I recently found a picture of my roommate and great friend, Jeri, and myself that was taken in 1976. Or maybe 1977. We were either at the beach or we had just come home. Our faces were peeling and we looked quite ugly. So, what do you do when you are looking ugly? Of course, you put “scarf on head” and head to the mall. We headed right to the photo booth to capture our beauty for all to see. We looked like lepers. I bet neither of us knew that 30+ years later, one of us would be posting our mugs on facebook.
The “scarf on head” look was very popular on our college campus during the 1970′s. I’m pretty sure that it was like that everywhere. We didn’t wear silky scarves. That would have been silly. And we didn’t tie them in front like a babushka. That was saved for Russian women and Queen Elizabeth.
a British babushka
No, we wore hankerchief scarves. We had one of every color known to man, because we wore them all of the time. We used the phrase, “scarf on head,” in our daily conversations. “Wanna go to the mall?” …..”Sure, I’m scarf on head, though.”
We wore scarf on head for one reason and one reason only. We were lazy. And sometimes hungover. We would go out in our small college town several times a week. We really only had two bars to frequent: The Pub and the Cabaret. We never went out at night in our scarves. We were looking good in our painter pants and our Earth shoes. We needed “pretty hair” for our nights out. But, in the morning, when class was calling and we slept in until the last possible moment, the only thing you could do was wear “scarf on head.”
I remember one time when we defiantly wore “scarf on head.” We were in Sigma Sigma Sigma, a sorority on campus and we had meetings about every Sunday evening. One evening, we found out that the president of the sorority at the time, who was not fond of most of us, scheduled a portrait sitting and neglected to tell us. I guess she wanted us to show up looking rough around the edges, while she and her three bff’s wore dresses and looked divine for the picture. Someone tipped us off, so about 8 of us showed up with “scarf on head.” We knew princess would never let the picture be taken unless we were going to stomp grapes or something, but not for a yearbook and framed photograph. The scarfies won.
I miss the days when I could get up, brush my teeth, throw scarf on head and go to class. And then take your shower when you got back from class. What dirt balls we were. I sometimes can not believe that I ever practiced that, because if I don’t take my shower by 9:00a.m., I fell like my skin is crawling. But, hey,it was the 70′s. And that, seriously, is all we have to say.
“It was the 70′s.” A little phrase that has so many meanings. It was a great time.
After we had built our house, we had our contractors come back a few years later to build a pavilion on our patio. I looked out one day and I saw the two brothers standing as still as could be. I watched for a minute or two, and they never moved a muscle. Strange. I opened the door and the one brother waved me off, making just a little movement with his hand. “Vickie, shhhhh. Turkeys…..”
I looked out in our field, and there were 6 huge turkeys. Well, I knew all about how turkeys were skiddish. I also knew that the
Shhhh...I'm hunting turkeys
brother builders were big time hunters, and were probably salivating at the prospects of killing one of those birds. I was wondering how long they would stay frozen like that. All they needed were some British outfits and they could be guards at Buckingham Palace.
The turkeys were still far away, but were coming closer. I let it continue for a few minutes, but then I thought I should put a stop to this. I wanted to sit under my pavilion some day, after all.
I grabbed the cracked corn and opened the door. “HEY YOU GUYS!” I yelled for my turkeys. Yeah, my turkeys.
As soon as the turkeys heard my voice, they ran to me like I was their momma. They surrounded me as I threw corn to the ground. I sweet talked to them and called them by name: Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe, Larry, and Curly. We knew each other pretty well. After all, it took me a very long time to tame them.
The builder brothers reminded me of little boys who were just told them there was no Santa Claus. Deflated. Hurt. Then mad.
“Vickie, that’s not right. It goes against the laws of nature.” Builder brother #1 said, as he limbered up from his stoic pose. Brother #2 just looked at me.
It all started one day while watching them through my binoculars. They were pretty far away. I was so excited. I had never seem live turkeys before. There must have been 15 of them.
I decided I was going to tame them. I started by putting corn out on the ridge. When they would go to the corn, I would just step outside on the patio. They would run away, but then come right back. The next day I put the corn closer. When they found it, I would come outside and stand, once again. I did this daily. In a couple of weeks, I had them eating out of my hands. The picture, above, shows my turkeys under the hickory tree. I called this “the mound,” where I put food out for all my critters.
One day I was pruning my Japanese maple in the front yard, and I heard my husband talking to someone. ” Hey, I don’t have any food. Your momma’s in the front yard.” I smiled and then yelled for my turkeys. And around the corner they came. The followed me to the front door, knowing I was the food lady. I loved those turkeys.
My turkeys came every day for a long time. As hunting season approached, I saw less of them. The turkeys are long gone now, and so am I. I moved from the property I loved so much and don’t get to feed wildlife too much. Well, there are the Misfits down at the river, by my apartment: 2 white ducks, 1 mallard and one strange looking goose. They have been together for 2 years now. I need to go down there more often.
Feeding something every day...all year long
I am now looking for a house to buy. “Wanted: 3 bedroom home with central-air, garage and woodline for turkey feeding”
Years ago, when I was a stay-at-home mom and needed an outlet, I decided to collect names. I was going to write a book. A baby name book or maybe just a book on old first names. I bought a couple baby name books and highlighted the names I already collected. In 1992, I didn’t have the luxury of the internet, so I searched through newspapers, phone books and yearbooks. The TV Guide was also a great source of information. The best place for old names was the obituaries. I enjoyed my new hobby and was serious about putting it together for a book. I think I had more than 70.000 names before I stopped and started on something else.
Old names are great. The name, Mabel, made a comeback when used on the TV show, Mad about You. They named their baby Mabel, to the dismay of friends and families. I loved it. My sister and I used to play “Ethel and Mabel” in the bath tub when we were little. I’m not too fond of Gwenyth Paltrow naming her son Moses, even though that is a pretty old name. Baby Moses….Nope, don’t like that. Didn’t like Apple either. I wonder if she would name her Apple again? If she would have had twins, I would have voted for Apple and Dumpling…or Apple and Pie….or Apple and Strudel…. I guess I should stop now.
I know I wouldn’t give my daughter her middle name again. Lynn. She hates that name. She thought Alexandra Rose had a good ring to it. She’s right. Lynn is an easy, common middle name. My middle name is Lynn. Vickie Lynn. I was adopted at birth and my mom told me that the name Deborah Lee was my name at birth. Debbie. I was always confused as a Debbie or a Cindy growing up. I don’t know why. I had a common face. A common Debbie or Cindy face. My mom went on to tell me that she called me Vickie Lynn because she had a baby doll when she was little named Vickie Lynn. Seriously, a baby doll named Vickie Lynn? What the hell was wrong with her?
Well, I should consider the alternative. I was almost called Augusta Marie. Augusta. I could just imagine my mom stepping out on the front porch to yell for me to come home. “Augusta……Augusta……” And when I was bad, the middle name would be added as we all know. I don’t know how I feel about Augusta. I think it would have been really cool to be called Gus as a girl or even Gussie. My great-great aunt was Augusta Marie and they called her Aggie…That wouldn’t have been so bad. But,I think Aunt Aggie was a lush. So, hey, let’s name your child after her…I guess I’m just not a fan of Vickie Lynn. If I had a choice, I would pick Maggie. It’s my favorite name. I don’t know why.
Well, after doing some research on “Vickie”, it seems that it was a pretty popular name between 1950 and 1960. Vickie is a variant of “Victoria,” which means, “victory.” Wow. That’s a surprise. In the 1950′s Vickie was #61 in popularity, with 71,966 Vickie’s named during that decade. In 1960 alone, the Social Security database lists that 107 Vickie’s were born in West Virginia. They were all spelled different ways, however.
There aren’t very many famous Vickie’s out there. There is Vicki Lawrence, Vickie Lynn Hogan, aka Anna Nicole Smith and my favorite, Miss Vicki, who married the weird-0, Tiny Tim.
Miss Vicki was only 17 years old, when she married Tiny Tim on the Tonight Show in December, 1969. It was watched by over 40 million viewers.(They later had a baby named Tulip Victoria) The next day and for weeks afterwards, I had to endure being called, “Miss Vicki.” Hell, I still have a classmate that calls me that. I hated having that name during that time. “Hey, Miss Vickie, where’s Tiny?” Not fun.
I thought this was a grand name
I guess there could be worse names. When I was in high school, I used to tell my friends I was going to name my first born Quincy Bozo. I was teasing, of course. But, I still remember that name. Did name a guinea pig that, though. Loved that rodent. There is a little boy in our community named Coleman Heater. I mean, seriously. There is also a boy named Hunner, because his mom didn’t know there was a “t” in there, for Hunter. Say the name a couple of times. I guess you could understand the mistake. Or not.
First impressions are really important in life. Don’t name your kid Rain Mann…. or Ima Horr….. or Luke Skye Walker… or Emma Roid….Fanny Whiffer…..or Holly Wood….or Candy Kaine……or Brock Lee….or Roxanne Gravel….
If you are a mom, you have to wear many hats. You are (in one long breath), a doctor, a nurse, a vet, a teacher, a psychic, a story teller, a cop, a beautician and barber, a chef, an EMT, a genealogist, a bodyguard, a maid, a professional organizer, a seamstress/costume designer, a personal shopper, a referee, a fashion coordinator and a chauffer. I would like to add another to the long list of jobs that mothers perform daily : crime scene investigator.
You may not think that mothers should put crime scene investigator on their resume, but I beg to differ. Case in point: The Case of the Smeared Ladybugs. It was a new case that I was working on for a few weeks. I had just finished solving, The Case of the Baby Powder all Over the Carpet with an arrest in that one.
I had two suspects in that case: Big Boy Adam Jay, a curly red-haired punk, age 6. He’s been downtown at the station several times. We had his mug shot hanging up all over the place. He knew the ropes. The kid knew how to use his noodle. I soon found out he had an accomplice, Baby Face Alex. Alex was Big Boy’s sister. She was 5 years old. Soon, she was singing like a canary. Big Boy called her a Stool pigeon. I told him to shut his yap. She didn’t want to go to the big house.
During interrogations under the lights, Alex spilled her guts. She fingered Big Boy as the culprit. He was the brains of the operation. In a nutshell, Baby Face told me that they didn’t want to move. It was explained that the new house was almost complete and that she and her brother were to box up their possessions for the move to the country. They talked and decided to sabatoge the house-selling process. Big Boy figured that if they made the house “ugly and smelly”, no one would want to buy it. So, one night, they took a large container of Johnson and Johnson Baby Powder, and sprinkled it all over their bedroom carpet, beds, and dressers. It looked like snow on Christmas morning.
