As a GenXer, it’s only natural to obsess over this show. This was the time when many of us were in our twenties, figuring out life after college. I also feel like that time was kind of a blur, so not only was I watching a very public love story play out, but I was also rekindling so many memories of that time. The nineties felt a bit more subtle than the 80’s … it was as if after a decade of neon and glam rock we just needed to chill out a bit, hence all the minimalism. I also feel like there’s been plenty of shows focused on the eighties (thank you, Stranger Things, especially the season with the mall) but it’s about time that the 90’s got some love too.

I’m not going to talk about the deceased nor the people and relationships and how they were portrayed; I am sure plenty of creative license was taken already. However, I do have some thoughts about the show in general:

1. First, the casting was fantastic. Paul Anthony Kelly as JFK, Jr., was strikingly good in particular; both his appearance and his voice seemed spot-on. I didn’t recognize Naomi Watts as Jackie Kennedy until I recently looked it up. Constance Zimmer broke my heart as Carolyn and Lauren’s mother, Ann. (By the way, she is very underrated; go watch her in the series Unreal. It is crazy.)

2. To this day, JFK Jr. is the only person I know who can pull off a suit with a backwards baseball hat and still look incredible. Anyone else just looks dopey.

3. Whoever was in charge of the music knew what they were doing. Five stars. I remember listening to Dido’s No Angel album on repeat in the 90’s (there are no skips on it!) and I was pleasantly surprised to hear “Here with Me” featured on the last episode (sob). Also worth mentioning … Portishead! Both are worth digging out of the archives.

4. Twenty-year-olds should just stop making TikToks about minimalist 90’s style. You weren’t alive, you weren’t there, just let the GenXers have their thing, okay?

5. I don’t even know if this is historically accurate - but did anyone else cringe during John and Carolyn’s first kiss? They had just spent hours smoking and eating garlic-y Indian food. That just can’t be good. And speaking of bad breath, same goes for the scene where Carolyn had literally been sitting at home chain-smoking all day, and in walks JFK Jr. for a big ol’ sloppy kiss after a long day at work. Is this normal?

6. John’s apartment. Sigh. That apartment was just ugly. There was nothing endearing about it, and honestly I was questioning his taste. It was dark, sterile, unwelcoming … and it had a terrible layout. I would be depressed too if I was cooped up in that place all day. Carolyn’s first order of business should have been finding new digs. There’s got to be something better in his price range, no?

7. The wedding stressed me out. Here all the guests were at the church practically having a cornhole tournament outside, and the bride was back at the house sitting in a bathtub fully clothed, smoking a cigarette, no hair and makeup done while some repairs were done to her dress. What. Was. That. That is a nightmare that ranks up there with “I haven’t attended a single class all semester”.

8. I was a little surprised that the writers and creators included a highly speculative “last minutes in the plane” scene. I didn’t want to see it. And I know it’s supposed to make us feel better, with Carolyn remaining calm and talking to John in a soothing tone … but I couldn’t help but think how unlikely that was. Everyone knows the plane went down … I would have preferred to have just seen the plane take off and disappear across the horizon.

Thoughts? What brought back memories of the 90’s for you?

Wanted to quickly share that my book and TheGenXPlayground were both featured in a little article in the Naples Press!

Check it out here:

https://www.naplespress.com/arts-living/growing-up-catholic-a-personal-experience-by-niederkorn/article_3a2c45f5-3f4e-45c7-89ad-d58705b445b9.html

Speaking of Valentines gifts, my Facebook feed recently featured some “curated” Valentines gift suggestions from Nordstrom. I expected tasteful jewelry, frilly lingerie, or perhaps some expensive perfume. What I got both frightened and confused me. Here is what “all the ladies are wanting for Valentines day” (???), in no particular order:

Gift #1:

So Nordstrom decides to lead off their “curated” Valentines gift selections with this. Any guesses? Old Annie wig that wasn’t quite curly enough for the job? A curled-up dog? Baby-sized Ewok costume? Nope. These are actually slippers, folks. Now I don’t know about you, but these don’t exactly scream “romantic” as much as they announce to the world you want to wear old lady wigs on your feet.

Gift #2:

This gift made me feel like I was on a couch at a psychologist, squinting at a Rorschach inkblot test. I had no idea what this was; was I out of the loop? Is there some sexy-time device I am supposed to be using nowadays? Well, it turns out I could put my fears to rest since this was a face massager, and a $175 one at that. (p.s. That shit most certainly does not work.)

Gift #3:

I am trying to keep this post PG-13, but my mind went immediately to the gutter on this one, so I’ll just keep it at that. It could also be a new type of light bulb? I don’t know what this is, but it may be another massage tool that looks kind of painful. (Pro tip: Don’t get your partner a massage tool. Take her to a spa to get an actual massage. Or give her one yourself.)

Gift #4:

Another odd choice. Some kind of slim thermos? A tool for girly maintenance work? Answer: These are hand weights. (Pro tip: Unless your partner asked for workout equipment specifically, the message behind this gift may come off poorly. Stick with chocolates.)

Gift #5

Lastly, we have this device. Spoiler alert, it’s another face massager/roller. I had no idea that women were so invested in massaging their faces. However, I do know enough that IT. DOESN’T. DO. ANYTHING. Save your money, I beg you.

To those who celebrate, Happy Valentines Day! I for one will be doing the most Gen X thing ever: an afternoon screening of the classic Pretty in Pink, in theaters for its 40th anniversary. (!!!!!) Fantastic soundtrack, Andrew McCarthy, high school drama, and a deliciously evil James Spader. No Ewok slippers required.

Keep an eye out here—I’ll be releasing a few chapters as a sneak peek soon.

Thank you, as always, for reading and supporting this space. 2026 has some exciting things in store, and I can’t wait to share them with you.

I don’t really go through many drive-thrus, but it seems that lately whenever I do, the person taking my order did not listen to a Single. Word. I. Said. Zilch. Nada. No entiendo. That person may as well have stepped out back by the dumpsters for a smoke break, because it’s like I never even existed.

Here’s the confusing thing: the initial greeting starts off strong, so this gives me hope. And no, it’s not the recorded voice that asks me if I want to try their special new meal, or wonders if I’m using the app. (By the way, don’t get me started on the weirdness of answering those questions when I know it’s not a real person, followed by the awkward silence of wondering when the live person is going to actually come and take my order. I feel like a giant jackass sitting there wondering when the real voice is going to show up.) After that initial contact normal, pleasant contact, it’s as if they can’t quite muster the actual act of listening.

And here’s what pains me the most: it seems to happen at a very respectable chain that is near and dear to my Wisconsin-born heart. Yes, sadly we are talking about you, Culver’s.

I’m not sure what happened … maybe they save all their all-stars for the dining room registers? Because honestly for the most part, Culver’s has their shit together, and they know how to hire good people. But here is how my orders have gone recently:

C: Welcome to Culver’s, what can I make fresh for you today?

Me: Hi, could I have a Butterburger with cheese meal, with ketchup, mustard, and pickles please? (Note: sometimes I even use the official Culver’s language of “the works with no onions” because well … let’s just say I am Culver’s-experienced. Culver’s-forward?)

Another note: At this point she should really just be asking me what my drink order is, since fries are the default side. But that doesn’t happen.

C: Okay that Butterburger is automatically a double, is that okay?

Uh … no?? I said nothing about a double. And by the way I find that a bit sneaky, Culver’s. I expected better from you.

Me: No, just a single.

C: Okay and did you want cheese on that?

Me: (cringing more)Yes.

C: And ketchup, mustard, pickles, and onions?

Me: (Oh Lord she did not just ask me that). No, no onions.

C: Okay and did you want that in a meal?

At this point I find myself dangerously close to going all Larry David on her: irritated, incredulous, and on the verge of calling out the fact that I already told her ALL OF THESE THINGS when I initially ordered. What should my approach be here? Confusion? Asking her if something was wrong with the intercom earlier? Of course I remain polite through clenched teeth. It doesn’t help that I am a bit hangry.

Me: Yes, please.

C: Fries and a Coke okay? (p.s the only acceptable questions here)

Me: Yes.

I pull around to pay and wait for my meal, and the meal runner bounds out the side door all chipper as he hands me the bag, and asks me if he can do anything else for me.

