A Morning With Murphy's Law

Today was supposed to be a good day. I had to go to work earlier than normal (which means getting up earlier and facing the bitter morning cold with the dog) but it was all supposed to get better after that. The boys and I were headed to the Science Museum with three free passes and we were all looking forward to it.

After several alarms and half an hour of "Why am I getting up again?" I managed to drag myself out of bed an hour and a half before I had to leave. That was plenty of time to get both the dog's and my morning routines taken care of, pack my lunch and accompanying pills, and snarf an apple and peanut butter, with a few minutes left over to check email, etc.

Planning ahead, I hopped in my car ten minutes early to allow for any residual traffic from rush hour. Yes, sir, the day was off to an easy beginning and could only go up from there!

. . . Or so I thought.

Things started to crumble as I was passing through the airport - roughly ten minutes away from home. I was already a trifle annoyed due to the idiotic morning shows that were monopolizing my favorite radio stations, when my phone started ringing. It was my mom, informing me that I'd left my carefully packed lunch and pills on the kitchen counter. Some quick mental math told me that I could still make it to work on time if I turned around right then and didn't waste any time getting back on the road afterwards.

So I managed a fairly efficient turn around and made my way back out of the airport, took a left and was horrified to see the gates closing at the railroad crossing just ahead. Thankfully it was a really short train, consisting of one engine sandwiched between two pairs of coal cars. The gates went up and we were off like a herd of turtles.

The guy in front of me somehow thought that going 30 in a 45 was the normal thing to do. I couldn't pass him due to lack of visibility and oncoming traffic; so I sat behind him, praying that he wouldn't have far to go before turning off.

He stayed with me most of the way home, but through some careful bending of the speed limit once he was gone I was able to make up some lost time. My mom met me in the driveway and passed lunch and pills through the window and I was off again.

Checking the clock, I was relieved to see that if I just drove my normal route at a sane speed I could make it right on time. And the other drivers were even cooperating with me. Made good time back to the RR Crossing and discovered a very long coal train making its way down the tracks very slowly. I was back to praying.

Thankfully, I had missed the first half of it and it didn't take too long for the rest to pass by. We all put our cars back in gear, ready to make our way to freedom! . . . But the gates didn't go up and the lights continued flashing . . . as another very long coal train made its very slow way down the tracks in the opposite direction. I was no longer praying - I was begging. But just to be on the safe side, I called my boss and let her know that I was most likely going to be a bit late.

Finally, the train ended, the gates rose, and I managed to make it all the way through the airport without incident. A few cars were a trifle slow getting up to speed as we neared the freeway entrance ramp, but nothing terrible. Then we caught up to a Wide Load being hauled up onto the interstate. Took a while, but we made it onto the freeway and were able to pass him and make our jolly way down the road, yet again bending the speed limit. And managed to catch an identical Wide Load - this one in the middle lane, bleeding over into both the left and the right lanes. So we all slowed down and squeezed past.

Traffic wasn't too bad after that, despite the usual assortment of speeders, plodders, and weavers. The construction zone wasn't even too big of a hassle, despite people's fear of the cement wall blocking the shoulder. The clock was still on my side and I was definitely going to make it. No more worries. I wouldn't even have to pay the 20 cent toll to go the fast way.

I exited the interstate right on schedule, got a green light at the intersection and happily made my way to the proper street and turned right. To my utter despair I discovered two large dump trucks and some sort of Caterpillar Tractor Thing scraping leaves off the road and blocking both lanes. (By this point I'm beyond begging - I'm pleading with heaven to get me to work on time and in one piece.) Another car and I were stuck in limbo between the dump trucks, unsure if we should turn around or wait it out, until the CTT driver noticed traffic wanting to go the other way. So he moved and let them through, and we nearly had a massive pileup right there as we were sitting in the only open lane as they whipped around the truck in front of us, unaware that we were even there. Thankfully, they slowed down and we managed to move over onto the shoulder. We then forced our way through the same hole before the CTT guy could get back to work, leaving us stranded.

