About a month after Baby Man entered the world our 8-year anniversary rolled around. Some trusted friends agreed to watch our bundle of joy while we went on our first dinner alone as parents. I wanted it to be a special dinner. So being an epicure and thrifty I made reservations at place downtown that had sent a coupon in the mail. Before you starting laughing at the juxtaposition of epicure and coupon - it was a $50-off the purchase of two entrees so I figured it had to be pricey and many times (not always) pricey in the restaurant world means the food is probably pretty good. I looked up the menu on-line and it did look good so I made reservations.
We kissed our baby good bye, left a bottle in the frig and headed out for our first "date night" without our baby in tow. We were both relaxed, knowing the baby was in good hands. To our surprise we both kind of missed our little guy but our minds were quickly occupied when we sat down and began looking over the menu. It was a steakhouse with all the usual fare so it was not too impressive but hey, we had $50 off so we could really go nuts right?
The waiter told us the specials and then as my husband asks about which steak is the best in the house the waiter immediately begins to tell us about a "real special" special - a bone-in rib eye that is not on the menu but is fabulous. Love of My Life has had this cut of meat before and agrees that it is quite good. Our waiter looks disappointed that it isn't quite so "special" and sees Love of My Life's interest wane as he looks at the regular rib eye (because fillet, which I'm getting, is so trite.) The waiter mentions that there are only six of these wonderful bone-in rib eyes in the restaurant and he doesn't know when they'll get more and if we order it he'll throw in a lobster tail half price. That was the clincher - Love of My Life likes lobster too (I'm more of a crab lover myself.) He orders the bone-in rib eye, I order my trite fillet and we decide to share a side of scalloped potatoes.
The meal goes by as many do - tasty with a side of interesting chit-chat. We both enjoyed everything that was served and ordered dessert and an Irish coffee for me (after all we have $50 coupon.) Then, as Seinfeld points out, comes the story of the bill. They put the bill in the nice little faux leather book. Most of these end-of-dinner books are disappointing but expected. This was neither.... it was frightening and completely unexpected. We realized in that moment that the phrase "if you have to ask how much it is you shouldn't be buying it" was too true. Much to our horror the coupon didn't even cover his steak - not to mention the side of potatoes, lobster, salads, soup, dessert, coffee and two beers.
You live and learn right? We'll never feel bad about asking for the prices on "specials" again and beware the moment your waiter starts telling you they don't when they'll get this item again. My guess is the reason it isn't on the menu is because no one would buy a $68.00 steak that you can get across town for $35.00 (what we paid the first time he had a "bone-in rib eye".) Oh well, it is an anniversary we won't forget. I put the receipt in the baby's baby book as a reminder of the first dinner we went out to without him!
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Yankee Pot Roast in France
My freshman year in high school I succumbed to peer pressure and signed up for French as my required two years of foreign language. I figured French was as good as any other foreign language and I didn't know it at the time but it would lead me to eating Yankee Pot Roast with six loud enthusiastic French people.
Half of my sophomore year was over and although New Years was only days behind me I was looking forward to summer. My best friend Susan had a pool and I'd be turning 16 and getting a car. Just when I thought the summer couldn't get any better my French teacher announced the school district had an opportunity for French students to go to France and take their "ESL" or technically "FSL" classes. How cool would it be to go to France for the summer? Susan's pool would be there next summer and I had the rest of my life to cruse around in a car.
I quickly began plotting how best to present this opportunity to my mom in a way that she would agree to let her 16-year-old go to another continent with a teacher from another school. Much to my surprise it was not as difficult as I'd imagined and after countless forms, an application for my passport and a few meetings at Central High with the supervising teacher I was all set to get on a plane with one teacher and 19 other students and head to France for two months.
The rest of the year passed in a blur as I planned my trip and asked my aunts for travel tips and packing strategies. Finally the moment arrived when my mom and I hugged good bye and I boarded a plane with 19 kids and one teacher that I didn't know very well to head off to a country I didn't know at all to sleep in a bed in the home of people I'd never met. The sense of adventure and adrenaline of heading out on my own (sort of) into the unknown was a high that quickly bottomed out.
As the plane took off in Atlanta headed for London I began to dawn on me that I didn't speak French very well and struggled to pass the simplest of vocabulary tests for two years. I quickly pulled out my travel dictionary and flipped to the back where it had "Helpful Phrases" and set about memorizing as many of them as I was able.
There are two main things that I'm terrible at and will most likely be terrible at for the rest of my life - music and foreign languages. I can read music and I could read French somewhat and could comprehend some of what I heard but that was all. I can only conclude that I don't hear sounds properly - at least not well enough to reproduce them with any accuracy.... a needed skill when attempting to speak another language or play music/ sing. I must admit I felt a bit of panic as I realized this with the Atlantic Ocean below me and no turning back.
Having mastered "Hi my name is...", "What time is it?", "Where is the bathroom?", "I have a stomach ache" and "I'm allergic..." I was feeling way in over my head. I'm not allergic to anything in particular but I was schooled in French customs before I left and I knew they are offended by picky eaters and there was a laundry list of things I wouldn't eat. So I figured I could pass on things like tomatoes by saying I was allergic to them without causing offense.
The misery of a trans-Atlantic flight began to set it about about hour four. I didn't know any of the other high school students that were going as we were all from different high schools in the district. Some I clicked with and some were difficult to be around but all of them spoke French much better than I did and like most high school students took the opportunity of the flight to show off. I felt so lost. I was mad at the public school system that had let me get by completing and passing two years of French with B's and C's yet not know anything.
By the time we arrived in London my anger and fear had given way to exhaustion and dehydration I was no longer worried about speaking French as long as there was water and a bed at the end this trip. It felt like I'd been awake for days. Our teacher shuffled us along, speaking English (thank God!) Just when I thought the trip couldn't get any longer or terrible the teacher herded us to a small plane that I was certain couldn't hold all of us and our luggage. It was the smallest plane I'd ever seen and as the twenty of us settled, somewhat cramped, into our seats the pilot announced that Toulouse was another four hours away. I wanted to cry with exhaustion and nerves; at this point I was certain this was the worst idea of my life.
The small plane pitched and bounced for four hours as we flew south from London, over Paris and finally landed in Toulouse. After all the turbulence I had to add motion sickness to my list of reasons I couldn't possibly function long enough to exit the plane. I wondered if this was remotely like the ski lift and if I stayed on the plane would it take me back to Atlanta and my own bed? I was lost in my self pity and misery when the teacher announce that the families were waiting to pick us up and it was about 11:00 in the morning. My ears and fears perked up as she instructed us to get our luggage an line up against the fence once we got off the plane.
