How to Lose Your Will to Live at the DMV

March 28, 2012

{Image: www.frugalyankee.com}

 

You know all of those awful stereotypes about the Department of Motor Vehicles?  Unfortunately, I’m here today to report that the New Jersey DMV is, in fact, the Ninth Circle of Hell.

To appreciate the full story, I need to give you one quick bit of prelude.

—————-

1989:  I sat in the local New Jersey DMV with my mother, applying for my very first driver’s license.  Probably wearing shoulder pads. As I went to fill in my eye color as green, my mom stopped me and said, harmlessly, “I think your eyes are more hazel, aren’t they?”

“Uh, I guess.  Fine.”

And so, New Jersey recorded my eyes as hazel — something I never really agreed with and a point I continued to belabor with my mom for years to come.  Just to torture her.  It became an ongoing family joke whenever the subject of eye color arose.  And, I considered it a personal victory when, a few years later, the fine State of New York let me go on record as a green-eyed girl with my Empire State license.  It was long-deserved vindication.

Hold on to that little story for a few minutes.  You’ll need it.

—————–

Fast forward to 2010.  I’m back in the suburbs of New Jersey, after 17 years in New York.

I had to finally relinquish my last bastion of Manhattan residency and convert my New York license back to New Jersey.

I read all of the paper work.  I prepared.  I went in.

 

Visit #1:  Cross-Border Mystery.  Apparently, my circumstances were extraordinary and confusing to the fine employees of the DMV.

“I need to change my license from New York to New Jersey.”

“Have you ever had a New Jersey license?”

“Yes, a long time ago.”

“Under your current name?”

“No.  Under my maiden name.”

“Wait.  You mean you had a different name in New Jersey, moved out of state, got a new name in New  York and came back to New Jersey?”

“Uh, yes.  I grew up here.  Then I moved to New York.  I got married.  And now I’m back.”

“Oh.  I’m going to need to get a supervisor.”

“This has never happened before?  It doesn’t seem so unusual.  New York is 30 miles from here — you can kind of see it out the window with all those tall buildings over there.”

“Ma’am, fighting with me will get you nowhere.  I will need the address under which your last New Jersey license was issued.”

“I don’t remember.  I lived at four different New Jersey addresses and it was almost twenty years ago.”

“You don’t remember where you lived?”

“Not every address, no.  I gave you my maiden name — is it not coming up in your records?”

“It’s coming up.  But I need you to tell me the address to prove who you are.”

“I honestly don’t remember.”

“I need another supervisor.”

I left.  I couldn’t handle it another minute.  I decided to put off this whole process.

For two years.

 

—————

Fast forward to today.  It was time to get this taken care of.

I re-read all of the paperwork.  I prepared.  I went in.

 

Visit #2:  Marriage Shock and Awe.  Wherein the Federal Government ID process means nothing to The Garden State.

Repeat all steps of Visit #1 (“Yes, I now remember the street address from 18 years ago where I lived for eight months.”)

Then.

“I need your marriage license.”

“Why?  All of my ID documents are issued under my married name.”

“We have no record of your name change in New Jersey.”

“Right, but see this passport here?  Issued by the Federal Government?  The one that allows me to fly outside of the country?  This has my legal name change processed.  See?”

“No.  I need your marriage license.”

“Your Be Prepared pamphlet — ironically named, I must say — makes zero mention of this in its extensive list of warnings about required documentation to change a state driver’s license.  Is this a new requirement?”

“I need it.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Ma’am, fighting with me will get you nowhere.”

I left.  I couldn’t handle another minute.

 

——————-

Fast forward 90 minutes.  I had to get this done.  This time, I brought my two year-old with me — just to make it more interesting. Also, it began to rain heavily, thereby ruining any slim chance I had of a decent license photo.  This is the real tragedy of the story.

I re-read all of the paperwork.  Again.  I prepared.  I went in.

 

Visit #3:  Falsifying Documentation.  Because your eyes are not only the window to your soul, but also remain on your permanent record.

Repeat all steps of visits #1 and #2 (“Yes, I remember the street address from 18 years ago where I lived for eight months,” and “Here is my original, raised seal, embossed marriage license.  The one that the Federal Government OK’d when they legally changed my name on this here passport.”)

Then.

“I’m back.  Again.”

“I see that.  But we have a problem.  Your original New Jersey license application from 1989 states that you have hazel eyes.  In today’s application, you listed your eyes as green.”

