Father's Day 1: Ancestry.com Pretest

PART 1: PRETEST

Ancestry.com Should have a pretest. Since it doesn’t, I made one up for myself.

1) Where is your family from?

On my Mom’s side, Cuba and Spain. On her side, I’ the first generation to be born in the US. 

On my Dad’s side, New Orleans. Which, I understand, is not a country, but his people go back to the French-Canadians from Acadiana who moved to Louisiana after the French-Indian War and before the Louisiana Purchase. Parts of his family also arrived from Santo Domingo during the Haitian Revolution.

2) When do you think your first ancestors arrived in America?

For sure, the Cajuns, after 1763 but before 1803. I’ve heard we have a relative who fought the British off in the Revolutionary War, so if I had to take a specific guess I’d say 1773. 

3) What was your Ancestor’s religion? (List as many as you need to….)

Make this easier, please. Catholic. 100% down the line, French, Creole, Spanish, Irish, Italian Catholics mixed together and sprinkled with God Bless American immigrants holy water.

4) Name Every State your Ancestors Have Lived In:

Easy peasy. 1) Florida. 2)Lousiana. Done.

5) Name Every American War Your Ancestors Have Fought In:

American Revolution, I’ve seen papers on that – the Battle of Baton Rouge. I’d bet someone fought in the War of 1812, because of whole “New Orleans” battle thing. Maybe also the Civil War? I don’t know of anyone on my Dad’s side fighting in WW1 or WW2, and my dad was kindly excused from the Vietnam War.

6) What would you be shocked to find out about your family?

I’d be shocked to find out that anyone related to me knew Daniel Boone or Davey Crockett. 

I also don’t think anyone in my ancestry ever lived West of the Mississippi or north of the Mason Dixon line. I’d be shocked to be related to any famous political or military figures in American history.

7) What would you like to find out?

I’d like to find out that I’m the Queen of Spain. Or the Queen of something, that would be excellent. 

Besides that, since it’s Father’s Day, I’d like to find some treasure to share with Dad.

PART 1: PRETEST

Ancestry.com Should have a pretest. Since it doesn’t, I made one up for myself.

1) Where is your family from?

On my Mom’s side, Cuba and Spain. On her side, I’ the first generation to be born in the US. 

On my Dad’s side, New Orleans. Which, I understand, is not a country, but his people go back to the French-Canadians from Acadiana who moved to Louisiana after the French-Indian War and before the Louisiana Purchase. Parts of his family also arrived from Santo Domingo during the Haitian Revolution.

2) When do you think your first ancestors arrived in America?

For sure, the Cajuns, after 1763 but before 1803. I’ve heard we have a relative who fought the British off in the Revolutionary War, so if I had to take a specific guess I’d say 1773. 

3) What was your Ancestor’s religion? (List as many as you need to….)

Make this easier, please. Catholic. 100% down the line, French, Creole, Spanish, Irish, Italian Catholics mixed together and sprinkled with God Bless American immigrants holy water.

4) Name Every State your Ancestors Have Lived In:

Easy peasy. 1) Florida. 2)Lousiana. Done.

5) Name Every American War Your Ancestors Have Fought In:

American Revolution, I’ve seen papers on that – the Battle of Baton Rouge. I’d bet someone fought in the War of 1812, because of whole “New Orleans” battle thing. Maybe also the Civil War? I don’t know of anyone on my Dad’s side fighting in WW1 or WW2, and my dad was kindly excused from the Vietnam War.

6) What would you be shocked to find out about your family?

I’d be shocked to find out that anyone related to me knew Daniel Boone or Davey Crockett. 

I also don’t think anyone in my ancestry ever lived West of the Mississippi or north of the Mason Dixon line. I’d be shocked to be related to any famous political or military figures in American history.

7) What would you like to find out?

I’d like to find out that I’m the Queen of Spain. Or the Queen of something, that would be excellent. Besides that, since it’s Father’s Day, I’d like to find some treasure to share with Dad.

Tick Tock (Draft 1)

6:45pm, Tuesday, March 13

I'm in the same seat, the same row as before.

This time, I didn't pack kleenex. I don't think I'll cry.

I know the story, I'm immune, and anyway, we found parking so quickly this time, I just feel happy energy all ove the place.

When Barb talked at the Death and Dying class at FSU last November, the class started about two hours earlier, and parking at FSU was much tighter. We ran a bit late, but she was cool. Much cooler than I had been. Especially telling total strangers about such personal stories.

*******************
Rewind.
5:00pm, Tuesday, March 13

Zack is standing in the living room, no underwear on, crying because he has cut his knee on a yard ornament.

The doorbell rings. It's Barb.

I hoist the howling three year old under my arm, trying to keep his knee-blood and boy-dirt off my suit.

Barb isn't worried about running late. She floats into my house, a breathe of calm steadiness in a whirlwind of whining. She stands next to him and distracts him with her purring voice and silly teasing.

After his boo-boo is cleaned, she finds a ballpoint pen (a pen! in my house! miracle!) and writes smiley-faces on his band-aids.

He is hopelessly in love.

Things are calm, I can leave. I swoop down to kiss Zoe. She hugs me and murmurs "Bye Miss Barb, I sure miss you."

I pull back. "I'm your MOM not Miss Barb!"

Zoe laughs at her mistake, a little embarassed for being caught starry-eyed, and kisses me on the cheek.

*******************
Rewind Again.
Thursday, March 8, afternoon

It's the Thursday of Spring Break, and Barb picked me up to go to lunch. She drives us in the milf-mobile, which feels ridiculously high compared to my Hyundai. I clown around, pretending to be a rock-climber, checking for my safety ropes.

After sushi, we go to Wal-mart. I had just gotten a new pond, I wanted to look at yard decorations. I've never actually had the impulse to even consider yard statuary, so Barb volunteered to chaperone me.

While I was sorting through the statues of bunnies, turtles, and other silly yard-creatures, Barb stood in front of something else.

"We need to get a new one of those for the graves." I stood completely still, head cocked like a friendly dog.
She continued, "Well, things outside wear out."

They do. They do.

I didn't really want to actually buy anything, so we kept meandering.
I think she bought cat food and paper plates.

You know, Wal-Mart stuff.

************
Fast Forward
7:10pm, Tuesday, March 13

Before we entered the auditorium, we went to the cramped florescent-light bathroom. I'm used to rotten lighting, so I just wash my hands, smile at myself while I gloss up my lips and left the bathroom to make a call.

I waited about five minutes then returned to the bathroom on a search-and-rescue mission. Barb was standing in front of the mirror, pulling her blonde hair back, scowling at herself in the mirror.

She was beating herself up, focusing on perceived flaws.

Maybe she does that when she's scared. I don't blame her one bit.

Barb is sitting up front now, cool and calm.

Looking more gorgeous than she probably should, given the topic and situation.

****************
7:20pm

The professor spent the first 35 minutes of class taking roll and answering questions.

I cannot decide if he is a saint or a fool, but given his line of work -- grief counseling -- I have to lean toward saint.

He introduces Barb in these exact words, which I know for sure, because I am sitting in the back row, writing them down.

