Procrastination is alive and well in my neck of the woods. It’s time to get my car inspected. So, like, where the hell are the dishonest mechanics when you need one? I want to be able to do what my husband was able to do years ago. Go into a garage where they make you honk your horn, turn your lights on and off, and turn on the all important window wipers. Ta da! Inspection is done. Pay the man and leave. Where the hell are you, dishonest John? I know it has been years, but I am sure they are still out there.
Inspection station in Fairview
The little sticker is staring at me: 3/12. March, 2012. I made an appointment with my regular guy for yesterday. My regular guy wasn’t going to pass my inspection two years ago. Said my tires were bald. So what?
I had to buy four new tires and brakes. Ka-ching. Surely the tires should still be okay this time. I have them rotated and my car taken care of every three months. I’m just going to tell him that I just need to make it until June. I want to trade my car in when school lets out. I really like my Hyundai Santa Fe.
There are a lot of moving parts on a vehicle, and there are authorized state inspection stations that have a list of shit they have to check. From the Pennslvania dmv site: “Safety inspections for passenger cars and light-duty trucks require that the following items be checked: suspension components, steering, braking systems, tires and wheels, lighting and electrical systems, glazing (glass), mirrors, windshield washer, defroster, wipers, fuel systems, the speedometer, the odometer, the exhaust systems, horns and warning devices, the body, and chassis.”
The Virginia DMV has a inspection sticker procedure for dummies:
1. Remove old inspection sticker
2. Drive vehicle into inspection lane
24. Issue new inspection sticker
They do a walk through of everything that needs to be checked. So, if you drive into an inspection station in Virginia with a blue colored door on a red colored vehicle, you will be shot.
My state of West Virginia doesn’t care to let its citizens know what is to be inspected. Just go there and be surprised when they ask you why the hell you unhooked your odometer. I don’t even know if you can do that anymore. People used to do it before they traded their car in. I guess that is frowned upon.
If your horn doesn't work, your children will be removed and put in foster care.
Sometimes I wonder how the hell some vehicles on the road pass inspection. I know why they get by? They know where to go. It’s so much fun sitting behind a car that should be on fire for the amount of fumes coming out of his tail pipe. I feel like I’m driving through a Colorado wildfire or something. Dear God, driver, do you not see the smoke curling around your vehicle as you drive?
Uh Oh baby! Fumes in your lungs can't be good.
photo via Greenpeace
And then there’s the sound makers. I learned a long time ago that when you put your foot on the brakes and there is a screeching noise, that usually means something. I hear a lot of brake screeching. It is like riding with a bunch of freaking owls. Brakes are sort of important.
Lights must be operational-And then there’s One Eyed Jack. Do you know that your left front light is not working? You might as well put a big patch on your light and be a pirate ship. But of my lights went out within fifteen minutes of each other. Luckily I was close to my home and it was just dusk. I couldn’t go anywhere at night until my headlights were changed. Luckily, my guy got me in the next day.
Just passed inspection.
You know what people care the most about what works in their vehicles? Oh, sure, brakes and lights are important, but God forbid it their horn quits working. They will miss a day of work to take it in for an emergency appointment. Americans have to have operational horns above everything else. I mean, transportation as we know it would be total chaos without our horns. We have road rage and our horns are our first line of offense.
When I learned to drive, I embarrassed my teen age peers riding with me on day. Seems that every time I turned the wheel to the right, the horn would sound. Not just a beep beep. A blaring horn. It would make this noise until I straightened up my wheel. At first I didn’t think it was me and was pissed at the car behind me. Even flipped them off. Oops, my bad. It was my dad’s car. It was…..horny. (That’s where that term came from. Too much horn).
In the end, I got out by the skin of my teeth. My car tires passed, but right above the minimum requirement, which I guess is bad. My tires are balding again. Dammit.
The penny test.
Shouldn’t tires last for two years? I blame the back roads to my school. Stupid pot holes. I plan on trading my car in this summer when school lets out. The air conditioner is shot.
I bet they didn’t even check the air conditioner. It should be part of the inspection process. People get mad when they are hot. Road rage.
An easy vehicle inspection
I’m thinking that there should be inspections for any sort of transportation. Kids should get pulled over.
Kid, your seat is not up to code.
Heading to the inspection station
So, don’t forget that the little sticker on your window means something. It may be true that police give 30 days for those of us who have no brain. It depends who pulls you over, I guess. So, don’t flip him off as he approaches your window. Just sayin. Get your car inspected.
You will need your horn the next time someone cuts in front of you.
We never owned cats when I was young. My mom said they were sneaky and that was the end of that. We had dogs. And I brought home a skunk and iguanas and african frogs. But, cats were out of the question. My bff, Ramaine always had cats. I thought they were so cool. They weren’t sneaky at all. My mom was a loon.
Even after we had children, my husband didn’t want to have any inside animals. But, he cracked under pressure and brought home a cat for my daughter. She is still alive and my husband, now ex-husband, still hates the cat.
My son decided to go the cat route. He got a cat and named him Atticus. He had planned on training it to be “Atticus, Kick-Ass Cat.” He told me he was going to get a little ninja headband for him and would teach him to use and flush the toilet. Yeah, good luck with that. Well, he did turn out to be a killer cat. I am lucky to have survived the vicious cat attack inflicted upon me.
My daughter warned me not to cat sit when Adam went to Europe over Christmas 2010. She stayed at his apartment one time and awoke, finding Atticus right by her face, eating her hair. She was afraid for her cat, Whiskers. Whiskers lived with me when Alex went off to college. She will be seventeen this July and can hardly walk. Atticus, warrior cat, would simply destroy her.
Sure, looks are deceiving
It was hell. It really was. Whiskers would scream and hiss at Atticus. Atticus would jump out at Whiskers whenever he had the chance. Whiskers would attack, and Atticus would back off. Atticus was just a young cat, still learning how to act around another cat, perhaps. But, then he found my leg.
I guess he thought I wanted to play. He came over and took a little playful bite. But, I didn’t want him to play Warrior Cat with me. I wanted him to be a gentle, non hair eater. I simply pushed him away and told him, “No.” Well, that was like an invitation. Atticus came at me and bit my leg.
I pushed him away. And he came at me again and really let me have it. He really bit into me. I screamed and pushed him away. He came at me again. I had about three good sized bite marks on my leg. I screamed at him again. It was like he turned into a monster cat. I grabbed my door mat, the closest thing I could find to hide my legs. I had exercise capri pants on, so he was concentrating on my lower legs. I was very afraid.
Well, Adam returned and came back for the little shit. Whiskers slept for days. But, what happened next was bad, very bad. The cat bite became infected. I washed it with soap and water after he bit me, but I had no idea that a cat that has been kept inside could have such a potty mouth. I read how the cat’s mouth is just laden with bacteria. And now it was showing up on my leg.
At the time, I didn’t really want to worry my son. I did show him the corner of my new pull out couch where Atticus decided to use as a scratching post.
“You owe me a couch.” Adam felt bad. I didn’t really want to tell him how bad my leg was. It was getting bad. So, I thought I should probably go to the doctor. Probably means no. I decided to head to the internet instead. Looks like I needed antibiotic. And I should go to the doctor. Should means no.
Well, not a good idea. I started taking amoxicilin. Thank God I had a stash. My leg became ugly and oozy. I babied it and looked at it all the time, worried that pus was just not a good thing. The information on the internet about cat bites scared me to death. Every day I would say to myself, “Today is the day I should go to the doctor.” I have since decided that I am very stubborn about visiting a doctor. Not my cup of tea. The picture below was taken a few weeks after the bite. It was looking much better at this point. Really it was.
Ew, I know, right? Notice the dark mark. That was my brilliant attempt to monitor my condition. I took a pen and drew around the redness to see if it was getting worse or getting better. Why didn’t I just go to the doctor? Well, because I have no brain.
It took almost a month to heal. I probably have some sort of parasitic cat worm traveling around the inside of my body. I am pretty sure that the overdose of anitbiotics helped.
After the cat bite, I bought some betadine and keep it in my medicine cabinet. Good thing, because he bit me again this evening, the little shit.
Yeah, I’m cat sitting again.
He can be a sweet cat. He really enjoys jumping on the table and sitting on my arm. When I graded school papers, he sat on my arm. He is furry and soft and I really like him.
But, then he turns into Psycho cat. He just looked at me and then promptly bit my hand. Oh, it was just a little bite, didn’t really break the skin. I ran to the bathroom, washed it with soap and hot water, then put some Betadine on it.
He’s been here seven nights and he will be here six more. Tick Tock Tick Tock.
My mom never really sang my virtues. No positive traits here. I remember when I ran for all-school treasurer for my senior year in high school. I was sitting on the floor, making posters, when my mom looked at me sadly, and said,
“Vickie, you sure are making a lot of posters………I don’t want you to get your hopes up….. You are probably not going to win.”
You have no idea how that statement pissed me off. I decided to try even harder. I had a couple guy friends even put my posters in the boy’s bathroom for me. Then I put them in every stall in every bathroom.
Psssst!
While you’re sitting here in this stall
Think about voting for Mendenhall
My name had great rhyming potential. I made up little posters out of copy paper and huge ones for the main halls. In the Music room:
Just a little “note”- Vote for Mendenhall
I did this all over the place. A message in the Spanish class, which was also my homeroom. I was a creative little shit, where others just had the generic, “vote for…” posters. And I won. Even had a full size picture in the yearbook of the class officers. Mom did congratulate me when I told her.
Me on the right
“I won, Mom.”
“You did? What a wonderful surprise! Congratulations!”
Wonderful SURPRISE. She always had to add something that stung me like a bee. And she is the one who always told me:
Sticks and stones
may break my bones
but words will never hurt me
Bullshit.
Fast forward many years. I have two wonderful children. We lived two hours away from my mom. So, of course, if you have good news, you would naturally call your loved ones to tell them. So, I would call my mom.
“Mom, the kids both won the county social studies fair and get to compete at the state level.” I was excited. Adam did his on Prohibition and gangsters and Alex did her project on Bigfoot. They were in middle school, a year apart. My mom thought that was great. When Adam won first place at the state level and Alex won honorable mention, I called her again.
“That’s great….. You know, you three kids did a lot of great things in school too…… I just never believed in bragging.”
I was pissed.
“Well, Mom, if informing you about what great things your grandchildren are doing in school is bragging, then I’m bragging. I’m very proud of them. And why the hell would I need to “brag” to my mother?…..I have to go.” And I hung up the phone.
Bragging. I had to think for a moment. Do I brag on my kids? Bragging. I remember looking it up in the dictionary, just like I did again right now. “To assert or talk boastfully” “in an arrogant manner…”
I guess for some, there is a fine line between being proud of accomplishments and bragging. I’m a proud mom. I think bragging is more about arrogance and a “Here’s another way I am better than you.” But to be proud and want to share that with others? I don’t think that is bragging.
Both my kids are very modest. Very humble. I remember when Alex won for Prom Queen. She told me with a sigh. I congratulated her with a “You are beautiful on the inside and on the outside. What a wonderful compliment! I’m so very proud of you.”
I didn’t call my mom.
Well, when we went shopping for a prom dress, I was just giddy. My daughter was prom queen. But, before we went into the first store, Alex looked at me and said, “Do NOT tell anyone that I am Prom Queen.” Well, stick a pin in my balloon. I did anyway, when she would be in the dressing room. “She’s prom queen at her high school.” Well, I can be proud. I wasn’t bragging. Right?
Now, as my children are in their mid-twenties, I am so very proud of them. Alex doesn’t want me to talk about her on facebook. Well, hell. She’s a humble little duck.
So, that made me think. Since I never really got stroked when I was little, am I over compensating with my own children? Did I brag too much? I surely hope not. Pride cometh before the fall and all.
Proud as one of these
You know, we were raised to be proud. Proud of our home. Proud of our children. Proud of our country. Proud of ourselves. If you think someone is bragging, then maybe the person talking is an idiot to begin with. I know mothers who go on and on about how smart their kid is. Hello. Parents are supposed to be proud of their kids. Proud of their first steps. Proud that they pooped in a real toilet or are wearing big boy pants. Proud that they got their first A and hang it on the refrigerator. Those are proud parents. Braggers talk like this:
“My Joey said his first word when he was two months old. He is going to be sooo smart. Your kid isn’t talking yet, right? And he is ten? Wow, Joey is really going to be smart.”
Now, that is bragging.
When Adam was a baby, and learnining to talk, I did something to piss my mom off. You know how parents always show their baby off? I call it, “Show me.” Show me your eye. Show me your nose. etc. etc. All parents do this. Don’t tell me you didn’t. Well, when they start verbalizing, parents then play, “Tell me.” Parent: “What is this?” Kidlet: “Nose.” Kids were now verbalizing their body parts. Well, I took it one step further and taught Adam where his clavicle was. “What’s this, Adam?” “Clav i cle.” And then I cracked up. I was basically making fun of the whole process, but my mom wasn’t amused. I didn’t want her to be amused. I wanted her to say something. I gave her my “Go ahead, make my day” look. She didn’t open her mouth.
