All Humorous

These pages reflect stories with humor in them. That is not to mean you will find the humor, though I hope you will, it means I had fun writing it.

They Don’t Know What They Don’t Know

Posted on by kwundrow

With Easter just around the corner I feel obliged to record a family story.  The story dates back to my youngest daughter, Kathryn’s, Easter egg hunt.  She was about three and since birth had grown up in “The House of High Cholesterol”.  Trust me when I tell you it will become clear later in this story why that is significant.

We had all headed down to the community park for the annual neighborhood egg hunt.  While the older children were given a much more complex set of rules and far more difficult hiding spots, the three year old group had been invited to the bowl shaped lower area of the park.  There, not hidden at all, were hundreds of brightly colored eggs of the plastic kind, chock full of chocolate and sugar delights, and the actual, chickens had laid them, eggs.  Even from the top of the rise it was quite easy to see them all strewn about and waiting.

On the sound of the horn, which by the way scared half of the seekers into leg clutching terror, the brave ones were off on a run down the slope.  Kathryn eagerly chased down to the pit and then started wandering about among the eggs.  It did not take long for us to notice that she was not picking up any of them.  Shouts of encouragement and direction seemed to have no effect.  Eventually she came back up to us, tears running down her cheeks.  Through her gasps for air between sobs, we deciphered that she was telling us that there were no eggs down there.  At this point her sister steps in and points out the eggs lying about right there in the open and asks her just what is the problem.  I believe Bailey envisioned herself as the true parent here and was going to straighten her sister out.

Kathryn looks up at her and says those aren’t eggs.  At this point I stepped in, eager to be the caring and wise father, and asked her just what she thought an egg was?  She looks up at me with that tear streaked face and said, “you know, the little yellow boxes!”  If you haven’t made the connection, lets revisit “The House of High Cholesterol.”  It seems, we had never actually consumed a real egg for fear of immediate and excruciating death.  Her mother and I may have read a few too many medical reports on the evil plot chickens were hatching on us, yes pun intended.  The only eggs Kathryn had ever seen were in the little yellow boxes, namely, Egg Beaters.

The good news is, we were able to explain as rapidly as possible, the misconception about eggs and, thanks to those terror frozen three year old’s still clinging to their mother’s legs, there were plenty left for Kathryn to save her first Easter Egg Hunt drama.  Now several years later, at a Mallard’s game, Kathryn was one of the lucky names drawn to participate in the Infield Cash Dash.  Apparently we had done a bang up job in this department, for she had no issues finding cash.  I maybe, however could have explained that the bigger numbers on the bills out weighed the popularity of the face on it.  But I’ll save that for another story.

Just remember “They don’t know what they don’t know!”

I Surprised Her!

Posted on by kwundrow

Last night I decided to surprise my wife.  Stay with me, this doesn’t go off the rails with some “please don’t over share”.  I decided to make her dinner and have it ready when she got home.  To be clear, this was no small effort on my part as I had to race to the market for fresh fish and wine and then get it all together before she got home.  Good news, I pulled it off and she was somewhere between surprised and totally shocked.

Now that response, though it was what I had hoped for, left me asking “why was it so easy to surprise her?”  The answer of course was that I seldom if ever do this for her.  Not too good a track record.  For all the laundry, all the cooked meals, all the cleaning and effort to keep our home so beautiful, I am guilty of not even taking the time to cook her a meal once in a while.  Lesson learned.  And here is a request for the rest of you readers out there, take the time to give back the favor for your partner.  I am suspecting they deserves no less.  If you are one who regularly does this anyway, I am proud of you.  I know YOU exist, it was just that I didn’t.

After the gushing over the meal and the points in the bank; badly needed points in the bank, I knew what I needed to do.  Eggs over easy, dry muffin and coffee, all served in bed.  However, based on the additional level of shock, it might be best if I space this out.  What good will it do if I give her a heart attack.

