She knocked on the door so quietly that I questioned whether or not anyone was there at all. It's a good thing that I was close to the door, though, because she was there. It was time for our home inspection. I recognized Saira through the peephole, took a deep breath, fixed my hair, and opened the door.
I had been waiting all week for this moment. Really, I felt as if I had been waiting my whole life for this moment. Rex and I were having a home inspection to see whether or not we would be good foster parents. This "Saira" got to judge us and our home and decide whether or not she would trust us with tiny lives.
Before you start getting crazy ideas, let me specify that we don't want to foster children. I mean, duh - we live in a one bedroom apartment and barely have enough room/time/money for ourselves. We want to foster rescue pugs. Okay, fine, I admit it - I want to foster a rescue pug. Rex just loves me enough to support the crazy shenanigans I get us into.
Last Saturday we talked to Saira to set up our home visit, and the visit was scheduled for Thursday at 5:00. I spent all week panicking about it. I mean, I LOVE pugs. This could be so huge for me! It's the perfect compromise for Rex and I, because I still get to help out pugs but Rex doesn't have to own one. It's great. It might be the closest that I ever come to my dream of being a pug owner. I'd already submitted our application and met the board of the Southern Nevada Pug Rescue, so it all hinged on this home inspection. I wanted it to be perfect.
I spent all week preparing. I dragged Rex around town to get new balcony furniture and potted plants to make our balcony look like a beautiful, dog-friendly retreat. I cleaned the apartment and purposely put Elvis's dog toys away but left just a couple out casually on the floor as if to say, "We're clean here, but we're not neat freaks. We believe in letting dogs be dogs." I brought home my pug page-a-day calendar from my desk at school and set it up inconspicuously on our DVD player. I gave Elvis and Elsie extra play sessions in the hope that they would become friends before the Thursday visit (they didn't). I fell in love with Rex all over again when he said, "I put two issues of Dog Fancy on top of the toilet for when she inspects the bathroom. That way, if she picks up one to see if we just got it as a decoy, she'll see that we have two so we're REAL dog people." If only we would have put the March issue on top (there was a pug on the cover of that one). Perhaps that would have been a bit of overkill, though, and we wanted to seem nonchalant. I even put thought into my outfit: jeans to seem casual, but a fancy top with jewelry so that I show that I'm not a total grunge-slob. I felt like my life dream was resting on impressing this Saira with my love of pugs. Even though I know he couldn't understand me, I had a long talk with Elvis about how he HAD to be good for this lady and prove that we were good dog-owners. Also, he couldn't act psycho or she wouldn't want any of their little babies to stay with us.
Anyway, back to the part when Saira knocked on the door. She knocked at exactly 5:01, while I was frantically checking my e-mail to see whether she had cancelled our appointment. After all, it was past 5:00 and she hadn't arrived. My heart was beating so fast - THIS WAS IT. I opened the door and smiled brightly. "Hi!" I chirped. Then I freaked out - was I supposed to shake her hand? Should I re-introduce myself? I mean, I'd already met her once, but still... I hadn't practiced the greeting! Aaaaaaaah! I settled on some variation of "Great to see you again, come on in!" As she walked in, I peered cautiously around for her clipboard and checklist or maybe even a tape recorder for her to take verbal notes in to be reviewed by the board after our meeting. She was only holding her purse. Hmmm...maybe the recorder was IN the purse, recording everything I said. Maybe there was a camera in the button on her shirt! Oh, except she was wearing a T-shirt with pugs on it. There were no buttons to hide a camera. She seemed deceptively casual. I would have to tread carefully.
Saira and I made our way over to the couch, where Elvis performed perfectly. It was as if he'd understood everything he and I had talked about earlier. He jumped up on the couch and licked Saira's face to say, "Hi! I like you!" He played around sniffing her for a few minutes, then when I said "Elvis, time to calm down," he obediently retrieved his bone from his "toy corner" and laid down on the floor to chew on it contentedly. I beamed with pride - what a good dog! See, Saira? I'm a good dog owner!! So what if he's putting on an act because I promised him a lifetime of treats if he made this visit go well? He's being good! Whoooo hooooo!
Saira and I sat on the couch and talked about the pug rescue and the responsibilities of fosters for about a half an hour. We had a lot of fun discussing the pugs that are currently in foster homes (I have all of their profiles memorized from the website), and we discussed the idiocy of people who don't like pugs. "Don't worry," she comforted me. "My boyfriend used to think that he didn't like pugs either, but now we have three. Your husband will come around." We can only hope.
After about a half an hour, Saira picked up her purse and said, "Well, that's about it! Thanks for having me over!" I wanted to scream, "Wait! You didn't take any notes! You didn't notice the Dog Fancy magazines on top of the toilet. You didn't look anywhere except the living room! I haven't even shown you our 'doggie retreat' balcony garden!" I quickly backtracked, though, when I realized that not showing Saira the rest of the apartment meant that she didn't have to meet Elsie. Elsie is a complete psychopath cat who should not be trusted near any dogs or humans, and that is why we keep her in the bedroom. She probably would have smelled pug on Saira and decided to kill her. I figured that the less Saira knew about the Elsie, the higher my chances were of becoming a pug foster. And that, my friends, is a very good thing.
When Rex got home from school, he asked how things went with Saira. I said that I thought they went well. He got a nervous look on his face and asked, "What did she say about Elsie?" I told him that she didn't even meet Elsie, and he broke into a huge grin, high-fived me, and said, "Sweet! Than we've got a chance!" HA HA!
So maybe I over-prepared for that meeting a bit...but it's better to be over-prepared, right? I am very happy to announce that within two hours of the end of our meeting, I got an e-mail telling me that our application to foster a pug had been APPROVED! HOORAY! Now I just have to wait for a little homeless pug to need a home to take care of him while he waits on getting adopted. I feel like a horrible person for hoping that it happens soon, but I can't help it. I'm going to (maybe, if they need one) be a pug foster mom! :-D
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Pet-a-Palooza
I used to think that Rex and I were pet fanatics, but that was before I saw the people pushing their cat around in a stroller. Their cat, by the way, was wearing a bow and a tutu.
I am writing to you because I absolutely adore pugs and want to help the pug rescue out in any way I can. I think I'm the biggest pug fan in the country who doesn't actually own a pug. My husband and I moved to Nevada last summer, and Pug-O-Rama last October was like Christmas to me. I don't own a pug myself because my husband loves dogs but thinks that pugs "look like someone threw them face-first into a wall" (a common misconception of the unenlightened).
Okay fine, I'll admit it. I didn't really see the cat; Rex did. I'm really sorry that I missed it, though, because it sounded pretty awesome. Those pet owners could make me look normal!
This wonderful pet experience stemmed from a e-mail that I sent to the Southern Nevada Pug Rescue a few days ago. Here was my first paragraph of that e-mail:
I am writing to you because I absolutely adore pugs and want to help the pug rescue out in any way I can. I think I'm the biggest pug fan in the country who doesn't actually own a pug. My husband and I moved to Nevada last summer, and Pug-O-Rama last October was like Christmas to me. I don't own a pug myself because my husband loves dogs but thinks that pugs "look like someone threw them face-first into a wall" (a common misconception of the unenlightened).
I went on in the rest of the e-mail to explain that my husband studies a lot, leaving me with more free time than I care to have. I would love to spend that time volunteering with the pug rescue...did they need any help? I got a response almost immediately from Saira, one of the board members at SNPR. She said that she would love to have me help out, and was I available to meet her and the rest of the board at "Pet-a-Palooza" this Saturday? Of course I was.
I looked up Pet-a-Palooza online, and I was surprised that I hadn't heard of it before. Apparently it's a huge annual event. I told Rex that we had to go. He didn't really argue...last year there were 15,000 people and 4,000 dogs. Who wouldn't want to go to that party?
We arrived at the fields where Pet-a-Palooza was located, and our first reaction was "WHOA." It was a lot bigger than we had imagined. Picture a county fair that is completely made for dogs. There were countless vendor tents, bounce houses, small roller coaster rides, and even a "food court" of vendor tents. It was crazy.
It probably took about a half hour for me to find the SNPR tent, but I finally did. I'm so excited to get involved with them! The ladies there seemed really nice. One large old lady who works there really looks like a pug...it kind of freaked me out a little. If I hang out with pugs too much will I start looking like one? I feel my eyes getting buggy...
