Category: Relations

THINGS I HAVE NO BUSINESS DOING

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks6 Comments

In the season of the naughty and nice lists, I’d like to add another: Things I have no business doing.

I don’t know if it’s because it’s the end of the year, or because I’ve simply lost all good sense by the time the 12th month rolls around, but it’s wreaking havoc on me.

As I commented in my previous post, for some reason I have this yearning to be creative at Christmas time. However, as I was unable to locate a single wreath shaped piece of styrofoam at Michael’s, my creative itch remains fundamentally un-scratched.

However, thanks to the office pot luck, I was able to channel some of that creative energy into baking. As hubby is typically the chef in the house, this was one of those things I haven’t done – from scratch – in probably ten years. I decided to make Ginger snap cookies in snowflake shapes. (Ah, how adorable!) Yeah, right. I get this genius idea on a work night and start the process of grating a real ginger root at about 6:00.

Challenge number one: When a recipe tells you to use a standing mixer with paddles, they are NOT jacking around. I do not have such a machine, however, so I mixed it by hand. No big deal, right? Wrong. My wrist began to spasm and twitch so badly I spilled my old-fashioned all over myself while trying to take a sip. Now THAT’s tragic.

Challenge number two: Icing. I don’t have one of those icing decorator squeezy things, (people who know their way around baking tools, please stop yelling at me), and I bought the wrong size decorative tip to go on the tube of icing I purchased, so I had to give up and just spread the icing on the cookies with a knife. This really isn’t a tragedy, but I had a picture in my head of these lovely cookies decorated with lacy white icing, so it was disappointing to someone who is crazy, like I am. Plus, I was up WAY past my bedtime.

By the end of this little process I hated the cookies and the icing, and the pot luck idea. Some people actually liked the cookies though, so in the end, it was all worth it.

Not really. But what I do know now is WHY I haven’t baked in umpteen years.

Strangely, this didn’t dampen my adventurous holiday spirit. I actually decided to do something else I hadn’t done in forever. Ride a bike. Seriously, I have not been on a bike in eons. Even the early news to friends and family (casually) that I was going on a bike ride in the afternoon resulted in gasps and in one case (my mother) begging me not to do it. “Not right before Christmas, Ann! We don’t need another injury!” In response I did what I have done since I was 6. I waved away her concern and told her I’d be fine. Hey, I’m EVENTUALLY fine, after a period of recovery.

So my husband, (whose idea this was), and who obviously has it out for me, decides to put me in shorts and big gloves and a helmet and ear covers and some sort of goggles and points a terrified, unbalanced (in many ways) me toward the street on a bicycle – with him in the lead. I won’t go into detail, but we rode too far, too seriously and on streets that were too bumpy and too up hill on our way to the lake. Then we headed back. Somehow both ways were up hill. I swear. Really.

There was one brief moment when I thought I was going to get hit by a car, but I have been reassured that the guy saw me and was totally NOT going to run me over. Truthfully, I don’t think I really would have minded being run over at that point. In fact, it might have been the bike’s attempt to commit suicide when it stopped in the middle of the three lanes of northbound traffic. Maybe bikes are like horses and can smell fear and inexperience.

I also discovered that extreme exercise when your body is not used to doing more than walking up a flight of stairs at a leisurely pace results in the vocabulary of a sailor. A very salty sailor. Plus, at one point, in an attempt to motivate myself up one of those hills, I pedaled in rhythm to this mantra as I glared at hubby’s back – “I will get you… I will get you…must sleep some time…must sleep some time…”

I think I will go back out on the bike again sometime. Maybe when the sun is out and it’s a little warmer than 58 degrees. Now it’s a challenge and I HAVE to win.

Plus, I’d rather attempt crossing 6 lanes of traffic on the bike than blend that cookie dough by hand again.

Other things I have done in the past week I have no business doing? Speaking to homeless people, mailing anything to an international destination, pretending I can design attractive things on Zazzle and shopping online.

