Life lessons

Last Thursday after we got back from her post-cataract surgery exam, my grandma cut a bunch of lilacs from her bushes and gave them to me. Then she shoved a ten dollar bill in my bra. I fished it out and double checked that it was only a ten though, because the day I drove her to her cataract surgery, she had slipped me a hundred. And since there's no arguing with my grandma (because even though I left that hundred at her house, I STILL wound up with it), I accepted the ten and lilacs and kissed her papery soft cheek in thanks.

She apologized that she had nothing cooked or baked, and instead she whipped out fresh strawberries, grapes, pineapple, bananas, crackers and peanut butter to snack on. I let her fuss and fix me a Diet Coke. I sat with her for a while and chatted while she buzzed and offered and never sat still. Even with a blurry bum eye, she insisted I eat something, drink something, have anything I wanted.

And when it was time for me to go, her face visibly fell in disappointment. She asked if I had to leave, and as much as I wanted to stay, I had three babies at home who needed dinner and anatomy homework that needed finished. She profusely thanked me for just driving her to her appointment, and I told her I'd see her soon.

I don't see my grandma as much as I should. And I can brush it off and say I'm busy, and I am, but that's really no excuse. Grandma turned 76 in March. She just had cataract surgery on her left eye, and they want to do her right eye this summer. She battles high blood pressure and high cholesterol. She's getting spacier and more forgetful. She's relatively healthy, but still. 76.

***

The husband's mom passed away last month. We got the call in February that she had liver cancer. Over the next month, she went from sounding completely like herself to being admitted to the hospital to being not awake to not being alive. In one month. She was 58.

The husband and I got to see her before she died. He drove down on a Monday, and after the husband's sometimes hourly reports, I flew down to be with him that Friday. She died on Saturday. She was pretty doped up and was on a ventilator, but she reacted to voices and touch. I held her hand, which is an exact replica of the husband's even down to the fingernails, and whispered into her ear. I told her that she was a good mother-in-law. I told her she was an excellent mom who had raised three awesome kids, but that she shouldn't worry because I'd take care of her son and grandbabies. It was hands-down the hardest thing I've ever done.

My mother-in-law and I weren't the bestest of friends. We didn't fight or argue or not get along, I just held onto some rather large grudges that prevented me from opening up to her and really talking to her and being a friend. But let me offer a word of advice, don't do this. Don't be an ass over things that have happened years ago. Let shit go. Really. It does no one any good.

I realized as she lay in her hospital bed in the ICU that I'd never gotten to ask her when she everything I wanted to know about the husband. Things only moms know. Like when did she potty train him? Was it an arduous process? Did she cut the crusts off his sandwiches? We had talked a little about when the husband and his siblings were little, but I know we didn't cover everything. And now I'll never get to ask.

We're still dealing with her passing. We're still reeling from the fact that it all happened so fast. And while I'm not the-glass-is-half-full kinda girl, I'm trying to find the silver lining in all of it. If anything, she's taught us not to take people for granted. Don't assume the people you care about will be around forever. Patch up past arguments now. Visit them, tell them that you love them and appreciate them. Pick up the phone and ask your grandma how her lilacs are blooming. You'll make her whole damn day, and maybe you can ensure that when she dies, your heart will break from the loss and sadness instead of being consumed whole by regret and guilt.

Like a gangrenous arm

Last Thursday I walked into work to start an eight hour shift and then promptly turned away and left after being told my store manager had to let go of two part-time employees. Since there aren't very many part-timers left, I was one of the lucky ones.

At first I didn't feel very fucking lucky. I was pissed. I have worked for Starbucks (Yeah, I said it. What? Are they going to dooce me?) for nearly three years. I've made some of the best friends any girl could want. I enjoyed recognizing regulars and their drinks and handing them out before the customers could even finish their order. It supplied a (small) income and health insurance for the family. There have been recent talks of transferring to another store, and when that didn't turn out, there was some major overhaul of my hours of availability so that I could even keep my job. So then, all surprise and sneaky-like (Because Starbucks is sneaky and shady, fyi. "'Just say yes!' to the customers. But those employees? Fuck 'em.") I was let go. The rug was completely pulled out from under my toes.

I let myself freak out for a good thirty minutes.

And then I got the fuck over it.

