Let's stand up to cancer...and laugh at Rachel! #2

Time for Round Two! I got another donation-- thank you!!

I could go chronologically in order. But I've decided not to. Let me take you back to the childhood days  of Rachel Clark. This story is called Panties in the Pool.

It's short but hopefully the level of embarrassment is worth it.

For all of my childhood and adolescence, we belonged to this small, semi-private pool called the Teacher's Pool. It was kept alive by some fancy family fund and it was designed to provide a pool for, you guessed it, teachers in the community. I loved the Teacher's Pool. It was not usually super crowded, and I was scared of the big pool where anyone and everyone went, so it made sense that I relished in the relative emptiness and quietness of the Teacher's Pool.

To the embarrassing part.

The Teacher's Pool had two small bathrooms so sometimes we would just take our swim suits with us and change once we got there. I honestly don't know how old I was this particular time, I'm going to say somewhere around 10. Whatever age I was, I know I was far too old for what happened to have actually happened. I went to the girls bathroom, changed into my swim suit, ran back out, tossed my swim bag onto one of those folding lounge chairs and went to get in the water with my sister.

Because I was young, I don't have a stellar memory for all the details. However, I do remember that I was slowly inching my way in to the deep end via the ladder. I got in up to my shins. Then my knees. Then my thighs. Then my stomach. And suddenly, I was like.....something feels weird. It kind of felt like I was wearing a diaper.

That's right, I had accidentally forgotten to take my underwear off. In all of my hurry to change and get in the pool, I had put my swim suit on right on top of my underwear. How on earth I had left it on and not immediately realized it, I seriously do not know. Once I realized I was wearing it, I noticed that it definitely felt like I had multiple layers on. I'm unfortunately guessing that my swim suit didn't even cover all of it. So I had probably run out of the bathroom with underwear visibly underneath my suit. Whether anyone saw, I'll never know.

I honestly don't know if I was obvious enough about it that my sister or my dad realized what had happened but I'm guessing I turned bright red and ran back to the bathroom. I'll have to ask Abby if she knows this story.

I had no other option at that point than to deal with my soaking wet underwear. I think I considered throwing it away. Instead I tried to hide it in my hand as I sprinted to our chairs. I rolled it up in my towel and shoved it in my bag. I don't remember this part but I have a feeling I also had difficulty later when I had to actually use that towel to dry off after swimming and I didn't want to have to explain to anyone why my underwear had been soaking wet.

Whether this is a semi-normal mistake for 8 or 10 year olds, I have no idea. But I must have been really embarrassed, to remember it clearly to this day. The best part I think is that I didn't just start to put on my swim suit and realize I was still wearing something (although that has happened many times), but I actually went through the whole process and even got in the pool. Yeesh.

I remember my 8 or 10 year old brain thinking, "I will never ever ever tell anyone about this."  Well, thanks to that donation-- the cat's out of the bag ;)

Let's stand up to cancer...and laugh at Rachel! #1

If you haven't seen this on my Facebook page yet, I've decided to exchange embarrassing stories about myself for donations to our Relay for Life team, Clark Kent. I realized recently that embarrassing stories are at a premium. People (for good reason) want to put their best foot (and face) forward. I've noticed that this sometimes gives me what (I hope) is a false sense of everyone else's "graceful, charming lives".  Except for professional comedians, I feel like I rarely hear good down-to-earth, "I just massively embarrassed myself" stories....except for when I'm telling them. So now I'd like to share some such stories and assure you all that I do not, in fact, always have a graceful, charming life. I hope I at least make you laugh a little. 

Who knows who will eventually read any of these embarrassing stories....but it's a small price to pay for encouraging some donations so that we can stand up to cancer and help those in their time of need-- just as many people did for my family and I when my grandma and my dad were sick. 

Since I've already had an anonymous donation to my Relay for Life page, it is now time for embarrassing story #1.

This one is called......The Fatal Belch

So I was at my friend's house a few weeks ago. Before I get in to this story too far, I should just disclose one  embarrassing basic fact about myself. I burp. A lot. And not daintily. Loudly and obnoxiously. This burping started sometime around the start of grad school. Before that, I literally could not burp. I would try and try and yet I couldn't make it happen. I didn't actually care that I couldn't- it was just odd to be deficient in this one specific skill. I must have very little muscular control over my diaphragm or whatever muscle actually allows burps to happen. It was almost a pathetic inability to burp, similar to my pathetic inability to roll my Rs. I just plain can't do it. Spit gets everywhere....when trying to roll my Rs. Not when trying to burp. Or maybe in both cases, I don't know.

Anyway, now I burp. Often. I've gotten to a point, perhaps unfortunately, where I really don't try very hard (or at all) to cover it up. Especially if I'm at home, work or a friend's house. So I was at a friend's house, practicing some swing dancing with that friend and another swing dancer friend.

