Are You Sleeping, Brother John?

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Both of my kids are very interested in learning different languages. They are tired of me bragging on them, so I will just say that they know several languages and have been fortunate to study abroad several times. My daughter was even employed by both Japan and France to teach English in their countries. Sure, I’m proud of them, but enough about them. Let’s talk about me. I was the one who got the ball rolling. And I’ll tell ya how.

When I was little, I was in Campfire Girls. All the girls in my neighborhood were Campfire Girls. It was a great part of my childhood. We went to weekly meetings and camp in the summer. But, someone went and messed with success and  it is now called Campfire USA. They had to go and let boys into the mix. Why, Oh, why, Campfire people, would you do that? To begin with, the boys have the Boy Scouts. They don’t need to go and join Camp Fire Girls. Secondly, although camp would be a bit more interesting, I still can’t see boys attending our weekly meeting. It’s just wrong. But, when I was young, it was just for girls.

We had several huge ceremonies/meetings for all the Campfire girls in the Upper Appalachian region at our very own community center. I think we even had sleep overs there. But, there was one meeting where people were getting awards for being great Campfire girls, etc. We had a preacher give a little prayer to get things rolling, speakers, and for some reason, one time, me. I don’t know why in the hell I did this, but I was asked to sing Frere Jacques in front of the whole auditorium. I was just a bluebird. Maybe third grade. I don’t remember. I stood up there and sang in French, Frère Jacques,  then interpreted it for those who did not have a grasp on the French language like I did.

Ok, first of all, I don’t know how in the hell I was asked to do this..in front of all the Campfire girls in the whole world…(slightly exaggerating) And secondly, who the hell knew in the Campfire organization that my mom made me sing this stupid song when company came to our house? So, it has to go back to my stage mother. She somehow got them to let me sing that song. I mean, she was able to get Mr. Softee to not come around the neighborhood at a certain time in the afternoon because the Mendenhall kids were taking a nap. She had some kind of power behind the rolling pin she normally kept in the house.

Unless I was THAT good. I sounded French. A little french campfire girl. In a beanie.

Back row on far left....sad looking child

So, that’s one way I was a little cosmopolitan. Let’s move on. When I was a sophomore in high school, our family and my bestest friend, Ramaine, and her family, traveled all the way down to Acapulco, Mexico. Can’t really do that nowadays if you want to return with your head intact. But, it was around 1972, and the only thing we had to worry about was drinking the water.

At our resort, we were told to stay on the beach in front of the resort. I guess there was a “Mexican” beach, and we were not allowed to walk further down on the beach. We HAD to stay in front of the resort. So, of course, we walked down to the Mexican beach. We were approached by a lot of Mexican boys our age, so we decided that Ramaine and I would make up a different language, and my younger sister, would just keep her mouth shut and act retarded. We didn’t know Spanish very well. I knew, ” Yo quiero un hamburgesa con ketchup y leche malteada” which in my world meant, “I’d like a hamburger with ketchup and a vanilla milkshake.” Oh, yeah, I was cosmo all the way.

It was a little overwhelming because we were really getting hit on. It was fun, but we decided to just confuse them with a made up language. The stuff coming out of my mouth sounded German, gibberish, with just a touch of Swedish chef. I had sun-kissed blonde hair (dyed almost white), so the Swedish accent made oh so much sense.  My sister played great as a retard (politically incorrect word these days, but used in every other sentence back then.) It came so natural to her.

So, I went to Mexico and talked a new language. There’s yet more proof that I passed the love of languages on to my children.

When I was in college, I decided to take my Acapulco accent with me to a bar one night. We would sometimes drive 2 hours to go to a club. They wouldn’t know us there, and we could be pretty goofy if we wanted to. Usually, we would just make up occupations. I am sure guys did the same thing. I remember talking with excitement to a guy for a long time about my being a marine biologist….in Nebraska. Told him how much I loved dolphins..made up dolphin stories. But, one night I decided to be Hilda, the German, gibberish, Swedish chef delight I invented in Mexico. I also let the guy teach me some English..so sad…

Only because a month later, we drove to another bar and I was talking English, when the same guy came over and just stared at me, and then left. Uh oh. I was caught. I really felt bad and decided never to take my Hilda act on the road again.

But, there was an inner drive to learn languages. A thirst to become multi-cultural. I took Spanish in high school and two years of German in college. I also took a year of sign language.

