In which we use Facebook to remember what the crap happened for four months . . .

To be perfectly honest, my pregnancy was so jam-packed with major events that the little times in-between fade into some kind of sleepy, sickly blur.

We moved into Chris's parent's house while we waited for our possessions to arrive in that giant moving truck. The rental home we would be renting was cute, exactly what we needed, and, on the surface, appeared spotless. Opening the cabinets, however, revealed sticky residue, dirt, BEARD TRIMMINGS (not even kidding), and a wealth of cockroach turds.
Yes, yes, I about lost it over that last one.

From Facebook: 

• So today we started cleaning out the new rental because, even though it's pretty nice, the previous boarders didn't believe in wiping down anything.
  I'm pretty sure they were cavemen. Or college students. Same difference, right?
  Me: "Good news! The stuff you thought was mildew--not mildew! Wipes right up. .......... I hope it's not poop."
  Chris: "Yeah, I think that's roach poop."
  Me: "No no no no no no NO. Do NOT tell me that. There's no where to hide. Where could they be?"
  Chris: "In the walls."
  Me: "NO DO NOT TELL ME THAT."Chris: "Welcome to Florida."I'm declaring war. All out war, folks.

Followed by this a few weeks later . . .

• "CHRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSS!!!! KILL IT!!! KILL IT WITH FIRE!!!!! IT IS AN AGENT OF DARKNESS SEEKING REFUGE FROM THE LIGHT!!!! I can still see it, signs of it, it hasn't moved, foul demon! Chris! You have to kill it! It may have beat death, but it can't beat you! Hurry! Aaaaaaaaah!!!! It's climbing up the wall! Spawn of hell! Kill it!! KIIILLL IIIIIIIIIIT!!! Oh, thank God. Thank you! No, I won't flush it, I'm above it. You flush it. But I mean, you're above it, too, I mean--"
  "You can flush your own dang roach, woman!"
  I can't sleep now. Everywhere I look I picture them, hiding in dark corners, those wicked skinny antenna twitching, scheming, laughing at the humans who cannot defeat them.
  Stupid bathroom roach. Ruined my bedtime

Just so you know, the roaches returned with the spring rains. In Florida, it doesn't matter how clean your house is--when it rains, the roaches decide they should check-in. You know, make sure you're comfortable and happy SO THEY CAN RUIN IT ALL.
As Aragorn astride his mighty steed urged the men of Gondor to stand against the might of Mordor, so I rallied my strength and declared war on all six-legged demons who dared to invade my castle.
By, you know, begging Chris to go buy a DIY home pest control kit.
Haven't seen one since.
My kitchen, however, is still in shambles and recovering from the attack.
Your kitchen would be, too, if you found roach turds in your casserole dishes -_-

ANYWAYS . . . . 

I was pregnant, so there were, apparently, oodles of posts asking about what brand of diaper bag is best or what baby products you can't live without or how tips for trying a natural birth (you want to know how to make your page explode? Ask people about natural birth, vaccines, and politics). There were innumerable posts about puking (forgive me . . . but that was kind of my existence) and a few on weird pregnancy dreams and symptoms.

Nineteen weeks! I just barely had a bump!

From Facebook:

• Had a dream that Rick from "The Walking Dead" and I were trying to construct a safe haven in a cabin in the woods. Unfortunately, our weapons were not sharp enough and the zombies had evolved to not only speak but use tools against us. The most terrifying bit? All the zombies were former infomercial sales reps still trying to convince us to buy Shamwows for the undead .......
  I couldn't make this up if I tried.
• Dear Digestive Track:
  Stop this ridiculous nonsense.
  First off, every website, doctor, blog post, Facebook comment, TV show, and book tells me you should be back to normal by now. THEY ALL SIT ON A THRONE OF LIES. A porcelain throne of liiiiiiiiiiieeeesssssss.
  Secondly, stop telling my brain that you're starving ALL THE TIME. You are not a bottomless pit. You have limited space. I cannot possibly fit more food inside you, and yet you're sending very whiny signals to my brain that you really could for more in there. In fact, you NEED more. WHICH IS A LIE. The only place that food is going is straight to my hips, and we most certainly do not need any more of that nonsense.
  Screw it.
  Against all odds and reason, I am starving.

• "Chris, I had a dream that I gave birth in the back of a fifteen passenger van. At first, the baby wasn't breathing, but then we did like CPR and he was okay, so that was great ...... Also, he looked like a potato alien."
  "Don't you think ALL newborns look like potato aliens?"
  "Well ..... yeah .... but ours especially so. I had hopes he would eventually grow into his forehead."
  So now you know what my subconscious dreads:
  --labor in weird places
  --terrifying complications
  --large-foreheaded offspring that resembles a Mr Potato Head.

 I also ate a LOT of Chick-Fil-A Cool Chicken Wraps.
Because mama got preggo cravings, man. 

• The miniature human I'm growing only wants to eat #ChikFilA #coolchickenwraps. Seriously. As much as we achingly miss California, it's a darn good thing we moved back to the South. I've been craving these things since June, and it hasn't stopped. #babygotwrap #hangrypregnantlady

 And I was so STINKIN' happy to reach twenty weeks and be halfway done that I did this:

And then I posted it on Instagram for the ENTIRE internet to see . . . . I have no regrets.


  Aaaaaaaand shortly afterwards, we got to make this announcement:

I've gotta tell ya, seeing that little guy with his feet up by his ears flashing us his manhood, I shed a single, quiet tear.
I knew we would adore a little girl to bits and pieces, but Chris and I have always wanted boys--little mancubs to run wild and adventure with.  I've thought little boys were the coolest from the time I was seventeen and started babysitting this trio of brothers who would rearrange the furniture so they could do flips around the living room. Coolest dudes EVER.
And then we discovered we were having one of our own! Chris was proud as a peacock.

 Oh! And I was teaching!
You see, when my teacher friends in Florida discovered I was moving back, they asked me if I would be willing to teach first period tenth grade English. The fun bit? I would have some of my old seventh graders!!! While it was definitely difficult due to my overwhelming I'm-growing-a-miniature-human exhaustion, I absolutely loved it. I miss those kids like crazy.
I don't miss the grading. At all.
But I definitely miss the kids and working in a classroom.
SO MUCH.


From Facebook:

• Are we really learning ANYTHING in English II??? Oh golly, I hope so. The highlight today was discussing the potency of the wine Odysseus used to inebriate the Cyclops before stabbing him in the eye ..... which of course led to questions on other alcoholic beverages ....... because, you know, that's an all-important mystical topic of mystery to the American teenager ..... or something ..... Then, of course, they all assumed he was taking molly and not moly to avoid Circe's enchantments ..... Parents, I really am trying to be a good influence, here, I swear ..... 

 P.S. I'd like to think that we DID learn something and had fun doing it, but you'd have to ask my former students about that one.
So, really, that was pretty much life: pretty good minus the queasies.
Oh, and that time the dude at Dunkin' Donuts screwed up my order and my LIFE.
Okay, so maybe it was just my evening, but it FELT like my life.