Riou". To my horror six people surged forward and began babbling in a language I was apparently suppose to know. I wanted to faint, I wanted to cry for my mom and most of all I wanted them to slow down and speak English.
My discomfort turned into feeling like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. The family was pushing and pulling me and my bags toward the smallest hatch-back car I'd ever seen, all six of them talking at me rapidly. Surely they had two cars or lived close enough that we could walk. An older gentleman managed to squeeze my luggage into the tiny space behind the back seat as the two adult women began grabbing and shoving around the three teenagers and myself in an attempt to find a way for us all to pile into the car. From the gestures and excited gibberish I gathered they decided against putting the younger looking boy in the hatch with my luggage - there wasn't room.
In the end I ended up with two kids and one of the ladies scrunched in the back seat. To this day I'll never know how four of us packed in back there or how the other three packed into the front seats of a tiny 5-speed hatch back. Then things got worse.... I'm allergic to cigarettes and evidently everyone in France smokes like a chimney. Before the car was even out of the parking lot three of them lit up and one was furiously shaking the pack at me... offering me one. I shook my head and said thought I said "no thank you." She reacted more like I'd said, "I'm going to refuse your offer of hospitality because I'm being polite but in fact I'm dying for a smoke." She said no, no and pulled one out of the pack and put it in my hand, which I wouldn't have been able to get to my mouth anyway since we were so packed in. The to my chagrin the boy next to whips out a lighter and sparks it to life as the car whips through traffic as only Europeans can do.
At a loss for how to explain that I didn't smoke and didn't want to begin, I blurted out "I'm allergic" in was turned out to clear and perfect French. The lady in the front seat began shouting and snatching cigarettes out of the mouths of the other passengers and flinging them out the window. I felt terrible - I hadn't intended for them throw out their own cigarettes, I just didn't want one of my own.
We finally arrived at a small townhouse and everyone piled out of the car. My luggage was shuffled into the house and up the stairs and I was shuffled into a small tightly packed, dim dinning room. I was tired, and not feeling great from motion sickness and the last thing I wanted was to sit down to dinner. I wasn't sure I'd be able to eat anything anyway; I was suffering from lack of sleep and a severe case of culture shock. My one wish was that some spoke at least some English. I couldn't even figure out who my host family was out of the three adults and three kids.
My wish was granted when the boy about my age started speaking English very well. He pointed out his mom and explained that I'd be staying with the two of them and that the other couple and kids were his aunt and uncle and their kids. I felt relieved and a bit more connected to the world around me. All too soon we were seated around the table amid the noisy chatter of six French people speaking as loud and fast as possible. My head began to hurt and although my stomach growled, all I could think about was sleep and ending the noise and chatter around me. My host mother placed a huge piece of meat on the table surrounded by potatoes, carrots and tomatoes and kept repeating "Yankee Pot Roast" loudly. She began serving the meat and veggies.
A few minutes into dinner my fatigue began to slow as I couldn't find my appetite despite the fact that the dinner was good. I felt even more terrible because obviously they'd invited family over to welcome me and she'd spent a good deal of time and money to cook a dinner that would be familiar to me and I wasn't playing my part very well at all but my eyes were itchy from lack of sleep, lack of water and too much cigarette smoke. Finally the host mom asked what was wrong through the translation of her son. I told him that I was very tired and I didn't feel well. With him as a translator his mom asked what was wrong, was there anything she could do? The son had trouble understanding "jet lag" and "motion sickness" (from the plane and car ride). Everyone was getting very concerned and I was clearly ruining dinner. Desperate to come up with something that would allow me to leave the table and go sleep I remembered a phrase from my book and blurred out that "I have a stomach ache."
What the "helpful phrases" book didn't tell was that this phrase carries more weight in France. Everyone at the table erupted in chatter and the older man dug the keys from his pocket and raced for the front door. The mother's face went white and I heard her shout Quick Quick and everyone jumped up. The son said they'd get me to the doctor quickly. I found myself in a panic to explain that I didn't need a doctor, just alot of sleep.
After much concern and fear on their part and much pleading and reassurance on mine - they finally showed me to my room where I promptly crashed and slept from 1:00 in the afternoon until 8:00 the next morning.
We had left-over pot roast for lunch the next day and I never saw the other family the rest of my stay - I guess they didn't want to catch my crazy American stomach troubles.
Half of my sophomore year was over and although New Years was only days behind me I was looking forward to summer. My best friend Susan had a pool and I'd be turning 16 and getting a car. Just when I thought the summer couldn't get any better my French teacher announced the school district had an opportunity for French students to go to France and take their "ESL" or technically "FSL" classes. How cool would it be to go to France for the summer? Susan's pool would be there next summer and I had the rest of my life to cruse around in a car.
I quickly began plotting how best to present this opportunity to my mom in a way that she would agree to let her 16-year-old go to another continent with a teacher from another school. Much to my surprise it was not as difficult as I'd imagined and after countless forms, an application for my passport and a few meetings at Central High with the supervising teacher I was all set to get on a plane with one teacher and 19 other students and head to France for two months.
The rest of the year passed in a blur as I planned my trip and asked my aunts for travel tips and packing strategies. Finally the moment arrived when my mom and I hugged good bye and I boarded a plane with 19 kids and one teacher that I didn't know very well to head off to a country I didn't know at all to sleep in a bed in the home of people I'd never met. The sense of adventure and adrenaline of heading out on my own (sort of) into the unknown was a high that quickly bottomed out.
As the plane took off in Atlanta headed for London I began to dawn on me that I didn't speak French very well and struggled to pass the simplest of vocabulary tests for two years. I quickly pulled out my travel dictionary and flipped to the back where it had "Helpful Phrases" and set about memorizing as many of them as I was able.
There are two main things that I'm terrible at and will most likely be terrible at for the rest of my life - music and foreign languages. I can read music and I could read French somewhat and could comprehend some of what I heard but that was all. I can only conclude that I don't hear sounds properly - at least not well enough to reproduce them with any accuracy.... a needed skill when attempting to speak another language or play music/ sing. I must admit I felt a bit of panic as I realized this with the Atlantic Ocean below me and no turning back.
Having mastered "Hi my name is...", "What time is it?", "Where is the bathroom?", "I have a stomach ache" and "I'm allergic..." I was feeling way in over my head. I'm not allergic to anything in particular but I was schooled in French customs before I left and I knew they are offended by picky eaters and there was a laundry list of things I wouldn't eat. So I figured I could pass on things like tomatoes by saying I was allergic to them without causing offense.