In the end, I think mom’s need a “brag pass.” We should be allowed to brag if that is what you want to call it. I call it pride. Sure, some mom’s are idiots. But, they were idiots before they were moms.
So, the next time your child signs up to run for office or tries out for cheerleader, and you secretly don’t think they have a snowball in hell kind of chance, lie. If you can’t lie, then confuse them. I have a great line, stolen from the Hunger Games:
My daughter told me a while back that she heard something in the walls of her New York City apartment. Then she called and told me she saw a mouse scurrying by in the kitchen. She named it, even though she only met it once. Or twice. She is so like her momma. But, it made me think of what else could scurry through her apartment. I guess a rat could scurry.
When I hear the word, “scurrying,” all I can think of is mice. Mice scurry. Nothing else scurries. Nothing. Well, the freedictionary.com uses stupid examples of the word, “scurrying”:
“….lashed the scurrying horses” and “…..the pedestrians scurried for cover.”
I just don’t see it. I know what scurrying looks like. The word evokes sneakiness. Running away from trouble quickly. Horses are not subtle or sneaky. Neither are pedestrians. I really think these dictionary people need to confer with me more often. I would set them straight. Amazon.com is selling a book that I would tend to agree with its title:
Something “scurried” past Obama at a White House press conference. I am sure there is a metaphor for that one. I myself, wondered how he got by security. He scurried, that’s how.
I finally found a reference that I agree with. Merriam-Webster has their shit together. They used “….mice scurried around the house.” I like this example, because it is a true statement. Mice scurried around the house…… They sure did.
My house. But, let me back up a bit.
The first introduction to a mouse for many of us is when we are little, with the introduction of Mickey Mouse. Mickey is not scary, or rodenty. (I truly enjoy making up new words). He doesn’t carry diseases like the mice and rats did during “Black Death” during the 14th century, that killed twenty-five million people. Twenty-five MILLION.
The Danse Macabre -photo via wikipedia creative commons
Oh, they still carry diseases. A bunch of them. So, bubonic plague is nothing to laugh at. The oriental rat flea was the main culprit back then, hitchhiking on a black rat. I know a rat is a rat and a mouse is a mouse, but some view a mouse as a rat. Some view a chihuahua as a rat. Some ex-husbands are rats. So, you know, whatever.
Maybe we should be pissed at Walt Disney for making his main character a mouse. Children all around the world think that it is ok to pick up a field mouse and hug it. (I know where you think I’m going with this, but no, never hugged a mouse.)
But, you gotta love Mickey Mouse. Sure, I’ve worn mouse ears and have seen my plastic flip flops melt from standing in two hour lines on asphalt at Disney World in August. Sure, I have no brain. But, it was for my kids. I introduced them to the main mouse when they were little.
My next meeting with a mouse is when we learned to sing the ever popular “Little Rabbit Foo Foo.” This is how we sang it-
Little Rabbit Foo Foo
Hopping through the forest
scooping up the field mice
and bashing them on the head….
Now, I have to admit that all of the online versions of Little Rabbit Foo Foo has him scooping up field mice and ”bopping” them on the head. I am thinking that we changed the version. Or, I am thinking we were violent children. Regardless, mice were getting hit on the head left and right. Why?
Because they scurry and can’t be trusted.
There were other mice. For example, let’s take a look at Speedy Gonzales.
Speedy Gonzales (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Speedy Gonzales was the self-proclaimed, “fastest mouse in all Mexico.” Speedy never scurried. He wasn’t known as Scurry Gonzales, was he now? No, he was speedy, quick, and efficient. He got in and got out.
Now his cousin is another story, but he doesn’t scurry either. No, his cousin is a slow-poke. Slow Poke Rodriguez.
Slowpoke was the slowest mouse in all Mexico. He would never scurry. I think he was drunk half of the time. If he was on The Andy Griffith show, he would have been sitting in a cell with Otis, the town drunk, discussing stuff. You would never see Otis scurry either, I mean, if he was a pedestrian.
One of my favorite mice was Jerry Mouse from the cartoon, Tom and Jerry. Oh, the trouble those two crazy kids got into! Even when I was little, I had a problem with his name. Who the hell names a mouse, Jerry? Jerry Mouse. Sounds stupid. Harry would have been better. Tom and Harry. Maybe they had another friend named Dick. That would have made sense. Tom, Dick, and Harry. But, the names of the cartoon characters was the least of their problems. It was the violence that made some parents shudder. Yeah, parents who lived in a box and never got to watch Saturday morning cartoons during the era that cartoons ruled. My era!
But, besides watching Tom get electrocuted and sliced with a knife, this cartoon taught me about rivalry. Jerry taunted Tom. Tom chased Jerry. Tom got abused and injured. Comic violence. Poor Tom makes numerous attempts to catch Jerry. I mean, it is Tom’s house. He’s a house cat, just trying to protect his owner from contracting the bubonic plague I’m guessing.
I’m trying to think of all of the ways they tried to kill each other. It was like War of the Roses, but without a divorce. My favorite one is when Jerry put Tom’s tail in the wall outlet to electrocute him. He would light up and you could see his skeleton. Oh, cartoons, how you make me laugh! They also used an axe, guns, explosives, traps, and poison to try ot finish each other off. I also liked the one where Jerry put matches at Tom’s feet and lit the matches. Yeah, I bet there were little kids in the early sixties lighting their baby sisters on fire after watching that episode.
The final reference to a mouse is the most important to me. Hickory Dickory Dock. We all know the rhyme.
Hickory Dickory Dock
The mouse ran up the clock
The clock struck one
The mouse ran down
Hickory Dickory Dock
I never knew what this nursery rhyme meant. I was smart enough to realize that “one” and “down” didn’t rhyme worth a shit. But, but besides that, what the hell was supposed to happen at 1:00? And what is the importance of a mouse?
Well, I found out years later.
My husband and I purchased 13 acres of farm land in 1989. We decided to build a house on a site that an old dairy barn was previously located. It was an exciting time. I had fun decorating the house. We purchased an antique gingerbread clock and set it upon the mantle in our hearth room. I called the room the “Hearth Room” because I refused to call any room a “living room.” And, well, it had a hearth in it. A living room reminds me of plastic on expensive furniture and a room with no television. Well, that wasn’t going to happen.
After a couple of years, we brought home a kitten from the animal shelter for our daughter. Whiskers. Now, Whiskers was a great cat. She was entertaining and could leap buildings in a single bound. She could locate a spider and pounce on it as quickly as she saw it.
But, she didn’t give a shit about mice.
Of course, we didn’t know about the mice either. But, Whiskers sure did.
My kitchen had an island where the stove was located along with a seating area with three highback stools. I loved my kitchen. Sometimes late at night, I would walk downstairs to get a cold drink of water and see Whiskers perched on top of the island. What the hell are you doing sitting up there, Whiskers? Boy are you going to get in trouble if he sees you sitting where we cook.
Well, this happened quite a bit. The kids told me that they saw Whiskers sitting either on top of the stove island or right beside the island, looking under the stove. Uh oh.
Uh Oh for sure. I was wondering if there was a mouse in the house. After all, we built our house in a field. A mouse may try to infiltrate the solid construction. My husband would not hear of it. “This house is built air tight.”
Tell that to the mice.
Mice as in plural.
One day, I decided to clean and dust the stuff on my mantle. Normally, I don’t take the gingerbread clock down. I just spray some Pledge on it and dust it and around it. But, I was feeling especially energetic and decided to take it off its lofty spot.
Shit.
A mouse had built a nest in the back of the clock. A nest. In the back of the clock.
Hickory Dickory Damn!
So, that meant that Whiskers would watch a nightly parade of mouse or mice coming from somewhere near the stove, scurrying across the kitchen floor, turn the corner, scurry through the Hearth Room, up the side of the mantle to build its nest. Ok, so unless the mouse used U-Haul, it had to make many many trips to the clock. And that also meant that it liked it enough in my house to make a nest there.
Nice job, Whiskers.
So, after I showed my husband that a mouse or many mouses (mice, whatever) were making their way to the clock, he put a couple of traps under the house, in our crawlspace. I cold hear some snapping every once in a while and it just made me cringe. Poor mice. But, what made me really cringe is that I found another nest in my laundry room, behind a shelf. And I found yet another one when I was hunting for the remote control down in a couch in the Hearth Room. We had all been sitting on baby mice.
Dear God, the cat probably popped some popcorn and watched the fun unfold nightly. Why try to catch mice? Her bowl was never empty. I did notice that she seemed to be eating more than usual. Ew, the mice were eating her cat food.
I wouldn’t let the husband put a snapping trap under the stove. I didn’t want to hear the trap go off. I can’t kill a spider, let alone a poor field mouse.
So, he purchased one of those traps that a mouse can crawl into but can’t get out and then I would make him drive the mouse a mile or two down the road and set it free. I think we caught several mice that way until Spook showed up at our door. Spook, the stray cat. I talked the husband into letting him stay. Caspar the cat showed up soon after. Two outside cats kept the mice away after that. Over the years, Muffin the cat and Izzie the cat have also stayed awhile. Mice were never a problem after that.
Three years ago, I divorced and moved out of our home. I never spoke of the mice in the house to anyone because it just makes you feel sort of….cockroachy in a way. But, hey, it’s not my house anymore, now is it?
I was an avid reader when I was younger. I always knew what that crazy Nancy Drew was up to. I knew the Ringmaster’s Secret. I knew where the Hidden Staircase was hiding. I knew that showboat was haunted. Yep, I read all of the books. I was a huge fan.
And sure, I read Dr. Seuss, but I was years beyond his silliness. Ok, I did fall for One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish and I stared a little bit too much at the dog party in the tree in my favorite, Go, Dog, Go, but I really felt a bond with Nancy. In fact, I felt like I could be Nancy. Except that I would have never worn a skirt while solving a mystery. I would have been all about pedal pushers and sneakers.
Fast forward many years and I was still able to keep up with my reading, even after I had my two children. Of course, then I was a huge Dean Koontz fan. His early book, Whispers, will always be my favorite Dean Koontz book. I also read a lot by John Saul. But, my reading time was diminishing. It was no one’s fault but my own. Al Gore had just invented the internet, you know, and I had surfing to do. I surfed the world wide web. And down went the book.
Bad Vickie. I never did sit and read Great Expectations again. Oh, how I love Miss Havisham. I purchased The American Tragedy last summer because I loved the movie version, A Place in the Sun, with Montgomery Cliff and Elizabeth Taylor. East of Eden and Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother are still staring at me from my nightstand. They realize it is never going to happen. Afterall, I then discovered Facebook and Farmtown. Farmville. Something on a farm.
And it was never going to happen once I discovered blogging. WordPress is really to blame for my inexcusable lack of reading. If I wasn’t writing, I was reading other blogger’s blogs. I was then commenting on them. Soon I decided, “Hell, I want to write my own book.” I was a frenzied writer. I found that I love to write. I don’t know if I am a good writer. I cringe when I notice that I have left out commas or spelled “threw” for “through.” Not professional, Vickster. But, just put me in a cabin in the woods with a typewriter and some paper laptop and my username and password, and I could just write all damn day long. But, I guess I have to earn a living, so a fourth grade teacher I shall be.
But, something got me back to take another look at books.
No, it wasn’t the new-fangled Kindle Fire. That may get to me to read again. It didn’t.
No, I didn’t fall for the Harry Potter or Twilight books. I hated Eat, Breathe, and Die or whatever it was called. The movie version starred Julia Roberts. I saw the movie and hated it. You know that woman got an advance to write the book before she even took the journey to find herself, right? She surely laughed all the way to the bank.
No, it was Hunger Games.
I don’t know why it was Hunger Games that made me head to the couch, curl up with a lightweight throw on my lap, and settle in for the evening. Ahhhhhh, a good book. I felt like I was home. Oh, sure I was home, but I felt so satisfied, so complete, so intelligent. I was reading again. Yeehaw!
But, wait. I am torn. My lost love of reading has been reborn. But, alas, what the hell is to become of my blogging? I plan on reading all three of the Hunger Game books in the next week. I can’t put the first one down. Well, I did, just to write to all of you a farewell of sorts, until this reading foolishness subsides.
Yes, blog buddies, I am not going to blog again for a week or so. I want to read. And read I must. And I can’t do both. That would feel like cheating.
So, I bid adieu to all my old and new blogging friends as I need but a brief respite….so I can read. After all, I want to go see the Hunger Games movie this weekend, so I must get a move on. All of my teacher friends at school have already read all three books and are getting tired of not being able to talk about it. I need to catch up before they bust at the seams.
I bought the book yesterday and am on Chapter 11 right now. I am hooked.
Well, time is up. I gave myself fifteen minutes to write this. Times a tickin. My book is calling out to me.
My best to you and I will see you in a week’s time.
