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!
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Holiday Reflection
So this won't be funny; but life this past year has been stressful and for the first time in my life I'm glad the year is coming to an end. At the beginning of the year I embarked down several dark tunnels and am just now seeing the light at the end of them and I'd like to share my relief and hope.
Tunnel number one was more like a roller coaster. Love of My Life and I decided to have a baby and began trying last December the moment he got home from deployment. In January I went in for my annual female testing and received word that my PAP test was "abnormal." Due to mix-ups, insurance and the general ineptitude of military doctors we had to put the baby making on hold for several months while they shuffled me from one place to another trying to ascertain if I was ok. It was stressful but everything was cleared up by March and we were given the green light to start making a baby again.
Our patience was rewarded in late May with news of a little one on the way. Again because of general shuffling and slow processes with military doctors I didn't get referred off-base for my first appointment until I was about 8 weeks along. A week before my appointment I was so uncomfortable and in pain that I honestly thought there was no way I would ever be able to mentally handle this for nine months. I felt weak and like a cry baby... every woman goes through this right? My first doctor visit was a herald of doom. I was honest at the initial consultation about how uncomfortable I was and that while we really wanted a baby I was worried and apprehensive about the pregnancy. My doctor was optimistic and said, "Lets take a look." So she looked at the ultrasound, asked many many questions and said, "You are going to miscarry." My roller-coaster high did a nose-dive. Even though I'd just said I was worried about the pregnancy I didn't want this news. I think she did it to try and make me more comfortable; she ordered another ultrasound with a specialist for the following week. She assured me that we'd know more then based on how things were growing- or not growing. She didn't say it at the time but at 8 weeks there was no evidence of a baby. The ultrasound a week later confirmed this. So the miscarriage came and went... and in many ways I was selfishly relieved that I had my body back and I wasn't in pain anymore.
So after a relaxing week at the beach with my family, summer ended and my school year began. I slowly began to crawl up the next hill of the roller coaster. In August we found out I was pregnant again! This time we had our doctor all set up and ready to go. I was in the office for my first visit at week 6 and when I saw the little heart fluttering on the screen I was so happy. I was also very comfortable and not experiencing any of the pain like before. The next few weeks brought round-the-clock sickness but it was more bearable than the previous summer. I'm now 4 months and the light at the tunnel seems bright and my shinning little star will finally arrive on May 21 2010.
The second tunnel was one Love Of My Life and I ventured into together and by the grace of God we are about to pull out of it too. In August, a few weeks before we found out I was pregnant again, we tore our kitchen down to the studs. Yes, we took out the walls, floors, ceiling, wiring and plumbing. Then we started the long process of putting it back together... or I should say paying others to put it back together. The walls are up, the floors are in and the cabinets come tomorrow provided it doesn't snow again. I'm optimistic that it will be finished by Christmas.
The third tunnel has not been all dark, but very long. In January of 2006 I started the ball rolling on getting my masters in "Secondary Science Curriculum and Instruction." Since then I've taken over 36 hours of masters classes, many of which were in the biology department. I've maintained a 4.0 average, won an award, and switched teaching jobs all within the past four years. Being pregnant and sick during the first trimester made this last class and my comprehensive exams a challenge but I'm now done and will receive my degree on December 18th this year.
So I'm looking forward to 2010, being 30 for a few more months and entering the next phase of life with a new degree, a new baby, and a new kitchen! I wonder what next year will bring? Thanks for all your support and reading my blog. Perhaps I'll have some more gut-busting funny stories next year.
(My 30th Birthday dinner)
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Hiding from Eighth Graders
As many of you know I had a miscarriage in July so when I found out I was pregnant in late August Love of My Life and I decided to wait until the second trimester to make the announcement.
And then school started...
To really appreciate this story you must understand that I teach at a teacher's paradise. My average class size is about 16 students with a class as few as 5 and a max of 20 students. I have three 45-minute plan periods and a free lunch. To top it off we have an award-winning health and wellness program and as a result the lunches are actually good.
In this paradise I teach science to 7th and 8th grade students. Because I'm the only 7th and 8th grade science teacher I get to teach my lovely students for two years in a row. Needless to say, we get to know each other very well. To further deepen our relationship in 7th grade I act as an advisor/mentor to help them through the challenges of middle school.
Last year I was blessed with the greatest group of kids I've had the pleasure to teach. They are talented, funny, smart and all round great kids. There is not one of them I wouldn't take home to call my own (well maybe one or two) but you get the idea. Over the course of last year we had fun, learned science and I honestly thanked God each day for the wonderful kids and work environment. We got to know each other very well and I actually looked forward to this school year starting because I knew I'd get to teach my wonderful kids one more year.
That's when things got crazy..... I got pregnant. I figured out I was pregnant a few days before school started. So the year began with doctor visits, migraines and morning (round-the-clock) sickness. I missed several days of school and was battling fatigue and sickness. However, I've always considered myself a trooper and I was certain that while at school, my kids were getting the best of my day. I soon figured out when and what to eat and was prescribed some great anti-nausea medication. I was back on top of the world and feeling great. I was careful to not breath a word at school about being pregnant just in case I miscarried again I wouldn't have much to explain.
