Vacation

The drive down > the drive home. In fact, the square root of the drive down > the drive home times infinity squared. This is for one reason – going down, we drove overnight and we came home in the day. Night driving is essential to my sanity because people sleep at night – the kids & mr b all go to sleep and I have the whole night to drive and listen to whatever I want and no one is fighting or whining or asking me how much longer or being a general jackass or needing to pee or driving like a complete asshole who thinks everyone else is an asshole. Plus on the way home, we got stuck in hellacious traffic due to a motor home fire. It was insane.

The cabin was amazing. Since we drove overnight, we got there well before our check-in time. We decided to do a drive-by to check the cabin out and then head out to sightsee for the day. Only there was no such thing as “drive-by” for this place. It was on an unpaved, private road that wound up into the mountain. From the outside, it looked like a tiny place, but in actuality, it was 3 floors and slept 10 easily. The hot tub was my favorite early morning thing to do, and sitting on the deck looking at the view was so relaxing.

The view from the main deck:

One of the cool things about the place was the wildlife – we saw deer and flying squirrels and bald eagles (no bears, surprisingly, given my aforementioned deliciousness). There were the strangest looking moths I have ever seen – some that looked exactly like a fallen leaf, some that were beautiful, and some that were just plain weird. And they were all HUGE:

Not cool at all? The spiders. And by “spiders,” I mean SPIDERS! I seriously wanted to take some photos to freak out Twitter (like someone who shall remain nameless coughburghbabycough) but I was too terrified to get anywhere near them. And I think I felt like there would be some bad horror movie juju involved in photographing them. They were that evil. I am not kidding when I say that they were giant, man-eating, horrible monsters who had obviously heard about my deliciousness from the bears.

It seems we picked a good week to get out of the burgh since apparently it was a million degrees here. It was hot down there, but being in the mountains meant it was much cooler, especially in the mornings and evenings.

We were only a few minutes from Nantahala Gorge and the Nantahala Outdoor Center, which was a fantastic place – places to eat, good beer, shop, trails and hot hippie guys – perfect! We spent a lot of time there during the week. The only bad experience I had there was…are you ready for this?

I got CARDED. No, really – carded. Now, I know you are thinking, but Gina, that’s a compliment, no?

No – it’s not. And I’ll tell you why: 1) I haven’t even been in my late twenties for more than a decade, so please spare me. It might have been a compliment if I didn’t know that I looked every bit of my 41 years, but since I do, it was just WTF?? 2) Someone told me later that they have to card everyone, regardless of how old they look (because they have a very precarious license in an otherwise dry county), and that would make me feel better about things, except that the girl doing the carding didn‘t card anyone else in the group (all male…hmmm), and 3) If it were at all possible that she really believed I was under 21, it would have made me feel good a little while, but I’ll take a beer buzz any day.

Nantahala Outdoor Center:

There were so many things to do in the area– rafting, canoeing, kayaking, tubing. Surprisingly, of all those activities, the one I managed to injure myself on was the calm, serene tube-float down the Little Tennessee River. That would be because instead of sitting in the tube like I should have been, I got into the tube and let my lags dangle in the water. And when we suddenly went from a depth of I-Can’t-Touch to Holy-Crap-Rocks-Hurt!, my knees, shins and ankles suffered for it. I actually have a tiny little bone chip moving around in my knee now. That’s not fatal, is it?

Just as surprising as the DangerTubing is the fact that I went whitewater rafting and stayed in the raft the entire time. I thought for sure I would end up going in. And what was worrying me the most about that? Not the danger of drowning, or busting open my head on the racks. No, I was worried that of I went in, I would be mortified that my raft-mates would have to haul my fat ass back in the raft. I really think if I had gone in, I would have been all, “Oh, don’t worry about me – just go one ahead, I’ll hang out here.” This is the same reason I didn’t jump in the water and swim with the boy during one of the calm areas.

The boy was the only one not afraid to swim there (other than me), because everyone was crying the while time about how cold the water was. Now don’t get me wrong, it WAS cold – about 50 – 55 degrees. But somehow it felt good to me. Maybe because it was so hot that day. Or because it wasn’t too much colder than swimming in the Yough, which is pretty damned cold, too. But I decided to tell myself that doing the Polar Bear Plunge has turned me into a badass cold water rock star. Now that is cold water.

When we were getting suited up for our rafting trip, I put on a PFT (life vest, but I like saying PFT like I’m down with the lingo), and I could barely breathe what with the boob-squeezing. Four male guides checked me and said it fit perfectly, until a similarly-boobed female guide came over, rolled her eyes at the men and helped me adjust. Then we got our training and I did my very best not to strangle the kid behind me who made the training take 10 minutes longer with his inane questions (Um…what…um…about that…um…water position if …you know…um…you…uh…go over the falls? Do you have to do a back flip?), and finally we were off. We all got on the bus and the guides got on last. One guide sat next to me on the bus wearing nothing but a speedo. I was hoping we didn’t get him as our guide, because all I could think about was that if we flipped over, I was probably going to get balls on me in the process. Luckily we didn’t – we got an awesome guide who was informative and fun and kindly kept his genitals hidden from view.

Rafting:

We also went gem-mining, which the kids loved. And The Girl made me proud by sharing her big gems with the other kids. And the boy made me proud by using his own money to buy another bucket for them all to share:

One day we went to Dollywod. Dollywood is a great park – small, pretty, but still fun. But despite the fun, it was slightly less pleasant than the last few times we’ve been there. For one thing, it was HOT. I mean – while the mountains stay cooler, somehow it’s not really the case at Dollywood. And then we went in a large group and I really, really hate going to amusement parks with a group (too much waiting and whining and dicking around). And The Girl got crabby a few times about some imaginary crap. And we were with folks who kept failing to wait for the group before getting in line and then expecting us to cut and catch up, which I will absolutely NEVER do (it’s a HUGE pet peeve of mine when people do that).

They have some good rides there, though. The Girl loved the Raging Rapids-type ride. The first time we rode it, I got splashed. The second time we rode it – just before leaving the park – I got SOAKED:

But she hated the Mountain Slidewinder (which is an AWESOME waterslide where you sit in a foam “log” and slide down the mountain), although she was ready to go on it again a short time later:

Also, mr b spent 50 cents on a game and won the girl a guitar (not a little toy piece of crap, either, but a real, working guitar. And then this happened:

And there’s nothing else to say after that.

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Did Good

As I mentioned in my last post, I was fortunate enough to have an opportunity to participate in Do Good Day on Wednesday. And as awesome as I expected it would be, it turned out to be even better.

I’m a little late in writing this, so by now, you’ve probably already read what she or she or she or she or she or she had to say about it, so it’s pretty much all been said. But hey – that never stopped me before, so damn it, I will talk about it too.

We met up at the Carnegie Science Center, to find that 77 Kids was already there with a cart filled with cool toys and goodies and – best of all on a sweltering day – freeze pops. The kids heading to the Science Center were very excited to see it loaded down with Silly Bandz, along with the other assorted treats. We couldn’t wait to set up and get started spreading some of our own good.

When we were planning the day (77 kids awesomely gave us the means, but left it up to us what we wanted to do), we decided that we didn’t just want to surprise people with a gift or treat, we wanted to do something that would be appreciated by the recipient, but also something that would encourage them to pay it forward and do something nice for someone else.

