A Bit of Perspective is In Order

I've been in a melancholy mood this week and really wanted to dump all of my issues on you. It makes for good reading (she says facetiously):

• My cleaning lady quit because I was a pain in the ass.
• My hair dryer died a violent death on Monday and I still haven't replaced it.
• I've had several bad hair days in a row.
• Upon noticing my increasingly gray hair, my son announced "wow, you really are old."
• I've caused trouble. Again.
• I have a zit on my forehead that could pass for a third eye.
• The neighbors have erected an ugly wire fence that I have to look at every time I pull in the driveway.
• My so-called friends figured out that I'm turning 44 tomorrow, when all this time I thought I was going to be 42 or 43, tops.

Now that I've put it all out there, the reality is that no one really cares about my issues. We all have our problems. I think what I need is a little bit -- or a big dose -- of perspective. So this weekend I'm going to drive more than nine hours to Banner Elk, NC where I'm going to spend a few hundred bucks for food and lodging and use a week's vacation to immerse myself in a reality that's quite different from my own; one in which cleaning people have no role and a fence is the least of my concerns for my neighbor.

One of the things that makes my church, Media Presbyterian, so special is its commitment to our neighbors -- both around the corner and around the world. Our members have traveled to Chester and Philadelphia and to Ghana and Liberia to make a difference in communities that need a helping hand. Western North Carolina has long been our family summer mission trip with youth and parents working side by side and the little ones taking on their own small projects and learning what it means to share the love of God by serving others. This year, 72 of us are making the long trek to work on two Habitat for Humanity builds, address the needs of of a couple other home owners, and bring a bit of joy to children living in a homeless shelter.

To be honest, I haven't gone on this NC trip in several years. The drive is too long. I didn't want to "waste" the vacation time. It just wasn't convenient. But this year, even before the church was rocked by the resignation of our senior pastor, I felt called to join my church family in Banner Elk. And in light of the painful reality of what has transpired at MPC and the rebuilding that is taking place, I think this mission trip is exactly what we need. Again, it's about perspective. If we return to our foundation of serving others, we will be reminded of why the church exists in the first place. We can take the focus off ourselves and put it where it rightly belongs.

So I'm going to serve next week. And I guarantee that on Day One I'll be asking myself what the hell I was thinking driving down here to work for someone else when I don't even like to do that kind of work for myself. I'll be whining about the heat or a chipped nail (hey, I just stopped biting my nails, so breaking one is going to be a big deal). The lodge beds won't be comfortable and I won't like the food. Ian will get sick and want to go home (the precedent is there). But I guarantee that by Day Three (I'm leaving some wiggle room in there by not promising Day Two) I'll be weepy when I count my blessings. I'll be hugging members of my church family (and even my children, if they let me) and tearfully telling them how much they mean to me. I'll even have gotten over my irritation with how slowly Cathie drove on the trip down.

If you too are struggling with those day-to-day issues that drag us down, consider doing something for someone else. It doesn't have to require a nine hour drive, but it does require your head, heart and hands, which ultimately sets you free, at least temporarily, from your own problems.

Hey! Look at Me!

Last week I shared details from my recent trip to Pittsburgh, which included the "furries" who stole the spotlight from a visit with my college roommate, time with our friends the Boyds, and the Phils v. Pirates game. Truly "a trip" to remember. If you haven't seen that post yet, I encourage you to start there; at least check out the pictures if you don't feel like reading.

At the end of "Now That Was a Trip" I confessed that I had genuine reservations about photographing the freaky furry people animals. It seemed rude, most likely because I knew I wasn't taking the pictures in respect or admiration for what I was seeing. I was basically photographing something bizarre that I needed to share with others so that together we could enjoy a good laugh or at least a disbelieving shake of the head. As I considered the appropriateness of snapping those photos, I had another thought, one prompted by a video I watched recently about the evolution of the swimsuit. Yes, you read that right. Stay with me here.

In The Evolution of the Swim Suit, swim suit designer Jessica Rey presents Princeton University research which studied men and their reaction to photos of scantily clad women.. The study found that men do not see women in bikinis as women, but rather as objects. "Some men showed zero brain activity in the medial prefrontal cortex, which is the part of the brain that lights up when one ponders another person's thoughts, feelings, and intentions." Translated, these findings mean bikinis are a bad idea if women want to be recognized and treated as human beings by the opposite sex. You're probably wondering how this relates to computer geeks in unicorn suits.