So about eight weeks along a fellow teacher approached me at lunch. "Now, I don't mean to pry but I have the 8th graders for study hall and they have some pretty wild ideas!" She is a motherly older woman and her face was full of concern. "Some of the 8th graders think you are pregnant!" She felt this would shock and concern me and quickly followed up, "but really, dear, I don't think you've gained a pound since last year so I can't imagine what has gotten into their heads." Wringing her hands, I'm sure she felt she would offend me. I laughed and patted her hand, "Its ok. I'm not sure how they know either but I am pregnant." Her eyes widened and she said "Oh dear! How wonderful for you!" I then quickly asked her to keep it quiet for now that I would announce it soon enough. She gave me a conspiratorial wink and said, "I'll keep an ear out in study hall and see if they mention it again."
This gave me one more thing for my poor brain to try and process. My pregnancy had not been leaked by anyone because there was no one to leak the information. I had too many other things going to worry about... until the next day at lunch my friend approached me again.
"Well they were discussing it again today in study hall." She apparently was enjoying the secrecy and stealth. We leaned in closer, "Today they were wondering who, if anyone, would ask you if you are pregnant. It didn't seem like they came to a conclusion." She looked from side to side to see if anyone was listening then continued, "apparently they concluded that you are because of the absences, you are eating in class and the fact that you are so much more cranky this year than last year seemed to be the clincher!" She smiled triumphantly.
CRANKY?!?!?! ME CRANKY??? That is middle school speak for witchy with a capital B!!! My head was swimming? Was I more cranky? Was I being mean to my favorite, sweet, innocent kids? I had to admit it was probably true.
Lucky for me there was a faculty meeting after school so I went ahead and announced it to all the faculty and staff. The following day I made the announcement in my classes. There were shouts of "I KNEW IT" from my 8th graders.
Yet again, proof that kids are watching you all the time.
Love Ya class of 2014!!!
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Evil Nibbling at Toes in the Dark
Forever Friend lived just down the street with only one neighbor between our houses. Our lives couldn't have been more different. I had one grumpy quite brother, she had a rowdy brother and sister who were full of life to say the least. My mom worked and hers stayed home. My dad had moved on while hers was home each night bellowing with poorly masked love at his rowdy kids.
I had a dog and she had a cat. Granted, my dog was pretty mean to just about everyone, but at least he was honest about it and warned you to stay away. Forever Friend's cat Abby on the other hand was the catalyst that opened my eyes to real evil.
I remember when Abby arrived at Forever Friend's home. The quite and beautiful black kitten with orange and white flecks that almost looked like reverse tiger stripes was breath taking. I remember instantly loving the cute little fur ball... all part of its evil plan that was brewing since the time of it's conception.
After my first encounter with the purring motor boat sound of contentment as I gently pet the snugly fur ball in my lap I was in love. Then in the blink of an eye I'd somehow been lightly scratched and lightly bitten and the cat was no where to be seen. I stared in shock at my hand hardly believing the little ball of warmth could have done such a thing. Then from across the room I saw the yellow eyes gleaming from beside the TV. It was an awakening in me that this animal was not at all what it seemed.
Life went on, and as Forever Friend's mom was my babysitter all summer I could hardly avoid this creepy sweetness that followed Forever Friend and I around. I tried to share my thoughts on the scheming of Abby but the entire family seemed to think it is just what cats did. This broadened my distrust of these animals to include any cat I ran into... not just the sly Abby.
After so many bone chilling looks of malice, intent and general disdain I tried to steer clear of Abby. At least Forever Friend had a pool... and cats didn't like water. I'll admit, to my shame, I often dreamed of throwing that miserable cat into the pool... but to my credit I never actually did it. So what brought on these base desires to play dirty tricks on a mere house cat? I thought you'd never ask.
One of Abby's favorite past-times was, what I have dubbed the walking tree. You see, Forever Friend's house had a long narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms. Half way down this hallway was the guest bathroom which one must pass to have access to any of the bedrooms. Because the hallway was long and narrow there was no way to circumvent this bathroom. So to the delight of Abby, everyone had to walk past it at some time during the day. She would crouch right inside the door of the dark bathroom, her dark fur making it impossible to spot her and she would wait. Wait for me, or anyone else, to walk by. Once in view she would leap up onto your legs and proceed to climb you, much like normal cat would climb a tree, and when she reached your shoulders or head she would leap off and scamper away. I've mentioned that I spend the summers with Forever Friend right? Summers in Georgia where it was not uncommon to hit 97 degrees with 95% humidity.... but I began wearing jeans to her house.
Abby would also hide other places around the house and reach out and give you a good scratch just when you'd relaxed. I think it was her way of reminding you that no where in the house is safe. She even jumped out from behind the shower curtain one day while I was using the bathroom. I managed to bat her away as she sailed toward me and I instantly jumped up and opened the door a crack so she could run away. In truth, while in the house there was no escape from her.
As young girls love to do Forever Friend and I wanted to have a sleep over. Her mom agreed to make us some of her wonderful pancakes for breakfast and we'd swim in the pool at night! The evening was great, swimming at night was such a treat. Then we settled down in the living room with our sleeping bags and New Kid's on the Block pillows to watch a VHS of one of the their concerts. After the concert we decided to tell ghost stories till we fell asleep. I read from the book of scary stories I'd check out at the library and we soon had goose bumps and were clutching our pillows and flashlights.
Forever Friend fell quickly asleep and I began to wonder where Abby slept.. if she slept at all. I began to worry as I'd not seen her all afternoon. I hoped she'd gotten herself stuck somewhere and wouldn't be able to get out. I finally clicked off my flashlight, telling myself it was only a cat and slowly fell asleep.
