And I Did...

I am a worrier.

I've been one all my life though, so I'm fairly adjusted to it.  Some people would probably call it an anxiety disorder, but that's a little clinical and scary for me.  And, frankly, I worry about labels that I can't clearly define.

So, I'm a worrier.

When I was young, my parents watched the news basically for the weather and sports updates.  I watched and saw the horrors of the world (and Amarillo, TX).  At one point, my parents just stopped changing the channel until the time for weather (it's 10:17 PM, in case you're wondering).  They'd flip away and then come back for sports (10:25-ish).  If there were stories they were interested in, they'd send me from the room.  It was the only way to impose a news-ban and save my 8 year-old self from a lifetime of stomach ulcers and sleepless nights.  And those Sally Struthers "Feed the Children" commercials?  Yeah... no.

I still have trouble.  When terrible tragedies occur (i.e. September 11th, school shootings, plane crashes, tsunamis, etc.)  I will watch briefly and then place myself on a news restriction.  I am not good with uncontrolled grief and havoc.  I am not good with the cruelties of mankind or Mother Nature.  And, now, I don't even watch ASPCA commercials.  At the first hint of Sarah McLachlan music, I'm out.

I worry about other stuff too.  I'm well-known for putting back half of the stuff in my shopping cart because I worry about cost or need.  I worry about letting others down.  I worry about my car breaking down or my parents having problems, so I worry about making plans that I might have to cancel (and then let others down).  This summer, I've had a lot of time to worry about the upcoming school year.  I tried to let it slide, but it never goes away.  And when something's held down too long, it will eventually spring back.  That was Friday (and a little bit of yesterday too).

I don't like this about myself.  Granted, there's nothing wrong with planning for another day; there's nothing wrong with a Plan B.  But I hate that I paralyze myself with worries about things that A) I cannot control and 2) may never happen.  I hate that it keeps me from doing the things I enjoy or making plans for the future.
So, in the spirit of "just saying no" to feeling awful, I'm taking a few small steps.

Therefore, today, instead of heading back up to my classroom to work, I took the time to enjoy my last day of summer break.  I got a pedicure.  I partook of the free Franzia.  I went to an afternoon movie.  I had a delicious dinner (and dessert).  I realized that I might be creating more work for myself tomorrow, but dangit, I was determined to enjoy the shit out of today while the opportunity presented itself.

And I did.

Where Does the Time Go?

The last two days, I've been clearing room on my computer, getting rid of pictures I don't need anymore and music I'm still embarrassed to have.

I spent today cleaning out closets and sorting through the build-up of life.  

If you're ever in need of a reality check... sort through some old drawers and shelves.  The Ghost of Youth Past is totally holed up in there.  

I got kind of caught up in looking at some old photo albums -- mainly from when I was in high school.  There were lots of good memories and more than a few regrets.  But I'm glad I found them.  I hadn't looked at them in a few years.

This picture was taken 21 years ago.  It's the first picture I have of my oldest nephew, Hunter.  That baby drinks beer now -- legally.

And then I found this picture.  It's 21 years old too.  It's a classic of me and one of my best childhood friends, Christel.  It seems like forever ago and 10 minutes ago all in the same breath.

After finding this, I think I'm going to go drink a beer, too.  And maybe say a little thank-you prayer for eyebrow shaping and hair straighteners.  Yikes.

Man.  Where does time go? 

My favorite song from that year.  Still one of my top plays.  

Some things never change, I suppose

Letting Go

I'm a camp girl.  It's true.  I am.

I am many other things: a teacher, a coach, a daughter, a sister, a friend.

But mostly, I'm just a camp girl.

If you had told me that this is who I would grow up to one day be when I spent my first night at camp 27 years ago, I'd have called you a liar.

I spent four summers as a child at camp.  I had my first "real" job in life as a camp counselor in 1995.  And I've done almost everything in camping for the 17 summers since at both that camp and another.  Until this one.  For the first time in a very, very long time, I didn't spend my first day of summer break playing get-to-know-you games or singing silly songs.

How and why I'm not at any of my 3 camps anymore aren't all that important to this story (and it's a story I've been trying to write for weeks now).  It involves all the regular players in any interesting drama: anger and heartache, power struggles and finger pointing, change and loss.  But the how and why have hurt me and hurt my friends, one after another, for almost a quarter of a century now, and I'm trying to find a way to say goodbye to all that hurt.  I've run out of room for the hurt.

