Enjoy one of your favorite posts from the past until I return to entertain you!
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D.D. Wood
Category Archives: Writers
Part Three: Ms. Wood Gets a Terrible Sunburn Resulting in a Nude Incident with The Olds
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I never planned on being basically nude, face down on a mattress, in the living room with The OLDS on top of me, but nevertheless… that was where I ended up.
It had been a terribly hot weekend, and after a few too many hours of working in the yard, I had a serious sunburn on my back, the likes which I hadn’t seen, since a horrible tanning incident, circa 1977, when I was thirteen and convinced that if I baked all day long in baby oil and iodine, I would have a lush coco butter tan by the time I hit the “Skateway” to boogie down that evening.
Unfortunately for me, I did not make it to the “Skateway” or wear my beautiful butterfly sleeve top or my size one, pale butter yellow, Chemin de fer jeans or make out with my “dream date” which was all included in my evening’s fantasy… because instead… I spent the entire night crying on the bathroom floor… with my mother shouting “I told you so!” as she wiped down my severely burned skin with cool vinegar rags, as my brother stood in the doorway laughing at me.
My present burn, unlike the one so many years ago, was purely physical and did not carry the same emotional and psychological punch that my thirteen-year-old self had to endure but still… the pain was excruciating.
The first day, I used ice packs and Aloe Vera plant to soothe myself and by that evening, I believed that I was over the worst of it, really on my way to being fine.
But by midnight, I soon realized that it was going to be a sleepless night and that I had underestimated the intensity of the injury. My tender skin, so very inflamed, burned hot against the stiff cotton sheets and by morning… I was not only still in pain… but now itchy and very fussy from a night of no sleep.
I spent the morning, floating in the shade of our pool, grumpy, yet sated, by the relief the cold water provided, until the sun came over the top of the house and made it impossible to be outside without feeling the heat sear into my already tender skin.
Like Nosferatu, I hissed and crawled off into the house, where I spent the afternoon applying soothing balm to my back but each time I touched my bright pink skin, my finger tips would stimulate the already inflamed nerve-endings and cause everything to itch.
By dinner time… I was going out of my mind and that is when I made an impulse decision that would result in my ultimate psychological and physical downfall.
Unable to stand it any longer I turned the shower on full blast cold, stripped out of my clothes, and rushed to stand under the jet.
For a moment… it was beyond amazing….. the ice cold water hit my back and soothed my burned skin, the blast of the jet scratched every itch that had threatened to drive me insane… it felt better than anything I could have imagined and I wondered why I hadn’t thought of this idea before.
I was ecstatic.
By the time I stepped out of the shower I felt that I had this sunburn thing licked.
Why hadn’t anyone ever told me how easy it was to stop the itching and the pain?
Why did people suffer so when relief was just a cold shower away?
I wiped my back gently with the towel and began to slather a nice aloe cream over my entire body feeling… dare I say it? Very pleased with myself.
I was about mid-way through my routine when I felt the itch kick back in with a fury that was unparalleled.
And at that moment… I realized that I had made a terrible, terrible mistake.
The shower? The jets? Had been one of the stupidest ideas of my adult life.
It had electrified every tender nerve-ending into action.
The temporary relief it provided was now gone and the itch that replaced it was escalating in waves of intensity that was driving me to complete madness.
I was in tears as I rubbed against a dry towel, raked my shoulders with a hairbrush, slapped at my back with a t-shirt all the time begging God for relief until finally I threw a light shift on and a pair of panties, slipped into my sandals, and ran bra less to the car to see the Rite Aide pharmacist.
“Where ya going?” Ernie The Old, shouted as I rushed past him sitting quietly reading on the front porch swing.
I blasted out some inaudible muddle of words as my boobs jiggled past and watched as his eyes grew large and round… not sure what the hell was going on… but obviously excited I was willing to provide a show.
“Hootchie Cootchie!” he shouted out, making fun of my “barely there” attire.
I jumped into the car, hit the ignition and rolled down the window, “You shut up OLD MAN!” I screeched and watched as Ernie made an “Ooooh” face with his mouth, giggled, tapped his forehead in a “tip of the hat” gesture and then went back to reading his stupid Clive Cussler novel.
“Fucking OLD,” I whispered to myself as I floored it.
I think I would have run over anyone that had been in my way that day.
In fact, I think I would have ran every light if they had been red.
But luck was with me as I raced into the Rite Aide parking lot.
I threw the mini-van into the stall, grabbed a handful of money from the cubby by the steering wheel, jumped out, running pell-mel to the back of the store, to the pharmacy.
I watched as my little Asian pharmacist man looked up from reading a prescription and stood there, mouth hanging agape, basically dumbfounded, as he studied me, the almost naked woman with large bouncing breasts, rushing towards him full throttle.
To this day, I will swear, that “Brick House” was the actual muzak playing over the Rite Aide speakers, creating the background ambiance to this scene, but of course, I was delusional at this point and God knows what was really going on.
I threw my chest onto the counter and reached to grab him.
He took one step back and looked at me as if I was an interesting science experiment that he preferred not to be a part of.
“Can I help you?” He said calmly.
I cried and shouted, wailed and pleaded in what seemed to me was an eternity but was really just a matter of seconds.
I thought he was oblivious to my pain… he seemed “unmoved” by my rant but then he stepped forward, reached under the counter, and held up a can of numbing spray that he told me to apply as soon as I got home.
I looked at him as if he were insane.
WHEN I GOT HOME?
I snatched the can from his hands, threw the wad of money at him, and popped the top as I ran back through the store, spraying myself the entire time as customers, former students and their parents, watched their favorite teacher, Ms. Wood, make a total burlesque jiggly-wiggly naked spectacle of herself and you know what? I could of given a fuck.
If anyone had tried to stop me or pry that can from my hands I can tell you right now they would have lost most of their teeth and maybe even a limb.
I believe everyone in that store at the time sensed this dangerousness about me and so waited for the woman, who had become a wild animal, to exit the premises, before returning to their shopping, so that they were not maimed in the incident and part of Tim Grobaty’s Press Telegram article the next day which would read:
MAN LOSES HIS LIMBS AFTER TRYING TO CALM MOSTLY NAKED BELOVED SCHOOL TEACHER WHO OBVIOUSLY LOST HER MIND WHILE MAKING A PURCHASE IN THE RITE AIDE.
Jesus.
I jumped back into the car, fired it up, and drove home still spraying my shoulders.
I was sobbing by the time I arrived.
The spray had not yet provided relief and so I raced up the porch steps, pulled my dress over my head and threw my naked self down on the dog mattress in the living room and did the only thing left to do: cry for my mom.
My mom (the other OLD in this scenario) rushed towards me and screamed, “For God’s sake child!” before she snatched the can from my hand and ordered Ernie to hold me down and spray me while she rushed off to grab the vinegar and the rags from the kitchen.
The next thing I knew I had one Old basically sitting on top of my head spraying my back with numbing cream and another Old sitting on my ass gently dabbing me down with vinegar.
It was horrific.
I couldn’t even imagine what someone would think if they walked in: bad 70’s fetish porno is what immediately came to mind.
But what could I do?
I surrendered myself to the moment… knowing that when all else fails… parents have basically seen and been through everything.
I had to accept that The Olds knew exactly what to do.
A moment later… the numbing spray kicked in and my mood calmed as I asked The Olds to “remove themselves from my person.”
That was when I realized that Ernie had basically seen me in all my glory.
I asked my mom to please hand me my shift, and prudishly put my arm over my breasts and with my other hand, placed the dress over my head.
Soon I was covered again, and a bit embarrassed about my recent state of insanity, apologized to The Olds as I took my numbing spray and went to lie down in my bedroom and rest, but not before I heard Ernie say to my mom, “Like mother like daughter.”
Something in me actually winced.
I was afraid to look around to catch the exchange but I couldn’t stop myself.
