The title of this post is an obvious reference to a Talyor Swift song, except I’m pretty sure she was writing about a guy. I’m using the title to write about my brain tumor. Despite that difference, Ms. Swift and I have a lot in common. By “a lot,” I mean we both know what it’s like to get unfortunate phone calls from men. A Jonas brother broke up with her in a twenty-seven second phone call, and I got a call from my endocrinologist last night in which he told me my blood work came back with bad news. Her bad blood was metaphorical, but mine’s literal. Let’s not compare our pain.
He was, after all, a Jonas brother.
The doctor called at almost ten o’clock last night, which should have tipped me off immediately that it was bad news. Doctors never call that late. If they do, it’s never to say something like, “Just thought I’d let you know – you’re totally and mysteriously cured!” or “I found a stray puppy and thought it might cheer you up; I’ll be dropping him off in ten minutes.” Nope. They always do that sigh where they don’t want to say what they’re about to say, but they can’t pass the unpleasant task off to a lesser minion. Then your heart sinks and you wonder, “Oh no, how bad is it this time?”
Is it bad that I am familiar with this process? That I’ve gotten enough of these calls to know exactly how they go? I could probably do them myself. I should tell the doctor, “Next time just e-mail me the numbers and save us both the trouble. I’ll call myself and break the news gently.” I might put my husband’s lab coat and square-rimmed glasses on my dog and pretend he’s the one telling me. Bad news would be less scary if it came from a beagle.
The bad news is that my blood results showed certain hormone levels four times above normal adult levels, which probably means that my tumor is growing. There’s a bit of irony there: I can’t keep plants alive (at all), there’s a good shot I can’t ever get pregnant, but my body apparently does a darn good job at nurturing a tumor. Thanks, body. You’re a gem. I’d rather you had the ability to grow some healthy cilantro, but I don’t get to choose these things.
Anyway, the doctor’s trying to devise our next plan of attack on this little dude. It’s not cancerous, it shouldn’t kill me, but it does a pretty fabulous job of messing up my life. It’s like I’m in a dysfunctional relationship. “It’s not you, tumor, it’s me. Actually, no it’s you. I think it’s time for us to break up.” Then, just when I think my brain is rid of him for good, the tumor comes crawling back and my brain is all, “Come here, ya knucklehead. Let’s give this thing another shot.” Because my brain is frickin crazy, that’s why.
I have to go back on a med I was on a while ago, and I need to double the dose. I told the doctor that last time I was on that pill (taken once a week), I would be sick for the entire day after I took it. It was pretty bad, stuck-on-the-couch-waiting-for-it-to-end sick. I usually took the pill on Friday nights, spent my Saturday on the couch, and then recovered on Sunday to get ready for another week. The doctor says I have to take it anyway because we want to be “aggressive” on getting my numbers back to healthy levels. Now I’m supposed to take that same pill, and I have to take it twice a week. I’m supposed to torch two days a week for at least the next six months?! How am I supposed to do that? I think I’ll torch Mondays. Everyone hates Mondays. Imagine a wonderful pill that lets you skip Mondays! This is going to get complicated with work and everything, but we’ll figure that out later. Right now I’m dreaming of a Monday-less life. Who knows? Maybe this drug won’t make me sick this time. That was years ago. I’m practically a new woman now. Since that time in my life I’ve traveled the world, I’ve voted for a Democrat, I’ve learned how to make the perfect apple pie, I’ve dyed my hair purple, and…I’ve trained my body to better metabolize drugs?! (something like that…)
So. I’ve got bad blood results, but at least we have a plan. I lamented to Rex last night that with all of my health issues, my life expectancy has to be quickly dropping. I sighed and said I’m probably not going to live to see forty. “Don’t worry about it,” he told me. “Neither of us are even going to live to see thirty if Trump becomes president. The rest of the world will nuke us off the map.” And that’s why I love Rex – because he can make me laugh when I would prefer to kick a wall.
Keep your fingers crossed for me. New pills start soon.
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
Waiting...get me out of here...
I’m sitting in my endocrinologist’s office, and the doctor is running incredibly late. I've been sitting in here for an hour.
This room is so….white. Why do medical offices have to be aggressively white? I understand that they’re supposed to look sterile, but they end up looking stark and scary. I’m in an albino room. It’s not natural. There’s a slightly peach model of a swollen thyroid on the counter, but I’m trying not to look at it. It’s disgusting.
I’m here to get a checkup on my brain tumor, and you would think that after nine years of various endocrinologists, this process would be old hat. Nope. Always scary. It doesn’t help when the receptionists are extremely mean, the other patients look just as scared as I am, and the only friendly person around is the lady on the waiting room TV smiling while she talks about genital yeast infections.
If I ever ruled the world, I would make the word “genital” an expletive. It’s so clinical and just…ew, but the lady on the TV was awfully cheery about it. Why can’t they show something nice and calming on a waiting room TV? Or stand-up comedy? THAT’S a great idea. Let people laugh so they won’t cry. Instead, we have to watch creepy health shows. Or we can read totally obscure magazines like Osteoporosis and You.
The doctor is still not here, so I will take this opportunity to tell you about the meanie receptionists. The first receptionist totally ignored me when I got here. I stood there in front of her window awkwardly for a minute until she finally snapped, “Can I HELP you?” in a way that meant that was the last thing on earth that she wanted to do. I said I was here to see Dr. H. She rolled her eyes and said, “then you need to check in with the endocrine center.” I think it took all of her willpower not to add “duh” at the end of that. I looked up at the glass window that clearly said “Endocrine Center.” There was another lady sitting to the right of that sign, but there was no partition between the lady I was talking to and the lady I apparently needed to talk to. They could have shaken hands. I’m sure they’ve borrowed pencils from other. Yet CLEARLY I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN to talk to the lady on the right instead of the left. Oops.
I finally talked to the correct lady, and she was wearing a pin that said “Miracles happen!” I’m pretty sure she meant that to be encouraging, but I found it annoying. For those of us on my side of the counter, no miracles have happened. We’re there because we still have our tumors, our diabetes, our whatevers, and the trite encouragement from a piece of plastic felt less than genuine.
I have to go to the bathroom. What if you have to go to the bathroom while in a doctor’s office? I’d better hold it. I don’t want them to think I left. The nurse outside my door is calling patients and saying things such as, “Hi, is this Jane Smith? Hi, I’m calling to give you the new dosage of ______ drug that you’re taking. Take two tablets once a day with meals, okay? Okay.”
I can clearly hear all of this from my room. I could type you a list of a bunch of local residents and the drugs they’re on. Isn’t this some sort of HIPAA issue? It seems like it to me, but hey – I’m no doctor. I’m the invisible patient with a brain tumor. Don’t mind me.
So here I am, an hour and a half after my scheduled appointment time, chilling out in an albino room with a plastic inflamed thyroid. I really have to go to the bathroom. I’ve spent hours more pointless ways than this…probably. I’m struggling to think of one at the moment, but I’m sure it’s happened.
Doctor’s here. Gotta go.
This room is so….white. Why do medical offices have to be aggressively white? I understand that they’re supposed to look sterile, but they end up looking stark and scary. I’m in an albino room. It’s not natural. There’s a slightly peach model of a swollen thyroid on the counter, but I’m trying not to look at it. It’s disgusting.
I’m here to get a checkup on my brain tumor, and you would think that after nine years of various endocrinologists, this process would be old hat. Nope. Always scary. It doesn’t help when the receptionists are extremely mean, the other patients look just as scared as I am, and the only friendly person around is the lady on the waiting room TV smiling while she talks about genital yeast infections.
If I ever ruled the world, I would make the word “genital” an expletive. It’s so clinical and just…ew, but the lady on the TV was awfully cheery about it. Why can’t they show something nice and calming on a waiting room TV? Or stand-up comedy? THAT’S a great idea. Let people laugh so they won’t cry. Instead, we have to watch creepy health shows. Or we can read totally obscure magazines like Osteoporosis and You.
The doctor is still not here, so I will take this opportunity to tell you about the meanie receptionists. The first receptionist totally ignored me when I got here. I stood there in front of her window awkwardly for a minute until she finally snapped, “Can I HELP you?” in a way that meant that was the last thing on earth that she wanted to do. I said I was here to see Dr. H. She rolled her eyes and said, “then you need to check in with the endocrine center.” I think it took all of her willpower not to add “duh” at the end of that. I looked up at the glass window that clearly said “Endocrine Center.” There was another lady sitting to the right of that sign, but there was no partition between the lady I was talking to and the lady I apparently needed to talk to. They could have shaken hands. I’m sure they’ve borrowed pencils from other. Yet CLEARLY I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN to talk to the lady on the right instead of the left. Oops.
I finally talked to the correct lady, and she was wearing a pin that said “Miracles happen!” I’m pretty sure she meant that to be encouraging, but I found it annoying. For those of us on my side of the counter, no miracles have happened. We’re there because we still have our tumors, our diabetes, our whatevers, and the trite encouragement from a piece of plastic felt less than genuine.
I have to go to the bathroom. What if you have to go to the bathroom while in a doctor’s office? I’d better hold it. I don’t want them to think I left. The nurse outside my door is calling patients and saying things such as, “Hi, is this Jane Smith? Hi, I’m calling to give you the new dosage of ______ drug that you’re taking. Take two tablets once a day with meals, okay? Okay.”
I can clearly hear all of this from my room. I could type you a list of a bunch of local residents and the drugs they’re on. Isn’t this some sort of HIPAA issue? It seems like it to me, but hey – I’m no doctor. I’m the invisible patient with a brain tumor. Don’t mind me.
So here I am, an hour and a half after my scheduled appointment time, chilling out in an albino room with a plastic inflamed thyroid. I really have to go to the bathroom. I’ve spent hours more pointless ways than this…probably. I’m struggling to think of one at the moment, but I’m sure it’s happened.
Doctor’s here. Gotta go.
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Eyelashes Gone Wild
This is the story of a great friend, an ending deployment, and some eyelashes that wouldn't let go.
As I type this, my cousin Danielle is getting ready to move back to Kansas. She may have even left by now. I'm so glad that she's headed there, because her husband is coming home soon from his deployment in Kuwait (YAY!). She'll have her husband back. Her kids will have their dad back. It's 99% happy, but 1% sad because she's leaving a lot of family back here who love her very much. Her parents are here, most of her siblings are here, and a lot of her cousins are here, including one sitting in a downtown coffee shop thinking about how much I am going to miss her and those fabulously crazy kids. NOW who will I take to Chuck E. Cheese? NOW who will call me their aunt even though I'm not? NOW who will force me to watch Paw Patrol? No one, that's who.
