Early Morning Excitement

I had a terrible time going to sleep last night.  It seemed that, for the first time ever, the night time cold meds I took had a reverse effect and my heart was beating a little too quickly.  I lay awake for what seemed like hours, right on the edge of sleep.  At last, somewhere in the dead middle of the night, I drifted off, only to be waken in the predawn morning by my dog Salem barking.  She was perched on the end of the bed, looking toward the window.

Salem barks at everything and oftentimes nothing, and, as is my custom, I grabbed her and shoved her back under the covers where I spent perhaps the next half hour holding her snout while she continued to bark.  I don't remember the last time she behaved this way in the middle of the night, but I was dismayed that I might never be able to go back to sleep.  When I heard other dogs barking -- Mom's dog Henry and what sounded like other dogs in the neighborhood -- I knew it was never going to end.  Once one dog hears another barking, it causes a chain reaction.

Suddenly, I opened my eyes to see a red glow at the window.  I jumped out of bed and lifted the blind to find two flashing police cars.  Richie and Mom and I were soon in the patio room, where from the window we could see  that several police cars and one fire truck lined the streets in front of and alongside Mom's house.  There was a man cuffed and lying on the street, with a cop standing over him. 

As the dogs needed to go outside anyway, it worked out that the cop and apprehended man were only feet away from where the dogs had to potty.  We shuffled around in our PJs, catching some of the interrogation, while the dogs did their business.  It seems the man wasn't telling the cops where a gun or something was, and the cop was explaining to him that the dogs would find it anyway.  We also noticed that the man had been injured somehow and his leg wrapped. 

Meanwhile, Mom returned inside, but the ever frustrating Salem still hadn't gone to the bathroom.  So the conversation between the cop and suspect became punctuated by my prompting "Go potty!  Go potty!"

Once back inside, we observed the man lying on the snowy street and began to feel sorry for him.  Mom speculated that he might need a blanket, but I reminded her that the cop wasn't getting any answers out of him and they probably wouldn't appreciate us making him more comfortable. 

We all watched for the next thirty minutes or so, and eventually the police helped the man into the car.  The policeman who had been questioning the man saw us watching and came over to the house to explain what was going on.  We learned that the man had been robbing a house nearby and ended up fleeing the scene.  He ran into this neighborhood and was caught hiding in Mom's hedge.  When he tried to run from the police, one of the police dogs bit him  -- hence the injury we saw (and the blood that is still in the snow). There were three robbers total and all three were caught.

I reminded Mom that just yesterday I had alerted her to the fact that her front door had been unlocked when nobody was home, and that she had replied it was OK, that this was a really safe neighborhood.  Oh the irony.

So, Salem was right for a change.  And she finally pottied, which is no easy thing to get her to do.  Perhaps, with my powers of persuasion, I should have helped the cop interrogate the man.  But I probably would have ended up bringing him a pillow.

The pics show the bloodstains from where the dog bit the burglar and the window from where we watched.  The hedge by the window is where the burglar tried to hide.

Dig Allen, Space Explorer

Once in awhile I am drawn to vintage teen literature. I guess my Trixie Belden reading past (which smoked Nancy Drew) causes me to wax sentimental when I stumble across any G-rated novel for yesterday’s youth.


This week I was browsing in a used bookstore and I came across a book that looked, at a glance, much like the old yellow-spined Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys books. This one, however, had a cover illustration of three boys and a grown man in spacesuits kneeling down and examining what appeared to be an elaborate city under ice. The title read “Lost City of Uranus,” and at the very top it said “A Dig Allen Space Explorer Adventure.” The copyright was 1962. I was immediately drawn to the nostalgia of 1960s sci-fi, a time of innocent wonder at space exploration before sophisticated cynicism, in my opinion, perverted much of sci-fi into the borderline horror of today.

The penciled-in price read 12.00, and even though that seemed a bit steep for Half-Priced Books, I took it to the counter along with two other books. I was startled when the lady said my total would be 7.00 +. I hesitated, wondering if I should count my blessings and run. But curiosity got the better of me and, pointing to the Dig Allen book, I asked, “How much was that?”

“1.00,” the lady said, opening the inside cover to have another look. “Oh no! “ she exclaimed. ”This is 12.00!” Of course, I expected her to reward my honesty, but instead she thanked me for it and charged me the correct amount.

Now feeling incredibly stupid, I paid for and took my purchase. As I explained the situation to my mom, mom suggested I ask the owner of the bookstore, who was currently behind the customer service counter, why this particular book was so much. The man explained that the Dig Allen series , of which there were six total, had been intended to be the new Hardy Boys. However, they had not sold well, and as a result there were only so few printed. That’s why my book cost so much.

Upon hearing this, Mom said to me, “Well, you just paid extra for a flop.” The man hastened to contradict her, but his explanation had already done the damage.

Feeling even more ridiculous, I left with mom. She encouraged me to return the book if I had reservations (and I really should have between the clerk not sticking to the price she originally named and the man explaining to me what a disaster the series had been), but I didn’t.

So last night I started the book, which I thought would be a quick and semi-delightful read, but so far it hasn’t captured me. However, the cover -- the boys in spacesuits exclaiming over a brilliant, extra-terrestrial city under ice – makes me very happy to look at. So I’m keeping it. And I WILL read it, since I paid for it. But from now on I will ASK why a book is so expensive, just in case it is, ironically, because nobody wanted it to begin with.

My Own Reality Show

I have decided that I am the subject of a reality show I have not been told about, sort of like The Truman Show with Jim Carrey. And the goal is to create as many weird situations as possible in my classroom and see how successfully I can still teach.

I got this notion in my head yesterday when a pair of jeans was mysteriously left in my classroom. “There’s a pair of pants in here!” someone declared. Without even looking, I told them to put the pants over with the other clothes that have been left over the year. Later on, another student discovered them and tried to peddle them. But nobody bought them so they are still there, draped over a milk crate. I don’t recall seeing anyone leaving class without any pants on, but then again I also missed it when Kurt removed his pants for a few seconds on a dare during 3rd hour. What was I doing that I could miss that? I guess you’d have to review old posts about my 3rd hour, but it could have been anything from breaking up a game of Ninja to assisting an asthmatic who keeps forgetting his inhaler.

But it’s not just third hour. Today during 6th hour (my very best class and the closest yet to a traditional classroom atmosphere), just after we had gotten quiet and begun reading Romeo and Juliet, Timothy* suddenly reached out and slammed his fist down on the water bottle on Ian’s desk, sending it crashing loudly to the floor. A stunned silence ensued, during which I buried my face in my hand, then continued reading with no further disruption. I found out that later that Ian had fallen asleep and Timothy was attempting to wake him up.

We aren’t allowed to let students sleep; we have been told more than once that principals don’t want to see any heads down. But I don’t care anymore and here is why: yesterday I suddenly realized that my 3rd hour had fallen quiet and learning was taking place. I looked around to find the key performers of the usual circus were out cold, and whether it was a coincidence or they had all partaken of the vodka that some students were found putting in the slushies at lunch, I was quite happy. “I know people are sleeping,” I said pleasantly to the rest of the class, “I’m just going to let them sleep.”

It's never as bad in 1st hour, when nothing much happens beyond someone calling out, “Does anyone have any gum?” But I wasn’t prepared for 7th hour when out of the blue Trey turned to the class and asked if anyone knew how to juggle. I asked him why he needed to know that and he said that that he wanted to learn. And that was that. I guess nobody knew because I’m certain they’d have stood and demonstrated.

Kenny took 3rd hour to a whole new level of chaos yesterday when he jumped up and ran out of the room. I took off after him just in time to see him leap into the air and smack one of the hallway ceiling tiles, then start back into the classroom. “What are you doing?” I asked him. He replied, “Keith told me I couldn’t do it so I showed him.”

It’s only the mornings before the kids enter the building that bring some peace and quiet, but even those can present unexpected events: this morning I found a cell phone on my overhead projector. With the help of some kids during 7th hour, we discovered it belonged to a senior. I tracked down the senior and found it had been stolen from him that morning. I had never seen this kid in my life, but whatever kid (out of the 2100 at CCHS) stole his phone chose to leave it in my room. Because clearly my room contains a divinely-installed vacuum that sucks all reason and order within a 50,000 square foot radius.

And don’t think it ends after school either. Some of the kids are just getting started. Today I had my usual crew hanging out when suddenly Kelsea (“Voice of Condemnation” for those that know that story) burst into my room to spill a confession to me about having falsified her identity to the office today. I can’t figure out how I went from being the target of her hatred to her priest, but nothing fazes me anymore.

