Running Out

There was no denying the curiosity in the cashier’s eye as my items glided toward her on the conveyor belt. I try to tell myself that they don’t care and they don’t judge, but I’m not convinced of it.

“Good morning!” she said, a little too chipperly for a Monday at Walmart. “Are you having a good day?”

“Yes, thank you,” I lied, dutifully adhering to our culture’s customary reply.

And then, maybe because I think dishonesty should be saved for special occasions, like when I ‘surprise’ the kids at parent pickup with their scooters (because I’ve locked the keys in the car again) or when we ‘spontaneously’ have breakfast for dinner (because we ran out of sandwich bread and I had to bake the frozen pizzas at six in the morning to create a very special school lunch) the whole awful truth came rushing out.

It had NOT been a good day.

“I didn’t realize that my husband was out of deodorant. I sent him to work today wearing mine—‘sweet sensation’ scent, I think. I told him no one would notice, but how could they not? He smells like a brand-new baby in a field of roses. Sucking a lollipop, maybe…”

Boop!

Boop!
Boop!
She scanned the three sticks of Right Guard, chosen for their especially manly aroma.

“We’re also out of jelly, so the kids have just peanut butter today. I decided not to tip them off—I don’t know if they’ll even notice, but the littlest one gets pretty indignant about these things…”

Boop!

Boop!
Boop!
Three jars of Welch’s Natural Concord Grape were added to the bag and the bill.

“Oh my,” she said compassionately. “And what about these? How many?”

“Ten,” I mumbled self-consciously.
“Ten five-packs of yard bags, eh? You must have a big yard.”

More like a big mess.

I’d spent two hours successfully blowing ALL the leaves from the yard into giant heaps on the sidewalk when I made the discovery that—you guessed it—we were out. The thought of all those leaves now messing up the neighbors’ beautifully manicured lawns was the impetus for the early morning Walmart trip in the first place.

There, I said it.

To be super-honest, the deodorant and jelly draught, though guilt-inducing, were back-burner issues compared to the yard bag situation.

How can I be so sure? Because I would be first in the livid-line if a neighbor’s leaf mounds shuffled themselves onto my meticulously-manicured lawn.

Assuming I ever have a meticulously-manicured lawn, of course.

“My, what a morning,” the cashier clucked, shaking her head. “May I ask why you’ve purchased multiple items to replace what you’ve only just run out of?”

I’d already been so honest, I figured I might as well keep the truth rolling:

Because I NEVER want to have a morning like this again.

Quigley's Tooth

One of the tricky things about being a teacher before you’re a parent is that many of the common experiences from childhood are too distant to access.  Like losing teeth, for instance. Seems like a little-kid thing, right? Maybe you don’t realize that many sixth graders are still actively losing teeth.  During my first year of teaching sixth grade, I certainly didn’t realize it, which is why when Sammy Thorne approached me—a bit glassy-eyed, wadded tissues in her hands, even more tissues stuffed in her mouth, with a bit of blood starting to eek through—my first question was, “Who punched you the face?”

While digging through a box of office supplies, I came across a tooth I’d confiscated during my final year of teaching. Don’t let your imagination run wild, here. I did not extract it from anyone’s mouth. You know how teeth gross me out!

When a kid loses a tooth at school, the nurse provides a tooth-shaped container for storage. The little container is threaded on a string that’s about the thickness and color of cinnamon dental floss. Instant necklace to ensure safe passage home for the Tooth Fairy’s visit. Or whatever.

Then the student returns to class.

Very rarely do the tooth necklaces remain around the student’s neck. More often, they become lassos, yo-yos, and whips. I’ve taken up many of these through the years, volunteering to impound them until the end of the school day for the safety of, well, everyone.

Quigley’s tooth had been circling his head in propeller fashion when I’d seized it.

The classroom is not a hangar.
Helicopters are not allowed in the building.
You’ll get it back after school.

I put it in my pocket and forgot about it. So did he, apparently, because he did not arrive after school to retrieve it.