"This is Barb C. She is here to talk about her life. It is a sad story, a tough story, a story about resiliency."

He pauses, and I see about sixty heads turn slightly toward Barb, probably nodding, smiling, checking out her gorgeous dress.

And then, before Barb can tell the story herself, he tells the class how and when Barb's children, Ryan and Rachel died.

I understand that he wants to prepare them for her story, but I resent it the tinyest bit.

It's her story.

She's earned the right to tell it.

As she starts to ask the audience questions, warms them up, builds her credibility as a speaker, my mind goes back to the reason she brought me here tonight.

It's my job to figure out what we will have for dinner.

Yes, it'll be a late dinner, since this Death and Dying class doesn't end until almost 9.
I am sure we won't leave the building until almost 10.

By that time, after telling about the accident, answering student questions, and walking a room full of strangers through the darkest days and years of her life, Barb will be elated and exhausted.

And hungry.

When it's all over, and she's through bearing her soul, we will eat.

No, we will not just eat.

We will have a mini-feast, celebrate life, enjoy being happy and healthy today, and -- I am sure -- laugh loudly together.

A Birthday Story in 4 Parts

Part #1: 6 Stockings
We are at the most wonderful baby shower, Zoe and I.

Finally he is arriving, the child they have been expecting for 9 years. It is a small gathering, a happy one, but also a nervous one.

The baby could come at any time, which means Mom and Dad – two former soldiers who left the service after—well, it’s not my story to tell, and I haven’t told it, but it’s not a secret – Barb, in fact, would greet you with a warm hug and tell you herself if you were lucky enough to meet her one day.

Rob and Barb's young children Ryan and Rachel (along with their grandfather) were killed in car accident in 1999.

Since that night my friends have survived. They sleep, they eat, they go to Walmart. And their family has grown to include a daughter -- Marina from Russia -- who has brought joy, laughter, and thousands of doctors visits. They adopted her from an orphanage that had no medical history, no story of prenatal care.

As long as I’ve known Barb, she’s been wanting another baby.

We discussed this over wine the first night we met, back in August 2005 sitting on a blanket in my living room. I told her I was an accidental and begrudging parent who loved her children as people, “but the whole responsibility of socks? And meals? And butt wiping? No, those don’t play a role in my ideal life.”

She shook her head, “It’s wonderful raising a family. And putting socks away and taking care of them, and the looks on their happy faces when you feed them…”

Soon after that, we got up and went outside so she could smoke. “Rob won’t let me get pregnant until after I quit smoking.” It made sense, we agreed.

She smoked while pregnant with her first two children, and both came out extra early, extra small.

Over the next three years of our friendship, I watched Barb speak about her children several times, (http://laughingmelissa.blogspot.com/2007/03/tick-tock-draft-1.html), quit smoking, and survive multiple rounds of medically invasive, expensive and emotionally devastating fertility treatments.

In mid-2008, Rob and Barb signed up with an adoption agency, and I hardly saw her for months as she had home visits, wrote letters and filled out forms.

By Fall, a birth mother several states away also signed up with an adoption agency and wisely selected Barb and Rob to adopt her child.

On the December Sunday of Sean's Baby Shower, Barb sat on her screened porch, smoking, as Zoe and I walked up their long driveway, swinging presents and holdng hands both wearing long Royal blue dresses (she copied me, and if she tells you different, show her this article).

“You two are overdressed,” was her welcome, just before she hid her cigarette behind her back and hugged me with one hand.

“Overdressed? No way! This is the most important and wonderful party we’ve ever been to, if I had a ball gown I’d be wearing it!”

As the party settled from standing to sitting, Zoe and I found a place next to the wall where six stockings were hung. Zoe counted out in a polite whisper, “Rob, Barb, Marina…. Mom, why do they have two, each?”

My attention pulled back from the jalepeno cheese square on a ritz cracker as I counted the stockings then remembered, “Zoe, baby Sean gets one…” she nodded, “And who else?”
Zoe shook her head.

“Their other two children?” I offer.

“Oh! Ryan and Rachel….I see, Oh Mom, where’s our gift for Barb?” Her voice drifted off, she stood up, and joined Marina rearranging the presents in front of the room.

Part #2: Bichos Malos
I am alone with my Blackberry, watching Zack play made up superhero games with a new friend at the park. Ass Zack and his new friend traverse a bridge in front of me, I take a picture with the phone and send it to my Mom.

The day doesn’t feel as warm as I thought it would, and I am thankful for my red shawl. A brown squirrel runs right in front of me, pursued by an albino one, and I follow their pursuit up a fat-trunked tree, half bald, draped liberally in Spanish Moss.

The Blackberry buzzes in my pocket where – unlike the phones before it which died awful deaths – it is snuggled safely in ruggled holder.

Mom replied to the picture with a text that began, “In the ER with Papi…..”
My first thought was not something I am proud of. I am not ashamed of it either, but I am surprised by how quickly it popped up. “No way, there is NO way this will happen again. He had a heart attack on my 30th birthday, and now on my 40th? Please don’t let my last visit be my last visit." (From November: Goodnight-abuelo & Everywhere-now)

Of course, I know better.

It isn’t about me, it’s about life, and love, and my mother who has heaved herself from the depth of grief this year, and stood there with a lifeline for him so he wouldn’t drown in grief of his own.

I texted her back, “Tell him his heart is still under warranty from ten years ago. And remind him about ‘bichos malos’”

She didn’t reply until several hours later, but I’m sure she passed the message on, and fully understood it.

It’s from a Spanish saying: Bad bugs (bichos malos – also meaning, cranky mean people) don’t die.

Part 3: Sean Arrives
At the baby shower, I bet Rob $20 that Baby Sean wouldn’t arrive until after January 1.

“He’ll be born on a Tuesday, I know it,” Rob said, firm and quiet.

On Tuesday, December 9, Sean Busby entered the world, tumbling from the sky through a kind woman’s body and into the arms of his real parents.

Barb texts me the news of his arrival from their car as she and Rob tackle the thirteen hour drive to where Sean has been born.

I call her back.

She has not yet held him, but the attorney emailed pictures to her.

For the first time since I met her over three years before, Barb is downright giddy.

The next day she calls again and describes his face, his gestures, his perfect eyes and face and soul.

We do not talk again for a few days, but I see her online where she uploads celebratory pictures to her Facebook.

I cannot remember the specifics of phone tag that ensued that week, but I know when she and I actually talked next.

It was the morning of December 15, and I was on my way across town, heading back from campus where I had cleaned my office after submitting final grades.

“Do you have a pen?,” she asked, and said no, that I was driving, so don’t make me write anything.

Instead, she explained what exactly had been found to be wrong with her baby Sean’s heart, that he was facing open heart surgery, and that he might go on the transplant list.

Not once did she say, “Why me?” or “This is not fair.”

And, for the record, you should know that she didn’t say, “I can’t do this, it’s too hard.”

She did say, clearly to me and the universe, “I will not bury another child. I will not do it.”

The conversation continued. I said, once, “I’m sorry.” But then continued, “I mean, I’m so glad that he has you to take care of him, and I know everyone is scared, but I’m sorry you didn’t get immediate blissful joy you were expecting and so deeply deserve.”

