Social Graces

As of late, I've been incredibly confused as to what it was I had been feeling.  I was silently and viciously attacked without my knowledge, and I refused to show anger over it.  For that I was accused of being a sociopath, to which anyone out there who has ever dared to read my blogs would know that to be incredibly false. Anyone who's ever known me in person would know that wasn't true.  I'm filled with deep emotions that I must try to control lest they control me.  I just know not to get angry over petty things because it doesn't do anyone any good.

I've learned a lot since moving to California in 2002.


1.  Nice towels are worth spending a few extra dollars on.
2.  People only want to know you if you can do something for them.
3.  A drive along the coast will cure just about anything.
4.  Traveling is worth every cent we can afford to spend on it.
5.  Life is lived outside of four walls and two rooms.
5.  Everything out here is measured in time, not miles.
6.  There's not a person in the world who won't lie to your face.


Social graces within the workplace dictate that names shall not be named.  I am personally guilty of that action, and for that action alone, I apologize.  I apologize to my boss.  I apologize to his wonderful wife. I apologize to those people I named. HOWEVER - what I told was true so I will not apologize for having said it.

As several people lately will attest to, when I have a problem with someone in particular, I go directly to them - not to everyone around them, people who know them, neighbors, roommates and total strangers.  Those would be the actions of a coward - someone who feels it's necessary to hide within the shadows.  I'm not a shadow dweller.

After posting a blog recently, I was accused of being extremely egotistical by someone who claimed to not know me and refused to put anything but "Anonymous" for their name.  To clear THAT one up, I never said that everyone in the world wanted to BE me.  What I said - if you can understand plain English please feel free to go back and read it again here... - was that I've known so few people who actually loved me.  People who claimed to love me were actually obsessive people.  I draw them to me like flies.  They don't realize they are obsessed with me, and perhaps they aren't at first, but that turns out to be the case.  Not every one of them want to BE me, but what I said was "People wanted to be with me, be like me, be around me or just BE me."  I stand by that.  Now - stop posting anonymously and your comments might actually be posted.  *wink*

Those who obsess over others usually do for those reasons - am I wrong?

So I'll leave you with these final thoughts on the matter before I get back to writing about my regular program of stories, travel adventures, upcoming excitement and joyful times...

Don't obsess over others.  It leads to no good.

When you break social graces, it's ok to apologize.

Any time I have a problem with someone, I go to them. If you don't hear it from me, I don't have a problem with you.

And finally - Life is too short to spend time with people who suck the happiness out of you.  They aren't worth the time, so why give it to them?  People, it's time to move on.

Sugar Bowl

In a story written towards the beginning of the 365 project, I mentioned how I had put salt in the sugar bowl intended for my brother. He and I used to play pranks on one another all the time as kids, and that was just another one of the many. Unfortunately I didn't get him. Instead, I got Dear Old Dad.

It was one of the times my brother had pulled a really good unsuspecting prank on me. He snuck into my room and took every shoe I owned for my right foot. All I was left with was a left shoe line up of mismatched misfits. I didn't say a word for a full day, and instead wore a left shoe on my right foot that looked somewhat similar to the one I paired it with. My aching feet at the end of the school day almost didn't take me home on that long walk. I think I ended up barefoot towards the end.

It was such a good prank he had pulled on me that I had to really think hard to come up with one to match his prowess. I had taught him well, he was getting quite good at the pranks. The week before he had successfully placed a cup of water over my bedroom door frame that soaked me to the core when I opened my door. It was time for a little revenge.

I worked hard to get him back for that one. I tried to put vinegar in his soda, but he knew right off hand what I had done by the smell. I put melted wax in his tooth brush, but a little hot water fixed that one. I even tried to hide his baseball cards, but he found where I had stashed them. Finally, I had a stroke of genius.

On the weekends, if Mom wasn't around, we would sneak sugar into our cereal bowls for our really very plain Cheerio's. All I had to do was come up with some way to sabotage the sugar bowl to get him back and he'd do it to himself!

I woke up around 2am that Friday night and snuck stealthily down the stairs. I took two big spoons full of sugar out of the bowl, dumped them directly into my mouth, and crunched away. I swallowed every bit of that sugar. I didn't want to take a chance on dropping any on the floor and raising suspicion. I was going to really get him this time.

