Who Forgot to Bring the Pack Mule

    I've discovered, recently, that people get to the beach in a variety of ways.  Some take shuttles, some walk foot-trails through the mangrove and others step right out their door to the sandy shores. Our path to the beach, this summer, included a double digit number of stairs that led us to the water's edge.  Navigating this staircase would take some pre-planning and possibly some beta blockers to ensure I made it back from the beach alive.


    At ten years of age, I would dart out that door to the beach with nothing but a bathing suit and a child-like excitement about what the day held in store.  In my 20's, I would grab some sunscreen and a cool beverage as I began my trek to the beach.  At 47, it's just not that simple anymore. I came to this great realization when I discovered that I had wedged myself between the front door and the staircase with a six foot raft and a foam boogie board.  One hand held an ipod dock, a bottle of sunscreen and the raft.  The other hand held a freshly made pina colada, a fluffy towel straight out of the dryer and my cell phone. A large bag full of snorkels, masks, chips, water shoes and enough medical supplies to perform surgery on the beach, hung from one shoulder.  One wrong move and it would all come tumbling down.  If I turned to open the door, the front of the raft blocked my exit. If I turned the opposite direction, the staircase caught the back of the raft and once again, my path of egress was blocked.  It was a vicious circle I had found myself in and there was no getting out until one of my kids flew through the door, breaking the raft free of its bonds, allowing me to leave without pouring a perfectly chilled coconut beverage all over myself.   It didn't help that I held my car keys in my mouth and was unable to yell for help. 


    Eventually, I did break free and made my way down the 57 wooden steps to the sea.  I'm certain I looked like some kind of peddler toting enough goods to set up a small convenience store on the beach.   Families rolled in with tents and coolers and wagons full of children all ready for a full day on the shore.  I sensed them eyeing my clever drink with frosty goodness and a tiny umbrella, knowing that the closest pool bar was twenty miles away.   Jimmy Buffett sang to me from my i-dock, the kids were slathered in SPF 30 titanium dioxide, and I settled back on my April Fresh fluffy towel to sip my drink and watch the kids.  I looked around at the small villages that we, as parents, had established on the beach to properly care for all the needs of our families and had to wonder who forgot to bring the pack mule.  Getting back up those steps of death would require assistance from a pack animal or a team of cardiologists.  I took comfort in my drink and left that worry for the day's end.  I was on the beach where worries disappear.   

The Magical Lure of The Emerald Coast

 

 

   There are some places in this world that are so wonderful that it's worth driving fourteen hours for, even if three of those hours are in bumper to bumper traffic moving at five miles an hour or less. This year's travel challenge is the Emerald Coast on the Fourth of July Holiday.  Families from all over the southeast made their pilgrimage to the Florida beaches for that traditional four o'clock check-in at one of the thousands of condos on the water.  Ours is situated between Destin and Panama City Beach somewhere east of pricey Seaside and west of Barrett Square, with it's cobblestone streets and picture perfect families on bikes. 

   On one of our many summer trips to Florida, I longed to be that family of happy cyclists and we loaded up five bicycles in the back of a truck that followed my car all the way to the beach.  As we took to the streets with no helmets on, I was quick to interpret the looks from fellow cyclists that let me know I was endangering my children who wore no protective gear, other than sunscreen.  We were from the country where kids drove all terrain vehicles before they could walk.  I think their heads were in much more danger then.  We made it about 200 feet from the condo when I began to hear the first complaint that it was much too hot for this.  I clung to that image of us rolling down the sidewalk with the breeze in our hair and happiness in our hearts.  We pushed on a few blocks more and stopped for t-shirts and water.  It was fast approaching a hundred degrees and nobody wanted to be peddling a bike around.  As we dripped sweat and gasped for air, I realized it was not happiness in our hearts, but possibly a blockage and lack of oxygen. I led us home, before one of us, most likely me, had a stroke.  We arrived safely back to the condo and never touched a bicycle again.  We now play a game called, "What's the cyclist really thinking?" as we drive past them in our air-conditioned vehicle headed somewhere in the cool.
    
