Happy passporting!

Who knows? You may actually receive a little booklet that looks just like this!

Late last summer, our family was at the local USPS to (finally!) get passports for the four of us, and oh yes, it was government at its finest! I just don’t know if you could find more inefficiency. Oh wait, I believe the four and a half hour wait at the DMV a few years ago simply to renew my drivers license tops this passport application experience, but I digress.

I am going to provide the real steps for applying for a passport. And you won’t find this easy 20-step guide on any of the government web pages.

Step 1. Gather all (applicable) birth certificates, drivers licenses, proof of citizenship, marriage license, previous passports, etc. etc. <–pretty much everything in your filing cabinet

Step 2. Make copies of everything gathered in Step 1, and make two copies of your drivers license. <–We already had one copy of our DLs and for only $1 a copy–such a deal!–they charged us to make an additional copy. ?

Step 3. Fill out every field you possibly can on the electronic (or paper) application form. <–Even if the internet form entry does not require a certain field (e.g., middle name), fill it in anyway. We wasted a lot of time during our appointment manually filling in what the website lets you skip. Because why would I want to give the US government more information about my family than necessary? Yes, I know, I’m sure they already know more about us than we know about ourselves. But still.

Step 4. Print out several copies of your completed forms.

Step 5. Have a paper form of payment for each application. Example, if you are going to be presenting four applications, ensure you have four checks or four money orders. <–I doubt they take cash; I don’t see them stapling paper money onto the application, because that’s what they do with the paper check or money order. I only had two paper checks–because I didn’t read a handy guide such as this one!–so we used those on the boys’ applications, and Gerald and I had to purchase two money orders for our applications. How convenient that the USPS sells money orders! Hmm…

Step 6. Have a form of payment for any non-passport application items <–Say you want to have them do the passport photos there and/or you want to purchase a book of stamps while you’re there which I forgot to do (WHILE I WAS RIGHT THERE).

Step 7. Probably take your passport photos on your own or go anywhere somewhere else and bring them to the passport office. <–We figured having the USPS office take the photos right there would be more convenient. Um… no.

Step 8. Make an appointment at wherever place it is that does passport application processing in your area. <–Note this step can pretty much go anywhere in here from Step 1 before you hit Step 9. Just be prepared, my thirsty friends.

Step 9. Go to your appointment. <–And don’t be late!

Step 10. Wait.

Step 11. Wait.

Step 12. Wait

Step 13. Wait.

Step 14.  Do everything you need to do – hand over paperwork (hopefully to be seen again), sign and swear (take that however you want), hand over payment, etc..

Step 15. Leave your appointment a little lighter <–You’re out some serious bucks, and you’re missing some of your originals. Some of your original documents (yes, birth certificates, naturalization papers) get sent to the US Department of State along with your application form. Thankfully, they do hand you back your drivers license.

Step 16. Make sure you have your drivers license before driving out of the parking lot.

Step 17. Leave.

Step 18. Wait.

Step 19. Wait.

Step 20. …

You’re welcome.


It’s been a bad week of rain and skitters

A pic of Gerald’s sore stomach

I’m pretty sure the Bloggess is onto something when she says Texas is trying to kill us. We’ve had flooding out the wazoo here recently. There has been some serious property damage and even some tragic deaths. And yeah, I’m thinking it’s gotta be frogs and/or locusts next. What gives, Texas?

So not only is Texas trying to kill us Texans this week, I almost killed Gerald. No, not on purpose. Every weekend I do the grocery shopping and cook like a fiend, prepping for the upcoming week’s meals. Before starting my list (which is probably the only exception to my list resistance), I’ll ask Gerald what he may have in mind for lunches/dinners for the coming week. I’ll usually provide a few suggestions (and then he usually agrees and if he doesn’t agree I still make what I suggested anyway). We hadn’t had my chicken curry in a while so I suggested the curry and this tasty turkey meatball recipe, courtesy of my (ex) trainer Sagi. The curry recipe is quite involved (well, at least I consider it involved) and so it takes a little effort (read: It’s a pain in the ass).

