The Big Leg Drop and the Christmas Miracle

There is a unique bond between siblings that can’t really be explained. In short, siblings know more about each other than a respective spouse might. Siblings have survived it at all. The long car rides to vacation, the fighting, the bickering, the jealousy, hating each other, but we’ve also loved each other, been fiercely loyal to each other, and have shared experiences no one else will ever understand. Thick or thin, siblings look out for each other. As the oldest, I know. People have tried to harm a hair on my sister’s head and the end result was never pretty for them. I may not have always liked my sister, but I was the only one who could beat up on that girl! Ditto for my brother.

Over the years, we’ve collected a number of stories.

There was the grape fight with the Moore’s. My sister and I had a blast at the ages of around five and three when we got the great idea to pick our neighbor’s grapes and throw them at the neighbor boys. The end result was a pissed off neighbor who had no grapes to make wine and a back patio stained from the grapes. We were in trouble.

Somehow, it seems that when siblings are getting along, the end result is not going to be pretty.

Enter the Big Leg Drop.

This incident is so vivid in the HK’s minds, that these simple words throw us into fits of laughter. Try it. Come up to one of us and “say Big. Leg. Drop,” and see the reaction. Recognition is immediate and that night comes back to us in a snap. I don’t ever think this night will be erased from our memories.

It was Christmas Eve.

Let’s back it up just a moment.

Since we were little and believed in Santa Claus (Maybe I still believe in Santa Claus), we’ve routinely slept in the same bed together. This mainly started when Andrea and I shared a room, but it’s kept going over the years. And when Kevin was old enough, we’d build a pallet on the floor of the room Andrea and I shared and we’d all three sleep down there on the pallet. Sounds like nice, loving children, right? Wrong. We were scared to death someone else would wake up and get to their treasure trove of goodies first.

As we got older, we didn’t abandon this ritual. In fact, it was just recently given up. The biggest factor for this was that instead of waking our mother up, she was now doing the waking. And everyone can get better sleep in their own beds. There’s always a battle to not be stuck in the middle.

Now, to the meat of the story.

We were in the Springhaven House, so our respective ages were: Erin 15, Andrea 13, and Kevin 10. This is the absolute youngest we could’ve been because we’d moved in that house and then Andrea relocated to the basement a couple of years later.

No matter what we thought or believed, none of us were ever able to get to sleep. We were your stereotypical middle-class children and thusly spoiled so. Never too spoiled though. Mom made sure to deny me my fair share of My Little Ponies when I was little. But Christmas was the one time we would get properly spoiled

We’re all keyed up and laying in Kevin’s bed. When we moved, we all got out own bedrooms with our own bedroom furniture. Andrea and I had twin beds. Kevin was lucky and got a full size. Yes, the three of us were a little cramped in this bed. It didn’t matter though because we were laughing and having fun.

We’d always had a big WWF/WCW fetish from the time we were children. Of course, during the reign of Ric Flair, we cut back, but with Stone Cold and Goldberg, we were watching again. Somehow Andrea and Kevin began performing wrestling moves on the bed.

He did an elbow drop.

We all laughed.

Andrea stood up and said “Big leg drop,” and proceeded to jump and fall on her butt near the bottom corner of Kevin’s bed.

Andrea landed.

As soon as she landed, a loud cracking sound was heard followed by a crash as Andrea tumbled off the bed and landed on the floor.

“What’s going on back there!” my mom hollered and proceeded to thunder down the hallway.

I moved with the speed and precision of an accomplished older sibling. Don’t ask me how I did what I did, how I knew to use what I used…I can’t even answer that question to this day. All I knew was that mom was thundering down the hallway, dad probably wouldn’t be far behind and I didn’t want to be grounded.

I spotted a hockey stick on the other side of the room. I made a leap for the hockey stick, leaped back to the bed, hoisted the mattress and shoved the hockey stick under the bed. I had assumed she had broken a mattress slat. What she did was much worse. Fortunately, the hockey stick took care of that.

Seconds later, mom opened the door. Andrea, Kevin, and I were all nestled together in the bed, our faces frozen in that quizzical look that clearly relays something was something was going.

Mom peered into the room. “What was that noise?”

“What noise?” we all three asked and yes, it was pretty much in unison.

