My uncle is a bird guy. As in, sits in cold wet/hot dry places waiting for the elusive Whatyamacallit to come out of the bushes so he can get a photograph, bird guy. He’s currently in Australia for the month doing what he loves best – the aforementioned sitting in cold wet/hot dry places waiting for the elusive Whatyamacallit to come out of the bushes so he can get a photograph. Most of the time, he just sends an email with photos as communication but this time we got this: Interesting encounter today along the access road to Hypipamee Crater (for you non-Australians, that’s at the southern end of the Atherton Tablelands, west of Cairns, Queensland). I was by myself, squinting at some small thing in the woods, looked up, and saw this guy strolling down the road towards me. Having heard of a male in the area with some chicks (= aggressive) I was a bit concerned but saw no chicks and decided I wasn’t about to be stompled/eviscerated. The bird walked casually along the road edge while I took photos. I REALLY hoped (Aunt) would follow me so she could see it, and she did, and took some shots of her own. It got a bit tense when the bird seemed to take a strong interest in our blue shirts (color of some favorite fruits, supposedly) and kept walking RIGHT up to us in a determined manner, holding eye contact the whole time. I hid (sort of) behind my tripod and (Aunt) got behind a car. Didn’t seem aggressive, just very focused, but we were intimidated. Finally it strolled off into the woods. You know you’re close when your 100-400 zoom is too long at the 100 mm end — for some of these I used a 24-105 mm lens. This is a typical Uncle email. I’m from a family of dry sarcastic smart asses. Notice that Uncle says he was “a bit concerned…” about the bird. And that the bird was “…walking causally along the road edge while I took photos.” And, that things got “a bit tense when the bird seemed to take a strong interest in our blue shirts…” Yeah, can you say understatement? I mean I’m imagining this little angry bird coming at him, something comical like a duck or a goose. Not this massive guy! HOLY CRAP that sucker is big! Right?!? I now get his very unassuming statement, “…but we were intimidated.” Yeah, I’m totally intimidated and I’m nowhere near that massively big bird. A bird, by the way, who looks nothing like the fluffy wonder that was my childhood crush, Big Bird. I mean, look at this dude's head! Thanksgiving is tomorrow. Any questions of what my family Thanksgivings were like should be answered with this post.
OR, if you don’t get the weird from this post, try this one (The Thanksgiving Threesome Story...) OR (Thanksgiving and THE SEX SHOP...) OR (THANKSGIVING WRAP UP...) It may be mortifying, I may constantly blushing but my family is never ever boring.
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Funny how life always seems to make a liar out of me; Monday I said I wasn’t going to post until there was something interesting to say and then Tuesday I went and got myself fitted for a heart monitor.
I’m fine, by the way. No need to panic. I have a few heart murmurs and they’ve been playing up and talking to me. And because my grandfather had a million heart attacks and strokes and my father buried his leg before his body died on him and because my cholesterol is through the roof, the doc put me on a monitor for 48hours to see what the heck the murmurs are saying. See, fine! And yet, I’m me so a heart monitor for 48hours isn’t just a walk in the park. No, it’s just a bit of drama trauma. Years ago I was a patient dummy for a group of cardiology doctors in training. Because of the dang heart murmurs, I was hired to be a fake patient so that they could practice their bedside manner and diagnostic skills. Of course there was a small problem; my murmurs are quiet ones and my boobs are big. What followed was two hours of awkward conversations and touching. "Ma'am. My name is Doctor blah blah. I’m going to listen to your heart.” Long uncomfortable pause as he tried to figure out how to listen to my heart and not touch my breast. “Um… sorry. I’m going to… May I… I need to move your… um… your breast?" Then the next one, slightly more confident because he’d watched the first dude go up in flames, “I’m Doctor blah blah. May I lift up your breast to listen to your heart?” And the next, “I need to access under your breast. May I just lift…”? And the next, “Could you please move your breasts up so I may…?” When I’d agreed to do this fake patient gig, I wasn't thinking about the touching and the awkwardness and the weird pauses as they tried to hear murmurs that weren’t obvious to any of my doctors till I was in my late 20’s. I just thought, cool unusual gig. I didn’t think, “Cool. A gig with lots of boob manhandling and overly sweaty palms.” And I absolutely didn’t think “Cool. A gig sitting in my bra for three hours while thirty almost doctors stand about me ogling and making self-conscious comments.” I would have asked for more money had I known that was happening. Or the movie rights. Those would have been worth something. I certainly didn’t think that all these years later, I’d be having my boobs lifted again and then wandering around for 48hours as a half cyborg (Husband’s description) with sensors on my boobs and under my boobs and sticky tape pulling my skin every which way. And I didn’t count on having to do more than clutch husband’s hand as say, “There’s that weird feeling again.” Fact: when you have to note any ‘heart issue’ while wearing a monitor, every thing is a ‘heart issue’ and when everything is a ‘heart issue’ then you start thinking you’re being overly sensitive and nothing is a ‘heart issue.’ I’m almost hoping for a freaking heart attack or stroke so I know that something has happened worth writing down. Not really. That would suck. Though having one while I have this sucker on would be really cool to see. Then when you meet me, I would have a womb AND a heart attack to show you. In the meantime, I’ve not showered since Tuesday morning and I’m starting to feel like there’s a funk following me around along with my dangling wires and sticky skin. Add to that, every single time I’ve gone to the bathroom, I’ve forgotten the sucker is attached to my pants and almost pulled all the wires out and dropped the thing on the floor. Thankfully I’ve caught it just before the boob skin was ripped clean off but it’s been close. I’m not going to be able to wear a V-neck t-shirt for a few weeks without looking like some alien being Captain Kirk might have found on a distant planet. And every shirt I own is a V-neck. So there's that. Last week, when we told a friend of ours I was getting this monitor put on, Husband joked that our insurance wasn’t good enough to get the actual monitor and that they were just going to hire a little person walk about with me, ear to my chest for 48hours and then Husband acted it out for everyone at the cocktail party. Awesome. And yet, I’m not sure that wouldn’t be better than what I’ve got going on right now. Of course, then I remember the fumbling cardiology students with their sweaty hands and and am thankful for the wires and the ripping skin and the lack of boob lifting. It’s all about the little things… like murmurs and heart monitors and boobs. My friend, (not her real name) Tori and I have a lot in common. We’re both married to software engineer musicians. We are both childless by choice. We both have hair that frizzes at the slightest sign of moisture. We both love to wander Target to calm our brains because everything is in its bright and shiny place. And we both have the most bizarre embarrassing things happen to us. Awkward, excruciating things that would cause other people to never leave the house, we find hysterical and share with everyone we know.
The other night, Tori sent me a text, ‘OMG! I have such an embarrassing story for you.’ And Tori wasn't kidding. In fact, I think this is one my favorite stories EVER! I give you, for your pleasure and mine, Tori Goes To Target: After a particularly stressful day at work Tori took herself off to the Target to wander the aisles in the quiet, looking at pretty things and pretending people didn’t die that day. She drifted into the hair product aisle, looking, as we frizzy-haired folk do, for that one product that will calm the frizz but not leave it smelling like a rancid immovable helmet. Tori’s been using Miss Jessie products and has been very happy with the results so when she saw they had a new product out, she pulled it off the shelf to check it out. Now, it is stupid to buy a body product without smelling it, especially one that’s going to be slathered on your hair so Tori opened the bottle to have a sniff. Pleased with the aroma, she put the cap back on and twisted it shut. But another thing Tori and I have in common is that we are absolute klutz’s. As she twisted the top back on, the bottle slid out of her hands and, despite her fumbling, landed on the floor and busted open. Hair cream splattered everywhere, on the shelves, on the floor just as a helpful Target employee came around the corner. Horrified, Tori looked down at the mess and then up at the employee. “I’m so sorry.” She said, looking at the mess. “I’ll pay for it!” But the employee just shooed her away, told her she’d call for a clean up and everything would be fine. And so Tori walked away, face flaming red, smearing the bit of cream that had landed on her hands into her hair. As she wandered the store, her skin returning to its pre-embarrassed color, she noticed people looking at her and smiling. She smiled back. Then she noticed people looking at her, eyes wide in shock and giggling. She checked to make sure she didn’t have hair lotion on her clothing. Her black pencil skirt was clean. Her blouse was clean. She couldn’t see anything that was an issue and yet people kept looking at her and snickering. Bemused, Tori dismissed them and turned into the coffee aisle, smiling at the family of four gathered at the other end. The children looked at her, pointed and blatantly laughed out loud. Tori looked down at her outfit again but still didn’t see anything worth laughing about. She looked up. The children were definitely laughing at her. Tori looked at them, confused smile on her face. "What's so funny?" she asked. Then the mother walked over to her, pulled