“OK?”

“Well, which is it, ma’am?  Hazel or green?”

“You look and tell me.  I think they are green.  But my mom thought, back in 1989 — never mind.”

“They do appear green, ma’am.  Why did you falsify them as hazel in 1989?”

“This is insanity.  I need my license.  I have provided everything you asked for and now I’m losing my patience.”

“Ma’am, fighting with me will get you nowhere.”

“So I see.  So now what?”

“Now that you have green eyes, we will have to create a whole separate identity number for you in our system, and this can cause problems.”

“Then just leave them as hazel.  I don’t care.”

“Ma’am, I can’t do that.  That would be misrepresenting your identity. Again.”

{Blinking audibly through my green/hazel/bloodshot with rage eyes}

“Please just figure it out!”

“I’m going to need a supervisor.  We’ve never dealt with a change in eye color before.”

{Supervisor arrives, concurs my eyes are, in fact, green, and agrees to miraculously issue my license.}

“Ma’am, you’re going to need to leave us your phone number.”

“Why?”

“In case we have any problems with putting two identity numbers in the system.  We’ll have to call you.”

“And then what?”

“We’ll let you know.”

——————–

Well, that was easy!  And painless, too!  Everyone was so pleasant!

Mostly, I’m so glad there was no inconsistency, bureaucracy or confusion involved in my application to continue driving a residential automobile.  

And I’d like to extend special thanks to my mom for almost getting my driving privileges revoked over a color hue detail {Just kidding, Mom.  Sort of.}.

But, look. You know and I know that this isn’t over.  The crazy Eye Change Mystery/Double Identity detail is going to haunt me somehow for the rest of my life.  Maybe they’ll call me to come in with a notarized Letter of Eye Color Change.  Or an essay explaining the mysterious circumstances around which I crossed state lines, got married and moved the 30 miles back across the Hudson River.  Maybe I’ll call it A Stranger in a Strange Land.

Or, more likely, I’ll end up on the No Fly List on my next trip.

“You there, with the hazel/green eyes!  Drop that passport and come with us!”

Can’t you see it?

But I can tell you this:  I would rather be incarcerated than ever, ever go back to the New Jersey DMV.  Maybe I’ll just move back to New York where my green eyes are appreciated.

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Filed Under: Places Near and Far, That Which Drives Me Crazy 46 Comments

Passwords Are Eating My Brain

March 27, 2012

Maybe it’s the aging process.  Maybe it’s parenting.  Maybe it’s both.  But I feel like I am losing brain power by the day.  You know that feeling?  {Please say yes.}

And with my ever-diminishing mental capacity to retain details, let me tell you what is pushing me over the edge.

User names and passwords, people.  Eating. My. Brain.  One log-in at a time.

Like most folks, I have a few go-to user names and password combinations on hand.  And I follow the basic rules of online security:  Don’t give away your password (duh).  Don’t be a jackass (I’m paraphrasing from official guidelines) by using obvious personal information, like your birthday.  Do use a combination of letters, numbers and characters.  Don’t repeat passwords across multiple log-ins.

And it’s that last little rule that is killing me.  I can’t keep them all straight.  And I feel like they are multiplying.

Unless it’s a log in that I use regularly (this blog, Facebook, Twitter, banking or online wine purchases by the case), I pretty much give up after one failed attempt and resort to the old “Reset My Password” option.  This tends to involve my favorite part of the process — The Secret Question.  I’m always strangely nervous about failing a pop quiz about my own  life — for which I’ve pre-set the answers.  There’s a treasure trove of psychotherapy, don’t you think?

If I remember my own life and pass The Secret Question, I basically go on to the vicious cycle of having to repeat this exercise and reset the password upon each log-in.

I mean, really.  How many of these combinations can I be expected to remember?  And obviously it’s not smart to keep a list of these on my computer.  And more obviously, I’m not going to be a pioneer and go purchase things in person.

It’s frustrating.  And it came to an ugly head yesterday.

I was on the Zappos website to order a fetching pair of summer shoes.  Now, I’m a long-time Zappos girl.  My user name and password were seared into my frontal lobe.  Or whichever lobe is responsible for the swift purchase of fabulous footwear.

But there was a problem.

