My Favorite Toys

My very first Barbie Doll was Western Barbie. She was awesome. She had the quintessential long flowing blond hair, a white cowgirl hat, matching plastic cowgirl boots and a fancy shmancy, impossibly tight white one piece suit complete with fringes on the arms. In retrospect she should have come equipped with a bra since the white suit was so tight and see through and because what well-endowed cowgirl would ever think to ride a horse flopping around like that? Why Barbie of course!

(as you can see, a bra could have been utilized)

Another favorite feature about Western Barbie was her winking eye. She had a button on her back and if you pushed it, her eyelid would slide down in a flirtatious wink, revealing her ever blue eyeshadowed eyelid. 

My Barbie spent so much time winking that her eyelid stopped sliding back up into her head and eventually just ripped off. This was back in the day before they invented *Plastic Surgeon Ken so she had to go around looking like she had too much coffee. 

*I was not allowed to have a Ken doll until I was older. Apparently my dad did not want him and Barbie copulating and making more dolls for him to step on and yell about. So even if Plastic Surgeon Ken had existed, he wouldn't have been allowed in my house until well after the death of Western Barbie.

Here you can see the famous eyelid in action.

When Western Barbie came to live with me, she brought along her trusty steed, Dallas, a beautiful palomino who's hair was nicer than Barbie's.  I eventually spent more time  playing with Dallas than I did Barbie. 

Barbie taking Dallas out for his daily trot.

As time passed it became apparent that Dallas would need some equine company. Thus, Midnight, the black beauty of the Barbie world, made his way into our house. In my mind Dallas and Midnight were both male. It was a strictly platonic relationship most of the time. Except on days that Dallas needed a girlfriend. On those days, Midnight's curly hair made it easy to transition him to being female. He was not a cross dresser or anything like that. He just frequently switched genders to suit my moods. 

Dallas & Midnight 

Then came Honey.  Honey was like the Michael J. Fox of the bunch. He was short and compact and undeniably handsome. Honey was always a male and did not have to put up with gender switching. He was like the kid brother that hung around and got in shenanigans. He was shorter than the other two, I think he was made for Skipper.  But alas, I had no Skipper.

It was right around this time that Western Barbie died. It was not a violent death and it was not sudden. She just slowly lost her eyelid and hair until she sort of got shuffled to the bottom of the toy pile to decompose. My horses needed a care taker so.....I got Tropical Miko.

I mean, hey, who better to tend to my herd of horses than a girl wearing only a swimsuit with a flower in her hair, right? Her exotic beauty and long flowing tresses kept me busy combing and braiding. She spent a lot of time wearing a white terry cloth bathrobe without a belt. I would even pretend she was poverty stricken and that was all she had to wear, out shivering in the cold with nothing but a swimsuit, a bathrobe and three horses, foraging through the snow for something to eat. She was my beautiful homeless person. 

And then came Dixie.  

My little filly Dixie.

Since I had two males and a gender switching male/female, it only seemed fair that I should deem Dixie a girl.  So she was our cute little Shirley Temple. Full of spunk and adorableness with a tight blond afro of curls. 

The very last piece of my collection was Prancer. Prancer was the beautiful goddess of a horse that made all the others pale in comparison. Her arabian tail was always held high (for at least a year or two until it had been combed and braided so many times that it drooped but she was still very beautiful) and her light gray muzzle just screamed "MIKO COME PET ME!" She had a look that said Let us gallop away at a high rate of speed. 

Throughout my childhood these horses got a lot of play time with Dallas always being my reigning favorite. Maybe it was because he was my first. I dunno. I had every one of them right up until the time my sister moved back into my dad's house. I was married and out of the house at the time. I should have moved my beloved Barbie horses with me from the get-go but I very naively assumed they would continue to live happily at my childhood home until I wanted them. Nay.  I went back once looking for them and they were nowhere to be found. I asked my sister if she'd seen them but she lives in a constant haze and had no clue. And so it was that my most precious collections of all toys were lost forever. The key to my happy childhood, gone. What a bummer of a way to end a blog. 

Escape From New York

This weekend I went with three of the funniest people I know to New York City. It was fantabulous. We saw the sights, window shopped, and stepped on fake mustaches.

Yes. An actual fake mustache. It stuck so well to the shoe that we wondered how in the world it ever fell off of someone's face. There is a very disappointed upper lip somewhere in Manhattan. 

But as you know, all good things must come to an end. We hailed a taxi, rode back to our hotel, un-checked  our bags, got back in the taxi and asked to be taken to the Port Authority Bus Terminal. And that is where things started to go downhill. 

What Could Possibly Go Wrong (a statement, not a question): 

1. A Columbus Day Parade breaks out going down 5th Avenue. The Avenue that separates you from the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

2. Your cabby dumps you out as close as he can, but you're still a few blocks away with minimal baggage to haul. 

3. It's raining. (Yay!) 

4. You have to wait in the rain with your bags to cross the parade. (Wave at the grumpy tourists, kids!) 

5. You walk to the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

6. You walk to the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

7. Still walking to the Port Authority Bus Terminal. 

8. Where the heck is the Port Authority Bus Terminal? Your friend stops to ask a random stranger. While she's getting an answer, a bus moves and you spot the Port Authority Bus Terminal. 

I think it's important to stop this particular list here and begin a new one called:

 "Reasons Why I Hate The Port Authority Bus Terminal and Am Pretty Sure It Was Designed By Hitler"

1. The doors barely open. They weigh 1,000lbs. They open just enough to wedge yourself in. Don't even bother trying to hold it open for the guy behind you, you'll get a hernia.

2. It's run by phantom employees. You walk inside and see a sign that says "Information" with an arrow pointing to the right. So you turn right. You find nothing. No kiosk, no information booth, no map that says YOU ARE HERE. You can't find anyone to ask. You expect to at least see a sign saying "HA HA, Just Kidding! No Information Here! Keep Looking!" There is no one around but the voice on the loud speaker that announces things quickly in a muffled voice with an accent. It would be impossible for anyone on this planet to know what they are saying.  

3. You give up finding information and try to find a rest room.  The sign that would normally say "You Are Here" lists restrooms but doesn't tell you where you are so you can't find them anyhow. You're doomed to wander. Eventually you blunder upon a restroom on your own.

4. There is no master list centrally located to tell you what buses go to which gates. This is not a user friendly terminal. You try to figure out what gate you are to go to in order to catch your bus. But ha ha! You can't because there are no real life employees ANYWHERE to ask. (They're all out watching the Columbus Day Parade apparently.) You walk from area to area reading the bus schedules, trying in vain to find the one you need. There is no where to tell you where to go. There is no one to ask. 

