Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Go Team, Go: My Love/Hate/Fickle Relationship With College Sports Teams

I am a CyHawkCat. Or a WildHawkClone. Or a JayCloneCat. Yes, that's right. I have Multiple College Mascot Disorder. Basically this means I have intense love and visceral hate for three different colleges in the Big 12: Kansas State, University of Kansas and Iowa State University

I get crap for this all the time. On Facebook, on Twitter, in front of my face, behind my back. I've had people call me a traitor, a turncoat and a fair weather fan. It cuts me deep, yo.

So - football season is about to start, and even though there are only 2 people that still read this blog (and I'm including myself in that total), I feel the need to address this issue ONCE AND FOR ALL so you all move on with your lives and focus on important things. Like world hunger. And which Real Housewife of New Jersey is going to write a book next.

(It's Caroline, by the way.)

Here's the story.

I grew up a K-State Wildcat fan. 
Everyone in my family takes classes or graduates from Kansas State University. Everyone goes to K-State. There is no question. There is no option. You grow up, you graduate college, you drink the purple kool-aid (and sometimes add vodka to it). KU is allowed in conversation only if you're telling a joke whose punchline ends with a KU graduate needing assistance to tie his/her shoes. The Kansas Jayhawk is a descendant of the devil and wants to take you down to the depths of hell from whence you can never return. 

This was my world for 17 years and I loved it. I loved walking into Bill Snyder Family Stadium on Saturdays to watch the Wildcats take on those slimy Jayhawks or Hucking Nebraska Fuskers. I loved watching Willie Wildcat do 239394830948 push ups after a touchdown pass. It was electric, it was fun, it was my life.

My senior year of high school, something happened - I had to make a life decision. It was time to pick a college. At the time, I wanted to become a cello performance major (the cello is this thing) and graduate with a degree that would let me teach other little cello hopefuls to be as good as I was.

I looked at schools in the area and compared their music programs. I looked at K-State and...K-State. My private cello teacher had gone to KU (*gasp*) and raved about the music program there. I looked into it and turns out she was right; KU was where I needed to be. Also, KU was geographically desirable - close enough to the 'rents house that I could occasionally venture home to to say hi, but far enough away that Mom and Dad couldn't show up at my dorm and be all LET'S GO TO DINNER TONIGHT whenever they wanted.

But what about K-State? My entire family went there. All my cousins had gone there. It was my destiny to wear purple and worship a gray cat that's all "RARR RARR RAAAAAR!" after every first down during a football game. How was I going to make the decision to attend a college that my family hated?

It actually turned out to be pretty easy. I auditioned for a scholarship to KU as a cello major and I got one. KU gave me money.

SOLD! 
In the end, I got the song and dance from my parents about, "It doesn't matter where you go to school as long as you get a degree and we're always proud of you no matter what." But trust me, I caught hell for it. I even had to drive my car to the University of Kansas with a K-state sticker on my license tag. (The license tag was subsequently stolen on my third day at the university.)

Eventually I became numb to the jokes and jabs and wise-cracks about my college of choice, because I knew it was all in good fun. Plus I loved everything about KU. I became a true Jayhawk fan. I chanted "Rock Chalk", I waved the wheat, I tapped kegs before the football games and even cheered against K-State during basketball season. KU was my new home and the Jayhawks were my family. 

On graduation day, my parents both wore KU shirts and beamed with pride. I was touched. (Of course, my Dad reminded me that the only other time I'd EVER see him in this shirt again would be if he was changing the oil in our van. He held true to that promise.)

In 2005 I moved out of college town and into my own apartment in Kansas City to begin my introduction into the career world. As it turned out my, parents really hadn't lied after all. They truly were happy that I got a degree (which was in interior design, not cello. That's another story), no matter where it came from.  They were happy that I was happy. Life was good.

And then things changed again.
 One year and five months after graduating from KU, I fell in love with an Iowa State Cyclone fan. And this wasn't just any "I root for Iowa State if they're playing against Iowa" type of fan. This was a Cyclone-loving, red and yellow bleeding, down and dirty, I will TOTALLY name my firstborn son "Jack Trice" kind of fan. Hubs was born and raised in Ames, IA - otherwise known as the Vatican City of Cyclone Nation. Hubs also received his degree from ISU. Oh, and so did his dad, mom, brother etc. This was going to be an uphill battle.