Yesterday I was supposed to go say goodbye to Dani and her kids when I got out of work. I texted when I was on my way, and I got a call when I was about halfway to her house: "Meet me at the mall," she said. "Right now. This day is NOT GOING WELL."
"What's wrong?" I asked. Dani is almost never alone away from her kids, and I knew she wasn't planning to be at the mall this afternoon. Also, what kind of catastrophe happens at the mall?
"I got false eyelashes put on because I thought it would be good to look nice for Jordan, you know? I was like, 'Oh, great idea, this will look pretty and be low maintenance while we move to Kansas.' But then the lady put them on, and I look like a TOTAL STRIPPER. Like, it is BAD. So I asked her to take them off, and she can't because they're superglued or whatever, and she doesn't have anything that can get them off!"
I have to admit, I was skeptical at first. "What do you mean she can't take them off? They're false eyelashes. Just take them off." I quickly assessed the streets I was on and tried to figure out the best way to get to the mall. I turned around in a parking lot and headed toward the eyelash disaster. Dani kept talking.
"I know! I had no idea it would be this difficult! I've gone to every salon at the mall. Apparently no one can take these off without yanking out my real eyelashes, and I want to have SOME eyelashes! One salon said that the owner is coming in at 3:30, and she might have some goo that could dissolve the adhesive. I'm waiting in the food court for her to get here. Are you here yet? Ugh. They're so itchy. I hate them! And they look awful. I look scary."
"Dani, I'm sure they're not that bad," I assured her. "Maybe you'll get used to them."
"Nope, not happening. I promise. They're terrible. Wait till you see."
"You're exaggerating," I responded. Even as I said it, I thought in the back of my mind that Dani is not really the type of person to exaggerate. She's one of the most chill, go-with-the-flow people I've ever met. I started getting pretty curious about this. I drove faster. "I'll be right there," I said. "Where exactly are you?"
"In the food court, to the right of the carousel. Ugh. Hurry up." We hung up, and I finally drove into the mall parking lot. I grabbed my purse and headed in to assess the situation. When I walked in, I quickly found Danielle. I was completely determined to say, "They're not that bad," but here's the thing about me: I'm a really bad liar. Plus, when she saw my face, she burst out laughing, so then I started laughing too. "It's fine," I finally said. "The lady with the remover will be here in ten minutes, it will all be back to normal, and this will be a really funny story."
"Right," she said, teetering on that perilous line between laughing and crying. "It will be funny when they're off,"
"It's a little funny now..." I said, making her smile. "I really wish you had a blog, because this would be a great post."
"You blog it," she said. "Someone might as well get some entertainment out of this!" And, as a side bonus, now she can always remember this story (Hi Dani!).
We went to wait in the white egg-shaped chairs of the mall salon, and the workers looked at Danielle sympathetically. "She should be here soon," one of the workers said, referring to the eyelash redeemer. Danielle rubbed her eyes again, complaining that the eyelashes were so itchy and heavy.
"This is awful," she said, sinking back into her chair. "I used to be a LuLaRoe consultant, but people are going to start calling me a LuLaHo consultant. Why did this have to happen today? If I had a first date or something, I would cancel it for a week or two. I can't cancel my husband coming home from deployment! He's going to think his wife turned into a freak!"
"What did you tell the lady you wanted?" I wondered. I wanted to know what type of order produced these eyelashes.
"I said I wanted natural!" Danielle whined. "Natural! Like I was wearing mascara! And then she did this, and I said it didn't look natural, but the lady said, 'I know, but you look beautiful instead of natural!'" That threw me into another fit of laughter, because that's a pretty rude thing to say. Dani started laughing again too, because laughter tends to be contagious.
"You're going to be fine," I assured her. "The lady is almost here."
As if on cue, the owner of the salon walked in. The receptionist pointed to Dani, and the owner walked over.
"Can you fix me?" Danielle asked before even introducing herself. Her voice was filled with equal parts hope and desperation. The lady took one look at the eyelashes and said, "Whoa. I make no promises. Come on back and let me take a look."
I wished Dani luck and went to wait in my egg chair. A couple minutes later, Dani and the owner came back out of the room. Dani still had the eyelashes.
"She says it will take over an hour," Danielle said. "I have to come back later."
"But she can do it?" I asked. "That's great! See? It's all going to be okay!"
"I think I can do it," the owner interrupted, "but it will take a while. This is no quick fix. They're like...fuzzy creatures."
That is literally the phrase she used: "fuzzy creatures." Danielle made an appointment to come back later, but she didn't want to wait for a 7:00 appointment. She wanted the eyelashes off immediately. We went to two other area salons, and at both they looked at her sympathetically but said there was nothing they could do. Finally we went to Sally's Beauty Supply, but guess what? They were all out of eyelash remover. The designated place on the shelf was there, but that place was empty.
This was really not Danielle's day.
Finally we found a kit of fake eyelashes, and the kit came with a tiiiiiny bottle of remover. We're talking maybe a quarter of an ounce, but maybe that was all we would need! Success! Danielle took the setup to the register.
"Will this take THESE off my face?" she asked, pointing to her face as if it was infested with something disgusting. The lady at the cash register nodded.
"It should work," she said. "But if it doesn't, that could be a good look if you go to clubs a lot. It just might look a little strange in the day."
"I'm a mom!" Dani almost yelled. "I have five kids! I'm not going to any clubs!"
"Oh,well then, yes that should work," the Sally's worker said with a low to medium degree of certainty. We took the kit and rushed back to Danielle's house. When we walked in, the house was in pandemonium. Her kids, sister, brother, and parents were all there and all trying to get various things done in preparation for the move. Her sister needed a ride to Bible study in ten minutes.
"Crap!" Dani said. "I forgot about Bible study! Okay, we need to get this done fast. If I feed Tucker, can you put this oil junk on my eyes?" I agreed and tried to find a q-tip, but they were already packed up. I asked about a paper towel, but those were all packed up too. Finally I asked Dani how in the world I was supposed to put this stuff on, and she suggested diaper wipes. Would the oil sink in too much? I said diaper wipes should probably work because they're water based, this was oil, and...well...science. Dani said, "I don't know what you're talking about, but just get these off my eyes." Roger that, amigo. Dani reclined on the couch and breast fed her baby while I stood over her and started using oiled diaper wipes to try to get falsies off of her eyes. It was an odd moment.
"That stings a little," she said. "Is it working?"
"Umm, not yet," I said, thinking that perhaps there was a reason none of the salons would touch this project. Who were we to think we could DIY this thing?
"Okay," Danielle said. "Maybe we need to let it sit a while. But it kind of stings. Actually, you know what? It kind of burns. Okay actually, ow, it really burns. Can I have a clean diaper wipe? Ow, I have to get this off."
I handed her a diaper wipe and watched her start scrubbing at her eyes. I shook my head. How on earth could false eyelashes be this difficult to get off?! Dorothy had to get to Bible study, so I said my goodbyes and headed out, feeling bad for leaving Dani with her new va-va-voom look.
I talked to Dani later that evening and found out that she ended up going back to the mall for her 7:00 appointment. It took the owner lady two hours to get the eyelashes off. The important thing is that she did get them off, though, and now Danielle will be feeling back to her old self for her husband's homecoming. All's well that ends well, right? Dani said sorry for the drama, that this afternoon was probably not how I pictured saying goodbye. Then we agreed that it was a fitting ending to what has been an absolutely insane year. Why not end it on a crazy note as well? Also, now that the eyelashes are officially off, the story has been converted from an impending crisis to a funny memory.
See you later, Danielle. I'm glad you left your eyelashes in Kalamazoo. Welcome home, Jordan. You guys have a pretty fantastic family. Please come visit soon.
As I type this, my cousin Danielle is getting ready to move back to Kansas. She may have even left by now. I'm so glad that she's headed there, because her husband is coming home soon from his deployment in Kuwait (YAY!). She'll have her husband back. Her kids will have their dad back. It's 99% happy, but 1% sad because she's leaving a lot of family back here who love her very much. Her parents are here, most of her siblings are here, and a lot of her cousins are here, including one sitting in a downtown coffee shop thinking about how much I am going to miss her and those fabulously crazy kids. NOW who will I take to Chuck E. Cheese? NOW who will call me their aunt even though I'm not? NOW who will force me to watch Paw Patrol? No one, that's who.
Yesterday I was supposed to go say goodbye to Dani and her kids when I got out of work. I texted when I was on my way, and I got a call when I was about halfway to her house: "Meet me at the mall," she said. "Right now. This day is NOT GOING WELL."
"What's wrong?" I asked. Dani is almost never alone away from her kids, and I knew she wasn't planning to be at the mall this afternoon. Also, what kind of catastrophe happens at the mall?
"I got false eyelashes put on because I thought it would be good to look nice for Jordan, you know? I was like, 'Oh, great idea, this will look pretty and be low maintenance while we move to Kansas.' But then the lady put them on, and I look like a TOTAL STRIPPER. Like, it is BAD. So I asked her to take them off, and she can't because they're superglued or whatever, and she doesn't have anything that can get them off!"
I have to admit, I was skeptical at first. "What do you mean she can't take them off? They're false eyelashes. Just take them off." I quickly assessed the streets I was on and tried to figure out the best way to get to the mall. I turned around in a parking lot and headed toward the eyelash disaster. Dani kept talking.
"I know! I had no idea it would be this difficult! I've gone to every salon at the mall. Apparently no one can take these off without yanking out my real eyelashes, and I want to have SOME eyelashes! One salon said that the owner is coming in at 3:30, and she might have some goo that could dissolve the adhesive. I'm waiting in the food court for her to get here. Are you here yet? Ugh. They're so itchy. I hate them! And they look awful. I look scary."
"Dani, I'm sure they're not that bad," I assured her. "Maybe you'll get used to them."
"Nope, not happening. I promise. They're terrible. Wait till you see."
"You're exaggerating," I responded. Even as I said it, I thought in the back of my mind that Dani is not really the type of person to exaggerate. She's one of the most chill, go-with-the-flow people I've ever met. I started getting pretty curious about this. I drove faster. "I'll be right there," I said. "Where exactly are you?"
