Another Submission for the "I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up" Category

This morning at 4:42AM, I awoke to sirens blaring, strobe lights flashing, and the direction from my husband, "Let's get out--Let's go!"

The hotel fire alarm had been ... detonated, and I was like a hamster trapped in a plastic ball, scurrying like mad but really going nowhere because it took a couple of seconds to remember where in the world I was.

Then I said, "Where's Kristin?!" over the sensory torture because even in the bright blinking lights, I couldn't see her. So I turned again to pull her out of bed, when

our foreheads conked.

We scrambled outside the hotel, where I realized that I was in a long (to the knees) striped nightshirt instead of what I ALWAYS wear to sleep in in hotels because I'm afraid I'll have to go out in the event of a fire and people will see me--exercise pants and a t-shirt.

Except this ONE time in my entire life, of course.

So Jorge ran back in the room (we had a first floor room which had a door to the outside) and brought back my shorts, purse, and Kristin's glasses because the poor thing can't see worth squat on her own.

We waited for a while and were told it was a false alarm. Somehow the phone system in the hotel is connected to the alarm system, and when the phones shorted out, the alarm went off. I'm just glad the sprinklers didn't go off, too. Then I would've been a wet hamster in horizontal stripes.

So we all reentered our rooms and tried to go back to sleep. That is when I realized that my head, where I beat it against Kristin's head like laundry on a river rock, was throbbing.

I went back to sleep for about an hour, and then it was no use to keep trying.

Thus began our day. It's a bummer to realize you've probably had the most exciting event of your day by 4:45AM.

But later we went on a hike in Smoky Mountain National Park to see Laurel Falls and the thing that everyone on the trail but me wants to see: bears.

Yes, I am afraid of bears. And alligators. I have said more than once, "I wish they were dead." Meaning bears and alligators.

Sorry, nature lovers.

Where was I. Oh yes, I wish they were dead.

So, of course, immediately, when we approached the beginning of the trail, a family randomly volunteered to ME, not Jorge or Kristin, "There are lots of bears out there today. We saw triplets and twins and ...."

I stopped listening because I started composing a blog post in my head: "Oh yes, it's another 'I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up' moment."

But I am not making this up; they pinpointed me to report all of their sightings to in detail.

So I rehearsed again with Jorge what to do if a bear jumps out in front of you on a path and yells, "Turf Warrrr!"

All along the trek, I watched every peripheral movement and listened for rustling, crackling branches.

But I needn't have because three times, we came up on a group of people looking up into the hills, pointing, and telling us we just missed the bears.

I did see a doe and nursing fawn, which is more my speed.

By the end of the hike, I can't believe this, but I was actually a little disappointed that we didn't see the bears. I mean, it's quite a let down to be on five-alarm high alert for just a doe, fawn and tiny little lizard.

But I did end up getting a picture of A bear, which I will post upon my return home.

Home--where if fire alarms go off, it's for a good reason, like I have set it at night and then forgot to turn it off when I open the door for Zoe one last time.

Have you ever had an alarm go off in a hotel or similar situation before?

Coming to You from Sevierville, TN

Sunday, 7:35 pm

Hi, Y'all.

I'm in Sevierville (near Gatlinburng) for a couple of days for my daughter's national dance competition.

We arrived last night (in the new CRV, no less, very smooth ride, ahhh) and began our adventure this morning with Jorge and Kristin enjoying a morning run while I slept in, which is the first time I've done that in ... days. Ha. Just kidding. I rarely sleep in because I'm more of a morning person than a late night one. So it felt really weird, like a sin or something.

For relaxation pleasure, I brought a plethora of magazines and one novel because I had big plans for the pool, which materialized due to an additional plethora of Tennessee sunshine. I was in non-office heaven.

A couple hours later a restaurant, Kristin, sitting across from me, said, "Mom, how did you get all of those mosquito bites or hives or whatever?"

Looking down, I saw that I appeared to have leprosy.

It took me a second to figure out what was going on. I had used, for the first time, a spray-on sunscreen which turned out not to be a good idea because in spraying my shoulders, I didn't realize that the fine mist I was feeling was actually not fine at all, and indeed left white spots all over me the size of peas. Perhaps there is a river around here in which I can go dip 7 times or something.

You wouldn't think it would be all that noticeable, but during the checkout at a CVS, the cashier asked me, and I quote: "Now how did you get that funky sunburn?"

Nice.

