Jump Around

I almost scared my mother-in-law to death.  

Seriously.

You see, I have several happy songs.   A happy song is a song that I know, no matter what is going on, if I hear it, I’m going to smile.    These aren’t necessarily my favorite songs, just songs that make my heart happy and my face light up.  They’re not highbrow, inspirational, or really all that awesome.  They just make me smile… and don’t we all need that, sometimes?

For example, I love Cher’s “Believe.”  Why?  I don’t know.  Yes, she’s over the top.  Yes, my students always think she’s a man when they first hear this song. Yes, she’s older than the hills, but  I’ve always loved it.   Loved it so much than when I heard it on a ferry in the middle of Cozumel, I was forced to bust out  and sing along with the chorus and do some of my patented, slick impromptu dance moves.     I was amazing enough that there was a smattering of applause and a few less frowns for us making the whole boat late.  Can’t beat that.  

I also love the song “Popular” from the play WICKED.    It's the song Glinda the Good Witch sings to the woman who will later become the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz.   You have not lived until you have heard that song sung by a classroom full of seventh grade boys who know every word.  I also love when I’m walking down the hallway in between classes, and I hear someone belt out the chorus, “La…la…la… la.. We’re gonna make you pop-u-lar”  and several other kids join in.  It’s like my own little personal episode of Glee.   Definitely brings a smile to the face.

Seriously, click on the link.   Just imagine all those adolescent boys singing at the top of their lungs, “ I’ll teach you the proper poise when you talk to boys, little ways to flirt and flounce.  Oh! I’ll show you what shoes to wear, how to fix your hair. Everything that really counts to be popular.”  Cracks me up.   Who would guess that seventh grade kids love showtunes?

My absolute favorite happy song of all time, though,  is “Jump Around” by House of Pain.   Whenever I hear that the horn at the beginning right before the crazy scream begins, my face just splits into a smile. Once the beat starts up, I just can’t keep from looking like a bobblehead and moving to the beat. Good times are sure to follow.

One day it all got me in trouble.

I was at home by myself.  No hubby.  No kid.  No pets.  Just me and the radio.

Oh.  Yeah.  

I decided I was going to make homemade pizza for the family. I found a digital station on cable that played all 90s music and set to work.  I was in the middle of stirring an absolute fantastic pizza sauce, when I heard that first note.  I ran to the tv, cranked it up loud enough that we might need to buy new speakers, and went back to the kitchen to dance cook.  

Now I know all the words, but my favorite part of the song is that scream.   Suddenly, I overtaken by the compulsion to dance, so I closed my eyes and screamed along, moving to the music.  I was having a blast.

I don't know how long I was in my happy place, but I suddenly felt a presence.    I spun around and opened my eyes.   There stood my mother-in-law with a hand to her heart, her mouth agape, face pale, and eyes wide.   She looked like she had just seen an epileptic monkey screeching its lungs out as it flew through the jungle canopy.

She kinda did. 

APPARENTLY, she had come by to see us.   She heard loud music when she pulled up and thought it odd, since we are usually such sedate, boring people.   As she walked up the sidewalk, she began to hear screams.  Her heart began to race as all kinds of crazy scenarios involving blood, murder, weapons, and mayhem ran through her mind.   She rang the doorbell several times, but got no answer and really began to worry, so she used her key.  Once inside, she heard a commotion  in the kitchen and followed the noise.   She said that when she got to the kitchen, she was afraid to touch me because I was dancing so wildly.

I was so embarrassed as I asked her what she needed, but she couldn't remember.  My awesome voice and amazing dance floor presence had wiped her mind clean.

 I often have that effect on people.  

She said her chest felt a little tight, so she sat in a chair while she worked to get her blood pressure back under control.   After several minutes she felt steady enough to drive, and she just got up and walked out.

We've never spoken of that day. I wonder sometimes what I must have looked like to her.   If you want to know the truth, I think she didn't touch me because she was worried that she might draw back a nub.

 I am a beast on the dance floor you know.

Can't Touch This

I hate being scared.   I love the thought of it, though.

Scary movies?  Sign me up!  That is…until I watched the last late night showing of “Silence of the Lambs”  and had to go to the bathroom all by myself in the seemingly deserted theater.   I kept waiting for Anthony Hopkins to kick in the stall door and kill me midstream.  Or the time we rented “Paranormal Activity,” and I stayed up all night sure something was about to drag me from my bed and into the depths of hell.  

