I woke up tired this morning. Oh, not just tired, but tired tired. I didn’t go to bed too horribly late. So, it had to be the phone dream I had all night long that has made me so tired. Why can’t a person just go to sleep and then wake up hours later, feeling refreshed and ready for a new day? No. Not me. I have to dream all freaking night about the strangest things on the planet. Sometimes I wake up to a racing heart. I’m going to die in my sleep sometime, I am sure. And it is not monsters chasing me or Ann Coulter talking to me or anything really frightening like that. It’s toilets, or college classes or stolen purses that occupy my dream land. Figures.
There are several dream scenarios that I seem to have. The first are the dreaded, “I have to pee” dreams. I am dreaming that I have to use the bathroom, but good luck finding one that actually works. One time I did find one, but it was right in the middle of a room where people were hanging out, talking. Another time it had water all the way up to the rim of the toilet. And yet one night I found one, but it had a rat sitting in the corner, just staring at me. The toilet was there, and I had to pee. Well, how bad did I need to go to the bathroom? I could go on and on with the “I have to pee dreams.” And when I wake up, I really have to pee. I’m sure that’s why I have those dreams. Why can’t I just freaking sleep like you are supposed to?
It’s always something that prevents me…
I thought it was bad enough to have dreams where I thought I was still in college. Well, except in these dreams, I have forgotten that I have had a particular class all semester that I just forgot to go to for some reason. I can’t find my schedule and there’s a final coming up. I’m embarrassed to go to the class because, well, I haven’t been there all damn semester. Sometimes the whole dream begins with trying to find a parking spot and then looking for a particular building that a class is in. I have those dreams about once a month. Those dreams just suck.
Is my class in this building? Where the hell am I?
In my phone dreams, someone has stolen my purse. Now, if you know me at all, you will know that I am completely OCD about the whereabouts of my purse. If I go to a party at someone’s house, I just can’t leave my purse on the host’s bed. That would just ruin my night, worrying that someone was going to steal it. Of course, none of the people at that party would ever dream of stealing their friend’s purse, but I don’t know. Maybe I just can’t be separated from all my important items.
In my phone dreams, like the one I had last night, I first can’t find my purse. For some God forsaken reason, I have left it unattended somewhere. Last night someone found it sitting on the floor in a hallway somewhere. Just because I found it, doesn’t mean that it is intact. So, I look inside, and find everything missing. Everything. This is probably where my eyes start darting around in my sleep because I have pretty bad eye strain this morning. Stupid phone dream.
After I realize that some really bad person has stolen every card in my wallet, but for some reason has left me the wallet, I try to call my credit card company first. Well, it won’t work. I don’t know why. So, I go to another one. It isn’t dialing the numbers correctly. I could go on and on, but it is always the same scenario. None of the damn phones are working. The black rotary is missing its stop, so it just goes around and around. When I press on another phone, letters show up on the screen instead of numbers. I’m just freaking tired.
Finally, probably hours into my dream, I tell myself that it is just a dream. I do this all of the time. Why I have to wait so long to push myself out of a dream is beyond me. But, dreams are ridiculous sometimes. I am sure that Lewis Carroll had a dream about Alice in Wonderland. It had to be a dream or the guy was on drugs. Or maybe he was very imaginative and I should give him some credit, but dreams are pretty wild.
I had planned on writing a really funny blog post this morning about some of my family vacations, but I can’t now. I’m just too damn tired.
Plus, I need to call and report that my visa card has been stolen and that may take a while. Wait……?
When I began teaching full time, I was 51 years old. I previously stayed at home with my two children and as they began high school started as a substitute teacher. I was excited to get the fourth grade job. But, what kind of teacher was I going to be? Well, I just had to be myself. And so my new kids had to get used to my rules. I only had several.
1. “Do not rock on your chair. You don’t want to end up like Mark Harper. (made up name.) He fell and hit his head and to this day has no idea what is name is. So, if you want to end up like Markie, rock on your chair.”
2. “Don’t even think about making fun of anyone. I got made fun of for being skinny. Sure, I would welcome it now, but getting called chicken legs is not funny.”
3. “This is the most important rule. You guys need to learn to laugh at yourself. If you fall, people will laugh, so you might as well laugh rght along with them. Don’t get mad. Don’t get embarrassed. Laugh.”
So, then I tell them the story of my embarrassment in college….