She then handed me a cell phone that she had just found in the soccer field. She knew whose it was, but didn’t want to be in possession of it in case it had a tracking device. I found it interesting that my day began and ended with a missing cell phone, but in a few minutes the owner came to claim it. I didn’t know him or the two friends he brought with him, but within the few seconds they entered and exited my room, one of them had managed to fasten a condom over the doorknob. Before I could even react, the male teacher next door suddenly stormed onto the scene. He demanded the names of the offenders and made them throw the condom away. (So of course, it went into my trashcan.) I pretty much just watched all this wordlessly. Because, like I said, I’m the subject of a reality show and am now viewing it with detached curiosity.

Somewhere in that black hole of chaos, there is a cosmic camera installed for the amusement of some divine being. I foresee a second Genesis: “In the beginning, God created Mrs. West’s class. And it was without form..."

*All names have been changed

Oblivious Husband

You may remember that a few years ago I managed to throw up at the dinner table at TGIFridays when Richie and I were eating with Pastor Dave and Kathy. I got choked and it triggered my gag reflex and suddenly I had emptied my whole dinner onto my shirt. Somehow, neither Richie, who was sitting right next to me, nor Pastor Dave, who was sitting across from him, even noticed. And it was a fairly drawn out process. Richie finally happened to look at me and see me, teary eyed, clasping a dinner napkin to my chest, and he asked if I was OK. Long story short, it sucked.

Well, I was reminded of that incident this morning. Due to some minor health issues, I have been on a couple medications this week. One is an antibiotic that must be taken with food. I had just eaten an egg, sausage, and cheese burrito so I could take the antibiotic. I walked into the kitchen and immediately got hiccups. My hiccups normally last a long time, but these faded just as suddenly as they had come. Then I felt kind of woozy. Well, I went ahead and took my antibiotic -- a gigantic pill whose awkward entry triggered my gag reflex. I managed to get it down without gagging further, but now as I stood trying to recover from the whole swallowing ordeal, I realized I was really feeling nauseated.

I began praying that I not throw up for two reasons: 1) I had just taken my pill and didn't want to waste it and 2) I had just eaten an egg burrito. See, I find eggs pretty gross in general, and the only way I can eat them is if they are mixed in with good things like cheese, meat, salsa, whatever the case may be. But the idea of puking back out my eggs might ruin them for me in any form.

Well, I puked anyway. Right there on the kitchen floor. I ended up on my hands and knees and every single bit of that egg burrito was right in front of me with more coming. And the only thing I could see was egg. Just egg, egg, egg. I was traumatized. So of course I kept puking and puking...

What you don't know is that Richie was literally 15 feet away from me, on the living room couch watching TV and surfing on his laptop. Our house is an open floor plan -- our kitchen looks full into the living room. And as I lay on the floor retching and watching my already shaky relationship with eggs go out the window, I fully expected Richie to come running to my aid.

Nope. He had no clue. He remained on the couch surfing the net, completely oblivious to the drama unfolding behind him. By now the dogs were closing in and you know what they were about to do... Between gags and coughs I would yell at them to get back. But Richie didn't notice this either.

I thought I would never be done, but at last it was over. Saying nothing, I rose from the floor and went for the paper towels to begin cleaning up. I heard Richie chuckle over something he was watching on Youtube. I said nothing. I just didn't know what to say. "Honey, you just missed me throwing up...again." ??

After I got the floor clean and everything disposed of, I finally broke the news to him. I think I just said, "Richie, I just threw up...right there...in the kitchen floor." He seemed mildly surprised, saying that he had thought those gagging noises were somehow related to my hiccups. So he actually had heard it this time, he just didn't interpret correctly.

It was over as quickly as it happened and I made toast. This time the pill stayed down.

Barnabas is back!!

I have no idea what happened: all I know is that one (and only one) giant toad hung around our house every day for a couple months and then suddenly we found a giant toad dead in the driveway. We were crushed, thinking we had killed Barnabas. We looked for him hopefully every day afterward but no toad could be found. I prayed God would either bring him back (I believe in miracles, even those that seem insignificant in the scheme of things) or replace him. But there was no sign of a large toad after we had found that one dead, whom I assumed was Barnabas. Things felt very empty.

Then tonight my husband, who had been working outside, popped his head in and said "Guess who's out here?" I hardly believed it, thinking it was the smaller toad that we had see occasionally and he wasn't remembering Barnabas's size correctly. But in faith I went outside to have a look, and there sat a giant toad in our drive. Immediately I went for the camera and took several pics. I have compared them to my original pics of Barnabas and it is definitely the same toad. (The pics I am speaking of are pics of the markings on his back, which I don't show here because his face is much cuter!)

In the middle of my photo shoot, I squatted down in front of Barnabas and had a little talk with him about staying out of the driveway. After I had talked a bit, he suddenly turned his head and looked at me, then took a hop toward me. I jumped back; I guess I'm not used to aggressive toads. Then a bug came along and he ate it.

Anyway, Barnabas is back and whether or not he was never dead or he has been resurrected is irrelevant to me. I prayed he'd come back and he has. I'm just so glad he is alive!

Goodbye Barnabas

I am so sad tonight. Probably very few people would understand, but my husband I have grown very attached to a large toad that has hung around our house for a few months now. He has probably lived here longer than that, but in the past few weeks he grew more and more familiar with us and could be found on the back porch every morning and night. (The first time I spotted him I thought he was stuck inside a sprinkler head valve hole and I forced him -gently - out. He then ended up "stuck" in a smaller place, and after I got him out of that place, I realized he had never been stuck to begin with and I had only succeeded in inconveniencing him when he was trying to find a cool place to rest for the day!)

Most recently, Richie and I got used to looking out for Barnabas (of course I named him) to keep the dogs from lunging at him when we took them out. The other night Salem scared him onto my screened in porch and I left the door open all night so he could find his way back out easily. I can't even remember Barnabas not being around; he has become part of the family, an outdoor pet. In fact, last week I had just introduced him to the CFZ blog.

All this time, I have been worried that Barnabas might end up getting hit by one of our vehicles since he does hang out around the driveway, and I have tried to keep an eye out for him when I get in the truck. Well, this evening on my way to the gym, as I was pulling out the driveway, I saw that is exactly what had happened: Barnabas lay dead in the driveway. Even though I'd worried about this very thing, I just really wasn't prepared to see it. I guess it sounds ridiculous that I've been upset all evening. I still can't believe Barnabas isn't sitting in his cute warty fatness out on the porch, his throat pumping, acting cool while we pass by with the lunging dogs. After all this time, he knew he was safe around here. And then we kill him with our stupid vehicles.

I never thought about the possibility of growing attached to a wild toad, but I did and now I feel a big emptiness. Three times I've gone outside to look for Barnabas on the porch tonight. I keep hoping that some other giant toad happened by, not Barnabas who owned the porch and felt safe here.

Goodbye, big, sweet, Barnabas. We miss you terribly.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

This is a far cry from the innocence of Bill Cosby's show, but it keeps us entertained at the high school level. These are just a couple stories from the past week:

First of all, one of my friends teaches a class with some pretty thuggish sophomores. At the beginning of this class, a student from her previous class burst in saying that she had left her purse in the room. The purse was soon located, but was missing its wallet. Knowing one of students in the present class had taken it, my friend told the class that someone had better cough up the money or they would sit there till the cows came home, ignoring even the lunch bell. Everyone put on the pressure until one boy finally produced the wallet -- along with its $200.00. Awhile after the incident, some of the other less-than-ethical students asked this boy why he had given up the wallet. Wide-eyed, he replied, "Because I didn't know what she meant by the cows coming home!" I don't know if he's afraid of cows or what, but it worked.

Second story: Today after lunch one student in my 3rd hour came barreling down the hall and plowed into another student standing in the doorway. Appalled, I said, "You need to say excuse me!" He turned immediately to the other student and said enthusiastically, "Good job!" Confused, I asked, "Why did you say 'good job'?" "Because he didn't cry this time!" he replied happily.

Post-it Note Pilferage

My high school students on the whole place value on things that matter little to me: tennis shoes, video games, skateboards, etc. But there is one thing that for the past three years we end up nearly fighting over: sticky notes.

I occasionally give an assignment in which the students work in groups to place answers on sticky notes and put them on the board. (If they are finding the three types of irony in a story, I will have the board divided by the three types of irony and they will post the sticky note in the appropriate column.) I always buy very colorful sticky notes to make the exercise appealing. The first year that I did the exercise, I noticed that I wasn't getting back as many unused sticky notes as I thought I should. It turned out that the students were stashing away the unused sticky notes and I had to demand their return.

