The Grand Adventure

~"It's a play!" "Just a bunch of silliness, really." "I should hope so."~
Finding Neverland

On that note of approval, allow me to present an event of grand proportions that occurred this past week (with a minuscule amount of embellishment).

The Characters (in order of appearance)

Heroic rescuer------------------played by me
Damsel in distress------------------played by Samantha
The Messenger Bird------------------played by my cell phone
The Treasure------------------played by Samantha's sketchpad
The Cave------------------played by the locker
The Beast------------------played by the drawing board
The Labyrinth------------------played by the HFAC

Once upon a time in a land with which we are all very familiar there was a heroic rescuer who was trudging through gulfs of misery and woe when the cry of a fair maiden in dire need of assistance came floating through the air. The rescuer paused, listening, but could not determine the source nor the message of the plea. Suddenly, a little bird appeared on her shoulder with a small envelope containing a message in its mouth. "Help!" it read. "I am in desperate need of a treasure, but it is locked in the belly of a beast and I am unable to retrieve it!" "Never fear!" replied the heroic rescuer. "I shall conquer yon beast! Direct me, fair maiden, [though how the rescuer knew that the maiden was fair is beyond the knowledge of this bard] to this savage creature that I may vanquish him!" "Bless you noble one! You are indeed a heroic rescuer! The beast may be found at the top of a large labyrinth in a cave guarded by many foes. There is a secret combination of magic numbers that will give you entrance to the inner chamber. Get in, retrieve the treasures from the jaws of the beast, and I will forever be thankful unto thee, heroic rescuer. Beware! The way is treacherous! I shall await your return."

Drawing up all her courage, the heroic rescuer plunged into the labyrinth. Alas! So many pathways! How would she ever succeed? Just as it looked that she would be doomed to spend the rest of eternity trapped in this twisting maze of dead-ends and traps, she saw a light ahead. The way to the cave! On she dashed, and in no time she found herself in front of the daunting cave entrance. Mustering her wit, she plunged into the series of magic numbers that would unlock the door. But to no avail! She tried again, with all the precision and agility this heroic rescuer possessed. Again, she failed. No, she thought to herself. I will not be conquered. I have come too far to fail now. Summoning the messenger bird, she sent out a petition for aid. "What is the secret to breaking the spell?" Her wait was agonizing. Finally, the little bird returned with the answer. "You must squeeze the soft spot." Of course! Every challenge, every riddle, every beast has a weak spot. Finally the heroic rescuer succeeded in gaining access to the cave. She advanced cautiously.

The beast's jaws were far more terrible than anything the rescuer could have imagined in her wildest dreams! Fire spewed from the depths, razor-sharp teeth the size of stalactites gleamed with sterling steel menace along the perimeter. Undaunted, the heroic rescuer leapt towards the ferocious creature and snatched the treasure from its clutches. AAAaaaggghhh!! A scream pierced the air as the rescuer's fingers tore along the fangs of the fiend, blood gushing from the wounds. [these injuries may or may not have been caused by the brutal weather's impact on the rescuer's already dry and eczema-infested skin and may or may not have been present before the aforementioned encounter.]

Injured, yet triumphant, the rescuer had one last battle ahead: that with the elements to voyage to the fair maiden's residence. Fighting against fierce cold and raging winds, the heroic rescuer was battered, bruised, and broken. Just as she thought her body was about to succumb, she forged on and finally arrived at the castle. "You have done it! You are truly a noble and courageous soul! [you may have noticed at this point that the characters in this tale are quite dramatic and prone to shout all their verbal exchanges with passionate emotion] Please, accept this token of my gratitude." Whereupon the damsel bestowed upon the heroic rescuer with a goblet of healing beverage made of the exotic and rare cacoa bean. "Thank you my lady," replied the heroic rescuer. "You are most gracious and kind." "From this day forward," declared the damsel, "you shall be knighted 'Fearless Champion!'" With her newly-bestowed title, the now fearless champion dwelt in the castle along with the damsel where they awaited many more dashing adventures.

THE END

Ode to Socks

Ah, laundry. That cyclical household chore. It's an interesting thing. It's one of those things that you don't really think about as being on your to-do list (at least if you're a college student like me whose to-do list consists of homework and ways to recuperate after completing it), yet you always have to do it. And for what ever reason, I really really dislike it. Dread it, if you will. I may even go so far as to say that I hate laundry. Though I'm not sure it merits such as strong word. But close. Every once in a while I get up enough gumption to do it and it ends up being this huge, all day process. Probably one of the reasons why it is so distasteful to me.

Anyway, I was just finishing up my socks and got to thinking what it would be like to be a sock. (I know it's weird; don't judge me, just hear me out) I mean, think about it. Every time you get washed you get folded together with your partner (provided he wasn't eaten by the dryer) who is only your partner because the two of you look exactly the same. You probably didn't get to pick each other. You were just made as identical copies and then flung together for the rest of your smelly, foot-covering lives until you are worn too thin and just can't take it anymore and then you are just unceremoniously chucked in the trash. It's really a shame about socks. So as I was contemplating and feeling very blessed not to be a sock, I saw the most curious thing in my laundry basket. About half a dozen of my socks had had a meeting in the dryer and decided they were sick of it and were going to revolt. There they were, in this strange lumpy mass, all twisted and stuck together with a strange combination of fibers they had probably heisted from the lint rack, determined not to be separated from their unconventionally chosen partners. (Sorry I don't have a picture of it, my camera is currently on strike as well.) I must admit, I admired their spunk. Unfortunately, as much as I can now sympathize with socks, I can't bring myself to be the kind of person that wears mismatched socks. Colorful socks, yes. Socks with character, yes. Crazy socks, yes. But I'm just not cool enough to throw all my socks in one drawer and just dive for two before heading out for the day. I just can't do it. So I gave them a moment to say their last goodbyes to each other while I went to get the scissors. In my defense, I really do take great care of my socks, probably more than most. I still have hope for that growing pile of unattached singles, even though more likely than not we will never see their partners again and I also give even the dying socks more of a chance than they probably deserve; as long as they still cover at least one toe they may still live in my drawer.

So there you have it. All you probably ever wanted to know and more about what goes on in my head in relation to socks. You are now free to either have your own meditative moment about the stockings in your bureau...or you can just write me off as a loony and go on with your sensible laundry-cycling lives.