Hypocrisy At It’s Finest

On the day we drove out of Minnesota for our much needed vacation, we decided to make one final trip to Caribou Coffee and the adjoining Panera Bread.

For those of you who are not in the Midwest, you’re probably wondering what Caribou Coffee is.

Caribou Coffee is angel’s tears in coffee form, put into your cup by someone who is really good at pretending to care about your day, with inches of sugary sludge and coffee strong enough to make you grow chest hair if you’re a woman, while not having the acidity that nasty ass Starbucks has.  It’s on every corner in Minneapolis, and it’s found in North Dakota, Wisconsin, Iowa, Kansas and Missouri.  Also Seoul, Korea.  It is my favorite, and whenever I go home, I usually drop around $100 at Caribou coffee and I buy tons of coffee beans from them.  Easily one pound of coffee beans a week.  Because they are next to godliness.

And no, they did not pay me to say that.  But if they sent me free coffee beans, I would not object.  Hint hint Caribou Coffee.


Basically Angel's Tears

Basically Angel’s Tears

Anyway, because the commissary on base stopped selling Caribou Coffee beans just before we left, I had to get my fix.  So I drank far more coffee than I should.  Every day.  All day.  It was awesome.

The day that we left, Alex went into Panera Bread to get us bagels for the road, and I got our coffee.  We had this awesome little Asian woman make our coffee.  I have no idea what her name was, but she was so funny and she made awesome coffee.  Seriously Caribou, where do you find your employees?

When I came out, Alex was madder than hell.

“You won’t believe this,” he tells me, as he straps himself into the car, burning his tongue on the angel’s tears.  “I asked a really cute little old lady if I was standing in the right line and she screamed at me that I wasn’t, then went to sit down.”

I shrugged.  This was not uncommon for women in their eighties.

“After she sat down, she started to scream at this old man that nobody treats veterans with respect and that she can’t stand people who are rude to veterans and active duty military.”

I choked on my Turtle Mocha made of angel tears, trying not to laugh.

“Did you tell her that you’re technically a vet and currently active duty?”

He shook his head.  “There was no point.  She would have probably gotten mad at me.  You know, because I’m a big dumb youngin’ who can’t figure out where the line is.”

He had a point.  He then continued, “It’s so weird, every day we’ve been in Minnesota, we’ve had awesome customer service and everyone was friendly.  Our last day here, an old woman screams at me and complains nobody is nice to military.  What the fudge?”

So we ate our bagels and began our drive out of Minnesota, wishing we didn’t have to leave.


Have you ever been treatly really poorly for something completely stupid?  What’s your worst customer service experience?  Let me know in the comments!


Snakes In The Grass

On the one year anniversary of moving to Louisiana, we decided to celebrate by getting the hell out of Louisiana.

By driving with our two dogs.

Up to Minnesota for three weeks.

Now, you may think this is drastic, but I had a family reunion and my mother in law was getting her PhD in Minnesota, the same week of my family reunion, so it lined up pretty perfectly.  We brought the dogs because we knew they wanted a break from the opossums, scorpions, snakes, and 100+ degree weather.  I’ve been concentrating on school as of late, and we both just needed a long vacation.

In case you don’t know, driving from Shreveport to Minneapolis takes approximate 16 hours if you don’t stop.  If you have two dogs that are whining in your ear and eating your seats, it takes closer to 20 hours.

And we left around 5 pm, hoping to miss rush hour in Kansas City, Des Moines, and Minneapolis.  To me, this was a flawless plan.  Alex was off work that day, we tried to clean up the house while the dogs were at day care (Yes, I put my dogs in doggie day care, so sue me), and we packed the car.  The deal was that if the house was spotless, we could leave.

However, since Alex wanted to leave just as much as me, and I’m really annoying when I beg, Alex forgave me for leaving the house in total disarray and we picked up the dogs at 5 and began driving north.

About two hours north of Shreveport, in southern Arkansas, we stopped at a church to water the dogs and feed them, as well as stretch our legs and drink some much needed coffee.  We found a field of high grass and let the dogs loose, thinking that this was a great idea.  There was a house nearby, a house that I was convinced was condemned.  Honestly, it was falling apart.  And I mean no harm to the people who lived in it.


Pretty sure the house looked a little worse than this

Pretty sure the house looked a little worse than this

A few minutes after letting the dogs run around, an elderly woman came out to greet us with her little dachshund.  The dachshund barked at Luna, who gave him the stink eye and put her paw on his head, to which she chased him and pretty much ran him over.