5. This place gives you false hope of escaping. You think you've found it. You check your watch and see that the bus (which leaves every half hour) is due to leave in three minutes. You race up the stairs, screaming at your companions to RUN RUN!! One of your companions is in line trading in her winning lotto ticket. You decide to cut and run. Whoever is not on the bus is going to have to take the next one. You've been wondering around in this purgatory for 45 minutes and you're really really sick of it. Plus you're pregnant and haven't eaten since 8:30am and it is 1:40pm. Sweaty and flustered you arrive at the gate. Whew! Close one! Then you look through the glass window and see the bus you wanted to be on pulling away from the other side of the terminal. CURSE YOU, VILE PORT AUTHORITY BUS TERMINAL!!! 

6. Here at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, you are helped and supported solely by non-employees/fellow travelers.  A bystander sees that you are in need of a Xanax and consoles you with the fact that the gate you are at will indeed take you where you want to go. More waiting. As you loudly lament your dissatisfaction about the whole situation, a new guy shows up behind you and asks if you remembered to get a ticket.  

7. A TICKET??!!! #$@!%&!!!  After the nuclear mushroom cloud dissipates from the area where you are standing, he tells you that you have to go back downstairs to get a ticket from a ticket dispenser thingy. In an act of desperation, two of you stand guard over the luggage while the other two go scampering after tickets. Count down to lift off is 9 minutes. This truly is purgatory as Webster defines it: A place to do temporary punishment or suffering. It feels more permanent than temporary and I'm definitely suffering. 

8. Time is weird in purgatory. When you want it to go fast, it goes slow, and when you need it to go slow, it speeds up. Four minutes pass, then five. Your red, angry, frustrated eyes keep watching the clock.Your companions come through and show up with four tickets. They are to the correct destination. You are pretty sure you are still standing at the correct place but you're not 100% because the tickets don't even tell you what gate you should be at - there is no way to crack this gate code. The bus comes and you get on. And it is the correct bus. 

13. But the bus ride lasts over an hour. 

I hate the Port Authority Bus Terminal. 

To My Husband on Our Anniversary- Here's to another year's worth of eternity!

Today is our anniversary. My poor husband has been putting up with me and my silliness now for 14 years. He still loves me even though I when I put my jammies on at night I'll take my shirt halfway off, turning it inside out over my head with my arms sticking out in front of me and then swing them around like a zombie. He shakes his head in disgust but he loves me anyhow.

He lets me get huge items that I never take care of- like the swimming pool- knowing that he'll have to do all the work while I lounge around on my raft watching the algae grow. And he loves me anyhow.

He lets me get sheepdogs even though he not-so-secretly hates them. Because he loves me.

He furrows his brow in disapproval when I find sticks in the yard to poke him with. (He really hates that game.) But it makes me laugh like a hyena so he puts up with it.

When I climb on the mechanical pony at Walmart and scream "BUT YOU SAID IN THE CAR I COULD RIDE IT!!" he doesn't divorce me. He just walks away pretending he doesn't know me.

And I love him even though he will always hang a folded wet wash cloth over a previously folded wet wash cloth until they make a Babel tower of moldy stinky washcloths. (I finally asked him why he does this the other day. His answer was "I don't want them to get lonely." 10 points to Gryffindor.)

And even though I complain from time to time on Facebook that I want to strangle him, I never do. Because he is my only weakness. So I'm forced to do my complaining on Facebook because I'd rather cut off my fingers than confront him face to face and hurt his feelings. So I tell the rest of the world and they confront him for me. I'm sneaky that way.

He can talk me into all kinds of dumb ideas. And I will always fall for it. That's how I ended up pregnant, I'm pretty sure.

He makes me laugh.

He fashioned these glasses so he could sleep during the next

mandated OSHA meeting at the mill where he works. 

Occasionally he feeds me. He buys me outrageously priced Christmas presents when the cheap version would have made me just as happy. He buys me cards and doesn't sign them. He gets Fat Gladys wound up and then laughs and points at me when she ambushes me and bites my meaty ankles.
He doesn't care if I look like crap all day and I let him wear ugly sweaters out in public. (If that's what he chooses to wear I'm ok with it. I will just have to remember to hide them better for next year...)

Together we're like two unattended 8 year olds living alone in a big house. We talk in movie monologues. We can relate everything that happens in life to a Seinfeld episode, and we quote it. We have light saber wars every Christmas with the empty cardboard wrapping paper tubes. We play air instruments furiously in the car when a good song comes on. We both appreciate the value of a good nap.

We like to look at other people like THEY'RE the weird ones. We're our own version of normal. We've had crappy times and happy times, poverty stricken times and times of prosperity. We've been sick, we've been healthy. I would have totally killed and buried a lesser man in the back yard by now. I've seen what's out there and I'm pretty of it. So yeah. He's stuck with me forever cause he's the only one I really like. And if he leaves me, I'll just stalk him.

Happy Anniversary!

Forget It. Consider it done.

I've waited a long time to have kids. Partly because I tend to gravitate more towards animals when it comes to nurturing (I call it misplaced maternal instincts) and partly because I really wanted to avoid all the symptoms that come with pregnancy.

Morning sickness, labor, having to pee all the time, constipation, labor, hand & foot swelling, heartburn, labor, stretchmarks, gaining 100lbs, the resulting baby, and have I mentioned labor? For years I've had to listen to my friends yap about every thing pregnancy related under the sun. There wasn't a horrible thing I hadn't heard of that I didn't in some way wish to avoid. But there was one thing no one warned me about. The absentmindedness. Well, maybe they did and I forgot.

Of all the things I have experienced so far, none of them have been a bother at all except for this last little detail that no one has ever bothered to stress. I can't remember crap.

I have driven to work in the morning, and by the time I left in the afternoon/evening, I've forgotten how I got there. (Road construction, different place every day.) I've left my clipboard full of asphalt tickets laying on the paving machine overnight because I forgot to give them to the supervisor. I've gone to the Dollar Store with the intent to buy Press-N-Seal FOR A MONTH and forgot to get it every time.

I've even forgotten names of people I've known for years. The other day I wanted to remember my friend's name but couldn't think of it. I knew it started with a vowel, was three or four letters long and ended in "a". Ana? Aida? Etta? No, none of those sounded right. I bounced this dilemma off of my best friend, (who's name I luckily could still remember) who began right away to help me think.  "Ida?" YEP! That's it! Duh.

