Giraffe Spit Smells Like Marigolds

Yesterday, my whole hand was in a giraffe's mouth.

This giraffe and I got up close and personal.  I know what it's spit smells like.

It was pretty much the best day of my life.

Well, That's Just Embarrassing...

I work in the commercial lighting industry.  Friday, I quoted this fixture, and the photo they used to market it, well, I'd post it here, but it's probably NSFW.

That's right--a website I frequently use for work is not safe for work.

But here's the real mystery--is that photo proof that Spiderman is a hipster with a little too much affection for his web?

And who the hell thought, You know what will sell this light fixture?  A skinny, hairy, naked guy in the fetal position.


(True:  In a testament to how awesome my supervisor is, when she saw the web page I'd accidentally-on-purpose pulled up, she laughed and called over the rest of the department to come see.)

Reason I Love My Job #172

Because I've had the opportunity to say, "Don't you hate it when the telephone ringing interrupts the strippers?"


(True:  This happened:

Via

Not in my office sadly, but somewhere in the world. And that world is a better place for it.  You're welcome.)

This Is Supposed To Be My Grown-Up Job (Not Adult Job).

WARNING:  This post is work-related and utterly inappropriate.  If you have virgin eyes or any amount of decency, you'll probably want to pretend this post isn't here.


I work in the electrical industry, specifically commercial lighting.  Yesterday, I quoted a pendant light fixture with this option:  "Tripod with Decorative Balls." 

That describes how the fixture is hung.



(True:  Another mounting option for that same fixture is a single aircraft cable, part number 1SAC.  This is seriously freaking me out.)

Even the Government Thinks I'm Confusing

Of course I waited until almost the last minute to file my taxes.  Filing early comes too close to approximating competent adulthood, which is something I've never claimed.  I e-filed one night and went to bed.

Via

And woke up to find my return had been rejected. The IRS couldn't confirm my identity--i.e., The IRS (yes, I did capitalize the article) forgot about my existence.  (I know, I didn't think that would ever happen, either.)  As it turns out, I was one of the small percentage of people affected by a glitch in their system, causing some people to be missing from their database. 

Ain't I the lucky one?

Actually, I am:  another glitch accused some filers of being deceased.


(True:  This isn't even the first time the good ole US of A has been confused about me.  When I turned 18, I got a letter informing me I was required to sign up for the draft.  Um, Uncle Sam?  I don't have the parts you think I have.)

(Also true:  I'm doing the work of two people at my job...  I may post a little more sporadically, just don't leave me, okay?)

"No man can worship God or love his neighbor on an empty stomach."
~Woodrow Wilson



Back up nort', I had some interesting neighbors.  They lived right above us (us being my roommate Z and me and my old man dog Hans).  They also had a dog, but being too lazy to bring it outside, they simply laid a tarp on the floor of their patio and let it pee there.  Z and I never sat on our own patio--too high a chance of being dripped on.

Ugh.

They did everything loudly.  Arguments, videogames, movies, music, and sex were all conducted at top volume.

So was cooking.  How can cooking be loud, you ask?  Good question.

Early one summer evening it began.  The incessant pounding from above.  It sounded just like a hammer hitting something only sort-of solid.  After a moment's worry that one of my neighbors was in the process of murdering or dismembering the other, I decided at least that would half the noise and tuned out.  After about an hour, though, other neighbors started getting irritated.  Every so often, I heard someone pounding on the upstairs neighbors' door, asking them to keep it down.  Some of them just shouted it through the walls.  It was a classy joint like that.

After about four ignored pleas for silence, I hear the upstairs neighbor dude shout from his kitchen.

"Shut up!  I'm making fucking smashed potatoes, all right?"


(True:  Some of Mr. Roger's sweaters are at the Smithsonian.)

Nose As Long As a Telephone Wire...

Don't tell The Squeeze, but I sort of set the kitchen on fire last night.  Just a little.  I turned the back burner on instead of the front one, which was no big deal.  I turned the proper one on, and turned away to grab a plate.  Turned back, and--well, apparently the roll of paper towels was a leeettle too close to that back burner.  It was a rather lovely pillar of flames.