I've been trying to remember all the wonder and magic and memories while letting go of all my bitterness, but it's terribly hard.  They seem to walk hand-in-hand, this love and rage.  And so, each day, I wake up, wishing that I were sitting down in the already-sweltering Texas heat to some biscuits and gravy or a sweet potato muffin or even a corn dog disguised as a pancake pup. 

I took a trip out to my 2nd camp several weeks ago.  I've been trying to write this post since then, and I couldn't find my words.  I think I've been searching for them since the day I last took off my red counselor tie.  Although it's not where I started my camping career, and it's not where I ended it, I have always felt that it was the place I became me.  It's the source of my silliness, my leadership, and my strength.  It gave me my confidence (even though it still fails me at time) and the best friends I could ever know (who never fail me ever). 

There are moments, even now -- 18 summers later -- when I can feel myself standing at the edge of the bridge for the very first time, taking a deep breath, and walking across to change my life.

Sometimes, I don't think of it at all.  And then on other days, I am drowning in nostalgia

• the feel of the wooden benches in Main Lodge
• the sound of the bell at mealtimes
• Flag Medley
• the thrill of finding a friendship rock
• the tepid water of July creek walking
• the rush of the waterfall at Shannah's Lagoon
• the smell of cedar
• the sound of cicadas
• the shake of the swinging bridge
• the blare of the WWII speakers at the slab
• the pop of a bow and the thwack of a bulls-eye
• the pop of Miss Maddie's wooden spoon as you reached for a roll (an obviously unnecessary roll)
• the smell of Miss Linda's homemade cinnamon rolls
• the cool breeze through the chapel
• the singing, the laughter, the tears
• Diet Cokes and picnic tables
• the sweating at Council Fire
• the sweating at lunchtime songs
• the sweating at rest time
• the sweating that began as soon as you got out of the shower
• My God, the sweating.  Always.  The sweating.
• the way Lower Pool completely shredded your toes
• sprinting past RuLoHo at midnight
• Screened in cabins
• Screech Owl
• The Big White Truck
• The lock on the CC
• The sandals in the safe (they're probably still there.  Nobody could open that damn safe.)
• dancing on desktops in the office
• late night programming
• 2 AM all-camp planning
• Montana's cheese fries
• trail rosters
• circle-up
• the Blackmon-Mooring van
• the Live Oak grove
• the Redwood 'Hood
• the Horizmen
• fireworks on the Brazos
• secret campfires at the point
• secret smokes behind the maintenance barn
• Pig-Out Day
• the glare from the road
• the shade of the trails
• dance parties
• kitchen raids
• ice cream on the back porch
• and on and on and on...

So when the invitation came to return for the day, we went.  None of us were sure we wanted to.  The wounds and scars on a few of us are still fresh and tender.  Of course, I was afraid, as always, that Sad and Bitter might hitch a ride too.  But there's safety in numbers, solace in friends, and salvation in letting go. 

And there were new eyes with which to see it, this great and mysterious thing known as Camp.  See, in the 18 years since I made those incredible friends, they've produced more (although smaller) incredible friends.  So we journeyed to our past with little pieces of our future.

It was pretty amazing.

The feeling I got seeing the boys run and play and hike the trails was as close as I've ever gotten to truly remembering what it was like to be new at camp.  Their excitement was infectious, and although we went (begrudgingly) to welcome change, we wound up still celebrating all that we once knew and treasured.

Elliott making his way across the swinging bridge for the first time.
I love the casual hand in the pocket.  No big deal.

A little video of the first crossing of the wiggly bridge. 

Squeals of fear were soon replaced with "I like it now!"

Hayrides up to middle camp.

A little chase outside the new lodge to avoid breaking

something inside the new lodge.

Elliott and Marcus. Destined to be camp buddies.

There's still water in Fall Creek.  It's obviously not July yet.

The new equestrian center.

The new lodge.  

The new office.

Marcus making friends.

Tyler, just dealin' with it.

Kathy, LJ, Elliott, and Courtney.  And a little photobomb by yours truly.

Sweet giggles.