Even though I’ve made this chicken dish multiple times now, somehow… a little salmonella must have slipped in there. I’m guessing with all my multitasking and the moving about of clean and dirty bowls, dishes, pots/pans, and utensils, I inadvertently ended up cross-contaminating cooked and raw. Gerald and I packed our lunches for the next day and he went ahead and fixed a portion to eat right then. I wasn’t that hungry. Really, I wasn’t hungry at the moment, nothing suspicious to see here. Anyway, Gerald said the chicken was excellent (as usual). But then early the next morning, my honey got hit with a serious case of the skitters. For those who are not ‘in the know’, here’s Urban Dictionary’s top definition of the word “skitters”The equivalent of pissing shit out of your anus. For the everyday yuppie, it is more commonly known as diarrhea. For those who prefer more spice in their everyday chit-chat, it is known as the Hershey Squirts.

This recent salmonella poisoning really wouldn’t be that bad if it had not been for a similar murder attempt years and years (yes, and years) earlier when Gerald and I were dating. I used to try new recipes all the time and Gerald got to be the guinea pig. Most recipes were from my Taste of Home (TOH) magazines. Most of the TOH recipes use “reasonable” ingredients and aren’t all fancy shmancy gourmet. I guess you could say they’re practical, and thus right up my alley.

One particular evening I decided to make a turkey sausage meatball spaghetti. It was easy enough. And as luck would have it, I had all the ingredients. I had a pound of ground turkey stashed away in my freezer so I would just thaw that out. I always figured ground meat keeps fine frozen for infinity (and beyond), right? I had probably had that meat in there for about a year. I admit I thought the meat smelled a little funny when I was handling it, but I wasn’t that familiar with ground turkey so I figured the funk smell was normal. Gerald arrived right as I was finishing up. I served the spaghetti up on a couple plates and waited for Gerald to take a bite and then he could tell me how much he liked it (like he was required to do and still is). He took a bite and hesitated for a split second. Then he goes in for another bite, stops with fork midway to his mouth and he tells me, “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this.” And then I was all like, “Does it smell a little funny?” And he said, “Yes.” And I said, “I thought it smelled kind of weird, but I thought maybe that’s how it was supposed to smell.” We ordered a pizza.

Gerald later told me he didn’t want to hurt my feelings and so that’s why he went for the second bite. He said he was giving himself a pep-talk of sorts in his head. Come on, you can do this! But, in the end, he just couldn’t. And I’m glad, because I wasn’t trying to kill him, that night or even the other night. Really. Really, Gerald.

So back to the tainted curry chicken. I was pretty frustrated about the whole thing. Do you know I individually peeled and sliced carrots and squeezed limes and lovingly hand crushed red pepper flakes with my spice grinder?? I was toying with the idea of eating the chicken to prove to Gerald that it wasn’t my cooking that made him sick. It just had to be something else. But would the chance of getting salmonella poisoning be worth it? The diarrhea, the cramping stomach, the vomiting, the fever, aches and pains. Hmm… maybe not. Meatballs it is.


The dirty, the itchy, and the scratchy

ring dance
Yes, we actually had our picture taken under the giant ring

I am in the throws of a nasty sinus infection this (holiday) weekend, and, for some reason, bad date memories started bouncing around in my head. A particular date brings back the dirty, the itchy, and the scratchy.

It was Spring, nineteen ninety something. I had met Mark in a College Station dance hall a few months before while in town visiting a girlfriend for the weekend. I gave him my number and we went out a few times, and then he asked me to be his date for the Texas A&M Senior Ring Dance.

The day/night of the dance, I drove to College Station to stay with my friend in her dorm. And of course I spent hours and hours getting ready.

Let me provide some highlights.

The date consisted of —

* One recycled high school prom dress (Huh hmm.. that would be the same dress I had worn a few years earlier at my high school senior prom.)

* Mark with his mud covered Bronco (Who is stupid enough to pick up their date in a mud covered truck?? I ended up having him drive us in my little Nissan Sentra.)

* One half of the couple couldn’t dance (Umm… that would be me. Why did I say ‘Yes’ to this date again?)

* One half of the couple brought a flask of alcohol to hide in his tux jacket (That would be my date, Mark. This irked me for whatever reason, but the whole date irked me so…)

* Shoes from hell (Oh but they had been dyed to match my prom dress perfectly. I’m sure they were from Payless’ now discontinued (wha??) “Dyeables” collection!)

