An Early Traumatizing Experience

I remember being in the first grade and seeing my first violent death scene in real life and I wanted to share it here.  

I would've been about 6 or 7 and was waiting at the bus stop when I noticed a crow in the street just hopping around.  I could tell right away that there was something wrong with him as he was struggling terribly and I assumed he must've had a broken wing and even a possible broken leg.  The thing that warmed my heart was seeing a group of his buddies screaming at him to hurry and get out of the street.  I could tell they wanted him back to safety.  They cawed and cawed loudly, hopping around crazily, encouraging their dear friend that he needed to get his ass out of the street and they knew he could do it.  "C'mon, buddy!!!"

And then it happened...

A truck came storming down the street at a horribly fast 25mph, and the cawing got louder, the hopping got crazier, and the bird in the street knew he could make it if he could just get..that...last...bit...of...strength...

BAM!!!

Feathers everywhere.

Crunch.  Crunch.

One car after another rolled over the bird and it was suddenly quiet.

His friends sadly came to his side and to say good bye to this soldier that tried hard to make it home to his family to live on a crippled, yet good life.

One of his friends bowed his head in what I can only assume was a prayer to send his buddy up to crow heaven.

Until he started to peck at his dead body.  He started to eat his friend.  One at a time, the crows came down and pecked and swallowed up his still warm body - flew away when cars came, then flew back and proceeded to enjoy their breakfast of champions...or losers.  He lost.

I don't remember why I watched this entire tragedy, but I did.  It was horrific as well as intriguing.

Oh well, waste not - want not.

It truly was the Circle of Life.

Children's Movies and Their Dead Parents (Straight Forward Title, Huh)

I had a conversation with Farrah on our drive home about animated movies.  She had recently seen the movie "Beauty and the Beast" and asked me why in the realistic versions of movies, they go into more detail about things.  I had explained there was more time that way and more adults were watching in order to justify giving a better back story to the story being told.  I said with the movie "Cinderella" they showed that the mother was very sick and that she died. No young child wants to see that.  Farrah told me that's what they did in "Beauty and the Beast", too. (We already knew the mom was dead, people.  Nothing got spoiled there - settle down).

So...after thinking about it for a minute, I pointed out something that I realized...

There are soooooo many animated children's movies that show that one or both of the parents of the main character are either dead or taken from them!  Seriously.  Think about it.  We did.  In fact, Farrah and I found ourselves horrifically entertained by listing the various movies that showed exactly what I'm talking about:

Cinderella (mom dies and gets replaced by shitty stepmom)
Finding Nemo (mom gets eaten by barracuda)
Sleeping Beauty (Aurora is taken from her parents - but, in the movie Malificent, the mother dies)
Tarzan (parents are dead)
Frozen (parents are dead)
Lilo and Stitch (parents are dead)
Jungle Book (parents are dead)
Lion King (dad dies)
Snow White (mom is dead)
Bambi (mom is alive...then dead)
Beauty and the Beast (mom is dead)
Little Mermaid (mom is dead)
Aladdin (parents are dead - then he finds his father in another movie, but mom...still dead)
The Princess and the Frog (dad is dead)
Kung Fu Panda (parents are dead)
Hunchback of Notre Dame (parents are dead)
Big Hero (Tadashi - Baymax's maker aka dad...dead)
How to Train Your Dragon 1 (mom is dead, dad is alive)
How to Train Your Dragon 2 (dad is dead, mom is alive)

And then there's the "not quite dead, but close enough" scenarios in theses movies:

Dumbo (mom gets taken to prison)
Pinochio (he's kidnapped and taken from his dad)
101 Dalmatians (pups are kidnapped)
Tangled (kidnapped and raised by fake mom)

So, those are the only ones I could come up with and I know I'm missing some.  For instance, I forgot to mention Anastasia...do I need to tell you how her parents died?  Because they did.  Both of them.

Why do the story writers decide to go after children's deepest fears?  Seriously.  I get that they are showing how the characters grew up through such a tough experience and persevered, but did they really need to do it without their parents?  Why'd they have to die?  Why was it having a tragedy like a parent dying be the thing that made the kid strong?  I don't think that's how it works or what makes a person show their strength.  How about they lose their first job?  Or maybe they got an F on a test.  Or perhaps the parents are just divorced.  For shit's sake...Bambi's mom got shot.  SHOT!  Tadashi was blown up.  Quasimodo's parents were brutally murdered.  Elsa's parents were on the Titanic...I think.

Maybe the writers of these stories were actually parents themselves and knew if in real life, their child broke out in song one more god damn time and swung from the rafters and let a bunch of forest animals in the house, that would be the last freakin' straw and CPS would be knocking on their door.  That being the case, removing a parent or both parents for that matter, made the most sense.  It sounds like too much work to write them into the story, anyway.  Whatever the reason might have been, it's safe to say that apparently a kid without a parent can grow up to rule an entire kingdom and if that's the case, then Disney has given me permission to allow Farrah to do the rest of this growing up on her own because she'll probably be more successful at life without me.  Looks like I'm going to leave her the house and I'll go travel the world and I'll conveniently find her when she's the CEO of a major corporation.  Seems like the theme to follow.

Dear Farrah - A Decade of You

Dear Farrah:

I am writing this while you are still a single digit, but only for one more day (and only for a couple more hours).  Tomorrow marks the anniversary of you entering my life and being the best thing I've done.  It has been ten years of amazingness with you.  What can I say that I haven't already said a million times about you?

You make me smile, you make me cry, you make me laugh, you make me think, you make me mad, and you make me thank god every day that you are my kid.  There are times you make me want to rip my hair out and question everything I'm doing wrong as a parent, as a woman, and as a mother - but you also remind me of everything I am doing right.

You are an old soul.
There is wisdom that comes out of your mouth that astonishes me and I'm not sure where you're getting it because it is beyond what a normal child your age says or thinks.  You know more than what you let on and I see it in your eyes.  Your little mind questions everything and you don't let anything get past you.  We have had conversations that you don't like to have and you get mad at me and I get mad at you and you blow my mind when you say things like, "I'm allowed to have an opinion."  I am forced to stop and actually look at you like you're almost a young woman and not just a little girl and it freaks me out!  Yes, honey.  Yes, you are allowed to have an opinion and I am so proud of you for saying that.  (However - you're just not allowed to have one with your jaw jetted out like that with fire coming out of your eyes and your hands on your hips.)

