When Customer Service Flies Out the Window a.k.a. The Great Cookie Debacle a.k.a The Battle of the Blossoms and How I Won a.k.a The Pants Predicament

   The other day I was revisiting an old story- The Great Cookie Debacle- with my husband. I seem to be stuck in reminiscing mode. Anyway, this was one of my all time favorite DTRJH? moments, so I thought I would share.

   It was my niece's birthday and her favorite cookie ever is something called the Peanut Butter Blossom. (It's a peanut butter cookie with a chocolate kiss centered on top.) We thought on our way out of town we would stop at the local cookie store in the mall which I shall call Blunders. Blunders is apparently famous for their Peanut Butter Blossoms, but not so much for their common sense.

   We had an hour's drive ahead of us so we were in a bit of a hurry when we rushed in- not that it mattered since it was nearing close on a Sunday and there were no lines. I was nervous as I scanned the case hoping to find the cookie to end all cookies (not necessarily for me as I hate peanut butter but my niece would argue the point so I thought I'd throw that in). There they were, in all their shining glory (okay, not shining, brown really, but brown glory just doesn't have the same ring to it), one full dozen- twelve, count them TWELVE- Blossoms- for my niece and her friends to savor (or fight over depending on how many were in attendance at the party).

   A young lady came to the register and said, "How may I help you?" in a chipper voice.

   Okay, really that's just me daydreaming. What really happened was a Brainless Employee came to the register and mumbled something indistinguishable that I could in no way understand, making it obvious that she had been pleasantly piddling away her time during her last-UGH- hour of her shift and I had interrupted, but I didn't care; I had cookies to buy.

   I told her what I needed and that's when this conversation commenced.

   BE: But I can't sell you all twelve.

   Me: Huh?

   BE:  I can't sell you all twelve.

   Me: Okay… (I'll bite) Why?

   BE: Because I'm not over eighteen.

   Now in Alice's Wonderland- a realm ruled completely by chaos- this might make sense- but as I had not fallen down a rabbit hole or stepped through a looking glass I was a bit confused.

   Me: What has your age got to do with anything?

   BE: Indiana state law doesn't allow me to work the ovens because I'm not eighteen, so I can't bake.

   Me: No problem. I wasn't asking you to bake- you got twelve- I want twelve. (Fork 'em over sister.)

   BE: But I can't sell everything that's in the case.

   Still not believing I am having this twisted argument when time's a tickin' away, I bravely persevered.

   Me: That's not everything in the case. Look there, you have sugar cookies and chocolate chip cookies and oatmeal cookies and even cookies that look like the Cookie Monster. I'm not buying those. Just the Peanut Butter Blossoms. Thank you. (I was still striving to be polite at this point even though I was starting to feel my own IQ points trickling away. I mean really, we were arguing about purchasing cookies INSIDE a cookie shop. Isn't that the purpose of a cookie shop? To SELL cookies? I wasn't asking for a lung transplant.)

   BE: No, I mean I can't sell all of one kind. That's our policy.

   Me: Uh huh. Well. Could you please explain that policy to me? I mean, you're here to make money right? And look- you're already halfway there- you have the customer, who has the money and you have the wares. All you have to do is bag the cookies and I will pay you and voila- feat accomplished!

   BE: I'm sorry, I can only sell you half.

   Me: What?!

   BE: That's our policy. We can only sell half of what's in the case so that the next customer can buy some too.

   Me: What if I'm the last customer tonight? What do you do with the other half of the cookies then? Do you sell them tomorrow? (Considering the 'Fresh Baked Cookies' sign as opposed to the 'Day Old Cookies Because We Are Blithering Idiots' sign, I doubted it.)

   BE: No, we throw them out.

   My head was spinning.

   Me: Have you ever heard the saying 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush?' 'Cause you're kind of banging on the bush looking for more and you've got one in your hand RIGHT NOW. You close in like an hour- chances are no one else is coming but me. Yet it's perfectly logical to you to hold on to six cookies you will throw away later rather than sell them FOR MONEY right now.

   BE: It's just our policy.

   Me: Policy Schmolicy. How do you guys make your rent?

   This brainiac was in HIGH SCHOOL. Yep, she's great at taking orders- talk about your lemmings committing mass suicide following all of the others into the sea. Pink Floyd had it right- these kids really are getting processed through a meat grinder- she was the proof of that. I think I even saw a little hamburger coming out of her ear.

   Nevertheless, this had now become a challenge. Brainless Employee had thrown down the cookie gauntlet and I was not one to pass it up. One way or another I was buying those cookies if it killed me in the process. I swear I was willing to go to jail for them. I was determined to get them for my niece yes, but at the same time I was determined to empty that damn case. IF IT KILLED ME. (Did I already mention that?)

Looking around I devised a plan. I was not alone on this mission. My two children and their father were with me. Instantly I started passing out cash.

   Me: Okay. I will buy six cookies. That leaves six- HALF of the cookies. He (I pointed at the childrens' father) will purchase three. Leaving HALF again, that's three cookies. (I knew math could NOT possibly be her strong suit.) Then, he (son) will buy - oh wait- do you round up or down?- never mind- he'll buy one and a half and my daughter will buy one and a half. Now you have two choices. Sell me twelve cookies all at once, or start ringing 'em up, 'cause if it takes all night halving cookies, then so be it. Those puppies are mine.

   She must have realized she was in a no win situation. Maybe most people wouldn't have waged an all out Blossom Battle, but she hadn't met me yet.

   Finally she gave in.

   BE: Fine, but if I get in trouble I'm telling my supervisor what you did.

   Me: Go right ahead. And tell her she's an idiot if she can't figure out how stupid her policy is.

   Honestly, what's better, a pretty case for the customers to look at, or a full cash drawer? For me, there is no debate. Take the money and run.