It’s gotten so bad that my husband has forbidden me to watch any of the ghost-hunting shows on TV, otherwise I’ll be jumping every time the fridge kicks on or the beams of the house creak.  If I wasn’t such a ‘fraidy cat, I would chafe at being “forbidden” to do something by my husband.  I have free will, dang it.   You can’t tell me what to do, dang it. I am woman; hear me roar.   But dang it…..he’s right.  All I have to do to acknowledge that fact is think back to the first time I ever went to a haunted house.

My poor psyche still bears the scars.

It started out innocently enough. It was Halloween, and a group of people from work were going to some super mega-awesome haunted house.  Because I am a joy to be around, or maybe because I worked with them, they asked me along.  Apparently at this particular haunted house, they rearranged the entire thing every week, so every weekend it seemed like a new haunted house.  In this way, they could take your twenty-five bucks several times over the Halloween “season” and you would still be scared witless every time.  (See what I did there?  Witless??  Scared witless?  Hehehe Love me some word play.)

One of the guys had apparently gone the weekend before and said it was amazing.    I declined the invitation with a “Are you stinking’ kidding me?  I’ll never sleep again.”     My coworkers apparently didn’t understand that my response meant "no" and kept hounding me.

Then one of them said something very intriguing.  “Kristi,” he said.  “You are a weenie.”  

Okay, that wasn’t the intriguing part.   The intriguing part was he also told me that no matter how scared I was, I just needed to remember that they couldn’t touch me.

Man with a chainsaw?  That’s okay.  He can’t touch me.
Rabid werewolf?  Can’t touch this.
Maniac clown?  I cannot touch you.  You cannot touch me.   

So, in a moment of weakness, I relented.  They couldn’t touch me.   How scary could they truly be?

The night came, and everyone was excited.    I remember waiting in line, anxiously.  I still wasn’t sold on the idea of paying all this money to have someone covered in fake blood chase me around with a chainsaw….that’s what nightmares are made of…. but I was determined to have fun with my friends.

I positioned myself firmly in the center of the pack as we entered into a foggy, dimly lit room just in time to hear the shrieks of the previous group.  I didn’t want to be the first one in, since I reasoned the first person would get scared the most.  I didn’t want to be the last one in either. They would be easy prey to be separated from the group.

One of the people in our group was a volunteer firefighter, so he had us following along the wall on the right.  We made our way through room after room, as people in masks and costumes caused us to jump and scream.   I was still not loving it, but it was tolerable. 

Suddenly, we were out of the house and in a large foggy courtyard.   My group slowly separated into little clumps of people as we tried to make it past obstacles to get to the other side.   Off to one side, I heard a chainsaw start up.    I stood frozen in fear as the rest of my group ran across in a frenzy.  I was easy pickings, and the masked man knew it immediately.  He ran towards me with a savage growl.   I looked to the left to run and saw a maniac covered in bloody overalls running towards me with a pitchfork, screaming.  I looked to my right, and there was a wall.

I was trapped.  

Behind the Chainsaw Murderer, I saw my friends. “Run Kristi!” they screamed.

“Hurry!”  

“Come on, Kristi!”

“Kristi!”

And the Chainsaw Murderer heard my name. Pitchfork Larry the Crazy Farmhand heard my name.   And they began to whisper it as they closed in around me.  

“Kristi.” 

My knees failed me, and I fell to the ground.    I curled up in a ball, knees to my chest, head down in a demented yoga pose.   I began to rock.  I also began to whisper, “I cannot touch you. You cannot touch me.  I cannot touch you. You cannot touch me. I cannot touch you….”

Nearer they came, and nearer,  whispering my name.  Faster and faster, I rocked.   Louder and louder,  I spoke.   “I cannot touch you.  You cannot touch me.  I cannot touch you.  You cannot touch me.”    They were going to kill me. I knew it. 

Finally, they were upon me.  The chainsaw revved.   The pitchfork struck the ground.   One of them grunted.  They continue to whisper my name. I began to cry and kept chanting,  "I cannot touch you... You cannot touch me."

Then it happened.  Pitchfork Larry the Crazy Farmhand touched me.   And I exploded. 

I jerked back from his hand and screamed into his bloodied, surprised face.  “I CANNOT TOUCH YOU. YOU CANNOT TOUCH ME.”   In retrospect, the tears streaming down my face, and the fact that I was nearly wetting my pants, probably diffused part of the defiance from that statement.   That and the fact that I was rocking like a demented weeble.  

I buried my head again and continued whispering, sure they were about to kill me. "I cannot touch you. You cannot touch me."  Somehow, I had forgotten this wasn’t reality and that I had paid to be scared into a blubbering mental patient. 

