A most revolting experience

Oh my word! I just had one of the most revolting things happen to me. It's not that bad. . . it certainly can't be compared to Bria's fabulous story, but it was horrid enough for me. I was going to mail a letter to a friend, so I hopped on my bike wearing my swishy Israel skirt and heavy duty black boots and zoomed out of our lower driveway. Almost immediately I noticed a forlorn little newt salamander (a great favorite wild life creature of mine that I used to constantly play with and provoke) in the middle of the road. Struck numb with sympathy, I swerved to a stop and dug my kickstand into the dirt road to go help the poor amphibian in distress. I went over and fearlessly picked it up to deposit it in the safety on the roadside grass. Then I noticed something dreadful. The orange salamander had something protruding out of him--something I was practically touching--and I suddenly came to a conclusion beyond no doubt that I was beholding the newt's guts. With a cry of dismay I set him down hastily and wailed in utmost anguish at how disgusting it was. My reactions were more exaggerated than my literal feelings. There is something peculiarly funny about finding a live salamander who is proudly displaying his innards. With a final yelp of loathing, I leaped back onto my bike and continued up the road, passing at the top of the hill our neighbor, Dave, who had been peering down curiously with his nephew Luke to see what on earth I could be so appalled at as to express myself with such volume. I of course owed him the explanation that I had just picked up an animal with its intestines exploding from its side in their juiciness. Ahem! When I returned a few minutes later, I did manage to secure some pictures of the hapless creature.

Brothers

Brothers are an amazing thing. I'm especially thinking of the older kind, the kind that are tall and at least five years older than you, mainly considering them because I happen to be most familiar with that species. Why, you may wonder, and the answer is obvious: I happen to have three.

Yes, indeed, brothers are made so you can get along with others. Probably the only reason I've never really had a fight with any of my friends is because I've had so many with Clyde I'm nearly above them. The result is that I get along well with pretty much everyone, because now I know how to avoid a fight. The role of the sibling is very necessary indeed.

One benefit of brothers is how wonderful it is to feel proud of them. It may be that he's graduated top of his class, or writes an amazing musical piece, or makes a point in basketball that's the turning point of the game. But it's a healthy thing to feel proud of others, and brothers are a prime model to do it by.

Brothers are great in other ways too, even if they tease like crazy. Such as helping give you a more well-rounded movie taste for action and such. But they won't be too snobby if you like the girl things either; actually, Chad was the one that gave me Beauty and the Beast, Craig gave me Ever After, and Clyde owns Pride and Prejudice. Not bad, eh? However, they have their limits. Not to mention them being around to scream in horror whenever you put on the slightest form of make up. Probably why I never really liked the stuff too much.

There are other roles in the family circle that people may not think about. It is the Dad's job to school his older sons in the ways of physical education, is it not? Therefore it is the older son's duty to learn the younger son in the athletic ways. But what if this younger son is not a son, but a daughter? Surely it is no longer the older son's responsibility to worry about, is it? Wrong! I believe it is just as much the older brother's job to teach his little sister sports as it is to teach a little brother. If any older brothers out there are wondering why their younger sisters are so awful at every sport they attempt (or despise sports, merely because they can't play them) they must realize that is mostly their very own fault. In fact, although there are a few exceptions, some of the most athletic girls you see out there have either a big brother or an active father.

I must admit that I have some of the best examples of brotherly teachers. If not for my brothers, I probably would loathe sports. For if not for them I probably wouldn't be able to serve, bump, or spike a volleyball, hit, throw, or catch a ball, or even know how to shoot a basketball correctly. Each of these valuable skills they have dutifully taught me, with utmost (and I mean utmost!) patience and diligence, and I don't know what I would have done without them. Why, even last night, Clyde and I went down to the gym just so that he could try to teach me how to throw better. Then we addressed the matter of warball, and as kindly as a brother may, whammed some hard ones at me (the kind that burns like fire even when it nicks your arm) just so that I could practice catching them. Now that's what you call a sacrifice!

So now that I've given so much credit to them, maybe they won't complain as loudly that I'm on the computer too long. I guess that's just another job of the brother.

Breaking a bad habit the hard way

During the girls' week a few of us shared our embarrassing moments. I accidentally omitted one of mine merely because I completely forgot about it. So now I shall draw it forth from the shadows (actually I like to tell it frequently when I remember it:) and present it to you now in this new and different light. First I shall say that one of my favorite persons to tell this story to is one who has a particular bad habit that I used to share. I will not give his name but say that he is one of my brothers and a blogger. Wild horses couldn't drag it out of me to reveal his identity.

Once upon a time, when I was about eight, I was visiting a sibling or two in Indianapolis. While there I met an interesting person. Her name is Donna Conley, she was about 20 at the time, and she is well known for her sense of humor. She even tried to pull the wool over my eyes and make me repeat after her: "Owha tagoo si-am." You should try it sometime. Say it out loud: "Owha tagoo si-am." Now faster. Come on! Faster! Perhaps you fell for it or was hesitant like I was, but you may have already figured out that you're saying, "Oh what a goose I am." Brilliant, is it not?

That wasn't my embarrassing moment.

