Here's a tip for you: Actually, here's 10,000 tips for you

"I'm 96% sure we're coming," I assured my daughter on Monday, regarding our intended week-end visit. By Wednesday, my confidence level had risen to 97.5%. "When will you know for SURE," Savannah asked carefully. "If you have other plans, Savannah..." I snapped, "you only have to let us know."

"What could POSSIBLY more exciting than having her parents come to visit," I wondered to my husband. ("Oh...I don't know..." thought Savannah to herself, gritting her teeth while her mother waffled indecisively about her plans, "...hiking in New Hampshire with my friends maybe?")

By Thursday, it was a lock. "Barring a zombie apocalypse..." (and, by the way, were we to be over-run by fictional creatures, why couldn't we be over-run by something a bit more cheerful...like unicorns or jack-a-lopes?) "or planet-jarring asteroid collision, Daddy and I will be visiting this week-end. We are at a solid 99.3%,"  I cheerfully told my daughter. "Great," she sighed, texting her friends to go have fun hiking without her.

Obviously...it was a sign. "You should have known all along," I scolded Savannah as I straightened her already-straightened apartment. "Look!" I pointed to her piled up mail where a cryptic message was revealed: (See illuminating picture)

I helpfully sorted her mail..."Mom," Savannah complained, "the last time you helpfully sorted my mail, you threw away my insurance cards." I dismissed this hurtful accusation with a wave of my hand. "Savannah, you do NOT have to keep the Christmas card from your apartment complex manager..." I fished my Christmas card out from beneath another pile of...what's this?...junk mail!?! "This, on the other hand,..." I moved our card to proud prominence upon the refrigerator door. I glimpsed her empty flower pot on the counter. "Savannah," I asked, clearly devastated, "why is your kitchen utensil pot devoid of kitchen utensils?" "It's too shallow, Mom," she explained carefully, silently cursing herself for not thinking to hide the offending container, "They fall out." I sulked for over an hour until I wandered into her bathroom. "Savannah," I gasped, "why did you purchase q-tips in bulk?" "I didn't buy them, Mom," Savannah sighed, kicking herself for not thinking to hid this crime-against-humanity, "Brittany did." "Single people do not require 10,000 q-tips," I stated, "unless you have some sort of master craft planned. Do you have a master craft planned?" "No," admitted Savannah, suddenly afraid as I immediately googled: q-tip crafts.

But it would be several hours later when true inspiration struck. We were in the middle of an episode of "Lucky Dog" where we realized, ashamed, that our dachshund neither knows nor obeys the seven crucial training commands when I suddenly had my chocolate-meets-peanut-butter moment. I rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the empty flower pot, formally known as the decorative kitchen utensil holder, and spent an hour carefully stuffing 10,000 q-tips into it like a strange floral arrangement to transform the container into a decorative q-tip holder. "It was almost like a sign," I told Savannah, "it was too shallow for your kitchen utensils because it was destined for greater things." Savannah nodded, watching as the "Lucky Dog" guy installed nanny cams to test for separation anxiety in a terrier mix. "Do you love it," I asked Savannah, holding it up for her inspection. "I'm about 96% sure that I love it," she answered.