Evil Catnevel

For sale  

  FREE one cat who runs around the house approximately 3:29 in the morning like his tampon string is on fire, climbs to the top of Christmas tree, yowls, and then takes off on another lap around the house.   His run of terror ends with him CATapulting off the arm of the chair to fly through the air a la Evel Knevel to land, claws out on the new  curtains, which he promptly shoots to the top to get to the lighted garland hanging oh-so-decoratively .  He resembles  Popeye hitting the bell at the strength game at the country fair.    Once finished he immediately drops to the ground, and licks his paw and grooms himself, as if to say, “Yeah, that just happened.”

He’s really cute.

Really.

Wishes.....

Recently,  my students worked on a project that spoke volumes to me.

It amazed me so much I had to make a video about it.

As you watch the video, remember these are from the popular kids, the athletes,  the kids who come from “good homes,”  the kids who make A Honor Roll, and the kids who seem to have it all together.   They also come from the “nerds,”  the ones who need a little help academically, the lost, the forgotten, and the ignored. 

These are our kids. 

What is your child’s Christmas wish?  

*** In case the video didn't work for your phone.....here's the YouTube link....

The Drunk Squirrel Kegger

After reading this post, you should look up drunk squirrels on Google images.  
Who knew they were such lushes?

I enjoy a nicely landscaped, manicured lawn.  I love meticulously trimmed hedges with bright, beautiful annuals planted as a colorful border.  I appreciate those that switch out their flowers with the seasons..... pansies in the icy, winter; daisies and marigolds in the summer.  I love a good topiary or some creeping vines.   I love shrubs that transition beautifully from one season to the next, their foliage changing with the temperatures.  I like flower beds with different heights and texture, a riot of color, something unexpected.

So pretty.    *sigh*

When we first became homeowners, I was aghast at how the previous owners never took care of their flower beds.   They were full of years of leaves, Johnson grass, mushrooms, and weeds.  Shrubs were overgrown and planted helter-skelter.  No order was to be found.

So not pretty. *sigh*

During our first years in the house, I worked diligently trying to find the beauty in the ashes.  Often you could find me on the weekends digging in the dirt trying to restore order to the chaos.

SO much work.  *double sigh*

We dug up shrubs and moved them.  We pulled out ugly mini-trees using chains attached to the truck.  I spent hours and hours on my knees turning the soil over, working it, killing grubs, and trimming our little shrubs and bushes into something that was pretty.  I read tons of landscaping books, learning about zones, perennials, and annuals.  I plotted colors, shapes, and sizes of my future garden on graph paper.    I spent hours wandering around the nursery, dreaming of what I could create.    

I was slightly obsessed.

Reality struck when I realized how much my dreams were going to cost.   Bags of landscape mulch and bark are not cheap. I had no clue that flats of flowers, vines, and ornamental grasses will break the bank. Not to mention the watering required to keep those flowers pretty in the scorching Texas sun.   I scaled back on the scope of my plan of attack and plotted out a five year plan rather than all at once extravaganza.

I still remember how I felt when I finished our flower beds for the first time ever.    Those bright pretty blossoms fluttering in the light breeze.  The sunshine reflecting in the jeweled water droplets on each fresh plant like diamonds glittering in a crown. My long blond hair blowing in the wind.  My short, clean shorts showcasing my long, thin legs.  Butterflies flew about in celebration of my victory over the mess.  Bird sang.   I was radiant. Glowing.

Sorry, that's not me.  That's a movie.  In reality, I was sweaty and nasty.  My back was aching, my body sore,  and  my filthy fingernails were  ragged from days of work.  Our already slim bank account was several hundred dollars lighter than the week before.  

I had it though.   I had my beautiful flowerbeds.   I had my container gardens in genuine whiskey barrels, holes cut in the bottom, with fine gravel for drainage placed strategically in the bottom for better drainage.    I had it all.

For two days.

Then the slugs found my Gerber daisies and the all you can eat buffet began.   Each daisy was four bucks.   I had about 30 of them scattered about throughout the landscaping.  

The first morning, I walked out proud of my creation the day before.   We had company coming to stay with us in a couple of days, and my flower beds would be a beautiful complement to our new home.    Then, I looked at my new plants.  Holes were in the leaves everywhere. Petals had been chewed all the way through.   I had never planted a garden before, and I couldn't figure out what had attacked my babies.   

The second day, my plants were worse.   But this time I saw a clue.  A gazillion diamond dusted, clear trails sparkled in the morning sun.   

Slugs.

I read up on ways to get rid of them.   Most involved poisons.  We had so many beautiful song birds, I didn't want to chance killing a cardinal or a mockingbird.    Other solutions involved tons of egg shells bordering everything a slug might like to eat.  Like I could pull those out of my back pocket.   It would take me weeks to get enough shells for the amount of land I needed to trace around.    

Then I found the best solution of all......

BEER.

The solution for so many things.

According to my book, all I had to do was take a beer and pour it into several wide, shallow containers.    The article suggested lids.    Bingo.     I had plenty of those.    Apparently, the slugs love the smell of it, but  would be unable to digest the alcohol and die.  No muss.  No fuss.  No poison.  

Excellent.

Luckily, since Big Daddy always has a beer in the fridge (he drinks like one six pack a year),  I grabbed a Bud Light and began placing lids full of beer around my flowerbeds.   

Then I drank the other half of the bottle in celebration of my cunning and devious plot to rid my flower gardens of nastiness.... mwahahahaha.

The joke was on me, however.

That afternoon our guests arrived and we had a wonderful time visiting and catching up.   The next morning, the world seemed odd, for lack of a better world.

My friend, Lydia,  and I were sitting on our couch, drinking coffee and enjoying each other's company.    Suddenly, we were distracted by a squirrel, looking at us through the open, but screened window.  He was hanging single-handedly from a branch, one foot bracing him on a limb while the other hung free, staring at us.   And I swear he was chatting with us and frowning.

Lydia and I started laughing. The squirrel chattered louder, swinging a little from the branch, in his ire.

A movement caught my eye and I saw that our yard was full on squirrels... probably close to 20 of them, all running around in crazy patterns.  They were on the grass, in the branches of the shrubs,  the flowerbed, and on our porch.

As we watched, a squirrel tried drunkenly to make it across the power lines in front our house.  He fell from about thirty feet up to the asphalt below.  He lay stunned for a moment; then he popped up and made a wobbly path for the trees almost as though he was drunk.

Then it hit me...

The squirrels had found the beer.   

As I made for the front door to check the slug stash, my phone rang.  The sweet elderly lady from across the street was calling to tell me that I needed to look out my window... that my yard was covered in squirrels, that my HOUSE was covered in squirrels, that actually right now...and she whispered this.... there were squirrels, two separate pair, having sex on my roof. 

Then she giggled and hung up.

Oh.  My.  La.  

It was like a fraternity party for squirrels.  All we needed was a chubby one named Belushi showing up in a toga and the day would be complete.   

