Memories

March 3, 2009 During the summers, my middle sister and I would stay with my dad. Three main things come to mind when I think about our summers with him: Coca Cola, beer, and cigarettes. Besides us (I think) those were my dad's favorite things in life. He smoked like a chimney. This was back when people did not know how socially unacceptable it was to smoke in front of your kids. I remember being trapped in his old clunker of a car (he got about 4 a year and they were always pieces of crap) with the windows up and the whole car filled with smoke. I remember being so relieved when he would crack the window (sometimes the little bat wing window) and the smoke would go rushing out. Man, if it was in this day- my mom could have had him in court ordering him not to smoke in front of us! Not in the 80's. Smoke it up parents, smoke it up. My mom once told me that the minute she got us back home, she would immediately wash all of our clothes because they reeked of smoke. We usually stayed at my grandma's (the Holy Roller I wrote about a couple of weeks ago). Things were always the same when we pulled up. Weeds crotch high in places, a run down chicken coop that may or may not have had chickens, a broken down Gremlin and Pacer in the yard, at least one additional broken down car in the yard each visit, and a trailer house in the yard that my dad lived in on occasions. I remember one year my dad found a baby racoon and named it Rocky. He tied some thick wire between 2 trees, put a leash on Rocky, and clipped it around the wire so he could run back and forth. I have not idea why he kept this racoon. It bit my sister once. Thankfully, she did not get rabies as far as I know. I remember being so dirty during those summers with my dad. I remember before going to bed each night having to dust our feet off before we crawled between the sheets. I am so grossed out by that because I imagine our feet were black as tar and we thought dusting them off was enough! Why weren't we wearing slippers? The room we slept in (called the "back room", which was about 4 feet from the "front room") had 2 old timey iron beds in them. For some reason, they were never all the way up against the wall, so there was about a one foot crack between the wall and bed. I used to make Candace sleep over on that side. She was so scared that something was going to reach up and grab her in that crack. I am sure that is why I did not want to sleep over there either! That room was always packed with crap. The room was about 15 feet wide by 20 feet long and there was only about 5 feet by 10 feet of really usable space because of the clutter. That place would definitely be a candidate for the show Clean House. I am a pretty healthy person, and I attribute my excellent immune system to all those summers in the dirt fest.

When I die, I better not have chin hairs.

03/37/07 Yes, it is 4am. I have been up since 3am. Kid woke me up and now I cannot go back to sleep. I am sure I will be dead later about 3pm when I am supposed to be lively at a party. Anyways, I cannot take credit for the following blog. A lady at work brought it up and I was very moved by it. I wanted to talk about it, elaborate on it, and welcome your comments.We were commenting about seeing little old lady patients that had long, grey chin hairs. We agreed that many of these ladies were either in nursing homes with no family, could not see the hairs, or had no one who cared enough about them to pluck the hairs (we called this neglect). My friend stated that in her will she has already stipulated that if she has a beard or stray facial hairs when she dies- her children will not receive any of her riches. She said that they had to take care of her and assure that she did not have the old lady chin hairs, or they would be written off. When she said this, I thought it was so profound. Now, I know most of my friends are old enough to understand the chin hair dilemma, but for those of you who do not- here is the deal. When you are a teenager, your skin is perfect (except for a few zits). You have no wrinkles, your skin tone is even, and the only thing you pluck is your eyebrows. Here is a quick aside: ladies, do not overdo the eyebrow plucking/waxing. Yes, those superthin eyebrows may be in, but just know that they will not always be. I believe that the cosmetic tatooing and model industries work together on eyebrow fashion. When the tatoo industry starts to feel a drop in customers, they pay the model industry (magazines, runway, etc) to begin flaunting the superthin brow. After about 2 years of this, the tatoo industry pays the model industry to being showing a more thick brow. Now, it will not be a dramatic change all at once. Over the course of a couple of years, the models will begin sporting increasingly thicker brows. Soon, the women of the world will begin flocking to the cosmetic tatoo artists to have their pencil thin brows filled in. I know this is how it happens. Anyways, back to my original story. In your mid twenties, you start to see some uneven skin tones. By the end of your twenties, you have the brown spots- which can generally be managed with makeup. But then. Oh, but then. You start finding------- the old lady chin hairs. It starts out as one that you need to pluck every few months. Then that one turns grey and hard. Then, you find another one, that needs to be plucked every month or so. And one day, you will find 3-5 long, black and grey hairs dangling from your chin. You wonder why no one told you. How could your closest friends not have told you? So, you pluck these hairs and feel relieved that you do not need to worry about this embarrassment for another month. Then, 2 weeks later, some have come back. Then, 2 weeks later, more have come back. Soon, you are having to check everyday since the hairs all grow at different rates. Damn those hair follicles with their different growth cycles!!! What I used to call my weekly chin hairs, are now my daily chin hairs. Since my friends do not have the cajones to tell me when I have a dangler, as we will now call them, my children and husband have inherited that duty. When I die, I WILL not have chin hairs, a beard, or a mustache (don't even get me started on that). I will make sure my lawyer, Howard K. Stern, will contact the appropriate authorities to visually inspect my hair situation upon my death. If anything is awry, my entire estate will be willed to the Aesthetician, Electrolysis, Laser Hair Removal Association of America. I will direct them to conduct weekly educational programs around the country discussing the options for hair removal. Please comment on your personal wants/desires when you die.

