*Warning: Surprisingly enough, this post titled "Cinnamon" gets gross towards the end.
It is not for the squeamish or easily disgusted reader.
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When I was in the 3rd grade, I won the spelling bee for my class.
This was a triumphant moment for me, as I loved all things academic and scholarly.
I got to go to the district championships.
I knew my journey would not end there.
I would travel from championship to championship, winning each one, and I would be the world's most famous 8 year old who could spell anything and everything.
The day of the big spelling bee came.
I stepped up to the microphone.
I looked at the nice lady with glasses as she said,
"Cinnamon."
My first word.
Easy.
I knew I would get it.
For the nice lady with glasses, when she read me the word, she was kind enough to clearly enunciate each sound for me.
"Your word is cinnamon . . . that's sinnnnn-oh-mon."
I flipped my spiral-permed hair off of my face and spelled that word:
"C-I-N-N-O-M-O-N."
I beamed.
Nailed it.
"I'm sorry. That is incorrect. The correct spelling is C-I-N-N-A-M-O-N. You have been disqualified."
Disqualified?
How will I make it to state championships?
How will I make it to nationals?
How will I ever show my face in school again?
Well, I know that lady sabotaged me.
She sounded it out wrong.
She must have had a kid in the competition or something.
I was crushed.
I was devastated.
I was humiliated.
Looking back, what should have humiliated me more was my hairstyle.
Raise your hand if you also rocked the spiral perm with the overly-poofy bangs.
Have you ever heard the saying that dog owners start to look like their dogs after awhile?
Ummmm . . .
That phrase certainly did not apply to me.
That was my dog, Joey.
Oh, how I loved that dog.
I used to pray that God would send me a boyfriend named Joey who would secretly be my dog Joey and . . .um . . . well, maybe I should keep that memory to myself.
Are all dogs stupid?
Or just the ones that I happen to own?
This dog used to sleep right against the electric heat baseboard and cook his mangy fur.
Every day.
That is not a pleasant smell.
Trust me.
Joey lived until the ripe old age of 13.
He died the day I heard the first heartbeat of my first baby.
A little over a year later, the Lumberjack and I, along with baby Sweet Pea, moved into my parent's house so we could fix up the disastrous old house we had just purchased.
Along with us came our two huge Golden Retrievers, Jack and Mabel.
My parents had another dog at the time named Willy.
Willy was even stupider than all the other dogs.
Anyways, one night we were eating dinner.
My mom: "Willy stinks!"
My dad: "Willy always stinks."
My mom: "No, he really smells. What does he smell like?"
My dad: "I don't know. He's a dog."
My mom: "He smells like death."
Me: "How does death have a smell?"
Well, the next day, the Lumberjack came up to me,
"I know why Willy smells like death."
Can anyone guess the ending to this story?
Was it:
A) Willy had a stomach bug.
B) Jack, Mabel, and Willy had gotten into some of Sweet Pea's dirty diapers.
C) Jack, Mabel and Willy dug up the remains of Joey and helped themselves to a few nibbles.
Take your time.
Connect the dots.
Put some thought into it.
We'll discuss this more tomorrow.
Yes.
You may go vomit now.