I went out to check my lids, and all 10 of them were completely dry.   Not a drop to be had.   

Classy, squirrels. 

Now, I am not a veterinarian.  I don't profess to know how much alcohol it takes to get a squirrel drunk, but apparently it takes about half a bottle per 20 animals.  Just in case you ever want to host your own squirrel party.

What was funniest to me was we didn't see any squirrels for days after that.  I can only imagine the hangovers they must have had.

Poor things.

Oh, and the slugs went away too.   

Hooray Beer.

The Tsunami of Poo or Another TMI post.....

A painting by Jackson Pollock.  I don't know what it is either.  

I have colitis, and I seem to have bad luck in restaurant bathrooms.   Not always a good combination.

Having colitis means I spend WAAAAY too much time figuring out what I'm going to eat, how it's going to affect me, and where the closest bathroom is.  

I can tell you it's thirty-seven steps from the eggs to the bathroom in Wal-Mart.   I know where all the bathrooms are in all the trucks stops, shops, and convenience stores in a twenty mile radius.  I know who has a public restroom and who "doesn't."   I don't shop at the ones who don't.   

There's one particular restaurant, our favorite,  I seem to always have bad luck with, though. I don't know what it is.   I go in there with the intent to do my business, and something always seems to go horribly awry.

One day, we were eating and I felt the rumble.   I quick-stepped to the bathroom, found a stall, and hovered as my momma taught me.    Suddenly, the Earth tilted on its axis.   Or the bathroom moved.   Or my horrible sense of balance kicked in.

Whatever.

It just wasn't a good time to suddenly start falling over, buuuuuut ........I did.

With my pants at my knees, I grabbed the empty air for anything I could hold on to.   My fingers found the porcelain lid of the toilet tank and proceeded to knock it off.

Of course.

Somehow, my ninja/fairy-like reflexes kicked in and I twisted my half-naked body to catch the lid with my other hand before it could shatter on the stone tile and I could never show my face there again.  

Whew.

Last night, things were not so lucky.  I truly may never be able to go back to the restaurant. As we were munching on our sweet and sour chicken, Big Daddy noticed a tapestry above our table.   It was a depiction of a tsunami.  People were standing on pieces of wood, vegetables, rubble, and refuse, fighting for their lives against the rising water.  Their faces were masks of horror, as wave after wave hit them.  They were just trying to survive, hanging on for dear life.  Who knew it was foreshadowing of what was about to happen?

There I was, stuffing my face, minding my own business when I felt my stomach cramp. 

Crap.

Literally.

I quickly walked the fifty-seven steps to the bathroom, I visited the stall, and began doing my deed.   A nasty, smelly, bad, embarrassing deed. A deed that had we been at home I would have been embarrassed enough about, being in  public is even worse. Because,  you see, colitis is all about the embarrassment   It's practically a symptom.   A gassy,  Jackson Pollock painting symptom.   And so I did the deed.

A deed so foul, I made my own eyes water.   Some poor, poor woman came in, gagged, and left. 

Though, in all honesty, I don't know if it was the smell or the sounds.  

TMI, I know.  But I warned you in the title, didn't I?

Finally, my episode passed (a pun!)  and I flushed the toilet.

Now those of you who have seen Ben Stiller in the movie "Along Came Polly" can guess what happens next.

The water began to rise.   And rise.  And rise.

I backed up in horror, as the Poo Tsunami began to creep closer to the edge.    I looked around desperately as though some  magical Genie Rotor-Rooter Man would appear from thin air and rescue me from the rising tide.  

No plunger.  No help to be found. 

Crap.  

I unhooked the stall door and rushed to the sink.   I quickly washed my hands and ran back for a second look.   Thankfully, it had stopped about half an inch from the top.  

I left embarrassed and ashamed, telling no one.    Wrong,  I know. And sad. Then, the waitress asked me where I had been.   Busted.

*sigh*

I used to love their egg rolls.

The *&^%$# Cat

Sometimes I have a cussing problem.    I know.
It shows a lack of intelligence and creativity.  I know.
It's not classy.  I know. 
Only uneducated people cuss.  I know.
Every time I cuss,  a baby bunny dies.     I know.   
As a woman of faith, I'm supposed to let no unwholesome talk come out of my mouth.  Ephesians 4:29.   I KNOW!

*sigh*

I'm a bad person, dammit.   I recognize that.   I try to change.  I do, really.  It's just my thorn.

I don't say bad words in mixed company.   I don't say them in church.  I don't say them at work.

If you can control it, you shouldn't say them at all.   I know!   I've heard all the arguments, but sometimes they just come springing from my lips like Greg Louganis off the high dive.

When The Kid was tiny, my favorite curse word was ass.  It's an incredibly versatile word.  Especially when you have road rage.   You can be a slow "bleep" driver.  A fast "bleep" driver.  A stupid "bleep" driver.   A crazy "bleep" driver.   Loved that word.

Even though The Kid was a sponge since the moment she was born and started talking at 3 months, I thought that SOMEHOW "those" words would be magically skipped over.  

I remember sitting at a red light with my 2 year old strapped into the back of the car.    Someone had cut me off, and I made reference to his similarities to a mule.  

From the backseat, I heard the sweetest little voice saying sadly, "You know, momma.  When you say those wowds, you huwt Jesus's heart.  He's pwobably cwying wight now."

Well.  Cwap.

I started trying to make up cuss words then.  

Sassa Frassa Rassa.  
Oh. My. La.
Shiitake mushrooms on wild rice.
Crappity-Doo Dah Ding Dang Dong.
Freaka-deaka-leaka-Shaniqua-Shontonya.   (This one was one a student helped me create because her name was Shontonya, and she wanted her name immortalized.)
Mother Trucker.  
Ratcheting wrenches.

These are all words I try to say when I feel a bad word clawing its way up the back of my throat.  Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn't.

Last night it worked.   

Kinda.

I was *so* in the holiday spirit what with all the Bermuda shorts, flip-flops, and fans keeping us cool,  I  decided in the chilly 80 degree, bright sunshine-y Christmas weather that we were finally going to put up our Christmas tree.

Big Daddy was on the computer.  The Kid was on the iPad.  I was wrangling our "new" prelit Fake Tree, by myself.   My sweet, Mother-in-Law had given us her slim tree last year after PsychoticKitty killed  our other one in a crash of fur, glass, and fake pine needles.

Now last year, after our tree's murder, I was in no mood to put her tree up.  In fact, I wanted to cancel Christmas all together.   Too much hassle.  Too much redecorating.  The Cat was just gonna climb back up to the angel on the top and try to trapeze to the ceiling fan again, destroying everything in the process.  I was done.   Big Daddy stepped up, however, and put the new tree up for me with nary a hateful word.  It was loverly.

This year, however,  it was all me.  It took Big Daddy all of about 10 minutes to put the tree up last year.  He made it look so easy.   I had no idea about putting tree part A into slot FB. (FB short for Fake Bitchass tree that was ticking me off)

What.  The.  Hades.  

