I beam because I want to make a good impression at this first get-together with this kid from Tucker’s new school. (I had tidied up the house, baked some “get-to-know-you” brownies for Andrew’s mom Linda, and even wore my glasses to appear more intelligent.)

“They’ve had a great afternoon,” I gush. “Thanks for letting Andrew come home with us after school. Tucker’s really enjoyed hanging out with him.”

Linda nods, picks up Andrew’s backpack, and heads for the patio door to collect her son. She says, “Yeah, I almost had to cancel though, because Andrew hadn’t made enough progress on his International Fair project yet. But he accomplished a lot last night, so he’s in pretty good shape.”

My pulse quickens. “What International Fair project?” I ask.

She looks at me as though I’m joking. “The one that’s due Monday.”

Today is Friday.

“Oh, is that, like an optional project, like for a Science Fair, or something?” I ask hopefully.

She turns to me, backpack on her shoulder, and says, “No, this is the big 6th grade History project they’ve supposed to have been working on all semester. Surely Tucker’s told you about it?”

I’m sure I’m turning bright red from embarrassment – and bright white from panic. I hope my intelligent glasses make my next question seem less pitiful.

“Um, no, he hasn’t mentioned it. What’s due on Monday?”

Well, now she sets the backpack down and turns her attention completely toward me, and braces herself to tell me some very bad news.

“OK, each child picks a country, then they need to write a report on 6 topics of that country, like climate, cuisine, politics, religion, stuff like that.”

“Oh dear,” I say.

“Each report has to be typed up and pasted on a tri-fold poster board with artwork and photos,” she continues.

“Well, um, OK,” I stammer. “I..I think we can work on that this weekend. I can run to the crafts store for the poster board. We can probab-“

“Get the flag materials there too,” she interrupts.

“There’s a flag?” I ask.

“Yes, and a costume.”

“WHAT?”

“Yes, this is why they gave the kids all semester to work on it! They need to make that country’s flag out of fabric and put it on a stick because they’ll carry it in the procession. Then they also need to wear a costume that’s native to the country – it can be homemade, or maybe you have a friend or family member who has something from that country, or—“

She stops as she sees me sit down, about to hyperventilate.

I whisper, “I don’t even know what his country is.”

She winces.

“OK, look, I hate to keep going, but you should know the kids also need to cook an authentic dish from their country.” She blurts it out very quickly like she’s ripping off a band-aid. “And they need to have enough bite-size servings for 40 students because all the 6th graders and their parents are invited to the International Fair – which is Monday.” Then super-fast she says, “And it’s 25% of their grade.”

She picks up the backpack again and turns toward the patio door. She looks back at me and I see indecision on her face. Should she flee the scene? Grab her son and run away, kissing him all over for having the good sense to tell her about the International Fair project months ago?

Or should she stay and comfort a fallen comrade in the Mommy Wars?

Please, my eyes beg her. Don’t abandon me. Explain more about this International Fair of which you speak. Help me, guide me, tell me my son’s frikking country, something, anything, for God’s sake. What’s your son’s country? Can our sons choose the same country? Can my son join your son and share his flag and his tri-fold and his cuisine? I beg of you…

Of course I don’t say any of those words out loud. But she can see them in my eyes, even behind the intelligent glasses. So she pats me on the shoulder, opens the patio door, and calls for Andrew.

The boys come running in. Linda says a nervous goodbye to an oblivious Tucker, hastily thanks me, hustles Andrew out the door, and snags another brownie on her way out.

Bitch. She annihilates me AND still has time to take a treat?

I shouldn’t have thought that. Of course she’s not a bitch. Why shoot the messenger when there is somebody much more appropriate to receive my wrath?

As the front door closes, I turn to Tucker, narrow my eyes, and ask in a chillingly low voice, “Did you know there was an International Fair project due on Monday?”

He stuffs a brownie bite in his mouth and says brightly, “Yeah, but it’s like a Science Fair or something – it’s optional.”

I grip the handles of the chair. “Tucker.It.Is.Not.Optional.It.Is.25%.Of.Your.Grade!”

He shrugs, says, “Huh,” and takes another bite.

I look at him with wonder that this truly carefree child emanated from the womb of a Type A hyper-organized, compulsive pre-planner like myself.

“Linda said the teachers have been talking about this International Fair all semester. Did you think they would spend that much time talking about an optional project?” I ask.

He screws up his face and lifts his shoulders in a gesture of Hey, who knows what’s on the minds of those crazy teachers?

