let's have some proactive legislation, if you please

The post I wrote after first reading this article was a full on obscenity laden rant about the lack of responsibility in our culture overall these days that such a device to REMIND PARENTS that they have kids buckled in the backseat of a car is even a topic under discussion. I mean, really, people need to be reminded they HAVE CHILDREN WITH THEM? But I deleted that rant after I thought some more on the topic and came to the conclusion that maybe this is the right idea. Intervention for the masses that can't be trusted to make the right decision, or see where they have strayed from the path of clear thinking.

Look, we’ve all benefited from the alarm that dings incessantly to remind us that our keys are still in the ignition or our lights are on. Okay, nice convenience, but if I leave my keys in the car it’s my own damn fault and I deserve the inconvenience of finding a way to get them out. My kids are just a bit more important than my keys or leaving the lights on and the car battery wears down. Trust me, I am not so distracted by my own navel gazing that I would forget my kid is in the car in the first place and if by some weird twisting of the time-space continuum that happened, then I damn well deserve for the CPS to come and haul them from my care for being a stupid shit. We all have plenty of things to juggle in today’s insane pace of life, but making sure my kid doesn’t boil to death in a locked car is pretty high on my list of things to do before I walk away from a damn car. As a matter of fact, the safety of my kids is pretty much my top priority and if it’s not that high on every parents list of priorities, I declare that person a suck-ass parent and would welcome the opportunity to smack some sense into them.

While I still hold that such morons should to be bitch slapped, with lethal force, and forbidden to ever have contact with a child again, ever, I thought, since the desire to introducing legislation that reminds people of such a simple thing as TAKE CARE OF YOUR CHILD YOU FUCKWIT PUTZ, there should be a few other items introduced as law that take a more proactive approach to protect people.

You see, much legislation is reactive, as in, hey stupid, if you drink and drive and get caught, then you will be fined and possibly go to jail, depending on the number of times you get caught being a douche. But you see, this is an after the fact reaction. Let’s say we legislate that cars must have a device that measures the blood alcohol level of the person sitting in the driver’s seat and if it is deemed to be above the limit then the car will not start until the drunk shit gets out of the driver seat and someone else, whose blood alcohol level is below the limit, is sitting behind the wheel. Wouldn’t such a device prevent more drunk drivers than just the current standard of “Don’t Drink & Drive” because IF you get caught, the penalties will be steep. Because, let’s face it, this campaign is not exactly effective as there are still too many morons who think nothing of tanking back more than a few and weaving their way home from the bar, putting everyone they drive past in harm's way. By preventing the action in the first place we avoid the entire danger potential. Let’s stop them before they can start the car. I bet more people will stay home to consume their booze.

Based on the success of that system, ratchet that doohickey up a few amps and have the dashboard equipped with a mandatory finger prick, or hair analyzer, that identifies whether the person sitting behind the wheel is thinking about driving under the influence of a few jolts of cocaine, or heroine, or even the dreaded marijuana. Hell, make that in-dash analyzer a full toxicology screening that not only prevents the driver from being able to start the vehicle if found to be so chemically fueled but also lets the seat belt act as a restraint & puts in a silent call to the police and sends a GPS location signal so the police can come and arrest the bozo. Talk about a war on drugs!

If we take this one step further, there should be some sort of monitor, say an anal probe, that would take the inner measure of a person, so to speak, and with a DNA reading, maybe determine if a person has an inclination toward white collar crime, ala Bernie Madoff, that Stanford guy, or that Goldman Sachs exec that is such a greedy slug. If the anal probe identifies that possibility, it shoots a jolt of electricity that rewires the person’s brain so they only want to do charity work for the rest of their lives. Now THAT would be a good a monitoring service and prevent such assholes (heh, get it – assholes?) from living the high life by ripping off the rest of us.

