Death By Camel

The Creation Museum in Kentucky has a petting zoo stocked with the usual suspects and a few exotic ones as well. There was a tremendously fat hog, a pen FULL of goats (Which, even though they're small, are sneaky animals who'll head-butt you or eat your pants off the second you turn your back.), a donkey, a baby zebra (who was friendly up until the moment he realized I had no food and then he lost interest), two llamas (Watch out! They spit! From both ends! Ack!), and one seriously stuck-up camel.

I've never had an up close and personal encounter with a camel. I don't think I want to ever again. I've decided the camel rivals the goat for Freaky Semi-Trustworthy Animal status.

This camel was, in short, a Diva. With large, flapping lips. She stalked around her pen, moving too fast for comfort, whipped her head toward me so we were looking eye to eye, and crowded her Wow I'm Big body next to mine against the fence.

Now, I should tell you the staff there have the good sense to keep everyone on the outside of the camel's pen (and the llamas, for that matter). I'm grateful. I've never heard of any incidents of Death By Camel, but having tried to pet one, I'm sure they exist. The camels just haven't left any witnesses.

This camel was all attitude. She swept up to the fence, dipped her head to stare at me, flapped her lips and made me wonder if camels are indeed vegetarians and if the shirt I was wearing made me look edible, and then whipped around to stalk the pen again. My dad wanted a picture of me next to the camel. The camel didn't think anyone should be in the picture with her. I tended to side with the camel.

I realize people ride these things. I'm sure someone, somewhere, has a one-humped, loose-lipped Diva named Fluffy as a pet. I, however, am adding camels to my list of Animals I Refuse To Tether In My Yard and moving on.

It's All Fun And Games, Y'all!

Instead of my usual Monday list, I thought I would give you the inside scoop on my recent trip through Kentucky. We left Thursday around lunch time with the goal of reaching our destination (Florence, y'all!) by dinner. Florence is right next to the Ohio border, facing Cincinnati.

I've been to Kentucky before. We usually make an annual summer trek to Bowling Green (just a few miles over the border from Tennessee) to play at Beech Bend Park. I've always considered Kentucky to be a beautiful state but it took driving through the whole state to fully experience the, um, cosmopolitan flair that is Kentucky.

What? You think Kentucky isn't cosmopolitan? I beg to differ. Driving through Kentucky is like having a short tour of some of the world's international highlights. Here are just a few of the cities we passed:

Glasgow
Warsaw
Elizabethtown
Somerset
Sparta
English (not to be confused with French or Hungarian which, while they weren't listed along the highway, must surely be there somewhere.)

And, of course, our destination was Florence (y'all!).

As we passed one well known name after another, we began speculating that perhaps the founders of these fine cities in Kentucky were unaware that perfectly acceptable city names still remained up for grabs. Either that, or they had very high hopes for their little patch of earth.

As we neared Florence (y'all!), we saw a sign for a Big Bone Lick State Park. Now, I realize the names of state parks are probably sacred on some historical level but still, this is a name I'd petition to change. Honestly.

When we drove into Florence, we were greeted with a large water tower on whose side was painted the following: Florence Y'all!

It's a lovely place. Really. Gorgeous scenery, decent restaurants and shops, nice homes. But HOW can you take yourself seriously with that as your city motto??

I had bigger problems at this point, though, than trying to understand how any self-respecting city council could allow Florence Y'all! to happen. My left eye was burning with every blink. I figured I had dirt on my contact and that once we arrived at the hotel, it was an easy fix.

We checked it, got our suite, and I immediately removed the lens. There was no relief. I flushed my eye with contact solution and felt marginally better. We were ready to leave for dinner, so I washed my contact lens and popped it back in. Instant excruciating pain. The kind that made me want to gouge out my eye just to get some relief.

I wasted no time removing the offending lens and using my glasses in its place. It didn't take long, however, to realize the pain was still there and getting worse. My eye felt like something was lodged in it, though I couldn't imagine what.

That night, I could barely sleep. Closing my eyes didn't relieve the pain. I got desperate enough to slide my finger across the entire surface of my eye, searching for the problem. (Those of you who know me well will realize that this indicated a very serious state of affairs. I can handle blood, guts, puke, you name it, but eye stuff totally makes me sick to my stomach.) I found something. A crinkle of something stuck to the top of my eye, wedged securely under my lid and refusing to move.

I scraped. I pulled. I managed to pinch the skin of my eye, something I never dreamed possible, but it wouldn't come out. Finally, I resorted to prayer and just asked that either the offending object come out on its own or I lose all feeling in my left eye.

In the morning, the pain was less. We drove to the nearest eye doctor's office just as they opened (Wing Optical...fantastic people) and I told them my story. They hurried me to the back and three separate people pulled my eyelid up and had a look. No one could find anything. The doctor came in, grabbed a long Q-tip, told me to hold on to the chair (turns out he would have been better served to just strap me down) and then rolled my eyelid up over the Q-tip like it was one of those old-fashioned window blinds.

I hung on to my chair. I bit my lip. I frantically tried to distract myself with a running litany of all the things I despise about chick flicks. Nothing helped. As he held my lid away from my eye and examined me closely, my gag reflex kicked in. He's just lucky I'd been too tired to eat much that morning, otherwise the whole encounter would have moved from amusing (to him) to a clean up on aisle three.

In the end, he found a large area of scratched irritation and we determined that a piece of my old contact lens (I'd changed over two days earlier) had stuck to the top of my eye but had come out during the night as I was scraping and pulling. He gave me eye drops and strict instructions not to wear contacts for at least another day.

From there, we went to the Creation Museum, a really cool place with dinosaur stuff, a special effects theater that shot water in our faces and vibrated our chairs, a hay ride around the botanical garden, and a really cool video documenting the existence of dragons.

I suppose we'll return at some point. The kids had a blast. Perhaps next time we'll expand our horizons and take in the sites at Glasgow, Warsaw, and Sparta as well. If the city council at Sparta has any sense at all, their water tower reads "THIS Is Sparta Y'all!"

*As a side note, I just ran Google's spell check on this entry and realized that y'all is in the official Google dictionary. Wow.*

I'm Going To Insert My Finger...

I've been to five national conferences in the last eight years, two for RWA and three for the candle business I used to run. I've learned a few things about packing up and hauling myself out to an unfamiliar city, staying in hotels, finding my way around the sites and shops...but nothing I've learned stands out as clearly as this: DO NOT SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION IN AN UNFAMILIAR CITY.

Yes, that deserves all caps.

When you need medical attention in your own city, you know exactly what to do. Who to call. Which hospitals to avoid.

You have no idea how crucial those bits of knowledge are until you don't have them.

One memorable conference I attended was in the beautiful city of St. Louis. At the completion of the first day of conference, I wasn't feeling great. At all.

My friends and I returned to our hotel suite and changed for dinner. I was struggling with the clasp of a bracelet when the room went dark and I woke up on the floor with the hotel manager bending over me.

Thankfully, I was fully dressed.

Once I understood that I'd passed out, I tried to get up and go to bed. I just wanted some sleep.

The manager disagreed with my plan of action.