During the investigation, I also found smashed jelly beans in the carpet throughout the house. They also put Match box cars on the steps leading to the second floor for the prospective buyers to trip on and tumble down the stairs to their death. The cars appeared their daily, but the two denied any involvement. I had to interrogate the only other occupant in the house that could have been responsible, their father, Clueless Jay. He wasn’t aware there was a second floor.
After I shut the books on that case, and we made our move to the country, so our children could lead a normal life away from the big crime city of Monongah, population 345 1/2 (Don’t ask) , I noticed a smashed lady bug on my kitchen nook window. Somehow lady bugs entered our new home and enjoyed crawling on my nice, clean windows. Someone had murdered the lipstick-red insect. It appeared upon further investigation, that the perpetrator put his or her finger directly on the lady bug, crushing it to the window,
scene of the crime
and then smearing its remains down the window for approximately 4 inches. Someone in the new house was a cold-blooded killer.
a line-up, several years and 4 cases later
This did not sit well with me. After all, Jeffrey Dahmer started off by taking wings off of butterflies. Soon, he was eating people. I had to nip this in the bud. First, lady bugs, and then the killer would move on to ant hills or earthworms. I was an animal lover. A lady bug has worth, and perhaps some bug children somewhere else in the house.
I immediately ruled out Baby Face Alex. I knew she had it in her heart not to hurt anything. Her stuffed animal dog buddy, Fluffy, recently fell off of her bed and Baby Face cried because, “Fluffy is paralyzed.” I was impressed by the kid’s vocabulary. So, I eliminated her as a suspect. I interrogated Clueless Jay, who had no idea what a nook was. My only other suspect was Big Boy, and he didn’t squeal. He denied any involvement, especially after my “all animals have feelings” talk. I saw him crying outside , while playing with his Tonka trucks. Good. That meant there was still time before we had to start calling him Jeffrey.
But, he still wouldn’t budge. So, I brought out the big guns. I had Scotch tape and powdered sugar. And a big ole lie. I brought them into the kitchen nook.
”Big Boy, Baby Face, this is how I am going to find out who killed the lady bug and smeared it down the window. I am going to take some of this powder I got from a police officer and lightly put it in the smear.” I took some powder and brushed it with one of those little plastic watercolor brushes onto the lady bug guts. “Now, I will take a piece of tape and press it against the window. I will leave it on their for exactly one minute. This will then give me a fingerprint.” I looked at my watch for a minute. ” Ok, now I will carefully peel the tape off of the window and hang it in the air for 30 seconds.” Some more watch looking. “Ok, now, I have fingerprints of the person who smeared the lady bug. The police officer told me that after I do this, it will only take about 10 seconds for the white powder to appear on the finger of the person who did this.”
As soon as I said that, Big Boy Adam brought his hands up and looked at his fingers. “Gotcha!” I said to him. The procedure made absolutely no sense, and that’s what made it brilliant. Score one for the mom.
RIP Lei Dee Bahg
And that’s how I solved The Case of the Smashed Ladybug. Big Boy and Baby Face grew up to be upstanding citizens and although there were a few more cases I will delve into at a later time, they never spent any time in the big house. And that’s because of yet another hat I wore.
So, yeah, mom’s should add crime scene investigator to their portfolio. And we should all get to look like Marg Helgenberger.
I usually put my Christmas tree up on the day after Thanksgiving. I was a Christmas tree perfectionist. I placed an ornament on the tree, then stood back to see if it looked ok. It took me hours to decorate the tree. I popped popcorn days earlier, because stale popcorn is easier to string. I would sit and string popcorn for a very long time. I also made my own 30 foot garland by cutting strips of material and tying it onto a jute rope. My tree was beautiful if I may say so myself. My children would be home, out of school for a few days over Thanksgiving, so I thought I would start our very own holiday tradition. I believe this began when they were six or seven years old.
One Thanksgiving day, after our big meal at my in-laws, we were sitting around, relaxing, when I said, “Wow, did you guys feel that cold air come through here?” I shivered. The kids shook their heads and they went about their business. Adam got up and walked through the kitchen, into the Hearth Room, where he had been playing with his Lego’s before we left.
I heard him yell to me. “Mom! Dad! Come here!” We got up and walked into the Hearth Room. The Hearth Room, by the way, is our living room, which I refused to call a living room. I wanted to be a little more creative than that. I dubbed it the Hearth Room when we built the house, and that’s what we all called it. When we walked into the room, I could tell Adam was excited.
“Look! Santa dropped it down the fireplace!” It was a vhs movie. I can’t remember what the movie was called, maybe Otis and Milo. I then added, “Maybe he dropped it down the fireplace at the same time I felt the cold air. Santa was here!” And that’s how it started.
Every Thanksgiving evening I would say different phrases: “Boy, I have the shivers………Is it cold in here all of a sudden?”…….”Did someone just open the door?…… I would say it nonchalant like, and they would look at each other, get up, and try to beat each other to the Hearth Room. There would be a movie waiting for them every time. Score one for Mom.
One year, I had just decorated the mantel and tree in the Hearth Room. I must have dropped a little elf hat that came off of a stuffed elf that I usually left in the box of unused decorations. Adam felt the breeze before I said anything, and ran into the Hearth Room. The movie was sitting in the fireplace, on logs like it had been dropped down the chimney. But, Adam also found the little elf hat and about freaked out. I guess it would be scary to think that there was a little man in your home.
“There was an elf in the house. He dropped his hat.” Adam looked a little unsettled. I just got him to be able to sleep after being scared by an R. L. Stine book weeks before. He would wake up, yelling for me because the “Green Witch” was in his room. I think they were watching “Are you Afraid of the Dark” also, so that didn’t help. And now there was a freakin elf in the house. Looks like his sleep patterns were going to be disrupted again.
That night, my husband had to go to work and set the security alarm. He never set it on “Instant”, which meant the lazers would be on and anyone moving inside the house would set off the alarm. We used to set it that way when we would go on vacation. I was in a deep sleep and all of a sudden I heard the alarm go off AND Adam screaming at the top of his lungs. I jumped up and ran out into the hall. He wasn’t in his room. His screams came from downstairs. It was about 3:00am, so I thought for sure someone was in the house and was trying to take Adam.
Sleeping safe with lazer beam protection
I quickly shut off the alarm and noticed that the Hearth Room was breached. I rushed downstairs, a mother on a mission. I didn’t have a gun or a knife or a shoe. I had adrenaline. My son was screaming. I ran into the room, and found Adam, clad in his cute little Ghost Buster pajamas,holding his hamster cage in his arms.
What the hell is wrong with you people?
“Chuck was making too much noise in his cage and so I thought I would bring him down here so I could sleep.” He was scared. Adam, I mean, not Chuck. I looked around and noticed that the alarm had been set to “instant.” There was no intruder. Adam walked through one of the lazers and set off the alarm. My poor little guy.
I walked Adam back to bed and tucked him in and assured him that his dad set the alarm by mistake. Adam seemed to think that the elf set off the alarm. Just great.
All was well the next morning and the kids watched the movie that came down the chimney. They seemed to enjoy our new holiday tradition and I hope they pass it on to their kids.
We ate a lot of sugar when I was little. I’m surprised my sister has any teeth left. She would sit and eat brown sugar right out of the bag. I wasn’t a big sugar eater. I was a hyper little chihuahua. I did put a layer of sugar on top of my Rice Krispies, after they were all properly dunked under the milk. I should add that I added sugar here and there until the cereal was gone. Some people liked to drink the sugar milk leftover, but I never did, despite my mom telling me to finish my bowl…of sugar milk. I would look over at Cheryl and she would just be going at it. I am sure she took in enough sugar for the whole block. People out of sugar knew where to come: The Sugar Shack on the corner of Crystal and Fernwood.
The sugar, in cereal, was masked, of course, in creative packaging. Oh wait. No, they didn’t hide the fact that it was nothing but sugar. The cereal companies were upfront and honest back then. By God, if there was nothing but sugar in their boxes, they put it right on the cover. Like Sugar Pops.
Sugar Pops had a personality disorder. The Sybill (young people are lost with this reference) of cereals, so to speak. First, it was called Sugar Pops. They used Sugar Pops Pete, a prairie dog puppy who began pistol whipping us with Sugar Pops cereal in 1959. Pete was a cowboy, who carried his gun that had red and white spiraled barrels that I guess shot sugar at the bad guys to sweeten them up. Maybe that’s where the phrase, “Kill them with kindness” came from. They then changed the name to Sugar Corn Pops. Then they dropped the sugar altogether and called them Corn Pops. But do kids want to eat pops of corn? No, because they would then just eat popcorn, right? So, now, Kellogg’s is selling Pops. Just Pops. Pops of sugar. Back to Sugar Pops, right?
Companies had to change the names when they people started caring about their health. Companies started getting shifty. Hiding the facts. It’s like Kentucky FRIED Chicken is now KFC. They needed to hide the unhealthy FRIED part of their name. They couldn’t just be called KC, because it would be confused with the Sunshine Band. But back to cereal…
Another cereal we ate when we were young was Sugar Crisps. I remember this commercial. It too changed from Sugar Crisps to Super Sugar Crisps, to Super Golden Crisps to now Golden Crisps. Another company hiding their sugar. The shame.
Sugar Bear was suave and cool. He was voiced by actor Sterling Holloway, who made Sugar Bear sound like Dean Martin and sing like Bing Crosby. He really made you want to eat sugar.
The next one I mention only because my sister loved Puffa Puffa Rice. Sugar rice. Yum.
This cereal was described as “puffed and toasted rice with brown cane sugar” with “oceans of en-er-gy”. Maybe this is where my sister got the idea of eating brown sugar. The commercial said, “with brown cane sugar”. My mom used brown sugar when she made her delicious refrigerator cookies. So, I’m thinking that when there wasn’t any Puffa Puffa rice cereal in the house, Cheryl got out the brown sugar. Same thing, really.
The only cereal I would eat were Rice Krispies and Corn Flakes. And they didn’t taste good without sugar. I’m surprised I ate Rice Krispies. I hate rice. Rice as a breakfast food sounds disgusting. But, not when you have three fantastic characters giving me their “Snap, Crackle, Pop” routine. What a fun cereal to eat.
When I had children of my own, I tried to get them to eat healthier cereals, like Frosted Flakes. Tony the Tiger says they are, “GREAT!” I guess that means healthy, right?
I wish we could go back to the days when companies told us the truth. Their products contained a lot of sugar, but they told us so. Now, we have to decifer the information on the side of the box. We have to figure out what they are hiding.
I was fascinated by weird things when I was little. The people who lived across the street from me had something in their yard that I could not understand. I would walk by Joe and Rose’s house and stop, staring at the lawn ornament. It was standing near the front walk that led to their front door. It was just standing there. I needed to know why. I asked my mom.