Damnit, Culver’s, I can’t stay mad at you …

When I’d first started writing this chapter about my Polish grandmother, I was a little disappointed in myself. Sure, I had some fun anecdotes and some surface details, but I was missing so much of her important life history. I knew that her story was important to tell, but how much did I really know her? I wish I’d listened more. I wish I’d asked her more questions about her life. I wish I’d known more about what was swirling around in that brain of hers before it succumbed to dementia. I wanted to do her story justice, but I felt like I was missing too many pieces.

But then, something miraculous happened: I came into possession of her old diaries and writings that I never knew existed. (If there was one thing I inherited from my grandmother, it was the importance of writing.) It turned out that Grandma kept a simple diary for years, mostly to record the day’s activities when she was a young mother of two and then three boys. Many of the entries were only a few sentences, and it wasn’t hard to figure out that Grandma spent A LOT of time doing laundry, cleaning, gardening, baking, and cooking for her family. And, by the way, she did all of that while starting an electrical business with her husband. But aside from that small diary, Grandma actually had taken the time to record the story of her family, starting when her parents came to the United States from Poland. Once she had documented all of those details, she turned the pages into journal entries. From what I could tell, Grandma journaled until she couldn’t anymore.

But before I get into the details of her writings, I want to share what I do know and remember about my grandmother. Alice T. Drees had been known as Alice Sr., since her daughter-in-law was named Alice, as well. When she hadn’t been called Mrs. Drees, or Alice, or Alice Sr., she’d been known as “Mother.” On anyone else it would have sounded old-fashioned and formal, but it had just seemed to fit her. Her three sons and her three daughters-in-law hadn’t ever called her Mom; it always had been Mother.

I’d known Grandma to be a hardworking and shrewd businesswoman; she believed in small-town values and doing business with her neighbors. She and my grandfather had been very generous with local charities, especially the Catholic schools. They’d traveled and entertained a lot. Grandma never had been a very warm or affectionate person, but she had done plenty of subtle things that showed how much she cared about her family. For one thing, I know she’d cherished every holiday and every meal she spent with her family. If someone was missing at Christmas due to distance or illness or death, she noted it. She’d given 500 dollars to every grandchild on their 16th birthday. She’d tried teaching me how to knit. (It never did stick but at least she tried.)

Read more

Me with our Japanese exchange student. Sadly I wish I could cover my face as well.        Freshmen year was rough, my friends.

For as long as I can remember, my dad was a member of the local Rotary Club. Since service is a big part of Rotary Club membership, Dad often “voluntold” me to work the Rotary food booth at a variety of local summer festivals. We also seemed to spend a lot of time with foreign exchange students. Dad was always curious about other cultures, so we would often host a student for a weekend. There was the high school student from Germany who picked out lots of disturbing horror movies like “The Omen.” Then there was the kid from Australia who seemed very polite and mild-mannered until my mom did his laundry and produced a pair of tiny black bikini underwear. (It’s always the quiet ones. Hopefully we don’t get in trouble with Rotary for judging other people’s underwear styles. We couldn’t help ourselves.) And lastly there was the businesswoman from India. She was incredibly smart, and her English was impeccable; she was thrilled when she learned she could watch the movie “Gone with the Wind” at our house on a video disc player. (Yes, those huge discs that were pre-VHS and pre-beta). It turned out that that was her favorite movie, and she was eternally grateful to me as I loaded and unloaded the two discs at the right times. I remember her clutching herself and gasping in sadness when Scarlett’s father kept saying, “I’ll have to talk to Mrs. O’Hara about this,” even though the woman had been long dead.

After those trial runs with various students, my parents decided it was time we hosted a student for an entire semester (the student would be here for a year overall). After all, my brothers were both off to college, so we’d have the room. They must have thought it would be cool and fun for me to have a “sister” as I headed into my freshman year of high school. As luck would have it, my dad’s Rotary Club was sponsoring a 15-year-old girl from Japan, whom we’ll call Himari.

Read more

But lately it seems that the algorithm has been a bit … off. Allow me to explain. Here are some examples of things that it normally suggests, so you can get a little sense of my taste and style:

Example 1: Amazon presented me with these super fluffy slippers. In fairness, my current slippers were looking pretty ratty (and I’m embarrassed to say how old they were) so I did buy these little beauties. They even garnered a “super cute” response from my husband. No regrets.

Example 2: Mark and Graham showed me these golf club covers that are both preppy and Caddyshack themed. JACKPOT. They basically brought together everything I like into one product. Well done. I have not bought them yet, but let’s just say I am tempted.

Example 3: Lastly, there’s this shirt … it’s classic, it’s well-made, it comes in many colors, and Oprah likes it. (Not usually a huge Oprah fan, however she does know her shit.) Naturally the price is so high that Macklemore might make another song about it.

Now, let’s see the confusing things in my feed:

Example 1: Dick’s Sporting Goods shows me a HARNESS. What? I have never shown any interest in horses in my life, much less clicked on posts about horses? I am so confused. What in the Black Beauty is going on? (That’s a famous horse name, right?)

Example 2: While Amazon showed me the cute slippers above, they also showed me these black thigh high fur boots. I am genuinely concerned about how many Muppets were sacrificed to make these.

Example 3: Chewy. Let’s start with the fact that I don’t own any pets, so Chewy should not even be in my feed. But secondly … a pitbull muzzle is the first thing presented to me? A Chewy Vuitton toy makes sense. This seems aggressive. I mean, at least buy me dinner first, Chewy.

And lastly … I won’t even get into the Marc Jacobs peplum collection that was presented to me, because frankly that was just insulting. The last time I checked, nobody was shopping for super lumpy sweaters with built-in beer bellies. I honestly had to check if this was real, and unfortunately it was. The translation from runway to store was a huge fail, IMO.

In conclusion … it’s been interesting and a bit confusing lately. What’s the strangest thing you’ve seen in your feed? Let me know your comments below.

So far in life I’ve been lucky enough to not have any major ailments or hospitalizations. I do, however, seem to suffer from a bunch of other pesky health conditions that rear their ugly heads from time to time, just to make me appreciate my health even more. We’ve already covered my panic attack/anxiety issues, but at age 30 I also was diagnosed with endometriosis. That took a good nine years to officially get diagnosed (thanks, doctors and nurses who thought the pain was all in my head – I told you something was wrong.) That’s a whole other long and frustrating story. But first, let’s talk about allergies.

Let me start out by saying that I grew up in a family of seasonal allergy sufferers. It was just normal to have several boxes of tissues in every room in the house; we were perpetually blowing our noses. My brothers seemed to have gotten the worst of it. To make matters worse, the practice field for high school football was basically right next to a field of ragweed – as if their practices weren’t grueling enough without all of the itchy eyes, and constant sneezing and wheezing. Up until recently, I hadn’t realized it was rude to blow your nose in some public areas; I’d become so immune to it that it was as if someone was talking. And let’s face it: If my family members had left the room every time they had to blow their nose, we’d never see each other.

For whatever reason, I’d seemed to luck out in the allergy area, until I hit my early 20s. When I was about 22 years old and suffering through my very first “real” job in customer service at a paper plant (I know, a totally sexy job, right?), my allergies suddenly, viciously flared up. Since it wasn’t even ragweed season and I was tired of looking like a drunk, I finally decided to go to an allergist to get tested. The nurse pricked my back with something that felt like a hairbrush, carefully applying all of the different doses of things that could possibly cause a reaction. She left the room then, while I sat and waited for the offenders to kick in. Sure enough, within a minute or so one particular part of my back became unbearably itchy. I also noticed a few other areas that were somewhat itchy, although not as bad as the ultimate mosquito bite covered in poison ivy with a chronic hives chaser that was forming in the middle of my back. It turned out that the main culprit was none other than … dust mites. The other two were ragweed and cat dander, which really came as no surprise. But dust mites? Didn’t dust surround us at all times? How the hell was I supposed to avoid dust? It sounded as horrible as those people who are allergic to the sun.

I was quickly presented with a supersized picture of an actual dust mite, magnetized so that I could see every single nasty, hairy detail of the minuscule bug that was making my life so miserable. All I could think about were those tiny disgusting creatures multiplying all around me. They were in my pillows. In my couch. In my carpeting and rugs. And especially in my mattress. My mission was clear: I needed to eradicate them immediately.

Little did I know that arming oneself with the proper allergen-reducing tools almost required a small personal loan. First I needed to purchase special casings for all of my pillows and mattresses. Next, I needed a special spray to use on my couch and carpeting. Lastly, I needed a prescription for Claritin, like stat. (That was before it was OTC.) Thankfully that all worked like a charm, and I immediately started to feel relief. At least for a little while.