I prayed to God that he meant I was as stubborn as her… as crazy as her…. as unwilling to ask for help as her… but as I turned around to look, I saw him wink at her and raise his hands to jiggle and wiggle his “pretend” breasts.
It was horrific.
The idea of The Olds working the “hootchie coochie” was beyond my grasp.
“Not in front of the child!” I shouted, which only made them giggle as they headed off to get ice cream together.
Barnyard “Foul”: Dealing with Rupert a Purely Evil Pig wrapped in Cuteness
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This is Rupert.
Rupert is my new pet.
A mini-pot belly pig given to us by a couple who realized they had made a seriously poor impulse purchase.
They had a backyard entirely of cement.
A front yard with no fence.
Both had full-time jobs and so leaving the little three-month old piggy man in the house all day while they were gone was a recipe for disaster.
Rupert is (and this is an understatement) a handful.
But… we were willing to take him from his owners. We had a houseful of pets and I had been hoping to get a pig or a pygmy goat to be friends with my chicken Matilda, for quite awhile and so… within the first week of taking Rupert… I believed I had made the perfect choice: Matilda loved him.
They wandered around the front yard together; Rupert rooting around in the grass making big dirt holes with his snout. Matilda by his side eating all of the worms that he uncovered… a bit like a gang-of-two and we began to call them by their aliases… Ham and Eggs.
They were inseparable.
But then… the trouble began.
Rupert became comfortable with his new environment and his Prima donna personality began to shine through.
He didn’t like to be touched when outside in fact, he squealed and jumped back each time one of us approached him.
But at night, when he came in for dinner, and to go to bed on his furry little leopard skin blanket on the cool tile floor of the bathroom, he flipped over on his side expecting a full body massage as he smiled, yawned, smacked his little piggy lips, and stretched his little cloven-hoofed legs out in front of him and batted his long piggy eyelashes.
He was adorable… but of course… he seemed to believe that he was completely entitled.
By week two, we realized there was trouble on the horizon.
The front yard had giant patches of grass entirely removed… Matilda’s chicken feed had to be hidden from him or like the pig that he was… he would gobble it all down without a second piggy thought and… being that he is a very smart little man… he seemed to know exactly when the clock struck 6:30pm and so… he would rush to the front door, squeal and bang on it repeatedly until we let him in for dinner and bed.
The sound was terrifying.
Charlotte, our youngest, actually heard his commotion and her eyes grew big as she said, “My God! It sounds like you have a Changeling at the door!”
A White Walker
A Zombie
A Pig Nightmare.
Rupert.
Or as my good friend Warren liked to call him: a Purely Evil Pig wrapped in Cuteness.
Now… of course my children loved to post photos like this on Instagram:
Fooling you into a false sense of pig security as you say to yourself, “Awwwwwwwwww. How sweet! That Rupert is just the cutest little thing! D.D. must be exaggerating in this story.”
But I tell you, he is the devil.
The other night, I wouldn’t let him in a half-an-hour early for dinner and as I stood in the laundry room, getting ready to turn on the dryer, I heard a loud crashing sound from the front yard.
Afraid that something serious had happened, I rushed to the front door, opened it, and there I saw Rupert, his little piggy legs spread apart in a stance of defiance, his snout held high, one of my prized ceramic gnomes now decapitated and lying severed; body on one side… head on the other… across the front walkway.
“Rupert?” I asked. “Did you do that?”
He wiggled his little piggy nose, pushed the decapitated head with his snout, and let out a loud snort as if to say, “FUCK YES I DID IT! And guess what? There’s more where THAT came from lady!”
I stared at him… he glared back.
I was shocked at the little bastard he had become… and just as I was about to punish him for his behavior by closing the front door and making him wait and extra hour for dinner, Ringo, aka Bastard Number Two, our male teacup chihuahua, ran outside, lifted his leg and peed inside the broken innards of my gnome’s head.
I watched as Ringo’s urine puddled inside of my gnome’s little broken red cap… dumbfounded for just a moment… before I became enraged that these assholes were actually biting the hand that feeds them.
“THAT’s IT!” I shouted. “You fuckers get the fuck away from my gnome!”
Rupert ran for the bushes.
Ringo ran for the house.
As Matilda watched from a distance, her head cocked slightly to the side, amused to see her little toadies torment and mock me.
“Keep it up,” I said. “You’ll be chicken dinner, he’ll be Christmas ham,” and here I turned to shout inside of the house, “And you Ringo will have your balls chopped off.”
There was complete silence.
No one moved.
I reached for my broken gnome, dumped the pee from his cap and placed his bisected remains into a large flower pot.
I turned on my heel and went inside to sulk in the quiet of my office but not ten minutes later… piggy brat Rupert was squealing at the front door.
“Mother fucker,” I yelled, which didn’t stop Rupert from squealing but did cause my mother to mute Two and a Half Men long enough to shout, “God, the mouth on you!”
Too worked up to even yell at the “Old” I opened the front door and watched as Rupert passed me without another sound and made a B-line to the bathroom where he expected to find his dinner in his bowl.
When he saw that it was empty, he kicked over his water dish and stomped his little feet and THAT… was IT!
I had HAD it!
I smacked his fat little pig butt, and he didn’t even care, he just threw his weight into it and then turned around and screamed at me.
I physically turned him around the other way, as he wailed bloody murder and pushed against me… but I wouldn’t have it… I made the little bastard go to his piggy bed.
“NO!” I shouted. “NO RUPERT!”
He refused to turn around then.
He faced the wall and stood there.. defiantly… ass to my face… refusing to listen.
“Do you understand I won’t tolerate this behavior?”
He begrudgingly swished his tail once, just like a spoiled child who realizes that he has lost the battle but that the war isn’t over yet, and he understood.
I swear I could hear him chanting in his little piggy mind, I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
I closed the bathroom door and went to get his dinner.
By the time I came back… he was rooting about, fluffing his blanket, as if nothing ever happened.
The little shit.
I reached down and fed him, then watched as he licked the bowl clean before flopping over on his side, tired and world-weary from his little tantrum, ready for his full body massage… as if we had made up… and all that transpired was now: water under the bridge.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
He grunted.
I sighed as I sat down on the toilet and rubbed the little man down.
It was no different than dealing with a tired toddler.
He stretched and yawned and I resigned myself to my fate.
In the morning we would try again.
In the morning we would find a way to make this right.
In the morning, I would go to Jack-in-the-Box and eat a Breakfast Jack with ham and in that way… extract my revenge on Rupert.
Yes my little man.. that’s right…. a BREAKFAST JACK WITH HAM.
Oh Rupert…
My little piggy demon.
You.
Have.
Met.
Your.
Match.
In.
Me.
Dealing with the Olds: Or How I Barely Survived the “Panty” Incident… A Cautionary Tale in Two Acts
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I have been care-taking others my entire life:
My own children…
My school children…
Neighbors, friends, strays, and of course… “Olds.”
If you would have told me in high school… that my destiny was to be a caretaker… I wouldn’t have believed you.
I was sure that I would be the first of my friends to leave the country, and never to return, unless under extreme pressure to do so.
But it seems it is my lot in life, and like Jimmy Stewart’s iconic character, George Bailey… I guess it is my destiny, to leave my nomadic dream of independent traveling behind, and accept my fate: to take care of all the numerous jackasses that reside in my own personal “Bedford Falls.”
Don’t get me wrong… I love my people… my jackasses… but two inappropriate panty incidents with the “Olds” in one week was a bit too much for anyone.
It started with Ernie.
Ernie is one of my father’s Navy friends, circa World War II, who comes to visit us every year from New Zealand where he now lives.
I love Ernie for numerous reasons:
One, he tells me stories about my father, that make me feel like I really know the man that kept so much of his own wild life hidden from his children, as he raised us.
