Queen Rando

The other day I met with a student who is so incredibly passive and shut-down that he hardly seems to notice his own existence.  Because I'd had a really exhausting week and was approaching a state of full-blown compassion fatigue (the newfangled way for social servants to describe what was formerly known as burnout), I was particularly frustrated by his indifference and complete lack of self-awareness.  At one point during our meeting, he informed me that he didn't know what his own feet look like.  And here is what I said to him:


"You don't know what your feet look like?  What if there were some crisis where everyone had their feet taken off and put in separate boxes, and then you had to search through all of the boxes to find your feet?  What would you do?"

Hmmm...are those my feet?

Because this young man has known me for over a year now and therefore is used to these absurd hypotheticals, he responded, "I'd take someone else's feet."  To which I replied, "That wouldn't work, because we need our own feet to balance us!"  And he said, "No, I'd be able to balance on someone else's feet."


Thankfully, I was able to stop myself short before countering his argument, as I realized I was power struggling with an 18 year-old about a completely nonsensical eventuality that I had put forth in the first place.  But here's the thing, folks - I do that sort of thing all the freakin' time.  I am the Queen of Random Absurdity.

This is my mascot, Gir - an alien robot in a dog costume

One of the first times I remember resorting to a ludicrous conversational insertion was during college.  I was feeling sad and lonely and was talking on the phone with a dear friend of mine, who, in an effort to counter my state of self-loathing, reminded me that she loved me.  Then we had this exchange:


Me:  Do you really?


Friend:  Yes, I do.  I love you so much I would kiss you.


Me:  You would?


Friend:  Yes, I would.


Me:  Would you kiss me even if my mouth were a gigantic eyeball?


Friend:  [silence]


Me:  [expectant silence]


Friend:  [more silence]


Me:  [slowly-becoming-anxious silence]


Friend:  Yes.  I would kiss you even if your mouth were a gigantic eyeball.


So that was nice.  But why, WHY would I make my friend speculate about that eventuality?  Why the fuck would my mouth ever be a gigantic eyeball?

My friend is clearly a better person than I am.  I would never kiss that.

Several years after that bizarre conversation, I was talking to another friend about balance.  He said that he considered himself to be a balanced person (which, in my defense, was a completely inaccurate statement, but there are normal ways to challenge people's flawed self-perceptions).  In response to his assertion, I informed him that he was, in fact, as balanced as a seesaw with a hippo on one end and a chicken on the other.  Then, to illustrate my point more clearly, I supplemented my comment with this lovely drawing:

Unfortunately, I don't just say and draw stupid things.  I also do them.  Case(s) in point:


I used to receive a Sierra Club calendar for Christmas every year.  About 10 years back, after I got my calendar for the new year, I took my old calendar off of the wall and went through the two calendars month by month so I could transfer people's birthdays from the old calendar to the new one.  After completing that task, I hung the old calendar back on the wall and promptly recycled the new calendar.


On another occasion, I was attempting to organize myself financially (i.e., pay bills; record receipts; balance my checkbook) and, at the end of my organizational venture, I ended up writing a check to my credit card company for the balance of what was (supposed to be) left in my checking account, rather than the $125 or whatever it was I owed for the month.  For the next couple of months, I had to put every purchase on my credit card, because the credit card company had all of my money.

Although I suppose there are dumber things I could've done...

Considering what a total weirdo I can be, I am very grateful that I found a partner who can tolerate my randomness.  In fact, he flows with Queen Rando like a sailboat cutting through smooth water on a perfectly breezy day.


My husband and I met as housemates.  We lived with a woman who, for the sake of anonymity, I'll refer to as Zuno.  One night while my husband (who was still just a housemate, and who I'll refer to as Joe Rodeo) was out, Zuno and I had a talk about how incredibly flexible he is and his ability to just go with whatever is presented to him, even if it doesn't really make any sense.  Later that evening, I told Zuno a story which concluded with the line:  "That's what happens when you put a bunch of monkeys on an island."  That silly line inspired us to try a little experiment:  the next time we were chatting with Joe Rodeo, one of us would insert that line into the conversation to see how he would respond.