   Which brings me to my next customer service epic fail. This took place back when my son was still in high school. He had mentioned to me one morning that he needed new jeans- judging by the various holes he was sporting in the pair he was wearing at the time (holes not actually MEANT to be there- not some high dollar 'ripped' jeans- he actually wore them out) I told him to meet me at my work on my lunch hour.

   We took said lunch hour to run to a nearby store to purchase the jeans- and YIPPEE - they were ON SALE. Now my kids can tell you nothing makes my eyes light up more than a clearance rack. When I pinch a penny (which is always) it ends up flatter than any train could ever do. So we managed to purchase four pairs of jeans for the low, low price of $60, plus my 20% coupon making it $48 plus tax- WOOHOO. Momma's doin' a happy dance all the way to the register. Twelve bucks a pair for jeans- now we are talking!

   It wasn't until I got back to work and read my receipt that I realized I had been charged $96 plus tax- one of the pairs of jeans was over $60 (remember 20% came off the top)- WHAT? Now in my lifetime I have NEVER paid $60 for jeans (and God willing never will). Naturally I told my son to meet me back at the store after work- the very LAST thing I wanted to do.

   We arrived at the store and went back to Customer Service- a loose term that. Anyway, I dutifully waited in line with my little number- yes folks- we were taking numbers and standing in line. I was kind of hoping they might give me a half pound of smoked turkey- hey that's what my deli does… Finally my number came and I explained the problem to the woman behind the counter. She took the jeans I was returning and told me to head back into the store and find another pair and she would do the exchange.

   My son and I returned to the clearance racks whereupon closer inspection I discovered they had literally been positioned in a circle around another rack of jeans that were NOT on sale. We had found the $60 winner. I told him to look more carefully- AVOIDING the naughty rack- and eventually he found another pair.

   Back to Customer Service where one would assume we would not have to wait again- but naturally I was wrong. We took another number, stood in line another thirty minutes, and then met with the same woman who needed to be reminded who we were. (I suppose after an hour you do forget.) This was not the problem however. The problem was that she had misplaced the jeans that were to be exchanged.

   My patience was at an all time low- remember- second shopping trip in the same day and I had worked a very busy ten hour shift. I was tired. I was hungry. I wanted to go home.

   But, I bit my tongue and maintained a polite attitude, telling her, no problem, we'll wait while you find them.

   And that was when she accused us of 'trying to pull a fast one' and stealing the jeans.

   WHAT?!

   You could literally hear tires squealing as everything around us ground to a halt. Now everyone in the room had all eyes on her and us. My son and I stood there baffled, with our mouths hanging open.

   I tried to remind her she had taken the jeans- along with the bag and the receipt- before sending us back into the store.

   Her response was: "I don't know what you're trying to pull here, but it's not going to work. You had them with you when you left. It's not our policy to take the customer's merchandise."

   (I am SO sick of hearing the words, 'Our policy.')

   Eventually (still mid argument- and no I did NOT leap across the counter and throttle her although I REALLY, REALLY wanted to), her supervisor joined the melee. Stupid-visor- after hearing both sides including the insinuations the 'Customer Service Representative' was making- proceeded to back up her employee with the words- 'It's not our policy-'

   At this point I wanted to scream. I DID yell. Loudly. With much vehemence. And some spit.

   'I don't care what your policy is. I am telling you, she TOOK the jeans, AND the bag, AND the receipt, and I don't know what she did with them, and at this point I really don't care. Just give me the money I paid for the jeans and I promise you I will never darken your door again. I can NOT BELIEVE this is how you would treat a customer. Really? REALLY?! Accusing me of STEALING some stupid jeans? If I was going to STEAL them don't you think I'd be stealing the $60 ones and not the $12 ones? HOW can I STEAL something I'VE ALREADY PAID FOR?!'

   At this point I think the Stupid-visor realized things had spiraled too far out of control- I'm half convinced someone had already placed a call to 911. However, the Stupid-visor began looking around and DID find a bag (buried under a bunch of crap the CSR was folding and hanging) sitting on the BACK counter about ten feet away from the customer service counter.

   Stupid-visor was feeling rather sheepish when she presented it to me and asked if this was my merchandise. Which of course it was.

   'Yeah, I'm a pretty damn clever shoplifter- I hid the merchandise out of MY reach.'

   She then dismissed the CSR, performed the exchange, and attempted a weak apology.

   And she never so much as offered me that half pound of smoked turkey.

Disclaimer a.k.a. Jenga Trash a.k.a. Bowl Roll Lament a.k.a. The Doo-doo Dilemma

   Disclaimer: Fair warning- this is a rant. All names have been removed to protect the not so innocent. If you think any of this applies to you, it probably does. If you are one of my children- at one time most of this DID apply to you so just because you do or do not do these things now means NOTHING- you no longer live with me so the fact that you are now housebroken benefits me in no way. These are the things that drive my husband and myself completely crazy and will no doubt lead to our long confinement in a nuthouse somewhere where we will sit and rock and babble nonsense to ourselves. End of disclaimer.

   I don't know what it is in my house, but please tell me this is happening everywhere and I am not stuck in some kind of Trash Can Bermuda Triangle, because for some reason in my home, the taking out of the trash is equivalent to asking someone to perform brain surgery: they avoid it because it is far too complicated and it must require some kind of special training.

   Inevitably whenever I enter the kitchen I find trash practically spewing from the can. I have actually watched as some people (who for the sake of maintaining a peaceful atmosphere in the home shall remain nameless) add trash to the already full can like they are playing Jenga.  Oh look, the soda can will fit just here and if I fold this paper plate into a teeny weeny, itsy bitsy, tiny little rectangle ala the Jetson's car, I can jam it into that millimeter of open space just so. Ta da!!

   Five minutes later (the approximate time it would take to pull the bag and add a new one) the trash is lurking in the can waiting for the next poor schmuck (if you're not paying attention- that would be me- resident schmuck) to try and pull the bag, whereupon countless objects rain down around said schmuck's feet.

