File 13...

When I was a kid, I loved to create things. Give me a box, a pile of paper, and some glue and I would be happy as a clam.

One afternoon, in second grade, the artist within me beckoned to make some "creations" for my 3 teachers (It was the 70's and I was in a "pod" classroom). I happily gathered all my construction paper, glue, and scissors and began the feverish task of completing the artwork. When I had finished all the crayoned stick figures and glitter stars my little hands could muster, I looked over my work. Something was missing. It needed..... more.

And then it hit me.

I put on my jacket and ran outside. It was a beautiful fall afternoon and the leaves had begun to float to the ground. I grabbed as many as I could and took them inside. Glue, leaves, and construction paper filled the room as I added the final touches to my already sticky art forms.
I stood back and admired my work. Yes....they were good. Oh...they were good.

The next day I put them in a paperbag and headed off to school. My feet didn't touch the ground as I skipped into the building and down to my classroom. The students were just going in. This would be the perfect time to present my humble offerings to those who had educated me with addition, reading, and washing my hands when I used the bathroom.

I approached the first teacher and handed her one of the pieces of art. "Why thank you! This is wonderful! Did you make this? Oh...I will hang it up...right here!" Perfect. Just what I wanted her to say. I went to the next teacher. "This is beautiful...and look at all the leaves! Wow...just like a real artist!" Oh yeah. Magical. This was exactly what I had dreamed. I then walked over to the last teacher. She was writing something on the chalkboard, so I put it on her desk and stood there....smiling. When she returned to the desk, she looked at the pile of leaves, construction paper, and gooey, glitter stars and then at me. And then the words that hit me like a Fisher-Price hammer came out of her mouth.... "You know better than to put garbage on my desk. Put it in the trashcan where it belongs!".

I was crushed, but not wanting to throw all my work into the rusty trashcan, I stammered, "It's...it's....for you. I m-m-made it last night."

Her look was priceless. Kodak should have been there.

And while I truly enjoyed the other teachers' reactions.......I moreso enjoyed the guilt that the last teacher tried to overcompensate with during the rest of the year.

Like a little gluey dividend.

What came first?

I was living in Hotlanta in the early 90's. Not in anything fancy. Just a one bedroom apartment in one of those apartment complexes that you are mandated to live in from the ages of 21-26.

One summer, I had had a really bad week and thought I would make some egg salad. C'mon, doesn't everyone make egg salad during their valleys in life? I say nothing says "cheer the hell up" like a big bowl of stink.

I put some eggs on to boil and was getting out the rest of the ingredients. When I went into the fridge to retrieve some mayo....alas, there was none. This probably caused a crying jag for a few minutes. But I bucked up and grabbed my purse. I cruised to the grocery store in my Buick LeSabre... ala 1988. You know the one....."The Old Folks Special", I think they called it.

I strolled leisurely through the grocery store looking for other snacks, stopped at the magazine aisle to read a little Cosmo, ate some free samples at the bakery, and then went and purchased my mayo and some bread.

As I was driving, I suddenly got a horrible,sickening feeling in my stomach. And it wasn't from the link sausage on a cracker I had eaten at the store. Oh...my.....gawd!....I don't think I turned off those eggs!!!!!! And I had been lollygagging like a city worker for about an hour and a half at the grocery store. I pressed my foot on the accelerator and headed towards my ...gulp!....apartment.

When I reached the street in which my apartment was located, I almost passed out as I saw a crowd of people standing outside in the parking lot looking up at my apartment on the second floor. I drove closer. Smoke was pouring out the deck's screen door.

Now, it could have just stopped there. Really. My punishment could just have been a smoky apartment that reaked like a sewer pipe for days. Or have exploded eggs everywhere that I would find for months after. Or seeing my freaked-out cat hiding in the one-inch space under my couch. But no. No.....that's not all there was going to be.

You see....my assigned parking spot was between a derelict station wagon(and surprisingly older car than mine) and a pole that held up a carport like covering. Everyday, I had to negotiate like a neurosurgeon to get into my spot with my gargantuan, boat-like, uncompromising car. Except that day.....when I thought my belongings were burning up along with my cat. I pulled that monstrosity on wheels like I was driving a Yugo and in doing so, smashed in the side of both of my car doors against the pole. Everyone in the parking lot turned around and now was staring at me. Splendid.

I got out of the car, made my way through the crowd, and headed towards the stairs that led to my apartment. As I ran up the stairs, I saw a maintenance man coming out of my door. He saw the panicked look on my face and said the only words he thought could comfort me.......words that would stick with me for years.....words that left no room for confusion.......

"Mam....I think your eggs are done."

They're back there.......

When I was young, my mother insisted I had flat feet. And since all feet looked flat to me....I had no reason to doubt her. I have since changed my mind now that I'm older.....but it's too late to change the memories that still haunt me about owning these two so called "paddles".

Every year my mother would take my younger sister and I shoe shopping. To my shoe-loving sister, this was a treat. To me...a useless waste of time.

You see, to my young mind, shoe stores were made for the beautiful, well-arched foot. We "flatties" were just mere annoyances to be chased off to small wooden tables in the back of the store. Tables that held a selection of three styles of shoes.

Brown with chunky heel and well- arched inner sole.
Blue with chunky heel and well-arched inner sole.
Light brown with chunky heel and...surprise!....a well-arched sole.

And thus it was....the annual ritual of picking out a milktoast color for a shoe and heading home. And while my sister tried her new sneakers and cute sandals on in the car, I chose to let them suffocate in the box a little longer.

But one year, it was different. One year, I was able to raise my head a little higher when I walked out.

I remember walking through the doors and heading back to my dull,chosen spot, while my sister pranced off to her rows of choices. As I got closer to the wooden table, I noticed something was changed. What was this? A fourth choice? No...it couldn't be! My step quickened.

I ran over and picked up the new shoe style. And while it was still a shade of brown, it had in all its glory, a cartoon character of an alligator imprinted on the side of each shoe! This must be a mistake! I looked around....no one was watching me. No one laughed and told me to put that back where it belonged with the "normal" shoes. No.....this was real! Someone had broken the flat foot barrier and instilled a little fun into the lives of children who had a less than perfect instep. And with a little cartoon no less! I was in heaven!

I threw my worn shoes into the bag and proudly wore my shoes out of the store and all the way home. Even my sister seemed a bit envious. And why not? It was a cartoon alligator!

That was the last pair of corrective shoes I remember getting. I wore those babies until they had no soles. Even the alligators scraped off over time. But I didn't care. Those shoes carried me whereever I needed to go.....in no time "flat".

Enough already!

I hate clothes shopping. There is absolutely nothing I like about it. I get more delight buying a fresh pack of Bubblicious than a new shirt.

