Wednesday Story

Once upon a time Bridget worked at Bennigan’s in college. She had the unbelievable perk of getting ½ priced food for up to four people at a time. One night she and her best friend and I ate there and ordered an entire table full of food. I ordered fajitas among many other things and boxed up the leftovers to take home. After dinner we met friends and ended up drinking alcohol and whatnot at someone’s house. At about 2:00 am we began the long drive home and Bridget announced that she was starving. I said she could have the leftover fajitas, and at the time she thought it was a great idea. I drove while she scarfed down the food, and she got very quiet. I looked over and she had her mouth open directly in front of the air conditioning vent, as the fajitas were quite spicy and she had nothing to drink.

Wednesday Stories Are Back For A Limited Time

Once upon a time I lived in my first apartment alone as a grown up. I was harboring two illegal aliens in the form of cats so that I didn’t have to pay a pet deposit. One day I noticed that my toilet was clogged, so I called the maintenance man. He had to use a snake to unclog the toilet, and the culprit ended up being my eye glasses. Apparently one of the cats batted them off the counter and into the toilet and I probably flushed in the middle of the night without turning the light on. Anyway. I was a weensy bit embarrassed when I learned that he found my glasses in the nether regions of my toilet plumbing, but became increasingly embarrassed when he told me that he couldn’t get the glasses separated from the coil part of the snake because they were entangled by a string. A string with a tampon on the end. Mercifully it was a clean, white tampon because it had spent a long time in the water. This poor man had to cut my glasses in half to get them separated and I could only imagine the thoughts going through his mind “this crazy broad flushed her own glasses down the toilet, and then I had to touch her tampon. My job sucks.”

The End.

Wednesday Story

Once upon a time when I was in middle school, my friend Daniel had to care for an egg baby. You know how Home Ec classes did this by blowing all of the egg out of the shell? This was an elaborate process that involved naming the egg, drawing a little face on it and maybe even clothes, making a shoebox bed for it, and then carrying the shell around for a week as if it were a baby, and if you broke or lost it, you failed the project.

One afternoon on the school bus my friend Barbara and I devised a plan whereby we would kidnap the egg baby and hold it for ransom. I don’t think Daniel was egg baby father of the year, because we had no problem sneaking away the egg and running home from the bus stop with it. We hid it safely in the woods, then wrote him a note saying that he could have it back after he bought us potato logs from the Jiffy store. {That was one of the most white trash lines I’ve ever written. Potato logs were a delicacy of potatoes cut into wedges, battered and seasoned with salty goodness, then deep fried. They were to be eaten with fried chicken, but were fine alone too. My mouth just watered. I daresay I may still eat potato logs if Jiffy stores existed today.}

On with the story. Daniel had a complete meltdown which probably involved tears. He didn’t give a crap about his actual offspring; he just didn’t want to get in trouble for failing the class. In my memory we tortured this poor boy for several hours, writing more notes and giving more clues. I don’t remember ever getting my potato logs. By the time my parents got home from work, we clued them into our big hilarious scheme. My mom had no time for our foolish games, but my dad went into the refrigerator and got out a real egg. He went outside to where Daniel was standing in the backyard and said “here Daniel, I found your egg” and threw it at him. This happened in slow motion and Daniel’s face got whiter and whiter the closer the egg got to him. He caught it in his hand with a yellowy splat and everyone but he had a good laugh.

Yes, we eventually gave him his baby back. We probably even apologized for our evil doings. Through no fault of ours he later ended up cracking the egg and failing the project anyway.

The End

Wednesday Story

Once upon a time when I was but a girl, my mom and I came home after a long day of work and school, respectively. My mom walked up the back steps, unlocked the door and held it open for me. As if in slow motion she fell ass over tea kettle off the steps and into the garbage cans and azalea bush. Her mouth made a perfect O as this happened. After I finally stopped laughing and caught my breath, I helped her up and brushed her off. I'm sure it wasn't the last time she wondered just what the hell kind of daughter she was raising.

The End.

Wednesday Story

Once upon a time Bridget and I were kids and we lived in a great big old house with high ceilings. We were playing a game which involved throwing a stuffed dog up in the air repeatedly. Someone--probably me--threw it so high that it broke the glass light fixture. My dad was livid. He was so mad that after he yelled at us he walked back to the living room and for emphasis kicked a small, empty cardboard box that was on the floor. That cardboard box flew up into the air and broke another light fixture. It was the best moment in all of my seven years.

The End

Wednesday Story

Once upon a time I was a senior in high school. I had fulfilled most of my required courses, so I was able to take a host of easy “blow off” classes. So easy that my dad would ask me at night “How were Paper Mache and Sandbox today?” These classes included Study Hall, Yearbook, Remedial Math for Dummies, Student Government, and Introduction to Art. Now an outsider might ask “how the hell do you take Student Government as a class?” And the answer would be the same as for “how the hell do you take Yearbook as a class?” Answer: someone brilliant came up with this idea so we wouldn’t have to stay after school to be in these clubs. We got credits to graduate and passes to get out of school early to eat at Subway, er I mean sell Yearbook ads. I love that person wherever they are. But back to Introduction to Art which is what today’s story is about. No Alicia, this isn’t the story about the time I spilled yellow tempera paint all over myself and had to change into a dirty, wrinkled t-shirt and shorts that were in my trunk, and wear them all day when it was around 50 degrees outside. This story is the one where we had to draw self portraits. This was a freshman level class. I consider myself crafty, but not so talented in the drawing and painting department, so I was getting by. I wasn’t going to win any prizes, but I would probably pull off a B. Fortunately Alicia sat next to me and we made jokes and sang songs about art, and didn’t really give a shit how the class went because we were bound for Community College, and we felt like Mr. Beckett was pretty lucky that we even came to class that day. So about the self portraits. This was done by holding a compact mirror in one hand and drawing a picture of your face with the other hand. I swear to God I think I could have taken A.P. Chemistry and had an easier assignment. One morning we were sitting around waiting for Mr. Beckett to pass out the unfinished portraits and I saw that mine was on top. Since our table was closest to his desk I heard him say “Who is that?” when he picked mine up. His face turned red when he realized I had just heard him, and my face turned red because I couldn’t even do the work of a freshman. I failed to capture my essence on paper in even a marginally recognizable way. The sad thing is that I thought it looked just like me. That was probably the day I decided I would major in Liberal Arts when I got to Community College, because I already knew math was out, and I obviously had no future in Fine Arts either.