There are really two other monitoring processes that I think would do the world a whole load of good if we could only find a way to develop and utilize. Truly, the benefits here so outstrip the drawbacks, like civil liberties and constitutional freedoms. This would really save the larger populace as a whole from danger and global suffering.

The first time someone decides to dip a toe into the political pool, they should be required to undergo a full body scan and DNA mapping that would identify the mental and emotional frailties that certain politicians have that turn them into self centered sycophants only interested in personal gain, allowing themselves to be manipulated into ruining the economics of a country or becoming fear mongers like Glenn Beck and Dick Cheney. If such traits are identified early one, their eye balls are seared and an electrical impulse is shot through their brain with such a hot intensity that the interest in politics is forever removed from them and they spend their life as far away from any political influence as possible. World Peace, Here we come.

The last and most important one, in my mind, would be the parental test. Somewhere about the time hormones start to surge, the populace should undergo a responsible reproducer analysis. For those that pass, go forth and reproduce! For those that fail, well, see that’s the type of moron that would forget they have a kid in the car, leaving said child to boil in the heat or abuse their children in a variety of ways. Really, this type of scum sucker shouldn’t be given the privilege to create life. In fact, by weeding such fuck heads out of the reproducing gene pool, there will be less need for child protection services, we’d have fewer instances of children left in the hands of irresponsible abusive adults that are supposed to cherish the very children they bring into the world.

I really think some proactive monitoring would clear up a lot of our societal ills. In the interest of fairness all around I say.

They say you can't fix stupid, but I think we can legislate the hell out of it and remove the need for anyone to take responsibility for their actions. What say you?

girl's night out

It is Friday.

The week has been long.

My brain is fuzzy from trying to salvage educational structure within a school district budget that has been hacked to death by state funding cuts. This makes my stomach hurt, literally. When I leave these meetings, I feel sick to my stomach. I know how hard we are all trying, despite what others may think and say.

Tomorrow I will spend HOURS at a Karate tournament, crowded in a high school gymnasium with about 1100 kids and adults, giving out trophies. Tonight we will label and arrange those very same trophies so they are ready for presentation. I will have ibuprofen on hand for the noise level, for it is awesomely loud.

Saturday night I will whisk myself away from my family to go hang out with two of my best gal pals at a local hotel, eating, drinking and laughing. I love my familiy but I am looking forward to this more than I can say, because holy hell, the Goddess Three deserve it!

Thanks to Priceline, we got a bargain deal on a Hyatt Regency Hotel for the night and plan to relax and enjoy our evening.

really, what are you smoking?

This search recently brought someone to my blog -
what would happen if u smoke weed with cat piss on it

I think I can say with all honesty that that question has never been posed on Catootes before.

However, now that some poor misguided fool is in need of some advice, and found themselves searching through the noise from my brain, let me offer them this little gem of wisdom - throw that shit out, Dude. There isn't any weed worth smoking that's been pissed on by a cat, or a dog, or a turtle. Seriously. If you're that hard up that you'd even consider it, then you've got bigger problems than I can fix here.

Thank you. That will be five cents.

where's my survival kit

Being the overly dramatic, worst case scenario death is IMMINENT kind of gal, Holy Fucking Hell, we are on vacation in two weeks and I've already started to feel queasy because I hate flying more than I would hate to be locked in a small space with a bazillion tarantula's crawling on my body...WHOA! Okay, not that much, but you get my drift.

SuperHubby was recently watching something on TV about the plane that landed in the Hudson River last year and I made him turn it off, because we ARE FLYING in 12 days and I don't want to know anything about planes falling from the sky. Nothing. At. All.

*Fingers stuffed in ears LALALALALALALALALA.

