St. Louis, We're Not

I could understand if, in a crowded subway, someone reached down and grabbed the wrong bag. Wooops. It would all be vaguely scripted:
"Oh, sorry. I thought that was--"
"Oh! Right! Ha! Well,--"
"Well--"
"No, you go ahead."
"Ehhh..."
[fumbling exchange of phone numbers or fisted cuffs depending on how the dialogue plays out.]
What I can not understand is crashing a wedding in your jeans and construction boots, proceeding to the dance floor, making out with your date (similarly clad and coiffed), and slopping back to the side of the room where you pick up my camera bag-- MY-- CAMERA BAG.
What. The. Hell.
I stand up from the table and say, for lack of better idea "Hey! That's my stuff."
Barfly McStickyfingers steps back and leaves.
And then he comes back three times.
He brings friends.
When they are asked to leave again and again, they do, but not without a fight. They insist that they were invitees. Matt, in his infinite compassion, tells the guy to, "Get out or I will throw you out." Plus a couple of bad words.
Bride Sarah calmly ignores the distraction and dances on.
I have another glass of wine and hide my bag.

I Cannot Be Angry with a Rhyme

To celebrate the anniversary and the half-birthday of my Banished Red Cells, I tried again.
Thanks again, Huatulco. You continue to impress me with your potentially-infected mosquitos.
On the way out, I stopped by the stand with sugar-replenishing sweets. I left when the urge came over me to drink a juicebox, poke my veins with the straw, and drain my blood into the empty container to begin a competing blood drive.
I went back and told Easter (actual name) that I had already used that excuse and could I please have another one? She labeled me "Malaria Area."

Reinstituting Mandatory Recess

Every once in a while my boss calls me into her office to have me fix something. I backpedal a little and tell her that I'm not sure I can fix it because I figure I should save myself the shame of being confident and then getting stumped by Microsoft Word. I don't want her to call in the media paraprofessional.
And then, inevitably, it's like today: she had accidentally highlighted something, but she didn't know how to undo it.
I think it's secretly designed to make me feel good about myself .
Educators are so predictable.

Hilarity Ensues, Kids Find Christ, Everyone Goes Home

I haven't blogged lately because I've been using all my creativity for Jesus.
There were moments around 2 am when our planning team nearly suffocated on chips and skittles, giddy on the possibilities; if only we could be a little more cutting edge with our activities and themes.
Our speaker, Greg Boyd, author of a billion books and owner of incredible intellect, challenged us to recognize the radical nature of Christianity. Our fundamental duty is to agree with God about who God is, who we are, and who everyone else is. We must agree that everyone has unsurpassable worth. Even that [expletive] whose car flung clumps of dried mud at us last night on the way home as he cut us off. That guy has unsurpassable worth.
My question remains: how do we get kids interested in a faith that seems played out and embarrassed by badly behaving adults?
We settled on skits and songs and lemon meringue.

Whole[ly Predictable] Foods

Last night we had "Darn Good" Chili. It was ok. I thought I knew what to expect. In that case, I want to know if this company makes other pre-evaluated dinner options? Like, "Reasonably Good" Lasagna, "I Don't Like It But You Might" Chicken Pot Pie, and "No Thanks, I Gave Up Meat For Lent" Vegetarian Souffle.

Exceeding Expectations

"Hey Steve, Uncle Bud's wearing a shirt!"

Stranger Danger

My car is parked on Hennepin and 24th. The passenger window is rolled down just a little bit. This guy approaches with some stupid question, and I'm suspicious, but I open the door.
Here I can see that in trying to be cool with strangers, I have allowed someone I don't know, on a random street, into my car.
He gets in--Who ignores instincts in dreams? Someone who is afraid of being called a racist? Shut up, Subconscious.
I'm scared. He's a little too close.
A cop passes by and around Guy's head I lean forward to mouth for help. Guy tells me that if I plan to ask for help, I shouldn't invite people in to my car.
Eh...ok.
I wake up.

Forever Jung

Another wedding last Saturday. Dori (seated next to me at dinner) talked AT LENGTH about refurbishing countertops, her husband's chocolate obsession, and the bodily manifestations of old age. Adults are boring.
I found a five-year old named Haley who wanted to know:
1. How do flowers get petals? [They have all the information for petals in their seeds from the very beginning, but they need water and sunshine and sometimes a little bit of fertilizer. I can not possibly give you the whole story. There is so much to discuss in the way of plant and human development.]
2. Was I six? [Um, no. But 24 is 4 times that big.]
She had some things to teach also:
1. Jesus had the bear tree. [Wha? Where is the interpreter? Use this little card and point to the language you speak.]
2. Lightning goes into your skin like this (shrreeeeeeehhhhh) [Oh. Cool. I've never seen lightning go into someone's skin, but it sounds loud and scary.]
3. My knees hurt and I know that it is time for bed. [Did Dori put you up to this?]

Not Cruel to Animals

Try this: label an empty box, "Free Puppies" and put it out in the hallway at work/school/church.

Another Instance

This One In Which I Failed A Child, But I'm Not Sure How, Exactly. I Just Know I Did Something Wrong:
"My foot still hurts."
"Ok. What have you done so far?" (Meanwhile, I am checking her attendance to see if perhaps she skipped this class or if it happens to be math-related.)
"I should have worn slippers today, but I didn't."
"Sara, what can I do to help you?"
"I don't know. Nothing, I guess. I just should have worn something more comfortable."
"...Well, I guess you have two options, really. You dance, or you don't."
"No, I can still dance."
"Ok, then. Pull it together."
As their performance draws ever nearer, my Hip Hoppers invent ways to remove themselves from dance, terrified of public humiliation. I have no ride home; I have to visit my uncle in Michigan; Dennis stepped on my foot and now it's swollen and I can't walk or even sit up because it hurts.
Enter my conscience. What is it that she wanted from me? Sympathy? An ice pack? Doritos?