I hated that place. Or, I guess I should say, for the past six months or so, I've hated that place. The store manager is a controlling, lying lazy-ass. His one or two toadies are quicker to fill him in on gossip than a couple of fourteen-year-old girls. And then he liked to take that gossip, whether true or not, and base reviews and his whole idea of who a person is on it.

So that's that. May Howard and my manager and toadies all live happily ever after. Onward!

Because I plan to. After my short freakout, I went home, applied for unemployment, and then got to work applying for new jobs. I already have an interview scheduled at a local hospital next Friday.

What's more is that I feel...relieved. I don't have to dread going into work. And with unemployment coming steadily, I can be assured we won't lose a car or our house. The whole mood of the household has changed. It really has been like lopping of a gangrenous body part. That job threatened to take me down, to drown me in gallons of pus and other really gross bodily fluids.

Ew.

But really, I feel absolutely 100% healthier.

A word of warning

Do not walk up to people and say, "Smile, sweetheart!"

1. I am not your sweetheart.

2. I do not WANT to smile, asshole. For a plethora of reasons. Mostly because I'm at work, but there are plenty of others you aren't privy to. Suffice it to say, I'm not always extremely happy. Glasses are half-full and chipper people who think otherwise annoy me. I will be cordial, even pleasant, with you, but forgive me if I don't have a shit-eating grin on my face.

3. You are so getting decaf.

I should probably check email more often

Because then I would know when I'm nominated for stuff. I mean, I kept checking out my Sitemeter and wondering why in the world my blog was listed on here Parents Connect. I poked around a little and never did figure it out. So imagine my surprise when I checked my email today and found out I'd been nominated for best local blog. Jeez. Had I known that I would be entertaining extra readers I would've swept the cobwebs out of the corners and picked up all the junk off the floor and shoved it into closets. What? Isn't that what you do when company shows up?

Now that I'm alert,  aware, and MAYBE A BIT NERVOUS, I'd thought I'd throw out this button so you could vote for me. You know, if you wanted. Daily. Until mid-July. Not that I'll be checking votes continuously or anything.

For Local Blog
in Indianapolis
Did I mention that since I'm a fool who can't keep up with email that I'm WAAAAAY behind in votes?

And to the person that nominated me: Thanks. Seriously.

Because being demoted at my job is even extra, super-duper lame

I'm currently typing with a toddler draped over my chest. Something happens after nap that makes Boobers needyneedy, and I'm not allowed to put him down lest he emits ear-piercing shrieks. And just as I was about to get firm, to tell him I HAVE TO TYPE WITH TWO APPENDAGES, he wrapped his baby arm around mine and put his head down on my shoulder. Then I melted and decided I'd peck with my nose if I have to.

As of the week after next, I won't be a supervisor at work any more and I will drop down to barista. It means a pay cut, but I think it will more than make up for missing sanity. The whole company is going to pot (heh. I said pot), and to cut costs and save money and in general fuck with the employees, you have to be available NINETY hours a week to be a supervisor. Not that you have to work that much, just basically be available, ohhh, twelve hours a day. I can't physically do that. I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be prudent to pay for daycare for two to three kids while I make my $9 an hour.

And then today I filled out applications online to a couple of hospitals I'd really like to work at when I graduate. I've heard it's good to have a foot in the door. I don't know if they'll call back, because I resisted the urge to type somewhere, "WILL MOP FLOORS IF I HAVE TO." Because really, at this point, I'd scrub toilets with toothbrushes if it got me out of the hellhole I'm at now.

I've come to the conclusion that this job is really, really bumming me out. I probably let it affect me more than I should, but I can't help it. Well, I guess that isn't true. I can help it by leaving. Which I hope more than anything happens soon. I have my toothbrushes and Comet ready.

Never once mentioned in that What to Expect book

I'm totally going to be a nurse. A registered nurse. Hopefully a registered nurse on a labor and delivery floor. There will be blood and amniotic fluid and barf and poo. I'm okay with all of that, believe it or not. I mean, I'll have gloves, and I can totally handle it.

Here's where I admit my Achilles heel: snot. I have major, major issues with snot. Literal gagging with watery eyes issues. I just hope and pray that a) there's not a lot of snot on a L&D unit (And please, don't comment to tell me you deal with snot on a daily basis. I don't wanna know right now) or b) I get used to it. Fingers crossed, eh?

The other day I had all the kids in the car on our way to my mom's house. We were peacefully driving, humming along to the radio when I hear Big D say, "Smella! What is THAT?"