   Of course that's not the only thing, there's always the bowl roll lament. Toilet paper: it is the bane of my existence.

   I ask you, how HARD is it to change a roll of toilet paper? I live with people that can categorize every last component of an engine and tell you how it works and what it does. They can take it apart and put it back together again. They can run wire, repair plumbing, and carpent with the best of them. (Carpent- what carpenters do- I know it's not a word- deal with it.)They have power tools I've never heard of which require some pretty extensive maintenance. They have jigsaws (not the puzzle), chain saws and weed-eaters out the ying yang. (If you've ever added a spool of wire to a weed-eater you know what a pain that is. I'd rather buy a new one.) They watch hours of Cool Tools and How It's Made (which by the way is enough to put you into a coma) and comprehend higher mathematics and actually enjoy them (really??). They watch science shows and understand quantum physics and time space continuum crap that gives me a headache just hearing the words. Yet they can't handle the bowl roll?

   It's a simple two step process people (one that does not require a degree in engineering, I might add).

   Step one- Take off empty roll. Step two- Replace with new roll. Not hard.

   Then go find some tiny corner in the overflowing trash can to stuff it, would you?

   Now I understand the little springy thing can be challenging, (you could put an eye out with that thing if you're not careful), but sincerely, if you can work a cable remote, you can handle the toilet paper roll. Because if there's one thing I want 'On Demand' it's toilet paper. I'm a girl, I use it A LOT. I almost don't even care if you neglect to put the seat down, I can work that out just fine. But I hate, loathe and despise being trapped on the toilet calling for help and waiting for someone to a) hear me and b) take enough pity to toss me a roll. And if I'm home alone, oh boy are you gonna hear about it later. (As well as everyone else since it's in my blog…)

   A more recent thing has been what I like to call Tidbit Tossing. There are people in my home who do not like to take the last of anything. For that reason there will be one spoonful of whatever kind of food (mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, single slice of bread, half a cinnamon roll, tadpoles on toast-whatever- it doesn't matter what it is). Now naturally what's left behind isn’t enough to feed a two year old on a hunger strike, but Lord knows, we can't touch it. Not until it starts to turn an unnatural color. Then the tidbit gets tossed into the trash can-score two for the trash can- it's quickly becoming public enemy number one in my house.

   And don't even get me started on the dishwasher. Unloading it is completely out of the question, because the Men in Black have visited my home with their little memory erasing flashy thing. I know this because the same people who removed the dishes from the cupboards have suddenly had their memory banks erased and cannot possibly recall from whence they came. As far as loading it, that is also out of the question because although they excel at Jenga trash, they are incapable of finding a hole to poke a dirty dish in. They also are baffled by the load requirements- aka glasses on top, plates and pans on the bottom. Even matching them up with what is already inside is too much of a strain.

   As if the humans aren't bad enough, then there are the dogs.  These two nitwits can handle life just fine if I go out the back door and leave them inside- which makes no sense because that's where their leashes are therefore they spend a lot of time back there; you would think they would feel compelled to join me. But no, if I go out back they sit at the door and watch me quite interestedly, cocking their heads this way and that, but there is no massive freak out.  On the other hand, if I go out the front door I better look like getting in my car and driving away, because anything else out front is completely against the rules. There will be no gardening, mowing, sitting, skating, walking, whatever. I know this because whenever I dare an infraction of these rules (rules the dogs set, not me), the dogs go NUTS.

   They will race around the house like the demons of hell are chasing them, darting from window to window, barking like wild animals and tearing up everything in their paths. I come inside the house to find the comforter and pillows off my bed and on the floor, the couch pillows in the middle of the living room, the drapes opened and/or dismantled in every room of the house, and two nitwits sitting politely in the midst of this tornadic destruction, greeting me at the door with their tails thumping and their tongues hanging out of their mouths. Hey ma, watcha been doin'? We missed you.

   I can see that.

   And then there's the doo-doo dilemma. For some reason the dogs think that the back yard is their own personal bathroom (maybe because it is, but I don't care, just go with me on this one). It's like a magic trick; every time I pluck up poo, three more appear. No sooner than I discharge the doo-doo that they do do so well (nice alliteration there right? I am all about alliteration- there see? I did it again- accolades for alliteration- okay moving on), then they feel the need to let fly with some more. I've seen these two eat- I feed them for crying out loud- there is NO way they eat THAT much. And yet they can manufacture manure at a rate that would put any politician to shame.

   Okay, rant over. Time to go empty the trash, load the dishwasher, and change the roll…

The Dradon Project

   The Dradon Project has finally been published! This book ('epic novel' according to Smashwords- of course they are referring to the length; still I like it- 'epic' makes me happy) has haunted me for some time; I originally started it about five years ago and then gave it up because 'life got in the way.' And then two years ago I got injured and was put on medical leave for several months. During that time I didn't know what to do with myself and so my husband began urging me to get back to writing.

   I remember saying, "Well there was this one project I was piddling around with….  But that was a long time ago and I don't even have very much more than an outline." I didn't even have a title. I knew it was a 'project,' but I didn't know it was the 'Dradon' project.

   "Unless you got something better to do…" was his response; and considering at the time I was in screaming pain twenty-four hours a day and couldn't even turn my head, the answer was, "Nope. No. Not really. Hmmm…"

   And so the project was reborn.

   With so many of my books, the story seems to tell itself and The Dradon Project was no exception. Often I found myself waking up in the middle of the night going, "Oh!!! So that's what happened- as if one of the characters suddenly stepped out of the story and whispered some bit of information in my ear while I slept.

   Sounds crazy I know (but those of you who know me, already know that I crossed the bridge into Crazy Town a LONG time ago…). But that's what was happening- the book was urging me almost as much as my husband was.

   And so I worked on it. And worked on it. And worked on it.

   Normally I carry some kind of notebook around with me everywhere I go because I never know when an idea will hit me and I have to jot it down because I am getting OLD and I forget…

   What was I talking about?

