Let's Call it Throwback Thursday...and pretend I didn't forget something.

Hello all!

So last week I wrote a Five for Friday about my holiday traditions. And, as I worked my way through Easter Weekend (which was quite nice, thank you for asking) I remembered two very weird, and yet quite important traditions that I'd forgotten.

Since these are traditions I no longer observe and I'm not passing down, I figure we can pretend I didn't forget anything and we can call these my Throwback Thursday Easter Traditions.

Or I could acknowledge that I'm getting old and honestly I need to start writing stuff down before I blog so I don't forget things  like this.

Anyway, here they are, the two Easter Traditions I no longer hold to:

2)  Do nothing, go nowhere on Good Friday.

My mother came from a very strict, very religious family where whimsy  and nonsense of any kind was not allowed. So it seemed pretty natural that one of the traditions she brought with her to the marriage was this one:  You go nowhere and you do nothing on Good Friday.

When I was a kid, businesses all over closed from noon to three, the time when, traditionally, Christ hung on the cross and spoke His words.  That time is all but gone, although I understand from my atheist niece that the Target store in her hometown in North Carolina still keeps to this practice.

                                       

 

For me, growing up, I hated this tradition because the way my mom kept it really felt more like she needed chores to get done before we went to Wisconsin rather than we were observing the day of our Savior's death.  I'm not kidding.  We'd get home from church between 1 and 2 and she'd tell us we could not go outside until at least 3 because it was Good Friday and we shouldn't play outside.  That did NOT stop her from tuning in to Guiding Light and having us dust the whole house and fold the laundry.

As I got older, I learned to appreciate Guiding Light, sure, but still. Even one we were past the 3 PM mark, we weren't allowed to leave the property. That's how Mom put it, "We don't leave the property on Good Friday."

I was 22 and living on my own before I left the property on a Good Friday. I was teaching in the Detroit area, my boyfriend (Hubby) and my roommate got tickets to see the Tigers play. We had a blast.  I felt more than a little naughty.  But I got over it and since then I don't dust or fold laundry on Good Friday...and I rarely stay on the property.

1)  Playing Hack and Slash right before Sunrise Service.

"Hack and Slash" is a term coined by my dear roommate from college, the ever hilarious "Carrie."  It's a term she used to describe the leg shaving process of a college student who needs smooth legs and can only shave with cheap, single blade razors (the pink ones) and must do so quickly between classes, giving said legs the look of a poorly butchered leg of lamb, all hacked and slashed.

I didn't have a term for it when I was 13 and started shaving my legs (with soap and water and that
single blade razor) but I knew how the game was played, ESPECIALLY on Easter Sunday.

Remember Sunrise Services?  Yeah, once I was old enough to shave my legs, those services got even worse.  See, I've always been sort of an idiot. I don't tend to plan ahead as well as I should.  So, every year I swore up and down I would prep myself for Easter Sunday Sunrise Service the night before and every year I would forget, get my sleepy butt out of bed at some ungodly dark hour of the morning and proceed to hack and slash my legs in the name of smooth skin.

So fun going to church with band-aids on my legs.  Good thing I didn't have a crush on a boy in church when I was in high school. Oh wait, yeah I did. Believe me, I felt SUPER SEXY seeing that guy see me with chopped up skin.

Hmmm, one probably shouldn't strive for "super sexy" on Easter Sunday anyway.

I told you, I'm an idiot.

I no longer keep this one, not because I'm better prepared for church on Sundays than I used to be, no that's asking too much. Instead, I've just pretty much given up 1) wearing skirts and 2) shaving my legs in months where snow might fly.  (That's all but 2 here in Wisconsin.)

So there you go, the two traditions  I no longer keep. But why not share them for a throw back Thursday???

5 for Friday: Holiday Traditions (Easter Edition)

This post was previously published no April 19, 2019.

Good morning all!

So Sunday is Easter, which means if you celebrate Easter, you're probably spending a good part of today looking for that bottle of white vinegar that you "KNOW" you bought last year for egg coloring.

Easter, possibly more than most holidays, has some odd traditions. Much like chili recipes, holiday traditions vary from family to family and I'm sure it's no shock that my family has some distinct, odd, ways to celebrate our risen Savior.  (Because, remember, Easter is a religious celebration...which makes the whole rabbit thing a head scratcher for me.)

Here are my family's top 5 Easter traditions:

5)  Sunrise Church

I understand that Lent is the season of preparation and sacrifice. And I also understand that those of us who give things up for Lent are eager to get a jump on eating/drinking/doing whatever it is we gave up.  That said, who came up with Easter Sunrise Service?

For those of you not familiar, this is the Easter practice where the first service (and most popular) of Easter Sunday typical kicks off at some ungodly hour, like 6 AM.  Or maybe 7 AM (when I was a teacher in a parochial school, the pastor said, "Sunrise can happen at any time in the rest of the world, but here sunrise is 7 AM.")  Either way, it's early.  EARLY.  My earliest and most vivid memories of Easter involve NOT getting watch "Emergency" the night before (because it aired at 8 PM and that would keep us kids up until 9 PM EST and getting us up for 6 AM church would then be impossible. So we actually wound up going to bed when it was still light out. Oh yeah, we fell asleep RIGHT AWAY.  Also, my parents took that extra time to hide the eggs. And, since we weren't asleep, there was a lot of yelling.  But I'll get to that later.)  Also, getting up that early, my mother was not...at her best.  Not a coffee drinker, my mother could only rely on her natural energy to get her into a day.  Prepping two kids for church at 5 AM (Because my parents sang in the choir, we had to be there even earlier) my mom had a tendency to be a touch...um...grumpy.  Heaven help my brother and me if we inadvertently found an Easter egg while gulping down a bowl of cereal. That would ignite a howl from my mother.  "STOP LOOKING FOR EGGS WE ARE GOING TO BE LATE FOR CHURCH!"