Well, both scenarios lead me to this undoubtedly controversial conclusion:

When we choose to dress, adorn, or style ourselves in a manner that stands out from the crowd, we invite attention. That attention may include having our picture taken by complete strangers.

Does that mean you should try to look like everyone else? Only if the attention bothers you.

Like it or not, dude, you've got some
stares coming your way

If you decide to dress like a unicorn, appear half naked in a skimpy bikini, tattoo every exposed part of your body and pierce everything else, or wear a ball gown to a baseball game, chances are that folks are going to look your way. And you have no right to complain. How we choose to look is a statement about who we are. Your look may scream dork, centerfold, non-conformist or "desperate for attention" but it's "screaming" because you made that choice. And choice is an important word here. People who are born with physical differences are off limits in the "check that out" category. As are people who dress differently for religious or cultural reasons. I know the Amish look really interesting in their dress and mode of travel, but that doesn't mean we should gawk and photograph them like they're a tourist attraction.

Saying that your choices open you to attention, does not mean your personal space should be invaded or compromised. It doesn't mean that you shouldn't be treated with respect, dignity or consideration. I'm just saying when you opt for a lifestyle that lends itself to dressing like an animal, a sex object, or a Klingon, you can't get pissed off when people stare or snap your photo with their smartphone.

So there you have it. The connection between furries, bikinis and the Amish. I'm sure you were wondering how I was going to get there.

No doubt at least a few of you will find my conclusion offensive, so I look forward to hearing your counter response. (Wouldn't this be a great debate topic for a high school competition?)

Now That Was a Trip!

Last Monday Rob, Abby, her friend Bethany and I set out on a road trip to Pittsburgh. Despite state cops as thick as mosquitoes on the turnpike and my nagging Rob incessantly about watching his speed, the drive across the state was blissfully uneventful. We even made our way out of the seedy side of town without getting shot (I guess those pops could have been fireworks) when my GPS took us to the wrong Penn Ave. After arriving at the Westin downtown, we locked the girls in the hotel room and headed to the bar where we found a few of the Phillies broadcasters. I felt very special when Larry Anderson bought us each a beer. I left Rob there, returned to the room, and crawled into my Westin heavenly bed, thinking that this road trip was looking promising indeed. The girls sleeping until 10:30 the next morning didn't even faze me.

But this is a Freakin' Angel blog post, so you've learned to anticipate the drama.

Sure enough, on Tuesday morning after our sleeping beauties decided to grace the world with their presence, we started the long search for breakfast. It could have been quick and painless, but Rob has a stubborn streak and so we covered a mile of the Strip, tripping over vegetable stands and Korean food, tiptoeing past Pirates paraphernalia, and avoiding stuff that smelled bad. It was after 11:30 by the time we found anything resembling an eatery, and naturally Abby insisted she only wanted breakfast food. Did I mention that the girls were wearing flip flops and not happy about their choice of footwear after walking forever? By the time we selected an acceptable spot, Abby was beyond miserable. Which pissed me off. Which made poor Bethany look as if she wanted to cry, wondering why in the world she had subjected herself to a long-distance road trip with crazy people.

Abby whined that she wanted to do something fun. Like go to the beach. Which she knew damn well didn't exist in Pittsburgh. I asked her why she came along on the trip she asked me if she had a choice. Good point. I thought she was being an ungrateful brat for failing to appreciate that she was on a "fun" road trip to see the Phillies play in another city. Apparently baseball games, regardless of the city, are not worth a five hour drive and two mile flip-flop walk for a bagel. Turns out a side visit to Beaver, PA, a tour of Mark Boyd's church, and a visit with my college roommate Kathie wasn't the fun Abby had in mind either.

Thank goodness for the freaky people.

When we'd left the hotel on Tuesday morning, we noticed a handful of odd folks. "Odd" as in wearing tails. And not the kind that go with a tuxedo. There was one individual dressed in full "critter" gear. But at that point we only had eyes for breakfast and didn't pay much attention. Later that afternoon, after our Beaver visit, we returned to the hotel before heading to the Phillies game and found the critters had multiplied exponentially. Some had only furry heads. Others preferred tails or similarly inhuman bottom halves. A dozen or so sported a complete look, most appearing to belong to the feline category, though I spotted a few bears and foxes and others that defied classification. Abby, having become increasingly brazen in recent months, decided to do a little research by going directly to the source:

Abby: "Why are you wearing a tail?"
Fox (clearly uncomfortable being spoken to by an actual human): "Because I'm a fox." (He shows her his fox badge.)
Abby: "Is there something going on? Some kind of event?"
Fox: "Anthrocon."

