The bane of my existence.

There is one aspect of my job that I'm not particularly crazy about (okay, I've had nightmares about it) and I often describe it as the bane of my existence.  The last time I said that, Dennis (my pastor/boss) asked if I even knew what "bane" meant.

Never being one to lie about my stupidity since it shows every time I open my mouth, I admitted to him that I didn't exactly know what bane meant but I knew the gist of it and was confident that I was using the phrase correctly.

He said I couldn't keep using that phrase if I didn't even know what all the words meant.  Dennis has pretty good grammar skills and is an excellent speaker/teacher but there have been times when we've had to call an English teacher to get grammar or language advice on his sermon notes.  He does not even try to present himself as the grammar police so I knew this had nothing to do with me using words that I didn't know the definition for, but probably more to do with the fact that he's tired of hearing me complain about the bane of my existence and thought this might put an end to it.  And it did.  For a few days.

I saw the logic in not using words that I, myself, don't fully understand so I set about to educate myself.  Here is what I've learned about "bane":

From ChaCha:

Something or someone is "the bane of my existence" means that the person or thing is a constant irritant or source of misery.

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From dictionary.net:

Bane \Bane\ (b[=a]n), n.

1. That which destroys life, esp. poison of a deadly quality.
2. Destruction; death.
3. Any cause of ruin, or lasting injury; harm; woe.
4. A disease in sheep, commonly termed the rot.
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From yourdictionary.com:
bane (bān)

noun

1. Old Poet. deadly harm; ruin; death
2. the cause of distress, death, or ruin
3. deadly poison: now obsolete except in ratsbane, etc.  _____________________________________________________________________  

From Mirriam Webster:

bane noun \ˈbān\

1 a obsolete : killer, slayer 

   b : poison  

   c : death, destruction bane 

   d : woe

2: a source of harm or ruin : curse bane than a boon for mankind 

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From dictionary.com:

bane/beɪn/ Show[beyn] –noun

1.  a person or thing that ruins or spoils: Gambling was the bane of his existence.
2. a deadly poison (often used in combination, as in the names of poisonous plants): wolfsbane; henbane.
3. death; destruction; ruin.
4. Obsolete . that which causes death or destroys life: entrapped and drowned beneath the watery bane. 

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From thefreedictionary.com:

bane n

1. a person or thing that causes misery or distress (esp in the phrase bane of one's life)

2. something that causes death or destruction

3.   a.  a fatal poison

      b.  (in combination) ratsbane

4. Archaic ruin or distress


I believe I now have a pretty darn good grasp of the word "bane", what it means, and how to properly use it in a sentence.  Now that I have educated myself and apparently met the minimum requirements for "bane" usage, I intend to get some good mileage out of my efforts and will be using the word "bane" at every possible opportunity.

And just so you know, that thing that was the bane of my existence before I knew what bane was?  It's even more of a bane now.    

60A52BB0-3408-672C-7D5F-E763E7561C18

1.02.28

Broken window rollie uppie downie things

Apparently I am incapable of learning and apparently it is genetic.  Here is a recent conversation between my sister and mother:

     Shamayn: Jayson's gonna be gone a lot traveling to Houston, Aberdeen and then Houston and then home.
    Mom: Where's Aberdeen?
    Shamayn: I dunno.  Canada, I guess.

Bless their hearts.  Neither of them are stupid, they're just over 40 which is my excuse for the majority of my noticeable flaws.

Here's how stupid over 40 I am.  When Jayson left for Houston last week he wanted to take Taylor's car to "see how it handled on the highway".  She hasn't had it very long and certainly hasn't ventured out onto anything resembling a highway, so that was his excuse to get to drive the new car.

Taylor was fine with that as long as she got to drive my car for the 3 weeks Jayson will be test driving hers.  Jayson and I both drive 10 year old Durangos that are almost identical except for the color and the wear and tear.  Mine has more wear, his has more tear.  We tend to drive our cars until they literally become undriveable and only then will we consider replacing them.  My Durango is still in fairly decent shape and so is Jayson's thanks to some strategically placed duct tape.

