2PhatGeeks.com

I am too Naughty for Social Spark.

As some of you may know and remember, I signed up a while ago to payperpost.com. It’s a chance to line my pocket with some extra change and practice writing whenever a subject or product comes along that I can write about.

Payperpost.com opened a second site, which is in beta, called Social Spark. Social Spark has quite a bit in common with Payperpost given they’re created and backed by the same company. Social Spark, however, carries a lot of features to inspire community that aren’t in Payperpost. So I decided, what the hell, they’re from the same company, right? I like payperpost.com, and I’m liking what I’m seeing so far with Social Spark.

So I go through the same rigmarole more or less for Social Spark as I did their other site, Payperpost. I put in their code, I wait for blog submission–this goes without a hitch. Then I submit 2phatgeeks.com to their Customer Love. I can’t take any opportunities without blog acceptance.

Our blog for Social Spark was rejected.

Apparently, Social Spark’s standards are much higher than Payperposts? Because I use(d) strong language in several of my posts, Social Spark denied 2phatgeeks.

That started a whole lot of head scratching on my end. Are they more concerned about how Social Spark looks than Payperpost? Do they not care at all about what’s seen on one site, while they do the other? Why the difference to begin with?

I can’t really see myself as that much of a rebel, but according to Social Spark, I am.

I would have recommended this site. But if you have the habit of writing anything that’s not sparkles, unicorns and roses all the time there’s a high chance your blog will be rejected. So if you like to write your gut feelings, or curse, or let off steam, or get worked up, or write passionately, or call people names (because you know, nobody ever does this.) you might have to go through your blog and edit every post to fit Social Spark’s taste. If that doesn’t sound like an afternoon of giggles and fun for you, I’d recommend passing Social Spark and seeking other avenues of getting paid for blogging.

This got me thinking though: If you can’t write what you want on your own personal blog, what’s the point? Why do something you enjoy (aka: blogging) but be forced to write in such a manner or voice that makes it no longer enjoyable?

Would you have gone through every post you’d ever written with strong language (if you have. Some of you don’t, and I don’t know whether to applaud you or be scared.) and edit it for website that may pay you?

When you visit a personal blog, do you except it to be church-lady clean and think it should be?

Signs Mel Need Sleep:

Holding my cat, Flora, up to the ceiling and exclaiming: “Kunta Kitty!”

And then after a second, rocking up on tip toes to put her paws near the ceiling (I’m short, okay.) then singing Spider Cat, Spider cat.

Really, I’m like this almost every day.

Lightbulbs and Lakes of Pee.

Welcome to another installment of Mel’s random tips, where Mel shares her hard earned wisdom (usually from screwing up) with you, loyal readers, fans, stalkers and underwear stealers.

Tip # 1: Crystal Cat Litter.

Crystal cat litter is that oddball silica stuff found in dark places along your grocery store shelf or hidden between all the other clay stuff in your favorite pet store.

It looks kinda space agey, with it’s clear little crystal looking pellets mingled with blue–sometimes, all of them are blue–but generally the uniform look resembles…yep, you guessed it, crystals.

These bags of shimmery cat-shit collectors tout promises of being good for the environment. Why are they good for the environment? Well, they say that their little crystals soak up amazing amounts of pee! Most of them promise ONE BAG for ONE CAT for ONE MONTH! Guaranteed! By using their products you’re saving space in land-fills, saving yourself money, and that’s good mojo for the world and everything else.

Unfortunately it’s a big crock of sh*t.

I purchased a six pound bag of these crystally pee-absorbers last Wednesday for our cats. Luckily both myself and my husband were a little leery of the product and it’s almost-too-amazing long shelf-life; we bought a small bag of old-fashioned clay litter. We’re using that now.

The bag said four pounds for one cat–the bag was six pounds and we had two cats. The experiment was to see if it would do anything at all like what it said it would on the package.

It did. For the first four days.

After four days the litter box turned into this piss-colored, blue/green mess that stunk of plastic and…well…you know… cat-p*ss. (There really aren’t enough horrifying words to describe what this can smell like, mixed with plastic.) Two or three times a day, I’d remove any solids and stir the crystals up as per instructions. All that did was make me gag and retch as what I’d imaged the smell of 100 pounds of stale piss left in a plastic tub to cook in the Florida sun for a year, came wafting up my nostrils.

