Wheeeeee...?

Does anyone else think this inflatable slide is in very poor taste? It is a real party rental!

Turning one of the world's tragedies into party entertainment? Why is this more acceptable than a Sandy Hook Dodgeball Obstacle or Twin Tower Bungee Jump?

Tooth Fairy

The Tooth Fairy visited our house for the first time a few weeks ago. My daughter is only five and unfortunately her first lost tooth did not occur naturally.  The experience was rather traumatic for us all, but thankfully our Tooth Fairy really came through.

I was pretty devastated when the dentist informed us in the fall that Madelyn's lower left second molar had a cavity. We have been vigilant about oral care since infancy so the news was shocking and disappointing. I take solace in the dentist's reassurance that this cavity was the result of some kind of "fluke," possibly a spot of weak enamel or unusually deep groove.

The cavity was filled by the dentist and his delightful assistant during this initial visit. The experience was uncharacteristically pleasant!  Madelyn breathed Nitrous Oxide and she was such a ham that she had all three of us adults cracking up. The challenge in getting her to sit still was not because she was uncomfortable or afraid, but because she was being so silly.  Three different staff members "sneaked" Madelyn an extra token for the prize dispenser because she was such a great patient. I left feeling triumphant over the stereotypically traumatic dentist visit, even under distressing circumstances.

But a month or so later, Madelyn complained again of pain near that tooth during brushing, so Gary took her to the "emergency" dental clinic. I wasn't able to be there but Gary reports that it was an entirely different experience. Infection was discovered under the filling (damn you, wonderful first dentist!) which meant it needed to be re-done.  They refused to administer Nitrous at this office because there were pregnant women on the staff, according to Gary. ?!? With no alternative option, Madelyn had to suffer those long numbing injections and the rest of her torture in full awareness. And she was NOT an easy patient this time around. To make matters worse, this dentist was impatient and apparently said the kind of things that only exacerbate Madelyn's fragile emotional state. I imagine all parties were completely exhausted by the end, and the dentist even stated that she wasn't sure if she was able to get all the infection out under the difficult circumstances.

Everything was fine for a few months. When Madelyn began telling us in April to brush that side of her mouth gently, I actually thought she just had a cut on her cheek at first. But when I got a good look, I saw the swelling in her gums under that same molar. So back to the dentist we went.

I declined returning to the emergency clinic, and the first dentist we saw is no longer at a convenient location. So we decided to establish a relationship with the office that is closest to our new home. So another new place and new face for Madelyn. After the last visit, Madelyn's opinion of the dentist was understandably maligned. Even the mention of a possibility of visiting the dentist brought tears to her eyes, I am not kidding.

The new dentist immediately concluded that the molar would have to be extracted. We set an appointment to return a few days later, and she suggested a Rx for an oral medication as an alternative to N2O. To me, extraction was the worst outcome considering our years of careful dental care. This molar is one that shouldn't normally fall out until a child is about 11 years old. So there isn't going to be a new one growing back any time soon. I felt defeated.

I knew this experience was not going to be extremely pleasant. My preparations took on the seriousness of heading into battle. And I feel like I was about the most well-prepared mother I could have been.  On top of the usual stash of books, coloring, stuffed animals, and her comfort blanky, I even thought to bring Madelyn's favorite (bordering on obsessive) CD (The Lion King soundtrack) and my old Discman! Not only that, but I packed extra batteries (which we did use!).  And knowing that one of Madelyn's advance concerns was the bright light in her eyes, I packed not only her cute pink sunglasses, but a surprise novelty pair with fish for eyes.  All of this worked very well to keep her in good spirits...until the work began.

The oral meds to make Madelyn "loopy" were administered about an hour in advance.  Even though Madelyn was not falling over in her chair as the dentist wanted, she decided to proceed based on her slightly slurred speech and happy disposition. Looking back, I think Madelyn would have benefited from a larger dose or more time. Because she was fully conscious of the three very slow anesthetic injections and the violent extraction of her tooth. The entire process was made incredibly challenging for the dentist because Madelyn was squirming, screaming, and trying to shut her mouth. Thank goodness for those little plastic contraptions that hold her jaw open--although I cringe at the idea of her being out of control in such a way. I had to leave the room for the third injection because my heart was breaking. I hope there weren't patients in the waiting room with a fear of the dentist that day, because Madelyn's tortured screams were not reassuring.

Madelyn's music was still playing on her headphones as her own personal background to her screams. I feared that she'd forever associate "I Just Can't Wait to be King" with agonizing assault and never want to hear it again (which I suppose could be considered a relief for Gary and me, but I'd feel awful since she loves it so much).

In the end, Madelyn's tooth came out and of course she was fine. The dentist explained that one of the effects of the medication is a sort of amnesia, assuring us that as bad as it seemed at the time, Madelyn probably wouldn't remember what happened. And this seems to be true. She was much more loopy after the procedure, stumbling around like a drunk 5-year-old (supporting my question of whether more time would have been beneficial). She had to be carried to and from the car to avoid toppling over onto the cement. From then on the focus was on her nifty tooth and the impending visit from Tooth Fairy. Her excitement about these elements seemed to replace all concern about how they came to be. I had told Madelyn that when your tooth comes out at the dentist, and you have to be so brave, the Tooth Fairy brings something extra-special.

So she dictated this letter to the Tooth Fairy and left it under her pillow with the tooth:

Our amazing Tooth Fairy left a note (complete with glittery fairy dust) for Madelyn in return, along with a tiny My Little Pony:

So all was well, except one more near-tragedy which occurred the following night. At bedtime, we couldn't find Madelyn's tooth, which she wanted to bring to Share Day at school the next morning. I'd put the tooth into a tiny plastic box with a clear lid, about the size of a postage stamp, cubed. All of us searched everywhere for this box, even in those strange places like the pantry.  When we were about to call of the dogs, so-to-speak (the irony is about to be apparent), I had a sickening thought.

Armed with a flashlight, I went outside to the dogs' area of the backyard in the dark. Sure enough, there was the little plastic box in the barkdust--now in dozens of shards and pieces. I picked up all the plastic bits and scraps of gauze--finding no evidence of tooth. I almost wanted to cry, thinking how after all we'd been through now we'd have to sift through dog excrement if we wanted to preserve this little piece of Madelyn's childhood. It was a pretty big "if."