I forget what day it is. I even have to think sometimes what YEAR it is. I forget who the vice president is too but probably because he's a forgettable kind of guy anyways. I don't think I ever knew what his wife's name is. I forget how old Gladys (bossy cat extraordinaire) is. I don't remember how old I am and have to ask my husband. Someone (I forget who) asked me when I was due and I wasn't even sure about that. "Um, January....24th? No, no! 21'st? No, wait, I think they told me January 20th. That sounds right..." Another question that makes me put on my thinking cap: How far along are you? I just started saying "about half way" cause keeping track of all these weeks is making my head uncomfortable.

Today I stopped at my dad's to pick up some frozen chicken out of his freezer. He wasn't home so I threw them in my car & decided to stop & visit Gram who lives close to Dad's house. After a nice hour and a half visit we walked out to my car where I was thoroughly surprised about having frozen poultry in the back seat.

As I was driving home I saw a fellow in the distance walking two dogs. Saint Bernards. Wow, I thought, you don't see those every day. Then I thought: the Barton's have Saint Bernards. (The Barton's are the parents of one of our friends, who I really only see on rare occasions and why I remembered they have Saint Bernards is beyond me because I've never met said dogs, and don't even remember why I know they have that specific kind.) Turns out, it WAS Mr. Barton, out for an evening stroll with the canines. HA!

And then I wasn't sure if I should be impressed or horrified. Why did I remember that they have Saint Bernards when I couldn't remember that I had chicken in my backseat? As I was typing this, just now, my skull bones behind my ears started to throb. I put my hand up to rub it & discovered that I was wearing a headband. (I normally don't. I don't know why I'm wearing one now.) See what I'm talking about??

Partial Sci-Fi Movie Review

The other night I couldn't sleep so I turned on my favorite, the Sci Fi channel, to see what sort of cheesy movie laughs they could provide me with. Once again, they did not fail to amuse. I was immediately riveted by "Jersey Shore Shark Attack."

I'm not sure if it was meant to be a comedy spoof or a chiller. Pushing my "info" button to the Directv remote did not supply me with any clues. All it would tell me was "searching for description" which was not to be found.

Unfortunately, I tuned in about halfway through, but here is what I saw:  to sum it up neatly- confusion. The characters seemed to be largely based on MTV's Jersey Shore cast which were played by other people. There was a girl who looked like Snooki, one who seemed to be the J-Wow, and a Deena/or Sammi. There was also a guy named Vinny (how coincidental!), a Situation, and a Pauly D.

When I tuned in, they were just finding pieces of Vinny stuck in some rocks by the bank. Then somehow the Snooki girl fell in and landed about 30 yards from shore. (Cause THAT'S realistic right? I mean, every time I slip & fall in the water I always end up in the middle of the bay instead of within a reasonable distance of land-HA!) There she splashed and swam pitifully until the last minute, slipping and falling while the others tried to help her out of the water as the sharks were bearing down on her with uncommonly slow speed for an ocean predator. (The sharks may have been robots. I'm not sure if that was part of the movie or if they were just victims of a made-for-tv-movie budget.)

Once the guidos and guidettes were safely away from the water they decided it was their personal mission to blow up the sharks. So they tried to steal a boat but they ended up accidentally blowing it up when their bag of fireworks that they were planning to kill the sharks with, caught fire and exploded. They never even left the dock. The sharks were giggling maniacally as they cut to commercial. So was I. And while the commercial break was happening, I fell asleep and missed the rest of this wonderfully horrible movie.

The question still remains- was this supposed to be a serious movie or was it a comedy? I plan to watch the whole thing next time it's on and find out. If you've watched it, don't tell me, I like cheesy surprises.

The Most Boring Job In the World

Flagging is most likely very high on the list of miserable jobs. You know what a flagger is. They're the person with the Stop/Slow paddle that you swear at under your breath when you see them standing there. It's involuntary, I understand. They're also the person with the most boring job in the world.

Sometimes I have the misfortune to be that person. Stranded out there. Far away from the other workers. Not knowing how the job is progressing or if anyone is still even there. For all I know, they could have all gone home and forgotten about me. Once they stick you out there, you're on your own. Just you and the guy/girl at the other end of the radio. God forbid your batteries go dead. Which they usually do at some point in the day, leaving you screaming frantically into your radio. ("THE LAST CAR IS A RED CAMRY!! DO YOU COPY??? A REDDDDD CAMMMRRYYYY!!!"  HELLLOOO???" DON'T SEND TILL YOU GET THE RED CAMRY!!!")

Busy roads are good. Pokey back roads, not so much. These are the worst. There are just enough cars to be annoying but not enough to amount to anything. And there's nothing to do. You just stand there. One hand on the radio, one hand on the Stop/Slow. There is no sitting. Break time - ha ha! There's no break time in flagger world. Break time means just enough time to run to a bathroom (the porta-john or the wild outdoors) while someone takes over for you. Then you go back immediately. You don't sit down for five minutes, you don't take 15 and play on your cell phone. When it's time to eat you get to stand there with your sign & radio and eat while the guy waiting in the beat up silver Honda that you have stopped makes kissy signs at you. Not cool man.

I spend quite a bit of my boring flagging day imagining. Like...what if all these millipedes crossing the road are really baby aliens that have been placed here to test whether Earth is habitable? How would I react if a bear, or possibly a big crazy buck, came out of the forest and started attacking me? If a pack of coyotes came along, would they eat me or adopt me as one of their own?  I also play games with myself like How Far Can I Throw This Rock? How Many Squats & Lunges Can I Do Before the Next Car Gets Here? Can I Make a Rope Out of These Weeds? Can I Make a Tiny Paper Airplane Out of My Gum Wrapper? Will It Fly?

I even have a pet rock in my lunch box. His name is Stony Jr. You can liken him to Wilson on Cast Away. I would never throw Stony Jr. or leave him behind. We have lengthy conversations on what we're gonna be when we grow up. (The answer is never "Be a flagger!" I'm going to be the person who parks cars inside the mall at night and Stony would like to get ordained over the internet or be a motivational speaker.) We think solitary confinement in prison is probably better than being a flagger. At least you can lay down & take a nap in solitary.

This is Stony Jr. He's my pal.

So if you ever think you have the most boring job ever, I want you to go to the nearest closet, go inside, shut the door and just stand there without sitting down and with no entertainment whatsoever for 12 hours. Then you'll understand why I talk to rocks.