I dreamed of hundreds of cats. All sizes and colors of cats swarmed like roaches around the floors, counter tops and table of my dream kitchen. I was perched on the counter trying to open a window and get out... of course the window was stuck and it was dark outside. Suddenly a light came on outside and the temperature in my dream hit zero. I peered out the window I was attempting to open and the yard outside the window was teeming with cats as well. Then to my horror they all turned their unearthly yellow eyes on me. I could see my breath on the pane of glass when I heard a sound... a large thudding sound. I turned slowly back to the kitchen, sure I was going to be attacked by the cats in the house. They were all looking at me too when a large entirely black cat spoke, "I think I'll start with the toe."
Frozen in place I didn't know what to do... there were cats everywhere... all eyes intent on me. The larger black cat moved closer and licked my bare toe. I wanted to scream... knew if I screamed they'd disappear. I could feel the scream caught in my throat and tried to dislodge it. The black cat licked a few more times then bit down hard on my big toe. Finally the scream ripped from my throat and I woke, sweating with my sleeping bag in disarray around me.
I breathed a sigh of relief that it was a dream then felt a painful throbbing on my big toe. I sat up and clicked on a flashlight. Shining that flashlight on my toe chilled me to the bone. There was blood and a bite mark. I quickly scanned the room with the flashlight searching for the big black cat from my dream. The flashlight caught the green glow of eyes as it rounded the room. I quickly flew back to the spot to see Abby dashing down the hallway.
To this day I'll swear that the evil cat named Abby bit me in my sleep. The next morning I told Forever Friend about the bite, not the dream, and said her cat was the devil. Abby slipped into the room during my accusations and began cleaning herself with her back to us. I decided to prove to Forever Friend that it was indeed the devil and called out, "Abby, here Abby, kitty kitty." and of course nothing happened, the cat continued to ignore us. A few moments later I said, "Lucifer, oh Lucifer." and at that moment Abby turned and glared at both of us. Forever Friend's jaw dropped and we both ran into the kitchen to the safety of mom and pancakes.
From then on I called that cat Lucifer and it never failed to turn in my direction..... and I never slept anywhere but behind a closed door at her house again....
Sunday, August 2, 2009
"Falling" in Love
Imagine me, the somewhat shy yet self-involved teen, entering 9th grade. It was the height of the 90's grunge movement that, like all the outcast movements before it, couldn't quite stamp out the jocks and "popular" girls. Nor did they seek to remedy the woebegone status of the geeks and terminally normal kids.
That was me, terminally normal. I wasn't ugly, wasn't beautiful, wasn't trendy, and yet not nerdy either. I was helplessly stuck in some ambiguous state of normal and thus ignored by everyone; including the nerds. Make no mistake, I was relatively happy. As happy as any self-conscious ninth grade girl can be. I had a few great friends and was lacking any serious self destructive obsessions that plague young teen girls. I made pretty good grades and performed pitifully at cross country but at least I was "involved" with school. I was cruising through the year with little trouble and had avoided developing any major social complexes when "he" arrived.
The moment he stepped foot on campus every girl, from the nerdy book worm to the hottest cheerleader, took notice. His name spread like wildfire down the halls and through classrooms, Luke. Luke was mysterious. He had shoulder length dirty blond hair that was wavy and unkempt and had somehow turned money into grunge. It was apparent that he was rich and because he was trend-setting grunge, he was every mother's bane. Every silly girl's dream.
My friends and I noticed him too. At first I was put off by his grungy clothes and then he dropped from my mind whenever the girls weren't gossiping about him. I couldn't get away from the stories and speculation that ran wild through the whispered longings of my peers. Apparently he was wealthy and sent to live with his uncle (the ROTC teacher) because he was too much of a handful for his poor mother. Not only were his parents rich but he was independently wealthy, having a trust fund of his own courtesy of Disney World when he lost his thumb on a ride there at the age of seven. The more I heard the more I though "freak" and tried to ignore the endless babble around me. This being impossible, I also learned that he played guitar and wrote songs and poetry. I had a few classes with him and like all the other popular people I ignored him and he ignored me.
Despite my attempt to remain ignorant I eventually had to introduce myself in order to complete a group assignment. I noticed he had two thumbs and decided not to believe a word of all the crap I was hearing. Like always I finished the assignment while cheerleader 1 and cheerleader 2 cooed like birds and flirted with Luke. I was happy when class was over and I could go fume with my friends about having to do all the work. Thankfully this was all the interaction I'd had with him and life went on as normal for about two weeks (which is an eternity for a high school girl.) During those weeks Luke hadn't asked out a single girl or showed particular interest which really had all the girls anxious and uptight. The subtle girl fight began to win his heart. The opening line of Pride and Prejudice rings true... if on a less "permanent" level. "It is a universally known truth that every single man in possession of a fortune is in want of a wife." It was apparent to every girl that he must be in want of a girlfriend.
I was having a strange week. It was only Wednesday but strange things were happening. Girls I normally talked to wouldn't say a word to me while those who never talked to me were giving me the evil eye. Guys who never looked twice were looking enough to make me blush and my friends had no explanation. On my way to my locker that morning was creepy. It felt like the whole school was watching me walk down the hall holding their breath in anticipation. Oh sure, I know, they weren't ALL looking at me; but many were and some I felt were trying to appear not to look. I mentally confirmed that I had put clothing on that morning and fumbled with the combination lock on my locker.
The door swung open with a creak that shattered the silence and there, taped to the door, was a rumpled, folded piece of note book paper. For a moment I stared at the paper wondering who'd gotten into my locker then snatched it down and shoved it in my backpack. With my luck it was from some hopeless puppy dog type guy that it would break my heart to say no... so I didn't want to read it.. that way I didn't have to say "no". I unloaded my homework and gathered the stuff for first and second period. I swung the door closed hoping for some privacy before I read the note, whoever it was from.
