Lunch.

When I was a kid, I bought lunch at school a lot. I hate to admit this publicly, but I kind of liked it. My favorites were grilled cheese & tomato soup and open faced turkey with gravy and mashed potatoes. And I loved that peanut butter fudge. It didn’t taste like peanut butter really. More like lard fudge probably, but I liked it. And my mom made me lunches on the days I didn’t like what the cafeteria had to offer. She was very creative; she’d make a nice sandwich or fill my thermos with soup or gefilte fish balls and give me healthy snacks.

Most years, I took my lunch in a brown paper bag. My mom would write my name neatly on it. Sometimes, I even got a note. There was the one year I had the Julia lunch box. I loved that. But most of the time, brown paper bags.

My boys take their lunch almost every day. They have insulated lunchboxes and I put an icepack in to keep their drinks (usually water) cold. And on warm days, it allows me to send a sandwich with mayo or cream cheese (we love cream cheese and green olive sandwiches!) and not worry about spoilage.

We’ve used the same lunchboxes for a couple years now. Considering they are packed and unpacked almost 200 times a year, the wear and tear seems reasonable. Early this summer, I was in Wal-Mart (not a common thing for me. I hate that store) and saw these great rectangular jobs for a reasonable price. So I bought three – one red, one blue, one gray. Max loved his. Davis loved his. Reed. Not so much.

With some hemming and hawing, I agreed to return the lunchbox. This meant I had to go back to Wal-Mart. Not a joy for me. But I did it. Did you know there is a special return line there? There were 11 people ahead of me. It took 28 minutes to complete the task. Yikes.

So Reed, what kind of lunchbox do you want? “I want to keep the one I have.” Well, it’s torn – and hard to zip now. So he agreed that he’d get another one – hopefully a similar style of his current one.

So that’s when the real mission began. I went to BJ’s. No luck. Marshall’s. Rite Aid. CVS. Target. Nothing the shape of his old version. Not only do I now have a lot of time invested, I am getting aggravated. As the circulars came in the newspaper, I’d show him the photos. “Do you like this one?” No, he likes his old one.

Then I was in Omaha. While running errands with my friend, I checked TJ Maxx. Nope. Steinmart. Nope. Alright, I give.

But then, we went to Walgreen’s. And there, lo and behold, I found a very similar lunchbox. It was a little bigger and the bottom part closed with velcro, not a zipper. But it was close. Really close. They had red and blue. And I bought the blue one.

Truth be told, when we went to the Marshall’s there, I found another one that was more like his old one. But smaller. And since I’d already scored the perfect solution, I passed it by.

I had to ship some toiletries home since there were restrictions on lotions and shampoos and I didn’t want to check my bag. So, I put the lunchbox (and the great new shoes I bought!) with the lotions and mailed it home.

When the box arrived, I tore it open anticipating Reed’s glee upon seeing his new lunchbox. Silence.

This was not a good sign.

My blood pressure was going up, so I decided to table the discussion. Or lack thereof.

The next day, I asked Reed what he didn’t like about the new lunchbox. He said he barely saw it. So I took it out. He turned it, opened it, and examined it as if a very serious decision that would forever affect the fate of mankind was at stake.

His conclusion? It wouldn’t do.

Calm and collected, I replied, “No problem. I’ll take it back. But you realize that you’ll be using your old one this year again. Tears and all.” He was unfazed. In fact, he said that’s what he wanted to do in the first place.

So I went to Walgreens.com and checked the store locator. I know I hadn’t seen one near here. There are 17 stores with a 25 mile radius. None is convenient. The closest is at Ingleside and Route 40 – so we packed into the van the next day to go there. We also had to stop at Staples and Petsmart and Best Buy – for printer cartridges, cat litter, and to return a handsfree headset that I’d bought for Andrew. So off we go.

I was busy doing something – I don’t know what – and we missed the turn to go toward the Walgreen’s. Honestly, I forgot that Andrew isn’t from around here and once we stray too far from home, he is just not familiar enough to figure it out without a map. So we missed it. No problem, we’d just go a different way. I told him to take the Baltimore Beltway and we’d get off at the next exit, Frederick Road. We headed toward the city.

I had a map. Really I did. But somehow, we missed the turn I had hoped to take. So now, we’re going wrong and I didn’t know how to correct it without turning around. But that’s okay, I see that there’s a Walgreen’s this way, too. And we were going deeper and deeper into the city. And not the nice part of the city. We were heading to the part of the city where they film The Wire.

