I was hitting 2024 with an all-new resolve. I’m not doing a dry January though, that’s just crazy talk. But I did want to get back into a healthy exercise routine, so a trip to the gym was in order. 

Let’s review. I couldn’t wear the old sweats I’d worn for months. After a quick trip to Lululemon and new gym shoes, I found my earphones and loaded up audiobooks, and I was ready. I confess earbuds fall out of my ears. 

“I’m back,” I cheerfully said to the desk clerk. 

“Welcome back,” he said, underwhelmed. He held up the scanner and looked at me with beckoning eyes. I returned the stare. “Your app?” he asked.

I replied, “Do you want my phone number?” 

Where do I begin? I saw row after row of stationary bikes, followed by rows of treadmills. Standing alone, I was getting jostled by the more dedicated enthusiasts. 

The treadmill seemed the least intimidating. I can walk, walk fast, and even run in place. Looking at the control panel in front of me, I felt like I needed a rocket scientist to help me get it started. I pressed the large green button, and the tread beneath my feet suddenly moved like an airport people mover. Quickly, I found myself on a fast-paced walk. I plugged one end of my earphones into my phone, the other into me, and started my motivational audiobook.

With my confidence rising, I gained more speed. I was going at a pretty good clip and repurposed gym air filled my lungs. I could go faster; why not? I glanced at my reflection in the windows. I looked cute. I was in the front row of machines, with throngs of people behind me. 

I reached across to adjust the volume on my phone. All the thumping of my new heavy running shoes on this oversized rubber band made it difficult to hear. 

“AAAHHH!” My arm caught the earphone cord, sending my phone flying while still attached to my ears. I lunged to catch it, but the phone banged against the side of the machine until breaking loose and landing in the walkway. Where were all those fanatics now that I needed them to hand my phone back to me?

How do I stop this thing? Using what little upper body strength I have, I hoisted myself up on the hand bars, releasing my feet in the hopes it would stop. That was a bad idea. When I lowered myself back down, I caught my rubbered-toed shoes on the running rubber band.

I flipped and went flying. My butt landed on the tread, with my feet planted on the tile floor. I looked like an inverted beetle. Thud. Thud. Thud. Back-pedaling, I tried to right myself by placing my palms on the fast-moving treadmill. All that managed to do was catapult all of me onto the tile floor. I hoped no one was watching this Lululemon-clad mother of three spread eagle on the dirty tile floor that was covered in sweat and other bodily fluids, and doused with Pine Sol like a bad perfume.

I slid over and grabbed my phone, hopped to my feet in an I-meant-to-do-that motion, turned, mounted the machine, and resumed at the full running pace as if nothing had happened. 

When the workout cycle ended, this hamster-on-a-wheel dismounted. Tomorrow, I’ll return to my sweats and neighborhood streets resolving to do a less aggressive routine.

Live with waffletude

I’m not a good camper. It feels like a lot of work and dirt to play Pioneer Days.

For years, a group of my friends have gone to a favorite mountain camping spot. Not only are they my closest friends, but they are the closest thing to professional survivalists I’ve ever seen. They’re trained professionals with all the gadgets and gismos right down to a solar-heated shower.

Although, I am envious when I see their photos of hiking, feasts, singing, laughing, and chatting around the campfire. At the same time, I’m relieved, not to be there.

But when my son, Sam, asked if we could go this year, I decided it was time to give it a try.

I borrowed a tent and a sleeping bag. I tossed my Louis Vuitton duffle bag in the trunk, my Jack Russell Terrier, Socrates, in the back seat, and Sam in the front, and we were off to the wilderness.

For our contribution, I made tortilla soup. In hindsight, I’m not sure a bean-driven soup was the best idea for a meal at a location without indoor plumbing.

I was ready to spend quality time with Sam while I set up this large tent. Sam had other ideas. He set up an even larger tent, then blew up a mattress.

“Did yours come with turndown and maid service?” I asked.

The first night was everything the past propaganda pictures had promised. Warmed by the fire and shots of whisky, we all sat around the campfire and sang songs. By midnight, I was curled up in my sleeping bag, looking up at the stars through the opened mesh.

