Not your orb-inary Friday night! Boo!

I'm feeling totally terrified. And I like it!

Tonight I have a date with an old friend to tour a real, live haunted house. I guess it's more like a real, dead haunted house. No kids. Just silly us.

We got together a few years ago for a Chester County Community College event that featured a man who wrote a book about being haunted. I'm not sure if I received credits on my transcript or not, but it was so, so bad. The book itself is awful (Edy could create better sentence structure), but the actual presentation was even stupider. So stupid, it was amazing. We giggled the entire time. The sort of disruptive laughter you can't conceal. Here's the book review. Three stars is way generous.

Tonight's quest is the Selma Mansion in Norristown. Check it out. Chills, right? I'm going to try very hard not to giggle my way through it, but I probably will. Restless spirits, prepare to be angered!

The house was built in 1794 by a Revolutionary general. One of his sons, born in the mansion, would serve as Governor of Pennsylvania. The Knox family lived at Selma in the mid 1800's and unfortunately 3 out of four of their children and the mother died of yellow fever within a very short time. That's not good. Unless you want to experience a little Halloweeny fun. Then it's perfect! Wish me luck!

Crazy.
Once upon a time, October was pure excitement. It meant lots and lots of scary tv shows that weren't aired during the rest of the year.

There was a series called Scariest Places on Earth that I loved with a (disturbing) passion. It was narrated by the spooky medium lady from Poltergeist (and organ player from Sixteen Candles), Zelda Rubinstein. I seem to also recall another series hosted by Linda Blair. These shows were special because they were on for a limited time only, part of a Spooktober Scare Fest or something similar.

But their popularity made money-driven tv executives (the only kind that exist) decide to fund more paranormal shows. More and more. And broadcast them all year long. Soon the market was so watered down, it just didn't thrill anymore. It's like that line from The Incredibles, "Everyone can be super. And when everyone is super, no one will be."

And speaking of super, that's my super over-analyzed complaint about ghost shows on tv. I know I probably lost you a few paragraphs ago.

Cool.
Tonight! I'm ready to escape the safety of my happy home and potentially cross dimensions. Or, at the very least, take a few pictures and capture a few orbs.

I love another cosmic coincidence story.

I am sitting in what is called a boutique hotel feeling happy and well-rested. My comfy room is clean and funky. Funky in a good way. (You can’t be clean and funky in a bad way.) I’ve stayed at nice hotels that have icky elements - rusty vents, dirty rugs, questionable stains - and must rely on my trusty Benadryl. There have been too many Dateline NBC episodes investigating hotel grossness for me to sleep a single minute without its sedative qualities.

But this hotel appears to be perfect which is fantastic because a.) I forgot to pack my Benadryl and b.) I don’t own an incriminating blue light.

My only complaint is how hard they are trying. The decor is ultra hip and modern. I adore the bathroom wallpaper and the settee by the window. In the lobby, there are several brightly painted busts of Ben Franklin dramatically lit. Feels a little disrespectful. (Or maybe not. He was a character.) Every elevator has random pictures and scenes of weirdness plastered where I totally expect mirrors. In one elevator there’s a classic portrait of a woman. But get this, she has a mustache! What?! So unexpected! I missed the mirrors.

One of the elevator walls. A fireplace? No way!
Never got a shot of the mustached lady.

This morning, Jon went off to work and I wandered around looking for a Starbucks in downtown Philadelphia. There are probably 1,000 Starbucks in downtown Philadelphia. Of course, I ended up at the one on Market Street. It was packed, but I waited. Then they ran out of Pumpkin Spice syrup when my drink was finally "up." A clueless young fella was sent to the back to find it, but he never returned. So they sent a clueless young lady to find him. Then the manager got involved and eventually found all three. I got my latte and it only took an hour.

Cool.

We won our night in the boutique hotel at an auction last year. Then in May we decided to use it for our 15th wedding anniversary. Everything was in place for an overnight escape, when Jon called from the UK explaining that he wouldn't make it home in time. Grrrrr.

My niece, Nicole, is our go-to childcare angel. She started nursing school in May and was very busy throughout the summer making it impossible to reschedule. Grrrrr.

In October, Nicole was given a new rotation that leaves her weekdays free. The hotel gift certificate expires in November so we decided to book something on a weeknight. Use it or lose it.

