Aselin

The following is the draft of the talk I gave today during our Christmas Sacrament meeting. I'm hesitant to post it since I don't ever read my talks, and what I actually said varies from this text but the ideas are the same. My prayer is that the spirit of the journey of Christmas long outlives December. Merry Christmas!


Christmas 2009

The Christmas story is relived each December in celebration of Christ’s birth but it’s really a story for the whole year.

The beginning of the story has always struck me - announcing the newborn Messiah by scaring people. I imagine the shepherds of the story, settled in for the night. Chatting around a fire, keeping watch or sleeping soundly when suddenly “an angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.” (Luke 2:9)

The first words of Christmas and not Joy to the World, Hosanna, Hallelujah. The first words of Christmas are “Fear Not” These words show how unexpected, out of place, and unnatural this occurrence was. The reality of the moment was even bigger than the shock of the poor shepherds. With the birth of the Savior everything was going to change. What was promised would now be fulfilled and nothing would be the same.

The shepherds teach us that at the heart of the story of Christmas is a journey. Not a journey of one night, or one year or even 33 years. The story of Christmas is the journey you begin the moment the Savior is born into your life. It is the journey you walk with family. The journey you take with friends, it is the journey all believers take together. And ultimately it is the journey you walk alone, with your Savior.

It is the road to Emmaus. It is the road to Damascus. It is the road to Bountiful. It is the Trail of Tears and the trek to Salt Lake. Scripture records again and again the journeys of believers of Adam and Eve, Noah, Moses, Mary and Joseph, Saul...Paul, Ammon, Nephi, Pioneer saints the list goes on.

It is the record of those who heed the call to “Come follow me” and try their very best, to actually follow Him. Yet like Peter who offered his life for the Savior’s sake only to deny him thrice a short while later, we fall all too short only to have the Lord as he says in Isaiah whisper - “I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.” (Isaiah 41:13)

So how do we Journey to Christ? We can learn a lot from the shepherds. Finding Christ is about changing, becoming. It’s about getting up from the place where we are comfortable and stepping outside of ourselves. Doing things we wouldn’t normally do, often in new places with new people. The journey of the shepherds was quick. Scripture says “they came with haste.” Finding the newborn babe lying in a manger.

Few of us in this room are actual shepherds, or have had angelic visitations, yet we all have heard the whisperings of the Spirit. The call of the Savior to be more like Him, to follow Him - to come unto Him. Really doing that requires change. It requires us to, like the shepherds, move from where we are comfortable much closer to the manger.

I have a long list of character traits, quirks, idiosyncrasies - OK, flaws that as a disciple of the Savior I should change. One that I’ll admit publicly is my tendency to over focus. If I have something I’m doing, working on or thinking about I tend to block the rest of the world out. More than one of you have scolded me for ignoring your friendly waves as you drive by. On more than one occasion I have been standing next to a person I know and not noticed - I’m just living in my own little head world. This would be useful if I were say a brain surgeon, but as a housewife, it’s not so useful. I am constantly chastising myself for missing an opportunity to do something good, not taking notice of a person in need, realizing after the fact some great window of opportunity that had closed.

A few years ago I was reading the Ensign and came across an article that struck me to the core. It was the story of a woman at the grocery store at Christmas time, with her two young, tired and unruly children. She was checking out and trying to decide which line to get in - the line with one person who had a full cart or the line with three people with only a few things each. She chose the line with the one person and as the lines progressed she felt quite pleased with her choice.

The story continues: And then, over the sound of the store’s cheery holiday music, I heard the checker in the other line talking loudly, too loudly. I glanced over as my hands kept working.

“No, I’m sorry,” the checker was almost shouting at the old woman, who didn’t seem to understand. “That card won’t work. You are past your limit. Do you have another way to pay?” The tiny old woman blinked at the checker with a confused expression. Not only were her hands shaking now, but her shoulders too. The teenage bagger rolled her eyes and sighed.

I thought to myself: “Boy, did I choose the right line! Those three are going to be there forever.” My mood was positively smug as my checker began scanning my food.

