Tree-Hugging Hippie

I am a registered republican. There . . . I said it. I hope you appreciate how scary it can be to admit that while living in the Twin Cities. I will now have to fear for my life. Two things you can't be in the Twin Cities: A Republican and a Blackhawks fan. I am currently 0-2.

Troy and I spent the Christmas holiday in Chicago with my family. It was there that I realized that Minnesota has really sunk it's teeth into me and as I would have conversations with my family, I was becoming painfully aware that I have turned into a tree-hugging hippie. Here are a few highlights which led me to this conclusion and caused my parents to exchange glances where they said with their eyes, "Our daughter is a tree-hugging hippie."

1. Philanthropist Footwear. I got a new pair of Toms from my sister-in-law for Christmas. They are awesome and I love them. In case you haven't heard of Toms, they are a company that donates a pair of shoes in a third world country to a child who doesn't have shoes whenever you purchase a pair of shoes. (Click here to learn more about the company.) Anyway, I put on my brand new Toms the same day that my sister and her boyfriend came home and Laura hadn't even sat down before she started making fun of my shoes. When I tried to explain the company, I just sounded like, well . . . a tree-hugging hippie.

2. Eastern Remedies. My dad was starting to feel like he was catching a cold. Obviously I am going to give a shout-out to one of my favorite homeopathic remedies: the Neti Pot! I was able to successfully convert my dad to this practice so his response was that he was going to use his Neti Pot. However, Troy made a comment about how I should be a spokesperson for the Neti Pot and I am pretty sure the rest of the family snickered at me. Why? Because I am a tree-hugging hippie.

3. Gerber, What?! I was talking to my mom about wanting to make my own baby food and use cloth diapers when the time comes for Troy and I to procreate. (No, it's not anytime soon.) I think my mom actually thinks this is cool although I did have to explain to her that cloth diapers are different from when I was a kid, as she was skeptical at first. Actually she this was a positive interaction, but it still makes me a little bit of a tree-hugging hippie.

4. The Three R's. Tonight we had dinner with some friends. We got on the topic of recycling (perfectly natural, right?) and our friend told us that after is wife took out the recycling he couldn't find a new bag and threw three empty cans of pop away. I definitely couldn't let it go and I was joking, but it still made me look like a tree-hugging hippie . . . and a little bit of a jerk for sticking my nose into their garbage business. Sorry, Peter.

Those are the big ones, but that combined with the fact that I am a teacher (unions), I love the Farmers Market (even though I can't get up early enough on a Saturday to go), and I want a big yard to have a huge garden and a compost pile . . . . I am basically one pair of Chacos away from becoming a full-fledged democrat. No offense to my liberal friends out there.

Anyway, this new realization also brought forth a moment of reflection. It is okay for me to be a tree-hugging hippie. It is even okay to be a Republication tree-hugging hippie, regardless of what my party may believe. So, I have decided to keep on being myself and I get any more flack about it,I'll show you . . . I'll vote for Michele Bachmann.

Go ahead . . . . test me . . . . .

Let Them Eat Cake

One fantastic thing about Troy's parents is their love of deserts, so when they come to visit, it is basically a given that we will be partaking of a sweet treat sometime during the day. Now, I am generally a salt-loving person, but I think it would be rude to be so unaccommodating as to deny my in-laws of their sweets, so out of the goodness of my heart, I eat desert too. I am such a gracious host. Last night we enjoyed a choice of red velvet cake or carrot cake. (I had a small slice of each! But I couldn't finish them . . . )

This morning, before church, my mother-in-law told us that she had a coffee cake in the fridge we could have before we left. I cut a slice for myself and as I let the sugary goodness dissolve in my mouth, I was wondering why this baked good was acceptable for breakfast while the red velvet and carrot cake was reserved for an after meal end cap. Both are cakes. Both are made with flour, sugar, butter and eggs. Both will take up occupancy on my hips creating a saddle-bag effect. Then I realized the difference. The frosting.

That's right, frosting. Add frosting to a cake, and it can be classified a dessert. Strip the powdered sugar and egg whites and you have yourself breakfast. The frosting is the one who gets all the credit but is really just a lot of excess calories. Frosting is like the debutant reality star that doesn't really do anything but is famous anyway. Frosting is the Paris Hilton of delicatessens.