   See what I mean?

   Oh yeah.

   Anyway; normally when writing a book, I will use one or two notebooks- three tops- to record various bits of information, or notes on any research I might have done. In the case of The Dradon Project, I have used ten- count them TEN- notebooks for all the information I had to keep track of. And that's not even including all the mini-notebooks and post-it notes that were randomly stuck EVERYWHERE. I think I was even sticking them to myself at one point.

   In short (too late I know), what I am saying to you is that this has been by far the greatest undertaking I have ever attempted in regards to my writing. I juggled so much information and so many characters that I often found myself with a migraine trying to keep it all straight. But I believe I have succeeded (thanks very much to my editor in chief H.V.!!) and I hope you will all enjoy it. There will be a sequel (H. V. is already hounding me on that), but after such a massive project I am currently taking a break and working on something a little less heavy for a minute. Already though, the next book is plaguing my mind (unlike its predecessor, it already has a title) and I have about half a notebook's worth of notes- I can't get away from my brain.

   The Dradon Project is currently only available on Smashwords but will become available to other venues such as B&N, Apple Store and Amazon in about three weeks; naturally I will let everyone know when that happens. I also published another short story (more of a long essay I suppose, rather than a short story) about two weeks ago that I didn't announce and it has been surprisingly popular- it's flying off the cyber-shelf!

   Thanks again to everyone for all their support- I really DO appreciate it! The e-mails, FB messages, and encouraging words I have received not only from the blog, but also from my previous short stories have been heartwarming. The overwhelming responses from Losing Myself, But Not Entirely (the only piece of non-fiction I've ever written) actually brought me to tears! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I can never say it enough! It is my greatest joy when someone tells me that my blog made them laugh, or that they really enjoyed one of my stories- I am blessed!

Gilda's Locket -Free

Losing Myself But Not Entirely  -Free

The View from the Top -Free

The Dradon Project - $0.99

Pink Bird a.k.a Popping Out of the Cake a.k.a The Finger a.k.a. And I Will Always Love You

  Recently I've been feeling a little bit nostalgic. Maybe it's because my children are grown and so many of their friends are starting to get married and have children of their own. (Disclaimer: I am in NO hurry for my own children to do the same- thanks guys!)

   Anyway, it was only a few weeks ago that my daughter asked me to regale some friends with an old anecdote about my son when he was three, which commenced the nostalgia and all systems were a go for Reminiscence 2012.

  Various memories popped into my brain. Like the time one of my nieces set fire to the microwave oven trying to make S'mores. Apparently it is unnecessary to cook the marshmallow on high for eight minutes. Who knew?

   And then there was the time my sister came home to find her daughter (then two) lying in the middle of the living room floor in a sort of strung out position with her eyes closed. The conversation went like this:

   My Sister: What are you doing?

   My Niece: (Opening one eye to look at her mother) I'm a pink bird. (Eye closes.)

   My Sister: Okay. Why are you lying there?

   My Niece: (Eye opens again.) I'm a dead pink bird. (Eye closes again.)

   Meet my niece, Wednesday Addams…

   Or the time my son and one of his friends decided it might be nifty to go sledding. Indoors. Let me work out the equation for you:

   Toy-box lid + staircase= two sad boys

   The boys were roughly three and four at the time and probably spent a total of two minutes on their brilliant scheming. Criminal masterminds they weren't. They failed to take into account that the staircase split at a landing in the middle. This debacle ended with my son face-planted into the bookcase on the landing and wearing the toy-box lid as a hat, and his friend (upon the mean old parents putting an end to their dangerous activity) saying, "But Moooo-om, I was taking turns." Great job being fair and taking turns Skippy, but you see your friend right there, the one with his left knee behind his neck and his elbow jammed inside his ear? Odds are your turn won't fare much better…

   And then there was the time my daughter (then three) decided to perform a striptease act at her brother's fifth birthday party. Let me just say, thank God for tights! As it turns out, tights aren't just a torture device for women, they actually prevent a toddler from streaking when you least expect it.

   While all the party-goers were busily pinning the tail on the donkey, I caught my child in the kitchen, naked from the waist down, (with the exception of the blessed tights). Somehow she had managed to remove her panties past the tights, though to this day I still haven't figured out how. The girl could've been the next Houdini. Since she was determined to be completely undressed, it was the valiant struggle with the tights that allowed me to catch her in time to prevent her from popping out of the cake…

   Here's one that will live in my mind forever: The finger.

   My kids seemed to like to make it a competition to see who could get hurt the worst. I took semi-annual trips to the ER for stitches, broken bones, and a myriad of other injuries. And they took illnesses to all new, never seen before heights. If they got something (be it chicken pox, pneumonia, the flu, whatever) their little bodies had to perform some strange demented magic that put a twist on it so bizarre even the doctor would say, "What the heck is that?" Not what you want to hear from your pediatrician.

   For example: the time my daughter had mono and she had to have an MRI because her neck and throat were so swollen the doctor thought it was crushing her larynx and impeding her ability to breathe. Really? Who gets an MRI for mono? The kid with the size 52 neck, that's who.

   One of the most minor injuries which serves to substantiate my claim that my children are just flat out weird, was when my daughter jammed her finger playing basketball. Yup, jammed. That's it. That's all. Minor injury.  No one's dying here.

   It should have been that simple right?

   Never is.

   Anyone who knows my daughter knows about her 'freaky finger.' It was during the summer and we were having a cook-out. We had all had just finished eating and we were feeling fat, dumb, and happy. The kids were out front playing basketball and I was busy cleaning up the remnants of the meal.

   Suddenly my daughter came up to me. She was holding one hand inside the other and was saying, "I can't make it go back."

   Naturally I was confused. "Make what go back?"

   "My finger. I tried and I can't make it go back."

   Confusion multiplied. Let me explain:

   The child was calm. She was not crying. She was not exhibiting any signs of pain. She was speaking as if she were talking about something as mundane as the weather. I was in NO way prepared for what happened next.