But the smiling woman directly in line behind the elderly lady had a different reaction. Quietly, with no fanfare, she moved to the older woman’s side and ran her own credit card through the reader.

“Merry Christmas,” she said softly, still smiling.

And then everyone was quiet. Even my rowdy children paused, feeling the change in the atmosphere.

It took a minute for the older woman to understand what had happened. The checker, her face thoughtful, hesitated with the receipt in her hand, not sure whom to give it to. The smiling woman took it and tucked it into the elderly woman’s bag.

“I can’t accept …” the older woman began to protest, with tears forming in her eyes.

The smiling woman interrupted her. “I can afford to do it. What I can’t afford is not to do it.”

This story made my heart leap - this was exactly what I wanted to be like! I copied the story, carried it in my purse. I read it almost daily for weeks and in my prayers offered pleas to help me see as He would have me see. To notice others that needed to be noticed. While I was kinder, calmer and more deliberate nothing huge happened. I was standing in a checkout line getting the last of my shopping done. Working furiously on the lists of things I had to do inside my head, I was feeling quite overwhelmed. The man behind me gave a few exasperated sighs and then said “Come on lady” I looked up and noticed an elderly woman trying to find her debit card. She kept saying, I’m sure I put it in here. I have enough to pay.

Because I’m not that quick it took a few moments (I’m sure God was saying to the angels “Wait for it...wait for it...) when AAAAHAAAA!!! This was exactly like the situation in the story! This was exactly what I had been praying for! I sidled up to the woman, put my arm around her as I swiped my own card and with tears in my eyes said “Merry Christmas”

It is true. He will hold us by the hand and help us.

Wise men

The wise men also teach us something about the journey to Christ. They are an interesting inclusion in the story of the Nativity. Most scholars agree that the wise men arrived at Joseph and Mary’s home years after the birth of the Savior. Matthew records “and when they came into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down and worshipped him”

To do what they did they had to be men versed in scripture, to be watching for the signs and men motivated to act upon them. A hundred new stars could appear in the sky and I would have no idea. Yet these men were so certain of this sign they dedicated their life to following and finding the Savior that they might worship him. We don't’ know their names. We only know they came from the east, but the Christmas story is not complete without them.

I’ve reflected on the impact wise men have had on me. While there were probably more than three wise men in the group seeking the Savior, I think it’s an interesting number that I see reflected in my own life.

Spencer W. Kimball was the prophet when I joined the church. I loved him, and following his words and counsel directly blessed my life in powerful ways. Each subsequent prophet and First Presidency have been amazing guides that have drawn me closer to the Savior as I have listened to them and heeded their counsel. My own three wise men.

Similarly, I have been blessed by Bishops and Bishoprics. In this room are men who have served as the wise men of wards, men who are currently serving and other men who will serve one day. None of these men have been perfect - yet when I have chosen to sustain them, to pray for them and to follow them my life has been infinitely blessed. I am forever grateful to have the blessing of having wise men to guide me on the journey of my life. As I have followed them I have come closer to my Savior.

The wise men brought very specific gifts. Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh. While these gifts are somewhat foreign to us today, they were very symbolic and clear to those of the Savior’s time. Gold represented Royalty, the Savior’s divinity. Frankincense was a resin used in temple worship and represented His priesthood. Myrrh was another resin used in burial rites, a symbol of His mission to overcome death. Their testimony of the Savior’s mission is found in the gifts they bestowed.

Likewise, our testimony of His mission is found in the gifts we bestow. What will we do with our lives? On our journey? At the end of each day are we closer to Him? At the end of our days will we be like Him? That all depends on how we journey.

Listening to the Spirit

Everything important depends on our ability to listen to the Spirit. The fact is, I’m not so good at it. I’ll say a prayer, get an 'outside my comfort zone' prompting, and then have been known to go back and say “Now Heavenly Father, if this is really, really, really you...” More than once the answer has been “Aselin, it is really, really, really me.”

Trying to become more like the Savior is a big challenge because in so many ways we are nothing like Him. It takes courage and stamina. I’m sure this is why there are so many journey stories chronicled in the scriptures. They act as metaphors for the spiritual journey every true disciple is required to make.