This is the old bell.  It is a fixture in the life of camp.

These are my old friends. They are a fixture in the life of me.

18 years in the blink of an eye.

The new "old" bell.  But still old friends.  They're the best kind, you know.

On the way out, we saw a group of new camp counselors, readying themselves for the beginning of their summer.  They were stationed all along the path out, past the bell, through Main Lodge, and across the swinging bridge.  To each, I wished out loud a happy and safe summer, but inside, I harbored a jealousy so heavy and thick that I struggled to draw my last breaths of that sweet cedar air.

As I turned around for one last look across the creek, across the bridge, across my past, I wondered how it is that I could have given so much only to be just a blip in an 80 year history.  I wondered if in another 18 years, my time there would matter at all.  I wondered how a few hundred acres of sandstone and cedar trees could steal so much of my heart.  I wondered when the memories would come alone, without the hurt.

But as I sit here and write, sweating on my couch with the windows open so I can hear the cicadas buzz,  I remind myself that while camp got the best of me for 17 summers, I also got the best of it for the rest of my life.

And I find myself at the edge, looking at my past as well as my future, taking a deep breath and letting go.

Just Me and my Daddy Dean

Today is Father's Day.  After 37 of these things, you'd think I'd get better at remembering to send a card.  But in true Nazworth fashion, I wait until the last minute and always wind up late.  So instead of a card, it will be a blog post dedicated to my Daddy Dean.  That's what my grandmother always said I called him.  I don't remember it, and I don't know where I would've gotten it, but I like it. 

My dad taught me many things in my life. 

He taught me that most things can be fixed with duct tape and WD-40.  And if it can't be, then I should just call him. 

He taught me to check the oil and tires before I leave on any trip and that you should plan to leave by 1:00 if you're really shooting for 4:00. 

He taught me to pitch a softball, make a freethrow, sink the 8 ball, and shoot dice.  He taught me to ride a bike and roller skate and he tried to teach me how to drive a stick shift (or how to read the owner's manual and figure it out on my own). 

He taught me that humor is a common language, and he helped me master the art of a well-timed one-liner. 

He taught me about working hard and playing hard.  He taught me that you have to earn a win and that by earning it, it's even more meaningful.

My dad could shoot pool with either hand, play 18 holes one-handed, or beat you at dominos giving up a 50 point advantage. 

He loves babies, animals, fried fish, and Little Debbie snack cakes.  He always wore a pearl snap shirt, lambchop sideburns, and a baseball cap.  He's still rarely seen without a ball cap. He's flawed, just like the rest of us, but his imperfections and struggles have never stopped him. 

He's been a farmer, a night-club manager, a small business owner, a volunteer firefighter, a pilot, a race-car driver, a long-haul trucker.  But mostly he's just been my dad.  And I'm pretty damn thankful, every day, for that.

This is my dad. 

My dad was the first in his family to graduate from college.  I was the second.  And I'm proud to have graduated from his alma mater.

This is my dad and my mom.  Although it's Father's Day, I feel like she needs an appearance too.  He'd be the first to tell you that without Wanda, there is no Dean.  They just celebrated their 40th anniversary last month.

My mom, dad, and mom's best friend, Aunt Patti. They were not the "stay at home" kind of crowd.

Dean with a beard.  Still looks weird to me.

Cuddling with the catch of the day.

Dean, the farmer.  They're probably just fixing it with some WD-40.

The next four pics are of my dad and my brothers.  The first two are my oldest brother, JD.  And the next two are my other brother, Jimmy Ray.  



 I had to crop this photo to avoid indecency charges. Put a diaper on, man.

One of the things I'm most proud of, however, is that those boys turned out to be pretty spectacular dads of their own sons.



JD and Hunter: Way Back

Hunter and JD: Closer to now.

3 generations of Deans -- James Dean, Roy Dean, and Hunter Dean.  And a Wanda.

Jim and Isaiah

Naptime.  Dads are good at that.

My favorite picture of Jim and his favorite tiny superhero.

My dad is a goofball.  Although he takes great pictures, the ones I love most of him are those with goofy faces.

As you can tell, goofiness -- much like our tardiness -- is a family trait.

My dad can sleep anywhere.  Including in the middle of feeding me.