Two o’clock in the morning, I was awakened by a loud rumble. The heavens opened up, and rain poured inside my tent.

“Move over,” I pushed Socrates. My backside was soaked while he snored comfortably inside the sleeping bag.

A fine layer of grit and grim added another layer to my sunblock-coated skin. I yearned for a Clorox wipe.

The next morning, the smell of last night’s campfire lingered in the air. Socrates mingled with the other canines. Still in my damp clothes I plopped down and slugged a cup o’ joe. I was clueless about the condition of my hair, how I smelled, or what was in my teeth for

that matter. There I was the oddball friend begging to borrow everything from a cup to a fork because it never dawned on me to bring utensils.

Conversely, my friends looked refreshed in their darling outfits, ready to go into town for lunch. As did Sam when he emerged well rested from his dry tent.

Suddenly, Socrates shot out from the bushes, leading the pack of domesticated dogs, with a furry treasure firmly clentched in his jaws.

“Drop it!” I shouted to no avail.

Socrates stared, proudly displaying the baby squirrel dangling from either side of his mouth. Game on! Socrates darted around the food tables, forcing everyone to jump onto the tabletops.

I grabbed him through the plumes of dust he had kicked up and shook him upside down and right side up. I used a small stick in attempting to pry open his mouth but his jaws clenched so tightly that he broke the stick. Sam held his body while I jimmied his jaw open. He flung the squirrel’s guts that stuck to my sticky skin like flies on fly paper.

“Anyone wants squirrel for breakfast? Its good eatin’.” I joked.

No takers.

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How did coffee beans spill on the floor? Upon closer examination, it wasn’t coffee at all. Over the past weeks I found bits of avocados nibbled away, while at night they scurried in my attic. RATS!

It all made sense. The vacant house across the street was cleaned out to be sold. Its current furry occupants decided to take up new residence in my house.

I was flooded with images from my kids’ favorite animated movie Ratatouille, where the woman’s house falls apart under the weight of a thousand rats living in her walls. 

I live with a Jack Russell terrier, a breed known for its highly rated ratting abilities, ironically named SocRATes. Even though he caught many rats, we couldn’t keep up with the incoming intruders.

And yet, my prayers seemingly answered, when a man showed up soliciting a pest control service, I politely declined. I didn’t like the poison. 

I left my house to take Socrates out for a walk. When I returned home, I was a gasp!  A rat was eating a banana on my kitchen counter! That was it! 

Running out my front door, I screamed, “COME, BAAAAAACK!!! Sweet angel of death.”

On the spot, I signed up for their services. “Do what you will to win this war,” I declared.

The rat exterminator set the black box bait traps, one in the front and one in the back, assuring me, that there was no threat to my pets.

“Rats are my kryptonite,” I confessed to him.

“Me too,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“Occupational hazard I guess.”

That night, there was a loud rumble in the bushes. Socrates may not have great at catching live rats, but this MacGyver of terriers unlocked that bait box with the precision of a jewel thief.

I rushed Socrates to the emergency pet hospital.

“My dog has ingested rat poison!” I barked.

The nurse looked horrified, “No! Where did he get it?”

Sheepishly, I confessed, “I was desperate. The rats were everywhere. The guy came to my door. It was a sign.”

“Is your dog eating?” the nurse armed with a clipboard glared.

“No, I’ve tried anything to get him to eat.”

“Did you give him chicken?”

“No. Bacon.”

“Bacon flavoring?”

“No, real bacon. Bacon makes everything better.”

“Let’s try this organic dog treat.” She reached into a jar then handed Socrates a tiny bone. He wolfed it down. My heart skipped a beat.

As soon as she left us alone, I scurried over to that jar and grabbed a handful. “Here.”  

Seconds later the nurse returned, “Did you give him more treats?”

How did she know? I looked for hidden cameras.

At this point, I was worried she would call protective dog services on me.

For the next few weeks, Socrates and I made multiple trips back for shots. It didn’t take long for my clever dog to catch on. 