It is the journey to make our lives less about ourselves and more about Him. It comes in baby steps for most of us. God knows this. All he asks of us is effort. Real effort. The author of the Grocery store story finishes her thoughts with:

I could not afford my current, self-absorbed frame of mind.

I could not afford to have my children learn lessons of compassion only from strangers.

I could not afford to be so distant from the spirit of Christ at any time of the year—especially during this great season of giving.

I could not afford to let another stranger, another brother or sister, cross my path in need of help without doing something about it.

I’ve been tremendously fortunate in my life to witness other people giving their lives to His purpose.

1998 the year Connor was born our Relief Society in Layton, Utah put on a Christmas program. One of the presenters asked if she could borrow Connor for the program. I agreed. As I sat in the cultural hall at one of the round tables having been fed Costco lasagna and jello I waited for the program to start. It was a musical program, and Connor was the baby Jesus. He was wrapped in an almost translucent white blanket. The spotlight beamed right on him as the sisters sang hymns of Christmas. What happened in that room was magical. As sister after sister took my baby in her arms and sang her testimony of the Savior I wept. As a mother you could want little more than to have others feel the love you feel about your children. More surely than I ever had before, I knew how Heavenly Father wants us to feel about each other. We’re all His children.

I’m sure each of us has a story of someone who loved you, or your children in a special, unconditional way. We each have amazing tales of generosity and love from the sisters.

The reality is, we are all on this journey together. As we come closer to Christ, we start to see each other more as God sees us. We are slower to find fault, quicker to lift up, quicker to give a hand. And as we continue this Christmas journey all year, may we be like the Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. May we, like the shepherds, fear not. May we walk with the wise men, may we more fully follow him.


For the full "Hero at the Grocery Store" by Stephanie Meyer click here

As all of my readers know, I hold myself up as a paragon of wisdom in this crazy world. The vacuum created by the passing of Dear Abby sucked me right in and I readily dispense advice to any needy soul. Yesterday the following plea came to my attention:

Dear Abby,

There's this certain blog I've been reading. Now that you are dead and I don't read traditional print media that carries your daily column written by an alive someone who pretends to be you, this blog offered me the anticipation I needed to get my tired bones out of bed and turn on the PC every morning. This blogger is every bit as good as you ever were. Unfortunately, this blogger has given up! What do you suggest I do?

Signed,

"Miffed"

_____________________________

Dear Miffed,

It makes perfect sense that your world has been turned upside down by the absence of your favorite blogger. A good blogger is hard to find. Everyone knows that bloggers are lazy, attention seekers who will drop their loyal readers for shallow pursuits. So "Miffed" I am sure that the absence of your blogger is all your fault. Have you fanned this blogger's ego by commenting on their posts? Have you submitted to any subliminal messages hidden in the blogger's posts, for say, a pastrami sandwich? If your blogger is not sufficiently attended to then silly things like final exams, children and holidays crush the blogger's creativity. So, remember, be good to your blogger and you will likely see their return.

Signed,

"Not the alive someone who pretends to be Abby in print media"

(See, I'm a natural!)

Because of the volume of requests I get for my life coaching skills, and my general magnanimous nature, I want to share some other wisdom I got off the Internet to get you through the holiday season. Everyone knows if it's on the Internet then it must be useful AND true.


Avoid cutting yourself when slicing vegetables by getting someone else to hold them while you chop.

Avoid arguments with the Mrs. about lifting the toilet seat by using the sink.

For high blood pressure sufferers: simply cut yourself and bleed for a few minutes, thus reducing the pressure in your veins. Remember to use a timer.

If you have a bad cough, take a large dose of laxatives; then you'll be afraid to cough.

You only need two tools in life - WD-40 and Duct Tape. If it doesn't move and should, use the WD-40. If it shouldn't move and does, use the duct tape.

Remember: everyone seems normal until you get to know them.