The bottom of the litter pan became this…bubbly lake of bright green p*ss. The silica stopped absorbing after four days.

So four days for two cats from a product that swears it’ll last 30 for a single cat. I sense LIES AND DECEIT.

Sure, I’d like to help the environment. But I’d also like to not have my cats have to sink their paws into a small lake of their own urine every time they get into the litter box.

Seriously. Stay away from crystal kitty litter. Maybe try the recycles newspaper bits–but not this shit. This sh*t was NAS-TAY.

Tip # 1: Save A LOT of money, help the environment, and not stub your toe in the dark!

Once upon a time, the Pence household used plain old fashioned normal light bulbs. They were silly people who were paying a lot of money for their electric bill and having to replace light bulbs every month or two. (Florida is famous for it’s power brown outs, inconsistencies, and we think whomever wired our house was a drunkard. So whenever we used normal bulbs, they’d blow out or burn out in a matter of a month or two.)

Lo’ and behold, we met these bulbs:

(Actual bulb from my desk lamp!)

There are many different shapes to these, but they’re all known as Compact fluorescent. This spiral shape is especially good for desk lights, and they last around eight times longer than a normal old-fashioned bulb.

We replaced all of our light bulbs with these last year. We’ve managed to knock our power bill down a significant chunk of moolah. And, we haven’t had to replace any of these bulbs that we’ve put in yet. They don’t get hot. I’m able to reach in and touch the bulb after it’s been on for several hours and they are really bright.

They’re not cheap, but they’re not entirely out of normal price range, either. Consider slowly replacing your old bulbs with these. You’ll use less power and save yourself some money.

If you’re interested, here’s a linked guide to other types of Compact fluorescents and other light bulbs: Lowe’s Light Bulb Buying guide.

If you have cash in your pocket to burn, do some research into LED lights, too. Brighter, clearer, much like the above bulb–they don’t burn hot and they don’t use a lot of electricity, either. Also make EXCELLENT Christmas lights and decorative lights for stringing up everywhere. They last forever, and they’re a little kinder on the juice.

So remember kids (for the tl;dr crowd): Crystal litter = lake of p*ss, LED lights or Compact fluorescent light bulbs = less power, more money in your pocket.

This has been another Random Mel Thing, brought to you by the letter WTF, and the deliciousness of a cup of genmaicha tea.

The squeaky sounds aren’t from the hamster.

They’re from me. Yes, I admit it–alright? I have the high-pitched-pet-owner’s voice. You know, where every time the pet does something cute the owner’s voice raised in octaves until people in the next country are wincing and wondering what the hell is going on.

At any rate, ignore the commentary and enjoy the teeensy wheensey chinese dwarf hamster action.

That’s not the hamster squeaking. from M. Pence on Vimeo.

Cheese Babies

Last night:
“Do you want me to heat up the left over rice?”

I turn around, half the way to look over at Shawn. “Yeah, that’d be good. And while you’re at it, grab those corn tortilla shells you just got. Might as well, makes the food stretch.”

“Psshht, look at you, eating my tortilla shells.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Yeah, about that–I went to go get some cheese to put on my salad today. You know, from the bag of cheddar cheese you brought home?”

Shawn rubs his belly. “Yes. Look at what happened. Look what the cheese gave you. I’m going to have babies–cheese babies.“

I am Becoming a Tea Wh*re

This is NOT a sponsored post. I really, really like tea.

Not to be confused with a tea snob, because a tea snob probably knows way more about brewing tea than I ever will. They probably know specific temperatures, the correct alignment of the sun, what time of the day is best for what and how many leaves, precisely, to use.

I however, am just a tea wh*re. I love tea. I will give any tea a chance. I’ll let any kind of tea, regardless of it’s brewing, to pass my lips at least once so that I can say I have tried it and whether or not I like it.

It all started several eons ago when dinosaurs roamed the earth when I was a small girl. My parents and my grandparents drank tea like like thirsting men in the desert enjoy water. Specifically, my Grandmother’s house was filled with Red Rose, or Tetley Tea and my home filled with the same. My father started his morning with a cup of tea, same as my mother. My father liked his tea with very little milk and sugar, while my mothers, as my father jokingly remarked, like “swamp water tea.” A lot of milk and a lot of sweetener.

Off and on through the years living with them, I’d endulge in a cup of tea, but it never truly grew on me. Not until this year.