Once we left the SNPR ladies, we kept exploring Pet-a-Palooza. We had a total blast. There was a jumping competition, and we watched one dog do a seven foot vertical jump. WOW. That was really cool. We periodically took Elvis to the "watering tent," where they had about a dozen kiddie pools set up for the dogs to splash around in. That was probably my favorite part. There was always at least one pool that was completely filled up by some huge dog who just decided to plop down and cool off (it was 96 degrees out, poor dogs). The littler dogs jumped around and splashed each other, and then they jumped out and shook all of the water off of their coats, drenching their owners. No one really minded, though, because it was so hot out. Elvis made some cute beagle friends, and we got invited to join their owner's beagle club and go on beagle hikes together. Cool!
Pet-a-palooza also had a mainstage where concerts were being performed. It made me wonder - people think they've "made it" if they get a performing gig in Las Vegas, but does it really count if you're performing at a giant afternoon dog party? I couldn't decide. The performers seemed happy, though, so I figured they were counting it.
I guess the name "Pet-a-Palooza" doesn't really specify which types of pets were invited, but the overwhelming majority of attendees were dogs. I already told you about the stroller cat - I feel like that's still a pretty normal pet (even if her owners were weirdos). Here's what I want to know - who brought their PONY? Yes, folks, someone was walking around with their pet pony. I at first thought, "Okay, that is a HUGE dog," but then I felt dumb when I realized it wasn't a dog at all. Oops. Another person brought a giant pig that is probably the size of my students. It spent most of the time rolling around in the mud. It's owner went to go get it and the pig tried to bite her, so she let him keep rolling. He's probably still in that mud patch as I type this. There were other assorted ferrets, rabbits, etc. I would not bring my rabbit around a bunch of dogs, especially breeds that have instincts to hunt rabbits, but oh well. Not all pet owners are thinkers.
Anyway, our little Webb family had a great day. Elvis fell asleep in the car on the way home, and he's been pooped ever since. Here is what he's been doing for most of the evening:
Pet-a-Palooza was a lot of excitement for a small dog! Just wait until I convince Rex we should be foster parents to a rescue pug...Elvis is going to flip out.
Friday, April 20, 2012
My Drug
The first step to curing an addiction is admitting that you have a problem, right? I fully admit that I have a problem, but I don't think I want to be cured of it. I love it. I revel in it. I partake in this addiction at all sorts of times of the day and night, and I have spent countless amounts of money on it. I've been addicted since first grade, and I see no relief in the future.
I am addicted to new books.
The first new book I remember getting (though I'm sure I must have had some before this) was a Boxcar Children book. My mom ordered it for me out of my first grade scholastic book order (thanks Mom!). I can't be positive, but I think it was the Case of the Mysterious Twin. Anyway, I remember sitting in my tiny first grade chair, holding the book that the teacher had handed out to me, and thinking, "Wow! This is MY book. I'm going to be the very first person in the world to read this particular book, and it's no one else's but MINE!" Call me greedy, but with the recent addition of my little sister to my family I was starting to fear I would have to share everything I owned. I stared at the shiny sky blue cover in awe, not even wanting to touch it for fear that I would put a fingerprint smudge on the perfect publisher-fresh illustration.
Fast forward almost twenty years. Here I am sitting at my teacher's desk, and I just wiped a fingerprint smudge off of a brand new book that one of my students bought for me ten minutes ago. I guess I haven't changed much since first grade. The Scholastic book fair is at our school this week, and I bribed my students by saying that anyone who bought me a book from the book fair would get McDonalds fries next week (this bribe always works tremendously well. Fries and extra credit are my two secret weapons). I started to realize that I had an addiction when a student raised her hand and said, "Can we bring you books from home?" My immediate answer was, "No. It has to be a NEW book. Donate all of the old books you want, but I'm only buying fries for people who get me new books."
Now, if you know me, you know I'm not a very high maintenence person. I rarely buy new clothes. I've never bought new furniture, and I don't think I'll ever buy a new car. I even told Rex that he could buy me a secondhand wedding ring because I didn't really need a new one (he got me a new one anyway). Still, I have a thing about new books. I love them. I must have them. Sure, I buy a ton of used books off of Amazon because they're cheaper, but they just don't give me the same high. I'm like a drug addict who is desperate for a hit of anything but who really wants to get a hold of the "good stuff." I get this thrill every time I hold a new book in my hands, and it's the same thrill that I had in first grade. This is MY book that NO ONE else has ever read. It's perfect - no pages are bent or torn, the cover isn't dirty or smudged, and no one has written anything in it. A tiny bit of perfection resting in my own two hands. It's simultaneously mystical and glorious.
What caused me to write this blog in the first place is when I realized how weird I must have looked to any passers-by in the hall who saw me sitting here at my desk with my entire face literally buried deep into the pages of my new book. I open each new book to a random page and just smell. I suppose part of the "new book drug" is an inhalent. New books smell SO good, and they always smell the same. It's reassuring to me, like "No matter how crazy the world gets, you can always count on a new book to smell like a new book." Why don't they sell air fresheners that smell like that? I want to move into an old publishing factory or something so I can smell that smell all the time. It's better than the smell of roses or cologne or even puppies (yes, Rex, it smells even better than puppies. We're already married so you can't dump me for that). New books make me so happy. Who can be sad when holding a shiny new book? The world could save a lot of money on therapists and mental health drugs if they would just pass around more new books. Getting my Barnes and Noble Educator's card was probably my favorite part of becoming a teacher. 20% off everything at Barnes and Noble?? SERIOUSLY?? IS THIS HEAVEN!?
Yes, I know, I have a problem. If you'll excuse me, though, I have a new book to read.
I am addicted to new books.
The first new book I remember getting (though I'm sure I must have had some before this) was a Boxcar Children book. My mom ordered it for me out of my first grade scholastic book order (thanks Mom!). I can't be positive, but I think it was the Case of the Mysterious Twin. Anyway, I remember sitting in my tiny first grade chair, holding the book that the teacher had handed out to me, and thinking, "Wow! This is MY book. I'm going to be the very first person in the world to read this particular book, and it's no one else's but MINE!" Call me greedy, but with the recent addition of my little sister to my family I was starting to fear I would have to share everything I owned. I stared at the shiny sky blue cover in awe, not even wanting to touch it for fear that I would put a fingerprint smudge on the perfect publisher-fresh illustration.
Fast forward almost twenty years. Here I am sitting at my teacher's desk, and I just wiped a fingerprint smudge off of a brand new book that one of my students bought for me ten minutes ago. I guess I haven't changed much since first grade. The Scholastic book fair is at our school this week, and I bribed my students by saying that anyone who bought me a book from the book fair would get McDonalds fries next week (this bribe always works tremendously well. Fries and extra credit are my two secret weapons). I started to realize that I had an addiction when a student raised her hand and said, "Can we bring you books from home?" My immediate answer was, "No. It has to be a NEW book. Donate all of the old books you want, but I'm only buying fries for people who get me new books."
Now, if you know me, you know I'm not a very high maintenence person. I rarely buy new clothes. I've never bought new furniture, and I don't think I'll ever buy a new car. I even told Rex that he could buy me a secondhand wedding ring because I didn't really need a new one (he got me a new one anyway). Still, I have a thing about new books. I love them. I must have them. Sure, I buy a ton of used books off of Amazon because they're cheaper, but they just don't give me the same high. I'm like a drug addict who is desperate for a hit of anything but who really wants to get a hold of the "good stuff." I get this thrill every time I hold a new book in my hands, and it's the same thrill that I had in first grade. This is MY book that NO ONE else has ever read. It's perfect - no pages are bent or torn, the cover isn't dirty or smudged, and no one has written anything in it. A tiny bit of perfection resting in my own two hands. It's simultaneously mystical and glorious.
What caused me to write this blog in the first place is when I realized how weird I must have looked to any passers-by in the hall who saw me sitting here at my desk with my entire face literally buried deep into the pages of my new book. I open each new book to a random page and just smell. I suppose part of the "new book drug" is an inhalent. New books smell SO good, and they always smell the same. It's reassuring to me, like "No matter how crazy the world gets, you can always count on a new book to smell like a new book." Why don't they sell air fresheners that smell like that? I want to move into an old publishing factory or something so I can smell that smell all the time. It's better than the smell of roses or cologne or even puppies (yes, Rex, it smells even better than puppies. We're already married so you can't dump me for that). New books make me so happy. Who can be sad when holding a shiny new book? The world could save a lot of money on therapists and mental health drugs if they would just pass around more new books. Getting my Barnes and Noble Educator's card was probably my favorite part of becoming a teacher. 20% off everything at Barnes and Noble?? SERIOUSLY?? IS THIS HEAVEN!?