Castleville Rant of the Day

I have a sick affinity to play Castleville on Facebook. I can't help it. That being said, I have a bone to pick with the useless characters dwelling within my kingdom.

Meet the cast:

Raphael:  He's the dark complected Michael Kelso of the group. He sort of bumbles around looking good but never really contributes anything. He's always asking me for bubbly grog, grape juice, logs, etc. I don't know what he does with any of these things. He's like that friend that borrows stuff and never gives it back or tries to reimburse you for losing it. 

Yvette: (played by Dianna Agron when she had long hair) Yvette is a tree hugger. She's always making me go on senseless quests to save the gloom rats (the bad guys, you're supposed to kill them) or rehabilitate them into pets or something. I expect she'll be making me build a recycling plant in my medieval kingdom sometime in the future. All she does is stand around the courtyard all day. You'd think she'd at least feed my cows or chickens now and then. 

Sonja:  Sonja is Raphael's girl. Ok, not really. Raphael is madly in love with her but she's indifferent to the situation. She doesn't even try to mingle. She mainly stands in the forest playing the part of the mysterious sultry woods temptress. Again, she contributes nothing. 

Kathleen: Her part will be played by Michelle Williams when they finally do a Castleville movie. Kathleen just appeared one day and demanded that I build a royal inn. I don't know why I listen to these people. I built her the inn hoping she'd disappear but instead she saw how much fun it was to stand around and be a slacker so she's still there. Doing nothing. Maybe someday a roving band of gypsies will show up and she'll run away with them. 

Alastair & the Duke:  These are the only potentially useful guest living in my fake fantasy world. Alastair floats about looking wise and his quests are usually for the good of the kingdom as are the Duke's.

Other than "rewarding" me for the ridiculous quests they send me on (I say that scathingly as if I hate the game, when in fact, I may or may not be addicted to it) all these subjects don't help me at all. There are six of them and one of me and a limited amount of energy. So how about it guys, feed a peacock, collect some taxes, clean the chateau, chop some wood or fish the pond for me once in awhile, ok? 

Stuck on "Loop"

My dad called me yesterday with an assignment (we're like that show Charlie's Angels- he calls and deals out orders, I go take care of them with well placed roundhouse kicks.) My assignment yesterday was to "Go look at your Pap's cd/dvd player, he says it says "no disc."

O....K.... I guess... I'm really not electronically minded so he'd probably have better luck getting my eight year old nephew to fix it.   But since I have occasion to drive past Pap's more than my other relatives I decided to swing by and take a looksee while I was out running errands.

Pap wasn't home at the time so I plopped down in front of his tv to investigate. As it turns out, my prognosis is that the sensor eye (or whatever that thingy is called) that reads the discs was only recognizing them now and then. Mostly he was right, it would just say "no disc." But every now and then I would get one to work.

So I left a note explaining that to the best of my abilities and told him to call me if he has questions.
Later on in the evening he did.

Me: Hey Pap, how's it going?

Pap: I can't get this thing to work. It says no disc.

Me: Yeah, I know, it only works sometimes.

Pap: Well I have a disc in it.

Me: I know, it was doing that for me too.

Pap: Well how's it supposed to work if it says no disc?

Me: I don't know. I think the sensor is bad in it.

Pap: Well I have the wires hooked up.

Me: I know. It's inside your machine, not the wires.

Pap: Well why isn't it working?

Me: Because the sensor thingy isn't reading the disc.

Pap: Yeah, it says no disc. What buttons did you push to make it play?

Me: Um the same ones you do?

Pap: How did you get it to work?

Me: Luck?

Pap: Well it's not working now. Why isn't it working now?

Me: Pap, it has Alzheimer's. It only works sometimes, when it feels like it. I don't know how it knows when it wants to work and when it doesn't.

Pap: Tell me what button to push.

Me: You're probably pushing the right buttons. It's not your fault, your machine is just going nutty.

Pap: Wait! It says loading.... HEY- there it is, it's playing!!

Me: Yay! See I told you it would work for me sometimes.

Pap: Let me try another one.....Ok, it says "loading."  HA- now it says no disc! How's it supposed to play if it says no disc?

Me: sigh....

An Evening At My House

A typical evening goes something like this:

1. I let the puppy up from the basement to socialize with me and play with his toys. 

2. I put in an exercise DVD and workout while the puppy plays.

3. The puppy remembers that we have a cat.

4. The puppy barks at the cat.

5. I keep exercising.

6. The cat hisses at the puppy. I ignore both of them and keep on working out.

7. The puppy starts chasing the cat.

8. The cat runs into the living room and hides under the couch. This would be a spectacular hiding place if she'd shut up and quit growling and spitting while she's under there. (She's awful at hide & seek.) 

9. I keep exercising.

10. The dog runs into the living room and barks at the couch, which has hissing sounds coming from underneath it. 

11. The cat runs out of the room.

12. The puppy chases her.

13. Repeat steps 4-12 about six more times.

14. I finally get sick of hearing the hissing, growling and barking so I separate them. The puppy gets yelled at.

15. I go back to exercising. 

16. The puppy is somewhere being quiet and this makes me and the cat happy.

17. The puppy runs into the room wagging his tail.

18. The puppy gives me a big fat kiss. 

19. Aw, I think, that was nice. And then I smell it. Cat poop. He was eating cat poop and now he's licked me and my face smells like cat poop. 

20. I scream and try not to barf as I run upstairs to scrub my face with bleach.

21. The puppy spends the rest of his evening playing outside. 

22. The cat sits smugly at the top of the stairs. She has prevailed again. 

$1 Death Meal

I've always prided myself on being a hearty un-picky eater. I like food. There is nary a food I will not try. That isn't to say that I LIKE Brussels sprouts but I will eat them without complaining. For a long time, hot dogs were the only thing I couldn't eat. I got dogged out as a little kid and just lost my taste for them. But for the past several years I've been eating bites of them here and there in an effort to build up my hot dog tolerance and I'm happy to announce that I can now eat them without throwing up if there is nothing else to eat. But just like the sprouts, I would not naturally gravitate towards them if there were other foods available.

Yes, the wonderful world of food offers many delights and I enjoy them all. I eat calamari, sushi, Mexican foods, Chinese food, Japanese food, sea food, raw food, cooked food, expired food. On cruises my favorite meal of the week is when I get to have escargot in garlic butter. (Snails, people.) When I watch Andrew Zimmern I get jealous when he's shoveling bar-be-qued scorpions into his mouth. As long as the meal is not moving and is prepared in some way, it looks good to me. I'd try it. 

