Critical Crustacean Crisis

Maine lobster? Nope, it's the elusive Northern Virginia Pond Mud lobster.

You see, I was walking my dog on the trail near the pond before work yesterday (while second guessing my decision to wear my favorite half-leather half-quilted over-the-knee riding boots, when I thought I saw a giant brown leaf. Much to my surprise, it was not a leaf but a soon to be extinct Aldie pond lobster. Immediately I hurried my dog on to her business so that I could run home and get a camera b/c surely no one would have believed me.

Back at the house I decided I also needed to save the poor thing from his soon to be extinction 10 feet away on the busy street. I grabbed my phone camera, a red bucket ('cause you know I wasn't touching it, and a yellow shovel ('cause you know I wasn't getting close). I am sure I was quite a sight for my neighbors in my thigh high leather and quilted boots with that big red bucket and yellow shovel running across the street.

As I neared the displaced creature, I pondered my rescue method. First I tried to scoop him (or her) up with the shovel, but he (or she) stood up and clawed at me. I then tried to shovel it into the bucket, and it turned its tail under and snapped his claws fighting for dear life -- or so it thought. Finally, after many attempts, I used the bucket and shovel together and got him in. Then I ran to the pond to throw it in before it tried to climb out. That’s when something small, black, furry, and fast shot across the grass just a few inches in front of me. I screamed, the bucket went flying into the pond, and I skidded across the grass. The heel flew off of my leather and quilted black knee high boots, the red bucket lay in the pond and Virginia Mud Lobster lay in the grass facing the wrong direction again. I hobbled back up the hill the retrieve my shovel while thinking about “survival of the fittest.”

My soft heart won and I decided to go back using the shovel now to fish out my bucket and scoop up the crustacean to throw into the murky water --  all while looking over my shoulder for the furry running beast. As I hobbled home with my heel in my hand, yellow shovel over my shoulder, and little red bucket in my other hand, I couldn't help but think that if it were any bigger, it would have been in my pot instead!

A Pedagog's Less Than Perfect Pedicure

As the start of the school year quickly approached, I made a mental note to "get my toes done" the week before class was to begin. That week arrived and departed before I could even fathom a free moment to even call for an appointment, let alone actually go.

Two weeks out: "I'll get them done next week."

Seven days out: "I'll get them done tomorrow."

Six days out: "I'll get them done tomorrow."

Five days out: "I'll get them done tomorrow."

Two days out: "I'll get them done tomorrow."

One day out: "They are not that bad, no one will notice that tiny chip. "I'll get them done next weekend."

The morning of: "Oh no! Three of them have chips! Must have happend in the shower. I'll just do a quick one coat over them. Oh no! it's the wrong color! It looked the same til I put it on. Is it close enough of a match? No, I will just cover all of them in that color."

Ten minutes later: "Oh no! My pants have smeared them! I will have to take the bottle and do them in my classroom before the students arrive. I hope no one sees me."

Thirty minutes and 12 miles later I ran to my teacher teamate to say I need five minutes. I found her with her leg in the air reapplying polish on her own toes. We then hobbled off together all stiff legged to our morning duty.

That night after I removed the tacky, smeared, but dry mess, I applied cuticle cream which needs to soak, so I jumped in the tub were I was able to both read the 6th grade book I was using for class and soak my tootsies at the same time. I was always good at mulititasking; I just hope cuticle cream does no harm to the tushy. Once out, there was still no time for polish, so the next day I had to go naked toes to class. Finally the following day (about two weeks after the initial intent, I slapped on another messy coat of polish on my way out the door and prayed I did not bump into anything with my less than perfect pedicure. After all, it would be another two weeks till I had time to do them again.

Throw-Back Memory Jarred by a South Carolina Death

Every Thursday is considered Throwback Thursday on Facebook. People find old pictures of themselves or family members and post them for fun. However, yesterday's video of an unarmed man who had been stopped for a routine traffic ticket fleeing for his life and shot in the back and then framed with a relocated taser, brought back memories of my own scary traffic stop late one night on a wooded Fairfax County back road. In lieu of a twenty year old picture of my self I chose to post a throw back Memory:

It was 1992 and very late, perhaps after 11:00 o'clock at night. I had just returned from a full and tiring day flying across America and wanted only to go to bed. As I neared my rented room in a friend's apartment I saw a Fairfax police car pass me going in the other direction. I knew I was going to be stopped.

I was young and broke and had just been hired as a flight attendant. They based me away from my home state leaving me with $2000 to move, pay first and last months rent, and buy a car. I was thrilled to find one for $400. It was clean-- inside anyway-- with low mileage, but had a smashed driver's door.