Apparently, if a guest of his hotel does an ungraceful face plant into the carpet, he feels morally and legally obligated to call an ambulance and send that guest to the hospital for a more thorough checking.

I argued.

He argued.

He'd already called the ambulance. The paramedics arrived during our argument and, as a clear sign that I truly did not feel well, I lost that round.

The paramedics strapped me to a stretcher (I argued about that too but I was soon to be grateful for their forethought) and wheeled me down the hall and into the elevator.

If that sounds Not So Bad to you, I should take a moment to set the scene. I was staying at an Embassy Suites. All of the rooms surrounded a huge, open atrium. The atrium was full of conference attendees because it was currently the Manager's Reception which means a free cocktail and snacks. Try keeping hundreds of women away from that.

Not only were there crowds in the atrium, the elevator was glass.

All of that added up to a significant slice of humanity staring in various stages of indecent interest at the poor woman strapped to a gurney and being wheeled through the hotel by paramedics who, sadly, did not see the need to drape a sheet over my face and pretend I was dead, even though I assured them I wouldn't move a muscle.

We exited the hotel's front doors and entered Round Two of Humiliate C.J. The curved drive leading to the hotel's entrance was full of taxis, shuttles, and even the occasional limo, all clogged with more conference attendees, none of whom had the decency to pretend they didn't see me.

The hotel was on a hill overlooking a river. The driveway was steep enough to hurtle unwary tourists, foolish skateboarders, or women on gurneys into traffic and, should they be lucky enough to avoid becoming roadkill, across the road and into the river itself.

Naturally, the ambulance was at the very top of the driveway with the double doors in back facing that long slide into the river. I mentally congratulated my paramedics on the decision to strap me down as they hauled me up that hill toward the ambulance.

I refused to consider the certain death awaiting me should they accidentally let me go. To that end, I became quiet, meek, and docile. I've never heard of paramedics deliberately sending their patients across traffic and into nasty bodies of water because their patient was an irritating loudmouth but I decided not to push my luck.

We reached the back of the ambulance and I received Clue #1 that this city's medical funding is seriously lacking.

The paramedics rammed the gurney against the entrance to the ambulance, presumably because the front legs of the gurney are supposed to collapse inward and allow them to smoothly slide the stretcher into place.

The legs refused to collapse.

They tried again.

Same result.

After the third try, I abandoned my plan to be quiet, meek, and docile and began questioning whether they gained bonus points by making sure every patient arrived with at least one broken bone.

They lifted the gurney into the ambulance instead.

This is not an easy task. I found myself grateful, again, for the straps.

There are locks on the floor of the ambulance for the gurney. I made a joke about "Contents Might Shift During Flight" and the paramedic smiled and then said, "No, this is just in case the door flies open while we're driving. We don't want to lose you out the back."

Since I was pretty sure neither paramedic would be heartbroken to lose me out the back of the ambulance during transit, I assumed he was making a sick joke.

It totally sucked that I was wrong.

The ambulance started, made it down the hill without launching across traffic and into the river, and then began a long journey toward the hospital. I say long because this is a major city and major cities generally have three or four big hospitals to choose from so that medical care is never too far away from its residents.

We drove for nearly twenty minutes. I questioned the paramedic as to our final destination and he gave me a look I couldn't decipher (later, I was to realize it was his I'll Fix Your Wagon, look or maybe his You Don't Know Any Better So You Won't Argue About This look) and said we were going to St. You Might Never Leave Hospital, on the opposite side of the city.

Why were we going to the opposite side of the city? He never gave me an answer. He didn't have to. We were both distracted by the fact that our ambulance hit one bump too many and one half of the backdoor was now flapping in the wind.

That's right. One half of the backdoor flew open while we were driving. Clue #2 that getting sick in this city was a serious miscalculation on my part.

I was very grateful to be locked down and strapped in. I was also sure that if I hadn't needed medical attention before the paramedics got a hold of me, I would certainly need it soon.

The paramedic said something not fit for publication, leaned out to grab the errant door, and then joked to me that the city didn't put enough money into its emergency response team.

You think?

We arrived at St. You Might Never Leave and I was absurdly grateful to be removed from the ambulance. This is, of course, before I encountered the emergency room.

The emergency personnel whisked me into my own little curtained-off room with due haste. At the time, I attributed it to concern for my well-being. Later, I realized it was because I was the only sane person in the building and they couldn't risk me carrying tales of St. You Might Never Leave to outsiders.

I lay in my curtained-off room, listening to the sounds around me, learning the voices of the nurses (there were two), the doctor (one, and he sounded impossibly young), and the other patients (four). It occurred to me to wonder how on earth an emergency department could have so few staff members working and so few patients to work on but what do I know? Perhaps the city was remarkably emergency free. More likely, most of the ambulance riders never survived their trip.

I discovered I was the last in a line of four curtained-off rooms. The person at the far end from me was an elderly woman who kept moaning loudly and explaining to no one in particular that she'd fallen and probably broken most of the bones in her body.

The next room contained a man who'd been beaten by another man.

The room beside me contained a person who kept making the following noise "Aaarrrgh" followed by a loud "Thump".

And right outside my curtain, a woman sat in a wheelchair, her head lolling to the side, her hospital gown collecting copious amounts of drool from her chin.

Clue #3 that I needed to get the heck out of Dodge came when one of the nurses looked up from her charts, noticed the woman in the wheelchair, and yelled to the other nurse "Get someone from Psych ward down here. She's been over-medicated again."

Wait...what? Psych ward? Over-medicated? AGAIN???

I made a hasty mental note to A) not accept medication of any kind from anyone at this hospital and B) do my absolute best to appear completely sane at all times.

An orderly wheeled the woman away and on his heels was a sheriff, in full uniform, gun and baton bulging from his belt, hauling a handcuffed man along the hallway. They went into room #2 and the sheriff asked patient #2 if this was the man who'd assaulted him.

The patient said yes.

A loud argument ensued with many promises of violent death and desecration of the remains from the handcuffed man.

Seriously? What happened to police line-ups? Holding cells? Or just plain NOT bringing violent criminals in close proximity to helpless hospital patients???

Clue #4.

My list was growing. A) Don't accept medication. B) Act sane. C) Don't draw unwanted attention to myself from the violent felon standing just outside my door.

Meanwhile, I was still hearing "Aaaarrrgh - Thump!" from next door and Granny On The End had changed her story from falling against her coffee table to falling into her washing machine and nearly drowning.

I wanted to warn them both that medication and a trip to the Psych ward were in their immediate future but to do so would draw unwanted attention to myself and would therefore violate Mental Note #3.

The sheriff, the felon, and the beaten up man (who turned out to be homeless) argued loudly over Granny's litany of injuries and "Aaaarrrrgh-Thump" man next door until an agreement was reached that Felon would be incarcerated and Homeless Man would get to keep his box of goodies stolen by Felon.

I was relieved when the sheriff hauled Felon out, and not just because the whole situation smacked of Crazy. I had another problem. I needed to use the restroom. Badly.

I've heard that the bladder can expand three times before reaching its true limit and refusing to hold another drop.