That is why I was so shocked yesterday when I couldn't eat the cheap frozen dinner my husband bought for me. (He was eating one too and he is the world's pickiest eater. Ever.) It was a "BBQ Ribs" meal but the meat thing clearly wasn't anywhere close to being the real deal. I'm not even sure it was originally a pork product. It smelled fine, looked gross. Far be it from me to judge a food based on looks so I eagerly cut off a bite and shoveled it in. Even as it was entering my mouth, the little guys in my brain in charge of food intake were screaming "NO! NO! RED ALERT!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON'T EAT THAT!!" But it was too late, it had already hit my tongue. I did manage to chew and swallow that bite without gagging but the rest of the mystery patty had to stay in the plastic tray. The sad part of this story is that I was starving (not really, but at lunch time, if you try to keep me away from food, I get really aggressive. And if you ever get in front of me at a buffet line, don't dilly-dally or I will ram your tray right out of your hands.) I looked down the break room at Jimmy who was slurping down spaghetti he brought from home complete with buttered bread and seriously considered beating him up for his lunch. Instead I had to make a PB & J out of the questionable ingredients I found in the break room. 

I can't believe I found a food that defeated me.

What was that?

In an effort to keep my legs from exploding out of their jeans (this is where Gram says "Oh Kelly, your legs are not going to explode out of your jeans, why do you talk like that?" And I say "Gram, have you tried on jeans lately, they're not made of 100% cotton anymore like in the old days, now they're like 90% spandex so although they are stretchy, there is a maximum stretching point.") But back to the point- in an effort to fight off the evil cellulite gnomes that sneak into my room at night, I started going to Zumba.

Zumba is a fun filled hour of gasping for air and trying not to accidentally pummel the person beside you with your flailing limbs. I like it. Most of the time when I'm not gasping or flailing, I'm doubled over from laughing at my own uncoordination. At the end of the hour, I am drenched with sweat. Some ladies there can do the whole workout in a sweatshirt and their hair is still fluffy and perfect. When I am done, my head is soaked, my face is red and the sweat is wicking out of my pony tail and dripping onto my back. In order to keep my sweat contained to just my area of the floor, I take with me a hand towel to mop my head off with between songs.

Last week after class, I draped the towel over my head, put on my coat and left. When I put the car in reverse to back up, I realized that the towel was sort of blocking my peripheral vision so I tucked the front of it on either side behind my ears. I suppose I could have just taken it off my head altogether but I was sweaty and it was freezing outside and the car was cold so I just tucked it and left it up there.

On my way home, I encountered a car who had missed the road and ended up in a ditch. There were two guys standing there with their hands in their pockets pondering the situation. As I drove away I felt sort of bad for not stopping and asking if they needed help so I turned around & went back.

I rolled down the window & asked if they needed help. They both looked at me & Shirley (my car) and said they didn't think my little car would be of any use to pull them out. Then they went back to looking at the ditched car with their hands in their pockets which I figured was my cue to drive away so I did.

As I was pulling into the driveway, I realized that my towel was still on my head tucked behind my ears, which  in the dark, and only seeing my head by the glow of the dashboard lights, would have made me look like a weird sweaty nun. No wonder they didn't want my help.

If You Happened to Look In My Window Today...

Every now and again I wonder to myself what people would think if they saw what was going on inside my house. For example:

My kitchen looks like a hobo has been using it to hoard random items found on the street. Shoes that don't match, one mitten, three weeks worth of mail piled up and falling off the table. Dishes in the sink. Stuff like that. Nothing too out of the ordinary.

Then there's me. I just walked four miles with that crazy Leslie Sansone wearing shorts and two-toned blue knee high socks and sneakers. My hair was plastered back in a pony tail and helped out by two bobby pins in  my bangs. Classic Revenge of the Nerds look. The knee socks gave my legs the appearance of lumpy white stuffed sausages.If someone had rang the doorbell, I would have hid. Now that that's over, I've shucked off the knee socks and started to color my hair starting with just the roots for 20 minutes so I look a lot like Medusa on a bad day. And I'm sitting in front of the computer eating a burrito from Taco Bell (left over from last night.) It's all so weird and random.

On another rambling note, I posted this on facebook and I'll say it again:
Dear Men/Boys/Anyone of the Male Gender,
It is Never ok for you to wear "skinny jeans." And unless you are the actual original Lone Ranger, it is also never ok to tuck your pants into your boots. Never. Ever.

Information Overload - Out With The Old, Out With The New

My brain has become so full of information lately that it no longer stores things neatly in files to be found later. The clerk inside my head who processes information is so busy that she hasn't gone home to eat or sleep in weeks. I picture her as Madam Trelawney in the Harry Potter movies.

Instead of the neatly filed drawers in alphabetical order, there is now just a huge in-bin with papers cascading to the floor. Sad really.

What's sadder is that I have full confidence that this system will magically work when I need it too. For example: Yesterday, at one of my jobs, I had the pleasure of learning a new task. I enjoyed this new task very much. However, it taxed Madam Trelawney to no end. Not only did my new task involve math, which both I and Madam Trelawney hate more than screaming babies, but it also involved me having to try to remember where an entire warehouse of ingredients was stored.

I bet you think I'm kidding. I assure you I am not. It was like playing an all day game of Memory, which I also hate. I would ask a co-worker "Where is the Energy Boost?" and they would explain in full detail where in the warehouse to find it. Then I would say "Ok, well, where is the epsom salt?" And they would explain that also. While they were explaining that, Madam Trelawney would throw down the information containing the whereabouts of the Engergy Boost and begin to furiously scribble down directions to the epsom salt. By the time we got to the warehouse, she had forgotton where she put that also. I would forgive her and look for a mysterious third ingredient in hopes that I would just happen upon the missing first two in my search.

Some of the ingredients I searched for had no label and some had a label named something different than what was written down. (Me: Where is the biotin?  Co-Worker: Oh, that's in the bin labeled "magnesium sulphate."  Of course it is.) I felt like I was trapped in the Legend of Zelda, where you search for stupid Zelda all day long but no one ever really finds her. In the end, you die jumping over something pointy and have to start all over at the beginning. I did level up and gain an extra life after I successfully remembered where the red rumensin pellets where.

All of this was a challenge, and yet, at Thanksgiving, when my sister was bemoaning the fact that she couldn't find the envelope containing her employment papers for her new job, I clearly recalled that she told me the week before that it was in her van. This is info I did not need to retain, but somehow, I did. Well done Madam Trelawney.

