The year was 1965. It was late fall, in the sleepy mill town of Weirton, West Virginia. Sitting in traffic with her three children, Georgiana Mendenhall was becoming agitated. This was a daily occurence on Cove Road, and Mrs. Mendenhall was in a hurry.
“This is ridiculous. I bet there is an old hoot up front, driving like a snail……I bet when we get where we can pass, there will be an old geezer up there. I betcha.”
Her daughter, Vickie, aged nine, took note of her mother’s words. This wasn’t the first time her mother had exhibited road rage. Vickie was sitting in the front seat, unprotected, and unaware that if her mother wrecked, Vickie would most likely go crashing through the windshield. Most likely.
Traffic was creeping. Vickie wished that she was in the backseat with her brother and sister. They were fighting, as usual, but yet it was always fun trying to avoid the sweeping slap that came from her mother, trying to swat at them to quit fighting while she was driving. Alone and seatbeltless in the front seat, made Vickie very aware of her situation as her mother’s road rage increased.
“Damnit the hell any way. Why are we moving so slowly. I NEED to get home.”
Georgiana Mendenhall did not NEED to get home. The woman was out of cigarettes and was slowly edging toward her next smoke. She was closer to her home than to a cigarette store. Of course, there was no such thing as a cigarette store in Weirton, West Virginia. Had there been, Mrs. Mendenhall would have worked there. She needed her Salem cigarettes, those cancer sticks in a green and white package.
Mrs. Mendenhall had no idea that she had left her pack of Salem cigarettes on the coffee table in front of the couch where she sat, inhaling the magic into her lungs. She smoked from the time she woke up until the time she went to bed. She smoked while cooking. She smoked while ironing. She smoked while smoking. She was indeed, addicted. The traffic was creeping, just as the hairs were creeping up on the back of Georgiana Mendenhall’s neck. She was ready to hit the car in front of her.
“Dear God, what is going on up there? If there is an old geezer causing this, I am going to ram him.”
Georgiana’s daughter was frightened for her life. For. her. life. She spoke not a word, however, because it would not make the situation any better. She just smiled to let her know that it was going to be ok.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Vickie?” Mrs. Mendenhall decided to take her edginess and point it right at her oldest child. “Do you think this is funny? I need to get home to fix dinner.” Vickie noted that her mother took grip of the steering wheel as if she were the Boston Strangler. The need for a smoke was becoming intense. Vickie later described the emotional turmoil in the automobile.
“Mom was falling apart. The Traffic jam was too much for her. I tried to joke with her, asking why it is called a traffic “jam” since you should be able to get through jelly. I thought it was funny, but she was having no part of it. She was ready to convulse.”
The children sitting in the back were blind to their mother’s growing need for a cigarette. They made matters worse by yelling at each other. Cheryl claimed that David was looking at her. David stated that he was not. Cheryl claimed that he was looking at her again. David stated that he was not.
And that’s when Georgiana Mendenhall lost her mind.
She began honking her horn. It wasn’t just a “beep beep” as in the Road Runner cartoons that her children loved so. It was a blare. Future writer Vickie noted the sound in a menagerie of synonyms she learned in fourth grade:
“It was a constant barrage, a cannonade, a unrelenting reverberation, vociferation, cacophonous,and dissonant.”
This did not make the traffic jam disband or hasten its agenda. Traffic was as slow as molasses on a summer day in the desert.
Vickie looked over at her mother. Georgiana Mendenhall looked like she was holding a pretend cigarette in her right hand. Beads of perspiration were falling from her brow. The horn blowing continued. The person in the car in front of Mrs. Mendenhall threw up his hands in exasperation. It was not his fault. It was probably an accident that was making the traffic move at a snail’s pace. They were in traffic for a long, long time, perhaps ten minutes. Too long for a short fused, cigarette craving murderous mom.
The traffic seemed to increase in velocity when the road turned from two to four lane. Mrs. Georgiana Mendenhall put her foot on the pedal and accelerated. She moved over into the passing lane and approached the traffic jam culprit, lingering in the right lane.
“You son of a bitch!” growled Vickie’s mother. She put her hand on the horn and the sound blared as they passed the accused. Vickie looked over at the driver. He was an old man. He was driving a purple Cadillac. A very large and long purple Cadillac. She knew the car well. She rolled her window down and waved at the driver as they came beside him.
“Hi Grandpa!’ Vickie mouthed over to the old man. He didn’t take his eyes off of the road. His hands were stationed at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, an intense look on his face. Afterall, a crazed road ragian was trying to run him off of the road.
“Mom, it’s Grandpa you called an old geezer.” Vickie laughed.
Georgiana Mendenhall did not say a word. She was not fond of her father-in-law, and he was not fond of her. He was a big name in this sleepy steel mill town, and he could make her disappear if he wanted to. He was the same man who put his crazy wife in a “rest” home every time he took a cruise or flight to Florida. He could make life miserable for his daughter-in-law. He may drive slow, but his actions in his business dealings were swift. But, he sure loved his grandaughter, Vickie.
“I’m going to tell Grandpa that you said he was a geezer,” Vickie glanced at her mother. Her mother looked ashen. Perhaps it was the want of a Salem cigarette physically making her sick. Or perhaps it was her daughter’s nonchalant way of bribing her mother.
Georgiana Mendenhall arrived at home and reached for her beloved Salem cigarettes. Ahhhh…….. Vickie, of course, had no idea at this age what an orgasm was, but noted that her mother lit a cigarette after she smoked that cigarette.
And three hours later, Vickie and her siblings were summoned to the kitchen, where they found newly baked whoopie pies, sitting in a pile on the kitchen table. “I thought I would make your favorite, Vickie.”
Vickie knew that her silence could be bought. Whoopie pies were an impressive purchase. She also learned that traffic jams are not necessarily a bad thing.
And she learned at the tender age of nine that life is nothing more than one big bargaining chip.
When I was little, I had to look up words to see what they meant in a gigantic red dictionary my mom kept alongside our World Book Encyclopedias. I was never able to look up phrases like we can today on the internet. I was so curious about everything. But, you know, I used to have to be nibby and ask people about things I was curious about. I would have never met most of our neighbors if I had the internet and all the answers to my childish questions. “Mrs. Jones, why does that man drive into your garage in the middle of the night almost every night and then leave right before I get on the bus? Is that your brother?” Ok, just kidding, but I could have just looked up “What is an affair” into the google search engine that would have answered all of my questions. But, how lonely that would have been for me. I would have salivated over the opportunity to travel all over the freaking world without leaving my chair………. Um, like I am doing now at age 55…….. Shit. I am a loser.
I have to admit that I really enjoy reading all of the search terms that pop up every day on my Word Press dashboard. For those of you who don’t blog here, we bloggers are able to see what search engine terms brought people to our site. For example, I wrote a blog about a monkey, and tagged the post with words such as, “monkey,” “fun,” laugh,” and ”pet store.” Meanwhile, some stranger in Internet Land typed in the Google search bar, “monkey poop,” and it showed up as a search engine term. That internet person would be able to read my blog post if he wanted to, or just say to himself, “Well, hell, this is about a monkey on someone’s head. Monkeyshines Where’s the monkey poop?
Of course, I didn’t know the monkey poop question poser was from. But, since I have started blogging, I have seen bizarre search engine terms pop up. I’d like to share some of them with you. And my blog posts that brought them here.
1. Was Helen Keller black slave- This poor person has no idea what is going on in life. I wrote One Tough Cookie about several strong personalities. Helen Keller was one of them. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t a black slave. I also wrote Play Time, where I discussed how my bff, Ramaine, and I used to play Helen Keller and Annie Sullivan. I always got to be Helen. Bad Karma. My hearing is shot nowadays.
2. How old is a 1 year old pig- I got this one yesterday. I just don’t know where to start with this one. I guess a one year old pig is different ages. Maybe the searcher wants to know how old a one year old pig is in human years. I have no idea, but here, pig googler, read one of my pig blog posts. And This Little Piggy…., Guinea Pig Children and an early post, Feeling Like an Oinker-Pig
3. Billy Joel fat ugly- Aw, that is just so not nice. Where you looking for a picture of Billy Joel? Because what you got was this. Lies That Bite Back
4. Fish guts stains your teeth- Um, okay…I wonder what this guy has been eating. Evidently his teeth are now black. Or some color. I just shuddered…again. My story is about fish guts, but someone was wearing them, not eating them. The Fish Head Story. It is also the second hardest I have ever laughed in my life. That’s right. I have them numbered.
5. Can nuns carry guns- Uh, oh, someone is in trouble or planning to make a hit on Bingo night at the church. I have a lot of posts about nuns. I am afraid of nuns. I do think they carry guns. They keep it in a thigh holster. I’m pretty sure. But, while you are contemplating robbing Sister Betrille, sit awhile and read about my nun stories. Snakes, Gasoline, and a Nun, Vickie With an E, Edgewood, and one of my favorites, Bring Back the Nuns Arrrgh!
6. I have mosquito bite boobs 15- Oh, honey, I can relate. This blog post will not help whatsoever. But, I once was a mosquito bite boober. Sigh. Mosquito Bites
7. dirty potato- What was this person thinking when he searched for this? Maybe he forgot to wash potatoes before cooking and now thinks maybe bugs were all over them? I’m sure he is going to die. If you take your lap top to the Emergency room, you can read these posts while they take an x-ray of those dirty veggies in your stomach. Rats! is about how we fed a rat in our apartment to keep him from coming upstairs and eating our faces while we slept. Or try, Old Wive’s Tales, where you need to know the importance of washing behind your ears.
8. boogey man just called me- Ok, let me get this right. The boogey man just called you, and you get off the phone and google, “Boogey man just called me.” Wow, you are a brave soul. I would have run upstairs and hid under my bed. Which would probably not be a good idea, because that’s where the boogey man is. Dear God, I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight. I Killed the Boogey Man
9. Wont be fooled April 1- I used to be the Queen of April Fool’s jokes. But, someone finally got me. Got me good. So, April Fool’s Day google searcher, read this post and feel for me. D-I-V-O-R-C-E
10. catsup is catsnip- Ew, and my God you are stupid. The whole Ketchup/catsup scenario is mind boggling I know. I wrote a post on ketchp sandwiches, which is not the same as catsup sandwiches, which is somehow cat related, I was told. I should google it. Ketchup Sandwiches
So, those are just a random sampling of some of the search terms I receive each day. I really like the idea of how tagging can bring more traffic to my blog. It’s a great idea. But, the next time you want to search for something and you don’t want anyone to know about it, just know that we know.
Here are some more search terms that are just weird as hell:
*What is it when I have white stuff on my gums near my molars.
*pee in my snowsuit
*video girls in mud
*vomiting hid in nightstand
*the longest poop in the world
*ant bit lips
*detergent poison how to poison
*green snot infection
*stuck his tongue down my throat
*is eating paint chips still bad
*Hitler had son Jimmy Hitler
*armpit smells like garlic
*pet dead dog infreezer til ground thaws out bury
Yes, search terms are interesting, that’s for sure.
I remember the very first thing I did a search on when I got the internet……Wooly worms. Do you remember what you searched for?
Hi. I teach fourth grade in a small, country school in West Virginia. As some people know, that is in the western part of Virginia. But, we sort of are our own state. As a fourth grade teacher, part of my job is to teach Social Studies. Now, I realize that the textbook people only put in the books what they want to put in there, so my facts may be a bit off. But, my intentions are swell.
Today is President’s Day. Banks and post offices are closed today. Some schools are closed. I do think my garbage is going to be picked up this morning, but it’s nothing you have to worry about. But, today is the day when we honor George Washington. His birthday is February 22. Well, it is now called Presidents’ Day, originally known as Washington’s Birthday. Someone complained that since Abe Lincoln’s birthday is February 12, that they should be combined for one big hybrid of a birthday party. So, President’s Day falls on the third Monday of February. This year Presidents’ Day falls on February 20, 2012.
Ok, but that is not why I’m writing. I am writing today to the French people of France, Canada, and to the pockets of French people hanging out in New Orleans and any place called Louisville, to thank you for letting us have the opportunity to celebrate Georgie’s birthday. Your ancestors were nice people. Really nice people.
Now, you have to understand that I have to teach the textbook. Sort of. Sure, I let my kids know what a nut case Christopher Columbus was, and how Amerigo Vespucci may have told little white lies about his adventures, but I teach what I know. And I make up the rest.
The French basically came to the Americas for beaver fur. I guess. Maybe. Oh, my goodness, though, how they loved trapping! From what my textbook tells me, their route was mainly down the St. Lawrence River. The British, on the other hand, were swatting mosquitoes further south in Jamestown, years after a whole colony disappeared from Roanoke. The only thing left behind was a carving on a post or tree that simply read, CROA. I personally think they were trying to write, “Croak,” as in they all died. The last colonist, God love him, just didn’t have enough strength to write that final letter. Well, ok, I guess there was a Croatoan tribe nearby, so historians seem to think that is what someone was trying to write. But, you know, if one group disappears from the area, why would you try to go there again? Gluttons for punishment, those British were.
But, the first French explorers made friends with the Native Americans and learned all about hunting, fishing, and this will be important in a little bit, fighting. So, they hung out. Made hats made out of beavers. Meanwhile, the colonists are pushing westward. The Native Americans are pissed because their hunting ground is disappearing and they just really were tired of the colonists sneaking at night, stealing their crops because they didn’t realize that, duh, maybe they should have planted stuff when they arrived. The first colonists to arrive in the new land were not so bright.
To the French, the Ohio Valley was an important link between France’s holdings in Canada and Louisiana. The British saw it as an area for trade and growth. By about 1750, the French had moved to make their claim to the Ohio Valley stronger. They sent soldiers into the region to drive out the British traders. They also began building a line of forts near the eastern end of the valley.
But, both sides decided they wanted the Ohio Valley. The French began building a series of forts in the disputed land. In 1753, Lieutenant Governor Robert Dinwiddie of Virginia (the name always makes my students giggle), was pissed. He said this was like an act of war. So, he sent a young Georgie Washington with a letter to the French that they had to leave the area. How dare they build forts in the land that they wanted to eventully steal from the Indians. Washington headed over the Appalachian Mountains, all by his lonesome, and delivered the message.
He knocked on the fort’s door. (I’m making this part up because my textbook doesn’t tell me where he went when he delivered the message. So, you know, I am improvising.)
“Hey, um, yeah, hello…..My name is George Washington. I’m 21 and new to this. I have a message from Lt. Governor Robert Dinwiddie (the French giggled) Hey, um, you guys are going to have to leave. You can’t build forts in this area.”
“Go home, Georgie,” said the French guy who answered the fort door. “We are not leaving. Go away, you silly boy.”
Well, they could have captured him or killed him, but they let him go. They could have even laughed at him for coming such a long distance with no real back up, only to leave without even as much as a cup of coffee. So, Washington had to sleep somewhere, right? You see all those places that used to say, “Washington slept here.” Well, uh, yeah, because Dinwiddie made him travel so damn much.
Dinwiddie was not happy with the response from the fort building French. He sent a small force of soldiers from Virginia. Their orders were to build a fort at the Forks of the Ohio River, where the city of Pittsburgh now stands. Two can play this game, dammit.
Where the hell is the fort?
The Virginians had barely finished the fort when the French attacked it. The French drove off the Virginians and built a larger fort on that site. They called it Fort Duquesne, after some French guy named Duquesne. The French didn’t care for the Colonial look, evidently, and wanted a more Woodsy look to their fort. Unaware of the French attack, Dinwiddie sent young George once again to the Forks of the Ohio River to reinforce the Virginian’s fort. So, Washington didn’t know this, because his internet was getting spotty reception. He was all set to get to the fort with supplies, ready to make the fort pretty and maybe hang some curtains. Can you imagine if he actually got to the fort, and wondered why the key didn’t open the door? Or something like that.
So, Washington left Williamsburg with an army of 150 Virginians. On their way to the fort, the Virginians surprised a small group of French soldiers on patrol. Thinking “we might be attacked by considerable forces,” Washington later wrote, they built a makeshift fort that they called Fort Necessity. Because, well, it was necessary. Within days a large force of more than 600 French soldiers and 100 indian allies attacked Fort Necessity. Washington and his men surrendered in what turned out to be the opening battle of the French and Indian War. And guess what? The French let Washington and his soldiers return to Virginia.
“Go home, Georgie.” they said in a thick, French accent. (Ok, I’m taking liberties with the facts once again.) “Haven’t you learned your lesson, little boy? We are the French, and you are……not.”
Now, that makes two times that the French let George Washington go. They could have killed him. But, they didn’t. The next thing you know, Washington is fighting alongside Braddock. The French and Indian War. I don’t know why they called it this, because the French did not fight the Indians.
In April of 1755, General Edward Braddock was ordered to capture Fort Duquense. Oh, God, here we go again. He and more than 1,800 british and colonial soldiers began the long trip to the fort. He invited George along as an advisor. I mean, why wouldn’t he? George knew the route blind folded by now. Well, they made it as far as nearby Fort Necessity, when they met up with a force of about 900 French and Indian soldiers. Those damn French and Indians fired upon them from trees and boulders. What the hell? The British were used to open field fighting, so this threw them for a loop. They had never fought an enemy this way before. They “broke and ran,” Washington later wrote, “as sheep before the hounds.” We call that AWOL nowadays. When the battle ended, two thirds of the British were dead or wonded. Braddock was killed.
I should mention that the British should have caught on fairly quickly that bright red uniforms and a drummer making a racket would maybe give the French the heads-up that they were coming. Just sayin. Quit the damn rat-a-tat-tat, for God’s sake. You need to be quiet, stupid Red-coats.
It doesn’t say what happened to Washington after this battle, but he somehow managed to limp home. Was this guy lucky, or what? Some historians mention that Washington was standing close to Braddock when he was killed. It was just wasn’t a good day for Eddie Braddock.
So, French people, your ancestors could have easily killed Washington at least three times. But, they didn’t. If they had, we wouldn’t have the cool quote about Washington choppping down the cherry tree. Denzil would not have a last name. We wouldn’t have Mount Vernon. Washington DC may very well be called DC or Columbia District. Thousands of streets would go nameless. Washington, Pennsylvania, would be called Braddock or Necessity, or something totally different. There would never have been a crossing of the Delaware. Hell, maybe we would never be a nation because his army would not have been there. This is like It’s A Wonderful Life, starring George Washington as George Bailey.
So, yeah, thank you, French people, for letting me teach about Georgie Washington, father of our country.
This period of history is my favorite time period to teach. And I have my fourth graders write pretend thank you cards to the French every year after we study this.
If you give me an address maybe we will mail them for real.
Sincerely,
V. Mendenhall, fourth grade Social Studies teacher and occasional smart ass
I don’t know if I am much of a camper. We just didn’t camp out much when I was little. I can’t even imagine the Mendenhall family, aka the Griwsolds, sitting around the campfire, singing Kumbaya. I imagine it would go something like this:
Mom: “Elwood! Elwood!…….Where did that man go? ……I need you to put up this tent…..Elwood!…….I’m telling you, when they were passing out brains, your father thought they said, “train” and left…….Elwood!!………………Well, we are just going to have to go home.”
Elwood- (2 miles away, press camera in hand). “Ahhh, just look at this beautiful tree!” (Takes pictures of the probable pine tree from different angles. Can’t hear Mom because he has wandered purposely away from the camp.)
Vickie- “Mom, look what I found! (Holding a skunk.) Can it sleep with us in the tent? I think he is lonely.”
Cheryl- Cheryl is still in the car, having another one of her famous temper tantrums. We can hear her muted screams through the rolled up car windows. “I HATE YOU…….STUPID MOM…..I HATE YOU…….” .BLAH BLAH BLAH SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM KICK THE BACK SEAT REPEATEDLY…….SILENCE…………POUTING……….
David- (Holding a stick, trying to wittle with a butter knife) Smiling…”This is fun.”
No, I can’t even imagine camping back then. My dad was a scoutmaster, so he used to go camping all of the time. It’s just when Mom was thrown into the mix that Dad just wanted no part of it. My dad was always “damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.” That was his motto. My mom was one of those rolling pin wives. Bitch bitch bitch. Dad was Wally Cox. Wally Cox was a mild-mannered, soft spoken actor, aka the voice of Underdog. “There’s no need to fear, Underdog is here!” Well, except my sweet dad sounded just like Ronald Reagan.
So, needless to say, the Mendenhall family rarely went camping. To compensate for our outdoor challenged lifestyle, my dad built a playhouse in the backyard. I know you are probably picturing a little playhouse nestled in a tree line on the edge of the property. Oh, no. This playhouse was as soon as you opened the back door. Down three steps, turn left and Voila! A cabin…..for camping. Swell.
I went camping when I was in the Campfire girls. Campfire girls were like the Girl Scouts, but we had campfires. They had Samoa cookies to sell while we put marshmallows on the end of whittled sticks. Well, most of the girls put their marshmallows over the fire. Not me. That was gross…and black. Who the hell wants to eat charbroiled marshmallows. And then some older girl came up with a bright idea.
image via whatscookingamerica.net
“Hey, Susie, I see you are eating grahamn crackers. Can I have one? And you, Cindy Lou, I see that chocolate bar you are eating. Can I have a small section? Next thing you know, the older camper put a melted marshmallow and a piece of chocolate between a graham cracker sandwich and ate the damn thing.
“Hmmmmm, I wish I had “some more.” And the rest is history.
image via wikipedia
You believe me, right?
Well, I wasn’t much of a Campfire camper. While walking to the pool one day in my bathing suit, clothing wrapped in my towel, my underpants fell out of my towel and onto the ground. Everyone laughed at me, and I wanted to cry. I sent a postcard home to my mom that I wanted to come home. How funny, because I lived like ten minutes from the camp and we were probably only there for two nights at the most, maybe. I was home before the postcard even arrived.
The next time I went camping was when I was in love. My boyfriend, (future husband, future ex-husband) nicknamed Magoo in my posts, was a list maker, so we had everything you could possibly think of. He even had cut wood on the top of his car. We were, afterall, going to a National forest, so they would probably frown on cutting down trees for fire wood. The first time we went camping, Magoo had everything packed in so tightly you couldn’t add even a spoon (just a slight exaggeration). He had a hatch back, and when he slammed it down to shut, the window burst. He didn’t check to make sure the damn hatch back would close without hitting something. No problem. Magoo took out several black garbage bags, duct tape, and after a few minutes we were on our way. Well, after I swept the glass off to the side of the curb.