Hubs and I were married seven months later. And people, I tried. I tried to remain a Jayhawk. I screamed "ROCK CHALK" over Hubs' ridiculous "EVER YARD FOR I-S-U!" I tried to explain the electricity of Allen Fieldhouse, only to be countered with, "Um, have you ever seen the Hilton Magic?" 

In the end, I gave up. Hubs goes to every home football game he can. He buys ISU t-shirts like there's a national shortage. He adores Iowa State Football and basketball and so does his family. It is a part of his childhood in the way that K-State was once a part of mine. Standing in a sea of cardinal and gold wearing a blue KU Jayhawk shirt sucked. I had already switched from K-State to KU, why not switch again? I put on the ISU Cyclone shirt for the first time.

I kind of liked it.

Maybe it was the fact that I wasn't standing alone anymore. Maybe it was the truly awesome ISU Cyclone fans that welcomed me with open arms and no judgement. Maybe it was that for once, I was in the right color, with the right logo, with the person I loved. Whatever it was, I felt happy again.

Over the last few years, I've been through hell and high water for my flip flopping. I admit it, I am the Mitt Romney of college sports fans. So why is it that I've been okay with switching so many times? Is it because I can't commit? Um, no. I'm married. That's commitment. To me, being a fan of a sports team isn't necessarily about which team you're rooting for. I mean, really, it's a bunch of meathead dudes chasing after a ball. College game day is about the people you're with, not the colors you're wearing.

I can still clearly remember my Dad lifting me up with excitement when K-State FINALLY BEAT Nebraska. I remember screaming my face off (and maybe behaving badly) in 2003 when KU beat Marquette in the Final Four. And I remember squeezing my super hot boyfriend's hand as he walked me into my first Iowa State game, knowing my life would never be the same. 

So make fun of me, call me a traitor and a Benedict Arnold. I call myself a well-rounded fan. I've cursed three different teams in their losses
and cheered three different teams to victory. I've laughed, cried, screamed and sung. And I'll keep doing it until the day I die. For which team, you ask? Who knows? Tomorrow I might become a Mizzou fan.

Nahhhhhh....

Friday, June 8, 2012

kids just don't understand...


A friend led me to this site today. And I laughed for about fifteen minutes solid.

Then I started thinking. There were a few things left off the list. Granted, we can't expect the author to think of everything, and that's why I'm here. Allow me to further expand upon this brilliant idea.

(But I'm not doing 11. Just 6. I'm too lazy tired for more than that.)

(I'm also going to hope this isn't illegal. I gave the site credit, right? Isn't that all I have to do?)

Here we go:

Kids Today Will Never Know the Joy/Pain of:


1) Becoming a Self-Taught Ninendo Repairman


Luigi froze RIGHT in the middle of that crucial jump over the little creature that threw boomerangs at you? DAMMIT. It's okay, because you, my friend, were a Ninja Nintendo Repairman. By simply grabbing the game cartridge out of the machine and slapping the shit out of it a solid 10-15 times, your game was instantly repaired. Until it wasn't. But you feared not, because if all else failed, a few quick blows of Cheeto-breath air into the Ninento followed by a hard plastic *slap* on the lid would do the trick. TRUE STORY: On my first application for a job, I seriously thought about listing this activity under "Special Skills".



2) The Anticipation of Caller ID:
It didn't matter how bad you needed to pee when you got home from grocery shopping with your mom. Before you did ANYTHING else, before you even breathed a single breath, you scrolled through the Caller ID on the land line phone.

Johnson Hardware - No.
Edwards, Janet - Nope. Mom's sister.
Jackson, Carl - Dad's boss.
Newton, Andrew - HOLD IT.

HOLY SHIT, WHO IS NEWTON, ANDREW 335-235-2366 AND WHY DID HE CALL OUR HOUSE THREE TIMES?
Then you stand by the phone, obsessed for ten minutes, thinking, "Maybe that's the guy/girl from 4th period. I think his/her stepdad's last name is Newton! OH MY GOD, 4th period guy/girl called me!" And you were in a state of bliss until, inevitably, your mother scrolled through the ID list and said joyfully, "No honey, that's Andrew Newton from church. He's just calling to tell me it's my turn to light the candles on Sunday. You know Andrew. He's Martin's son, remember?"