Each layer of tree branches was tied off with beautiful little ribbons. About fifty eleven million of them.  You were supposed to untie them...the branches fall down magically...fluff 'em a  little... turn the tree on....  You're done!

Au contraire.  

Half my lights didn't work and I guarantee the makers didn't have a *&^%$# cat.

There I was, sweating like a pig, by myself, putting up a tree and the cat goes into attack mode.    His pupils blew out and swallowed his face. PsychoticKitty was back.  He saw STRING.   My foot moved.  He attacked.  I danced around like a Native American at a Pow Wow and the cat jumped with each step I took, a road map of scratches and puncture wounds marking my feet. 

Off PsychoticKitty went, screeching around the house, like a gecko on meth. He'd run back to the tree, jump off the tree's box, and launch himself at me, teeth bared, so that he could attack my feet again.   I'd start doing the rain dance again and cussing.  It was fun.

Really.

Then suddenly, he calmed, perched on the tree box, tail flicking, and plotted his path of attack up my tree.   I could read it in his eyes.   He wanted to kill this tree too.

Not on my watch, Cat.

Now while in the midst of all this mayhem, I was also in a mass text bonanza with my sisters griping about the tree. Misery loves company.

It went like this:

Sister #2:  I feel your pain.  We finally ripped off the prelit and put other lights on it.

Me:   I am sweating like a fat man at a buffet.  I've got my squirt bottle out just daring the cat to climb it.   Didn't even put ornaments on it, because his pupils were the size of pennies and he was racing around the house like someone set his tail on fire.  He'd screech up beside the tree and attack my feet.  Then he jumped up and bit my belly,  and hung for a second by his teeth in my shirt, dropped down and took off.  If the craphead looks at the tree wrong, much less climbs it, I swear, I'm drowning him with the squirt bottle.  I will chase him around the house spraying and screaming.  I can see it in my head already.  Make a move,  mother trucker.  

Lucky for him, he didn't, ya *&^%$# cat.

My Mom, the Hothead

Remember him?   He has flames for hair.   Super-important to our story.
Hope my mom still talks to me after this post.  

Back in the day, when my thighs did not touch each other when I stood and the worst sentences in the world was "I'm gonna tell Mom,"  my mother had dark red hair.   Along with her dark auburn hair, she had the temper to match.   Far be it from any of us to cross her.  All she had to do was give us "The Look"  or even worse,  one of her infamous one four hour long lectures over every transgression we had ever committed IN OUR LIVES, and we quickly were back on the straight and narrow.     In those days during her lectures, somewhere around hour three or four, I would stare at her until my eyes glazed over, my pupils unfocused, and her face morphed into some strange-looking monster.   Don't tell her I wasn't listening.

I can't sit through another lecture.   Please.

That fiery hair always matched her temperament back then.  Quick to anger, quick to laugh.  

Yesterday, however, that once-fiery, now-grey hair was just fiery and quick to burn.

As I wasn't there for this incident, I'll just have to piece together with first-hand accounts from my sisters. brother, and mom, herself, to figure out exactly what happened.

According to Mom, she was bent over,  just about to take the turkey out of the oven when the bag burst, causing a waterfall of turkey juice and fat to cascade down onto the heating element and the ensuing fireball to encase her head.   She quickly moved her head out of the way, but the damage had been done.

Half an eyebrow gone and a patch of hair about the size of your hand singed to a funky, dirty-ferret yellow.  With lovely black, crispy tips.
The skin on her forehead was a little pink and shiny....kind of like a day at the beach.

But not.

An attractive look to be sure.

Mom called in a panic. Her hair was burnt, the sink in the bathroom was clogged up, my dad had just put his hand through a rusty pipe, and Thanksgiving was quickly becoming ruined.  

You know.  Just a typical day around the house.

According to the kids, mom and dad kept opening up the oven and checking on the fire's progress, ensuring that the fire got just enough oxygen with every opening for it to whoosh out several feet from the oven door.  Eventually, my brother* had to leave the room after watching Mom, with  her burnt hair and pink skin, continually opening the oven, because he couldn't quit laughing and didn't want "The Lecture" to befall him.    My sister* said Mom would open the oven and call my father's name, the fire would spring out, and she'd slam the door, with a shocked look upon her face. My sister, too, had to leave the room, laughing.

Eventually the fire went out, mom got a surprisingly moist and unburned, but slightly smoked turkey out of the oven, and Thanksgiving proceeded as planned.

Oh, the Thanksgiving memories.



Happy Birthday Mom, burnt hair and all.  This post is for you.


*Name and sex of my siblings may have been changed and or omitted to protect the somewhat innocent.

I'm Sure I'm Wrong....Maybe

I have a habit of getting bored very easily.

I also have a very active imagination.

Two great things that mean I could either be a genius OR a Jack Russell terrier who's energetically barking in the corner at nothing.

When I'm in line at the grocery store, I have created a game to keep myself entertained.    I like to look at the products in someone's cart or on the grocery belt and try to figure out what people are about to eat or do.

If  the person in front of me is buying crackers, Kleenexes, and some chicken noodle soup, obviously someone in their house is sick.    Flowers and a card, it's a birthday or an anniversary.  Super easy, and it helps to pass the time.

The other day, however, my imagination ran wild.  

There was a woman in line in front of me at Wal-Mart.   She was an older woman, probably mid 60s, dressed well, prim and proper. Pink two piece suit dress.  Sensible black shoes and handbag.   Pursed lips.  Lipstick slight askew.  Crinkly blue eyes.  Creepy Grandma looked like she baked cookies, had a cat, and sent you five bucks in a birthday card for your birthday or like she had someone chained up in her tool shed.

It puts the lotion on its skin.

Something was.... *off* about her.

Creepy Grandma had placed several interesting items on the grocery checkout belt.   She had four enemas, some Ex-Lax, and toilet paper.  Okay.... Obviously, someone has a stopping up problem and needed a little help with excavation.

She also purchased two douches, some plastic sheeting, three rolls of duct tape, super glue, and some breath mints.    That's where my imagination starting freaking me out a little.

 Maybe she wasn't feeling Springtime Fresh.  Okay.  I can deal with that.   Breath mints?  Apparently the breath needed a little freshening up too.

Plastic sheeting and duct tape made me think of serial killers.   Was Creepy Grandma planning to off someone?  Did she have someone locked away in her chintz covered guest room?

Then  I began to wonder if perhaps, she was a planning a very messy night.   Perhaps a colonoscopy was ordered and she's worried about a trek to the bathroom?   Plastic sheeting and duct tape to protect the carpet?  If that was it...bless her little pea picking heart and I hope she's okay.

Maybe it was a combination thing.  Maybe she's got the colonoscopy thing  (toilet paper, enemas, ex-lax) going on and then she's going out on date (douche, breathmints) and then she plans on killing him (plastic sheeting and duct tape).