“There were a couple of loud crashes.”

“Nope, we didn’t hear anything.”

She looked at us disbelievingly and then cast her eyes around the room suspiciously, looking for the broken object or objects. Finally satisfied, she closed the door and laughed.

A collective sigh was heard in the room. We were amazed we had gotten away with it. After we got over our initial feelings of relief, the hilarity of the situation settled over us. For years we would laugh about this night, and for years my parents would never know the truth of that night.

Several times over the years, we would all have a sibling wrestling squabble in which Kevin would inevitably say “No big leg drops.”

Still, our parents never knew what was so funny. They didn’t really have any suspicions either. There are multitude of words, sayings, lines that cause us to erupt into a fit of giggles. This annoys my mother to this day. Probably because if I call her and I find out that she is with Andrea, I’ll ask her to say something random, something that makes no sense to her, but makes plenty of sense of Andrea who’ll crack up and then give the proper response. It’s our own little HK Language

Eventually though, the Big Leg Drop was found out.

About ten years later, in the summer of 2005 our house went on the market. An after effect of divorce (Thanks, dad, it’s not like we three loved that house or anything). Sometimes I wonder if things would’ve turned out differently (like maybe the Big Leg Drop would still be a mystery) if my parents were still together.

We had a big rummage sale and mom sold all of our bedroom furniture. It was a little dated and young. I had two bedroom suits anyway, one that needed to come home from my college apartment, Kevin took my parent’s bedroom furniture and Andrea opted for something new.

It was in the preparation for this rummage sale that the true story of Christmas Eve many years ago unfolded.

Mom was in Kevin’s room putting everything to right. She was messing with his bed. The next thing we all knew, we were being summoned.

We entered Kevin’s room and she held up The Hockey Stick.

“What is this?” she asked.

“A hockey stick,” I ventured.

“Why was it under Kevin’s bed?”

We all three kind of looked around and then before anyone could say anything more, we burst out laughing. She tried to get us to stop, tried to get the story out of us, but it was no use. Sure, our ruse was up, but it lasted nearly a decade before any parent caught on. That was outside of the statute of limitations. We could not be punished for our crime.

“It was kind of holding it up,” we said.

She stared at us in awe. “Well, I can’t sell Kevin’s bed now. The frame is all twisted and I find out a hockey stick is holding it up. When did this happen, Kevin?”

We asked her if she remembered the Christmas Eve when she heard the crashes. She did. We came clean and told her were the result of the Big Leg Drop.

“But the frame,” she said. It might be believable for some people to twist a frame, but considering that Andrea was barely 85 pounds, it was a valid question.

“It wasn’t just any leg drop,” Kevin said. “It was a Big Leg Drop. She jumped up and then landed on her butt.”

And then we all three started laughing again despite mom’s dropped jaw.

A Really Bad Week or Why I Learn the Hard Way

It has been that kind of week again.

Had a prescription for Lithium or Prozac been chilling in my house somewhere, I would’ve downed the bottle. Not to kill myself (although, that was on my mind earlier in the week), but to calm myself. Stressed to the max!

Anyway, I should have known “something wicked this way comes” on Sunday. First of all, my Sunday didn’t unfold in its regular fashion. Instead of staying glued to the Lazy-Boy and watching movie after movie with the occasional Office/Entourage/Seinfeld episode thrown in there, my Sunday started with a committee meeting. We had teens at the office experimenting with crafts and activities for a big event in October. I went down into our basement for spare supplies. As I was walking up the stairs, I became aware that my keys were no longer with me.

This posed a problem. First, I was the only employee at the office and I wouldn’t be able to get back into the basement to retrieve the keys. Second, not only were the keys to my office on my key ring, the keys to my car were on there. Had I just locked office keys in the basement, I would’ve said screw it until Monday morning. But I kind of needed to drive back home, so screw it, I couldn’t. Anyway, I made a few calls all to no avail. Finally I got a hold of someone who was stepping out for a minute. She lives relatively close, so she had no problem coming by to unlock the basement for me. I got my keys back and everything was great.

And then Monday dawned.