From Facebook/Instagram:

• How to Enrage a Pregnant Woman In One Easy Step: screw up her doughnut order. I dunno, maybe it's my fault, but, previously, when ordering a dozen doughnuts, I've listed four varieties and received three of each flavor. Today, he gave me not a mix of Boston Creme, Pumpkin, Blueberry, or Glazed Cake doughnuts. Nope. He gave me ONE of each of the three good ones and NINE cake doughnuts minus the glaze ...... and I didn't notice until I was home and too hungry to care. The hubs and I have each eaten a cake doughnut out of pure desperation and bitterness. There goes my desserts for the week squint emoticon ‪#‎doughnutfail‬

DO YOU SEE THE HORROR?!?!?!
THE ABSOLUTE FIRST-WORLD ATROCITY?!?!?!
PLAIN DOUGHNUTS.
ABSURD.

Miscellany Monday

 Booty

Friday, the hubs walked into my cubicle wearing the grin of a Viking conquerer bearing loot.
"I have corn!" He announces proudly, holding the plastic bag stuffed with goodness.
Ah, the benefits of working for an agricultural company: free sweet corn.

And it was DARN GOOD CORN, thank you very much.

Saturday, I heard those words no one ever wants to hear in a salon . . .

Night Out.

Peeps, I have a recipe for awesome. It goes something like this:

1. Gather up fabulous people . . . like your fellow literary nerds so you all can discuss things like the pros and cons of Game of Thrones, new witty lit, and the mutual disgust of the Fifty Shades of Grey phenomenon (BDSM Twilight fan fic? Gross . . . on so many levels . . .beyond, you know, the pathetic attempt at writing and grammar . . . geez . . . but I digress).

2. Get Hit On. You realize your age when it's suddenly a big deal that the dude at the ticket counter tries flirting with you. Like it's a highlight of your evening.  You see, the last person to hit on me was last November . . . and he was fourteen . . . and thought I was thirteen. "So . .. you're in eighth grade, huh?" *wink
"Um, no, honey, I teach eighth grade."
"Oh . .. OH! Wow, I'm sorry!"
No, kidding.

Anyways, tonight, someone my OWN age, the first since like college, tried flirting. Ego boost? Just a little.

Something Wicked This Way Comes . . .

A week ago, I could have died.
Or at least been writhing in agony, maybe in the ER.
Could have.
But I'm not, I'm sitting here having Supernatural marathon with the hubs (The "Live Free or Twi-Hard" episode? We DIED. My gosh. Best Twilight mockery EVER), and typing, recovering from a lazy weekend to celebrate the end of the school year (more on that later).
But, anyways, last week, death came a-knocking.

For all this to make sense, however, we have to rewind a tiny bit further to the invasion that happened in my back yard.  A demonic invasion, in my personal opinion. As things became warmer, they became wetter, and the bugs flourished.
That's the thing about the woods/swamp in Florida: it's freakin' bug heaven. They spawn in bloody swarms, take what they can, and give nothing back. So, Chris comes to me one night and says, "So, um, I've been doing research on those little beetle things that keep swarming the dog poop?"
"Gross."
"Yeah, um, you're not gonna be happy."
"And why is that?"
"Well . .. they're um . . . baby German Cockroaches."
"No."
"Yeah."
"You're kidding."
"No, I'm not."
DEAR GOD!!! NUKE THE BLOODY YARD!!! I want freakin' WWII out there! I want them writhing in agony! And then I want them to look over with their beady eyes and see their relatives writhing in agony! And then I want them to die slowly and painfully! AND I WANT THEM SENT STRAIGHT BACK TO THE HELL THEY CAME FROM!!! I WANT THAT YARD NUKED, MAN!!!"

No, I'm not at all dramatic. Why do you ask?

I'm not even going to put up a link to the bloody suckers because they're just that gross. Palmetto bugs are the big roaches, my mortal enemies, but German Cockroaches . . . they're small, they're spastic, and they get in EVERYTHING. Once they're in, good luck getting them out. You might as well sign the lease over to them.
Then I had this moment where I was cursing Germany for bringing the little suckers over . . . and Chris had to explain they're not technically German. They have dark marks that look like Swastikas or something . . . I don't get close enough to look. Yes, I'm a bit of a blonde, and, yes, this only proves that cockroaches scuttled out of hell.Because, you know, they're insect Nazis.

Anyways, all that to say, weeks later Chris and his dad finally sprayed the yard.  While doing that, Chris called me onto the screened back porch. "I need you to see something."
Usually, when Chris calls me outside, it's for something fun like a frog, a lizard, a bird, or a skink. This time, it was not fun. It was a spider. A large dark, spindly spider. Something that looked like it crawled out of a horror film.  It was about the size of a quarter and black. I hadn't seen anything that truly dark--deep brown, yes, but this thing was void of color. Except for one, tiny, hourglass mark. No, that was vibrant orange.
"You see that? That's a black widow," Chris says.
No freakin' kidding.

They killed it. Chris's dad ground it to dust under his heavy boot. But it wasn't over. We had unknowingly just declared war.

Two days later, I'm grabbing our mail, and I notice movement out of the corner of my eye.  I peer into the mailbox, and see a dark, skinny spider the size of a quarter scuttling back and forth over the strands of a web that looked like it had been sent through a wood chipper. In the back of my mail box.
Just to be clear, the beast was LIVING IN MY MAILBOX.
Still, the inside of the mailbox is black, the spider, if it wasn't black was pretty darn close to it. So I send Chris a text to ask him to check out my wicked little squatter.
He did.
And, you know, before he left, he armed himself with a can of WD40 and a lighter.  Just in case.
Personally, I think it was just an excuse to play with fire, but I can't blame him. Fire goooooood.

He returned, chest thrust out and big grin.
"Was it a black widow?"
"Actually, yeah, it was. I looked in the mailbox, and didn't see anything but a weird looking web and egg sacks. Oh, and dead roaches. See? You and this thing were kindred spirits."
I didn't know whether to laugh or scowl. Frankly, I was just trying not to gag at the thought that I had been retrieving mail previously embraced by roach carcasses.
Chris continued: "Checked the back side of the mailbox, and it was COVERED in this shredded looking web. I didn't see a spider, though. Until I looked down. It was sitting at the foot of the mailbox. I killed it. Then, I took a stick, covered it in the web, and lit in on fire. They're all dead."
"The witch and its spawn? Burned to ashes, yes?"
"Yep."

You know, it only took me about two hours to have a freak out session realizing that I was four inches from a black widow bite . . .

And this is life in the Florida woods. In the words of a young, previous occupant, "We live with bugs."
No kidding.

Strange Things . . .

1. Tomorrow is the last day of school. The. Last.  DAY!!!
This means that tomorrow is my last day as a teacher.
Pros: no more papers, no more books, no more me giving dirty looks!
And no more staying up until 2:00 AM grading papers, creating quizzes, or creating lesson plans. I can go back to taking care of the house, cooking, writing, going out . . . having a life . . .  WHOO-HOO!!!
Cons: I will miss those crazy kids like mad. They are the best :]

It's bizarre to think of it really being over. You develop this rhythm, and you can't imagine it breaking. I'm used to this rush, this "OMG what else is missing from my to-do list?!" lifestyle . . . and now it will be different. I mean, I still imagine my life will be chaos . . . just not THIS chaos, this "78 students and their relations and my coworkers and my superiors are all counting on me to do this and do it NOW AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!" chaos.
Next, it will be new job chaos, house-seeking chaos . . . who knows? The baby bug may bite and then it will be the "OMG we've procreated!!!" chaos . .. then will turn into "OMG it's a kid!! A real life kid!!! AAAAAH!!" chaos.
Don't get me wrong . . . I so look forward to that chaos :]

“I suppose the best kind of spring morning is the best weather God has to offer.” ― Dodie Smith

Florida is one of those odd places where spring starts in February and moves into summer by April, at the latest May, and it will remain summertime until November.
And by "summertime" I mean sunny over 90 degrees in heavy humidity (what is this thing you call "dry heat?") that has you sweating and exhausted even making a trek from the parking lot into the mall, yes, even if you are in shape. It's oppressive, peeps.