I couldn't figure it out.   I played the scenarios out in my head for 10 minutes, trying to use all the ingredients. I never could get the superglue to fit in, though.

I truly contemplated asking Creepy Grandma what was going on, but there was something about the crooked pink lipstick that put me off.

Watch out, guys.  She's in North Texas today.....she'll be on the news tomorrow.

Remember you heard it here first.


******* A gazillion bonus points to the first person who names the movie that's quoted in this post!

Michelle and Mandy Better Watch Their Backs

In one of my very first posts, I told you about how annoying entertaining my family is in the wee hours of the morning.

Based on what happens at night in our house, *occasionally* I am grumpy in the daylight hours.

Sometimes, I sleep really well, but I just wake up super pissed off, though.  I don't know if it's bad dreams I've had that I just don't remember.  I don't know if the magic sleep fairy sprinkles me with angry dust.  I don't know if actually I'm just an angry, hateful person down deep, but sometimes..... I just  wake up mad.  Not little mad, either.  Great, big honking, if-you-speak-to-me-wrong-I-may-ask-for-a-divorce kind of mad.  I never wake up mad at The Kid...it's always Big Daddy I'm mad at, bless his  little sleep-talking heart.

Several years ago, I was awakened to the sound of Big Daddy, moaning and whispering the name Michelle. Just in case, you guys have gotten confused like he did, my name is Kristi, not Michelle. At three in the morning that night until sunrise the next morning, I fixated on the fact that my husband, lying in bed so peacefully, snoozing away, a smile on his face, was dreaming about some girl named Michelle.  

I wanted to strangle him.

The next day was not pretty in my house.  I asked him, in no uncertain terms, what exactly he was dreaming about, who in the hell Michelle was, and why in the HELL he was dreaming of her, because it sure did sound like HE was having extra-marital fun.  He genuinely looked perplexed.   He told me he didn't know a Michelle. Since Big Daddy is the truthful sort, and since I had checked his phone,  his Facebook contacts, his twitter feed, knew his coworkers, and knew that at his core, he is a rather antisocial guy who never went anywhere without me or our child, I believed him.

Sort of.

It was a good thing, we didn't actually meet any Michelles in our social circle until years later, because I would have had to cut them.

With a rusty disposable razor.

Soaked in salt water.

And battery acid.

Wrapped in a towel infested with chiggers.

Wow.  I sound violent.  

Whatever.

Girls and Big Daddy, remember THAT in case you decide to play together.

So last night, I was awakened at 4:06 A.M.  by the sound of every demented, demon-possessed ghost doll in a horror movie ever howling in my ear.   Big Daddy was keening in the creepiest way. It didn't even sound like his normal voice.   He was howling in this high-pitched banshee voice and moaning.

"Hurts!  Hurts!!   No!  No!  Tell Mandy!  Hurts!"  Then he dissolved into more moaning and indistinguishable words.

He honestly sounded like he was in pain.  I hesitated, though.  Are you supposed to wake up people having a nightmare or not?   My sleepy brain remembered that it's sleepwalkers you're not supposed to wake up, so I quickly started shaking him.  He began to moan and make worse noises.

"Hurts!"

"Wake up!   Wake up!  You're okay.   It's just a dream.  Wake up. Wait... Who's Mandy?  Seriously, wake up, now.  Who's Mandy?"   Big Daddy had woken up just in time for the realization to hit me that we don't know a Mandy.   I have a cousin named Mandy, but Big Daddy's never met her.   

He blinked at me a couple of times, confused. 

"I didn't say Mandy."   

"Oh yes, you did!"

"I would know what I said."

"You were asleep, screeching like a prepubescent girl.  You don't know anything."

Then he started telling me his dream....

He was in an apartment and Anthony Edwards, the tall doctor from ER, was there.   The door to the apartment opened, and a group of Hispanic construction workers came in.  With them, came hundreds and hundreds of red wasps.  They began to sting Big Daddy on his face. Half of his face became paralyzed, so he started calling  out of the side of his mouth for help. The wasps weren't stinging anyone else, but no one moved to help him.  

 "Hurts!  Hurts!  No! No!   Too many!  Hurts!" he cried.  Then he became totally paralyzed by the venom as the wasps stung him over and over.   

As I laid there listening to him recount his dream, I was trying to piece together the sounds my woken-from-a-dead-sleep ears thought they heard and the words he had actually said out of the side of his face in his demonic jack-in-the-box voice.  

Too many. Tell Mandy.   

It was the same.  

Damn good thing too.   'Cause Mandy better watch her back.

I'm on to her.

A Pair of Work Boots

I wrote this last year after participating in Operation Care in Dallas, the largest Christmas Party in the nation for the homeless.   We give our guests clothes, sleeping bags, hot meals.  We wash their feet and give them brand new shoes and socks.  We pray for them, give them hair cuts, and a chance to call home.  We have a petting zoo for kiddos, facing painting, and entertainment.  All for free.  

 It is the most wonderful experience I have ever had living out God's love.    I have participated for the past two years in Footwashing.   People who know me know I hate feet, but I knew that was where I was supposed to work.   I signed up, and because I was obedient to the Spirit, God gave me the opportunity to be support staff, a problem solver.   I don't actually wash feet, but if a problem comes up for the footwashers.... I'm who they grab.  If I can't fix it, I go up the chain of command.    I'm good at it, and I love the opportunity to serve both our guests and the servants.   

I like that I get to truly DO Christmas.   I get to be Jesus.  I get to be His hands and feet.   I get to love on the people who most people avert their eyes and try not to see.   I get to SEE them with His eyes.   

This is my story......

My time spent yesterday at Operation Care Christmas Gift 2011 was as meaningful as it was last year.      This year God was all over the event just as He was last year.   Last year, I didn't write about it.  This year I will...

I met a man named Willie who was on 14 medications and was actually supposed to have reported to the hospital for heart surgery.  Instead he chose, in his words, "to chance it" because he needed a sleeping bag and some new shoes.  He said the hospital might be able to fix his heart, but he needed something to be able to walk around in and be warm in when he got out.   He had already had nine heart attacks.   He was feeling faint yesterday, dizzy, with left arm pain while standing in line for an hour to get shoes.   When I met him and found out his story, I gave him a place to sit.   He refused medical attention saying, "When you have had one heart attack, the next one ain't so scary."  He promised, pinky swore because I made him, that he would go to the hospital after the event.   His friends agreed that they would take him.  They were just as worried about him as I was.  

