Of course it's my Fault

      Apparently, if anything goes wrong or not according to plan, it's my fault. The computer goes on the blink and it's my fault. Why? Because I'm the one who was using it and therefore I must have done something to cause it to stop working. Why? Because computers just don't stop working or wear out or accumulate cat hair that fries their inner workings. This particular computer was 5 years old and it turned out that it wasn't the computer, but the monitor. I usually leave the monitor on even if I have the computer in sleep mode so I suppose in a way, it really was my fault. I bought a new monitor and now when I'm done using my computer, I turn off the monitor.

     Last night was another example of how everything is always my fault. It was late and I had a long day at work. I taught two classes and gave a piano lesson. It was well after 9pm when I arrived at home. I was cold and coming down with something so a quick check of my e-mail and my work site and I headed to bed to read until my husband came home from work. By 10:30, I was falling asleep and so I didn't fight it.

 

     At 11:30 pm something woke me. I was confused and dazed coming out of a sound sleep. There was that noise again, in the distance. What was it? Oh, the doorbell! Who rings the doorbell at this time of night? Burglars? Nah...someone stranded? Maybe. I try to find some clothes to put on and stumble done the stairs. Now the ringing has stopped and there is pounding on the door.

 

    "Coming," I mumbled. I can see my husband standing outside on the top step. My sleepy brain not comprehending. I quickly open the door.

 

     "Jesus Christ, woman!" he barked, "Don't you ever answer your phone? My truck won't start and I locked my keys inside and you need to take me back to work so I can jump it."

 

     Now, why am I getting my head bit off? Why is this dilemna my fault?

     We get in my car and head off toward the factory.

    

     "Do you have the fob for my truck?"

 

     "No."

 

     "Jesus, then what's the point of going?"

 

     "I have a key." I sigh. We drive in silence across town. Just the sound of my coughing breaking the quietness.

 

     We pulled in and got his truck started and head back home. I didn't get a thank you or I'm sorry I yelled at you. But then, why would I? It's always my fault.

 

impaled by a potato chip

It's been awhile since I've had a real mishap. Over the last several months, I've developed tennis elbow, a pinched nerve in my neck, had to have bladder surgery because it had prolapsed and now I'm looking at having my thyroid operated on. And let's not talk about the dental work that is happening. I got insurance and my body fell apart - literally. None of those things are really funny and so don't qualify as a mishap, but today I had a bona fide mishap.

The cats decided it was time for me to get up. They sat on my chest, they sat on my head and when I covered my head with the pillow, they tried to suffocate me so I crawled out of bed and made my way to the kitchen. As I was shuffling around, trying to find breakfast for me while not tripping over the furry ones, I stepped down on something sharp. It embeded itself in the bottom of my foot. The soft skin of the arch where no summer callous had formed. The tender area right in front of my heel. It felt like I had stepped on glass. The pain was swift. I hobbled over to a chair wincing with each step.

Before I turned my foot up to look at it, I ran my hand over it, hoping to remove the offending material but it felt like I had a sliver in my foot, but I was puzzled at the stinging. When I finally bent to look at the sole of my foot, I found a broken potato chip piercing my foot. A potato chip! The salt from the offending material caused the stinging sensation. My doctor told me, chips were bad for my health, but I don't think he meant in this way.

The flying kitty

Some people are dog people and we have had our share of dogs and puppies, but when it comes right down to it, we're cat people. I have always had cats; Some of them inside cats that made me sneeze and most of them were outside cats who lived in the barn or later the garage.

If they are outside cats, you can pretty much be guaranteed that kittens will appear throughout the year. This particular time, Katie must have been about 9 and Sarah 8. To be honest, I don't know why I didn't see this happening, but I didn't.

Things were pretty quiet and then I heard a lot of giggling coming from Katie's room.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Nothing, Mom"

More giggling. "Can it go faster?"

I walked over to Katie's room and opened the door.

"MMmmmeeeOOoooWWWWwwwwww"

I looked up at the ceiling fan. There on the top of one of the blades was a terrified little gray kitten, hanging on for dear life. "MMmmeeeOOOoooWWWww" The kitten made another rotation.

"Get that kitten off from there". I tried to say it with a straight face, but I really had to bite my lip to look stern. "MmmEEeeeOOOoooWWww".

"Awww Mom."

"Turn the fan off before the cat gets sick and pukes all over this room."

That did it. The fan stopped moving and the kitten jumped off and landed on the Katie's bed which was directly underneath.

No damage was done to the cat, at least physically. And with the threat of rotating cat puking all over, no more cats took a ride on the ceiling fan.

Baby Clown

My poor son - he has to live down the utter humiliation that nearly surrounded his birth.

In August of 1991, I was 7 months pregnant with my third child and as big as a house, but for fun, I decided that I would attend a week long clown camp in Lansing. I knew the routine - I'd go into labor and 2 days later I'd go to the hospital and after 6 hours, I'd have a new baby. I wasn't due until October so my doctor said as long as I didn't do anything to strenuous, I was good to go. Lansing is about an hour and a half from my home. My husband drove me up on a Sunday afternoon and promised to return the following Saturday to pick me up.

The week was filled with learning the business end of clowning as well as performance aspects. We learned to juggle. You learn quickly when you're pregnant because you can't bend over a lot. Face-painting, balloon artistry and magic were also offered.

In the evenings we learned skits because on Friday afternoon and evening, we were going to be putting on performances to benefit local children's charities. I was scheduled to perform in a two-person skit early in the program.

Now we were staying in dorm rooms on the campus of Michigan State University and the beds were not the most comfortable even when you aren't pregnant. I was like a bug on it's back when it came to getting up in the morning.

Well, on Friday morning, I went through my usual rolling, wiggling and thrashing about to get out of bed. Finally, I was upright, but I felt like I'd been twisted and pulled like the balloon animals I'd learned how to make.

I waddled to the cafeteria, but nothing appealled to me, except ice cream and they didn't serve that at 8am so I settled for some juice and toast with jam and oh, the bacon smelled good so I ate some of that. And then I noticed they had blueberry pancakes so I had some of those.

By the time I gorged myself, not only did my back hurt, I was feeling kind of sick to my stomach, but I didn't have time to think about the pain. I think I rolled back to my room and applied my makeup, First a nylon to pull my hair back, then my white base, black eyebrows, black eye liner, add some eye shadow and blush, some red to my mouth, powder and then add the red nose and fake eye lashes. I was a pretty clown. Next came the costume - a maternity dress,and striped socks. My roommate helped me put on my size 25 hot pink clown shoes. I loved wearing them because they acted as a counter balance to my protruding stomach. Finally I added my wig and I was ready to go. We were going to meet and have a run-through rehearsal, a light lunch and then it was SHOW TIME.

I was nervous. I don't know why. The skit was simple enough and didn't involve anything physical; plus I'd performed it many times in the past. But still, something didn't feel right. I paced the hallway, ahhh...now I knew what was wrong. I must have slept wrong, every once in a while make back hurt, but if I streched or twisted it went away.