Of course, once I was a parent, I was no better on this point.  I joined the church choir, we dragged our kids to that Sunrise service.  In fact, this year will be the  FIRST TIME in my life I'm not going to a Sunrise service.  Nope, the church I go to right now has a 10:15 service and I'll be bright eyed and bushy tailed for that!

4) Hiding the eggs

My father is a man of numbers and stats.  He loves keeping exact time on all of his clocks. He makes lists. He ranks baseball and football teams according to power rankings. No, not the ranking the leagues give the teams, his own algorithm. He is the reason I know what time it is in almost every country in the world, because time zones are very important to him.

And it was this attention to fact tracking and stats that made our Easter egg hunts so...horrible.

See, my parents would hide a random number of eggs each year.  And we had a limited time to find them. We had roughly forty minutes to find our eggs and baskets between the time we got home from church and the time we had to load into the car for the drive from Michigan to Wisconsin to see relatives for the long school vacation.

Not knowing how many eggs we had to find was one thing. Little kids don't care.  But the real torment came when we'd find several eggs and both our baskets and we were ready to dive into the candy when my father would say, "You have three more eggs to find."  He'd be standing there, all tall (He's 6'4") with his CLIPBOARD on which was a list of eggs and where they'd hidden them.

This could go on for anywhere up to an hour. Which would mean we'd be late getting our start on our trip. Which would anger my mother for reasons I still don't understand. It's not like she was ever going to drive the car on that trip from Flint, MI to Jefferson, WI.  That was a drive that took 8 hours and forced us through Chicago...the place Midwesterners all hate to drive.  ("Did you get stuck in Chicago?"  "Oh no, I went around Chicago.")

Oh, and also we weren't allowed to touch the candy in our basket until we'd found all the eggs.  Since our mother was anti-sugar, candy was something we didn't see more than 2x per year:  Halloween and Easter.

Yep, there we were, my mother furious that we were late, my brother and me screaming because we couldn't find the eggs, and my father, the always calm man, with his clip board telling us, "You have four more eggs to find."

This would ultimately fire off a random ransacking of the house.  We'd dig through the flour and sugar bins, yank thinks out of the fridge, turn over furniture. Meanwhile, my mother would be sitting in a chair, exhausted and cranky, muttering something about leaving the house for a week looking like animals lived there.  Every few minutes she'd yell, "Dennis, just tell them where the eggs are!" And he'd say, "Then they don't get the candy in their basket."  And we'd yell, "NO, WE WILL FIND THE EGGS!"

Sure, we found the eggs. Failure was not an option, since we were promised that any egg we didn't find we'd have to eat once we got back from Wisconsin.

When I was ten we moved from Michigan to Wisconsin and it was decided we were too old for Easter egg hunts.  Doesn't seem quite fair to my younger brother, but I'm fairly certain that was a battle my mother won.

3) Church. Every. Single. Day.

Growing up devout Lutheran is not all that different from growing up any other religion if your parents are hard core about following the rules.  That meant that Holy Week was church, church, and nothing but church for us.

Lent already meant extra church on Wednesday nights.  I didn't mind it so much when I was a kid because it meant a later bed time (I hated my 8 PM bed time from a very young age.  I've always been a night owl.) and it meant donuts after church. I'm not sure who came up with this practice, but donuts, coffee, and being Lutheran is the second trinity just below Father/Son/Holy Ghost and just above, Casseroles/potlucks/free will offering baskets.  (Yep, we Lutherans have a trinity of trinities.)  Every Wednesday night during Lent we did church and then donuts. And there were two rooms for donuts:  The adult room and the kid room.  Generally my brother and I went to the adult room where my parents made an appearance, ate one donut, and then got us home before we got "too wound up" so we'd be in bed as close to 8 Pm as possible.  (Honestly, my mother was militant about that bed time.)  We BEGGED to go to the kid room. It seemed so...fun.  So after years of listening to us whine about it, my parents let us hit the kid room.

One time was all we needed. The games were fine, but they only let us have HALF A DONUT.  HALF A DONUT?  Nope, we were back in the adult room the next week.

I digress.  So after five weeks of extra church, we get to Holy Week...which is EXTRA EXTRA church.  Palm Sunday.  Maundy Thursday. Good Friday.  Easter Sunday.  (And, if you had it offered at your church, Saturday Vigil.)  What kind of super torment was this for kids?  And it wasn't like church is now when you could just go in the clothes you're wearing. Nope, you had CHURCH CLOTHES.  This was especially awful on Good Friday because we had school for half a day, then church at noon and then we were off for a week.  We had to wear our CHURCH CLOTHES to school with the command from Mom, "If you go out for recess and get these clothes dirty before church you're going to lose TV for a week."  (That was her go-to punishment.  It was very effective for me.)  Now, the upside to going to a parochial school was that we weren't the only ones in church clothes on Good Friday.  Nope, all the kids in my school showed  up in church clothes and spent morning recess standing very still, not getting dirty.

As a parent, yes, I did all the church services with the kids, because why wouldn't I?  I was a bit looser on the whole "Church clothes" thing though. I believe God doesn't care what you look like as long as you're there. Although...no, we are a little lax with our mid week attendance. Okay, we're really lax.

2) The Easter Bunny  

Um, we didn't do the Easter Bunny.  Just like we didn't do Santa.

To be fair, we only had one car, and we didn't live near a mall where there was an Easter Bunny.  So the whole legend of the rabbit is not in my memory.  Although...looking at these pics, I don't think I was missing much:

What...the...heck where people thinking?  I saw the mall rabbit at our mall the other day and I thought, why do we do this?  We tell kids, "Don't talk to strangers" and then we dump them on the lap of some mall employee in a costume?