Their system got hacked recently and, as a result, they are forcing everyone to change their passwords.  I get it.  It’s totally the right thing to do.  No problem.  Zappos has my back.  And I want these shoes.  The web page tells me there are only two pairs left in my size.

OK.  Time is of the essence.  I enter one of my other go-to passwords.

This password is not strong enough.  It must be at least eight characters long, with one upper-case letter, one number and one special character.

They’re trying to protect me, I tell myself.  It’s fine.  Let’s see what else I have in my mental password arsenal.  I try another one I’ve committed to memory.  These shoes will be mine.

You may not use any of your last six passwords.

Right, right.  I understand that.  Makes sense.  I try again.

You may not use any of your last six passwords.

Grrrrr.

And then.  In red text:

Only one pair left in your size!  Order now!

People of Zappos, I’m trying!  Please take my money!  I want the damn shoes!  But I’m clear out of password ideas that make any sense to me and conform to your requirements.  Just invent one for me, because I’ve got nothing.  And really, I’m not investing my retirement money here. I just want to look casual yet cute from the ankle down this summer.

I create a new password under Cute Summer Shoe Duress.  One that means nothing to me and I’ll surely never remember again.  But whatever.  I think it was BuySize7.5Now!  Or maybe it was 88__**&*^%^$^pain*in*the*ass^*&&*^%rynTTTT+++$$.

I type it in.  Twice, somehow, because that’s required.  I’m rushing.  I know that some other woman with a more organized mental password file, who also happens to wear a size 7.5, is after that last pair of my shoes.  It’s going to be an online showdown.

In my haste of typing the new meaningless password twice, I get this:

Passwords don’t match.

Sonofabitch!  I type them again.

Your password has been changed!

Great.  Whatever it was.  Let’s just get on to the business of shipping those wedges to me, stat.

And then.

We’re sorry, this shoe is no longer available in your size.

That password-organized wretch.  She got them.

What’s a size 7.5 shoe-deprived girl to do?  Go to a department store?  Let’s not be crazy.

It seems I have to create some additional strong passwords for my arsenal.  And then remember them.  According to Microsoft, once you have a strong password, you can create an acronym from an easy-to-remember piece of information. “For example, pick a phrase that is meaningful to you, such as My son’s birthday is 12 December, 2004. Using that phrase as your guide, you might use Msbi12/Dec,4 for your password.”

Is it just me, or does this seem like a stretch?  The only acronym I have for that is STFU.

But, hey, I’m not going to miss out on my shoes next time.  So maybe I’ll use the phrase “I can’t fucking remember another goddamned password” — easily reduced to IcFraGDpw!!

You must include a number.

See?  My brain.  It has died.  All in the pursuit of shoes.

 

* * *

{Unrelated PSA:  Just a friendly reminder that The Fordeville Diaries is on Facebook.  If you’re not already following along with my nonsense over there, I’d love to have you.  And I totally know my password to that account.}

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Filed Under: Tech Bits, That Which Drives Me Crazy 16 Comments

Birthday Baking, We Meet Again

March 21, 2012

Well, April is quickly approaching — and that can only mean one thing in my house: My annual irrational desire to bake a nice birthday cake for my son has kicked in.

I can’t explain it.

I have to say, I’m a pretty good cook.  If you want a kick-ass chicken parmigiana for your birthday, I’m your gal.  But I’m not a great baker.  So why I torture myself with some combination of guilt, delusion and sheer stupidity is beyond me.

For those of you who were around for my son’s birthday last April, dinosaurs were all the rage in Fordeville.  And, so, I set out to comply with his very specific wish:  A stegosaurus cake — green with red plates on its back, to be exact.

That didn’t work out particularly well.

It really stressed me out.  It was time-consuming.  And, worst of all, it made me set foot in craft stores, which give me the creeps.  Something about all those plastic flowers and scrapbooking supplies.  Plus, I feel like all those crafty types are laughing at me as I ask all kinds of Amateur Hour questions of the employees.  Like “Can I just hire you to make my cake?” Or, “Does this box of baking supplies come with a case of wine?” {It doesn’t, FYI.  But I do think this is an excellent marketing opportunity.}

Anyway.  In the end, Project Stegosaurus Cake aged me immeasurably and the final product ended up looking not unlike a chihuahua.  The upside?  I got great comments on the blog from fellow non-bakers who fully supported the notion of the professionally made supermarket cake.  I swore I’d go that route this year.

