Timing for Snacks

With swim team season now over, I can reveal my true motive for timing my kids' meets: access to free "Officials' Refreshments." While I enjoy unobstructed views of the swimmers from my poolside perch, I believe the genuine perk of being a timer is chowing down on free munchies during the mid-meet break. In fact, I'll keep my stopwatch dangling around my neck just so I can stride up to the refreshment table and unabashedly nosh on the spread without looking like a freeloader.

All pools offer cold bottled water to prevent timers, judges, referees, etc. from falling in the pool from heatstroke; however, each pool provides different treats. Norbeck Grove, for example, recently expanded its menu from vanilla Oreo cookies and mini-cinnamon rolls (at regular meets) to chocolate striped shortbread cookies, regular-size cinamon buns and watermelon slices (at last weekend's Divisional championships). Another pool served Planters Cocktail Peanuts and sweet breakfast pastries -- a yummy combination of salty and sweet!

The winner of Best Officials' Refreshments Award goes to a swim club outside of Olney (practically in PG county), which has offered hummus, grapes, veggie wraps, and M & M's; at a recent meet, this pool reaffirmed its award-winning status by serving panini sandwiches (your choice of roast beef, chicken or ham -- all topped with cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and assorted condiments), pickles, potato chips, watermelon, soda and Italian ice. As soon as the mid-meet break started, I twirled my stopwatch around my fingers as best I could -- even though it was still hanging around my neck -- and casually but quickly strolled over to the beloved "Officials' Refreshments" table for a bite.

A timer's pinnacle achievement is the triple: when all three timers in the same lane achieve the same exact time, down to the hundredth of a second. After obtaining a triple, my fellow timers and I whoop in glee before remembering to tell the swimmer his or her time. At Norbeck Grove, a triple is rewarded with an announcement over the loudspeaker and ... a chocolate bar. Eating a melting (but much appreciated) chocolate bar while sipping from a water bottle and timing a race is tricky, but worth it! Alas, the joys of being a timer must wait until next summer's swimming season.

Expressions of hatred

I’ve been thinking a lot about the recent incident of vandalism at B’Nai Shalom of Olney. I’ve seen many adjectives used to describe how different people feel about this incident, from ‘saddened’ to ‘horrified’. But I haven’t seen one person who appears shocked or even surprised that this happened. Is this what’s wrong with our society? Have we come to expect not just the hate, but the expression of hate in such a public way? I have tried to process how I feel about this incident. This kind of racist/religious hatred is a form of terrorism. The people who commit crimes like this want us to be afraid. They want us to think that someone is out to get us. It is both heinous and cowardly to act out in this way. I choose to believe that it is also an expression of fear on the part of the individuals involved. Fear of the unknown, fear of those who are different, fear that they themselves are not “good enough”. They seek to degrade anything or anyone that doesn’t look like they do. It makes them feel stronger, more powerful and in control. Now, I’m all about control – real control is power in its rawest form. But I also believe that we get to choose whether or not to give up our power and to whom. I don’t know how to stop attacks like these. I believe in peaceful coexistence with all people. I applaud the leadership at B’Nai Shalom for their quiet, quick and community inclusive response. When we stand together as a common people, united by a desire for peace and understanding, regardless of race or religion, we take back some of that power. We cannot live in fear; we will not be swayed from our beliefs by the hatred of others. We may not be shocked or surprised, but if we continue to respond as a peaceful, united community we will be stronger than those who hate.

The (Unsuccessful) Time Travelers' Mother

"No TV/Computer Monday July 19 through Tuesday July 27!" With this clever ban in effect at my house, I can kill two birds with one stone: sibling warfare and screen addiction (sometimes occurring at the same time). Here's how my parental ingenuity has been faring so far:

MONDAY 7/19: I decreed to my two daughters that they could not watch TV or play on the computer as a result of persistent sibling squabbling and endless whining for screen time. In order to learn how to talk through their disagreements, they would have discuss their concerns with each other without any yelling, pinching, slapping, shoving, etc. For every yelp of "Mom! She --" I would extend the ban for another day. By Monday night, the girls found an electronic-entertainment-free truce.

TUESDAY 7/20: Continued peace -- I should have thought of this ban earlier. Was this too good to be true? How long would this civil and electronics-free atmosphere last?

