Vacation 2019 -- A Little Preview!

Well, summer has just officially faded into fall and I bet that means the same question just popped into everyone’s minds: How come I haven’t heard anything about Eric and Kimberly’s annual vacation?

Which means the next thought that popped into everyone’s minds is “Wait, I don’t remember reading about their vacation LAST summer…or the summer BEFORE THAT…FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, PLEASE DON’T TELL ME THAT THEY’VE GIVEN UP THIS FABULOUS TRADITION OR—WORSE YET—I’VE MISSED THOSE POSTS!!”

Which further means that you’re all braced to start frantically searching through this blog, desperately searching for the any sign of travel tales.

(It is interesting to note that I might have an overblown sense of my importance in your lives.)

In any case, fear not, Eric and I have not given up our annual sojourn into the silly side of life. I, apparently, just haven’t been writing about our trips. And I don’t have time to write about them all now but, rest assured, they’ve been as nutty as ever!  For example, 2 years ago we made a return trip to Roswell, New Mexico for the International UFO Festival. And while it was less dramatic than our first trip there 15 years ago (when we might or might not have trespassed on private government property), it was still chock full of crazy. We saw people who were literally wearing tinfoil hats or fairy wings or both.

 We once again spoke to The Alien Hunter (who told me my questions about alien abduction were, and I quote EXCELLENT). We met Travis Walton (famous alleged alien abduction victim). And, far best of all, we got to witness a rather heated diatribe by a woman who was furious that the Convention wasn’t giving more attention to the Reptoid Plot of World Domination.

Reptoids, for those of you who don’t vacation with UFO enthusiasts, are an ancient alien race of reptiles that are able to shapeshift into human forms and have infiltrated every powerful family in the WORLD. They are here to take over the Earth—and possibly the entire universe—because they enjoy feeding on and breeding with humans.

There’s a very complicated explanation involving the shadow government, the Rockefellers, the British Royal Family and any number of US celebrities but, according to the 2 books I bought dissecting this phenomenon, I am one of the many “sheeple” of the world, too blind to understand the danger.

Good times, my fellow sheeple, good times.

My point is, yes we still take our trip every year. And, although we didn’t go this summer, we’re going next weekend. Why so much later than usual?

For three main reasons:

1.     

  Uhhh, have you been reading the blog? Skin cancer and a new house, sheeple! I’ve been busy.

2.       Our original destination – a ghost hunt at the Missouri State Penitentiary in Jefferson City, MO – was hit by a tornado earlier in the year and the event was cancelled.

3.       There was a slight discrepancy between the vacation weekend on MY calendar and the one marked on Eric’s.

I maintain that when Eric visited this summer to help with the new house, we picked September 13^th as the weekend and he just doesn’t remember.  Eric maintains that we talked about September 13^th but landed on the 27^th as a better option and I just don’t remember…Opie maintains that Eric and I drink too much when we’re making plans and he’s surprised anyone remembers anything.

I’m pretty sure that’s his way of saying he’s on Team Kimbo and just doesn’t want to hurt Eric’s feelings.

Luckily for Eric, I was able to rearrange my schedule because, although one can search for the mysterious ghost lights that travel down an abandoned highway known as The Devil’s Promenade pretty much any time one wants, it’s harder to book a night in the garage apartment where Bonnie and Clyde hid from the police than you might think.

That’s just the tip of the iceberg for our weekend plans but if history teaches us anything, I think we can expect a lot of laughs, a few ghosts, and way too much alcohol.

I just hope we don’t run into any reptoids because the abovementioned books were so confusing, I still have no idea how to fight them off.

If you want to hear about some of our earlier vacations, feel free to check out any of the links below:

Scariest Vacation – The Villisca, Iowa Axe Murder House

The First Trip to Roswell

Why You Shouldn't Be Annoying When You're On A Ghost Hunt -- The Eldred House

The Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast

The Time We Literally Set a Guiness World Record

Blast From the Past

Well, it's almost everyone's favorite time of year: time for Eric and Kimberly's fabulous yet freaky summer vacation! 