I met Rodney, a huge, giant of a man, who was frowning while waiting in the footwashing line.  When I walked up and asked what the frown was for, he told me that last year, he waited in the line for almost 2 hours, but after he had his feet washed and needs attended to, it was discovered that we were out of his size 17 shoes.  He lifted up a beat-up, battered tennis shoe-clad foot.  The sole was hanging off and missing in other places.  His sock was exposed.   He said, "I'm hoping you have some now.   These aren't so good.   Don't know if they'll make it another year."  While he waited in line, I went to where the shoes were, looking for his size.  There in the box marked 17 sat one pair of tennis shoes.  I gave them to the ticket taker and went back to Rodney.  When I told him that there was ONE pair of 17 and that I had them reserved for him, I have never seen such a smile.   He laughed such a huge belly laugh people stopped and stared.   The sound of it reminded me of the man from the old 7Up commercials except  his laugh went on and on.  I know my own face was mirroring his.    I waited in line beside him, until it was his turn, and gave him over to one of my close friends, Liz, who was washing feet.  I knew he would get the special treatment he deserved.

I also met John.  John had a pair of boots that the heel had broken off on.   John had on two pair of socks and  had stuffed a huge wad of toliet paper into his shoes.  You see, the nails from the bottom of his shoes had cut a hole into the bottom of his foot the size of a dime.  A bleeding, gaping, infected  dime.   He also had another puncture wound the size of a pencil.  He asked for a couple pair of extra socks.  He said with some socks and tennis shoes, he would be fine.   I had a nurse look at his foot, and we got him over to medical. 

I also had the pleasure of meeting Maffia.  I teased him about giving me a fake name, until he pulled out his old driver's license.   It was his last name, and we joked about a blond- haired man being Italian.   Maffia had been hit by a car while he was walking across the street and had a traumatic brain injury.  Any of you who know my family's story knows that my husband also suffered one from a car accident.  Maffia had held down a job for 15 years and had a house and wife and family.   He lost it all due to medical bills. His wife couldn't deal with the stress, divorced him, and moved to another state with their daughter to be closer to her family.  Maffia touched my heart greatly.  He had suffered from several strokes during his recovery and his left hand was drawn and he walked with a cane.   Just like my grandfather who had suffered a stroke did.     There but for the grace of God, go me and mine.

The one who still brings tears to my eyes and touched my heart the most I don't even know the name of.    I had just told Bill, my leader, that I was leaving for the day.  My husband was tired and ready to go.  I had already put him off twice and kept helping people, and I knew that he was getting irritated.

As I was literally turning to leave the area, a footwasher brought someone to me.   I wore a blue shirt, and that meant that if a volunteer had a problem, I was there to fix it.   She explained to me that the young Hispanic man who was with her needed work boots.   I explained we didn't have any work boots.  Only tennis shoes.   She said he had just gotten a new job and desperately needed work boots.   I explained again that we only had tennis shoes.   The man watched me intently throughout our exchange and I wondered if he spoke English.   He reached into this pocket and pulled out a bright, shiny new ID badge from a construction company.   He explained to me, in accented English, that he needed work boots for his job.   He had just gotten it last Monday, and they had given him a week to get work boots.   If he didn't have them by this Monday, he would be fired.   If he was fired, he wouldn't be able to stay at the place he had been staying.  He had to have boots, he said.    I explained that I understood, but we didn't have work boots.   He told me he had heard we did.   I told him I had been back there 9000 times today, and there were definitely no work boots.

 Then he showed me his shoes.  They were leather high-tops...light work boots, and they were in deplorable condition.  There were pieces missing from the side. A part of the heel was gone.  I could see why they weren't safe.   I pointed to my tennis shoes and told him we only had shoes like these.    He shook his head no, and repeated work boots.   I told him again, we only had tennis shoes.  He said that God told him there were work boots there for him.   Would I just go look?? I relented and looked.  High and low.   He wore a size ten.  We had five huge boxes of shoes for size 10.   I dug through them all.  NO work boots.   I asked my leader.   He said we didn't have any work boots, but that I might look in the donation pile.  You see, we only give away new shoes.  Not used.  Some people had donated used shoes though, and those shoes, while not given away at the event, are distributed later by another organization.

 I walked over to the box.  It was about three feet tall and full of shoes.  I dug and dug and dug.  On the very bottom was a single work boot.

My heart began to beat faster.  

I dug a bit more frantically.  

Could there really be another work boot in there?? Please, let there be, please... 

And there it was.

 With a pounding heart, I looked at the size.  Size 10.  The only pair of work boots in the 200,000 square feet of the convention center, and it was the perfect size. 

Of course, they were.  God had told him they would be. 

I almost ran back to him in my excitement.    As I showed them to him, and explained that they were used, not new, his eyes began to fill with tears.  Mine did too.  There shouldn't have been a pair of work boots there, but there were.   

They were there for him.  

If I had left earlier, he wouldn't have gotten them.   If he wouldn't have gotten them, he wouldn't have a job.   If he didn't have the job, he'd lose his spot at the mission.   I have no doubt that God has great things planned for that man.

Everything for a purpose, everything for a reason. 

  

There were so many others who I had the privilege of helping, but I'm crying too hard typing this.  I had to share this story while it was fresh and new.  I've had several people ask me  how can you go work there? How can you work with "those people?"  How can you volunteer? 

I ask, how can you not?   I got to see Jesus in those smiles.   The Bible says,  "What you do for the least of these, you do for me."  Not only did I get to see Him, I got to show people His love today. 

I got to be like Jesus.

Will I be back next year for 2012 Christmas Gift?  Just try and stop me.


*** If you're interested in volunteering you can check out their website for more information on ways to volunteer or ways to donate.  We always need jackets, kid-sized, toddler sized, adults.   We always need shoes and socks.   Money, of course, is always welcome.    We also would love to have you.  Check out the areas where you could help out, see if there is one that speaks to you.    This year the event is on December 15.  We would love to have your help!

Whatever Happened to Baby Irv....

One day, while sitting with The Kid at one of our favorite restaurants, we flipped over one of our dollars and this is what we saw.....

Not only do  the fate of tiny baby geckos keep me awake, but things like this make my imagination run wild.    

So many questions......

Who names their baby Irv?
Is it short for Irvin?
Was this dollar actually Michael Irvin's?
If it was Michael Irvin's, what did he spend it on?  Strippers?  Poker?  Cocaine?  Beer?
Whatever happened to Michael Irvin?
Who gives a baby a dollar and writes their name on it?
Does Baby Irv even know it's gone?
Did Baby Irv get so desperate for cash that he saw no option but to use his very first dollar?
If he did, what did he spend it on?

That's the one that really bothers me.

Did he take it to school one day  for show and tell and the school bully beat him up and took it and Baby Irv never saw his dollar again?

Did Baby Irv secretly bet on the ponies at the petting zoo and gambled away his milk money only to have to use his dollar to pay the third grade bookie or face a swirlie in the toilet?

Did he possibly  have to use it to pay for his Pixie Stick candy addiction or face an intervention on A&E with Candy Finnigan?

Did Baby Irv use it to tip that little floozy, Bambi,  in nursery school after she danced the Hokey Pokey just for him?

Did Baby Irv, thoughtlessly grab it accidentally from his piggy bank to buy a pickle at the bake sale, never realizing what he had grabbed... all in his thirst for that first vinegary sour bite?

