Category Archives: Humor

Nine Lives Minus Four or How I Almost Died

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I knew it would happen again, and sadly it did, at the EXACT same location. It's not a good outcome when emergency vehicles stay on-site for more than an hour.
Another update...After talking to a couple of local police officers, and at their suggestion, I called the traffic division. When someone returned my call two days later, I can't say she was all that interested in my near-death experience but gave me some mollifying type of assurance that she'd request enhanced patrols on the weekends at that busy intersection. It was a spectacularly unsatisfying conversation. I felt placated and patronized. I have every belief that nothing will change, someone else won't be as agile as I was and they'll have a more tragic outcome to deal with.
Quick update: Is there something in the water here? Just now as I was grocery shopping, yet another almost collision occurred. The lanes I was driving in had no stop signs or a light, but the cross street had a stop sign. There were two lanes and a couple cars and I were traversing in the same direction when a car that SHOULD HAVE STOPPED and waited for us decided for some unknown reason to NOT stop. If we hadn't both been going slow and able to swerve safely out of harm's way, there would have been a collision. I swear, you could probably have heard my horn on the east coast. The errant driver yelled, "Sorry!" but that doesn't change the fact that it's dangerous to be a pedestrian OR a driver. The moral of the story is to be extra careful, extra cautious, and alert!

I think I just used up about four of my nine lives on Sunday. Without being accused of being melodramatic, it was the closest to death I’ve ever been.

I woke up around 6:30 a.m. because I heard a really loud diesel truck idling outside, which is unusual around here.

When I ran downstairs and looked out the living room window, the street in front of my house was filled with the bright flashing lights of fire engines and paramedics. I watched as they took away my neighbor strapped on a gurney, but I don’t know what actually happened.

A similar thing occurred last week to the neighbor on the OTHER side of my immediate neighbor; paramedics and even police cars were there for a couple of hours. So far, I don’t have any intel on that event, either.

I think these odd episodes set the stage for what (almost) happened. Could it be due to cosmic forces and planetary tumult? Don’t things happen in threes? I think I heard that somewhere.

Anyway…

There was surprising and UNforecasted welcome rain last night and it left behind much cooler temperatures, so I decided to walk to the beach.

I was almost there and stopped to cross the street at a well defined four-way stop and pedestrian crosswalk. (That’s at Garfield and Tamarack if you’re from my town.) There were stopped cars at three of the stop signs. Knowing there are distracted and horrible drivers everywhere, I pay careful attention to stuff like that.

I began to cross and as I approached the middle of the intersection walking north, the SUV that had been stopped at the stop sign going south, just started going like a bat out of hell, making a speeding left turn, directly at me, as if I was invisible or something. Which I’m NOT.

There was no real time to think about avoiding being hit because in that split second, I knew I was going to be badly injured.

What I recollect and what four witnesses corroborated, was that at the point of NEARLY being impacted by this accelerating vehicle, I actually slapped the side of her left hood with my hand and did a very ballerina-like twirl to avoid being hit. The SUV almost touched me as I evaded the collision. There was truly about an inch between me and the vehicle, an INCH!

I didn’t call the police because not one of us could get her plate number since she sped off as I believe she realized what she had done. It was a woman in a ubiquitous white SUV, and there are literally a million of those around here. We couldn’t identify any specific make or model because it all happened so fast.

People came out of their houses to see if I was OK. They said it looked as if I had been hit. I was a bit shaky and shocky from all that adrenaline so I sat down for a few minutes and had a glass of water.

The four witnesses high-fived me (really!), commented on my agility and how that saved me from serious injuries. They said they had never seen anything like it because the impact seemed unavoidable. They were also suitably charmed by the string of unfiltered expletives that I hurled at the driver as she sped away.

I’m beyond grateful for those many years of ballet training because if I hadn’t reacted like that, I can’t even imagine how many broken bones and internal damage I’d have to heal from. The whole thing probably took less than five seconds and as quick as it was over, it also felt as if it was happening in slow motion — all very strange.