He saw me pass, immediately made a U-turn and followed me for about a half a mile until I tapped on my brakes. That's when he saw my brake light was out. Suddenly it was red lights in my rear view mirror and then a bright white in my face. I showed him my credentials. I showed him my insurance. I showed him the receipt and the new bulb that I had tried to put in but found did not fit. I explained that I did not live here and that it was an airport car. I told him how I tried to fix it two days earlier when I had arrived from Cleveland for my trip and that I was going back to find someone else to replace it tomorrow.

He sneered and snarled. He did a walk around barking at me to turn on this blinker and that blinker, turn on my wipers and step on my brakes. The only thing that did not work was the light bulb which I had a receipt and new bulb for. I told him I did not live here and that my transfer had finally gone thru so this was truly my last week. He said "Not my problem! Take it up with the magistrate!" By then I was crying as I silently took the ticket and rolled up my window.

The worse part was that he trailed me slowly for three miles all the way into my commuter pad parking lot. He stopped with me and sat there with his lights on me as I got my suitcase out, and walked across the lot to enter my commuter pad apartment where I was renting a small basement bedroom to be used twice a month. He did not leave until I closed the door behind me.

My only crime was that the light bulb post was rusted, and the bulb would not come out. I had the dated receipt, and proof that I was moving the next week, but I was still trailed and intimidated. As a single black female on a lonely unlit back wooded area road, I was left feeling alone and terrified. I wonder what he would have done if I were male.

The Clothing Clash Wars

        My mother would buy us school clothes in August and again for Christmas. Never in between nor after the holiday, and certainly not because a growth spurt had sent the hem lines soaring above our ankles like a plane above the horizon. Mamma would simply remove the stitching and let the hem hang low -- if she did anything at all. Most of the time, she didn't seem to notice, though other people did.

       There was once  the school counselor who offered me a bag of someone's second hand donations. She called me into the office and closed the door tightly behind me.

       Softly, gently, she began, "Someone gave me a bag of clothes, and I was trying to determine who to give them to." She said this while slowly opening the black trash bag treasure trove of woolen skirts, ruffled blouses, and 4 inch wide belts. 

        I had hoped my face did not betray me and give away my revulsion to the old faded linens. 

       "I hope you don't mind me asking you," she continued.  "You don't have to take these if you don't like them."

       Yes, I thought,... I was off the hook.

       "Do you want them?" she plied.

       Ever so slowly I shook my head left and then right, while squeaking out an embarrassed, "No thank You."

       Once home I was immediately greeted at the door by my mother.

       "Where are the clothes they gave you?" 

       You see, Mrs. Marlie had called my mom early in the day to get permission to give them to me, so I really did not have the choice that I thought I did. My mother, livid, went on a rampage about me being inconsiderate.  I was to never turn down anything offered to us. "Money don't grow on trees!" 

       I was ashamed for the second time that day.

       A week later, I saw my best friend wearing one of the skirts.

       After that incident, I had become rather adept at accepting these gifts and was learning to pair them quite stylishly, or so I thought.

      About a year later, Mrs. Sharpley's daughter gave me some thick beige leather square-toe boots. I never owned leather before, so I could not wait to wear them. And though they were a little big, I happily stuffed the toes. Next I paired it with a beautiful burgundy 3/4 leather coat with buttons as big as fifty cent pieces and lapels that stretched all the way to the middle of my shoulders. I was finally in style and was wearing designer quality gear. I dreamed of the compliments that would be hurled my way.

       However, instead of shout-outs and compliments, I began to notice smiles behind hands and hushed toned whispering. Instead of fighting the usual crowded hallway to get to my locker, the kids seemed to part before me like the red sea.  I did understand quality clothing, but I had no concept of the term "out of style." Though it was close to 1980, my boots were from the early 70's, and my coat looked like something from the Black Panther era of the late 1960's.

        By the time I had made it to 10th grade, I was working every summer and used my money to buy the appropriate gear -- clothes that coincided with my era. But even that was not enough to save me from being the center -- think bullseye-- of attraction. 

        I spotted the suede belted boots from aisles away and could not believe my luck. The one inch crepe sole boots that were filled with beige faux shirling (crushed pile) would be perfect to keep my feet warm while walking around the school's campus. My favorite part was the belt that kinda half tightened them around my calf yet was loose enough to leave the top part flopping down just below the knee. I loved those boots.... Until that day when I realized the chanting I had been hearing coming from every window of the male dorm was aimed at me in a tone and rhythm much like a cow mooing, "Boots! Boots!" 

       You see, I was by then attending a boarding school and the only thing remotely stylish had to come from a magazine called L.L. Bean (which I had never heard of, and once I caught a glimpse of, I realized that I could have never afforded it anyway.) It was the magazine of the rich filled with preppy gear. and since I was attending a prepatory boarding school (on a scholarship of course) everyone else was wearing those hideous rubber and leather duck shoes and boots. Not faux suede from Zayres.