One little inconvenience that both of our Durangos are experiencing is a broken window rollie uppie downie thing.  One day I was just driving along and one of the backseat windows fell down and couldn't get up.  Jayson pulled the window up and we wedged it into place with some scraps of rubber that I had lying around.  I rarely even think about not being able to roll that window down because I never sit in the backseat of my own car.  And if I did, I'm not the wind in your hair kind of gal and would never have a reason to roll the thing down unless the entire car was under water and I needed to escape.  In which case I'm betting the window rollie uppie downie thing wouldn't work anyway.

Shortly after my window mechanism died, one of Jayson's windows suffered the same fate.  Unfortunately for him, it was the driver's side window.  Also unfortunately for him, we used up all the good rubber scraps on my window so he was left with the duct tape option.  Not being able to roll down the driver's side window is a significant inconvenience but the duct tape that's holding his car together doesn't really bother Jayson.  I guess that's because he's a guy.  Or because after 20+ years of being married to me he has absolutely no sense of pride left.  I will stop traffic at a major intersection just to pick up a cool looking rusty bottle cap.  My face will glow with excitement as I carefully cradle the bottle cap in my hands and clutch it to my chest as if it was a 3 carat diamond.  I can see how that might take its toll after a while.

I've been driving the duct tape mobile with the inoperable driver's side window for approximately 10 days and during that time I have tried to go through the drive-through of the bank, Cane's, Starbuck's, Sonic and Taco Bell...twice.  What does this say about me, other than I eat too much fast food?  That's right. I am a moron with zero short term memory and incapable of learning my lesson through repeated mistakes.

This morning at Starbuck's was the last straw.  Their drive-through is a tiny single lane thing where once you pull in there's no graceful way to change your mind and pull out.  That wasn't an option anyway because I was at the caffeine or die stage.  I ripped the duct tape off the window placed my order, then wedged a little piece of paper between the glass and the weather stripping, hoping it would hold long enough for me to get to work where I could tape it back up.  Well, it didn't even make it from the ordering speaker to the pick-up window.

Now I'm left with the task of either taping the window back up like it was or covering the window opening with plastic.  I guess taping it back up would draw less attention than a big garbage sack flapping in the wind, but if the past is any indication I will just end up busting through it the next time I'm in a drive-through with a craving.  And there will be a next time since the fact that the window doesn't work seems to just slide off my Teflon brain.

Now I'm just wondering how many times it will rain inside the car before I remember that the window is down and I need to deal with it.  My guess is 4.

18 Hours as a Fugitive

Last night when I got home from work, I tossed some junk mail onto the growing pile that has been accumulating for weeks, just waiting for me to make that long 10 step journey to the recycle bin.  This was feeling like the right time to take it out so I flipped through the stack just to make sure no "real" mail accidentally got mixed in.

Sure enough,  I came across an envelope from the City Court of Lafayette.  I noticed they included my maiden name which I never use but it appears on my drivers license.  Being smarter than your average bear, I deduced that this must have something to do with the ticket I got several months ago for having an expired inspection sticker.

The fee for that ticket was payable only by money order or cashier's check which is inconvenient for me so I put off paying it until the very last minute.  It was due on October 4 and I mailed it in on October 1.  I thought maybe the check was late so this was probably their standard nastygram they send out warning you of dire consequences unless you pay immediately.  I live in the world of the check and the past due notice crossing in the mail so this idea didn't phase me one bit.

Then I actually opened the envelope and saw "Notice of Arraignment" at the top.  To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what arraignment means but I've seen enough legal dramas on TV to know that it isn't good.  My first thought was, "oh shit".  Can I say that here?  Sure I can, it's my blog.  I'm a recovering potty mouth and the only time words like that slip out is when something happens that causes me extreme distress or when using them would be really funny.  This was one of those uncontrollable distress utterances.

I read the whole thing but focused mainly on the part about if I didn't appear in court on October 4 a warrant would be issued for my arrest.  I opened my date book to see what I was doing on October 4 (I'm not lying, I checked my date book) and sure enough, I was not in court that day.