The next day, the three of us were sitting around chatting, and this conversation ensued:


Joe Rodeo:  But we all got back okay.  So it turned out fine.


Me:  Well, that's what happens when you put a bunch of monkeys on an island.


Joe Rodeo:  (emphatically) I know.


[Dramatic pause & exchange of bewildered looks between Zuno & me]


Zuno:  Wait...what?


Joe Rodeo:  What?


Zuno:  What do you know?


Joe Rodeo:  That that's what happens.


Zuno:  What's what happens?


Joe Rodeo:  That's what happens...when you put a bunch of monkeys on an island.


Zuno:  But what are you talking about?


Joe Rodeo:  I don't know.  What are you talking about?


There ya have it, folks.  Therein lies the catalyst for the lasting bond between Al Etreum and Joe Rodeo.


And in conclusion:

Awwww...

That's what happens, y'all.  Monkey-dove love.

East vs. West

Um...I think those arrows might be backwards

I am an American Coastal Hybrid.  I was born in New York, grew up in Massachusetts, spent two years in the Florida Keys, then ten in California, and currently live in Oregon.  This means that, as an American, I am all mixed up.  For example, by the time I got to California via Massachusetts and Florida, I found myself making comments like, "Y'all are wicked stoked," which led to many raised eyebrows and episodes of snickering at my expense.


Over the past several years of life as a coastal nomad, I have noticed many differences between the attitudes and actions of East and West Coasters.  The first time such disparities came to my attention was soon after moving to Santa Cruz, California, when I crashed into a crippling depression and took myself to a book store to sulk, pout, and pretend to look at books.

Wah.  Life is dumb.

While I was sprawled across an aisle with books spread out all around me, I heard a voice behind me say, "Excuse me?"  I then noticed the huge blockade I had created and began moving books so the person could get by.  Then the voice said, "No, I just wanted to see if you're okay.  There seems to be an overwhelming sadness about you."


Okay, so that would never, NEVER happen in, say, New England.  If I'd been in a book store in Massachusetts, had created that giant mess and another patron had wanted to pass, it would've played out more like this:


Person:  Hey!  What the hell?  I'm trying to get by here!
Me:  (tearfully) I'm sorry.
Person:  Yeah, you are.

YOU!  YEAH, YOU!  GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!

When I told one of my East Coast friends about my experience with the kindly stranger in the bookstore, his read on the situation was:  "That guy was insane.  Or he was hitting on you."


However, while East Coasters might be excessively assertive, West Coasters lean more towards passivity (or, if they're cranky, passive-aggressiveness).  I can't tell you how many times I've almost been plowed over by someone on a bike because that person wasn't willing to call out, "On your left!" or ring a little bell or give me some way of knowing he/she was coming up behind me at warp speed.  This happened one day while I was hiking with a friend from New Jersey.  A guy zinged by on his bike and scared the shit out of both of us.  I asked my friend for her opinion on why he didn't warn us of his approach, and she replied, "Because he's in Santa Cruz.  He's afraid to raise his voice."

I won't make a sound.  I'll just mow you down all quiet like.

Speaking of New Jersey, here's a joke that one of my coworkers, who is also from NJ, told me recently:


Q:  What is the first question on the New Jersey personality test?
A:  "What are you, a douchebag?"


Ha!  But I digress...


Something I have learned during my years of experiencing and attempting to understand West Coast functioning is the existence of a phenomenon known as The California No.  The California No looks like this:


Me:  Do you want to go hiking tomorrow?  It'll be about ten miles.
California Friend:  Uh...yeeeeaaaah.  Yeeeaaah, that sounds good.


When Californians draw out their "yeahs" like that instead of just saying "yes" or "okay," that means "no."  On the East Coast, the conversation would be more like this:


Me:  Do you want to go hiking tomorrow?  It'll be about ten miles.
East Coast Friend:  Fuck no.

Maybe people who live in the center of the U.S. are more balanced.

I discovered another version of The California No whenever I was in the process of moving (which I did seven times while I lived in Cali), and a neighbor stopped by.  The neighbor would wander into my house, see that I was packing boxes and say, "Oh, you're moving?  Let me know if you need any help!" while he backed out the door as quickly as possible.  Make no mistake - these California neighbors never had any intention of helping me move.  They were just trying to behave in a socially acceptable manner without having to make any sort of true personal commitment.


