Loads of Fun

So I live in an apartment complex that isn’t in the worst part of town.  It’s not even the next to worst.  It’s not ghetto adjacent even.  For some reason, however, while the rent goes up, so does the crime.  Or maybe I am just noticing it more. 

I was trying to do my laundry the other day.  Although it was 10am on a Tuesday and there are five machines (well, currently four since one was broken),  I had to make three attempts to get an empty machine.  I often have as many as 4-8 loads come Laundry Day (who knew my daughter and I could generate so much laundry???) and not a lot of full days off, so, like all residents with a mission to finish their laundry quickly, I usually prefer to use as many of the machines as possible.  Keep in mind it’s also $2/wash and $1.75/dry, so Laundry Day is pursuant to when I have the money to actually do the laundry as well. 

My neighbor (a brassy, but seemingly cool woman in her mid-40s or so) was in the laundry room on my first attempt to get a load in the wash.  She had just finished filling the four working washers, so I returned to my apartment to wait the 30 minutes until she was through.  At 30 minutes I tried again.  The washers had just been re-started.  Damn!  Someone had snuck in while I was watching an episode of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.  Back to the couch. 

Another 30 minutes went by.  I tried again.  This time there were three washers free.  Success!  I loaded them up and returned to hang out with Mrs. Maisel. 

When my wash was ready to transfer to the dryer, I returned to the laundry room.  Another older woman was in there, transferring her clothes to the dryers.  She was talking to a younger man about the hike in rent (mine has been raised $150 in two years).  He was pulling clothes out of one of the dryers.  Upon indicating that I could use the one he’d freed,  I started to load my soggy garments into it.  The man offhandedly mentioned something about how he was supposed to have clothes in two separate dryers, but returned to his upstairs apartment.

Which is when all hell broke loose.  As I was loading my clothes, the brassy neighbor came screaming down the stairs.  Well, not screaming because she had laryngitis, but whispering furiously. 

“WHAT THE FUCK?”  She looked in two of the dryers (one of which I was currently filling).  My neighbor slammed the other dryer door shut.  “Someone took my fucking laundry!!!”  She opened it again in disbelief.  Still no laundry.  “Seriously, where are my fucking clothes?”

So let me explain something here.  In spite of liking to use all the machines at once, I am a super courteous resident when it comes to laundry room usage.  If someone comes to the laundry room at the same time, I will relinquish use of one (some) of the machines.  I set a timer so that I can be sure to clear my machines in a timely manner.  I clean out my lint screens.  I hold the laundry room door open for other residents.  And I absolutely cannot, for the life of me, understand why someone would be motivated to steal another person’s laundry. 

Yes, I have heard stories of a woman who will throw people’s laundry in the trash if they leave it in the washer for too long.  I’ve even walked into the laundry room when it smelled like shit (literally) because someone disposed of their dog’s feces in the same trashcan.  I have even found vomit-covered clothing strewn about outside of the laundry room (not sure what happened there).  Apparently, though, this laundry theft is a semi-common occurrence.  The older woman confirmed it with her own story of having recently found a note in the laundry room that was written by another resident pleading for the return of her newly cleaned clothes. 

This, my friends, is fucking bullshit.  I mean, seriously?  This is where we’re headed?  Is it really necessary to go out of one’s way to enter the laundry room (with a key no less) and steal from one’s neighbors?  To clarify, no one here is wealthy.  We ain’t washing couture in the laundry room.  My own laundry is only a veritable cornucopia of Walmart T-Shirts and Thrift Store Cardigans.  Some of my underwear is so filled with holes, I don’t know that I should even wear them as period panties.    What on earth would someone want with another person’s laundry?  I get freaked out just finding someone else’s sock mixed in with mine.  I don’t care if it’s been washed.  It’s not my fucking sock. 

So I went to the office to complain.  I told them I would happily write up a formal complaint.  Of course they did nothing.  They can’t (won’t) do anything, “management” said.  We’re supposed to stay with our laundry, I was told. So I responded (jokingly?), “Then don’t be surprised if you hear of a lavender-haired women in Laundry Room #5 beating up one of the other residents.” 

And so I went to sit in the fucking laundry room to babysit my clothes, writing this blog entry and throwing shade at anyone walking past.  It wasn’t even my laundry that was stolen, but now it’s my mission to make sure that it won’t be.  No one is to be trusted. 

