To Cut, or Not to Cut my Nunchuck Strings…

So, as some of you may know, I am a certificated nunchucker. Totally professional about it and everything! (What? I’m serious!)

And now that I’ve advanced to the wood nunchucks (with bruises to prove it), I’ve become a renegade! (The law frowns upon wood nunchucks in California.)

Our (Rachel, Katie, Heather and yours truly) Sensei has joked by saying that if our homes are ever raided by the police, we should have scissors close by to cut the strings so we’re not brought up on felony (I’m not kidding!) charges.

And we would laugh and laugh! As if we would ever have the Po-Po in our homes because of criminal behavior! (Sure, we might if we were robbed or something, but not because we’re law breakers. Ha!)

Well, yesterday my friends, I almost had to cut my strings!*

You see, yesterday my apartment had two detectives (from the O.C.) in it to question one of my roommates (aka: sister Rebecca) about a robbery of which she was the SUSPECT!


::PAUSE FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT AND MENTAL ABSORBTION::


Wednesday, my parents had received a call from Detective M. asking if Becca (or Bank Robbing Bec, as I now call her) “has ever been convicted of a felony, because she sort of could be now, and could you please have her give me a call. Here’s the case number...”

(The detective called my parents instead of Becca directly because as part of her flouting authority, she never updated her driver’s license after moving out. Oh, what a tangled web we weave!)

You can imagine the affect this had on the parental units. (I’ll take “Panic” for 200 hundred, Alex!)

Immediately after hanging up with the police, my parents frantically call B. R. Bec at work, but couldn’t get a hold of her. So, they call my sister Cash (whose nickname is just coincidental…or is it?) who tries to call, but still no luck! So, Cash calls me, (because Bec and I work at the same university), and tells me briefly of the situation and what course of action I need to take: “Becca needs to call the police because she’s the suspect in a robbery of an Office Store**! Run over to her office a get her!!!!!!”

But, since I’m getting ready to leave, and don’t want to walk in the opposite direction to get Becca because I'm lazy, I decide it would be faster to call one of her co-workers, tell her it’s an emergency (without mentioning “jail time” )and “could she please interrupt Becca’s counseling session and put her on the phone!”

I then tell Bank Robbing Bec what I know. She’s stunned. (Or is she?) And eventually calls my parents to get the information.


STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO OF THE CASE OF MISSING POST IT NOTES...



*Instead, I opted to hide my nunchucks in my dirty laundry basket under a pile of my unmentionables.

**Since this is an ongoing investigation, I’m not giving the actual name of the store. I don’t want to have a reason for the police to come back and confiscate my nunchucks!

Is that a Poem in your Pocket, or a grocery list?

Yep, today is National Poem in your Pocket day!!!!

This means that you, yes YOU, need to share a poem with your nearest and/or dearest.

Last year, when I passed out poems to all of my co-workers, it was a great success that produced poetry discussion. Yay!

This year, I’m handing out one of my favorite poems by Dylan Thomas, “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.” It’s a classic, and I love the power of the words. (You can hear him read it here.)

If you need some suggestions, visit this link. Poets.org has done all the work for you!

And, if you don’t have the desire to pass poetry on to others, that’s okay.

Just share it with yourself!

A Question that has the power to change our lives…

1) If you knew you could not fail, what dream of yours would you make come true?

I’ve been thinking about this question for weeks now. Fear of failure stops us from so much in our life, and it’s something I’m working on overcoming.

Now, I have a great life, don’t get me wrong. And over the last year I’ve incorporated a lot more of what I love (and used to fear) into my day-to-day. But, I want more!

So, I’ve been asking myself, if failure wasn’t going to happen, what would I do?

And now, I’m asking you the same thing…

Think of the possibilities!

Would you quit your job and start your own business?

Would finally write that novel? Paint that picture? Publish that poem?

Would you move to a completely different country?

Would you leave an unhealthy relationship?

Sell everything you own and travel the world?

Tell your secret crush that you love them?

Would you cut and dye your hair?



We only have one life!

Don’t let fear rule it…

Do you think I could ask for time off?

Something happened on Monday that has taken me days to come to terms with, and to acknowledge that it ACTUALLY happened:

I got hit by a bird!

On my back!!

A real, live, bird!!!

I literally almost had a heart attack when it happened, and I swear I suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder!

Here’s the story*:

I’m out for my daily walk around campus, which I love, because I’m able to enjoy the beauty of nature, college-kiddie watch (which sounds kind of creepy), and contemplate the meaning of life**.