During my daily blog tour one day last week, and why shouldn’t the day be spent reading stuff? ohhh, work. That's right. I read one bad landing story, one sick passenger layover and a bazillion reminders about the Hudson River plane landing, thought this is it, we are surely going to fall out of the sky like a giant fucking stone. This doom scenario was not helped, not one little bit, when I got home to find my husband talking on the phone with his mother as she grilled him about our travel plans, the power of attorney for the kids while they are staying with them, how to reach us on the ship in case parts of New Jersey come under alien attack and they are forced to flee into the wilderness, the kids passports in case my in-laws need to sneak them out of the country, information on our life insurance policies, you know, in case WE CRASH. I kid you not. These conversations happened.

My mother-in-law totally has the disaster scenario disease or is subversively feeding mine in an effort to drive me batshit crazy. But at least they are prepared for something just this side of Armageddon while caring for the kids. We, on the other hand, are completely screwed.

I am so hiring Sully Sullenberger to fly our asses down to New Orleans, because if there is ever a pilot more trusted right now, I do not know about them.

SuperHubby asked me which Mayan Ruin tour would be most appealing when we pull into Mexico, perhaps by hiring a local to take us to a destination it would be 1) cheaper than arranging it through the cruise ship and b) allow us more time at the site. Most people would think YAY! Adventure!

Me? Here’s what played on the big screen inside my head: we might get kidnapped by the local cab driver, dropped in some backwater Mexican town and robbed of all our belongings, never to return to the ship on time, stranded. My Spanish? It sucks. We will never get home, because as we travel on dusty roads, with barely enough water to survive under the sweltering February sun, we will surely run into a truck load of banditos who will sell us into white slavery or we will be thrown into jail by the local police for being ignorant Americano's, to rot in some hellish local prison because the cab driver stole all of our money and we don’t have enough on us to pay the traditionally required bribe. So I just told him to choose one or my internal dialogue would never stop repeating Danger! Will Robinson, Danger! while my arms flap about in total indecision.

Mostly I keep this disaster crap buried inside my head, usually with the aid of Bourbon, because I like to do fun stuff and really, there is only so much disaster paranoia that a person can handle. Sometimes I think menopause has completely fucked with my ability to be a rational sane woman, as these kinds of thoughts never occurred to me when I was younger and my friend Gina and I annually went off on some new travel adventure, just because we wanted to go explore. Or having kids disrupted my brain chemistry that much. I may never know.

On a good note, Hey Vacation! Just SuperHubby and me, on a cruise ship, in the Caribbean. Hot stuff.



OH. MY. GOD. PIRATES!

CHILDLESS

The universe imploded, the start realigned themselves and the planets are all in harmony.
Each kids went to hang out with friends today and by 6:00 PM had texted that they wanted to spend the night at their friends houses.

SuperHubby and I are alone, in our house, without the kids for the night.

It's been so long, I'm not sure we'll know what to do with each other.

Heh, who am I kidding. Excuse me while I go seduce my husband.

Have a nice night.

perhaps I need more sleep

It sneaks up on me. Stealthily, indiscernible at first, seemingly innocent in its initial touch, with thoughts that seem so innocuous and mundane. Then it strikes, that unseen fist plunging into my chest, clasping hold of my heart and lungs, causing a stutter in the beat, a shortness in the breath. And then that grasp loosens slightly, but does not fully release, it rhythmically clenches to elicit hard pounding thumps in my chest, as my heart struggles to pound and my lungs increase their need for air. My mind whirls with each clench, the thoughts overwhelming, mild concern becoming outright fear, the swirling maelstrom of thoughts, images, worries dragging me further into the darkness of anxiety. My body tenses, the muscles in my face rigid. I can’t look away from the thought pictures swirling by in my head, the hold me captive.