Rehearsal was a piece of cake. Many of the performers had never done a show before and they were nervous. Some of them were jumping up and down, others we running around and the noise - it seemed like everyone of those clowns was talking in their loudest most annoying clown voice. Someone brought us sandwiches and chips for lunch. Then the director called places, it was show time!!!

The other clowns seemed to grow even more frenzied. All I wanted to do is lay down. My back still hurt, but the show must go on. Our skit was called and out we bounced. Ok, my partner bounced and I waddled. I smiled extra big and performed our best. We waved as we scurried out of the center ring and once we got to the backroom, I found a chair and sat down.

A few minutes later, another clown came over and asked if I was ok. "Sure, I just slept wrong."
His clown name was Brit and he told me to wait right there, like I could disappear, and said, he'd be right back. A few minutes later, he returned, with the camp nurse. She was a real nurse, not a clown nurse. I just wanted to clarify that in case you pictured a clown dressed in a nurse's uniform carrying a large syringe.
"So what's going on?" She asked.
"Nothing, I just slept wrong last night. Got a little backache."
"Hmmm..."
"Well, I don't think she looks good" said Brit.
Now, how he could tell I didn't look good was beyond me. Every inch of my face was covered in heavy clown white - so yeah, I was pale, but that's how I was suppose to look.

The nurse started feeling around on my stomach and told Brit to go get a car. "You're going to the hospital," she said to me.
"No, I'm fine, just need an aspirin."
"Well, let's let the doctor decide that." She pulled me from the chair. She probably hurt her own back and should have used a pulley to hoist me up.

I got in the backseat, she got in the front. Brit waved at us as we pulled out of the parking lot.

She must have called ahead because I was quickly ushered into the hospital and didn't even have fill out any forms. We headed to the bank of elevators to take us to the third floor - labor and delivery.

When we got to the elevators, one was just boarding a woman ahead of us, but when she turned around and saw me, her eyes grew large and I thought if she's not having a heart attack already, if I get on this elevator she's definitely going to have one. So I waited for the next one.

When I stepped out on the third floor, the hall was lined with doctors and nurses. I was a parade of two - me and the nurse. We were assigned a room and the doctor on call wasted no time in getting me in a bed and my legs in stirrups. I didn't even have time to take off my shoes.

So there I lay, I could see my big pink clown shoes in the stirrups, a white sheet over my stomach. I did take off my wig, but I was wearing a white skullcap so I just looked like a baby bird's head - no hair. So pretty much I was pink shoes and a big white blob laying there.

As for the backache - it was labor pains. My contractions at that point were three minutes apart and I was far enough along for them to let me have the baby so they gave me something to stop labor.

Throughout the afternoon and evening, I had the best care. Doctors and nurses were stopping in to check on me. Finally about 8pm, one doctor came in and was checking my pulse. I asked who he was and he told me a cardiologist. My heart nearly stopped.

"What's wrong with me?" I shrieked.
"Nothing, I just wanted to see what you looked like."
I scowled at him.

At 10pm, I received a phone call from the security guard. "Hey, there's a bunch of clowns down here, said they wanted to see ya."

"They have my makeup remover! Let them in!"
"Oh you're the clown in labor," he chuckled. "I can't let them all in, but maybe one would be ok, it is after visiting hours."

"Thanks"
My roommate showed up a few minutes later and brought me some regular clothes and helped me remove my makeup. She sat with me for a little while and then headed back to the dorm.

The next day I was released with orders to stop clowning around. Very funny! My camp roommate drove me back to the campus where I waited for my husband to show up. He hadn't come up the night before because he said he couldn't find anyone to watch our daughters. I think he wanted to watch a ballgame.

Approximately, two months later, arriving two days late, my son Seth was born. There are no pictures of me in labor in my clown makeup because I was an angry, pregnant clown and I don't think anyone want to cross me. Give me a break, I was in labor, in my clown costume - you'd be a bit cranky too.

Did you rinse?

A few years ago, my son and I spent a week in Northern Michigan on Torch Lake. It was my first non-working vacation in many years and I was looking forward to spending time with friends.

Besides my son who was 13, my friend Beth had her two boys, who were slightly younger and her 13-year-old nephew. Beth's two brothers were also in and out as they came and went from work.

Beth and I were in charge of cooking and the boys were in charge of clean-up. The first day was great. We made pancakes for breakfast and afterwards everyone headed out to the lake. The sun was shining and it turned into the most beautiful day, except for one thing.

Beth and her brothers asked if I'd watch the kids while they took off for some family bonding. Not a problem. The boys were good and I wasn't worried. While the kids were playing on an inflatable raft, I rowed out past them in a small boat. I was probably 300 yards from shore, when the first stomach cramps hit. There was no warning cramps, the first one nearly doubled me over, followed by one that left me weak. I looked at the shore and the kids and knew I had to try to make it back.

I would row two or three strokes and then double over in pain. It felt like eternity before I reached the shore. I yelled out to the boys that I was going to run up to the cabin for a few minutes. Another powerful cramp hit from behind and I sunk to the ground, sweating and shaking. Somehow I managed to make it to the cabin and the bathroom.

By the time Beth and her brothers made it back, I was feeling much better, but I wasn't going to take a chance on the water yet. So I was sitting in a lawn chair, reading a book when they returned.

Beth and I cooked up dinner and the boys did the dishes and swept the floor. Beth's brother Pete and I were dating at the time and we took a stroll out on the pier. He asked if everything was all right, I seemed a little quiet. And told him of my late morning illness and laughed it off as sea sicknees.

The next morning was another beautiful day, I got up early and put on a pot of coffee. I knew the kids wouldn't be up for awhile so I grabbed a cup of coffee and went outside to enjoy some quiet time. Pete joined me a little while later with his own cup of coffee and soon Beth was awake. It was nice, just the three adults sitting outside drinking coffee and watching the lake.

We had nothing planned for the morning so we lounged around on the beach, reading and watching the boys play in the water, when once again I was hit with a massive stomach cramp. I made my way up to the cabin only to find that Pete was in similar distress. A few minutes later Beth came in complaining of stomach pains. Luckily for us, they passed after a couple of hours and we didn't have any bathroom accidents.

Day three was a repeat of the first two days. The adults got up early and had coffee, followed by breakfast for everyone and the boys doing the dishes; except, this time Pete helped with the dishes. A little later, the cramps returned. As I lay on the couch in agony, Pete said he thought he discovered the source of our ailments. While he was helping the boys, he noticed that they weren't rinsing the cups very well. He remember a story a friend of ours told about dish soap in a pie and put two and two together. The boys were poisoning the adults every morning with cups that still had traces of detergent. From that point on, the boys were under close observation to make sure the dishes were rinsed. Of course, they thought it was hysterically funny.

Nancy Drew wanna-be

Growing up, I wanted to be Nancy Drew. I wanted to have a cool convertible, best friends who would totally back me up and a boyfriend who was the quarterback of the college football team as well as being handsome. Plus, Nancy didn't have a job, but she always had money. She was nice and everyone loved her.

Well, it turns out I wasn't so much a Nancy Drew as I was Stephanie Plum from the Janet Evanovich series. I'm beginning to think maybe Evanovich has been tailing me to write her stories.

