An Airport Run, Candy Cane Lane & A Fender Bender~

2:40 p.m. - I stomped out to the "Hot Tamale" (a.k.a - my red car that is nearly on its last legs but I am too cheap to buy a new one).  A fine time awaits me on an airport run to pick up a colleague who was flying back into town after a weekend in sunny San Diego.  I piloted the red rig to Sea-Tac to meet my bouncy colleague who was ramped up and ready to grab a bite.  So, we scooted over to The Cheesecake Factory for some grub and a de-brief of the trip.  We took cheesecake slices to go, of course.

The afternoon was young and my colleage suggested we hit IKEA since we were in that part of town.  OK by me.  I like to look at the Scandinavian wares with wordless directions for how to assemble anything you buy there.

6:30 p.m. As we careen out of the IKEA parking lot and head north on Interstate 5 my colleage said, "Hey, have you been to Candy Cane Lane?"  I haven't ever been. Candy Cane Lane is one circle drive in Seattle where each house rigs up their lawn with oodles of lights, signs, blow up characters, etc. to celebrate the holiday season.  You can throw a few cans of non-perishable goods in a box at the end of the lane as a thank you.  Since we were sans any canned goods, we took the tour for free.

7:05 p.m. As we waited in what felt like a nine mile long line of cars waiting to hit candy Cane Lane I suggested we pop open the cheesecake containers and have a light snack while we crawl along waiting to enter the lane.  We did just that.  Mouth fulls of cheesecake and whip cream are just what you need to get sugared up before a trip down Candy Cane Lane.  We were about half way through the slices when it happened.  Ding- Dong - Bam - The car behind us ran into the Hot Tamale.  This has happened to me before and I am getting used to people running into the car.  My colleague said, "Do you want me to act like my neck is injured?"  We both laughed and I declined the thoughtful invitation. We pulled over and hopped out to have what turned out to be an entertaining and slightly concerning experience.

The white car behind me that left its calling card on my red bumper came to a stop and out hopped the driver.  Rumor has it that everyone has a twin out there in the world.  This guy was the twin of Charles Manson.  I kid you not.

After ensuring we were all OK he said, "Well there is no damage."  The damage was minimal.  So, I did find it as my civic duty to point out the scrapes on the red bumper to ensure that he realized his car had given my car a kiss. "Oh," Charles Manson replied.  I asked if he had a piece of paper so we could exchange information.  He scurried back to the car and came back with a book and opened it to the first page.  I asked, "Can I rip this page out?"
"Yeah, I guess." - I wondered what he expected me to do?  Make a photo copy here on the side of the road of whatever I wrote down on the first page of his book.

As I recorded his Driver license info. I asked if he had an insurance card. He produced a card from USAA Insurance company that was expired.  I shared this info with him and he dug around some more in the car and produced three more insurance cards that were also all expired.  He proclaimed, "I am current on my insurance.  I always pay, man.  Don't worry."  OK, I wasn't too worried until my colleague got out of the car and stomped back to give him the evil eye.  I appreciated that.

Charles Manson proceeded to tell us that his girlfriend has just dumped him and that it had been a really bad day.  He lives a mere block from where we bumped into each other, though his license gave a Tacoma, Washington address.  He then laid the most interesting news of all on us.  "This is the second fender bender I have had today."  Yes, you read that correctly.  Word of advice: If you have a series of fender benders in one day it is advisable not to tell the next person you bump into that they are not the first of the day.  It is sort of like being told by a girlfriend that you aren't the only one. 

He went on,  " The lady I ran into earlier said it was OK since there was no damage.  Can you please, please, please not call my insurance company.  I am getting to the age where my rates are supposed to drop."  Now, here we stood, Charles Manson, my colleague and I on the side of Ravenna Blvd. with a mere two hundred automobiles in line next to us dumping exhaust in our faces waiting for their turn down Candy Cane Lane.  I wanted to think clearly, but the exhaust was fogging my thinking.  We were at a crossroads of Ethical Dilemma and Sock it to Him.  So, I repleid, "How about I find out how much this will cost to repair and you can just pay it yourself and we don't have to go through insurance."  Charles Manson thought that was a splendid idea.

Thinking this was ready to be wrapped up I ripped the page out of the book he game me and closed the cover.  The book title was "ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS".  I am all for people getting a grip on their addictions.  I thought for a moment how nice it was for Charles Manson to be getting the help he needed. My colleague caught a glimpse of the cover of the book and her face told a horrible story.  She asked him, "Have you been drinking?" - I cringed with fear that this would turn into a street brawl on Candy cane Lane, but had an ever dying curiosity to know the answer to this question myself.  (More props for my colleague.)

"No! No!  I am clean and sober.  I am clean and sober.  My insurance rates are going to go up.  Can I just give you my car.  It is a piece of crap, but it is an offer."  Ummmm, give us your car?  Why? Because you bumped into the Hot Tamale? - I have one hunk of junk. I don't want another.  This is the first point that I realized something is amiss here with Charlie. We don't simply offer our car to people we bump into.  This isn't the 1800's where you barter.  I declined the offer and said I would give him a call and let him know how much it costs to repair.  He waltzed back to the white heap and got back in the line to Candy Cane Lane.

It was an eventful evening and one that made me appreciate having my rock solid colleague with me.  She gets a shout out- Always calm under pressure.  Thanks, Heidi!

Watercolor Bonanza

It was an ordinary Thursday in Kindergarten.  The five and six year olds assigned to my tutelage bounded in the door at 9:00 a.m. ready to crank out the rigor!  I was in good spirits, better than usual, which lead me to believe that it would be a fantastic morning of “shaping” lives.

We soared into the first activity of the morning….Art!  (My favorite)  The project taught the budding artists about how to show depth in a two-dimensional drawing.  So, we were off!  The kids were armed with Sharpie ™ markers to draw the outline of their pictures.  The hum in the room was remarkable.  I stood back for a few seconds and took note of how every one of the twenty-five Kindergarten learners were actively engaged.  This rarely happens.  Typically you have at least one child who is whoopin’ it up with a peer by trying to antagonize a table-mate or spinning around on their chair.  Neither was the case at this moment in time.  I marveled at how independent this crew was and smiled. It’s only mid-December and these five and six year olds are whipped into shape.  They are independent and can handle multiple step directions, or so it seemed.

I am not sure what time things turned sour.  If memory serves me correctly it must have been around 10:13 a.m.  It was as if the water color painting God’s had teamed up to pay me back for all of the times I had misbehaved as a child.  I looked over to the sink and saw one of my charges holding a bowl of water over his head and pouring it down into the sink.  We literally had a waterfall as the water splashed toward the sink, mostly missing the basin and splashing on the counter.  Water then proceeded to pour down the front of the cabinets.  It may have gone un-noticed by me, the supposed teacher of this group, had the youngster not been howling with laughter.  Disappointed doesn’t even begin to express how I felt given that we had just come off of the “please keep the water in the sink when you pour out your bowl” speech. Just as I took a step in the direction of the sink I heard a ruckus from the other side of the room.