I was nearing Expansion #4 and it wasn't going to work.

With great fear and trembling, I pushed the call button for the nurse. I'd been lying in my curtained-off room for over an hour at this point and no one, not the nurse, not the doctor, not the sheriff with another felon in tow, had looked in on me. My initial "Hey, I could be dead and no one would know it" outrage had disappeared with the over-medicated woman on her way to the Psych ward. In its place was a deep-seated aversion to having anyone remember my presence.

I also have a deep-seated aversion to wetting the bed, however, and since my distaste for loss of bodily function control outweighs my fear of felons and Psych wards, I alerted St. You Know You're Never Getting Out of Here to my presence.

The nurse was fairly prompt in answering my summons (perhaps she hoped to find me over-medicated as well so she could dispatch one more unfortunate woman to the Psych ward?) and wheeled me out of my room toward the bathroom. The bathroom was located at the opposite end of the curtained-off rooms (none of which had curtains that fully shut) which means I got a good look at each of the three patients on my way through the hall.

Granny was a tiny woman who opened her eyes every time she moaned, searching eagerly for an audience. Homeless man looked like he'd been hit by a train and was muttering a stream of steady profanity under his breath. Given our present circumstances, I could hardly blame him. "Aaaarrrgh-Thump" was a blind man who was anchored to his bed by blood pressure cuffs on both arms. Every thirty seconds or so, he would struggle to sit up, pulling mightily against the thick cords of the cuffs (hence the "Aaaarrrgh") and when he hit the limit of the cords' elasticity, they would yank him back onto the mattress ("thump").

No one but me found that entire set-up frighteningly callous.

I used the restroom and was wheeled back to my own room where an orderly was waiting for me, an i.v. bag clutched in his hand.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Just a little something to keep you hydrated." He lied.

Oh yes, he lied. I remembered the over-medicated woman in the wheelchair. No way was I allowing anyone in this Cesspool of Medical Travesties to put a needle in my veins.

"If I'm thirsty, I'll just drink something. Preferably something with the seal unbroken by anyone but me." I said.

"Hospital policy is to keep every patient hydrated." He lied. Again.

Oh yes, he lied again. Patients one through three didn't have i.v.'s. Why should I?

"The other patients don't have any i.v.'s." I said.

"I haven't got to them yet."

"How lucky for them."

"If you'll just extend your arm."

I shoved my arms under the blanket.

"Ms. Redwine, I really must--"

"I'll be very clear. I do not want an i.v. I will not accept an i.v. Even if all the signs point to my very near demise due to dehydration, I still refuse to accept an i.v. here."

The orderly looked puzzled and disappointed. Perhaps he wasn't used to patients speaking up for themselves. Given the state of the other inmates, err, patients, I could understand his confusion.

"But, Ms. Redwine, I'm supposed to practice at least ten i.v.'s tonight."

WHAT???

"What are you talking about?" I demanded in a so-not-friendly voice.

"That's my homework for tonight. It's just fluid--"

"Homework???"

"Surely the paramedics informed you that St. Stay Here Long Enough And You'll Be Crazy Too is a teaching hospital."

No. No they didn't. And they'd better hope I never saw them again or they were going to need some over-medicating of their own.

"I was unaware. I'm sorry to throw a wrench in your homework assignment but I absolutely refuse an i.v." I said and sent the orderly on his way, no doubt complaining to his fellow students about the difficult diva in room 4.

I couldn't worry about that, though, because bigger problems were heading my way. The doctor, the one I thought sounded impossibly young (turns out because he was impossibly young) had finally deigned to grace the emergency room with his presence and was starting his examinations with Granny.

"What seems to be the problem?" He asked.

Granny abandoned her coffee table/washing machine/kitchen counter theory and produced her most creative effort to date: "I tripped over the back of the couch and fell right onto the porch. I think I broke my arm."

I was ready for the (impossibly young) doctor to say he would send her for x-rays or would be examining her bones or at the very least, ask her to say aaaahh and ignore his efforts to induce vomiting with his wooden popsicle stick.

Instead, he said "Okay. Well. Now I'm going to insert my finger into your rectum."

Say what??

There was a moment of silence, interrupted once with "Aaarrgh-Thump" and then Granny shouted "Oh, Lordy!"

Apparently, that was all the medical information the (impossibly young) doctor required. He left Granny and turned to Homeless Man.

"What seems to be the problem?" He asked.

"That *insert stream of profanity here* beat the *more profanity* out of me." Homeless Man said.

"Okay. Well. Now I'm going to insert my finger into your rectum."

WHAT??? The light began to dawn on me as Homeless Man did a pretty convincing job of threatening the doctor's mother with immediate disembowelment.

The orderly needed to hook up 10 i.v.s.

The doctor needed to explore 10 rectums.

We were nothing but homework assignments, regardless of our symptoms.

I was not at all shocked when the (impossibly young) doctor entered "Aaaarrgh-Thump"'s room and informed him he would be inserting his finger into his rectum.

Then it was my turn. Granny was still chanting "Oh, Lordy" and probably rethinking her medical options. Homeless Man was going hoarse with the virulent stream of profanity aimed at mankind in general and the (impossibly young) doctor in particular. "Aaaarrrgh-Thump" was trying harder than ever to escape his confinement (and who could blame him?).

And I was more than ready.

"What seems to be the problem?"

"Listen here, buddy. Under no circumstances will you be inserting anything into my rectum that you wouldn't want to sit on yourself. I am not old and confused. I'm not beaten up and broken down. And no one here was wise enough to restrain me with blood pressure cuffs or medicate me into oblivion. I don't want treatment. In fact, I refuse treatment. I want to return to my hotel and you would be wise not to get in my way."

The (impossibly young) doctor took one look at my face and didn't argue. He called my hotel manager who came out himself to pick me up and return me to the Embassy Suites, though not before profusely apologizing for the incredible oversight that landed me at St. Go Ahead And Die on his watch.

Now I know better. If I ever do need to seek medical attention in a new city, I will A) find a friendly native of the city to keep me from teaching hospitals and overzealous students and B) Make sure I'm close enough to death to warrant the risk.

Vacation Diary - Day Seven

We spent the vast majority of today at the beach and it was fun, despite the...um...interesting things that happened.

Highlights of the Day:

1. I forgot to record this yesterday: we saw a crab on the sand, scuttling around. My children and several others were delighted and crowded around him to get an up close and personal view. The crab did not take kindly to being studied and raced to safety. Inside someone's beach tent. Up the pant leg of a sleeping toddler.

Mayhem ensued. The mother snatched the toddler and began beating at his pants. The crab took exception to this treatment. So did the toddler. Much screaming emanated from the tent and then the mother snatched her child's pants down, yanked out the crab, and threw him from the tent.

I sympathized with all parties.

2. I got stung by a jelly fish. Twice. At least that's what we think happened. I didn't feel it at the time it happened but I ended up with welts across both ankles and those hurt. I declined the Scientist's instructions to pee on myself to rid myself of the pain and also refused Daredevil's generous offer to do it for me. The welts are already almost gone.