Mother Eff.



3) Not Knowing What You Mean or That You've Misspelled it Until You Got an "F" on Your Midterm:






This? Is not fair. That is all. 


4) Getting Away With Plagiarism


Those little Millennial brats may be able to Bing or Google...but they're screwed and they don't even know it. Yes, Wikipedia can show them every document and dissertation ever written about Pearl Harbor. It will even tell them the exact minute and second that the bombing occurred. Essay done in four minutes, right? Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

And that my friends, is where technology bites them in their little Jillian Michael's toned asses. Before Google, there was no way a teacher could check every paper for plagiarism. Teacher had no idea that you went to the library and accidentally copied four pages straight out of the World Book Encyclopedia for your report on Einstein. Now? Teacher types in one paragraph from your final exam essay into Google, and BAM, you're doing a 7th grade victory lap, kid. Choke on that, Millenials.



5) Nearly Losing a Finger to a Telephone Cord

Remember when you'd talk to your friends on the phone for hours and you'd forget to pee, eat, drink or sleep? Also remember how you'd suddenly feel a weird tingling in your hand and you'd look down and see that your index finger was all blue and purple because it'd been wrapped up in the cord for half an hour? The more intense your phone conversation, the tighter you wrapped that cord. Kids today will never have to worry about getting booted from the basketball team because a freak night of exciting prank phone calls resulted in their middle finger falling off onto the Berber carpeting. All they have to worry about is brain cancer from their cell phones. Sheesh.


 6) Recorded Movies on a VHS From Basic Cable


Do you remember this commercial?  Of course you do. Because your parents made VHS copies of Sesame Street and Pete's Dragon and Rudolf The Red Nosed Reindeer off of ABC and TNT. And when they recorded those movies, they had commericals.  Sure, at the time, it drove you nuts to have to watch the Doublemint Twins lose their hats in the wind , but now when you go home to your parents house, you frantically TRY TO FIND THAT TAPE WITH THE DOUBLEMINT TWINS. Don't you? Now there's Netflix and DVR and commercials don't even get watched.

Spoiled. Brats.

(Spoiled brats that are smarter than me by the time they're 12, but spoiled brats nonetheless.)


Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Open Letter Wednesday

Dear Cheesecake Factory in Overland Park, Kansas:

Your heating and air conditioning requires maintenance. I get it. You'd have unhappy customers if you let them sit in sweltering heat while enjoying their $17 salads. It's important to keep your guests comfortable. That being said...

DO THE MAINTENANCE GUYS REALLY NEED TO PARK IN THE CARSIDE TO GO RESERVED SPACES?

I mean, really. That's almost as bad as parking in a handicapped space. Well, no, it's actually not.

But still.

When someone such as myself orders $148 worth of food to go, the last thing we want to do in our 4" heels and somewhat-tight-pants-because-we-haven't-been-working-out-enough-and-we've-been-eating-too-much-Cheesecake-Factory is walk from the BACK OF THE RESTAURANT to go inside and get the five bags of food that we ordered for our clients, and then drag those five bags of food back out to the parking space that's 4934893483 feet away.

(And yes, I realize how "first world problems" this sounds.)

I think what annoyed me the most is when I informed the To Go lady of the big gigantic, ugly vans taking up the reserved spots, the manager was STANDING RIGHT THERE and said nothing. Even worse was when I called and talked to the manager later and he replied with, "Oh, I'll have to check on that situation." What is there to check on? Just tell the peeps to move their cars. Simple. Easy.

Also, Mr, Manager, when I drive by two hours later and the maintenance vans are still blocking the spots...I kind of want to set the building on fire...

Love and Smooches,
Someone Who Used to Order From Cheesecake Factory Twice a Month and Who Will Now Be Going Elsewhere (Until my craving for cheesecake becomes unbearable).