(Sorry for all the boring details. It gets better.)

We picked a Wednesday because it is soccer-free and we chose the 17th because Jon was definitely in town. When I thought about the date and did some very basic math, I couldn't believe it.

October 17th was our original high school anniversary. The one we celebrated for ten years before we were married. And this October 17th marked 25 years since Jon asked me out at Jennifer Esser's party. Right before Seth Sonstein sprayed the fire extinguisher all over the dining room furniture and the cops came.

So we missed our anniversary, but we really didn't. Try explaining that to the waitress who brings you a celebratory bottle of champagne.

Crazy.

Twenty-five years! That’s a crazy long time. I feel lucky. And old. But mostly lucky. I bet Jennifer Esser's parents have gone through several sets of dining room furniture and have perhaps even forgiven Seth Sonstein in their hearts.

I survived my birthday. And so did you.

I have a lot of Libras in my life. I'm sure there's an astrological reason, but I'm not aware of it. Right now I'm in the thick of celebrating their existence. My dad, my sister, and two of my closest friends have birthdays within ten days of each other. Flavored card envelope glue is not a bad idea.

You may be surprised to learn that I myself am not an even, balanced Libra. I'm a Taurus and sometimes a Gemini depending on the horoscope source. Being born on a cusp causes split personality, or so I've been told. Being born on the cusp of the twin sign, heaps on extra insanity, by my own assessment. Lots of personalities fighting for control. Every day. No wonder I'm tired.

Crazy.
Everyone can agree, the best gauge of your birthday's worth is the caliber of celebrities who share it.

I share my birthday with Mr. T, Ray Bradbury, no wait, Raymond Burr (I get them confused), Judge Reinhold and Al Franken. Then a lot of people I never, ever heard of (Latin soap actresses?) and I've heard of most people.

Conclusion: my birthday is a big, fat dud. Or was until the world almost ended.

May 21, 2001 was supposed to be "it" for all humanity. Remember? I guess that's pretty cool? A psycho preacher did some wacky math and chose my birthday for the apocalypse. Mine! And Mr. T's! We'll take it!! Notoriety is better than nothing.

When the earth kept spinning, I turned 40 (bleh) and bought a t-shirt no one will understand once another prophecy trends. The ancient Mayans are betting (the lives of young virgins at the edge of a volcano) on December.

The fact that no decent celebrities were born on May 21st means my birthday is due. Maybe Kate and Will's baby (I'm still convinced she's pregnant) will be born on May 21st? Or the scientist who cures cancer? Or the next big break out star? Perhaps that blog writer star is me?! I have dreams of grandeur! Or at least one of my personalities does.

Cool.
On Monday, I went to dinner with two friends I've known since elementary school. When we get together, we always go to The Cheesecake Factory and we always order sour apple martinis, and we always complain when we don't get a young male waiter who flirts with us, or at least with Layne because she was our homecoming queen.

This time out, we were celebrating Joby's birthday. She has the best celebrity birth-pals ever. I am very jealous. Dwight D. Eisenhower, E.E. Cummings, Ralph Lauren, Roger Moore, William Penn, Lourdes Leon (that's Madonna's daughter for all you pop culture dummies), Bunsen MacKenzie (who turns 14!) and Stacy Keibler. I wonder if George Clooney will surprise Stacy with a romantic trip to The Cheesecake Factory for sour apple martinis? Unlikely. I read in People that she adheres to a very strict diet. I would rather drink martinis and enjoy unlimited dairy than look like her. Not worth it. I might be lying. No, I couldn't live without cheese.

Old friendship is the greatest. Relaxed and comfortable and supportive and funny. You don't stay close to someone for decades if your humor isn't compatible. We usually laugh and cry and laugh in that order. Every dinner. Every time. We are mutually making the best of our mayhem, successfully parenting 8 kids between us, and venting regularly at an over-hyped chain restaurant that is never not crowded. Life is good.

But it's also scary. 

What helps? Knowing a friend of 35 years won't ever exit your scene, especially when that scene has three pages of appetizers. I am certain, there are many, many crispy crab won tons in our future... 

and fewer and fewer flirtatious waiters. Sigh.

Audubonding.