What we ended up with was colorful backpacks filled with school supplies and other fun stuff. But the best part was that each backpack contained a colorful little envelope with the words “Your Mission” on the outside. Inside the envelope was a mission for the child to do – a good deed that they could do for someone else. Some were given a bag of Silly Bandz and told to make a new friend and share them, others were given an addressed, stamped envelope to send a picture or letter to a nursing home or to a soldier or veteran. I really hope that the kids were inspired to complete their missions.

It was an amazing, fun day. The kids were absolutely thrilled to get something. The parents were a little wary. And don’t get me wrong – I get it. It’s not often that you get something for free. A lot of them probably suspected they’d end up having to pay for something.

In addition to the money 77 Kids gave us to buy our supplies, they also provided each blogger with a box of goodies to give out – stickers, trinkets, candy, coupons and – get this – 77 dollar bills. We clipped each dollar to a coupon, note card and a little paper telling them how they could do a good deed with the dollar (or for free). And I swear there were more than 77 dollars in each of those boxes. We clipped and folded and sorted until, we boiled ourselves in the sun, but they never seemed to end. Ginny, in particular, was feeling the curse of the multiplying dollars and coupons.

But once we were done, we set out to spread some more good. We walked along the river walkway and gave dollar packets to everyone we saw. Or rather we tried to give them to everyone we saw. Unfortunately, we live in an cynical, suspicious society where instead of seeing someone giving you free money as a good thing, it is seen as OMG WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME CRAZY PEOPLE ARRGGH GET AWAY KEEP YOUR MONEY BACK OFF GET AWAY FROM MY CHILDREN HELP!!!!!

I am totally not kidding. We had reaction ranging from the mildly suspicious ignore-and-walk-faster maneuver, to the misogynistic “I don’t take money from women!” to the jackass who needs to prove something “Give it to someone who needs it – not me!” to the downright hostile group of moms that told me that under no circumstances was I to hand out anything to any of the children in their general area. Meanwhile the kids were all WOOOOOOOOO!!!!! YAAAAAAYYYY!!!!!! MORE!!!!

The kids were the best.

But instead of worrying about the cynical society, I am going to try to do my best to keep spreading kindness. If we all do it, maybe someday the cynical society might become less cynical and more like those kids. Everyone now: WOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

All in all, it was a great day spent with some really amazing, kind, giving, funny women and some of their awesome kids. The girl always loves spending time with the actual Burgh Baby, and an added bonus this time around was Ginny's son, who she deemed "cuuuuute" (she tried to charm him with her burping skills - she's a delicate flower, that one). Despite the heat and the cynicism, we still had a really nice time.

Thanks to 77 Kids and The Motherhood for putting it all together.

Fine print: I am being compensated for participating in Do Good Day, but they were in no way involved in the content of this post. I am entirely serious when I say that 77 Kids is a great company who cares about the community. And if you visit their store, you'll see how much thought they have put into creating a great shopping experience for moms shopping with kids (also known as "Hell: Living").

Do Good

While we were on vacation last week, we decided to spend the day at Dollywood. It’s a nice little park and we hoped to have a good time. But getting ready and getting out of the cabin can be a pain with a when there’s a bunch of people, and we got a late start, putting me in a bit of a mood. Then we got to the park and it was eleventy-seven-hundred degrees out, which didn’t help anyone’s disposition. Then the girl got crabby over fries (as you do), then it got hotter. A couple of us went on a raft ride and left all of our stuff with the non-riders, so it wouldn’t get wet. And then the non-riders lost their ever-loving minds and took off, leaving us with no phones, cameras, money, or any idea how to find them. By this time, I was in a bad, BAD mood.

We decided to hit the “county fair” section of the park where a lot of kid-friendly rides are located while my nephew set off in the blazing heat to find everyone. I spent the next hour or so alternating between trying to enjoy the rides with the girl and muttering terrible things under my breath about every person in the entire park (I get crazy when it’s that hot).

Finally, my nephew came back with our gear and we set of to meet up with everyone. I was still a bit crabby and hot and miserable, but I tried to get past it. But then we hit another “let’s stop and stand around looking stupid and decide what to do next” moment (I hate amusement parks with a crowd of people – too much waiting around) and I thought I would lose my mind – we were all crabby and hot and tired. And then suddenly, a little girl about six years old walked up to us, stopped right in front of us and seemed to be sizing us up.

Then she pulled out a huge stack of tissue paper butterflies and went around the group passing them out, “Let’s see…you need pink, and you need green, and I think you should have blue...", until every one of us was holding a butterfly. I’m not sure where she got them, or why she felt the need to pass them out, but something about that little girl simply being kind was enough to turn my mood around.

Good deeds come in all kinds of packages. We help a neighbor carry groceries in the house, we donate books to a classroom in need, we walk to raise money for a charity. And sometimes, we simply hand out a small token to an unsuspecting passerby and it can really turn their day around.

Tomorrow, I am participating in Do Good Day, sponsored by 77 Kids and The Motherhood. These amazing folks have come up with a plan to Do Good across the country. Seven bloggers in eleven cities (7 x11 = 77, of course) will be hitting the streets to put smiles on as many faces as we can.

Our plan is to pass out some goodies and fun stuff to folks passing by. But that wasn’t enough for us – we set it up so as we surprise them with something nice, they can in turn surprise someone else. And hopefully the Doing Good will be catchy and those folks will pass it on. It doesn’t take much to make someone’s day. Sometimes a smile or a kind word can turn a person’s day completely around. It’s hard to believe, but it’s true.

But what may be surprising is you don’t have to be the person receiving the good deed for it to make a difference. I think that being the person who is giving the kindness is even more rewarding. Getting a treat is great, for sure. But giving one (or a whole bunch) is amazing. And I can’t wait to be amazed.

[Disclosure – bloggers will be compensated for their participation in Do Good Day, but that in no way diminishes the awesomeness of 77 Kids or The Motherhood, who put this all together]

The Fish Whisperer

I was (finally) out shopping for my March for Maddie giveaway prize this weekend, looking – obviously – for some weird stuff to throw in there. And I came upon a tiny plastic aquarium with a couple of those “grow” fish in them – the ones that expand in water. And I decided I needed to have one myself.

You see – I am not very good at taking care of pets. No – that’s not exactly true – I am fine with dogs and cats, because they can remind me that they exist and are hungry/thirsty/bored/need to pee/are dicks. But quiet, contained animals? Doomed. That’s the same reason I kill plants. They can’t nudge me with their cold noses, or bark by the door, or stare at my food and “boof,” or knock their empty dish off the platform, shove it across the room, jam it into my instep and “merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! Merl! MERL! MERL! MERL! MERL! MERL! MERL!!” at me until I get off my ass and either feed or kill them.

The fact that I still have living hermit crabs should tell you how little care they need. Because if they required anything more than minimal effort, they’d be hot-glued into little vignettes by now.

So anyway, I got this cute, tiny little aquarium that I can set on my desk and play God with the fake fish. You add water – they grow – you forget all about them and they dry up and shrink. Then you notice them one day and think, “GASP! My fish are dried up!” Then you add more water and they puff back up again and you don’t even have to feel guilty about it! I don’t know if you realize this, but YOU CANNOT DO THAT WITH REAL FISH!