Anthrocon, according to the event website, is the world's largest convention for those fascinated with anthropomorphics, which are humanlike animal characters. They claim these folks are "a collection of artists, animators, writers, costumers, puppeteers, and just everyday fans who enjoy cartoon animals and their kin." And you'll be happy to know that membership is open to any and all who "like to imagine what it would be like if animals could walk and talk as we do." Where do I sign up?

You'd like to think that there are no more than a few hundred belonging to the "Furry fandom," but if attendance at Anthrocon is any indication, we're talking thousands. More than 5,000 attended last year's event alone, pumping millions into Pittsburgh's economy. It makes sense that hosting the convention should be profitable for a city - even worth the freak show. You have to figure these people spend very little money in real life. Remaining single and living in your parent's basement keeps expenses low. Sorry, that's conjecture. I have no proof that these folks are less likely to marry or lead typical American lives. Actually, as evidenced in this group hug photo, it's clear that they are friendly creatures:

Some were nice enough to wave to us. They seem much more comfortable if their heads are covered. But hey, who isn't? 

I took a few more photos of our furry friends, but not without hesitation. I honestly struggled with whether it was "right" to photograph them for being "different." These were just everyday folks who happened to be in touch with their animal side. Don't they deserve their privacy? Would I want to be photographed for appearing to be strange slightly unusual? I'm actually serious about this. In fact, in my next post I'm going to consider when and where our differences make it acceptable for us to be the subject of blog posts and photo opps. And I'm going to tie it in to bikinis and the Amish. So for now, please enjoy these pictures before I decide they're inappropriate:

Hop On! We're Taking a Tour of Changeland

The Funkapotomus has been away on an extended vacation. I always feel better when he heads out of town (obviously). Unfortunately, the big guy's back and settled in quite nicely, occasionally hugging me so tightly I can barely breath or think.

Whenever the Funkapotomus returns I spend a good deal of time trying to figure out exactly why he's here. Rainy day? Wintertime? Fight with Rob, or the kids, or my parents, or my boss or a friend? My monthly hormonal imbalances? If I answer "no" to all of the above I begin my nearly expert process of self-diagnosis. It's better than self-medicating and considerably less expensive than seeing a professional.

I have come to the conclusion that the Funkapotomus came home at this particular time because he's relishing the significant amount of change happening in my life, practically none of which is great or even good. Allow me to take you on a guided tour of Changeland, featuring the Funkapotomus in a starring role.

For our first stop, let's visit Kim's not-so-new-anymore job. I weathered quite well the initial transition in November. Making the move after eleven years at Judson Press was surprisingly painless. But as you know, my dear colleague/boss Burt passed away in January and that saddened me tremendously. I soldiered on and the dean lifted my spirits by taking a minute to say hello to me in the mornings. But now they've gone and replaced Burt. The new gentleman started a couple weeks ago and by all appearances he's a good guy. He says the right things, does the right things, treats his staff the right way. I think it's the staff part that's causing me to be childish bothering me. I'm not used to being "supervised" by someone ten years younger than me. Actually, I'm not accustomed to being supervised at all. And if I am going to work for someone, I want it to be Burt. I miss him. And it doesn't help that the dean stopped saying hello to me. I guess hellos are reserved for his direct reports.

We're now moving out of Career World toward our second stop -- Parenthood. A considerably more complex site on our tour. Simply put, I'm becoming painfully aware that my children don't really want me involved in their lives anymore. They still need me to drive them places, but that's about it. Heck, Abby can make her own meals, go grocery shopping, and do her laundry, rendering me almost completely obsolete. Being sad about this is terribly ironic given that I spent the first ten five few years of their lives wishing they didn't need me so damn much. It's not that I've had a change of heart and really want to do stuff for my kids, it's more that I want to be needed and loved and then free to decline all demands and requests they make of me. Kinda the way I want to be invited to parties, but don't actually want to go.

Now, let's pay a visit to Friendville. This year I watched as my childrens' relationships evolved and in some cases dissolved. Over the past year I too have seen a number of my friendships change. Some have become stronger and more fulfilling, while others have faded or been strained by forces left unspoken. Never an easy thing, no matter how old you are.

