tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25233556663510252242024-03-14T03:48:21.496-05:00I'm Afraid of BeesTab Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02276071734811084723noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2523355666351025224.post-66841260184733938722010-11-27T20:28:00.001-06:002010-11-27T20:29:21.894-06:00Guest Blog: I'm Afraid of Dying...in an Unusual Way<div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Hi Blog-readers,</div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Today I am featuring another guest post, this time from my bestie since high school, Jono Gray.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'm Afraid of Dying...in an Unusual Way</span></b></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Lucida Grande'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Written by Jono Gray</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Lucida Grande'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Illustrated by Tabitha Parker</span></span></span></div><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Fear exists. There’s a famous quote from a Franklin D. Roosevelt who briefly discussed fear. He said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” What are you, fucking high? That’s like saying we have nothing to envy but jealousy itself. There’s plenty of things to be reasonably afraid of. Like disease and serial killers and arguments and not knowing if this ferris wheel ride is gonna be the one that detaches itself and rolls into traffic.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TPG8bW1pK9I/AAAAAAAAA4s/W0ntSSHhNzM/s1600/ferris+wheel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TPG8bW1pK9I/AAAAAAAAA4s/W0ntSSHhNzM/s320/ferris+wheel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Although dying is only number two on the list of things America fears most, it is still and always will be number one in the actual cause of death. Yet, there are few who embrace it and show no fear in the face of certain (eventual) doom. I am scared of death, I admit. I’m not the first and definitely not the last. Death isn’t something to get worked up about when you’re young, safe, and boring, but after seeing the world through my eyes, you might second guess all your decisions, too.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">People die all the time. In weird ways. In weird, specifically odd, and rare ways. Let’s take a look at pencils. It’s true that people have been killed by pencils and/or pens. It happens all the time; it’s in the newspaper, usually in a crime of passion. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">But when you were in school, and after sharpening your pencil at the pencil sharpener, did you hesitate to go back to your desk? I did. What if some kid sticks his foot out to trip me? What if I don’t account for a step or that table leg? And for whatever reason, I fall in the exact position that puts that sharpened pencil through my eye socket, puncturing my brain? </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TPG8lMTCurI/AAAAAAAAA4w/xJAYqWM-gMY/s1600/pencil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TPG8lMTCurI/AAAAAAAAA4w/xJAYqWM-gMY/s320/pencil.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I never used pencils in school unless there was a test, and I made a point to bring several already sharpened. No eye injuries for me, thank you. And pens remained capped when not in use (I can’t imagine walking with an uncapped pen, or standing up with one).</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">And it’s not just with pencils. Those properties can easily be transferred to other situations. The spokes on a bicycle. The faucet in the bathtub. The bed that collapses at the right moment when looking for a lost shoe.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TPG8tLzcjII/AAAAAAAAA40/jaDoTcq2zzI/s1600/bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="203" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TPG8tLzcjII/AAAAAAAAA40/jaDoTcq2zzI/s320/bed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The thoughts are always there, but I tend to overcome them eventually, thinking, “That’s crazy. That’s not gonna happen. Why would it?” Oh Jono. It can, and it will, because it has.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">When you learn about statistics, that’s when scary thoughts become horrifying realities. A lawn dart is an oversized dart that you play in a game on your lawn. It’s despicably self-explanatory. And yet, there are casualties in this game. In 1987, these supposed fun toys claimed the lives of 8 people, causing them to be banned in 1988. From thereon after, deaths dwindled to about 2-3 annually. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TPG800xLbPI/AAAAAAAAA44/BjPVrCsc8vw/s1600/lawn+dart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TPG800xLbPI/AAAAAAAAA44/BjPVrCsc8vw/s320/lawn+dart.jpg" width="315" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">If you stopped me on the street and asked how many people died (died, mind you – not hurt or injured) from lawn darts, I’d answer zero. I mean, can you imagine dying from a lawn dart? I don’t know anyone who owns lawn darts or even know where to find one, so that kinda puts me at a version of ease I am comfortable with.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I couldn’t help but learn more about unusual deaths, putting myself in a horrible wikipedia rabbit hole, uncovering so many deaths inflicted on mostly innocent people for little to no reason at all. In 1919, a tank of molasses in Boston exploded, flooding the city with over 2 million gallons of molasses. The jellied blob of molasses killed 21 people and injured 150 and took nearly a year to clean up. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TPG87_mJX_I/AAAAAAAAA48/un25RWGE32Y/s1600/molasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TPG87_mJX_I/AAAAAAAAA48/un25RWGE32Y/s320/molasses.jpg" width="306" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Living next to any factory is out for me. There are dozens of accounts of actors, directors, and stuntmen who’ve been killed by helicopter decapitation, including 3 from the Twilight Zone Movie. And I will never be shot with a gun – it doesn’t matter if I’m wearing a vest or if the bullets are blanks. I know too much about it now. I’ll direct my movies in riot gear – that’ll be my niche. Like Ron Howard with his hat and vest. Or is that Steven Spielberg?</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I can’t walk up or down the stairs without being reminded of the guy who did the exact same thing, except the entire flight collapsed under and on top of him. Nor will I forget the gal who missed one step – ONE! – and fell open-mouth first onto the last step severing her jaw and snapping her spine. I never walk up or down any stairs without some sort of a plan B.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TPG903_gVvI/AAAAAAAAA5A/NrtdXOW9crs/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TPG903_gVvI/AAAAAAAAA5A/NrtdXOW9crs/s320/2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">At this point in my life, these death-imposed thoughts are no longer a threat to everyday operations, but they’re still there. And with every new event or situation or product I see, you can be sure that a new way to die will be inserted into my thought process. And with that comes a new and exciting way to avoid it.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR</div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Jono Gray is a comedian/writer/performer extraordinaire in Austin, Texas.</div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He has been afraid of things since I met him.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TPG-HlgdpaI/AAAAAAAAA5E/d7QlwlnkC8E/s1600/34378_420249406768_550096768_4577871_8312414_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TPG-HlgdpaI/AAAAAAAAA5E/d7QlwlnkC8E/s320/34378_420249406768_550096768_4577871_8312414_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div>Tab Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02276071734811084723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2523355666351025224.post-71982345207681439062010-10-22T18:11:00.000-05:002010-10-22T18:11:31.923-05:00Thank You, Young ManWhen I was in second grade I had very long hair.<br />
Like Rapunzel.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIXlqSEiWI/AAAAAAAAA30/dWJt_zSFVQA/s1600/rapunzel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIXlqSEiWI/AAAAAAAAA30/dWJt_zSFVQA/s320/rapunzel.jpg" width="169" /></a></div><br />
One day my mom took me to have my hair cut.<br />
While I was there, I saw a picture of a girl with a very short hair style.<br />
<br />
So on a <i>whim</i>, I decided I was going to cut all my hair off.<br />
My mom allowed this, because she was nice about letting me make my own decisions.<br />
Even though I was 7.<br />
<br />
She asked me if I was sure several times.<br />
But my mind was made up.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIXr4iV2FI/AAAAAAAAA34/zeNMG_d95SE/s1600/mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIXr4iV2FI/AAAAAAAAA34/zeNMG_d95SE/s320/mom.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><br />