I did an about face and looked at the students who sit at the basketball table.  (All of the tables in the room are labeled by sport. Basketball, Baseball, Football, Soccer and Refs.) A second Kindergarten child was smashing her paint brush deep into the tray of watercolors and laughing with glee as the paint splattered out with the velocity of your typical projective vomit experience.  She had just re-loaded her brush with water and slammed it into the red paint tray. Red paint splattered on the table, the girl’s paper, her shirt and on the paper of those seated nearest to her.  This caused a chain reaction of revolt from those who now had red droplets of paint on their projects. “Stop it!”  “HEY!” and a host of other reactive statements were being shouted from her tablemates.  I managed to get there just in the nick of time before blue was added to the rainbow shower of drops being projected across the basketball table.

It got worse.  Just as I am confident that I am losing my touch as I near forty years old I happen to catch a boy out of my peripheral vision.  What was he doing?  I can’t be for sure, but it seemed he was a Bloodhound.  He had his nose to the ground while he was on all fours with his rear high up in the air.  He looked to be hot on the trail of some scent.  I heard one of his tablemates exclaim, “He’s a dog!  He’s a dog!”  I was glad that there was at least one other person in the room who had come to the same conclusion about this behavior.

When Kindergarten falls apart like this I find myself taking back control, reeling them in and bringing the circus to a halt to “encourage” folks to step back into line.  This is known as a “Come to Jesus” speech. Typically it involves the teacher (me) clearly laying out what went wrong and what I can do to help folks re-align with “how we do things here.”  The teacher paints such a clear picture of how unpleasant it will be if you don’t “come to Jesus” that you quickly see that there are no other options but to do just that.

There is never a dull moment…

Spasm & Reflection

Four days ago my spine went out of alignment.  This is nothing new for me.  It seems to happen once or twice a year when I get overly confident on the limits of what my body can lift, do, or perform.  So, for the past three days the pain has intensified.  I have tried nearly every position known to man to try and get comfortable.  I have sat cross legged on the floor with my back against the wall.  I have laid flat on my back on the hard wood floor in the kitchen staring up at the recessed lighting and wondered why the builder of my house chose to install the can lights asymmetrical in the ceiling.  (Disappointing to discover this five years after the house was built.)  I also noticed a few cob webs, but they only serve as a reminder about how much I don’t like cleaning.  I have laid on my back with both knees brought up to my chest for cycles of three minutes up and two minutes down over the course of an hour. I have lain on top of a swimming pool noodle on my bedroom floor hoping to relieve the pain.  I learned this trick from a physical therapist a number of years ago.  Her claim is that this noodle provides enough resistance to your spine so that your shoulders will fall back to touch the floor, thus stretching your core. I always hope it works, but end up feeling like I am five because I start rolling back and forth on the noodle until the spasms are so intense I howl out in pain.  Laying and being still has never been one of my strong suits.

Last night I feverishly searched the Internet while lying on my stomach on the floor propping my head up with one hand in an effort to “stretch” my spine.  I was looking for any video, article or suggestion for how to alleviate the intense spasms and the sciatica that has joined the intense spasms that jolt through my body like 240 volts of electricity.  I found an interesting technique which didn’t seem to come with any endorsement from a physician.  I threw caution to the wind and tried it out anyway.  It calls for you to get into an empty bathtub and slowly move your back up and down the edge of the bathtub.  It looked twice as strange it sounds.  I didn’t know if you were supposed to have your clothes on or off.  So, I opted for on since there wasn’t any water in the tub. Why would I need to disrobe? Getting into the tub was a fifteen minute expedition.  Raising your leg high enough to get over the edge of the tub sent waves of spasms throughout my back.  I howled some more with the hopes that noise will somehow lessen the pain. It doesn’t.

After the less than miraculous tub experience I realize how thirsty I am.  So, I slide down the stairs on my bum step by step.  I don’t recommend this on hard wood steps, sans carpet. I arrived on the main floor of my house and rustled up a glass- staring out the window as I pour a glass of cranberry juice.  Refreshing!  The spasms began and I took the cue to lay down on the floor again.  I stared up at the ceiling for who knows how long watching the smoke detector blink every few seconds.  I wondered if my dragon breath could set the alarm off if I blew upward hard enough to send the fire-like breath upward to the sensor.  It did not.

So, in between all of my efforts to quiet the physical pain I am forced to be here with my thoughts.  Driving has been out of the question because getting in and out of the car would require an act by Houdini.  Here I am, stuck at home.  I’ve pondered a lot of things this weekend.  I can’t busy myself enough to stop the flow of thoughts I have had the past three days.  With reluctance I’ve worked on answering some questions that I typically manage to push aside when I have the freedom of easy mobility.  You know, things along the lines of “What really matters to you in life?” and “Where are you going?  What goals do you have?” – None of those questions should be asked when you have nothing but time on your hands. Trust me. You’ll end up hating yourself.

After three days I am confident of these things… The cob webs need to be knocked down in the kitchen, the hard wood steps in my house are not comfortable to slide down on and I am sure that nobody in the world has ever realigned their spine using the edge of the bathtub.   The light in the smoke detectors in my house blink 8 times per minute and they truly must only detect smoke, not dragon breath.

Looking forward to joining the work world again tomorrow provided the Motrin and heat pads will get me through!  Here’s to personal reflection time.  Do whatever you can to avoid it.  J

Maybe I Should Do Something Nice For Someone?

God only knows why I think I can achieve a state of physical fitness and good health.  I have yet to achieve such a state in my thirty-nine plus years on Earth.  Yet, for the last seven months I have stomped into the fitness center close to my home in an effort to achieve this goal.

I waltzed into the center this afternoon and hopped on the treadmill.  This part has become routine.  I flip the channels on the connected TV, punch the wide range of hieroglyphic picture buttons and await the magic of when the treadmill begins to move.  Often times it tips backwards to provide a more rigorous workout with an incline.  Those aren’t my favorite runs when this giant contraption of metal, plastic and hieroglyphics tips backwards, but I am dealing with it as I can’t quite figure out how to make the thing operate with a more level plane.  Of course I could ask someone for help, but at the age of nearly forty I figure I should be able to figure this stuff out.  Seven months into this quest I still haven’t managed to master the buttons.  All in good time, right?