Once the initial shock passed and I was able to think more clearly, I decided that they hadn't received my payment on time and this is just standard procedure for when that happens.  To verify my theory, I took a closer look at the outer envelope to check the postmark date.  It was sent on September 9!  This caused me to repanic and I started wracking my brain trying to think of any other crimes I had recently committed.  Nothing came to mind (although I neglected to check my date book on this one) so I settled back in with my inspection sticker ticket.

When you get a traffic ticket in the great state of Louisiana, there is a phone number on the back that you have to call 2 days after the ticket is issued to find out what your fine is and when it's due.  I did manage to follow those instructions in a timely manner and the gal who answered the phone told me that my fine was $105.00 and it was due on October 4.  I can't remember the exact date that I got the ticket but it was several months ago.  I do remember commenting to her about the due date and she said something about me having  plenty of time to come up with the money so I was fairly certain I had written down the correct due date.  After I hung up I wrote directly on the ticket "$105.00" and "October 4" then stuck it in my date book.

Still more than slightly concerned that this arraignment notice thing had been mailed out in September, way in advance of my due date, I fished around in my purse and did manage to find the receipt for my money order.  This made me feel a little better since I was fairly certain I was going to have to produce proof of payment to someone at some time.  Then I got to thinking about that due date.  It was given to me over the phone by a gal whose name I did not ask for.  If push came to shove, it would be my word against hers and since I didn't know who she was I was looking pretty screwed.  I was almost comforted by the fact that I had written the due date on the ticket but then I remembered that I mailed the ticket with my payment and didn't bother to make a copy for myself.  Obviously that thing I said earlier about being smarter than the average bear was a big fat lie.

I had pretty much decided that I wrote down the wrong due date, my payment was due way back in September, and Dog the Bounty Hunter would be knocking on my door at any minute.  I took inventory of my general appearance and decided that I'd look right at home in jail.  I had changed clothes after work and put on a ratty t-shirt that I would probably end up sleeping in as well and a pair of shorts that are not fit for pubic viewing.  This didn't bother me at all since I gave up caring about fashion when I graduated from high school and became responsible for buying my own clothes.  They are nothing more than a necessity to cover nudity, I could care less what they look like.  Seeing a mug shot in my future I actually perked up a little since I was having a fairly decent hair day and had no obvious zits, rashes or unruly nose hairs to deal with.  Then I looked down and noticed that I was in dire need of a pedicure and I hoped Dog would let me put on tennis shoes before dragging me off to the pokey.

Before my imagination got too far ahead of me I decided to take another look at the envelope of doom.  I reverified that the postmark date was indeed in September and I chastised myself for letting the junk mail pile up like it did without doing a thorough search.  In my own defense, I really think that whoever it is that mails out that big wad of ads and sale circulars every Wednesday should be held at least partially responsible.  It's so easy to lose good mail in that wad of junk.  I made a mental note to find out who that person is cuz if I go down, they're going with me.

As I stared at the postmark it dawned on me that this couldn't really be that important because it was sent by regular mail.  I wasn't served and it didn't even show up by certified mail.  I've been in enough trouble before to know that when something shows up by certified mail, they mean business.  I've been served before, too, but that's a story for another time.  So, I let go of it and decided not to waste one more second even thinking about it.

Okay, so that didn't happen.  I thought about it for the rest of the evening and most of today but instead of worrying I just had a little fun with it.  I started to imagine what it would be like to actually get arrested and have to spend the night in jail.  The blogging possibilities alone were making me giddy!!  Plus, I do like to try new things and this would definitely be new for me.  I know how to post bail for someone else but I've never been on the other side of that equation.

Jayson loves to watch Lockup on MSNBC so I was feeling like I had a good idea of what to expect should I get thrown in the slammer.  I knew I would be finger printed and given an unflattering orange jumpsuit to wear but I totally blocked out that part where they make you squat and cough...that simply would NOT be happening in my jailhouse fantasy.  I've never seen the parish jail but I envisioned being in a large holding cell with several other women who were prostitutes, drug addicts, or both.  I bet they would have some fascinating stories!