Dear Tootsie,

I love you, little lady. You're the cutest little dachshund to ever lick my face off. But your Daddy is about to snap. You've got to calm down the barking at every. single. thing. that goes by our house. I realize that maple leaf blowing by the window is a potential threat to you, but it's just foilage. Not a four alarm house fire.

And I know it's weird when the neighbors jump on that rubber thing that flies them up in the air. It's just a trampoline, not a torture device. We're good. You're safe. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but knock it down a few notches, before Daddy knocks you across the room.

All my love, Pumpkin.

Mommy

Friday, April 20, 2012

two terminal idiots

I hate going to the airport.

No, let me re-phrase. I EFFING HATE GOING TO THE AIRPORT.

I especially hate it when people are all, "Oh, but Airport XYZ has good food and they have easy access to terminals, and, I dunno, I just really do enjoy flying."  To me, this is just code for, "I Don't Travel Very Often So Every Plane Ride I Do Experience is Like Recess on Steroids".

I travel pretty often for my job and let me promise you, there is nothing fun about airports. They're smelly, filthy, loud and most importantly, confusing. I mean, you get off of a flight and then you have to be all, "Okay, where is my connecting flight? And how do I get there? Do I hail one of those little cart things? Do I walk on the weird escalator that doesn't go up? Should I stay to the right? Where's the potty?"

This week, I had to fly into Chicago. I'm there often enough to laugh at people that are lost and feel confident that I'm a savvy traveler. In a lovely and strange twist of fate, my good friend J was also flying into Chicago on the same night as me, at the same time. That's just amazing.

Because we both hate the airport equally, we decided to celebrate our survival of yet another trip by meeting at the airport and sharing a cab downtown for drinks and general merriment. Sweet. My flight arrived into Chicago at 7:30, hers at 7:15. We were set.

And then it all fell apart. Here's how it went down


Text Conversation -7:15 pm

J:  Hey Lady. Just landed. Call me when you get in. So hungry!!

Me:  I just landed too; a few minutes early! Meet you at baggage claim? I'll be off the plane in 5. I am going to die of starvation.


J: Me too! I'm going to baggage claim and I'll tell you where I am. 


(three minutes later)


J: I'm in terminal 3. I flew Virgin.


Me: Um, I don't know where I am.


J: Haha. Just come to baggage claim we'll figure it out. I'm at baggage claim 5.

(Ten minutes pass. I arrive at Baggage Claim 5 and claim my luggage. No J to be seen. I text her quickly as my stomach grumbles.)


Me: I'm at #5.


J: Where? Can you see what terminal? We might be in different ones?


Me: I think 3??

(radio silence)

*phone rings*

Me: (answers hastily) Hey, J. Where are you? I'm starving!

J: Um, I'm at Baggage 5. Where the hell are you? Are you in Terminal 3?

Me: (looking around hastily) I don't see you anywhere. And I'm at Baggage 5. Like, over by the rental car stations. There you are, I see- oh wait, no, that lady's 50. False alarm.

J: Um, I think we're in different terminals. Maybe Virgin flies into somewhere different than Southwest?

Me: Really? I've never seen any other terminal when I've flown here before. Okay, wait, let me look at the sign above the doors. (walks over to doors) Okay, the doors say "3 LL". What do your doors say?

J: (pause) Well let me look. (pause) Mine says "3 GL".

Me: AHA! Okay so, obviously, you're in a different building. I need to figure out how to get to GL, whatever terminal that is. I don't see any signs directing me to terminal G, though. Do I have to take a cab to you?

J: Hold on, I'm just going to ask this guy. I'll call back. (click)

Determined to find the solution to the problem before J does, I decide to do some detective work of my own. 

Avis car rental. Surely they can help. I approach the desk.

Avis Rental Guy: How can I help you, Miss?

Me: Hi. Which terminal does Virgin fly into? I'm trying to meet a friend, and we can't find each other.

Avis Guy: Um, I don't know. I just rent cars.

Me: What a great help you've been, thanks so much! (eye roll. This guy works at the airport and can't direct me to the right terminal? How lame. Loser.)

(phone rings)

Me: Okay, figure it out? (scoffs) The people at the rental place are totally worthless. 

J: OMG, I KNOW! I can't get an answer here, either. People keep telling me we're in the same terminal, but we aren't! UGH!