You know, this karma thing really does work. I’m going deaf because I played Helen Keller when I was little. So, Karma is a bitch. I’m sure that is the reason.
You are probably wondering how one plays Helen Keller. Well, first you have to have an Annie Sullivan. That was my bff, Ramaine. And then you had to close your eyes and make your way around the ping pong table in the rec room of your basement, moaning and groaning, because, well, you’re Helen Keller. Annie, er I mean, Ramaine, would sign language spell words like w-a-t-e-r in my hand and I would nod my head, just like Melissa Gilbert did when she portrayed her in the movie. I really don’t think we were making fun of Helen Keller. I think we were playing actresses, But, Karma still bites you in the ass. And that’s why now, years later, I’m going deaf.
I don’t know if it was an exact occasion, but one day out of the blue, I was struck down with debilitating vertigo. It was intense, and evil. Evil. See my previous post, Vertigo and Meniere’s Disease. Horrid disorder.
Well, I was told that I would lose some or all of my hearing. I’m sorry, what did you say? Ok, not kidding. Part of Meniere’s Disease is progressive hearing loss. Have you ever had an experience where you lose hearing in your ear for a few seconds, and it is replaced with a high pitched tone, until it diminishes? Well, I was told that each time I have one of those, it takes a little bit of my hearing away with it. Well, how fun will this be?
That was in 2000. I haven’t been back to my ENT. He wanted me to come back the next time I was in the middle of a vertigo attack. Um, how the hell would that be possible? My world rotates around and around and around for like hours. You are lucky you can crawl, let alone make it to the car. My toilet became my closest friend. Tammy. Some days it was Tommy, depending on the how much my husband was helping me out while I was sitting by the toilet all day. I have also purposely not had my hearing tested since then either. And I will tell you why.
When my ex would get a bad cold, he would come downstairs in his robe and slippers and would quit shaving. He was pathetic. He would shuffle as he walked…..”I’m sick.” His temperature would be a fiery 98.7, which is high, he informed me, because his temperature normally ran around 97. Ok, you know, whatever. But, I’m sort of like him in a way. If I would get my hearing tested, I would then be able to use that when I talk to my kids on the phone.
“I’m sorry, Alex. What did you just say.”
“I said, I was goinb blah blah blah blah and you know blah blah blah. What do you think?”
“Really. Something is mess up with this phone. I didn’t hear you. Say it one more time.”
“I was blah and you know how blah blah. And then blah blah blah …..So, what do you think.”
pause…. pause…. lie. “Well, what do you want to do?”
“….Nevermind, Mom.”
Well, shit, I didn’t know what the hell she said. I have gotten to the point where I just pretend I hear people. And trust me, this is not good. Not good at all. I usually ask people to repeat what they say, and then if I still only hear bits and pieces of it, I will just stand there, looking at them. I’m sure I look stupid, especially if they are waiting for an answer. I think that is why my lunch bunch teacher friend who sits next to me, hits me in the arm all of the time. I usually answer with something that sounds retarded. I just can’t freaking hear and make up something. Sometimes she just looks at me, waiting for an answer and then hits me just because.
If I got my hearing tested, I would be able to insert my “You know I can’t hear” statement right into every conversation.
“Alex, you know I have 80.95% hearing loss in my left ear and 75.42% hearing loss in my right ear…I can not hear you.”
But, I don’t want to do that, because I would be doing it all of the time. I know myself. And that’s where the mocking would come in. Sure, friends and family always mock the ones they love.
In pure mocking Vickie tone: “You know I have 900% hearing loss in all three ears!” Yeah, they would so mock me.
To me, ignorance is bliss. I just love that line. “Ignorance is bliss.” This should be my life motto. I mean, if you don’t know, you can’t react. I will tell you one thing I will react to. I will react to the doctor who finally tells me I may need a hearing aid. I hope that day never comes. But, when I sleep on my right side, I can’t hear anything out of my left ear. I moved a faux grandfather’s clock by my bed last week, and the damn ticking was driving me crazy….until I rolled over onto my right side. Couldn’t hear a thing. I guess deafness does have an advantage….when you want it to.
But, I will never ever wear a hearing aid. Never ever.
So, I have decided that if and when the time comes, I’m not using a hearing aid. Not going to happen. Why try to hide the device? I mean, if I can’t hear, why not let everyone know about it. That’s why I’m going big. You know the saying, “Go big or go home.”
Perhaps a bit much?
Yeah, that’s right. I’m going for the horn. Why hear everything when you can have selective hearing? Look at all of these hard of hearing people. You don’t see them wearing hidden hearing devices. No, they are proud of their limited hearing capacity and want noticed. I will so be getting a horn. They are called an ear trumpet and they have been around for a very long time.
Or, I could purchase a ear ring horn. Or a ring ear horn. Same thing. I could wear it on my finger, and if I want to hear your babble, I can just put it to my ear, smooth-like.
Hallo? Hallo?
For when I want to call long distance
The earliest description of an ear trumpet or horn was way back in the 1600′s. While it is fact that people do lose a bit of their hearing as they age, they didn’t have hearing aids back then. So, they came up with the next best thing: an ear trumpet.
Beethoven, who was going deaf, had several ear trumpets made for him. Some of them are in the photo below.
I’m going to wear mine around my neck. An earneck horn.
Yeah, I’m for sure going to use an ear trumpet.
I can just see it now.
Hey Grandma Vickie. What the hell is wrong with you?
In the end, we all lose some of our hearing. Mine may just be lost earlier. Maybe. Maybe not. But, I will be prepared.
Shut the hell up! You know I can only hear 12% out of this ear and 3% out of this ear trumpet.
My daughter, who lives in New York City, will be watching her first St. Patrick’s Day parade. She will also be participating in the world’s largest pub crawl, The Luck of the Irish St. Patty’s Day Pub Crawl. Sounds like a great time. When I talked to her last night, she was having a hard time finding anything green to wear. I’m sure with thousands of New Yorkers participating in the parade and pub crawl, green is probably a highly interested color.
Well, back here in West Virginia, I am sitting here thinking about the big green day and especially about leprechauns. And how I just don’t know what to think of them.
Yesterday, I had my fourth graders write a St. Patrick’s Day haiku, like I do whenever I feel like having them write one. And I wrote one too. Now, you have to understand that I never shared my views on leprechauns with my kids. I never really thought much about the short people before. But, my students’ haikus and my own made me want to take a step back and take a look at this whole leprechaun and St. Patrick’s Day scheme of things a little closer.
Leprechauns are mean
They will take my pot of gold
Go away now, please!
~~~~~~~~
Shamrocks and pinching
and bad leprechauns hiding
please leave me alone.
~~~~
And here is mine
Little leprechaun
are you stealing my wallet?
goofy green midget
~~~
I honestly couldn’t believe that I wrote that. I read mine aloud, and change “midget” to “short guy.” I just sat there, stunned, looking at my paper. So, that’s how I really felt about leprechauns? And how politically incorrect. Not good, Vickie, not good. I wondered if I had been attacked by a leprechaun when I was little or something. There had to be a reason for my animosity towards bearded Irish guys in green clothing.
In the meantime, I looked at my other haiku. I had the kids write two different ones. Here is my other one:
I found some money
at the end of the rainbow.
Led me to a bank.
~~~~
Um, ok. This is not a happy St. Patrick’s Day person writing these haiku’s. I have some issues. I also have twenty-one students, and I would say that most of them wrote about bad or mean leprechauns. I wonder why? So, I thought that I would do some research and collect some data on these horrid little creatures (see, there I go again) and see why they are getting a bad rap.
We all know that St. Patrick’s Day is about shamrocks, parades, and all things green. And all things Irish. But, I really didn’t know the meaning behind some of the symbols. Let’s take a look at some of them before we get to my main topic:
1. The shamrock- The shamrock was the sacred plant of Ireland. It symbolized the rebirth of spring. According to History.com, “By the seventeenth century, the shamrock had become a symbol of emerging Irish nationalism. As the English began to seize Irish land and make laws against the use of the Irish language and the practice of Catholicism, many Irish began to wear the shamrock as a symbol of their pride in their heritage and their displeasure with English rule.”
2. Those damned snakes- Again from History.com:
“It has long been recounted that, during his mission in Ireland, St. Patrick once stood on a hilltop (which is now called Croagh Patrick), and with only a wooden staff by his side, banished all the snakes from Ireland. In fact, the island nation was never home to any snakes. The “banishing of the snakes” was really a metaphor for the eradication of pagan ideology from Ireland and the triumph of Christianity. Within 200 years of Patrick’s arrival, Ireland was completely Christianized.” Oh, ok, a metaphor. I was wondering how that worked. I had my thoughts-
Patrick: “Hey, snakes of Ireland. I don’t want you here. Begone, you little bastards!’
St. Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland via photo Irregular Times
3. Corned beef- Which I’m sorry, but corned beef sounds disgusting. I have always been picky and just the names of some of the foods made me refuse to try them. Well, like cheesecake. I have never had a piece of cheesecake in my life. It just reminds me of provolone and icing. I shudder. Corned beef reminds me of hunks of corn in ground beef. Ok, wait. That doesn’t sound that bad. Anywho, corned beef is a more recent addition to all things Irish. Irish Americans gather together on St. Patrick’s Day to share a meal of corned beef and cabbage. Immigrants who came to New York City’s Lower East Side from Ireland substitute corned beef for their tradtional bacon to save money.
Where the hell is the cabbage? photo via foodnetwork.com
4. Pot of gold at the end of the freaking rainbow- What if there was a double rainbow…Wow.
5. Leprechauns- Ok, this is huge!! We can blame Walt Disney Productions for putting leprechauns in our St. Patrick’s Day. Walt Freakin Disney. Yep. Leprechauns never had a damn thing to do with St. Patrick’s Day. Oh, sure, they were folklore in Europe, but not specifically for the holiday, which is supposed to be a religious observation. I guess if Christmas has Santa Claus and Easter has a bunny, why not a short guy for St. Patrick’s Day, I guess.
Once again, according to History.com, “The original Irish name for these figures of folklore is “lobaircin,” meaning “small-bodied fellow.”
Belief in leprechauns probably stems from Celtic belief in fairies, tiny men and women who could use their magical powers to serve good or evil. In Celtic folktales, leprechauns were cranky souls, responsible for mending the shoes of the other fairies. Though only minor figures in Celtic folklore, leprechauns were known for their trickery, which they often used to protect their much-fabled treasure.
In 1959, Walt Disney released a film called Darby O’Gill & the Little People, which introduced America to a very different sort of leprechaun than the cantankerous little man of Irish folklore. This cheerful, friendly leprechaun is a purely American invention, but has quickly evolved into an easily recognizable symbol of both St. Patrick’s Day and Ireland in general.”
I also read that leprechauns were shoe makers and hid their coins in a hidden pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Which, I think, is irresponsible. Which rainbow? The one over Dublin at 3pm last Saturday? No wonder they didn’t have money to buy another set of clothes.
Well, so there you have it. Well, I don’t have it. I still don’t know why I am not a fan.
You just have to love technology. But, then again, it did wipe out imaginative play as we know it. Childhood was so simple in the early sixties. We had no choice. My parents and their parents had even a simpler time. We didn’t have cell phones that interrupted our play with a text from your mother that simply read, “Dinner.” No, they had to stand out on the porch and yell for us. On the third yell, we would go home.
We had jump rope, a kick ball, and indoor board games. Can’t forget about pogo sticks. We weren’t indoors much. The neighborhood was filled with children playing, people hand washing their cars, and neighbors sitting outside on their porches in the hot summer evenings. Many didn’t have central air conditioning. We knew our neighbors. We also knew when Mr. Softie was coming around in his ice cream truck. We could hear the music. Because we were outside.
As the sixties moved closer to the seventies, it was still like that. We now had eight track stereos to occupy our time, but not much more. We would sit out on our front porches, but this time, waiting for boys to drive around and around the block, finally to stop and talk to all the neighborhood girls my age who hung out on my front porch. But, in and around 1975, that all changed. We started staying indoors more. Things were changing, for sure. And we can point our fingers to one new gadget.
Pong.
Yes, Pong. Not to be confused with Beer Pong. This was played without alcohol. Well, unless you really enjoyed drunk ping pong.
I know what you young people are thinking. Are you kidding me? But, yes, this was exciting stuff. I mean, we could turn on the tv and use this game console and play ping pong. There were no pictures or bombs going off or bullets flying. This was ping pong and nothing else. And we were thrilled.
Now, we did have pinballl machines. I was quite good at the one at The Pub, a local dive where we all congregated in college. My mom even bought a pin ball machine for our basement rec room. We were the coolest family on the block. But, Pong was different, because it was on tv.
In the end, Pong was fun, and it was just a matter of time before we were hearing names such as Sega and then Playstation.
I used to think that cleaning public restrooms would be one of the worst jobs ever. But, over the years, I have changed my mind. I do believe that being a school bus driver has to be one of the most taxing jobs of all.
Being a bus driver AND being stopped by a long coal train. Yikes
As an elementary school teacher, I get to hear bus stories every single day. And then I remember my own.