Drama-Cat: Gladys Goes To the Vet

Today was that magical day that happens once a year. No, not Christmas. It was Take Gladys To The Vet Day. Every year we start warning her and taunting her about it weeks ahead of time.

"Gladys! You get to go see Dr. Charlie soon!" we say in our sing-song voice.

Gladys usually blinks her disdain and ignores us. As if ignoring us will make it not happen. Cats are like that.

Here is the usual silliness we are forced to put up with.

On the big day, or sometimes the night before if I'm really on my A-game, I drag the cat carrier up from the basement and wipe the cobwebs and coal dust off of it. Then it sits on the kitchen floor. Gladys senses that it is there and avoids it. She is still in denial that this IS going to happen.

When it's time to depart, I go looking for Gladys. This is her red flag that something big is going down because we usually just leave the house without searching for her first. I sometimes try to bait her into entering the kitchen on her own but it just feels wrong since I know that she is going to see the cat carrier and run the other way.  So this year I picked her up and immediately wished I had gotten her back claws removed also.

Cats have a way of growing seven more arms and legs when you are trying to stuff them into a cat carrier. She pretty much spreads all of her limbs out, her back claws grow an extra three inches and you begin to re-evaluate the physics of jamming such a large cat into such a small hole.

Perhaps it can't be done, I say to myself.  Then I remember that just last week she wiggled under the dresser in the quilting room which only has about a 6 inch clearance. I jokingly asked her if I was going to have to employ the jaws of life to get her fat body out from underneath it when she deftly swooped back out at me in a failed ambush attempt.

This year my husband was on hand to witness the circus that is Vet Day. He thinks I make it up how dramatic she is about the whole affair. Now he has seen the light.  He picked up Gladys and tried getting her in the cat carrier. With the two of us working together, we managed to get her pushed in.  We examined each other's wounds and tried to find that one finger of his that she sliced off. Yowling and crying poured forth from the carrier. And continued for the whole 20 minute car ride to the vet.

At first she tried the distressed yowl. I turned the car radio on.  Then she started peppering the yowls with growls.  I turned the radio up louder.  She added hissing to the repertoire. I started to sing along with the radio. That was when she gave up and switched tactics to the Poor Pitiful Me meow. If you've ever watched National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation you may remember the part where Aunt Brittany accidently wraps the cat up in a box. The box is making terrible noises and thrashing about wildly. That's what Gladys does inside her cat carrier between the house & the car, the car & the vet's.

At Dr. Charlie's, we went into the exam room. (Lights please.) We waited a moment or two. (Camera....Gladys Goes to the Vet Take One....Action!) The nurse came in and opened her carrier and instead of springing out like a crazy baboon, she walked out calm, collected and graceful. Like a movie star on the red carpet. There was no sign of the poofy tail or the big yellow saucer eyes. She walked that counter like she owned it.

Dr. Charlie came in and said hello to her. She curtsied. He checked her ears with q-tips to make sure they were clean. She sat perfectly still, as if we spend every day sticking q-tips in her ears. He pulled her lips back to check her teeth. She smiled and batted her eyes. When it was time for her shot, she acted bored. Needles, shmeedles.

And then for the grand finale (I love this part and I swear some year I will take a video camera) Dr. Charlie opens up the cat carrier door and says "Would you like to go home now Gladys?" And the cat who butchered and maimed us just a half hour before for even SUGGESTING such a thing, put her tail in the air in a delicate curve, and walked into her cat carrier as if she were the queen. (Cut! That's a wrap, folks.)

The queen setting majestically on her Victorian couch.

My Version of the National Poverty Level

According to the newspaper, my husband and I are a mere 2 kids away from falling below the National Poverty Level, or NPL as I like to call it.  NPL makes it sound more like a sport, like NBA or NFL or NRA.

Since I'm mathematically dyslexic and because I don't give a rat's patootie about details (it was in the newspaper but the explaining paragraph looked too boring to read so I skipped it), I'm really not sure how they come up with the figures that define if one falls above or below the poverty level. So I've devised a more clever and brilliantly thought out way to find out where you stand.

I believe my version to be more accurate.

(This is my family in the 1940's making apple butter in their backyard. I might be poor but I get it honest.)

You fall under the NPL if:
1. The toilet paper where you work is better than what you've got at home.
     a. You work in a feed mill part of the time.
     b. The other part of the time you work on a roving tar & chip crew, therefore the toilet paper consists of napkins from Sheetz and whatever flora you can scrounge off the forest floor.

2. Your welfare/foodstamps friends with multiple kids are eating better than you. The inside of their fridge looks like the midnight buffet on a Carnival cruise ship compared to your pitiful collection of condiments and Ziplock containers of mysterious and fuzzy mold.

3. You hang out at the old folks home in the winter time because they have heat.

4. You buy a cheap pair of flip flops for $7 at Payless and the cashier tells you that you must have mega will power because there is a Buy One Get One Half Off deal going on. And you're like "No, I just don't have an extra $3.50 and I feel bad about spending this much instead of buying the $1 ones at Dollar General."

5. You realize that the jeans you are wearing were given to you buy your friend Mary before she moved away and that was about six years ago. You got your "dressy" t-shirts from another very good friend (who will remain nameless so her boyfriend doesn't wig out on me) when she had her boobs done. And as you look around, you discover that your entire wardrobe was given to you by someone else.

6. You read about the NPL in the newspaper you found on the breakroom table at the mill because you can't afford to buy your own subscription.

7. You dream about robbing a bank but in your dream, someone finds your stash of stolen loot and shreds it into mulch. Even in your dreams you get to be poor. Bummer.

8. When you accidentally get burnt by a run-away firework on the 4th of July you refuse medical treatment because the co-pay to see your doctor is $30. You don't need that arm anyhow, that's why God gives you two of them. Let it burn.

(This has healed nicely on its own since the picture was taken and yes, that really is my arm and I really didn't go to the doctor.) 

9. Your front bike tire went flat two months ago and your husband still hasn't fixed it.  - Oh wait. That falls under "Cheap and Simple Repairs Your Husband Could Do But Just Conveniently Forgets To Do." 

Welcome to the NPL. Go Team Poverty!

The Pro's & Con's of Running

In the past few years I have gone from fitness fanatic to world class couch potato. Running was my exercise of choice followed closely by whatever workout they were doing on FitTv or Lifetime in the morning. For years without fail, I would wake up and do Fit & Lite with Denise Austin. Then Lifetime took her away.  Gilad kept me trim and limber on the FitTv Channel until Directv ditched it. Then my dog died and I ditched running. It was an easy transition into slobdom. Pass the Doritos please.