a tissue out of her purse, handed it to Tori and said, “I don’t know what you’ve got going on there, but you should clean it up.” And she pointed at Tori’s leg. Tori looked down. Past her pristine pencil skirt to the leg the mother was gesturing to. Her leg, which currently had a large glob of white hair cream on it. A glob that had landed UP her skirt when the hair lotion bottle had exploded. A glob of white hair cream that, as she’d walked around the store, had then become a thick stream of cream, slowly making it’s goopy way down her leg and into her shoe. A glob of hair cream that resembled - in every-single way but smell - sperm that appeared to be leaking down her leg as she wandered the Target store dressed like a soccer mom!!! Horrified Tori explained the story of the exploding hair lotion bottle to the family while ineffectively wiping at the cream with the quickly disintegrating napkin. The cream smeared and looked even worse, now with bits of rolled up napkin adding to the horror. With an self-conscious smile to the mother, Tori hurried herself to the back corner of the store where she knew the employee bathroom was, hoping she might find someone to take pity on her and let her clean herself up. She didn’t find a single employee in that corner. She found twenty! Twenty Target employees having training in the back corner of the store near the bathroom all turned and looked as Tori comes round end of the shelf unit looking like she had what looked like the remnants of a quickie sliding down her leg. But Tori being Tori, when faced with a twenty of horrified faces, stopped, put her hand on one popped hip, squishy napkin in the other gesturing at her cream smeared leg and very clearly said, “What? So I obviously had a quickie in the parking lot. So what?” Because, while she may not be good at holding bottles of lotion, Tori is fantastic at breaking the tension in a room and brilliant at making light of the obviously and great at turning a ‘Something About Mary’ moment into a comedy sketch. This is why Tori and I are friends. Like minds and like experiences make for lifetime snorts and giggles. And, apparently now, lifetime references to quickies in the Target parking lot. Good times! MONDAY: New batch of six and seven year olds but this group is mostly ‘just turned six’ year olds. In the treasure trunk I’ve stashed some birthday hats and streamers and an invitation with no details on time, place etc. The kids ‘decide’ that they’re doing a play about a birthday party. One girl raises her hand. She’s one of those quite talkers who likes to tap my arm in the middle of whatever I’m doing and tell on someone. “My birthday was yesterday.” She whispers speaks. I wish her happy birthday. Another girl raises her hand and tells me her birthday is tomorrow. She’s clutching her plastic pink necklace as she tells us all that she won’t be in class tomorrow because it’s her birthday. We wish her happy birthday.
She mentions her birthday a lot during the next five hours. She should be the birthday girl in our play because it’s her birthday tomorrow, she says. When the kids decide that they should bring gifts to the party, she says they should be for her because it’s her birthday tomorrow. At the end of the day, she reminds me that she won’t be here because it’s her birthday tomorrow. “That’s right.” I say, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. ”I forgot. Let’s all sing her Happy Birthday.” I tell the class. They do, shout-screaming the song. She grins, her shinny blonde bob shaking in time to our off key singing. I wrangle them outside for pick up and, when it’s her turn to load up into her car, stick my head into mom’s window and say, “I know she wont’ be here tomorrow because it’s her birthday but she won’t miss much.” Mom looks at me and, with a totally blank face says, “She’ll be here tomorrow. It’s not her birthday.” “Oh,” I say, totally confused. “She told us it was. We sang her Happy Birthday and everything.” “It’s not. She’ll be here.“ Mom doesn’t say anything else. I step back from the car. I guess we’re done talking. Then I lean forward again, “When is her birthday?” I ask thinking maybe the kid is confused and it’s next week or was last week or… “December 18” The mom says not at all fazed by this blatant lie her child has told. “Okay.” I say, slightly bemused as I step back from the car and let her go on her way. The next day the kid shows up, different plastic beaded necklace, very wiggly front tooth and doesn’t mention her “birthday.” And neither does anyone else! Even though we spend the entire day creating a ‘play’ about birthdays, not one kid wishes her a Happy Birthday or mentions the fact that she said she wouldn’t be there because it was her birthday. Not. One. WEDNESDAY: Scripts in hand, I’m lining the kids up in the classroom to begin to set the blocking. Which, with this age group is really just having them all standing on a line of tape and stepping off when they have to speak. There are sixteen of them. They’re wiggly and hungry and I’m losing the battle for calm when I hear a thump and look over. Seven-year-old freckled faced boy has pushed the six year old who’s missing