For those who are new to this blog, I should mention we’ve gone every summer for the past 17 years now—yes, even after I got married.

Largely because Opie has NO DESIRE to go any of the places we’ve gone.  I tell him where we've decided to go, he stares at me for a long moment in horrified silence then says "Have a good time."

See, Eric and my goal is to go to the wackiest places possible, places no on in their right mind would visit. Which is why we’ve been to  The Lizzie Borden Axe Murder House,  The Waverly Hills Sanotarium, The Villisca Iowa Axe Murder House  (sort of an axe murder theme there for awhile), The Superman Convention in Metropolis, Illinois, Psychic Boot Camp, and  Snake World (which was basically a TRAILER in Arkansas that housed the largest private collection of venomous snakes in North America) and so on…

Let me tell you, it’s been HILARIOUS.

This year we're flying in the face of tradition and returning to one of the places we've already been: The Roswell, New Mexico Annual International UFO Festival.

Why?

Because it's been 15 years and who knows what kind of mindboggling breakthroughs have occurred in the field of xenoarchaeology?

So, when we return, I'll be sure to update everyone on our trip.  But first  I thought I'd share a blast from the past: the official record of our last trip to hunt UFOs 15 years ago...back when we were young, crazy and had a somewhat limited understanding of Government Security Clearance guidelines.

THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE!

Ok, as some of you probably are already aware, Eric and I took our annual vacation over 4^th of July weekend and as always, we chose a somewhat unusual vacation spot: Roswell, New Mexico for the annual national UFO convention. It was actually 3 conventions in one as there are 3 different groups who put on rival conventions all over town.

Roswell, for those of you who don’t know, is the place where a UFO supposedly crashed in 1947. The army first released a statement saying it was, in fact, a flying saucer. Later they retracted that statement and said it was a weather balloon. It is now the Mecca of UFO researchers.

We thought it would be fun to go someplace where we are the most normal people around. Most of the people, however, were deceptively ordinary--until, of course, they started discussing their abduction experiences, government conspiracies, and the malevolent alien plot of world domination.

But I get ahead of myself…it was quite a trip and I've included a detailed play by play but  it is ridiculously long so feel free to skim or not read this at all…it was just too funny not to share!

In any case, we began our journey on Wednesday, July 2^nd. We actually thought we were off to a good start because we began a mere 40 minutes late…this is over an hour better than our previous record! Unfortunately this fabulous start time was slightly marred by our nearly immediate stop and 10 minute search for the trip journal to record the fabulous start time.

Then any leftover euphoria quickly died when we realized that our planned route was actually 2-3 hours out of our way. Since we were supposed to stay with Eric’s parents, we had no choice but to press on. We did, however, peruse the map and come up with an alternate route home.

The rest of the day’s events are best illustrated in the following timeline:
10:50 -- First fervent wish for alcoholic beverage.
10:51 -- Loud chanting of “We don’t drink and drive, we don’t drink and drive!” Oddly, chanting did not dim desire.
10:54 -- Debate whether or not Kahlua really constitutes alcohol. Surely something that tastes so much like coffee can be considered coffee?
11:00 -- Vote taken on the status of Kahlua. 2 votes for coffee.
11:01 -- Search for Kahlua in backseat of car.
11:05 -- Realization that Kahlua is either still in St. Louis or buried in bag in trunk of car.
11:06 - 11:10 Cursing, finger-pointing and overall disgust concerning undetermined location of Kahlua.
11:15 -- Water chosen as healthier but infinitely less satisfying beverage.
12:36 -- First stop for gas.
12:38 -- Eric inadvertently locks car; panicked search for keys encompasses several minutes as we envision calling a locksmith etc.
12:45 -- Locate keys, enter gas station/convenience store.
12:46 -- Get into argument with clerk about true size of bag of ice. Insist that he is overcharging us for a $1.00 bag of ice as the sign clearly indicates 2 pounds for a dollar and we only have 1 bag.
12:49 -- Feel like idiots when clerk explains for the 3rd time that the bag we are holding is 2 and pounds.
12:50 Assuage each other's embarrassment by marveling how easily we can lug 2 pounds of ice around the parking lot.
1:55 -- Enter Kansas.
2:00 -- 5:30 Endless discussion of how far out of the way this route is. Eric maintains that route is better as more scenic and historical (Actual Santa Fe Trail!). My reply obscene and not included for fear of offending anyone still reading.
6:00 -- 10:00 -- Arrive at Eric’s parents. Have dinner, sit down with Eric’s mother and peruse map for shortest route to Roswell. I make sounds like “north” and “west” as if I understand what they mean. Eric tries not to laugh.
10:01 -- Realize no possible way to get to Roswell in under 10 hours. Plot Eric’s bloody death.
10:30 -- Go to bed so can get early start.

