David’s full of insight lately, let me tell you.

If you haven’t been won over yet by his theories, be sure to check out his thoughts on what makes a news story go viral.

Next up: the most dangerous section of your grocery store.

First, I’d like to note that Dr. Oz has a most informative article on his site about the Supermarket Secrets that Can Make You Sick, and while he does address the bagel bin (don’t even get me started on what is often found at the bottom of the bagel bin), he did not address the bulk section. So David feels it’s incumbent upon him (meaning me) to let you in on this.

“Old people in the bulk section at Sprouts are more dangerous than unattended children,” he declared as he hoisted 4 bulging recycled grocery bags onto the kitchen counter.

I kind of tuned him out. Because I thought that was just kind of a mean thing to say. Right?

But, apparently, I misunderstood.

“You don’t understand,” he clarified. “They eat right out of the bins, and they push carts through the store simply so that they can have the handle bar to rest their teeny tiny cup of complimentary coffee on, so the carts take up the entire aisle while they test stuff and then put what they don’t like back in the bin.”

I suppose the silence had him concerned that I wasn’t listening. But I was listening. Just unable to respond. Because I was trying to process the fact that my days enjoying the bulk section were over.

“Do you realize,” he continued, clearly taking advantage of the fact that I was indeed listening, “that I had to forgo purchasing my almond clusters because I looked in that bin and thought, ‘What if that one was touched?’ or ‘What if THAT one made it to someone’s MOUTH and then they decided they didn’t like it and put it BACK?’

“And then, I thought, ‘Well, I could do what Liz does, and grab the item from the back or, in this case, the bottom. But what if the person before me did that and so now what was on the bottom is now on the top and vice versa and I’m just unknowingly contaminating myself?’”

“It matters not,” I flatly stated. “We are done with the bulk section. At least, we are done with clusters, nuts and trail mix. And if you ever see anyone eating almond flour or sea salt out of their hand, we’re done with that too.”

This whole situation has kind of ruined us. But I’ll look on the bright side: after 13 years of marriage (I think it’s been 13), it’s comforting to know that we still have that one germaphobic thing very much in common.

And by “interesting,” I mean “terrifying and violating.”

Long story short, I uploaded a picture up that I thought was hilarious, and that was receiving hilarious comments on other people’s timelines, and for the first 18 minutes, the comments I received were not only plentiful, they were—as I expected—hilarious.

And then it got frightening.

Because people I didn’t know began posting some rather, shall we say, lewd responses. And they were coming in so fast that I was simultaneously thinking, “Why can’t I get this level of participation when I have a jewelry sale?” and “OHMIGOD CLOSE THE CURTAINS LOCK THE DOORS BUY A BURQA (ONLINE BECAUSE I’M NEVER AGAIN LEAVING THIS HOUSE) AND GO BACK TO RELATIVE ANONYMITY RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND DELETE DELETE DELETE!”

Right about then, David asked how things were going with the post, and when I told him that the post was no more and why, he suddenly got pretty knowledgeable on me. And by “knowledgeable,” I mean that he became a surprisingly right-on know-it-all.

“Go look at the comment thread on any ‘Top story of the day,’ and you find the exact same thing,” postulated my media-phobic, Facebook-avoiding, procrastination-friendly life partner.

What followed had me laughing so hard that my abs are seriously done until 2013.

“Please. Share,” I sarcastically responded.

“Forget the article itself,” he suggested. “Scroll right to the comment thread. The first comment is almost always racist or otherwise hateful.”

“Really?” I asked, “because I — ”

“Then, comments 2-10 are undoubtedly a bunch of idiots trying to politically correctly reason with the first commenter by saying things like, ‘Oh, sir, I don’t think you really understood ARyan420′s comment…’ or politically incorrectly disagreeing with the first commenter using at least one gasp-inducing word that will undoubtedly compel Commenter #3 to comment as though anyone gives a shit.”

By this point, I was bent in half, holding the rectus abdominis region of my abs.

“The next 22 comments involve statements such as, ‘Shut up you idiot’ or ‘Go back into your hole’ followed by the pound sign and PeaceLoveDove’ or something.”

“Um, that’s called a hashtag,” I corrected, now holding my external obliques. “And — ”

“And frankly,” he continued, “by that point, I’m trying to decide what’s more offensive: the fact that someone took the time to write those things or that I’m taking the time to read them!”