Anyway, the economy turned bad and I needed money and so did my friend Laura. We both loved solving mysteries albeit in our jammies sitting in bed. Laura was a whiz on research and so she decided that would be her job. I was supposedly more athletic so I'd do the leg work. Ummm...I should explain I'm 5'2" and was weighing in at about 180 at the time. I was also in my uhhhh...ahem...mid-40s. Not exactly Dawg the Bounty Hunter.

We asked around about what it would take - licensing, gun permits, DBAs. It seemed like a lot of red tape. Now, according to my husband, I haven't got any street smarts and not much in the common sense department either. It's a good thing we weren't a couple yet.

I was at my local watering hole talking about how I wanted to be a detective and bragging about how I had tracked down my birth-parents. Ok, so I left out the part about getting some help and I didn't actually find them, my searcher did, but that part of the story didn't lend itself to my credibility.

Well, wouldn't you know it. Someone actually listened to me and the next thing I knew, I had a case. Yep, an honest to goodness case. I had to track down this woman's boyfriend and find out if he was cheating and with whom.

I figured it shouldn't be tough - I figured wrong. I did my homework, got a name, googled an address and mapped it out. The problem was it was a ways away - out in the middle of some cornfield and the only time to catch him was at night and I have a mild case of night blindness.

My partner had backed out, so the woman who wanted me to track down her boyfriend went along for the ride. She wanted to catch him in the act I guess. My car was an old beat up bright blue Buick with a very distinguishing dent in the door. It also was a gas hog. So before we left town, we stopped at the gas station and filled up. We also got a few snacks and cigarettes and a couple of sodas. Sodas and stake-outs don't mix.

We drove out of town and into the blackness of a country night. The further we drove the darker it got. Finally, the asphalt gave way to a dirt road with very deep ditches on both sides. I figured it would prevent deer from jumping out at us if nothing else.

Now part of being a detective is being sneaky. The house was the only one on this stretch of road that basically went no where. I'm pretty sure people just don't cruise this road and my car was the only one we'd seen in miles. So I figured I'd better shut off my headlights. Unfortunately, I couldn't figure out how to do that. This car had a sensor so that when it got dark, the lights came on. I stopped the car in the middle of the road about 1/4 mile from the house I was suppose to be checking out, turned on all of the interior lights so I could see if there was a switch or a nob to turn off the lights. I pushed this one and my hazard lights flashed. Then I flicked another and the bright lights beamed to life. Yep, I was definitely in covert mode. Finally, I figured out how to turn off the lights and crawled down the road to the driveway, praying that I was driving straight enough not to land us in a ditch.

Now what? Turn in, sit out on the road, drive past? We sat there staring at the farmhouse that sat about 300 yards off the road. We both lit a cigarette and smoked. I had to pee, but outside of knocking on the door, my only other option was to find a spot and squat. I tried not to think of the pressure building.

"Well, what do you think?"

"I don't see his truck."

I sucked on my cigarette feeling very Columbo. I thought to myself, I need a trenchcoat and dark glasses. I was assessing the situation. I could sneak up to the house and peek in a window. If I saw the guy I'd run back and get her or I could just snap a few pictures and she could show him the next day as evidence. It was really dark outside and who knows what could be lurking out there.

"Do you want to get any closer?"

"Nah", said the woman. "He ain't here. He's back in town. I just wanted to know where the bitch lived."

She could've told me that sooner, like back at the gas station. I would've drawn her a map. My bladder was now closer to bursting and it was a half hour drive back into town.

I put the car in drive and pulled away. Yep, I was a real Nancy Drew - I solved the case and everyone loved me. And just like Nancy I didn't get paid cash - I got a couple of free beers. I just can't wait until my next big adventure.

Staple-gun mishap

First and foremost, I want you all to know that I can and have successful done wood-burning and can use a jigsaw. I took wood-working as a 4-H project. I'm really not that clumsy and my hair is not blonde. That is my disclaimer. With that in mind - we all have our moments of...well, stupidity.

I love working in theatre. I love performing, but I'm not a singer so when our local theatre does a musical, I'm backstage.

This particular year the show was Carousel and they were building a carousel to be used on stage. Time was running short and everyone was pitching in. I had been helping with makeup and props, but time was at a premium.

"What do ya need me to do?"

"Well, we need to get these ribbons attached to the sides of the carousel."

The carousel had a center pole with ribbons attached to it. The ribbons were suppose to be stretched to the outer edge and then stapled.

"Sure, no problem."

I grabbed a ladder and a staple gun and climbed up. I pulled a ribbon to the edge, lined it up and "thwap". The staple bounced off the wood and hit me in the chest.

"Must have hit a nail."

I tried again. "Thwap". The staple hit me in the chest again. I was annoyed. I lined the gun up and clicked off three staples. "thwap, thwap, thwap" Owwww. I pulled three from the front of my shirt.

Grrrrrr. I lined it up again and fired. "Thwap". The staple stuck in my skin just below my collarbone. I was getting mad. Why weren't these stupid staples going in.

I glanced around and saw the head of the tech crew. I really didn't want to admit that I was having problems with the staple gun of all things so I tried again. "Thwap" Another staple impaled itself in my skin.

As I was picking the offending staple out, one of the guys who was watching me said, "Have you ever used a staple gun before?"

"Of course, but this wood is really hard, the staples won't go in."

The guy climbed up the ladder and looked at the staple gun and popped in two staples and then handed it back to me.

"It works just fine if you point it the right direction."

After that, staple guns were added to the list of tools I wasn't allowed to use, without close supervision.

Multiplying hairball

Jasmine is my female Persian cat. She's a cat with a bad attitude at best and is down-right evil at her worst. We brought her home to be a companion for my neutered male Persian, Oscar.

We had had Oscar for about 6 months, when Jasmine came to live with us. Life was good; Oscar had a playmate and Jas had some one besides us to torment. She was Queen and everyone knew it.

Oscar was about 3 years old, neutered and totally de-clawed. He was a huge cat weighing in at about 10 pounds. Jas was dainty; She was just over a year old, with silky hair that she groomed by the hour. If anyone interrupted her grooming, she'd swipe at them with her claws - and she had all four of them. Poor Oscar quickly learned his place. When she wasn't grooming herself, Jas would lay in the window sill, sunning. Ah, life for the Queen Kitty-Cat was purrfect.

All was well, until we moved from our house in the country to a modular home in the city. I never let the cats outside at our house in the country, but it was big enough that both of cats and us had ample space. And sometimes, everyone just needed to avoid Jas.

We were at our new home for about 3 months when Jas started acting funny. She wasn't eating and she was laying around whining a lot. Not only that, but when we tried to pet her, we nearly required stitches. She was a bit...touchy.

Around the first of January, Jas really started looking ill. She had a large round bulge in her stomach and when I touched it, it was hard. Well, I didn't spend much time feeling it, Jas bit me. I did some research on the internet and found that Persians, because of their long hair tend to get accumulate hairballs in their stomachs. It figured, with all that grooming she did. Most of the time, a cat will just hack it up, but sometimes, it actually forms a ball. Upon further research, I found that little could be done except surgery if the hairball was too big. This one appear to be enormous.