Don’t get me wrong - I love aquariums. I can spend hours just looking at them. Speaking of which, I once did just that at burghbaby’s house. Her husband was nice enough to talk to me for a long time all about the fish and critters. Which – while we’re on the topic, Ms. burghbaby often claims that her husband doesn’t talk, but I certainly haven’t experienced that. It seems that she is either full of shit, or Mr. burghbaby and I are dorks of feather. Truthfully, either is possible.

Anyway, I wasn’t always bad at keeping fish, etc alive. Back when I was a kid (somewhere around 6 or 7), my aunts took me to a carnival. One of the games they had was the one where you toss ping pong balls into tiny fishbowls filled with colored water and goldfish – if the ball stays in, the fish is yours.

My aunt tried to talk me out of playing, since it was a waste of money – no one ever wins at that game – plus, if you do – the fish die in a couple of days, anyway – I mean – they are swimming in tiny bowls of colored water, right? Wrong. I won me a fish and I named him Fred (I went through a stage where everything was named Fred for a while). We took it home (to my aunt/grandma’s house) and within a couple of days, we had a whole aquarium set up for this one fish. And despite what everyone but me expected, this fish did NOT die in a couple of days. In fact, he not only lived, he thrived. Within a week or so, we saw him start to increase in size. I was worried about him being lonely, so we bought him a few friends. But soon, the friends disappeared and Fred got bigger. And bigger. And BIGGER.

He soon started looking less like a tiny goldfish and more like a huge gold river fish. He was bigger than any goldfish you’ve ever seen. His tail was the size of an adult hand when “unfurled.” More than once, when my grandfather was cleaning the tank, he put Fred in another container while he scrubbed the tank in the kitchen. When he came back, he found that Fred had leaped from the tank and was lying on the floor, dry and seemingly dead. But Gramps, who loved animals, grabbed Fred and plunged him back into the water. Then he started rubbing him gently – almost doing compressions. And damned if that fish didn’t revive! And it happened TWICE! Gramps thought the first time was a fluke, but after the second, he started throwing a towel over the container.

Fred lived a good, LONG life. I got him when I was about 6 and when he died? I was in college. College! Gramps was magic like that. He didn’t need a fake fish to dry up & reanimate – he could do it for real.

Random

I work from home on Tuesdays and Fridays this summer (as opposed to Fridays only) and the good part of it I that it is one less day I have to worry about getting the kids picked up since I don’t get home in time. And being able to sleep in (until 6:30 – I never thought I’d see the day when 6:30 was sleeping in). But the bad part is that working from home on Tuesday makes me think it’s Friday. Which is So! Totally! Awesome! for a brief, fleeting moment when I’m all, “Yay! Friday!!), but then I remember that it’s only stupid Tuesday and the horror and disappointment of it all sends me reeling and crashing to the floor in fits and tears of agony. Or maybe I just say, Dammit! It’s only Tuesday?? Oh, MAN!

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I had the pleasure of being on the basement last night while an entire herd of wildebeests and the entire cast of every production of 42nd Street in history were upstairs. And by an entire herd of wildebeests and the entire cast of every production of 42nd Street in history, I mean mr b, the dog and both cats (the kids were in bed). And let me just tell you – I have a whole new appreciation of Trolls (the bridge kind, not the internet kind). Because if that Troll that met up with the Billy Goats Gruff had to listen to that all the time, I can’t blame him for being kind of a douche. If the damned goats weren’t always clomping around overhead all day, he would have been cool – maybe asked them in for a lime-aid or something. BUT NO!

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Something bad happened on the way down to the beach and I don’t want to talk about it. But I have to, so I can move on. Because something ran out in front of us & I couldn’t swerve. And there was a thunk. The thunk of something you don’t want getting thunked. I am very sad about this.

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At the beach, the girl wandered into her aunts’ hotel room and picked up my (very petite) aunt’s bra and said, “Whoa – this is a tiny person’s bra. With tiny boobs.”

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This time of year gets me in the gut a little. I miss being with my kids in the summer. I want to be able to romp and frolic with them for 3 months. I really wish I could afford to be off all summer long. I considered being a teacher for a while, but I was attracted merely to the schedule. Because can you imagine me as a teacher. ME?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…WOOOHEEEEEEEEEHAHAHAHAHAHA…HAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHOOHooHooHoohooheeheeheehehehe..heh.

ahem

I mean, really. burghbaby alone would have a damned contest pickem charity thing going on to guess which would happen and when: Crying, Losing My Shit, Calling a Kid an Asshole, Walking Out, Throwing Something at the Principal – on a – Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday.

Maybe I should go back and do it – for the kids.

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I’m getting excited about vacation! In less than 2 weeks, I’ll be looking at this:

Vacation

Things I learned on vacation:

1. There are few places that highlight the fact that Kids Are Evil as effectively as a cramped hotel room.

2. Car trips will henceforth require the wearing of compression stockings. Every time I drive on a long trip, my right knee hurts and my lower leg gets a little tight and swell-y. The other option would be to let mr b drive more but here’s the thing about that – mr b is Captain Sleepy. I’d have 16 nervous breakdowns per hour if I let him drive. So compression stockings it is. This saddens me, because it makes me feel old and broken and maybe I should just go out and get myself a babushka and some depends to go with my support hose.

3. My kids will fight about ANYTHING. Dear God, the stupid fights. I swear to you, the biggest fight of the week was over a turkey sandwich. Followed closely by a fight about cheese fry sharing etiquette. I was also lucky enough to witness fights over sand, beds, sand IN beds, whose hacky sack was whose, which beach ball was better, which beach ball Mr. Pants (our 16 month old cousin who stayed with us along with his mom – my cousin Lala) liked better, whose faceplant was funnier, ice cream, who messed up the Snoopy tattoo, television, Don’t Touch Me, who farted, who moved my shoes, and HE’S TOUCHING ME! Good times.

4. Diabetics should not walk on hot sand without shoes. Ten minutes after my dad arrived, he walked on the hot sand in his bare feet and ended up with 2nd degree burns on the bottoms of his feet. It was awful – all the skin came off the bottom of his feet and sand got in them. Several trips to a doctor, a couple prescriptions, six days, a whole lot of not walking, and a shit-ton of bandages later and he’s still hurting. It sucks.

5. I really need to replace my broken camera lens before we head to the mountains next month.

6. Finney of the beach photo patrol really, REALLY needs to find another career. Of the 10 or so photos he took, exactly ALL OF THEM were blurry. And I don’t mean slightly out of focus, I mean, so blurry that you can’t tell who is in them. Normally I wouldn’t care but due to my lack of photo-taking, I was hoping for something cute.

7. I need to start way ahead of time on Halloween, since the girl – upon getting Old-Time photos taken – has decided she wants to be a fancy flapper.

8. Old-Time Photo props will be used like every other item that reaches the hands of a child – as a weapon against their sibling. Fake drinks will be “dumped” on each other’s heads. Fake guns will be used to pretend to shoot each other. And everything else will be used to generally maim.

9. On one hand, the beach can make you feel really bad about yourself. On the other hand, the beach can make you feel way better about yourself. It all depends who is on the next blanket.