I figured it would be rough at first because they always pick on the new girl and they would see me as an easy target.  But while they were trying to pick a fight with me, I would use my lightening wit to overpower them and make them laugh, then we would all be best friends.  We would sit in a circle, talk about our lives and past relationships, our kids, our hopes and dreams, and we would share recipes.

I did consider the fact that things might not go that well and one of the larger girls might decide that I needed to be her girlfriend.  I would probably be flattered that she chose me until it came time to put out, then my whole brain just curled up in the fetal position and started reciting nursery rhymes.  Since I am sometimes under the delusion that I can talk myself out of anything, I went ahead and played that scenario out in my head to see how I would handle it.

The first thing I thought about was the ultrasound I had done on my girlie parts last week.  I was supposed to drink 32 oz. of water before the appointment to give them a better view of my uterus.  I guess I didn't drink enough because when she ran the thingie across my tummy she said my bladder wasn't full enough which caused her to not be able to see the whole uterus.  She even showed me on the screen and showed me how big my bladder needed to be.  She gave me 2 options:  sit in the waiting room for 45 minutes and drink 2 more bottles of water or she could do a vaginal ultrasound.  Guess which one I chose?

45 minutes and 2 bottles of water later she took another look and said the good news is that my bladder was just the right size...but the bad news is that it just made things worse.  Evidently my uterus tilts toward the back so now she couldn't see it at all.  Perfect.  She was going in.  The average woman my age has endured her share of embarrassing medical exams not to mention the whole child birth thing so this was really no big deal even though this particular exam was new for me.  Fortunately, I avoided the paper gown and just had to drop trou this time.  I was lying on the exam table, discreetly covered by a sheet, listening to her explain that I would feel something cold and a little bit of pressure but no pain.  Yeah, yeah, whatever, let's just get this over with.

Then I saw the instrument she intended to use for this exam.  There is absolutely no way I can describe it and keep this rated PG.  Can I just say it was....intimidating?  I'll leave it at that but I will say that as far as this type of exam goes, it was not any more unpleasant or uncomfortable than the other ways our doctors humiliate and violate us on a regular basis.  I still can't figure out why that thing needed to be so dang long.

Back to jail...as I was considering what I would do if Bertha decided I needed to be her girlfriend, I figured that after that ultrasound I'm pretty much a lesbian now anyway so I could just roll with it.  I put a little note about my new predicament on Facebook and felt so loved when some of my friends offered me almost 3 whole dollars for bail money!  I was a little surprised that out of at least half a dozen of my Facebook attorney friends, only one had the nerve to speak up and offer help.  He obviously typed without thinking.

I decided not to tell Jayson about my being a fugitive since he is in Houston this week and would likely worry himself into a migraine over it.  I went to bed knowing that this would somehow take care of itself tomorrow and I slept peacefully.

Tomorrow is today.  When I got to the office this morning I told my coworkers about my fugitive status and they all dove for the phone to turn me in, hoping that crimestoppers was offering a reward.  They were about as sympathetic as I expected them to be.  Dennis mused about how fun it would be if I got hauled off in handcuffs just as all the women were coming out of their bible studies.  Marti said that with any luck I would get community service and could fulfill that by just doing my regular job for free.  Jennifer called to check on me and suggested I add a mask to my black and white prison outfit so that I'd look more like the Hamburgler.  Not bad if I do say so myself!

I called the number on my little arraignment notice, told them I didn't know what this was for and gave them my case number.  The gal I talked to said it was for a traffic ticket but it has already been paid and is closed so I should just disregard the notice.

Disregard the notice??  Just disregard it?!?!  AS IF!  Did she not know the humiliation I suffered by being arrested and definitely not strip searched??  Did she have no sympathy for the fact that I needlessly spent the night in jail with a bunch of hookers and my new girlfriend Bertha??!!  How could I just disregard all that??!  Marti said she could definitely see that the whole experience had caused me tremendous pain and suffering but she was skeptical that we could find anyone to testify that I'm any more "off" than usual.