After my run I stomped over to the weight machine and free weight area.  This is where the real show begins.  I weave between the muscle heads and yoga girls to take my turn at a variety of machines, the likes of which remind me of some space-age looking contraption that could transform into a robot at any second.  I am convinced that my carefree operation of these machines brings much amusement for the other gym goers.  Am I a gym-goer?  I am not sure I can technically fall into that category as my time there is spent attempting to look like I know what I am doing, but none the less I am there, I go there. So, maybe I am a gym-goer.

This afternoon had plenty of humor evoking moments.  Take for example my time on the leg press machine.  I hurl myself aboard the contraption, select the weight and heave my body backwards to move the weight off of the floor.  Audible sounds of exerted energy fill the air and ears of those around me. – It is on the first set and eighth repetition that I feel it happening.  My body temperature rises instantly.  I begin to sweat profusely.  Then it is confirmed with the narrowing of my field of vision.  I am on the verge of passing out.  It is by some stroke of luck that I manage to throw my self off of this machine and onto the floor.  By now I am crawling to the pillar in the middle of the area so I can lean against the thing and put my head between my knees in a weak attempt to regain my faculties.  Sweat is running down my face, neck and back.  At least I look like I have been working out hard.  Nobody needs to know it is the physical response to my lack of physical fitness and overdoing it.  My field of vision has nearly closed completely by this time and I see a large object moving toward me.  Yep, one of the muscle heads comes over and says, “Dude, are you gonna be alright, buddy?”  Now, I should be appreciative that someone gives a rip enough to check in on the tall, lanky, clearly ill prepared gym goer who is in a heap on the floor.  Oh, no.  Instead I am embarrassed and muster a thumbs up sign and say, “Oh, yeah, I’m cool here.” – I’m cool here?  Who says that? – Apparently I do.  The guy stood there for a minute.  It is at this time that a cute yoga girl slid over to check on the goings on.  Maybe she is his girlfriend.  I think they look like a good couple, but I am taken off guard by this growing group of gym goers who is focusing on my clear inability to manage the workload.  It is only by a whim and a prayer that my tunnel vision begins to widen, my breathing slows and color comes back to my face.  The yoga/muscle head couple smiles at me and ask for assurance that I am really going to be OK.  I am.  Yet, they continue to keep a close eye on me for the rest of my time at the gym.  As I scurry through the remaining exercises I am sort of appreciative that some one- actually some two- took time to notice me in my hour of need.  Chivalry is not dead, people…. It inspired me to be on the lookout for someone else in need.  Now let’s see if I do just that.  With any luck there will be someone in need that I can pay the kindness forward to this week.

Memory Lane

I remember the time my mom, my brother, Heidi our Yellow Lab, and I drove to the Popcorn Stand in the middle of our town square.  I must have been all of ten years old.  My mom pushed the accelerator of the blue Cadillac Sedan Deville to the floor.  We all sunk into the seat backs and howled with excitement.  My mum is the WORST driver, as is evidenced by her countless fender benders.  Yet, we love the anticipation of wondering if today's adventure will result in the Cadillac having any rearranged parts.

We whizzed by the Dairy Queen - another of our favorite hot spots for a mid-summer night treat with fixed determination to get to the Popcorn Stand before they close for the evening.

My mum squeals the tires of the Cadillac around the corner of the parking entrance to the town square.  It feels like we might have been two wheeling it, but who really knows.  We flee the car and stomp up to the Popcorn Stand window.  The aroma of the freshly popped corn makes me feel like I am in the movie theater.  We all start salivating.  Rounds of snow cones and buttered popcorn are ordered for all, including Heidi our Yellow Lab.

We sat barefoot in the grass in the town square sucking down hand fulls of popcorn and snow cones.  The feeling of satisfaction overpowers us as we have beat the clock once again with my mother's crazy white knuckle driving.

Yet, as I take this walk down memory lane I smile and wish that as an adult, all these years later, I still had some sort of connection with all of the core members of our family.  I have a connection with my oldest brother who sees things similarly to the way I do when it comes to some of the members of our family.  For that I am grateful, but for an instant I wonder how the desire to be close to the other members of the family has faded away.  Though I believe it is healthy to distance yourself from some people, even if they are family, it still strikes me as odd that I feel so disconnected from some of them.  Then I am reminded that you don't owe anyone anything, even if they are a family member.  Trust, respect and unwavering love are earned, aren't they?  Or is it that they have clipped me and I am under a false illusion that I am the one who has clipped them?  Too deep of a topic to ponder now..... I need lunch.

Digital Age

A student came in from recess one day this week sobbing.  I swung into action thinking there must have been an altercation on the playground.  I was ready to take this on and seize that teachable moment to help these young learners resolve conflict by arming them with a few strategies for how to handle frustration. 

Too soon! - When I inquired as to what all the hub-bub was about I couldn't help but smile.  The child in tears managed to say the following through the sobbing.  "My cousin went to Washington D.C. and now we can't Skype."

We are living in the digital age.. How do I know this?  When a five year old is stressed out over when they are going to be able to Skype a relative you know it is for sure. :)

You Know School is Back in Session When....

You know you are back at school with Kindergarteners when….

-          You need toothpicks to keep your eyes open at 7:45 p.m. on a Tuesday night.

-          You come home with Scotch ™ tape stuck to your rear end.

-          You think a bug is climbing up your leg but look down to realize a five year old is “petting” your leg while sitting at your feet during a read-aloud.

-          You have indigestion mid-afternoon because you crammed down half of a cantaloupe, an apple, a few slices of chicken and a bottle of water for lunch in the span of 6 minutes.

A Nibble



It was the summer of 2004.  I flew back to the Midwest to see my family. (Who knows why?  The only member of my family that I like is my oldest brother. He is worth the effort, though.)  It seemed a necessary evil to go spend time with these people.  It was my duty.  I checked into my brother's house upon arrival. (The one I like).  Staying at his house is like staying at the Hyatt.  He always wants to make sure they have your favorite things on hand.  What soda do you want?  Any special snacks you prefer, etc? There are near nightly invitations to take a ride to the Dairy Queen. - Yes, thank you I will go!   I do like good hospitality and thus he wins the Gold Standard award for hosting family members.

It was July.  It was hot.  My oldest niece has been booted out of her room so I could have her bed for my stay.  I think she and my other two nieces like my visit.  They like to do risky things when I am around. (Insert - crack the lock on the bathroom door when I am in the shower and then scream, shove things under the bedroom door to rouse my attention, jump out and scare me as I come around the corner, etc.)

It must have been the second night of my stay when the following occurred.  I awoke in the morning feeling hot.  I wrote this off to the humidity and stomped to the bathroom to get ready.  What to my wondering eyes should appear?  A huge red bump on my bum!  It was the size of a quarter or so and hard like cement.  Where does such a thing come from I wondered.  Two days later it was the size of a baseball, bright red and extremely painful.  If you want to be knocked down a few pegs and humbled, this is what you do: Waltz into the emergency room and tell the agent behind the desk that you have a problem with your bum.  There must be some special training for hospital workers so that they know how to curb their laughter when people like me stumble in with a red bum.  It gets worse...