Despite the hectic and sometimes stressful days and the fact that I never got to meet up with the lovely Amy (because of all the hectic), I still had a wonderful time. And I am so very happy to that we are going away again next month.

I’m planning on the next trip being more relaxing. I’m not sure why, since the kids will once again be there. Plus mr b. Plus a gang of in-laws. So I imagine it will be more of the same – lots of fun, peppered with lots of potential stabification (that’s in the ICD-9, by the way). And since I know it’s coming, I decided to make a list of things that I plan to accomplish while in NC. If I can manage these, I will consider the trip a success, despite the stress:

1. Not killing anyone. No really – did you not hear the part about the kids and the husband and the in-laws?

2. Not dying. Because we have a cabin on a mountain. Which has a deck out into the mountainous abyss. And I will be drinking heavily. And most likely being driven slowly insane by the kids. Not a good combination.

3. Mountain geocaching! I’m very excited to try out our new hobby in an incredibly beautiful setting. I need to stock up on some burgh-related items for trading.

4. Not getting killed/eaten/mauled by a bear. Why on earth would I be worried about this? Well, see my previous item : 1) Geocaching takes place in the woods, 2) Bears live in the woods, 3) I am delicious. To combat the chances of getting killed/eaten/mauled, I’ll be wearing my bells, an anti-bear helmet (which doesn’t exist in reality but in my imagination involves tin foil, hot glue and pebbles. And sometimes – disturbingly – raw meat) and a t-shirt says “I taste like shit.”

5. I also plan on making mr b build a shelter to prove his manly worth. And because of the aforementioned bears, I’ve decided that the shelter must have a security system, indoor plumbing and a chik-fil-a (I know – they aren’t open on Sunday, but he can hunt/gather me something once a week, I think). Aw, who am I kidding? I’d be dead. He’s city boy. Years ago, we rented a cabin out in the woods for a weekend, and on a walk, I picked and ate some wild blueberries. His reaction was to nearly rush me to the hospital because “OMG, those berries might be poison!” I explained that they weren’t poison berries, but delicious blueberries and I was then subjected to 45 minutes of “But how do you know?? So maybe we’ll forget about the wilderness thing and I’ll just take him along as a bear diversionary tactic.

First Name Basis

The girl has been absolutely DYING to call her teacher by her first name for most of the school year. Of course I wouldn’t let her and we started off the year with no problem referring to her as Mrs. Smith (not her real name). But then shortly into the school year, I got to know Mrs. Smith socially and we became friends. So suddenly, Mrs. Smith became Shellie to me. And even though I only referred to her by Mrs. Smith in front of the girl, she soon learned her first name, since she would occasionally hear me call her as Shellie in person, or mention to my husband that I was going to a party at Shellie’s house, etc. And from then on, it was her mission.

She never called her Shellie in school, but one day she told her she knew what her first name was. Shellie told her it was OK to know her name (and she told them what it was), but that they had to call her Mrs. Smith. She continued to obey in school, but she’d come home now and then and make a sly comment about how Shellie wanted me to call her or Shellie said hi. My response was always “Mrs. Smith!”

But she persisted:

Mrs. Smith said she could call her Shellie sometimes.

No.

Mrs. Smith said she could call her Shellie outside of school.

No.

Mrs. Smith said she could call her Shellie when school was over.

No

Finally she let up with it and I thought we were done. HAHAHA.

The girl went on to have a wonderful year and excel in school. She won an award for outstanding academic achievement. And we all know that while smart is good, it can also be trouble.

A mutual friend had a School’s Out party on the last day of school and Mrs. Smith was there. She told me that the last week of school, they were talking about letter sounds and she asked for examples of words that have a short e sound in the middle that she could write on the board. Of course my little genius raised her hand immediately. When Mrs. Smith asked her if she knew one she gave her best shit-eating grin and said, “I know a good one!”

You see where this is going don’t you?

Her word?

Shellie

My Favorite Overheard Conversation of the Weekend

In Pat Catan's Crafts, I overheard a young woman (We'll call her Big Fat Liar) talking to her two older coworkers:



Big Fat Liar: My friend was going through a rough time, so I made her something to cheer her up.

Coworker1: That's nice - what did you make her?

BFL: Well, she's always down on herself, thinking she's not good enough, so I bought a mirror and painted it really pretty, then I stenciled along the bottom, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me."

Coworkers1&2: AWWWWWW...that is SO SWEET!

BFL: Thanks! I thought it was cute.

Coworker 1: You are so clever! Where did you come up with that?

BFL: I don't know - I've always been really creative. Stuff like that just comes to me.



Oh, really now, Big Fat Liar?

Now That She's a Cheerleader, We're Really Going to Have to Stop Making These Jokes

Yesterday, we went geocaching with my friend Rapunzel and her son. At one point, we ended up by a creek and the kids were looking for salamanders and crawfish. Suddenly, the girl started squealing, "Look, look!" We looked, but didn't see what she was so excited about, so she told us:

The Girl: It's a cheerleader bug!

Me: A what?

The Girl: A cheerleader bug!

Rapunzel: I don't see anything.

The Girl: It's right there!

Me: What makes it a cheerleader bug?

The Girl: There's one bug and then another bug on top of her.

Rapunzel: Yep - that's a cheerleader bug, alright.

And the Winner Is...

Thanks to everyone who donated to the March for Babies! You guys never cease to amaze me!

Anyway - it's time for our winner. I put each entry into a spreadsheet in the order the donations were received (after removing last year's winner who very kindly wanted to give someone else a chance to win):
























Then I used random.org to pick a winner. And the winner is....














OK - that's hard to see. Here's a close-up:























Which makes the winner...Bill! Yay, Bill! Bill is a dear friend's husband and although we have never met in person, I am officially putting him on my BFF list. Bill - give me a week or so to get my Box O' Goodies shopping done and your prize will be on the way!

I Get No Support Whatsoever For My Crazy

Mr b: Oh, I forgot to tell you - the census people came the other day.

Me: What? How could you forget to tell me? You know I have been waiting for the census police to come back since 2000!

Mr b: I don't know. It wasn't a big deal?

Me: Not a big deal? It IS a big deal! What did you tell them?

Mr b: What do you mean? I answered their questions.

Me: You didn't answer ethnicity, did you?

Mr b: I don't know - I just wanted to get rid of them so I could get back to work.

Me: Oh My GOD! You answered ethnicity!! How am I supposed to Fight the Power if you don't help me??"

Mr b: Whatever.

Me: I can NOT work under these conditions.

Mr b: *gets as far away from the crazy as he can*

Thursday Thirteen: Random

How about a Thursday Thirteen, since I’m all full of random thoughts and can’t seem to focus? Okay? Good. So…Thirteen Random Things:

1. I have come to realize that geocaching is my favorite hobby. I used to say reading, but I’ve decided that reading isn’t a hobby, it’s like breathing. So now, it’s geocaching. Big deal, right? Well, considering that it is something that is done in the woods, it IS a big deal. Don’t get me wrong – I love the woods. As a child, I never hesitated to go running off to explore. But then I grew up and became aware of all the scary woods-things. Like spiders. And bears. And HIM. Who is HIM, you ask? Well, HIM is the psycho killer who is in the woods and wants to chop me up into tiny pieces. I know it’s not rational, but it’s always right there at the edge of my consciousness. Yes, in fact camping with me is a delight.