So the haircut was done.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIX0gS6KnI/AAAAAAAAA38/JzfMvWN7gMI/s1600/beforeafter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIX0gS6KnI/AAAAAAAAA38/JzfMvWN7gMI/s320/beforeafter.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I was very excited. A weight had been lifted off my head, literally.<br />
Everything was breezy!<br />
I was just like Mary Anne in that Baby-Sitter's Club book where she cuts her hair and starts wearing make-up.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIYABMsLbI/AAAAAAAAA4A/yBaUadQW0H4/s1600/skipping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIYABMsLbI/AAAAAAAAA4A/yBaUadQW0H4/s320/skipping.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><br />
Except that Mary Anne was much older than me.<br />
She had boobs.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIYFehvIwI/AAAAAAAAA4E/AsaH3tFGaqY/s1600/me+maryanne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIYFehvIwI/AAAAAAAAA4E/AsaH3tFGaqY/s320/me+maryanne.jpg" width="277" /></a></div><br />
People could easily discern that she was a woman.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
So begins a very traumatizing experience in my young life.<br />
I was constantly mistaken for a boy.<br />
<br />
Just when I was beaten down enough, wearing dresses and girlish clothes ALL THE TIME, I had to run the attendance sheet to the front office at school.<br />
<br />
I remember what I was wearing - an all-purple outfit, in a floral fabric. With a little vest.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIYKT_fnEI/AAAAAAAAA4I/WzPepzBMPBQ/s1600/purple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIYKT_fnEI/AAAAAAAAA4I/WzPepzBMPBQ/s320/purple.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><br />
I handed the sheet to our front desk woman.<br />
She said, "Thank you, young man."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIYQBy_cUI/AAAAAAAAA4M/DGtdMjke9bU/s1600/thankyou.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIYQBy_cUI/AAAAAAAAA4M/DGtdMjke9bU/s320/thankyou.jpg" width="183" /></a></div><br />
I was immediately crushed, I mumbled "I'm a girl."<br />
There is no way she heard me.<br />
<br />
Not too long after that I was waiting in line to use the restroom.<br />
The other young girls began screaming, "There's a boy in the bathroom, aaaah!"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIYYG9l3kI/AAAAAAAAA4Q/E6Qxy70TjPc/s1600/boy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIYYG9l3kI/AAAAAAAAA4Q/E6Qxy70TjPc/s320/boy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
At first I didn't realize they were talking about me.<br />
Then they started pointing and saying, "This is the girls bathroom!"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIYqJDO4wI/AAAAAAAAA4U/SpKJ5S5Q40w/s1600/pointing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIYqJDO4wI/AAAAAAAAA4U/SpKJ5S5Q40w/s320/pointing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
This time I was louder.<br />
"I AM a GIRL."<br />
But they did not stop.<br />
So I kept repeating it all the way to the stall.<br />
<br />
Then I got a perm.<br />
Like Annie.<br />
It did not help with things really.<br />
<br />
The hardest part about this haircut was that, while I did not want it anymore, it was impossible to grow out.<br />
<br />
It looked like a mullet.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIYzFM6v1I/AAAAAAAAA4Y/6WgyujQZRo8/s1600/mullet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIYzFM6v1I/AAAAAAAAA4Y/6WgyujQZRo8/s320/mullet.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
A mullet, for whatever reason, was much worse than being mistaken for a boy.<br />
So I kept hating it and getting it cut again.<br />
<br />
Eventually I resigned myself to growing it out.<br />
Pictures of me from that time are...upsetting.<br />
<br />
It finally grew out and I was a girl again.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIY8CBAmSI/AAAAAAAAA4c/_U3qFSliDr4/s1600/hair+growout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIY8CBAmSI/AAAAAAAAA4c/_U3qFSliDr4/s320/hair+growout.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
But some sort of crucial self-image damage had been done.<br />
For the rest of my life, even now, there are times when I feel like a dude.<br />
And I think that everyone around me thinks I am one.<br />
<br />
This usually only happens when I am with a group of girls.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIZDXLoPHI/AAAAAAAAA4g/mXnuFOM3Wkg/s1600/girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIZDXLoPHI/AAAAAAAAA4g/mXnuFOM3Wkg/s320/girls.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><br />
I don't know how to talk to them.<br />
In some part of my mind, I think I still worry they will suddenly start yelling "There's a boy!"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIZQGOI52I/AAAAAAAAA4k/wEL4htXb5qo/s1600/monster+girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIZQGOI52I/AAAAAAAAA4k/wEL4htXb5qo/s320/monster+girls.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Like I'm that coyote that dresses up like a sheep to fool that dog.<br />
<br />
It's probably why I don't have many girl friends.<br />
It's definitely why I won't cut my hair shorter than my chin.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIZXWPnR_I/AAAAAAAAA4o/rtZVJMdYH_s/s1600/Tabitha+1993+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMIZXWPnR_I/AAAAAAAAA4o/rtZVJMdYH_s/s320/Tabitha+1993+003.jpg" width="314" /></a></div>Tab Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02276071734811084723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2523355666351025224.post-19602065254123646022010-10-21T14:42:00.001-05:002010-10-21T14:53:46.718-05:00Your Horrible InjuryPeople enjoy describing their various injuries to me in graphic detail.<br />
I don't know why this is.<br />
<br />
But I do know that it causes some sort of impossible panic for me.<br />
<br />
Part of this might be the disturbing visuals that my brain projects while I listen to a story.<br />
If you say cupcake, I see a cupcake.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCUuFCf35I/AAAAAAAAA2s/J6oG06_gWwc/s1600/cupcake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCUuFCf35I/AAAAAAAAA2s/J6oG06_gWwc/s320/cupcake.jpg" width="248" /></a></div><br />
If you say, broken bone protruding through skin.<br />
I see a broken bone. Protruding through skin.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVE20IZLI/AAAAAAAAA3Q/QomNAQ1m9n8/s1600/broken+arm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="309" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVE20IZLI/AAAAAAAAA3Q/QomNAQ1m9n8/s320/broken+arm.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
This is not a pleasant visual.<br />
It will bring on waves of nausea for me. I will feel like I'm going to faint and I do not know why.<br />
I assume it's a panic attack.<br />
There's no fast beating heart to cue me in though.<br />
Just nausea, dizziness, and the feeling that the world may end.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVF4Zy3UI/AAAAAAAAA3U/mt3yLh4Tp9I/s1600/faint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVF4Zy3UI/AAAAAAAAA3U/mt3yLh4Tp9I/s320/faint.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><br />
<br />
But often I can't tell someone to stop telling the story.<br />
I'm frozen in horror.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVGmYWyNI/AAAAAAAAA3Y/BGuyBZCKOxA/s1600/frozen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVGmYWyNI/AAAAAAAAA3Y/BGuyBZCKOxA/s320/frozen.jpg" width="242" /></a></div>Like the time I was temping for a woman who was going to be out with an injury for a month.<br />
She felt that part of my training involved telling me why she would be out.<br />
<br />
You see, she broke her toe.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVJAKS_tI/AAAAAAAAA3o/VrlOPC4tW3c/s1600/toe+xray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVJAKS_tI/AAAAAAAAA3o/VrlOPC4tW3c/s320/toe+xray.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
But she didn't know it was broken. She had recently taken up jogging and thought she might have strained the muscle.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVHXfXPDI/AAAAAAAAA3c/VnMkMiWHYFU/s1600/jogging.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVHXfXPDI/AAAAAAAAA3c/VnMkMiWHYFU/s320/jogging.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><br />
She thought she should continue jogging. But stretch the toe out before and after. With her hands.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVIcUsnBI/AAAAAAAAA3k/CKmdZHja1Hg/s1600/toe+stretch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVIcUsnBI/AAAAAAAAA3k/CKmdZHja1Hg/s320/toe+stretch.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><br />
That made it hurt much worse. So she went to the doctor. He explained that forcing the broken bone to stretch had caused the bone to splinter and go everywhere.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVIJlk2ZI/AAAAAAAAA3g/h0KqIPPqS6E/s1600/toe+innards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="259" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVIJlk2ZI/AAAAAAAAA3g/h0KqIPPqS6E/s320/toe+innards.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
She was now in danger of a blood clot being created. From all the bone splinter stretching.<br />
She had to be on bed rest for a month to minimize the risk.<br />
<br />