     Needless to say, from that day forward I rode out the rest of the harsh Ohio winter in weathered beat down penny loafers. Even those were black, with a nickel in the slot instead the customary burgundy, with a penny, because I thought silver looked better in my pleather knock-offs.

       I suppose this is why I was so upset with my son this morning. Unlike my mother, I buy clothes at the first sight of ankle or tight thighs. I watch the male students to see how they dress making note of the cool outfits. I buy Addidas, Nike, and elite socks. I make sure each shirt has matching shorts. Yet,  at 6:30 in the morning after I have spent time digging out the correct pant to match the colored coded shirt, and ironed and hung them on his door, my son arrived downstairs wearing  wrinkled clothing with odd patterns of mismatched colors: lime green and black striped shorts with a red and blue crumpled top.

       So, yes I was frustrated. I demanded that he switch back because he clashed.  He, on the other hand was angry that I would not let him pick his own clothing. He actually claimed that he hated to match because matching was "not cool."  He wanted nothing more than to trade his color coded outfit for one that vaguely resembled a brightly colored rainbow after a storm. But our storm had not passed, it was raging right there in our living room. And I knew in my heart that I needed to let him win. So, I did. 

       In hindsight, I suppose the real conflict was not in mismatched clothing, nor was it in his fight for independence.  It was in me wanting to protect my son from the harsh words and taunts of his peers. Mean words of a childhood long passed -- that still haunt me to this day.

Good for Ten Years? (A Clean "Colonosco-me" Tale)

Today was the day I was dreading for quite a few years... ever since I learned it was the next "routine" exam to add to my list: a colonoscopy.

When I was first advised during my routine exam this year that I need to schedule one, I made light of it. I have a cruise coming up, and since I was told one could lose about five pounds with this procedure, I scheduled it three before my ship set sail. Hey, a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do get into a swimming suit, right? 

All jokes aside, I was extremely apprehensive and nervous to say least and my husband tried to comfort me by saying, "Don't worry, the prep is the worse part, and then you are good for ten years."

He was right.  The prep was truly a nightmare. For starters, seven days out, I had to stop taking fish oil pills and my beloved Aleve which I personally pop like candy for my herniated discs. But, of course they said Tylenol was an acceptable substitute.

WELL, HELLO! If Tylenol worked to reduce the swelling causing the pinched nerve, I would have been popping it all along, instead.

Next, five days out, I had to give up seeds, anything with red and purple dyes, and popcorn. Unfortunately for me that was as bad as the Aleve. I am one of those quasi health fanatics with just enough bad habits to prevent me from being a hippie. For starters, I eat chia seeds every morning in my yogurt. (It keeps me, well, I guess I can go there - regular). I put flax seeds in my smoothies. And, I eat sunflower seeds and other nuts on my salads. Not to mention, in light of my newly self diagnosed fructose malabsorption, the majority of the only fruits that I can eat safely is berries: raspberries, strawberries, and kiwi. All filled with seeds. (On a side note, I am allowed kumquat and jackfruit; however, I have no clue what they are.)

Next went my homemade juice complete with bright orange carrots for my middle age failing eye-sight and deep purple-red beets to clean my liver from the evening bad habits.

Lastly, there was the popcorn ban. Popcorn is my main chip replacement salt-satisfier for my Weight Watcher regiment. How was I supposed to watch a movie without popcorn! I went to my cupboard, and all I could find were my hemp seed tortilla chips. No seeds allowed so no snacks for me. It was the hardest hour and half in my life especially with my selfish son snacking away on his hot buttery popcorn, smelling up the place. It was a cruel and unusual punishment.

Finally, the "day before" arrived. The liquid only day. Clear liquids such as chicken broth, Jell-O, and clear sodas were on the menu, but I am not a soda drinker and was fearful of the salt content of the broths. So I was a water drinking fool.

It started out pretty good. The Jell-O was so tasty, I made another batch for the afternoon. I initially thought I would just lay still all day to conserve energy, but reality set in, and I ran my normal mile and half, took my hubbie to work and my son to day camp, I shopped for groceries, and went to the cleaners. I also did some gardening and washed a load of laundry. Needless to say I was exhausted and ravenous by 2:00 and wanted to throw the bowl of Jell-O out the window, but it was time to pick-up my husband to take him in for his procedure, (a different one.) By the time we got home that evening, a headache was setting in, I was sleepy and... Oh Joy! I still had the worse part to initiate: the "Moviprep" drink.

The box was big and looming. I had to mix a giant pitcher of stuff that they strongly suggested I add Crystal lite to just to get down. Next, I had to drink 8 ounces every 15 minute for an hour followed by 16 ounces of water which left me felling like a water ballon, all bloated and full of liquid. And to make matters worse, I had to repeat it four hours later. Each time I drank it I sat still, near the restroom that was stocked with extra soft Charmin, ready to make a mad dash. But for some reason, I was left somewhat surprised at the lack of, well, urgency. I guess I really won't mind having to do it again in ten years; it was not as bad as my husband said. Men can be such babies sometimes.

