It had been a particularly rough week and I was feeling down.
Crabby.
Caged.
Claustrophobic.
Guilty.
Useless.

So the obvious answer?
McDonald's.
(*duh*)

Ella and I arrived at the M-mecca, ordered a couple of grilled chicken wraps to share, and sat just outside the room with the play area so she could gaze longingly at all the germy kids inside. (Hey, it's my bad mood, I can do what I want.)

I expected the service that is usual for any establishment these days. You know, strung out, nonchalant teenagers who say "no problem" instead of "you're welcome." This day I was pleasantly surprised.

We ordered no Happy Meal, yet the manager gave us a toy.
Appropriate for Ella's age!
And a Ronald smile mask!

When they saw me struggling with baby, bag, and purse, they offered to bring my meal out.
And then they did it!
And even asked if I needed salt and ketchup.
And fetched it!

And then, as if on cue, an older gentlemen offered to let Ella stick her grubby little finger in his ice cream to take a bite. (To which I politely declined. Please refer to these.)

Where was I? Some alternate universe? Was this what was happening to the world while I was locked away every day?!?

Say it ain't so!

Just as the clouds parted, the birds started to sing, the rainbow appeared and unicorns jumped around cotton candy trees, I watched a mother and her 4-year-old daughter walk up to the self-serve soda station. The little girl put her cup under the water and her mom immediately snatched it away screeching, "We paid for a drink! You're getting orange drink instead of water!"

It was once again clear why I didn't venture out that often.

I smiled down at Ella who was watching the scene intently and happily drinking her water.
From her own water bottle.
That we brought with us.
FOR FREE.

My mood was a little lighter.
At least for that moment.

1. I won't let the majority of the customer service employees (working the front) off for lunch around the noonish hour so that at the busiest time (uh, when everyone else is taking their lunch break and running errands...HELLLOOOO) there is only 1 "teller" working the counter.


2. I will insure that customer packages aren't accidentally mailed back to the sender. Even though the ship to address was highlighted. With SHIP TO in capital letters written above the recipient address. And a box was drawn around the entire shipping address.


3. If someone prints a PREPAID shipping label at 10 p.m. one night and then brings it into the post office for shipping the next morning, I won't tell them "OH sorry. We can't accept this label because it wasn't used on the date it was printed." (UH HELLLOOOOO...does this mean that I have to use all the stamps the day I pay for them?)


4. I won't let the scary woman who smokes 17 packs of cigarettes a day eat Dum Dum suckers while trying to assist customers. (Come to think of it, I won't let her assist customers AT ALL).


5. I won't let the manager (or whatever she is) peek around the corner from her desk when there are LOOOONG LOOONG LINES to announce, 'Anyone here to pick up an accountable piece of mail or drop off?' and when no one answers just go sit down again. I WILL CROSS TRAIN my manager to work one of the THREE EMPTY TERMINALS so that she can, uh, ASSIST when all the other (save one) customer service reps are at lunch.


WILSON WORLD.
There is no substitute.

Our small town high school football team won district champions and headed off to play the division championship game. If they win that? State finals.

There's nothing that pulls a small town community together like high school sports (depending on where you live in the U.S., this may be football, basketball, or both). Yesterday, our historic main streets were lined with parents, family, friends, and shop owners as three busloads of players, cheerleaders, and band members received an official police escort out of town. Black and orange dominated, pom-poms blew in the wind, and players leaned out the windows, pumping their fists in presumptuous victory.

It literally brought tears to my eyes.

These are the best years of many of these kids' lives. For most, this will be the last of their football "careers." For some, the highlight of their lives. Many will grow older, grow larger, grow balder, but still hang on to the memories of their championship high school football year. It will be fodder over many a beer for years to come. The discussion at reunions. Memories at a future child's birthday party. Who blocked whom? Remember that touchdown? And, if they lose, what they would've done differently.

For perhaps a very select, elite few, this may be the stepping stone into their college football careers with hopes of one day playing in the NFL. High hopes for small town mentality. But, hey, it happens.