We usually went with another couple. The first time we went camping, we took Brent and Jeannie with us. Brent was Magoo’s best friend. We drove to the Monongahela State Forest in our wild wonderful West Virginia mountains. I know West Virginia gets a bad rap, but it is so beautiful in the mountains. Breathtaking, really. The first time out we were hunting for a place called The Sinks of Gandy, a cave that we wanted to explore. I was all about seeing some bats.
image via cavingintro.net
The Sinks of Gandy are a tunnel that the Gandy Creek flows into and disappears into the mountain. It is on private property, and is actually hard to find. We weren’t all the way stupid. Just partially stupid. Years later, my son was a guide for a summer adventure camp, and made numerous trips to the Sinks.
But, anywho, the next thing you know, we are on a gravel road, stopped because a bunch of sheep were standing in the road, looking at us. Um, Magoo, where the hell are we?
So, we never found the Sinks of Gandy, and drove around forever. Where the hell are we going to camp? We finally found a sign for the Monongahela National Forest, dropped down the mountain, and a beautiful sight unfolded right in front of our eyes. It was beautiful.
The Monongahela National Forest at Laurel Fork Campground
I immediately fell in love with the place. And there was no one else in the whole area for the first part of the long weekend. There was a large stream that ran by us, and a trail head in case we wanted to take a hike. It was perfect. It was Fourth of July weekend, so we had a cooler full of picnic food and bags and bags of snacks. The boys, who had been at fishing cabins throughout their lives, remembered the time they were stuck eating nothing but hot dogs for 2 days, so they packed a lot of food.
Since I was not a camper, and the damn campground did not have any bathroom facilities whatsoever (that we knew of at that time), I made the guys build a bathroom area. I don’t even want to try to explain it, but it consisted of finding three small trees close to each other, a large piece of cloth (told you the man could pack), a hammer, and a couple of nails. Dig a hole, and a “dry creek bed” and we had ourselves a bathroom. Magoo even brought toilet paper and little garbage bags. Also, it looked like rain, so the guys put up a makeshift canopy, since we thought we would find a place that had a shelter or something. So, we improvised and it was fun. Sort of. I couldn’t go past 10:00 in the morning without taking a shower. My skin starts to crawl, like I have cooties or something. I HAVE to take my shower. So, I walked over to the creek, walked in with my tennis shoes, and took a creek bath. Washed my hair and everything. It was so freaking cold. I thought I would turn to ice in the middle of the stream. Next thing you know, Magoo and Brent come running in, holding soap, laughing, and sat right down in the creek. They, too, I thought, must feel cooties after 10:00. Jeannie didn’t care. She put a scarf on her head and claimed that she liked being a dirtball. So be it.
So, yeah, it was a fun weekend.
Well, until the guys disappeared.
We were supposed to go fishing, and I hadn’t been fishing since I was little and went with my dad. I used to go all of the time, and either fished, or chased dragonflies around the lake. To this day, dragonflies are my favorite insects. I knew you would want to know that. The guys wanted to go outside the Monongahela Forest to find more firewood somewhere. And yes, Magoo had a saw with him. So, they hopped into the car without a back window and off they went.
And they never came back. Well, that’s what it felt like. It was at least four hours. We were pissed. So, we decided that we were going to fish all by ourselves. We didn’t need a man to put a worm on our hook. We could be hookers. (she cracks herself up) Well, hell, they were all gone. We were wormless. We had no dough balls. We had nothing.
Well, we did have bologna.
Jeannie and I cracked up, as we took a slice of bologna and tore it to look like a worm. A bologna worm. If colorful little bobbers or lures attracted fish, wouldn’t a worm dangling off of the hook? It was a brilliant, hooker idea.
No it wasn’t.
The bologna hung on the hook for just a few seconds, and would then slide through the hook and fall into the creek. We tried it a “couple” of times. Defeated, we went back under the canopy (that leaked later when it stormed), and just started drinking. We did get scared when two guys walked very close by our campsite. We saw them coming and we were very frightened. We ran to the tent and zipped ourselves up and looked out the little screened area. We were going to get raped. No doubt about it. All we had to defend ourselves was some bologna and a flashlight. But, wait. Magoo brought a handgun. (What did I tell you?) And it was in the tent. I could kill them.
Well, at the time, we had no idea that the start of a long hiking trail started right beside our tent. We knew it was nearby, but the trail went right by the tent. They were simply two hikers who were following the trail.
Our mountain men finally came back. They got lost. And they had no firewood. Worthless.
Jeannie and I were already drunk. Well, I had two beers, so I was sloshed.
The guys were so fixing us dinner that night. Magoo opened the cooler.
“Hey, what happened to those two packs of bologna?”
I guess I didn’t mention that we made two packs of bologna worms. We really thought we would get one to work.
We were hookers working our corner of the creekbed.
Back in the seventies, the campus of Fairmont State had a student union building where everyone congregated between classes. It was called the Nickel, because we had nickel a beer night about every night. Ok, that’s a lie. But, you could buy a glass of draft beer for a nickel, and maybe once a week had “Nickel Night.” Or it may have been once a semester. I know it was more than once a year. Let’s just go with once a night. So, yeah, we were a bunch of drunks.
The Nickel had a little game room on one side people rarely used, and a snack bar on the other side. I ate a hamburger and french fries almost every day. My freshman year I ate in the cafeteria because I lived on campus, but the rest of the time I ate food clogged with cholesterol about every day.
There was a room in the back of the Nickel called, The Greek Room. Sounds a little politically incorrect, I guess, but this huge room was just for frat boys and the girls who needed fifty bff’s. I was one of those needy, goofy girls. You could not go into the back room unless you were a Greek. There were a group of football players who did not join a fraternity, and they called themselves, Group Five. I don’t know why. Maybe there were only five of them in the group, but they sat out in the front with the rest of the non-Greekers and made fun of those who walked through. Well, if they didn’t know you or like you. I thought it was sort of fun walking through them to get to the back. We strutted through between classes. Little did I know how much we were hated until I started hating us, too. I will save that for a later post.
I joined Sigma Sigma Sigma during the second semester of my freshman year. Or maybe it was during my sophomore year. I know that I sat out at least a semester because my friends and I were bombarded during rush week, or whatever the hell it was called, and we just needed to step back and take a look at each of the five sororities and to see if we even wanted to join. We heard terrible things about each sorority. But, the worst was reserved for the Tri-Pigmas.
“You don’t want to join them. Sure they are all beautiful, but they KNOW they are…… They are just a bunch of rich bitches…..They will love you to your face and then tear you apart behind your back…….Their daddy takes care of them and they all drive expensive cars…
Yikes. They sounded harsh. The present-day Mean Girls, College Edition. But, they seemed sooo nice and they really wanted us to join.
Cover via Amazon
So, yeah, I was stupid and joined. It was fun, really. I had a blast the first three years. We weren’t mean or bitches. I even wore a t-shirt that read, “I’m not conceited, I’m perfect” to make fun of myself. All it did was make me look like a bitch. Some things always backfire. And my grades suffered too, because I wasn’t good at multi-tasking. I was partying and not studying. Something had to give. Goodbye 4.0, hello 2.6. Pathetic. I blame it on sorority life and the fact that I had no spine and would never say no.
“Sure, I’ll go with you.”……”Hell, yeah, let’s drive over to Ocean City on Wednesday,”…………………”I can’t believe I forgot to go to that class all semester”…..
I could also be a doormat. ”You need an abortion and need someone with a car to take you to Pittsburgh? Sure, I’ll take you.”……”Yeah, I’m going home this weekend. Sure, I can drive 40 minutes out of my way to take you home. Afterall we are sisters.” I was a no gas money given doormat.
So, back to the Nickel. Between classes, we headed for the back room. I had to get past the basketball players, though. I don’t know why, but several of the black basketball players liked to torment me. They at first, would say things to me when I would walk past. “Hey, Blondie, how are you doing today?” Well, I don’t know why, but the three of them scared the crap out of me. I don’t know if it is because they were so tall and I was so short and only weighed 98 pounds, or that they were black and there was only one black person in our whole high school and I was scared. Stupid, really, but ignorance leads to all kinds of fears. I feared the black basketball players. One day, I heard them laugh at me. “Look how fast she walked past us.” So, the torment began. They would block my path for a few seconds and just smile down at me. They were all tall freaking trees and I was walking through their scary forest each day. I was little red riding in the hood.
Once back in the safety of my frat boy and sorority bitch home, I would talk to my “sisters” and watch the TKE fraternity boys play Spades. Back in the mid-seventies, if you didn’t play Spades, you might as well just drop out of college.
I really don’t know how I learned how to play. I have horrible listening skills. Maybe someone taught me and showed me how to play while actually in the middle of a game. That’s the best way to learn. Just reading the directions would not cut it with me. The wikipedia rules that I just read made my head spin. How to Play Spades in 25 Easy Steps After I learned how to play Spades, I was pretty damn good. If you want to play with the boys, you have to know how to play. So, yeah, Spades was a definite game that was played in the Greek Room.
One game that three of the TKE brothers played on semester was called, “How Fast Does Vickie Eat?” Evidently, without me knowing, they must have watched how quickly I devoured my cheeseburger and fries. I was lucky if I weighed 96 pounds in college. I looked anorexic, but everyone knew that wasn’t true, because I could inhale food and never excused myself afterwards to put my finger down my throat. I could eat and not gain an ounce. But, I never realized that I was a fast eater. I guess someone noticed it one day, and so then they set out to watch me every day. I had no idea they were watching me. Until they brought me a homemade trophy.
I guess I was in the running for “Fastest Food Guzzler,” a made up contest that no one knew they entered. There were three people that they were placing bets on who could eat the fastest. They timed each person, me included. They had to wait until we all had ordered the same food. Dear God, did they not have anything better to do than to watch people eat?
I guess I won. Um, thanks? They told me that they timed me over and over again and that no one came close to how fast I ate. They made me feel like I should be proud. I felt like a pig. Thank God I didn’t look like one. I was a skinny piglet.
The next year I was handed another homemade trophey. Oh, come on now! I was so humiliated by the eating time trial that I learned to slow down and not eat like I had two minutes to live. But, this wasn’t another eating contest. This was a different kind of contest.
Looks like five of the TKE boys took it upon themselves to watch girls on campus. They gathered information and got back with each other and came up with a list. And I was on their list. Just great. What the hell did I do now? And these weren’t even the same goobers who gave me the first one.
The words on the homemade trophy simply read: BBOC Vickie Mendenhall
They handed it to me with big smiles.
“Ok, guys. What is this? What does BBOC mean?” I was semi-pissed.
“You have the Best Butt On Campus.” And with that said, they smiled and walked away.
I guess the TKE brothers found the best lips, the best bust, the best hair, the best legs, the best smile, the best eyes, and the best butt on campus. And of all of the butts, they thought my butt was best.
I haven’t won much after that. I won a jar of jelly once while playing some grocery store bingo. I won a $2 scratch off lottery ticket. I won a lottery for jury duty, but was told that wasn’t a good thing. Damn.
So, yeah, I have fond memories of the Nickel, that wonderful student union on the campus of Fairmont State College. I learned how to play Spades, how to eat quickly, and I learned that I had the best butt on campus.
Too bad that honor wouldn’t make a difference at the end of the semester when grades came out.
I guess I could have said, “But, Mom, I won a contest. See the trophy?”
Yes, I loved the Nickel. College would have been so much more fun, however, if there weren’t any classes.
I am sure that you have never heard of Laura Anderson Williams before. I mean, I don’t know why the hell you would, she was my grandmother. I had never heard of her before, either, until my mom told us three kids that we were taking a train out west to visit her. I was only seven, David was five, and Cheryl was four.
Yeah, let's take these three kids on a train. David has his gun ready.
When I think about that now, I just want to start drinking. I would have never taken my small children on a train across the country by myself. I had a hard enough time taking them across the county. But, then again, I only had two kids, a fact my mother made sure I knew time after time after time.
“Oh, yeah, Vickie? How do you think I felt? I had 3 kids.”
I wanted to say, “Technicality, Mom dearest. You birthed one and adopted two…….. I win.” Actually, I would have counted my sister as six children, because she had temper tantrums that rivaled small countries at war. I should have counted as at least three children because I was hyper. Hence, the “Cricket” moniker. David was mellow, so mellow I really think his biological father was Tommy Chong from the comedy duo, Cheech and Chong. Hell, maybe my mom sedated us all and it only worked on David.
But, I really didn’t know I had another grandmother. My one here at home, Orpha, was crazy. She is the one I told you wrote little notes on the envelopes of my birthday cards, a place normally reserved just for the birthday girl’s name:
Happy Birthday, Vickie Hartford Circus Fire November 9, 1944
She did this every year. It didn’t matter that the Hartford Circus Fire took place on July 6. No one had the time or the want to find out if she was a trivia genius or a loon. We always went with the loon. But, she was the only grandma I knew about. Sure, my mom mentioned, “Grandma Laura,” but I thought she was talking about her grandmother, who art in Heaven.
My mom was born and raised in Spokane, Washington. All her “people” were out there. And we were going to meet them all. My mom informed us that it would take three days and three nights to get out there. Whaat? We were going to sleep on a train? . My dad was excited too…..because he wasn’t going with us. I have a feeling that he would have gotten off in Chicago or jumped out on the tracks two days in. He wasn’t a big fan of my mother. Or maybe her mother. But, he was going to stay home and take care of Susie the dog.
Well, the train trip was fun. I couldn’t wait to meet this Grandma Laura I had heard so much about. We meet Grandpa Williams first when he picked us up at the train station. He reminded me of Jimmy Durante. He had the biggest nose. Seriously, I could not get enough stare time in. And, how funny, but I do remember wondering if his boogers were bigger than most people’s. Yeah, those are the things I thought about.
Grandpa Williams worked for the railroad for years. He was also a councilman in Spokane. But, the best story I heard was the one where Grandpa Williams beat up Bing Crosby when he was little. Just punched him right in the nose. I bet it wasn’t a White Christmas that year, Bing. Sounds like my grandpa may have been a bully. He must have liked beating up Bing, because he was also a pretty good boxer. I don’t know how many fights he won, but he quit boxing after a man he was fighting died after Grandpa punched him in the temple. That was sad and all hearing that story, but all I could think about was if his nose was that big from getting punched in the boxing ring over time. I thought it was a pretty good reason why someone would have such a big nose.
We arrived at the little white house on the corner that my mother called home for so many years. We were going to meet her brother, sister, and all of their families. This was going to be so much fun. Well, until I met Grandma Laura.
OH. MY. GOD. I am sure I stared for the longest time when I saw her standing at the door, hands on hips. No, she didn’t have a big nose, too. No, Grandma Laura looked like someone who came right out of the movie, Heidi. It is so funny, but I can remember everything about that moment. I couldn’t speak, well, because my mouth was wide open. A small bird could have had plenty of time to build a nest. Oh, my, Grandma, what crazy hair you have.
My grandma must have had really really long hair, because it was braided on each side of her head, and then rolled up on the sides of her head. Sure, I have Princess Leia from Star Wars to reference as an example, but Leia didn’t really look like my grandmother.
Grandma didn't look like this
I think George Lucas must have lived in Spokane, Washington, too, and took the idea from my grandmother. I really wish I had a picture of her. Grandma Anderson William’s father, my great grandfather, was named Lars Peter Anderson. They were from Wales. Grandma had a lot of different customs that she must have brought with her to Spokane, from Wisconsin, via Wales, like her accent, “Donchaknowl.”
Sort of like this but not really. Think more Swiss Heidi.
So, meanwhile, remember, I’m still staring at her. She had a red and blue housecoat vest thing on and a skirt. Heidi wear.
She wore it like this too.
I was struck by her accent, but that’s not all. She got ahold of my brother first and hugged him like she was wrestling a bear. And then, Oh Dear God, she pinched his cheeks.
“Oh, David, you’ve got your grandfather’s name.” I hoped to God I wasn’t named after anyone in the family, because I did not want my cheeks to be pinched off. I looked over at David, and it really looked like two little grip marks on his cheeks. I was a dead duck. But, not if she couldn’t get ahold of me. I wasn’t a Cricket for nothing. When it was my turn, I looked at her and said,
“Grandma, you look like a yodeler.”
Now THIS looks like Grandma Laura.
Needless, to say, I didn’t get pinched or squeezed to death. Because I made that flattering comment as I ran past her. And that’s what I was going for. But, Grandma Laura didn’t like me much after that. And she was pissed when I made friends with a stray cat and brought it into the house.
I mean, what was it going to do, mess up her hair?
It was a long trip back to West Virginia. Grandma Laura took it upon herself to give my sister a whippin. My mom was pissed and was going to take us back after only two days in Spokane. No wonder my mom didn’t go back home much.
It only made me love my loon of a grandmother back home even more.
We have become a society of abbreviators. Our words are abbreviated. Our actions are abbreviated. I’m sure everyone has heard the phrase,”as a crow flies.” That means a shortcut or diagnonally in some crow talking circles. And that’s what we have all become. We are crows. Well, that’s not all that bad. Sure, maybe crows enjoy pecking dead things on the side of the road. I know some people who are peckers. (She laughed writing that) But, all in all, crows are intelligent birds, and if they have found a shortcut home, more power to the them. God bless us, for being stupid. Crows don’t follow a road, Goofball Head. They don’t think in those terms. We do.
“Well, if I was a crow, I guess I would live diagonally about, um, 6 blocks over. Yeah, so I live 6 blocks from here……..as a crow flies.”
I was a smart ass when I was in college and replied to someone who said that with a “How close for a blue jay?” He just looked at me like I was stupid. I’m not stupid….. I’m a crow.
But, we have become a nation of shortcutters. But, it didn’t start with our generation. People abbreviated long before we knew what the hell “LOL” meant.
It all started with contractions. They are similar to an abbreviation, but not really. “Hey, Bob, You know, I’m getting tired of talking and writing. I think I am going to shorten my words. Do ya see how I already did it? I shortened ” I am” to “I’m.” It’s amazing how he took a very long word and shortened it. And that’s how it started. A very lazy man came up with a way for all of us to be lazy. We have a whole list of ass-long words that we have shortened into contractions:
it’s - it is
don’t - do not
you’re – you are
isn’t - is not
we’ve-we have
Who would not want to shorten their words? Who wouldn’t want to shorten their words? See how easy that was? I will get done with this post so much faster now.
Since I am a school teacher, I have noticed that buses are now shorter. Well, some of them are.There are short buses because, well, they are special. I will leave it at that.
Yes ,we have become oh so lazy. We can blame our great grandparents…………..and poets. Poets used “Tis” a lot. Like that wild party girl, Emily Jane Bronte:
‘Tis moonlight, summer moonlight, All soft and still and fair; The solemn hour of midnight Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere…”
And Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven (Which is like a crow, but maybe even smarter.)
’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door; Only this, and nothing more.”
Tis means “it is”. Wait…. So does it’s. No wonder foreign people who want to learn English hate us. We have a screwed up language.
And we all know the famous, “Twas the Night Before Christmas.” Abbreviated.
Let’s take a look at some abbreviations that people used long ago and then some that we use now. Back then, people didn’t have the luxury to burst into laughter on paper like we can now. LOL
P.S.- This means post script, which I didn’t know for longest time. The term comes from the Latin post scriptum, meaning “written after.” When I was in elementary school and we first used P.S., I thought it meant like “Pssssssst, hey listen to this, there’s more.” My teacher never told us what it meant. It’s her fault that I got laughed at when I was in high school when I raised my hand to answer, “What does P.S. mean?” with a “Pssssssst.” I think I was called a space cadet….. No, I was a crow.
RSVP- Hey, we need to hear back from you. Respond soon veryplease. Or something like that. That’s what I said it was. Again, not my fault. Sucky teacher. RSVP comes from the French phrase, répondez s’il vous plaît. I know French very well and translated, it really means,” respond with your plate.”
TNT- Pulled this one out of my hat, didn’t I? Well, I thought of TNT only because I grew up with it. Wile E. Coyote lived at my house and was always trying to kill the Road Runner. He had a bunch of Acme products to use on the little speedy bird. “TNT” was written on the box.
I had no idea what TNT really meant. It was dynamite, but not really. You light the string and things blow up. TNT actually stands for trinitroluene. Nobody cares about that.
lb- pounds. This abbreviation just pissed me off. It makes no sense whatsoever. It should be pd. Everyone knows that. I remember getting this marked wrong when we had a measurement test in fourth grade. I remember it because stupid Miss Emler wrote on the board, “John weighs 200 lbs.” She wanted to show how pounds is abbreviated in a sentence. Well, I missed that part because I was thinking about this imaginary John fellow, and was hoping he was not in fourth grade somewhere. Totally missed the point and missed it on the test. Fat John kept me from having a perfect paper, dammit.
Boo- Right now I am teaching my fourth graders about the events leading up to the Revolutionary War. We read about how people gathered in the streets of Boston, yelling, “No taxation without representation.” The British to tend to make a few words into pages of long words, and it spilled over to their descendants. So, I had my class chant that phrase three times. You could not tell what the hell they were saying. It sounded like mumbled gibberish and they knew it. That’s when my lies kicked in and I told them how that phrase evolved over years to be. “Boooo” when we aren’t happy with something. Makes sense. We Americans shortened, “We are mad as hell, and we don’t like this one iota” to “Boooo!” Means the same damn thing, only shortened. Boo isan expression of disgust, dissatisfaction, or disapproval.
XL- Sigh. Extra Large. You know, this sucks. Why doesn’t it just say on the label, ”Bigger than Large.” It would make us previous size 0′s feel better about gaining 5 pounds every freaking year to the point where you have to wear an XL and draw pictures of pigs to put on your refrigerator in an effort to keep you from eating. One last sigh.
tv- Easy one. Short for television. I don’t think anyone ever says television anymore. “I think I will watch television right now.” Nope. Doesn’t work anymore. “We are heading to Walmart to buy a new television set.” (Thought I would try it one more time. Still doesn’t work.)
IQ- “He has the IQ of a worm.” “He has an intelligence quotient of a worm.” Well, I did feel smarter writing the second one. The only time I use the word quotient is when I am teaching division and I don’t use it that much becauss they have a hard enough time dividing.