Every now and then I put on my sneaks and hobble outside to do a few lame and labored miles. Grudgingly. In this month's edition of Runner's World it had an article to get people motivated to become morning runners. It said to list the pro's and con's of running. So I shall. Here they are:

Pro's to running:
1. Running makes me look like a goddess. (Only in my mind but that's all I need really. As long as I think I look good....)
2. When I run I get to brag about having ran. (What? Oh, that's nothing. I already ran 5 miles this morning.)
3. It minimizes the cheese on my thighs.
4. It gives me Awesome calves. When I flex them they look like chicken cutlets. This in turn minimizes the fact that I have cankles. (Thanks a BUNCH bad genetics.)
5. You can see my knee caps instead of just stretch marks and cellulite.
6. My heartbeat slows down to like, 3 beats a minute. Running makes my heart so efficient that I'm almost clinically dead. This is fun because it freaks out the people at the Red Cross when I make a blood donation.
7. I eat like walrus and look like a gazelle.

Con's to running: 
1. I'm too lazy to run.
2. You have to do it consistently for it to work.
3. More specifically, you have to do it consistently for months and months.
4. I don't like running in the cold.
5. I don't like running in the heat.
6. I don't like running in the evening.
7. Mornings don't work for me either.
8. My whole day has to be planned around the run because I hate having to take more than one shower a day.
9. I sweat like a warthog. Seriously. I can soak an entire ball cap, including the bill. Ask my old running partners.
10. I sometimes have to wake up at 3:30am to be at work and then if I work 12 hour days, I don't feel like running at the end of it.

Well, there you have it. I'm not sure what conclusion I'm supposed to come to. I think the magazine said I was to be able to see that the pro's outweigh the con's. Personally, I'm thinking I'd totally rock a muumuu. Screw you skinny jeans.

Funeral Crasher

So there I sat this past Saturday morning, enjoying the epic cheesiness of "Eclipse" (thank you Netflix) when I got a phone call from Walt, my unofficial personal assistant. He was calling to let me know that my great-aunt's funeral was that day at 11 o'clock. I found out at 9:45am. 

He said he had left a message on my answering machine about the viewing (the night before apparently) which my machine failed to relay to me. This made me wonder how many other important calls my machine has not given me.

"Kelly? Ed McMahon here. You won the million dollar sweepstakes..." 

Walt was unsure of the exact whereabouts of the funeral but he did know it was at 11. There are only 350 small churches in our community. I felt that I should make the effort to go, and besides, where two or more of my dad's family is gathered, usually a good time follows. I was sure I could find it. 

So I raced to the shower (after I finished watching the Cullens defeat the army of newborns and discuss Bella's future with the Volturi) and was on my way.  The first church I stopped at had only two cars in the parking lot, neither of which was a hearse. 

I tried calling my dad on my sister's old trac phone with 29 seconds left on it. Since there is barely any service in our area I had to drive further down the road just to make the call. It went to voice mail.  He was apparently already at the funeral which was surprising since he is notoriously late for everything. I kept driving.  I even tried calling my gram to see if she had a newspaper with the obit in it. I think I got her out of bed. 10:50am is sort of early for her. 

Three churches and 35 minutes later, I was getting uncomfortable. The vintage dress I was wearing (which fit 5 years ago but not so much anymore) was giving me the vapors from having to suck in my gut. My pantyhose (how OLD FASHIONED!) made me feel like I was wearing long johns because it was a very hot day. I should point out that the purpose of the pantyhose was to cover up the fact that I was too hurried to shave my legs and to give the appearance of a fake suntan. 

I had pretty much given up on finding the funeral when I fell in line with some white cars doing about 20 in a 55 speed zone. Could this be the funeral procession?  I was ready to turn on my hazard lights when I realized that it was just a string of old people driving. ARRRRRR!!!!

So I pulled over in a corn field and shucked off the pantyhose and unbuttoned the middle of my dress to let my gut hang out. Oh sweet relief. The white car drivers were going so slow that I caught up to them again. 

I decided to call it a day and just head home. That's when I passed a church with a full parking lot AND a hearse. So I stopped. And almost got out of the car half dressed. It's a good thing I looked down to find my purse. I put myself back together but there was no way I wrestling the hose back on in a church parking lot. Houdini I'm not.  No wonder no one wears those things anymore. 

Quietly I snuck in the church, and slid into the back pew, hoping this was the right funeral. I decided that no matter whose it was, I was going to stay and if anyone asked how I knew the deceased, I was just going to say they used to be my Sunday School teacher. Even if he/she was the town drunk, that was my story and I was sticking to it. Turns out I was at the right church - I could see the back of my aunt's head.

While I was sitting there I also had an epiphany. This winter, when I'm tired of the ramen noodles, I'm just going to go to random funerals and stay for the meal. I could potentially be eating ham and green beans every day for free. Eventually someone will be clever enough to write a screen play about this and when they do, I want you to remember who came up with the idea first. 

To Bee or Not To Bee (Stung)

Yesterday, while I was working on job #1 (if you don't know what job #1 is, click here) we were barreling down the highway on the chipper and my face and a yellow jacket happened to collide.

Normally the bees and I have worked out an exchange of etiquette that goes something like this:

1. The bee (I used that term loosely, it could be a yellow jacket, a wasp, a honey bee, a bumble bee, etc.) hits my face or body.

2. The bee politely excuses itself. Oh excuse me, I didn't see you there.

3. I excuse myself. No, pardon me, I didn't mean to intrude.


4. The bee and I exchanges brief pleasantries in a British accent. Quite alright, quite alright. Lovely weather we're having today, yes?  Oh my yes, quite lovely. I'm so sorry to have bumped into you so rudely. Here is my card if you need anything.  Thank you very much, You have a smashing day now, no pun intended.  Ha ha, a witty one you are. Yes you have a jolly good day yourself. 


5. Then the bee flies on it's way and I go about on mine. Neither of us are injured, just a bit shook up.

But yesterday the bee I rear-ended with my face had no time for such silliness. In fact, I suspect that the bee happened to be flying the same direction we were and we just overcame it, causing it's stinger to go directly into my face causing shock, pain and panic for both parties.

We hit each other so hard I barely had time to see the bright yellow stripes of its yellow jacket before it went careening off to the side and crash landed in parts unknown. It hurt like the dickens.