Well, I didn't really do the sticky note thing much last year, and by this year I guess I had forgotten about the hoarding issue. Last week I did my first sticky note exercise of the year, then moved on to something else. Later in class, one boy went to sign out for the bathroom. As he raised his arm to write, some bright pink sticky notes hit the floor.

"Where did those come from?" I asked.

"I dropped them," he said. I am guessing they had been stuffed in his pants waist or something.

"I need them back," I said. "Those are mine." Realizing this might be a class wide problem, I said to the whole class, "I need the unused sticky notes back. They are mine -- I bought them with my money."

There was a pause…then one student shuffled to my desk and laid down a stack of sticky notes. Another student followed suit, then another. The procession grew as stacks of sticky notes were dropped into my desk, creating a colorful assembly. It was like the accusers of the adulteress who dropped the stones and walked away -- all were guilty.

Normally, I am infuriated by low ethics, or assumptions of entitlement. But these were kids and the items, in their minds, were just little slips of paper -- irresistible ones apparently. (And at least they were being honest now.) I looked up at my aid and we both started laughing. I think I am going to try to find a way to invest in some sticky notes in bulk for the kids at Christmas.

The Dance Nazi

I was not allowed to dance growing up. By the time my parents relaxed their belief in this doctrine, I had already grown into an adult who felt she had no ability to dance; so whenever the situation presented itself, I always shied away.

My first realization that I had at least a limited ability to dance came in my Jazzercise classes. Later, I took some line dancing classes and was told I was a natural. Eventually I took up Belly Dancing via an instructional video. The Belly Dancing prepared me for Zumba, a Latin dance workout at the gym where I met the challenges of more complicated foot and hip work. I do most of Zumba with confidence now, always as attentive to style and flair as I am technical precision. I was thrilled when a recent observer at Zumba told me I was the best she saw in the class. While Zumba may not be all that difficult, I’ve still come a long way and have figured my shy days are over.

However, my newfound confidence failed to prepare me for what I would face at a church benefit last night. Since my husband is out of town, I asked my cousin to go along, telling him there would be, among other things, wine tasting and line dancing. When the dance instructor brought us out to the floor, I expected line dancing instruction. Instead, she paired us off by gender and started teaching us basic ballroom dancing. When I realized I was going to learn this kind of dancing in front of a room full of people (most of them watching instead of dancing), I almost panicked. I always eventually get a new dance move down, but rarely while someone is watching. Oh well, at least I would be dancing with my cousin whom I don’t mind making a fool of myself in front of.

But that wasn’t the case either. My first partner was my priest. So putting the obvious irony aside with regards to my upbringing, the situation was made more complicated (in my mind) by the fact that he is already an expert ballroom dancer. I have never in my life danced with a partner. I went into a physical state resembling rigor mortis. Nobody but God knew the trepidation I felt, but I was flashing back to my fencing days when I would get hammered by the superior opponent with a roomful of other fencers watching.

But, as with fencing, I stuck it out and tried to learn. I made it through the Texas Two-step, but my nervousness prevented me from going beyond the most basic move. I realized how much more comfortable I am doing semi-striptease moves at Zumba. Go figure. Next came the East Coast Swing. I was dancing with my cousin by this time, and had relaxed somewhat, when suddenly some old lady I don’t even know came out of the dining area to speak into my ear. “Honey, don’t lift your feet so high. Just shift your weight from foot to foot and you won’t stand out so much.”

I mean, seriously, had somebody hired her? Was this blatant preying on my insecurity divine retribution for disregarding the doctrine of my youth? I thanked her and did exactly as she had said. I continued to dance, but every cell in my body was screaming at me to just sit down. After all, apparently I was “standing out.” I remembered the fencing strip, and I told myself I would get through this too and I would LIKE it.

However, at another point another woman whose face I can’t even place right now physically grabbed me out of the blue and got right in my face, saying: “If you would stop watching other people’s feet…” and proceeded to lecture me on my technique. By now I was aghast. Had I stepped into a parallel world where doctrine was to dance and dance correctly if you wished to enter the kingdom?

After the instruction was over, I went to hide against the wall and have a drink. When finished with my drink, I put the bottle in the trashcan. Right then, the first old lady, the one apparently hired by God to keep an eye on me, walked over to the trashcan, removed my bottle, looked directly at me as she lowered the bottle into a recycle box, and said, “The bottles go in here.”

Unfortunately, it doesn’t end there. A few minute later, the dance instructor and one of the men in the church were doing some fancy swing dancing, and everybody was watching. I was filming it on my phone, and just as it ended, this same old lady made her way over to me. “Honey, did you watch their feet while they were dancing?”

“No,” I said, my tone implying I had neither wished to watch their feet nor did I now wish to hear about their feet.

“Well,” she said, “They were not lifting them very high – they were just shifting their weight from side to side.”

“Yes,” I said, not bothering to hide my growing irritation, “I quit doing that when you told me to the first time.”

“Because when people do that,” she went on, “All it does is bounce their boobies.”

“Oh, is that what I was doing?” I asked wryly.

“No,” she said, then finished her commentary on the important of footwork and walked away.

“Thank you!” I called after her, assured by her obvious lack of perception that my sarcasm went undetected.

Matt was already doubled in laughter, his head having been turned away from her.

I won’t even go into the jokes we shared the rest of the evening, most of them about bouncing boobies, which Matt said should be the name of the dance studio she really ought to open one day, with all her knowledge.

I think the greatest feat I accomplished last night was just sticking with it and trying to have fun, despite the busy bodies that harassed me. I am certain they meant well, but I suspect that the first person to declare dancing a sin must have had an experience similar to mine.

Houston, we have a problem.

As always, I must pay homage to a terrible day – two actually – even though they were somebody else’s terrible days.

Yesterday began a two-day nightmare for my cousin Matthew. He tried to board a plane to Israel only to discover that his passport, which was due to expire in less than six months, was not acceptable. The group he was flying with left without him. But let me back up about 6 hours…

Yesterday morning, Matthew was in his apartment on his phone, probably talking to his girlfriend and anticipating his drive to the airport. Suddenly, his front door opened and in walked a stranger, key in hand. They both stared at each other in shock. Turns out the property management company for Matt’s apartment had advertised that his side of the duplex was for rent and given the key to a hopeful client. After awkward explanations were exchanged, Matt drove to the property management place and administered a well-deserved lecture.

It was several hours later that Matt would find himself returning home with his luggage, his friends en route to Tel-Aviv. I had just returned home from taking my dad to the airport for the very flight Matt had just missed when I got a call from my brother Bryan. Bryan, who had been Matt’s ride home from the airport, was driving a borrowed truck. He had been unaware that this truck’s gas meter was broken, until it ran out of gas miles from their destination. Bryan and Matt were now sitting on the side of the road in 106 degree weather. Fortunately, they were only 25 minutes from me.

I rescued them with a gas can, and returned home. Meanwhile, it was determined that Matt would apply for an emergency passport in Houston today and hopefully catch a flight this evening. Getting very used to feeling useful, I offered to drive him. (He had done the same for us on our recent trip to the UK.)

We left my house at 4:30 this morning and arrived at the passport office sometime after 9:00. When it was Matt’s turn at the passport office window, he could barely get his request in before the lady proceeded to lecture him in the rudest manner I have ever witnessed from somebody in a professional setting. She literally rolled her eyes in disgust every time he tried to explain himself. “How long have you known about this trip, sir?...Six months! You had six months…!” And on she went until Matthew was stunned silent and I was ready to go through the window and throttle her, security guards be damned. Matthew is easily the most prepared person – next to my husband – that I know. Had he known that a passport due to expire in four months is considered already expired, had he not used the logic that comes so easily to him which told him that the expiration date is exactly that – an expiration date, he would have had his passport renewed. This lady knew nothing, yet she talked down to him in the most demeaning way. (Think Madea from “Madea’s Family Reunion” without the humor.) The only thing stopping me from telling her off was the fact that Matt was at her mercy.

When she walked away for a moment, I said to Matthew, who had turned very red, “Pray. Just pray. She is out of line.” Then I proceeded to do the same, but when I did, my anger increased until I had to stop and apologize to God for the turn my prayers had started to take.

