Part 2: Desperate Measures

As the wedding approached, I knew something had to be done.  There was no way I was going to walk down the aisle of my sister's wedding looking like I was wearing a bright red bib.

So, I decided that I would spray tan all of my body except the part that was sunburned.  That way, when the burn faded into a beautiful tan- like all of my sunburns had never done- it would match the spray tan.  It was fool proof.

I have spray tanned quite a bit.  In college, I went to those booths that were like car washes for tanning.  You put this goop on your finger and toenails, and then you put on a hairnet and goggles and stepped naked into this giant booth.  You were then blasted, front and back, with tan.

Things have evolved since then, and it's actually just as reasonably priced to get someone to spray tan you with a little gun as it is to go to the booth.  It's definitely a different level of intimacy to have a 22 year old spray your inner thigh while you wear paper panties, but it's a much better end result.

The only problem with my spray tan plan was that I was going to be in way South Texas for work, and was going to have to drive from there to Pippy's wedding.  There was no time to go home to the proven "city" tanning to which I had become accustom.  I was going to have to find a tanner in a small town basically two miles away from Mexico, at the last minute.

Fortunately, Yelp found me two options, and I went with the one that had pictures of body builders and pageant queens on their website, deducing that they were the most reputable.  It was called something like "Coconut Dreams" and was owned by a husband and wife team.  It was clean and they were nice, but I'm sure I was the palest person they'd ever tanned.

"So, what level of tan do you want?" the lady owner asked.
"Well, I usually do a 1 or a 2 at home," I said.  "But, I've got this sunburn, and I'm trying to even everything out so that the sunburn doesn't stand out.  My sister's getting married on Saturday and I want to look normal."
"Hmmm." She looked at the sunburn.  "I think you could do a 2.5 to 3.  It's Thursday, so by Saturday that sunburn's gonna be a nice tan, so we should probably go a little darker."
"Okay, if that's what you think.  Just please don't spray the sunburn please."

Obviously you know what happened next.  2.5 to 3 was waaaaay too dark.  I should have done a .5, and, of course, she sprayed the sunburn.  I don't know why after I explicitly asked her not to, but it happened too fast for me to stop her.  One minute she's doing my shoulders and the next, swoosh, sunburned bib is sprayed.

At first, it was okay.  The tan hadn't fully set in yet, and when I looked in the mirror, I was all one color.  I looked pretty good!  She did know what she was doing after all!  

On my way out the door she reminded me that I shouldn't shower for at least eight hours, I shouldn't wear a bra while I drove back, and above all, I should NOT use Dove soap.  Apparently, that is the worst thing you can do.  I promised I would follow all the rules and drove away.

Then, the bib started to itch.  I had been putting on my fancy sunburn cream and aloe pretty much every thirty minutes for a week, and it was time to reapply.  But I couldn't!  If I touched my still-fresh tan, it would ruin everything.  Maybe, just a liiiiiittle drop...no.

The moment I touched the aloe to the burn, the spray tan began to peel away along with some skin.  I had finally reached the peeling stage, and it was coming in fierce.  I was molting.  As the tan/skin peeled away, it revealed baby pink skin that din't match my level 2.5 tanned rest of skin- at all.

Five hours later, when I showed up at Pippy's house, I was a wreck. I had been picking and "smoothing" (trying to pull the tan from the non-sunburned parts of me to the bib) the entire trip.  Plus, the rest of the tan had set in, and as mentioned, was way too dark.

Pippy was horrified.  I was obviously about to ruin her wedding.  However, being the sweet caring person she is, she was trying to put on a brave face.

"Okay, it's okay," she said.  "Maybe you should just take a shower."
"No!  I can't!  The lady at the tanning place said not to take a shower for at least eight hours."
"You need to take a shower," said Pippy.
"Okay."

I got in.

"You only have Dove soap!" I wailed.  "The lady said not to use Dove soap!"
"You need to use the Dove soap," said Pippy.  "Use a lot of it."

This should tell you something about how wonderful my sister is and how terrible I am.  I stood in her shower two days before her wedding, and allowed her to hose me down with the shower head, while I cried and apologized.  She just kept saying, "It's okay.  Just use more soap."

Two showers later, I was a little less tan, but the bib was in full peel.  