What a waste of time.  Sigh. 

Until next time, my lovelies….

The Ballad of Crazy No-Pants

So at 4:30 this morning I was awakened by the sound of someone banging on the front door of an upstairs apartment in the building across the way from me. She was crying and screaming what sounded like "Jim" over and over. Readying myself with my best "Girl, he ain't worth it" speech, I went outside to see if there was someone I could call for her. The young woman (Late teens? Early 20's?) wore only a coat and a tank top. She appeared to be putting on her underwear. I asked her if there was someone I could call. She insisted she was fine and didn't need help. I told her that clearly wasn't true if she was outside screaming at 4:30am. She refused my help again so I went inside.

Five minutes later, she resumed screaming. Turns out she was actually screaming, "Mom" (which was way worse. I had, in fact, initially thought she was one of the neighbor children who had been locked out). She'd already been banging on the door for half an hour and thus far only the neighbors in other buildings (mine, mostly, since it faced hers) had gone to check on her (or maybe just to watch). I grabbed a pair of sweatpants for her and went back outside. The neighbor directly across the hall from her had finally come out to see what was going on. Again, I asked her if she was OK and how I could help. I told her, "Please stop being embarrassed. Let me help you. I have some pants for you if you need them." She refused, cowering up against the door. I started back to my apartment. One upstairs neighbor told me she had called 911. The other was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk between the two buildings. We waited outside for the cops to come.

The police arrived within ten minutes. The conversation between the girl and the officers was convoluted. She seemed disoriented and altered. They wrapped a blanket around her and walked her to their vehicle. My neighbor and I had been watching to make sure she was OK (well, I had been...he might have just been waiting to see what the officers would do). Upon seeing us, she said, "I hope you enjoyed yourselves." Before I could respond, my neighbor, who has a temper, said, "Oh f*ck you." Unfortunately, I can't say as I blame him.

I wish I could say this was the first time I'd been awakened by my crazy neighbors, but, sadly, no. My complex is rather large and allegedly one of the least expensive in Reno (tell that to my checking account). Apparently, it is also rife with domestic disputes waiting to happen. In the year and a half-ish amount of time I have lived here I have heard several screaming matches (because they were all outside) and even witnessed a car chase motivated by jealousy and baby mama drama. One of the other upstairs apartment units once had a broken window (from something being thrown out of it) and one could also see through said window what looked like smashed-in drywall in that unit's interior. I have also seen a few sobbing women fleeing their apartments, carrying their paltry belongings in garbage bags. Couple all this with rumours of drug dealers, meth labs, racists, car thieves and a women who allegedly throws out your laundry if you leave it in the washing machine too long, this apartment complex is the stuff of legends. Maybe I should write a sitcom about it.

And yet, as is common for most people living at the poverty level (because, yes, I am), I cannot afford to leave right now. Also, it's not as if I even live in the worst part of the city. For the most part, I live in a relatively safe neighborhood--it's just that some of my neighbors in the immediate vicinity are effing nuts. I guess I have to just keep to myself and hope I can get out of here as soon as my lease is up. Guess I'd best start purging again. Sigh.

Until next time, Lovelies....

The Perils of Adulthood

(OR:  It's All Fun and Games Until Someone Gets Bashed in the Eye)

I used to be fearless.  Sometime in the last few years, however, I realized this wasn’t the case anymore.  Perhaps fear set in because of garnered experience or from knowing too much about the dangers of this world—or because I have my own child and therefore must think about my mortality as it would affect her.  Whatever the reason, I think this fearlessness is what I miss most about my childhood. 

In 2010, I went to France with my now ex-husband.  We were on a tour of a quaint little church/clock tower in Northern France.  Part of the tour included a walk around the outside of the steeple, allowing a 360-degree view of the city below.  Normally, this wouldn’t have bothered me, but as we made our way around the very narrow walkway, separated from certain death by only a chest high glass partition (I’m 5’2”), the wind whipping violently past, I discovered my very real fear of heights.  I shamefully admit that I freaked out.  Clutching the side of the building in terror, I scuttled sideways like a crab, my heart thudding and my breathing shallow, barely making it back inside to safety.  I couldn’t even fully enjoy the glorious view. 