Once my sneezing was under control, I started to get other kinds of allergic reactions – but on my skin. (Seriously, is there a connection between allergies and those people who suffer from anxiety? Why are the nerds always sneezing and itchy?) I got on top of those with the help of special lotions and sprays; eventually it all just mysteriously went away, and I’ve been rash-free ever since.

Which brings me to the one thing I haven’t been able to conquer: Dupuytren’s contracture, which my family just calls Dupuytren’s. (Pronounced doopa-trons. That even sounds Polish, doesn’t it? Well, at least the doopa part does.)

Most people have never heard of the condition, but it’s pretty evident when someone has it. According to the Mayo Clinic’s website, Dupuytren’s is “a hand deformity that usually develops over years. The condition affects a layer of tissue that lies under the skin of your palm. Knots of tissue form under the skin – eventually creating a thick cord that can pull one or more fingers into a bent position.”

For whatever reason Dupuytren’s is common in those of Northern European descent; my Polish grandmother and most of her siblings had it. My dad and his brothers also inherited it, and now my brothers and I wonder if we, too, will have mangled hands. Peter convinced himself that if he kept bending his fingers backward he could somehow ward off the disease. So far all I think he’s accomplished is grossing people out. He self-diagnosed as having “Reverse Dupuytren’s.”

In the past, my dad had a few surgeries to open up his bent fingers, but the effects wore off after awhile. The deformity fought right back and took over his hand again. It’s kind of like if you had braces on your teeth but didn’t wear a retainer afterward; the teeth would shift right back out of place.

Growing up as smart-alecky Polish kids, my brothers and I preferred to make fun of our relatives with the crazy hands (in a strictly endearing sort of way, I assure you). Take my Great-uncle Bernie, for example. When Bernie was elected an alderman in the town of Peshtigo, his picture was in the weekly “Peshtigo Times,” being sworn in: one hand on the Bible, one hand up. Only instead of holding a palm up, Uncle Bernie could only proffer a fist with a single finger; he couldn’t help it, all his other fingers were bent with Dupuytren’s. My brothers and I rolled with laughter.

From there, we developed our popular “sign of peace”/Dupuytren’s-friendly handshake during Catholic mass. (Background for the non-Catholics: At one point during the service, everyone extends a “sign of peace,” aka a handshake, to everyone sitting around them. This happens about three-quarters of the way through mass, and it’s met with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The people who hate it just quickly say “Peace” and shake your hand without eye contact. Others are super cheerful and give you the full “Peace be with you.” My family has come to embrace this part of mass because then we can all pretend we have Dupuytren’s (whether we have it or not). My brothers and I do the “Uncle Bernie” peace handshake, where we crumple our fingers under and point one finger outward. It may sound kind of mean, but it’s really a true sign of affection. If you join our family and get the Bernie shake, you know we like you. If we can’t reach you because you’re on the other end of the church pew, then you get the “Bernie wave.” As for my dad, he doesn’t need to pretend anything; he’s got the full Bernie shake and wave down naturally. At this point, his hands are so bad that it’s difficult for him to pick up a glass.

I figured that once I reached my 40s I was in the clear. No signs of Dupuytren’s had appeared yet.

I was wrong.

Oddly enough, it all started with my feet.

The past few years I’ve noticed a few hard bumps on the bottom of my left foot. I can’t say they’re particularly painful, although sometimes they’re a bit uncomfortable. What I do know is that it feels absolutely incredible whenever someone (i.e., my husband) rubs those bumps on my foot. I’ve even gone so far as to pay for specialized foot treatments, all in hopes that someone will rub my little foot bumps and somehow magically work out all of the connective tissues and make everything normal again. However, something very peculiar happens every time I get those treatments done. It seems that the second the massage therapist feels the bumps, she avoids them like the plague. I even make a point of saying, “Hey I’ve got these bumps on my left foot that are bothering me.” Obviously that’s a strong hint to say, “Rub there, please.” But instead, she’ll find the bumps and say, “Sure enough, you’re right, you have some bumps there.” Then she’ll go on massaging every other stinking part of my foot but the bumps, as if they were some sort of contagious rash. Are these people not understanding me correctly? I want to shout at them, “Rub my bumps! Rub my bumps!” But I think that would probably get me kicked out of the massage room.

I then decided to try reflexology. Those people are supposed to know all sorts of shit about your feet, right? I’ve seen the complicated charts, where a different part of your foot corresponds to a part of your body. When I mentioned it to my mom, she told me a story about how she got her feet done; at one point she felt a strong twinge and asked the reflexologist what part of the body that was.

“The ovaries,” he proclaimed.

At the time my mom was in the middle of a heavy menstrual period.

Who are those people, gypsy fortune-tellers? I didn’t care, I was sold.

Long story short, the reflexology was quite lovely. So lovely that I fell asleep a couple of times and then woke up to about 30 new work emails. But I never felt any strange twinges or other reactions that I needed to tell the reflexologist about. Plus, like the other foot rubbers in my life (except for my husband, God bless him), she avoided the bumps. But when I mentioned them, she said it wouldn’t hurt to just get them checked out.

So, I finally broke down and made an appointment with a podiatrist, which is really just admitting to the world that you’re old. Plus, I was afraid that he was going to tell me I couldn’t ever wear high heels again. Goodbye dream of purchasing my first pair of Louboutins! Maybe I was going to end up like Sarah Jessica Parker, doomed to wearing boring flats the rest of my life after wearing too many fabulous-but-uncomfortable shoes.

Within seconds of feeling my foot, the podiatrist had an answer.

“Yup, we see one or two new cases of this every month,” he said. “You’ve got fibromas. I can feel three of them very clearly. Actually, these are usually related to some sort of hand contracture, most likely hereditary. Anyone in your family have that?”

Shit.

I then proceeded to tell him that most of the Polish side of my family has or had Dupuytren’s.

“Yes, that’s it. They’re directly related. Unless these fibromas are really bothering you or hurting you, there’s really nothing you can do about them. I wouldn’t recommend having surgery; you can really complicate matters.”

At least I had answers, but I left feeling less confident that I was in the clear. After I spread the word on Facebook, I had cousins and second cousins coming out of the woodwork, all telling me about their Dupuytren’s. One of my dad’s cousins told me hers didn’t show up until she was 63. That wasn’t exactly comforting. However, I did hear that there’s new and improved technology to ward it off once it starts. So I’ve got that going for me.

But in the meantime, I can garner more sympathy by telling my husband to “rub my Dupuytren’s.” Okay, so it may not be the actual diagnosis but close enough. Plus, if I’d ask him to “rub my bumps” I’d get an entirely different response.

              My parents and cousin listening to sage advice from a Polish uncle.

What’s a book about a Polish kid without some mention of polka dancing?

Growing up in Northeastern Wisconsin, I’ve done my fair share of polkaing. It started out on Miller Street, of course, where my brothers and I would flip through our four channels on the television and wind up on “The Polka Variety Show” on any given Sunday morning. We loved “The Polka Variety Show” … not because we loved polka so much but because we just loved to make fun of the people on it. If you’re not familiar … well, the concept was really quite simple. Every week the show would broadcast from some church hall or community center, and just show people dancing to polka music. It was kind of like the “American Bandstand” for polka lovers, except that a live band played all of the music, and nobody was rating the songs based on the fact that “it had a good beat, and I could dance to it.” Because let’s face it: Polka music was made for dancing. If polka music doesn’t make you want to jump up and boogie … well, then, you have no soul. My brothers and I always got into the polka spirit; we used the show as an excuse to dance like maniacs in the living room, making up our own ridiculous polkaesque dance moves. That would get us nice and hyper right before we left for church, something my parents had surely appreciated.

Speaking of church … another thing we really liked was the polka mass. Once a year, usually as part of some parish picnic or festival, there would be a polka mass, otherwise known as the most awesome type of mass that ever existed. An actual polka band would set up in church (or under the tents at the festival, usually next to the beer tent). All of our normal church hymns, and sung psalms and responses, were all replaced with polka-style music. As kids we thought it was the funniest thing on the planet. We wished every mass would be a polka mass. As an adult, polka mass is usually followed by several brews and a fish fry in the beer garden, so it’s basically Catholic dream day.