Two, he likes to drink a lot of beer and go out dancing and believe it or not, even at 85… he still seems to have the moves that make the ladies adore him.
And…
Three, Since my father passed away, my mom likes to lay all of her demands on me, but when Ernie is here to stay, she spends her time bossing him around which means… she isn’t bossing me about: it really takes the pressure off.
Ernie is a skinny guy, very tan, white hair, a pretty healthy old man, and he tends to favor those weird fashions of the “Oceania Region” where they are prone to wearing Birkenstock sandals and of course, you guessed it…. sassy black speedos, teeny-tiny little things, as he lays on the chaise, in the backyard by the pool reading one of his many Clive Cussler novels.
I have grown accustom to this sight, over the years, but it is still a bit unnerving at times to know that he’s out there… lurking… in his little panties.
Now, Ernie had just arrived at our house about three weeks before the incident occurred.
Everything had been going as smoothly as possible, considering I live in a house where not one, but now two, advanced elderly people lived.
I spent most of my time… making sure each morning… that they were still alive… and listening for loud thumps… each evening… hoping that it was one of the kids bouncing down the stairs and not an “Old” in the process of breaking a hip or having a stroke.
Basically, it’s like being on 24-hour alert “high watch.”
So when someone began banging heavily on the hall door at 11:30 pm on Thursday night, waking me from a “dead” sleep, chihuahuas barking, big dogs howling, pig squealing (yes we have a pig) I woke as if I were already in the early stages of a massive heart attack: dazed… confused…. unsettled…. my mind and heart racing at an alarming pace.
I jumped from my bed, sure that someone must be seriously injured or dead, ran into the hallway, and found Ernie, in his tight black speedo underwear, blood dripping down his arm, yelling my name.
I was about to totally freak out when he said, “You don’t have a band-aid do ya? I fell out of bed having a dream, about pulling my brother out of a porthole from a sinking ship, and pulled some of the skin off my arm.”
I swear, I almost throttled him to death right then and there.
I couldn’t believe that he had woke me up, by banging repeatedly on the hall door, at 11:30 at night, as if it were a LIFE OR DEATH situation for a fucking band-aid.”
But I held it together and in my kindest voice said, “Hang on Ernie, let me find you one.” And then I directed him to wait for me at the kitchen bar, because if I don’t give him specific directions, he follows me about which, is actually how he accidentally saw me completely naked the previous week, by following me into the bathroom before I realized he was doing so.
I closed the hall door and gathered my composure.
I called Dylan, my son on the phone and said, “Are you upstairs?”
“Yeah,” he replied.
“Well can you come down here please. Ernie just woke me up for a band aid.”
Silence.
“Why did he wake you up for a band aid? I was awake and up here. What was he thinking?” He asked.
“I don’t know!” I screamed; unfortunately verbally kicking Dylan since I was unable to take my wrath out on Ernie. “I don’t know why OLDS do what they fucking do. Just come down and bandage the old man so I can go back to bed. I’ve got work in the morning.”
Two seconds later, Dylan was downstairs bandaging the old man and I was back in my bed, trying to calm down enough to hopefully get a few hours sleep.
But I tossed and turned until my alarm went off at 6 am and so, still twisted and tired from my “late night fiasco,” grumpy and bitter, jumped up from the bed, put on my slippers and rushed to let the pig out into the yard for the morning and let my chicken out of her coop (yes, we also have a chicken) before I would have to get to school on time. But… as I opened the front door, I was assaulted, yes once again, by an OLD.
There… out in the bright morning light for all the neighbors to see was my 85-year-old mother, bra-less in a tank top, barefoot and leaning on her cane, bent WAY over low, in her GIANT silky grandma panties, butt crack CLEARLY visible through the silky fabric as she struggled to let my chicken out of her cage.
I tell you it was a once in a lifetime sight that no one should ever have to view.
I actually backed up and gasped.
“Jesus Christ!” I screeched. “What the hell are you doing?”
She didn’t even stand up. She just looked at me from between her legs.
“Letting the chicken out.”
“Mom!” I shouted. “Do you realize that you are out in public, basically naked. The neighbors are going to call Adult Protective Services and take me away!”
“Well, now wouldn’t that be funny!” she said.
I felt myself fuming.
I wanted to grab that cane, topple that old woman, and pop her in the coop.
Now, now, now… I thought to myself… wouldn’t THAT be funny old woman?
But instead, I backed away from the scene and turned around to find Ernie waving at me from the reclining chair. Looking chipper and perky with his morning coffee and his Clive Cussler novel and his little arm all bandaged up with our spiffy pop-culture red band-aid that said “KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON.”
“Mother Fucker,” I whispered to myself. “Sweet Jesus for the love of God somebody help me please.”
But no help arrived.
No one there to listen.
Just a pig.
Just a chicken.
Just an old skinny man.
Just an old woman.
And me.
Sweet Jesus, obviously smart enough to stay miles away from this scenario, enjoying the view from above.
The Bad Teacher: or How I Locked Seigi in my Classroom and Left for the Weekend without a Second Thought for his Well-being
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It was a Friday.
A long Friday.
We were all worn.
Who knows what had been going on in high school that week but obviously it had been one drama too many for all of us:
A broken heart.
A poor score on the SATs.
A confiscated phone.
A confiscated blunt.
Whatever it was, 6th period was spent and so… I did what any experienced teacher would do when the entire class arrives, flops into empty chairs, and each head drops into cradled arms where they lie listless and limpsy:
I put on the Simpsons and let them watch cartoons until the end of the period.
You cannot imagine the joy I find in watching my sixteen and seventeen-year-old students revert back into grade-school babies.
They giggle at the screen.
They drool on their arms as they smile sleepily and watch Bart and Homer and Lisa and Marge.
They parrot the dialogue.
They snack on goldfish crackers and jelly bellies, as they glance at each other with conspiratory glee, pleased in knowing that our class is having a secret afternoon nap break.
I always feel like Patton in these moments… bonding with my troops… knowing that because I have given them this delicious moment of relief from the war that is high school, they will trust in my future leadership, accept my push towards greatness as we study Whitman and Dickinson and will be my loyal educational soldiers forever.
I sat behind my desk, happy in the cool calm of the dark classroom, drinking my ice tea, grading essays by the computer light, the soundtrack of the Simpsons punctuating the quiet of the room, my babes soothed and content: I tell you… it was lovely.
Seigi, my senior classroom aide, had scored the prime spot on the back couch: the back couch which was coveted by many of my students.
It was the cool place to hang… the best place to sleep if you had a sport’s meet in the afternoon and needed a bit of a break before you were required to swim a 50-meter fly, or a grueling scrimmage on the field or in the pool, or before a 5-mile roundtrip run through El Dorado park and back.
It was against the far wall, hidden by a row of old covered wooden desks, but if you laid out flat on it, and looked underneath the desktops, you had the perfect, comfortable, vantage point, for viewing the large movie screen where my LCD projected.
Nobody questioned Seigi’s dibs on the couch that day. Being that he had senority, top man of the class, no one fussed, the caste system of high school finite… the pecking order… unchallenged… and so, Seigi sauntered over, stretched out, face down on the black sofa cushions, and settled in to watch the show as he faded in-and-out of consciousness.
The ninety-minute class period seemed but a moment and when the bell rang, there was hardly a child that made a move towards the door. Happy, tired and content, they preferred to stay put as the cartoons continued to run until I said quietly, “Time to go people,” unwilling really to send them out into the world but knowing I must do so.
After a moment or two of hushed fussing and shuffling, they grabbed their gear, quietly headed out the door without even turning on a light, barely a “Bye Ms. Wood have a good weekend” before leaving me alone in the dark.
I sat for a moment longer before I forced myself to rise, shutting down my computer, making my way through the dim light towards the door, where I locked it, gave the handle a quick security shake, before walking slowly to my car and going home.
I was so glad it was the weekend.
I showered.
Put on my pajamas.