Each time I had to drag Socrates, butt down, wearing the cone of shame across the pet hospital waiting area floor.

He threw his head back and howled, “Nooooo. I’m not going in there! You poke me!”

Alerted, the dogs seated in the waiting room suddenly scrambled for the exit door, dragging their owners behind them.

Finally, this ordeal ended with Socrates receiving a clean bill of health. And the rats? They opened a lovely French restaurant on the other side of town.

The moral of the story: Don’t name your dog after your kryptonite

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I take my dogs for a walk around my neighborhood every evening around five. Almost every time, I see a woman working in her front garden. 

“Beautiful garden,” I say.

“Thank you, comin’ along,” she replies.

I noticed the house was run down and recently had outdoor ramps installed, which led me to believe an older person was living there. 

On this night, she wasn’t in her garden but instead out walking a dog. All the dogs exploded viciously, barking as if to say, “You! Get off my street!” 

“It’s my street. You get off! Grrrr!” 

“Sorry,” I shouted over them.

“It’s okay,” she shouted back, “I’m fostering her. Barks at everything. Are you worried about the coyotes?”

Wild coyotes have created quite a stir by eating rats, wild rabbits, and now pets.

“Yes,” I replied.

She continued shouting, even though the dogs had stopped barking, and then caught herself. “I’m Mary. I’ve moved here to take care of my father. He’s 96.”

“Does he have all his marbles?” A commonly asked question.

“Yes, but he needs help. I live in Switzerland. I’m afraid to return home because I’d be so far away if something happened. I grew up in this house.”

“Wow, me too. I live up the street.”

Wait a minute, I thought, as did she, “We’re about the same age. Do you remember Joni Smalls?” Mary asked me.

I allowed the marble inside my head to roll around while jogging my memory. “Holy cow! Yes. I haven’t thought about her in years.”

Mary proceeded. “I remember she always wore pink. She was very nice, and so was her mom, but her dad was mean. They once asked me to stay for dinner, and when I agreed, he grumbled and said, ‘Why are we feeding another month?’ Can you believe that?”

“Yeah, he was kinda grumpy.” 

“Did you know the Monroe boys at the top? They were super smart, and John was so cute. Their clothes were dirty like their mom never did laundry. They went to Poly on a full scholarship.”

“I guess so,” I said.

“I did. True, it’s a big house. What about Sandra?” I asked.

“We went to school together, and she always got straight ‘As’ and would rub my nose in it. My dad would say, ‘Why can’t you be more like Sandra?’ I just found out her husband had an affair and had a child out of it. Now this all “Cs” girl is looking pretty good.”

We laughed.

The more she spoke, the more I tried to bring young Mary back into focus. Suddenly a light went on.

“Remember that vacant lot?” Mary said, “This girl lived across the street from that lot. I went to her house one day, and she had a brand-new bed spread that was yellow with daisies, and she told me not to sit on it and get it dirty because her mom had just bought it for her. Her name was Leslie. After that, I didn’t want to play with her.”

Aha! Now, I remembered little snotty Mary—that girl who gossiped about everybody. Here I was stuck in a conversation with her decades later. However, I didn’t remember that yellow bedspread with daisies.

There was an awkward pause while older Leslie and Mary stared at each other.

“Well. You have a nice day.” Mary and her dog briskly walked away.

“You too.” 

I went in the opposite direction.

Live with Waffletude.

I decided this was going to be personal health month, starting with getting all those uncomfortable check-ups checked off my list. I used the pandemic as an excuse, but the truth of the matter was I didn’t like going to the doctor. 

My first wellness “procedure” required using propofol as a mild sedative to put me in a twilight state. Immediately, it conjured up horrible memories of Michael Jackson, which prompted me to ask the very efficient nurse, “You are going to remember to wake me up, right?”

She looked at me as if to say, “If had a dime for every time someone asked me that question, I could retire.” Then she actually said, “Trust me, you will have a lovely nap, and yes, you’ll wake up. You won’t feel a thing.”

Ominous and reassuring all at the same time. Ultimately, the nurse was correct, except I had a hangover. I felt loopy.