This afternoon, I sat on the 2nd floor balcony of the hotel trying to write my column for the paper which will be printed July 4, with the ground-level pool to my left and the foothills of the Smokies to my right. It would have been quite picturesque except helicopter tours kept flying overhead which reminded me of giant bumblebees because they were yellow and black and "buzzed" menacingly. So I gave up and came in here.

Right now I'm in the lobby where I'm allowed 15 minutes on this computer, but so far, since no one else is around, I have broken that law already. Apparently, with sleeping in and hogging time on the computer, I am having a wild first day of vacation.

This hotel is supposed to have an antebellum feel. Directly to my left are large portraits of Clark Gable and Vivienne Leigh as Rhett and Scarlett beside an old-timey hutch filled with GWTW memorabilia, plus two glass-encased large sets of Rhett and Scarlett dolls on each side of the hutch, about 24" tall each. Very kitschy.

The two ladies behind the desk are having a LENGTHY and boisterous discussion about whether "swapped" is a real word. They have spelled it about 6 times, used it in different sentences, decided "changed out" sounds classier, and then revisited the whole conundrum again. I just want to yell out, "Yes. Yes it IS a word. It is the past tense of 'swap.' Please use it without further consternation and/or discussion." But then I would just be a rude Yankee, and there's no need for that because they are lovely women. Just really vocabulary-conscious lovely women. Like the bumblebee helicopters, buzzing around me.

The highlight of today, though, was eating at The Islamorada Fish Company restaurant, situated smack dab in the middle of a 130,000 sq. ft. Pro Bass megalo-store complete with stuffed (taxidermied?) wild animals, indoor waterfalls and a 13,00 gallon aquarium. Sounds strange, I know, but when I get home, I'll post pics, and you will see that it is stranger than you thought.

Since we're here with friends whose daughter is also dancing, we are planning a wild game of Farkle tonight, so if I don't post early in the morning, you know the partying just got out of hand here tonight at "Tara."

"Congratulations, It's a ... Honda"

Yesterday was a momentous day at the Crow household. After a decision process years in the making (not exaggerating about that), we bought a new vehicle.

But we didn't accomplish this without a small story to share, which some of you, my friends, are now going to sit through and pretend you care. You will probably even say "Wow" in a comment. Thank you.

I'll try to be brief:

Narrowed choices down to Honda because of the lifetime warranty, the "We will take your grandkids to Disney World and buy them a puppy every year for as long as they live and the United States is a nation." You can't beat those Honda warranties, and I'm sure there is no fine print we missed. So if in 2050 you see adults with Mickey Mouse ears on surrounded by tons of puppies, you'll know Dennis at Honda keeps his word.

• Went to Honda to test drive, one more time, the Element (Oh, how I love the orange) and the CRV, the coolest minivan ever, and yet, still a minivan.

• Good points of Element (if you're me): Lots of room, great panel, rubber on floor instead of carpeting (for those Indiana winters and the slush that ruins car floors), unique "stadium seating" where the back seat passengers sit higher than the front seat passengers, built in cooler, fun to drive, etc.

• Bad points: Clam shell doors that require you to shut the back door first. Back seat passengers can't get out first; fronters have to let them out. Seats four instead of five.

• Bad points of CRV: Yawn.

• I asked Clyde, the first sales guy: "Do you still have the orange Element?" No, they sold it the day before. Color me "Crestfallen Orange."

• Meet Jorge and Lidna. The two most practical people you'll ever meet in the entire world. We decided on the CRV.

• Then came the part of the trade-in, and I realized "This is goodbye to my beloved Camaro." Color me "mad."

• As the paper work starts, I glance up to see a beautiful brand new orange Element drive by the wall-sized glass windows and basically park in front of me. I literally started pointing and saying, "Orange! Orange!" Clyde jumps up and goes out to get the scoop. Yep, just in, brand new, and mighty purty. For about 60 seconds, I was completely confused. Test or sign? Test or sign? Decided "test," and I stuck with CRV decision. Ooh, now I'm double mad because of, excuse me, frickin' test.

• The whole time we signed the bazillion papers to take that CRV with us (By the way, they videotape that part of the transaction. When I asked why, Dennis said "The simplest way to explain it is we want to avoid a McDonald's hot coffee lawsuit." Oh. That clears up everything. (What? Is he going to throw liquid on us if we don't go through with the purchase?!") I kept dreading gathering my stuff out my car and leaving it for the last time.

