Incidents

I remember one time when I was about 10 or 11 years old, riding in my parents' old white Ford car. My dad bought it cheap from the police department when they upgraded to newer vehicles. The car was as big as a boat and had a bright gold bumper sticker that said, "My child is an honor student at Bay Elementary School." That's right, read it and weep. I was once brilliant. This blog entry may prove otherwise. Anyway, my dad was driving, and I don't really remember my mom being with us, but for some reason, I was in the backseat. Maybe Mom was there, but I feel like if she were, she would have been a little more, well, accommodating than my dad. We were riding to who knows where, and I was eating ice from a dixie cup, or McDonalds cup, or some sort of cup. I was munching away when I must have bitten off more than I could chew because a huge hunk of ice went down the wrong pipe and I was instantly gasping for breath. I was panicking! I couldn't breathe or talk, so I started punching the back of Dad's seat. He looked at me in the rear-view mirror, then back to the road ahead. Seconds later, I swallowed the ice chunk and oxygen finally filled my lungs. I collapsed back in my seat, relieved but still scared. "Dad!!" I yelled, "Why didn't you HELP me!? I was choking!!" My dad, calm and cool, eyes still focused on the road said, "It was ice. I knew it'd melt at some point."

So today, I had a couple of similar incidents. I'm not proud of them, but I know my husband is. I prove my intelligence to him daily, and I know he is in complete awe. I'm still an honor student.

My in-laws are in town for Derick's TBS graduation (which was last night, so GOOD JOB BABY). Today, we headed down the road to Fredericksburg to see the Battle of Fredericksburg battlefield, which is really cool so you need to go there if you get the chance. After that, we went to downtown Fredericksburg, where really old buildings line the streets. There are tons of antique shops, ice cream parlors, vintage clothing stores, and my favorite, a doggie boutique! We were just walking around, window shopping and stopped at a large glass window that encased one of those displays of a battle with the tiny soldiers and fake trees that look like little broccoli. Derick and his parents were peering in when a really weird tiny soldier caught my eye. He was wearing what seemed to be a white sweatshirt, obviously not Civil War attire, and he was leaning back like he was water skiing. Don't ask why it was so interesting to me, but I leaned forward to see what was up with that guy and why the heck he was skiing during the middle of the Battle of Fredericksburg. Well, my lean must have been a forceful one because I smacked my forehead on the glass. That sort of makes the incident seem a little bland, so let me say: I must have lunged forward, like a mad bull, head first into that glass. The sound was like that of (for the BHS alumni) Bus 6 backfiring about 10 minutes before the final bell rang. Derick and his parents laughed, and so did I, but, nonetheless, I felt really smart.

The next incident occurred later in the day at our apartment. Derick's parents had gone to their hotel, and Derick and Paris (our dog, for those of you who are way out of the loop, and if you don't know who Paris is, then you probably don't know me, so nice to meet you) were taking a nap in our bedroom. I grabbed one of those Fla-Vor-Ice popsicles out of the freezer and sat down to watch Dr. Phil address "Violent Children."
How do you open your Fla-Vor-Ice? Sometimes, if I have the energy, I grab a pair of scissors and cut it open at the top, but most of the time, I'm feeling too lazy to reach for the scissors, so I just break the thing. Today, I broke the thing, and tuned in to see what kind of defiant kid Dr. Phil would cure. Well, one bite in, and guess what? I felt like punching the back of the seat in a former police cruiser. I gasped for breath but found none. I couldn't breathe or talk, and I started to panic because my husband, though usually helpfully calming, was conked out in the bedroom. So, I jumped up and ran to the bedroom, which is maybe twenty feet from where I was sitting, and while in the hall, I POUNDED on the wall with my palm. As soon as I made all the racket I possible could, I faintly whispered, "I'm choking. I'm choking. Help." (Derick will lie and say my faint whisper was more like a "holler," but he's lying.) At the sound of my wall pounding, Derick had jumped up out of the bed and was already halfway to me. Paris just perked her ears up a little and glared at me as if to ask, "Who dares to awake me from my slumber?" Upon my whisper, Derick laid back down, closed his eyes, and said, "No, you're not choking. You're talking." Thankfully, the popsicle melted. Thanks, Dad. Annoyed, Derick went back to sleep, but because I was a little embarrassed about my overreaction and false-scare choking, I dramatically plopped on the bed and continued to say that I was choking. (This is a big admittance for me.) Derick kept telling me that I was fine, but I insisted I was not by saying, "I didn't want to die, Derick, I didn't want to die!"

Derick finished his nap, and I caught the end of "Violent Children." So all in all, it was a good day.

I was choking.