The misery of a trans-Atlantic flight began to set it about about hour four. I didn't know any of the other high school students that were going as we were all from different high schools in the district. Some I clicked with and some were difficult to be around but all of them spoke French much better than I did and like most high school students took the opportunity of the flight to show off. I felt so lost. I was mad at the public school system that had let me get by completing and passing two years of French with B's and C's yet not know anything.
By the time we arrived in London my anger and fear had given way to exhaustion and dehydration I was no longer worried about speaking French as long as there was water and a bed at the end this trip. It felt like I'd been awake for days. Our teacher shuffled us along, speaking English (thank God!) Just when I thought the trip couldn't get any longer or terrible the teacher herded us to a small plane that I was certain couldn't hold all of us and our luggage. It was the smallest plane I'd ever seen and as the twenty of us settled, somewhat cramped, into our seats the pilot announced that Toulouse was another four hours away. I wanted to cry with exhaustion and nerves; at this point I was certain this was the worst idea of my life.
The small plane pitched and bounced for four hours as we flew south from London, over Paris and finally landed in Toulouse. After all the turbulence I had to add motion sickness to my list of reasons I couldn't possibly function long enough to exit the plane. I wondered if this was remotely like the ski lift and if I stayed on the plane would it take me back to Atlanta and my own bed? I was lost in my self pity and misery when the teacher announce that the families were waiting to pick us up and it was about 11:00 in the morning. My ears and fears perked up as she instructed us to get our luggage an line up against the fence once we got off the plane.
Riou". To my horror six people surged forward and began babbling in a language I was apparently suppose to know. I wanted to faint, I wanted to cry for my mom and most of all I wanted them to slow down and speak English.
My discomfort turned into feeling like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. The family was pushing and pulling me and my bags toward the smallest hatch-back car I'd ever seen, all six of them talking at me rapidly. Surely they had two cars or lived close enough that we could walk. An older gentleman managed to squeeze my luggage into the tiny space behind the back seat as the two adult women began grabbing and shoving around the three teenagers and myself in an attempt to find a way for us all to pile into the car. From the gestures and excited gibberish I gathered they decided against putting the younger looking boy in the hatch with my luggage - there wasn't room.
In the end I ended up with two kids and one of the ladies scrunched in the back seat. To this day I'll never know how four of us packed in back there or how the other three packed into the front seats of a tiny 5-speed hatch back. Then things got worse.... I'm allergic to cigarettes and evidently everyone in France smokes like a chimney. Before the car was even out of the parking lot three of them lit up and one was furiously shaking the pack at me... offering me one. I shook my head and said thought I said "no thank you." She reacted more like I'd said, "I'm going to refuse your offer of hospitality because I'm being polite but in fact I'm dying for a smoke." She said no, no and pulled one out of the pack and put it in my hand, which I wouldn't have been able to get to my mouth anyway since we were so packed in. The to my chagrin the boy next to whips out a lighter and sparks it to life as the car whips through traffic as only Europeans can do.
At a loss for how to explain that I didn't smoke and didn't want to begin, I blurted out "I'm allergic" in was turned out to clear and perfect French. The lady in the front seat began shouting and snatching cigarettes out of the mouths of the other passengers and flinging them out the window. I felt terrible - I hadn't intended for them throw out their own cigarettes, I just didn't want one of my own.
We finally arrived at a small townhouse and everyone piled out of the car. My luggage was shuffled into the house and up the stairs and I was shuffled into a small tightly packed, dim dinning room. I was tired, and not feeling great from motion sickness and the last thing I wanted was to sit down to dinner. I wasn't sure I'd be able to eat anything anyway; I was suffering from lack of sleep and a severe case of culture shock. My one wish was that some spoke at least some English. I couldn't even figure out who my host family was out of the three adults and three kids.
My wish was granted when the boy about my age started speaking English very well. He pointed out his mom and explained that I'd be staying with the two of them and that the other couple and kids were his aunt and uncle and their kids. I felt relieved and a bit more connected to the world around me. All too soon we were seated around the table amid the noisy chatter of six French people speaking as loud and fast as possible. My head began to hurt and although my stomach growled, all I could think about was sleep and ending the noise and chatter around me. My host mother placed a huge piece of meat on the table surrounded by potatoes, carrots and tomatoes and kept repeating "Yankee Pot Roast" loudly. She began serving the meat and veggies.
A few minutes into dinner my fatigue began to slow as I couldn't find my appetite despite the fact that the dinner was good. I felt even more terrible because obviously they'd invited family over to welcome me and she'd spent a good deal of time and money to cook a dinner that would be familiar to me and I wasn't playing my part very well at all but my eyes were itchy from lack of sleep, lack of water and too much cigarette smoke. Finally the host mom asked what was wrong through the translation of her son. I told him that I was very tired and I didn't feel well. With him as a translator his mom asked what was wrong, was there anything she could do? The son had trouble understanding "jet lag" and "motion sickness" (from the plane and car ride). Everyone was getting very concerned and I was clearly ruining dinner. Desperate to come up with something that would allow me to leave the table and go sleep I remembered a phrase from my book and blurred out that "I have a stomach ache."
What the "helpful phrases" book didn't tell was that this phrase carries more weight in France. Everyone at the table erupted in chatter and the older man dug the keys from his pocket and raced for the front door. The mother's face went white and I heard her shout Quick Quick and everyone jumped up. The son said they'd get me to the doctor quickly. I found myself in a panic to explain that I didn't need a doctor, just alot of sleep.
After much concern and fear on their part and much pleading and reassurance on mine - they finally showed me to my room where I promptly crashed and slept from 1:00 in the afternoon until 8:00 the next morning.
We had left-over pot roast for lunch the next day and I never saw the other family the rest of my stay - I guess they didn't want to catch my crazy American stomach troubles.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Dancing Romance & Baby Poop
I've been a mom now for a little over a month. Love of My Life has been a wonderful help and father thus far and one evening he volunteered to change a poopy diaper while I watched one of my favorite shows, So You Think You Can Dance. I was being mesmerized by sequins and tight pants as my favorite couple brought to life a paso doble that would make any romantic swoon when an alarmed one word shout came from the baby's room.
"CRAP"
He can deal with "crap" I thought as the matador (the guy) sent his bright red cape (the girl) twirling across the dance floor. I held my breath. The dance was so beautiful and was building tension when I hear and desperate and defeated voice call, "Honey, can you come help me?" Eyes glued to the TV screen I slowly rise off the couch while simultaneously following the dancers' every move and plotting how to get my husband to take dance lessons. I make my way to the baby's room while my brain runs off to neverland where Jonathan and I are twirling across a dance floor with our teacher shouting "bravo" from the side.