• Paper work done, we head out to the lot where the CRV is now running and cooling down, but my beloved car is sitting there next to it dying of heat exhaustion. The last thing I heard was the Maroon 5 song over the showroom speakers

It's not over tonight
Give me one more chance to make it right
I may not make it through the night
I won't go home without you

• I didn't want to go home without my little car. But I did, and told myself all the way home, "It's just a piece of metal," to which my alter ego would reply, "Yes, but it's the car Jorge gave you as a fortieth birthday present, and you have loved driving it every day since. It's the reason you learned to drive a stick shift. It's one of your two most valued (really, only 2 possessions of value) possessions. Next you'll be trading in your beautiful, flawless Yamaha piano for a Honda HRX Ultimate lawn mower. Or toaster.

• So the end of an era has come, and although I do not have buyer's remorse because I think we made a good decision, I am still sad. And that is my story, to which I'm sure you're sitting there thinking, "Wow. She is a nut."
  
  Have you ever been emotionally attached to a car before??

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NEW:

You Had Me at "Mango" - 'Cause You're So Smooooth

Man it's a hot one
Like seven inches from the midday sun
I hear you whisperin' words that melt everyone
But you stay so cool ....

You've probably wondered what inspired Rob Thomas to write those words, haven't you? OK, I'll tell you. Read on:

I made my own Mango/Pineapple smoothie yesterday (Rob had a premonition, like, 10 years ago about this Smoothie), and since I died and went to heaven upon the first sip, I thought I'd send you this missive from above so that you, too, can taste "The Mango Madness" as I am dubbing this creation.

Mango Madness

In a blender, blend: (Duh, that's why it's called "blender," Lidna, duh.)

1/2 c. Dole frozen mango chunks (60 cal)
1/2 c. Dole frozen pineapple chunks (50 cal)
1/2 c. nonfat vanilla yogurt (55 cal)
1/2 c. Dole Pina Colada juice (60 cal) (I am also a big fan of the coconut, so this excites me.)

And, look! It's all half-cups, so it's easy to remember!

These 225 cals of tropical ambrosia [which I drank right from the pitcher, oh yes I did] pack a boatload of vitamin C.

If I had a little paper umbrella, I'd sure throw it in before I glugged it out of the pitcher.

So there you have it: "Mango Madness Smoothie By Lid." I beg of you, as does Rob Thomas, "Let's don't forget about it."

First Day of Vacay

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. I mean my week-long vacation.

During this week at some point (I'm being coy about the exact dates in case you try to rob me and/or TP my yard) we are going to TN for my daughter's dance competition.

Until then, I'd like to do some maxin' and relaxin' on my deck with my library book Delta Wedding by Eudora Welty. I'm in the mood to don a floppy woven hat, read Southern female writers and sip "sweet tea" on my veranda, er, deck.

But before I can allow myself to do that, I must flog myself with a good long run in the heat so that I can sweat like no Southern gentlewoman ever did, or at least admitted to. Then I will have earned the right to read.

We are also probably going to go purchase a CRV today, which is another event high on the list of things that make me sweat. Ugh.

Then, maybe after I purchase the vehicle this afternoon, I can allow myself to sit by a backyard fire tonight and just stare into the flames, which I thoroughly enjoy except when the Chiggers bite like they did the other night. By the way, experts claim that putting nail polish on Chigger bites isn't effective, but I think it is. So I have very shiny ankles right now, but it's worth bearing to get lost in a crackling, climbing fire.

If you haven't noticed, escape is the theme of the day for me. I am so ready to get away from work and everyday things like laundry that even escaping mentally if not physically sounds really good.

I am ready to implode and enjoy it.

Postcard: "Having a great time on the Middle-America DIY back porch with gorgeous view of privacy fence, pretending I'm in Savannah. Wish you were here."

Have a great day, Y'all.

Getting on the Ball

My weight loss project has not turned out the way I had hoped many weeks ago.

That is, I haven't lost any weight.

I. KNOW.

As Ed once told Mama and Eunice, "Why don't you just tattoo it across my forehead: F-A-Y-L-U-R."

And this last week of chaos at work wreaked havoc on my eating plans. I started the week with a bang and ended with a whimper. And with a couple of hot dogs, which I haven't enjoyed so much in a long time.

But then I had to face the music, otherwise known as the owner of the gym.

Who decided it was time to use the calipers on me to see why I'm not losing on the scale, in the hopes that I'm losing fat while gaining muscle which doesn't necessarily show up on the scale.

Turns out, not so much positive news.

And then he cocks his head and says in the most earnest, gentle way: "You've gotta get on the ball."

[Insert Law & Order gavel sound.]

