Behind the slime

I got slimed.

It was cool but not cold. Gooey but not sticky. Thick but not chunky. And above all the grossness, it was a blast.

Sitting underneath the bucket of slime, waiting for the lever to be pulled, I was 25 going on 12.

Nickelodeon stopped at the Louisiana Boardwalk yesterday with the Slime Across America Tour. Kids were going wild, doing anything to get on stage and it was one of the funnest assignments I've covered. But after the slime had been poured and the kids had gone home, I was stuck at the Boardwalk with slime drying on my face.

Of all days, I chose yesterday to lock my keys in my car. My spare key could not be located, so my dad had to drive to the dealership to have a new key made. About an hour after being slimed, my dad arrived with a spare key in hand. His response, "Did you know they were going to do this to you when you came here?"

I said yes, but I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd asked to be slimed. Begged, in fact, by calling offices in New York all week. I not only wanted to get the story, but I wanted to feel the story. Slime was the main event. How could I do the story justice without participating?

I guess it doesn't matter how old you are, there are some things parents just don't understand.