And speaking of age, like it or not, we have to take a moment for Grown Up Stuff. My parents, my friends' parents, and my aunts and uncles are all getting older (as if the rest of us are standing still). This means we're increasingly dealing with loss. My Aunt Faify passed last month. My friend Amy's father died in June. And my Aunt Glenna only has a short time left.as she battles leukemia. In the years ahead loss is going to become way too familiar. I know it's inevitable, but it still weighs on me. I'm not in the slightest bit prepared to lose my parents.

Let's make Media Presbyterian Church the fifth and final stop on our tour. Formerly a place of comfort, fellowship and strength, my church has become a source of division, stress and disappointment. For those of you who aren't experiencing hell's arrival in your place of worship, let me tell you it sucks. Our senior pastor resigned after it was discovered he had been (and is still) in a relationship with a former coworker while she was employed by the church. (And no, it's not our awesome former children's director, Cara.) His behavior is in direct violation of the Presbyterian Church's Book of Order. And yes, I've only shared the Reader's Digest condensed version with you, partly because it's not proper to air what is actually years worth of dirty laundry, but mostly because I don't want to be sued for libel. Let's just say I feel like Dorothy, seeing the great and powerful Oz behind the curtain. It's been heartbreaking and emotionally and physically exhausting, and I've been bitterly disappointed not only in my pastor but in those whose responsibility it is (as church elders) to make important decisions related to this difficult situation. Even though I'm certain we'll survive this turbulent time, a strong, loving church -- your place of refuge -- is last place you want to see change.

This concludes our tour of Changeland.  I hope you've enjoyed the whine. Please watch the tram car and carefully exit through the gift shop. Come back soon!

Ack! Young Love

All you do, don't tell Abby I'm writing about her. She's not on Facebook and doesn't really care enough about what I'm thinking to check out my blog on her own, so I think I'm safe as long as you don't blab. I'm writing about Abby for two reasons: 1) She's apparently set a new record; and 2) I can't think of anything else to write about.

If you know Abby, you're probably not surprised to hear that she set a record. You may be wondering if it's related to baking, duct tape design, clarinet, hula  hooping, soccer, softball or math. What you probably would never have guessed is that she has apparently broken the middle school record for the longest sixth grade relationship. Yep, you read that right. If you're surprised, imagine how her poor mother felt when she learned four five months ago that Abby has a boyfriend. Just weeks prior to this great reveal (thanks to her brother, of course), I had told a fellow mom that Abby was not in to boys. In fact I'm pretty sure I said something like "I don't think she even knows they exist." Yep, I was that mom. The clueless one saying "My kid would never..." Next thing you know I'll find out Ian's given up computer games in order to take on yard work.  

The good news is that I know Abby's "boyfriend." In fact, they met in church, like all 12-year-old couples should. And did I mention his mom is one of my best friends? And that she isn't shy about "checking on things?"  If she can't find out anything by snooping, she'll actually talk to her son to find out where things stand. In other words, "Are you and Abby still a couple? Have you kissed?" They haven't. That's what we're told and that's what we choose to believe. From all indications, sixth grade dating seems to consist of text messaging, instagram and holding hands while walking around the school track at lunchtime. There's very little talking and even less actual time spent in one another's company. Hence the success of their relationship.

So my Abby has a boyfriend. This explains a lot about the increased frequency with which she showers and brushes her hair. She hasn't changed how she dresses, however, (t-shirts and shorts), but I guess that look works for her. "I'm an athlete mom, not some girly girl," she explains. Point taken. While I'm totally relieved okay with the improvement in her personal hygiene, there's one change in my near-teenage daughter that I can tell is going to cause me great angst for the next five-plus years: her complete lack of interest in sharing anything personal with me.

How did a woman like me who shares everything with everybody, end up with a daughter who doesn't want to tell me squat? When I try to talk to her, I get one word responses that provide me with just enough information to consider the question answered. No attitude or sneering or complete silence involved, but absolutely no details either. For example, when I ask whether she and the boyfriend remain a couple, I get (with no eye contact whatsoever) "Mm hmm." When I suggest she might want to talk to me about him she responds with, "What do you want me to say? You already know him." It's quite clear that Abby will volunteer nothing over the next five-plus years, which means I better figure out the right questions to ask.

Upon further reflection, I should have expected this.