I think there’s something I’m forgetting about handing a three-year old a glass of chocolate milk when she’s sitting on my antique Chippendale sofa, but surely even I wouldn’t be as insane as to do something like that.

UNSUCCESSFUL SANTA

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Have I mentioned that I hate shopping for the holidays? Well, I do. Each year I attempt to come up with some idea that will make the whole experience less stressful, but it fails miserably.

I am no good at choosing just the right thing for someone, unless they hit me over the head with hints about what they want. Repeatedly. And preferably purchase and wrap it for me. That’s right. I’m not even good at gift wrapping. I just throw paper on whatever it is, slap some tape on the seams crookedly and it’s done. No bow. Oh, and sometimes I cut a ragged strip of wrapping paper from which I fashion really bad gift tags.

Martha Stewart would have me flogged.

This year I am again determined to do better. Seriously, it can’t get any worse unless I just start tossing the gift in the actual shopping bag under the tree, receipt and all.

In my first step toward improving, I found a website where you can create or purchase some really creative things. And by creative I mean smart ass. Nothing inspires me more than that. A gift I can really get behind. A gift with attitude.

I think I hear Christmas bells!

Check this out. T-shirts. This one is for the friend who keeps encouraging me to go camping.

This is for my brother.

This little gem from “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” is for hubby.

This beauty is for one of the architects I work with. Could be an annual giveaway.

Enough T-shirts. Now for something different. Like a notebook. Or a threat. Or a notebook threat?

I may have to give this to the HR Director to take to meetings. The bottom right hand corner clarifies in small font: “With Kindness.”

For my lovely team members? This is perfect. They too can go to meetings armed with this deceptively nice-at-first-glance notebook.

And for me, I’m getting this little accessory. It’ll come in handy at holiday parties where I am expected to mingle with irritated children who are up past their bedtime. It’s a festive button!

I’m sure I can find someone’s stocking that needs this addition. Not as good as a Betty Ford Clinic button, but still…

A few items confused me…

In what world does this ornament say, “Merry Christmas?”

Oh, dear.

And lastly, a sentiment we can all get behind.

What’s that? No good?

That’s it. I’m buying liquor for everyone this year. One size fits all.

THANKSGIVING RESERVATIONS

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks10 Comments

Today’s LetsBlogOff topic is about Thanksgiving and food. 

I was having a really hard time coming up with anything particularly unique about our Thanksgiving, until last night, when this year’s got canceled.

Okay, that’s a little dramatic. Actually, it’s only canceled for my mother, who fell and broke her pelvis during game 6 of the World Series. I know it was Game 6 because having lived almost my whole life in Dallas, with a baseball team that was a major joke for years, Game 6 nearly killed me. I also know that when I got the call from my stepfather at the hospital, part of me was really depressed that I was going to have to head to the emergency room and miss the end of the game. (I know. I know. I’m ashamed and going to hell. I know.)

However, as it turned out, we were told NOT to come to the hospital. I talked to her on the phone briefly as the sedation was kicking in and got to stay home to watch the end of the game. And that’s when God smited me for my insensitivity by making it impossible for the Rangers to get ONE OUT. ONE LOUSY OUT… 

 

Sorry. Back to Thanksgiving. We don’t do anything terribly exciting. No cooking all night. No days and days of baking. We used to go to Grandmother’s, (who probably DID cook all night) but once she sold the house, the gathering became more of a moveable feast  – every year at someone else’s home.  The most memorable thing about Thanksgiving at my grandmother’s was not the food so much – though the dressing was AMAZING, but the fact that she jumped up from the table to run into the kitchen for some forgotten item so often we actually videotaped her end of the table one year so we could show her what she was doing.  I don’t know what on earth was so important in the kitchen that kept her popping up and down like a crazed jack-in-the-box, unless it was shots of vodka.   – Which explains why the rolls always burned. And my predilection for martinis.