I was a freshman in college and had a crush on a guy I will call Robert P. It was winter and the goofy campus employees hadn’t shoveled the sidewalks yet. It was snowing pretty hard and I was wanting to walk down the sidewalk to the student center, The Nickel, but the sidewalks were all covered with snow. It was pretty icy.
Ahhh, I spotted Robert P. coming out of the student center with some other football players. If I hurried I could run right into him. So, I decided to walk on the road that ran down beside the student center since the sidewalk was a mess. I thought I looked pretty. Well, until I wiped out. But, I didn’t just wipe out. No, that would be too easy. I tried to baby-step it down the hill. I was wearing the wrong kind of shoes for snow tromping. I don’t think I ever had a pair of boots while attending college. Well, do earth shoes count? Plus, there was the fact that we all wore wide legged jeans that dragged on the ground. It was the seventies, and we were into our bell bottoms.
I fell on my knees. Nothing bad about that, except for the pain, but it didn’t end like that. Not only did I fall, but I kept going…on my kneees. The roads were pretty icy, so I slid by the football players, on my knees, still holding my books in my left arm, and my purse on my right shoulders. So, I said, “Hi” to them as I slid right by them. While I was looking at him, wishing I would just die, I slid right into the back of a stupid truck that was unloading something at the book store that was in the same building as the student center.
Oh, no, I’m not done. After my books I was carrying hit the bumper, I bounced backwards and somehow stopped, but my books kept going under the truck and right into the path of a car coming up the hill. The car was able to straddle the books and pass by them.
All I could hear was laughing. It was deafening. There were only about 5 guys outside, but it might as well been 100. I wanted to cry, but somehow managed to stand up on my poor deformed knees, turn around to them, and said, “I meant to do that.” And smiled. A couple of them clapped. I then curtsied. And damn if I didn’t slip and fall when I took my right foot back, curtsy-style. Then they really laughed. And I just had too also.
So, I tell my class that story every year. But, the whole point is to let the kids know that if you fall, people will laugh. And that the teacher will most likely laugh the hardest.
And then she will trip and fall on her way back to the desk.
When I was young, I was all about making stuff. I made those colorful potholders. I remember my mom buying the plastic loom and I would sit and loop until it was done. And then present it to her for her birthday or Mother’s Day. I never realized that she probably knew what she would be given.
I was never one for the paint by numbers pictures. Oh, I am sure I did paint one or two of them, but I really had no patience for that little piss ant of a paint brush. You know what I am talking about. And besides, I would always end up with screwing up the whole picture by painting orange on #3, when everyone knew that #3 was supposed to be blue. I was an idiot. And you could never undo it, because two colors mixed turned into pukey brown green.
My mom took paint by number to a whole new ugly level. She borrowed a projector and projected a picture up on the wall of my bedroom and painted a picture….of a cherry tree. It covered the whole damn wall. A cherry tree. Pink blossoms. I hate pink. After that, she decided she was ready for a more difficult project for my brother’s room. She painted a clipper ship on his wall. I am talking about the whole wall was a clipper ship.
I wanted the clipper ship. The cherry tree, with its freaking blossoms, stared at me every day. At least I could hop on the clipper ship and sail out of the retarded bedroom.
Oh Dear God, the cherry tree is making a comeback. I had the whole damn tree.
Close by not really. My mom’s was actually pretty good
So, you would think that after staring at a cherry tree for a few years that I would not want anything on a wall. But, no, I’m a glutton for punishment.
No, I found another outlet: latch hooking. Once I learned how to latch hook, there was no stopping me. I hooked all of the time. I hooked in high school and hooked a bit through college. And then I hung the ugly rugs on the wall. Well, hell, I didn’t want anyone walking on them. I worked hard on those babies.
Latch hooking. So easy I could do it.
Ugly babies to boot. I can’t remember how many I actually hooked, but I do remember latch hooking the Wizard of Oz characters. Yeah. It was after I pledged into the Sigma Sigma Sorority. The tri-sigs at my college had the Wizard of Oz as their big theme for everything. So, when I found a latch hooking kit for Dorothy and her friends, well, I had to latch hook it.
ebay photo
Ok, so it didn’t look like this, but it’s the only one I could find.
I did make a pillow for my boyfriend, Rick.Or maybe it was Jay. I can’t remember, but some lucky boyfriend received this great gift. Made from love. It was a red heart on a black background. I am sure it was truly ugly. I can’t remember what I hooked in the middle of the heart, but it was something retarded I am sure.