The woman was so kind.  She saw our license plates and asked us if we had driven all the way from Alaska.  We told her our story, and she thanked Alex for his service.

“You know, there’s a field on the other side of the house that’s my property.  It’s mowed so there aren’t any opossums, water moccasins, scorpions, or poisonous spiders.  I’d hate to see your dogs die because of a preventable critter.  You can use the field for as long as you like.”

I thought this was very generous of her, and Alex agreed.  We took the dogs to the field, and they ran to their hearts content, while Luna especially found it fun to lay down in a pool of mud.

After a few minutes, the woman came out and offered to let us sit down in her house to relax, offering us some sweet tea.  Considering I was easily three times this woman’s weight, and Alex is just a huge man, we both agreed that we were fine and that we were going to get going soon.

As we were packing up the dogs food and water bowl, she walked over to us and handed us a wal-mart bag.




“I have 12 pecan trees and I have more pecans than I know what to do with.  They make excellent pie, or great to snack on as you’re driving.  Would you like more?”

This bag was so full.  It was easily five or six pounds of pecans.  Freshly fallen from her trees.

We thanked her, she thanked us for stopping by and told us that if we drive through again, just knock on her door and she’ll give us a bite to eat and some sweet tea.

This was the first time in the year we had lived in the south that we had experienced southern hospitality.

I almost wish I lived in Arkansas.

What is your best example of hospitality from a total stranger?  Have you ever been somewhere where you were just flat out confused at how nice people were?  Let me know in the comments!

The Golden Heart

I mentioned that I took a trip home this previous August.  I was home for nearly three weeks, and the main reason I was home was because there was a big family reunion for my father’s side of the family.

My father’s side of the family rarely gets together, especially like this.  We’re not a huge family, unless you go out to third and fourth cousins, then there’s close to a thousand of us, but for my late grandfather and his brother, if you include their children and grandchildren, there’s approximately 30 of us.

We’re a strange bunch, to say the least.  While my father and I have a very strange relationship where we have a lot of unspoken agreements on how we talk to one another, I can say that I’m definitely much closer to my father’s side of the family.

My grandfather had a PhD, as well as tons of other degrees.  He went to college for thirty years straight, and he stopped college when he retired.  He had an IQ that was easily around 180, and absolutely no common sense.  However, as my uncle explained, he had the family’s Golden Heart.

I’m twenty four now, and I always knew that my grandfather had a golden heart.  Heck, it was the reason that I was so crushed when he passed nine years ago.  My grandfather was a person who had very strange ideas about everything around him.  He was a college professor, an engineer, and a member of the NRA.  He never wore socks, he would have my grandmother make his pants with deep pockets in case someone tried to pick pocket him.  He would bathe in laundry detergent.  For as long as I knew him, I never knew him to comb his thick, white hair.

He was a very, very strange man.  But my memories of him are never malicious.

When I was young, I mentioned that I really wanted to learn piano, but my parents couldn’t afford it.  My father filled vending machines and when he was home, he would scrap metal in the garage, my brother and I helping him.  He easily worked 80 hours a week.  My mother was a type setter and typed textbooks in the living room while raising my brother and I.  I give my father a lot of crap about how we were raised, especially after the divorce, but one thing I can never neglect is that my parents worked hard for the little they got, and they never let on just how hard it was to take care of us with the little they had.

My grandfather, a week later, found an old organ at a flea market and bought it for me.  He told me to just play around on it and maybe I could teach myself someday.

When I was an older, around 13, I had decided that I wanted to be a writer.  I would spend hours writing fan fictions and short stories.  By the time I was sixteen, I had written two novels, both of which I have in an old notebook in my closet.  I read all of the harry potter books several times.  I read every Janet Evanovich book that had been released at that time.  In school, I wouldn’t do my homework or really participate in class because I was always reading.  My head was always in the clouds, thinking about how I was going to be a famous writer someday.

My mother was supportive in a strange way, telling me that I’ll never make a living being a writer, and that I should shoot for something else.  My father laughed at me, many of my other relatives (I have 15 cousins and it’s rapidly growing, as well as several aunts and uncles), and they all rolled their eyes at me.  I felt, at the time, that nobody quite understood me.

But my grandfather always did.

