A Slightly Neurotic Look At The Election

This is not a political rant. First of all, I think we’ve all had enough of angry politics and are obviously moving toward a more unified society.

Ok, that was a little hard for me to write without laughing…the real reason that this is not a political rant is because I am a liberal living in one of the most conservative states in the Union…a state in which we not only allow “concealed carry” of weapons but have recently legalized “open carry” so people don’t have to go to all the trouble of hiding their guns in their pockets. I’ve gotten used to NOT fully expressing my liberal views in public…largely because I don’t want to be shot.

So this is not a rant. It’s just that I’ve been reading a lot of articles lately about the highlights of the election and campaign and decided to review my personal highs and lows of the 2012 race.

Adventure 1 was registering to vote…which shouldn’t be that hard a task as it is supposed to be accomplished when you get your driver’s license. But getting my new driver’s license was a HERCULEAN task that involved much cursing, threatening, yelling and storming from government buildings in a huff. There was, in fact, so much drama that it was the subject of not one but two separate blog posts:

http://kimbo325.blogspot.com/2011/09/more-life-in-oklahoma.html

http://kimbo325.blogspot.com/2012/01/creative-license.html

In any case, here are the other adventures that are likely to occur when you are slightly neurotic and living through an election year:



1.Read disturbing article—rife with grammatical errors—on friend’s Facebook page about Obama’s “secret agenda to start a race war.”

Wonder if friend is losing her marbles.

Realize that surprising number of friends—conservative and liberal alike—are losing their marbles and posting links to articles of questionable veracity.

Nod understandingly when husband suggests that fact-checking every article posted on Facebook is excessive but feel responsibility to continue since are clearly only sane person left in crazy world.

Continue to fact check…but never do anything with information except scream it at husband when he walks in door after work.

Agree that it is perhaps time to A. Lay off the caffeine and B. Interact with other human beings. Begin job search.



2.Research candidates in new state...get sidetracked by article about Senate candidate from former state (Todd Akin) and his views on “legitimate rape.” Spend rest of afternoon in white-hot rage and begin screaming at husband as soon as he walks in door—as if he coached Todd Akin for interview—explaining all the things would like to do to Akin.

Shout “You know what I’d do if I met that jackass? I’d punch him right in the face, as hard as I could. Right in the face! Then I’d ask if he was in legitimate pain or if his body has some way of shutting that whole thing down.”

Shadow-box around living room, demonstrating practically professional punching technique.

Shadow-box around husband-who dared to laugh at punching technique-shouting things like “What are you talking about? I’m like Muhammad Ali...I’m a freaking Ninja…I’m Muhammad Al Ninja!”

Admit that, perhaps, vodka and Sprite is not an appropriate substitute for caffeine.



3. Secure job at local university. Tell Composition student that she cannot write a persuasive, fact-based research paper on the topic “President Obama is Going To Hell.” Laugh and add that girl also cannot write paper on topic “Teacher Is Going To Hell.”

Realize that girl doesn’t think are funny AT ALL…and possibly believes are going to hell.

Listen to girl complain in loud whisper that liberal atheists are ruining the country for God-fearing Christians.

Wonder in louder whisper “Who was it that said ‘Judge not lest you yourself be judged? Wait, wasn’t that CHRIST?” Smile and add “Book of Matthew, Chapter Seven Verse 1.”

Feel decidedly un-Christian glee as girl storms from room in a huff.



4.Watch debates with husband in effort to nudge him out of his political apathy.

Realize with horror that husband is NOT politically apathetic after all…is politically VITRIOLIC , hating all politicians with equal fervor…listen to husband shout “Lying scum!” and “Thieves, They’re all thieves!” at random intervals.

Suspect that part of this rage is because NHL is still in lockout and husband is going through hockey withdrawal…but suggest that perhaps he is the one who should lay off the caffeine.



5.Take advantage of early voting option…realize that half of the people in town are also taking advantage of early voting option. Drive around block four times to find parking space. Miraculously squeeze tiny car into space—miraculous since are worst parallel parker in history of parallel parking—and dash for building.