Yes, I know, I have a problem. If you'll excuse me, though, I have a new book to read.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Gate B18
Hurry, flowered shirt woman! Hurry! If you run slower, you might miss your plane like I missed mine! Don’t worry about your hair…no one is looking at your hair because they’re too preoccupied with the ginormous shocking pink flowers splashed all over your shirt.
Oops, don’t run over that kid, flowered shirt woman! I know he’s totally mucking up the moving walkway by executing a poor imitation of Michael Jackon’s moonwalk. Of course he’s standing right in the middle, too. He just wants everyone to pay attention to him. Don’t take it personally, flowered shirt woman. He looks to be about in middle school, and I know a lot about that age. They’re pretty much all idiots. If the worst he’s doing is moonwalking on the moving walkway, his parents will probably call it a good day. Goodbye, flowered shirt woman! I hope you make your flight!
Oh, hello reader. I didn’t see you there. I’m too busy watching the insanity that is the Chicago Midway airport. As I sit on this very uncomfortable stool at a “charging station,” I see a plane taking off into the distance and flying into the sunset. Is that the plane I was supposed to be on? Probably not, but you never really know. It could be.
See, what I want to do is go home to Las Vegas to see my husband, my puppy (who turns 1 year old tomorrow!), and even my cranky cat. That’s not what I get to do, though. What I get to do is sit here and pray that the next flight to Vegas out of Chicago (which leaves in three hours) doesn’t get cancelled. I’m flying home from visiting my grandma in New Hampshire. The plane from New Hampshire to Chicago was delayed, and I missed my connecting flight by ten measly minutes! TEN! I should be on a plane right now, sipping complementary Sprite and dreaming of the happy “cling cling cling!” of the slot machines that will welcome me home at McCarran Airport. Instead, I’m here blogging to pass the time. Actually, correction: I’m writing a blog in Microsoft Word that I will later transfer to my real blog, because this airport charges $6.95 for internet access. Is that insane or what?! I just want to sign on and check some e-mails, surf facbeook, etc. I can get free wifi if I buy a $1 cup of tea at Starbucks, but if I drop a few hundred on airline tickets then suddenly I’m charged? This is silly. I’m sticking it to the proverbial Airport Man and not buying his wifi. HA! I will write in word, which you cannot charge me for.
Anyway, I figure I’ll sit here for a while and transcribe what I see for you. It will be almost as if you’re here with me in the airport. How fun! I have to warn you, though, that I am being strongly tempted by the smell of fresh McDonalds fries that is wafting over to me from the McDonalds next to this gate. I think scientists should do a study on how long people can sit and smell McDonalds fries without wanting to buy some. It’s not very long; that’s for sure. So I will probably follow my nostrils over there in a little bit. Until then…
The guy passing in front of me right now is genius, but I hope he’s not in a hurry. This man is in a wheelchair, and he’s rolling next to the moving walkway. He’s holding onto the arm rail of the moving walkway, so the belt is pulling him along and he doesn’t have to push his wheelchair. Good job, my disabled friend! You’re not going quickly, but you are expending absolutely no energy whatsoever in getting to your destination. That’s something not many of us can do.
The man sitting next to me at the charging station has taken notice of our disabled friend. He turns to me and says, “Well, that’s a new way to use the walkway!” I agree. Charging Station Man comments that we can watch the whole world go by from where we’re sitting. I agree again. Gasp – is he a fellow writer? Is he writing down everything he sees too? Perhaps he is writing about me right now: “This crazy girl with a way outdated MacBook is sitting next to me…she’s kind of quiet, but she’s super fashionable. It looks almost as if her grandma just bought her a whole new summer wardrobe…” Good job, Charging Station Man! She did.
I can’t stand it any more. I’m taking a peek at Charging Station Man’s computer to see what he’s writing. Oh! He’s about to eat a chip - perfect opportunity to peek.
That was anticlimactic. He’s working on a spreadsheet. It’s probably something for work. Maybe he’s a high-class businessman billionaire. I feel like only really sophisticated business people work on spreadsheets in their spare time. Perhaps his jeans and tee shirt are a disguise he wears when he goes out into public so that people won’t notice him and hound him for money or take unflattering pictures of him that will end up in Us Weekly or something. Let me check if he’s famous a second (he’s going to think that it’s weird that I keep looking at him).
Blast. Not famous. Well, not anyone that I know of anyway. To a normal observer he would look like an average guy working on a spreadsheet. Hmm… I must find another subject. Charging Station Man is boring me.
Oh look! A mobster pushing some luggage carts. Perfect. I am in Chicago, after all, so I suppose that fits. He’s probably not really a mobster, but he looks like one. He’s a mid-twenties tallish Mexican, and he’s not really skinny or fat. His hair is gelled straight up from his head, and it looks either like black flames or deadly spikes. It’s tall, too – probably about six inches shooting out of his head. Picture Heat Miser from The Year Without a Santa Claus as a Mexican, and you’ve got the idea. He also has a really thin mustache that looks as if he’s been trying to grow it out since he was fourteen but hasn’t really gotten very far. The gold chains clinking together around his neck complete the look.
Wait, are mobsters Mexican? I thought they were Italian… This guy is definitely Mexican; I heard him speaking Spanish. He didn’t sound Italian at all. Then again, I shouldn’t be mobster racist. I’m sure mobsters can come from any race. Black, White, Mexican, British….whatever. To the poor African tribal men playing bongos in your bamboo huts – YOU TOO CAN BE MOBSTERS IF YOU FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS!
Crap. Charging Station Man got French fries. See? I told you that they were unavoidable! Now I can smell them even more…mmmm…. He got a cheeseburger too! Mmmm….cheeseburger… I will resist for now, though. I have more to tell you about.
Excuse me, woman with the stroller, did you notice that you have no baby? This woman is pushing a stroller with a stuffed panda in it, but no baby. No, I’m not kidding. Do you really think I could make this stuff up? I’m not that creative. I’m looking around her for a husband or other family member holding the child, but there is no one. It’s just this woman and her panda flying solo. I’m waiting to hear an announcement over the intercom saying, “Excuse me travelers – please check your strollers. If you are missing a baby, she can be picked up at Terminal 3.”
Seriously, this woman has no baby. Maybe that panda is really important to her. OH MY GOSH, what if she’s smuggling drugs inside of that panda?! She is just pretending to have a baby so that no one will suspect her. Panda Lady – the mobster went the other way! What if I watched a drug deal go down right here at Gate B18? Now that would be truly crazy.
Here is a poor woman who deserves a blog shout-out – a grandma traveling with four kids. Before you start calling me ageist, I know she’s their grandma and not their mom because they’re calling her “grandma.” More accurately, they’re yelling it across the terminal as they run in four different directions and expect her to follow them. None of the children can be over ten. No way. What is this, “vacation with Grandma” week? This poor grandma is dealing with the fallout of the fact that her grandchildren have discovered the moving walkway. Now that you mention it, Benny, it IS kind of like a mini-rollercoaster! Let’s play on it all night or until your grandma has a heart attack from trying to corral all of you – whichever comes first. I can tell you something: this will probably be their last vacation with Grandma. She looks really tired and entirely too old to be dealing with this. If I had a badge of airport honor, I would give it to her.
This blog is now three single spaced pages long, and I’m still an hour and forty-five minutes from my flight. GAH! Maybe I should suck it up and pay the $6.95 for internet so I can fight boredom. No, I won’t pay! I will hold my ground. You know what? I could buy a whole feast at McDonalds with my $6.95, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’m coming for you, delicious fries!
Oops, don’t run over that kid, flowered shirt woman! I know he’s totally mucking up the moving walkway by executing a poor imitation of Michael Jackon’s moonwalk. Of course he’s standing right in the middle, too. He just wants everyone to pay attention to him. Don’t take it personally, flowered shirt woman. He looks to be about in middle school, and I know a lot about that age. They’re pretty much all idiots. If the worst he’s doing is moonwalking on the moving walkway, his parents will probably call it a good day. Goodbye, flowered shirt woman! I hope you make your flight!
