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?

Mystery Solved!

Read the tale of The Mysterious Vanishing Gift which I posted a few days ago.

And now for the exciting resolution!

My sister (who is mutual friends with these folks) delivered their gift to me today. I was shocked when she nonchalantly mentioned who it was from, and related the entire unsolved mystery to her before she explained: they thought we had a baby girl. Oops!

My sister encouraged them to sneak the gift away during the party with the intention to replace it with a more appropriate choice. While I understand how my friends may have felt embarrassed, it would have probably been less awkward to just express that feeling at the time, don't you agree?  We would have all had a good laugh about it, and the entire debacle would have never been.

Just in case my lovely friends ever read this stuff, allow me to state for the record that their generosity and thoughtfulness is most appreciated, and their effort to attend our gathering and celebrate with us was the best gift of all. As far as the gender error, it is completely understandable and forgivable!

I am just so thankful to have the mystery solved!

Mysterious vanishing gift

Last Sunday we hosted a Welcome and Blessing Ceremony for our dear baby August. It was the kind of event that left me beaming with joy for the rest of the day! The wonderful people who came to celebrate with us, the love that filled the space, delicious and beautiful refreshments, and our emotive, handcrafted ceremony made for a perfect afternoon.

At the conclusion of the blessing, I headed through the kitchen to bring dessert out of the freezer. On my way I ran into a couple of friends who had just arrived. Unfortunately, they missed the ceremony, but I was very happy to see this family who lived down the street from our old house. After exchanging hellos and hugs, the wife handed me a lovely gift bag emblazoned with the colorful word "BABY" on the side.

"Oh no, you weren't supposed to bring a gift!"

"I know, but we didn't go to any baby shower or anything and we wanted to give you something."

"That is really sweet, thank you so much! I'm on my way to get dessert ready, so I'll set it right here for now. Thank you!"

And I set the gift bag on the corner of my kitchen counter in order to be a proper hostess and serve the promised dessert to our patiently waiting guests.

The afternoon continued gloriously with visiting and laughter, and eventually people began to depart. This gift-giving couple was among the last few families to leave, and as I hadn't had a chance to talk with them much since they arrived, we spent a few more minutes happily visiting in the foyer before they headed home with their two children.

After the party was mostly cleaned up and bedtime routines underway, something reminded me that our thoughtful friends had brought a gift which we had yet to open.  But back in the kitchen, the gift was nowhere to be found. Not in the place on the counter where I left it, or anywhere else. I asked Gary if he moved it, and he didn't even remember seeing it. I called my mother, because she and my brother had been extremely helpful cleaning the kitchen, but neither of them recalled moving any gift.

The gift bag was not small, and it was obviously a baby gift--all poofed up with tissue paper. It could not have disappeared behind a counter appliance or slipped accidentally into someone's bag. After searching increasingly implausible places, I was at a loss. Now the issue was not so much about what was inside the gift bag as the mystery behind its disappearance!

I can come up with only two possible explanations, but would love to know if I've missed another:

1. A child became enamored with the brightly colored gift bag, stole away with it, opened it in secret and somehow destroyed all the evidence.
[But the empty bag and tissue paper would probably be somewhere, and once the child discovered what was presumably a baby item inside, wouldn't he/she abandon it? Or if not, wouldn't the child's parents notice an item coming home that they didn't have before?]

2. My friends were offended that I did not open the gift in their presence, and perhaps took this affront to mean I didn't care enough or want the gift, and so they took it home with them.
[But our friends departed in a very friendly and happy state, without any gift bag in their hand at the time. Could they have sneaked it out to the car earlier?]

I would want to express my gratitude to these friends for their generosity, but now I wondered how I could appropriately do so. And the possibility, even as ridiculous as it seems, that they could have un-gifted the item, made me worry that if I said nothing it would confirm the suspicions (which possibly did not exist) that I did not care about their gift enough to notice it was gone! So I texted the husband: "Am I going crazy? I went to peek at your gift and I can't find it! Did you happen to move it somewhere? So weird. Sure loved seeing you all today!"

No response. Even now, more than a week later.

My husband insists I'm  being paranoid to make the following connection, and he's probably right because these friends don't seem to be the grudge-holding type. But in the interest of full disclosure, I must share this: we attended this friend's 40th birthday party back in March, and Gary accidentally left the envelope I asked him to bring on the entryway table (we had to meet at the restaurant). I was embarrassed showing up to a birthday party empty-handed like that, so I apologized to my friend that his gift card had been left at home. Of course he brushed it off as no big deal.  The thing is, I never followed up and mailed it to him after the party. So I can't help but wonder if the bag's mysterious disappearance is their idea of retribution for my own gift-related gaffe.