Wait in line for twenty minutes, vote quickly, and attempt to leave but become blocked by irate woman who is being refused a ballot because she has no identification or voter registration card.

Wonder if woman has pierced eardrums with shriek “But I’ve lived here my WHOLE LIFE!”

Sidle around woman, go out to car, and realize that some moron has parked huge truck immediately behind own car, literal inches from bumper, in order to get parking place. Two cars that had been in front of car are luckily gone now so this is just annoying not incapacitating.

Grasp the irony of own life as screaming woman from polling center storms toward moronically-parked truck. Decide not to further irritate already insanely furious woman—for now—and don’t mention truck.

Realize woman has witnessed head-shaking and muttering of “What kind of moron…” as she walked up since she immediately shouts, “It’s not like you left me a lot of room!”

Ignore mental warnings and observe “There were two cars ahead of me when I got here and there’s about six more feet of space behind your car.”

Listen to woman snap angrily, “I can park anywhere I want, this is AMERICA.”

Wisely wait until are inside car to lean out window and call “Hey, did you know in AMERICA you need IDENTIFICATION to vote?”

Speed away giggling like a lunatic.



6.Watch election returns and shout play-by-play results at husband who is searching online for news of the NHL lockout.

Calm husband after he discovers that recent reports of the end of the lockout are bogus.

Promise not to yell results of election up to husband as he retreats to bed.

Find promise impossible to keep when Akin is defeated.



7.Realize that, because live in very conservative place now, EVERY SINGLE STATE AND LOCAL CANDIDATE voted for LOST.

Decide not to get upset…because this is America and sometimes that’s the way it goes.




kimbo325 is a writer and teacher who is laughing her way through life. She loves America, her husband, and wishes the hockey lockout would end already! She would love to tweet with you on Twitter at kimbo325 or talk to you on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/ItIsInterestingToNote?ref=hl

A Blast From the Past...Jingle Bell Drawing 2011

Well, it’s Christmas time in Oklahoma…and I do mean CHRISTMAS time, not holiday time.  If you foolishly assume that not everyone celebrates Christmas here in the Beautiful Buckle of the Bible Belt and, like the crazy liberal you are, you wish someone Happy Holidays, a surprising number of people have no problem correcting you in a rather superior tone. “Merry CHRISTMAS!” they assure you.

It’s terribly jolly, make no mistake.

And nothing says Christmas like the annual small town $10,000 Jingle Bell drawing!  Opie and I attended this extravaganza on Saturday…one of us brimming with confidence and optimism and the other grumbling about crowds and longing for an afternoon of beer drinking and hockey viewing (I will let you all decide which was which!)

But I get ahead of myself as some of you are probably wondering what the heck the Jingle Bell drawing is.  It’s actually very simple.  From November 13^th until December 13^th a variety of local merchants hand out these little raffle tickets when you purchase something from them.  Then, on the last Saturday before Christmas Eve, there is a drawing in the town square in which they give away two $500 prizes, two $1,000 prizes and one $10, 000 prize. The only catch is that you have to be present to win.

So, I’ve been collecting tickets every time I go to the grocery store and convinced Opie that we had to go.  See, I was expecting a Christmas fair type atmosphere….I was expecting merchants to have stands, I was expecting entertainments, I was expecting an EVENT.

What I got was about 3,000 people standing around the town square holding fistfuls of raffle tickets while a couple of enterprising high school students meandered through the crowd selling candy bars they had clearly purchased in bulk from Sam’s Club.

Which is not to say that I wasn’t entertained.  I mean, I had a hysterical time nudging Opie and discreetly pointing out the various and sundry wildlife…like the heavily pierced and tattooed biker guy who was holding a tiny sweater-wearing Pomeranian.  Or the surprising number of women wearing famous QVC “Bump up the Pony” hair extensions that didn’t match the rest of their hair…not to mention the man that Opie was convinced was wearing a “Bump up the Beard” hair extension clipped to his cheeks.  Or the little group I called the denim family in which all four of the females (mother and three daughters) were wearing ankle length denim skirts with oversized sweatshirts that said “Go Kiefer Trojans!”