"Let's just keep putting that cream on it," Pippy said, "and maybe by Saturday, it will at least stop peeling."  

Did I mention that Pippy is my little sister?  That's how fabulous she is, just taking care of me as I slowly morphed into less of a tan mutant.  

There was nothing left to do but buy a higher necked dress for the rehersal dinner and pray.

The day of the wedding, it actually was looking okay.  It was far less peely, and the tan was faded quite a bit.  About 20 minutes before we walked down the aisle, I decided to put some make up on it, just to see.  And Pippy, being Pippy, even applied it for me.  

"Wow," she said.

I turned to the mirror and...Oh my God!

I was one color.  It was a wedding miracle.  We used Cover Girl, and I'm telling you what, it was magic.  It was absolutely flawless.

Hooray!  We did it!  Pippy got married, I matroned of honored and no one thought I was a radiation victim.  It wasn't until much later in the night, when there had been much drinking and dancing that the Cover Girl began to wear off.  And by then, we had made it through the pictures.  

So, that's how I almost ruined my sister's wedding with a sunburn and a spray tan, and how she pulled me through it.  And, how I gained a new, very deep respect, for Cover Girl products.

Part I: Desperate Times

My skin is the color of nothing.  I'm so pale, I'm pretty much transparent.  I'm always surprised when nurses taking blood have a hard time finding a vein.  They're right there.  Right.  There.  I see them always.

Being a pale princess means that the sun and I have a contemptuous relationship.  Basically, I really like the sun, and the sun hates me.

My sister, Pippy (again, not her real name, but bizarrely the name she has chosen for herself for blogging purposes), can think about the sun and become gorgeously tan.  So for years, I thought I was just doing it wrong.  I just hadn't found the right ratio of sunscreen : sun exposure.

I tried SPF 15, 8, 2.  I tried laying out for short periods throughout the day, long stretches, tanning beds.  It didn't matter, the result was always the same.  Translucent skin became bubbling, raw red skin that turned into a peel and then, unfairly, right back to snow white.

The worst of these experiments was in college on spring break in Mexico.  I hadn't prepared my "tan" for the trip, and showed up as snowy as ever.  So, I came up with the genius idea of just not wearing sunscreen for an entire day to build up a "base."  

The result was that my entire body, minus where my bathing suit sat, was the color of a fire engine- seriously that was the color.  Imagine a fire engine and that's what I looked like.  When I took off my bathing suit, I looked like a negative photo of someone wearing a bikini.  I was hit on by sooo many cute boys.  Oh wait no, I sat in the room and rubbed aloe on myself and cried.

Now that I'm older, I've learned my lesson.  I've accepted my pale, pale skin.  I am Sun Challenged, and must never leave home without a layer of protection (at least SPF 30, but 50 if the beach is involved).  And I'm pretty diligent.  That's why I was so pissed when I got one of the worst sunburns of my life..in March...when I was fully clothed...the week before Pippy's wedding

Brad and I went to an outdoor concert with some friends.  It was fabulous, we saw a lot of minor celebrities and some rad bands.  We ate free food, drank ourselves silly and had a blast.  It was even better because it was like 70 degrees and cloudy all day, so we weren't hot.  And this was the rookie mistake that I should have known to avoid.  Everyone knows, but especially the Sun Challenged know, that you can get just as sunburned when it's cloudy as when the sun is out.  Stupidly, I didn't even think about sunscreen.  I just drank beer and sang.

Also important to note, I was wearing shorts and a white, scoop neck t-shirt.  Well, the patch of my chest that was not fully covered, the scoop part if you will, was eaten alive.  

I knew it was going to be a really bad sunburn when we got in the car.  I put my seatbelt on, shrieked in pain and threw it off.

It was bad.  It was so sunburned it was purple.  When I went to work on Monday, people made little surprised yelps and then backed away laughing nervously.  I didn't know what I was going to do.  Pippy's wedding was the following Saturday and I was the matron of honor.  I looked like a burn victim, which I kind of was.

I bought special, very expensive, cream that I kept in the refrigerator and rubbed on my charred chest all day.  I prayed.  Nothing helped.

As the week went on, not only did it not get better (and kept hurting), but it wasn't peeling.  That meant I wasn't even half way to better and I would surely be a hideous gargoyle for the wedding.  And really, how I looked at Pippy's wedding was what everyone cared about.