"CRAP" was the appropriate word for the reality that greeted me. Visions of Love of My Life in tight black pants and billowy white shirt evaporate with the smell of poop. Standing by the changing table Love of My Life has been sprayed with watery, seedy, yellow poop. He looks at me with a mixture of "what now" and "I can't handle this" as it drips from his shirt and hands - so I jump in and take over. First I clean up Baby Man and get a clean diaper on him, asking my husband to come back and hold him while I clean up the rest of the mess.
All visions of tight black pants and billowy white shirts melt away as Love of My Life walks up to me in his tight, faded jeans and no shirt. Part of me wants to set the Baby Man down in the poop and throw myself into his arms. The smell again drew my attention and I reluctantly gave the Baby Man over to the handsome man beside me and began cleaning up the projectile poop, that somehow made it across the room, suddenly grateful for hardwood floors.
Dirty job now done I clean my self up and find my two handsome men asleep on the couch together. My husband in jeans, my baby in a clean diaper snuggling chest to chest as the host of So You Think You Can Dance says goodnight.
Goodnight.
"CRAP"
He can deal with "crap" I thought as the matador (the guy) sent his bright red cape (the girl) twirling across the dance floor. I held my breath. The dance was so beautiful and was building tension when I hear and desperate and defeated voice call, "Honey, can you come help me?" Eyes glued to the TV screen I slowly rise off the couch while simultaneously following the dancers' every move and plotting how to get my husband to take dance lessons. I make my way to the baby's room while my brain runs off to neverland where Jonathan and I are twirling across a dance floor with our teacher shouting "bravo" from the side.
"CRAP" was the appropriate word for the reality that greeted me. Visions of Love of My Life in tight black pants and billowy white shirt evaporate with the smell of poop. Standing by the changing table Love of My Life has been sprayed with watery, seedy, yellow poop. He looks at me with a mixture of "what now" and "I can't handle this" as it drips from his shirt and hands - so I jump in and take over. First I clean up Baby Man and get a clean diaper on him, asking my husband to come back and hold him while I clean up the rest of the mess.
All visions of tight black pants and billowy white shirts melt away as Love of My Life walks up to me in his tight, faded jeans and no shirt. Part of me wants to set the Baby Man down in the poop and throw myself into his arms. The smell again drew my attention and I reluctantly gave the Baby Man over to the handsome man beside me and began cleaning up the projectile poop, that somehow made it across the room, suddenly grateful for hardwood floors.
Dirty job now done I clean my self up and find my two handsome men asleep on the couch together. My husband in jeans, my baby in a clean diaper snuggling chest to chest as the host of So You Think You Can Dance says goodnight.
Goodnight.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Absence Explained
Thank you to all of you who check back occasionally for new posts. I have no idea where this blog will go from here but I think the humor will remain.
I've been busy the past months with attempting to bring a baby into this crazy world. I finally did it... we are now three.
So welcome to Baby Man.
Perhaps mom will find a few moments to provide a few more good laughs soon.
Paige
I've been busy the past months with attempting to bring a baby into this crazy world. I finally did it... we are now three.
So welcome to Baby Man.
Perhaps mom will find a few moments to provide a few more good laughs soon.
Paige
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Good Friends, Electricians, and Bats
Love Of My Life and I decided to remodel our kitchen last August. If you've read my bat stories in the "Why can't I sleep" collection you'll understand we were not surprised to find a couple of desiccated bats trapped in our insulation-less walls. When the original bat problem struck the prior spring we'd gotten all the entry points covered to avoid any future bat problems. I must admit, it felt good to put up insulation, new walls and new electric boxes and remove the small dried out bats that never found their way out of the walls.
So the kitchen destruction and construction continued until February when the cabinets were in and we were ready for the finish electrical work, the boxes would be filled and the lighting installed. The day before the electrical contractor, a good friend of ours, is to arrive my bat detector goes off with a bang.
Love Of My Life had just walked out the door to leave on a week-long work trip and I'm standing in my bathrobe in front of the morning weather report trying to decide what to wear when Daisy comes tearing out of the kitchen, her doggy claws slipping and sliding on the hardwood dining room floor. She comes to a halt right between me and the TV with the excited "I found a ball" look on her face.
"What?" I ask her and direct my attention back to the horribly cold temps flashing on the screen... I'm in no mood play ball. She cocks her head and stomps her front paws which makes it appear she is dancing. I look down at her again and she waits expectantly for me say or do something. "No," I say. "I'm not playing with you right now." She turns in a circle and dances with her front paws again. "Ok, Ok." I gruff out, "What is it?" Evidently she believes I'm sincere and tears off into the kitchen and I reluctantly follow, checking off all the reasons in my head I don't have time for this.
The kitchen is mostly done but the counter tops and our under-mount sink are not in yet so there is an empty space where the sink should be. I flip on the light and see Daisy furiously sniffing and blowing between the tiny crack in the cabinet doors below where the sink will go. Standing at the door with one hand on the switch and one hand on my hip I demand, "What? What is it?" I couldn't see any food or toy around. She looks back and me then hops around a bit and re-focuses on the space under the future sink. I know there is something in there - the garbage. It is a nice place to put the can when you can just drop things in from the top - when the sink and counters are finally installed I'll have to open the cabinet door to throw things away, but it is convenient for now. My curiosity is piqued because she knows the garbage is off limits. She has broke out into another round of dancing and spinning. I now know there is SOMETHING in the cabinet besides garbage.
I hesitate a few more minutes wondering why these things always happen right AFTER my husband leaves. I contemplate just leaving what ever it is there and ignoring it. That seems to work for my husband, ignoring the dirty clothes on the floor makes them magically appear clean in his drawer. But there is no fairy godmother living here for me so I creep across the kitchen and peer down through the sink hole.
And there sits a fuzzy brown bat, snuggly packed into the empty electrical box from which my garbage disposal will soon pull power. I know they can't "see" but it must have sensed my approach or been aggravated by the heavy sniffing of my bat detector because it began to move toward the front of the box and the open space of the kitchen. The last thing I wanted was a bat flying around the house with a dog jumping up after it so I quickly grabbed a tool case and gently placed it in front of the box. I'd boxed in the bat.
Daisy was so excited that she'd lead me to the bat that she was hopping around the kitchen as I relaxed and said, "Good Girl Daisy." Suddenly we both froze. I could hear little bat claws scratching at the plastic tool case. I shivered and Daisy assumed the "point" position, her eyes fixed on the cabinet doors that separated her from the bat in the electrical box. It was a gross and pitiful sound but I wasn't about to do anything with it. I comforted myself with the thought that if I wasn't six months pregnant I would put on a pair of heavy leather work gloves and relocate the bat outside, but as things were I was not about to touch a wild animal.
