A Spider, A Turtle, And A Possum Go On An Adventure

, , , , , , | Related | September 2, 2018

(While in high school, I date a guy whose mother is an animal fanatic. She is… a character, to say the least. I’m in the car, in the backseat with my boyfriend. His mother is driving, and his brother is in the passenger seat. Suddenly, his mother starts swerving across the road and suddenly pulls over. She jumps out of the car and runs to the edge of the road, searching for something. When she turns around, she has her hands carefully cupped in front of her, a huge grin across her face. My boyfriend leans forward, quickly shuts the driver’s door and hits the lock button. She comes running back, and opens her hands to reveal a HUGE spider. My boyfriend’s brother starts screaming. My boyfriend slightly cracks the window and tells her he will unlock the car when she lets the spider go. She tries to argue with him, insisting that she wants to take “this beautiful girl” home and keep her. After going back and forth for almost ten minutes, she puts the spider down, and my boyfriend unlocks the car and lets her back in. As she gets back on the road, a conversation begins:)

Mother: “I just don’t get why you don’t like spiders, [Boyfriend].”

Brother: *shrill* “MOM! I’m not touching that thing!”

Boyfriend: “I just don’t. Plus, you’re driving, and would have no way to hold it or contain it. And none of us are going to hold it!”

Brother: *collecting himself* “Well, Mom, at least it wasn’t another possum.”

Mother: “Ooh! [My Name], did you hear about that? Did [Boyfriend] tell you?”

Me: “No. Did you find more babies?”

(It’s common knowledge that when she comes across a road-kill possum, she always stops to look for surviving babies.)

Mother: “Well, no. I looked, but I didn’t find any. But possums are marsupials, meaning they have a pouch that they carry babies in. The opening is kind of a muscle, so it’s hard to open it to check on a dead possum. So, I found one of [Boyfriend]’s utility knives in the car, and I had to slice her open. I put my hand in to feel for any babies, but couldn’t find anything. I decided to double-check, and you’ll never believe it! IT WAS A BOY! Not to mention, I couldn’t find any rags or towels in the car, so I had to drive home all covered in blood!” *laughs*

Boyfriend: *quietly to me* “I told her to keep the knife.”

(A few weeks later, she is giving us a ride to school. On the side of the road is a very large turtle, trying to cross. His mother pulls over.)

Mother: “[Boyfriend]! Get out and help me!”

Boyfriend: “Mom, that’s not a box turtle. It looks a bit dangerous.”

Mother: “It’s fine! Don’t worry about it! It’s a snapping turtle. Just grab the car mat to carry it!”

(This turtle is easily the size of the car tire. They go back and forth for a few minutes, arguing. Finally, he relents.)

Boyfriend: “Fine! But only because I don’t want you getting bitten!”

(He grabs the mat, and carefully tries to place it on the turtle’s back, behind its head. It turns its head and grabs the corner of the mat, ripping through both the upholstery AND the thick rubber on the bottom. After it drops the mat, he tries again. Once he manages to get a hold of the shell behind the turtle’s head, he quickly carries it across the road, and runs back. Once in the car:)

Mother: “WOW! What a beauty!” *laughing gleefully*

Boyfriend: “Whatever, Mom. We’re going to be late.”

The Biggest Scare Was In The Line

, , , , , , | Right | August 26, 2018

(My husband and I go to an extremely popular haunted house attraction. We are there on a Saturday and the line is massive. We are queued in front of a group of high-school-aged girls and their boyfriends, doing the typical “pretend to be scared” act to pretty much anything that moves near them. They are obnoxiously loud the entire time, and we are annoyed, but the sights and cast as we wait to be allowed in make it worth it. About 25 minutes into the wait, my husband leans down to peck me on the cheek for a kiss. We turn back towards the line, only for me to immediately get punched hard on the back. I turn to face two of the girls:)

Blonde Brat: “Disgusting! Don’t do that s*** in public.”

Brunette Brat: “No one wants to see whales kiss. F****** disgusting.”

(I don’t say anything and turn back around, but immediately start to cry into my jacket. My husband holds my hand, but the entire time we stand there, they keep loudly complaining and telling us to stop. About ten minutes later, one of the girls walks ahead of me to a security guard and loudly begins to complain.)

Blonde Brat: *pointing to us* “Those two won’t stop f****** making out and groping each other. Can you please kick them out?

(I watch the security guard chuckle, but tell her to get back in line. She glares at us the entire time and her group starts taunting the security guard for “liking fatties.” At this point, I am about to leave, but my husband is really excited for the haunt and I stay. When we are at the front of the line, they let a number of people in, so it isn’t a constant line of people throughout the house. I realize we’ll be stuck in there with the girls, so I am about to back out when the security guard from before stops us in line.)

Security Guard: “Can I please ask you to step out?”

(We did as we were told. The group behind us began to cheer, and then walked forward. I started to cry more, hearing them insult us and act like they won. They entered the foyer to the haunt while we waited. The security guard didn’t speak much, and asked us what happened; we explained our side. He stayed silent, but let us back to the front of the line. We were confused, but happy to be allowed back since we had already paid. When we got into the actual building, we saw that same group in a corner with the security guard from before and an actual police officer. They were being asked to leave for assaulting another customer. The guard smiled and waved at us, as we were pushed through to the haunt.)

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Already Has A Big Baby To Look After

, , , , , | Friendly | August 11, 2018

(I’m chatting on the phone with a friend. I recently told her I was pregnant.)

Friend: “So, how far along are you now?”

Me: “Uh, about 26 weeks.”

Friend: *in a disgusted tone* “Ew, no. Don’t do that. Don’t go by weeks. Go by months. Gross.”