Last week I went shopping for an event that my husband's work was hosting. A "hoopla" as it were. I had no "hoopla" clothes....so I ventured out to the mall.

I have some major issues with the clothing industry these days.....

1) When is the "peasant" look ever going to end? Unless I work in a head shop or am going to read someone's palm...this look is just plain ick. Yeah...its comfortable. I'll give it that. But unless I'm Stevie Nicks....where can you actually wear these clothes? And it wouldn't be so bad if it was just in the "juniors" section. But its taken over every department. Even the men's. That's just weird.

2) Has anyone in fashion noticed that most women, even teens, aren't sporting hard-bellies? Enough with the tight half- shirts. Girls are walking around looking like manatees stuffed into these shirts. And the low-rider, underwear- showing jeans with half belly tee combo ....please. That's not new or fashion.....You could have seen my dad in this 20 years ago.

3) Give me more examples of outfits! If you are going to create such odd-looking wear...at least let the public know how to mix and match....Garanimal it up! I admit it. I don't know what goes with what! I'm libel to sport some Jlo pants with a Golden Girls top....stop me before I walk out of the store!

4) And the prices....c'mon. I imagine cameras are set up around the store, with managers watching and laughing, as women buy ridiculously over-priced clothes. "Can you believe she bought that pair of pants for $100.00?". Laugh, laugh! "Look-she's actually taking that shirt up to the register and paying for it!! Giggle, giggle! "Hey....another half-belly tee just sold!....cha-ching!" : Why not just hand the customers a complimentary donkey head to wear when they walk in to the store? Like those cheap makeup bags, it too, could be "FREE- with any major purchase".

5) Finally....would it be advantageous to bring in some anthropologists into the fashion industry? Maybe they could let them know that lots of "juniors" have pudgy stomachs, "misses" can have small chests, and "petites" aren't all stumpy -legged women with fat behinds who love big, bold, flowered prints.

In the end, I found a pair of pants after 3 1/2 hours of shopping. I matched it with a shirt I already had back at home, some shoes I recently bought...... most importantly..... a fresh pack of gum.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow......

When I was young, my main chore was to be the pooper scooper at our house.

We had a normal size dog. A beagle variety. Normal. What wasn't normal was the amount of dung this animal could produce. You would think I was searching for treasure in my backyard with the amount of time I spent scooping and digging.

But one year I had a plan.

It was the middle of winter and the snow had begun to accumulate. We would often open the back door and let our dog do its "thing"(usually in one spot that was closer to the house...it was cold!!) It was then my job to go out with my trusty shovel and scoop said poop up. But I had had enough. It was bad enough having to do it on a sweltering day....but with bone-chilling temperatures and snow up to my knees.... This was enough! Snow up to my knees. Sheesh...Snow....up...to....my knees! Hey wait!

That was it! There would be no more scooping! I could just simply cover the offending piles with pretty piles of white, fresh snow! It was simple genius! And no one would be the wiser. (mwuuuhaahaaaaaahahaha!)

As the days went by, my disposition was always one of cheerfulness when asked to do my said duty. No more "Ahhhh mom....not now!" or "Crud.....can't I do it tomorrow?". When asked I would gladly put on my coat, hat, mitten, sweater, boots, and scarf and then head out into the frigid cold. Moments later I would return. Still cheerful. Still unscathed. Still a genius!

But as the frigid weeks began to come to an end....I saw my plan had a serious flaw.

I had not figured out what to do when a thaw would come along. I naively (or creatively) thought that maybe somehow...well.... the snow would dissolve the rascals like acid during that time. But it was not to be. I watched in slow horror as the snow melted and began to give clues to my evil winter deed. Each one of those beauties was so perfectly preserved from the snow and ice, it would have made National Geographic proud.

I thought I had gotten away with the perfect crime. Rid myself of a hideous chore. Gave myself a small bit of freedom. To the contrary, my parents were absolutely mortified to see that in one portion of our yard, we had enough fecal matter to give a small, third-world country methane energy.

As I went out with a backhoe to clean up my mess, I looked up at the graying sky. It was beginning to snow. A tiny, perfect snowflake landed on my nose. And a single tear streamed down my cheek. I finally knew the true meaning of winter.

Okay..that last part didn't happen. Except for the tear.....but that was from my eyes watering from the smell.

Just a little list....

I feel its time to update people on the use of manners.

1. Say "thank you". Plain and simple. Whether its for a gift or because someone has opened the door. I double-checked, and as of today, we have no royalty in this country. I am not a peasant destined to let YOU go before me in traffic or pick something up that you dropped out of your purse. I am trying to be kind and considerate. The least you could do is say two words....thank and you. That's it. (Insert your first practice "thank you" for this advice here)

2. Say "excuse me". Plowing into someone, stepping on a foot, passing gas, burping, sneezing on someone's arm.....all good reasons to say this. Of course, the words have taken on of more of a thug appeal with the "Excuse me??".......so be careful how your influction works. And while its been more than 30 years....Steve's "Excuuuuuuuuuuuuse me!" is still a little over the top in most social situations. And leaving me standing alone at a party to go talk with someone more interesting in another room will always be rude whether you say these fine words or not.

3. Say "please". I realize we are in a society where everything is fast,fast, fast. But chopping this word off of your sentences,people, will really not buy you that much time. In fact, I could probably be so bold to say that the food service industry, especially servers, would probably bring your food within the desired bacterial limits if you didn't take the words "food order" so literally. I'm not implying that any server would ever make someone's food unfit to eat for being rude...that would never happen.

4. Don't put your purse on places where people eat. Yuck. My purse has seen likes of many floors, counters, and shopping carts......many being "party central" for most of your human secretions. And while I would like to think that everything I own is perfectly sanitized, when you put your purse up on the table at a restaurant, you might as well have put your shoes, underwear, and child's dirty diaper up there with it as well. At least I'll know not to order the finger food appetizer.

5.Learn to observe body language. Just because you trap me in a corner at my desk, doesn't mean you can ramble on about your mother's garden for 20 excrutiating, ear-bleeding minutes. When I look at the clock, , look over your shoulder like there's something important coming (like a tsunami), or turn around and face my computer....that's a signal that "your times up.....thanks for playing!" I should not hear you comment on the picture of my aunt on my desk, my plant that is dying, or the type of candy that I have in my Garfield candy dish. I should hear the pitter- patter of your shoes leaving for your next victim.

Thank you for reading this.

Questions....

1)Why do some women wear those huge fake long,long nails? And why do they all work in the food industry?

2) What does a tattoo look like when its been on a woman's buttocks for 60 years?

3) Do you think some twenty-year olds walking around are really robitrons? Like the ones that don't smile, blink, or say "thank you" when you have held open the door while balancing coffee, books, and a heavy stack of files.