When my grandma was in California for a week vising my uncle, I spent the week with my grandpa in Eastern Minnesota.  I mentioned to him shyly that I wanted to be a writer, and instead of giving me grief, he spent the entire weekend we had together talking about the different types of writing there is.  He was pushing for technical writer or grant writer, which makes a lot of money.  He told me I can do romance writing, and if that’s what I wanted to do, he would support me, but he said that he knew I was intelligent, and if I took after him, technical writing would be the route I would be best suited for.

Every time I saw him after that, he would ask about my writing.  He would then try to persuade me to pursue technical writing, but he understood me in a way that nobody else ever did.

Probably my fondest memory of my grandfather is when he and I were at the flea market.  When he retired he became a blacksmith, because he found it fun.  He would sell bronze knives and plant stands that he made himself, as well as other blacksmith goods.  He was quite good at it, considering.  I would go with him to the flea market and we would sit on the back end of his truck, persuading people to buy the plant stands or the makeshift grill he made, but this afternoon it was slow.  We shared lemonade, and we talked about everything.  Old family stories, his childhood in Pennington, MN, his time in the Air Force, everything you could imagine.

We both fell asleep sitting in the sun, enjoying the suns warmth.  On the drive back to his house, he held my hand and told me that he was proud of me no matter what I did.

My grandmother is like that even now.  She is quirky, like my grandfather was, but she has the golden heart.  If I ever needed anything, she would be there to help me.  If I’m having a rough day, I call her and she makes me feel better.  There was one day, where I just needed comfort, and I called her almost in tears.  It was shortly after I got married, and when she asked me what I was doing, I told her I was making a cup of tea.

The best words of wisdom expelled from her mouth.

“If you can enjoy a cup of tea, it’s really not that bad.  As long as you can enjoy the taste of the tea, everything will get better.”

When I’m having a bad day, where I feel like I want to give up, I make myself a cup of tea, and my grandmother’s words echo in my ears.  No matter how bad things get, I can always enjoy a cup of tea.  And I realize that bad things are only relative, and things can always be worse, but they’ll always get better.

As I get older, I feel myself feeling less bitter to those who have wronged me.  Sometimes I kind of had it coming, other times it was misplaced affection (which sounds really strange as I type it).  I remind myself that every person in my family, my father included, has a golden heart.

If I were in trouble, no matter how estranged I was to anyone in my family, they would do anything to help me.  If I needed clothing, they would give me the shirt off their back.  If I was alone and scared, even if we were fighting, they would wrap their arms around me and give me comforting words.  There is one thing I know about my parents: my father loves me, and my mother loves me, and no matter what happens, if I need them, they’ll be here.

Sure, my family is strange and quirky and all together weird, but they have one thing that I’ve found a lot of families don’t have.

We have the golden heart, that no matter what happens, we strive to help those around us in any way humanly possible. We don’t discriminate against each other, we don’t hold grudges, and we most definitely ensure that nobody is treated with animosity.

And I’m happy to say that I’m part of a family that treats each other like that.

What is your fondest memory of your childhood?  I believe each family has it’s own uniqueness as to why their family has a golden heart, what is your family’s “golden heart?”  Tell me in the comments, I would love to know.


The Corn Gods Must Be Crazy

Alex and I decided to be really stupid and drive to Minnesota last month.  It’s a two day drive, and I always forget that time seems to stop in Iowa, because it feels like an eternity to get through Iowa.

Since I am from Minnesota, and every Minnesotan can agree with me on this, I believe that Iowa is not a real place and that it needs to fall into a hole in the earth.  Of course, I’m exaggerating, but seriously, Iowa is not a real place

Not real by association

Not real by association

Since Alex has lived in a total of eight different states, he has no love or affiliation with any place.  Since he spent a lot of time on the east coast, I consider him an east coaster, but I was born and raised in the same area of Minneapolis and lived there for 18 years.  My mom still lives in the house that she bought when I was four, and I still talk to a couple of my high school teachers.

I’m very, very overly proud of my home state and home town.  Something that baffles my in laws, but I think it just adds to my quirkiness.

Anyway, I’m getting off topic.  As soon as we get to Iowa, I scrunch my nose and complain that Iowa is basically hell and not a real place.  Alex starts to get agitated with me.

Alex: Why are you so against Iowa?  What did Iowa ever do to you?

Me: It exists.  Isn’t that enough?


But by the end of the day, Alex would be agreeing with me.