Next I picked up the tall Tupperware salt shaker and held it upside down over the sugar bowl. The white granules sifted through the small holes in the plastic top and began to pour in a stream. There was a difference in the way the salt looked compared to the thin layer of sugar on the bottom though. I knew I would have to mix them to get the desired effect.

I nearly emptied the salt shaker into the sugar bowl, stopping at where I thought the level of the sugar had been to begin with. Then I took a spoon, stirred the contents just a bit, and left spoon dimples in the top so it would look perfectly normal. Immediately afterward I snuck back upstairs and climbed back into bed.

I slept in late the next morning. For some odd reason I had a hard time getting back to sleep that night. When I got up and went down stairs my parents were sitting there having a cup of coffee together.

"Manda," my dad got my attention, "would you like a cup of coffee?" My parents hardly ever let us drink coffee. It was a special treat for him to even think about offering it.

"Sure!" I grabbed the cup he offered to me, poured a full, steaming cup of Joe, and sat down with my parents to put my milk and Equal in it.

"Oh, it's ok," my Dad said. "You can have some real sugar today. Here, use my spoon."

I sat down and the smile melted off of my face. I knew right then that I should say I was sorry, but something held me back.

"Go ahead," Mom said, smiling at me. It was obvious to me they both knew. They wouldn't have ever offered me real sugar otherwise.

I swallowed my pride, though it tasted much worse than the sugar did during the previous nights escapades. I took two heaping spoons full of the white granular cocktail and put them straight into my coffee and stirred.

"Drink it," my father prompted me. I lifted the cup and took a tiny sip. "No, that's not drinking it. I want you to take a good taste." I drank a bit more.

My face wrinkled up into a prune. I grimaced and swallowed, hard. That actually tasted worse than swallowing my pride. It went down in a hot, nasty, salty lump.

"The difference," my father explained, "is that you knew it was coming. I spit all the way across the table and stained the walls. Your mother had to clean it up. You're lucky it was me and not her." He laughed gently. "You were trying to get your brother, weren't you?"

"Yeah," I said, still trying to swallow the nasty taste clinging to my tonsils. I gagged.

"Well, nice try." He smirked. "Go get yourself a fresh cup." Much to my amazement, they still let me have my cup of coffee, this time with Equal instead of 'sugar' from the bowl.

My parents didn't have much patience with us growing up, but the times that they did live on in my memory far stronger than the times they didn't.

The Rabbit Grass Patch

In the beginning of the 6th grade, I was a bit of a loner. That all changed later on in the year, but that's another story.

Rashaad Sampson used to pick on me out in the school yard. I would find a quiet spot in the back corner of the playground when I retired from the Bars and would sit on a very soft patch of grass I called Rabbit Grass, since it felt to me like a bunny's back. Eventually I made a friend though, and Megan McKinley would sit under the same tree with me.

Kristen Osterthalen had written a play that the class would be performing later on that year. Inspired by her and my own desire to write, Megan and I decided to write a play of our own. We would sit in the back of the playground on that patch of Rabbit Grass and write. We would talk for the entire recess about what we wanted to write into our play.

Rashaad found us back there one day and asked what we were doing. Neither of us wanted to answer, so we ignored him for a while. Eventually he was the reason Megan and I developed our own version of sign language. We had hand signals for everything. We even created our own written language thanks to a class assignment that blossomed for us. For years I could read and write fluently in that private language. Though I would struggle with a couple of the letters now, I still have most of the memorized.

Rashaad started picking handfuls of my Rabbit Grass and throwing them at us. He was tired of being ignored. He chanted at us about what big nerds we were to have our own language. He teased us until we couldn't ignore him anymore. Back then I never stood up for myself (some things never change) so Megan did. As I sat there picking my precious grass out of my long hair, Megan stood up and told Rashaad off. She told him that he needed to leave us alone, we weren't bothering him, and surely a kid of 5'10 in the 6th grade had better things to do with his time, like pick apples without a ladder.