   She showed me her hand.

   I almost showed her my dinner.

   Her finger, one that used to (operative words here- USED TO) be gloriously straight and used to bend at three points, all knuckles turning INTO her hand, was now shaped like a lightning bolt and was a lot shorter than I had remembered it being. The middle knuckle was bent sort of backwards and kind of folded over on itself. In the WRONG direction. The top knuckle was doing the same thing.

   Have you ever seen those cartoons where the character (think Tom and Jerry or Wile E. Coyote) slams their fingers in a door and they come out all crumpled? That's what it looked like. Funny in a cartoon. Not so funny in real life.

   One other thing I want to add: if my finger (or any other part of my body) ever looks like THAT- the ENTIRE world will know about it. There will be no calm, "I can't make it go back." I will be screaming bloody murder for all the world to hear. Before I pass out. And vomit on myself. Just sayin'.

   After months of physical therapy (seriously- physical therapy for a finger- I swear to you, I had to take the child in a few times a week to watch her do finger 'exercises') and several specially made finger 'casts', her finger still does this freaky thing where she bends all her knuckles backwards. And she does it every opportunity she gets.

   Consider that when you dream about having a darling baby girl you can dress up in little frilly pink dresses.

   And now for the story my daughter wanted me to tell- drum-roll please…

   It was circa 1993; my son was three and my daughter was a year old. The two of them were upstairs playing in their rooms while I was cleaning up whatever havoc they had already wreaked downstairs. Suddenly I heard the distinct sound of my son singing. Fervently. Passionately. With much ardor.

   Now this caught my attention for two reasons. #1- my son did not sing. Ever. For any reason. Not so much as crooning 'Happy Birthday' at a birthday party. And #2- he was singing a love song with tremendous gusto.

   Son: "And Iiiiiiiieeeeeeeiiiiiii wiw ahways wuv youuuuuuuuuuuu! Iiiiiiiii wiw ahways wuv youuuuuuu!"

   (My spell check just LOVED that one. I think it melted.)

   (Tangent Alert) The song was Dolly Parton's I Will Always Love You, made even more famous by Whitney Houston's remake which was playing nonstop on the radio that year. And the year before. And the year after. I pretty much learned to hate that song. (Though not nearly as much as, 'I believe that children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way…' Obviously Miss Houston had not experienced the toy-box lid debacle as of yet…)

   Tangent over. Back to the subject. Son singing passionately:

   Suddenly poignant images painted themselves in my mind; my darling three year old, possibly down on one knee, singing his heart out to his precious baby sister (who was the only one upstairs with him, aside from the dog).

   Being the mother I was, I instantly grabbed the video camera and raced up the stairs. Now let me tell you, this was no easy effort. Let me bring you back to the Stone Age; this was a time when video cameras were not something that fit into the palm of your hand. Oh no, that would be too easy. Video cameras then were shoulder held apparatuses that made you look like you worked for CNN and required a sound man and a lighting engineer to follow you around.

   So there I was, fifty pounds of video equipment stacked on my shoulder, racing up the stairs in an effort to capture this heartwarming scene on film. In seconds I had the camera running and snuck into my daughter's bedroom.

   Upon entering the room I was flummoxed.

   My daughter was busily setting her miniature table with plastic teacups and silverware in preparation for the tea party that was apparently about to begin. My son was not kneeling on the floor ala Cyrano de Bergerac; instead he was seated on her kitchenette, still singing with all the passion his little heart could hold, "And Iiiiiiiieeeeeiiiiii wiw ahways wuv youuuuuuuuu!"

   To the Raggedy Andy doll he held out in front of him.

   He loved his doll. Good to know.

Unidentified Lying Object aka Gradirthday Gap aka Storm, What Storm? aka Security!

   Exhaustion. Thou art my middle name. And first. And last. In fact, it seems to be the only thing I can identify with anymore.

   As you know, (if you've been reading my blogs- if not, you've got a lot of catching up to do, and I would lecture you about how disappointed I am, but really, I'm too darn tired to expend that kind of energy, so moving on) we have been traveling a bit in the last several weeks.

   My latest trip, to New York, has not been without its fair share of adventure. This trip was to attend my step-daughter's graduation and 'Gradirthday party,' her combined graduation and eighteenth birthday.

   Unlike Ohio (with accommodations at the Hyatt provided by the convention), this time we were staying at the, well, let's call it the Mediocre 7 1/2. The differences between the two were never more exemplified than the day my husband made the discovery of a 'foreign object' under the bed. At the Hyatt we were likely to have monsters under the bed (remember, haunter's convention), here we had an Unidentified Lying Object.

   Said object, looked to my husband like toast. How it got under there is anyone's guess. However, upon the arrival of the maid service, he made mention of it. Here's how the conversation went:

   Husband: There seems to be something under the bed.

   Maid: Okay?

   Husband: I'm not sure what it is, but it seems to have been left by the previous occupants.

   Maid: Silence. And confusion.

   Husband: (Feeling the need to qualify his statement) It looks like bread or toast.

   Maid: (Completely mystified) Do you want me to take a look?

   Inside my head: Nope, just thought it was an interesting conversation starter. Breaking the ice with a bit of 'dubious remnants of trash' humor. (Now at this point I'm thinking she should be dying of shame that the room was so poorly cleaned between occupants. Not so.)

   Husband: Uh, yeah.

   Maid gets down on the floor, peers under the bed and says: Yeah, I see it. It looks like a piece of paper.

   And then she gets back up

   Apparently her work here is done.

   Husband: Okaaayyy….

   Maid: (Still baffled) Did you want me to remove it?

   Inside my head: Nope, no, just wanted verification that it was indeed there. I love the thought of an Unidentified Lying Object hanging out mere inches away from where I'm sleeping. Leave it there, I'll give it a name and adopt it as a new pet. Maybe I can put it on a leash and teach it to walk.