Me: That's it. I'm going to go talk to Southwest upstairs. I'll call you back. (click)

I ascend two flights of escalators to the flight check-in portion of the airport. I confidently stroll over to the Southwest counter and wave down an employee who has clearly just ended her shift and is wanting to go home.

Me: (flailing arms widly) Excuse me, miss? I need help and the rental people are sooo clueless. Haha! What terminal does Virgin fly into? (stomach growls)

Southwest Lady: (eyes me strangely) What do you mean? There's only one terminal. This is it. 

Me: (pointing downstairs) No but, see, my friend- she's flying in on- (phone rings). Hold on, this is her. Maybe she figured out where she is.

Southwest Lady: (walking away) Have a good evening, ma'am.

I put down my bags and and just as I go to answer the phone, I have a revelation. I've got it. We're on different floors! Maybe Jolene is on the middle level somehow. Is there a baggage claim on the second floor? Surely that's it. Happy with myself for figuring it out, I answer.

Me: Hey! We are morons. I was thinking about it and...

J: Um, what airport did you fly into?

(You know that sound that happens in the movies when the music stops and everything grinds to a halt? Whatever that sound is...totally happened.)

Me: Uh...Midway.

J: (snorts) I'm at O'Hare.

Me:  Ho. Ly. Shit.

J: (erupts with laughter) Oh my God, Kim, we are so STUPID. How did we not think to ask which airport the other was flying into?

Me: How did you figure this out?

J: I asked someone what terminal Southwest flew into, and they looked at me like I was crazy and told me Southwest doesn't fly into O'Hare.

Me: (sighing) So...yeah, we're idiots. I was really mean to the Avis rental guy, too! 

J: Guess we're not sharing a cab to downtown, after all. I'll just have to meet you at my hotel.

Me: Well, look at it this way. It's 8:15. We could've been there already if we weren't so sure that everyone else was a moron. There's probably a lesson here.

J: Yes, there probably is.

***

So, I would like to re-phrase my earlier statement. I do not hate airports. My brain is simply not adequately equipped to handle them.


And just so you know, remember 3GL vs 3LL? Yeah...that meant Door 3 on Lower Level, and Door 3 on Ground Level. This is not rocket science.

It's amazing I can get myself dressed every day.





Friday, April 6, 2012

The Kar-westian's?

In light of Kim Kardashian and Kayne West's apparently budding romance...I just couldn't help myself. I'm seeing a pattern.


Thursday, March 29, 2012

An Interesting Email. Or: "How Siri is Slowly Trying to Kill Me."

I like Siri. I really do. She's a good gal. Usually if I'm looking for a place with tacos, she's on the ball. She gives me directions, I go there, I eat tacos. We're good.

But sometimes she makes me look like a big ball of jack-wagon. 

Today whilst driving all over the world with thousands of "to do's" swimming through my head, not one of which I knew I was going to get around to doing, I started to panic.

Then it hit me - this is what Siri is made for. It is her entire reason for existence. She gets my act together. She can email for me!

So I enlist her help. It doesn't go well.



Siri and Kim: A Not So Lovey Love Story.



Me: (pulls out of parking space) Siri, email Matthew.

Siri: (thinking)

Me: *sigh*

Siri: I'm so sorry, Kim. Something is wrong. I can't help you right now. Please try again later.

Me: It's okay. This happens sometimes. Let's just try it again. Siri, email Matthew, please.

Siri: (thinking)

Me: Jay. Zus. Christ.

Siri: Kim, I can't find Catch You in your contacts. To whom shall I send it?

Me: She's not real, she's a computer. She's not a real person...be calm. Siri, I want you to email MATTHEW, please.

Siri: I'm so sorry, Kim. I can't seem to find any listings for a Matt Shoe store. 

Me: (pulling on my own hair)

I pull up a new email and type in Matthew's address myself. (And it's not really Matthew, I just don't need to share my clients' names.)

Me: Siri, edit my email. (I possibly call her a bitch, as well.)

Siri: What would you like it to say?