"In the food court, to the right of the carousel. Ugh. Hurry up." We hung up, and I finally drove into the mall parking lot. I grabbed my purse and headed in to assess the situation. When I walked in, I quickly found Danielle. I was completely determined to say, "They're not that bad," but here's the thing about me: I'm a really bad liar. Plus, when she saw my face, she burst out laughing, so then I started laughing too. "It's fine," I finally said. "The lady with the remover will be here in ten minutes, it will all be back to normal, and this will be a really funny story."
"Right," she said, teetering on that perilous line between laughing and crying. "It will be funny when they're off,"
"It's a little funny now..." I said, making her smile. "I really wish you had a blog, because this would be a great post."
"You blog it," she said. "Someone might as well get some entertainment out of this!" And, as a side bonus, now she can always remember this story (Hi Dani!).
We went to wait in the white egg-shaped chairs of the mall salon, and the workers looked at Danielle sympathetically. "She should be here soon," one of the workers said, referring to the eyelash redeemer. Danielle rubbed her eyes again, complaining that the eyelashes were so itchy and heavy.
"This is awful," she said, sinking back into her chair. "I used to be a LuLaRoe consultant, but people are going to start calling me a LuLaHo consultant. Why did this have to happen today? If I had a first date or something, I would cancel it for a week or two. I can't cancel my husband coming home from deployment! He's going to think his wife turned into a freak!"
"What did you tell the lady you wanted?" I wondered. I wanted to know what type of order produced these eyelashes.
"I said I wanted natural!" Danielle whined. "Natural! Like I was wearing mascara! And then she did this, and I said it didn't look natural, but the lady said, 'I know, but you look beautiful instead of natural!'" That threw me into another fit of laughter, because that's a pretty rude thing to say. Dani started laughing again too, because laughter tends to be contagious.
"You're going to be fine," I assured her. "The lady is almost here."
As if on cue, the owner of the salon walked in. The receptionist pointed to Dani, and the owner walked over.
"Can you fix me?" Danielle asked before even introducing herself. Her voice was filled with equal parts hope and desperation. The lady took one look at the eyelashes and said, "Whoa. I make no promises. Come on back and let me take a look."
I wished Dani luck and went to wait in my egg chair. A couple minutes later, Dani and the owner came back out of the room. Dani still had the eyelashes.
"She says it will take over an hour," Danielle said. "I have to come back later."
"But she can do it?" I asked. "That's great! See? It's all going to be okay!"
"I think I can do it," the owner interrupted, "but it will take a while. This is no quick fix. They're like...fuzzy creatures."
That is literally the phrase she used: "fuzzy creatures." Danielle made an appointment to come back later, but she didn't want to wait for a 7:00 appointment. She wanted the eyelashes off immediately. We went to two other area salons, and at both they looked at her sympathetically but said there was nothing they could do. Finally we went to Sally's Beauty Supply, but guess what? They were all out of eyelash remover. The designated place on the shelf was there, but that place was empty.
This was really not Danielle's day.
Finally we found a kit of fake eyelashes, and the kit came with a tiiiiiny bottle of remover. We're talking maybe a quarter of an ounce, but maybe that was all we would need! Success! Danielle took the setup to the register.
"Will this take THESE off my face?" she asked, pointing to her face as if it was infested with something disgusting. The lady at the cash register nodded.
"It should work," she said. "But if it doesn't, that could be a good look if you go to clubs a lot. It just might look a little strange in the day."
"I'm a mom!" Dani almost yelled. "I have five kids! I'm not going to any clubs!"
"Oh,well then, yes that should work," the Sally's worker said with a low to medium degree of certainty. We took the kit and rushed back to Danielle's house. When we walked in, the house was in pandemonium. Her kids, sister, brother, and parents were all there and all trying to get various things done in preparation for the move. Her sister needed a ride to Bible study in ten minutes.
"Crap!" Dani said. "I forgot about Bible study! Okay, we need to get this done fast. If I feed Tucker, can you put this oil junk on my eyes?" I agreed and tried to find a q-tip, but they were already packed up. I asked about a paper towel, but those were all packed up too. Finally I asked Dani how in the world I was supposed to put this stuff on, and she suggested diaper wipes. Would the oil sink in too much? I said diaper wipes should probably work because they're water based, this was oil, and...well...science. Dani said, "I don't know what you're talking about, but just get these off my eyes." Roger that, amigo. Dani reclined on the couch and breast fed her baby while I stood over her and started using oiled diaper wipes to try to get falsies off of her eyes. It was an odd moment.
"That stings a little," she said. "Is it working?"
"Umm, not yet," I said, thinking that perhaps there was a reason none of the salons would touch this project. Who were we to think we could DIY this thing?
"Okay," Danielle said. "Maybe we need to let it sit a while. But it kind of stings. Actually, you know what? It kind of burns. Okay actually, ow, it really burns. Can I have a clean diaper wipe? Ow, I have to get this off."
I handed her a diaper wipe and watched her start scrubbing at her eyes. I shook my head. How on earth could false eyelashes be this difficult to get off?! Dorothy had to get to Bible study, so I said my goodbyes and headed out, feeling bad for leaving Dani with her new va-va-voom look.
I talked to Dani later that evening and found out that she ended up going back to the mall for her 7:00 appointment. It took the owner lady two hours to get the eyelashes off. The important thing is that she did get them off, though, and now Danielle will be feeling back to her old self for her husband's homecoming. All's well that ends well, right? Dani said sorry for the drama, that this afternoon was probably not how I pictured saying goodbye. Then we agreed that it was a fitting ending to what has been an absolutely insane year. Why not end it on a crazy note as well? Also, now that the eyelashes are officially off, the story has been converted from an impending crisis to a funny memory.
See you later, Danielle. I'm glad you left your eyelashes in Kalamazoo. Welcome home, Jordan. You guys have a pretty fantastic family. Please come visit soon.
Monday, May 2, 2016
The Hunt
"Tell me about the turkey hunt," my mom said, smiling over dinner at Red Robin. I shrugged.
"I don't know...it's basically like every other hunting story. There were some animals, and then one of them ended up dead."
She looked incredulous. "Christine," she said, "You're a writer, and you're telling me you can't muster up some sort of story out of this hunt?" Really, I just wanted to eat my food. I was starving. I'd eaten about three bites of bagel in the entire day. I told her that I would blog the story later, so HERE IT IS: the official and unabridged story of my turkey hunt.
I woke up at 4:30 in the morning last Friday and thought, as I do every morning before a hunt, "Why am I doing this?? This is crazy. Examine your life choices, Christine." I had taken Friday morning off of work to go hunting with my dad and Rex. Rex was amped. He gets more excited before hunting than he does on Christmas morning, I swear. We drove over to my parents' house where my dad was already in his car, ready to drive us to our spot. I hopped in the passenger side, and my dad looked half-human and half-zombie. He said, "When you get up super early in the morning to hunt, do you ever wonder 'why on earth am I doing this?' Because I always do."
See? I knew I was related to that man.
We drove in the darkness to my boss's house (we had permission to hunt on his property). I don't think I've ever felt so creepy as when we turned off our headlights and crept up his driveway. Try creeping up YOUR boss's driveway in the middle of the night - I'm telling you, it's a weird feeling.
We drove to his back field and then had to get out of the car and walk to our spot. We crunched through some sticks and leaves in the woods, trying to be quiet but also basically walking wherever because we couldn't see anything. Finally, we got to our turkey tent. My dad and I sat in the tent while Rex sat near a tree a few yards away. It looked like he was sitting on a toilet - look at this:
We got situated, and then the blanket of quiet that all hunters understand settled over us. Not even the animals were awake yet; all we could hear was the sizzlebuzz of the power lines by our tent. I never realized how loud power lines sound. I briefly wondered if I was going to get cancer or superpowers or something from the power snapping through the lines and radiating to the surrounding area. These are the things I think about when it's five in the morning and I can't make any noise or look at my phone.
Just after sunrise, my dad spotted some turkeys coming over a hill. They looked like moving speckles at first, but they got bigger as they got closer. My chest got tight and my hands tingled - was the hunt going to be over this quickly? I wasn't ready! I carefully grabbed my gun, which had been leaning on the edge of the tent. I knelt down by the windows so that I'd be ready to shoot if they came near enough. As the turkeys got closer, we realized they were all females. None to shoot. The problem was that if they saw us, they would alert all of their turkey friends, and then no one would come near us. The four females walked right past our blind, about forty yards away. They were fun to watch, but they didn't come in too close.
I was about ready to relax and put my gun down when suddenly another group of three turkeys materialized out of nowhere only one ridge away from our tent. Hens again. They were headed straight towards us. "Do...not...move," my dad hissed without opening his mouth.
Thanks, Dad - like I was going to be so excited about seeing turkeys that I would spontaneously start dancing the cha-cha. I've hunted before. This wasn't my first rodeo. The thing was, though, that it was especially perilous here because the turkeys were so close. Turkeys have phenomenal eyesight. They can sense movement dozens of yards away. It's like spidey-vision (which they perhaps got from spending so much time by those power lines). Anyway, one hen in particular was headed so close to our tent that she would have actually run into it if she kept walking straight. She had to turn to walk around it. When she was about three yards away (THREE YARDS, PEOPLE), she stared right into the tent and directly at me. There is no material on our tent windows. I had no protection from the gaze of spidey-vision hen. My eyes were open wide, my heart was trying to escape from my rib cage, and I realized that my ability to keep completely still could make or break this hunt. I couldn't even blink - she was too close.
DON'T BLINK
DON'T BLINK
DON'T BLINK
My eyes started to burn. She cocked her head, trying to figure out what she was seeing. I think I could have punched her - both because she was close enough to punch and because I was mad that she was making my eyes burn.
DON'T BLINK
DON'T BLINK
DON'T BLINK
All of the staring contests I'd ever had in life had prepared me for THIS MOMENT. I thought, "Wow, good thing I'm good at starting contests...wait, am I good at staring contests? I don't remember. I don't think I've had one since I was about ten..." This is seriously what I was thinking at that moment. Finally, after an eternity, spidey bent down to peck at the ground. I blinked rapidly about six times before she put her head up again, and the staring contest was back on. Finally she moved past my tent with her friends, and I could relax a bit.
I don't know how much you know about turkeys, but to see seven females and no males was really strange. This is mating season. The guys are all out trolling for girls, which is why we had our decoy out about fifteen yards in front of our tent. In addition to our decoy, we now had seven live decoys all around us! Still, no dudes. I was confused. If one was looking for females, this spot was the place to be. It was the turkey equivalent of a Celine Dion concert or a yoga class or a sale at Bath and Body Works. You get the idea - chicks everywhere. Where were the dudes?