Which is why we, the Bradley family, have our own LEGEND OF THE NAUGHTY EASTER RODENT.

This started because, being poor folk like we are, if the kids wanted a specific pair of fancy shoes, we couldn't just buy them, they had to be for a special reason, like Easter.  So each Easter Sunday, before sunrise church, I'd put the shoes boxes out in front of their rooms with the new shoes.  The explanation was that the Naughty Easter Rodent had hidden our colored eggs and this was his way of saying, "Sorry."  Then, when we got home from church, in the hour we had before we had to go to grandma's (sound familiar) we'd have to find the eggs and baskets.

The tradition is now a bit simpler since the kids are adults. We don't do baskets anymore. Now we put shoe boxes on each chair around the dinner table.  It's not candy and shoes anymore, it's small things like a DVD or maybe a jar of exotic honey Peaches wants for a baking project.  Or that terrible candied ginger Hubby likes.  But someday...someday I'm going to have grandkids.  And then I will again share the full legend of the naughty Easter Rodent.

1)  Tips and Butts

How this battle of boiled eggs came to be I'll never know.  But on my dad's side of the family (which was the more whimsical side. My mother's side didn't "play with their food" EVER) did this every year around my grandmother's giant dining room table. Maybe it was because we were wedged into her tiny dining room, unable to move because the table was actually too big for the room. Maybe it was because we only got together 3x a year and we were loathe to leave the warmth of the family table.  Maybe it's because by the time an Easter egg gets to Easter Sunday, it's barely food and really better for sport than eating.  Who knows?

I've written about Tips and Butts before, but I'll go over the rules again:  Two people pick an egg each. They hold the eggs with the tips (narrow end) pointed toward each other, one egg above the other.  They say, "go" and the upper egg smashes against the lower egg.  They then flip the eggs to the butt (wider) end, and flip positions. The upper egg again smashes against the lower egg.  The winner is the one whose ends are intact.  The winner of the battle is the one who is holding an unsmashed end at the conclusion of the battle.

My grandmother made multiple dozens of eggs, decorated beautifully and piled high on crystal platters. Those eggs, nestled in green plastic Easter grass, taunted us kids. Tips and Butts was the best part of ANY dinner!

The only person who didn't participate was my Uncle Bob who sat at the end of the table. When an egg had both ends smashed, we'd pass it down to Uncle Bob who would peel it and, salt shaker in hand, would eat more than he would put back on the platter.  Whatever peeled eggs made it past him would wind up in a faintly pink or blue colored egg salad the next day.


Friends, no matter what kind of celebration you have this weekend:

Secular

Old world traditional

religious

let it be a joyful celebration!  Happy Easter to all!

A single shoe sparks a theological explanation from Hubby.

You'll get the connection in a minute.

First of all, I have to announce the release of my 9th novel and my 14th book overall,  FREED ON THE FOX!   "Freed" completes the four book NORA HILL MYSTERIES, and I'm quite excited about how this one turned out. I've never completed a book series before.  (Oh, does this mean there might be a NEW Rock Harbor Chronicles novel on the way???? MAYBE....) So this fourth Nora book, for me, was a new experience all the way around.  I finally understand what "Breaking Bad" writer, Vince Gilligan, felt when he wrote the final season of that brilliant series.  (Not that I'm comparing my inspirational cozy mysteries to that gritty crime drama!  LOL)  I now understand what it is to say good-bye to characters I've been with for several years.  I also know what it's like to lock myself in a room and cry and write and cry and write until it's done.




BUT, that's not the point of my blog today. No, after my long hiatus from observing humanity, I have to share this weird moment that really only happens between people who have been in a relationship for a long time.  In the 33 years Hubby and I have been together, we've gone through all the phases of a marriage: We've been in that head-over-heals phase, the giggly first years of marriage phase, the young parenting phase, the run-to-all-your-kids'-stuff phase, and now, now that the kids are adults and very nearly take care of themselves all the time, we are in a new phase:  The "Now what do we talk about?" phase.

Sure, we discuss things like politics and religion, but since we pretty much agree on most topics, it tends to be a short conversation.  We should probably have a long conversation about our bills...but hey, who wants to talk about that?  We'd talk about the kids, but they hate that.  So...now what?

Which is why this conversation happened a couple weeks ago.

It all started with a shoe.


We were on our way someplace, probably to the pharmacy, and I noticed a single shoe in the middle of the road.

"Why always one shoe?" I asked Hubby?

I used to babysit other people's kids and I'm not what you'd call a normal person when it came to raising my own kids, much less other people's.  The concept of shoes getting tossed out of the car is not foreign to me.  I used to drive a giant station wagon with that backwards facing seat.  I'd fill that beast up with kids and we'd go everywhere:  the beach, museums, botanical gardens, parks. You name it, if I could get a season pass to it, or if kids under a certain age were free, I drove the wagon to it and dragged the kids through it.  And it was often on these trips where, yes, things would go flying out that back window. Sometimes I'd ignore the screams from three rows back to "GO BACK AND GET MY HAPPY MEAL TOY."  But if a shoe went out the window, you can bet I'd go back and get that. I might not always return those kids to their parents in any kind of a level of cleanliness...and you could bet money they'd have eaten their weight in junk food, but they all went home with the same number of shoes they showed up with.

Hey, shoes are expensive!

So every time I see a lone shoe in the road, I comment on it.  I mean, why one shoe?  Why didn't that person go back for that shoe?  What are you going to do with the shoe you still have?  Unless you're a person with one leg, one shoe isn't going to do you much good.

This is the point I was making to Hubby.

He had a different thought. "It's the Rapture."

Wait, what now?  

"Sure, the Rapture is taking only one legged people.  That's why there are single shoes in the road.

