Monday, May 2, 2011

Cliff Hangers No Mo.

I've left a few things hanging over the past couple of weeks.  I'd like to take this time now to wrap them up.  


But first, speaking of cliff hangers, can I confess to you a phobia that I have?  Perhaps its not a phobia, but it is most certainly a distorted way of thinking.  Whenever I'm waaaay up high and there's a ledge of some sort, I have to keep myself faaaar back from it.  Not from fear of falling.  And (ha ha) not from fear of landing, either.  Nope, its from fear of flinging; myself, that is.  I have this unnatural compulsion-type-need to picture myself jumping off of said cliff.  I don't think I'd ever do it, its just something I always picture, and it requires me to stay further back than I really need to.  Whew.  Glad I could share that with you and not be judged.  You're not judging, right?  Oh, okay, good.  Back to the wrap-up.

1. The other time Handsome left me stranded
We were preparing to go out on our friend's boat one day.  It was a fine and lovely day, the sun was shining, and the lake was the place to be.  We stopped off at the grocery store and Handsome stayed outside while I ran in to get a few items.  Just a few.  As a matter of fact, I had run in, grabbed everything, and was scanning it in the check out line when Handsome called.  There was a call, he said, and he was going to run it.  Homeboy say WHA?  
"No!" says I.  "I'm checking out right now, I'll be right there!"  But Handsome was already on the road, pulling away in hot pursuit of something hot and burning.  It is at this point that I regretfully admit that I did not take this in stride.  I was equally as hot and burning mad as whatever fire Handsome was chasing.  So, I collect my bags and started walking storming.  The volunteer fire station that H. was running with is about 1/2 mile from our grocery store, and dad'gum if I wasn't going to walk there.
I actually made it about 1/3 of a mile, stomping in my flops and carrying 5 grocery bags by the time Handsome drove past, going back to pick me up.  When he picked me up, he wanted to tell me all about how he was a hero, how he put out the truck fire.  I wanted to fume, and refused to listen.  Eventually I did calm down, and when looked at objectively (many hours later) I was really only abandoned for about 8 minutes.   And that is that story.
 2.  The other time I collected an abandoned dog  (AKA: Why Handsome Doubts my Dog-Whispering Ways)
So I was driving back from Handsome's apartment, senior year in college, and I see this pup.  And let me tell you, this pup looks rough.  She's got hairless patches on her knees (or whatever that joint between the paw and the shoulder is on a dog), she's looking like she's not looking at much of anything due to the cataracts in her eyes, and she's uber skinny.  The thought immediately pops into my head, "This 'ole girl must be a stray."  She has no collar, and she's friendly but dirty.  
I lure her with some lunchmeat, carry her into my car, and then coax her into my 2nd story apartment (without my landlord's knowledge as this is most certainly taboo).  My roommate and I fed and loved on her, and tried to come up with some idea for how to find her owners.  We couldn't keep her with us, as it was against the rules to have a lamb at school dog in the apartment.  We had ideas for flyers and all sorts of things.  While I had dinner at my mom's my roommate took her for a walk.
And what should this walk produce but someone who recognized our little pup.  Turns out, sweet 'ole girl is suffering from the doggy equivalent of Alzheimer's, and  if she slips her collar and gets away, she often forgets where she's from and how to get back.  Oh, and who does she belong to, you ask?  Oh, just a 7-month pregnant woman who nearly went into premature labor when she realized her childhood pet was missing.
If you listen to Handsome tell this story, he'll say that I stole a pregnant woman's dog.  This is most assuredly NOT what happened, as you can see from the above tale.   However, there is enough truth in the statement to make me hang my head when Handsome mentions it and/or doubts my new dog-escapades.  And that is that story.

3.  The End.
Truth be told, I feel like every list should have at least 3 entries.  And I just developed that feeling now, as I made this list.  So now it has 3 entries, and is inline with my new way of feeling and thinking.  And that is that.  

Staying away from high heights,
TFW 

3 comments:

  1. Your mother has told me she has the same flinging impulse. So do B and Aunt Ruth. You'll find no judgment here. I don't think a girl who feels mild panic just looking at pictures of the ocean deep is allowed to judge anyone else's phobias/quirks.

    Also (English major to the rescue!), you feel that way about lists because it's a natural law of writing. A true paragraph requires at least three sentences. There are three parts to (most) standard English sentences (subject, verb, object). Besides, a numbered list of only two things just looks silly.

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  2. Don't look at this month's cover of National Geographic. I know I've already told you this, but I'm putting it out there as a public service announcement for those who also suffer from this irrational compulsion. Looking at the picture brings with it the queasy!

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  3. #1 - love that you admit your compulsion to fling yourself. No judgement here. I don't have the same compulsion, but I'm sure I have something else similar that I'm just not thinking of right now.

    #2 - I would be ticked if FireMan left me stranded to go to a fire too. It was only 8 minutes, but neither of you knew that at the time. I say Handsome was in the wrong.

    #3 - because there should always be at least three things in a list, right? :)

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