Miss Carry has arrived safe and sound at her new home in Narnia The Netherlands.

She was received with open arms, and will be participating in hot bunny on bunny action with her new lover, Snickers.

Me? I am happy. Knowing I helped facilitate kinky bunny sex half way across the world is a feeling like no other.

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What do you call a male meter maid? A meter man? That works. Last night a meter man actually paid ME to park. Isn’t that one of the seven signs of the apocalypse?

I was in DC to watch some improv. I snagged a spot in front of a gas station. A meter man was writing the car in front of me a ticket, so even though the parking sign clearly read I was allowed to park there, I thought I’d appeal to the meter man’s power-drunk authority wielding side and ask him if I was in the clear.

ME: Is it ok to park here?

METER MAN: Yes, but you have to feed the meter.

ME: Of course! I just wanted to make sure I’m not violating any parking permit areas.

METER MAN: (Noting my submissive tone) You only have six minutes left. (Parking is free after 10pm, and it was 9:54) A nickle ought to do you.

ME: (Fumbling through the giant canvass bag I carry around because I’m too butch cool to carry a purse, but see no problem in toting around a canvass grocery bag, even though the bag doesn’t have any pockets, so all my bits and pieces end up in a tangled lump at the bottom of the sac.) (Hey. MY canvass bag has a print by Shepard Fairey on it, so that makes it cooler than YOUR canvass bag.)

My canvass sac can kick your canvass sac’s ass

Where the hell was I? Oh, yeah,

ME: I’m sure I have a nickle in here somewhere…

METER MAN: (Probably feeling like a dick for enforcing those last six minutes – even though my inner elementary-school-teacher’s-pet-suck-up would have totally done the same thing) Here, use this. (He hands me a quarter from his meter man pocket.)

ME: Oh, gosh, thanks!

METER MAN: No problem. Have a nice night. (Big smile. Wander off into the night feeling heroic for helping to lessen the public’s hatred for meter people everywhere.)

As if that wasn’t enough of a coup, when I got to the show, the ticket lady didn’t have change for my $20. I told her it was fine, that she could write me an I.O.U. for the following week, but she said that wouldn’t be fair. As she was asking a coworker for change, a kid (It’s the 80 year old crochet enthusiast in me that calls him a “kid”. He was probably in his mid to late twenties.) said, “Don’t worry about it.” and tossed a fiver onto the table. He then immediately disappeared, which leads me to believe he was a part of the Harold team that was about to perform.

I quickly (and, let’s be honest, in vain) tried to commit his face to memory so I could thank him after the show. Sadly, I never got the chance. So, thank you, white twenty-something male with brown hair and a white dress shirt? Thank you for so generously paying for my ticket last night. If I ever happen upon you again, (not that I’d realize it) I’ll buy ya a beer.

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So Jesse comes home from work last night looking all Zac Efron in a good way. He’s lean, and tan, and has just the right amount of tussle in his hair. Mmm-hmm. He takes off his work shirt, revealing a slightly-too-small, snug fitting white t-shirt that highlights his pecs. The short sleeves strain against his biceps.

I know. This is starting to read like the beginning of an erotic novel. Sadly, that’s as close to steamy as this story gets, unless you count the broccoli he had brought home at my request. (Stopping at the grocery store for last minute ingredients – that’s SEXY!)

He had had a bad day at the office. I tried to look sympathetic, and nod in all the right places, but his hotness was a bit distracting. Maybe I just like vulnerable men.

Jesse has a very particular schedule. I serve dinner at 7pm sharp. The kids are bathed and in bed by 8pm sharp. Jesse is in the basement running to the soothing lyrical stylings of Eminem blasting loud enough to set off the neighbors car alarm by 8:05pm. He gets very antsy if his schedule is in any way disturbed.

I was making brown rice, “chicken” and broccoli. At some point during the day I must have fucked up the space-time continuum because the damn rice was taking for-EVER.

You know what? I just realized that there really is no point to this story. It’s not really even a “story” at all, is it?

Fine.

My husband is hot. We didn’t have sex. That is all.

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Miss Carry

This is Miss Carry. Yes, she has a set of perky little breasts. If you would like to know why, you’ll have to check out the back story here.