I take a breath. “Tucker,” I say. “Do you even know what country you have? And if you chose a country, what did you think you were choosing it FOR, since you thought the project was optional?”

He finishes the last bite of the brownie and says, “Oh yeah, I chose Mexico. I thought it was like ‘Hey, where would you like to visit if you could pick any country?’ And I picked Mexico because I love Mexican food.”

“Well, I’m glad you do, Tucker. I’m glad you do. Because you are going to be making Mexican food all weekend. And a flag and a costume and 6 reports! YOU ARE GOING TO BE ALL MEXICO ALL THE TIME FOR THE NEXT 48 HOURS!!”

And thus began one of the most painful, stressful weekends in the history of Mother-Son school projects.

Ay Caramba!

– Darcy Perdu

Original Illustrations for So Then Stories created by Shelly at Shell Graphics (shellydraven2000@yahoo.com)

(Any projects that snuck up on you or your kids? Any surprise tests? Or how about the “oh-yeah-I-need-36-cupcakes-for-school-tomorrow-Mom” at 9:00 at night? Share your Stories and Comments below! I LOVE to read them!)

Can’t wait to see you guys this summer. We’re available June 21 – July 31. We’re not available Labor Day weekend. The kids have sports camps the first half of June – then I’m helping chaperone a camping trip for 12 kids from July 4-7. (Pray for me!) Thanks for organizing a get-together for us!
–Della

When is Labor Day?
–Darcy

Seriously? Don’t you own a calendar? September 2. We’re not available for Labor Day because we’ll be in Kansas.
–Della

OK, well, just FYI, we’re not available for Groundhog’s Day.
Or Summer Solstice.
Or Vaginal Itching Day.
Oh yeah, I’m sure you know when those dates are.
–Darcy

Isn’t every day Vaginal Itching Day?
–Della

Omigod, you’re hilarious! Yes, every day IS Vaginal Itching Day!
Did I mention that I’m saving our emails so I can publish them in a book?
–Darcy

Oh, snap. I take it back.
–Della

So then I decide to share the emails on this website – and I try to figure out what picture I could use to illustrate the story.

I know there can’t possibly be an actual “Vaginal Itching Day” – much less a Parade to celebrate it – but just for sh*ts and giggles, I Google it anyway – and I find this photo:

Oh.My.God.

Now I’m not saying that this is a Vaginal Itching Day Parade — but it does appear to be a parade of some kind — and vaginas do seem to figure prominently.

I love the internet.

So there you have it. Apparently there IS some sort of Vagina Day that we need to put on our calendars. So plan your summer vacation around THAT, everybody!

– Darcy Perdu

(Feel free to share any funny stories about summer vacations, Groundhog’s Day, Summer Solstice, Arbor Day, or Vagina Parades. Or let me know if you enjoyed the post!)

The kitchen table is strewn with art materials, scissors, markers, cardboard, and enough rocks to fill a quarry.

The girls are in all their glory, painstakingly affixing the rocks one by one to cover the entire 17th century “house” for the school’s historical village project. It’s taking them hours — and they could not be happier.

Tucker, 7th grade, walks in the kitchen to grab a snack bar, sees the massive array of art materials scattered everywhere and asks, “Is that due tomorrow?”

(In Tucker’s world, one would never THINK of starting a project unless, in fact, it IS due tomorrow.) (Or sometimes even — due last week.)

Chloe, fingers dripping glue, looks up and says, “No, it’s due in 3 weeks.”

Tucker’s face is perplexed. His brain is having difficulty grasping that concept.

He moves over to the table and looks closer at the stone house. He asks, “It’s for history, huh?”

Chloe places a white stone near the little chimney and says, “Yeah, it’s for extra credit.”

Now Tucker’s face depicts utter confusion.

His little brain is screaming: “What? Doing a project 3 weeks BEFORE it’s due — and you don’t even HAVE to do the project? WHAAAAAT?!?”

He’s like one of those broken robots that keeps ramming its head into the wall, with arms robotically flailing, muttering, “THIS.DOES.NOT.COMPUTE. THIS.DOES.NOT.COMPUTE.”

His brain is literally about to EXPLODE.

Finally, he calms himself with the knowledge that no such absurdity would befall him.

He shakes his head at the folly of these little girls, slips a couple of the stones in his pocket unnoticed, takes a bite of the snack bar, and strolls out into his carefree life.