St.- I don’t know about this one. Why would anyone abbreviate a saint? It’s like taking away their sainthood. Right, Saint Christopher? Saint Christopher was the patron saint of many many things, such as athletes, mariners, and travelers. He was against lightning, pestilence, bookbinders, epilepsy, floods, and um, fruit dealers. I’m really not making this stuff up. I wonder if a fruit dealer didn’t give him the correct change or his watermelon had too many seeds. You just can’t trust fruit dealers.
I.O.U.- No brainer. I owe you some money.
Yes, we are a society of abbreviators. And we are also shorter than usual. Our height is indeed, abbreviated. Studies show that we are getting shorter than our hunter-gatherer ancestors. So, everything is shorter. Except for maybe skirts. They were at their shortest in 1974. I know, because I wore one of them. You could not bend over.
So, go ahead and head home as a crow flies. RSVP to a friend’s wedding. Wear high heels to make you taller. Sit in front of the tv and watch your favorite show. Write a poem that starts with Tis. Call a married woman, Ms. or an unmarried woman Mrs. and see if they correct you. You can get short changed at the fruit dealer like our friend, St. Christopher. Abbreviations are all around us.
I have been playing Words with Friends and have become quite addicted to the little game. I can understand how Alec Baldwin just couldn’t put it away. I play it from Facebook. I’ve always been a Scrabble player, and I didn’t think this would match what Scrabble offers. When I first started playing, I thought you had to sit there and play it. I mean, that’s what you do with Scrabble. But, no. I found out that you can play a word, go out to eat, watch a movie, and then play your next word. It would suck if your opponent had no such plans, and was waiting for you. But, after playing a couple of times, you finally figure out that you can lead a life, be a mother, wash clothes, AND play Word with Friends. But, I’m not writing about how wonderful the game is. Oh, it is wonderful. I’m writing about particular opponents who are just pissing me off.
They are pissing me off because it reminds me of games I played when I was little. My mom taught me how to play everything from 500 Rummy , Gin, chess, to Yahtzee and chinese checkers. As I have written numerous times, I was a hyperactive child, but games and strategy kept me in focus. I was all about the game. But now, my opponents, well, they weren’t in the same league as me. At eight years of age, I was a gaming professional, dammit, and I expected those who played with me to follow the rules. Just follow the rules.
It all started with Candy Land. If my sister was losing, she would quit. I would have my little gingerbread man close to the end, ready for a little gingerbread victory dance. It would be exciting. Everyone likes to win. But then, she would simply stand up and make an exit.
“I quit. This is a stupid game.” What the hell, stupid sister? You always finish what you start. I was hyperactive as that little cartoon dog that follows the huge Bulldog, Spike, and I even knew that. I was three years older than she was, and she was an easy mark, but that is no excuse for a five year old. Get off the short bus and finish the damn game. But no. If was ahead by much, she would just stand up and quit.
Get back up and fight, soldier.
When we played Go to the Head of The Class, and if I was winning, she would quit. If we were playing Button, Button, Who’s Got the Button, and she was on a lower step, she would just get up and walk away. If we played Chutes and Ladders, she would pout for a while, and then get up and walk away. I mean, come on. It was Chutes and Ladders. That is one game that should be played to the very end. Well, like all freaking games. What the hell is wrong with you? Games are meant to be played until the end. End of discussion. Like my mom always said:
Quitters never prosper.
Dear God, I think she said that several times a week. I didn’t know what the hell “prosper” meant for the longest time, but that didn’t matter. I learned about context clues all on my own. Quitters never something…..Quitters never won…..Quitters were always losers. Yeah, that’s it. Quitters were losers. My sister was a loser. God, I wish someone would have thought to put their finger in an L shape over their forehead years ago. I would never have had to talk. There were a lot of losers in my household.
So, why do people quit? Did the ClemsonTigers leave the football field during the Orange Bowl when the West Virginia Mountaineers were pummeling them 70-33? No. They stayed until the very end. Thank goodness, or we wouldn’t be able to put these billboards up on the interstate near Morgantown. I love my WVU.
Yeah, it's a real sign.
It reminds me of the kid who brings the ball and if doesn’t get his way, snatches the ball and walks home. Cry baby. But, for the most part, sports teams stay until the very end. My son had a ten-run rule when he played baseball when he was younger. But, no one was quitting. They were just sent home early, dignity intact abeit tail behind their legs.
I did get confused about the whole quitting scenario because my mom used to always tell me when I got in trouble:
Quit while you’re ahead
Understand my confusion? First she was telling me all Kung Fu Caine-like that “Quitters never prosper” and then she turns around and tells me to “Quit while I’m ahead.” I’m thinking my mom may have been wise, but not all the way. She was a Sybil quoter, split personality and all. I should add that she used to also say, “Cheaters never prosper.” No one prospered with that woman.
I guess my rant should make a sharp point. Well, let me back up. Now that I have been playing Words with Friends for a few weeks now, I have gotten used to the people I play. I can tell which ones use other sources because, I mean, what the hell does “distome” mean? Well, I will tell you what it means. It is a parasitic flatworm. Ok, sure maybe Player #1 had an opponent play it and they remembered to play it with me. I guess I shouldn’t complain. I am using new words that I have learned. I’m not talking about the vocabulary geniuses/Scrabble dictionary users. Right now, I’m talking about the quitters.
I am currently playing twenty people. Well, sixteen people, since my son and I are in the middle of four games. But, I have two opponents that I play a lot who just quit if there are only about seven tiles left and I am way out in front. Then they immediately start another game. What? Oh my God, is my sister on the other end? Why do you do this? I don’t do it when someone is beating the hell out me, 419-302. I know I’m going to lose. But, I don’t quit. I play to the very end. Sure, I may send a friend a note that reads: “Is there any stopping you?” like I did today to a friend I just can not beat. She is good. And she probably appreciates the fact that I don’t quit.
Valentine’s Sucky Day is approaching, and you know, I am just not a fan. I don’t think it is because I am Valentineless. I was married 25 years and dated Magoo for five years before that. So, I had a valentine. But, not really. He never called me a term of endearment. Well, he had one. And I will get to that later.
When you are young and you are falling in love for the very first time, the little things that your partner calls you are endearing. Well, actually, you can be any age, really, since love is love no matter how you look at it. The only things that are different are the names that you call each other. Well, and the gifts that you receive. Sigh. See And That’s Why I Hate Valentine’s Day
Who doesn’t want to be called, “Sweetie?” It’s one of my favorite terms of endearment. I use it when I talk to my son and daughter. “Hey, Sweetie, how ya doing today? When my daughter, Alex, was little, I would call her Boobah. I call my cat, Whiskers, Bubby. I don’t know why. She doesn’t look like a Bubby. What the hell is a Bubby anywho? It just sounds loveable for some reason. I was never called Bubby. But, terms of endearments for children and pets are different. It’s cute. When you are in love, that little “Hi Cutie Pie” or “Good morning, Angel” touches your heart. Nothing touched mine. Well, he called me “baboon” once in a while. Baboon. Like I was an ape. A hairy ugly ape. I didn’t understand. He said it with love, I guess. But, what kind of baboon? I never asked him. He was throwing me a bone, after all. I mean, why did you call me, “Baboon,” Magoo?
I mean, was it because you thought I was pretty? Baboons are pretty, right?
photo via msnbc.com
Was it because I was vocal and spoke my mind?
Or was it because I was friendly and never knew a stranger?
Or maybe you thought I looked good, lounging by the pool
I must admit, I did have a nice butt.
I just couldn’t figure it out. It just came out of the blue one day when he came home from work.
“Hey, Baboon.” Um, hey……..Chimp? What the hell?
But, he never called me “Sweetie.” Not even once. He would call me Vickster or Vickie Rooney, and that’s about as sweet as it got. I don’t know, maybe deep down, maybe that’s why I hate Valentine’s Day. Call me something sweet, dammit.
My favorite all time television show was The Dick Van Dyke Show. I just really thought Rob and Laura Petrie really loved each other. The first episode aired in 1961. I was young when I watched the show, but remember being confused when my mom told me they weren’t really married. What??? Um, they slept under the same roof, and there were double beds in the bedroom to prove it. I don’t know. They just really looked into each other’s eyes. I wanted that. I remember Laura used to call Rob, “Darling” all of the time. The word just rolled off the tip of her tongue. Almost every episode ended with her sobbing, “Oh Robbbbb!” And , you know, they had that kid, Richie, but I don’t think they really loved him. He was just there.
I was at Walmart one time and I heard an older man call his wife, “Buttercup.” And she just smiled the biggest smile. They had to be in their seventies. I wanted to hang out in the aisle to see if she called him anything. I had a few I thought she would probably use, like “Dear” or “sweetheart.” Those were older terms of endearment. Actor Matthew McConaughey seems to call women, “Darlin” in some of his movies. Just like the character, Andie, in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. She used great words of endearment, such as “Benny Boo Boo,” “Sparky,” and when she tells Ben, “I love you, Binky…..but I don’t have to like you right now.” Great quote.
As I googled “terms of endearment,” I found a forum from 2003 where people were posting their terms of endearments. Some of them were quite personal. And some of them were quite funny.
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“I used to be her Chipmunk and she used to be my Angel. Now she’s that Bitch that ruined my life and I’m the Asshole who didn’t understand her or her needs.”
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“Sir….but then I have issues.”
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“He calls me “love” or “baby”–I call him “honey” or “baby.” Sometimes I’ll call him “darling” in a joking sort of way. For example: “darling, love of my life, fire of my loins… why are your dirty socks on the kitchen table?”
“I call her “sweet fart”
She calls me “duckling” (phonetically, “duck ling” means “monkey’s ass” in Thai.”
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“I call her “my little pumpkin”…or kumquat…or other fruit. Or “My love” or “honey” or “Blender”
She calls me “dearest” or “Stud.”
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“After calling him a doodle bug once, he called me a rhinoceros beetle.”
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In a pinch? Don’t know what to call your true love? It should just really roll off the tip of your tongue. You can try:
Angel, Daddy, Angel Face, Boo, Apricot, Babe, Peaches, Baby Cakes, Baby Doll, Baby, Beautiful, Bella, Honeybun, Cutie Patootie, Dumpling, Doll, Sweet Cheeks, Snuggle Bunny, Hon, Sugar, Princess, Snookums, Cupcake, SweetHeart, Pumpkin, Sunshine, Muffin, Precious, and if you have no brain, Cuddly Wuddly.
So, yeah, Valentine’s Day is just around the corner. Buy your love a gift. Oh, it doesn’t have to be much, because in the end, it is all about love. Just love. Hand the little token of love to her/him and add a little term of endearment.
I love getting up early on Saturdays to visit blogs. I usually read blogs under the “Humor” or “Personal” topics, but I also love looking through photography blogs. What talent people possess. So, while I was looking at various titles to see which one to read next, I came across one entitled, “Six Word Saturday.” Intrigued, I clicked on it and next thing you know, I’ve decided to sign up myself. Like I don’t have anything else to do. But, I figure since Pinterest has decided that I don’t have the right password and must get a new invite (I don’t think so), I have time to write on Saturdays. I am Pinterestless. So, here is my first little post for Six Word Saturday:
I’m Glad I Have a Garage
The weather channel is predicting 3-5 inches of snow this afternoon and 2-4 inches tonight. I went to stupid Walmart last night for provisions, and headed home. I usually torture myself and visit Walmart on Saturday mornings, after getting gas and a trip for money at the bank. I’m in such a rut. But, after watching the radar at school yesterday, I thought I might be snowed in today. I’m so glad I listened to Intuitive Vickie. She is oh so wise.
As I look outside, the very first thing that comes to mind is not how much snow is falling. I’m not afraid of snow. I hate the cold, and despise cold wind, but no, I’m glad I have a garage on days like this. For those of you who have a garage, read on. Perhaps you will appreciate your enclosed space just a little more.
When I was growing up, we always lived in the same house. We had a two car garage.
I was always covered. And that made me spoiled. When I went off to college in 1974, my little toyota, Rusty, had to sit outside. Life sucked. I never had to scrape ice off of my car. What the hell was that all about? I looked in my backseat for a scraper, as if there should be one sitting on the back floor for me. I was running late for class and there was ice on all of my windows. So, I did what every other college student with no brain did. I used my driver’s license. Those were a long four years.
After I got married, we first lived in a small garage apartment that his mom and dad just built. I said “garage” apartment, didn’t I? Well, um, no. It was promptly filled with stuff and his brother made it into a hoarding hell workspace. So, we had to park our cars outside. When we built our house in 1992, I felt like the princess I was supposed to be. I never had to scrape my car again. So, for seventeen years, I had a dry, warmish place to put my car.
Well, life doesn’t always go the way you want it to, and the next thing you know, you are divorced, and more importantly, garageless. That is what really hurt. Since we lived on 13 acres with a pool, pond, and a expansive landscapes to tend to, I did not want to keep the house. My ex-husband did enjoy being a slave to the property, so he bought me out and I thought it would be smart to move back to where it all started. That little garage apartment was sitting, vacant. I was sure my in-laws, who I am positive loved me more than Magoo (can’t drive worth a shit moniker) I really didn’t know what I wanted to do. Did I want to buy a house or a townhouse? Did I want to stay in my city that I was not fond of to begin with, and move elsewhere. So, my inlaws agreed, my husband painted and put in cool lighting fixtures, and pushed my out of my garage on January 1, 2009. Ahhhhhh.
My new life after 25 years of marriage was liberating and I was as happy as a clam. But, it was January and one morning I noticed ice on my car windows. What the hell is this shit? It’s funny, but I looked in the backseat of my Santa Fe, once again expecting a scraper to be sitting on the floor, smiling at me. I thought I had one in case I got stuck out somewhere. I thought it was with my umbrella that was not there. I had to use a Phil Collins CD to scrape my windows. Sorry Phil. To paraphrase one of your songs, this was not “another day in paradise.” Oh, no, dammit, where is my tiara? My spoiled princess status was once again revoked.
I lived in the garage apartment from January 2009 until October of 2011. Garageless. What’s worse, is that I had steps to the upstairs apartment to keep clear of snow and ice on top of not having a garage. It just sucked. I used to take a broom and sweep off the snow on the car. One day, while talking out loud, cursing my want of a garage, I took the broom, trying to make one big swoom from the front of the roof of the car to the back, but I kept going, right down to the ground. I injured my shoulder in the process. I just flew with the broom right onto my right side. I laid in the 7 inches of snow we had, and just laughed. Help. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.
Well, I did get up, but couldn’t do a thing with my right arm for weeks. Putting on a bra was an Olympic event. I didn’t go to the doctor because, well, I hate waiting rooms with a passion. So, I suffered in silence. Ha. I whined every chance I got. It was worse when it rained. I knew that my umbrella was in the car. Now, that really sucks. And on hot hot hot August days, flesh from the palms of my hands would be left on the steering wheel.
When I decided to look at a townhouse this past August, I walked around with the real estate agent, and smiled when he took me down to the garage. I sighed. “Awwww, a garage.” I was in love. The real estate agent thought I was a loon, I am sure.
So, I followed him back down to his office and put a deposit down on the place. I have been there since October 1, and love my little garage. I am back to being a tiara wearing princess, abeit older, maybe more like Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, but a princess nonetheless.
Ahhhhh, no more scraping ice with Phil Collin's CD
So, even if you just have a car port, or a detached garage and have to walk from there to your house, don’t protest. It is covered.
I don’t know about this grading scale crap. I think we need to all get together and decide on one scale that is uniform. I mean, in elementary school, if a kid gets a 64%, he gets a loser D. But, if he later enrolls at a particular college and gets a 64% because he is still a loser, but now a loser frat boy, then he will get an F. That is really going to confuse him. More than figuring out what is a vowel and what is a consonant.
Our grading scale at most elementary schools is as follows:
90-100=A
80-90=B
70-80=C
60-70=D
0-60=F
I often wondered why there is no E on the grading scale. My mom used to say that I should get an “E for effort.” That sure made me feel good. It’s about as good as my husband telling my daughter that, “College isn’t for everyone.” But, why skip a letter? There is no E, yet we have a sixty point range for F-ers. (F-ers…That made me laugh.) I’m wondering if F really does stand for “failure,” like I grew up thinking. They can’t use the E because kids would maybe get confused and think they were doing something “Excellent.” But, one could say the same for an “F.” It could mean “fantastic.”
When I was in high school, we had numbers for our grading scale. Brooke High was a pretty progressive school. The following is our numbers with the letter equivalents:
5=A
4=B
3=C
2=D
1=F
I bet some of you were confused. A lot of people think that a “1″ should mean ”You are number 1!” You would think that it would be on top. People wear a huge number 1 on their hand at football games. That’s a good thing. But, when you get a “1″ on a report card, that is bad. Life sucks.
Afterall, one is the loneliest number. It can be a loser number. Like when you go to a restaurant by yourself and they call your name. “Loser, party of one.” Ok, so I heard that at Dirty Dicks restaurant when I was at Myrtle Beach. Still makes me laugh.
I don’t think many high schools used this numeral formula. It was weird thinking in any terms but numbers. So, when I went off to college, and had to deal with letters and a different grading scale, I was confused, and pissed.
“Excuse me, Dr. StupidHead, but I should have received an A for British Lit. My average was a 92%.”
“Ms. Mendenhall, did you not read my syllables and general information at the beginning of the term? An “A” is 93%-100%.”
The hell you say? Well, hell no, I didn’t read your first day bullshit, Dr. Worm. I had sorority parties to attend. Don’t you professors know that we students have a lot on our plates? You should have just told us the first day of school. We don’t read what we absolutely do not have to read. You should know that, dammit.
Another thing that I just don’t know how I feel about is the whole A+ stuff. If a student gets a 100%, they would most likely get a big ole A+ on their paper. But, isn’t that for above and beyond. If you get a perfect paper, isn’t an A sufficient? I don’t give many pluses. Oh, I might if they have a 79%. I may give the student a C+, since it is oh so close to a B. But, I rarely give A+’s.
Some parents are quite concerned with grades. Maybe just a little too much. You have no idea how upset they get if their child gets a “B.”
“I don’t understand, because my Johnny has always received straight A’s. We just don’t understand why all of a sudden he is getting a B.”
My make believe Johnny is just an amalgam of all the students I have each year. Oh, most of the parents are wonderful. Their children are wonderful. But, I get a knot in my stomach when it is time for parent teacher conference, so I think I am going to change my grading scale just to mess with them. They will not be able to figure out if their child is doing well or not. They won’t be able to blame me for anything, because they will have no idea what the hell is going on.
I have reconfigured the grading scale to use with my fourth graders. I believe that hard work is the only way to truly judge how a child is doing in my classroom. So, he will be graded on effort.
E = Effort
If the child receives an E on his report card, it means that he is showing enough effort to receive an effort.
EE=enough effort
If the child receives an EE on his report card, it means that he is showing enough effort.
EM=Embryo effort
If the child receives an EM on his report card, it means that he is just learning a skill, and is still at this stage, while others may be at another level, depending on their birth date. If your child is younger than 50% of the class, his effort may be younger.
EL=Elastic effort
If the child receives an EL on his report card, it means that the effort is elastic. He moves ahead and he moves behind. He is showing an effort, even though it may be embryonically elastic.
EF=Effusive effort
If a child receives an EF on his report card, it means that his effort is effusing.
EMB=Embolism
If a child receives an EMB on his report card, it means that some obstacles stand in his way, yet through effort he may be able to work through the obstruction. The effort is effusing, through elasticized endeavors.
EA=Eager effort
If a child receives an EA on his report card, it means that he is very eager about his effort. His effort is effusingly eager.
After I give them a copy of the new rules, I think I will start off with a quote that they will be able to digest later when they get home. It is from one of the brightest men of our time, Mr. Dan Quayle:
“If we don’t succeed, we run the risk of failure”
Yeah, that should screw with them for a few hours. Another thing I could do is talk about their child’s poor poor grades, and then say, “Oh, wait a minute. I’ve got another student’s records. Ok, here are your son’s.” And so a couple of “B’s” won’t sound so bad, compared to the previous 2 “D’s” and the rest “C’s” loserville.
I was about seven years old (circa 1963) when I saw my first commercial for Slinky. I looked at my brother, David, and back to the television. I wanted to make sure someone else was watching this. Oh Dear God, I had to have this. I memorized the catchy song title and almost remember all of the words to this day:
What walks down stairs
alone or in pairs
and makes a slinkity sound
A spring! A spring!
A marvelous thing
Everyone knows its Slinky!
It’s Slinky! It’s Slinky!
For fun, it’s a wonderful toy!
It’s fun for a girl and a boy!
It’s fun for a girl and a boy!
Oh, yeah, I was sooo getting one. The next Friday night, my dad took us to over to the Weirton shopping center to hang out. That’s what he did every Friday night. It was “Dad and the Kids Night So Mom Can Have a Moment to Reflect Night.” It was fun. I’d usually get a 45 record at Grants, and then we would head to the Village Dairy and get a two scoop ice cream. Fun times.
Well, it looked like the Weirton Grants was pretty progressively prompt. There it was! Slinky was looking right at me. It said it was a walking spring toy. It even had directions on the side of the box in case you had no brain:
TO WALK SLINKY DOWN STAIRS: Place Slinky on top stair. Grip the top coil and flip it forward toward the lower step while quickly releasing. Watch as Slinky begins to walk down the stairs-all by itself!
Well, this is no fun
Well, I laugh now. These were directions for an idiot. Because they knew anyone who would by coil and watch it walk down stairs is either stupid or has no life. But, hey, this was for kids and I need to get my “kid hat” on. I wear it most days, anywho, but really, think about it. It’s sort of a stupid toy. But, when I was seven, it was the berries. (I’m even talking like I’ve returned to my youth).
I will continue with the idiot directions.
TO PLAY WITH SLINKY IN YOUR HANDS: Hold the two end coils of Slinky with both hands. Next, raise and lower each hand in a rhythmic motion.
You know, you can screw up those directions. They never said to hold them with the palm of your hands pointing upwards. I just took my new purchase (for picture taking purposes only, you know) and held the Slinky in my hands with my palms facing each other, moving my each hand up and down. If anyone did that, they would really look like their elevator didn’t go up to the top floor. Their directions for that just sucked.