I made Miss Carry for a blog-friend, (Hi Wuppy!) and today I shipped her off to The Netherlands. I love that I know someone in The Netherlands. That kind of sounds like knowing someone in Narnia, or Fantasia!

Miss Carry is the latest in a whole slew of crochet projects I have recently completed. My inner Crafter took it upon herself to learn crochet. We have now both become addicted. My left index finger is sore, and gaining serious muscle mass from the constant workout it gets.

My first two projects turned out a little  misshapen. This is due to the fact that I am self taught, and it took me a minute to figure out that I was doing it wrong. The end result was a squishy bear (endearing) and a peanut/alien headed baby (creepy).

My first projects

My next project was a smashing success if I do say so myself. I made a mama sea turtle and her babies/eggs. The mama is actually empty, so you can store her eggs and babies inside her shell. I love the whole hidden-inside thing. I then made little eggs with chicks inside, and the kids’ favorite, a little apple with a worm inside.

The turtles

Little chickie in an egg

An apple…

…with a worm inside!

My house has become over run with little crochet animals. I made my niece a pink lion for her first birthday (She’s a leo!). Karis loved it so much she begged me to make her one too.

Little lions

Between all the dolls and bears and tool sets and fruits… ugh. We’re gonna need a bigger boat.

Jesse watches me crochet as if he were watching some primitive native performing a ritual. He doesn’t understand my obsession, so he just smiles and nods. He hates that I can’t talk while I’m crocheting. I have to keep count of which stitch/row I am on. This doesn’t leave me a lot of brain room to concentrate on listening to anyone else, or responding to any questions. If he talks to me while I’m crocheting, I growl at him, “Don’t talk to me I’m COUNTING!”

He growls back, “That is the most anti-social, annoying hobby you could possibly have! There’s a reason most crocheting is done by really old people that don’t have anyone to talk to.”

I theorize that I’ll probably have arthritis when I’m old, so I’m getting my crocheting out of the way early.

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I turned 32 years old on Friday. There was cake, and revelry, and general well wishes.  Jesse even humored me with an attempt at recreating the final scene from John Hughes’ Sixteen Candles (which turned out to be a disaster, so Huns very sweetly agreed to put our heads on Molly Ringwald’s and Michael Schoeffling’s bodies. Thanks Huns!)

I wanted to stage this silly photo because I made a point of saying my 32nd birthday would be twice as good as my 16th.

I guess “twice as good” isn’t setting the bar too high. My sixteenth birthday was a rather dark time in my life. It fell right in the middle of my first major depression. I lived with my father (Not to be confused with my step-dad, whom I usually refer to on this blog, and who occasionally posts smart-ass comments.)  and step-mother in Washington state at the time.

I remember not wanting to leave my bed. If I did manage to get out of bed, the next step of getting dressed was nearly impossible. I would stand in front of my closet trying to decide on something to wear. I would just stand there, staring at my clothes, unaware of the passing of time. I once stood like that for over an hour.

I was in a fog of apathy. I was numb.

My zombie-like state was so obvious that even my father took notice. That’s saying a lot. My dad was an absentee father as far as emotional stability goes. I remember clearly the day he finally tried to talk to me. He came in to my room with a bag of Hershey’s Nuggets – these big chunks of individually wrapped chocolates. I could see him struggling with finding the right words to say. I watched him as if he was an actor in a movie on t.v. that I didn’t care about.

He kept asking me, “What’s wrong, Sweetheart?”

But I didn’t have an answer for him.

He took me for a walk, and told me stories of his time as a park ranger. Stories about befriending squirrels, and letting them find sunflower seeds in his pockets.

After three weeks or so, my mother insisted I be seen by a professional. What followed was a Rx for an anti-depressant, and eventually a diagnosis of Bi-polar disorder.

Manic-depression for the un-P.C. crowd.

I will give you the short, short version of the next few years.

I tried countless medications, struggled with hyper-irritability, (One thing that really used to piss me off is my body’s need of fuel. Eating was such a pain in the ass. I fantasized about an easy, no-fuss kibble like dog food, only for people. During this stretch of time I lived in a small trailer on my grandparent’s ranch. I must have gone a month straight eating nothing but chewy Chips Ahoy cookies and orange juice. No lie.) and over analyzed every emotion I ever felt. It was exhausting.