If you've been a follower of my blog, or happen to know me personally, you know I have trouble "staying inside the lines" of life. Usually my little escapades get me in less than ideal situations. Scenarios like, getting called into the office by the principal and told to walk my flock of sheep back home. Having to dive in the bushes to hide from a boss. Flashing the hospital gardeners in my hospital gown. I've had some high points.

Usually I just have to suck it up and move on, trying to block out the overwhelming shame a normal person would feel. I've gotten pretty good at it.

Then, I steal the lemon bar. A rather innocuous crime that caused me great distress, embarrassment and a large clean-up detail. When something involves a clean-up crew, it's harder to 'shake it off.' (If you're new to the blog, scroll down a few posts and read Thou Shall Not Steal.)

Most of my days are spent isolated from humanity. I drop my children off at school and return home wearing some form of work out clothes. Then I run, I study until my brain has seized up and I run again. You will note there is not mention of personal hygeine, social time and as many of you have noted - rarely blogging time.

Imagine my delight last week after six hours of study, two runs and a little housework my doorbell rings. During the day it's one of two people: someone wanting to cut my palm trees or my postman. The postman and I have become friends - although you wouldn't know it by the frequency he gives my mail to another family.

Making my way to the door, I hope it's no one I know since I look like I've never used a hairbrush, am drenched in sweat and have an aroma that's the cross between bad cheese and copier toner. While I've been attracting neighborhood dogs it has a more repellent effect on humans. Stuffing my hair under a hat I crack the door and yikes, it's a neighbor, all dressed up and perfumed. She's smiling, and holding a paper bag. Not good signs.

"I was out and saw these, and thought of you."

Uh oh. The bag could contain an innumerable number of things. Deodorant, "How to Win Friends and Influence People," my mis-delivered mail. I wasn't quite sure what to say. I had a friend relay a prank they had played where they filled a paper bag with dog poo and lit it on fire on a classmate's porch. I suppose I should be relieved that the bag is not on fire... but I'm still a little nervous.

Accepting the offering I peek in as she giggles..."They're lemon bars."

SCORE!!! Never before have I committed a social faux pas and had it reward me. This was awesome. Hugging the paper bag I waved as she drove away. It brought a tear to my eye. "Wind Beneath My Wings" ran through my mind.

Now my challenge is, how to I continue to write with integrity and not throw in subliminal suggestions to the rest of you. Hey, have I written about the time I wrestled a girl scout for a pastrami sandwich?

I had a recent conversation with a friend that went something like this:

"Aselin, the problem with you is you would rather be alone than be with an idiot."

Yeah? So?

"Friend, the problem with you is you would rather be with an idiot than be alone."

My husband points out that I don't 'suffer fools lightly,' which may be true, but seeing as how the fools have overtaken the rest of us in numbers; I must suffer.

I'm finishing up a university degree right now. It is consuming my life. I've been taking one to two tests a week. Because much of my coursework is online, I need to take these tests at the local community college testing center. People who give tests, all day, every weekday, for a living.

This week I was taking a large final exam in a law course. The exam required that I write multiple, long essays. My writing hand is still cramped up from the experience.

I check in at the testing center, where I have now taken about fifteen tests, administered by the same person. On my first visit I found out that she is the same religion as me, attended the same university I am now attending and grew up in the same area I did.

We have our standard check in conversation:

"Hello, what are you here for?"
"I am here to take a test."
"OK, what's your name?"

Now, I am used to people having trouble with my name. My name is weird, I get it, but EVERY time I check in for a test I have this exact conversation with the SAME person.

"Wow, I've never heard 'Aselin' before (Except for two days ago when I was in here taking another test) ((Oh, and the fourteen times before that)).

I take a deep breath. It's OK, I'm a very forgettable person.

We then proceed to the guidelines of the test, which the administrator reads in detail, out loud, to me. I wait patiently until the ritual is completed and I have been fully informed of testing procedures. She then hands me the test, which consists of one sheet of paper and says "Good Luck."

Grabbing my stack of college-ruled paper and handful of freshly sharpened pencils, I start to enter the testing room when the proctor stops me.

"Wait!" she yells. "You're not allowed to take paper in to the test."

Taking a deep breath I attempt to explain that the test consists of a series of essays and these would require paper.