I did shame myself later that day by shrieking like a little girl when I felt something (probably seaweed but I didn't reach my hand down to check) float against my feet again.

3. Seagulls are brazen, defiant creatures. Spend enough time around a flock of them and you begin to believe Hitchcock was on to something.

4. Turns out that spray-on sunscreen is best applied indoors where there is no chance of even the slightest breeze. My hubby now has a strangley patterned sunburn where gusts of wind blew the sunscreen off course. Poor guy is not a happy camper.

Tomorrow we leave Florida bright and unbearably early and will boldly attempt to drive the entire way home in one please-God-just-kill-me-now day. I'll let you know how it goes.

Vacation Diary - Days Four, Five, & Six

It's Thursday night and I haven't blogged in three days.

Why?

Disney World, that's why. My feet still have blisters (but we won't blame my hubby and the shoes he picked out for me because in all fairness, I wasn't there to try them on and he did his best).

That said, I have one pair of white women's athletic shoes, barely used, for sale if anyone's interested.

Disney World was Tuesday. And by Tuesday, I mean bright and early Tuesday morning into not-so-bright and waaaay-too-early Wednesday morning. We had to forcibly remove the kids from the park which is kind of the point of bringing them in the first place.

Highlights:

1. Pirates. Not just the ride, which has this cool hologram of Davy Jones you have to ride through to drop into the main ride and which has Jack Sparrow in all the right places, but the gift store the ride vomits every passenger into was totally my idea of Excellent Places To Blow Your Vacation Money.

2. The castle. Wow. The version in Anaheim's Disney Land (where we used to go 3 or 4 times a year when we lived just an hour away) is a poor cousin next to this incredible confection of splendor and beauty. Apparently, you can rent a room in the castle instead of staying at the Disney World resort. I shudder to think of what that night of sleep costs.

3. The Monster's Inc. comedy show. Totally freaking brilliant. A live comedy show using animated monsters who interact personally with the crowd. It's funny (the "psychotic" monster was my favorite) and amazing. If you go, don't miss it.

4. Big Thunder Mountain roller coaster. None of you will be surprised to hear that I'm a roller coaster girl through and through. I haven't met a coaster I won't try. Thunder Mountain has always been one of my favorites and this time I got to introduce it to Daredevil (who kept saying after each turn "Is it over? Please don't let it be over!") and Starshine.

5. The fireworks show "Believe" at the end of the night was really cool.

As for my children, the Scientist loved driving the race cars with his customary careful precision, Starshine was constantly in danger of either being lost or of bowling over innocent groups of tourists as he spent the entire day either staring at something behind him, or hopping over cracks (so he wouldn't break his mom's back!) with his eyes firmly fixed on his feet (I should have just recorded myself saying "Starshine! Please catch up!) to save myself the 857 times I had to repeat it.), and Daredevil had a new rule instituted after a particularly interesting encounter while waiting in line for Peter Pan - "No talking to strangers!". Unfortunately, the rule was for the safety of the strangers.

We spent much of Wednesday in Epcot and it was a nice change of pace from Disney World. Epcot is right up the Scientist's alley as it has a showcase of innovations you can play with, the history of space exploration, and a really cool walk through various countries of the world.

Highlights from Epcot:

1. Soarin' is an amazing ride, made even more special for us since we lived in Cali for years. Some featured cities in California included where we used to live, where we went to college, and where we spent our honeymoon.

2. Spending time in the "land" of China was really cool. We could close out the view of the rest of the park for just a little while and pretend we were there to collect our daughter. Plus, they had this amazing shop of all kinds of Chinese exports including the most incredible carved jade dragon ship ($3300! Ouch!) and I wanted one of everything. I'm bringing an empty suitcase when we travel to China so I can bring home tons of cool stuff.

3. Turtle Talk with Crush (from Nemo) is an interactive experience with an animated character where Crush actually interviews some of the kids in the audience. Our worst fear was that Daredevil would be interviewed and would ask one of the many questions he'd already run by us for pre-approval (all of which were turned down with an emphatic "NOT unless you want us to deport you to the Netherlands!"). He wanted to ask things like "Where do you poop?" and "How can you tell if you're a boy?"

Sure enough, the first child Crush turned to was Daredevil. It's Murphy's law. Since he was sitting on the floor and we were up on a bench, I had visions of turning to other parents and saying, "Wow! Whose kid is that?!" but all my fears were for naught. Daredevil eschewed all bathroom-oriented questions and instead amused the entire crowd (his dark gift) with his answers.

Starshine was the true problem.


Crush finished interviewing various kids and went behind a rock to grab an item he'd found the other day on the beach that he needed the kids' help explaining. He returned with a bikini top hanging from his neck.

Cute, I thought. This is because I am not psychic and had no idea the disaster about to commence from Starshine himself.

Crush then asked, "Can anyone tell me what this is?"

And Starshine, who has never once, not ONCE, clued in to something before everyone else, suddenly yelled out, in that split second before anyone else could respond,

"IT'S A BRA!"

Crush had some difficulty recovering from that one.

So did I.

Today, we left Orlando and drove to Cocoa Beach where we spent the rest of the day on the beach body surfing, finding shells to make a family photo frame, and building a sand castle "home" for the dead jelly fish (sans tentacles) Starshine found. I still don't think Starshine realizes the jelly fish isn't just taking a nap.

Highlights from today:

1. The Scientist dragged a body board out to where the waves were really breaking and proved to be a natural at body surfing.

2. At one point, my hubby joined him using a skim board, an ill-fated decision since a) skim boards are not meant for body surfing and have a regretable tendancy to plow their noses into the sand and their tails into your stomach and b) immediately after my hubby recovered from being punched in the gut with the skim board, the Scientist rode a wave right over his head, plunging my poor hubby once more onto the edge of the skim board.

My hubby gave up boarding after that.

3. The Atlantic Ocean is so different from the Pacific. Not just the temperature, either. The Pacific has so much going on out in the water... boats, barges, islands or rocks jutting out, a definite break between the water and the sky. The Atlantic looks like you're standing at the very edge of the world. The sky presses against the water until it looks like maybe we're all living inside Truman's bubble. You can't see any rocks, islands, or any indication that anything exists beyond the sand at your feet. No wonder people thought the world was flat.

4. Daredevil, Starshine, and I waded out to body surf without boards which translates into me anchoring myself against the wave and the gravitational pull of the undertow, one hand grasping Starshine, the other holding onto Daredevil, and then letting them float along without ever letting go. We chose to face the shore and let the waves crash into us from behind. For some reason, the catch phrase of the day became "Hold on to your poop decks!" before each wave.

No, I did not think of it.

Yes, I yelled it with them.

Unfortunately, after one particularly fierce wave knocked me off my feet and I surfaced to a few unexpected drafts, I realized that it wasn't my poop deck that needed holding.

It was my bow. Both of them.

I think a surfer or two owe me some singles.

Vacation Diary - Day Three

We spent the bulk of the day in Sea World and I was pleasantly surprised at how much there was for the kids to do. Of course we watched Shamu's Believe show and it was incredible. We also saw polar bears, walruses, barracudas, sharks (several varieties whose names escape me), beluga whales and my personal favorite, dolphins. I'd like to swim with dolphins someday.