DAY TWO

Driving the second day included more wrong turns and directional struggles but we stopped a few fun places along the way--like the exact mid-point of the United States. This spot is exactly 1561 miles from San Francisco and 1561 miles from New York. We got out of car like big tourist nerds, climbed the hill to take pictures, then I stepped on cockleburr with my bare foot, hopped back to the car and complained loudly for next twenty minutes.

We finally arrived in Roswell around 5:30. Of course, the address that the online reservation service gave me was wrong so, just like last year, we went into the wrong hotel, went up to the front desk and demanded imaginary reservations. Then—sure that I was right and assuming that our room had been given to some other conference attendee with fistfuls of cash—I engaged in a loud, heated discussion with the clerk, insisting that I had booked a room days earlier. I even triumphantly waved my confirmation email in his face.

Which is when the clerk snatched the paper from my hand, pointed at the name of the hotel emblazoned across the top and said “That’s not us.”

I’m not going to lie, it was a little embarrassing.

The conference itself was great! My only suggestion for the organizers is that next year, they should indicate right on the program which presentations are best experienced under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs…for example, we went to one so called laser light show that I could have done with 2 flashlights and some colored cellophane.

Plus, I was astounded to learn that the truth about aliens has not been discovered because of a conspiracy between both the government and organized religion. Apparently, the government doesn’t think we can handle the truth and organized religions don’t want to admit that aliens caused evolution by interfering with our genetic structure millions of years ago.

It is now clear that this blog entry will not only cause me to be interrogated by the FBI, the CIA and other nefarious secret government organizations but I will also, no doubt, be excommunicated.

But I’m getting ahead of myself again!

The first thing we did Friday morning was drive out to the actual crash site. It is about 35 miles outside of town and the road is only marked by a raggedy old sign. We got out of the car, took a few pictures, and another group of people told us that no one is allowed to go to the actual crash site anymore.

“All part of the government conspiracy,” I said.

Two of them nodded along with me but one woman shook her head and said, “No, I think it’s just private property now.”

“Allegedly,” I said.

And the other two nodded even more emphatically.

But you know what?

They were all cowards. 

They weren’t interested in what some people call “trespassing” but Eric and I call “exploring.” So we had to wait for them to leave before we could go ahead with our own search.

Oh sure, it was private property and yes, there might or might not have been but definitely were signs indicating the area was restricted by the government and yes, it was the middle of the desert where it was so hot I thought I might actually burst into flame and admittedly we spent over an hour driving up and down unmarked gravel roads avoiding cows and sheep and various other livestock but we did find the gated off area and managed to wander around a bit until we could identify the ranch house and the area in question.

Then, when we got back to the UFO museum, we saw a sign that informed us one of the reasons that the crash site is off limits is because of the “excessive danger of TARANTULAS and RATTLESNAKES.”


“The question is,” I told Eric, “did the government MAKE UP the tarantulas and rattlesnakes or did they PLANT THEM THERE to further the cover up?”

“We’ll probably never know,” Eric said

In any case, we felt suitably freaked out enough to spend the rest of the day getting freaked out by people giving convincing and somewhat alarming accounts of what really happened 50 years ago in Roswell…did you know that Jerry Marcel, the army guy who was instrumental in the alien cover up, came forward years later and basically said the government was lying, he believed that a UFO had crashed?