I called the vet and explained the situation. It was suggested that before bringing Jas in, that I feed her some castor oil and try to get her to pass it on her own. Well, that seemed simple enough and a lot less expensive, so on my way home from work, I stopped by the store and picked up a bottle.

My husband met me at the door and the look on his face told me, he wasn't happy.

"What is it, what's wrong? It's the cat isn't it?"

"Yeah, it's the cat alright."

"What...was it the hairball?"

"You could say, she passed it."

"Is she..."

"Oh she's fine..." But I could tell that he wasn't. My first husband wasn't a cat lover.

"Then..."

"Go look in the closet."

I raced to the bedroom. I could her Jas meowing softly. Thinking the worst, I flipped on the light and there she was - with not one hairball but 4 and they were...moving!

"KITTENS? How, why..."

Jas had delivered four of the cutest hairballs, on the couch earlier that afternoon. I don't know what happened, but Oscar had a miraculous neuter reversal and was the proud baby daddy. I felt more than a little stupid, after all, I did grow up on a farm and had seen plenty of pregnant cats.

What I didn't realise was that cats can reproduce faster than bunnies, and it didn't take long for Jas to be with hairball again and Oscar to be on his way to the vet.

What can I say, it was a miracle, after all, the woman I bought Oscar from, told me he had been fixed.

She-Devil

I love cats. I have always loved cats. They're independent and finiky. They have clearly defined personalities. They're a bit fickle, one day they like you, the next day they don't. They're playful and full of surprises.

About 12 years ago, I fell in love with Persians. Their smushy faces are so expressive. I bought my first one at an flea market - sans fleas. His name was Oscar. The woman who sold him to me for $50 was teary-eyed as she handed him over. A giant white fluff ball, with orange tipped ears and tail and big blue eyes. She assured us that he was neutered and declawed. We were definitely thankful for the declawing, on the way home. We hadn't expected to buy an animal and so we were lacking the proper carrying case. Oscar spent the hour drive home hissing at us from under the seat and jumping at the back window.

By the time we got home, the kids had made friends with him and we took him in the house. Months went by and the kids went off to school and I went back to work. Poor Oscar was bored and lonely and a bored and lonely kitty is trouble! I would return home to find the house a mess, plants would be dug up, dishes knocked on the floor, rugs bunched up. Oscar needed a friend.

I started watching the classified ads for a friend for Oscar. I really wanted to get another Persian. One day, I found one and not just any Persian, but a flame-tip - just like Oscar.

The girls and I made an appointment to look at the new cat. I'm not sure what to say about this cat, except she was a diva to the max. She sat staring at us from a pillow, like we were far beneath her status. We talked to her owner and agreed to a price and Jasmine was placed in her carrier.

She hissed. She spit. She screamed all the way home. I took her in the bathroom - the smallest room in the house and opened the cage. I wanted her to feel safe while she acculmated to the sights and smells of her new home.

During the day, while we were all gone, she must have explored the house. I never found any messes in her cage or the bathroom and she was eating food from her little Princess Kitty-Cat bowl. But as soon as she heard us returning, she hid in her cage. When anyone tried to peek at her, she hissed and tried to claw us. I figured she'd eventually figure out that we weren't going to hurt her.

About five days of playing hide and seek with the cat, I came home before the kids. I don't think Jas heard me come home or she didn't care. Anyway, I went to use the bathroom and never thought twice about the cat, when I shut the door behind me. As I was washing my hands, I heard a hissing noise and looked down. There between the door and myself was Jas, her ears flattened against her head, her eyes narrowed to slits and her fangs glistening. She had been hiding behind the toilet.

I stared at her, she stared back -unblinking. I took a step toward the door and she lunged at me, her teeth gnashing, her claws slashing. I jumped back. Jas lunged again. MAD CAT! I thought. It was a warm day and I was wearing shorts and no shoes. I was no match against the razor sharp claws and needle like teeth. I had no intention of ending up a bloody mess.

Jas lunged again and this time I hopped in the tub and shut the sliding door. I could her the vicious She-Devil, hissing and caterwauling. I was trapped. No one was home and the neighbor's house was too far away for them to hear me yelling. This 6 pound hairball had me cowering in the tub with no way out. Once in awhile, I'd slide the door open a crack. There she sat - staring at me with pure hatred. If I attempted to open the door any farther, she'd hiss and jump at me. Resigned to my fate, I made myself as comfortable as I could.

I'm not sure how long I was trapped in the tub, but finally, I heard my kids coming home from school.

"Help, Help." I yelled.

"Mom?"

"Open the bathroom door, carefully and try to get the cat out."

"Why?"

"Because..." I sighed, "because, she has me trapped in the bathtub."

I heard a lot of giggling and for a moment I thought that my kids might leave me stuck in the bathroom with this vicious cat guarding me. But then I heard the door open.

"She's out Mom. You can come out." I peeked out and didn't see or hear the cat.

"Where is she?"

"don't know...she just ran out." I quickly climbed out of the tub and was able to escape the confines of the bathtub.

As for Princess Jasmine Kitty-Cat, well as I write this she's sitting beside me, editting my writing to be sure. She wanted me to tell you that at 11 years of age, she's now called Queen Jaz or Your Highness and she still rules the house.

Spot the Pregnant Pig

When I was growing up I was a proud member of the Raisin Slickers 4-H Club. My grandfather actually started it in the late 40s. Now, 30 years later, I was carrying on the family tradition. At the Lenawee County Fair, I exhibited my woodworking projects, my garden vegetables and rabbits. I won some blue ribbons, some red ribbons and my only white ribbon came in woodworking. Even as a 10-year-old I wasn't good with power tools.

The bunny barn was a small enclosed building at the fairgrounds. It was dark, dusty and there truly were dust bunnies. The rabbit dander, dust and urine caused me to develop a terrible allergy to the rabbits thus ending my illustrious rabbit breeding career before it barely got started.

My dad raised cattle - 200 head a year - and I assumed that when he decided I was old enough - I would take a steer to the fair. My father's friends had sons and they showed steers, leading them around the show barn arena, showing off their grooming and handling skills. I knew that if the boys could do it - I could do it - better.

The summer that I was 11, I had almost talked my dad into letting me have a steer to take to the fair the next summer. But Leon Jones ruined it for me. Leon was a little bit older and a lot bigger than me. He was already in high school. Leon was leading his steer around so it could get some exercise when it spooked. Leon tried to hold on and was dragged a bit before he let go of the lead line. The steer took off, running down the mid-way of the fairgrounds. That incident sealed my fate - NO STEER!

That incident happened in August and by February, I was still pestering my dad for a steer.

Every month we had a 4-H meeting. I'd only been in the club for a couple of years and was still considered one of the little kids. We didn't really take part in the meetings, we just sat there. True, most of the business meeting went over my head. Except at this meeting, I heard a word that grabbed my attention - RAFFLE. The meeting would conclude with a raffle.

"Dad, Dad - can I put my name in the raffle?"