So at 7:00 pm, I laced up my tennis shoes and took off in the neighborhood, aiming for 45 minutes of jogging.

Did I mention 7 pm, after a long day of work and chores and meals?

So I took off and began the masochism.

It hit 90* in Indiana today, so 20 minutes into the run, I was hearing the lyrics "Been through the desert on a horse with no name ..." because I was hallucinating about the Lab who ran across my path.

But then I had that Jillian mirage, where she always says, "If you're not fainting, vomiting or dying, keep going."

So I think the horse with no name is really named Jillian.

That's when a neighbor threw up a wave at me and yelled, "Hey, Linda. It's 90*!"

Thanks, Neighbor. I wasn't sure I was dying, but now I am.

So then I slogged all the way home and wrote this just to document to the gym owner: "I got on the ball. With no name. It felt good to be out of the rain. When you're slogging, you can't remember your name, until your neighbor calls it out and causes you pain."

Happy Fodder's Day 2009

So here is the one and only decent pic of the kids with Jorge the Jabanero on Father's Day. If you click on the pic, you will see that Zoe is even smiling.


Before that pic, there was this chaotic pic plus 10 more like it:



Among those being the traditional "Take a Hunk Out of Your Dad's Shoulder" Father's Day pic:



Followed by the ever-precious, "The dog just did a stinker" pic:



Not to be overshadowed by the "Why did God make siblings?" shot in which the first-born dodges the long arm of the brother and the ham-face of the sister:



Here are the kids and me (we like to go barefoot and have holes in our jeans for special occasions):



Behold the kebabs at my brother and sister-in-law's house. Oh yeah. She is one of "those" cooks who makes every dish finish cooking at the same time and produces food of more than one color and serves food at appropriate temps all in one meal. (Show-off!) Lunch was delicious. They just returned from cruising Costa Rica & Belize and she prepared some dishes they ate there. But no matter how much they travel, you still can't take the Indiana out of my brother who once told customs officials at the Canadian border that his nationality is "Hoosier."



Jorge and Dad selecting their warm and tasty food:



Here we are sacked out after the meal. That is my Hoosier brother on the stool in front of the fireplace.



Dad reading his card from us:





I am my father's only daughter.



Here we are on the way home where all three kids were at one point texting at the same time, so I said, "Hey. Put all your phones together so I can take a pic," and they said, "No, because you will just say on your blog that even on holidays we don't like you and prefer to text friends instead of talk to you which isn't true."

Well then.

Look at these kids, who would rather, even on a holiday, text strangers instead of talk to me.



Last shot: The kids bought Jorge a birdfeeder, which he wanted and hung in our tree right away. Score, kids!

End of a Loooong Week

Some notes before I collapse. Sorry so many pics. I had this done and lost it all and had to re-post. I am now officially fried.

Yes. Disco ball in sanctuary. Please no negative comments. The theme was 70's "Get Your SERVE on." Please. No negative comments, for I am fried.

Yes. Tents in sanctuary. Sanctuary will probably smell like teenaged boys. Ugh.

The painting: Abstract Jesus painting done by swiping of hands and turning of picture.

Picture of small group of kids in front of logo banner: My girl's small group within the large group.

Dunk tank: For all pastors. Yay!

Marsh: Local grocery chain that donated a lot of stuff. Yay, Marsh.

Muscle World Game: If you look carefully at the characters, you can see black marker where I was assigned one year to blacken in cleavages and other unmentionables because it wasn't appropriate for kids.

Late But Present

On the way to work, I passed a sign that said, "Eighty percent of success is showing up."

So after a very long week at here at work, I'm posting a little bit later this morning than usual, but at least I showed up here, and at my level of tiredness, 80% is sounding pretty acceptable to me. I don't dare talk about how tired I am at work, though, because I'm not spending the night!

The hog roast was unbelievably fun last night, but it was so hard to wake up this morning!

Question for you: Does blogging seem like a fall/winter activity to you? That is, I'm finding it hard to stay on the ball here because of so much going on IRL due to summer activities.

Next week at some point, for instance, I'll be heading off to TN for my daughter's national dance competition.

We're also shopping for a new vehicle that we would love to take to TN. We've test driven CRV's, Rav-4's and today we will try to test an Element. Anybody out there have any of these? If so, what's your opinion about that vehicle?

Then, of course, there's July 4th just around the corner.

Other news: my recent college graduate, Katie, has landed real job, with benefits and all, which is great because I just found out that since she was no longer a full-time student, she was not insured. Gulp.