Finally, after a pharmacy screwed up my Rx, and I was going to have to go through a withdrawal headache so fierce it has its own name – a Welbutrin headache – and then enjoy it again once my Rx came in, I said, Fuck it. None of the meds I had ever been on really ever seemed to make a difference. I reasoned that with enough will power, I could navigate my way through my ups and downs.

The highs were amazing. It seemed like I had super-human abilities when I was manic. I could do complicated mathematical equations, I could sketch better than ever, I could write, and problem solve. I was extra witty and clever. The only down side to the highs, was knowing that how ever great the manic episode was, an equally intense low was sure to follow.

The lows sucked, but I knew that they were temporary. I never went through a depression as severe as that first big one. I could function well, and go about my daily life as if nothing were wrong. At most, people probably just assumed I was a raging bitch if they happened to experience the wrath of my hyper-irritability. I was becoming an expert at hiding the lows – not an easy feat when your mom is a psych nurse. Luckily I lived several hours away from her, and the only gauge she could go by was our phone conversations. If the low was too low, I just wouldn’t call her.

You see, my mom was a hard, fast advocate of medication. She was horrified that I had gone off my meds, and insisted I try again. She sent me books and literature about Bi-polar individuals that all had the same story: They thought they didn’t need meds, so they went off them. They felt fine. Until they didn’t. Then they committed suicide. It turns out that suicide is the number one cause of death among Bi-polar individuals.

Well. I certainly never contemplated suicide, so I was obviously doing just fine, thankyouverymuch.

Through the years I have found that a healthy diet helps to combat my hyper-irritability. Though I was paranoid about post-partum depression after the birth of my daughter, I didn’t experience so much as a moment of sleep deprivation sadness. I was blissfully happy to be a mother. Newborn care was a breeze for me. If anything, the overpowering love I felt for my daughter made me marvel that any parent could ever decide to take their own life. Because to me, suicide was clearly a conscious decision one makes. It’s something you CHOOSE. Right?

Wrong. No one chooses suicide. It’s almost as if suicide chooses you. No matter how many times in your past you have thought “There is no way I could ever do that!”, if suicide chooses you, you may be powerless to stop it.

I have been hesitant to share this next part with you, Internet. I am terrified that it will be misinterpreted, and “They” will come and take my babies away. If I ever have to endure a custody battle, I can see opposing council sighting this next part as a grounds for granting my then ex-husband full custody of our children. This next part makes me less than. This next part proves I’m somehow broken.

I have recently been to the dark place.

I sat across from Suicide and studied him as our respective teas cooled between us. When I was with Suicide, suddenly my love of family and friends was irrelevant. If anything, my love for my children actually served to encourage me towards doing It. Hitting the reset button. Starting over.

It was surreal. I didn’t feel despair or sadness like I assumed one feels at a time like that. I felt nothing. Mostly nothing. Then I felt frustrated. Then I felt guilty, imagining my kids eventually learning of how I “chose” to leave them. They would never understand. They might blame themselves.

I imagined people pouring over my recent blog posts, misinterpreting my words. Searching for a reason. And you know what pissed me off the most? They’d be wrong. What ever they came up with, what ever they read into my pointless posts, they’d be wrong. I had no reason.

Even now, sitting here, on the other side of the dark place, I am scared at how alluring and reasonable Suicide was. He made a perfectly understandable case for himself.

Sometimes when Jesse is away on business, and I am jumping at bumps and noises in the night, I imagine different scenarios where I am assaulted and killed by an intruder. When Karis was a baby and toddler, I used to get upset thinking about her crying in her crib, waiting for me to come comfort her. How long would it take someone to find her? To find my body?

Now that she is older, and capable of wandering around the house at will, I am horrified imagining her walking in on the intruder mid-murder, or finding my slayed remains afterward. That’s my best argument against Suicide. If I were to go with him, my kids would find what I left behind.

Awkward pause.

So there it is. If you know someone that has committed suicide, please don’t think it was because you were not enough. You are enough. You are just right. It had nothing to do with you.