Then walking back inside, something caught my eye on the patio. Six feet away from the box's destruction site lay a tiny white pearl with three pointy legs. It was completely intact (amazing because of the broken filling), but had been systematically licked clean by a Husky who we shall assume is Kezia, because she is the pest who does things like this. I was so relieved to have found it that I hardly cared about being mad at the dog (which wouldn't do any good hours after the incident anyway).  I was so happy to show Madelyn before her goodnight kiss that I'd saved the day!

Best Tooth Fairy Ever.

Curly hair FAIL

The other day I got me some of them foam rollers that you wear overnight. My vision: after an evening shower, throw the curlers on wet hair, wake up with gorgeous wavy locks.  Quick, easy beauty. And hey, I bet Madelyn would think this pretty fun, with bonus bonding time for us. 

Last night I skipped one of my workouts because I had not been feeling well all day. Madelyn and I had a hot tub party instead, followed by a shower. I felt so much better afterward. It was a perfect time to try out our curlers, since we both had wet hair and I didn't have any commitments early this morning that would require a decent appearance. You know, in case they didn't work out so well. Ahem.

How to Curl your Hair

in Eight Easy Steps:

Step 1: Install foam curlers

Madelyn was very patient with the process, which surprised me a bit because she doesn't even like to have her hair braided or put in a ponytail. 

The package suggested twisting the hair for a "spiral" curl. That sounded fun. 

Step 2: Pose in anticipation

All done! (Madelyn didn't wear that handkerchief very long, but she wanted to try it out.)

Step 3: Endure very uncomfortable night with plastic lumps all over your head

Step 4: Wake up and remove curlers

Step 5: Marvel at the utter FAIL before your eyes

Have you ever wondered what I would look like with an afro? I actually haven't, but behold the answer.

Seriously. all I need is my pick. Curly hair: FAIL. Afro: WIN. 

Step 6: Go for a run in the rain

A ponytail can hardly contain this hot mess!

Step 7: Wash away all traces of this mistake

Showered and back to my normal self.  Sigh of relief.

Step 8: Return curlers to whence they came

Prepare to meet your maker, foam rollers. Assuming Goody has a satisfaction guarantee, that is.  That 'fro was NOT worth such a horrible, poky, lumpy night's sleep. 

Madelyn's hair, on the other hand, turned out pretty darn cute, even fashionably completing the look with her new 80's rocker outfit. But she says she doesn't want to sleep in curlers again, so they're still going back to the store. 

Grilled cheesy adventure

Laaaast Christmas I bought one of those "half price deals" from a radio station website and put it in my husband's stocking. The gift certificate was for a restaurant called The Grilled Cheese Grill, which I had never heard of. But it sounded right up our alley because a) we love grilled cheese sandwiches and the ad implied that this place expands the culinary delight to new heights, b) they are open very late, and the idea of a midnight run for grilled cheese is the kind of thing that we would have totally done back before we had a child sleeping, and c) the restaurant is in a bus. Yeah.

The problem is, The Grilled Cheese Grill is located far on the other side of town where we rarely have business, too far to reasonably drive just to get a grilled cheese sandwich, even if it is served in a school bus.

Fast forward to thiiiiiis year, when I was contemplating how to celebrate Gary's birthday. We tend to honor birthdays by doing something more often than giving something.  My friend Sarah gave me the idea to check out Ape Cave, and while researching, I figured out that The Grilled Cheese Grill is only a few blocks off the path to get there. It was the perfect excuse to use the gift certificate and try a fun, new place for a special birthday lunch. And the best part is, I discovered that the certificate I had purchased was going to expire at the end of the month, so the timing could not have been better!

As we walked along the sidewalk in Northeast Portland toward our surprise destination, we encountered this:

In case it isn't clear, that is a wooden utility pole covered with a four-inch layer of damp flyers.  They had been partially torn off to provide this stunning cross-section of so many lost kitties, grunge band performances, and bikes for sale. I love this picture. 

The Grilled Cheese Grill was everything I had hoped for and then some. The concept of a mostly-outdoor restaurant doesn't usually swoon me in early November, but at least it wasn't raining. 

In addition to the outdoor picnic tables, this old school bus had been converted into a dining area as well.  The entire ceiling is painted with a semi-frightening mural the title of which might be "Otto's acid trip."  We found ourselves fielding questions like, "Mommy, why doesn't that cat have a head?" and "Ha ha! That skeleton is wearing pants!"

While we waited for our sandwiches to be grilled, Madelyn played bus driver. She is wearing those hideous silver sparkly shoes. We hate them, she loves them. What are you gonna do?

And then. And THEN. Our glorious grilled cheese sandwiches were served. Mine was called the BABS: bacon, apples, bleu cheese, and swiss on rye.  This taste sensation might be enough to make me say OMG, if only I were not fundamentally opposed to uttering that abomination. I will say that it was so yummy that tomato soup dipping was unnecessary. Gary got The Pops with ham, tomato, havarti, and honey mustard on Dave's Killer Cracked Wheat. We wanted to get the requisite tomato soup of course, plus a kids' grilled cheese for Madelyn. A la carte, this would have cost $21.75 (actually not a bad deal for a 3-person lunch). But they have this cleverly titled special called  Fromage a Trois where you get three sandwiches ("one for me, one for you, one to split") plus two soups or two chips for $17.50. So instead of the kids' sandwich, we got The Gabby, which features four cheeses, to share with Madelyn. Our gift certificate was a $20 value, and of course they don't give change, so the $1.75 charge to add ham to Gary's choice brought us up to $19.25--perfect!

The food was delicious and the concept so unique and fun that we'd consider driving all the way over there. Just for a Grilled Cheese Grill grilled cheese sandwich. Because I still really want to try The Jalapeño Popper and The Hot Brie. Plus--and this is a BIG plus--they also have sweet grilled cheese sandwiches.  Various combinations of brie, Nutella, marscarpone, bananas,and peanut butter grilled between cinnamon swirl or white bread. You can even add bacon to create The Fat Elvis. Yes, we will definitely need to venture out to The Grilled Cheese Grill again. 

At last!