At this point, I figure either nothing else could possibly go wrong, or my day would continue on this way until I was a ball of tears and drool babbling in the corner. Deciding to be optimistic, I continued my journey. After all, I was within ten minutes of work with the miraculous possibility that I could still get there on time or just a couple minutes late.

At the penultimate major intersection, I had a green light and so was pulling through without stopping when a lady in the cross lanes pulled out in front of me, forcing me to stomp on my breaks, beseeching heaven to spare my life, my car, and the cars and lives behind me. From all I could tell, she wanted to make a right on red, but she was on her phone and therefore distracted. Her brain told her, "Right on red!" so she went for it without stopping to look. It must have occurred to her that this could be dangerous, because she stopped cold, completely blocking my lane. But does she rectify this unfortunate situation quickly and efficiently by continuing on and clearing a path for the rest of us? No. She doesn't. She decides to prove that she's actually a conscientious and law-abiding driver by smiling sheepishly at me as she proceeds to put her car into reverse and back out of my way!

Shaking my head in disbelief, I make my uneventful way through a few more turns before I reach the proper neighborhood, figuring that nothing else could possibly go wrong when I was this close. Total incredulity was no doubt coloring my face as a gas truck pulled out in front of me and poked its way down the road. Thankfully, it continued on past my destination and I was able to pull into the driveway only five minutes late. My boss was waiting in the driveway with the boys, and as soon as I got there, she hopped in her own car and drove away, leaving me with two boys jabbering nonsense at me.

I managed to get myself organized and my stuff stashed in the house quickly enough and went back outside to play with the boys. It was some little boy game consisting of good guys, bad guys, and chocolate hot dogs. I was apparently one of the bad guys, along with the three year old: we were chocolate hot dog thieves. The five year old was the good guy: an extremely fervent and vindictive good guy. Chocolate hot dog thieves must have murdered his family, kicked his dog, and stolen his toys when he was a kid to inspire so much anger and blood lust.

Anyway, as we were making our getaway, he stowed aboard our ship and we were able to capture him. The three year old was all in favor of taking him home and eating him, but I thought he was too tough and stringy. Regardless, our captive's shoes were muddy and he managed to kneel in one of his own muddy footprints. And so, within ten minutes of my being at work, the five year old's nice white khakis have both grass and mud stains on the knee.

After all of these remarkable events, it was with some fear and trepidation that I loaded up the boys and headed back out into the big bad world. But through the grace of God, the rest of the day was incident-free. We had a fairly good time at the museum and my commute home did not involve trains, dump trucks, near misses, or anything beyond a bit of slow traffic and evil afternoon sunlight in my face.

And that, folks, is how I spent my morning. How was yours?

OK, So First We Put This . . . Wait, No, We Toss This . . . Huh?

As a nanny, I've encountered a variety of situations: surprising, enlightening, difficult, frustrating, etc. But the recurring frustration of one particular problem finally reached critical mass today. Namely, the mind-boggling habit of throwing away the instruction booklets that come with children's games. There seems to be an epidemic!

Now, don't get me wrong, I put a lot of the blame on the manufacturers. Why they don't print the instructions on the box is beyond me. But then . . . I guess you're limited to only one or two languages, depending on the size of the box, whereas you have no limit when printing in a booklet; and who doesn't enjoy studying those funky Chinese symbols while your kids wait impatiently to play the game?

The reasoning behind the method of printing them, however, is unimportant. The matter at hand is the unusual practice of discarding this all-important document. Have any of you tried to play children's games these days? They're mostly electronic and far from self-explanatory. Up to now I've been able to muddle my way through on common sense and basic reasoning capabilities; but "UNO Moo!" was a new one on me, and I was completely stumped by the seemingly innocuous little plastic barn full of spherical animals of various colors; so I had to ask the five year old how to play.

I can't even begin to remember half of the gibberish he spouted at me, but it was a lot of pointless maneuvers without any objective. When I tried to insert a bit of logic and a motive into his unrelated mess of instructions, he declared, "No, I'm the judge, and what you're saying is against the rules!"

As I had yet to figure out even the first step, we argued in circles until I happened upon a barn door that actually opened and he suddenly remembered a whole new set of disjointed commands we were to follow. Somehow, out of this we managed to cobble together a decent game, which I won; but this in no way dissuades me from my original point.