I was getting desperate.



Next week:  Part II, Desperate Measures


  

This blog just might save your life

Last week I started a new job, and I now work from home.  Hooray!  I'm super excited and it's a great gig; however, it has opened up a new world of neurotic fears.

There are the usual "Will I like this job?" "Will my boss like me?" "Will I be good at this?" type of fears.  Then there is the less usual kind.

The main fear, and this just dawned on me a few days ago and I can't believe I've never been more afraid of this, is choking.

As I said, I've never been afraid of choking, and I have never choked, but now that I'm home alone all day, it has become a very real concern.  

My mom tells a story about how she was by herself at her office (probably in the 80's, who knows, a long time ago).  She "popped" an aspirin in her mouth without water, and she started choking.  She was the only one there, obviously, so she "threw herself on to the back of a chair" and the aspirin came out.  She self-Heimliched.

I don't know why, but she's told this story kind of a lot over the years, and it always terrifies me.  It's scary to think that my mom was almost killed by aspirin, but what's the most scary is, that until very recently, I didn't think I could do it.  Actually, I still don't know that I could "throw myself" on a chair.  I think I would probably be so freaked out I'd just run around, waving my arms and bumping into walls until I passed out.  It would be a terrible way to die, and I don't want to risk it.

My first solution to not choking was to only eat soft food and chew it very well, if Brad wasn't home.  This worked for like an hour until I really wanted an orange.  My second solution was that I would just run next door to our neighbor (who is a stay-at-home mom) and have her Heimlich me.  

This could potentially work but a). she is a tiny little thing and who knows if she could even do it b). I look terrible now that I work from home, so do I really want her to see me choking and without a bra? c). what if she's not home?  Then I've wasted precious energy running over there.  The clock is ticking!!

So, this week, I decided I would have to get over my fear of self-Heimliching.  I found some things in my house that I could "throw myself" against that don't have sharp edges.  The best spot is a counter we have that is about stomach height and has rounded edges.  This would be my Heimlich counter.  I even practiced in slow motion (no throwing of myself because you should never really Heimlich yourself or anyone else unless they are really choking, according to the interwebs).

I also looked up several YouTube videos.  If you search "What to do if you're choking and you're alone" you do get some good stuff.  One of my favorite things about the videos is that a lot of them say, at least in the comments, something like "watching this video could just save your life," and I believe them.

There is even an alternative move you can do which involves getting in the push-up position and throwing your hands up so that you basically fall on your stomach.  It was taught by an ex-boxer turned paramedic, so I think it's legit.  His right hand was fused from boxing so when he did his push-up he made a fist.  He told us this.  The fist is optional he said.  

There is a comment saying that a person tried this and it worked, but he broke his jaw and lost some teeth.  So, I don't know that this will be my go-to method, but it's good to have options.

This lead to a rabbit hole of YouTube video watching in which I refreshed on how to Heimlich other adults, children, babies and even dogs (also led to a new fear of "Oh my God, what if my dog chokes?").  For fun, I also watched some CPR videos, even though I know how to do that.  It's good to keep current. 

I do feel better and more prepared after my research.  I still don't ever want to find out if I'll have the courage to throw myself against something, so I will continue to chew slowly and not pop things into my mouth.  At least now, though, I have options and a pre-prepared counter, even though the lady in the YouTube video highly recommends a chair.  I stand by my counter decision.  

YouTube Links (they just might save your life!):

1. How to Heimlich yourself:  http://youtu.be/FEr9jjZ6fi8

2.  Alternative push-up way (fist optional):  http://youtu.be/Iz8M0UTkvSU 

3.  How to Heimlich someone else (especially if they choke on a grape): http://youtu.be/tEIiEAn7b-U 

4. How to save your choking dog (because apparently they can choke on everything, including springs):  http://youtu.be/eO3X-hoqfB0

Micies

Brad loves animals.  I mean, I really like animals too, but on a selective basis.  For example, I do not like (in order of dislike) snakes, frogs, *nutria, and mice/rats.

Brad has no order of dislike of animals.  He once pulled over to save a raccoon that was hit by a car.  He wrapped it in a sweater and took it to a vet who charged him $400 to put the raccoon down humanly.