I honestly don’t know where this fear of heights came from.  I’d been dealing with some bouts of vertigo (perhaps brought on by and preventing further skating of roller derby), but had never quite experienced the panic I’d had that afternoon. 

I have since challenged this fear of heights multiple times in the last few years:  exploring the rain-soaked Cliffs of Moher, kissing the Blarney Stone (which one must hang both backward and upside down to reach), zip-lining, a trapeze lesson…

Each time, I experienced heart-pounding terror, self-doubt and a tarnished self-image.  In most cases, however, I managed to escape without physical injury. 

Until an obstacle course at a trampoline park recently got the better of me. 

Let me set the scene:  I was at my daughter’s twelfth birthday party.  Already awkward because I do not particularly care to be in the same room as the ex-husband, I am also not overly fond of bounce houses or trampolines (due to an ill-fated special event in which I got trapped in one while dressed as a chipmunk…but that’s a story for another time).  In an effort to join in on the festivities, I decided I would attempt the obstacle course.  Because it was positioned along the ceiling, all the obstacles were to be completed over an open net (under which the other patrons and the employees could walk). 

I will spare you most of the details, but suffice it to say, I only made it a quarter of the way through.  After climbing between platforms almost too far apart for my stubby legs, balancing on a tightrope and moving across a staggered, moving balance beam, I was faced with four Wooden Swings of Doom.  Made up of large square posts (8” x 8” and about 5’ long I think?) fastened to the ceiling with large eye screws, the swings had wooden pegs as footholds.  The goal was to clutch onto the post (think monkey style) and swing to the next, using the footholds for balance.  Already panicked from the height, I could not figure out how to get past this part of the course.  I watched as countless kids (including my daughter) did it, but I just couldn’t get my body to do what it needed to do.  Finally, I pulled the post toward me and grabbed on.  As I was reaching for the second post, however, I fell into the net below—at which point the post swung back and bashed me in the face, right above my brow. 

I could feel the goose egg forming immediately.  Lying face down in the net, sobbing, I saw my daughter walking under me.  I called out to her, telling her that I had fallen and that I needed some ice.  She (in her typical 12-year-old way) argued with me about where to get the ice.  I told her, “I don’t care where you get it.  Just get me some ice.”

I then had to figure out how to get out of the obstacle course.  Because it was suspended from the ceiling, there was no way out except to complete the course or to go back.  There was no way in hell I was completing it.  With my eyebrow swollen and tears streaming down my face, I had to go back to the beginning, still terrified and now injured.  I made it to the start (joking with the people I passed, “Watch out for the swings.  They’re doozies!”), where my daughter was waiting with the ice.

I spent the rest of the birthday party sitting at the table with an ice pack on my head.  My eye didn’t start to blacken until later that night.  I hadn’t had a black eye since I was six years old (obtained from an equally clumsy incident with playground equipment), not even while playing roller derby.    

Sadly, my lack of physical prowess and ability to participate in birthday parties are not the only indications that I am no longer fearless.  As I sat bemoaning my idiocy, I started thinking about how fear has affected me.  Often plagued with indecision, it is much harder for me to jump into anything without worrying it to death. I sometimes find it difficult to plan, because my brain immediately goes to several contingency plans—even though they rarely work out.  I am frequently exhausted before I even begin anything.  Although I try to trust that everything will be as it is “should”, I also know that my failures, emotional and otherwise, are often more difficult to handle.  It takes me longer to heal.  I am not as resilient.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t keep trying.  I am nothing, if not stubborn.  Although I doubt I’ll be back on that obstacle course any time soon.  I’ve already told my daughter her next birthday party is going to be a tea party.  Unless I suddenly develop an aversion to cucumber sandwiches and teacups, that is.  Ha ha. 

Until next time, my Lovelies….

To Misogyny and Beyond

I recently attended a local bar crawl.  Not really a frequent bar-goer, I have attended very few crawls.  Although I like dressing up in costumes, I generally find the huge crowds and extreme drunkenness too over-bearing for me to ever fully enjoy myself.  Unfortunately, this latest crawl was no different, with the exception that I came away from it with another reason to dislike them:  all the rampant misogyny!