Oh, hello reader. I didn’t see you there. I’m too busy watching the insanity that is the Chicago Midway airport. As I sit on this very uncomfortable stool at a “charging station,” I see a plane taking off into the distance and flying into the sunset. Is that the plane I was supposed to be on? Probably not, but you never really know. It could be.
See, what I want to do is go home to Las Vegas to see my husband, my puppy (who turns 1 year old tomorrow!), and even my cranky cat. That’s not what I get to do, though. What I get to do is sit here and pray that the next flight to Vegas out of Chicago (which leaves in three hours) doesn’t get cancelled. I’m flying home from visiting my grandma in New Hampshire. The plane from New Hampshire to Chicago was delayed, and I missed my connecting flight by ten measly minutes! TEN! I should be on a plane right now, sipping complementary Sprite and dreaming of the happy “cling cling cling!” of the slot machines that will welcome me home at McCarran Airport. Instead, I’m here blogging to pass the time. Actually, correction: I’m writing a blog in Microsoft Word that I will later transfer to my real blog, because this airport charges $6.95 for internet access. Is that insane or what?! I just want to sign on and check some e-mails, surf facbeook, etc. I can get free wifi if I buy a $1 cup of tea at Starbucks, but if I drop a few hundred on airline tickets then suddenly I’m charged? This is silly. I’m sticking it to the proverbial Airport Man and not buying his wifi. HA! I will write in word, which you cannot charge me for.
Anyway, I figure I’ll sit here for a while and transcribe what I see for you. It will be almost as if you’re here with me in the airport. How fun! I have to warn you, though, that I am being strongly tempted by the smell of fresh McDonalds fries that is wafting over to me from the McDonalds next to this gate. I think scientists should do a study on how long people can sit and smell McDonalds fries without wanting to buy some. It’s not very long; that’s for sure. So I will probably follow my nostrils over there in a little bit. Until then…
The guy passing in front of me right now is genius, but I hope he’s not in a hurry. This man is in a wheelchair, and he’s rolling next to the moving walkway. He’s holding onto the arm rail of the moving walkway, so the belt is pulling him along and he doesn’t have to push his wheelchair. Good job, my disabled friend! You’re not going quickly, but you are expending absolutely no energy whatsoever in getting to your destination. That’s something not many of us can do.
The man sitting next to me at the charging station has taken notice of our disabled friend. He turns to me and says, “Well, that’s a new way to use the walkway!” I agree. Charging Station Man comments that we can watch the whole world go by from where we’re sitting. I agree again. Gasp – is he a fellow writer? Is he writing down everything he sees too? Perhaps he is writing about me right now: “This crazy girl with a way outdated MacBook is sitting next to me…she’s kind of quiet, but she’s super fashionable. It looks almost as if her grandma just bought her a whole new summer wardrobe…” Good job, Charging Station Man! She did.
I can’t stand it any more. I’m taking a peek at Charging Station Man’s computer to see what he’s writing. Oh! He’s about to eat a chip - perfect opportunity to peek.
That was anticlimactic. He’s working on a spreadsheet. It’s probably something for work. Maybe he’s a high-class businessman billionaire. I feel like only really sophisticated business people work on spreadsheets in their spare time. Perhaps his jeans and tee shirt are a disguise he wears when he goes out into public so that people won’t notice him and hound him for money or take unflattering pictures of him that will end up in Us Weekly or something. Let me check if he’s famous a second (he’s going to think that it’s weird that I keep looking at him).
Blast. Not famous. Well, not anyone that I know of anyway. To a normal observer he would look like an average guy working on a spreadsheet. Hmm… I must find another subject. Charging Station Man is boring me.
Oh look! A mobster pushing some luggage carts. Perfect. I am in Chicago, after all, so I suppose that fits. He’s probably not really a mobster, but he looks like one. He’s a mid-twenties tallish Mexican, and he’s not really skinny or fat. His hair is gelled straight up from his head, and it looks either like black flames or deadly spikes. It’s tall, too – probably about six inches shooting out of his head. Picture Heat Miser from The Year Without a Santa Claus as a Mexican, and you’ve got the idea. He also has a really thin mustache that looks as if he’s been trying to grow it out since he was fourteen but hasn’t really gotten very far. The gold chains clinking together around his neck complete the look.
Wait, are mobsters Mexican? I thought they were Italian… This guy is definitely Mexican; I heard him speaking Spanish. He didn’t sound Italian at all. Then again, I shouldn’t be mobster racist. I’m sure mobsters can come from any race. Black, White, Mexican, British….whatever. To the poor African tribal men playing bongos in your bamboo huts – YOU TOO CAN BE MOBSTERS IF YOU FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS!
Crap. Charging Station Man got French fries. See? I told you that they were unavoidable! Now I can smell them even more…mmmm…. He got a cheeseburger too! Mmmm….cheeseburger… I will resist for now, though. I have more to tell you about.
Excuse me, woman with the stroller, did you notice that you have no baby? This woman is pushing a stroller with a stuffed panda in it, but no baby. No, I’m not kidding. Do you really think I could make this stuff up? I’m not that creative. I’m looking around her for a husband or other family member holding the child, but there is no one. It’s just this woman and her panda flying solo. I’m waiting to hear an announcement over the intercom saying, “Excuse me travelers – please check your strollers. If you are missing a baby, she can be picked up at Terminal 3.”
Seriously, this woman has no baby. Maybe that panda is really important to her. OH MY GOSH, what if she’s smuggling drugs inside of that panda?! She is just pretending to have a baby so that no one will suspect her. Panda Lady – the mobster went the other way! What if I watched a drug deal go down right here at Gate B18? Now that would be truly crazy.
Here is a poor woman who deserves a blog shout-out – a grandma traveling with four kids. Before you start calling me ageist, I know she’s their grandma and not their mom because they’re calling her “grandma.” More accurately, they’re yelling it across the terminal as they run in four different directions and expect her to follow them. None of the children can be over ten. No way. What is this, “vacation with Grandma” week? This poor grandma is dealing with the fallout of the fact that her grandchildren have discovered the moving walkway. Now that you mention it, Benny, it IS kind of like a mini-rollercoaster! Let’s play on it all night or until your grandma has a heart attack from trying to corral all of you – whichever comes first. I can tell you something: this will probably be their last vacation with Grandma. She looks really tired and entirely too old to be dealing with this. If I had a badge of airport honor, I would give it to her.
This blog is now three single spaced pages long, and I’m still an hour and forty-five minutes from my flight. GAH! Maybe I should suck it up and pay the $6.95 for internet so I can fight boredom. No, I won’t pay! I will hold my ground. You know what? I could buy a whole feast at McDonalds with my $6.95, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’m coming for you, delicious fries!
Saturday, March 31, 2012
ACM'S on Fremont Street
When the drunk, large-and-in-charge Mexican man grabbed my phone, texted one of my coworkers, and then yelled to me, "NO TEXTING! JUST DANCING," I thought of two things almost simultaneously: "Dude, give me back my phone, you weirdo," and "I am SO blogging about this."
You may be wondering to yourself, "Why was Christine dancing with a large-and-in-charge drunk Mexican man?" Well, I can assure you - I did not do that on purpose. All I wanted to do was see a good concert and enjoy some country music! The American Country Music Awards are in Vegas this year, and they take place on Sunday. As a build up to that event, there was a slew of free concerts downtown last night. It was advertised as "Vegas Goes Country." Many big names were there, and people can't resist an opportunity to see famous people perform, especially when it's FREE.
Anyway, Fremont Street was PACKED. I could not move at all by the time the concert(s) started. Rex and I went with his friend Steven and my friend Shelley, and we had plans to meet up with some more people from Rex's PT school when we got down there. That didn't happen because his weirdo classmates decided to go to a strip club instead of to the concerts, but I digress. That doesn't really matter for my story. Anyway, it ended up just being me, Rex, Steven, and Shelley.