While I was having my experience, my son, Sam, was making the eleven-hour drive home from college all alone. Before he left his college campus, he sent me a picture of his overpacked Pathfinder. The interior of his car was jammed so tightly it couldn’t have held a paper map. His three mountain bikes were strapped to the rack on the back. It looked like the truck from the Beverly Hillbillies; at the very least, it should have had a sign attached that read California or Bust.

While I waited for Sam’s safe arrival home, I could hardly keep my eyes open. I needed to stay awake since this was the same kid that totaled the car last year. As the hours ticked by, I lost my battle and eventually went upstairs to my bed, instantly falling into a deep sleep, like a low-grade coma. 

“Mom. Mom. Mom, wake up.”

“What, Sam?” I mumbled, not remembering he had been away.

“There’s a spider in my room. I’m sure it’s a black widow.”

Spiders are Sam’s kryptonite. Ironic since this kid dangles from a rope off the side of a mountain fifty feet up in the air. 

“Fine. Come sleep in the big bed,” I said my habitual response.

“Are you sure?” He was too tired from his trip to reason with me.

I couldn’t understand his hesitation; it’s not like he hasn’t hopped in the big bed before whenever he’s been scared, usually coming in with his blanket. Over the years all my kids found a sanctuary there. The thing I wasn’t grasping at that moment was that he wasn’t five years old anymore. 

The following day when I woke up, “AAAAHHHH!” I screamed in horror. There was a grown man sprawled out in my bed! At least six feet tall, facial hair, and a tattoo! A mountain man! The only thing I recognized was his blonde curls.

“Mom! Why are you yelling at me?” Sam rolled over in dismay. 

Once I got my faculties back, I looked at him, my baby boy. He was still wearing the same clothes he had on when he left Colorado twenty-four hours ago. Like Gulliver, he had grown too big to fit in the big bed.

I can’t quite figure out where that time went, but I know he will always be my little boy who is afraid of spiders.

Live with waffletude

I learned so much about people, animals, and myself on my recent African safari. I was traveling with a small group passionate wildlife conservationists, organized by a mutual friend, Beth. Unfortunately, she was also the one whom the baboons pranked.

On our first get-to-know-you dinner as a group, we took the safari Jeep to the equivalent of a mini-mall. Inside was a petite version of Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas, right down to the painted sky-like ceiling with a blue background and puffy clouds. The obligatory, massive David sculpture was in the center, complete with correct body parts.

Multiple restaurants had varying cuisine from Asian and Greek to Kentucky Fried Chicken. I couldn’t help but marvel that of all the fast food options available, KFC was the one representing the best of American cuisine thousands of miles away.

“I’m vegan, so either Asian or Greek would be best. But, I’m open to what the group wants,” she stated nicely, being the first to pronounce her food choices.

My cousin and travel partner, Shannon, smiled, “I don’t think you’ll get an argument from us. I won’t eat KFC at home.”

That was met with a unanimous giggle and sighs of relief.

The Asian-fusion-styled restaurant was small and they had to push two small square tables together to form one large rectangular table to accommodate our medium-sized group.

Joe, our guide, spoke to the server in Afrikaans, smiling and chatting. Then, with the ease of a linguist and without missing a beat, he turned to us and said in perfect English, “Waters all around?” I’m convinced he could talk to the animals with the same ease as Doctor Doolittle.

The flip-book menu had many different options. Suddenly, Beth slapped her menu closed, “I hope you don’t mind, but we need to go.”

“What’s wrong?” Joe asked, surprised.

“They have crocodile on the menu. We can’t eat here.”

“I agree,” I said, flipping the pages until I found the section with a variety of cooking methods used to prepare the crocodile: fried, sauteed in garlic, boiled in a sauce of various spices, roasted, barbequed, and served as a croc-a-burger. But the whole idea made me want to gag. “Who would want to eat a gargantuan Godzilla-like lizard? Unless it comes with a belt or purse on the side? Am I right?” I laughed. Awkwardly, I found myself alone.