Maybe we'll take a cruise and I can do it then.

The Scientist won a killer whale stuffed animal at the arcade and named it Shamu. Daredevil and I went on a roller coast together but we couldn't ride the Kraken, which looked absolutely amazing in a hey-I-might-die-here sort of way. Poor Daredevil needs four more inches before he's allowed to ride on that.

We went on paddle boats that look like giant floating flamingos, which, if you stop to think about it too long, is sort of the stuff of nightmares.

It was fun but the real story of the day was the heat. Relentless, fry you to a crisp despite your paltry 60 SPF heat. When we stopped for lunch, we all sat and guzzled 20 ounces of water each in less than three minutes. The kids recovered from it when we came back to the hotel and took them to the pool. My hubby seems fine, though he and I are still drinking a lot of water.

I, on the other hand, am still in Holy Heat Rash, Batman! mode so we'll see how I feel (and look) tomorrow.

We'll be spending all day at Disney's Magic Kingdom and my hubby and I realized today that while I packed socks and shoes for the kids, the two of us brought only flip flops. One day hiking around an amusement park in flip flops was enough to demonstrate, in excruciating, blistering detail, the error of our ways.

My hubby fixed that tonight by going to Walmart and buying new athletic shoes and socks for us both.

Yes. You heard me. He bought shoes for me while I was not present, an act that goes against all that we hold sacred in our marriage.

He had my permission for this daring feat but I took one look at the women's athletic socks he handed me (the ones that look surprisingly masculine) and listened to his "I tried to get something fashionable without adding color" and I have yet to work up enough courage to open the box.

Besides, whatever they look like, as long as they're comfortable, I'm wearing them tomorrow. And I give the man credit where credit is due. Picking out shoes for your wife, even if she isn't a shoe-oholic like me, is stressful.

Highlight of today: (besides the family time and the nightmarishly pink flamingo boats)

Daredevil, Starshine, and the Scientist were hanging out in the hotel's hot tub when three twenty-something guys from Brazil joined them. Daredevil sized them up and then announced: "Well, there's three of you and three of us but I guess we might lose the fight."
The Brazilians thought it was hilarious.

This is because Daredevil is small and cute.

Give it a few years and I shudder to think where his mouth and his firm belief that he can take on anyone and win will land us.

Anyone know a good lawyer?

Vacation Diary - Day One and Two

I'm blogging (with the intent to be somewhat regular this week while we vacation but it's anybody's guess how much reality will intrude on that idea) from the desk in our room at the Holiday Inn, while everyone else is asleep (or very nearly) using H.I.'s deplorably sloooow wireless connection.

Took me eons to upload that gorgeous Pirates poster but it was worth the wait.

We left yesterday at 5:15 p.m. which, since we'd planned to leave by 5 p.m., was a miracle of no small proportion. Usually, if we plan to leave by 5 p.m., we are out the door no earlier than 6.

We drove until 10 something that night and stopped somewhere south of Atlanta in a seen-better-days-but-fit-the-budget Super 8. Noteable items from our first day of travel:

1. All of the boys made it to the Super 8 alive, a feat which was doubtful at several points during the journey.

2. We stopped at a Cracker Barrel (hey! I get a 35% discount. Where else would we eat?) and Starshine and I were sitting together in the rockers on the porch after dinner, rocking quietly and sharing some quality time. Suddenly , Starshine belts out these words (with a tune attached to them which makes me wonder if I need to pay stricter attention to his music class next year...) "Old granny gots a lot of cookies! Old granny can't resist the cookies!"

Oy.

3. As we were driving, the kids kept trying to get truckers to honk. As we drove up to one semi, the Scientist was frantically pumping his fist up and down, trying to gain the trucker's attention when he suddenly gasped and said in a voice full of shock and awe, "That trucker is a woman!"

Daredevil's response: "Whoa. She must be one trash-talking, hard-nosed girl!" (I think this is a quote from one of their Disney shows but it's quite possible he came up with this on his own.)

Starshine's response: "Sweet Nibblets."

I am just as baffled as you.

4. We woke up this morning and filed outside only to find that the car occupying the slot several doors down from us (in the seen-better-days Super 8) was a red Ferrari.

Maybe that's how he can afford the Ferrari? Or maybe gas prices caught up to him too.

Today, we arrived in Orlando at 3:30 and took the kids to the hotel pool to let off some steam, burn some energy, and exise the demon of testosterone currently tempting each of them to commit various felonies for which their parents would be held responsible.

We wandered around Downtown Disney this evening (it's free to get in but everything else costs an arm and a leg). We'd given each of the kids some spending money and they blew the whole thing when we hit a store selling some uber-cool Pirates loot. Eye patches, daggers, swords, pistols, skulls, t-shirts, necklaces...you name it. I secretly coveted a few pieces myself but couldn't bring myself to spend money on me. :)

Tomorrow, it's off to Sea World and hopefully an early night. I'm sleepy now and I'm going to bed.

Sweet Nibblets.

Adventures in Traveling: Part Four

In N Out Burger is a fast food franchise unique to the West Coast. In the 11 years we lived in southern California, my hubby developed a strange fixation with In N Out. If there was an In N Out in the vicinity, he and his friends would go.

He defined "vicinity" as being anywhere in a forty mile radius.

When we moved to Nashville, my hubby grieved for two things: the ocean and In N Out.


In N Out is a peculiar fast food restaurant. They have an extremely limited menu - no salads, no kid's meals, and no chicken of any kind. They are burgers, fries, shakes, and soda. And that's it.



I never developed the same fascination as my hubby. I like their hamburgers well enough (I can hear my hubby and the entire West Coast In N Out cult screaming "Sacrilige" as I type this) but their shakes do nothing for me and I absolutely loathe their fries.

The day after we arrived in California, my hubby took the kids over to Grandma's house and let me sleep a couple more hours - tucked in beside a now worn-out MAX. When he returned for me, I noticed something.

He was fidgety. Pacing the kitchen. Glancing at the various offerings of fruit and cereal and then looking away. Checking the time. Checking the phone book, his eyes glazed over with the hunger only a true junky knows.

"What are you looking for?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

He flipped through the phone book again. "In N Out. There must be one somewhere. I saw a sign last night."

Of course, I understood "somewhere" to mean "somewhere between here and Bakersfield, a scenic three hour drive away".

"How could you see a sign when you were asleep in the car?"

"Please." He looked at my with pity. I sigh. He's right. The spiritual connection he has with In N Out cannot be stopped by something as mundane as sleep.

"Are we stopping there for lunch?" I asked because I am not afraid to ask stupid questions.

"As soon as possible." He answered me and tossed the phone book onto the table in frustration. No In N Out was listed. In fact, on closer inspection, we realized many of the restaurants and shops seen on our way into town weren't listed. We checked the phone book cover.

1999.

Not helpful.

I spent a brief moment wondering why anyone would save a phone book from 1999. Perhaps MAX had eaten everything more recent.

Not to be deterred, my hubby called a local friend of ours and explained his need. The friend (another man) was instantly onboard, giving directions, short cuts, and commiserating with the four years of forced In N Out abstinence my hubby had endured.