And now I’m feeling all Baking Delusional again.  Shit.

This year’s theme, you ask?

The birthday boy has requested — wait for it…

A pirate ship.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

I knew this was coming.  Especially since our trip to Disney World, as I find myself frequently yelling things like “Don’t run with that sword!” and “I don’t know where your gold doubloons are — did you look in your treasure chest?”

But a pirate ship cake?  Why can’t the kid declare his 5th birthday The Year of Pac Man? Or The Year of the Flat Rectangle With Minor Embellishments?  Why?

Damn pirate ships.

OK.  I took a deep breath and decided to start at the beginning:  A Google search for “Totally impressive pirate cakes that make themselves in the comfort of your home while you drink wine.”

What?  No results?! Apparently, I have to modify my search terms.

Google sucks.

So, I searched more broadly:  “Pirate birthday cake.”

Well, that was somewhere between demoralizing and comical.

I came across all sorts of the baking impossible.  But I’ve pared it down and would like to share with you the Top Three Pirate Cakes I Won’t Be Making:

 

Cake 1.  I love that this cake comes from a website called www.birthday-party-ideas-101.com.  Because this is obviously 101, super-basic stuff.  Sweet Jesus, I think this is a regulation sail boat that may actually float and shoot fire from the cannons.  But the ocean part — that little blue swirl of frosting at the bottom — I can totally do that.

{Image: www.birthday-party-ideas-101.com}

 

Cake 2.  This makes Cake 1 look like a dinghy.  The woman who baked this took the liberty of describing how she did it on a cake website.  But with throwaway phrases like “I…cut the cakes into a boat shape” and “I…used a decorating tool to make the ship look like wood…and I made the ship flags with my crafting supplies,” I’m not sure she and I are on the same planet wavelength.  But damn, that’s a fine looking ship.  Plus she has chocolate-chocolate chip and vanilla bean loaf cakes inside.  File under:  Not Happening.

{Image: www.threadcakes.com}

 

Cake 3.  What I like about this cake is that it uses a pirate ship cake pan.  Now we’re talking.  I thought.  Until I realized that I need a cake decorating class to make this thing look like something other than a leftover game piece from my childhood Battleship Travel Set.

{Image: www.seriouseats.com}

 

So there you have the cakes I won’t be baking.  Not all hope is lost, though.  I did find these options, which seem to be more my speed.

{Image: www.sweetlaurencakes.com}

How cute are these?  Although it may be anti-climactic to yell “Blow out your cake pops, son!”  He’s still perplexed by the chihuahua-stegosaurus of 2011, so I’d like to avoid any further confusion.

This may be the win.

{Image: www.cakeswebake.com}

This, or a phone call to the Shop Rite bakery department.

Stay tuned.

 

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Filed Under: Family, Food & Drink 9 Comments

Who Invited Sparky?

March 16, 2012

Earlier this week, I shared this photo on my Facebook page.

 

Sparky the pre-school class mascot is a stuffed elephant.  I was hopeful we could dodge him for the rest of the school year.  But alas.  My son walked out of school the other day, grinning widely and carrying Sparky.

My grin was not so wide.

First of all, I’m not a big fan of the “look who’s coming to spend time at your house, even though you didn’t invite him” angle.  Maybe it’s all that time I spent living in New York City — I’m not particularly hospitable when taken by surprise.  Unless you’re Ed McMahon with one of those big checks.

Also, if you don’t already know this about me, I’ll say it again:  I should sit on Purell’s Board of Directors.  I’m, shall we say, highly cognizant of germs.  Not at the level where I need my own special on TLC.  But enough to make me cringe at the sight of Sparky and know exactly where he would be spending the first two hours of his “family time” in Fordeville.

 

The need to introduce the washing machine to Sparky became even more urgent when my son said “Sparky really wants to sit at the table and eat with us.”

{Audible blinking.}

And, “I can’t wait for Sparky to sleep in my bed with me.”

{OMG, internal screaming.}

I immediately moved the laundry dial from Normal Cycle to Two Hour Heavy Duty Sanitize.

{Note to self: When I bought a new washing machine, why didn’t I get one with a Hazmat setting?  Wait, can you imagine if I was still on my six months of laundry deprivation?  I can’t even think about it.  Hands over ears. Lalalalala.}

So.  We had 48 hours with Sparky.  I immediately promoted the idea of Sparky camping outside.  After all, it was unseasonably warm and he would be much more comfortable sitting outside with a bowl of peanuts, wouldn’t he?