I try to peel away the slithery fingers of its hold by continuing the everyday things I had been doing when I first felt the fingers of press on my heart. Loading the dishwasher, cleaning the counters of the crumbs from dinner, putting to rights the table, the condiments, dismissing the feeling. The fingers get a firmer hold, brushing away resistance as if it were a fly on the wall. Until I finally move to the sofa, compelled by the paralysis of anxiety to the corner spot, where I can wedge myself, ensconced in some measure of protective comfort, buffeted by from side and back, looking to cave myself in. I stare into the room, seeing the pictures move on the television but not paying any attention really, feeling the snout of the dog as it nudges my hand, even rubbing her head, comforting us both. But the mind continues its agitated pacing, delving deeper into the darker images, crafting What If scenarios, the images flash across the movie screen in my brain, forcing my attention to fear and panic.

Some small part of me continually fights the pull, the clutching grabbing of my psyche, knowing that it isn’t real, that it’s just a spiral of fear, of worry. Most times that logic, that KNOWING, that this is just my subconscious run amuck can soothe away the pounding heart and unfilled lungs and peace regains once more. In must be quick to triumph, or the sneaky fingers burrow deep and dislodging those nails become for difficult, eroding confidence and rational thought under the barrage.

This is what my anxiety attack felt like the other night. A sudden stealth assault on my psyche; dark, swift and brutal. It came out of nowhere, or not really out of nowhere, but managed to escape the locks I visualize around the cage that holds my irrational anxiety & panic at bay. Those locks get rusty and breakdown and then I’m the prisoner, for a day or two, of shaky confidence, worried thoughts and fears.

Luckily SuperHubby is pretty attentive to my moods, could sense the change in my attention, my demeanor, who knows what really, but he sat down with me and finally it snapped, my control. I huddled there, clutching him, sobbing and pouring out all the disjointed, unfettered, renegade thoughts and worries that were swirling in my brain. And then it was gone, leaving the usual after effect, shaky emotions, shattered confidence and fatigue. Once I had settled down, SuperHubby frowned at me and said, “You are an idiot.” Because he is so gentle and subtle like that. “Weeks of 5 hours of sleep a night, early mornings, too much caffeine, worrying about stupid shit.” Yes he did indeed say stupid shit, blowing off the gnawed bones of my anxiety. He is direct and sometimes it's really annoying when he’s right.

I feel a little better, but the fatigue, volatile emotions and weak confidence hover on the edges. I’ve experienced these anxiety attacks before; they are often triggered by stupid frustrations but fueled by larger worries simmering deep inside, concerns about work, money, family health, the dog, the schedule, and on and on and on. I am a champion worrier, they should give degrees for the level at which I fret. Or at least present me with award of more small batch bourbon. When the tiniest irritations damn near sent me into orbit the other night, I should have just sat my anxious ass down and practiced deep breathing exercises to get myself under control, which usually works. But no, I ignored the signs and paid the price.

I went to bed at 9:30 last night when my head almost slammed into the table I had set the beading board on, thinking I would spend an hour or two working on a project. Oh no, that would not do, my brain decided as I laid out some gemstones and crystals, finding the patterned I liked. There will be no more thinking and doing today. And just like that, the creative window closed its shutters and the fatigue took over.

Dreams of Mark Harmon kept me company all night long. I might have to go to bed early more often.

when good appliances go bad

I’m in mourning.

Truly. It seems a bit over-dramatic, but hey, I write a blog that tracks the minutia of my life, so why should this be any different.

When SuperHubby and I got married, my parents gave us a Farberware Convection/Broiler oven as a wedding present. I KNOW! Those wild people.

It is butt ugly, big, boxy & matte black, taking up precious counter space that I never had to spare. It makes cooking fast & simple, keeping my life just that one teensy bit less insane and stressed. 18 lb Turkey? Just over 4 hours, juicy and golden. 8 lb roast beef? 2 ½ hours, medium rare, succulent. And on and on it cooked.

This oven cut down on my cooking time by many, many hours over the past sixteen years. In my world, time is at a premium dammit! That extra hour I did not have to wait for some damn slab of meat to roast was spent on more productive endeavors, like another repeat episode of NCIS. (mmmm, Mark Harmon, mmmm.) I was smug in my cooking swiftness. No more long days preparing a large family dinner. This wonderful black box of circulating hot air cut my cooking time by half.