After swallowing every last shred of dignity and pride that I had by telling the intake desk personnel about my troubles I was then whisked away to a triage area.  I proceeded to tell the nurse assigned to my case the trouble.  She wanted a look.  The next level of humility happens here.  I drop my drawers and show her my bum.  It has a protruding red ball from the right cheek.  Her look of horror told me everything.  She rescinded into the hallway and rounded up a doctor.  Soon the doctor zipped in with a Sharpie in hand.  Mmm Hmmm.... You know where this is going, don't you?  Circles were drawn on my bum by the doctor while the nurse and some other people, who I assumed were emergency room personnel, looked on.  I don't mind helping the world of science and letting people examine my ailments, but there is something about having your ailment be on your bum that makes this cooperative attitude die instantly. He wanted his colleagues to see the fang marks in my bum so as to have confirmation that it was in fact a spider bite.  There was much concurring by the small crew of professionals gathered around and hunkered over my bum.  I was craning my neck as best I could to look back there behind me to see what they were seeing.  Try it. It's hard to lay on your stomach and see your own bum- You'll be surprised.

For the next four days I was to receive IV anti-biotics to fight this infection, which turned out to be a spider bite from a Brown Recluse. - Apparently some hungry Brown  Recluse slid up my boxer shorts and took a nibble of my rear end during my sleep in my niece's bed. - (I had no interest in hopping back in that bed I tell you.) - Each day the doctors and nurses would want to examine the "progress" on my backside.  They always had a Sharpie in hand and drew circles around the area as it grew larger and larger. By day three I had shown nearly every person in the hospital my bum and thought nothing of it when a new nurse or doctor would stop in to have a look.  Why not?  It's only a free show, right?  Finally the infection began to subside.  Visions of a rump-ectomy flashed through my head from time to time during these few days and wondered if such a procedure had been attempted before now.

So, when I told my brother and his wife what had happened we had to make an agreement not to tell my niece or she would never sleep in her room again.  Though we did tell her in time. 

You can imagine the number of "Spider Man" and "Spidey" names I was called for the duration of my stay.

My Mother is Rollin' Into Town

You know that feeling.  It’s a mix of dread with some sort of whimsical anticipation?  Yes, of course you do.  It is when one or both of your parents are rollin’ into town to pay you a visit.  Even though you are an adult who has lived on your own, or made your own family, for years you still find yourself reverting back to that ‘ I hope I don’t get caught” feeling from childhood.  Not that you are hiding anything or that you have done something wrong.  No, not at all.  It is just that as you have matured and experienced much in your adult life there is still an element of your mom or dad being omnipotent. Remember being a kid and getting caught doing who knows what. (Insert stealing a buck from your mom’s purse to load up on some candy at the Quik Trip, or for forging his or her signature on a letter from school that needed to be returned to the school principal, etc.) See…..You feel the memory yet?  Good.

So, my mum is rollin’ into town on Thursday of this week.  All I can think is, “Lord, give us strength.”  The flight of the bumble bee will begin Wednesday evening around 9 pm.  I will reacquaint myself with the vacuum. (God only knows where I last put it) I will do a thorough inventory of the linen closet and kitchen cabinets to be sure that I haven’t left anything in there that might be incriminating.  You know, copies of my work evaluations, letters from a long lost love or anything else that would give her any glimmer of ammunition to launch into a full on ambush of questioning.  Oh, your mum does that too?  Yes, the questions come fast and furious when a parental unit come to town.   I will wash the linens on the guest bed, which is really a futon.  (It is fun to feel like you are still in college.)  I have already bought plenty of caffeinated beverages for her.  We don’t want her any more cantankerous than necessary.  Long bouts of absence from caffeine tend to do this to people.  I will alert the neighbors that my mum is storming the city this weekend and invite them to go into lock down mode. She would surely hold them captive with her line of questioning to try and keep tabs on my “goings on” since the last time she flew across the country to visit.  It feels like only yesterday that she was here, but as I crunch the numbers I am shocked that it has been over two years.  I resign to the fact that I am due for a visit and convince myself that it is easier for her to come here than it is for me to go to the Midwest to see her. Your own turf makes it easier to tolerate your “loved” ones. Further, it is quite satisfying to leave as many lights on in my own home as I want.  This action is satisfying because I am using that tried and true strategy of passive aggressiveness to refute what my mom used to announce when coming home to a house with nearly every light burning.  “We are not supporting IE!” (IE: Iowa Electric Company) – Well, we WILL be supporting Seattle City Light this weekend!

The fury of Internet searches has begun! What can I cook up to do with her to keep the action moving and avoid as much down time as possible?  I congratulate myself that I have cooked up a full 8.5 x 11 inch sheet of paper (college ruled) with ideas.  I am good.  We will hit the ground running from the airport Thursday afternoon.  The agenda includes a casino stop, lunch in downtown, a concert in a local park and a movie. (Movies are always good because you can’t talk without getting kicked out of the theater.  That coupled with shoveling massive amounts of popcorn in your pie-hole guarantee a conversation-less evening out.) 

As I cleaned off the top of the refrigerator this afternoon to be sure she doesn’t sift through any of the last year’s paperwork up there I was thrilled to find several gift certificates. These are ones students have given me in the last year for the holidays, teacher appreciation and the end of the year gifts.  We will be going out to eat for every meal thanks to the generosity of the students who have been assigned to my tutelage.  I hope mum likes Italian.

So, as I gear up for a weekend of dodging any deep conversation with my mum I can feel my blood pressure rising and the desire to put up the emotional walls so that I can deflect any and all uncomfortable conversations that will inevitably creep in during the tightly planned, action packed weekend………Though I suppose this only reflects my own immaturity.  Wish me luck!

Casino Tournament~

I am pleased to write and inform you of my good fortune last night.  A friend of mine is in town and wanted to do some "investing".  Naturally, I agreed and took a C note with me.  I was playing, playing, playing slots.  It seemed as though there was nary a bonus round to be won last night on any of these slot machines.  I was down to less than half of my allotted gambling dollars for the evening when I heard them call my name over the loud speaker.  "Please come to the main entrance for the Slot Tournament!"  This was unprecedented, people!  Never had I been called via a loud speaker for any prizes.  So, I stomped up to the front. They verified my identity and told me to wait to the right until the 12 members who had been called had all assembled.  Naturally, you can imagine the buzz of the 11 others and myself as we discussed the excitement of being called out of ALL of the peeps at the casino at that time.  It was simply something to behold.