It was quiet for about an hour after my epic stare down. My dad would use his call, Rex would use his call, and sometimes they would call together. In my mind, their calling together sounded like we had a raging party going on with lots of hot female turkeys in attendance. How could any self-respecting male turkey resist us?? I almost chimed in with my own mouth call, but Rex has told me that my mouth call sounds like a parrot. I didn't want the turkeys to get confused and think we had immigrant birds attending our party, because immigration can be a touchy subject. Hot girl turkeys only - come and get 'em.
I wrung my hands nervously after we hadn't called for a while, and one of my knuckles popped. In the completely still silence, it sounded like a bomb going off. I thought, "AHHH! MY FINGER JUST EXPLODED! Oh, actually maybe that was my knuckle popping. Oops." I stopped wringing my hands.
Maybe my dad took my exploding finger as a signal that I was bored or uncomfortable, because he offered to split a granola bar with me. I said sure. He carefully unwrapped a granola bar (which sounded like it was being unwrapped over the loudspeaker at a Big 10 football game because it was SO LOUD), and he handed me half. I put the half in my mouth and was about to bite down on the macadamia-nut goodness when suddenly we heard a turkey yelp, and it was close. My dad and I looked at each other with buggy eyes, and I dropped the granola bar out of my mouth and into my hand. I grabbed my gun and knelt again, looking furtively for the bird who interrupted my breakfast.
There was a lone hen (making this number eight), and she was wandering around the field. I don't know why she was alone... girl turkeys usually travel in groups (they're like humans that way). Maybe she was the loser turkey, but she was hoping to be included in our party. We accept you, loser turkey! All live decoys are welcome! She putted around as she got closer, and I was nervous she was going to actually step on Rex. I mentally willed him not to move. At one point I heard another turkey call, and I thought, "Is Rex nuts?! The turkey's right here! Why is he calling?!" Then I realized it was actually the turkey making those noises, not Rex. Oops. My bad.
The turkey went up to Henrietta (our decoy), and she tried to talk to her. Henrietta, obviously, didn't talk back. This made the hen mad, and she got cranky for a little bit before moving on again. (The poor loser turkey. I don't think Henrietta helped with her rejection complex). My phone lit up with a text from Rex. I could text now that it was light out. He said, "I think that hen was ready to cage fight Henreitta." I silently laughed and showed the text to my dad. Then we took some selfies. I tried to find my half of the granola bar to eat, but it turned out my dad had already eaten it. Gross. That had been in my mouth. A few minutes later, Rex decided to go pee. I got a text that he almost peed on a squirrel.
Oh, the weird things that happen when you're hunting.
I had to be back at work by 12:30, so I knew we had to start leaving the woods around 11. It was 10:40, and my dad and I had started whispering back and forth about the possibilities of going out the following morning. Suddenly, he whispered, "Turkeys! Toms!" I looked over the ridge and saw three turkeys about two hundred yards away. I leaned toward the tent opening that allowed me to see Rex because I knew he couldn't see the turkeys from where he was sitting. I held up three fingers and pulled my facemask down to mouth "toms." Rex's eyes bugged out, pug style, and I think this was exaggerated by the fact that the only part of him I could see was his eyes. His shocked excitement made me even more nervous. My dad and Rex had done a great job of calling all day - now it was up to me.
The turkeys were still over a hundred yards away, but I picked up my gun and got ready. My dad tapped me on the shoulder, and I thought he was going to give me some profound fatherly wisdom. Instead he said, "I have to pee."
"You're going to have to hold it!" I whispered back. "I'm trying to shoot a turkey here!"
"No seriously," he said. "I really have to go. I'm going to hurry before they come too close."
I could not believe this. I was maybe five minutes away from a dead bird, and he was going to jeopardize the whole operation because he COULDN'T HOLD IT?? Obviously he couldn't unzip the tent because it would be too loud, but it turns out that we hadn't put the zipper all the way down to the ground. There were a few inches left unzipped - what luck. I kept my eyes glued to the turkeys while my dad peed out of the small hole in our tent.
Do you find it strange that I'm interrupting the climax of this story to tell you about my dad's urinary habits? Think of how frustrating it was to actually be there!! I'm on the brink of something really exciting, we are in a life or death (for the bird) situation, and he has to PEE. Ugh. My dad, I tell ya.
He returned back to his chair, and I was knelt with my gun ready to go. When the birds were at fifty yards, they saw Henrietta. I don't know what it is about that decoy, but I'm telling you - she could be on the cover of Turkey Cosmo or something. Guys go nuts for her. They immediately puffed up and started heading her way. I put the gun out of the tent window and started tracking them. "Which one?" I whispered to my dad. There were three, and I didn't know which one was the biggest.
"The third one," my dad said. I aimed squarely for that turkey's neck. A few seconds went by. I really didn't want to miss this shot. I didn't want to let my dad and Rex down, but also one of my seventh graders had shot a turkey just the week before. I would never live it down if my students found out I was beat in marksmanship by a twelve-year-old.
Also, fresh turkey is so, so delicious.
I put my finger on the trigger. "Third one?" I confirmed.
"No wait," said my dad. "Second one."
Second one!? This changed the whole thing! I switched my focus and aimed for the second one. I tried to breathe steady, which was hard since my blood was trying to set a world record racing through my body. How did the turkeys not hear my heart beating?? Second one. Okay. Second one. Got it. The turkeys were moving toward Henrietta. I didn't want to shoot a moving target, because then you have to think of physics and crap. I tried to think of physics and also about breathing and also about keeping my gun aimed steadily at the correct turkey.
My dad pulled out his turkey call and made a small yelp. The turkeys stopped and looked our way, and my dad whispered, "NOW. Take the shot!" I knew this was the moment. I had about one second before they started moving again. I didn't even have time for one more deep breath. Aimed at second? Aimed at second. It was go time. I pulled the trigger.
I heard the satisfying BANG, and I was relieved that the shot was over. Hit or miss, I was done with this intensely high-pressure situation. I was scared to look, but I did. What I saw was a downed bird and Rex exploding out of his perch on the tree-toilet to go make sure it was very dead. "Do you need my gun?" I called to Rex, thinking he might need to shoot it again if I didn't get a good shot.
"No, you got it!" he called back. "Great job!"
I felt relief flood through me. I did it! My dad went to join Rex in examining my bird, but I stayed in the tent for a second and remembered what breathing felt like. I may have also rubbed my shoulder, where I now have a beautiful purple and green bruise from the kick of that gun.
A few minutes later, when the excitement of the shot died down, I said, "Hey, what time is it?" I was going to be late for work! I figured "I got a turkey" was a pretty good excuse, but we still tried to go quickly in packing up and getting out of the woods. We didn't go so quickly that we forgot to get some pictures, though!
It was a great day with my two favorite men. I'll never forget it, even long after the turkey dinners I provided for us are gone.
"I don't know...it's basically like every other hunting story. There were some animals, and then one of them ended up dead."
She looked incredulous. "Christine," she said, "You're a writer, and you're telling me you can't muster up some sort of story out of this hunt?" Really, I just wanted to eat my food. I was starving. I'd eaten about three bites of bagel in the entire day. I told her that I would blog the story later, so HERE IT IS: the official and unabridged story of my turkey hunt.
I woke up at 4:30 in the morning last Friday and thought, as I do every morning before a hunt, "Why am I doing this?? This is crazy. Examine your life choices, Christine." I had taken Friday morning off of work to go hunting with my dad and Rex. Rex was amped. He gets more excited before hunting than he does on Christmas morning, I swear. We drove over to my parents' house where my dad was already in his car, ready to drive us to our spot. I hopped in the passenger side, and my dad looked half-human and half-zombie. He said, "When you get up super early in the morning to hunt, do you ever wonder 'why on earth am I doing this?' Because I always do."
See? I knew I was related to that man.
We drove in the darkness to my boss's house (we had permission to hunt on his property). I don't think I've ever felt so creepy as when we turned off our headlights and crept up his driveway. Try creeping up YOUR boss's driveway in the middle of the night - I'm telling you, it's a weird feeling.
We drove to his back field and then had to get out of the car and walk to our spot. We crunched through some sticks and leaves in the woods, trying to be quiet but also basically walking wherever because we couldn't see anything. Finally, we got to our turkey tent. My dad and I sat in the tent while Rex sat near a tree a few yards away. It looked like he was sitting on a toilet - look at this:
We got situated, and then the blanket of quiet that all hunters understand settled over us. Not even the animals were awake yet; all we could hear was the sizzlebuzz of the power lines by our tent. I never realized how loud power lines sound. I briefly wondered if I was going to get cancer or superpowers or something from the power snapping through the lines and radiating to the surrounding area. These are the things I think about when it's five in the morning and I can't make any noise or look at my phone.
Just after sunrise, my dad spotted some turkeys coming over a hill. They looked like moving speckles at first, but they got bigger as they got closer. My chest got tight and my hands tingled - was the hunt going to be over this quickly? I wasn't ready! I carefully grabbed my gun, which had been leaning on the edge of the tent. I knelt down by the windows so that I'd be ready to shoot if they came near enough. As the turkeys got closer, we realized they were all females. None to shoot. The problem was that if they saw us, they would alert all of their turkey friends, and then no one would come near us. The four females walked right past our blind, about forty yards away. They were fun to watch, but they didn't come in too close.
I was about ready to relax and put my gun down when suddenly another group of three turkeys materialized out of nowhere only one ridge away from our tent. Hens again. They were headed straight towards us. "Do...not...move," my dad hissed without opening his mouth.
Thanks, Dad - like I was going to be so excited about seeing turkeys that I would spontaneously start dancing the cha-cha. I've hunted before. This wasn't my first rodeo. The thing was, though, that it was especially perilous here because the turkeys were so close. Turkeys have phenomenal eyesight. They can sense movement dozens of yards away. It's like spidey-vision (which they perhaps got from spending so much time by those power lines). Anyway, one hen in particular was headed so close to our tent that she would have actually run into it if she kept walking straight. She had to turn to walk around it. When she was about three yards away (THREE YARDS, PEOPLE), she stared right into the tent and directly at me. There is no material on our tent windows. I had no protection from the gaze of spidey-vision hen. My eyes were open wide, my heart was trying to escape from my rib cage, and I realized that my ability to keep completely still could make or break this hunt. I couldn't even blink - she was too close.
DON'T BLINK
DON'T BLINK
DON'T BLINK
My eyes started to burn. She cocked her head, trying to figure out what she was seeing. I think I could have punched her - both because she was close enough to punch and because I was mad that she was making my eyes burn.