I drove to the gym and noticed that my car was pulling one way. I didn’t think anything of it. I needed to have my oil changed here soon, and I chalked it up to the car being out of alignment of the tires needing to be rotated. It would get looked at when I changed the oil. I toughed it through my workout despite the ache in my tibialis anterior (the muscle that runs alongside your shin), and then went out to my car.

I pulled out of my parking space and heard *thumpa, thumpa, thumpa.* I got out and looked. I had a flat tire…front driver side. There was a gas station a mile and a half away. Never having had an actual flat tire (they have been low, but never completely flat), I thought I could make it there and air the tire up and everything would be hunky dory. That was not the case. And I should have just put the car in park and changed the tire at the gym, but, oh no…my brain does not work in that way.

Anyway, I get onto the highway that takes me from the gym to the gas station. I’m driving 15 mph and the car is shaking! Violently! I slow down to 10 mph. It’s still shaking though not as bad. After about a half a mile, I start flipping about having two flat tires. I pull over on the highway and look. No, just the one. This one tire is sure flipping me out.

I consider changing the tire on the highway and even open my trunk to do so. About the time I’m pulling the jack from the little compartment, a semi breezes past me. I get back in the car. Yes, I know how to change a tire. I have changed a tire in the dead of winter three sheets to the wind wearing my sister’s Triple X Vin Diesel jacket for warmth. But I am not changing a driver side tire on the highway between the hours of 7:30 and 8:00 a.m. when everyone and their brother seems to be on their way to work (And wondering how the unemployment rate is so high). I may be crazy, but I’m not a complete lunatic and at that moment I didn’t have a death wish.

Later in the day I did. But back to the story.

I’m stressing majorly. I’m stranded on the highway, in sweat-soaked clothes, I have to shower, I have to get to work, and I just don’t know what to do. I was Irrational Erin. During the IA (Irrational Attack) I did find a moment to think clearly. I called my sister until she answered and arranged for her to pick me up. I apologized and felt like an idiot, like I should’ve known better, and felt bad for waking her up. I know, the tire wasn’t exactly my fault, but still…

My ride was taken care of. Now I just needed to get my car off of the highway.

The lucky thing is that my uncle is a part owner in a body shop. I called and got his cell and arranged for a tow, two new tires (I’m not an airhead, I know you can’t replace one tire, you have to buy tires in even numbers), and while the car is in the garage to go ahead and change the oil.

I had to leave my car unlocked on the highway with the keys hidden under a seat for the tow.

Andrea picked me up. I left the car unlocked and took my keys. I’m a brainchild.

Anyway, I apologized still, not quite able to shake how bad I was feeling. It didn’t help that I didn’t fall asleep until almost two to wake up at six. Andrea said shit happens and shoved me into the bathroom. I didn’t make my bed. That’s not something I like to forget and that night I slept on wrinkled sheets. Another pet peeve of mine. She drove me to the body shop before work to drop my keys off, and then we went to the good Donut Bank where we ordered two tiger tails and two glazed donuts. They shorted me one of my tiger tails. I am not surprised.

Around noon, the body shop calls me. My car is done. I’m done. The bill is $168.

When I get back to the office, I look at my bill. $65 for labor! All they did was change the oil and put on two new tires. I KNOW that could not have taken more than an hour! I could’ve changed my tire in ten minutes with my dinky little jack! They just put the car on a lift! I went into the wrong field. Mechanics are making more than me and my college degree.

Bad luck comes in threes.

So I have been waiting for the third thing to happen.

This is precisely why I should have just sacrificed myself to the semi’s on Highway 41 to change my tire. At least my family would’ve benefitted. They wouldn’t be millionaires, but I’m sure they could sue the Sheriff’s Department since I saw a sheriff pass me without even blinking an eye at the poor citizen having car issues. So much for “to protect and serve.”

It’s now Thursday. So far nothing has happened. No pianos have landed on my head. No hackers have stolen my identity. No government official has labeled me a threat to society. Nope, the only thing really bad is the damn tibialis anterior that’s been hurting all week and the fact that I’ve been three pounds heavier than normal this week.

There have been some close calls though.

Tuesday I went to Wal-Mart for snacks for a committee meeting. I talked to my friend Ryan on the phone and then put my phone away. I didn’t put it in my back pocket and couldn’t find it in my purse. I assumed I left it at the checkout, so I turned around to look for it. When I got it, I realized that I had put it in my front pocket.