She sniffed. I asked what I could do, and she told me, “Call me. Just keep calling me. If I’m in the NICU or with the baby or whatever, I just won’t answer.”

And so I did.

I called and texted her Tuesday. No answer.

Again on Wednesday. No response at all.

My stomach sank.

On Thursday I tried again, not too much, just a little so she’d know I was thinking of her – only good things, of course.

Part 4: My Birthday
On the morning of my 40th birthday I woke at 5:00am to write my 1,000th blog.

I want it to be a good one, but I am not sure what it will be about. I start writing the story about the 6 Stockings and about baby Sean, then write about my Mom text about my Abuelo.

Around 6:45a I stand up to stretch and find Zoe sprawled across the sofa. Sing me happy birthday, I command, and when she doesn’t, I pull her on my lap and tickle her mercilessly while singing it to myself.

Soon enough Zack hears the commotion and snaps his fingers while strolling to us, wearing his black and yellow SpongeBob jammies, hair standing straight up in the air.

When neither of them can produce a single present for me, I sing happy birthday to myself while tickling them both at the same time.

After I drop the kids at school, my mom calls to sing me happy birthday.

I let her, and laugh, and then she tells me how lucky I am to have my grandfather here to sing to me on my 40th birthday.

She passes her phone to him and he sings to me, “Happy Birthday to you, you are my number one, I love you Missita, Happy Birthday to you.”

I clap my hands and he laughs at our little party. “You know I was your age when I left Cuba and had to start all over?”

No, I tell him. No, I didn’t know that, and I hadn’t thought of it.

I’m just so glad you’re here, today, I tell him, and I guess a doctor entered the hospital room, because I could hear a bunch of people talking and then the phone went dead.

After that, I called Barb while driving across town to my office where I needed to fetch some books on early Spanish Empire and land grants.

She answered with a choked up voice, “Let me call you back in 10.”

I turned down my car radio, tucked the Blackberry between my knees and prepared myself for the worst.

I imagined that if he passed away, she should not have to tell me. Or anyone.

In preparation for her call, I switched lanes, avoiding the highway in case I needed to pull over and cry.

She called as I passed the Walmart where I get my oil changed.

“Critical. But stable. He had open heart surgery yesterday.”

I laughed involuntarily and banged the steering wheel happily, “Best birthday present EVER!”

Barb didn’t laugh with me.

She exhaled with a sound that sounded much like she might be smoking a cigarette, standing outside the hospital, probably wearing a thick coat because where she is can’t be nearly as balmy as Tallahassee is this week.

“I said critical but stable, don’t have a party yet.”

“Are you kidding? Sean is alive. My grandfather is alive. They’re both here, and it’s my birthday. It’s a great great day.”

An hour later, I was back home and finally able to finish my 1,000th blog, happy again to have found another slice of something wonderful to write about.

 

Stranger in the Rain

It's a rainy day and everything seems to be taking a little longer this morning.  I sign checks, pack lunches, do hair and do a hundred other little things while trying to get myself dressed.

Finally the kids are at school and I'm on driving alone to work, playing whatever song I want LOUDLY on the radio while I mentally list all the things I have to do when I get to work.

Three things. Four things. Oh, wait, five.  I feel a sharp pain in my chest, stabbing relentlessly.
It can't be anything, really it can't be anything serious, I decide to let it go but it doesn't leave.

I pass landscapers digging holes by the I-10 exit, planting trees in the rain.  The seem to be laughing at each other and having fun in the mud. Or maybe I imagine that.

I keep going, or at least I try to, but I'm stuck between a huge WalMart truck and an over sized load.
Whatever. I keep listing what I have to do.....Write this, change that, buy this, finish that, hoping that my thoughts will make the pain go away.

I usually take one route to work, but it seems like these big trucks are going that way so I slide into a turn lane and go the other way.  I get to the intersection just as the green turn arrow turns red.

A man stands in the rain with a sign that says, "Bless You."

People ignore him.

I can't. I won't.

I roll down my window and call him over and while he weaves between other cars to come to me I search for money.

I never have cash on me because my kids are always needing $1 for this and $5 for that.  I manage to scrape a handful of silver from my ashtray and slide it into his hand.

He smiles. He has green eyes, light eyes and a face of kindness.

Before he can walk away I keep looking for more things to give him. If I had lunch with me, I would give it to him, but I don't even have lunch for myself.

Would you like a water bottle? I offer him the bottle  Zoe left in the car this morning.

The man standing in the rain accepts the water bottle laughingly and pretends to pour it on his head, since he's already wet.

I'd give you and umbrella if I had one!! I tell him, and he says he's fine but he doesn't walk away and no one else is offering him money or help or even the kindness of acting like they see him, so we keep talking.

I fish around the bottom of my purse and find a few more quarters and hand them to him.

His face changes into one of concern. How are you feeling? he asks me with a seriousness that almost makes me cry.

Me? I'm fine! (I can't say this but my eyes blurt out Of course I'm fine, I'm in a car and you're standing in the rain!)

How's your blood pressure?

Fine, I guess, I'm not big on going to the Doctor!

I'm a Doctor, he tells me, and I don't challenge him, I have no reason to believe he isn't.

How's your heart?

My heart? I ask and put my hand over that stabbing pain that I'm sure is coffee or stress or whatever.

Yes, your health is important!

Oh, I think I'm healthy enough, I say while digging another handful of change from another pocket in my laptop case and slide it into his hand. At this point he is leaning out of the rain, kinda into my car.

But are you HAPPY? he asks, very directly.

Happy? Um... I like to make other people happy, I tell him and he shakes his head at me like I'm a silly child.

You HAVE to be happy. You deserve it, he tells me in a voice with great seriousness and gravity that hits a nerve so raw that tears well up in my eyes.

 I can't cry, I didn't bring mascara with me to work, so I bite my lip hard.

Just then the light changes and I get my green arrow to turn.

I tell him goodbye and thank you, and as I roll my window up he shouts Be happy! It matters!! Doctor's orders! 

As I drive off I look back in my rear view window and see him dancing between the cars and puddles, sending himself off into his own happiness and leaving me to figure out my own.

Cup of Hope (Make Room)

On this long holiday weekend I find myself awake too early again, before my alarm, before the sun. I'm not unhappy to be awake but I was hoping for a little more freedom from the lists of things marching around in my head.

So I get out of bed.

Not a tiny bit sleepy I go directly to make coffee more out of habit and taste than need.

The K-Cup machine that I rely on waits patiently in its prime corner counter spot.  I turn it on and when the light blinks I put a K-cup in and hit start.

While the coffee brewed I put cups from the sink into the dishwasher and wiped the counter down. Then I peeked into my coffee cup to see if it was done and and it was empty.

I shake my head. Melissa, you're getting old. I wonder if I'd put a K-cup in, if I'd hit start and try hard to remember these autopilot moments.

 No, no I'm not getting old, I'm sure I made my coffee, I think and half-believe myself.

Just in case, I toss the K-Cup, turn the machine on-off and make another cup.

While the machine brews I move things here and there like a puzzle to make room in the dishwasher for two more things and then it's full so I turn it on.

