“Alright...everybody grab your buckets and huddle up. Listen up.”

Surrounding me are four students, two boys and two girls. Their youthful faces convey a sense of seriousness and an eagerness to start the process.

“Here are the two most important things I’m sending you out there with. #1. Classroom Etiquette. Do not simply barge into classrooms. Slowly and gently open the door, get the teacher’s permission and then proceed. #2. Return with empty buckets only. Let me say that once again. Return to my office with empty buckets only! Nothing...I mean nothing...should be left in those buckets. Is everyone clear? Now go! Godspeed!”

This is the moment I dread. When I no longer have control. They’re out there. They’re all out there and I’m in here...just waiting. Just waiting for something to go wrong. Fucking Ghost-O-Grams.

“Carbon Monoxide. Carbon Monoxide.”

This is what I hear accompanied by a horrendous beeping sound that cuts through my entire body like a razor at 8:04 on a Saturday morning. First of all, who the hell is saying this? Second of all, what does it mean? The cat and I both look at each other, groggy and confused.  I fly out of my bed crashing into a standing fan and getting my worn Bad Religion t-shirt caught on the bedroom doorknob. Neither of these objects are out of place, but my brain is.

“Carbon Monoxide. Carbon Monoxide.”

Shut the fuck up! For the love of god!

It’s the smoke detector in the hallway.

I run into the kitchen to grab the step stool and crash it into everything along the way.  My left thigh goes careening into the corner of the glass coffee table, I smack the right side of my face into the wooden coffee/tea station, my left foot goes into some cold, wet cat saliva mixed with four blades of green grass and I finally reach the metal stepstool leaning against the kitchen wall next to the fridge. Dust bunnies flying off the stool, I carry it back to the hallway attempting a calmer disposition and repeating to myself over and over, “It’s okay. It’s okay.” I climb up to the detector and push any button I can find.

“Fire. Fire.”

So, something weird happened. 

The other day I jump into my orange Honda Element…Ellie Girl we call her. My husband even has a song that goes, “The orange Element”. I guess the tune doesn’t really translate here, but it’s cute. So I start her up and, well, she sounds like 5 motorcycles are inside her engine and she’s shaking and then this waft of burnt rubber comes over me, so I shut her off.

What-The-Fuck. Like, what the hell is happening right now? So, as if I don’t believe that it’s actually happening, I start her again. And again, it’s like a pack of motorcycles are underneath me. A pack? No. That’s wolves. A herd? A tribe? It doesn’t matter.

And all I can think is, is this seriously happening? You know those times when you think, it’s never going to happen to you? Like, you see those people on the side of the road and their car’s like smoking and you think, whew! Thank the lord that’s not me? But now, it’s kind of me!