We hopped in the car and headed to In N Out.

As I mentioned before, their hamburgers are good - the grilled bun makes the difference, I think, but I'm sure I'd be voted down by all the true believers. Their shakes are decent but can't compare to, say, Johnny Rockets or Jack In The Box.

But their fries - their fries are just nasty.



When I unwisely voiced this reaction to my meal, my hubby earnestly explained that In N Out fries are special. They are not like other fries.

"Yes," I agreed, "they aren't. Other fries are edible."

"Sacrilige," He thundered at me...well, okay, my hubby doesn't "thunder" but he did speak sternly.

He then explained to me that In N Out makes their fries from actual potatoes.

"And other restaurants are using what? Faux potatoes?" I ask.

He glares at me.

I am informed that In N Out has actual, whole potatoes on the premises and that they use a fancy machine to turn that potato into strips which are then dropped into the fryer.

Hmmm.

I tasted another one.

Nope, still tastes like I'm eating a chewy strip of nothing.

My hubby is disappointed that knowledge of the process doesn't improve my opinion of the taste.

On the night before he left, my hubby went out at 10:30 for one more In N Out run and came home with three paper hats decorated with the In N Out logo, ostensibly for the kids.

All three hats are safely tucked away in my hubby's dresser instead. =)

Adventures In Traveling - Part Three

We arrived in my parents' mid-sized California town at 11 pm, pacific time. That meant 1 am, our time. My boys (hubby included) snored through the entire 1 1/2 hour car ride home.

My Dad, you'll recall, is the Mechanical One, the Enthusiastic Gardener, and the Master Packer. He is also the Fidgety Driver. He is patently unable to drive without messing around with something.

He adjusts his seat, turning to explain with enthusiasm the lumbar support in his van's captain's chair. Unlike me, he drives a minivan by choice.

He flips radio stations, searching for one that plays his favorite: classical. When I point out that this might not be the best musical choice, given the fact that my Dad likes to be in bed asleep by 9 pm and it is now past 11, he turns the volume up to something right above mute.

I smile.

My Dad is classical music. He lights up when a particularly intricate flute passage plays in Handel. He taps out the beat to Beethoven, sways to Chopin, and enthusiastically points out the minor harmony in Bach. My Dad used to be classical music at a volume most people could hear. His tolerated volume level, however, has decreased with every passing year.

When I get home to Tennessee, I vow to blast my Evanescence, my Red, even my Celtic Woman because I don't know how many years I have left before genetics take over and I begin the slow slide into listening to what I love at a whisper.

We are not staying at my parents' house. My grandmother lives with them now, in the master bedroom suite on the first floor. My parents have a room upstairs and the other room is dedicated to the cats.

They have 4 cats. One, Pepper, is a beautiful ball of gray and white fluff who is afraid of my children, with their noise and constant motion. She has an annoying habit of climbing into your arms and then continuing on to your face. She likes to hang over your shoulder with her tail reaching toward the ceiling and her little rump shoved out right beside your nose.

Not the end of the cat I would prefer to cuddle with but Pepper knows how to insist.



Here she is with my Mom. Good times.

Another cat, Buster, a Russian blue, is not just afraid of my kids. He is bone-deep terrified. Of course, Buster is terrified of his own shadow so that's not saying much.

Pepper and Buster get locked into the cat room at night because my parents take exception to cats who get angry with them for sleeping and decide that urinating on their bed is a just consequence.

Their third cat, Pitts, is old now, in cat years. We brought her home when I was a junior in high school. She's sixteen now and she used to be a seriously fat cat (one of the funniest memories I have is seeing her tear down my parents' stairs, her belly swinging wide until gravity, momentum, and fifteen pounds of cat conspired against her and her back end started going faster than her front. Talk about a loss of dignity.). She is skin and bones now and so frail I'm afraid to touch her for fear she'll break. She doesn't really fear our children. She's too old to care.

Their fourth and final cat, Nosy, is the bane of my children's existence. She is tiny too, maybe four pounds of black and white wisp, but Nosy isn't about size. She's all about attitude.

My children will walk clear around the house to avoid the hall she sits in. She hisses if they make eye contact. They are certain if they get within striking distance, she'll bite their toes off.

They're probably right. Nosy's social skills leave a lot to be desired.

So, with a house full of cats and no extra room, we are house-sitting for my mom's friend - taking care of her Finch and her three dogs.

The Finch I don't much care about. I'm not a bird person. But dogs, I love. An empty house with plenty of room for all of us and three beautiful dogs sounds like a great way to spend my vacation.

When we arrive at the house, the three dogs immediately surround us with barking, licking, squirming, and shoving. I'm a big dog person, really, and not used to terriers and little rat-like things that look like something my cat would consider a light snack. But I'm tolerant of this behavior because they've been alone all day and it's always exciting for a dog to make new friends.

The dining room table has a sweet note from the owner of the house and $40 as payment for our trouble. I feel guilty taking it because we're really doing each other a favor.

I feel guilty, but not for long. Turns out I would EARN that $40 the hard way.

The MAX way.




MAX is the little rat-dog of the three. The other are white short-haired dogs approximately the size of a footstool. They are Scruffy and Mishie and they settle down within minutes of our arrival.

MAX does not.

Also, MAX does not walk. He runs. He scrambles. He bounces. I've never seen a dog bounce before. It's disturbing.

MAX has no control over his vocal chords. Or his tongue. Or, it turns out, his bladder.

He pees on the entry way tile when he sees us. I chalk it up to excitement.

He pees on the dining room floor when my kids get excited over the house. I indulgently grab some paper towels thinking, "surely that little bladder has nothing left".

He pees on my son's sleeping bag while he's hopping around the bed, resisting my attempts to drive him out of the room. I don't chalk this up to anything and the tone of my voice pierces MAX's ADD-afflicted brain long enough to send him scrambling from the room.

He goes to the living room and pees on the couch instead. Drips, this time, so I have hope he's close to empty.

I clean it all up, tuck in my kids, send my hubby to our room and praise MAX for the thin veneer of calm he's managed to muster up. I pat his head and he rewards me by peeing on my foot.

I can't decide if I'm grateful to be barefoot or not. On the one hand, I don't have to wash my shoes. On the other hand, it's 1 am my time, I'm exhausted, I've just cleaned up more pee than any little rat-dog should legitimately hold in his bladder and now I have urine between my toes.

This does not make me happy.

I, an avowed dog person, am considering locking the little bugger in the garage for the night.

I don't. It's cold, he's got thin fur, and besides, what if he destroys their garage?

This is a decision I come to regret.

I crawl in bed. Lights go out. The other dogs lay in their doggie beds. MAX does not.

MAX bounces onto our bed. He bounces onto us. He bounces between us, his tongue frantically licking our faces as if he can't decide which of us to attack first so he'll do his best to give us equal time.

We tell him "No".

He does not listen.

We toss him off the bed.

He springs back instantly.

We cover our faces. He claws at our blankets, our faces, our heads.

This does not feel good.