The next time I saw the tooth was at the bottom of our washing machine basin. Oops. I rescued it and put it somewhere safe so that I could bring it back to Quigley. Trouble was, I couldn’t remember where. Quigley asked every day for about a week. Then he asked sporadically throughout the remainder of the semester and school year.

I looked, when I remembered to, but I still couldn’t find that darn tooth necklace.

Finding it was a triumphant coincidence, so I held it up over my own head and shouted, “YES! FINALLY!” which prompted Russ to ask me what on earth that was, and what on earth I was doing with it.

I explained the whole situation, and then I mused about where to put it. Now that it had been located, I needed to put it somewhere REALLY safe so that the next time Quigley saw me and asked about it, I could return it and finally rid myself of the creepy sense of responsibility that’d been lurking around in my conscience, stirring up guilt.

“You mean you’re not going to,” Russ began cautiously, “throw it away?” His expression captured his horror and canceled out his casual tone.

“How could I? You know how obsessive Quigley is. Obsessive to the point of creepy. You know he’ll ask me about it the next time he sees me.” And he would. I was certain of it.

“It’s been, hmmm, about a year since he last saw you. It’ll probably be at least another two years, maybe more, until he sees you again. If he is as obsessive as you say, you’re right-- he might ask you about it. But you know what would be even more creepy? If you said, ‘As a matter of fact, I do still have your tooth from three years ago, and I know right where it is. I’ve been waiting all this time for this very special moment when I could finally return it to you.’”

He had a good point.

I handed over the tooth and directed him to throw it away in a distant trash basket when he was sure I wasn’t looking.

 
Throwing it away was logical, but I still didn’t want its disposal on my conscience.

Off-Topic

I owe you an O, but what you’re getting right now is a rant. I had a very sweet O in the works—called Opa’s Girl—and if I survive through the better potion of this already-not-good day, I hope I shall be able to finish it off.

But things are not going well. Today is D Day. As in DMV Day for driver’s license renewal. This is annoying on so many levels. I JUST got a new one a year ago. I know waiting in that line is a rite of passage. I know at some point we all have to stand in the line that is wrapped around the outside of the building a full hour before the office even opens in the morning, but not so very long ago, I had the distinct pleasure of standing directly in front of a lady who looked almost identical to one of those lucky troll dolls and who stood so close to me that her wispy blowy hair kept tickling the back of my arm. TWO hours of that.

For whatever reason, the notice they mailed me over a month ago indicated that I cannot renew online and must go to the DMV proper before Thursday, April 18, 2013. I think I know what they’re planning to do: a vision test.

This won’t be like back when I first got my license in the safety of the driver’s ed classroom and I got to listen to the eight people in line ahead of me say D-E-F-P-O-T-E-C.

This won’t be like when I first got my Texas license and the lovely clerk in the Denton office had mercy and coached me through.

 

“Pretty close! That last letter isn’t a Z, though—it’s something rounder.”

“C? D? G? Q?”
“Something rounder and hook-like,” she prodded.
“Aha-- J!” I wanted to high-five her, but I knew it would arouse suspicion.

Glasses, no glasses—it doesn’t matter. There’s not a significant problem with my vision (remember the entry Going Blind?) I just can’t seem to pass that stupid vision test independently.

A rumor recently snaked through the parent-pickup line that the best time to go to the DMV is the afternoon, because everybody else in the county goes in the morning. (Certainly seems consistent with my previous experience!)

I woke up extra-early today so I could start training for the vision test, but first, I wanted to find that stupid notice and read the fine print, just in case I missed a teeny tiny clause about an online renewal possibility. Or worse, a clause about needing to take the whole stupid test again. (I’d pass it, of course. Thanks to that Parking Wars show on A&E, I know all the rules about parking AND I’ve become quite proficient at replicating several of the cheesy sound effects.)



When I tell people I took
the year off to write
a book, I'm not lying,
just exaggerating a bit.

Where’s that notice?!