Chainsaw Murderer, realizing that I was quickly losing my grip on my sanity, said in his normal voice, “Hey Kristi, really, go over to your friends. It’s okay.”

I figured it was a ruse and rocked faster. They just wanted me to run, so they could kill me. “I cannot touch you. You cannot touch me.”

“Wow. Seriously, go over there. Geez." And he grabbed  Pitchfork Larry the Crazy Farmhand, and they backed away.

 Backed. Away.

Like you do from a rabid wolf.  Or a hungry bear.  Or a crazed lady rocking and whispering to herself in a haunted house.

I stayed on the ground, unsure of what to do, until several friends ran over to get me.  My friends' faces were shocked.   They handled me with kid gloves, like they didn't know what to do with me.  

The rest of the haunted house was relatively tame.  I guess when you’ve had a mental breakdown as someone is standing over you about to murder you with a pitchfork, watching someone pop out of a coffin is child’s play.  The only thing that really bothered me was that word had apparently spread about my little “episode”.   As we walked down empty corridors or through haunted rooms, the workers left me alone, but they kept whispering my name, “Kristi……. Kristi…..”

I dream about that night.   And if I’ve watched a scary movie, late, late at night…. I can still hear them calling for me, “Kristi…..”

Poop Dog Lady

I love dogs.

I really do.  We have had our current dog for about 5 years.   Edie is wonderful (minus the whole getting up a gazillion times a night... check THIS out for THAT story).   She's loyal and loving and a heck of a lot of fun.   

Now having a pet means that there are certain responsibilities a pet owner has.  Food, water, exercise, vet visits, picking up poop.  All part of the deal when you have a pet.  

Unless you are my neighbor.  

There's a woman in my neighborhood who lives on another street.   She has the cutest little mophead looking  constantly pooping yapping demon dog you have ever seen.    The woman, who henceforth shall be affectionately known as  Poop Dog Lady, is religious about walking her dog.   Rain or shine.  Drought or flash-flood.  There she was walking that animal.   And there she was, letting it poop in my front yard.

EVERY.  SINGLE.  TIME. 

At first, we thought it was an accident.   Maybe she forgot her handy-dandy dog pooper scooper.  Maybe she had already picked up all the poop she could, and she didn't have a free hand.   Maybe she was blind in her peripheral vision and couldn't see below her chin.  We didn't know, so we gave her the benefit of the doubt.   Because we are good people.  Nice people.   People who had a clean yard but didn't want to raise a fuss.  Yet. 

Then it happened again, and she did nothing.  Zero. Zip. Nada.  She just kept talking on her Bluetooth and walked away with nary a look over her shoulder and definitely with no poop swinging in a baggie on her wrist.   

Oh no, she didn't.

I got upset.   I wanted to chase after her and hand her the poop.  I could just envision it in my head.   "Excuse me, Poop Dog Lady... I'm sorry to bother you, but here is your CRAP.  Don't let it happen again.  I don't let my own dog poop in my front yard, why should yours get to?"   or  "Poop Dog Lady, here  is a lovely package for you.  Why yes, it is a lovely bag....  It's  also full of the poop you so carefully ignored. Enjoy!"  

But it was not to be.  My dear, sweet husband said it was probably just an oversight.  She didn't mean to leave it there, he said.  Give her the benefit of the doubt, he said.   So I did again.   And again.  And again.

Every time she walked that dog, it would walk past all the neighbors' houses and stop to poop in my yard, and she always let it, yapping away on her phone, ignoring the steaming pile her dog was depositing.  I ignored until I couldn't ignore anymore.   

One beautiful spring day, the front windows were open.  A nice breeze rustled the curtains, and I heard the faint sounds of someone talking in my yard.  I looked out the window, curious.   And there she was.  Poop Dog Lady.  Caught in the act. 

Our boxer apparently caught the scent of her dog and began to growl.   Edie has a low, mean scary growl.   She doesn't bust out with it often, but when she does, watch out.... and apparently, she decided that day was the day.  Edie ran to the window and began to growl.    Then she let forth the most vicious string of barks ever.  Poop Dog jumped mid-push.   Poop Dog Lady jumped, afraid my dog was coming through the screen.  I cackled.   

Then I began to egg it on.   Now, I am not proud of that moment.  It was not one of my finer ones.  "Get her," I commanded.   Our boxer went nuts.   Poop Dog Lady yanked on Poop Dog's leash, and they took off at a run.   Over the sound of the barking, I shouted through the window, "That's what you get for letting your dog poop in my yard!"  