You're a nerd.
I love this about you!  You read and read and read!  And you are so excited to tell me about the book you're reading, how many pages you read today, how much you love the author and you want to read more and you're sad the series is almost over.  What will you read next?!  You enjoy sharing what you learned at school and you love when I add more knowledge to the subject.  (Remember when you said you were learning about Mars and I told you there was a face on it?  Cool stuff, huh.).  You complain that you can't do math and you don't like it.  But guess what?  You can do it and you might like it!  You're embarrassed that you had a day or two when you went to your teacher 15 times to ask questions about long division?  Oh my god, kid.  I'm so proud of you for knowing that you can ask your teacher for help because after the 15th time...you got it and it clicked!

You've got style.
You love your clothes, but more importantly - you love to make your clothes into your own unique "look".  I'd never step out of the house with mismatched knee high socks going over my leggings with combat boots, but you somehow pull it off and make it look cool.  It's like you've looked at the pictures from when you dressed yourself when you were 3 or 4 years old and said, "Hey, I can make that work again."  And you do!  What??  You're like the 21st century Punky Brewster.  Don't know who that is?  It's okay.  Anyone reading this will know and get what I mean.

You're bullheaded as hell.
While I'm working on this personality trait of yours and it makes me see red most of the time - there's a part of me that is glad you're this way.  You will learn to channel this as you get older and use it when it's more appropriate, and that's why I know you won't take shit from anyone.

Then there's all the things that you're not aware of that make you, you...

When we're driving and listening to music, I'll sneak a peek in the rearview mirror and watch you sing along to my music that you claim to hate (and notice that you know the words by heart).

I see you walk around the house with a book in your hand, reading, and trying to do whatever chore was asked of you.  And I just don't have the heart to ask you to stop reading so you can do what you're supposed to do faster with two hands.

Almost everything I cook is "your favorite" and I'm grateful that I can cook and you actually enjoy it.

When you don't feel well, you need me to be with you and snuggle with you.  I hate it when you're sick, but my heart melts that you need me, still.

Sometimes you want to sleep with me and I don't say yes as often as I used to but it's because you're getting so big and you kick harder now.  Now, you have to make a little fort next to my bed for you to sleep so we're still in the same room.

And my favorite...when you're asleep, sometimes I still come and check on you and steal an extra kiss good night like I did when you were a baby.  I whisper how much I love you and comb your hair out of your face with my fingers and look at you like I did the day the doctors handed you to me.  I'm still in awe with you.  I look in your eyes and I see mine reflected back and I am simply amazed.

I can not believe my little girl is turning double digits.  My heart is tangled by so much joy and a little bit of sadness because of the realization that time goes by so fast.  When we talked about this being the last day she will ever be a single digit ever again for the rest of her life, even her face reflected that of sentimental sorrow.  I remember when she was a baby and I couldn't wait for her to talk so we could carry on a conversation.  Now, I want the clock to slow down because now she has so much to say!!

Farrah, I see only great things in your future but that's because you are so great.  You've seen and experienced quite a bit in your young age and I'm sorry for some of it, but grateful for most because all of it has shaped and molded you into who you are and who you will become.  While you've earned the extra nickname "Turd" the older you've gotten, you are and will forever be my "Kitten".

I love you, Farrah Raquelle Moody...to the stars and back, forever, infinity.

~Mom

                                                                           

Just A Lil' Story

Today, I was driving home with Farrah and there was a little Mazda Miata riding my ass.  I was busy talking to her while keeping an eye on the guy behind me, trying to be sure that I kept things safe on my end the best I could.  While taking the turn off the bridge, he was still on my tail until he went up the hill next to me, driving fast and wild while waiving a fist and middle finger at me.  (Don't forget...Mazda Miata, pshhh).

Having it be the end of a long day and an even longer week, I couldn't help what I said..."Fucking ass!  I hope he crashes."

I looked back at Farrah and said, "Oh wow, honey.  I can't believe I just said that.  Oh my god.  What if he crashed because I just said that?  Do you realize how powerful that would make me?"

And we laughed and laughed and laughed...because that would be amazing.

The end.

My Neighbor, Bob

So, I'm a little choked up tonight because I had a knock at my door at 8:30, and standing there was my neighbor, Bob.  And just like every summer, he has a plastic baggy of various vegetables that he brings to me.  Usually, it is jam packed with tomatoes and zucchini…I wasn't disappointed tonight.

Bob has had a "For Sale" sign outside his house for about 20 days, and today there was a "pending" sign added to it.  When Bob dropped off my vegetables, I had to ask what the deal was and why he was going and when.  He has grandchildren, ages 2 and 4, and one more on the way out and he simply can't stand being away from his family, so he and his wife are going to move to Phoenix, "Of all places." he said.

It was in that moment that my asshole dog came down the stairs and barked her vicious bark and I pushed her away with my toe and he ignored the 8 pound shitty purse-dog like he always has…and this made me sad.  Twig has always barked at men and Bob just got used to it and would either talk to her in the back yard or ignore the noise until she realized he wasn't a threat.  Bob would see me busting my ass in the back yard digging up weeds, mowing what living grass I had left, cleaning the patio, whatever I was doing and hang over the fence and remind me, "You're like a real home owner.  Doing a good job."  And I know he was being nice because those who've graced the presence of my home know the yard is a shit-show and should be burned.
My neighbor Bob, has been kind to me since the day I moved here with Farrah and in his own right, kept a look out for us.  I never truly had the pleasure of meeting his wife except for a note that was left taped on my door one night about my dog that had been left out all night and barked non-stop and kept her up (only it wasn't my dog, because Twig was inside with me)…so that small interaction was, meh. But Bob was and is a very good man and I had no idea how much I'm going to miss him until I put my vegetables in the refrigerator.

Who will these new people be?  Are they going to cheer me on about my awful yard or are they going to write letters to the Home Owners Association?  Are they going to have kids Farrah's age that can play with her, or will they have teenagers who have parties when their parents are gone?  I have no idea what to expect except that I know I am really going to miss him.  Whenever I'd talk about him to James or to friends or other neighbors, I'd refer to him as "Old-Man-Bob".  Because he is…he's old.  But I love having old neighbors and he has turned out to be one of the absolute best.

I suppose Phyllis across the street should prepare herself for some unexpected visits from me from time to time, now.  She's a little older, so she'll do.

From 60 to 0 - Panic at the Disco

I am one that suffers from anxiety attacks and on the rare and shitty occasion, a panic attack.  If you've never had the privilege of experiencing either, bless your fragile little heart.  God knew you probably wouldn't survive either one, so count yourself lucky.  I've talked to enough people that find it "odd" to say that I encounter the occasional tail-spin-out-of-control drama that my body likes to undergo, but hey not everyone is perfect.

When I have an anxiety attack, my heart rate starts to slowly climb, my hands start to shake, my stomach feels nauseous, and I can't focus on anything except desperately trying to calm down.  Sounds like anyone's way of dealing with stress, right?  Except for me, my heart rate doesn't slow down, the shakes don't stop, and the nausea lasts and lasts…all of it continues for hours.  It's quite awful and my brain ends up being scrambled eggs for the longest time and by the time my body has cooperated with me to be somewhat normal, I'm exhausted.