Weird.

Later we went out to a presentation at the Roswell fair grounds and it is interesting to note that slamming vodka and Sprite in 105 degree heat can occasionally induce feelings of nausea…this feeling is not noticeably improved by a 20 minute viewing of wobbly home videos of a supposed UFO. Was it a UFO? I have no clue, I thought it looked by a big black dot.

However, I turned my attention to the presenter and was mildly amused to feel a sort of “He’s a long-haired UFO chaser but what a great smile” type of attraction (it is possible that this was due to the vodka as well).

Then, sadly, he spoke.

“I saw me the UFO” he said. “So I went and got me muh videah camra.”

Then he revealed that this is what he does for a living; he sits around his house all day drinking beer, smoking dope (I’m speculating on this last bit) and pointing his “videah camra” at the sky for hours a at time.

I need this guy’s life.

After dinner (the highlight of which was cracking Eric up as he was trying to do a shot and getting vodka sprayed in my face) things were a little disappointing. We went to a presentation called “The Great UFO Mystery” and the biggest mystery was “When are you actually going to stop talking about astronomy and talk about UFOs?”

Eric and I tried to lighten the mood with a few jokes and witty repartee during the presentation but considering the woman right next to us actually got up and MOVED TO ANOTHER SEAT, I think it’s possible that everyone did not appreciate our humor.

Next we drove out to fairgrounds for a fireworks display …which would have been a lot cooler if the fireworks display had actually been scheduled for the fairgrounds and not behind the planetarium on the other side of town.

In any case, the last day more than made up for any disappointment. We met “The Alien Hunter” who makes his living investigating claims of alien abduction and perused his collection of alien implants. Strange as this may sound, this guy was actually NOT a loon. He was articulate, educated and explained to us the scientific methods he uses to investigate these claims.

Honestly, he freaked me out.

On the other hand, there were plenty of loons. For example the guy who said he got involved in UFO studies after a “strange being” entered his bedroom and touched him. Or the woman who was continually possessed by aliens and forced to run around her bedroom over and over again as part of some bizarre athletic experiments. Or the guy who was abducted continually for about 10 years until he found Christ and then he quit his job and moved to Roswell to start The Alien Resistance Organization in order to get the word out. He was even handing out stickers that had an alien head inside a circle with a line through it (like a no smoking sign).

You can’t buy fun like that, not in any store.

I had, of course, come up with an alien abduction story of our own but the only place where people were invited to share their stories was at the Biblical Studies of UFOs. Considering that one of their books blamed homosexuality on aliens and further considering I was already getting dirty looks for daring to wear a tank top to the presentation, I didn’t think we should tempt fate any further.

So we left, drove all night to get home and are now considering giving up our careers as teachers and becoming UFO researchers…

I'm not going to lie, this is going to be a hard trip to beat -- but we're leaving Friday and I'll let you know how we do!

Cars, Cats and Cupcakes

It is with the greatest reluctance that I finally made the annual doctor's appointment for the feistiest of felines, the incomparable Princeton P Kitty. 

Which if you are new to this blog probably makes me sound like a very irresponsible pet owner, like someone who begrudges her poor defenseless kitty his chance at proper medical care. 

Nothing could be further from the truth.

The truth is I want Princeton P Kitty to live a long healthy life. I want him to keep stealing the blankets, harassing the dogs, and horrifying complete strangers for many years to come.

I just don't want to drive him to the doctor ever again. 

See, this is not his regular doctor whose office is exactly 5 1/2 minutes from our house. This is his Yes-It's-A-Real-Thing-We're-A-Little-Obsessed-With-Our-Pets-Feline-Cardiologist whose office is approximately an hour and a half away. Which, if you figure the round trip, means I have to spend approximately three hours in the car with the angriest cat in the world. Because, make no mistake about it, Princeton P kitty is the worst traveler ever.

Ever. 

Essentially, he screams for the entire car ride.

Why?

Because he hates being confined to his crate.

Why don’t I let him out of his crate? 