Mature, I know.  I already said it wasn't my finest moment.   GEEZ.

Poop Dog Lady altered her afternoon walks for a while after that.   Angels sang.   Unicorns flew.  Glitter burst forth when it rained.   It was a good time at the Casa de no Poop.  Until she came back.

I was much more .. .mature... in Round Two.  I told her pleasantly, but firmly, not to let her dog poop in my yard and if she did, please pick it up.   I didn't cuss. I didn't threaten.  I was mature.  And boring.   

Never fear, though.  Our story isn't over yet. 

A year went by, and we saw her infrequently on our side of the street.    When we did, she still didn't have bags.  She still let her dog poop. At least it wasn't my yard, I thought.  Until it was.  Again.

My husband spoke to her that time, but nothing changed.  We were not happy, and resigned ourselves to picking up someone else's  poop.   I threatened to pick it all up, put it in a bag, and drop it on her front porch.

Again, my sweet, level-headed husband reigned supreme.  It wasn't nice for me to do that, he said.  It wasn't mature for me to do that, he said.  It wasn't Christian for me to do that, he said.  Stupid husbands.

One day, though, he wasn't with me at the grocery store.  I was just walking in, and there was some woman walking out with a bag boy pushing her cart full of groceries.  I passed her by without a thought, focused on my grocery list.    I heard someone say, "Hey."  Then I felt a tug at my sleeve.  Imagine how excited I was when I turned to find Poop Dog Lady.   

"I think I know you.  Do I know you?"  she aked.

Which led to my other not so fine moment.   

"You know, you should.  You've been  letting your dog crap in my yard every time you've walked by for years, and you never pick it up. So yeah, you should know me."

The bag boy giggled.  Poop Dog Lady's mouth fell open in a gasp.  Her eyes widened in recognition.  Her hand flew to her mouth.  She turned on her heel and walked off in a huff, looking once over her shoulder with a frown. The bag boy glanced over his shoulder, gave me a thumbs up, and mouthed the word, "Burn."

Not so nice, I know, but I got my point across.  It's been two years.   Poop Dog Lady never lets her dog poop in my yard anymore.  In fact, I don't even see her on my street.  Mission accomplished.  

Weebles Wobble But They Won't Fall Down

I would love to be a size 2.   Actually, I would love to be a size 6.   Heck, I'd settle for an 8, truth be told.   I am slowly coming to the realization though that I love food too much and am too busy lazy to really ever be a size 2 or 6.   Eight might happen. Someday.

In the meantime, I go with the motto, "This much personality won't fit into a tiny body."  Then I console myself with foot-long cheese coneys, cheese fries, and Dr. Pepper. 

At different periods in my life, I have decided to get healthy, drink more water, exercise, and die anyway eat right.   During one of those times, I got involved in kickboxing.  I LOVED it.  I liked everything about it... the loud thumping music, the crazy hard muscles I got in my body, the permission to hit things, the way I could visualize anyone's face I wanted to on the bag and beat the tar out of it.  *sigh*

Let me say it again, I loved it.

Now, I have a friend who I call Barbie. That's not her name and I would never call it to her face, but that's who she looks like.  She's tall and thin with long blonde hair and big fake boobs.  Her hubby looks a little like Ken; she has a son and a daughter;  and they even live in a house resembling the Dream House.  How can you NOT call her Barbie?  

Well, one day, Barbie decided to join my kickboxing class.  I was so pissed thrilled. Everyone wants someone with the seemingly perfect body working out beside them in an exercise class, so every roll  you have is shown in stark contrast to their trim, lithe, beautifully tan body.   Thankfully, Barbie wasn't enamored with the kickboxing class and left after a couple of months.   She told me she had found something better.    Yoga.

Now, I am all about stress-free living, stretching, and Yanni music, but when she asked me to join, I nearly choked.   She explained that at the "studio" (really, a studio?   I thought you made records in a studio or dancers danced in a studio or artists paint in a studio or Jay Leno filmed "The Tonight Show" in a studio, but anorexic people in unitards stretching to elevator music?  A studio?  Really???) she was attending, you could take one class, fill out a survey, and then sign up for the class at a reduced rate.    She begged and pleaded for me to go.   I tried everything I could to get out of it.   I'm all about hitting things and rock music and sweating.   I don't do Spandex and downward facing dog.  Because she is my friend, because I am willing to try new things when hounded enough, I finally relented.   

What a mistake.

I should have known when I walked into the "studio" this would never work.  First there was the smell of incense before I even opened the door.    Sweet, strong, cloying, and oh so 60s.    Upon entering the "studio,"  I noticed the floor was painted deepest dark purple with the strangest gold swirls painted all over it.   The walls and ceilings were black.  I  felt more relaxed already.