The K-cup machine is still gurgling and brewing so I spray bleachy cleanser around and wipe the kitchen sink and then peek in the coffee cup.

It's empty.

This time I know I'm not crazy.

 I have to have my coffee.

So I try it again and superstitiously pour out all the water and replace it with new water. I turn it on and off and now only one of its usual three buttons light up.  Ohh, it looks sad. I unplug it and wipe it down, then pull it close to me and hug it only thinking for a second that its a good thing the kids are asleep and not here to heckle me.

 Then go for Plan B and hunt my stovetop Cuban coffee maker. Where is it? In the pantry? on the counter? Oh, down there by the blender. It looks rested and ready for action.  I fill it with water, add the middle part and spoon three heaps of Cafe Bustello in there and twist the top part on.

While the Cuban coffee simmers on stove I wipe down the table and pick a few things off the floor, then empty the trash can. The coffee still isn't ready so I look for something else to clean, like I've found my new favorite minute-to-win-it game.

Nothing.  The kitchen is clean, I win, so I supervise the boiling roiling coffee and when the bubbling stops I pour the thick Cuban coffee into a regular sized coffee mug and add a bunch of half and half to compensate.

It's good, but it needs sugar, so I pour a little in, taste it, then pour more. It's really good but no way can I drink a mug of this.

But while I'm standing there by the sugar I can't help myself and plug the K-cup maker back in.

Again it lights up with only one of the three lights working.

Again I pet it, hug it, give it a little pep talk and then push the only button that was lit.

The machine spurts a little and then, miraculously, coffee spews out right where its supposed to spew out from.

But the coffee cup, instead of waiting hopefully for THAT coffee, was in my hand, full of a bitter cup of thick coffee.

 I remember once hearing you have to make ROOM for blessings and for things you hope for, and I failed this cardinal rule.

So quick, quick, quick, I dumped my cup of Cuban coffee down the drain and filled it with the coffee I'd been waiting for.

After that, I was ready for whatever comes next. 

Balls and Leadership

I'm sitting in carpickup early, watching kids play on the playground.

A pack of kids chases a big ball this way and that way around the field cheering screaming.

Someone kicks the ball too hard and it goes to the kindergarten playground, the one that's fenced off to protect the little guys.

 Right now there are NO little guys over there so one speedy machine of an athlete squeezes between impossibly narrow bars and runs after the ball.

Kids scream after him NOOoooo! NOOOO! You'll get in TROUBLE! STOP! but the kid is back across the fence before trouble could come.

Because of him, the game goes on.

I shake my head and smile, delighted to have witnessed a born leader in action.

The Alex Project: Part 1 - Starbucks, Staircase, Laughter

If this were a movie it should open today, May 20 in my office.  Perhaps the camera would come from the sky, through streets of canopy oaks and through a college town into my office window. 

There you see April, Alex’s aid, sitting on a chair alone, listening intently.

In front of her, in a circle around a computer is me, then Alex in his wheelchair, tilted back a little but as close to the screen as his chair will allow.

Next to us on the unused part of the desk are remnants of the breakfast I brought and fed Alex. He’s so skinny and since his movements are so limited he can’t get himself food or easily have food delivered so I do my best to drown him in calories every time I see him. 

This past Saturday my daughter selected Alex’s menu: Panera macaroni and cheese with a brownie followed by a Starbucks caramel crunch frappaccino and brought it to Alex's group home where he lives with profoundly disabled, mostly nonverbal people. 

Alex calls the people he lives with “clients” and I tease him that it sounds like he lives in a hair salon.  He thinks its funny too, like the people who live there would book themselves for a long stay in a small house.

In the year I’ve worked with Alex I’ve seen hundreds of people look over him, through him and around him. I’ve heard people talk for him, over him and around him as well, so I’m listening very carefully. I’ve learned to sit and not interrupt him and offer say for him what I think he was about to say.

He takes a deep breath and swallows hard.

“Find the one from my exam about the home schooling.” He didn’t get the sentence all at once, but he got it out, twisting himself with effort.

I nod my head. I know what he means.

I downloaded over 3000 student bloopers from history exams into an excel spreadsheet and have worked on sorting them by era and key word and the idea of hunting for one particular blooper is mindnumbing. 

And not what we’re working on right now.

First we need to make the cover.

He says he doesn’t know how to do art things so I pull up a page of templates. His eyes widen. He can’t hold a pencil,  a cup, pen, spoon or a brush but he can do art, I know he can, and I want him to have this and say he designed it.

Alex picks the image he wants to convey – stairs, because they symbolize all the obstacles he has to face.

 I nod and agree and pop a few images up.

Alex asks for this color, then that one and after a few decisive responses he has a big part of his project done, but not the biggest part.

 In order to finish his work for my class he has piles of work to go through  but our attention is taken away by voices coming from the office next to us. A student is talking to a professor about his grade. I’m not sure the conversation was private; if so the student didn’t do a good job of using his inside voice.

The student asked why his grade couldn’t be an A and the professor said something about a print out of grades that show the student didn’t earn an A, wasn't anywhere near an A and in fact had done not a single bit of A work all semester. 

The student isn’t satisfied begs outright for a grade change based on nothing but the fact he was willing to beg until the professor caved in.  

A long “buuut whyyyyy?” crossed from the other office to mine and that’s all Alex can take and he throws his head back and laughs loudly.

I try to cover for his laughter by reading a line from the spreadsheet in front of us, of a college history exam where a student wrote that Columbus came to America and met Napoleon. 

Alex laughs at that, and so do the rest of us in the room. 

He nods his head, use that one for our project, and I mark it for the second round. . 

Fun is fun, but we have work to do. 

A Week in the Life of an Organ Hoarder

Sometimes the best part is to start in the middle of the story. So let's do that.

I figure the pain isn't going away and go see Dr #1.

I tell her this is what's wrong with me, here's a simple fix, please let's fix this today.

She does some tests and shrugs and asks why do you think THAT is wrong with you? Let's get you to an ultrasound, stat. I need you there in 10 minutes.

Out I go.

 I feel rotten and I don't want to be poked and prodded. I want relief NOW and I'm grieving a quick fix and cursing traffic but I get myself to the ultrasound.

It's empty and clean and it smells good. This is a nice sign. The man behind the desk introduces himself warmly and I feel like I found a concierge until he mentions he's in my online class. I straighten up and smile. Yes, the online class that starts this week. We talk about the book he needs and what's due the first week then I sit in a quiet chair and hold my sweatshirt like a teddy bear.

The ultrasound is quick, the most painful part being that it was administered by a Gator fan with a large but tasteful Gator statue prominently placed. 

The next morning the nurse calls.  My X looks fine, my Y looks fine, there seems nothing wrong with my Z either, but I should go see Dr 2 because maybe, just maybe...

So make the appointment. Part of me says no, let it be, but the other part says this HURTS and I'm tired, and I cannot live with this pain, no way.

The week passes. The appointment comes.

He is a nice man, one I've known for the better part of 15 years.

I saw him last year for a pain like this, one that wouldn't go away forever and he offered to take the pain away by removing the offending organ(s).