Did he use it to pay off his library fine on his secret guilty pleasure book, Twilight, afraid his mother would make fun of him for his taste in sparkly vampires and tepid love triangles?

The more I think about it the crazy the scenarios get.    I hope that Baby Irv wasn't a grown up, who saved the dollar his whole life, and then literally when he was down to his last buck, used it to buy crack or cigarettes or a big, tall can of beer in a tiny brown paper sack.   That would break my heart for Baby Irv.

Anyone know what happened to Baby Irv?

Warning....This Post May Have TMI, But When Has That Ever Stopped Me?

Why is it that stomach viruses always strike at 2:30 in the morning?  

There I was sleeping like a baby, and suddenly I was awake, gagging.     Big Daddy was out of town, and I was out of commission.   After several hours of moaning and rushing to the toilet, the alarm went off and The Kid was up, getting ready for school.  Somebody had to take her to and from school 15 minutes away, so I threw on some clothes, made it there and made it home without having to pull over.  I celebrated that success with a trip to the bathroom and then a nap on the couch.  Aim high, people.   

The after-school trip, I wasn't so lucky.

The day had not been kind to me, and I had on pjs with no bra and no make-up.  I pulled my hair back in a messy bun, put on a baseball cap and my fashionista Olsen Twins/Paris Hilton owl-sized sunglasses, and set out.   My hope was that no one would recognize me.   I work there, after all, and my kid goes to school there.   I looked like hammered dog poop and felt even worse.    Kids can be cruel, and honestly, I didn't want to embarrass The Kid.

I got to school about 15 minutes early, because the line to get into the parking lot is ridiculously long and drivers are idiots.   I wanted to avoid all that, park where she could see me, and get home.

I was successful in finding a spot, rolled down the window, and  checked Facebook on my phone.   Suddenly, my stomach rolled.  Oh, crap.  I gagged and shoved the door open, reluctant to ruin the leather seats in the car.  

As I vomited in the parking lot, like some drunk teenager with my head hanging out the door,  I heard a honk.   I paused long enough in my retching, to look up.  There was a  man who looked like a cast member from  Honey Boo-Boo, in a huge truck, giving me the thumbs up.  I gagged again.  

"Woo-Hoo!" he shouted.  "Starting early.  Yeah!"

Seriously?   

There I am, a teacher at the school, puking in the parking lot out the side of my car, and a parent thinks I'm not sick, but puking drunk, driving my car to pick up the my kid?   And that it's okay?    And that it's something to celebrate?

Explains so much about my job. 

The Day Grandma Called Me a B****

My Grandma G and I at my college graduation, the day my brilliance
was confirmed.   Or maybe just my ability to take notes and regurgitate
information well.

Sometimes I get these obsessive/compulsive  urges.  I can't concentrate on other things.  I am consumed with thinking about whatever I'm obsessing about.  I feel like my life cannot move forward until  I GET THIS DONE NOW.  RIGHT NOW.

Recently, I had these thoughts about rearranging my living room.   I decided the other day that I need change in my life.  New windows for the house?   Different color pillows for the couch? Redo on the bathroom?   I decided the cheapest (FREE) change I could do was to rearrange the furniture.  

I live in a teeny-tiny 1000 square foot house.  Buying a lipstick means we have to rearrange the bedroom.  Buying furniture pieces or a picture typically requires getting rid of something else.  The problem with rearranging my living room was a china cabinet that was my grandmother's   There are only so many places a huge piece like that can go.   I thought of letting it go, but it was Grandma's.   I don't have much that was hers.  

Years ago, when my grandmother passed away from Alzheimer's, all her kids and grandkids, myself included, went through and picked out a memento or two of hers.  Grandma G had been a professional seamstress by trade and made beautiful wedding dresses and clothing out of  the business in her house.  We kids weren't allowed to go into her sewing room, but I remember always seeing that little tomato pin cushion with a thousand multicolored pins stabbed into it.   It reminded me of a tomato covered with ice cream sprinkles.  It represented Grandma to me, and when no one wanted a stupid pin cushion, I gladly brought it home.    

Grandma also had a hutch.  It was not something that I grew up looking at and associating with her.  It was something that she got after Granddaddy passed away, after I was older.  It wasn't expensive.  It's not incredibly stylish, but it was hers, and it was something that I could pass on to my daughter, someday, from her great-grandmother. No one wanted it, either, so I took it home. It now houses some milk glass from my grandmother and  some from both of Big Daddy's grandmas.  

Rearranging the room and moving that mammoth piece made me start thinking of Grandma G....

How she always seemed to have some sort of cake made....awesome lemon cake with thick lemony icing or a chocolate Texas sheet cake.   How she was the best cook ever, but how I hated the taste of her iced tea. How every morning she would always fix a cup of coffee with milk and sugar in a tea cup and saucer for her grey poodle, Spooky.  How she used Sweet N Low in tea, but wanted sugar in her coffee.   How she had the meanest Siamese cat I have ever met.   How she and Granddaddy used to always watch MASH and Grandpa would hum along with the theme song.   How she would let me eat ice cream for dinner when I spent the week with her.   The funny way she said "outside" and "furniture."  How, at my baby shower, the last time I ever saw or spoke to her, she called me a bitch.

Yeah.  That's right.   My sweet, little grandmother cussed me out at my own baby shower.  

In her defense, it wasn't her fault.  She was easily confused by that point, and there were lots of people there, so she was anxious.

There I was, bigger than the Hindenburg, swollen, unrecognizable, sipping on some sherbet punch and munching on a plate of cookies and those tiny tortilla roll up slicey things that people only make for showers.     Up walked my grandmother, drinking some punch.    She rubbed my belly, and said, "Pretty big party, huh?"

"Yep.  Lots of people showed up,"  I said, smiling.

"You know, I don't even know the girl the party is for," Grandma said, with a shake of her head, "but I hear she's a real bitch.  I can't wait to leave."

Then she drained her punch and walked away.   It was the last words she would ever speak to me.

I know it wasn't her saying those words.  I know it was the sickness.

At least, I hope so.  

Then again, maybe she was just saying what everyone was thinking.

Speed Freak and Frozen Part Deux

One of the ladies I work with just started reading my blog.   She left this on my
keyboard for me this morning.   Geckos....they're everywhere.

I’ve been a bit surprised by how popular the "Sweet Baby Jessica in the Well" post has been.    It’s one of the most clicked on posts on the blog.   Either you all thought I was utterly ridiculous about the geckos and told your friends, or you loved the thought of those sweet tiny Baby Geckos as much as I did.  Whichever it was, here’s a  quick update on the Gecko twins and my house, which I like to call Gecko Hot Zone, or GHZ for short.

Big Daddy updated everyone about what happened after I clicked publish the other day by leaving a huge, mondo long comment on the post.  

If you didn’t see it, I’ll give you a quick run down from then to last night.