If you’ve already read my entry Poop Worshippers, you know that I do NOT throw things away silly-nilly. I have every to-do list from August until yesterday filed chronologically in a binder very clearly marked “To-Do Lists”. Two months’ worth of grocery circulars, also organized chronologically AND alphabetically (Albertsons, Kroger, Market Street, Sprouts, Tom Thumb) are waiting nearby for my upcoming analysis of steak cuts and prices.

I have no idea where that stinkin’ notice could possibly be.

And I can’t just show up to the DMV unprepared—it’s not in my nature.

With that, I’d better go resume the search. I shall try to keep you posted on how this ordeal turns out. Unless of course the DMV deems me too blind to drive myself home. In which case, Sweetie—if you read this in time—better keep the ringer volume cranked up on your Bat-phone today.

 



 

*** Update ***

Let’s focus on the positive things first.

Parking was a breeze—I found a spot quickly, and it wasn’t even too far from the office.
There was no visible line on the exterior of the building.

So far, so good.

Deceptively good, unfortunately, as it appeared almost all of the eighty chairs in the lobby were occupied. I approached the check-in desk, received the form I’d need to fill out, and a slip indicating that I was number 130 in line. Then, I made the rookie mistake of standing at the side counter to fill out the form. That’s what it’s there for, but because of the knuckle-head layout of the place, EVERY single person who arrives thinks that you are at the end of the line and tries to stand behind you, and you have to explain to every single person (sometimes several times to the same person) that the line is actually over THERE and that this is the form-filler-outer section.

While I filled out the form, I heard numbers 121, 122, and 123 called. Was I dreaming?

There was a lull in the summoning of customers, so I had to sit with the others in the waiting room.

Ick.

I chose a chair that would give me the greatest vantage point to people-watch, but I immediately regretted this decision.  Approximately 80 percent of the people had their heads bent to mess with their cell phones. Foreheads as far as my eyes could see. Of those, at least half the brains behind those foreheads had no understanding (or decorum, maybe) toward the virtues of volume control. Cacophony in the truest sense, I’m afraid.

Numbers 124, 125, 368(what?) and 126 were called. It wouldn’t be long now.

The only two people worth watching were a woman in a very elaborate niqab, which is not as revealing as a hijab and not as concealing as a burqa. Would they make her remove it for the photo? The second was a very fashionable high-heeled early twenty-something who was able to smack gum, have a loud phone conversation, reapply her makeup, and jiggle her foot anxiously all while balancing a VERY large napping toddler in her lap. How large? Kindergartenish, maybe. To be honest, it was quite impressive.

127.

128.

129.

Finally, 130! I glanced at the timestamp on the slip, and then at my watch. 19 minutes. A personal best!

The previous tenant at Station 1 had not quite vacated, so I stood there awkwardly, then he apologized awkwardly, and it was really my turn.

I understood about 1/10 of the words coming out of her mouth. If she was Mexican, I would have preferred that we continue the process in Spanish, despite the fact that my speaking ability is pretty much limited to the menu at Taco Bell. It was not Spanish. I have no idea what it was. Cambodian, maybe?

I apologized and asked her to repeat herself a trillion times before I finally adapted to the cadence and accent. My standard response became “No changes. Nothing new. Same information as my current license.” Despite this, there was still some brief confusion about if I was indeed a US citizen and a registered voter (Had I done something wrong on the form? I’d triple-checked it while I was waiting so that the two interesting people wouldn’t realize I was spying.)

She gestured me toward the blue screen for the photo. She took my picture, grimaced, and suggested that we try again.

Well, that was kind. I tried to make a joke about how especially nice that was, since I’d be stuck with this photo for the next six years and whatnot. I could not understand her response.

We were wrapping up; I could sense it. I had to place both thumbs on the thumb-camera, sign on the line and inside the yellow box …

I was home free!

Then she gestured toward the vision checker machine.

Dadgumit. So close.

I put my forehead against the thing as directed. (How many foreheads had touched this ahead of mine?!)

She told me to read the fifth line down, and I peered into the machine. I thought it was odd that only the first three lines were labeled, but I didn’t say anything, especially since I suspected I’d be counting on her mercy very shortly.