DON'T BLINK
DON'T BLINK
DON'T BLINK
All of the staring contests I'd ever had in life had prepared me for THIS MOMENT. I thought, "Wow, good thing I'm good at starting contests...wait, am I good at staring contests? I don't remember. I don't think I've had one since I was about ten..." This is seriously what I was thinking at that moment. Finally, after an eternity, spidey bent down to peck at the ground. I blinked rapidly about six times before she put her head up again, and the staring contest was back on. Finally she moved past my tent with her friends, and I could relax a bit.
I don't know how much you know about turkeys, but to see seven females and no males was really strange. This is mating season. The guys are all out trolling for girls, which is why we had our decoy out about fifteen yards in front of our tent. In addition to our decoy, we now had seven live decoys all around us! Still, no dudes. I was confused. If one was looking for females, this spot was the place to be. It was the turkey equivalent of a Celine Dion concert or a yoga class or a sale at Bath and Body Works. You get the idea - chicks everywhere. Where were the dudes?
It was quiet for about an hour after my epic stare down. My dad would use his call, Rex would use his call, and sometimes they would call together. In my mind, their calling together sounded like we had a raging party going on with lots of hot female turkeys in attendance. How could any self-respecting male turkey resist us?? I almost chimed in with my own mouth call, but Rex has told me that my mouth call sounds like a parrot. I didn't want the turkeys to get confused and think we had immigrant birds attending our party, because immigration can be a touchy subject. Hot girl turkeys only - come and get 'em.
I wrung my hands nervously after we hadn't called for a while, and one of my knuckles popped. In the completely still silence, it sounded like a bomb going off. I thought, "AHHH! MY FINGER JUST EXPLODED! Oh, actually maybe that was my knuckle popping. Oops." I stopped wringing my hands.
Maybe my dad took my exploding finger as a signal that I was bored or uncomfortable, because he offered to split a granola bar with me. I said sure. He carefully unwrapped a granola bar (which sounded like it was being unwrapped over the loudspeaker at a Big 10 football game because it was SO LOUD), and he handed me half. I put the half in my mouth and was about to bite down on the macadamia-nut goodness when suddenly we heard a turkey yelp, and it was close. My dad and I looked at each other with buggy eyes, and I dropped the granola bar out of my mouth and into my hand. I grabbed my gun and knelt again, looking furtively for the bird who interrupted my breakfast.
There was a lone hen (making this number eight), and she was wandering around the field. I don't know why she was alone... girl turkeys usually travel in groups (they're like humans that way). Maybe she was the loser turkey, but she was hoping to be included in our party. We accept you, loser turkey! All live decoys are welcome! She putted around as she got closer, and I was nervous she was going to actually step on Rex. I mentally willed him not to move. At one point I heard another turkey call, and I thought, "Is Rex nuts?! The turkey's right here! Why is he calling?!" Then I realized it was actually the turkey making those noises, not Rex. Oops. My bad.
The turkey went up to Henrietta (our decoy), and she tried to talk to her. Henrietta, obviously, didn't talk back. This made the hen mad, and she got cranky for a little bit before moving on again. (The poor loser turkey. I don't think Henrietta helped with her rejection complex). My phone lit up with a text from Rex. I could text now that it was light out. He said, "I think that hen was ready to cage fight Henreitta." I silently laughed and showed the text to my dad. Then we took some selfies. I tried to find my half of the granola bar to eat, but it turned out my dad had already eaten it. Gross. That had been in my mouth. A few minutes later, Rex decided to go pee. I got a text that he almost peed on a squirrel.
Oh, the weird things that happen when you're hunting.
I had to be back at work by 12:30, so I knew we had to start leaving the woods around 11. It was 10:40, and my dad and I had started whispering back and forth about the possibilities of going out the following morning. Suddenly, he whispered, "Turkeys! Toms!" I looked over the ridge and saw three turkeys about two hundred yards away. I leaned toward the tent opening that allowed me to see Rex because I knew he couldn't see the turkeys from where he was sitting. I held up three fingers and pulled my facemask down to mouth "toms." Rex's eyes bugged out, pug style, and I think this was exaggerated by the fact that the only part of him I could see was his eyes. His shocked excitement made me even more nervous. My dad and Rex had done a great job of calling all day - now it was up to me.
The turkeys were still over a hundred yards away, but I picked up my gun and got ready. My dad tapped me on the shoulder, and I thought he was going to give me some profound fatherly wisdom. Instead he said, "I have to pee."
"You're going to have to hold it!" I whispered back. "I'm trying to shoot a turkey here!"
"No seriously," he said. "I really have to go. I'm going to hurry before they come too close."
I could not believe this. I was maybe five minutes away from a dead bird, and he was going to jeopardize the whole operation because he COULDN'T HOLD IT?? Obviously he couldn't unzip the tent because it would be too loud, but it turns out that we hadn't put the zipper all the way down to the ground. There were a few inches left unzipped - what luck. I kept my eyes glued to the turkeys while my dad peed out of the small hole in our tent.
Do you find it strange that I'm interrupting the climax of this story to tell you about my dad's urinary habits? Think of how frustrating it was to actually be there!! I'm on the brink of something really exciting, we are in a life or death (for the bird) situation, and he has to PEE. Ugh. My dad, I tell ya.
He returned back to his chair, and I was knelt with my gun ready to go. When the birds were at fifty yards, they saw Henrietta. I don't know what it is about that decoy, but I'm telling you - she could be on the cover of Turkey Cosmo or something. Guys go nuts for her. They immediately puffed up and started heading her way. I put the gun out of the tent window and started tracking them. "Which one?" I whispered to my dad. There were three, and I didn't know which one was the biggest.
"The third one," my dad said. I aimed squarely for that turkey's neck. A few seconds went by. I really didn't want to miss this shot. I didn't want to let my dad and Rex down, but also one of my seventh graders had shot a turkey just the week before. I would never live it down if my students found out I was beat in marksmanship by a twelve-year-old.
Also, fresh turkey is so, so delicious.
I put my finger on the trigger. "Third one?" I confirmed.
"No wait," said my dad. "Second one."
Second one!? This changed the whole thing! I switched my focus and aimed for the second one. I tried to breathe steady, which was hard since my blood was trying to set a world record racing through my body. How did the turkeys not hear my heart beating?? Second one. Okay. Second one. Got it. The turkeys were moving toward Henrietta. I didn't want to shoot a moving target, because then you have to think of physics and crap. I tried to think of physics and also about breathing and also about keeping my gun aimed steadily at the correct turkey.
My dad pulled out his turkey call and made a small yelp. The turkeys stopped and looked our way, and my dad whispered, "NOW. Take the shot!" I knew this was the moment. I had about one second before they started moving again. I didn't even have time for one more deep breath. Aimed at second? Aimed at second. It was go time. I pulled the trigger.
I heard the satisfying BANG, and I was relieved that the shot was over. Hit or miss, I was done with this intensely high-pressure situation. I was scared to look, but I did. What I saw was a downed bird and Rex exploding out of his perch on the tree-toilet to go make sure it was very dead. "Do you need my gun?" I called to Rex, thinking he might need to shoot it again if I didn't get a good shot.
"No, you got it!" he called back. "Great job!"
I felt relief flood through me. I did it! My dad went to join Rex in examining my bird, but I stayed in the tent for a second and remembered what breathing felt like. I may have also rubbed my shoulder, where I now have a beautiful purple and green bruise from the kick of that gun.
A few minutes later, when the excitement of the shot died down, I said, "Hey, what time is it?" I was going to be late for work! I figured "I got a turkey" was a pretty good excuse, but we still tried to go quickly in packing up and getting out of the woods. We didn't go so quickly that we forgot to get some pictures, though!
It was a great day with my two favorite men. I'll never forget it, even long after the turkey dinners I provided for us are gone.
Saturday, April 23, 2016
Ashtabeautiful
I have a problem. I can't turn down a wedding invitation. The couple lives five hours away and I've only met them once? I don't care - I'M GOING.
I'm not sure why I'm so obsessed with weddings. I used to think it was because I was so excited to plan my own, but then I got married and I kept being obsessed with weddings. About four hours into our five hour drive, Rex asked me why I love weddings so much. I immediately responded with, "Because I like to believe in fairy tales, and the closest thing the world has to a real fairy tale is a wedding day." I don't even know where that answer came from, but as soon as I said it I decided that it's pretty true. There's something magic about a wedding day, and I'll chase that magic across the country if necessary. It's an addiction. Is there rehab for this?
The wedding last weekend was in Ashtabula, Ohio. I'm not sure which was weirder - the fact that we went to the wedding or the fact we were invited. We'd only met the couple once, at Rex's friend's wedding back in January. I'm not sure why, exactly, they invited us. Their invitation was a picture of them wearing camouflage and sitting on the back of a pickup truck in the middle of a cornfield - I am not joking. As soon as I got the invitation, I told Rex that we HAD to go for two reasons:
1. I do not turn down wedding invitations.
2. This was the most stereotypical Midwestern redneck invitation I had EVER SEEN. I simply had to see the wedding.
Because Rex loves me a ridiculous amount, he said he would take me. I couldn't believe we were going to drive to ASHTABULA (which is the best name, by the way) to the heart of smalltown America for a veritably anonymous wedding. Even weirder, I was completely pumped about it.
On our way to Ashtabula, I made a bingo game for us to check off during the wedding and reception. The following items were on the bingo board:
I'm not sure why I'm so obsessed with weddings. I used to think it was because I was so excited to plan my own, but then I got married and I kept being obsessed with weddings. About four hours into our five hour drive, Rex asked me why I love weddings so much. I immediately responded with, "Because I like to believe in fairy tales, and the closest thing the world has to a real fairy tale is a wedding day." I don't even know where that answer came from, but as soon as I said it I decided that it's pretty true. There's something magic about a wedding day, and I'll chase that magic across the country if necessary. It's an addiction. Is there rehab for this?
The wedding last weekend was in Ashtabula, Ohio. I'm not sure which was weirder - the fact that we went to the wedding or the fact we were invited. We'd only met the couple once, at Rex's friend's wedding back in January. I'm not sure why, exactly, they invited us. Their invitation was a picture of them wearing camouflage and sitting on the back of a pickup truck in the middle of a cornfield - I am not joking. As soon as I got the invitation, I told Rex that we HAD to go for two reasons:
1. I do not turn down wedding invitations.
2. This was the most stereotypical Midwestern redneck invitation I had EVER SEEN. I simply had to see the wedding.
Because Rex loves me a ridiculous amount, he said he would take me. I couldn't believe we were going to drive to ASHTABULA (which is the best name, by the way) to the heart of smalltown America for a veritably anonymous wedding. Even weirder, I was completely pumped about it.