I really REALLY hope that’s a sports team.

But my favorite group was the little huddle of people directly behind Opie and I who spent a surprising amount of time mocking the woman announcing the raffle numbers for saying “Y’all.”  Which surprised me a little since I have been y’alled about a thousand times since I moved here.  And then, after eavesdropping closely, I realized they didn’t care about the word “y’all” they cared that SHE was saying y’all.  Apparently she is some sort of TV personality in the Tulsa area and she clearly does NOT say y’all on the nightly news. So, for her to dash over to our small town and start y’alling like a local is insulting to say the very least.

In the words of the city kids I used to work with, she was clearly fronting.

After years of being in charge of Conflict Mediation, I know that an appropriate reaction to this kind of behavior is to rush the stage screaming “You ain’t representing!” over and over….but I didn’t want to get kicked off the square because, as I mentioned earlier, you have to be present to win.

And this was before Opie and I realized that we had NO BUSINESS thinking we had any chance of winning the Jingle Bell drawing.  See, I had collected twenty-three different tickets and there were about 3,000 people there.  I thought we had as good a chance as anyone.

WRONG!

Our twenty-three tickets was like a teaspoon in the ocean of tickets.  I mean, we could easily hold our tickets in one hand.  Most people there had HUNDREDS of tickets.  A man next to us had a poster board with tickets in sequential order glued to both sides.  Another woman had a Ziplock baggie full of tickets in one hand and a full printed page listing the numbers in the other.  Another woman had a binder with album pages holding all her tickets.

It was unbelievable.

And we didn’t win…not this year….but next year I’m going to plan early.  I’m going to refuse to go into a business in town unless they support the Jingle Bell drawing.  I’m going to  go to the grocery store and buy items one at a time, collecting tickets each time.   And, if that doesn’t work, I’m going to take a lesson from the enterprising teens in the crowd and I’m going to wander around selling candy for three times the normal going cost.

It’s going to be awesome.

And the crazies keep on coming….

I was hoping that the lunatics in my life could be confined to the weird old guy who wanders around my neighborhood talking to himself but it looks like the full moon this week is bringing them out in droves…

See, we just finished midterm week at the university where I teach and students are beginning to sign up for second semester.  Which seems like a relatively un-lunatic type of task.

Except that this is also the time in which a surprising number of students realize that they won’t get their financial aid checks for second semester if, in fact, they aren’t passing enough classes to actually enroll in more classes second semester.

Which was the case with my latest lunatic encounter.

It happened on Tuesday; this girl stormed into my Comp I class just before it started, as I was putting a few notes for the day on the whiteboard.   And it startled me because, at first, I had no idea who she was…because she hasn’t been in my class since the first week of school.  She showed up the 3 days in which the financial aid office checks enrollment before issuing first semester checks and has never returned.

I had assumed she was one of those students who signs up for a full load, gets the check from the government, and drops a few classes before the deadline so she can pocket the difference between the tuition and her check.

“I need to pass this class to get my financial aid for next semester!”  She said without preamble.

Which means I was wrong…she was one of those students who signs up for a full load, gets the check from the government, and drops a few classes before the deadline so she can pocket the difference between the tuition and her check BUT plans to pass all of the classes she didn’t drop so she can repeat the cycle second semester.

Except, of course, it’s difficult to pass when you never actually show up for class.

A fact I pointed out to her immediately.  “You haven’t been here for NINE WEEKS,” I said.

“I had to babysit my friend’s kid,” she agreed.

“For NINE WEEKS?”

And she nodded.  “But I’ll do anything,” she said.  “Anything at all.”

“Except come to class and actually do the work?”  I asked.

But THAT flew right over her head.  “So, what can I do to pass?”  She asked.

Please keep in mind that, in order for this little scenario to work out in her favor, she would have to have a passing grade by the end of the class period in question.  And I think I’m pretty good at my job but I don’t think I’m good enough to reteach an entire half semester in the five minutes before class actually started.