The table went silent, and they all looked at me as if I had just said, “Anyone want to split a Lassie steak?”

I should have read the room. I wasn’t prepared to be living with real animals. I’m used to buying my frozen food in packages.

Joe smiled politely at me.

Abruptly, we rose and stampeded next door to the Greek restaurant. This time we

reviewed the menu posted outside their door before entering. Nothing too exotic. Dinner proved to be delightful and progressed with a lot of laughter and a smattering of wine.

On the following morning’s safari, we observed a crocodile flipping a crane to its death. Apparently, the not-so-endangered crane was on his menu.

Live with Waffletude

There are only a handful of things that my kids and I love doing together. Unsurprisingly, siblings, two nineteen-year-olds plus one twenty-six-year-old, don’t always agree on entertainment. There’s always one out-of-whack. 

The latest resurgence of shopping at thrift stores answers my prayers. What used to be known as thrifting is now referred to as repurposing. Bargain hunting at its finest. I’m not much of a shopper, but going in and out of thrift stores searching for a treasure has repurposed the way I look at things. 

On the flip side, I’m always weary of giving something of mine away. What if I want it back, or it has a hidden value, at least hidden to me? One person’s junk is another person’s treasure.

There are many benefits to repurposing. For starters, it’s good for the planet; fewer things are thrown into landfills. Even better than that, the beneficiaries are wonderful charitable organizations like Goodwill, the Boy and Girls Club, and Assistance League. 

So, on spring break, these four treasure hunters decided to adventure up the coast to Ventura, the mecca of thrift stores. 

“Mom, look! Lululemon leggings in perfect condition for ten dollars! I’ve seen these for over a hundred in the stores.” Lindsay squealed as if she had just uncovered the Fountain of Youth.

“Hey, Mom, can I get this? It’s sorta new. It’s only two hundred dollars.” Sam asked, sporting a beautiful leather coat. Thrifting is not always thrifty.

“No,” I replied.

While the twins shopped for clothes, their older brother, Jack, combed through the record section. Another thing that has been repurposed, renamed, revitalized, and enjoying a new resurgence. The vinyl. Standing beside him, I could feel the needle skipping across the top, making that scratching sound. 

Looking at the Joni Mitchell album with a five-dollar price tag, I couldn’t help myself saying, “I had that exact album!” Suddenly I felt like my mother. I told you not to give away that dress; you’ll see that shoulder pads would come back in style. Is anyone interested in a cassette deck tape player you can remove from your car and put in your trunk?

It was lunchtime, and we all agreed on an outdoor café. When the waiter came by, I ordered a well-deserved beer.

“Me too,” blurted Lindsay.

“What?” I looked dismayed at my college freshman’s ease in ordering an illegal substance. 

“I have my driver’s license.” She said, pulling out her fake Wisconsin ID that had her age at 22. 

“Where did you get that?” I asked.

“Online. It’s really easy.”

It was remarkably authentic looking. I wonder if I could get one made only, I would want to deduct ten years off my age.

“It doesn’t matter,” the young waiter said, “there’s no one here that’s old enough to pour anyway.”

“Ha! See. Wait, can I go and pour my beer?”

“Sorry, I’m afraid not.”

Time for one last shop. My day was complete until I saw my worst nightmare. Immediately I knew the story behind this donation. The kids are moving their mother into an assisted living facility. They’re grabbing and filling boxes like a band of miradors to complete this moving job as quickly as possible, never looking or investigating. All this junk, why would they? She doesn’t have anything of value. They were sorely mistaken.

I stared at the tattered book secured in a locked glass case. The handwritten sign read, Original First Edition David Copperfield Written by Charles Dickens $16,500.

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I’ve started reading Jay Shetty’s new book 8 Rules of Love. He suggests going to the movies by yourself. It was a Saturday night and my kids were gone, leaving the house silent. At that very moment, I decided I was going to go to the movies by myself. I was determined to ditch the stigma.