Despite the years I have had to practice adapting to West Coast temperaments and behaviors, I have discovered that Portlanders have a particularly passive behavior that really drives me batshit crazy.  You see, Portlanders?  They have this habit?  Of ending statements as if they're questions?  So everything they say sounds like they're asking for permission?  It is So.  Fucking.  Irritating.  When a Portlander talks to me like that, the East Coaster in me wants to scream, "Are you asking me or telling me?!  If it's a statement then end it with a period!  What the fuck is wrong with you?!"  


Portlanders also insist on obsessively utilizing proper grammar.  Over the past two years, I've had this interaction with approximately 150 different check-out clerks:


Clerk:  How are you doing today?
Me:  Pretty good, thanks.  And you?
Clerk:  I'm doing very well, thank you.


Of course you are.

In addition, Portlanders continue to engage in their favorite recreational activity of apologizing excessively.  My neighbor, who is doing some home renovations, recently apologized for hammering at 1 p.m. on a Saturday.  Dude, seriously?  There's really nothing to apologize for?  So maybe next time?  You could think about not apologizing?  Because it's completely unnecessary?  Oh, no!  What the hell is happening to me?!


Another clear East vs. West Coast differential can be found at traffic lights.  On the extreme East Coast side, we have folks sitting at a red light in gridlock traffic in New York City, and out of the blue, some of them start leaning on their horns.  It's as if one person thought, "Huh.  It's going to take me an hour to drive two miles.  This situation is about as awful as it could possibly be...but how could I make it even worse?  I know!  I'll create a horrific blast of endless, ear-splitting noise!  Hooray!"  And then dozens of other people thought, "Wow, I didn't know this situation could be more awful, but it can!  I'm gonna join in!"


Then we have Oregon, where people seem to be allergic to their horns and will be so overly courteous when driving that they almost create accidents.  In Portland, it is not uncommon to find oneself sitting several cars back at a light, and the light turns green, and no one moves.  When I am in these situations, I need to exercise extreme restraint to keep myself from ramming the car in front of me.  Meanwhile, the kind Oregonians in the line of cars sit there placidly waiting for the first driver to recognize that (a) the light has turned green, and (b) green means go.  Meanwhile, I sit there boiling with rage, thinking only:  "MOVE YOUR FUCKING CAR YOU STUPID ASSHOLE!  GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!  I'LL KILL YOU!"  And that is why I am going to have a heart attack before I'm 40.

Yes, it's an opportunity...to move your goddamn car!

In conclusion, while I sometimes find myself missing the straightforward communication and blatant assertiveness of the East Coast, in general I have found that West Coasters tend to be a more gentle, forgiving breed of American.  


Except, of course, for Raider fans.

You can bet these guys don't utilize The California No.

To Rally, Or Not To Rally?

America has finally begun its day-late, 15-trillion-dollars-short uprising.  In cities all over the country, thousands of disgruntled capitalists have decided that it's time to speak out against the corporate stranglehold that is gripping the U.S.A.  In Portland, the rallies are raging, fueled by patchouli, vintage clothing, overpriced REI camping gear, and spontaneous outbursts of drumming.  Surprisingly, I don't think the Portland cops have managed to shoot anyone yet.

We are young!  We are white!  We are cranky!

While in my daily life I do my best to remain in a perpetual state of protest, I do not choose to attend these types of rallies.  When it comes to gathering outside with thousands of strangers to hold signs and chant, even if I believe in the cause, I shamelessly sit out.  Here is my reasoning for this behavior:

• I don't like people, and I certainly don't want to find myself smashed in amongst huge throngs of them.  People are loud, say dumb things, and are horribly annoying.
• I don't like following crowds or being told what to do.  When I'm at a concert and the performers try to direct my vocalizations or bodily movements (e.g., "Put your hands in the air!  Say hey!  Say ho!") I become really irritated and rebellious.  I don't like marching and I don't like chanting, and, as aforementioned, I really don't like people, so big rallies simply do not work for Al.