“Vickie, what are you talking about?…….What black man?…………….I don’t see a black man standing in Joe’s yard…………..Vickie, it is not nice to say someone is ugly………Black people are real, Vickie……Yes they are………………I am not going over to their house. I can see that there isn’t anyone standing in their yard………………..”
I gave up. My mom was worthless. Unless the lawn ornament was handing out Salem cigarettes, she wasn’t going to go over there. I decided to go over to Joe’s and ask him. He told me that it once belonged to his dad. Ok….Still didn’t give me any answers..
“Mr. Minco, why is it in your yard?……… What is it FOR?”
“Why, Vickie, it is a decoration.” Seriously, I wanted to know why someone would put something like that in their yard. I mean, it was a black man with a ring in his hand. Was it to tie your horse up to years ago? Or maybe it was for a dog’s leash. I wasn’t getting answers and it was frustrating me to no end. And that began my interest in lawn ornaments.
I know, weird, right? I rode bikes and had fun like any normal child my age, but I also had secret interests, like lawn ornaments. Some of the bird baths in the neighborhood were cool.
I wanted my mom to buy a bird bath. “Vickie, birds are dirty. They carry all kinds of diseases…..No, not the measles, Vickie……I know Aunt Elizabeth has a yellow canary……No, she didn’t die…….but that is an inside bird…….No, Vickie, I have never seen a dead bird in the yard…..Vickie, they will poop all over the yard if we had a bird bath…”
I felt like telling her that I was going to poop all over the yard if we didn’t get one. She made no sense sometimes. She always ended with a “Because I said so….”
Most bird baths were in the back yards, which posed a problem for me, because I was a rule follower, and I would never just walk into someone’s backyard to see what lawn ornaments they had back there. Or would I?
All I knew is that one day, I too, would have a bird bath in my backyard. I thought it made for a relaxing place. One thing I would NOT have, I decided, was a stupid pink flamingo. I would never fall for that. I really didn’t understand why people would put pink birds in their front yard. We didn’t have pink birds in West Virginia.
That's a lot of pink poop
I read where the factory that had cranked out over 20 million pink flamingo lawn ornaments since 1957 had gone out of business in 2006. Oh dear God, there are 20 million pink flamingo ornaments out in the world. I wonder what the factory owner thought when after he made the first ones, and received an order for 10,000 more. I just didn’t get it. But, I am sure the guy was laughing all the way to the bank. It’s like the guy who invented the Pet Rock…or mood rings….brilliant stuff.
When I was a teenager, I saw a yard that had 5 pink flamingos. I was tempted to steal one and put it in my bedroom. But, that would be wrong, so I pulled them out of the yard and laid them on their side, like they died. I don’t know why the hell I did that, but it amused me. Maybe because people shouldn’t have pink flamingos in their yard.
The most troubling lawn ornaments for me were the little munchkins, or garden gnomes as they like to call them. I think it may have all started with Snow White and the seven dwarfs ornaments.
Why?
Now, this, I did not get. Why the seven dwarfs? i think they were creepy. Why not the Oompah Loompahs? What was so special about the seven little dwarfs? Why not just put out Goldilocks and the three bears or Sleeping Beauty on the back porch next to a hammock? What were people thinking?
The seven little dwarfs manifested into the garden gnome. I bet the Travelocity CEO has one in his yard.
Many years later, I had to drive past a huge gorilla, a bear and a seal every day on the way to my house. I don’t think they were meant to be lawn ornaments. I think a carnival or circus went out of business and the guy bought them at an auction and brought them home. I wonder if he was excited? I wonder if his wife was excited? I thought he was nuts. He also had a mini golf course (three holes) on his property, so maybe he meant for them to be props for his golfing. Regardless, it looked stupid.
I mean, seriously?
One day, I noticed the guy across the street from the gorilla guy had purchased a lawn ornament for his yard. It was a huge cannon with a couple cannon balls sitting beside it. Great. Now I am driving by Gettysburg. But, it did give me an idea. I stopped on my way home one day when I saw cannon guy.
I stopped and rolled down my window. “Hey, Danny, I was thinking that maybe you should really use that cannon.” I motioned over at the menagerie of circus animals. He just laughed. I was serious.
But, the very next day, when I was driving down the road, I saw that cannon guy had moved his cannon closer to the road, and it was pointing at the gorilla. I smiled. How I wish it really worked.
I guess people just like to decorate their yards. I drive by a house where the lady routinely changes clothes on her
Silly goose
front porch goose. I wonder if she realizes that geese really don’t need to wear clothes. Most days it is wearing a babushka to keep the cold off of its ears (where ever they may be on a goose).
On my way to work, I decided to note the kind of lawn ornaments people have in their yards. It is a bit frightening. I saw windmills, deer, geese, a Doberman, people bending over, raccoons, and a bunch of flags. There was also a pink flamingo. Oh, this was just in one yard. Just kidding.
They say that “clothes make the man.” Well, perhaps lawn ornaments make the “house.” You are what you eat…things like that. Just sayin. If you have a pink flamingo in your yard, I wouldn’t be surprised to see dogs playing poker on black velvet hanging on a wall inside.
By the way, I did end up having a bird bath in my back yard. And I am happy to report, I had no diseases from the birds.
I have been divorced since May, 2009. I guess you could say it was a friendly divorce. We even rode together to the divorce hearing. The judge was a little shocked. “Well, in all the time I have been doing this, I’ve never heard of the divorcing couple car- pooling to the courthouse.” But, we did. We also didn’t use lawyers, so it was quick. He even treated me to lunch at the 8th Street Confectionery after the hearing. A meatball hoagie and a divorce on the same day. Life is good.
My ex-husband and I remain close and he still calls me a couple of times a week. So, it is nothing out of the ordinary to hear his voice on the other end of the phone line.
One day this past spring, Magoo (my nickname for him because he can’t drive) called me with some unsettling news. He asked me if I had received a certified letter from the clerk of the circuit court. Nope, never received one. I always seemed to get mail a day later than he did. That was normal. There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “Why?”
Magoo told me that the letter informed us that since lawyers were not used in our divorce, part of the divorce process was not completed and the certified letter was sent to inform us that they had to render the divorce null and void. We were supposed to come back to the courthouse for a meeting with the family law judge who granted our divorce. There was silence on my end of the phone, because I was at a loss for words. I am never at a loss for words. I could feel my blood pressure rapidly rise and I thought that my head was going to explode.
“What the f*&%????……. Are you saying that we are still married? ………. Oh my God! ………..Read it to me!” I couldn’t believe that a judge could be so inept to overlook protocol in a divorce proceeding. What a moron. I called her worse names. I was a torrential ranter. My sentence structure was nothing but a long string of adjectives….
“That stupid, moronic, inept, worthless, incompetent, bumbling, absurd, insipid, lame, banal, unfit, impotent, brain-crippled, window-licking short bus riding bitch!……”
He read it to me. “blah blah blah….protocol was not followed……form 425 not signed or notorized……..blah blah blah……divorced rendered null and void……must appear before Judge _____ within 30 days to begin divorce process…..”
I was shocked. “Are you freakin kidding me?” I looked at the clock and then asked if he wanted to meet me down at the courthouse right now. He replied, “I will come and pick you up in about 20 minutes. Vickie, this means we are still married.”
“Shit, Magoo, this is absurd!!” I was ranting and rambling and I was so mad I couldn’t see straight. I wondered if we should call the Judge’s office to find out what the hell was going on. He said, no, we should just drive down. I asked him to read the letter to me again, one more time. He said he already read it to me once. I didn’t give a shit. I wanted to decifer it. Tear it apart with a fine toothed combed. He went to get the letter. I guess he walked with it into another room while we were talking.
As I was pacing, waiting for him to come back to the phone, I stopped by my front door and just happened to look at the calendar. I just couldn’t believe that after almost a year, we found out that we were never divorced. I also found out something else.
Magoo got back on the phone. I yelled into the phone, “YOU SON OF A BITCH!”
I noticed on the calendar that it was April 1….April Fool’s Day………Damnit, he got me!
His laughter was deafening. It went on for quite a while. I let him have his fun. It was the first time he was ever able to pull an April Fool’s joke on the Queen of April Fool’s jokes.
He tried to talk through his hyena-like howling. “I am the Master!……After 30 years, I am FINALLY able to pull an April Fool’s joke on you.” And he began cackling again. Cackling like a little school girl if I may say so.
He must have written down some of my remarks, because he was able to regurgitate everything I had said. He was a regurgitator.
He called me back two more times that afternoon. All I could hear was laughing. I hung up on him. And then I smiled.
It’s just part of life that you remember who peed their pants and cried in second grade. You remember the kid who ate his scabs and the girl who got gum caught in her hair and had to have it cut out, making her look really bad. You remember their names. And use them when you get older.
As a teacher, I am faced with weird predicaments on a daily basis. I always worry about the kid who puts an eraser in his mouth,
and for my next trick...
the girl who continually rocks on her chair, the boy who plays with pencils. So, I bring up names from the past. ”Do you want to end up like Kenny Myers?” I asked today. A kid put an eraser in his mouth. They know a story is coming.
“Well, in fifth grade, I watched Kenny swallow a bic pen cap. They had to take him to the hospital and have his stomach pumped. His parents had to pay a huge bill just because Kenny put something in his mouth that wasn’t food. So, if you want to end up like Kenny Myers, put a pen cap in your mouth.”
I have no idea what happened to Kenny. He may have swallowed the little blue part on the other end. I didn’t see it. I heard about it. And remembered it, I guess, so I could pull a story out of the “Useless Information” file I have stored in my brain. Now, you have to understand that my kids know I am pulling their leg, so they just sit there, smiling. They are in fourth grade and understand what’s going on. But, they also know that I have drifted off topic once again. They keep tally marks.
I have another student who rocks on her chair. They know that that is the number one no-no in my classroom. I hate rocking on chairs. My son was a notorious rocker. He still rocks on his chair. He is 25 years old, and I had to tell him to quit rocking just last week. I don’t know why it bugs me so much. Probably because of what happened to Joey Minco. Years ago, I was sitting next to Joey and he was rocking on his chair. He then tipped back too far and went back, hitting his head on the corner of a desk and then landing smack on his head.
”He cracked his head open and had to go to the hospital. Joey had a lot of problems remembering his name after that. So, please quit rocking, unless you want to end up like Joey Minco..or whatever his name is…” Lie. Joe Minco was an old man who lived across the street from me.
On breaking pencils on purpose- “Do you want to end up like George Dragovich? (Another old neighbor. I have no idea why I use neighbors from my youth.) George broke the tips off of the pencils so he would be able to get up in front of everyone to sharpen his pencil. He slipped on a piece of paper on the floor and landed on the pencil. It just missed his eye and the lead is still under his skin right here…(as I point near the corner of my eye.) So, if you don’t want to end up like George Dragovich, quit breaking your pencils on purpose.”