He spoke of it like it was an inevitable part of the aging process, give into it, get it over with.

I didn't.

Now I'm back. He goes over the new ultrasound.

There is nothing wrong with my X. Nothing wrong with my Y and Z either. Nothing at all.  But still, he agrees that MUST be where the pain is coming from and offers to put me on pills.

Pills? No. I don't want pills. I took a long stroll down pill road and don't want to live there again.

Then you know what the next option is, he says, throwing it out there, then sitting back, fingers laced.

Surgery.

He nods.

I ask if it would be the small surgery he offered last August, the surgery that I never scheduled.

No, this time it would be XYZ. The only option considering my age and my level of pain.

I shake my head but don't say no.  This would be elective because I'm not diseased, right? This isn't urgent, I'm not in harms way.

He agrees, then brings up my age and the inevitable demise of unused organs.

I tell him I'm still using all my organs and they all look good. But I can't live in this pain.

He nods and says try the pills, give it a few months, if you're not better we should schedule.

I leave quickly, more in shock than anything. I don't want to have my organs harvested. They haven't been found guilty of any offense, and it seems wrong to indict them for this without a shred of evidence.

I don't cry, I don't get mad. I also don't pick up the pills.

I decide I'm going to live with this pain, even though its growing, because it's just pain and I'm not sick. By this point the most I can do is sit on the sofa under a heating pad, wondering if I'm a closet organ hoarder, a crazy lady who keeps harmful rotting things inside her. I shake off the thought.

Then I check my voicemail.

It's Dr #1.

They got more results.

 I was right it was what I'd said.

It wasn't my XYZ and I don't have any problems with my XYZ it was DEFINITELY something else entirely.

They prescribed me the pill I asked for over a week earlier, and I picked it up, happily.

Camp Horny Aloe: Subtitled "I am Not Kuwait"

I got there before she did and sat in the car staring into space.

The nurse called back about yesterdays’ stuff while I was driving and I hung up just as I pulled in her long driveway.  Don’t ask me exactly how the nurse said it but it came out mechanical and even hurried like I was annoying her. Basically she said here is step B, step C, and now do this and this. Understand? Goodbye. 

And because I did understand I got off the phone and sat there quiet, waiting for my friend to pull up and bring her sunshine. Which she did. 

This is a special day, anyway because we are in this tiny space of time between when college classes end in May and when public schools end in June. 

In three weeks we will both have our kids 24 hours a day. For now, our kids are at school for a blessed bunch of hour while we are totally free. This freedom is earned and will be enjoyed, no matter what.

She shows me around her house. It feels homey, peaceful and safe. I imagine her kids sleep very well.  

As we step into the backyard a gorgeous cat greets me. There’s a pool (clean!) and a huge grapefruit tree. Over there are berries, there’s the corn (corn!!) growing, and over there is the broccoli.

She deserves a trophy for even imagining this, much less getting it done. I’m proud of her for having a home like this in her heart and actually doing the hard daily work of making it a reality, but I don’t tell her because that would be awkward.

So we sit down outside at the wooden table with the huge umbrella.  The cat patiently lets me pet it and we start talking about this that and nothing.

Then it comes back to the news.  I want to talk about it; I don’t. I have choices, I have options, I have decisions.  I can do something before it gets worse,  or just wait until it gets worse. My first instinct in life is to wait for a few counts, don’t rush. Doing nothing isn’t a long term strategy but it’s a short term coping mechanism I’ve mastered.

Now that I understand what’s going on with me, I feel like I can deal with it mentally, I don’t need more medical intervention than that.

There, next to the cat and under the umbrella I think I’ve decided to do nothing, and if hurts I’ll just think, “Oh, that’s to be expected” and then go on with my life.

Until the wasp comes.

 It’s a HUGE wasp probably lured by the delicious garden and giddy drunk with Spring smells.

The wasp divebombs between us and I duck. I fear no roaches, no rodents, no cats, no birds, no dogs, no snakes. But wasps are evil and not to be trusted.

Unlike me, my friend stands her ground.

Before the wasp can even decide if we are worthy targets she pulls out a towel and whips it at the wasp, putting it on the defense.

I’m pretty sure she also yelled a few choice things at the wasp, but I was too much in shock to say anything. I’ve never seen a woman fight a wasp.

This is awesome.

It retreats for a moment, looking shocked, then comes back at her.  

Now she’s mad and really tries to kill the wasp before it can attack us.

I’m shaken out of my own fear and point out “OMG YOU’RE FOLLOWING THE BUSH DOCTRINE! ATTACK BEFORE YOU’RE ATTACKED!” and we laugh so hard we forget the damn wasp and go inside.

Suddenly the Bush Doctrine makes sense to me. I mean, I’m not about to attack Iraq, but I get why it’s good to attack first instead of waiting to see IF the wasp was going to really sting us. 

We continue with our mid-day round of storytelling and such. 

She needed this. I needed this. She cooks for us, just a few things, but it’s a feast I haven’t known in forever and the timing couldn’t be better.

I check my watch. Too soon I’ll have to get Zack, but we still have another hour.

Because this is my first time at her house she gives me the formal tour of the rooms and cool light fixtures, then we go outside so I can see the rest of the backyard, the part on the other side of the pool. There are flowers, there’s cactus, and there’s a… what?

What IS it, I ask, staring half in shock, half in admiration.

It’s aloe. She says, shaking her at the shocking plant.  

I didn’t know aloe could do that. I guess this one is male? And that it likes us?

The two of us stare at the long thick stalk coming out of the usually quiet aloe plant. I have never seen an aloe plant with an erection, but this one looks downright gloriously fertile and obscene.

We love it, and I take a picture to forever remember this.  I’d post it here, but it doesn’t do the plant justice and also, I like to keep my writing PG. This aloe is XXX. Trust me.

I check my watch again. Ten minutes until I need to be in the car.

We go back to the table under the umbrella.

The wasp returns and dive bombs at me.

I duck and scream “I’M KUWAIT! HELP ME!” and we fall over laughing because 20+ years later Operation Desert Storm is that interesting.

She shoos the wasp away (again, my hero) and I get up to go.  We will do this again next Wednesday and the Wednesday after that until the kids get out of school, so it’s a quick and easy hug hug goodbye see you next week.

In the silence of the car on the way home I let the thoughts run around my head…. the doctor, the Bush Doctrine, Kuwait.

Things are supposed to make sense, really, they are, if you just line them up and look at them the right way and let them become a story.

Before Zack’s bell rings, before I have to put on my mommy face, it all comes together.

Then I get it. I’m not Kuwait. I don’t want to be like Kuwait. I’m supposed to learn from history. 

Kuwait just sat there and Iraq invaded them. Colin Powell and Stormin’ Norman will never come rescue me.

That’s how I came to decide I’m not going to wait for this to get worse.

I will face this, I will be fine.

I will come back next week and the week after that to Camp Horny Aloe and we will all be fine.

2 Books free on Kindle!

 Free on Kindle April 14-18

 Four Days in Cienfuegos: The Adventure of a Very Good Cuban Granddaughter (2012 Trip)*
http://www.amazon.com/Four-Days-Cienfuegos-Granddaughter-ebook/dp/B00AWPWOKW

 Are They White? American Families Offer to Open their Homes to (some) Cuban Refugee Children

Thursday Zack called to be picked up from school; it was his stomach. He was hysterical in pain.