But not all polka stories are happy. I know you must be asking yourself how this is humanly possible, given the pure joy that polka music has on everyone’s heart. But leave it to me to have an embarrassing polka story ….

Read more

                                  My fellow writers and me (far left) at Arts World. 

When I look back on some of my summer vacations, I remember a lot of wasted time. I definitely hadn’t appreciated the luxury of time like I do now; what kid does, really? There’d been too many hours spent sleeping. There was that summer my brother Dan and I had discovered re-runs of “Gidget” and “The Partridge Family” – although they were pretty darn funny, they sure were time suckers. Even though we hadn’t had have cable (and cell phones, the internet, and Netflix were still in “The Jetsons” stages), I’d still managed to find plenty of ways to while away the hours. To my credit, however, I’d taken tennis lessons a couple of days a week. Since we’d lived three miles out in the country I had to ride my bike there. I would play tennis for a couple of hours, and then ride all of the way back home. For a few summers, I would even ride a couple miles further to my summer babysitting gig.

Ah, yes … babysitting. I’d pretty much hated it, but all those Forenza and Outback Red outfits from The Limited weren’t going to buy themselves.

To be fair, I had one pretty sweet gig, and that was for our neighbors down the road. They had two grade-school-aged boys who thought I was pretty cool because I would play kickball with them, and the youngest boy apparently had demanded that only I could be his babysitter. (That’s a pretty high compliment from a 7-year-old who proudly counted his hard-earned scabs like they were medals of honor.) Overall, the boys had been pretty well behaved and quite entertaining, but what really had made the job great was that: 1) Their parents stayed out really late, and 2) They had really good snacks. Once the kids were in bed, I had a good three or more hours of quiet time to watch TV, read, and tackle their fully stacked snack area.

I can’t say that my other babysitting jobs had been quite as dreamy; the kids had been usually brats, and I’d been paid an abysmal $1.25 an hour. The worst gig was when a “friend” of mine had given my name to a couple with two little girls. Their house was in a fairly nice neighborhood, so I’d figured what was the worst that could happen. I knew I was in trouble that first night when one of the girls told me to “stay out of that corner over there because that’s where the cats like to pee.”

I don’t think we really need to revisit my problem with that entire situation.

But besides the whole cat issue, there’d been a bigger problem. I always had been taught that when I babysat part of my duties was to clean up, as well. After all, most of the time I was going to serve the kids dinner, and the polite thing to do would be to actually clean up afterward. I’m not sure exactly when that practice ended, but from what I hear from my friends with young kids, this rarely happens today. More often than not, my friends are coming home to find their kitchens looking like the aftermath from “Top Chef: Twelve Courses Edition.” They basically end up handing over 10 bucks an hour to someone who spent the night texting and ignoring the kids.

Back in the late ’80s it was reasonable to clean up after dinner and to clean up after any messes the kids and I’d made. However, in that case, every time I babysat the kitchen would already be completely full of dirty dishes. We’re talking piles and piles of dishes, as if they’d saved up the entire week until the cheap maid service (me) arrived. I think there was even a dishwasher, but it didn’t matter; the dishes, pots and pans had far exceeded its capacity. There was no lounging at that gig; I’d glance longingly in the direction of the living room (no open concept, folks), where surely I was missing the best “Saturday Night Live” episode of all time. I literally had spent most of the evening washing and cleaning up their kitchen. Eventually I’d felt that they were taking advantage of me, and I conveniently became too busy to babysit for them until they must have gotten the hint.

The summer between my junior and senior years of high school, there hadn’t been as much time for babysitting. Even though I hadn’t really planned it, I’d ended up going to three different week-long camps. They weren’t sports camps (I don’t think that should come as a surprise), but rather the kind of camps where I had to actually apply and interview. Local service organizations and/or non-profits had paid for my expenses.

The first camp hadn’t technically been a camp, but, rather, something called Badger Girls State. It was a government and leadership conference run by the American Legion Auxiliary, and I’d been selected by my school’s faculty to represent my school. To be truthful, I knew very little about Badger Girls week; all I knew was that I’d be learning about how government works.

So in early June 1990 a handful of girls from other area schools and I had piled into a school bus and headed out to the University of Wisconsin-Madison, our state capital. I’d never been there before, and I was excited to see a new city.

On paper, I seemed to be the ideal candidate for the experience. I had straight A’s, I was well behaved, I was respectful, and I wasn’t afraid to talk about politics and government in the classroom. However, within a few hours of arriving I knew that the entire week wasn’t going to be my scene.

Things hadn’t gotten off to a great start when I’d met my roommate. She was a perfectly nice girl but seemed a bit too desperate to fit in with the cool crowd. It was as though the moment she’d discovered I wasn’t one of the popular girls she’d decided she wasn’t going to spend too much effort on me. We were cordial but didn’t really hang out together too much.

Despite the slightly disappointing roommate situation, I’d kept my head up. After all, there were hundreds of other nice girls there to hang with. I’d made my way to our first big floor meeting. Everyone seemed so pretty and articulate and smart, and they’d all seemed to know way more than I did about how the week would work. Some girls had been particularly elegant and dressed up; I’d felt like a schlep in my t-shirt and shorts. Wait – were we supposed to dress up? I was so confused.

My floor represented everyone with last names A through D or something like that. We all had been part of a mock government for the week, so we’d learned about our city, county, and state. We’d also learned that we would be part of the Nationalist Party; in later meetings we would decide what to include in our party’s platform, even though it all turned out to be so vague that it seemed to fit everyone’s beliefs.

An older woman in her late 60s or maybe early 70s had been in charge of our floor. She was a cross between a drill sergeant and Mrs. Garrett from “The Facts of Life.” I’d been slightly scared of her, and I think she knew it. She was one of those people who had the sixth sense to pick out the most timid person in the room. I knew that to be true because when she’d asked us to introduce ourselves and tell everyone what we would hope to learn or achieve during the week, she’d very suddenly turned to me, pointed her finger, and said, “Starting with YOU.”

I’d started to say my name, town, and school, but she swiftly interrupted me.

“Stand UP!” she’d barked, moving her arms in an upward motion.

I’d quietly told everyone in the room about myself, which was already one of my least favorite things to do. I gave the most un-original answer about my goal for the week, mumbling something about learning more about government. It had been an insincere answer; a pat answer I’d write on an application. As other girls had started to get up and speak, they all mentioned how they were looking forward to meeting new friends. Why couldn’t I have just said that?

Right off the bat we’d held our first elections, and for whatever reason I’d decided to run for school board. Again, we each had to stand up and give a little speech about why we were running. I don’t remember what I’d said, but I’m sure I hadn’t come off as charismatic as the other candidates, given my fear of public speaking. When the election results were posted, I’d come in dead last with 16 votes. Ouch.

After that first election, I didn’t run for anything else. For one thing, everyone else seemed to know parliamentary procedure, and I didn’t – although as the week went on I’d definitely gotten the gist of it. The other reason, which should come as no surprise, was that I wasn’t exactly a campaigning sort of gal. I’d watched as others put tons of effort into their campaigns; one girl even had dressed up as a nerd the entire week and made up an entirely new persona. As everyone else ran for office and got elected to their coveted positions, they all got some sort of special sticker to put on their badge. As I walked around campus, I saw only one other person whose badge was blank like mine. Well, no – actually there were two others. My roommate, the desperate one, had been made fire chief. However, that position did not come with any sort of special sticker. Never mind, though … she’d ended up making one herself out of construction paper.

I can’t even …

When the time had come to elect the ultimate top office of governor, the girl who ran my party had ended up winning. She was an outgoing, pretty, and sophisticated Asian girl who everybody worshipped. On the evening of the swearing in, she’d actually worn little white gloves like she was Jackie Kennedy. It was as if she’d orchestrated the entire week perfectly and everything had worked according to her master plan.

As for me, I’d just been happy to have met some new friends, get a little taste of college life, and walk around Madison during our two whole hours of free time. When I’d gotten home the following Saturday I hadn’t had much time to recover; I’d washed my clothes and packed up for the next camp: Arts World.

I’d ended up at Arts World because one day my English teacher had approached me with its pamphlet and told me I’d be a good candidate. I’d never heard of it, but it sounded fun, and I was happy that she believed in me enough to tell me about it. The camp was a week at a college campus where I would study writing; other students would concentrate on music performance, acting, theater set design, or dance. Only 100 students in the entire state would be chosen. I’d submitted the required application and a writing sample, and much to my surprise I’d gotten accepted.