The scratching continued, I remained frozen in thought, Daisy was frozen in anticipation. I decided I'd call the humane society when I got to work and hope they could come pick it up before my friend Best Electrician Ever and his crew arrived the next morning to work on the box that now housed a bat. I rewarded Daisy with a milk bone and gave her extra pets and snuggles, telling her what a good dog she was. As I dressed and flew out the door to work I made a mental note to ask Daisy to look for bats in the basement just under the kitchen in case this wasn't the only one. I got to work a little late and in the mayhem of middle school I forgot to call the humane society. I fact, I forgot all about the bat.
Tired and run down I return home and let Daisy in from her chilly day outside in the snow. I head straight for the bathroom with her jumping all around saying hello and how much she missed me with grunts and wet kisses. I shut her out of the bathroom (a girl's got to have SOME private time) and took my time putting on my PJs and washing my face. When I open the door Daisy comes flying through the house from the kitchen and then I remember what I'd forgotten. It was too late to call the humane society and I was wondering what to do as I followed Daisy back to the kitchen. Just then Best Electrician Ever called to make arrangements for the morning.
Best Electrician Ever is one of the most helpful guys I know. His wife (One Who Makes Me Laugh) would say he is too helpful because he sees something that needs to be fixed and does it... while on the clock. I'm grateful for this most of the time - it keeps me from having to think and he isn't bothering me with calls every few minutes. He just takes care of things.... and charges for them. I can see how it might bother some people but once I figured this out about him, I'm grateful he takes the time to want things done right and knowing him the way I do, I know it really is about doing a good job, not about tacking on time. So I answer the phone and we set up a time and key placement for him and his crew to get in the house the following morning.
I decide to stretch our working relationship a bit into the "friend" area for what feels like the hundredth time. "MMMM Best Electrician Ever?" I say quickly.
"Yeah whats up?" He replies in his perpetually good-natured way.
"I have a bit of a surprise for you." I'm now in the kitchen staring at the tool box, knowing what is behind it while Daisy assumes the "point" stance again.
He chuckles, "Whats that?"
"A bat." There it was out. "In one of your electrical boxes." I add quickly... hoping that "your electrical box" would some how make it his problem.
Surprised he responds, "A bat?"
"Yep." I respond quickly and then rush into telling the irony of how these things always happen right when Love of My Life leaves and how I'd take care of it on my own but I'm pregnant and... and I realize that I'm speaking too high and too fast so I just close my mouth. After a moment of silence he asks, "Now where exactly is it?" I explain it to him and quickly dive into how easy it would be to get it out. You see, if you moved the tool case, they don't just fly out right away, so you'd have to just grab it with a pair of heavy gloves on. "Just grab it?" he asks sounding a bit shocked. Now I felt bad that I was shoving this off on him. But not bad enough to back down if there was any possibility he might get rid of it for me. "It might be dead by tomorrow morning." I said lamely but hoping it might be true. It wasn't making any more scratching noises. Best Electrician Ever laughed and said he'd take care of it. I felt about two inches tall and felt I had to help arm him for this in any way I could so I told him to be ready that if he (or one of his guys) tried to pick it up that they make the most terrible screeching noise and to be ready for it and that their little bodies were really squishy. (Love of My Life had removed one from a wall in the basement before.) He was quiet for a moment, I thought he might be reconsidering, then he laughed and said, "OK, One Who Makes Me Laugh wants to talk before you go."
Best Electrician Ever passed the phone off to his wife and I told her about the bat. She laughed and laughed, I could tell she wanted to be there to witness the event. We talked a bit longer and I got off the phone... relieved that Best Electrician Ever was for the moment still my friend and he was going to help me out. I didn't like playing the pregnant woman in distress card but I also didn't want to move the bat and I did want my electrical work finished.
Even after it was done and Best Electrician Ever sent the bill I was relieved, although I wouldn't have complained, there was no "bat removal" charge.
So the kitchen destruction and construction continued until February when the cabinets were in and we were ready for the finish electrical work, the boxes would be filled and the lighting installed. The day before the electrical contractor, a good friend of ours, is to arrive my bat detector goes off with a bang.
Love Of My Life had just walked out the door to leave on a week-long work trip and I'm standing in my bathrobe in front of the morning weather report trying to decide what to wear when Daisy comes tearing out of the kitchen, her doggy claws slipping and sliding on the hardwood dining room floor. She comes to a halt right between me and the TV with the excited "I found a ball" look on her face.
"What?" I ask her and direct my attention back to the horribly cold temps flashing on the screen... I'm in no mood play ball. She cocks her head and stomps her front paws which makes it appear she is dancing. I look down at her again and she waits expectantly for me say or do something. "No," I say. "I'm not playing with you right now." She turns in a circle and dances with her front paws again. "Ok, Ok." I gruff out, "What is it?" Evidently she believes I'm sincere and tears off into the kitchen and I reluctantly follow, checking off all the reasons in my head I don't have time for this.
The kitchen is mostly done but the counter tops and our under-mount sink are not in yet so there is an empty space where the sink should be. I flip on the light and see Daisy furiously sniffing and blowing between the tiny crack in the cabinet doors below where the sink will go. Standing at the door with one hand on the switch and one hand on my hip I demand, "What? What is it?" I couldn't see any food or toy around. She looks back and me then hops around a bit and re-focuses on the space under the future sink. I know there is something in there - the garbage. It is a nice place to put the can when you can just drop things in from the top - when the sink and counters are finally installed I'll have to open the cabinet door to throw things away, but it is convenient for now. My curiosity is piqued because she knows the garbage is off limits. She has broke out into another round of dancing and spinning. I now know there is SOMETHING in the cabinet besides garbage.
I hesitate a few more minutes wondering why these things always happen right AFTER my husband leaves. I contemplate just leaving what ever it is there and ignoring it. That seems to work for my husband, ignoring the dirty clothes on the floor makes them magically appear clean in his drawer. But there is no fairy godmother living here for me so I creep across the kitchen and peer down through the sink hole.
And there sits a fuzzy brown bat, snuggly packed into the empty electrical box from which my garbage disposal will soon pull power. I know they can't "see" but it must have sensed my approach or been aggravated by the heavy sniffing of my bat detector because it began to move toward the front of the box and the open space of the kitchen. The last thing I wanted was a bat flying around the house with a dog jumping up after it so I quickly grabbed a tool case and gently placed it in front of the box. I'd boxed in the bat.
Daisy was so excited that she'd lead me to the bat that she was hopping around the kitchen as I relaxed and said, "Good Girl Daisy." Suddenly we both froze. I could hear little bat claws scratching at the plastic tool case. I shivered and Daisy assumed the "point" position, her eyes fixed on the cabinet doors that separated her from the bat in the electrical box. It was a gross and pitiful sound but I wasn't about to do anything with it. I comforted myself with the thought that if I wasn't six months pregnant I would put on a pair of heavy leather work gloves and relocate the bat outside, but as things were I was not about to touch a wild animal.