Then they gave us the instructions.  You sat down at the slot machine that had your name flashing on the screen.  You hit the MAX bet button repeatedly with vigor and tenacity.  There would also be balloons that came up on the screen that you had to tap with your other hand.  Each balloon you popped gave you extra points.  Whomever had the highest point score at the end of 3 minutes would be awarded $300.  2nd place was $200 and 3rd place was $100.  The other 9 contestants would leave empty handed.  You can imagine that I was longing to be a winner in 1st, 2nd or 3rd place.  After all I was down $70 and needed to re-coop my cash so I could leave and be made whole.

The game began and I was pushing the MAX BET with vigor, people!  I pounded it over and over while simultaneously popping balloons all over the screen getting these extra points!  Then my screen would flash "BIG WIN!" every now and then because of what I had rolled on the screen. (Yes, I am amazing.)  From time to time it would say "2nd place!"  "1st Place"  "3rd Place"  I surmised that this was to entice the players to play harder and with more fury.  I rose to the occasion with grace and humility. -

 The three minutes felt like a half an hour as the crowd behind the 12 contestants grew.  People were cheering, shouting. Obviously these were gestures that signified simply jealousy that they had not been called for this once in a lifetime opportunity.

Then, as quick as it started the game was over.  I sat at my slot machine and wondered how we would know who the winners were.  Then I saw a message on my screen "CONGRATULATIONS!"  There was also a live camera feed of my ugly mug on not only my screen, but every slot machine in the tournament area and on the BIG screen above the bank of slots.  Still, it is not registering in my pea sized brain what is going on here.  A woman behind me said, "You won!" and poked my shoulder.  I say, "I did? - Oh, this is fantastic!" 

Then the workers descended on me with much fan fare and "Congratulations!"  I imagined this is what it would be like to have Ed McMahon show up at your door with the prize patrol!  Then she produced a voucher for $300 and asked if I had fun playing in the tournament to which I replied, "Oh, yes great fun!  Thank you!"  I then scoobied off to find my friend who was at the Cheetah slot machine.  Apparently when he heard my name called he didn't want to uproot and come check out my master playing at the tournament! -  I stomped up to the cash cage and they cashed in my ticket for 3 fresh C notes!  We then high tailed it out of there!

It was nothing short of a miracle, people.  I tell you it was great fun!

That's all for now.... Just deciding what I will blow the $300 on.

Inquiring Minds

People have said, “You are private.”  Yes! Yes I am!  I pride myself on it for some reason.  I have mastered the skill (insert synonym: strategy) of avoidance by asking lots of questions about situations and not revealing anything about my own experience when weighing in on something with someone.  I perceive that people, friends and colleagues don’t really know much about my past, where I have been or what I have experienced except for the minuscule tidbits that I carefully expose. (No doubt I would be surprised to know what people really did know about me.  It is all about the illusion of thinking I have them all at bay.)  I like it that way. It gives the illusion of control, which is something we all need, whether we think we do or not.  The pickle is that some of us hold onto control like grim death. (Guilty)

It wasn’t until recently that I had an understanding of why it is that I maintain so much privacy.  If you are private you don’t run the risk of others getting to know you and therefore save yourself any risk of being rejected, disappointing someone else and being exposed.  It makes sense.  So, the question I was faced with a few days ago was “What is this privacy costing you?”  I didn’t like that question.  So, I pretended not to hear it.  You know that move….We all use it.

Unluckily (Is that even a word?) for me,  the counselor I see pulled her usual move and ignored what I was rambling on about to avoid the topic and reiterated her question. “What is it costing you?”  (Is she crazy, I wondered?  I don’t like to be pushed.)  I furrowed my brow with a few extra crinkles and wrinkles up there.  This is how I let her know I am not interested in exploring the topic she has laid on the table.  She just stared back at me. She has those piercing kind of eyes that are like lasers, burning holes in your skin.  It isn’t my favorite look from her.  She knows this ritual and is no longer moved to try another angle when I implement such a strategy. We sit in silence for a while, which is me maintaining the illusion of control again.  (I am good at it, if I do say so myself.) 

Then she starts on this quest to have me link experiences from the past and my childhood that would have led me to this highly sophisticated strategy of protecting myself via privacy.  I don’t like all of this “linking” today’s behavior with the past. I remember vividly feeling my heart begin to pick up the pace of beats and knew that I was being asked to venture out into the crocodile infested waters.  No thank you!  The “tick-tock” of the clock on the table next to me was drowning out the silence in the room.  That irritates me too.  So, I caved in and began to identify experiences from childhood that may have a connection to today’s rigorous strategy of maintaining privacy.  She noded, concured and pressed for more details.  Of course this is not how I like the sessions to go.  She wants every dripping detail of every moment of my life. The details of my life really aren't all that exciting and so I am compelled to know how anyone could really want to know all the ins and outs of my past.  I tell her as much and how I am a little irritated with her “need to know”.  Again, she ignores my push back and skillfully asks more detail oriented questions.  She must have gotten a “E” for Excellent in perseverance and tenacity on her report card in grade school. After I begrudgingly dole out some details I am relieved to see that the ticking time bomb clock on the table next to me indicates the session is over.  Hallelujah! I stomped out of there quicker than a jackrabbit.  “Buh, Bye.  I’ll see you next time,” flies out of my mouth as I scurry around the corner. Free at last.

So, I have made some connections from the past to the present day.  Sometimes that old saying that “Ignorance is Bliss” really is true.  Now I am faced with a new dilemma.  What does one do with these connections?  Where do you go from this place of awareness?  - The good news is I have a whole week to figure that out before I stomp back in there and have to face the “inquiring mind”.

Guilty Pleasures

Every so often you hear people talk about “guilty pleasures”.  I have been putting myself first and giving in to guilty pleasures my entire adult life.  I highly recommend it!  I have gobbled down half a flat of Krispy Kreme doughnuts in one sitting.  (Guilty, but delicious)  I have often passed up the skim milk at the market and stocked up on 2% chocolate milk.  It tastes great with Honey Nut Cheerios and the sugar buzz from this mix isn’t one to be missed.  I nap nearly every day in the summer.  Why not let the rest of the world crank out the hard work? Yet, the one guilty pleasure that stands out the most in my mind once I hit adulthood was to order dessert first before my meal when out at a restaurant.  There are two reasons why this guilty pleasure is just what the doctor ordered to keep the blues away.

1. You have earned this right as an adult.  For your entire childhood, and for some of you even during your courtship or marriage, you were told that you had to eat ALL of your dinner before you could have dessert.  This is not true. As an adult I say throw caution to the wind, people.  Order up that Crème brûlée and gobble it down before the appetizer hits the table.  You’ll be glad you did.
2. If you don’t order dessert first it is likely you won’t have room for it after the meal and who doesn’t want to imbibe a delicious piece of Vanilla Bean Cheesesecake and suck it down like water? Not me. Extra whipped cream, please.