I have to be honest. I thought the Rapture would be something a little more...noticeable.   Not just a random lone shoe in the road once in a while. But I didn't grow up in a church that taught the Rapture.  So I don't know all the ins and outs of it. Also, Hubby can be very convincing when he starts talking about things.

Which is why I asked this question:  "So the Rapture takes one-legged people and leaves their shoes behind?"

I don't see anything here about a single shoe

"No, it leaves all their clothes behind.  So that guy was naked when he was taken."

It's a good thing Hubby was driving because I would have swerved the car into a tree after this statement.

"So what you're saying is that the Rapture takes naked, one-legged people and that's it?"

"Well, not just one-legged naked people.  But the Rapture will take you and leave your clothes."

Folks, I should mention he's keeping a completely straight face while saying this.

"So according to you, if I see a random pile of clothes lying around...that's the Rapture?"

"Yes."

"And if I see a lone shoe someplace, that's the Rapture taking a one legged naked person."

"Yes.  So you'd probably want to hang out someplace where they sell good clothes, like Rodeo Drive."

(I told you that picture from "Pretty Woman" had a connection.)

Well, maybe the hat would fit.

"Because," hubby continued, "when you get taken to Heaven, see, you're given clothes.  So you don't need the ones you're wearing.  So if you're someplace like Rodeo Drive, and you're taken, all those expensive clothes will just wind up on the street."

I couldn't help but think, sure, then those clothes would be free, but they still wouldn't be fluffy sized.  So not only would I have NOT been taken to meet my Maker, but also what's left behind would mock me for my size.

Anyway...

"But yes, in answer to your question, that's why there's a shoe in the road.  It's the Rapture."

Yes, kids, this is what people talk about when they've discussed absolutely everything else.

But hey, it's good to be back and blogging!

Meanwhile, check out  all of my books  AND donate to your favorite charity at SMILE AMAZON.  (It's possibly the easiest way to donate to charity yet!)

Bathroom Nonsense Continues Whether or Not I get my Coffee.

Hello all!

As some of you may know I've been shut away from the public eye for the last several days due to my semi-annual case of death cough/bronchitis.  I started the cough at a craft fair on the 9th (a few short days after my return from Vegas. My guess is my lungs don't like sudden changes in weather.) and have been wracked by a horrible cough, muscle aches, weakness, and congestion ever since. But mostly it's the cough. The cough is what kept me out of work for the better part of 3 days last week.

Anyway, I'm telling you that to set up what I'm going to tell you now:  On Friday the 15th, having not left the house in nearly a week, Hubby invited me to go out for a late lunch when I was done with my work day.  Not wanting to offend a fancier crowd, we chose "Fuzzy's" on Main Street in Waukesha.  Fuzzy's may not look like much on the outside (or on the inside...it's not a pretty place) but the food they crank out there is really fantastic.  Their breakfasts are hard to beat, and I really like their burgers.

Again, getting off track here.

Fuzzy's is split into two spaces.  The bar is a place where locals pretty much park it at all times of the day.  The other room is tables and chairs for patrons who want to eat food and maybe not spend their day staring at the people across the u-shaped bar.  Again, we go there because the food is fantastic.

Last Friday we got there just before 2:30 and the parking lot was surprisingly full.  I always forget that in Wisconsin Fish Fry Fridays aren't just a supper thing.  They are an all day thing. We love our fish fry...all day Friday.  Walking in, it was clear, the lunch rush had been something spectacular.  A handful of regulars sat at the bar and the empty tables were still cluttered from previous diners.  The whole place had the aura of the salty, sandy bits left behind by a tidal wave.

Hubby and I found a table that wasn't sticky and sat down.  I've been really groggy lately, given my late nights coughing, so I thought a cup of coffee with my fish fry would get me through lunch and grocery shopping. These two outings, my first in a week, would be all I had the strength to do and I needed a little boost.

The waitress, the only one covering the tables (the other one covered the bar) looked harried and tired, but still cheerful. She wiped off our table, apologized for mess, mentioned that lunch had been huge and then she took our drink order.  Hubby ordered a beer. I ordered a glass of ice water and a coffee.

The ice water and beer showed up within minutes and we placed our order for food, reminding her about my coffee order. She apologized. Then she went to the next table, took their drink order and food order and went back to the bar.  A few moments later, she brought out their drink order.

Still no coffee for me.  I sort of felt like I was trapped in that episode of "Fawlty Towers" where the guy has to place his drink order with Basil several times.

Several minutes later, our food came out, as did the other table's.  The waitress set our order in front of the other diners.  We thought it amazing that they'd ordered the exact same thing we did, they thought it annoying that one got a burger instead of the French dip she wanted.  Correction was made, many apologies from the waitress.

 Hubby reminded the waitress about my coffee, and she apologized profusely.  Then she walked past the coffee machine (which was about two feet from our table, at one point I suggested we just make me a cup of coffee since both of us knows how to run a Bunn machine and both of us knows how to make coffee to restaurant standards.) to wipe off a few tables.

That's when her son walked in with her sister. School was out for the day and sis dropped the kid off at mom's work so he could play his video game while she finished the last hour of her shift.

The video game didn't work. The boy, probably ten, spent the next ten minutes squawking, "It's not working MOM!"

I sort of wanted to say the same about my coffee order.

Now here's where it gets good, and we get to the point of it all.  The waitress finally managed to pour me a cup of coffee and while I was sipping it, enjoying the rejuvenating effects of that beautiful, black, brew, a sort of floor show broke out in another part of the restaurant.

This is not a big place. This is a very small place full of local flavor. That means the bathrooms are not, exactly, Sarah approved. The ladies' room is typical of a small powder room in some one's home.  The men's, I guess, is the same, but with a urinal...so I'm told.  Now, hubby has explained men's room etiquette to me, but honestly, he forgot one rule, the one where you don't lock the door if you're just peeing and there's a stall and a urinal available.  Go ahead and ponder that for a moment. I'm still trying to figure out how they managed to fit a stall and a urinal in the same construction foot print as the ladies' room.