The lady returned to inform Matt that had he been issued new tickets from Delta, she could have given him a passport today. But he hadn’t. Matt staggered. Delta had told him the very opposite – that he could not get new tickets until he got a new passport. In the end, she told him the soonest he could have his passport was tomorrow at 2:30. This Israel trip is to be 10 days only. Matt had now lost two of them. We were also going to have to find lodging.

We returned to the car where Matt made several calls, meeting with frustration at every turn: Delta said they needed to hear from Matt’s travel agency, but when he called the travel agency he only got the voicemail. He finally managed to reach his travel agent (who is currently in Jerusalem with the group) only to end up having to yell over the singing of a choir halfway through the conversation. It was so loud I could hear it. By now, he was literally shaking. Meanwhile, I sat next to him brainstorming ways to coerce Delta, who had failed to issue him tickets, into paying for our lodging, and to get the lady at the passport office fired. We both sat consumed with our plans until he finally reached Delta.

By the end of Matt’s incredibly long phone ordeal, he had learned that all Wednesday flights were booked and he would have to take a Thursday flight. Now he was missing three days of the trip, but he seemed calmer, because, frankly, I think he had run out of energy to care. I temporarily abandoned my plans for revenge and we went to find a place to eat.

We agreed it was essential that beer be part of our meal, so I searched for breweries in my GPS system. That started the next nightmare, as my GPS system led us in a maze only to end up at a closed brewery. I entered another brewery, and this time we were led through even more of a maze across the city. (We had driven in a similar fashion to find a Starbucks earlier in the morning, and never had found it.)

I finally said: “Watch us end up back at the passport office with the brewery right behind us.”

Matt replied: “That lady from the office will be standing there tapping her foot, saying ‘Not today. Just keep on drivin’.”

We both collapsed into laughter, and I felt my anger fading. By making this lady a caricature, Matt had extinguished my anger in a way prayer couldn’t. God can use anything, including humor, to set our hearts right again. We finally found an open brewery, but it took about as long to find a place to park.

We enjoyed a delicious meal and an I.P.A. beer. Matt talked to his girlfriend for a bit while I read my book, and we left feeling refreshed. We could now head home, as Matt had decided it would be more expensive to find lodging. The plan was (and still is): he will return tomorrow for his passport, and Thursday I will drive him to Austin for his flight.

Now we were in the parking garage, but could not find our car. We ended up looking on every floor (of which there were only four, fortunately) and found it at last. Surely, this was the last hurdle.

Of course it wasn’t. At some point, we realized we were almost out of gas; in fact, the needle had passed the last notch and was almost on the ‘E’ itself. I search for gas stations in my GPS and it showed that one was very close, just a straight shot down the road. However, when we turned the car to exit the parking lot we had pulled into temporarily, the GPS got confused and told us to take a turn. I should have said something – I noticed that the map still showed just a straight shot – but after a U-turn and a long drive to the next exit, we ended up literally feet from where we had been. It was like the fates were nothing but cruel. But at least we had made it. And I had to use the bathroom after the beer and then the Starbucks we had finally found.

I walked into the bathroom and thought there must be some mistake – we had taken a wrong turn and ended up on the backside of hell. I have never seen such a horrific looking bathroom in my life. Even had it been clean it was an eyesore, with rust and mold and cracks and holes, the walls and floor protruding in places as if possessed. Somebody had attempted to flush the toilet at some point and not succeeded…and that’s all I will say about that. I made a concerted effort not to touch, look at or even think about anything in that bathroom, lest I become contaminated.

Once I made my escape, I hurried to the car and dug for my Purell. After slathering on, I rubbed some on the door handle and even on the things I had pulled from my purse to find the Purell. Just as I replaced it, Matthew got in the car. “That was the worst bathroom I’ve ever seen –“ I began.

“So was mine – I need the Purell!” He threw his hand out, looking straight ahead as if recovering from fresh trauma.

We briefly rued the bathroom’s condition, but there was little more to say, and we lapsed into wordless horror until we recovered.

Eventually, we were chatting and laughing again, but then Matt got on the phone with his girlfriend, allowing my mind to drift, and I ended up missing an exit. I got off the next exit and came to a fork in the road, during which time Matt, still on the phone, said, “Circle! Circle!”

“Circle” meant nothing to me, as I wasn’t sure which road made a circle. “Left” or “right” would have sufficed. I went left, and that’s when Matt got off the phone and made me get out of the driver’s seat.

But we made it, safely, and in the end that’s what counts. Matt goes back to Houston tomorrow, and flies out Thursday, so keep him in your prayers.

Loch Ness Tour

So after years of imagining what it would be like to touch the murky waters of the great, long-necked Nessie, I finally made it to Loch Ness. This came close to the end of my UK tour in which I had already enjoyed the things I was most excited about and considered the rest of the trip more an indulgence of my husband Richie’s search for his Scottish roots. However, as we made our way across the dock into the boat, I reminded myself this had been a life-long dream. Perhaps I would have been more excited had I expected to see something, be it a mystical monster or an overgrown eel. But not only had I resigned myself to seeing nothing because sightings are so rare, I was now questioning whether or not there really is something to see.

Be that as it may, I stood on the deck and concentrated on the waters – not muddy and brown, like I had imagined after hearing of their murkiness for years, but a dark, lovely teal – soaking in every sight, smell, and sound to imprint them on my mind. As the boat began moving across the water, I suddenly thought how much like Galilee the lake looked, with similar surrounding hills. This realization further dampened my attempt at a mystical state of mind. It made Loch Ness just another lake, even less so when I considered that the presence of Christ on Galilee was a historical certainty – and Nessie just a possibility.

The boat took us only a very short distance before we started hearing something about castle ruins that we would be visiting. Oh - I looked to the right - there was a castle here? Of course. Surely I’d seen the pictures before. They had to present some other attraction, some…actual reason for being here. They made a big deal out of this castle called Urquhart, something about Jacobites and Robert the Bruce we had been hearing about all through Scotland. I began to feel extremely ignorant. Was I about to visit a historically significant sight of which I knew nothing? Had I really come all this way only to look for Nessie? Worse yet, did the tour guides know that many of us had come for just that? How they probably had a laugh every day, after presenting “mysterious” sonar readings on pictures they had taken with their cell phones – just as our guide had. I was glad I hadn’t been impressed. Again, the feeling that the Loch Ness phenomenon is based more on hype than anything substantial began nagging at me.

It suddenly seemed very important that I become acquainted with the Jacobites and Robert the Bruce (even though I’d looked him up twice this week and still wasn’t entirely sure). I couldn’t have come all this way for nothing.

But until we docked, I studied the waters closely, determined not to miss anything if, after thirty-five years of a few mostly explainable events, I was suddenly rewarded with something extraordinary. The waters were constantly waving, creating small, foamy white caps on the surface. Once in awhile a long, uniform wave would create a dark line, but nothing I could possibly have mistaken for a creature. No head, no neck, no silhouette, nothing. Urquhart Castle, which now seemed a large, gloomy symbol of my present academic deficiency, was drawing ominously near. Through the loud speaker, a voice had been presenting all kinds of information on the castle’s history, but I couldn’t hear well over the engine and the wind, and I don’t listen very well when there is no speaker in sight (OK - except to George Noory).

At last we docked and made our way up the many steps to the castle, parting with my mom who opted out of the castle tour to have coffee at the visitor’s center. The first part of the castle I chose to enter contained a prison. I ascended the stairs to a niche and peered through the bars of a cell where I was startled by a dummy prisoner. This reminded me of a Ghost Hunters episode in which Grant was stunned by the appearance of a ghostly face when he peered into a similar area. I reflected fondly on this very exciting episode a moment then retreated to the visitor’s center. I had finally resigned myself to the fact that the next half hour would not be adequate time for an education that would foster appreciation of this castle. I bought some souvenirs for friends before rejoining our tour group.

We were bused to Loch Ness museum, where we were herded from room to room to watch a video on the history of Nessie. The video began with the story of St. Columbia who ordered the beast to stop killing people and the beast complied. None of the proceeding stories offered the same delicious mixture of religious and crypto content to hold as much of my interest Moreover, too many pictures or sightings had proved to be hoaxes, seagulls, logs, deer, seals, or ducks. I found the theory of the sturgeon interesting, but very little was said on that.

In one room, we could not tell from which wall the video would be shown. When a picture finally appeared on one end of the room, we hustled to the other end. Then suddenly the video began behind us, and we hurried to the opposite end again. I think we all felt a little like herded cattle, and were exhausted.