   After coming to terms with who we really are, our condo selection fits us perfectly, now.  We are a few steps from the beach and a few steps from the pool, giving us immediate access to water activities all day long. In between the two, we have a balcony where we can sip tropical drinks and watch the waves roll in, my favorite vacation activity of all.  My bicycle is 600 miles away and I could not be happier. 

    The first day here, I sat on the beach and looked to my right where I could see Seaside and I looked to my left where I could see the towers of Panama City Beach.   I thought back to the many trips I have made to these beaches and one of the most pleasant ones was to the Sandpiper Beacon Hotel in Panama City Beach when I was ten years old.

    I remember leaving my grandparents home, just after midnight, to make that long journey to the coast in a station wagon with my mother, father, brother and cousins.  There was a special place in the back of the vehicle where two tiny seats faced sideways. If you were small enough and could squeeze your feet between the suitcases and the Coleman cooler, you could make this a comfy spot for most of the ride, as long as you weren't prone to car sickness, vertigo, seizures, or simply bothered by seeing the country fly past you at 70 miles an hour.  You saw nothing coming and nothing going for ten hours, simply a blur of farmland and rice fields flying past in a continuous sweep of color that the eyes could not follow for too long.    

    While parts of the trip have faded from memory, I have snapshots in my mind of my family standing on the balcony of our hotel, happy and complete for the time being.   I remember our friend Bennie Hughes arriving in his brand new corvette, looking like Burt Reynolds. He was much like the favorite uncle who made everything wonderful and fun. Sandwiches and Kool-Aid were the menu choices for lunch and it didn't get any better. We learned that a non-sailing family should learn the difference in a shark and a dolphin before renting a catamaran and taking to the open water.  We moved as a large group and got air-brush t-shirts, went deep sea fishing, rode the rides at the Miracle Strip and went to Spinnakers nightclub, where I saw my first glimpse of a bar. The people in those memories are important to me and most have gone their separate ways now.   As I sit on the beach today and think back to the fun that has been found here, I wonder where these people from my past have all gone and hope that they still love the beach as much as I do.  It was magical then and still holds that same gift for those who are brave enough to face the traffic and the masses and make their way here, whether it's in a corvette, an air-conditioned SUV, or a truck full of bikes. 

    My children have the same love of the water as I do and our trips to the beach are just as great as a 1970's trip to the Sandpiper Beacon. Instead of grape Kool-aid, it is a pink-lemonade snow cone from Frost Bites that we crave. We still haven't learned to correctly identify dark objects in the water and confuse dolphins with sharks and seaweed with sting rays.  We continue to venture out into the open water, paddling our foam boards, knowing we look like seals and hoping the sharks fed early.  The beach and the water call to us, often from 600 miles away. I hope that one day my children take their place on the sand, early in the morning, with a cup of coffee in hand, nobody around, look east and then look west and smile as those snapshots in their mind come back one after another. I'm certain some of the faces in their photos will be gone, just as they are in mine, but I hope they understand the treasure that is held in those memories and know that it is greater than any loss can ever take away from them.   

 Panama City Beach

1970's

Not my family... but certainly could have been.

Someone, smarter than I, thought to catch it on film.  

Wingdings and Chain Gangs

    My son has been helping me create a video for a going away party at work.  He has crazy, good editing skills and my job is to sit in the background, providing snacks and chilled drinks while he works his madness with the photos I have provided.  He zips through screens, clicking and copying and selecting computer options I didn't even know exist.  While choosing the font for the narrative, we ran across an old friend... the "Wingdings" font of Microsoft Word.  I've never really understood what this series of odd symbols was used for.  While it has been rumored to hide anti-semitic messages and 911 references, I highly doubt that anyone is going to take the time to type out a cryptic message of terror in Microsoft word using wingdings and curly font. That being said, I have been guilty of using a few symbols in my text messages of fear sent to my children when they don't answer their cell phones.  "Call Your Mother NOW" is usually followed with a frowny face, an exclamation point and a man in a bathtub.  For the life of me, I can't figure out how anyone could find a way to tuck that icon into a message, so I choose to use it every chance I get.  I will follow it with "grrrrr" and a heart symbol to reassure them that while I'm mad, I still love them.  They will certainly be in therapy over all of this by the time they are thirty.  