On our way to Ashtabula, I made a bingo game for us to check off during the wedding and reception. The following items were on the bingo board:
- Mason jars
- Someone talking about hunting
- Discussion about farming
- Country music
- Shotgun shells
- Burlap
- Camouflage
- American flag
- A pickup truck
- Drunk person
- Talking about guns (bonus for carrying a gun)
- Smell of manure
- Cool belt buckle
- Flannel
- A reference to corn or "the harvest"
- The phrase "the good Lord"
- Awkward reference to sex
- Blaze orange
- Grammar error
- Someone wearing jeans
- Shotgun shells
- Someone wearing cowboy boots
At one point I said, "Rex, I can't find anyone wearing cowboy boots. Someone HAS to be wearing cowboy boots." I furtively looked under tables at people's shoes and tried to look nonchalant. Rex said, "Uh...Christine?" He looked down. HE was wearing cowboy boots. My word. He was in his home country, for sure. We would fit right in in Ashtabula.
After the wedding and reception, the only items not crossed off of the list were the following:
- The phrase "the good Lord" (there was lots of talk about God, but that exact phrase did not come up)
- A reference to corn or "the harvest"
- Cool belt buckle
Go back and read the top list, because look at all of the things we DID find. I mean, shotgun shells?!? (The guys had them pinned to their lapels to hold the corsages - I KID YOU NOT). This could have been on a reality TV show as "the most Midwestern wedding ever." It was a total blast. I couldn't decide if we got the bonus point for gun carrying or not, because a guy had a holster on but no gun in the holster. Don't ask me why - I have no idea. Maybe we got a half point for that one.
Even the ceremony itself was fun. A guy who looked and sounded remarkably like Owen Wilson talked at about a thousand miles per hour for ten minutes, and then it was over. The entire wedding took ten minutes! My favorite part was when he said, "In the garden of Eden, when God decided man should not be alone, what did He create? No, not a hunting dog. A woman!" I almost laughed out loud, both because that's a ridiculous thing to say, but also because of how much Rex loves his hunting dog. I think Rex might have been secretly born in Ashtabula.
We enjoyed the small-town atmosphere. We stayed in a local hotel, shopped at local shops, ate at a ridiculous diner filled with Ohio State paraphernalia, and even went to a gun show (because that was the weekend for the Ashtabula gun show - what luck!). Here are a few pictures from the adventure:
We're almost there!!
I've never seen THIS sign before. I also can't say that I hate it... We need more horses on our streets.
We went shopping here in between the wedding and reception. How could we pass it by?
A giant rocking chair must be climbed. It was not ladylike getting up there. Half of Ashtabula saw my underwear while I was climbing it, I'm pretty sure. There was a road right by the chair. At least I was wearing cute underwear (and keep in mind, half of Ashtabula is like, ten people).
Rex looked happy here. No wonder. This is an entire city of Rexes.
I wonder why this business didn't make it... We were only about five hours from Niagara Falls...
We were going to be late to the wedding, so I grabbed the first wrapping paper I saw. It was kind of embarrassing, and it totally didn't match the card. Oops.
Why weren't "antlers" on my bingo game?? *Sigh* That would have been a good one.
Hanging out with Rex's friends and the bride and groom.
Please note my sign that says "wedding crasher." We practically were.
Rex at his gun show the next day. I almost bought a camouflage duffel bag, but those aren't as popular in Kalamazoo as they are in Ashtabula. I was catching the fever - good thing we got out of there when we did.
This is where we stopped for lunch.
Decor. Rex's family would not have been pleased.
All in all, it was a great weekend. I'm really glad we went. I hope that fifty years from now, the bride and groom look back at their pictures and say, "Who the heck are those random people?" I also hope that fifty years from now, Rex and I look back at these pictures and think, "What a fun weekend." It really, really was. It was Ashtabeautiful.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Christine Webb, D.D.S?
Here is a surprising truth: I do not want to be a dentist.
Here's another one: I do not want to attend the University of Michigan.
Perhaps neither of those facts are surprising to you, but they certainly would have been surprising to the 200+ people with whom I attended the U of M dental school open house last weekend. It definitely would have been surprising to the faculty speakers and to the student representatives who asked if I've started my application yet ("No," I responded. "I'm still considering my options." Which, you know, I was...considering options like "what should I have for dinner?")
My brother Jake wanted a wingman to go to with him to this open house. He does want to be a dentist and also wants to go to Michigan. He had a reason to be there. I was just a convincing (or not so convincing) poser. We drove to Ann Arbor last Saturday morning, and due to a freak snow storm, the roads were horrible. We left with plenty of time to spare, but going 40 mph on the highway will tend to make you late even if you left early. Long story short, we showed up to the lecture hall late and couldn't find any seats together. Apparently a zillion people want to go to Michigan's dental school - who knew?
I ended up sitting by myself between a guy and a girl. They both had fabulous teeth. Everyone had fabulous teeth. I was sitting in a 200 person Colgate ad. I found myself smiling with closed lips because I didn't want people being all judgy about the fact I hadn't flossed that morning. Somehow they would inherently know, right? Dental instinct.
As the speaker was talking, I heard two girls behind me whispering about how nervous they were. I smiled to myself (closed lipped, of course). I didn't have to be nervous at all! I didn't even want to go to dental school! I decided to have some fun with this situation. I took out a pen and started taking notes on the back of one of the handouts. Not serious notes, obviously, because how boring is that? I took my own style of notes. The girl next to me was trying to be sneaky about reading over my shoulder, but I absolutely caught her. This encouraged me to make my notes even weirder. By the end of the lectures, I'm sure she was ready to call home and say, "I met some of my competition today, and DON'T WORRY - she's a complete moron. I'm definitely getting in."
Here is a transcript of my notes. The bold words are what I wrote on the page, and the italicized words are my blog commentary so that you understand what was going on.
(The speaker was talking about the admissions process when I began writing)
MMI - Multiple Mini Interviews
- Ten stations with people asking questions
- Maybe I should speed date for practice on this?
- Brush and floss - DO NOT FORGET
(The speaker went on to talk about different branches of dentistry)
Note to self: Don't do hospital dentistry.
They see mostly trauma cases - EWWW!
Three years after my DDS, I can get a Masters in one of 9 ADA specialties
- What is a prosthodontist?
- What is endodontics??
- Come to think of it, what does DDS even stand for? Google this. (I asked Jake about this afterwards. Apparently it stands for "Doctor of Dental Surgery." I probably should have known that if I was applying to the dental school. Oops. Come on - you didn't know what it stood for either. Admit it.)
- So wait, I finish school at age 30? I won't be out of debt until I'm dead! And what about all of the fun stuff people do in their twenties??
Go Dental - adea.org/godental
- Not sure what this is. I wasn't listening until the lady said, "Be sure to write this down."
Costs for Dental School
- $65k/yr in state, $82k/yr out of state.
- "Health Profession Loan"?! Where was this during PT school??
- Not that I was even in PT school, obviously. I *heart* teeth.
- "Grad school doesn't offer many scholarships." Dang. Rex was right.
- FAFSA forms can now be filled out in October.
- Not that this will get you any more money. *scoff*
(After this, a former U of M dental student got up to speak. The following notes are on her presentation)
- GREAT teeth. Are those even real?? No way.
- Slide 1 says "get a dog." I like this chick. (The slide really did say that)
- She married a dentist. Their kids are going to have fantastic teeth. Jealous. If I ever have kids, I will WILL them to get Rex's teeth.
- Which is premature, obviously, since I'm only in college and will maybe get married to my bf Rex one day. Maybe.
- Fluoride is the reason why Germans became Nazis? What?? (This was a question someone asked the dentist chick once)
- "Why dentistry" slide says to choose dentistry if you like having hobbies. Umm, I'll be in school until I'm thirty and in debt until I'm dead. When/with what money will I do hobbies??
- "Do you enjoy using your hands?" Yes, I do. That's why I don't want people biting them all the time.
- Why choose Michigan?
1. "Because it's better" (??)
2. "Because we're not pretentious"
- If you have to say it, you're probably pretentious
- Also, I'm calling B.S. People at Michigan are pretentious.
- Dr. Pitkorowsi is her mentor - this is a cool name. Does he have a kid to marry? "Christine Pitkorowski." Solid.
- Since, you recall, I am in college and not yet married.
- Dog teeth are different than human teeth, so dogs can't chew lettuce.
- Try this on Ruby
- Who, by the way, is my friend's dog
- "Critical thinking skills are absolutely awesome"
- Ummm...is anyone going to disagree with that?
- Why is there no response when people say "go blue"? It feels awkward not to say anything back.
- Yet another reason why MSU is better
- For your interview, make sure your hands look nice and your nails are done
- Silver fillings, fluoride, radiographs - form opinions on these (aka call Michelle)
- What's a radiograph?
Well, there you have it. Those are all of my dental school notes, which are hopefully the only dental school notes I will ever take. After the lectures, we went on a tour of the dental school. I played it cool most of the time, but we went into a lab that had a crate full of mouth models...just these piles and piles of fake jaws full of teeth in various states of nasty. I literally said, "Ew, gross." I couldn't help it. IT WAS DISGUSTING. I got some weird looks. I guess I should have been all, "Wow! AMAZING! LET ME PLAY WITH THOSE ALL DAY!" Since, you know, I want to be a dentist and all.
The awkward guy in front of me on the tour kept farting. LOUD. Now, I'm no dentist, but I feel like he's going to have to figure that out before working on patients. I wouldn't want to be sitting in a dental chair, open-mouthed, and have a guy farting himself around the room.
At one point, the dental student giving us the tour showed us the tray of instruments that the dental students use. A snooty girl asked, "Um, do we have to clean our own instruments here? Or do we have, you know, people to do that for us?"
Like what, she needs dental minions to boss around? You're not a dentist, blondie. You're not even a dental student at this point. You're a wannabe. You have no minions.
Also, didn't that speaker establish that people at Michigan are not pretentious? Hmmm... Looks like this isn't the school for you then. Sorry.
(In case you were curious, yes the dental students do have to clean their own instruments. There are, unfortunately, no dental slaves to do their chores).
