Let's BLOG Flip Flops on Fire

Grocery shopping.  Got to LOVE it.  Like an impacted molar.

But alas.  If I didn't hit Market Basket in the next 24 hours, my family will submit to knawing on the cabinetry.  So off I went.

In my flip flops.

The same flip flops I wore during a week long trip to Disney. When it was close to boiling point and the sweat from every last gland in my body dripped down my legs and pooled beneath my feet.

Still. They are fairly new flip flops. And quite pretty.

So I wore them to Market Basket.

I was en route, about halfway there when I smelled a certain distinctive stench.  Something between mildew and a tub of Gorgonzola cheese.

It was then I was reminded of the flip flops.

I hadn't washed them since the trip.  And now my feet were consumed of some sort of chemically  rank reaction.

But it was too late to turn back.  I proceeded to Market Basket.  Hoping that no one else would have to bear the wrath of my smelly ass feet.

Course there I had only made it down aisle TWO.  Aisle TWO I tell you when a little four year old boy, all of three feet tall made a special announcement.  "AW, what's that s m e l l l l l l l l l l?"  Being that he was all of four years of age and his mommy being depressed about being at Market Basket when she could be floating along some relaxing riverbank somewhere with an orange dream bar in hand, the boy was ignored.  Except by me.

I acknowledged that smell.  I knew it had to be my feet.

Sure I hashed out some other explanation for the smell like it was the hot roasted rotisserie chicken in my cart or perhaps the old balding man in the motorized cart blazed his saddle between the pork and beans.

I got to get me one of those.  Carts I mean.

With a list two hundred items long and it being past supper time, I shoved ahead, smelly ass shoes and all.  But at least they looked pretty.  And the little boy could go back to that thing called INHALING.

Two more aisles down, the cereal department, Little Boy arrives with family in tote.

I shuffle along but can't avoid the next announcement.  Bolder than the last one.

"AW,  NOT THAT SMELL AAAAAGAIN..."  This time Little Boy smacks his forehead in disbelief and stumbles around.  Either trying to track the smell or find a device to resuscitate his lungs.

Folks, I was raised to be a LADY.  So the admittance of my smelly ass feet is not easy for me.  But I am also honest and forthright.  That boy was right ON.  There WAS a smell.  And it was most definitely MY flip flops. 

In fact, I am somewhat of a child expert so when I heard that last outcry, I knew its translation. I must also point out that children of this size haven't yet gained a vocabulary of four letter words that we adults use to express how we are feeling at any given moment.  Especially when you're all of three feet tall and someone has smelly ass shoes and you are in a grocery store.  AW, NOT THAT SMELL AGAIN translates to:  $@%! Mom, Dad, what the $@%! kind of %@&*%! smell is that? Why do you always %@&*%! make me come to this store? $@%!" 

I did the only thing I could do.  ABORT.  I exited the aisle leaving only a faint but deadly trail of smelly ass feet behind me and sought out the nearest personal hygiene aisle.

I found myself a can of  Men's SPORT GUARD 250 Super-maxi strength aerosol deodorant and sprayed that mother all over my smelly ass flip flops.  Right there in aisle 11. One foot at a time.

I continued on with the grocery shopping, and my sulking, and eventually checking out.  That poor little boy was now at a different registry aisle begging for candy.  I should have bought him a lollipop at least.  But I feared if I take one more step toward him he may just take his own life before he could say $@%!

half-a-mom

Let's BLOG How NOT to Plan Disney

You got one shot.  One ticket to Disney for seven.  Five nights. Six days.  Non-stop Mickey and Minnie magic making all your dreams come true and emptying your wallet as fast as you can say Jiminy Cricket!

I'm no worldly traveler.  And I'm no frequent flyer either.  My feet are best planted on this New Hampshire dirt walking through the woods on a snowy evening. 

So rather than advise you HOW to plan and give you all these fabulous tips worthy of Pintrest's Pinner of the Year award, I'll just tell you how NOT to plan Disney.  And leave it at that.

 1. Don't plan the Disney trip for the end of flipping June.  Unless you feel like frying sunny side-up with a side of  SWEAT from your EYEBALL go anytime, any season BUT June. I literally steamrolled myself  with sunblock thinking that hot Floridian sun had no chance of getting in without a passport, and I was still fifty shades of lobster. It was somewhere between Fantasyland and the Little Mermaid ride that children started swooning me asking for my autograph. Something about a guy named Sebastian?  Not my fault.  I sweat that SPF 2025 off just standing in Security Check.  Ironically, you could roast a small cornish hen for four while waiting in the seventeen hour lines.

  

2. Don't overestimate your poor meal planning expertise either.  Because it'll be the first day in Florida.  En route to Sea World.  You woke up early and made a whole backpack of sandwiches, fruit, and drinks.  It'll be RIGHT after you purchase your tickets, and RIGHT before the Shamu show when the Official Seaworld Backpack Inspector will empty that backpack right into the garbage can.  No worry, though.  Bring along the auntie, the same one that tore up the basketball court like a one woman torpedo, and she will go Shaq all over that can to salvage  a few peanut butters and jellies for her family.

