Rescue 9-1-1

My eyes flew open.  I blinked in the blackness of the night.  What was going on?  I turned my head to the right.  "3:22" read the neon green numbers on the digital clock perched atop the dresser.  I felt uneasy.  Why was I awake at this unholy hour?

A gentle breeze floated in the open window, rustling the curtains and cooling the thick August air.  All senses on full alert, I suddenly heard the noise that had ripped me from a deep sleep: the terrifying sound of seemingly every cow and sheep in the entire city of Logan mooing and bleating in terror.

The hair on my arms stood up.  It was unsettling.  It was unnatural.  Why would an entire herd of animals be in distress at three-something in the morning?

In the stillness, my brain could only recall two things.

1. The night Joseph Smith was killed, it was reported that the cows went crazy, bellowing all night.  But who had died?  Anyone high profile enough to upset cows and sheep who hadn't even been told yet had to be someone serious.

2. My sister told me once that during the county fair, someone broke into the barns and beat the animals.  They could hear them squealing in the middle of the night.  The images that began to evoke in my brain left me feeling sick.

Neither scenario--the only two on file in my overly-alert brain--left wildly pumping heart ready to roll over and go back to sleep.

What horrible event was nature trying to communicate?
What was I supposed to do?

We had recently moved to Logan and lived on a hill above the university barns.  Here I was, in the middle of the night, with the cries of hundreds of animals pleading for my assistance.

Unable to reason on my own at such an hour, I jabbed an elbow into my slumbering husband.

"Paul...Paul!"

"Mmmmm?"

"Paul!  Wake up!  Something's wrong!"

"What?  What's the matter?"

"Do you hear that?"

"Yeah...."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

Well, what? I thought.  Typical response.  As if I would be waking you up at some horrendous hour just to inform you that there are animals making noise.  Please...

"Well....I think there's something wrong.  Animals don't just...make noise like that in the middle of the night for no reason.  I'm from Idaho.  I would know."

"So close the window."

"No!  The animals! I'm worried about the animals!  What if...if someone got in?  Or some drunk college kid is harming them?  You know how I feel about people harming animals!  I mean, hurting each other is one thing, but animals?"

"So???"

"So what should I do?!"

"I don't know.  You can call the police..."

"CALL THE POLICE?"

"Yeah.  They can go check it out."

"I am NOT calling the police.  What am I going to say.  'Uh, hi!  There are some animals making noise outside.'?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"I'm not calling the police."

However, I had been married long enough to know that if I asked for advice and then didn't take it, my husband would determine his job was finished, and would promptly roll back over--falling asleep in roughly 0.6 seconds.

I wrestled with myself.  Internally I played out the police scenario.  It didn't go well.  I searched the universe.  What were my other options?

Drive to the barn myself?
And then what?
Excuse me?  You, harming the animals?  Yeah, um...I need you to stop that, because we don't do that. 

Hardly.

The longer I contemplated, the more stressed I became at the crying animals.  Desperately, I felt my pride begin to crumble.

"I can't call 9-1-1," I firmly insisted.

"Why not?"

"Because, this isn't an emergency!"

"Well...then call campus police."

"I don't know the phone number for the campus police!"

And then, in a move that can be understood only to those who are married to engineers, his phone was before me, ready to hit "Dial," the number of the campus police already programmed in (probably the day after we moved in).

My heart beat faster.  Was I really going to do this?  Seriously?

I hit the green button and heard the campus police phone begin to ring.

"Campus Police, what is your emergency?"

"Uh...yeah...um...there are some cows and sheep that are really loud...and...uh...I'm worried that something might be wrong."

LONG SILENCE.

"Some cows and sheep?"

"Yeah...I...uh...live above the university barns, and I...um...I can hear them through my window.  And they're...they're really loud...and I'm worried maybe someone got in...or there's something wrong...."

"So...you're hearing animals?
"Can you see in the barn?
"Did you see someone go in?"

"Um...no.  I am at home.  I heard them from my window.  It's...open."

"So you didn't see anything?"

"No."

"And you weren't there?  At the barn?  Where the animals are?"

"No."

("And how many drinks have you had?"  I could hear her thinking.  "And what sorority do you belong to?  And who dared you to call me?"  I could almost see her eyes rolling through the glowing cell phone.)

"Okay, well, I'm going to need to get your information..."

(Oh, great, I thought. I can see it now.  My information.  In a full police report.  In some file or record somewhere that someone will find one day when I am in a desperately critical situation and use it to prove I haven't been mentally well for a long, long time.  Disrespect for law enforcement.  Erratic behavior. Fake police reports.)

Demoralizing.  Absolutely demoralizing.  The conversation continued to spiral downward until she promised she would send campus police to go "check it out."

I hung up the phone, filled suddenly with overwhelming emotion--equal parts relief and humiliation.  I could feel the red flush on my cheeks in the darkness.  I handed the phone back to my husband.