So, sure, my kids have been all over the world and can speak 3 or 4 languages each, but they were given that talent…that yearning to learn about the world.

And that comes from their momma.  And a Frere Jacques to you too.

Learning to Drive

The stages of life include one that was a lot of fun for me: being a teenager. I couldn’t wait until I turned 13 so I could call myself a teenager. That was a big deal. A really big deal. But, nothing like when I turned 16. Dear God, I was going to learn how to drive. To the dismay of my parents and all the parents in the neighborhood, I was going to get my driver’s license. If I counted correctly, there were 13 of us in a two block area who were all the same age. Twelve girls and 1 boy: LeeAnn, Ramaine, Monica, Lori, Janice, Kathy, Tammy, MaryLou, Kacey, Cathy, Melinda, Harold, and me. That’s crazy. Well, for the parents……and mailboxes on Woodland Estates.

My mom owned a huge gold Cadillac. My dad had a small, ugly German car. So, naturally, I thought someone would teach me in my dad’s car. Um…. no. I was to use the boat. Well, that’s what I called it. I mean, who needs a car that big? Well, apparently, my mom did. Several years before we were in a bad car accident and she broke her back. We were hit from behind by a Mack truck on our way to the Starvaggi Swimming pool and flew head on into another car. After that, she drove nothing but gigantic cars. She would have driven a monster truck if they were in vogue in 1972.

So, I thought that my dad would teach me. He was a gentle man. Sounded like Ronald Reagan. Was a clown with the Shriner’s parade unit. Was a great guy. Surely he would teach me how to drive. Um…no. Dad was too busy. He was a realtor by day and read the newspaper/hid from my mom by night. Actually, I don’t think my mom even asked my dad. She was going to teach me to drive… In the boat.

You get the idea...

I whined about using that gold monster, but she was determined that I was going to use that car. It made no sense. It was so wide, I might as well be a bus driver. After I got my permit, we headed over to the State Police barracks, where they had a course to practice on. It was close and very convenient. It had a place where you can practice parallel parking and there was a figure 8 course. I know there was something else, but I can’t remember. There may have been a normal driving area. But, there was nothing normal about my mom and her driving instructor ways. The normal driving area would be too easy for her. I was about to enter The Torture Zone.

Did I mention I whined about using her car? That was an understatement. I asked every couple of minutes.

“Moooommmm, why can’t I use Dad’s car. This is too hard.”

“It would be too easy.” (And the problem with that would be?????) Then she added, “Nothing worthwhile comes easy.”  The hell you say.  I would value a lot of things that came easy.

“The car is too big, Mom. I want to use Dad’s car.”

Well, she was all of a sudden deaf, so there was no use. But, I whined non-stop. I can not tell you how many times I practiced parallel parking in that boat. Over and over and over again.  I sucked. There was no way that her car was going to fit between such a small parking space.

“Mom, this space is for normal cars. Your car is not normal.”

So, she would give me this, “We’ll just see about that” look, and would get out and parallel park with absolutely no problem. She was like a pro. Damn you, boat driver.

It wasn’t enough that we had to go there every evening after dinner. It wasn’t enough that I had to parallel park, pull out, drive around “the block” and parallel park again and again. It was exasperating. I was young and green. I was Grasshopper on Kung Fu. I decided that I would never parallel park as long as I live.

“This is stupid. I’m just going to pull in where ever I park. Can we quit? Please, can we quit?”

Helen Keller. It’s like she had ear plugs shoved all the way down into her inner ears. She ignored my whines. And I could whine. Well, to my surprise, she was finally ready to move me on the figure 8 course. It was narrow path, so driving a boat around it was not real easy, but I did it. Ok, finally, something I was good at. I was ready to do it again. However, she had other plans for me.

“Ok, now put the car in reverse and drive the figure 8 backwards.”

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“Whaaaaat????  MOOOOOOOOOM, NOOOOOOOOO!!!!! Whyyyyyyy????”

“It will give you practice.”

I want to know when the hell I would ever come across a figure 8 in a road that I have to drive in reverse. Please help me out here, because I couldn’t grasp her reasoning. There was only one explanation-

She must hate me.