What Rashaad didn't know was that secretly I had a crush on him. I had long since forgotten about Mike from the 5th grade after playing Blind Man's Bluff with him. I was far more crushed than I let on.

When I got home from school that day I started to tell my Mom all about how Rashaad had thrown grass at me. I was so upset that I started to cry and couldn't get the word "grass" to come out of my mouth through the sobs.

" Rashaad was so mean to me! He.... (sob) was thr... (sob) thr... throwing .... (sob) Grass at me!"

My mother started to laugh at me, to which I cried harder. It wasn't funny at all! He had really hurt my very delicate feelings! Still, she saw humor in there somewhere. Her next remark really blew me away.

"Don't worry, Honey... when he gets to know you better, he'll throw rocks!"

Blind Mans Bluff

Mike and Travis were twins that had my heart from the day we met. I was in the 5th grade and the brothers had different classes. Mike was in my class while Travis was in the rival 5th grade room. It goes without saying that Mike had my undivided attention. When Mike asked me to 'go out' with him, it was still at the youthful age when kids didn't hold hands. We just called each other boyfriend and girlfriend.

I doted on Mike. He was a bit chunky and short while Travis was tall and lean, but they had identical faces and I adored them both. They were sweet and handsome, kind and genuine. They were also rather popular in class. Both were considered to be the class clowns.

When Valentines Day rolled around, Mike and I had been 'going out' for about two months. He didn't want anyone to know, including his own brother, because I wasn't one of the popular girls. He was afraid it would damage his reputation. I found out on Valentines Day that he also had a crush on another girl in our class.

When the class got done handing out all of the Valentines cards to each of the other students, we all got back in our seats for a fun activity. Mike stayed a little long at Summer Sparks desk, though - and my curiosity got the better of me. I watched as Mike pulled a little black velvet box out of his pocket and set it on her desk before walking away. The teacher asked all of us to take our seats, looking directly at Mike as he did.

Summer opened the little velvet box and her jaw fell open. I had to wait until recess to find out what was inside, but when I found out I was furious. Mike had given her a small silver ring made entirely of entwined hearts. I wanted to slap him across the face!

Patience took hold of me though. I knew I would get my revenge. I just had to wait and be patient.

The following week as we were walking to lunch, I asked Mike if he wanted to play Blind Man's Bluff. He asked what that was and I explained the game.

"You have to walk with your eyes closed and I will guide you by putting my hands on your shoulders and tell you what's coming up. Then you do the same to me. You go first."

"Ok," he said, blindly trusting me. He still didn't know I was aware of the ring he had left on Summer Sparks' desk. He closed his eyes and I stood beside him, my hands on his shoulders.

As we walked slowly to the lunch room, I guided him over rocks and pavement, grass and tree roots. Just as I could tell he was starting to relax and truly trust me, I did something despicable. I walked him straight into a brick wall, nose first.

Mike fell backward, landing like a lead weight, heaped on the ground. He fell with a thud, right on his bottom. His eyes popped open, flooded with tears. He reached both hands up to his face and held his now bleeding nose. For a split second, I felt badly about what I had done. Then the image of the velvet box entered my mind and suddenly remorse didn't exist. I felt justified.

"Oh," I exclaimed with false worry, "are you ok, Mike?" I clasped my hands over my mouth to cover the smile I felt working its way onto my face.

"Whadya do that for?" he asked, stunned. Suddenly I exploded. What good was my revenge if he didn't understand why I had sought it in the first place?

"Why'd you give Summer Sparks a silver ring with hearts all over it?"

Mike's jaw fell slack. He stared up at me, incredulous.

"Are you kidding me?"

"No. I saw the ring. Why did you give Summer a ring and just gave me the same paper Valentine you gave all the other girls in class?"

"My brother won that in a quarter machine. He's going out with Summer. I didn't give it to her, Travis asked me to drop it off at her desk! Travis gave it to her!"

Shame and remorse kicked in full force - and I never sought revenge against anyone ever again.

A Day in T. J.

As my wrist gets progressively worse, my typing skills are slowing being flushed down that proverbial drain. I've been trying to come by every day and leave something for you guys to read, but I hope you understand that it's been rather painful. Still, I know if I don't write something every day, I'll have a lot of catching up to do soon.