During this entire story, I prayed I would not faint, even though the blackness was starting to come in at the corners of my eyes.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVKq-EgVI/AAAAAAAAA3s/vlSekajiAYA/s1600/tunnel+vision.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVKq-EgVI/AAAAAAAAA3s/vlSekajiAYA/s320/tunnel+vision.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Somehow I made it through. I didn't even throw up.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVL1JRIYI/AAAAAAAAA3w/CqzI7gFcLzI/s1600/whew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TMCVL1JRIYI/AAAAAAAAA3w/CqzI7gFcLzI/s320/whew.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><br />
I earned that temp gig.<br />
But the cost is remembering that story in detail, all the time.<br />
<br />
Note: If we're friends, please do not take this as an invitation to tell me your horrible injury stories. I really don't handle it well. This was not a dramatization.Tab Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02276071734811084723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2523355666351025224.post-11184564785426344132010-10-08T15:23:00.000-05:002010-10-08T15:23:32.890-05:00I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant (the show)Did you know there is a reality, re-enactment style show on cable called 'I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant?<div>Well, there definitely is.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It is the most horrifying show on television.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK970ZyUwgI/AAAAAAAAA18/5lAdPNEB57M/s1600/tv+screen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK970ZyUwgI/AAAAAAAAA18/5lAdPNEB57M/s320/tv+screen.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>On the show, different women relate the stories of not knowing they were pregnant and then suddenly giving birth. They are not all overweight, like so many urban legends would have us believe. </div><div><br />
</div><div>They become pregnant and have absolutely no symptoms - no weight gain, they still have their periods, etc. Then one day they are in horrible pain and a baby falls out of them.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK977pxY0YI/AAAAAAAAA2A/vV9QqohxfAc/s1600/surprise+baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="167" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK977pxY0YI/AAAAAAAAA2A/vV9QqohxfAc/s320/surprise+baby.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>This scenario is pretty high on my list of the most scary, most awful things ever.</div><div><br />
</div><div>First of all, pregnancy in general upsets me.</div><div>The idea of something living and growing inside me, eating my food and making me crazy is not appealing. It just reminds me of Aliens.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK98DJBBtJI/AAAAAAAAA2E/p2TNmNDm9xg/s1600/alien+baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK98DJBBtJI/AAAAAAAAA2E/p2TNmNDm9xg/s320/alien+baby.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Then one day it bursts out of you, destroying all sorts of you inner lady parts.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK98K-GhteI/AAAAAAAAA2I/CIl3mEhdCE0/s1600/ripping+baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK98K-GhteI/AAAAAAAAA2I/CIl3mEhdCE0/s320/ripping+baby.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Some women have to have stitches after. Guess where I don't want stitches?</div><div><br />
</div><div>I'm sure you're thinking, alright maybe that part is awful, but afterwards you get to have a baby!</div><div>You can hold it and squeeze it and teach it things for the next 18 years!</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK98WPRPOmI/AAAAAAAAA2M/5tw_8cReEkw/s1600/squeeze+baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK98WPRPOmI/AAAAAAAAA2M/5tw_8cReEkw/s320/squeeze+baby.jpg" width="145" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Sure, that's one scenario.</div><div>It's far more likely that your child will be several awful things as it approaches adulthood.</div><div><br />
</div><div>At first it will be a baby, that screams and cries and steals your sleep.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK98dkkxceI/AAAAAAAAA2Q/19EfHabxKS4/s1600/cry+baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK98dkkxceI/AAAAAAAAA2Q/19EfHabxKS4/s320/cry+baby.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>In its toddler years it will still scream and cry, but now it can RUN.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK98j3VUMzI/AAAAAAAAA2U/ElMQr7j3Wy0/s1600/run+cry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK98j3VUMzI/AAAAAAAAA2U/ElMQr7j3Wy0/s320/run+cry.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Around the ages of 9-12 it will be a ball of awkward energy. Talking too loud in public and becoming overly emotional at every turn.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK98qeu2chI/AAAAAAAAA2Y/ZfKMKSPfhHU/s1600/awkward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK98qeu2chI/AAAAAAAAA2Y/ZfKMKSPfhHU/s320/awkward.jpg" width="183" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Then from 13-18 it will be some variety of teenage mess, most likely resenting and avoiding you. It probably does secret drugs and has secret rendezvous with other teenage messes, secretly.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK98xHQVmAI/AAAAAAAAA2c/c1JOiJsqV-Q/s1600/emo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK98xHQVmAI/AAAAAAAAA2c/c1JOiJsqV-Q/s320/emo.jpg" width="258" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Maybe by the time it's done with college it will have decided it doesn't hate you, that you didn't screw it up that badly and you can go on about your lives as adults.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK983PnOQuI/AAAAAAAAA2g/2pee2YbdUgA/s1600/handshake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK983PnOQuI/AAAAAAAAA2g/2pee2YbdUgA/s320/handshake.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Or maybe it will be some sort of depraved, sex maniac serial killer that you have to bail out of jail on a regular basis. It will use guilt from childhood to make you let it sleep on your couch.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK989mOKRXI/AAAAAAAAA2k/hIkK3RRveJs/s1600/couch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TK989mOKRXI/AAAAAAAAA2k/hIkK3RRveJs/s320/couch.jpg" width="307" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>So you can imagine my horror at the thought of one of these <i>things</i> hanging out in my uterus WITHOUT ME EVEN KNOWING. And it happens to enough women that they can base a whole show around it??</div><div><br />
</div><div>I had to stop watching that show, but that doesn't mean I stopped thinking about this life-ruining scenario and all the horror that it would bring. </div><div><br />
</div><div>...can you tell I don't want kids?</div>Tab Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02276071734811084723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2523355666351025224.post-74852379326008056792010-09-17T14:40:00.000-05:002010-09-17T14:40:52.498-05:00Brief HiatusHi loyal readers,<br />
<br />
Bees is on a brief hiatus as I get ready to move and then move.<br />
Moving is one of the big stresses in the world ever, so I'm sure I will have tons of material about how I can't stop crying because I have too much stuff and not enough boxes when this is all done.<br />
<br />
<br />
Looove,<br />
TabTab Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02276071734811084723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2523355666351025224.post-50607232164871302132010-09-03T11:48:00.000-05:002010-09-03T11:48:40.966-05:00The Dentist: ChildhoodI hate the dentist.<br />
I know that's not terribly unusual.<br />
It's probably not even <i>that</i> unusual that the thought of being at the dentist makes me break out in a cold sweat and want to cry.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEkKAfQLMI/AAAAAAAAA04/lSZDWyadM8U/s1600/tear+sweat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEkKAfQLMI/AAAAAAAAA04/lSZDWyadM8U/s320/tear+sweat.jpg" /></a></div><br />
It all began when I was a child.<br />
My dentist office let you wear headphones and watch any movie you wanted on the little tv in each room.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEkRhKg2LI/AAAAAAAAA1A/VseVjchysdM/s1600/tooth+tv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEkRhKg2LI/AAAAAAAAA1A/VseVjchysdM/s320/tooth+tv.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Unfortunately it was hard to focus on the tv show from the INCREDIBLE PAIN of having your gums roughly gouged.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEj19rHQpI/AAAAAAAAA0Y/j7_jPqdIDEk/s1600/gum+blood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEj19rHQpI/AAAAAAAAA0Y/j7_jPqdIDEk/s320/gum+blood.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
As a child, I thought maybe that was just how much the dentist hurt. As an adult, I know this to be false. They were unnecessarily rough with me. And evil.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEjwlz2J5I/AAAAAAAAA0Q/aoFg4keTpdU/s1600/evil+dentist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEjwlz2J5I/AAAAAAAAA0Q/aoFg4keTpdU/s320/evil+dentist.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
One day they decided they had to pull some of my teeth. More than some, actually. A plethora.<br />
