No Remorse

Occasionally, when I read about this or that local crime, my snoopy curiosity gets the best of me, and I look up the mugshots of those involved. More than a few times, I've recognized the people involved, usually former students, and that's always sad, if not entirely surprising. Sometimes, I just want to lay eyes on the people who refused to leave the restaurant, resisted arrest, spit on the police, or behaved in some other way that seems outrageous to me. 

That's what I was doing this afternoon when I came across this booking photo:

"She doesn't look upset at all!" I said to Heidi as I turned the computer around so she could see it. 

"She does look pretty pleased with herself," Heidi agreed. "It must have seemed like a very good idea at the time."

Sunday Bowlers

There was a congenial vibe when we arrived at the bowling center at 11 AM this morning. The place runs an 11-3 all-you-can-bowl special for $ 15.99, including shoes, so we arranged to meet our friend Ellen there right as they opened to make sure we got a lane. 

Even though it was bucketing rain, our timing worked, and they set us up on the league side for our free practice games. We found ourselves between two older gentlemen I recognized from the Owls, the senior league that bowls at the same time as our ladies' league. One was practicing like us, and the other was pre-bowling for his Tuesday games. They were both very friendly, too, and we all cheered each other on.

Down the way, Penny, one of the center's managers, was bowling, and she was good! Which was funny to see since she's usually behind the desk when we're there, calling out the games over 200. At one point, Chuck, the bowler on our right, was four frames into a perfect game. "Oh no!" I said, pointing to Penny. "Who's going to say, Over there on lane 27, we have Chuck with a nice 300! That's good bowling! ?"

"Don't worry," he assured me. "It won't last."

He was right. But he did bowl an enviable 191.

Not a Trick Question

Guess what Pebbles is going as for Halloween?

Pebbles Flintstone!

Guess what I replied when I saw the text with her costume?

Yabba dabba doo!

As Babysitters Do

Always on the lookout for good TV shows to stream in their entirety, I appreciated the interactive "Want to Watch" button on the NY Times list of the 100 Best TV Shows of the 21st Century. Of course, I also enjoyed the "Have Seen" button and the resulting list of 25 shows I already watched; although it's not a very braggable percentage, I love a tally sheet. Even more granular? Once I marked a show as "seen," I could also record whether I liked it. Call me easy; I only disliked two.

Even though I followed the list when it was released, 20 at a time, read it again a few times, and discussed it show by show with Treat, Riley, and Julie, it was not at all on my mind when I went to babysit yesterday. "Here's the TV remote," my friend said before she left, "watch whatever you want."

I laughed because I rarely watch television in the middle of the day, but I thanked her anyway. After she left, the baby was asleep, and her husband was working remotely in the study, and after a few minutes on my phone, I looked at the big screen above the fireplace. For some reason, Friday Night Lights, number 14 on the list, and a show I had heard a lot about but had never even seen an episode of, popped into my head. 

"Have you ever seen this?" I asked her husband when he came in to check on the still-sleeping baby and me. He shook his head no. I was about halfway into episode one, and it didn't take long to bring him up to speed. From then on, he joined me and the baby, who woke up, ate, burped, and went back to sleep, whenever there was a break in his work. We became absorbed in the drama of the small-town Texas high school football team. Somehow it seemed a good fit for the vibe of the job.

"Wow!" he said to me at the end of episode three, "you are really putting a dent in this show!"

"Without commercials?" I shrugged. "They're only about 40 minutes. Plus, isn't that what babysitters do? Watch the kids, then watch TV? It's definitely how we did it in high school!"

"That seems appropriate," he agreed, nodding at the kids on the TV .

If the Diaper Fits

"We ordered new diapers," my friend told me this afternoon when I went over to babysit. "Even though we sized up, she's still been having blowouts."

I nodded sympathetically. I had witnessed one myself just the other day.

"Anyway," my friend sighed, "I Googled diapers for short, chubby babies and got a recommendation. They'll be here tomorrow."

"That makes sense!" I laughed. "But never tell her that!"

Oxon Hill Farm

"Rhode Island Red," I pointed at the chicken and turned to my friend Mary. "Exceptional breed!"

"I loved that story," Mary sighed, immediately recognizing the quote from Marshfield Dreams by Ralph Fletcher, excerpts of which we had taught for many years.

We were at Oxon Hill Farm, a National Park Service site on the eastern bank of the Potomac just south of DC, and quite a few chickens were milling about. It was not our planned destination; in fact we had already spent a fun hour smacking golf balls at Topgolf. If I hadn't missed the ramp on the way home, we would have been zipping over the river by then instead of strolling the grounds of this little working farm.

The bookstore and visitor center were right ahead, and a friendly ranger greeted us as we pushed through the door. "What can you tell us about this place?" Mary asked, and he was off and running, giving us at least ten minutes of history and an overview of the present-day operation.

There was the usual stripping of land rights from the indigenous Piscataway, followed by a Protestant revolution that turned Maryland into a royal colony during the reign of William and Mary, some War of 1812 action, and, of course, slavery. After the Civil War, the farm was divided and subdivided until it was sold to the federal government in 1891. For the next 60 years, it was used as a place where patients from St. Elizabeths Hospital for the Insane worked therapeutically, conveniently also producing food for the hospital.

And now? It's a place where lots of city school kids come to learn about and experience a farm, 289 acres with chickens, cows, horses, and pigs, less than 10 miles from our nation's capital.

The Days Are Just Packed

The contract for my consulting/coaching gig is in limbo, and it looks like the school system finally got their sub program to the point where one no longer has her pick of dozens of jobs, so my days have opened up.

Or have they? 

I'm still bowling, walking my neighbor's dog, and going on adventures with my friend Mary. Plus, I've volunteered to give our friends with the new baby a couple of hours two days a week; I'll hold, feed, or change Pebbles while they fold laundry, do dishes, take showers, or whatever. A little dopamine and oxytocin can only do me good!