I did find one that I did latch hook. I think. Isn’t it simply awesome?
Is that a……clipper ship
The more I google, the more latch hookings I find that I completed. But these aren’t them. These are lovely examples that you, too, could latch if your heart desires so. I think you should.
and my favorite-
I mean, who wouldn’t want a Mrs. Doubtfire latched rug?
I did get excited to see that latch hookers are finding creative ways to latch hook, but without the ugly kits. There is a tutorial on pinterest for taking strips of old t-shirts and making a rag rug. And, I saw a rug that doesn’t have a face or smurf or a unicorn on it. I just may start hooking again……You know what I mean.
t-shirt latch hooking. Not too shabby.
In the end, there have been some pretty ugly things that people make and hang on the wall. I guess rugs shouldn’t be hung on a wall. And potholders shouldn’t either, I guess. We had some crazy things that were pretty ugly back in the seventies. But, this one is king:
Now, this is the real deal. Dogs Playing Poker was a collection of sixteen oil paintings that were commissioned by a cigar company and painted by C.M. Coolidge. And this was started back in 1903. I personally like the originals. I would so hang one in my home. It is the reproduction of these pictures that have found their way into our basements and closets. Many are gag gifts. And some are on black velvet. That makes it extra special. Now they are collectibles. Go figure.
Whatever you do, think long and hard before you paint on your walls. Sure, it can always be covered up by paint in the future.
But, your children will have already been damaged.
I really didn’t want to get snow. It is April 23 for God’s sake. What is wrong you weather people? We can’t have snow this late. I watched the Weather Channel off and on all Sunday, watching them adjust the predicted snow amounts.
First it was 4-6 inches of snow, with up to a foot or more in the higher elevations. After it was all in done with, we could see much more. We were going to lose our electricity because of the weight of the wet, heavy snow on the newly leafed trees. We were told to go to the store and buy a generator. But, whatever you do, don’t place it inside your home. Purchase batteries for your flashlights. Get some candles, because, well, we may not have electricity for days. If you stay home, make sure you have plenty of blankets. Drive to your local supermarket and buy milk and bread, as you may be stuck in your home for a few days.
A friend on Facebook feared it was Zombie Apocalypse time. I agreed. Something was not right. It had to be the Zombies. Or weather men who, despite their expensive techno gear and capabilities to forsee the weather future, still can not pinpoint a damn thing for us. So, although some areas of Pennsylvania and West Virginia got some snow, we did not get the anticpated snow. Actually, none and all.
We got rain. That’s it. Rain. And now, at 5:16, the sun is shining. Bravo, Weather Channel. I’m glad I didn’t go out and buy provisions.
Like I did for the blizzard of 1977.
Ah, the blizzard of 1977. I remember it well.
I was in college, attending Fairmont State College. Now, you have to understand that our college president, Wendall Hardway, would never postpone classes for a weather event. If a bomb dropped on the campus, he would not have postponed classes. I remember two days when the campus did not have water. Honey Badger Hardway didn’t give a shit. Go to class dirty. Stick a scarf on that greasy head. Classes were NEVER postponed or cancelled. Even when the blizzard was approaching.
At the time of the big blizzard of 1977, I was living on View Avenue, in a big white house with four other girls. Paula and Jeri were expecting their boyfriends for the weekend. It was Friday. We all got up that morning and got ready for classes. We had heard about the approaching blizzard, but not really. Now, you have to understand that we didn’t have the Weather Channel back then. We didn’t have the internet that would let us have our very own personal radar screens to check every hour. How cool would that have been? No, we had channel 12, WBOY, and their little studio only had half of a weather map. You could never see what the weather was like out west, because there wasn’t enough room in their little studio for a full sized map. The camera never panned over that way. I know this to be true…… Or maybe it was WDTV. Regardless, we had those stations and the big Pittsburgh stations letting us know that there was a blizzard in the making.
The National Weather Service was predicting a huge winter storm to hit West Virginia. Emergency announcements were being made on the radio stations.
But, we knew school would never be cancelled. Never. I drove my little rusty car, Rusty, up on campus, parked her, and started to walk from the parking lot down the hill to the student union when I saw National Guard trucks driving onto the campus. I will exaggerate and say that there were ten vehicles because I really don’t remember how many there were. I didn’t know why they were there. Maybe it was National Guard Day and they were having a ceremony in the ballroom of the student center.