In the far corner was a huge water feature, going full blast, and I realized I needed to pee.    The room was lit by rope lights around the top of the ceiling, candles, and a floor lamp.   There were satin pillows in dark jewel-tone colors in another corner.  I kept looking for Ali Babba and his forty thieves to come in behind me.   Chimey Native American-type music was playing over the stereo.   Yeah, this was gonna be right up my alley.

I found Barbie and proceeded to lay my towel down beside her yoga mat.    I looked around at the other three people in the "studio."  There was a man probably in his 80s who had to have weighed 115 lbs soaking wet and holding a 6 year old.    He had on a white unitard.   When I walked in, he was in a back bend and walking his upper body towards his lower body.   Then he lifted one leg and slowly pointed his toe towards the ceiling.  Obviously, it was his first class.

One of the other women in the class was German.  She, too, was nothing but sinew and bones, clad in a black unitard.  She was about 70.  When I arrived, she was on the floor, lying on her stomach.  Her body curled back on itself, the back of her head was  almost touching her butt and the tips of her toes nearing her forehead.   I so can do that too, so I wasn't that impressed.

The final participant, besides Barbie and me, was a young mom.  She was closest to me in size and weight.   Normal to "healthy."  She sat cross-legged on her yoga mat, looking peaceful. I liked her already.

The leader came bouncing in.  She was an Earth Mother type.  Short, curly hair. Black unitard, and a long flowing crinkle skirt.   She came into the room clapping her hands and waving sage.   To get rid of bad chi, she said.  I knew this was going to be fun.

The class began.  We started slow, because of me, and it obviously disgruntled the older set because they kept frowning over at me.     We went into a few poses and I thought I was doing okay.   Apparently not, because my form was constantly being readjusted.   After the 87 millionth readjustment, Earth Mother decided we would try something else.  She had us all sit on the ground with knees to our chest.  Easy so far.   Then she had us put our weight on the back of our butts, balancing there with our feet off the ground. (I'm sure she had a more yoga-ish  name for it.)   Then, we were supposed to rock.

Dude, I totally rocked this pose. Seriously.  Barbie couldn't get it.  She kept slamming forward. Old Guy couldn't get it.  German Lady kept trying and would hold for a second and then drop it.   Young Mom almost had me, but she couldn't get it for more than 5 or 10 seconds.   I could have sat that way the rest of the class.  Earth Mother noticed my yoga prowess and came over clapping her hands and jumping up and down, extolling the wonders of my "form."

"Look at her!   Look!  Her form is perfect!   Look at her legs!  Look at her back!  Perfection!"  Then she made everyone in the class come over to look while I stayed in position, rocking slightly.

Old Guy was not loving me at that moment.

Earth Mom asked me how I had learned to do this pose so quickly.   Now, I have a big booty.  Always have, always will.   I also have a quick wit and don't always think before I speak, so I said, "Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down!"

Now in case, you don't remember a weeble from the 70s, here's what it looks like. 

I loved them because they never fell over.  Never.  They could rock all day and not fall over.  See where I'm going with this?

There was this sudden collective gasp from the room.  Earth Mom frowned at me severely and  chastised me for bringing negative energy into our "positive space."  She said that  I had "upset the chi of the room."   German Lady had her hand to her mouth, aghast.   Old Guy lowered his eyebrows at me.   Barbie looked away embarrassed.  New Mom gave me a shy smile.  Ummm.. okay.  Did I just club a baby seal that only they could see?  Had a crimson A sprouted on my tshirt?    Seriously?   Make a joke and get burned at the stake?  Geez......

Upon Earth Mother's proclamation, everyone went back to their spots and a  new position was quickly chosen.  Every now and then Earth Mom or German Lady would give me the evil eye.  The magic for me was gone.

After class when I went to fill out my survey, Earth Mom took me to the side and said she felt it would be best if I didn't sign up for the class.  I was too disruptive and my negativity would taint the group.     Me?? Negative???  Never.  Sarcastic?  Maybe. Self-deprecating?  Always.  Negative?   Okay, sometimes, but I didn't think I was then. I was trying to be funny, and a group that couldn't see the humor in that RIDICULOUS "pose" was not a group I wanted to be a part of.   I quickly agreed that maybe yoga wasn't the best choice for me.

I've never gone back.  Can't say I miss it.  Unitards?  Not for me.  Elevator music?  Not so much.  Besides I can do the weeble pose anytime I like.