This morning I was reminded of a trip to Tijuana we took when I was a kid. My Dad's mother had come to visit us. I never really had a chance to get to know her, and looking back on that I find it to be a real shame. She was the one involved in the Kidnap story. By that point there was such a wall between us that I wonder if it ever struck her what she had done that day. She visited so seldom and we visited her even less often than that. I think there was a sort of wall between my father and his family. In that respect, I'm more like him than I realize. Anyway, Grandma Iva was the Grandma we didn't talk about since we didn't know her.



I have one fond memory of her though... and I'd like to share that.
Uncle Roger, this one's for you.



Grandma Iva came to visit when I was about 10 or so. We were living in Victorville California at the time and it had been countless years since we had seen her. For one of the days that summer, we decided to take a trip down to Tijuana Mexico for a mini-adventure. I'll never forget when we neared the border. The aroma in the air changed significantly. It altered to a blended smell somewhere between laundry detergent, bodily filth and rotten fruit. It was an odd mixture with that hint of lemony freshness thrown in there somewhere.



People everywhere were selling things. Kids sat along the sidewalks peddling little trinkets and dolls. Women would sit on colorful blankets surrounded by paper mache roses they sold for one American dollar. A man walked past in the busy streets with brown sandals hanging from a tall stick he carried. Pinatas were hanging from every store window and the world of Tijuana was full of color in so many forms.



My mother never learned any foreign languages, but when I was a kid and we lived in Maryland our neighbor tried to teach her a little Spanish. The only thing she ever remembered was how to say "I want a beer" in Spanish, which is incredibly ironic, since she didn't even like beer. Still, eager to try out her one phrase, she went to a Cantina and used her one line. When they asked her which kind of beer she wanted in Spanish, she sputtered and spat, not having the slightest idea of what they had just said to her. Finally, in plain English, the Cantina man asked her "What kind" and pointed to the taps. She opted for a Bud Light.




Dad and his mother wandered through the vendors, admiring the wares. Everywhere smelled like barbeque beef. Copper pots and pans hung from the frames of the tents. Fresh breads and fruits filled every corner of old wooden tables under the tarp roofs. Street performers played guitar and sang. T-shirt vendors offered to sell the shirts off of their back. Women tried to sell beaded necklaces that they draped over their arms. Kids sold candies and kites and stuffed dogs on strings. Flowers abounded, prostitutes wandered past freely. Drunks stumbled in the streets, wandering from one bar to the next. Other than the modern clothing, we were in the Wild, Wild West.

A few of the tents had clothing. That seemed to be what my Grandmother was interested in above all else. I tagged along as my Dad and Grandma got lost in conversation among the tents. From somewhere behind my brother shouted to us that he had just seen the bad guy from Crocodile Dundee. Mom turned to look - sure enough, it really was him.

We found one tent that specialized in leather goods. Grandma fell in love with a beautiful red leather jacket with fringe down the sleeves and a rose detail. The price tag on the jacket said $100, but my Dad advised her to strike a bargain with the vendor.

"Down here you have to haggle on the price," he explained. "You can get some pretty amazing stuff for really cheap that way. They're always willing to make a deal."

He was sure she had the concept, but just to get her going, he told her where to start.

"I'll give you $35" she said under my Dad's instruction.


"Oh no," he said in a thick accent. "I take $75 American."

Grandma looked over at Dad who urged her on. "Counter with somewhere in the middle."


"I have $50 cash I'll give you right now," she said with confidence, finally getting the hang of the whole thing. His face looked pained.

"Oh no!" He shouted, almost sounding insulted. "I have to have AT LEAST twenty fie dollars for this jacket. Its such a fine quality!"

Confused, she jumped forward and pulled out $25 from her purse. She handed him the cash, snatched the jacket from him and walked away hurriedly before he changed his mind. Dad howled with laughter.

"Mom," he explained, "He thought you said FIFTEEN!!!"

Hello Japan!

Based on my stat counter plugged into my blog profile, it looks as though I'm becoming something of an odd phenominon in Japan. I am not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but since I used to work for a Japanese company, I must somehow assume it's related.