3.  Forget about the little outfits.  You know, the new clothes, a few tops, your kids' matching sundresses.  You just want comfort.  At one point you will be swimming in three kinds of something: Shamu spit,  sweat, and torrential rain debris.  Anyone visiting Disney should just be naked in a poncho.

 4. You can fill that backpack, purse, or stroller with a Polar Spring factory of water, but when it's 112 degrees outside and you're sweating your ass off, it doesn't matter what frozen ass treat they have in those carts, you're buying.  It could be a frozen radish on a stick.  You're buying.  A slushie can of albacore tuna, you're buying.  If that cart has something with shaved, slushed, or frozen ANYTHING in it, even if it's 2.3 ounces, even if the Cart Boy says, "that'll be $27.50 each," when you're as hot as hell, you'll say, "I'll take FOUR!"

5.  Transportation.  Have it.  Plan it.  BE it.  We planned on having FREE transportation.  A shuttle service we saw in our resort brochure stated "PAID SHUTTLE SERVICE."  We assumed that meant FREE and ended up stranded come first day of Disney.  After a 'slight' altercation with a front desk concierge that fancied talking in circles at 110 miles per hour, we committed to a taxi service.  It was more like hooking up with a burnt out valet hippie from Hawaii 5-0.  He was the best money for your buck really.  At least that's what the local resort prostitutes said.

6. Autographs.  You'll buy the book.  At the Disney Store of course.  It'll be like 25, 30 pages or so, a page for each character at Disney.  Suddenly, it's Day Four of your trip, that book will be blank, and you're so desperate you'd take anybody's autograph.  Even one of Ariel's twelve sisters, you know, with the knee-length hair and absurdly huge cleavage that no one seems to say anything about, or the guy with knickers on the roof with Mary Poppins.  If you don't feel like waiting an hour and a half for a Disney character autograph, that book is going home with nothing but a signature from a trolley attendant wearing Mickey ears. 

7. Erase the idea that you are going to make some second honeymoon out of this Disney trip. Especially if you bring two kids, two nieces, and an auntie with you. It won't matter if you are on vacation.  Or that there is a four person hot tub with bubbly jets right there in your master bedroom. There will be NO action in Disney.  Except for when you try the wave pool at Typhoon Lagoon.  That ten foot wave will make a Pinocchio out of any man when you come barreling toward him, arms thrashing, legs straddling, coming up for air.  Strangely as I was leaving, I was asked many times where I was from.  Those tourists are very friendly.

8. Shoes.  For Pluto's sake, WEAR FLIP FLOPS.  Sure.  You got forty seven miles to walk in five days and normally sneakers would be the sensible choice.  But unless you want blisters or your feet to ACTUALLY smoke at the heel, wear flip flops. Let those feet breathe.  Just be sure to fumigate them in boiled lye once you return home.

9. The rollercoasters. EVERYBODY but your mother will tell you "you have to ride the rollercoasters!"  You got the Kraken, the Mantra, the Hulk, Space Mountain, The Mummy, rollercoasters that will actually state "rides at turbulent speed" "strobe lighting" and "sudden drops and turns in the dark."  They might as well say "YOU ARE IN IMMINENT DANGER OF DEATH." Once you've sat in that line for 75 minutes, sweating and listening to your kids fight about the last purple skittle in your backpack, you're IN.  Your seatbelt is ON and you are going for a ride to the depths of HELL and back again and the only thing that's keeping your skull on your spine is a four inch wide velcro strap.  Refrain from eating any substance that requires swallowing before a ride on a Disney rollercoaster.  Unless you don't mind smelling of yesterday's chicken fajita with a side of chili.

and 10. NEVER be late for a plane.  Even if your valet hippie has you an hour and a half late. Or there's an accident on the freeway.  Or you just DIED on a Disney rollercoaster.  Be on TIME for the plane and sit your dead ass carcass down with your kids before take-off.  Enough said.  And have a magical time in Disney!

WATCHING GIRLS GROW UP.

I always wanted to have a son. Mostly because I wanted to teach him to play sports and maybe even live vicariously through him like everybody else gets to do.  But when my wife and I had trouble having kids at first, I just wanted a healthy baby. After being blessed with my second daughter, I got the hint.  I'm not having any sons so be the best father possible to those little girls.  I now have decided that having daughters isn't so bad, I still get hugs and kisses and an occasional snuggle. Try doing that with you 10 year old son, without child services knocking at your door.   And, to my delight, they both are into sports.  the 10 year old is into basketball and softball and even made an all-star team. The 8 year old is into softball, cheerleading and gymnastics.  Both are tremendous students (they take after their Mom) and both are great kids and loyal friends.  I count my blessings everyday I have these two little miracles in my life.  I often tell my 8 year old "You're not allowed to get married, you have to stay with me forever." and she always giggles and kisses me.  Yesterday was different.  We were in the pool and I said "You're not allowed to get married, you have to stay with me forever."  She giggled and then said "well, unless you like the guy" I laughed, but died a little inside. My baby was growing up and someday there will be some "GUY".  All I can say is, may God have mercy on that "GUY".

DADX2