I wish I would have cursed back then, even a little, because I would have asked her, “What the hell is wrong with you.” I never even thought of cussing. I cuss a lot now. Now that I think of it, the whole learning to drive experience earned me the right to say the F word. It really did. “What the F, Mom?” That would have made me feel better. Well, after the bar of soap came out of my mouth.

So, I practiced going backwards on the figure 8 course at the Weirton State Police barracks. I’m sure the state troopers who watched this nightly display of lunacy were amused. I wasn’t.

You know that saying, “Misery loves company?” So true. I wasn’t the only victim. No, my mom thought she could teach the world to drive in perfect harmony. My friend, Donna Granato, got to experience it right beside me. Her mom, Ruby, was my mom’s good friend. I called her Aunt Ruby, but she wasn’t really my aunt. That bummed me out when I found out the truth. Anywho…I am sure more people will speak up. I know my mom pierced everyone’s ears. Time to move on to driver instructor. Poor Donna got caught in her web too. I do remember that she did a much better job than I did parallel parking that stupid car.

So, the day FINALLY came to go over and take my driver’s test. I was nervous, but ready. We walked downstairs to the garage and she kept walking to the other bay.

“You’re going to take the test in your dad’s car.”  She didn’t even look at me when she said it.

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Pause and blood pressure rising in my little head. You know those cartoons where the steam comes exploding out of the characters head? Well, that was me. And I was a real person.

“WHAAAAAAAAT?  WHHHHHHYYYYYY, MOOOOOOOOM, NO!”  I mean, I never practiced at all in his car. She did hate me.

Helen Keller did not answer any of my whiny questions. She put her gigantic pocketbook on her lap and off we went.  What the F, Mom, what the F.

Needless to say, I was able to whip that car into the parallel parking area. I could drive the figure 8 like I was threading a needle..or playing the game Operation. I was awesome.

I had no idea my mom was that smart. It was pure genius. Torture the daughter and her friend with the huge humongous boat of a car and then let them take the test in a small compact insect of a car.

I didn’t thank her until I was in my 30′s.

I didn’t want it to go to her F’n head.

Why I Hate Carnival Rides

I won’t step foot onto the Scrambler at your local traveling carnival. I think that once you have been traumatized by an event, you just don’t care to take another chance. And that’s how I felt about the Scrambler. I wasn’t personally injured, but I was scared so badly one evening that it took me a while to head to another carnival.

Oh, carnivals can have a certain element of excitement. There’s cotton candy and the carnival barker trying to get you to step up and win a nice fluffy stuffed animal. I even remember one time we paid a few dollars to see “Ronnie and Donnie the Siamese Twins.” That was wild. We got to walk through a trailer and see them through a one-way mirror as they watched tv. I thought that was really sad. But, not sad enough to go back through and really study them. I thought for sure they were fake. I mean, they were just a few years older than me. What parent would let their children be strutted in front of the public because they were different. But, the family did get some of my money, so I guess everyone won.

I got motion sick a lot , so I was just a lot of fun at carnivals. I don’t think anyone wanted to sit with me on the rides for fear of exiting with Vickie’s dinner all over them.  So, I don’t know who I was in line with at this particular episode. I do know that it was a traveling carnival in Weirton, West Virginia, my hometown, and I was in junior high. My dad dropped us off and parked the car. We didn’t wait for him because we didn’t want to be seen with our dads. Just standing near us was embarrassment enought. Poor dads. Anywho…I was standing in line, waiting to ride my favorite,  the Scrambler. I didn’t get sick on the Scrambler. I was able to get a focal point going and could ride it easily without throwing up. The only problem with the Scrambler is that if you sat on the right side, you got squashed. I was quite skinny back then, and never enjoyed being smashed at each turn by the Scrambler.

I was standing in line in front of a pretty nice looking kid. I had never seen him before. He seemed a few years older than me though. Our city was divided into two counties, Brooke and Hancock, so I didn’t really know the kids who attended any of the Hancock County schools. I just remember that he was talking loud to the person in line with him, and I was eavesdropping. I have no idea who I was standing in line with. But, this is how the conversation sort of went.

“Yeah, so, my brother said that a kid died on this ride last night when the carnival was in Wheeling……Well, I guess there was a ratttlesnake nest in the corner of one of the cars and the mom snake and the babies kept biting this girl……..she kept screaming for them to stop the ride, but the ride guy thought it was how everyone screams on a ride and didn’t stop it. She jumped out of the ride and was hit by another car.”