I guess they're different.

Anyway, while we were eating, and I was finally gaining some mental clarity with my coffee, the haggard, frazzled, child-tormented waitress emerged from the ladies' room, announcing, "the toilet's backed up!"

Now, frequent readers of this blog know that I would never, ever, share that information out loud.  I would either 1) fix the problem myself and then leave, never to return to that bathroom ever again or 2) find the owner of the bathroom and murmur in the lowest of tones that I did NOT plug the toilet, but that the toilet now was experiencing issues.

But that's just me.

This lady was at the end of a long day, her kid was yelling about his video game, most of the tables still weren't cleared off and the dinner rush was about to start.  All she wanted was to use the restroom in peace.

Instead...she got an overflow.

Now, I'm not sure if she was finished with her bathroom business or if she just wanted to wash her hands, but her next move was to go into the men's room.  I mean, in this day and age, why not?  There's a lock on the door for a reason, and honestly, in these small places, everyone should be able to use whatever room is open.

Unfortunately for her, the day got worse.

She opened the door and the next thing we all heard was, "Oh SH**!  OH F***!  I just saw Doug peeing!"

Well then.  Dinner and a show. I would have paid extra for that!

Turns out, Doug is an older fella, a regular, who emerged from the restroom three seconds later to reclaim his seat at the bar.

"Did you even wash your hands?" The waitress demanded to know.

"No."  Says Doug.

"Ew!  Gross!" Yells both waitresses.

"Hey, I learned a long time ago not to pee on my hands."

That's his defense.  "I don't pee on my hands."

"You didn't lock the door, Doug!"  the harried waitress yells.

"Why were you walking in there anyway?"

"Because the ladies' room overflowed."

It's at this point Hubby shares the rule of the lock with me.  Now, three days later, I'm still trying to figure out how all that equipment fits in that small a room with enough privacy at either the throne or the urinal to allow someone to NOT lock the door, but whatever. Guys are gross, I guess.

There's much chatter among the table diners about this, but nothing compared to the debate at the bar. Doug defends his position both for not locking the door and for not washing his hands. Some of the bar guys support him.  The waitresses, and those of us at tables who can hear him , do not.  At any rate, the discussion about hand washing and door locking continues for the rest of our time at Fuzzy's.
Whether or not the kid's video game got fixed, I don't know.

Whether or not the ladies' room got unplugged, I don't know.

This I do know:  I'll go back to Fuzzy's because it's one of the best breakfast places in town and their burgers are awesome as is their fish fry.  And hey, if they can promise more improv shows like this...I guess I can forgive a little delay in getting my coffee.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas...if you can actually GET to Vegas.

Hello and Happy Friday!

Sorry I've been away lately, but I've actually been away!  For Christmas this year, Hubby gave me a trip to Sin City! That's right...Sarah went to Las Vegas without another adult and met up with some college friends for a weekend of catching up...and fabulous Vegas fun!

But first Sarah had to get on an airplane and fly to Vegas.

I don't fly very often. Not because I have a fear of flying, because I don't, but more because flying these days is so completely annoying and uncomfortable and EXPENSIVE it's almost easy and more fun to drive.  (Especially since Hubby does about 99% of the driving and I sleep in the car.)

People talk about how we have to make flight safe from terrorism and all that, but I think the real reason flying is such a complete pain in the rump is because of BIG RETAIL.  The Big Retail lobby has somehow convinced those in power that air travel needs to be really, really terrible.  Don't believe me?  Let me lay out my argument and see if you agree:

The first problem with flight travel is the airport.  You are supposed to get there something like 2 hours before your flight.  2 hours?  Check in, for many flights, is already done by phone.  And if you're checking your bag, that's done by self service.  Then you take the bag up to the person at the counter, she weighs it, and you're done.  So that's like six minutes of your life, and now you have almost two solid hours to kill in the airport.

What, oh what can you do?

Well, you can shop!  There are a crap ton of stores in airports now...even in a little one like ours here in Milwaukee.  Books, movies, magazines, stereo equipment, luggage, clothing, whatever you want, you can buy at the airport.  Plus the time to shop is already built in to your travel time because you have to get to the airport so early.

BIG RETAIL!

Then there's security.  Yes, this takes time.  The longest I've had to wait in line for security is about half an hour.  I'm not saying the security check at airports is ridiculous.  I am saying that if you're between the ages of 12 and 75 it is.  See, if you're 12 and under or 75 an older, you don't need to remove your shoes or jacket.  That's right.  Apparently, we've decided that children and old people are just never going to be terrorists and therefore get to remain fully clothed while going through the line. The rest of us have to strip down to our socks and metal free clothing (including the removal of belts), have our carry on luggage scanned and rifled through, and if we're really lucky, we get a full body scan (so our whole body is on display for TSA agents' viewing pleasure) AND a pat down. (Why no, I wasn't thinking about an act of terror...until I had to take off my shoes, get scanned, and then patted down by an agent who told me to lift my pant leg so she could grope me.)

But hey, there is a solution for the shoe issue:  SLIP ON SHOES.  They are everywhere now.  Fully grown adults are abandoning shoes that tie for slip on shoes because going to the overcrowded "recombobulation" area at the airport is a pain in the butt and you want to get out of there as fast as possible.

BIG RETAIL!

Other countries wonder why people from the US look so sloppy when they travel. It's because we basically are required to travel in pajamas and slippers just to get through security.  We'd probably travel looking classy, like Don Draper, if we didn't have to remove everything before getting scanned.

But, boarding pass in hand, and clothes recombobulated, we get to the gate where we sit...and sit...and maybe shop...and sit.  And we load up on snacks and water because, let's face it, airline snacks and drinks have become...more work than they are worth.