When I came home from work after worrying all day about the tiny baby Gecko Twins being eaten by the alligators in the sewer or drowning should someone take a shower, I found out Big Daddy had actually had the nerve to wash his stinky body while I was at work. 

How dare he? 

He couldn’t sacrifice not smelling like Axe Body Wash for one more day so those babies would have a chance to climb up the comb Gecko Ladder to Freedom?    Oh the humanity…. or lizardanity.   It’s like the Hindenburg, except with lizards instead of  people and water instead of fire and just two geckos instead of the dozens who lost their lives.  

Okay. 

It’s nothing like the Hidenburg.   But I just kept thinking about Nemo at the Dentist’s office rushing down that pipe screaming as though he  was riding the Log Ride at Six Flags.  The Gecko Twins never had a chance.    *sigh*

After all the drama and heartache of worrying about Frozen and Speed Freak, I just couldn’t cook dinner that day.  Big Daddy charitably decided to take the family out to the local Chinese buffet.  Nothing tastes better than cat when you’re sad.   

Seriously.  That’s what my fortune cookie said, and I believe it.   ;)

When we came home from contributing to the statistics of nation-wide obesity, I looked in the bathtub, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature gecko running hot laps around the tub.  

Speed Freak?  Very possibly.

A heretofore unknown triplet?   Oh,  Heavens, I hope not.  

I started screaming for The Kid to corral PsychoticKitty, and then get her dad.  Meanwhile, I threw a washcloth over the drain and tried to head Possible Speed Freak off at the pass.    He was determined to go down the drain though, and I was making crazy, “Oh, Oh, Oh,” noises and maneuvering around the tub trying to keep him away from the Drain of Death and Drowning.   I probably looked like I was having some sort of seizure.    

I’m sure it was a YouTube worthy moment.

Big Daddy arrived from his secret after-dinner smoke and rescued Possible Speed Freak  (Yes, he started back smoking, the Dirty Dog.  Yes, I’m giving him hell about it every chance I get.   No, it’s not a secret;  I totally know and had busted him about it the night before when he came sneaking into bed, smelling like a Waffle House at 3:30 in the morning, after he had a  “secret” smoke.   He smelled strongly enough of ashtray that he woke me up with it, and I fronted him out then.  Wisely, he kept his mouth shut and pretended to  be asleep.   The next morning he pretended like I had  dreamed the whole thing.  Yeah, right.  Busted again, Big Daddy. )  

We released Possible Speed Freak out into the wild where hopefully the neighborhood cats let him be and he was free to grow up and be fruitful and multiply and eat all the blasted spiders and West Nile-filled mosquitoes his little baby gecko belly can hold, bless his tiny baby gecko heart.

Geckos 1  Bathtub Drain 1 or 2.   Not quite sure on that one, but I like to err on the side of Hope.

Last night, however, the saga continued.

The Kid had just gone to bed. In the hallway lay piles of laundry sorted and ready to be washed.  Big Daddy and I were snuggled up on the couch watching some recorded Big Brother.  (Go Ian, you loveable kook!)

We were about 45 minutes in, and here comes The Kid with her hands clasped together.   She had been awakened by the growl of PsychoticKitty on the hunt and his pouncing through the laundry.  

Upon investigation, she found a tiny baby gecko, frozen in fear and missing a tail. The tail had dropped off in stress and PsychoticKitty was quite happily chasing  it.   The gecko, still frozen in place, wouldn’t move, and she was able to scoop him up  successfully.

Could it really be Frozen?  He did seem rather similar. Of course, all tiny baby geckos look the same, but he did stay frozen in place with that deer-in-the-headlight look.  Did Frozen somehow find his way out of the slick, sheer sides of the tub with his super-sticky, super-powered tiny baby gecko wonder toes and  then wander into the vast wasteland of dirty laundry?    

I hope so. I truly, truly hope so.

Geckos 2.  Bathtub Drain 0.

Maybe.

Lukewarm or Almost Cool: A Follow-up to Motorcycles at Midnight

Several months ago, I told you all about how cool Big Daddy is and how ordinary and "teacher cool"  I am.   You might want to read this, if you haven't, so that this post makes sense.

Well, after 18 years, apparently he's finally rubbing off on me.  According to my recent batch of kiddos, I am now "cool."  

You see, Big Daddy is a gearhead.   He loves nothing better than talking about obscure makes and models and how the headlights on this one make it a certain year and the trim model on that one makes it something else.     He loves the feel of grease under his nails and the smell of gasoline as an aftershave.  

Apparently the group of kids I have this year are aspiring gearheads as well, because several of them have made the car show circuits with their parents and have met my husband.

Today, in the middle of class, one of my kiddos started a rather convoluted story about how he had met my hubby at a car show, but didn't realize it was him.

"He has the coolest shoes!  They look like Rat Fink's feet." 

(For those of you unlucky enough to not know who Rat fink is... here ya go..)

"You *let* your husband wear shoes with Rat Fink's feet on them?"  one boy said in wonder.   "My mom would NEVER allow that."

"A friend of ours painted them for him,"  I confessed.  "I think they're his favorite pair of shoes."

"She lets him go to car shows too,"   stated another student.  "I've seen him at a lot of them." 

"No way!!!"  one kiddo said in surprise.  "My dad never gets to go to those!  Mom won't let my dad."

"Her husband has THE coolest truck,"  added one little boy who's in the know.  "It's old and lowered and rusty and awesome."

"You're a lot cooler than my mom,"  said one student sadly, shaking his head.

Thank you, thank you, very much.

Because I LET my husband go to car shows, (like I could keep him from it), since he gets to pick out his own clothes (not *always* the best choice), and since he bought a hunk of metal that desperately needs a paint job and an overhaul, I'm suddenly cool to my seventh graders.  

Yay me.

This group also is fascinated with my ear piercing.  One of my students the other day was shocked the first time he saw it.

"Is that real?"  he questioned.

"Yep."  I said.

"Is it magnets?" wondered another aloud.

"Are you kidding me right now?"  I asked.  "Who wears magnets and pretends they're earrings?"

"My mom does,"  one said.

OOPS.

"So you let someone pierce your ear three times? That's so cool.  I've never seen a piercing in that part of the ear before."

"I think I want to marry a girl who has that.  She would have to be cool and she could take pain, so you know she could have kids.  She'd be a good mom."

Ummmmm...okay.

The tattoos on my feet are another source of amazement.   

"You have tattoos?" one girl stated, slightly in awe.  "On both feet?"

"Yes," I said with a smile.

"Did they hurt?" another student asked.

"Someone was piercing my skin with a needle, multiple times, and injecting ink into it, of course, it hurt.   Anyone who tells you tattoos don't hurt at all is lying or has forgotten,"  I told them honestly, hoping to convince them to never get one until they are old enough and wise enough to choose a design that they will love forever.

"Those are cool tattoos.  You're not at all a douchebag like my mom says people are who get tattoos," said a kiddo, smiling up at me.  "You actually seem pretty cool."