Try it.  You’ll be glad you did.  Once you get past the second look from the server and sometimes your table mates, you will be a trend setter.  We can turn this convoluted and long standing practice of eating dessert last around with some determination.  Who is with me?

Up Sell Me!

This has been happening forever, but for some reason I am recently more "in-tune" to it.  This thing is "up selling".  It seems like it started in the fast food industry many years ago.  At the time you could get a jumbo Coke for 25 cents more.  A bargain at even twice the price, right?  Then it included french fry up sells.  For 59 more cents you could have a jumbo Coke AND jumbo fries with the sandwich.  Why not pack on the pounds with jumbo sized sides, right?

Somewhere along the line up selling began to take over nearly every purchasing opportunity known to man.  I bought a new car some years ago and for $990 more I could have the car rust proofed and the seats stain guarded.  SOLD!

I bought a laptop at a retail store a year or so ago and was asked a minimum of four times between selecting the model and checking out if I wanted to have any number of the offered "protection plans".  They varied in price and of course had varying degrees of protection.  I managed to decline this up sell, but wondered for months afterwards if I did the right thing.

Then when cell phones became the rage it was only a mere $5 more a month for unlimited texting. For $15 more a month you could make your phone Internet accessible.  Why not? You can completely ignore every other living person in your presence so you can "check your email" and check the stock quotes and make a reservation on your mobile phone.  I gladly plunged into the world of technology savvy consumers lock, stock and barrel.  The iPhone was the start of the end for me.

When you go to the car wash you can get the "PRIMO" car wash for $4 more than the "REGULAR" car wash.  It includes an under carriage wash, which every car must have, right?

A few weeks ago I had dinner with a friend at a restaurant where the server attempted to up sell us a half a dozen times.  Did we want bottled or that nasty tap water?  Tap.  Did we want to have a delicious appetizer?  No thank you.  Did we want to have the steak that was 6 ounces larger for only $5 more?  Maybe.  Would you like to change the order from two glasses of wine to a whole bottle of wine for only $12 more?  No thank you.  Would we like to have the lobster tail added to our steak dinners for only $9 more each?  No.  (I claimed to have a seafood allergy which is a sure way to quiet the seafood up sells.)  Would we be interested in a torte for dessert?  Of course!  Would we be interested in each having one.  There was a two for $3 more special.  But of course!

Then today at the optometrist I nearly had a violent reaction when the clerk attempted to up sell me an additional 10 boxes of contacts for only $150.  10 boxes?  I can't remember a year that I have ever used 10 boxes of contact lenses, let alone 10 additional boxes at any price.

In this quest to help people save more by buying in larger quantities there is an element of panic.  More doesn't necessarily mean better.  Or does it?  I am a mass consumer.  I love to consume.  I am a sucker for any new gadget.  So, I can't proclaim to be a minimalist, but I do wonder what these subtle hints of encouragement to consume more mean.

So, why is it so irritating to have someone up sell you....repeatedly in one transaction?  Aren't employees just doing what is asked by their employer?  Aren't they encouraged to generate as much revenue for a company as possible?  Yes, I suppose that is true.  At what cost, I ask? Or is this just guilt for saying, "No."?

Contact Lens Crisis

New contact lenses feel great!  I recognize that I am odd. Yet, I do look forward to the annual eye-exam in which I stomp out of the exam with a new contact lens prescription in hand and several boxes of those magical small pieces of circular concave plastic that cling to your eyeballs.  It is a victorious feeling, I tell you! (As I write this I realize it doesn't seem like it takes much to satisfy me.)

Today was the day!  It has been 14 months since I have had an eye exam and I arrived for my eye appointment with 4 minutes to spare.  I am amazing at planning on time arrivals. If there were an Olympic Sport for such an event I could be considered athletic at something.    I had just phoned my insurance company to be sure I fully understood the realm of benefits and my eligibility.  Good news, people!  I was eligible for the full benefits in my contract.  Woot!  Woot!

Then, the girl behind the desk reached over, grabbed my contact lens high and yanked it from my hands!  She said that the doctor of optometry in this office, who replaced my former doctor, has the policy to have the patient pay for the visit up front.  Once she is reimbursed by my insurance company she will then issue me a refund check for today's services.  Come again?  I have never heard of such a thing.  Why would I have insurance if it meant I had to pay up front, wait for the insurance to pay the doctor, and then have the doctor reimburse me?  What is the world coming to?  Is the health care system in such a state of shambles that this is what medical service is coming to?  Maybe, but I quickly jumped to a few other conclusion as I processed this news out loud. 

"Is the doctor broke? Does she need money that bad that this is how she sees patients?"  Well, that wasn't the thing to say.  I was met by a dumbfounded "I can't believe you asked that." look from the girl behind the desk.  I then invited the girl behind the desk to ring up my insurance company.  "They will tell you I have a valid policy and what coverage is included."  She replied, "We have already verified your insurance."  Oh, so what is the problem here, I wondered.

Thinking all of the above was just some misunderstanding I said, "No, I have insurance.  It pays in full for these services.  There is no co-pay, pre-payment or getting reimbursed from the doctor."

The gal behind the desk sang me the "This is the new doctor's policy" speech, which only irritated me more.  So, being as mature as I am I simply said, "Oh, I'll go somewhere else." and with that I turned and headed for the door.

Now, maturity is something I lack.  If you know me then this is no news flash to you.  However, I have to pause here and say how good it felt to stand up for something.  What I was standing up for is still not clear to me.  Was I standing up for the principal of not letting someone else put their needs ahead of mine?  Was I standing up against someone I quickly perceived to be taking advantage of the situation?  I mean, who is to say that a refund check would ever come from this doctor once she was reimbursed by the insurance company?

So, here I am penning this thinking "I showed her!" when in the back of my mind I am poking myself because now I need to round up a new doctor of optometry. 

I keep telling myself that my own stupidity isn't as bad as it comes across.  Yet, as I read this I wonder who I am fooling...

Crash 'Em, Smash 'Em

When I first got out of college I had a Volkswagen Fox, Wolfsburg Edition.  The Wolfsburg Edition was a fancy way of saying that Volkswagen had “fancied” up a regular VW with some shinier emblems and Air Conditioning.  Nonetheless, I was quite satisfied with this car, though I stood 6 feet five inches tall with no head room in the car I managed to drive that car until the end.  (My head was about two millimeters away from the roof when I drove it.  It looked like a clown car when I was inside.)

