If only I had more free time on my hands–you’d hear a lot more of my mundane adventures in real life.
Take, for instance, last Friday.
We had a youth event for our middle schoolers called “Flour Frenzy”. Where did the inspiration from this fantastic event come from? Not from my brain, unfortunately. Basically, I finally succumbed to the pressure of my male students who have been begging to throw “flour bombs” (cupfuls of flour wrapped in thin tissues) at each other for years.
I texted my leaders a few days before the event and told them that they’d finally get to throw something at the heads of the kids who have been annoying them for the last three years.
So it didn’t surprise me in the slightest that a record number of leaders were clamoring to come for this event. I’m pretty sure some of them strapped on bulletproof vests and did warm ups to get ready to battle these kiddos.
The battle commenced, and we were all literally coated in thick white flour from head to toe. It was every teenage boy’s dream–he could throw things at girls’ heads as hard as he could, and the bomb dissipated with a dramatic “poof”, leaving everyone unharmed and in hysterics.
Suddenly, with a dramatic “poof” of its own, the skies opened up and poured down rain on our flour-drenched bodies as we stood outside in the parking lot.
You don’t have to be a professional baker to know that when you mix dry flour and water, you get a beautifully thick, gummy, sticky paste. Which is exactly what ended up all over us.
When the first drops started splattering down on me, I had just been jumped by one of my high school leaders. She dumped an entire cup of flour into my tightly done ponytail–and then ground it in to my hair, just so make sure she didn’t miss turning every inch of my head white. (She succeeded, quite well).
Guess what happens when you add water to flour that’s been finely ground into your hair?
It looks so innocent--but used properly, it's a deadly weapon.
Yep. I was sporting a lovely white headful of sticky goo, that quickly dried into a brittle helmet.
Once we finished cleaning up that night, our leaders headed to our usual place for debriefing and hanging out to enjoy each other’s company–Steak N’ Shake, a small diner a few miles down the road. We’ve been going there on a regular basis for a few years now, so the managers and waitresses all know us by name and even know the dishes we order each time. It’s as close to an idyllic Mayberry small-town experience as I’m sure I’ll ever have.
When we traipsed our way in on Friday, our waitresses laughed at the sight of us all covered in flour. We tried to brush it off, but I made no attempt whatsoever to tackle the heavy mess on my head.
We sat around, enjoying milkshakes together, when a trio of rough bikers came in the front door. Our best guess is that they were strung out on drugs, because they took one look at us and one of them started shouting across the restaurant at us like a, um, crazy person. She had to be persuaded by the manager to calm down, and spent the next hour glaring at our table of teens and adults and swearing under her breath.
When we eventually got up to leave and the trio was still giving us the evil eye, we decided to wait to drive away until after they drove off, just so they didn’t follow us home and try to slit our throats in our own driveways.
Ok, so that was my personal thought. I’ve been watching a few too many episodes of Criminal Minds, apparently.
Four of us leaders stood huddled together, talking in the parking lot and keeping an eye on the ruffians paying and walking out the front door. Being my usual highly-perceptive-and-only-slightly-paranoid self, I watched them as they walked across the street into an abandoned parking lot. It was then that I noticed them acting strangely, and standing next to a car that had apparently been parked there for some time. The people in the car started talking to the troublemakers who had been in the restaurant with us, and the next thing I knew I heard voices shouting.
When I saw one of the men reach over and start rocking the car furiously, and then slug the driver, I knew there was trouble brewing.
Quick as a flash, two people scrambled out of the car and pounced on the others who had started the fight. Within seconds, they were screaming and one guy was on the ground, getting kicked in the stomach repeatedly and pummeled in the face.
By this point, my cell phone was already out of my purse and I had already pressed “send” on my call to 911. As we watched the fight unfold just across the street from us, I described the situation to the dispatcher. Within seconds, we heard sirens blaring down the street–but not in time to catch the men in the car, who took off.
We watched the blue and red lights blur past us and counted one, two, four, six, eight police cars barrel into the empty parking lot and surround the instigators.
Yes, folks, nothing like this ever happens in Oakville. Every single police officer in the vicinity decided to check out this unusual action.
One of the police cruisers came over to us as witnesses, and told us to stay put while they dealt with the suspects. So, we stood and watched for about half an hour until that officer came back to ask us some routine questions.
Keep in mind–at this point, I’m covered in white dust and my head is a pure white, crusty disaster.
Oh, and it’s midnight now.
I’m glad you remembered–because I completely forgot about how bizarre I looked, as I stood giving my statement to the officer.
To his credit, he didn’t bat an eye at my obviously strange appearance. However, that only makes me wonder about what he normally sees from people. I’d hate to think that maybe I’m on his “Craziest Witness I’ve Ever Encountered” list, but perhaps that’s the case.
Oh, to live in infamy with the Oakville Police. My dream.
So, to recap, the lessons learned from this experience:
1) Carry a large hat in your car to disguise your appearance next time you have to make a police report in the middle of the night
2) Don’t wear white powder on your person when around druggies, because it’ll only needlessly excite and/or provoke them
3) Don’t turn your back on a high schoolers who has access to something destructive, especially if you hit them in the face with a flour bomb just mere minutes earlier
Oh yeah…and that horrible, disgusting, powdery, crusted-over flour that was stuck in my hair? It took six shampoos, six conditioning treatments, and two deep conditioning treatments to get it all out.