But it's the panic attacks that truly are the worst.  I've had a handful of them in my life and I know others that have had them, too.  They can all be different.  One of my friends swore she was having a heart attack at the age of 24, like an elephant was sitting on her chest.  Nope…panic attack.  Mine are weird.  It can start off like a normal anxiety attack but it goes up about 20 notches.  So my breath comes in faster and my heart beats so fast I can feel it pulsing through my eyes.  What I tend to do is notice the fast breathing and force myself to slow it down, which is actually more like barely holding my breath and breathing fast all at once.  Can you see how this might become a problem?  Then the fun stuff begins…my whole body's reaction to the chaos of my brain…
My fingers start to tingle and so do my toes.  The tingling turns into a slight numbness that creeps up my whole body as if I've been given an IV of lidocaine that is dripping into my entire system.  And the final destination of the numbing effects goes into my eyes and finally into my tongue and lips.
I can't speak when this happens, can barely swallow, blinking is weird, and all I can focus on is the tingling that has taken over my entire body.
If you've never experienced this, can you imagine?  It's awful.  You aren't paralyzed but you are unable to move correctly or do much of anything to fix the problem until your mind and body decide to cooperate and settle down.

A week ago, I almost experienced one of my panic attacks.  I was very upset and could feel my breathing coming at me in the weird waves that they do, the heart rate spiking, and my muscles tensing for the inevitable numbness to come.  But the fantastic thing that happened next, astonished even me.  I actually talked myself OUT of having the attack.  I closed my eyes, told myself I'd be okay, even said "fuck it" to the upsetting situation, forced more balanced breaths, and calmed my heart.  The dizziness in my head was there and the numbness in my fingers began climbing up my hands, but that's where it stayed.  I simply allowed myself to be upset, allowed myself to be pissed, accepted my emotions for what they were and stopped trying so hard to control it.
While I was proud of myself for being able to settle down, I was more excited that I didn't have to take a pill nor explain to anyone around me that I couldn't speak because my tongue felt like I'd been poked in the mouth with a needle 100 times by a dentist.  Embarrassing moment averted!

It takes a lot for me to have a panic attack, and the anxiety attacks run on several different levels.  However, it's good to know that I can simply find little mantras to settle my nerves…

Or if all else fails, take a pill.

Unconditionally

At what point in time did people stop loving unconditionally and start putting rules on the ones they cared about?  Why do we find that we get devastatingly disappointed in people, simply because they didn't follow the script in our heads?
I've witnessed this on numerous occasions and unfortunately, I've found myself to also play in the role of this self-destructive behavior.  However, the fact that I can observe when others behave that way, I am reminded when I catch myself being disappointed when a friend doesn't call back, or a boyfriend doesn't respond just right, or a family member doesn't do what I'd hoped they'd do…a voice in my head tells me it doesn't matter.
I am far from perfect when it comes to heeding these words, but I work hard at following them to the best of my abilities.
But what I have discovered is it seems so easy for people to condemn others simply because whatever idea they had in their mind of how a situation should be played out, didn't go down that way.

Unconditional love.  What is it?  It is love WITHOUT conditions.  Without rules.  Without expectations.  It is a love that is real and that you never have to ask permission for nor to apologize for.  You love, simply because you do!  Love does not look at you through envious eyes for what you have and carry a bitter taste in their mouth for what they don't.  Real love boosts you and cheers you on for how great you are and because they truly are happy for you and wish you nothing but joy.  Love does not set limits and expectations on how much you will or will not sacrifice for them.  Real love knows and feels that you do all that you can to give the love in return.  Love does not keep a score card, and the biggest reason it doesn't is because it's so damn easy to miss all the points that were made time and time again.

So, I ask again…when did we stop loving unconditionally?  Loving unconditionally is the freest and best feeling ever.  It is natural and it is pure.  Love is found in every relationship, too.  Not just romantic love, or the love of our children, but also the love of our friends, and our families.

The next time you look at a loved one in anger and disappointment because you have set rules in your mind of what love should "look like", or what that person "should've said" or done, or you try to compare how your love might be better than how someone loves you…you have to take a serious look at the relationships around you and how you may have completely damaged what was once a great love or friendship.  Be careful with the people around you when you feel like you're guarding your heart because it's so delicate…because so are theirs.

When it comes to the love you have for your partner, your children, your family, and your friends…the second you start adding up points of rights vs wrongs, of good vs bad, and of give and take…bear in mind, you are setting expectations and limits for those around you.  And with that being said, you will forever be disappointed because no one will ever live up to expectations put on them.

If you are going to choose to love those around you, do it for real.  Don't hold back and certainly, don't make up rules as you go along with this roller coaster ride of life.

Love is awesome…100% unconditionally awesome.

Culinary Artist

A long while ago I had had a conversation about "what I wanted to be when I grew up" with Farrah.  I told her I'd wanted to be a Flight Attendant and it's a good thing that didn't work out since I'm afraid of flying now.  Back when I had this conversation, Farrah told me she wanted to be a chef (I'd never told her that was what I went to school for) and a singer.  She said, "But mom, what if I don't get to be a chef or a singer?!!"  No worries, I told her.  I explained that I went to school to be a chef and "look at me now!"  This didn't  make her feel very good at all but she did say, "I want to go to the chef school you went to!"
No.
And I proceeded to tell her a story...

My Chef instructor was, well, a douche bag.  Mind you, I revised my story to tell to a child.  Continuing...
Picture Chef Ramsey, but 6' 6" tall with grey hair and a grey goatee and a tall Chef's hat making him a straight 7' tall.  And me?  I was 18 years old and 5' 4" in a man's (if you can believe it) industry.

Anyway, the importance of the two stories here is one was my first time swearing at an "adult" or someone older than me, and once when I stuck up for myself.  They were VERY important moments in my life that helped mold me into a person that can, when needed, stick up for themselves when necessary.  But also, I am a pro at swearing now.

One day, I was responsible for the "Sauce Station" with the rest of my crew.  There were 4 of us (The 'A Team').  We named ourselves...because we'd get As.  So, I was working my station and Chef came up and saw that I didn't have the right size pot to boil water.  I'd gone through several and it was the only one I could find.  He started shouting at me, telling me how dumb I was, swearing, screaming, and finally throwing the pot across the room.  My face was red.  But not red with embarrassment. I was shaking mad.
He finally said, "I think you and I need to step outside."
"I agree."
We stepped out in the hall and he asked me if there was something that I wanted to say to him.  The whole time I was standing out there I didn't realize I was punching my fist into my palm.  Hard.  Finally, I said, "You're such a...you're such a... YOU'RE SUCH A FUCKING ASSHOLE!!!"  I couldn't believe what I'd said.  I had been raised to "respect your elders" even if the person was only a month older than you.  Surely this guy was going to go find a pot and break my skull open with it!  Instead, he laughed.  I think he was testing if I could take his shit.  I could.  To a point.  I was still a pretty sensitive girl.