BIG RETAIL!

For this particular trip, once I was shuttled onto the plane with the rest of the cattle, and folded neatly into a seat that would be comfortable for a fairly skinny seven year old, I closed my eyes and prayed for a quick flight.  Because, you see, I'm claustrophobic and I have restless leg syndrome. So an airplane seat is pretty much my definition of the worst thing ever.

But...God has a sense of humor.  And this is why I'm blogging about my flight to Vegas.

I wedged myself into an aisle seat next to what I thought would be a nice, normal couple.  By the end of the four hour flight, I had named my seat neighbors:  Snores-a-lot and Snot-bubble.  That's because the dude, Snores-a-lot had the window seat. He closed his eyes the minute the plane door was closed and immediately began snoring. And I don't mean just a light purr, and I've been known to emit from time to time.  No, I'm talking about seat vibrating, overhead compartment rattling snores (as I've been known to emit from time to time.)  And there was his wife.  She was watching the movie "I can Only Imagine" on her little device.

I should back up a touch.

That song by Mercy Me?  "I Can Only Imagine?"  I HATE THAT SONG.  I refuse to watch the movie because I hate that song so very, very hard. And I know, what's wrong with me?  It's a beautiful lovely song, tender, loving, full of faith and goodness and light and....BLECH.  It's just one of those songs that got played so much now when I hear it I want to tear my ears off.  (And it doesn't help that Hubby loves that song, loved the movie, and now owns the movie.)

So, with that background, let me get back to my story about Snot-Bubble.  She was watching this flick about this gag-o-rific song and as the song progressed she started crying. Then she really started crying. Then she started sobbing so hard, giant snot bubbles popped right out of her nose.  (Hence, the name.)  Did she use the cocktail napkin on her tray to blow her nose?  Nope, she just sucked that snot back into her brain like some congested 3rd grader.  And it would roll out with another sob and she'd suck it back up.  This went on for an hour. AN HOUR.

Now, my seatmates were weird enough...but that's not why I'm blogging about my flight to Vegas.

Nope. It gets better.

As we push away from the airport and begin taxing to the runway, the captain announces something.  Of course, 2/3 of us miss the announcement because we already have our headphones in and are ignoring everything around us.  (With Snot-Bubble and Snores-a-lot next to me, can you blame me?)  So it's not until we all realize that we're GOING BACK TO THE AIRPORT that we all remove our headphones and start asking each other what's going on.

Of course, no one knows for sure.  But Snot-Bubble heard more of the announcement than I did, so she tells me that someone has to get off the plane.  She's freaking out because she's sure (and she convinces me) that this person is leaving and their bag is still on the plane, and we're all going to die.

I'm rolling this theory around in my head when a younger gent with a Rastafarian hat walks up the aisle. He has a sweet face. He turns to us and in a soft voice says he wishes us all a nice flight and a good evening. He explains that he answered the flight attendant's questions four times and has no idea what's going on.  He then points to the rear of the plane where I guess his seat mates are and he says, "And to you back there I say, F--- you, and F--- you, and F--- you."  He then waves with an angelic smile on his face and is ushered out by a sheriff.

Well then.

Now, we all wanted to get more info, but let's face it, the attendants weren't going to tell us, and there isn't enough room for people to get up and go to the back and find out what was going on. So we settled back into our coffins...I mean, seats, and we finally took off.

An hour later...we were once again removing our headphones because this announcement came over:

"Ladies and gentlemen, is there a doctor or a nurse on board?"

We're someplace over Iowa.  It's a this point I'm convinced I'm never getting to Las Vegas.

The single mom vegan across the aisle from me (because what, you think a woman who is a single mom and a vegan isn't going to tell everyone that several times?) poked the guy next to her and asked if he was a doctor. Apparently he was, because he got up and left. Or, he was just tired of hearing her talk about how she's a single mom vegan.  (I should note, she and a date were going to Vegas for a getaway from her special needs adult child.  I know entirely too much about this woman's life because she is a LOUD TALKER and a BIG SHARER.  She made Snot Bubble look like a dream companion.)

A woman made her way to the front. She was one of the nurses (apparently a number of nurses and doctors got up to help. Who knew so many medical professionals weekended in Sin City?)  The medical emergency was a mystery, some woman in the back was running a really high fever and throwing up.  (Oh goodie) All the ice on board was being packed on her to get her fever down.

I was envisioning landing in Topeka and spending three days there.

That's heartless, right?

But, the good news was the nurse was able to fill us all in on what went down with the dude in the hat.  He was sitting in one of those special exit seats where only the most responsible fliers are allowed to sit.  And he was not responsible. He refused to shove his carry on bag under the seat in front of him.  

I realize this is an FAA regulation and rules are rules. But...we were delayed and the cops were called and dude gave up his weekend of great weather in the wild west because he wouldn't put his bag under the seat?  I'm not sure which part of that is more nuts.

Oh, no, flying is great. Flying is awesome.

My eventful flight was worth it, however. I got to catch up with old friends, enjoy some really fantastic weather, and I took THIS PICTURE:

And somehow, when you're standing under the Las Vegas sign, the real world and all the nonsense fades away.

My "Friends" text ruins Hubby's fun at the Tim Hawkins show.

We all do that, right?

Okay. Before we begin with my latest attempt to go out in public and do things, I need you all to watch the little video clip below.  I'll wait...

Trust me, you'll need it later.


So last Friday night Hubby and I went out...again.  Yes, we braved the Wisconsin Winter and, you know, people in general, (especially after our experience at the John Mellencamp concert the week before) and we went to see Comedian Time Hawkins. This was our Valentine's gift to each other.  Of course, after the Mellencamp show...I wasn't sure what to expect from the crowd. I'm not totally familiar with Mr. Hawkins' work.