At that time in my life I had a continual hankering for Wendy’s Old Fashioned Hamburgers and their baked potatoes.  Who knows why?  It wasn’t uncommon to make a midnight run to Wendy’s for these things.  When you are 22 you can eat anything and not regret it.  So, I did.

A new Wendy’s had opened up not too far from where I lived.  It was so new, in fact, that they hadn’t painted the lines on the pavement for parking spaces nor had they painted the curbs yellow.  Ummm Hmmm… You can see where this is headed, can’t you?

I zipped through the Pick Up Window to get my sustenance.  Immediately as I pulled away from the window I reached in the bag for a hand full of fries, released the clutch, turned and shifted, all in one fell swoop (Driving is not a strong suit of mine and driving a manual transmission only exacerbates the problem.) I was barely in second gear when the entire car lurched forward, fries and sandwich flew to the floor and my giant Coke was now taking the shape of a puddle on the passenger side seat.  Well, this was alarming, but nothing that was insurmountable, or so I thought.  There were loud noises similar to what it must sound like when a car goes into the crusher at the junk yard.  As luck would have it, I had managed to get the Wolfsburg Edition hung up on a curb in the middle of the parking lot.  Don’t ask me how.  The front end was up and the back end was down. 

Every attempt to get the car off of the curb was useless.  I had to get out of the car and survey the damage. It wasn’t good.  The bottom of the car was on the curb, and the wheels in the front had some how managed to be airborne and not in contact with the surface beneath it.  Hmmm. What to do?  I sat there for a minute and then stomped inside Wendy’s.  This was before cell phones were all the rage.  I asked to use their phone and I rung up my mother.  Her whole life has been one experience in terror after another and I was sure she would know what to do. 

While I waited for my mum to arrive I sat in the car eating what was left of the hamburger, which I had careful re-assembled.  The manager of the Wendy's walked out to the car and tapped on my window.  (Insert humiliation here).  He was apologetic for there not being painted lines or curbs yet and wondered what they could do to help me with this UNfortunate situation.  I suppose their real interest was in not having this freak show in their parking lot any longer than necessary.  Who hangs their car up on the curb, sits inside of it and still finishes their meal?  I do.

Luckily it wasn't long before my crazy mother showed up. She zoomed over in her baby blue Cadillac.  What’s more?  She was wearing her bedroom slippers and a full length mink coat. Attractive.  After all, it was late at night.  We decided it would best serve our needs if she pulled the Cadillac up behind the Wolfsburg Edition and slightly accelerated just enough to push me off the curb.  This seemed like a good way to save the $50 charge for a wrecker to come and set me free.  So, I agreed.

Now, you would think that a Cadillac with a V8 would have no trouble getting the 4 cylinder Wolfsburg Edition off the curb, but I was awe struck at how unsuccessful things were turning out to be. (The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.) So, while I was waiting inside the car with the gear shift in neutral I thought I might as well salvage a few fries and began eating the ones that seemed to be resting on top of others and that were not in direct contact with the floor.  Tasty.  This smorgasbord was interrupted as I was violently thrown forward.  Mother Dearest had backed up the Caddy and stomped on her gas pedal.  Mmmm Hmmm.  Not only was the crunching sound of the cars meeting slightly alarming, so was my mother’s thinking on how this would be the best way to solve this situation.

I am pleased to say that the final “smash ‘em” trick did work and the Wolfsburg Edition was free of impairment from the curb, but it had some new damage thanks to the Caddy.  We drove both cars home and decided we wouldn’t tell too many people about this venture too soon.  Well, it’s been fifteen years now and this seems soon enough!

Fender Bender

I was awakened from a slumber by my good neighbor phoning me one afternoon last summer.  “You need to come out front.” – Now, one thing that I am sure of is that mid-day summertime naps are of utmost importance.  The invitation to leave a warm bed to come outside for whatever it was that I “needed” to be a part of fell on less than favorable ears. 

I stumbled around and found some flip flops, tumbled down the stairs and went out front.  A cargo van was parked in front of my car and broken pieces of race car red plastic was strewn around the back end of my car, which was parked on the street.  I’m not a quick study, especially when coming out of a sleepy fog…..So, I wasn’t making the connection between the cargo van and the plastic sprinkles on the street until I rounded the back end of the car and saw a swipe of white paint across the quarter panel and bumper, a dent and what was left of the tail light.  The Hot Tamale had been clipped! – (A friend named my car the Hot Tamale a number of years ago when I two-wheeled it around the corner and she saw it for the first time.)

Luckily for me, my good neighbor had been a witness to the whole incident.  The driver of the cargo van was still sitting inside the van, even after my neighbor had stomped up there to say, “Are you going to get out?  You hit that car.” or something to that effect.  I like living next to a Neighborhood Watch participant who has tenacity and a willingness to face danger head on. I live in fear, and would have probably let the guy drive off.  Thank you, neighbor!

I surmised that the damage was minimal and wasn’t too worried.  The cargo van driver stumbled out of the van.  He was unharmed and his white cargo van had a nice red stripe on the back quarter panel, thanks to the Hot Tamale. 

And so began my multi-week frustration with an automobile insurance company.  As luck would have it, there was some “question” as to whether the driver of the cargo van was currently covered under the policy.  What did that mean exactly?  Surely issuing a policy to a driver didn’t mean they “might” be covered.  They would have to do some “research”, whatever that meant, and get back to me.  After four days pass you can imagine my level of irritation is at an all time high.  Never fear, though. The Hot Tamale was drivable and I zipped all over town in that thing. 

As luck would have it, I learned that the cargo van driver was not covered by the policy via my cell phone as I was at the airport ready to board a flight to the desert to soak up the sun once again.  (It is all about R&R, people) A slight glitch in things, which were to be compounded by being 1,000 miles from home.  Apparently the cargo van driver was insured, but by another company.  More days of waiting for a response from the driver to learn who the lucky insurance company was that was about to hear from me regarding the slight fender bender.

After several phone calls with escalated tones, mostly mine, an insurance adjuster stopped by my house to examine the vehicle and write up a claim once I swooped back in from being in the desert for a week.  Good, good!  We were getting somewhere.   During this time I had been in consultation with a few of my neighbors to ascertain what their thoughts were about just pocketing the cash and leaving the car with its new signature for all of eternity.  There were mixed reviews to the proposal, but in the end I did just that.  I stuffed that check in my pocket and stomped to the bank.  Five months later I was on a plane to sunny Cancun with the cargo van driver’s insurance money.  The good news?  I can always tell which red car is mine in a parking lot.  I just look for the white swipe of paint and the smashed tail light.  See, things always work out.

Babies are a lot of WORK!

Yesterday was entertaining in Kindergarten.  - A female student plopped down next to the boy I was working with.  The conversation went like this...