I enjoyed the last couple video presentations because we were able to sit down, and my back hurt. When the final video was finished, we waited in momentary, awkward silence and then exited. By now we had only five minutes to inspect the gift shop before we needed to be on the bus. (“4:25!” our guide emphasized repeatedly.) But I couldn’t find the checkout counter. It seemed there were many pseudo-checkout counters – elevated floors with a counter that, once approached, would have no clerk and no register. After wandering stupidly around for several minutes, I finally asked somebody and was directed to a rather hidden stairway leading to a floor I would have never noticed. I felt like I had advanced to the new level of a video game.

Almost to the counter, I suddenly realized I had been shopping for everybody but me, and I still had no souvenir for myself. Spotting some pewter key chains, I snatched one that bore Nessie on one side and Urquhart castle on the other – a fitting memento for my experience. I was a little resentful that I didn’t have more time to carefully consider my purchase, but it was almost “4:25!”.

Our guide was late. We stood confused, in the heat on the parking lot for several minutes until the bus finally pulled up, full of new tourists. Our guide hadn’t told us he would be picking up a new group, and this revelation made curious his permission for us to leave on the bus any items which we hadn’t wished to carry. Slightly stressed, I made my way to my old seat to find two new occupants in it. Fortunately, the small shopping bag I had stuffed into the pocket of the preceding seat was still there.

“This is mine,” I said, as I snatched the bag up. My words were meant to be merely an explanation, but the occupant’s wide, apologetic eyes told me I had likely sounded three years old. I made my way with Richie and Mom to the very back of the bus, during which time a lady from the new group snapped at Richie to hurry up because she was hot. I was sorry I hadn’t heard the exchange, because I would have gladly helped her into the lake to cool off.

Once crammed in the back seats, peering at the heads of the new group I now resented, we were on our way. The guide, who had specifically been using mine, Richie’s, and my mom Barbara’s name since the beginning of the tour, was talking again. Of course, I wasn’t listening too closely, but suddenly I heard him say: “On the way to Urquhart Castle, Barbara from Indiana asked me, ‘Will there be anybody playing bagpipes at the castle?’ I told her no, because…”

I didn’t hear the rest of what he said because I was now staring agape at my mom. Had she truly asked such an asinine question?

She was just finishing applying her lipstick, and hastily whispered, “I didn’t ask that.”

“Did you ask him anything at all?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

We both sat back a moment to consider the guide’s ridiculous fabrication, and suddenly we were laughing. It was exactly the kind of laughter that would possess me as a child in church, complete with silent convulsing, tears and the hopeless inability to stop. Richie was annoyed, as he couldn’t concentrate on what the guide was saying with us falling apart right next to him. The idea of my mom – or anyone – asking such an air-headed question was too much. We attempted to stop laughing several times, but would lose it again, and continued this way until it was time to exit the bus. We never knew why the guide had chosen to make my mom look like an idiot, but it was the best entertainment of the day. If it wasn’t enough that we had harbored secret hopes of seeing Nessie, now we had a false reputation as stupid Americans who expected to hear live bagpipes being played at castle ruins.

Only my husband Richie, who is a far better listener than I, learned some things of educational value on our Loch Ness tour. He toured the entire castle and took pictures, reading all the plaques, and he listened intently to the guide – at least up until my mom and I disrupted things. In my defense, I have come away with a 700+ page biography on Mary, Queen of Scots. It might not help me with the Jacobites at Urquhart Castle, but at least I’ll be better able to appreciate Edinburgh Castle more the next time around. And the only way I would visit Loch Ness for the lake again is if I could descend it in a submarine and explore the life that does inhabit it. For now, I’ll just settle for the web cam view.

Saw a Scottish Rat Yesterday

While walking up to Edinburgh Castle yesterday, I saw a little rat eating by the side of the road. I was delighted. I haven't seen a rat, specifically a wild one, forever. I watched it hold its food between its hands and munch with the concentration only a rat can. It seemed oblivious to us. I took the opportuniy to study its features to make sure it WAS a rat and I'm satisfied it was. (Rats and mice don't look alike to me anyway, but I was puzzled at its small size. It was the size of a domesticated teenage rat. Then again, my little boys were always chunkers even for adult rats.) I was just examining its long back feet when it must have finished its meal and suddenly shot away. I only caught glimpses of it afterward as it darted speedily through the tall weeds up the hill with another rat trailing it. It made my day.

Lucky last day of work

Today was the last workday of the school year. After work, Jamie, Karina and I headed to Applebees for a celebratory drink and I was telling them a couple cool things that had happened today in which two grading dilemmas worked themselves out in amazing ways. Jamie was remarking on how my life just seemed to work out in such ways, and I should really play the lottery. This suggestion was reinforced when the total for my bill came to 7.77. The girls insisted I go buy a lottery ticket immediately.

I never play the lottery and I had no idea how to go about it and asked Jamie to go with me. We burst into the store, giddy as two girls who are officially out of school (even though we are teachers) and who have high expectations of winning the lottery. I remarked that I had just missed a call from my dad, to which Jamie replied, "Don't tell him you are gambling." Little did she know how accurate she was -- my father is staunchly opposed to playing the lottery, or even playing games at the fair because he considers it gambling. (I just consider it a donation to the tax base.) "Oh, yeah," I agreed with Jamie, hitting the button to play dad's voicemail. Because my phone, for some ungodly reason, defaults voicemails to speaker phone, dad's voice suddenly blared out into the store, "Hey, sweetheart!" I hastily clicked off the speaker, and looked just in time to see a man chuckling with laughter. He had apparently been listening to us from the moment we walked in.

Anyway, Jamie helped me pick the ticket and told me I had to pick the numbers to keep the good "mojo." We have all three planned for years now that when one of us wins, we will retire the other two. Karina wants to open a bakery, Jamie wants to open a bar, and I want to be a writer, but I wouldn't mind owning a bookstore. One of our other colleagues recently speculated on how much money we could make by running a brothel which a good many students we know would willingly staff. With our four businesses combined, we could call it "Bakery, Books, Boobs and Beer." But one-stop shops tend to lack a specific ambience. And I would rather stay at home and write anyway.

So I told Jamie what a bad influence she was on me, bought my ticket, and returned to my truck to find the front driver window was down and won't come back up. I thought about this all the way home as the wind whipped my hair and roared annoyingly in my ears. Today was supposed to be about GOOD mojo. So why did my window break right when I bought a ticket? I brushed aside my misgivings and played the song Perfect Day by Hoku.

I probably won't win the lottery tomorrow, but today it was fun pretending I will. Either way, I have to get my window fixed. But if you think about it, it broke on my last day of work, so I have plenty of time to get it fixed. That's pretty lucky.

The Power of Literature

As a youth, I not only read the literature I was assigned in my English classes, I was often deeply moved by it. I remember being riveted to Where the Red Fern Grows in 6th grade, moved to write poetry about Pip and Estella during Great Expectations in 9th grade, and secretly crying over Hester Prynne and Rev. Dimmesdale at the end of The Scarlet Letter in 11th grade. (OK, I was kind of a nerd, but only in my English classes; I was quite the slacker in most other classes -- until college.)

But of all our assigned readings, it was the novel Of Mice and Men that impacted me into my adulthood. Being an animal lover, I was terribly upset when Candy's dog was shot. And when Candy later said to George that he should have shot his dog himself, I remember trying to understand why he said that. I am not sure why the meaning evaded me; After all, I was, in my humble opinion, reasonably intelligent, but I knew I wasn't fully getting it somehow. Perhaps it was because it had never occurred to my young mind that sometimes one had to perform unpleasant tasks out of kindness. After all, I lived a lifestyle in which other people performed unpleasant tasks: if an animal needed put down, you took it to the vet. And I had never had to make a hard decision along those lines.

Instead of asking my teacher or anyone else for an explanation, I contemplated Candy's statement for a long time. I honestly can't remember if I reached a better understanding once we reached the end of the book and the situation was parallelled when George shot Lennie (I hope I did), but as I grew older, I remember the meaning of the phrase becoming clearer and clearer to me. Of course I understood that it was better to die by the hand of a kind friend than an uncaring stranger, but besides that, I decided that as a pet owner (which is as close as I'll ever come to being a parent), I had a responsibility to be with my pet until the very end. Candy's words imprinted their truth on my heart and mind long before I would experience that truth myself.