I glanced in my rear-view mirror at Smella. There were...smeary, viscous marks on her window. I reflexively gagged.

"Smella, what did you do?" I asked. "Did you just wipe your nose on the WINDOW?"

She nodded and then I died.

"You can't ever, ever, EVER do that!" I shrieked. And at this point, Big D is chiming in with me. Perhaps snot phobia is hereditary?

"But mom," she says sensibly, "I didn't have a Kleenex."

I may have shrieked at her a little more about grossness and responsibility and asking for a motherfucking piece of paper or grocery bag or something before doing that again. I think she got it. I hope she got it. Or I'll have to seriously consider leaving her on the side of the road the next time that happens.

Big D will help me.

A day late

I meant to post this yesterday, but you know, whatever. I barely remembered it was April Fool's Day. Hell, I'm lucky I remember my name most days.

There were no big jokes yesterday, so I'll have to retell one from several years ago. I was pregnant with Smella and a stay-at-home-mom. The husband and I thought it would be heeeelarious to call and prank my mom. Because, you know, I didn't torture her enough by being an evil 14-year-old back in the day.

So I called her, went through some pleasantries and then informed her that the husband had lost his job. Yeah. She was upset of course, that meant no income or insurance for us. You just know she was wondering where the hell she'd put a family of soon-to-be-four in her house.

I didn't let it go on too long before I let her in on it. "April Fool's! Ha ha ha...ha..ha?" She sputtered a second and then HUNG UP ON ME.

I stared at the husband, open mouthed. I was hurt. It was just a joke! I didn't know whether to call back or write her out of my life forever.

I decided to man up and call her back. If anything I was going to holler at her for hanging up on me when obviously it was a really, really, really funny joke, dammit.

I dialed, and when she answered, she was laughing uncontrollably.

"What?" she said. "You thought I was serious? April Fool's ME, bitch!"

(Yes, my mother and I name call each other. Our relationship's a tad different, I'll admit that.)

And so ended my career of April Fool's pranks. I was so traumatized for those two minutes that I've completely learned my lesson.

Don't fuck with my mom.

This dog

f
Oh my god. He'll be the death of us, I'm sure. (Or at least our financial ruin.) I know, I know...you look at this face and think, "How could that precious wittle puppy wuppy get on anyone's nerves?" Cha. Right off the bat, that spot on his nose is from him neurotically trying to get out of his crate. He's crated maybe once or twice a week. Seriously. (The ear bows are just for pretty. And my, isn't he pretty?)

Yesterday he got a hold of a nearly empty Desitin tube. He chewed on in just a little before I got it away from him, but I honestly didn't think too much of it. But later, when I gave him dinner and he proceeded to blow chunks all of the kitchen floor, my heart almost stopped. I told the husband what had happened and pondered if it was all related.

I wound up calling an emergency vet since it was after hours. I explained what had happened and they told me to keep an eye on him but to bring him in if there was any more vomiting. I had a tiny breakdown and went to work, texting the husband often to make sure he was still okay. He seemed just fine, and he seems okay this morning. He finished breakfast without incident and he's running around like crazy again, stealing the babies' stuffed animals and waiting for Boobers to drop his sippy cup so he can lick the few dribbles off the end.

This is all important because it was last night that I realized that I really, really, really like this dog. He is such a pain in the ass, but man, I'm attached. The thought of him not feeling well or something worse happening just about breaks my heart. He's a good boy, and chewed tubes of butt cream or not, I love him.

He's still humping the kids though.

Random Tuesday thoughts

It's Tuesday! I purposely wait for Tuesdays just to spew randomness everywhere. You can thank Keely for that.

I took Oscar to the vet today to be neutered. I'm really hoping this helps his humping problem. It's awkward to watch your friend's three-year-old and have to tell her that yeah, my dog humped your baby A LOT while you were gone. Sorry!

Since this whole morning was screwed by waking up late and then getting the dog to the vet's late, I didn't drop the babies off at my mom's today. So it looks like I'm turning to Dora and Blue for some baby-sitting back up.

I got lost on the way back from the vet clinic this morning. It's on a side of town that I'm completely unfamiliar with, and I got turned around, and wouldn't you know it? I'm not equipped with a fucking compass. I'm thinking about having one implanted into the back of my hand. I resisted calling the husband to help me out, even though there were a couple of panicky, near-tears moments. So there's that.