"Well?"

"She said they'll check it out," I said.

I got up and--in one firm push--shut the window and closed the blinds, then crawled back into bed.
The burden of the welfare of the barnyard animals of Logan was off my shoulders.  They were now in the capable hands of the campus police.  Satisfied, I rolled over and fell into a deep sleep, knowing I would be second guessing myself the next morning when my husband would confirm it was definitely not a dream.

I have since decided that when I reached the pearly gates one day, I am remembering this one.

No doubt I will have a mile-long list of offenses I've committed on Earth, but you better believe I will be sure to note that I risked my own reputation to save the animals.

I hope the cows and sheep are happy.

Moving: I Might Need That Some Day!

I love my grandma. 

I love the legacy that she left me. I love how she pretended she invented Oreos and how she snuck downstairs every afternoon with a Diet Pepsi and bag of microwave popcorn to watch General Hospital.  I love that she could create anything she put her mind to and do it well.  I love how she used to take me to yard sales during the summer.  I love how she took us to plays and musical events.  I love the parts of her that I see in me.

But, despite all that, there was at least one thing I was determined not to carry on when she passed away. After cleaning out her house room by room, closet by closet, drawer by drawer, and shelf by shelf, I vowed I would never hold on to anything I didn't really need ever again.

Cleaning out a house can change a person.  Especially if said house was lived in by two people who both lived through the Great Depression.  Even more especially if at least one of those people loved yard sales, clearance racks, and deals.  (At least I can now say I come by it honestly, right?)

I was quite sure that the life-altering mission of cleaning out a person's house entirely (I mean, down to the carpet and walls) had changed my own hoarding life drastically.

Upon returning home from my last trip cleaning out the house, I went on a giant purge of our one-bedroom basement apartment, organizing everything and giving things away to charity that--if I were to really be honest with myself--I knew deep down would never fit again.
(I convinced myself that if by some miraculous parasite or other disease/miracle they ever did fit again, they would be so out of style that it wouldn't matter anyway.)

Bottom line: I let a lot of things go.

I think it was the happiest week of Paul's life.

So, I felt relatively unconcerned when it came time to move.  I mean, how much stuff could there be? (I feel like there should be some type of ominous mood music that should come on right about now.)

We decided to start early to avoid the typical last-minute crisis I usually find myself in upon moving.  I got boxes.  We started packing.  We got online and rented a truck.  Just to be safe, we chose U-Haul's "Two Bedroom Apartment" option--you know, just in case.

The day drew closer and the boxes piled up more and more.  We got a call from U-Haul telling us that every single truck in that size had been taken and that we were going to have to go all the way to Santaquin to get a truck.  But, because of the inconvenience, we would be upgraded to a truck for a small house.

I know, it's big.  You don't have to tell me...

Everything seemed to be coming together flawlessly.  The boxes were packed.  People were coming at 6:00 pm to help us load the truck, and we had an even larger truck than we'd planned, so there was no need to worry.  All we had to do was get the truck and be home by 6:00.  I would clean the apartment while everyone packed, and we would be on our way to the land of the Aggies.

I should have know it was too perfect.  There should have been more foreboding.  Something should have whispered, "It gets worse before it gets better."  Because, oh…it got worse.

As we left to get the truck, Paul asked which car we should take to get it.  I said that we should take his, because it was the one we would be hooking up to the back of the U-Haul.  We could drive his car down together, hook it up to the moving truck, and he could drive us back to our apartment.  We rode down to Santaquin, speculating about the move, talking about the nostalgia we were feeling, and wondering about the next chapter in our lives.

We arrived at the U-Haul place and not more than a few minutes later were ready to go.
"You don't have to, like, learn how to drive these?" I whispered to Paul.  "I mean, this thing is a beast.  You could kill someone with this."

"I guess not," he whispered back.

I feel like I should have had one of these.
Except it probably shouldn't have said "John."

It was then we discovered the first glitch.  Santaquin didn't have the piece of equipment needed to tow Paul's car.  Because of that, we would have to drive to Provo and pick up the car towing dolly there.  Which, I quickly decided in my head, meant there were two vehicles (Paul's stick shift car and the moving truck) and two licensed drivers: one capable of driving either vehicle, and the other a potential hazard to all human-kind in either of them.

I think we all know who the hazard was.

"Which one do you want to drive?" Paul asked me.

"I'll take the truck," I said.  "It's just to Provo, and then we can hook up your car and you can drive home."

And just like that, I was behind the wheel of an enormous vehicle designed to carry an entire small house.

I felt like I was driving a school bus.  I held my breath every time I changed lanes, praying I hadn't ended the life of some poor person on a motorcycle who had snuck into my blind spot.  As my sweaty palms gripped the steering wheel and sweat began to bead on my forehead, I looked probably looked like my fourteen-year-old self trying to think of something clever to say to my crush, who had just asked me to dance.