We went to the dance and maybe stayed a whole 30 minutes, probably mainly because I was being a bitch. My feet were killing me, and I didn’t know a soul besides Mark. He started sneaking nips of whatever was in his flask and I felt he was acting a fool. I remember I just had to get out of there. At some point I stormed off and ran outside, with Mark a few steps behind me. We talked at the car and decided the dance was a bust. Mark had the idea of changing (into comfortable clothes) and going to a nearby lake (more like a small muddy watering hole) and just talk. That sounded decent, I guess. I’m not into crowds and loud music anyway (Why did I say ‘Yes’ to this date again?).

After changing at Mark’s apartment–I had stashed a change of clothes in the car for after the dance–we headed to the lake in his Bronco. The plastered mud didn’t matter so much now and my Sentra wasn’t able to drive the lake terrain anyway. We get to the lake, and I’m not sure how he did it, being in a four-wheel drive vehicle and all, but he got us stuck in a muddy field. By this point in the evening, I just wanted Mark to drop me back off at my friend’s dorm so I could call it a night. But first things first, we had to get ourselves unstuck. Any attempts at giving the Bronco more gas, the deeper the wheels dug into the mud. At one point, Mark got out and used his hands to try to “dig” the tire out.  We were in luck though. There was a large group of people close by, it appeared to be some sort of family gathering. They were watching (and I’m pretty sure laughing at) this dumb ass and his date unsuccessfully try to unbury themselves out of the mud. They came over and helped Mark push the Bronco out of the mud. Yay! Free at last.

We drove to the edge of the lake and Mark pulled some padding type material from the back of the Bronco for something to sit on. He grabbed a couple beers and we sat there and chatted. And then… and then came the ant bites. We must have sat smack dab in the middle of ant country. I was getting bit up and down my legs. I stood up and told him to just take me back to the dorm, please, just take me back to the dorm. Mark tried to salvage the evening by suggesting we move to another spot on the lake. But the damage was done, the night was irreparable. He reluctantly drove me back to the dorm.

I hardly slept, I had itchy ant bites all on my legs and ankles. The next morning, I had my friend drive me to Mark’s apartment so I could get my car. I was just wanting to jump into my Sentra and make the drive home. Here comes Mark, he must have been waiting for me. Ugh. He hadn’t slept at all and he was d-r-u-n-k. Really, dude? I was in my car and had reluctantly rolled my window down so he could give me some more of his crazy BS whatever. I seriously don’t remember any of the conversation at all. I finally got to leave, Mark had walked off all in disgust. Yes!

I drove home with one swelled foot/leg sort of up on the dash; if I could have put both feet up there, I’m sure I would have. I remembered hearing it was good to elevate swollen limbs so I thought it would help. I don’t think the advice covered “swollen caused by bug bites,” but we didn’t have Internet access like we do today, so let’s just chalk that up to an understandable misconception.

This then concludes my date from hell. I didn’t even include the part about how Mark kissed with his mouth all wide and almost swallowed my face and his teeth were all in there as well. (Why did I say ‘Yes’ to this date again?) I was baffled when, at one point, he had informed me that I was a terrible kisser. Gerald has assured me this is not true. A few weeks after this fiasco of a date, Mark had the gall to send me a long letter of apology. My mind was already made up, I had ZERO interest in him and I knew I never should have said ‘Yes’ to the date in the first place.


When Plan A becomes Plan B

Plan A Plan B

Several months ago, my in-laws celebrated their 50 year wedding anniversary. The plan was to meet up with the family at a popular area Mexican restaurant, on a Friday night no doubt (note this restaurant does not take reservations). We got there and were told it would be about an hour wait. Umm… no, we didn’t want to wait for an hour. So then the plan was to meet at my brother-in-law’s house and we’d simply order pizza from there. This was okay with everyone, but inside I felt a little pang of panic. Because of my many food intolerances, it is not easy for me to just wing it (i.e., order a pizza). I was starting to get hungry and I didn’t bring any emergency food snacks with me so what was I going to do?? I acted all cool about it when we headed back to the car (to then head to Gerald’s brother’s), but once we got in the car, I told Gerald that I didn’t have anything to eat. What was I going to eat?

I pushed my hunger and panic aside so I could think rationally and discus my options. There was a Sprouts store on the way, and it was smack dab next to the liquor store to boot. So Gerald and I were able to kill two birds with one stone. Gerald went to the liquor store to buy “those” types of necessities, and I headed to the all-natural food store I had been wanting to explore. And explore I did, right to the plethora of gluten free frozen pizza selections, and, as a bonus, I picked up a GF brownie as well. Gerald and I met back up at the car, and once the kids let us back in, we were on our way to my  brother-in-law’s to meet up with the family.