The thing about Shelley is that she's a middle aged guy magnet. It's really weird. I mean, okay, she's quite a bit older than us (47), but she got hit on A LOT. At one time in particular, we were watching Scotty McCreery perform (he won American Idol last year), and this really super-creeper guy started putting his arm around Shelley and hugging her and stuff. We were packed in like sardines, so she couldn't really move. Because the music was too loud to really talk, the guy typed out his number on his phone and held it up to Shelley. "THIS IS MY NUMBER," he yelled. She said no thanks, but he kept on bugging her. They had literally known each other for about thirty seconds (if you count "knowing" someone as being semi molested by them without even exchanging names, which I do not). She looked quite alarmed, so I turned to Rex and said, "I'm rescuing Shelley. We'll meet up with you later." I grabbed Shelley's arm and started shoving my way through the crowd to try to get away from the creepy guy. When we finally got far enough away, I said to Shelley, "That guy was WEIRD. I'm taking you to my favorite spot to get root beer floats." There is a casino on Fremont that sells $2 root beer floats, and they are delicious. I get one almost every time I go downtown. After waiting about a half an hour in line for my root beer float, I finally got to sit down. It was worth the wait. After about two minutes of sitting, Shelley was ready to go back out into the craziness.
We braved the crowds again, trying to find Rex and Steven. The crowds were pushing even tighter together, though, as people tried to press towards the stage to watch Luke Bryan perform. Finally we were just stuck. People were pressed into me on all sides, and I couldn't move. I could hardly breathe. I could see Rex and Steven about ten people away from where Shelley and I were, but there was no way that we could make it over to them. Rex and I gave each other a helpless wave and turned to watch the concert in our respective cramped spots. That is when Mr. Drunk Mexican entered the picture. He was in front of Shelley and I, but once he got a look at Shelley he decided to no longer pay attention to the concert. He turned around and started dancing with her. She tried to back away, but there was really nowhere to back up. The man's girlfriend/wife person put her arm around the guy and shot Shelley an evil look. Shelley leaned in toward the man and said, "You should dance with your wife...I think she's getting jealous." The man shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Whatever. She feels more like my sister. I don't really care." Wow...husband of the year award.
Just then, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Thinking it might be a text from Rex (we had been texting back and forth during the concert), I pulled out my phone to check. It was not Rex, but rather was a text from my coworker/kind of friend Amy. She knew we were going to the concert, and she texted to say, "Hope you guys are having fun!" I pulled out the keypad to reply. I started out by typing, "It's fun but it's CRAZY!" Just then Shelley's Mexican boyfriend grabbed my phone. "No texting! Just dancing!" he yelled. When I got my phone back I saw that a text had been sent to Amy reading something along the lines of, "It's fun but it's CRAZY! I litgfisdjhfiu7hhu." I hurried to send another text explaining about Mr. Mexico and that I had not been drinking, even though that text seemed to indicate otherwise. I swear all I had to drink was a root beer float...but Mexico was sending drunk texts from me! Ahhhhhh! As I tried to reply, Mexico grabbed my phone again and repeated his same instructions: "NO TEXTING! JUST DANCING!" Fearing more "drunk" texts from this man, I pocketed my phone and figured I would have to explain later. Just then, Shelley took her lip gloss out of her purse to apply a fresh coat. Her new bf snatched the applicator from her hand and started applying the lip gloss to her lips. CREEPY! She tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. She finally just succumbed to the psycho that was this night and allowed her new boyfriend to put lip gloss on her. He turned to try to put it on me, but I said no way. I think his wife was about to shoot him. I really don't blame her. Finally this guy got the grand idea to go buy Shelley and I a couple of beers. I said "Sure, thanks!" knowing that as soon as he made his way through the throngs of people, he would never find us again among the thousands of country fans. Perhaps that was a mean way of thinking, but oh well. It was his idea, and it got him away from us.
Shelley and I stood squished among the increasingly stinky people for a few more minutes when two guys started blazing a trail through the crowd. Now, I'm not trying to sound racist here, but the guys looked straight out of the HOOD. They were scary. I thought they were going to start shooting up the crowd. Anyway, people backed away from them pretty quickly, and they were actually able to move through the people. Shelley, being braver than I am, called, "LET'S GO!" and started trailing the gangsters as if we were with them. She had a good idea, as they passed almost right by Rex and Steven. Shelley and I were able to jump off of Train Ghetto and land right next to our friends. Whoo hoo!!
We quickly recounted our tales for the guys. They'd had their own version of crazy. Standing next to them was a HUGE man drinking from a two liter bottle of Orange Crush. I actually initially thought it was a 20 oz bottle, because that's just how massive this guy was. He was about the nerdiest guy you could imagine, with jean shorts up to his belly button and a black t-shirt soaked through with sweat. After each song (which he would sing emphatically and dance his heart out to), he would take out a sweat rag and wipe the sweat off of his face. EEEEEW! We got a video of Rex dancing with this guy - I will have to put it on facebook. I and the two guys behind me kept trying to convince Shelley that this man was her "true love" and that she should ask him out. BWAH HA! I even shoved her into the copious amounts of fat rolls that comprised his butt. I really hope she showered last night.
All in all, it was a really fun but crazy night. There are more concerts tonight. Rex, Shelley, and Steven want to go back, but I don't know if I'm ready to handle it... We shall see.
You may be wondering to yourself, "Why was Christine dancing with a large-and-in-charge drunk Mexican man?" Well, I can assure you - I did not do that on purpose. All I wanted to do was see a good concert and enjoy some country music! The American Country Music Awards are in Vegas this year, and they take place on Sunday. As a build up to that event, there was a slew of free concerts downtown last night. It was advertised as "Vegas Goes Country." Many big names were there, and people can't resist an opportunity to see famous people perform, especially when it's FREE.
Anyway, Fremont Street was PACKED. I could not move at all by the time the concert(s) started. Rex and I went with his friend Steven and my friend Shelley, and we had plans to meet up with some more people from Rex's PT school when we got down there. That didn't happen because his weirdo classmates decided to go to a strip club instead of to the concerts, but I digress. That doesn't really matter for my story. Anyway, it ended up just being me, Rex, Steven, and Shelley.
The thing about Shelley is that she's a middle aged guy magnet. It's really weird. I mean, okay, she's quite a bit older than us (47), but she got hit on A LOT. At one time in particular, we were watching Scotty McCreery perform (he won American Idol last year), and this really super-creeper guy started putting his arm around Shelley and hugging her and stuff. We were packed in like sardines, so she couldn't really move. Because the music was too loud to really talk, the guy typed out his number on his phone and held it up to Shelley. "THIS IS MY NUMBER," he yelled. She said no thanks, but he kept on bugging her. They had literally known each other for about thirty seconds (if you count "knowing" someone as being semi molested by them without even exchanging names, which I do not). She looked quite alarmed, so I turned to Rex and said, "I'm rescuing Shelley. We'll meet up with you later." I grabbed Shelley's arm and started shoving my way through the crowd to try to get away from the creepy guy. When we finally got far enough away, I said to Shelley, "That guy was WEIRD. I'm taking you to my favorite spot to get root beer floats." There is a casino on Fremont that sells $2 root beer floats, and they are delicious. I get one almost every time I go downtown. After waiting about a half an hour in line for my root beer float, I finally got to sit down. It was worth the wait. After about two minutes of sitting, Shelley was ready to go back out into the craziness.
We braved the crowds again, trying to find Rex and Steven. The crowds were pushing even tighter together, though, as people tried to press towards the stage to watch Luke Bryan perform. Finally we were just stuck. People were pressed into me on all sides, and I couldn't move. I could hardly breathe. I could see Rex and Steven about ten people away from where Shelley and I were, but there was no way that we could make it over to them. Rex and I gave each other a helpless wave and turned to watch the concert in our respective cramped spots. That is when Mr. Drunk Mexican entered the picture. He was in front of Shelley and I, but once he got a look at Shelley he decided to no longer pay attention to the concert. He turned around and started dancing with her. She tried to back away, but there was really nowhere to back up. The man's girlfriend/wife person put her arm around the guy and shot Shelley an evil look. Shelley leaned in toward the man and said, "You should dance with your wife...I think she's getting jealous." The man shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Whatever. She feels more like my sister. I don't really care." Wow...husband of the year award.