I didn’t really ride a school bus for the first three years of my education. I attended a stupid private school, Sacred Heart of Mary Academy. Sister Maria drove our little van/bus. She was one mean zebra. I didn’t open my mouth for three years on that bus, for fear that she would make me become a nun. And Dear God, I did not want to become a nun. I watched her as she drove that van/bus. She wore black hose under that nun outfit, and black shoes that looked like walking shoes, but a really ugly version. I had to sit up front with her because of my intense motion sickness, which she frequently told me, “was all in my head.” One day after she said that, I looked over at her, and threw up. I heard my mom relay the story to my dad that night from my eavesdropping hiding place.
“Vickie threw up on Sister Maria today…( I could hear my dad laugh)..She told Vickie it was all in her head…..Vickie should have told her that “Now it is in your lap.”
I thought that was funny. I decided to tell Sister Maria that the next day. It didn’t get that far.
“Vickie, you aren’t going to get sick anymore on my bus, are you?” She looked at me and I could swear I saw real flames flickering in her eyes. I was scared to death of her. So scared….
that I threw up on her again. Well, I missed her, but caught her black hose and sensible shoes. Rice krispies and milk to be exact. I remember.
Not good. Not good at all. She was going to beat the shit out of me. I just knew it. Or I was going to have to wear a nun outfit and carry rosary beads and whisper while I touched each one.
She was always pissed. She drove like she had road rage. I thought she was mad at Jesus for making her be a bus driver. Her rosary that hung around her waist made a noise each time she shifted gears. Which was all of the time. She ran a stop sign one day and we hit another car. I sat in the back of the van after that and got car sick because I could no longer watch the road.
I finally got to switch to public school, and that meant I would get to sit with my bff Ramaine on the bus every day. She and LeeAnn would walk up to my house and we would go stand in Dragovich’s driveway and wait for the school bus. We didn’t carry back packs back then, so we put our lunch boxes and books down on the driveway in a straight line, which meant we had a place in the bus line. I had a Beanie and Cecil lunchbox.
I was so excited to be able to ride on such a huge transportation machine. You could even fit three kids in one seat. Our bus driver was not that nice, however. I surely understand why. Kids are nuts.
When I was in junior high, I was kicked off of the bus for three days. My mom was furious with me. My friend, LeeAnn, who lived down the street, was kicked off with me, but I don’t think she was the main player. My bff Ramaine was kicked off as well, which would normally be the case, as we were always partners in crime. Even if we didn’t do something wrong, we would always be found at fault because we would still be laughing long after the particular episode. I think LeeAnn was, as Ramaine said, “Guilty by association.” Three in a seat and all. But, one of us had some styrofoam and it just happened to make an intense high pitched squeaking noise when placed upon the wet bus window. “Squeak squeak squeak.”
The bus driver yelled at us to stop.
Pause
Pause
“Squeak squeak squeak.” giggle giggle giggle.
And we were promptly thrown off of the bus. What the hell happened to getting three, maybe four warnings before punishment is inflicted?
I was pissed. I think the bus driver was mad at me anyways for puking on the bus so much. That’s another thing that I don’t envy about the life of a bus driver: cleaning up after motion sick urchins like myself. Every afternoon I would ask him to turn down the heat. He must have been cold natured, because the trip home was unbelieveably warm. He would just tell me to crack my window, which was too late for my churning stomach. And I would throw up. And I am serious that this happened at least twice a week. Ramaine would yell, “Vickie threw up! Raise your feet!” because you know, the vomit did flow like a river. Sorry. Since the bus driver wasn’t dressed like a nun, I finally realized that I indeed had motion sickness.
So, yeah, Ramaine, LeeAnn and I were kicked off of the bus. I am sure that drove the bus driver nuts. I behaved myself the best I could. Well, no I didn’t. We did weird stuff on the bus. We made up a poem, that started off quiet and then kept getting louder each time. I will insert my name into the saying, but we would take turn putting each of our names in it:
“Vickie Vickie two by four, couldn’t get past the bathroom door. So, she went on the floor. Licked it up and asked for more…..(louder) Vickie Vickie two by four, couldn’t get past the bathroom door. So, she went on the floor. Licked it up and asked for more…(louder)”
How weird we were. We would keep doing it until the bus driver yelled at us to stop. I can’t even imagine what he went through with us. Sure, I teach elementary school and I have the kids all day. But, they become different creatures once they climb up the stairs to the bus. I know, I’ve been on field trips with them. And I know, I’ve been one of those demented kids.
And my God, the songs we sang. This alone should have driven a bus driver to drink. We sang whatever we learned in school. And a song we made up about the Salvation Army. Some of the lovely tunes we sang over and over and over again were hits such as “Waltzing Matilda,” “Jump Down Turn Around, Pick a Bale of Cotton,” “Playmate, come out and play with me…..,” and my personal favorite, “I had a Little Driedel..” Riding the bus was so much fun.
High school kids still rode the bus when I was in school during the mid seventies. Only kids who left to go to an after school job were allowed to drive. We mellowed as we got older, but I did hear that our old bus driver didn’t fare so well. Now, I don’t know if this was a rumor or not, but we heard that old Jack either reached retirement and decided to pull a prank on the kids, or that old Jack lost his mind and went on one last bus run. I had just graduated when I heard he did this.
Jack approached each of his bus stops. He stopped, opened the door, and just before the first kid in line placed his foot on the first step, old Jack would laugh a crazy laugh, quickly close the door and would go to his next stop where he did the same thing. He did it with all of his stops.
Never to be seen again.
Fast forward many years, circa 1992. I now have two children. Adam is in school and he was supposed to get off of the bus twenty minutes ago. He is only six years old. The bus is extremely late. I call the school and then the bus garage. Where the hell is he? I immediately think that he was kidnapped by a crazed bus driver. I know how they can snap.
Adam finally got off of the bus forty five minutes late. He was laughing as he ran down the driveway.
“Mommy, mommy, the bus driver got lost.” Apparently there were only two students left on the bus and the substitute bus driver got lost somehow. But, that’s what my little red-headed sweet cherub told me. I then received a phone call to come into school the next day.
Apparently, my son decided to screw with the substitute bus driver, telling him to turn right here and turn left there. He had him on roads that really weren’t roads. Adam was having a blast. His friend, Tyler, however, was crying. The bus driver kept following Adam’s directions. A six year old kid. Who the hell listens to a six year old kid? They were going to kick him off of the bus for a week because of the prank, until his teacher spoke up and said that it was the substitute’s fault for not following the route left by the normal bus driver. Sheesh.
Well, Adam’s bus adventures were only beginning. He was kicked off the bus for fighting with Tyler, the kid who got lost with Adam. Adam apparently punched Tyler in the face. I was horrified.
“Adam, did you punch Tyler in the face?” Adam nodded.
“I had to Mom, it was the only way to get him to stop strangling me.” I guess they started fighting and Adam ended up lying in the aisle. Tyler was straddling him, strangling him.
The final time Adam got kicked off of the bus was for fighting over an open window. Adam wanted it closed. The kid in front of him wanted it opened. So, after arguing, and pushing back and forth, the bus driver threw them both off of the bus for two weeks. Two weeks? Are you kidding me? That bus driver was really fed up.
So, I came up with a plan. I called the parents of the other kid involved and asked if they wanted to car pool. I would drive the boys one week and they could drive the next. That would teach them to fight each other. The parents loved the idea and so we took turns driving our bus heathens to school each day.
In the end, I really feel for bus drivers. They have these kids lives in their hands, yet get dealt a terrible hand with misbehaved kids. It’s always been like that and will continue to be like that until duct tape and rope are applied to the mix.
You know the saying, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder?” Well, it’s true, especially when you are eighteen and quite stupid. My boyfriend, Rick, was a junior at Michigan State University, and I was a measly freshman, far away at Fairmont State College in Fairmont West By God Virginia. I missed him.
We started dating the summer after he graduated from high school. He was two years ahead of me, and my first real boyfriend. It sucked that he decided to traipse off to Michigan State for an education. I thought he was doing ok as a gas station attendant with a part time job during high school. But, alas, away he went. So, he was way over there, and I was down here.
Now, when I graduated from high school, my mom drove me up from Weirton to East Lansing as part of my graduation present. My bff, Ramaine, and her mom, Dora, went with us. How nice was that? I got to see East Lansing for the very first time. It was a beautiful campus. I also got a feel for the road since I drove part of the way. The trip from Weirton to Michigan State was about 340 miles. It takes about five hours and forty-five minutes to get there. And this part will be important very soon.
After I graduated from high school and was given a car to use while I was in college on the weekends, I began hatching a plan. Of course, it was a stupid plan, because I was the one hatching it. I missed my Rick and wanted to see him. Sure, I saw him over Christmas, but we had no place to be by ourselves. My house was a zoo. So, I decided to drive from Fairmont State to East Lansing, Michigan in February. Like, when it was all wintry and snowing. Yeah, that’s what I will do, I thought. I will drive up there for Valentine’s Day. After all, I really missed him.
Well, I couldn’t tell my parents. My mom would have taken away my gas card and maybe even the car if she knew I was going to drive seven hours and twenty minutes all by my lonely. It was nice having a gas card. And no, I wasn’t spoiled. I drove a rusty little Toyota that I creatively named Rusty and talked to the little rust bucket like he was a real person.
So, we made plans for our big Valentine’s Day weekend. A weekend just the two of us…in his dorm room. I was eighteen and was ready to travel by myself. So, I packed my bag, filled my car up with gas, and Rusty and I set off on a great adventure. I called my mom first and told her I was sick and I was just going to stay in Fairmont for the weekend. I was a liar, so this came easily. My roommate, Paula, was going to cover for me if my mom called my dorm room while I was gone. Cell phones were not invented yet. Which would have been nice.
I woke up quite early and headed out of town. I was hoping to arrive at Rick’s door around 3pm. I drove a few hours and was not nervous for the solo drive. I was excited. Sure, it was the middle of February and they were calling for 100 inches of snow, but I was in love, dammit, and would trudge through any sucky weather event to get to my Spartan. I was also a loon for what I was about to do.
I was near Youngstown I believe and stopped to go to the bathroom. It wasn’t lunch time yet and I was ok with gas, but I knew that my bladder would need to visit a restroom every two hours at least. While I was getting a pop, a guy approached me.
“Excuse me, but are you by any chance going to Detroit or somewhere near there?”
I saw the guy get out of a car in front of me when I pulled in. He must be trying to hitchhike to Detroit. Like an idiot, I replied.
“I’m heading to East Lansing to see my boyfriend.” That’s what naive eighteen year old losers say.
“Can I have a ride?”
“Sure.”
And I didn’t think anything of it. Except that he did look a little like Ted Bundy. He could have been Ted Bundy. He could have been Jeffrey Dahmer. John Wayne Gacy. The Youngstown Strangler. The Freeway Fondler. The Highway Hacker. The Toyota Torturer….Uh Oh.
Loser potential murder victim
We traveled about an hour and I don’t for the life of me remember our conversation. He sat beside me, wearing a dark grey wool jacket. I didn’t ask why he was going to Detroit. I didn’t ask him why the hell he didn’t have a car. Maybe killer hitchhikers don’t use their own cars because, um they are killer hitchhikers. It finally dawned on me that I may have just made a really terrible mistake. So, the guy started to creep me out. Maybe because he sat with his hands in his pockets and his coat collar up around the back of his neck. Why the hell do you have your hands in your pockets, Ted? We are in a warm car.
Well, because he had handcuffs in there, of course.
My imagination started doing a number on me, and I realized that I had to get this guy out of my car. Now, in all honesty, I don’t think he did adamn thing wrong. He just wanted a ride to Detroit and didn’t have a car. But, I had and still have a wild imagination and it went wild like a jungle monkey on crack. (???)
Plus, I was hungry. I think he was in my car for about two hours and I saw a diner that was next door to a gas station. This is where I would lose him.
“I’m going to get something to eat. I’m pretty hungry.”
He just looked at me. And then I started really getting creeped out. He didn’t say “ok” or “Good, me too” or anything. So, that only meant one thing.
He was going to kill me after I ate my cheeseburger with ketchup, large fries and a Coke.
We went into the diner and the weirdest thing happened. He went off and sat in a booth all by himself. That’s exactly what a highway killer in a roadside diner would do. He wouldn’t sit with his victim. Right? So, there he sat, looking at me while I ate. Waiting for me to finish…my last meal. I took a drink of my Coke and realized something.
My parents thought I was sick, lying in my dorm room in Fairmont, West Virginia. I could see the headline now.
West Virginia Coed Found Dead Behind Diner With French Fries and a Coke
I could see my mother’s face right now, wagging her finger at me. “Don’t ever give rides to strangers, Vickie.”
I had to lose him.