A plethora of my teeth.<br />
<br />
They brought me in a back room, with the little tv for a pleasant distraction.<br />
But nothing could distract me from the reflection of the dental surgery in my dentist's large glasses.<br />
Nothing.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEkGSjRuyI/AAAAAAAAA0w/Z3xHhwA-u1s/s1600/tear+sweat_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEkGSjRuyI/AAAAAAAAA0w/Z3xHhwA-u1s/s320/tear+sweat_0001.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I survived somehow. I have a vague memory of something hurting enough to make my eyes water and tears roll down my cheeks.<br />
But then it was over.<br />
I was the happiest.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEj6GbZRKI/AAAAAAAAA0g/XzK-feVAzMI/s1600/jump+happy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEj6GbZRKI/AAAAAAAAA0g/XzK-feVAzMI/s320/jump+happy.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I was so excited and happy to go home. It was over!<br />
Boy, was I thirsty.<br />
No one explained to me what happens after the dentist though.<br />
My mom had set up a comfy bed for me to relax and recover.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEjsOLyigI/AAAAAAAAA0I/0tXj97Ar9xw/s1600/bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEjsOLyigI/AAAAAAAAA0I/0tXj97Ar9xw/s320/bed.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I was so comfortable and sleepy.<br />
I just wanted some water.<br />
I took a sip.<br />
The water slimed right back out!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEj_0EBNiI/AAAAAAAAA0o/8q_elrsU-a8/s1600/spit+water.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEj_0EBNiI/AAAAAAAAA0o/8q_elrsU-a8/s320/spit+water.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
My mouth was <i>still </i>numb.<br />
It would remain numb for several hours.<br />
I couldn't drink! I couldn't eat!<br />
All I could do was quietly weep.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEkXAE1IwI/AAAAAAAAA1I/xLJPagvXmH4/s1600/weep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TIEkXAE1IwI/AAAAAAAAA1I/xLJPagvXmH4/s320/weep.jpg" /></a></div>Tab Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02276071734811084723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2523355666351025224.post-36130842690282891602010-08-27T11:47:00.005-05:002010-08-27T11:59:29.715-05:00Guest Blog: I'm Afraid of ScorpionsHi Blog-readers,<br />
Today I am featuring a guest post from my good friend Dan Gordon.<br />
I hope to have guests write on here from time to time about things they are afraid of so that we can all join together to hug and cry.<br />
<br />
<b>I’m Afraid of Scorpions</b><br />
Written by Dan Gordon<br />
Artistic Direction by Dan Gordon<br />
Illustrated by Tabitha Parker<br />
<br />
I am horribly afraid of scorpions. This is NOT an irrational fear. Here’s the thing, there are a number of animals that are pretty terrible, but they are all parts of nature, god’s creations, the children of Mother Earth.<br />
<br />
Spiders? Yeah, a little frightening at times. A little creepy, no doubt. But they are just part of the world. Snakes? I had a snake once. It was a real son of a bitch. It wouldn’t stop biting me, but that never deterred me from picking it up repeatedly.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfpDhGm89I/AAAAAAAAAy4/RZafGZ6djVo/s1600/Shark+Bus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfpDhGm89I/AAAAAAAAAy4/RZafGZ6djVo/s320/Shark+Bus.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But snakes, regardless of venom glands, are just dicks. Sharks? I’m going on record right now to say that the Great White Shark should not </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">exist. That is not an opinion, it is a fact of Science – or at least it is if Science made any sense. Bus-sized predators should no longer roam the earth or seas. But that is a rant for another article.</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 15.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfpN6XWNXI/AAAAAAAAAzA/kAmxnef-6_Q/s1600/Shark+Bus_0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfpN6XWNXI/AAAAAAAAAzA/kAmxnef-6_Q/s320/Shark+Bus_0003.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 15.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Scorpions are not of this Earth, as they hail straight from the depths of hell. I cannot imagine a good and loving God creating this hell spawn for any other reason than to terrorize the human race. In the biblical era, God sent an Angel of Death to Sodom and Gomorrah to create a firestorm to destroy all who live within.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="font: 15.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Now, the Big Man has learned to be a bit more subtle: Scorpions. Let’s take a look at the ingredients of this adorable little death cookie. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfp5DhEpnI/AAAAAAAAAzY/9dQf01m00qc/s1600/god+creates+scorpion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfp5DhEpnI/AAAAAAAAAzY/9dQf01m00qc/s320/god+creates+scorpion.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Time for a little honesty. I wasn’t always terrified of scorpions…as sometimes we are foolish when we are young. When I was 21 I was working as a counselor at a summer camp for children with cancer. The camp ground was located on a nature preserve in South Florida. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Keep in mind, South Florida is known for alligators, cotton mouth snakes, killer bees, fire ants, and sharks. Noticeably missing from that list is the Florida Scorpion. </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I was getting the kids settled in for the night and was about to start getting dressed for bed. I sat down on my bunk, and leaned back against the wall. There, on a small ledge NEAR MY HEAD, was the largest Scorpion to ever rise from the depths of Hades. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I obviously did not have time to measure, but I think a conservative estimate for its size was about 4 feet long, 3 feet wide, a tail 7 feet long, and weighed about 300 lbs. </span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfpwARnGCI/AAAAAAAAAzQ/N0m-UhKIL7c/s1600/Scorpion+by+Head.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfpwARnGCI/AAAAAAAAAzQ/N0m-UhKIL7c/s320/Scorpion+by+Head.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font: normal normal normal 14px/normal 'Times New Roman'; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">After jumping up and releasing a stream of “fucks” (one might say, a fuckstream), I did the bravest, most responsible thing I could think of; I yelled for help from the Counselor in Training, who was attending the camp during a break between chemo treatments (he continues to hold the #1 spot on my “heroes” list). </span></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfp7idDPfI/AAAAAAAAAzg/skDWiIjpYKA/s1600/hero+in+training.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfp7idDPfI/AAAAAAAAAzg/skDWiIjpYKA/s320/hero+in+training.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">With his help, I placed a dustpan beneath the ledge, and we used a broomstick to zero in on the demon. Together, we held the broomstick and slowly aimed the tip toward its body. The clearly-not-phased arachnid-embodiment of Danny Trejo stood its ground. It stared us in the eye like….some kind of staring ghost felon. Use your imagination. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My cancer-stricken companion looked me in the eye, sending the unmistakable message of, “I have been fighting a deadly disease for months. I thought I had already encountered the worst horrors of this life.” He was wrong. So, so wrong. We held the broom even tighter. We counted to three. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">One. Our hearts thumped violently against our rib cage. Two. We pulled the stick back like Vikings manning a battering ram. Three! We thrust the stick straight into the thorax of the rape monster! </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It fucking screamed! No joke, it audibly released a spine-chilling sound made of hate and anger. Then it used its death whip to sting the broom stick several times before plopping onto the dustpan. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">With the beast still struggling, I grabbed the dustpan and brought it outside. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The whole way out the door, I let out a high-pitched, not-effeminate-at-all, very masculine, war cry (emphasis on “cry”). You know, like a man. </span><br />