The next morning I was very tired and the headache was still there, but it was almost over. Unfortunatelty for me all the morning slots were filled, so I had to starve myelf (including no water) until noon. But at least I would be done with it for ten years, so I was glad to get it over with.

"Mrs. Smith!"

This is it I thought. I almost couldn't wait to see my new flat belly. Bring it on!

They took my vitals, inserted an IV, and five minutes later, so it seemed, my husband was standing by my side and they were waking me up. I had no memory of the procedure. Though the prep days were a nuisance... okay, more than a nuisance, the procedure itself was not that bad at all. I would not be so nervous in ten years, I thought.

While waiting for the doctor, I dressed.The world began to spin as I bent to tie my shoe, but James caught me and steadied me so I could finish. That's when the doctor came in with my results.

"Everything looked good," (if such statement makes sense under the circunstances) "up to a certain point."

That is when she dropped the bomb on me, "The "MoviPrep" did not completely work.

"Huh! What does this mean?" I already knew before she answered.

"The results are considered inconclusive. You'll have to do it again. Call the the receptionist to set a date as soon as possible. Next time we'll have to give you the larger kit. It's double the size. Don't worry this happens sometimes."

And just like that, all non-chalantly, she turned and left the little curtained cubicle, leaving my husband and me dumbfounded and in disbelief. It was inconceivable. First of all, I only lost one pound, and secondly, I have to go through that horrific prep again in a couple of months. So much for once every ten years!

We're not in Kansas Anymore!

A weird alarm on James' phone awoke us around 3:30 am this morning. "It's a tornado warning," he said, "we've got to get in the basement!" The mommy in me ran for my son and dog, the ex-flight attendant grabbed him a t-shirt, socks, and a blanket as we all rushed to the basement with James. I ran back for our wallets, cell phones, and some clothes and shoes for me. It would be wet and cold outside.

Once settled in the basement, we sat by the TV and heard a play-by-play in minute increments: "It is 5 minutes from route 15 and 50!" "It is 4 minutes from route 15 and 50." "It is 3 minutes from route 15 and 50." The picture on the weather map showed a trapezoid shape that encompassed our area. "It is two minutes from route 15 and 50!"

Wow, it was two miles from my home. We headed into the bathroom -- the inner most room with no windows. That is when I kicked myself for not grabbing a flashlight.  I should have known better from my years of practicing airplane evacuations. The first thing we grabbed was the flashlight, even if the lights were on because they might go out at any time.

 "It is one minute from Watson Rd!"

Huh, what did they say? I think it has passed us. The funnel cloud was already moving further away. After a few more minutes, we felt safe to come out and go back to bed... as if that was going to happen!

In the morning, I talked to some other neighbors and they too heard it and hid in the basement with their children. Some of my neighbors ignored it, thinking it was nothing and went back to bed, while others, still, had their phones off and never got the alert. Please take these serious. The GPS on the phone made it alert us for a reason. It did not alert the whole county, just those in its path. Please, do not ignore the warnings. Also, if your phone did not come with it, download a weather alert system. Lastly, keep a bag with batteries, a flashlight, water, and a first aid kit in your safe spot and consider adding clothing and shoes. It was real -- very scary --and I found out it had actually touched down in the town right next to ours before it passed over us. So never second guess, just take cover and pray you are wrong.

Limerick Lines

I was teaching a unit on poetry and to show the students that anyone can write, I decided to pen my own as proof. Now as a teacher, I truly could not pass up the opportunity to remind the students just how important learning is to their future. On a side note, the term Cashburn in the poem rhymes with the actual suburban area where I teach. It is a term that they coined themselves in reference to the perceived affluence of the area. It is a place where midlle to upper middle class family work extremely hard in order to spoil their children with everything that they could possibly give them. The children in turn have learned, unfortunately, that they are entitled to absolutely everything and for no particular reason other than want.

Burning Burgers

There once was a kid from Cashburn,
Who thought there no reason to learn.
Since he had his way,
All day he would play,
And now he has burgers to turn.


For another limerick, a friend of mine from work had a birthday recently, and I forgot to buy a card. I decided to have a little fun and write her personal limerick to make up for my forgetfulness. Since I got a few giggles out of it, I have decided to share... especially since I have not had time to write anything else lately:

Que Sarah Sarah

There once was a Girl with a class
Who also was known for her sass.
When you didn’t learn
Quite mean she would turn
And kick you right straight in the …

Assss,... I was saying she was really quite tough
The students would scream that’s enough!
Though we are inspired
Our brains are too tired!
“But I haven’t even given hard stuff.