Luke was walking up the hall, cool as ever. He did actually have beautiful eyes. I was startled when I realized those pretty green eyes were intent on my face. I must have looked amusing because he smiled a crooked little smile that made his eyes light up. My heart fluttered and I dropped my head hoping to brush by quickly. Obviously I was between him and some girl, how embarrassing. Even more embarrassing was when he grabbed my arm as I brushed by, "Paige. Wait." The silence in the hall was deafening and I wondered if everyone was slowly suffocating.
Startled, I stopped and looked up at him a little confused. "Hi Luke."
"Did you get my note?" His voice was honey with a bit of sand and gravel - sweet but rough.
I continued to stare. "Your note?" I said stupidly, my brain failing miserably to make the connection that the most sought after guy in school had put a note in my locker.
He began to look a bit nervous too. "Yeah. It was in your locker. Didn't you see it?"
Realization hit me and I blushed to the roots of my sandy blond hair. "Yes, I did. I have it but I haven't read it yet."
His smiled widened. "Let me know when you do." With that he continued strolling down the hall.
I was shell shocked but suddenly everyone was breathing again. Not only that - they were buzzing like flies on dead meat. And I was dead meat. My best friends were tugging on my arms squeaking things like "what did he say?" "did you read the note?" "WOW". I brushed them off and while it was still ten minutes before first period began I sought out the Algebra room for some peace and quite - because really... who'd hang out in Algebra class?
With trembling hands I pulled the note out and read a beautifully written poem asking me out on a date that Friday. (I'd insert the poem here but in truth I've lost it and I would never do it justice to attempt to recreate it.) I'd never really been on a date before; after all, who would drive? My mom? No way!
I couldn't believe it; the most popular guy in school had just asked me out on a date! Me! Plain, ordinary, terminally normal me! I realized that it must be some kind of set up or dare... I'd seen too many Molly Ringwald movies not to know what was going on... but still my heart soared at the idea that for a moment I was a star.
Knowing that it wouldn't last I decided to play it cool. This was my one shot to be the envy of every girl; I wasn't going to mess it up with all my stammering and blushing like I did that morning. True to my word I breezed by him in the hall later and at his questioning look said, "Oh right. Sorry! I'll read it next period. Promise!" and rushed off with my heart pounding at my dare devil self. Wheww this was fun! My English class with him was coming up quickly so I'd have to tell him my answer then.
What would I answer? If it was all a joke I knew I should say no. BUT. But what if it wasn't a joke? Country song lyrics, "ride this ride far as it will go..." floated through my head and I decided to say yes. Perhaps he wanted to get to know me, well, I figured I could get to know him too and thought I just might like alternative music and baggy clothes.
He seemed genuinely pleased that I said yes and slipped me a tattered spiral bound notebook with a black scratched up cover. I spent all that day reading through these amazing poems that were dark, edgy and endearing. They spoke of loss, heartbreak and loneliness. My mom is reading this blog now, understanding me so well that she knows I was on a mission. My heart was putty yet resolved to show him that he wasn't alone, that someone cared. I cared.
Thursday and Friday at school rolled by in an unreal haze. Apparently my accepting his invitation for a date on Friday was also an acceptance to being his girl friend. He walked me to every class, holding my hand and offering to carry my books. These strolls through the halls earned smiles from other terminally normal kids and scowls from the popular girls. I couldn't get enough of his poetry, the supply of beat up notebooks seemed endless.
Although high school football wasn't really anywhere we'd normally go; where else would our parents let us go together without them? So Friday evening his uncle drove him over to my house and waited in the car as Luke came to the door.
I was wearing an outfit I hoped was cute but a little sexy and a bit grungy (only a high school girl could even think that was possible). I'd even borrowed a pair of combat boots and my older brother's jeans and flannel for the occasion. The only thing that was mine was the small, tight cut off shirt that showed more than normal now that my brother's jeans were hanging on my hips. I was glad to have the flannel to cover my belly with.. I was quite shy.
I wanted to make an entrance so my mom got the door and let him in. Luke sat down on the sofa to the right of the stairs. My mom made a face at me from the bottom of the stairs and I waited at the top for another minute. I took a deep breath and started down the steps wondering if he'd like the outfit.
Once I cleared the line where wall becomes banister I looked over at the couch with the sexiest smile I could manage. That's when everything went wrong. I felt my feet stumbling over the untied laces of the boots, saw his eyes widen as my sexy smile became a grimace of horror knowing I would fall.
The baggy, flannel I was wearing over my too tight cut off shirt seemed to trap my arms at my side in the wealth of material. In what I know was an ungraceful, sloppy head-first fall I tumbled down the remaining stairs. I was more mortified that hurt, looking up from my back at my feet still splayed on the stairs, one boot coming off and resting by my ear. Then I heard a sound that I knew heralded my death by mortification... Luke was laughing hysterically. Like a doomed damsel turning to watch the light of the train barreling toward her, I turned my head just as Luke rolled off the couch holding his sides in laughter.
I wanted to crawl under the couch he'd just vacated and hide until high school was over. I knew that this was the climax of the cruel social joke and I'd handed it over like a fool. Visions of laughing students filled my mind and I wanted to cry. I put a hand over my face in effort to hold in the tears of shame as Luke finally got his laughter under control.
