“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”

I have always loved fall, and these are exciting, busy days for our family! Not only are we gearing up for my son's wedding in January, but to add to the fun and busy-ness, we went on a quick road trip this week to visit prospective colleges for my middlest girl. (I call her the "middlest" because she's the 3rd of 4 kids, the middle of the middle-- sandwiched between her older and younger sisters.)

On the return trip I realized that 150 miles and a diet coke are not good traveling companions, so we (my bladder and I) decided to stop at a rest area. The premises were neat and clean, but on entering the facilties, we stumbled upon the strangest thing. . . a guest registry displayed prominently on a podium just inside the rest room area; not in a respectable place like the lobby as one might expect, with all of the travel brochures, but inside the actual rest room, where all of the stalls and porcelain thrones are located. Now, I have no problem sharing my personal information in all of the usual places: a wedding guest registry, signing in at a doctor's office, or even giving my name for a survey . . . but in a bathroom?? This was a new one for me. Somehow I'm just not interested in documenting for all of humanity my visit to the little girl's room, I don't care how much diet coke I've consumed. And you never know, one day I may be tapped to run for vice-president, and well, wouldn't the media just looovve to get that little tidbit of information. Besides, as a germ-a-phobe, no way I'm even thinking about touching that feathery pen attached to a bathroom guest registry. (Perhaps you remember my horrors with potty training our daughters and my urgent pleas in public restrooms, "Don't TOUCH ANYTHING!!")

Anyway, Middlest Daughter thought it was great fun, an adventure of sorts, and didn't have the slightest qualm about signing. (So much for my ominous, germs-are-everywhere-and-you-will-die-if-you-touch-anything-in-a-public-restroom-warnings all those years ago. Sigh.) When I looked at the book, there was her John Hancock . . . clearly and proudly etched for all of posterity: "I. P. Freely." Fine parenting, huh? Germs and a neurotic mother and a diet coke are no match for a sassy 17 year old. I'm not sure I will even let her go to college. Does anyone know if they sell Purell by the barrel?

(P.S. I promise that's not her real name. :)