Ray + AC/DC= Love 4 Ever

Dec 2008: I wrote this after taking Benadryl, so if the tense is wrong- sorry. My husband love love loves heavy metal music. He is not an angry, black wearing, tattoo covered kind of guy. Just a regular person that likes heavy metal. He has always had a thing for AC/DC, Ozzy Osbourne, some guitar player for Black Sabbath, Van Halen (I would not really put them in the heavy metal category, but who am I to judge?), and probably many other gravelly sounding bands. I used to listen to that type of music, back when I lived in Mason and that’s all I knew. I remember when I discovered AC/DC in about 1989. I know they were around much longer than that, but my family was into country music and I was in a private Christian school for 2 years. The only rock I heard when I was at the private school was Whitesnake that Rodney listened to. Needless to say I really loved AC/DC for a few years, too. But I did not know any better. In a small town, especially when I was in high school, we were not exposed to much of anything outside our city limits. Believe it or not, when I was in high school (only a mere 15 years ago), the internet had not gone mainstream. I really don’t remember anyone that even had a computer. The first time I remember touching one was in 1993 when we used it for word processing. I had no earthly idea the world that existed beyond my Word Perfect. So back to Ray, he has been obsessed with AC/DC for as long as I have known him. Recently, Ray’s work friends invited him to an AC/DC concert. Like every concert that Ray has ever attended, he always has certain rituals he must complete. He always wants to take his own car, so the rituals mainly focus around it. Months before the concert, Ray begins the “stereo enhancement” tasks. There always seems to be a new or improved stereo that gets installed in his vehicle within a few months of the concert. In my own car, I can have the same stereo for 10 years, but Ray has to have a new one for one reason or another about every 1.5 years. So, sometime in the summer, he installed another stereo. I am sure that I had to tell him how much better it sounded than the last one- even though I could not really tell the difference. Also this year, Ray had a friend help him build a speaker box for (what I think was) a subwoofer. Ray spent many days and nights carefully crafting this box that had the speaker on one side and storage on the other. What he keeps in that storage, I don’t know. Probably some eight tracks, bandanas to tie around his thighs, a tshirt with rolled up sleeves, some tapered leg pants, some Rave hairspray for his heavy metal hair wig, some spandex leopard print pants, and some kaepa tennis shoes. It was like Santa’s workshop in there- hammers hammering, drills drilling, dust dusting, and spray paint spraying. After the box was completed, Ray would frequently (as he did with all the other concerts recently) request that I take the kids to school or he would offer to run errands. I used to wonder why he did this, but it finally occurred to me one day that during those alone times, Ray could turn up his 1980’s headbanger music, roll down the windows, and relive his teen years---I mean test out his stereo. I could just picture him with his left arm resting on the open window, breathing in the fumes of I35. I could see his (upper arm) hair whipping in the wind, as if headbanging to Highway to Hell. I imagine him thumping and bassing along in his little red wagon- feeling totally awesome. I see him at a stop light looking at some cute chicks with his eyes squinted slightly, pursing his lips, jutting them out, and doing the head nod in time to the music. Once the girls notice him, he sticks out his tougue (like Kiss) and does the rock and roll salute to them. I imagine him in utter bliss feeling like the coolest (old) guy on the street. As with all concerts, within a couple of days of the concert, Ray’s next ritual is the “cleansing of the kids” from his car. All the Hot Wheels cars, board books, diapers, wipes, and cheerios are removed from the Rock Wagon. There is never to be any sign of children. He always works on the MP3 compilation CDs that, surprisingly, are all the songs ever done by the band they are going to see. This year, Ray worked tirelessly on his rituals, especially the speaker box. Oh how I longed for his attention and for his embrace during these times. I missed my sweet natured husband who selfishly devoted his time only to the box. I knew my time would come again, but I also knew that I could not hold him back in these endeavors. To keep him sane, I had to let him have his time. Now that he has kids, I know this time is even more important. I am happy to report that this year, he did not attempt to grow the greatest goatee ever. It is the first time EVER that he has not done this for a concert. I am sure it had something to do with my blog bashing his facial hair. I know I should support the hair, for it provides great material for me, but I can’t do it. But, what he did do this year, that made me chuckle was have a special concert shirt made. He took a cartoon picture of Angus Young and had a guy at this work draw it on a tshirt in Sharpie. The following website should take you to the pic. http://www.amazon.com/AC-DC-Angus-Young-Sticker/dp/B000SJMRVS/ref=pd_bbs_sr_8?ie=UTF8&s=automotive&qid=1229831744&sr=8-8 And oh yes, he wore it. He loved that shirt. It was very well done and I am sure he was the envy of all the other concert goers (probably 98 percent men). I love my husband. He is a real sweetheart and I am very lucky to have him. He cooks, he cleans, he cares for his kids, and he puts up with me. He is just a little crazy in the head (yes, like you Banning).