However, I feel like I need to address the rebel in this scenario. The coffee cake with icing. You've seen them. They often have the two racing stripes of some sort of fruit jelly running lengthwise and then on the cake part are small piped curly-cues of frosting that are delicate enough to be appropriate for breakfast but provocative enough to laugh in the face at the rules of breakfast. What is with that? It clearly says coffee cake on those stickers that I am convinced are made with the same glue as duct tape. The stickiness of those suckers is remarkable! Coffee cake should be eaten with, well, coffee, which is consumed primarily in the morning. It is a sneaky tactic, but so far the dessert police do not have enough evidence to arrest the frosted coffee cake for obstruction of a breakfast food.

I guess the lesson learned here, kids, is that dessert, regardless of the time of day, has but one purpose: to satisfy that sweet tooth . . . and then rot it out. But who cares? In the words of Marie Antoinette, "Qu'ils mangent de la brioche." Let them eat cake.

Intense Super Fan

This weekend was Bethel University's homecoming. (Whoot, whoot! Go Royals!!) Being that Troy and I both went to Bethel and live close to campus, we have gone to the homecoming game every year we have been married and even a few when we were dating. I love the school spirit and the traditions of coming back for homecoming, and Troy likes the football. It's a win-win.

Homecoming is always a crazy game. You have to get to campus early to get a parking space, and then fight the crowds for a spot in the bleachers. This year was the first year we sat on the "parents' side." At Royal Stadium, on the home bleachers side, if you are facing the field, the students sit on the left. The parents and alumni sit on the right side. This year we didn't sit with the current students. I think we are too old . . . (sigh)

So, we joined the other old people on the left side of the bleachers and we were sitting behind two men who were constantly talking during the game. I learned that the one particularly vocal man went to Bethel when he was in college and also played on the football team. He loved to remissness about the "good ole days" when he was 187 pounds and couldn't keep any weight on him. Or about the game where he was up against a big guy who wasn't in shape and so he just kept tackling the overweight football player in his gut until he wore him out. His stories were interesting as they were humbly-pompous. He would talk about how awesome he was and then make a comment that brought him down to the status of a mere man.

He also loved to talk to the football players on the field as though they could hear him. A few choice phrases he used were: "Come on, beef," "You have to want it," and my personal favorite, "Come on Bethel, you gotta throw the kitchen sink at 'em." (I actually typed these into my Droid as he said them so I wouldn't forget.) Being that I was sitting in front of him and I couldn't very well turn around for a viewing in a conspicuous matter, I made a visual of what he might look like. I figured he was a typical football alum dad who was wearing a Brooks Brothers oxford under his Bethel windbreaker drinking a Caribou coffee. But when the game was over and I turned around to see him, I saw a man who resembled Milton from Office Space. He was wearing worn out black sneakers, light washed jeans and a cheap, felt version of an Indiana Jones hat, complete with a draw string for those windy days. He didn't fit the humbly-pompous man that I thought was sitting behind me.

While I reveled in his "new" look, I thought about how this man or someone like him is present at every sporting event ever organized. Even back in 80 AD, some Roman would be shouting in the Colosseum on the best ways to kill the lion, gladiator, what-have-you and talking about the time he slayed a barbarian when he was in college. Why is it that people feel the need to fluff up their peacock feathers and talk about what they did back in the day as it pertains to the sport? Why do these people have to shout out advice to the players and coaching staff? I personally think they are hoping the head coach will overhear them and beg for them to be on their coaching staff. Afterall, their knowledge is clearly superior.

The Baby Spa

Apparently babies need a lot of stuff. Not that I would know first hand, but I am assuming this from the baby "necessities" that Target sells. Before my friends had children, I would walk down these isles because I knew I wouldn't buy anything. There I would find a plethora of pacifiers, diapers, burp cloths, car seats, pack and plays, etc, with each brand claiming to be the best for your baby. Most of the time, I would get overwhelmed and wander over to the book section. On my way out of the baby labyrinth, I would think to myself, when Troy and I have children, how on earth will we know what we need?! Now that I have gotten used to the idea of my peers procreating, I don't think that babies don't really need all that crap, except for maybe the car seat. That seems important, although a roll of duct tape seems cheaper.

I found out a few weeks ago that my friend, Ashley is pregnant. She is a fellow blog fan who enjoyed the post I wrote on the family stick figures people put on their car. She and our friend, Joanna have even taken pictures of the Baby on Board signs and sent them to me as a cruel joke, that I always find to be hilarious. Though it went against every fiber in my being, I will do almost anything to get a laugh, so Joanna and I decided to get her a Baby on Board window cling and a package of family stick figures to celebrate her little zygote.