The scratching continued, I remained frozen in thought, Daisy was frozen in anticipation. I decided I'd call the humane society when I got to work and hope they could come pick it up before my friend Best Electrician Ever and his crew arrived the next morning to work on the box that now housed a bat. I rewarded Daisy with a milk bone and gave her extra pets and snuggles, telling her what a good dog she was. As I dressed and flew out the door to work I made a mental note to ask Daisy to look for bats in the basement just under the kitchen in case this wasn't the only one. I got to work a little late and in the mayhem of middle school I forgot to call the humane society. I fact, I forgot all about the bat.
Tired and run down I return home and let Daisy in from her chilly day outside in the snow. I head straight for the bathroom with her jumping all around saying hello and how much she missed me with grunts and wet kisses. I shut her out of the bathroom (a girl's got to have SOME private time) and took my time putting on my PJs and washing my face. When I open the door Daisy comes flying through the house from the kitchen and then I remember what I'd forgotten. It was too late to call the humane society and I was wondering what to do as I followed Daisy back to the kitchen. Just then Best Electrician Ever called to make arrangements for the morning.
Best Electrician Ever is one of the most helpful guys I know. His wife (One Who Makes Me Laugh) would say he is too helpful because he sees something that needs to be fixed and does it... while on the clock. I'm grateful for this most of the time - it keeps me from having to think and he isn't bothering me with calls every few minutes. He just takes care of things.... and charges for them. I can see how it might bother some people but once I figured this out about him, I'm grateful he takes the time to want things done right and knowing him the way I do, I know it really is about doing a good job, not about tacking on time. So I answer the phone and we set up a time and key placement for him and his crew to get in the house the following morning.
I decide to stretch our working relationship a bit into the "friend" area for what feels like the hundredth time. "MMMM Best Electrician Ever?" I say quickly.
"Yeah whats up?" He replies in his perpetually good-natured way.
"I have a bit of a surprise for you." I'm now in the kitchen staring at the tool box, knowing what is behind it while Daisy assumes the "point" stance again.
He chuckles, "Whats that?"
"A bat." There it was out. "In one of your electrical boxes." I add quickly... hoping that "your electrical box" would some how make it his problem.
Surprised he responds, "A bat?"
"Yep." I respond quickly and then rush into telling the irony of how these things always happen right when Love of My Life leaves and how I'd take care of it on my own but I'm pregnant and... and I realize that I'm speaking too high and too fast so I just close my mouth. After a moment of silence he asks, "Now where exactly is it?" I explain it to him and quickly dive into how easy it would be to get it out. You see, if you moved the tool case, they don't just fly out right away, so you'd have to just grab it with a pair of heavy gloves on. "Just grab it?" he asks sounding a bit shocked. Now I felt bad that I was shoving this off on him. But not bad enough to back down if there was any possibility he might get rid of it for me. "It might be dead by tomorrow morning." I said lamely but hoping it might be true. It wasn't making any more scratching noises. Best Electrician Ever laughed and said he'd take care of it. I felt about two inches tall and felt I had to help arm him for this in any way I could so I told him to be ready that if he (or one of his guys) tried to pick it up that they make the most terrible screeching noise and to be ready for it and that their little bodies were really squishy. (Love of My Life had removed one from a wall in the basement before.) He was quiet for a moment, I thought he might be reconsidering, then he laughed and said, "OK, One Who Makes Me Laugh wants to talk before you go."
Best Electrician Ever passed the phone off to his wife and I told her about the bat. She laughed and laughed, I could tell she wanted to be there to witness the event. We talked a bit longer and I got off the phone... relieved that Best Electrician Ever was for the moment still my friend and he was going to help me out. I didn't like playing the pregnant woman in distress card but I also didn't want to move the bat and I did want my electrical work finished.
Even after it was done and Best Electrician Ever sent the bill I was relieved, although I wouldn't have complained, there was no "bat removal" charge.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Midnight Radio Phantom
My first car was an 8-year old 1989 4-door, red, Honda Accord. I LOVED this car... espeically the pop up headlights. This car was top of the line... in the 80's; which means it had a tape deck. I didn't have much money to buy CD's not to mention a CD player for my car, so I was happy as a lark blaring the radio or my dated Debbie Gibson and Paul Abdoul tapes.In the mid ninties blaring 80's music is so uncool that my boyfriend felt he had to intervine. In the spirit of looking out for my reputation he saved up and purchased an expensive, rocking sterio system complete with new speakers, subs, and woofers (did I even spell that right?!). One day after school we went back to his house and he showed me the amazing array of boxes, wires and speakers. He announced that he was going to spend the weekend putting all of this in HIS car. I stared at him for a moment then felt like a heel. Wasn't I the princess? Didn't he save and sweat to buy the incredible sterio for me? Of course not! We were only 16 and I obviously didn't give one wit about sterios. I was a bit ashamed that my first thought had been so selfish, but I selfishly, quickly got over it and planned a weekend with my girl friends and left him to his guy toys.
Sunday afternoon rolls around and I get a phone call from him saying I need to come over and hear his new sound system. Of course, as any good girlfriend would, I gushed my excitement and headed over as soon as I could respectfully get out of the house. Before the house was even in sight I could hear the rumbling and thumping of the system. My boyfriend and his older brother where standing in the driveway with blisful expressions on their faces. I pulled up and he immediately cracked up the volume for me and I listened to the terrible rattling of car parts and even worse music. I smiled broadly and yelled "This is AWESOME!!!" he grinned back and I was certain he couldn't hear a word I said. After showing me a few more bells and whistles he lead me into the house and a pile of wires and speakers and "junk" lay in piles on the floor. "These are going in your car!" he annouced proudly. For the first time since arriving I was genuenly excited, but only because I could finally think clearly. He said he'd drive me home and get to work on it right away. I agreed and he said he'd pick me up for school in the morning.
It was a generous gift from a truely nice guy. I left for college at the end of the year with a respectable sterio that would play the new CDs I'd bought with my summer work money.
If you've read any of my other posts you know I can't function without sleep and I get a little on the crazy side when I don't get my solid eight hours. As a result this wonderful gift became an unitended drain on my mental stability and potentially on my wallet.
It started late one night as a grade-killer test loomed at 9:00 am. I woke to a furious banging on my metal dorm room door. In a barely coherant state it took the girl several minutes to tell me that the sterio in my car was blaring in the parking lot. I thanked her, assuming she was dreaming (or I was) and closed the door.