I ate half of my food and then looked at my watch. I knew he was looking at me, waiting to either continue our journey, or to kill me. So, I put my actress hat on and went to work. I got up and went to the pay phone and put a couple coins in it, and dialed a make believe number. Ted Bundy aka The Youngstown Strangler was far enough away to not hear my make believe conversation. I hung up the phone and walked over to him.
“I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to drive you as far as East Lansing……..my boyfriend just broke up with me…………….I’m going back home.” And I started crying. I was crying because I was scared. And mainly because I was stupid. But, really because I was a fantastic lying actress. I went back to my table and had the nerve to finish eating. The guy got up and started asking other customers for a ride. He left with two young guys.
The funny part about all of this is that I could not have been on that phone for more than a minute. How the hell does your boyfriend break up with you that quickly? And would you really hang up so soon?
“Hi, Rick. I’m in Youngstown. I will be there in about 4 hours.”
“Go home. I am breaking up with you.”
“Ok. Bye.”
That guy had to know I was lying. Of course, it was months later when that finally dawned on me. But, I’m not done yet. I wish it ended there at the diner, but it doesn’t.
I stopped in Toledo to get gas. And of course, I had to pee. I went into the bathroom and when I came out, guess who I ran into?
That guy! Ok, just kidding. I scared myself while I was in the bathroom, thinking the guy would have been traveling the same route. What if he was at this same gas station? I didn’t want to come out of the bathroom.
Well, I finally made it to East Lansing and had a wonderful Valentine’s Day weekend with my boyfriend. I left Michigan a little later in the morning than I wanted to. I wanted to get back to Fairmont before dark. That wasn’t going to happen.
The drive back wasn’t so bad. It was snowing, but snow was much more preferable than traveling with a serial killer. Really, it was.
I hit the Pennsylvania line and the snow was coming down a bit harder. It was about 10pm when I saw a guy on the side of Interstate 79, at the exit ramp, hitchhiking.
I picked him up.
I really did.
He was about my age. He was drunk. His friends left a party without him. He was trying to get back to Waynesburg College. He was funny and talkative and wanted me to come back to Waynesburg soon so he could buy me a few drinks.
I even got off of the exit and drove him the mile to the campus.
After I got back to my dorm room, I realized that I was lucky that I didn’t get killed. Twice.
And years later, I thought I would finally fess up and tell my mom that I drove to Michigan to see Rick. I didn’t tell her about picking up not one, but two hitchhikers, but I did tell her about the drive.
“Vickie, I knew about that. I was wondering how long it would take you to tell me.”
“How did you know? Did someone tell you?” How the hell did she find out? I didn’t even tell my sister or brother for a long time.
“Are you that stupid?” Well, uh, yeah, I picked up two hitchhikers, Mom. What do you think?
“You used your gas card. Do you think your fairy godmother paid for your gasoline?”
It didn’t even dawn on me about using my gas card along the way from Fairmont to Michigan.
So, yeah, my fairy godmother.
I do think I may have had an angel with me on that trip, though.
Because what I did was stupid and irresponsible. (My kids read these posts. I have to write this.)
We all do stupid things. It’s just that mine are more pronounced because I share them. And, well, because mine are extra stupid. But, none of my little shenanigans can compare with what I did when I was in junior high. Oh, hell, I was probably in high school.
No, it wasn’t the time I heard a commercial about how peanut butter takes gum out of your hair and I promptly took gum out of my mouth and put it smack dab in the middle of my long hair. That was stupid, for sure.
No, it wasn’t the time I untied the meanest dog in the neighborhood because I felt sorry for him being on a short leash, sitting in the dust by his pathetic doghouse, and he promptly wrecked havoc on the little chldren playing in the street. Mad Max was on the loose. He bit countless children. Oops, my bad.
And no, it wasn’t the time when I wore fishnet hose with saddle shoes. I still cringe at that thought. Who the hell told me that that looked good? Because once I got to school, I sort of noticed that my style was in question.
No, it was the time I decided that I wanted to wear contact lenses. Well, I didn’t really want to wear them, like for eyesight. I wanted to put one in my eye just to see what it felt like.
There was a problem with that, as in the fact that I didn’t need glasses. My eyes were a perfect 20/20. I had no idea what the hell that meant, but obviously it was a gauge for the clear bright eyes and the blind as a bat people, like my younger sister. She wore coke bottle glasses. She also had a lazy eye. She was screwed. We all could tell when she was getting tired, because that one eye would start drifting over to the middle. Well, it drifted that way anyways. Hey, little sister, you’re veering to the left.
So, I didn’t need glasses. But, I wanted them. I thought people looked cool in glasses. I mean, Marilyn Monroe wore them.
I didn’t know why kids got made fun of for wearing them. Kids with braces were called “Brace Face” and kids with glasses were called, “Four Eyes.” I always thought that was mean. There were kids who would come to school, wearing their cat eye glasses, only to put them away in their case and squint their eyes at the board all damn day. Hell, I thought that looked stupid. “Four Eyes” sounded so much better than “Stupid Squinty Head.”
So, yeah, I used to want to wear glasses. I thought they looked neat.But, I wasn’t a fan of the cat eye glasses that my sister had. Why the hell would anyone want to wear cat eye glasses?
But, in 2012, I have a pair of cat eye reading glasses. I knew one day I would be wearing glasses sooner or later. I have about five pairs of glasses lying around my house. And the main pair is worn like a headband when they aren’t down on my nose.
So, this was the early seventies. Contact lenses were fairly new. I didn’t know anyone who had them during this time period. They had just come out. I knew that my sister would need them. Once her lazy eye stopped drifting over left of center. But, I was intrigued by contact lenses. I didn’t have the luxury of the internet to google information about them. But, I did listen to the radio. And that’s where I heard commericals about them.
Unfortunately, it was the same damn radio that told me to put gum in my hair. My friends and I would sit out on my front porch during the summer evenings and chat and listen to my portable radio. They used to have all kinds of radio spots. They’d have Hints from Heloise type help suggestions. And being curious, I listened to them all. The new ones about contact lenses really interested me. I wanted to try to put one on my eyeball.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. First of all, remember, I didn’t need glasses. Second of all, I didn’t know a soul who had those new fangled contact lenses. I would just have to improvise.
Oh, and improvise I did. What the hell was I thinking?
So, you know how little bags of candy are sold in stores? I am descriptive challenged, but I will try my best. My mom always had a bag of those God awful round pink chalky candies that smelled like Pepto Bismol. I think they were called Canada Mints. Ok, so, up at the top of the packages of many candy bags there is a punched hole of sorts that is used to hang the bags in a line. And sometimes that hole still has the “chad” attached.
Well, I found my contact lens. I saw that bag of my mom’s precious Canada Mints sitting on the coffee table, and the little round plastic circle was still hanging where it was supposed to be punched out. Again, like a hanging candy chad, but you know, circular.
So, I heard the commerical on the radio. I don’t remember who was with me, but I went inside, took the little plastic circle thingy and went into the bathroom. I turned on the light, stood in front of the mirror, and put the damn thing on my eyeball.
What the hell was I thinking?
Uh oh.
Not good.
Not good at all.
The damn thing felt like it was an inch thick. I couldn’t see anything out of my eye. It was immediately hurting. My eye started watering and that’s when I started the dance.
The “Oh shit, get this damn thing out of my eye” dance. I had no idea how the hell to get this little son of a bitch off of my eyeball. I really screwed up this time. I was going to lose my eye, I was sure. I would have to wear a patch and be called “Patch” for the rest of my life. I would have to learn to say, “Arrrgh.” I was going to be a God damn pirate. Notice how my cursing has increased dramatically. Now was the time to unleash all the curse words I had ever heard. One I did not want to yell, but did when I could not get the little plastic circle thingy out of my pretty blue grey eye.
“MOM!!!”
Yeah, it was that serious.
Well, my mom finally got the thing off of my eyeball after yelling at me to quit dancing around. Now that I think about it, I sort of looked like Stewart on Mad Tv. I flailed around just like him.
I ended up scratching my eye. It hurt like hell. In the end, I hoped that that would be the most stupid thing that I would ever attempt. I wasn’t going to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel like I had planned for my adulthood. I would no longer plan on hitchhiking just to say that I did it. And I wasn’t going to untie Mad Max, killer German shephard any more. I was done doing stupid stuff.
Oh, young Vickie, you didn’t learn your lesson, did you?
When I was a child, I was not a fan of Daylight Savings Time. It was not fair that I lost an hour. I didn’t care if they gave it back to me in the fall, it just pissed me off. The only thing that was good about it was the thought of missing church. I never wanted to go to church, so I was happy that we had to do the clock changing on a Saturday night. My mom was suspicious after the second year in a row that we somehow slept in.
“Vickie, wake up. Did you move the clocks back?……………..Nooooo, back…………..I changed them before I went to bed. I remember moving them forward an hour……..And now I am asking you, did you change the clocks?” I thought long and hard to come up with a perfect answer.
“No, I did NOT change the clocks.”
It’s all about semantics. I didn’t lie. I did not change the clocks. They were still the ugly clocks we have always used. I did, however, change the times on the same clocks. And she didn’t ask that, now did she? I only did it one time, however. I had no idea who did it after that.
Well, I grew up to hate Daylight Savings Time…with a passion. I wrote two posts about the subject. Hello, Circadian Dysrhythmia, that I wrote November 2010, when it was time to fall back, and then Spring Forward into the River, which I wrote last spring. So, I make it a point to let everyone know how much I hate Daylight Savings Time.
Now, I realize that Benjy has been gone for a long time now, but he invented Daylight Savings Time to save on candle wear and tear. Ok, I can understand. But, I can’t understand it in the year 2012. I am tired, mean, sad, shaky, dizzy-blondish, and dragging for two weeks. Yeah, two. It takes me awhile.
My alarm clock on my nightstand decided to spring forward…last week….on a Wednesday. Yeah. I woke up, took my shower, went downstairs and sat down in front of my computer, only to see that it was 5:30. My clock upstairs read 6:30. Oh, how I cursed. Nice. And on a Wednesday. It did it to me in the fall. I was an hour late then. I looked pretty that day.
So, head over to my two posts that I wrote on the subject and you will see that I just go on and on about the same thing.
Maybe some day someone will listen and change it back for me.
Image via Wikipedia
Because there is nothing worse than a cranky, sleep deprived elementary school teacher. Well, unless you are one of her students.
I was watching an old episode of Friends, where Joey and Chandler pee on Monica’s foot after she was stung by a jelly fish. I was wondering who in the hell thought of that first. I mean, how does that even come about? I was stung by a jelly fish when I was in my twenties, and the lifeguard told me to put some wet sand on it. He never offered to pee on my leg. I would have enjoyed being able to tell that story.
So, I started thinking about old wive’s tales, homemade remedies, and what the experts have to say about them. Maybe you may even learn a thing or two the next time some guy wants to pee on your jellyfish sting.
A Vacation Ruiner
1. Pee on a jellyfish sting- Stop right there! Urine has never been proven to help in jellyfish stings. So, that drunk kid at spring break who told you he is in medical school and that he should pee on your sting was a big, fat liar. And perhaps an exhibitionist. In fact, vinegar is the best first treatment for a jellyfish sting. The people in Australia are way ahead of the world. Their beaches are lined with vinegar stands. Other treatments that also work are rubbing alcohol, unseasoned meat tenderizer, baking soda, household ammonia, and lemon or lime juice. So, the next time you head to a beach, take some vinegar with you. If you don’t get stung, you can always make a salad.
2. Butter on a Burn- This is a remedy that my mom used on us all of the time. Any time we had a burn, she would reach for the butter. Which I have a real problem with now, because the loon never put the butter in the refrigerator. She left the butter out on the stove, hiding under a clear glass butter dome. So, not only was she putting butter on my burned hand, she was putting potentially rancid, yucky, bacteria laced butter on my burn. Oh sure, I know many of you have eaten counter butter and you are still alive and Grandma is now 105 and has never been sick a day in her life and has kept butter out on her counter, but that’s not what I am supposed to be talking about anywho.
photo via wikipedia
I am sure that the thinking years ago is that butter may act like a salve and help soothe the burning. But, butter on a burn can actually trap heat. And that is a no-no. Thanks, Mom. I have read that if you have to use something, honey may be of some interest. But, don’t hold me to it.
3. Sore throats- Sore throats suck. You have to swallow, and the thought of the impending pain is just sad, especially when a child is involved and is looking at you for help. I was always told to gargle with warm salt water when you had a sore throat. My ex-husband swore by it. In the past year, my bff turned me to apple cider vinegar. Ahhh, I love it. Does it work? Yes, it does. I read though that you should not give it to a child younger than two years of age.
Damn sore throat. I can’t wear my pearls.
For gargling: You’ll need 1 teaspoon salt, 1/2 cup cider vinegar, and 1 cup warm water. Dissolve the salt in the vinegar, then mix in the water. Gargle every 15 minutes as necessary. Works for me.