I have my husband to thank for providing the material for today's post.  Gary came home last night very excited to show me the "blog-worthy" picture he took at the grocery store.  How thoughtful, and on Day 18 of Nablopomo, his assistance is most welcome. 

Reeeally, Campbell's? 'Spose I should throw out the 3 cans of Spaghetti-O's that are hanging out in my pantry now, since they are clearly UNhealthy. I just love marketing campaigns and food labeling that unmistakably emphasize a product's former inferiority. Just yesterday afternoon, several hours before Gary brought me this beauty, I reached for a box of tea packets at my friend's house which boasted "Improved Taste!" I chuckled under my breath, but never mentioned it to Gary, so you can see how we truly have a profound mystical understanding. Thanks, Gary. It's nice that my blog can be a team effort. 

I know you've seen them too. Won't you please share some of the marketing delights you've noticed which tend to have the opposite of the desired effect on your interest in the product?

Just CARD me.

Since two days ago I alluded to having personal experience with a hangover, and am about to write about going to a bar, I feel the need to reassure you that I am not some kind of alcoholic party animal. Last night I took my good friend Sarah out to celebrate her 30th birthday, and we happened to sit belly up to the bar for dessert because the restaurant was full.  And we had a really fun time. Happy Birthday Sarah!

I recently turned 29 years old. I see the same face in the mirror today that I did ten years ago. Is it because the changes are so very gradual that I don't feel that I have aged? Will I feel the same when when I turn 39 or 49? When do you look in the mirror and not feel 19 years old anymore? 

The Oregon Liquor Control Commission mandates that servers check ID for any individual who looks under 26 years of age. And it's not uncommon to see signs posted in establishments announcing that they card anyone under 35. So how do you think it makes me feel when you don't card me, huh?!?

It's not so much that I am offended by not getting carded. After all, I occasionally got away with hanging out with my older friends in bars when I was 18. If some bartenders thought I was old enough to be there back then, perhaps it's only logical that I have a naturally "mature" appearance. But I am genuinely curious about how old I look to a stranger and why. Last night I came home and scrutinized my face in the mirror: pushing and stretching and trying to figure out what has changed in the last decade. I don't see crow's feet or bags. My smile lines don't seem overly defined. So what gives, Stupid Bartender? 

It's all but impossible to find two photos with exactly the same expression/angle/lighting/haircut for a truly accurate comparison, but here's the closest I came up with after a quick hunt through the archives. I went with my hair back in the recent photo to more closely match the short 'do from my younger days. 

   

2 days after my 21st birthday 

  

   

2 weeks before my 29th birthday

Have I really aged enough to be un-cardable? There are definitely darker creases under my eyes...or is that a matter of different lighting? Does anyone else experience the same odd sensation of being blind to your own degeneration? I don't like getting old. Especially when I don't even realize it's happening. 

What more do you want from me?

Here's what happened at the grocery store last week.  I loaded up a cart FULL of items I needed for a party we were throwing at Curves where over 100 guests were expected. Mainly my list consisted of large, heavy ingredients such as about 10 jugs each of cranberry juice, ginger ale, and lemon-lime soda.  It was one of those annoying shopping trips where I didn't manage to find everything the first time through the aisles and so ended up zigging and zagging back through the store a couple of times pushing an overburdened and unwieldy cart before ultimately completing my mission.  For the sake of convenience, I threw a handful of items needed for my own kitchen into the cart as well.  Three-year-old Madelyn was being relatively tolerant and well-behaved considering the circumstances.

When I had finally collected everything on the list, I surveyed the checkout lines. They were all similar--about 3 people in each with relatively equal conveyor belt loads. So I just picked the closest one, and when space became available, began hoisting my goods onto the black rubber belt.  Madelyn loves to help with that part.

My cart was more than halfway unloaded when the old lady behind me piped up.

"Isn't this the EXPRESS LANE?"

My heart dropped into my stomach as I looked up to see that little lighted square sign indicating that her words echoing in my head were indeed accurate.

I was mortified. And remorseful. Which should have been made apparent by my subsequent actions, in which I first apologized genuinely and profusely.  Old lady's response to this was, "they may as well just take down the sign."  I then explained my blunder to the cashier (who was still ringing up the groceries of the customer in front of me) and asked if I should move.  When she assured me it was fine and she would take care of me, I still hesitated to finish unloading my cart, and offered--no, implored--the cranky lady to go ahead and check out before me, since she only had a handful of items and my transaction was going to be lengthy. For some inexplicable reason she refused and repeated her indignant opinion that they should remove the Express Lane sign, as it was clearly doing her no good AT ALL.

By this time there were a couple of other people behind her in the un-express lane, so it was with nearly tangible penitence that I laid down the black plastic order separator and added my "personal" groceries to the conveyor belt to be purchased separately from the business-related groceries.  Now not only had I committed a cardinal sin of grocery check-out etiquette, but added insult to injury by having to make two distinct transactions.  Hey, I had warned Ms. Cranky and tried to insist she go first. And by the way, my second purchase totally fit the criteria of the Express Lane, so there.

In spite of that fact, I completed my two misguided purchases feeling as though eyes were boring into the back of my head.  Even the cashier, who had told me it wouldn't be a big deal, didn't offer any consolation. And my lovely daughter, who continued to be patient throughout this process, seemed to give everyone more of a reason to despise me--that mom who brings her annoying little brat to the store and gets in everyone's way making a mess and being too loud--rather than eliciting the usual pleasant, entertained responses.

I apologized in words. I apologized with my facial expressions. I all but pleaded with the old lady to check out ahead of me.  What else could I or should I have done?

You can't argue with a bargain

This place is going to give Dollar Tree a run for their money.  Or is it?

A couple of months ago I noticed a new store open up on Main Street in my quaint little town. Big yellow signs proclaim in red lettering that it is called Mia's Dollar Plus Store. Sounds to me like the kind of place that would be fun to check out, but not a shopping destination I'd find myself ever requiring. So it took me until last night, after sitting on the curb across from Mia's Dollar Plus watching our town's Holiday Light Parade, that I had the opportunity to venture inside.

The interior of the store was rather dim and smelled musty. I quickly realized that this operation was more like the Viet-Thai Food Market that used to be next door to our Curves than a traditional chain discount store.  Just for fun, I wandered the aisles, chuckling inconspicuously a number of times as I went.