The next morning I wake up late and race out the door knowing I'm going to have to fly like a bat out of hell to make it to my exam on time. There, in the parking lot is my pretty red Honda blaring my Christian rock CD. "No doubt it'll be alright" sings loudly from my car without reassuring me that anything would be alright. I unlock the door and slide into the seat hoping no one notices that all the racket is coming from my car. As I push the key into the ignition the music stops. Baffled, but with no brain power or time to think about my sterio, I race to class and amazingly pull a B+ on my exam over woody plant identification.
That night the same events replay. A loud knocking on my door with a not so polite request to turn off my stereo. Despite my sleepy brain I begin to worry about the battery going dead from so many late-night performances. So I get out of bed and run to the parking lot in flip flops and turn off the stereo. Ah ha! I have it beat now, if the stereo isn't on when I park the car - then it can't turn itself on - right?
The next morning proved me wrong, somehow the radio had turned itself back on in the middle of the night. As I drove to campus I figured I'd better turn the volume down while I went to class. How embarrassing to have it blaring in the parking lot of the student center. So I turn the volume all the way down and then turn off the radio before I turn off the car.
Much to my surprise I could hear some terrible rap music blaring as I entered the parking lot after class. At a small Christian college you don't get much of that so I thought it was curious and wondered who on campus listened to rap. My heart began to pound all the way to my toes as I realize that it is my car! Not only did the radio turn on and turn up the volume all my it's self - it was now blaring the local rap station. I began to dash for the car and fumbling with the keys finally got in and silenced the radio.
I decided this could not go on any longer but had no money to take it to a shop and like most high school to college dating relationships, mine hadn't lasted; so there was no way I was going to call the ex-boyfriend who installed it. As I drove back to my dorm I decided I'd try taking the face off the head unit. No way it could play without that - right?
Well, it worked. I never got the radio fixed and smiled to myself when I eventually traded in the car for a little money down on my new truck. I often wonder if they tried to sell it on a used car lot... radio blaring and all.
That night the same events replay. A loud knocking on my door with a not so polite request to turn off my stereo. Despite my sleepy brain I begin to worry about the battery going dead from so many late-night performances. So I get out of bed and run to the parking lot in flip flops and turn off the stereo. Ah ha! I have it beat now, if the stereo isn't on when I park the car - then it can't turn itself on - right?
The next morning proved me wrong, somehow the radio had turned itself back on in the middle of the night. As I drove to campus I figured I'd better turn the volume down while I went to class. How embarrassing to have it blaring in the parking lot of the student center. So I turn the volume all the way down and then turn off the radio before I turn off the car.
Much to my surprise I could hear some terrible rap music blaring as I entered the parking lot after class. At a small Christian college you don't get much of that so I thought it was curious and wondered who on campus listened to rap. My heart began to pound all the way to my toes as I realize that it is my car! Not only did the radio turn on and turn up the volume all my it's self - it was now blaring the local rap station. I began to dash for the car and fumbling with the keys finally got in and silenced the radio.
I decided this could not go on any longer but had no money to take it to a shop and like most high school to college dating relationships, mine hadn't lasted; so there was no way I was going to call the ex-boyfriend who installed it. As I drove back to my dorm I decided I'd try taking the face off the head unit. No way it could play without that - right?
Well, it worked. I never got the radio fixed and smiled to myself when I eventually traded in the car for a little money down on my new truck. I often wonder if they tried to sell it on a used car lot... radio blaring and all.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Do you Smell what I Smell?
I bet you didn't know that a healthy person passes gas about three times a day. I know some of you are thinking, "Eww gross, not me!" let me assure you that even if you NEVER fart, you in fact do... and it is probably in your sleep if you are so polite as to never do it during waking hours. Lets face it, farting is a fact of life and a healthy process over all.
So I'm sure you won't be surprised when I tell you that I do fart (we all do) but what may surprise you are some of a my fart stories. You expect these fart stories from guys; I had a brother growing up... but even if you are too polite to discuss it I bet we girls have stories too.
Getting over my shyness about farting happened in college living in a girls dorm. Christmas was drawing near and my room mate and I were hanging out in our room working on last minute papers and projects; the local radio station playing Christmas carols softly in the background. I was engrossed in the last paragraph of an English paper so I was attempting to hold in a monster fart until I could finish it and excuse myself from our room. Finally the paragraph was done and as I shifted to get up off the couch the monster ripped free just as the radio sang "Do you hear what I hear?" into the quite room. A suspended second of silence followed before Soul Mate began to laugh uncontrollably while singing "Do you hear what I hear?" between laughter and gasps for breath. I stood still as a statue not knowing what to do. Then she laughed again, sucked in a huge breath, grinned and with perfect pitch quietly sang, "Do you smell what I smell?" and proceeded to laugh uncontrollably. I left the room a bit red-faced. From that moment on it was our own private joke, "Do you hear what I hear?" We'd say it whenever we noticed that someone had farted around us or we farted in our room.
An unfortunate few of you know the lingering power of smells. You know, onions on your fingers after making dinner, no matter how much you wash the smell is still there. Soul Mate and I discovered that farts can linger... for days. It was a bright spring Sunday morning and we were off to church. As usual Soul Mate was driving so we headed into the parking lot and dropped into her cherry red nissan stanza. As the seat belts were sliding into place she turned down the radio and we stopped, sniffed, and looked at each other. "Do you smell what I smell?" I in a puzzled voice. As a rule you try not to fart in your Sunday best. Soul Mate sniffed the air again and proclaimed, "I can't believe it!" I raised my eye brow as I rolled down my window. "I gave a guy a ride home from work last night and he farted in the car. It wasn't all that bad but we rolled down the windows anyway." I gave her a look and said, "You're telling me THIS smell is a fart from last night? Are you sure he didn't crap in the back seat?" She gave me a dirty look in response. Despite my window being down the smell seemed to be getting worse. Soul Mate had a disbelieving look on her face and had yet to start the car. "Ok," I said, "I'm driving, this is amazing and way too overpowering. It smells like poop." I got out of the car and she followed after rolling down all the windows. A couple of days later I asked if the smell was still there; she glared at me and said "faintly." So as a general warning, while farting in cars may be fun when there are lots of people in the car and its too rainy or cold to roll down the windows - be warned that sometimes the smell lingers.
