BOO.

In honor of the season [it is halloween, afterall], the following blog recounts two rather frightening experiences as of late:

Scarytime #1:

I went out on a date the other night. This in and of itself may seem rather scary but, wait, there's more.

I was actually pretty excited about it. The guy in question seemed like a real catch: Americorp alumni (he spent a year in Colorodo providing medical care to poverty-stricken, mostly illegal immigrants), Chapel-Hill Graduate, pre-med, semester in Australia, super hot and quirky cute all rolled in one. And he seemed pretty hung up on me, to boot.

So he gets my number and we go have a couple of beers at one of my favorite pubs downtown, which just happened to be having bluegrass jam that night. Cat's out of the bag: we both like-no LOVE- bluegrass music. Major bonus points. We talk and laugh and all is going rather well. Could it be? Had I actually managed to meet a smart, attractive MAN, official graduate of the petty little boy status so common to these parts? The question is humming around in my mind, practically in mid-air, stuck in one of those lovely little bubbles so often attributed to mental activity. Aforementioned bubble is floating inconspicuously over my left shoulder when it comes time to pay the bill.

"You ready to make a break for it?"

POP! goes the bubble.

"We will have to be pretty sneaky about it though, make a quick get-a-way."

Ummm...come again?

While I continue to stare at him in what would best be described as dumbfounded awe, unable to formulate a coherent reply, the waitress comes to my rescue.

"Can I take that for you?" she asks nonchalantly.

Yes! Yes, please take it! Take it now before this niceboy FRAUD pulls a gun on us all and asks us for our spare change. It is only a matter of time. Sweat begins to pool on my brow. No wait, I almost forgot: we southern gals don't sweat, we glisten.

"Damn it. Almost. I do feel bad for the waitresses though, if only because I wait tables myself." He says this with a note of, not remorse, but dissapointment.

So to my relief, he pays the bill-- all fifteen dollars of it. I mean, seriously! Seriously? Fifteen bucks? I'm not even worth the price of four beers, two of which were YOURS? And on a FIRST DATE, nonetheless. It boggles the mind. Even now, I have trouble rapping my brain around it.

Jump to the end of the evening: we pull up to my house, he leans in for a kiss and before I know it, without even thinking about it, I've totally pulled a Cheeker. So let this be a lesson to you, little boys everywhere: attempt to swindle your date into participating in an immoral, not to mention illegal, activity and you too shall receive a similar, if not far more severe, fate. You have been forewarned.

Scarytime #2:

I went to Wal-Mart today. I didn't want to; I hadn't planned on it. It just kind of, happened.

I found myself standing in aisle 15, hands by my side, shoulders slouched, brow furrowed. My eyes bounced back and forth, as if waiting for someone [or something] to jump out from behind the 50 pound bag of dogfood beside me and begin knawing at my ankle.

Instead, a 400 pound woman strutted by infront of me, her camoflage entourage obediently in tow. I immediately break into a cold sweat. Where am I? What is happening? A feeling of total and complete resignation passes over me as I realize that half of the people in the store- sorry, "supercenter"- are probably related to the unfortunate kids I see every day in my classroom.

Wal-Mart on a saturday afternoon is officially one of the scarriest places I can imagine. Even now, I shudder just thinking about it.