My recent excursion to an adult entertainment operation, the name of which I'll gladly withhold

I'm unsure, at this point, if I seek to make a statement (about mores, self-respect, and the choices we make that define who we are) or simply relay a serious of unfortunate events.

The shenanigans began (as usual) with Andrew's Craig's list addiction. Okay, I won't blame him entirely for the circumstances, but at 11:30 last night, as I drove, exhausted, the one and a half hours home from my epic adventure, I just had to direct the blame for my tears, anger, and general disgust at someone.

You may label my displacement of feelings inexcusable, and rightly so. I suppose I am the one person responsible for how I choose to feel, but you must agree that we all have difficulty sorting through our emotions at some point.

Andrew had been searching, for a couple of weeks, for a cargo van. He had seen a few around town and investigated a couple down the road a ways. Unfortunately, he settled on one not so close to home, and conveniently (or not so conveniently) awoke with a massive migraine the day he had agreed to pick up the vehicle. He had already paid a hefty deposit and didn't want to risk losing the van and his money. So....my sweet husband's deeply understanding, but equally frustrated wife, along with his kind father, agreed to retrieve the van for him.

The plan was for all three of us to make the trip, while my father-in-law would drive the van home. Well, that went well until about ten minutes into the trip, about five minutes after we stopped at Walgreens for Midrin, when I was forced to pull over in an trailer park so that Drew could puke in the middle of the road, with every gangsta in the neighborhood watching. A fantastic plan! Needless to say, we turned around shortly after his nausea subsided.

Feeling quite generous, and equally ill with the jerk (or, the "owner" of the vehicle) who insisted that my sick husband make an hour and a half trip that evening because "he really need[ed] the money," I told Drew that his Dad and I had no problem making the trip alone. We headed out, screaming baby in tow. Our ride was uneventful (except for the screaming baby) until Andrew called me with the exit number and the direction: "Make your first right."

"Oh, my first right. Okay, right into the strip club parking lot?"

"Yeah. Just pull through the valet and tell the guy you're here to get the van."

"Oh, okay. With my father-in-law and my baby in the backseat? Sure thing!!!"

How does one omit such a glaring detail? Not once did my wonderful husband mention, or even hint, that I would be visiting such an establishment. I was humiliated. We pulled around to the back of the building, near the van, and I noticed several young girls enter the back door, duffel bags on their shoulders. I noticed mini vans in the parking lot, married men in their business attire, and a security card patrolling the premises. Wow, I thought. There has got to be more to life for these folks. I felt dirty just standing in the parking lot. And, although we all had a good laugh out of my unforeseen experience, being there really struck a deeper chord.

We make choices everyday. We choose what we'll wear, what we'll eat, where we'll go, what we'll read, or watch on television. Sometimes our choices are limited, but even when this is the case, we always have the option to not choose. I cannot claim to understand the perspectives of the women who "strip" for money or what goes on in the minds of men who frequent places like the one I visited (by way of the parking lot alone, mind you). However, I am confident that none of them have to be there.

And on the way home, after my embarrassment subsided and my anger diffused, I was just plain ole sad thinking of all the folks who, unlike me, purposely walked into that place that night, simply because they chose to.

Miss Lila in the attic

This is a story of creaky stairs, cobwebbed dark corners, dusty old boxes, and a bottle of coconut rum.

Miss Lila had really been working hard lately. Her job was stressful, her domestic life demanding, and her time to unwind-minuscule. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon. The house was quiet, empty of its male inhabitants. And Miss Lila decided it was time to take a trip, a tropical getaway. She kicked off her shoes, locked the front door, and headed to her special place. Miss Lila slowly worked her way up the old, narrow stairs to the attic. As she neared the top, she made a mental note to bring down Grandma Jane's old cookie cutters. Homemade chocolate chip cookies- hhmmmm...no one would ever question her trip to the attic if cookies were the result. Just inside the door, Miss Lila turned to the blue canvas box she had hidden strategically behind her bound, yellowed-by-the-years church bulletins. She wondered, for only a moment, why she held on to all of those old bulletins. Then she stooped slightly, reaching deep into the blue box, and immediately recalled the cool feel of the glass bottle at her fingertips. Ah, yes, those paper stacks were sooo useful. Just as her mind began to dance off to her island paradise, it happened. She raised her head a bit too quickly, forgetting the thick, heavy beam overhead. Seconds later, the coconut rum proved no relief. Blood streamed down Miss Lila's face, and she realized stitches were in order. She abandoned her stash and hastily exited her would-be attic vacation. There would be no escape, only a nice, relaxing evening in the urgent care. No cookies either.