What do you think? Foolishness? Perhaps, but how would you explain this bizarre phenomenon?

New on the Las Vegas Strip

I encountered a strange new phenomenon on my last visit to Las Vegas (in November). Truly, Vegas is home to many strange phenomena, but by my tenth visit I was accustomed to most. 

I found them amusingly charming when we first happened upon these Hello Kitty characters as we started our tour of The Strip. My daughter happens to love HK, so Tanya and I posed for this photo op outside Caesar's Palace.  I had mistakenly assumed these two mascots were somehow connected to the hotel as part of a promotion or something. 

I quickly realized my error when the knock-off costumed characters grew ubiquitous along the sidewalk. A few were mildly interesting, such as the man on stilts disguised as part of a tree playfully startling passersby. And at least Bumblebee's costume is impressive and fairly relevant. 

Others were hideous and/or inappropriate, such as Garfield the loveable cat passed out to the tune of one too many (and sadly he wasn't the only character posed precisely the same way)...

...or this woefully homemade Spongebob costume.

This infestation brought me to realize that The Strip has been noticeably devoid of street performers in years past. I suppose the schmucks in horrible costumes plus a number of truly awful musicians are slightly less irritating than the "slap slap" of calling cards up and down the sidewalk. I'm just curious how they started and multiplied.  And also, who throws money into the bucket of a person sleeping on the sidewalk with a bunch of empty beer bottles, just because he/she wriggled into a dirty costume? It must be fairly lucrative or there wouldn't be so many...right? 

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. 

How to find this blog

I don't look at the statistics very often, but I do have a couple of tracking widgets installed on Beyond Mommy. They give me basic information about how many visitors my site receives each day, where they are located, how they landed on my page, etc. Pretty boring stuff, really. But it can be kind of fun to see that in the last 48 hours I have entertained guests from Birmingham, Alabama; Civitanova Marche, Italy; Macon, Georgia; and South Lanarkshire, UK. I do not know anyone who lives in these places.

That always makes me wonder how strangers find my blog.  Enter Google Analytics, which tracks the various search terms entered which result in a "hit" for Beyond Mommy. The most common search leading to my website is questions related to the NikePlus iPod Sensor, which I reviewed in depth last year. I sincerely hope that it has helped answer these queries, ranging from [sic] "what does nike+ do?" to "nike i pod odometer" to "Nike sensor Sinagpore price."  That last one I know didn't find the answer on my blog. I also get other bland requests such as "bringing kids to las vegas" and "how to diy streak hair."

Beyond the mundane searches with an obvious motive, it is much more fun to see what other odd phrases cause Google to bring up my site and lead a person to click on it. For your entertainment, here are a few of my favorites:

bikini babes in the snow probably led some disappointed pervert here or possibly to any one of my American Idol posts referring to "Bikini Girl."

"husband's last name" (in quotations, meaning searching for this exact phrase) innocuously led someone to my post about combining last names when we got married, but I like to imagine somebody forgot her husband's last name and was trying to find it.

oh crap probably linked to this post, but could just as easily have led someone here. I admit to having multiple entries featuring this phrase.


Chicago skyline scene shower curtain. Yes, I have written several posts about Chicago recently, but I'm not sure how the shower curtain comes into play.

diznee collection obviously found this lovely experience, but it makes me wonder whether or not the searcher intended the misspelling, as I did.

dressing up as a fear factor contestant and fear is not a factor logo must lead to one of my favorite flashbacks, and I hope that first person was pleased with my example.

I did discuss puffy paint popularity here, and showed off some unhalloween costumes here but I find these search phrases amusing in general. Don't you think it's fun to wonder why a person would enter any of these various combinations of words? What are they looking for?

And now for the grand finale, the best phrase leading to Beyond Mommy in recent weeks, exactly as entered in the search engine:

live forfoming and boob show

I can't begin to comprehend what this even means, much less what it has to do with my blog. I am going to assume that the individual searching did not find what he (or she?) was looking for with this particular click. 

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?

Your park information specialist

Here is another tale of excitement and intrigue from Chicago, although rather than fascinating or thrilling, this one is downright funny. Or at least it is to me. 