I used the floor, my feet, and a lot of cuss words to put it out.  Luckily, the paper towel holder is marble.  Luckily, the floor is tiled.  Luckily, I was actually wearing shoes for once.  Luckily, the neighbors didn't look out their kitchen window into ours.  That might have been difficult to explain. 

But hey, in a relationship, it's okay to keep some things to yourself, right?  A secret isn't exactly the same as a lie...

And it's not like my pants actually started on fire.  They're just a little, you know.

Singed.

Jemma is totally judging me.

This Title Won't Be Emusing to Anyone But Me.

Yeah, puns.  I like them.  So did Shakespeare, so I'm giving myself a pass on this one.  Please be warned that this post starts out as a memory and quickly descends into madness.




'Sup?


Emus.  They are big.  And they are really pretty fast.  According to Wikipedia, they can go as fast as 31 miles per hour.  Apparently, their legs are so strong they can rip through metal wire fences.  Maybe that explains it.

As you may have heard, I grew up in the country.  A few miles down the road was an emu farm.  No, I don't know why people would farm emus either, except maybe for the world's biggest friggin' omelets. 



Green ham, anyone?

Anyway when I was little, a bridge by our farm was out for several years, which made us go the long way around to town and near the emu farm on a regular basis.  One day, as my mom drove me to town for one event or another, we saw a blur of brown in the field to our right.  Accustomed to having to stop for deer, my mom slowed way down.  As you may have guessed, the blur was not a deer.  It was an emu, and it was not only keeping pace with our much-slowed-but-still-pretty-fast mini van, it was edging ahead. 

That emu was daring us to a race.

My mom floored it.  Defeated, the emu disappeared into a cornfield.

I don't know what happened to the emu.  We weren't even very close to the emu farm when we saw it, maybe a mile or two away, so perhaps it was an emu on the lam.  That's how I like to think of it, still out there today.  In fact, I've imagined a whole life for that emu where it is skulking in the patchy woods and various cornfields, with a nice family of turkeys for companions.  And when a hunter uses his call and the turkey family falls for it, the emu goes with them and scares the bejeezus out of the hunter, who wants to tell his hunter buddies all about the emu who now thinks it's a turkey, but nobody will believe him and he is run out of town under accusations of lunacy.  And then the mayor almost hits the emu on the road, but misses him, and then our road finally gets one of these:

Which will promptly be defaced with a red dot on the "nose" like every other animal crossing sign in Wisconsin, inciting a local legend wherein Santa's sleigh is not pulled by ought-to-be-flightless reindeer, but rather by ought-to-be-flightless birds, which sort of makes more sense, anyway.

(True:  There is an Icelandic Christmas legend in which a giant cat named Jólakötturinn eats children who don't get new clothes in time for Christmas.  If I ever have kids, I'm totally selling them on it.)

Sunny gets along with cats, but she'd rather avoid Jólakötturinn, if it's all the same to you.

It's a Lot Like Life in the Mob, Except Nobody Dies.

So, you may have heard my car died.  Well and truly.  My weekend was spent getting a new one, which went like this:

Saturday:  Get up at 4 a.m., take the train to Milwaukee.  Get picked up by parents, driven an hour and a half to the town where my credit union is.  Convince them to lend me money.  Informed the credit union closes at noon.  Crazy car shopping ensues.  Miss the twelve o'clock deadline.  Become convinced that life is ruined forever.  Find a car.  Praise god that car dealership is owned by someone my family has known for a long time, and he will let me drive the car home with just the down payment and the promise that the credit union thing will be figured out.  Discuss mutual cousins with the dealer.  Go to next town over.  Have tea and pie with Grandma.  Send camera-phone pic of new car to The Squeeze.  The Squeeze receives a picture of a spider.  Send camera-phone pic of new car to The Squeeze.  The Squeeze receives a picture of Prada.  Give up.  Decide phone is retarded or about to rebel Terminator-style.  Go to parents' house.  Realize I need insurance.  Mom calls insurance guy who lets us come over to his house to write my policy.  Interupt his dinner.  Realize insurance guy also taught my hunter's safety course in middle school.  Get insurance, two memo pads, a letter opener, a pen, a calendar with a guide to the best fishing days, and a reaffirmation of the second ammendment.  Feel awesome.  Go back to parents' house. 