I reminded myself if would all be over in just a few miles.

I still wish it had been.

We pulled into the Provo U-Haul, signed the paperwork, and got the car dolly hooked to the moving truck.  However, for some reason (that I can't remember now) we didn't end up hooking up Paul's car.  I think it was because he was going to need to unhook it as soon as we got home so that we could load the back of the moving truck and that just seemed like extra work to all of us.

I toyed with the idea of driving Paul's car home rather than the truck (which, of course, now had a car dolly attached), but considering I had killed his car at least 7 times in the U-Haul parking lot while trying to move it (oh the shame!), my pride relegated me back to the driver's seat of the U-Haul with my heart beating even more rapidly than before.

I mentally went through the route, trying to find as few turns as possible, unsure how wide my turns would be. (Can't you just see those "Wide Turn" signs they plaster all over the back of semis which show them turning and taking out three other cars?)

I chose a route home, knowing I would only need to make two main turns--one out of the U-Haul place, and one left-turn onto State Street.  From there, I would slowly take State Street's right lane all the way home.

Had that worked, we would have driven home, packed, and moved with both our marriage and our sanity still intact.  

Of course, that would have required me realizing that there were not two turn lanes.  By the time I realized that, it was too late.  I was already in the lane going straight.  The light turned green, and I headed down the wrong road, desperate to find a place to turn around.  I pulled into a neighborhood, thinking I would just--you know--flip around, head back to State Street, and continue with my original plan.

Have you ever tried turning a U-Haul with a car dolly completely around?  Well, if not, let me tell you a little secret--it's not quite the same as driving a car.  While back up, my concentration was jolted as I heard a frantic honking and saw Paul right behind me.  I put the truck into park and jumped out into the middle of the street yelling, "What?!"

"You're about to break the hitch off!" he said.

And that was the moment when the stress and the worry and the anxiety and the massive truck got to me.

And I snapped.

"Fine--You drive it!"  I said.  I threw the keys at him in front of at least three cars who were now blocked by my running U-Haul parked diagonally in the middle of the road.

I understand it was not my best move.
You don't have to tell a crazy person they're crazy.
I think irrational people know they're irrational.
But when you snap, you snap.

So, Paul carefully got the truck out of the precarious situation I had put it in and began driving.  Which left me alone with his little, Dodge Neon stick shift.

But, not to panic.  I know how to drive stick shift.
Sort of.
On one vehicle.
That I drove a few times when I was 16.

Which, unfortunately, turned out to be a volatile combination for a person during rush hour traffic in Utah County.

I killed it…and killed it….and killed it again.

Every alternate route I tried to take only led to bigger roads and multi-laned intersections.  Despite my frantic prayers, I hit nearly every light red.  And I killed it about 14 times every time it turned green.  Every turn felt like a left turn.

I have never seen so many people yell, wave, or honk.
I could have set a record.
Maybe I did set a record.

Yes, Google Images.  It was kind of like this.
http://ericpetersautos.com/2013/12/18/americans-dont-drive-2/angry-driver/

It was so bad someone behind me turned their hazard light on (I couldn't find Paul's) while still managing to simultaneously yell at me.  I could read her lips in the rear view mirror.

Backed by a throng of angry drivers, I lurched all the way to Orem where I finally pulled into a church parking lot and yelled into my phone at Paul, "Come….Get….Me…."

In the end, I was the one who drove the U-Haul home after all.

6:00 came, but no one showed up.

7:00 came, and still no one.

My saintly aunt and uncle came and began to work.

Finally, some men showed up.  I came out and things looked packed.  I came back and the van was nearly empty.  I came out an hour later--repacked.  Thirty minutes after that, they were unpacking again.

Apparently, despite my adamant declarations that I was NOT a hoarder (I only kept things I needed), I had somehow accumulated what U-Haul considered to be more than a house worth of stuff.  And so, the game of "Montoya Furniture Tetras" continued until after 11:00 pm, lit by the headlights of cars, shining into the jam-packed truck.  Bless all those men, who most definitely cursed me. They even packed our mattress.  As I lay on the bare carpet that night, I was too tired to even complain.

I would love to say that the next morning we closed the door to our first apartment and drove blissfully off into our future, but...we didn't.  Paul drove away and I stayed behind, waiting for my parents to rescue us by bringing their truck to take one last load.

The rest we gave to D.I.

I have now had four months to reflect on how two newlyweds can have that much stuff--all of which (at least at the time) was deemed "necessary."

1. U-Haul is not founded by someone LDS who believes in food storage or by someone who at least believes in being prepared for the end of the world via zombie apocalypse.  It obviously wasn't founded by anyone whose in-laws kindly gave them about twenty #10 cans of food storage and 50 pounds of wheat.  And I'd be willing to bet that the founder doesn't have two 50 gallon water drums.  Or 5 cans of powdered butter.