I think he’s seriously on to something. Take the comments on this clip from People.com about Heidi Klum and Seal‘s breakup.

First comment

“Who cares how you told them. Poor kids! In 2 weeks People Magazine will run an issue showing both of them with other people and they’re dating again.”

Second comment

“Ouch, come on People, Fat Bankers Hate Messages should not be accepted. I’m all for free speech but that’s hate!!”

It’s so yuck. So instead of spending any time wondering what makes a product, story, or headline go viral, I’m simply going to go back into my own hole and be glad no one’s talking about me in People this week.

Brace yourself.

George (who is 7) takes tumbling. Which is the perfect extracurricular activity for him since he’s been cartwheeling his way through this house for the better part of 8 months.

He’s one of only 2 boys in a sea of girls in there, but he holds his own pretty well. I mean, as long as Ross shows up.

Tonight as they were stretching, they went into the splits. The gymnastics coach commented that the girls should all be embarrassed since George (who has rubber bands for limbs) can get all the way into a split, and most of the girls cannot.

So on the way home, David informed George that when they got here, George should tell Grace that he had mastered his splits.

(Grace shares George’s enthusiasm for all things gymnastics but she’s 5′ 3″ and counting, and having her doing cartwheels throughout this house is flat-out dangerous, so she just lives vicariously through him.)

To this suggestion, George responded, “I can’t do it again tonight. I’ll break my nuts.”

“George, you can’t say that,” informed David.

“What do you mean?” asked George.

“Well, you can’t say ‘nuts’ in that context. It’s not really appropriate. Just so you know.”

“Well, I just mean my penis!” clarified George.

“Um, okay, but…” stated David.

“And plus, this is confusing,” continued George. “I mean, if I can’t say ‘nuts,’ what if I’m at a baseball game and I want to buy some nuts because I’m hungry and I like nuts. Can I not order nuts?”

“George,” said David, feeling a bit manipulated, “Of course you can order nuts at a baseball game. Those are two different uses of the word ‘nuts.’ Like, take the word ‘dam.’ If I say, ‘I want to drive over and look at the dam,’ that’s fine, but I can’t say, ‘Damn, this traffic is terrible!”

“OH, I GET IT!” exclaimed George. “I’ll go home, show Grace how I do the splits, and then say, ‘I just broke my damn nuts!”

We have a long way to go here folks.

I mean, hey, there are only so many options when you have 5 kids. And without going into too much detail, on a dark, dreary, starless night 3 1/2 years ago, standing in the parking lot of a car dealership in Central Phoenix, I looked up toward where the stars twinkle 364 nights of the year in Phoenix, and asked, “Why? WHY has no one designed a minivan that has racing stripes and a fully retractable roof (and is not called a minivan)?”

On so many levels, the minivan just didn’t work for me—conceptually, anyway. I simply didn’t deal well with what it implied. If my personality were to be encapsulated by a vehicle, it would be a combination of a Mercedes, Range Rover, and Prius: sleek and adventurous with a conscience.

Sidenote: David says that translates to expensive, reckless, and blunt.

Whatever.

Surprisingly—and I can admit this—on a few levels, Lulu did work for me. Like, the auto-open doors. Those were great. Except when the kids didn’t close them—like they were born in a barn or something—and the paging system in TJ Maxx announced over and over again, “Paging the owner of the blue Chrysler Town & Country with 19 Starbucks cups, 37 pounds of popcorn, and 29 snack wrappers falling out of it: your side door is ajar.”

As though anyone would steal anything out of there. It was practically a biohazard.

The double entertainment system with the satellite TV was nice, too. Until we’d had it for 27 minutes and it became a requirement for really long drives, like, say, to the grocery store half a mile away. And the kids fought for the entire 3.7 minutes over whether they were watch Nick Jr and the Disney Channel or Nick Jr and the Cartoon Network or OH MY GOD WHAT DID ANYONE DO BEFORE THEY COULD WATCH TV ON THE WAY TO THE GROCERY STORE!

But I have great news to share with those of you who feel the same way about your minivan.

The minivans of the world know when their time is up. They know when they’ve done their job, and when you’re ready to move on from them. They know even if you don’t. And they let you know in a few subtle glaringly obvious ways.