The End.

Wednesday Story

Once upon a time, my Dad and I went to my Great Aunt Mary’s memorial service in South Carolina. The service was held in the courtyard in front of her house, and then the reception was held inside. Well, Aunt Mary had a groovy sunken living room with maybe a six inch drop. One of her very old friends—she had to be in her 80’s—came in the house and walked into the living room. She didn’t realize that there was a step down and she fell over in slow motion like a tree. It happened so quickly that she didn’t even have time to put out her arms to break her fall. My Dad is one of those people who are great in an emergency situation. He literally ran across the room and tried to catch her, that’s how quickly his mind works in a crisis. She immediately got up and said in a tough old broad’s voice “I’m fine, I’m fine.” {Now, if she had gotten injured I would never have written this story. I’m not that evil. I may have already reserved my place in hell, but it’s not because of what happened that day.} As soon as the lady got up and we knew she was alright, my Dad’s eyes met mine across the crowded room and we both burst into hysterical laughter. I always knew that I laughed when people got hurt or fell down—I even laughed once when I backed into my brother-in-law’s car—but I didn’t know that this was an inherited trait. Believe me when I say that we were the only two people in the room with red faces and convulsing bodies. We had to get it together, and fast. I spent the rest of the loooong afternoon looking out the window laughing, walking around outside laughing, spending large amounts of time locked in the bathroom laughing, avoiding eye contact with my father, and hissing at him to get the hell away from me every time he walked up. This was the only way I could make it through the rest of the day.

I am a psychologist for fuck’s sake, so I understand that we only had this reaction because we were relieved. What I don’t understand is why I still can’t talk about that day without tears streaming down my face even though it occurred more than six years ago.

The End

Wednesday Story

Once upon a time a little over ten years ago, my BFF Christine and I were students of sorts at UNF. I awoke on the morning of my birthday and grudgingly walked to class as always, or as seldom if we’re being honest. As I walked I noticed that a certain anonymous someone had written messages in colored chalk on the sidewalks from my apartment to all of my classes, in the courtyard, in front of the bookstore, etc., etc., etc. Phrases included “Today is Cory S_____’s 22nd birthday.” “Happy Birthday Cory S_____,” and my personal favorite: “My name is Cory S_____, spank me - it’s my birthday.” We attended quite a small school, so the humiliation factor was amplified a wee bit. Most of these messages eventually washed away with the rain, but you can bet that there were still some intact and legible for the rest of the school year.

Several months after that fateful birthday, my Aunt Nancy was on some church trip in Vero Beach, FL (3 hours away) and met a family whose son also happened to go to UNF. When she found this out, she said “Oh, my niece goes there too. Her name is Cory S_____. Do you know her?” He replied “Today is Cory S_____’s 22nd birthday.”

Every part of this story is true. I thank you once again Christine.

The End.

Wednesday Will Now Be Story Day

Once upon a time Joe and I went to Cumberland Island, GA for the day. The only thing to do there is to hike around and picnic and get married if you're JFK Jr. There are animals like wild horses running all around, and everything is so tame that you can walk right up and touch it if you’re not afraid of losing your delicious hand. Among the animals were scads of armadillos which Southerners think of as leprosy-carrying pests, and if you haven't hit at least seven of them with your car, you should really be buying lottery tickets on a regular basis because you are luckier than average. While on our walk (I don't hike) we were following some Canadian tourists who were fascinated by the armadillos. One guy crouched down and took lots of photos with his very expensive camera. In the meantime Joe and I were having a contest to see who could touch the most armadillos with the toe of their shoe, because we’re mature like that. We made up this game because in the real world you couldn't get within 10 feet of an armadillo unless it was road kill. Anyway, when we noticed that the enthralled Canadians had reached the high point of their vacation, we had to walk far away from them so all the laughing and the making fun could commence.

Fast forward several months. Joe and I are on vacation in Mexico. We are on the beach near some houses, and someone had put up some cutesy sign in their yard that said "Iguana Crossing" or "Beware of Iguanas" or something. There was an iguana literally perched on the sign and the irony of it all was more than I could bear. I immediately crouched down and took lots of photos. As I returned to my beach chair it occurred to me that the locals were probably walking far away so that they could laugh at and make fun of the stupid ass gringo who thinks taking pictures of native vermin is a worthwhile activity. I said to Joe "Oh my God, do you think this is just like the Canadians taking pictures of the armadillos?" And he said "Definitely." Then we both looked around to see if anyone was pointing and laughing at me.

The End