The Christmas when Abby was nine-years-old, I gave her a copy of the popular American Girl book, The Care and Keeping of You. This book offers a way out for those of us who don't want to have this conversation an ideal starting place for the mom/daughter conversation about changing bodies. It covers everything from deodorant and haircare to breasts and periods to friendship and healthy eating. When Abby received the book, I recall a grimace after which it was promptly forgotten. Or so I thought. The next day I suggested to Abby that we talk about it. From there, the conversation went something like this:

"I've already read it."

"All of it?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh. What did you think?" 

"I really didn't need to know all that."

We never did talk about that book. Thank goodness for 5th grade health class or Abby might find herself asking the boy at the bus stop what a period is when she gets to that place in Are You There God, It's Me Margaret? Yes, I did.

So what's a mother to do with a daughter like Abby? Do I force the conversations knowing she'll avoid eye contact and shuffle her feet and behave as though I'm holding her against her will? Do I hope she's got it all figured out and that her friends are providing her with reliable information? (That was a joke.) Do I try to explain that "You don't really 'love him so much.' Here's what love is...?" (Good luck with that.) Do I ask our youth minister to speak to them, warning that God will strike them down should they ever lay a finger on each other?" (Seems like a good time for the scary version of God.)

I know, I know. You're reading this and admonishing me to talk to her, regardless of my her discomfort. Okay. You're right. I know you're right. I'm going to get right on it.

I just think it's prudent to give it another month to see if they're still a couple. These sixth grade relationships generally don't last very long.

 

Random Musings, VIII: Food Edition

It's been too long. I don't usually go two weeks without writing. You know it's not because I have nothing to say. I ALWAYS have something to say. Unfortunately, right now much of what I have to say isn't ideal blog material. There's the new guy I'm working for who's 10+ years younger than me (I'm not sure I'm ready to confess my angst about that). There's the crushing situation impacting my church (it wouldn't be appropriate to share at this point). There's the emotional exhaustion I'm feeling from a ridiculously difficult year that's less than half over (that's depressing). So in the interest of meeting your Freakin' Angel needs (isn't it cute the way I assume you need me?), I'm happy to share a new volume (#8!) of Random Musings. Food Edition.

Those of you who know me well, know that I have a few food issues. For instance, I generally try to avoid anything healthy. I work out so I can eat badly. I also don't like "crunch" in my food. Nothing inside something else that makes its presence known. Example: celery or onions in stuffing. Peppers in crab cakes. I'm pleased to say, however, that I've met someone who has even more food quirks than me. My soul sister and colleague Kelly won't eat lettuce because she thinks it tastes like grass. Not that she's eaten grass, but she assumes that's how it would taste.

But enough about the quirks. Here are some random food-related thoughts from a Freakin' Angel:

1. Fish heads. Seriously, why would a chef think it's a nice idea to put the whole fish, head included, on your plate? How can you eat it when it still has eyes?
2. Uncut chicken breasts on salad. If I'm paying for the salad, the least you can do is cut the damn chicken for me. You know I can't eat it like that, and have you ever tried to cut on top of lettuce? Not particularly effective, which means you have to remove the chicken from the salad to cut it up. This is annoying, especially when you're hungry and just want to get down to business.
3. Shrimp. Along these lines, why do restaurants insist on presenting shrimp with the shell on? I like scampi, but I don't like dipping my hands in the buttery sauce to remove the crunchy part from the main ingredient in my meal (refer to my comments above about crunch).
4. Leftovers. Why do we keep leftovers we know we'll never eat? If you're like me, you wait until they're moldy so you feel justified tossing them. Weird.
5. Storage containers. Speaking of leftovers, is it just me, or does it seem that whichever Tupperware dish you dump your leftovers into, is bound to be the one you can't find a lid for? If you're one of those people with completely organized storage containers, you suck I don't want to know.
   
6. Burnt food. In another example of the head games I play with myself (and my family), I turn burnt food over so the lighter side shows, tricking my brain into thinking it doesn't taste like charcoal.  
7. Bread. Who else leaves the heel of the bread in the bag in the pantry, even though you already opened a new loaf and have no intention of finishing the other? When it's moldy, then you can throw it out.
8. Miniatures. Why does food always taste better in smaller sizes?  Mini cupcakes, pierogies and goldfish, for example. And those miniature bottles of condiments are so darn cute! Of course there's something psychologically befuddling about miniatures, the way you eat way more than if you had just selected the original sized item.
9. Sunflower seeds. What's the deal with the ones with the shells on them? There's so little reward for all the crunching and spitting involved. I don't get the appeal. 
   