That same Tuesday, I listened to my Ipod at work. My meeting was from 4-5 and I got done cleaning up at 5:30. I went back to my desk to grab my purse, keys, chapstick, etc. I made a point to grab my headphones because I’ll forget them, but didn’t see my Ipod out. I assumed I had already put it in my purse.

Wednesday morning I looked for my Ipod in my purse when I got to the gym. No Ipod. I assumed the Ipod was under some papers at work. A big negative. I began thinking. I sent an email out to everyone. No one had seen my Ipod! I called the building manager who gave me the cleaner’s number. I am now flipping. I’m already $168 in the hole. Do I really want to add another $400 on top of that? Um, NO! I can’t concentrate on work. My Ipod is a big part of my workout. And I workout six days a week without missing a beat. Rain, ice, sleet, snow, sickness, swine flu, none of it will keep me from the gym. This is due largely to the fact that if I don’t work out, I chastise myself for eating. I literally begrudge every bite I take if I skip a work out. And I like eating. So missing a work out is like a triple negative. I’m mad at myself for eating, mad because I’m mad at myself for eating, and I haven’t had my normal endorphin boost.

Thankfully, I found my Ipod. The cleaners found it and stuck it on the wrong desk. Whether or not this is true, I’m not sure. All I know is the thing is password protected and thanks to my brother’s hijinks it has an engraving on the back that says: STOLEN FROM Erin Hobgood. Try that on for identifying marks!

So, I’m sitting here still wondering what bad-ness the future has in store for me. Please, god, whatever it is, do not involve my car. Give me food poisoning (which wouldn’t be so bad if I lost weight), cause me to break an arm (not a leg b/c I can still run w/ a broken arm), have me accidentally get tazed, have my phone get stolen (insurance!), just nothing happen to the car, or my Ipod!

Verizon is the DEVIL and my Scapegoat

It feels like ages since I last posted a blog. And now that things at work are at a temporary lull (because believe me, August is going to be a bit crazy, but once September hits, the insanity will not end until December), I find myself a loss for words.

See, this is how it works for me…as the stress climbs, so does the need or itch to write. It’s either that or I call Verizon and flip the script…

That’s not a bad idea…

My phone broke at camp. This is the…fourth Venus I’ve had in eighteen months. I’m averaging one Venus ever three to four months. On the bright side, that does mean that each Venus I’ve had has been under warranty. And before you start pointing fingers, no Venus has had water damage. Knock on wood. I have one more month until I upgrade and I’ll probably screw up the whole “no water damage” thing now. Thank god I purchased insurance.

Venus 1 – I got it in January 2008. In June, the phone turned off and would not turn back on. I took the battery out, and nothing. I plugged it into the charger and saw the screen light up and say charge complete. I tried to turn it on plugged into the charger. No dice. The thing wanted to die and who was I to deny it that simple pleasure. Especially since it was still under warranty.

Venus 2 – Despite me accidentally sitting it on a stove burner that was turned on high, the phone kept working. Although, the battery had to be replaced. Apparently, those high of temperatures kill the mechanism that allows the battery to hold a charge. My phone would work as long as it was plugged in at all times. The battery needed to be replaced. No worries though because the battery was under warranty.

Anyway, March 2009 rolls around. After an invigorating run with the spoiled child, I called mom to tell her how well the baby (11-year-old) puppy did. As I was talking to her, I assumed she got bad service because I heard her saying, “Erin, Erin, hello. Erin, hello.” And then she hung up. I called her back. Same result. I called my brother. He couldn’t hear me. I called my friend Jada and Andrea at work. No one could hear me.

Venus 2 was nine months old (the one with the longest life expectancy) and the speaker went out. I could text, but come on…texting everything? Yes, I’d rather text because I can multitask and text at the same time – also, I can watch my junk TV shows without actually concentrating on a conversation – but a few things warrant a phone call.