Lulu let me know in no uncertain terms that I no longer needed her. Here are 5 of the messages she sent me just last week:

1. The TV flat-out stopped working (which I was, of course, blamed for but I patted Lulu’s hood that afternoon and said, “Thank You Sweet Jesus.”)

2. The radio flat-out stopped working (which I was not thankful for, and I think I may have slipped in the language department when it happened; the words Holy and Hell may have been used in succession).

3. The automatic door would re-open just before it latched shut, prompting Henry to be certain there was a ghost in the car. If you know Henry, you know this caused serious problems for us at 3:00am.

4. We were told the brakes were shot—for the 4th time this year.

5. When I shut the car off (or stopped long enough to notice), a smell vaguely resembling burning oil mixed with chlorine emanated from the tailpipe. Seriously, it was bad. So bad that, more than once, the baristas at Starbucks almost wouldn’t let me leave the drive-thru for fear that I may not make it back the next morning.

So, as mentioned in my post on Advent traditions, we went to buy a new car the other night. And oh, how I love her. Or “Miss Stella,” as Nina refers to her.

“Do not touch the seat with your feet!” I snapped during our first ride. “Stella doesn’t like that.”

“Who the heck is Stella?” asked George.

I pulled over and instructed the kids that there was no gum chewing, eating, drinking, feet on the backs of seats, spitting, use of unkind language of any kind, or breathing with one’s mouth open whilst riding in Stella.

To which Henry (who is notorious for believing that the most appropriate repository for over-chewed gum is the space between his seat and the side of the car) replied, “Why would we do that? That thing’s a sweet ride!”

She really is. And I fully accept every single solitary TV-less, auto-open-door-less, trash-less inch of her.

But nowadays, all the kids know that an Advent calendar isn’t cool unless each window reveals a piece of chocolate. Or an iPad2.

Two of my kids can’t have chocolate, and even if they could, dividing it between all 5 of them would be asinine (not that I’m above asinine. I’m not), I had to come up with an alternative. Which I did. 3 years ago.

I strung 24 envelopes, each for one day in December, from the mantle. We alternated who got to open one each day, and each announced a surprise activity. The kids would learn that we were going to get our Christmas tree that day, or fill boxes for Operation Christmas Child, or clean the leaves out of our neighbor’s front yard, or play a new game hidden somewhere in the house that they had to find by solving a series of riddles.

It was awesome.

And by awesome, I mean completely and utterly exhausting.

To proactively take responsibility for my 3% of the problem, I did make one critical error of note: in my haste to come up with 24 cool things to do, I forgot to do two things: 1) write them down for my personal reference and 2) consider the day of the week on which each activity fell.

The Wednesday that I woke up having slept for about 7 minutes the night before, and the kids opened the envelope to reveal that we were going bowling that night? Yeah. I almost killed myself.

Or the day the card said, “Look under the thing you constantly clog with toothpaste to find a new game,” and I was like, “OH MY GOD I DIDN’T PUT THE GAME UNDER THE SINK. ALSO, I FORGOT TO BUY THE GAME!” Yeah. That didn’t go well either.

So this year, after I was, in effect, told that Christmas isn’t Christmas without Mom’s Advent Calendar of Giving and Receiving, I reluctantly went to JoAnn’s and bought this:

Because I know that the kids will peek, I put only the current and next day’s cards in their respective pockets. This approach also allows me to strategically decide what makes sense to do on a given day, and prevents the aforementioned bowling debacle.

Tonight’s card says, “Go buy Mom a new car.”

New house? Awesome.

3 boys needing to fit into a room the size of a large closet? Not so much.

Giving credit where credit is due is muy importante over here, and I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Mariana from The Bumper Crop, who convinced me via cyberspace that where there’s a will there’s a way!

Of course, the plan couldn’t go completely according to…well…plan because the beds made by the fabulous Mariana who, I’m quite certain, I was separated from at birth (if you know my life at all — and read her blog at all — you’ve already gleaned this) were for a room that was, quite unbelievably, 3 feet longer and 2 feet wider than my boys’ room.

And let’s be clear. Those 6 extra square feet? Yeah. They’re a big deal.

In addition, they had two otherwise un-utilized walls to work with. As it turned out, the wall opposite the big wall (if you can call it a big wall) in our boys’ room is not a wall at all. It’s a closet door. So I had to figure out how to make all this work in a 10×10 room with only 2 walls at my disposal.