We use this bountiful heating box to make casseroles, reheat casseroles, bake stuff, roast various pieces of meats, cook up some gluten free pizzas and other assorted GF goodies for SuperHubby.

When Giggles got involved in Polymer Clay crafts, the box was asked to bake her crafty creations nice and solid. No problem, shove ‘em in, set that timer and Poof! hardened claywonderful creations!

My in-laws house is larger so most of the time we gather over there for holiday dinners. That monstrosity was hauled to their place regularly. It made the trek this Thanksgiving and cooked a golden juicy 18 lb turkey in no time. With no fuss, no mess and left the other less wonderful oven available for the rest of dinner preparations. It started making serious old man grumpy noises not long after that. We knew it wouldn’t be long before it gave up its last gasp, but hoped we’d get through once last holiday dinner.

We carted it over, carefully handling its passage, and offered it an 8 ½ lb roast to cook up for the Christmas 2009 dinner. Almost 3/4 of the way in the internal fan squealed and emitted a noise that only be compared to an elephant’s fart and then stopped working. The heating element then lost its warm cooking glow. A few solid thumps along the side had been effective in getting it back in working order the last few months, but to no avail this time.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

I shouldn't complain. This thing definitely gave us its all and then some. 16 years. Most marriages don't last that long these days, let alone appliances.
We moved the roast to the regular oven and finished cooking it. Turned out fine, but it took longer. The theme here is time and convenience, in case I haven't stressed that fact.

SuperHubby and I have spent considerable amounts of time trying to track a similar one down online, but Farberware no longer makes this type of convection/broiler. Fuckers. Why would they stop making this thing? Didn’t they know one day I would need another one? And now that day has come and I’m being forced to go back to the ordinary oven model and the long ass hours it takes to prepare food. I may go on a cooking strike.

See? I’m in mourning.

If anyone happens to have a Farberware T4850 Convection/Broiler oven stashed somewhere, in good working order, just waiting for a loving hand to use it, I’m your gal.

Open Your Whore Mouth For Aunt Becky

Go forth and let Aunt Becky tell you a tale of a fateful trip, to Canada, via the internet portal.
And then Open Your Whore Mouth for a book giveaway.
You have until midnight tomorrow, 12/9 and then this message will self destruct.



1) Do you like sprinkles on your ice cream?
Only if they are chocolate

2) If you had to choose one word to banish from the English language, what would it be and why?
Deadline. I hate pressure

3) If you were a flavor, what would it be?
Dark Chocolate

4) What’s the most pointless annoying chore you can think of that you do on a daily/weekly basis?
work

5) Of all the nicknames I’ve ever had in my life, Aunt Becky is the most widely known and probably my favorite. What’s your favorite nickname? (for yourself)
Her Inestimable Goddess

6) You’re stuck on a desert island with the collective works of 5 (and only five) musical artists for the rest of your life. Who are they?
Styx
Sarah McLachlan
Jethro Tull
Grateful Dead
Pink Floyd


7) Everything is better with bacon. True or false?
Hell Yes!


8 ) If I could go back in time and tell Young Aunt Becky one thing, it would be that out of chaos, order will emerge. Also: tutus go with everything. What would you tell young self?
Be more daring, smoke less weed, BE the photojournalist and travel.

flight of the...turkey

When I shove that naked plump bird into the oven on Thanksgiving, I will be grinning widely and likely to cackle like that crazy witch in the old Bugs Bunny cartoon when she needed a rabbit for her secret potion.
Presenting Witch Hazel!(image courtesy of wikipedia)

On a side note, how freaking cool is it that I can type “witch in bugs bunny cartoons” into a Google search and up pops this?

Fucking Brilliant. I love the Internet and all its assorted usefulness. That is the euphoric look I will wear as the skin turns golden and the smell of roast turkey permeates the air. I got some payback to deliver.