4. Hydrogen Peroxide and Rubbing Alcohol- My mom is such a liar. When I would wreck my bicycle, my mom would basically pour peroxide into my wound. “Watch, Vickie. The bubbling means it is killing the germs.” Wrong, child killer. Now, this is where the experts disagree. Some say that you should put alcohol on the wound to use as an antiseptic. Others yell, “Oh, hell no!”
Some dermatologists believe that the bubbling from the chemical reaction that occurs when peroxide comes in contact with the skin isn’t only cleaning the wound, it’s also killing healthy cells. When there’s a cut, they believe you should not use iodine, peroxide, or alcohol. Yikes. So, that’s why my knees looked like hell. And guess why it stings when alcohol is applied to a cut? Well, because it’s wiping out tissue that is healthy. I did not know this. I watched my son’s cat last Christmas and the damn thing bit me. I used peroxide, thinking that damn bubbling would be killing the germs and bacteria. All hell broke loose and I ended up taking antibiotics and it really got nasty. Cat bites can be dangerous. Stupid cat.
5. Well hell, when in doubt, just use some whiskey- I used to work as a dental assistant in a previous life, and you just wouldn’t believe the people that would come in with a toothache, touting the virtues of whiskey applied on their gums or hurting tooth. They swore that it worked. I was hoping that someone drove them to their appointment, as I swear some of them were applying the whiskey every hour or so. Now, my grandmother had a recipe for rheumatism that called for whiskey. You go, Grandma! I still have her recipe, written in that shaky, chicken scratch penmanship that only grandmothers could create. It reminds me of Granny on The Beverly Hillbillies.
How about a hot toddy? Feeling sick and want to go to sleep? Some people swear by drinking a hot toddy before bed time. Here’s one recipe.
1/4 cup whiskey, 1/4 cup honey, 1/4 cup of fresh lemon juice. Microwave until it is hot, sip it and then go to bed.
My mom gave us a little bit of whiskey when we had a cough. I’m thinking she wanted to knock us out so we wouldn’t be up all night, which would mean she would be up all night. She also told me that she used a little whiskey on her finger and would rub it on our gums when we were teething. I’m surprised none of the Mendenhall kids are attending AA meetings.
Momma, whiskey is good
6 Aspirin on a tooth - Not tonight. I have a toothache. I imagine a very lazy person decided to just put an aspirin on his tooth or right on his gum to ease the pain. So, does that mean if you have a headache, you should just put a pill on your head? Stupid. Aspirin is very acidic and it can leave a little round imprint on your gum if you leave it on there long enough. This just makes no sense and I can not find any research that says otherwise.
7. Kerosene for head lice- Really? Dear God.- I can’t even imagine, but I bet I know how this started. It probably went something like this:
“Ethel! Ralph has done come home with lice. We need to kill them little buggers…(pause, pause, thinking, thinking…) I know! Let’s kill them with kerosene. It will drown them.”
And that’s how another old wive’s tale started. There were some kids when I was little that had to sit with kerosene on their head while their mother combed out the nits. Here’s my thought. When I was little, I was a shuffling, sock wearing, static electric shocker kid. What if I came shuffling through while ole Ralphie was getting a kerosene shampoo. If I shocked him, would his head ignite? Just wondering. But, back in the sixties, that’s the remedy was used. In 2012, I just read where mayonaisse is a solution to head lice. Wouldn’t that just be like feeding them? There would be big lice sitting on your head.
Ew
8. Rubbing a potato on a wart- Ok, wart people, I have read that this works from numerous articles. When you rub a potato to the wart, the wart will turn black and fall off. The chemical compound in the potato is supposed to fight the wart. But, slice the potato and rub the wart. Some people peel the skin off of the potato, and tape the skin to the wart every night at bedtime. I’m not warty, but I would try it.
9.Splinter remover- Elmer’s glue..Say what? Dear God, this would have solved so much anguish. My daughter would lose her mind every time she had a splinter. Why didn’t someone tell me this fifteen years ago. Supposedly, you just apply Elmer’s Glue on top of the splinter. Let it dry. When you peel the glue off, the splinter is supposed to come off with it. Ta-da! Wow, I almost want to get a splinter to see if this really works.
10. Oatmeal for Arthritis-Quaker Oats for fast pain relief. I guess you can eat breakfast and then put the leftovers on your hands. “Mix 2 cups of Quaker Oats and 1 cup of water in a bowl and warm in the microwave for 1 minute, cool slightly, and apply the mixture to your hands for soothing relief from arthritis pain.” Well, people take oatmeal baths to help with poison ivy, so I mean, who knows? This is supposed to work.
11. Eye puffiness- Preparation H. Let’s get to the bottom of this one… (hahahaha) I just read about ten articles about this, and it doesn’t work. I really think someone reached for the wrong ointment once upon a time and next thing you know, someone said it worked for them. But, the fact of the matter is, it isn’t supposed to work at all. But, hey, if your eyes start bulging out a bit, it may be something you should try. Just sayin.
12. Vicks Vapor Rub- Ahhhh. I love my Vicks Vapor Rub. Imagine my happiness when I read that if you have a bad cold with congestion, and you can not sleep, rub Vicks Vapor Rub on your feet, don some socks, and go to bed. You will wake up after a great night sleep, feeling better. I personally know people who have tried this and they have said that it works. Why wouldn’t it? Vicks Vapor Rub rocks!
photo via pinterest
So, there you have it. In the end, Mother knows best. Until years later, when you find out the fruitcake almost killed you. Old wive’s tales will always be around. People will always swear that something ridiculous worked magic for them. And if it works, who are we to judge?
Well, except for the smelly kerosene boy. I’d have to slap his mom.
Technology has come a long way since the sixties. We now have personal computers, cell phones, and video games. Our cell phones are also personal computers and video games. Our personal computers are also movie theaters and music venues. We have many choices. Back in the sixties, we had a tape recorder.
Oh, my, what a newly purchased tape recorder can do for a kid. A tape recorder, also known as a cassette tape, or compact cassette, was originally designed for dictation. Secretaries all over the world were now able to just push a button instead of sitting across from their boss, steno book and pencil in hand, furiously writing in shorthand. Life was good.
photos via wikipedia
Philips invented the compact audio cassette in 1962, and the first compact cassette, creatively called Compact Cassette, was available for purchase. By 1966, over 250,000 recorders had been sold in the U.S. alone. And guess who had one of them? That’s right, the Mendenhall family.
Now, you have to understand why I was salivating. We really didn’t have much in the way of new fangled technology of any kind. Pong wasn’t even invented yet for use on our television sets. I don’t know if we even shortened the word television to T.V. yet. Our telephones had cords on them, attached to the wall. Oh, yes, I was salivating.
I quickly learned how to use our new Compact Cassette. I believe I was about ten years old at the time. Fourth grade was a memorable time, and now, Dear God, I had a tape recorder.
The excitement was just too much. My mom told me that I could play with it the next day, so I don’t think she was too happy that I woke her up so early.
“Mom, can I use the cassette recorder?”
“Vickie, it’s 6:00 in the morning. Go back to bed.”
Shit.
“Mom, can I use the cassette recorder now?”
“Vickie, stop it. It’s only 6:30.”
Stupid mom. Birds were up. I heard them chirping. Mom’s were supposed to be up early.
“Hey, Dad, can I use the cassette recorder? It’s 7:00.”
“Sure.”
Good Dad. Bad Mom.I was already dressed and ready. I don’t know why I had shoes on, but maybe I would run outside and let the world know that I recorded a message. I ran into the kitchen.There was a little plastic tri-pod that the microphone would sit on. I positioned it close to me. I remember that I was a nervous wreck I put the cassette in the player, and hit the record button. My first recording was thought provoking and highly imaginative.
“Testing. Testing, 1-2-3″…..giggle giggle giggle. Voila!! History was made.
I couldn’t wait to replay it and listen to my voice. I had never heard myself talk before. I looked at my mom, who was fumbling with the coffee pot and mumbling something about killing me.
“That doesn’t sound like me.” I sounded like a little girl. I mean, I was a little girl. I guess I wanted to sound, well, like a newscaster.
“That sounds exactly like you.” my mom replied. She lit her first of 88 cigarettes for the day. She sat in her housecoat at the table, waiting for her coffee to percolate. She wanted to try recording her voice. That pissed me off. I mean, shouldn’t she be in bed?
So, the rest of the Mendenhall family had to go and use MY cassette tape recorder for most of the morning. I went into the living room and watched Casper the Friendly Ghost on the television set. Actually, I have no idea what the hell I watched, but I did watch a cartoon, because our cartoons rocked back then.
Well, the unimaginative family members had their morning of fun with the newly purchased Cassette Recorder and went about their Saturday morning.business. I sat quietly, like a buzzard waiting for a groundhog to get hit by a car. I had plans for this tape recorder.
Oh, the fun I had. My first item on my tape recording agenda was to tape record sounds. I turned on the recorder and rang the doorbell. I slammed a door. I followed the dog around, trying to get him to bark. He wanted no part of me. I called my bff Ramaine and asked her to call me back so I could tape the telephone ringing. I taped anything and everything that I could make a sound out of . What a great weekend.
I had my bff, Ramaine, walk up later in the day. She was even more creative than I was. She would think of something we can use with the newly purchased Cassette Recorder. I do not remember how this was decided, but the next thing you know, we were singing the definition of ‘lima bean” into the tape recorder. I am sure no one else has ever done that before. Ever. We were highly imaginative. We then opened the dictionary again, pointing to a word and singing that definition, too. We laughed and laughed at our choice of leisure activity. She could sing. I, on the other hand, sounded like a drugged up back-up singer for Janis Joplin. Fun time with my bff.
Saturday evening was spy time. I put the recorder beside the couch. I realized that one side of the tape was only 30 minutes long, so I had to think of a way to push the button so my parents wouldn’t see me doing it. I was going to tape record things my parents talk about after we went to bed. What fun!
I waited until my mom went into the kitchen and talked loudly while playing with my dog so my dad wouldn’t hear me press the button. Success! I went to bed and could hardly sleep. I was so excited to spy on my parents. I began thinking bigger, like taping my teacher while we were at lunch. That may have been tricky, as we didn’t have back packs back then.
I woke up on Sunday morning, and ran to the living room. It was 6:00, so I was sure that the fam was still asleep. I re-wound the tape and waited, impatiently. This was going to be so much fun. I loved spying. I hit the play button. It was my mom’s voice. This was fantastic!!
“Vickie, the next time you try to tape record someone without letting them know about it, it would be a good idea to sneak back in the room and turn it off before it makes a loud noise turning itself off……You will have plenty of time trying to figure out how to do this while you are in your room. You are grounded.”
Shit.
Well, all in all, I had a blast with our newly purchased Cassette Recorder. I interviewed neighbors and friends, taped the sounds of grass cutting, and the Mr. Softie truck making his rounds through the neighborhood. I taped my sister having a temper tantrum. Life was good.
It’s the little things in life that make such a big memory.
And that’s one for the record books…or in this case, tape recorder.
The old saying, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, certainly holds true when it comes to imitating others. And you know that each one of us is guilty of imitating someone at least once in our lifetime. Or once a day, depending on what colorful people are nearby. Rather it be a friend, a boss, or a celebrity, we have somehow managed to mangle their voice, posture, or gestures for the amusement of others. It is just who we are. Some of us are pretty good at it. Some of us should probably not do it again. I am in the first group. Right up there with Rich Little. Really.
Rich Little, nicknamed “The Man of a Thousand Voices,” was and still is one of the greatest impersonators ever. He could imitate celebrities, such as Johnny Carson, Jack Benny, and my favorite, Richard Nixon. He had a vast repertoire of voices, and I was in awe of his talent. I was just a kid, but I tried it out myself. I stood in front of the mirror, trying to get the look and the phrase just so. I remember sitting in front of the tv, watching a Jerry Lewis movie, with my brother. The next thing you know, David IS Jerry Lewis. We were little and goofy, but it was one of the first times I remember imitating someone. I do remember David and I trying our best, “Whack-a-doo, Whack-a-doo” in our best Jerry Lewis voice. We sucked. But, boy did we have fun. You have no idea how excited I was to find this clip. This brings back such great memories of antics with my brother. Weird, I know, but that’s how we rolled.
Now, you have to understand that as a child of the sixties, we only had three television stations, so we had limited viewing options. We could imitate Lawrence Welk, Ed Sullivan, or Barney Fife on the Andy Griffith Show, and in 1965, we finally got Gomer Pyle. Everyone was imitating Gomer.
“Shazam…….Shame Shame Shame……….Surprise Surprise Surprise…………Golly.” Soon everyone was doing the Gomer. Then came Tarzan and Jane movies and everyone tried their best Tarzan yell. Carol Burnett even imitated it often on her own show.
Then came Johnny Carson, who was a wonderful impersonator. This clip of him impersonating President Ronald Reagan was hysterical.
I don’t get the impersonators of today. I guess there is a difference between an impersonator and an impressionist. I don’t want to go to a whole show with someone who is pretending to be Marilyn Monroe or Abe Lincoln. I am not talking about that. I’m talking about people who are on stage and can do many impressions. I did watch a great Michael Jackson impersonator at a resort in Cancun, Mexico, last summer. He was awesome, but it was free, part of the wonderful all-inclusive that I came to love. But, I wouldn’t have gone if I had to pay for it.