A guy walked into work yesterday and said he needed help. The three of us that were there looked at him attentively, and when he said he needed a topic to write a persuasive paper for school, I audibly snorted. I couldn't help it. I can barely keep up with my own homework, and I'm sure as hell not helping him.

Did you know sometimes I'm evil? Because now that I've typed that out, I look like a huge asshole. Huh.

There's no warm doggy body keeping my feet warm. No cold doggy nose poking me. No puppy eyes begging for a snack. I think I adore that damn dog.

Okay, I think I can wrap up the randomness here. I really wish every day was random Tuesday.

Reasons why I may lose my shit

The dog snatched Boober's pop-tart and scarfed it. I dropped a tortilla chip and then he promptly scarfed that.

About ten minutes later, the dog barfed on the floor.

Boobers bopped Smella in the nose. She cried hysterically. (And no, she wasn't hurt that bad.)

The dog licked Smella. She cried hysterically.

Boobers snatched a fruit snack of Smella's (because she was PLAYING with them, not eating them). She cried hysterically.

Apparently my insurance only covers two well-baby visits during the child's second year of life. Because I had Boober's one-year check up six days after he turned one, he's had three check ups in his second year. Luckily, the insurance company will reprocess it. Fuckers.

Big D's school called me yesterday because he was running a fever. So my Tuesday, where I usually have no kids, was totally interrupted by an eight-year-old who didn't really seem all that sick to me.

Big D is home today so I can take him to the doctor because he says his ears are plugged up.

My house is a wreck and there are piles of laundry multiplying.

I still need to study more for anatomy. (And Keely, bone doohickies are supposed to be there. Like the deltoid tuberosity on the humerus. Except there are more doohickies than bones, I think.)

Smella just "accidentally dropped" a chicken nugget on the floor. Guess who snarfed it down. And then guess who cried hysterically.

I fucking give up.

Customer of the day

A young woman came up to the counter last night and ordered her usual tea. Before I rang her up, she told me there was something she wanted to tell me.

She said that the day before she had been in to get a drink really quick and she had parked in the handicapped space in front. I was automatically thinking, "I'm probably not going to be on your side with this story, but go on..."

She said that yeah, she shouldn't have parked there, but she was feeling lazy, and she was in and out. She said that when she went out to her car, there was a note on the windshield that said, "You're not handicapped, ho."

And I managed not to laugh in front of her! Aren't you proud of me? Instead I assured her it wasn't me or my coworkers. I shrugged and told her I thought the note was kind of harsh; her being a ho or not was completely irrelevant.

I'm still not sure why she told me. I felt slightly accused, but really, even if one of us did leave that note, she should feel lucky. Because parking in handicapped spaces when you're an able-bodied ho is illegal.

I would still love to know who left the note.

The one where I'm annoyed at the world

Let me go ahead and preface this post with: I am not a morning person. I am definitely not a morning person at 8:00 AM on a Saturday. Most things, like other people breathing, annoy me at that time of day.

With that said, I was in my anatomy and physiology class on Saturday at 8:00 AM. I sat in the same place I sat in last week, and Mr. and Mrs. Tweedledum also sat right behind me, just like last week. The best I can figure is that these two are married, but I haven't really asked, and I don't care a lot, except who the hell gets married and then takes college classes together? At the age of 40+? And why do they have to sit behind me?

First off, they chatter the whole time. It's not very loud, but I want to turn around and tell them to shut it. No one thinks it's cute that they're furthering their college degree together. It's kind of creepy and weird, and who the hell's keeping the kids?

At the beginning of class, Mr. Tweedledum likes to whip out his Macbook. Fine. Except this is community college and he's the only moron taking notes on a laptop. And then he talks about his laptop THE ENTIRE CLASS. "I don't know if I'll need to take notes with a computer..." "I don't know which program to use..." Look. The class isn't even two hours. If you can't take notes for that long, you should drop out now.

Apparently having a laptop makes one feel very, very smart too, because they both like to answer all the questions the instructor throws out. Not loud enough for the instructor to hear, just loud enough for their own satisfaction, and as it turns out, mine. But here's the thing. They're not always right. And then Mr. or Mrs. Tweedledum kind of clears his/her throat and says, "Oh, erm...heh heh." And then I kind of have to choke back all sorts of evil cackling.