The pizza was ordered and I was able to cook my little GF pizza in the toaster oven. And it was really good, so much better than the usual GF frozen pizza fair available at my local Kroger. And I had had Gerald pick me up a bottle of wine at the liquor store so I was set with my adult beverage. We all ate and talked and laughed and had a great time. Sooo much better than if we had been cramped in that loud Mexican restaurant, not being able to hear each other, not being able to hear the stories of how my mother-in-law and father-in-law met and fell in love and got married. We wouldn’t have been able to share in that moment if we had been surrounded by waitstaff and other restaurant goers. It would have been loud and obnoxious.

Funny how sometimes Plan B ends up being so much better than the thought out Plan A.


She does more than just bang, thank you

I do some of my “deepest” thinking in the car on my way to work, and the other morning was no different. Satellite radio was playing Ricky Martin’s “She Bangs” and I suppose it’s the first time I paid attention to the lyrics. First, the obvious, Ricky Martin is singing about how “she bangs?” Really? Ricky Martin?

Ricky sings the line, “She reminds me that a woman’s got one thing on her mind.” Who wrote this song? I mean, huh? Yeah, pretty sure Ricky has no idea what’s on a woman’s mind, nor does he even care, but I can promise you I don’t have just one thing on my mind. And of all the things I do have on my mind, it sure ain’t what I think Ricky is referring to. But then again, we are talking about Ricky Martin here, so maybe his reference to “one thing” could be something harmless like butterflies or maybe rainbows or ponies. Oh, chocolate, yeah, I wouldn’t mind if there’s chocolate. Wine, that’s a good one. Maybe any kind of self-medicating or meditating items or images… Oh, where was I? See?? See how I don’t just got one thing on my mind??

Let’s investigate the thingS (yes, multiple) I actually do have on my mind. Well, pretty much all the aforementioned items (rainbows, ponies, chocolate, etc.) simply because they were mentioned and so now they’re in my head. And on top of all these (and in no particular order), there’s spouse, work, kids, upcoming vacation, home projects, finances, laundry, groceries, meal planning, friends, family, world peace (or really the lack thereof), health, fitness, blog writing (post preparing), blog reading, wants, needs, school related events, and the list goes on to infinity (and beyond because yes, you can do infinity and beyond, Buzz Lightyear confirmed it).

I don’t know who wrote the “She Bangs” song, but I can tell the writers that no woman is that shallow, no woman only has one thing on her mind. And if that one thing does happen to be on her mind, it’s there along with the other infinity plus one things she has going on in there. So bang that, Ricky Martin.

Oh, Ricky, I still think you’re so fine…


Let me repeat myself: drugs are bad

Good news! It’s rerun Thursday! Maybe that’s my “thing.” Other bloggers have a “thing,” maybe “rerun Thursday” can be my thing. It’s probably not that great of a “thing” though.

With my current workload and the craziness at home, I haven’t had a chance to “post” prepare. Hey, that (post prepare) sounds pretty catchy. Okay, okay, it’s late while I’m typing this and I’m (obviously) tired (and close to losing it).

I think I picked a good rerun. I get lots and lots of random internet search hits for this post. I’m guessing it’s because it’s all about the drugs.

So… without any more of my rambling further ado… Crankoutloud presents Why I’m glad my husband isn’t a drug dealer, originally published August 31, 2014.  (probably new to most of you!)


This past spring, Gerald and I had a “Breaking Bad” (Br Ba) watching marathon. As other Br Ba fans know, once this show gets its claws into you, there’s just no turning back. If you haven’t watched this series yet (yet because it’s simply a requirement and one day you shall, oh you shall), don’t worry, I will not give any plotline or stories away. I can’t stand to know anything about a show, movie, or book before I start watching/reading. And I have to start watching/reading from the very beginning or it’s just over! So I don’t want to be responsible for rocking any of my blog readers’ worlds in regards to any Br Ba spoilers.

That being said, after watching 47 hours and 32 minutes of “Breaking Bad” together, I learned why I would not want Gerald to get involved with drugs and/or drug dealing/trafficking. Okay, first you have your obvious reasons; I’m pretty sure I don’t need to go into these — it’s illegal, it’s dangerous, he’d always be gone, yada, yada, yada, etc. etc. etc. No, I’m talking about how Gerald was so quick to want rid of any character who posed even the slightest threat to the drug operation. And when I say, “rid,” I’m talking about death. And when I say “death,” death on this show is… oh sorry, I don’t want to say too much here. I’ll just say death on Br Ba is usually not very nice.