4) How do I have twenty bazillion channels of cable movies and the only ones I stop and watch were made from 1985-1987?

5) Who are the people buying the beat-up dirty looking pants at stores? Are they also dirty- looking underwear consumers?

Just asking.......

Sticky, sticky, sticky fingers

The news has been showing all these people dumpster diving the last couple days around here looking for paper cups from the hamburger joint that sports a freckled face girl. Apparently you can get free airline tickets with x number of these cups.

I love dumpster divers....god bless 'em. I've never "dumpster dived" but I have gone through my share of interesting garbage piles.

For instance.....

I did this in K.C. a couple years ago during a "large garbage put- out weekend" with a friend and IT WAS FABULOUS!!!!!!!! The neighborhood we went to was upper class so they were known to throw away great things.

It was on a weekend and we rented a van. We took off on that Friday night at about 6:00 pm and there were already people going up and down the streets looking for things. People were in their yards looking at all the attention their garbage was getting....sort of "my garbage is better than your garbage" I guess.WE PACKED THE VAN SOLID !! It got so comical at one point we were having to take things out of the van and leave them in another garbage to get "the new great things we found".

The best (and sadly, disturbing) haul we had that night:After driving around for about 7 hours, the other scroungers were few and far between. It was about 1:00 am and we were driving past this house that had these big refrigerator boxes taped up in their garbage. I told my friend that the only reason someone would go to so much effort in taping up some garbage is that it was really really bad (ie gross stuff like poopy diapers, litter box bombs, or used girly magazines ) or really, really TERRIFIC things (i.e. gold, frankincense and myrrh). It turned out to be the latter. Just not the wise men gifts. Better.

Evidentally there must have been an elderly lady that passed away (really nice house) and they just simply threw all her possessions in the boxes for the garbage. We're talking photo albums, papers, etc......and also....sterling silver jewelry (vintage), vintage hats and purses, clothing, vintage quilts, vintage dolls, and many, many antiques.......at one point we looked at each other and said we had better pull these boxes over to the van in case any other scroungers showed up....it was pretty cuttthroat...and sure enough...a group of people showed up. It was a free for all. They made a HUGE mess of everything.And we kept slyly(but quickly) pulling more boxes over to our van to investigate..and we were in a dilemma as we had already packed the van....we grabbed as much stuff and smashed it in where we could....and then did the right thing.....cleaned up after those other inconsiderate scroungers. It was the least we could do for all those great things.

We then took our van and our haul to a mall parking lot (it was about 3 am at this point and we needed some light) and pulled out everything. Then we divvied up what each of us wanted and what we were going to sell at the flea market the next day. We made about 150.00! Free money! And each of us walked away with a ton of fun, free stuff....I felt like a junkyard princess that day. Minus the tiara. I think I was wearing a trucker hat I found in one of the boxes.

I don't live in K.C. anymore. I don't miss the snow but I sure do miss their garbage up there.

Just leave it on the ground and back away slowly....

For the past three years my husband and I have taken hot chocolate and cookies to the local fire department on Christmas Eve. You might think we are one those "couples" that do cutesy things together. Not so. I'm just paranoid that I don't have enough money in my "karma" bank at any given time and this always seems like a pretty good deposit.

This year we moved to a new city and wanted to support the local fire department here. I made a big basket of snacks and got some of those cute "baby-size" bottles of Coke. As I was putting this little bundle of karma together, I thought that it might be better if we supported our local police department. Its a real small community and while we would like to think the neighborhood we moved into was safer....there is some riff-raff here and there. Plus we've already called the police twice in one month for scary dogs running loose in the neighborhood. We figured we owed them a little.

My husband and I piled into the car with all the offerings and headed to the police station.

In the movies and television, they always show the police station with a big burly police officer sitting at a tall desk when you walk in. They often lean over and say "What can we help you with missy?" or " Officer Friendly here, how can I help you?". So we were expecting something similar.

We walked up to the entrance marked Police Station. On the door there was a sign that said "Please press the intercom button after 5 pm for the police department". I looked at my husband and pushed the button.

Nothing happened. We both saw the security camera and stood up straighter, lest they think they were going to be dealing with two hunchbacks.

I pushed the button again.

A staticky voice came on.
"Police Department......use the intercom"

My husband and I looked at each other.

"Uh....we have some....uh...snacks here for the department for Christmas"

"Okay...hold on a moment"

We both stood up straight again. The intercom clicked on again.

"Uh...yeah....I'm the only one at the desk right now....all officers are patrolling. You can leave the package at the door on the ground."

"Oh...okay...uh...alright......Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas....static,static....."

We looked at each other again. And then while we slowly placed the basket o'snacks and the pack o' Coke on the ground by the outside ashtray, we made sure we looked at the camera again and smiled.

As we walked back to the car somewhat letdown, we both couldn't help but think that the police department would indeed enjoy those snacks.....after the bomb squad probably checked them out.

Hey.....its still counts as a deposit into the karma bank. Just more like a wire transfer.

Make it go away.....

I have a huge, giant, angry-looking mess in my living room.

Every once in a while I get the coloquial "bee in my bonnet" and feel like redoing an entire room. Sometimes its just PMS. Unfortunately for me (and my husband) when I get in these moods and move everything out of the room to begin my task, I'm already bored with the whole thing. Like now.

I've been "redoing" rooms since I was a wee child. I was "trading spaces" long before the show. And more impressively.....I had NO budget to work with. Usually every couple of weeks, my parents would hear the scraping of furniture across the hardwood floors, the pounding of millions of nails into their walls, and an occasional "CRASH!" coming from my room. No one bothered me about it. I guess they figured it was better than bugging them for something to do.

I was always coming up with weird concoctions for the bedroom setup. One time, I removed the double sliding doors off my closet and set my headboard side of the bed into the closet. That was kinda cool except the bar that hung the clothes was too low and I'd bump my head when I sat up. Another time I thought having the bed completely in the middle of the room would be groovy. Instead, it made the room look like an exorcism had just taken place.

Later in my life, I started using my creative decorating ideas at work. I was employed by an unfinished furniture store in my town while in high school. My job was to do the window merchandising as well as on the floor. One time I arranged all of the rocking chairs in the furniture section into a giant circle. While I thought it gave an interesting look, the owner told me to change it as it looked like the lobby of a nursing home.

Throughout my various dwellings in my life, I have also used my unique "flair" to spruce up the place. Having an obsession with thrift stores, garage sales, and enticing garbage piles, I have found an abundance of unusual decor. This obsession came from my mother who on a moments notice, while riding with her in the truck, would shout "Jump out and get that!". Where then I would race to said garbage heap , pull said item from the pile, and race to get into the car before anyone saw me. And while I would like to say how damaging it was to my teenage self esteem to have to do that ...I have now proudly passed the torch. My husband is now my own personal "jumper". Although, he does get what I call "selective blindness" when it happens.