WEDNESDAY 7/21: At the computer in the basement, I heard the kids up in the family room amicably chatting, helping each other with homework and practicing piano. I noticed upstairs had grown quiet but figured that the girls were reading. After about an hour, my older daughter suddenly appeared at the door ... wearing what looked to be a change of clothes. "Can we watch TV?" she asks gingerly.

"Is it Wednesday, July 28? Look at the calendar," I answered barely looking up from the monitor.

"Why yes it is, Mom," my strangely smiling firstborn replied.

Happy for break, I stood up and climbed upstairs, all the while insisting that today was still Wednesday July 21.

My younger daughter greeted me in the family room -- in a change of clothes. The family room, which earlier that morning had been strewn with laundry, books, and detris from a latch-hook rug craft kit, was pristine. I marched over to the calendar on our refrigerator to point out the correct date when... I noticed the red marker had been moved one week ahead from July 21 to July 28. The "July 21" I wrote on the dry-erase board had been altered to "July 28." Olney's weather forecast for the day was rewritten. "Swim team" disappeared and "tennis camp" (next week's activity) appeared.

Apparently, the girls did learn a lesson from my ban -- how "discuss their concerns" well enough to negotiate a collaborative plot to circumvent the ban. Alas, this would-be time travelers' mother was not fooled.

Later when I couldn't find my wristwatch, the younger partner in crime piped up, "Oh -- I know where it is. We tried to change the date but it didn't work so we hid it." Right before they went up to bed, I found the latch-hook rug kit in the downstairs bathroom. "What is this doing here?" I called.

A voice from upstairs replied, "Oh, I hid it there when we cleaned up the family room."

FRIDAY 7/23: Today the ban still in force. This morning, the older daughter posed an interesting question: "What if someone asks me to see a movie?" I'll have to handle that if/when that occurs. Uh -- I heard BANG upstairs followed by "Mom! She--"; I may have to extend the ban yet another day.

What's in a Sir Name?

There was a funny string on the OBX listserv about people's sir names and their chosen profession. I mean, how hard was it for Dr. Brush to decide to be a dentist or Dr. Foot to decide to be a podiatrist? There were many others: Dr. Needles, the pediatrician; B. Lawless, the lawyer; Dr. Spot, the dermatologist; Dr. Slaughter, the surgeon (okay, I don't care how good he/she is, I don't think I'd go there); Dr. Corn, the podiatrist; Sparky, the electrician; Dr. Pinns, the pediatrician, Dr. Butts, the gastroenterologist (that has to be a joke, right?); Dr. Katz, the veterinarian; Dr. Glassman, the opthamologist; Dr. Brain, the psychiatrist; and Dr. Sicklick, the dentist.

I wish our family had one of those names that conveyed our destiny. Then it would be easier for my 14 year old daughter to pick her vocation. Hey, there's no time to waste. According to Sherwood H.S. orientation, she needs to predict her future now - at 14 - so she can get the right classes, so colleges will accept her...Poor thing. Afterwards she said, "But mom, I don't know what I want to be!" I told her not to worry, there was still time.

A California Tortilla Breakfast

California Tortilla must really miss me. They sent me an email to prove it. Hey Rich, we haven't seen you in awhile. Come around and we'll give you a free taco. Can't beat that. So, I went out with the girls after we made a trip to the Maxx- just to look around. The girls reminded me that I did not need another pair of Timberland sunglasses. And I reminded them they did not need another pony/kitty/jungle/ in my pocket toy. Then, it was off to Cali Tort. It was packed and as we considered what to get I also wondered where we'd sit. I usually get the nacho chili bowl with the chips and queso combo. But lo, it was not on the menu. I asked if they still had it and was told they could make me one. Great, hold the jalapenos. Hand over my burrito card for the points and I'm told that I get the free taco, what kind would you like? Um... I went with beef. The first born daughter asked if we're getting it to go. No, we'll find a place even if we have to sit outside. And look, a table opened up for us. Nab it and get our drinks. They call our number and there's our food. I forget how filling the chips, shots of Cherry Coke, and oh yeah, a chili bowl can be. There sat the poor uneaten taco. Time to look good to the wifey. Text- Got a free taco, want it? I could drop it off at her office- conveniently in Olney. No thanks, she texts back. I'm already eating. Well, this baby isn't going to waste. I mean my father was way into us cleaning our plates to the extent of posting a picture in our dining room of a starving kid with a swollen belly. So, I wrapped it up and took it home. The next morning, looking for something to eat for breakfast, I remembered the taco wrapped up in its foil and transported home in the empty chips bag. I think I dreamt about having it for breakfast last night. Twenty seconds nuked away and it was good to go. Taco for breakfast? the wifey asks. I can't even watch you eat that. Sure, why not. I'm a guy, we eat cold pizza, Chinese leftovers (come on, don't we?) for breakfast.
It's all good and I wash it down with sips of Cherry coke, because, of course I had to refill it before I left Cali Tort. Maybe next summer, it will be a Chipotle breakfast...