When my mother married my stepfather a new tradition was created. I call it, “Thanks for giving me a stepfather who knows how to make a reservation.” Each year we eat Thanksgiving “dinner” at a restaurant. For years it was Les Saisons, then they moved or went out of business. (And yes, the French Thanksgiving theme was a little odd.) Then we tried some other location, and eventually settled on the country club.

Let me just say, Thanksgiving at the country club is a glorious experience. The turkey is stacked neatly on a cushion of cornbread dressing, the squash casserole is to die for, and there are cocktails. Shrimp cocktails, crab claws, smoked salmon, oysters. Champagne, Bloody Marys, wine. The only strenuous thing you have to do is wind your way around the buffet tables with a plate laden with 10 lbs. of yummy goodness.

Anyway, up until last night, Mom kept insisting she was going to be able to attend this three hour food fest, somehow ignoring that broken pelvis / sitting situation. The pain medications must not be keeping her in La La Land anymore because she announced she would NOT be attending our annual festivities. Instead, she proposed that we all go to the club without her, stuff ourselves (or as Granio would say, “Have sufficient,”) and return to the house with a “to go” selection of buffet items.

I was hesitant at first to accept this proposition, but it seemed to be what she wanted, so I agreed. (Part of me thought it could be a trap. People on pain medication can be crafty.) But so far, no repercussions. It looks like Thursday will indeed be a Thanksgiving without Mom. At least temporarily. And for that reason alone, it will be memorable, if a bit melancholy. (Yet still delicious.)

Wait a minute. I just had a horrible thought. Please tell me I wasn’t supposed to volunteer to keep her company while everyone ELSE goes to the club. 

Uh oh.

To see what others in the #LetsBlogOff are sharing about Thanksgiving, click the logo below.

OH, THE DRAMA

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks15 Comments

Today’s LetsBlogOff topic is: What did you want to be when you grew up?

I can tell you this sincerely. I NEVER said to anyone during my childhood, “What I want to be when I grow up is a marketing person for an architecture and interior design firm,  because there I will find appreciation, encouragement and respect.” I’m still not sure how I got here. But that’s another topic entirely.

Growing up with a father people referred to as a “creative genius” made me want to follow his happy footsteps into the advertising industry, which I did for about 12 years, writing and producing TV and radio commercials. One of my earliest jobs required that I go to an office each day by 9:00 AM to view soap operas. (I’m not kidding. This was a real job.) A TV was perched above my computer screen, and I would watch the CBS soaps with headphones on as two other girls watched ABC and NBC. We would type a summary of each show and hand the copy off to a voice talent before the next show began. The voice talent would record each synopsis, and as this was before everyone had internet, or a DVR, or knew how to reliably set their VHS, people who had missed their soap would call a 900 number and pay 99 cents a minute to hear what happened. Insane, right?

BEST. JOB. EVER.

I watched The Young and the Restless, Guiding Light, As the World Turns, and the Bold and the Beautiful. I think I’m missing one… that’s what happens to your brain after subjecting it to that much drama every day.

To earn extra money, I volunteered to do the same thing for Falcon Crest and Dallas in the evening. It was fun to write the copy and insert a little “wink” here and there. It was impossible NOT to get a little tongue-in-cheek about it.

I guess at some point between that early job and the following work on actual commercials I realized what I REALLY wanted to be was a writer. Writing for me is that THING people tell you about. The “Whatever it is you find yourself doing when you’re putting off work is what you should be doing with your life,” thing. It’s like breathing.

Ideally, I would have started this blog years ago when the stepsons were 9 and 12 and providing constant material, but my big plan to be the Erma Bombeck of stepmothers didn’t pan out. Unfortunately, at the time, I couldn’t put the right amount of distance between the observation and the situation to really enjoy it. The ability to laugh came later, with maturity, and the surrender of sanity. So, no book deal, no movie, no big interview on Letterman. Or Oprah.