 

 

 

Always give ’em’ options

Posted on by kwundrow

When we set about teaching our daughters independence while at the same time keeping our relative sanity, we decided to give them options.  Now please understand, we were at least smart about it.  We would creatively come up with three options knowing full well that we couldn’t lose.  No matter which they picked, we could easily live with the choice.  Now all these years later we can see that it worked.  My daughter Bailey and her husband John, are practicing the same technique with our grandson Jackson.  Here in lies the story.

The other day, while visiting their house, John and I were attempting to watch the Packer game.  I say attempting because Jackson had decided to not watch the game and instead to get us involved in his own game.

Scene one, Jackson enters the room and asks in his 2 1/2 year old style, “can Jackson play tablet?”  After an explanation by his dad that he had already had plenty of tablet time, Jackson comes back with “then Jackson reads daddy’s favorite book?”  Strike two as John explains that he is trying to watch the game and he will read the book later.  Wait for it, Jackson is ready to prove the lesson and win the game.  Without so much as a deep sigh, Jackson reaches over dad’s lap and as he grabs it, says “then Jackson gets the nuk”.  Point, set, match, you’ve all been had by your own game.  And he’s not even 3.

As I explained to John that we had just been schooled, it became clear to me that Jackson is one sharp little guy.  Of course I am his Opa  and couldn’t possibly think anything less.  But then he did figure out the game; give them three choices, all of which are wins and you can’t lose.

So a little advice for those who will be the influences in their grandchild’s life, remind them of this wisdom and urge them to always give themselves options.  Options that can’t lose and that will only lead to success.

It’s all about one’s options.  Nice play Jackson.

 

Hey, I’m a Guy

Posted on by kwundrow

Let’s start out with reminding you I am a male.  I think like a male and that is my excuse for what follows.  But stay with me because I will hopefully make my point and erase what ever fears have crept into your mind about where this might be going.

Women and men just don’t think alike.  Women are rational.  There is never just one consequence of an action but rather an entire landslide of events eventually culminating in the inevitable conclusion.  Meanwhile, men see things more clearly.  At least that is the idea that we delude ourselves with and use to justify our snap decisions.  We think inside the box while women think outside of the box.  Either that or they are thinking in a much larger box with several floors and a multitude of rooms.

This leads me to the discussion I recently had with my overly rational wife that spurred this blog.  I felt that if I could write this down, I might actually be able to offer some advice to any male or female that would read this and maybe apply it to their collective partnerships.  It seems that when ever I come upon some tidbit of information, which I in turn wish to share with my wife, I come up short on details every time.  As an example, and I am betting every testosterone driven male can identify with, a friend’s wife has their baby.  Be honest here, have you ever been able to provide even half the information necessary to answer the barrage of questions your partner is about to ask.  I generally provide the following information, ‘They had their baby yesterday”.  What did I miss, apparently everything that mattered.  What time, really?, what was the weight, guessing about a bowling bowl here, what was the length, seriously, under three feet best guess.  Of course I skipped sex and name because here I must admit, I should have been on at least that much of my game.

On this particular occasion, a friend had been in the hospital for a surgery that had been called off midway through.  As my wife was waiting for news of how the recovery was going, I received a text from a second friend.  He stated simply that our friend had indicated he would now actually be eating food at the wedding.  Any guy thinking in the box would take this to mean his humor was intact and he was up for eating.  Enough said.  When I relayed this text as a quote to my wife, the inquisition began.  When did he say that?  Hmm, text says 2:45.  What had our friend asked that elicited this response?  What does this cryptic message really mean?  What else did he say?  A this point I have two choices.  One, start to make up stuff and hope she can’t fact check me, or two, confess to my complete and total ignorance.  I chose option two, sort of.