The piece of conceptual art pictured above is official called Cloud Gate, but we referred affectionately to it as "The Bean" and I'm certain we're not the only ones.  As we approached the giant sculpture in Millennium Park a woman appeared next to us, seemingly from thin air. I believe she may have been crouching in the bushes. Anyway, as she bent down to extinguish her cigarette on the sidewalk beside her, the woman introduced herself:  "Hello ladies, I'm LaFawnduh*, your park information specialist." She explained how she could answer any questions we had about the park or Cloud Gate, and offered to take our pictures together.  Rachel and I knew precisely where this was going, but my darling, innocent mother jumped on the opportunity to have a photographer without hesitation. 

LaFawnduh confidently led us over to the far side of The Bean, where she all but pushed a group of girls taking their own pictures there out of the way by explaining that she was the park information specialist and would be happy to take their pictures after she was finished with ours. The whole time, I felt uneasy about the situation, and you can see it on Rachel's and my expressions in all our photos. 

And the instinct was not unfounded. After returning the cameras, LaFawnduh launched monotonously into her memorized spiel about representing Rainbow House, a shelter for abused women and children or something and asked for a donation.  Her speech sounded fake; it reminded me of a teenager forced to sell wreaths door-to-door, where their eyes wander about the ceiling instead of looking at you....in fact, she did a perfect impression of this guy from Office Space (one of the best movies EVER). I noticed that the lanyard around her neck held a name badge on which she'd written her own name in Sharpie, and I could just make out the schedule of events printed on the back, with dates listed in April 2010. A lot of Conventions are held in Chicago; it would be pretty easy to come across a discarded lanyard like this and turn it into an official "park information specialist" accessory. I rolled my eyes when she couldn't see. 

My mom gave LaFawnduh five dollars, which we all agreed was fair, since in spite of the odd situation, she cleared the area and took some great pictures that we would not have been able to capture without her.  It only took her 5-10 minutes, so that's a pretty fair wage, too. But rather than thank us graciously, LaFawnduh took the bill, then looked expectantly between the other three of us and asked in an incredulous tone, "And...this will be from all of you?" When we confirmed and thanked her again, she put the money in the pocket of her hoodie, slung her backpack over one shoulder and walked away saying "Have a nice day" over her shoulder. I laughed. 

Here is LaFawnduh "helping" another group of unsuspecting tourists. 

My problem now is that I looked it up. Rainbow House is a real non-profit agency in Chicago dedicated to supporting victims of domestic violence. Was LaFawnduh truly raising funds to support their efforts, or just using the name of a real organization to cultivate genuine sympathy for her endeavor? I will never know. It still seems sneaky to claim to be a park information specialist on one hand, and ask for donations afterward on the other hand. I would prefer a more direct approach: tell us up front that you volunteer in the park on behalf of Rainbow House, and would gladly take our pictures if we would consider a small donation to support the cause. And then have some official paperwork, a nametag, etc. to help us believe that your operation is legitimate. And whether or not you are honestly fundraising or just trying to make some cash for yourself, be grateful for every dollar you get. 

A great picture of my mom and Cloud Gate reflecting Chicago's skyline.

*I don't actually remember our "park information specialist's" name, so I borrowed this one from  Kip's girlfriend.

Empty Egg

It was the first egg I picked up out of the carton, so I did not at first realize how light it was in absence of immediate comparison. I cracked it on the edge of my glass bowl and bits of shell shattered onto the counter.  This was unusual, and confusing. The inner seal had not yet been penetrated, so I curiously shook the egg. It wasn't empty, that I was sure of. But there didn't seem to be the usual movement inside which would indicate aqueous matter.  Upon closer inspection, the egg's shell was entirely intact besides the damage I had done moments before.  

Inside, the membrane which usually holds the outer shell mostly together (protecting your scrambled eggs and muffins from stray bits of shell most of the time) had hardened into what seemed like a second layer of shell: an egg within an egg. The top half of the shell was completely dry inside. The bottom half contained a solid yolk, hardened as if it had been boiled, as you can see below. 

We get our eggs from my dad's chickens. I have no idea what was wrong with this one. Surely it never would have passed inspection coming out of a giant egg factory. And then we would have enjoyed Gary's delicious skillet potato breakfast scramble just as much--but without this mildly interesting incident which serves as my excuse for a blog post today.