No worries, though, we just needed to take Old Frederick or Hilton to Route 40 and, although the detour was long and not ideal, we’d be heading the right direction again. But alas, somehow, we missed the turn.

So now, going through Gwynns Falls Park (which is really beautiful but not all that safe) and heading deeper into a high crime area. But, I assure Andrew, if we turn left at Liberty Heights, we’ll be going the right way, toward where I grew up and, by the way, there is a Walgreen’s there. If we miss that one, there is another past the Beltway.

So finally (it seemed like forever) we got to Liberty Heights. (Remember the movie?) We turned west. I guess I’d forgotten how far it was until the suburbs. So we drove along, with the kids noticing the boarded-up homes, the burned storefronts, the fancy wheels, and the poverty all around. Part of me is glad we detoured – I do think the kids need to know this is reality for so many. The other part of me just wanted to return the stupid lunchbox.

So here’s the Walgreen’s! Pull over. Andrew and the kids stayed in the car. I went in, bag and receipt in hand. I got in line at the register. And waited. As I waited, I looked around. There was a police officer there. He saw me (I did stand out a bit) and hung around. I saw the items lined up for impulse purchases. There was pepper spray, little roses, lighters, condoms. This was a stark difference from the last store I was in where the fiber optic pens and cute Post-Its were the big display at checkout.

The line moved at the speed of molasses. Finally, it was my turn. But the employee working the register told me returns are handled at the photo desk. He paged someone to meet me there.

At the photo desk, the man there told me he couldn’t do returns. And it was time for his lunch. He paged Mary. Mary came by and told him that she doesn’t do returns. Only the manager. So he paged the manager. No one came. I was ready to leave. I did not feel comfortable here. I knew Andrew was starting to worry I’d been gone so long. Finally, someone came from the back. Chewing. He griped that he was eating lunch, but he did process the return.

On the ride home (which took a while in traffic), I showed the kids places I remembered that were no longer there. Record Theater. Price’s Dairy. An old friend’s neighborhood.

And Andrew and I laughed about how much time and gas and stress it took to return a $9 lunchbox. It would have been cheaper and easier to donate it to Goodwill.

A Soap Opera Saved my Marriage

[Guest post by Megan...see you tomorrow for 13 Thursday!]

In today’s fast-pace, overscheduled world, it’s hard to find time for yourself let alone time with your significant other. Now that our 8-month old daughter is a little red-headed ball of energy and my husband is in grad school, finding quality time as a couple is more challenging then ever. Enter the world of soap operas. Every night my husband I watch the day’s episode of the classic ABC soap General Hospital. We record it during the day so we can forward the through the commercials (and less interesting plot lines).

Being home with the baby I would put soaps on now and then when she was napping. My mother used to watch General Hospital when I was young – who can forget Luke and Laura’s wedding, the weather machine or when Frisco Sang All I Need to Felicia? The greatest thing is, you can not watch it for months and you haven’t missed anything! And the old characters are back! A haggard looking Rick Springfield is back as Dr. Noah Drake and they’re even bringing Genie Frances back as Laura this fall (she’s currently in a catatonic state in a mental facility).

So, I started recording GH and watching it at night and Jon would come and sit with me. He said he didn’t care what was on, as long as we were spending time together (right, he just wants to drool over Kelly Monaco!) So, then he started watching it too and I would make a point of waiting until he’s home so we can watch it together.

It may seem silly, but it’s how we make time for each other every night. We put the baby to bed, eat dinner and go watch General Hospital. We make funny comments and give unsolicited advice at the characters. It’s really quite fun. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

So keep your Lost/Grey’s Anatomy/So You Think You Can Dance/Rock Star Supernova/Desperate Housewives. I’m sticking with Luke and Laura…

BONUS: Latera Update

Those of you who read my post from May, Human Contact, Aisle Four, will remember Latera, my favorite cashier at the local Safeway. Well, Latera tried out for American Idol this past weekend. Apparently she’s an excellent singer. How cool would it be if she made it to Hollywood? You can say you first heard about here on Finding Blanche! Stay tuned…

Still life.

I took lots of photos at dinner tonight. Liz and Tim just got back from South Africa with stories and pictures and wonderful gifts for all. But to me, this photo tells a lot, without having to show the photos of Liz (that she’d kill me for posting) or the ones of Tim with the funny faces (but I’ll keep those!) or the ones of the kids posing with their Zulu spears or the beautiful basket they brought me….