Just then, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Thinking it might be a text from Rex (we had been texting back and forth during the concert), I pulled out my phone to check. It was not Rex, but rather was a text from my coworker/kind of friend Amy. She knew we were going to the concert, and she texted to say, "Hope you guys are having fun!" I pulled out the keypad to reply. I started out by typing, "It's fun but it's CRAZY!" Just then Shelley's Mexican boyfriend grabbed my phone. "No texting! Just dancing!" he yelled. When I got my phone back I saw that a text had been sent to Amy reading something along the lines of, "It's fun but it's CRAZY! I litgfisdjhfiu7hhu." I hurried to send another text explaining about Mr. Mexico and that I had not been drinking, even though that text seemed to indicate otherwise. I swear all I had to drink was a root beer float...but Mexico was sending drunk texts from me! Ahhhhhh! As I tried to reply, Mexico grabbed my phone again and repeated his same instructions: "NO TEXTING! JUST DANCING!" Fearing more "drunk" texts from this man, I pocketed my phone and figured I would have to explain later. Just then, Shelley took her lip gloss out of her purse to apply a fresh coat. Her new bf snatched the applicator from her hand and started applying the lip gloss to her lips. CREEPY! She tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. She finally just succumbed to the psycho that was this night and allowed her new boyfriend to put lip gloss on her. He turned to try to put it on me, but I said no way. I think his wife was about to shoot him. I really don't blame her. Finally this guy got the grand idea to go buy Shelley and I a couple of beers. I said "Sure, thanks!" knowing that as soon as he made his way through the throngs of people, he would never find us again among the thousands of country fans. Perhaps that was a mean way of thinking, but oh well. It was his idea, and it got him away from us.
Shelley and I stood squished among the increasingly stinky people for a few more minutes when two guys started blazing a trail through the crowd. Now, I'm not trying to sound racist here, but the guys looked straight out of the HOOD. They were scary. I thought they were going to start shooting up the crowd. Anyway, people backed away from them pretty quickly, and they were actually able to move through the people. Shelley, being braver than I am, called, "LET'S GO!" and started trailing the gangsters as if we were with them. She had a good idea, as they passed almost right by Rex and Steven. Shelley and I were able to jump off of Train Ghetto and land right next to our friends. Whoo hoo!!
We quickly recounted our tales for the guys. They'd had their own version of crazy. Standing next to them was a HUGE man drinking from a two liter bottle of Orange Crush. I actually initially thought it was a 20 oz bottle, because that's just how massive this guy was. He was about the nerdiest guy you could imagine, with jean shorts up to his belly button and a black t-shirt soaked through with sweat. After each song (which he would sing emphatically and dance his heart out to), he would take out a sweat rag and wipe the sweat off of his face. EEEEEW! We got a video of Rex dancing with this guy - I will have to put it on facebook. I and the two guys behind me kept trying to convince Shelley that this man was her "true love" and that she should ask him out. BWAH HA! I even shoved her into the copious amounts of fat rolls that comprised his butt. I really hope she showered last night.
All in all, it was a really fun but crazy night. There are more concerts tonight. Rex, Shelley, and Steven want to go back, but I don't know if I'm ready to handle it... We shall see.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Eighth Grade Me
My job is fun. The eighth graders are going to have to do a final project called "The Future Project," where they do things such as researching professions, colleges, etc. to find out what they might want to do with their futures. They are going to put a bunch of different things on a display board (think the tri-fold science fair boards), and we are going to display all of their boards at the eighth grade graduation. Good idea, huh? Thanks. I thought of it myself. Anyway, I'm making an example board to show them before we even start the process so that they can see an example of the finished project. It's quite funny, actually...I'm sending letters to colleges pretending to be an eighth grader so I can see what kind of stuff I get back.
On the left side of their tri-fold board, the students are going to display two essays: "Who I Am Now," and "Who I Will Be in Fifteen Years." For my example board, I wrote two essays from the perspective of my eighth grade self. It was way too much fun, and I decided to share them with you here:
Who I Am Now:
My name is Christine Knasel. I am an eighth grade student at Kalamazoo Christian Middle School in Kalamazoo, Michigan. I am fourteen years old, and I guess you could say that I am a lot like other fourteen-year-old girls: I enjoy shopping, staying up late talking to my friends, playing volleyball, and wearing sparkly lip gloss.
My favorite subject is Language Arts. It is mostly my favorite subject because I love to read and write, but it is also my favorite subject because during Language Arts class I sit by this really cute guy named Andrew. I don’t think he likes me back, but oh well. I still like Language Arts. My proudest accomplishment this year was winning a writing contest put on by my local newspaper, The Kalamazoo Gazette. I wrote a short story called “All I Wanted Was Mountain Dew.” I got my story published in the paper, and I also won $25.
Here are a few of my other favorites: my favorite movie is Pirates of the Caribbean. My favorite book is Running Out of Time by Margaret Peterson Haddix. My favorite color is pink, and my favorite thing to do in my spare time is to write. A few things I hate are running, tomatoes, detention (which I have only ever had once), zits, that really bad perm that I got on my 14th birthday, spiders, and Andrew's girlfriend (but don’t tell her I said that).
All in all, eighth grade has been a great year. I would say that it’s been my best year ever. I love all of my friends, and I’m sure we will be friends forever. Bonds made in middle school will not ever be broken.
Who I Will Be in Fifteen Years:
In fifteen years, I will be married to an amazing guy. I will be twenty-nine years old, verging on that scary number thirty (when I will be practically old). It won’t really matter, though, because I will already be married, so that guy will have to like me even when I get old and wrinkly and senile and forget his name because I’m so old that I forget everything.
I will be a teacher, hopefully for middle school Language Arts, but I won’t live in Michigan anymore. Michigan is too cold. I want to move somewhere warmer where I can see palm trees every day. I have had fourteen years of snow, and that is enough for me. I am really sick of snow. Plus, I want to have three dogs, and walking them in the snow every day will be very annoying. Walking them next to palm trees will be fun. I will have a beagle, a pug, and a stray mutt that my husband and I found wandering the streets. We really only wanted two dogs, but we took in the third one because she was so pathetically cute. We will live in a nice house with our very own palm trees in front of it and a pool in the back yard.
Even though I love teaching, that doesn’t make very much money. Therefore, when I’m not teaching I will be writing books. By the time I’m twenty-nine I probably will not have achieved winning a Newberry Medal for children’s literature, but I will be well on my way. I will have published at least three books by then, and they just keep getting better and better. I’m sure my big break will come eventually, and I will definitely have the Newberry Medal by the time I am forty (another scary “old” number).
Life will be awesome, because when I’m twenty-nine I can do whatever I want. I will be able to drive, stay out as late as I want, make money and spend it on whatever I want, and eat junk food as often as I like. Sometimes I might even eat candy for breakfast just because I can. Being twenty-nine will be the best.
I hope you enjoyed those. They made me miss eighth grade a little bit. :-)
On the left side of their tri-fold board, the students are going to display two essays: "Who I Am Now," and "Who I Will Be in Fifteen Years." For my example board, I wrote two essays from the perspective of my eighth grade self. It was way too much fun, and I decided to share them with you here:
Who I Am Now:
My name is Christine Knasel. I am an eighth grade student at Kalamazoo Christian Middle School in Kalamazoo, Michigan. I am fourteen years old, and I guess you could say that I am a lot like other fourteen-year-old girls: I enjoy shopping, staying up late talking to my friends, playing volleyball, and wearing sparkly lip gloss.
My favorite subject is Language Arts. It is mostly my favorite subject because I love to read and write, but it is also my favorite subject because during Language Arts class I sit by this really cute guy named Andrew. I don’t think he likes me back, but oh well. I still like Language Arts. My proudest accomplishment this year was winning a writing contest put on by my local newspaper, The Kalamazoo Gazette. I wrote a short story called “All I Wanted Was Mountain Dew.” I got my story published in the paper, and I also won $25.
Here are a few of my other favorites: my favorite movie is Pirates of the Caribbean. My favorite book is Running Out of Time by Margaret Peterson Haddix. My favorite color is pink, and my favorite thing to do in my spare time is to write. A few things I hate are running, tomatoes, detention (which I have only ever had once), zits, that really bad perm that I got on my 14th birthday, spiders, and Andrew's girlfriend (but don’t tell her I said that).
All in all, eighth grade has been a great year. I would say that it’s been my best year ever. I love all of my friends, and I’m sure we will be friends forever. Bonds made in middle school will not ever be broken.
Who I Will Be in Fifteen Years:
In fifteen years, I will be married to an amazing guy. I will be twenty-nine years old, verging on that scary number thirty (when I will be practically old). It won’t really matter, though, because I will already be married, so that guy will have to like me even when I get old and wrinkly and senile and forget his name because I’m so old that I forget everything.