Surprised and confused by what I saw, I pulled away from the machine.  ”Are these… numbers?”

“Yes. Please read everything on line five.”

Once again I pulled back from the machine. “I’m sorry to interrupt again. Are these… all numbers? Or should I expect some letters to be mixed in there, too?”

“All numbers. Line five please.”

Crossing my fingers for luck, I rattled off a series of what I hoped was somewhat accurate.

“Not very bad,” she said. “Now, do column on left. Line five.”

There was a column on the left? That wasn’t a column, that was a leopard-printed margin. Those weren’t numbers. They were barely squiggly lines; hieroglyphs, maybe. They could have been anything. It didn’t seem fair to test someone on shapes that didn’t remotely look like numbers or anything else in the text-rich world in which we live. I pulled my face away from the machine, rubbed my eyes, and blinked a few times.

“Try again. Just guess,” she advised. So I did.

“Was I close?”
“None correct,” she said. “Usually you wear the contacts?”

Ha.

I brought out my glasses. Thank goodness I’d put them in my purse. If this worked, she wouldn’t make me re-take the photo, would she?

“Let’s hope this helps,” I muttered.

It didn’t.

She said something about a restriction being placed on my license, and a bunch of other things, but the blood of shame was rushing to my cheeks, and the water of embarrassment was starting to leak from my eyes, so I wasn’t focusing on decoding at the moment.

Maybe in the next six years we’ll be able to get to the bottom of this vision thing. Or maybe I’m doomed to be the marvel of modern medicine: the girl with pretty good vision who just can’t seem to pass the test.

Payback

Admit it. You wondered about all the embarrassing stuff I said at the dentist that morning. Was it really as bad as Hannah said? It was. And worse, probably. I shall confess all the gory details to you ONLY because of what happened later that morning. In order to fully appreciate that, you need to know how the day began.

Hannah and I had early-bird dentist appointments. It’s pretty fortunate that the dentist offers such a convenient time. If all went well, Hannah could be done and off to school without missing even a minute of first period, much to her disappointment.

We arrived to the dental office only a few minutes late, which was completely my fault; I always think I can get to places faster than reality allows.

We were whisked off to separate but adjacent rooms. It was only a matter of seconds before my string of faux pas began.

“Is there anything we should know?” asked my hygienist.

“Yes. Tons. For starters, I’ve cut down on coffee, but I’ve increased my red wine considerably, as I’m sure you’ll see. Also, I’ve been actively avoiding coming here ever since my last visit nine months ago when the dentist referred me to that specialist for the gum recession transplant thing. I got really freaked out when she said all that stuff about synthetic materials or GOD FORBID the cadaver tissue! But then I realized that avoiding you and my routine cleanings weren’t going to solve the problem, so, here I am. Did I mention the red wine? Oh yes. Yup. Also, I had a banana nut breakfast bar on the way over, because after I brushed my teeth, I remembered how you guys have gotten all gung-ho about fluoride treatments for adults and whatnot, and I couldn't remember how long I'd need to wait before I could eat again. There’s probably more to confess, but I can’t remember at the moment. I’ll let you know if I think of anything.”

I settled back in the chair and they turned on the powerful lamp to get started. Beyond the lamp, I could make out a flat screen tv suspended from the ceiling. It was supposed to be for my viewing pleasure, but with the examination light radiating the wattage of a thousand suns, it didn’t seem like a viable option. I settled for listening, which turned out to be a blessing since the feature news story involved a leg-less athlete being charged with murdering his girlfriend in Africa. At one point, the hygienist removed the tools from my mouth and looked up at the photos they were showing on the news.

I seized my chance.

“Wow, TVs on the ceiling. That’s pretty snazzy. Doesn’t it hurt your neck to glance up from where you’re sitting, though? I bet when you guys first had those things installed, all the hygienists developed mysterious neck aches. It was probably one of those things where nobody even connected the two events at first, right?