And laid down on my bed to watch mindless TV and flip through magazines until bedtime.
I was completely oblivious to my mistake.
I was completely confident that I had done everything right in my classroom that day.
However, I believe Seigi would beg to differ.
About seven that evening, Seigi woke up.
No… not from a nap at home… not from the comfort of his own bed… but from his nap in my classroom.
He woke up to a pitch black room… in fact the bungalow so dark at night that the darkness is palpable… suffocatingly close to your face.
Now imagine that just a few weeks prior to this event. Ms. Wood had taught you about the horrors of Poe… had shared the film El Orfanato with you… had scared you to death with the Poe-esque elements in this foreign film where a haunted Victorian orphanage holds mysteries of the past, and creepy little orphan ghost children run about from room-to-darkened-room scaring you repeatedly through each cinematic moment.
I tell you… it terrifies even me and this… was Seigi’s nightmare.
From what I gathered over the course of several weeks and numerous renditions of his guilt-inducing retellings to each and every child who would stop and listen… it was beyond horrific.
Seigi had woken, become completely disoriented, sat up screaming then tried to run out of the room, sure that a creepy little ghost orphan was about to grab him, but was physically assaulted by first, the old wooden block of desks, then… a row of metal and formica desks that stood strong behind the front line that held him back.
He tried to move forward but imagined tiny little creepy hands grabbing at him from every direction.
He lost his mind.
He panicked.
Screamed.
Tried to jump over the desks and somehow hurl himself to safety but caught his foot on a metal leg, fell to the floor, wreathing in mental and physical pain, where he then crawled across the back of the classroom, hands pressed firmly down on the dirty linoleum, until he bumped into the far wall, reached up for the door handle, pulled the metal latch down and rolled out onto the landing and laid panting heavily on the dirty anti-slip covering, shell-shocked and crying… stunned and out of breath.
My phone rang at exactly 7:03 pm.
I didn’t even look at it.
I ignored the call to duty believing that I had lead all of my soldiers to safety and had not lost a man that day.
I was wrong.
So very wrong.
At 7:45 my curiosity got the better of me and so, as I stood looking in the bathroom mirror, slathering my face with my favorite Vitamin C cream, my phone laying next to me. I reached down, pressed the hands-free setting and waited to hear the message that I had missed.
At first, there was a loud commotion, as if someone had dropped their phone and was rushing to pick it up. I had no idea that it was Seigi rolling around on my bungalow landing. What followed was almost an incoherent babble before a rough, bark of a harsh whisper reached out and electronically slapped me with a verbal assault across my face:
“Fuck you Ms. Wood,” the voice snapped at me. “Do you hear me?” It repeated. “I said FUCK YOU.”
There was a loud thump and then a sudden click.
“DOH!” I shouted out.
A bright flash as if a camera click illuminated my brain: the couch, the dark, the SEIGI!
OH JESUS!
I looked around as if I could somehow do something right now to immediately lead my Seigi to safety.
Of course… I couldn’t.
I had failed at my command.
I had left a man behind.
I’d like to say that I called Seigi right away but I didn’t.
I knew what I was up against.
I knew what I would hear.
I knew what I would see when I returned to my room and this is what it was:
Yes… the thousand yard stare.
And not just the unfocused gaze of my battle-weary soldier but behind that gaze a look of complete disgust for his commanding officer.
I knew that I would have to bear Seigi’s wrath for weeks to come but to be honest, it was hard to look remorseful each time he told the story when really the image of him running blindly through my room, his imagination a battlefield of blockades and creepy orphans, amused me terribly with each retelling.
And today, Seigi and I share a camaraderie over this story, a joy in the shared brotherhood of our bond. Forever locked together in time… even though as a commander I failed miserably and left my man behind.
Ms. Wood has an Affair: The Lemon Lush Pie Incident
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I didn’t mean for it to happen.
I swear… I really didn’t… but then again… isn’t that what everyone says?
I couldn’t control myself?
I was overwhelmed with passion?
I was in love with a feeling?
I thought it would be just a one night stand… a fling really.
But it wasn’t….
Me sitting secluded in the dark booth…
My new lover, Lemon Lush Pie from Jongewaard’s Bake n Broil sitting seductively in front of me.
Oh… how he lured me in…
His intoxicating smell…
His handsome exterior…
He was the perfect combination: sweet, rich, complicated in his multiple layers.
Any woman would have fallen for his magnetic pull.
One bite… and I was overwhelmed.
I tried to act coy… pretend I wasn’t that interested… and so I pushed him away and waited a week before I returned.
And when I arrived… he was excited to see me.
All spruced up on his little blue plate… just waiting in anticipation for the moment when we would be together again.
I didn’t hesitate.
I jumped right in.
And by the time I was done I was spent… satisfied.
I believed that my craving for him had been quenched but I was a fool…
I had no idea what power he had over me.
Soon, I was obsessed.
I began to talk about him often.
I found numerous ways to bring him up in almost any conversation.
Any excuse to focus on my crush:
“Hey Ms. Wood, did you hear about that incident in North Korea?
“Oh yes,” I would reply. “By the way… did you know that they don’t have Lemon Lush pie in North Korea? I think we should go have some just to celebrate that fact.”
Soon… I was dragging others along with me.
They had no idea how serious it was.
They thought we were just friends.
They thought it was just casual.
And like any good addict I hid my addiction.
I kept my distance at the table.
I never licked my fingers in public or acted as if my heart raced whenever I was near him.
I made sure not to stare at him for too long or give him an overly flirty look.
I played it all off… and I was good… really good…until the real lying began.
I would come up with any excuse… any reason… to get away and be with my crush.
“Hey D.D.” Stephen my boyfriend would say, “I’ve gotta pick something up at Home Depot do you want to…”
“Oh! I’ll go for you,” I would shout, knowing that Bake n Broil was less than a mile from the hardware store.
“Are you sure?” Stephen would question… his innocent gaze completely unsuspecting.
“Sure,” I would say overly cheerful.
And when I returned… sated once again… sugar still on my lips… he had no idea of my indiscretion.
But after months of lying… I began to feel horrible.
How could I do this to my man?
Hadn’t he always been so good to me?
Extreme guilt washed over me each time I looked into Stephen’s sweet, naive face.
I watched as he stayed steadfast… his trust in me secure… while he ate his diet lunches and dinners sure in his knowledge that we were in a mutually exclusive relationship comprised of trust and love.
But it still didn’t stop me.
I had to have Lemon Lush at any cost.
Soon, I began bringing him home.
I had him in my office.
In my bathtub.
In my bed.
He was amazing.
And each time we were together… the risk seemed worth it.
Even when I heard the dogs bark…
the gate latch lift…
the front door swing open…
I rushed to finish before I was caught ecstatic that once again… I had my way.
But like any affair… the outcome always ends in tears and so… on one particular Friday when I believed Stephen to be fast at work in his office in Anaheim, I sat in my bed, fork in hand, an entire pie tin of Lemon Lush pressed close to my face, and looked up to find that Stephen had quietly come down the hallway and was now standing at my bedroom door, shocked… stunned…. expression full of pain.
“All this time?” He said, his voice breaking on the last word.
I stared at him… caught mid-act I didn’t know what to say.
Lemon Lush had no time to hide and I had no time to clean myself up.
“How could you do it?” He asked. “D.D. How could you do it?”
I sat silent.
Mute in my guilt, as Stephen slowly turned and headed off down the hallway and out the front door.
We sat there… Lemon Lush and I… unwilling to go on… ashamed of our behavior.
I gathered his things and escorted him to the trash bin.
I could see that he was hurt but I knew… it was Lemon Lush or Stephen… and Stephen was my true love.
I would have to make an amends to Stephen and give Lemon Lush up forever.
I left him at the curb and rushed to find my keys so that I could go find Stephen and apologize for my indiscretion.
I found him… sitting on his front stoop.