Because then he either insists on riding here:
   

Or he spends the entire journey attempting to balance on my head like some sort of crazed kitty gymnast.

Which, as I've mentioned before, is a little distracting on the highway.

So, in his crate he goes. And one of the following things always happens: 

1. He screams in rage until he makes himself sick.

2. He turns around and faces the back of the crate, there by riding backwards, until he makes himself sick.

3. He stomps around the crate in angry circles,  around and around until,  you guessed it, he makes himself sick.

What I'm saying is that he always makes himself sick.

And those of you who have never spent an hour and a half confined in a small space with a howling cat and the lingering scent of cat puke are probably saying things like "Oh that poor kitty."

And, yes, I do have some sympathy for the cat but the thing is he brings the situation entirely upon himself. He's not legitimately carsick, he's just mad that he's not getting his own way. I have explained to him 1,576 times that if we would face front and lie down, he wouldn’t get sick. 

But, honestly, there’s just no reasoning with this cat. 

So you know who I really feel sorry for?

Me, that's who.

Nonetheless, I suspect some of you still have your priorities confused and are now saying, “But he sounds really upset, have you thought about giving him some tranquilizers?”

In a word, yes. It was a nightmare of such epic proportions that I can’t even talk about it again. You can read about it here or you can trust me that, after that whole experience, I needed xanax more than anyone.

In any case, last year's trip was the worst of the worst.

First of all, Prince puked twice on the way there. Which is gross but not unprecedented so I pulled over both times, cleaned him and the crate up as best I could (I learned my lesson after the unfortunate initial visit--during which I’m pretty sure he aimed his vomit at my purse on purpose--and now I always bring a roll of paper towels with me) and we continued on our not so merry way.  

Then he upped the ante with explosive diarrhea.

Which was fabulous because when you're already in a confined space with a howling cat and the lingering odor of cat puke, nothing adds to the atmosphere like the eye-watering stench of cat poop.

So, again, I stopped and cleaned but the problem with all this stopping and cleaning is that A. You can't get everything completely clean. B. The cat, for safety reasons mentioned above, has to go back in the crate when the haphazard cleaning is finished.

This means that, by the time we walked in the clinic, he was about three stages past “insane rage” and was screaming like he'd been set on fire.

Which means that, as soon as we walked in, all the other pet parents in the waiting room started gaping at me, most likely assuming that I had let some horrible tragedy befall my cat and now was trying to rush in and cut the line. 

I'm not going to lie, it was a little embarrassing  

So, I laughed nervously, kind of half-waving to all the other horrified pet owners and shouting “He’s really excited to be here!” 

But those people didn’t think I was funny AT ALL.

Luckily, the receptionist always remembers us (I imagine a hairless cat would be somewhat memorable in most situations but when you add in his constant and impressive vocal range, you have a situation that is irrevocably burned into people's minds) so I didn’t have to wait around checking in. 

“We’re heading to the bathroom so I can clean him up!” I shouted. “Please tell Brandy we’re here.”

Brandy is the technician who always helps us and who I have a tiny bit of a girl crush on—which might be because she’s really good with Prince but is more likely due to the fact that she frequently calms my nerves with cupcakes. 

But I digress...the receptionist gave me a thumbs up so I went to the bathroom and as soon as I verified the room was empty, I opened the crate door and Prince ran out like he’d been shot from a gun. He flew to the other side of the room and then hid behind the toilet, occasionally sticking his head out to glare at me and meow loudly, like I’m some sicko kitty sadist who flings cats into crates and drives them around for the sheer entertainment value of it. 

This is his angry face.

 So, there I was, scrubbing the crate in the sink and explaining to the cat how ridiculously ungrateful he was, when the door opened and another woman walked in. 

Who immediately thought I was a lunatic because, in her view, I was standing there talking to no one. 

A situation not helped by the fact that, when she asked if I was waiting for a stall, I said “No, but my cat’s in that one.” 

No, this isn't from that day but come on, it's clearly relevant.

Anyway, the woman fled into the other stall. Unfortunately, one thing Princeton P Kitty really prides himself on is figuring out how to make any situation more uncomfortable. 