– Darcy Perdu

(Is this a common difference between boys and girls? Or just the difference between personality types? Which category do your kids fall into – and do they get that from YOU? Do tell in the Comments Section!)

Illustrated for So Then Stories by Stefano Marchio

Chloe and her first-grade classmate Penny shout “Go out to lunch!”

I rattle off some choices and when I mention an Italian restaurant, Penny exclaims, “I LOVE Italian food! Let’s go there!”

I’m delighted she’s voiced an opinion. She’s a rather quiet girl and this is our first real playdate with her, so I’m pleased she’s excited about this restaurant option.

When we arrive and review the menus, I wonder if she’ll go for the lasagna — or spaghetti and meatballs — or something really adventurous like gnocchi.

Penny orders, “Noodles with no sauce and no butter.”
(Seriously? We came all this way to an Italian restaurant so you could order plain noodles that I could have made for you at home in 10 minutes for about 10 cents? Um, OK.)

I say this to myself, while outwardly I smile cheerfully.

After lunch, we walk around the fountains and visit the bookstore. Then I offer, “Do you guys want to go to the drugstore for ice cream or Baskin-Robbins?”

Chloe shrugs to indicate either one is fine by her, but Penny says, “Baskin-Robbins! They have 31 flavors!”

Yep, you guessed it. At Baskin-Robbins, Penny chooses Vanilla.

OK, fine. Perhaps she has a tender palate. She’s only 6. I force myself not to judge her lack of creativity.

So then, we enter Color Me Mine for our afternoon activity of painting ceramics. I tell the girls they can choose anything they want from all the ceramics on the shelves – and not to even look at the pricing. (‘Cause I’m a big spender like that.)

Chloe excitedly checks out the heart-shaped vases, cow-shaped cookie jars, kitten-shaped banks – and finally chooses a tall fairy princess with big beautiful wings that she can paint with millions of different colors.

                        Some of the choices at Color Me Mine

Penny chooses a flat square tile.

I am not kidding you.

You know those flat 4” x 4” tiles that are the most blah item you can buy in a ceramics place?

The flat tile that’s about 3 bucks — and everything else is $15 to $30 in the store?

   Penny’s choice: one flat tile

I say, “Oh really, Penny, don’t worry about the price. You can have anything you want to paint. How about a jewelry case with flowers on it? Or this peace sign that’s also a bank? Or maybe this puppy in a wheelbarrow? Something 3-dimensional you can really get in there and paint it up?”

“Oh, no,” she says. “I just want this square tile.”

I say hopefully, “Well, that’s so small, honey, it won’t take you very long to paint it. Let me buy you a few of those tiles to paint.”

“No, just one, thank you.”

What a polite little bugger she is.

She joins Chloe at the paint station. Chloe squeezes six bold, brazen colors onto her palette – lime green, wild purple, hot pink, electric blue, bright orange, and berry red.

Penny’s hand hovers over the colors. If she picks white to color her flat square already-white tile, I swear I will call her a therapist immediately.

Instead, she chooses a pale blue and squeezes it into each of the six indentations of her palette.

And so while Chloe takes 40 minutes to painstakingly paint each and every crevice of her tall princess fairy, Penny is finished painting her square tile blue in about 60 seconds.

So she spends the rest of the time watching Chloe paint and chatting quietly and amiably.

And I need to be OK with that.

Of course, I want to tell her she lives in the most amazing country in the world – in the most spectacular age of all ages – with the widest variety of choices available at her fingertips – and that she should sample and experiment and try new things and take the plunge and GO WILD!

But then I remind myself that she also lives in the Land of the Free — where she is free to make the choices that feel right to her.

And so even if I am a “spicy shrimp pasta diablo with jamoca almond fudge ice cream type who would paint an awesome ceramic wicked witch with fiery cauldron” – she is a “plain noodles with vanilla ice cream type who would paint a flat square tile.”

And I need to be OK with that.

And who knows? She’s only 6. By the time she grows up, she might be a heavily-tattoo-ed, globe-trotting, raw-octopus-eating, flame-throwing performance artist who creates clothing out of beer bottle caps and shellfish.

And I would definitely be OK with that!

– Darcy Perdu

(Have you encountered such a child on your playdates? Share some funny or interesting playdate experiences in the Comments section! I would love to read them!)

But we’ve finished dinner and some of them blame extreme fatigue from a week of working all day and corralling kids all night.

