Monthly Archives: January 2012

One of the best firehouse practical jokes I’ve ever been a party to happened years ago. It was so genius, I’ve never forgotten it. I came in after a run on the ambulance around 2300 (that’s 11:00pm to you!) to find one of the medics on the shift sitting at a table in the darkened kitchen.  In front of him was an opened bag of double-stuffed Oreos. He had a butter knife and, with surgeon-like precision, was scraping the icing out of each cookie and replacing it with….get this….Crest Toothpaste.  Then he carefully rebuilt each cookie, and placed it back in the bag.

He angled the opened bag invitingly on the kitchen counter, where anyone entering the kitchen would see.  Then he looked up at me, put a finger to his lips to shush me, thereby making me an accomplice.  You see, that first shift was tired of the next shift constantly eating their cookies.  So they decided to do something about it.

The morning of the next shift, we would hear people exclaiming “UGH!” and then a lot of laughter.  Then shushing, and then it happened again and again.  Apparently they were letting each one of their own shiftmates find out the hard way what was wrong with those cookies as they each came in for line-up.

I think they eat their young, too.

The lesson to take away from this is that Firemen are men of action.  They don’t have time for many words.

It wouldn’t occur to them to say, “Gee, would you mind not eating so many of our cookies?”.   That would be something akin to asking directions, and men just DONT DO THAT.  So they just take matters into their own hands… and they take care of it old-style.  They just get right down to business….after all, experiential learning is the hallmark of a good firehouse.

To people outside the Fire Department, this kind of behavior would seem juvenile, crass, maybe even sophomoric.  But the truth of the matter is they only pick on you if they like you.  And there is so much stress associated with that job, they really do need a pressure relief valve.  Humor is one of the healthiest ways to deal with it. So its a good thing.  Really.

Then there was time one of them tied the laces of my boots to a chair without me knowing.  THAT was purely Sophomoric.

Funny, but Sophomoric.

I felt the love!

I’ve been enjoying my new haircut from Images Salon in Poolesville.  It’s breezy.  It’s fun.  It’s care-free.

I flattered myself that I resembled a heavier Marilyn Monroe, only brunette, and well, er, not so decomposed.

I’ve received several compliments on my new hair-do…though I always take them with a grain of salt.  I don’t know why it’s so hard to receive compliments.  I hand them out sincerely, so why do I doubt the sincerity of others’?

Upon greater reflection, maybe its because I know myself so well that I know all the imperfections and I simply assume that everyone else can see them too.  And I’m not just referring to the obvious:  the way one of my earlobes is at a different angle than the other, the way one of my nostrils is a different shape than the other, the way my skin is discolored from years of sun-damage, the way my feet are not only a manly size 11, but also a clown-like wide.

But also the not-so-obvious: The way I interrupt people mid-sentence, the way I talk too fast when I’m nervous, the way I talk too fast when I’m relaxed, the way I talk too fast when I’m sleeping, (…wait…maybe those belong in the obvious section)

Ok, so there isn’t a not-so-obvious section of imperfections for me.  They are all obvious.  That’s good, I’m like an open book.  What you see is what you get.  No surprises.  (Unless I have Taco Bell for dinner.  THEN you are in for surprises, I assure you.)

What the HECK was I talking about?  Oh yeah, the sincerity of people’s compliments as it pertained to my new hair-do. Well, I THOUGHT my hair had a Marilyn Monroe quality to it.  But, when I passed a mirror today, I had to stop because there, because staring straight back at me in disbelief, was none other than JIM MORRISON.  He lives!

No, wait.  Crap.  That’s me.

Oh great.  I look like Jim Morrison.  On a bad hair day.

Only less decomposed.

***sigh***

Its no secret I have a fetish for doormats.  I’ve come clean about that.  But….I can’t believe how hard this is to admit…..there is more.

I kept telling myself I could stop anytime.  At first, it was just fun, then impulsive, then a burning need and before I knew it, I was hiding the fact that I was unable to stop.  Troy confronted me a couple of times, and he is ready to hold an intervention.  I know I should quit.

But ….  I …. just….can’t.

Being my close and personal friends, you won’t judge me, so I feel I can share it with you.