“What can I do?”  She asked again.

Since my earlier sarcasm had flown right over her head, I decided against saying “Turn back time” and uncharacteristically went for the direct, logical response.  “Nothing,” I said.   “You haven’t been here for nine weeks;  you haven’t made any effort to contact me and work something out—“

“I couldn’t!” She shouted triumphantly, like she’d been waiting for me to say that exact thing.  “See?”

Then she showed me her iPhone—which looked suspiciously brand new except for the fact that the screen was cracked.

And that just irritated me because I was pretty sure she probably bought the phone with her financial aid money…which comes from MY  tax dollars…which means, essentially, that was MY new iPhone…and she broke it.

She broke my iPhone!

But I really didn’t have time to get into an argument so I just said “Yah, it looks like it’s had some rough treatment.”

And, oddly, that’s the thing that pissed her off.  She shoved the iPhone back in her pocket and shouted “I wasn’t rough with it!  I take care of my things!”

Which made me wonder if the screen was really cracked or if there’s some sort of screensaver you can get that makes it look like the screen is cracked or if the friend she was babysitting for gave her a cracked iPhone as payment or if she was just smoking crack or what…

All of which was too much to be thinking about since I was still trying to get ready for class…so, I just turned around and finished putting my notes on the board.

Many people would choose this time to make a silent getaway…of course, many people would realize that missing nine straight weeks of a sixteen week class was a pretty clear path to failure.

Not this girl.

She sat down in the front row and spent the next twenty minutes AGGRESSIVELY participating in the class discussion.

It was bizarre.

I put an essay up on the smartboard and asked the students to identify strengths and weaknesses in it…she began shouting out suggestions and comments like Rainman on speed. 

“Good descriptions!”  she shouted.  “Nice images!”

Except it was a persuasive paper and there really weren’t any descriptions or images in it…which she may have realized if she had been in class AT ALL the past nine weeks. 

“Can anyone identify the author’s main logical fallacy?”  I asked.

“Order of importance!”  She yelled (and no, for you non-Comp teachers, that’s NOT a logical fallacy…it has NOTHING TO DO with logical fallacies).

And so on…until I finally said, “Lana!  You need to stop that…just, STOP.”

That’s when, at long last, she stormed out in a huff, slamming the door behind her…

But, honestly, I’m a little afraid I haven’t seen the last of her!

  

kimbo325 is a teacher and writer who is laughing her way through life.  She actually loves her job and loves helping kids learn to write…but she thinks it’s hard to learn when you’re not in class.  For more stories from her crazy life, like her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/ItIsInterestingToNote?ref=hl#!/ItIsInterestingToNote

or follow her on Twitter @kimbo325

 

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Just OC no D...this is NOT a disorder!

Married life is a constant joy for my husband, Opie, I can assure you.  And one reason I know it’s true is because I tell him all the time that I’m the best thing that ever happened to him and he never disagrees.

The other reason is that I am constantly bringing excitement and drama to his otherwise organized life.

Like earlier this week when I called him on the way to work, got his voicemail and yelled “Hey, it’s me…oh, never mind, it’s just crazy!” and hung up.

Now I, of course, realized that this could be construed as a somewhat disconcerting message so as soon as I got to work I sent the following email:

Thought I should explain the weird message…

Short version:

I straightened my hair...we have mice in the crawl space. 

NOTE: Even though we’ve only been married for a year or so, Opie’s had enough experience with my particular brand of crazy that I was pretty confident that this would be explanation enough. However, just in case, I also provided him more detailed information.

 Full version:

I straightened my hair this morning which always makes me nervous because that straightener is about 400 degrees.

And since I’m SUPREMELY self-aware, I know that this is the kind of thing that can lead me to have one of those freak outs that you find so endearing…you know, the one where I get halfway to work and then say “Did I leave the straightener on?”  And then spend the rest of the day worrying that the cat will see it on the counter and knock it to the floor. Thereby starting a fire and burning down the house and killing the pets before we got home.