Me (driving):"OOOhhhh....look! Grab that vintage cooler over there!"
Him: I don't see a cooler.
Me: There....the red one. With the light green bedpan and bag of old wrapping paper on top of it.
Him: Yeah....I still don't see it.
Me: Right there. Next to the potty with the bees circling around it and the bag of dirty sheets. You can't miss it.
Him: Oh....that one. Do you really need it?
Me: Yikes...get out....there's someone else slowing down!
Him: I think they are trying to pass you.
Me: Why isn't the cooler in the car yet?
Him: Where is it again?

Then comes the hour of OCD-like washing when he gets home. Its almost worth it for that show. Bless his little germ-free heart.

Well, its been 30 minutes since I've started writing. The mess is still out there and I'm no more motivated than I was before. Its a good thing my husband can turn off his vision at will....he's gonna need it tonight.

20 years of gifts....

Here's a list of memorable gifts I've received for Christmas through the years:

0-10 years old
Magic Shot Shooting Gallery: I was a tomboy and desperately wanted this mini plastic arcade for target practice. The "magic" of the Magic Shot was spoiled when I realized it was just a magnet that clicked fast.
Music Machine Greatest Hits: Ahhhhh....."You Don't Have to Be a Star", "Yellow Brick Road", "Car Wash"......I was living the life.
LifeSavers Book: That sucker was gone in two seconds....even the Wint-o-green.
Giant Candy Cane: Ditto.
Train Set: My dad enjoyed spending time "railroading" with the son he never had.....me.
"Denim" Record Player: All I needed now for my performances was a hairbrush, mirror, and my 45's. Rock on!
Bermuda Triangle game: Plastic cloud goes over gameboard picking up ships. "Magic" was lost when I found out the cloud was just magnets again.


11-20 years old
Hubcaps: What I thought (and prayed) was a typewriter in the big box under the tree turned out to be automotive supplies. My sister got a banjo the same year.
Clogs-The high-heeled kind. I looked like a junior high prostitute for a year.
Colorado Hiking Boots- I looked like a junior high forest ranger for a year.
Giant Candy Kiss: See Lifesavers book.
Clock Radio: You mean I can see what time it is AND listen to music????...That's just crazy!
Love's Baby Soft: Mmmmmm....baby soft. LOVE'S Baby Soft. BABY soft. What the hell does that name mean?
Chic Jeans: Now a high school prostitute.
High School Jacket: Not the thick kind you put varsity letters on. The old man windbreaker kind with my last name in giant letters on the back.....in case my "camel toe" jeans didn't let you know who I was.

After 20, I got the usual suspects. Mugs. Dishtowels. Potholders.
......And a street corner named after me.

Oh, Rapunzel!

My hair has always been a source of frustration. I am now at the age to accept the defeat of the battle that my locks have waged against me.

I have tried every kind of shampoo, conditioner, and hairspray. I've used every electrical device that curls, straightens, and dries. I've colored my hair every color and cut my hair in many styles. And in the end......my hair wins (insert hair victory song here).

Here are some of the historical hair battles I have experienced:
1975- Practiced blowing bubblegum bubbles out a moving car window. 12 inches hacked off.
Hair-1 Me-0

1977-My mother gives me the ultimate "destined for therapy" haircut for a tomboyish girl. The "Dorothy Hamil". I was told to tell children I had lice if they made fun of it.
Hair-11 Me-0

1980-Toni Tennille haircut received. Still have the scars from the curling iron burns on my forehead. But I did win 1st prize lip-synching "Love Will Keep Us Together" in the 6th grade talent show.
Hair-14 Me-0

1981-First of many really bad, half-fried, orange-tinted home perms.
Hair-34 Me-0

1982-My first girl mullet. Attractive.
Hair-54 Me-0

1984-Used Sun-in for the first time (insert circus music here).
Hair-60 Me-0

1985- Received professional perm. I looked just like a t.v. star...Mama on Mama' Family. Hello 1st year of college!
Hair-100 Me-0

1989-Dyed my hair platinum blond. Dyed,fried.... cried.
Hair-150 Me-0

1989-1999- 10 years of bad haircuts (both professional and do-it-yourself, PMS -induced home disasters), greasy conditioners, and empty wallets.
Hair-250 Me-0

2000-2004-Colored my hair every color imaginable. Crayola would be envious.
Hair-300 Me-0

2003- Cut my own hair by sticking it into a ponytail and cutting it. Read on internet that this creates layers "perfectly". Decide I should audition for Bon Jovi or Metallica to justify my new, big, 21st century.......MULLET.
Hair-400 Me-0

2004- Grew mullet layers out and was needing a trim for my new one length hair.......for my wedding.... 4... months.... away. I say"I grew out my layers, just need a trim".....Hairdresser hears "I sure love layers, wanna look like Jim"......my fiance' hides the guns in the house.
Hair-1000 Me-0

2005- I surrender. It can do what it wants. Whatever. It wins.

.......At least until I find my good scissors.

Don't Breathe!!

True...seriously.

When my younger sister and I were kids, my dad had the wonderful joy of being saddled with us most Saturday mornings. Most children were elbow deep in there Honeycomb cereal watching cartoons in their pajamas on the weekend. Not us. 7:00 am revelry came and we were up and at 'em. And the day had almost same routine each weekend.

We would pile into whatever jalopy my dad was driving at the time. Our trips were seen from the consistently foggy windows of a Rambler, Nova, or a Volkwagen. For some reason, the defogger in these cars never worked and the windows fogged up more than a Van Halen concert. At this point our dad would yell, "Okay....Quit talking.....you're fogging up the windows!". This was our cue to be quiet, cover our mouths with whatever we were wearing, and breath warm carbon dioxide back into our bodies until the windows defogged naturally.....which never happened. Worse was when it was freezing outside and the windows had to be lowered to provide some additional "natural defogging". I learned very quickly that I should practice better hygiene on the weekends, like brushing my teeth.

Our first stop was the bank. We would trapse in behind my dad while he went to look at his safety deposit box. This was always the "mysterious" part of the trip because we got to go behind closed doors and open this little box. It didn't have anything particularly interesting in it, just a bunch of papers, but the experience made me feel like a spy. And the "clicky" pen we would get at each visit insured a couple hours of irritating noises.