Sad face.
Head down.
Eating a tin of Sardines.
Glass of water by his side.
I walked up hang-dogged and sat beside him.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It won’t ever happen again.”
“Oh I know it won’t,” Stephen said. ” There’s consequences to your actions.”
He tipped his head, motioning behind him, where I saw the Weight Watchers Digital Scale looming in the background.
“Go ahead,” he said as he ate his last sardine.
I stood up, I knew what I had to do. I stepped on the scale gingerly.
“All the way,” Stephen said sternly.
I watched as the scale went up twenty pounds higher than it had read four months ago when the affair began.
I gasped in shock.
“I could have told you that guy wasn’t good for you,” Stephen said smugly as he moved on to his hard-boiled egg… a small snarky smirk on his face… knowing the painful months that lay before me.
Diet.
Exercise.
And the day-to-day painful longing for my lost love: Lemon Lush.
Stapling my Thumb Clean Through with an Industrial Strength Stapler: Or.. How I Terrified Two Young and Idealistic Student Teachers and Almost Lost my Bad-Ass Reputation Forever
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I’m a tough broad but… even now, as an experienced teacher… there are two tools I seriously hate: the industrial paper cutter and the industrial electric stapler.
Both can cause a chill of terror in even the most seasoned educator’s soul and we have, in our profession, become accustom to wearing our battle scars from each of these work weapons, as a right of passage: If you haven’t lost a thumb or almost lost a thumb in a paper cutter or a stapler accident… then you basically don’t know jack shit about teaching.
Now as a “scrub” in the first few years of my career, I had almost lost my thumb several times:
Of course… the paper cutter incident…
The X-acto knife fiasco…
The uncovered razor on the helium balloon tank episode.
Yeah… those were good times.
But they gave me a sort of notoriety… an O.G. quality with the more experienced teachers.
It was as if I had been jumped into a gang very early on…
You see that teacher over there?
They seemed to whisper in the staff lounge.
That’s Wood. She’s already lost that thumb almost three times. She’s got what it takes.
It was hard not to cross my arms, throw up my fingers and sign an M and a W for Ms. Wood, tip my chin up in a “What’s up?” manner and swagger my way out the door.
I had proven I was tough.
Yeah… tough.
Now, it was an unwritten code that even if you were deathly afraid of the cutter or the stapler… you acted “cool” about it… yes “cool” if you had an incident.
That even when you told the story as a cautionary tale, or a fun anecdote over a tuna sandwich in the staff lounge, you made yourself look like you knew what you were doing all along.. that it was some simple malfunction or someone else’s fuck up that caused you to be maimed: You never let on that you lost your shit:
You locked that shit down.
And why?
Because it was very important to convey your mysterious authoritative exterior to the younger, newer baby teachers so that they would always be in awe of you and therefore, your little minions for years to come.
And so the years passed… many other incidents followed… until my reputation grew into one of legendary proportions and even the newest baby teachers would whisper:
See that teacher over there? That’s Wood. I heard she almost lost a whole hand in a paper cutter. Oh… and chased down and captured those two armed robbers who ripped off the credit union, by cornering them in the alley with her mini-van. I wouldn’t even try to talk to her until you have like five years under your belt.
Yeah.
It was beautiful until the industrial stapler incident: the day I almost lost my solid reputation as a bad-ass forever.
I was feeling good that day.
The state had given us money for a workroom and we had converted a bungalow into a staff area with the best of the new teacher technology:
The poster size paper cutter that dwarfed our standard sized one: where a thumb, index, and middle finger had all been hacked off simultaneously in a violent lunch time assault.
The laminating machine: a third degree burn always waiting to happen.
The 3635MPX Xerox machine… Oh yeah… class sets of collated documents in a matter of seconds but don’t catch your tie in that feed.
And of course: the new electric industrial strength stapler, with the heavy duty Stanley staples thick one-inch length, that could handle a 200-page packet and drive that staple in so hard it would never come out.
Nice.
So I rolled on into the new workroom, to pick-up my class set of reading packets that Judy Hogan, our supply purchaser, had kindly xeroxed for me and at the break table, I saw two brand-new student teachers sitting there meekly eating their lunch and I wondered what the hell they were doing.
“Too scared to brave the staff lounge,” Judy whispered as she handed me my packets. “I took pity on them.”
I shook my head in disgust.
“These still need to be stapled,” she said before getting back to her own paperwork.
I carried the stack over to the counter and began to run the packets through the industrial stapler.
I fell into a steady rhythm: the electric staple hitting a hard THWACK each time a packet was completed.
I was moving fast… really flying.
The beat was so steady and so quick that I was actually singing “Baby Love” by the Supremes.
I was just about on my last packet, totally in the zone, happy that I would still have time for lunch, when I heard a, “What the heck is she singing” from one of the newbies at the table behind me.
I turned around to give her a snarky lecture on her lack of musical knowledge and what songs work best to keep a beat with the xerox machine and the electric stapler, so that you don’t lose your mind in monotony, when… there was a loud sickening SMACK, the stapler jammed, and my body was rocked by an excruciating pain.
Judy stopped, startled, and looked towards me.
“Oh my God,” I heard her whisper.
I was afraid to turn around.
I looked back slowly to find that I had just stapled my thumb all the way through the nail, out the other side, and that the staple: the thick one-inch industrial staple, had folded neatly on the fleshy side of my thumb and stapled it clean.
I held it up and stared at it in horror as the intense pain registered throughout my entire body.
“MOTHER FUCKER!” I screamed.
The newbies were beyond alarmed… terrified to move… they stared at me in horror.
MOTHER FUCKING SHIT! I screamed again.
Judy’s eyes grew large. She looked at the newbies: One now with her head folded down into her hands… her soup and crustless peanut butter sandwich left bare to the world. The other… her hands over her ears, her eyes focused on Judy, begging her silently to, Make that woman stop! As she winced at my use of profanity.
This infuriated me.
“FUCK!” I screamed right in her face, “FUCK!” I shrieked as I ran about the room.
Judy ran to her desk, always ready for a workroom emergency, and grabbed something from her drawer.
I stopped, looked at her with suspicion, and like a rabid animal, began to back into the corner.
“D.D.” she whispered. “Give me your hand.”
“BACK THE FUCK AWAY JUDY!” I snarled and hissed.
“D.D.” she whispered again as she crept quietly towards me. “Give me your God damn hand now.”
“No!” I shouted.
I heard one of the newbies whine.
“Shut the fuck up!” I screeched.
Judy’s mouth made a small shocked “Oooooh.”
I was breaking the cardinal rule of teaching: DON’T LOSE YOUR SHIT IN FRONT OF THE NEWBIES.
I looked at my thumb again.
I thought I was gonna be sick.
I felt the room swimming and my thumb throbbing.
“D.D.” she said sternly. “Now.”‘
I moaned as I laid my hand gingerly in Judy’s palm.
“This is gonna hurt,” she said as she held up a pair of pliers, and snatched my wrist tightly as she pried the ends of the staple to a straight up position before I had time to react.
My eyes welled up in tears.
“Judas!” I cried and then the pain registered and I howled loudly.
“Knock it off,” she said before putting the pliers back in her drawer.
I calmed down for a moment… gathered myself together… and looked at the staple with interest:
It now looked like my thumb had fangs.
I looked up again and saw Judy with a black staple remover in her hand.
She was chomping it at me… trying to be funny… like a mom trying to coerce her kid into trusting a doctor with a needle: It didn’t work.
NO! I shrieked again. “No JUDY! NO!”
I ran across the room, Judy laughing now, chasing me about with the staple remover clicking until she grew tired of the game and stopped.
“God damn it D.D.” she shouted. “Get it over with. Pull that fucker out.”
I gave her a dirty look, grabbed the staple remover from her hand, and dug it into the top of my nail fast, pushed it down, and pulled that staple out with a hard tug.