First, let me start with a picture of the before. It was pretty bland, no?

Just so you know, there will be many pictures in this explanatory post as well as some video. I’m a visual person, so I need to see things (real well) to understand them. And, sometimes, I need someone to show me “live” in order to really understand.

I built the beds in very similar fashion to the explanation given by Mariana, but I did tweak them a bit. For starters, our boys are 10, 10, and 7, and I wanted to be absolutely sure that the beds were durable enough to hold for several years. Additionally, given what I know about our boys, I wanted to make sure the beds were installed very (very) securely both into the wall and with support to the floor—but (and here was the design kicker) without the support to the floor making the whole thing unsightly. Part of the reason I loved this concept from the beginning was that it frees up so much floor space—space that can be used for storage!

Because I know cost is often a motivating factor (as well as a curiosity) when it comes to DIY, let me tell you that I built and installed these 4 beds (our daughter has one in her room as well) for approximately $300. So that works out to be about $75 per bed.

The time involved was greater than anticipated, but that seems to be par for the course with projects I undertake!

PART 1: BUILD THE BEDS

*These directions assume you are building a twin-sized bed. I would not personally hang anything larger than this from the wall. If you prefer a video how-to format, scroll down a bit where you’ll find a video explanation and demonstration of most of the following steps.

1. For each bed you’ll need 18 2x4s. Make sure that you select 2x4s from the kiln dried bin. Oftentimes, green wood will make its way into the kiln dried bin. If the 2×4 you pick up feels awfully heavy (and a bit damp), it’s likely green wood. Put it back. Trust me.

2. Take someone with you to the home improvement store to help load the wood. This is my favorite building partner in crime. He’s 10.

3. Kindly ask (or flat-out beg) someone to help you load all this wood into the back of your truck. Alternately, do it yourself, and get the arm workout of a century.

4. Use a miter saw to barely trim the end of each piece of wood so that they are straight. They aren’t always cut square, and it can cause a less-than-ideal snafu later in the game if you have uneven pieces. Again, trust me. It matters not which end you trim, but when you lay your pieces back down, keep all the trimmed sides pointing in the same direction.

5. It’s now time to make the frame. Cut two 2x4s at 82.5″ and six at 42.5″. Lay out the frame with the 4 extra 42.5″ 2x4s evenly spaced from top to bottom. Using a Kreg pocket jig (this is one area where I did things a bit differently as the Kreg jig allows the screws to be hidden and also creates a tighter bond by ensuring that the screw goes into the center of the adjoining 2×4), drill two holes at both ends of each of the shorter boards. I set my Kreg jig to 1″. In the video I said 7/8″. You can do that, but on occasion the screw may pop through to the other side. Like, perhaps, when your sides aren’t square. Remember that? So 1″ is really best. Do and learn, people; it’s my motto.

6. Using 2 1/2″ self-tapping Kreg screws, create the frame by connecting the ends of the shorter boards to the inside of the longer boards. You don’t have to pre-drill.

You should now have a basic frame. Here is the video explaining exactly how to use the Kreg pocket jig system, and how to get to this point in the process:

7. Cut 12 top boards to 85″ each.

8. Attach the first top board flush with the back (long side) of the frame. This is the part of the bed that will go against the wall, so none of the top slat can hang over the edge of the frame or you won’t be able to attach it flush. Trust me.

9. Use a 1/2″ piece of scrap wood as a spacer between the slats. Position all 12 slats without attaching.

10. Now it’s time to actually attach the top boards.

NOTE: Attach only every other—or even every third—board at this point. You can pre-drill the others, but wait to screw them in until the bed is securely hung on the wall. If you have all of the boards screwed in from the get-go, the bed is heavy (real heavy) and it makes it very (very) hard to install. Trust me.

This photo shows all the slats installed. You don’t want to do that at this stage.

11. Apply a small bead of wood glue to the frame where you’ll attach the slat. Pre-drill two holes into the long board at each point it meets part of the frame. Honestly, you could probably get away with just one hole. If I were to do this again (and I don’t plan to unless Nicole Curtis from The Rehab Addict comes calling—for her, I’d do it), I’d put in only one screw per connection.