2. I was at the self-scanner at Giant Eagle the other day and I noticed an employee looking at me funny. Then I realized I that the heated argument I was having with the stupid machine was not in my head, but out loud. I can’t help it – I always argue with those self-scanner machines. They are all a) stupid, b) incompetent, and c) trying to start a fight with me. Please tell me you argue with them too.

3. Also on my shit list? “Please take your ticket with you” parking garage machines.

4. And since I’m on a what’s pissing me off roll, let’s talk about the Share the Road signs. I would be happy to share the road with bicycles. It’s the douchebags riding the bicycles that I have a hard time with. Stop means “Stop,” not “Stop, except for the delightful gentleman on the bike.” I’m going to feel bad when I run you over, but it will be your own damned fault.

5. Aaaaaaand, speaking of stop signs, there are a few simple rules that the entire Asshole Traffic Brigade needs to learn: 1) STOP, 2) Just because you stopped when the guy in front of you was at the stop sign - it doesn’t count as YOUR stop!” 3) See the stop sign? The one you just drove six feet past, through the crosswalk and into the intersection? That is where you’re supposed to stop, assclown.

6. My grammar isn’t perfect, and I know it. And yet I really wish facebook had a red pen option. Because while I understand that words like participle and transitive and subjunctive can make anyone’s head spin, seeing some of the shit that people write make my head catch on fire and explode. Also? Spellcheck!

7. The Girl received an academic award at the school board meeting this week. It started at 7:30 and we were expecting to be out of there in time to see Lost at 9:00. I nearly cried when we pulled into the huge parking lot and saw it completely filled up. Turns out there were about 220 awards to pass out. Each child was given a small paper to fill out their activities and hobbies, to be used in their introduction. Had everyone filled them out like we did, with a couple of activities and a couple of hobbies, it would have moved a lot more quickly. However, some of these parents seemed to think that their kids were receiving a Nobel prize and instead turned in a biography. I am totally not exaggerating when I say that there were many that went like this:

“Our next student is Miffy Schmuffkin. Miffy’s hobbies include playing outside, playing in her room, playing with her dolls, jumping up and down, going to the park with Pap, swinging on the swings, baking brownies with Grandma, running around in circles, playing beauty shop and making Mommy and Grammy beautiful, playing with her pets – her dogs Spot and Rover, and her cats Puffy and Fluffy and her seven goldfish and two hamsters Thing 1 and Thing 2, watching movies, watching TV, digging holes in the yard, watching Daddy cut grass, raking leaves, Helping Mommy inn the kitchen, taking walks with the dogs, taking walks without the dogs, playing with her little brother, talking on the phone, going shopping with Mommy, Aunt Judy and Aunt Lisa, having sleepovers with her friends, visiting with her cousins, coloring, reading books with Uncle Bob, riding her bike, flying kites, going on vacation, building sandcastles, going to Build-A-Bear, bungee jumping at the mall when she goes shopping with Mommy, making paper airplanes, singing in the car with her Hannah Montana cd, and eating ice cream.”

WTF??

Needless to say, we left early. I felt a little bad, until I talked to The Girl’s teacher who said her son was up next and when he was done, she was leaving, too. I don’t know how long it went, but we stayed for an hour and they only made it through two grades. There were four more to go.

8. I need a sitter this weekend and I hate finding a sitter. I hate asking people to watch my kids. I mean HATE it. Almost to the point of not wanting to go out to avoid it. I don’t know why, I’m just crazy.

9. A teacher in Alabama was teaching his class geometry and to help them learn about angles, he used the scenario of assassinating the president. You know, I am having a very hard time with the fact that this kind of behavior is escalating and is somehow acceptable.

10. Her dad is as awesome as she is.

11. Being broke sucks. Hard. Whoever said “Money can’t buy happiness” was a douche. I am guessing it was either 1) some poor slob trying to make themselves feel better bout being poor, 2) some unhappy rich person who didn’t know how to properly use their money, or 3) some happy rich person feeling guilty and trying to convince themselves that their happiness wasn’t related to their money. Because while money can’t buy actual happiness, it could buy me a lot of things that would make me happy, like no debt, a nice house, cars that don’t suck, time off to be with my family, a personal chef, and vacations. So suck it stupid quote person.

12. OK- time for some vanity: You know what bugs me the most about getting old (other than the bitchslap of mortality)? No – it’s not the gray hair, or the weight, or the dumbassery. It’s the lashes. I never in my life wore mascara – I had long, thick lashes. People always commented on them. No one could believe that I wasn’t wearing any mascara. And suddenly in the past year or so, I started wearing mascara. I started because I was using powder shadow, and it would drop on my lashes, so they needed mascara for the color. But now I realize that I need it regardless. They are still longer and thicker than many people’s (I mean – I can’t wear some glasses because they bend my lashes), but they aren’t the same as they were in my youth and it pisses me off. I don’t know where this burst of vanity is coming from – I am not generally a vain person. Seriously – I wouldn’t even color my hair if not for walking into my BFF’s salon and having her say, Oh HELL no and throwing color on me. I guess it’s because my eyelashes were always “my thing?” I don’t know. But regardless? Aging is a fucker.

13. Today was The Girl’s kindergarten end-of-year program. Somehow the end of kindergarten is hitting me harder than the beginning. My baby is growing up. Hold me.

Lost - but not the TV kind

On Saturday, The Girl, Rapunzel and I decided to go geocaching. I programmed some caches into the GPS, we packed a picnic lunch and off we went. We decided to do the easiest, single cache first, then stop for lunch, then hit as many of the other as we had time for. And, as is so often the case, fate got wind of our plans and said, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

We started off up a gravel path, headed for the cache. About halfway up, we had the typical question of “which way?” The GPS points you to the right coordinates as the crow flies, and since that straight line is often through impassible areas, it causes problems. Since we are not crows, nor can we fly, we have to try and figure out which path or trail is going to get us to where we need to go . Sometimes we guess correctly and sometimes some backtracking is required. This time it was the latter. Which is fine – we don’t mind a little extra hiking – it’s good exercise. But we were all a bit hungry and were anxious to get there so we could head back and eat.

Eventually, we reached the inevitable point where we would have to go off-trail. We bush-whacked our way to the general area and after the usual “OMG, we can’t find it” drama, we located the cache, made our trades, signed the log and patted ourselves on the back for being so awesome. Then it all went to shit. We had to climb out of a small ravine, which – the day after heavy rain – was slippery and muddy – at least when going up. I went first to pave the way for The Girl and proceeded to slip and start to fall. As I was falling, I grabbed and roots and branches to catch myself. And as I let go of one of those (sizable) branches, it snapped back and hot me in the face. Directly in the eye. Somehow I managed to not cry like a little baby and got up the bank. I pulled The Girl up and then Rapunzel came. As she was coming through, a large jagger branch swung towards her. I grabbed it to keep it from hitting her in the face. And it turned out to be the kind that releases its thorns. So I cane away with a handful of tiny, sharp splinters. Awesome.