For now I have to say goodbye to the imaginary vacation house named
“What’s-Your Pointe” I would purchase with the proceeds from my best-selling novel,
“Not Genetically Responsible.” (T-shirts and bumper stickers sold separately.)

Sigh.

But, thanks to the people who read these occasional posts, in a small way, I am what I wanted to be when I grew up.

To see what others in the #LetsBlogOff wanted to be, click the logo. And enjoy!

HOME: WHERE THE BOYS ARE

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks16 Comments

Today’s LetsBlogOff asks, “What is home?”

Boy, has this changed for me.  “Home” has gone from “BEFORE” – an apartment with me and my dog (late, great, adorable beagle/basset Stella), to “AFTER” – a house with my husband and stepsons. (And the emergency replacement basset, Daisy.)

Home is where:

BEFORE:
I could watch whatever I wanted on TV.

AFTER:
My husband could “accidentally” delete my DVR recordings to make room for every college football game anyone ever even thought about playing.

BEFORE:
My kitchen sink was typically empty and dried with a paper towel to eliminate drips and spots. (Just the way mom used to do it.)

AFTER:
Every time I walk into the kitchen I find another glass, knife, fork, spoon and/or dish in the sink. And a sopping wet sponge. EVERY TIME.  I blame my mother- in-law.  (Sorry, Didi. Love you. But really??) For some reason the boys (and hubby) were never allowed to open the dishwasher and place items inside. When I was first married and tried to “take this hill,” they (the boys) insisted items in the sink made a house look “lived in.” Apparently that is supposed to be a good thing. Whereas my life was spent trying to make a house NOT look lived in, but to look photograph-ready.

BEFORE:
I could feast on a dinner of appetizers every night. Cheese & crackers Monday.  Cold shrimp Tuesday, Taquito Wednesday…  I kept my weight in check and grocery bills down.

AFTER:
Dinner involves an entrée, 2 sides and often the appetizer that used to be my whole meal. Plus, for some reason, boys who ask “What are we having for dinner?” are not happy when the response is, “I’m having an apple and some cheese and crackers. I don’t know what YOU’RE having.”

On the flip side, more often than not, it is hubby who is cooking the too large and complex dinner. I’m just the idiot who eats it and then feels terrible because I just ate a steak and baked potato at 8:45 PM.

I could go on and on… but I won’t. Thank your lucky stars I am at the end of lunchtime again.

But in summary, my answer to the question: “What is home?” is apparently, “Where the boys are.”

Dramatic sigh.

Hogging the TV, making messes that amplify the “lived in” look we were SO not going for, and tempting me with too much food that I normally would not even consider purchasing, much less consuming. (Thank goodness most of the junk food gets eaten before I am even fully aware it’s available.)

It’s also where I am never allowed to take out the trash myself, where the yard work is “men’s business,” and I always have someone who knows the score of the game.  ANY game.  I can also occasionally get a neck rub, an awesome old-fashioned, and a really good steak (medium rare).

 For other takes on the What is home? topic, please click here.

JUST CALL ME PUMBA

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks3 Comments

Something started happening to me recently that I cannot believe I am about to discuss in public.

I’m snoring.  And I don’t mean that cute little snuffle / purr that some people do.  I am apparently full feral hog these days.  Pretty, huh’?  I feel SO attractive right now.

Like everyone, I will go through a little rough patch now and then from allergies, but that is usually over within a couple of days.  Whatever is going on now has lasted about three months.

Think back to the trip to Wales. Imagine Sandy’s surprise in our shared hotel room. I had warned her in an earlier blog – but she didn’t believe me. When I awoke the first full day of our trip the conversation went something like this:

Sandy: “Peanut, I love you like a sister, which is why I can tell you this. You snore like a feral hog.”

Me: “I warned you. Why would I kid about that? That is not an attractive quality to have.”

Sandy: “I just couldn’t believe it. At one point during the night, I actually thought I was going to cry.”