Sunday:  Crash.  (Sleep-wise, not the car.)

So, here are some pics of my new car:

As you can see, the hatchback-style gives me a lot more room than in my old coupe, and the steering wheel is set low enough for short people to see over without sitting on the yellow pages.

The power locks and power windows are a nice upgrade, too.


(True:  "I know a guy.")

Bella oughtta know a guy, too.

The Naked Children Are Not Mine.

I don't have children.  I babysit for twin four-year-olds once a week, and while they're pretty awesome, I'm glad that when I go home, they don't come with me, you know? 

Like every single person in my graduating class, I decided I would never have children when I was in freshman biology and we watched The Miracle of Life.  Have you seen it?  It's terrifying.  You watch video footage of a pregnancy from swimming conception to the gory horror of birth.  The c-section in Twilight has nothing on this film for sheer awful birth scenes.  I still shudder to think of it.  (FYI, miracles don't involve uncontrolled bowel movements.)

When I was sixteen, I got my first summer job.  As a camp counsellor.  With children.  It was a bad idea on my part to apply; it was a worse idea on the camp's to hire me.  My interests at that point of my life lay in eating E.L.Fudge cookies and watching Angel, and that was pretty much it.  Twelve squirmy little girls did not make the list.

It was an all-girls camp, and one of the traditions was skinny-dipping.  My co-counsellor and I had no intention of letting our girls do this, so we kept promising that we would go some night that it was warm enough.  In northern Wisconsin, no night is warm enough.  You could see your breath at night, and the ice had melted off the lake only weeks before. 

One day straight up noon, I was leaving camp for my afternoon off.  I was in another counsellor's car, and just as we pulled past my cabin, a line of naked children streaked past.  Apparently, my girls had taken it upon themselves to go skinny-dipping when it was warm enough.

"Keep driving," I said.  "It's my afternoon off, and those are not my naked children."


(True:  A councilor is one who is on a council.  A counselor is one who who will need therapy counselling after working at a summer camp.)

Mya likes kids, and has endless supplies of patience for their hijinks and enthusiasm for their games.  Now if only she could get that surgery!

The Land of the Living

Here I am...  A day late, and a dollar short.  (I'm sure I owe somebody a dollar, anyway.)  I thought briefly about posting yesterday even though I was home sick, but by the time I cast a line out and reeled my head in from across the street, I had fallen back asleep.

Anyway, here's a story for you, and it's even true.

This weekend, I had a work function, the kind that involves beer and schmoozing with customers.  My boss played on of those bar games where you punch the punching game for points.  He got enough points, and the machine spat out a prize in a plastic sphere.  Shrugging, he gave it to me.  Being the curious sort, I opened it right away.

BAD IDEA.

Honestly, where is my robot?  You know, the one that will wave it's arms and cry, "Danger, Dana the Biped, Danger."

I opened the prize and promptly regretted my existence.  I'm not certain whose existence my boss regretted, mine or his own.  Probably both.

In that innocuous plastic sphere, which I had opened in front of God, my coworkers, and a good number of our customers, was not the plastic soldier with a plastic parachute or something expected like that.  Oh, no.  I lucked out enough to get the frilly underpants.


(True:  I recently saw a video of one of the guys I work with at karaoke singing with no shirt on, with lots of women rubbing up against him.  Knowing this guy as I do, the part that upset me was the fact that his hair is so much better than mine.  Also, my life is pretty strange.)

Dear Dora, I'm really sorry that this is the week you were stuck with me.

(Update:  I just decided I didn't blog yesterday because SOPA sucks.  Unless you speak Spanish, and are talking about soup.  Soup is cool.)

A Family Portrait

My parents have a Deutch Drahthaar.  That's a real thing.  A dog, in fact.  Close cousin to the German Wirehair, but more everything.  Bigger, smarter, more athletic...  It's like having a ninety pound two-year-old in the house.  Drew is a working dog, and up until recently, he's been unemployed.

See, Drahthaars are hunting dogs, and that's what my dad wanted to do with Drew.  However, Drew has seasonal alopecia.  The leaves fall off trees, all the hair falls off Drew's sides.  He'd scrape the bejeezus out of himself if he went hunting.  Fortunately, my dad is a problem solver.

Last weekend, Dad showcased the new job he'd gotten for Drew:



Clockwise from the top:  The Brother-in-Law, Drew, Dad, My Sister the Lawyer, Me, Prada

That's a repurposed Radio Flyer, y'all.  And Drew is pulling me.  Actually, this is when we first started out.  About ten seconds after this picture was taken, Dad handed me the reins, and Drew took off running.  Just imagine it:  bouncing along in a Radio Flyer after a dog, going about fifteen miles an hour.  That's way faster than I can bike.



This is when everybody finally caught up with us, a half mile down the road.

 Drew isn't tired here.  He's just distracted by some birds.  In case you think this is all Drew is capable of:

See that sweater Drew is wearing?  I totally made that.

The neighbors think my family is crazy.  Clearly, though, my family is just crazy-cool.

(True:  That first picture is taken on the main street of my hometown.  I did mention I'm from the boonies, right?)

Dora approves of creative solutions.

Another Trip to the ER, Still No George Clooney

Once upon a time, I had a bad job.  Really, really bad.  It had me so stessed out that in the wee hours one night, my body rebelled.  A severe muscle spasm caused me to lose control of the muscles in my neck.

It hurt, to put it mildly, and I couldn't lift or turn my head.  As it turns out, you need to lift your head in order to get out of bed.  And if the pain jolts you out of sleep and you can't move, your first sleepy thought might be along the lines of, "I'm paralized!"  Then you realize you're not, and you wake up The Squeeze.

The Squeeze sleeps heavily.  It takes him a while to come to full consciousness.  So when I woke him up and explained the situation, his reaction was to tell me to go back to sleep.  And he went back to sleep.  I didn't, but I couldn't very well drive myself to the emergency room now, could I?

In the morning, the muscles that had gone lax were now clenched.  I still couldn't lift my head, but by grabbing my hair and pulling, I was able to sit up.  The Squeeze had a very important engagement, so it was decided my roommate would go with me to the ER.  Exit Squeeze stage left.

Now it's just my roommate and me.  My sleepy roommate remembers her car is in the shop; we'll have to take mine.  My car has a manual transmission.  The roommate cannot drive it. 

I drive myself to the ER, unable to turn my head at all.  The roommate does the looking for me, and we pray I won't get pulled over or kill us in a cataclysmic crash.

A week later, I quit that job.

Trapper probably would have handled it all a lot more gracefully than me, given he's the resilient sort.

Defensive Karaoke Part Two: Yes, This Really Happened

Being a KJ can be hazardous.  You might be shocked into muteness.

For example, a guy is singing "Piano Man," and he's actually not half bad.  You're looking around to see if the next person on your queue is around or has gone out for a smoke.  Looking back at the person singing, you realize that his pants are around his skinny hipster ankles.

I took several education courses in college.  I spent an entire day learning how to give the Evil Teacher Eye, so that naughty kids take you seriously and stop whatever irritating thing they are doing.  I use this lesson regularly in karaoke, but this is one of the few times I had to accompany it with words.

"You need to put your pants on right now.  Right now.  Or you can leave without them."

Apparently, I made this threat sound so scary, that poor skinny kid apologized to me not once, not twice, but four times over the course of the night, and has never shown his face or his boxer briefs at the bar again.


(True:  I will wear pants or skirts or dresses, but I do not wear shorts.  Ever.  I don't know why.)

Nikita's got her eyes closed because she doesn't want to see those skinny white legs, either. But she would take some snuggles if you have any handy.

My Apartment Exploded

Ooooh, hey, lookit!  Noa Gavin knows who I am! (And, I just realized what her current post is about...er, well, click away at your own risk.)

The time:  I dunno, a couple of years ago, I guess. 

The place:  My old apartment, near Green God-It's-Cold-Here Bay, Wisconsin.

The story:  My roommate, Z, was complaining that our apartment was cold.  I am a hermit who leaves the bedroom only when necessary, and I objected.  My room was stinkin' hot.  The Squeeze, who was up for a visit, agreed with me.  (Hi, Mom!  We were just watching movies!)

Anyway, we all went to bed--Z cold, me dying of heatstroke.

A couple hours later, I wake up to a hissing sound.  I ignore it for a little while, but it doesn't go away, and it's the exact pitch to be extremely annoying.  I get up and investigate, following the sound to the pit of despair (the second closet in my room that is full of hot-water heater and so does not have room for any of my shoes).

A trickle of hot water is streaming down the side, from some gasket or something.  As I watch, there is a popping sound, and suddenly, that hot water is shooting all over the place.  It is a deluge of biblical proportions, and there is a very good chance we will all die a scalding death in cloud pyjamas.

I call my landlord.  And get his voicemail.  I leave a very panicked message.  Then I call my dad.  Because who else do you call at 1:30 in the morning when your apartment is exploding and your landlord isn't answering?  He walks me through shutting off the valve, so at least the waterfall isn't quite so huge.  A strange rumble persists, though, which is somewhat worrisome.  As it turns out, my sleep-addled dad forgot to mention that I should have turned off the power to the water heater, as well, so pressure didn't keep building...

The rumbling got lounder.  And louder.  We get our coats on, ready to run for the hills.  My dog, Hans (pre-Prada dachshund cutie), was whimpering pathetically.  And louder.  This is it.  I was going to die in ugly pyjamas.

And then Super-MaintenanceGuy showed up and saved the day.  Which almost made up for the time that our toilet broke and we had to go to the gas station a mile away because it took the maintenance guy three days to fix it.

True:  My high school did not offer a shop class, nor a home economics course.  Because when you go to a fancy-pants private school, you learn that that is what your staff is for.

Too late! Melody has already gone home with a new family!  But stay tuned for more adoptable tripods!

Biped's Road Trip

My folks own a couple of acres up in Eagle River, which is about as far north as you can go without becoming Canadian.  Deep in the woods, far past civilization, there is a small natural clearing with nothing on it but a gravel pad and a small shed.  No electricity, no running water, no outhouse, nothing.  I half grew up in Eagle River, but I'd never driven there by myself.  This summer, I did.

This was the day of my urban safari, so I began the drive frustrated and late--after work, I'd rather desperately needed a shower.  I was already sweaty, and I wasn't going to have access to a shower for three days.  There's getting back to nature, and then there's ugh-what's-that-smell-sorry-it's-me.

Anyway, the drive.  You can't find my parents' property on any GPS system, or GoogleMaps, or anything like that.  This place is beyond such fancy devices.  My mom gave me directions, and they finished like this:

"Deerskin is the last paved road.  From there, turn left onto Valeria, which is unpaved.  Where Valeria veers left, take the track going right."

That's right, my friends:  "the track."  Two wheel ruts cutting through the pitch black forest, with no road name, and no fire number to give to the people at 911 when you call about the serial killer that is sure to be taking refuge somewhere in the near vicinity.  Of course, there is no cell phone service there, anyway.  Or even landlines.  We're talking end of the road, people.  I almost hit two porcupines on the way there, that's how deep in the boonies I was.  (Think about it:  When was the last time you saw a porcupine outside the zoo?  That's because porcupines think you're a jerk.)

Three times I had to stop my car in the middle of the road, back up, and check the half-hidden street signs I'd missed--and that was while there were still street signs.  Didn't end up really mattering, since there wasn't exactly any other traffic.  Or people within a one hundred mile radius.  About halfway there, Prada puked neatly into my purse.

Good times.


(Truth:  Eagle River is absolutely worth it.  Even though my dad invariably growls like a bear whenever I'm trying to pee.)



(Blogger won't let me insert pictures right now, so image a really good-looking sweetheart of a shepherd mix here, would you?  Actual pic to follow.)

See?  I didn't forget about you, Bob!

He's so friendly, Bob would have made friends with the porcupines.  And he totally would have braved it out with me when Dad was being such a bear.

Biped's Urban Safari

Late in August, my car needed work, and circumstances demanded that the work be done the next day before a mini-roadtrip.  No problem:  there is a Walmart on my way to work where you don't need an appointment, and they can handle the basics of car repair.  They opened at seven.  I needed to be as work by eight.  It was only two and a half miles from Walmart to work, and I frequently walk farther with Prada.

I usually take Bottom Street to Right Street to Middle Street to work.  I left Walmart and turned left, hoping to take Middle Street all the way there.  There was a huge stinkin' cemetary of FML in the way.  Streets abruptly stopped, then picked up again on the other side of the cemetary.  I ended up walking all the way to Top Street, and turning by the Forest Preserve.  There was no sidewalk along side the Forest Preserve.  I bushwhacked through the knee-high brush.  Mind you, it was already 87 degrees and humid.

Finally fighting my way out of the jungle/Forest Preserve, I paused a moment to catch a breath.  I was nowhere near a bus stop, but a bus heading my direction stopped out of pity because I was so bedraggled.  I paid my fare.  I should have gotten off in two stops, but the heat had gone to my head, so I just kept going.  Suddenly, we were passing over Right Street, where I needed to be.  I got off at the next stop, but pedestrians weren't allowed back over the overpass, and you really just couldn't get there from here. 



Green is the route I should have taken.  Purple is the path I took walking, with teal showing my ill-fated bus trip.

 I finally made it to work--sweaty, angry, and tired--half an hour late.  My phone immediately rings.  It's my boss.

"I just saw you walk past my office window.  Don't you normally drive?"

"Yes.  Yes, as a matter of fact, I do."

"Car trouble?"

"You have no idea."

"I brought bagels!"


(True:  I usually have a pretty decent sense of direction, if you can believe it.  Also:  instead of walking 2.5 miles, my route took me nearly 4.  My map is not to scale.)



Dude, Biped.  You should have brought me.  I'd have led you courageously through the jungle and told you where to find Timmy in the well.


Bob probably would have handled the whole thing better than I did.  He loves walks and rolling in the grass--I could have just had him roll a path through the Forest Preserve for me.  And kids and adults alike love him, so he could have distracted everyone while I steamed, and tried not to have a heat stroke.

All Days Should End with Monsters

Yesterday was one of those days.

You know the kind.  Your work email won't send attachments.  Your TV dinner lunch isn't cooked all the way through.  Your dog projectile vomits everywhere.

Then The Squeeze tells me he has Tivo'd a marathon of really terrible monster movies for me.  One of them is called DinoShark. 

This, my friends, is what love looks like.


(True:  Anaconda used to be my favorite movie.  Then I saw Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus, and it changed my life for the awesome.)

The Bachelor

Today's post is brought to you by Noodles, who is looking for a partner who enjoys long walks on the street and romantic kibbles for two.

A Way with Words and Teeth

Since I'm on an injury-related roll, I now present episode three of "Holy Crap, How Did You Manage That?"

My Sister the Lawyer is a smart, savvy, cool lady.  She's also very tough, so I can only hope she won't beat me up for this post.

Let's flash back a few years, shall we?  It's a hot afternoon; I've just gotten home from the last day of second grade.  My Sister (who will one day be a lawyer) challenges me to a bike race.  First one to the creek (in Wisconsin, pronounced "crick") wins.

Oh, she is so on.

I'm losing.  She's over a full bike-length ahead of me, and we're coming up on the creek now.  I put all my all into one last, desperate attempt to catch up.  I'm gaining!  I'm right behind her!  I might actually win for once!

The front tire of my bike slams into the back tire of hers.  She bumps gently forward and keeps riding.  My bike does a cartwheel with me still on it.  I eat asphalt.  Literally.  My bike lands on my back, the wheels spinning a couple of times before the bike falls over.

I grapple to my feet.  It hurts.  It's astounding, really, how much it hurts.  My Sister (who will one day be a lawyer) is freaking out.  Apparently, I am a mess.  My hands, elbows, and knees are torn ragged and laced with gravel.  My mouth hurts.  I taste blood.  There is a big hole where my front tooth should be.

Picture sort of related.

Oh!  I learned this in school!  I need to find my tooth and put it in a glass of milk so the dentist can put it back in.  Unfortunately, all the pieces of my tooth are virtually indistinguishable from the bits of gravel on the road.  Uh oh.  I need to get home.  My dad is there, somewhere.  I have to bike back home.  That sucks.  While I wait in the driveway, still on my bike, My Sister (who is not holding it together very well for someone who will one day be a lawyer) finds Dad.

Things are blurry now.  I'm in the car with a towel, trying not to bleed too much on the seat.  Dad is plastering my knees and elbows with giant band-aids in several layers so I won't bleed through.  This surprised me.  I bleed all the time, so what? And we stopped at the drugstore for band-aids when my mouth hurts so much?  I'm in the dentist's chair.  He comments to his assistant on how I managed to cover most of my remaining teeth in tar; my teeth are totally black.  He holds up a needle.  There is a sharp pinch in the gum above my gaping tooth-socket.

Fade to black.

I'm sorry, this isn't the funny part.  This is just the back story to the funny part, which didn't involve me at all.  We're getting to that, I swear.

My Sister had remained at home during my toothy adventure in town, ostensibly to wait for my mom to get home and explain where Dad and I were.

When Mom did arrive, it was to find her elder daughter standing in the driveway next to two bikes, crying her eyes out.  Before Mom even had a chance to ask what had happened, My Sister (now a well-spoken lawyer) wailed:

"Dana fell off her bike and broke all her teeth off, and Dad took her to town to get dentures!"


(True:  My mouth is now insured.  Like J-Lo's butt.)

The Strangest Day

Scene:  Home from college for the summer, I visit my best friend; who I will call Seven.  (Story to follow.)  We are in his backyard with several other friends, all of us jumping about on Seven's giant trampoline.

Me:  Ow!  Ow!  Seven, you stepped on me!

Seven:  Oh, whoops.

Me:  Everybody, stop jumping for a minute; I need to get off the trampoline.

Seven:  Are you okay?

Me:  I'll be fine.  I just need to walk it off.

(I walk a few steps.)

Me:  Oh my god.  Half my foot just shifted to the left.  I think I just broke my foot.

Seven:  Well, that's not good.

Seven's Mom (from the back door):  Dana?  You have a phone call.

Me:  On your home phone?  Is it my parents?

Seven's Mom:  No.  (She hands me the phone.)

Me (on the phone):  Hello?

Voice:  Hey.  It's your ex-boyfriend you haven't heard from in over a year, who treated you like crap to the point of being run from town by your friends and family.  Even your teachers helped.  How are you?

Me:  Why are you calling me?  Why are you calling me here?!  Never mind, I just broke my foot.  I need to go to the emergency room now.

Author's Note:  Voice didn't really say all that.  He just said something like, "Uh, hey, it's, like, me.  How are you?"  But that doesn't have the same impact.  Too many commas.


(True:  I once went out with a guy who was a priest, and then a soldier, and then an alcoholic.  One of those that go to college and party for the next seven years.  I'm short.  He was four inches shorter.  I have a colorful dating history.)