then they notice!

Officially, the body of water we went to is a “lake.” Unofficially, we have christened this former quarry a “lonk,” as it is somewhere between lake and a pond, size-wise.

Unofficially it could also be termed a “field,” as it was so clogged with water plants The Prince decided he could not fish and would instead share a canoe with me. This ensured him a captive audience while he silently brooded over the infinite un-fishing-fairness of the universe.

Officially, this lonk boasts 95 acres of surface area. I wouldn't know. If one acre is approximately the size of a football field, we spent 60 minutes paddling our canoe back and forth and sideways in an area the size of one end zone. Despite our lack of skill, we were at the mercy of high winds and currents. Or lonk monsters. 

Princess Paddle Board had a little more luck. She was also stuck in the end zone-sized area, but at least she was able to avoid the thick, gooey, paddle-snagging weeds growing thickly enough to walk on near the shoreline.

Or she was lucky until we almost ran into her while trying – for the umpteenth time – to escape our own personal Bermuda Triangle and make it to the dock (it would have been easier to portage across the weeds).

That's when she fell in the lonk. And I found out she did not, in fact, have on a swim suit. And I would have to haul her lonk-water logged body home smelling like a lonk.

“ARE WE ALL HAVING FUN YET?!” I screamed.

The children answered in the usual teen manner of indistinct mumbles, grumbles and sighs.

I answered with clear, distinct and creative swearing.

So, would we do it again?

Of course!

After everyone dried off, cooled down, and filled up on junk food, their angelic little faces lit up with broad smiles as we laughed about our adventure.

A smile is the non-o-syllabic form of teen communication that speaks the loudest.

Keeping the Faith

This is not a review of the Billy Joel concert at Wrigley Field July 18. Because really, what else would I write besides that the show was amazing and Billy Joel was awesome and adorable. And I could have told you that before the lights even came up.

Let's face it, Billy Joel could have gone on stage and presented a two-hour dissertation on the state of modern paint drying and I would have squealed like a teen-aged girl goosed by the captain of the football team. Luckily for the sold-out crowd, Billy Joel instead chose to do what he does best, delivering a fantastic performance and generally delighting the audience. His two-hour, hit-filled show featured 23 of his songs in addition to “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and “My Kind of Town (Chicago Is).” The set list included many of my favorites because they're all my favorites, but was light on the more obscure pieces that I like. If he played 'em all, we'd still be there. Which would be OK by me.

But this isn't a concert review, it's a Chicago experience review. Or more accurately a big shout out to some of the friendly, helpful people I met during My Big Adventure Travelling to Chicago All By Myself. You often hear visitors say that Midwesterners are friendly, and by golly, we are!

Thank you to the Chicago art museum docent who practically took me by the hand and led me to the drinking fountain when I asked for directions. I must have looked particularly confused and dehydrated.

Thank you to the people who didn't honk at me when I ran the red light leaving the Millennium Park garage. In that dark intersection beneath the overpass, I was not the only person who clearly had no idea where they were supposed to be. In all fairness, I didn't honk at anyone, either.

Thank you to the lady who showed me how to use the Ventra card kiosk to get my ticket for the “L” to Wrigley. A bazillion out-of-towners trying to get on the Red Line at Grand at 5 p.m. and less than 10% knew how to work the ticket machines. We all apologize for the delay, regular commuters.

Speaking of out-of-towners, it was so nice to meet you, couple from Ontario, Canada! They traveled all the way to Chicago for a three-day weekend planned around the Billy Joel concert. And a ride on the “L.”

Thank you, young girl who thanked me over and over again when I let you have the open seat on the train (I didn't tell you I have to face forward or I get motion sickness). She'd had a long day at work and looked exhausted. In addition to being friendly and kind, she's a concert musician and opera singer. And obviously a Midwesterner.

Thank you to the crazy fan outside the stadium who was over-the-moon about meeting the members of Gavin McGraw's band. You made me feel not-so-crazy. And thanks to the security guy who let her talk to them and let me listen to her gush as we stood outside the performers' bus area.

In fact, thank you to 99% of the staff at Wrigley Field for being unbelievably polite, kind and friendly (and eventually that one girl warmed up to me, too). It didn't matter who they worked for – blue-shirt Wrigley staff, orange-shirt Wrigley security, white-shirt extra security, green-shirt something-else officials, white-shirt ushers – they were all great!

Thanks to the cute orange-shirt guys who directed me to the field entrance, the helpful orange-shirts at the field entrance, and all the shirts who pretty much let me wander wherever I wanted on the field and around the stadium. And offered to take my picture! Of course it was two-hours before the concert and they may have been as bored as I was. I am never early for anything because I don't have the patience to wait. But think of all the nice people I got to meet this time!

Like the usher guy who offered to take my picture with the infield grass, the stands, the stage, the tarp-covered pitching mound.... Oh yeah, I think he was bored.

Thanks to the end of the third-base line beer-stand guys who tried to card me for buying a bottle of water (their first sale of the night), and then offered to take my picture with the 355 ft. outfield wall marker. I took their picture, too.

Thanks to the beer guy inside the stadium who suggested a beer might help calm my upset stomach. I didn't take him up on that, but we had a nice chat.

Big, big thanks to “not Billy Joel” for letting me take a selfie with him. We swapped cameras and took pictures for each other “batting” near home plate. I started to leave, but just couldn't resist. “You know, you kind of look like Billy Joel,” I said. He shyly said he had been getting that a lot that night. He had the right hair style, the right goatee, the right height, and the prettiest eyes! I had to get a picture.

Thanks to the security guy who may or may not have (I wouldn't want to get him in trouble) pointed out the real Billy Joel standing on the balcony above us. Of course I (and everyone else) had to take a picture, although I felt guilty intruding on his privacy.

Thanks to the usher who told me to go for it when I said I was thinking of asking the caterers to give my blogger info card to Billy Joel. “What have you got to lose?” he asked. They couldn't do it, but it was worth a shot.

Thanks, of course, to my seat-mates: Mitch the policeman and his daughter the uber fan, and the nice guy from England-now-Phoenix. You made me feel like part of a group. And to the four wild girls behind us – three Sox fans who found themselves sitting in the Wrigley outfield with their lone Cubbie friend; even the three drunk, college-age guys in front of us who knew just about every song and were very entertaining: Thanks, everyone!

A thanks of relief to the nice people who let me walk with them down the kind of dark and scary alley to the “L” station after the concert because the N. Sheffield sidewalk was packed with party-goers and equally kind of dark and scary.

And thanks to the nice lady on the “L” who asked her friend to give me directions when I followed the crowd and got off the train one stop too soon. It wasn't your fault he sent me east instead of south. And thank you to the train station attendant who talked me down when the ticket kiosk wouldn't take my quarters and I was about to lose it! I can't believe I paid three dollars to ride three blocks. But it was dark. And I was tired and lost-ish. Not a good combination for me.

I'm sure there were other nice people I'm forgetting, so a huge thank you to pretty much everyone I ran into.

You've restored my faith in humanity.

I've always tried to “pay it forward,” but now I'm going to have to work extra hard not just to do that, but to “pay it up,” as well.

I'm Keeping the Faith.