Once everything was cleared up I called Jayson to tell him the whole story and I carefully reassured him that he need not worry and I didn't tell him yesterday because I didn't want him to worry himself sick about it.  He said, "hey, it doesn't bother me, you're the one being arraigned so it's pretty much your problem".  Boy, did I call that one wrong or what?

Nurse Ratched and The Miner's Helmet

What a crappy morning.  Let me just say that I'm about to talk about some really personal and gross girlie stuff so if that offends you avert your delicate eyes now.

I had a doctor's appointment at 9:20 this morning, for which I was only 10 minutes late.  In my world that's practically an hour early so I was feeling pretty good despite the fact I hadn't had anything to eat or drink since midnight.  It was just my routine appointment for my regularly scheduled blood work, no big deal.

I went in and the nurse checked my blood pressure which was a thing of beauty thanks to my numerous daily medications.  We discussed medications, nothing changed there, so then it was time for that moment that women all across the nation dread.  The scale.  I can't for the life of me figure out why doctors still use those old manual scales with the sliding weights in this digital age.  It seems like by now someone should have invented a device that they simply point at you and it will automatically calculate your weight, body fat index, and when your last period started because God knows that question stumps me every time.  Especially lately.  My "little visitor" showed up 3 months ago and seems to have taken up permanent residency.  It won't leave.  I figure it's all part of this perimenopause hell I'm in so I've chosen to just ignore it until it goes away.  It's a nuisance but not painful or excessive, if you know what I mean.

I digress.  I stepped up on the scale really regretting the heavy necklace I chose to wear this morning.  The nurse slowly pulled the little top slider to the right and kept going...and going...and going.  She pushed it all the way to the end and the bar didn't drop like it was supposed to.  At that moment, I think I went into shock.  Everything was in slow motion as the nurse lowered her hand to grasp the large weight on the scale.  The sound of metal scraping metal was deafening as she slowly slid the weight to the next notch.  It settled into the notch with a loud "clink" sound and I blacked out for a moment.  When my vision returned I noticed that Nurse Ratched had moved the little slider all the way back to the left and was now working to the right again! AS IF!  I am never wearing this 30 pound necklace again, that's for darn sure.

I somehow managed to survive the trauma of graduating up a notch on the scale and sat in my room waiting for Zach the Vampire to come in.  He's Dr. Luke's phlebotomist and happens to be about 6'4" tall,  250 pounds, and has hair down to his waist.  He may not look like your typical nurse but let me tell you, he can draw blood like nobody's business.  I don't know what he does different that makes it almost completely painless but he's good.  Plus he comes in handy when Taylor faints and has to be scooped up off the floor.

So Zach takes my blood then says, "okay, so now we'll need a urine sample".  Oh, right.  I reminded him that I haven't had anything to eat or drink since midnight so the well is dry.  He said I could wait until the end of the appointment and try then.  Peachy.

Our family doctor is Dee Dee Luke and I love her.  She's the best doctor I've ever had despite the fact she employs that lying skank of a nurse who weighed me.  She came in and we talked about medications and moving and stuff then Zach came in and handed her my cholesterol readout.  It, too, was a thing of beauty and we both took a minute to ooohhh and aaaahhh over my numbers.  Crestor is king.  Then she asked how I've been feeling and if I've had any problems.  I told her I feel fine even though I am apparently hemorrhaging.  I've actually been good for the last 5 days but that's the longest dry spell I've had in about 3 months.  We discussed the gross specifics of that for a while and we both agreed it was probably hormonal since my levels are dropping.

Like the good doctor that she is, Dr. Dee Dee wanted to rule out other possibilities before just writing it off as hormones.   She talked about scheduling me for an ultrasound which I presume is so that she can see for herself that my uterus is indeed in the process of drying up and becoming petrified and my ovaries are dangling there like 2 raisins.  

Then she asked when my last pap smear was as she flipped through all the papers in my chart.  I was honest and told her it was probably about 2 years ago and I was due another one.  Then she suggested that we just go ahead and do that today while I was there.  Oh goodie!  A gift with purchase!  She left the room and I changed into my oversized paper towel "gown" that comes with a completely useless strip of plastic that is supposed to be a belt.