So to all you parents out there, current or future, especially those who intend to hire a nanny at some point: save the instruction booklets! Even you may be grateful some day.

This Had A Really Clever Title . . . but I forgot it

Yesterday it was proven, yet again, that nothing is certain in life except that God will get you through.

On the way to church on Sunday I was very dismayed to discover a new noise in my car. It was originating in the front right wheel and sounded like a busted wheel bearing to me. (My opinion is, of course, very well-informed: I heard a busted bearing once and it sounded like that.) So after sitting around on my thumbs for a few days, hoping it would go away if I just didn't drive anywhere, Daddy told me to head to Midas. He was even nice enough to set the appointment for me when Mommy's car was back in the shop for the second time within a week. Apparently this just ain't our month to save money on the cars.

Anyway, I took it in and told the lady that it was a busted bearing (since I'm the expert on such things). She said they'd take it for a test drive and let me know what they found.

So Dave and I headed out into the wild world to kill time. How does one kill time in a city? Spending money. But that was OK because I've been in dire need of a 2011 calendar ever since the year started. So we headed one block over to the Barnes & Noble; they've always got calendars. Cute ones, too.

After a brief search we discovered a small table display of four different calendars: some dirty TV show, half naked dudes, Boyd's Bears, and Twilight: Eclipse. Of those I was most inclined (shockingly enough) towards the last one, until I turned it around and discovered that there wasn't a single picture of the wolves as, well, wolves. I no longer had any interest in purchasing it or looking at it for the rest of the year. (Can you imagine an entire month of Edward's stoned visage? I don't think I could handle that.)

Then the hunt was on. Where does one buy a cute calendar for the current year at the end of January?

Bookstore? Nope.

Target? Nope.

DSW Shoe Outlet? . . . hehehe . . . Nope, no calendars there!

. . . Wal-Mart? Bingo.

Wal-Mart's selection wasn't exactly vast, but it had more variety than anywhere else we'd tried, and although I was tempted by the Justin Bieber one, I had to pass it over for the puppies. (Yes, that was sarcasm, please tell me you caught that!)

Along the way, I also purchased a few necessary items for my car, such as maps of the area, and rubber mats for the floors. Then I get a call from Midas (three dead hours later) saying that it wasn't a busted bearing at all. It was actually just a poor wear pattern on the tire that was making the noise. Despite being unable to visualize how that could possibly be the cause, I agreed to wait one more hour while they replaced the tire.

When it was all said and done, Dave and I had killed the entire afternoon in the pouring rain, and I'd spent over $500 in car repairs in less than two weeks of ownership. When I got home, I immediately checked my bank account online and was appalled at how low it had gotten: lower than it's been in the last four years. But as I was fretting over that, Mommy told me that I'd missed a phone call when I'd been out.

A few weeks back I'd gone to a job interview for a nanny position here in town, but hadn't gotten hired because I wasn't a strong swimmer. Turned out they decided somewhere between then and now that the lady they had hired wasn't going to work out. So they called and asked if I would be still be interested in working for them. Naturally, I agreed.

And so that is how I managed to go broke and get a job all in one day.

Drive Away with Absolutely No Cash!

My life was looking to be pretty boring in 2011: get a job and save money. There were possibilities of flitting hither and yon across the country to help family members in tough situations, but nothing was set in stone. So I settled in to the distasteful task of job hunting, but wasn't sure where to begin.

Somehow, in the mess of life plans, short term job possibilities, and wishful thinking, my wonderful father gave me the Go Ahead to adopt a dog. So I ran gleefully out to the shelter and brought home a sweet little Aussie Shepherd mutt named Zoey. Extremely distrusting and timid at first, she has since warmed up to the family and ingratiated herself with each of us. The stairs no longer represent a dark and cunning trap waiting to swallow her whole; and car trips no longer begin with the overwhelming fear of being dumped on the side of the road.