Anyway, not long ago, we were outside and our puppies (aka actual grown dogs known collectively as "The Puppies") were circling our grill and just generally going crazy.  When we lifted the lid we found...a rat's nest.  With baby rats.

Ugh, gross, I'm shivering just writing this.  Then, the mamma mouse bolted out of the bottom of the grill and ran away.  Ugh, ugh, gross, barf!

I ran inside and slammed the door.  

"Take care of it!"  I yelled from the safety of the house.
"What do you want me to do?" yelled Brad.
"TAKE CARE OF IT!  GET RID OF THEM!"
"How?"

I couldn't believe this conversation.  I grew up in a family where Dad just "took care of" things like this.  There's a skunk under the playhouse?  Dad will take care of it.  There's a garden snake outside your bedroom window?  Dad will take care of it.  

It was now Brad's duty, as a man, to take care of these mice without my explicit knowledge of what he was doing or how he was going to do it.  Why didn't he get this?

"Come out here," he insisted.
"What do you want me to do?" I whined/cried, hopping about.
"I don't know.  What do you want me to do?"

What to do with the "baby miceies" (as Brad named them), indeed.  I thought the obvious answer was to kill them.  Brad disagreed.

"You are not in the position to decide if they should live or die," declared Brad self righteously.
"Yes, yes I am," I said.  "They are in my grill, so I am basically the god of them."  

"Fine," said Brad.  "You want them dead, then you kill them.  Do it.  Kill those little baby miceies who haven't even opened their little mice eyes yet."
"No!  That's not how this works," I said.  "I want them dead, but I'm not the one who's supposed to do it.  YOU kill them!"

A fight ensued.

It was finally determined that they should be released, humanly, into the wild.  So they could come back to our house and ruin our walls and insulation.

BUT before they could be released, they had to be nurtured into adolescence because they couldn't even walk yet.  They would surely be killed!

Thus began a week long process of feeding the miceies nuts and left over pieces of chicken on a daily basis.  Brad had to go out of town for two days and I had to promise, promise that I would 1. not kill the miceies 2. keep up the strict feeding regimen Brad had determined for them 3. make sure their little plastic dish of water was full.  FML.

Once the miceies started crawling around, it was obvious (to me) that their release was imminent. 

"They're going to crawl out of the grill and then we're going to have mice in our house." I argued.
"Well if you would let me get a cage for them..."
"NO!" 

And so, with a heavy heart and a thickly gloved hand, Brad scooped the miceies into a "Mouse House" (cardboard box filled with leaves, nuts and a small hole so they could get out and explore when they were ready), and we marched into the woods to release them.  Far, far away from our house.

We placed their House under some branches of a low hanging tree so that birds and coyotes wouldn't see it, and then we waved goodbye to Fievel, Mickey, Minnie and Templeton.

We talk of them sometimes, and wonder how they're doing.  For a while they were probably really happy to be in their own house.  They had lots of parties.  

But then, Fievel got into grad school, and Templeton was really into WOW and had no direction, and Minnie was all "Mickey, you need to commit to me," and Mickey was like "What else do you want?  We live together?" and then Minnie was all "You know what, Mickey, if you don't want to put a ring on it, I can damn sure find a mouse who does."

Things just fell apart.  It wasn't their fault, it's life.  The life of Miceies.

Templeton.  Pre WOW addiction.
Note the water dish.

*If you don't know what nutria are, you are very lucky.  They are the worst.  The.  Worst.  

From Wikipedia: "The coypu, also known as the river rat, and nutria, is a large, herbivorous, semiaquatic rodent and the only member of the family Myocastoridae."  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coypu 

From me: Nutria. Are. The.  Worst.  Just click on that link to see these disgusting little things.  They are like rats the size of cats.  They are not cute like beavers and they serve no purpose.  Apparently people like them for their fur.  Good.  Take them all.  Make 100,000 nutria coats.  No one would care.  Especially not me.  

**I'm sorry PETA.  Please don't protest my blog.  I don't really want 100,000 nutria coats.  No one would buy them anyway.  Because nutria are the worst.

The Infusion Day Spa

My body is apparently allergic to many kinds of antibiotics.  So this week, when I was told that I needed to be on antibiotics, the normal kind were out of the question.  You know, the kind in pill form.  Not for me!  The only antibiotic that I could take- in the world of medicine- had to be pumped into my body via IV.  I didn't even know this was an option, but it is.  