Dr. Dee Dee came back into the room and we discussed the worthless plastic belt that I left lying on the counter.  Even she admitted she has no idea why the manufacturer even bothers with it.  The thing is too flimsy to actually hold anything shut but even if it could, it's too short to tie around your waist.  She said she has one patient who ties her hair up with it every time.  I love that!  Then she said she has another patient who is a little skinny thing and she wraps the belt around her waist numerous times and ties it just to prove she can.  Dee Dee confided in me that she uses the extra large speculum on that girl.  Serves her right :)  

I'm pretty sure my doctor was just joking with me but then I got to thinking about it while she dug in the cabinets to get all her supplies.  Do specula (yep, had to look that up) really come in different sizes?  If so, how do they determine what size you need?  Is it based on age?  On body weight?  Do they just eyeball it or is there actually some method for determining their choice?  As I contemplated the whole specula size thing, I saw Dr. Dee Dee pull a plastic speculum out of the cabinet, look at it, then put it back in and grab another one.  I had one mortifying thought: oh my God, am I an extra large??!!??  Did she really just reach into the back of the cabinet for the plus size specula??  Is this related to my necklace weight gain??  My ears started ringing and I got light headed again.

Since I have compartmentalizing down to an art, I just boxed up all those unpleasant thoughts and shoved them to the back of my mind where they will grow cobwebs until I'm forced to unpack them in therapy a few years from now.  It was time to "assume the position" and I realized that I really miss the chairs that my old OB/GYN had in his office.  They look like a nice, padded armchair but there are 2 wells on the front where your legs go.  You can sit there comfortably and modestly until the doctor pushes a button and the chair comes to life.  The back reclines, the bottom drops out and your legs are moved into position for you with no effort on your part whatsoever.  You just sit there and the chair arranges you.  It reminds me of those Pat Walker figure machines that you just lay on while the table moves your arms and legs up and down and calls it exercise.  Plus it saves you from the inevitable request from your doctor to slide down on the table...just a little more...more...almost...okay that's good.  I don't care how far you hang your butt off the edge of an exam table, it's never far enough.  

So there I am, in position and all ready to go when Dr. Dee Dee suddenly says, "oh no".  Of course I'm thinking she took one look at me and determined that her extra large speculum would be lost forever and she was kicking herself for not ordering the XXXL size.  As I was boxing that thought up she said she was out of swabs and had to step out for just a second to get some from another room.  She really felt bad and kept apologizing but I told her it was fine, no biggie.  She actually just stuck her head out the door and yelled for Nurse Ratched to bring her more swabs.  While I waited I couldn't help but notice that I was awfully warm in an area that I thought should be feeling a draft by now.  I lifted my head off the table and looked through my paper towel lap sheet and saw that the warmth I felt was from this huge halogen spotlight that was aimed right on my girlie goodies.  Then I flashed back again to that old OB/GYN with the magic chairs.  He didn't use a big halogen spotlight during his exams, he had this hat type thing that looked sort of like a sun visor but instead of a bill on the front there was a light.  Like a miner's helmet.  Then I wondered if he used the miner's helmet with everyone or just me. 

Before I could finish planning my suicide, Dr. Dee Dee came back into the room with a brand new box of swabs.  Apparently Nurse Ratched was able to tear herself away from sabotaging the scale long enough to help out.  As the exam progressed I couldn't help but think about the unpleasant changes my body has gone through in recent years.  Even this routine annual exam isn't the same as it used to be.  I don't want to be too graphic or anything (okay, probably too late for that) but things just aren't like they used to be.  It used to be a straight shot from point A to point B but somewhere along the line something happened and now I'm pretty sure my vagina resembles an ant farm.  There, I said it.  There's this sharp left-hand turn just before the dogleg that can really trip you up if you're not expecting it.  My experienced doctor managed to reach her destination without having to use GPS and we were all done.   