Now, whether it’s a sign I am growing old and crotchety…crotchetier? –or whether it’s simply a sign of tastes changing as one grows older, I have found myself obsessed, pleased, and calmed by tea. It all started with four tea bags of Genmaicha tea handed to me as freebies from the local organic health store and I haven’t quite been right since.

I’ve had a slew of samples from Adagio teas, some of my favorites are: Cirton Green, Kukicha tea, White Monkey, Chocolate tea, chai tea, Lemon Lavender and Mint tea.

I used to start my days with coffee and drank near a full pot every two days. That’s a lot of coffee and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the healthiest decision. There’s something terribly soothing about tea, now that I am older I’m able to appreciate it.

Lately I’ve been on a tea prowl. What can I add to my taste-collection that I’m missing out on?

Are you a fellow tea-wh*re? What’s your favorite brand or flavor and where do you love having your cup of tea? I’m always looking for a new flavor to try, so do you have any recommendations for me to try?

Morning Magic.

During most early Florida mornings, dew forms on the sleepy shapes all around us. Our chilli pepper red Saturn and the two-tone gray rocks of our front garden, on the door and across still blades of vibrant green grass.

Most often at this early, you’ve no doubt just left your sheets for bed, showered and are readied for work. The linens on your bed still warm from deep sleep, the pillows still indented with your slumber-filled head. It’s when you’re in between your front door and car door, maybe your coffee is in hand or your keys and you’re still forcing bleary eyes open–the zinging of bustling cars hurrying off to work the grind behind you–that you notice it.

Despite all the jangling noise of car horns, engines revved, brakes squealing? There’s this invisible blanket that still remains over the earth this early in the morning, a covering for a world still half-dreaming, and perhaps that blanket is the very dew you see shivering on the hood of your car.

Getting into your car in these dewy Florida mornings can be like stepping into another world. When you shut the door, you leave the harsh cadence of sunrise rush hour traffic behind you. It becomes muted, background static to the mini-world of the inside of your car. All the windows have been covered by condensation. Little droplets splattered all over glass which reflect to you the glorious colors of the sun behind miniature palm trees. Maybe you press your brow to the glass for a split second just to watch all the hundreds of small mirror worlds reflected to you in the morning dew.

Maybe, for just a moment, magic exists for you before the hustle of everyday muscles through.

I Never Loved my Grandfather.

I never loved my Grandfather in the way I think most grandfathers secretly want their little granddaughters to.

As a small child my earliest memories of him were of a blue-eyed man who laughed under his breath and teased me a lot. I think he loved to hear me yell at him for pulling my hair, or calling me Calista (the way he said it rhymed with Melissa). The louder I yelled, the more the corners of his eyes would crinkle up in the ever growing tight-lipped grin that pruned his face.

My memories of his scent is always mixed; not quite right. There was aftershave, soap, that undeniable old person smell that I cannot describe very well—it wasn’t too unpleasant, more like dust warmed by sunshine with the faintest trace of something else my young mind could not comprehend. I didn’t know what that scent hiding behind his grandfather-smell was. It was something he carried with him for as long as I knew him, but back then I didn’t bother trying to find out what it was.

When I was very young, he’d always get up to leave in the middle of things. He’d say, “I’m going to the barn to make sure there aren’t any bears in there,” and, “I’m going hunting for baby-bunting.” And as a child, I always thought that was exactly what he was doing as he arose and meandered off in uneven patterns outside.

I wasn’t enlightened to the reason behind my grandfather’s wandering ways until I hit the age of thirteen—maybe fourteen. He went out to the barn, or out back in the trees behind the house to hide his drinking from me and the family who already knew what he was doing. I don’t think he truly believed he was hiding it from his wife, my Grandmother nor my mother nor our entire family. In fact, in hind sight, I think our entire town was well aware of what my grandfather was doing and what he was: he was an alcoholic.

No one talked about these things where I grew up, however, in a sleepy little farming town of Aylesford, Nova Scotia. It just wasn’t the thing to do. You never talked about the neighbor who beat his wife, or the neighbors kids that did drugs and you certainly never talked about alcoholism.

I can’t say that in the early years I thought anything was wrong with our family life. All that I knew were the things my parents and my grandparents taught me. My world started and ended with them, so whatever they did and said around me or to me was normal for me. I assumed all grand kids’ had a grandfather that smelled a little funny and couldn’t really walk very straight—or who liked to go out to the barn several times a day.