Me: “Sorry. Snort.”

By the fifth night we had the whole routine down to a science.  Sandy explained that every other night, I breathed steadily, if a bit raspy, but the OTHER nights I sounded as if I had the world’s worst cold and couldn’t breathe at all. Then I would STOP breathing. At that point she would crack an eye open and stare at me (probably not sure whether to wish me alive or not.) Suddenly, I would gasp (or snort)  – perhaps not as delicately or as ladylike as one might wish, and start the whole thing over again.

This amount of “snore detail” was news to me.  Hubby had mentioned my snoring. That conversation went something like this:

Hubby: “You’re snoring. Loudly. It’s gross. Stop it and be my pretty, non-snoring wife again. Or else.”

(That may or may not be a direct quote, but it was definitely IMPLIED.)

My doctor has recommended a sleep study.  Apparently, aside from just making you an embarrassed and obnoxious roommate, snoring (Sleep Disordered Breathing – SDB) can cause the following *relational issues:

  • Irritability
  • Personality changes
  • Decreased sex drive
  • Loss of intimacy
  • Clashes with the bed partner (spousal arousal syndrome)
    (* SleepWell Solutions)

I like the term “spousal arousal syndrome.”  Apparently this is the “spousal arousal” we do NOT want; the one that results in statements like “If you don’t stop snoring I am going to hold that pillow over your face until you suffocate for real,” and “How much life insurance do you have again? Maybe we should up it.”

I have already detected other *symptoms I am exhibiting lately, such as:

  • Excessive daytime sleepiness.  (Okay, I normally have this anyway, but still.)
  • Poor memory or clouded intellect.  (Thought it was either age, or a result of my “wasted” youth.  – Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink.)
  • Performance decrement. (No comment. I don’t like that word.)
  • Inability to exercise. (Gee, I thought that was my innate laziness. How great I can now blame it on something else!)
  • Becoming more prone to accidents. (Well, we’ve all covered that before haven’t we? – See paragraph, oh, around 10, in Confessions of a Frustrated Former Warlord.)
    (*SleepWell Solutions)

Other potential health problems include death.  Death is definitely something I wish to avoid.

I think it should be pointed out that SleepWell Solutions is NOT where I am going for my sleep study, even though it is where I have gathered all this nifty information. I went to THEIR website instead of the company where my sleep study is actually taking place because THAT website frightened me silly.

How so? Let me show you the room in which my sleep study is likely to take place.

STOP SCREAMING!

Oh, sorry.  That was me.

Yeah, take a gander at that. It looks like someone’s dead grandmother’s room.  A grandmother who was neither motherly nor grand.

She was definitely dead, though.  And itchy.

(This reaction COULD be from having been exposed to actual interior design for the past ten years. Not to mention Max and Tony’s influence. But I think I would have been freaked out regardless.)

So you can see why I had to go to another website to collect information about my potential condition.

I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep there.  And if I do, I’m afraid I’ll have bigger issues than Sleep Disordered Breathing.

I’m going to ponder this situation. I have until next Wednesday to figure it out. Or to arrange for delousing on Thursday.

Dear Sleep Study Place,
May I bring my own bedding?
How about my own bed?
Carpet?
Pictures?
General decor?

Sweet dreams, people.

A THUMBTACK IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks10 Comments

This entry is in response to the unusual topic of today’s Let’s Blog Off, titled: Thumbtacks.

Since I spend a good portion of my life in a cubicle, I try to decorate it as best I can to make it a friendly place – full of hope, serenity and happiness. This would not be feasible without thumbtacks.

And pictures of my niece decorating my space.

Everyone loves children, right?

Okay, maybe some more than others. But children ARE appreciated most often when they are adorable, and in pictures rather than in their full outdoor voice, sticky selves.

