A Nutjob, An Exposure, Some Cops, and a Goose-egg

There are moments in my life when I think it's quite amazing that no sitcom writers have begun following me around for material. Not because I'm THAT funny. I'm not. I mean, I have my moments, but I'm not.



No, it's not my sense of humor or biting wit that makes me wonder how my life hasn't made it to TV yet. It's not my astounding beauty or winning way with words either.



It's the fact that I'm, well... ridiculous.



I am that person that at least once a week says, "You can't WRITE this stuff!" about something that has happened to me.



These instances date back for years and years. I'm sure I could think of some from childhood if I worked hard enough, but let's just go to college.



There's the day I was walking down the main thoroughfair on campus only to have the guy walking in front of me turn around, grab me by the shoulders and begin shouting, "STOP FOLLOWING ME!!!!!"



Then there's the fact that one of my stories from college involves a character I now lovingly *ahem* refer to as "P-guy" (think male genitalia). Yep, asked directions, exposed himself, then stalked me for months. (Cops asked me if I noticed what color his eyes were. Umm, NOT the most prominent feature at the moment.)



There's the time I had the cops come to my house because I (and my roommate) kept hearing someone humming the tune to "Nah-Nah-ni-Boo-boo" repeatedly in my house. (New screensaver that had a little girl doing this, which I obviously did NOT know.)



See? You can't WRITE this stuff!!!



Recently at a scrapbooking retreat, it was past midnight when our whole cabin decided it was time for bed. In the pouring rain and dark with no outdoor lights, we, as a group, walked to our cabin, got the stuff we needed to get ready for bed, and, as a group, walked to the bathrooms (in another cabin), brushed our teeth, etc. Then, while returning to the sleeping cabin en masse, Crazy Aunt slipped, slung her arm out to catch herself, promptly whacking me upside my head... or more accurately, in the face, knocking my glasses THROUGH my eyebrow (ok, maybe it just felt that way). We laughed. I cried a little. I tried to put my glasses back on, but noticed one of the lenses seemed out of focus. I figured they must have gotten bent a bit, so I held them in my hand as we walked the rest of the journey to our cabin, cackling loudly the entire trip. (Please remember it's pouring rain.) Once we got in the cabin, I took stock of my glasses, hoping to straighten them out and discovered they weren't out of focus because they were bent. They were out of focus because one of the lenses was knocked out during the thwacking. Crazy Aunt and I had to treck back out in the dark with a teensie flashlight and rain soaking us to look for my lense on the ground, in the woods, with no light and rain (which made every surface shine, thus killing our ability to find the lense that way).



Insanity.



And then there's yesterday.



I was sitting on the couch watching TV (and doing a little sewing) when my TV short of... exploded. It made this crazy sound, like when an 18-wheeler is put in park and the big brakes are put on? You know. Pssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Then smoke came rising from behind the screen. The screen went black (though I could still hear Deputy Chief Brenda Lee Johnson's horrible rendition of a Southern accent). My first thought is "Is the screen going to bust and come flying out at me in shards?" My second thought is "Is the TV actually on FIRE and thus going to set my giant, wooden armoir on fire?" My third thought is "I MUST call someone and tell them what just happened."



So I called my Dad (aka Diddy). Now, it's not because he's a fire-safety expert or a wiz at electronics. I called him because a.) he's retired and, thus, available; b.) I wanted someone on the phone in case my house caught fire or my TV tried to attack me in some way; and c.) he knows just how ridiculous I am.



The conversation went something like this:



Diddy: WHAT?!?



Me: Yeah, it just sort of popped then went "Pssssshhhhhhhh" and smoke came billowing out.



Diddy: Well, the first thing I'd do is unplug it from the wall and from your DVR.



Me: (Thinking, Oh yeah, that's a REALLY good idea)

"Of COURSE I already thought of doing that.

(See why I called someone? I'm ridiculous.)

"I can't get the danged thing to turn off. There's only 3 things plugged in back here. I've unplugged them all and the red light is still on."



Diddy: "How can the power still be on if it's unplugged?" (Most likely thinking, "dumb-a".)



Me: "I KNOW. That's why I mentioned it. There's obviously a plug back here I'm missing."



(Pause while I dig around. There MAY have been a little football talk while he waited on me.)



Me: "OH, SH*T!!!!! OUCH!!!"



Diddy: (probaby a little panicky - thinking with it being me, it's totally possible the entire armoir has fallen over on me or the TV has wrapped itself around my neck, threatening to choke me)

"What happened? Are you ok?"



Me: "I hit my head. I need a minute."



Yes, in the process of trying to unplug my semi-exploded television, I managed to thwack my head so hard into the corner of a cabinet (focusing on the plugs I was aiming at, not what was between here and there) that by the time all was said and done, I had a scab inside a divot inside a knot on my forehead.



You can just imagine the conversation a few minutes later when I called the hubs in class and said (while still a little in tears), "Ummm, the TV sort of exploded and in my haste to get it unplugged, I may have given myself a teensie concussion."



Seriously, people. You can't write this stuff. HOW is there no one following me around and turning this ridiculousness into something to entertain the masses? Where's my contract for letting my insanity be exploited?

Love & Shipoopies,

Leslie