My final run in with him was my final year.  I had dealt with his verbal abuse and constant outbursts for almost 2 years and survived.  Mind you, they weren't all toward me.  They were toward everyone.  I'd even tell him when he was watching over my shoulder to go away because I couldn't work with someone hovering.  He asked how he was supposed to know I was doing it right, and I told him he'd find out when my product was finished and perfect like always.  It worked and he'd walk away.
But there was a time that it went too far.  We had been preparing for a holiday banquet and so the whole class of 30 students had been busy for weeks.  Well, Chef came up to me one day and told me he had failed me in a rotation.  A rotation is 2 weeks long and the same price as a typical quarter class.  It was because I had spaced turning in paperwork.  I had spaced it to prepare for the stupid banquet.  But an "F" for me was like someone shot my dog...and my whole family.  I'd received all As until this moment.  And I didn't have an extra $450 to take the class again THE NEXT YEAR!!!

I panicked and started to cry.  That's what I do when I freak out.  I cry.  It was uncontrollable crying and I was pretty sure I was heading home for the day and screw whatever I was responsible for in the kitchen.  I went out and called my dad on the school pay phone (no cell phones yet), so people could see me crying.  It was humiliating because not only was I crying (more like sobbing with difficulty breathing followed by hiccups), but I was dressed in my whites (chef clothes with my stupid hat - there's just no way of making that entire mess to look remotely attractive or cute.  Not a hot mess….just a mess.).  I spoke to my dad about what had happened and he asked if I wanted him to come over to my school and deal with it.  I KNEW if dad came there, he WOULD take care of it and I'd come out smelling like roses, but I actually refused his assistance.  I wanted and needed to do this on my own.  I was 19 now, and it was time for me to start behaving like someone who was getting ready to graduate and enter the real world.

I took a couple deep breaths and my friends from class had asked me if I was okay and if I needed a ride home and all that crap.  Nope.  I just needed a moment alone with Chef.  I pulled myself together, checked the mirror to make sure I didn't have a bright red nose and glossy eyes or any aftershocks that I'd always get after a hard cry.  No, I was in perfect condition to confront this situation head on.  I walked into his office and asked to have a private word with him with a smug look on my face.  He said okay and I closed the door which wasn't what he'd expected, but I wasn't planning on being an asshole in front of any passer-byers.  I've never forgotten what I said:

"Let's get something straight.  YOU work for ME.  Not the other way around.  I pay YOUR salary!  This is NOT the god damn military and you can treat me with some fucking respect because I've always treated you with it.  Also, this is a community college, not a university.  You have 30 students, not 300.  So, you can get off your ass the moment you notice that I've fucked up and tell me because you KNOW I will take care of it, instead of waiting 3 weeks after the fact when there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.  You need to do something to help make this right!"  At this time, his face was now red and he was shaking in anger.  I knew I had him by the balls whether I had to do the rotation over again or not.  The fact was, I had just said to him what every student had always said under their breath or amongst each other at lunch.  I made a mental note that there was a bottle of blood pressure medicine on his desk and as I walked out and closed the door behind me, I hoped I didn't just give the man a heart attack.

Well, I packed up my stuff and made an excellent exit, headed home and prayed I hadn't just made it so my year and a half spent working my ass off just got it kicked out of the program.  I showed up the next day and all seemed normal until we were all sent off to our stations and he pulled me aside.  He told me I could double up on my rotation in one rotation, but the highest grade he was allowed to give me was a C.  I doubled up on my rotation and aced them both, but one had to be a C.  Fine with me because I didn't have to pay the extra $450.

Fast forward 10 years...

I had contacted the college to ask them about my certificate of completion or diploma because I'd never received one.  It just wasn't that type of school.  I wanted something to frame and hang in my kitchen.  Why?  Because I'd earned the damn thing.  The lady on the phone said, "Oh, we don't have anything to give you because we show there was one rotation that still needed to be completed."  WHAT?  And which rotation wasn't completed?  The one I bitched about and received a C that was never recorded.

Touche Chef B.  Touche.

P.S.  Leaving out his full name because people would know who he is because it's an usual name.  Also, he'd known he won.
He can never know.

My Immaturity Knows No Limits

The other night I went out with James, Farrah, and my parents to Leavenworth for dinner to celebrate my birthday.  We went to one of the very nice restaurants that serves amazing authentic German cuisine in a lovely atmosphere.  Candles were lit at every table, Mozart was playing in the background, and everyone was dressed nice.  Cocktails were ordered, presents were opened, and we were enjoying fun conversations about mine and James's upcoming trip to Cabo.

And while my father discussed golfing at the golf course next to our hotel with James, the speaker playing the music above us went suddenly quiet and then made a fairly loud scratch noise.

That's when the one thing that I found completely appropriate to say in this beautiful restaurant around strangers and my family was, "Excuse me."

While yes, I received a slight chuckle from my boyfriend and father, my mother laughed a little and then gave me a fake scolding…it was my 9 year old daughter's reaction and my own that was the best.  Farrah laughed.  I, on the other hand, lost my shit.  Mind you, I did this silently but uncontrollably.  I was laughing so hard and so quietly, I couldn't breathe and I started to cry.  And no one seemed to notice!!  Farrah left her seat to come stand next to me and she wanted to be sure we were in fact laughing at the same thing.  All I managed to get out was, "Oh my god.  I'm so funny." and continued my silent hysterics.

Farrah informed me that when I said, "Excuse me." a man at the other table looked up at me and laughed to himself.  This made me laugh harder.  The best part?  No one knew I was losing my mind laughing so hard.  How did I manage to hide it?  Why did I think it was so freaking funny?  I honestly believe it's because it was so out of place and unexpected that something like that would be said in a place like that but seriously, at the absolute perfect moment…I couldn't pass up the opportunity.  Even if it really was only for my pure entertainment and enjoyment.

Because I really thought I was the funniest person alive in that moment. It's true.

Funny Things Happen At My Work

I work with the elderly.  I love this job and I have fun with it every single day.  But the best part, besides the fact that I have 100 grandparents…are the stories I get to walk away with from time to time.