Lest you write me off a man-hating, bra-burning, militant feminist, trust me, that is so not the case.    Oh no, I love men (much to my detriment sometimes).  I even love wearing bras, torturous though they can sometimes be.  While I am absolutely pro-woman (duh, I am one), I am certainly not militant about it.  I do not, however, understand when it became acceptable for anyone to think that just because a woman is wearing a costume she is inviting sexual advances?  Yes, it is true that many women wear next to nothing (a practice I have yet to understand due more to the potentially inclement weather than judgment) or very revealing garments.  Does this mean that they should be subjected to groping or lewd comments?  Hell, I wasn’t even wearing anything revealing (because I know how to dress for the weather) and a group of men surrounded me like jackals as I tried to get a drink at what is usually a pretty laid back bar.  Without even saying hi first, one of them asked if he could come home with me.  I responded, “You gonna clean my house?”  Alas, no "date" for me. 

When I later recounted this story to one of my coworkers (a very feisty, older woman), she said, “Well, what did you expect, honey?  Look at our Presidential Candidate.  Where do you think they’re learning it?”

Fast forward to what is now the day after the 2016 election.  Donald Trump, a man known for his belittling, homophobic, anti-feminist (etc., etc., etc.) remarks has just been elected the new president.

Not surprisingly, I have never been a Donald Trump supporter (as either a candidate or even a human), finding him to be arrogant, ego-maniacal and temperamental.  I do get that we’re all entitled to our opinions (or vote in this case).  But I’m not going to lie.  I am f*cking terrified that we have just set the progress of our country back so many years we can’t even count.  Never have I been so upset about the future of this country.  Never have I been at a loss as to what to tell my child that will help assuage her fears, because I don't know what to tell myself.  It may sound histrionic, but no, I can’t say to her with all certainty that Trump won’t start the first annual Hunger Games.  Or that we’re not headed down a post-apocalyptic path.  Or even that everything will be all right.  What the f*ck, America? 

We have all seen and heard so much hatred, especially during this last year, much of it from the President Elect’s own mouth.  How can we as citizens of this nation continue to work progressively toward unity and harmony—or hell, just for functionality’s sake—when this is what we will most likely see and hear on a regular basis?  It’s gonna take a whole hell of a lot of Strength, Love and Hope.  And maybe some pixie dust. Either way, we will need to continue to fight for our rights, to fly brave in the face of adversity and to demand a better world, perhaps even more now than ever.

Holy hell, it's going to be a long 4 years.  But hey, a lot can happen in 4 years... Guess I'll get back to wearing non-revealing costumes and fending off unwanted, lecherous advances in the meantime.  Sigh.  

The Dangers of Stagnancy

There is a quote in the film Jerry Maguire that has stuck with me throughout the years.  Heck, it was even the keystone of my valedictorian speech from college:  "That is how you become great, man.  Hang your balls out there."

This a principle in which I strongly believe.  Take a risk.  Do something.  Seek forward motion.  Why then did it seem as if there had been so little advancement in my life lately?

If you've read any of my previous blog entries, you might have noticed that many of them have dealt with my crippling malaise from this lack of change and improvement.  Although I had actively tried to make positive changes, I just felt stuck.  As if I were spinning my wheels, but staying in exactly the same place.  In reality, yes, there were baby steps, but internal baby steps that yielded only minimal external results.  I am not OK with feeling trapped by my own stagnancy.

It became apparent that a change in my perception wasn't going to be enough to feel an improvement. The malaise wasn't even about anything specific anymore.  It was just affecting everything.  Every day, I felt tearful, exhausted, impatient...lost.

I began drawing into myself.  The crux, of course, is I am not, nor have I ever been, that person.  I am generally optimistic, ambitious and social, but I was quickly becoming the opposite.  I abused my friends' patience with my misery and complaints.  Hell, I abused my own.  I was wasting away.   Worse, I was losing hope.

It's a terrible thing to lose hope.  If you've never felt hopeless, consider yourself lucky.  To not feel any sense of accomplishment no matter what I did...well, it just effing sucks.  I couldn't keep going that route.  I needed to find my path.  I was going to have to do something drastic to instigate the positive change I craved.

And so, I decided to return to school.  No, this decision wasn't anything that would change the world...but I really only needed it to change my life, didn't I?  Almost twenty years since last I attended school, I'd been feeling the need to immerse myself in learning again.  It wasn't enough to just be on a journey of self-discovery, I wanted to be adding knowledge and skills...and opportunities.