“Uh,” she said, and quickly jammed the tools back into my mouth to shut me up, leaving me to wonder if all hygienists were this inarticulate, or if it was just mine. 

The polishing phase had begun. Without meaning to, I winced.

“I’m so sorry, did I hurt you?” she asked, removing the apparatus.

“Not at all,” I replied. “I was just startled by the noise of the polishing device. It sounds so different from the inside of my head. I could hear it perfectly, but it’s like I was listening from the inside, almost like I had a tiny little ear inside my throat. I never thought about this before, but do you suppose that our ears can hear things from the inside direction just like they can from exterior sources? Maybe I should research that some—“

Back in went the tool. Was this her strategy for gabby customers?

When she got to the other side, I flinched again. This time I didn’t even wait for her to remove the polisher thingy.

“Waah, thatch pretty quay-shee,” I started. She sighed and suspended her efforts.

“Sorry, it’s just that startling noise again. It’s so squeaky! It’s like I have a hamster wheel in my mouth. Or a gerbil. No, it’s like I have a herd of gerbils in my mouth. It’s so disconcerting!”

She reassured me that she was almost done.

Her patience was waning.

Moments later she did finish, and she practically jogged as she escorted me to the checkout desk. Was it something I’d said?

Fast-forward two hours.

A pool repair man was scheduled to arrive ‘early Monday morning’ (their words, not mine) to address our on-going leak with the subwoofer. Or whatever. I was grateful for this early timeline, provided that we’d arrived back from the dentist, because Mondays are the day that kindergarteners can dine with their parents at lunch, starting promptly at 11 am.

Mr. Repairdude arrived at 10:52. Oh boy, I’d be cutting this one close. Could I give him the check, lock the house, and zoom over to the elementary school in time?

Not if this guy had anything to do with it.

He came to the back door and politely introduced himself, which set my mind at ease since he looked like a cross between wrestler Mick Foley and Diedrich Bader’s eavesdropping neighbor role in the movie Office Space. He jabbered on for a few minutes about qualifications (or lack thereof) within the pool repair industry, and then went on to assure me that he was plenty qualified and capable.

10:58. Should I even try? I glanced at my watch again. He didn’t take the hint.

Then, he proceeded to talk about…

1.       Heathcare crisis in America, specifically Obamacare, and how it will punish small businesses.

2.       Raw milk, and the regulations that Texas law has in place that limit access, apparently.

3.       Codliver Oil, and the way it can be used to heal cavities. (Note: I did NOT tell him we’d been to the dentist that morning. This was a complete coincidence.)

4.       Toothbrushing, and his decision to abstain. Apparently it is the antichrist in the form of big business.

5.       The dangers of fluoride to the human body as evidenced by the botanical response in the antioxidants in tea leaves? Or something?

6.       A man (or place) that has discovered the cure to cancer but is being actively thwarted in the media by pharmaceutical companies and consequently, the FDA.

7.       Netflix, and its wealth of educational documentaries so that you can learn more about healing your own cavities, the dangers of fluoride, and the  conspiracy against the cure for cancer.

8.       The benefits of making your own sausage in traditional German technique, only to be hindered by the rot-response of today’s American beef. Which is especially frustrating after you’ve gone to the trouble of killing and processing your own deer meat, he indicated.

 

I could go on. He certainly did. There were at least 22 other horrible things that he discussed in depth during his 86 minute visit to Chateau Robinson, but I think my subconsciousness is blocking them out.

Finally, finally, finally, he refocused long enough to talk about the pool’s issues. And do you know what he said?

“I think I know how to solve the problem, but I don’t have the part and I’ll need to order it. Is it okay if I stop by around this time next Monday?”

Ever the gracious southern belle, albeit a transplant, I cordially agreed. I waited until he’d left before I burst into tears.

I now knew how the hygienist must have felt. Times ten, probably.

I made sure I wasn’t home the following Monday. I arrived back at the house around 2 pm, and saw—from the ally—that his truck was in the driveway. I drove right on past and continued circling the block until the coast was clear.