Two displays in particular, however, had me struggling to maintain a composed facade. Thankfully I was prepared with my camera and the only worker in the store was hidden behind stacks of knick-knacks for sale at the checkout counter and couldn't see me snapping photographic mockery down the narrow aisle.

There were two very odd sealed packages of diapers on the top rack--certainly not a local brand, but just because they aren't Huggies or Pampers doesn't mean there's anything wrong with them, right? But below that...bundles of diapers wrapped in rubber bands.  On the front of each is a post-it note on which is written either a 7 or an L--they went both directions. These are for sale. You may pay money at a store for a handful of diapers wrapped in a rubber band.

A little further down the same aisle were pantyliners, and just above those, logically, were the VHS tapes.  Actually the shelf of videocassettes stretched down the entire row above other such necessities found near diapers as flashlights, shoe polish, and keychains.  But these aren't just any videos.  They are used, and the cardboard jackets (on those lucky enough to still have one) are in poor repair. I mean, it's not like you can buy new VHS tapes anywhere these days, but the concept of part store/part garage sale is foreign to me.

In summary, if you are in need of just a few diapers or an instructional video on Intermediate Golf for your VCR, give me a call and I'll totally hook you up.

Southern "hospitality"

I experienced some pretty amusing glimpses of customer service down "sath," and although there were plenty of people who classified the friendly, hospitable stereotype, I thought it would be fun to share my brushes with the people of "Nashvul" (apparently Nashville rhymes with bashful, so get it right!) who don't quite fit that mold.

Bell Service is for Wussies
After courteously checking us in at the Gaylord Opryland, the front desk staff person carefully showed us on a map of the property how to navigate to our room. This very large resort is made up of several sections that were added on at different times, with varied main levels, all connected through gorgeous indoor gardens.  The result is a very confusing labyrinth of passageways and winding staircases.  We were certainly appreciative of her detailed instructions.

We set off in the right direction, map in hand, our two suitcases apiece rolling along behind. The first time viewing these atrium with magnificent waterfalls and full foliage was awe-inspiring.  Each set of stairs we encountered was accompanied by a nearby ramp, so we were able to enjoy the scenery without complication--until we reached the escalators. The receptionist had specifically instructed us to approach two sequential sets of escalators and go up them both (the escalators in question are shown on the left in the first photo above).  My mother and I each had one large and one medium-sized rolling suitcase in addition to our backpacks, laptop bag, and another bag.  The prospect of trying to successfully board and then disembark an escalator with our cumbersome baggage made us wonder aloud three things, in this order: First, why weren't we offered bell service for our luggage, or at least told where we could ask for it? Then, why did that woman direct us toward two escalators when she could plainly see we had a significant amount of luggage to drag along? And finally, where in the nearest elevator?

The answers to our first two questions would never be realized. To the third question, we set out to find the answer, which was not as simple as you might assume. We followed a path into a lodging tower, assuming we'd find an elevator there. We did, eventually.  Into the surprisingly tiny elevator we awkwardly crammed ourselves and all our suitcases, but upon exiting at the next floor up we realized that this one only offered access to the rooms in that tower. We hadn't noticed any alternate option, but back into the elevator we went. I swear at this point we could have passed for some bumbling tourist characters in a Saturday Night Live sketch: suitcases tipping over, on and off and on the same elevators, going around in circles, tripping over ourselves, all Charlie Chaplin-style.  Oh, the hilarity, had we been set on fast-forward to a honky-tonk piano rag. But in reality--not so funny.

I actually cannot remember how we finally found our wing of the hotel with its main level 3 floors up from the ground floor, even now that I am comfortably familiar with the layout. I was probably so frustrated and then relieved that I didn't care how, because I knew every other time we came here we would use the escalators meant to bring us.

Contender for 'Most Odd Response from a Retail Employee'

A mall within walking distance of our Convention hotel + free time = dangerous.  But I had left the tags on the dress I brought for our Awards Banquet in hopes I might be able to find one I liked even better, so that was the primary purpose in going to the mall.  The first time, anyway.

My mom and friend Lana helped me search and gave advice in the dressing rooms. One possibility we found was a frilly, ivory dress with a black satin empire waist tie.  Very pretty, but strapless and quite short. My broad shoulders make some strapless dresses less flattering, so the girls set out to find coverage options, something along the lines of a shoulder shrug.  The one they brought back didn't really "go" with the style of the dress, so we asked the fitting room attendant if they had any others.  We described what we were looking for, and her uninterested response went something like this:

"Yeah, we have one that's kind of, like, lacy?...but I don't know if you'll like it or whatever."

...

And that was it.  Her expression implied that we could go find it if we wanted to risk the chance I might not like it, but she wasn't about to go out of her way to sell it to us.

Do you normally know if people are going to like anything in your store? Isn't that WHY we shop and then try things on? I don't know if I'll like it either, but I can't determine that until I SEE it.  We then had to ask her to tell us where we could find the mysterious article and trudge off in search. It turns out that I didn't like it.  So according to that girl's logic I shouldn't have even bothered looking.

I found this cute shrug instead, and although I didn't end up getting the ivory dress and this piece didn't coordinate with the dress I did wear, I still like it.

Sorry to Trouble You, Ma'am

We went on the greatest little dinner cruise with a group of other Curves owners--some friends from home and some new friends we now adore.  I wondered if the General Jackson Showboat would be a lame, cheesy tourist attraction, but it was actually really fun and the "Country Music USA" performance was exceptional--even with my limited appreciation of country music, I was entertained.  The musicians were highly skilled and so full of enthusiastic energy (unlike many of the Disney on Ice skaters).

Mom on the balcony overlooking the General Jackson Showboat stage

Before the show began we were served a delicious dinner.  The staff allowed us to squeeze two extra seats into our table to accommodate our group, but as the salad was passed around it was apparent that the amount had not been adjusted for our larger company.  Our server wasn't in the room at the moment, and I wanted to have the situation handled before anybody was sitting hungry with an empty plate for too long, so I wandered over to the nearest dining room personnel to inquire.