Finally, in desperation, I grab him and make him lie next to me so my hubby, at least, can get some sleep. MAX wiggles and squirms and does his best to reach any exposed skin with his tongue.

I suggest to him that, since his human daddy is a Dr., perhaps they should consider letting him mainline some Ritalin.

MAX begins to calm, as long as I keep my hand on him. I think I am finally going to get some sleep.

I am wrong.

The owners of the house have a clock. One of those miniature grandfather clocks that hangs on the wall and insists on chiming the time every FIFTEEN minutes. Who needs that, I ask you?

If you can't keep track of the time one fifteen minute increment to the next, you have more problems than a chiming clock can solve.

I try to ignore it.

I can't.

I try to sleep between the chimes.

Not happening. For one, it takes me longer than 5 minutes to hit deep sleep. For another, I know that chime (which plays longer and longer as it gets closer to the next hour) is coming.

MAX is still squirming, still wiggling, still trying to get to my face.

I get up, check the clock for an off switch. There isn't one. There isn't one on MAX either.

Two hours later, with dawn just around the corner, I reach my limit. I get out of bed, an enthusiastic MAX bounding along in front of me, and wrench the clock from the wall. Prying open the back is easy but then, at this point, I could have punched a hole through a cement wall without breaking a sweat. I'm that angry.

The clock is mid-chime when I yank out its battery and silence it for good. I mutter a few unsavory comments about the clock and its mother as I make my way back to bed.

MAX thinks it's play time again. MAX and I quickly reach an understanding. He doesn't try to tunnel through my skull with his little rat-dog claws and I don't make a MAX-sized hole in the wall beside my bed.

Like I said, I earned that $40.

Adventures in Traveling: Part Two

Once divested of my lip-gloss and hand sanitizer, we headed toward our gate, clutching our pre-printed boarding passes in our hands. Nashville is a relatively small airport with few crowds but still, I'm a mother. I want my children to walk RIGHT NEXT TO ME. I refuse to take any chances.

My youngest, Starshine, does not walk, however. He wanders. He dreams. He talks to himself. To strangers. To no one at all. He becomes fascinated by the design on the carpet and walks straight into walls, drinking fountains, and mountains of luggage.

Or, he decides inexplicably that he can no longer walk at all. Why? Because his feet don't work. They've worked well for six and a half years but now, in the middle of BNA, they just refuse to work any longer.

He drags himself slowly toward me, my other two already disappearing around a corner with my hubby. He moans about how long he's already walked.

I am not sympathetic.

I've seen this kid run his feet into the ground for two hours straight at Chuck E. Cheese. Thirty feet of airport floor is no hardship.

I grab his hand and motivate him to move just a little faster by mentioning that if we get to the gate with time to spare, there is food in his immediate future.

It works.

We arrive at the gate and find a crowd. We are flying Southwest and there are no assigned seats, just four boarding groups: pre-boarding, for those with disabilities or cousins who work for the airline, group A, the first of the general boarders privileged to enter the aircraft and hand-pick their seating arrangements, group B, following the footsteps of group A and hoping for the best, and group C who get to strap in next to the one person everyone else managed to avoid.

We are group B.

I size up the lines in both group A and B and arrive at an uncomfortable conclusion: we won't find 5 seats together unless they let families board early. Not finding 5 seats together is not an option, really. None of my boys are old enough to sit on their own and I am way too nuerotic to stay in my seat if I have a child stranded somewhere else on the plane.

Of course, if I put Starshine on his own, the chances of his seatmates voluntarily giving up their seat to me after just three minutes of ceaseless chatter and inumerable bathroom visits is pretty high.

Still, I decide to approach the woman at the counter and ask about early boarding. She smiles sympathetically and informs me that unless my children are under the age of 4, we can't board early.

This is not good news.

Not to worry, she assures me brightly (because she is not the one facing a crowded 4 hour flight with three boys to worry about), if we have trouble, a flight attendant will sort the whole thing out.

I cling to this sliver of reassurance as the plane begins to board.

My hubby enters first, followed by my oldest and youngest. I have my middle child firmly in hand, discouraging all attempts to ride in unattended wheel chairs, spit gum at the windows, or lock himself into the cockpit.

As we pass the first three rows of seats, I notice a man wearing a turban, seated by the aisle. My hubby and other two boys have already maneuvered to the middle of the plane, vainly searching for seats. There are people pressing in behind us. In front of us. Standing in the aisle dithering about which of their group gets the window or the aisle. My middle child has given up his attempt to enter the cockpit and notices the man in the turban as well.

"Hey," he says to me, "is that Satan?"

I don't know where this question comes from. I've never seen an artistic rendition of Satan wearing a white turban and I'm deeply grateful that the man had his back turned to us and that we were already past him when my son chose to speak up.

It turns out my son is an excellent judge of character.

We follow my hubby to the end of the plane where it becomes clear that seating has become a free-for-all. Group B is grabbing anything they can get. Group C will apparently be stowed with the carry-on bags.

I see two seats together a few rows from the back and shove my middle child into the row. My hubby and our other two are now on their own, seeking three seats together in a plane where only single seats are left, and those are few and far between.

My hubby heads back to the front of the plane, children in tow, and alerts the flight attendant to his situation. She gets on the loudspeaker and announces that a family of three needs seats together and the airline will buy free drinks for any passengers who give up their seats.

No one moves.

I take a moment to mentally slap the bubbly woman behind the check-in counter.

The flight attendant makes another announcement.

This time, the two people seated beside the man in the turban, volunteer to give up their seats. They move to another area of the plane and now it is turban-man's turn.

There is an empty seat directly behind him, on the aisle. He could move back one row and solve the whole dilemma. He could do it to be decent. He could do it for the free drinks. He could do it to ease the terror on my children's faces as they contemplate flying without the immediate comforting presence of their father beside them.

He won't.

He stares straight ahead and says, "This is MY seat. I will not move."

The flight attendant tries again. It's just one seat back. He is obstinate and won't do it.

Satan indeed.

Finally, the two people in the row behind him move forward so my family can get settled.

My hubby seats my oldest beside the window, himself in the middle, and Starshine behind turban-man.

This, as it turns out, was a stroke of brilliance on his part.

Meanwhile, I'm in the back with my middle child who is pressed against the window, hoping that the plane will take off as fast as a rocket and that, even though I've assured him we can't reach outer space on Southwest, for once, I might be wrong.

I text my hubby to ask him if they are ok, to remind him that he has ALL of the carry-on bags with him so I have no food, no toys, and no ipod to use for entertaining our middle child.

He says he'll send Starshine once we're in the air and to turn off my cell phone.

A few weeks ago, my hubby bought me a new cell phone and, surprisingly enough, I've kept it charged the whole time, never once turning it off.

I start pushing buttons, holding down keys. Nothing works. I quickly realize that I don't know how to turn my phone off. The flight attendant sees me and briskly tells me that I must turn off my phone NOW. I tell her I'm working on it. And I do. I try everything I can think of but the phone will not cooperate.

The flight attendant is on her way back down the aisle to check on my compliance. The nice older lady beside me is watching with avid interest as I tell her my hubby is the only one who knows how to turn off my phone and he's at the front of the plane.