Can you see where this is headed? Ya see, I realized if Gerald were to become involved in the wild game of illegal drug distribution, he would end up killing everybody! At some point, any involved person may become a potential threat to the drug empire, someone may talk. And you just know I would be the first to go — “Oh the wife is nagging about me too much to her family and friends, it’s just a matter of time before she spills the beans about my whole meth making gig.” I mean, can you just see it?

I told Gerald there would be no one left if he was in charge (of the show or of a real drug operation). I argued there has to be a supporting cast (on the show and in a real drug operation), even if there’s a chance of someone blowing the lid off the whole deal. Hello?? You can’t manage a massive drug empire solo!

I don’t know if Gerald took my points to heart, but here’s hoping he doesn’t become a bad-ass drug dealer so I never have to find out. Hmm… maybe I should be a little less naggy (just in case).


The formal finale

The 8th grade dance/formal and then the “after party” at our house both occurred this past Saturday night. (Read the two pre dance blog posts here and here.) It’s finally over. And as a bonus, we made it out alive.

The end all started with a little prep work on Friday evening. Gerald and my oldest made our backyard a little more presentable. Not sure if anyone bothered to pick up the dog poop while they were at it but oh well. Gerald said the kids should know to stay off the grass anyway. Well, whatever, I thought. And then I thought that “stay off the grass” actually has a double meaning. But anyway, Gerald also replaced the light bulbs in the pool. Nothing like having a function scheduled at your house to push you to get things done. Those bulbs have only been out for a few years.

On Saturday, Gerald was sent to pick up some drinks and snacks. Go ahead and get me the extra large wine bottle, please. Oh, drinks for the kids? Oh, I’m sure the regular assortment will do.

By late afternoon, the kids met up all across the globe, I mean, all across the neighborhoods and parks and places to meet up to take some formal pics. I did take a few shots of my son and some of his buds before they took off to meet up with friends.

Pre dance pic
Smooth operators

And below is a picture of my son’s date’s wrist corsage. I’m telling you, the boys should just clasp a 50 dollar bill around the girls’ wrists and call it a day. I believe that sounds like a new fashion trend. Or maybe simply a temptation for would be muggers. But I digress. Where was I?

50 dollar bracelet
So much for the cheapest corsage you had, florist lady!

So the kids went off to have more pictures taken. Yes, yes, I should have gone as well, but I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and I was hungry and irritable. I mean, who would want to see a mom pass out at picture taking? That would be so not cool. They went to go eat dinner as well. Let me take a second here to send out a thank you to all the parents who helped shlep the kids around for all the pre, post, and in between activities.

And then we waited. It was the calm before the storm. We anxiously waited for a phone call text or inkling that our lives would surely be changed forever. Cue the scary movie music — A group of kids was coming to our house for an after party.

And so it started. It started slow and then kids from everywhere started rushing the house. I may be exaggerating just a tad. The kids got to the house, we put out the chips, and told everyone where the drinks were, and then I just waited for the other shoe to drop. I was waiting for the drama or something. Kids? Something? You got anything? Seriously, I figured the kids would provide me with lots and lots (that’s a lot) of blogging material, but it just wasn’t happening. What’s wrong with you children? Even the offers of cigarettes, booze, pot, and other miscellaneous illegal narcotics were totally turned down. I just don’t get kids today.

Post party posing
Post dance after party posing

But seriously, Gerald and I couldn’t have witnessed a better group of kids. There was zero drama (do you see how many girls were at this party??), zero attempts to sneak Gerald’s beer (Gerald counted before and after and all beer consumed could be accounted for by his stomach), and zero signs of sneaking cigarettes/pot. The only thing questionable was their choice of music. But they even kept that turned down low.

So there you have it. All the (pretty much self-induced) dance drama is over, all the sweat, tears, and money spent. It’s over. Until the next formal strikes our household — peace out.


P.S. I used the little black boxes in the pictures for anonymity, but the formal’s theme was actually masquerade ball so I really could say I was just keeping the theme going. I know, my cleverness surprises me too.