Within a few days of having this sweet addition to our family circle, it was also decided that I needed my own wheels. A sudden change in the car-eography of our family was going to leave us in a pinch once I finally get a job. So exactly one week after bringing home Da Baby, I was driving my own car off the Carmax lot: a really sweet 2007 Trailblazer.

Two days later I was sitting in Midas while they gave it the once over and replaced a leaky rear tire. The day after that, I was in the vet's office while they gave Zoey the once over and removed the stitches from her Snip-snip. And so, I have come to two large realizations: I'm an adult, and I need a job!

Such a Simple Thing

We left the house this morning with only a few goals to achieve: drop the car off for an oil change, go to Mass, apply for a Concealed Weapons Permit. After a productive morning we were going to stop for lunch as a reward. Simple, right?

I had already taken the online course, which was over an hour of material that has been hammered into my head since childhood and a 20 question test of common sense. (I got all 20 right. Go me!) I had printed a copy of my "diploma" and had it with the application form which I'd also printed and filled out. We were all set.

Objective 1: Drop Off Car - ACCOMPLISHED

(No problems with this one, despite morning rush hour traffic and the crazy drivers who slept through their alarms or had to run home and change after spilling coffee down their front leaving Starbucks.)

Objective 2: Get to Mass On Time! - . . . ACCOMPLISHED

(This one involved a great deal of complaining about the streets of Richmond and their inability to go straight, or even anywhere near where you're trying to go. But we persevered and managed to make it on time.)

Objective 3: Apply for CWP

3.a. Get Application Notarized

3.b. Fingerprints at the County Police Headquarters

3.c. Turn in Application at the County Courthouse

It was discovered as I filled out the application that we needed to get it notarized. No problemo! We headed to the bank right after church and they fixed us right up. Yay! Aren't we productive? 3.a. - ACCOMPLISHED! We're on a roll!!

As we waltzed through the doors of Police Headquarters to accomplish Obj. 3.b., we found ourselves in a small, bulletproof glass box which constitutes the lobby while they renovate their real lobby. We stated our business and were immediately told that I needed two forms of I.D.: driver's license as well as social security card, or voter's registration card, or passport . . . etc. The first one was no problem, but I didn't have the second one. So with tears in our eyes we headed back to the truck, grumbling and whining about bureaucracy.

The county we live in is a very odd county - it's shaped like a horseshoe. Of course, the police headquarters and the courthouse are practically next door to one another, but we live on the complete opposite side of the horseshoe, so it was no small matter of jaunting home and skipping back. Since we had to make this extensive trek, we went ahead and rewarded ourselves with Mexican food for lunch. And since VA is such a wonderful state, I was able to carry open while we drowned our sorrows in refried beans and rice. Made the whole experience a little more bearable.

Once we made it home, we loaded up my wallet with every form of I.D. I had short of my birth certificate (which wouldn't have fit anyway) and jumped back in the truck to make our way back. This time, I was able to hand the man my identity in the form of two small cards and he seemed happy with that. So he handed me a form to fill out, which I did and then we got to sit and wait, feeling more and more like we'd been banished to the Group W bench. But at last the lady came for me and I was allowed through the locked doors into the maw of the beast. The final ordeal took all of two minutes, and now, enshrined in some computer folder is a study in black and white of my fingerprints.

All right! Objective 3.b. - ACCOMPLISHED!! Let's get this thing over with!

So we went to the courthouse, managed to find a parkingspot despite the overabundance of cars in every lot surrounding the place. Then we began the methodical stripping. Guns - in the lock box. Pocket knives - in the console. Belts, belt buckles, keys, and all other metallic objects out of pockets and into the truck. Despite my forethought, I completely forgot about my watch. Oh well, just dump it in the bucket with my wallet, right? Guy running the show at the metal detector wouldn't let me. "We don't need your watch, you can keep that."

OK, whatever. So I had my watch in hand, rings on my fingers, glasses on my face, clips in my hair, and my Miraculous Medal around my neck. Wouldn't you know I beeped like a dump truck in reverse when I walked through the stupid thing? And did they make me take off my boots to prove I didn't have a knife, gun, or bomb in there? Nope. Did he even try to use the wand in his hand? Nu-uh. He made me turn around so he could see that I didn't have a gun strapped to my belt. How thorough.