It's a hamster tunnel
Well, I didn’t have to beg my dad much because I had started on the Slinky want for five days. I sort of reminded myself of that little cartoon dog who always hung out with the giant bulldog, Spike. “Can I , Spike? Can I? Hey, Spike? Can I, Spike?” Repeat, repeat, repeat.
Well, I got the Slinky home and played with it for hours. It really went down the stairs. Then I found out stuff about it that wasn’t on the directions. Your sister could hold one end and you could stretch it with the other hand, lie it on the floor, and have your hamster walk through it. We stayed absolutely still, as we didn’t want the retracting coil to cut off his little hamster feet. That was probably a REALLY stupid thing to do. Annie did ok. She seemed to like it, as she stayed in the middle of it and peed. She must have felt like home.
All in all, Slinky was a wonderful toy, It was fun for a girl and a boy. For a while. There’s only so many things you can do. I mean, after it goes down the steps a few hours the first day, the excitement fades. How many times can you get excited about this?
“Hey, Mom, watch Slinky go down the stairs……again?” I did throw it down the stairs once to see if it would elongate and look cool. It was fun, only because my brother David came around the corner in the basement at the same time and it hit him in the stomach. I cracked up.
We did a lot of things with Slinky we shouldn’t have. I personally liked wearing it as a boa. Sometimes two of us would ride our bikes with the training wheels and each hold an end while riding down the street. The directions should probably have read: MENDENHALL KIDS-DO NOT LEAVE THIS TOY OUT IN THE RAIN. DO NOT PLAY WITH THIS IN THE BATHTUB. DO NOT USE AS A THREE STOOGES WEAPON.
One of my favorites games to play when I was little was Button Button, Who’s Got the Button? It was a pretty easy game to play. It didn’t matter how many kids were playing. And all you needed was a penny. When I first started playing the game, I was OCD about using a button, because, well, as in the title, someone was asking for a damn button. But, after using about ten buttons that my mom sort of needed, I was told if I ever used a button again, my name would be Mud. Which in mom speak meant I would be getting “The Belt.” So, I used a shiny penny instead.
The object of Button Button, Who’s Got the Button is an easy one. The game was usually played by several children and one adult. I wish someone would have told my mom that, because we all took turns being the “adult.” The children start by sitting on the bottom stair of a staircase. We played on my front porch steps. If it was raining, we used my basement steps. It was a pretty flexible game. So, again, the kids are sitting at the bottom of the steps. The adult (Me, at the old age of eight, perhaps) would hold out in front of them two closed hands, with one holding a “special” button hidden inside of it. I would ask, “Button, Button, who’s got the button?
For example, let’s pretend that my neighbor friends and siblings were sitting side by side on the bottom step. LeeAnn, Ramaine, Cheryl, and David. I would put my hands behind my back, and put the penny in one of them and then hold it out in front of LeeAnn. “Button Button, Who’s Got the Button?” She would then pick one of my hands. If she was right, she would get to move up one step. Then I would go to Ramaine, etc. etc. Whoever got to the top of the steps won and then they would get to be the leader.
This was such a fun game. For a while. One day, two of the neighbor girls, who were older and never played with us, wanted to join in the fun on summer afternoon. Well, how cool was that? I ran into the house and asked my mom if she would make Kool-Aid for all of us. She obliged and added cookies to the mix. This was going to be a great day.
Well, Linda, (not her real name) one of the older girls asked to be the leader. Of course, you can be the leader. We all squeezed on the bottom step and began to play. The other older girl, Kathy,(again, not her name) picked the right hand first thing. She got to advance up a step. I was next. Loser. David picked the right hand, as did my sister. Lee Ann and I were left behind in the dust. I dont think my bff Ramaine was there this particular day.
It was amazing how Kathy picked the right hand every time. Wow! She was so lucky. She quickly won. My mom then had us come in the house to have Kool-Aid and whoopie pies. Those older girls were going to want to play with us all of the time. My mom’s whoopie pies were the best cookie in the world. It was great how she was making them the very same day that Linda and Kathy decided to play with us.
So, after we got done eating, it was Kathy’s turn to be the leader. I was doing a bit better this time and was able to move up a little bit here and there. Linda was getting them right every time. She was almost at the top, when my brother, who was just coming out of the house, stopped and watched the fun, and then exclaimed, “You are cheating!” My little brother did not just say that. Did I just hear him tell the two older, beautiful popular girls that they were cheating? I was ready to get off the bottom step and run past everyone to tell my mom that David was going to make those girls want to quit and go home.
The girls looked at each other and then started laughing. They dropped the penny and looked us over and then Linda said, “This is such a baby game………….. We just came over here because your mom and my mom were talking on the phone and said she was making whoopie pies. We wanted some…….We’re leaving.”
And off they went with an air of superiority, munching on one of my mom’s world famous whoopie pies. I just wanted to cry. It’s funny, but we just sat quietly and watched them saunter down the street. They would turn around in the middle of the road, and laugh every couple of yards or so. I was so mad. I just wanted to throw rocks at them.
Well, Button, Button, Who’s Got the Button was put on the back burner for a long time. We switched to Mother, May I, or Colored Eggs. We saved Button, Button for our rainy day fun.
At least we knew on a rainy day we could play the “baby” game on my basement steps. The older girls couldn’t see us and we wouldn’t have to share whoopie pies with them ever again.
I skipped a decade or so but taught my children how to play Button Button, Who’s Got the Button on my old steps while visiting my parents. We had an inside staircase at the home we just built, but I wanted to initate this fun game where I learned to play. I explained the rules and talked about how much fun it would be. I got a real button from my mom’s decades- of-grand- button- collecting- collection, and we began to play. Adam won quickly and was able to be the leader. I sat down, sort of excited to share this wonderful game with my children.
Button, Button, I've got freakin Buttons
Adam put his hands behind his back, and put them out in front of his sister. One of his hands was out in front of the other. She picked it, and the damn hand held the button. He was lucky if he was six years old and already figured out how to cheat. I just looked at him. He was laughing.
I had a huge argument years ago with a girl over our first names. It was while I was attending college, circa 1976. We were in a bar, so you know how drunken conversations can take an ugly turn. Especially when there is name calling.
I was standing in a crowded pub, creatively called, The Pub, minding my own business, when I heard someone yell, “Vickie!!” Well, since that is my name, I obviously looked to see who was calling for me. I had no idea who the person was, but I was on my second beer, so maybe it was my best friend. You first need to understand that I was what they call a “cheap date.” I would start giggling after only 1/2 of a beer, so it didn’t take much for me to become the self-proclaimed life of the party. If I had more than three beers, and a microphone was nearby, I would become a comedian. I hang my head in embarrassment now. But, on that night, I became a drunken trial attorney. I am sure that is the best kind of trial lawyer. I argued my drunken case to the point where I was ready to take the LSAT the very next day.
Well, another “Vickie” went over and hugged the person who was yelling my name. How cool! Another person with my name. I wonder if we are related. Ok, now you should understand by that comment that I may have had more than 1/2 beer. I guess the next day it would have made more sense if our LAST names were the same, duh. But, when she walked by me, I decided to say something.
“I heard him yell for you. My name is Vickie, too.”
Well, hell, I never personally knew anyone with my first name. I went to a high school with over 2,000 students, and not one of them was named Vickie. Oh wait. That’s a lie. I can now think of two right off the top of my head. Well, that night, I thought I was the only one in the universe who had that first name. I was so excited. She seemed excited, too. She answered me with a sweet smile.
“Cool. How do you spell your name? I spell mine V-I-C-K-I.”
“I spell mine V-I-C-K-I-E.”
“Why? That sounds stupid.” Obviously, she had more than 1/2 beer also. I was shocked that she could say that with a smile. And, also, how can the same name “sound” stupid? What an idiot. And to think she called me “stupid.” Well, she was stupider.
I had some hard ass sorority sisters nearby. I wasn’t afraid of this stranger who shared my name. I’d have backup. Let the name calling begin, Vicki bitch.
“Stupid? Your name looks like you forgot how to spell the rest of it, because you have no brain, and you just quit writing it. V-I-C-K-I is incomplete.”
“Vicki Lawrence spells it with just an “i”. Is that the best you got? It was my turn.
“Well, then, she is stupid. She is just a sidekick to Carol Burnett. She only got the job because she looked a little like Carol Burnett. If she spelled her name with an “e”, she would have her own show.” I thought that was a brilliant retort.
Well, once drunks get in a confrontation, it’s hard to tell where the conversation ends up. We bantered back and forth for a short while, but realized that there really isn’t too much of an argument, unless you get off topic. I could have easily commented on her poor choice of earth shoes and painter pants. She could have commented on how beautiful I was. Or something like that. But, luckily, we ran out of steam and started making fun of how the “other” Vickie’s/Vicki’s would spell their name. I started.
I asked her if she was ever called, “Picky Vicky.” I hated that name, mainly because, well, I was picky. It would make sense in an argument that since “picky” is spelled with a “y”, then the name should end that way. We both thought that was an ugly adaptation of our name.
Then there was M-I-C-K-E-Y, as in the mouse. Why wasn’t our name spelled like that? V-I-C-K-e-Y. Later on, my husband used to call me “Vickey Rooney,” after the actor, Mickey Rooney. We both thought that was wrong also.
After we hugged and laughed off our three minute round, she went off to dance on the table and I went home to pass out study, I woke up remembering why I hate for people to write anything but, V-I-C-K-I-E. The stupid nuns at the Sacred Heart of Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy were to blame. As I mentioned in several previous posts, I attended that private school for the first three grades, and hated every minute of it.
First of all, the crazy head nun, Sister Maria, insisted on calling me Victoria, despite my objections. I got in trouble for trying to correct her.
“Little girl, your correct name is Victoria. “Vickie” is a nickname……….I don’t care what your mom says. “Vickie” is short for Victoria.”
Well, ok, then, witch. I hated Sister Maria and I knew it is wrong to wish bad things on her, but I hoped bad things would happen to her. Not death, mind you. I was only in third grade. I was thinking more like her walking and simply falling down. Yep. I wanted to see the nun fall down. Besides being a teacher, Sister Maria also drove the van/bus to pick up some of the students in the morning. One morning, a driver hit the side of our van. It’s weird, but I looked to see if Sister Maria was hurt before I noticed I had a big gash through my leotards. Dammit, she was ok. The police came and they asked for all of the names of the passengers in the van. The next morning, there was a write-up in the newspaper. My name was listed as one of the injured.
“…….and Victoria Mendenhall, 9, of Weirton……”
Whaaat? It honestly pissed me off. My name was in the newspaper, and it wasn’t really my name. Sister Maria told them my name was Victoria. I never hated her more than when I read my misprint in the newspaper. She was never going to call me anything but Victoria. So, I decided to be a smart ass from then on. I started the very next day when I got on the bus.”
“Good morning, Victoria.” she said when I got on the stupid bus/van.
“Good morning, Sister Mary.” She didn’t say anything, but gave me a very dirty look. I was dead.
I called her Sister Mary for a few weeks, when suddenly, out of the blue, a miracle occurred. A miracle, I tell ya.
“Vickie, did you have a nice weekend?” I just nodded and went on my way. Wow. I did it! I got her to start calling me Vickie instead of Victoria. I felt so powerful.
It wasn’t until a year later, far far away from the Sacred Heart of Mary Juana Academy, safely enrolled in public school, that I heard my mom talking to a neighbor lady during their daily coffee/cigarette marathon. I had settled in my eavesdropping hiding place, ready to listen to some mom gossip.
“No, don’t send him there. My kids went there for a few years until last year. I had enough of the head nun, Sister Maria. Vickie was coming home in tears almost daily because Sister Maria kept calling her Victoria. I finally called the school and told her that I should know what I named my daughter, and if Vickie comes home one more time and tells me you have called her Victoria, I will pull my children from your school and I will make some phone calls about how you have treated my daughter. Do I make myself clear?”
Wow. My mom went on blabbing, but I had heard enough. I could feel the air leaking out of my balloon swelled head as I walked into my room.
Years later, before my freshman year in high school, my mom, brother, sister, bff Ramaine and I were in a terrible car accident. I had hit my head on the back seat after a Mack truck hit us from behind and we flew head-on into a car coming in the opposite direction. I had blood flowing from my head and from my ankle, but still managed to talk to the ambulance driver person. I’m sure it was the concussion talking.
“My name is Vickie. It is spelled V-I-C-K-I-E…… Do you think my name will be in the newspaper?”
glass Vickie balls
Fast forward many years. I have divorced and have just purchased a new townhome. I am feeling liberated. I took back my maiden name and the sound of it makes me feel independent and free. I am happy. But, as I look around at new purchases, I had to smile. I must like my name.
55 years old and I'm collecting blocks...um, ok.
In the end, one needs to feel comfortable in their own skin. They need to be proud of who they are and defend their name.
Literally.
Set your drink on these lovely monogrammed coasters
I want to thank you for giving me your antique chinese sewing basket when you passed away. I have had it for over 35 years and have treasured its contents. I have looked through the basket numerous times over the years, with love and admiration, but have a few questions that I would like to ask you.
Aunt Elizabeth, your chinese sewing basket is filled with handkerchiefs. They are so lovely. They are neatly folded, still crisp and clean, waiting to be used. You can tell they have been loved. Some are linen, faded with age. Some have handmade embroidery with your name, Elizabeth, sewn so meticulously. It looks like you took great pains to make sure the loops around the edge of the light green handkerchief were identical.
Yes, neat and crisp like the day you bought them, I wonder if the sewing was for yourself or for a young man that you admired? With Valentine’s Day approaching, I wonder if you used a particular handkerchief to make a great first impression? I am betting it is the pretty pink one. It is dainty and I swear I can still smell a faint scent of a perfume. I am sure it is my imagination.
Elizabeth, did you leave your monogrammed handkerchief behind so a certain young man would have to return it to you? Did your handkerchief bring you love? Did a love end, perhaps, and the man dabbed the tears in the corner of your eye with one of your exquisite beauties? I know, looking at them, intently, makes me want to cry.
I was told that your soldier love did not come back from war. That you never married. You never had children. Over the years, did you spend time looking through your chinese sewing basket, picking up each handkerchief, and remembering? I am sorry you lost your love. How sad that you never found love again. Oh, perhaps you did. There may be a handkerchief in your basket that may hold the key. I bet it is the white one with the multi-colored lace. Aunt Elizabeth, there is a man’s handkerchief in your basket. It is small, and has yellowed with age. Was it your soldiers? Did you hold it close to your heart as you sat at his funeral? And did you use one of your handkerchiefs, or many of them, to wipe the tears that fell from your eyes when you heard the news that he was killed in battle? I’m sorry I am asking so many questions. I feel that these beautiful handkerchiefs are looking at me, wanting me to know their stories.
I am so truly sorry for your loss. I hope that when I visited you when I was little, that I made you laugh. My mom told me that you asked to adopt me. That makes me smile now, because I was the one who put your cat in the dumb waiter. I blamed it on my brother, David. I can’t remember your cat’s name, but I do think he enjoyed the trip up to the third floor.
I wish I was old enough at the time to understand what you have been through over the years. I would have given you many more hugs and kisses. And I would have just told you that I accidentally broke your tea cup instead of hiding it under the cushion of your couch in your parlor. A small child should be properly monitored when in such a beautiful victorian home. And you lived in it all by yourself. The house had an echo to it. I want to cry because I think that you were quite sad and lonely. Perhaps I am wrong. I do hope so.
Did you ever think that back in 1924, when you invented the facial tissue, that you were killing off the art of using a handkerchief and most likely taking love with it? Yes, that’s right. I believe you killed prospects of love with your new fangled invention. With Valentine’s Day approaching, a holiday that I despise, I’ve come to the conclusion that you may be to blame for many a potential love match that never happened. Yes, you. The invention of the disposable white tissue changed the way men and women interacted.
You see, Mr. Kleenex man, the handkerchief was created at first, solely as a symbol of beauty and status. It is even more pertinent to mention that handkerchiefs were also traditionally associated with love. During medieval days, handkerchiefs were given to knights by ladies to wear during tournaments as a type of good luck token. A fair maiden may have given an embroidered handkerchief to a knight she liked to bring victory in battle and as a sign that she supported his knightly aspirations. A fine lacy handkerchief was not put away in a pocket, but held in the hand or draped daintily across the arm. A handkerchief was also used to get attention. “Yoohoo,” was yelled sweetly, while waving the handkerchief. “Yoohoo, sailer boy.” Well, something like that. But, not anymore. People don’t wave Kleenex. Women don’t leave a Kleenex behind in hopes that the guy they are talking to will return it the next day. Uh, not going to happen.
Sometimes, Mr. Kleenex man, handkerchiefs were also used to signal the start of an event, with an important person signaling the start by dropping a handkerchief. In the movie, Grease, Cha Cha DiGregorio, started the car race scene by bringing down the handkerchief. And if I may back up again, in the medieval era, they were used in the jousting competition. But, I’m not talking about jousting or car races, Mr. K., I’m talking about love. And you took it away when you invented Kleenex and women put their handkerchiefs away in their chinese sewing baskets. No more could a lady deliberately leave behind their monikered hanky, smelling of sweet lilac. Of course, the young man would most likely have returned it. And then they would fall in love. How many people are now missing that opportunity because you invented a disposable handkerchief? You killer of love.
Maybe it’s just me, but isn’t the card game, Old Maid, just a little politically incorrect these days? I mean, I couldn’t care less, but aren’t we making fun of an older lady who has never married or had children? The shame. Another name for an old maid is a spinster.
The card game has been around for many, many years. The origins of Old Maid trace back to the 17th century. It started off as a gambling game, where the loser had to buy drinks, because it got stuck holding the last card. The old maid. The woman who was depicted as a frumpy, bird or cat owner, who wore glasses and a very ugly hat.
The game begins with players trying to form pairs out of all of their cards until someone—the loser—is left with the lonely, spinster old maid.
I remember playing Old Maid. I played it often, along with Go Fish and War. But, Old Maid, sort of made me sad, because of what my mom told me one time when we were playing.
“Did you know that your Aunt Elizabeth was an Old Maid?” I just looked at her. I really didn’t understand what was going on. I mean, I was playing a freaking card game. I was a kid. I never gave it a thought back in circa 1964 that the card with a sweet old lady was my Aunt Elizabeth.
I honestly thought that an old maid was a woman who was like a nanny. She cleaned and took care of people’s homes, like a maid. But, she was more than a house cleaner. She was like a grandma. And that’s what an old maid was. But, my mom was obviously going to explain to me something completely different, I feared. And I really didn’t want to hear it.
“Aunt Elizabeth was supposed to marry someone when she was younger. He was a soldier and he never came home from the war.”
I just looked at her.
“Was she mad at him?”
My mom was confused. “No. Why would she be mad at him?”
“Because he never came home. Where did he go to live then?” Legitimate question coming from the skinny girl on the other side of the table.
Well, my mom explained it to me, and I just really didn’t want to finish the game after I heard the whole story. I made an excuse, and went into my room and cried. Poor Aunt Elizabeth. She lived all the way out in Spokane Washington, and I had only met her a few times, but the story was so sad. She used to send letters to my mom and would always include a clipping of the comic strip, “Family Circus.”
So, I haven’t been happy with the whole “Old Maid” game after that. The next time someone wanted to play, I took a deck of my dad’s regular cards and took the jokers out and left one in so it didn’t have a match. There. That was our new Old Maid.
Over the years, I always came in contact with an old maid or two. The character of Miss Havisham, in Charles Dicken’s, “Great Expectations.” was an old maid. She hung out in the reception hall, clad in her wedding dress, sitting at the table with the ever so old cake, still on the table. That freaked me out. Especially when rats were involved.
The song, Delta Dawn, by Helen Reddy, was about a woman who was walking around with a suitcase, waiting for the guy who dumped her. She was an old maid, but she was also crazy as a loon, just like Miss Havisham. She walked around Brownsville with a faded rose from days gone by.
And Wikipedia mentions “famous spinsters.” Can you believe it? Some mentioned are are Susan B. Anthony, Ann Coulter, (which cracked me up for some odd reason), Condalezza Rice, Emily Dickinson, Florence Nightingale, Greta Garbo, Louisa May Alcott, Emily Bronte, and Jane Austen. Sound like all strong, independent women to me.
My favorite “spinster” is Miss Prissy Hen, from the Foghorn Leghorn cartoon, although there is some mention of her maybe being a widow. Nevertheless, they dress her in an ugly hat and put glasses on her, just like the Old Maid picture on the playing card. Well, except that she is a bird.
When George Bailey, in It’s a Wonderful Life, sees his life like he wasn’t born, he runs into Mary, the librarian, who is an old maid.
Bette Davis, played an old maid in the movie, The Old Maid.
So, I was thinking, why not change the whole “Old Maid” scenario to “Old Geezer?” There are a lot of men who never get married or have children. I think it is time to make fun of them for a change. This Old Maid crap has been going on too long. So, let’s get a picture of a guy who will fit the part. How about…..Mr. Burns?
You know, I don’t know the answer. When my kids were little, we played Old Maid. It was just a game. My kids never wondered about the name or what the hell it meant.
I received this award from Mr. Tinney, one of my new blogging neighbors. The great thing about awards is how you get to visit the other nominee’s blogs, etc. etc., and the next thing ya know, you aren’t washing the dishes or vacuuming anymore, because you can’t step away from their recent blog posts. I love this place.
Ok, I have to complete the following:
1. In a post on your blog, nominate 10 fellow bloggers for The Versatile Blogger Award.
2. In the same post, add the Versatile Blogger Award.
3. In the same post, thank the blogger who nominated you in a post with a link back to their blog.
4. In the same post, share 7 completely random pieces of information about yourself.
5. In the same post, include this set of rules.
6. Inform each nominated blogger of their nomination by posting a comment on each of their blogs.
ok, #2, check. #3, check.
#4. 7 random pieces of information.
1. I went to Disney World by myself to see if I can travel by myself. I figured if I could go to the one place where a solo traveler rarely goes and not feel lonely, I could go anywhere
2. I have never had cheesecake. Ever.
3. I once watched a snapping turtle try to dig a hole for hours to deposit her eggs. Seeing that she wasn’t getting too far, I went out and dug a hole right by her and she moved over and used that hole. (I can feel a new blog post coming on..lol)
4. I once owned a guinea pig named Quincy Bozo and a skunk named Thumper.
5. I cut my own hair. Because I am stupid.
6. I once purposely put gum in my hair to see if peanut butter really took it out.
So, I just got back from stupid Walmart, and I made a few purchases for myself that may seem strange. Even the check-out lady asked me, “Aw, I remember these. Are they for your grandchildren?”