Not a real place

Not a real place

There’s this chain of fast food restaurants in the Midwest called Culver’s.  They fry their burgers in butter, they serve beer battered cheese curds from Wisconsin, and their ice cream is actually frozen custard and they make it fresh in every store.  You can get a heart attack just looking at their delicious food, and it’s a treat for Alex and I to visit every time we’re home.  I looked on the Culver’s website and find that there’s a Culver’s in Des Moines.  I figure that this was the time for Iowa to redeem itself.  They also had a Caribou Coffee, which is my favorite chain of coffee stores, and I will go into my love for Caribou in a later post.

Alex and I were starving.  The biscuit and gravy breakfast from the Super 8 Motel was not sticking with us.  Alex and I are both hangry (so hungry that you’re angry).  I get the directions on my phone to get to the closest culver’s restaurant, and as we’re getting closer, we realize that we’re in a residential area.  When the maps says we’re there, we’re in front of a condemned house.

Strike one, Iowa.

Alex says screw it and we’ll find something once we get to Minnesota, which at this point is only two hours away.  I pull out some veggies from our cooler of goodies, but carrots are just not a good substitute.

As we’re back on the highway, I see a sign stating that Culver’s is the next exit.  I get excited and then I mistake the next exit for the exit following.

So we missed culvers.  Again.  Alex was furious.

I can’t blame him.

Then I see a sign for caribou.  Alex tells me that if he can’t get cheese curds, I can’t get a turtle mocha.

So we’re both in the car, in silence, the dogs are sedated in the back, and we’re both staring ahead.  I decide to change things up a bit.

Me: How about we play I Spy?

Alex: Sure.

Me: I spy something yellow.

Alex: is it corn?

Me: Good!  Now I spy something green.

Alex: Is it corn?

Me: Ugh… Fine, I spy something husky.

Alex: Wait, wait… let me guess… It’s corn!








When we finally got into Minnesota, after getting lost in Des Moines, driving through hundreds of acres of corn, Alex and I came to an agreement.

The corn gods must be crazy.


Have you ever been to a place where you were just so frustrated by how little there was?  Have you ever gotten lost in a strange town because apple maps were designed by assholes?  Let me know in the comments!

*Our I Spy game lasted close to an hour.  Only two other times were the answers not corn: When I spied something spinny, which was a wind turbine, and I spied something beany, which were the soybeans.


I Love Resembling My Mother— And Not For The Reasons You’d Think

Ever since I can remember, I have been told that I look just like my mother. She’s 29 years older than me, we both have brown hair and eyes, and we both look ridiculously Scandinavian (except the dark hair and eyes bit). We’re about the same height, but that’s where the resemblance stops. We’re both heavy, sure, but her boobs are huge, and I’m pretty flat chested. I have a butt and she has none, she has skinny legs and my legs clap and make thunder.

You’d never be able to tell we’re related. Ever.

It’s just how genetics are cruel. God gave my shy, quiet mom huge boobs when she wanted no attention, and I was given a flat chest and huge thighs when I’m social.

Thanks God. You totally destroyed my ability to date until I was 20 years old.

Moving on.

But nobody can deny that I look like my mother.

And I used to hate it.

I would always fight that we didn’t look alike because she’s way older than I am. And she’s so much quieter than I am. And any other reason I could think of that I can’t think of because they don’t exist.

But as I’ve gotten older and more brazen thanks to my many years of living among my strange Alaskans, I’ve come to embrace the fact that my mother and I look alike.

Because I can embarrass the shit out of her.

And she can’t deny that I’m related to her.

So, of course, I take full advantage of this when the opportunity presents itself.

You see, my mother is very easily embarrassed. She gets embarrassed when we talk too loudly in restaurants, or if we say a bad word. She’s not nearly as bad as she used to be, but she used to freak out if we said “damn” in public.

Now, I’ve mentioned how odd my husband is before considering he’s a dungeon master, he’s very loud and goofy, and he seeks to make people laugh at every turn. He was also raised by East Coast parents, and I don’t care if it’s stereotyping, they’re very noisy. But in a good way.

And my husband loves to point out random discrepancies in public. Because he’s an asshole like that.

So the first time Alex came with me to Minnesota, my mom ditched us in Target. Not as in drove off, mind you, as in she did what she always does. She tells us to find something in the aisle she just passed and then learns how to magically fucking teleport to the other side of the store and makes it impossible to fucking find her until a half hour later.