But I finally did have to experience it when my first rat Horace came down with cancer. Horace was not only my first rat, but the first pet I would feel extremely close to, as anyone familiar with pet rats can understand. He sought my company so eagerly every day (despite having three cagemates) that whenever I happened to move within a couple feet of my bed -- on which I had a playground set up daily for roaming time -- Horace would leap through the air onto my back and scramble on up to my shoulder, where he would have peferred to ride all day if he could. I would answer the door to delivery men etc. with Horace perched happily atop my shoulder. We were as attached as any pet and owner could be. The day I realized I had done all I could do and was going to have to put him down, my convictions, thanks to Steinbeck, had long been set that I would see it through to the end.

I had been warned by my vet tech. that the vet usually didn't allow the owner present when putting down a rodent. They would sedate the animal first (through a mask), then plunge a needle into its heart to stop it. Sometimes blood would shoot high into the air and this would traumatize the owner. I walked into the vet prepared to put up a fight. I didn't care of I got splattered with blood -- Horace would have me by his side to the last. The vet, however, after a year of watching me withstand other graphic procedures (draining abcesses, cleaning them myself, giving shots, etc.) knew I was not fainthearted. So I was allowed into the back room, and I fixed my eyes on my darling little Horace. I watched everything, I watched the needle go in and I watched the last little beat of his heart. I could not allow myself to do any less for him, short of doing the procedure myself.

I was heartbroken. I am not a morbid person. In fact, I have such an aversion to emotional pain that I no longer have rats. Five years of loving and losing these most amazing creatures took its toll one my animal-loving heart. But I was able to withstand the death of my Horace because of the conviction that one line of literature had placed in my impressionable mind so many years ago.

First Ghost Hunt

Richie and I got a group together last night to investigate a famously haunted bridge about 30 miles away. It's called the Maxdale Bridge -- on a small road now closed to traffic -- and just beyond it is an allegedly haunted cemetery.

We took five friends -- Christopher and Carrie, Chris and Jessica, and my cousin Matthew. We also took a thermos of coffee, a video camera, and a voice recorder to pick up any EVPs (Electronic Voice Phenomenon -- basically ghost voices below audible hearing). Chris, who is a fire-fighter tried to borrow a thermal imaging camera from the fire dept. but they just laughed at him.

We arrived just as the sun was setting, and apparently angered the resident of the only house in the area, because he started shooting off his shotgun randomly. We have heard that the people in the area are tired of ghost seekers coming to the bridge, particularly those juvenile delinquents who like to deface the headstones of those residents' ancestors. Of course, we would never do such a thing. We wouldn't even enter the cemetery because it is posted that nobody is allowed after sunset and will be fined 500 dollars. We discussed sending one person in at a time so that if anyone got caught we could split the fine among us, but we never followed through.

The shot-gun guy finally gave up and went inside. We wondered if he welcomed everyone like that. Two other cars were there when we arrived, and two more would come and go. Apparently, we had chosen a popular night to investigate, as it was a full moon.

Just as the sun set, and right before we were going to actually start our walk across the bridge with our voice recorder and cameras, a cop showed up and told us to leave. Fortunately, the father of Chris and Carrie (brother and sister) is a cop too, and Chris casually mentioned his dad's name to this cop. After that, the cop gave us permission to at least walk across the bridge, then he left as we began doing so -- which we took as permission to stay.

We made several walks across the bridge as we held out the voice recorder. Carrie, easily the life of any party, was brimming with excitement. If we were not going to see anything, she still just wanted to let out a blood curdling scream once, she said, because it would just be funny. I hoped she would not.

On one of these fairly uneventful walks across the bridge, I did feel something hit my leg that was too heavy to be a bug, but so tiny it could have been the tip of a pencil. I never did know what the source was, so it remains unexplained. Christopher tripped over a non-existent something or other that he felt right at his ankle. There was nothing there that it could have been. So that remains unexplained as well. At one point, I saw Carrie stop to peer at something on the bridge, and I walked up to see what she was looking at. Just as I started to bend down and look with her, she stood up and saw me right in front of her. When she had bent over, I had been a ways off, and as she hadn't heard me approach, she shrieked and went into an amusing dance of jitters. Other than that, no excitement.

However, on one of our last walks - this one with just Carrie, her brother Chris, his wife Jessica, and myself - Chris and Carrie suddenly stopped and pointed out some white thing in the distance. They were seeing something far out in the river bank right where the river bend began. According to them, this thing was "pacing" back and forth next to a large pale rock. I could see the large pale rock, but not the white thing moving near it. We stood there for a long time, and both of them would say, almost in unison, "There it is again!" They would ask if Jessica and I saw it. They would identify its exact position: "It's moving toward the rock! Ok, now it's moving away! Do you see it?" Alas, we didn't see it. I tried so hard to see it that my eyes would blur over until I couldn't see anything. Chris and Carrie would re-position us somewhere alongside the bridge and then point to try to get us to see it. I couldn't. I was so disappointed. I took comfort only in the fact that Jessica couldn't see it either. This thing moved so obviously, then would disappear, and their descriptions of it only frustrated us more.

Then Carrie took the opportunity to let out the meaningless, bloodcurdling scream that she had been suppressing all evening, and I immediately took off running across the bridge. I realized almost instantly her scream had been a joke, but loud noises always make me run. I ran until my fear subsided, then I turned back around. Carrie was almost rolling with laughter. Jessica and I were not amused.

Finally, we called the rest of the party over, and they all saw the white thing as well. They didn't see it with the frequency Chris and Carrie did, but they saw it a couple times. And then, to my dismay, Jessica saw it too, at least once. "I still don't see it, and I have nobody left who hasn't seen it." I said sadly. Nobody saw the thing as clearly as Chris and Carrie, but everyone (but me) saw something at some point, and they always agreed on where it was at the moment and in which direction it was moving. At one point, Richie took out a powerful flashlight that reached just far enough to slightly illuminate the playground of the white thing, and then Carrie said, "There it is! Where the light is!" And I STILL couldn't see it. They finally gave up and we moved on. My only comfort is that I am not susceptible to hallucinations based on suggestion.

Before we left, we decided to shine our headlights on the bridge for 10 seconds, then turn them out. The legend goes that if you do this, you will see the apparition of a man that hung himself. I personally didn't want to see such a sorrowful apparition. I would rather see a happy cowboy riding leisurely on a horse across the bridge, or fishing down by the river. But anyway, we tried the headlight trick several times, to no avail. As the group stood watching the tree and commenting on how they saw nothing, I sarcastically said, "Well, I see it!" This drew much laughter, which was the most I could hope for, on this very uneventful investigation.

After that, we drove to the cemetery where we stood respectfully by the fence and saw nothing there also. On my way up the incline to the cemetery fence, I almost fell in a ditch. Chris did fall in. We made sure to laugh hard about everything, by that point; otherwise, it would have been a complete nonevent. A few minutes later, we saw the approach of two cars, which sent some of us into a panic, even though we weren't technically doing anything wrong. Chris took off running to hide somewhere, and I hurried after him, planning to hide as well. But there was nowhere to hide, and we ended up running in aimless zigzags until we finally just stopped.

The only other amusing thing was that we came up with a name for our paranormal investigation group. Modeled after "The Atlantic Paranormal Society, better known as TAPS, Richie said we were the Texas Paranormal Society, which we realized is TPS. To pronounce that properly, you cannot use your vocal chords, and it sounds ridiculous. So we enjoyed using it as often as we could throughout the evening. While this was amusing enough to us, it is made less amusing by the fact that there really is a TPS, as well as a CTPS (Central Texas Paranormal Society) and a few others, which isn't surprising, but... well, it was fun last night.

After our investigation, we decided to go to the soccer field in Harker Heights, allegedly haunted by a Camanche Indian. But we didn't know where the field was, so we went home.

We still have some video to watch and a couple hours of voice recorder to listen to. Carrie said there will probably be an EVP saying, "Naomi can't see meeee." But that won't matter because I probably won't be able to hear it.

Broken Toe and Other Mishaps

On Wednesday, 30 minutes into the morning, I ran my pinky toe into the bedside table. I hit the floor, simultaneously grabbing my toe with first “God” coming out of my mouth, which compelled me to suppress the second word which almost came of my mouth. I could have said one or the other, but could not, even under such duress, allow them to be said together. So I sat there a few seconds, emitting a long drawn out “f” sound until I was able to stand and hobble to the bathroom. My husband asked what had happened and I accusingly told him that in an effort to walk around him, I had run into the table -- my subtle hint that he had had no right to be standing where he had been standing at that moment. Ridiculous as it was, I left it at that and proceeded to bandage my toe. Not only was it likely broken, it was bleeding too.

For the past two days, against all attempts to walk normally, I have limped dramatically about the school hallways, drawing amusement from students, sympathy from co-workers, and that awkward silence from strangers who don’t know if I am injured or permanently disabled. It’s all very annoying.