I explained to my wife, and here in lies the nugget of genius, men receive information in short bursts.  It is all we can handle on either end, and more importantly, when you ask us for the information, we don’t hold anything back.  If we tell you they had the baby, that’s it, they had the baby.  Please don’t believe that you can pry any additional information out of us.  Simple, concise, reasonably accurate and woefully short on detail.  If we were asked to recap a fight it would go something like he said something stupid and then the guy smacked him.  They don’t say “That’s it folks. The fights over” for nothing.  That’s just the sum total of what that poor guy is got to offer.  Fights over, moving on.

So now you have it.  Women, lower your expectations in this area.  What we got is all we got.  You are just going to get frustrated if you expect more.  Men, I guess we can always keep trying.  In the last baby birth debacle, I got almost everything but the sex.  My response to the question “sex?”, “there must have been, roughly nine months ago I’m guessing”.

Thanks for reading…but that’s it.

Angels Among Us

Posted on by kwundrow

It had started out like any other trip.  The plethora of planning items to check off, airfare, hotel, rental car and the never ending list of things to pack.  We were ready for our trip to the Seattle area.  And for the most part, things went as planned.  We arrived safe and sound, picked up our rental car and found our way successfully to the hotel suite.  One minor detail, and at the time it seemed like such a good thing.  The rental agency had offered us a free upgrade from the midsize car we had paid for to a brand spanking new full size.  Who wouldn’t take that deal and we did.  But more later on that.

We spent the first two days and evening exploring the downtown area of Seattle and took in some nice west coast seafood.  Day three found us on the road to Astoria, Oregon, a beautiful old fur trading center at the mouth of the Columbia River where it meets the Pacific Ocean.  On the way there is where my story begins.  Traveling down the interstate we suddenly hear a loud crack as a stone seemingly thrown at us out of the sky cracks the windshield of our brand new car.  Now had I taken the insurance coverage offered, that would be the rental agency’s issue, but then you see I didn’t take that offer.  When quizzed by my loving wife, I explained that the windshield, thanks to our $500 comprehensive deductible, now belonged to us.  “But fear not, said I, I am sure that lightening does not strike twice.”

We spent a really nice evening in a quaint hotel on the riverbank of the Columbia.  After a nice dinner and exploratory hike around town and up to the “heights”, we had almost put the windshield issue in our rear mirror.  Oh yes there was the suggested scrimping on our choice of restaurants due to the looming $500 bill, but all in all, the issue was fading.  Then came the morning of the next day and the realization that lightening does strike twice.  Sometime in the wee hours someone had pulled out of the stall behind us and managed with the precision of a demolition derby driver to scrape off most of the paint and some of the plastic of our rear bumper.  Of course they would be too ashamed to just drive off you think.  Well apparently the thought never crossed their mind.  My wife, god love her, shrugs and says, “Well at least we already used up our deductible, so it can’t cost us anymore.”  This is when I get to explain the difference in an insurance policy between comprehensive coverage and collision.  After a call to our insurance agent to verify what I thought was obvious and my wife thought was collusion, not to be confused with collision, which my agent explained was a $1000 deductible, we now owned the bumper of this car as well.  With our luck, we just might buy the car one piece at a time before we had to turn it back in.  The better part of this day would be spent getting my family to back away from the emotional cliff we were now poised on the edge of.  But thanks to resilience, humility on my part and a beautiful Oregon Coast beach, we were soldiering on.

We have by this time reached the city of Port Angeles.  Port Angeles is the exit point for the ferry to Victoria Island in Vancouver, Canada.  I wish to insert here several key facts.  You need a passport to get into Canada, Victoria is an island, coffee can cost a lot more than you think and the ferry is not cheap and even more expensive when one takes their car.  These facts will play a key role in a series of decision I will soon make.