So far, the air is just now beginning to feel hot and thick.  Our pretty 70-80 degree weather is fading fast.  I was a dunce and missed most of the pretty blossoms (we do have plants that burst into bloom in February that are vaguely reminiscent of happenings up North . . . vaguely), but managed to catch some flowers that surprised me.

 Behold the little lilies that could! They made my heart happy!
After failing to catch my dozen azalea bushes in all their blooming glory (darn it!), I wasn't go to miss these little guys :]

Other things come with spring besides the heat and the buds: the bugs. They are swarming. The cockroaches are awake again, those vile demons from hell itself.  I found one trapped in my bedroom trashcan the other night.
"Chriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis!!!!!!!"
"You need to be asleep!"
"I can't!!!"
"Why?"
"There's a roach in the trashcan! Kill it! Kill the bloody little assassin!"
"Sarah, go to sleep!"
"I can't! I can hear it scuttling around! It's evil! You can't sleep with evil in the room."
So I huddled with my dingo until Chris could squish it.

Then there's this guy:

Remember the Godfather Spider?
Yeah, he's back. 
His fat, bloated orangey, quarter-sized, ugly body perches itself on a MASSIVE web beside my door on almost a nightly basis. The web itself stretches about four feet from my house wall to a nearby bush and is wide enough to almost trap me for lunch. It's terrifying. Luckily, it's beside my door and not in front of it. Apparently, he remembers what happens when you put yourself in FRONT of my door (ANNIHILATION!!!). I allow his new arachnid-condominium to exist because he eats nasties, stays out of my way, and cleans up his web by morning.
He was there every night like clockwork for about two weeks, but his visits are becoming less and less frequent. Either he's found better hunting grounds or was killed by those less sympathetic to his web-wielding cause.

A few night's ago, Chris caught me having a conversation outside the door.
"Sarah, who are you talking to?"
"Do you see that wolf spider?" I pointed to a spindly creature the size of my palm near my step.
"Yeah?"
"I wanted to make sure we had an understanding. He can be there, but he can't come near my feet or in this house or else he will die a brutal death.  He seems to get the picture and let me come to the door without charging."
"Uuuuh . . . ok."

When I walked up to my step (it's not really big enough to justify being called a "porch") this beast was huddled by the wall, and I had to make a decision: flee, stay paralyzed and scream for Chris, attempt to squish it before it crawled onto my foot and then hope I can get his guts off of my favorite shoes, or let him know who's boss and go right up to my door. I chose the latter . . . but only after making severe threats and then darting to the door in a panic, one eye fixed on him from over my shoulder. He was a compliant little (er huge) bug . . . for a bug.

Sometimes, I have to talk through my fear . . . with my fear.  I don't make a habit of talking to bugs . . . usually I just kill them, but I can appreciate a good spider only in the context that they eat roaches. I'll take a hideous demon-eater over the demon any day.

Randomnosities

• The other night, this text message convo totally went down:
  Me: I'm sneaking cheesecake into a movie theater. I'm so bad-a.
  The Hubs: I knew I married good.
  Except I realized I had forgotten a fork. Shoot.
  When I asked the hubs about his poor grammar, he replied, "Oh yeah, I totally typed 'I married well' and then erased it and put 'good' because I knew it would drive you crazy."
  Touche, sir.

• A week ago, I lectured on Robert Frost with my 7th graders. One student pops up and asks, "Wait, wait! Sorry, but Robert Frost: was he a poet or a booker?"
  And he totally wasn't kidding.  A booker. Good grief. 


• I was horribly depressed today after a little lizard appeared on my windshield, clung to my wipers, and then leaped off my car AS I'M DRIVING IT in an attempt to escape.  I kept screaming for him to stop, to hold on for dear life, but he didn't listen.  Poor little guy.


• As I'm doing my Wii Fit, the hubs strolls by, pauses, then says, "You know, all that 'inhale, exhale' is what you'll be hearing when you're eventually pregnant, and, you know, giving birth."
  .... thirty seconds later ....
  "DANG IT, CHRIS!!! NOW ALL I HEAR IS A WII FIT LABOR COACH!!!"
  No, we're not preggers.


• I think our dog believes she's a person . . . but everyone else says that about their own pups so it must be a common dog-owner delusion.


• It amazes me that, no matter how many times I say THE SAME THING over and OVER again, literally for weeks, every class period, the day before a paper is due and even, believe or not, the day it is to be turned in, I receive emails from students ASKING QUESTIONS about that same topic.  I realize that you're young, a mind filled with important things like the latest Bieber tune and other class projects, but . . . really?
  Then again, I do give them permission to email and ask.  I might just reconsider that and make them take notes instead . . . oh, but wait, all the notes and instructions are online on the school webpage.


• Despite my previous post, I really do sincerely love my job and the kids there. Seriously, I couldn't be happier. It has its stresses, but I have superb students and wonderful classroom families who are so supportive and encouraging. 


• Little things matter and can make someone's day.  For instance, I shared some of my hand lotion with a couple of girls who were early to class. Oh the giggles we shared :]


• We are just NOW (like literally as I type this Chris is testing the lights) decorating our home and tree.  WOW.  The exterior, sadly will remain bland.


• During a midnight showing of "Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows" (FYI: GO SEE IT!!!), I was suddenly made very aware of my own age.
  I was attending with two fellow English teachers (I LOVE being part of a "department"--oh the comradery!), and over a dozen of our high school students decided to "join" us . . . meaning they stalked us into Cheesecake Factory next to the theater and then proceeded to bounce around in the seats right next to or in front of us JUST to bug us (I am not being paranoid here--if I am, it was group paranoia and I merely caught the bug). 
  Anyways, Regal Theaters has that roller coaster intro, you know? And I didn't have even the inkling to raise my arms and scream. Nope.  I watched that group of teens wave their arms about and all I felt was embarrassment (good grief . . . am I really turning into my mother?)
  I also felt sick due to four hours of sleep and four cokes over the course of the day, more soda than I've had since college.
  I also decided that midnight premiers and a 3:30 AM homecoming may be too late for these old bones. 
  Golly.

Lil of This, Lil of That

"Lost! lost lost lost!"
"Lost what?"
"I've lost my marbles."
--Toodles and Peter in "Hook"

Thank you, Toodles, for taking the words right out of my mouth.
Good gee and golly.

McDuck

 McDuck . . . well, he's gone to a better place.
No, he's not dead. At least, not that I know of. He was alive and kicking--er, pooping--most adamantly last I saw him.

You see, we found that McDuck spent his time huddled up next to his reflection on any shiny surface, he talked to it, snuggled with it, went into a panic when he couldn't find "Mirror Friend." As cute as he was, it was SAD to see anything that lonely, I mean, he seemed to like me, would follow me on the rare occasion, would shriek protest if I was out of his sight, and if I held him on my lap or on my shoulder (his favorite was to get up as high as he could or huddle under my chin), he seemed happy, but not entirely relaxed. Not like when he was with Mirror Friend. So we decided that he needed real ducks and something bigger than a bathtub and cardboard box in his life.