Here’s the video that demonstrates Steps 7-10:

12. Sand the edges and top of the bed.

13. Finish with a clear satin polyurethane.

14. Sand edges of the boards that will be attached later, and apply clear coat of polyurethane to them. It helps at this point to number with pencil the ends (or bottoms) of each slat as well as their coordinating point on the frame so that you’ll know which goes where when it comes time to put the remaining top boards on.

*Here is the video showing how to complete steps 12-14

15. Get ready to hang the beds (a.k.a. Not The Most Fun Time You’ve Ever Had, But Totally Worth It)

PART 2: HANGING THE BEDS

I enlisted the help of my friend (and favorite Carpenter in Crime) Rob in this adventure. He was thrilled. Especially after he realized I’d attached all of the top boards prior to installation.

Rob is one of the most amazing carpenters I’ve ever known, and he had some great insights as to how to hang these things easily and securely.

It may be more helpful to watch the videos detailing how we installed these than reading through the instructions, so I’ll put those two videos here first:

So, basically, what you’re going to do is:

1. Determine placement of the beds. We decided to have 30″ between each bed.

2. Using a level, draw a light line on the wall where the “resting board” will be installed. This resting board provides a great place for the end of the bed to…wait for it…rest while you’re installing it, and it also provides a way to attach the bed at both its head and side using the corner of the room (which we had to do), providing for greater stability than if you were to secure it on its side alone.

3. Cut three sections of 2×4 that are 42″ each.

4. Place the 42″ pieces against the wall, and mark the location of the center of the stud on each. You should have 2 studs into which to secure the board.

*To find the exact center of a stud, use a stud finder that shows you where the edge of a stud is and mark it. Then come from the other direction, and mark the other edge of the stud. Use your eye to estimate the center point between those two points. That’s the center of your stud.

5. With the 1 3/8″ bore bit, drill into the 42″ board precisely at the marks that correspond with the location of the center of the studs. Drill just far enough that the head of the lag bolt will fit inside and be flush with the surface of the board (you’ll understand why in a few steps).

6. Using a 9/16″ bore bit, drill a hole all the way through the center of the hole you just drilled with the larger bore bit.

7. Place the 42″ board up against the wall, place a 5″ x 1/2″ lag bolt in the hole, ensure it’s parallel to the floor, and hit it once or twice with a hammer to create a nice pilot hole for the wall.

8. Take down the board and, using a drill bit appropriate for the size of your lag bolt, drill straight in to create a pilot hole for the bolt.

9. Using a socket wrench, tighten the lag bolt down.

10. Repeat for other hole.

11. Find a helper.

12. Somehow, get the head of the bed to rest on the “resting bar.” While your partner in crime holds up the foot of the bed, drill two 3″ deck screws into the head of the frame to secure it to the resting bar. DO NOT LET GO OF THE FOOT OF THE BED AT THIS POINT. THESE SCREWS ONLY KEEP THE HEAD FROM SLIPPING OFF THE BAR. THEY DO NOT PROVIDE ANY MORE SUPPORT THAN THAT!

13. While your helper is still holding the foot of the bed aloft (and likely swearing at you by now), quickly work to mark the center of the studs along the length of the bed.

14. Using the 9/16″ bore bit, drill directly through the wood and into the wall. (Countersinking these bolts isn’t necessary.) Grab your lag bolt, stick it straight into the hole, give it two hard whacks with a hammer to create a pilot hole, and then use your wrench to screw the lag bolt into place.

15. Repeat in the 2 or 3 other studs you found along the length of the bed.

16. Once you have 2 lag bolts securely in studs, your partner can probably let go. The word “probably” is key.

17. Once the length of the bed is secured to the wall, return to the head of the frame, and screw in another 8 or so 3″ deck screws to securely connect the frame to the resting bar. Screw some up high and some down low.

18. Now it’s time to attach your rope. Drill a pilot hole into the outside of the foot of the bed. *Remember, there is already a screw in place in the frame. If you hit it when you drill your pilot hole, simply start again a bit lower down. Screw in a 4″ long, 3/8″ diameter eye bolt. You’ll need to insert a screwdriver or other long metal stick into the hole of the eye bolt to help you turn it once it gets about halfway in. I screwed mine in until the hole was basically flush against the bedframe.

19. Measure the distance from the wall to the outer edge of the bed. It’s likely around 46″. Now measure that same distance up from the top of the bed against the wall. Determine where your stud is (it may not be in that exact spot; if not, move inward toward the head of the bed until you find it. Drill a pilot hole diagonally downward for this eye bolt and screw it into place.