Let me say one thing: When the world ends, I will be here, sprinkling powdered butter on my wheat and thinking of you.  Then we'll talk about "necessary."

Yes, I have over 1,000 servings of powdered butter.  

2. U-Haul has never met a teacher who is moving her classroom.  Especially a classroom with a theme.  Charlie, the three-foot tall mascot/class pet had to come.  The bookshelves had to come.  The giant stars and lasso?  They had to come.  The books, the chair, the files, the filing cabinet?  It was sort of a BYOB type classroom (Bring Your Own Bookshelves, that is.)

Really, it was for the children.  Remember my motto?

Anything for the children….

Stars? Mailboxes?  Organizers?  Oh, it all had to go!

Of COURSE the books came.  And the bins.  

Yeah, I even had to bring a filing cabinet!

3. U-Haul doesn't plan on someone to try to recreate a TLC home makeover show for a family member while they are in the process of moving.  I'm fairly certain that people who are moving from a small, one-bedroom apartment probably don't think it's a great time to begin collecting an entire extra living and dining room's worth of furniture for someone else, because we all know that's just crazy.

In fact, the little boy who lived by us said to me one day in a puzzled voice as I was bringing a coffee table home, "Wait…Aren't you supposed to be taking things out of your apartment when you move, not bringing more things in?"

Ha!  That's what you'd like to think, isn't it?

Well, I only have one thing to say to that.  When I saw the look on my sister' face, it was worth it.  Totally.

"Everything but the kitchen sink?"  Close.
More like, "Everything but the couches."

4. U-Haul doesn't realize that Facebook now has yard sale pages.  Or that some people are genetically predisposed to love a great deal.  Or to stock up on things that they will need.
Maybe.
Someday.

My co-worker wanted to buy me a bumper sticker that said,
"I brake for yard sales!" 

I'm working on it.  Really, I am.

So, the good news is that we made it.
We are here.
It all fit just fine.
And we love it.

Charlie the horse loves it too.  Somehow, I knew he would.

Look how happy he is!  The kids LOVE him!

Unremarkable, for $1000

I think based on past posts it has been made clear just how I feel about doctors.

I love them.  I really, really love them.  With all of my heart.  And I trust them implicitly.  And sometimes, I lie.

The truth is I don't like doctors, hospitals, or anything related to medicine, and I make my husband Paul surprisingly irritated every time I talk about it.

But what can a person expect?  I mean, is it my fault that I'm always the person who has highly unusual experiences that professionals can't seem to diagnose?  Like the virus a couple years ago that bewildered Instacare and a dentist finally solved by pulling out his college textbook?

Yeah, that was awesome.

Really, I am certain that the medical professionals who attend to me are much more competent than my atypical cases make them appear.

So, in keeping with my history of strange incidents (having metal drilled out of my eye, having a jawbone that grew too long on one side, the second worst orthodontic case Dr. Haymore had seen second to the girl with no front teeth, a virus that leveled me, two root canals following a history of perfect dental health), life--seeming to know my love for storytelling--continues to provide me with more than my fair share of these "experiences," and this year has been no exception.  My knee must have decided that life was getting a little too boring and it was time to spice things up.

It's shocking how spicy one little knee can turn out to be.

I will give you a somewhat brief synopsis of the last year-and-a-half of my life.  And by brief, I mean it will only be slightly better than living through the entire 16 months yourself.

It all began last August.  Paul decided to surprise me and take me on a hike to Timpanogos Cave for my birthday, which should have been a great idea.  Unfortunately, it wasn't.  Soon after the hike, my knee began to swell up.
Really swell up.
People at work began to become concerned.  ("Do you need…a rolley chair to push yourself around?"   "Have you been to a doctor?"  "Should I call a doctor?")

I, however, was convinced that medical intervention would do nothing for me.  Everything I knew, had read, and had discussed with people who actually knew about knees told me that unless I had torn or broken something (which I was quite certain I hadn't), there was nothing I could do but RICE it (rest, ice, compression, elevation) and give it time.  Which I did.  Four whole months worth of time.

Finally, when my sister started telling me around Thanksgiving that it looked like rising bread dough and that it wasn't normal (Can't you just hear her?  "Uh….I don't think that's normal….") I decided it may be time to seek help.

This pretty well sums it up.

I went in to a well-known knee doctor who took an X-ray, told me to never do any physical activity again, and then mercilessly drained my knee and injected it with cortisone using a needle that felt like it could be related to the Seattle Space Needle.  The whole time the doctor talked about how December was the "Black Friday" of knees and he'd done over 20 injections just that day, as though this were the most normal thing in the world.

Although he was somewhat concerned his "bandaid approach" wouldn't work for long and he'd be seeing me again, I, in Pollyanna-like fashion, crossed my fingers, hobbled out of his office, and resumed life--now with a medical excuse for my lack of exercise (Which, frankly made me much less guilt-ridden about my sloth-like lifestyle).