I was really eavesdropping by this time. It was also time to get on the ride. I didn’t think I wanted to ride the Scrambler. As we got on the ride, the boy was walking to get on the next car and was still talking to his friend….”Yeah, it was car #4 and I just heard that they only found one snake.”

I looked ahead and saw the number “3″ written on the back of the car in front of me.  OMG, that means I’m in car #4.!! I tried to unstrap myself and get the hell out of the car, but it was too late. I put my feet up on the bench I was sitting on and closed my eyes.  I screamed and screamed because I just knew I was going to get eaten by rattlesnakes. Whoever I was with (my sister?) yelled over at me that she didn’t see any snakes. That’s because they were probably way up under the bench seat we were sitting on.

When the ride finally stopped and I opened my eyes, I started crying. I couldn’t quit crying. But, the kid that was in front of me, pointed at me to his friend, and they started laughing hysterically.

Stupid urban legends.

It’s Pop, Not Soda, Stupid

Why is it that when I travel out of the area and ask for “pop,” I always get the same response:

“You mean soda?”

“Um, no.  Pop.”

“It’s called soda.”

“Says who?”

“Pop sounds stupid.”

“You’re stupid.”

Okay, I really don’t mean to call people names, but don’t mess with me on the pop vs soda debate. I’m a fanatic. To understand why saying “pop” is correct and everyone else is wrong, we need to go back to the very beginning.

Joseph Priestly has been called the “Father of Soda Pop.” Notice that soda is an adjective, describing pop. Pop is a noun. It is important. Soda is just a descriptive word.  Not as important. So, that should be the end of it. But, let me give Joe some print time, since he was the first to invent the delicious drink we partake each day.

According to Wikipedia, “ In 1767, Englishman Joseph Priestley first discovered a method of infusing water with carbon dioxide to make carbonated water  when he suspended a bowl of distilled water above a beer vat at a local brewery in Leeds, England. His invention of carbonated water, (also known as soda water), is the major and defining component of most soft drinks.

Priestley found that water treated in this manner had a pleasant taste, and he offered it to friends as a refreshing drink. In 1772, Priestley published a paper entitled Impregnating Water with Fixed Air.”

Interesting, but let’s look back, shall we? Carbonated water is also known as soda water. Notice “soda” is once again an adjective.  I mean, if you want to color and ask your friend if they have a crayon, you don’t say “Can I have a blue?”  A blue what, stupid?  Dog? See where I am going with this? Other than I’m 54 years old and really wouldn’t ask a friend for a crayon. But, this just makes so much sense.

In the end, it depends on where you are from. Several people have made maps to show the pop/soda debate. And then just to mess with me, there are many people who just say “Coke” to mean pop or soda. I would not do well in the south. I lOVE Coke, but despise Pepsi. If I order a Coke, I want a damn Coke. I love it when I go on vacation and notice it is a “Coke” town. Thank God Cancun was a Coke place. I would have been going through withdrawl on vacation. It makes a difference. I can do a blind-fold test a million times and always be able to pick out  my beloved Coke.

Another map was constructed from people voting on what the say. There are statistics for each county in every state. Pretty impressive.

http://www.popvssoda.com/countystats/total-county.html

 It has gotten to the point that when a waitress asks me what I would like to drink, I always ask, “Do you have Coke or Pepsi?” because if I ask for a Coke and they bring me a Pepsi, I will not be a happy camper. And you can’t fool me, remember?  If I ask if you have pop, don’t correct me or say, “No, but we have soda.” with a smile like one waiter did in New York.  I’ll just give it back to you. “You mean like baking soda?” Nah, I’ll have a Coke, though, if you have it.” In the end, they want a tip, so they should know not to mess with pop people.

I guess a lot of people who are weak and don’t want to defend their pop or soda choice, ask for ”soft” drinks.  That phrase is used to distinguish between pop or say, a Bloody Mary, which is a hard drink. Why McDonald’s would advertise “soft drinks” on their menu makes no sense. They don’t sell whiskey, which is obviously a “hard drink.”  Maybe they should though. Adults would play in the play area and hide in the balls. Drunks love that stuff.

So, yeah. I’m from West Virginia and we say “pop.”

Because, after all, “soda” is just an adjective that describes that great thing that is pop.