After the tour, we went to a section of the school that had a career-fair type setup where various student groups could talk to prospective students. I followed Jake around while he got the information he wanted. I smiled tightly and pretended that teeth were very interesting (it was a tough sell). I got a lot of free candy, which I found to be a bit ironic. I also got a free toothbrush, though, so maybe that balanced it out a little bit.
I think Jake had a good time and got some good information. I think I gave a lot of people confidence that they can definitely beat me into dental school. Maybe this will cause them to underestimate their competition and work a little less diligently on their applications (you're welcome, Jake).
I'm sure glad that the world has dentists, but I'm also glad that I'm not one of them. One day of pre-dental school was enough for me.
Here's another one: I do not want to attend the University of Michigan.
Perhaps neither of those facts are surprising to you, but they certainly would have been surprising to the 200+ people with whom I attended the U of M dental school open house last weekend. It definitely would have been surprising to the faculty speakers and to the student representatives who asked if I've started my application yet ("No," I responded. "I'm still considering my options." Which, you know, I was...considering options like "what should I have for dinner?")
My brother Jake wanted a wingman to go to with him to this open house. He does want to be a dentist and also wants to go to Michigan. He had a reason to be there. I was just a convincing (or not so convincing) poser. We drove to Ann Arbor last Saturday morning, and due to a freak snow storm, the roads were horrible. We left with plenty of time to spare, but going 40 mph on the highway will tend to make you late even if you left early. Long story short, we showed up to the lecture hall late and couldn't find any seats together. Apparently a zillion people want to go to Michigan's dental school - who knew?
I ended up sitting by myself between a guy and a girl. They both had fabulous teeth. Everyone had fabulous teeth. I was sitting in a 200 person Colgate ad. I found myself smiling with closed lips because I didn't want people being all judgy about the fact I hadn't flossed that morning. Somehow they would inherently know, right? Dental instinct.
As the speaker was talking, I heard two girls behind me whispering about how nervous they were. I smiled to myself (closed lipped, of course). I didn't have to be nervous at all! I didn't even want to go to dental school! I decided to have some fun with this situation. I took out a pen and started taking notes on the back of one of the handouts. Not serious notes, obviously, because how boring is that? I took my own style of notes. The girl next to me was trying to be sneaky about reading over my shoulder, but I absolutely caught her. This encouraged me to make my notes even weirder. By the end of the lectures, I'm sure she was ready to call home and say, "I met some of my competition today, and DON'T WORRY - she's a complete moron. I'm definitely getting in."
Here is a transcript of my notes. The bold words are what I wrote on the page, and the italicized words are my blog commentary so that you understand what was going on.
(The speaker was talking about the admissions process when I began writing)
MMI - Multiple Mini Interviews
- Ten stations with people asking questions
- Maybe I should speed date for practice on this?
- Brush and floss - DO NOT FORGET
(The speaker went on to talk about different branches of dentistry)
Note to self: Don't do hospital dentistry.
They see mostly trauma cases - EWWW!
Three years after my DDS, I can get a Masters in one of 9 ADA specialties
- What is a prosthodontist?
- What is endodontics??
- Come to think of it, what does DDS even stand for? Google this. (I asked Jake about this afterwards. Apparently it stands for "Doctor of Dental Surgery." I probably should have known that if I was applying to the dental school. Oops. Come on - you didn't know what it stood for either. Admit it.)
- So wait, I finish school at age 30? I won't be out of debt until I'm dead! And what about all of the fun stuff people do in their twenties??
Go Dental - adea.org/godental
- Not sure what this is. I wasn't listening until the lady said, "Be sure to write this down."
Costs for Dental School
- $65k/yr in state, $82k/yr out of state.
- "Health Profession Loan"?! Where was this during PT school??
- Not that I was even in PT school, obviously. I *heart* teeth.
- "Grad school doesn't offer many scholarships." Dang. Rex was right.
- FAFSA forms can now be filled out in October.
- Not that this will get you any more money. *scoff*
(After this, a former U of M dental student got up to speak. The following notes are on her presentation)
- GREAT teeth. Are those even real?? No way.
- Slide 1 says "get a dog." I like this chick. (The slide really did say that)
- She married a dentist. Their kids are going to have fantastic teeth. Jealous. If I ever have kids, I will WILL them to get Rex's teeth.
- Which is premature, obviously, since I'm only in college and will maybe get married to my bf Rex one day. Maybe.
- Fluoride is the reason why Germans became Nazis? What?? (This was a question someone asked the dentist chick once)
- "Why dentistry" slide says to choose dentistry if you like having hobbies. Umm, I'll be in school until I'm thirty and in debt until I'm dead. When/with what money will I do hobbies??
- "Do you enjoy using your hands?" Yes, I do. That's why I don't want people biting them all the time.
- Why choose Michigan?
1. "Because it's better" (??)
2. "Because we're not pretentious"
- If you have to say it, you're probably pretentious
- Also, I'm calling B.S. People at Michigan are pretentious.
- Dr. Pitkorowsi is her mentor - this is a cool name. Does he have a kid to marry? "Christine Pitkorowski." Solid.
- Since, you recall, I am in college and not yet married.
- Dog teeth are different than human teeth, so dogs can't chew lettuce.
- Try this on Ruby
- Who, by the way, is my friend's dog
- "Critical thinking skills are absolutely awesome"
- Ummm...is anyone going to disagree with that?
- Why is there no response when people say "go blue"? It feels awkward not to say anything back.
- Yet another reason why MSU is better
- For your interview, make sure your hands look nice and your nails are done
- Silver fillings, fluoride, radiographs - form opinions on these (aka call Michelle)
- What's a radiograph?
Well, there you have it. Those are all of my dental school notes, which are hopefully the only dental school notes I will ever take. After the lectures, we went on a tour of the dental school. I played it cool most of the time, but we went into a lab that had a crate full of mouth models...just these piles and piles of fake jaws full of teeth in various states of nasty. I literally said, "Ew, gross." I couldn't help it. IT WAS DISGUSTING. I got some weird looks. I guess I should have been all, "Wow! AMAZING! LET ME PLAY WITH THOSE ALL DAY!" Since, you know, I want to be a dentist and all.
The awkward guy in front of me on the tour kept farting. LOUD. Now, I'm no dentist, but I feel like he's going to have to figure that out before working on patients. I wouldn't want to be sitting in a dental chair, open-mouthed, and have a guy farting himself around the room.
At one point, the dental student giving us the tour showed us the tray of instruments that the dental students use. A snooty girl asked, "Um, do we have to clean our own instruments here? Or do we have, you know, people to do that for us?"
Like what, she needs dental minions to boss around? You're not a dentist, blondie. You're not even a dental student at this point. You're a wannabe. You have no minions.
Also, didn't that speaker establish that people at Michigan are not pretentious? Hmmm... Looks like this isn't the school for you then. Sorry.
(In case you were curious, yes the dental students do have to clean their own instruments. There are, unfortunately, no dental slaves to do their chores).
After the tour, we went to a section of the school that had a career-fair type setup where various student groups could talk to prospective students. I followed Jake around while he got the information he wanted. I smiled tightly and pretended that teeth were very interesting (it was a tough sell). I got a lot of free candy, which I found to be a bit ironic. I also got a free toothbrush, though, so maybe that balanced it out a little bit.
I think Jake had a good time and got some good information. I think I gave a lot of people confidence that they can definitely beat me into dental school. Maybe this will cause them to underestimate their competition and work a little less diligently on their applications (you're welcome, Jake).
I'm sure glad that the world has dentists, but I'm also glad that I'm not one of them. One day of pre-dental school was enough for me.
Tuesday, March 22, 2016
Creepy Uncle Max (and Other Babysitting Adventures)
One of our vocabulary words today was "vilify." It means to speak ill of someone, essentially making them out to be a villain (whether or not they deserve it). One of my girls raised her hand eagerly. "I know a good example sentence for that word!" she said. "All of the babysitters have vilified Creepy Uncle Max!"
"YES!" I replied, matching her enthusiasm. "That is a perfect use of the word vilify!" Then I decided that this should probably be a blog post.
My junior high girls have been volunteering to babysit for my cousin Danielle (remember her? She's the one with five kids and the deployed husband - aka "superhero mom"). I know my girls have felt proud to be "doing their part" to help a military family, and I think it's helped Danielle out to have a few extra hours a week. Win/win. Anyway, the girls have been doing this volunteer babysitting since the beginning of January. Toward the end of January, Danielle's brother Max moved in with Danielle and the kids. He's "Uncle Max" to his nieces who attend my school. Apparently Danielle, her girls, and I all forgot to mention that Uncle Max had moved home. Just this past week, he moved back to Russia.
One day after school last week, Lorelei (Danielle's daughter) was hanging out in my room. A bunch of junior high girls were there as well (because what better things do junior high girls have to do after school than hang out with a teacher? APPARENTLY NOTHING). Speaking to Lorelei, I said, "Did you say goodbye to Uncle Max last night? He left for Russia today, didn't he?" She said, "Yep! I hung on his leg ALL NIGHT and wouldn't let go even when he said let go!" Perfect. I bet Max didn't cry about getting on that plane.
"Wait!" One of my girls had overheard my conversation. "That creepy guy is Lorelei's uncle?!"
"What creepy guy?" I asked.
"We were babysitting," the girl started, "when suddenly this random GUY just walked in the house. He didn't even knock! Just WALKED IN! He looked at us and said, 'Hey, I'm going to go take a shower,' and then he WALKED RIGHT BY US!"
(Side note - sorry for the excessive capital letters, but junior high girls absolutely speak in excessive capital letters. It's true. Trust me.)
"So THEN," she continued, "I was obviously, like, SUPER FREAKED OUT, because who is this random MAN walking in off the street when we're babysitting!? So I got the phone and was going to call the police, but HANNAH said that we should first check if the kids know him. So I said okay, and when we asked the kids they said yes, they knew him. But I never knew he was their UNCLE!"
Personally, if I may interject again, I sort of wished they would have called the police. Because how hilarious would that have been?! But I digress. Back to my story.
One of the other girls in my classroom chimed in with, "No WAY! That must be the SAME GUY that we saw! We were playing in the basement with the kids when I heard something going on upstairs. I thought Mrs. Gibson had come home, so I went to check. When I got to the top of the stairs, there was this completely RANDOM dude in the kitchen just DOING THE DISHES! So I obviously freaked out and ran back downstairs to get Terri, who was babysitting with me. She came upstairs too to see who the random guy was. But except then he SAW US, which was totally scary, and he said, 'Oh hey, don't mind me. My dad will be here any minute.' Which, we were like, WHO IS THIS GUY AND WHY IS HIS DAD COMING OVER?!" (Max's dad was picking him up for work, I assume, but these girls obviously didn't know that.) "Anyway, it was SUPER creepy," they concluded.