Kate says, “To hell with you guys, Darcy and I are goin’ to the Cantina to drink!”

We don’t.

Truth is, we’re pretty tired from working all day and corralling kids all night too.

But the other moms don’t know that.

So later that night, when one of the Mamas, Mindy, sends me an email with the contact info for the orthodontist she had recommended earlier at our dinner, I reply:

Mindy:
THANK YOU for the orthodontist referral — I will call him!
–Darcy
P.S. Kate and I are still out clubbing. I’m emailing you from the bathroom where I’m snorting coke with a motorcycle gang. Kate’s dancing topless on a table with a fireman.

Mindy takes this in stride and simply emails back:
OK, send pics….

For pics of our wild night, click here*

– Darcy Perdu

(*If link doesn’t work, it’s possible Kate and I didn’t go out drinking after dinner after all. In fact, I mentioned that above. Were you not paying attention? Did you actually click here to see pics? I’m worried about you.)

(What do YOU do on YOUR Girls Night Out? Do you get up to mischief — or is everyone too pooped to pop? Have you, in fact, danced topless with a fireman? I’m sort of obsessed with firemen. So definitely send pics. Of the firemen.  Not your topless dance. Comment below!)

Original Illustration by Innovative Ocean (www.innovativeocean.com) for So Then Stories

And now for the store-bought gift. I unwrap the gift with delight, knowing that at long last, I will receive something I truly want for Mother’s Day. Because this time, I told David exactly what I want. Specifically. Precisely. As in the make, model, serial number, price, and store.

Past birthdays and Mother’s Days have included gifts that have less to do with function or fashion – and more to do with being available at retail establishments in close proximity to David’s favorite coffee shop.

His beloved Starbucks is in a small retail center that houses a book store (countless gift cards) and a Hawaiian clothing shop (over the years: 1 dress, 2 shirts, 1 vest – a Hawaiian vest, people!).

So this Mother’s Day, I ask for something very simple and specific.

I need new cake pans. I love to bake and my old cake pans are pretty dinged up. So I ask for two 9” round cake pans from Target for $6.99 each. Which I mention repeatedly — and even point out to David when we were at Target a couple weeks ago.

So all of us are grinning with anticipation as I open the box since we all know that I am going to LOVE this gift. Come to mama, 9” round cake pans!

The box contains:

Two 8” round cake pans from Williams & Sonoma
Two 10” round cake pans from Williams & Sonoma

Honestly, it’s like he has to get up early just to get it so wrong.

I immediately exclaim, “Omigosh! They’re perfect! I love them!” The kids beam.

Dave shoots me a smug smile and a self-satisfied nod of the head that means, “Hey, no mass merchandise store for my wife – I went to upscale Williams and Sonoma. Only the best, baby.”

I sneak a peek at the price sticker on the bottom of the pans. $19.99 – each!

The two 8” rounds are too small to contain a standard size box of cake mix.

The two 10” rounds are too big to fit in my oven side by side on the same rack.

This is why 9” is the perfect size. This is why I asked for 9” rounds.

And believe me, I’m grateful to receive gifts at all.

But instead of two 9” rounds from Target for a total of 14 bucks –
I now have $80 worth of cake pans that do not work.

But being a good mother means kissing and thanking everyone, gushing over the fantastic cake pans –

then at the earliest opportunity during the week – sneaking over to Williams and Sonoma to return the bizarre-sized cake pans and buying the 9” rounds at Target – confident that no one in my family will ever discern the difference between these rounds and the gift rounds.

The exchange leaves me with $66 leftover which I blow on a manicure, a new mystery novel, and a long lunch at Tito’s Taco Bar, downing margaritas with my friend Melissa whose Mother’s Day gift was a Handi-Vac.

– Darcy Perdu

(Out with it, ladies:  share the worst – or most puzzling – gifts you’ve received for Mother’s Day, Birthday, Christmas, Hannukah, Valentine’s, Anniversary, Arbor Day. Yes, Arbor Day IS a gift-giving holiday! Have you not been receiving gifts that day? Hmmm. Share in the Comments Section!)

“I LOVE ROCK N ROLL! Put another dime in the juice box, baby!”

And it makes complete sense.

Because they drink from juice boxes all the time. But they’ve never even seen a juke box.

(Of course, one might wonder why they would need to put a dime in a juice box, because, after all, I don’t charge the kids for their drinks.)

(Although — note to self: consider charging kids for their drinks. And their food. Medicine and baths are free. Charge double for desserts.)