The pain was right up there with childbirth and divorce: physically excruciating while emotionally… I was ready to kill someone.
I screamed again: a guttural scream of anger, as I threw the staple remover and the offending staple hard against the counter, before picking up the electric industrial stapler, ripping it’s cord from the wall, and chucking it as hard as I could against the large purple recycling bin.
We all looked at it: lying on the ground broken and mute.
“Fucker,” I said to my electronic enemy. The newbies gasped behind me.
Judy and I both turned around and as I came to my senses, I realized I had just lost my cool points in front of these teaching neophytes.
I felt like a failure.
I felt like my O.G. status was about to be removed in a unanimous vote in the staff lounge later that afternoon.
It sucked.
But right them, Mr. Ferguson, my own junior high school teacher, now over forty years of experience in the business, walked into the room, saw all of us locked in pose, immediately assessed the situation after a glimpse of my bloody stump of a thumb, the expressions on the babies faces and the stapler lying broken on the floor.
“Jesus!” He screeched. He pointed at my thumb. “Is that from the stapler?”
“Yeah,” I said quietly.
“I knew something was wrong with that thing the other day. I knew it wasn’t working right.”
I looked at him in pleased shock. Even in my pain it was hard not to smile at his gift of camaraderie.
“Man,” He shook his head. “That must of hurt like hell. I wouldn’t have been able to lock that shit down. No way.”
He gave me a head nod of respect before turning to the newbies and saying, “You best not use that stapler. If that took Ms. Wood down, you’d never be able to handle the pain. That woman is tough.”
Judy put the tools back in her drawer and slammed it shut, went back to her paperwork and went back to ignoring the newbies.
Mr. Ferguson went about making his math packets for his Algebra class…
and I gave the student teachers a look like, That’s right… even Mr. F with forty-years in the system would have lost it to” before I grabbed my packets, in one arm, bloody stump of a thumb raised up in the air, and kicked the door open with my foot, reputation, Thank God, still intact.
My thumb?
Not so much.
Eating Dean Karlen’s Booger: Or How I Learned Eating Boogers is a Bad Thing
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When I was very small, I loved to eat my boogers.
Kindergarten.
First grade.
Second grade.
Yep.
I didn’t stop at a normal age.
I just kept going.
I loved them.
I became a booger connoisseur.
I knew exactly the type of booger delicacy I needed to be satisfied: crispy on the outside, thick and meaty in the middle, salted just so.
They were delicious.
And I probably would have gone on eating my boogers happily until someone caught me, or until I became interested in boys, if Dean Karlen hadn’t ruined it for me.
Yep.
Ruined it.
I probably had at least one or two good booger eating years left but at seven: Dean Karlen destroyed my favorite pastime forever.
I was at the Karlen’s house one day, after a Friday night sleepover with my best friend at the time: Terri.
Terri was the oldest Karlen and their were several little Karlens besides her: Kirk, Kim, and of course, baby Dean.
Terri, Kirk and Kim were long past booger eating for all I knew… I never saw them delve into the realms of the dark cavern but then again… I was very secretive about picking myself. I often hid in the playhouse in our backyard, or a closet behind my dad’s coats. I rarely asked someone to join me unless I was absolutely sure I had seen a small finger go up a small nose. So maybe… they were secretly picking their boogers and I just didn’t know about it. But at the age of seven: I didn’t make that connection.
Somehow I just believed: that they had moved on.
But Dean… the baby… a tiny little blue eyed man… I felt was still young enough to be down for some booger picking activities and so, I grabbed his hand, and dragged him out of the family room, past the kitchen, down the hallway to the formal sitting room, where we threw ourselves onto the nice couch and where I believed we would secretly sit and enjoy a booger eating extravaganza together: Picking away… enjoying our salty little treats… giggling conspiratorially like a couple of stupid idiots until we had to go back and join the group.
But… that didn’t happen.
Dean bounced up and down on the couch a few times, reached down and rubbed his hands on it’s edge, and then slapped me hard on the top of my head before he ran back off down the hallway to find Kirk or Kim or someone else to play with.
I sat quietly slumped on the couch… upset at first that I had lost my little playmate and would now have to eat my boogers alone but soon I settled in and began my routine.
I was deep in thought and about three boogers in, when I decided to take a pause and rest.
I placed my small hands by my side and relaxed into the couch as I kicked my feet against the edge.
“Terri!” I heard Mrs. Karlen yell. “You kids better not be in the sitting room! You better not be on my good couch!”
My eyes grew big.
I loved Mr. and Mrs. Karlen as if they were my own parents and I didn’t want to anger them in any way.
I held my breath as I silently slid off the couch, and curled up into a small ball on the floor, hoping I wouldn’t be seen and now anxious for Terri to come back from wherever she was and find me.
I lay there for a moment… praying that I wouldn’t be punished… that I wouldn’t be sent home… when I noticed a small perfect booger stuck to the side of my index finger.
It was lovely in color and shape, golden really like a perfect raisin, and I was thankful that I had one more good one to eat and enjoy as I waited in my self-imposed prison on the tri-color shag carpet.
I rolled it around on the tip of my finger: massaging it into a perfect booger ball… before I popped it into my mouth without hesitation.
I chewed that booger with glee…
I waited for the familiar taste I so loved…
The enjoyable sensation of the booger-licious flavor I had come to cherish…
But as I mulled the small but powerful bouquet of taste on the surface of my tongue I realized I had made a horrible error in judgement: this booger was foreign.
This booger was not mine.
Yes.
I had eating someone else’s booger.
The taste was odd and metallic.
The smell similar to that odd smell of new puppy breath and it piped up the back of my throat and into the back of my nose.
For a moment… I thought I was going to puke: I couldn’t get that booger out of my mouth fast enough.
I spit it onto the floor and actually wiped my tongue across the shag carpet several times trying to remove every remanant of the foreign matter from my mouth but even today… I can still taste that thing.
I lay there… trying not to gag… trying not to puke… and I probably would have laid there all day praying that I would recover, if Dean Karlen hadn’t ran back into the room at that very moment, picked his nose right in front of me, and wiped his tiny booger laden finger on the edge of the couch before running away.
I raised my head up as my mouth fell agape.
There, on the length of the couch, I could now see Dean Karlen’s booger minefield that he had been planting for God knows how many months of time.
Dried ones.
Crispy ones.
Little mummified pieces of booger clinging to each micro-fiber of the couch and of course… the newest patch full of juicy baby booger specimens where the one I just ate had obviously come from.
I jumped up and ran away from that couch as if I had just witnessed a bloody accident or a brutal murder.
I no longer cared where my best friend was, where any of the little Karlens now were, or if I would be punished.
I ran out the side door, grabbed my pink Schwinn banana seat bike… and pedaled as fast as I could for home.
I wanted Dean Karlen’s boogers far behind me.
I wanted that memory to be erased forever from my brain.
But my bad booger behavior had been broken for eternity in that one moment.
And though forty-one years of time has now passed me by… the taste and the memory of that rotten foreign baby booger sticks forever in my sensory memory and mind… like the day it stuck to the edge of that couch.
Ms. Wood Accidentally Shows Her Beaver to the World
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I was barely 18 when I started my “illegal” club hopping days.
I don’t remember who gave me the fake I.D. but I know that it was good enough to get me into just about any club… anywhere in So Cal… and my club of choice at the time was:
The El Paso Cantina at Marina Pacifica in Long Beach.
The El Paso Cantina was a hotbed of illicit activities: booze, cocaine, sex, basically a poor man’s Studio 54 for the Long Beach crew, and since I was a minor and most of my friends were already legal adults, to be able to obtain a fake I.D. and dance the night away in a world that I considered “boogie nights party mecca” was beyond great.
It was a Wednesday, the most popular night at the Cantina, when I accidentally showed my beaver to the world.