A note to those WITH children

March 19, 2009 I was with some funny chicks yesterday and one of the girls began to discuss how out of touch many parents were with reality when it came to their kids. She first asked me if I would be offended if she talked about it and, or course, I said no. I told her that I totally remembered what it was like without kids (ahh, sleeping in, drinking at all hours of the day, laying around on the couch watching Price is Right or an America's Next Top Model marathon ALL DAY without interruption!) and how I felt about those parents. Throughout the discussion, I realized that her complaints/concerns/suggestions should not be quietly discussed among those who have not experienced the joys of parenthood. I realized that they should not feel shamed into talking about us in private- their side of the story needs to be heard! So, all you Mamas and Daddies, listen up. I will write as if I am the one without children. First, and probably most importantly- your children aren't as cute as you think. Every little poop, word, gesture, and breath is not impressive to us. Unless you are related to me or live in the same house as me, I really don't care. When I finally get to go out with you after not seeing you for 8 months, don't talk about your kid(s). If you are "sooooo freakin' glad to be out," then don't talk about the kids! When you talk about them, you think about them, when you think abou them, you talk about them more. When you bring your kid to a restaurant, do not let them run around. They need to stay in their chairs. I should probably be concerned about them getting hot food spilled on them, but mainly I don't want the waiter to dump hot food on me after your rugrat tripped him! I mean, come on, I come to Golden Corral for a nice, relaxing buffet experience. Buffet. What can I say. Do NOT let your kid go through the buffet line and get their own food. How many times do I have to see them casually stick the chocolate pudding spoon into their mouths, then put it back in the container?? I am at the Corral (that's what we regulars call it. The senior citizens and I) at least 4 times a months and the pudding incident happens almost every time. And the screaming (kid). Yea, I understand it is going to happen at times, but there is a maximum time of about 15 seconds that the rest of the world can stand it. Just because you have learned to tune out that frequency of shrill, does not mean you should. Take the kids outside, feed them some cheerios and Goldfish, then come back when all is well. We will think your kid is much cuter when they come back and be quiet. Now, onto the Wal Mart crowd (sorry Wal Marters, I go there, but it really gives a good visual for the story). It is not acceptable for you to ever bring your child out in public with only a diaper on. Perhaps if a tornado came to your house and sucked up all the other clothes and you had to drive to Wal Mart to buy new clothes, your kid always needs to have clothes on. You know all of you have seen this scenario- you go to Wal Mart to buy more dog food and contact lens cleaner. The Mama is there in her too tight knit lime green pants. They clearly show her granny panty line and they are pulled up way to high over her waist. The tractor pull tshirt (again, just for the story, I like watching tractor pulls!) has seen it's better days. You can see her pale gut throught the cigarette burn on the front of the shirt. Her flip flops are the $1 type and her calloused heels are hanging off the sides. Her toes with chipped hot pink polish are extending past the end of the flip flop. She has her 4 kids all under the age of 3. Two in the basket, one tugging on her waistband (DON'T PULL TOO HARD KID!) and one in the seat. The one in the seat has only a diaper on that is bulging because it has been on for 7 hours. Mama is yelling at her in a thick East Texas drawl, "Topenga, yeww better git ta drankin' that straaawwwberry melk. Yew know yer doctor woonnts ya start drankin' more nutrishous stuff!" The baby is holding a splintery a popcicle stick, dripping with drool, and she has sticky grape popsicle juice from her chin to diaper. The two kids in the basket are playing tug of war with a toilet plunger and one clearly has untreated pink eye. I notice he rubs his eye, then touches the basket- leaving a little germy present for the rest us. The mama screams loudly every 20-47 seconds at the kids. She says "Wylene, yew better quet tuggin' own ma stretch paaaants. Yer pullin' that eeeelastic down onto ma boil! Now stop it bafooorr I woop yew right heeeerrrre!' I ain't like those faaaancy mamas thet'll put yew in time ooouuuttt! I will poooolllll that wooden spoon outa my purse so faaasstttt!!!" So in addition to always dressing your children, do not wear lime green stretch pants. It makes you yell at your children. I can imagine how upsetting those pants would make you as they cut off the circulation to your brain. So Mama's and Daddies, take all this to heart and when I have kids-- please support me. I will need it if that is how my life is gonna be.