Unlike Badger Girls State, Arts World was held at a very small private college in the middle of Wisconsin farm fields. Things had gotten off to a shaky start when I’d checked in. As luck would have it, I’d picked the exact same time to check in as two “veterans” who had known each other from the summer before. It turned out that Arts World was full of these repeat attendees. I’d stood there awkwardly as the overly dramatic theater girl squealed in delight as she hugged some skinny kid who was there for writing. My roommate was also a writer, but she was far from introverted like me. She bubbled over with excitement and passion about everything. As she would talk, she would cut pictures out of magazines and mesh them together in sort of a kaleidoscope fashion using scissors and a glue stick.

I’d spent the week vacillating between wanting to hug people or slap them. On one hand, many of the kids there were “my people.” They were so easy to talk to and get along with, and we all loved and appreciated art in all of its forms. But then there were those who took their art a bit too seriously for my taste. My mind silently sang a chorus of WTFs as I watched some teachers perform an interpretive dance. The acting people especially bugged me; they all craved attention like a herd of Rachel Berry’s.

We’d had showcase nights where anyone could perform; not surprisingly, I never did. I didn’t see how someone reading a poem could compare with someone who played the piano or did a dramatic reading. I had admired everyone who performed though, even if I thought their poem made no sense or if their performance was overacted.

The one kid with a mullet had ended up liking me. (Weren’t all serious writers supposed to have ponytails or man buns? Wasn’t that in “The Writer’s Handbook”?)

I can’t say that I’d learned a whole lot about writing during that week, but it was very refreshing to be around others who enjoyed writing as much as I did. Most people back at my school whined every time there was a writing assignment, while I relished it. If anything, the week gave me plenty of time to simply practice writing and make time for it.

In the end I couldn’t escape giving some sort of performance. We all had to recite at the “final show” a poem that we’d written. Parents had been invited, as well, but luckily mine couldn’t make it on time; I think I would have died from embarrassment. We all had to form a line on stage, where one by one we would read our poem. I wasn’t exactly a poet, but given our timeframe I couldn’t exactly stand up there and read an entire short story … so there I was, poet for a day. I’d volunteered to go first since I didn’t want to suffer in agony any longer than was necessary. Appropriately enough, my poem was titled “Intimidation.” It basically described my panic attacks and how they would completely engulf my body. I’d selected that poem because it was the most sincere one in the pumpkin patch. I’d managed to choke out the words without sounding too petrified, and then I’d abruptly stopped and passed the microphone to the next person. The audience wasn’t quite sure what to do, so they’d clapped a little awkwardly. I’m sure that was the first time many of them had been to a poetry reading, and they weren’t sure about the protocol. I hadn’t minded; I was proud of my poem, and I could then say that I’d performed an original work of art.

If Badger Girls was too full of high-achievers and Arts World was too full of drama, then Business World was too full of hormones. Even though I’d applied to the camp through the local Chamber of Commerce, it had seemed that the application process was pretty lenient. Most kids had treated it like a brick and mortar sleepaway camp.

As for the “business” part, we’d all gotten divided into teams that would run a business simulation game; I think it was an airline. (Seriously folks? An airline? Everyone knows how often airlines fail to make a profit!) The kids on my team weren’t the brightest, and most of the time I would just sit back and watch the bleach-blonde kid with the puka-shell necklace flirt with the drama-filled girl who gave the Arts World kids a run for their money. Our adult “counselor” had been too hung up on his glory days at the University of Wisconsin to teach us much of anything. Since we were Team P – every team had been assigned a letter – he made sure that our team yelled out “O Sucks! O Sucks” at every assembly. (Apparently back in his day at university football games, stadium Sections O and P would yell at each other. Nowadays, the Wisconsin games have gotten much more R-rated; one section yells “Eat Sh#t!” While the other yells back, “F*ck You!” It makes no sense. Ahhh … tradition.)

In addition to the simulation game, our team had to pick a product that started with “P” and market it. Our team had chosen pickled peppers. I wanted to run from the room in exasperation. (Purses, people! Purses!!)

If the Summer of the Camps had taught me anything, it was that I could hang with a wide variety of people and survive. But if I had to choose one group … it would be my right-brained friends. Sure, they could get a little too artsy-fartsy for my taste, but they would understand me … even if I didn’t have a sticker on my badge.

As you may recall, Rudolph featured the Island of Misfit Toys, a remote island where undesirable toys were banished, never to be enjoyed by any children. The toys kindly explained to us (during a song, of course) why each of them was a Misfit. And honestly, I think their “defects” - if you could even call them that - are a bit lame.

The elephant? He had spots. And??? What’s the problem here? If being a little extra is a crime, then handcuff me.

The train: Okay, so he had square wheels. But that can be fixed, right? Simple. Hand him over to a pit crew.

Water gun: Now this one is ridiculous; it shoots jelly. So empty it out and fill it with water, folks. Easy peasy.

Charlie-in-the-Box: Come on now. Bring that guy down to the courthouse, get some proper paperwork filed, and change his name to Jack! Done.

Honestly, the only toy that even has a legit case is the plane. It’s a bit wonky, and it doesn’t fly. But most toy planes don’t fly anyway, so again I don’t see an issue. Kids can use their hands.

So now this brings us to Dolly.

Didn’t you always wonder what was wrong with Dolly, the red-haired rag doll? She seemed perfectly fine, right? No visible defects, at least.

Of course my wondering mind had to consult Google, who told me that she’s a misfit because she suffers from clinical depression and abandonment trauma after being left behind by her owner.

What? That is some pretty dark stuff, Mr. Arthur Rankin, Jr.

Frankly, I’m not buying this. I feel like there is something more sinister there. Dolly probably had some other controversial past that caused her to be banished to the island. In fact, I think there could be many reasons. Ten, in fact.

Top Ten Reasons Why Dolly Was Banished to the Island of Misfit Toys

10 - Was #TeamJeremiah

9 - Had three nipples

8 - Was the only Android user in her friend group chat

7 - Was framed by that bitch Holly Hobby

6 - Shared too many attention-seeking ambiguous Facebook posts

5 - Didn’t turn her phone to airplane mode on that one flight

4 - Ate all the “good” Jelly Beans

3 - Refused to watch any of her friends’ Netflix suggestions

2 - Wore iconic 80’s band t-shirts but couldn’t name any of their songs

And the number one reason why Dolly was banished to the Island of Misfit Toys?

She was a Chicago Bears Fan.

Well there you have it folks … and while I’m here, let me just add:

p.s. Go Pack Go this weekend! Beat the Bears!

This picture was taken the summer of “the scooter incident”. Not only did I have aerodynamic hair, but it turned red from all the iron in our water. Plus there is way too much stone washed denim going on here.

If “America’s Funniest Home Videos” (and YouTube) have taught us anything, it’s that Americans find great entertainment value when other people have accidents – as long as nobody is seriously hurt, of course. This story is no exception, with apologies to my long-suffering mother, who has had to endure its countless retellings.

I take you back to the summer my brother Dan had escaped from the slave-like conditions of door-to-door book sales. When we had gotten back home to Marinette, he’d ended up getting a job as a harbormaster at one of the local marinas. Dan knew nothing about life on the water, but he was a quick learner. Soon he was working the radio, filling up boats with gas, and directing all of the marina traffic. He didn’t have a car, so my parents decided to buy a small red scooter (called a “Razz”) to get him to and from work every day. Dan claimed the Razz’s top speed was 30 mph, “downhill, with the wind at your back.” That all worked out nicely until the weekend he had decided to take a trip to Chicago to see some friends.

Mom took one for the team and told Dan he could borrow her car for the trip. She still needed some way to get to work, however, so she decided to learn how to use the Razz. After the 50th time we told this story, Mom needed to remind everyone that we were overlooking her generosity.

“I was kind enough to say you could have the car so you could go to Chicahhhgo. To see all your Chicahhhgo friends.”

She drew out the syllables like she was on an episode of “Bill Swerski’s Super Fans.” (We lived 50 miles from Green Bay, so what’d you expect? Those friends were from enemy territory, and Dan was fraternizing with the enemy … literally. One of his frat buddies was actually a McCaskey. It stung.)

Right before Dan was scheduled to leave on his trip, Mom decided to practice driving the scooter.

“Now to make it accelerate,” Dan explained to her, “you just twist the handlebars like this, nice and easy.”