I'll never forget working at that company. Most of the people in the office were Japanese with the exception of a french woman married to a Japanese man and who spoke 5 languages fluently, and my immediate boss, who was Gaijin like me.

When I applied for the job, right off the bat I got along with the woman who would turn out to be my boss. She valued the opinion of the french woman highly though. The french woman, an adorable gal by the name of Aurelie, could read people by their shoes. Imagine that - I wonder where I got the idea from a few years later. She took one look at the lovely little black peep-toe sling backs I had on and knew right off the bat that she liked me. I got the job.

My boss turned out to be one of the neatest people I ever worked for. She was funny and brilliant, though she rarely gave herself the credit she deserved. She took me under her wing and taught me anything I could absorb. Other than a brief period of being burned out and growing lazy because of it, I worked very hard for her. That one period of growing lazy eventually was realized though, and by then it was too late. I had screwed things up royally.

I did work hard though. I learned not only my job, but parts of the Japanese language. I would ask someone for a new word every day. They would teach me and I would practice all day long. I would write it on a sticky note and tack it to the edge of my computer screen. Before long, I had my numbers 1-10 memorized and many of the polite words needed to greet others any time of the day. I didn't tell anyone, but I was getting to where I could understand it more than I could speak it. Even now I can pick up on a conversation and know exactly what is being talked about, even if it's not exactly what is being said.

I made decent money and was proud. For the first time in my life, I could afford my own place (albeit with a roommate) and I fully supported myself. I didn't have to rely or depend on anyone but myself. It was a feeling of liberation. I owed that all to the wonderful Japanese company I so dearly loved working for.

Eventually I moved up from being the phone receptionist and took over the National Sales when my boss Michele went out on maternity leave. I would travel from coast to coast, doing dealer visits, product training and trade shows. I very much enjoyed it, but while I was working for the company I met Pete. He and I started to get more serious, and eventually I couldn't see spending that much time traveling anymore, no matter how much I loved it.

When the job offer came in for me to make nearly double what I was making for the Japanese company, I couldn't afford not to take it. Unfortunately, the job didn't work out and I was let go within the first 30 days of employment. Certainly my old company wouldn't take me back and I didn't blame them a bit. There I was, having moved in with Pete 2 days before, and suddenly going from making TONS of money to not having a job at all.

I learned a valuable lesson about loyalty from that brief bit of history. The Japanese people and company are highly loyal and honerable. I wasn't loyal to them in return, and I missed out on something really great. Though I do get paid better NOW than I got paid in 2006 working for them, I miss the culture of the place. I miss the language lessons, the traveling, the kindness, respect and loyalty they all showed to me. I miss Mr. Katayama coming over from Japan for his visits and always wanting to sit next to me at the dinner meetings. I miss Mr. Nishikawa and his kind words. I miss Mrs. Kawano and her angelic face, her sugary voice. I miss Aurelie and her lovely french accent. Most of all I miss Michele. She really was a great boss.

I aspire to be like Michele with the way I run my crew now. She shared a few lessons with me that I'll not easily forget. I adored her and her quirky personality. She had a lovely smile that would light up the room as soon as she shared it. She only had a couple of employees and I have 12 now, but the fact remains that she taught me how to run things.

Probably my favorite story though of working for the Japanese company happened when Michele was out on leave. Nobody was in the office when I returned from lunch and I was left pondering the vacant offices around the hexigon building. I made my way over to my office and sat down. Still wondering where everyone was, I stood up again and poked my head out of the door. Just then Mrs. Kawano came scampering in like a little mouse from the warehouse out back.

"Amanda-san! Amanda-san, ah, we need your help!"

First of all, calling ANY female by name with the added 'san' at the end is a term of extreme respect. I was called Amanda-san by almost everyone in the office, with the exception of the company president and the American born Japanese guy, Mr. Ikeda, who had the office next to mine.

Mr. Ikeda, Mrs. Nakamura and Mr. Masaki were all waiting for me in the warehouse. Mrs. Kawano lead the way to a closed door in the back. When she opened the heavy wooden door on the groaning hinges, it opened into a pitch black room with a vague, distant light shining somewhere in the depths.