Luckily, by the time Hunter Dean arrived, he was a little better at it.  Or maybe we just snapped the picture too early.

This is my dad today -- whipping me at dominos. He'll admit that he's not quite as fast or young as he once was, but neither am I and that's okay. Because no matter how old I get, this is how I see us. 

Just me and my Daddy Dean.

Happy Father's Day, Dean-O.  I love you bunches.



Truth and Consequences

School will end for me on June 1st.  Camp will officially begin on June 2nd.

Camp, for me, will end on July 27th.  School will begin on August 1st.

Within that time span of summer vacation, I will spend 42 days and 35 nights away from the comfort of my own bed.  My days will begin at 7:00 AM and end anywhere between 12:00 - 3:00 AM.  I will be hot, sweaty, and filthy.  I will plunge toilets and make schedules and start unstartable fires.  I will possibly fill out CPS reports and call parents and send at least one kid home and maybe even a staff member.  I will endure both homesick tears and at least one vomiting episode.  I will cry and question my choices at least weekly if not daily.  I will work harder than I feel capable of, and I will still not be the hardest working staff member on the property.  Not by a long shot.

Most people think that I must be crazy to leave one world of teaching for another with only hours to spare in the transition.  But here's what they don't realize: I will also laugh harder than I have ever laughed.  I will sing silly songs.  I will watch someone grow up in "just a week" or "just a summer".  I will go to free swim, hang out with the camp dog, and maybe hit a bullseye at archery.  I will have a s'more (or ten).  I will sit on the rooftop and find the meaning of my world with my friends and then whisper it on to anyone who will hear me.  I will work harder than I feel capable of, and I will witness so many others doing the same.  And hundreds of kids will stay for every one that doesn't.  But here's the real secret why I trade one world for the other:

Because, in the other, the kids are happy to be there.

The hardest part of being a teacher is to realize that sometimes -- many times -- my students don't want to be at school.  And after a day like today, I get it.  I didn't want to be there either. 

That's hard for me to say out loud.  Really hard.  For me, school was never a difficult place; it was a second home.  Yes.  I am a school nerd.  I like to read.  I love to write.  I want to learn.  I love it, and I always have.  Even as a teacher, I feel comfortable at school, and I feel as though I have been called to work at my school.  Called.  Like by a Higher Power.  And I don't always know how I feel about that Higher Power, but I know that I didn't wind up here by accident. 

But I have to tell you a little secret.  I am a shitty disciplinarian.  This is probably because I never really had to be disciplined as a child.  Purely motivated by guilt or shame or fear of failure, I obeyed the rules pretty well, and I typically spent my time with other kids who did the same.  Here's another secret.  I don't think I'm alone in this. 

Sure, teenagers are mentally wired to push boundaries and piss adults off.  It releases endorphins or something probably.  Yet, most kids -- most, not all -- generally want to do the right thing.  I truly believe this.  No matter who they are or how they were raised or what friends they have, they want to do well.  It feels, however, as if the majority of conversations with my peers are all about discipline.  And I'm guilty of it too.  Lately, here are the things out of my mouth.

"What are the consequences?"

"What are we gonna do?"

"When are they going to learn?"

"How will they/you/I be held accountable?"

"ISS.  Tardies.  Shirttails.  ID's."

"That group is a cancer."  I'm quite ashamed of that one.  That one disturbs me.

On and on and on and on.  I'm not proud.  I'm just being real.  And I'm not the only one which bothers me.

I work with some pretty amazing people.  I really and truly do.  If anyone ever asks you who it is doing God's work, you tell them this, "Junior High teachers, that's who." 

But I feel like I've lost my purpose.  Maybe we've lost our purpose.  Do we spend so much of our time wondering how to deter bad behavior that we forget to encourage the good?  I mean, look at society.  I don't think that any meth addict thought, "You know what?  Today, I'm going to smoke some starter fluid/battery acid/Sudafed combo so that my teeth rot out of my head, I lose all my money, emaciate myself, and possibly wind up in jail."  Show a picture of a meth head to anyone and ask them if this is what they want.  They will all, invariably give you a big HELL no.  Yet they do it.  Not because they're unafraid of what will happen as a consequence but because they are so unhappy where they are, they'll do anything -- risk everything -- to be somewhere else.  Jail?  They have shower rape in jail.  And if shower rape isn't a deterrent, I don't know what is.  Yet think of how many of them will go back. 