Payback, it seems, is everything your mama [or your karma] promised, and more. Speaking of more, that old adage about ‘less is more’ is spot-on. I promised the universe I’d employ that technique the next time I went to the dentist.

Neighbors

          “I think I’ll have a bit of wine before I go meet the new neighbors. You know, to take the edge off. I can be so socially awkward,” I confided.
          “Careful not to overdo it,” Hannah said, “Remember what happened at the dentist? All that embarrassing stuff you rambled about? You were mortified afterward.”
          “Hannah! That was at 7 am. Did you think I’d been tipsy? Really? Unfortunately, I was just being myself.”
          “In that case, you probably should have a few glasses of something before you go. Just to take the edge off, of course.”

I haven’t had the best luck when meeting neighbors for the first time. Last fall while I was weeding in the front yard, a neighbor approached to introduce herself. We chatted in the morning sunshine for a while. She was very nice.

When I got back in the house, I passed a mirror and realized I had accidentally dribbled toothpaste down the front of my shirt earlier that morning. Not just a little bit, either. It was VERY noticeable. I was so embarrassed!

Would she think I was careless? Oblivious? Or even worse, a slob? Should I casually mention it next time our paths crossed, maybe with a witty and seemingly impromptu joke?

Then I remembered that I’d noticed that my new neighbor’s dress was on inside-out. At first I’d thought it was just that the tag had slipped out at the back neck, but nope. The tag and the seams were definitely on the outside.

She was probably standing in front of her mirror making the same realization.

I decided to forgive ourselves for both of us and forget worrying about it.

Mixed Math

Right when I think I’ve got a hold on math, things get crazy. Consider, if you will, the concept of percentiles. I thought I understood it. If someone was in the 85^th percentile for the SATs, it meant that he’d scored “as good as or better than” 85 out of 100 people who took the test. Easy-peasy, right?

When the pediatric nurse indicated on Mia’s two-week checkup records that she was 75^th percentile for weight and 90^th for height, I knew what was up. She was a big, healthy baby. Cool.

At her six-month checkup, when her data showed 90^th percentile for weight and 95^th for height, I was a bit surprised, but not shocked.

Her twelve-month checkup arrived.  When her weight registered at the 80^th percentile, and the nurse recorded her height in the 100^th percentile, I was completely flummoxed.

According to my understanding of percentiles, my child was “as tall as or taller than 100 out of 100 children.”

Clearly this meant that I was the parent of the tallest baby in the world. I wondered if the Guinness folks would be in touch. Should I contact the local newspaper?

How was this even mathematically possible?

Well, I still don’t know, to tell you the truth, but I did recently(ish) learn about an algebraic concept that might help in understanding this phenomenon. The concept is called “asymptote” and the vessel for this math-mcnugget was the book Drive by Daniel Pink.

Fascinating read about human motivation.

Definitely recommend it.

It’s my understanding that an asymptote is one of those things that approaches perfection—100%--but can never quite achieve it. The book references artist Paul Cezanne and athlete Tiger Woods and their lifelong pursuit of mastery in their respective talents. Both are humble enough to understand that no matter how good they get, there will always be an opportunity for improvement.

Looks like understanding math is going to be my mastery asymptote-quest in life. Certainly enough room for improvement in this area.

In the meanwhile, if you’ve got ten minutes and forty-eight seconds to spare, you might enjoy watching the RSA Animate (LOVE them!) video summarizing Daniel Pink’s studies. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6XAPnuFjJc

Lightning Mike

Our friend Mike had an inside track to the weather. He’s a Silicon Valley-type salesman with the soul of a storm chaser. Ominous clouds on the southwest horizon? Lightning Mike’s Facebook updates and forecasts were more accessible and more reliable than most of the meteorologists on TV. Consequently, his page was my first stop if I needed personalized predictions for our evening’s activities. Especially if it was starting to look like our evening’s activities might involve rounding up the family to duck and cover in our tornado safety area.