"Hey!" Lorelei piped up. "Uncle Max isn't creepy!" Oops. I'd been laughing too hard to properly defend Uncle Max.
"Lorelei," I said. "I know. But why didn't you tell anyone that he was your Uncle Max?" She looked pensive for a moment and then said, "Huh. I never thought of that."
She never thought of that, ladies and gentlemen.
Danielle came to pick up Lorelei, but my girls didn't stop talking once she left. They were on a roll now. Apparently all of them had had some sort of run-in with "that creepy guy," but no one had talked about it with each other until this moment.
"...and this ONE time," another girl said, "we suddenly heard toilets flushing and all these noises going on in the house, but no one was supposed to be home! We were SOOOO freaked out! Then that guy walked out and said, 'I'm going to go ride my bike,' so I thought, 'Pretty harmless...he's going to go ride a bike,' but then he went outside and GOT ON A MOTORCYCLE!!!" She said with the same amount of shock and horror that someone would use to say, "AND THEN HE STARTED PUNCHING KITTENS."
"One time when WE were babysitting," chimed in another girl, "We were playing in the basement. One of the kids wasn't doing what we said, and this CREEPY MAN VOICE from upstairs said, 'KIDS! YOU HAVE TO DO WHAT THE SITTERS SAY!' and we looked at each other like, 'What on earth just happened?! WHO IS TALKING?!' And it was totally that same creepy guy!"
Another girl spoke up, finally getting the attention off Max for a quick minute. "And then there was this OTHER GUY," she said, "who walked in totally without knocking and said, 'Hey Lorelei, where's the Tylenol?' so Lorelei went and got him some. Then he said, 'thanks' and TOTALLY JUST LEFT! AND WE HAD NO IDEA WHO HE WAS!" Apparently that time the Gibson kids decided to step up and explain that that guy was their grandpa. Uncle Max was never afforded the same luxury.
"...and the thing about Uncle Max," said one of the girls from before, "is that he wouldn't be so creepy if he didn't wear that gangster hat."
I laughed so loud when she said that. Obnoxiously loud. "Gangster hat?" I clarified. "You have got to be kidding."
"Yes!" all of the girls backed up the first one on the fact that Uncle Max most decidedly does wear a *ahem* "gangster hat." They tried to describe it to me, but I wasn't getting it. Finally one of them drew it on the board:
It is notable that she also drew this man smoking a cigarette, and I said, "Erase that. Don't draw cigarettes on my board. Why does he have to have a cigarette?" Her response was, "Because creepy people always smoke, so he probably smokes. And it makes him look more creepy in my picture."
This was funny because...well...because it was. Anyway, I've known Max for quite a while (read: ten years) and I have never in my life seen him wear this type of hat. Either there's another legitimately creepy guy hanging around the Gibson house, or my girls are making up the hat thing. (Max, if you read this - what's up with the gangster hat?! Any idea what they're talking about?) Finally I got the artist girl to admit, "Okay, it doesn't look exactly like that hat, but he totally does have a weird hat!"
After our discussion on Uncle Max, the girls turned to telling me about their other babysitting adventures (Berlynn prayed that God would turn Tucker into a statue...their dog Jasmine makes a break for freedom any time the door is open...the girls like to roll around in the mud, but the boys only like to play with soap... I have tons of these stories.)
I had largely forgotten about our discussion until this morning during our vocabulary lesson. Kudos to my girls for realizing they had vilified Uncle Max. After the example sentence, one of the girls piped up and said, "I babysat this weekend, and Lorelei said, 'Uncle Max is gone now, so you don't have to worry about him popping in and freaking you out anymore.'"
Phew. The Gibson house is safe once again, and my students learned a new vocabulary word. I can sleep well tonight.
"YES!" I replied, matching her enthusiasm. "That is a perfect use of the word vilify!" Then I decided that this should probably be a blog post.
My junior high girls have been volunteering to babysit for my cousin Danielle (remember her? She's the one with five kids and the deployed husband - aka "superhero mom"). I know my girls have felt proud to be "doing their part" to help a military family, and I think it's helped Danielle out to have a few extra hours a week. Win/win. Anyway, the girls have been doing this volunteer babysitting since the beginning of January. Toward the end of January, Danielle's brother Max moved in with Danielle and the kids. He's "Uncle Max" to his nieces who attend my school. Apparently Danielle, her girls, and I all forgot to mention that Uncle Max had moved home. Just this past week, he moved back to Russia.
One day after school last week, Lorelei (Danielle's daughter) was hanging out in my room. A bunch of junior high girls were there as well (because what better things do junior high girls have to do after school than hang out with a teacher? APPARENTLY NOTHING). Speaking to Lorelei, I said, "Did you say goodbye to Uncle Max last night? He left for Russia today, didn't he?" She said, "Yep! I hung on his leg ALL NIGHT and wouldn't let go even when he said let go!" Perfect. I bet Max didn't cry about getting on that plane.
"Wait!" One of my girls had overheard my conversation. "That creepy guy is Lorelei's uncle?!"
"What creepy guy?" I asked.
"We were babysitting," the girl started, "when suddenly this random GUY just walked in the house. He didn't even knock! Just WALKED IN! He looked at us and said, 'Hey, I'm going to go take a shower,' and then he WALKED RIGHT BY US!"
(Side note - sorry for the excessive capital letters, but junior high girls absolutely speak in excessive capital letters. It's true. Trust me.)
"So THEN," she continued, "I was obviously, like, SUPER FREAKED OUT, because who is this random MAN walking in off the street when we're babysitting!? So I got the phone and was going to call the police, but HANNAH said that we should first check if the kids know him. So I said okay, and when we asked the kids they said yes, they knew him. But I never knew he was their UNCLE!"
Personally, if I may interject again, I sort of wished they would have called the police. Because how hilarious would that have been?! But I digress. Back to my story.
One of the other girls in my classroom chimed in with, "No WAY! That must be the SAME GUY that we saw! We were playing in the basement with the kids when I heard something going on upstairs. I thought Mrs. Gibson had come home, so I went to check. When I got to the top of the stairs, there was this completely RANDOM dude in the kitchen just DOING THE DISHES! So I obviously freaked out and ran back downstairs to get Terri, who was babysitting with me. She came upstairs too to see who the random guy was. But except then he SAW US, which was totally scary, and he said, 'Oh hey, don't mind me. My dad will be here any minute.' Which, we were like, WHO IS THIS GUY AND WHY IS HIS DAD COMING OVER?!" (Max's dad was picking him up for work, I assume, but these girls obviously didn't know that.) "Anyway, it was SUPER creepy," they concluded.
"Hey!" Lorelei piped up. "Uncle Max isn't creepy!" Oops. I'd been laughing too hard to properly defend Uncle Max.
"Lorelei," I said. "I know. But why didn't you tell anyone that he was your Uncle Max?" She looked pensive for a moment and then said, "Huh. I never thought of that."
She never thought of that, ladies and gentlemen.
Danielle came to pick up Lorelei, but my girls didn't stop talking once she left. They were on a roll now. Apparently all of them had had some sort of run-in with "that creepy guy," but no one had talked about it with each other until this moment.
"...and this ONE time," another girl said, "we suddenly heard toilets flushing and all these noises going on in the house, but no one was supposed to be home! We were SOOOO freaked out! Then that guy walked out and said, 'I'm going to go ride my bike,' so I thought, 'Pretty harmless...he's going to go ride a bike,' but then he went outside and GOT ON A MOTORCYCLE!!!" She said with the same amount of shock and horror that someone would use to say, "AND THEN HE STARTED PUNCHING KITTENS."
"One time when WE were babysitting," chimed in another girl, "We were playing in the basement. One of the kids wasn't doing what we said, and this CREEPY MAN VOICE from upstairs said, 'KIDS! YOU HAVE TO DO WHAT THE SITTERS SAY!' and we looked at each other like, 'What on earth just happened?! WHO IS TALKING?!' And it was totally that same creepy guy!"
Another girl spoke up, finally getting the attention off Max for a quick minute. "And then there was this OTHER GUY," she said, "who walked in totally without knocking and said, 'Hey Lorelei, where's the Tylenol?' so Lorelei went and got him some. Then he said, 'thanks' and TOTALLY JUST LEFT! AND WE HAD NO IDEA WHO HE WAS!" Apparently that time the Gibson kids decided to step up and explain that that guy was their grandpa. Uncle Max was never afforded the same luxury.
"...and the thing about Uncle Max," said one of the girls from before, "is that he wouldn't be so creepy if he didn't wear that gangster hat."
I laughed so loud when she said that. Obnoxiously loud. "Gangster hat?" I clarified. "You have got to be kidding."
"Yes!" all of the girls backed up the first one on the fact that Uncle Max most decidedly does wear a *ahem* "gangster hat." They tried to describe it to me, but I wasn't getting it. Finally one of them drew it on the board:
It is notable that she also drew this man smoking a cigarette, and I said, "Erase that. Don't draw cigarettes on my board. Why does he have to have a cigarette?" Her response was, "Because creepy people always smoke, so he probably smokes. And it makes him look more creepy in my picture."
This was funny because...well...because it was. Anyway, I've known Max for quite a while (read: ten years) and I have never in my life seen him wear this type of hat. Either there's another legitimately creepy guy hanging around the Gibson house, or my girls are making up the hat thing. (Max, if you read this - what's up with the gangster hat?! Any idea what they're talking about?) Finally I got the artist girl to admit, "Okay, it doesn't look exactly like that hat, but he totally does have a weird hat!"
After our discussion on Uncle Max, the girls turned to telling me about their other babysitting adventures (Berlynn prayed that God would turn Tucker into a statue...their dog Jasmine makes a break for freedom any time the door is open...the girls like to roll around in the mud, but the boys only like to play with soap... I have tons of these stories.)
I had largely forgotten about our discussion until this morning during our vocabulary lesson. Kudos to my girls for realizing they had vilified Uncle Max. After the example sentence, one of the girls piped up and said, "I babysat this weekend, and Lorelei said, 'Uncle Max is gone now, so you don't have to worry about him popping in and freaking you out anymore.'"
Phew. The Gibson house is safe once again, and my students learned a new vocabulary word. I can sleep well tonight.
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