Every summer the little town that I just moved away from had a festival and hired an Elvis impersonator as one of the stage events. You would have thought that Elvis never left the building and was alive and well, gyrating to his sounds to the many swooning white haired women in the audience. I sat on my front porch, chuckling at the madness. Um, that is not really Elvis on stage, people.
Now, I do think I that Tina Fey did an awesome job impersonating Sarah Palin. Many of the Saturday Night Live actors throughout the years have mocked famous people. Chevy Chase, for example, did a great job impersonating former President Gerald Ford. Ford was a clumsy man, and Chevy Chase did a great job tripping and falling. Dana Carvey and Darrel Hammond were wonderful with their impressions of George Bush 1 and 2.
So, impressions are all around us. There is even one who impersonated a cat.
Penn or Teller doing Mr. Boots, the Cat- I get the two guys mixed up. The shorter, quiet guy was on an episode of Dharma and Greg years ago. This has got to be one of the funniest espisodes that I have seen on tv. I couldn’t quit laughing the first time I watched it.Great impersonation of a non human.
Ok, so that takes care of the famous impersonators. Normal, every day people think that they are great impersonators too. My son, for example, can do an awesome Kermit the Frog. He used to be able to do Mrs. Doubtfire when he was younger. He also tried to do Bill Clinton, but that ended up sounding like Mrs. Doubtfire.My ex thought he could do Tom Brokaw, but he just sucked. That’s why the clip of Dana Carvey doing Tom Brokaw when Gerald Ford dies is so hysterical.
But, throughout my life, I have impersonated many a celebrity. I entertained my sorority sisters and patrons at bars with my uncany impressionistic talent. Sure, maybe there were a few times that I didn’t actually remember doing an impression. Case in point. I performed my routine in Ocean City Maryland in 1977 and wasn’t even aware of it. I was lying on the beach, minding my own spring break business, when friends that we met up with the night before, laid their towels out next to ours.
“Vickie, you were so funny last night. Sing “Where the Boys Are again.”
Um, what? Say what? Looks like Little Vickie had more than three beers the night before.I guess I did all of my impressions with a high success rate. It helps when there are drunks in the house.
Here are some of the people that I thought I could imitate.
1. Rhoda Penmark-Ok, most of you have no idea who I am talking about. Rhoda Penmark was a character in the movie, “The Bad Seed.” I loved that role and watched the movie to the point where I knew all of her lines. She was an evil little girl, and I thought I had her down pat. Problem was, only my family and closest friends really knew who she was. It was a great movie.
”You better give me those shoes. They’re mine! Give them back to me!” Oh, yeah, I sound just like her.
2.. Paul Lynde- Ah, Paul Lynde, my favorite impression person. I loved Paul Lynde. He was funny as Uncle Arthur on Bewitched and hysterical on Hollywood Squares.He had an unforgetable voice. And his laugh was ornery. I sounded just like him. Of course, I only had one line I could repeat like him.
“You think it’s easy?” But, it was his laugh that I could do. I was good. Really.
3. Connie Francis’s “Where the Boys Are”- I can’t sing for the life of me, but I can belt out “Where the Boys Are,” and I guarantee I sounded just like her. Oh, I would oblige anyone anytime the first line of her hit song. I was Connie. The song starts at around 1:32.
“Where the boys are, someone waits for me.” Ta-da.
4. The Swedish Chef-I love the Muppets and could do a great Swedish Chef imitation when my kids were little. I entertained them so.
5.. The Mayor of Munchkinland-Ok, I’m not kidding now. I WAS the mayor of Munchkinland in our sorority rush events. I can talk munchkin like no one else. Really. I’m that good.You know how the munchkins sounded.
6.. Cousin Itt on the Addams Family- I know you are quite envious of my talent up to now, but my Cousin Itt impression was Dead on. I mean it.
I know what you are thinking. Yeah, I am quite talented. Thank you. I can also do impressions of Lisa Douglass on Green Acres, Peter Lorre’s “Yes, master,” Snoopy in Pain (a drunk favorite), E.T. phoning home, and I really should have tried out for the Afflac duck.
So, think about it the next time you make fun of your boss, or mock your mother-in-law. You are just being creative. It’s our nature to imitate.
After all, that’s how we got cubic zirconium rings instead of the real thing. Can’t really tell them apart, now can we?
One of the best games of my youth, Hopscotch, involved just rocks and a piece of chalk. The first time I ever played the game, I scoured the neighborhood for the best rock to use. Nobody had told me the first time that I played that it was important to have a flat rock. I showed up with a piece of gravel. Well, hell, I didn’t know. Most kids nowadays have it easy. A lot of playgrounds have the hopscotch board painted on the surface. Children use little bean bags or coins for the markers.
Well, when I was young (I’ve always wanted to say that), we didn’t use chalk half of the time. We used the edge of a sandstone rock to draw our pattern. We would then use a flat rock as a marker. To be honest, we never thought about using coins. It just never crossed our minds.We were tickled half to death if someone just happened to have a piece of chalk with them. Chalk was a luxury. I would have stolen a piece of chalk from school, but the nuns would have hammered my knuckles with a ruler and then let me know that chalk stealers always go to hell.
For those of you who have never played the game, Hopscotch is played on a flat surface, such as asphalt or a sidewalk. We used to play on my driveway. We had a great double driveway. You have to draw a pattern with a piece of chalk. There are many patterns to draw, and I think the one we used looked a little like this:
The object of the game is to win. How bout that? The rules are hard to explain, but I shall try my best. We will use my bff Ramaine as player1 and I will be player 2.
Ramaine would stand behind the starting line to toss her marker in square 1. She would then hop over square 1 and land with one foot in square 2 and one foot in square 3. She then continues hopping to the home square, which is like a safe place to stand and turn around, and then she would hop back again. Ramaine would pause in squares 2 and 3 to pick up the marker, hop in square 1, and then out. Then she continues by tossing the stone in square 2 and so on and so on. All hopping is done on one foot unless the hopscotch design is such that two squares are side-by-side. You must always hop over any square where a maker has been placed.
Tossing your rock into the first square was always quite easy, but I basically sucked after that. For example. if it was my turn to throw it in square #7, and it landed in #8, my turn would be over. And again, since I sucked at Hopscotch, I spent a lot of time sitting on the sidelines, looking at my rock.
So, while writing this post, I took a wrong turn and kept thinking about how much time I spent watching my friends play while I, Hopscotch loser, sat and waited for my next turn. I would most certainly toss my rock right on a line (which is a no-no),and once again, be sitting on the sidelines. So,I was wondering if this is what people sitting on a curb are waiting for.
Waiting their turn to play Hopscotch
Hopscotch losers at a Hopscotch parade of winners
Some mother brought these hopscotch losers cupcakes.
So, then I really got to think that perhaps, perhaps Hopscotch is actually a drinking game that somehow evolved into a children’s game over the years. So, I set out to do some research. What I found was startling.
Hopscotch was actually invented during Easter in Scotland in 1799. Drunk party-goers, bored with playing croquet, drew numbers on a tennis court surface and tossed rocks to see if they could land on the numbers. If they hit the numbers, they didn’t have to drink their scotch. If they missed, they had to take a drink, and hop like a rabbit, (you know, because it was Easter). Someone decided that there should be a border around the numbers, and Voila! Hopscotch was born.
Drunks invented Hop Scotch
Ok, so I lied. But, it could have happened that way.
All in all, Hopscotch was a great childhood game. I may not have been a great rock tosser, but I had fun, and isn’t that what really counts? I hope to play it again one day.
This time I will be drunk….and old. But young at heart.
Put down your purse, Vickie. No one is going to steal it.
I probably wasn’t much fun to play with when I was little. As soon as someone mentioned a game that had any kind of spinning involved, I was out. I had puked enough for all the kids in the neighborhood. I was already called “Bluey” in the winter because my lips would turn a bright bluish purple and “Picky Vickie” throughout the year because I wouldn’t try to eat anything that had “stuff” in it, like potato salad, or mixed together, like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Pukey” was next on the agenda, I was sure, and I wanted no part of it.
I don’t know what the hell it is with kids and spinning. Are we all gluttons for punishment?
Blind Man’s Bluff
I think the first game I played with other kids in the neighborhood that had anything to do with spinning was Blind Man’s Bluff. The rules sounded easy enough. According to Wikipedia:
“Blind man’s bluff is played in a spacious area, such as outdoors or in a large room, in which one player, designated as “It”, is blindfolded and gropes around attempting to touch the other players without being able to see them, while the other players scatter and try to avoid the person who is “it”, hiding in plain sight and sometimes teasing them to make them change direction.”
Ok, that sounded easy enough. Two things were missing from the instructions, however. One, was that Blind Man’s Bluff should be played in an area free of dangerous obstructions, or like, um, stairs, so that the “It” player will not die or obtain a serious head injury. Secondly, who the hell said the “It” player had to be spun around before they went off groping at people? I immediately knew that I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the first one to run into the fireplace hearth or be the one puking because of the spinning. But, sometimes life just isn’t fair for the spin challenged. The first person found me huddled in a corner, cowering and trying to remain oh so quiet. Dammit. I cried foul, as I am sure the person could see below the scarf. I figured out that if you had a big nose, you could cheat. People with big noses always have advantages in this world.
So, Lori, the neighborhood Nazi girl, put the scarf around my eyes. We were playing in her basement, so we had to let her be in charge like she always was. She tied it tight to make sure I couldn’t cheat. She knew I would cheat in a heart beat, given the chance. I remember the scarf being slightly damp. So, I was ready to puke because I knew that meant sweat. Lori lived across the street and she knew all about my spinning “problems.” So, the little bitch spun me hard. Her hands were firm and her method determined. Determined to make the little skinny girl with blue lips puke. After she got done spinning me, I just sat down and threw up on on an area rug. Ta-da. End of Blind Man’s Bluff for Vickie. I staggered home. I think I took the blind fold off first.
I’m thinking that Blind Man’s Bluff led to orgies when played by the older crowd.
The Playground Merry-Go-Round-and Round-and Round
I hate playground equipment. I really do. As an elementary teacher, I watch kids when I am on playground duty. First of all, yes, I do stand outside with fifty-five year old blue lips. That’s with me for life. I am not fond of the cold. But, I watch these sweet children turn into brainless zombies on speed, running amok to and fro each piece of equipment. They climb up slides instead of sliding down them. They run behind people swinging, like chipmunks playing “Suicide” on our country roads. Chipmunks decide in the middle of the road which way they want to zig. Too late, Theodore. Anyways, school children also try to kill their peers on the see-saws. Side note: How the hell do children know what “cherry bumps” even are?
“Ms. Mendenhall, Ralph jumped off of the see saw on purpose and gave me a cherry bump.” I just stared at her. Really? I chuckled at the thought of perhaps sending her to the principal to tell the story of Ralphie, the cherry bumper.
Luckily, our playground doesn’t have the Merry-Go-Round aka The Ride of Misery like we had when we were little. I’m not even sure if it was at our neighborhood playground, but I avoided it somewhere. It was the worst playground apparatus known to man…and pukey little girls.
You know there is vomit on there somewhere
So, the kids would hop on and the strongest child would run on the outside, pushing around and around and then jump on himself. Once in a while some older jack ass would stand there, spinning and spinning despite the pleas of the younger, sickened children. Hahahhahaha, laughed the older kid. Those bully kids back then are the probably the same ones wearing black and white stripes today. Or they are car salesmen. But,I would never go near that damn ride after the first time I was stuck on it….. And puked on it. Ew. I just left, hoping that one day it would rain.
You know this didn’t last long. Dear God, here come the flying wires. Oh, look, one has impaled you.
The Rotor- Kennywood Park
The Rotor was a crazy ride at Kennywood Park, outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We used to go to Kennywood about once a year when I was little. It’s hard to describe the Rotor, but I shall try. Picture a barrel. Or the inside of a washing machine. Or something like that. People would enter the Rotor and stand against the wall, with the heels of their feet against the wall. I think we had to take our shoes off as we entered the ride. Did I say, “we?” I crack myself up. The Rotor had an observation deck around the top, so those like myself, could watch.
The ride would start rotating uprights at 33 revoulutions per minute. Faster, faster, faster. (This is where I would puke just from watching the people spinning.) The rotation would create a centripetal force and then when it was at full speed, the floor would drop down. Like drop down. Everyone was stuck like Velcro to the sides of the spinning barrel. Sick.
I had to finally try it when I was with my boyfriend. Oh, the things you do for love. I was so scared, because those who puke on the ride get to share it, as the splatter would smack up against the wall. I can only imagine the puke on the back of peoples’ shirts. You know those carnival people probably didn’t clean the walls too well. So, I made sure I hadn’t eaten, and went in and although I was sick for the rest of the Kennywood day, I did not throw up. What what one does for love.