Chewing 23 pieces of gum at the same time- “Are you chewing gum? Do you want to know why I don’t allow chewing gum in my classroom? When I was little, there was a girl name Ethel Mertz (sometimes tv character names come out of my mouth). Ethel was very poor. Her dad worked very hard to save up so Ethel could have a brand new dress. He bought it for her for her 10th birthday. She couldn’t wait to wear it to school and show off her beautiful dress. But when she sat down in her desk chair, someone had put a wad of gum on her seat, and she sat in it. Back then, you couldn’t get gum out of anything. It stained and turned dirty looking over time. Her dress was ruined and school hadn’t even started yet….
And you know who put the gum on her seat?….No, not me…..Joey Minco. He thought it was the wastepaper basket.”
Walking down the hall at the end of the day with a sucker in their mouth- “Hey! You’re not allowed to have suckers in school…..Why, when I was little, I had a sucker in my mouth and fell down the steps and you know what happened to me?……..A piece of the sucker stick is still stuck in my throat. I can’t eat anything solid…So, quit walking with a sucker in your mouth unless you want to eat pudding for the rest of your life.”
On taking your shoes off in class every single day- “Please put your shoes back on. Do you want to end up like Gladys Kravitz?……Poor Gladys. She was my cousin…..WAS my cousin………..Gladys was in fourth grade, and always took her shoes off. One day there was a fire drill. They thought it was just a fire drill. Gladys took her time putting her shoes on…..when the class got outside, the teacher noticed that little Gladys was nowhere to be found….I’m not even going to tell you what happened to her. But, if you want to end up like Gladys Kravitz, go ahead and take your shoes off.”
I really can’t stop. I continually make up scenarios for kids because if you just explain why it is unsafe to rock on a chair, they won’t
If you do this, it is okay to lie..it is
remember it. But, if you give them a vivid description, something they can put a face to,or in my many cases, a name, they will remember it. I mean, I don’t use blood or guts, because that is just wrong for a great teacher like myself to do. And I guess I should mention that the kids know I am lying, right from the beginning…but they seem to love my “Unless you want to end up like….” stories.
When I was little, my mom told me that there was a special place in hell for liars. I know, because Lars Peters is in hell. My mom told me that Lars always lied and he is now in hell. “So, Vickie…if you want to go to hell like Lars Peters, keep on lying.”
It was my job to fetch my mom a cup of coffee. I didn’t see a throne in the family room, but she ordered me about like she was royalty. I have no idea how old I was when I was first summoned, but I do remember the last. Boy, do I.
When I was quite small, the coffee percolator was always burping. My mom had a Corning Ware blue and white percolator. I have to admit that I enjoyed the aroma of the brewing coffee. Maxwell House. Good to the last drop. My mom was always drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. At first I was just bringing her coffee, but when I got older, she taught me how to change the filter and get a new pot brewing. She told me the amount of coffee to scoop. If I went over or under, she let me know.
I thought I was intelligent, but I was a coffee moron. Moronic because I should have made really bad coffee and then she would fire me as the coffee girl. Soon, I was bringing coffee to my parent’s company in the evenings. “Vickie made the coffee.” My mom would tell their guests. I guess she thought that praise begat performance. Not in my little short-haired head. I was getting sick of it.
Not only did I have to serve the guests, but they sat in the family room, where the tv was. So, I would sometimes sit, watching tv, waiting for the next coffee run. I was also fascinated by Betty Edward’s moles. I had never seen so many huge moles on a person’s face and neck in all my life. I still remember every outline of that woman’s face. She was hard looking and moley. Like moles on top of moles. I just can not expand on that enough. They lived a couple of blocks away, and when they came to visit, they would stay for hours. I don’t know how many cups of coffee I brought everyone. My dad got his own. I love my dad.
Anywho, when I was a teen-ager, I was tired of doing stuff and my sister didn’t have to do anything. Ok, I really didn’t have to do much at all. I had to run the vaccuum cleaner through the house and bring coffee. I always folded towels and was the official laundry chute girl. I think my sister had to sleep in her bed. That’s about all I remember her doing. She slept in her bed and ate puffa puffa rice out of a bag….and sometimes sat with brown sugar and ate that. Just brown sugar. My sister was three years younger than me, which is a huge age gap when you are a tween or teen-ager.
One day, my mom yelled for me to get her coffee. She never asked me. She told me. I vowed I would never tell someone to do something. And I never have. I ask, “Would you mind….” or “Could you do me a favor and….” I hate imposing on people. My ex always told me to bring him stuff. Never asked. I never got an Employee of the Month plaque from my mom or my husband.
Anyway, back to my mom. She yelled for me to get her coffee while I was on the phone. So, I didn’t come right away or answer her. I kept talking on the phone. She yelled several more times, and I don’t know why, but it just really pissed me off. I think I was like 14 at the time. So, I said my goodbye and hung up the phone, went into the kitchen and poured her a cup of coffee and walked slowly with it out into the family room like I had done hundreds of times before. And then I fake tripped right in front of her.
She screamed as the make believe coffee didn’t splatter all over her. She put up her arms to cover herself from the invisible scalding second-degree burns she would receive all over her face and neck had there been coffee in the mug.
I tripped with an empty coffee mug.
Oh, Dear God, not good. She hit me and sent me to my room. I will never forget the look on her face as I tripped in front of her. I was a good little actress. She was a better Joan Crawford. My dad looked like he was ready to die laughing. He couldn’t stand my mom. She was a rolling-pin wife and he did whatever she said.
Mommy dearest didn’t talk to me for a couple of days and I wasn’t allowed to go to a pajama party that weekend.
But, she never asked me to bring her a cup of coffee ever again.
When my daughter was quite young, she was often scared of her bedroom. She told me that there were monsters that lived under her bed. I think she just wanted an excuse to sleep in my room. I know that she slept a couple of times in her brother’s closet so she wouldn’t be alone. So, when she came in my room, one late night, and said she was scared, I lied to her. I told her a “Once upon a time” story. I explained, that at one time there were monsters in West Virginia, but they were all chased out of the state and were now all living in California. I told her that if they try to come back into the state, that they would disappear forever. It was a pretty good story. I mean, why wouldn’t she believe that it was illegal to be a monster in West Virginia? Is that wrong?
I always wondered why parents scared their children by telling them the boogey man was going to get them if they didn’t behave. I had a lot of questions for my mom when she told me that if I hit my sister again, the boogey man was going to get me. I used to hit my sister when no one was looking and then played the “Eddie Haskell” card. I was just too damn sweet and cute to hit someone just for the hell of it. But, I did. So, when my mom said the words, “Boogey Man” for the first time, I needed more information.
“Vickie…I know we lock our doors at night. He can walk through walls………He hides in closets or under beds…….Vickie, I don’t know whose house he was at last night………..I don’t think he drives a car, Vickie…………….I don’t know what he looks like, Vickie. The Boogey Man never had to come hide under my bed………….Vickie, Susie (our dog) can’t see the Boogey Man, so she won’t bite him…………Well, because Susie is a good dog…………Vickie, you can’t leave cookies out for him. He isn’t Santa Claus……….You can’t switch beds with your sister, Vickie……………..He carries children away in a sack………I don’t know if he puts holes in the sack so you can breathe…………Vickie, the Boogey Man doesn’t have a phone number……Well, he just knows when to come…….No, you are not hiding…..”
Oh, but I did hide. I slept under my sister’s bed that night. Well, I didn’t sleep much. I was thinking. I first wondered why my sister had a plate and a fork under her bed. I could use that as a weapon. I had to have a plan. I thought it was a smart idea to hide under my sister’s bed because the Boogey Man would never go under her bed. He was after me. So, he could crawl under my bed and wait for me. I remember someone mentioning the Boogey Man one other time. Who was it? hmmmmm….Oh, it was Grandma Williams, my mom’s mom.
Grandma Williams had long hair that she parted and braided each side and wrapped around her ears. My Grandma was Welsh and lived in Spokane, Washington. She always grabbed our cheeks and pinched them a little too hard. I mean, what the hell did that mean anywho? I’m going to pinch the shit out of your cheeks cuz I love you sooo much? I mean, please. Anyways, Grandma Williams was the one who told my sister that the Boogey Man was going to come and carry her off in a sack if she didn’t quit having those temper tantrums. hmmmmm…I wondered if Grandma made up the whole Boogey Man scenario to scare MY mom? Well, I didn’t use the word, “scenario” then. But, I was thinking the Boogey Man was not real.
Well, I laid there for awhile. Thinking. I did get scared thinking how awful it would be if I looked over at my bed and saw the Boogey Man lying under my bed looking over at me.
But, then, I had company. My dog, Susie, found me. She crawled under the bed and hung out with me while I figured the Boogey Man out. I decided that I needed more information. I think my mom was lying to me. It was time to find
out.
“Vickie, what are you doing up? It’s 3:00 in the morning. Go back to bed…………Vickie, the Boogey Man is not under your bed……No he isn’t…………That’s quite a description………….He was not putting a pillow over your face…………Vickie, go back to bed……..No, I am not getting up………..Vickie, he is not sitting on your bed holding Susie……He is not…….Why would he be holding a fork?……Vickie, the Boogey Man does not exist, ok? I made that up so you would behave……Go back to bed……..”
Satisfaction. I smiled on my way back to bed. I killed the Boogey Man.
Fast forward back to my daughter. I opened the door one night to check on her before I went to bed and she wasn’t in there. She wasn’t in my bed, so I opened my son’s door. She wasn’t in his closet. I was standing near his bed, trying to figure out where she would go if she were scared, and I happened to see her lying under her brother’s bed, just looking at me. Oh, my God, my daughter is a mini-me from long ago.
I smiled back at her……after, that is, I screamed at the top of my lungs.
There are certain smells that pick me up and carry me into the kitchen. Homemade bread has got to be the best smell in the kitchen. Onions and peppers frying are a close second. But nothing compares to hearing the oven door open and smelling that bread. Yum.
When I was little, I was very picky. Uber picky. I didn’t eat much. I wouldn’t eat potato salad because it had too many “things” in it. I didn’t even eat pizza until I was a bit older because of the “things” on it. I ate pumpkin pie (my favorite food), but don’t even think about putting Cool Whip on top. And I still don’t eat the crust. I know I have offended a lot of relatives over the years who pinch their crusts and take great pride in the result, only to see Vickie’s crust on her plate, pumpkinless. But, bread, ah, heavenly homemade bread, I love you! That’s all you are. Just bread.