How Hard Is It to Remember Your Reusable Bags?

Apparently, very hard. Several times a week I go to the supermarket (any one of the dozen in Olney). I tuck my resusable bags nicely in their place in the car. I look over at them lovingly while I'm driving. I park my car. I walk in. I shop. I walk out. I open my trunk to install my groceries, and what do I find? My beautiful reusable bags sitting helplessly in their place!!! This is ridiculous! I'm smart. I'm educated. I can juggle work and family. Surely I can remember to bring in my reusable bags!!! I even get a cost savings for using my bags! Alas, I have failed miserably at this. I don't know what it's going to take for me to remember. Perhaps I can suggest to the new Harris Teeter that they put up a really big sign above their door, "REMEMBER YOUR REUSABLE BAGS."

California Dreamin'

My husband and I began the arduous process of househunting 11 years ago, from our rented condo in Bethesda (where we knew we couldn't afford to continue living!). We wanted to stay in Montgomery County, preferably in a city or at least a town setting (since we had grown incredibly spoiled by being able to walk to restaurants, stores, etc). So I put him in charge of narrowing down our options. When he had done some research, he reported back with: Olney. "Olney?" I gasped, mildly horrified, "isn't that in the middle of nowhere?"

Now,  I grew up in Monrovia--serious Frederick County cow-country. I found out later by driving to my parents' house that it's only about a half-hour from here, yet somehow I thought Olney was some tiny, distant speck on the map, difficult to get to and containing nothing but...farms or something.  How wrong I was. As soon as my husband pointed out that there was a Starbucks (within walking distance from our potential neighborhood, no less), I realized that in fact Olney would do very nicely. It was fairly quiet and peaceful, a little bit out-of-the-way of the Rockville/Gaithersburg hubbub, but only a short drive to pretty much anything you wanted to see or do, including both D.C. and Baltimore (bonus!).

Of course, life in suburbia is changing a bit these days. It used to be that the most commotion you could expect on a regular basis was a loud siren from the Sandy Spring Fire Department, or perhaps a military helicopter zooming overhead on its way to official business. But now we are treated to ICC construction--seemingly from all around us--with the related noise and dust and heavy-equipment and cones and flagmen. Traffic seems to have gotten a little slower, the roads a little more congested. And then, to really shake things up (pun intended : ) in this semi-sleepy little town, we got to experience: an earthquake. What the heck is up with that? After the initial shock (and excitement, if I'm being completely honest!) wore off, I found myself thinking "hmm...we have traffic...we have earthquakes...are we trying to emulate Southern California?" (if so, I'd like to throw in my vote for: "no" to mudslides and wildfires, but "yes" to Star Sightings...especially if, say, Bradley Cooper shows up in our local Starbucks!)

You Never Seem to Leave Home....

While traveling in Colorado earlier this month, my family and I could not stop marveling at how different everything was -- the climate, the terrain, the scenery, etc. While Olney residents were boiling in soupy and scorching heat, we enjoyed temperatures in the 70's with below-40% humidity. Driving through the vast green pastures (with live cows, horses, elk and other generally large brown mammals) against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains, I was shocked to discover our car was traveling more than 70 miles per hour when it looked like we were moving only about 30 miles per hour. Traveling more than 30 miles per hour down Route 108 (when traffic is actually moving) would be a very different experience, with people and buildings whizzing by, speed cameras flashing and tickets awaiting. Yes, I felt my "Rocky Mountain High" but was quickly brought back to Earth by the ubiquitous American phenomenon -- the chain restaurant.

Of course the Golden Arches, Chipolte, Pizza Hut and the like are unavoidable anywhere, but I thought we were eating a little off the beaten path when I settled into my booth at the Hard Rock Cafe in Denver (the only other Hard Rock Cafe I had visited was in Beijing). I told myself, "Wow, we're really experiencing something new and different"... until I discovered that there are Hard Rock Cafes in Baltimore and DC. Compounding this feeling of never really leaving home was our waiter who is from (drumroll)... Wheaton, MD. No, he's not from Olney (which would be too cute of a coincidence) but he did play baseball on the fields on Route 108. And he met his future wife woman in Colorado; she was originally from Burtonsville, MD.