It’s always possible that God allowed me to injure the toe to avoid kicking one of my students, as this week one particular student has become more of a pain than broken toe itself. I have long - and patiently - tolerated this student, renowned for disruption. Yesterday he sunk to a new level of disrespect, then had the audacity to threaten to bring a complaint against me. I found myself in a new kind of rage against a system that would even entertain complaints from a student whose single goal is to make life hell for teachers. I railed in my mind against advocacy for kids today, against indulgent parents, against an administration who gives more ear to students than teachers . He added that he would like to be transferred from my class and I laughed and told him to be my guest, sending him on his way.

I took my wounded self and wounded toe home, where I nursed my spirits with a Corona and Pet Society, a game I play on Facebook. Within minutes, I was appalled to find that Pet Society has changed the rules and one can no longer earn coins by brushing or petting his pet. It was already hard enough to earn coins, everything in the little shops is so expensive, and now they had taken away this. I knew their ultimate intent was to force players to break down and purchase coins with real money – a temptation I try to resist. Angry all over again, I sent an email of complaint to “Support,” then one to my mom – who also loves Pet Society – expressing my plan to boycott the game if they didn’t reinstate the feature. Then I shut my laptop and announced to Richie that I wanted to go visit the creek bank and watch the vultures come home. We have many vultures in our area and every evening before sunset, they congregate in groups before heading home to what I have assumed, based on information from one person, was the creek bank. (I had read that vultures carve nests out of hillsides so it made sense to me that they would nest in the hills above the bank.)

There is a nice drive down the hill leading to the bank, so Richie and I drove the truck. I freaked a little at the angle at which the truck tilted on the way down, and hollared that we were going to flip over. I think this annoyed my husband, but he assured me we would not flip, and indeed we remained upright. I then led the expedition, down the steep embankment with my broken toe in my terribly inadequate open-toed croc shoes, which I had to continually empty of sand. We saw not a vulture one. In fact, we saw nothing at all. It was a wilderness entirely devoid of wildlife, with the exception of some minnows. But I took comfort in the sights and smell of the dirt, rocks, water, algae, and hanging, twisted trees – all reminiscent of my childhood home in the woods of West Virginia.

The sun was setting and we headed back up to the truck. In an attempt to avoid the steep angle which had so frightened me, Richie tried to keep to the more level ground. This caused the truck to burrow on one side in the soft, dry dirt, so that now it was at a more alarming angle than ever. Each time Richie hit the accelerator, the truck would slide sideways toward the steep wooded embankment that dropped off into the creek. The low side was my side, and in my mind, we were half upside down already.

Panicked, I opened my door to jump out, an action which drew sharp criticism from Richie – as well as a terrible sense of déjà-vu from my 1st marriage when my ex drove our truck into a ditch on my side and yelled at me when I bailed out the window. I’m not sure where the notion comes from, but apparently I live in a constant state of persuasion that the car I am riding in is about to flip. I shut my door, but continued panicking and opened and shut it two more times before Richie finally realized there was no stopping me. He told me go out his side to keep the weight off my side, so I scrambled over his lap and ended up whacking him hard in the head with my hand. This drew from him an expression I seldom hear, much like the one I staved off when I broke my toe. I froze long enough to apologize with great self-disparagement, then scrambled on out of the truck.

Once outside the truck, I now had a new perspective: my husband was in a truck tilted dangerously on the side of a hill, and it continued its sideways descent each time he stepped on the gas. I could not tolerate this either. I banged on the window and he rolled it down as if he did not know what I was going to say. “You’re going to flip!” I yelled. He got out and appraised the situation, then tried to talk me into placing my weight on the back end of the truck as he tried to drive it out. I obliged, making mental plans to leap if the truck should start flipping. But it was clear within a few more attempts that the truck was irretrievably stuck.

We had to walk all the way back home, most of which is a steep uphill climb. I limped along, wondering how so many of my ideas end up in disaster, and how many more misguided suggestions I could make before my husband stopped listening to me. My dad had learned after only once, when my insistence that we view the Marfa lights from a sealed-off construction site resulted in him falling into a giant hole.

Richie and I decided to call on our friend Ralph, who agreed to help us dislodge the truck. We hadn’t seen Ralph in awhile, so we packed up some beer and headed over for his traditional Friday night get-together. I hobbled to Ralph for one of his bear hugs, and he promptly stepped on my broken toe.

So that’s how my week ended. I have two days to recover, and I will try to keep myself out of trouble and make only the meekest suggestions, if any.

San Antonio Trip

Comparing my recent camping trip to this weekend's get-away, I am definitely more of a historic-hotel / dinner-at-a-nice-cafe kind of girl. I had a blast every minute of our San Antonio trip. Richie and I were actually there on assignment for the Center for Fortean Zoology (of which I am a rep.) to interview the store manager of Jackalope Joes. But we made sure to book our favorite hotel, the Menger, and take full advantage of the Riverwalk.

Everything I put in my mouth was delectable: quesadillas, a chedder-cheese jalapeno burger with the tastiest bun imaginable, and some Italian dish I could have enjoyed more of if my brother-in-law's Russian girlfriend, who was buying that meal, hadn't force-fed us all with salad and appetizers beforehand. I tried to get out of dessert, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. I obligingly took one bite, then Richie, who knows I am trying to watch my weight, offered to have the next bite if Irena would leave me alone. Odd sounding sacrifice, I know, but it truly was such. Between the food, the cocktails, and all other edibles I don't allow myself on a daily basis, I know I have come home at least a couple pounds heavier. I will not weigh myself until I have eaten carefully and worked out for a couple days.

One unexpected let-down this trip was our room at the Menger. The Menger is a lovely, historic and allegedly haunted hotel. We always stay there for, if nothing else, the possibility of some paranormal activity. At the very least, we enjoy the quaint old rooms, the opulent lobby, and the bar with its darkly polished wood and design modeled after the British House of Commons. This was the first time we have ever had a complaint. As soon as we entered our room, I was startled to find there was barely enough space for the king sized bed. Richie said he felt like he was in a cabin on a ship. You could hardly walk between the bed and the TV, and the one chair in the corner had no table. There was no coffee pot (not sure there ever is, but I'll always grumble about that), the bathroom "counter space" was a tiny glass shelf which would hold little more than a tube of toothpaste, and the hot water would scald you in an instant if you weren't careful to have the cold turned almost all the way on. The headboard, which was not connected to the bed, smacked the wall hard if you dared touch it. The only good to come of the room was the repeated tapping noise Richie heard at the chair in the middle of the night, which could indicate the presence of a ghost. I, of course, slept through it, but hearing about it kept my anticipation afloat.

At Irena's request, we took the riverboat ride on Saturday, a tour that takes you around the Riverwalk and explains various historical sites. The guide crammed us all in the boat like sardines until we were squished intimately next to and rubbing knees with perfect strangers. As it turned out, every site the guide pointed out, Richie irritably noted later, was located directly behind us, and we were not -- nor do we we ever wish to be -- among those who have the ability to rotate their heads 180 degrees. It grew tiresome and I quit listening after awhile and just enjoyed the loveliness of the trees, the bridges, and the cafes. I had the sudden thought that the Riverwalk was so perfect it was like a holodeck creation, and then I realized that perhaps Star Trek has warped my perspective of reality.

During one of our mall visits, we tried out some massage chairs -- the kind that roll up and down your back and feel good until they grind into a bone...? Well, we were among many customers trying them and reporting the results. Richie announced twice that his chair massaged the butt, and I finally asked him to quit saying that out loud. But then another customer cheerily replied that her chair had done the same, and I figured maybe I was the only person unwilling to discuss butt massages with strangers. Or perhaps this customer had been conditioned to sudden intimacy by taking the Riverboat tour.

After we agreed with some other customers on the occasional pain these chairs can inflict, one man came along to try one. Within seconds of turning it on, he looked up at his wife and said, "Is is supposed to hurt?" This sent me into laughter. At one point, a lady who had previously tried the chair asked her husband, "Has it grabbed your leg yet?" Richie chimed in sarcastically, "Has it pulled your hair yet?" By now, I was laughing uncontrollably and Richie continued with the satire: "This one just slapped me!" he announced, "A hand just came out and slapped me across the face." I could barely walk as we exited the store, I was laughing so hard at the idea of people spending 2,000 dollars on an abusive chair.

The fun continued into the night as Richie and I went to the bar for our traditional gin and tonic and met and talked forever with a delightful young couple. We talked about everything from God to drinks to rats and could not have enjoyed better company.