Oh, and a place where tiger-wanna-be housecats weren't stalking his every move.

And, quite honestly, we needed less poop in our lives. Ducks, you must understand, seem to excrete their body weight in feces every day. And they don't care where they do their dirty duty . . . in fact, they'll walk in it, sit in it . . . eat it.
I'm not even kidding.
I went to clean out McDuck's box, picked him up, and found his little bill ENCRUSTED in his own dung.
Ew.
And then when they take a drink, ducks shake their little faces flinging whatever is in or on their bills EVERYWHERE. Do you really want to know the places I found poop?
No, you do not.

So we gave him to a wildlife rehabilitator. Because wild animals need to go to rehab for an addiction to domestication.

At least, that's how I see it.      

The Cottage

Oh slowly but surely. Chris and I unpacked most if not all of our books two nights ago. Oh the laughs, oh the joys. I was giddy.
It's almost embarrassing.

I've discovered that we have the most eclectic collection: books on cats, hobbits, mythology, anthropology, biology, theology, Creole proverbs, kids books, the works. It's all there. We even have a book on how to battle constipation . . . only because it has the word "Constipation" in the title, and let's face it, that's funny.

The bugs . . . aren't as bad as the recent renter made them seem. I mean they are definitely outside. In the woods. Where they belong. A couple have scuttled inside, only to be met by my fearsome battle cry, "DIE!!! VERMIN!!! DIE!!!!!"
I'm sure I strike terror into the heart-ish organs-ish things of every arachnid and insect in the vicinity.

And, of course, there's always my fearless night in shining armor to squash any many-legged foe.
Especially that one night.
Oh that One. Night.

Carl

Remember when I told you about the spider godfather whose web Chris destroyed?
 He sent one of his cronies to seek true revenge. Oh, and he found it.

Most people would say it was an unfortunate coincidence, where a creature, seeking warmth, ran into a human who was merciless with misunderstanding.
Bah-LONEY.

Here's how it really went down:

Godfather Spider: Carl [because that was it's name, ok?] I gave you a favor once, helped you out, yes? Now, I'm gonna ask you to repay that favor, show your loyalty to your Don. Can you do that for me, Carl?
Carl: Yes, Don Spider.
Godfather: Good, very good. Make me proud, Carl.
And he sent off Carl to do his dirty work, to see his ultimate revenge on the one who caused the destruction of such beautiful piece of web architecture.

So Carl, big, brown, spindly UGLY Carl, chose his stake-out, a beautiful crocheted quilt in the top shelf of a closet, and he WAITED. Crouched, comfy, all eight eyes peeled for that perfect moment. Then, it happened.  Someone moved the quilt, took it down, Carl huddled inside, and brought it to the couch.

I was on the couch, snuggled up, watching some BBC show, and Chris was being chivalrous, trying to keep me warm.

But, in this effort, he was delivering me to my enemy.

You see, a few moments after snuggling under my grandmother's quilt, I felt a tickling on my chest. Hm, odd. I look down, and there is Carl.
 Right. There.
In my face, staring at me so calming and coolly. "Hello, Sweetie," he seemed to say, "Meet your doom."

So I screamed . . . well, bellowed. I can't really scream--it's too high-pitched, my natural instincts go against it, despite being a soprano. So, I yell at Carl, impervi
I swipe, scratch, scurry.
Carl moves to my arm.
Swipe, scratch, scurry, AGAIN.
He falls onto the couch cushion and just sits there. So I bellow at him, "AAAAAAAAAH!!!!"
No fear, none.
In the background, I hear Chris say to the phone, "Hang on, I think I need to kill something."
"CHRISTOPHER!!! I WAS MOLESTED BY AN ARACHNID!!! KILL IT!!!!!"

And so Carl the Spider Assassin met his doom
Haha, Carl. Ha. Ha.

The Ugly Duckling (or My Christmas in July Present)

Late last night, I received a call.

No, not the phone kind.

Walking up the apartment stairs, I was hit by a loud, high pitched sound. First, I thought it was the neighbor's dog (they tend to make A LOT of noise, dogs). . . but those neighbors moved out over a week ago. Hmm. Probably a bird somewhere, or maybe a bat.  So I start walking up the stairs, and there it is again: this loud, repetitive screeching, like an alarm clock gone bad. I'm a naturally curious person. If I'm sure it's not zombies, I like to investigate. So I did.

And I found a baby duck.
He was huddled between a doorway and a trashcan, screaming for his mommy. Poor little fellow. Mom wasn't anywhere around
I didn't even think it was the season for ducklings. We had a nest around Easter, but that was the last of it.

I burst in the door, clutching a still screaming infant fowl. "CHRISTOPHER!!! Guess what! Guess what!"
"What the crap is that?"
I hold out the ball of fluff, beaming, "GOD GAVE ME A DUCK!!!!"
To explain, I've wanted a duckling ever since my first duckling, at age six, was devoured in the night by mysterious monsters. We blame racoons, but it's never been proven, so they're off the hook.

So I put him in the tub to go swimming . . . and then spent most of the night holding him. I probably shouldn't, but I couldn't help it. 

Do you see WHY I can't help it? So stinkin' adorable.

Then we put him to bed on a nest made of old hand towels and a swiffer duster in a tiny cardboard box we should probably have used for packing.

At this point, he's somewhere between hating me and not wanting me to leave the room.
As I typed this, I am imprisoned in the bathroom while he preens and tries not to doze off, huddled on my heating pad under a desk lamp.

Do you know the joyful inconvience of having your only bathroom turned into a duck preservation center?

Pipkin meets the duckling. She's terrified of water, so this is the only time she's allowed in the bathroom I'm a very protective duck mother.

 

Can I has it?

P.S. Watching a duckling nod off is like the cutest thing EVER.

The Secret Lives of Husbands (or The Tale of Chicken Nibble)

Ladies, how many of you find that the more your husband talks, the more you realize you really don't know that much about him? That he's had all of these secret adventures that, for some BIZARRE reason, he didn't think were worth mentioning?

I am so there right now.

I remember my mom telling me that, even after nearly 30 years of marriage, she was still learning new things about my dad, how one year he paid his college tuition in pocket change just to irritate the administration , how he hitchhiked home and caught a ride with a famous football player , how, as a kid, he used to try to turn toads into paratroopers, and other tales of fabulous that have yet to be discovered.
P.S. My dad is AWESOME.

Early on in our dating relationship, my mom began commenting on how much Chris resembles my dad . . . and it's true. Sure, they have their differences, but all in all, I married my dad with dark hair (Ssshh! Don't tell either of them I said that!), So, like Daddy, the hubs has secrets.
And he's a great story teller.
Nothing beats the well-told tale of a secret adventure.

Now, before I tell this story, I need to give some disclaimers:

1. The hubs is NOT a psychopath
2. The hubs is NOT cruel to animals . . . except for the occasional hunting trip . . .
3. The hubs does, however, have a powerful sense of justice
4. So, if you are animal, mineral, vegetable, and you wrong someone the hubs adores, watch out. He's coming to get you. 

Ok, now keep these in mind as I tell you the story that simultaneously shocked and humored me.

"Chris, there's a bumper sticker that says 'I brake for Oviedo Chickens.' What the crap does that mean? Are they vegetarian? Is that a football team or what?"
"Haha! You don't know about the chickens?"