Also super annoying at 8 in the morning on a Saturday...crunching. I don't know what was going on back there, because I was afraid to turn around and look lest I screamed multiple profanities, but Mr. Tweedledum had a whole bag of hard candies or a full cup of ice because he WOULD NOT STOP CRUNCHING. "Metabolism? No? Oh, erm...heh heh *CRUNCH, CRUNCH*"

Also cringe-worthy and annoying was the old lady at the end of my table who video-recorded the whole class. People, it's a hard class, no doubt. It's an important class too. But for the love of all that's holy, it's not rocket science.

I'm not going to make it.

Karma is a bitch

I'm not a tiny person. Short, yes. Small waist and little hips? No. So when Mr. LA Fitness came into work a few weeks ago, I think he saw a prime target.

Construction has begun on a new LA Fitness just a little down the road from where I work. In the meantime, they have a small table and chair covered by a tent sitting on the side of the road with a huge banner that reads, "JOIN NOW!" I'd love to know how many people have stopped, cranes and steel beams in the background, battling four lanes of traffic to sign up with a guy who has a folding chair as his only piece of office equipment.

He had on his little white polo, embroidered with the LA Fitness logo on the pocket. He ordered his drink and then asked, "Hey! Do you need a gym membership?" UM. I probably do, really. We all have eyes, we can all see that yeah, I'd probably benefit from a little exercise, and it's quite apparent you're the biggest salesy salesman, but really. Don't try to hawk your wares to me while I'm at work.

I told him it would probably be way more money than I could afford, and besides, I really do love donuts. He assured me he'd give me THE BEST DEAL EVER. I assured him it would still be too much. "BEST DEAL EVER!" "UNLESS IT'S APPROXIMATELY $2 A MONTH, NO WAY!" He continued that way the whole time I made his drink. Him going, "I can cut you such a deal," and me going, "Uh, doubt it."

While he was standing, waiting for his drink, an older guy who comes in at least once a day, stepped up behind him. I turned to him, smiled, and said, "You need a gym membership? This guy will totally help you out."

LA Fitness guy turned to him and started his spiel. Older guy patted his small gut and said he was already in shape. He squinted at the guy's polo and smirked slightly.

"Oh. You're that guy that's been sitting on the side of the road!"

The flustered look of the LA Fitness guy was priceless. He stammered, handed out business cards and slunk out of the store.

No means no, ya know?

Ben Folds revisited

Last Friday, the husband and I went with a couple of friends to see Ben Folds play with the Fort Wayne Philharmonic Orchestra. We've seen him several times, but this is the first time we've seen him with an orchestra. I'd love to know who did the arrangement, because he typically doesn't have tubas and cellos in his music. It was lovely, and the "opening act" was the orchestra all by themselves, and they played a Beatles medley. You just haven't lived until you hear violins bust out on "Come Together."

But I guess I should've warned our friends that we are the people that always sit in close proximity of assholes. Friday was no exception! Right behind us were the young, probably half-drunk assholes: the assholes that sang WAY too loud, wolf-whistled WAY too many times, laughed WAY too loud at Ben's jokes, and kept yelling out, "Rock This Bitch!"

We were in a theater. Like super old, ornately gilded ceiling kind of theater. It was gorgeous. And small. Small enough that you could hear pretty much everything an audience member said. (I would've taken pictures, but photography was forbidden, not that that stopped anyone and then I felt like an ass for following the rules.)

Look. I want you to enjoy your concert experience, I do. You paid just as much money as I did. But you're only two feet behind me; I can hear everything you say and do, jackass. And when I'm trying to listen to Ben sing, I don't want your tone-deaf ass muddling that up. And for the love of god, if you shrilly wolf-whistle in my ear ONE MORE TIME, I'm dragging you out of the theater to beat the ever-loving shit out of you.

Rock that, bitch.

School's going great, thanks for asking

Soooo...this English composition class I'm taking? I have to write posts in the class blog. I was actually really pumped about it, because hey! Blog posts? I got 'em. But no, we're given a topic to blog about, which completely takes all the fun out of it.

So instead, I'll just be creative about it here. The first week's topic is, here we go, "If this class were a journey, what kind of journey do you want it to be?"

Sigh.

Complete cheesiness. And I had to write at least 250 words. It was HARD. I'll paraphrase what I actually wrote:

I like to write, blah, blah, but I kinda hate being confined to specific topics, blah, I wanna learn how to get through that, blah, blah, I love you guys, I'm gonna try real hard, BLAH.