So, I have already talked about our food fights and our whoopie pie wars. They pale in comparison to our homemade bread battles. When I think about it, I now understand why my mom let Cheryl have first dibs on the soup. I totally ruled the whoopie pie war. And I was a ruthless leader during the homemade bread battles. I was relentless, sneaky, and manipulative.
Always wear a babushka when baking bread
When my mom made homemade bread, she would put kitchen towels over them when they came out of the oven. I don’t remember how many loaves she made during “baking day”, but I could see the lumps under those towels. My mom had strict rules about the bread eating. We could NOT, under any circumstances, eat the bread as soon as it came out of the oven. I think that was the rule for me, because I was right beside her, waiting for them to come out of the oven. I was a little pesky gnat.
Now, you would think that the homemade bread battle would be against my sister or brother. But, no, it wasn’t. There was another foe in this battle for the bread. My father. My dad taught me everything I knew about stealing bread. He was the best. But, there was a downside. My mom always thought I was the culprit.
Yes, my dad would go in and slice off a piece and then skedaddle somewhere to hide while he ate it. My dad even used that word, “skedaddle”, which means, to flee, scram, to run away hurriedly. So, he would slice the bread, and skedaddle, leaving me to take the heat. He would teach me, though, his art of bread stealing. “Make sure you don’t drop any crumbs,” he would tell me, as he took off. I was his apprentice.
”Vickie!!!!……Vickie, did you eat the heel?………….Well, it is gone…….Vickie, you are the only one who always takes the heel……Quit blaming your dad………..Well, let’s go see where he is since you are blaming him……” (We would walk into his bedroom. He was smart. Had his own bedroom.)…..”Elwood, did you eat the homemade bread?” My dad always had that nonchalant, “I don’t know what you are talking about demeanor.” He would be lying on his side on his bed, watching his little red tv that was parked right by his head. I never knew until later, but my dad would turn on our 1950′s intercom system before he made a run for it with the stolen bread. So he knew when we were coming. He was good.
One time, I got in a lot of trouble for something my dad did. It was pure genius. I remember my mom calling me into the kitchen. “Vickie!!!!…….Vickie, get in here……….Vickie, I can’t believe you did this!” She raised the towels to show me the bread. Well, nothing was missing. My God, this woman was a bread Nazi. Then, she showed me what “I” did. My dad had sliced off the heel, and flipped the bread over so you couldn’t tell that the heel was missing unless you took off the towel. It was in the back. Well, he taught me to do that a long time ago. But, this was new. The heel was still there, right up against the bread. But, and this is unbelievable, but my dad had sliced the bread, hollowed out the bread, put the heel back against the bread, and skedaddled with the innards. Wow!
I'm pretty sure my dad invented this
Well, how can one blame a grown man for that one? That was a child’s stunt for sure. I tried to tell my mom the truth, but she didn’t buy it. Hell, I didn’t buy it. I later walked into my dad’s room and plopped myself down on the bed. He handed me a chunk of the bread.
Bonding moments like that last a lifetime. My dad died 21 years ago, and every time I eat homemade bread, I think of him…. King of the Bread Battles.
If you have never had a whoopie pie, you are really missing out. They remain my all-time favorite cookie. According to food historians, Pennsylvania Amish wives would put these in their husbands lunch buckets. They would be happy to see these delicious snacks when they opened their buckets and would let out a big, “Whoopie!”
A whoopie pie is like a sandwich. It really isn’t a pie of any sort. It is made with two soft chocolate cookies and a tasty white filling. They are to die for. Or to fight over. This was one food war my sister was not going to win. It was bad enough that she scooped all of the noodles out of the soup, only to leave me with 3 noodles and broth. No, she would not get the whoopie pies. The war was on.
Whoopie pies were not good right out of the oven. They had to cool. My mom didn’t cool her cookies on racks. She cooled them on opened brown paper bags.Brown paper bags are great for absorbing grease. That’s what I use when I bake a lot of cookies. Anywho, we couldn’t eat the whoopie pies until my mom put the icing in the middle. They weren’t good without the filling. That made the cookie special.
I always won part 1 of the whoopie pie war. My mom would yell out, “Beaters or the bowl?” I would be standing right there. I always got the beaters. My mom scraped the hell out of the bowl, so there wasn’t much left there. She didn’t do a very good job with the beaters, which meant a lot for Vickie. I would put them on a plate, take them out to the family room, and smile at my sister, who had the bowl. I know there is stuff written about salmonella and raw eggs and that you shouldn’t lick the beaters, but this is one time I’m not obsessed. I never got sick when I was little.
At one time I was a bit apprehensive of the beaters. Our neighbor, Sylvia, ran into our house one day,
Finger licking good
screaming,with blood all over her hand. She got her hand caught in the mixing bowl while the beaters were doing their business. We rushed her to the hospital and I stayed away from the beaters while my mom was mixing. If that could happen to Sylvia, what’s to say that a beater wouldn’t come flying off of the mixer and cut my head off. Well, ok, I exaggerate, but maybe my mom didn’t put the beaters in place correctly. Sylvia seemed like a very intelligent woman, and she cut the hell out of her hand. My mom thought she was intelligent. And that made the prospect of a flying decapitation instrument very real.
“Vickie, why are you watching from the other side of the kitchen?”…………….No, the beaters are in there safely…….I know, because I put them in there…………..No, it wouldn’t cut your head off…………………….No, you would never lose an eye………….Yes, but Sylvia stuck her hand in the bowl…………..Vickie, I know her finger was just hanging there. I saw it too………………Vickie, I am not going to cut my finger off……………….I don’t think anyone would bake a finger into a cookie……..No, Vickie, that’s not why they are called finger sandwiches……….Vickie, that’s enough. Go to your room….”
The beaters and the bowl were just teasers. The real whoopie pies were the best thing about my mom. I’m really serious. If someone asked, “What is the best thing about your mom,” I would really answer, “Her whoopie pies.” Well, her homemade bread, which was part of the food war, were right up there with the whoopie pies.
Part II of the whoopie pie war usually included my best friend, Ramaine. I would call her and just say, “Whoopie pies”, and she would be knocking on the door before I even hung up. My mom couldn’t make them fast enough. As soon as she would get one made, we would grab it. We tried to get as many as we could on our plate. We knew we could eat a lot. Cheryl would just stand there and eat them one after the other. So, this basically became a tally war. Who could eat the most whoopie pies in one sitting won…. But, there was a problem.
We always got sick. We made ourselves sick. I remember Ramaine walking home with her hands on her stomach several times. One time we couldn’t even say the word, “whoopie pie” without cringing. We were little pigs. My mom never told us “enough is enough”. I think she enjoyed making us sick. It was a compliment to her cooking if we gourged ourselves to the couch.
Heaven in a fluffy filling
I am not sure how many times a month my mom made whoopie pies. I’m thinking it was only once a month. They wouldn’t be special if they were readily available to us.
So, if you ever have the chance to eat a whoopie pie, there is one important question you have to ask the baker. “Do you use shortening?” If they don’t, scoff at them, and leave the area. Those are not true whoopie pies. A true whoopie pie is made of shortening, laden with trans fat.
When you think of “food fight”, you naturally think of a bunch of crazy students in a cafeteria, lobbing food at one another, or the great scene from the movie, Animal House. Yes, that is one kind of food fight. But, the one I want to talk about has nothing to do with flinging food. My kind of food fight was personal. Like family personal.
No, our family never sat at the dinner table, throwing food at each other. No one would have wanted to clean it up. This had nothing to do with the dinner table. This was about the art of stealing food and then laughing in your face. I’ll explain.
My mom used to make chicken noodle soup for us for lunch every once in a while. I’m sure it wasn’t homemade. I didn’t like carrots or other vegetables floating around in the soup. I wanted noodles and that was about it. But, my sister always knew when the soup was ready before me. She was a sneaky little mole. I say mole because she wore coke-bottled glasses. So, the little mole would walk into the family room, carrying a big soup bowl and a spoon in one hand, and a sleeve of saltine crackers in the other. She would laugh at me in a little, sneaky, hiss, and then put her bowl on the coffee table. Yep, she did it again. She went into the kitchen and scooped most of the noodles out of the soup, leaving three strands of noodles and broth. Damnit.
She did this to me all of the time. I tried to get Mom to stop it. “Mom, Cheryl took all of the noodles out of the soup!” And my mom would always answer with an impartial response….. ”Vickie, no one likes a tattletale.” Yeah, impartial my ass. I think she would sneak into the bedroom and tell Cheryl that the soup was ready before I even knew about it. My mom knew I was picky and really should be happy I would eat something. I liked noodles. But, no, Cheryl and her sinister laugh got to the soup first.
I don’t know where my brother was when all this happened. Probably at military school. My mom sent him off to Linsly Military School because she said he was lazy. Poor kid. He rarely got to be home to eat the brothy soup. One day something out of the ordinary happened. I thought I would wait in the kitchen, pretending to have a conversation with my mom and would get the soup first. I was oh so smart. But, no, that was not to happen. My mom sent me to the basement to get a package of ground beef out of the massive freezer. Oh, so this is how it is going to be? I would walk down there, knowing full well that Cheryl would be scooping out the noodles when I got back upstairs. “Why can’t Cheryl go get it?” My mom just looked at me. “Well, Vickie, I didn’t ask your sister, now did I? Besides, she doesn’t know where it is.” As I opened the door to the basement, I replied, “It’s the big white thing against the wall.” I know she meant the ground beef,in the big mess of white-paper-wrapped dead animal food, but I was now beyond suspicious. It was obvious. It was an adopted vs. the natural child syndrome. Yeah, she was playing favorites. Fine. Whatever.
"I have no idea where she is."
So, naturally, when I came back upstairs with the wrapped ground beef that always smelled like pee beef, Cheryl was at the stove, scooping the noodles out, snickering like that cartoon dog. I just handed the package to my mom and went out in the family room.
But, something wonderful happened. My mom went downstairs to wash clothes or drink out of a flask or something and Cheryl came into the family room with the bowl of steaming soup and a spoon in one hand and a sleeve of saltine crackers in the other, like every freaking time. But, today, a miracle occurred. As she sat on the couch, and laughed that shitty laugh one more time, adding a belly shake for good measure, she tipped over the bowl. The steaming hot soup went all over her.
My mouth opened. Like really wide. She froze. And started yelling. “Vickie, help!” I just looked at her and said, “What?” Like I didn’t see the noodles lying on her like a shag carpet. She was in pain. “You know, I don’t know how many times Mom has told me to let the soup cool a bit before eating it. She must have never told you that.” Cheryl had a way around that too. Usually, when she would bring her steaming hot soup out into the family room, she would lick her spoon and put it in the soup and then walk away to let it cool a bit before eating. Like a freakin Goldilocks. She knew I wouldn’t steal her soup since she licked the spoon. This time she decided to wear her food and I just didn’t care how much she was burnt.