There were several Rotors around the country, probably called other names. All American rotors had to be dismantled or modified after the “incident.” Yikes. In 2000, two tweens were injured when their feet were caught between the moving wall and the floor.One suffered broken bones and they were both hospitalized.
Ugh..I feel sick after watching that.
The Basement Swivel Chair
I wonder if my bff Ramaine remembers this. We used to hang out in my basement. It was a long room with a bar on one end, and a ping pong table on the other end. In the middle was furniture, including two snazzy swivel chairs just like the one in this picture:
This chair looks innocent enough, but is a vehicle of death
Let’s just say that it is not a good idea to put a bunch of neighborhood kids in the basement unsupervised. My mom would stay upstairs, smoking her Salem cigarettes and reading the National Enquirer. Meanwhile, we had a carnival going on downstairs. Ramaine sat in one of the swivel chairs, sitting cross legged on the chair. Sometimes we would pretend we were going into outer space. Oh, we were imaginative. We would then spin the occupant in the chair around and around and around. It would go pretty damn fast.But, alas, there is nothing imaginative about a possible concussion.The swivel chair tipped over and so did Ramaine. She hit her head on the floor, which I think was painted concrete. She immediately said that her head hurt, so we ran upstairs to get my mom.
She checked on Ramaine, and then ran to call her mom. On the way out of the rec room she told us-
“What ever you do, don’t let her go to sleep. She may never wake up again.”
Really? You said that to a child. Of course she was now going to be sleepy. That’s what kids do.
What an idiot. But, at the time, I thought my bff was going to drift off to sleep and never be able to spin in the chair ever again. I was scared for my partner in crime.
“ Don’t go to sleep, Ramaine”…I wanted to cry.
Well, she was ok, and I don’t remember if she had a concussion or not, but we went back to spinning that chair. I never sat in the chair, of course, as I knew my limitations and my friends accepted me for the puking freak that I was.
Sit’n Spin
Fast forward many years. When my children were young, they informed me that they wanted a Sit’n Spin. Great. So, they are manufacturing a personal use piece of playground apparatus. Just what I need. So, being the great mother that I was, I bought them this nauseating toy.
My least favorite purchase, other than maybe Kotex
Go ahead and puke. You’re not my kid.
Recycling the Sit’n Spin into a turn table. Good job, Pinterest lady.
In the end, there are thousands of things that spin. I will name them all:
yo yo, tops, pinwheel, a fan, hula hoop, frisbee, anything with wheels, including a ferris wheel, whirlygigs
silver maple tree helicopter whirlygigs, a basketball can spin, a record on a record player, a tornado, propellers, pottery thingy,and clothes in a washing machine. I have volunteers come up in my fourth grade class and act out the sun, moon, and earth and have them spin around while they are revolving around the sun. Sure, they get dizzy. They want to get dizzy. Goofy kids.
There was one particular spinning “toy” that did not make me dizzy:
Spin the Bottle
Spin the Bottle, the Older Crowd. Um, ok....ew
After all these years, they still love to get dizzy.
The interwebs are such a rich source for comedic gold. You could easily laugh away days thanks to the creativity of others. Of course the difficulty is finding these gems. Often it’s pure luck. You stumble across a video or a written piece which makes the coffee shoot right out of your nose. Well, I’m here today to save you the trouble of wading through the muck.
While I am working on my next blog post, please read this hysterical post from John at Trask Avenue. It cracked me up! I will call him my first guest blogger. :) Just click on any of the pictures or the link at the top to go to his blog. It will make you laugh.
I feel sorry for the children of today. Really, I do. They have missed out on some many great things that we baby boomers experienced in the late fifties and sixties. Like poking people in the eyes ala The Three Stooges. Like counting how many times the Coyote SHOULD have died in those wonderful Road Runner cartoons. And then there are Colorforms.
Photos via ebay seller
Oh, I’m very aware that Colorforms are still around. They will celebrate their 61st birthday this summer. They were re-releasing their Michael Jackson Dress Up set for their big 60 celebration. Um, okay…..
I remember when my mom bought my very first colorform set. I am sure it was hard to find something a hyperactive chichuahua of a child would play with for more than 30 seconds. I am pretty sure it just had geometric shapes to move around. I remember smelling the thin vinyl. Could one actually get high sniffing Colorforms? I don’t think so, but they did have a smell to them. But, I took to them like a floundering flopping fish takes to water. I liked them. I remember the following Colorforms. I loved this one.
Of course, who would have known that a hyperactive child would also be a bit OCD? After playing with Colorforms, it took me forever to put the pieces back where they belonged.
“Vickie, it’s bath time….put that away now……………………………………….Come on, Vickie…………………………..Vickie…………………..”
Well, I just couldn’t put the pieces in a pile and just walk away. They had a place for each piece, dammit. And I had to put them back where I found them. Afterall, that’s what my mom always preached.
“Is that where you found it, Vickie? Put them back where you found them.”
So, it’s my mother’s fault that I was OCD with the Colorform pieces. I would freak out if I opened up a Colorform box and saw pieces lying around like the first picture that I posted. Let’s take a look at that one again. I would have slapped someone. Dear God, what the hell is wrong with you? The only other person in my house who could have done such a thing would have been my sister, Cheryl.
This makes me uneasy even today. My palms are getting sweaty. The pieces need to go right on the line. I mean, right on the line. Anything else was just wrong. I would sit there, taking about three or four turns to get it just right.
“Vickie, your bath water is getting cold…………”
Pretty bad that a mom has to run the bath water for a twenty-two year old.
Ok, just kidding.
So, my sister had to be the nonconformist colorformist. She was putting the pieces back like a drunken groundhog. I refer to that because there used to be a drunk groundhog on our property after I got married. I called her Mrs. Daegle after the drunk woman in The Bad Seed. Or maybe it had rabies. But, it couldn’t walk straight. Just like my sister couldn’t put the colorforms back straight. Dammit.
So, I did the only thing one could do in my position. I hid the Colorforms. Not the box or the little setting you got to decorate. Just the Colorforms. Which I guess were important.
“Vickie, where are the Colorforms?”
“Right there.”
“There are no Colorforms in the box.”
“You bought Colorforms without the colorforms?” I was a smart ass at a very smart ass age.
“Vickie…………….where are the Colorforms?”
“ Susie ate one and got sick, so I threw them away.” Susie the dog would never have eaten a Colorform. Although a brilliant answer coming from a hyperactive obsessive compulsive compulsive liar, my mom would never buy this one.
“I will count to three, Vickie, and you better bring them all back………………………1……………………………..2…………………………………….2 1/2………….”
She always used a “2 1/2″ before she asked my brother David to go get the belt. That was David’s job. He was the belt getter. Why couldn’t he just once say, “You want the god damn belt? Go get it yourself.” He was too nice. I on, the other hand, pushed her buttons way too much.
“Vickie, go to your room.”
Susie the dog would follow me to my room. I would wave at my dad on my way past his room. She must have sent him to his room, as he was usually lying on his side, watching the little red tv that was sitting on a tv dinner tray or whatever they are called. So, there I was, in my room, with the Colorforms hidden in my scuffy slippers in my closet.
All in all, Colorforms were a great thing for me. I was able to sit and play with something for more than five minutes before moving on to something else that caught my eye. I never walked away from Colorforms.
Well, not until I put the pieces back where I found them.
I have to drive the back roads to get to my school each morning. You city people just have no idea. You can hop on the A subway train and just hold on until you get to your destination. Sure, you may have to walk up and down stairs to get to the subway, but it isn’t a real chore. A real chore is driving from the country INTO the country.
My drive to and fro is in what I call segments. There is one segment from where I live to over Manley Chapel Road to Route 19. Most of you have no idea what I am talking about, so just think small country roads with no berm and a bunch of dead deer on the side. One dead deer has his little leg lying right in the road. Move over, dead deer. Anyway, this segment is where I shall die, I am sure. The road is paved and the two lane weaves and turns and meanders up and down and around. And trucks really enjoy driving left of center. So, drivers on both side love to speed and take the curves like they are wearing a helmet and an outfit of corporations’ logos. Yes, this is where I will die, no doubt about it. I was hoping it would be in my sleep, but things don’t always go my way.
The second segment is a fisherman’s paradise…if one enjoys fishing in pot holes. The pot holes on Idamay Road are gigantic. I really think they could stock them with fish. This road climbs a little in altitude and this is where I lose my cell phone service at times. Every once in a while you will see a couple of parked cars on the top of Idamay hill, talking on their cell phones.
The third segment is the Farmington to Fairview Road. This is where I stop at Subway to get my 6in. turkey breast on Italian, provolone, little lettuce, little onion and 1 narrow line of mayonaisse about three days a week. They see me coming and start preparing it. How’s that for service? I also have someone pump gas for me at this intersection also. Segment three, not so bad. I don’t mind this portion of my daily drive.
It takes me higher in the sky and big hills that are not fun in the winter. But, this is also where I usually get behind old people drivers. I then cross the railroad tracks over a bridge and into the town of Fairview. Now, this is where I stop at the Dairy Mart. If you are ever in Fairview and stop at the Fairview Dairy Mart, watch where you walk, ok? Just warning you, because the coal miners who stop here after work for their bottle of beer really enjoy spitting out their chewing tobacco in the parking lot. It’s so much fun tip-toeing around it. I end then at my school and all is right with the world. I have made it another day.
But, today just sucked. Sucked, I tell ya. Because we had a little bit too much rain. Now, you have to understand, city people, that our county has a lot of streams that run beside our winding ass roads. I can get home several different ways. But, today’s drive home turned into a race to see what roads weren’t flooded….the worst.
It rained all damn day. I didn’t mind it, because at least it wasn’t snow. But, it rained. The windows in my classroom were leaking. I had kids running for paper towels so I can blot the long window sill. When I left at 3:45, I had no idea it would take me so long to get home. The first two segments on my return trip weren’t that bad. Sure there were a couple of places where the water ran over the road, but it wasn’t bad. I just remember thinking that the water was a bit high. I cursed as I hit the fishing pot holes, as they were hidden by the water on the road.
The third segment was a totally different story. First, I had to deal with rocks in the road. Many many rocks and mini landslides.
Many portions of this road where covered with rocks. This is farmland. You would not believe all of the flooding land. I saw some cows wearing life vests as they floated by. That farmer was thinking when he purchased those vests. Cowabunga, Dude.
This is where I started talking out loud. My “Oh my God” repetition first started like a Valley Girl remark. “And like, Oh my God.” But, the more my poor tires had to creep over small boulders (I laugh at my oxymorons), the more my “Oh my God” changed. I sounded like a damn pet store parrot. “Oh my God….Oh my God…..Oh my God…..Oh my God…..” But, really, “Oh my God.”
And then I came upon raging water. Crossing the roadways. What the hell? I mean, “Oh my God!” Notice, I am using an exclamation mark now. I had never seen it this bad before. What is crazy is that this road is not in a valley where you would think it would flood. Little pockets of rivers were now crossing my path. Ok, I just looked back. Maybe “raging” was a bit much. If it was raging, it would have taken my car. Wow, didn’t think about that.
Then, a traffic back up at the top of the final hill on Manley Chapel Road. Little cars had pulled over onto the berm. Oh wait, there is no berm on that road. Little cars stopped. So, some big trucks went around them. Those little cars knew something that I did not know. Oh shit. I mean, “Oh my freaking God.” There in front of me, at the base of the hill was a river crossing the road. Trucks were trying to get through it one by one. I was behind a Jeep. I was in a Santa Fe. The problem with that is that I FORGOT I was in a Santa Fe. I was in a truck.
I decided the best thing to do is drive like an idiot and hope I didn’t stall out. I rushed through it, holding onto the steering wheel for dear life. The water was spewing up by side windows. Muddy water. I got through! On the other side, a guy in a big pick-up smiled and gave me the thumbs up. He was impressed with my stupidity.
I didn’t take a picture of the Mississippi River crossing Manley Chapel Road. I was too busy with my hands planted 2 and 10 on the steering wheel, uttering, “Oh my God.” I finally got through and took the above picture. This is actually what it looked like in about seven or eight pockets on this section of road. Notice there weren’t any little cars in the photo. Because little car people have brains.
Manley Chapel intersection via Facebook Denise Gum Ice
After getting through several areas of more water over the roadway, I passed several homes that were surrounded by water. On Facebook, people were posting pictures of what it looked like in other parts of the county. It was unreal. Many people weren’t on Facebook because they were trying to stop the water coming down into their basements. I drove into a nice dry garage. I was home.
So, I am writing this, courtesy of a two hour delay we have this morning. I’m usually out the door by seven. Only four of the 55 counties in the state of West Virginia have a delay. It’s always nice getting that call in the morning. So, I thought I would sit down and write a post about my drive home before I head off on that same road, hoping that the small boulders (oxy) are now on the side of the road.
I guess I could have just said, “Oh my God, the roads were covered with water.”
Heading to the inspection station
