Please don't walk on me.

*Disclaimer. The year was 2006, and yes, it actually happened.

After a rousing night of YouTube viewing, I decided to finally hit the hay around 3:30 AM. After getting cozy and comfortable between the sheets, I realized the fan was still in the window, positioned for a much hotter night than it actually was, so I hollered to my then-boyfriend, "When you come to bed will you please take the fan out of the window and then shut it?" "Sure, I'm only gonna be about 5 more minutes..." He responded.
Roughly 30 minutes later I was slightly awoken by a little rustle, I felt boyfriend crawling into bed. "Hi," I said, to no reply. I gently opened my eyes and peeked at what a thought would be a drowsy and slightly tipsy boyfriend, when in return there was an enormous, furry, and extremely confused opossum walking on my chest.
Of course I screamed, which prompted boyfriend to sprint in, he screamed, as we both stole glances at each other and then at the offending beast through our panic.
I jumped up and down on he bed for a while and boyfriend repeatedly asked me, "What am I supposed to do?" To which I responded, "Hmm...Get it out?!" " But, what am I supposed to do?" And well, my response was predictable.
So, this charade lasted for roughly an hour, experimenting with a myriad of online remedies, (clap loudly at it, flash a light on it, yell at it, wave an ammonia soaked rag at it, etc.) all to no avail.
I attempted calling the non-emergency police line, (Animal Control only had you leave a message in case of emergency, which made me wonder, what if you were stuck in a car with a loose jaguar or being attacked in a barn by vampire bats? Just leave a message?) and as I was explaining the story to the operator, boyfriend yelled, "It laid down on its back and opened it's mouth at me!" (Gross.) The operator, unfortunately was not much of a help, but, I did finally say, "Well, don't you at least think it's sick that it walked on me?" And he laughed and said, "Yes, very." So, since I felt validated and hung up.
Finally, we made a little path out of all the furniture in the entire apartment which led right out the front door with the plan of sweeping it back into the wild. Genious.
SO...I stood on the bed, holding the broom as far as I possibly could away from my body, than took a gentle swing at the frightened beast and shooed him a few inches. The animal looked me with an ah-ha gaze that said, "Ohhhh, you want me to leave. Why didn't you just say so." And slowing strolled down the makeshift furniture road and out the door.
And that's why you should never sleep with your windows open.

Seasonal Work

Several years ago, I accidently worked at Lloyd Center for a few months. I suppose it was an adventure of sorts. I broke up a couple girl fights, purchased many shiny accessories and made friends with the manger at Mrs. Fields and proceeded to eat a cookie cup (if you don't know what it is, find out, fast,) each shift. And, as you may guess, I have countless tales from the good ol' days, but one in particular sticks out in my mind, for it was very traumatizing.

So, in the store I worked, (like most stores in Lloyd Center, aka the Murder Mall since like, 8 people have been shot there,) we had a bit of a shoplifting problem. It was my sport to try to catch them and prosecute them to the fullest extent of the law, (even though I didn't give a care if they stole from us, I was just bored.) Two main problems arose from this, firstly, there are apparently laws in place so employees can't go around accusing people of shoplifting without extreme probabal cause. Secondly, those girls could always run faster than me.

Anyhow, there was a girl who I had seen shoplift at least 11 times and this was the last straw, I was going to catch her with her pants down, or at least with pants up her shirt. And that's just what she did, except she was shoving pants, and anyother item her sticky fingers could grasp and nonchalantly stuffing them into the bottom of her stroller. Bitch's gots guts was my mantra as I walked towards our most notorious thief. As I neared her, I think she actually grew, for I became increasingly more afraid of her with each step. How can I approch this situation and still keep my life? I'll talk to her baby! Genius! She can't morph into the She-Hulk or even think I'm on to her if I am just chatting up her baby! Great.
So, I lean down and grab on to her baby's little, teeny foot, "Hi baby! Aren't you cute! Look at your little shoes!" And with all the motherly love one can imagine she says,

"Girl, my baby don't wanna look at you! You ugly!"

Oh yes she did. I rose with anger pulsing through my veins knowing I was about to stop the meanest, most flagrant shoplifter Lloyd Mall had ever seen...but when I spoke, the only words I could muster were meekishly,


"Oh...sorry."


That day, she walked out with the pants, and I walked out without pride. It was a normal day for all of us.

On the Edge of Seven

I never wanted to annoy my parents, but I seemed to have been a child that was a masters course unto herself, of how to get parents to eye roll, under the breath curse, head shake, deep breathe and ground me. But when I was that annoying child, my Dad owned this magical van conversion company, Sassi Chassi, (yes, that was really the name,) which, clearly, was my favorite place to hang out when I was a kid. I passed the time convincing the shop workers to give me cans of spray paint and allow me to deface scrap metal and plywood. Or, upon one life-changing day, finding the keys to the vending machine, where I would unlock the money drawer, steal some, then insert it back into the machine to get my snack of choice, generally animal cookies. Technically speaking, Sassi Chassi was the locale of my first job. When I was 4, I would spend hours rendering some museum worthy pictures with my trusty felt tips and the kid-friendly receptionist made the mistake of teaching this savvy 4 year old how to use the copy machine. After making roughly 26938 copies of my hands, face, elbows, brothers, and inanimate objects, I finally made copies of my latest masterpieces and sold them at the door, disarming customers for the tiny fee of 5 cents.
One fateful, rainy afternoon, my brother and I were snooping around the attic, searching for a treasure chest, relics of the old world, or at least some Fritos, but we discovered nothing more than trophies of my dad's beer softball league and some all softballs. I proceeded to immediately ruin our fun by throwing the softball upon the unfinished, insulate-y and treacherous side of the attic. My dad had warned us to never step foot onto that side of the attic and I can't tell you how amazingly seductive that made it for me. "I'll get the ball," I exclaimed, as I had one foot off the finished deck, my brother cackled, somehow knowing what was about to happen. As I was plummeting through the ceiling, 15 feet down to the middle of Sassi Chassi's showroom, I was debating over what I would tell my soon to be furious father. Not only was there now an Amy shaped hole in the ceiling, but during my belly flop I had managed to break the wires that were bracing up the latest models of luxury bug-shields, each of them hitting me in the face on their way down to the concrete floor. I looked up from whence I came and saw my brother's chubby face peering down with a look that captured worry partnered with extreme glee. My father bounded from his office, and matched the befuddled customers' agape jaws and simply asked with a furrowed brow, "What happened?" It was the moment of truth, the climax where I could prove I was wise beyond my years and simply fess up to my mistake. But this is not how I roll at 25 and was certainly not the way I rolled when I was seven, so I lied my ass off. "I was just sitting here playing hide-and-go-seek with my Spenser and all of the sudden all this stuff just came crashing down on me." I looked skyward and saw my brothers' head, still glued to its earlier position of, and I said, "Oh, dang, looks like he found me, gotta go, it's my turn to count!" Although this did amuse some of the customers, my Dad was not as impressed, and he snatched me up and flung me into the bed of his truck, where I proceeded to massage fiber glass insulation into my eyes, all the way home, where I showered away a sliver of my shame. Amazingly, I escaped the fall with only minor injuries, most of which only affecting my ego, and needless to say, I haven't been fond of attics since.