I think I have too much personality to fit into a unitard anyway.   Yeah, too much personality... let's go with that. 

The Escape

Sometimes I have gas.

I know, I know.  You're thinking to yourself, "Self, are you kidding me? Is Kristi really going to write about this?  Is she going to share this with the whole internets?"   I say to you, "Yes, Internets, I am."    Because I'm all about truth.  And transparency. And mining every single piece of my life for comedy  gold  pewter.

I share this because everyone does it.   And everyone blames it on someone else. Unless they can't.

A couple of years ago,  I was invited to participate with an amazing organization called Operation Care International.   It's an awesome organization that helps the homeless.   I was so stoked to get attend a meeting and help out at one of their trademark events.    Several of us at my church had become friends with the founder of the organization, and she asked us to attend a meeting that weekend.    When we showed up, it was all Board members and Chairpeople and several other members all dressed in suits, ties, and super fancy Sunday clothes. There were no volunteers there save my little rag-tag  group, and we all showed up in jeans to the meeting,  so I was already feeling a *little* out of place.

The meeting began and the Head of the Board came to the front to begin the meeting in prayer.   Excellent.  I like to pray.  I like God.   Good start to a meeting.   Then he asked us all to kneel at our tables.  Okay, still cool with that. My knees may sound like firecrackers when I kneel, but they still bend.  Life is good.

The whole room of probably 60 people knelt at their tables, heads on the seat of their chairs,  and the prayer began.   I remember making it through, "Dear Lord" and a few lines of prayer when I felt a rumble.  A deep rumble.  A not-of-this-Earth rumble.   A-oh-my-Lord-please-don't-let-this-happen-to-me rumble. A I-am-going-to-pass-gas-and-there-is-no-way-to-keep-it-from-happening rumble.  A this-may-cause-a-small-earthquake-or-perhaps-destroy-a-small-country  rumble.

We've all felt it.  You know you have.  Don't lie.  And usually when the feeling hits, you let your body do its job and all is good in the world (and your bowels).  This wasn't one of those times, though.  I was in a room full of strangers, except for my five friends.  It's quiet.   We are PRAYING, for Pete's sake.  Who farts during prayer? AND there's not even anyone around to blame it on...no dog... no cat... no small, defenseless little human in a diaper.  Nada.

I began to REALLY pray in earnest then.  "Oh God.  Oh God. Oh God, please. Oh Lord, no.  Oh God, please don't let me fart. Don't let it happen, Lord. Oh God. Oh God, no.  Oh God, please. Please, Lord.  No.  Please. Oh God."  

And then my prayer changed, "Please. Please, don't let that smell, Lord. Oh God.  Please Lord. Oh God, please.  Please don't let that smell.   Oh God.  Oh Lord, please.   Thank you Lord for letting it be silent, but oh God please, don't let it be deadly.   Oh, God. Oh God. Oh Lord.   Oh No!  Not again.  PLEASE LORD.  Please.  No. Oh God, please. Please, don't let that one smell either.  Lord, oh please.   Oh God, please let them finish praying quickly, Lord.  Please God. Please."

 And He listened.

The prayer ended.  I have never been so thankful.  I'm not even sure I said amen, truthfully. I was too busy trying to gingerly get up without passing more gas, looking at the little old lady behind me to see if she had passed out, and pretending like I was touched by the prayer.   Thankfully, she looked serene, and not like she was choking to death on noxious fumes.   She even smiled at me.  I tried to smile back, but I was worried that a smile might be too much of a strain because all my concentration was focused on the muscles I was using to hold any other errant bubble of loveliness back.

When I look back on that day, I have to think that God may have enjoyed my prayer more than the pastor's.   I bet He and Jesus were up there laughing Their Holy Heads off.  I sometimes even wonder if that's why the second one escaped, despite my pleas.   He had to have found the situation funny.  I know if I had been  the One in charge I would have.  I would have even zapped the poor soul with another one just for a giggle.  Everything for a purpose, you know?

Night Time Adventures (Get Your Mind Out of the Gutter!)

I like to sleep.

I like it a lot.  I like it so much that if I sit still for too long, I will start to drift off to that sweet, sweet spot where sheep jump fences and Town East Mall morphs into my grandmother's old house.   (Yes, I have a recurring dream about that and no, I won't talk about it today. That's a whole 'nother blog post.)   I can fall asleep anywhere, anytime.  I kinda like to look at it as a challenge.  Asleep in the car? Amateur.  Asleep in a restaurant, totally sober?  OH YEAH.  