My niece, Sarah, is adorable. It’s not debatable. It’s a fact. The trouble with being adored,(as Britney Spears will tell you) is that everyone follows you around with a camera taking your picture all the time. “Sarah, smile!” is more than just a Hall & Oates song. It’s a way of life.

My brother (the lucky dad) is an excellent photographer and is determined to observe and record his daughter’s life in a multitude of still images. I’m not complaining. I LOVE getting new pictures of Sarah. It’s almost like when email first came out and “You’ve Got Mail” would make my heart skip a beat. Now, it’s “You’ve been sent pictures of Sarah on Shutterfly.” I know that within minutes I will have new images to tack in place and amuse me.

This is the first photo I ever displayed of her.

I labeled it “Have a Happy Day!” People would come speak to me and glance over once or twice, then stop in mid-sentence and exclaim happily “Who IS that?!”

I don’t think Sarah has ever been anywhere that wasn’t recorded and sometimes “costumed” for posterity. I like her Halloween poses in particular. This is her annoyed unicorn pose. She gets that expression from me.

I think it’s become a game with her to try to wear her dad down by NOT smiling in the photos. She just looks kind of resigned.

What I should do is create a Sarah “Expression of the Day” and pin it up by my computer so people know my emotional status.

Things are upside down, but I’m dealing with it:

I am ignoring you:

I am having a good time:

Or, we need to have a serious talk:

Most days, however, it would probably look like this:

So, Bill, keep the pictures coming. I don’t know what I’d do without my Wall O’ Sarah.

For other LetsBlogOff Posts, please click the logo.

MUMBLES GOES TO SCHOOL

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

School is starting.

But not for me. No more urging a sleepy teenager out of the house at 7:15 a.m. and repeating all the way to school,

“What? 

What?

Are you talking?

Are you moving your lips?

Are you sure you’re moving your lips? 

Well, I don’t think you are.

Austin, enunciate!

Speak. Up!!”

Nope. No more of that. Or is there?

Austin registered for community college yesterday. I believe it’s going to be a rude awakening for him after attending HPISD, which is one of the highest ranked school districts in the nation. In fact, he returned yesterday from about 4 hours spent at his new campus and reported, “That place is run by monkeys.” Obviously, Austin has never experienced the DMV before, or he would have saved that descriptor.

I would tell you what he registered to take, but I can’t. I know it’s two classes, but the details are non-specific. Why? Please refer back to the “drive to school conversation” mentioned earlier. That same conversation took place last night.

Now, before I celebrate too much about NOT having a sullen, sleepy teen in the car with me each morning, I have to admit Austin has not yet acquired a driver’s license. His brother didn’t until after age 18 either. I think it’s an attempt to make us insane and/or prolong some fantasy they have about being chauffeured for the rest of their lives.

So, I may be driving him to college. Daily. (Or whenever his 2 classes are.) By the way, the more I type that I have to ask, 2 classes?? Really? Gee, don’t strain yourself.

At least that will make for good conversation as we head downtown together. I’m sure he’ll have something to say about that. If only I could understand him. Then again, maybe it’s better that I not.

IT’S ALL RELATIVE

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks6 Comments

Family Reunion Summary – Gulf Shores, AL and surrounding area: Arrived Saturday evening and was picked up at the airport by my husband. We stopped at what was referred to as a “liquor store,” but was in fact more of a dust store that happened to have some bottles of booze in it. We bought the few names we recognized and headed next door to what was termed a “grocery store,” but was really more of a “cluster *.” It looked like an episode of Hoarders had exploded. While it did have a better selection of wines than the liquor store, every time I touched a package of food (cereal, chips, crackers, lunch meat) I had an irresistible urge to 1 – check the expiration date to see if it read 1989, and 2 – take a shower. I did pick up a great pair of flip-flops for the beach while there. (“Great” being defined as “they sort of fit and would keep me from burning my feet on hot sand/pavement.”) They were the first reunion casualty after just one day. Not a great loss to fashion history, but sad nonetheless.