There are two ways to think about it. Either it wasn’t my day, or it really WAS my day. I can’t for sure say it wasn’t divinely scripted. Do angels exist? Did angels intervene? I really need to stop and think about it.

I feel like I’ve used up several of my nine lives – I only hope I have a few more. There’s so much to be grateful for, that’s for sure.

I finished my journey, took a photo of the ocean, calmed down, and walked back home without any further scary experiences.

There it is, the peaceful serenity of our Pacific Ocean. Sadly, there weren’t any whales or dolphins, but it’s still an eternally beautiful and nourishing sight.

Reaching my destination almost killed me, but I persisted, prevailed, and live to tell the story.

Have you had a near-death experience to share?

My Big Blue Dumpster Debacle

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Yesterday’s bizarre event gives a whole new meaning to dumpster diving.

Driving home from a few errands, I was about a block away when I noticed a GIGANTIC truck blocking the street, backing a GIGANTIC dumpster into someone’s driveway.

I first thought to myself, “I wonder who’s getting some work done” and then I thought it seems to be right next door, which is weird cos they’re having their first baby any day now and nobody would begin a major remodeling project with a newborn to care for.”

As I got a bit closer, I said to myself, “HOLY SHIT, THAT”S MY HOUSE.”

The driver began to unload the massive dumpster as I drove up and from my car I frantically (as you can imagine) told him to STOPSTOPSTOP!

I jumped out (after snapping a photo) and asked him what the heck did he think he doing and he needed to take it away IMMEDIATELY.

He showed me the work order which definitely had MY address, but the account name was my neighbor who lived three doors up the street. I guess it was a typo or a careless, not-very-thorough employee who didn’t do his/her due diligence.

We both walked down the street to double-check with said neighbor who confirmed that they ordered it and with a bunch of apologies to me, the driver successfully deposited the dumpster where it was supposed to go.

If I had been just one minute later than I was, I would have come home to an absolute disaster, a true dumpster diving nightmare! Timing is everything.

As it was, I’ll never get back the twenty minutes of my life I spent on the phone with the company to make sure that I wasn’t charged for a dumpster I didn’t request.

After that, I needed to take a few deep breaths, calm down, and lower my blood pressure…disaster BARELY averted, thank goodness.

The Hug Store Is ALWAYS Open

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Out of the mouths of, well, not babes exactly, but out of the mouth of my Angel Boy second grader.

A long time ago, even before there was an Angel Girl, AB and I would hug when we first saw each other and then at various times throughout the day and before bed.

I always asked first, “can I have a hug?” or “would you like a hug” because of course it’s all about body autonomy and if he didn’t feel like being touched, it’s his right to say no. That’s a good lesson for all of us, right?

Then he started to say, “I need a Grandma hug” and my arms would open wide.

When Angel Girl came into the world, she would stretch out HER arms and say, “Hug” and who could ever say no to that? Definitely not me.

Now they both jump into my arms and just about knock me over. I tell them I have two arms so there’s plenty of love for both of them. Yes, there’s a bit of sibling rivalry because AB had me all to himself for almost four years and sharing his grandma has caused some angst. Actually, learning to share anything is an ongoing lesson for him…

Recently, Angel Boy has become a bit more thoughtful about what it means to be his grandma.

He told his sister, “With Grandma, the hug store is always open. Right, Grandma?”

I hugged them both and said, “That’s a really cool way to describe it and you’re one thousand percent correct. Best of all, it doesn’t cost a single penny. My hug store is always open, night or day, 365 days a year.”

After that beautiful moment, I told him we needed to write a story about The Hug Store, and that’s exactly what we’re doing.

There’s an endless ocean of love with these two angel kids. ❤️

Candyland Marathon

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It was a serious deja vu moment for us; me and Angel Boy 2.0 playing endless games of Candyland in the exact same location that MY mom used to play endless games of Candyland with the original Angel Boy.

They played so often — marathon sessions — that the first game pieces wore out and we had to buy a new one. I’m not sure what the actual appeal is of Candyland, as it’s such a simple concept with no reading involved, but it’s incredibly mindful it its simplicity. Maybe that’s the key to brilliance.