I worry about Edy and her plight as middle child. Lu is the first at everything. And we make a big deal about it because we're those kind of parents. Bea is our bonus kid, our caboose. We act like her every move is outrageously cute. It's annoying, but unstoppable.

Edy is fine. She doesn't care. Truly. She prefers to hideout in the basement like a hobbit. It's her middle child/Middle Earth. She draws, she reads, she writes interesting stories that I should probably have professionally psychoanalyzed.

Edy's latest (strange) creation.
Bea scribbled on it. So cute!

Crazy.
On Tuesday, Edy's class took a field trip to John James Audubon's estate. It was a rescheduled field trip because the original date called for rain. It didn't rain on the original date. On Tuesday, it rained a lot.

I signed up to chaperone as part of my ongoing "make Edy feel special" campaign, even though it's not easy finding daytime coverage for Bea. Promise first, then make it work. I do that more often than I should.

I got up early and packed our matching lunches in labeled brown bags. Peanut butter crackers, chocolate milk, an apple to share.

Edy took the bus to school and then left from there. I had to drive myself. New policy. I'd rather drive myself. Leather seats and satellite radio versus plastic seats and screaming second graders. No contest.

The weatherman predicted intermittent rain and highs in the 70's. I don't care if it's pouring, anything in the 70's is warm. Right? Not so much. I wore pants and a shirt with half sleeves and was already freezing as the bus pulled up. Vigorously rubbing the half bare part of my arms, I watched kid after kid step off wearing boots and rain jackets. In my head, I'm seeing mom after mom who had their sh*% together in the AM. I was completely oblivious. Oh, rain coats are for rain! Boots, too! I don't keep an umbrella in my car because I'm an idiot. I guess watching the weather wasn't enough. Good mothers interpret it.

Then I see Edy. She is wearing sneakers and pants that are way too long. They will drag in the mud, through the puddles, across the grass. And a sweater that isn't made to get wet. Poor, damp Edy and her lame, chilly mom. It will be a long three hours.

The "Owl Lady" was our first stop. She scolded the texting parents in the crowd. "You may learn something! If you listen, you will probably learn something!" Day-um. I learned that owls don't like the rain. Our owl was cray-zee. 

Owl Lady wasn't much better/nicer/more patient with the kids. Clearly she really likes owls and owls alone. I was at the mall yesterday and owls are very popular this fall. Maybe her bad attitude is a superiority thing? Or maybe she is socially maladjusted? Or maybe it's a little of both? Whoooo knows?

The next session was in a drafty barn. It was slightly protected from the weather and our presenter was lovely. No complaints. My teeth stopped chattering.

The third session was in the house. Ahhh, warmth. I surveyed the pictures of John James Audubon and decided his ghostly spirit liked Edy and me best. He's not at all impressed with Gore-Tex. He thinks it's black magic. I am sure of that. And the smell of wet wool reminds him of the good ol' 1820's.

Our final session was back outside with binoculars spotting fake, planted birds sitting entirely still on a fence. It took me two minutes to turn ice cold again. 

We ate lunch in an open pavilion. Freezing, miserable. Then the kids ran around and I tried to stop obsessing over Edy's long, wet pant legs. Tried.

Cool.
On Tuesday, Edy's class took a field trip to John James Audubon's estate and I had the privilege of spending the day with my favorite precocious second grader.

She is so smart and joyful. She is the perfect mix of second child independence and sweet, doting, 7 year-old love. Let me sit next to you, mom. Let me lean on you, too. Now I am holding your hand. Now I am squeezing it.

During the owl presentation, I watched Edy watch the Owl Lady. (I was terrified to check my phone!) She'd pay attention at first, but then her mind would wander. So much like me! Off to Edy-land where wet pant legs and cranky Owl Ladies don't exist.

The greatest stop by far was the house and not just because it wasn't raining inside. Edy was a birding rock star. Each student was given a paper with a list of things to find and do. She completed the task in record time. She wrote in complete sentences. She "sketched" lovely pictures of stuffed birds. She asked pointed questions and rolled her eyes appropriately at the goofy boys who played tag on the third floor and didn't finish their work.

Despite the rain, and the feeling of motherly incompetence, and lunch on a cold concrete floor, I would totally do it all over again. But I would absolutely pack my Gore-Tex. Sorry John James.

Birding rock star!
(In wet wool.)