Friday he felt worse.  Over the weekend he was tired, but not especially writhing in pain, but when Monday came around he warned he still felt awful and would be calling me from the clinic.

I shake my head. No, no, no way, he's not playing me. I can't come get him - I have classes to teach, it's April, weeks away from the Final. No, no, no way. I drop him at school, red eyed and droopy.

I then go home, get Zoe and take her to her school and after THAT I can finally head to work. It's a warm Spring morning and I finally can wear a dress again. Today's lecture is on Operation Pedro Pan. This is going to be a good day. I mentally mark off everything I need to do in office hours while fiddling with the radio.

Before I get off I-10 the phone rings.  Zack's in the clinic. He's hysterical with pain. I need to come get him. I can't turn around, though, I need to go to work (sigh, what a waste of mascara! what a waste of a blow dry!) and fillout leave forms and notify students and (sigh, I WANT to TEACH!) then drive waaaay across town. I tell the woman who calls from his school that I'll be there in an hour. An hour, she repeats back to me, then adds, good, because that's our limit.  I don't ask what it's they're limit for -- do they euthanize? Then get off the phone and do what I need to do.

Tuesday he is no better and I'm frayed. My Tuesday Thursday class should have a lecture on WW2 today, I *love* that lecture and explaining Window Stars and showing pictures of government posters of Jenny on the Job, the non-Rosie the Riveter character of playfully silly blondeness who historians seem to have relegated to dusty drawers. Today is the lecture with the Langston Hughes poem where he demands to know "how long I gotta fight both HITLER and JIM CROW?"

At this point I call Zack's doctor and ask for help.  I'm thinking the nurse will tell me it's nothing and to push on. But instead she says there's a nasty virus going on, so bring him in.

I do.  The Dr says its a nasty virus, shows how dehydrated Zack is, gives me dietary instructions for him, gives him pills, gives me excuse notes for school and work.

That day Zack isn't much better.  Denise is free to watch Zack while I teach (thank you!)

Are They White?

http://www.amazon.com/Are-They-White-American-Invisible/dp/1482041626/ref=sr_1_9?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1361291127&sr=1-9&keywords=melissa+soldani+lemon

Here you Go!!! Free Ebook* Enjoy!!!!

Click below to go to the Amazon kindle site for the book -- Free 2/15-2/20* - 100% of book proceeds go to Alex Lehr so he can choose and hire his own tutors and aides.

http://www.amazon.com/Laughing-Stories-Invisible-Friends-ebook/dp/B00BFM0OJY/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1360928681&sr=1-2&keywords=prayer+of+the+laughing+yoga+frog

Coming 2/14

Dear Alex, Keep the Frog!

Alex, when you asked me for the Yoga Frog statue I know I hesitated and then when I wrote about it, I made it look easier than it was.

This is what really happened.

First I said, yes you can have the frog, but on Thursday, I need a little more time with him.

Which sounded crazy. What grown up professor lady needs time alone with a frog statue???

So then I said, yes, you can take the frog, but you have to bring him back so I can have him at the end of the semester to take pictures with, again.

Then I sent the frog off with you.

Now I know I don't need the frog back.

In fact, I'm adamant about this.

Keep the frog.

I don't want to be a woman who has only one story to tell; I want to have new stories with new frogs or gorillas or duct tape or whatever inspires me.   To do that, I have to let go and make space for the next wonderful thing.

So yes, keep the yoga frog, it's yours, and the more I think about it, it was never mine -- I was just hanging on it and helping you two find each other.

He Left Me. Happily.

Remember Alex and the frog from Prayer of the Laughing Yoga Frog?

Well today Alex came by my office to get a copy of the book for himself and his mom. No problem, I remembered to pack them this morning. I didn't remember to put my lunch in the car or bring the water bottles from the car to my office, and I certainly didn't remember a jacket on this winter day, but yes, I remembered his books and happily handed them over.

We talked for a few minutes. He told me he went with his church to  Peru, on a mission trip, and said people work too hard there and don't laugh and play like we do in America. I shrugged. I've been out of the country for 4 days of my life, so I can't offer much.

Then we discuss his classes and other issues. I hate to hurry him out of my office but he's the fifth student in a row in the past two hours and I still have to fix up today's lecture and the Dean wants to see me and I have 18 emails to answer about essays due online.

Not one to be hurried, Alex stays put in my doorway and says he had a dream.

My eyebrows raise. Oh no.

He dreamed the frog wanted to live with him.

My eyebrows stay raised. I knew this was coming.

 I knew deep down in my that someday I would give the frog away.

Anyway, I loved it too much to keep it to myself, right?

So I put the frog into a big bag and hung it on the back of Alex's chair.

His frogilicious yogarific head peeked out over Alex's shoulder as they rolled down the hallway.

They looked happy together, I thought for one moment before looking at the empty space on my desk.

My desk won't stay empty for long -- I'm sure the universe will send me something awesome, something I can't yet imagine.

We Broke Up. Please Delete Me*

Dear Pizza Chain,

I used to love you.

I used to look forward to your thin crispy crusts and your cheap child pleasing cheeses.

You were cheaper then, easier then, convenient and cheerful.

Then during last summer's gas crisis you raised your prices, and I said nothing, but I started exploring my options.

That same week -- you would not know this, but it's time I told you -- I joined Costco and I found dinners far cheaper and more interesting than you ever were. (Can you say "Tilapia?")

Also -- you would not know this either, but it's also time I told you -- I got this amazing sharp knife from my father this past Christmas, and I now I love cooking. Or at least, I love chopping. I'm looking for good pots and pans, maybe some glass bowls. 

I don't know exactly what I'll buy, but I know I can't get what I want by turning to you anymore.

I can't say this any clearer; I've shown you with my actions by not ordering from you since before Christmas, and now I'm telling you with these words.

I don't want you to cook my food, I don't want you to bring me food, I don't want to eat what you cook. I want to cook my own food.

Please, please, stop texting me and emailing me and sending me mail bragging about your specials, promising me satisfaction, delivery, warmth.

Maybe you haven't changed, but now, to me, you seem greasy and actually kind of desperate.

I would be ashamed to place your box on my corner in the recycle bin.

If you have any dignity at all, please don't text me any more, don't email me anymore, and don't bother mailing me any more of your brightly colored flyers.

I am immune to your charms.

Delete me, Pizza Chain, forget we ever knew each other.

Our Lady of the Chocolate Finger

It is between classes on Friday and I'm weaving through and around my colleagues (but not taunting any of them, I swear) when the Dean calls my name.

"Soldani! Need you!"

I extricate myself from whomever I was not taunting at that moment and  follow him and his voice into the inner sanctum room where textbooks and really important things worth locking up are kept.

"It's about religion, you know about all that stuff" he says as I join him and Debbie, both looking perplexed.

"Yay, right up my alley," I offer, knowing and follow their eyes to a trail of something leaking mysteriously from the file cabinet.