What really drove home my seeming inability to escape from Maryland was Hooters. No -- we don't patronize this fine establishment when we are home (although Hooters boasts 10 locations in the DC area, according to their website, not my own experience). My husband and I joked about trying "something new and different" and eating with our kids at Hooters but decided against it. My 10-yr-old daughter asked me what was so special about Hooters (besides their children's menu, which yes, they do have!). When I described the waitresses' attire and physique, she wrinkled her nose and wondered, "Maybe they have a beach theme. But why aren't there any men on the beach too?"

Goggle Sense

It's pool time and when we arrive at the Olney Mill Swim Club (Go Otters!) I remind the girls to use their "goggle sense." Of course they look at me, say huh? so I tell them the origin behind the saying. When I was in junior high, in the great state of New Jersey, I took a class called Metal Shop in 8th grade. The teacher was Mr Iacavone, a former Marine. He was tough on us, a class of all boys. We would work on projects involving cutting, filing, and working with metal to create such fabulous objects as the dullest bottle opener you can imagine and the way cool smooth ring- both of which I still have. Mr. Iacavone was all about safety and would bark at us primarily to remember two things, Always use your common sense and always wear your goggles. At the end of the period we would have to return our goggles to a special white cabinet that he would close, lock and would sterilize the goggles. A blue light would come on to indicate that it was in sterilization process. "Don't stare at that light! If you look at that light for more than ten seconds you'll go blind!" That was Mr Iacavone's warning. Really? I thought and I would go up and stare at the light and count out loud for ten seconds. Pretty soon, there was line of kids waiting to stare at the light. No loss of vision, but maybe that's why I have poor eyesight. At the end of the course, Mr. Iacavone gave us a final exam which everyone failed except for me. I got a D. Mr. Iacavone was furious with us and would read out loud some of the answers that we put down. This was in the late 70s and I'm sure would not be best practice in today's classroom.
Now there was one student named Kevin that our teacher referred to as "dingbat." "Listen to what dingbat wrote." It was for a sentence completion, Always use your (Blank) sense. Kevin had inserted goggles. Always use your goggle sense. We all laughed, Kevin turned beet red, and the saying was born.
So now, that's what I tell the girls before they get in the pool. And they chuckle or smile. Of course we have a half dozen in our pool bag-extras from my many attempts to find one that fits my big head without compressing it. Still remember to use my goggle sense, Mr. Iacavone.

Life is a Highway (hampered by construction...)

Very good friends of mine who moved to Wisconsin a few years ago once told me a local joke: "Wisconsin has two seasons, winter and construction." At the time I just laughed sympathetically, but now it seems to me that the saying applies to Olney as well!

For me, the Road Improvement Season actually began in the Spring, when WSSC showed up in my neighborhood to replace the aging water pipes. For weeks, they dug up the street in sections, making mini-canyons and causing every car trip to feel like a Giant Slalom as we swerved around the mess. When they finished with the underground work, they patched the holes on the surface, leaving ugly craters and long strips of uneven pavement for us to continue to bounce over. Dangerous and unsightly...just how you want your cul-de-sac to be described!

Then of course there's the in-town riot of new buildings. The former B.J. Pumpernickels parking lot features enormous piles of dirt, along with chain-link fencing and a daily monster-truck rally of bulldozers and such. The remaining stores there might be open, but I'm not willing to take my life into my hands to visit them! (The payoff, for me, will be when we get ourselves a Greene Turtle--big-screen-sports and food: a marriage made in heaven!) A few blocks up 108 there's the lovely silver scaffolding encasing the old Stained Glass Pub building. It's so alien-looking, I expect to drive by and see little green men in spacesuits scampering around with power tools as they fix it up. (The payoff here will of course by Chipotle--yum! Or Five Guys for you carnivores out there. Are you sensing it's all about food for me?)

And it seems that everywhere you try to go this Summer, you encounter flagmen blocking off lanes, stopping traffic and directing you around tree-trimming, or lane-paving, or ICC construction...it's a Blacktop Jungle out there, my friends...so buckle up and drive carefully!