Things changed as I grew up. I realized obviously, what was wrong. I was presented the grandfather’s of other families and noticed a distinct difference. I was growing out of a care free child into a monster of a teen ager. I began to feel cheated with my grandfather. Why wasn’t mine sober? Why wasn’t mine nice? Why couldn’t my grandfather be perfect and happy and smiling?

I was a silly, over hyper child who must have seemed to turn into an awful, hateful teen right before parents and family. Because I, like every teenager, thought I knew everything and I spent most of the latter years with him spewing vitriolic crap. How much I hated him, how awful a person he was, how ashamed I was of him. We’d spend hours yelling back and forth at one another and he’d yell at my Grandmother. I’d yell at him for yelling at her, she’d yell at me for yelling at him, and he’d yell at us both. And he drank and he drank and he drank.

The cycle just kept going until all the memories of the blue-eyed grinning man whose cheeks crinkled when he smiled, faded. All I remembered was the sour-smelling angry little man that loved to use the word cocksucker to describe what dinner tasted like. I began to hoard all of the awful memories of him and forgot any of the good.

He turned into a pale reed of a man I thought I knew.

And now that time has passed and it is too late, I also remember that in spite of it all, all that was wrong with him and I, he really did try.

He used to sing to me old songs that I sometimes half-hear the melody too if I am very still. When I was very, very, very ill as a young teen with a fever so bad that I had to be soaked in ice water, he sat on a chair near me and the nurse rubbing alcohol over me to bring the fever down to watch me as much as he could during the course of the flu.

One time during a particularly enthusiastic charge from the top of the stairs—I tripped instead and fell down all thirteen of them. These were steep steps from a 100 year old house; wide to a child in addition to being almost too steep for adults. I fell from the very top of those stairs to the very bottom, stomach first, knocking the wind out of my lungs. This short little man with sticks for arms flung himself from a laying position on the couch, came to my side, and picked me up to carry me to the couch and lay me upon it before I could recover enough air to wail in panic.

I remember so many things, now.

I remember that I could not love him the way he wanted me to. I was angry that he did not seem to care what he was doing to himself, to his family, to my mother and especially my grandmother. I was angry at myself for being such a horrific grand daughter. I was angry, angry, and angry and did not want to see anything he did as remotely worth caring about.

When he died, I was quite ready to tell the world I did not care, and I did in an old journal that no longer exists. I said I didn’t care and I was glad that he was gone.

This wasn’t true. This was an echo of the sixteen year old spoiled brat within me still angry at a man who couldn’t win over his addiction.

Several years have passed since my grandfather, Cecil Rawding has passed. I’ve had more time and more life shoveled into me to consider the things I have done and haven’t done and I’ve had time to grow up enough to look back on who I was and feel shame.

I wonder, now, if he ever knew that I could not love him the way he wanted me to, but now that I have grown older I can see him for what he was and should be—that I love him for that.

Did he know how he taught me unwittingly to stay away from drinking as I grew older? Did he know I remember the good through the bad? Did he realize these things before he died? Is he somewhere reading this and the corners of his eyes are crinkling up, slow, the way I picture it in my mind a thousand times?

I’ll never know. I was miles away and before he died the drink didn’t leave much humanity left to him. It’s too late, now, to say these things. All I have is the wind to carry a murmur and a wish.

All I have to give back to him is this digital piece of parchment to tell the world the story about a man who tried.

I love you Grampy, I’m sorry.

Mel’s Top Ten Ways to Seem like a Douche bag in any Game.

Here are ten excellent ways to seem like a douche bag in any game, whether you’re playing an MMORPG or anything else that requires you to mingle with your fellow humans.

1.) You help further any of the many gamer stereo types.

I just want to take this moment to personally thank all the guys playing females, or females playing females who are standing about some town right now, stripping off all their gear and begging for gold plz. Thanks guys, you make me feel warm and tingly inside.

2.) You sign up for the two week trial just to dis the game and advertise for another one.

Listen, douche bag, you’ve just been granted two weeks of free play. If you don’t like the game don’t play it. Flopping about the beginner town and lamenting over how this game sucks compared to yours doesn’t convince people to “come to the light.” It won’t inspire a mass exodus from this game to yours; in fact, most people will take a five second note of your behavior and think, “Wow. They behave like this, here; I can’t imagine what it’s like there.”