I know it seems like a drastic jump... untucked shirts and ID badges to meth and jail, but I guess I'm trying to prove a point or scratchy an itchy thought inside my brain.  I spent an hour and a half  today with people I love trying to decide what would best deter kids from breaking rules and only about 15 minutes solving the logistics of how to encourage great behavior.  I hate the imbalance of that statement, but I really don't know how to solve it.  I don't think ignoring bad behavior is acceptable, and I also don't believe that the whole world should be or can be full of fun and games with me at the head of the classroom doing a soft shoe to entertain otherwise bored students.  Don't get me wrong.  Every day, however, I feel as though I see more and more negativity creeping into this world, into our schools, into our hearts and the hearts of my kids.  And I don't know how to beat it back.  I don't know how to get a little camp excitement into the drudgery of school.  If you do... I really want to know.  Seriously.  Leave a comment, shoot me an email, send a carrier pigeon.  Anything.  Something.  I want to know what makes/made/could make school a place kids want to be.  Or at least a place they're more willing to be.

All wasn't lost though.  Don't fear.  Here's what I did decide today.  I am a shitty disciplinarian.  It's true, and sometimes the truth is an ugly thing to face.  Everything others count as "good", I am not.  But I'm okay with being a shitty disciplinarian because, tomorrow, I have a chance to be a better teacher.  To face the truth about what's good so I can keep doing it and what's not so I can change it.  And I'd rather be a good teacher because I just don't believe those two things are the same.

In the meantime, I have 18 days to end this year on a good note, and 18.5 to ready myself to start again.

And I Uttered a Foul-Mouthed Little Prayer

For all of you who have kids I will say this:

I don't know how you do it.

I mean, I get the gist of things.  You have a child.  He or she is the light of your life, the apple of your eye, and, on occasion, the slightest pain in your ass.  But to have a child... this little version of you, running around, representing your skills as a parent, scraping knees, falling in love, falling apart... How do you handle that as a parent?  As a person who is hell-bent on protecting this precious and fragile thing while still being hell-bent on him learning his lesson, how do you step aside and watch him go?

I'm just a teacher.  I'm just a coach.  I'm just a summer camp director.  I'm not a parent.  I am without children.  But with thousands of children.  Tonight I went to catch a game at the high school my students feed into.  It was a fantastic game -- one of the best all-around performances I'd seen from the girls in a good long while.  It was a see-saw battle that literally was up for grabs until the last ticks of the clock.  In the final 1:45 there were 6 freethrows made (by both teams) and almost as many turnovers/bad passes (by both teams) and a significant injury to one of our best players.

Two of the starters tonight are former players of mine.  Super-talented players with enormously kind hearts, gracious attitudes, and smiles that light up the gym.  And skills.  Did I mention the skills?  But here they were, in an incredibly important game, and all I could see were their little junior high baby faces in too-big uniforms.  It melted my heart a little.  And then, when the late-game injury occurred, who did the coach bring in but another former Lady Mustang.  She'd seen only limited playing time in the first half and none in the second.  And here she was, stepping in, ice-cold, with 30 seconds left.  I prayed the only "mom-type" prayer I knew for her:

"Please don't let her eff this up."

Then I quickly wondered if God would be upset with that one but realized that He probably doesn't like take-backs anymore than he likes the eff word (even when abbreviated).  I felt bad for even saying it -- for thinking she might -- but all I could worry about was how she would feel if she were to make a mistake.  I couldn't bear thinking about how unfair it would be, to come in for only a few seconds, to that kind of pressure.

I turned to my fellow coach, a mom of 3, and said, "I don't know how you do this."

"Do what?" she asked.

"Sit here.  With no control.  And just watch your kids surf the rise and fall of success and failure.  I didn't give birth to anyone -- not one kid -- on that floor right now, and I feel like I'm going to vomit, I'm so nervous."  And then I quickly took my pulse.

"It's hard," she admitted, "but you just do."