UPDATE:

Obviously I need to clarify a few things:

1. I am not suicidal.

2. I have never, nor will I ever put my children in danger.

3. If you are struggling with depression and thoughts of suicide, there is help. Please call 1-800-273-8255 or go here. At the very least, pick up the phone and call a friend.

4. I shared this post with you, Internet, on the off chance that one of you may be in a similar place. It is my hope that sharing my experience will help you navigate through your own. Depression should not be viewed as a dirty little secret. It is not something to be ashamed of.

5. To my friends and family – I love you, and thank you for your support and offers of help. You are all wonderful. Now please stop sending me religious literature. I don’t need a Come To Jesus party.

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I’ve always thought jewelry was a stupid thing on which to waste money. I don’t know much about The Lord Of The Ring series, but I do know it features a cave dwelling creature named Gollum that refers to the ring as “My precious”. I’m not usually a jewelry lover/wearer, and until recently, if I had ever run in to Gollum, I would have told him to calm the fuck down! It’s a ring for God sakes. However all that changed last week when I wandered in to an antique shop and stumbled upon {my} wedding ring.

The ring wasn’t originally intended to be a wedding ring. It was most likely designed as a cocktail bauble. Something for a spoiled debutant to wear to a dinner soirée. It’s a 1920’s art deco piece with diamonds and sapphires – not at all my style. I am usually an understated girl, that likes neutrals, and prefers function over fashion, but for some reason, this ring called to me.

I slipped it on, and was immediately in love.

I have been looking for a wedding band for years. When Jesse and I were planning our wedding, I looked obsessively for a ring, but never found one even close to my liking. I couldn’t tell you exactly what I wanted, but I knew I’d know it when I saw it. We eventually decided that we would just use my engagement ring for the ceremony, and that we would buy my ring later, if and when I ever found The One.

Now let’s return to the antique shop on that fateful day. How romantic to find my wedding ring in the very town in which my husband proposed! I dragged Jesse in to the shop and showed him the ring.

“Ugh. It looks like an ugly, old lady ring.” He said.

I pointed out the fact that *I* was the one that would be wearing it.

::crickets::

No dice. He didn’t like it. End of discussion. He also didn’t like the fact that it “doesn’t look like a wedding ring.” He thinks the world will assume I’m single. Yeah. That’s a big problem. I’m fighting suitors off with sticks as it is, I can only imagine how much more difficult it would be if instead of my engagement ring, I were wearing an antique cocktail ring.

We left the shop.

I couldn’t let it go so easily. I pointed out the fact that sapphires were symbolic of faithfulness and sincerity – he liked that. I finally got him to consider the ring… until he heard the price.

The ring resided in a shop that had jewelry ranging in price from thirty thousand dollars to two hundred bucks. I thought the ring was fairly priced. Jesse balked at the price tag, then said if we could get it for one thousand dollars less, he would be willing to buy it.

I’m not saying the ring wasn’t expensive – it was. But it’s a vintage platinum ring with great big rocks expertly attached to it – it should be! Also, if we are going by the ol’ two months salary rule of thumb, this ring is less than half what it “should” be. I’m not one to care about cost for the sake of keeping up with the Jones’. I truly wish this ring was inexpensive. Sadly, the price was nonnegotiable.

A thousand dollars less. Ok. I pushed down my disappointment that my husband had managed to suck any vestiges of romance out of this transaction. “If I can come up with a thousand bucks, you’re willing to buy this ring?” I asked.

“You can’t just give me $1000 from your bank account. It’s not like we have separate money. It has to be money that wouldn’t otherwise be in our savings account.”

The gauntlet had been dropped. I was determined to come up with that thousand dollars. I envisioned selling junk on Craigslist and sprucing up my shop on Etsy. I just hoped I could raise the cash before someone else fell in love with MY ring.

The first day back from vacation, I was unpacking my underwear, when I noticed a tattered envelope in my drawer. It was full of old savings bonds I had been given as a child from my loving Aunt Bea and Uncle Lloyd. The bonds, coupled with the check my mom sent me in my birthday card equaled  – you guessed it, $1000. Kismet, right? Wrong.

When I told Jesse about the money, he was shocked and annoyed.