The line to get in was lengthy: not because of my beaver… just because the Cantina was the place to be.
My friend Lori Stevens and I were dressed in our 80’s finery: super high black stilettos, skintight micro mini dresses, jet black bras, HUGE silver hoop earrings peeking out from our long blond bleached hair and of course: no underwear.
Now, we weren’t the only people who didn’t wear underwear at that particular time period in the 80’s: thong underwear was not yet a household name and though some of us wore them on the beach… few of us wore them under our skirts and so… to ensure “no panty lines” we often went “commando” when we went out on the town.
Lori and I had just shown my fake I.D. (and her real one) to the bouncer at the door and were heading up the walkway to the very steep indoor staircase that led to the club.
I had walked that particular staircase a hundred times or more and that night… was no different.
I had learned to navigate it drunk or sober.
Six inch heels or small black flats.
I never wavered.
I never bobbled.
I never stumbled.
Until that night… I had a perfect record on those steep, stupid, carpeted stairs but the event of that evening haunts me to this day.
I don’t know exactly what happened… I just know that as soon as Lori and I reached the top of the staircase, we took one look at the dance floor going off… the crowd having a great time…. felt the beat of the loudness of the bass… linked arms and made to walk forward to begin our mid-week shenanigans when one or both of us somehow caught our heels in the carpet and became “hooked” on the threads.
It was as if suddenly we were part of a slow motion segment of a film as we both grabbed at each other for balance, our smiles fading fast, our eyes locked in silent realization of our fate, as together we began the long backwards fall down the staircase.
Now, it’ s bad enough to know that you are about to fall down a very steep staircase:
1) It’s a very steep staircase… you seriously might not survive the fall.
2) If you do survive the fall, it’s gonna really hurt. Not just a little hurt… but a really BIG hurt. Like… hospital hurt.
3) There are large groups of people watching you fall from the top of the stairs and yes… also down at the bottom. Oh and let me add that most of these people “watching you eat shit” are really, really, REALLY good-looking guys that you have been trying to impress with your sly catlike club strutting moves for months and now… THIS.
Add to that… the shocking moment when you suddenly remember that you are absolutely panty-less as you go ass and elbows backwards down the stairs… yes… ass and elbows down the entire staircase and I really don’t think life can get any worse than that at the age of eighteen.
In fact, the only fear that comes close to rivaling this for me is the uncomfortable notion that yes someday… when I am old… I might actually shit my pants in public. Now.. maybe I will be too senile at the time to remember it… but if I am in full capacity of my facilities… it may actually earn first place winner for humiliating moment over the beaver incident but for now: the beaver stands alone.
I can tell you this… I don’t remember much of the fall.
Just a few good solid details:
My head taking a smart smack around the fourth step.
Lori’s back bending in an abnormally strange position somewhere around the seventh.
My right shoe flying off somewhere about the thirteenth.
But all in all… the memory of the fall is one that fades in-and-out of my mind as if a dusty haze has settled on that particular 80’s file of my brain.
However… the landing remains spectacularly vivid and fresh as if it just happened last night:
Lori and I twisted up together in a human ball.
Our arms and legs intertwined in a way that by looking at them… in my stunned state… I wasn’t even sure which arm or leg was mine.
We came to slowly… confused… not sure of what just happened… but it seemed, as I looked up at the shocked faces staring down at me from the top of the stairs, that something must be broken on one of us.
Their faces seemed to denote looks that spoke volumes:
Don’t look at your leg… your bone is sticking out or…
Oh my God! That’s a lot of blood… someone is going to have to get her to the hospital.
But that wasn’t the case.
Miraculously, Lori and I had survived the fall with just a few minor bruises and scrapes.
I should have been thankful that I was alive.
I should have been thankful that I wasn’t on my way to the hospital with a broken leg or broken back but…
I felt a cold blast of air brush across my “privacy” and aghast… looked to see that my legs were spread wide, Lori’s legs were spread wide, and our full frontal commando beavers were making a stunning surprise guest appearance to the excited and exuberant crowd.
I don’t think we could have drawn more attention if we had shown up with Pat Benatar and Debbie Harry.
Thank God it was a time before cell phone cameras because if it were today… my beaver would STILL be on display for the patrons of Long Beach and possibly… in some local hall of fame… a small notation beneath the frame stating: most notorious beaver shot in Southern California.
It was horrific.
The men at the top of the stairs gawked.
The men at the bottom of the stairs gawked.
No one came to our rescue.
No one rushed to cover us or comfort our wounded pride.
They had spent weeks… months… ogling Lori and I with our super fit little sporty girl bodies… wondering what exactly we did have for “view” under our tiny little lycra dresses and now… the moment they had been waiting for finally happened: FULL FRONTAL BEAVER EXPOSURE.
Lori and I tried to right ourselves but the small cubicle of the stairwell made it almost impossible to extricate ourselves quickly.
Each time we tried… we ended up in another awkward position… beavers posed… asses and elbows.
Soon the silence that had followed the fall, changed to a stairwell echoing with catcalls and vulgar innuendos.
We were mortified and actually crawled part way out the door where the bouncer helped us up and watched as we slinked away as quickly as possible to the comfort and safety of my little blue Audi.
We sat in the car… doors locked… heads down… not sure what to say to each other.
I’m not sure how long it was before Lori went back to the El Paso Cantina but I can tell you for me… it was never. Never.
Not even my underage need to be part of the cool older crowd could drive me back through that door and up those stairs.
The idea that so many people had seen my beaver was just too much to bear. (pun intended)
Today… it’s easy to laugh about the beaver incident but back then… there was only one thing I could do to swallow the shame:
I moved my late night party groove to the Sunset Beach Red Onion and prayed that nobody who frequented the club would recognize my beaver there.
Ms. Wood Goes to Big Bear for a Week with Christopher Dorner Resulting in Mass Hysteria in the Small Town of Long Beach California
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I wanted a vacation.
A break from the stress of the world.
A week away from the hustle and bustle of my busy classroom and so… I did what any good teacher would do: I decided to play hooky.
I told the children.
I didn’t lie.
I’m a firm believer in “mental health” days and who were they to complain anyways… this was their substitute:
Mr. Stroosma.
Adored by all… wanted by many.
I was leaving him… as a token gift of my generosity… Stroosma, snacks and Robert Redford as Jay Gatsby at one of his most handsome film periods in time: 1974.
What could go wrong?
As long as Stroosma didn’t set the room on fire again… all should be well in my world.
But… I didn’t take into consideration the saga of Christopher Dorner.
At this time, he was still a stranger in Ms. Wood’s world but that was all about to change.
On the day I was planning to leave for Big Bear, a small group of overly concerned seventeen-year-olds headed into my classroom in a tight little group.
“Ms. Wood,” one of them said with alarm. “You can’t go to Big Bear, that cop killer guy is loose up there.”
I continued to shut down my computer for the day.
“I’ll be fine,” I said calmly. “Trust me. I’ll be fine.”
One of my militant punk students turned to the others and said, “I told you. It’s Ms. Wood. She’ll kick that guy’s ass!”
“No she won’t,” another one interjected. “She’ll talk him out of being bad. She can talk anyone out of being bad.”
This seemed to settle the collective as they nodded knowingly in agreement, smothered me in a flurry of hugs, and exited the room in search of another “high school crisis.”
I smiled and waved but inside: I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of Dodge.
I grabbed my things, hustled out the door and rushed to the gate before another group of little worriers came to find me.
By the time I reached the mini-van my phone was already going off in text messages:
Ms. Wood… don’t try to find that guy. I know you will. I don’t want you to die.
Ms. Wood… fuck that guy up… take a picture and post it on Instagram.
Ms. Wood… will you bring me back something from Big Bear… no one ever brings me back something from Big Bear.
“Jesus,” I mumbled to myself as I threw the van into gear and headed down the street.