I will be a teacher, hopefully for middle school Language Arts, but I won’t live in Michigan anymore. Michigan is too cold. I want to move somewhere warmer where I can see palm trees every day. I have had fourteen years of snow, and that is enough for me. I am really sick of snow. Plus, I want to have three dogs, and walking them in the snow every day will be very annoying. Walking them next to palm trees will be fun. I will have a beagle, a pug, and a stray mutt that my husband and I found wandering the streets. We really only wanted two dogs, but we took in the third one because she was so pathetically cute. We will live in a nice house with our very own palm trees in front of it and a pool in the back yard.
Even though I love teaching, that doesn’t make very much money. Therefore, when I’m not teaching I will be writing books. By the time I’m twenty-nine I probably will not have achieved winning a Newberry Medal for children’s literature, but I will be well on my way. I will have published at least three books by then, and they just keep getting better and better. I’m sure my big break will come eventually, and I will definitely have the Newberry Medal by the time I am forty (another scary “old” number).
Life will be awesome, because when I’m twenty-nine I can do whatever I want. I will be able to drive, stay out as late as I want, make money and spend it on whatever I want, and eat junk food as often as I like. Sometimes I might even eat candy for breakfast just because I can. Being twenty-nine will be the best.
I hope you enjoyed those. They made me miss eighth grade a little bit. :-)
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Counterfeit Urine
I should really have known better than to try to cheat on a urine test.
I mean, honestly - I never cheated on spelling tests, math tests, or any other sort of tests. I never cheated on a boyfriend or on my husband...I'm really not the type to be labeled as a "cheater." Still, there I was yesterday at Quest Diagnostics, cramped in a tiny bathroom with orders to "go" in a little cup, and desperate times called for desperate measures. I cheated.
Let me begin by telling you that I wasn't working on a lot of brain power. I actually showed up at Quest Diagnostics for a blood test, and I was told by my doctor that I had to fast before the test. That meant that I hadn't had a single thing to eat since the night before, and I didn't go to Quest until after a full day of teaching middle schoolers (at a school which, ironically enough, is also called "Quest." It must be a Nevada thing). I was hungry and cranky and impatient.
I wouldn't have been so cranky and impatient if I hadn't been trying to get my blood drawn for the past TEN DAYS. I really shouldn't have to work too hard to get someone to poke my arm and drain fluids out of me. I have to admit, it's not something I was really motivated to work hard for.
For my first appointment, I drove around for a half an hour trying to find the place, and it was nowhere to be found. The blood draw appointments are only 10 minutes long, so I figured by the time I was 30 minutes late I had already missed my appointment and should just go home. That was quite the colossal waste of time. When I got home I immediately called to schedule a new appointment, but I decided to choose to make the appointment at the Quest location closer to my school. There's a Quest Diagnostics only 1.5 miles away from my school - what joy! That one would be much easier to find....right? So I made my appointment for the first available time they had, which was ten days after my original appointment.
Yesterday I set out to find the new Quest. Unfortunately, this one was just as difficult to find. I triple checked my directions from Google maps, and I could not figure out what I had done wrong. Determined to make this appointment so I didn't have to wait another ten days, I pulled over and walked into a local chiropractor's office to ask for directions.
Me: I know there's supposed to be a Quest Diagnostics around here...do you happen to know where it is?
Chiropractor: Oh yeah! Just go across the street to Home Depot, stand in their parking lot, look out towards the main road and then a little to the right, and you'll see it. I think. It's small.
Me: Ummm...okay, thanks.
I went across the street to Home Depot's parking lot, and the Quest Diagnostics was right where Mr. Chiropractor said it would be. That was so sneaky...there was no way to see the building from the main road. Do they call it "Quest Diagnostics" because you have to go on a quest to have any prayer of finding it? They should rename it "Stealth Ninja Diagnostics," because it's just that difficult to find.
As I trudged up the steps to Stealth Ninja Diagnostics, I was hungry and mad (and late for my appointment AGAIN). I walked in to the front desk and told them I was there to get my blood drawn. Of course, because this is my life and these things happen to me, they had no record of my appointment. AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!! I wanted to jump across the counter and strangle the lady, but I realized that it wasn't really her fault. I think she sensed my irritation (or RAGE), so she said they could see me as a "walk-in" patient. I wanted to scream, "YOU MADE ME WAIT TEN DAYS FOR AN APPOINTMENT WHEN YOU HAVE A WHOLE LIST OF WALK-INS?! I COULD HAVE HAD THESE RESULTS BY NOW!!!" But of course, it's a bad idea to make the person angry who is about to poke you with a needle. I said "thank you" with as much politeness as I could muster, and I sat down to wait.
When it was finally my turn, the lady called me back to the little cubicle where I would be giving up my blood. I noticed that the label on my tubes read, "Christine Webb: 2/2/1984." Still using every ounce of energy-that-I-didn't-have to try to be polite, I took a deep breath and said, "Um, not sure if this matters...but I was born in 1989, not 1984." She looked at the tube, surprised, and said, "Oh yeah, that kind of does matter." YOU THINK?! And I'm about to trust this woman near me with a needle? Heavens.
The lady left to print new labels and said that she'd "be right back." Ten minutes later, I was still sitting in the lonely cubicle. It was just me, the needles, and the collection tubes all chilling out and waiting to be united with one another. Finally the lady came back, looked surprised, and exclaimed, "Oh! You're still here!" Yes...you didn't draw my blood yet...so I'm still waiting. Unable to say anything polite, I just gave a wan smile. I think she sensed my irritation, because she decided to explain herself: "For some reason I thought I saw you in another cubicle, so I went down there. But it turns out you were just waiting here! Ha ha!" I wanted to reply with, "Do you frequently have patients just jumping around from cubicle to cubicle behind your back, as if you're in some sort of sick game of hide and go seek or tag, and when the 'it' person gets you then they take your blood?! Well, I don't have time for your phlebotomic fun. JUST TAKE MY BLOOD BEFORE I TAKE YOURS!" Even though I didn't say it, I think my weak attempt at a laugh warned this lady that she'd better get started. She took my blood, and I let out a sigh of relief. It was FINALLY time to leave (and get some food).
NOPE! PSYCH! Before I could go, crazy hide-n-seek phlebotomist said, "Oh, and we're going to need to get a urine sample." A urine sample?!?! Is she insane? Why does this woman hate me? I had no warning of this. If I have to give a urine sample, I usually pull a Juno and "drink my weight in Sunny D" before the appointment. I can't just go on command! Still, being locked up in the bathroom meant I was a safe distance from Ms. Crazy, so I figured I would give it a shot. The problem was, I really didn't have to go. I think I literally got two drops in the cup...way less than half a milliliter. I sat there trying to think of waterfalls...rivers...funny jokes...anything, but I really didn't have any more juice in me. I knew that the two drops in the cup were not going to be enough, and I did NOT want to go back to Stealth Ninja Diagnostics again anytime soon (or ever), so I knew I had to produce something.
This is where we get to the cheating part. I had to put something in that cup so they would let me go! Looking around suspiciously to make sure I wouldn't get caught (which, actually, was dumb in hindsight. Who's watching a bathroom?), I scooped up a bit of the toilet water into my cup. I tried not to get too much so that maybe my pee drops would still tint the color yellowish. I put the lid on, flushed (even though there was nothing to flush), washed my hands, and left the bathroom. I put my container in their "specimen" box, flashed Psycho a smile, and finally headed out the doors to freedom. I had cheated the system! Take THAT, you crazy needle woman! Test that fake pee! I bet there's nothing in it. See? I TOLD you I'm fine! Why did you want to test my urine, anyway?! We're looking at blood levels related to a pituitary tumor...so I made the executive decision that the urine test was unnecessary and would be okay if I tampered with it a little.
I should have known that was a bad idea. I mean, that plan is just dumb. I'm blaming it on the fact that I hadn't eaten all day and that my IQ is slowly descending to that of my middle schoolers because I'm around them so much. Anyway, about an hour later I get a voicemail from a far too chipper "Kristie at Quest Diagnostics!" asking me to call her back at my earliest convenience. Rex was concerned, thinking that perhaps they already got some results back and something terrible showed up. I didn't want him to worry, so I confessed my urinary sin. I said they probably figured out what I did. You can't get arrested for tampering with your own medical specimens, right?? I mean, RIGHT?!?!