Flashback to Breastfeeding

September 30, 2007 - Sunday I am no earth mother So I have a 11 week old, as most of you know. I also have a 3 year old. With the 3 year old, I had a pretty hard time breastfeeding him. Difficult latch, unhappy momma, lots of reasons why it did not really work. So, I just pumped the milk with and gave it to him in a bottle. Not exactly natural, but at least he was getting the milk. With the second child, I was determined to breastfeed her the "right" way. I was going to take advantage of my natural, God-given ability. After 11 weeks, I have done very well. I am proud of my tenacity and that my nipples have held up. But, I would not exactly say I am the earth mother type. There are some real truths about breastfeeding that no one had ever told me. First, let me explain the pillow that I use to feed her. It is called (and I am not kidding) My Brest Friend (my bff). For those of you who do not know what it looks like- search it online to get a clear picture.You strap it around your waste and the baby lays on a kind of pillow table. It is probably the Brest thing ever invented. It puts the kid in the right position and holds the kid in place without much effort. Let's say she was feeding off the right one (feeding, sounds like a shark feeding frenzy). I could easily lay her across the pillow and use my right hand to hold the breast in place. The left hand is free to do whatever. My best friend used to be my body pillow, but this has moved into the first position. The only major problem with it is that it is not really practical to carry along with you and use in public. It is very big and barely fits in the carrier below the stroller. In trying to be the super earth mother that I thought I was, I thought "no big deal, I can just breastfeed in public without My Brest Friend." Well, I do not know how all these other women do it and have done it for millions of years, but Oh---My----God----, it is not easy. It is almost like the 3 stooges trying to feed a baby. It is a multifaceted task that really should require a couple of people. People, these are the things that no one else will tell you. First off, it forces me to feed her in a manner that is completely different than the way My Brest Friend and I do it. Again, as an example, lets say I was feeding her off the right breast. Even though I try to be super earth mother, I am NOT going to show my breasts in public! I know it is all natural and that is what they were made for, but I just do not think that people want to see that. So, I take a large blanket and throw it over my right shoulder. As I am holding her, I have to tuck the top of the blanket under my bra strap to hold it up. That way, when she thrashes around, which she always does when I try to do this in public, she does not pull the blanket down exposing my breasts. Without the pillow, I have to cradle her in the crook of my right arm. This in itself is quite a task. A 13 1/2 lb baby in the crook of your arm is not easy to hold. Then, I have to maneuver the squirming, crying, and anxious-to-eat child onto the nipple. Again, not easy. I have to expertly place the blanket around her head to create a kind of wall that allows me to her face, but at the same time prevent others from seeing my goods. Then, I have to try to get her mouth in the right spot on the nipple. For those of you unfamiliar with breastfeeding, you have to get the right "latch" or your nipples with crack and become raging fire balls. In fact, if your nipples get injured or you get clogged ducts in your breast from not drinking enough water- when that kid nurses you would think that someone was trying to saw your nipples off with the butter knife. Wow! You do not know pain until it feels like your kid is trying to gnaw your nipples off like a starving wolf. Back to the story- when a baby is hungry, they get very excited and move their face around trying to find the milk source. So, with my blanket placed, my right arm falling asleep, the baby squirming, and me trying to keep the public from seeing "my space", I take the left hand and try to guide my nipple into her mouth. Once I finally succeed, I have to keep my left hand inside the blanket tent to hold my breast away from her nose because their size and gravity force the breast over her nostrils. Beside all the other things that are happening in the public breast feeding fiasco, I do not want infant suffocation to be added. So, once she is on there, it is a constant battle to keep her on the nipple. She knows that this is not the way we usually do it and she does not like it any more than I do. On top of all this, my child, like many I am sure, is a very loud sucker. I could not discreetly breastfeed this child anywhere. My husband and I purposely choose to eat at loud restaurants to drown out the sound of my son screaming and sound of my super sucker. As soon as my baby and I get a rhythm going, she needs to be burped. So, I have to pluck her mouth off the nipple, pull my bra up, pull my shirt down, pull the blanket off, and then I can sit her up to burp. And, then the dance starts again when I put her back on. I forgot to mention, that on top of all of this, I have to try to keep the back of my shirt down so that no one can see my back fat. So how do these earth mothers do this? How do they just wip it out, sans blanket? They just don't care. I do not think the La Leche League will be call me anytime soon to be a spokesperson.