his front teeth boy against the wall. “What just happened?” I ask as the class quiets down to see what happens next. “He said something really inappropriate.” Says Freckles, loudly and clearly. Toothless denies it, lisping through his hole. “I didn’t. I told a joke.” Crouching down, I look Freckles in the face and ask, “What did he say?” Freckles turns his big wide blue eyes to me and unmistakably states, “He said I’m going to go up into my room and my mom is going to come in and kiss me on the lips and have sex with me.” The world freezes. I’m no longer a referee; I’m now a child abuse advocate. I pull both kids out of the room and leave the fourteen other kids with the twenty-year-old intern as I try to find the lead administrator. In my old job, this would have been my problem to solve. I’m relieved I get to tag someone else in to help - and I feel totally guilty that relieved is an emotion I’m actually feeling right now. Lead Admin is in the middle of sending home a seven-year old that punched another kid in the face. While we’re waiting, I have the boys go through the incident again. Neither one of them changes their story. I make them sit there while we wait. Both of them look guilty and neither one is crying the cry of the innocent. It's an awkward wait. So many words are swimming though my brain and none of them can come out in front of these children. Finally free to deal with our problem, I fill in Lead Admin and have the boys tell them their sides of the story again. Neither one changes their version of the story. It's still totally horrifying. Freckles says Toothless really did say the “really inappropriate” thing and he repeats it word for word. Toothless swears he was just telling a hot lava joke and that he never said what Freckles said he said. They both know they’re in trouble but we can’t figure out who is fibbing. Either way, the sex statement is totally traumatizing. We go back to class and I separate the boys and just hope that no other kid brings up the conversation - in class or at home. The last thing I want to do is explain what was wrong about what was said or heard or whatever. Lead Admin spends the next few hours running about placing phone calls and having conversations with the boy's parents that I’m sooooo happy I do not have to have. One parent thinks the story was fabricated the other is just plain horrified – like me. This whole situation is just plain yucky. Add to the week two kids out with possible chicken pox, the nose punching seven year old in the class across the hall who also pulled out his junk and stood there, balls in hand, sharing them with the class and I am worried about state of the world. I am ready to become a drinker, a smoker and a midnight toaker but I’m too tired, in both brain and body to try. There are days I morn the fact that I haven’t had children and there are days that I celebrate my wombectomy. Want to guess what I’m doing right now? If you’ve been reading my blurts, you’ll know that we’ve been referring to the next-door neighbors as the Dead Neighbors for the last two years. They used to be The Love Boat Neighbors because of the rope lights that line their roofline and make it look like the house is floating at night. But, because we haven’t seen them since May of 2013, Husband declared them dead and theorized that the handyman had killed them and buried them in the backyard. I still don’t understand the logic of killing them and then coming by to get their mail daily but not living in their house but Husband was sure that “the Handyman done it.”
Then we found out a month ago that one of the neighbors had actually died in March and our amusing theory wasn’t as hilarious as it had been. Not to mention that Husband was totally wrong about Handyman, and he wouldn’t admit it. Anyway, for the last few weeks, there has been a lot more activity next door. We suspect that Dead Neighbor’s wife will be selling and they’re getting the house ready to show to developers who will knock it down and make our lives miserable for a year while they build a cookie-cutter mansion no one wants to live in - Ooops, is my opinion showing? Let me tuck that back in… Anyway, the two cars that have sat outside for two years have been serviced and cleaned. The drive has been power washed, the pool cleaned, and the over grown brush cleared. And then yesterday, someone over there had a brush burn going. We could see the plume of smoke but it smelled like more than just wood or brush gathered from the garden was on fire. I checked to make sure it wasn’t the house but whatever was burning was contained to a small area in their side yard. Perhaps they were burning painted wood, I guessed. Nope, Husband surmised, someone over there was burning porn. Yup, you read that right. Husband thinks that Dead Neighbor’s porn buddy heard about the house sale and came over yesterday to destroy the evidence. By burning it in the side yard. For hours. That's a lot of porn. I really worry about what is going on in Husband’s head. I worry more that I entertain his delusions of crazy. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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