Cause: unknown

The computer screen in front of me has finally stopped tilting slowly on its side.  I can now walk down the hall in nearly a straight line without bumping into any walls, which means that the floor also appears to have returned to a state of being level with the earth's surface. A slight pulsation in my frontal lobe remains, but the nausea has excused itself from all but the most extreme fringes of my consciousness.

At my first attempt to get out of bed this morning, I felt like I had been sleeping on a Merry-Go-Round in motion.  I made my way toward my daughter's voice by holding the edge of my bed and stumbling into walls--it reminded me of precisely the way my husband and I found our cruise ship cabin the night we traveled in open ocean. In addition to the dizzyness I felt generally ill, but thankfully was able to circumvent the wretched experience of vomiting.

After my brother-in-law picked up Madelyn for school, I promptly zig-zagged my way back down the hall and under my covers and slept almost the entire time she was gone. This is the kind of frivolous luxury I normally dream of indulging in--however under different circumstances. And even though it would not have been an option to forgo today's return to bed, I am still irritated at the loss of precious time to be productive.

I have never experienced malfunctioning equilibrium with a "sick" germ. It was not until I was swaying around the kitchen trying to throw together some leftovers for lunch that I made the eerie realization that I was suffering from a terrible hangover. The mystery emerges, then, in the fact that I didn't go near a drop of alcohol last night.

There is one possible culprit that I thought of almost immediately after my 6:45am forage into the dark, spinning carnival ride that is my house. I almost knocked the evidence off of my nightstand on my tipsy way out of the bedroom. An empty glass. It had been resting on that nightstand for several days. Many days. Perhaps even more than a week. Only it was not empty until last night, when I decided on a whim to gulp those two last swallows of water. The water that had been mocking me for days, having so long escaped my usual fixation with tidiness and order in my living quarters.

I drank it quickly, and regret filled my body before the glass parted with my lips. Such a vile, stale taste: pennies, cardboard, mushrooms, lysol. Yuck. And then, evidently, I didn't even give myself the satisfaction of putting the empty glass in the kitchen.

Do you think stagnant filtered water--or something flourishing inside it--could have made me sick?

Confused by the brown thing in the toilet

Pulling up behind this van at a stoplight, I couldn't help but fixate on the image.  I couldn't imagine what kind of business would promote itself with a photograph of a toilet full of poo. Even a plumber would have more decency than that, right?

Which means it couldn't possibly be a picture of poo. And since I was stopped directly behind this van and had to squint to decipher the image means it isn't very effective at conveying their message. Although my confusion led me to actually read about the business, but I still find it odd that a company specializing in leak detection would opt for a picture of a lumpy brown mouse climbing out of a toilet. It just looks like poo. 

I like to say poo. 

Bumper wisdom

Yesterday I saw this bumper sticker on the back of a big truck:

THIS IS AMERICA.

SPEEK ENGLISH.

At first I chuckled, thinking that the misspelling was intentional.  A bit of ironic humor.  But then I determined that it was not a comedic bumper sticker.

And that is a sad, sad mark against English-speekers everywhere.

My daughter, the magician

I would have thought this feat impossible, as a simple knowledge of solid matter, time, and space would suggest.  But Madelyn either found a way to defy them all, or has mastered the fine art of performance illusion. 

We had just returned from picking Madelyn up at preschool.  I set her new Mickey Mouse plate on the kitchen table, and Madelyn climbed up into the stool to survey the various options portioned out between Mickey's big head and two little round ears.

Madelyn was fully dressed from her morning at school, including the Hello Kitty underwear she likes in spite of the fact that they really are too big. As she climbed up on her stool, I was reminded of the way they constantly stick out above her pants and look a little silly.  But looking a little silly is low on my list of concerns while trying to navigate the treacherous parental waters with an opinionated 3-year-old.

While Madelyn began picking at her lunch, I turned around toward the counter to put the finishing touches on my own sandwich before joining her.  My back was turned for approximately eight seconds before I heard Madelyn dismount her stool and shout, "My underwear came off!"

Incredulous, I turned around to see her running gleefully toward me, holding above her head the very underwear that I had noticed on her body, under her jeans, only moments before.  I was speechless. What could I say? I would have laughed except I was busy trying to figure out how it could have possibly been accomplished! And then, how could I possibly not play THIS scene in my head?:

See the expression on Bart's face while Grampa reads his underwear? I can relate.

My assumption is that when she used the restroom by herself at school, her pants and underwear fell off her dangling feet. When she put them back on, she got her feet into the pants holes, but didn't line them up with the underwear holes, so her underwear was simply riding along behind her, tucked neatly inside her jeans. The error wasn't noticeable since this particular pair always looks that sloppy.