I was not trilled to learn that I would be stuck with a needle every day for seven days.  I faint every time I give blood.  I have to give myself a little mental pep talk every time I get a shot, and I still end up farting from anxiety.  This was not welcome news.

However, I decided this was a good opportunity to overcome my needle fear, so onward I marched- to the Infusion Center!

That's right, to get an IV when you are not in a hospital, you have to go to an Infusion Center.  That is really what it's called.  Only, instead of infusing vodka with pineapple or something equally delicious, you're infusing your body with drugs.

I had no idea what to expect, but the Infusion Center was really nice.  There were all sorts of comfy leather recliners filled with older Americans getting infused with life saving elixir.  I was comforted by this.  If they were able to keep these older people alive, I stood a chance.

So here's how it works.  Once you pick a chair, your nurse will begin the process of inserting the IV.  It turns out, this actually isn't too bad, unless you get Bad Nurse Kim who can never find your vein and then has to wiggle the stupid needle around.  If you get Good Nurse Larry, it's relatively painless.  

You have the option of keeping the IV in for three days.  If you do this, you must sign a waiver that you will not use the port to insert illegal substances into your veins.  I mean really, if you can't use your IV for a little meth, then what's the point?  I did try this on the first day (leaving the IV in, not using it for meth), but it was a huge pain in the ass and I had to cover it up with foil when I took a shower.  Thus, I chose to be re-stuck every day, which I think says a lot about me and how brave I am.

Once you're stuck, basically, you are a queen for 35 minutes.  They have snack options of peanut butter crackers, Sun Chips (all flavors), and those little biscotti cookies.  You can also choose from all Keurig beverages, sodas and Gatorade.   

My snack was usually cheddar Sun Chips with red Gatorade because those are the best flavors of both products.  They'll also bring you a blanket, a heating pad for your arm (because the IV juice is cold) and a remote so you can watch TV.  And, because I was the youngest and most lucid- always- I was automatically all the nurses' favorite.  Sweet!   

So, things were going well.  I was on day three of seven, and had gotten into quite the routine.  I had Good Nurse Larry, had already placed my Sun Chip/Gatorade order and was settling in for a little nap.  Larry hit the button on the machine and I heard the machine start pumping.  Then, I looked down right before the juice went into my arm and saw...an AIR bubble!

Look, I don't know a lot about medicine or IVs or veins, but I do know that in some horror movies to kill someone the killer pumps air into their victim's veins through an IV.  Air is not something that should be in your veins, I know that much.

I didn't want to freak out though, it was probably fine.  But what if it wasn't?  Should I Google this?  If I did, what would I Google?  "How long does it take you to die if there is air in your IV?"  "How much air in your veins will kill you?"  Did I really want to know the answer?

The longer I sat there, the more anxious I became.  Just because I wasn't dead yet, didn't mean anything.  What if it took 24 hours?  I would be freaked for a whole day.  It would be like watching "The Ring" and not being safe for seven days.

Finally, it was too much.  I raised my IVed arm.

"Um, Larry?" 
"Heeey, there.  What's up?" said Larry in his soothing nurse voice.
"Um, this is probably weird, but I saw a little air bubble go into my vein when you started the IV.  Is that going to kill me?"

And this is how nice the nurses at the Infusion Center are- he didn't even laugh. 

"Oh, well, that's a good question.  Was it just a little bubble?"
"Yes."
"Okay, well I can see how that would be alarming, but no, that won't hurt you.  If that whole thing were full of air and we were pumping just air into you, that wouldn't be good."
"Oh, okay.  Thanks Larry."
"You are so welcome.  Ask anything else that you're concerned about."
"Um, can I have some more Gatorade?"
"Of course!"

So that is how the kind nurses of the Infusion Center not only didn't try to murder me, but also kept me hydrated and were not at all condescending when I asked dumb questions.  

I'm not saying I'm sad that tomorrow is my last day, but I will miss being treated like a frail, elderly celebrity for 35 minutes every day.  It turns out all I need to be extremely happy is a blanket, a remote and someone nice to bring me Gatorade.  It doesn't get much better.