“No. I don’t have grandchildren yet.” That sort of pissed me off. Fifty-five year old people are too young to have grandchildren. And besides, I don’t look a day over thirty. My class tells me that all of the time, so I know it to be true.
“Oh, you’re a teacher?” Nib shit wanted an answer. I was in the mood to mess with her.
“No. They are for me……I never was allowed to play with toys when I was little……. I can afford them now.” I tried to deliver the line like Bob Newhart, my idol, with a hint of Ellen DeGeneres, my other idol. The man behind me in line cracked up. Ahhh, someone in this town understands snark.
Anyway, I brought home a fun game of my youth: Barrel of Monkeys. I guess you knew that was coming by my title. Can’t fool you guys. I wanted to write a blog post on games we baby boomers played, but thought, “Why, hell, Vickie, buy the damn thing, and take pictures of how stupid you look playing with it.”
Inspiration for my next blog post
For those of you who don’t know what the hell I am talking about, Barrel of Monkeys is a game that was brought to store shelves by Lakeside Toys in 1965. I guarantee you that I had this as soon as it came out. I was nine years old and my mom bought anything in sight in order to find something that would keep me occupied for more than 20 seconds. It’s hard to entertain hyperactive Mexican jumping beans.
Apparently, the idiom, “more fun than a barrel of monkeys,” was the inspiration for the game. I just really don’t understand how people start idioms, because why would monkeys shoved in a barrel be fun? I mean, wouldn’t the damn monkeys be so claustrophopic and pissed to high hell, that when released from the barrel, would start attacking and perhaps chew someone’s face off or something? So, to me, “more fun than a barrel of monkeys” should be a sarcastic remark, to be used, for example, at say, Grandpa’s funeral.
“Well, this is more fun than a barrel of monkeys.” See, makes sense.
Years ago, sometime during the 1950′s, Dave Garroway, host of The Today Show, asked, “What’s more fun than a barrel of monkeys?” A huge barrel was rolled out onto the stage. Garroway released them and they climbed the curtains, ran out into the audience, climbed on top of the cameras, and just generally wrecked havoc on the set. See, once again, sarcastic idiom. Monkeys in a barrel are not flippin fun.
So, fast forward to 2012. I opened up the barrel, all excited, because I have not played with the little plastic simians since my children played with it for ten minutes when they were young. And it was for that long, only because I just brought it home, and made them play.
“It is not boring. Look, hook the monkeys and see how many you can get………Well, they have to be in a pile or it is hard to hook their arms……It is not boring……….I played with this a LOT when I was little……………….What do you mean? I had more things to play with.”
Ok, didn’t last long. I’m sorry, but I just can’t see this being a top seller in 2012. But, I was still excited to play with it once again.I opened up the barrel to find 14 red plastic monkeys in a plastic bag. The plastic bag had warnings in 19 different languages:
“To avoid danger of suffocation, keep this bag away from babies, and children. DO NOT use in cribs, beds, carriages, or playpens.”
Found a loophole. You can put the bag on their high chair.
According to the instructions that did NOT come with the game, each game contains a “barrel” which is filled with brightly-coloured plastic monkeys with “S” shaped arms. Players must dump the monkeys on the table or other even surface and the objective of the game is to hook all the monkey’s arms together to form a chain. A player’s turn ends when the chain is broken. (I got this from their web site, as they neglected to put instructions in the barrel.)
So, what if a person from a foreign country or like, Zanesville, Ohio, opened the barrel only to find just what I did: monkeys in a plastic bag and that is all. Are they to assume that they know what the hell they are supposed to do with them?
Once out of the little barrel, what would you do with the monkeys since there were no instructions?
And the directions are where?
The monkeys would run amok, just like they did in my townhouse.
Messing with my tv, demanding to watch Planet of the Apes.
Messing with my cat, Whiskers, who roared like a lion to scare them. (No, she is not yawning. She is roaring).
They totally messed with a couple of my Words With Friends games, clicking on the ”resign” button when I was clearly beating the hell out of my opponents.
Then I caught them trying to escape, out into the Wild Wonderful West Virginia woods.
Quit flushing the toilet, you stupid monkeys.
I don’t know what the hell they were doing here, but I did find jello with bananas in the refrigerator. One of the monkeys must have decided to swim in the cherry liquid, because it is now hardened up to his neck. I promptly closed the door. (Pictures are too graphic.)
Helping themselves to some mango juice.
Attacking the cat from another angle
They got into my pill compartment thingy that I received as a gag gift for my 5oth birthday, but I use anywho. Two of the monkeys overdosed. You have no idea how hard it is to give CPR to plastic.
They got entangled in my floss and I don’t even want to know what the hell they did with my toothbrush.
Oh, that is just wrong! Get the hell out of the kitty litter box!
Ok, monkeys! That’s the last straw! No really. That’s the last straw.
I found all 14 monkeys and put them back in the barrel.
It was more fun taking pictures of them than actually playing the game. What’s fun with hooking monkey arms?
In the end, this game was great in 1965. I learned to be more patient, since I was a hyper little urchin.
But, in 2012……
it was great. Well, only if you had a camera and followed them around because there were no freaking instructions in the barrel.
Where the hell did this blue one come from?
I really did have more fun than a barrel of monkeys.
My fourth graders had to write an essay the other day on what they wanted to be when they grew up. I do this every year and it always comes out the same way. I try to keep the girls away from each other after I make the assignment, because they basically can’t think for themselves. Oh, I have one or two who know exactly what they want to be and will stand by it, but for the most part, whatever the most popular girl in class wants to be, her handmaidens want to be the same thing. This year was no exception. I made the mistake of letting the class take a bathroom break, and dammit, I am sure they all shared their lofty aspirations with each other in front of the bathroom stalls. And so it began.
“When I grow up, I want to be a veterinarian. I love animals and……………”
“I love animals, so when I grow up, I want to be a veterinarian…..”
I want to help cats and dogs when I grow up. I will go to vet school and be an animal doctor.”
“When I grow up, I want to help dogs that have been hit by a car. That’s why I want to be a vegetarian.” Well, at least that one made me smile.
I have 21 students in my class. There are thirteen girls and eight boys. Most of the boys wrote that they wanted to be a soldier. I had one exterminator. Besides the veterinarian girls, I also had one teacher, one pediatrician, and one that just stunned me. One of my brightest students wrote:
“When I grow up, I would love to work at a carnival. It would be fun to set up rides and learn how to make the rides start and stop. It would be fun to see everyone having fun. I wouldn’t want to work at the game booths, though. The stuffed animals you win smell like wet hay and you would have to stand up all night. If I took the tickets and started and stopped the rides, I could sit down a lot. And that’s why I want to be a carnival worker.”
Um, okay. Wow. I was shocked. So she wants to be a carny. Of course, kids change what they want to be when they grow up a hundered times. I told the kids to take the essays home to give to their parents to put away until they graduated from high school. I hope reading what they wrote in fourth grade makes them smile. It made me think of what I wanted to be when I little.
When I was very little, I wanted to be an actress when I grew up. Oh, not just any actress. I wanted to be a smoking actress. Because back then, actresses all smoked. I was sure of it. If you are an actress, you have to look the part, you know. Oh, I was styling. Most little girls play “Dress Up” when they are little, and don stuff out of their mother’s closet. Well, shit, I didn’t want to wear a house coat that snapped up the front. My mother lived in her housecoats. I don’t think any mother on the block actually got dressed each day. So, I asked for high heels, a boa, and other odds and ends for my next birthday so I could start actressing.
I was a good actress. I would say, “Dahling” a lot and would take a puff off of my cigarette. That part was a problem. I had no prop. I pretended that I had a cigarette. I knew how to pretend smoke. I watched my mother light up millions of cigarettes. I’m serious with the number, just ask my second hand smoke lungs. But, she would have the cigarette in her right hand, arm bent, with her elbow up in the air. That cigarette was in her mouth most of the time. She would inhale, and then move her hand away, like the smoke coming out on the exhale wouldn’t be able to go around her arm. I could see the smoke swirl and curl away from her. And right up my nose it went. Well, ok, I don’t know that for sure. But, in college, my Phys Ed instructor told me, “You’d be able to run around the track if you’s quit smoking.” I was pissed. I couldn’t help that I had the lung capacity of a worm. I never smoked a day in my life. Well, that’s a lie. I smoked when I was a child actress.
You see, a good actress should be able to act out a scene by either using a particular prop or pretending she is using the prop. Like, um……a cigarette. Oh, I had candy cigarettes. Those were big when I was little.
But, you know, if you are going to dress the part, you really need to act the part. And everyone knew back then that all actresses smoked. I knew that because I watched movies. Yes, all actresses smoked. And so, then, I should too.
Anyway, the candy cigarettes weren’t working. I didn’t like my working conditions. If I was going to be an actress, I need a real cigarette. So, with my boa wrapped around my neck and my clickety clickety of my plastic high heels, I waltzed into the living room and took one of my mom’s cigarettes. My dad was always behind his newspaper. He wasn’t going to notice I lifted one of my mom cigarettes.
Oh, my, did I have fun with that cigarette. Of course, I didn’t light the cigarette. Honestly, I didn’t think to light it. But, I puffed and smoked in between my “Hello Dahling’s.” My dog, Susie, sitting in the audience, loved my performance. How funny that years later I would major in Speech in Drama in college.
Oh my. Maybe my little fourth grader may be a carnival worker after all.
You know, I wonder if I am too old to be a child actress?
I’m allergic to bee stings. Like anaphylatic shock allergic. So, imagine how mad I was this week when two of my co-workers started using bee pollen to help them lose weight. Bee pollen? The hell you say!
Apparently, bee pollen is the brand new weight loss magic. And I can’t take it because I’m allergic to stupid bee stings.Wrong bees
Back in the early sixties, summertime fun included running through the grass barefoot. I couldn’t. Of course, I didn’t want to, because there was all kinds of shit in the grass, just waiting for your feet to apply pressure on it. You are probably thinking that I stepped on a bee, and that’s why I am barefoot-in-the-grass challenged. But, the answer is no. It was much more complicated than that.
To understand how I got stung, you have to understand the kind of kid I was back then, in 1962 or so. I loved animals. All animals. When my dad found a copperhead nest in our backyard and my brother, David, almost stepped on one, it left my dad no choice but to set the whole yard on fire. Ok, I’m teasing. He killed the snakes. And I cried. I just loved animals that much.
No, I got stung in a way that made my siblings make fun of me for years afterwards.
I was sitting on the wooden seat of our sandbox. A bee with long skinny, bent legs flew right by me. It scared me, because it came right out of the blue, and I didn’t know what the hell it was. So, I swatted at it, and it fell to the ground, which was the sand in the sandbox. I felt horrible! I may have killed the poor unknown creature. Upon further inspection, I saw that it was a bee. It was injured. Or so I thought. I somehow was able to scoop it up into the palm of my hand, and what I did next was best deemed as “ridiculous.” I put the bee up to my cheek and said, “Awwwww. I’m sorry!”
Bzzzzzzttttt!! The son of a bitch stung me on the cheek!
I think that I was more pissed than hurt. I mean, really? I try to hug you and you reciprocate by stinging the hell out of my little child face. Well, it didn’t take me long to realize that I was in pain. I ran inside. My younger sister followed me into the kitchen.
Mommy!!……… Vickie got stung by a bee!……………. She tried to kiss it!” Hahahahahahahaha. What a little snot.
I didn’t try to kiss it, stupid sister. I tried to hug it. Big difference.
Well, I guess some bees like to leave their calling card behind. The stinger sometimes stays with the injection of bee poison. My mom tried to take a look, tweezers nearby. But, she didn’t have time to dig the shit out of my cheek. I was having trouble breathing. Uh oh. My mom grabbed her suitcase of a purse, and me, and we flew down the steps to the garage, where her Cadillac sat waiting for a day just like today.
My mom rushed me to the hospital. Rushed was an understatement. She drove like Mario Andretti. We didn’t wear seat belts back then, so I was in quite a pickle. I was going into anaphylactic shock. I’m sure when the doctors found out that I put a bee to my cheek, they probably decided to run some other tests. I’m surprised that didn’t take me up to the fifth floor. My mom looked at me like I was retarded for a few weeks afterwards. I heard her on the telephone, talking to the neighbor ladies.
“Did you know that I had to take Vickie to the hospital? Get this. She tried to hug a wasp……..She swatted at it and it fell to the ground and she picked it up and told it she was sorry and put it up to her cheek and…..” I eavesdropped enough. I got out of my eavesdropping hiding place and went to my room.
After I got stung, I was always on the lookout for wasps. After doing some research on wasps, yellowjackets, and hornets, I read where, “Wasp stings are more painful than the sting of any yellowjacket, hornet or bee.” No shit, Sherlock. I cried. Well, I was a kid. Kid’s cry if someone looks at them wrong. But, I remember how much it hurt. But, then I forgot, because, well, my throat was closing in.
After years of searching, I found the son of a bitch that stung me.
I went to a police sketch artist and this is what he came up with after I gave detailed information on what the wasp looked like. He did a wonderful job, don’t you think? It’s an uncanny resemblance to the real culprit.
I never got stung by a wasp again. I’ve been stung by other kinds of bees over the years, and have promptly taken Benadryl and waited for my throat to close in. I did well. I think it was the wasp sting that sends me off to the hospital.
So, it brings me back to bee pollen and the want to lose some weight. My co-workers aren’t hungry and swear by the 60 capsules @ $60. Bummer. Should I take the chance and see if my body can handle the bee pollen? I went searching for answers.
“Some side effects are allergic reactions like itchy throat, wheezing, coughing, hives, and skin flushing.” Ok, I should maybe just actually try to diet and exercise, perhaps. Hives suck. I read on…
“Severe allergic responses are also possible, including anaphylactic shock.” Shit.
Well, I guess I will have to skip the bee pollen way of losing weight. I’ll have to visit the elliptical, instead, and drink a boat load of water every day.
Thinking back, I guess it wasn’t such a smart idea to try to hug a wasp.
I should have thought BEEfore I did something so unBEElievable…… Like write that previous line.
Remember the tongue twister, How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? Well, no one bothered to tell me when I was little that a woodchuck was actually a groundhog. And a ground hog was also a whistle pig. I think that the tongue twister guy had a hard time with How much wood could a ground hog chuck….. so he gave the critter a new name. But, then again, although it does live in the ground, it is not a hog. And I don’t even know what the hell a woodchuck …
So, February 2, 2012 will be Punxsutawney Phil’s 126th prognostication.
According to legend, if Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow, there will be six more weeks of winter weather. If he does not see his shadow, there will be an early spring. I wish I had the internet when I was younger, because I always wanted to know about Groundhog Day and why a groundhog got to predict the weather? I was a curious child, and I had a lot of questions. My mom was worthless. Worth. less.
“Vickie, what are you doing? …………..It is 6:00 in the morning…………….I don’t know why they don’t use a dog to predict the weather……….Vickie, why are you putting on your coat? Where are you going?…………….Susie can not predict the weather………….No, she can’t…………..No, she can’t …………….Vickie, it is snowing outside, and you are not taking Susie outside…………….She does not have to pee….No she doesn’t…………..VICKIE!!! Get back in here!……..(Pause, muttering, pause)…….Of course she didn’t see her shadow. It is dark out there…………..She almost disappeared in the snow!………..Groundhogs can’t predict the weather……..No, they can’t!…… It’s just a joke.”
Joke? A joke? Punxsutawney Phil, that Seer of Seers, Sage of Sages, Prognosticator of Prognosticators and Weather Prophet Extraordinary. He wasn’t a joke. The weather guy on tv said he was real. People went to see him. My mom just pissed me off. I wondered how far that place was away from us. I thought I would ask my dad. It was too late to do it that year, of course, since it was February 2. And Susie didn’t see her shadow. I wonder if he would take me there next year.
“Vickie, Gobbler’s Knob is on the other side of Pennsylvania and it would take 2 days by car to get there. It is just too far away.”
Well, that just sucked. What really sucked was the fact that my dad lied to me. I found that out a couple of years later in school. Our teacher told us about the time she went to Punxutawney to see the famous groundhog. It only took 2 hours to get there by car? What? I was crushed.
So, I grew up, still curious about the little rodent. I would read bits and pieces about Phil in the newspaper and watch the goofy guys pull him out of a hole, where he would speak to the president of the Groundhog Club in “Groundhogese.” This was a language only understood by the current president, who wore a top hat and a long black coat. I wondered why the groundhog rat never bit him in the face. I mean, if someone woke me up out of a deep sleep and dragged my ass out into the cold, I would probably bite his face.
After the groundhog whispers, “I saw my shadow, dip shit,” a proclamation is announced to the world.
A proclamation that is made every year. And every year I have my fourth graders write a haiku for the famous little rodent. Some of my students wrote normal haikus:
I like Groundhog Day
Are you afraid of Groundhogs?
Don’t eat me, Groundhog
~~~~~~~~~
Groundhog hit by car
Why are you stupid, Groundhog?
standing in the road.
~~~~~~~~
The famous groundhog
lives in a warm heated hole
Why come out, Groundhog?
~~~~~~~
Groundhog, please come out
But will you see your shadow?
Can I have some spring?
~~~~~~
And then there’s my favorite:
Ms. Mendenhall, why
do you like groundhogs so much?
They don’t like you. Ha!
In the end, you know people know that groundhogs don’t speak their own language. You know that they really can’t predict the weather. And what I have learned more than anything is best said in my very own haiku. You see, I performed another experiment the very next year after Susie the dog didn’t see her shadow. Not good.
Imagine my surprise when I checked my email this morning and found that I won The Prestigious 7X7 Link Award. I didn’t know what it was, but I was excited, as the last thing I won was a jar of jelly. And it was strawberry, so that pretty much sucked. Cristy Carrington Lewis, aka Paltry Meanderings of a Taller Than Average Woman, gave me the award. A recent post of Cristy’s was recently Freshly Pressed, which was exciting. I sort of feel that I know greatness, as I was the first one to post a comment when she first wrote the piece, before it was Freshly Pressed. She is a wonderful writer. I think I should have her write on my book jacket of my future Jumping in Mud Puddles book.
“Looking to reminisce about someone else’s childhood because yours sucked? Join Vickie as she explores, with plentiful humor and jocularity, her idyllic past as a fascinating, but domineering, color-inside-the-lines kind girl who hated her remedial reading group, probably has mercury poisoning from regular exposure to Mercurochrome, and was secretly-tranquilized by her mother – daily – because she was hyperactive. I thank God my mom didn’t know her mom. If she’d known she could drug me legally, I’d have slept my way through elementary school. Try not to pee your pants when you read this because, if you’re like me, your mom never remembered to send you to school with an extra pair of undies either.”
Wait. She thinks I was a domineering child? WTF? Was not. Ok, maybe she sees something I didn’t.
Anywho, there’s no statue involved, just a little bit of work. There are three things I need to do after accepting this award. It’s sort of like a pay-it-forward thingy.
Reveal 7 things you don’t know about myself that you already don’t know (Or something like that)
1. I’m a movie quoter. If you know what movie, “How ya doin little Tony?………….Bad” comes from, then you are someone I want to hang out with. My favorite quote is, “He is not the one, Steve.”
2. I think Tim Matheson is the most handsome man on the face of the earth. I would join a fan club if I wasn’t already tied up with the Steve McQueen fan club. (He be number 2) Ok, I jest. Although when I was a tween, I did belong to the Davey Jones Fan Club. I loved the Monkees. So, yeah, Tim Matheson.
3. I have only pumped my own gas maybe once in my 55 years of life. Ok, I couldn’t reach the nozzle when I was three, but yeah, I have a fear of gasoline. Trapped in a car, ready to explode, will do that to you every time.
4. I had drinks with Billy Joel. I did. I don’t think he would remember me, cuz he was absolutely smashed after his concert in West Virginia, but he did tell me some secrets, like how much he disliked Hall and Oates. Really.
5. I’m adopted and am 98% sure I have a twin. My mother was Marilyn Monroe. She stopped by Wheeling in 1956 and gave birth to me. You’d be surprised at the resemblance. I’m sure the stories are true.
6. I stepped on Joe DiMaggio’s foot- Didn’t mean to. I wanted to get my picture taken with him. So what if I didn’t have my camera that day.
7. I called one of my fourth graders a Goober today. Well, he is one.
Link seven of my posts to the following categories: Most Surprisingly Successful, Most Underrated, Most Popular, Most Beautiful, Most Helpful, Most Controversial and Most Pride-Worthy
1. Most Surprisingly Successful- Queen of Halloween Costumes…’Tis True was freshly pressed on October 15, 2010 and has garnered about 9,900 hits since then. It’s amazing how many emails I received from people who wanted me to give them specific ideas for their Halloween costumes. What a ride!
2. Most Underated- MonkeyShines It’s my favorite blog post, mainly because it is the hardest I have ever laughed in my life. I retell the story each year to my fourth graders, and cry from laughing while repeating it. It has only been read 105 times. Poor monkey.
3. Most Popular- Well, it would probably have to be when I was Freshly Pressed for the one above, but honestly, Wisdom Teeth Removal Removes Wisdom, has been very successful with google searchers. It’s been viewed 9,200 times. It’s amazing how people google this, especially after Christmas. It must be a great time to get your wisdom teeth taken out. Although, I wonder how many actually go through with it after reading this blog about my son’s adventure at the oral surgeon’s office.
4. Most Beautiful- I just don’t understand. Now I have to go searching through them all to find one that is pretty. Be right back……Ok, I don’t write beautiful blogs. I have one with a skunk, two with stupid ex husbands, and this one Well, That’s a Nice Gesture
5. Most Helpful- Oh, I have many a blog post that educates. I truly do. But, the most helpful. hmmmmm…Be right back…Old Wive’s Tales I wanted to share the stupid things parents tell their kids. I mean, I won’t have freaking potatoes growing behind my ears if I don’t wash real good. I mean, come on.