    Back to the video....after selecting the perfect font, background music and precise layout of pictures, I chilled his un-sweet tea to the proper temperature, dropped a Russian tea cake in his mouth, spun around in the office chair a few more times and stopped suddenly when he announced the most disturbing thing.. "I think I'm supposed to be in traffic court today?"  What!?!    Two thoughts instantly came to mind. How could anyone wait until the day of court to wonder if it is their day in court, and, secondly....Did I send in the deposit for our beach rental? I realize that the second thought was random, but that is how one's brain works after they have twirled around in a chair for twenty minutes and are suddenly thrown against the proverbial brick wall with incomprehensible information.

    I gathered my family, none of whom wanted to miss Joey's day in court, and headed out like a herd of turtles to traffic court. My family is incapable of moving quickly as a group, as someone has always forgotten something or we need to make stops for water, gas, or possibly chicken on a stick.  We made it to the courthouse with minutes to spare.  Knowing my family's curse of being unable to navigate through a security check point with ease, we cleared our pockets of cell phones, electronic gaming devices, pocket knives and nail files and entered the courthouse.  Of course, I was the one was brought down in shame as the security guard snatched my purse from the x-ray machine and shoved his arm into the depths of mystery that is the contents of my purse.  I stood frozen, not knowing what contraband I might be toting unaware, as he pulled out my government cell phone. Dang... I had forgotten about my second phone.  After giving me that look of disgust, he rummaged through a gathering of lip glosses, coupons, pony tail holders and feminine hygiene products to ensure I wasn't trying to bring in anything deadly.   I smiled kindly, as he invaded my privacy, and I remembered the dried up lizard I had pulled out of my son's pocket years ago while doing laundry. I wished it was in my purse even though none of this was his fault. 

    We made our way to the courtroom completely unaware that there were two courtrooms... one for criminal court and one for traffic court. And yes... we took our seats in criminal court, not knowing that the judge would soon be looking for the missing teenager two doors down. While waiting for the court to start, my daughter was demonstrating her one handed knot tying skills with pony tail holders. It was an impressive trick and I, of course, had to learn this skill immediately.  It appears I didn't have the finger dexterity of a child and pony tail holders were flying across the courtroom as they shot off of my fingertips.  Court was not in session yet, so, it was simply pre-court entertainment for the other traffic offenders, or so we thought.   I now understand why the man in front of us sat huddled over, head in hands, in great despair.  It wasn't because of flying pony tail holders, the small family circus I travel with or the threat of a traffic violation.  He was there for something much more serious. 

    The judge entered and it was the mother of one of my son's good friends.  We settled back in false hope that this might go our way.  The first person called to the stand had a last name that began with "A." This could work out nicely, as  we should be out early if they were moving in alphabetical order.  Unfortunately, the next move was completely unexpected and left us all with our mouths open, chins on the floor.  After Mr. "A" was carted off to jail, the bailiff brought in the chain gang!  My son's eyes were wide as saucers and my daughter sat frozen to her seat.  The group moved in unison steps as the chains that bound their arms and legs clinked across the courtroom.  I looked at my son and said, "See, that's what happens if you miss court."   He found no humor in that statement and was still in a mild state of shock. We listened to the tails of larceny, burglary and battery and I wondered where failure to yield came into play in this courtroom of non-moving violations.    As the criminals were escorted away, one by one, the room cleared and I assumed that our friend's mother, the judge, was possibly holding my son's case for last so she could visit with him privately and say hello.  I was clearly wrong as a new bailiff approached and informed us we were wanted in the courtroom next door.  We gathered our pony tail holders and sunken spirits from the floor and moved as a group to the next courtroom, clearly marked "Traffic Court."  I didn't feel too bad about our mistake as I knew our courtroom had been much more entertaining than what we were about to enter.  We opened the courtroom doors and I prayed that my daughter would not ask, once again, for all to hear, if this was Judge Judy's court.  The room was packed and we were forced to move to the front of the courtroom, making it clear to all that we were late, loud, and probably going down in flames soon. We took our seats quietly trying to disappear into the crowd. Suddenly, I heard my name being called in a whisper from three rows back.  More attention was the last thing we needed.  Surely, I didn't know somebody in court.  It was a former employee of mine and he wanted to let me know that they had already called my son's name. I thanked him and told him our story in few words and hand gestures, pointing to the other courtroom.  What I needed was a Wingding message that said, "We're idiots - The judge is going to kill us."   