“Can’t you just get over that damn ring?” He asked. “Why don’t you show the picture to a jeweler and have them make you a cheap replica.”

He doesn’t understand.

It’s not just the look of the ring. It’s the story of the ring. The history. This ring was worn in speakeasy’s during prohibition. It saw two world wars, and The Great Depression. This ring is my wedding ring, whether it’s on my finger or not.

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The annual family photo at Fortunes Rocks

Ahhh. We are back from our annual trek to Kennebunkport Maine. The Bush family send their regards.

If Disney Land is the Happiest place on earth, Kennebunkport is the whitest. All you see in every direction is rich white people. They can be found biking, lounging ocean side on powdery sand, playing a game of tennis, or readying their sail boats for a jaunt to the many local islands.

I say, anyone for a game of cricket?

There are Buffy’s and Kipper’s, Sally’s and Chad’s, Bradly’s and Ruthorford’s… Every one, at any given time, would easily pass the dress code at any golf course. There are khaki’s and sweater vests in abundance.

Aside from huge bank accounts full of old money, do you know what all of these people have in common? Awesome taste in summer vacation spots! I’ve only been going to Goose Rocks Beach for 5 years, but it had me at “Hello”. The sands are as soft as confectioners sugar. The beach is sheltered from open water by dotted islands, so the waves that lap the shore are gentle and serene. The people are so friendly (There’s a HUGE Canadian population, which explains the friendly atmosphere, eh?). Most people operate on the honor system there. There are many little signs like, “Golf balls 50¢” with a box of balls beneath it and a jar full of quarters beside it. It really feels like you’ve stepped back in time to simpler days. Wait a minute. Does that sound nice to you? It does? Then never mind. I was just kidding! It sucks. Take my word for it – don’t bother checking it out for yourself. I can think of WAY better places to vacation. I mean, how great can a vacation destination possibly be if you chance running in to Dubbya?

Look how miserable the kids were. (Being closet liberals is hard work.)

In all seriousness, we had a wonderful time. I can’t thank Angela and John enough for their generous offer. (Thanks guys!! Next year we will somehow manage to all go together – and you can check out GRB’s newest feature. The nude beach!)

Those French Canadians love their nude beaches!

(UPDATE: Dude, seriously? Photobucket removed  this pic of my nekkid son – even though he was in profile, and you couldn’t see any of his bits. It was CUTE, not PEDOFILISH.)

At one point, Vanessa, Andrew, Jesse and I went out for drinks in honor of my aging another year. As we pulled out our ID’s, I realized that we all had licenses from different states. That made me chuckle.

I’d like to point out that Huns is the only non-donor. Come on Huns! You can’t take it with you. (She also has the prettiest signature.)

I think we can all agree that Maryland’s licenses look like they were made by an angst filled middle school student. You can’t really tell from the picture, but it’s quite amateur in design. Note the crab.

Internet, does your license look interesting in any way? I know Hawaii has a rainbow on theirs. I would love to see other state/country licenses. Post pics of yours in the comments section, along with your SSN, and bank account info! (Obviously kidding about the info – but do blur out your personal details and feel free to share.)

Enjoying my signature drink, with my signature blood shot eyes.

Who are these people, and why are they eating cake?

As a family, we are relatively new to the whole renting-a-cottage thing. We were spoiled by having our own house, so we always knew just what to expect. This time around we had to choose a rental based on availability, and online photos. Forest’s mama would say that renting a cottage is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get. Granted, I have only been in two rentals, but I am confident in saying that this particular rental had the best Beach Flare.

You see, beach rentals are required by the management agency to have little or no personal family photos visible to any renters. Instead, the walls are adorned with what I like to call Beach Flare! Beach Flare consists of framed star fish, “sandy feet welcome” signs, water colors of boats, dancing crabs… you get the idea.

The owners of our rental cottage get an A+ in Beach Flare. They went above and beyond in the Beach Flare department, and thank God that they did. I don’t know  if it would have been as relaxing a vacation if there hadn’t been that little sign above the kitchen sink stating, “Beach house rules: Relax, Relax, Relax.”

