WTnotthebadFword Wednesday: My Day brought to You by the Letter F.

Flying solo.
Field trip (to museum).
Fabulous friends (came with).
Frolicking (much).
Following (toddler).
Fighting (mean schoolchildren).
Flat shoes (bad choice).
Feeling uncreative.
Freakin' Tired.

Good night, dear readers! If you love me, you will send me more fodder for F musings :)

WTnotthebadFword Wednesday: Fears

I'm not really a fearful person. It's not that I'm all that courageous, necessarily--just oblivious. I forget to close the door or turn off the stove; I get on planes without a second thought of it crashing; I ride fair rides and worry more about puking than hurtling to my death; I let my kid walk around in public restrooms and put his little hand on the floors and walls. My poor husband has to go behind me locking doors and checking appliances and washing hands and reading warning labels while I go on my merry ignorant way.

The truth is, I am too lazy to nurture any legitimate fears, so instead I just hold on to a few completely irrational ones, including...

Big Dogs. I do like dogs; however, the sound of a big barking dog makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up (in the bad way). We have a rottweiler that lives in the fence behind us that snorts and fumes at us every time we go in the back yard to play. John Mark will run toward the fence squealing "puppy!" while my heart jumps up into my throat. Even the friendly, drooling, overweight lab we meet on our walks makes my blood pressure spike.
I keep trying to pinpoint some event in my childhood that would make me so irrationally afraid of dogs, but I have never even been nipped by a puppy. My best guess is that my mom's attempts to train us to be cautious of strange dogs became deeply ingrained in my psyche. Every time I get near one of these creatures I hear her voice warning, "That dog'll jump up on you!"

Knocking My Teeth Out. I am completely sure this came from my mom, who could imagine a missing-teeth scenario in every sporting activity, no matter how innocent. I also firmly believe that this is why I am the sorriest athlete I know: It's not that I'm uncoordinated or slow or weak or totally undisciplined--It's that I am too afraid of knocking out a tooth. (Really. Can you think of anything more humiliating than having to go to work or church with a HUGE gap in your smile? It's awful.)


(Sorry to pin both of those on you, Mom!)

Having Conjoined Twins. Please note that I am not actually afraid of conjoined twins, like some people have that weird fear of clowns. No, this is more about going to a doctor that says, "You have two babies, but they are attached to each other." Seriously, I have had horrible dreams about this for years, to the point I believed it was an omen. My husband says this is a direct result of watching too many sensational news stories, because the chance of this happening is like one in 1,000,000. Confession: At some point after we decided to stop our fertility treatments, I actually thought to myself: "I guess I can stop worrying about having conjoined twins." It was a huge relief.






Okay, dear readers, time for you to 'fess up: Any other irrational fears out there?

WTnotthebadFword Wednesdays: FAME!

This, kids, is my lunch box from first grade. As you can see, it features Cocoa, Leroy, the teacher played by Debbie Allen and the whole Fame Gang. I proudly carried this lunch box as an expression of who I was as a six-year-old, just struggling along, waiting for my big break on Broadway, trying to rise above the gritty streets by devoting myself to my craft.

Or, you know, as a white kid in some homemade knickers and mongrammed sweater, going to a Christian school in Paragould, AR.

Along about the 4th grade, I was in a talent contest at the fair. Well, I should clarify that this was actually the Northeast Arkansas District Fair, not just some piddly county fair, and, for further clarification, it was a preliminary competition for the Mid-South Fair. For this big moment (my big break?!?), no other song but "Fame" would do. So there I was, in the sweltering September heat, wearing a tuxedo shirt, red sequin bowtie and cummerbund, and some lycra pants on which my Mom had sewed a red sequin stripe all the way down the side of both legs. Oh, and my hair in a side ponytail with a sequin scrunchy---because how else would I wear my hair when I am up there belting out, "Baby, remember my name" (remembah, remembah)?

I am rather on a roll of self-disclosure here, so I will go ahead and tell this part, too: There comes a point in the song (karaoke tape) that is the height of 80's synthesized musical breaks...and being a gal who does not like to waste a moment on stage, I decide that this is the perfect opportunity for me to show off some of my other skills, namely, doing a back handspring, followed by a toe-touch. Oh, yes I did. And then I ran back to pick up the mic off the floor and close with a rousing, one-step-higher-for-effect chorus. Remembah, remembah...Fame! (aaaaaaaaaand....jazz hands!)

I am pretty sure that my mom went to bed that night wondering why she had been stuck with the most ridiculous child on the face of the earth.