YOU wave your hands in the air!  Stop micromanaging me!

• Regarding the current wave of protests, I don't have enough factual knowledge to be able to back up the cause or reflect it to, for example, a news crew.  I do my best to avoid being exposed to anything related to the economy.  I won't even learn how to do my own taxes.  Ultimately our entire monetary/economic system was just made up in the first place like some big, complicated playground game, and it's all far too bullshitty for me to bother trying to download it into my brain.  
• I don't want to camp downtown.  It's cold outside, and I would miss my dogs.

Besides, if Americans really want to change the value system and practices of this country, I'm unclear about the efficacy of these rallies, although honestly I do think it's pretty cool that so many people are participating in them.  But to me, a true American protest would look like this:

Stop shopping at WalMart, eating at McDonalds, drinking Coke & Budweiser, smoking Marlboros, and banking with Bank of America.  Stop caring about celebrities, reality TV show contestants and people on talk shows, especially since it's been scientifically proven that each minute spent thinking about those people kills 15 brain cells.  Stop buying bigger cars, the newest cell phones, designer dogs, and the most expensive cosmetic products.  For that matter, stop internalizing every advertisement-created need that is thrown in your face.

For example, if you have basic motor skills & a brain, then you do NOT need a self-parking car.

Stop blaming teachers and the media for how fucked up and obnoxious your children are - just take responsibility to discipline them and teach them how to be better people.  Stop playing video games and whining or bragging on social networking sites all damn day.  Stop texting 500 bullshit messages every hour.  Take a fucking walk.  Look around.  Talk to someone in person.  If your neighbor is starving, being abused, or mentally ill, try giving a shit.  If someone tells you he's a venture capitalist and makes millions of dollars a year, don't be jealous or express admiration.  Just wrinkle your nose and say, "Ew."

Get away from me, Jerk.  You're ruining my country.

My Not-For-Profit Life

***DISCLAIMER:  Some of this post may look familiar to a few of you.  I snagged bits and pieces from a previous post which I created & later deleted.  But there's new stuff, too, so go ahead and read it anyway.***

This is quite reflective of my current salary

I have been a counselor of sorts for a variety of nonprofit organizations since 1997.  When one conjures up a mental image of a counselor, one might envision this:

M'kay?

or this:

This looks exactly nothing like what I do.

However, I assure you that both of those images are nowhere near what is, or has ever been, the reality of my employment.  


When I began social service work at age 22, it was in the domestic violence field.  I worked at a domestic abuse shelter for about a year and then became the coordinator of a batterers' intervention program.  I remember telling my sister about my new job and then having this conversation:


SISTER:  Um...shouldn't someone else be doing that job?
ME:  Like who?
SISTER:  I don't know.  Someone who's not my little sister?


Needless to say, no one in my family was particularly excited about me having that job.  Truth be told, neither was I.  I'd groan whenever the phone rang in my office, because I knew that, when I picked it up, it was highly probable that there'd be a total fucking asshole on the other line.  "Yeah, that bitch judge said I need some anger management or whatever, but it's all bullshit.  I never did anything."  Riiiiiight.


It didn't take me long to realize that the stress and strain of social service work is not at all sustainable if you actively dislike your clients.  It's hard wanting to continually put out the necessary effort to counsel people when you have regular fantasies about ending their  lives.

There were two fun things about that job.  The program was called Batterers' Intervention Program (BIP), so I used to call the clients "bippers," which they hated, so that was cool.  The second fun thing was running into clients while I was out & about with friends.  Whenever we'd pass by some guy with a mullet, six teeth, stonewashed cutoff jeans and a sleeveless, classic rock t-shirt and said character would smile politely at me and say hello, my friends would turn to me and say, "Hmmm...lemme guess."  Then I would explain to them that I was trying to branch out in my friendship circles & that they should try to be more open minded.  Other than that, the job blew horribly, but for $10 an hour, who could complain?  Oh, wait...