It didn’t take me long to figure out that something was up. Students were either laughing or upset, scurrying by like little mice trying to find a mouse hole. I stopped a boy who was walking passed me, smiling from ear to ear.
“They are here to shut down the college!” And that’s all he said.
What???
Well, I found out soon enough that Governor Jay Rockefeller had sent in the National Guard to shut down Fairmont State College because Wendell Hardway refused to close the campus. A freaking historic blizzard was on its way and Rockefeller didn’t want anyone traveling home for the weekend in the midst of it. He didn’t want anyone on the streets. National guardsmen were holding bull horns and were driving slowly, telling everyone to go home. A blizzard was coming and the college was shutting down.
The hell you say? I just stood there and stared. Well, this was surreal. This is stuff you see in the movies. Big Jay Rockefeller sent in the big guns to shut down our fair little campus. I bet the honey badger was really pissed..and did give a shit.
Well, I obliged, but first went into our student center, The Nickel, to talk the situation over with everyone. The place was buzzing, but emptying out at the same time. There was a National Guardsman in the Nickel. Wow.
So, I drove home. As soon as I got in the door, my roommate Pat looked at me and said, “We need to go get provisions.” Provisions. Wow. It even sounded serious. There was a freaking historic blizzard racing towards us. Of course we had to get provisions. We immediately hopped in my car and went to the local Dairy Mart.
Well, others must have thought about this too, because the place was jammed. Luckily, we must have gotten there early because there were still a couple of loaves of bread on the shelf and milk in the cooler. So, Pat bought a couple of packs of cigarettes and some pop, and I bought pop and some potato chips. We were ready to be snowed in for weeks. Oh, hell, let’s drive to McDonald’s too.
When we arrived home, our other roommates were beside themselves because their boyfriends were supposed to be on their way. They lived about 2 hours away and were traveling on Interstate 79. Cell phones were not invented yet, so they didn’t hear from them for quite a while. They were supposed to be there by now.
Meanwhile, Pat and I sat on the couch, waiting for the blizzard, looking out the picture window. I was visualizing the boys, Joe D. and Donald, being blown off the interstate by the blizzard. God rest their souls.
The boys never made it. Governor Rockefeller had shut down the interstate. The National Guardsmen, who were everywhere throughout the state that day, had turned them back.
“There’s a blizzard on the way. You better turn back and go straight home.”
The boys turned around and called from a phone booth at the nearest gast station to let Paula and Jeri that they would not be arriving in Fairmont. More provisions for us.
It was early evening by now and we were watching the news. Everyone in the mountain state were off the roads. We braced for the blizzard of the century. Charleston, our state capitol, was a ghost town. No one was on the streets. Rockefeller made sure we would be ready and that the road crews would not have to contend with stranded motorists. The newly inaugurated governor was making his first executive decisions. This blizzard was going to be brutal.
According to WSAZ television:
“It is important for people living in the following counties to understand that throughout this night, they will be on a blizzard alert tonight,” said Rockefeller in 1977.
Blizzard alert. Dear God, there is going to be snow piled up past our doors. Thank goodness Jeri and Paula had bought food for hungry boyfriends or we would starve.
Well, the massive blizzard never came. The wind picked up a little, and perhaps a dusting of snow lay on the ground. I sat on the couch for hours. awaiting its arrival. My mom called to make sure I wasn’t “stupid” and would not venture out in the blizzard. I was not going to drive in a blizzard. I was, however, planning to go outside so I could say I witnessed a blizzard. But, it never came.
1977 Blizzard. Hit everywhere but West Virginia
Our governor took a ribbing for many years and the blizzard is now called “The Rockefeller Blizzard.” The state of West Virginia actually shut down. The National Guard learned from this mistake and since then does not mobolize until the storm actually hits.
The only one I think that loved the result of the whole blizzard scenario was Fairmont State President, Wendell Hardway. I could just picture him chuckling over the outcome. And I thought of old Wendell when this storm was supposed to hit us this morning, April 23, 2012.
But, you know what? When I heard about the storm approaching, I hopped in my car and went to the Dairy Mart for two- 20 ounce Cokes.
I got back last night from visiting my daughter in New York City. She moved there last August when she started grad school at NYU. Before helping her find an apartment twice last summer, I had never been to the big city. The last time I went up there, I had to leave her and her roommate to continue on, hunting for that elusive inexpensive apartment. So I had no seen it yet.