How to take a shower with your meth IV port.  Or how to fight crime as a robot.

Rules by Which to Live

Rules and guilt have been an integral part of my life since I was old enough to understand either concept.  It wasn't that my parents were particularly strict, but somehow I have this God given need to do the right thing all the time, and feel very, very guilty if I even slightly do the wrong thing.  Usually the guilt is followed by hours of massive anxiety until I'm forced to confess to whatever atrocity I committed.

The longest I ever lied about something was when I was five.  After learning to do a backflip in the pool, I decided that I could definitely do a back flip off my dresser, because I had a waterbed...which was like a pool.  I missed the waterbed and broke my arm in two places.  

I kept up the lie that I was "jumping on the bed" for six months until I broke.  Through my tears I begged my mom "Punish me!  PUNISH ME!"  She said that I punished myself enough and I was off the hook. 

You would think that would have taught me to just be really, really sorry when I did something wrong, but instead I just became even more vigilant about not lying and following the rules.  

I was a tattle tale.  I was the one who told on the slumber party when we were watching "It" instead of "The Little Mermaid."  I was the one who stayed behind when everyone went out toilet papering the football players' lawns.  This is also why I'm very good with grammar.  

I've mellowed over the years and have been able to relax a little.  I had a fake ID in college and I do speed occasionally.  So there you go.

As an adult, I have learned to channel my need for rules and turn them from a freakishly annoying habit that alienated me from my peers to a very positive coping mechanism.  So, in an effort to make the world a better place, here's how to improve your life with Rules.

There are two types of rules, but basically, all you have to do is make up a Rule any time you don't want to do something or you are really stressed out.  

If you don't want to do something you just say "Well, it's a Rule that I have to pick up this smelly dog poo or the park ranger will arrest me."  or  "It's a Rule that I have to fold these clothes or I'll be a homeless bum with wrinkled shirts."  Then you do it, because it's a Rule.

It's very simple.

The other Rule is the stressed out Rule, and this comes in handy a lot.  For this one, you just have to say "Okay, it's a rule that if I walk around the block one time, when I come back in the house I can't think about this terrible thing at work that's giving me anxiety diarrhea."  

Or, "It's a rule that you can't eat ice cream if you're really stressed out about the fight you just had with your husband."  Nine times out of 10 it works, until about 15 minutes later when I have to come up with a new Rule. 

So, that's how you get through life.  Bouncing around from Rule to Rule.  It's very effective and not at all crazy.  You should try it!

In fact, I'll help!  This can be your first Rule, dear reader:  if you want to keep reading, it's a Rule that you have to follow the blog (check out the new gadget thing over to your right.  It lets you put in your email address.  You can get notices when I post!).  

Okay, not really a rule.  But do it or I'll totally tell your mom that you prank called Dave Wrusso from third period at Cassie Bridges' slumber party last week!

No Longer Grateful

If you didn't know, every year Willie Nelson throws a big party for the Fourth of July (FOJ), called "Willie Nelson's Fourth of July Picnic."  It's pretty fantastic.  Willie invites all kinds of bands to a big field outside of Austin and basically it's a giant concert that goes all day until midnight.

When I was in college, my friend Cherry and I decided to check it out (Note: Cherry is not her real name, but the name she chose for herself for me to use for blogging purposes.  She would also like her fake last name to be Ginger.  I don't know what this says about her.) 

So me and Cherry Ginger buy our tickets and head over to the picnic.  We were excited to see Willie, of course, but we were mostly excited to see our most favorite, semi-famous, local country hero, Pat Green.  If you don't know who Pat Green is, do yourself a favor and look him up.  

Cherry and I loved, loved, loved Pat Green.  Pat was just famous enough to be cool, but not famous enough yet that he still had to play frat parties.  So we felt like he was our own personal country music celebrity.  We just knew that if we got close enough to the stage he would recognize us (why?) and probably pull us up on stage (again, why?).

We arrived as the gates opened at 10 AM, per our tickets.  Since this was one of our first big music festivals we didn't yet know that the crap bands come on early and that Pat, let alone Willie, would not take the stage until late into the night.  We really thought that we'd walk in and Pat would be there waiting for us.

He wasn't.  In fact, not many people were there yet.  The vendors were still setting up, I think they were still unloading the Port-o-Potties.  Never mind, we were undeterred.  This just meant we'd get primo seats!  We were going to have fun!