We have spent a day and a night in Port Angeles in a motel booked weeks in advance.  On the morning of the second day, we are to drive our car onto the ferry and head to Victoria Island.  After doing a little math on the cost of the ferry, with car, and parking for same car on the island let alone getting a hotel room on the island, it has become obvious that coupled with the multiple car parts we will be paying for soon, that a more fiscally responsible plan might be the order of the day.  And thus the decision that will set me on my course to hell has begun.  I have decided, against the better judgement of my wife, to stay one more night in Port Angeles and leave the car there for the day.  Simple, go speak with the hotel manager to book our room for one more night.  Not so simple he explains.  There are no rooms available and we cannot leave our car in the lot.  But then what seems like our first good fortune.  There is a room available at a motel right next to the ferry and not only is it less than the cost of taking the car over to the island, we can leave our car in the parking lot all day, no cost.  And the die is cast, or as the French say, and I like the feel of this, “the carrots are cooked.”  We park our car and merrily board the ferry for the next leg of our vacation.  After a nice day touring the island and its quaint history, we are disembarking from the ferry and walking up to our motel.  As my wife actually mentions that this turned out to be a good decision, I am struck by the emptiness of my pocket.  Not just any pocket, but the pocket where there should be a heavy set of keys.  After a mad dash back down the hill to the ferry and a desperate request to search the boat.  Remember the passport, I left it with my wife on her way up the hill to our motel, you know, the one with our brand new car in its lot with all of our luggage securely locked in its trunk.  It turns out that the ferry is actually considered Canadian soil.  No passport, no getting back on the ferry.  After relaying my tale of woe they agree to have a crewmate search the boat for me, did I mention that this was the last ferry trip of the day to or from the island?  No keys!  Did I really think my luck would change?  I am thinking now that when we stopped into buy a cup of coffee at that inviting java bar on the island, my keys were left on the counter.  This may turn out to be a very expensive cup of coffee.

I am back up the hill now and explaining to the hotel night manager that our vacation has gone off the rails, our luggage is locked in the car and I have no keys.  Time to give you another fact.  Port Angeles interpreted means “City of Angels”.  Enter angel number one.  The hotel manager gets AAA on the move and offers us a free upgrade for a room, one my family can at least enjoy while I suffer quietly in the parking lot waiting for AAA.  By the way, misery DOES love company.  But the manager doesn’t stop here.  He next offers us his car to drive downtown to get something to eat and even offers us money to buy some clothes for the night.   Meanwhile, AAA has informed me of my next problem.  Any other car and they would come out, pick the lock and we would be on our way.  Any other car, but not the brand new car we rented and equipped with an electronic smart key.  Never fear, the driver would come out and tow it to the nearest Chevy garage, where I could go work the problem with them tomorrow.

Did I mention that when I parked the car early that morning the lot was empty and the last thing I was concerned about at that time was needing to have my car towed?  The lot is now full, and my car is neatly tucked in between three rows of tightly parked cars.  Enter the tow truck driver.  As I point out the location of my car, he groans and says “This is going to cost someone a lot of money….” but I stop him mid-sentence and painfully fill him in on our vacation story to this point.  The windshield, the bumper and now the lost keys.  He sucks in his breath and finishes his sentence “but not you.”  Angel number two has arrived.  He is going to call a friend with another truck and through a miracle, sounds better than what actually took place, they will drag this car out of there.  Once the extraction begins, he reminds me not to watch and when I ask if this is hard on the car, he reminds me in a calm and soothing voice “just remember, it’s not your car.”  After what seems like an eternity, I watch as my car, dangling from the hook of a tow truck, heads away on its journey to the garage.