6. Most Controversial- Oh, that’s so easy. I have two. Am I allowed to have two? The first one is Eavesdropping 101. I had a lot of compliments, but also got into a fight with two people over my childrearing practices. Stupid people. But, ya know, I was Freshly Pressed with that one, and thought it was pretty good. I was tickled to death to be Freshly Pressed so soon after the first one.
The other one was me just telling the truth. It’s Pop, Not Soda, Stupid. Some people don’t get “tongue in cheek.” One reader was very offended that I thought Soda people were stupid. Well, they are.
7. Most Pride Worthy- Oh, without a doubt, CSI:West Virginia It really shows what a really good mom I was.
Now I get to pass on this coveted award to 7 other blog poster people. I don’t like to impose. You guys don’t have to play if you don’t want to. I actually had fun writing this. So, once again, thanks Cristy!
I wish I had the time to write a more profound introduction for each of my recipients. I will keep it short and simple, because, well, it’s almost time for NCSI.
1. Brown Road Chronicles -Steve writes about country living and throws in a hysterical poem now and then. His post on goats was very creative. I wish I had the time to visit his blog more often. Head on over and say hi.
2. Working Tech Mom -I like her blog. She writes on a variety of subjects, and injects her wonderful sense of humor with great photography. Oh, hell, she is off again. I like traveling with her, where ever she goes.
3. Inkjot- I don’t know why, but this cracks me up. I always wish I could draw. This blog has the artistry and the humor. My kind of combination. Jealous.
4. My Naked Bokkie I need to ask her what a bokkie is. I’m assuming cutie pie or something like that maybe. Anywho, I need to visit her more often. She writes on a variety of subjects and it is fresh and fun. He recent post on Pinterest is great.
5. Edward Hotspur Funny, funny guy, with a great writing style. So glad I found his blog.
6. Back on My Own When I just went to Pat’s blog, I saw where she nominated me for The Versatile Blogger Award. How did I not see this? Did I see it? Am I senile? I’m a mess. Anywho, I just found Pat’s blog, and I think that if she lived near me, I would want to hang out with her. Make her teach me some Spanish. Nice person. Much nicer than me. She would probably not return my calls.
7. Herding Cats in Hammond River I feel horrible that I don’t get to Wendy’s blog more often. A wonderful writer. Check her out.
Ok, so I am done. Thanks again Cristy, for the award. It was actually fun to write all this stuff. My butt is numb though. I mean, it really is.
My family and my best friend’s family took a trip during the summer of 1972 to Acapulco, Mexico. We drove all the way there from Weirton, West Virginia. It was a blast. They were in their Station Wagon and we were in my mom’s boat of a Cadillac. Once we crossed the border into Mexico, we stayed in a roach infested motel room. Ramaine’s mom, Dora, wanted us to have a pajama party and stay up all night long. We knew it was because she was afraid that when we fell asleep, we would be subject to all creepy crawlers of the night. We thought it was fun.
Along the way, we stopped at an open air place that was supposed to be a burger joint. I was a little concerned about what kind of meat they served. While we were waiting to get our food, out of the blue a mother pig and her piglets waltzed through the outdoor restaurant. The baby pigs were adorable! They were right by our feet, squealing, and brushing against our legs as they ran around the tables. I just fell in love with the little piggies.
I believe I was 15 when we went to Mexico. On our way back from Acapulco, we stopped at several market places along the side of the road. I found a small paper mache pig. I smiled and just knew I had to have it. After our Mexican adventure was over and we were back in West Virginia, I started my pig collection. And I have been collecting things ever since. My first purchase, of course, was a piggy bank.
One day, when I was driving on a back road somewhere with the school’s driver’s ed teacher, I quickly put my foot on the brake, and yelled, “Pigs!!!” There was a pig farm right on the side of the road. Little piggies were running around and I fell in love all over again. I explained my love of the little porkers to the teacher, who just smiled, probably happy that I didn’t put the car in a ditch during my excitement. The next day he brought me a little plastic pig. “I stole it from my little boy’s toy farm.” I thought that was so sweet. I still have the little guy.
Now, when you are young, you can get away with having a bunch of crap in your bedroom. I used to have stuffed animals when I was little. As I got older, it was Barbie Dolls and Trolls. When I was a teenager, it was pigs. Where ever I went, I tried to find something with a pig on it. After a while, it was obvious that I really liked pigs. Even in college, I managed to find a pig poster. It wasn’t in the best of taste, but during the mid 70′s, this poster was very popular. (Makin Bacon) I hung it above our toilet in the apartment I shared with three others.
After I graduated from college, I looked around my “I’m an adult now” apartment, and realized that most of the pigs had to go. I gave away or threw away (sigh) most of my pigs. I only kept a few things. But, my love of all things piggy was too hard to get rid of altogether. I found an old “The Three Little Pigs” book in an antique shop, and decided, “Hey, what a cool collection that would be!” So I am on the look-out for those when I am antiquing.
In the end, I think everyone should collect something. My grandfather collected marbles. We used to go to his house, crack open the can that contained the round beauties, and shoot marbles on the carpet. They were so pretty. My grandmother enjoyed her National Geographics. I really didn’t consider magazines a collection, but she enjoyed them. My dad owned cameras. He was an amateur photographer, and had different kinds of camera. After he died, I was able to obtain a mini camera that he owned.
I collect a lot of things, ranging from duck decoys to swizzle sticks, from antique letter openers to cast iron banks. I’m a collector. As I was looking around my dining room/living room, I made a discovery. I’m still a pig hoarder.
My little piggy from Mexico
Well, talk about subconscious purchasing. I bought the lamp last month. As soon as I saw it, I had to have it. My son gave me the pig cutting board at Christmas.
I guess I’m a pig collector once again. I kind of like the little porkers.
Ramaine, LeeAnn, and I would get together when we were little and color. Coloring was so much fun. We knew never to take our coloring books and crayons to LeeAnn’s house, though.
Because of the incident.
There we were, at her kitchen table, minding our own business, coloring. All of the houses on the block had the same floor plan, so we were comfortable where ever we were. But, apparently not at LeeAnn’s kitchen table.
The coloring Nazi was ready to make an appearance.
Now, you have to understand that coloring is supposed to be fun. If it wasn’t meant to be fun, we would just have brown crayons. Since I love writing and researching, let me give you a little information about our colorful past in the world of crayons before I move on to that fateful coloring day.
Back in 1885, Edwin Binney and his cousin, C. Harold Smith, formed a partnership and called their company Binney & Smith. They were quite creative. His father, Joseph Binney, founded the Peekskill Chemical Works in upstate New York, where he produced charcoal and lamp black. I don’t know what the hell lamp black is and I am too lazy right now to look it up, but it had something to do with using “black.” So, after Joe retired, and the kids formed their partnership, they went to work on other products. Early products included red oxide pigment used in barn paint and carbon black for car tires.
So, we have red and black stuff going on. No crayon invention yet.
In 1900, the company began producing slate school pencils in its new mill in Pennsylvania. Teachers suggested their needs to Binney & Smith and so they introduced the first dustless school chalk two years later. Chalk dust probably was and still is a mess. Well, the dustless chalk ( I first wrote chalkless dust) was so successful, it won a gold medal at the St. Louis World Exposition. Well, you know what happened next. Teachers all over the country were using their chalk.
Now we have red, white, and black.
Now according to the website, In 1903, ”Noticing a need for safe, quality, affordable wax crayons, the company produced the first box of eight Crayola® crayons, selling for a nickel. (red, yellow, blue, green, orange, brown, violet (purple), and black). The Crayola name, coined by Edwin Binney’s wife Alice, comes from “craie,” the French word for chalk, and “ola,” from “oleaginous.” Well, what the hell does “oleaginous” mean, you ask? I will guess, “butter,” but I will go look it up. (She leaves her writing to look the word up in the dictionary.)
Ok, so Crayola means oily chalk. Kids are drawing with chalky grease. Colored chalky grease. Cool.
I’m missing something here, though. They jumped from making chalk to all of a sudden having 8 colored crayons in a box. Oh, but before you think you are going to read that they invented the crayon, you are wrong. Crayola did not invent the crayon. Records show that Europe was the birthplace of the “modern” crayon. The first crayons were made from a mixture of charcoal and oil. Later, powdered pigments of various hues replaced the charcoal. Wax was substitued for the oil, which made the crayons sturdier. All the great painters of that era, Leonardo Da Vinci, included, colored with crayons. Well, I didn’t read that. But, I’m sure they picked up a waxy colored thing and used it at one point or another. Fast forward to the mid 1960s to LeeAnn’s kitchen table. We are now the artists. Or so we think.
I personally loved to color.
It’s weird how kids sit down, pick up a crayon, and attack the coloring page differently. Why is that, I wonder. We all have the same picture, and the same 64 choices of color, but yet, they all ended up different. I remember how my friends colored. Weird, isn’t it? I can’t remember why I walked down to the basement. “Hmmmm, why did I come into this room?”
Anyway, this is my own opinion, but I think that there are different types of colorers (?)
1. The “I don’t Give a Shit” colorer- This child just picks up a crayon and goes to town. He (notice I’m visualizing a boy) doesn’t sit and ponder which color he should use on the clothing the people on the coloring page are wearing.
The picture of this kid made the rounds on the internet with the “I F*CKING LOVE COLORING”
written underneath the picture. But, if you look closely, he is holding a pencil.
2. The “I Press So Hard, I Break the Damn Crayon” colorer- This colorer was not my friend. My brother, David, was this type of colorer. You know, the ones who think it has to be so dark or no one will be able to see it. You will actually see crayon shrapnel lying on the coloring page.
3. The “Either You are in This, or Just Go Home” colorer- This colorer is just coloring to be with her friends (notice I use a girl here) She will either sing or hum while she is coloring. And this is the part that just pissed me off. She left items uncolored and was the first one done. “Um, you didn’t color the girl’s hair. Or the sun. Or the grass.” God dammit, go home. That’s all they wanted to do. I mean, if there is a freaking sun in the sky, and you are at my house, you better freaking color the damn sun.
4. The “I Think I will Add Shit” colorer- Guilty. I added things to the picture. If there was room for a sun (well, if it was an outdoor picture, duh), I would add a sun. If it was a close-up of a girl, I added earrings or a Wilma Flintstone necklace. I put rings on fingers and purses in their hands. I accessorized.
5. The “Less is More” colorer- This type of colorer always win the coloring contests. They shade their coloring picture and then use a darker stroke to go over the drawn lines as to highlight their masterpiece. Or they outlined it first, just to show where the coloring boundering lines were. My bff Ramaine was this type of colorer. Her dad was an artist and she inherited some great artistic genes. In my book, she was the best colorer in the whole world.
Which was a problem the day we sat coloring at LeeAnns’ table. Apparently, her dad, who usually hung out downstairs fixing people’s broken radios and tv sets, was upstairs, sitting in his chair, while we were in the kitchen. Now, Lee Ann was a “I don’t give a shit colorer” AND a “If you’re not in this, just go home” colorer. So, I just wanted to slap her. But, I didn’t have to. Her dad came into the kitchen for his fourth cup of coffee and lingered beside the table. He watched us color for a few minutes. I wanted to puke. He was different. I think he had some mental issues. Well, yeah, I’m sure of it.
“LEE ANN!” His voice was so loud, I almost colored outside the line. (Which I never would do, ever.)
She immediately stopped and looked up at him. He continued.
“Quit coloring like that! I don’t want to see you coloring outside of the lines again…. Color like Ramaine!!!!”
Well, uh, what about Vickie? I was doing ok. Ok, maybe the polka dots I drew on the empty dress were a bit much, but I thought I was doing well. I looked at LeeAnn. She was using a purple crayon at the time. She quit humming, and finished everything in that picture with the purple crayon. A dog was purple. A person’s face was purple. Every freaking thing was purple. She stayed in the lines, but the mood in the room was clearly all over the place. I wanted to crawl under the table.
Well, so much for our coloring day. We left right after he went downstairs. He stood over her for a very long time. He was so mad at her. For not coloring the way he wanted her too. And I never colored at LeeAnn’s house again.
But, she never colored outside of the lines again. And she favored purple, which I never questioned. (Ok, I have no idea about that. I just sometimes like to lie.) Maybe she was suffered from post tramatic coloring stress disorder. She went on to graduate with a 4.0 from high school, I believe. I never doubted that one bit.
I often wondered that if we were given blank sheets of paper, if LeeAnn would draw her family with her dad standing in the background on fire or something. One for a future therapy session or something.
Another thing that I hated about attending Sacred Heart of Mary Academy the first three years of my formal education was the fact that we were placed in reading groups. You know, kids aren’t stupid. Well, some of them are. But, as I looked around, I could see a pattern emerging, even though I was just a small lass.
Those damn nuns grouped us according to how stupid we were.
I think about everyone around my age (a very young 55), learned to read with the Dick and Jane primers. They were popular in the late 1940′s through a part of the 1960′s. Some people get excited and filled with nostalgia when they hear “Run, Dick, run.” Perhaps a smile appears on one’s face, remembering how simple and innocent it was back then. It brings them back to a simpler time, to a society and culture that is so different than the one we live in now. For others, there is no sweet smile of rememberance. There is just a rememberance of mean nuns telling you that you are in the “Hatchling” reading group for the retarded.
Ok, so maybe there wasn’t a “Hatchling” reading group, but that’s what it felt like to me. They treated me like I was retarded. (Sorry about being politically incorrect with the term, “retarded.” That’s how we talked back then, and I’d sort of like to bring it back.) But, they treated me like my elevator didn’t go all the way to the top floor, and I will tell you why.
In the early sixties, a child had to be six years old before November 1 in order to attend school. My birthday was on November 9th. I don’t know if that was the law everywhere, but in West Virginia, it was November 1.
Well, my mom wanted me to start school. I don’t know why she wanted me out of the house so badly. I played games with her all damn day. But, she said that a few days should not keep me from starting school when I should be going to school. The secretary at Edgewood, the elementary school I would have attended, pointed her toward the Brooke County Board of Education. She would have to talk to them. She was told that I could start school in the fall. However, I would have to take a test. Sounds simple enough.
I wanted to start school so I could be with my friends. I lived in a neighborhood in Weirton, West Virginia, called Woodland Estates, where many of the children were the same age. Let me see. There was Lee Ann, Ramaine, Monica, Lori, Harold, Kathy, Janice, Tammy, MaryLou, Kacey, Cathy, and Melinda. I guess it would have been easier for me to say there were 12 other children my age. Lee Ann was born on December 4, and her mom wanted her to take the test also.
So, the summer before school started, the four of us drove to the BOE building. Lee Ann and I were going to take a test and we were going to get to start school in the fall. Yeehaw!
Well, one of us was going to get to start school in the fall.
I flunked the damn test.
I don’t remember much about the day. I was only five years old. I do remember what the man looked like who gave me the test. He showed me a series of pictures and talked to me. The only picture I remember is of a hillbilly guy sitting out on his front porch while it was raining. The man asked me what was wrong with the picture. I stared at it for a long time, and told him that he should be wearing shoes.
Well, this little retard was wrong. The answer was, “The man should not be sitting outside when it is raining.” I remember this only because my mom let me know the right answer over and over and over again for a long time after that. Apparently, I didn’t answer any of the questions correctly. Well, shit. Why can’t someone sit on their front porch while enjoying a summer rain? The porch was covered. But, the porch was wooden and rickety. That’s what I was looking at. He was barefoot. The damn hillbilly was going to get a splinter in his foot. That was far worse than a little rain on the man. I guess there was also an issue with hyperactivity. But, hey, he had a lot of things in his office that I needed to see and ask him about.
I do remember one other thing. My mom took money out of her purse and sort of threw it at the man. A bribe? Dear Mother, did you try to bribe the man to let me go to school early?
Oh my God……………………… I’m Forrest Gump.
So, of course LeeAnn was as proud as a peacock. I was a future hatchling in a reading group for retards. Fun times ahead.
Dick, Jane, Sally, and Spot- Here I come.
So, my mom had to buy uniforms, because I guess when you go to a private Catholic school, you all have to look alike. My mom had to drive me downtown every morning so I could catch the bus. Well, it really wasn’t a bus. It was a van. Like a volkswagon Beetle bus. And when the bus pulled up that very first day, out jumped a freaking nun. A nun was driving the bus/van. She introduced herself as Sister Maria. I had never seen a nun before. My mom tried to explain where I was going and who would be my teachers, but I couldn’t get passed the part that I couldn’t see her hair. Did she have hair? If she had hair, what color was it? Was that whole thing pinching her under her neck?
I guess I was verbalizing my thoughts, because Sister Maria told me that I was not allowed to say one more word on the bus. Well, hell, that wasn’t going to happen. When we arrived, I noticed that there were only four nuns at the school. Four. They took turns cooking and driving the bus. Oh Dear God. My mom must really hate me.
Well, the nuns must have read my test report, because they enunciated their words like I was deaf. Ok, I don’t know if they did that or not. But, I do know that they judged and labeled me and already had their reading groups decided.
There weren’t many in my class. The whole school had a low enrollment. Shit. I didn’t think of it until right now. I wonder if this school was for misfits? “If you flunk your entrance test, you may spend big money and send your fruit loops to our private school.”
There were three small groups. I don’t remember for the world what the reading groups were called. Most of them were labeled, “bluebird,” “redbird,” and “yellowbird.” In some places in the country, the “bluebirds” were the lowest readers. They all probably switched them around to confuse the confused.
So, of course, I spent the first week in the lowest reading group. We might as well have been called the “Sloths.” I flew through those readers, but the other kids took forever.
“See. Dick. Hit. Jane. Cry. Jane. Cry.”
Where the other group was speeding through their readings each day.
“It was an ominous night. Dick decided to go to the grocery store to purchase cigarettes for his mother. Run. Dick. Run.”
Ok. Whatever. I was moved out of the last group and put in the Bluebirds, where I flippin belonged in the first place.
Years later, when I had kids, I watched the Simpson’s and watched Bart be placed in the lowest reading group, “The Brownbirds.” Yeah, the shitty group. I wasn’t amused. I wanted to cry for him. Well, not really, but it made me think of Sister Maria, the honest school official who wouldn’t accept a bribe, dammit, and my mother, who sent me there, when I could have stayed at home, playing Yahtzee for another damn year.
Lee Ann wasn’t allowed to get her ears pierced in fifth grade when the rest of us did. I didn’t care if she got them pierced or not, but I was upset for her, because she really wanted them pierced. She told us her dad wouldn’t let her. So, the next time we were at her house, I thought I would ask him.
“Why can’t Lee Ann get her ears pierced?” I was afraid of her dad. He sat in his chair a lot and rarely talked.
“If God wanted you to have holes in your ears, you would have been born with holes in your ears.” He looked at me like that was the best answer in the world. I thought it was stupid. I mean, really stupid.
“Well, then why is she wearing clothes?” I can play this game too.
“Go home, Vickie.”
I thought about this conversation when I saw a picture of a boa constrictor or python (a snake is a snake, maybe) slithering along a highway in Florida. Seems that people are letting their pet snakes loose in sunny, warm Florida, where they are multiplying and living the good life in the swamps. Well, except for the fact that they aren’t supposed to be there. Just like the holes in Lee Ann’s ears. Nice segway, eh? Well, then it got me thinking about some animals and plants that are where they aren’t supposed to be. I’ll start with the python.
1. Welcome to Sunny Florida, home of the python- The picture I saw on facebook made me shudder. I can’t imagine walking outside and seeing a very long snake hanging out in your yard. But, that’s what’s happening in Florida. And you can blame it all on the international pet trade. Those smugglers of tarantulas and monkeys, and anything else deemed exotic, bring the animals in, and Americans with a need to own a 14 ft. snake, are purchasing animals. But, soon after they notice their poodle is missing, they take the snake for a car ride and drop him off at the neighborhood swamp. And the python has no problem acclimating to his new environment. Afterall, he’s lived in a glass home, with a light bulb as his sun, and live rats to munch on. Now he has fights with alligators in the swamp and is having the time of his life. Just in one year, 95 pythons were captured in Florida’s Everglades National Park. Did I mention that 100,000 pythons are brought in to our country every year? Fun times ahead for Floridians, because if they open a new university in Pensacola, they just might be called the Pythons. There’s already the Florida Gators, well, because they have a lot of gators. But, look out, because slithery super snakes are there to stay.
2. Kudzu, the plant that ate Georgia- Well, Georgia is still there, but when we drove to Walt Disney World years ago, I was amazed how plants covered telephone poles and other trees. They looked like topiary. Except they weren’t. It was kudzo, from Japan, that was brought over by idiots to use as an erosion stabilizer. What the hell were they thinking? Kudzu now covers over 7 million acres in the south. And it is creeping up north.
Kudzu was introduced to the United States in 1876 at the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia. Countries brought exhibits to celebrate the 100th birthday of the U.S. The Japanese entry was a beautiful garden filled with plants from their country. American gardeners loved the sweet smell and large leaves of the kudzu. They just had to have some. Soon nursery owners were selling kudzu.
During the Great Depression of the 1930s, some bright man in the Soil Conservation Service suggested kudzu for erosion control. Hundreds of men were paid to plant the kudzu. And look what has happened since:
It grows a foot a day and will cover anything it meets. It is as far north as southern West Virginia, but I would argue with that because our neighbor in Fairmont, West Virginia, has kudzu growing on his property. It has creeped up and has covered several pine trees on his property. Goodbye pine trees.
3. The Dreaded Northern Snakehead- Another damn snake? Nope. This is a fish. And it is trouble with a capital T. The exotic snakehead fish was first discovered in 2002 in a pond in Maryland. Oh, this is no ordinary fish. That is probably why it has the word, “snake” in its name. It is a non-stop eating machine. It has no natural enemies and eats anything in its path. It is originally from China, and is found in vegetated muddy swamps, ponds or small streams. But, this part is creepy. Snakeheads can breathe air and live up to four days out of water. Oh, I’m not done. Why you ask, would they need to be out of the water? Well, my friend, they can leave their water home and travel over land to new bodies of water by slithering or wriggling their snaking bodies over the ground. Yeah, creepy.
According to a story by the Washington Post a while back, a man had purchased two snakehead fish at a market in ChinaTown in New York City. He was going to prepare a traditional soup for an ailing sister. Instead of cooking them, since she was feeling better, he released them into a nearby pond. Uh Oh. The man confessed, but the damage was already done. Officials and management teams tried to make sure the snakeheads didn’t escape to nearby waterways by conducting a controlled fish kill. Did it work? Maybe. Maybe not. I would freak out if I saw a fish walking on land. (She shudders.)