The woman appeared to be a server as well, only she was presently occupied with clearing dishes from the empty tables, where the seats had not been sold.  Before telling her we needed more salad, I simply explained that we were in need of some assistance at our table, and asked if she could help us or if we must wait for our own server.  She hesitated, then asked which table I was from. I told her, and then again she hesitated, without even hearing my request, before telling me that since she was not my server, she would not be able to help me.

I understand how foodservice works, and when gratuity is the primary motivation to serve, not necessarily to ensure a positive experience for its own merit, the altruistic desire to help can disappear.  But since this woman was not busy helping her own customers, it seems to me that she could have listened to my request to see if it was simple enough to handle herself (maybe we were missing a straw and she has an extra one in her pocket), or at least helped me locate my server so he could resolve the issue.  The "I can't help you with that, good luck" attitude in customer service is so foreign to me.

But that was the only little hiccup in the evening, and here's the best part: When we arrived in our room I noticed a little advertisement saying I could text the word "offers" and our checkout date to this number and then would receive special offers to use during our visit on my phone.  I figured I had nothing to lose, and signed up with the hope that maybe we'd get 10% off a souvenir or a free dessert.  Later, my mom and I visited the Attractions desk to inquire about the General Jackson cruise. I was disappointed to learn that the dinner tickets were more costly than we had hoped, and there would not be a lunch cruise sailing at a time we could be available. So we accepted the fact that this event wouldn't be in the cards for us. Until a few hours later, when I received my first (and only, come to think of it) "offer" from the hotel.  Not 10% off. Not a free dessert. Buy one, get one FREE tickets on the General Jackson! We were thrilled, and shared our discount code with everyone who was interested so we had a big, fun group to go with.

Dear Big Carl,

You are not a Big Mac.

Your commercials claiming to be a far superior version of the beloved Big Mac piqued my curiosity. After all, why is there an extra piece of bread in the middle of the Mac? So when I was in need of lunch and passed by Carl's Jr. this afternoon, I decided to put your assertions to the test. My taste test.

Here's the thing. You can't just copy the special sauce and compare yourself to a Big Mac. I get it. You have a lot more meat. Guess what? In my book it's actually better to minimize the amount of fast food beef I consume. All that cow was too much for me: the taste of greasy beef overpowered every bite.

And on a Big Mac, the finely shredded lettuce has a way of achieving unity with globs of Special Sauce in a way that is simply impossible for two ginormous pieces of thick, crunchy iceberg.

Mostly though, Big Carl, how can you even align yourself with the Big Mac when there is nary a pickle to be found between your measly two buns?

I regret to inform you that I will continue to satisfy my occasional Mac-related hankerings by hitting the McDonald's drive-thru. I'll pay the extra dollar because I will be able to finish more than half of the sandwich  (of course one full Big Mac is about equal in calories to just half of a Big Carl, so it's best all that beefiness grossed me out partway through). As an added benefit, McDonald's offers a huge variety of options to feed my daughter, many of them relatively healthy, compared to the chicken strips on your menu--which appeared to be the only item at least somewhat geared toward the younger palate and inferior dexterity of a child.

In closing, thank you for creating the opportunity to discover the true reason for Big Mac's bun number three.  That extra piece of plain bread in the middle of a double burger (inferior in total weight as it may be) serves to effectively mask the flavor of pre-formed beef patties (don't think that just because your patties have neat little bumpy edges I can't tell that they are shaped that way from a mold).  Because of that third bun, the Special Sauce, American cheese, and pickles really shine through.

Sincerely,

Medium-sized Kristen

Goodwill treat, or trick?

Since last year was Madelyn's first walking Halloween, she needed a candy bucket. I sent my husband on the mission to find one for her at Goodwill in mid-October. I wanted a vintage-style plastic jack-o-lantern, like the kind I used as a kid. The one Gary purchased is much bigger than I had hoped for (since Madelyn was quite small), but he reported that there was not nearly the selection of plastic pumpkin candy buckets at Goodwill that I had confidently assured him there would be. So in light of that, this pumpkin was perfect.

Madelyn~October 2008~ready to get some candy

I'll have to explain her "costume" later this week

When I pulled out the Halloween decorations earlier this month, Madelyn discovered the jack-o-lantern bucket among them. My daughter is very fond of totes. She has a variety of purses, bags, baskets, buckets, and boxes that she will use for varying intervals to store and carry her "treasures." At any given time her preferred tote might contain a small stuffed animal, a set of alphabet flash cards, a ladybug ring, an acorn, or really anything small enough to fit inside that she deems of interest. It is adorable. So some days this month we've gone to a store or restaurant with a giant orange pumpkin in tow.

Last week I happened to notice the stickers on the bottom of our pumpkin bucket.

The sticker on the left is the label from the original store where this bucket was purchased (I think Target), before eventually being cast away to Goodwill, and then purchased by us. That price tag says $0.79. The Goodwill price tag on the right says $1.99. We are suckers.

Okay, so the buck and twenty cents more that we paid is not the issue here. $1.99 is a fair price for a classic jack-o-lantern bucket. I'm not complaining about the cost, but I find this comical. The original price is right there on the item, but the person at Goodwill labeling it didn't either consider setting the price to reflect the original new-item cost, or at least scrape off the sticker to avoid any potential customer agitation.

This scenario reminded me of my distaste for Goodwill. The fact is, they are by far the easiest place to donate unwanted goods. But most unwanted goods would serve a much better purpose being donated to a truly worthy cause such as a shelter or community outreach program. Whenever possible, I prefer to donate to these organizations, because I know that the items will be given for free to people genuinely in need.

Goodwill, on the other hand, accepts your castoffs at zero cost-of-goods, and re-sells them for a profit. Don't let that non-profit status fool you. While Goodwill Industries does utilize a large percentage of income to provide employment assistance and training, there are also a lot of people making a lot of money. Non-profits' income simply must be dispersed at the end of each fiscal year, and that isn't difficult to do. For example, after coming under the attorney general's scrutiny in 2005, the president of the Portland-area Goodwill chapter agreed to a 24% salary reduction from his 2004 earnings of $838,508.

All from those $5.99 shirts and $1.99 pumpkin buckets that Goodwill gets for free.