Some people think that getting from JFK airport into the city is a nightmare. I found an easy way. Last time I took the AirTrain into Penn Station. That’s not so bad, but just getting to the AirTrain was a mini pain. This past week I decided to take the bus. Doesn’t hurt to try.
I flew on Delta for the first time and really enjoyed it. I know every airline has a horror story, but I didn’t have one. The flight took an hour, which is much shorter than the almost eleven hour trip I took there by Amtrak. I love trains, but a one hour round trip flight for $175 is pretty good.
As soon as I got off my flight at JFK, I immediately found the Ground Transportation sign and went outside, where I knew there would be people in bright green jackets. You pay them $12.50 and just wait for the bus to Manhattan. That simple. The bus was very clean and comfortable and the ride only seemed about thirty five minutes to Grand Central Station on 42nd Street. Sure, you could take a taxi, but it would have been $45 for the same ride, only with more people. I would have an extra $32.50 and that sounded better for me.
On this route, I was able to see new things. I saw where the old world’s fair took place. I assumed that’s what it was. I saw a huge globe and a tall structure with two flying saucer-like disks on the top. I plan to google that in a bit. I also passed several cemeteries, which I plan to write a blog about. They were amazing.
As soon as you get off in front of Grand Central Station, there is a door that says, “Subway.” I was amazed at how easy this was. I went downstairs, bought a Metro ticket for $2.50, and hopped on the Local 6 train uptown to Alex’s apartment.
“Mom, take the local 6 uptown train. It will be a green 6 with a circle around it. “
How easy. I asked a guy standing on the platform just to confirm my selection. I did make one error on my way. I was supposed to call Alex before I got on the subway so she could walk and meet me at the subway where I was to get off. When I walked to the platform to tell her that her fantastic mom was on her way, I had no bars on my cell phone. Uh oh, my bad. I didn’t think about that. So, if you go to New York, you won’t have cell phone service while underground. Well, my AT&T didn’t.
Maybe I’m the only one, but I just love riding the subway. It’s a little grimy walking down the stairs to the subway, but I love it. It’s like an adventure for me. And I love to watch people as they enter the car. One woman was sleeping. Another one was coughing up a lung. Some of the men were wearing nice suits. I always go to the shoes to see if they match the expensive suits. They did. I was having so much fun.
I called my daughter after I climbed the steps leading from the subway.
“No…You don’t have to meet me. Let me try to find your apartment. It will be like an adventure.” I laughed.
I am all about trying to do things on my own. So, off I went to find her apartment. I had already “walked” on her street with google maps, which is a fantastic tool. Just take the little man over to the map, plop him down, and you can travel on the street, veering left and right. I google walk all the time, especially vacation areas. So, I sort of knew how to get to her apartment from the subway station, but this is still New York, and it is huge.
There is a lot of construction work going on near her apartment. They are putting in a new subway line. They start at exactly 7a.m. and end at exactly 4pm. Noisy jack hammer work and the walkways are diverted through a temporary maze. And from the sign posted, it looks like this will be going on until the end of 2013. Sucks for people who don’t wake up until 8am. Well, they won’t wake up that late anymore. It’s very noisy. The walk was nice.
Fruit stands, like this one, are all over the city.
So, I had to go down, take a right, take a left, and voila, I am standing right in front of her apartment building. I am good. I walked in and had to punch a button so she can unlock the door. I have never done this before. I have watched people do it on Seinfeld and other tv shows, but I have never ever buzzed. I was excited. I walked up the one flight of stairs and she was at her opened door, welcoming me with a big smile.
She lucked out. Her apartment was small, as most New York apartments are, but hers is not teeny tiny. It has two bedrooms, a living area and eating area combined. Her kitchen is small, but hell, it has a dishwasher, so life is good. The bathroom is a nice size for NYC also. Hardwood floors. I immediately liked it. And not bad for $800 a month. I did research before we started looking at apartments and thought that she would be paying around $1,200 for her share for an upper East side apartment. She did great.
I took the 6:30am flight as we had plans to go to the Bronx Zoo. It was cold though, and thoughts of walking from cold exhibit to cold exhibit did not sound appealing. Where the hell did the promise of warm weather go? So, I told her I wanted to see her neighborhood. So, we took a walk. We went to eat lunch at Ray’s pizza, which was next to her Rite Aid and laundromat. As a mom, I liked being able to now place where these things are.