To my surprise he croaked out, "Are you ok?" and seeing my hands helplessly trying to hind my tears quickly came over to help me up. I let him, knowing for sure the date was over. "Hey that was pretty awesome. I needed a good laugh, I hope you're ok though." his gravely sweet voice was so sincere that I chanced a look at his face. There was no guile, no triumph, just amusement and concern. I let out a shaky breath unsure of what to say. "Well, are you ready to go?" he asked. It turned out to be a great first date.
So that was one of my embarrassing moments. Luke was a genuine article and we "dated" as best two teens without transportation can for about three months (forever in teen girl time). Instead of his catapulting me to fame, he dropped into my obscurity but stuck with me anyway. I was the happiest I'd been up to that point in my life and he became my first love. It fizzled in tearful good byes when he went back home, miles and miles away but I'll always have nice memories.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Bungees and Babies
I do realize it has been about two months since I wrote a good story for you.
Many things have happened in two months, some good some bad.
In May I found out I was pregnant; in early July I miscarried.
I was oblivious to just about everything about pregnancy except how to end up that way. Although unprepared, I was cautiously excited... it felt more like I was standing on a bridge about to bungee jump and there was no turning back. I was nervous and uncomfortable while my husband seems to be waving and mouthing "have fun!" while I'm throwing up. Well, I'm a chicken at heart and because of the miscarriage feel like I've been released from the bungee harness and have been given a chance to catch my breath and prepare myself. I would have preferred that everything go perfectly but because it didn't I can find a good side to this. It was a trial run so to speak. There is no doubt that I'll take the dive as soon as I'm able but it is nice to have a bit of perspective and be ready for the next time.
Having said that I'm feeling like my old self again... and ready to resume writing. So vote for the story that you'll like to hear and I'll write it before I go on vacation July 18th.
Thanks for your support!
Paige
Monday, May 18, 2009
Why I don't Babysit
At the age of eleven I was pretty snotty and self-centered. I thought I knew it all, had it all and was blind to anything that pointed out the obvious flaw in my thinking. Being the youngest sibling and the youngest cousin of a tight-knit family it never occurred to me to be aware of or pay attention to little children. I never wanted to buy anything so badly that I'd volunteer to babysit for money. I'd clean, I'd do yard work and wash cars but I wanted nothing at all to do with children.
To my surprise she shrugged her shoulders and announced she was going to color in the living room. The littlest one started squirming so I put her down and let her follow the oldest into the living room. The middle child, still running, trips going up the stairs and hits her head on the wall. If I thought her high-pitched laughs were bad it was nothing compared to the wailing that now filled the house. While I tried to comfort her she continued to wail. The oldest, unconcerned with the noise just turned up the volume on the TV to overcome the crying.
Despite my self-centered view I did like to help others - it made me feel good. As my mother can tell you I attracted every stray or hurt person within my sphere of influence throughout school. So one beautiful Sunday afternoon my do-gooder attitude unknowingly stepped up to the challenge of a lifetime (well, childhood). You see, there is always one strange house on the block. Ours just happened to be right across the street from me.
This house was the one that let the lawn get out of control and let the shutters hang lose. As the tyrant children we were, all of us brats would stand at the fence and wonder what would happen if one of us got lost in the backyard. Of course every strange house needs a strange occupant. The man who lived there was a little older than our parents which made him, in our eyes, an "old man." Some kids said he was ex-military, some said he was on the run from the mafia, but most likely he had a boring hum-drum job like our parents. We had to speculate in secret because our parents all chastised us for talking about him. They would say mundane things like, "he's a very nice man. Just because he keeps to himself doesn't make him strange." Who were they kidding?
One day Forever Friend and I were out riding bikes and we saw an old beat up station wagon pull into the drive way and a woman get out and let herself into the house. The buzz starting flying and within minutes a kid meeting was held in the "pit" (abandon lot) several doors down from my house. We all wondered who this mystery woman was. Some said it was his daughter, others said it had to be his girlfriend; as the mafia must have killed his first wife and children. We all wondered but we only caught rare glimpses of the woman who always looked haggard and upset.
This bright sunny Sunday afternoon I was chatting on the phone with Forever Friend who lived a few doors down. (Yes, we were pre-teen girls so talking on the phone was way cooler than visiting.) Forever Friend was about to spill the news about the New Kids on the Block gossip when the door bell rang. My mom called out for me to answer the door. Full of exasperation I told Forever Friend I'd call her back and went to get the door.
I skipped down the stairs and looked out the glass storm door to see the strange woman lived across the street staring back at me. She looked upset and panicked. I could hear Cute Boy Across the Street's voice, "maybe the maffia is after her too." in my head. I opened the door and in shock said, "Yes?" While the woman was explaining that she wanted me to babysit, my mom came up behind me and introduced herself. Apparently the woman had three children hidden away in the house. How creepy! Three kids that none of us in the neighborhood had seen! How was that possible! I looked at her wide-eyed as she explained that she just needed to run to the grocery store and back and that she was desperate for someone to watch the kids.
My mom, seeking to rectify some of the "misconceptions" we kids had about the house and the strange people living in it smiled and said, "I think that sounds like a good idea Paige, why don't you help our a neighbor?" I agreed knowing I couldn't pitch a fit right there with the woman watching. At least I'd get to see inside the house, maybe I'd find contraband of some kind even though I didn't really know what that meant. But I'd have news for the neighborhood kids for sure!