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</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfpp3GQFpI/AAAAAAAAAzI/CXeGmIYmGqM/s1600/Cape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfpp3GQFpI/AAAAAAAAAzI/CXeGmIYmGqM/s320/Cape.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I dropped the scorpion on the ground, and BRAVELY stomped on it with my high-top Reeboks. The fucker stung my shoe! And as its life faded away, and I turned to walk back into the cabin, I swear I heard with its last breath – a quiet whisper, “Next time, Jew.” </span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfqDaMcM8I/AAAAAAAAAzo/hbAjWnvAD34/s1600/scorpion+genocide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfqDaMcM8I/AAAAAAAAAzo/hbAjWnvAD34/s320/scorpion+genocide.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I returned to the cabin (in my amazingly not-soiled shorts) a hero. May there never again be such a clash between good and evil. Just to be sure this never again occurs, I have a proposal. Genocide. Scorpion genocide. Never before has the thought of genocide seemed not extreme enough. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I’m glad I could spread the word. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR</span></b></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Dan Gordon is an improviser/comedian in Chicago, Illinois. </span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">He is still a hero.</span></div><div style="font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfr45ocPqI/AAAAAAAAA0A/dd84RSbR0ks/s1600/100_1050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THfr45ocPqI/AAAAAAAAA0A/dd84RSbR0ks/s400/100_1050.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div>Tab Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02276071734811084723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2523355666351025224.post-86416199747986362222010-08-24T16:25:00.000-05:002010-08-24T16:25:57.724-05:00Don't Look!I'm pretty sure people are always staring at me.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3EMAO2II/AAAAAAAAAxo/ogb9TstBokI/s1600/photo+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3EMAO2II/AAAAAAAAAxo/ogb9TstBokI/s320/photo+3.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Not in an "Oh, look at that lovely young lady" way either.<br />
In a "Something is wrong with that girl, I can tell. Also she has something on her face" way.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3G4UgnKI/AAAAAAAAAxw/i18Va2YGiOE/s1600/photo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3G4UgnKI/AAAAAAAAAxw/i18Va2YGiOE/s320/photo+1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
This has made me terribly self-concious.<br />
I also have a terrible habit of thinking I can hear stranger's internal monologues.<br />
<br />
"Oh, look at her. That skirt and shirt combination make her look frumpy."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3OxVTofI/AAAAAAAAAyI/SFByHzY-zr8/s1600/photo+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3OxVTofI/AAAAAAAAAyI/SFByHzY-zr8/s320/photo+4.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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"She clearly didn't have time to fix her hair either. I can tell she couldn't figure out what to do with her bangs so she panicked and gave up."<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3MljkWFI/AAAAAAAAAyA/aeTSGP7c_qk/s1600/photo+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3MljkWFI/AAAAAAAAAyA/aeTSGP7c_qk/s320/photo+2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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"What's she doing now, reading a comic book? Something is probably wrong with her. Poor retarded girl."<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3cesON2I/AAAAAAAAAyo/4oHAPrerWb8/s1600/photo+4-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3cesON2I/AAAAAAAAAyo/4oHAPrerWb8/s320/photo+4-1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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Even on days when I'm feeling good about myself and think my outfit is cute I am still incredibly paranoid.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3I11TqcI/AAAAAAAAAx4/JaNFBo2U9cI/s1600/photo+5_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3I11TqcI/AAAAAAAAAx4/JaNFBo2U9cI/s320/photo+5_2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I'm not sure where this paranoia started. <br />
<br />
There was that time in high school when I was walking through the offices with my friend Michael. We passed some girls I had never seen before in my life and they subtly pointed at me and whispered, "There's that girl." "Yeah, I hate her."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3Z0hkB2I/AAAAAAAAAyg/9D7mrJrGucc/s1600/photo+1-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3Z0hkB2I/AAAAAAAAAyg/9D7mrJrGucc/s320/photo+1-1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Or that time in Kindergarten when the teacher wouldn't call on me to go to the bathroom and I wet my pants. Everyone was <em>definitely</em> staring then.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3TcPJkgI/AAAAAAAAAyQ/dNetb6l-jpE/s1600/photo+2-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3TcPJkgI/AAAAAAAAAyQ/dNetb6l-jpE/s320/photo+2-1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
When I came back to class with fresh pants, the kid next to me stared at me more.<br />
Then he asked, "Are you embarrassed?".<br />
For some reason, I hadn't been embarassed until he asked.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3WIaz-KI/AAAAAAAAAyY/4iGQiXd08Nw/s1600/photo+3-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/THQ3WIaz-KI/AAAAAAAAAyY/4iGQiXd08Nw/s320/photo+3-1.jpg" /></a></div>Tab Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02276071734811084723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2523355666351025224.post-33566160686354015982010-08-20T13:44:00.002-05:002010-08-20T14:50:45.019-05:00Be Normal. Just Be Normal.When you have so many idiosyncrasies, it becomes very important to you to appear normal in the eyes of others. Every day is a series of challenges to hide all the things you have to do to in order to avoid a nervous breakdown in public.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7K7Fv5y8I/AAAAAAAAAwk/cLYM6VattKU/s1600/sweaty+panic.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7K7Fv5y8I/AAAAAAAAAwk/cLYM6VattKU/s320/sweaty+panic.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<u>Today's Challenge: Eating In Public</u><br />
<br />
First you have to decide where to eat.<br />
Your friend will likely say it is up to you, because that is what always happens.<br />
Be unable to make this simple decision. Panic. Hope that your friend does not notice how hard it is for you to decide between Red Lobster and Chili's. Distract them with unrelated conversation. Convince yourself to make a decision based on which restaurant is closer, that way <em>you're</em> not deciding, geography is. Be pleased.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KyTyaE3I/AAAAAAAAAwE/r845LTod27Y/s1600/map.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KyTyaE3I/AAAAAAAAAwE/r845LTod27Y/s320/map.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Arrive at the Red Lobster. Approach the host and give them the number of diners. Remember how you used to be a host and worry that you were not nice enough. Smile. Worry that your smile looked overly panicked. Distract yourself by staring at the lobster tank. Now they will think you were smiling at the lobsters.<br />
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KkJwUYBI/AAAAAAAAAvU/UGyKbGjZQlY/s1600/creepy+smile+lobster.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KkJwUYBI/AAAAAAAAAvU/UGyKbGjZQlY/s320/creepy+smile+lobster.bmp" /></a></div><br />
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Follow the host to your table. Walk quickly so that you will be the first to pick a seat, that way you can have your back to the wall.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7Kfo2DF8I/AAAAAAAAAvE/om_boIb-Bas/s1600/back+to+wall.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7Kfo2DF8I/AAAAAAAAAvE/om_boIb-Bas/s320/back+to+wall.bmp" /></a></div><br />
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Alternate Outcome: Your friend somehow beats you to your preferred seat. Panic. Stand awkwardly and sort of cough. Worry that they will realize you're crazy and quickly sit down. Spend the rest of the meal feeling like someone is going to stab you in the back.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KdlTmaDI/AAAAAAAAAu8/LyWDFKPbJ_k/s1600/back+to+people.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KdlTmaDI/AAAAAAAAAu8/LyWDFKPbJ_k/s320/back+to+people.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
The waiter will come to take your drink order. Want something alcoholic. Let your friend order first. They will order water or soda. Worry that if you order alcohol your friend will think you are an alcoholic and also not want to get in the car with you because you are a drunk. Order soda. <br />
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7K2cT_W8I/AAAAAAAAAwU/tlh8EtNSajY/s1600/sad+soda+face.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7K2cT_W8I/AAAAAAAAAwU/tlh8EtNSajY/s320/sad+soda+face.bmp" /></a></div><br />