Thanks unknown mom, for creating preconceived notions about people and helping your child be prejudiced about someone, just for having a couple of tattoos. And for teaching a kid the word douchebag.  Nice.    

Yes, my body is a temple, and I chose to get stained glass.  No cathedral is perfect without it, and apparently they, and my husband by association, make me cool this year. 

Go me.    I've always wanted to seem cool to seventh graders. 

My life is now complete.

Walmart Greeter Kind of a Day

I've been teaching for 16 years, and I've taught every grade from 6th grade to seniors.    Since the time I was little, this was my chosen profession.  Lining up all my stuffed animals and "teaching" them is one of my earliest memories.  As is beating them with a ruler when they misbehaved.

This is what I've always wanted to do.   The teaching part.  Not the beating part.

Except on days when it's not what I want to do anymore.    Those are the days when I want to be a dental assistant, so I can "accidentally"  stab someone with that little pick-like needle thing when I'm scraping their teeth, and say, "Oops! I'm sorry.  Little bit of plaque there.  You should floss more."  

There are also the days when I wish I could be a greeter at Walmart.  


Really?  How stressful could that be?
"Hello, Welcome to Wal-mart.  What can I do for you?"
"Oops, let me put a sticker on that for you."
"The bathroom is that way."

I could *so* do that job.  

Sometimes, I want to get out of education when there's just too much on my plate.... meetings, expectations, politics, parents, misbehaving kids.  Notice none of it has to do with the actual TEACHING of students.  Sometimes it's when I get the distinct impression that I'm not making an impression on my kiddos.    Other times, it's just when I feel like I am never going to make a difference and should give up, that the educational "machine" is too big, and doesn't know what's best for my kids, but won't let me do what I do best, teach.  

Then there are days like this.... I've seen these kind of entries in magazines, and my kids will give a zinger now and then, but in all my years of teaching I've never had this many in one day.

The assignment was to read a biography and create a posterboard which highlighted that person's life and major achievements.   A five minute presentation would be given to the class.   These are actual written and spoken words from my kiddos' presentations.

• "Michael Jordan is a dude who's just  famous for making shoes."
• "Elvis Presley was in like 30 movies on DVD."
• "Harry Houdini was a guy who liked locks."
• "The only reason Fredrick Douglas is famous is his mom was raped.  There isn't much else written about him."
• "Susan Boyle is like, really old.  She's 40 or 50 or something, but she's not dead yet."
• "Brian Bosworth was just famous for his hair.  That's it."

  

  Shame on you, Johnny Appleseed.  

• "Lance Armstrong likes to ride bikes."                        

  and my all time personal favorite.....


"Johnny Appleseed can be summed up like this...He was a guy who walked around almost naked with a pot on his head and sprinkled his seed all over the country."

Sweet Baby Jessica in the Well***

Sweet Baby Jessica in the well, we have a situation.   (Not to be confused with Baby Jessica and the Whale, as my husband heard me say.... you do know the Bible story about the little girl falling into the whale don’t you?)                                                                                                                                                             

So last night, I went skipping into the bathroom to take a shower before bed.  What??? You don’t move around your life like a Disney Princess?  

One of the tiny baby Gecko Twins.  This one
is Frozen.  Not in the freezer!!!
Read the stinkin' story, people!
And by the way, my bathtub is not
actually yellow.  It's just crazy iPhone
lighting.

There, looking up at me in the shower, were two of these.

Tiny baby geckos twins.  As soon as one of them saw me,  he ran to the back of the bathtub.  The other sat frozen in fear.   Speed FreakGecko continued making hot laps around the bathtub like he thought he was at Daytona.  I stood staring at the pair of them, trying to figure out what to do.   I didn’t want to touch them, because when stressed they have a tendency to drop their tails,and  who wants that on their conscience as they fall asleep?   

Unlike many people, I don’t harbor any ill will or bad feelings toward the tiny lizards.  They eat spiders, for goodness sake.  Anything that would willingly chomp THOSE things downs has to be good in my book.  

As I watched, Speed Freak rushed down the bathtub drain,  seeking an escape hatch.  
What. The. Heck.

I quickly unscrewed the little drain stopper in the bottom, and all I could see was a tail as he rushed deeper into the drain.  

Geckos 0.  Bathtub Drain 1.

This spurred me into action.   There was no way I could take a bath now.   I couldn’t risk drowning  stupid Speed Freak.  Frozen Gecko stayed true to form, staying right where he was.

I looked closer at him.   He didn’t look to be breathing.  Had the cat gotten him and killed him?  I took a washcloth and moved it toward Frozen.   Whoosh.  

I could see his family resemblance to Speed Freak now,  as he, too rushed down the drain.

Are you stinkin’ kidding me?

I may never be able to bathe again.

Geckos 0.  Bathtub  Drain 2.

I went to Big Daddy and explained the situation, distraught.  There’s no way I can take a shower with two living creatures in the drain.   If they had been spiders, roaches, centipedes, or a myriad of other disgusting creepy crawlies, I would have felt bad for the 30 seconds it takes to lather my hair, and never thought of them again.   The tiny baby  Gecko Twins, though?   I just couldn’t do it.

Big Daddy said he didn’t think they could get out of the bathtub, that it was too slick.  I heard drain, not bathtub, so I tried to figure out a way they could pull themselves out of their own personal well. (See what I did there?)

I put a bendy straw down the drain so they could pull themselves up and out, hopefully silently, so that Psychotikitty didn’t eat them.

I took a “bath” in the sink last night and went to bed positive that by morning they would have magically rescued themselves.

Alas, that was not the case.

This morning when I got up to shower, my plan was simple.  If I saw no geckos, that meant that they had all made the dash to freedom, and life was good.  When  I moved the cover for the drain and pulled out the straw though, much to my chagrin, one of the Gecko Twins was hanging from the straw. At the slightest bit of movement, he let go and dropped back down, rushing out of sight.

 It must have been Speed Freak.

I fretted and I fussed.  Maybe the straw was too slick and he couldn’t figure out how to get all the way out on his own.  Had the other twin escaped?   What was going to happen to them?  Would I ever be able to shower again? 

I devised a new plan.  I attached the bendy straw to a comb.  That way they can use the bendy part of the straw and pull themselves up the comb ladder of freedom.

My super technical Gecko Twin Ladder
of Freedom *patent pending
I would have used a Barbie ladder,
 but The Kid hates Barbie.

Go tiny baby Gecko Twins! Go! Go!

Really. Go.  I want you to go so I can shower. 

My friends want you to go so I can shower.  

Anyone have a free bathroom I can use?

*** For those of you who don't remember, Baby Jessica was a tiny baby who fell down a well.  In her backyard.  It was sad.  She was rescued.  The end.

UPDATE..... I am heartbroken.  I just came home from work and discovered that my husband had dared to shower while I was gone.  He assures me they all escaped and are back home happily with Momma Gecko, snuggled up drinking milk and eating spider cookies.