I started laughing at her. She was still frozen, crying out for me to help her. I thought I could make a deal. “If I help you, will you promise to share the noodles with me?” She nodded yes. So,I scraped the noodles off of her arms and legs and she really did have red marks. Felt a little bad. Not really.
So, of course, I cleaned her up and no one got soup that day. Well, I had one noodle broth soup with oyster crackers. I also had a sister who never took more than her share again.
Well, until the next food fight.(My next blog, Whoopie Pie Wars, coming soon)
When I was young, the best thing about the weekend was waking early to watch Saturday morning cartoons. The 60′s were a great time to be a child. Mom and Dad would sleep in. We would get our own cereal, and then plop down to watch cartoons all morning long. My brother and sister would lie on their stomachs on the floor. I don’t know why that made me puke. Probably because I just gulped down 2 bowls of Rice Krispies, sprinkled with a bag of sugar. I sat curled up on the couch. Everyone has favorite cartoons, depending on their age. I thought I would share my favorite cartoons with you. This will age me, but that is ok. They were awesome cartoons.
I am going to start with one family of cartoons, Looney Toons, brought to you by Warner Brothers.
The best cartoons ever! Everyone remembers Bugs Bunny. He was suave, sophisticated. Nothing really bothered him. “What’s up, Doc?” There were also Yosemite Sam, Daffy Duck, Pepe LePew, Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner, Tazmanian Devil, Elmer Fudd, Sylvester (“Sufferin Succotash”) and Tweety Bird, and Porky Pig. Here are just a few that I loved watching those Saturday mornings a long time ago.
My all-time favorite Looney Tune character was Foghorn Leghorn. “I say, I say, Boy!” He usually walked around, humming “Camptown Races.” There were other characters in this cartoon, such as Barnyard Dawg, Henery Hawk, Egghead Jr. and Miss Prissy. Once in a while his college friend, Rhode Island Red, would stop by. I enjoyed Miss Prissy, the widowed hen who had a crush on Foghorn. She was always after him. Foghorn was a huge rooster, and had the best one-liners of all time. I cracked up. I didn’t know what he meant some of the time, but I think he was the one who taught me sarcasm. I think my quick-wit came from Foghorn. What an inspiration. It didn’t work in school, though, when we had to discuss who our hero was. I remember the teacher going around the room, asking each student who was their hero. I was ready. I was tired of hearing about Mom or Dad or Grandpa who was in the war. It was my turn. I had an awesome hero.
“Vickie, who would you say is your hero?”……Who?…….The rooster?…..Vickie, you can’t have a rooster as your hero……….No you can’t…..Why?….Well, he is not a real person……Yes, he talked, but he is a cartoon character………….. Well, yes, Doug just said his was Superman, but that is different…………..Well, it just is different…………..Vickie, you can’t have a rooster as your hero……….A hero is someone who does something special……..Vickie, a cartoon character talks because he is a cartoon. He is not special because he is not real…..Please quit crying…..Vickie……Just sit down, please…….”
2. Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner- We used to count how many times Wile E. Coyote should have died. I really enjoyed the details in the cartoon, like the boxes that had Acme Corporation written on them. Wile E. would order contraptions from the mail order company to catch the Roadrunner. The only ones I remember were the jet powered roller skates and the rocket sled. You knew he was going to get blown up. Stupid coyote. We would sit and yell at him. He would hold up a sign right before he blew up. The Roadrunner always raced right up to him, stopped, and made a noise, “Beep Beep”, before taking off again.
3. Bugs Bunny with Daffy Duck- There was one episode that was my favorite Bugs Bunny cartoon. It was called Ali Baba Bunny. Bugs was so cool and calm, whereas Daffy was greedy and a bit angry. I thought he was jealous of Bugs. The dance in this segment is Bugs at his best.
There were other episodes where Sam the Sheepdog would clock in, carrying his lunch box and the coyote would clock out. I think that’s how it went. Yosemite Sam probably had a stroke and died. He was always pissed off. I think my least favorite was Porky Pig, the stutterer. ”That..that…that’s all folks…”And Elmer Fudd, who needed extensive speech therapy. I bet little kids that were having problems with their r’s and l’s cried when they watched him. “Shhh! Be verwee verwee qwhy-et. I’m shooting wabbits.”
There were other Looney Tune characters that I loved watching. There was Speedy Gonzales “Undalay! Undalay!” And his cousin, Slowpoke Rodriguez. I bet you remember him. How politically incorrect that one was!
And then there were the dog buddies, Spike and Chester. That’s the one cartoon I didn’t care for. Spike was a huge bulldog and a bully. Chester was a hyper Jack Russell type who jumped around Spike. He was always slapping poor little Chester. I really felt sorry for him.
In the end, Looney Tunes cartoons made for great Saturday mornings when I was young. My kids missed out on some great cartoons. Sure, a lot of them were violent and a lot of them were politically incorrect. But, they were cartooons for small children. We didn’t see what adults may see now. We ate cereal. We watched cartoons. It was a great childhood.
So, today is my birthday. I am 45 today, in dyslexic years. I’m not really dyslexic, only on my birthday. I don’t mean to poke fun of those who transpose. After all, I am a teacher, and I see b’s for d’s all damn day. Or bamn bay. So, today I lift my glass to wish myself a happy 45th birthday.
The comedian, Jack Benny, stayed 39 every year. I like that idea. You young people don’t know who the hell I am talking about. That in itself shows how old I am. Yes, I watched the moon landing. I was alive when JFK was assassinated. I had a mood ring and a pet rock. I am old as a rock, I guess.
I won’t be able to be dyslexic again for awhile. Next year will suck, because no matter how I look at it, I will be 55, just like a speed limit. “Be careful, drive 55.” That seems slow, even in our windy-ass roads in West Virginia. Our speed limit is 70. Just watch how you take those curves.
The next time I can be dyslexic, I will be able to enjoy jumping in mud puddles without risk of looney-bin people coming after me.
I can’t wait until I am 06. Happy birthday, oh dyslexic me. Or byslexic me.
I believe in collections. I think everyone should collect something. When I was in high school, I collected pigs. There was a reason behind that. My family and my best friend’s family went on vacation together to Mexico when I was a sophomore in high school. We were sitting outside at a restaurant, when all of a sudden a momma pig and a bunch of baby pigs came running over to us. It was a shock to see the little piggies, but they were adorable. I collected pigs for years after that.
When my children were born, I thought hard about what I would start to collect for them. Adam now has a closet full of baseball cards. Actually, he has some pretty nice cards. His dad also bid on some Nolan Ryan’s at an antique auction when he was young. It would take him a long time to catalogue all of his cards, but he does have a nice collection.
I made a mistake with my daughter, Alex. She got short-changed a bit. I started collecting Pez for her. I think there are now several hundred Pez in a big Rubbermaid box. Of course, when she was in high school, she informed me that she didn’t want her collection any more. She didn’t want anything to do with the Pez collection. Well, that didn’t stop me. I still pick them up every time I see a new one come out. So, I am a Pez Head. I will give the collection back to her, of course, but for now, it is mine and I think it is fun. I think the most expensive one she has is worth only $6.00. I’m not even going to tell you what the Nolan Ryan rookie card is going for, but let’s just say that my daughter was short changed big time. Even if I went with my first thought for her collection, snow globes, they still wouldn’t be the investment that baseball cards have become.
I thought of other collections for my daughter, but it is too late now. She has a collection of Beanie Babies, and key chains, and pogs. Remember those? In the end, I messed up. But, parents with young kids, it’s not too late for you. Collections are fun and easy to start.
Here’s a few of the things I collect:antique matchbooks, swizzle sticks, old rulers with company logos on them, antique letter openers, duck decoys, the three see-no-evil monkeys, cast iron door openers, ashtrays, irons, snowmen, antique fans, silver teapots and bottle openers with company logos. There are many more, but I have most of them packed away. I’d like to find a couple of antique globes. I think that would be cool in an office/library.
I still like the idea of collecting Pez. They are fun. But maybe for an only child. So, what do you collect?
When I was growing up in the 60′s, everyone in my neighborhood in Woodland Estates seemed to smoke. Our moms didn’t work, so they hung out in their housecoats, drank coffee, and smoked cigarettes. My dad smoked. The mailman smoked. I think the dog probably smoked. His name was Smokey, after all. Smoke filled the house. The brand of choice was Salem cigarettes. My mom loved her Salems. I could see the swirling smoke entering my nose and traveling to my naive lungs.
So, since it was such a part of our upbringing, it was nothing to walk up the path to Leach’s store and buy atomic fireballs, wax juice bottles, candy necklaces, gold mine gum, wax lips, and last but not least, a box of candy cigarettes. We loved walking up that path during the summer. It meant candy. Lots and lots of candy. Our mothers gladly threw money at us, for that meant they had more time to smoke, drink their Maxwell House coffee and gossip with the other ladies on our block. Well, I can only speak for my own mom, but she would give us money to walk to Leach’s every day during the summer. My sister, Cheryl, wore wax lips home about every day. I remember buying pretzel sticks. We all would wait until we got home to open our cigarettes. We wanted to be just like our moms. Well, minus the housecoats.
"If you got 'em, light 'em"
Our candy cigarettes had a pinkish tip, which I guess meant fire. You would get laughed at if you had the wrong end in your mouth. When we puffed on our white candied cigarette, there would be a chalky powder that would emit from the cigarette. It was probably cocaine. I mean, you just never know. It was the 60′s, afterall. Did tobacco companies secretly own these candy cigarette companies?
There are studies out that show that a large percentage of candy cigarette eaters became full-time smokers. I disagree. None of us cigarette eaters became smokers. I think our mothers’ smoking habits turned us off. I just never had the desire to smoke. I would put one in my mouth only to make fun of how my roommate smoked. Other than that, I hated them. Still do.
But, if that is the case, I also bought those bubblegum cigars all of the time. Does that mean I am going to smoke cigars? I bought the big wax lips. Does that mean that I would get BOTOX later? I also ate the gold mine gum. Did that mean I was going to eat money when I grew up? I mean, seriously.
Kids like to play grown-ups. We put makeup on, high heels, painted our fingernails, and smoked pretend cigarettes.
You know we are all going to end up with pretend lung cancer.
In 1999, our family went to Kennywood Park in Pittsburgh and rode on a stupid roller coaster called the Steel Phantom. I was so damn mad at that ride when we got off. I was crying because my neck hurt so badly. I swear we all had whiplash. I found out that the Kennywood people re-vamped it after many complaints. It wasn’t too long after that “Ride of Misery”, that I started having problems with my ear.