Everyone has a right to make money, and I am a proponent of the free market. I don't boycott Goodwill, but I think their non-profit status is a little hokey. Sometimes, like most people, I just need a quick way to get rid of some old stuff, and Goodwill has that figured out. Today, I went to Goodwill looking for a couple of items to create an acceptable Halloween "costume" for my Bah Humbug hubby to wear at our party this weekend. And I couldn't help but notice that amidst the piles and racks of junk, there were some really great "treasures" at excellent prices.

So Goodwill really has us in its grasp: they make donating SO easy, and--in spite of some pricing snafoos such as my pumpkin's 250% mark-up--sell decent stuff at reasonable prices if you can find what you're looking for. All that is required to shop there is PATIENCE and an impervious sense of smell (or a nose plug--it always smells so weird in there!)

Worlds of Fantasy

While I make no apologies for my objections to clothing and other paraphernalia branded with television and movie characters the likes of Dora, SpongeBob, and Tinkerbell, it would be deceitful for me not to admit that certain characters themselves I find endearing. A quick mental categorization between the charming and irritating indicates a strong personal preference toward those characters that influenced my own childhood and have remained popular because of a sort of "classic" status. That rule is not all-encompassing however. I really like the little Canadian boy named Caillou on PBS kids/Sprout who stars in what used to be practically the only TV show my daughter would watch. And just because I played with Barbies and Strawberry Shortcake as a child does not automatically make me a fan of their new singing and dancing DVD series'. So there are definitely exceptions.

When Disney reintroduced the concept of the animated feature film with The Little Mermaid in 1989, I was at the impressionable age of eight, and I still count this movie among my absolute favorites. In the years that followed, my parents' garage, when empty, became my undersea fantasyland. I would strap on rollerskates and circle the garage singing "Part of Your World." I felt as graceful as a mermaid, but probably looked as awkward as a lobster.

At one- to two-year intervals Disney released another amazing cartoon adventure, and for a while there it seemed that each one was better than the last. Then they reached Pocahontas, and well, they can't all be winners. For me, it was downhill from there, but perhaps that has more to do with my own growing up that paralleled the progression.

For the most part, I appreciate each of the classic Disney princess movies, but this whole Disney Princesses as an enterprise of its own turns me off. As Madelyn is old enough to choose what she likes and wants to obsess about, I'll work to keep my aversions under control and allow her an appropriate amount of freedom to identify with characters if she so chooses. But for now, we just steer clear of commercialized toys, books, and et cetera that would create a premature longing.

All this introduction culminates here: we went to see Disney on Ice~Worlds of Fantasy on Saturday. I was unsure of the extent to which Madelyn would enjoy it. First of all, the showing we could attend started at 7pm, nearly her bedtime. Also, due more to her short attention span than any self-righteous purpose, we haven't introduced Madelyn to Disney movies, so I knew she wouldn't recognize Ariel, Sebastian, Simba, and Scar. And lastly, while I am deeply fascinated and awestruck by the athletic art of figure skating, I was quite sure that Madelyn would not be able to appreciate the incredible skills demonstrated on the ice.

But Madelyn's newest favorite show (replacing Caillou) is Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Incidentally, I have mixed feelings about that show: the characters are the classic Disney mice, ducks, and...dog(?) we all know and love, but the new-fangled digital animation bugs me. I know, I am weird. But at least I've set my crazy opinions aside in this case and let Madelyn watch this relatively innocuous and fairly educational show. I happen to find the theme song kind of cute, and I love that the fun "Hot Dog song" featured at the end of every episode is written and performed by They Might be Giants, a mainstream alternative rock band. But I digress. Because of this current fixation with Mickey and friends, we opted to take advantage for the opportunity for a fun family night out.

Madelyn fared well under the circumstances, but her mother, on the other hand, was enthralled. I LOVE watching ice dancing and fantasized about being a figure skater in my youth. I realize that I don't think I've ever seen skating like this in person, only on TV. So I was enthralled by the performances, and to make the deal even sweeter, two of the featured stories were from my two all-time favorite Disney movies: The Little Mermaid and The Lion King.

My interest began to wane along with Madelyn's toward the end, however, as I'm not very familiar with the new Tinkerbell movie. The skating was still interesting, but one drawback of the excellent seats Gary got us is that it was easy to see the faces of performers who looked bored or broke character when they passed each other and laughed. I know that performing the same routine night after night, month after month, can grow mundane. But seriously people, you get to travel the country dancing on ice skates. This is probably what you dreamed about as a child, so enjoy it! Most people's jobs are significantly less interesting than yours.

I am so glad that we went to this show. The skating was captivating and the flood of warm childhood memories welcome. Madelyn might not fully appreciate everything that she saw, but she was mostly entertained, and rotated between Mom, Dad, and Grandma's laps munching the Kettle Corn we snuck inside. Indisputably, her favorite parts were the little breaks when Mickey, Minnie, Donald, and Goofy graced the floor, and also when bubbles floated down from the ceiling. Enjoy a few photos, if you will.

Who knew mermaids could do the splits?

This is ME in my garage on rollerskates.

We did have really great seats, but some of these close-ups are courtesy of my amazing new camera.

The entire 'Little Mermaid' portion was the highlight for me.

Simba's a little washed out, but marvel at my shutter-click timing!

I nearly don't believe it myself, but Pumbaa appeared to be portrayed by one skater with his or her hands wearing skates in the front. It was the weirdest thing to watch and imagine trying to do.

As much as I love 'The Lion King,' the lions on their hind legs in bodysuits was a bit strange. I was able to look past it for the most part.

I heart Pass it On

In the spring of 2006, I became involved with the Pass it On children's consignment sale as a vendor. At the time, my husband and I were thinking about starting our own family, but I didn't have a reason to buy any baby or kids' items at the sale. My jewelry booth was not getting much action, however, so I sat and read a funny book called The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy, which I ended up purchasing and finishing at home (good for a laugh, but don't let it be the only book you read when expecting--it is mostly filled with complaints about pregnancy discomfort). What I didn't know then was that my little girl was already a cluster of rapidly dividing cells that day.

Since the first sale I participated in, I have been involved with the semi-annual Pass it On event in various vendor capacities promoting Curves and/or selling jewelry. I've seen the sale expand and improve, each time practically busting the seams of its venue. And obviously, I've been a loyal shopper beginning in the fall of 2006, when I waddled through the aisles a couple of months before giving birth.