You aren’t part of the awesome team. You aren’t raging against the pixels. You’re just a whiner with a two week free key.

3.) You utter the most god forsaken words ever known to man: WoW is better.

I don’t want to hear about how it brought an MMORPG to the masses, about how easy it is to play, or how blah blah blah best game evar blah blah fan boi blah fan gurrrrl.

The truth is, compare WoW on a simple graphical scale to any game released this year and dare to tell me that WoW is better. WoW isn’t better, it’s old. If I had money growing in my backyard, I’d bet you hard cash nearly half of the people playing WoW right now are doing so because they are bored out of their god damned minds and cannot wait for someone to release something into the market that doesn’t suck.

WoW’s like your first girlfriend or boyfriend. They were hot, they were smokin’–then as the years went by you slowly started to wonder why the hell you began dating them to begin with. You just can’t quit them yet, however, because they were your first—and they have all your C.D’s.

4.) Your main goal in your entire illustrious gaming career is to harass newbies.

It was cool to pick on the new kid when we were in elementary school and mom still packed our lunches for us. Come on, people.

Besides that, there’s always the slight chance of getting your ass handed back to you in the future by that same newb you just tea-bagged.

5.) You spend most of your time online bragging about your uber leet purple gear.

By all means, compare your gear. Ask questions about what class should be wearing what, and what’s the best gear to have. The quest for uber gear is pretty much a major part of MO’s or MMORPG’s these days, anyway.

If this is all you do, all the time, in the same bat-channel, same bat-time—I hope you choke on your cheetos.

I don’t care. Chances are, the guy next to you doesn’t really care what chest-plate you’re wearing or what stats your bracelet has or how many purplz trinkets your toon is wearing after hearing it for the tenth millionth time.

6.) You take that game way, way, too seriously.

If someone making a wise crack at the color of your paladin’s armor, or a side comment about the style of your avatar (or toon’s) hair and you wig the hell out at them, filling the general chat or ventrilo server with vitriol that could strip wall paper?

Maybe it’s time to take a nice, long, quiet break from gaming for a bit, hmm? Did you know about the Realm of Outside, buddy? I hear it’s got a lot of quests, like Find A Job, Pay The Bills, Interact with Fellow Humans and even Date Somebody.

The last one is an Epic Quest, though. You’ll need to grind the Find A Job quest first.

7.) You use Bots.

This is the ultimate douche baggery. If you can’t invest the time to play the game, why have it in the first place? What’s the point? You aren’t even playing it, you’re running programs to play it for you.

If you’re one of those bots, standing in the main town and spamming the chat for cheap gold/credits and rare loot, there’s a special place reserved for you in gaming hell. I hear its E.T. for the Atari 2600 alllll the time down there.

8.) When you use voice chat programs, “Push to Talk,” and “Turn the mic off when you’re away from keyboard,” are foreign concepts to you. Also, you think it’s really cool to share your favorite song.

There’s nothing more relaxing then the sound of some toon’s mount clopping away at ten thousand decibels in my ears. The sweet harmonious siren’s call of swords clashing or guns firing at a noise level which makes my ear drums bleed. It is just lovely.

The best. ever. sounds however, are the tinny little strains of your favorite current song played from your computer desk mic. You know, the music that sounds like it’s being delivered out of the puckering end of a very angry weasel. You have to share it with everyone!

No. No you don’t have to share it with everyone. No one wants to hear your death metal, your gansta rap, your country, your dance nor any other genre of your music. We’re in the channel to shoot the shit or save ourselves some time in having to type while we play. Stuff it, DJ McNerdles and let’s get back to the quiet murmurs of geekery.

9.) You turn Guild chat/General chat/Vicinity Chat/Any Chat into your very own episode of Jerry Springer.

“OMG, Becky. You stay away from mah man! Stop sending him whispers!”

Suddenly, guild chat is a flurry of drama llamas bleating, accusations of cyber, ganking and douche baggery abounds.

Public chat is not for your airing of dirty laundry. All you’re doing is making yourself look like an ass and giving me five minutes of entertainment from killing these ten vorpal bunnies I need in order to get that necklace I wanted. Funny, in a very sad-car-crash-sort of way.

10.) Keep real life the hell out of my game.

I’m playing a game. I’m playing this game to get away from everyday life and have an hour or few to myself and relax. I’m playing this game because I’m getting away from real life—so why the hell are you filling my chat screen, or yammering my ear off in vent about your kids and bills?