I got dressed and told Dr. Dee Dee that thanks to today's gift with purchase (during which I swear she checked my tonsils) I could probably produce that pee sample now.  I went into the bathroom and resisted the urge to take a picture of the specimen cups which look a lot like a small to-go cup from a fast food restaurant.  I half expected to see a straw hole in the lid.  I took care of the unpleasant urine sample task during which I thought it's quite possibly the only time I ever wish I was a man.

As if I hadn't had enough trauma this morning, my 5-day dry spell promptly came to an end immediately after I snapped the lid on my to-go cup.  Icing on the cake of my day.

Burger King and the Cleavage Queen

I've gone insane again and decided we needed to do another big Halloween thing.  This will be our last Halloween in Lafayette before moving back to the land where the trick-or-treater is an endangered species.

The first time we did this was 4 years ago with some friends from church.  Our neighborhood gets bombarded with hundreds of inner city kids every Halloween so we thought this would be the perfect opportunity to love on them a little.  We put together this big Wizard of Oz thing where we all dressed up like a character from the movie, we built our own version of the Emerald City, we had the soundtrack playing in the background, and we gave out candy along with a little handmade book that shared the gospel Wizard of Oz style.  The kids really seemed to love it, even though some of them had never seen the Wizard of Oz and had no idea what we were doing.  They thought the Tin Man was a robot!  That didn't stop them from acting like we were the main attraction at Disney World.  Every kid wanted Mama to take their picture with one of us.  That was a little bizarre, we weren't expecting that.  It was exhausting but fun and hopefully the message got into the hands of those who needed it.

For the past couple of years I'd been thinking about doing a Willy Wonka themed thing, but we're kind of limited on character choices for that one.  Actually, I guess there's plenty of characters to choose from when you consider Charlie's grandparents and all, but they're just not fun characters.  Then a few weeks ago I thought about Alice in Wonderland.  That one has lots of fun characters to choose from and we have both the old and the new versions to play with.  I just wish Alice had a better soundtrack.  The Wizard of Oz soundtrack is fantastic but Alice....not so much.  We may have to improvise a little.

For the set, I'm thinking we'll have the Mad Hatter's tea party, maybe a game of croquet going on in the front yard, and definitely some giant mushrooms.  Heck, let's go all out and put the caterpillar on the couch and let him wile away the hours on his water pipe.  We all know what he was smoking in that thing.  In fact I'm pretty sure Lewis Carroll was on an acid trip when he wrote Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.  Then we could set up black lights all over the place and play Jefferson Airplane's White Rabbit in the background while we all complain about the establishment.  I'm sensing that I may have gotten off track a bit.  Anyway, we'll figure something out.

Over the weekend Jayson, Taylor and I picked out our costumes at Old Vogue.  Yes, we take the weenie way out and rent our costumes.  There is no way we could put together the whole Halloween experience and our own costumes too.  I ran out of that kind of energy when I was about 38.  Renting them is pricey but it's worth it to us.

Jayson is supposed to be the King of Hearts but he looks an awful lot like the Burger King.  His outfit comes with these little short king pants and he's supposed to wear tights with them.  I CAN'T WAIT to see him put on a pair of tights!

Taylor was supposed to be the White Queen but given her costume and hair choice, we're calling her the Off White Queen.  They even had these adorable boots to match.  We were talking about the White Queen's makeup and how she has this really dark red lipstick and black eyebrows.  Taylor's fine with the red lips but when I suggested she use a black eyebrow pencil to darken her brows she looked at me as if I had just told her I wanted her to quit college and become a stripper.  She absolutely refuses to darken her brows in any way, shape or form.  I had no idea she was so protective of her brows.  My bad.

I am the Queen of Hearts or the Red Queen.  I will have to add a little undershirt to my costume since it is made in such a way that if I inhale while wearing it, I will completely ooze out of the top of it.  This could be traumatizing for the children and no picnic for me either.  I treat cleavage sort of like the good china.  It's only for adults and you only bring it out on special occasions.  Halloween doesn't qualify.

Now that costumes are out of the way, I can obsess over the set.  I see some chicken wire in my future which means there will likely be injuries to go with it.