And so, life moved on a things went fairly well…
Until this October.

Paul and I went to a Pumpkin Walk here in Logan near Halloween for one of our dates.

Note the key word "Walk" in "Pumpkin Walk."
Yes, folks, we took a nice autumn stroll, admiring pumpkins, squash, and zucchinis that created delightful characters and scenes, but in the days following--before I could say "Happy Halloween" to 113 Elsas--my knee had swollen again.

My old co-workers should be happy to note that this time I did not wait four months before going in. I found a new doctor (And by that, I mean Paul found a doctor, made me an appointment and let me know when I'd be going, because really--of the two of us, he makes a much better adult) and within days I was back on an examining table, puffy knee ready to be drained.

I felt a bit of deja vu as fluid was removed, cortisone was injected, and I was on my way.

Don't be deceived, however, at how simple and easy I make it sound.  When the doctor told the PA, "Could you grab me an 8?"as though it were no big deal, I should have run.  One-legged.

Perhaps the medical community is simply trying to pacify wimps like me and had me in mind when they created their needle numbering system.  You see,  the larger a needle is, the smaller its number is.  Diabetics use needles in the 30's.  When they put an IV in my hand, that needle was a 20.

So when the doctor leans over and says, "Could you grab me an 8?" as nonchalantly as he orders a burger and fries, what he really means to say is, "You see that sharp PVC pipe over there?  Grab that for me, would you?  Yeah, we're definitely going to want one of the largest needles available for human use to drain this knee here."

This, my friends, is a 20.

Do you know how large the largest needle used on humans is?  A six.  That's right.  SIX.  And they used an eight.

It wouldn't have been so concerning except for the high school girl who was shadowing my doctor.  The look on her face told me things couldn't be good.

While draining the knee, the doctor informed me that perhaps my knee cap was crooked and some physical therapy would get it back into place, solving whatever was wrong with my mysteriously problematic patella.

A few days later, I spent 90 minutes being shocked, iced, stretched, and massaged.

When I woke up the next morning, my knee was the size of Rhode Island.  

I'm starting to see why they were thinking my knee cap was in the wrong spot...

So, I spent all of Thanksgiving break on my parents' couch--except when I would get out of the house via the neighbor's crutches and then (once we got to a store) would make it to a wheelchair or one of those really awesome Jazzy-type scooters they advertise during every commercial break of The Price is Right.  I am so glad I ran into someone from my graduating class while driving it.  I've come a long way in eleven years.

That's right--From high school senior to senior citizen in just 11 years.
I've always been a bit of an over-achiever.  

If I'd known the driver was included,
I would've gotten a wheelchair years ago!

Eventually, Thanksgiving break ended and I went back to the doctor.  He had only one thing to say: MRI.

I had only one thing I heard: One thousand dollars.

Bless you, high deductible insurance plan.  Bless you.

And so I debated. Should I have it done?  Or should I just buy a Jazzy scooter and live out the rest of my life in peace?

It was a tough call.  The Jazzy was pretty amazing.

My biggest fear was that they would do the MRI and find nothing, leaving me without money or answers.

"That is highly unlikely," Paul told me over and over.  "You can barely move.  Your knee is huge.  It will definitely show something."

So, I got an MRI.

It was a strange experience to be lying in a tube that made noises like a rocket ship preparing for take-off while in the background Karen Carpenter's voice calmly crooned, "Merry Christmas Darling…"into the headphones they'd provided.

Don't worry--Just preparing for my future flight to outer space.

An MRI is not painful.  It's not scary.  It's just terribly nerve wracking because right before going in, a nice medical person will say something like, "Now remember, this is an extremely sensitive machine and any movement will cause the images to be blurry."

So all I could think of for twenty minutes--every time I itched or needed to sneeze or got terribly uncomfortable--were blurry pictures of ancient ancestors and Abraham Lincoln on a Civil War battlefield who had clearly missed the memo about staying still, and how much it would cost if my MRI was blurry and had to be redone.

Needless to say, I stayed perfectly still.

Upon reflection, I think had I been buried alive (which likely would have felt similar to an MRI) I would have at least been allowed to sneeze.

After the MRI, I was desperate to know what was wrong with me.  (Or at least what was wrong with my knee….)  When I got to the doctor's office the next week, the woman reading the report pulled out a white sheet of paper, scanned it and declared, "Well, it looks…completely unremarkable."

Unremarkable?

UNREMARKABLE?!
There are few things in the world worse than paying $1,000 to find out you are completely and utterly unremarkable.
I have a list of people who willingly would have told me that for free!

My meniscus was fine.  My ACL was fine.  My cartilage was fine.
Yet somehow, I was clearly not fine.

I had two options:
1. Be a gimp for the rest of my life
2. Get a scope and hope they could find and fix something.