Last night we were awakened repeatedly by what sounded like a happy bunch of people in completely thoughtless laughter and shouting just down the hall. Their riotous time continued until we called the front desk. Security must have come because they were quiet soon after. Richie speculated humorously that they could have been ghosts, but your typical haunting does not usually involve a group of ghosts having a loud party.

Overall, it was a wonderful trip. Much better than camping.

My Birthday Camping Trip

Now that I am back home, I can reflect back on the drama of the past two days with some perspective. Three hours ago, all I could do was stare vacantly into space on the drive home, every now and then flipping down the mirror to gaze in morbid fascination at the red, puffy face staring back at me. But let me start at the beginning…

It was my idea to go camping for my birthday. I wanted to do something different and “get away,” even if only to Belton Lake. The company comprised me, Richie, the dogs, my cousin Matthew, and my brother Bryan who would join us later. Richie went to the store and stocked us with everything from the typical hot dogs and beer to not-so-typical milk, cereal, eggs, and even snack foods from cheetohs to a cheese ball and crackers. We had four huge containers of food and drinks. We even took our lap top, as the campsite had electricity and I envisioned nights of sitting round the campfire watching some good sci-fi under the stars.

And that’s exactly how the first night went: Richie, Matthew and I sat round the campfire with our drinks and watched a Roswell episode. I had a Corona, the guys had Scotch and cigars, and even the dogs got an extra “Beggin Strip.” My allergies were starting to kick up a little (cedar is in bloom) but I had brought Zyrtec and even Afrin, if I got desperate.

Soon after Matthew retired to the tent, the park ranger drove up and ordered us to put out our fire. Apparently, there is a burn ban in effect and the only fire allowed must be off the ground. We had somehow missed the “signs everywhere,” but we apologized and complied, and soon went to bed ourselves.

As soon as we entered the tent, Salem scrambled under the covers with Matthew, the person whom she loves, and I had to dig her out twice before she finally gave up and resigned to sleeping with us. (Matthew isn’t used to sleeping with a small dog and I was afraid he might roll over on her.) I lay there sneezing and blowing my nose for a good spell before finally getting to sleep, then awoke in the middle of the night to feel the hard, bumpy ground beneath me: our air mattress had deflated. We pumped it back up, took the opportunity to let the dogs use the bathroom so we could sleep in.

I took the opportunity to use the bathroom as well. It was dark enough to allow for squatting on the ground, and before I was even halfway through, I heard the distant jingle of a dog tags. I knew, with a sinking heart, that Tiberius had slipped out of the tent. I could hear him running aimlessly around the grounds, and there was nothing I could do at this moment. As soon as I was finished, I somehow managed to round him up in the dark. When I returned to the tent, we couldn’t find Salem. We searched until we finally found she had sneaked back under the covers with Matthew, whom she loves. This time I gave up.

I slept in the next morning while Matthew went to mass and Richie went to teach Sunday school. (I had thought we might all pretend we really were on a far away camping trip, but apparently I was pretending by myself.) Minutes after I emerged with the dogs from the tent, the park ranger drove by, and Salem tore off after his truck. He would have hit her if he hadn’t seen me running up the hill, draped in an army blanket, waving my arms frantically. Tiberius had come along too, of course, and as I awkwardly bent down to pick them both up, still trying to keep my blanket on, the ranger rolled down his window. “They need to be on a leash,” he said gruffly. I hastily apologized and agreed, slinking with self-loathing back to the campsite. I was now one of those irresponsible dog owners whose dog had nearly been killed because of my failure to either train her or confine her. I tied both dogs, with a liberal lead, to a post with their food and water.

Since I could not make a fire, and taking the dogs to the showers would be too much trouble, and my cell phone was nearly dead so I couldn’t call anyone, I decided to read until the guys returned. But my allergies were getting worse, the Texas sun was now beaming mercilessly into my eyes, and I had lost my sunglasses. I thought I should at least make coffee, but after reading the absurdly complicated instructions on the Coleman stove, I abandoned that idea. So now I sat, just feeling sorry for myself. It was my birthday proper, and I was alone, increasingly ill, and the park ranger hated me and my undisciplined dogs.

Having nothing better to do, I decided to go ahead and brave the showers with the dogs. I managed to tie them up at the one end of the long shower, where they were well out of reach of the water. They sat very tensely, pulling their leashes taut, while they waited. Well into the shampooing of my hair, I happened to glance at the floor and found I was not alone: several spiders and a couple other crawling somethings were in there with me, one very close to my feet. While I certainly don’t have a phobia of bugs, I don’t enjoy showering with them. By the time I found a clear spot to stand, I was arched sideways just to keep my head under the stream. I thought of my friends with phobias and felt very brave, like the Crocodile Hunter.

When I returned to the campsite, several crows and two squirrels hurried away from where they had been eating the dog food. Richie returned soon after to find me sneezing and crying and sniffling from now one of the worst onset of allergies I’ve ever had. We walked around the campground and discovered that numerous cedar trees had been cut and shredded, the pieces covering the ground like carpet. We could only assume the pollen had spread far and wide from all that activity.

I knew that I should go home, but I was determined to ignore my body and have a good time. I thought if I just put up with it long enough, my body would adjust. I took another Zyrtec, because obviously the one I had taken earlier that morning hadn’t worked. Well, this second one succeeded in stopping me up so completely that there was not even room left in my ears to allow me to swallow. Since we had no Liquid Plumber, I used Afrin. That worked for about six hours, and I had to use it again at dinner. By this time the congestion was moving into my chest. My face was swelling from inflamed sinuses and turning red with irritation from my constant tears and nose blowing. I was starting to itch on the outside of my throat, and my jaw line. It was like my body was running out of allergy symptoms to display and was making up new ones.

By now I was staying at the campsite only because I had no energy to pack up and go home. I thought it could not possibly get worse. Besides, our friends Paul and Jillian and their kids had joined us and brought pizza! And I thought between a good social time and maybe enough beer, I wouldn’t notice how I felt. Plus, my brother had brought his fire bowl on a stand, so we now had a legal fire going. We had a good evening, but I remained ever aware of my physical condition. (Paul, who is a pharmacist, could only stare in shocked silence when I told him of my Zyrtec/Afrin cycle. He, however, later left the campsite in an allergy fit as well.)

Between our (again) deflated mattress and being entirely unable to breathe (I refused to abuse the Afrin again), I barely slept that night. I lay listening to the raccoons rifle through our things. The previous night, they had enjoyed the Pistachios and Trail Mix we had forgotten to put away. This night, I would later discover, they or something else would climb the pole of the shelter to the hanging tote bag and tear open the zip-loc bag of dog food.

By the next morning, I was forced to hold a tissue to my nose while I tried to help pack up for home. My tongue even burned. I don’t know if I had burnt it the day before with coffee or pizza, but whatever the case it greatly compounded my misery.

Within minutes of being in the truck, my symptoms began to subside. We stopped at Walmart so I could get some 120 mg Sudafed to counter the effects of the overlapping Zyrtec (what’s one more medicine?), and then we went home.

Since then, I have soaked in a hot tub while listening to Vivaldi, and now I am in my study sipping hot tea. I am still swollen and dazed, but I am recovering. I am not saying I will never camp again, but it will probably be in my living room.

Gone too soon

This beautiful vulture showed up on our back porch last Saturday. It had an injured wing, and I called everyone I knew for help, including the game warden, who turned out to be out of town. Fortunately, my priest, an expert falconer, was willing to come help. He said to feed the bird some raw meat, and try to capture it. We were unable to capture it, but it enjoyed the raw chicken I gave it, and drank more water than I thought its stomach could possibly have held. My priest finally came and easily caught it, even avoiding the vomit the bird spewed in defense -- twice! He took it to Last Chance Forever, an organization in San Antonio that rescues and rehabilitates birds of prey. A few days later, I called to check on the bird's status, and it turns out he had had to be put down. The vet said there was too much dead bone and it had protruded through the skin. Federal law requires that if you cannot return it to the wild, it must be put down. They said it was an old injury, and the bird had been going hungry for awhile as it had insects in its belly. I just felt sick. I wished I hadn't called anyone, but continued to feed and water it for the rest of its life. However, my husband said it might have died from gangrene, and so I'm glad we saved it from a slow death. I was also comforted that it had eaten a lot of rabbit the night before my priest had taken it to LCF. The bitterness of not being able to save the vulture was softened by the knowledge that it knew mercy and a good meal before it went to God.