Plus he’s surprisingly fast for a cat with a heart condition. 

Which means that, in the next second, he shot out of his stall and into hers. And a second after that the woman said “Uhhhh, he’s on my lap.” 

Please pause for a moment and picture yourself in a public restroom, doing your best to ignore the crazy lady by the sink, when this cat:

flies inside and flings himself on your lap.

I'm probably lucky I don't have a lawsuit for emotional duress on my hands.

Anyway, I was somewhat stymied. Because I assumed she was using the bathroom as it was intended and this is not, at least not for women, a group activity. 

I very helpfully said “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” About fifteen times and then said “Tell you what, you probably don’t want me coming in there to get him but if you put him on the floor and sort of, I don’t know, shove him, I’ll reach in and grab him.” 

“No,” she said weakly. “That’s ok.” 

But the thing is, the rotten cat has sneak attacked me in that exact same fashion at home and it is most definitely NEVER ok.  

It’s been almost a year, and I still can’t figure out how she finished her business. 

But she did. And a few minutes later came out with Princeton P Kitty purring contentedly in her arms. 

“He’s got a lot of personality,” she said. 

“That’s one way to describe him,” I agreed. 

Luckily, it was at this moment that Brandy the Vet Tech popped into the bathroom and said “I thought you might need some help….how about a cupcake?” 

I love Brandy a little more every time we go. 

So, in summary, Prince is the worst traveler in the history of travelers, you never know what might happen when you sit down in a public restroom, and cupcakes make everything better. 

And you can probably see why I am NOT looking forward to our next drive to the vet. 

If you'd like to read any or all of the other Princeton P Kitty vet adventures, I linked a couple of them below:

The First Trip aka The Time He Puked On My Purse

The First Cupcake from Brandy the Vet Tech

Fear of Flying

Here’s the thing:  I don't fly well.

And when I say I don't fly well, I don't mean that I run around the yard, flapping my arms like some deranged bird, unsuccessfully attempting to fly.

I mean that when I board a giant metal tube and prepare to be hurtled across the skies at hundreds of miles per hour, I get a little nervous.

And when I say I get a little nervous, I mean I’m absolutely convinced that, at any moment, the engine will malfunction and we’ll all plummet to our fiery deaths.

A conviction I feel compelled to share with anyone sitting around me.

Just doing my part to spread sunshine and joy wherever I go.

In any case, this is bad enough when I’m on a regular 747. But now when I travel to Illinois to visit my family, I frequently fly the last part of the trip on this little 10 seater plane:

It’s really convenient but it’s also HORRIFYING.

One of the things that always freaks me out is the fact that, even though regular sized airplanes have lessened the restrictions on leaving electronics on while you’re in the air, the little planes haven’t. 

Apparently the plane’s computer system is so sensitive that the tiniest signal from my phone could rip through the circuitry like a virus and, of course, send us plummeting to our fiery deaths.

So, when I traveled to Illinois last weekend and this young guy (about 22 or so) kept sneaking his phone out to play with it, I almost snatched it from him and beat him to death with it.

“Sir,” the pilot said. “Didn’t you hear the preflight instructions? You have to turn your phone off.”

“Ok,” the guy said, put it in his pocket until the pilot turned back around, then he got it out again.

It was like I was back in a high school classroom…and I began having horribly violent fantasies about hitting him with the phone, pouring water over the phone and electrocuting the moron, turning the phone into the world’s largest suppository and shoving it right up the guy’s…well, you probably get the picture.

Luckily, the pilot confiscated the moron’s phone before I could do any lasting damage.

And, to show you just how clueless the moron was, after the pilot took his phone, the moron looked at me and whined “Geez, that guy’s on a power trip!”

At which point I put my hand in his face like a traffic cop and said “WRONG AUDIENCE DUDE!”

When he started to protest, I said “If I was the pilot, I would have taken it ten minutes ago and I would have SMASHED it." I said.

Then I smiled like I was kidding.

But I wasn’t kidding.