Boy Student: "This is my lucky day!" (Gesturing toward the girl student) "She is my girlfriend!"

Me: "Does she know she is your girlfriend?"

Boy Student: (puzzled look on his face) "Oh! I don't know." (Now tapping the girl on the arm) "Did you know I am your girlfriend?"

Girl Student: "You mean boyfriend."

Boy Student: "Yeah, Did you know I am your boyfriend?"

Girl Student: "No. I never heard of such a thing." (Never taking her eyes off of the project she was working on and never making eye contact with her male suitor.)

Boy Student: "Oh.  Well, I am!"

Me: "What does that mean to be a girlfriend or a boyfriend?" -(I always like to do some investigative research and see what adult labels mean to young kids.)

A girl student who was passing by comments, "It means you kiss on the lips!"

Boy Student: "No!  No!  No Kissing!."

Me: "Well, what does it mean to be a boyfriend?"

Boy Student: "I don't really remember."

 A second Boy Student who was nearby comments,  "You have to go on dates and stuff."      (It was the "and stuff" that I personally was most curious about.)

Me: "What does that mean?"

Second Boy: "They go out to dinner with each other."

Me: "Oh."

The girl who breezed by earlier was back and said, "AND they go out to breakfast together and kiss each other in the lips!"  (SO much kissing talk.  Sometimes I think young kids try and throw in statements that will hopefully get a rise out of the adults, but yet they think there must be some safety to talk about such topics because the teacher is engaged in the conversation too.)

Me: (Wishing they would stop all the kissing talk because there are two sure ways to get five and six years old wound up.  One is to talk about using the bathroom and the other is kissing talk.)

The Boyfriend Student: "They get married after that!"

Me: "Why do they want to get married?" - (Trying not to project too much of my own pre-conceived notions about marriage on the kids, but I am curious... Why DO they think people want to get married...)

The Boyfriend Student: "Because they are in love."

Me: "Do you have to be in love to get married?"

The Boyfriend Student: (Thinking hard......I may have puzzled him...) "Hmmmm....No."

Me: "When can people get married?"

This question evoked lots of responses from 16 or 17 to 20's, 27 and 70's from a variety of people who were now involved in this conversation.

A Girl Student: "Yeah, once you are married you make babies."

I was grimacing and wondering why in the world I had let this conversation go on this long.  Before I could bring it to a halt I hear..."And they cry!"

Me: "Who cries?  The baby or the people who got married?"

The reply: "Everyone.  Babies are a lot of work."

And so there you have it, people.  Babies are a lot of work.

8 Days

Student: "Hey, That kid celebrates eight days. What kind of special is he?" (said while pointing to a peer at the next table over.)

I have to chuckle when a five year old says to me "Hey!" as their opener to a sentence.  Further, it cracks me up that this late in the year a student is still referring to a peer as "that kid" because they haven't committed the peer's name to memory.

I am sure the look on my face was crinkled up as I processed what I was being asked for a minute.  I answer, "Do you mean Jewish?"

Student:  "Yeah, and I know what the Jewish star looks like."

Me: I nod to acknowledge that we had success in deciphering what the student was referring to when asking "What kind of special is he?"

Student: "Look at me."

Me: (I look over)

Student: Making wildly large gestures with his hands he is pointing up and down and sideways and going on and on about triangles.  (This is his explanation and visual representation of a Star of David I assume)

Student: "Plus you know what else?  I only celebrate one."

Me: "One what?"

Student: "One day.  He does eight and I only do one."

(I assume he is just now coming to grips with his religion and only celebrating one winter holiday, Christmas, and his friend has somehow managed to find a loophole in religion that allows for eight days of celebrations. (a.k.a. - 8 days of presents)

He's Ablaze!

“86 the Chicken Fried Steak!” & “4 Top at table A-4.” –I love restaurant lingo!

 Working in a restaurant during college was one of the most entertaining jobs I’ve ever known.  If you have ever worked as a food server you know the rush that comes when your section is full, the bus person didn’t show up, one of your co-servers has come to work hung over and you are down to one coffee maker.  It is nothing short of a miracle what you can do when your resources are limited in a restaurant.  You suddenly emerge into a plate stacking/balancing wizard who whisks through the dining room with trays of food, empty glasses, towels, milkshakes, and side orders of fries, bacon and hash browns.  You pour coffee with such speed and skill that they named the dance move “The Waiter” after you.  Yes, a restaurant job can be fun.  That is, unless you work with a few unsafe clowns. 

Take into consideration the following scenario…

…I was in the break room sucking down a crispy Coca-Cola one evening while shooting the breeze with one of the chefs.  This was in the early 90’s when restaurants allowed people to smoke inside.  The chef was a smoker.  So, the break room was like a mysterious land with a haze of smoke billowing up and around those who were on break.  This particular chef was taking canned hair spray and spraying it into the open flame of his lighter.  Mmmm Hmmmm.. I worked with some very safe and intelligent people back then. Oddly enough this behavior was mild compared to other things I had witnesses.

I left the break room, walked down the hallway, around the corner through the server station and onto the dining room floor to an awaiting table of patrons.  It wasn’t long before one of the guests in the booth said, “You are on fire!”  Sure enough, I was ablaze.  The apron strings were on fire as they hung down past my rear end, which had caught the back side of my shirt on fire- creating gaping holes in my back.  Funny how I could have made it down the hall, through the server station and onto the dining room floor and not realized that I was ablaze, but I didn’t.  So, in a gesture that can only be seen as helpful as I reflect back, the guest in the booth threw his glass of water onto me to douse the flame.  There was much hubbub on the dining room floor that evening, people.  Patrons from other tables stomped over to see if the tower of inferno was now OK. I was.  The real miracle here, people, is how my head of hair didn’t become engulfed in flames.  It was the early 90’s. You may recall that people lubed up their hair with all kinds of hairspray, gels and other hair holders.  I was no different. 

Through careful research I learned that this cigarette smoking, hairspray/fire playing chef thought it might be a gas to spray the back of my uniform with hairspray and set a flame to it with his lighter.  – Not too terribly funny I thought as I stood there, uniform smoldering, but alas he gets an A for effort.  Back then I didn’t assert myself as much as I do now, which I know is going to be a huge shock to those of you who know me- the one who ALWAYS demands what I want nowadays.  Instead I was granted permission to leave work early.  After all, my uniform was newly redesigned and my backless shirt top didn’t seem to so appropriate in a family dining restaurant. 

It’s funny how you romanticize past jobs, past loves, your first apartment, etc. when you are feeling overwhelmed with your current job, love, house, or (insert whatever here).  After thinking this story through I am reminded that my job isn’t so bad after all.  In fifteen years of teaching I have yet to be set on fire...