I anticipate Pass it On for months, and even wait to buy things for Madelyn if the need isn't too urgent, because I know I'll be able to get fantastic deals on everything all in one place. The selection of gear, clothing, toys, and more is always good, especially as the sale has grown to over 60,000 items this past weekend.

I shopped at another consignment event in the past where each family had their own "booth" and you paid them directly for their items. This meant having to bring cash to pay for one or a few items at a time. Plus, it's common to visit sales like this looking for a specific item or type of item. So if I were looking for girls' clothes in size 18-24 months, or a certain brand of nursing pillow, it meant wandering every booth in search. At Pass it On, all items are organized by type and size. Each consignor has a number and the items are all tagged with prices and barcodes, so in the above scenario I could go directly to girls' 18-24 months clothing and select from every item available, then mosey over to the "feeding" area and see if that nursing pillow was available. Then I bring my IKEA shopping bag (usually filled to the brim) to the checkout line and pay for all the items with my Visa.

This season I mainly needed new clothes for Madelyn: more long-sleeves, new shoes and jammies, etc. Take a look at my sweet haul, for all of which I paid ONLY $87:

7 long-sleeved shirts

1 hoodie

1 heavy sweater

3 pairs pants

1 adorable skirt

2 pajama sets

1 rain coat

1 plush terry robe

1 ballet leotard and ballet slippers

2 pairs shoes

1 pair furry slippers

1 Adidas sling bag

$87.00

Average price per item = $3.78

A few of these items were brand new with tags. Most of the others look like they were hardly worn or are in excellent condition. I get so excited, it's like Christmas--or maybe Halloween--bringing home my bag of goodies and setting it all out to show my husband. He's never quite as outwardly enthused as me, but I know he appreciates the bargains.

In the spring I was interested in buying a booster seat for our kitchen table, and a friend highly recommended the Cooshie Booster, which retails for $50. This was only a few days before Pass it On, so of course I checked there first, and wouldn't you know there was ONE Cooshie Booster for sale there, so I greedily snatched it up. Pricetag? FIVE dollars. It's definitely used (the previous owner had a propensity for stabbing the foam with his or her fork), but seriously, five bucks.

I also scored a set of Care Bear dominoes last time for Madelyn so she'll be less interested in interfering with the grown-ups' game of Mexican Train dominoes. A dollar. And a barely-used down sleeping bag from REI that will fit Madelyn until she's into double-digits for ten dollars.

That's just a sampling of the exciting finds in non-apparel I've made at Pass it On recently.

I have also consigned some of our gently used baby gear and clothing for the past two sales now. I'm not interested in selling at consignment stores because it is so much work for the possibility of making a small portion of the price of your items a few months down the road. For Pass it On, I enter all of my inventory through an online portal. I choose the category, size, and type a brief description. I name the price, and check boxes indicating whether I want the item discounted on the last day of the sale or not, and whether I want the item donated if it is not sold by the end or not. I like that you can make those distinctions for each individual item. Then I print the tags with barcodes, and use my fun little tagging gun I bought for $10 to attach them to my clean and pressed clothing and other items. I arrive at my chosen drop-off session and the items are inspected and accepted (usually a few things get rejected for being in the wrong season or because of a stain I didn't notice). Throughout the sale I can check what has sold online and see my earnings in real time. At the end of the sale I pick up the unsold items that I wanted returned, and there is even a "Dollar Dash" where each consignor can buy up to 20 items slated for donation at a buck each. That money is donated to the charity to help them buy larger items.

Consignors earn a minimum of 70% of your sales. By volunteering to work shifts at the sale, you can increase your commission, but I figure you have to sell over $1000 for the additional 10% earned for working 3 shifts to just equal minimum wage (which isn't actually "making" you any money if you consider what your time is worth). I actually think working at the sale would be a lot of fun, but the challenge of arranging for childcare and the substantial value I place on my time prevent me from bothering with it.

In summary, consigning is easy and fun with Pass it On. The sale is definitely worth checking out because there is a huge selection, the items are inspected for quality, and you're bound to find bargains on things you can use. There is a catch-22 here however: for the best selection you should arrive early (especially if looking for larger or more rare items like strollers or Cooshie Boosters), but you will pay the price by waiting in a very, very long checkout line. So plan the time you need to shop, plus up to an hour and a half to wait in line. My suggestion: bring a spouse or grandparent to get in line when you arrive. By the time you're done shopping, it will be time to check out! And also, if you can manage to go without your kids, it will be a much more pleasant experience.

Flagrant false advertising

I registered for the ORRC Blue Lake 15k Championship run for a variety of reasons. Of primary importance, the distance and date of the race (last Saturday) fit perfectly with my training plan for the October 25th half marathon. I had also heard that the location of the race in the Columbia River Gorge was quite lovely, and had a few friends on board to join me. In addition, 2009 marks the 35th Anniversary for this particular race event, so the marketing materials promised abundant raffle prizes, hot food at the finish line, and to top it all off, a free pair of running gloves to all registrants.

It sounded like a party I did not want to miss, and after suffering numb fingers through my mid-winter training last January, I was pretty dang excited about getting myself some running gloves for the upcoming chilly season.

My first disappointment manifested when all three of the buddies who originally planned to run with me each pooped out during the prior week for various reasons. All valid reasons, sure, but it left me in the position of driving over an hour from home all alone to run a very long race with no one to motivate or celebrate with me. But I was still very excited about the included pair of gloves, and considered the race an important aspect of my current training regime. Plus I had already paid, and I don't just have money to burn. Thankfully my mother-in-law, who had been planning on babysitting Madelyn for the day, agreed to come along with me and play with her at the park rather than at home. So I had company for the drive, and the valuable motivation throughout the race of loving family members ready to greet me at the finish line.

Luckily, I wasn't very hungry at the finish line, because their "hot food" consisted of hot dogs out of a warming tray on cheap white buns. I would have preferred the bananas and bagels found at many basic post-race festivities. At least there were 7 varieties of cookies to choose from.