I started to get a bit nervous. I called Kristie back, and she said that my urine sample was "insufficient" and that I would have to come give another sample. "Insufficient," "faked," "forged," "counterfeit"...whatever she wanted to call it, I was mad that my plan had been foiled. Also, knowing Stealth Ninja Diagnostics, they will have moved to an even more secret location by the time I go back. They will be even more difficult to find, and I'll have to wait another ten days for the opportunity to give a legitimate urine sample. I hate Kristie. I hate urine samples. Most of all, I hate Stealth Ninja Diagnostics. Just you wait, Stealth Ninja. I will get my revenge someday.
I mean, honestly - I never cheated on spelling tests, math tests, or any other sort of tests. I never cheated on a boyfriend or on my husband...I'm really not the type to be labeled as a "cheater." Still, there I was yesterday at Quest Diagnostics, cramped in a tiny bathroom with orders to "go" in a little cup, and desperate times called for desperate measures. I cheated.
Let me begin by telling you that I wasn't working on a lot of brain power. I actually showed up at Quest Diagnostics for a blood test, and I was told by my doctor that I had to fast before the test. That meant that I hadn't had a single thing to eat since the night before, and I didn't go to Quest until after a full day of teaching middle schoolers (at a school which, ironically enough, is also called "Quest." It must be a Nevada thing). I was hungry and cranky and impatient.
I wouldn't have been so cranky and impatient if I hadn't been trying to get my blood drawn for the past TEN DAYS. I really shouldn't have to work too hard to get someone to poke my arm and drain fluids out of me. I have to admit, it's not something I was really motivated to work hard for.
For my first appointment, I drove around for a half an hour trying to find the place, and it was nowhere to be found. The blood draw appointments are only 10 minutes long, so I figured by the time I was 30 minutes late I had already missed my appointment and should just go home. That was quite the colossal waste of time. When I got home I immediately called to schedule a new appointment, but I decided to choose to make the appointment at the Quest location closer to my school. There's a Quest Diagnostics only 1.5 miles away from my school - what joy! That one would be much easier to find....right? So I made my appointment for the first available time they had, which was ten days after my original appointment.
Yesterday I set out to find the new Quest. Unfortunately, this one was just as difficult to find. I triple checked my directions from Google maps, and I could not figure out what I had done wrong. Determined to make this appointment so I didn't have to wait another ten days, I pulled over and walked into a local chiropractor's office to ask for directions.
Me: I know there's supposed to be a Quest Diagnostics around here...do you happen to know where it is?
Chiropractor: Oh yeah! Just go across the street to Home Depot, stand in their parking lot, look out towards the main road and then a little to the right, and you'll see it. I think. It's small.
Me: Ummm...okay, thanks.
I went across the street to Home Depot's parking lot, and the Quest Diagnostics was right where Mr. Chiropractor said it would be. That was so sneaky...there was no way to see the building from the main road. Do they call it "Quest Diagnostics" because you have to go on a quest to have any prayer of finding it? They should rename it "Stealth Ninja Diagnostics," because it's just that difficult to find.
As I trudged up the steps to Stealth Ninja Diagnostics, I was hungry and mad (and late for my appointment AGAIN). I walked in to the front desk and told them I was there to get my blood drawn. Of course, because this is my life and these things happen to me, they had no record of my appointment. AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!! I wanted to jump across the counter and strangle the lady, but I realized that it wasn't really her fault. I think she sensed my irritation (or RAGE), so she said they could see me as a "walk-in" patient. I wanted to scream, "YOU MADE ME WAIT TEN DAYS FOR AN APPOINTMENT WHEN YOU HAVE A WHOLE LIST OF WALK-INS?! I COULD HAVE HAD THESE RESULTS BY NOW!!!" But of course, it's a bad idea to make the person angry who is about to poke you with a needle. I said "thank you" with as much politeness as I could muster, and I sat down to wait.
When it was finally my turn, the lady called me back to the little cubicle where I would be giving up my blood. I noticed that the label on my tubes read, "Christine Webb: 2/2/1984." Still using every ounce of energy-that-I-didn't-have to try to be polite, I took a deep breath and said, "Um, not sure if this matters...but I was born in 1989, not 1984." She looked at the tube, surprised, and said, "Oh yeah, that kind of does matter." YOU THINK?! And I'm about to trust this woman near me with a needle? Heavens.
The lady left to print new labels and said that she'd "be right back." Ten minutes later, I was still sitting in the lonely cubicle. It was just me, the needles, and the collection tubes all chilling out and waiting to be united with one another. Finally the lady came back, looked surprised, and exclaimed, "Oh! You're still here!" Yes...you didn't draw my blood yet...so I'm still waiting. Unable to say anything polite, I just gave a wan smile. I think she sensed my irritation, because she decided to explain herself: "For some reason I thought I saw you in another cubicle, so I went down there. But it turns out you were just waiting here! Ha ha!" I wanted to reply with, "Do you frequently have patients just jumping around from cubicle to cubicle behind your back, as if you're in some sort of sick game of hide and go seek or tag, and when the 'it' person gets you then they take your blood?! Well, I don't have time for your phlebotomic fun. JUST TAKE MY BLOOD BEFORE I TAKE YOURS!" Even though I didn't say it, I think my weak attempt at a laugh warned this lady that she'd better get started. She took my blood, and I let out a sigh of relief. It was FINALLY time to leave (and get some food).
NOPE! PSYCH! Before I could go, crazy hide-n-seek phlebotomist said, "Oh, and we're going to need to get a urine sample." A urine sample?!?! Is she insane? Why does this woman hate me? I had no warning of this. If I have to give a urine sample, I usually pull a Juno and "drink my weight in Sunny D" before the appointment. I can't just go on command! Still, being locked up in the bathroom meant I was a safe distance from Ms. Crazy, so I figured I would give it a shot. The problem was, I really didn't have to go. I think I literally got two drops in the cup...way less than half a milliliter. I sat there trying to think of waterfalls...rivers...funny jokes...anything, but I really didn't have any more juice in me. I knew that the two drops in the cup were not going to be enough, and I did NOT want to go back to Stealth Ninja Diagnostics again anytime soon (or ever), so I knew I had to produce something.
This is where we get to the cheating part. I had to put something in that cup so they would let me go! Looking around suspiciously to make sure I wouldn't get caught (which, actually, was dumb in hindsight. Who's watching a bathroom?), I scooped up a bit of the toilet water into my cup. I tried not to get too much so that maybe my pee drops would still tint the color yellowish. I put the lid on, flushed (even though there was nothing to flush), washed my hands, and left the bathroom. I put my container in their "specimen" box, flashed Psycho a smile, and finally headed out the doors to freedom. I had cheated the system! Take THAT, you crazy needle woman! Test that fake pee! I bet there's nothing in it. See? I TOLD you I'm fine! Why did you want to test my urine, anyway?! We're looking at blood levels related to a pituitary tumor...so I made the executive decision that the urine test was unnecessary and would be okay if I tampered with it a little.
I should have known that was a bad idea. I mean, that plan is just dumb. I'm blaming it on the fact that I hadn't eaten all day and that my IQ is slowly descending to that of my middle schoolers because I'm around them so much. Anyway, about an hour later I get a voicemail from a far too chipper "Kristie at Quest Diagnostics!" asking me to call her back at my earliest convenience. Rex was concerned, thinking that perhaps they already got some results back and something terrible showed up. I didn't want him to worry, so I confessed my urinary sin. I said they probably figured out what I did. You can't get arrested for tampering with your own medical specimens, right?? I mean, RIGHT?!?!
I started to get a bit nervous. I called Kristie back, and she said that my urine sample was "insufficient" and that I would have to come give another sample. "Insufficient," "faked," "forged," "counterfeit"...whatever she wanted to call it, I was mad that my plan had been foiled. Also, knowing Stealth Ninja Diagnostics, they will have moved to an even more secret location by the time I go back. They will be even more difficult to find, and I'll have to wait another ten days for the opportunity to give a legitimate urine sample. I hate Kristie. I hate urine samples. Most of all, I hate Stealth Ninja Diagnostics. Just you wait, Stealth Ninja. I will get my revenge someday.
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