"Well, the instructions don't say you're allowed to use paper."

Really? Rats! I left my papyri at home.

My proctor is completely flustered as she frantically rereads the instructions. Finding no guidance on the subject she decides she better 'ask her boss.'

Deep breath.

The boss has no idea how to handle this bizarre turn of events. Paper? In an essay test? How rogue! The boss suggests that my proctor call the university.

This is no joke. I am not exaggerating. I stood there for fifteen minutes while she got someone from the university on the phone to ask if I could take paper into my essay exam.

We finally got approval for my bizarre request and I set my mind to conquer the academic behemoth before me. Clutching my paper and a handful of newly-sharpened number two pencils, I prepare to enter the testing chamber. As my hand rests on the knob of the testing room door she yells out again "WAIT!"

What? Another testing emergency? you ask. Well, as a matter of fact yes.

"You can't write essays in pencil! You need a black pen!"

Gritting my teeth I try to explain that I have about 24 pages to write ahead of me. There will be a lot of editing, a lot of erasing, the test will not be photocopied, or preserved for posterity so the pencil really won't be a problem.

She again gets out the instructions. Reads them in their entirety. Consults her boss, who tells her she better call the university.

I've had it at this point and say, I'm taking my chances. If they deny my exam because it's in pencil then so be it! I am a carbon renegade!!

As I exit the testing room three hours later, completely spent, I present myself at the counter. Addressing the proctor by name I tell her I'm finished.

"Finished with what?" she asks
"My test."
"OK, um, what was your name?"

Sigh.

As I've shared before, I have a really hard time turning down food. You can trust me in most other areas, but if you have a plate of cookies lying around, a crudite platter nearby or an unattended cheeseburger - well, you've been warned.

Last week, as I was finishing up my teaching duties at the local elementary school, I'm winding my way out of the building through the office. I have my own classroom, so to return the key I must go into a makeshift copy room where the key vault is situated. This copy room has all the modern necessities, copy machine, coffee maker, microwave, tanning bed. OK, not a tanning bed, but there are a lot of appliances that have nothing to do with copying packed into this little room.

There's no one in the office so I let myself in, hang up my key, and as I'm turning to leave something catches my eye... LEMON BARS!!! I poke my head out into the office and there's still no one there. My heart begins to beat a little faster as I behold their lemony goodness. Anyone with good taste knows that lemon is the best flavor of a dessert, and The Bar holds a particular place on my dessert pedestal.

A flood of thoughts go into my mind. There is already one bar gone, so another wouldn't be missed. These are set out in the public domain, and have no requisite "Hands Off" sign to keep miscreants away. I have spent a number of hours doing good and probably in all my goodness, actually deserve a lemon bar.

The first time I checked the office I was looking for someone who might give me permission to sample a bar. The second time I checked I was making sure the coast was clear. Swiping a bar I turn to make my escape when the door swings open perfectly timed with the insertion of the bar into my salivating mouth. Panicked, I stuff the whole thing in take a quick chew and smile at the attendance officer who I don't know by name, as I make my way into the parking lot.

OH MY HECK!!! This thing is not a lemon bar. In fact, I don't think it was food at all. Stuffed to the molars with some bizarre unidentifiable slime I look for somewhere to spit it out when the smiling principal rounds the corner. Wide eyed, I wave and pretend I'm in a rush to get somewhere. Actually I was trying not to vomit at the front door of the school. People frown on that sort of behavior.

The glob in my mouth has the consistency of tapioca pudding mixed with raw egg. It has kernels of corn in it. Maybe green chilies - but that could have been a backwash of bile induced by the noxious slop I was trying to hold without being caught by the herd of PTA ladies headed my way. They're waving at me, calling to me, I'm dry heaving and waving back.

Classy.

I jump in my car and scramble around with no success for a napkin to deposit the putrid wad. I decide I'll pull a block away from the school and spit the glop out the window. Waving to the PTA I peel out, kernels of corn and raw egg slime start seeping out of the corner of my mouth.