4. Wild Monkeys- There are wild monkeys in Florida. Oh, but there shouldn’t be. They have been living there since around 1930. There is a population of rhesus monkeys in central Florida that have been there for 80 years. Some people say that the monkeys escaped while a Tarzan movie was being filmed in that location. Other people say that a manager of a jungle cruise boat ride released them on purpose so tourists would see monkeys, tell their friends, and those people would come for the boat ride. I mean, who wouldn’t want to see a monkey in Florida? People go there to see a mouse. In 1984, there were reports of 400 monkeys living along one particular river. I wonder how many there are now?
I guess I could go on and on. So, there is a big problem. There are thousands of animals and plants that have no business being in our backyards. But, here they are. People travel to see the wild horses in Virginia. and Maryland. That doesn’t seem to be a problem there. There are hundreds, if not thousands of iguanas that have no business living in our country. But, they are in Florida, also. And what about the poor ladybug? It was brought to this country to control aphids. What is going to control the ladybugs now?
I guess it could go the other way. Tarzan and Jane had no business living in a jungle. But, there he was, wrestling with alligators every day when he wasn’t a native species. Who bitched about that? No one. (Ok, I realize that it wasn’t real, but I’m trying to make a point.)
So, you know, if God wanted monkeys to live in Florida, he would have had them in Florida.
So, the moral of the story is that you shouldn’t get your ears pierced, dammit. It’s not natural.
Since I was hyperactive when I was little, my mother thought of ways to simmer me down. She taught me how to play chess when I was in third grade. We played Crazy 8′s, Yahtzee, 500 Rummy, and Gin (for nickels). Yes, she tried to get me to be able to stay on task. So, I thought. Hell, she just liked to play games.
I was pretty good at Chinese Checkers at a very early age. I was able to concentrate for long periods of time with this game. Isn’t wasn’t until my 30′s, that my mom told me something that just pissed me off. We were playing a game of Yahtzee while my two children took a nap. She plucked this comment right out of the sky. There wasn’t even a good segway.
“You know that little green pill you had to take every day for your car sickness?” (I had extreme motion sickness) I nodded. It was such a tiny green thing. It really helped ride the bus without puking every afternoon on the way home.
“Well….” and she sort of snort chuckled, “it was really a mild tranquilizer.” She continued rolling her dice.
I just stared at her.
“Well, you couldn’t concentrate on anything. You were always moving from one thing to another and asking a million questions.”
I just stared at her.
“At church I gave you a sliding puzzle and you worked on it through the whole church service, so that’s why you had so many of those. But, at school you just couldn’t concentrate, so we gave you a mild tranquilizer.”
I wanted to wring her neck. She gave me a mild tranquilizer because I jumped from one thing to another? What a loon ! And then I thought, “I wonder if I have any of those sliding puzzles. Those were cool and I did have a lot of them.”
Ok, I guess things never change. After my mom left, I hunted for those sliding puzzles. I don’t know why. I just felt the need to look at them. And I hate it when I can’t find anything. For those of you who aren’t familiar with sliding puzzles, here is an example:
photo by ebay seller
They are like a Rubic’s Cube ala slide. The photo is all screwed up, and it is up to you to slide the little tile squares left and right or up and down until the picture is complete. Some were pretty easy. Some just pissed me off. I wish I had the religious one that I worked on for weeks.
The sliding puzzle has been around since 1880. It’s introduction created a puzzle craze during that time period. The fifteen block was the oldest type of sliding puzzle.
Like the picture slider above, this popular slider had fifteen tile blocks.
Ha!!! Found it. This is the one I played with for hours at a time. I thought that it had some religious picture in the middle, but I guess I thought that because I played with it in church. This one just made me smile.
You have no idea. I am going to have to hunt this down on ebay or at an antique shop. This just brought back so many memories.
Having fun now.
I just found my next collection.
I could see why I would sit for hours when I was little, working on these. It did keep me from making my mind jump from one thought to another.
I have enough moles on my body that you could consider me a chocolate chip cookie. And I have no one to blame but myself. Well, sure, I abused my body by lying out in the sun for years. But, that is not why I have moles. I have moles because of Betty Edwards.
Betty Edwards and her husband used to come visit my mom and dad all of the time. They would sit in the family room for hours. I sat with them for only one reason: she had the largest moles that I had ever seen. I was fascinated with her face. I mean, I would stare at her the whole time. I was little, mind you, so she probably thought I just really liked her. But, it was those moles. They were all over her face and neck. They were huge. I remember thinking that you could hang jewelry on them.
I didn’t know what they were called at the time, but she had skinny moles that stuck straight out. They covered her neck. I couldn’t stand it anymore. After staring at her for an abnormal amount of time, I had to ask her some questions. All at the same time.
“Does that big mole by your eye hurt?………”Why doesn’t it fall off?”………………”Did you have them when you were a baby?”…………..”Why don’t you cut them off?”……………………..”I hope I never look like that.”
That’s about the time I got sent to my room. I didn’t mean anything. I could hear my mom apologizing for my behavior.
“I am so sorry, Betty. I don’t know about that child sometimes. She…..” and her words became fainter as I made my way down the hall to my room. My dog, Susie, was lying on my bed. She somehow knew that I would be sent there. I sat on the edge of my bed, crying. I felt terrible. I didn’t mean that Betty Edwards was ugly. I meant that Betty Edwards had ugly moles. There’s a difference.
So, fast forward many years. Betty Edwards is long gone and the gods have sent me her moles. I am sure of it. They say that What goes around comes around. I still don’t think I was making fun of her. But, I felt like I was being punished and I now have her moles. Now, I don’t have the big, monsterous ones that littered her face. I have the damn skin tags. You know, the long and skinny ones. They wrap around my neck. I fondled my neck and just counted fifteen skin tags…around my neck. They are small, but they are there, and they piss me off.
When I was in college, I had a huge mole on the back of my neck. If I wore a necklace, and if it got hung up on my skin tag, it would make my necklace shorter. I was like a jewelry tree. My boyfriend (then husband, then ex-husband) took a magnifying glass and took a good look at it one time. He said it was gross. Upon closer inspection, he commented that it looked like an apartment building complex. What???
When I had my son, he would crawl up in my lap and ask me a multitude of questions. I have no idea where it got that from.
“Mommy, what’s that?” He pointed to the large (not as large as Betty Edward’s, mind you) mole on my neck. See, what goes around, comes around.
“It’s a mole, sweetie. They grow on your body when you make fun of other people who have moles.”
Ok, I didn’t really say that. But, I mean, karma is a bitch.
So, I promptly made an appointment and had that mole taken off. I would go about every 2 years to get moles taken off my body. My present dermatologist assures me they are all non-cancerous.
I once got fed up with a skin tag under my arm and shaved it off with a razor. That hurt like hell. I also found a chin hair a few weeks ago and lost my mind.
I pride myself on knowing a lot of important information. Sure, some people may think they don’t need to know that the “S” in Ulysses S. Grant stands for Simpson. But, I know it. I also know that ee cummings was the poet who didn’t know how to use capital letters. A lot of people don’t know who ee cummings was. But, I know him. I also know that botulism is in botox. I bet a lot of pretty faces don’t know that. But, I know it.
Just don’t ask me if a centimeter is longer than a foot.
I am teaching measurement this week to my fourth grade class. My principal heard the kids laughing as he walked by this morning because I just wrote this on the board:
I’m not the only one. Americans just don’t want to give up our standard measure. We don’t want to know how many kilometers it takes to get to Pittsburgh. We don’t want to know that a cantaloupe weighs about a kilogram. We don’t care. We don’t want to learn it.
The United States is the only industrialized country that does not use the metric system as its system of measurement, even though it was authorized by Congress to be used there since 1866. Yes, we are a stubborn lot. According to the American Central Intelligence Agency’s Factbook, the International System of Units is the official system of measurement for all nations in the world except for Liberia, Burma, and the United States.
The US was half-heartedly interested in conversion to the metric system during the 1960′s. I don’t remember ever being taught the metric system in school. In fact, nowadays, when I use a ruler, I get mad if I am using the wrong side. I want a ruler that just shows inches, thank you very much. There was the Metric Conversion Act of 1975 that was shoved down our throats. Everything was going to change. Well, you can lead an American to water, but you can’t make him drink. We rebelled.
“We ain’t gonna use that metric crap.” Ok, some people talk a little more dignified. I was the one that said that.
I know that somewhere along the way someone slipped us “liters.” We now buy a 2 liter bottle of pop at the grocery store. I don’t know when that started. I picked up a student’s bottle of water this morning and looked at the measurements:
Aquafina Pure Water 16.9FL.OZ (1.05 PT) 500mL
Why the hell would the “L” in milliliter be capitalized? Off to check another bottle:
Nestle Pure Life 20 OZ LIQ (1 PINTA, 4OZ LIQ) (591mL)
Well, the L is capitalized on that bottle too. I guess it is supposed to be like that? It’s not like that in my teacher’s manual. Of course, it doesn’t say in my teacher’s manual that Christopher Columbus slaughtered the Indians as soon as he got off of the boat, so you know, whatever.
I’m not done looking around my classroom.
Lysol Disinfecting Wipes 8.9 OZ. (252 g)
Lysol is trying to get me to buy in grams. Not going to happen.
I’m already confused when my Canadian blogging friends write about how the 20 degree temperature is so lovely. You crazy Canucks. That is cold. Well, it is if you use the Fahrenheit side of the thermometer. I will never be able to use Celsius when describing the weather. Why did we have two to begin with anyways?
Wouldn’t it cost a lot to convert to the metric system? For a person like myself, who doesn’t want to use the metric system, any amount is too much. We can’t get our Department of Highways to take care of our roads. I saw a guy fishing in a pot hole the other day. Well, ok, I lie. But, it would be nice to drive on roads that won’t tear up my tires and shoot everything out of line. I would get pissed if I saw DOH guys taking down the millions of signs everywhere just to change the “miles” to “Kilometers.” It is not cost effective.
In the end, I have to teach the metric system to my fourth graders because it will be on the big ole test in May. I feel badly that I have to teach equivalent measurements. I can see it now.
“Which one is larger, Tommy? 1 foot or 11 centimeters?”
“I don’t give a shit, Ms. Mendenhall.”
“That is correct, Tommy.”
I’m sorry, friends around the world, but I am too old to learn new tricks. I want to know how long it is going to take to get to New York City. Using “miles” helps me figure that out. Seeing 1,329 kilometers or whatever the hell is correct, would just fry my brain.
So, please keep your grams and your meters. I like weighing myself in pounds, and driving that extra mile.
Hallmark would have to change their whole “Across the Miles” line of greeting cards.
And we would have to change Robert Frost’s Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening:
…The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
My seventh grade Science teacher, Mrs. Caldwell, told us the very first day of junior high that she had a “teacher’s pet.” For those of you who live in a box, a “teacher’s pet” simply is the teacher’s favorite student. Or so I thought. Crazy Ethel Caldwell then proceeded to show us a picture of Ponty, her pomeranian pooch. His mug was in an 8×10 frame. He actually looked like he was posing for a school photo. His head was slightly tilted, doggy smile on his face. I burst out laughing.
Which was not the reaction she was wanting. I honestly had never seen a picture of a dog. …In a frame…. on a teacher’s desk. This was in the 1960′s before Olan Mills Studio welcomed animals into the picture…literally.
Mrs. Caldwell ignored the rude hyena laugh coming from the skinny girl in the back and continued on.
“Class, people say that teacher’s are not supposed to be have a teacher’s pet. But, I do……Meet Ponty.”
She smiled like a new parent. I looked at my bff Ramaine, who was sitting beside me, and I did the crazy pantomime with the index finger at the temple. Mrs. Caldwell was a loon.
Oh, I was so good with first impressions. She told us how Ponty was her teacher’s pet about once a month, like we had never heard it before. She also gave us a quote every single freaking day. The same quote every day.
“Today…..(pause)….is the first day…….(pause pause)….of the rest of your life.” And then she would smile a wise smile, and nod her head. Yeah, she was a loon. One time, she let a bat loose in the classroom. She called it Dorp, because her friend Dorothy had the bat in her house, and called Pete to come get it. Hence, the amalgamated “Dorp.” I remember this 35+ years after the fact, only because we heard the Dorp story at least once a week. She also told us that her friend, astronaut John Glenn, was coming to a picnic we were going to have but never had. I was pissed because she said we were going to have hot dogs and learn about space. She was also a bit mean at times and smacked our hands if we didn’t “smell” something in a beaker the right way. Apparently, while holding a beaker of flaming battery acid, one must take the other hand and brush if over the beaker to oneself. That way, the odor doesn’t go right up your nose, but swirls around and then goes up into your brain. This isn’t meant to be disrespectful in any way, but we had three students in my class die of brain tumors later in life. What if we were snorting some really bad stuff? I mean, you just never know.
But back to Mrs. Caldwell. I was thinking about her today while I was writing lesson plans for this next week while my class was at Phys Ed. I teach fourth grade and teach English, Math, Spelling, Language Arts, Reading, Social Studies, Science, Handwriting, and Writing. We teachers do it all. And I have come to the realization that…..I hate teaching Science.
Are teachers allowed to hate something they have to teach? Is that bad of me to mention this? Does this make me a terrible teacher?
Oh, hell no. It just makes me honest and that is such a fine quality for a person to possess, right?
I have to teach motion, velocity, and simple machines this month.
I would rather teach about electricity and put my finger in a light socket.
Who should I blame for my attitude? I sort of liked it when I was in fourth grade. I grew an awesome plant out of a sweet potato. I made a terrarium and had a salamander that lived in it. I even tried to make my very own ant farm, which didn’t please my mom when the ants made an escape in my bedroom. But, when it comes time to teach motion, gravity, boiling points, light bulb stuff, batteries, and the water cycle, well, I just suck.
The kids don’t know this, because I’m a professional, dammit. But, I change things around to amuse myself. It’s either that or jump out of the window while demonstrating velocity. So, I bring in matchbox cars and we have races. We make magnet cars and push them at each other to see if they will repel or attract. The pile-ups are awesome. I get a volunteer to spin around on his “axis” while making a revolution around another kid. I get off topic and talk about aliens. I get off topic and talk about Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster. I get off topic and talk about the time a spider monkey climbed on my bff Ramaine’s head. Important stuff they should know.
I don’t know. Maybe they are learning something in Science. They seem to get excited when I tell them to open their Science books. But, that might just mean that they are excited that I’m done with nouns, verbs, and adjectives for the day. I do love teaching English. I love haiku poetry, and creative writing, and grammar in general. I also love teaching Social Studies. It’s my favorite subject to teach. I get a little too enthusiastic teaching about the Revolutionary War. But, science, blah.
As I finish my lesson plans, I think that tomorrow we will work a little on mixtures. You know, like how oil floats on top of water. That kind of stuff. Or maybe I will bring in different liquids and teach them how to make a Bloody Mary or a martini. We can learn about ecosytems and make some swamp water or jungle juice. That sounds like a plan.
And then I can sit back and quietly make a toast to Mrs. Caldwell.
“Here’s to you, Mrs. Caldwell…….Tomorrow begins today, you old loon, you.”
I was a little bewildered today when I went to Walmart. For one, there was a guy standing in line in front of me and he was only wearing a white t-shirt. It’s cold outside, so I immediately judged him and quietly labeled him a “moron.” Not that I check out every Tom, Dick, and Moron in Walmart, but since he was right in front of me, I also noticed that when he reached to scratch his arm, he had a scar on his upper left arm. It was pretty damn big. Then, I realized it was “the” scar.
For those of you who were born before 1970 or were in a military family, you should know what I am talking about: The World Health Organization’s Smallpox Eradication program.
So, go get a mirror and look at your left arm. You may just have a scar from the smallpox vaccination.
Are you back? Ok. Let’s move on.
Smallpox has a history of being one of the worst diseases known to man. According to the World Health Organization, WHO, “The incubation period is followed by the sudden onset of influenza-like symptoms including fever, malaise, headache, prostration, severe back pain and, less often, abdominal pain and vomiting. Two to three days later, the temperature falls and the patient feels somewhat better, at which time the characteristic rash appears, first on the face, hands and forearms and then after a few days progressing to the trunk. Lesions also develop in the mucous membranes of the nose and mouth, and ulcerate very soon after their formation, releasing large amounts of virus into the mouth and throat.”
During the 1950′s there were more than 50 million cases of smallpox worldwide….each year. It killed as many as 30% of those infected.
And it is the only disease that was eradicated because of the vaccine. From the information that I have read on the subject, (historyofvaccines.org) smallpox was a problem worldwide for centuries. In our country, there was a colonial epidemic in 1633. In 1736, Benjamin Franklin lost his son to smallpox. He did not have his son innoculated and with remorse, wrote the following:
“In 1736 I lost one of my Sons, a fine Boy of 4 Years old, taken by the Small Pox in the common way. I long regretted that I had not given it to him by Inoculation, which I mention for the Sake of Parents, who omit that Operation on the Supposition that they should never forgive themselves if a Child died under it; my Example showing that the Regret may be the same either way, and that therefore the safer should be chosen.”
— Benjamin Franklin, quoted in Franklin on Franklin by Paul Zall
In 1776, 10,000 soldiers with the Continental army in Canada were struck down with smallpox. There was a rumor that a British officer sent infected soldiers into battle to deliberately expose the enemy. This caused the Continental army to retreat, keeping the northern British colonies together.
John Adams wrote, “ Our misfortunes in Canada are enough to melt the heart of stone. The smallpox is ten times more terrible than the British, Canadians and Indians together. This was the cause of our precipitate retreat from Quebec.”
— John Adams, quoted in Ian Glynn and Jenifer Glynn, The Life and Death of Smallpox
The timeline marches on.
In 1781, future president Andrew Jackson, contracted smallpox. His brother, Robert, died of the disease.
In 1796, Edward Jenner came up with a vaccine. He tested it on a boy (well, guinea pigs didn’t get smallpox) and it was a success. After that, many countries began innoculation programs. It was brought to our country in 1800.
Fastforward to 1862. During the Civil War, several pockets of the disease popped up.
A hospital was built in Richmond just for smallpox. The Smallpox hospital lost more than 100 patients in one week. During Christmas in 1862, the hospital admitted 250 patients. Only 140 survived the outbreak.
Medical historians assert that Abraham Lincoln sufferered from smallpox, coming down with the disease hours after he gave the famous Gettysburg Address.
smallpox victim, circa 1912
Fast forward once again to 1922. By this time, the United States has put in place mandatory innoculation. Children would not be permitted to attend school until they received a smallpox vaccination.
In 1967, WHO, the World Health Organization, implemented a worlwide smallpox eradication program.
I don’t remember how old I was when I had the smallpox vaccine. I was born in 1956. I think I was around ten or eleven, but I’m not sure. My mom and dad both had scars on their upper left arms. Both of them were pretty large. So, imagine my anguish when I found out I was going to get the smallpox vaccine. I remember standing in line to get it. I am not positive, but I think I was at school. The guideline were to innoculate anywhere between birth and three years of age and the booster was given 5-10 years after. the first one was more like a scraping.
The mass vaccination strategy did eradicate smallpox. You were lucky if you were only left with a vaccination scar. The scar was supposed to be no bigger than the size of a dime. Mine was the size of a dime. Many people weren’t so lucky. But, they were lucky they didn’t contract smallpox.
The scar left behind looked like a bunch of little craters.
After receiving the vaccination, after three or four days, a red, itchy bump developed at the site. After the first week, the bump became a large blister, filled with pus, and then it began to drain. During the second week, the blister began to dry and then a scab formed. In theory, by the fourth week, the scab was supposed to fall off, leaving a “small” scar. For some. For others, it left a huge scar that looked like a bunch of little craters. I used to look at people’s arms just to see if they had a huge scar. I was scared to death. I was sure my skinny little arm would be one huge scar.
My mom took care of it though. I think it was hard for boys to take care of their blistered, filled with pus, scab. And I will tell you why. They used to give each other a little quick punch on each other’s arms. Why? Because they were retarded. I believe that some are worse because of the itching during the healing process. I didn’t itch mine. I didn’t touch mine. I was not going to have a gigantic swirl of scars on my arm.
The last epidemic of smallpox in the US was in Texas in 1949, seven years before I was born. The last worldwide case was in Somalia in 1977. The US officially stopped vaccinating the general public against smallpox in 1972 but continued to vaccinate certain military personnel until 1990.
So, after staring at the moron in Walmart today and coming home, curious about “the” scar, I learned a great deal.
The most important thing I learned is that I am innoculated against one of the most evil diseases known to man. That’s a good thing. The bad thing is that my children aren’t. Most of your children aren’t.
Let’s only hope it never rears its ugly head again.
I got banged up a lot when I was little. Not as bad as Willie, though, who sat next to me in class and ate his scabs. I was beginning to think he wrecked his bike on purpose just so he would have something to eat for lunch. And I would sit there and watch him. Fascinating, really. But, I, for one, managed to have different kinds of injuries, mainly from splinters.
I could sleep in bed and wake up with a splinter. Well, not really, but that’s how easy it was for me to get one. And my sadistic mom really didn’t have a problem with digging them out.
It was a medical procedure that my mom got used to. She would round up all the necessary players in this dysfunctional stage performance. She would retrieve her magnifying class that she used to tweeze stuff off of her face most evenings. She would get the tweezers that I never saw her alcohol before using, so I am sure there were stray chin hairs on them. Blah. That was phase one.
Then she had to find my finger. She would sit me down at the kitchen table, in front of her mobile laboratory, and would take my little bony appendage and I would grab it back. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
“Vickie, it really went in there this time. I can’t use the tweezers.”
Shit. I know what that meant.
It was needle time.
“Vickie, go downstairs and get my sewing basket. It is right beside the sewing machine.”
Five minutes later….
“Vickie?……………Vickie?…………..Vickie!!……Come on. Get up here.”
Shit.
My mom grabbed my finger…. Retreat…. Repeat….. Retreat….. Repeat. Finally, I relented because I wanted to get back outside to play and get another freaking splinter.