This photo shows the lovely wine we drank, the wire car they brought for Max, one of the way-cool Zulu spears, the cookies Davis and I made for dessert and the new placemats from other great friends — all with the backdrop of my favorite painting.

Yes, quite the story. Quite the night.

The Wendy Channel.

One of Andrew’s jobs is to set the DVR so that I always have shows that I like available for my viewing pleasure. He’s pretty darn good at it. It is a rare day that he misses one.

Tonight, one of my favorite series starts. Weeds. On Showtime. It starts in 6 minutes and guess what? It’s not set to record?

How can this be?

Fortunately, the grievous error was caught in time.

What if we just stopped?

What would happen? What if we didn’t answer the phone or check email?

This summer, I made a conscious decision not to answer all my email immediately. Of course, I am doing my work and I reply post haste to my clients. I need to buy school shoes for the boys. But I mean some of my volunteer emails. And some of the (dare I admit) family emails. And, yes folks, even some of the emails from the hub.

You might think it’s funny that Andrew and I email each other. We do. We send things back and forth. That’s funny to me since we work and live together. We see each other all the time. And I mean ALL THE TIME. But, it gets funnier. We now IM each other, too. It’s kind of like an intercom system. But it takes away the ability to have a little space. I mean, it’s not as if he doesn’t know I’m in the office, right?

But I digress.

What if we stopped being so available? Well, I know that I was worried about a colleague who didn’t respond to me quickly last week. Was she okay? Back in the day, one would assume someone was simply busy and would get back to you when it was convenient. But now, we know that whether your target is on the train, walking down the street, driving, or having lunch, he knows you’re lurking. He knows you want a reply.

Does that mean he has to reply right then? I say no. We need to rebel. We need our space back. So I’m going to count to 10 (or maybe even 20) before I reply to emails and voicemails from now on. Well, I’ll try.

A girl can dream.

photo credit to Ernest von Rosen

Pizza.

Have you ever been to Three Brother’s Pizza? My friend Judi says it’s to die for. I’ve never tried it. But today, my family and I had the opportunity to see some folks try it. A lot of it. I mean a lot of it.

Yes, folks, Andrew and I packed up our boys and a couple of strays (friends of my guys) and headed to glamourous Beltsville Plaza for the International Federation of Competitive Eating event for, you guessed it, pizza!

Having never been to an event such as this, we didn’t know what to expect. Though we did expect to see Steakbellie. He had posted on his blog that he was competing and, since it was not too far away and we were very curious, we went.

As the amateurs had their 10 minutes of fame, we watched in awe. The winner, a 106 pound woman, ate 11 slices of pizza in 10 minutes. Yikes. I went over to Steakbellie and introduced myself. He’s a lot taller than I expected! He was very friendly – I even got to meet Gerber Daisee (Mrs. SB) and the kids. Cute kids. Anyway, my guys had some questions, we chatted a little, took a photo and then waited.

It seemed like forever before the professional contest started. But when it did, I could not believe my eyes. These guys – many ranked quite well in international standings (including SB) could pack away some pizza. In fact, the winner, Patrick Bertoletti, downed over two whole pies (21 slices to be exact) in the 10 minutes allotted. There was $5,000 prize money for the top 4 guys. We were bummed that Steakbellie didn’t get one of the top prizes, but were blown away watching him eat. Man that man can eat.

And as we left, and waved to Steakbellie, I wondered what would make someone want to do this? The fame? The chicks? (Actually, there are a few women who are big in this, too.)

And I decided that it’s all about pushing yourself harder than you think you can. Like in any sport. The only thing is, this is a very messy sport. Speaking as the one who does the laundry, I don’t know that I can sanction it around here. But, hey, it sure looks fun.

Pop.

Sometimes, the people we want to be with most are like us. I mean just like us. People often choose to be with like-minded folks regarding politics, religion, family makeup, etc. I know that it works out like that a lot. But sometimes, what we need is someone who will challenge our thinking, challenge our assumptions. That can be very healthy.

I’ve been alone with my friend for a couple days now. While we philosophically agree on virtually everything, we have a conundrum.

She is a die-hard Diet Coke drinker. I am a loyal Diet Pepsi drinker.

I know, this is not insurmountable. She buys Diet Pepsi for me when I come to visit and, yes, I buy Diet Coke for her when she comes east. But what of the significance of our strong and disparate feelings regarding diet pop? Could this signify a greater gap between us than we are able or willing to recognize?