Anyway, once we made it through that little circus ritual, we headed upstairs to the Circuit Court Clerk's office. Lady checked my application, my "diploma", the form from the Police Department and photocopied my driver's license. Then she charged me $50, gave me a receipt and told me to have a nice day. Objective 3.c. - ACCOMPLISHED!

So the errand began around 10:00 in the morning and didn't end until closer onto 3:00 in the afternoon. "And I had to pay $50 and fill out the garbage" all so that I can practice a basic human right that is protected by the Constitution. Yeah, yeah, I'm whining, I know. So I'll end on a happy note: Boy! That lunch was yummy!

Are We Having Fun Yet?

On Tuesday, I had the great pleasure of "flying the friendly skies" in order to make my way from the West Coast to the East Coast. Up to now, my flying experiences have been pretty mundane: I breeze through check-in, security, and the terminal to reach the appointed gate at least an hour in advance so that I can sit in total relaxation and read whatever riveting material I've brought along. This time, there was a hiccup (more of a bronchospasm, really) that set the tone for the entire day.

We left the house with plenty of time to arrive with an hour to spare. Traffic was very light and I was secure in the knowledge that missed flights are things that happen only to Other People. Most likely because Other People are notorious for not planning ahead, unlike Me. After all, I'm very close friends with Justin Case.

The closer we got to San Jose, however, the heavier the traffic became. But by this point I could see the airplanes coming and going from the airport, and the GPS assured me that we were only eight minutes away from our destination. And yet it took us a good half hour to knock five minutes off that estimation; and I could clearly see myself wearing that horrible Missed Flight stigma that would forever label Me as Other People. Despite what my sister may tell you, I was nowhere near the puking point of panicking, but I was definitely stressed and ready to scream/cry/hit something; or possibly just drag my bags behind me as I sprinted through traffic, carrying the GPS for guidance.

All thoughts of goodbye hugs, and tender farewells in the terminal had long since fled the scene, and as we pulled up to the curb, my only thought was "Get all three bags into the airport now!" The extra adrenaline made heaving my fifty pound suitcase out of the trunk much easier than it should have been, and I was off.

An American agent saw my rush and offered to check my bag at their curbside station. I gratefully accepted and informed him that my flight was due to leave in just over half an hour, and he assured me that I still had two minutes before the deadline for checked luggage. Oh, and do you have another form of payment? My card-reader doesn't like your debit card.

Since I had no other form of payment, he led me inside where everyone was nice enough to let me cut in line to get my %#&@ bag checked. This time the debit card was accepted. I was given my boarding passes and the news that my flight was already boarding.

Slinging my computer bag over my shoulder and grabbing my carryon, I sprinted up the escalator and through the maze of barriers to security. Thankfully, the line was infinitesimal and I was able to shove all of my stuff through in very little time. Unfortunately, the Smurfs running the show were using the full body scanner rather than the metal detector, so I had to swallow my pride and hold my hands up in surrender before they would grant me entry to their kingdom.

But Snoopy Smurf didn't like the look of my carryon, so she had me stand by and watch her dig through it before sending it back through the x-ray. Then she wiped it down and told me I was free to pack it back up and be on my way. How gracious.

It was at this point that I decided I better figure out where I was headed. So while I was power-walking down the hallway, I scanned my boarding pass, trying to locate a gate number. That box was notably blank. I remembered the ticket agent giving me that information verbally as I sprinted away from him, but I hadn't really been listening at that point, figuring it would be - oh, I don't know - written on my ticket. So I did my best Shawn Spencer impersonation, which isn't very impressive on a good day, and headed to the corresponding gate. Amazingly, I picked the right one.

When I reached the appointed doorway, they were packing the last few people onto a very full flight, and turning away pathetic hopefuls who'd been put on Standby due to a cancelled flight the night before. Thankfully, I still had a seat. There just wasn't anymore overhead storage. So my carryon was checked all the way through to Richmond. All I could do was pray it didn't get lost along the way.