This idea fell flat.

He was already lovingly tucked under my son’s arm.  I had to just roll with it.

Fine, pre-school teachers.

Fine, Sparky.

You win.  You want family time with us?  You got it.

First, Sparky, the  kids have invited you to sit and watch them sing the theme song to Jake and the Never Land Pirates on an endless loop.  Because you are fresh blood and a new audience.  Have fun — those big ears of yours will start to melt off your head soon.  They’ll go for about 40 minutes without taking a breath in between verses, FYI.

 

Then, you will be inducted as the newest member of the Fordeville Pirate League, complete with hat (nice fit over your ears) and hook.

Your mission?  Help my son find the lost treasure on the map.  He’s counting on you.

 

After your pirate activities are complete, I think I’ll take you back down to the washing machine.  Just because the sight of you all over my kids and furniture is shaking to me to my very core, and I have practically Purelled my hands raw.  Hm, I wonder how you’ll handle the Super High Power Dry setting that seems to be reserved for unnaturally resilient fabrics.  Only one way to find out, right pal?

 

It’s been a long afternoon, hasn’t it, Sparky?  I, for one, am feeling all sorts of traumatized.  And since you’re relatively clean now and we’re enjoying some family time together, maybe you can make yourself useful and grab me a bottle of Pinot out of the wine fridge.

 

God, I hate when a house guest comes over and then drinks way too much.  It’s so uncomfortable for everyone involved.  Unfriggingbelievable.

You sort of suck, Sparky.  How am I going to explain this to my kids?  I would think that by now, with all of your “I’m inviting myself over for two days,” you’d know how to conduct yourself.  Maybe that third run in the spin cycle was just too much for you.

 

——–

Finally, our 48 hours were up and it came time to return Sparky to school, along with our journal page documenting how he spent his time with our family.  In an act of mercy, I decided to save his ass so he could retain his Class Mascot title.  So I handed in an appropriate write-up for my son that went something like this:

“I was so happy to have Sparky come and visit my family!  He slept in the bed with me, had his own special visitor seat at our table and played Pirate Treasure Hunt with me!  He even wore his own pirate hat!  I hope that Sparky can come back again to visit us soon.”

But I kept a copy of the real version, for blackmail purposes:

“My mom says that Sparky could really stand to learn a few things about manners.  She’s not really sure why he invited himself over and was pretty upset to see that he hadn’t bathed before his arrival.  Mommy mumbled something about a public health hazard and told me it would be fun to take Sparky for a few rides inside our shiny new washer and dryer.  He even got to test out the highest settings that we never, ever thought we’d have to use!  He played pirates with me and slept in my bed — at least until my mom pried him out from under my arm while I was in a deep REM sleep.  The second night, Sparky helped Mommy get some of her special juice out of the fridge and then he got really sleepy on the basement floor for a long time.  He still looked very tired this morning and complained of a headache.  I hope he feels better soon.  Also, my mom wants to know why the class mascot isn’t a book.”

Yeah, you’re welcome, Sparky.  Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.

 

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Family 15 Comments

A Vomit-Free Vacation

March 13, 2012

We are back from our family vacation to Florida.  I have much to report, but let me cut right to the headline:

Nobody threw up.

It’s true!  This is epic for the residents of Fordeville.  I mean, there was a very close call during the endless descent of our return flight.  As I sat between my two green children and played Vomit Roulette with the one puke bag I could access at that moment, I may have shouted “Come on, man!  For the love of God, how long does it take to land a damn plane?  Wheels down, dammit, wheels down!”

Or something like that.  Anyway, we emerged vomit-free.  Barely.

While little else can compare to that sparkling family achievement, there were other great elements of our trip.

We stayed with my mom and stepfather for a few days, which was great.  There was a lot of swimming and hanging out.

 

And then we drove up to Disney World for a few nights with my in-laws.  I really do love that place.  As you can see, this is a Fordeville genetic trait.

Here’s the thing about Disney World:  My son’s favorite attraction was the monorail — which is the only item in a 50-mile radius that costs absolutely nothing.  I may have to consider a Disney edition of my Money In Flames series, wherein we could have just purchased the kid a map of the park and a pirate outfit, then put him on the monorail for three days to save large sums of cash.