Baby's R Us seemed like a good place to look for the Baby on Board sign, so I went there. (By the way, I never realized how completely ridiculous the name "Baby's R Us" is until I typed it.) I walked into this monstrous store reserved for all things baby and almost had a panic attack. Thankfully I found the newborn section before any hyperventilating set in. I found the Baby on Board sign without too much trouble. It was hard to miss since there was an entire isle designated for "baby safety," complete with mirrors that Mom or Dad can hang up all over the car so that they can always see when the baby barfs on the bib that says, "That's it, I'm calling Grandma!"

I perused a few of the isles to see what other crap new parents "needed" for their infants when I got to the Personal Care isle. This isle mostly housed bath tubs, which I will say is somewhat of a need, especially when infants can't hold their heads up on their own yet for you to just plop them in the sink for their baths. Most of the tubs where made of plastic and they were in a variety of colors. Then I saw it. I stopped dead in my tracks and read the packaging a second time to make sure I understood what they were selling. When I realized it was true, my mouth fell open. It was a Baby Spa, complete with jets and a sprayer head and it cost over fifty dollars. I openly shook my head in disgust at it.

In case you want to purchase one of these, it is called Lil' Luxuries Whirlpool, Bubbling Spa & Shower, (what a classy name) and if I find out you have one, our friendship may be pending. I decided right then that I was done looking around and supporting this conglomerate, so I left. I felt like I needed to process what I just saw so I called my sister and when it went straight to voice mail, I told her was I saw as though I were actually talking to her and not a vast abyss that was recording my story. I felt a little better.

Do today's parents really need all these gadgets? My great grandmother was born in a log cabin. As I was staring at the Baby Spa, I was wondering what her mother would have to say about all this stuff. I am well aware that I don't have children of my own and while I completely detest the "you'll understand when you have kids" cliche (also known as the futuristic "I told you so") I still have a hard time believing that we will need all that junk.

Now, we could buy that Baby Spa, or we could invest that money and compounded over the years, be able to send our kids to college. Sorry kids, your dad and I thought you needed a luxurious bath when you were so young you couldn't remember the soothing nature of the jets, so now we can't send you to college. Good luck at your Starbucks interview! Although if we forgo the car seats and go with the duct tape, maybe our kids can have their cake and eat it too. It's definitely something to look into.

The Minnesota State Fair

It's the time of year again. When folks from all over the state, flock to our capital city and gorge themselves on all things that are deep fried and served on a stick. It is known as the Great Minnesota Get Together. About 1.7 million people attend each season. It is . . . The Minnesota State Fair. You can ask almost any Minnesotan what their plans are from late August until Labor Day and they will undoubtedly tell you when they are going to the fair. It is a part of our culture. Personally, I love the fair and all the weird quirkiness that goes with it.

The food is obviously a huge draw. Our general plan of attack is to share everything so that we can eat more junk. This year we had cheese curds, a papa Pronto Pup, an ear of corn, fried Snickers bar on a stick (my personal favorite), fried apple pie, 2 lemonades, a few of Sweet Martha's cookies - and then we decided to get something we never had before - hot dish on a stick. Being from the Chicago-land area, I did not grow up eating "hotdish" and had never had it before. I thought since we were at the Great Minnesota Get Together, getting it fried and on a stick would be appropriate. I was wrong. It was gross. Maybe it is an acquired taste. Regardless, I will not be making Tater Tot Hotdish for my family nor will I eat it again.

After the selection of food, people watching is one of my favorite activities. Where else can you see such a diverse group of people? Troy and I are big fans of people watching. It is a great activity while you are resting your feet and nursing an overpriced glass of lemonade. I have found that a majority of the people at the fair can classified into one of the following categories:

1. Farm Folks. These are the kids who are involved in 4H and have driven miles from the outskirts of the Metro. They walk around in their Wranglers and dirty boots, awed by the amount of people and the fact that they finally get to come to "the city." (I am sure you can pick up on the fact that I ooze city slicker from my pours.) They sit in their camping chairs next to their sows, goats, and cows and look at us city folks like we are fools for not knowing how to truly live off the land like Daniel Boone . . . and they would be right, but I also don't need to pick hay out of my hair at night.