Finally, in desperation, I turn my phone to silent and stuff it into my purse. We rush down the runway, my middle child laughing hyseterically as the G forces flatten us to our seats, and lunge into the air.

I am suddenly struck with terror.

Why did I have to turn off my cell phone? Does the signal interfere with the plane somehow? Am I going to singlehandedly crash our flight because I don't know how to turn off a cell phone? Who doesn't know how to turn off a cell phone? I'm going to go down in history as the great idiot of our time. After Al Gore, of course.

We don't crash. No one comes to haul me out of my chair and castigate me for sheer ignorance. Instead, Starshine bounds by, tossing me my ipod and his brother's journal while making his way to the bathroom.

It is soon clear that Starshine and my middle child placed a bet before flying. The wager was simple: See who can make the most visits to the bathroom on a four hour flight.

Starshine won.

This was actually a triumph for our whole family because turban-man was seated in front of him and every time Starshine got out of his seat - to use the restroom, to visit me, to wipe crumbs from his lap - he grabbed the top of the seat in front of him and used it as leverage to haul himself up.

My hubby noticed the first few times that whenever Starshine did this, turban-man's head would jerk back against the seat. He paid more attention the next time Starshine made a visit to the bathroom and realized that in the act of grabbing the seat top, Starshine was also grabbing the turban and anchoring the man's head to his seat.

This seemed just.

Turban-man turned to glare at my hubby after yet another excursion by Starshine and my hubby smiled and said, "It's your seat. You aren't moving."

The rest of the flight was uneventful and when we taxied onto the runway in San Diego for our connecting flight, the flight attendant began the usual end-of-flight spiel and spiced it up with the best line I've ever heard on an airplane:

"Ladies and gentleman, be careful when opening the overhead bins because let's face it, shift happens."

More on our adventures in traveling soon...

Adventures in Traveling: Part One

Recently, my family and I embarked on the arduous (and somewhat expensive) trip from Nashville to California to visit my family. It was an interesting trip - both fun and...well, interesting.

Day One:

Mal takes us to the airport, driving our '94 Dodge Caravan for the first time in his life. Since we arrived with all windows firmly intact, the hood ornament still flopping in place, and the transmission agreeably shifting gears when needed, I counted the journey a success.

Mal was busy bemoaning the fact that he neglected to bring a wig and hat to wear in case someone recognized him behind the wheel. He thinks it's bad for his cop image to be seen driving an ancient, paint-peeled-off, hood-ornament-flapping minivan with visible car seats.

I think driving the occasional minivan is good for a man's soul.

Mal insisted that he will never, NEVER, own a minivan. My hubby and I laughed over that one. Give it ten years, we said. We'll be hitching a ride in your crumb-coated, crayon-decorated, rancid-sippy-cup-of-milk-hiding-in-the-tiny-crevice-between-the-car-seat-and-the-wall minivan.

Wait and see.

My kids have flown before, but they barely remember. It's been four years since we moved from California. My oldest thinks he hated the whole thing. My middle child thinks it only took an hour. My youngest remembers crashing in a fiery ball of doom.

I assure them they are all wrong.

I myself hate to fly. There is something inherently wrong with strapping oneself in besides hords of strangers who don't always pay attention to personal hygiene or personal space and hurtling 39,000 feet up into the air with only canned water and a bag of peanuts as consolation. And don't even get me started on the "turn-around-too-fast-and-knock-yourself-silly" bathrooms. If we have the technology to use jet-powered toilet flushing with suction strong enough to yank your eye teeth out through your patoot, surely we can figure out how to add five more inches to the lavatory to minimize the risk of head trauma in the event of sudden turbulence.

However, as much as I hate to fly, I hate the thought of driving 3000 miles cross-country with three caged boys even more so I disguised my anxiety, refused to take my usual dramamine (one needs ALL of one's mental acuteness to be razor sharp if one is to deal with three boys on a four hour flight), and pretended like flying was no big deal.

I hit a small snag at security. We'd yanked our electronic equipment out of our carry-ons - 2 cell phones, 1 game boy, 2 i pods, 1 digital camera, and a portable dvd player - stripped off shoes and jackets, and piled all of our belongings onto the conveyor.

No one set off the metal detector for which I was greatly relieved. I do the laundry around here. I know the kind of strange objects one finds in my children's pockets. I really didn't want to have to explain to the nice Amazon woman with the body-cavity probe why my youngest had scissors in his pocket, my middle child had a box cutter and my oldest had loops of piano wire.

Fortunately, all pockets were clear. My hubby, shaved head non-withstanding, set off no alarms and appeared non-threatening to all airport personnel.

I was another matter.

My purse sailed through on the conveyor belt and failed to come out the other side.

Amazon woman yelled for a bag check.

A man with some sort of badge pinned to his chest appeared out of nowhere and snatched my purse, locked eyes with me, and asked me to step to the side with him for a bag search.

I remained outwardly calm while inside I was racing through the contents of my purse, trying to think of what could be in there and what kind of explanation I could give.

Nail clippers? Nope, packed those.

Nail file? No, just a basic, flimsy emory board. To my knowledge, no one has ever died because of an emory board.

Scissors? A valid question considering the items my youngest routinely brings out of the house.

(Picture us in the middle of the grocery store. My youngest interrupts his constant stream of chatter with "Mom, can I cut out this picture?" The question penetrates my "if-I-just-focus-for-ten-more-minutes-I-can-be-out-of-here" haze and I turn to find him brandishing a pair of scissors - my scissors - at a box of graham crackers. I snatch the scissors away, ask him why on earth would he have scissors in the grocery store and roll my eyes when he says, "just in case I felt creative." One more reason to shop alone.)

The man digs through to the bottom of my purse (no easy feat, I assure you) and brings out the dangerous items in question...

Three lip glosses and a half-used container of Freesia-scented hand sanitizer.

"You can't have these." He says to me.

I want to say "You can't have them either. Those aren't your colors."

Instead, I say, "Really?"

"Unless you want to go back out, pack them into zip lock bags, and come through the line again." He says to me.

Hmmmmm.

So, the lip gloss is dangerous but if it's contained in a plastic bag, it becomes safe? Couldn't I just open the bag? And anyway, where am I going to get zip lock bags now?

I smile at the man, showing all of my teeth, and say, "keep them".

I'm irritated with myself for not realizing that lip gloss and hand sanitizer are on the "no-no" list.

There is a "no-no" list. I read through the entire thing with some amazement the day before we left. I can bring nail clippers now, and blunt nail scissors, but meat cleavers, power saws, and bottle rockets are not allowed. Neither are bayonets, harpoons, and cannons. Understandable, though in such close quarters, perhaps not the brightest choice of weaponry.

But who brings a power saw on an airplane? Where are you going to plug it in to do any damage? Are these items listed because of previously experienced threats or are they just covering bases for all contingencies?

The last item on the list was my favorite.

No snowglobes.

Say what?

I told my husband that snowglobes were now considered weapons and he donned his best Austin Powers British accent and said,

"Honestly, who throws a snowglobe?"

More on our travels soon...