Once I tended to my wounds, we headed out. And then – for the first time in all my years of playing in the woods – I got lost. Not lost, exactly, but I couldn’t find the place where we went off trail. I knew the direction of the trail, but we couldn’t get to it without going through thick, high brush. Clearly, there was a way, since that’s how we got there, but we could not find it. It didn’t help that we were all starving, plus The Girl was whining. Finally, we found a trail, but not the trail we were looking for. We had to decide which way to go. We chose the way that 1) looked like it would lead us to the original gravel path we were on before we backtracked to the dirt trail, and 2) went in the direction closest to the waypoint of the car. But between the whole “crow flies”/GPS issue and the crazy-ass, step-hilled, switchback nature of the trails? We chose wrong.

While we were never really lost since we were on a trail the entire time – it was exhausting and frustrating. And we were too far along on the trail to want to turn back. I knew we’d come out somewhere, but I was afraid of where that would be. We hiked for a LOOOONG time. And the last mile or so of the hike was all uphill. A HUGE hill. Every time the trail looked like it was leveling out, we came around a bend to see yet another steep climb ahead of us. By this time, I had a sinking feeling that I knew exactly where we were going to emerge from the woods and I was right. On a high-traffic state route with no sidewalks – making it a dangerous place to try and walk.

I was never so bummed to be right.

We were happy to be on the main road, but we knew we had another long hail ahead of us. A couple miles down DangerRoad to get to the park access road we needed. Then another mile or so down that road. Then two or more miles through the park (also not easy walking) to get to the car. All of us hungry and tired and lugging backpacks and a pissed off six year old.

Just before we headed off down DangerRoad, I noticed an elderly woman in her driveway across the street and I decided I had better verify that we were going in the right direction before we started walking. She told me we were and we talked for a few minutes. As I ran back across the street, her husband and sister-in-law pulled into the driveway t pick her up and she yelled over and asked if we would like a ride.

I debated a few seconds, because I really didn’t want to teach The Girl that it was OK to take rides from strangers, but quickly came to the conclusion that HELL YES we wanted a ride. I figured I’d talk to The Girl about it afterwards. So we piled in the car with them and spent the next 5 minutes on the most harrowing ride ever. The guy was pushing 90 and he drove not only like a 90 year old, but like an insane, homicidal, 90 year old who spent the morning smoking crack. Seriously – that ride was scarier than the entire lost-in-the-woods hike. Luckily, we made it intact to the head of a trail that led to our car and we only had to walk about a half mile or so to get there.

When we got there, we grabbed our blanket and cooler and got settled in for a picnic lunch. While we were eating we realized that, despite everything that happened, we actually had a really fun day. And a bonus? Food always tastes better after you narrowly avert death.

Sexy Miss USA Pics Don't Change How I Feel About Pageants - I'd Hate Them Anyway

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Don't forget - my March for Maddie Giveaway is still going on. Can you help? Donate and you could WIN!
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So there’s a bit of a controversy going on surrounding the Miss USA pageant. It seems that the pageant has posted photos on its website of the contestants in sexy lingerie. And some people think it’s going too far – too sexy, too sleazy, too…something. But me? I just don’t care. The women that participate in the pageant are all adults. They can make the decision on whether they feel comfortable posing like that. They aren’t being taken advantage of (assuming that they weren’t forced into doing so unwillingly, and since I haven’t heard any reports I am going with the assumption that they were all willing). So no – I don’t dislike the Miss USA pageant because of these photos. I dislike the Miss USA pageant because it’s a pageant.

I’ve always been pretty clear on my feelings about pageants. I’ve seen firsthand a family member pushed into pageants throughout her childhood. It wasn’t pretty – and it wasn’t nearly as extreme as what you see on those revolting Toddlers & Tiaras-type shows. I hate that pageants are teaching young girls that what is important is what’s on the outside – that beauty is far more important than intelligence or kindness or any number of other good qualities. Supporters of pageants like to blab on about how it gives them confidence and poise and strength. They like to talk about how pageants are scholarship contests, not beauty contests. And OK – I’ll give them some of that. I’m sure that being in pageants does help build a girl’s confidence. But so do sports and music lessons and girl scouts. And none of those things require a fake tan. And sure – sometimes the prizes in pageants are scholarships, but back in the day, I did a lot of interviewing for college scholarships and NOT ONE of them required that I wear a bikini. Go figure.

And let’s be honest – remember Miss Teen South Carolina a few years back? She of the following quote:

"I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because, um, some people out there in our nation don't have maps and, uh, I believe that our, uh, education like such as, uh, South Africa and, uh, the Iraq and everywhere like such as, and I believe that they should, uh, our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S., uh, should help South Africa and should help Iraq and the Asian countries, so we will be able to build up our future."

She got THIRD PLACE! Third place out of 51 contestants! How stupid were the other 48 contestants if this is the third place “scholarship” winner?

COME ON! Let’s be honest. Pageants ARE beauty contests. And beauty contests aren’t exactly teaching our girls much of anything beyond the Pretty is Best mentality. And the folks behind them know it or they wouldn’t be so gung-ho on telling us otherwise.

But hey – maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they’re harmless. Maybe it’s OK to put blush and eye-shadow and false eyelashes on a 5-year old, because her own natural beauty isn’t enough.

And maybe it’s OK to give a 2-year old hair extensions because her baby-fine hair isn’t beautiful enough.

And maybe there’s nothing wrong with making a child wear big false teeth and fake tans because proudly showing their first lost baby tooth just isn’t proper pageant decorum. Or because they don’t have teeth yet and as everyone knows, tiny little toothless smiles are hideous, right? And soft, porcelain , undamaged skin? YUCK!

And dressing them up like Vegas showgirls and hookers is totally cute!

And it wouldn't be a pageant if the contestants didn't show off their sexy curves in a bathing suit competition, right?

And of course it’s not at all disturbing to retouch photos until the once beautiful, normal looking little girls look like they are wearing pancake makeup. nothing says "adorable!" like that coffin look.

But the girls like it the pageant people keep telling us. It’s good for them.

And one day these little girls will grow up into bigger girls. Older, more grown-up girls, but still girls. And if they are lucky, they will become a part of the Miss USA family. And they will be seen by the whole world in borderline soft-porn photos, right there on the Miss USA website - which is fine if that;s what they want. But when we look at those photos, my first thought isn't exactly, Wow, they all look very confident.

I'll take this any day - messy, stringy hair, missing tooth, pale skin, no eyeliner to be seen, and the most beautiful thing I've seen today (even in crappy cell phone photo form):

Her Mom Probably Embarrassed HER, Too

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Don't forget - my March for Maddie Giveaway is still going on. Can you help? Donate and you could WIN!
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Yesterday on the way into work, the radio station was asking for embarrassing mom stories and I immediately thought of…oh…one hundred million of them. Seriously. There are so many I couldn’t even narrow it down. I’m sure we all have them and I’m sure our kids will have them, too. Of course, in my case, I sort of get double, since my mom has an identical twin that I am really close to. And since they are together so much: Embarrassing times two.