But then I could not have had access to the ice cream shaped like Mickey’s head, which is a must-have.  For me, anyway.

Also, the souls of my children have been replaced by those of pirates.  Arrrrgh.  Ahoy.  Me hearties.  They are obsessed, particularly since we bought them the Disney pirate gear.

My son, 16 seconds after waking up each morning:  “Where’s me pirate hat?  Me treasure chest?  Oh, and me spy glass?”

Aaaargh, matey.

My daughter, thankfully, held off on the Disney princess mania for what is probably the last possible year — mainly because she has declared herself a Pirate Princess in a show of solidarity with her brother’s obsession.  Naturally, there is an appropriately overpriced and ill-fitting Disney Pirate Princess hat available for purchase. {Hook and spy glass sold separately.  Of course.}

People have asked me if the park was crowded and if we waited on a lot of long lines.  Here’s the thing:  My kids are young enough that they don’t know yet what they are missing.  So if a particular ride had a really long line, I just steered them in the other direction, yelling something about another ice cream shaped like Mickey’s head.  Or I busted out another pirate prop.  Selfish parenting?  Maybe.  Totally effective?  You fucking bet. There will be plenty of years when we wait on long lines because they’ll have their heart set on something.

 

Other highlights of Disney World:

—FastPass Insanity, one of my favorite spectator sports.  This is when you see two seemingly educated adults who, in front of their children and the general Disney public, will scream at each other — even stoop to name-calling — over the family’s FastPass strategy, in an effort to avoid waiting on any lines.  Like this:

“What do you mean, you didn’t get the FastPass for Winnie the Pooh?  The wait is over an hour!  What have you been doing?  I sent you to get the FastPasses!”

“I decided we should FastPass Pirates of the Caribbean instead.”

“What?! That’s all the way over in Adventureland!  What kind of jackass are you?  We are not hitting Adventureland until tomorrow!  Today is Fantasyland!  Fantasyland, god dammit!  I told you this over breakfast.  I can’t believe you.”

“I just thought…”

“You thought what?  You thought we’d just skip Fantasyland?  And ruin the whole trip for the kids? Nice job.”

 

—The Stroller Olympics.  For many attractions, you are required to park your stroller in a designated area, which happens to be the size of China.  Then, in an effort to streamline the parking or to just screw with the minds of parents, the Disney employees tend to relocate the strollers while you’re inside the attraction.  You think you can spot your stroller in a crowd, don’t you?  I mean, you use it every day.  You may even have a colorful toy or something attached to it for easy identification.  But let me tell you something.  Unless you have installed a time-release-activated flare gun from the base of your stroller, you will be reduced to a dizzy and disoriented parent who walks around for 20 minutes mumbling, “I thought I left it right here.”  Because “right here” looks like this.

 

–And let’s not forget Disney Magic.  This year, Disney Magic emerged in two distinct forms.  First, the night when our kids, in a completely unprecedented move, fell asleep at a restaurant — one in the stroller, the other laying down in the booth.  This never happens with our kids.  Ever. Less selfish parents might have called it a night.  But where those parents see defeat, we saw opportunity.  Why, yes, we will have another round of cocktails please.

Disney Magic II was seeing one of my closest friends while there — in an unplanned capacity. A friend I’ve had for 20 years.  The friend who is the godmother to my daughter.  Someone whose travel plans don’t usually fall off my radar.  About a week before we left, I was on the phone with her, making plans for a different trip later this year (more on that another time).  She made a passing reference about getting ready for Disney, which led to the quick realization that we were booked on the same days.  At the same hotel. I swear, if we tried to coordinate this, in a hundred years we would not be able to do it.  But there we were.

So it was thumbs up all around at Disney World.

But look.  A Disney vacation is tiring.  So imagine how grateful I was to my mom when she agreed to watch the kids at her Florida place so P and I could go spend a child-free night by the ocean. Not a chicken nugget nor a pirate sword in sight.

 

A very nice 24-hour getaway that had me ready to face the trip  home.  Plus, we had to leave the humidity of Florida before my daughter was mistaken for Nick Nolte’s mug shot.

 

 

It’s always hard to come back.  But I’m pretty excited that we seem to have brought the warm weather home with us.  Along with the swashbuckling, sword fights and treasure hunts.

 

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Filed Under: Family, Money in Flames, Places Near and Far 12 Comments