Ok, peeps, anyone who hasn't lived in Oviedo for generations has no idea about the "famous" chickens. And they probably could care less. The quirks of town pride.

"Well, there are these wild chickens that live in the Popeye's parking lot downtown. Yeah, the fast-food chicken place.  Irony, right? Anyways, you're going through the drive thru, and you have to stop because some hen and her chicks will walk right in front of your car like they own the place. They kind of do--been there for years.  Haha, if one restuarant had no excuse for skimping on good meat, it's that place. Seriously, the meat there had better be super fresh. Ha!"

I didn't know whether to laugh or be disgusted. Seriously, famous chickens? At a restuarant that serves their dead and fried relatives? But really . . . chickens? So famous that they are the icon of the town, on every "Welcome to Oviedo" sign? Chickens?

"Did I ever tell you the chicken story?"
"No?"
"Well," Chris begins, "I knew this guy . . . who had a cousin he was good friends with . . ."
"You and Joe, right?"
"Stop interrupting and maybe."
"Uh-huh."

So the story goes, that the world's sweetest grandmother, we'll call her M, went to the bank next to the chicken Popeye's and was unjustly attacked.
By a chicken.
Sweet, sweet M, who would never hurt a living creature, went home wounded and bewildered and related her death-defying flight from the viscious man-eating chicken to her grandson Joe. Now, Joe is the kind of guy you want on a road trip--he's witty, laid-back, free-spirited, and impulsive with the knack for turning almost anything into an adventure. So when M told Joe of her wounds, he jumped into action, calling up a posse that included his ever faithful sidekick, Chris. Dun-dun-dun!

Imagine if you will, a handful of teenage boys hopping into Chris's old, giant green Bronco and whizzing off into the night, embarking on a covert ninja mission of revenge.
Against a chicken.
They arrive at their destination and sniff out the offending bird. How they knew it was THE chicken, I don't know, but Chris assures me no innocent birds were harmed in the creation of this tale. No, they only ninjaed the guilty, blood-thirsty fowl. 

Have you ever driven while trying to hold a chicken? Or drive while someone tries to hold a chicken in the backseat?
Neither have I, but Chris tells me it's not fun. That the bird is loud and refuses to be still, that it pecks, flaps and attacks with its large, sharp talons (I dare you NOT to think of the Napoleon Dynamite quote right now).  So the boys decided to solve the problem with great resourcefulness and ingenuity: they applied a leather belt to its neck.
To me, this screams instant death to a creature with small hollow bones and delicate constitution. I guess the guys thought that it would serve as more like a leash? or a gag? I don't know. Somehow, they were surprised that after it went LIMP and silent and was consequently tossed in the trunk, that it turned out to be dead.
No kidding.

Not that the chicken's death foiled their plans. No, they continued to drive out to the middle of nowhere, in the dark, to a restuarant famous for housing a live twelve-foot gator.

Let me interrupt for a moment. Anyone who KEEPS an aggressive, carniverous reptile twice the size of a grown man is insane. I'm of the opinion that meat-eaters THAT big in close contact with humans should be shot on sight. In isolated unhumanized portions of the world, sure let them live. But don't keep them as pets and or mercifully relocate large aggressive creatures to places like Lake Jessup where there are 10,000 of the monsters lurking in the water, waiting for some unsuspecting meatbag to come within reach. Ugh. Hate gators. "Now," you say, "Remember, they're more scared of you than you are of them."
I'm sorry, but that's complete and total bull. I'm dinner. Are you afraid of your cheeseburger? No? I didn't think so. I'm the cheeseburger, and I'm bloody terrified.

End soapbox. Back to the story.

So here they are, a handful of teenage guys, intent of revenge and blood (that's the BEST kind of revenge, right?), and there it is: a monstrous mound of scales, muscle and teeth, floating in its tank, lethargic and, as every massive creature is, hungry.
Really, monsters never stop eating right? There's ALWAYS an appetite.
Wrong.
The guys found this out the hard way when they tossed in the chicken carcass. The plan was to throw in a LIVE chicken and enjoy the show of thrashing, screeching, blood, guts, and feathers.
Yeah, not so much.

Turns out the gator wasn't hungry. Wasn't even remotely interested in the meat floating next to its snout. Dead flesh? Who wants to eat it dead? Warm, pumping blood that's where it's at. Stupid teenage humans.
I'm assuming that, if it were capable of thought, this is what must have been going through the reptile's head . . . but I'm very likely wrong.

After the initial shock of the incredible BORING state of the situation, and hovering, hoping, for some action, the guys realized that the evidence of their crime was floating around in clear sight.
And so they ran off into the night, laughing.

Has your significant other or a friend ever revealed the story of an unexpected, secret adventure? 

Awkward Soap Box, Lips, and What's in a Name?

Have you ever noticed the peculiar labels on certain *ahem* products?
In the drugstore, one happened to catch my eye, reading “Proven Pregnancy Protection.” What? Is pregnancy a disease now?
“What’s up with you?”
“Ugh, sorry. I’ve been stricken with a bad case of the infant-producing flu.”
"Dude! Don't give it to me! Keep your baby flu to yourself!"

Or . . . maybe pregnancy is a weapon now . . .
"AH!!! BABY BOMBS!!! It's a good thing I have these, or I would be a goner! Phew!"

See what I mean?

How about “Family Planning Approved”? At least that has a more positive connotation and makes it sound like you’re attempting responsibility in fertility and not avoiding leprosy or an explosion of weaponous children.
Right?
And I’m off my awkward soap box now.

Note to self:

• Never again tell hubs you’ve bought new all-natural chapstick that you’re really excited about.
  One, the man could care less, even if it does make your lips “kissably soft,” devoid of most chemicals, and, oh yeah, makes you smell like fresh lemon bars (um, yum!)
  Two, He’ll respond with, ‘You know, chapstick and I aren’t really on the best of terms” and then he’ll wipe off your kisses like he’s six again.
  Really?
  Really.
• Also, try not to mention that the fact that a paint color has a pretty name is a plus. He’ll laugh at you. I’m sorry, I can’t help it that I like words, and some words sound prettier together than others. Bottom line, if it’s a lovely color, that’s all that REALLY matters, yes . . . but wouldn’t you rather say, “I painted my room Moonlit Pool” than “Yeah, I chose to paint it Stinky Swamp Barf Fungus.”
  I mean, come on: you wouldn’t want to admit you chose Stinky Swamp Barf Fungus, would you?
  
  . . .  Now I really wonder what a color with a name like that would look like . . .

Face of Fear

Peeps, last night I looked fear in the face.

And I ran inside and slammed the door.
No, I would never make it in the zombie apocalypse.

As the place is now prepped for paint, this weekend we began work on the cottage. The bro helped me move all of our unable-to-unpack-for-almost-two-years boxes. I can now see the floor of our closet. You never realize how much you miss a floor until it makes its reappearance after a long absence. Sunday, Dad, bro, and the hubs came by to help the MIL and myself spruce up the place. Chris and I make a mean wallpaper-stripping team, and Dad and Matt painted my new study.

The paint was brighter and bolder than anticipated, but I think I’m in love. Yes, I must certainly am. Spunky paint. That’s what it is. Spunky.