My dad and the other dads were hanging out in the back of the room talking and not paying much attention to us kids.

"I don't care."

I raced back up front and put my name in the hat. Those who didn't enter the drawing were already putting on their coats and heading out. My dad and a couple of others were still in the back talking.

The club president reached into the hat and drew out a name. I held my breath - I didn't even know what the drawing was for, but I din't care.

"Tami Frye"

"YEAH! I won!" I raced to the back of the room. "Dad, I won, I won!"

One of the other men congratulated us.

And what did I win? I won...a...300 pound pregnant pig. Due date about a month. The goal of the raffle - raise the litter, show them at the fair and breed one of the piglets for next year's drawing. It was a year long learning experience! Hooray for me!

"Tell them to draw another name."

But the names of the others had been thrown away and almost everyone was gone. There wouldn't be a second drawing. We were told we could pick up the sow in the next few days.

It was a very long 5 miles home. My dad didn't say a word. He just gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.

When we got home, I raced in the house. "MOMMMMMMM" I screamed. "Guess what? I won a pregnant pig. She's going to have babies and I'm gonna raise them and show them at the fair!"

My mother looked strickened. My father sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. I understand he sat there most of the night. Did I mention, we raised steers - NOT pigs. We weren't equipped to raise pigs.

But within a few days - Spot - that's what I named my pig - came home. She had a litter of piglets and that summer I showed - not a steer, but a pair of pigs. I took Reserved Grand Champion, but showing pigs at the fair is another story for another time.

Within a few years, the cattle were gone, the barns converted over and we were raising pigs. All because one night, I put my name in a raffle for a pregnant pig.

I could say there is a lesson to be learned, but winning a pregnant pig, raising piglets and showing them at the fair is something you just have to experience to appreciate.

What's that black stuff creeping up the wall?

I'm not a bad cook, actually, I consider myself a pretty good cook, but with anything that gets done a lot, there will be some mis-steps, some accidents; I'm not sure what category this falls under, but it definitely was a cooking boo-boo.

My husband was at work so it was just me for dinner. He isn't a fan of pizza, but I am so once in awhile when I know he won't be eating dinner with me, I'll pick up a frozen pizza for myself.

The directions said to pre-heat the oven to 425 - which I did. Remove the pizza from the packaging except for the cardboard baking sheet, and place in the oven 6 inches away from the bottom. I did precisely what it said. It was to bake for about 18 minutes.

I puttered around the kitchen for a few minutes, putting dishes in the dishwasher, and wiping down the counter. I glanced at the clock on the microwave and I still had 10 minutes before I could eat my cheese stuffed crust pizza with everything on it. The kitchen smelled a bit funny, but it had earlier when I made lunch. The oven had smoked a bit, but when I looked at it, I didn't see anything and figured that maybe some food had spilled and was burning off.

Well, I figured the smell was the rest of the food burning off and I headed to the living room and my laptop. I had 10 minutes to play around on Facebook. The couch where I was sitting was facing directly into the kitchen and I had a good view of the oven. As I pulled up my farm, I glanced into the kitchen. Hmmm, I never noticed that shadow on the wall behind the stove. I looked at the front of the oven, black streaks were shooting up the white front. Wow, I thought, I didn't realize I spilled anything down the front. I sat there pondering why my kitchen and especially my oven was so dirty when I noticed an orange glow coming from the back. BEEP BEEP BEEP! The fire alarm started screaming.

FIRE! My oven, my kitchen was on fire. But first I put my laptop carefully on the floor. I ran to the kitchen - now black streaks were creeping across the linoleum floor. FIRE! I glanced at my bread machine chugging away next to the oven. Crap - Kenny's bread will be ruined if I unplug this.

FIRE! Oh yeah, I better do something about the fire. I turned off the oven. I looked around - should I just run to the neighbor's house, call the fire department. I ran into the laundry room where the fire extinguisher was. Hmm, should I use it? I've never used one before and I've heard they really make a mess. Maybe I should just go to the neighbors.

FIRE! oh yeah, there's a fire in my kitchen and I live in a trailer - maybe I should do something. Grab stuff? What should I grab? My laptop? Pictures; Shoot I better find the cats.

FIRE FIRE FIRE! Oh yeah - better try to put it out. I grabbed a gallon jug of water. Where to pour the water, better not open up the oven -I saw "Backdraft". So I just poured the water over the stove hoping the water would run through the appliance and put out the fire. After I poured the water, I remembered that grease fires don't go out with water - what puts out a grease fire. Shoot, I should look that up.

By now, the soot was covering the back wall, the front of the oven, and 6 inches of floor. But the orange glow was gone. Carefully, I opened the oven. No fire. I opened the broiler, no fire.

I pulled out my pizza. It was dripping water, but the cheese was melted and it didn't appeared burnt. Shrugging, I put it on a cutting board, no use letting it go to waste.

There was soot everywhere, but I was hungry. The clean-up could wait. I cut the pizza- everything appeared ok, until I bit into it. My lovely pizza tasted like charcoal or at least what I assumed it tasted like. Sighing, I dumped the pizza in the trash. I looked at the blackness covering everything and decided since I couldn't eat I might as well clean.

It took me two days to clean up all of the soot - it was on the walls, the floor and oven. After the scrubbing - the house and the oven were better than new. And I haven't cooked a pizza since. And what caused the fire? I'm not really sure, there was a little grease in the broiler pan and a small piece of charred paper or maybe the oven just didn't like my cooking and thought it would be better incinerated.

Scared of the dark

Hi, my name is Tami and I'm afraid of the dark. I have to sleep with a night light on; I can't walk into a dark room and coming home to an empty house is awful. I sing walking up the steps. My singing will scare anybody.

A few years ago, I finally figured out the root of this phobia and no it's not because I'm a chicken, but because of a scary fall night when I was about 10.

My job apparently has always been to take out the garbage. This time though, it was night time and chilly. We were getting ready to go visit my cousins and mom was finishing up the dishes. She handed me a bowl and told me to run it out and dump it in the garden.

Not a problem, the garden wasn't far away and the light from the kitchen window would allow me to see until my eyes adjusted to the dark. I hurried out the door across the driveway, past my swingset and my playhouse, and now I was in the shadows. The light from the window didn't extend this far and our yard light was blocked by the pole barn. Ahead of me was blackness, but I knew the way. I kept going, but then..."pooofffff" I heard something. Not a snort, but a loud exhale. I slowed down. Ahead of me I saw something glowing. I could see two of them, no four...glowing circles about 4 feet off the ground. Poooooffffff. I stopped. I could see huge hulking black shadows.

I didn't stop for long! I screamed, (I do that well and often)drop the bowl of garbage and fled back to the safety of the house. Well, I was 10 now so I should be a bit braver, so when I got close to the house I stopped and turned back. I squinted against the darkness.

There was something out there. Something big and black with glowing circles. Well, of course everyone heard me scream and came running from the house. I tried to explain that there were glowing, floating circles in the garden. My dad was carrying his heavy duty flashlight and started search the area.