She does this every fucking time. (I know you’re reading this mom, don’t even try to deny it. You have teleportation powers)

However, last time she tried to do this to Alex and I, we decided to have fun with it. She did her usual “Oh, can you go back one aisle and get something I have in my cart already but it’s the name brand and I need the off brand because I’m a thrifty saver/wizard?” And we agree because we’re good kids.

And she ditched us.

And she was our ride.

So, being the oddballs that we are, we did the most obvious thing we could think of.

We ran up and down every aisle in the store and started screaming “MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!”

Now, when a 22 and a 27 year old are doing this when looking for a woman in her early 50s, I’m told that it’s horribly embarrassing. I thought it was hilarious.

After going down about six aisles, my mother magically teleported behind us and hissed, “What? What do you want?!”

To which we rejoiced because we finally found her. And nobody could deny I was related to her because we look alike.

Authors note: This story is slightly hyperbolic. My mom can’t actually teleport (I think) and we weren’t “screaming” per se, we were just talking ridiculously loudly so everyone was looking at us funny. But she did hiss at us. And she does ditch us in the store all the time. And this story is not to show that my mom is easily embarrassed, she’s pretty awesome and she’ll probably tease me for writing something so ridiculously stupid.  YAY MOMS!

This Is Why I Can’t Have Nice Things- The Corset Story

I went to a beer tasting last night at the Home brewers association meeting, and I got to meet a lot of really nice people.  I’ve FINALLY experienced southern hospitality.

While there, I was talking to a couple of girls who were around my age and just a hoot, and as I progressively got drunker, they were talking about awkward situations, and since I have this horrible habit of one upping people, I tell them my corset story.

This is a two part story, and this results in an obscenely long post.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

First, how I got this awesome corset.

After I had lost around 30 pounds via Weight Watchers, I decided to reward myself by ensuring that I lost my weight in an attractive manner, primarily in my middle section, so I’d have an absolutely awesome hourglass figure.  When I was in high school, I wore a medium duty corset that ensured I filled out to my desired specifications, and I decided that this time around, I wasn’t going to mess around.

I shopped around online for a while and found this absolutely beautiful waist training corset .  I found it while Alex was in the room, and I have this terrible habit if having conversations with myself, and I honestly thought I told him about buying this thing, so this is how I remember it.

Me: Honey?  Would you mind if I got this TOTALLY BADASS waist training corset?

Alex: How much?

Me: Around $200.

Alex:… Only if you wear it while cleaning the house.


Seriously, how can you say no to this?

Seriously, how can you say no to this?

So I ordered it.  I got an email from the lady who sold it, letting me know that for a little extra, I could have it custom tailored to fit my exact measurements  This made me super ecstatic, so I was like YES! YES YES YES! A THOUSAND TIMES YES!  So I sent her my very awkward measurements, and three weeks later my corset arrives in the mail.

When Alex is home and I am at work.

When I get home from work, the package is on the table and he’s standing there with his arms crossed.

Alex: What the hell is that package?

Me: It’s the corset I ordered.

Alex: What corset?

Me: You know that corset I ordered a few weeks ago.  I told you about it.

Alex: No, I would have remembered.  How much did it cost?

Me: Uh… well its custom made!

Alex: How much?

Me: It’s going to support my back and make me look super shapely!

Alex: How much?!



Me: Around $200.


So for the rest of the week, I was his slave in order to justify the corset.  Totally worth it.

The people I was telling this story to were dying from laughing, then Alex cuts in and says “Oh, tell the about the time you wore it to a buffet.”

This is part two, and evidence that either my mom is an a-hole, or she has a very sick sense of humor.  I’m going with both.

When we were visiting Minnesota that particular winter, I was planning on going to a drag show at a known gay bar in St Paul, and I thought to myself, “Who would appreciate a corset more than a bunch of queens? Nobody, that’s who.”

So the four days before going to this bar, I was wearing it around the house at my mom’s house to break it in.  You see, when you have a corset, you have to break it in over the course of two weeks so you don’t have problems breathing.  It’s very stiff when you first get it, and by wearing it a few hours a day over the course of two weeks, the metal boning in it molds to your body so it goes from painful to extremely comfortable and helps support your back, causes you to not eat because it sucks in your stomach, etc., so I was wearing it very loosely at my moms.

One particular night, mom said we were going out to eat, which I saw as an opportunity to test out eating.  I was wearing this corset while getting ready, and my mom, who I’m pretty sure has more muscles than The Rock, sees me wearing this.