To avoid that, I made a huge deal about unplugging the straightener so I couldn't possibly forget that it was safe.

 

Which made me run a little late.

 Which further means that I didn't get a chance to go through my daily ritual of making sure the dogs were in the house before I left.

Which finally means that on the way to work, I decided that Bubba was still outside, that it was going to get 85 degrees or more and he would get heat stroke before I got home...you would then never forgive me and since you are stuck with me forever we would be doomed to live in an angry, resentful marriage until the end of our days.

 Obviously, I wanted to avoid this at all costs.

 So, I called you--thinking you could call the neighbors and get them to go check if Bubba was outside and maybe give him some water.

Then, while the phone was ringing, I remembered that when I went outside to my car this morning, I saw a mouse run into the grate in the front of the house.

Ick!

I immediately ran all around the outside of the house like a lunatic to see if there were other mice and to see where the grate led.

But on the bright side, Bubba must have heard me and started barking hysterically from inside...the memory of which told me he was safe.

Crisis averted!

But we have mice in the crawl space and we need to put some traps in there because mice can draw snakes and if snakes get in the garage, I can’t live in our house anymore.

And by we, I--of course--mean YOU because the crawl space is creepy and I don't like killing things...even vermin ridden things.

Love you!

 

I know what you’re all thinking…he’s the luckiest man on earth, right?

 

 

 

Important Information

If you who read my last blog, you already know my stance on dead animals as gifts (definitively AGAINST for those of you who haven’t been following along).

However, the other day Bub may have earned the right to bring me any old dead thing he wants…here’s what happened:

I walked out into the backyard and noticed an odd looking old man sitting on his bike right outside our fence, talking.  For a second I thought he was talking to me.

He wasn’t.

He was responding to the voices in his head…but I didn’t realize that at first. Because I didn’t realize he was crazy at first…Until he came right up the fence and mumbled something about helping me sweep the yard.

And that was crazy since I wasn’t even sweeping the yard—largely because I don’t know what that means—and because he didn’t have a broom or any other sweeping implements.

So,  I was a little weirded out…and when I get weirded out Bubba gets worked up. And when Bubba gets worked up, the Rottweiler half of his heritage kicks into high gear.  Basically, he crossed the yard in 1.2 seconds and charged the guy like he was wearing Milk Bone underwear (Pronoun clarification: the second “he” in that sentence refers to the crazy guy, not Bubba.  Bubba almost never wears underwear).

Peek-A-Boo also sensed danger and ran across the garden to add his voice to the mayhem…then decided that, as a Chihuahua, he could better serve me by wriggling through the tomato plants and eating any of the green tomatoes in his reach.

His theory clearly being that anyone who saw such a bizarre activity—I mean, what kind of dog eats vegetables right off the vine?!!—would immediately realize that they were dealing with a creature heretofore unseen in this world.

But I digress…

“Sir,” I shouted over all the barking, “you should probably step away from the fence.”

Which I thought was a fairly clear instruction…but I don’t speak crazy very well because, apparently, in crazy language my statement translates into “Pay no attention to the hysterically, snarling dog.  He is only joking with you and has no interest in tearing your throat out and would, in fact, love it if you came inside.”

Because he took a step closer to the gate and actually put his hand on the latch.

(Side note: Let me take a second to answer the question that I’m fairly sure my mother and close friends are screaming as they get to this point in the story.  Yes, in retrospect, I do realize that this would have been the ideal time to  go inside my house, lock my door, and call the police if the man actually came into the yard.  But I couldn’t because of the dogs…there was no way I was getting Bubba inside while there was a stranger in the vicinity and getting Peek out of the garden when he is on a tomato eating mission is a HERCULEAN task.  I couldn’t leave them behind…and yes, in answer to the obvious second question, I understand that most people think dogs can fend for themselves…but remember Peek is twelve-year-old Chihuahua with a bad heart.  He couldn’t fend his way out of a wet paper bag.)

So I stayed outside and tried to take charge of the situation.  “Seriously, sir,” I shouted.  “This is NOT a friendly dog.