I'm sure that no one believed me at first, but then dad came running back to the house. He ran right to the telephone and called the neighbor.

Yep those four glowing circles were eyes. The neighbor's steers had gotten out earlier in the day and were out running around the area and I had just scared them off. It took a few days but eventually they were rounded up. As for me, whenever I hear something go pooooooofffff in the night, I don't stick around, I don't want to run into any big scary steers who are out for a midnight stroll.

Housework can be dangerous to your health

I don't want to say I'm clumsy, but looking over my list of ideas for these stories, it seems that many of them involve me injuring myself. And this one is no different.

Unexpectedly, I lost my full-time job in 2004. No one saw it coming and I packed up my office which took me all afternoon because I lived at my office. When I "moved" home, I had no place to put my stuff and with lots of time on my hands, I decided to do some serious spring cleaning.

I decided to start in my bedroom. As I began digging out, I made stacks and piles to be moved to other places. I have a bad habit of tossing books on the floor when I finish reading them. So as I worked my way alongside my bed I piled the books behind me. As I finished up on that side of the bed, I began backing up, big mistake! I didn't see the pile of books behind me, tripped over them, sending them flying in every direction, but even worse I went flying too, like a turkey with a broken wing. I reeled into the side of my bed - a waterbed with wooden sideboards. Oomph! I hit the board with my ribs. But like a crazy ball, I kept bouncing, ricocheting off anything in my path; next a banged into a small cabinet bruising my shins and knocking it over, of course it had been covered in knick-knacks and they too went airborn. The noise was deafening, argh, wham, crash, oomph, bang. As I attempted to stop my fall -I stuck out my hand but crushed my fingers between myself and the wall. Snap, ow!

I ended in a lump on the floor. My children came running and stood over me staring as I lay on the floor assessing the damage. It hurt to breathe, my pinkie finger was quickly swelling and my shins hurt. Plus, I was going to have to pick up all of my stuff again. Once my kids saw that I was still alive, they hightailed it out of there before they were roped into helping me clean up.

You'd think I'd learned my lesson that day, but no. The next day I decided to tackle the big bookcases in my living. I had four of them along one wall. I had never cleaned behind them in 5 years and I had never taken all of the books down and dusted. I usually just ran a cloth over and in front of the books.

A side note - I had three white Persian cats and a lab mix dog which makes for a lot of hair. Plus we lived near some type of steel foundry that leaves a fine coat of dust on everything. Not a good combination for someone with allergies as I do.

I gathered my dusting supplies and started pulling books off the first bookcase. I was doing well until I got to the second one. My eyes were starting to water and my nose was stuffy. I kept going, it was just allergies, a little dust wasn't going to kill me.

By the third bookcase, my cats had decided to help me and were crawling on me, the books and the shelves. I was working on the lower shelves and was sitting on the floor. I was moving slower than normal because of the injuries I suffered the day before, otherwise I might have already been done and my exposure to the allergens, limited, but two hours later I was still working. My eyes were now starting to swell shut, tears streaming down my dust-coated face. I was breathing out of my mouth and...oh no...I felt the first sneeze building.

Achoo! Argh. I sneezed and my ribs ached. Not another one, I tried to stifle the sneeze to no avail. Snot was flying; I couldn't see and grabbed my dust cloth to wipe my nose. I got a lungful of Pledge fumes and dust. This set off more sneezing and I promptly peed my pants. Crap! I struggled to my feet and staggered toward the bathroom. ACHOO! As I walked through the doorway, I sneezed again, an expecially strong one this time and slammed my head into the door jam - face first. The edge creasing my forehead.

I made it to the bathroom and got cleaned up. I was a bit concerned, I didn't have a bump, but a dent in my forehead. But I didn't think too much about it because it didn't really hurt and I got ready for my night class.

Things were as good as could be with bruised ribs, a sprained finger and a crease running from my eyebrow to my hair line. Then I stood up in front of my class. The back row was fuzzy, I swayed a little and grasp the podium.

"Professor?" I heard one of my students call my name as I quickly sat down. A call to one of the nursing instructors down the hall, confirmed I had probably given myself a concussion and I should go home preferably to a padded rubber room.

Snakes Alive!

I don't like snakes! That's an understatement. Last summer, I saw one in my backyard, ran in the house, called my son at his dad's house, called my husband at work and insisted that one of them come home and kill it! Right now! It took me three more days to go in the backyard again and then only if I was armed - I had a hoe and a baseball bat. Worse still I saw it slither - that's just a creepy word - slither - under the house.

I have a snake phobia! Sometimes, when I'm driving at night, I have to turn on the interior lights because I'm convinced there is a snake slithering around on the floor and it will crawl up my legs. It's very hard to drive with your feet tucked up under you, but if you floor it and then coast for a ways you can. I figure I'm safe for a few seconds at a time.

Plus there's that whole porta potty thing. I won't use them unless I can peer down into that stinky hole and make sure 1) there are no ledges near the seat where a snake might be lurking and 2) the poop isn't high enough that a snake could leap off it and bite me in the butt.

I am the only person to ever, EV-ER, be bitten in Mr. P's biology class by a garter snake. And it wasn't really a bite I was told more of a taste, a nibble. I'm sorry, that slithery thing twisted around and grabbed hold of the skin between my middle and ring fingers, I screamed and jerked my hand, flinging the snake into the air. I wanted to vomit.

Why this horrible, irrational fear? Because one day, when I was just a little girl of about 6 years of age. I stepped on a snake.

It was summertime and my dad had put up a swingset for me and my sister under the big Maple tree in our backyard. It had a slide, and a glider and two swings. Next to the set was a tire tractor sandbox. We didn't play in the sandbox very often because the cats pooped in it all of the time.

It was a warm day and I rarely wore shoes and this day was no exception. I raced across the driveway to the yard, eager to play on the swings. But before I made it, I felt something wriggling between my toes. I looked down and there was a huge, mammoth, cobra - ok it was a little, common garter snake - sliding between my toes!

I shrieked. Jumped straight up in the air and didn't touch the ground again until I was safely in the house. I kept shrieking like I was dying or at least seriously injured. My mother came racing from the bathroom.

What's wrong?

I was hysterical. My mother grabbed me "Calm down." More shrieking. Finally she shook me and nearly slapped me to get me to breathe. "what's wrong?" By now she was dragging me to the door because apparently I'd encountered something traumatic. The shrieking began again. I was not going back out there again.

Of course, in the end, I finally explained that a snake wriggled between my toes and now it was out to get me. My mom laughed. Later my dad went out and looked around the tree and saw a hole at the base. He assured me that there was no way a snake was going to stick around and run the risk of a giant stepping on it again so it moved away. I believed him, because I never saw another snake in that yard again.

Dad in a tutu!

Vaudeville is dead, which is sad. Basically, it was an 8 act performance with singing sisters, dancing brothers, a comedien, and a skit, much like the Donnie and Marie Show or Hee Haw. Good clean family variety entertainment. Unfortunately, my dad never got that memo.

My grandparents wintered in Florida and we would visit them over Christmas break. A couple of times we flew, but usually we drove. Usually, my cousins would already be there because their other grandparents lived there all the time.