I don't know if anyone else out there has a place or time that they just KNOW they are going to have terrible gas. I'm not talking about certain foods like beans or broccoli but a place or situation. I have one. Although I'm not exactly sure of the cause, maybe the quiet atmosphere and contemplative people but I get silent but deadly gas every time I go to Blockbuster to rent a movie. Sounds crazy I know but Love of My Life can testify to this strange phenomenon. Every time I go into Blockbuster, I start at one end of the new release wall and usually before I hit the titles starting with "C" my bowls are rolling. It is never the kind of gas you can "hold" either. It is the kind that feels like your insides will explode if you don't let it out. So as my stomach rolls I cringe; I know what will happen when I reach the "H" titles. The first one that slips out is such a relief and I move quickly away down the alphabet of new releases and hope that will be the only one. It is oozing its way around the store and people are trying not to look around -it is truely terrible! By the time I reach the "S" and "T" my bowls are on a roll and there is a small but noxious silent fart with almost every step. I hate going to Blockbuster to pick out movies and I promise I won't be offended if you happen to see me there and wait for me to leave before entering. Needless to say NetFlix was a gift from God for more reasons that one!
Lastly, and probably best, you all know I teach middle schoolers. Middle schoolers are at that wonderful age when adults are not quite human yet because they don't expect adults (especially teachers) to have the same issues they do. I have classes all day long, including after lunch. Well sometimes the food at lunch just doesn't agree with me and I feel a little gassy later in the day. One day it was particularly bad and there was no way to hold it in until class was over. Normally, while they are working I would excuse myself into the hall to get a drink of water and come back relieved. This day I was lecturing on chemical bonds and we were running behind so there was no stopping. As I stood in the front of the class talking about ionic bonds I let a silent one go and never missed a beat, just kept right on talking like it never happened. The students in the front row began to wrinkle their noses then look at each other. The girls all immediately looked down the row at the boy sitting at the end. His eyes were wide and he shook his head as if not say "not me!" I pretended I didn't notice any of this and kept right on with the lesson. To this day I don't think they are aware who the real offender was that day... or the many days since. You see, I learned something that day too. The middle schoolers never suspect the teacher of such an offense. Since then I've never worried about farting in class... cruel as it may be; someone else will take the blame.
Enjoy your healthy poofs today!
So I'm sure you won't be surprised when I tell you that I do fart (we all do) but what may surprise you are some of a my fart stories. You expect these fart stories from guys; I had a brother growing up... but even if you are too polite to discuss it I bet we girls have stories too.
Getting over my shyness about farting happened in college living in a girls dorm. Christmas was drawing near and my room mate and I were hanging out in our room working on last minute papers and projects; the local radio station playing Christmas carols softly in the background. I was engrossed in the last paragraph of an English paper so I was attempting to hold in a monster fart until I could finish it and excuse myself from our room. Finally the paragraph was done and as I shifted to get up off the couch the monster ripped free just as the radio sang "Do you hear what I hear?" into the quite room. A suspended second of silence followed before Soul Mate began to laugh uncontrollably while singing "Do you hear what I hear?" between laughter and gasps for breath. I stood still as a statue not knowing what to do. Then she laughed again, sucked in a huge breath, grinned and with perfect pitch quietly sang, "Do you smell what I smell?" and proceeded to laugh uncontrollably. I left the room a bit red-faced. From that moment on it was our own private joke, "Do you hear what I hear?" We'd say it whenever we noticed that someone had farted around us or we farted in our room.
An unfortunate few of you know the lingering power of smells. You know, onions on your fingers after making dinner, no matter how much you wash the smell is still there. Soul Mate and I discovered that farts can linger... for days. It was a bright spring Sunday morning and we were off to church. As usual Soul Mate was driving so we headed into the parking lot and dropped into her cherry red nissan stanza. As the seat belts were sliding into place she turned down the radio and we stopped, sniffed, and looked at each other. "Do you smell what I smell?" I in a puzzled voice. As a rule you try not to fart in your Sunday best. Soul Mate sniffed the air again and proclaimed, "I can't believe it!" I raised my eye brow as I rolled down my window. "I gave a guy a ride home from work last night and he farted in the car. It wasn't all that bad but we rolled down the windows anyway." I gave her a look and said, "You're telling me THIS smell is a fart from last night? Are you sure he didn't crap in the back seat?" She gave me a dirty look in response. Despite my window being down the smell seemed to be getting worse. Soul Mate had a disbelieving look on her face and had yet to start the car. "Ok," I said, "I'm driving, this is amazing and way too overpowering. It smells like poop." I got out of the car and she followed after rolling down all the windows. A couple of days later I asked if the smell was still there; she glared at me and said "faintly." So as a general warning, while farting in cars may be fun when there are lots of people in the car and its too rainy or cold to roll down the windows - be warned that sometimes the smell lingers.
I don't know if anyone else out there has a place or time that they just KNOW they are going to have terrible gas. I'm not talking about certain foods like beans or broccoli but a place or situation. I have one. Although I'm not exactly sure of the cause, maybe the quiet atmosphere and contemplative people but I get silent but deadly gas every time I go to Blockbuster to rent a movie. Sounds crazy I know but Love of My Life can testify to this strange phenomenon. Every time I go into Blockbuster, I start at one end of the new release wall and usually before I hit the titles starting with "C" my bowls are rolling. It is never the kind of gas you can "hold" either. It is the kind that feels like your insides will explode if you don't let it out. So as my stomach rolls I cringe; I know what will happen when I reach the "H" titles. The first one that slips out is such a relief and I move quickly away down the alphabet of new releases and hope that will be the only one. It is oozing its way around the store and people are trying not to look around -it is truely terrible! By the time I reach the "S" and "T" my bowls are on a roll and there is a small but noxious silent fart with almost every step. I hate going to Blockbuster to pick out movies and I promise I won't be offended if you happen to see me there and wait for me to leave before entering. Needless to say NetFlix was a gift from God for more reasons that one!
Lastly, and probably best, you all know I teach middle schoolers. Middle schoolers are at that wonderful age when adults are not quite human yet because they don't expect adults (especially teachers) to have the same issues they do. I have classes all day long, including after lunch. Well sometimes the food at lunch just doesn't agree with me and I feel a little gassy later in the day. One day it was particularly bad and there was no way to hold it in until class was over. Normally, while they are working I would excuse myself into the hall to get a drink of water and come back relieved. This day I was lecturing on chemical bonds and we were running behind so there was no stopping. As I stood in the front of the class talking about ionic bonds I let a silent one go and never missed a beat, just kept right on talking like it never happened. The students in the front row began to wrinkle their noses then look at each other. The girls all immediately looked down the row at the boy sitting at the end. His eyes were wide and he shook his head as if not say "not me!" I pretended I didn't notice any of this and kept right on with the lesson. To this day I don't think they are aware who the real offender was that day... or the many days since. You see, I learned something that day too. The middle schoolers never suspect the teacher of such an offense. Since then I've never worried about farting in class... cruel as it may be; someone else will take the blame.
Enjoy your healthy poofs today!
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