"What time would you like me to come over?" I asked as nicely as I could now that I was eager to get back to the gossip with Forever Friend (she thinks her mom got her tickets to see The New Kids on the Block). The woman replied that she needed me to come over right away. To my satisfaction, even my mom seemed a little surprised by the urgency of the woman's request.
"Um, ok." I said and went to put my shoes on. The woman waited on the porch for me. We walked across the street to the strange house and went inside. So far everything looked worn but pretty normal. We lived in an older, less flashy neighborhood compared to the ones that were springing up around us. Three blond girls sat like angels in front of the TV in the family room. There was a toddler of about two years, a five year old and a six or seven year old. The woman told me their names and assured me the oldest would help out with the baby. The woman wasted no time tearing out of the house and peeling off down the street in her beat up car.
The moment she was gone the angels turned to demons. The youngest cried uncontrollably and when I looked to her for help, the older girl just shrugged her shoulders. I picked up the wet, bubbling snotty child and lamely attempted to comfort her. Rolling my eyes I realized I was no good with babies and this was going to be a long afternoon....but I didn't know the half of it.
Once the baby started to quite down the middle child began screaming and running through the house for no apparent reason. She squealed and ran, her high voice ripping through my throbbing head. She had no response at all to my orders to be quite and sit down. It was about this time that I realized the older girl wasn't anywhere around let alone helping. I hear a crash from the kitchen so I carry the baby down the hallway dodging the other screaming, running child and enter the kitchen to see white and red powders spilled all over the floor. The oldest girl looks up at me with an evil smile and says, "Mommy lets me help do the laundry." Well that explained the white power on the floor but what was the red powder? I attempted to persuade her to wait until "mommy" got back from the store sure she was going to ignore me and carry on with her "helping".
To my surprise she shrugged her shoulders and announced she was going to color in the living room. The littlest one started squirming so I put her down and let her follow the oldest into the living room. The middle child, still running, trips going up the stairs and hits her head on the wall. If I thought her high-pitched laughs were bad it was nothing compared to the wailing that now filled the house. While I tried to comfort her she continued to wail. The oldest, unconcerned with the noise just turned up the volume on the TV to overcome the crying.
I convinced her to give up the foot race and sit with her sisters in the living room. I decided to clean up the mess in the kitchen. I found a broom and dust pan and began to sweep up the mess. It became clear that the red powder was Kool-Aid. The smell was sweet and as I swept it entered my nose and mouth. Just about the time I had most of the mess cleaned up I heard three evil laughs from the living room.
I wanted to run screaming; instead I went to the living room. I thought I would be killed for sure. The girls were coloring alright... all over the living room walls! Sad to say I lost my cool and had there been ropes, tape, bungee cords of any kinds I would have tied all of them to a dining room chair. Unfortunately there were no ropes or binding materials near by so I yelled that they were brats and that I was going to tell their mother everything they'd done when she got home. The oldest one tried to look contrite but being a kid myself I knew she was not sorry and didn't care a bit that I was going to tell her mother. I took the crayons and put them on the top shelf in the pantry.
Because I'd found the broom, I knew the location of a bucket. I put some soapy water in the bottom of the bucket and made the two older girls start scrubbing the walls. As they scrubbed I could see faint crayon marks that were much older than the ones created today so I was certain they'd done this before; at least the woman couldn't blame me. The oldest one said she was going to the bathroom and disappeared.
Yep, you guessed it. CRASH!!! While attempting to climb the racks in the pantry she'd pulled most of them down. The noise scared the middle girl who was still scrubbing the walls and she turned the soapy water over on the carpet. I didn't want to move, didn't want to care what happened in the pantry. The oldest girl arrived back in the living room caring the crayons and sat down with a coloring book.
I was flabbergasted! Who were these little monsters? Who was allowed to behave this way? No wonder mom needed to get out and away from the house with these little devils. No wonder she kept them inside away from other children. They were evil.
In the process of sopping up the soap water from the carpet the woman came back. She looked around at the carnage and began yelling at the girls. For a moment I thought she'd unleash some of the fury on me but she didn't even seem to realize I was there. I stayed for a few minutes hoping to get a couple bucks for my ordeal but as she continued to berate the girls I decided all I wanted was to leave... so I did with nothing but a headache and mental trauma for my time.
My mom looked sceptical but believed me and I was gossip queen for a month with the neighborhood kids. I'd survived the crazy house, but just barely.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Who am I?
I am a middle school teacher who loves to laugh. I am a powerful force when inspired or angered. I am silly and compassionate and give the benefit of the doubt. I hear what you meant to say rather than what you did say and I enjoy interacting with silly pre-teen kids. I love fantasy and heros along with stories of the impossible and the imaginations of middle school kids. I love books, movies and writing.
All of these thing came crashing together one glorious day. Many of you know I LOVE Fantasy and Sci-fi books, games, movies... anything that takes the good of this world and amplifies it into something greater than ourselves. So I was intrigued when my 7th grade students asked what sci-fi/fantasy character I was. I had no answer but visions of elves and dragons filled my head.
They showed me a silly on-line test that promised to reveal my true nature. At last!! I would know who I really am deep down inside.
I took the test. The funniest question on the test asks if you would kill your best friend in order to be immortal. Good question! Hey Kim... what do you think I answered? (Devious smile). Others were about justice and the greater good.