You might think the stories I would come across would be those that are shared by the fascinating individuals I have the privilege to work with every single day…but no.  Those who know me well, know that it's not in my nature to simply look at all the "normal" good things in the people around me, but rather all the funny things.  Little by little, I'll share some stories of what I encounter.

But yesterday was one of my favorites…

There is an old man that doesn't "live" in this community, but he lives OFF of the community.  Eating our food, staying all day and night, bumping into our walls while driving his wife's electric scooter that she needs but he's always using.  He also loves the ladies…not just his wife…but ALL the ladies he encounters.  I don't care about his personal life and the fact that his wife also doesn't care, but I don't like that he hits on every single old lady in the place (including one a week after her husband's death).
The thing is, this man is very, very, very old. Do you remember the movie Poltergeist 2?  Remember the actor that scared the shit out of you?  Well, um, that dude is at my work!!

Let's call this man "Kane" (you, know…like in Poltergeist 2).  Kane rolled into my boss's office in his wife's scooter yesterday to talk about some white noise, until she just interrupted him and said, "You know, Kane? It's time we get you in here and classify you as a resident because the state basically says you are and you can't just keep on coming in here and saying you're visiting your wife when you're actually living here.  By law, we have to have you pay for your stay and put you in our system."  Kane's best way of getting out of being put on the spot was to say, "Well, I guess I'll get my information together for you tomorrow." and proceeded to make his exit.  Badly.

You know when someone says something to you and your response is, "Pshh. Whatever."  That was what he was saying.  But when we say it, we usually walk off with an exit that leaves the person who we left behind bewildered and a little dumbfounded.  

Kane left us bewildered, that's for sure.

He started to back up with the scooter and bumped into the wall.  Went forward and bumped into a chair.  Back to the wall.  To the desk.  Then the door.  This whole time, mind you, we aren't a bunch of assholes just watching and letting it happen…we were moving things and telling him, "Oops! Almost, Kane." But we needed to allow him the dignity to leave on his own terms, however that ended up happening.  So just ease up on thinking how evil we are…you don't know.  Did you see that picture?  Yeah…Kane from Poltergeist, okay?  

Also, the reason this was funny to me when it all went down and still is when I type this is because there was another movie that came to mind.  "Austin Powers:  International Man of Mystery".  Remember the scene when Austin Powers was in the Underground Layer and he's in that cart stuck in the hall and trying to turn around and went one inch at a time back and forth?  Yeah…that's pretty much what was happening with Kane.  All the way down to him switching the button over to reverse, back to forward, back to reverse again.  Over and over and over. 

Again, those who know me and who don't even need to know me all that well…know I am not an asshole.  But shit like this makes me laugh and makes my day.  We watched him struggle to get out and we tried to do more, but he was having his quiet temper tantrum about not getting to mooch off of every person who lives and works there…so we let him make his awkward exit.

Don't feel bad.  This will probably be said to us when we go back into work next week:

'Tis the Season…To Be Awful (or Awesome, Depending On Who You Ask)

I know I've written about this before, so if you're thinking, "Ugh, I already know this story!" you're just going to have to read it again.  Deal?  Good.

Every family has their traditions when it comes to the holidays and mine is no exception.  While I live far from my hometown now, those traditions have become a little more difficult to follow through with but I will never give any of them up completely because they are important and dear to my heart.

Mom loves Christmas.  I mean, she is ALL about Christmas and don't you dare leave out the "Christ".  She decorates with only about 100 candles, wreathes, garland, lights everywhere, one unbreakable Nativity scene so kids can play with the "dolls", mistletoe, angels, and of course the biggest and most beautiful tree.  Mind you, it never looks tacky.  Somehow she manages to maintain some mad skills when it comes to decorating with a whole lot of weird stuff to make it look nice.  (Does anyone else have a three piece wooden train set with mice in it?)
Mom loves Christmas music.  She plays every kind of Christmas music she can get her hands on and a lot of times it is weird music we've never heard of before.  It has never been some of the quirky Christmas music that you hear on the radio, but always singers that want to praaaaaaaise Jesus!

It all began when my mom had horrible back issues when I was in my teens.  She was physically unable to do a lot of things without our help or dad's.  But when dad was up north working on the slope in Prudhoe Bay, AK…all matters that required help reaching things or getting up on ladders were left to me and my brothers.

Well, being that my brothers and I are assholes, we took advantage of mom's misfortune to our hilarious benefit.  (Don't worry, she had fun with it too…after all, she raised us so in the end it's all her fault anyway.)

Our traditions had always landed on one day…the tree decorating day.  It had always started by making a batch of Tom and Jerrys (and yes, ours had a dash of alcohol in them...don't judge), pulling out about 10 boxes of decorations, turning on Roger Whittaker's Christmas (Never heard of it? Neither had we.), and putting up that giant xmas tree that almost always reached the very high ceiling.

Our number one goal for our Christmas tradition was to irritate and almost upset mom.  And we are a family of achievers so you bet your ass we succeeded every year.  We'd have our hot drinks and start the music and everything would start off so innocently…setting up decorations here and there throughout the house, humming along to the weird music, taking out the ugly ornaments we made as children and confirming with mom that they needed to be in the back of the tree where no one could see our shitty art we made for her and dad out of love, stuff like that.

But then…we'd start singing along rather than sweetly humming.  We'd sing off key on purpose or we'd try to match his very deep baritone voice and it was especially awesome that my little brother could actually pull it off, but it was disturbing when I'd try.  We'd change the lyrics or emphasize the odd language that was being used in Roger's music and start talking about how weird it was.  We pulled out the CD case and talked about the the cover used on the album and how real the snow looked.

I mean, it's awesome.

All the while, mom was usually saying, "Guys! C'mon. Stop it! You guys, knock it off.  Don't ruin it."  Which was always, of course, followed with one of us saying something along the lines of, "Yeah, Kathy. Stop it!  You're ruining Christmas. You're going to upset baby Jesus."  And we'd all start laughing…and we never did stop it.  Again, the goal was to upset mom…not Jesus.

Decorating the tree was a big deal.  We had ornaments that belonged to all of us kids from over the years, ornaments that my mom had from growing up, ornaments my parents had together throughout their marriage, and ones that were from family members that had died long ago and were over 100 years old.  

One by one, we'd hang the ornaments and the tree would start becoming this beautiful piece of art.  Mom loved this.  But then when we noticed that things were getting a little too normal and how happy she was with all the hard work we were doing, we'd have to change that.  We all had our tasks to begin the awfulness which started with taking our hideous ornaments from when we were in preschool and elementary school and bringing them directly to the front where EVERYONE would see our proud work.  Mom wouldn't notice this at first, but when she did we would hear her exhale in slight frustration and start to try putting them towards the back (as if we didn't know what she was doing).  The other assignment one of us had was to put about 10 ornaments on one branch, being sure the branch was barely hanging on and maybe shaking just a little from all the weight.  It had to be bowed over completely and right out in front.  Our hard work had to be where all eyes could see what we had done.