Me: “Developmentally, there’s a difference. My doctor and my tracker app say 26 weeks, so I’ve been going by that.”

Friend: “Ew. That’s just too much. Months. How many months are you?”

Me: *internally sighing* “Well, if you can’t do the math, six and a half months. “

Friend: “That’s better. So, when you have your baby, I was planning to take the next day or two off from work and come over and hang out, and stay the night. But I’m not changing any diapers or nothing. So don’t ask.”

Me: *looking for a polite way to tell her no* “Um, I’ll probably be in the hospital for a couple of days.”

Friend: “So? I can sleep in your hospital room.”

Me: “Well, it’s just that we all know how you feel about hospitals. I wouldn’t think you’d be very comfortable.”

Friend: “Huh. Good point. I can just stay at your apartment, then. You’ll have to send me your address, though. I don’t know how to get there. Ooh, and I’ll need a copy of your key. And I’ll make you a copy of mine, so we can hang out whenever, and since you’ll have a baby, you won’t have to get up to answer the door or let me in or whatever.”

Me: *not having the energy for this* “Well, we’re doing some renovations right now, so we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

(When I hang up, I make a mental note not to tell her when I go into labor. We meet up for a girl’s night at her place three weeks later. Unfortunately, I go into labor in the middle of the night, and end up slipping out during the wee hours of the morning to go to the hospital. She blows up my phone all day, wanting to know what’s happening, did I give birth yet, is it “real labor,” etc. I don’t respond until dinnertime, and when I do, it’s just to get her to stop calling and texting so I can rest. I simply text her:)

Me: “Yes, they were contractions. I need to rest.”

(She then tells me she’s at the hospital, in the parking lot, and starts bugging me for my room number, whining that she wants to see the baby. Out of patience, I respond:)

Me: “I was just in labor for twelve hours. My baby is in intensive care, covered in wires and lines. I am exhausted. I’m not feeling social, and I don’t want visitors. Nor is my baby having any visitors because she has little to no immune system. Go home. We’ll talk later.”

(She finally did, but that night, I saw she had posted about becoming an aunt, my child being born two months early — even though it was closer to three, but remember, she believes in months, not weeks, and as far as she cares, I was seven months — while tagging me in said post, along with an ultrasound picture. She did this even though my husband and I had never “announced” that we were expecting, nor had either of us said anything publicly about the birth or pregnancy. I immediately told her to take the post down, as my husband and I fully planned NOT to plaster our daughter all over social media. She removed the post without responding, and the next morning asked what the f*** I was talking about, as she had no recollection of posting anything of the sort. Over the course of the next couple weeks, I ended up ignoring her begging to see the baby, wanting me to send her pictures, etc. She also didn’t seem to understand the seriousness of an eleven-week premature baby in the NICU, and continually asked if she was still in NICU, and, “When the f*** is she going home?” This friendship may need to go on the back burner for a while. Is it really any wonder that I didn’t tell her I was even pregnant until I was already 21 weeks? Whoops, I mean five months.)

Some Rules Should Be Grandfathered In

, , , , , , | Learning | July 22, 2018

I grew up in a somewhat small city. When I was in kindergarten, my school had something called a Grandparents’ Lunch, for which students would bring in money, and on the specified day, students’ grandparents would come in to have an hour-long lunch with them, catered by a local restaurant. It became a big deal in my class, and I soon realized that I would be the only one unable to participate, as my only living grandmother lived in another state and was dealing with some severe health problems. The alternative would be that I would be sitting in the classroom during the program — alone, except for the teacher — to work on busy work. I was very upset when I went home, and ended up crying to my parents about the situation.  

The next day, when my dad took me to school, he ran into the principal. He explained the situation, and asked if it’d be okay if he came to the program so that I wouldn’t be excluded. The principal quite rudely told him, “No, it’s for grandparents only. Parents aren’t allowed.”As I was only five or six, I don’t remember exactly what all was said during the entire interaction, but I recall my dad getting upset and arguing with the principal.

On the day of the program, just before lunch, my dad checked me out of school and took me to one of our favorite restaurants. After we ate — and after the program was over — he took me back to school, and told me that if anyone asked, I had a doctor appointment.

Almost a decade and a half later, my dad still gets ticked off when he’s reminded of the situation. Although our relationship tends to be strained nowadays, I always remember it as a good time with my dad and am thankful for what he did.

Hoping You’d Be Able To Belly-Band Together

, , , , , , | Related | July 19, 2018

(I grew up an only child. I’m currently seven months pregnant, and though I moved out of my parents’ years ago, I only live a couple of miles away. I suspect someone is going through our mail, so I usually have packages sent to my parents’ address.)

Me: “Oh, Mom, I was just going to let you know that I’m expecting a package from [Store we often shop at]. It’ll probably arrive next week.”

Mom: “Okay. Clothes? Or something big?”

Me: “Clothes. [Husband] picked out an outfit for the baby, and I ordered a belly-band.”

Mom: *looks at me quizzically* “A belly-band?”

Me: “Um, yeah. It’s kind of like a belt that’s supposed to help support my stomach and redistribute some of the weight off my back. After running around all day, it kind of feels like a bowling ball strapped to my front.”

Mom: *rolls her eyes* “When I was pregnant, we didn’t have belly-bands. It wasn’t a big thing. Seems a bit excessive.”

Me: “Um. Okay. Well, it’s a pretty common thing now, and if it helps my comfort and it’s on sale, why shouldn’t I take advantage?”

Mom: *exasperated sigh*

(For the record, I did get my package, and as soon as I put the band on, I felt like I could stand up straight for the first time in weeks!)

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