Let me set the stage: we were in the driveway. It was dusk or slightly after. Maybe around 9:00 pm and since it was sometime in late April or early May, it was pretty much dark at that point. I was standing near the garage, under a light. There were some bugs flying around but I hadn't noticed them too much. I was watching my friends practice the routine we were working on. They stopped and came over to talk to me and just as I was going to tell them something I turned my head to the side and let out a fairly forceful burp. It was an odd one. Mostly an exhalation of air, rather than a loud burp.  One of my friends let out a surprised sound just before I actually burped and then immediately cracked up laughing. I could barely get him to stop laughing long enough to tell me what happened.

What happened was this.

 Just as I had turned my head to the side, a moth dove down from the light and flew straight for my mouth. Because of the type of burp this was, the exhaling kind, my mouth was pretty wide open. Apparently the moth was literally inches from just entering my mouth like it was a cozy cave. However, thanks to whatever I had actually exhaled at that very moment, instead of flying into my mouth, the moth...................DIED. That's right. My burp literally killed a moth. It had gotten knocked to the ground due to either the force or the content of my burp. Or both.

Pretty ladylike, huh?

I almost didn't believe my laughing friend, but sure enough, I looked down and there it was. A (really large!) white moth. On the ground. If not dead, at least near its eventual demise. It was a goner.

I suppose I'm grateful it didn't actually make it in my mouth. I also just realized how similar of words "mouth" and "moth" are. Ironic. This would probably have been an equally- or more- funny story had the moth flown straight in. But at least now I know I have a talent as a moth exterminator. As long as I don't know it's there. Because I definitely would not have opened my mouth had I noticed my proximity to the furry white flying creature.

I made my friends promise not to tell anyone. Thanks to the recent donation to my Relay for Life page, however, they no longer have to keep my secret :)

Anyone need any moths taken care of?

Love and grief and a wonderful little kitty

Having finished classes two weeks ago, I figured I'd soon have a chance to write a comprehensive blog post on what the semester was like and how this upcoming summer is looking in terms of my big upcoming "exam" and what all it will entail.

Unfortunately, my week was turned upside down when I found out my cat of 16 years, Scooter, was hurt. The last few days have been somewhat traumatizing and it still feels a little bit like a sad dream that ended in the worst way. I'll admit that he was old (16 healthy years!!) and that I knew someday he would not be with our family anymore, but he's been around for so long it is just hard to comprehend anything else. I spent a sweet morning and afternoon cuddling and brushing him on Thursday and then on Friday Michael and I went back to Newton to be with my family to grieve, but also to look at pictures and remember what fun we had with Scooter.

He was just an amazing kitty. Throughout my elementary-high school years, Scooter would plant himself on dad's lap every morning and stay for as long as possible. In these last few years, he has been wholly devoted to my mom; sleeping in her bed, getting in the way of her feet as she cooked, eagerly awaiting every time she came home. He loved Abby and I too but I think he was a little mad at us for leaving as often as we did. Even after he turned 16, he still could play with his toys like a young kitty. I could never believe how much energy he had, but also how lazy he could be- just curled up on a chair or in front of a window for hours and hours. Scooter had so much personality. His green eyes shone, especially when he would play with a laser or a feather or the light underneath the door that always eluded his grasp. Sometimes he would lick my leg or my hand non-stop until I would push him away or reposition because if I didn't he would lick the same spot until it was raw. Scooty would always keep me company on the couch or in my bed if I had to stay home sick. He would usually comply with my love of putting his leash on him and taking him on a "walk", which usually consisted of basically pulling him to the end of the driveway before he laid down and rolled around in the dust. He would always try to escape our back door as we went in and out but he really just loved the thrill of being outside and typically didn't try to run very far away. We could usually crawl under the cars or truck and drag him back inside.

Scooter let me do crazy things to him, like put him in baskets with my beanie babies and dress him in my Magic Attic doll Heather's dresses and boas and sunglasses and fancy hats. He always looked stunning.

My mom says that grief is the price we pay for love. And I suppose I agree that love wouldn't be nearly as sweet if it were free.....but I sure am tired of paying the price. Then again, I also think that if at the beginning someone told me I could have Scooter only if I agreed to let him go after 24 years, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. The time with him was well worth it. He was such a perfect kitty for our family. Thank you to everyone that ever loved him.

Someday soon I will write about my current life, which includes my comprehensive exam being due June 16th, Michael's trip to Haiti (he leaves tomorrow morning!!) and our super cool Iowa City summer Swing Dance project. I'll try not to wait too long before writing again. This last gap between posts was ridiculous. I think I need to get back to my Friday night blogging habit.

Hope you all are enjoying the start of summer.