So we pulled out our beach towels and made camp next to a hippie looking couple with a baby.  The hippies were not sitting on beach towels.  They were not actually sitting on anything.  We observed that they had brought their baby to an outdoor festival and were sitting with him in the dirt.  We immediately began judging them.

We noticed that they also didn't have a diaper bag, or sunscreen or water for the baby whose name we heard was....wait for it...ELVIS!  Apparently naming him was the only thing they got right.

"Poor Baby Elvis," we kept saying under our breath.  As two very good nannies, we knew that babies needed things.  Lots of things.  Like diapers and food.  And, maybe a ball or something to play with during an all day music festival.  They did mash bright orange earplugs in his head at one point, so I guess that was good of them.  Other than that, Baby Elvis just crawled around in the dirt.

Then it started to rain. 

It was okay though!  We had smartly brought ponchos!  We put them on and then sadly watched as Poor Baby Elvis' horrible parents put him in a trash bag with his head pocking out the top.  The three of them were now sitting in mud.  I would like to say we offered them our towels, but those were muddy too, so we just all sat in the mud and waited.

When the rain stopped, slowly people started to arrive, and the sun came out.  See!  We were going to have fun!  Everything was okay!

All the people arriving were pretty hippy looking, and with them, were some of PBE's parents' friends who brought a big blanket.  Now, thank God, PBE didn't have to crawl in the mud.  Things were looking up for all of us.

Then a band took the stage, and they were pretty hippy looking too.  Turns out, The Dead was the opening band.  Yes, as in The Grateful Dead.  Only without Jerry, they're just The Dead, no longer grateful.  

Cherry was excited.  Her dad had gone to Woodstock and she had grown up listening to the The Grateful Dead.  I was less familiar with their music, and I really just wanted to see Pat Green, but hey, we were having fun!  I was keeping an open mind!

If you like The Dead, grateful or otherwise, I'm really sorry, but they're terrible.  It turns out I do not like The Dead.  In fact, I hate them.  I am not grateful at all.  The first song was fine, but it lasted an hour.  It was just one long song with psychedelic pictures projected on a screen behind the band.  The second song lasted another hour.  

I was becoming less open minded, but Cherry was just laying on our towels, grooving right along with the hippies.  Just as I was about to lose it, they stopped playing their forever song and left the stage.   I was relieved, but acted like I had kind of enjoyed the whole thing.  A new experience!

But then...they came back.  Turns out, the next band didn't show up due to the weather, but not to worry, The Dead was happy to keep on playing!  They played, and played and played.  The hippies twirled, and I got more and more pissed off.  

This was not why I was here.  I was here to see Pat Green and Willie Nelson, not listen to The Dead for hours in the mud.  At one point I was so angry I got up to find someone in charge.  I don't know who I thought that would be or what they would do, but I wanted some answers, damn it!  

The closest approximation of an authority figure I could find was a bored security guard who said he didn't even know who Pat Green was, and no he didn't know what time he would play.  I think I cried a little.

When I got back to our blankets, Cherry was veeeerrrrry relaxed.  She had made friends with some of the hippies while I was gone.  For some reason this made me even more angry.  Maybe because she was having fun and I was not having fun, I don't know.  Angrily, I took a nap.

When I woke up, The Dead had stopped playing and the sun was out again.  Cherry brought me some ice cream.  Baby Elvis' parents gave him some ice cream too.  

Finally, it started to get dark, and around 8:00 Pat took the stage.  We were so thrilled!  None of the hippies knew a single song, and we were the only ones standing up in our little group of people, but we didn't care.  It was our turn to twirl!  

When Willie joined Pat, the whole crowd went bananas.  Even the hippies were singing "On the Road Again."  We were all sunburned and muddy, we had survived four hours of The Dead- literally they played for four hours- and we were all going to sing our little hearts out.

And really, isn't that the miracle of Willie Nelson?  He can unite the hippies and the cowboys.  We all love him, and we all have a piece of him in our hearts.  As the show ended to fireworks celebrating a glorious Fourth of July, we were one- Poor Baby Elvis, the hippies, The Dead, Pat, Willie, Cherry and me.  It was lovely, and for that, I was truly grateful.