If I had called in to try and win a prize, I would have been tongue tied trying to decide which one is best – like maybe the time my mom & aunt decided to dance (or actually “dance”) at one of my birthday parties, thought it would be a good idea to finish the big “dance” with a dip, so they yelled out “Dip!” and then both dipped. And fell into the TV. Yeah, that was fun. At least they didn’t fall into my Shaun Cassidy cake (I had him on my cake several years in a row. Shut up). Good times. (You know, now that I am thinking about it, that one wasn’t actually Aunt Twin, but my Aunt Cee, and since she reads this, I probably shouldn’t be telling you about it, but – and I hope you are reading this Cee – TOUGH SHIT! Because even though I love you very much, I still feel the pain and trauma of you de-pantsing me in front of Old Joe and sitting on me and doing that gross spit thing, and let’s not forget the time you locked me out of the house IN THE SNOW! WITHOUT SHOES! And I had to walk a whole block in the snow to get my mom and Gram to come home and fix your ass SO THERE! And also – after you left me pantsless behind the couch while Old Joe was visiting and you took off? He used to give me money! I WIN!!!!)
Ahem

Where was I? Oh yeah – the embarrassing mom stories. There are many, many more. The fact that my mom and Aunt Twin seem to think that if they don’t move their lips when they talk that no one can hear them makes for many, MANY ways to embarrass me. Like when the immigrant cab driver was driving us around Toronto and they were “whispering” about how they thought he was cheating us because “they say” that the cab drivers will do that and even worse, some will abandon you in a bad part of town and make you pay them to get you out, blahblahblah UglyAmericanCakes. Or the loud search for a non-Portuguese cab driver because one person they knew met a Portuguese man and he used her to get into the country (thus all Portuguese men are guilty of this). Not that Portuguese cab drivers are easy to spot or anything.

Or the numerous times she drove me to school in her pajamas (which in the grand scheme of things is not so bad, but when you are 15? Kill me!)

Or the time my we went to the pool and my mom mentioned that she hated walking past the front row of women in lounge chairs because she always felt like they were looking at her and judging her, and Aunt Twin said, “Leave it to me” and proceeded to make a GIANT ASS of herself as we walked by – presumably to make the focus off my mom, but OH! MY! GOD! I wanted to DIE!!

Or the time when my mom got mad at me for something stupid and then my Aunt Cee got mad at her for getting mad at me and then my Nana got upset because everyone was mad. And then my mom was chasing me, so I ran out of the house and up the street to the car (I don’t know – did I think I was going to drive away? I was 12 or 13.), and Cee was chasing her, and Nana was chasing us all. I jumped in the car and my mom jumped in after me and grabbed me by the hair (don’t get all crazy with the abuse claims here – anyone with a teen can relate to at least wanting to pull their hair). So Cee opened the door and grabbed my mom by the hair. And then my mom let go of me and grabbed Cee’s hair and they fell out of the floor onto the street between the car and the curb and rolled around, both refusing to let go of each other’s hair and my Nana was doing a Fred Sanford to get them to stop and I was sinking down in my seat praying no one would see this. And then the next day in school, not one, but TWO people told me they saw me and my aunt and my mom and my great grandma running down the street and when I tried to say they were crazy, they proceeded to describe the entire scene in front of the entire lunch table and then I died of embarrassment. The End.

(I feel the need to say that Cee is appearing in these stories a great deal. Cee – consider yourself ON NOTICE!)

But one of my favorites (??) was the time my Gram was watching me and my cousin Cheryl. I was eight and she was two. We ordered pizza with mushrooms, since it was our favorite topping. We got it from a brand new pizza place called Pizza Shack. In those days, all the pizza shops used canned mushrooms, but Pizza Shack used fresh ones. And if you’ve ever had fresh mushrooms on a pizza, you know they aren’t the prettiest things. Anyway, the pizza was good and we ate most of it. And then my mom and Aunt Twin came home. They took one look at those unpretty mushrooms and decided then and there that Pizza Shack was trying to kill us with spoiled, poisoned mushrooms. My mom called Pizza Shack and ranted at them about the spoiled, poison mushrooms. And though they tried to assure her that their mushrooms were perfectly normal, she was having NONE OF IT.

They were freaking out, crying and saying incoherent things about poison and hospitals and stomach pumping. I heard those words and decided that I would rather die of poisoning than experience that. So I told them I didn’t eat any mushrooms that night – I picked them all off. Somehow they believed me, despite the fact that I LOVE mushrooms, and the fact that there was no evidence of picked-off mushrooms on the plates. They looked at Gram next, but she’s a tough bird and told them to shove it (actually, I think her words were something like “you two are crazy and the mushrooms were fine and I’m watching my show and not going to any damned hospital so shove it up your ass, I need a drink and a cigarette!”). All that was left was poor Cheryl, who - at two - was too young to know what was coming and escape the crazy. The poor thing got packed up into the car and dragged to the hospital, where they had no choice but to believe that she had eaten spoiled, poisoned mushrooms and treated her with a nice big dose of ipecac.

Although I felt bad for her, I was glad I missed that torture. What I didn’t know was that I was in for an even more delightful treat. As we left Gram’s house to head home, my mom grabbed what was left of the pizza. I didn’t understand why, since she was so sure it was poison, but I was hoping maybe I could sneak another piece when we got home. Unfortunately, my mom had other plans. She drove to Pizza Shack. And while I sat in the car under the lights (where I thought everyone in the entire world could see me), my mom proceeded to stand on the front steps of Pizza Shack and announce to the gathered patrons that Pizza Shack served SPOILED POISON MUSHROOMS!! Then she dumped the remaining pizza on the steps and – Good Lord – jumped up and down all over them. Then she realized she couldn’t see me (since I was ducking down in my seat so no one would see me) and started yelling “Gina? GINA!?!” thus killing any chance I had of remaining anonymous.

Looking back I can laugh, of course. But that doesn’t mean I’m not doing my best to make up for it by embarrassing my own kids. It’s the circle of life, people.

Pay It Forward

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Don't forget - my March for Maddie Giveaway is still going on. Can you help? Donate and you could WIN!
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I’ve always been the "sucker". I mean, I don't think I'm a sucker at all - but other people often do. You know – the one who gives the panhandlers money and puts change in the half-assed can on the minimart counter labeled “For Chairity.” I know that many times, I am probably being taken for…well…a sucker. But I don’t care. I’ve always been a firm believer that even if 9 out of 10 of those panhandlers take my money directly to the liquor store, that it still leaves one that I might actually be helping. And helping that one person is more important than not helping the other nine.

I’ve been known to do things that other people think are crazy – buying breakfast and a bus fare for a woman and her mother who were stuck at a hospital all night with no means to get home. They cried and felt bad that they couldn’t pay me back. I told them don’t worry – just pass it in. I once stopped – in the Hill no less – to help a man and his two young grandkids whose car had broken down. I gave him some money to get a cab and he wanted my address so he could send it back to me. I told him to pass it on. I try to help people whenever I can, and my response is always pass it on – pay it forward. I believe that even simple acts of kindness – like taking back someone’s shopping cart, or helping someone carry their groceries, or giving up a seat to someone on a bus – really can change the world. And I believe that it will eventually come back to you.

Many years ago, I was on a business trip in Chicago. Around the time I was there, the city was having a rash of pick-pocketings. Everywhere you went, businesses had signs about holding on to your bags and purses. Restaurants warned women not to hang your purse on the back of your chair. I took the warnings to heart and carried a tiny purse that I wore across my body. It had a button flap and a zipper. It rested right against my hip. It was pick-pocket-proof. Or so I thought.