***

Around this time, Mike also started posting updates about local emergencies. Sirens in the distance? I knew I could count on Mike for the scoop. I no longer had to drive myself crazy wondering and worrying compulsively about what was going on in our community—the information gave immediate comfort that my nearest and dearest loved ones were safe and sound. Sirens no longer brought an irrational fear that Russ had been in a car wreck—one quick check to Mike’s Facebook page would quickly reveal a grease fire (presently being contained, emergency personnel on site) at an obscure restaurant in a stripmall.

This reassurance brought bliss. It was nice to have someone who was as passionate (read: obsessive) about weather and emergencies as I, especially when that someone was motivated to keep the rest of us informed.

Springtime in Texas means frequent storms, so as the weeks and dark clouds rolled by, I found myself relying on Lightning Mike’s information more and more often. Sometimes he didn’t have updates posted even when there were troublesome clouds clearly forming in the sky, so I would contact him to ask if he’d heard anything about the impending weather.

“You know,” he said, after the seventeenth time that I’d emailed asking for an update, “You could sign up to receive the very same updates that I do. It’s easy—you just go to this storm page and this scanner site and “like” their pages to receive all the information to your very own Facebook feed.”

It had not occurred to me that I, too, could have the keys to the kingdom. This was going to be great!

I signed up that afternoon, right after work, and I waited for the magic to happen.

Did it ever!

My Facebook feed was instantly inundated. Our area was much busier than I’d thought. Every few minutes, new snippets of local information were being added. I’m a relatively fast and capable reader, but I could hardly keep up.

There was so much to know! I missed dinner that night because there was no good moment—no natural pausing point—to tear myself away. Bedtime for the kids came and went, and I was still glued to the updates. Bedtime for adults arrived. Long after Russ had turned off the light and dozed off, I was still lying there, bug-eyed and reading in the glow of the phone.

Accidents and fires.

Shootings, hostage situations, high speed chases.

Missing children. Dozens of them.

Flash flood warnings and forest fires from lightning strikes.

All live, late-breaking, and local.

What kind of insensitive person would fall asleep knowing that there was chaos in her community?

I stayed awake all night, reading the posts and pondering God’s existence. How could all this awful stuff be happening? Was there no mercy and peace left in the world?

Exhausted and fearful, I arrived at work the next morning and powered off my phone. No way could I concentrate to teach if those news blurbs were accessible.

I zombied through the day as best I could, fearing the vast number of bad events that undoubtedly would have accumulated by the time I returned home.

“I tried to call you from the grocery store, but it went straight to voicemail,” Russ said that evening.

“Must’ve forgotten to turn on my phone,” I muttered, avoiding his gaze to conceal my bloodshot eyes.

A few hours later, he asked if I’d seen the most recent hilarious cat picture that George Takei had posted.

But I had not. I’d made up my mind; I was never checking Facebook again. Ever. The world was a horrible place. Especially our community, it seemed. Death, destruction, doom. Bad news as far as the eye could read. I was going to insulate myself in denial and never check Facebook again.

If I couldn’t see it, then it wasn’t happening. Returning to ignorance—now THAT would be blissful.

Two evenings later, the sky darkened and Russ asked if I had any weather updates from my new fantastic source. I burst into tears and confessed everything. “It’s terrible! It’s overwhelming! It’s nothing but bad news!”

“I’m sorry,” he said mildly, and then he added, “Um, what were you expecting?” I thought I detected the faintest hint of sarcasm, but I let it go.

He agreed that ignorance sounded like the best policy in this circumstance, and he even offered to sign on to my Facebook account and un-”like” the sites for me.

Noticing my activity had resumed on Facebook, I guess, Mike enthusiastically asked if I was enjoying all the first-hand information. I wanted to tell him, but I didn’t really want to start thinking about it again since I’d only just returned to sleeping through the night.

As it turns out, Lightning Mike, you are all the bad news a girl could ever want or need.

It wasn’t a very good explanation, but I just couldn’t spend another moment thinking about it, or else all those feelings and fears would swell up and carry me away.

We didn’t really talk about it ever again. Lightning Mike is a very dear friend. I think he understood.