After that lovely experience, I decided it was time to work with younger people.  [I also promised my mother that I would never again take a job with the word "violence" in the title.]  Shifting from working with adults to working with youth was way better in many ways, but money-wise it was the same.  I remember having an interview for a position with a foster family agency, and after my future supervisor explained that my job duties would involve intensive crisis intervention and being on-call 24/7, she told me what my salary would be.  When I informed her that the amount she'd offered most likely wouldn't work for me, instead of offering more money, she offered to let me borrow a book on simplicity.  Note that she offered to lend me the book. Even with an MSW and about 25 years of social work experience, she wasn't making enough money to allow for her to give away any possessions.


Given the type of work I've done and the salaries I've made, I laughed very hard when I did a Google Image search for "school counselor" and found this:

Um...what?  Is this meant to be ironic?

But despite the low wages, at least the work is very rewarding, while simultaneously soul-crushingly painful at times.  I've worked with youth now for about 12 years chronologically and ten thousand years spiritually, so while in some ways I am 36 years old, I feel like I am actually 10,024.

Here I am resting.

One might think that it would be extremely difficult to get young people to talk about their lives.  However, what I've found over the years is that the simple act of listening most often leads to people completely spilling their guts, regardless of the fact that they've only just met me.  I think this is indicative of the fact that most people don't listen at all, so on the rare occasion that folks find a good listener, they pour out everything that they've been holding in since the last time someone listened to them. While it sometimes infuriates me that people in general are pathetically terrible listeners, I suppose I should be grateful.  If more people listened, then I wouldn't have a job.

Most people

Me

Currently, I work with high school dropouts between the ages of 17 and 25.  Because my school is also a vocational training program that specializes in construction, for the most part it attracts young men who like taking stuff apart and hitting things really hard.  Therefore, the majority of my students are much like this:

"I want nothing more than to talk about my feelings."

However, even those guys seem shocked into excessive self-disclosure upon encountering my ninja-like listening abilities.

I truly love my work, and I believe I was meant to do it.  On some level, however, I really do feel for my current students for having to work with me.  I imagine them coming to the school's orientation, hearing about the counselor they're going to get, envisioning someone normal and uplifting, and then ending up with this:

Oh, well.  At least I listen.

Why I Hope the Post Office Stays Afloat

I have an 8 year-old pen pal.  I've known her since before she was born and was stubbornly refusing to vacate the womb.  I remember watching her poor mother (who was my downstairs neighbor at the time) marching up and down the street trying to shake her loose.  I used to call to her, "Hey, you're late!  Come out of the darkness and into the light!"  And, eight days later than predicted, she did just that.


Since I'm good friends with her mom, I got to spend lots of time with her in her early years.  We'd go to parks, play on swings and slides, walk dogs together, make lemonade, go to the beach, take funny pictures, and cook meals.  She and I are both Leo females, and therefore have big personalities (and are completely fabulous, of course), so we were always great fans of one another.  However, after several years, she and her mom moved away to San Francisco, and not long afterwards, I moved to Oregon.

:-(

About a year ago, I went back to California for a brief visit and spent a night at her mom's, but my young friend was with her dad for the weekend so I didn't get to see her.  I left her a little note just to say hi and let her know I was sorry to have missed her, and about a week later I received this response in the mail:


"Thanks for writing the note.  Guess what I am reading one hundred and fifty words per minute.  Maybe we can do stuff like I write you a note and you write me a note.  That would be fun.  Guess what I have a wiggly tooth.  Say hi to JR."


[This was the first directive my pen pal gave to me regarding JR, my husband.  Since that letter, she has offered further instructions including:  "Say BOO! to JR," and, "Tell JR bak bak like a bird."]


We began writing back and forth from that point on.  Her letters contain critical biographical information such as:  "My friends names are Iris, Camille, Nick, Nick, Benito, Talia, Eleanor, Pah, Zuzu, Xaria, Max, Starla, and Shavonne plus Vontre."  She recently shared this feedback about her experience with a broken wrist:  "One thing I like about it is it is fun.  Because I don't have to wash the dishes and I can stay in bed and watch tv."  Also, sometimes I get bonus works of art like this:

This:

And this:

At one point, my pen pal decided she was going to write a book of jokes.  Here are some of the jokes that she shared with me:


Knock knock
Who's there?
Cash
Cash who?
I prefer peanuts.


[Side note:  ????]


Here's another one:


What did the chicken say to the cow?
Coward.