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When the waiter returns with your drinks, he will launch into his job-required description of fish specials. Know that this is just part of his job, you were a waiter too. Hate restaurants for making him do this. Be uncomfortable when it goes on too long. Wish you could ask him to stop, but be afraid that he will get angry and spit in your food. Keep smiling. Do not order a special.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7LDH_sYSI/AAAAAAAAAw8/AE5XggpY3Vc/s1600/waiter.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7LDH_sYSI/AAAAAAAAAw8/AE5XggpY3Vc/s320/waiter.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Instead, order something with so much butter that it will definitely make you sick. Think you can trick your digestive disorder into ignoring the butter by drinking copious amounts of water. Realize too late that you already had soda. The soda and butter will mix, turning your stomach into a Food Fight Club. Then they will re-enact that scene where Edward Norton (butter) beats up Jared Leto (stomach) while Brad Pitt (soda) watches.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KulgLyHI/AAAAAAAAAv0/0WfD-UKc5dY/s1600/food+fight+club.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KulgLyHI/AAAAAAAAAv0/0WfD-UKc5dY/s320/food+fight+club.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Your stomach will start to rumble violently. Worry that you will get sick in the Red Lobster. Worry that your friend will find out that you have stomach problems. Worry that they will think that your stomach problems are actually Bulimia, like your high school theater teacher. This worry will only make your stomach churn harder. Take deep breaths. You can make it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7LAhP_TlI/AAAAAAAAAw0/T_wgL04qfIM/s1600/tummy+ache.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7LAhP_TlI/AAAAAAAAAw0/T_wgL04qfIM/s320/tummy+ache.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Order dessert.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7Kmvg1FUI/AAAAAAAAAvc/uFJbS6MMkQg/s1600/dessert+happy.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7Kmvg1FUI/AAAAAAAAAvc/uFJbS6MMkQg/s320/dessert+happy.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Realize your mistake seconds after finishing dessert.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KoidUq2I/AAAAAAAAAvk/MvLIqQG7WUA/s1600/dessert+sad.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KoidUq2I/AAAAAAAAAvk/MvLIqQG7WUA/s320/dessert+sad.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Somehow manage to calm your stomach down with sheer willpower. Be pleased about this.<br />
Feel like you can do anything. Decide that 'anything' means going to Best Buy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7K-O3jVaI/AAAAAAAAAws/mBlTy7GJzU0/s1600/to+best+buy.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7K-O3jVaI/AAAAAAAAAws/mBlTy7GJzU0/s320/to+best+buy.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Suddenly feel overwhelmed from being in a retail store. Decide that it is somehow too crowded <em>and</em> too big. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KhRqDfEI/AAAAAAAAAvM/xblsvoF2nIg/s1600/best+buy+freak+out.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KhRqDfEI/AAAAAAAAAvM/xblsvoF2nIg/s320/best+buy+freak+out.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Your stomach will react to this. Panic. Tell your friend that you are going to go look at something they are not interested in. (Tip: If you are with a female friend, say you are going to look at video games. If you are with a male friend, say washer/dryers.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7K0dv2nJI/AAAAAAAAAwM/jEOosIhdrIA/s1600/run+from+friend.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7K0dv2nJI/AAAAAAAAAwM/jEOosIhdrIA/s320/run+from+friend.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Escape undetected to the restroom. The restroom will be full of employees talking on their cell phones. Be unable to use the bathroom while they are there. Pretend to wash your hands (do not actually wash your hands because then they would be wet, causing you further distress and you really cannot handle that right now).<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KrADTsLI/AAAAAAAAAvs/7skp_sZbQr8/s1600/fake+hand+washing.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KrADTsLI/AAAAAAAAAvs/7skp_sZbQr8/s320/fake+hand+washing.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
The employees will finally wrap up their conversations, leaving you alone.<br />
Get sick in the Best Buy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7K4u7lYFI/AAAAAAAAAwc/NLXlJib5geo/s1600/sick+in+best+buy.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7K4u7lYFI/AAAAAAAAAwc/NLXlJib5geo/s320/sick+in+best+buy.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
When you are done being sick, feel like you can do anything. Decide 'anything' means buying 3 or 4 dvd's. <br />
If your friend asks where you were, lie. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KwTB6KLI/AAAAAAAAAv8/8LyTaWT4fng/s1600/lie+to+friend.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG7KwTB6KLI/AAAAAAAAAv8/8LyTaWT4fng/s320/lie+to+friend.bmp" /></a></div>Tab Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02276071734811084723noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2523355666351025224.post-25342601112983768132010-08-19T13:05:00.000-05:002010-08-19T13:05:15.366-05:00Haunted HousesI won't go to haunted houses.<br />
I'm sure you think this is ridiculous. It probably is.<br />
Or maybe you're thinking, oh I bet she means a real haunted house, one with ghosties.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1weFxcR1I/AAAAAAAAAus/jw4gQSzBqFY/s1600/real+haunted+house.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1weFxcR1I/AAAAAAAAAus/jw4gQSzBqFY/s320/real+haunted+house.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
I mean the ones you have to wait in line for and everyone gets SO excited about.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wSUHX9SI/AAAAAAAAAuE/vGgzQk_sqSc/s1600/haunted+house+line.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wSUHX9SI/AAAAAAAAAuE/vGgzQk_sqSc/s320/haunted+house+line.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Here's the thing, I can't process things like a normal person. I try. Really! I give myself little speeches.<br />
"It's okay go to a haunted house with all your friends, it'll be so fun. You'll be safe with them, they're your friends. They love it so much, why can't you just calm down and go?"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wfX1g4nI/AAAAAAAAAu0/-MMI9d_1Qt8/s1600/self+speech.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wfX1g4nI/AAAAAAAAAu0/-MMI9d_1Qt8/s320/self+speech.bmp" /></a></div><br />
But I always end up chickening out. It's not even the acutal haunted house that scares me.<br />
One day I had the sudden realization that a haunted house would be the <em>best place to murder someone</em>.<br />
<br />
Think about it. Everyone is already screaming, so your victim's reaction would just be part of that.<br />
You could pick someone off if they fall behind their group.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wa1tpvfI/AAAAAAAAAuk/LuN9YFzhkO8/s1600/murderer+waiting.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wa1tpvfI/AAAAAAAAAuk/LuN9YFzhkO8/s320/murderer+waiting.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
No one will be disturbed by your choice of murdering garb, either you are an employee or you just LOVE Halloween.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wWGuQ7NI/AAAAAAAAAuU/JJtvzM6ZE3M/s1600/murderer+garb.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wWGuQ7NI/AAAAAAAAAuU/JJtvzM6ZE3M/s320/murderer+garb.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
When you're done with your vigorous murdering, you can set the body up like it's part of the haunted house.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wFsLHlfI/AAAAAAAAAtk/nxxfT4aJ05Y/s1600/body+display.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wFsLHlfI/AAAAAAAAAtk/nxxfT4aJ05Y/s320/body+display.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
The haunted house clientele will be scared by it and scream, then giggle because they assume it is all part of the display.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wCxfEIZI/AAAAAAAAAtc/UYd97fLqNjs/s1600/body+display+w+people.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wCxfEIZI/AAAAAAAAAtc/UYd97fLqNjs/s320/body+display+w+people.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Then you can join up with another group as they travel through and slip out unnoticed.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wY_qDv3I/AAAAAAAAAuc/h8h0U8K1lOo/s1600/murderer+leaves.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wY_qDv3I/AAAAAAAAAuc/h8h0U8K1lOo/s320/murderer+leaves.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
(<strong>Note:</strong> <em>This is in no way meant to be a "How to Murder Someone" instruction manual. Please do not murder someone based on this blog</em>.)<br />
<br />
This haunted house fear has been something I have had for YEARS. <br />
<br />
Then a few years ago, it really happened. <br />
(I tried to find the news article to link, but google searching 'haunted house murder' just pulls up old-timey stories about ghosts and murder mystery dinner theaters. If someone finds the article, please post a link here in the comment section.)<br />
<br />
Now I will never, EVER go to a haunted house. Ever.<br />
<br />
I couldn't even make myself go into the children's haunted house at a family-friendly pumpkin farm.<br />
<br />
I got about 4 steps in and then noticed the person at the front desk area had several tv's in front of him.<br />
The tv's showed all of the displays that the haunted house offered and the people walking through them.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wQaAVxFI/AAAAAAAAAt8/2c8WD4Eqmvo/s1600/front+desk+man.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wQaAVxFI/AAAAAAAAAt8/2c8WD4Eqmvo/s320/front+desk+man.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I passed his desk and turned the corner into darkness.<br />