The hub’s man cave will be awesome once the paint’s finished. It’s gone from “gameroom” to “man cave.” Why? Because I was told last night it will hold the hub’s long lost buck trophy.
Yeah, a dead deer head on a plaque.
I’m totally ok with this—like it even—I just told him it wasn’t going over the mantle. Please and thank you.

All this to set you up for last night.
With the fear.
Oh gosh, the fear.

We dropped by the cottage after dinner to finish up a couple of projects, and in a moment of satisified thoughtfulness, we both looked out the window.
An army was waiting for us.
Usually, I look out the windows the only bugs zipping around are lonely strays or a lusty love-bug harlem.
But this.
Oh my.
I had never seen so many. Drawn to the light through the window like honey, swarming masses of moths and tiny flying things gave themselves concussions as they threw themselves at the glass, desperate to reach the shininess.
It’s a good thing I’m not squeamish.
Because, you see, this is going to be my home in a week and a half. I better get used to it. And develop deadly aim with the all-natural-but-supposed-to-kill bug spray. S. Pete the Bug Slayer. It could work.

We decide to leave, open the door, and are met by total darkness. There are no street lights around the cottage. We are in the woods, and it is BLACK outside. And, unfortunately, our cars are not waiting for us at the door like happy puppies. No, they're several feet away, encased in bug-ridded darkness.
So I take a hesitant step forward, eyes straining, trying to decide whether I should run for it or take my time, feeling my footing on unfamiliar ground.
Chris, being ever so intelligent, opened the door and switched on the light to porch.

And there it was.
Fear.
Staring me in the face.

It was the biggest spider web I had ever seen, spanning the entire porch. Huge. Unrelenting. The steel of the bug world. Right in front of me. I was inches from death by hysterics.
Sitting in the middle was a fat spider, speckled, maybe the size o a quarter, sitting gluttonously on his little throne like an arachnid godfather. He knew he ruled the world, he knew that he, so small, controlled my every movement. He spun on those jointed, spindly legs, mandibles twitching, all eight beady eyes staring me down. Vicious little creature. His Napoleon complex was well deserved

All of this I process in a single second.
The next, I opened my mouth, and the wailing . . . oh dear, my wailing put Macaulay Culkin’s Home Alone screams to shame.
I jumped backwards, and managed to squeak, "I'm going inside."
 So I did, like a coward, and  hid while my knight in shining armor vanquished the horrific foe. Still, my stomach was in knots, my skin crawling with imaginary creatures, thinking, "Good God, one more step ONE MORE and . . . oh my . . . oh dear . . . I can't think about it without wanting to scream again."

Chris poked his head in the door, smiling.
He was victorious.
Fear was dead.
Or else sulking in the grass, mourning his destroyed structure of glory, planning his revenge. “You talk about vengeance."
Yes, yes I do.

That’s why I darted to my car whimpering.
It’s already begun.
You see, there were cobwebs trailing my care this morning.
Fear has followed me home.

Emotional Food Poisoning (or How to Make Your Husband Beg For Mercy)

Wow what a week.

And it’s only Wednesday.
Darn it.

You know, for the past two weeks, every day has felt like Friday, and not in that good, “Friday! Friday! Gonna get down on Friday!” way (thank you, Rebecca Black). No, it’s the “Dear God, it must be over now. It HAS to be over. So tired, so achy, exhausted . . . wait, it’s Wednesday? Crap.”

You peeps know what I mean? Yes? Goody.

This weekend was an odd combination of enjoyment, work, and emotional break-downs. Such a lovely combo. Would you like fries and tissues with that? Super-size your order for an extra headache?

Exhaustion, stress, and bottled fears suddenly exploded like your Science Fair volcano.

Oh yeah, and hormones were in the mix. Dandy! Bloating, break-outs, and breakdowns—my favorite!

I’ll never say hormones are the complete cause of drama: they’re more the baking soda to my vinegar. I don’t even realize everything I’m trying to ignore until I’m too tired, the elephant is too big to sweep under the rug, and doggone it, hormones start sprinkling in. A tooth in the key of unlocking the “let’s tear all the walls down simultaneously” syndrome. Again: Dandy! My favorite.

NOT.

It was bad enough that Chris and I made an emergency ice-cream run at 1:30 am. I don’t believe in comfort food, and I try not to keep sweets in our larder, but if I didn’t get ice cream right then and there, my soul would wither.

It’s bad enough that the next night, I had a miniature relapse. The day after that, I was fighting sobs in my cubicle. So Chris, to prove how much he cared and how sorry he was for not being more helpful and involved, cleaned the entire apartment and took me out to dinner.

There were just too many emotions and fears to contain any more. It was food poisoning of the mind and heart . . . and they would not stop vomiting. Yes, it’s just that gross.
And, FYI nothing is more terrifying than a woman experiencing emotional vomit. The rage, the tears, the complete lack of a mental and emotional filter. Just a woman unloading every thought and feeling.  Something you can't fix until the storm blows over. It's every man's nightmare.

You know, despite my dramatic tendencies, I used to have a great deal of emotional control—a tearless ice queen, even. After I started taking the pill, I cried at the drop of a hat. I caught myself tearing up during my baby sister's viewing of "Pooh's Heffalump Movie." THE HEFFALUMP MOVIE. What the crap? You’d think being off the pill for three months would bring emotional balance, but no. I’m still a mess.

It took this weekend to realize how utterly panicked and stressed I am about moving.
About teaching a new grade this year—even if it is in my area of expertise, first years teaching a new grade level is scary to begin with, scarier when you’ve already had a first year somewhere else.
Bewildered at how to juggle the move, the school prep, the housekeeping, the cooking, and the full time job.
Ashamed of the mess in my home and my physical state . . . oh and the stress-induced cystic zits on my chin. (Why do I have to wear my stress? And not like a t-shirt but like bloody Olympus Mons on my face?)

I discovered that I felt really, really alone, like I had to do everything by myself, and the pressure was killing me. Chris was busy with work, too, so why bother him with silly things like the dishwasher, packing boxes, and cooking dinner? Well, I bothered, and he has delivered. Sometimes it takes a nasty little stretch for both of you to realize how out of balance things had become and how necessary true partnership is.

The good news is we've had a day and a half of normalcy. YAY!!!!  It can only go up from here, folks!

Have you ever had emotional-food-poisoning kind of days? How did you get through it?

Miscellany Monday

To Do 

After tonight, Lord willing, my after-school to-do list will be complete and my cleaning-out-the-apartment-to-get-ready-to-move and planning-middle-school-English-lesson plan lists can begin. Suddenly, that sounds like a lot of work. Hmm . . .

Moving On or Why Apartments Get Old Fast

There is nothing particularly nasty about our apartment. It's been a lovely "just married" nest. But it's time to go.

• Having no room for bookshelves, my boxed up books are screaming to be released. And my closet is wailing to have all the book boxes removed. So, you know, I can actually walk to the back of it and really hang my clothes up so they aren't just leaning against box mountains. You may say this is a sign of too many books, and in response I say "There's no such thing as too many books." All that to say, I'm looking forward to bookshelves. And more space. Period. 
• I also look forward to living without the paranoia that the neighbors hear everything. Including my early morning conversations with the cats. I've stopped singing all together because I don't want to irritate the neighbors. I can't jump around and dance because I might disturb the neighbors. I'm afraid to vacuum because it may be too early or too late for the neighbors. And those are the LEAST of my audio worries. Yikes. No one's complained, that we know of, but still . . . walls are only so thick . . . 
• Not having to walk across a parking lot and up stairs with tons of groceries. 
• No pet limitation. Now, before you think that I'm going crazy cat woman, no; our apartment complex has a two furball limitation. Meaning, with our two cats, a pup is just not an option here. There, it will be. And we are so excited. Oh please, Lord, let it be a good dog and not a furry case of chaos. Please please PLEEEEEEEEAAAAAASE.
• Having a yard with flowers and a private dirt road for walking/running will be splendid. Here, if I run, it's in a tiny gym that may or may not be open or the single treadmill or elliptical occupied. Plant-wise? We have a potted bamboo plant that also serves as a cat chew toy. We wish it didn't.
  But my First Grade classroom parents just sent me home with this:

Favorite Flower. And WOW. LOVE!!!