I called my old doctor to get a second opinion.  He was out of town for over a week, but his nurse said the note he'd made on my chart said he was afraid my knee was severely deranged.

From unremarkable to deranged in the same week?  No wonder I couldn't trust doctors!

What was I to do?

Life is full of tough decisions.  I decided on Thursday to go with the scope.

Unfortunately, this picture was PRE-drugs.
Clearly, I am not unremarkable...

By Monday, I was lying on an operating table fading away as anesthesia coursed through my body.

My next conscious memory was repeating to Paul over and over, "I'm doing great!  I even told the doctor 'Merry Christmas.'  How long was my surgery?  Oh, an hour?  I feel so much better than the last time I went under.  I'm so with it.  I even told the doctor 'Merry Christmas.'  Was my surgery thirty minutes?  No?  An hour?  Oh.  Did I tell you I told the doctor 'Merry Christmas'?  Do you know how long I was in surgery?"

"Merry Christmas!"

During the hour-long surgery, it was discovered that I have a tissue disease which makes my tissue grow too much.  The tissue in my left knee grew delightful little "fingers" that snuck into places they shouldn't have been.  The photos they gave me (as a fabulous souvenir, I assume) make my knee look like an underwater adventure teeming with coral.  Coral, that--of course--had to be sliced, drilled, and vacuumed away (At least that's how the 37 seconds of the video of my surgery that I actually stomached watching made it look).

So, the good news is, I will not have to pay $10,000 to continue my life as "Unremarkable."  I may have been "Unremarkable" for $1,000, but for only $9,000 more, I have moved up in the ranks to "Unusual" and "Uncommon."

I'll take it.

That's what I'm going for here: Not bigger, just better.
Once I start exercising again, that is.  

I'll also take the punch card I was pushing for in the doctor's office.  You know?  Tenth visit free? Buy-one-get-one-free physical therapy? Or at least a surgery t-shirt that says "I Survived."  Because so far, all I've gotten are a DVD of the surgery, a Dove chocolate bar, and a bottle of Lortab that helped me set a new personal-best record for number of times I've thrown up in one day.  (Word to the Wise: "Norco" is code for "Another horrible form of Lortab."  When they ask how your pain is after one pill, don't say five.  Five will only get you more nausea-inducing drugs.)

I had a hard time taking them seriously
when all I could think of was Brian Regan.

So, if you see me hobbling on crutches sometime during the next few weeks, don't feel bad for me.  I hobble with pride.  I am part an elite group of people with freakish knee tissue--which is infinitely more interesting than "Unremarkable."

Happy Holidays!
God bless us, everyone.

Me?  I'm playing Tiny Tim
for Christmas this year.  

You're from Iowa?

Dear America,

I am about to say something shocking.
Prepare yourself.

Idaho is a state.

And it is not the same state as Iowa.
And we don't grow corn.
And we actually do grow more than potatoes.

I know.  It's hard to wrap your mind around.
Everything you've been told your whole life may have been a lie.

If you're from Idaho and you've ever traveled out of state (hard to leave such a magical place, I know, but assuming you did leave for any amount of time and go somewhere else) you have probably been asked where you are from.  It could happen anywhere--on an airplane, as an angry driver is speeding past you--making an obscene gesture and screaming, "Where are you from?" or even at a college social.    You will respond casually, "Oh, I'm from Idaho."

Which will be followed by at statement like this:
"Iowa?  Wow.  So…you grow a lot of corn?"
(This is anyone East of the Mississippi.  They somehow never learned all the rectangularly shaped states and their neighbors when they were 5th graders, so they haven't realized yet that there even is a state out West named "Idaho.")

Apparently, we are not the only state with this problem...

"No, IDAHO."
Which is then followed by, "Oh, you-da-hoe?" and a giggle as the person talking pats him or herself on the back for being so incredibly witty.  After all, junior high wit is so irresistible.
(This is anyone under the age of 35.  Anyone else may not even understand why this is offensive.  I was relating it to an adult after I had heard it roughly 346 times on a high school trip to Florida and she said, "Oh, because we're farmers and we hoe our gardens?"
Yes.  That's exactly it.)

Would you look at that hoe?

Or then there's the, "Oh…Idaho.  Is your dad a potato farmer?" (This is generally anyone in the Western US.)

I adore potatoes.  I really do.  And I absolutely insist on being a potato snob and only buying the ones grown in Idaho.  (Imagine me, in the middle of the grocery store: "Paul!  Did you check those?  Are they grown in Idaho?  What?  They're not?  Put them back!  Seriously.  We don't buy Canadian potatoes!")

Nevertheless, I have to admit I only know one potato farmer.  All the rest are sugar beet farmers, alfalfa farmers, bean and grain farmers.  In fact, I spent all of high school working in wheat and barley fields.  (Don't even get me started on awned and awnless grains…)

And, although I'm from Idaho, neither one of my parents is even a farmer at all.