Normally, my face looks like this:

Occasionally, my face looks like this:

But this morning....my face looked like this:

I am smiling with both sides of my mouth, but the left side of my face was puffed to capacity and did not allow any room for upward movement of my lips. My left nostril was also swollen which pushed my nose askew to the right. My top lip was swelled up too.  If you think this is acceptable, scroll back to the first picture. Then come back down here. Then laugh heartily because I sure did when I looked in the mirror this morning. 

My Resume. Sort of. Incase You Ever Wondered.

For those who read my blog regularly, you may sometimes ask yourself, "What exactly is it that Kelly does? I mean, sometimes she's poverty stricken but then she talks about being a church secretary and then she tells stories about traveling around to work. So what gives? What the heck does this Kelly character do?"

When people say to me "So, what do you do?" The only answer that makes sense to give them is "Oh, lots of things." Other times I just say that I'm self employed. It would take all day to tell them about all my jobs. So for those who were curious, here it is: 

1. I work with a tar & chip crew. You know- those people you hate who lay down tar & cover it with stone & then you complain and drive 10mph on it even though it's rolled and packed tight- I'm part of the group responsible for your misery. This is a sometimes job that usually takes up most of my summer months. I was just off to a slow start with it this year. I sometimes wonder if the company I work for even knows they hired me because I've only ever met one office person. But she handed me a hard hat and a safety vest and I get paid so I can only assume that they are aware of me. 

2. I'm a church secretary. I do this every week, all year long. Even during tar & chip season. I print out bulletins and when there is a typo or blooper, it's my bad.

3. I am a contract quilter. That is- I hand quilt for others. This does NOT mean that I do all the patchwork. Nay, I don't do any. What I do is, people bring me their quilt tops that they've sewn together. I put the top, the batting (the stuffing in the middle) and the bottom together in a frame and hand quilt the sucker. It takes months. And that's if I work at it all day every day. 

4. I am a writer, occasionally. And sometimes, I even get paid for it. This is a whenever job. Whenever the need pops up and someone needs me to write something I do. 

5. I work at a Feed Mill. This is a sometimes job. Sometimes they need me and sometimes they don't. I usually answer the phones and re-set the computer wallpaper to ornery things. I went to school with the guy whose desk & computer I borrow so it's a lot of fun for me to mess around with his settings and then watch from a distance as he goes ballistic when he discovers it. That's my main purpose at the mill. To spread chaos. But sometimes, during corn season when all the farmers are bringing in corn, I get to weigh the trucks and run the skid loader. I have to say, running the skid loader all evening long for weeks might be one of the funnest jobs I've ever had. And I don't know why. It's un-explainable.

6. I house-sit for people. This is also an occasional job. I water their plants, feed their dogs, cats and/or chickens. I bring in the mail and the newspaper. I do whatever it is they want me to do while they are gone.  My clients are confidential. Mainly I do this for people who live close to me. The further you live from me, the more expensive I am. 

The busiest week of my life was a few weeks ago when I was doing jobs 2-6 and got the call that I'd also be starting job #1. Sometimes juggling six jobs can be a challenge. 

I bet your thinking "Wow, you work all the time. You must be a billionaire." Au contraire. At the end of the day, I am merely tired but no richer than when I woke up. But I can honestly say, I love all my jobs. I have fun at every single one of them. I have met more people and done more things since I've begun this streak of wild and crazy employment than I ever would have if I had stayed tied to my cubicle like a good girl. And now you know what it is that I do. 

Every day is an adventure for me.  Stay tuned. 

GPS, Grand Pandemonium Strategem

I noticed last week, while carpooling with my co-worker Walt, that he was no longer looking out his windshield and using the road to see where we were going. Instead he was watching his GPS screen and swerving when it indicated a bend in the road.

Since he was kind enough to pick me up AND pack a lunch for me, I tried not to pick on him too much about it. But I did draw the line when he tried to veer off into a local farm.

“But it’s showing me I’m going to turn right,” he said.

“Yes, you are but not right now. This is a farm and that is a barn. Don’t even look at this anymore, you don’t need it.” I said, covering up the GPS screen.

At the end of the work day we needed to find our way home. Immediately after turning onto the highway, Walt turned on the GPS. This was good because I was not sure where we were at the moment either. Because I’m lazy, I’m going to switch the speaking format now because I don’t feel like dealing with a bunch of punctuation. 

            Female GPS Voice:  “Turn right onto Kline Road”

Me: Walt, this is a dirt road- we tar & chipped back this way last year. We go up past that farm where the road does a 90 degree turn between the barn & the house.

Walt: Oh yeah! I remember that! I thought this looked familiar. Let’s see where it takes us.

Feeling eager for a new adventure, I agreed. Plus when you’re the passenger in someone else’s car, there’s really no point in arguing- you’re pretty much trapped.  We twisted and turned back a dirt lane, between a barn and a house. Then the GPS gave us our next move.

            GPS:  “Turn left onto Geiger Lane."

            Me: I know we did this road for sure last year. Remember, we had that new kid on the roller and everyone kept forgetting to tell him which road we were doing next?

            Walt: Oh yeah!

            Me: Why is it taking us this way?

            Walt: I don’t know.

            GPS: “Turn left onto Culligan Road.”

            Me: HAHAHAHA! What the heck?  This feels to me like we’re making a big loop.

            Walt: It sure does. (Walt is a man of few words. Sometimes.)

            GPS: “Turn left onto Stoystown Road.”

            Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHA!!! WALT!! THIS IS THE ROAD WE STARTED ON!! HAHAHAHA!!! (Gasp for air) WE JUST MADE A HUGE LOOP!!

           Walt: Hate when that happens.

           Me: Why did it take us the whole way through the country side!?? (Followed by more peals of laughter from me.) Why didn’t it just say “Turn your car around Idiot, you’re going the WRONG WAY??!!” 

          Walt: I don’t know.

          Me: (More laughing and eye wiping for the next 34 miles.)

On another occasion last year when there were more of us carpooling to work, we were using the GPS to find our way to Ligonier. We almost made it. Then suddenly, the GPS told us to turn right. We turned right although Granny (another co-worker riding with us) was adamant about the fact that we should have turned left. After a few rambling miles that made no sense to us, Walt asked to see the GPS.  He pushed some buttons and after a few moments asked Bill (our taxi driver that day) if he lived in Such-N-Such Corner. Bill said yes he did. Walt deduced that the GPS was no longer taking us to Ligonier but back to Bill's house. 

Granny was right. We should have turned left.  We were late for work that day.