The interesting thing with moving to "the cottage" is that the current renter can't find anything nice to say about it (the bugs, the water, the tile, the appliances . . . the list goes on). But the renter before her can't find anything bad to say about it--she says it was the most wonderful place ever and she and her family absolutely adored it. I think it has everything to do with attitude and very little with the 29-year-old cottage in the woods. At least that's what I'm hoping.

Where Flowers Bloom . . . 

Speaking of gardening and plants, we had a cookout at my parents, so I decided to take some snaps of Mum's flowers. She has butterfly gardens in the back and front yards, and I just love them. This is the time of year when everything is blooming and fabulous. No color editing on these because, really, God's artistic efforts are flawless.
 

 

Turtle Tale

Later this afternoon, the boys visiting and my baby sisters found a Gopher Tortoise. You can imagine the great excitement that ensued. That poor turtle.

No, we didn't hurt the turtle. It didn't even seem too upset.
Eager to escape, yes, but I don't think it was having a heart attack.
At least, I hope it wasn't.

Still how fun is this? And how CUTE is that tortoise?

Run little turtle! Run!
P.S. That little tail? Love. So awkwardly adorable

Can you find the turtle?

Another fun creature. Chris caught the shot of this skink and was pretty proud :]

Hostage

I was trapped.
There was no where to go. Absolutely no where. Helplessness, oh the helplessness!
I had tried calling out into the floor vents, hoping the teacher next door could hear me.  I tried calling her cell and she didn't answer.
So completely trapped.

And he wasn't leaving his post. He was completely in control, and I was his hostage. What for? Oh I couldn't tell you that. Bread crumbs? Sugar cubes? All the cans of RAID in the world? Oh, RAID. What I wouldn't do for a big, ole stinky can of RAID right now.

People say cockroaches aren't intelligent. I beg to differ. Ok, maybe it's not intelligence, but they can smell fear. They're drawn to fear and loathing the same way they're drawn to putrid corners, filth and darkness. And me. Good grief, why me? They've crawled over my toes, hidden in my showers, flown at my face then chased me around the house. Yes, that happened. You can weep for me, it's all right. I almost did. Horror, people. Sheer horror. And now, one of the biggest I had ever seen was guarding my classroom door right before the morning rush. If anyone opened that door, he would viciously attack my poor, sweet, hyperactive students. I couldn't have that.
But I also couldn't have him touching me either.

People have wondered why I didn't throw my shoe at him. To that I reply: Do you really know where that thing's BEEN?! And you want that tainting MY footwear? What if I miss and he retaliates with a direct attack?! Or worse, an air raid?! What if I can't get his guts off of my fabulous sandals? Squishing is just NOT happening, people.
I'm a sprayer. Arm me with a can of RAID, and, from a safe distance I'm a fearless, relentless warrior. I fill their environment with insect-deadly chemicals and then let them slowly suffocate. It's a just death for demons that crawled out of hell. And no, I don't feel strongly about this; why do you ask?

We regarded each other, the vile roach--was that a smug twitch of those revolting antennae?--and I, torn between determination, hatred, and panic. It didn't help that moms and kids kept peeking through the door's window, waving, smiling, reaching for that door handed. All I could do was frantically shake my hand and wave my hands around like a madwoman. They'd thank me for it later.
And the roach again began his slippery, speedy pacing back and forth on his skinny six legs of death in front of the door jam then looping into the tiny hall way to keep me far, away, cornered. Again, so helpless.

The next door teacher called me back and, as calmly as I could, I said, "Sherry, I am being held prisoner by a giant roach at my door. Could you please have the office send a can of bug spray? Thank you."
I couldn't figure out why she was laughing. Roach-hostages are not to be mocked.

The office didn't send bug spray. They sent my mother-in-law who promptly stepped on the beast, splattering guts and that foul roach stench all over my classroom doorway and her cute shoes (see? gross!). "I didn't want to send spray because it smells so bad. It can't be good for you," she said.
I didn't argue, but, quite honestly, there is nothing quite as humiliating as a tall, beautiful, skinny woman vanquishing your greatest foe and then realizing she thinks you're a prissy chicken (I am so not--I like snakes, frogs, beetles, basically everything BUT roaches so there).
But, as humiliating as it was for me, I think the roach felt worse.

How much wood could a woodchuck chuck and other riddles

So, the hubs is emptying the trash, and turns to me with great severity. "Sarah, Pipkin has just committed an atrocity."

I look up from my perch in the gaming chair curiously. Pipkin is the newest edition to our little family: an orange and white tabby we brought home last Fourth of July who enjoys chasing, cuddling, and making the most insistent cat noises--no it's not meowing, I don't know what it is. The best way to describe it, really, is Pipkinese

"She has pooped more than any Pipkin should ever poop."

I'm trying not to laugh.

"Then," Chris continues, desperately, "she doesn't cover it! No, she just starts scratching on the plastic wall of the litter box, over and over again, like that's going to do anything! GAH!"

"Pooped more than any Pipkin should poop, huh?"
"Yes!"
"How much, is that exactly?"
"Too much. WAY too much. More than any cat should ever have been able to poop."

At that moment, the guilty party pranced into the room, paused, glanced from me, to Chris, and back at me, then meowed with the confusion of the clueless innocent. 


It's the little things in laugh that make me laugh.
That, and the fact that it's passed my bedtime.

You know what they say about assuming . . .

Allow me to explain now the worst assumption I believe I have made in recent history . . .
To begin, there are two little girls of the same name in my class, we will call them Lily E. and Lily S. to protect the innocent.This is a fact so vital that even I didn't notice it at first, as so many vitals go rather unnoticed in this world.

So, it's lunch time on a Friday. That's just a disaster in itself. You see, at my school, Friday is an optional extracurricular day . . . which, in essence, means all the children turn into over-sugared banshees of a sort . . . in an only mild exaggeration. It is not at all an exaggeration on smoothie/ice-skating day. Oh my lanta. Anywho, back to the point. Lunch on Fridays consists of altering between Domino's Pizza and Chik-Fil-A. This was a pizza day for our students who order hot lunch. I come down to the gym to pick up my pizzas to nourish the first grade class, and the lady in charge firmly and clearly says, "Lily E. is no longer ordering hot lunch, so she will have a lunch from home today--she will not get pizza." Easy enough.
How is it that the seemingly simple never is?