After a very early breakfast of fresh pineapple and buckwheat pancakes, we went downstairs to play on the table where we kept the board set up in anticipation of laughter and great conversation.

In the afternoon, we hung out at Dad’s former elementary school playground and looked in all the classrooms that he attended during his six years there. It was a surreal and very happy rush of memories for us, watching his own child on the very same monkey bars he used to climb.

Later, at the end of the day, freshly bathed and having eaten a night snack of applesauce and yogurt, it was back downstairs for the final game before bed.

These are the building blocks of joyful shared experiences that create a lifelong tapestry of love that spans generations.

This is the kind of legacy I’m grateful to be able to share with these precious Angel Kids.

Skateboard Trauma Revisited

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Facetiming with the Angels…

“Grandma, Daddy was on his skateboard and didn’t wear his helmet AGAIN!”

“Yeah, Grandma, here’s Daddy, you need to have a talk with your little boy about that!”

(FYI, that’s how they refer to their dad…as MY little boy, It’s really cute.)

This is not the first time I’ve lectured him about this subject.

“Darn it J, you know better, why are you doing that? Stop laughing, it’s not at all funny. Your children tell me EVERYTHING, so WEAR YOUR HELMET! You are a ROLE MODEL! Do you want them to do it because Daddy does? Come ON, you are so smart, be smart with this too.”

“Grandma, did you throw out all of Daddy’s skateboards when he was little?“

And there it is, one of my Angel Boy’s worst traumas. How did they know about that?

Even Mom chimed in; “Yeah, what was that all about? You never throw anything away!”

It’s true. I don’t. I saved every report card and every paper he wrote and every single piece of art he created. Crazy me, I saved the shoes he wore all over Europe when he did his year abroad. I don’t dispose of anything!

Except for those darn skateboards!

To give a little background, this incident happened about fifteen years ago, maybe a bit longer. When he was in high school, he (and his friends) helped build a fairly large skate ramp in our backyard. All during high school and up to when he was in junior in college, it was well used and maintained. I supplied everyone with smoothies and cookies while I kept a watchful eye from the kitchen window.

After AB graduated from college, he went to graduate school on the east coast. His visited home less frequently and the ramp deteriorated from sun and rain.

It was requested of him that he help to remove it as it was now an eyesore and falling apart, that it was a rite of passage and he SHOULD help.

I can’t remember if he helped a lot or put in slightly more than zero effort which was what he usually did when he wasn’t too interested in a project.

His many skateboards were sitting around, also unused, gathering dust.

Here’s where things get a little fuzzy. I literally don’t throw ANYTHING away. I’m an admitted hoarder. I don’t recall the specifics of how and when these skateboards disappeared, but they definitely DID.

I spent the last fifteen years apologizing to my angel boy for throwing out his beloved skateboards, which I know memorialized a meaningful time in his life.

I’ve offered to buy him a new skateboard or several — to make up for my horrible parenting.

I never want to cause him pain, but it’s obvious that he’s still bothered by all of it.

So, this last time, most recently, when the conversation opened up, in front of everyone, I formally apologized AGAIN and asked how or what I could do to make amends.

I’m genuinely sorry that I tossed out (or gave away, I can’t remember) a happy piece of his childhood. It’s really so unlike me and I didn’t do it with malice or anger, but the fact remains that those boards are gone forever.

Anyway, he accepted my apology (again) and said he doesn’t want a new skateboard but I think I’m going to go to his favorite sk8 shop and get him one anyway, or get him a gift certificate so he can choose all the parts that he wants: deck, wheels, bushings, trucks…yes, I was the mom of a skater. It’s language I can speak.

Note to self: NEVER toss anything else out.

EVER.

Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto

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Thank you very much, Mr. Roboto!
Does anybody know where this gigantic robot is located? I do…

The robot is from the Japanese animated film “Castle in the Sky” and is located somewhere in the PNW, but I’ll conceal the specific location.