Then there's the, "Idaho.  Oh, that's pretty much just Mini-Utah."
Read my lips: You.  Are. Wrong.
Granted, Brigham Young settled over 300 towns in the West (in Utah, Arizona, Nevada, Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho) and many of them have commonalities.  But Brigham Young did not settle Idaho.  And Idaho is not Utah.  They don't even wish they were.

Don't get me wrong, Brigham.  I love the quadrant system almost as much as I love you.

One of my very favorite responses ever, though, was this:
"Idaho?  You're from Idaho?!  That is the worst state in the entire United States.  Seriously.  The worst.  I would rather live in North Dakota!"
(That was a fabulous date.  Part of what made it so delightful was that the preceding sentences were uttered in the first three minutes of the date when we asked all those awkward get-to-know-you questions.  I hope that someone somewhere told that boy something about personal filters.  Besides--he just offended two states.  And I know some very nice people from North Dakota.)

Welcome to North Dakota

However, the one that tops the charts was this one:
"Where are you from?"
"Idaho."
"Idaho?  I hate people from Idaho!"

Thank you.  We hate you, too.

Okay, maybe "hate" was too strong of a word...

So, though I'm not exactly Idaho's spokesperson, I'd like to clear up a few common misconceptions:

1. Idaho is a state.  Out West.

2. Idaho does grow potatoes.  Fabulous ones.  They also grow many other things.  And they mine.  And they manufacture.  And they log.  And they do all the jobs that everyone else does to keep things running.

3. Idaho--surprising though it may be--does have running water and electricity.  (It was such an exciting day when we got our first indoor bathroom in 1998.  That was the year!  Now we just use the old privy out back for time-outs.)

4. Most people from Idaho do not like their homes, property, families or anything else to be described as "rustic."  ("You have a clothesline?  That's SO rustic!  My grandma had one of those!  Oh, it's just so cute!")

Soooooo rustic

5. Idaho has radio stations, stores, and even television.  Hello, Idaho had Philo T. Farnsworth, the inventor of TV himself. (Ignore what Utah says.)

So, the next time I get asked, "Where are you from?" and I politely answer, "Oh, I'm from Idaho," please keep the:

 "(Gasp!) I never would have guessed that!"
(Translation: "Really?!  I've never even seen you wear overalls!  And you have a full set of teeth!")

No, this is not my house...

"Well you don't talk like you're from Idaho,"
(Translation: "…because I can actually understand what you are saying and you speak with correct grammar…")

or the

"Oh…you're from…Idaho… (awkward silence)"
(Translation: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.")

to yourself.

Thank you.

*This Public Service Announcement Has Been Brought To You In Partnership With the "Idaho Is More Than Just Potatoes" Campaign.  Thank You For Reading.

Perrine Bridge.  One of the few places you can legally BASE jump.

The Hall of Shame...One More Reason I Wasn't Teacher of the Year

We all have moments we would rather not relive.  Moments people continually reassure us will be really funny "someday."  (Exactly how long is "someday?" I always wonder.  Long enough that I forget it was me who actually did it and think it was someone else?)

I hate to admit it, but I have had more than my fair share of "moments."  It seems like anywhere from once a month to once a week to sometimes even once a day, someone shakes their head and mutters under their breath, "Only you, Melissa, only you.  I have never met anyone...."

I mean, there was the time--in a mad rush--I changed clothes at a stoplight and forgot to zip my skirt.  It fell down around my ankles when I got out of the car while I (as shocked as anyone) just kept standing there.  When I told my dad about it, he laughed so hard I think he cried.

There was also the time I said, "Who would WEAR something this hideous?" right as a lady stepped out holding the "hideous" item in her hand, clearly on her way to the dressing room (Maybe it helped her realize her fashion faux pas in time?).

Oooooor the time I freaked out after I hung up with my insurance representative...and then realized I hadn't actually hung up.

And as if those times weren't bad enough, most of the rest of the embarrassing moments I can think of (that haven't been repressed already) are so horrifically scarring that only those who were present at the scene of the incident are even allowed to know.  A few I didn't even tell Paul until we'd been married for six months, despite his reassurances that it really was too late for an annulment.  

You see, my embarrassing moments are a pretty serious thing.  One girl told me that one of my stories was the best ice breaker she's ever had.  She just told her group of campers she was in charge of that sumer about how horrible one of my dates was and everyone laughed and said, "Well, I've never had anything that bad happen!" and like magic, everyone seemed to be friends.

I'm worried and half convinced that my own self-inflicted stupidity mixed with bad luck is part of the reason people stay friends with me--just hoping to be present the next time I do something that could incriminate me for life.

I'm the person who, when I get asked, "What's your most embarrassing moment?" just smiles politely and says, "Uh....embarrassing?  Something I've had happen to me that was embarrassing?  Hmmm.....I can't really think of anything off the top of my head."