Me: (silently first pumps myself in victory and dictates in a very slow voice, so Siri is sure to understand.) Good morning, comma Matthew. I hope your week has been great, exclamation point. The samples you requested are on their way, exclamation point. However, comma, we are out of stock of one of the samples, period. It will be sent as soon as it becomes available, period. Please let me know what else you need, period.

Siri: (thinking)

Siri: (thinking)

Me: (Holds breath. Crosses fingers, toes, vagina and legs. Prays to every God I've ever heard of.)

Siri: I'm so sorry, Kim. Something went wrong. Please try again later.

Me: (head explodes) OH MY GOD SIRI! YOU ARE WORTHLESS! (swerves to avoid side swiping a van.)

Siri: (deadpan) I respect you.

So I go through the whole process again, dictating the exact same email to Siri at least three times.  FINALLY, I hear this.

Siri: Okay, Kim. Here is your email to Matthew. Ready to send it?

Me: (too tired to argue or proofread) Yes. Send. Now.

Siri: Okay, Kim. I'll send it.

****

Several minutes later I arrive at my 11:00 appointment. Before heading in, I decide to check and make sure my email was in fact, sent. I pull it up.

Oh it's been sent, all right. And here's what it says.


To: Matthew
From: Kim
Sent: Thursday, March 29th 10:38 am

Subject: Samples

Good morning, eat you. I hope your week has been great excavation point. The samples you requested are on their way! However, we are livestock on one of the samples. It will be sent as soon as it becomes available. Please let me know what else unique.


Oh. My. God.

THIS is what I have sent to my client? An email requesting my client to eat himself? And that my livestock is holding his samples hostage? Also, I appear to be curious about what's unique in his world.

Me: Siri, you have ruined my life.

Siri: I don't really like these arbitrary categories, Kim.

***

Lesson learned for the day. Siri doesn't know what an exclamation point is, but knows what an arbitrary category is. *face palm*

Dirty, dirty bitch.
    

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

i've got a feeling...

I think I'm a little bit psychic. 

No, not touch-my-hand-and-I-can-see-that-you-stole-a-candy-bar-from-Hyvee-when-you-were-five kind of psychic. And not Alice Cullen psychic either. If you get pregnant with a vampire's baby, I'm not going to be able to pre-warn you that it's coming.

However, I do get...feelings sometimes. Just random, strange thoughts that pop into my consciousness from seemingly nowhere, with no indication of why or how they arrived.

Examples:

  • Waking up from a dream and thinking, "I really liked the movie "The Secret of Nimh" when I was little." Two hours later, I'll turn on my TV and that exact movie will be on. 
  • Spontaneously thinking to myself, "God, it would suck if I ever lost my wedding ring." The next day, I'll lose my wedding ring. (Thankfully for only a few hours.)
  • Remember this post? You can't tell me there was a little bit of psychic-ness in that.


You get the idea.


So the other day, I'm working. La di da. And I get this totally overwhelming urge to check out a blog that I haven't read in awhile. She's a quite famous blogger whom many of you probably already read. So my psychic itch flares up and tells me I must read her blog entry today. I do, and it turns out to be this one.

(I'll wait while you go read it, because it's interesting.)

This story bugged me. And not because the bird inevitably passed away. It bugged me because the ENTIRE TIME I was reading, I was (Girl Scout's honor) thinking to myself, "This is going to happen to me soon."

Does that make ANY sense? No. None. And yet, there "the feeling" was. The itch. The tingling. The tickle.

I ignored it.

Fast forward to today.

I'm in my home office, about to enjoy my deliciously healthy yet heaping-helping-of-boring salad lunch. There's a knock at the door.

I go to the door and see the Fed Ex truck in my driveway. A work package I requested has finally arrived. I open my door and step onto the porch. And see this. 




DUDE, what did I do to deserve this from Fed Ex? I mean, I haven't seen the poop on a stoop prank since 1992. 

"Your package is actually out here by the garage," the delivery man says as he's walking back to his truck. "I decided to stay off the porch." he warns. "That raccoon must've gotten sick on your porch."

Um, what?


I nod my head like I TOTALLY get what he's talking about and start to head back inside. 

"It's also on the stairs," Fed Ex man calls as he drives away.


I turn around and walk over to the steps leading to our front yard.  And I see this.




WHAT IN THE NAME OF JESUS ON A BICYCLE IS GOING ON?


