This is what I like to call...
TRUE STORY TIME
My Facebook fiends are all too familiar with this.
Sit back and I'll tell you a little tale. A true tale.
I had a dream. A small dream really. It looked like this.
Ok, that looks elaborate.
I just wanted to go on a picnic. I had never been on one.
Ok, that's a lie. I had been on sorta a picnic.
We had just moved to Bermuda and we went to the beach.
This is Horseshoe Bay Beach in Bermuda. It does look like this.
Mom was going to make sandwiches but she got stung on the hand by a Portuguese-Man-O-War Jellyfish and didn't quite feel like it. Dad had to pee in a cup and she had to soak her hand in it to take the poison out ~ NO LIE. This prevented her from making lunch. Apparently, I was unhappy about this turn of events. OK, I was 15 and had teenage angst about being wrenched away from the United States and plopped down on a tiny island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
But I digress.
I wanted to go on a picnic as an adult with my own family. My girls were toddlers at the time. I had visions of lemonade and sandwiches, the sound of children's laughter as they ran and played amongst the flowers.
I had bought a picnic basket, outfitted it with everything I could think of. I was ready. We had recently moved to Virginia and we didn't know the area. This was in ancient times before the internet. I bought a paper map. I found our street. I saw a park, Dale Memorial Park. I said to my husband "Sunday we are going on a picnic!"
Sunday arrived and I had the car all packed up. We headed out. We pull up to the entrance to Dale Memorial Park.
No where on the map did it say it was a cemetery! The kids were howling with laughter. There, of course, was one road in to the place and we had to drive all the way through it to get out. My mortification was complete. We went home and ate lunch.