Here's what I really wanted to write:

Um, this class? I'm taking it because I have to. I don't really want to. I think I write pretty well already, and from reading some of the other students' posts, I'm a damn genius. This isn't a journey, it's a damn prereq to classes I actually WANT to take. But I'll humor you, and if this class really were a journey, I'd hope it'd be the kind of journey that surprises me. Like, "Ooh, I think this trip might suck," but actually turn into, "Hey, that wasn't so bad. I guess. Whatever."

I'm not going to get this degree without offending several people, am I?

It's been a fun, fun day

But not really.

I started out this morning gathering up the babies for a trek to the campus bookstore. I claim temporary insanity. I circled and circled the parking lot, looking for a spot closer than sixteen blocks away to park in. Nothing. I wound up crying and calling the husband, prompting him to come home from work and meet me in the driveway when I got home, bookless.

I called my mom to come sit with the babies as the husband and I drove back to campus. The line to get into the store was wrapped around the building. Finally in the building, they only had two of my textbooks in stock. Thanks. I cried some more.

The husband and I drove to the next closest campus where we were informed that no, you can't buy books there for online courses, those have to be purchased online. NOT TRUE, DUMMY, but I scanned the shelves myself and determined that they didn't have the book either.

I wound up coming home and just ordering the damn book online. I paid $35 for expedited shipping.

Since I'm off work tonight, it's really my only time to get online and finish up what I can for the week. In the middle of posting my introduction for Psychology 101, the online format I'm using crashes and my access to everything is suddenly denied. ON THE FIRST DAY OF CLASSES. I cried a little bit more, slammed a few doors, shrieked at the husband profusely. He threw chocolate and soothing words at me.

I guess I should quit shrieking at the husband. He's been nothing but supportive in this adventure of mine. And I know for a fact he won't whine once if dinner's late, if he has to finish up a few loads of laundry for me, or if I need him to patiently explain integers one more time. He's a pretty terrific husband.

I'm going to finish up my chocolate, snuggle the husband for a minute, and try logging in to my classes one more time. If you hear cursing and general unpleasantness in the vicinity of Indianapolis, it means access was denied again, and my head is probably exploding. Duck.

Brazil nuts in your mocha? OH HELL YEAH!

This afternoon, a guy came in and ordered this drink: a large latte with one pump of chocolate, four pumps of sugar-free caramel syrup, nonfat milk steamed to 140 degrees, with light whipped cream and caramel drizzle. I handed him his finished drink and out of the corner of my eye watched him take the lid off. He stirred it, took a drink, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag of finely chopped pecans. He sprinkled the top liberally with the nuts, replaced the lid, took another sip and walked off.

WTF?

At what point did he decide chunks of pecans would be a lovely accompaniment to a hot espresso drink? And he carries them around in his pocket? Who carries nuts in their pockets?

And how the hell do you SIP on pecans?

And I come running when you want me here*

On Friday, I bought tickets to see Ben Folds in October. He's playing with a philharmonic orchestra, and it should be fairly mind-blowing. It will be about the sixth or seventh time I'll have seen him live, and I can't wait.

But did I ever tell you about the time I kinda sorta met him? No? That may be because it barely really happened. Hell, I was there and almost missed it.

A few years ago, he was doing a tour at small colleges. I happened to hear a blurb one day on the radio, and tickets were only $10, so the husband and I decided to go. Tickets were general admission, so we got to De Pauw early to walk around and then eventually get in line to wait for hours for the best possible seat. On our way to the end of the snaking line, walking down the sidewalk towards us, was a shortish guy, camera slung around his neck, a stretchie cap pulled down low. The closer he got to us, we realized it was HIM.

Just as I had decided that yes, by god, that was Ben Folds, he looked up and made eye contact and smiled. Are you ready for this? I said,

"Hi."

I think he replied hi back, grinned at our stunned faces, and kept walking.

No autograph. No handshake. No "Ohmigawd, I adore you, you're talented, I will have your babies RIGHT NOW." Just "hi."

I don't have many regrets in life. But that whole scenario has to be number two or three on my list.

So on a Friday evening in October, I will be hanging around the venue, keeping an eye out. Because next time I meet Ben Folds on a sidewalk, I will totally offer to bear his children. Or at least formally introduce myself.

*If you know where that's from without benefit of Mr. Google, we can be BFFs. Seriously. 4-ever.