Early, very early the next day, the night manager comes to my rescue again.  He has returned to the motel to give me a ride to the garage to retrieve my car.  This guy is amazing in his determination to rescue us.  Arriving at the garage, I am given more bad news.  They do not have the key codes to cut the key as the car is so new.  But they are not giving up either.  They are Port Angelinos and they are duty bent to save me.  After two failed attempts by local locksmiths, we have no luck with an ignition key but they have cracked the trunk and I now have luggage.  Enter angel number three and four.  The service manager knows a guy in town with a rental car business on the side.  It turns out he has an arrangement with our rental agency and that he is going to give us, yes give us, a car to continue on our way.  Ten minutes later he rolls in, throws our luggage in his car and beckons me to get in.  I tell him I need to settle with the service manager, who tells me “no cost, I didn’t fix anything.  Just enjoy the rest of your vacation.”  Meanwhile, as I enter the agent’s car, I ask “what about that car and the damage?”  His reply reminds me for the fourth time, “not your car, not your problem.”  He explains that he will deal with the rental agency and I should no longer think about it.  He then drives over to our motel, picks up the rest of the family and then at his place of business, provides us with a car and a full tank of gas.  As we drive out of town, we pass the garage and the “cursed car” as my family now refers to it.  Port Angeles has lived up to its name.  Facing a ruined vacation, they have not only come to our rescue, they have bolstered our spirits and reminded us of the power of generosity.

Upon returning to Seattle to turn in a car that certainly does not resemble the car we rented, we are actually greeted with an apology for all that has happened to us on our trip, a personal cab ride to our motel and a “no charge” bill of receipt.  To not put in a shameless plug for the agency would not be in the spirit of this story.  The company, I will now always attempt to get my rental from, is Enterprise.

I will end this story with this antidote.  There are angels among us and to recognize them is to acknowledge that we need to be no less when our opportunity arises.  Don’t miss your opportunity.  It just might be your only chance to be someone’s angel.

 

Jackson Turns Two

Posted on by kwundrow

I want this to be my instruction manual for the up and coming two year old.  I will attempt to impart words of wisdom to the favorite little guy in my life.

Step 1:  Stay interesting.  Girls dig interesting.  The left handiness is a terrific start.  This will enhance your ability to visualize and to tell really great stories.  Not lies, just really good stories.  Or at least the ability to make retold stories even more interesting.  And when it comes to sports, confuse them when you stand on the other side of plate or drive the lane from their blind side.  And golf, well that opens up the whole other side of the course.

Step 2:  Be compassionate.  People gravitate to those who can be compassionate.  Compassionate people take care of others’ feelings.  This opens doors of opportunity.  I know that you have this trait because I saw it and I felt it while I was recovering.  You took care of me and watched out for me.  I see it too in how you share and play.  And I see it in the hugs you give Cayson and Bodie.  Real men can be compassionate.

Step 3:  Be genuine.  Know who you are and be the person you are meant to be.   A genuine man admits when he’s wrong, encourages others, defends principles and leads by example.

Step 4:  Discover, observe and learn.  I marvel at your powers of observation.  You watch and you learn.  We play “booma”, we observe the “moona” and there is no remote that can fool you.  As you grow, treat all new things this same way.  Oh yeah and did I mention, girls dig guys who can figure things out.

Happy 2nd Birthday Jackson.  You are my buddy and my inspiration.  You have rekindled my love of puzzles and my fascination with the moon.  I am already planning our first trip to the observatory on campus and the night we will lay beneath the stars and stare at the heavens.  Not sure how I got so lucky to have your mom and dad gift me with you but I am sure I will not waste a minute of the time we have together.

Adventures await us Jackson.  Follow the steps.

Love,

Opa

 

Being a Grandpa on being a Kid

Posted on by kwundrow

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Why was I so afraid to become a grandfather?  Was it the sense of responsibility or was it just the word?  Was the title making me feel mortal as in “Oh my god I’m old enough to be a grandfather”?  I think in retrospect that the later was the case.  So this blog is for anyone that might be feeling the same way.  For me, it was Jackson who taught me how to lose that feeling.

Jackson is my first grandchild and with any luck, not my last.  That is in fact a hint if my daughters happen to read this.  I am Jackson’s Opa, apparently no one goes by the “grandfather” moniker anymore.  Even though Opa is the German form, I think Jackson might be Italian.  He has this knack of attaching the “a” sound to the ends of his important words like booma (puzzles, but that’s another story) and moona, his favorite sight, and so ona.  Maybe its the “a” in Opa.  But I digress.