Down the Slippery Slope

May 27, 2007 - Sunday Down a slippery slope Category: Life Wherever my husband and I go, we always seem to be slowed down by his need to take care of his bodily functions. Me, I can hold a pee for hours and be fine. Only after about 3 hours of holding it and drinking a lot of fluids in the meantime does my need to pee ever become an emergency. With him, everytime is an emergency. No, it is not his prostate, this is how it has always been. So, after 14 years I should be used to it. But I am not. To top it all off, we have a toddler we are trying to potty train. So, the concern over peeing and pooping is at an even greater level than normal. Today we went on our normal Sunday outing to the library, only to find it was closed. We decided to go to the UT Tower because there is a fabulous pond behind it that is filled with turtles. I could not remember where to park to get there, so we parked by the stadium. I had forgotten that the stadium was about a half a mile from the Tower. No biggy, our son needed to burn off some energy. We parked and immediately my husband decided that he really needed to pee. My son and I walked around the Alumni Center courtyard looking at statues of Bevo, some horses, and a cowboy while my husband went to the souvaneir (?) shop to use the restroom. He came out and said they had no public restroom. I noticed that there was a memorial service going on in the Alumni Center, so I told him to go in. Heck, he was wearing a grey shirt, he could have easily been a mourner. My son and I discussed the makeup of the statues while he went inside. He came out again without finding a restroom. I knew what was coming next, my husband would have to pee outside. He rushed ahead of us and down a trail leading to a creek. Soon, he came back- a victor. I could see the relief on his face. He asked me if I saw him fall. I immediately started laughing and said no. As an aside, my husband has a really big problem with falling. He seems to fall all the time. Usually it is in the privacy of our own home as he goes up the stairs. In fact, tonight he almost ripped the end of his big toe off. How you lacerate your toe on stairs, I will never know. The last big fall was at my niece's birthday party when he tripped over a stake holding down a moonwalk. I missed the actual fall, but I heard that he bounced back up from the ground like he was on a trampoline. The family still talks about this. So, anyways, we are all on a bridge over the creek. My husband points out some old timey, rock stairs leading down to the creek. They were wet rain and mossy. He said he was going down the stairs and turned to see if anyone was around before he peed. He said as he turned, both of his feet slipped out from under him and he went airborne. He landed on his left butt cheek. He said it was like a cartoon fall. He showed me the back of his pants and they had nasty green moss stains on them. His hands were also covered in a green funk, like he was turning into the swamp thing. We walked up to one of the big water fountains on the UT campus so he could wash off a bit. So that was his story. Now for mine. My husband gets so irritated with me because whenever something happens to him, I embellish the story. Maybe I do, maybe I don't. So, I asked him if I could write my version as long as I told his version first. Here is how I see it: he walks down the mossy slippery stairs. He unzips his pants and starts to pee, when he decides he better look around to make sure no one is watching. As he turns, he falls like he described it above. He hands slips off of his, you know, and he can't stop the peeing as he falls. The pee is spraying everywhere and it like a fountain- getting his pants all wet and as he continues to fall the pee begins to spray onto his head. He finally lands and the pee has stopped. He is laying on his right side and slides down the slippery moss rocks a few feet. He is finally able to zip his pants and make his way back to his family. You can decide which version you think is true.