Fortunately for me, I have lots and lots and lots of time to think about it as I try to fly home. Time in the security line. Extra time to sit and wait for my flight. With any luck, I’ll uncover the deeper meaning of our beverage gap.

Homecoming.

A guest blog from Liz…

I just spent an amazing three weeks in South Africa with my partner. We traveled throughout the country and experienced things that I could only dream about…like seeing a leopard sleeping in a tree at dusk, watching whales on the coast trying to remove barnacles from their hides on the rocks, and drinking incredible wine in Franschoek, an area reminiscent of Alsace. I feel so fortunate and grateful.

In a small brewpub in a town North of Durban, we met some British travelers – we called them “the Daves,” as they were “Uncle Dave” and his nephew “Dave.” Really! They were a pretty amusing pair. I recall Uncle Dave talking about life’s irony (or “ay-rone-ee” as he said with a strong Birmingham accent).

You know, life has a way of presenting little challenges in between the perfect moments. And I think that it makes us appreciate these moments even more. So as I sit here typing and pondering the irony of life’s little challenges, I thought I’d share my musings on homecoming.

Irony #1 – “No wonder they call our neighborhood “Wood-moor”

I arrived home, after 19 hours on a plane, to an entire oak tree sitting on my lawn. Yes, sitting, not growing or standing. You see, the landlord had decided to cut it down for safety reasons while we were away. And he determined that the neighbors would all be flocking to our lawn with their axes and splitters to stock up on firewood for the upcoming Winter. And, that some folks would even want to make furniture out of the pieces. So the tree remains on our lawn awaiting the flocks. Never mind that the pieces are mostly larger than 3 feet across and 2 to 4 feet deep.

Irony #2 –Upsetting the boy – more wood tales

We hired a cat sitter to keep our boy company part of the time we were away. The rest of the time that we were gone, a neighbor and a friend kept him company. I received regular emails about how happy and calm he was. However, it seems that in the midst of the chaos of tree chopping and the noise and disturbance, the cat freaked out and destroyed our leather furniture. You see, he had no respite, no place to run to, no means of reaching his litter box. So he rebelled. Do you think that perhaps we can take some of the wood in the front yard and build a new bench and chair?

Irony #3 – Things come in threes – and so it goes…

Tim is scheduled to fly home today. From London. We were unable to fly home together because he had spent a month in Kenya prior to meeting up with me in Johannesburg. And so he had to fly home the way he went to Africa, i.e., via Nairobi and London. Simple enough, yes?

Since I’ve been home, I’ve been making arrangements with Larry, the landlord, to minimize the wood “pile” prior to Tim’s arrival. After all, why should we both have to deal with the wood shock right after landing? So, Larry has agreed to come by this morning and chop some wood. Should reduce the pile by about, hmmm, one foot, if we’re lucky.

But Larry has bought some extra time. It seems that Tim is going to be delayed in London while the authorities search through all the hand baggage, liquids, and the like, for security reasons. I’m grateful for a thwarted terrorist plot, and frankly, have to remind myself to try keep laughing.

Life’s little ironies. Seems as though the last few days have brought me back to that small brewpub in South Africa and Uncle Dave, who sat on his stool drinking his pint of Zulu Blonde, smoking a cigarette, and commenting to us the “ay-rone-ees” of life and love and humor. Cheers Dave, wherever you are.

Thirteen Things about This Visit to Omaha 1. Yesterday, I saw 2 movies. 2. And yesterday, I checked my email only 3 times. This is a world’s record for least amount. 3. We had sushi for lunch yesterday. Today? Anyone’s guess… 4. Tonight, we’re going to my favorite Indian restaurant in the world, Jaipur. The mint chutney is beyond comparison. 5. My friend & I never run out of things to talk about. Even if we sat quietly (which never happens) I’d be so happy to be with her. 6. We have taken the word “relax” to a new level. 7. Did I mention there are no kids or husbands with us? 8. Omaha is the best (or worst) example I’ve seen of suburban sprawl. There is a new bypass that is indescribable going out to the west end. 9. Half our dinner last night was picked from the garden. I love that. 10. I miss my pillow. 11. Okay, fine. I miss my family too. But I’m going home tomorrow – and will be a better wife & mom because of the break, I think. 12. We’ll get pedicures today. 13. Life is good.

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The journey.

Words can’t express how excited I was to travel tonight. I wasn’t happy about leaving Andrew. Or the boys. But I was looking forward to the inner peace I would find in my book on the Metro as I made my to way to Reagan National Airport and then on the Northwest flight to Minneapolis. And on the connecting flight to Omaha.