Helter, Skelter, in a Summer Swelter...(thanks, Don McLean!)

Remember oh-so-long ago--like February, for instance—when we were all busy shoveling heavy, deep piles of snow…again? When we thought we were safe, after surviving “Snowpocalyse” in December, yet found ourselves struggling once more just to clear a path wide enough to walk…ANYWHERE outside our front door for some fresh air? When we fought valiantly to find a place to heap more of the white stuff, since the drifts were already over our heads? When we had to come up with another creative name to describe the catastrophic winter conditions? (“Snowmageddon”)  When we prayed that the kids would please, please go back to school sometime soon? When we couldn’t imagine a landscape that wasn’t blindingly white, or a time that we would ever be warm all-the-way-through again?

Well, the old adage “Be careful what you wish for” seems mighty timely right now, as we swelter through Summer in Hades—I mean Olney. Temperatures for the next week are predicted to fall in the 95 to 100 (!) degree range, which as far as I am concerned, is just very, very wrong.  Did Maryland get picked up and scooted a little closer to the equator while I was sleeping? Did our forecast get mixed up with the one for Texas, or Arizona? Because I need to blame this ridiculous heat on someone, and that someone will be fired, as soon as I find them!

If it seems like I am taking the weather a tad too personally, I admit that this is true. I was firmly of the belief that we already DID our hard time last winter, and therefore earned a pleasantly warm and breezy summer for our troubles. Apparently, Upper Management didn’t get that memo, but I’m hoping they hear our pleas and remedy the situation soon. Until then, join me with an icy cold drink, and let us perspire in peace, fellow Olneyites… 

Joys of Summer

Ah the joys of summer – harvesting fresh, crisp, lettuce, digging up your own garlic and onions, cutting beautiful flowers for your table, gathering fresh berries. And then again there’s the flip side – weeding and insect bites (why do the mosquitoes seem to favor my left leg?) having to water twice a day to keep the garden from expiring from the tropical heat, fighting the ground hogs and the deer (they seem to be winning but leave us enough to keep us from abandoning the project all together thus maintaining their daily all you can eat buffet).

Despite the challenges there is something truly special about eating something you had a hand in raising (unlike parenting where eating your young is frowned upon). After sharing with friends and neighbors there is rarely enough for us to sustain ourselves so we also belong to a CSA (community supported agriculture). Our weekly box provides us with some of the produce we’ve yet to attempt – blueberries, garlic scapes (our garlic never scaped – it went from erect to half dead and begging to escape the clutches of the soil), and the ubiquitous kale (we did grow kale last year and met our lifetime quota of the stuff).

When traveling I have a hard time resisting stopping at a farm stand – especially when I see the fields in evidence in the background. I can’t be fooled into believing that watermelons or corn are really local at this time of year (unless your definition of local is 1500 miles away). But I’m happy to buy their forlorn kohlrabi and rutabagas lest no one else wants them. And then there is the lure of the farmer’s market. I feel an obligation to support our local farmers and so make a point of buying something from each stand. All of this results in our refrigerator being so overstuffed that I haven’t seen the Arm and Hammer box since April.

So what do we do with all this stuff? We had spinach and eggs for breakfast, a big salad for lunch, tonight I made a giant pot of steamed veggies and soba noodles with almond miso sauce. It definitely discourages one from eating out. Not to mention that unless you’re frequenting restaurants that source locally (like Ricuitti’s) nothing tastes as fresh and as delicious as that from your own garden (or your local farmer’s). Eat up!!!

Tight Squeeze

It was my turn to provide dinner. I say provide since I rarely cook. And it should have been simple since all I had to do was pick up Subway and bring it to the end of year picnic at my daughters' school. I knew parking was tight at the now Fair Hills center where the new Harris Tweeter is being constructed. And I, with my poor depth perception struggle to park in tight places. I can barely parallel park. I considered parking in the back where Goodyear tires is located. It would have been much easier. Instead, I decided to squeeze my old Sable in the lot where apparently, you can still park. It was tight and I managed to park my car after looking for the widest space available. Good thing it was just me and the kids were not with me since I was muttering "bleeps" under my breath. Upon entering, I saw another parent from the school with her three daughters. Her youngest was wailing and I had to ask "How's it going?" She honestly replied, "It could be better." Right, I thought, and I thought I had it bad just parking. Subs in tow, now I had to make it out. This is where I back up careful not to hit the cars I'm parked between. Inch back, swing to the right. No too close pull back in, inch back, no too close. Am I going to scrape that car? Please don't let anyone be watching. I sheepishly made my way out after working up a sweat. Then, I saw the same parent easily maneuver her SUV out. I think I will start parking in the back. How much longer until the parking lot is fully restored?