The course was not very scenic, as I had been lead to expect. The area of Blue Lake Park that we saw was nice, but the race course almost immediately exited the park and ran alongside a boring road and around the Troutdale Airport field. I didn't catch a glimpse of any lake. It was supposed to be a flat, fast course, and would have been were it not for the severe wind blowing against us. For half of the race it felt like we were running uphill or against a slowly retreating wall. I had never before experienced a headwind strong enough to slow me significantly and require such effort to persevere. That made these 9.3 miles harder than they probably otherwise would have been, and it has kind of psyched me out for the 13.1 coming up in a few weeks. I just need to allow myself to slow down and stop being so competitive.

Anyway, like usual I sat through all of the raffle drawings and my ticket number was never called.

At least I got those sweet running gloves, though, right?

Of course I didn't expect our free gloves to be New Balance or Nike. But in my (albeit limited) experience, running gloves look something like this:

Obviously a person can go running wearing whatever keeps his or her hands warm and comfortable. It's just that the only type of gloves I have ever seen classified specifically for running are made of a high-performance material, are lightweight, water-resistant, and perhaps have a reflective strip since if you're running in the cold it is also highly likely that you are running in the dark. So I expected some generic, non-branded version of the same idea. Perhaps something like the middle example, as that is a brand I've never heard of.

Instead I received these:

And by "received these" I mean "was motioned toward a mountainous pile from which to take any two one-size-fits-all, ambidextrous knit gloves made from recycled fibers." They look a lot like the gloves that came with a set of herb-gardening tools I once received.

I know what you're thinking: They were free. I don't intend to complain as much as to share my amusement at the discrepancy between my imagination and reality, especially when combined with all the other small disappointments. That's all. These gloves are soft and warm, and I'm sure they will keep my hands nice and toasty during a 42-degree run. As long as they don't slip off my relatively dainty wrists, that is. Perhaps I'd be better off just pulling out some of the knit gloves that I already own in my own size! I just don't understand what, exactly, qualifies these as "running gloves." But I'm no expert.

One to add to my collection

In case you don't know, I am a very serious fan of The Simpsons. I distinctly remember the weeks of advertising leading up to the series premiere in December 1989, and then eagerly gathering around the television with my entire family to watch that famous first episode, "Simpsons Roasting on an Open Fire." My eight-year-old self latched onto this cartoon family and I feel like we basically grew up together. My personal character developed alongside those of Springfield USA, and as I matured, so did the show. I would say that I credit much of my own sense of humor to The Simpsons, except that I think the more apt analysis is that the series shaped what is considered humorous across popular culture in general. As a long-term fan, I notice the Simpsons' influence in so many movies, TV shows, radio jabber, and more.

The fact that I have seen every single episode aired over 20 years is not as impressive proof of my fanaticism as my prized VHS library. There was a time, not long ago, when you couldn't run to Best Buy or Wal-Mart and pick up your favorite television series' collector's edition DVD with audio commentary and behind-the-scenes footage. Back in the nineties, if you wanted to watch a show under any other circumstances than live at its scheduled time, you would

need to program your Video Cassette Recorder. Taking this idea to a new level, I created an enviable collection of 19 tapes, six to eight hours each, containing episodes recorded from television without commercials. And I carefully cataloged each episode on each tape so that there were no duplicates.

My collection of 19 VHS tapes containing commercial-free, non-duplicated The Simpsons episodes from Seasons 1 through 14

THE SIMPSONS VIII tape with typed episode label as a sample from my prized collection

The project was quite an undertaking. Upon pulling out the videos to snap those photos, I discovered my episode lists from each season with systems for tracking which ones were missing from my tapes, and the scratch paper on which I looked up online and wrote down the dates and times when those episodes would be aired. My mother was a helpful accomplice to my obsession, as she generously bought me tapes with longer recording times, and on many, many occasions sat in front of the TV with the VCR remote to record my episodes and press pause when commercials began and the show resumed. That is true motherly love right there. This endeavor continued into the year 2003, when the accelerated release of complete seasons on DVD threatened to make my collection obsolete. In addition, the invention of TiVo and our "season pass" setting allows me to select from an ever-revolving couple of dozen episodes and watch one by pressing a few buttons on the remote. And I can easily skip the commercials.

I'll let you call me a Simpsons Geek any time. It's an obsession of which I've never been ashamed. And I might not watch those videos right now, but their mere existence is cherished.

As is common when a person indicates an interest in a theme, I have received many Simpsons-related gifts and collected some unique paraphernalia over the years. Here are a few favorite, and more obscure, pieces in my varied collection:

Artwork supposedly signed by Simpsons creator, Matt Groening. It was given to me by one of my high school best friends' dads who dealt in celebrity autographs as a business. I've always wondered at its authenticity, however, especially since he didn't provide any certificate. But I still like it, and yes, I have it framed and hanging on the wall in my house.

Wow, this one is amazing. I don't know where my friend Wiyaka found it, but she sent this Homer marionette of questionable origin for my daughter's first birthday. Technically I guess it belongs to Madelyn, then, who has been able to name the Simpsons family members for about a year now I would guess. (She learned them from the set of nesting dolls below; she doesn't actually watch the show. Yet.)

Madelyn has also commandeered this cool metal lunchbox recently too. She stashed her various trinkets and treasures in there and takes them places.

Another undeniably unlicensed article was mailed to me all the way from the Izmailovsky Market in Russia by my friend Bridget, who was living there at the time. Tiny little Maggie has been misplaced--I can only hope we'll find her when the time comes to move my desk. And Marge's head was sadly crushed underfoot when they were strewn about my office floor by a toddler one day, but the many pieces were carefully superglued back together, and you can't even tell, no? This set of matryoshka dolls is probably my favorite piece of Simpsons memorabilia, due partly to its exceptional distinctiveness and foreign origins, and partly because it reminds me of the bond that Bridget and I shared as teenagers with a mutual appreciation for the creative genius that we knew as The Simpsons.

Yesterday I learned of a new item that I might need to add to my collection:

That sultry temptress Marge has agreed to do a pictorial and appear on the cover of a special Collector's Edition of Playboy as part of the 20th anniversary celebration. I assume the spread will be tasteful and artistic, because surely Marge wouldn't consent to less. Okay, I probably won't buy an issue of "entertainment for men," but I'm curious enough to see it.

Happy upcoming 20th Anniversary, Simpsons!