The flight itself was wonderfully uneventful and actually very boring - a glorious change from the high-stress morning. Although I was disappointed to discover that they charge money for their in-flight WiFi; and all their snacks were off-limits due to my diet. Still, by the time we reached DFW, my good spirits were back in place and I had a smile on my face: I was in Texas!

I was a little miffed that I had to make my way from Terminal A to Terminal C, but I had a good two hours to kill before my connecting flight. Along the way, I stopped in every single gift shop and quickly discovered that they all carried the exact same stuff for the exact same price. Sadly, I bought nothing except a bottle of water.

By the time I found my new gate, I still had plenty of time and the stress-levels were wonderfully low. I called home to let them know I had made it on time and wasn't stranded in California. Then I called the Dallas relatives, just to chat. Then I tried out a few more stores nearby, just because I could. Yes, sir, life was good and I was home free.

Until I settled in to wait and was joined by two Asian ladies. The younger of the two very politely inquired about my plans: was I going to take this flight? At my affirmative, she smiled and asked if I would mind helping her mother. Daughter lives in Fort Worth and was done traveling for the day, but Mother needed to take this last flight. The only problem was that Mother doesn't speak English, and Daughter was worried that if the gate was changed or some other problem arose, Mother would end up on the wrong flight. So could I please make sure she boarded the proper flight at the appropriate time?

And I, being the brave, caring, generous spirit that I am (read: a pushover who's too timid to say no) said that it would be my pleasure. No problem at all. The whole time imagining all the possible problems that could arise from this situation.

Daughter thanked me and left.

Suddenly, I was no longer lounging in the warm cocoon of Plenty Of Time before the last leg of my journey. No, now I was chained to the uncomfortable airport chair - unable to walk even to the bathroom for fear my new charge would assume we were changing gates, or simply disappear while I was gone. The rest of the wait was spent trying to figure out how to handle several different hypothetical situations should they arise.

Despite Daugher's claim that her mother spoke no English, I'm pretty sure she understood what the word "boarding" meant. For it was around this time that the gate agent announced that the in-bound crew had called for maintenance before they left. Our flight crew had yet to arrive, and the mechanics had not yet determined the extent of needed repairs, and so it was possible that they would have to delay boarding.

At the sound of that magical "b" word, Mother came close to jumping to her feet and heading down the jetway. But the lack of movement from all the other waiting people informed her that it wasn't time yet.

Three more times the gate agent let us know that we couldn't start boarding yet, and each time she jerked as if someone had shocked her, ready to leap to her feet. By the time he announced that we were finally boarding and still scheduled to leave on time, Mother was ready to get the show on the road! When she saw everyone else start getting in line, she began waving impatiently to me, wanting me to hurry it up so we could all get on board. The only problem was that they were only boarding First Class, and she was in Group 6.

I managed to communicate the need to wait using the universal raised index finger and a smile; but when they called up the next group, she was off again and once more I had to stop her. We went through this for First Class, Party Class, and Groups 1-5. Each time she seemed to get a little more impatient, and managed to inch her way a little closer to the line. By the time they called Group 6, I was convinced that she thought I was some crazy American who was trying to keep her off the flight. Meanwhile, my mind was conjuring an image of her butting through the line, not understanding when the agents tried to correct her, and me ending up in jail for somehow being entangled with a disorderly passenger.

Thankfully, her group was called and we could both board (I was supposed to be in Group 4). The last I saw of her, she was crawling into her row, tossing me a smile and a wave over her shoulder as I headed further down the aisle. I was happy to let her go.

This time, I was finally granted a window seat. To make matters even sweeter, there wasn't anyone in the middle seat, so there was more elbow room for myself and the lady in the aisle seat. But by the time we were airborne, the sun was already setting and the lightbulb over my seat didn't work, so reading was out. The majority of the flight was spent trying to sleep and failing miserably. Even with the extra seat to stretch out on, I was in the row in front of the Emergency Exit, so I couldn't lean my seat back. Not very comfortable.

We managed to reach our final destination five minutes early, despite a shaky start and a rainy finish. All of my bags made it; I wasn't beaten/shot/stabbed/kidnapped/mugged while waiting for my ride home; and best of all, I avoided that horrible circumstance of becoming Other People!