I'm not sure there is an "appropriate" place to spit, but I find an area less likely to be encountered by a jogger and move to discharge what has now broken down into a sort of mushy blob. I realize I don't have the skill or power to launch sufficient distance, I have no napkin, so I spit the ooze into my palm, intending to throw the thing away from my moving vehicle. Just as my arm swings wide, the orb looses form and breaks up into slimy chunks. Some of which do not make it out of my freshly washed van.

Using my finger I try and pick sticky chunks of corn from the open window bay. I'm pretty sure I got most of them, and use my sleeve to finish polishing off the evidence of my crime.

What had promised to be a beautiful, lemony moment had turned into some sort of Candid Camera skit. I'm sure I'm caught on surveillance and the staff is laughing hysterically at the trap they set for me. Fortunately, my offense is limited to a sphere where the rest of my family will not find out.

Driving my daughter home from school later that day, I roll up my window. A long, smelly, corny ooze smears a long stripe up the glass.

My consequences have been long, and painful.

I can not turn down food. An invitation to lunch would make me drop everything and leave in the middle of surgery, if I were a surgeon of course.

So imagine my delight when I get a spontaneous text from a friend inviting me to lunch. With glee, I eschew the glamor that is my daily life and peel out in the driveway to eat, I mean meet my friend.

Lunch was delicious, as food is wont to be, and the conversation was delightful. Having the usual pressing items on my list, I ignore them and suggest a pedicure. (This is why I have no productive friends).

I have a particular salon I have come to favor. Their polish lasts an unusually long time making the amortization of the investment more prudent. The sign above the salon is a catchy slogan like "Nails Only." We enter the establishment and are immediately intoxicated from the fumes of productivity. I settle in to the massage chair and start to flip through People magazine. My sister in sloth settles in for a manicure. Half way through my treatment she heads to the back room where they wax eyebrows. Every nail salon waxes eyebrows. Apparently it's not something that requires a lot of skill, but I certainly can't do it myself, so it's worth the investment.

Behind the curtain she disappears. I'm engrossed in Jon and Kate's divorce proceedings when I hear a muffled "Aaouw" from the waxing stall, I mean room. I look at the patron next to me and smile and awkward toothy grin. She nods trying to reassure me it was a one-time odd noise. Moments later we hear it again. It sounds distinctly like someone is being poked with a safety pin while being smothered with a pillow. My reassuring buddy now looks a little afraid.

I'm not sure what to do. My feet are submerged, the massage chair is mid-cycle, but that is my friend in there. "I-i-iiiii" comes from behind the curtain. As I am wrestling with what to do, (don't take me to an emergency) the curtain from the stall parts and my pedicurist emerges.

Without a word, she sits down and with a flourish, finishes my feet. I ask her if everything is OK, to which she nods yes and runs back to the stall. I shrug, and resume reading the upcoming roster for "Dancing with the Stars." "Eeeee-oof" What the heck is going on in there?

I have now been sitting a good fifteen minutes, unattended. No further noises have emerged from the stall so either my friend has expired or everything is going better. A few minutes later she emerges, looking just fine. We pay, chat as we return to my car and slide in to the plush minivan seats. The second her door shuts she yells "WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT?"

Shocked, I have no idea. My pedicure was fantastic. In fact this episode was three weeks ago and it still looks wonderful.

She then reveals that she asked for a bikini wax. The bikini wax is a tricky endeavor. Those parts are delicate, and quite frankly, I wouldn't trust mine to just anyone. My deeply wounded friend reveals that the first rips didn't go so well, and the few hairs that were removed didn't satisfy the technician who decided to tweeze the remaining ones. P-u-l-eeze. Even if you've never had a bikini wax you can figure out that you don't tweeze down there.

As I sit stunned, listening to her tale of beauty torture, I can't figure out who I blame: my pedicurist who had no business attempting a bikini wax having only mastered the eyebrow level at beauty school. Or my friend. The sign is VERY clear, this is a NAIL salon. Just like I'm not going to my podiatrist for a root canal, I'm pretty sure even my limited intelligence would have done a little wax reconnaissance before I stripped down and acquiesced to this scheme.