The path of list resistance

My mom has always been a HUGE proponent of the list. Me? Not so much. In fact, I believe I go out of my way in some strange rebellion against the list. I’m suspicious that my hesitation to the list has been causing me some grief lately. But in true rebellious fashion, I’m not going to admit defeat. I’m not going to admit that maybe I should simply draft a list and my life would become a little less chaotic, a little less disorganized.

We have a cruise coming up and when I mean coming up, it’s coming up fast. It’s like you know how when you scheduled something months and months in advance and you keep thinking plenty of time, plenty of time, but then next thing you know, you don’t have plenty of time and it’s time to start getting ready (and now!). And that’s when the fight in my brain started (Practical Self vs. Stubborn Self).

Practical Self (boo!): You should make up a list of all the things you still need to do to get ready for the trip.

Stubborn Self: No, I don’t need no stinking list. I can remember everything without a list.

Practical Self: But, but… you have so much going on. Wouldn’t having a checklist make things easier? Nothing would be forgotten.

Stubborn Self: <giving Practical Self a dirty look and maybe a special hand gesture>

Practical Self: Don’t you still need to buy some new clothes? And Gerald and the boys need some items as well.

Stubborn Self: <still giving Practical Self a dirty look and maybe sticking my fingers in my ears although that tactic really isn’t working since this argument is within my head>

Practical Self: And May is a super busy month full of school wrap up crap. So easy to just look at your list…

Stubborn Self: Lalalala… not listening…

Practical Self: All the home improvement projects? All the self improvement projects? Tummy tuck, face lift, nose job…

Stubborn Self: What?? I’m not planning any self improvement projects like that! Although… now that you mention my nose…

Practical Self: Ha! You were paying attention!

Stubborn Self: Sneak. That was low. You’re good though.

Practical Self: And then let’s not forget Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and there are a few graduation events…

Stubborn Self: Hey… wait a second, did we just build the list??

First and foremost on the list should be to get through the 8th grade dance
First and foremost on the list should be to get through the 8th grade dance


The dance, part two

Fairy godmother
I’m still hoping the 8th grade fairy godmother will come through…

Several weeks ago, I wrote about navigating through newly chartered 8th grade dance waters. As the topic of a formal junior high affair provides quite a bit of blogging fodder, I thought I’d provide an update of all things “dance.”

My son (finally!) (officially!) asked a girl to formal. And let’s be clear here, the boys are expected to ask the girls to formal in some extraordinary way. Gone are the days of, “Will you be my date for the dance?” Such simple questions have been replaced with crazy tricks, schemes, fancy poems, songs, and raps. My poor boy was panicked the night before the big to-do. His date request had to be something cool, something that would be talked about for years to come. Such unnecessary pressure for the kids if you ask me. Anyway, Gerald took our oldest to the store to get a poster board to write out a witty dance date request and stemmed roses, I’m sure to help seal the deal. I mean, if you’re the targeted girl, saying no to a boy with flowers is just wrong. Unless of course he is a total creep, which my son is not.

So to make my long drawn out story shorter (you’re welcome), boy asked girl and girl said yes. Then mom took boy shopping for some sharp dressed man clothes. As is typical when it’s just my oldest and me, we clash like oil and water. Gerald thinks it’s weird because our oldest is just like me. I’ve tried to explain to Gerald that since I’ve never had to be on the receiving end of me, I don’t know how to deal with our son either.

After buying nice new dress clothes that I’m hoping my youngest will also someday be able to wear for something, I mentioned to clueless older son that we need to order a corsage, pronto.

Son: ?

Me: I believe wrist corsages are what is done these days.

Son: ?

Me: Flowers? A little corsage of flowers for your date’s wrist? I’m sure she will be expecting you to give her a corsage.

Son: ?

Me: We’ll order something from the florist shop Monday. Did you confirm the color of your date’s dress?

Son: ?

Me: Never mind.

There’s been talk of dinner beforehand, but thankfully I haven’t heard any more about party buses and limos (for a group of 8th graders). It appears my son still thinks he and his friends may go do something after the dance. Ummm… yeah, that’s still called “go home.” Update on that part — Apparently, about 10 or so of these ummm.. kiddos will be hanging out at our house after the dance. (God help us all) I told our son they have till midnight at our house. No later. Uh huh.

The dance is this Saturday. I’m pretty sure I’ll have some more blogging nuggets. We’ll see. Stay tuned…