File 13...

When I was a kid, I loved to create things. Give me a box, a pile of paper, and some glue and I would be happy as a clam.

One afternoon, in second grade, the artist within me beckoned to make some "creations" for my 3 teachers (It was the 70's and I was in a "pod" classroom). I happily gathered all my construction paper, glue, and scissors and began the feverish task of completing the artwork. When I had finished all the crayoned stick figures and glitter stars my little hands could muster, I looked over my work. Something was missing. It needed..... more.

And then it hit me.

I put on my jacket and ran outside. It was a beautiful fall afternoon and the leaves had begun to float to the ground. I grabbed as many as I could and took them inside. Glue, leaves, and construction paper filled the room as I added the final touches to my already sticky art forms.
I stood back and admired my work. Yes....they were good. Oh...they were good.

The next day I put them in a paperbag and headed off to school. My feet didn't touch the ground as I skipped into the building and down to my classroom. The students were just going in. This would be the perfect time to present my humble offerings to those who had educated me with addition, reading, and washing my hands when I used the bathroom.

I approached the first teacher and handed her one of the pieces of art. "Why thank you! This is wonderful! Did you make this? Oh...I will hang it up...right here!" Perfect. Just what I wanted her to say. I went to the next teacher. "This is beautiful...and look at all the leaves! Wow...just like a real artist!" Oh yeah. Magical. This was exactly what I had dreamed. I then walked over to the last teacher. She was writing something on the chalkboard, so I put it on her desk and stood there....smiling. When she returned to the desk, she looked at the pile of leaves, construction paper, and gooey, glitter stars and then at me. And then the words that hit me like a Fisher-Price hammer came out of her mouth.... "You know better than to put garbage on my desk. Put it in the trashcan where it belongs!".

I was crushed, but not wanting to throw all my work into the rusty trashcan, I stammered, "It's...it's....for you. I m-m-made it last night."

Her look was priceless. Kodak should have been there.

And while I truly enjoyed the other teachers' reactions.......I moreso enjoyed the guilt that the last teacher tried to overcompensate with during the rest of the year.

Like a little gluey dividend.

What came first?

I was living in Hotlanta in the early 90's. Not in anything fancy. Just a one bedroom apartment in one of those apartment complexes that you are mandated to live in from the ages of 21-26.

One summer, I had had a really bad week and thought I would make some egg salad. C'mon, doesn't everyone make egg salad during their valleys in life? I say nothing says "cheer the hell up" like a big bowl of stink.

I put some eggs on to boil and was getting out the rest of the ingredients. When I went into the fridge to retrieve some mayo....alas, there was none. This probably caused a crying jag for a few minutes. But I bucked up and grabbed my purse. I cruised to the grocery store in my Buick LeSabre... ala 1988. You know the one....."The Old Folks Special", I think they called it.

I strolled leisurely through the grocery store looking for other snacks, stopped at the magazine aisle to read a little Cosmo, ate some free samples at the bakery, and then went and purchased my mayo and some bread.

As I was driving, I suddenly got a horrible,sickening feeling in my stomach. And it wasn't from the link sausage on a cracker I had eaten at the store. Oh...my.....gawd!....I don't think I turned off those eggs!!!!!! And I had been lollygagging like a city worker for about an hour and a half at the grocery store. I pressed my foot on the accelerator and headed towards my ...gulp!....apartment.

When I reached the street in which my apartment was located, I almost passed out as I saw a crowd of people standing outside in the parking lot looking up at my apartment on the second floor. I drove closer. Smoke was pouring out the deck's screen door.

Now, it could have just stopped there. Really. My punishment could just have been a smoky apartment that reaked like a sewer pipe for days. Or have exploded eggs everywhere that I would find for months after. Or seeing my freaked-out cat hiding in the one-inch space under my couch. But no. No.....that's not all there was going to be.

You see....my assigned parking spot was between a derelict station wagon(and surprisingly older car than mine) and a pole that held up a carport like covering. Everyday, I had to negotiate like a neurosurgeon to get into my spot with my gargantuan, boat-like, uncompromising car. Except that day.....when I thought my belongings were burning up along with my cat. I pulled that monstrosity on wheels like I was driving a Yugo and in doing so, smashed in the side of both of my car doors against the pole. Everyone in the parking lot turned around and now was staring at me. Splendid.

I got out of the car, made my way through the crowd, and headed towards the stairs that led to my apartment. As I ran up the stairs, I saw a maintenance man coming out of my door. He saw the panicked look on my face and said the only words he thought could comfort me.......words that would stick with me for years.....words that left no room for confusion.......

"Mam....I think your eggs are done."