I thought about that.  I am a teacher and coach and summer camp director.  I have no children, but I have thousands of children.  Do you have to give birth to a child to know their labor pains?  Tonight, I saw so many of my former students and athletes.  I lost track of all the hugs and smiles.  I heard college plans, updates on brothers and sisters (who were also former students), lots and lots and lots of grade reports and track practice complaints.  I saw the best of my best -- all the growing-up reasons I love to teach.  But I also saw a few who weren't on the crest but were in the valley instead.  Low or struggling or regretful; lost on "the wrong path" or dealing with things far beyond the normalcy of high school life.   In that moment, I found myself in the valley as well, and it was hard.  I found myself struggling with what to tell them.

I wondered again about what Terry had said.  She hadn't just stopped with "it's hard".  She also reminded me that "you just do".  So, I re-directed the wave, just as I had only a few years before, and tried to instill some motivation, provide some guidance, and reinforce the idea that, no matter what mistakes they make, I love them.

Do you have to give birth to a child to know their labor pains?  No.  No, I don't believe so.  Once you've chosen them, and they have chosen you, the two are linked somehow forever.  Somehow the steadiness of that link, the surety of that choice, makes the pain worthwhile.

Oh, yeah... And that precious little, ice-cold former Lady Mustang coming into the game with 30 seconds left?  She caught the ball under the basket, pivoted in, ducked an opponent flying at her full-speed, and took a completely unnecessary shot so high off the backboard I thought it was going to go over the top and out of bounds.

It went in.  I couldn't believe that flippin' ball went in.  I couldn't believe that she had the guts to shoot it; I wouldn't have.  I'd have played it safe.  I wanted her to play it safe.  I prayed a horrible, little, foul-mouthed prayer for her to play it safe.  The whole time I had worried about the chance of her making a mistake, I was completely ignoring the possibility of her joyous success.  The other team tossed in a couple of freethrows that could've tied the game were it not for that basket.  Her score kept us 2 points ahead -- just enough to pull an upset, thrill the crowd and her teammates, and prove something really important to me: 

I don't know how you parents do it.  I really don't, but I'm so very glad you do.  And also?  God doesn't like take-backs, but maybe He doesn't mind the eff word.  But to be safe, I think I'll avoid them both when it comes to asking for favors.

How You Can Save a Life. And My Sanity.

Last night, on my way home from a super-long day at work, I saw a little kitty cat racing across a busy street.  I won't go into details, but to put it lightly, Little Kitty met a terrible fate, courtesy of two cars that didn't even tap the brakes.  Luckily for me, through the waterfall of tears pouring down my face, I saw a car pull over to scoop said kitty up.  Thank goodness there are still kind and non-hysterically crying people in the world.

In my heart, they went straight to the Animal Emergency Room.  There was some emergency life-saving surgery performed by a brilliant cat surgeon who happened to stop in to leave some fliers for his new pro-bono stray animal surgery foundation.  At worst, said kitty might have to use one of those carts that carry around their hind legs. 

In my head, I know that most of that is not true.  Okay.  Probably none of that is true.  *sigh*

And then I panicked and thought the worst.  I am a kitty owner.  What if that had been my cat?  What would I do?

Not that it was any of my kitties.  Nope.  My kitty cats are fat and lazy and would shit their pants if they were ever even on the front porch (or if cats wore pants).  They hiss a mean game at each other, but in truth, they simply are not cut out for the street life.

See what I'm sayin'?  There's no napping on the street, bitches!

No.  I was worried about my PK.  My Porch Kitty.  I call him Jake.  I don't know why.  It just fits.

"I'm Jake, and I'm not good at sitting still for pictures!"



Several months ago, I was adopted by this kitty and his brother.  Word from one neighbor was that they belonged to someone down the street who just never fed them or let them in the house.  Jackholes.  I took pity (I'm genetically pre-disposed to the need to take in all strays) and began feeding them.   Jake's little brother, Boo, was miraculously adopted (in my heart -- adopted) by a kind stranger who has a catnip farm.  Thus, Jake has become a bachelor... living it up in the shed or the back porch or even the lid of my recycling bin.  He even found a way to survive the long weeks this summer when I was at camp.

Each morning, when I open the screen door, he races around the corner to the front porch.  In the evenings, when my car pulls into the driveway, he is at the door to greet me.



"I love you.  And your Meow Mix."

It might have a little something to do with the Meow Mix I serve up each day, but I prefer to think our friendship runs much deeper. 