Did you really de-code this?  Good for you! 

    It wasn't long before my son took his place in front of the judge and I have to say that he could not have been any kinder to my child.  Joey walked up with head high, shoulders back, took responsibility for his actions and followed every statement with "sir."  "Yes sir, No sir." While I could not hear everything that was said, I could make out a discussion about where my child would go to college and about bringing those new found skills back to our community some day. While I had new found skills of tying a knot with one hand, I'm certain I should not bring those back to the courtroom ever. 

    As we headed out the doors of the correct court, I heard the judge yell at the next person before him, "Stand Up Straight When I'm Talking To You."  I breathed a sigh of relief, said goodbye to the security guard and headed in the other direction than the pour souls in stripes and chains.  While everyone is entitled to their day in court, I know that I would prefer my day elsewhere and am thankful for the good children that I am blessed with.     

(Thank you Katie A for asking for another story)

Proclamations From The Car Seat

   While traditional navigation methods include the use of a sextant, compass and chronometer, I've discovered that children have a different view of the world and use the tools available to them to learn their way home.  From an early age, my daughter could look up from her car seat and see only the tops of highway signs as we traveled all over the country.  She learned to recognize them and associated them with places we would go.  As we would near the interstate exit leading to our house, she could see the incredibly tall McDonald's sign that shone like a beacon from two exits away.  The tiny princess in the convertible rear facing car seat would see the familiar yellow glow of the sign as we passed and immediately ask if we were back in our land.   I suppose our trips to the grocery store or across the country felt more like a journey across feudal lands to a child. When you are two, the world revolves around you and in the typical egocentric style of a monarch, the signs of home are signs of your world and your land.  The McDonald's sign was a clear landmark that we were indeed home and back in our land. 


   It became a game to see who could spot the first beacon of light from the glowing McDonald's landmark and someone in the car would yell out, at ear piercing levels, "I see the McDonald's sign, first!"  It was much like claiming the land yours and all other passengers would sink down into their seats in regret that they weren't paying better attention as defeat sunk in and they wished that they would have been the one to announce such grand information.    It's nothing that an M & M McFlurry can't cure though.  

   At our McDonald's, that masquerades as an Omni Station, there is a bench with a replica of Ronald McDonald sitting on it.  The kids have always climbed all over this poor clown.  Once, while traveling outside our land, we stopped at another McDonald's where my daughter discovered, a moment too late, that the man sitting on the end of the bench with his leg crossed and arm outstretched was not the fake Ronald and instead was a very concerned elderly gentleman trying to figure out why kids were suddenly crawling on him and why I didn't promote stranger danger awareness through better parenting skills.  


   When traveling home from business, I call my kids and announce that I am almost home. All references to my location revolve around the McDonald's sign.   If I say, "I can see the McDonald's sign, first" it means that mom is only minutes from the house.  I could be stuck in concourse B of the Hartsfield International Airport or be three miles from my exit and it would make no difference unless I could see the McDonald's sign.   It is the main point of reference for all travel.  


   My children's friends learned quickly about the importance of being the first one to see the sign and often one of them would pipe up from three rows back and remind us that our land might actually be their land, too, as they proclaimed the sighting of the tall yellow sign. Oddly, I was riding with a friend one day and as we neared our exit to home, their child was quick to announce that she saw the McDonald's sign first.  My tradition had taken flight and now others were using my lighthouse, my landmark, my beacon of home.   I wasn't sure if I liked this or not.  I think they may have been confusing my land with their land, but since there is no monarchy in town, I suppose we can share our tall yellow sign.  It's always best to get everyone back safe and sound and knowing you are under the soft glow of the golden arches is a sure sign of a safe journey home for all. 


   Landmarks of home are different for different people.  Our daughter in Denver relies on a giant blue pony outside of the airport.  My brother relies on perfectly aligned bottles of water in his refrigerator. Others may look for lighthouses or sky needles or simply a welcoming face at the front door. There are often many paths that lead to home and even though they may not be traveled as often as we wish, the knowledge of knowing they are there, makes all the difference.  