As I was turning the corner past the football field and into the parking lot, I saw something swoop out of the corner of my eye, and then “THUMP” on my back.

My initial thought was “Stupid football boy, hitting an old lady with a ball!”***

But, when I turned around to pick up the ball (and yell out “Finders keepers!” to the offending fella), I saw to my horror, shock, and dismay, that it was not a ball, but, (shudder) a bird!

A little bird! A fledgling!****

When I saw the poor creature, I was overcome with compassion, gently picked it up and placed it in a nearby bush…okay, not really.

I screamed, and started shaking out my shirt to try to get the bird cooties off it, while looking around to see if anyone else had witnessed my attack. (No one had. Praise to the heavens! How embarrassing…)

Then I quickly ran into the bathroom of the science building to see if I had bird blood, feathers, or poop*****stuck to my shirt. (I didn’t. Which was a miracle. Because I totally would have thrown up.)

Once I calmed down, realized there wasn’t any permanent damage to my WHITE LACY shirt (although, there was to my soul) and got a drink of water, I went back outside to view the carnage.

Only…

The bird was gone!! He (or she) had survived!! And its parents******had come to collect him (or her).

And, I have to say, although I was slightly sad to not have proof of my assault, I was relieved to know it hadn’t died by hitting my back fat.

Overall, I’m still greatly upset by the whole thing. The rest of this week, I’ve kept my eyes scanning the heavens, and debated carrying my nunchucks as a visual threat to all others.

But, so far, no other wayward bird attacks.

I’ll keep you posted.



*Oh, how I wish you were here to hold my hand while I re-live this…

**Although, truth be told, on this particular walk I was trying to talk myself out of watching the new season of Tori and Dean. (Don’t judge!)

***My second thought was “Am I always going to get hit by a ball? I thought I left that behind in Junior High, and then High School, and then Community College! I mean, really?”

****Thank you Ornithology class! You didn’t cure my fear of birds, but you did give me the proper terminology to describe it. (P.S. A fledgling is a “toddler” bird learning to find food, water, shelter, and fly while not hitting people in the back, etc.)

*****Another tidbit learned in my bird class. Birds have no control over their sphincter. They poop indiscriminately.

****** Fledgling birds are always watched by their parents. They’re learning, after all.

My Inbox: Where email-chains come to die…

Anyone who knows me, knows that if you send me an email that then requires me to forward it on to 20 people or my arms will fall off (or God won’t love me anymore (or I won’t get eleventy billion dollars)), knows I WILL NOT pass it on and will take my chances that when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll still have my appendages.

In fact, it takes all my effort not to reply to whoever sent me the email with a snarky comment about how dumb they are to think that God is trolling the internet to punish people who don’t forward an email containing scriptures and cats in Biblical costumes.

I mean, really, people.

This Monday morning, I had 3(!) such emails in my inbox. From co-workers. (Who clearly don’t know me.)

And all of the emails had a tagline of “If you agree with this email that [God is great*] [women are awesome**] [America is the bestest***], then forward this on to 6,000 people including the person who sent it to you!”

This is brings me to a dilemma.

Office politics suggest that I reply to the person who sent me the email. You know, so I seem chummy and all. But, then, said person thinks that I’m on the email-chain bandwagon (hurray!) and will send me every email that ever crosses her**** path.

And I just don’t think I can handle that. So, I’m going to have to be the lady who isn’t an email team player, and let the chips (or arms) fall where they may.

What else can I do?



*Agree!
**Agree!
***Agree!
****It’s almost always a “her”, isn’t it?

My Easter dinner started with the Heimlich maneuver…

and finished with my choking Aunt puking on the table.

How was yours?

Things I learned Conference weekend that have nothing to do with Conference, but everything to do with nephew love…

1. There is no successful way to explain to a two-year old why his one-year old cousin gets birthday presents, and he does not. No matter what you say, (even reminding him about the Easter bunny), expect furrowed brows and his reply of “I tell mom!”

2. There is no polite way to refuse an EXTREMELY manhandled M&M when offered to you by a smiling 5 year old boy who says “Here Auntie Yiz, it’s your favorite ca-yor!” You just have to let him plop it in your mouth, and hope your antibodies are paying attention.

3. If a 7 year old has a choice between Conference, and anything else, the “anything else” will win. Every time. So, don’t give him any options.

4. Also, do not put a 7 year old boy in charge of a one-year old boy, if suckers are involved.

5. Conference is way fun-er when holding a 2 month old as long as he’s sleeping or eating. If he’s crying or pooping, not so fun.