He paused with his hand on the gate and briefly consulted with his invisible friends.

“This dog will KILL you!”  I warned them all.  And smiled in order to communicate that I was equally as crazy as he was…just crazy enough to CHEERFULLY let Bubba rip his throat out.

He seemed to get that.

Because he shuffled back over to his bike, spent another minute or two in conversation with NO ONE AT ALL, and pedaled away.

It’s interesting to note that when my husband, Opie, got home that night I told him about Bubba’s heroics and he brushed the whole thing off…apparently he recognized my description as a generally harmless neighborhood crazy man who’s lived in the area for years.

Which wasn’t comforting for two reasons:

1.      Because “generally harmless” and “harmless” aren’t the same thing.

2.      The presence of such a person seems like information that should have been shared FIFTEEN MONTHS AGO WHEN I MOVED IN…and now I can’t help but wonder how many other potentially volatile people Opie is aware of and has forgotten to mention.

However, in spite of all that, I’m sleeping securely in the knowledge that generally harmless or even generally harmful crazies are intimidated by an enraged Rottweiler (though, sadly, not by a Chihuahua who really just wants to eat some tomatoes) so, if Bub decides he’d like to bring me a dead mole or two this week, I’m not going to freak out like I did last week.

Or at least, not as much.

Dead Things Make Terrible Gifts

 

Am I alone in thinking that there are lots of things no one ever tells you about pet ownership when you first bring home that adorable ball of fur?  Questions that you never imagine you’d really have to consider?  And the problem grows exponentially with every new animal you bring in the house.

You see, for those of you keeping score, my husband Opie and I have 4 pets…2 dogs, a cat, and a bird. They are:

Peek-A-Boo: My “first born.”  A spoiled rotten, long-haired Chihuahua who is convinced that we got the other animals just for him since he is sure that he’s not a dog at all but a grumpy old man in a fur suit. 

Bubba:  A half-Rottweiler, half-Beagle who is so happy to have been rescued from the shelter that he spends most of his day showering us with attention so we never take him back…which, unfortunately, has manifested lately in him following me around the house and flinging himself on my feet if I stay in one place for longer than ten seconds at a time.

Prince:  A Sphnyx cat—completely hairless—who has been called a “rat” so often that he has decided to become a dog and tries to exhibit dominance over the other dogs by smacking them in the head and running away.

Dolly: The tiny finch who I inherited from my Grandma when she couldn’t take care of her anymore who has probably developed a complex since Prince thinks she looks tastier every time  he sees her.

In any case, last weekend Opie and I went to visit my family in Illinois.   We got our usual pet sitter for the weekend but since Peek-A-Boo has been having health issues, we decided to take him with us—largely to spare the pet sitter from my hourly phone calls and demands for updates.  It seemed like the best plan for everyone concerned…except when we got back to Oklahoma, Prince and Bubba decided that we must have taken Peek showed because we loved him best.  It was imperative, they concluded, for them to step up their game, so to speak, and buy our affections with a series of gifts.

The problem is, these animals don’t have jobs.  Which means they have no money.  Which further means that their supply of appropriate gifts is pretty low.

But ever the resourceful Rottweiler, Bubba searched the yard and decided to give us one of his favorite things:

A dead mole that he thoughtfully eviscerated and then left on the back porch so we could see it first thing.

Note: Dead moles make TERRIBLE gifts.

Not to be outdone, Prince spent the next few hours on his own gift quest…as a strictly inside cat, his options were slightly more limited.   Luckily, a cricket had somehow gotten in the house so he was able to kill it, swat it back and forth with Bubba for a minute or two, then wing it at my feet as hard as he could.

Note: While not quite as bad as dead, disemboweled moles, dead crickets ALSO make TERRIBLE gifts.

As a last resort, Prince and Bubba put their heads together this morning and came up with a whole new plan…as I was getting ready for work, I heard the two of them shuffling around, making weird noises and I thought I should probably go see what was going on…but then Prince dashed up to the bathroom door,  batting something around while Bubba followed along behind him.