One day out of the blue, my right ear started feeling like swimmer’s ear. It felt full. Well, I had been swimming in our pool that afternoon. That night when I rolled over, it felt as if water was leaking out of my ear. I was sure my pillow was soaked. Nothing. It was such a weird feeling. This went on for a few days. It felt like someone jammed cotton in my ear.
I woke up one day and everything was spinning. I mean, around and around and around. It ended up being for 36 hours straight. I had to crawl to the bathroom. I had to crawl down the stairs when everyone was in school or at work. I threw up non-stop. I crawled back to bed. I crawled. The one thing I did realize is that my vaccum cleaner wasn’t doing a very good job. I was up close and personal with my carpet. And the toilet. I think vomiting is just so….sickening. I was about to name my toilet, we became such good friends. It was there for me. Tammy Toilet,
I really never thought I was going to get better. I was just going to be a spinning, vomiting, crawling cry-baby for the rest of my life. The carnival ride of death. I took Dramamine and threw it up. I was a mess. Finally, after 36 long, tortuous hours, I felt a bit better and called and made an appointment with an ENT in Morgantown. I explained the tortuous event, which he named Vertigo. Vickie Vertigo. I remembered the Jimmy Stewart movie, Vertigo. He suffered from acrophobia, a fear of heights. Vertigo can be triggered by looking up or down. My vertigo was triggered because I looked.
Actually, according to earsurgery.com, Vertigo is described “as a sudden loss of normal balance or equilibrium. The room may suddenly begin to spin and rotate at high speed. Focusing is difficult, and if the vertigo continues, nausea and vomiting may occur. Vertigo is commonnly caused by acute labyrinthitis (a viral inflammation of the inner ear), benign positional vertigo (a condition due to abnormally floating crystals in the inner ear that stimulate the nerve endings of the inner ear), delayed symptom of head injury, or result of cervical spine problems.” In a nutshell, I am screwed.
So, back to my visit to the ENT. They put me through some weird tests. They put a balloon in my ears and put water in them, and then blew them up or something. Seriously? Can you imagine the first person they did this to. “Sir, what we are going to do is put this balloon in your ear, and blow it up and then put some water in it.” They tried to make me dizzy. Thanks alot. I had hearing tests and another where they shut the light and watched my eyes. I don’t know. I guess I should do a google and write the procedures here for you guys to understand, but I’m not feeling it this morning. Anywho, they said my eyes move too much (nystagmus) and that I had Meniere’s Disease.
What makes you think I am nervous?
I had a disease? Hell, a disease sounds contagious. He told me to come back the next time I was having an episode. Sure, I will just have my husband peel me away from the toilet and let him drive me to Morgantown right in the middle of spinning like a top. This was rotational spinning that would not stop. The ENT told me that Meniere’s Disease is marked by four main symptoms: progressive hearing loss, tinnitus, ear fullness and vertigo. All wrapped up with a bow on top and given to me. Nice….Oh, and he added, “Stay away from caffeine, salt, and stress. And don’t climb any ladders.” Funny guy.
So, I went home and did some research. It said that Meniere’s Disease was rare. I joined a forum and found out that it wasn’t rare at all. I made some good friends from Nova Scotia and Saskatoon, Canada and Upper Michigan. People all over the damn place suffered from symptoms of Meniere’s Disease. I started an online group on Yahoo, The Meniere’s Disease Club, which now has over 2,000 members world-wide since 2000. So, no, it isn’t rare. Dizzy is dizzy.
Each person with Meniere’s Disease may have different symptoms. Some lose their hearing over the course of a few months. Some lose it gradually. Some don’t lose much at all. Some people have vertigo attacks daily and can no longer work. It can be a debilitating disorder. I have only had 2 full blown vertigo attacks. I do, however, also have BPPV, which is short for Benign paroxysmal positional vertigo. It sometimes starts at night, when I lie down to go to bed. If I roll over, I get dizzy. Basically, BPPV is vertigo induced by head movements. Well, hell, just put me in a whiplash collar and send me on my merry way. Great. It was bearable when I was a stay-at-home mom, but when I have bouts now, I can’t really look down at the kid’s desks, or turn my head. And I veer while walking down the hall.
I noticed that in the grocery stores, my buggy veered to the left. When I drove my car into the garage, I veered to the left. Don’t know why. I veer. I can’t walk a straight line if my life depended on it. I hope I never get pulled over and asked to walk a straight line, because they would be hauling my butt off to jail for DUI. It would have to be DWM, for Driving With Menieres. It is such a stupid disorder.
Another symptom of Meniere’s Disease is tinnitus. William Shatner has tinnitus. “No! JIM!” Tinnitus is noise in your ear. Mine sounds like a high pitched whine. According to Wikipedia, Tinnitus is usually described “as a ringing noise, but can take the form of a high pitched whining, electric, buzzing, hissing, screaming, humming, tinging or whistling sound, or as ticking, clicking, roaring, “crickets” or “tree frogs” or “locusts “, tunes, songs, beeping, or even a pure steady tone like heard in a hearing test. It has also been described as a “wooshing” sound, as of wind or waves.” I guess mine would be described as the “pure steady tone like heard in a hearing test.” Fun stuff I have.
The only good thing about having Meniere’s is that I can sleep on my right side and not hear a dog barking. Or someone breaking into my apartment. I also am affected by the change in barometric pressure. My right ear begins to hurt before it rains. Sometimes my ear hurts so badly, like a pencil is being shoved in my ear slowly. I also feel the sensation of a bug crawling deep in my ear. I just want to jam a Q-tip in there, and kill it. And you know how your ears pop when you travel into a higher altitude? Well, my right ear won’t pop. It just starts hurting. I think my head will explode when I travel by plane to visit my daughter in France next spring. Again, fun stuff.
So, this is my life. Thank goodness my Meniere’s symptoms are very mild. I make fun of myself, so that helps when I have flare-ups. I haven’t crawled to visit my friend, Tammy the toilet in years.
If you have any of these symptoms, hold on. It’s going to be a bumpy ride. Damn roller coaster. At least when someone calls me a “dizzy blonde,” it really will be the truth.
Benjamin Franklin was a very wise man, but I still curse him twice a year, nontheless. He was credited for coming up with the idea of Daylight Saving Time. Ben thought that we should go to bed early and rise early so we could be healthy, wealthy and intelligent. I don’t think it works that way. He thought that more daylight meant saving wax for all the candles. Maybe he was tired of reading his almanac by candlelight.
All I know is that I physically change all the clocks in my house, but my biological, circadian clock won’t budge. We SPRING forward and FALL behind. Sure, I gain an hour in the fall, but the time change messes with me for a good week. I am not looking forward to this at all. Sunday marks the end of Daylight Saving Time and the beginning of my moaning and complaining.
If you have ever suffered from jet lag, then perhaps you can understand what a shift in time can do to a person. I am tired. Circadian dyshrythmia. I have lost my rhythm. I become awkward in oh, so many ways.
So, who else can I blame for this? Surely not Arizona, the only state that will not buckle to the pressure to lose and gain time. Arizona has more sunshine than Florida, the Sunny Sunshine state. They don’t need a time shift.
In 1918, the United States adopted Daylight Saving Time for the duration of World War I. This allowed people to spend more time hanging out in daylight, thus saving costs on fuel for lighting. It was abolished, brought back, abolished and then in 2005, Congress enacted the Energy Policy Act, which changed Daylight Saving Time dates again. As of March 2007, Daylight Saving Time begins on the second Sunday in March and ends on the first Sunday of November. It just sucks. Daylight Saving Time stays around now past Halloween, where some little trick-or-treaters were getting hit by cars at night. Well, that is what reflective tape is for, my little munchkins. Trick or treating during daylight is just wrong. But, no one listens to me.
I would really like to know what the hell is saved? I know that it is a reminder to change the batteries in your smoked detector and Arm &Hammer let’s us know that it is time to change the box of baking soda in your refrigerator, but hey, that is just to strum up some business. The energizer bunny doesn’t suffer from the time shift. I bet more batteries are purchased around this time than at Christmas. Well, maybe not, but it’s a gimmick to change your smoke detector. But, as most of you know, the smoke detector will let you know when it is time. It will freakin beep at 3 minute intervals until you change the damn thing.
The only thing that was fun about the time change was accidentally sleeping through church when we were small. Oops, Mom and Dad, you forgot to spring forward. Aw, shucks, we missed church. Looks like we can think about God from our warm beds. I did convince a college roommate that it was against the law to change the clocks before 2a.m. I told her that it was a law enforcement thing. If the police were called to a residence for anything after 11pm and they wrote down the wrong time, it might be a critical mistake, so a law was enacted in West Virginia that stated that all clocks could not be turned back before 2a.m. or a $500 fine would be imposed on anyone who turned their clocks back earlier. She believed me and set her alarm for 2am to set her clock back. She was so easy.
In the end, I still haven’t found anything that is saved. All the deer in the United States live in West Virginia and cross the road on my way to work. Do they suffer from circadian dysrhythmia? I bet they do. Daylight Deer Time. Will they now operate an hour earlier or hour later? School children will be standing at the bus stop in the dark, wrapped in reflective tape. Or wait. Won’t it be daylight if we turn back our clocks? That means they are wrapped in reflective tape just because. See, now I am confused about when it will be dark and when it will be light. This just sucks. I don’t need to be anymore confused than I already am.
I guess there is some good to Daylight Saving Time. Raccoons will have more time to pillage through garbage cans. Robbers can eat breakfast at the home they are robbing.
I really can’t stress how much I hate the time change.
When I was young, I was fascinated with laundry chutes. I don’t know what it was about them, but whenever I would go to a friend’s house for the first time, I would ask if they had a clothes chute. I was quite the loser.
Most homes that were built in the 50′s and 60′s had a clothes chute. Sometimes they were right on wall on the hallway, and sometimes they were in a closet. I guess it would make sense to put it directly over the laundry room. Wouldn’t be right throwing clothes down a chute and land on a pool table, I guess. Unless there was a clothes basket on the pool table.
My sister tried to put our dog, Susie, down the clothes chute. I caught her before she did it. She put Susie in the corner cabinet turntable and put her in the hamper in the bathroom. Poor Susie. My mom found some doll babies on the floor under the chute, but never the dog, thank goodness. Sometimes we would play “Mail Delivery” and other stupid games we made up, using the Clothes Chute. I do remember dropping cans of green beans down the chute. We got in trouble for that. Well, at least we didn’t peel the labels off of the cans. We got in trouble for that one too. I can’t remember all the things we threw down the chute. I know we hung Barbie dolls by the neck and lowered them down the chute. We used yarn. Death to Barbie. I think we had the trolls set up on the floor, under the chute, waiting for Barbie like she was an offering for the Troll Tribe. Who the hell knows for sure. We were always thinking.