20. Using about 7 feet over rope, insert the ends through both holes, and then tie in whatever fashion you’d like. Again, I thought of this rope as decorative. Even though the bolts were secure, I didn’t want to worry about the knots coming loose at any point, as the outer corner of the bed is the weakest point.

At this point, if you’d like you can build ladders and/or bed rails. I think the bed rails are a good idea no matter the age of the child—especially for the 2 highest bunks. You simply never know when someone will roll the wrong way at 3:30am! The final video explains how I made the bed rails and the ladders. They were the easiest parts!

That’s it – happy building!

*Disclaimer: We live in a litigious society, so I find it necessary to remark that I’m not a licensed contractor. No warranty regarding these instructions is expressed or implied. If you choose to build these beds, or anything else described through this site, you are doing so at your own risk. Elizabeth Lyons Designs is not responsible for any damages that may occur to your walls, your person, or your checking account due to the undertaking of this or any other project presented.

“So I’m pretty nervous to tell you this…”

These were the first 8 words out of Grace’s mouth at pick-up today.

“Just say it,” I flatly advised.

Let me jump in here to inform those of you who aren’t already aware that I’m raising the biggest rule follower ever to grace this planet (pun intended).

“Well, we had to have this paper signed today noting that you understood the policy on referrals. And you signed it, but then it went missing. So I got another one. And I forgot to have you sign that one. And I didn’t want to miss our pizza party. So I signed it–”

“Grace — ,” I began.

“OH THE GUILT, MOM!” she exclaimed, hands over her face. “I’ve felt guilty ALL DAY. In fact, I almost PUKED about five times out of guilt. I was like, ‘Should I tell my teacher this is a fake signature? Should I — ‘”.

“It’s called forgery, Grace.”

“Yeah, you’re a forgerer,” added George, who doesn’t have a great command of proper pronunciation of the letter ‘r’ yet, so imagine that accusation coming out more like, “You’re a forgewuh.”

“Oh God. I’m going to be expelled. I’m going to be expelled and never get into medical school. I can’t become a doctor. Oh no. Oh, this is bad.”

Clearly, the child had punished herself enough.

“Are you mad?” she asked. And, honestly, her fear about my being mad was suddenly quite a bit more real than her guilt over having done it. So I decided to give her a break.

“I’m not mad. I appreciate you being honest with me. DON’T DO IT AGAIN!”

She agreed not to.

“Because if you forge something really important, like a check, you can go to jail. If I chose to prosecute.”

“Jail? But…” she surprisingly began.

“And I would. Prosecute.” I added.

“As an aside,” I added, while her mouth still hung open at the sudden realization that what she’d done was, technically, illegal. “I’d love to see your imitation of my signature.”

“Yeah, it’s not very good,” confided Grace.

“I should think not. My signature is inimitable.”

“No it’s not,” piped in Henry, who doesn’t seem to understand the word homework but picked up contextually on inimitable right away. “I can do it great.”

Um, what?

“I mean, not that I’ve done it professionally or anything. But I practice it a lot. And it’s perfect.”

Good Lord – professionally? I’m relatively sure that Grace’s one act of basically innocent forgery is the least of my problems.

*Photo courtesy of shho

“Is it wrong that I’m going to print it and put it on my Wall of Dreams?” I asked her.

“Only if you’re going to Photoshop yourself into it,” she responded.

Oh dear.

Apparently, she doesn’t know me real well.

Which is why I privately sent her the following photo.

Which I’m now posting publicly on my blog.

Because I say, Just Own It Already. Brene Brown was all about the Freak Flag yesterday, and as you know from You Cannot Be Serious, I’m a Fly-It-High girl.

So here it is.

Yep. That’s me. And Ellen. On my Wall of Dreams.

Aren’t my legs phenomenal? Thanks. They’re Ellen Pompeo‘s. Hey, slimy magazines do this all. the. time. A famous person’s head on an elephant’s body. Or an alien head on Halle Berry’s body. At least I’m being honest about it. (But my head does fit rather proportionately on Ellen’s body, I think. Just sayin’.)