You wouldn’t know it from the pictures, but Mugga was also in Maine with us. She is camera shy, which she will add to her growing list of regrets when the kids ask why she’s not pictured in any of their childhood adventures. The kids loved spending time with her and hearing fun stories of vacations past. I will devote a post to Mugga’s special bond with Maine, but for now, just know that she was there.

Bubbles!

Bubbles, post ice cream!

I love this picture of Brecken. He looks like some crazy college professor. The hair, the messy face, must be a Harvard man.

Somehow, Kennebunkport makes weathered buildings look chic.

We did so much, it’s hard to put it all in to one post. Just know that we vacationed the hell out of our week in Kennebunkport. It went by too fast – which is always a telling way to judge how nice a time you had, right?

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Jesse and I went out for sushi tonight. I looked up nearby restaurants. The only sushi place in the area had excellent reviews. I called them and asked if I needed a reservation. The young man on the other end of the line paused for a moment, then asked how many. When I answered “Two”, he said “Ok.” and hung up, never having asked my name.

When we arrived at the restaurant, it was completely empty. Normally I’m not stupid brave enough to eat at an empty restaurant – especially one that specializes in raw fish, but the reviews all promised a wonderful meal, so we decided to take our chances.

(Let me just take a moment to point out to all of you that are itching to write me an email about the hypocrisy of eating raw fish when I claim to be transitioning to veganism, that I also ate ice cream this week. I am not a vegan-Nazi, I’m still transitioning. I may be hard core one day, but as of this writing, I still eat the occasional sushi meal, and partake of the very occasional ice cream cone.)

The staff consisted of a young Japanese teenager, (the host/waiter) and his mom (the sushi chef). They had been expecting us. A small table for two in the corner had been set. The restaurant itself was a small, nondescript place with about 12 other  tables. All of them empty. Mid-eighties muzack played quietly over the sound system. This proved to be the reason for their lack of patrons: Ambiance. Or rather, lack thereof, because the food was amazing. The service was excellent too, once we got past the awkward attention of the waiter.

If you can get over the uncomfortable sensation of eating while being watched over attentively, I highly recommend dining at deserted establishments. We were treated like royalty. They gave us complimentary miso soup, complimentary fried ice cream, and there’s something to be said for never having to flag down your waiter.

Also, the toilet in the ladies room was in the middle of the floor! You haven’t lived until you’ve squatted a pee over a toilet in the middle of an abandoned ladies room, while listening to “Some Say Love” on saxophone.

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Remember that time I climbed Mount Everest and camped at the very tippy top? Oh, wait. That was a dream. An understandable dream considering the bed I slept in last night sits at a 45º angle. For those of you that failed geometry, the head of this bed is a good 18 – 20 inches above the foot.

It was reminiscent of sleeping on a slide.

I would wake up every hour or so, having sagged down toward the foot. I would hike myself back up to the highest ground, and sleep fitfully for another hour as my body slowly migrated south once again.

Upon arriving at this beach house, I inspected the bedrooms. They all checked out ok except for one. Mine. The first thing I noticed was that the bed in question was not a king, as advertised, but a queen. That wouldn’t normally bother me, but I specifically bought king sized sheets for this vacation, based on the house description. Anyone that knows me well, knows about my obsession preference for sleeping on a well made bed. That means a snug fitted sheet, and tightly tucked in flat sheet. Military style. My king sized sheets are too big to fit snugly over the queen sized mattress, which means that while I slid down the bed last night, so did my damn bottom sheet. It was so much fun, you guys!

Anyway, back to my arrival. I noticed the bed looked a little wonky. I sat on it, and bounced a little. It seemed sturdy enough. When I took the cover off of it to put my now-ill-fitting sheets on, I noticed just how lopsided it was. A quick check under the skirt showed a broken bolt on the frame.

I called the rental agent, Kathy. She’s a real salt-of-the-earth kind of gal. She’s very no-nonsense. I told her of my bed problem, and she said she’d be right over to check it out. Our conversation was no longer than 3 minutes, and she must have called me “Hun” 14 times. I was excited to see her again. (The last time we saw each other, she was chasing me away from a pair of Adirondack chairs by an ice cream shop. You see, there are two types of people that visit Kennebunkport: The families that have been vacationing here for generations, and the Others. She didn’t recognize me, because I married in to the Goose Rocks Beach aristocracy, so she had assumed I was an Other, and therefore not trust worthy enough to partake of the Adirondack chairs. A perfectly understandable mix-up.)