   My own navigation skills were directly inherited from my father and I never feel lost no matter where I am.  I learned early that there is always a road or a path that will take me home.  I may have to drive through some rice fields or catch a second plane, but getting home has never been a problem for me.  I hope that my children understand the importance of landmarks and recognize the paths homeward no matter where they travel.  They don't need a sextant or a compass or a GPS system to guide them, as long as McDonald's continues to place ridiculously tall signs along their path.  


   While other families are now battling to determine who sees the McDonald's sign first, I know that one day, my children will call from their own car, with their own children, and I hope I hear someone exclaim, "I see the McDonald's sign, first."  I will then know that my children have learned the importance of finding their way home.  

Strategic Planning With The Mystic Eye

  

   While cleaning out my son's room this weekend, I ran across The Mystic Eye, Fortune Telling Machine.  I love this toy and instantly retrieved it from a pile of Lego's and discarded trophies and placed it in a position of importance on my kitchen bar.  I informed my family that all future decision making would be done by The Mystic Eye.  My daughter's eyes lit up with excitement and my son rolled his, knowing full well that my decisions are not driven by a toy fortune teller. Allie grabbed the machine, popped in a coin and asked the ever important question, "Will I be a good cheerleader?"  The eyeball proudly announced that she most certainly would be.  Thrilled with the validation of her expert cheering skills and natural spirit, she tumbled off to try different ways to braid her hair and still maintain a high level of cuteness.  I asked if I would ever get any rest from the constant cleaning and cooking and after some time pondering the question, the eye informed me that it was highly doubtful.  Damn eyeball.  Perhaps I'm asking the wrong questions.  

   In fact, there are a few unanswered questions that would be worth dropping a few coins for.  I would like to know how it is that I came home from work one day to discover that the front door of our entertainment cabinet had been broken right down the middle and carefully placed back together, waiting for the next person to simply touch it and have it fall to the ground in pieces.  If only the Mystic eye could tell me which child was hanging from the hinges and broke my living room furniture.  I would like to know who stole my jewelry, my boyfriend, and/or my dog at certain points in my life.  These are things that would be handy to know.  

   As I map out my retirement plans for the future and strategically secure my place as a financially sound, old woman, I should have asked the eye if I should buy Facebook stock instead of relying on my terrible stock market instincts and media hype.  I would be richer today had I taken guidance from the floating oracle in a box that sits in my kitchen.  Of course,  I only invested what I could afford to lose and I don't think ten shares of worthless stock will affect my future standard of living.  You have to invest big to win big, so I will never be rich from the stock market. The mystic eye will confirm this I'm sure.     

   My son passed at his chance to ask the eye about his future and chose to continue with his online studies of reconfiguring the iPhone and ways to legally download unreleased movies in European countries not under U.S. jurisdiction.  He paid me no attention as I asked about colleges, pay raises, future daughter-in-laws, and other important topics.  The eye offered little useful information.   

   My daughter tumbled back into the kitchen, donning a perfect fishtail braid, popped a coin into the mystic eye and asked if she would be a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader.  The eye confirmed our future travels to Dallas and Allie tumbled off knowing her future was secure. 

   I left the eye and wandered off to check email.  I noticed a suspicious message from FedEx stating that my package had been detained at customs and I had to wonder what my son may have ordered from his international friends, as I had not ordered anything online since the Chalene Extreme Workout tapes and my failed attempt at Buns of Steel.  And why was it detained, I wondered.  The email went on to explain that I needed to confirm personal information and I chose to walk away from it, suspecting a phishing scheme.   I should ask the Mystic eye.    Perhaps it can shed some light.   I can only hope it isn't a live animal or something, now waiting in a state of perpetual hold because I'm not giving up my personal info.  I never really know what is going to arrive here as my husband orders from the on-line hunting shows, my son orders parts to computers that I didn't even know exist and my daughter has begged me to buy the "Grow Your Own Butterfly Garden" with live butterfly larva.  Realizing now that customs does detain certain objects, I'm reminded of a 4th grade project where I had to write a report about Alaska.  I wrote to the governor asking for information about their great state and if they could send me a penguin.  I had faith that my new pet would be shipped straight to my house, without delay,  because I was very polite in my asking. I'm still waiting for that penguin today.  I only hope it didn't get stuck at customs with butterfly larva and unreleased operating systems. Next time I'm in the kitchen, I'll ask the eye if my rare Alaskan penguin will ever arrive.  It's been a terribly long wait and I'm certain the Mystic eye knows.  Until then, I understand that we now have a copy of the next Twilight Movie we can watch as long as we don't mind it being in Russian.  