   Husband: (Gives up and walks away.)

   Maid looks to me for an answer to her question.

   Me: If you wouldn't mind. (aka if it's not too much to ask to DO your ACTUAL job…)

   Sadly, when the ULO (aka bread, aka paper) was brought out into the light, it was still unidentifiable. I, for one, am glad it was removed. Whatever it was.

   There were more important things to focus on. There was a Gradirthday in the offing, and we focused on that.

   Now let me tell you, those DTRJH? moments that inspire my blog; there is no avoiding them, they happen to all of us. And my step-daughter and her mother (who reads this blog and told me to refer to her, and I quote, as 'My husband's crazy ex-wife' and therefore will be referred to as MHCEW from this point forward with her permission- hey it was her idea- who am I not to run with it?) are no exception. Looking back on my son's graduation, I should have realized there was no way my step-daughter's would go off without a hitch.  

   Allow me to elaborate (because let's get real, you know I will): My son's graduation was a complete and unmitigated disaster. Mid ceremony, a huge storm system blew through town, bringing multiple tornadoes with it, causing them to cancel the graduation midway and hustle us all across the street to the 'safe building with the storm shelter.' Because running in heels through torrential rains and driving winds across a four lane road is always the better option

    At any rate, we all reached the 'safe building' completely drenched, at which point they made the announcement to roughly two hundred and thirty grads that they would not be rescheduling the event. (The powers that be had decided that since the salutatorian and valedictorian had given their speeches, and the honor's students had already walked and received their own diplomas, there was no reason to cater to the two hundred odd students who had been robbed of the experience.)

   It's kind of like being left at the altar. You dress up and show up for the event, eager and excited, but the bride/groom never comes. It was awesome. The would-be graduates were all broken-hearted as they stood there bawling, their sodden caps and gowns sagging with their spirits.

   For this reason, my son's open house actually took place before he graduated, where we held a mini-graduation on the back deck, utilizing the plastic graduation cap and tiny diploma off the cake. We recorded it. It was fabulous. Some of his friends hummed Pomp and Circumstance, while he made his 'walk' across the 'stage,' complete with feigned trip, and received his 'diploma' from a co-non-graduate. It took us a while to find the 'cap' after he threw it in the air…  

   On a side note, the following Monday it was decided to reschedule the event. (The tremendous amount of vandalism following the epic failure of a ceremony, and the even more epic failure to re-schedule the ceremony, had no bearing on their decision whatsoever… Or so they insisted.) The graduation was held, again, the following Friday- or as I like to call it, 'Graduation Take Two.' Once more violent storms raged around us (this time sans the tornadoes) and thus my son was rained upon on both days. I can't wait for his wedding…

   Naturally, I was hoping for better regarding my step-daughter. But if you read this blog, then you know what the odds of that are.

   The graduation was slated for Friday evening, with the party to follow on Sunday afternoon. We headed over to my step-daughter's house late Saturday morning to assist with the party preparations. The county was under a heat advisory, and it was hot. And humid. And thick.

   I was grateful that the ceremony was slated for later in the day. The thought of broiling in the full sun on a football field was not very inviting. Which brings me to the question, why, oh why, was the ceremony outside? I can understand it with a large graduating class. You can't house four or five hundred kids plus their parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles in a gymnasium, I get that.

   But this was a small class, roughly two hundred thirty kids. You CAN accommodate this inside a gym; I know, been there done that. Four times. Just sayin'.

   So there we were, hanging out with my step-daughter and MHCEW, when the phone rang. I watched as MHCEW answered the phone and listened to a recording. Then the phone just dropped right out of her hand and landed on the kitchen floor, vomiting its batteries on impact.

   Somehow I knew it was bad news.

   I'm pretty perceptive that way.

   The ceremony was being delayed until the next day due to the 'threat of inclement weather.'

   Okey dokey.

   New schedule. Ceremony with party to immediately follow.

   All previous plans flew right out the window as we now had to roll with the altered agenda.

   Deciding that we apparently had the entire day now open to us, we used the time wisely, setting up the tent etc. in the sweltering heat.

   Did I mention it was hot?

   We barely had the canopy up, when the storm moved in. And it was a pretty big one. With lots of rain, lots of wind, and lots of lightning. So naturally, like a bunch of idiots, we all sat under the canopy while we worked. Ignoring the fact that the ground was covered in standing water and we were completely surrounded by tent posts, or in this case, lightning rods. The wind blew, the thunder rattled, and lightning lit the sky. And we stayed outside. Because we are nitwits.

   Finally the storm passed, with no one getting fried to a crisp. (A miracle in and of itself.) It was much cooler then, which was wonderful, so we were all inclined to continue our out of doors experience.

   I was just saying something to MHCEW when the slightest flash barely (and I do mean SLIGHTEST and BARELY) lit the area. I had been about to say, 'Did you see that?' when the CRASH-BANG-BOOM interrupted me. Damn nature, never lets you get a word in edgewise.

   We all jumped. I think we even wet ourselves a little bit. Or maybe that was just me.

   I was convinced the lightning had hit the line of trees which runs along and behind the house and was directly beside us, and I frantically looked around, waiting for one to come crashing through the tent. Luckily, nothing happened.

   It was later, as we were driving back to the hotel that MHCEW called and said, 'So, I was just doing dishes and looking out the kitchen window, and I noticed my foliage looked a little different. And then I noticed there were two deer nibbling on the leaves of the tree that was LAYING DOWN in my back yard.'

   Now, we can't be certain if that tree was struck by lightning, or just blown over. However, it was less than a hundred feet from where we had all been sitting under the tent. Proof that God does indeed protect idiots and children…

   Naturally I said to her, 'You know this is going in my blog, right?'

   As far as the graduation ceremony, aside from sitting outside for two and a half hours in the blistering sun, netting everyone a shiny, spankin' new sunburn, the actual graduation went off without a hitch. For the most part.