It then occured to me that if the security guard wanted to orchestrate a murder, he could sit there and watch on the tv's.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wOnAVR-I/AAAAAAAAAt0/2ohIkKZ0FO4/s1600/evil+front+desk+man.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wOnAVR-I/AAAAAAAAAt0/2ohIkKZ0FO4/s320/evil+front+desk+man.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I turned around and bolted out of there as quickly as possible.<br />
<br />
As I passed his desk, I pretended to be on a phone call so that he would think that was why I left and that I was normal and NOT an adult woman who was scared of the stupid little haunted house for 4 year olds.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wUHrlhxI/AAAAAAAAAuM/3gB5NMKkNB4/s1600/me+on+phone.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wUHrlhxI/AAAAAAAAAuM/3gB5NMKkNB4/s320/me+on+phone.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I'm sure the cameras showed him the truth...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wMZCwEEI/AAAAAAAAAts/x-MJxyezKfw/s1600/crying+on+cam.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FAlFBPZEsqE/TG1wMZCwEEI/AAAAAAAAAts/x-MJxyezKfw/s320/crying+on+cam.bmp" /></a></div>Tab Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02276071734811084723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2523355666351025224.post-9949032785265552912010-08-18T15:43:00.001-05:002010-08-18T15:49:01.691-05:00The Legacy of Mr. Horrible, Part 2Previously. On I'm Afraid of Bees...<br />
<i>A rat has terrorized my apartment, but is finally dead somewhere in the walls. </i><br />
<br />
Mr. Horrible had died some time in the winter. It was summer now and the apartment was up to its usual shenanigans. <br />
<br />
The floor in the bathroom was leaking. That's right, the floor. Water was coming up through the tile and ruining several bathmats. <br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/1662.jpg"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/s_1662.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="210" /></a></center><br />
<br />
We would later learn that a pipe under our floor was cracked and leaking. <br />
<br />
What does this have to do with Mr. Horrible, you ask?<br />
To answer that we first need a quick science lesson. Yay, science!<br />
<br />
Did you know that certain flies make their babies in animal carcasses?<br />
That's why there are always maggots on corpses in horror movies. <br />
<br />
I'm sure you are thinking, "Maggots? Oh no, there's a rat corpse in her walls!"<br />
You are right to be concerned. <br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/1663.jpg"><img border="0" height="155" src="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/s_1663.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="281" /></a></center><br />
<br />
Flies also need a running water source to turn grow up big and strong. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/1664.jpg"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/s_1664.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="212" /></a></center><br />
<br />
Remember the hole in the bathroom wall? The one that Mr. Horrible made?<br />
That was the point of entry for the flies. <br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/1665.jpg"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/s_1665.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="223" /></a></center><br />
<br />
<br />
I'd never been afraid of flies before. But I'd also never seen flies like this. <br />
They were HUGE and aggressive. They would charge at your head and smack into your face. It felt like being pelted with rocks. There were usually 3 or 4 of them around at a time, often appearing while I was using the bathroom. <br />
<br />
As you can imagine, the flies were well on their way to becoming my number one fear. <br />
Then I made the mistake of looking them up on wikipedia. <br />
<br />
Looking at anything online is a bad idea. Most people find knowledge empowering. I am not most people. The more I know about something the more it sends me into a spiral of panic. Plus there are pictures. <br />
<br />
But I end up online anyway, researching every little thing that comes into my life. <br />
"My throat hurts and oh, it looks weird. The Internet will know what to do!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/1669.jpg"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/s_1669.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="202" /></a></center><br />
<br />
<br />
"Oh look, pictures! One of these will surely match my throat problem."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/1670.jpg"><img border="0" height="276" src="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/s_1670.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="281" /></a></center><br />
<br />
<br />
"Oh no."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/1672.jpg"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/s_1672.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="281" /></a></center><br />
<br />
<br />
"Oh dear god no!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/1673.jpg"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/s_1673.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="277" /></a></center><br />
<br />
<br />
"NOOOOOO!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/1674.jpg"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/s_1674.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="210" /></a></center><br />
<br />
<br />
The internet lived up to its reputation, revealing that these giant flies weren't just any giant flies. They were flesh-eating flies. <br />
Flesh. Eating. Flies. <br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/1675.jpg"><img border="0" height="221" src="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/s_1675.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="281" /></a></center><br />
<br />
<br />
This explained why the roommate and I had been waking up with mysterious bug bites. The flies had been EATING OUR FLESH.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/1676.jpg"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/s_1676.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="257" /></a></center><br />
<br />
<br />
Further research revealed that flies cannot fly in cold environments. <br />
We turned the apartment into an ice box. I also purchased a fancy bug spray. <br />
It smelled like Febreze and murder. <br />
<br />
The apartment being cold definitely cut down on the fly activity. I had my magic fly spray. I was lulled into a false sense of security. I made the mistake of turning the air conditioner off. <br />
<br />
I was sitting on my bed, watching important tv shows, when I noticed some casual lumps on my rug.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/1679.jpg"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/s_1679.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="210" /></a></center><br />
<br />
<br />
As the room became warmer the lumps began to slowly move, like zombies dragging themselves out of their shallow graves. <br />
Wait, those were no ordinary lumps! Magnify!<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/1681.jpg"><img border="0" height="268" src="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/s_1681.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="281" /></a></center><br />
<br />
<br />
I screamed and sprayed and sprayed and screamed. I made myself light-headed and had to go into the living room. <br />
<br />
There was no easy solution for the flies. <br />
The Internet revealed that fly infestations happen outdoors, on farms. They can be lured away from your horses with a giant blue balloon-like apparatus. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/1682.jpg"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://blogpress.w18.net/photos/10/08/18/s_1682.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="210" /></a></center><br />
<br />
<br />
This was not a feasible solution for our refrigerator-box sized apartment. <br />
I stuck to the screaming and spraying solution. <br />
<br />
The flies disappeared when the weather turned cooler. My fear of them did not.Tab Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02276071734811084723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2523355666351025224.post-62154581646655445042010-08-17T13:09:00.001-05:002010-08-17T15:21:13.720-05:00The Legacy of Mr. Horrible, Part 1(<strong>Note:</strong> <em>Those of you who have read my other blogs may have heard parts of this story already. I promise I will have new ones up as well, plus any older stories will have new things in them. Like extras on a DVD. Except with reading.</em>)<br />
<br />
The apartment I currently live in has had it's share of problems; if you want to dry your hair you have to turn everything off, the bathtub is perpetually clogged, the whole thing is slanted at a 45 degree angle, etc.<br />
<br />
But the very worst thing was Mr. Horrible, and the things that happened because of Mr. Horrible.<br />
<br />
It was winter, I know because I had put some trash bags in the back porch area to be taken out once I was fully protected by one hundred layers of winter clothing.<br />