The Metro at rush hour. Now that’s an experience. The good news was that I got on an empty train. It was the end of the line. It didn’t get stifling crowded for about six stops, and even then, I didn’t notice right away. I was deep in my book. Just as I’d planned. I got off at Gallery Place to transfer from the Green Line to the Yellow Line. Now that was a zoo. But, as it turned out, I didn’t even have to change tracks – the train would be along any second.

So that’s how it happened that I ended up at the airport early. You heard it here first, folks. I wasn’t rushing. I wasn’t sweaty and freaked out. I was relaxed and walked leisurely to the terminal.

With the same relaxed pace, I made my way to the screens to see what gate I needed. Then, I sat with a lovely plate of hummus and pita and a diet Pepsi. Ahhh. This is the solitude I’ve been needing.

Time to go through security. No line. At this point, I realized I was at the wrong terminal. I felt a little dim, but no worries. I had plenty of time. So I strolled to Terminal A. Amazing, no line here either. I was cruising right through. Oops. Yes, my laptop is in the bag. Sure, I’ll take it out. Now, I’m going against traffic. I’m a little embarrassed, but it’ll be fine. Oh no. Now the other guy needs to test my shoes for explosives (that’ll teach me to wear platform sandals at the airport). As if it isn’t icky enough to be barefoot in the airport. Now I have to walk on that floor to the inspection station. At this point I realize that I have totally earned a pedicure.

After I gather all my things and put my dirty feet back into my nice sandals, I mosey on over to gate 4. I brought some “literature” for the trip and suddenly decide that won’t do. So I stop into the newsstand and grab a Michael Connelley book (The Lincoln Lawyer) and another diet Pepsi. (I’m thinking I should buy stock.)

I decided to call my friend in Omaha and tell her I’m well on my way. I start to read the new book and all of a sudden realize that I cleaned my pocketbook. What that meant at this moment is that I have nothing to use as a bookmark. Fortunately for me, people are pigs. There are all the renewal/subscription cards from thousands of magazines from the hoards of people who graced gate 4 before me. I bent to pick one up. The serious businessguy next to me seemed amused that it was for Esquire and the photo was of a young, wild, beautiful young woman who looked like she just had sex. Hey, it was just the first one I grabbed. To go back to the well now would seem, well, a little weird. Picking up trash once is one thing. Switching out that trash for other trash is over the edge.

Time to board. First class. Then everyone. That’s because the plane was so empty. I’d say less than 20 percent full. Imagine my glee when I realized that I had the row to myself. Score! I only had a minute to gloat to myself before I realized that the only, I mean the only, baby on the entire 757 was in the seat behind me. Jabbering. He’d take hold of a word and repeat it over and over and over again. He had a book of trucks. He knew the names of these trucks. Bulldozer. Bulldozer. Bulldozer. Bulldozer. Makes it hard to read a book, I tell you.

But, being adaptable (and recognizing that my day had really been pretty darn good so who am I to complain), I blocked it out. I took out the book, got a blanket and waited for takeoff. But then this little boy…let’s call him Damian…..dropped something. He was displeased. Very displeased. The sound that was emitted from that row was horrifying. It was kind of like a dying moose. Ever heard a dying moose? Michele? Anyway…the parents seemed unfazed. They got the offending item and gave it back to Damian. And then it fell. You know what happened next. I was thinking about how I’d make the 2-1/2 hour flight without hurting him. Then I heard the mom say something about bedtime. That gave me hope. False hope.

It quieted down, though. He’d ramble a bit. It was okay, I concentrated on my book. Great story so far, by the way. But then, it happened.

The mom thought this would be a good time to make sure that Damian could say Grandma and Grandpa. Clearly, that’s who lives in Minneapolis. She’s say the names. He’d give it a try. She would. He would. Then the dad thought he’d help out. When I tell you that between that family of three they said Grandma and Grandpa 3,543 times, you will think I’m exaggerating. Perhaps. But not by much.

When he got it right, he started clapping and shouting with glee. At this point, that didn’t sound much better than the moose. I wanted my peace back.

Alright. Reading is out. I’ll write about this. It’ll make me laugh. After all, it’s really just another story along the path, right? So I get my computer down, start typing. But after the 2nd sentence, the battery gives out.

When we land, the mom (in her Minnesota accent – think Fargo) leans over and says, “He sure is a talkative little boy. I hope we didn’t bother you.”

Of course not.

And the trip continues.

More later!