 

Food = easy to photograph



You'll also notice that Jake is super skinny.  Now, I don't have much knowledge of "normal-sized" cats, but he seems a bit on the supermodel-lean scale.  I also worry -- even more intensely after last night's episode -- that I'll come home one day to find a roadside tragedy.  

I cannot take another cat into my home.  A) My cats don't even like each other, let alone other animals and 2) I have FURniture.  Seriously.  I cannot wear black pants ever again.

I also cannot continue to just leave Jake on the front porch.  I mean, I already gave him a name.  I buy him his own food.  I'm attached, and I've been down this road before.  I once had a Porch Kitty named Buster.  He showed up one day, sweet as can be.  I fed him and watered him and even nursed him back from a snake bite on the foreleg with some old dog antibiotics.  Buster was a total badass.  And then, one day, he was gone.  I cried for weeks.  

I can't do that again.

So here's my offer, America.  If you are interested in a really sweet and loving kitty, I know one.  I cannot testify to whether he claws furniture or will live inside or gets along with other animals.  I don't know if he loves kids or will chase your robot vacuum.  But I can tell you, with all confidence, that he is loyal.  He is tough.  He doesn't bawl and squall.  He can make do with just a trash can lid for a bed, and he eats fast and cheap.  I will corral him in a carrier and bring him wherever you are, and I will even share in the cost of vetting and neutering him.  This is how much I like this crazy cat.  All you have to do is give the go-ahead.  I think that good ol' Jake would make a wonderful addition to any household, and I'll even let you change his name.

But might I suggest "Buster"?

Maybe I Shouldn't Have Watched The Biggest Loser Before Writing This...

Anyone who knows me understands a few important and helpful things about me.

A. I tend to make inappropriate jokes at completely awkward times (i.e. moments after a friend's home has been robbed and violated, funerals, etc.). It's a defense mechanism... usually to deter the following personal quirk:

B. I cry. Buckets. I'm not the cute, single-tear crier. That's for romantic comedies and Indians who do PSA's about the environment. It's not me. Doesn't matter when or why either -- happy, sad, frustrated, scared, what-have-you. More on that another day, but many times, tears stem from this:

C. I have numerous, entirely illogical fears. They range from simply unnerving to downright spine tingling, but much like how people with Autism fall all over what is known as the "Autism Spectrum", I have come up with a handy-dandy way to organize my plethora of weird and totally whack-ass phobias.

Only in the last 10 years have I really begun to identify the problem areas and start making a little sense -- and I use that term loosely -- of them. My closest friends would probably rearrange and add to all of this, but that's what the comments section is for. So, here, making its world debut is the "Spectrum of Terror". But I don't know how to make a timeline on this dang thing, so I'll have to improvise.


"The Lesser Evils"
These are things that might make my palms sweat, cause me to jump a little, or quickly (but quietly) suck in my breath in a gasp. They're not a huge deal and can usually be either deflected by caring friends or overcome within seconds. They are not a huge deterrent to my day.

Examples: balloons popping, deadlines, the split second that I think I've locked my keys in the car, people touching my ears, and little people (I've almost conquered this one with the TLC network. I mean -- thanks, TLC, your programming was worthwhile to at least one viewer, but, really two shows sneaking a peek at the trials and tribulations of the short-statured? Sounds like a network president with a fetish to me.)

"Knee Knockers and Quads Afire"
These are moments and things that do just what the label says... they make my knees weak, and then that feeling moves up to my quad muscles, essentially liquefying them. Recovery time is typically 2-3 minutes of sitting down and some light stretching.

Examples: getting pulled over by a cop, standing up at great heights, public speaking, walking down stairs without handrails, shopping at Sam Moon on a Saturday, and pictures of clowns.


"Nervous Tummy"
For those of you who are somehow new to my life -- or those of you who I might have wanted to retain some sort of polite civility in our friendship --this is precisely what it sounds like. You might want to skip this one because today, I'm gonna spell it out for you. This portion of the spectrum probably covers the greatest ground for me, ranging anywhere from slightly vomitous to near-pooping of the pantalones. Prescription: lots and lots of deep breathing through the nose and mouth, a damp washcloth for my face, and possibly several minutes alone in the nearest restroom.