I don’t care and I don’t want to see it. I don’t care what your daughter did this weekend, what trophy your son won, how lonely you are, whether or not your girlfriend is cheating on you…I just want to play and have fun, don’t you?

Now it’s your turn. I challenge you to share with me your tales of the Ultimate Douche Baggery! What would you have added to the list?

Don’t put your dreams on a shelf.

Three years ago, give or take a few days, my husband Shawn took me on a spring vacation and made one of my dreams come true.

Born and raised in Nova Scotia, Canada, I was a little girl predisposed to dreaming about the cliché princess’ and there’s no place better for a princess-at-heart than Disney, in Orlando, Florida.

The problem then, of course, was that I lived thousands of miles away. The dream and the chance to realize it was extremely remote. Even after I had met and married Shawn, we simply couldn’t afford to visit Disney until one dreary, cold and rainy early spring weekend.

The weather was the furthest thing from my mind as we were driving underneath the bright, multi-colored sign with the worlds that made my heart skip a beat: The Magic Kingdom. Everywhere I looked, against the gray day a rainbow of every color possible sprinkled a lack-luster morning with the iconic symbol of the castle looming in my sights as we made quick time from parking lot to the river boat.

To say that I felt a little like a kid again right at that second as water sluiced against the white hull of the boat that took you from parking lot to the Magic Kingdom is a lot like saying the Pope may be a little Catholic. I felt my eyes begin to take on the stupefied, wide-eyed childish wonder at every thing I saw.

It was cold. It was ridiculously cold for a day in Florida, spring or not. I couldn’t feel my cheeks (which were curved upward permanently in Disney sugar coated excitement), my nose, or any of the ten fingers I was wriggling about in a poor, twenty six year old’s rendition of ecstatic puppy-wriggling excitement. We hadn’t planned for the rain and had forgotten our raincoats. Lucky for us, Disney supplied these plastic ponchos with happy little Mickey’s all over them so that I could run from one end of The World of Tomorrow to the other cackling with glee.

I was beside myself, and I wasn’t disappointed with anything. Not once—not even for a split second.

Now, some times I hear mumblings from unhappy little mouseketeers—Disney really is just a tourist trap, Disney isn’t that great, Disney is a horrible giant splash of marketing and isn’t what it used to be….And to those grumpy dwarves, I say take a flying leap from the top of the Swiss Family Robinson tree.

It’s an amusement park, of course it’s a brilliant splash of marketing, that’s how they make the money that delivers a one-of-a-kind experience to you. But, I can tell you with assurance and good authority that Disney is beyond freaking awesome at doing exactly what it promises to do: making your dreams come true. Everything around you is most likely for sale—but Disney isn’t cramming it down your throat and twisting your arm to buy that pink and blue Tinkerbelle hat with sparkles on it. Ahem. It’s there, but it’s not screaming. The Magic Kingdom is absolutely serious about making sure your dream remains true.

Next spring? We’re going again. I’ve been carefully, studiously preparing by letting myself get wound up at odd hours of the day, responding to half of what Shawn asks me with a hearty, “DISNEY!”

“Hun, have you seen my work shirt?”
“DISNEY!”
“Mel, do you know where I put the keys I—“
“DISNEY!”
“Are you excited about going to—“
“DISNEY!”

If you’re thinking about visiting Orlando, Florida to finally make that dream come true and visit the happiest place on earth, I recommend it. I recommend it so hard.

Don’t put it off until it’s too late. Start thinking about booking a dream vacation and follow through. You can even start with Trusted Tours & Attractions which can assist you with things to do in Orlando, Florida. And if you have enough time, there are a million other things for you to see in Orlando. Book a few sight seeing tours and visit Sea World, Discovery Cove, Medieval Times, Arabian Nights and just downtown Orlando in itself is a plethora of sights and memories awaiting to happen. While you’re in Orlando and thinking about branching out even more in an adventurous spirit, I suggest Miami and visiting the Miami Seaquarium.

Sign up for Trusted Tours & Attractions newsletter while you’re visiting and checking out their site, just for signing up you’ll be entered to win a handheld GPS before the offer ends on April 10th of this year.

Don’t let your dreams get muddled up in bills, the kids, and work. Take the time to make a memory that will last a life time. I did, and I can’t wait to do it again.

DISNEY!