Therefore, upon careful reflection (and ad nauseam conversations with my nearest and dearest), I have taken the semester off from teaching and will now shift my focus to learning instead.  Of course, this is a decision that scares me.  Could I afford not to work (especially since I am hardly rolling in the dough as it is)?  Was this the right choice?  Would this really be the change I desire?  How would this affect my daughter?

In the words of The Doors:  "The time to hesitate is through."

Wish me luck!

Until next time, Lovelies....

Dating and the Divorcee, Part 3: Groundhog's Day

In the past three years I have dated only two guys more than once.  Although there were some shenanigans upon my Re-Introduction to Singlehood prior to that, very few of those could really be categorized as "dates". So, yup, that's it. Two.  In three years.

The first guy I dated until he disappeared for several weeks, only to call me later and say that he had had a relapse in his (never discussed) addiction to cocaine.  He said he was moving, but would I like to buy his TV?  I think we’d only dated for two or three weeks.  

The other I dated later that same year.  A red-headed, former rugby player, he had the makings of someone “of interest”.  Sadly, he too was a recovering addict (meth).  Dating him was unfortunately a drain on my resources both financially and emotionally.  Actually, it was not unlike dating my child...He was unemployed and required someone to pay for everything and drive him everywhere...and yes, I told him that when we broke up three months into the relationship.  

After that, things looked pretty bleak, until last year, when a chance meeting led to a first date. The food and company were great.  The chemistry, not so much.  There wasn't a second date, but that was due in part to my hectic schedule. We sort of lost contact. I found out later that he'd disappeared some time after our date, neglecting to pay for 6 months of rent.  Thank goodness he had the decency to not drag me into that debacle.  

Which, more or less, brings us to the present.   In case you haven’t figured it out, I have a very strange and sometimes tumultuous dating history.  Although this was true from before the divorce (let’s please not go back that far), it is really true these last few years.  It has gotten to the point of feeling that I don’t even know how to date anymore--or even how to meet people.  It used to be that I would meet men at work.  While I do work with two attractive men (only one of which is married, but I may as well call them both my brothers), the feasibility of this is a big fat zero.  I’ve had some pretty miserable experiences with online dating.  I don’t often go to bars or clubs.  None of my friends apparently know any single men. I am a single mom.  I have many gay friends.  Where then to meet quality, available, straight, single men? Maybe one will just magically appear. Or maybe, and this is entirely likely, one of my established acquaintances is just waiting to reveal his affections for me (Hey, don't laugh. This has actually happened to me on six separate occasions.). Honestly, dating as a 40-something divorcee is hard--perhaps contrary to what new shows like Girlfriends’ Guide to Divorce might have us believe.

Difficulty to meet men aside, the truth is, I can also be a bit of spaz when it comes to dating.  Hell, in friendships even.  To be fair, I don't have a lot of practice in it lately.  Yes, a lot of that is choice.  Maybe even pickiness.  I certainly don't need a man, but I sure like having one.  Why, then, do I get so bunged up about all this?  

I am not sure there is any one answer.  Perhaps I just get caught up in my own romantic notions and desires.  Or societal norms.  After all, society tells us that the man should be the pursuer, while the woman is the pursued.  Men need to feel like they have "won", so men should instigate contact, dates, etc.  A woman should be available without being too available.  Blah blah blah.  

OK, I get that we as a society are still working to break out of these traditional gender roles, but why are these bullshit ideas still perpetuated?  I'm not saying I don't like being feminine or cared for, just that these ideologies make it harder to simply relate on a human level.  For example, if I like someone, I will communicate it--especially if it's been indicated that it's mutual.  Unfortunately, my effusive, very vocal nature has often been perceived as overbearing or, worse, needy.  Sometimes even desperate.  I can be impatient and outspoken--and then worry that I have said too much or pushed too hard.  It can be hard to take.  Probably for the guy too.  

Here's the thing:  I like to be pursued, but I don't always wait to be.  Sometimes that works out to my benefit.  Sometimes not.  I enjoy banter.  I thrill at witty, intelligent conversation, written or otherwise.  I have a tendency to text a lot.  I like when they're returned in a timely manner.  My making time in my schedule is because I want to spend time with someone, not because I am lonely or pushy or desperate.  No, I am not looking to get married.  Nor am I looking for just a booty call, although I will express my desire.  I like when it's reciprocated.  Yes, of course, I want someone to think about me, but I don't need to be his world.  I just want to know I have a place in it.   And yeah, I am a big, overthinking, occasionally awkward nerd who needs reassurance now and again.  Confidence only gets me so far, because, well, emotions.