Mom headed down the hill that was our driveway, except she clearly underestimated the power and acceleration of the Razz. To hear Dan tell it, “She never let up! She went down the driveway at full speed and ended up in the ditch on the other side of the road, after doing a few somersaults.”

And no, she hadn’t been wearing a helmet. (Apparently, safety really hasn’t ever been a thing in my family, with the firm exception of deer hunting. Other than that, we don’t have any dangerous hobbies, unless you count Mom’s reckless picture-hanging tactics; she shuns the use of rulers, levels, and stud-finders, yet it all seems to work out okay.)

Dan ran down the driveway, sure that Mom had suffered at least a broken bone or two.

She looked at Dan oddly.

“What happened?”

“Mom, you had an accident on the scooter and ended up in the ditch. Are you okay? Can you move?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Dan helped her to her feet and slowly walked her up the driveway. She seemed fine – at first.

“Well if you’re really okay, then I’m going to pack up and get going.”

“What do you mean? Where are you going?”

“Uh … Chicago? I’ve had this trip planned for weeks? I’m taking the car?”

“Oh yeah. Okay.”

“Mom, you don’t sound good. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. But just tell me again what happened.”
“Mom, you had an accident on the scooter and hit your head.”

By that time they’d gotten into the house, and Mom had plunked down in the recliner. She had actual grass stains on her face.

“Mom, I’ve got to take you to the hospital.”

That set off Mom, and she suddenly turned from dazed and confused to straight-up angry.

“NO!! I’m perfectly fine! But just tell me ONE. MORE. TIME! What happened?”

Dan somehow had managed to wrestle her into the car and get her to the hospital.

Dan eventually did make it to Chicago, albeit several hours late.

Mom never did get on a scooter again, but we still like to give her Razz-berries about this story.

November and early December is a bit tough for me because that is the time of year that my mom and I would do our annual Christmas shopping trip. Every year we would look forward to planning a long weekend of shopping at a different destination. Sometimes it was close (Appleton, Wisconsin), but most of the time it was in Milwaukee, Chicago, or The Mall of America. Our biggest shopping trips were to New York City and Florida. Sometimes we (laughingly) planned these trips in April. We made a good team.

The last time my mom was physically able to go shopping was a special year. We stayed at a hotel on Michigan Avenue in Chicago, and I got a room that overlooked the street so that we could watch the Christmas parade. Although truth be told, it wasn’t that perfect … our room also had awnings below it, so much of our view was blocked. Plus, we had to hoist ourselves up to kind of a “loft area” in our room in order to see out the windows. But we did it, and we peeked out the corners of the windows and caught glimpses where we could. Mom always loved a parade.

But perhaps the best part was getting a last minute lunch reservation at the Ralph Lauren restaurant. We had a little round cozy table in front of our own personal fireplace, and as you could imagine, the room was quintessential Ralph Lauren: “rich study-ish”, dark wood, equestrian chic vibes. We drank wine and relaxed and felt oh so fancy.

Oh – and I forgot to mention – no matter where our shopping road trip took us, we always cranked our number one favorite shopping album: Kenny and Dolly: Once Upon a Christmas. I’m not much of a country music person, but give me some Kenny and Dolly Christmas any day!

Now here’s where the hankies come in … although who am I kidding, I’ve already needed them.

Usually when I write about my husband on here, I’m poking fun at him or talking about how much he annoys me. I do this in good fun, and I know he can handle it. But at the same time I want everyone to know that he is one of the most sentimental and kind people I know. Because he did this:

The month after my mom passed, we went to Disney World for a few days as a little getaway. (More accurately, I told him we were going to Disney World, and he didn’t argue because I was grieving and I needed a little joy.) He told me had a surprise for me, which went a little something like this:

“So I know how much you miss Christmas shopping with your mom, and I know how special that was to you. So I thought it would be nice if you started your own tradition with Karissa (my stepdaughter). I’m flying her down next weekend for you two to go Christmas shopping together.”

SOB. I mean, literally, I couldn’t stop sobbing.

This was one of the nicest and most thoughtful things anyone ever did for me, and I am forever thankful. This will be year 3 of the new tradition.

Even though it may not be evident, every time I go Christmas shopping, or every time I look at some kind of home décor for my house, I am imagining my mom right next to me. Do you like this, Mom? What do you think about this, Mom? Would this look good? I wish you were here. You would have loved this store. If you were here, I think you would have bought this. I need your advice.

I miss you every single day. I’m thankful I had you in my life.

I don’t really like pets.

Wow, I just became really unpopular with a lot of you, didn’t I? It’s not an easy thing to say; America is so obsessed with pets that it has almost become cult-like. Don’t believe me? Ever listen to people talk about their dogs? Those conversations could go on for hours if people were left to their own devices. I know because I’…

Read more

If you grew up in the Midwest, you are familiar with Shopko. Headquartered in Green Bay, Wisconsin, Shopko was at a tier between Kohl’s and Wal-Mart. Long story short, it became a bit too boring and mediocre, and it couldn’t adapt to deep discounts and the ever-evolving retail environment, and it shuttered its doors.

In its 1980’s heyday, Shopko was bustling. So, when I learned that my co-worker used to be a check-out person there in his early twenties, I saddled up to hear some stories.

I was not disappointed.

First, I must tell you that this is the guy who has the best stories. They are usually ridiculous, silly, and hard to believe, but they are 100% true. They are also best told in the original voice of the storyteller, but I will do my best to relate the story here:

It’s the early eighties, and my friend is a Shopko checker. He’s a simple guy, not into anything too fancy. He may have been an assistant coach for his high school’s football team at the time.

A woman comes through his line, and wouldn’t you know it, he needs to do a price check on a bra. He figures okay I’ve got this; I know the department name, I’ll simply get on my walkie talkie and ask for a price.

He puts the walkie talkie up to his mouth and confidently says, “Price check, lingerie. Price check, lingerie.”

And then he proceeds to hear buckets of laughter reverberating throughout the store’s walkie talkies.

He was perplexed. That was the right department. Geesh, why are people so immature?

It was true, he got the department right. What he did not get right was the pronunciation.

What he actually said was, “Price check, LING-EREE, price check, LING-EREE.”

Yes, with a hard G. Rhymes with ring.

This was the reaction from the Shopko lady. (IYKYK)

       (This picture has nothing to do with Donald nor his stocking. But I like it.)

It was Christmastime 1985. My sixth-grade year, which will also go down as the year I had my first “plain-clothes” nun for a teacher. Sister Marion seemed so modern; she came to my school after working in the Chicago projects. She wore polyester pants instead of a habit; her fall and winter polyester was all dark and muted, but in the spring she’d bust out Easter-y bright pinks and greens. Sister Marion had a short Afro that had turned prematurely grey; she picked it out every day after her lunchtime recess walks. She also did something each day she called “taking our temperature.” Every morning we’d go around the room and tell the class how we felt that day. We could say we felt fine or sad or mad or happy. That way Sister would know exactly what our mood was, and if we needed a little extra care and feeding.

That particular Christmas, Sister Marion had all of us construct small red stockings out of construction paper and write our names on them. Everyone’s stocking was then passed around the room. The idea was that everyone would write something nice on everyone else’s stocking, such as “nice” or “funny” or “Best Bobcat Goldthwait impersonator.” (Man, he was funny in those “Police Academy” movies, right?) It was the Christmas season, we were spreading good cheer … what could possibly go wrong?

The stockings went around the room, and we all got our feedback from our classmates. I don’t really remember much about my own stocking because the whole exercise was overshadowed by “The Donald Incident.” Somehow word got back to Sister Marion that Donald’s stocking had a not-so-nice word on it. I don’t think Donald himself really cared because he knew it was a joke, but Sister was not amused. (By the way, the word was dick, which still makes me giggle. Because there was that stocking with all of those kind adjectives written on it, and then right smack in the middle was dick. What can I say? Sixth-graders are quite eloquent.)

The obvious guilty party was Shawn, Donald’s close friend, as well as the only 15-year-old in the sixth grade. It was his writing, it was his brand of humor, and it was just his style to do that. Shawn was the kid who was perpetually stuck in “Observation Row,” another one of Sister Marion’s inventions. Our desks were all situated in an L-shape, except for a separate short row of desks, where Sister Marion also sat with us (when she wasn’t at her real desk). If you missed some assignments or otherwise screwed up, your desk would be moved there so you could “observe” the other well-behaved children – and then hopefully strive to get out of the embarrassing Observation Row. Shawn was out of Observation Row for approximately two days out of the entire school year. And yet still he was allowed to get his temporary drivers license. In sixth grade.