Ok.  Here Goes:   (deep breath)

Hi.  My name is Pam, and I have a problem.  I have a addiction for …..

Woobies.

Blankets.  Throws.   Afgans.  Wraps.   Anything fleece and soft and wrap-able.

And if I pass anywhere near a Jo-Ann Fabric store…heaven help me.  It only takes a moment to have a couple of yards cut off a roll of winter fleece.  Oh, the selection!  The value!  Did you know you can buy a couple of yards of Toy Story Printed Winter Fleece for just over 10 bucks!

God, I love this country!

And if I hit the Dollar Store on the same day…. I need a moment to breathe….OH WOW.

Sadly, like any other addiction, it’s now affecting my poor children.  Not too long ago, Gwen and Garrick asked if they could use some of the blankets to make a fort.  (I have a lot of blankets.  A few for each season.  I SAID don’t judge!)  They figured they’d drape the blankets over the piano, the couches, the ottomans, the cat tree…make a fort.  And it was a terrific fort!  Took over darn near the whole family room (which, admittedly isn’t much since our cottage is small as crap).  The Army Corps of Engineers would have been impressed.

And then it started.  The fort.  Took on a life of its own.  The kids began hoarding food.  They began taking in toys.  They took in pillows.  Flashlights.  A Laptop.  Then I swear I saw them carrying in a port-a-potty, a Hibatchi Grill, and a Mariachi band.   I began smelling weird smells.  Hearing weird sounds.  I began to get scared.  I never saw my kids anymore.  Its like they were ON A MISSION.

Life in the family room, AS a FAMILY ROOM, ceased.  For a full week it became Occupy Dickerson.  There was no getting in and around the room.  There was no TV watching.  There was no lounging on the sofas.  News reporters were everywhere.  It was all about the Fort.

Finally we said ‘Enough of this crap!’,  deemed it a fire hazard and a public nuisance, and had it dismantled. We had to call in the National Guard and the Dept of Public Works to help.

I’ll be washing woobies for weeks.

Wow. I feel better for sharing.

Thanks for listening!

A quick update to ‘O Captain, My Captain’.

The beatings have just begun.  The day ‘O Captain, My Captain’ hit the blog, I stopped by Troy’s Firestation to see how much grief they were giving him.   Apparently they found plenty of ammunition in my comment about Troy’s back and arms.  But I think they also felt slighted and un-noticed, and I vowed to make amends.  So here, friends, for your voyeuristic pleasure, is Montgomery County’s Finest, 31C, searching for Hawks and Pteradactyls.  Sorry about the fuzzy nature of the shot…I was laughing too hard.

Look at those bicepts bunching!  Look at those back muscles rippling!

Ain’t this a wonderful world?!

There are certain essential life-tools I need wherever I go: Kleenex, Pens, Chapstick, and Fingernail Clippers.

I try to keep these in all my major workplaces: The Kitchen, The Kid’s Bathroom, The Master Bathroom, My Purse, and the Car. (Not that I WORK in both bathrooms, I mean….well,…oh just go with it.)

This system works like a charm in most cases.   People who know me, people who depend on me, know I am always good for these things.  Snotty nose?  I’m your go-to gal.  Need to sign something ASAP? Come to me.  Are your puckerers all pickled?  I’ve got the cherry flavored lip balm for you.  If you’re lucky, I may have kiwi, too.

But the Fingernail Clippers.  NNNRRRRRR!  The Dag-Nab Fingernal Clippers!! They are NEVER where I left them.  I know I have something on the order of a half a dozen clippers and I cannot lay a finger on a single one!  And this always happens when I have a hang nail, or a snaggy fingernail, or a price tag I need to snip off.

I know it doesn’t seem like something to get all wrapped around the axle about.  Something to say “So What” about, right?  Well, here is why its a real axle-wrapper:

Boogers.

That’s right.  The ol’ Bats in the Cave.

Have you ever picked your nose with a snaggy fingernail?  I’m not saying I have, but I imagine it would hurt like the dickens, and I’m JUST NOT WILLING TO RISK IT.   Hello?! Your BRAIN is up there!  Mere inches away from where you might be digging for gold.

I’ve got to get to CVS, Stat.