Jackson taught me early on that my only responsibility, in fact any grandparent’s responsibility is to spoil your grandchild and teach them all sorts of clever but useless tricks.  I cannot wait until I can teach him the many variations I have created for the great card game 52 pick up.

If I was worried about responsibility, Jackson left me know that it was he that was responsible for me.  While rehabbing from knee surgery, Jackson sat with me every day.  He was in charge of my rehab, and in his own little way, cared for me and oversaw my exercises and made sure I was kept fed.  Grapes and cookies can do wonders for the healing soul.

And then there was that fear of being old.  But Jackson sees no age barriers.  When he wants to wrestle, we wrestle.  When he wants to build Legos, so will I.  And then there are the booma sessions.  He will sit me down, get my computer and I will be given no quarter.  We will do puzzles.  Instead of the dread of age, he has taken me back to my youth. Thank you Jackson, for showing me that life really can start over at 60, for I am a grandpa.  I am your Opa and I get to be young all over again.  Lesson learned.

If you are still reading this and are not yet a grandpa, get ready to be born again.  And if you already are …..well you get it.  So pick me up Opa, I’m ready to show you how to play again.

Adventures in Grocery Shopping

Posted on by kwundrow

I will admit that I am in serious trouble when asked to go to a grocery store.  Before I can adequately tell my story, we will need to revisit the past.  When my first born was a small child, she and I would look forward to our Saturday trip to the grocery store with my wife.  I should clarify that while we looked forward to this, my wife did not savor the thought of having us go with her.  Never the less, her shopping list would be split between us and I and my daughter would be on our way.  Now understand that my daughter and I had a game.  We would attempt to satisfy an entire meal by visiting each of the vendor’s sampling booths.  This in turn led to a complete  abandonment of our half of the shopping list.  After much sampling, we would catch up to the other half of the list with our cart full of nothing from our required list.  This led to my ultimate lifetime ban from our Saturday grocery store adventures.

Though this episode might have been chalked up to a lack of discipline, it turns out that I am just a bit attention span distractable.  In my case, grocery stores are my nemesis.  On one misadventure, I found myself in a grocery store with one third of a list of items needed for a cottage weekend with a friend and my wife’s brother.  Old habits die hard and there I was heading toward the nearest sample booth.  I ask you, who could resist a Bubba Burger sample?  When finally tracked down by my two shopping partners, I was retasked to just get milk and eggs.  This seemed simple but once I realized that the milk selection area stretched for several yards with a host of varieties, sizes and dairies to choose from let alone that eggs could be bought in every conceivable size and assortment, all hope of success was abandoned.  I was then reassigned to securing potato chips with my friend now monitoring my every move.  I approached the Lay’s display at the aisle head trying to decide between barbecue, sour cream and onion, or plain old plain.  Three options, this should be a breeze.  Zeroing in on my choice, I was feeling quite confident when I hear my friend’s voice calling me from around the corner.  The scene that faced me was an entire aisle, seemingly a mile long, stacked with every conceivable packaging of potato chips in an infinite variety of flavors.  My question is how many brands of potato chips can there really be?  Faced with an entire aisle of this one product, I am ready for psychological help.  At this point I actually called my wife, who upon finding out that I was in a grocery store, stated in a near voice of panic, “save everyone, drop what you are doing and get back out to the car.”  This actually sounded like the police officer’s request to get your hands in the air and back away from the vehicle.  And I thankfully, for everyone involved, followed orders.