To my lasting pleasure and dismay of my students I turned out to be Lord Elrond from Lord of the Rings. I announced to my study hall that they could now address me as LORD Elrond. They got a kick out of it and I'm sure went home to make fun of me on facebook. :)
If you'd like to discover your true self here is the link:
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Trailer Park Rats
Like many of you I have family members who live a completely different life. Some of my family are more wealthy, some are less wealthy. Some live in the suburbs of large metropolitan cities, some live midtown or downtown metropolitan cities, and some live a bit farther out attempting to escape the urban sprawl, and some live yet farther out still in small towns that make up the heartbeat of this great nation. Each member of my extended family is unique and precious to me. I see bits of my crazy soul in all of them.
So let me take you on a childhood journey a little out of your comfort zone and zip code to visit some of my family. As a child, every year we would travel from our home in Georgia to visit my grandparents in Paris during the summer. The car ride was about 13 hours..... oh wait... I meant Paris Texas. While I hated the car ride in our old green and wood paneled station wagon, I LOVED visiting my family in Texas. For me as a child, even at the tender age of 7, Paris was a wonderland of country roads, farms, wide open spaces and the home of my two favorite cousins - together we made up the Musketeers.
We were all the same age and we dubbed ourselves the three musketeers. These two were so much fun! I got to do crazy things that I never got to do at home like shoot bb guns, play on old clunky pontoon boat in my grandmother's backyard and go to the skating rink where they sold dill pickle juice for 10 cents. I was in heaven every time I went and yes, I did like the pickle juice. The three of us were inseparable. Every evening was an argument over who's house we'd spend the night at. Of course I was staying at Grandma's house and in the ever present tug-of-war to get away from my parents I always voted to stay with one of them.
They would be on the phone with my dad's siblings while I begged too. "Please can I go spend the night with Musketeer 1 or Musketeer 2? Please!" My mom, ever patient, would say, "Lets wait and see what your aunts say." Once we knew our options the musketeers would reconvene secretly in the back yard to plan our assault on our parents. There was a down side to any choice we made. We all had a sibling about four years our senior. They were not musketeers and did not want to hang out with each other so one of them would be where ever we slept. M2 has an older sister who either left us alone or bugged us to death wanting to make our three musketeers into four. M1 had an older brother who pretty much left us alone. My older brother would either ignore us or pick on us. Our options clearly indicated M1's house. His mom was the best cook of the bunch too after all we had to think about breakfast! (My grandmother's cooking is another story too).
So more often than not we spent the night at M1's house or at Grandma's but we never ended up at M2's. Well there came a day when M1 had something to do at home and our trio was down to a duo. M2 and I had a blast of course and in the evening when it was time to pick where to stay M2 and I begged to go to her house as I'd never been there. I was excited about a "girls" night with M2 and her sister. My mom agreed with a worried look on her face. I was too excited at the time to notice.
So mom packed up my things and M2 and I loaded ourselves into our station wagon with Dad at the helm. We drove through town and turned off down a bumpy dirt road. The farther we drove the more my apprehension grew. I wasn't going to back out though, it had been a hard won battle with my mom to stay with M2.
We parked in front of a small, time-worn trailer. The cinder block steps leading to the door wobbled a bit as M2 marched up and opened the door. I stood by the car wondering if I was brave enough to sleep in an old trailer in the middle of a field. My Dad gave me a hug and a look that said "are you sure?" but he didn't say it out loud. I nodded my head in response and followed my friend up the wobbly blocks, took a deep breath and let myself in. If M2could do it every night then I could do it for one night. I was a musketeer after all, and I'd heard my dad drive away.
The inside was well lit which might not have been a good thing. A small trailer with three girls, who apparently weren't expecting company, was a sight to behold. As I surveyed almost the entire trailer from the small square of laminate by the door I wondered how things had gotten this messy. My Aunt smiled at me from the kitchen end of the trailer and my fears, doubts, and the mess were erased from my mind. She was like a ray of sunshine with her bright smile.
M2 tugged at my hand saying, "Let me show you my room." The only thing I remember clearly from M2's room was her twin bed and the TV on a rickety little cart across from her bed. M2's mom did something with my bag and M2 pulled me on to the twin bed. "Lets watch a scary movie and stay up all night!" She was excited as I'd been about an hour before. As she was holding up movies and choosing the perfect one my Aunt came back in with a tray of popcorn and soda. She set them down on the bed and said sternly to M2, "Remember! These go back to the kitchen before you got to bed!" M2 absently waved at her mom and popped in a movie.
I surveyed the room while the opening music pumped a creepy song through the room. "Where am I going to sleep?" I asked looking at the thread bare carpet. "Oh," said M2, "We are both going to sleep on my bed." I glanced at the twin mattress and as much as I loved my cousin I did not want to share a twin bed with her. "Don't you have some blankets or a sleeping bag?" If I was wrapped tightly enough I could sleep on the floor. "I can sleep on the floor." She was focused on the movie now with it's opening scene that would surely make us scream. She casually and absently answered me like she'd absently waved her mother off, "Oh you can't sleep on the floor. The rats come out at night."
DADDY!!!!! My stomach did a flip and I thought I might lose the popcorn and soda. RATS? Seriously! She'd said it so calmly like it was a natural fact of life. Flashes of my mom's concerned face flooded my mind. My mom must have known and been worried that I'd be eaten by rats in my sleep! I'd heard a story of rats eating the toes off of babies once and I sincerely wished that I was back at my grandma's house sharing a room with my mean brother and eating my grandmother's cowboy food.
I calmed myself, rubbing my toes, not willing to admit defeat and call my dad to come and get me, I tried to relax sitting on the bed with M2 who was now completely engrossed in the horror film. Who wanted to watch a horror film when I was in one!?