A very Diznee Christmas

I must preface the forthcoming disparagement of a quaint, local holiday tradition with this disclaimer:  My family enjoyed meandering along the wooded paths of Storybook Lane viewing hundreds of painted cutouts of (mostly) beloved storybook characters. It is clear that this family-friendly exhibition on a resident's personal property is the result of years of hard work and passion, and the fact that it is offered to the community for free is greatly appreciated.  I happened to find the occasional bit of unintended humor along the way, and would like to share it with like-minded friends. But I mean no disrespect.

It was our first visit to "Storybook Lane," which is presented bi-annually by three generations of a local family at their estate. I'd heard about it. I'd read an archived newspaper article about it. But I did not know entirely what to expect. My imagination conjured up something like a very amateur Enchanted Forest (please tell me you know what I'm talking about), and that is a fairly apt description of what we found.

The very first display made me worrying about what we'd find by venturing further.  That's really not a bad rendition of Ms. DeVille. But look closely at her name on the sign.

I worried that we'd also find "Mickeney Mouse" and "Ronald Ruck" as attempted legal protection, but since the rest of the characters were clearly labeled with their Disney-given names, it became apparent that somebody simply misspelled "Cruella."

The army of mechanical snowmen was just a little too creepy for my taste.

Whoa, slow down! Carousel on fast-forward.

Here's Robin Hood hunting down his Thanksgiving turkey. Or Bambi and friends. Or some of the 101 Dalmations.  Look out, cute little animals!

I am so confused. The one character without a name tag looks suspiciously like Harry Potter ("or," as Gary dared to say, "his lesbian sister").  The glasses, the broom, he's the famous wizard, right? But "Harry" is navigating some sort of Christmas bubble helicopter, which was labeled as the Santa Express or something. Now, I didn't actually read all those books, so maybe I'm missing something when I say, "Huh?"

This video gives a nice representation of one of the more elaborate displays. You can see that this has been a labor of love, and I admire and appreciate that. A little WD-40 might make the experience slightly more magical, though.

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.

The stranger side of Vegas

Alright, alright. Las Vegas is kind of a strange place any way you look at it.

At least I'm not aware of any other city where you can order a drink in one building and carry the glass with you outside and into the mall across the street and no one cares about the missing glass or the public drunkenness. And come to think of it, where else are you better off keeping your eyes off the sidewalk, which is littered with frighteningly large, star-nippled boobs (pictures of them, that is).

Despite all that, I will now showcase a few of the strangest things we encountered in this interesting city when we visited during Thanksgiving week--things you won't see on any tourist website.

The first is easily my favorite, and I am deeply grateful that Wiyaka had her camera along on our exciting trip to Albertson's, because there is no way I could possibly describe this contraption to you:

Imagine with me, if you will. You pull out a cart from the row outside the building. You push the cart through the sliding-door entrance and come face to face with this chrome barricade. No helpful explanatory signage can be found, but it is clear that the only way to enter the store is to send your cart through the squarish opening with protective top bars and swinging metal gates while you enter through the separate turnstiles to retrieve it from the other side.

What the what?

Go back. At first glance it would seem that this is an elaborate contrivance designed to foil would-be cart-stealers.  But remember, you got that cart from outside in the parking lot, and there is no similar apparatus keeping you from leaving the store after paying.

And this, my friends, is the moment in which I suddenly comprehend its purpose.  "After paying."  The cart can come in that gate but not out of it, and there is a horizontal bar at diaphragm height over what would be the turnstile exit.  Shoplifting prevention, of course. The only way out is through the checkout lines and back to that same door, on the other side of the gate. Ah. Still weird though, don't you think?

What might make it more strange is that when we asked the grocery bagging lady about it, she said, "In all the years I've worked here, I've never figured out what that's for."  Shouldn't somebody explain it to her?  Of course, once I put my mind to it, I figured it out, so maybe they just assume it's obvious.

Now that I understand the purpose of that peculiar device, it might not be my favorite anymore.  On to the fancy-pants Japanese tourist!

I had to engage in a serious stealth operation to nonchalantly take this picture. But really, wearing pants like that is only asking to be photographed by strangers, so the guy probably would have posed if I'd asked him.  And I'd wager a Jackson he'd flash the peace sign for my camera too.