Crawfish and Urine

April 8, 2007 - Sunday This is quite possibly the funniest story I have read in years. I wish that I could take credit for this genius read This story, true story, was written by one of my very best friends here in Austin. Don't be discouraged by the length, it is worth the read. You will see why l like her so much.I was in the local grocery store the other day, shopping for all the things a middle-age semi-vegetarian white woman might shop for. I was leaving the seafood dept. after having bought some fresh non-farmed fish when I saw a display stand in the middle of the deptartment. It was filled with ice and what looked to be about 700 very cold and nearly frozen to death crawfish (seems crawfish boilin' season has arrived). They looked up at me (from what would surely be an icy death bed at some point) with their little black beady eyes and raised their tiny red pinchers towards me. It was as if they were saying "pick me, help me, save me, love me". I was their God. I immediately knew what I had to do. I got a plastic bag and tongs and proceeded to fill it up with crawfish. It was very heart-wrenching to decide which ones would have a chance at freedom and which ones would be left to face either a slow cold or very hot boiling death. I empathized with Meryl Streep in "Sophie's Choice" and knew how tough a choice she had to make. But it had to be done. Saving some was better than none. I chose the larger more active ones. I figured they would have a fighting chance once I released them into my neighborhood pond. Some trendy woman stopped and watched what I was doing. She said to me "I see you are picking out the larger and most alive ones. Are they the best for eating?" Shamefully I said "yes". Hoping that would be the end of the conversation. She then continued on to ask me how to cook the crawfish. I loathed myself as I found myself explaining how one concocts a "crawfish boil". There is a part of me new enough to this "not eating my fellow creatures that have been shot full of growth hormones and antibiotics and fed a non-natural diet thing" to where I could not bring myself to tell her I was buying these poor little bastards to set them free. I guess I didn't want to appear as some kooky tree hugger or militant vegan. So I lied. Finally she moved on.After filling the bag I took it to the seafood counter to be weighed and tagged for checkout. The associate was going to put ice in the bag and gave me a funny look when I vehemently refused it. I checked out and as soon as I got out of the store, tore some holes in the plastic bag so they could get some oxygen. I put the bag of "soon to be free" crawfish in the front seat of my car because it was sunny and would warm them up. I went back to the store to look at some rose bushes that were on display. When I got back to the car some of the more daring and active crawfish had made a break for it through the air holes in the plastic bag. Some were under the seat, some had even managed to wedge themselves into a pocket on the door where I keep CDs.Not having any tongs, I steeled myself to the task at hand. I knew a crawfish pinch wasn't that bad, but nonetheless I was going to avoid it if I could. I plucked them from the CD pocket and from under the seat. They fought me valiantly. I guess the warmth of the car had really invigorated them. I drove to the small pond in my Texas hill country subdivision to release them. It is about a 12 mile drive from the store. Somewhere along the way I felt I needed to pee. Not a big urge. Just that somewhere the brain is starting to think about it. I figured I would just wait until I got home, it wouldn't take long to release my little survivors. I got to the pond and took the plastic bag full of now very much alive crawfish and proceeded to strategically place them in the pond. I didn't want to dump them all in one place for fear none would survive if a predator found them quickly. So I walked up and down the bank kerplunking them here and there. Some really took off, scooting backwards into the depths of the pond. Others just kinda hung out where I had put them. They were free again. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, they were free at last. They were beautiful, the sun glistened down through the clear water illuminating their bright red shells against the calichi bottom of the pond. That is, except for one. As I walked up and down the shore of the pond admiring my handiwork and thinking, "my what a good person I am", I spied one little fellow on his back. Maybe he was the one idiot in the bunch. Because as we all know, there IS always one in a the crowd, isn't there? I watched to see if the idiot crawfish was going to be able to flip himself over. It was apparent he couldn't or wouldn't. I don't know which, because he wasn't saying. So I decided to step in and help him.We (the crawfish and I) had come this far, I wasn't about to let my immediate release survival rate drop to anything less than 100%.I had been to yoga earlier that day and was wearing some rather nice yellow Lance Armstrong special edition Nike flip-flops given to me by a friend. I really love these flip-flops and have taken great pains not to get them dirty. I usually just wear them to yoga or to work. Not out in the yard. I also had on some nice capri-length yoga pants as well, with loose legs.The upside-down crawfish was about two feet from the bank. I couldn't reach him leaning over the water. I couldn't find a stick to turn him over with. I had to step into the pond with a least one foot in order to reach him/her. The pond bottom looked pretty solid to me, not muddy; packed caliche like we find in the creeks and lakes in the hill country. After all, the crawfish had not sank into the pond bottom when I threw them in. How wrong I was.As soon as my foot hit the pond bottom, my foot, along with my special edition Lance Armstrong Nike flip-flop was sucked down into the mud about mid-way to my calf. At about the same time my foot hit the cold water and was being sucked down into the mud, I noticed I was beginning to pee. It was a small trickle. My urinary sphincter was trying to do it's God-given job. It just wasn't succeeding very well. I am a middle-aged white woman after all.I pressed on despite my two handicaps and flipped the crawfish over. It didn't move. It seemed content and bemused to stay and watch me try to extricate my foot and beloved flip-flop from the mud while peeing on myself. I pulled my foot free, but to my horror, the flip-flop wasn't on my foot. It had been sucked down into the muddy quagmire of the deceptive pond bottom. I couldn't see the hole where my foot had been because I had stirred up the mud getting my foot stuck and unstuck. Pee is still dribbling down my leg at this point. I gave up fighting the losing pee battle (double entendre). I sat on a rock, stuck both arms into the cold water to dig my Lance Armstrong special edition flip-flops out of the quicksand-like mire and let the urine flow. Like Kenny Rogers says, "You have to know when to hold 'em.....etc...."As I sat on the rock, pissing myself and blindly digging in the mud for the flip-flops I thought to myself, "was it worth it?" Was freeing those 20 or so little lives worth this private humiliation, not to mention the soiling of the flip-flop (and yoga pants)? And the answer is of course, "yes". I finally succeeded in getting the dirty filthy flip-flop out, finished peeing, picked up the empty smelly crawfish bag and walked back to my vehicle. Thank God I had some towels in my vehicle and that it was only a quarter-mile or so to my house. I got in the truck and the oddest mixture of smells surrounded me. One that most of us will (hopefully) never experience in a lifetime: the smell of crawfish and urine.