She clearly holds me partially accountable for her mishap. I did suggest the salon. Well, yes, I did for NAILS. I read the signs. I believe the signs, and I have avoided any scars to prove otherwise.

Life at my house is nothing but excitement and blue-ribbon parenting.

As I have discussed earlier. Hubby (Grrr) encouraged and enabled our children to purchase a bearded dragon. He tries to deny it now that the thing has blown up in our faces a couple of times, but since our children cannot yet drive, and most of their purchases were made at Petsmart, without a consenting driver they could not have accomplished their evil plan.

So "Jimmy" is here. Before he arrived I was all, "I'm not doing ANYTHING with this @#$# new pet." Now I find myself watering the dumb thing, feeding the dumb thing and buying crickets for the dumb thing. Aaaah motherhood.

Buying crickets for Jimmy is quite the ordeal. Fortunately, the cheapest purveyor of crickets is close to our house. I have formed a friendship with the owner of the store, so when I come in, she invites me in to the back room to chat while she counts out twenty dozen crickets at ten cents a piece.

The back room of a pet store would make Alice Cooper scream. The first time I entered the room the stench was unbelievable. There was a rooster, two dogs, tanks of worms and all sorts of ick. There are rows and rows of cages where all kinds of rodents breed willy-nilly. I think rodents can be cute until I realized that these rodents were not intended to BE pets they are intended to FEED pets. This explains the many happy snakes in the shop.

Of course there are also three large metal trash cans that hold the three sizes of crickets for sale. Small - like a tic-tac, medium - like an almond and large - like a prune. The trash cans are too tall for the crickets to escape - theoretically, but I still get the heebie jeebies trying to have a casual conversation back in the lair.

Each week I walk out of the store having paid for a bagful of vermin I pay my exterminator to keep out of my house. It goes against every fiber of my being. (Grrr)

After a number of weeks the proprietor mentions that I can order crickets by the thousand. They come delivered and cost about what I was paying for a few hundred. Sounds great!

I'm driving home with the box of 1,000 crickets in my passenger seat. Stopped at a light I get the creepies when I realize the strange sound is a thousand crickets crawling all over each other writhing in the box of cricket creepiness. It was an eerie sound Hitchcock must have used because I haven't felt that creeped out since color movies were released.

Now that the crickets are home I realize they must be transferred to the "cricket keeper" so they can be fed and kept alive. How does one transfer a thousand crickets from box to container? All I know is that 1. This is definitely NOT my job and 2. This will only be done in the closed shower of the guest bath.

Child #1 was in charge of the endeavor. After closing her in, like an episode of Fear Factor, she attempts to open the box. Next thing I know all heck broke loose. There was screaming and dancing and pounding on the walls, glass and ceiling. Hubby was shouting, children were shrieking - yelling, "they're in my pants! they're in my pa-ants!" Hubby is yelling that the door of the shower is going to be broken if everyone doesn't calm down.

"Take off your pants!" I yell from the other room, 'cause you'll remember, I don't do anything with this bearded dragon.
"I don't have any underwear on!" comes the hysterical reply.
I'm giggling, but the struggle going on in the other room is getting pretty serious.

Finally extracating her from the enclosure hysteria is still in full swing. Screaming, kicking, hitting the wall - it was a full on panic attack. Hubby is calmly restraining the Tasmanian Devil when I come in to see what the heck is going on. Kid #2 is still in the shower trying to catch loose crickets in their hands while Kid #1 has lost all sense of control. I reach for them when I get whacked in the face and kicked in the shin.

Now, what happens next will be left to your imagination. I will give you some suggestive tidbits to spur you along. What would the "Mother of the Year" do with her writhing panic-stricken child? Well, I didn't do that. You know in old movies what they do with a hysterical woman? Even women who think they have crickets in their pants? Yeah, well I may or may not have done that.

Needless to say, calm was restored rather quickly after my gentle nature prevailed. Dad and kid #2 caught the rest of the crickets and got them into the enclosure. None of the crickets escaped the bathroom, so it is safe for you to come visit.

I can't wait until our second shipment arrives.