Read more

I judge. You judge. We all judge. You might think you don’t judge, but you probably do. It’s hard not to, right? You sit on a bench and people-watch long enough, and you’re bound to form some opinions about people you’ve never even met. You may be right in most cases … but isn’t it wonderful when you are very wrong?

There have been a few situations lately where I clearly misjudged, and I’m here to tell you all about them.

Case #1: Donut Man, Winter Haven, Florida

Whenever we make the road trip up the middle of Florida on our way to Walt Disney World, we pass through several small towns that can only be described as, “How the hell did people end up here?” And every time we pass through Winter Haven, Florida, there is a small concrete building next to a gas station with the words '“DONUT MAN” spraypainted on it. It looks shady AF. My husband has countlessly pestered and joked (?) that we are going to stop for a donut sometime, to which I always answer, “Sure, if I want my donut sprinkled with meth!”

Alas, a few Sundays ago his dream came true. He took matters into his own hands and made a quick swerve into Donut Man’s parking lot before I could even protest. I locked the car doors, looked around for things I could use as a weapon, and waited.

 Bonus footage: My friends and I approaching the Donut Man building. (Oh wait - I may have mixed that up with the Brazilian place in Bridesmaids. But you get the gist.)

And here is where I issue my deepest, most sincere apology to Donut Man.

Because that donut was positively exquisite.

As my husband pulled the Bear Claw out of its paper bag, the first thing I noticed was its perfect shape. It truly looked like a bear claw, right down to its perfectly shaped toes … er … claws. It was pillowy and doughy and stuffed with a delightful apple filling that left us both speechless. And I now know why I am not a food critic, because I cannot adequately express in words just how delicious this donut was. My husband and I looked at each other and said, “Two toes up for Donut Man!”

I misjudged.

Case #2: The Jersey Shore/Long Island Couple

No surprise here, my second example also has a Disney connection. Here it is:

Maybe against our better judgement, my husband and I got in line for a very popular bar at Epcot. It’s actually a bar inside a restaurant, but the bar only has 10 seats. You never really know how long your wait will be; it could be 30 minutes; it could be more.

We decided to take our chances, and we got in line behind another couple. Well, long story short … our wait to get into the bar ended up being 90 minutes. I know, I know. Ridiculous. But it was one of those things where you say well, we came this far … may as well wait it out. The whole sunken cost argument, blah blah blah.

But honestly the wait didn’t even seem that bad because we totally hit it off with another couple in line. Now at first glance they looked like 50-something versions of the Jersey Shore cast, only more tasteful. The husband was clearly hitting the weights hard every single day, and he sported the obligatory tank top which could best highlight his massive biceps and neck. I was vaguely reminded of that one time Samantha Jones took home the beefy but dumb-as-a-bag-of-hair firefighter from Staten Island. (By the way, this couple was from Long Island.)

His wife … well, she looked like the kind of gal this guy would be attracted to. Long dark hair, very tan, some tattoos, lots of jewelry, cleavage, long acrylic nails … kind of Real Housewives of New Jersey vibes, but prettier and more natural. (Well, not all of her was natural, but she wasn’t too done.)

I chuckled to myself when he mentioned something about an NYPD fundraiser … I wondered if he was a cop or a firefighter? Nope. Neither. This guy was a criminal psychologist. He dealt with some dark, intense stuff from his patients every single day. At one point he started telling us about some spat he and the wife had, and then added, “Hey, our problems are absolutely nothing. These things are ridiculous in comparison to the things I hear every day, and the horrific things people have gone through. Our life is good.”

My husband and I had shot each other a knowing look. Was this the universe in action? Because eerily enough, the night before our trip my husband and I had gotten into a rare fight, and the first 30 minutes of our ride to Disney was spent in silence before we talked it out. Beefy Long Island guy (or should I say Doctor Beefy Long Island) guy was incredible right of course.

And then … we find out that his wife was a school psychologist, so you know what kind of hell she must deal with every week. These people were angels in our eyes.

The more we spoke with them, the more we had in common, and the more it sounded like they had built a fantastic, lovely family together. Sure, there may have been plenty of gym, tan, laundry going on … but here they were doing these incredibly hard jobs (that require some hefty degrees and countless hours of practice, I might add), and the husband even found time to do some community acting gigs with his super talented son. He was the least likely Renaissance Man you ever did see.

So, here’s to you, Long Island couple … cheers. I was so wrong about you. I misjudged you based on your appearances alone, and I hope we meet up again at Disney soon. We’d love to be your friends.

When I was in third grade, my family took our first major road trip: the epic drive from Marinette, Wisconsin, all the way to Disney World. That was way before the days of 70 mph speed limits, so the trip had taken at least 24 hours. Our family truckster at the time was a large Chrysler New Yorker that was a hand-me-down from Grandma Drees. I was armed only with my personal pillow covered in a Strawberry Shortcake pillowcase. Since I had the shittiest seat in the car (backseat middle), I would have to contend with 24 hours of manspreading and assorted gross older brother shenanigans designed to bother me. In addition, Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” song was quite popular then, so every time we’d hop back into the car after a potty stop Dad would point out we were “On the road again, kids!”

It had been a long journey.

We’d managed to keep each other busy by playing the classic car games: the license plate game, the alphabet game, the what-I-would-do-if-I-won-the-lottery game. My brothers were particularly fond of the let’s-fart-on-Anne game. I was very thankful when we reached Tennessee, and they could distract themselves with all of the illegal fireworks stands.

Our first overnight stop had been at a bright orange Howard Johnson hotel with an attached restaurant. Dad was in heaven because they were offering all-you-can-eat fish, and let’s just say it got a little out of hand after awhile. Mom was tired of sitting around while Dad kept ordering more fish, so she eventually gave up and went back to the hotel room. Dad kept getting his money’s worth and ordering more coffee until he finally petered out around 9:00 or 10:00 p.m. Not surprisingly the combination of the caffeine and a full stomach didn’t make for a good night’s sleep. By 2:00 a.m. he couldn’t take the tossing and turning anymore; he woke up Mom and convinced her to hit the road again.

“Just don’t tell the kids what time it is … they’ll never know the difference,” he said in hushed tones. “They can sleep in the car, just get them ready. I’ll unplug the alarm clock so they can’t see the time.”

And that’s how we ended up hitting the road at 2:30 a.m.

Dad thought he was clever, but after about 30 minutes we caught him: He had forgotten about the clock in the car. After our initial incredulous whining, we eventually got over it and fell back asleep. We were rested and ready by the time we crossed the Florida border. It was there that we encountered the illustrious Florida Welcome Center where they were giving out free juice. We got into the long line and were greeted by someone whose job was to ask visitors “Orange or grapefruit?” all day long. The rest of the trip my brothers and I kept randomly asking each other, “Orange or grapefruit? Orange or grapefruit?” Until my parents snapped.

When we finally did make it to Disney World we were all in heaven. I especially loved the Magic Kingdom because it contained something called attractions, as opposed to just roller coasters. I’d never been much of a scary ride person, and at that point my only previous experience with amusement parks had been at a small family-friendly place in Green Bay called Bay Beach. Each ride there only cost 10 cents, and the scariest ride was a huge slide you would ride down while inside a burlap sack. In the summer the slide got so incredibly hot that you would get second-degree burns by merely grazing any part of the slide on the way down. Other than that, it seemed that the Scrambler and Tilt-a-Whirl were enough excitement for me.

Back at Magic Kingdom I could handle the “tame” coaster but steered clear of Space Mountain, something my brothers couldn’t get enough of. Fast-forward 30 years to when I was on my own family road trip to Disney World. We got stuck on the It’s a Small World ride for a good half-hour due to a mechanical failure, so we were all given FastPasses for any ride we wanted. (If you’re not familiar: The FastPass lets you skip the long line and go right to the front.) My family, of course, chose the one ride with the longest line: Space Mountain.