When I share my observation about the mistaken lyrics with my friend, she tells me that her kids keep using the expression “it’s like a bowl in a china shop” when it’s supposed to be “it’s like a bull in a china shop.”

And that makes sense too. Isn’t it more likely that there would be a bowl in a china shop than a bull? Although, I suppose that’s the whole point of the expression!

(Surely you can share a story about mistaken lyrics or expressions by you or your kids? Come on, people, I know you got ‘em – so ‘fess up in the Comment section!)

– Darcy Perdu

“Yes,” I confirm. “We’d love to carpool, but our 7th grade son needs to be at school an hour early every day because he’s in Concert Band.”

“Great,” she says. “Our son’s ALSO in 7th grade and ALSO in Concert Band, so he has to be there at 7:00 each morning, just like your son.”

Booh-yah!

“That’s terrific!” I say.

(I am so excited! The middle school is a half hour drive from our home, so it will be awesome to take turns enduring the one-hour roundtrip drive with another mom whose child has the same schedule as ours.)

Then she says, “I should tell you though, that we have three other children that we need to drive to their schools so we can’t actually drive to our son’s school.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, we can drop our son off at your house so you can drive him and your son to school by 7:00 am, but we won’t be able to take turns driving to the school itself.” She laughs a little. “So I guess it’s not really much of a ‘carpool’ situation, is it?”

(Um, no. I’d have to agree. That’s not much of a “carpool” situation – that’s more of a “chauffeur” situation.)

So basically she’s calling to ask if we can drive her son to school every day!

And because I’m a sap — and I feel sorry for her that she has so many other kids to drive to school — and I’m hoping maybe her son and my son can enjoy bonding time and become friendly on the drive each day – and I figure it’s good for the environment — I say yes.

I consider wearing a little chauffeur’s cap, opening the door for her son, and greeting him each day with “Mornin’, Guvnor, where to?”

But instead I delegate the driving to David so he can enjoy “father&son&son’s-bandmate bonding time” on that drive to school each day.

Booh-yah!

– Darcy Perdu

Original Illustration by Mary Chowdhury for So Then Stories

(Ever had a strange carpool situation? Any stories about other moms who try to take advantage – or who don’t pull their fair share of the load? I know there must be some funny “parent volunteer” stories out there from school events, carnivals, and fundraisers – so share in the Comments below!)

So then…his hand shoots up and the neighborhood HOA president calls on him. My husband David stands up at the homeowners meeting and announces: “We’ve been robbed!”

Two gasps and a shudder from the assembled homeowners.

They’re alarmed by this news since we live in a safe neighborhood, behind a guard-gated entry. It’s a newly-constructed neighborhood and so far, crime-free.

“What happened?” asks the HOA president.

“Well, I just wanted to tell the other residents to be cautious because our TIVO machine was stolen right out of our living room,” David explains.

“When did it happen?” asks another HOA board member.

“I’m not sure exactly, but sometime in the last few days. The TIVO machine was right there on top of the big screen TV and now it’s gone. Someone stole it right out of our house,” he says.

“Did they take anything else?” a homeowner asks.

“No, just that. But we called the TIVO headquarters and they said if the thief tries to use it, they can try to trace the phone number on the line and maybe find out who took it. We sometimes leave the garage open so the gardeners can access our sprinkler system controls. I think it might be our gardener’s new assistant.”

“What?” I hiss at him. “Don’t accuse someone!”

“Well, I’m just sayin’ — he appeared around the same time that the TIVO machine disappeared…”

I glare at him. (It seems odd that a robber would come into our living room to steal only the TIVO machine that records TV shows — and not anything else.) But now David’s tossing out potential suspects?

Homeowners murmur nervously amongst themselves, discussing the robbery and the relative safety of our neighborhood.

The president calls everyone to order, cautions them to keep their garage doors closed and to be vigilant for any suspicious activity in the neighborhood.

On Monday, TIVO calls us to say that the current phone number on the TIVO is — OUR PHONE NUMBER! Yikes! It’s like the story when the operator tells the babysitter that the scary “phone calls are coming from INSIDE the house – run, RUN!!”

But David says maybe the thief hasn’t hooked it up yet to his own home, so that’s why it’s still showing our phone number.

Meanwhile, I call George, our AV tech guy, to ask him if we can buy a new TIVO machine and can he hook it up for us. We’re not very savvy with the tech stuff, so George usually sets up all the computers, TVs, stereos, etc.