Movie theaters these days replicate my living room, but I don’t spend forty dollars for popcorn and a glass of wine delivered to my seat in my living room. So, I popped my microwave popcorn, bagged up some jalapeno peppers I had stashed in my refrigerator to go with my popcorn, and pulled out my kids’ Darth Vader thermos to fill with two glasses of wine. Then, I placed them inside my oversized purse, covered them with my sweatshirt, and headed out the door.

I bought my ticket and picked out the corner seat in the last row, so no one could see or hear me.

The coming attractions had come and gone, and the movie started. I settled back in my reclining seat, ready to enjoy my evening. To my surprise, when I reached inside my purse, my hand plunged into the puddle that was settling at the bottom. I licked my finger. Sure enough it was chardonnay with a slight ting of mint gum that had been stuck to the inside.  I hadn’t secured the Vader’s helmet. There is no hiding the smell of chardonnay. I took the popcorn and the peppers out and closed up my purse.

As soon as the movie ended, I hightailed it out of there before the lights went on and the other patrons of the arts could see me.

Once I was out in the fresh, brisk air, I felt magical. My small town was alive in a way I had not seen since before the pandemic. The streets were bustling with couples and families out for the night. The sound of live music was everywhere. Across the street, the windows and doors of the restaurant were open, allowing this fabulous jazz band’s music to float out onto the sidewalk. The trumpet and saxophone beckoned me.

Do you know what I thought? I’m going in, sit at the bar, enjoy the music and have a real glass of wine. But as I neared the entrance, I became aware that my purse was dripping wine. Something about going into a bar carrying a bag dripping of wine just didn’t sit well with me.

Instead, I sat on the bench just outside and enjoyed the music. I pulled out my cell phone and kept checking it, pretending I was waiting for someone to join me.

“Excuse me, miss, there are seats at the bar if you want to come in,” offered a friendly server, who had noticed me sitting outside and had come out to check on me.

“Oh, no thanks, I’m fine,” I answered.

“OK, can I get you anything?”

“Well, do you have a really long straw by any chance?”

Live with waffletude

New Year’s Day is a big deal for those who live near Pasadena, California, all due to the Tournament of Roses Festivities. 

But when January 1st falls on a Sunday, it becomes an “un-holiday.” No New Year’s Eve Parties. No Parade. No Rose Bowl Game. 

I was alone on this bleak, cold New Year’s Eve, slumped on my couch, surfing the television channels. Let’s face it. These have been a miserable couple of years. Bah humbug!

When A Christmas Carol popped on the screen, I paused, even though I’d seen it hundreds of times. Ah yes, good ol’ bitter Scrooge. The longer I watched, the heavier my eyelids got. The last words I heard were from Jacob Marley warning Scrooge he would be awakened by three bells announcing the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.

I’m not sure how long I slept, but I was awakened by the bells of my cell phone with a text message from my friend, “Meet us at the Pub to bring in the new year.” 

I was hesitant because it was pouring rain. Why not? I have nothing else to do.

I arrived drenched as a rat. I took off my coat and sat at the table with my friends.

“Leslie Smith? Is that you?” this woman’s voice boomed from the table next to ours. No one has called me by my maiden name in decades. “I’m sure you don’t remember me. We went to high school together. You were the bomb! I can’t believe it’s really you. You are standing there! It’s crazy.” 

“I was?” This news came as a surprise to me.

She turned to her friends, “You guys don’t understand, she was something in high school. Really, the most popular girl in school. I’m so honored to see you. My name is Carol. But I’m sure you don’t remember me.”

She was right. I didn’t remember her. “Thanks so much.” I gave Carol a warm hug. That voice from my past lifted my dreary spirits.

At the stroke of midnight, the Pub erupted, toasting in the new year.

Suddenly, my friend stood up and began loudly singing, “in days of auld lang syne. Cheers, everyone!” We all touched our glasses together. “Every time cocktail glasses clink together – A drunk angel gets a new liver.” She shouted, and everyone laughed.

“I wrote that.” I was thrilled, having never been quoted before.

I felt a bit better when I returned home to my couch, until, “Oh, good golly!” I jumped, “Lucky, how did you get so wet?” I shouted at my soaking golden retriever. 

The two front doors that I had locked were now wide open. How, I wondered?