And I’m pretty sure the moron knew I wasn’t kidding because he didn’t talk to me the rest of the flight.

Then, if that drama wasn't bad enough, when I was leaving Illinois and getting ready to board the little plane again, the guy in front of me in the security line got dragged out of the building in handcuffs.

I may never fly again.

The Importance of Communication

Opie and I are traveling today and as we drive toward St. Louis I can't help but reflect on the odd conversations he gets to have now that he's lucky enough to have hitched his star to my lunatic wagon.

Here's what happened: we're heading to St. Louis to celebrate our niece's second birthday (and, as always, he likes me to alert potential blog reading thieves that the house is NOT empty. We have a dog sitter and a large dog--seek elsewhere for your burglary victims!). Anyway, the plan was we would pack the night before, I would go teach my morning class, and as soon as I got home, we would jump in the car and speed away.

Unfortunately, this has been kind of a busy week and when I got up this morning, I not only wasn't packed, I still had several things to do to get the house ready for the dog sitter's arrival.

In my defense, it has been a stressful week. Plus, we went to Florida 2 weeks ago and I packed early for that trip. I hardly think I should be expected to curb the artistic procrastinating nature of my creative brain twice in the same month.

But he feels about punctuality the same way Vince Lombardi feels about winning: it's not everything, it's the only thing.

Of course, instead of quietly informing him of the problem and asking for a little help, I preferred to stew about it while I got ready for work, imagine an argument in my head, WIN the argument in my head, and then launch a preemptive strike.

"I'm not ready to go." I burst out with absolutely no provocation.  "I'm going to have to pack when I get home and do a couple of things around the house and I'm totally stressed out about it! So, here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to give you a list of things NOT to do so you don't stress me out further."

At which point he gave me an odd look and said "Ohhhhhkay." In the kind of calm, half hesitant tone one uses when dealing with escaped mental patients.

Which, oddly, did nothing at all to lower my stress level.

"First, don't ask me when l will be ready to leave! I'll be ready when I'm done with everything and who knows when that will be?!"

"I can't even get an ETA?" He asked.

"Second," I continued without even bothering to address the sheer ridiculousness of that question. "Don't give me advice about how to get ready faster or mention things I should have done earlier to avoid the situation we're in today."

And he was smart enough not to share any of the suggestions that I could already see percolating away in his well organized brain.

"Third, don't do that thing where you talk to the dogs and make suggestions to them about what I should be doing which are clearly meant for my ears."

"YOU do that all the time." He accused.

"It's funny when I do it," I explained.  "But, must importantly, don't do that thing where you pretend to be pretending to be mad. And you say a bunch of things in a fake angry tone to disguise your real angry tone and make jokes that aren't jokes at all but sound enough like jokes that you can say 'I was JOKING' like I'm the crazy person when we both know you're not joking and only pretending to be pretending to be mad!"

And I think it's a testament to the strength of our relationship that he didn't even need a translation of this rather convoluted statement.

Although, to be fair, that could have been more due to a deep-seeded sense of terror more than true understanding.

Please note, I specifically did NOT tell him that he couldn't get mad. He is all kinds of punctual and prepared; I know these lapses in planning send him right over the edge. So I know he gets mad. I just basically don't want him to tell me he's mad when I'm already freaking out. Otherwise, in the words of comedian Mike Birbiglia, I get counter mad, freak out more, cry, and then he feels the need to apologize and buy me a cupcake.

And this may sound crazy to you, dear readers, but I would like to point out that it worked. We got packed and on the road only about half an hour later than we intended, we didn't argue at all, and are having a calm cross country drive.

Crisis averted!

But I still kind of want a cupcake.

This is the face of a man too focused on "making good time" to go on a cupcake shop reconnaissance mission.

Foo Dogs -- The Perfect Memorial

You know what’s hard?

Trying to find a Chinese Foo Dog in the middle of Oklahoma.

You know what’s harder?

Driving around rural Oklahoma AND the Osage Nation Native American Reservation trying to find the one and only store in the middle of Oklahoma that sells a Chinese Foo Dog.