So this brings us to the present.  Due to a series of almost comical winter falls, my wife found herself in an arm sling and a complete leg brace.  Groceries were needed and her going there was out of the question.  After some serious consultation, it was decided that I was being sent in.  To say that this might have been one of history’s tragic mistakes, may just be an understatement.  My attention distractedness has by this time in my life reached new heights.  Upon arrival at this mega grocery store I am immediately overwhelmed by the sheer volume of aisles filled floor to way too high ceiling with every conceivable variety of grocery product known to the civilized world.  My list, which was already missing and retrieved by a trip back through the parking lot to its ultimate resting place, has but twenty items on it. How long can this really take?   Having eventually deciding on the appropriate size shopping cart, I am ready for my first “phone a friend”.  I call my wife to ask where I start in this maze of aisles, only to have her state that I start in Aisle 1 and work my way through each aisle.  This is helpful?  Really?  I am already mentally creating the “easily distracted, never grocery shopped as a profession”, grocery store arrangement.  Three to five aisles one brand of anything and a guide located at the head of each aisle.  And the journey begins.

First item up, toilet paper.  My wife wants the plush comfort style.  Seriously, they make uncomfortable toilet paper?  Turns out they actually do.  I eventually secure the correct brand, in the correct version and in the accurate packaging arrangement, six not four and certainly not the eight pack.  I am almost feeling cocky now, a serious misjudgement.  Next up, holiday paper plates.  To the trained professional shopper, it is understood that these are held in multiple store locations.  You apparently never know when you may suddenly decide to add paper plates to your list of necessities.  It turns out that the ones I needed were located in the candy section, this being clearly not a good location for a sugar junkie.  Smart product placement but not good.  I now make the first of my many eventual product return trips to replace the paper plates I purchased in the paper plate aisle.  What was I thinking?!!

I will spare you the story of the next 17 items but not before letting you know that they used up my next two “aisle shout outs”.  I have by this time discovered that there are three varieties of male grocery shoppers. The first is the seasoned bachelor who actually has figured out the process, very likely through a book on “successful grocery store shopping for dummies”, but like a true male, he is a hunter.  No particular pattern, just your random aisle jumping to complete a list in alphabetic order.  You will cross paths with him multiple times in your journey.  DO NOT WASTE AN AISLE SHOUT OUT ON HIM, he is focused and has no time for your incompetence.  Read the book before you venture out again.  The second shopper is the male in the guardianship of the shopping spouse.  These are easily identified by their stooped over appearance, leaning on the shopping cart and following behind the spouse who occasionally is heard barking out orders to “try and keep up”.  And then there is the third species of which I am clearly one.  We wander aimlessly up and down each aisle trying to be saved by the seasoned female shopper.  I actually found myself following one and after she would rapidly narrow down her selection to the one brand she wanted, move on efficiently to the next item on her list.  I somehow decided that I should just grab another of what ever she had chosen and claim it as my own.  This had to be a cost and time saving method.  But then I came to the sad realization that all but one of the items were not even on my list.  And again I am back to returning products misguidedly appropriated.

So finally, I find myself down to my last two items, apple cider and microwave popcorn.  I approach the frozen food aisle.  Now for those of you seasoned veterans reading my desperate blog, you are asking yourself why are you in the frozen food aisle looking for microwave popcorn?  Not surprisingly so is the woman whom I have passed for my third rotation through the stacked freezer compartments.  Sensing I may be hopelessly lost and possible facing a slow starvation death in the final aisle of this grocery store, surrounded by food but not able to reach the checkout aisle, she asks what I am looking for.  She asks me curiously, and even politely, why I think microwave popcorn would be in the frozen foods section?  I state that it is where I find it in our house.  Little known secret here, or at least an urban myth I have fallen prey to, it pops better if kept frozen.  Didn’t know that was my task upon arriving home but not the grocery store’s method of storing.  She then kindly, almost with pity, explained that I would find it in the snack aisle.  “Any chance that is near by” I ask?  Of course not as remember this is an adventure.  It will be found in the first aisle I went through, that’s right, Aisle 1.

Any chance I will run across apple cider on the way?