2. White Trash. This is a given. Any event that boasts food that will clog your arteries - on a stick - will for sure bring a surplus of these folks. They walk around in dirty flip flops or slippers (yes, I saw slippers as outdoor foot wear) with their overweight, loud children in tow, talking with their mouth full of fried food. Toothless, husbands lighting up a cigarette and blowing in the faces of everyone around them. I saw two women who apparently forgot to put their shirts on in the morning . . . that or a bobcat attacked their tops on the way to the fair. One of the two.

3. Pure Minnesotans. This is a category I have recently made up. This group contains people who love the outdoors and dress as such. They are the ones wearing Tevas or Chacos (some with socks . . .don't even get me started), cargo shorts and polo t-shirts. They may or may not have a sweatshirt tied around their waist or shoulders. They are pushing Bob strollers (these are made for runners) and eating the healthiest (I use this term loosely) options the Fair has to offer or munching on apple slices that they brought with them. Many of the people in this group are also donning fanny packs . . . which I cannot even talk about here, and should be the topic for another blog.

4. Prom Queens. I don't know why there is a large group of people in this category, but every time we go to the Fair, I see women who apparently thought they were going clubbing instead of coming to the Fair. They are wearing high heels, skinny jeans and enough make up to cover the entire cast of Gossip Girls. Often these women are holding a plastic cup of beer. Very classy. I have no idea how they teeter all over the fair grounds dressed like that. They must have corns the size of volleyballs.

If you could not identify yourself in one of these groups, congratulations! You're normal. If you did classify yourself in one of these groups, own it. While you may be a strange sub culture, everyone is accepted at the Fair. So, that is it. With tomorrow being Labor Day, it is also the last day of the fair. We will have to wait a whole year before we can see the butter sculptures, get free St. Thomas bags from the education building, and visit Minnesota's Largest Boar. That's okay though, it will take me that long to burn the calories I consumed in our visit.

Summer Foods Haiku

You know what's awesome about summer? The food. Yeah, that's right . . . the food. I know that summer contains a plethora of fantabulous things, but the food (fruits and veggies to be specific) is really spectacular.

I realized this while I was cutting up some delicious watermelon for dinner one night. The color of the fruit was so beautiful, I had to take a picture of it. As I was cutting it, I looked over and thought to myself, "Pam, that looks like summer, " hence, the subsequent photo opportunity.

I never get tired of the corn on the cob, berries and melon. Last week, I inhaled a bag of cherries almost all by myself. Troy was able to sneak a few without having any limbs severed . . . but just barely. We had pancakes this week with fresh blueberries. I can't be sure, but I may have chewed with my eyes closed to savor every bite. This morning, I had cantelope that melted in my mouth. I think I am having a relationship with produce.

Therefore, in honor of the delicious treats the good Lord gives us during the summer months, I have written a haiku.

(Ahem)

Cherries, Blueberries,
Melon, Tomatoes, or Corn,
Just can't get Enough

Tinkle Time

When I was younger, my sister and I lived for visits to Grandma and Grandpa's house. I can remember asking my mom and dad if we could have a sleep over at Mema and Pepa's (what I always called them) and my parents would have us call them up on the phone to ask. Of course, they always said yes and we would spend our days wearing my grandma's full petticoats and high heels, having tea parties with Mema and walking to the park with Pepa.

At night, after a long bubble bath, we would cozy up to Mema and she would tell us a story. We would drift off to sleep with her soft words still tumbling in our heads and the next thing I knew, I was being awakened in the middle of the night by Mema. "It's Tinkle Time," she would say gently and we would shuffle to the bathroom, still half asleep. Now that I am older, I know that my grandma was worried about little girls having accidents in her beds, but at the time, all I wanted to do was sleep and I am sure there were times I feel asleep in the little girls room during Tinkle Time.

My grandma's Tinkle Time phrase stuck with our family. When I was a youngster, my dad used to work a lot of hours and my sister and I would whine when he would leave for work, badgering him about when he would be back. "I'll be back around Tinkle Time," he would say. We always know what that meant. Tinkle Time happens sometime after you have gone to bed and are in a deep sleep. Sometimes it is provoked by a grown up and other times it is an act of free will.

As a married woman, I don't have anyone waking me up in the middle of the night for Tinkle Time. Although, Molly and Olivia seem to remind me when they are walking all over my midsection, pressing their paws into the bladder region. Now, getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night has turned into a diabolical battle. To go or not to go? . . . . That is the question.