And now it is very early in the morning and I'm enjoying JETLAG!! Whoopie!!

Catholic, Young and . . . Single?

In the recent past, my feminine love for jewelry finally muscled its way past my long-standing tomboyish tendencies. The Practical Pig in me, however, finds it hard to wear a meaningless piece of bling, so everything I wear must have a meaning. This being the case, I finally gave in to my desire for something shiny when we came across a 50% Off Everything In The Silver Store Sale on Cannery Row; but I couldn't bring myself to buy a dolphin, a whale tail, or an elephant head because I knew I'd never wear it again. So I ended up with a Claddagh ring after years of resisting the temptation.

Sadly, the first thing I realized when we got back home was that my hands had been slightly swollen from hanging by my sides and also from the unusual heat of the day. So the ring does not, in fact, stay on my ring finger, and it's a squeeze to get it past the knuckles of my other fingers. Despite this, I decided to be a trifle rebellious and wear it on my pointer finger. But then the question arose: Which way do I wear it?

I'd heard the tradition many times over, but I'd never managed to get the directions straight in my head. I knew only that I ought not wear it on my left hand or risk becoming an old maid. So I went with my gut and had the crown pointed towards the wrist on my right hand, fairly confident I was proclaiming my availability to any savvy young men who might happen to see it. But I wasn't positive.

So I checked the source of all knowledge and learning: Wikipedia. This is what I got:

"The wearing of a Claddagh ring in modern usage is usually intended to convey the wearer's romantic availability, or lack thereof. The ring is worn on the right hand with the heart oriented away from the wearer, to show that the wearer is not romantically linked. When turned the other way, it shows that the wearer is in a relationship, or their heart has been "captured". When worn on the left hand with the heart oriented again away from the wearer, it implies the wearer is engaged; turned the other way, it indicates the wearer is married."

From this I was led to believe that I was, in fact, wearing it upside-down and that the crown should point towards my fingertip to show the world my lack of a love life. So I flipped it.

But it still felt wrong. So I asked my sister and brother-in-law who both quickly volunteered their knowledge. In the ensuing discussion, there was much confusion regarding which way a heart points - does the top indicate direction or does the pointy part on the bottom? But once we managed to settle on the crown as a reference point, he said towards the fingertip and she said towards the wrist. Hooray for clarity.

That evening I decided to ask my best friend, who also wears a Claddagh and is also single, how she wears hers. She began to explain, but again used the heart rather than the crown as a reference point. By this point I was beginning to see where the confusion comes from. But again, once the crown was chosen to be the pointer, she agreed that it should be towards the wrist. So at this point it seemed to be three against two with the wrist in the lead.

Hoping to find a finalizing vote, I approached the source of all wisdom and power: Google. One link in particular looked promising, so I gave it a whirl.

"The Irish Claddagh Rings are probably the most culturally rich pieces of jewelry ever recorded in history. The meaning, significance and history of the Cladagh ring has a rich ancient past that dates back to over 300 years. The design of the Cladag ring and even the way the ring is worn are all deeply rooted in Irish tradition."

So now I'm not only confused about how to wear it, I'm totally baffled as to how it's even spelled! This particular website continues on to say:

"The meaning and significance of the Claddagh ring is not just in the crown, heart and clasping hands, it also extends to the hand on which the ring is worn and the direction in which the crown on the ring points. In case of a married or engaged person Claddagh rings are worn on the left hand with the crown pointing away from the (the person wearing the ring) heart. For a person willing to consider love the ring is traditionally worn on the right hand with the crown pointing away from the heart. For a person not interested in starting a relationship the Cladagh ring is worn on the right hand with the crown pointing towards the heart."

What??? Where did this come from? So, now I'm telling the world that I'm some Love Scrooge who wants nothing more than to be left alone?!

At this point, the score is: Wrist-3, Fingertip-2, Love Scrooge-1. Based on these findings, I've decided to go with the wrist and comfort myself with the thought that the confusion surrounding these rings gives me about a 50/50 chance of sending the proper message, which is no better and no worse than wearing no ring at all, but has the bonus of getting to wear something shiny!