Next we would go to the Savings & Loan. This was both a positive and negative experience. Both my sister and I LOVED eating out. There wasn't a place we wouldn't eat at.....as long as it wasn't home food....it was dee-licious! When you pulled up to the Savings & Loan, the drive-in windows were right next to a hamburger joint we loved. The smell of onions and beef at 8:00 in the morning sent our stomachs into a tailspin. Each time, we would ask to go there, and each time it was met with the same deflating answer: "We have plenty of food at home". So we would then turn our attention to the bank teller. If we squished low enough in the seats. we could resemble very small children deserving of the "Saf-t-pops" displayed in a jar in the window. We would stare at the teller and silently chant "Red one, red one, red one....." It was a crap shoot though. Sometimes we'd score and sometimes we wouldn't. When we wouldn't, my dad would say "You guys are too old for suckers....". Which then would get us protesting loudly causing him to shout again "Shhhhhhh! You're fogging up the windows!".

The next stop was usually a trip to whatever store carried the supplies for the next mess he was building or making. Garden. Deck. Suit of armor. My sister and I would plant ourselves on whatever chairs were available and stare at any other kids coming in. We were great people watchers. We were also great at spotting any candy available in the store too. Anything from ancient burnt peanuts in a dusty bag to free mints in a bowl by the cash register. If it was sweet, it would be ours. We would usually have some coinage on us and if we were lucky, could get a couple of fistfuls of square,minty, stale gum out of a filthy machine. I think it helped some crippled kids in the process....a win, win!

At the end of the day we would always end up at the same place.....the library. For hours. This library outing wouldn't be so bad in the winter, but in the summer, depressing. In the back of the library was a HUGE pool with tons of kids playing all day. Rather than read, my sister and I would stare out the window at the fun the kids were having. And while I did truly enjoy a fresh issue of"Dyn-o-mite".....a dip in the giant pool would have been "heaven on a stick". But after a while we'd turn our pasty, white bodies back to the "kiddie section" and try to find a book we hadn't read. Or some candy on the floor.

We'd eventually head home and enjoy the loot from the day. Pens, candy, books...and of course.... "food at home".

Howdy!

True....seriously.

Yesterday, my husband and I went to a well-known country restaurant that's named for impoverished people. I was instantly brought back to the days when I used to serve my share of "sweet tea" at the same establishment up north.

The year was 1987 and I needed a summer job before going back to college. I applied at this restaurant figuring who better to represent the masses of hungry, poor people than a real broke, hungry college student.

After acing the hiring quiz, which I believe had questions about catfish and dumplins'....I received the cherry to my already dreaded sundae.....the uniform. The uniform consisted of a lovely apron ala "Minnie Perle" and a kerchief ala "Mrs. Butterworth". I was to wear these goodies with a pair of jeans, white shirt, and plenty of country charm. The only thing missing was something to black out one of my teeth. But when you need a job, you need a job.

I went through training learning all the important life skills like:
How to make old ketchup "new" again.
What the lowest temperature butter can get and still be served.
And my favorite....how to test any foods warmth with just your fingers.

After a couple nights, "shadowing" another server, I was ready to go out on my own into the pine wood oblivion. My kerchief was on straight, my apron had my fresh ticket book and pen, and I had perfected the greeting "howdy" better than Mr. Doody himself.

That summer I served more country food to city folk than I care to think about. I perfected the "beat" needed by a server in order to achieve high customer satisfaction and usually high tips. Although I did get my share of "Jesus" cards thanking me for my service but tipping was against their religion. You never knew who these people were going to be until after the meal, so it was always like a game of "GOTCHA!" when you served them....the little devils.

One day I was asked to take on an entire busload of tourists. I was to have the back of the restaurant for this party of 40+. It was a mixture of young and old, women and men, thrifty and more thrifty. They took their seats and I began to take their order, wondering if they thought the word "split" was actually a food item. I believe at the end they ordered two entrees, two desserts, 40 waters, and 80 spoons.

When they left, I breathed a sigh of relief. Until I saw my tip. It had turned out to be the world's largest game of "GOTCHA!". I was more steamed than the okra I had been serving all day. But thats the breaks, I thought. And at the end of the day, I went home, took off the uniform and called it a day.

The next afternoon was my shift. I walked into the kitchen, armed with a new attitude. Until I looked up at this chalkboard.

On the chalkboard were two columns, Good and Worst. I kid you not. And my name was...on...the....worst.....list. What the heck is this? Worst what? I hoped they were grading "hickability"....but that wasn't to be. They were grading check averages. How much fried, smothered, topped, iced, globbed crud you could force into each persons gullet....and subsequently check. What the "list" did not take into account was the multitudes of bus travelers that thought restaurants were to get a drink of water and literally a "bite" of something. And I was always being asked to take on these buses because....well....I was low man on the greasy pine wood totem pole.

I marched into the manager's office, kerchief a'flyin', and demanded an explanation and the removal of my name. I immediately got a big country "No can do 'mam". And that was that.

So....I slowly removed my apron, took off my calico name pin, and put my kerchief on the hostess stand. I couldn't work at a place that made their employees feel like that...no one should be on a worst list....no one should be punished for trying their best....I was too valuable a person to take that kind of melarchy.....

That....and I had just seen what looked like two "Church of the Gotcha" buses pull into the parking lot.......Yeehaw!

We're Just 2 Dogs Having Some Fun...

True....Seriously

Last night I went outside to move my car to a different location at our house. When I opened the door, there were 2 very large black chows sniffing around a bush in our yard. I saw there was a long lead that was going out to the street. Because it was dark, I assumed it was another a-hole standing there letting their dogs use our lawn as a port-a-potty.

I called my for my husband to come and put our dogs up and take a look at the situation. I didn't know who was holding the dogs, but I wasn't going to be the one to confront this dog owner. I went back to the door and lo and behold, the dogs were walking together and NO ONE was holding the 100 or so feet of heavy cable that bound them. It seemed they had escaped. And judging from the lion- style haircut on one of them, not a moment too soon.

I went out and bravely surveyed the situation(I think my husband was still putting on his shoes). It, indeed, was 2 large Chows bound together with what looked like a bull chain. This chain was then attached to the large cable. I picked up the cable about 50 feet from them and held it. They were obliviously knocking down trashcans and lawn ornaments as they sniffed and explored.

I realize at this point that what I did was not smart. But they didn't seem too irritated when they felt the tug of their freedom ending in my hands. They just turned and looked to see who was restricting their fun. I felt if I didn't hold onto this cable, these dogs would meet a double-dog demise or someone would drive their car into the cable like a deadly game of Limbo.

My husband finally came out and called the police. I was now trying to keep the dogs from knocking down the neighbor's mailbox and keep myself from falling over in the process. I was having flashbacks of my losing 6th grade tug-of-war team.

Finally, the police showed up. One policeman to be exact. He asked if they were our dogs. Uh..yeah.....we just decided about a half hour ago that we'd play one last game of "crack the whip" for good times sake before we gave them up....God love 'em.