[She told me that one in a few different letters, but I still don't get it.  I think I've just become imaginatively deficient in my old age.]


After a few months of working on her joke book, however, my pen pal sent me this sad update:


"I've decided I am not making the book because it is too hard.  Knock knock.  Who's there?  Peace.   Peace who?  Peace out."


The funniest thing, though, was her response to my question about whether or not she'd heard of the book or movie Anne of Green Gables.  Here is what she wrote:

Well, that's not exactly what Anne of Green Gables is about...but close!

While I'm not quite sure how to respond to her ideas about Anne of Green Gables (and I think L.M. Montgomery might be rolling over in her grave), I must say that having a pen pal brings great joy to my life.  I think, if all adults had young pen pals instructing them to tell other adults, "Bak bak like a bird," the world would be a happier place.

Modern Day Neanderthals

For someone who appreciates thoughtful, community-minded individuals who regularly utilize at least a basic level of intelligence, sports bars can be somewhat problematic.  They can also be excellent fodder for blog topics, such as:

You Might Be a Neanderthal If...

• You laugh hysterically at beer commercials.  Even if the same commercial has been aired during every single break (and there are a bazillion breaks), you laugh at each viewing with the same manic intensity, as if it's your first time all over again.  [This is also a sign that you might be a goldfish.]

Okay, it was sort of funny the first time...except not really.

• You yell, "Whip 'em out!" whenever you see young, attractive females on TV.  These females could be engaged in any number of activities (e.g., watching a sporting event; driving a car; testifying at a murder trial) and will all receive the same request to bare their bosoms.

Whip 'em out?  You got it, Pal.

[Quasi-tangential side note:  Have you ever been in a crowd of people and suddenly wished you had the world's most gigantic scythe, so that you could lop off all of their heads in one fell swoop?  But I digress...]

• To express your most passionate emotions - such as joy that your team has succeeded, anger that the opposing team has succeeded, joy that the opposing team has failed, or anger that the refs are blatantly discriminating against your team - you hoot, pound your chest, growl, jump up and down, and scream.  Seriously.  You actually do these things.  It's really something special.

What do you mean, pass interference?  I'll kill you!  I'll kill your whole family!

• After your team wins, or loses, you respond by going on a violent rampage, which could include any or all of the following activities:  beating people until they are hospitalized or dead; setting your town/city on fire; looting local businesses; tipping over cars (perhaps even your own).

Yay!  We won the Super Bowl!

If this sounds like you, take heart - there are millions of others like you sitting in sports bars everywhere, grunting, chugging crap beer, and throwing poop.  Just try to avoid anyone carrying a giant scythe, and you should be fine.

I Am A Monster

Every once in awhile, I will engage in an activity reminding me that, despite the fact that I generally try to be appropriate and hygienic, I am actually a completely revolting individual.  One of these events occurred about a month ago.  It went like this.


The Dead Ratscapade


My husband came into the kitchen, where I was preparing dinner, and informed me that our dog Libby (referred to in a previous post as Cujo) had killed a giant rat and left it on the side of the house.  [Side note:  Go, Libby!  You rock!]  My husband is not a fan of rodents in any form, or stage of life, and asked for my assistance in disposing of the dead beast.

Be grateful that I'm sparing you from a more realistic image

I have no issue with rats, particularly when they're dead, so I went out into the yard where my husband was standing about 20 feet from the rat, holding a pooper scooper and a brown paper bag.  I walked up to the corpse, kicked it to shoo away the flies, lifted it up by its tail ("OH MY GOD," remarked my husband), dropped it in the paper bag, and went back into the house.


About a half hour later, my husband and I were eating dinner, and he informed me that he'd planned for me to use the pooper scooper to pick up the rat and drop it in the bag.  He said he couldn't believe I'd touched it and that he hoped I'd washed my hands very carefully, preferably more than once, when I came back into the house.