I rubbed my finger in the substance to see what it was -- not blood, not really sure if it was chocolate, but maybe old thick coffee?

"Well, it probably isn't Mary bleeding. She weeps. This has to be Jesus if it's blood and  it seems more like chocolate syrup or dried coffee...."

I offer to taste my finger, I almost do it, but I can't.

For a minute I blame Tinsley, our colleague whose life we will be celebrating tomorrow. He wasn't much of a trickster, but he loved to laugh.

If he were here, he'd definitely put down his NYT crossword puzzle and offer some sort of advice.

But Tinsley's passing isn't funny and we are to sore to face it now, today, when we don't have to, so we don't.

Debbie closes the file cabinet and again the mysterious miraculous chocolatey oil cascades out again.

I run my hand  under the drawer.
Nothing.

I get down on my back, on the floor (in my cute dress, a long one, very appropriate for all matters of religion, sushi eating and for also teaching about the Dawes Plan) and look up at the bottom of the cabinet behind the drawer.

There is more or that magical gook there and Debbie hands me a wipe to get it all away.

Satisfied our files and textbook closet have been properly sanctified, I go off  back to my office reminding myself over and over to not lick my fingers and see if that stuff really was chocolate.

Still

My favorite time
is still
those hours
right before
dawn.

The Godfather, Tigger, and Spiderman

It was just as I was getting the class into the 1990s that his phone went off.  This never happens in my classes, most especially to the brave souls who sit close up to the action in the front row of the auditorium class.

It's a boring buzz buzz ring, and its clear whose phone it is because he's stretching his leg out to pull his phone out of his pocket.

I ask "Is it your mom?" and he nods his head.

 I need to get the class back to domestic terrorism during the Clinton administration, but I can't let this moment go. I wait for  him to give me $20 for interrupting lecture and compulsively lecture him on ringtones. "You can do better than that, I know you can. No one has to have boring ringtones.  I have Usher singing YEAH YEAH. And one with cool bells from Harry Potter.  Right now I'm using the Godfather."

He shakes his head. 70 people behind him giggle, and I'm off topic for just a minute, but it's the end of the semester and they KNOW I'm going to pivot right back to lecture. But this is important.  He can do better as far as ring tones go.

 I ask the class if they knew that now you can set any song on your iPhone to be a ringtone or alarm. Several people nod happily.

I feel like I've performed ample public service for the moment and get back to explaining history.

And just as I'm deeply into the religious philosophy of the Branch Davidians I hear something strange but I keep going because these students do NOT know about the events at Waco, Texas and they're on the edge of their seats and I want to keep going but twitches on faces tell me they hear it too.

Where's it coming from? 

Finger, faces tell me it's coming from my bag at the front of the class.

It's playing the beginning tones from "Somebody that I used to know" (you know the song, just like you know Gangnam style, I'm not going to sing it here for you).

  I fumble for my cracked iPhone and turn the sound off.

The sound button shows the sound should already be off, so I turn the phone all the way off and spin on my heels, back to lecture.

A student asks, "Wait, were there PEOPLE in the compound when the ABT attacked?"

The music continues. I'm so distracted. It's the same song and now the guy is starting to sing "you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness..." but my phone is off so I must be losing my mind.

There's the culprit, hiding under papers.

It's the super cool Samsung Galaxy I stole from my son.  I love this little tablet except it won't synch up to my Mac and download my iTunes. Every other device I've brought to the Mac has been different -- the Mac finds it, welcomes it, shares with it, and everyone is happy.  Now, with the Galaxy the Mac is acting like an old tired dog who is annoyed by a perky kitten.

I can't get the music to stop without logging on to the tablet with the long complex password I invented to keep my son from unilaterally reclaiming the tablet (fair is fair in love and war) and I fumble through it while the song keeps playing "But you treat me like a stranger and it feels so rough" and I realize I'm not getting the tricky password here and now with the tiny keys and I power the tablet off.

The song dies, I fist pump, the class cheers, and we head back to Waco, then to Oklahoma City and through the USS Cole before the end of lecture.

As the students file out I realize and remember there are no songs on my tablet, no alarms, no ringtones. I have no idea where or how that song came from or why the tablet just turned itself on and spontaneously started playing like a bad bad kitten waking you up at the wrong time.

The next class meeting, before lecture while the students are copying down key terms and asking questions about upcoming exams I stand away from the screen so I don't block their view. I'm wearing a long swishy dress with wedge heels and as I'm standing still at the front of the classroom I suddenly lose my balance like someone kicked my knees out from behind me and hit the rail of the whiteboard hard on my to falling flat on my butt in front of the class.

They stare in silence. I'm FINE I say as a throb tells me I'm going to have a big bruise on my back.  A nice guy whose family should be VERY proud of him springs up from the third row and climbs over chairs to offer his hand to help my up as I'm already getting. I shake off his offer and say "Help pregnant women up! I'm fine!" and off we go back into lecture.

After class I find myself holding my Tigger keychain and remembering I'm like him. Bouncy.  I go on Twitter and admit to the fall. I have to laugh about it or become the professor who falls down and acts like that's normal so get used to it.  A witty student writes back that she thinks maybe David Koresh did it.  I agree a little but admit it felt kinda like Oklahoma City and rub the bruises on my butt and arm.

In another class, while they were taking their exam, I slide up onto the window sill for a minute -- it's so hard for me to sit still, and I have to look everywhere for cheating.

 I know the students by name and quirk and handwriting by this point in the semester.

 No one in here would cheat on me, not a single one of these these respectful hardworking awesome students, but still. I have to keep looking.

 When I finish my surveillance from this angle and start to move to another one I lose my balance and fall awkwardly almost down on my ass again.

Instead of crashing I catch myself, spring up and whisper shout "I'm Spiderman!"  to the four students who saw it happen.

They shake their heads, giggle a little, and go back to their job of taking an exam by explaining the the pieces of the puzzle of American history.  And while they're writing I turn on my phone and tweet my triumphant Spiderman moment to the world.

After finishing the exam several students see the tweet and are annoyed they missed my fall.

I tell them it was fast and quiet and all that matters is I laughed and got back up again -- just like I want them to do.

Desperate Times: Pirates, Communists, Roaches

More than 200 years ago, when the US was a new country and just making her way out in the world, she came across the Barbary Pirates of Tunis, Tripoli and Algers on the North African coast.

US merchant boats full of goods to trade were not able to trade freely on the Barbary Coast, and instead were forced to pay "tribute" money to the "Princes" just to keep the pirates from blowing up our ships and selling all the crew into slavery.

 Between 1790 and 1800 the US authorized payments to the pirates of between 1/6 - 1/3 the total government budget. Anyway, European nations (ex: Denmark, the Two Sicilies and other World Leaders at the Time) had been long paying these "tribute fees" to trade along the Barbary Coast.  Who were we to change this tradition, a new country with a flag that hardly anyone recognized yet?

All this money,  for what? To not be killed? Yes.

The Barbary Pirates were running what we now call a "protection racket" (also known as "racketeering') -- translated: paying bad people to not be bad to you.