Staycation

Don't you just love how new words are created by new experiences? What's a staycation you ask? Well, it's where you stay in your house in Olney and the rest of your family leaves for various camps and such. It's not as exciting as going to say...Tuscany...or Marco Island, but it's a vacation nonetheless. Picture this, there are barely any dishes to clean, laundry to do, clothes to put away or forms to fill out. Yup, it's just me and the umpteen critters I have to take care of. But as I flitted from home to Fitness First and home to the Olney library, I was giddy at the thought that I came home to this clean and quiet house...all mine, mine, mine! I even had the energy to invite a few ladies over for dinner and a movie. So the next time a real vacation eludes you (and lets face it, most real vacations still feel like work unless you're lucky enough to go somewhere where you have a whole staff that caters to you), find a way to send your spouse and kids abroad while you stay home and play all you want.

Dancing Queen

I feel lucky that Olney offers opportunities to sample many different kinds of dance: ballet, ballroom dancing, Zumba, etc. Although I hadn’t studied tap dancing since the early 1990s, a few years ago I found the nerve to sign up for a tap dance class... and had a crash course in post-2000 R&B and hip hop music. Expecting show tunes and big band songs, I was greeted with the pulsating rhythms of Rihanna and Pink. A classic rock fan, I had never before heard of these artists and tunes, much less realized that a person could shuffle/flap/ball-change to them. When I later proudly showed my kids the routine I learned to "Disturbia," they were disturbed by seeing their mother tapping to a song they like (even though they were impressed by the choreography). My familiarity with Katy Perry’s “Hot & Cold” came in handy when, after hearing the song on the radio, my daughter asked about the infamous “b-word” in its lyrics. However, my "expertise" was later spurned at a party when the deejay played "Hot and Cold" and I offered to show her and her friends the snazzy tap steps I learned to this tune. She immediately exclaimed, "No Mom! Don't!" as she hurriedly pushed me from the dance floor.

I don't think I want to show my kids any moves from my next possible area of interest: pole dancing. A friend recently hosted a pole-dancing party at her house, where an ex-stripper/instructor set up a portable (but safely anchored from ceiling to floor) pole in the living room and taught novices an entire routine (fully clothed) to hip hop music. Many people don't realize how strenuous pole dancing is -- imagine maneuvering and supporting most of your weight with just your upper body. Now envision removing your clothes gracefully at the same time! Oy -- I actually don't want to visualize this image, but I do want to tone my arms and core while using my limited knowledge of hip-hop music if I try pole dancing.

Dude, Where's My Car?

No parking lot in Olney is large enough to misplace your car. You have to hike across the TJ Maxx/Shoppers lot if you try to combine clothes and grocery shopping, but you'll never really lose sight of your vehicle. You can always spot your car in front of the CVS shopping center even though navigating through that lot resembles a game of Frogger. People who snag an open space in the post office's postage-stamp-sized parking lot can't lose their car if they tried. On the other hand, if you have trouble spotting your car in the underutilized (and thus seemingly vast) parking lots at Safeway or Roots, then you must have forgotten what your car even looks like.

However, even when you do remember what your car looks, you might not be able to find it once you leave Olney. Yesterday I took my kids to DC and parked at Union Station. After a few hours of traipsing from one museum to another, we straggled back to the garage and entered "The Parking Lot" Seinfeld episode. Despite reciting "Level 1, Stairs 2," I could not for the life of me locate our car (which, in case you haven't already figured out, was on the first level by the second stairwell). Just as Kramer hauled around his new air conditioner, I carried one of my exhausted elementary-school-age offspring. My older child needed to go to the bathroom like Jerry and George did, but I didn't want an officer to catch anyone urinating in a dark corner (as Jerry and George were). Finally, like Elaine in dire need of getting her pair of goldfish home before they die, I had a pair of kids about to fall asleep ... and I would have died if I had to carry both of them back to our still-invisible car.

After about 20 minutes (shorter than a Seinfeld episode!), I located our car and (luckier than the Seinfeld characters) successfully started the car. Fifteen dollars later, I escaped from the garage and was on my way back to Olney... where the parking is free.