  

Parking Over Things That Burn

    My car has been making a screeching noise that sounds like I’m dragging one of those folding aluminum lawn chairs with a cat attached to it.  Since my husband and I are both half deaf and have one good ear between the two of us, I cannot, for the life of me, pinpoint if the sound is coming from the front of the car or the rear.  His inability to hear high pitched tones complicates the matter and he thinks I’m simply crazy, because according to him, nothing is wrong.  It finally took a ten year old boy at the neighborhood bus stop to flag me down and tell me that I needed rear brakes.  Thank God for young ears. 

    Now that we knew the problem and I had retained a child mechanic, my husband was headed to buy brake pads.  I suggested that it might be a good time to buy spark-plugs, as well, since mine had never been changed in 168,000 miles.   As he was headed out the door, he asked me what size engine I had.  “Big,” is the only answer I have for such a ludicrous question.  Big and gray.  I think there is a number 3 on it, too, if that helps.   The next thing he asked me was even more ridiculous…”Where are your spark plugs?”   “I don’t know… in the glove box, perhaps.”  We got the manual out and began to look for a chapter on spark plugs and engine maintenance.  Out of a 191 page manual, most of it was dedicated to programming the radio and where to put fluids.  I am well schooled in both of those arts.  Liquids go in the cup holder and the radio is always programmed by whichever kid is lucky enough to sit in the front seat.  I did notice some rather concerning material in the manual, however, as we thumbed through it.  The first chapter began with “How to start the engine.”  Okay, if you just bought a $40,000 SUV and you don’t know how to start the engine, you should probably just put the manual down and walk away.  Another chapter was entitled, “Parking Over Things That Burn.”   Really!?!?!?  Was this a necessary chapter to write?  If you figure out how to start your car and then park on top of the burn pile, you truly don’t deserve a luxury automobile or any automobile at all.  

    My curiosity was tweaked at this point and I reviewed the entire manual, only to determine that it is grossly incomplete. It is clear that many chapters should be replaced with information that would actually be handy to know.  We can start with “The Spark Plugs Go Here” and follow that with a giant arrow.  There should be a chapter entitled, “No, You Aren’t Dragging a Cat, That’s Your Brakes Screaming.”   This is the kind of information people truly need.  The chapter about parking over things that burn should be replaced with “Don’t Park On Top of a Tree Stump in Your Friend’s Yard Because You Think Your Car Stereo Should Be Close To The Pool.”  This will be followed with “Why You Can’t Move Your Gear Shift and What Linkage Is.”  A second manual should accompany this manual which instructs you how to call your father and explain that your car is pivoting on a dead Oak stump.  Note that it does not help to tell him not to hurry because you’ll be catching some rays by the pool.   Now that I think of it, it would have been useful to have had a chapter on “Eight Kids Riding On the Top Of Your Car Does Not Make it a Float.”  This, too, would direct you to the accompanying manual on calling one’s father with bad news.

    Learning from personal experience, additional chapters should include “How to Fit an Eight Foot Christmas Tree In a Seven Foot Long Vehicle”, “Don’t Leave a Chicken In Your Trunk”, “What To Do When You’ve Rolled Your Hair Up in the Window and You Discover This While Entering the I-285/85 Interchange at Eighty Miles An Hour” and “That Witch Just Stole My Parking Space, License Numbers, Internet and the Consequences of Retaliation through Social Media.”

    These are the chapters that could have helped me out along the way.   My kids have shed new light on automobile ownership and while actual chapters are not needed, I think a basic sharing of information could be nice.  Perhaps a link to a website could be offered that explains how to negotiate front seat passenger seating without having full scale sibling warfare.  It could share photos offering explanations on what that goo is in the third row back seat (no man’s land) that obviously melted there three months earlier and now resembles a silicone polymer, not unlike Silly Putty.