 I’ve heard that opening your front door on New Year’s Eve will let all the bad luck out, and all the good luck will come into your house. 

Tonight, was I visited by three spirits? Were the events at the Pub my past and present? They are different movies, but they have the same idea. Now, could these opened doors be my future?

I stood stunned. Maybe just maybe, life isn’t so miserable after all. Even with all these challenges, there is much to be grateful for – my wonderful children, friends, and life. 

I ran out through those opened doors and banged pots and pans, “Welcome, 2023! Bring us all good luck this year. We desire it. Happy New Year!”

Live with Waffletude.

“I got free tickets to the Tournament of Roses Parade! Wanna go?” 

When my friend Betsey uttered those words, I could hardly contain my excitement. I’m a veteran of curbside viewing, so being able to sit directly across from the television cameras was an unexpected delight. 

A 6:00 a.m. departure would ensure our butts would rest on those cold metal bleachers for the 8:00 a.m. start with time to spare.

The excursion team of Betsey, her brother JD, our friend Kristen, a couple from Utah and me piled inside the minivan like kids going on a field trip. I was so chatty with excitement that I wasn’t paying attention to Betsey’s directions… until the traffic came to a sudden halt. “How are you going?” I screeched in panicked horror.

Betsey calmly replied, “This road runs right into the St. John’s parking lot.”

“NOOOO! It’s below the boulevard. We’re above the boulevard. We’ll never be able to cross over.” I shook my head.

We were wedged in like a can of sardines. The only thing that was moving was the hands of time while we inched closer to the 8:00 a.m. mark.

“You guys have never seen the parade. So get out and you won’t miss the start, while I find the parking lot,” Betsey said after cursing at the traffic.

Clearly, Betsey needed a wingman. “I’ll stay with you,” I said.

With that, the others hopped out and made a mad dash for it.

The minivan made a sharp left and merged into the lane next to us.

“Coming through,” she announced.

Moments later we broke free from the traffic jam.

“Yee-ha!” 

We circled back around, only to bump into barricades.

“Oh, look, there they are!” There was no time to wave at our friends, now on the hoof. “Turn right here.”

No luck.

“Look, there they are again.” Our friends were rapidly gaining on our seats while we orbited them.

Pushing the minivan like a racehorse for miles in the opposite direction, we searched for an opening.

“Why is everyone slowing down?” Betsey howled.

“Listen.” 

The loud rumble of the fighter jets overhead signaled the parade’s start. Cell phones popped out and pointed up from car windows.

“Quick, cross over the boulevard while no one is paying attention.” 

Now speeding back toward the parking lot, Betsey rolled down her window and waved her Golden Ticket Parking Pass, “HOW DO I GET TO HERE?”

The officer moved the wood barrier aside and pointed.

“AHHH!” We took a right and slammed on the brakes to avoid running over the bedazzled

Medieval Knight Equestrian Team.

“Sorry. Have a nice parade.” Betsey navigated around them. 

“This way.” I pointed.

 “It’s one way.”

“It’s parade day. Pull the side mirrors in!”

We held our breath and squeezed through the tiny canal created by the enormous buses on one side and the massive, red trucks used to carry the famous Clydesdale horses on the other.

“KEEP DRIVING!” I said, white-knuckling the dashboard. 

Betsey floored it. We popped out of that street like a cork and landed in front of the Penn State Marching Band. The baton twirler will never know how close she came to being a hood ornament on a minivan. We honked, but no one could hear us over the horn section.

Dodging traffic cones, I felt trapped in a video game. 

Finally, we turned into the already jammed parking lot.

“Here!” Betsey pulled the minivan right behind another illegally parked car. “Hop out.”

After high fives, we ran toward our bleachers, slowing once at the tempting smell of the bacon-wrapped hot dogs on the cart. “No, you’ll thank me later.”

At 8:30, we plopped down on our seats.

“Oh, look, Bets, there are the Medieval Equestrians and Mickey Mouse,” I waved. “Is there a Mister Toad’s Wild Float this year?”

“You just rode it!” 

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