As soon as Thomas Jefferson became president he refused to continue to have US resources drained by racketeering thugs.  Jefferson called on Congress to authorize "millions for defense... but not one (friggin) cent for tribute" and asked for the creation of a navy.  A few years later the new US Marines stormed Tripoli and announced the whole racketeering thing was over.

  I love that moment of US history, but I didn't love my week this week, and what happened that makes me keep thinking of racketeering pirates.

A few weeks ago I saw a roach in the dishwasher. Ew. That's not OK.

Then one under the coffeemaker. Then one -- was it the same one? he had that same sneaky look - on the floor by oven.

I don't want to kill them, actually I'd like for them to get jobs, buy their own food, bathe, and maybe   pay me to hang out here, but I kill them anyway, quietly, surgically, followed always and every time by a burial at sea (flushing).

I mention this to my awesome landlord, and he sends over the Bug Guy who is not actually the Bug Guy who kills things but actually is the Bug Guy who takes your money and promises you there will be Other Bug Guys.

I dislike him from the beginning, I get the feeling he is talking to me but is spewing something he's memorized. He tells me all about German Cockroaches  - their eating habits, nesting habits, shitting habits, and babyroach-making habits.  I've lived in the South my whole life. I know enough about roaches, thanks.

He keeps talking.  My awesome landlord interrupts after 30 minutes, asks how much it will be and writes a check for about $600.

At this point I want the Bug Guy to leave and take his bug stories with him. But apparently he can't.  He tells me that for every roach I see, there are a thousand hiding behind my walls that I can't see.

"Like Communism?" I retort, admiring the juxtaposition of the two feared"pests"  and laugh at myself but  he doesn't stop talking for a second. Like he didn't hear me.  Hello? I compared the roach scare with the red scare, hello? Funny? Anything? Nothing.

 I'm pulling on my sweater, I have my keys jangling, every bit of body language that says it's time to leave but now he is set on trying to gross me out or get me to flinch or whatever sign he will know he's scared me enough into paying him his protection money.

He flashes his light at my counter where 30 minutes before I had made Cuban coffee. "See that? droppings, right there on your county" -- I don't correct him. I know the truth.  The truth is that those are coffee grounds and I want him to leave and he won't leave.

He then goes on to explain to me the fact that I see any roaches at all  is because the hive is so overcrowded a few have literally starved and are losing their minds.  After pausing for about two beats, he adds "If you knew what was behind your walls, you wouldn't be able to sleep at night...."

My impatient body languages escalates my walking to the front door like I'm going to just leave him here with his communist plague roaches. Before he can go he explains I'll need to clean out - empty out - my kitchen. All the way empty.  Bleach it all down, wipe it all down.  His men would be coming to spray stuff into outlets and then find hives and suck the roaches out with these high powered bug sucking vacuums; I'd need to be out of the house from X to Y time, and then they would be back again for another treatment Z days later.

Finally he leaves.  I empty the kitchen. I clean, I pack, I clean and clean. I find dead roaches and name them Trotsky and Lenin. I can't sleep that night as images of swarming roaches scratching behind the walls starts to really skeeve me out.

The Bug Guy with the poison and the vacuum arrives in the morning.

He does his work, then reports he found about 40 roaches.  He'll be back in 2 weeks to make sure the invisible communist roach problem doesn't return.

 I imagine that for $600 I could have bought some super cute shoes and danced all over those roaches and vacuumed them up myself.

For that same money I could have bought each roach a ticket to Halloween Horror Nights and then abandoned them there.   But that would have been too swift and simple and answer, too Jeffersonian for our modern world.

For bi-monthly payment of about how much it costs to fill my SUV with gas, the Bug Guy Mafia will continue their oh so capitalistic  invisible but horrifying roach destruction and protection racket.

Meanwhile, my kitchen is super clean and I have to eat every meal at a restaurant until the Bug Man returns. He didn't tell me I had to do this, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Drunk Gummy Bears and the Spread of Communism

The Cold War that has broken out in my house is my fault and I take full responsibility.

BEGINNING*

I took my beautiful iPhone out of the thick rubber bounce-house I'd encased it in for over a year.  Without all the plastic it was half the size and so much prettier. The screen felt better, the phone fit in my wallet better, everything went well.

Until the day I walked by the spot my iPhone was charging and hit the cord and OH for a few seconds the phone was airborne  and I thought I could dive and catch it but actually I winced because too quickly the flight crashed with a decisively loud smack-bam on the ground. I found it face down.

 Still, no pulse, cold.

 Pieces of glass were missing from its face.

Long cracks splayed themselves across the glass like instant age lines; it was the same phone but it looked like it had aged 100 years.

Despite all the physical appearance of disaster and mayhem, I clicked around and found all my icons were there. The camera still worked. The volume still worked. The phone still worked.  Fantastic, crisis averted.

MIDDLE**

I kept using the arthritic iPhone  these past weeks even after the one day I held it wrong, forgetting to guard myself against the 12 separate bayonettes of glass that jut from around the gaping holes, and tore a big gash in my finger splattering blood all over the faceplate of the phone.  Since then I've dropped it a few more times, never intentionally (of course) but less apologetically.  It still worked, we still needed each other, and a small truce was signed that held up well until Halloween night.

Last week I asked around about how to make vodka gummy bears (follow me here people) and was told all I had to do was pour vodka over gummy bears and viola there would be a new creation.

So the night before Halloween I poured a bunch of vodka over (very willing volunteering brave) gummy bears and left them alone to marinate and party.  On Halloween, late in the afternoon,  I checked on the mixture and it kinda seemed like the gummy bears had some crazy orgy and became one big jello shot of a gummy bear.

 If you've ever taken Mardi Gras beads and melted them into cool projects, or if you've lined up crayons on paper and shot hot air from a blow dryer at them and watched the waxy colors blend and melt you'd recognized the same pattern in these melted drunk bears.

Not knowing what else to do I reached for my iPhone to take a picture of the drunk tank on my counter. It was hard to get at just the right angle to see both their transparency and their gelatinous drunkedness so I put the phone right over the bowl, very close and then it jumped right in.

I can't blame the phone for wanted to join the party but I really needed to take this picture so I fished it out and then mopped the sticky vodka melted gummy guts it off with 10 papertowels, then returned to the bowl to finish my mission.

 There. Done.  Posted on Facebook.

(I think)

ENDING* 

As I check to see if the post has gone through I see a darkness creeping across the screen from the cracked area of the phone, the part of the phone that probably convinced the rest of the phone to jump into the gummy bowl, the cranky troublemaking side.

An hour later the darkness has spread across the face of my iphone like communism across Europe.

I don't know who to call (Churchill? Truman? Stalin? Steve Jobs?) but I do see my awesome iPhone still works, so I still have it.

Halloween has passed and now we are into November and I have yet to make a move, continuing my Cold War against the phone. Maybe the phone will attack me. Maybe it will jump again. Perhaps it will do nothing and stay exactly the same and we will peacefully coexist separated by the Iron Curtain of the iPhone faceplate.

Meanwhile, don't tell my iPhone but the gummy bears are chilling in the refrigerator, perfectly happy and blissfully unaware of their (unphotographed) impending doom.

Dear Three Kings, Please Bring THIS*