This guy seriously has no body strength compared to my mom

This guy seriously has no body strength compared to my mom

“Leah, are you honestly going to wear this?” She asks me, and I’m pretty sure she was plotting something.

“Yeah, I need to break it in.”

“Well come here, it’s way too loose,” she says, and while I’m about to protest, she pulls it so tight that she sucked me in over eight inches.

I couldn’t actually breathe.  I had a very breathy voice the entire night.   Also, since it’s a long line corset that goes to the top of my hips, I had to walk without moving my hips.  That is EXTREMELY DIFFICULT.

So she takes us out to dinner.

To an effing buffet.

In order to get to this plethora of food, I had to get in the car.  Since I couldn’t move my hips, I couldn’t sit down, so they laid me down in the back seat.  The entire drive, while my step dad was driving, my mom would look in the back seat and start laughing.

We get to the restaurant, and I seriously considered throwing stuff at my mom.  We sit down, and if you are unaware, corsets push your boobs up.  So my boobs were basically in my face.  Literally, I could rest my face in my boobs from how far this damn thing pushed them up.

So I’m sitting at the table, my face resting in my boobs, hardly able to breathe, trying to eat a freakin’ slice of pizza.

My mother was dying.  Alex couldn’t figure out why she was laughing so hard.  He thought the entire thing was getting old.  Finally he asks her why she’s about to hemorrhage something from laughing so hard, and her response, between gasps, set the mood for the evening.

“She… wore… that thing… to a buffet…”

Alex nearly fell on the floor from laughing so hard.  So did my step dad.  Step sister arrived shortly after and was laughing pretty hard too.

I ended up not wearing that corset to the bar because I feared that my mom would lace me in again.

I’ve only worn it a handful of times since, once outside the house, for a Halloween party.

Malice in Wonderland--- Awesome, yes?

Malice in Wonderland— Awesome, yes?

Of course, I made sure it was laced very loosely to ensure breath-ability.

Things My Mom Was Right About: Carrying A Purse

Now, for most of you women out there, you’re probably thinking, “This girl must be an idiot for never carrying a purse unless her mom said so,” and I would be inclined to believe you, except I had very particular reasons.

I. Hate. Purses.

I am not a girly girl by any means.  I actively avoid make up.  I can’t style my hair to save my life.  Hell, five months ago I bought my first hair straightener and I still have no idea how to use it.  My hair is still frizzy after using it.  My mom still does a lot of my clothes shopping.  I own four pairs of shoes.

I’m going to a wedding in about two months and I think I’m going to have to ask my friend to take me shoe shopping since I do not own a pair of heels.  I only have steel toe shoes.  And tennis shoes.

So I hate carrying a purse, but it is a necessary evil.

When I was but a wee young girl, in high school, I had my wallet which had my debit card, my drivers license, my school ID, and any various money I would possibly have, I would put that in my pocket.  As well as my cell phone, which was a Katana II.

You know.. Before Smartphones were cool?

You know.. Before Smartphones were cool?


AND THEN I would have my keys.  In my pocket.  As well as my chap stick.  Now I did this because I really hated carrying a purse.

My mother is the polar opposite of this.

Here is a list of things she has in her purse.

  1. Wallet
  2. Keys
  3. Checkbook
  4. Manicure set
  5. Comb
  6. Bottle of ibuprofen
  7. Mirror
  8. Rosary
  9. Six different pens with different color ink
  10. Miscellaneous coins
  11. Deeds to a small country
  12. Leprechauns
  13. Tiny civilizations
  14. Chapstick


No lie, she has all of those things in her purse.*

She told me that I needed to start carrying a purse since my wallet was constantly falling out of my pockets and it was causing us to go back to restaurants to get my wallet.  She was convinced that someone was going to steal my debit card and steal my identity.

Funny how when I was in college someone stole my debit card and spent over $100 on gas.

And how one time when my wallet dropped out of my pocket all of the cash was stolen.

And how when I got a purse I can carry candy into a movie theatre.

Yep. Mom was right.

Carrying a purse is a good idea.

I don’t forget stuff nearly as often.

Thanks mom.

Is there anything that your mom was right about that you were like PFFT! No way mom!  I want to hear about it!  What was YOUR mom right about?

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I post random news stories and I love the input!


*Okay, she doesn’t have all of those things in her purse.  Obviously she has no room for chapstick when there are leprechauns in her purse.