Back in the sixties, people would turn on the gas on their stoves and heat the needle to sterilize it. Great. A hot poker applied to my skin. But, my mom was progressive, because she was lazy, and just ran it under hot water. Afterall, how many germs could a needle in a sewing kit be carrying?
After digging to China and then grabbing it with her chin hair-laden tweezers, the little bugger was out of my finger.
Relief.
Um, not so fast. My mom wasn’t done yet.
“Vickie, go get the Metholaide.”
Shit………SHIT……..OH SHIT….Oh Dear God, not the red stuff!
In our house, we called the Mercurochrome, Metholaide. While doing research on its history for this blog post, I found that the correct spelling is “merthiolate” or “Mercurochrome” as it was advertised in the early sixties.
Mercurochrome
Mercurochrome was a very thin liquid that was painted on the skin with an effect that followed us around: a reddish orange chemical laden with mercury. Hence, the name, MERCURochrome….. Great.
Every kid in the neighborhood during the sixties wore Mercurochrome. It was an antiseptic that was used for scrapes, scratches, and splinters. When applied, it burned worse than the alcohol that my mom would put on the wound BEFORE the Mercurochrome. I should back up, because there was a certain protocol for splinter removal:
Magnify, removal, peroxide, alcohol, and then Mercurochrome.
The peroxide would bubble, the alcohol would sting and the Mercurochrome would make me cry. Some of the older boys who were allowed to apply their own Mercurochrome had large areas painted. They wore it like a badge of courage. How macho. No, really. We thought they were macho.
“Oh, my gosh, did you see Randy’s leg? He wrecked his bike last night. It looks awful.”
The compound in this painful brown bottle held a derivative of mercury, a dye which gave it its lovely red color. From what I have read, mercury was very popular during the 1920′s, and was found in many other medications.
Mercurochrome was used without question until the FDA began looking into the pretty colored compound and decided that mercury was not really something that we should be putting in or own our bodies. I forgot to mention that we would also get a Q-tip and put some Mercurochrome on an ulcer on the inside of our mouth. Yes, baby boomers, we are full of mercury. I guess mercury doesn’t leave the body once it gets in there. It is stored in our fatty tissue. Fun times.
We are walking thermometers. Go ahead, as me what the temperature is.
Stuff still makes me wince
It wasn’t until the late eighties that the FDA re-classified the red wonder in a bottle as “untested,” meaning that if anyone wanted to sell it in this country had to go through hoops to get it on the market. So, that was the end of Mercurochrome.
As I sit here, in 2012, I’ve got to wonder why the mercury stored in my fatty tissue is not eating that fatty tissue?
There has been so much research done on seatbelt safety. Everyone knows that seatbelts save lives. That’s a fact. I wear my seatbelt religiously. Someone should have told people that in the early sixties. Because I am damn lucky I didn’t have brain damage.
I mentioned this in a previous post, but in the early sixties, people didn’t wear seatbelts. If a child sat in the front seat, and whoever was driving had to stop quickly, the only thing that stopped the child from going through the windshield was “the arm.” Everyone used “the arm.” My grandmother was driving one time and had to stop quickly. I was sitting there, minding my own business, and all of a sudden her arm came right across my neck/chest area when a car almost hit us. Well, she almost hit a car. Did “the arm” work that time? Oh, hell no. I hit the dashboard, which was made out of steel I think, and the next thing you know, blood was trickling down my face. Did I say trickling? I meant to say oozing, flowing like lava. I exaggerate, of course, but I was a kid and blood was a big deal. A paper cut meant death.
I looked over at Grandma. Oh, Grandma, you are going to be in so much trouble with my mom. Mom didn’t like her inlaws much. And my Grandma was crazy. I mean, like really crazy. She once took a train to Philadelphia by herself to see a specialist because she said there were wires coming down behind her teeth. I am sure there was more to that story, but when you are little, you see crazy, you don’t need an explanation. I’d like to know why my mom let me go anywhere with Grandma Orpha. And now she smashed my head open.
We got back to my grandparents house and my Grandma called my mom. I didn’t understand why she didn’t take me to the hospital. It was obvious I needed a couple of stitches, because, well, I was able to donate blood to several people that day. But, she didn’t take me to the hospital and she didn’t take me home to face the Halloween creepy monster music that was my mother. We went back to her house.
“Vickie, I just talked to your mom, and guess what?” Grandma asked with a smile. A crazy smile.
“What?” She left to go into the bathroom.
“I told her we were having so much fun that you would like to stay all weekend with us.” She came back with a wet towel, a band-aid, and unfortunate for me, some rubbing alcohol. Oh, God, she also had that stupid red metholaid. It burnt so badly. I was soon wearing a bandaid over the corner of my right eyebrow.
I didn’t have a problem with staying overnight. They had a cat. Tommy was a kitchen cat. She stayed in a little nook in her kitchen. She wore a collar and had a little rope that was tied to a serving cart or something. I always untied it and got in trouble for letting her into “the living room.” Besides, the cat, Grandpa had a groundhog that he fed. It was pretty tame. And although Grandpa had 1/2 of a grapefruit every freaking day, he also had white powdered sugar donuts. Plus, they let me stay up to watch Bonanza. Score.
Grandma sent Grandpa to my house to collect a change of clothes or two, pajamas and the needed accessories to spend the weekend. That was good, because I had blood all over my blouse. My mom was not going to be happy. Hell, we had to change if we got a little bit of water on our clothes. We weren’t allowed anywhere near mud. I remember one time a neighbor’s cat pooped in the sandbox and my mom lost her mind. That was the end of the sandbox.
So, I stayed at my grandparent’s house for the weekend. Little did I know that the only reason I stayed there was to cover up my smashed head. My crazy grandma thought that my wound would disappear by Monday morning. Well, it didn’t, and it did leave a scar. And I wasn’t allowed in the car with grandma anymore. And I don’t believe I remember my mom ever saying another word to her. Ever. I’m sure she did, but I didn’t see any eye contact between them. And I was looking. It was Crazy vs. Crazy. It would have been a good fight. Boy, would I have liked to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation.
My mom didn’t use “the arm” with us. The three of us sat in the back seat. We had an old 1955 Victoria convertible or something like that. There was a metal emblem in the middle of the backseat. How stupid. I always had to sit in the middle of the backseat. I don’t know why, but I did. Now, remember, we still didn’t have seat belts, and if there were seatbelts in the car, we never had to wear them.
Now, I will tell you right now, that if I wore a seatbelt, I would have been brain damaged by the time we got rid of that car. When we fought in the back seat, my mom would yell at us to no avail. Then she would use “the arm.” But, this was a different kind of arm. This arm flailed left and right to smack us. It was like her arm was a fly swatter and we were the damn flies. Most of the time I was able to zig and zag because I didn’t have a seat belt on and squirmed all over the backseat while she was driving with one hand and looking to hit with the other. When I tried to avoid “the arm,” my head would snap back and hit the metal emblem in the middle of the backseat. And I would cry. And my mom would always say, “God’s punishing you.” Yeah, ok. You know, whatever.
The thing about “the arm” was that the hand attached to it was creepy. My mom had burned her hand as a child and had a terrible scar swirling around in the palm of her hand. It was ugly. So, we definitely hated it when that thing came at us.
In the end, we survived not wearing seatbelts. The “seatbelt” arm rarely worked, while the “beat the hell out of you” arm worked most of the time, despite the zigging and zagging.
And I still have a scar hiding in my eyebrow to prove that.
When I was young, my dad loved using idioms. I think he is the one that started them. Really. His favorite was, “All hell broke loose.” I could picture fire and the devil breaking out of a jail somewhere. I’ve loved idioms every since.
I teach fourth grade and every Friday we have “Idiom Friday.” I can’t help it, I have to do it. It’s more for me than for the kids. I write the idiom on the board, we discuss its meaning, and then the students draw the idiom. After they are finished, their pictures go out in the hall for a week, and then are put away in their black writing notebook. At the end of the year they are able to take their idioms home.
Some of the more popular idioms were, “Couch Potato,” “Raining Cats and Dogs”, “You Crack Me Up”, and “My Eyes are Bigger Than My Stomach.” The students have fun and I am always amazed by their creative drawings. Here’s one of mine that I really shouldn’t use. Fun stuff.
But, one day, I was a little slap-happy from a tossing, restless sleep the night before, and thought about the idioms you shouldn’t use in school. I asked my facebook friends on my status one day, “Would ‘Smelling Like a French Whore’ be appropriate for fourth graders?” I was teasing, of course. I don’t want to be fired just yet. So, to amuse myself, I started thinking of others that you really shouldn’t use in fourth grade. I apologize for using curse words, but I didn’t make these up. I think my fourth graders would like these….I think the members of the board of education would too, since I am sure I would be visiting them if I wrote any of these on the board….
Picture these written on a board:
All hell broke loose (in honor of my dad)
Beat his brains out
That’s a load of crap
wearing a shit-eating grin
He’s a chicken shit
kick the bucket
He likes to stir shit
Let’s blow this joint
Beat a dead horse
He’s in deep shit
kill 2 birds with one stone
bite someone’s head off
He’s on my shit list
cold as a witch’s tit
Make your blood boil
break a leg
I was scared shitless
clip someone’s wings
cook somebody’s goose
He will be shitting bricks
kick some ass
pain in the ass
he beat the hell out of him.
smart ass
his ass is on the line
Get your shit together
kiss my ass
talking out of your ass
He has shit for brains
Holy Shit!
The shit hit the fan
Shoot the bull
Beat his brains out
That’s a load of crap
I guess I just may have too much time on my hands. (Normal idiom)
Forced listening. It is all around us. First, it was elevator music. I remember humming, Do You Know the Way to San Jose? for weeks after getting off of an elevator one time. I would rather listen to the grinding noise of the cables, pulling up the precariously hung ancient Otis elevator than some of the music they make us listen to.
Image via Wikipedia
And then there is the ever present telephone prompt waiting. I know why they put terrible music on the telephone while you wait to talk to someone about your new laptop’s green screen. They want you to get soo sick of listening to depressing, cobwebs- growing -on -you music , so that you just get mad and hang up. You’d rather live with the pukey green screen than listen to 45 minutes of Lawrence Welk music.
And then we come to the Weather Channel. First of all, you have to understand that I am the local self-proclaimed weather person on Facebook. I give the ~Weather Dork Report~ for my friends, as I always have the Weather Channel on in the background. I love the weather. But, I just have one bit of advice for the those wonderful predictors of the weather….
If I worked for the Weather Channel, I would use music to match the weather when it’s time for Local on the 8′s. For those of you who do not live in the United States, the Local on the 8′s is the local weather that is shown several times each hour, such ast 9:08, 9:18, 9;28, etc. There is music in the background while some man reads the weather report. Now, to give them credit, they are getting better with their music choices. I think I just heard Coldplay on the last Local on the 8. But, I’m not talking about music in general. I’m talking about the THEME. Although The Weather Channel is getting pretty snazzy. They did release a Smooth Jazz CD in 2007, based on the music played on the Local on the 8′s segments. They are progressive. But, I like my idea. If not every day, then maybe on April Fool’s Day.
For example. I think that if it is going to be a beautiful, sunny day, they should play songs like, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” or a Disney happy tune, like Zip E Dee Do Da or however you spell it.
When a horrible storm is nearing, play music from Jaws. Wouldn’t it be fun to hear this music when a straight line thunderstorm is approaching:
You could sit on your couch, turned around, with your knees on the cushions, and your elbows on the back of the couch, watching out your picture window, bowl of popcorn nearby. You know the storm is getting closer, because the music is getting louder and faster. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?
And of course, who couldn’t resist a little Flight of The Bumblebee when a blizzard is knocking on your door?
I guess I could go on and on with musical selections that match the weather. There are different kinds of genre to choose from. Or music with “weather” in the title:
You are The Sunshine of My Life- Stevie Wonder
Windy-The Association
Who’ll Stop the Rain-Creedence Clearwater Revival
Walking on Sunshine-Katrina and the Waves
Sunshine on My Shoulders-John Denver
Singin in the Rain- Gene Kelly
Riders on the Storm- The Doors
Please Don’t Stop the Rain- James Morrison
November Rain-Guns n Roses
I Love a Rainy Night- Eddie Rabbitt
Here Comes the Sun- The Beatles
Good Day Sunshine- The Beatles
Ain’t No Sunshine- Bill Withers
Against the Wind- Bob Seger
Ride Like the Wind-Christopher Cross
Buckets of Rain- Bob Dylan (Thanks Pat!)
You are My Sunshine (Thanks Pat!)
I guess I could go on and on. I don’t know. I just think I have something here.
I am a fourth grade teacher, living in West Virginia. I just looked at my W2 form, and I made a whopping $$,$$$ this past year. I’m too embarrassed to share this sad little figure with you. I just stared at the paper for a long while and then thought……WTF?
So, to supplement my meager earnings, I have been trying to come up with a way to make some extra money. There’s a media lady that wants to put an ad or two on my blog posts for $30. No, I would need at least $40 to live a more comfortable lifestyle. I could write a book. A lot of my facebook friends (3 of them) think I should write a book. I think so too. But, that takes time….and talent.
OR>>>> I could invent something…..hmmmmm, an invention.
I really don’t care to invent anything, but I do think I have come up with something that will make me a millionaire. I AM SURE. My fellow teachers across the country (and some in Canada) will surely want to buy this for their classrooms.
I have lately been trying to come up with a way to make a flask out of a pencil. It looks like a pencil, but if you push over the eraser, you can sip some hard whiskey while your fourth graders are taking a test.
Why, you ask?
Because I am having one hell of a year. I don’t drink that often, maybe a total of 10 beers a year, but I am ready to start drinking in the classroom. Hard liquor. Especially after really taking note of what I make every year. Bird crumbs….no, bird poop from the bird crumbs. That’s what I make.
I think I could be in trouble for drinking hard liquor in the classroom, but I’m not really sure on that one. (I hope you idiots who have no concept of “tongue in cheek” will please head to another blog if you don’t realize that I KNOW that it is wrong to drink in the classroom…..but then again, I will have to check the law in WV. It may be permitted). We do have a margarita machine in the teacher’s lounge, but sometimes you should need something a little harder to match the kind of day you are having.
So, I figure I could take a regular pencil, drill a hole down the middle, and attach some sort of invisible hinge for the eraser….and fill it with booze. I could even sing a little song before I partake, just to get me in the mood (set to the tune of “I’m a Little Teapot”)
“I’m a little pencil, full of lead
here is my tip and here is my eraser head
when I get all steamed up, then I shout,
“Just tip me over and pour me out……”So, the next time a student tells me that M. is telling everyone out on the playground that A. plays with monkey titties, or the next time that J. decides he wants to fake burp and fake sneeze all flippin day, and I can’t take it any longer, I can quietly pick up the pencil, which I will call “the WRITE Stuff,” push over the eraser and just take a swig or two. Then, I wouldn’t care if someone is fake sneezing or fake burping all flippin day. I wouldn’t care when someone asks me what page the assignment is on, right after I tell them AND write it on the board. And I won’t care that M. is telling everyone out on the playground that A. plays with monkey titties. Because, you know what? Maybe she does. Quit the damn tattletaling Goober head.
One of my students asks me every day, “Is this the day that you are going to have a stroke?”
“No, Andy, not when I have “The WRITE Stuff.”
But, then, reality smacks me across my living-in-a-fantasy-face. The pencil will not hold much whiskey. One little swig and it would be time for a re-fill. What to do? What to do? Well, hell, I can make a bigger pencil, right?
That’s more like it. Teachers are going to love this. I think I have found my Field of Dreams.
If you build it, they will come.
So drink up, my dear underpaid teachers., drink up.
A friend on facebook took a picture of a cake she made for her daughter’s sleepover. She found the picture on pinterest and made her own cake.. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t her design. In my book, she is now the most creative person I know.
photo by Crystal Bennington
When I was little, in the 50′s and 60′s, we didn’t have elaborate birthday parties. For the most part, we had several friends over and had cake and ice cream. Then Grandma and Grandpa would come over and give me a card with something bizarre written on the front. Grandma was living on Pluto for a few years, and really didn’t know which end was up. She knew my birthday was on November 9th, but there was always something else that shared my day.
Happy Birthday, Vickie Pearl Harbor Day
Oh, she didn’t do it every year, but as I got older, I really appreciated the humor that being crazy generated. Cute, yet alarming at the same time.
But, back to the cake. So, my 5 or 6 friends would sit down and enjoy a round chocolate cake with white icing. It had to be devils food chocolate. My mom would stick candles in the cake, we would sing, and then eat and laugh for the rest of the time. It was great growing up in my neighborhood. But, never, ever, would anyone, ever, have a cake so wonderful as the one my friend just made. I work with another girl, Misty, who makes cakes for her children also. The next three are cakes that she has made for her children. I would never be able to create anything like that. I’m too afraid to make a gingerbread house at Christmas.
photo by Misty Riffee Owens
Another teacher, Stephanie, who admits that she doesn’t cook, also tried her hand at the cake making for her son a while back. Everyone around me is creative like that. I tried one time for my son. It was supposed to be an army cake, even though he never played army. He played with his Ghostbusters, which would have been easy….in my book. I would have just had a white icing cake and called it a ghost. But, the army cake never stood a chance. First of all, I didn’t have the icing thick enough to hold the plastic green army men. I did try to dye the icing to look camouflaged. I even messed that up. It looked like vomit with strings of spinach running through it. I’m creative in my descriptions if nothing else.
So, kudos to you, Crystal, the Cake Lady. Well done.
When I was little, I couldn’t wait to show my mom the A+ I received on any of my tests. I was proud, because I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. I attended a private school through 3rd. grade, and the nuns at Sacred Heart of Mary Mary Quite Contrary never sent home anything. The only thing I remember them doing was yelling and scrubbing gravel out of my knee. So, I never had many proud moments there to bring home for my parents.
So, when I was finally able to talk my parents into letting me go to Edgewood with my friends, I was shocked when I got my first Spelling paper back with a big A+ written on the top. It wasn’t just an A, mind you. They gave you an A+ in public schools if you did exceptionally well. I was awesome. So, I jumped off of the bus and ran into the house to show my mom and dad my first A+ (Technically. I am sure I was awesome at the Sacred Heart of Mary Juana, but no one let me know that there.)
Well, the first thing my mom did, as ALL moms did back then, was to put it in a place of importance so everyone, including Susie the dog, could marvel over my greatness: the refrigerator. Back then, everyone put papers and pictures and magnets on the refrigerator. That’s what we did. They say that the kitchen is the heart of the home. Well, the refrigerator is the brain. It is the main item where everyone gathers. It is where the food is. It is where my A+ in Spelling was hanging. Yes, the refrigerator was a trophy case in more than one way.
Fast forward many years. I got my own refrigerator and somehow, two children. Ok, I’m teasing about the last part, but I was ready to be a mom. And if you want to be a great mom and show your children that you love them, you hang their shit on the refrigerator. And I did. I remember my husband and I visiting some friends for the first time, and she didn’t have anything on the refrigerator. She had two boys. They were about the same age as my children. Where the hell is the baseball schedule or papers they colored in class? My God, you must be a terrible mother not to use your refrigerator as a trophy case. What the hell is wrong with you?
Well, then it began, like dominoes falling softly on the carpet. Everything changed. Sleek stainless steel refrigerators came into people’s lives and all of a sudden, the fashion was to not put anything on the refrigerator. Why, Martha Stewart, why, was this not acceptable any longer? I would go to houses to visit and not see anything on the refrigerator. I know some of these mom’s were decent mothers. I just couldn’t get past the idea that the refrigerator should be just that, a refrigerator, and not a message board. Oh, the humanity.
So, I tried to get on board. When I moved in October, I just stared at the new refrigerator. It was classy.
Moving day, October 2011. Shiny new refrigerator.
I decided that since my two children were grown and on their own, there was no reason I should put anything on the refrigerator anymore. Less is more and I wanted my kitchen to look like a grownup for once. The refrigerator was not really the heart of my home. My dining room table and the little machine I type on all flippin day was the heart of my new home. I was going to keep it looking sleek, because that was how I was trying to roll to. Sleek. (She laughs while writing this.)
Well, that didn’t last too long. I hung a map of Manhattan on my refrigerator when I was moving in. My daughter is attending NYU for grad school and is living in Manhattan. I love NYC, so a map went up on my refrigerator. Notice the lovely “Kitchen Clip” holder thingy.
A map for the atlas geek
After a while, it felt like my kitchen had no pulse. Sure, it looked crisp and clean, and sleek, but it had no heart, no feeling. So, up went some more stuff. I put postcards on the side of the refrigerator. My kids travel all over the damn place and have studied abroad. Being great kids, they send their momma postcards.
I have more postcards, and change them around from time to time. I do try to be a minimalist in my postcard hoarding. Well, then I got to thinking, “Why not put up the magnets I collect when I go somewhere?” So, on the other side of the refrigerator, I put up some “travel magnets.” I have a lizard from Cancun, an Empire State Building from NYC, and a Myrtle Beach magnet, among others, hidden from the viewing public. I think refrigerator magnets are cool.
I guess I still wasn’t happy. The refrigerator showcased my children and my travels, but not me. And after all, I am pretty damn important. I live here alone. With a cat. I should show something that is pure Vickie. My fourth graders are always making pictures for me. I could show off that “awesome teacher” gushings by placing an accolade or two on my refrigerator. I found just the perfect one. I made it huge so you can see all of the wonderful detail. Yes, I am awesome.
So, this is what is on my sleek, shiny, new refrigerator. I’ve only been here since October, and my kitchen now feels like me.
So, in the end, if you want to be a good parent, you must use your refrigerator as a trophy case. If you don’t, well, I fear that your children will do poorly in school because you don’t show positive reinforcement by showcasing their accomplishments.
Today was Pajama Day at school. It was great to throw my hair back in a ponytail, wear my robe, and just scuff along. I looked like a loser. 1 week ago
Where the hell is the fort?
Where the hell did this blue one come from?
But, you know, if you are going to dress the part, you really need to act the part. And everyone knew back then that all actresses smoked. I knew that because I watched movies. Yes, all actresses smoked. And so, then, I should too.
Wrong bees
Like the picture slider above, this popular slider had fifteen tile blocks.
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Having fun now.
I just found my next collection.
smallpox victim, circa 1912
photo by Crystal Bennington
photo by Misty Riffee Owens
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