Because Turkeys, the wild kind, must be dumber than dirt. You know the ones I’m talking about. The black ones that skulk around woodland floors, gobbling about in the early morning and late afternoons. The polygamist males, strutting their fancy wattles and feathers, routinely prance about, as I drive to and from work, sniffing to hook up with some fat female turkey.

Yes, these things.

(image courtesy of wikipedia)

Last November, we took a late fall vacation up in the Pocono’s. It was one of those beautiful autumn days where the sun was shining, the air was crisp but not too chilled and the leaves were in the last vestiges of fall glory and falling like giant jeweled snowflakes.

Giggles & I were heading up, just us two girls, tooling up the secondary highway, singing loudly with Taylor Swift. I began noticing an abundance of fowl, pecking away at whatever the hell these things eat. Small flocks of 5 and more interspersed along the sides of the road. It was turkey-hunting heaven, I swear. Had I been a hunter I might have been salivating from all the available pickings. Turkey Convention! Every so often the unfortunate remains of the bird that did not cross at the light was plastered on the road, feathers everywhere.

Suddenly one of those big ass birds hovering along the side of the road spread its wings and began to take flight. With light speed OH SHIT! awareness, I knew we were cruising at just over 60 mph, there was a car behind and coming along side us. There was nowhere to go and that bird’s trajectory put it smack into my windshield. I yelled at Giggles to duck down, wrapped my fingers tight to the wheel and did what any sane rational woman would do when she's about to have a high-speed impact with a fat fowl, I held on tight, closed my eyes and steered straight.


***CRASH!!****



Bits of glass and other assorted things rained all over me and I opened my eyes quickly to assess how bad the situation was.

Calling out to Giggles, I asked if she was okay. A shaky voice said okay. And I breathed a sigh of relief.


And realized the windshield was still in one piece. As was the passenger side window. Still there was glass and bits of car all over me. And feathers were floating in the front seat, along the dashboard. WTF?

Giggles chimed in from the backseat claiming there was glass all over her lap and in her hair.

Glancing around frantically trying to identify the source of the glass, I noticed gobs of turkey smear on the window. Eeeeewwwww,Yuck!

Which helped me notice that the passenger side mirror was dangling from the car by a wire. Literally, one wire was holding it in place. The entire guts of that mirror were gone. Imploded into the car’s interior when the turkey slammed into it, wattle first.

This is sort of what it looked like in the moment before I closed my eyes. Except it was coming at me, not flying by.

(image courtesy of wikipedia)

All things considered, it could have been much worse. A broken mirror, some turkey goo.

And then the wail from the backseat:


“MOM! There are turkey feathers in my slushie!!!”

I don't think we're moving and it's probably Elvis' fault

Now that the computer has a new power source, the vacation laundry pile is mostly tamed and back to school nights are almost over, the oh shit there's so much crap to do fog lifted from my brain and I remembered that I have a blog and it's been neglected. I could hear it scolding me from the cyberworld. I have to say, blogs can be very whiny when they are not being attended to and have filthy language.

I took copious notes on so many things I want/need to write about, the thoughts were spilling from my head and rushing onto the page, and maybe with the help of a cryptologist, I just might be able to decipher the disaster that is my handwriting, because hey! computer was not working and words needed to be written.

I renewed my love affair with colorful gel pens and seductive journals. Ooohhh, I luuuurrrvvee me those luscious acid free pages found inside sumptuously decorative journals. It's just that sometimes the journal is an art form and intimidates my inner voice. I don't want to trash the shit out of a really nice journal with what could be a steamy pile of word poo. Because a nice journal deserves better, which is why there are many blank journals sitting on the shelves of my bookcase, just waiting for just the perfect opening sequence of words and thoughts to attain writer and journal harmony. Yes, I know. I have slipped beyond weird, into insane. I think it's nice here. Send Chocolate and Tea. Thanks

We headed down to Atlantic City on Sunday, because Bally's gave us a free hotel room in the hopes that SuperHubby would sit and play blackjack for hours. Our room wasn't ready when we got there, which was mildly annoying yet not unexpected so contingency plans were put into place. Drop the bags at bag check and go stroll the boardwalk.