   I have heard a lot of renditions of 'Pomp and Circumstance' in my time. But I have to say, this one, a 'jazz' (and I use the term loosely) rendition, trombone solo, was by far the most interesting, ummmm unique, errrr distinctive, version I've ever witnessed. I like to call it 'Pooped and Circumcision,' because that's what it sounded like was going on. It was not so much jazz, as dying goose. Which only got funnier when I later learned that their school mascot is the gander.

   However, my step-daughter finally got her moment in the sun (no pun intended, though it did make me giggle), and walked the stage to receive her diploma. She was beautiful and radiant and deservedly excited, and I was so very proud of her. Her party went off without a hitch, and I know she had a great time.

   We had survived lightning and downed trees; we made it through ULO's and Pooped and Circumcised; we had done it all and lived to tell about it. Now it was time to head home.

   Just as soon as we got through airport security.

   Upon our arrival at Albany International Airport, I was shocked, amazed, and flabbergasted to discover, that unlike other airports which generally have eight to a dozen, and sometimes even more, security stations, Albany has four. Count them four. And two of these were closed.

   This would be sufficient for say, 'Mom and Pop's Fly By Night,' but Albany? The capitol city of one of the largest states in the nation and an international airport to boot. Two? Really??

   The line for security filled the roped off area in its entirety. It then extended across the room and onto the skywalk. But we're not done yet. It snaked ACROSS the ENTIRE skywalk, which bridged four lanes of traffic and a very wide median, and into the next building. It took two minutes just to walk to the end of the line. Now that right there is what you call efficiency.

   And I couldn't help but think, as I stood there in that line, shuffling forward a millimeter or two every few minutes, boy do I have a lot of material for my blog. How am I ever going to condense it all down?

   Bear with me; I did the best I could

Flightfear a.k.a. the Garlic Queen a.k.a. Opera Anyone?

   On the road again, I just can't wait to get on- no- OFF the road again.

   It seems like I just got home from Ohio (maybe because I did) and now I find myself in New York. My step-daughter (the baby of the family) is graduating from high school and so I found myself in a car and then on a plane, traveling once more.

   Now let me explain something- I HATE traveling, but I especially hate traveling by plane. I have extreme Flightfear. Planeaphobia.

   No really, Fallaphobia and Crashaphobia.

   And so, with as much courage as I could muster, I headed to the airport and boarded a plane.

   Now at Downleft Airlines, (for the sake of not being sued I have opted to re-name the airline on which I flew and hope to NEVER fly again), they have what's called 'open seating.'

   Let me just say, I HATE open seating. This was a BAD concept. Due to this complete failure of an idea, there is no assigned passenger seating, with the exception of course of first class. For the rest of us peons, it's first come first serve.

   But first come does not mean the first to the gate. Apparently in an effort to prevent a 'run on the gate' they developed the plan a little further. Each passenger is assigned a number and that is the position in which they are allowed to board the plane. Naturally, by the time my husband and I were allowed to board, all the aisle and window seats were in use leaving only center seats as far as the eye could see.

   This posed a quandary. As I have mentioned, FLIGHTFEAR. So what's a girl to do?

   Naturally I inquired of the passengers, "Which of you is willing to hold my hand during the take-off and landings and possibly hold my hair while I barf should there be any unruly turbulence? Hmmm?"

   There were no takers.

   I eventually found myself sandwiched between a heavy set man, who thought he owned half of my seat and the Garlic Queen. This granola eating, sandal wearing girl was either taking LOTS of garlic pills or bathed in the stuff.

   I can't tell you how thrilled I was.

   I was already nauseated (thank you Garlic Queen) and we hadn't even left the ground yet.

   The flight attendant began his announcements, starting with the phrase, "As this is a termination flight-"

WHAT? Termination?? Who the hell booked this??

   Fear quickly turned to panic and I was searching out my husband, who was a row back on the other side. I could see him, only by leaning past Miss Garlic Fest 2012, but he could not see me. Not that he was trying to. He was already settling in for his nap.

   Meanwhile, I wanted off this plane. Now.

   Termination flight. There are certain words that should NEVER be put together. Termination and flight are two of them!

   We finally took off and I managed to neither hyperventilate, nor vomit. An accomplishment on my part. I did however go through Listerine strips like they were M&M's (the best candy EVER). They helped keep my mouth from going dry, kept me from getting sick, and squelched the garlic reek beside me.

   However, they did not drive away the portly man who was now using even more of my seat. An inch more and he would owe me a dinner. And a movie.

   Personally, I think there should be an unwritten rule; if you have the aisle or window seat, there's your prize, you are NOT allowed to use the armrests as well. You want a place to rest your arms, sit in the middle. Just sayin'.

   Eventually I got out my MP3 (yeah, still rockin' it old school- be glad it wasn't a Walkman). I set the volume as loud as it would reach, turned the ear buds out a bit, and then set it to play Linkin Park. Apparently my fellow passengers did not approve of my musical selection (thank God) and the Garlic Queen leaned a bit toward the aisle while the Portly Passenger folded himself forward over his knees (no mean feat) and spent the next hour and fifteen minutes that way.

   Point to me.

   After a relatively rough (though my husband assured me not perilous) journey, we landed- kudos to the pilot who stuck the landing- and we disembarked.

   To catch our connecting flight.

   Oh goody.

   We lucked out on the next plane and landed two seats together, giving me someone I could clutch on to during the takeoff and landing- hey I had that added to the wedding vows- till death do us part you WILL suffer bruised fingers during any and all times of fear.

   Among the other passengers on this flight were a woman who had marinated in her perfume- just a suggestion- if your perfume waters the eyes of the person next to you and causes oxygen molecules to shrivel up and die around you, you're using entirely too much; also a delightful young boy, just under two years old, who prefers to watch TV and does not understand or wish to cater to the 'turn off all electronic equipment' rule. He is a first soprano who can hit and sustain a high D for twenty minutes straight without a breath. It was AWESOME.