Then Prince stopped and shot something at my legs with the accuracy of Wayne Gretsky on a breakaway.

Something that ended up being not a dead cricket but a live cricket roughly the size of a human head.

(Side note here: Please don’t think we live in a huge, cricket-infested hovel; Tulsa is experiencing a cricket population explosion of Biblical proportions).

It hit my legs, bounced onto my foot, and began hopping around the room like a toddler on a sugar high.   I, of course, immediately freaked out and started shouting every curse word I could think of…I couldn’t stomp the stupid thing because I was barefooted and I    At this point, Prince decided that I not only loved the gift but loved it so much that I wanted to play with it immediately so he ran in and began swatting.  Bubba couldn’t decide if we were all having a rousing game of Cricket Catch or if this was just the SCARIEST SITUATION EVER, so he alternated between lunging in the room to play and jumping back barking hysterically…either way he was blocking the door and access to any cricket smashing implements.  Meanwhile, Peek—who can’t climb the stairs on his own anymore—couldn’t figure out what all the ruckus was about so he stood at the bottom of the steps barking at the top of his tiny little lungs.

In short, it was complete mayhem.

And I’m fairly sure it’s mayhem that is a direct result of our leaving the two of them behind this weekend…but the thing is, I’ve traveled with these animals before.  Bubba gets all freaked out in the car, refuses to sit anywhere except the front passenger seat floor, shakes for most of the trip, pants like he’s just run fifteen miles, and basically drools all over my leg.

Prince, on the other hand, cries for the entire trip unless I hold him on my lap…and when I hold him on my lap, he always throws up at least once. Usually twice.

And next month is Thanksgiving…which means another trip to see the family and the kind of debate no one told me about when I first got pets:  Which is worse, a collection of corpses or bodily fluids on your lap?

 

kimbo325 is a teacher and writer trying to focus on the lighter side of life…she doesn’t hate crickets per se but wishes they would stay out of the house as they make the animals even crazier than usual.  To read more notes about her crazy life, follow her on Twitter @kimbo325 or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/ItIsInterestingToNote?ref=hl

 

Changing Sides

So, I’ve decided I may have to change my position on gay marriage. Not because of any moral, ethical, or legal dilemmas but because I’ve just come face to face with the horrifying decisions made in a male-dominated household.

Here’s what happened:

I got on Facebook yesterday morning and immediately noticed a picture that my friend Eric’s partner posted—a picture of Eric’s hands all lumpy and one swollen to almost to twice its normal size. Swollen into a great big Donald Duck hand.

I contacted him immediately and demanded to know what had happened. And he told me that while working in the yard he had inadvertently disturbed a yellow jacket nest. The bees, of course, swarmed and attacked—chasing him over 400 yards and stinging him almost a dozen times. “It hurts,” he reported unnecessarily.

I asked what any right-thinking woman would ask, “What did the doctor say?”

Long pause. Then, “Do you think I should go to the doctor?”

I managed not to scream “Yes, you idiot, get to the doctor immediately!” and said, “Well, if your hands are still as swollen as they were in the picture, YES!”

Which is when he allowed that it was difficult to tell how swollen his hand was because his forearm had started to enlarge as well.

It took all my self-restraint not to jump in the car, drive to St. Louis, and put him out of his misery by beating him to death. “Call your doctor!” I insisted.

So he did…and the doctor told him to go to the emergency room. But did he? NO.

“I’m not going to the emergency room for a bee sting,” he said.

And you know what? My husband, Opie, chose that moment to take Eric’s side. “I’ve had bee stings,” he said. “He’ll be fine.”

Which pretty much sums up the difference between men and women. Women look at an injury that can only be described with comparisons to cartoon characters and realize medical attention is a good bet. Men look at the same injury and think “I bet a picture of this would get a lot of hits on Facebook.”

Thus, I have decided I need to take a new stance on gay marriage…I believe in freedom and love and equal rights for all but I also feel an overwhelming need to save Eric from himself.

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