It came when I was at the dinner table. For those of you that don't know, ITC has a large dining room, polka dotted with many round tables adorned with white table cloths and such (if I remember correctly). I was sitting at one of these doing one of my beloved activities. I was blowing bubbles! No, I'm afraid I didn't have bubble soap with me, but if you haven't already guessed it, I was using my spittle. Sitting there, in my own ponderous little world, seeing how big I could make my bubbles while listening to other's conversations. It never occurred to me that other people could actually see me doing this. Donna Conley was sitting almost across from me, saying something to the person next to her, when I noticed that her eyes were fixed on me. Undaunted, I stared back to listen to her conversation, scarcely aware of the occasional popping sound that issued from the area of my mouth. It was too much for Donna. In near mid-sentence, she burst out quickly as if afraid she would start laughing before she was finished: "Why are you blowing bubbles with your spit?" I was dumbfounded. She had actually seen me doing it? I couldn't believe it! I was simply mortified. But I'll tell you, I don't think I ever blew bubbles in public again.

CAUTION: May contain gory details

I went to the eye doctor today. It was the long awaited appointment to get my contacts. Sure, sure, I know--I'm falling under another "fad thing," and it's true I'm really gullible to such things. But it's also credited that I've had numerous times with my glasses uh, making contact with a ball. It's really a curse glasses people possess. Pretty much anyone that owns a pair of glasses and wears them to sports has some kind of magnet in them that demands a ball to hit them. It doesn't matter what kind of pain it may cause to the owner, or to the glasses themselves for that matter (I won't tell you how many times I've had to bend my glasses back into shape. . . I've lost count). It just is that a ball feels obligated to hit someone in the head if they're wearing glasses. And more than once has this whim of the ball drawn blood from me. . . digging into my skin to reveal the juicy red contents beneath. That's why I went to the doctor's office.

So la de da, I go ambling into the office with my mom, only just a mite nervous. I went on into the familiar exam room with the long little tunnel and a rectangle of projected letters at the end. Dr. Wyman, an older, soft spoken, whiskered man possessing a fine pair of glasses (of course) pulled out the dreaded and longed for contacts. Then, with as much gentleness he could muster without being entirely brutal, he thrust each contact into my eye. I revolted at this insane poking, then shuddered as he bored bright lights into my brain. I like my eye doctor, but he does use extravagant methods of torture.

Next I went into a different room where a small lighted mirror stood waiting for me on the counter. Lisa, a middle aged woman with reddish hair and brown eyes then began to instruct me in the knowledgeable way of contacts. Then came the hard part: the process of removing my contacts. I had to use my middle left finger to firmly hold my eyelid up, use my middle right finger to pull my eye down, use my right index finger to drag the contact down off my iris, then use my thumb to brush against my eye and pinch the contact off. Now I realize that a few of my readers wear contacts--this is supposed to be easy, right? Wrong! It is by no means a simple thing, but at least if you have a good memory you can recall your own tormenting first tries and can relate to my unceasingly unfruitful attempts. I tried and tried again, to no avail.

Then a dreadful and all too familiar thing began to occur. I began to feel faint. Alas for those blessed with no health mysteries! For this is a problem I have had for several months--I can recall at least three definite other times (if not possibly four or five) where I began to pass out. You start feeling what some would call lightheaded, but it's more complicated than that. Sometimes it starts in your stomach, sometimes in your head, and it is indeed a feeling quite indescribable. But then you start feeling cold, cold as the blood drains from your head and you start feeling hot too in waves, then hearing becomes muffled. If you haven't yet done anything to prevent your swoon from going any further, your vision will start to gray, then cloud into blackness. I have not ever passed this stage, and hopefully I never will continue on into complete unconsciousness. The closest I ever came to fainting was actually in the lab at the hospital. Perhaps you've heard the story, but if you ever are dying for it I believe I have some gory details written down nearby that I could post if it's truly desired.

Anyway, as for my experience at the eye doctor's. Eventually I managed to transfer myself from my chair to the floor, where I propped my feet up on a chair. Dr. Wyman came in and carefully situated me to make sure I was comfortable. Sure, I was on the floor and my hair clip was cutting into my scalp, but other than that I was fine. Gradually I felt better, and situated myself once again in my chair where I chatted with Lisa for a little while and sipped orange juice that she offered from her own lunch box. After a brief conference with my mom, who had been gone during my incident earlier but was now returned, I made the decision that I would continue with my appointment. So with a sigh and a grit of determination I plopped down in my chair once again and set to with getting out the silly contact. With more work I soon dragged the Thing out of my eye, and awhile later I succeeded in getting out the other. Oh dear now I had to get them in again. To my surprise, I got it in on my second or third try. Soon the second one followed, more maneuvering and they came out, then back they went in again. With a great feeling of triumph I left the office over two hours after I entered it. I had persevered and vanquished my enemy. Even though I had to use countless numbers of tissues to do it.

Poor contacts. . . they just suffered such a rough abuse from the likes of me. Now I shall give them some words of affirmation to boost them up again. Well, first thing, I don't have to worry about my glasses getting crushed anymore. I was in the gym this afternoon and I winced as a ball grazed my cheek then realized I had hardly anything to worry about. Another plus is that I can wear regular sunglasses--not just clip-ons. Not to mention that I can see things out of the corner of my eye in a way that you can't with glasses, then also I can possibly wear my contacts when I go swimming (if I'm careful of course) and then I shall be able to see much better. Last of all, I won't always be having Clyde incessantly pushing my glasses up my nose which is one of his favorite pastimes because he knows it annoys me. You so lose, Clyde.