It was usually that branch that mom would notice and finally realize what was happening…and that's when we began our really awful behavior and when she was probably ready to sign any documentation she needed to emancipate each of us.

Mom would again try to tell us (unsuccessfully, of course) to quit it and put everything back the way it was.  We'd play along while singing horribly with Roger and look as if we were fixing it.  But what was really happening was we were now using the ladder to hang ornaments.  See, with mom's bad back, she couldn't and wouldn't get on the ladder.  Yeah.  My brothers and I have a oneway coach ticket to go straight to hell for this.

Steve was usually on the ladder while Jeff and I would hand him the pile of ornaments that were stacked on one branch for him to put up on a branch that she couldn't reach.  We'd also hand him our crappy paper ornaments with crayon scribbles, our school photos, and handmade salt dough ornaments painted exactly to look like a 4 year old did it, right where all the gorgeous crystals, blown glass, and expensive ornaments were supposed to be.  She'd laugh and holler out at all of us to stop it.  We didn't. We continued and we made it worse (or better).  There was a Santa that would go on the tree, but we never really figured out how he was supposed to be placed as he didn't have a hoop to hang from.  But we were a pretty smart group and managed to make it work…for our benefit.

Santa's boner.  Merry Christmas!

We had an angel that had big beautiful wings that lit up and she was incredible.  But it wasn't until we took the elf from Elf on the Shelf, and stuck his head up her dress and his hands down between his legs to really make Christmas amazing.  Blasphemy, I know.

Sometimes, we'd hang weird shit up on the tree, like mom's slippers or a dollar bill.  One or two of the dog's toys ended up there and we knew the dangers that went with that, but it was worth it.  The cat loved batting at the ornaments, so we made sure the very noisy bell was right where she could get at it.

Did we ruin Christmas for mom?  Maybe for a minute, but in the end she had a good laugh with us because she was a good sport.  But I do have to say now that she has a good back again and dad is retired…it just isn't the same.  Now, she has dad fix it.  What?  What was there and is there ever to fix?  We made it perfect.  So, now that we're adults and have helped decorate the tree the same way as it should be decorated…we come back on Christmas and it's ruined.  Dad or mom, will make sure the one branch that is dying because of the weight from 20 glass balls is back to its perky self with ONE ball.  Pshh.  The ugly ornaments aren't even on the tree, and her slippers are on her feet.  I call bullshit when I see that. The worst is she puts a star on top of the tree so the perverted elf can't do its thing.  

But here's the thing…my brothers are the same and will never change that part of us.  Come this Christmas, you bet we'll be listening to Roger Wittaker, singing loudly and horribly, changing the ornaments when neither parent is looking, and laughing the whole time.  And now that we're older, we'll yell at mom if she tries to change it and tell her she's ruining Christmas.  I can't wait!

I Wrote a Book

For the most part, I know everyone already knows this…but for those who weren't aware, yes I did!  I wrote a book on accident, actually.  I get asked all the time what made me decide to do it and honestly, I really had zero intentions of it getting this far.

Back in 2012, when life decided to deliver a flaming paper bag of shit on my doorstep on a daily basis, I tried to find a way to stop stomping on it to extinguish it but rather find a way to let that damn thing burn out on its own.
I wrote every day.  I found things that were funny around me and made fun of whatever I discovered and most of the time, it was me making fun of myself on this site.  You're welcome.

But how it happened, was a little like this…

I woke up from a dream and a 10 second portion of it stood out in my mind and wouldn't go away.  It was so vivid.  In my dream, a group of 4 of us were trying to run away from something scary.  We were in a dark and creepy cemetery that looked like one you'd find in New Orleans.  We couldn't escape and somehow I had the "means" to get us out.  I sat up in bed with the idea going over and over in my mind thinking, "Oh my god, that would be so cool if someone could do that."
At that point, I was still working at the gyms and Fuzion and doing what I could from Wenatchee…but I couldn't get the thought out of my head.

So, since it sounded like a book I'd like to read, I started to write it.

I wrote like a crazy person, typing every day.  I wrote a minimum of 1,000 words a day.  God, looking back I know it was significantly more than that.  I typed so fast as the story poured out of me.  I had no idea what was going to happen with the story, no idea who the characters were, who the antagonist was going to be, and if there was even a plot to the story!  I just wanted what I saw in my dream to happen to a character.  From there, my monster of an idea turned into a very loooooong story.

During that time, I was also pretty lonely.  I didn't have the kind of sex life I wanted and so I wrote about one I hoped to have…passionate, wild, and fun!  I often get asked if my book is like "Fifty Shades of Gray".  Umm, hell no.  A lot of those sex scenes seemed like they were cut and pasted together and that's simply not me at all.  Mine were detailed and graphic and exciting.  In fact, I had to clean them up a bit because I had to remind myself that I wasn't writing for Penthouse Forum.  (Hey, maybe I'll redistribute the book later with the unedited version for all you perverts!  Thanks for the idea, Rob.  Brilliant.)

Over time, my story started to have a life of its own.  Things happened that I didn't see coming.  Characters arrived that I'd had no intention to meet.  And maybe I killed a character I hadn't meant to kill…or maybe I let that one live.  There was no plan.

The weirdest part of this writing experience was how things that I wrote about started to actually happen.  I had been driving down one of the main streets in Wenatchee when I saw a guy who looked JUST like one of my characters!  It freaked me out.  I'd never seen this man before in my life, and low and behold he existed.  And out here, of all places!  A couple months later, I met a man who I spent time with and the way we got to know each other almost mirrored what had happened in my book.  Two characters in the story got to know each other the same way.  It hadn't hit me until months later when I read through it and discovered how weirdly similar the whole thing was.  Super bizarre.

Anyway, I wrote and wrote and people kept asking if I was going to publish it.  No.  Who would buy this crap?  I mean, it was a great story, but who the hell am I to even pretend that what I'd written was good enough for others to read from beginning to end?  I'd let some people read parts here and there and I would be told it's good.  The story is fun.  The sex scenes were really hot.  There are parts that were funny enough that made them laugh.  Good right?  Still, my lack of confidence got in the way…besides that, I wrote it for me.  It was my therapy.  I needed a pretend world to escape in, a pretend love life to to live vicariously through, and simply allow my imagination to reawaken after being dormant for so long because of the type of life I had been living for so long.  But enough people encouraged me to take it to the next level.  Okay.