At that moment it occurred to me that I had NOT washed my hands AT ALL after handling the rat.  In fact, my routine that evening had consisted of:


Wash hands
Begin cooking dinner
Pick up & dispose of dead rat
Finish cooking dinner
Serve & eat dinner

Perhaps someone could buy me this book for my birthday

The good news is that my husband and I did not sicken or die from this experience.  The bad news is that he will never look at me the same way again.  However, that is only because he met me after other tell-tale experiences indicating that I am actually a filthy, disgusting monster, including:


The Ear Wax Horror Show


Okay, folks - please prepare yourselves.  This is really gross.  If you are a friend or family member of mine and would like to retain the ability to look me in the eye, you might want to stop reading now.


It was my freshman year of high school, and I was cramming for a history midterm in a study carrel.  The history class I was taking was extremely difficult and demanding, and I had a wonderful teacher who I desperately wanted to impress.  I was so anxious about the midterm that I was clearly not breathing well, thereby reducing the amount of oxygen needed for optimum brain function.  [Note rationalization to excuse behavior about to be reported]


While I was going through my history book and taking notes with my left hand, somehow the index finger of my right hand made its way into my ear.  Eventually I pulled out the finger and noticed that it had a huge glob of ear wax on it.  What the hell?  thought I absently, primarily focused on history.  How much more of that is in there?  And so, for approximately the next 45 minutes, while my left hand continued following the text and taking notes, my right hand began diligently harvesting about a pound of ear wax from my right ear and depositing it onto a piece of white paper that was in the carrel. 

Why the hell would you put your elbow in your  ear?

When the bell rang, I dashed out of the study carrel and straight to my exam.  It wasn't until after school that day that I realized I'd left the ear-wax-covered piece of paper in the study carrel.  I don't know how much our school's custodian was paid, but I'm absolutely positive it wasn't enough to be worth having to discover such a thing.  Poor dude.  If I had his contact information now, I'd send him a fruit basket or something.


The Crowd Was In Stitches


When I was 19, I was in a terrible car accident in Jupiter, Florida.  After the accident, I ended up with 17 stitches in my arm.  When I was discharged from the hospital, I was told to return to a doctor's office within 2 weeks to have the stitches removed.


The healing process for my arm was really gnarly.  For awhile, it seemed like the arm wasn't going to heal at all; it was just going to sting and fester and do other horrible things.  But after about a week, the wounds visibly began healing and new skin started growing.  However, it didn't take me long to notice that the skin seemed to be growing over the stitches, submerging them.  I began to wonder, when the time came for my stitches to be removed, if the new skin would need to be cut through in order to reach them.  Considering that I'd just gone through an accident, surgery, and a painful recovery process, that prospect did not thrill me in the least.


Because I believed there was an impending, stitch-submersion crisis to be prevented, and because I was on some serious painkillers (again, note attempts at rationalization), I decided that I needed to take matters into my own hands and get the stitches out as quickly as possible.  [Really, I could've gone back to a doctor, but after my experiences in Jupiter, I was determined never again to seek medical treatment, especially in Florida.]  After some experimentation, I realized that, if I grabbed the loose ends of a stitch and pulled it up gently, I could pull the knot high enough above the new skin to untie it.

The process would've been much easier with one of these

Unfortunately for the people in the waiting room at Sears Optical in Key West, I made this discovery while sitting in that very spot.  While my mother had her eyes examined, I sat in the last chair in a row of about six seats, pulling each individual stitch out of the new skin, untying the knot, pulling the thread out of my arm, and dropping it on the floor.  


After performing this procedure about 6 or 7 times, I looked over and noticed that no other chair in the row of seats was occupied, although there were lots of people standing around waiting.  I looked up at the people and realized that they were staring at me with looks of horror and disgust much like the look that the custodian at my high school must've had on his face when he found the abandoned paper in the study carrel.  When I then realized what I had been doing in a public place, I promptly stopped and wondered what the fuck is wrong with me.


When we got home, my mom told my dad what I'd done at Sears, and he decided to take the rest of my stitches out himself, using his fly tying tools.

Please note my dad's snazzy, magnifying headgear & glass of wine

So there ya have it, folks.  While I usually manage to mask them, I apparently have monstrous tendencies.  It makes me wonder why I bother doing basic stuff like wearing deodorant and flossing my teeth.  If only flossing regularly could make up for cooking dinner with dead-rat-tainted hands...but clearly, it doesn't.