10. Vegetables. I have made a fascinating discovery. There is a direct correlation between the number of people who like a certain vegetable and how difficult it is to spell. Research proves me right. According to Ranker.com's list of the most popular vegetables, potato, carrot, onion (bleh), tomato, corn and  peas are among the top 10.  Lower on the list? Broccoli, asparagus, Brussels sprouts, rhubarb, artichokes, cauliflower and zucchini. 

I hope you've enjoyed this food-themed issue of Random Musings. I'd love to hear some of your related random thoughts!

A Timeshare Idiot's Adventures in Vacation Planning

I'm pretty sure that planning a vacation should not be on my fairly long list of parental/family obligations that I dislike. This puts what should be an enjoyable activity in the company of cooking, helping children with their homework and arts and crafts. I think I have a couple things working against me when it comes to family vacations:

1. The family 
2. My damn cheapness thriftiness
3. The freakin' time share we bought years ago

Numbers two and three go together. See, once you buy a timeshare, you feel the need to get your money's worth out of it. This means that you need to use your property or exchange it for another location, and there's never one in the place you really want to vacation. Nor is there one in driving distance. And no, Atlantic City and the Poconos do not count. And forget trying to find a two-bedroom property even though that's what you own. In Orlando. With 80% of all the other foolish timeshare owners in the world. I confess that this is just another example of what happens when you don't listen to your father. The guy who despised the notion of timeshares since you were a little kid. The guy who would occasionally check out a property for the free toaster, and would happily punch the salesman in the nose if he didn't take no for an answer and give him the freakin' toaster at the end of the high pressure presentation. (He didn't really punch anyone in the nose. As far as I know.) Dad knew better than to commit to something like a couple bedrooms at a resort in Florida for the rest of your freakin' life. Yes, even if you're an adult, married with children, your father still knows best.

While we can exchange our week for reward points every other year (we own a Starwood property), 2013 required us to use our week. A use it or lose it situation. With two kids in school and a husband whose summer is half booked with Phillies games, our choices were limited, to say the least. Nothing besides the Poconos and Atlantic City in driving distance. Several options in desert climates. We did that a few years ago. Palm Springs, CA in July. 107 degrees. But it was a dry heat. Like sticking your head in an oven. Good times. The only other option? Ski resort towns. Hence last year's visit to Lake Tahoe. Lake Tahoe, however, was a winner, so guess what we decided on for this summer?

Breckenridge, Colorado.

I did my research. Everything I read said it's lovely there in the summer. Likely to be an identical experience to Tahoe. Bike riding, hiking, horseback riding, whitewater rafting. High altitude sickness. We turn into outdoorsy folks on these trips. And the added bonus? We'd be within 90 minutes of Castle Rock, CO, home to the world's most adorable nephew. My sister and brother-in-law are there too, but I wasn't going to let that stop me. We found reasonable airfare and a three-bedroom resort, and I booked it. Whew. One more thing off my to do list. Next up, window washing.

Yesterday I told the kids of our plans. My ungrateful bastards lovely children asked why we can't go somewhere we haven't been before. Though we've never been to Breckenridge, apparently having gone anywhere in the state before qualifies as having been "there." I heard "Why can't we go to the Bahamas with Noah's and Maddie's families?" "What about Mexico?" "I thought we were going to California?" I responded with "It's too expensive." "It's too expensive." "The flights were too expensive." For good measure I added, "You know there was a little trip to Italy earlier this year. And then there's your pastry camp, Abby. And Girl Scout camp. And Ian's leadership camp, which, I know, I recommended. And sessions with a personal trainer. Oh, and you want private voice lessons. And maybe an acting camp would be nice, too."

Generally, my children are not ungrateful bastards, but this is one of those unpleasant side effects of living in a nice community where everyone seems to take amazing vacations and some even take limos to the airport. And when they're not vacationing in Hawaii or the Caribbean, they kids are headed to some camp that costs more than my freakin' timeshare. I end up having to guilt my kids into appreciating what they have. "When I was a kid I went to Disney World once and every other summer was spent at the Jersey shore and we loved it. So pipe down, kid, or you can spend your vacation in your bedroom. Without the computer."

Talk about your first world problems.

Before I wrap this up, have I mentioned there's a two-bedroom Sheraton resort property in Orlando that's available for a steal? It's like brand new. The current owners have never used it. Let me know if you're interested.