I went to the local Writer's Conference and learned some things and then met with an editor and a publisher.  I was doomed with the editor because he specialized in non-fiction.  He did read my blog later and enjoyed it, but he didn't know how he could spin it to sell it.  No biggie because, duh, just come here to read it and it's free!  But I was also doomed when I met with the publisher.  I was the last one for the whole weekend to meet with her and she was half asleep and bored before I even walked in.  I was nervous as hell and felt like I needed to blow her away with my amazing story about witches and sex and blah, blah, blah.  As I explained my story, I started to hate it because I had no idea what the hell I was doing.  Also, it didn't help that I think she hated me as soon as she saw me.  It was a no-go.  However, she gave me pointers that I took into consideration later.
After that, I kept working on my story because I did love it and wanted to continue to be in that world.  The next year they had the conference, I went in with a very different approach.  I decided I didn't think I wanted to publish it.  I'd still go in and talk to the different publisher and pitch it to her, but then wouldn't care if she wasn't interested…again, this was my story and it was for me and I honestly didn't think my style of writing was all that great.
When I sat down with Jennifer, I told her about my story and my attitude was more carefree and blasé…when I finished, she was giddy.  "You just described my absolute favorite genres!!  I LOVE books like this, they're fun, they're sexy, and they are very marketable!  Here's my card…get in touch with me this week and I want you to send me the first 50 pages of your manuscript!"

Um, what?  I'd even warned her about my style of writing not being eloquent and she preferred that.  Huh??  So, now the REAL pressure was on.  I didn't plan for that.  That meant someone out there that I didn't know was going to read my crap and then I'd have to hear that it sucked and they'd made an unfortunate mistake and to please burn those first 50 pages of the manuscript and to do myself and the world a favor and never write another word again.  That didn't happen, though.  I received an email that said they enjoyed the story and looked forward to the rest.  Also, in that email was a contract for me to work with them on this book along with a W-9 for payment when that time came.
It may not be a "major" publishing company, but this was my first book ever.  How cool, right?

So, here I am a long time later, because to be perfectly honest, I had about 100,000 words to get rid of.  Crazy!  Remember, though, I wrote this for myself and just let the words fall onto the screen day in and day out.  I cleaned it up, sent it to my editor, she cleaned it up more, I cleaned it up more with her, my book designer did his thing, my proofreader worked on the finer details, and my book manager read it and loved it.  I wrote a book.  I WROTE A BOOK!!!  And the best part?  I finished it.  And now I'm working on book two and writing better than I did in the first one.  I can't wait to see where this one takes me and my characters.  But look at this…I'm all legit, now!

If I sell 5 copies, I'll be so happy…but I just might sell more.  So rad.

New Beginnings...

Yes, yes, I know it has been quite a while since I last blogged and I'm sorry about that.  But honestly, there hasn't been a whole lot to write about because I've been writing everywhere else, it seems.  Plus, the job I had was killing the creative side of me slowly within the surrounding gray confining walls of a stifling cubicle.

Since that no longer exists for me…I'll write about something that happened yesterday.

Farrah is starting the 3rd grade next week!  Not only that, she is starting at a new school.  Kenroy Elementary!  The private school she has been attending for so long decided to shut down the program for older kids making it so she would have to join the forces of normalcy with the rest of the kids in the community.  I had worked hard with the district office to have her choiced into a better school than what she attended in the first grade down the street from us.  After finally being accepted in and being given the name of her new teacher, we decided to drive over to her school and walk around so she could get a good feel for where she will be going and where things are, like the playground, the cafeteria, and the office.

When we arrived, we were floored with how big her elementary school was!!  The entrance was huge with big windows, but we didn't go in.

We walked around the perfectly manicured school and admired the play fields she would get to play on when it was time for recess.  We looked in the windows and saw inside a couple of the classrooms and agreed they looked very nice.  We also saw lockers and I had to question if we were actually at an elementary school because I didn't have a locker until Junior High.

I thought, no way.  But the area we live in has been growing rapidly, so what did I know?  I looked in another classroom to be sure I was in an elementary school still and I saw a whole board that talked abut 5th grade math and science. Yep!  This was definitely her school!  Wow!!!  We kept on walking and found that there was a large outdoor courtyard where she would get to have lunch on the nice days.

Farrah was absolutely beside herself with excitement!!!  She said, "Mom, if I knew this was the school I'd get to go to in the second grade, I would've wanted to come here last year!"  I was really pleased with the decision I'd made to choose this elementary school over some of the others.  It really was beautiful…

Until we decided to try going inside the main entrance of the school.

"WELCOME TO STERLING!!" the sign read leading to the endless hall of lockers.

Sterling?

What's that?  Where the hell were we?  This isn't Kenroy?  What the hell was going on?

Omg.

We were at the wrong school that whole time.  I was taking pictures of her in front of a school she wouldn't be attending and sending them to people!

We were in front of Kenroy park and Farrah said maybe Kenroy elementary was on the back side of the park.  I looked it up on my phone, drove one block up the hill, and BAM!  There it was…on the other side of the park.

We did the tour once again, except we made sure it was the right school before taking a bunch of pictures.

Umm…oops?

Failing at Parenting

As parents, we try to shelter our little ones from the ugliness of the world by making sure we don't share what's on the news, we don't expose them to the hardships that we might be personally experiencing, and we filter what we say by leaving out the colorful adjectives and adverbs that aid in decorating our vocabulary.

Did I say, "we"?

Yeah.

I've found that I have a seven year old that might be a little more "worldly" than others. 

I teach her about some of the world's problems (past, present, and future) so she can decide for herself how to help the world...like Mother Teresa.  Or dominate it...like Hitler.

I do my best to keep her from knowing what hard times I have going on around me.  I don't tell her when I might only have $20 to my name...except for that one time.  I couldn't help it!  I was super stressed about it.  But usually she doesn't know because I don't want her to scold me about it.  That's really embarrassing.

And then there's the foul language that I seriously don't want her to hear.  I appreciate the networks on TV that have good shows with censored language.  I want her to watch something that might be interesting but I don't need her hearing the bad words that might be said.  However, when the words get "bleeped", she's smart enough to fill in her own choice of words.  That would be MY doing, thank you very much.

This morning's example:

Farrah:  Mom!!  There's a spider on the wall!
Me:  Oh, that Bastard!  I thought he was living under the garbage can.  Ugh!  He escaped.
(She leaves and then comes back)
Farrah:  Hey! Bastard is gone...I can't see him.
Me:  What did you just say?  Did you just say, "Bastard"?
Farrah:  Yeah, that's what you named him, right?

One ticket to hell, please!  Oh, and might as well get me an extra because my daughter wants to follow me wherever I go!

Famous Last Words...