In a moment of weakness, I took one for the team and went on Space Mountain. I realize there are much faster and scarier rides out there, but since I’m so wimpy I screamed in horror throughout the entire ride. I felt like I was going to be launched out of that tiny unprotective car at every drop, twist, and turn. Sadly, that wasn’t the last time I would do something horrifying in the name of entertainment for my family. Once at a waterpark they all tricked me into going on a ride I never would have agreed to if I’d known what it entailed. When we got to the front of the line, I learned we all had to step on a giant scale to be weighed. Call me crazy, but any time the laws of physics have to be calculated right before I step inside a gigantic inner tube I get a tad bit nervous. Not to mention the kids kept trying to figure out how much I weighed based on our grand total.

“Now we know that Dad weighs about 210, and I’m 130 … and Karissa is …” Chase began before I swiftly cut him off at the … ahem, chase.

“Don’t even think about it, buddy,” I told him as I climbed into the inner tube of dread.

It turned out that that ride shot us all into a giant funnel, where we shot up the sides, making me feel like I was going to fall face down and plummet to my death. I now feel horrible for that time we made my mom go on the spinning teacups.

The other times that our family had gone back to Disney World we’d flown … but that didn’t mean there weren’t other road trips. Many times those trips had involved visiting my brother Peter who was working on his degree in professional golf management from Ferris State University. His studies had consisted of six months in the classroom, then six months working at a golf course. At first, he was in cooler-weather locations like the Chicago area. I’ll never forget when we dropped him off for that first internship. His “accommodations” during the internship had consisted of a run-down shack on the golf course grounds. He had been given a windowless room with stained carpeting, and he’d shared a bathroom with one of the drunken groundskeepers who liked to shoot off his gun after one too many. Mom was a bit stressed during that time.

Luckily a few years later Pete was able to land a more glamorous gig at a resort in Myrtle Beach. The plan was for my parents and me to road trip there, spend a few days with him, then cross over to Missouri to visit my brother Dan at his summer job, as well as some relatives in the St. Louis area.

That road trip was fantastic; not only did I have the entire back seat to myself, but I could occupy myself for hours with my Christopher Pike books. Plus, it was the first time I would be seeing the ocean, and that inspired me to purchase some ultra-cool Panama Jack tee shirts that would be the envy of all of my friends.

While the Myrtle Beach trip had been a success, and Mom could sleep at night knowing that Peter was safe and sound, she still had to worry about her younger son.

Now I need to back up here and explain how Dan had found himself in Missouri. Apparently around springtime, a company had visited his college campus trying to recruit summer workers. That particular company sold encyclopedias and probably a few other types of books that are now mostly obsolete. Dan fell hard for the presentation; he only saw dollar signs and the opportunity to travel to exotic places (like St. Joseph, Missouri?).

Mom had tried in vain to tell Dan that it was all a bad idea, but it was no use. At one point, he simply sat my mom down, looked her in the eye, and said, “Mom, this is just something I have to do.”

As soon as his freshman year of college was finished he jetted off to Tennessee (you may know it from its extensive roadside fireworks stands, as well as all-you-can-eat fish at Howard Johnson). It was there he was brainwashed trained to be a traveling encyclopedia salesman.

What Dan hadn’t known was that he would be responsible for finding his own accommodations. According to the company, there would be plenty of people willing and able to let a stranger like him live at their house for free during the summer. He’d ended up sleeping in someone’s dungy basement. Back then there were no cell phones, so we only heard from him once a week or so, calling collect from a pay phone; he didn’t give us too many details about his job.

As soon as we’d arrived in St. Joseph and found Dan, he jumped into the car as if it was a life raft. It took him less than 30 seconds to tell us that he was quitting. He had lasted less than a month. As it turned out, (shockingly) walking the streets for 12 hours a day in sweltering heat trying to sell strangers encyclopedias was not the dream job he had envisioned.

In the end it all worked out anyhow. When we got back to Wisconsin, Dan got a summer job as a harbormaster at the local marina. Personally I like to think that he learned a few important life lessons. The first one being that your mom is always right. The second one is that if he hadn’t quit he would have missed out on one of the coolest life experiences ever: making a super-sweet lip-sync video to Madonna’s hit “Into the Groove” with me when we stopped in Wisconsin Dells on the way home.

Come to think of it, all of my family vacations had been fun when my brothers were around; despite their teasing when I was younger, we just genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve also discovered that I enjoy some vacation time alone.

The first time I took a “big” vacation by myself was January 2014. Since my husband was working in education and didn’t have the time off, and none of my friends could make the trip, I decided to just book the trip on my own. It turned out to be incredible timing: While schools were closing in Wisconsin due to cold temperatures, I’d be enjoying 80s and sun in Fort Lauderdale.

When I would tell others about my upcoming plans, the conversation would often go like this:

“I can’t wait to get out of this cold weather; I’m going to Fort Lauderdale for an entire week!”

“Great!” random friend would say. “Whom are you going with?”

“No one,” I would reply. “I’m going by myself.”

Big look of surprise, pity, or confusion.

“Oh … really? Why?”

After explaining myself, I’d get one of three reactions. The first group undoubtedly walked away thinking I was a loser with no friends. The second group thought I was brave and cool, but they would never do such a thing themselves. But then the third group (and those were my favorite people) just got it.

“Yeah …” they would say while nodding. “Yeah … that is GENIUS. Tell me more.”

The truth was that if I absolutely had to take someone with me I’m sure I could have found someone … but after awhile I kind of called off my search on purpose. Because the more I thought about it the more I craved time all to myself.

I completely understand that many people would hate that idea but not me. For as long as I can remember I’ve known this about myself. I could spend hours and hours alone in my bedroom playing with my Barbies or reading books. My kindergarten report card had said “Anne should spend less time playing by herself and more time with other children.”

When I think about that report card today I think So where’s the problem? I hate being introvert shamed.

When I finally did leave on vacation, the interrogation continued, starting with the rental car guy.

“Do you have family here?”

“No.”

“Are you meeting friends here?”

“No.”

“Are you here for work?”

“No.”

He just could not get past the idea that I would be on vacation by myself, and he was really starting to annoy me.

(On a side note, I was this close to scoring $557 worth of travel vouchers from Southwest when they asked for volunteers to take the next flight three hours later. If they only needed one person, I was in! If they needed two, then they would take this other pair who also volunteered. They ended up needing two. The voucher went to a dad and son who separated from the wife and two other kids. Probably because they were all Screamy McFidgety. And I should know. I ended up sitting in front of them on the plane.)

But getting back to my vacation. That was prime time for me to do what I wanted, when I wanted. The solo TV viewing alone was worth it. No rednecks or shows about people trying to rustle up snakes/raccoons/fish/opossums/rare coins. I was, however, very open to publicity-hungry, extremely rich reality stars. For one week it would be strictly E!, Bravo, and my Netflix queue.

And then there was the sleeping. If I wanted to take a nap from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m., get up, eat some chips, rally, then watch a “Rich Kids of Beverly Hills” marathon until 2 a.m., I could do it. (If you haven’t already guessed, that happened. A lot.)

But there’s more! I had the bathroom to myself. I shopped at my own pace and only went into stores that I wanted to visit. I didn’t have to care about what anyone else was hungry for; besides, most of the time I was hungry for Chick-fil-A, and I wasn’t afraid to drive 30 minutes to get it. (And P.S.: Will someone please open a Chick-fil-A near me, already?)

I had no regrets about my solo vacation, and I would do it again a few years later. I’d still get an occasional odd look, and I still felt lonely at times. But then I’d think about Willie Nelson. And all-you-can-eat fish. And the freedom to travel. And then I’m just happy to be on the road again.

I don’t really have an appropriate picture for this chapter. Instead, I will choose to                                                                        showcase Dan’s magnificent perm from 1986.

I don’t care how much you’ve perfected the art of helicopter parenting; there’s no way you’ll be able to shield your kid from mean people. Even in the safest of environments, meanies still thrive – waiting to jump out and surprise kids when they least expect it.

Case in point: When I was in fourth grade Girl Scouts, I had to leave my weekly meeting a little early and wait outside of the school for my mom to pick me up for a dentist appointment. All of a sudden a rundown pickup truck sped by. I looked up and locked eyes with the 20-something-year-old guy in the back of the truck. He pointed his finger at me and yelled, “I want to suck your tits!”

Cute, right? Baby’s first sexual harassment.

I remember just standing there and staring at him as the truck roared away. Did I hear him right? What the hell was wrong with him? For the love of all that was holy, I wasn’t even wearing a bra yet! Let’s just say that was probably the least likely encounter I’d expected when I’d woken up that morning.

Read more