I'm not really sure who's idea it was to exploit the talents or lack there of us but someone did in the form of let's do a show! So we would find ourselves at one senior center or another entertaining.

My mother would sing songs like "A bicycle built of two" or "Yabba Dabba Honeymoon". She had a beautiful soprano voice and was an accomplished pianist. My younger sister, also sang and played the violin. Me - well, I don't sing so well and transposing music on the fly for my clarinet was never my strong suit - so I got to be the comic relief. Well, I was suppose to be the funny one.

I got to put on clown makeup and do silly skits like "Sucker on the Line" or "Is it time". Once in awhile, I might put on my tap shoes and dance, but by then I was in high school and that wasn't so cute.

My dad was a frustrated performer. Secretly, I think he wanted to be a star, but he didn't sing or play an instrument. No he did something far better than that - he scarred his daughters for life.

No, my father did parody ballet dances. At the time the instrumental song "Music Box Dancer" was popular. My mom would start playing the first few notes - dadadadada...and my dad would appear from behind the bedsheet curtain we had up on the back of the stage. He would be wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, bermuda shorts, white knee socks and tennis shoes and a tutu! He had all of the grace of a swan....with a broken leg, which he played to the hilt.

My sister and I, were in junior high when this first began, and it continued while we were in high school. Watching my father try to do a piruette and twirl was bad enough in front of strangers, but he also performed this routine at church talent shows. He would ocassionally add a new performance to his repertoire. I remember that he and my sister sang and danced to "A bicycle built for two". I, on the other hand was hiding, hoping that no one realized that I was with them.

I was a sophomore in high school before the vaudeville days were over, but maybe, just maybe I can convince Dad to take one more spin across the stage just so his grandkids can say...I remember when Grandpa danced in a tutu.

Spontaneous Combustion

It was one of the first warm days of spring and I was heading toward home, my window down, hair blowing in the breeze. The sun was shining and I didn't have a care in the world.

I was within a few blocks of home when I pulled up to the stop light. I was in the far right lane. In the left lane was one of those "I don't have enough testosterone in my own system so I'm compensating" trucks. You know the type, jacked up, big tires, diesal so you can notice them coming, if the flames on the hood didn't attract your attention. Of course, sitting in the truck were two men, sleeveless, t-shirt wearing men. My poor little car barely came up to the middle of the door.
I couldn't see the driver, but his buddy was smoking a cigarette, his arm hanging out the window. He was talking with his hands gesturing every now and then.

Well, the light turned green and off I went, toodling along. Of course, Mr. I have a really big truck didn't toodle - he roared off down the street leaving me in the dust. I hadn't driven more than a block when I smelled burning rubber, like a hose or a belt was getting hot. I didn't need car repairs, but even more, I didn't want to get stranded on this busy street. I moved into the left lane so that I could make a left-hand turn in another block.
But now, I had another problem, it felt like I was being stung on the top of my head. Just two days earlier, I had a bee fly in my window and land on my steering wheel. I shook my head trying to get the bee to stop. It didn't work. So I flicked my hand through my hair, hoping to get it to fly away without having it sting my hand.

It didn't work! Now, the bee had multiplied. I was getting attacked by several. I could feel at least 4 or 5 places where this bee or bees were at. I had no choice I had to swat them. Now mind you, I'm still driving down a busy 5 lane street.

I reached up and smacked myself on top of the head with the flat of my hand. I hit myself once, twice...arghhhhhhhhh! What's this? I had a handful of hair. My hair was falling out. My car was on fire...no my head was on fire. MY HEAD WAS ON FIRE?????

I began smacking myself with my left hand as I steered with my right trying to get home. I'm sure people were pointing and staring as that crazy woman drove down the street with smoke pouring from her head. I quickly turned on to a side street and drove as fast as I dared because no matter that my head was combusting, I did NOT want a ticket. Besides, how do you explain that you were speeding because your head was spontaneously combusting. No one is going to believe you. And if I was going up in flames, my body charred beyond recognition, I at least wanted to be in my own driveway.

Guess what? I made it home and by then, the flames were out. The fire wasn't caused by my overwhelming intelligence, my mega-watt personality. Nope, I realized that when that truck roared past me, the red-hot ash from the man's cigarette must have blown into my car, landing on my head where it ignited my hair.

The end result, I had 4 or 5 places where my beautician had to cut out the charred spots and I had a couple of blisters but thankfully nothing more serious, but now, I drive with the windows closed.

splish splash taking a toilet bath

Most parents have their fair share of kid stories and so do I, but let me remind you, my children aren't normal - they weren't born to a normal mother, they weren't raised in a normal environment and so I didn't expect anything other than slightly bizzare behavior from them.

Potty training can be challenging, even with the most cooperative child and the most patient parent. My middle child wasn't cooperative and I'm not patient so potty training was destined to be a miserable chore.

My eldest is easy going and it took awhile but potty training was accomplished. Unfortunately for me, Katie's younger sister Sarah had been watching to proceedings with care. There is only 16 months between the two and I had read not to push the potty training so Katie was about 26 months and Sarah was nearing her first birthday. There is a lesson here - never underestimate the drive of a second child trying to catch-up.

One day, a few months later, when Sarah was about 14 months old she toddled out of her bedroom, pulled off her diaper and threw it into the living room. "I do it myself!" and then she went and got a new diaper and attempted to put it on herself.

Well, if that's how she's going to be, I figured she was ready for potty training. For two days I put her on her little potty chair and she'd scream. I'd beg. I'd plead - just a little in the potty. She just gritted her teeth and refused. So, I'd let her play and the next thing I knew she was throwing her diaper at me. "I do it myself!" and she'd scamper off to get a new diaper. This went on for a couple of days, but honestly, I was getting really annoyed. I'd be watching TV when a soggy diaper would land on my lap. I'd be playing on the computer and whack - I'd get nailed in the back. I found diapers everywhere. It was a game. I'd beg and she'd throw diapers. And her mantra - "I do it myself" every time.

Fine, if she wants to do it herself, she can, I thought as I picked up yet another diaper. This time I hadn't seen it and stepped on it, barefooted. I didn't have the strength to fight any more and everything was starting to smell like old diapers.

I wasn't going to push the issue, but maybe I should've supervised her a bit more closely. I was home that afternoon, surfing the internet when things got very quiet. Every parent knows that quiet...the too quiet, quiet; the "uh oh" quiet. I listened intently to see if I could discern where the girls were. I heard nothing, but Barney on the TV. The hairs on the back of my neck started to prickle, my ears fine tuned for the tiniest sound, I sniffed the air - danger was near. Something was very very wrong...and then...I heard it - "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" followed by blood-curdling screams coming from the bathroom; I raced to the bathroom - all sorts of thoughts flying through my head at lightening speed - Sarah had got soap in her eyes, she poked my mascara in her eye, she had the comb tangled in her hair, what could it be? I should've been watching her better. I'm a terrible mother. She's maimed for life.