I typically go to bed before my husband.  I'm sure there are those of you out there lamenting the state of my marriage, but it works for us.   He's a night owl who needs about two seconds of sleep, jumps out of bed in the morning, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and pissing me off with  his cheerfulness.   I, on the other hand, fall asleep seconds after the sun goes down, sleep 10 hours, hit snooze 50 times, and then stumble around like an extra from the Night of the Living Dead for two hours trying to wake up, biting everyone's head off in the meantime.   I know what you're thinking.   My hubby is a very lucky guy.  Yeah.  He is.  I am a joy.

Recently, I think I may have discovered why he SLEEPS the sleep of the dead and I LOOK like one of the walking dead when I wake up.   It all comes down to quality of sleep.  He gets it.  I don't.

Our boxer usually wakes me up several times to go outside and do her business or eat crap or chase skunks or whatever the heck she does at one, two, and three o'clock in the morning.   I would love to leave her out there and snuggle back up in my comfy-foamy-heaven-in-a-mattress bed, but she barks non-stop.   Not conducive to sleep. So I stand around by the back door for twenty minutes while she pees and then sniffs every freakin' blade of grass in the backyard.  I'll open the door and hiss like the Crypt Creeper for her to come.  I whisper-holler her name.   She typically looks up at me, wags her tail, and busts her butt to run to the back of the yard. I never love that dog more than when she does that. I love her so much in these moments that I would like to open the gate and see if the old adage is true about if you love something set it free.  Of course, even if the gate is open, the dog won't leave.  We've tried.

When I finally make it back to bed, there's the hubby. Moaning, dancing, and singing,  I mean TALKING, in his sleep.   It's like sleeping with a zombie backup dancer for Michael Jackson on his "Thriller" video.   I dodge flailing limbs, finally get settled, and then the singing and humming begins.   He typically hums all original tunes, sporadically throwing an arm or a leg out for emphasis on a certain note.

Occasionally, he will roll over and begin to talk.  These are my favorite times.   I used to ask questions until he got all huffy about "invading his brain" when he found out.   Now I just listen, write them down, and tease the heck out of him the next morning.

One night, he was all about the helpful advice. "Chicken is best when is fricasseed."   Really, Paula Deen?  Good to know.   Other times, it's just information, "The penguins stole my toothpaste."   Arctic Fresh Crest apparently really is!  Who knew?   Sometimes, he channels newscasters, "The truck is in the ditch, people.  This is bad."   All righty-then.

If I can make it through the dog and her repeat attempts to go outside, the chatty/singing/dancing hubby, then there is the psychoti-kitty to endure.   We recently adopted a feral cat.  Still not for sure why, other than the look of adoration in my preteen's eyes.  I know that light will go out soon enough when she hits her teenage years and realizes I'm an idiot, but for now I like that look of worship.  At four in the morning when the kitten is bouncing around on my face and chest  like a Halloween cat and bringing me wet mouse toys he has drowned in the dog's water bowl and then dropping those on my forehead, I question our decision.   I can't imagine why.

After thirty minutes to an hour, I'll  grab the ol' iPhone and play a couple of rounds of Words with Friends.   Around five, five thirty,  I'll get tired and doze off.  The alarm goes off at six. I hit snooze until I have no choice, and I rise from the bed stumbling around on my newborn zombie legs.   My hubby, meanwhile, pops out of the bed like toast from a toaster, all smiling and happy and talking about how poorly he slept and chastising me for my bad mood.  Really? Poorly?  You?  Interesting.

So the next time you see me and my eyes are blurry, my mouth slack, and I don't answer, don't worry that I'm on drugs.    I'm just trying to catch up on some sleep.

The Teddy Bear

Yesterday, I received a Teacher of the Week Award... or maybe the Month. Honestly, I'm not sure, because I wasn't listening to the announcements. Oops. Anyway, I won Teacher of the Something, voted on by the students, sponsored by some student organization, for me doing something. Pretty exciting stuff. I'll wait while you all whoop and holler and tell me how wonderful I am.

Well, THAT didn't last long.

ANYWAY, the part of the announcement that I did pay attention to was that I should be looking for a gift coming my way. Now that is something I can definitely do. I'm all about awards. They're awesome. And prestigious. And rewarding. And absolutely something you forget you had the next day. Gifts on the other hand? Especially surprise ones? Sign me up. Especially if they're sparkly and expensive. (Did you see that, hubby o'mine?)

I daydreamed all day about what it could be. A gift certificate for lunch perhaps? A candy-filled mug? An hour off from teaching? I was giddy with excitement.