And that's when it makes sense. Because right there, just to the right of the steps and on the ground- is a raccoon. A totally scared (I'm assuming shitless)raccoon.


For the sake of this story, I've made him a boy.


His eyes are wide and terrified. He's shaking like a blizzard is ripping his little body to shreds. 


I instantly start to cry. What do I do? Any raccoon that has made this much of a mess and isn't running scared from a human is either,


a) sick.


b) really sick.


I call Hubs. I inform him that I'm thinking of picking the poor thing up, wrapping it in swaddling clothes and feeding it some orange juice.


He tells me not to touch it and call Animal Control. Cuz I TOTALLY know what that number is.


So there I stand, on my porch, crying like a three year old and cooing, 'It's going to be okay, little baby! Neighbor Kimmy is going to get you taken care of. I won't let anybody hurt you, no I won't!'. All while Googling Animal Control on my phone.


(And I might also say, "It's okay that you took a poo poo on the steps. I know your tummy hurts, baby. Don't be embarrassed.")

Anyways.

You would think there would be a general number to dial in the unlikely event a wild animal appears on your front steps with an explosive case of diarrhea. 


Well there's not. 


When it's all said and done, I call five different numbers and all five inform me that yes, they will remove wild animals for $150-$220 depending on the size of animal and amount of force required for it to be removed.


I hang up on every one and consider threatening death upon most of them. Force? To remove a raccoon that just needs a roll of Charmin Ultra Soft and some Pepto? Who are these sick people?


I am thisclose to calling 911 and risking a leaked recording of my hysteria going viral on YouTube when I look across the street and see my neighbor. Who is also a cop. 

Neighbor Cop doesn't mess around. He hops on his cell and is all, "Dispatch, this is Deputy Blah Blah and we have a potential rabid raccoon in Sector 9 of the suburbs."


But get this - even Neighbor Cop has to go through five different numbers to find the appropriate people to come get Rork.


(Yes, I named him. Shut up.)


The Neighborhood & Community Services Department for Animal Health & Public Safety tells Neighbor Cop they will be by within the hour. In the meantime, don't bother Rork and don't try and touch him.


Neighbor Cop goes back into his house and I stay out on the porch to talk to Rork and keep him calm. I also completely forget his tummy problem and lovingly toss him some dry cat food in case he's hungry.


I sing to him. His big brown eyes tell me they appreciate the gesture, but would I want someone singing "You Are Not Alone?" to me when I have the runs? I don't think so, so zip it, crazy lady.


Twenty minutes later Rork is put into a safety cage in the Animal Control officer's truck. I'm told he probably just ate something that made him feel sick and was disoriented. They will monitor his behavior over the next few hours and if he is deemed safe, they will re-release him back into the woods.


(I'm also told to clean up the dry cat food in my yard unless I want more wild animals showing up on my front porch.)


In the end, I wave good-bye to Rork and am glad that he's going to be okay. 


I don't know why Rork decided to poo poo and vomit all over my front porch and find solace there. Maybe he knew what a lover of animals I am and that I'd find a way to make him safe, even if it meant calling every number in the tri-state area. Maybe, like dooce, I'll never really know the whole story.


But here's the thing. While I was going through all of this, I did feel better knowing that someone else had experienced something similar just a few days before. dooce didn't know what to do any more than I did. And I therefore didn't feel quite so out of my league when I attempted to handle it.


So the question becomes, did my psychic "this is going to happen to me soon?" feeling that I got when I read dooce's story really somehow start a chain of energy that resulted in today's happenings?

Doubtful.

Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it happened to me because I'm a blogger and I reach (a few) people through this medium. And maybe just telling my story will help one or two other people to know what to do if this happens to them.


Either way, I'm going to do my part. If you live in the Kansas City area, and a wild animal is injured or lurking around your house, don't waste your time on a worthless Google search. Call 816.839.2947 to reach the Animal Health & Public Safety office. 

Don't try and help Rork the Raccoon or Sophie the Snake or Bingo the Batshit Bear by yourself. Just be there for them in the best way you can. They'll appreciate it.

Now I'm off to clean up Rork's smelly mess. And I really don't mind.