And then I saw her, my little blonde baby was completely naked on the big potty, folded in half, with her butt hanging in the toilet - stuck. I couldn't help it, but I laughed. Her little legs were pumping the air as she pushed and wiggled to free herself, but she was really, truly stuck in the toilet. And she was mad!

When she saw me laughing she glared at me, her blue eyes blazing, her little voice as full as indignity as an 14 month old could must and she said - "I did it myself!"

It took a little doing but I wiggled her free and that was the end of potty training - because - she did it herself!

Clown - aphobia!

A bit of background before I jump into this story. I've been working as a professional clown for years. I stand 5'2 if I stretch so I'm not intimidating to anyone older than 8. I have travelled the world performing, attending classes and conventions. I know how to back off from those who might be frightened - small children, people trapped in an elevator with me or people on pain meds in a hospital, but never, NEVER did I expect this next misadventure.

Clown makeup is hot. Clown costumes are hot. Women who are fat and middle-aged are always hot! And this was mid-July, mid-day. It was very very hot. I'd just spent 2 hours working a small festival at an airport. I'd spent most of the time on the tarmac - no shade just lots of cement. Needless to say, when the gig was over, I was parched! I could hardly wait to get home and take off my costume and hop in a nice refreshing shower, but I also recognized the early signs of dehydration. I'd been sipping water, but it wasn't enough and I knew I was quickly nearing the point of "clown melt-down".

On my way home, I had to pass by a McDonald's restaurant. It was a new building, but the business had been there for at least 30 years. My son is anemployee there so I frequent the drive-thru often. Would could be more refreshing than an ice cold Diet Coke and a small burger. It would wet my whistle and revive me until I could get home.

I don't drive one of those gaudy clown cars - I know enough not to distract drivers on the roads so my car is a silver Bonneville - pretty non-descript. I pulled up to the drive-thru speaker and looked directly into the camera as I placed my order. The employees could clearly see my face.

I patiently waited in line, and finally it was my turn at the pay window. This particular McDonald's is so new it has all of the latest bells and whistles - two-lanes to place your order, the windows have one-way glass - they can see you, but you can't see them. The teenage girl opened the window and told me my total. I smiled as I handed her my money, I asked her if she wanted a sticker. Fast food workers love to get stickers in my experience and of course she said yes.

I pulled ahead and waited to get my food. I could see the manager was having fun. He was dancing around, laughing and chatting with customers as he handed out bags of food.

From experience, I figured she had quickly spread the word that there was a clown in the drive-thru and was giving out cool stickers. So as I pulled up to the food window I turned slightly to get some more stickers out of my bag.

I heard the window slide open and turned around with a big clown smile on my face.

"OH SHIT! OH SHIT! SHI...." I blinked. The manager, who was an African-American man about 30 had actually turned white and then...he was gone.

"Oh my God! Oh shit!" I could clearly hear him screaming. The window was still open and I could see people inside running in my direction. Customers standing at the counter were trying to see who was at the window. I'm sure some thought the manager had been shot.

"Oh shit!" He was still screaming. And I realized that he was laying on the floor. Another manager came to the window. It was obvious he had stepped over the hysterical man.

"I'm so sorry," I stammered.

"Um, what was your order?" I repeated it and he said just a minute. By now, most of the employees had gathered around their leader and were helping him away from the window.

The other manager came back and handed me a fresh order, apparently mine went flying. He told me to have a nice day and I left.

Never would I have expected that someone who works for a company who's mascot is a clown would have a clown phobia! I haven't been back in my makeup. And my son, well, he still works there.

Stick a Needle in my Eye

To say that I'm clumsy is a bit of an understatement. I'm not allowed to use any kind of power tool and there are days that my husband just quietly puts away the knives so I won't hurt myself. My little toes are permenantly crooked from being broken and I'm usually nursing some ailment or injury, but this incident, well it deserves a story of it's own.

The night before I'd been working on a cross-stitch pattern in bed. It was getting quite late and I'd finished the section I was working on. I secured the thread and cut it off. Usually, I put the needle in the fabric I'm working on, but this time, I didn't. Maybe I'd finished the project, I don't remember. Anyway, instead, I stuck the needle in the lapel of my bathrobe so I wouldn't lose it. I figured it was safe and I'll remember where I put for the next evening. I put the robe across the end of my bed and went to sleep.

The next morning I got up, slipped on the robe and made myself a quick breakfast. I remember it was a Sunday morning and the kids had left for church. I was sitting at my computer reading the news and sort of crying - not big gulping sobs, just a tear or two would well up in my eyes. My boyfriend was leaving that afternoon and would be gone for 6 weeks; we'd been having "problems" and I knew this was probably the end for us.

As my eyes filled with tears, you guessed it, I lifted the lapel of my robe to dab them. As I pushed the terry cloth fabric to my eyes a sharp pain pierced my right eye. What was that horrible pain? I pressed the fabric a bit harder and then...it dawned on me - the needle! The needle was in my eyeball! Oh my God!!! I'm just stuck a needle in my eyeball. I pulled the fabric away and out popped the needle - it really did make a popping sound.

Liquid started seeping from my eye and this time, it wasn't tears. My eye was leaking. I closed my eye and pressed my finger on my eyelid. With one hand, I managed to call my boyfriend. Thank goodness his father was an eye doctor.

He answered the phone and I could tell he had just woken up. "I just stuck a needle in my eye!" I blurted out.
"What?"
"I stuck a needle in my eye and it's leaking."
"Why would you stick a needle in your eye? That's just stupid" and the phone went dead.
Of course it was stupid, I didn't plan it. I'm just clumsy like that.

The phone rang and it was my boyfriend calling me back.
"Sorry, I dropped the phone. You should go to the hospital. Does it hurt?"

Strangely, it didn't hurt, I was more concerned about the clear gelatin like stuff that was trickling from the hole. I had gone to the bathroom to look at the damage in the mirror. Halfway between the inner corner and the middle of my eyeball was a small dark spot where the needle had pierced.

"Dad says you should go to the hospital and we'll meet you there. Can you see?"

Of course I could see. I didn't touch the actual part you see with. It was like a sunny-side up egg. The yolk was intact. By now, at least 10 minutes had passed and the leaking had stopped.

I decided that it would be alright. I'd keep an eye on it - so to speak and if it became infected or I had trouble seeing - more than usual that is - I'd seek medical attention. I just didn't see the point of spending hundreds of dollars in the emergency room only to be told I shouldn't play with sharp pointy objects.

For a few weeks, my right eye was visibly smaller than my left. The hole went away very quickly and the fluid I lost replenished and the eyeball returned to normal. I had no vision problems due to the incident, but I never, ever put needles in my bathrobe again.

future stories

Ben the Sheep; Spot the Pig or the day I won a pregnant sow; -yes I had original names for my pets. Henriette the soccer playing pig; showing pigs at the fair, the half hour I was pork princess. Hmmm I did have other pets, but pigs were my life for awhile.

Piano lessons while the old man lay dying.
Driving while my head was on fire
Stick a needle in my eye
the Clown at McDonald's
The day I nearly killed my husband with my cooking
Burning down the house
please don't let me poop!
Family vacations here there and everywhere
Mom I got a job!

These are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head.