Linkin Park couldn't shut this kid out. He had more lung capacity than Brunhilda, (from the Wagner opera (which sucks), not to be confused with Broomhilda the comic strip I remember from when I was a kid (which was awesome)).

   By the time we landed I was deaf in one ear and all the hairs in my nose had been singed and had fallen out.

So here I sit, half deaf and nose-hairless in the hotel room writing this and living in fear of our return flight home.

   I wonder if I could walk it?

Vacation? a.k.a. Fellow Americans a.k.a. A Room With A View

    So we finally take a long awaited and much deserved vacation. Well, more of a long weekend, but it's the first we've had since our 'mini-moon' (our overnight honeymoon until we can afford the real thing) and beggars can't be choosers, right? So, off we headed to Columbus, Ohio, for the Midwest Haunter's Convention. (Huh???)

    Allow me to explain.

    My husband is a complete Halloween addict who loves anything in ANY way related to Halloween (which is why we own and operate a haunted house), and my daughter is almost as bad as he is. She is a budding make-up artist who jumps at every opportunity to utilize and improve her skills. This particular convention offered any number of make-up classes, not to mention an opportunity to meet and speak with some of the season two Face Off cast members, a dream come true for her. Needless to say, Christmas had come as far as the two of them were concerned. And as for me. Well…

    As for me, I'm a writer. Surely this particular venue had to provide an endless supply of subject matter, right? Right? Right…

    Okay, for me truly it was more of an opportunity to get away for a bit and relax.

    Relax? Really? What was I thinking? How can you possibly relax when everywhere you turn there are evil clowns lurking, or man-eating zombie rabbits rabid for brains, brains, brains! or evil demons fresh from the seventh level of hell, or, well you get the picture.

    So anyway, there I was, along for the ride, and not sure what I was walking (er, driving) into. Well, let me tell you in as quick a format as I am capable of. (I know; there is no hope for that.)

    A quick comparison of my last two trips; the first (a working trip) to Atlanta, Georgia, and the second (as it turns out, another working trip) to Columbus,Ohio:

    Georgia: Upon landing at the airport we were accosted by a limo driver who drove us to our hotel forty minutes away in a Lincoln Town car ($50).

    Ohio: Upon arriving at the hotel we were accosted by a homeless man who deluged us with TMI (too much information) regarding his various illnesses and dialysis (this was a show and tell event that included the startling exhibition of several of his surgical scars) leaving him incapable of working. So he sells 'newspapers' for a living- a two page print from the homeless press ($1).

    Georgia: In front of the hotel we were greeted by a man carrying a plastic grocery bag, who walked up and began passing out $100 bills to us and everyone else in the area. (Turned out the money was real.)

    Ohio: In front of the hotel we were greeted by a crazed man screaming nonsensical words and epithets to the vehicular and human traffic around him. Also the trees, shrubbery and various insects (or invisible people) around him.

    Georgia: We walked through the sunshine to a local restaurant for lunch.

    Ohio: We headed to the food court for lunch, but were stopped along the way by a man who greeted us with the words, "My beautiful, fellow Americans, would you be so kind as to help a man who is four seventy-five short for his cab fare?" Hmmmm. When did we leave the country? We're still in Ohio, right? How difficult is it to stumble upon 'fellow Americans' in OHIO?

    At this point it was decided that the next person who staggered up to us asking for money, my daughter and I were to stand there looking confused, while my husband rambled at them in Polish. Mind you, the only Polish my husband knows is what his former journeyman taught him; a vast array of dirty words and highly imaginative curses. He can accurately tell you shockingly vivid things to do with various body parts, but he can't give you directions to the nearest gas station. But really, how many people in Ohio are fluent in Polish? Turns out, there was one…

    Somehow, we managed to make it to the lobby to check in with at least a few dollars left in our pockets, and headed up to our rooms.

    My daughter was ecstatic upon entering her room: a corner room with a king size bed and huge bathroom. Windows lined two walls of both the room and the bathroom, exhibiting a breathtaking view of the skyscraping buildings surrounding the hotel. She was in heaven. (The next day she claimed to have spent half the night doing the back-stroke on her bed.)

    My husband and I were not so lucky. Our room was far less glamorous. We lucked into two double beds, a much smaller bathroom, and one wall with windows displaying the construction going on next door. Every morning I had a first rate view of the cranes lifting the Port-o-pots onto the roof next door. Awesome.

    Needless to say, she took pictures.

    I did not.

    There was so much going on and so many things happening, that I will warn you this is a topic I will probably return to in the future, but for the time being I will only add the following thought. Various conventions run at this convention center/hotel back to back. One of the activities following the haunter's convention was a pageant. Think little girls, big hair, fake teeth, and lots of make-up. Now that I think about it, not a far cry from the haunter's convention… Just different types of scary. (Don't even get me started on these things.) The same night as the masquerade ball (where all the monsters come out to dance), there was a bridal shower.

    I began to put myself in the place of these, for lack of a better term, 'straight-laced' people. Imagine being the bride to be, whose only intent is to whoop it up with her besties at a very expensive, no doubt exclusive, party being held in your honor. On the way to said party, you pass countless demons, monsters, zombies, and ghosts in the halls, elevators, lobbies. You can't get away from them. Is this a good sign or a bad one?

    All I can say is, I was one of the dead the bride to be ran into. And my husband and I have made the bride's bridal shower album. By request of her mother, I posed with the bride (dressed in a wedding type gown while my skin peeled off my face revealing open wounds- remember my daughter the budding make-up artist). I also showed the bride the 'rope burns' where I 'hung' myself and couldn't help but to remind her she was the before the wedding shot and I was the after.

    As for the pageant people, I don’t particularly care what they were thinking. Those kids have a lot of therapy in front of them, and I doubt any of it will stem from the monsters in the hallway.

    Or the blood in the elevators.