Not to mention keeping my temper when I discover that the one and only store in the middle of Oklahoma that sells a Chinese Foo Dog only takes cash.

All in all, it’s been a rather weird day.

But I get ahead of myself…it all started about a month and a half ago when I had to say goodbye to my 13 year old Chihuahua, Peek-A-Boo.  I still can’t bear to talk about it, you can read about his life here.  Anyway, my mom wanted to get me some sort of memorial of him and since he was always outside in the garden with me, she thought I should get some sort of garden statuary.  But she wanted me to pick it out, because she wanted it to be just right.

To be honest, it was challenging to find the exact right thing…largely because the main reason Peek liked the garden was that he would wriggle his fat little body through the rows and eat any vegetable he could get his paws on.  Seriously, he ate tomatoes off the vine, spinach and arugula off the plant, he even dug up the broccoli plants and gobbled them down stalks and all.

He was not what you might call a normal dog.

And there aren’t a lot of Chihuahua Eating Broccoli statues available.

Anyway, I finally decided on a Chinese Foo Dog because they are half dog, half lion and are the traditional guardians of Buddhist temples…and I decided that they were the perfect representation of Peek’s lion-like heart.

However, as I mentioned, they are a little challenging to find in the middle of Oklahoma.

It has taken me almost a month to find a place that even knew what I was talking about…and that place is in the middle of a little town called Skiatook.

Which is only about 45 minutes away…if, of course, you don’t get lost.  And if the route that your GPS sends you on isn’t filled with construction and crazy detours through the worst parts of town…I mean, meandering around North Tulsa wasn’t quite as scary as the time I got lost in East St Louis, but it was close.  There’s just something about a pawnshop on every corner rusted out cars on every lawn that gives me the heebie-jeebies.

So, an hour and fifteen minutes later, after making my way through scary North Tulsa, three practically abandoned small towns, and finding my way to the Osage Nation Native American Reservation, I found the statuary store.

And saw this sign:

Have you ever seen a more customer unfriendly sign in your life?  I mean, we’ll TRY to help you…unless we’re on our lunch break, then you’re on your own.

But my main concern was that they don’t take credit cards…and I never have cash.  I looked in my purse, hoping for a miracle, and managed to gather twenty-seven cents.

Probably not enough for a concrete Foo Dog.

So, after trying to remember every curse word I know—and singing a few in time to the song on the radio—I started driving up and down the streets of Skiatook, looking for a bank or a gas station or a grocery store where I could buy something like a pack of gum and use my debit card to get cash back.

Which is when I found the WalMart.

I think every town in America has a WalMart…and every WalMart has 1,716 lanes but 1,714 are usually closed—in spite of the fact that there are always 453,892 people in the store.

But you can get cash back on your purchases so I grabbed a bag of M&Ms and waited 10 minutes to get through the line and get enough cash to go get my dog.

And if you think this added stress to my day, consider the poor man who had to finally deal with me at the statuary store…I went back, called the number,  and got lucky enough to get someone to find me.

“I’m looking for a Foo Dog,” I said…and surprised myself by kind of tearing up.

He gave me a strange look and let me to the Asian art display.

And I took one look at the Foo Dog and burst into tears  “That’s perfect!”  I said.   “It’s just like my dog!”

I had the feeling that he either wanted to explain to me that Foo Dogs aren’t real or ask me what kind of mutant dog I had, but he had clearly already decided that I was a dangerous lunatic (perhaps he saw the cursing display on my first trip) .  Or maybe he just isn’t used to women sobbing in the statuary store.

So he just said, “Ok then.” and practically ran over to the cash register.

Then, after he got the dog all loaded,  he stood to the side of the car, eyeing me suspiciously while I wept over the Foo Dog and shot M&Ms like they were cheap tequila.

Can you imagine the blog HE’S writing tonight?  “I thought we were going to have to call the police because the woman JUST WOULDN’T LEAVE…I think she might be an escaped mental patient.”

But I’ve got my Foo Dog in memoriam of my Peek-A-Boo dog…and here it is: