Seriously?
The "Storm"
The other night, I was watching the local news. (Obviously only because I had to. The CBS Sunday night movie ran late, and I had nothing to do with myself while anxiously awaiting CSI: Weekends.) At least, when I do have to watch the local evening news, I prefer CBS to the other stations. (I'm not sure why this is since they all cover the same stories, but I think it's electric blue background. It seems like news could break at any minute, but also reminds me of the serenity I find at Sea World staring at the orcas.)Well, they seemed to be trying out a new weather girl. I assume the weekend weather spot is not nearly as cutthroat as the weekday prime time spot and offers less embarrassment should the rookie fall on her face.Also, the weather girl seemed quite nervous and not sure of herself when she turned to hit the various camera marks, and her gestures were a little stiff.It wasn't the easiest thing to watch, but I wanted her to pull through.Unfortunately, then what I can only imagine to be a meteorological worst nightmare occurred - as new weather girl stood in front of the green screen sweeping her hands to show storm fronts and lifting her arms to the sky to denote the temperatures up north, there was no weather map behind her.Yep, NO MAP!It must be how people on the "Antique Roadshow" feel when they find out Grandma's broach came from K-Mart and not Tiffany's, or how Jeff Bridges felt when he realized that he had indeed made the movie "Stick It" and not just imagined the whole thing during his extended "research" for "The Big Lebowski."Rather than showing the viewing audience at home how to interpret those crazy sun symbols versus the clouds dropping blue pellets, our new weather girl was stiffly sweeping across the earlier screen that showed the 7 day forecast. (Can you even imagine?!?!)If you think those gestures look silly under normal circumstances, you can picture how this played itself out.Plus, you would hope someone in the control room would figure this out. But, whether it was past the tech's bedtime or he was sipping Jameson in the booth, no one fixed the problem.New weather girl went on and on, as I cringed. I can't stand being embarrassed for someone. It's such an unpleasant emotion.But, then I consoled myself with the image of cute new weather girl causing heads to roll when she saw the tape of herself. I imagine lots of screaming and makeup throwing. I see bright, happy weather girl turning dark and scary - just like the sudden weather phenomena she is supposed to warn us about.After all, if you spent all that time learning how to Doppler radar, and someone screwed up your big break, wouldn't you be full of rage?
At the Polls
There are primaries in Alabama today. I will be voting in the Republican one because I want to cast a vote against Roy Moore. So, I will actually be voting for current governor, Bob Riley.I actually kind of like old Bob. He went against his party to introduce an initiative that would really help Alabama schools, and, in general, he seems pretty moderate which is all I can really ask for these days.Anyway, I was all good with this decision until I saw one of his campaign commercials the other night. Now, in said commercial, Bob Riley's team reminded voters how many jobs Riley had brought to the state, what a great guy he was, blah blah blah. Then, they said, and I'm quoting loosely here, that Bob had reclaimed the state from the "liberals that ran it before."Now, I don't know how I could have missed this, but when exactly did liberals run the state of Alabama? Was it during all of that "segregation forever" talk? You know, back in the days when Southerners had their own branch of the Democratic party because they couldn't be Republicans (after all, they freed slaves), but they couldn't be Democrats because of their crazy, progressive ideas like ending "separate but equal"? Maybe it was when Alabama brought back chain gangs? Yes, chain gangs certainly seem like a liberal idea. Was it when that abortion ban was introduced? Or during the times our capital punishment programs were running so efficiently? What about those years they let George Wallace back into the governor's office even though he had disgraced and embarrassed the state?Seriously, when was Alabama run by liberals?!?! Don Siegelman doesn't count. After all, he's currently under indictment with Richard Scrushy. And, if he's a real liberal, well then I'm hoping Chad Michael Murray will finally get that Emmy nod he so richly deserves.Did those happen during those years I went away to college? Sure, the spring before I left I was still supposed to pray with the opposing soccer team on the field before a game, but I guess things really got crazy once I was gone. What was it like then? Did dry counties stop enforcing their laws? Were there regular gay pride parades? Did poor people actually get considered before legislation was drafted?The only answer I could come up with for this fanciful time when liberals were is charge was Military Reconstruction. That is, after all, when Southerners were forced to answer to Northerners. Sure, it was in the name of ending racially motivated violence and oppression, but, still, Northerners? Yankees even? It must have been tough.
I Get the Hint Now
Well, I'm not sure who I pissed off most. Maybe I shouldn't have dissed the Baptists. Or, I guess I could have left Homewood Jesus out of my blog. Maybe it's the old allet-bay uild-gay since I did end up missing my clean-up appointment Sunday morning. I don't know if it's one or all three of these entities, but I've apparently done something to anger the universe.Let's examine the last twenty-four hours:First, my car dies on Sunday afternoon. This leads to a frantic search for jumper cables followed by an extensive effort to get my car battery going again.Then, as I'm driving from my parent's house to my apartment, my phone stops working. I can't call in, call out, or text message. This is understandably inconvenient.So, Monday morning I wake up to set out for the Verizon store and the auto shop. At Verizon, I'm informed that I was simply dropped off the network for some reason or other. Apparently, this has nothing to do with anything I've done (like not paying my bill on time, etc.) but just happens sometimes. I find this particularly troublesome since the entire Verizon marketing campaign is built around the fact that the network is always with you, but I suppose we must file that as bygones. It's a good thing my self-esteem issues have improved over the last few years or beings inadvertently dropped off the largest cell phone network in the country, the one where you're always supposed to be "in," would really bother me.Anyway, then, as I'm leaving the Verizon store, someone slams into the back of my car pushing me into the car in front of me. Yes, someone with the vanity plate "ASMIL4U" hit me. (This struck me as particularly interesting as the tow truck loaded up her vehicle.)And, of course, when I try to start my car after this snafu, the battery is dead. The cop on the scene was very pleasant and tried to help me, but I explained that I had been on the way to the auto shop, and I think the not starting had more to do with phenomenally bad timing than the accident at hand.Now, as I was driving home from finally getting my battery fixed, I was thinking, "What else could happen to kick a girl when she's down?"And, that's when I discovered that it would not be kicking me when I was down, but a neighbor of mine acting like he was going to kick my dog.As I was walking Cassidy, she decided to run over and sniff someone. Now, I have her on her leash, so she's not actually going to get close to the guy or put paw prints on his incredibly chic Dockers (oh the horror!), but as she's moving towards him, he lifts up his back foot like he's going to kick her in the face. Luckily, because she is on her leash, she isn't close enough to get hurt, but I was appalled. Who does that? Who actually kicks dogs? Let alone dogs that are leashed and being walked by people who can see you?So, whatever I have done to offend the cosmos, I am sorry. I really am. Please, for the sake of me and my dog, stop the onslaught.
What Will I Think of Next?
I've decided to begin work on a new project. I think it's time to turn my creative skills towards a musical production loosely based on the life of Britney Spears.Only, my play will only have 1 pregnancy by K-Fed before he dies in a precipitous fall from the top of a Las Vegas casino while he's high on angel dust and unjustified "rapper" ego. Then, Justin Timberlake will re-enter the picture (obviously the first act will cover his innocent, young love for Britney and the time when both their careers seemed on track and they liked to wear coordinating denim outfits), comfort Britney, and rekindle their love leading to the grand finale ostentatious pop wedding in the last scene. (Think pink, pink, and more pink. As well as doves and air guitars.)My strange twisted love for Britney Spears is behind this project, but I am also fully supportive of any production that offers the chance for numerous dance-offs. Not since "West Side Story" and "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo," has the world seen a truly great dance-off. And, the story of Britney's life is rife with opportunities for them. Think about it. There's the dance-off between her and Justin after the break-up, potential K-Fed/Justin match-ups wherein K-Fed attempts break dancing only to fail miserably and show that he will never outshine JT, maybe even a show down between Britney and the reporter character who will represent the media influence in Britney's life (and echo back to a story-telling technique used in "Evita." After all, this play is not to be without an understanding of theater traditions and history.)I think this love was born long ago. After all, I might be one of the only people lucky enough to have seen a dance-off in real life. The summer after 5th grade, at the end of our summer camp talent show, Nicy and Leon Ware decided to have a brother/sister showdown. With only a boombox and stunned white kids trying to clap along to a beat, they danced the rest of our mosquito-filled night away. I can't say I remember the winner; I was just thrilled to see people with rhythm engaged in an activity I thought I would only by lucky enough to witness from afar on USA's "Dance Party" (which I watched every day).Anyway, the title of my currently in-development project is: "White Trash Fantasia."I don't know about you, but I smell a Tony in my future.
Wednesdays
Wednesday is my least favorite day to drive home from work, and I'll tell you why:It's all because of the Baptists.You see, there's a large Baptist church down the street from my house. And, apparently their membership is so large, they had to build a parking deck directly across the street from the church. So, every Wednesday, 2 cops come out to direct traffic so that the Baptists can cross from the parking deck to the church entrance.Now, I have no problem with the parking deck. I have no problem with Wednesday church attendance. I even understand why one wants to cross safely from the parking deck to the church.My problem is this - long before the parking deck, there was a light with a crosswalk and walk signal from the side of the street where the parking deck is to the church.Why can't the Baptists walk the 1/20 of a mile (yes, I got frustrated the other day and measured it), from their cars to the crosswalk? Why do they need a policeman to direct them? Do they really have to be ferried directly across the street? Seriously, I cover the same amount of ground walking from my bathroom to my kitchen, and I have yet to be winded by the journey. Also, I am capable of looking at the lights ahead of me and knowing when the cars are stopping and when they're going.Why must there be a special crosswalk just for the Baptists on Wednesday evenings and Sundays when there is already a perfectly acceptable crosswalk the rest of us use all the time?Also, I feel that I must point out that it's not like the policemen wait for an onslaught or build-up of Baptists to stop traffic. Every time 1 or 2 people want to cross the street, the cops stop the cars. Some days this fiasco adds 15 minutes to my drive home from work, and I only live 10 minutes from my office.I'm not asking for recklessness here, and I'm certainly not advocating jay-walking (the horror!), but I do think we can all use the same crosswalk, Baptists and non-Baptists alike.Maybe it's a bit presumptuous, but I think God would want it that way.And, don't even get me started on the Catholics...
Trouble Sleeping
It seems that all of those "always a bridesmaid, never a bride" jokes have infiltrated my subconscious.Last night I dreamed that I was in a wedding for someone I didn't even know. (I spent most of the dream complaining that I had never met the bride before the rehearsal.) And, worst of all, the dress was pink satin with vertical stripes. Vertical stripes?!? Obviously, you can imagine how traumatic this was. I didn't quite wake up in a cold sweat, but I did not wake up in a good mood.And, for those of you wondering, I do indeed have the most transparent subconscious ever. I have a recurring dream about "emotional baggage" wherein I spend the entire time packing my clothes into actual luggage.There's no need for Freud at my house.
And Mama Thought She Raised me Right
Occasionally, I eat like a 10 year old boy.When I go to the grocery store, I'm sure that strangers in line think I'm some sort of harried single mother since my cart usually includes: bottles of wine, lean cuisines, dog treats, mini corn dogs, bagel bites or Tostino's pizza roles, and juice boxes. (Hey - I need those juice boxes for long car trips. And by "long," I mean anything taking over 15 minutes. If I have to drive past the 459 interchange, I am an unhappy camper.)I am the only grown-up (obviously I use this term loosely) I know that has a punch card for Pizza Hut personal pan pizzas. About twice a month, I have to have a personal pepperoni pizza with breadsticks and a drink. (And, yes, they give me the child-size drink since this is obviously such a"kid" meal.)When I'm in polite company, I can pretend that I enjoy salad, chicken paillard, steamed vegetables, etc. But, the truth is that most of the time I would kill for some tater tots and birthday cake that's heavy on the icing flowers. Of course, as I am used to being a Southerner, I spend much of my time torn between the foods I really want and the desire not to be morbidly obese. (Oh, deep fryer - why must you tempt me with all of your delectable treats!)However, this past Tuesday I think I reached a new low. As my friend Josh and I were driving to Atlanta, I decided to snack on a chocolate bar I had tucked away in my purse for the trip. (After all, if 15 minutes is an arduous haul, you can only imagine how I felt about 2 hours in the car.) But, a couple of minutes after finishing off my Choxie bar, I noticed chocolate on my hands and was worried that I had gotten it in my hair. Then, I found a smear of chocolate across my knee and another on the back of the opposite leg.I thought I had eaten neatly, but apparently in my mad dash to consume sugar, I had gotten myself dirty in a way I thought I had gotten past when I turned 5. Even Josh seemed a little disturbed and like he wasn't sure he wanted to be in the car with me.But, rather than giving up my chocolate in the car, I've decided that I just have to amend my previous statement - Occasionally, I eat like a 4 year old...
Some Enchanted Evening...
Bargain Days
This past weekend, I made a little stop at the old Dollar General store. (For those of you who don't know about "Dollar General," I should clarify that it is not the same as the plain old"Dollar Store," or, if you live in my neighborhood, it's more pathetic incarnation, "4 Quarters." The Dollar General does contain items that cost more than a dollar. It's name choice seems deceptive at first, but then you learn that it's a lot like Big Lots, and we know how I feel about Big Lots.) Anyway, I was running in for my usual knock-off Gillette brand Daisy twin-blade razors, which cost $1 as opposed to $5 for the real thing, and some rawhide treats for Cassidy.And, that's when I spotted the knee-length white bathrobe. Now, I've wanted a knee-length bathrobe as opposed to the full floor-length terry for quite some time now, but I can't bring myself to spend much money on it when I already own quite a few robes. I also own a few towels that have been sewn together and had elastic put at the top so that they give the illusion of just being casually tied about your chest but are actually held there by the elastic and therefore won't fall down at inappropriate moments. (My mother thinks these are genius inventions. She likes to have them monogrammed and then give them to my sisters and me.) As you can see, I am more than well taken care of in the post-shower moments.But, the one at Dollar General was only $8. Eight dollars! It was like God was smiling on me at that moment. I could finally have the shorter, more summer appropriate robe that I had been longing for without the guilt of over-spending! I was so excited, I just threw it in my basket and almost skipped to the check-out counter.When I got home, though, I realized that the robe was short-sleeved. Now, another reason I have been avoiding the shorter robe is that all the ones on sale have short sleeves. I don't like the short sleeves. They make me feel like I'm dressed like a fat man about to climb into the sauna or some sort of icky pervert. (I'm not entirely sure where the pervert image comes from, but I think it has something to do with my new obsession with Dateline's sexual predator stings. Whenever the men show up, I imagine that the ones who don't immediately get completely naked take a few moments to find a short-sleeved white terry cloth robe that they will wear until their plan of gas station plastic roses, Thunderbird, and a dip in the hot tub successfully seduces the pre-teens they met in an internet chat room. The fact that the robe is white started to bother me too...)Anyway, I spent a few hours hating the robe. I was mad at myself for even spending $8 on such a heinous creation. I swore off the Dollar General and my impulse buys there.But, gradually, I decided that maybe I should wear the robe a couple of times before I completely gave up on it. I started out in the bathroom, and when that seemed to be going well, I slowly began to make my way through other rooms in my apartment.Before I knew it, I was in love with the robe. Now I can't take it off. I rush home from work just for the joy of being in my robe. And, while there are still occasional flashes when I think of Chris Hansen and feel an impending sense of dread, for the large part I've found myself relaxed and quite cool.Thank you Dollar General. I never should have doubted you.
Shocking, but True
The headline from today's Birmingham News reads: "Teens Lie About Sex." The sub-heading is "Virginity Pledge Unreliable."I, for one, am shocked and appalled. Teenagers lie about sex? When did this start happening? Has the whole world gone mad? Do teens lie about drinking too? Smoking cigarettes? Maybe even experimenting with the reefer? If we can't trust adolescents to be upfront and honest about everything that they're up to, who can we trust?And good journalism/strong investigative reporting is supposed to be a thing of the past? Without today's Birmingham News, I might still be living in the la-la land of naivete and gumdrop waterfalls where teenagers are open books with nothing to hide.
Send in the Clowns
Now, what you can't tell from this photo is that my mother didn't really realize when she signed us up for the classes that by the time the recital rolled around, she would be 8 months pregnant.
Everyone picked their own costumes, and my mom and I had to go with the clown outfit because it was the only one that could accomodate her rather big belly.
Of course, my father was terrified by this whole venture, as it is hard to imagine wanting your very pregnant wife to get into somewhat precarious tap shoes and start throwing herself around stage. Plus, if you know my father, risk is his arch nemesis, so something like this was just too much for him.
I'm sure my father tried to talk my mother out of this recital on a daily basis, but I was insistent that if we had gone through all the classes, my mother could not deny me my big moment on stage. And, she didn't. We danced in all of our polka-dotted, pom-pom button glory in May 1985.
So, if I ever doubt that my mother loves me, all I have to do is remember the time she got on stage, pregnant and in a clown costume, to tap dance with me in front of a rather large crowd of strangers.
On a quick sidenote, there was 1 boy in mother/daughter tap class. His mother didn't have any daughters and really, really wanted to participate in some sort of mother/child performance. Years later, that boy from tap class was one of the stars on the WB network's short-lived series "The Mountain." You have to wonder if he would have gotten so far without those tap classes...
Psst...
The allet-bay uild-gay just sent me an e-mail reminding me about a party they're throwing in a few weeks. It's a top ten list. That rhymes. (Well, really, it kind of ryhmes. I don't count "movie" and "Suri" or "steam" and "seen.") It's incredible.Yet, despite all the slant rhyme and word play ("You can see the decorations without being lost in a sea of people." Where do they come up with these things?), my favorite reason to attend is #9: "This is casual...You don't have to dry clean. Come as you are, wash and wear..."Of course, "come as you are," "casual," and "wash and wear" are quickly followed by, "but no jeans."Let's just say that another reason you know that this isn't really my crowd is that there is nothing about my "come as you are" that would indicate a freshly pressed and dry cleaned outfit, heels, done hair and a date who's default mode is coat and tie. Telling me to "come as I am" and then following it up with "no jeans" is like telling me to "be myself, but not say anything too out there." It just doesn't work. My soul is perplexed.On a somewhat related note, I think I reached a new "business casual" low today. Of course, my office isn't "business casual," we're just "casual," but I still don't think anyone expected me to show up in gym shorts, sports bra, and t-shirt with tennis shoes, pink ankle socks that don't go and a white hoodie this morning.What can I say? I really was just that tired.
Mother's Day Inspiration
I cooked this weekend.For those of you who know me well, this should come as quite a shock. But, hey, it was Mother's Day, and it seemed like my mom shouldn't have to make dinner for everyone on this particular evening of the year. So, I cooked. My sister was supposed to help out, but she got caught up at school, and I was left alone. This obviously worried my dad as he kept checking on me to make sure neither I nor the kitchen was in flames. And, in all honesty, I was a bit worried about this myself.Now, I used to cook. When I first graduated college, I would read cookbooks, make grocery lists, prepare meals that required more than ripping the tab on the Lean Cuisine box and shoving a plastic tray in the microwave, etc. Not to brag, but I could even make a lasagna that held together and some rather popular/often-requested party dips. But, one day, I got tired of it (I can't remember the particular reason now), so I just stopped.That was sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas of 2001.In fact, I was so used to not cooking and so dependant on the man who delivered our Chinese food, that when I decided to cook some spaghetti one day (for budgetary reasons), I became confused. My roommate actually came looking for me in the kitchen because I'd been gone for so long after declaring I was going to make myself dinner."You've forgotten how to boil water, haven't you?" he said. "It really is that bad, isn't it?"I didn't answer for the sake of my dignity, but I wasn't sure about boiling water and testing noodles anymore. At that moment, it seemed far more complicated than I remembered it being. So, that's when I really gave up cooking. (And, now you can see why my family was as concerned as they were this past Sunday.)But, somehow it worked out. I came out with an artichoke dip as an appetizer and pan-seared asparugus, twice-baked potatoes, and pork tenderloin medalions wrapped in bacon for the entree. It was a success.And, I was inspired. I have decided to try cooking more often. So, today I called up the maintenance people for my apartment complex and requested that they come out to fix my oven.You see, when I moved into my apartment, I obviously had to have the gas man come out to turn on my gas in my name. When he got there, he informed me that my oven was broken and that only 2 of the eyes of my stove worked. I was supposed to call and have everything fixed then.That was January of 2005. I never got around to calling that week and haven't really missed my oven in the time since.And, I know what you're thinking: Yes, I am a marvel, and, yes, it's a wonder I manage to show up places dressed and clean every day. (Or, at least, almost every day...)
I Don't Feel Good About This
Friday afternoon, I decided to do a little shopping. As I was wandering through some stores not far from my house, I noticed that there was a sale on Madame Alexander dolls in one of the shops. Now, this might have intrigued me because I fondly remember Madame Alexander dolls from my childhood even though they were the dolls I was never actually allowed to play with, and we had to keep their original boxes so they wouldn't depreciate in value over the years. However, it is much more likely I was intrigued because there was a "sale," no matter what the actual sale item was, because I have horrendous spending habits and no ability to grasp the actual value of the paper in my wallet, what goes on my many plastic cards, and the worth of consumer goods and services. (My father dies a little on the inside every time I admit to this - and the fact that I don't actually balance my checkbook.)Well, as I was doing that, I noticed one particular doll in the glass case. And, I noticed her because she looked just like a hooker.I thought this was strange for 2 reasons: 1. Most parents prefer that their little girls not dress like/try to emulate/play with dolls that resemble women of the night and 2. These are Madame Alexander dolls for goodness sake! The most contemporary I thought Madame Alexander got was having a doll who's costume resembled a member of the Mickey Mouse Club. (And, I'm talking Annette Funicello Mouseketeer, certainly not the Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera Mickey Mouse Club.) This was bizarre.Upon closer inspection, I realized that hooker Madame Alexander was actually referred to as "Harley Davidson Girl." Although, I have to add that the choice of all leather to complete the "biker look" only meant that this particular doll looked more Dominatrix/S&M hooker than the more common torn fishnets and miniskirt street whore. And, as we all know, it's the common whores who might redeem themselves by having hearts of gold - not the Dominatrix.I can't help but wonder what went wrong during the planning and design stages to lead to such debauchery at the Lousia May Alcott-loving Madame Alexander headquarters. Was there a head injury? An unfortunately ill-timed maternity leave? Corporate sabotage?But, perhaps more importantly, why when the store decided to display sex-fiend Madame Alexander doll did they choose to place her next to the Pope and a U.N. translator/bell boy from one of those resorts in the third world where Europeans live it up, and everyone around the hotel suffers in abject poverty? Really - one of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong...
T.G.I.F.
Ok, I know I should write something. I really do. And, I'm trying really, really hard to come up with something to put in this space. But, you see, here's the problem - last night I bought many, many DVDs during what was properly an ill-advised trip to Best Buy, and now I can't seem to tear myself away from the home entertainment system.Yesterday, around 4:00, I drove to Best Buy to get the 1st season of "Murder She Wrote" on DVD as a Mother's Day present for my grandmother. (Ok, actually, that was a lie. I drove to Best Buy to get "Quantum Leap" on DVD. Somewhere in my heart of hearts, I am a bit of a sci-fi geek. This is hard to admit. When I was younger, I insisted on seeing every episode of "Quantum Leap." I kept a list. I recorded it off the sci-fi channel on a daily basis. I could not rest until I had seen all of Dr. Sam Beckett's adventures through time. If anyone speaks ill of Scott Bakula or Dean Stockwell in my presence, I go cold. I become an angry person. I slash their tires. (Well, not really, but I think about it.) And, I may or may not have spent 2 hours of my work day online looking at "Quantum Leap" fan sites to figure out which season of the series I should buy first. I also may or may not have entered onto some message boards and shared my thoughts on what was one of television's greatest moments. All I'm saying is that I had no idea there was an alternate ending for the "Quantum Leap" season finale, and now said alternate ending forever resides on my computer's hard drive.) Anyway, I picked up "Murder She Wrote" and season 3 of "Quantum Leap." (It features Sam's battle with the devil and the 2-part leap home- those were the selling points.)Well, then I spotted the sale sticker on the 1st season of CSI:. How could I pass up the chance to get 22 episodes of forensic fun for the bargain-basement price of $19.99? The answer is simple - I couldn't. Plus, sometimes I forget that long before I loved Hugh Laurie with the reckless abandon of a schoolgirl, I loved George Eads, a.k.a. Nick Stokes. I loved him in such a way that let's just say I can't bear to watch repeats of the finale where he was buried alive. Having to go through that kind of emotional turmoil was almost too much for me the first time.I now own at least 30 hours of television. I may not leave my apartment for quite a long time. If I ever make it to the grocery store, I might even find a way to sustain myself during this marathon. Sad, but true.I hate to think what the Best Buy clerk thought when she saw me buying "Quantum Leap," "Murder She Wrote," and "CSI:." I could venture a guess, but I imagine it was something like pity or great confusion.
Terror in the Suburbs
For the large majority of my life, I have been afraid of squirrels. Sure, it's not a paralyzing fear like some of those other nagging anxieties I have about flying, being underground, etc., but I still really don't like the glorified rats with bushy tails.When I was little, my mother told me not to try to pet, feed, or trap squirrels. I really don't ever remember having the inclination to do any of those things, but she still told me not to. She said that squirrels could give you rabies and that her childhood friend Beth got rabies from a squirrel and had to get shots in her belly button so she wouldn't die. As neither death nor needles appealed to me, I listened and stayed away from squirrels.In general, this wasn't a problem until I got to college and encountered the dangerously domesticated squirrel (DDS). The DDS is so used to living on a diet of discarded Cheetos and having drunk frat boys want to love on it that it is immune to the fears of most squirrels and will actually approach humans. The DDS might get your hand as your tossing something in the trash bin, approach you when you're napping on the quad, or climb in your dorm room window on a sunny day. None of these things should happen.My friend Amy was attacked by a DDS one morning as she went to her job as a lifeguard in the school's gymnasium. The squirrel flew out of a trash can, arms and legs wide, as it tried to land spread-eagled on her back. Luckily, Amy saw it coming and had the chance to dodge the oncoming squirrel in the nick of time.I also firmly believe that whenever more than 1 squirrel is gathered together in the same place, they are conspiring against the humans. Notice that they look at you more furtively when they're in packs. Also, who can really look at a group of 4 or 5 squirrels huddled together under a tree and not feel a bit uneasy?My sophomore year roommate liked to feed squirrels. She kept some treats in her jacket pocket for trips to the library and around campus. When I learned about this, I had to tell her the sordid tale of Beth and the rabies. Whether or not she heeded my warning, I never heard about her encouraging the DDS again.Anyway, here comes my point. My dog likes to chase squirrels. I try to discourage this, but secretly (or not so secretly), it makes me feel safe. This morning, Cassidy was closing in on a squirrel, when, instead of the squirrel running away in fear, the squirrel began coming in our direction.It leaped toward the dog and hopped on top of the nearby fence. I was convinced that the squirrel was actually going to land on my head. Therefore, I did the only sensible thing under such dire circumstances - I screamed like a little girl and ran away.Of course, I have never liked running either. I've always said that I would only run to escape a charging animal or get out of some other life-threatening situation.I just had no idea that the menacing, charging animal of my nightmares would be a squirrel.
Early Warning Signs
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