What is the age that forgetfulness kicks in?  I suppose it's fair to say we would all assume it hits us in the golden years of our life.  That's the time when we've lived out some of the best times and the worst times and built memories on top of memories that, unfortunately, wind up getting shuffled around in our minds until bits and pieces get lost and closed up in a little hiding spot either temporarily or forever. 

So, what's the excuse for a 7 year old?

For the past couple months, I've wondered if I need to take Farrah in to see a specialist about a possible early onset of Alzheimer's.  The reason?  Her answer to everything is, "I forgot."  I believe I hear her say this at least 3 times a day, every day. 

Me:  Did you brush your hair this morning?
Farrah:  I forgot.
Me:  Did you grab your shoes for P.E.?
Farrah:  I forgot.
Me:  Did you eat your breakfast?
Farrah:  I forgot.

Do you see the pattern?  Yeah, pretty predictable at this point. 

Dealing with this on a daily basis is starting to drive me bananas and I've now started to call her "Forgetful Farrah" which she HATES!  However, it's been explained to her that I will changed her name if she changes her ways, until then...the name stays.

There was one thing she forgot that sent me over the edge of reasonability.  Her routine in the morning is pretty basic:  Brush teeth, shower, get dressed, make bed, feed the dog, pull together school work and backpack, put together a lunch (I make the sandwich if she can't). 
So, I asked her all the questions confirming that she had completed all of these tasks and I received a proud, "YES!" from her.
Off to school we went.
When we arrived, I was helping her grab her things and when I grabbed her lunch box (which she almost forgot), the weight of it was significantly lighter than I'd expected.
Me:  Ummmm...why is this so light?  You said you packed a lunch!
Farrah:  I did!

I opened it.

Me:  OH MY GOD!!! WHAT THE HELL AM I LOOKING AT?!!!
Farrah:  Ham.
Me:  Where's the rest of your lunch?!
Farrah:  I wasn't very hungry and I forgot to add anything.  But, mom, there's three slices!!
Me:  Are you kidding me??  Do you know how horrible this is?  Not only are you going to starve, but you will have succeeded in making me look like the worst mother in the world.  Grrrrrreat.

With steam coming out of my ears and fire shooting out of my eyeballs, I sent my forgetful child off to school telling her to inform her teacher that SHE packed her own lunch and I was now heading to the store to pick her up something so she wouldn't die.  Before she got too far away from my car, I'd asked her a question...
Me:  Hey, did you eat the granola bar this morning for breakfast?
Farrah:  No...I forgot.

GAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

And when we got home later that day, and I asked her to empty any trash from her lunch box and asked if she had anything left over she said she did.  Ham.  I had to ask her why after the big fiasco over her weird lunch, she didn't eat her ham...

Farrah:  I forgot.

I'm the Grossest Person I Know...

That is a very true statement as of last night.  While there are plenty of people that have grossed me out beyond words, I topped them all when I went to bed Wednesday night after dropping my daughter off with my parents for summer vacation.
I had gone through my nightly ritual of getting ready for bed and started pulling together what I felt like watching on TV to put me to sleep.  However, sometimes I have a bad habit of getting hungry right before bed...I know, this is terrible for my metabolism.  Don't worry.  I learned my lesson the hard way.

I went to the kitchen to look through the cupboards and nothing sounded good to me.  I even went upstairs to see if Farrah had accidentally left her zip-locked baggie full of deliciousness in her room (that I always tell her to NOT leave in her room because I don't want ants in the house), but she had either finished it or actually put it away like I told her.  Defeated with no snack, I drug my ass back to my room only to find a bag of Lay's potato chips carefully rolled up and with a chip-clip on it, keeping it sealed.  Jack pot!!  This isn't a normal thing to discover in my room...clothes on the floor, perhaps.  But a delicious just-what-I-wanted bag of chips?  No.  I turned on my lamp, off the main light, got all cozy in my bed in my blankets and eagerly grabbed the bag of chips and unclipped and unrolled it as I began to watch Game of Thrones for the hundredth time.  And, boo...they were stale.  Ugh!  Just my freakin' luck.  This was a new bag of chips that had barely been touched and they were grossly stale.  However, I give everything, even a bag of chips, the benefit of the doubt.  There was a possibility that the first, second, and even third chip were just my bad luck, but perhaps the 4th would be okay.  I had convinced myself if the 4th chip was as bad as the first 3, then in to the trash it would go.  I bit down on my 4th stale chip thinking, "Dammit!!" just as I looked into the bag...
GASP!!!
AGHHHHHHH!!!!! AGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!  PFFFFFTT! I spit out everything I could in my mouth, grabbed a bottled water and swallowed.  SHIT!! DON'T SWALLOW IT!!!  More water, sloshed it around and spit it out into my white sink, praying I wouldn't see anything...and I didn't.
I did not see a hundred ants come out of my mouth and into my sink.  That's right ladies and gentlemen.   I looked into that bag of chips and was holding a fully infested ant paradise.  I screamed so many times, did the heebie-jeebie dance so many more times, and thought about puking only a million times.  The horror I felt was reflected in the mirror when I happened to look at myself...I looked like a chick that just realized she ate 4 chips out of that bag along with many, many ants.  I...ate...ants.

It was a mad dash at that point.

I had to find the source of the ants quickly...and I did.  There was the tiniest of burrowed holes near my bed with so many ants around it...the dry heaves were about to start up.  I sprayed the shit out of that area and pretty much the entire carpet in my room.  I was so overwhelmed with the fact that I'd eaten them and now had also tossed the bag onto my bed, I started to freak out with more heebie-jeebies.  I even thought I could see the carpet move (that's a bit of an exaggeration, but that's what my eyeballs were doing to me).  I ended up spraying EVERYTHING in my room.  By the time I'd cleaned everything, vacuumed everything, threw everything away...my room was actually ant-free.

Holy shit, that was the most disgusting thing I'd ever done in my entire life.  All I could think about were a bunch of ants swimming in my gut, having a feast on my dinner from earlier.  So grossed out.   I also felt like I could feel them on me even though they weren't.  I checked.

Have I ever eaten a bug before last night?  Of course.  I've been on the back of motorcycles enough times to know it's part of the deal if you open your mouth to say something while riding.  It just happens.  But this?!!  No...that's not supposed to happen.  I will probably be scarred for life from that incident.

Ironically, I shared the story with the gals at work and one of them told me about one of the men that works with us that he had ordered breakfast yesterday and was served an omelet....with flies in it.  Another had crickets throughout her house last night, and another had beetles brought into her home.  I'm not sure if our male co-worker actually ate his fly-omelet...but I know I ate 4 chips and I am positive my chips were overly seasoned with ants.  No need to have a protein shake after that.

This is how I felt like I probably looked when I was devouring my tasty, tasty chips.

Yummy Lays Potato Chips.