So there it is.  I am really not sure if this is a warning, explanation or invitation to would-be suitors, but it is what it is.  I've once more poked my head out of my non-dating hibernation (like Punxsutawney Phil on Groundhog's Day!) to see what's up.  Unfortunately, if I see my shadow standing alone, it may well be at least six more weeks of binge-watching Netflix with my cat.    Lol.

Until Next Time, Lovelies....

The Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything

Happy February 1st!

It is a little less than two weeks now until my 42nd birthday.  As I have for the past few years, I generally use these few days before the anniversary of my birth to contemplate the past year and what goals I would like to accomplish in the upcoming year.  Yes, most people normally do this in December, but I never feel as if the New Year really begins for me until my birthday.  This is probably because January tends to be my month of recuperation and rejuvenation after the holidays.  Often I feel like I am just trying so hard to even make it through that I can barely even think about any changes or new ideas until after the calendar New Year.

Last year, in honor of my 41st birthday, I decided to do and/or discover Forty-ONE-derful new things.  While I had hoped to write more blog entries about these things, what can I say but, well, LIFE.  Sometimes forty-one adventures take some time, you know?  Lol.

Perhaps you are wondering if I did, in fact, accomplish my goal.  The answer is, yes--and then some.  Some of the things were related to each other (or to my preexisting life), while some were separate events or adventures.  Some were simple moments, while others were Experiences.  Perhaps I will clarify or tell you more about some of them.  Perhaps not.  Either way, I have enclosed my list below.  :)

But what to do this year?  What specific challenge do I set forth?  As always, there is still so much more I would like to experience.  Maybe a hip hop class or banjo lessons.  Maybe more travel to unfamiliar places.   Maybe a new love interest or career (both of which I have been working on for a while.  Lol.).  This list is just the beginning.  Know that I will continue to try new things.  I am still ready and open to the experiences--and that is a good place to be.

And maybe that's it.  Already this year I have felt the rumblings of Changes on the Wind.  Maybe I just need to sit back and see what happens.

After all, the Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything is...42.

Until Next Time, Lovelies....

***

FORTY-ONE-DERFUL THINGS:  THE LIST

1. Bikram Yoga
2. Ghost Tour in Virginia City
3. Produced, Directed, Acted in First Show for Sisters Three Productions (of which I am co-founder)
4. Worked at 3 New Theaters (Acted and/or Directed)
5. Did 3 Shows at Once (INSANITY!)
6. Widened My Social Circle(s) by Becoming Involved with New Groups, Friends, etc.
7. Auditioned for and/or Submitted My Resume to New Places
8. Signed a contract for an Equity Show
9. Got My Equity Candidacy Card
10. Performed in the Mainstage (Nighttime) Show at Lake Tahoe Shakespeare Festival
11. Attended My Brother’s Wedding
12. Went to the Laguna Beach Tide Pools with the Family
13. Saw a Dead Seal
14. Zip Lining
15. Zumba
16. Trapeze Lesson!
17. Went to Six Flags Vallejo
18. Swam with the Dolphins
19. Picasso and Wine Painting with My Daughter (and Mimosas)
20. Lived in Boise for One Month
21. Viewed Performances at the Idaho Shakespeare Festival
22. Membership at the Boise YMCA
23. Nia, Qigong, BodyJam, Barre, Water Aerobics Classes
24. Lindy Hop Lesson/Dance Social (By Myself)
25. Watched (and MET!) Eddie Izzard
26. Entered Writing Contest
27. Minnesota Trip (for Cousin's Wedding)
28. Visited the Judy Garland Birthplace Museum (Minnesota)
29. Mall of America
30. Kayaking
31. Watched the Northern Lights
32. Pet Ownership (Besides a Fish)
33. Pet Euthanization :(
34. Twisted Colossus at Six Flags Magic Mountain
35. Hyperspace Mountain at Disneyland
36. Griffith Park Observatory with My Daughter
37. Boogied at Club Cosplay
38. Oingo Boingo Dance Party at the House of Blues
39. Medieval Times on New Year's Eve
40. Various ComicCons with My Daughter
41. Two Actual First Dates