The weird thing about arriving at a vacation destination after dark was that aside from the resort itself, which looked like this…

…I had no idea what to expect view-wise until morning, when I saw this:

Very nice. Beachy. Chairs, umbrellas, the potential for vacation drinks… all good. Then I saw the painting in our room for the first time. As usual, Max had the perfect description: “It’s a monkey in Chinese drag!”

We found him to be a bit unnerving, though festive.

The advent and adoption of many of Hubby’s relatives to Facebook meant for the first time, there was a GROUP where we could all communicate and share photos.

This new development startled me a bit as I received a couple of friend requests from under 16-year-old “first cousins once removed.” I hesitantly accepted said requests, both honored and alarmed. My first thought was, “Well, I can’t work blue on FB anymore. Twitter is all that’s left.” However, I realized I don’t work blue on either. I just like to think I do. Apparently my inner voice and outer voice remain separate.

The usual family traditions remained, including the annual Guys Visit to Hooters. As each young man approaches 16, he is invited to join the Hooters patrol. This is apparently a great honor, as I suppose men don’t see as much cleavage in Alabama and Tennessee as one does in Dallas, where you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting some newly purchased “water floatation devices” on display at restaurants, basketball games, PTA meetings and church bazaars. My husband actually DECLINED the invitation saying it was a long way to drive (20 minutes) for not much reward. Yes, Hubby is a Hooters snob. I, for one, am certain this lovely young lady is saving her money for law school and reads to the blind on weekends.

So, aside from a couple of jellyfish incidents, and an attack of some sort of seaweed forest on the last couple of days at the beach, all went well. We even took another of our famous Gerber Family Reunion photos. These require more coordination and anguish by some than can possibly be justified. However, it does prove the sayings that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and birds of a feather DO flock together…

Cheers to another successful family reunion. Raise your “Wine Woozie” in celebration.

These are my kind of people.

36 PEOPLE WALK INTO A BAR…

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Growing up, my family had a reunion maybe every 5 years. We’d meet at some convenient location for the day, and go away again for another 5 years. We stopped the whole thing when I was still pretty young, so I’m not sure what out-of-towners did after those exhilarating few hours. Maybe that explains why we quit having them. That, or all the polyester in one room was a fire hazard and we could no longer secure a venue.

Now, my in-laws have a reunion every year. EVERY YEAR. It’s either in the “home town” or some beachy location. It typically lasts 5 days and this year involves a head count of 36.

That’s 36 for Happy Hour before dinner. 36 to transport to dinner. 36 for dinner. 36 for beaching (chairs and umbrellas, etc.) 36… well, you get the idea.

Needless to say, a lot of prep goes into this each year, as evidenced by the…oh, about 1000 email I’ve been copied on since planning began. The last 3 days saw a flurry of “Reply Alls” regarding laundry detergent and its exact room number, the disastrous potential of NOT using low suds detergent, (who’s doing laundry on vacation??) what is considered appropriate dinner attire, (well, it IS a beach…) and an unapologetic calling out of the purveyors of the $3 Family Happy Hour wine and insinuation that it will no longer be tolerated. Surprisingly, the complainant WAS NOT ME.

These little missives have kept my co-workers and me entertained for days. They hear me say, “Oh, for the love…” and spring up like prairie dogs to peek over the cubicle and hear the latest news flash.

I would copy all the email trail(s) into the blog directly and leave it at that, but I do have to spend 5 days with these people, and I bet if they wanted, an “accident” COULD be arranged. “Accidents” happen at the ocean all the time. And anyone who can coordinate this group can arrange ANYTHING.

Stay tuned. The fun is about to begin. My hubby (who arrived yesterday) has already texted me the term “bat $#&!”

Meanwhile…

20110806-042753.jpg

Meet my Flat Marketing team. They so enjoyed hearing about this trip, they decided to join in “paper” form. You can follow their adventures at the family reunion if you Like the Flat Marketing FB page.