One the one hand, you know if you go, you'll feel better, be able to sleep longer and run a lower risk of a bladder infection. (Although the later reason seems very insignificant at 3 o'clock in the morning.) On the other hand, the bed is cozy and warm and you know if you get up, you'll never be able to find that comfy spot that you are in again. Can you hold it until the alarm goes off? More importantly, your bed real estate may also be in jeopardy. I have come back from the latrine to find my husband sprawled out across the whole bed. "Troy, can you move over?" I then get a mild grunt and 6 inches of mattress. These are the things you need to weigh in the middle of the night.

I have become one of those people who eventually gets up and partakes in the Tinkle Time ritual. I figure it is a great opportunity to enjoy the shell night-light I bought in Hawaii on our honeymoon, but mostly it's because I hate to be uncomfortable like that. Yet, I still have the internal battle. I am convinced that many people are like me in that sense. I would be willing to bet that those who are regular attenders of Tinkle Time spend more brain power wondering which is the better option than they do on things like what to make for dinner.

I know there are people out there who just ignore the call of nature or perhaps you have an extra large bladder, and for that I am jealous. However, for those of you who fight the mental battle, you are in good company. If it makes you feel better I am probably up at the same time you are . . . Tinkle Time.

A big whoop-whoop goes to Kim Retts who originally had this brilliant idea and suggested it for a blog posting.

Hypochondriacs Unite!

Back in the day, I was an ER fan - not so much the newer ones, but the George Clooney era . . . he was so dreamy! Next, I became a Grey's Anatomy fan. Besides being set in a hospital, what do these two shows have in common? Since I am not going to wait for a response, let me tell you . . . extreme health issues. I watched Grey's Anatomy with a friend's mom who had been an ER nurse for years. With each episode she would laugh at all the trama that would enter though the ER doors in one night, commenting that she never saw that much action in one night. I suppose it makes for good television, so I didn't mind that you would probably see a gross disease, a severed limb and a shocking pregnancy. But as the series went on, the shows would have to "top" themselves until the cases the doctors were seeing were just ridiculous.

Eventually, the episodes started getting too weird for me and it seemed like all the doctors and nurses had time to hook up with each other in between saving the city from the latest epidemic, that I couldn't remember who was dating who. Needless to say, I dropped the shows from my "need to watch" list, but they had already left their impression on me. Example #1: A couple of days ago, I had a monstrous headache that even Advil couldn't relieve. Clearly, I knew had a brain tumor. I am sure it had nothing to do with the group of eight, fourth grade boys that I was a small group leader for in Vacation Bible School. No, that is too extreme, it was obviously a tumor. Example #2: My shoulder would not stop itching. Obviously, I had a rare skin disease or had been bitten by a flesh eating spider. One of the two for sure.

My point is that these shows have turned me into a hypochondriac. My thought is that if these shows are showing patients who are suffering from these strange ailments, then they must exist, although there is a small part of my brain that think these writers might be making them up. Unfortunately, the crazy part of my brain that has been tricked by these shows tells the smart part of my brain to butt out.

So, if you have been affected by these shows and call yourselves a hypochondriac then together, let's unite! We can figure out what's slowing deteriorating our bodies together. Maybe you have a more interesting disease than me.

All Gussied Up

This week has been insane at the Carlson Casa. Besides starting my summer class that meets two nights a week and nannying, I have also been working at our church's Vacation Bible School. I was exhausted. Last night, I fell asleep on the couch at midnight, woke up at 3 and went to bed, then slept until 11:30 this morning. It was fantastic and much needed. So when Troy suggested that we have a date night tonight, I jumped at the opportunity to have a night of relaxation.

There are plenty of things that make being a girl difficult. Being coordinated in heels, (guys, prepare yourselves for this next one) menstruating and cramps, fat days . . . the list goes on and on. But one thing I love about being a girl is when I have the time to get all gussied up. When Troy and I have date nights, taking an exorbitant amount of time primping is part of what makes the date so fun.