After we assured them they were not ours, the officer pondered on how to get the dogs. Meanwhile, my husband and I were losing cartilage in our arm sockets keeping them at bay. He finally opened up his car door and said "Wanna go for a ride?". This, of course, is a universal phrase for dogs. One dog seemed excited and jumped in, and because they were tethered like Siamese twins, the other dog was pulled like a sack of potatoes.

The new challenge was to get 100 feet of cable in with them. After winding the cable like a couple of deckhands, we got the bundle of line into the backseat. And after a couple of taxpayer "thank you's!", he eventually drove off with the two rascally varmints.

Well, we definitely are gonna miss those two......but honestly..... we've really been wanting a cat.

Let a little out....

True....Seriously.

I walked to school that spring day in my pink jacket. There was a light chill in the air and I was glad to be wearing this large hand-me-down.

I walked up the wobbly, wooden stairs to the portable and into the classroom. Everything was normal. Both teachers were there. Kids were arriving. And I took my place in the 4th row next to Zebediah(not his real name).

Zebediah and I would joke around in class a lot. He was also quite popular with the ladies. I was a tomboy at the time, so he was no use to me, except to borrow glue or pencils from occasionally.
The day proceeded as normal. Subjects were taught. Lunch was eaten. And recess was taken. But I made a huge error....the crime of all crimes.....and yes....I would pay.

It seems there was a law passed at this school that your bladder must be completely emptied during recess time. There was no gray area or excuses. Go then and that's it. Now when the said law was passed, they might have taken into consideration that when you have over 50 girls trying to use 3 restrooms.....well....it's Darwin at its best. And I was often at the bottom of the food chain. I usually held it all day so as not to enter the lion's den anymore than I had too.

But on this day, I really had to go. REALLY had to go....to go....to go. And recess had passed. Dagnabit.

I was sitting at my desk. My mind began to race as the two teachers began to teach something. I remember it had a juice can that they poured into a bucket. And if you can imagine the sound, you can imagine my increasing pain. I started to weigh my options in my head as it was getting excruciating.

" I could go up there, swallow my anxiety, take the yelling and go to the restroom"
No way. There's 40 kids in here.
" I could see if I could hold it for another hour."
Absolutely not. Won't happen. Not an option. Next!
" There's one more thing....but I don't know.."
What? What? Do tell!
"I could let a little out.....and then it won't be so bad"
Hmmmmmmmmm. Let me think. Let a little out. Let...a..little....out. Yeah....yeah!....that could work. My pants would be a little wet. I could save the rest until I got home. No one would be the wiser. You are brilliant, brilliant I say......!!

I stared straight ahead. Eyes focused on the teacher. I did a countdown and then it was literally full steam ahead. Nothing happened at first. I think I had to go so bad it took a moment for my bladder to say "Huh? What? Now? Here? Seriously?Okay...okay....give me a sec...give me a sec...."

And thats when things got ugly.

I assumed I could shut the valve off "so to speak" at any point. But I soon found out what a horrible decision I had made.

"Stop....stop....stop" my inner voice said to my inner bladder. I continued to stare straight ahead.

"Please stop......oh no!" It was all over my chair.

"Hey....what's that dripping from your seat?" my friend Zebediah yelled, suddenly bringing a new hell to the situation.

Still staring straight ahead and using the same quick thinking I would eventually use in my improv, I said the only thing that came to my mind:

" I had a bag of water in my back pocket and it must have broke!".

Yeah, I know. Really bad. But I was 10 and looking at total social annihilation.

"Ew....did you wet your pants?" Zebediah said again. Idiot.

"No way....I told you it was a waaaaaater bag. I should have taken it out at recess" I was digging in deep as the Amazon River continued to cascade over the wooden chair and into a growing stain below in the carpet. And for the love of Christmas, it wouldn't stop! It was unbelievable. I was like a frat boy at an all-night kegger.

I sat there in my soggy clothes and prayed for the end of the day to come quick. But it was not to be and as the minutes swam by (at least in my area), the odor demons began to punish me as well.

"It stinks over here."
"Ew."
"Phew."

Some kids were putting there shirts on their noses ala Jesse James. Enough already. It was only water. It must be the rug that stinks. I was buying into my story with every ounce of urine I had.

Eventually the teachers came over and excused me from class to the restroom . And I'm sure they gave the other students the old "let's be nice, everyone has accidents, everyone sometimes wants to let a little out" speech. Okay.Maybe not so much that last part.

When I came back, school had ended. I wrapped my pink jacket around my waist, gathered my books, and began to walk out.

The teacher stopped me. I figured I was due a "yelling at" as the classroom was beginning to smell like the elephant house at the zoo.

But she didn't.

She just said, " Let me know anytime you need to use the restroom."

I held in the tears. I wasn't even going to let a little out.

The Fix

True...seriously.

As a kid, I was always on the quest for candy. Not a normal desire like most children, but one of a junkie in his 2nd day of recovery.

I was in 2nd grade at the time and hadn't scored a "fix" in a day or so. Mom and dad were dried out and I'd shaken my sister down too many times. I needed something....anything.

I saw my best friend was home across the street. This girl bogarted all her candy. Sometimes for years. But I was in no position to be choosy. If sugar wasn't in my system by the end of the day, there's no telling what I would do. Even my parents seemed relieved when I left. It had been a rough couple days.

I made my way over to her house and pounded on the door. This was no time for niceties. Her mother opened the door.

"Hi, are you......"
"Yeah, yeah, is Chrissy here?"
"She sure is, wou...."

I was already in her room.

"Chrissy, let me have 'em"
"What?"
"That box of Peeps you have in your dresser drawer, hand 'em over. I'm dyin' here"
"But they're so old, are you...."

The stale, yellow marshmallow ball was already in my mouth.

It was already taking effect. I wasn't shaking anymore. A calm was coming over me. But this fix would have a price.

Now I prided myself on my candy eating abilities. There wasn't a taffy I couldn't chew, a jawbreaker I couldn't crush, a wax soda flavor I wouldn't try. But this Peep was going to be trouble.......yes, it was going to be a challenge. A challenge I was easily in the mood for.

It must have been in my mouth for over a minute and still was not breaking apart. Unusual for a "fresh from the Easter basket" Peep, but not so from one that had dehydrated slowly over three years in a drawer. My molars ground, my incisors dug, but still it was a hard ball.

Out of nowhere, and certainly not by my choice my throat did an involuntary swallow. No...NO....NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! But it was too late.....it was stuck. Mid-throat.

I turned in fear to my friend who was staring at the yellow goo dripping from my chin.