Examples: technology taking over the world, the possum who lives in my backyard, a clown more than a hundred feet from me, The Shining, failure, night hikes at camp with Toni the Great, confrontation, and debt collectors. By the way, if you're a debt collector who likes rainbow wigs, creepy hotels, or absurdly fancy phones, you might as well check out now. I will not confront you about it ('cause I'm afraid), but we will never be friends. Ever. I don't even know how you got on this site.

"The Bone Chillers"
Last, but not least, are the things that have never ceased to send me into a panicked state, that encompass all other levels and symptoms -- sweaty palms, shaky knees, squeals, gasping, nausea and/or possible diarrhea, loss of speaking ability, and, of course, tears. Lots and lots of tears. Full-on heebie jeebies, people. There is no remedy for "The Bone Chillers". Neither therapy nor awkward hugs nor calming reassurances will allay my fear. The only possibility for help is complete repression of the memory or total avoidance of the situation before it presents itself. These are so big that they get their own bold AND italic font. That's serious in my world.

Clowns within a hundred feet of me. Clowns are seriously effed up beings, in my mind, whose diet consist mainly of helium sucked out of balloons and toddler blood. I am convinced that behind their painted on smiles are several rows of finely sharpened teeth and a deep need to make me one of their own. I try to allow all people of the world a fair chance with me (even you, debt collectors) no matter their race, creed, or socioeconomic status. But, clowns, you made your life choice with the rubber nose and the greasepaint. I can't help you anymore.

Things that scurry (tied with) dumpsters. I do... not... like... things that scurry. They're too fast, too unpredictable. Mice, roaches, little snakes (although they technically slither), hermit crabs, etc. They completely sick me out. As far as dumpsters go, believe me, I don't get it either. Sure, they're smelly and sometimes in a dark alley, but I grew up in the country where we burned our trash and didn't even have alleys. We barely even had streets. I still don't have an alley, and now I even have curbside pick-up. But, for the life of me, every time I open a dumpster, I am sure I am going to find a dead body. My only guess is that the root of this is some t.v. show I shouldn't have been watching as a young child which therefore scarred me beyond imagination. Yet as unfounded as it is, it still doesn't stop me from taking out my cell phone, dialing 911 and putting my thumb on the send button every time I do actually have to open that creaky lid and risk encountering a leftover corpse. And at camp, there's a distinct possiblity that something (a raccoon, a mouse, a feral cat) might scurry out of said dumpster. Two fears for the price of one.

Jillian from The Biggest Loser. This is actually a pretty new one because while I've watched the show periodically, I was never as intense about it as I am now. My mom told me once that she "so wanted me to go on that show". It stung for a moment -- my own mother pointing out the fact that my fat ass needed professional help and some nationally televised humiliation to get the ball rolling, but humiliation via my mom isn't even ON the Spectrum of Terror, so it barely even fazed me. After she said it, however, I pondered her advice for exactly 72 seconds as I watched Jillian get in the face of a struggling contestant, screech so violently that some spittle flew out and landed on the poor girl's tear-stained face, and demand that this plump little chickadee examine her innermost feelings about all the sadness in her life, all while maintaing a 2.5 incline on her treadmill. I cannot examine those things in a paid professional's office, so how in the hell did my mom expect her crybaby daughter to deal with that kind of interrogation? But that wasn't even the scariest part. Suddenly, she flipped the emotional switch, shut down the treadmill, plopped that girl down, scooted up next to her, and started whispering vague encouragement in the contestant's ear. (Hellooo... were you at all paying attention to my ear thing earlier? I cannot handle that scary bitch in my ear whispering positive words sprinkled with evil.) That only lasted about 14 more seconds before she turned to another contestant, climbed up on his back like a vicious little spider monkey, and then forced him to do chin-ups for like 38 minutes straight. Now she's got her own show whereupon she rolls up to YOUR HOUSE, rummages through your pantry and emotional hidey-holes, and apparently lounges on the couch with your dad (as evidenced in the preview) while you recover from the psychological and physical trauma. I'm sure she's a lovely person with the best of intentions, but... no... thank... you. She freaks my shit out.


*This chart is intended to be merely a guideline for informational purposes, and, in no way, should be used to test the limits of my sanity or bowel strength. Unless you're looking for a swift punch in the neck, jerk face.*