Everybody has a Wall of Dreams. It may be on her wall; and it may be in her head. But everybody has one. Mine happens to include myself on the cover of Fortune magazine, the above photo, a photo of Great Dane I’ve rescued (to be named Genghis) and a photo of a very clean and organized house with kids sitting on (not jumping on or hanging from) the furniture in matching (clean) clothing.

But I think I’m going to now have to add this.

Like I said, flying it high. And sadly, my head does not fit terribly proportionately on Halle’s body. Just sayin’.

What’s the most “embarrassing” thing on your actual or imagined Wall of Dreams? Do share. I promise, it’s most freeing.

If you’re super disappointed that this isn’t my second post on The Happiness Project, I apologize. But the second chapter is on marriage, so it’s taken a back seat. Obviously.

For those of you who are now nodding with understanding, let me take this moment to pimp out my friend Jenna McCarthy‘s upcoming release, If It Was Easy They’d Call the Whole Damn Thing a Honeymoon. Order it already. She’s that funny. And the cover? Please.

Anyway.

Today, I ended up at Barnes & Noble for an hour of solace. I found a comfy chair in the back and settled in with my grande coffee with two pumps of white mocha and soy milk (hot because it’s effing freezing in there) and the magazine Where Women Create because I had a feeling that it was going to change my world.

And it would have. Were it not for Mike.

So, this older gentleman saunters over to the comfy seating area. I ascertained fairly quickly that he was hard of hearing. Because he shouted, “HELLO THERE!” so loudly that his voice is echoing off the Grand Canyon right about now.

Let me insert here that I’ve seen this man all over town. I see him at Sprouts and B&N most often, and he’s always super friendly to everyone. Plus, he was wearing a striped button-down shirt with a plaid jacket over top, so clearly he’s in some way related to at least two of my children.

Given the likelihood that he’s a relative combined with my frequent sightings of him, I wondered, What does this mean?

I had nary a moment to ponder that before he asked (loudly), “You want to know what I think is wrong with the medical system today?”

Ohmigod, do I have a sign on me somewhere? That says Therapist Is In? Like Lucy in Charlie Brown?

“Actually, it’s three things,” he continued.

Super. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse.

“Several years ago, my doctor told me I needed to have my prostrate removed.”

Yes, he said prostrate. I edit in all situations, but in this one I rightfully (I think) grabbed my left index finger—which had instinctively begun to raise itself as a precursor to my informing him that he needed to drop the second “r”—with my right hand because, really, it was only going to make things worse.

“I did nothing,” he continued. “But then a year later, another doctor told me I needed to have my prostrate removed.”

“Of course he did,” I responded.

“WHAT?” he shouted, as he cupped his ear and leaned in.

Great.

“OF COURSE HE DID!” I shouted back.

At this point, I spied the head of the store manager peeking around the corner of the Health section to see what all the shouting was about. Upon seeing my companion, however, he simply rolled his eyes and went back to his work. Clearly, I was neither the first nor, probably, the last.

“I’m Mike,” he said.

“Hi Mike. I’m Elizabeth,” I answered.

“WHAT?”

“E-LI-ZA-BETH!” I responded.

“So, Lisbon, what do you do?” shouted Mike.

I was so very close to saying, “I’m an EMT and my pager just went off” because, really, it could be true and he couldn’t hear it anyway.

But instead, I thought, Maybe I’m the only person Mike is going to run into today who will try to be nice. Maybe everyone else will ignore him or flat-out tell him to go away. I really don’t have to be anywhere, and this magazine isn’t going anywhere. Also, if he turns out to be a real whack job, he thinks my name is Lisbon, so I’m in no real danger.

I closed my magazine, shifted my weight so as to be more clearly attentive, and responded.

“WELL, MIKE, I’M A WRITER.”

“OH! A WRITER! WHAT’S YOUR LAST NAME?”

“LYONS.”

No, I don’t know why.

“LISBON LYONS THE WRITER. THAT’S JUST BEAUTIFUL.”

And with that, he opened Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill (you can’t make this shit up, people) and started reading. So I returned to reading my magazine.

Four minutes later, he closed his book, got up, and said, “Lisbon, I wish you a beautiful day.”

And I said, “Mike, I wish you a beautiful day as well.”

And he said, “WHAT?”

And I said, “HAVE A GREAT DAY!”

And that was that.

It was the weirdest, most bizarre, kindest moment I’ve experienced in a month.

Now go order Jenna’s book already.

*Photo courtesy of SweetOnVeg