Also, the son who is living on campus this summer has now added a stray cat to their house of four young men living there. Point of interest: Son is allergic to cats. This should be interesting.

Wordless Wednesday-What I'm Doing Today

How about "Nearly Wordless Wednesday?"

It's SERVE week here at my church, a week-long blitzing of the city with community service, including things like tearing off shingles, painting, pulling up stumps, planting flowers, visiting nursing homes, having neighborhood block parties, helping to organize public food assistance and women's shelters ... you get the idea. Nearly 130 youth (6th-12th grades) are spending the entire week here as if they are at camp. But the whole SERVE program involves 3 through 19 year-olds.

My main role this year is to be the snack lady at 8:00 pm in our cafe courtyard. After a long day of hard labor, they do love their Oreos and MOUNTAIN DEW. Here is the row of chips, cookies and "drug pop," as I call caffeinated sodas, that I set up before they come in.


Yes, I said "Mountain Dew at 8 pm." Can I also say I'm glad not to be chaperoning them in their rooms at night? Can you imagine all of those teenagers hopped up on drug pop trying to settle down and go to sleep?! But here's how happy they are after grazing on Mt. Sugar which has a river running through it: The Sucrose.


Traditionally on Wednesday of SERVE, we have the hog roast and requisite jump in the lake.

The week culminates on Friday evening with a big free-to-the-community "Party in the Parking Lot" (PIP), where there are tons of free prizes, food, inflatable games, etc., with the goal of blessing the community and opening up an option for people to check out the church.

The first two pics are my Abilenian boss, our youth pastor:

I Hate Musicals, But If I Were Going to Be in One ...

I can't get enough of the first two guys sliding across the floor. And the older gentleman with the sweatband. And the Conan look-alike.

I think this video was produced to promote the new A&E show Hammertime, which premiered Sunday night. So we have yet another celebrity family to watch, if we so choose.

Well, here's hoping Mrs. Hammer doesn't berate MC in front of the cameras week after week a la Jon & Kate.
Here's hoping they don't have a scandalous divorce like the Hogans.
Here's hoping they're the polar opposite of the Kardashians and Osbournes. However, I think it might be healthier to turn out like the Osbournes rather than the Kardashians.
Or perhaps they will turn out be like the Duggars, only cooler, and the Hammer girls will sew gold lame pants for their menfolk.

By the way--speaking of pants--do you think parachute pants could ever make a come-back?

No?

Did you know there's a site devoted to them? Oh yes there is: Parachutepants.com.

If bell-bottoms (aka "flares") and skinny jeans (aka "peg legs") made a comeback, I think it's safe to say so could parachutes! At least they'd hide saddlebags.

When Your Baby Gets Her Driver's License, You Might Feel Like This

When Kristin was born, Katie was 6, and Jordan was 3 1/2. When Jorge brought the kids up to see the baby and me, we videotaped the meeting. At one point, Katie looked down at the foot of the hospital bed, and upon seeing a set of car keys warned us, "Better not let her get those keys!" We laughed, of course, at thought of Tiny Helpless doing anything but sleeping and eating.


Guess what. Tiny Helpless got her driver's license yesterday, and today ... she finally got a hold of those keys!

Really, people. Why is time doing this to me??

Here is a short video of her driving away by herself for the first time tonight, on Jorge's and my 24th wedding anniversary, a night almost a quarter of a century ago when we never could have imagined this moment in time.

Just think: twenty-four years ago at this very moment, we were standing at an altar; tonight we stood on our front porch and watched our third and last child drive away. Because we have been through this twice before, we understand the significance of this moment.

The beginning of the vid is a little shaky and seems to be a video of no movement for a few seconds, but I couldn't get it to edit. You will, though, see her back up and take off, dragging my heart behind her like a tin can on a bridal getaway car. Do not worry; the flower bed survived the back-up, although it looked a little dicey from the porch. And please note the turn signal out of the driveway. My girl follows rules.

Dad and I are so proud of you, Kristin Brynn!

And Jorge--thank you for this wonderful life and these wonderful children whom you have fathered so well. I love you more each year!






PS: She made it home. How many times will I say that in the next few years?

Have a Sip at Internet Cafe Today

"Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you!” (Isaiah 49:15).

The New Testament city of Ephesus was immersed in the Greco-Roman tradition of the pursuit of beauty and perfection in every sense: art, architecture, music, and even regarding the human race.