Turns out, the show was held at the church my friend Jaicey (not her real name...I don't think that's anyone's real name) goes to.  (She was there, but we didn't see each other. She had "special reserved" seats, I had "general admission."  Jaicey does not DO General Admission. But Jaicey does do a lot of other things that are awesome, so I can't fault her for this.)  Hubby and I, having general admission tickets, were asked to wait in the very, very long line in the gym until the doors opened.

Now, Hubby doesn't request much from me, especially when it comes to my blog, but he wanted me to make this point: The crowd at the Hawkins show was NIGHT AND DAY different from the crowd at the Mellencamp show.

1)  We were asked to wait in line in the gym. There were no line dividers, no barriers, and very few people in charge of telling us where to go.  And yet, there was no pushing, no line jumping, no fighting.

2) When the line started moving, we moved in an orderly manner, turning as we came to the end of the gym floor, as if pivoting around a post or line divider, and yet there were none.

3)  Many people, women especially, had puffy coats on and NO ONE tried to pick them up by asking them about the coats.

4)  No one, and this is really important, dumped rum and coke on me.

The socio-economic make up of the two groups were roughly the same. Age of the Hawkins show was actually much lower than that of the Mellencamp show.  The race/diversity was about the same for each show since the geography and general appeal of the performer was the same.

And yet...there was a difference...

Yeah, like NO BOOZE!

Hubby wanted me to make that point.

Now, the real reason I'm writing this blog.

Having General Admission seats, we got into the church itself behind several other people but it was not hard to find seats.  I am also pleased to say that the church turned the AC WAY UP so that we weren't all boiling.

The people surrounding us seemed nice, everyone laughed ( a lot, Tim Hawkins is VERY FUNNY, you should go see him if you can, and bring the kids.) at the proper places and we all had a very good time.

There was just one thing...

The woman behind me...

She had...this laugh...

Let me remind you:



Now I picked up on it right away. And I texted my two "Friends" friends, Sherita and Lisbeth. (Obviously not their real names...) and I informed them of the fact that the woman behind me had Monica's fake work laugh.  I knew they would both enjoy that.  And they did.

Hubby, did not.

It seems he had been blissfully unaware of the laugh until he read my text as I was sending it. Now, I didn't point out that I was texting nor did I ask him to read the text. Not that I cared.  We're married.  The only thing we don't share is a toothbrush because that's gross.

However, I want to be very clear on this point:  I did not invite him to read my text to my friends nor did I make the comment to him about the woman's laugh.

And yet, for the rest of the show, every time she laughed, he nudged me and grimaced and whispered, "Thanks!"

Like that's my fault.  Hey, next time...maybe don't read my "Friends" themed texts!

The Good, the Sad, the Ugly at the Mellencamp concert.

Happy Saturday!


First of all, I have to apologize for my absence. I've been woefully behind on writing the fourth and final book in my Nora Hill Mystery Series, "Freed on the Fox." This was a difficult book for me to write for many reasons.  I'm hoping you, as the reader, will enjoy it once I've released it, hopefully by April 1.

But my struggles writing is NOT the reason I'm blogging today.

Because the last thing we need in our lives is more stuff, and because we need more reasons to leave the house now that the kids are no longer doing things in school (or with us. We are no longer "cool" to go out with.  Oh well.) Hubby and I have gotten rather creative when it comes to gift giving times. We've been getting tickets to events likes movies and plays and concerts.

Which is how we found ourselves at the John Mellencamp concert at the Riverside Theater in Milwaukee last week Friday.

Now, my issues with going to Rick Springfield concerts and getting bathed in rum and coke are well documented.  I've been to other live music shows (Nora Jones,
Colin Hay) where I've not been doused in rum and coke.  So I figured, as I bought said tickets for my hubby's Christmas present, that I had an even chance of, at worst, coming out of a John Mellencamp concert with sticky feet.

Oh, I came out with so much more than that!

Let me start by saying that while I have enjoyed Mellencamp's music over the years, and I respect him as an American poet, I am not what I'd call a huge fan.  So I was able to go to this concert with a completely objective eye, fully on the lookout for something blog worthy.

The concert did NOT disappoint.

First of all, if you're not familiar with the theater, there's a picture of it.  Our seats were in the balcony, three rows from the front of the balcony all the way over to the left.  (I have a need to sit on the end of rows.)  Getting to our seats, we were pretty happy because, as Hubby put it, "Literally only four people can be in our way."

Oh, he's so naïve.

The concert, as the website told us, started promptly at 8 with no opening act.  This crowd is, let's just say mature, so we were all pretty much in our seats by 8, ready to ROCK (somewhat. I mean, we are all too old to actually be standing for the duration...)  The minute the house lights dimmed, the first blog worthy thing happened:  The woman in front of me sat upright with perfect posture...covering my view of the stage with her GIANT NASHVILLE HAIR.  Of the four people sitting in front of us, the one person with perfect posture AND giant hair is in front of me.

That's just the warm up.

Hubby and I are sitting on the end of the row. As such, we accept the fact that some people are going to get up and leave their seat and crawl over us.  What we were not prepared for was the guy sitting right next to me, the guy with the BACK PROBLEM, having to get up FIVE TIMES during the concert, to go stand in the aisle.  The seats are old school, so there isn't a ton of space...we HAD to get up every time he needed to get out.  And, conversely, every time he needed to get back in.

This is where it starts to get groovy.

The first couple times he got up, no big deal. But, but the third time, an hour into the concert, I stood up and nearly slid off my feet, taking Bad Back Guy with me.  Yep, someone had dumped a rum and coke all over the floor and the floor was slippery.

That's fine. I know how this goes. The floor got sticky by the time Bad Back Guy needed to get back to his seat.

Is that it? Child, please.