I then got distracted by something (probably tv) and forgot about the trash.<br />
<br />
A few days later I was headed out the back door and paused in my doorway to wait for the motion sensing light to click on.<br />
When it did, a monstorous blob ran furiously in a circle, close to my feet and then through the newly made hole in the bottom of the staircase.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
I screamed like I scream, which is not really a scream. It's too deep in register and it's more of a "Huuuuglah!".<br />
<br />
This alerted the gay neighbor (or gaybor) who came rushing down the stairs to see if I was okay.<br />
I told him that I had seen a rat but it was gone now and I was fine even though it had sounded like I was being stabbed. He not so subtly implied that the rat had come in to feast on the trash bags that had been in the back area for far too long.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I looked at the trash mess the rat had made and noted that he seemed to be eating through all of the Dunkin Donut coffee cups that had spilled about.<br />
<br />
I assured the gaybor that I was taking the trash out now and I would call the landlord about the rat. <br />
<br />
This presented a new problem, actually making a phone call. For whatever reason, making a call is an anxiety-ridden experience for me. I have been told this is a common problem for people with any variety of anxiety disorder. That does not make it any easier for me. Even thinking about it right now makes my stomach do back flips and feel like something is crawling under my skin.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Answering the phone is no easier. I usually let it ring several times before I work up the nerve to answer.<br />
Even if I know you and love you, picking up the phone to talk to you is terrifying for me.<br />
I mean, <em>what if it's</em> <em>not you</em>? <br />
What if someone else is trying to reach me from your phone for a totally legitimate reason and when I finally pick up the phone it's not your voice, and I become totally disoriented and wonder if something is wrong with my ability to see what the phone screen says? Then I'll spend the first portion of this conversation not listening while I try to figure out what went wrong in my brain, and completely miss the fact that it's an emergency and that's why someone else is calling from your phone.<br />
<br />
I did not call the landlord.<br />
<br />
I avoided leaving through the back for a few days.<br />
Then one night the roommate and I heard a noise, somewhere in our walls.<br />
The terror of the noise beat the terror of a phone call and I called the landlord and told him the story of the back porch.<br />
<br />
He was very sympathetic and sent someone over to deal with it.<br />
<br />
The solution?<br />
Boarding up the hole in the staircase.<br />
<br />
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<br />
A while later (maybe a week) I was cleaning the apartment and went under the kitchen sink to grab something, only to discover that under the sink had been converted into a classy rat apartment.<br />
<br />
He had a whole set-up; bed, bathroom area, a make-shift staircase (an old dish rack) that led up to a drawer that held miscellaneous cooking utensils (balcony?).<br />
<br />
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<br />
Everything was covered with muck and grime. I could not deal with it at the moment because the thought of touching anything under there made me want to die. I informed the roomate of the rat penthouse, and we assumed, since the rat had been 'dealt with', that the undersink apartment was vacant.<br />
<br />
This also explained the several overturned cups of coffee we had found in past weeks. Apparently the rat had been surviving on coffee alone.<br />
<br />
It wasn't until late one night, as we were sitting in the kitchen chatting about our days that we heard it.<br />
The distinct sound of something heavy dragging itself over the hole in the wall and the sickening plop of it finding the ground inside the cabinet. Silence. We sat frozen, mouths agape.<br />
Then the sound of the same heavy thing dragging itself back through the wall, it's belly catching and scraping on the bottom part of the wall hole.<br />
<br />
We stared at each other, horrified.<br />
The landlord wouldn't be in til morning.<br />
<br />
To deal with this trauma, we did what we always do. We made jokes about our rat tenant.<br />
We named him Mr. Horrible and decided he looked like this:<br />
<br />
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<br />
But really, we knew he looked like this:<br />
<br />
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<br />
While we were at work the next day, the rat police came and evicted Mr. Horrible by repairing the hole he had made in the wall. We were assured traps of some kind had been set (Poison? Actual traps? They didn't say).<br />
<br />
The noises in the wall soon became worse.<br />
Mr. Horrible was trapped within our home and all exits had been cut off. Whatever means the rat police thought would kill him were powerless against him.<br />
<br />
He tried escaping many different ways, the roommate noticed part of her closet wall where she often heard rat thrashings had been pushed out.<br />
The wall on the other side of the rat penthouse had been pushed out as well.<br />
The other side was in the bathroom, between the sink and the bathtub.<br />
<br />
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<br />
None of these holes were big enough for Mr. Horrible to escape through, but the noises he made were absolutely terrifying. I kept having nightmares that he was going to push through the wall and climb on my bed while I was sleeping.<br />
<br />
Then one day the noises stopped. There was a strange smell.<br />
We assumed that Mr. Horrible had died and that everything would go back to normal.<br />
<br />
We were wrong.<br />
<br />
To Be Continued...Tab Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02276071734811084723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2523355666351025224.post-46218066807408760732010-08-16T15:36:00.003-05:002010-08-16T15:51:47.343-05:00Bedtime Fears Part 1I am afraid of many things.<br />
<br />
Some things are rational fears - being in a horrible accident/fire/hostage situation. <br />
Other fears are not so rational.<br />
Many of these irrational fears can be found at bed time...<br />
<br />
Growing up I wanted a bunk bed, as many children do.<br />
My Dad gave me one when I was around 8 or so. <br />
I was so excited, at last, an adventure bed! You could do flips off of it, climb around, and most defintely hit your head on the ceiling. What a fun bed!<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
(Before I continue, there's something you should know about me. At any point and for no reason, something will occur to my brain. A quick 'oh, what if...!' or 'I bet this...' and something fun can quickly turn into something awful.)<br />
<br />
So the bunk bed was the absolute best! I was having such a fun time with this giant sleep toy!<br />
<br />
Then it suddenly occured to me that someone could stab me while I was sleeping in the top bunk, through the mattress. My adult brain now realizes that no knife could have reached through there. To stab me <em>through the mattress</em>, someone would have to be wielding a sword.<br />
But this logic did not enter my child brain.<br />
I was to lie awake many nights, worried that my life would come to a sudden end by some prowler who could easily sneak under me without my knowledge and start stabbing away.<br />
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<br />
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<br />
This fear multiplied when I had a friend stay over. I knew they were down there.<br />
What if they suddenly turned murderous?<br />
<br />
I soon took to sleeping on the lower bunk.<br />
<br />
Since my parents were divorced and I did not have a bunk bed at my Mom's, you might think that my sleep was free of worry there. <br />
It was not.<br />
<br />
At my Mom's house I would sleep with my bedroom door open a crack so that the hallway light would slightly illuminate my room (fear of the dark).<br />
One night, as I gazed at the crack in the door, pleased to have the light flooding in, it occured to me that a man might be standing in the hallway (always wearing a hat for some reason).<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
This feeling was exacerbated by the fact that I do not have 20/20 vision. <br />
Sure that could be a shadow in the hall from the nearby laundry room, but through all the squiggly blur, it could also be the man, backlit by the hallway light.<br />
<br />
I could get up and see, but then the man would know that I knew.<br />
Maybe the only reason he wasn't coming in was because he just wanted to watch but if I got up he would surely become violent and possibly stab me.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
I solved this problem many nights later (I kept forgetting about the man until I was already in bed) by sleeping with my door closed and the tv on.<br />
This only produced a whole new series of bed time fears...Tab Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02276071734811084723noreply@blogger.com3