He comes over with a new TIVO and asks which TV we want to connect to it. David tells him it’s for the living room TV because a thief stole the old one.

George looks at us funny and says, “Nobody stole your old one. It’s in the garage where I put it the last time I was here.”

“What?”

“Yeah, last time I was here installing something, I moved the TIVO to the garage and hooked up the remote so it can work from there – this way it doesn’t clutter the top of your big screen TV,” he says proudly.

David says, “But the TIVO doesn’t work. Are you sure?”

George looks around and asks, “Did someone move this desk? The cord to the TIVO must have got unplugged, but look — I just plugged it in and now — it’s working fine.”

We look at the cord. We look at the desk that David moved a couple weeks ago. We look at the TIVO screen that’s now working. We look at the TIVO machine on a shelf in the garage.

I look at David.

“So Matlock, did you want to trace that phone number again?” I ask. “Maybe fingerprint the gardener’s assistant, just in case? Anything else you’re missing? Your shoes maybe? Haven’t seen your sunglasses lately? Let’s run some DNA tests!”

He has the good sense to look sheepish.

I waste no time in lifting the veil of suspicion from our assistant gardener and the whole neighborhood in general. I don’t even wait ‘til the next HOA meeting.

I just immediately start telling the story to my neighbors and ask them to spread the word.

In fact, it’s such a funny story, I even tell it to people who don’t live in our neighborhood. I tell my co-workers, my family, party guests, the mailman, anyone who’ll listen.

As you can imagine, this pleases David no end. But I don’t feel bad since I am usually the one who’s jumping to conclusions (Creepy Stalker Dude’s Tye-Dyed Pillow) and making assumptions (Sex in a Pan).

So I’m delighted that for once, he can take the blame for being the bonehead.

For months afterward, party guests ask to see the Infamous Garage-Mounted TIVO Machine.

– Darcy Perdu

Illustration by Innovative Ocean (www.innovativeocean.com)

(Any good stories about you or your family jumping to conclusions? Odd explanations for things that have gone missing? Share a funny tale about TIVO, TVs, neighborhood meetings, AV guys, gardeners, or unexplained occurrences in YOUR house!)

We’re in the lobby of the regional office of the county’s fire department and I am stunned by the spectacular fiery images that grace the entry wall.

There are 4 gigantic photos – each about 6 feet tall by 6 feet wide – and each portrays a terrifying blaze.

But here’s the thing.

There are no firefighters in the photos.

No one is putting these fires OUT.

These are just huge photos of unabated, unrestrained, WILD fires.

Houses, hillsides, forests, shopping centers – all ON FIRE.

I look at the fire officer as she continues discussing the fire access roads for the site plan – and she appears unfazed by the bizarre imagery behind her. Other fire officials walk around, talking to other visitors – and no one seems at all disturbed by the photos.

Surely they have some nice pictures of firefighters dousing fires — saving trapped children — spraying flames with enormous blasts of water? Wouldn’t that be more appropriate imagery to show in the lobby of the fire department’s regional center?

Or are they trying to convey the message: “Hey, look at these terrifying ferocious fires! If it weren’t for us, these fires would scorch the earth and you along with it! Mooh-whahahaha!”

I mean, these huge photos of raging fires would be like showing giant photos of criminals committing crimes at the police station.

Not cops handcuffing criminals. Or arresting them.

Just big photos of criminals robbing banks, selling drugs, stabbing people.

Unabated, unrestrained, WILD criminals. Committing crime with impunity! Such abandon!

Here again – the subliminal message would be – “You are in the police station – look at these terrifying photos – if not for us, these criminals would rage across the country, annihilating everything in their path, including you! Mooh-whahahaha!”

The fire officer tries to call my attention to the fuel modification plan for the slopes, but I am still thinking about this unusual visual tactic, which is basically:  ”Behold the Calamities We Tame!”

Would the lobby of an accounting firm feature 6-foot tall photos of incorrect spreadsheets?

Would the reception area of a beauty salon show 6-foot tall photos of supremely hideous people?

If not for us…. Mooh-whahahaha…. indeed!

– Darcy Perdu

(Do YOU think that’s a bit odd to show photos of raging fires in the lobby of the fire division? Notice anything odd about businesses or shops that you visit? Ever dated a fireman? That last question is not exactly “on topic,” but the answer is sure to be interesting, so – DO tell! Share in the Comments below!)