(“Mr. Roboto” by Styx)

Unearthed Primitive Artifact Or…

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Before I even begin my strange tale, I want to be sensitive to negative colloquialisms such as “‘Burying the hatchet’.

The use of this term trivializes the ancient peace-making ceremony in which two fighting nations symbolically buried or cached their weapons of war.

Offensive language like this is a result of centuries of violence and continues to perpetuate stereotypes that have real-life impacts on Native communities.

Indigenous Peoples and their cultural traditions are real and deserve respect. They are not historical artifacts, caricatures, or mascots. (radicalcopyeditor.com)

But I don’t know how else to describe what I just found in my garden…an actual buried hatchet.

Look at it!

It’s a joke from the Universe, right?

I have no idea how long it’s been there or how it became buried near a path that leads to some steps to the second level.

I can’t even figure out how, after all this time, it became UNburied enough for me to notice that bright blue handle.

So with deepest respect, I brushed away the dirt around the buried hatchet.

I’m not sure what to do next. Dig it up? Leave it there? Anyone care to hazard a guess about what it means?

Twinning Toilets

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One more story to share…

When I was little and I’m sure it’s because my mom was a nurse, but I experienced a significantly higher level of attention to hygiene in our day to day life than some. Our joke was that I had as much Lysol in my veins as red blood cells.

For example, WAY before there were seat covers, whenever we happened to visit a public restroom, my mom taught me how to place three long pieces of toilet paper to cover the seat before I sat down.

She said it was a sanitary barrier against germs. Germs were our nemesis–we must protect ourselves!

Even today, when I’m in a public restroom, whether there are no seat covers or the container is empty, I’ll still channel my mom and use her method to save myself from touching a seat countless others have used. #EWWWW

A while back, Angel Girl and I were at my local park and she needed to use the restroom. There was an empty container where the seat covers should have been, so it was the perfect opportunity to pass on the knowledge from her namesake, exactly the way I was taught,

Later that day while I was making dinner, Angel Girl was in the bathroom and she pulled three long strips of toilet paper and covered the toilet seat before using.

When mom asked her what she was doing, she said “That’s what Grandma does.”

Like a duckling, that angel imprints on all my behaviors, haha.

I heard the chat and rushed in to explain to this brilliant brilliant little human that this method was something we only needed to do for public toilets, the ones that are used by lots of other people, and we didn’t need to do that when we were here at home or at their house.

I’m absolutely sure that the toilet seats in MY home are pristine and reasonably sure that the toilet seats in THEIR home were clean (fingers crossed.)

A little research blew my mind. There seems to be no real scientific or medical reason for covering toilet seats. It was once believed that you could catch a gastrointestinal bug or sexually transmitted disease from a public toilet, but research has proved otherwise; that it’s a practically pointless exercise in sanitation.

Another alternative would be to use an alcohol or bleach wipe, but I don’t always have them with me.

Does anyone else but me (and Angel Girl) still do this? Do you hover or cover?

‘Cos I don’t really care, I still think it’s gross to have any direct contact on a toilet seat where a thousand strangers have been, so I’ll continue to cover.

Word of the Day: Lalochezia

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Are you guilty of doing this, too?

The word of the day is lalochezia. It’s a noun formed from the Greek lalia (speech) and chezo (to relieve oneself).

Maybe that’s where the term “potty mouth” came from??

I have been known to unleash a hearty string of f-bombs and other expletives. To be completely honest, it is, usually, quite satisfying.

Lalochezia: The use of foul or abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain, emotional release through swearing.

Lalochezia describes that moment when you’re so stressed out and angry that you start spurting out the foulest language possible to relieve stress and pain.

Yup, been there, done that…

I’m sure that a few deep restorative yoga breaths — some vital prana — is probably way more soul healing, but in some cases the venting of specific profanity MIGHT be nearly as invigorating.

I guess I have a ways to go before I enter the transcendent state of nirvana, or as my dad would say, “that’s not very ladylike, Rosebud, and I’m sure you can think of more appropriate language.”

Not always.

(graphic from pinterest)