In fact, Greeks and Romans regularly abandoned their unwanted (less than physically perfect, or often, female) infants to the elements as a means of divesting themselves of the responsibility and stigma of such a child. This practice was termed “exposing” the child. Some of those rejected children, if physically able, were "adopted" by Ephesian citizens only to serve as slaves.

Testifying to the common act of abandoning children is the following letter written June 17, 1 B.C., by a man named Hilarion to his pregnant wife, Alis:

“Know that I am still in Alexandria. And do not worry if they all come back and I remain in Alexandria. I ask and beg you to take good care of our baby son, and as soon as I receive payment I will send it up to you. If you are delivered of child [before I get home], if it is a boy keep it, if a girl discard it. You have sent me word, ‘Don’t forget me.’ How can I forget you. I beg you not to worry.”

How could such a warm missive contain such a cold directive to simply discard a baby!

To read the rest of "Not Forgotten, Not Abandoned," click on the cafe button!

It's That Time of Year Again

No, it's not time to shave my legs yet. We still haven't hit 85* in Indiana, for Pete's sake.

I'm talking about Dance Recital Time.

Yes, every June, little and bigger girls all across the nation get their moment to shine after all of the weeks that moms and dads have carted them to and fro the dance class, trying to remember what to bring and how to get in and out of the congested parking lot without hitting their kid's classmate who's running like a banshee between cars, and where is the banshee's mom, anyway?

I have two daughters who have danced most of their lives. It started years ago with praise dance taught by one of our associate pastor's wives at our church. I cannot describe for you the sweetness of this era.

Soon we moved on to a studio with actual mirrors and noncarpeted floors. And costumes.

And ... recitals.

Oh, it was a new era. Or should I say a new "eon" because that's how long these things last. You begin the recital during the Carboniferous Period and come out to the parking lot and lo and behold: you're in the Triassic Period.

There are some constants, like the eternal duration, that you can count on at each recital:

• Red lipstick and blue eye shadow for the stage. Scary on 9 year-olds. Or really, on anyone, for that matter, except maybe Courtney Love who would just look plain without it.

• The "baby" dancers sandwiched between older, edgy dancers. This year, there are baby tap dancers shuffling to "Mr. Sandman." Mr. Sandman, in this case, is an actual boy dancer, very focused and stoic. He's a serious five year-old Sandman who looks like he could put you out "night-night" for good if you gave him any guff about his sparkly costume.

• Lyrical dances that you can't figure out. I remember when Alex P. Keaton on Family Ties did his "interpretive dance." All of these dances remind me of Alex. I don't get why they always involve one dancer offering another dancer something, like a rose, and the second one declines the offering, and they both wilt and crawl off stage.

• The weird stage exit. You do not just walk off after your dance is done. You either 1) Walk off waving if you're cute and little 2) Do the side step, crossover, drag your foot off the stage sideways move. Very natural looking, of course.

• The glitch. At some point, the music will mess up and the dance will have to begin again. This adds another era to the eons that you're in the auditorium.

• The cryer. Someone will inevitably look like she's never been in a dance class before in her life and cannot figure out why she has been put in a strange costume and pushed on stage. Of course, she has been in class for months and has begged to wear the costume at home to play in, but this stage thing? She's not down with it.

• Funky Hip Hop. The goal of this is to look edgy and p.o.'d, I think. They generally wear black and camo costumes with rips and bandanas, but the funny thing is, no one looks the part. They all look like Hoosier Future Farmers of America wearing hoe-down scarves doing the "pop-n-lock" or something like that. But this is my second daughter's style of choice.

• The costume glitch. Someone's hair piece will fall off or over her face. If she is little, this will cause a meltdown. If she's older, she will think everyone focused on that one mishap the entire evening and will be seen crying in the lobby afterwards.

• The flowers. Many dancers receive small bouquets after the recital. Some bad parents forget to get their kid a bouquet every year and try to hurry them out and buy them a Taco Bell Fruitista Freeze to make up for it. Not that I know that from personal experience.

• And then there's the stand-out: the one who clearly outshines all the rest in whatever dance he/she is in. Her talent is God-given. Her grace is that of a professional. Her artistry is moving. The total effect of this one child on stage? Rapturous. To the parents, that is. Because every parent or grandparent is lasering in on that one child up there around whom their world revolves. Finally, finally, everyone will get to see how great their kid is. Except that everyone else is, of course, watching his or her own stand-out.

Let's face it. That's why we have the recitals--to spotlight the greatest kid who has worked so hard all year long, of course! This is her 15 minutes eon of fame and glory!