As I stepped inside the room, my eyes adjusted to three different lights, shining at white pieces of paper all the way against the back wall of the room. I walked over, slowly.

"Mrs. Kawano," I asked, "What is this?"

"We, ah, need your help. We have brown eye," she said, pointing at her own eyes with an extended finger. Her freshly manicured hand smelled like kiwi melon. "You," she said, pointing at me, "have blue eye." Still confused over everything except what color our eyes were, I arched one eyebrow and scrunched the other to look closer at her. What was I missing? She continued, pointing to the lights on the back wall. "Ah, what color is light?"

"Huh?"

"What color is, ah, light?"

"Which one?" There were three lights shining on white pieces of paper against the back wall. Which one of the three was she talking about? As far as I could tell, all three were slightly different shades of color.

"Any," she said.

"Well," I started slowly. Mr. Masaki looked at me, holding one of the lights up and waiting. Mr. Ikeda and Mrs. Nakamura almost appeared to be holding their breath. "That one Mr. Masaki is holding looks slightly more blue, and Mr. Ikeda's looks like a normal white color. But Mrs. Nakamura's light looks a little yellow."

"AAAHHH!!" Mrs. Kawano exclaimed. "Thank you Amanda-san! So we, ah, all have same eyes!"

"Mrs. Kawano, what are you talking about?" She had clearly established already that my eyes were blue and hers were brown. How could that be related to her statement saying we had the same eyes?

"All of us have, ah, brown eye. We didn't know, ah, if you would see Mr. Masaki's light as, ah, more blue than the other," she paused, "because you have, ah, blue eye."

I pondered over this odd hypothesis they had collectively come up with for the rest of the afternoon and failed by the end of the day to make sense of the whole thing.

I still chuckle to myself over that day. She, as well as the other occupants of the office, were convinced that we all saw colors differently depending on the color of our eyes. It was a strange, funny moment, but one that lives on in my memory with fondness and a good hearted giggle.

Just 2 Good Scares

In my job there are often times that I have to protect areas that are off limits to most people. There are doors leading to back areas and hidden hallways that the kids like to explore. They traverse the hidden stairwells and find dark corners for doing dark deeds. In the are where I work, the parents see my employees as free babysitters. When their kids get into trouble, they would honestly not have to hear about it. That leaves me without a lot of leverage in most cases. I have to use what I have to thoroughly shock the kids into not repeating their offenses. In most cases, this means scaring them. Because of the pranks my brother and I would pull on one another as kids, this has been my field of expertise for a long time.


I had talked to, fussed at and down right yelled at a couple of kids practically all night last October 1st. I was getting tired of having to deal with this regular group of blatant trouble makers. When I heard them mention something about heading down one particular dark and secluded hallway, I decided to beat them to the punch line and really get their attention.


I raced through the back corridors and down a hidden staircase. I dashed to the hallway they had been talking about and ducked around the door. I stood there and listened. I held my breath, waiting for them to come around the corner. I heard nothing, but I knew patience was the key. I waited and waited and waited. And waited.


Just about the time I was going to give up, I heard voices walking down the hallway. It sounded like two guys and a girl. That matched the group I was waiting for. They came very close to where I was perched, waiting.


"I don't see the bathroom," the female voice said plainly. It was obvious they had no idea I was there, just waiting for them.


"It's down there," one of the male voices said. I knew he was pointing in the opposite direction from where I was hiding. The ladies room was at the end of the opposite hallway.


"Ah! Thanks!" I could tell from her footsteps that she was continuing down the hallway.


The whispering started then. I couldn't tell what they were saying, but it was obviously two males. Exchanges went back and forth, a full conversation at a whispered level. I stood patiently as still as a statue, waiting for the second they walked around the corner. I wouldn't need to shout or yell or scream. Just the mere fact I had beaten them there would be enough. I had it all planned out in my head. As soon as they walked around the corner, I would merely tell them "I don't think so, you're not to come back here again. If you do, it's trespassing and you'll be arrested for it." I was going to say it as calmly as possible, though I was starting to feel a little amped to say the least, knowing I was that close to catching them red handed. The whispering grew slightly louder and I knew they were coming closer.