"Are you okay?"
I shook my head.
She pounded on my back with her small , nail bitten hands.
Nothing.
I saw my life flash before me. Oh, why? Why? Why hadn't I just asked her for the orange tic-tacs her mother had given her last year? Why did I have to be so greedy?

Suddenly, I felt a harder pound on my back. The Peep flew out of my mouth and bounced onto her Holly Hobbie rug.

I looked up at her from my kneeling position. I knew what I looked like, it was obvious. She didn't say a word but looked over at the opened dresser drawer. We needed no words. I took the plastic case holding the three tic-tacs and walked home.

Loosen his pants immediately!!!

True.....seriously.

Back in the late 90's I was involved in a mystery dinner theatre production. I didn't have enough going on in my life. I suppose I thought that dressing up like a "crazy woman" in a play that performed at a steakhouse would give me some purpose. I think there was a free meal involved, which at the time was probably purpose enough.

This steakhouse was indeed interesting. I can only imagine that the decorators involved in creating the ambience in this restaurant said things like "Absolutely.....wicker butterflies are a MUST with that country heart- shaped shelf" and " No.....we need mooooooore fake burgundy and blue roses.....theres not enough on the walls and tablecloths...we must put them on the tables and restroom counters too!"

But, it had opened its doors to this theatre group who had been playing there for a couple of years. We were allowed to use the "banquet room" for our performances. I use the words "banquet room" loosely because although it was a large room for banquets, I can only imagine that anyone paying for a meal and entertainment in that room would have probably needed some depression counseling the next day. The flourescent lights used to light the room gave off such an unusual glow; it made everyone's face look ghastly gray. When the room filled with people, you could swear their faces were cut out of a newspaper picture. But again, this was a space in which to perform and as any actor knows, that can be in short supply.

And so many a Friday night was spent performing in the morgue- like atmosphere.

One night, however,was particularly memorable..... and disturbing.

Now, if you are a conneissueur of fine theatre like that staged at a steakhouse, you probably are familiar with the "mystery dinner theatre" format. If not, heres a basic outline:


First course is served (in this case, by the actors....how classssssyyy!)
1st act
Entree served once again by free labor.
2nd act
Dessert....yeah.you guessed it..it didn't walk out by itself.
3rd act

Okay, so thats how it played out most nights. Except this one.

We all were in charge of serving two tables. I happened to get the table that I believe was probably booked by the AARP. These jovial seniors were having a doozy of a time. Laughing at all the cheesy one- liners in the show, giggling at jokes said around the table by the various old timers, and guffawing hysterically at the clever things I would say as I lay down the various food items.

As this was a murder mystery, the "whodunnit" would be revealed in the 3rd act. Then everyone would laugh uncontrollably, and leave (some running, as the salad usually appeared to be "fizzing").

We were just finishing serving the desserts, when one of the old-timers (who been quite "randy" most of the night, the dickens!) got up from the table and faced me. He had an odd look on his face which I just figured was the half -cooked entree settling in. But he started to do something a little more strange. What looked like a classic "go-go shimmy" he was using to impress his wrinkled date, suddenly became more of a collapsing motion witnessed in teenage raves.

I grabbed his hands and being my "freakishly strong"self, was able to lower this larger man to the ground. He was grabbing his chest so I immediately thought "HEART ATTACK!".

I knew this was not the time for me to be a hero, especially in the bad wig I was wearing. I yelled "Its an emergency, call 911!!!!"

But....no.... one .....moved. The sound of clinging forks gooing through stale chocolate cake could be heard through the room. A couple of people glanced over and nudged their friends next to them....smiling.

What the? Why is...? OHMYGOD! They think its part of the show!

"This is NOT the show. This man is having a heart attack!!!!!! Do we have a nurse, or doctor?!!!!Someone please call 911!!"

Again, it seemed as though people were still surveying the situation....maybe making sure they weren't going to be involved in some bad...sick....totally inappropriate prank. And I believe some people still had some chocolate cake to gum down.

I couldn't wait anymore. Like a runner in a 50 yard dash, I raced through the annuls of my mind to remember anything about the CPR training I took in high school......15 years before.

But I could only remember one thing. Just one thing. One thing that haunts me to this day.

Now, I could have dreamt it once. I could have misinterpreted it when I heard it. BUT- I seemed to recall a step in the CPR process in which you were supposed to ...um...uh..... loosen the person's belt and pants. Yes- that's all I could recall in that terrifying moment being played out in a room with carpet smelling of garlic bread and spilled ranch dressing.

So that's what I did.

I opened the buckle on the man's belt, unfastened the button to his pants, and proceeded to unzip his pants. Thankfully, before I could inflict anymore humiliation on this poor man, someone in the audience yelled out that they were a doctor. Another a nurse. And I kid you not, another was a paramedic with his bag in the car.

I took a step back, only to notice that the entire cast that I thought may have been trying to get help, were standing there too. Staring at me. Watching me. Some looked puzzled. Some look horrified. I believe there was a digusted look too. And truly, I didn't know why.

I had really thought that I had done the "first stage" crucial to CPR. Saved a life. Made a name for myself. Showed the world that when trouble presented itself, I could take care of things.
But that wasn't going to be the case. Far from it. I would not being appearing in the Reader's Digest "Unsung Heroes" issue that year.

As the situation unfolded, I found out that the man was not having a heart attack, but a seizure. I then was informed he was on a "first date" with his lady friend. And last but not excruciatingly least, I did not have one ally in the school of the "loosened pants" technique.

The audience was ushered out a back door, stumbling over the the filthy crates that probably had held their rolls or meat, depending on the cook. I don't even think we revealed "whodunnit". But no one seemed to care. They had a better story now to share with their friends.

The show ran a couple of more times. And then like all good steakhouse performances, finally had to shut its doors to make way for another stale mystery show. But I will never forget that man. And hopefully he remembers me in a helping way.....unless he had a heart attack when he found out what I did.

I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up!

True....

Last week I came home from a Thanksgiving dinner at my friend's house. I don't know what I had eaten/drank but I suddenly was in what I will call my "curious mode".

In the past, my curious mode has caused me to try things like flying by flapping my arms off some very high stairs, shave with a straight razor, and rub poison ivy on my arm to see if it would itch. To my defense, I was under the age of 10 when I tried those things.

But I'm 38 now, and the curiousity still continues.

My question that day to myself when I walked in my front door....."What would my dogs do if I had a heartattack here in the house?". Of course, I knew I could test this theory as my husband was visiting his relatives for the holiday.

So the actress that lives deep inside me came alive. I greeted my dogs and then grabbed my chest, fell into the chair and slid down to the floor.