Right before lunch, a student came down the hallway carrying something just for me. The kids parted like Moses and the Red Sea. There in her arms lay a two foot tall white teddy bear holding a rose. In her hand, she carried a hot pink satin-covered heart with a ribbon all the way around proclaiming Godiva chocolates.

"Congratulations," the girl said, beaming. "We love you." I oooooed and I ahhhhhed. I thanked her and told her how sweet it all was. I gave her a hug, and then she handed me the gifts and walked away.

As I turned to walk into my empty classroom, my spoils of victory clutched in my hands, a smile on my face, I caught a faint whiff of something. I frowned and sniffed again. Definite odor. How strange. I bent my head and sniffed the bear's head. No odor. I sniffed the chocolates. No odor. I walked to my desk and smelled something again. I smelled the bear's side this time, and there it was. A yellow stain. Oh yes. That's it.... the smell of PEE. They had just given me a used teddy bear. A well-loved, peed-on teddy bear.

So what does one do with a used teddy bear that smells like pee, given to you by a student organization that prevents bullying, in honor of you helping and supporting students? Why, if you are a teacher, you put it on your bookcase, pretend you love it, and spray some Lysol. 'Cause that's what Jesus would do. Maybe.

With the bell looming for the end of lunch period, I sat down and ate my lunch at my desk, occasionally sneaking peeks at my new friend and then shaking my head. Toward the end of lunch, I decided I would reward myself with a piece of my Godiva chocolate, because I am worth it, and because someone gave me a pee-covered bear. I might even eat two.

Imagine my surprise when I opened up the heart, and there laying in the center of that beautiful, hot pink silky box lay not chocolate, nay, not a single piece, but a single beat up package of Little Debbie snack cakes.

I'll wait while that sinks in.

I got a pee-covered stuffed animal and diabetes in a bag. That's right. Be jealous.

You know, you really should. My kiddos, completely of their own accord, gathered the gifts together and told their sponsor they wanted to do this. I was the first person they gave it to. That makes me smile.

Maybe if you're lucky, someday, you too can be teacher of the week....month... whatever it was. The gifts may not be awesome, but I definitely felt the love from my kiddos. And THAT I wouldn't trade for the world. The teddy bear? I can give you a sweet, sweet deal on.

Moves Like Jagger

I love to dance. I love to sing. I do neither well.

Not that it's ever stopped me.

One day, while sitting at a stoplight blasting my radio, I sang so loudly and off-key that there were kids hanging out of the bus beside me hooting and hollering. What can I say.... I was too busy "Free Falling" to care.

Unfortunately for my family, my penchant for all tunes and my awesome dance moves often cause them a bit of embarassment. My husband has been known to get up and move to another table, simply because I felt the need to bust out and sing along with Stevie Nicks at IHOP. The older man across the aisle thought I was hilarious. My husband? Not so much. He moved his entire meal to the other table and then refused to even acknowledge my presence. Poor guy. He thinks ignoring me means I'll go away. He hasn't realized that it hasn't worked for seventeen years. It's not gonna start working now.

Recently, I have been hearing the song "Moves Like Jagger" everywhere I go. I can't seem to get away from it. It's at the grocery store, in the car, at work. EVERYWHERE. It's such a catchy little tune, I decided to strike back. While cruising Wal-Mart with the hubby the other day, I heard the tell-tale strains. Suddenly, my feet developed a mind of their own. My hips began to wiggle. The next thing I knew there I was singing along, dancing down the aisle. I glanced over at my hubby with a smile on my face. He was horrified. He hissed at me to stop to dancing with my buggy. I laughed and told him that I had moves like Jagger. Judging by his face, I don't think he believed me.

The next day, I had a salon appointment. The stylist had just finished another client and had to go into the back to grab something. Suddently the song came on. I looked at my husband and he had the deer in the headlights look. He knew what was about to happen. One minute I was fine; the next minute the absolute best dance moves from the past 20 years began to erupt from my body. Okay. Maybe not the best. Definitely the most fun. I water-sprinkled. I ponied. I did the crazy sunglass move Uma Thurman loves. I did the drowning man. My daughter begged for the Charlie Brown, but I love my teeth too much. If anyone can knock out a tooth dancing, it's this girl. I had a blast. My preteen daughter even got up and joined me right there in the middle of the salon.


We moved just like Jagger. Oh, yes we did...if Jagger were a 70 something aging rock star who was having a seizure and being tased while attacked by fire ants....dude, we nailed it.


Here's the video....  It takes a bit to get to the music, but it's totally worth it once it does....  I dare you not to dance.