"What about over here," the husky voice whispered to the other. It sounded older than a teen, but it was whispered.


"Yeah," the other responded. He sounded much younger. "That's the perfect spot." They whispered a bit more and came closer to my hiding place. "Let me check it out," he continued, barely around the corner from where I stood. I told myself not to pounce on the kid when he rounded the corner and gently cleared my throat without a sound.


I saw the shoe first, or the tip of it anyway. I opened my mouth to speak.




"I don't think so," I said as calmly as a murderer in a 1980's horror film. I had rehearsed so much that once the words started to flow out, I couldn't seem to stop until I ended my first sentence - but by then it was too late. I had already succeeded in making a 40-something year old man scream like a little girl and bring his wife running out of the bathroom, still trying to fasten her pants. The other man stood in the hallway, howling with laughter, doubled over at the waist and holding his rotund stomach with both hands. I half expected him to sprout a long white beard and Santa costume.


My victim in the mean time was gasping for air, clutching the wall for dear life.


"Oh," he gasped, "my," he took another breath, "Hell," he managed to shake out. "You scared the $hit out of me!"


I was apologizing profusely, spewing the word 'sorry' as often as I could in a single minute. As soon as he composed himself enough to stand on his own without threat of a heart seizure, I started to laugh uncontrollably out of complete embarrassment. Still saying I was sorry, I was greeted by them telling me that it was OK and there was nothing to worry about. Laughing with all three of them, we walked out of the hall together. I was consistently apologizing, but paused long enough to ask what they were doing in the back corridor. I explained my situation and they were more than willing to tell me their reasons.


"I wanted to scare my wife," he admitted sheepishly. Walking beside me, his wife froze.


"What?!" Shocked, she glared at her husband. Both men paused to wait for her, and I did as well. "Then you deserve what you got!"


The friend that had been with them hadn't stopped chuckling the entire time. Now he roared with laughter again.


I was too embarrassed to tell anyone at work what I had done for a couple of weeks. When finally I did, it was after shift on another weekend night. I was out back in what was once the smoking area with my shift partner and one of the guys that had just started shift, briefing. By the end of my story, they were all chuckling at me as I acted out each person's reactions, darting to and fro, mimicking each emotion down to the confused wife running out of the bathroom with toilet paper in her hand.


Durring the telling of my tale, several times I heard the familiar squeak of the back doors leading to an "off limits" staircase. Each time I would pause my story and take off running for the back doors, wanting desperately to stop the little intruders. Each time I came flying around the corner hollering.


"THIS is NOT an entrance. You need to go around!" Each time I was successful in scaring the pants off of the kids and each time, they went around to another official entrance. Then I would return to my position at the head of the table and continue to tell my coworkers the rest of the story.


I had just finished telling the story when I heard the door squeak again. Once more I flew on silent wings to the corner and bolted straight at the doors. I didn't get out anything but "Hey!" when a high pitched squeal pierced the night air. He screamed without shame, eyes as wide as a saucer, truly scared beyond belief. A rather rotund janitor named Peter had been going back inside after having a smoke break. To this day I'll never forget the octave he reached while still retaining his stature as a 5'7" 300 lb. History Teacher moonlighting as a janitor.


"What the Hell, Amanda?!" He breathed, grabbed the wall and his heart, one in each hand, and gasped. "I mean, What the Hell?! It's not even Halloween yet!" I howled with laughter, clutching my stomach and bending at the waist like the last victim's friend. Breathless, I tried to explain to Peter what was so funny. I couldn't seem to force the words out of my mouth, so I walked bent over at the waist towards my coworkers and beckoned Peter to follow. Tears streamed down my face and dripped on the concrete as I walked. Peter followed, bewildered.


"What the Hell is she laughing at," Peter asked the other guys. At realizing who the high pitched scream had come from and knowing he didn't hear the story, the other two instantly burst into laughter, failing to tell Peter the story. He sat there for a good five minutes before we could get out the gist of the tale. By the time we did, he was smiling at me like I had sprouted a monkey's tail from my forehead.


I still jump around corners every now and then trying to scare the kids, but I certainly make sure they're kids first. Where would I have been if the Big Guy had a heart attack?!