    In fact, as the car manual is developed and addendums are created and links are published, a special tool should be crafted and added to the manual that goes with the chapter on “The Place of No Return and How to Fish your Debit Card Out from Between the Seats When Your Hand Will Not Fit, No Matter How Hard You Try.”  The chapter after that will be “We Told You Your Hand Wouldn’t Fit, Now Here’s How to Start the Car and Drive Home with One Hand Permanently Lodged Between the Seats.”    

    Until, Detroit or Hong Kong invites mothers to assist in the development of their auto manuals, I will continue to drive with squealing noises, outdated spark plugs and a plethora of treasure located between the seats that will never come out of hiding.  Luckily, I can take comfort knowing that the risk of my parking on burning objects has been greatly reduced now that I have actually read my owner’s manual.  Thank you Acura.

Snapped Rabbit

Photo Courtesy of Hershey's

   There is almost no greater joy than the pure chocolaty goodness that lies in the rectangular patterns of a Hershey’s bar.  While some people enjoy cigarettes or liquor or even illegal drugs of choice, my addiction lies in the innocence of a candy bar.  It is something that is enjoyed in small pieces, savored, one rectangle at a time.  Whatever genius designed this heavenly creation, divided the bar into 12 miniature rectangles, all looking like a small version of the whole.  It’s mind boggling if you really think about it.  It’s much like putting two mirrors together and seeing into infinity.  With each bite of Hershey’s bar you find more rectangles calling your name.   A wise person knows not to listen to their sirens call, but to snap off only one or two pieces and move on without looking back.  

Photo Courtesy of B Jobse

   My children know the power of the Hershey’s bar and fully understand that stressful events can bring on the dipping of chocolaty bites into a jar of JIF peanut butter.  It’s a marriage that no man can ever put asunder.   While the old saying goes “Don’t get caught with your hand in the cookie jar”  I’ve discovered that my entire hand fits into a jar of JIF peanut butter when I think no one is looking.  It has happened more than once that I’ve been caught at the midnight hour with my hand deep in the JIF jar with chocolaty crumbs all around.   

   Around Easter, the Hershey’s company raises the bar on confectionery delights by bringing us “Snapsy,” a chocolate Easter bunny with body parts carefully molded to “snap” apart into mouth-size pieces.  Everyone knows that ears are the first body part to go on Easter Bunnies and Snapsy was designed for the entire auditory section to break away first.  Now, I admit to cheating on Hershey’s during the Lenten season because of a secret pleasure in biting off the ears of tiny generic brand bunnies, but Snapsy has brought me back into the fold.  The discovery of this magical creature taught me brand loyalty as my daughter and I learned that Snapped Rabbit may actually bring more joy than the twelve tiny bars of the standard Hershey’s candy bar.  Of course, Snapped Rabbit is only available at Easter.  This is probably for the best, as I’m not sure that one could endure such joy all year long without losing appreciation for the gift they had been given. 

   For about a week, once a year, after school snacks include Snapped Rabbit.  I’ve discovered that this is concerning to visiting friends when offered such culinary delights.   An instant look of panic comes over the children’s faces as my own children and I clamor to retrieve refrigerated bunny parts.  Once they see that there is no braised rabbit in a pot and only peanut butter and chocolate, they welcome Snapped Rabbit with open arms and open mouths.   

   Sadly, my daughter still prefers the hollowed out chocolate bunnies that she can slowly devour body part by body part.  No snapping is required, just giant, aggressive bites.  I have to admit that there is something therapeutic about biting off the heads of these creatures, but it's just too difficult to dip the fragile parts in peanut butter.  The chocolate breaks off in the jar and once again, you find yourself wrist deep in the JIF jar trying to gather bunny parts.    

   The Easter season is over now and it's time to toss out the remaining body parts lying around the house.  Chocolate legs and tails remain in cellophane packages and will never be enjoyed. Snapsy, who was brilliantly designed with an algebraic method for manipulating assorted shapes into bunny parts, is long gone. We will now return to an orderly world of geometric solids made of Hershey's love and chocolaty goodness.  Life is good.