My last night in the city, I walked a few blocks to a restaurant. I had an amazing, relaxing dinner and asked for my check. When the waiter was getting it for me, I reached into my purse for my card and discovered that my wallet was gone. I had it when I had left the hotel and didn’t take it out along the way. But apparently, somewhere in the crowds on the way to the restaurant, someone did.

I was in a panic. I had visions of washing dishes (like they always do in the sitcoms when they can’t pay the check). I had visions of being arrested. I was terrified. When the waiter came back, I was in tears as I explained what had happened. He told me to come with him and led me to the front desk to speak with the manager. I was literally shaking, worrying not only about the dinner check, but about the fact that my money, my debit card, my company credit card, and my ID were all gone and I had a flight home the next morning.

The manager was a sweet woman who immediately told me not to worry – that she would help me (which of course brought on more tears). She told me not to think twice about my meal – it was on them and they were glad to show me that their city was better than the pickpocket who had ruined my trip. She told me that the waiter would be taken care of when I worried about his tip. She wanted to give me money for a cab back to the hotel but I refused, since it was only a few blocks. She insisted on calling the hotel to let them know what happened, so they wouldn’t think I was trying to get out of paying. I sat at the bar with a (free) glass of wine, watching this amazing and kind woman take care of things for me – talking with the hotel and finding out that they were going to provide me with cab fare back to the airport the next day (because otherwise she intended to do so).

While this was going on, the couple sitting next to me spoke up. They told me they had heard what happened and they were sorry that something like that happened in their city. They told me that they wanted to help me and handed me $40. I refused, saying that I would be fine. But they insisted. They said that I couldn’t go to the airport with no money. They said you never know what might happen and that I might need it. They said I needed to eat something. They said that they wouldn’t be able to sleep that night if they didn’t help me out. So I gave in and took it and asked for their address to pay it pack. They told me they didn’t want me to pay it back, they wanted me to pay it forward. And I’ve been trying to do that ever since.

This post was inspired by Secret Agent L. If you don’t read her blog already, you should check her out, along with It Starts With Us.

And pay it forward whenever you can.

My Fairy Godfather Drank Black Velvet

I posted this Last April and - just like I described in the story - when I called, he came. Shortly after I hit "publish," Walt and I found each other again. We caught up and had a lot of laughs. We've talked on the phone and emailed and chatted on facebook. I was looking forward to getting together with him in the fall for our college homecoming celebration. I laughed as I pictured myself walking around the old campus, yelling, "WALT!" knowing that - as always - he would answer.

But today, I got an email from another old friend telling me the sad news. Walt - my friend - my fairy godfather - passed away on Sunday. He lived in Texas, so I can't be there. I won't see him again. All I can do is tell his story one last time. I'll miss you, Fairy Godfather.


I was having a conversation recently about “the good old days” and we were bringing up people in our past who were “characters” and the one person that always comes to mind for me in that situation is my friend Walt.

Walt was a legend on the campus of my teeny-tiny (first) college. Legend had him anywhere between 21 and 27, depending on who was retelling it. He was an icon. A permanent fixture. Don’t get me wrong, he was a smart guy and loved college. Or “college”, if you will. He was a stocky guy with the white blond hair. He almost always had a smile on his face (probably because he was at least a sheet and a half at any given time).

The first time I met Walt, I was a little intimidated. Here I was, a freshman, a baby, and there HE was - a. . .well. . .I have no idea what he was, since legend had it he was in his 6th or 7th year. But he was older. He was a grownup. As a sophomore, my friend Dave would drag me to Walt’s place to party, and I’d feel uncomfortable the entire time. The crowd there was always (to me, at least) a little older, a little smarter, a lot cooler. I have to admit, the discomfort was totally on my part - everyone there treated me just fine, but I felt inferior and stupid. But in time, Walt became my Fairy Godfather.

I never really thought he noticed me. I figured he saw me as the kid Dave dragged around with him. I didn’t even think he knew my name. But one day, I was walking to Victorian Literature (otherwise known as Stick Hot Pokers into My Ears and Eyes Lest I Explode from Boredom class) and I heard a voice from across the quad yell, “Hey! MaidenName! Let’s go drink a bottle of Black Velvet!” And given the choice of going to the world’s most boring class ever and downing a bottle of Canadian whiskey with a somewhat intimidating near-stranger - no contest!

I sort of thought he was kidding - that he just had some beer or a partial bottle left over from his last party or some good bud and was just looking for some company, but when we got back to his place, he pulled out two shot glasses and a brand new bottle of Black Velvet and we got to drinking. We spent the next couple of hours drinking and talking and having a great time. By the time his roommate (another older, even more intimidating silent-type) got back, along with some of the other of the usual party crowd (including Dave, who was until now, my only ticket into the place), Walt and I were pretty much trashed and laughing like fools. The roomie gave us a raised-eyebrow and everyone else looked a bit surprised. So perhaps I right and they were just tolerating me, or maybe they were just surprised that Walt was drunk on whiskey with a sophomore they all barely knew. Or maybe they were just surprised that I wasn’t with Dave - we were pretty much inseparable and I found out years later that everyone thought we were a couple.

Regardless, from that point forward, Walt became my Fairy Godfather. No matter where I was or what I was doing, if I thought about Walt, he would suddenly be there. We’d be partying in my friend’s dorm room and we’d say, “Walt should be here”, and a minute later the door would open and he’d walk in. Or we’d be at a hotel for homecoming, and wonder where Walt’s room was. So, we’d walk up the halls and just say, “Walt!” In 30 seconds, a door would fly open, and there he’d be. I’d be walking to class and think, “I really don’t feel like going today - I wish Walt would come rescue me” and before I knew it, I’d hear the by-then-infamous, “Hey MaidenName! Let’s go drink a bottle of Black Velvet/tequila/case of beer/” and off we’d go.

My favorite magically-appearing Walt occasion was after he graduated and I had left our small-town college for the last time (as did Dave). It was 1980-something, at a Dead show. It was the first of two shows and I had a ticket for both nights, but my friend Trish only had one for the second night. She came along anyway and we met up with Dave and some of his friends to party. A few hours before the show, we were making our rounds of the parking lot and a few people cut through our group, and in that sea of people, that was all it took to be separated from all my friends. I spent the next couple hours walking around looking for them and occasionally hanging out with some fun strangers. I finally gave up when it was time for the show to start. My ticket was a single, so I couldn’t even find them in their seats, since I had no idea where they were (not to mention, that at a Show? Seats, Schmeats!). I ended up running into a guy I knew who was also on his own, so I hung with him during the show. Afterward, we parted ways and I was once again alone in the lot.

I went to where they had been parked, but they were gone. I spent about an hour walking around, wondering how the hell I was going to get home (it was after city buses quit running, I had no money for a cab and it was way too far to walk, especially since I’d have to make my way through the Hill District to get home). I was feeling pretty freaked out and was about to find a group of folks who would let me hang for the night, when I started thinking about Walt. So I took a chance and said, “Walt!” And I swear - a van door popped open and there he was! That’s when I knew it was official - Walt was my Fairy Godfather.

Since last night, I can’t get him off my mind. We got in touch a few years ago and emailed a few times. He lived several states away and was married with a child. We lost touch again and I regret that. He was a good guy and a lot of fun. He was an unexpected friend. I find myself thinking about him quite often. So I have one thing to say:

“Walt!”