Now, little Lily E., is a quiet, sensitive child with a perpetual worried puppy-eyed expression, always seeming on the brink of tears. She saw that pizza, and you could see desire in her eyes, so quickly squelched by my announcement, "Lily, I'm sorry honey, but the office says you no longer get hot lunch."
Silent, confused "I'm about to cry" stare. Finally, she opens her mouth with the barely audible "But it's on my nametag that I get hot lunch."
"Yes, honey, but the office said that you no longer get hot lunch. Do you have a lunch with you?" I ask, thinking I can salvage a couple of pieces for her, if there was a mix-up and she was truly without food.
She shakes her head, her pleading puppy dog eyes hardening into hatred.
"Honey, you don't get hot lunch any more. Can you show me your lunch box and will check for your lunch?"
Death glare.
"Lily, where's your lunch box?"
I-hate-you-with-every-fiber-of-my-being-stare.

At that moment, my friend Cait entered the scene, took Lily aside, in tears now, and was able to weasel out of her where her lunch box was while Lily whimpers that she wants to go home, quit E-Zone and just go home. I pick up that pink princess lunchbox, unzip it, and find the prettiest, neatest little sandwich half, chips, and apple juice packed snuggly away. "Lily, this is such a yummy lunch."
She shakes her head, eyes red-rummed. "I don't like it."
"Lily, this is a perfectly good lunch."
Silent shaking of the head, glaring, pitiful puppy eyes.

So we take her to the office where she eats in silence, still recovering from the emotional wreckage of my lunch-time announcement, then goes to third period. I, meanwhile, leave third period for my lunch break, and one of the staff announces, "Oh, Sarah, Lily's not going to the sportsplex, today. She's going home early."
"Is it because of her meltdown?" I ask.
"I don't know. Her mom's picking her up early, so she'll need to go to the pick-up area in room 210. "
It never ever EVER crossed my mind to ask WHICH Lily was not going to the sportsplex. 

So, third period ends, and the kids get ready to go either to ride the bus to the sportsplex or go to the drop off room. I approach Lily E. "Lily, you're not going to the sportsplex today."
There it is. That I'm going to cry face again. "No, I'm going to the sportsplex."
"Honey, I just spoke to the office and they said your mom is picking you up. You need to get your backpack so I can bring you to the pick-up room."
She sits back down and begins coloring.
"Lily, you need to go get your things, please."
Not a word. As if she couldn't hear me.
"Lily." I can feel my own temper-rising.
Nothing.
"Lily, go get your things." Firmer now, a real teacher voice that means business, and still not an eyelash bats in response.
The other teacher in the room steps in, "Lily, obey Mrs. Bocchino and go get your things. I'll bring you to the pick-up room."
She obeys, casting one more bitter, hateful glare in my direction.

That is the last I hear of Lily E., though Lily S.'s mom picks her up right as class ends and takes her home instead of going to the sportsplex like she usually does. Did it cross my mind that maybe I had sent the wrong Lily to pick-up? Nope, not once. Lily E. wanted to go home, suddenly, I receive news that a Lily is going home early. Which Lily? Not the one I sent to pick-up -_-

As I'm chaperoning the swimming class at the sportsplex,  I receive a call from Lisa, my mother-in-law who works in the school office, sweetly asking what the mix-up had been. It didn't dawn on me until her call that I have TWO Lilys. Luckily, Lily E.'s mother was contacted before too long and she was taken home safe and sound. I immediately apologized to my supervisor, who laughed and said things like that had happened before, so it was all ok.

That doesn't keeping me from being humiliated. I'm apologizing to Lily's mom next time I see her . . . and Lily, if she'll speak to me. I'm beyond positive that she officially hates my guts now.


What a day . . .

*DOH!

Dentist, n.: A Prestidigitator who, putting metal in one's mouth, pulls coins out of one's pockets.

--Ambrose Bierce

First off, I don't know if I had mentioned this, but I LOVE my classroom parents. These people have all been shockingly helpful and supportive and such blessings as I continue to figure out the classroom. School is great, the kids are wonderful, and by golly, by only the grace and strength of God, I think we're making this work. Thank you, Lord!

Secondly, to go along with the quote . . . I went to the dentist today for the first time in nearly two years. If you know me, you know I'm paranoid about my teeth. I think it came from loving the dentist as a child (BIZARRE?! YES!! But I did!) because they always told me how well I was doing, how great my teeth were (and they should have been after two years of braces and all the involved shenanigans!), how good. The day they found my first cavity at age 18, you would have thought they had told my cat had been run over. Then, I started working in the library. Oh my, I had never seen so many missing, blackened, worn out, plaque-infested, rotting teeth in all my life. This only increased my dental hygienic fervor.  So, I FINALLY make an appointment with a dentist, scared to death he will announce my mouth is rotting. Do you know what that man found after xrays and poking around?? NOTHING. I was brushing my teeth too hard, in fact, and needed to ease up a little.

Oh yeah, and maybe we'll put some enamel on your molars . . . just because. It will cost you an arm and a leg, but hey it might be a good idea. Oh, and remember how you were expecting a cleaning today? Yeah, no, not going to do that. Nope, not a bit. We'll x-ray, peek, poke, and send you on your merry way, missing a big ole chunk of mula (seriously, it was a huge rip off).  Did you want to schedule a cleaning and that useless procedure for tomorrow? You can leave your limbs at the door.

Thank you. NO. Bloody Mother NO!!!!

So guess who's not going back to that office? Uh-huh. Live and learn, live and learn. 

But if anyone has any dentist they recommend, do let me know. You know, for when I go next year for my next "cleaning" and financial amputation.

Do You Know the Muffin Man . . . ?

Chris woke up this morning and didn't feel well, so I decided to make him muffins. Muffins, after all, can make just about anything better.

So I went about whipping up some blueberry muffins, easy little thing. Problem was, I missed one itty bitty line in the directions. The line that said "Fill Muffin Tins 2/3 Full." I filled them 3/3 full. In response, my muffins decided to puke themselves up.

They were deliscious . . . they just look revolting . . .
I can cook, I swear. Haha.

Sleepy Things

Currently Reading: The Island at the End of the World by Sam Taylor

Laugh and the world laughs with you, snore and you sleep alone.
--Anthony Burgess

Last night, Chris had settled into bed beside me, enjoying his midnight snack. I had dozed off a little while before. So there he is, innocently munching away on his cheese and crackers, mesmerized by the antic of a crazed Jack Sparrow on the telly, when suddenly, his wife sits up, waving her arms in front of her blindly. Finally she opens her mouth and yells, "WHERE ARE THE BLOODY TISSUES?!? CHRISTOPHER STEVEN, YOU DRIVE ME UP THE WALL!!!" then collapsed, unconscious, the perfect vision of serenity.
Chris, on the other hand, was completely confounded. What. Had. Just. Happened? He looked around for the tissues. There they were, by the edge of the bed like always. There was only one explanation. His wife was insane. Yep, that was it. She had finally lost her mind. He sat, very still, waited a moment, hoping the insanity had passed, then poked the woman sleeping like a corpse. "Sarah? Sarah . . ."
"Mmmmwhaa?"
"You just yelled at me."
"Mmwell yeah . . . I needed the tissues really bad but you hid them an . . ." I rolled over, rubbing sleep out of my eyes. "Wait . . ."
Chris was grinning.
"There weren't tissues? And I . . . oh . . . ah ha . . . hahahahaha!" And we both burst into laughter.
"You just sat up and yelled at me and I was like what the crap?" Chris said, still laughing.

I woke up again towards morning, yelling at Chris that we were going to be late . . . then realized it was Thursday, not Monday, and went back to sleep.

We're still laughing about the dream tissue incident.