And here is what happened next, or the best I could tell from my "just barely open but still want to see" eyes:

My border collie,Mike, walks over with his Kong and puts it next to my head.
He starts licking my face.
Good....he's trying to wake me....
He walks out to the kitchen to get a drink.
Sal, the smaller terrier dog walks over and sits next to my head.
I am perfectly still.
Mike is still drinking.
Mike comes out of the kitchen and grabs the Kong next to my head and prances around with it.
Sal goes to play with him.
Okay...its only been 3 minutes....I could still be alive.
Mike comes back over and sits next to my head.
Then he lays down next to me, parallel to my body.
He starts thumping his tail because my head is to the side, facing him, and he thinks I am looking at him.....I'm really trying hard to keep my eyes closed and still be able to see.
He takes a big sigh and lays there.
Sal lays down behind me.
Now, at this point I'm wondering what I am expecting these poor animals to do? Run next door and tell a neighbor? Dial 911? Begin CPR?.....
Mike sits up.
He stares at me.
He goes and lays down on the carpet about 5 feet away.
I wait. Silence. And wait. Nothing. I know at this point I would be cold and stiff. But I decide to turn on the drama.
"Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, heelllpppppp me....." I groan.
Mike gets up and licks my hand.
Sal gets up and sits closer next to me.
"Helllllpppppppp meeeeeeee"....I groan.
Maybe I was wishing the dogs would figure a way to open the door......or bark out the window.... or form their skinny legs into a makeshift gurney and carry me to my bed.
"Okay, enough" I say and sit up.

They seemed happy I "came to".

I would wager I probably was the only person in the world at that moment testing the emergency capabilities of my dogs. At least the only one above the age of 10.

Boat in Distress!

TRUE STORY...seriously

Setting: 1983, Small lake in Missouri

Characters:
Me: 15 years old...totally self-conscious, prone to panic attacks and bouts of diarrhea from unnecessary public attention, mad because I'm out on a goofy boat instead of at home

My dad: Lacks the ability to switch into "public" and "private" mode at appropriate times, eccentric, not real agile.

The boat: A blow-up motorized boat similar to the kind Jacque Cousteau used in his shows. Yeah...that kind.

We arrive at the lake very early in the morning. The sun is just rising. We are waiting in a LONG line of boats to use the boat ramp. Except we're different.

Our boat is still IN our car, not on a trailer like everyone elses. And....it still needs to be blown up.

Finally its our turn to use the boat ramp to launch. Launch: v: to slide into the water. But what is this? We cannot lauch (slide into the water)....our boat is still in the bag! So while the 15 boats ahead of us took maybe 5 minutes each to dump and "launch"....the 15 boats behind us will not be so lucky ....no, this will not be THEIR day!

But....they will get to enjoy the humiliation and spectacle my father and I will entertain them with in the moments that follow.

"Grab the foot pump!"
"Huh? Foot pump? You don't have a battery one?"
"Hell no..foot pump works better....grab it!"

Gulp. 16....no 17 cars now behind us.

"Here it is...Here it is!", I yell running from the car.

"Great......unfold the boat and give me some space...this going to take a while."

Gulp....21 cars behind us. 5 cars have people opening their doors. My stomach makes a gurgling sound.

"So dad...this will take like....10 minutes maybe?"

"Hell no....more like 20-25...shhhhh!....I don't want to use my energy talking!" Stomp!pump!Stomp! Pump!........

I don't turn around again. I can hear car doors shutting. I hear the people talking. I try and will myself to turn into one of the pieces of grass next to the lake. Or a rock. Anything... but me...

My dads face is turning bright red...not from embarrassment...but from the exhertion.

"Want me to help?" Please say yes. Please. With the amount of adrenalin coercing through my body at this moment, I could have that sucker blown up in 10 seconds.

"Hell no...you're a girl!" he sputters. He's now violet and sweat is dripping off his forehead and onto his maroon windbreaker.

After what seemed like...oh I don't know.....4 1/2 hours........the boat was finally done. He just needs to move the car and oh.....would I sit with the boat?

"Uh sure". I sneak a peak at what looks like a line that could replace any traffic jam in L.A.

As he moves his car, the next car pulls down the ramp. The driver gives me a disgusted look as I swallow the bile rising in my throat. I give a sick smile and look to see if my dad is making his way back. He is. At...a...very.....leisurely....pace. Almighty Isis....change me to the form of a fish.

"Okay honey, you ready"

I say nothing as I climb to the front of the boat.....sorry...bounce to front of the boat. I crouch down like a lowrider into the rubber smelling vessel. My dad sits in back next to the small engine that the boat is equipped with.

"Here we go!" he shouts.

Thank God.

The engine hums its little Jacque Cousteau sound. I turn back and look at my dad. And catch a glimpse of the boat dock. Seems quite a few people have gone down to the dock to watch us depart. Some are waving. I wave back. Some are really waving. I wave again. And turn around.

"DADDDDDD!!!!!!!"
"What???"
"We are heading towards those stumps!" Sharp, pointy, boat- exploding stumps!
"Okay, okay...shhhhhh! I got it!"
"Dad, were almost on one!"
"I got it, I got it...the engine isn't letting me steer"!

He lets go of the engine lever and puts his hand out to brace the impact of the boat hitting the first stump. BUMP! The boat hits it. BUMP! The boats hits another. Its like a surreal game of bumper cars. Only I'm thinking, if the boat explodes will we be carried in the air, back and forth, like a cartoon all over the lake?

Dad reaches for another stump.
"Oh *&#@!"

What happens next is permanently burned into my brain. Please try and follow the next sequence of events. True events. Events that could only be seen in a "Three Stooges" show.

My dad had blurted this expletive because his glasses had fallen off his post-sweaty face and into the water. As he reaches to grab them....and yes...this did happen in slow motion......he falls into the water. I am now trying to see him AND keep the boat from now popping in what looks like a stump festival. I also catch a glimpse of the boat dock. Wha? It seems that in all the stump drama, I didn't realize we were so close to the dock still. In fact, I could easily count the now 50 people watching this slapstick comedy.

My dad emerges from the surface, sputtering and holding his glasses like he has just found a golden medallion.

"I got 'em!....I got the boat line too!"

Now what my father shouts out next caused every bit of my stomach acid to run through my bowels like a waterslide......

"BOAT IN DISTRESS! BOAT IN DISTRESS! BOAT IN DISTRESS!"

No one moves on the boat dock. And why, you ask?

We...are...in...3 feet ....of water!!!!!!!

I tell my dad to stand up as "kneel- walking" through water will only stretch out this torture.

He stands up and pulls me in the boat to the crowded lauching dock. I don't really remember what happened next. Its all a nauseating blur that my brain and bowels blocked out.

Blowing up the boat: 30 minutes
Boat ride: 5 minutes
Therapy: A lifetime