Venus 3 – This one might have been my fault…It was June and I was at my day camp. On Monday, I dropped my phone an inordinate amount of times and found that if I talked to someone on the phone and then slid my phone close, it would turn off. I tried taking the battery out, all my usual tricks and nothing worked. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. I don’t like talking all that much, but I was at USI for our day camp, it was extraordinarily hot (temps around 95 degrees with heat indexes over 100 degrees easily) and parents were calling concerned about their children, asking how things were, and calling them in absent.
When I woke up Tuesday morning and found this was still a problem, I was concerned. I was also at camp during everyone’s business hours, so getting a replacement phone was not going to be easy. Then someone tried to text me. I had no idea who sent the text. No number popped up. Very peculiar.
Once I arrived at camp (early to get the day rolling), I called Verizon and reported the problem. Since we had no phone at camp, they had to call me back on someone else’s phone as they took me through the trouble-shooting tips. They got my texts working, but my phone wouldn’t stop shutting off after a phone call. They ordered me a new phone. This was Tuesday morning. I didn’t get the phone until Thursday night. On Tuesday, the girls asked why I wasn’t shutting my phone. I explained. Over the next couple of days, the little girls had no problem reminding me not to close my phone. On Friday, I shut my phone (Venus 4) and they flipped on me until I explained I had the new one.
The best part of the entire camp was when one of the middle school girls asked me if she could have my old phone, the one that turned off after phone conversations. She made sure to tell me she didn’t mind if it didn’t work, she just liked and it thought it was way cooler than her phone (Yes, I did catch on that as a middle schooler, she had a cell phone, something I didn’t have until right before my sophomore year OF COLLEGE!).

So know I am on Venus 4 and it simply has to limp through another month so I can get my upgrade. What’s sad is that I didn’t get around to getting my address book transferred until this weekend (Yes, it had been five-six weeks since camp had let out, I am aware). And this is why I’m upset with the Verizon people.

The Verizon store is on North Green River Road on the east side of town. However, it is a good five to ten minutes from the Lloyd Expressway and Green depending on the traffic. If it was at the Lloyd, this wouldn’t be a problem because I could shoot over on my lunch break (ten minutes tops to get there) and get everything all taken care of. However, that extra ten minutes means a driving time of 40 minutes round trip. That translates to only 20 minutes spent at Verizon.

I went over there a couple of times on my lunch break to find ONE PERSON working the service desk after 1:30. The place was BUSY. I had two people in front of me. One of the people was a little old woman. I don’t have anything against old people, but I do see a correlation between age and understanding technology. The old you are, the less you understand. I am not blessed with patience. When I saw that old woman there, my mood quickly turned to bad. Five minutes later when I heard the sales guy EXPLAINING HOW TO USE HER PHONE; my bad mood quickly went nuclear. Another five minutes passed and the old woman still HAD NO CLUE WHAT THE SALESPERSON WAS TALKING ABOUT. Nuclear wasn’t the word to describe the level my anger quickly jumped to. It spiked off the chart. I’m pretty sure that if you would’ve harvest my anger and funneled into a weapon, you could’ve taken all of Asia off the map! Doomsday machine times 30! That was the level my anger was at.

I huffed through another five minutes of babble that allowed me to think about a couple of things.
1. If Verizon boasts the nation’s biggest wireless network (numbers wise, not size), why did they only have one person in tech support? Was the economy that bad? Ok, the answer to that might be yes, but I think a couple of jobs are safe. Like grocery stores. People may start buying the cheaper brands, but everyone needs food and grocery stores are going to stay in business. Based on the number of people that have cell phones, contractual and pay-as-you-go plans, I don’t think I could believe these companies are actually losing revenue.

2. If the economy is that bad, stop shelling out money on ads that are the very EPITOME of stupid! I don’t shell out money to you every month because of some little jackass saying “Can you hear me.” In fact, I don’t even like you as company. I only have you because everyone I know has Verizon and those that don’t are in my Fab Five. So I pick the plan with the lowest minutes and never go over. I also add unlimited text because that’s VERY important.