When Kathy arrived, she performed a few acrobatic feats on the lopsided bed, and deemed it safe for use. She assured me she would have someone named Uncle Chuckie come by on Monday to fix it, but in the meantime, did I want to remove the frame and leave the mattresses on the floor, Hun?

I admired her tenacity. I sized her up. She’s a solidly built woman in her fifties. Quite fit. Considering the strength and flexibility it would require to remove the broken frame along with what appear to be two hollow doors being used as a box spring, in such tight quarters with only the combined strength of myself and Kathy, I opted to take my chances with the lopsided bed. Uncle Chuckie would be here on Monday – how bad could it be for 2 nights?

Quite bad, actually. But I’m still too lazy to try and remove the broken frame. Also, I feel like an ass-hole bothering Kathy with my first world bed problem. You see, we weren’t the ones who actually rented this vacation cottage. It came to us complements of Angela and John. They were kind enough to both suffer egregious injuries to their persons, and found themselves unable to enjoy their planned week by the shore. Rather than forfeit their deposit, they offered the cottage to us, so we only had to pay the balance. (Thank you John and Angela – we hope you’re feeling better!)

Angela and Kathy have known each other for years. It wouldn’t surprise me if there are photos of them somewhere as children building sand castles together by The Tides Inn. I know Kathy used to handle the renting of Angela’s beach house before she sold it a few years ago. To illustrate just how trusted and loved Angela is around these parts, let me tell you how the conversation went yesterday when I went to pick up the house key and pay the balance.

Me: Hello, I’m here to pick up the key for the Taylor place.

Agent: Of course! Here you go. (Noticing my credit card) Oh, we don’t take credit cards.

Me: Hmmm. That could be a problem…

Agent: Oh, just go enjoy your vacation! You can send me a check when you get home.

Me: Wow, thanks. I appreciate the accommodation!

Agent: Don’t worry about it! We love Angela! She comes here every year. We know we can trust you.

(I totally could have run out of the office right then and flagrantly sat on an Adirondack chair if I wanted to!! She probably would have offered me a glass of water while I lounged.)

Our balance isn’t chump change. They let me wander off with house keys while owing them enough money for Ben Franklin to host a party with 15 of his closest friends. Yes, I have an honest, adorable face, but there’s no way that little transaction would have been that easy if it weren’t for the stellar reputation of my lovely aunt Angela. I’m strongly considering having shirts made up while I’m here. They’ll say “I’m with Angela!” and feature her smiling face.

So. One more night of “sleeping” at an unnatural angle. When Uncle Chuckie comes tomorrow, I may kiss him.

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Dear Red Vine distributor of the east coast,

Duuuude. It’s time to step up your game. In the age old battle between the mighty Red Vine, and the yucky, chewy Twizzlers, Red Vines are failing to be represented!

During our ride from Maryland to Maine, not one single gas station carried my beloved Red Vines. Not one!  (Between my 2 antsy kids, and my minuscule bladder, we stopped at many.)

It’s an abomination that Twizzlers are even in the same category as Red Vines!

Don’t let the fact that all of these gas stations stock Twizzlers dissuade you. The products may look similar, but any true licorice connoisseur can tell you that Red Vines are more different from Twizzlers than elephants from goldfish.

If they try to tell you they can’t stock Red Vines because it’s a conflict of interest, simply pull out a Red Vine and let them taste it! Be sure to prepare it properly first:

Open the carton about a month in advance. Leave it on top of your fridge, or on a high shelf – anywhere out of your sight line so you’re not tempted to eat them before they’re ready. After 30 days, they should be rock hard, and perfect for eating! Next to a stale Red Vine that has been aged to perfection, a flaccid Twizzlers rope will look like the pathetic excuse for licorice that it is.

Surely after they taste the perfection that is Red Vine, they will be unable to deny you admittance into their chain.

Let’s get on this, Red Vine guys! I wanna see this box at every convenience store on the east coast:

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