I can't believe we settled for our hotel pool when we could have done this:

A healthy respect for personal property has kept me from ever conceiving of the idea that a person could jump right into the Bellagio fountain if he/she were wont to (read: drunk enough).  Now that I've seen it with my own eyes, I realize it wouldn't be far-fetched to wonder if this large pool falls victim to unruly punks on a semi-regular basis. A quick search on youtube confirms that this man and his Heineken aren't the first to have braved the waters.  Except I didn't find any videos of brave swimmers getting showered--they all took less-risky dips when the waters were calm.

I would think, in this situation, there would be a crowd of Crazy Guy's friends cheering him on and laughing in disbelief from the bridge.  But there was no one.  Who would do this but to answer a dare or impress his peers? When the song was over and Hotel Security had yet to make their appearance to escort him out, this dude floated around awkwardly for a minute, then stood up and wandered pathetically toward dry land.

This daring feat could have been the crown jewel of any man's Vegas experience.  Instead, it was kind of sad.

So yes, Las Vegas is strange.  But I do think it is pretty impressive that I can travel a mere 1,000 miles from home and see the Statue of Liberty, a Great Pyramid, the canals of Venice, the Eiffel Tower, and a medieval castle within walking distance of one another.  Forget traveling overseas, just go to Vegas!

Seriously, it's time to fold laundry

Sometimes there simply are not enough hours in the day.

Careful when you attempt find that favorite pair of sweatpants in there...you never know when it's all going to topple.

Just when I might have considered folding the clean clothes, the dirty hampers would begin to overflow so I'd decide to do another three loads first, and then be too busy to get back to folding the now multiplied pile. This happened three times, so what you see is approximately 11 loads of laundry, minus the items already desperately fished out.  If it doesn't seem like it could be 11 loads, let me assure you my shirts are hopelessly wrinkled from how tightly they were packed in there, and also, the desperate digging grew increasingly frequent in the final days.

Great. Now where are we going to sleep?

Six fads frozen in time

Allow me to explain why my title is not redundant. Yes, a fad is generally defined as a short-lived craze, but consider that many trends experience a distinct spike in popularity followed by decline, but maintain a continued presence on a much smaller scale in popular culture or daily life, as applicable.  New technology in particular has a way of seeming faddish at first, but as its use becomes more prevalent, the object in question becomes commonplace.

The other day I drove by a man walking a black Scottish Terrier.  I don't see this breed around much for some reason, and the moment I saw it, my mind flashed immediately to the old sweatshirts that filled my closet (as well as those of my sister and mother) featuring two Scottie Dogs facing each other and usually some argyle or hearts to complete the look.  A vision of this dog brought me back to that distinct period of style, and was the inspiration for this post as I recalled various specific objects that enjoyed their 15 minutes of fame during my youth and then have scarce to be heard from since. Many fads come and go within a category, for example nobody wears Lee jeans anymore, but we still wear jeans.  And the really big Hollywood-style sunglasses will surely start to be uncool at some point, but I don't predict that sunglasses themselves will go out of fashion.  Some (but not all) of the items on my list are objects which have nearly ceased to exist since the end of their reign, and therefore create a very strong connection with their period of popularity. I'll tell you mine, and you tell me yours!

1) Puffy Paint Couture. If the dogs on the aforementioned sweatshirts weren't puffy-painted, then you'd better believe there were sweatshirts with ironed-on kitties and Christmas wreaths nearby that were.  Okay, I've seen puff paints used in crafts on occasion, but they aren't the fashion statement they once were.

2) Troll dolls. I had myself a hefty collection of these. I never really played with them, just owned them.

3) Slap bracelets. I remember coveting all varieties of these bracelets in precisely 5th grade. Shiny, fuzzy, tie-dyed, you name it.

4) MAGIC cards. I never actually played with these myself, I swear. I wouldn't be able to tell you the difference between the planes of Shadowmoor and Lorwyn (just looked that up on a website, ha ha).  But I do remember hordes of boys hovering around them at the cafeteria tables in junior high, followed by much smaller groups of late-blooming boys huddled around them at the cafeteria tables in high school.

5) Pogs. What were these things exactly? I just remember them being all the rage for a while. Apparently we kids were tricked into obsessing over cardboard discs with printed images. Some of them were sparkly though!

 

6) Scrunchies. The staple hair (and wrist) accessory of the mid-nineties. And then they simply disappeared without a trace.  Conspiracy? Perhaps.

So what nearly-forgotten objects hold the power to transport you to distinct memories of their era? 

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!)