It's humbling.
It's reflective.
It's sentimental.

Or, it could just be that I'm all screwed up with pregnancy hormones.
You decide.

A few years ago on a whim I gave up a potential Assistant Dean position at a medical college where I was teaching and, in a moment of clarity (or insanity, depending on the day), we moved from a large East coast city to a small tourist-like town on the water in a different state.

To say that it has been interesting would be a major understatement. There are days when Todd and I look at each other with that "WTF have we done?!?" terror in our eyes. (For example, when we say, "What do you want to eat tonight? McDonald's or Big Boy?! OOOH the choices..."). Then there are days that I think "What a fantastic place to be and raise a child." For example, a couple of weeks ago we closed the bookstore for a few days and went out of town. My return was met with a barrage of "We were so worried that something happened to you/the baby" concerns from CUSTOMERS. It was nice. That NEVER would've happened on the East Coast. Hell, I lived across the street from the same neighbor for five years there and didn't even know their names (aside from the one that I gave the wife - NOSY NETTIE - because she used to hide in her garage and spy on us whenever we were doing something in the front yard. I digress...). I could've been maimed and bleeding in my house for months (maybe years until my dogs gnawed my body into an unrecognizable state) before someone would've noticed.

Anyway, one thing that you really don't notice until you move to a small town is the politics. I mean, sure I knew what was going on when we lived back East, but NOTHING like when you live in a small town. Here it's personal, especially when you own a business. You hate the crooked good ole boys running your town, but then have to see them at the grocery store. Or in a restaurant. Or at the local football games.
*yuk*

So there was a BIG election here yesterday - scandalous - the old Mayor and many of the old commissioners needed to GO. I mean, HELLLOOOOO, who the hell re-elects the same commissioner for TWENTY FREAKIN' YEARS?!?! I don't care how bad/good you are in office. After 20 years, your vision is clouded and jaded (and FYI-this person sucked-BUH BYE).

The point of this entire, long-winded posting is not to bring you up to speed on my small town mayoral election. Instead, it is to apprise you of an interesting campaign tactic one of the citizens took in town (and, hey, you never know, you may feel the need to borrow it for your own small town election).

Let me preface by saying this is a pretty run down house on the main strip (intermingled with the businesses). It's an awful eyesore, so it was no surprise one day while driving by I noticed that they had placed not one but TWO toilets on either side of their front porch.

Yeah. Redneck doesn't even begin to cover it.

A few days later, a professionally printed banner appeared across their front porch: "This city is going down the toilet, vote for change!" Not a bad campaign tactic, but I think a picture of a toilet on the banner would've sufficed. Even more interesting is that the house belongs to the local deadbeat mom, crack HO, drunk. Of course, these are all suppositions of mine based on the following:

• In the summer, I watch her daily stumble from bar to bar starting at around 9 a.m.
• She weighs a good 250+ and wears short-shorts, stained Tshirts, and no bra
• She barely has any teeth left
• Her 13-ish son is the town juvey (and I watch the police follow him around in the summer)
• Once, when her son opened my door at the bookstore and shouted to me, "HEY YOU. GET ME SOME CANDY" I said, "Where are you parents?!?" His reply was to point across the street to the local pub.

So, imagine my surprise at her taking a political stand. I mean, HELLLOOO? This women is registered to VOTE? I didn't even know she could read, let alone know where to get a professional banner printed with a witty slogan.

Life in a small town is anything but dull.

(And, I'm afraid to learn what happened to those toilets...or IN those toilets).

Small town papers amaze me. I've been in some states where the papers are really good with qualified journalists. My current area does not seem to possess those qualities. Here are a couple of examples:

• I'm included in a "Women in Business" Section (SEVERAL pages of women in business) where they misspelled each and every banner at the top of the page as "Women Is Business" (not only did it go to print that way, it was sent out that way).
• I send a letter to the editor about something going on in our town. They publish my letter, but first "edit" my letter to the editor and THEN make grammatical mistakes.

Of course that would happen - a published author who appears to have made grammatical mistakes...