I don’t know why I was the one who had to “throw the clothes down the chute.” My mom would call from downstairs, “Vickie, throw the clothes down the chute…….Vickie…….I know you can hear me…Throw the clothes down the chute……Vickie……I see you looking at me…..get the clothes……”
I remember going to my great aunt’s house in Spokane, Washington, and she had a dumb-waiter. That was like a fancy, moveable clothes chute. An elevator for clothes, so to speak. I didn’t understand what the hell it was. I just knew that it was the neatest freakin thing I had ever seen. I sent stuff up and down that thing for hours. It didn’t take much to amuse me.
Some new house designs have hidden clothes chutes. When we built our house, we used a piece of heating duct in the laundry room. I don’t like not being able to see a laundry chute. I guess I would have to do some real snooping to find clothes chutes in homes today. The Gladys Kravitz of clothes chutes.
A clothes chute for….washcloths?
I guess it is the little things in life that amuse me. The clothes chute brings back a lot of memories. Poor Susie the dog is long gone, but I did save her from being “chuted.” We never were bored, that’s for sure.
I really should have a full head of gray hairs. I probably do, but thanks to Clairol #whatever, I am keeping the gray away. But, one of these days, I am going to wake up to white hair that no dye or shoe polish will be able to cover. It’s either that or a stroke.
I think it goes back to when I really wouldn’t let my kids climb to the top of the really high sliding board. I would stand there and picture them waving at me from the top, “Watch, mommy!” and as they wave their little wave, lose their grasp and fall backwards to the ground and explode. I could create scenarios in my head one after the other. My cause and effect machine was working overtime. I had one hell of an imagination.
Fast forward to their college years. They were both at WVU, about 30 minutes up the road from our home. That was just far enough away, but close in case we had to get their fast. We took homemade soup when they were sick and drove them home when they needed extra pampering. But, nothing prepares parents for the news that they both want to study abroad.
”You mean, like Canada, right?” I could only hope. Canada was a great country. They could learn all about their culture, such as hockey, curling, Canadian bacon, and could come home, saying, “Eh, dontcha knowl.” That sounded great. They just looked at me.
So, off they went. The first summer, Adam went to Strasburg, France for a month. He flew by himself. Why the hell he didn’t travel with the rest of the WVU students and teacher is beyond me. He was also the only one who rented a bicycle and toured the countryside while he was there. I didn’t want him to ride a bike, because I would probably get a phone call, in French, “Madam, do you have zee son named Adam, with zee red hair, smashed under car..we send him home in a box, oui.”
After he came back, Alex went to Santander, Spain with a WVU Spanish group. Nothing is worse than two weeks of crying on the other end of the phone. She hated it. She said there is nothing worse than “forced admiration.” She said that being part of a tour group is horrible. She wanted to go off by herself and see the sights that she wanted to. I pictured getting that phone call. “Senora, Alexandra was at the end of the tour group line, when someone must have abducted her.. All that was left was her camera. We will send that home to you…in a box..Ole”
This is awful but I was sitting home, saying to myself, ”2 down, 2 to go.” I still had 2 more study abroad experiences to live through, and I wasn’t even leaving my home. I was exhasusted. Adam went to Morocco for 4 months. Luckily for me, WVU had asked him to blog every day and his blogs were entertaining and scary. I think that is when I started going gray. He traveled in an old, small plane from Casablanca and could see the runway as they landed, bouncing down the runway. He climbed the second highest mountain in Africa and I had him frozen like Jack Nicholson in the Shining. He wrote about how he and a friend from Italy rode horses bareback through the woods. Whaat? On tv, people who race horses through the woods always catch their neck on a low tree branch. That always happens.
When he came home, Alex went to Guanajuato, Mexico. She loves Mexico. I didn’t. She said that they don’t have screens in their windows and she would wake up with bug bites all over her body. Her roommate was stung by a scorpion that was on the dresser handle. Gray hair….She joined a Mexican ultimate frisbee team and traveled 6 hours on a bus by herself to Mexico City,then traveled in a van with frisbee players she never met before. She didn’t tell me until much later that their van was hit broadside by a truck. We sent Adam down during his spring break because she was so sick, we thought he was going to have to bring her home. After several trips to a hospital, she recovered and they were able to ride horses up to a volcano. Horses? Volcano? Deathly ill? Scorpions? Open windows for rapists and questionable flying bugs? I was a mess for those 5 months. She, meanwhile, took private salsa lessons and had a blast. I never left my home and thought about drinking heavily.
I thought I would be done worrying while they traipsed around the world, having fun.
Adam in the Alps
But no, they weren’t done driving me crazy. Adam climbed part of the Matterhorn and drove a compact car around the Alps one summer. Alex worked for the Japanese embassy and the JET program for a year and was placed in Kobe, you know, the place that had the devastating earthquake. And yes, there was an earthquake while she was there. Seems that Japan has earthquakes somewhere almost every day.
Hi Alex mom
She flew to Korea for a long weekend, so I had her accidentally stepping into North Korea. “Hello, Alex mom? She in North Korea. Not good. Must be spy. Never coming home. Goodbye.”
And today, I have spent the whole day in tears. Alex went to teach in France. So, of course she was up in the Eiffel Tower several weeks ago when they evacuated it because of terror plots. She flew to Japan last week to see her boyfriend and she was supposed to be back last night. No word from Alex. No word all day today. I saw on CNN where South Korea was cracking down on airport security because of a supposed bomb on planes. She had a 2 hour lay over in Seoul. So, that had to mean her plane had a bomb on it. I was ready to call the airlines, because I was sure her plane disappeared over the Meditteranean Triangle, or a taxi driver abducted her. When we finally talked on skype, she told me that she was sitting at the train station in Paris, when security people came and asked her row of 6 people to please leave the area. Next thing you know 300 people were evacuated and they taped off the area where Alex had been sitting. She went to a cafe after seeing a friend from Moscow (probably the bomber) and they heard a loud boom and they ran outside. She said she never heard what had happened, but that her train had left on time.
Every parent has a “puke and poop” story about their kids. You just think that yours tops them all. Well, I don’t think this is the puke story of the century, but it rates.
When my two children were very young, they would head to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s for the evening every once in a while. My husband and I had to go to one of his work parties, so my in-laws told us to bring them on over. We picked them up around ten and back to the house we went. I got the kids ready to go to bed, and all was right with the world. Or so I thought.
I was awakened by Alex crying out for me, “Mommy!” I ran into her room, turned on the light. “My tummy hurts real bad.” I sat on her bed, and she sat up and promptly puked all over herself , the comforter, and me. It was black. I was scared because I had never seen black vomit before. I got her up out of bed, and she threw up again. She did the vomit walk all the way to the bathroom. No sooner than I got Alex to the bathroom, I heard Adam yell for me. “Mommy, I threw up!”
I yelled for my husband to help. Why should he get to sleep? He balked at changing dirty diapers and turned green when he saw blood or vomit. He was generally useless, but I needed help. Adam had at least tried to aim for his wastepaper basket by his bed, but threw up all over the his nice light grey berber carpet. It was black vomit.
Oh, Dear God, they have some terrible virus, I thought. A black virus. Her carpeting was a very light pink and white berber and I knew I had to scrub fast before it really stained. Alex wanted to try to go back to bed, but as soon as she got in the hall, vomited again. She was a vomit walker. I ran and got the wastebasket in her room for her to hold while I took her bedding off and put new sheets on her bed. I should have just picked them both up and put them in the bathtub so they could just puke in an enclosed area.
I told my husband that their forehead didn’t feel warm. I was ready to rush them to the hospital. I’m telling you that the vomit was jet black. I was stunned. Jet propulsion vomit. Vomit splatter. CSI style. My babies probably had a rare, contagious disease I couldn’t pronounce.
Jay just looked at me and said, “They smell like oreo cookies.”
What? Oreo cookies? That couldn’t be. How could kids vomit so much blackness from just an oreo cookie or two. “Well, that is probably the last thing they ate.” I replied. Then I thought that Grandpa probably gave them a couple cookies late, but that shouldn’t make them vomit, for goodness sake. I was pretty strict with the junk food. I never gave them pop and I limited their cookie eating every day. No, they must have that rare, 5-syllable disease I was thinking of before.
So, my husband started the questioning. “Adam, did you and Alex eat oreo cookies at Grandpa’s?”
He nodded. “We had oreo cookies and root beer.”
“How many cookies do you think you ate?” my husband asked.
“Like 2 bags.” Adam said and then threw up again. I can’t stress the blackness enough.
I looked at Adam like he had three eyes. “You mean 2 cookies, right?” And that’s when Alex chirped in. “Grandpa put the bag of Oreo’s on the table and gave us a Root Beer.”
“He let you eat more than 1 or 2?” I asked, my blood pressure slowly rising.
“Grandpa fell asleep in his chair. We ate the first bag. It didn’t have many cookies in it, and we threw it away. He woke up and Adam told him we were out of Oreo cookies. So, he got us another bag. And poured us some more root beer.” Alex noted in detail.
Adam added, ” So, when he fell asleep again, we ate the second bag.” He looked at me like it was no big deal.
“YOU ATE A WHOLE BAG OF OREO COOKIES?…. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” I was ready to call my in-laws. I didnt’ care that it was 1:00a.m. My kids shared more than a bag of Oreo cookies and had several cans of Root beer each. I was beyond furious.
“Mommy, it wasn’t Grandpa’s fault. He was sleeping.” Yeah, that makes it better.
Betcha can't eat just one bag
I scrubbed the vomit walk in both bedrooms and the hallway. I changed the sheets on their beds and put blankets on top of their sheets since their comforters were caressed with Oreo upchuck.
Yes, Oreo upchuck. That’s what I called it. Like it was an episode on tv- Oreo Upchuck, brought to you by Tide, when your whites can’t get white enough. When your children spew black Oreos on their pajamas. Let Tide bring the color back to life.
Needless to say, Oreo cookies could not be brought into my home. You couldn’t even say “Oreo cookies”, unless you wanted to see my death stare.
I still hate Oreo cookies. Not too fond of Root Beer either.
I recently found a picture of my roommate and great friend, Jeri, and myself that was taken in 1976. Or maybe 1977. We were either at the beach or we had just come home. Our faces were peeling and we looked quite ugly. So, what do you do when you are looking ugly? Of course, you put “scarf on head” and head to the mall. We headed right to the photo booth to capture our beauty for all to see. We looked like lepers. I bet neither of us knew that 30+ years later, one of us would be posting our mugs on facebook.
were going to stomp grapes or something, but not for a yearbook and framed photograph. The scarfies won.
