Hold on to Your Butts

I once went to this attraction in Pennsylvania called Living Waters. The internet is trying to tell me that I'm making all of this up and that this place never existed as I remember it, but I assure you that this was for real. My mom will corroborate the story.

Living Waters was a freebie experience for those with tickets to a show at the far-more-spectacular Sight and Sound Theater. It was a tiny theater that had equally tiny fountains lit by colored spotlights. These fountains danced to religious music for 30 minutes or so, and that was the show. It was less than impressive.

Much like Living Waters, the Dinosaurs Come Alive(!) show at the Dulles Expo Center underwhelmed but astonished with the sheer ballsiness of the producers' ability to call it an attraction. The last time I went to the expo center, I had a stomach flu that I refused to let stop me, and I threw up in multiple places inside and outside the center. So, we could assume that Dinosaurs Come Alive(!) would be a better expo center experience. Or could we?

Dinosaurs Come Alive(!) was a self-guided tour through displays of animatronic dinosaurs with canned roaring set at a volume just below "jet engine." The displays were educational and moderately informative, even if the production value gave you the giggles like it did for us. Following the animatronics was a display of honest-to-goodness fossils of dinosaurs, birds, and plants. Definitely cool.

But then it got weird. In fact, there was so much WTFery that we decided we should start taking pictures in order for people to believe the experience.

 The website (that I obviously didn't read before yelling, "OMG, dinosaurs!" and dragging Eric all the way to Chantilly) describes the event as "a million dollar dinosaur and fantasy character spectacular." Further, they invite us to suspend logic to "walk though the Enchanted Fairy Garden, guarded by the Magical Talking Tree! Meet our family of Enchanted Fairies including the Fairy of Happy Dreams, the Fairy Godmother, and see the Tooth Fairy Garden. A life-long question will be answered - What happens to all the teeth? Come to the show to find out." Weren't we here for a prehistoric-tastic afternoon with dinosaurs coming alive(!)?

Amidst the roars echoing through the expo center, we were guided into the Enchanted Fairy Garden, which was a Living-Waters-esque spotlit section with mannequins in bargain bin lingerie. If one could take her eyes off of the fairies, there was a dragon looming at about six feet tall. I'm sorry to say that I didn't find out "what happens to all the teeth" as promised by the website. I did, however, progress through the expo to the gift shop.

You'd expect there to be t-shirts with dinosaurs/dragons or fairies, maybe some figurines of those too. Nope, not really. What the gift shop did have was tickets to a "gem mine," turtle picture frames, race car toys, Spongebob t-shirts, Hello Kitty, Mickey Mouse, and cowboy themed candies, some lady sleeping up against an inflatable dragon, educational videos about butterflies, and socks. Not dinosaur socks, not little fairy socks, but plain grey and black ankle socks.

After the gift shop, there was an area that clearly showed the expo producers were like, "This place is bigger than we thought." The space was consequently filled with animal moon bounces and slides, only one of which related to the already-flimsy theme. There was also an area that looked to be getting set up for a mechanical bull, a coloring station where kids could learn how to draw dogs, a free Zumba class, and a cafe where you could buy lattes and beer to go with your disappointment.

This experience cost a total of $40 for the two of us, not including the gas to get there and opportunity cost of being there instead of doing something more productive or logical. It's hard to get the full impact, but Eric's face in this picture illustrates his feelings about the expo. Mine shows that I'm way more fun at dinosaur expos than Eric.

Bears of a Feather Flock Together

Apparently I talk about crayons, like, a lot. I've mentioned here how I had my 2nd grade social status raised by a sweet Crayola 72er, but Eric seemed to think it was time to elevate my status again for the 33rd birthday, and he got me the new 152er. This guy knows me well, because apparently I also talk about bears all the time and like to discuss how cool they are.

So, my "real" present was chainsaw art from Montana. Mostly because I told Eric that if he returned from his trip there without chainsaw art, something in jerky form, or meth, he'd failed as a husband and souvenir picker. I mean, those are Montana's major exports, right? For the record, he brought back two out of three.

Because Eric can't handle waiting until the actual day of an occasion, he always gives presents early. When he's especially good, you'll get your present the night before your birthday or anniversary. When he's free to be E, he'll give you the present the second he buys it, or in the case of the chainsaw art, when he arrives home, weeks before your birthday. Without further ado, this is Bailey the Chainsaw Art Bear. He lives in our bedroom because of course he does.

Just laying here, thinking about bear stuff.

Eric coming home with something likely Bailey is actually a pattern for him. He also came home from Wegmans with Rory the Lawn Ornament Bear last year.

Oh, hey, bro.

Further, a year before, we were wandering around the Kmart near us that was closing. Eric was enamored with a bear on a motorcycle (not a real one - bear or motorcycle). I talked him out of buying it and we moved on. A year later, I felt like a super-jerk and went looking for the motorcycle bear. Lucky for Eric and our neighbors, I found Gus the Motorcycle Bear and brought him home. Even better for the neighbors, we discovered that Gus's bike has a solar-powered, 30,000 watt LED headlight.

Every week is Bike Week.

In conclusion, I had a great birthday, and I've clearly married the one person who anticipates my art and bear needs.

So, Anyway, About My Cat

Look at my cat.

Tons of you are posting pictures of your kids' first day of school and abstract crayon art or are sitting around discussing exploded diapers, or whatever you parents do with your time. Me? I'm using my spare time to wax poetic on how pointless unscented Mr. Sketch markers are and to tell my cat she's a good girl. And she is a good girl - when she's not burping cat food in my face or eating cords.

LOOK AT MY CAT.

I was a reluctant cat guardian. I love animals, but not really free-range ones in my home. Same with the idea of free-range children and house guests. Something that can touch my stuff? I'm hardly used to Eric doing that after almost six years of marriage.

Okay, fine, so I'm a little behind on the baby-having; most people my age are having children and passing on their traits and genetic code. You're all learning to be responsible adults and to drive the speed limit and to teach your baby Cantonese sign language. Cool. So, anyway, about my cat.

Despite her being a total monster who barfs at will and opens closed doors, she's become a part of our weird little family. Sure, she's missing a tail and she occasionally attacks the darkness, but she fits right in.

You guys, look at my cat.

I'm missing things too, like spacial skills, the ability fathom the concept of torque, and the biological girl-ness that allows women to love Dirty Dancing and Grease. But, like Smudgie, I make up for my shortcomings in hairballs and jammed vacuums. Frankly, Smudgie Morgan is absolutely Morgan.

Being Smudgie's owner makes me feel like I'm important and worthwhile - even if it's just because she can't get her own food. She can repeat back words like "yeah" and "anus," which makes me proud. So proud, in fact, that all I want to do is talk about my cat. Your baby is walking now? Well, my cat can ingest 4,200 hair ties AND a FitBit. Little Landon was accepted to the Montosorri school? My cat just made a 9-foot scoot on the carpet.

We play together, I sing her songs, we share snuggles, I feed her, and I brush her fur into a little cat mohawk. I'm almost a mother. And it's not bad. Not bad at all.

If you want to discuss my cat further, send me an email.