So in our clump of seats, there were three rows.  The woman two rows behind and her friends (no doubt the drink dumpers...I'm just guessing here, but the circumstantial evidence was pretty strong) were a chatty bunch. And by chatty I mean THEY TALKED THROUGH EVERYTHING.

Opening video: talking.  Opening three songs, done without a break: talking.  Acoustic version of "Jack and Diane" with audience participation: talking.  Loudly.

I'm not positive, but at some point I believe the guy right behind me said something to Judith (That's her real name. If you seen Judith who sat in the balcony at the Mellencamp show, go kick her in the shins for me.) I didn't hear what he said, but Judith's response was, "I HAVE TO TALK LOUD...HE'S HARD OF HEARING."

Yes, but the rest of us aren't...so please shut up!

It's at about this time I focus in on the front row. Now, I've never really been a front row girl. Never been that lucky.  I got up on stage with Rick Springfield once, but I wasn't even in the front row for that...there were two rows of women and I was in the back row.  So I've always been fascinated by how women I in the front row behave, because it's...interesting.

The Mellencamp front row girls did NOT disappoint.

There were two that caught my eye. Both my age, sort of, both in my fluffy weight class (or above.) The first woman looked WAY TOO MUCH like a lady I know from church, so she really caught my eye. This lady was into the music in a big, giant way, but also really into Mellencamp himself. She spent a lot of time waving her arms in the air and reaching out to the stage and clapping. This is not funny...until you know she was wearing a sleeveless top and had the best flappy chicken wing skin on her upper arms EVER.  She'd dance to "The Authority Song" and her arm skin danced along...in a rhythm all its own.

As amusing as her flappy arms were, her friend was even more mesmerizing!

Hubby and I had a nickname for this lady...but I'm not going to repeat that here. I will tell you that while her friend danced with her whole body, and her arms, this girl danced with exactly one part of her anatomy:  Her female glands.  I cannot replicate her dance moves, I'm not nearly as blessed, but this woman was able to get her girl glands moving in time with the music while the rest of her body stayed pretty much in place.  And oh, she knew what she was about, too. Her dress was one of those stretchy numbers that clings to everything...and, instead of a plunging neckline, there was a keyhole cut out in front, revealing cleavage.  Now, while she was doing her full frontal dance moves, I couldn't help but wonder if any sort of shiftage would occur...you know, where we'd have a Janet Jackson situation. I'm not the only one who wondered that. I'm not making this up...at one point in the concert every single one of the male musicians moved across the stage to stand right in front of her at the same time.  It was a very one side of the theater show for a few minutes.

Hubby and I wondered, later, just how much back pain that lady would be in, seeing as how she kept her upper region in constant motion for most of the concert. I tried replicating the move...I managed one or two undulations...and had serious back pain right between the shoulder blades.

But not even undulating glands took the show for this blogger.

At some point, the guy behind me was sick to death of Judith and her talking and her crew and, well, everything. So, while John Mellencamp was sharing a touching story about his grandmother, the guy behind me was yelling at Judith to SHUT THE H--- UP.

The rant included phrases like, "I'm sick of you kicking my seat!"  and "You've been talking all concert. All I hear is you!"

And his rant ended with "I'm going to talk to security and get you kicked out."

Now, what's funny is that he was mad because Judith was kicking his seat.  However, as he got up in his righteous indignation, he kicked MY SEAT no less that four times.

I'm not sure what the result of dude's complaint was going to be (I mean, you're seriously tattling on someone behind you in a concert? Most likely you're going to miss a great song and that's it.) but when he came back he kicked my chair three more times and Judith continued her talking and her rum and coke spilling.  (My feet were pretty much glued to the floor by fourth time BAD BACK GUY needed to get out of his seat.)

I'm still not done.

Now we come to the point of the show where the question is asked, "How badly behaved are you that the star of the show has to stop the show and inform your husband that you're behaving badly?"

The answer would be, "The woman about six rows from the front who kept yelling something about having a baby."  My guess is she was offering to have Mr. Mellencamp's baby (he was, at that point, telling a story about the children he already has.) and she was so intrusive he stopped was he was doing, and informed her husband that she was overserved and that he, the husband, was now responsible for getting her home safely, but also for getting her to shut up!

Even by Wisconsin standards, that's bad. I've been to shows at Summerfest where concert goers have gotten into drunken fights with each other and with members of the band on stage, and the event hasn't stopped.  This was a first for me.

And finally...

The show over, we waited for Judith and the guy behind me and Nashville Hair, and BAD BACK GUY to leave before we left the theater.  (I was really hoping I had all the material I was going to get for the blog.  I was wrong.)

As we snaked our way through the theater to the stairs, we wound up next to a guy I'm just going to call SAD MAYBE DRUNK DUDE, or SMDD.  SMDD was chatty, noting this and that and that along the way down the stairs to the lobby.  He remarked on everything, no matter how non-descript.  Finally he landed on what I can only surmise was a shocking revelation.

"Those puffy coats.  They are EVERYWHERE!"

Hubby and I didn't bother covering our smirks. Please.  We're in a river of humans trying to get to the door, and we're next to the one guy who isn't talking about the show, but instead, noticing that the winter wear style of 2019 is the puffy coat.

And here's where I have to add the S to his nickname.  As in Sad.

As we're nearing the door, we come up on a line of pretty younger ladies (and by younger I mean probably 35-40 years old.) and SMDD edges closer to them and lands possibly the WORST pick up line I've ever heard:

"So, how do those puffy coats work?"


We didn't wait around long enough to find out if any of the ladies responded to this magnificence of terrible.  Laughing out loud, we left the theater.

There you go.  My most recent musical concert experience.  I may have to stick to comedy shows. I have yet to have anything dumped on me at a comedy show. And weirdly, people tend to behave themselves better.

Or maybe I'm wrong.  I've got a few events coming up in the next several weeks.  I'll test my theory.