We like to go out to dinner around 8 on date night days because something about eating that late makes us feel classy and important. Plus in all the classic movies, the guy always picks the girl up at least after 7. I start getting ready at least an hour and a half before we have to leave. I take a super long shower, shave my legs even though part of me feels like it is a complete waste - once I open the shower curtain and feel the outside air, I get goosebumps which completely eradicates the act of shaving. I put on my cute robe while my hair gets the attention that it needs as well as extra time on my make up. If it is warm outside, I always wear a dress. I know some of you are thinking, this is stupid, but I think you are underestimating the power that women have when they get all gussied up. I know my husband appreciates the extra time I take . . . well, maybe not if he is hungry.

When I walk downstairs for the reveling, Troy, being the fantastic husband that he is, always comments on how nice I look and then he shows me off at . . . the Olive Garden. Hey, the Olive Garden might just be a run of the mill restaurant to you, but to a young couple trying to save their pennies for retirement, it's our date night place! Besides, we enjoy going so that is all that matters. We really go all out while we are there too, wine, appetizers, dinner and then tiramisu.

So, if you're looking for me, I'll be showing off my cute husband at the Olive Garden. I'll be the gal all gussied up.

Reviving Cursive

This past year, I was working in a third grade class and part of the curriculum is cursive. Personally, the only time I use cursive is when I am signing my name on a credit card receipt, so when the students were learning how to shape upper case letters, I had to refer to a teacher's guide more than once for some of those weird letters.

Fast forward to now. I am currently taking Science and Healthy Living, my last methods class - Hallelujah! - and for our class, we had to make a list of three goals that we were going to work to achieve while in class this summer. They did not have to be limited to physical health, but could also refer to mental health or personal growth. While thinking of my goals, I kept thinking about my third graders and their cursive.

There was a part of me that felt like learning cursive is a bit of a waste. It is a formality or a rite of passage for nine year olds. In fact, I have read some rumors about schools removing cursive all together from their curriculum. Due to the ubiquitous use of technology, cursive is archaic. Most people don't write in only cursive and then I realized that it is almost a dying art-form. That's when I decided that my last goal for the class would be to practice my cursive.

My handwriting is not pretty, which is why I usually choose to write in manuscript, but I have a great appreciation for cursive. My mom has really pretty cursive, the "teacher cursive" and I have always looked at her handwriting and wished I could write like that. Well, I decided that writing is like anything else - it gets better with practice and I also think it is a shame that cursive is dying a slow death when it looks so graceful.

The official goal is that I have to write all if my notes for this class in cursive. My "Health Partner" as my professor calls it, will be checking my notebook at every class, so I can't cheat. I am already starting to see an improvement in my letters and I am especially fond of my 'r' and 'H.' **Side Note: Today, when I was taking notes, I thought my 'r' closely resembled the 'r' that Stan and Jan Berenstain use when signing their name on their books. That's a big 'Boo-yah' for me!

Well kids, the moral of the blog is to find something that is becoming obsolete in society and bring it back to life.

I dare you.

I double-dog-dare you.



Well, now you hafta do it.

Socks with Sandals

If you know me or have read any of my blogs, you will know that I think wearing socks with sandals is one of the biggest fashion faux pas. The very idea is a complete oxymoron. You wear sandals to keep your feet from being constrained - to air them out, if you will - and yet, you decide to suffocate them with cotton or some other synthetic material of your choice. Plain and simple, it is not a good look and in my opinion, give me a solid reason to throw things at you. However, I may have found a loop hole.

At school today, I walked into the teacher's lounge for my break. During this time, the first grade, art, music and title one teachers are all eating their lunch. (It is my favorite lunch period. All these people are super fun.) The room, which was filled with cheerful chatter suddenly became hushed and everyone looked at me with these goofy grins. Then at once, they all stood up from their seats, and proudly mounted their foot on the chair, all to show me - with great pride - their socks and sandals.

I should have been horrified. I mean, it was disgraceful. All those fabulous people, willingly going under the fashion knife and donning socks with sandals . . . with sheer delight. They even brought a pair for me to put on, which I had to graciously decline. But horror and disgust was not what I felt. In a strange way, it was the nicest thing those people have done for me. I knew they had to collaborate this prank and I knew that the only reason they did it was to make me laugh. To be honest, it made me feel really special!

So, I have decided to write a bit of a retraction. Perhaps I can make an exception about my socks with sandals rule. You can wear them, IF you get an entire room of people to wear them . . . . for the sole purpose of entertaining me.

The Socks 'n' Sandals Crew: (From left to right)
Andy, Hillary, Mandi, Me (with my disapproving countenance), Phil, Kathy, Paula, Raeann, Janet and Krista.