3. One tech person at a time is a stupid idea. People get backed up. When I STORMED OUT (And I made sure to let them EXACTLY how put out I was with them and how their store was in the worst place ever and how someone shouldn’t have a phone if they need a 30-minute tutorial on how to simply make a call (Setting up address book is an additional 30-minute tutorial with text…oh…that would probably be an hour for someone technologically incompetent to even begin to grasp the basic principles of texting) and how I would get back there when I got there. I’d go back once I could work them into my schedule and if they wanted my old useless Venus 3 back, they were just going to have to wait because they clearly aren’t trying to accommodate me, so why should I be a good customer and accommodate them and their cheapness of only ONE TECH PERSON! Note: This one tech person is really driving me a bit insane. Even the slowest banks that I worked at had a minimum of two people EVEN AT LUNCH TIME.

4. If cell phone companies insist on making a quick buck off of these inept people, they must have a tech person SOLELY for the inept. This is the equivalent of a regular check-out lane and an express lane at any other store. Seriously, because when I’m simply buying my Granny Smith apples or picking up some potatoes and turkey burgers for dinner, I DO NOT WANT TO BE BEHIND THE MOTHER OF SIX WHO IS SHOPPING FOR THE ENTIRE MONTH. Likewise, when I’m at the cell phone store and want a simple address book transfer, I do not want to wait on the old woman who doesn’t understand that the send button is the button she needs to push to make a call or the clueless sorority girl who dropped her phone in water and can’t seem to understand how warranty doesn’t cover that kind of stuff. I have work to do because unlike those who are lazy, I don’t receive a government handout.

*Verizon, I’d take heed. These are GOOD suggestions. And unless you convince my friends and family to change networks, I’m not going anywhere. That means, you’ll have to continue to deal with me (evil, maniacal laugh)!

Anyway, back on track, I can’t go over there during my working hours, but since I’m at work when they open and at yoga/committee meeting when they close, I pretty much only have lunch. I could go on Saturday, but the store isn’t close to my house. And the section of Green River Road I would have to travel is under construction and I really can’t deal with that traffic (As if my notorious lack of patience would have anyone think any differently). Not to mention gas. The price of gas just…enflames me. Every time I see it rise, I lose a piece of my mind.

Note to Pres: Thought you were going to handle this. Sure, prices are down, but the past two weeks, they’ve climbed twenty cents each week to only come down ten cents a couple of days later. This is exactly how it started when gas got to $4/gallon last year – TAKE CONTROL, DOUCHE!

Back to the Verizon store. Anyway, because I don’t like to drive to the east side for JUST ONE THING, I tend to wait. However, the problem is that my Vitamins and books can easily be bought on a lunch break, and I don’t want to wait until the weekend to do this stuff in order to take care of my cell phone drama. Also, Borders has the annoying habit of having coupons only good for Tuesday and Wednesday or Wednesday and Thursday.

The other thing about going over there on a Saturday is that I like to relax, possibly take a nap. And I can’t do that if I get nuclear angry at a little old woman. It takes way too much to calm me down. That means a nap is out of the picture and I really like my naps. And I like doing absolutely nothing until noon when I can go to the gym because it has been cleared out of most of the people (I know, I have antisocial tendencies). And then I come home, maybe eat some cinnamon toast and then possibly take a shower if the sister and I are going to go to dinner. If I’m not working, laziness is my middle name…but before you start casting stones, you should see how much I do work. And to be 27, single, and childless…it almost feels wrong to be this busy. It’s one thing to not have a life once you’re married and have kids, but it’s another to be single and childless and have no life. Plus, if I had kids, I’d probably have little heathen monsters and work would be my escape!

But, I finally got my address book updated this weekend and the old broken Venus 3 mailed back to Verizon. All it took was me flipping out because I left my wallet at work on Friday. Because it was 8:30 a.m. and I was at work on Saturday, I decided, what the hell, and swung by the OUT-OF-THE-WAY Verizon store. Miracle of miracles, they had just opened. Some guy transferred my address book lickity-split as soon I as walked inside.

But then…he got a little snide.

I gave him the stuff to send the phone back. And he said they didn’t do that at the store…

Oh…you know…

I said: Fine, Verizon will get this phone as soon as I find time to get to a Cellular Connection because I PREFER to do my business there. They are always helpful and have mailed my phones off for me. I’m only here because I have VIP status and get free transfers.” Yes, cheapness oftentimes is my middle name.

To which he then replied: There is a shipping place a few stores down.

It’s a shame I had to get prickly in order for him to get helpful. I’ll mark another one down in the column for reasons to hate Verizon.