But as bad as many of these things have been, this past school year I had one of the best (or worst) moments yet.  A moment that got me an official invitation to the Teaching Hall of Shame.
(Don't look that up.  I made that up right now.  But if they did have one, there would be a plaque with my name on it.)

Let's go back to October.  I was a crazy, first-of-the-school-year teacher who was working to keep thirty-two kids and their parents happy, simultaneously plan the dream wedding I'd waited 27 years for, and still find time to see my fiancé (who worked until 9:30 almost every night)--ALL while still trying to squeeze in enough sleep to perform my daily song-and-dance routine of convincing ten-year-olds they really did want to write a report on brine shrimp and learn long division.

To sum it up, I was exhausted.  Totally exhausted.

Then, an adorable girl from my class had to get her appendix out, had complications, and ended up in the hospital for about a week.

Now, we as teachers are not perfect.  Sometimes we're probably not even good.  But, we do love your children.  So, thinking about how much I liked this sweet little student, I got the class to write get well notes, got her a plant for her hospital room, along with some things to do to pass the time while she was there, and headed over to the hospital.  I was sitting in the parking lot when I realized I didn't have a gift bag and there was WAY too much stuff to shove in my purse or haul in bare-handed.

However, to my relief, I spotted a gift bag in my backseat which was left from the bridal shower I'd had  the week before.  Thank goodness I never throw those things away!  I opened it, made sure no spatulas or cookbooks had been left inside, and then took the gift in.

My student and her dad were there, we all chatted for about a half hour, I gave her the gift, and then I went home after a thirteen hour day.   And that was the end of the story.  Go me.  Teacher of the Year.

Until May.

I know.  If you have any Sherlock Holmes in you at all, you have already figured out that this story is not supposed to have a happy ending and people who win Teacher of the Year don't simultaneously land themselves in the Hall of Shame.  So, that being said, your mind is already starting to wonder what could have gone so horribly wrong.

Well, nothing went wrong as far as I knew, until I received this envelope on the last day of school.

For those of you who can't see that, it says: "Mrs. Montoya (for your eyes only)"

Kids give me end-of-year gifts all the time--anything from sweet, handwritten cards to necklaces that say "MO" (I think "Montoya" was just too long....), to gift cards to flowers to candy.  But flowers or candy don't usually come with a note that says, "For your eyes only"........written by the mom......

Imagine my confusion and absolute horror when I opened the card and found this:

Yes, the person who gave me this gift is on my "not nice" list for a LONG time....

Come on…You can put the pieces together.

Luckily for me, this VERY forgiving mother (who also had been teaching fourth grade the year she got married) did.  She figured it all out very quickly.

That's right.  The gift bag I used was not, not, not, NOT, definitely NOT entirely cleaned out.  I know it's shocking to think I could have missed such an enormous and obvious article of clothing. But somehow, in my tired haze, I missed it.  Note and all.

I can only imagine the look on my student's face (and her dad's) as she pulled the items one-by-one from the bag.

"Look!  A plant!  And...a coloring book!  And cards from my friends!  And a puzzle!  And....an....an....???"

Apparently, her dad--who hadn't gotten a very good look--exclaimed, "An eyepatch!  I think it's an eyepatch."

Yes.  It had the same square yardage as an eyepatch.  That was very observant.

But no, her dad didn't figure out exactly what it was until the nurse walked in to find her nine-year-old patient holding up a pink and black polka dot thong....given to her by her fourth grade teacher.

I don't know how she ever came back to school.  I think I would have stayed home and died.  I don't know how her parents got through one or two more parent conferences with me, maintaining straight faces and looking me in the eye.

But, they did have a sense of humor enough to know that someday (there's that word again) this would be funny.  So, they returned my items and told me the whole story.

Once it was summer.

Once I would never have to face them again.

Once I would have months to recover from the shame.

So, there you have it.

And, let's face it.  It IS funny.  In a terrible, "Man, I'm glad that's her and not me," sort of way, it's hysterical.  In the, "I'm glad that was someone else's child but I swear I would have killed that woman," way, it's a riot.

So, with school right around the corner and a fresh set of cardigan-clad teachers who are ready to love your child, you will have something new to be grateful for when, in just a few short months, you and your child both make it through the year virtually unscathed, unscarred, and unembarrassed.  

Come May, when you are thanking your child's teachers with those heartfelt cards and crafts from Pinterest for all that those spectacular educators have done in the last nine months to enrich your child's life, you could always throw in a little, "Aaaaand, on top of everything else, thanks also for never giving her underwear with enough square footage to fit someone's big toe."

I mean, those things happen.  Oooooh, they do happen.

Right here in River City.

Don't worry.  I always have this year to become Teacher of the Year.  And with a streak like mine....I would say my chances are looking preeeeetty darn good.

But, you might want to stay friends with me to wait it out and see--just to be sure.