Gradually as the movie rolled on without me watching I began to relax. M2 and her mom were fine with all their fingers and toes as far as I knew. If nothing bad happened to them living here, surely nothing bad could come from my sleeping here one night. Right?
The movie was almost over and M2 was snoring softly still holding the popcorn bowl with a couple handfuls still in the bottom of the bowl. I looked at the TV across the tiny room on its cart with the VCR on the rickety shelf under the TV. I was drifting to sleep myself and wondering if I should turn off the VCR and TV when I saw the little pink nose and whiskers appear in the space between the VCR and TV.
With a good bit of force I shoved M2 attempting to wake her up. She jolted awake, knocking the popcorn bowl and last cup of popcorn on to the floor and it spilled everywhere. "There's a rat by the TV." I said quietly hoping the rat wouldn't notice me. She rubbed her eyes and nodded, "They come out at night. Just go to sleep." and she switched off the light and got comfortable on her half of the bed. No way was I going to be able to sleep! There was popcorn all over the floor! My mom worried about ants when we left food out.... this was like a beacon calling all varmints to the floor by the bed I was sleeping in!
I shoved her again, "Hey shouldn't we pick up that popcorn? Your mom told us to take it back to the kitchen." Yes, take the rat food to another room! She just grunted and said, "I'm not doing it." and fell back asleep.
I was left with a real, life-threatening (or toe threatening) dilemma. Do I leave the perceived safety of the bed and pick up the popcorn in the dark hoping I didn't grab a rat or do I stay here, under the covers and hope dawn comes soon? I did what most 7-year-olds would do. No I didn't cry, but I wanted to. Instead I stayed exactly where I was under the covers snuggled up to the only other human in the crowded room and prayed for sleep to come.
Sleep was just seconds away when I heard a soft munching. In the dark my imagination ran wild. I could hear soft little bodies moving through holes in the wall. I could hear hundreds of small teeth-filled mouths chomping away on popcorn. I wished that M2 snored like my brother, it might have drowned out the real and imagined sounds of the rat feast going on just feet away. There would be rest tonight.... and maybe no more toes. I pulled myself into a tight ball and held my toes. I hoped the popcorn would fill them up and that they wouldn't want my toes. I tried to tell myself they were like her pets... they liked her and wouldn't bother her or her friends. But munching and sounds of nocturnal rodents continued either real or in my imagination. Either way it was terrifying.
Needless to say it was a very long night in which I got only snatches of dozed slumber. I remember the grey pale light of dawn lighting the sky outside the window like a saving angel. As soon as light allowed I peered over the edge or the bed, sure I was going to see swarms of rats or their little footprints like in cartoons showing everywhere they'd been. Nothing. There were no rats, no little footprints .... and no popcorn. I shuddered and woke up M2. "I'm hungry." I lied hoping that would rouse her out of bed. I certainly didn't want to be the first one to put my feet on the floor.
M2 slowly woke up and said, "Man I missed the end of the horror movie. How'd it end." I glanced up at the rolling TV screen that I'd not switched off and replied, "The heroine lived." She looked at me funny then got out of bed and left the room for the bathroom. Well nothing bad happened to her when she put her feet on the floor so I got up and dressed quickly. I refused a shower and breakfast, as my only goal was to go back to Grandma's. I told my aunt I didn't feel well and since I obviously didn't look well, she called my dad to come pick me up. I decided to wait for him outside. I was safe and asleep in the car before we made it back to Grandma's.
I'd survived the rats with all my fingers and toes and though I love M2 and her mom I vowed never to spend the night with her again.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Pay Toilets
Who really knows how powerful the flow of water through a toilet can be? A friend of mine recently had a funny experience with a public toilet.
The University of Nebraska in Omaha has, like all colleges, ID cards. These ID cards are used to purchase things around campus from bookstore items to parking and food. Even the vending machines, copiers and printers in the library take these convenient ID cards. Because they are so handy and useful around campus many of us carry them in a pocket so we don't have to dig through our bags to whip it out every few minutes. My friend, like myself, carries hers in the back pocket of her jeans. Normally this is a safe, easy to access location. Normally.
After hours of studying and downing coffee in order to get that last assignment finished just before class it is inevitable that nature will call. My friend took a break from the latest Molecular Biology assignment to answer that call.
In the process of dropping her jeans while poised just right over the porcelain throne her ID card, unexpectedly wiggled halfway out of her pocket. It is not until she is standing and pulling up her jeans in one swift motion that she hears an unexpected "plop" and splash of water.
Like any woman in a strange toilet who's heard stories of "creatures" coming up through the plumbing she quickly turns, backing into the door of the stall. Her mind calms as she realizes she's three stories up in a large building. Convinced that it wasn't a creature she peers into the toilet. Her face is there, smiling up at her through the lemonade colored water. Her ID card has gone for a swim.
It would be quite a hassle to lose the ID card yet no one in their right mind would reach into the bowl and retrieve it now. Perhaps if the water were "clean". She decides to flush and await cleaner waters before retrieving the card and thoroughly washing with soap.
She takes a breath and flushes. Her jaw drops in astonishment as her smiling face is whisked away down the hole she would have sworn wasn't big enough. In a daze of amazement she returns to her papers sitting across from me and says, "Apparently the toilets are pay toilets now." After telling me the story I remarked that I hope she didn't get charged each time someone flushed.
So would it have been worth it to brave the "dirty" water to retrieve the card? I didn't ask because honestly I would have been reluctant to retrieve it from "clean" water at my home not to mention a public toilet. I didn't want to know her answer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)