The surf was pretty rough and could be heard over the chatter of voices and caw of the seagulls. I laughed when one particularly aggressive gull swooped down, strafing the shoulder of a woman to try snatching the pizza slice right out of her hand. The lady damned near jumped out of her skin, but she held onto the slice as the bird winged away, squawking out its displeasure in loosing a tasty snack.

Ace and Giggles love the Bally's pool and hot tubs, so we moved on to that when SuperHubby had to rest from walking. A two hour stint watching them play nicely together and then irritate the hell out of each other, is no real hardship. I zoned out, dozed a bit and daydreamed while the noise of splashing kids and gurgling water buzzed around my head. I watched the clouds and sunlight swirl over the ceiling windows while SuperHubby read.

And then we headed up to the room, realizing we forgot our bags, and headed over to the elevators to go back down to the lobby.

Amazingly Elvis exits his room and heads to the elevator with us. I swear it was too Elvis, down to the gleaming pompadour, sideburns, sunglasses, potbelly and southern drawl. The only thing missing was the glazed drugged look in the eye, which perhaps means it wasn't the real Elvis but his doppelganger, because the real one would totally be sporting that glassy eyed gaze. Let me not forget, the big ass belt buckle, resplendent with rhinestones and all chrome. Holy shit, this belt buckle was huge and glittery. It's not often I'm compelled to gaze at a man's package, but when it sparkles and winks at me, what's a girl to do?

I thought Ace was going to burst out laughing at the Elvis, he was so amused. He had to turn his back on the magnificent sight, to keep his shit together. Everytime he glanced over his shoulder, I could see his lips twitch.

Elvis, Elvis, Let me be!!

We all piled into the elevator with a few others and hit the down button. The elevator stopped at the 6th floor but the doors didn't open. Nor did the elevator continue descending. In fact the elevator didn't move at all. Door open buttons were pushed, door close buttons were pressed. several floor buttons were tapped in the hope something would respond. For a few minutes everybody just stood still, waiting expectantly for that initial dip of gravity, the mechanism sounds heralding the arrival at the next floor. Nothing. It's funny recalling the moment when we all realized the elevator was not going to move without intervention. Nine strangers looked around at each other, gauging reactions, the awareness that we seem to be stuck. In an elevator. Here, together.

Someone pressed the emergency call button. A disembodied voice asks if we needed assistance. We're stuck, we're not moving, we all began to mutter at once. The elevator is stuck, somewhere between the 6th and 2nd floors. Oh, said the voice. Hang on. Moments go by and the voice says, I can't reset the elevator, we'll have to open the doors manually.

The voice comes back again, Do you know what floor you stopped at last?

Great. They didn't quite know where we were.

The kids plopped down on the floor, the adults all leaned back on the walls, waiting for an update, a sound, something. Jokes began to emerge, laughter easing the nervous tension. More minutes go by. Elvis makes comments about getting a free brunch for the inconvenience. Another woman says free dinner. The kids moan about being hungry. My irritability begins to climb. SuperHubby is amused and cracks more jokes to keep the calm. The temperature in the elevator goes up with the anxiety level. I was very surprised how warm it got and how quickly it did so. We were all envisioning hours stuck in this box with no air conditioning.

Finally noise outside the door, metal on metal, clicking, tapping and muted voices from outside the door. And then the elevator abruptly descends a floor or two, the doors pop open and everybody swiftly gets the hell out of crazy elevator.

All told, we were stuck just about twenty minutes, nothing really dramatic to write about.

Being stuck on an elevator with Elvis? Oh, so worth a blog post.