I hopped on the 605 at Spring… floored it to the 91… jumped the Fastrak until I hit San Berdoo, and almost cried at the sight of my mountain.
Covered in snow… crisp and clear… it held everything I could want for a week: beauty, solitude, and a place to write.
I felt like a kid breaking free from her parents.
If the thought of Christopher Dorner even entered my mind… I don’t remember.
The trip up the mountain was uneventful.
No Dorner sightings.
No cops.
Just about a thousand idiots who had no idea how to drive the mountain in chains fighting their way up to the resorts and so… what was usually a two hour trip… turned into a four hour parking lot drive where good music, dark chocolate, and coffee provided the only relief.
Stephen, my man, had followed me up the mountain in his own car and by the time we reached Big Bear City… we were ready for a good meal and a good bed.
The next morning, we went about having a lovely weekend sure, as many people were, that Christopher Dorner was long gone, probably on his way to Canada or Mexico by now.
On Monday, Stephen headed down the hill and back to work and I prepared to spend the rest of my week writing.
I slept peacefully that night on my own… I did not worry about locking the doors, checking the closets, closing up the balcony.
And when the sun came up over the lake at 6am I was dressed and off to my normal routine: to walk the lake and forest path on the far side of Big Bear, close to Fawnskin, a trek that takes a couple of hours and connects with the Pacific Crest Trail.
I didn’t think to check in.
I didn’t think to call anyone.
I didn’t think about anything.
Oblivious to the news of the day, I headed out for a quick bite at the Grizzly Manor Cafe before I hit the trail.
I should have known when a giant man, similar in build to Christopher Dorner, entered the cafe for a quick cup of coffee and the table of deputies sitting across from me stood up with guns drawn that something was up… but I just assumed in a small town like Big Bear… the local law enforcement might just be “itchy” for action… willing to keep the antics up for a few days in hopes something interesting might happen.
I smiled as the guy looked around confused before he put his hands up and said to the deputies, “I just want a cup of coffee.”
He sat down close to me at the counter and rolled his eyes, annoyed that they thought he was a criminal.
He grabbed his sugar packets roughly and shook them back and forth numerous times before asking me, “Do I even look like that guy?”
I didn’t want to admit it to him… but he actually did.
I shrugged my shoulders, paid my bill, and headed off to the lake.
I parked in a remote part of the trail, put on my gloves and hat and started off at a good clip.
It was a beautiful day… quiet and cool….. everything was covered in thick soft powdered snow and I liked the sound of the crunch my tennis shoes made on the path.
I was about half way through the forest when I had that strange feeling of being watched.
I stopped: sure that I heard a noise.
I looked.
I listened.
Nothing.
I stepped up the pace.
Suddenly, I felt the labor of my breathing, the struggle of the altitude, and my usual “bravado” of being able to take anyone flagged.
I wondered what would happen if I was attacked?
Would I be able to fight back?
Would I be able to run?
I patted my pockets and realized I didn’t have my usual stash of Twinkies and Ho-Ho’s for calming difficult situations… my treats always a means of mediation.
I felt my heart beat faster.
I jogged the rest of the way to the bridge and much like Ichabod Crane in the Legend of Sleep Hollow, refused to turn around and look until I had passed over it and was safely on the other side.
The forest now behind me looked dark… looming… and I wasn’t really sure I wanted to walk that way back to the van but… the road was no safer covered in ice and snow… I would basically be a moving target for any yahoo making sharp mountain turns there on the 38.
I pushed the thought from my mind and headed down the lake path to the marina.
The wind was whipping across the water, the day had warmed to a lovely high of 30 degrees and so I walked out to the point and sat on the bench above the rocks and thanked God that I lived close enough to a place like this.
By 10 am, I was safely back home, showered and now warm in my jammies, sitting at my computer, hard into my writing day.
I worked solidly until close to 1:30 when once again… my mind stopped… alert.
I looked around.
Something seemed out of place.
Something seemed wrong.
I realized I hadn’t seen my phone in hours and jumped up to look for it, afraid that I was having some parental premonition regarding something going on at home, and that it was imperative to check-in.
It took me a good fifteen minutes to realize that my phone was wedged between the cushions of the couch and when I saw the massive amounts of texts I had missed I thought I might be sick.
I pushed in my pass code and prepared for the worst:
Stephen: WHERE ARE YOU???? VERY WORRIED!!!! CALL IMMEDIATELY.
My mind jogged.
That wasn’t what I expected.
It seemed that he was for some reason worried about me.
I hit the next message… my daughter Lexi:
MOM! THIS ISN’T FUNNY! ANSWER MY FUCKING TEXTS!
I went through scroll after scroll of worried messages from family, friends, and students.
MS. WOOD! ARE YOU STILL IN BIG BEAR???? ANSWER ME NOW!!!!
MS. WOOD CALL ME I’M WORRIED!
MS. WOOD SEND VIDEO I KNOW YOU NABBED THAT GUY AND BRING ME BACK SOMETHING FROM BIG BEAR NO ONE EVER BRINGS ME BACK SOMETHING FROM BIG BEAR!
I didn’t know what the hell was going on but obviously something was up.
I checked one more message from my friend Sharla:
You’re nowhere near that Christopher Dorner guy right? Call me when you can.
Suddenly, it all became clear.
I ran to the front door and threw it open:
Helicopters were flying throughout the area.
Sirens were going off in the distance.
Smoke was billowing from somewhere down the hill.
“Jesus Christ!” I shouted before jumping back inside and locking the door.
I didn’t know what to think.
Part of me was really disappointed that Christopher Dorner had been in Big Bear and I hadn’t ran into him.
I imagined how I would have lured him into the mini-van with the offer of a getaway car and an exclusive to his side of the story.
I knew that he had snapped and killed in the name of personal justice… but I hoped that it wouldn’t end in more bloodshed.
Right then Matt Vann, my friend and a teacher from Millikan, called.
“You with him?” he asked.
“What?” I said unsure if I had heard him right.
“You with him?” He repeated with intensity.
“No,” I said bummed that I wasn’t. “It’s not me.”
“Damn it,” Matt said. “I was so hoping they were gonna interrupt the State of the Nation tonight with a picture of you and Dorner.”
He hung up with an abrupt “Goodbye” and I rushed to the computer to check the CNN feed.
My Facebook page popped open and I thought it best to write a quick note to let everyone know I was okay… the responses were immediate:
Danny: D.D. I wasn’t worried about you. I was worried about Dorner… if he accidentally chose your place.
Timko: Go take him down Miss Wood.
Trevor: He’s never met sassy Miss Wood. There would be a citizen’s arrest for sure.
Cathy: Can you see the smoke?
I was happy to know that so many people had faith in my abilities to rule the world and once again I wished I had had a chance to intervene.
I hit the CNN feed and saw that Christopher was supposedly in a cabin… that the cabin was on fire… and that he was either going to give up… or die fighting.
I couldn’t watch.
I couldn’t think.
My heart hurt for everyone involved and I couldn’t bring myself to take a side.
I called my loved ones… promised to stay safe… before I grabbed a blanket and sat in the chair on the balcony looking out over the lake.
I thought of how life can turn on a dime.
How you can be the picture of mental stability, a symbol of strength to your community, someone loved… respected… and a vigilante outlaw the next.
I thought of his smiling face… the people he left behind… and I prayed for everyone who had lost in this game.
Just as I was letting the sadness of the day wash over me my phone beeped again.
Another text.
MS. WOOD PLEASE BRING ME BACK SOMETHING FROM BIG BEAR NO ONE EVER BRINGS ME BACK SOMETHING FROM BIG BEAR!
I smiled… and made a mental note to myself… to buy a present for my student the very next day… and be the first person to remember to bring him back something from Big Bear: Myself… alive, well, and there for all who love me… and some silly little gift to remind him that he mattered in my life… that he was important in my world.
THE WILD WORLD OF MRS. WOOD 