“I’m heading to the laundromat.”
I now know where that is in relation to her apartment. I have places down dark secluded back alleys, so it is nice to know I have an active imagination.
We then walked all the way up to Fifth Avenue to see the Jackie Onassis Reservoir. She runs to Central Park and then jogs around the reservoir. It’s beautiful.
Jackie Onassis Reservoir
After taking pictures of this area of Central Park, we decided to push stuff over because that’s how we roll.
Ok, just kidding. I thought the leaning lightpost made a good photo opportunity.
After walking around, petting dogs that people were walking, we ventured into the Museum of the City of New York. I don’t know. I was a bit confused. I thought I would get to see the history of New York. I wanted to follow along from the time the Dutch started the place through prohibition to the tragedy of 9/11. Instead, there was a huge exhibition of the grid system of Manhattan. And it was set up in neighborhoods, not dates. I wanted to see the history of New York. A permanent exhibit. I thought it was a waste of $16.00. But, I like going to museums. Next time, I will try another.
For dinner, she talked me into going to a Thai restaurant down the street from her apartment. I immediately balked because I am picky. But, I thought I should be more open minded. She took me to an Indian restaurant and now I like Indian food. So, we went to the Andaman Thai Bistro on 1st Avenue in Yorkville. Oh, glorious food! The shrimp/chicken dumpling was to die for! Curry puffs don’t sound so good to this picky person, but they were delicious. If you are in upper East Side and looking for a good restaurant, check it out.
We were beat by the end of the night. We went to bed early and got up to go to the Bronx zoo. She made me breakfast and off we went. We took the BxM11 express bus from 99th Street. It goes directly to the zoo. A zoo bus. It was a comfortable ride for $5.50 a person. I haven’t been to a zoo in years. I usually ended up feeling sorry for the little animal in its cage, but things have changed over the years. I was looking forward to going to this zoo, as it is the largest metropolitan zoo in the world.
It didn’t disappoint. I will be writing a blog post just on the zoo, but I will just say for now that my new camera loves the zoo.
We were at the Bronx zoo all day. It is large and most of the animals are in their natural habitat. So, we walked a lot.
We got home and went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner. I wasn’t impressed, so I won’t mention where it was. We needed to be at her neighborhood bar for Trivia night. Oh, how I wish we had something like that in West Virginia. I would surely drink more. Her friends compete against other bar patrons, the winners receiving shots and drinks after the contest is over. I contributed, as I was pretty good with the “presidential hometown” category. I sucked at current events. And I knew that the Soprano’s won an emmy in 2008 for Best Drama. I didn’t even feel old or out of place and managed to sing “Hey Jude” at the top of my lungs with everyone in the bar at the end of the night. Fun times at Biddy’s Pub on 91st. It is considered an “Irish pub” because, well, it is owned by Irish people. It is itty bitty, only one room, but was packed for Trivia night. So, again, if you are looking for a pub in the upper east side, try either Biddy’s Pub or Off the Rails.
We were going to go to the “Top of the Rock” before my flight left, but my daughter found out at the last minute that she had a summer job interview, so I took off early to take pictures of Grand Central Station. I got on the bus, got on the plane, landed in Pittsburgh, and drove the 1 1/2 hours on an empty gas tank. Well, anything less than a quarter tank makes me hyperventilate. I made it back to Fairmont and went right to bed.
I am so excited that my daughter is living in New York City while attending grad school. Will she remain there after graduation? It is too early to tell. I think she would like to head elsewhere.
I can’t wait to go back after school is out in June.
The road from my hometown to where I attended college in the seventies was a monotonous drive. Other adjectives that come to mind are colorless, droning, dull, blah, flat, humdrum, mundane, and prosaic. This is my first time using “prosaic” in a sentence. It’s very exciting. More exciting than driving that road every freaking weekend.
I graduated from high school in 1974. The state road people were working on a huge section of Interstate 79 that would alleviate my need for boring adjectives. I could not wait until they were finished with it. It took me about 2 1/2 hours to get home. The new interstate section would knock off at least thirty minutes of tiresome driving time. Please hurry state road people.
Now, Interstate 79 may not seem like a major thoroughfare, but I beg to differ. Canadian snow birds use this route. I see more Ontario license plates than say, Pennsylvania or Ohio. Before this section of road opened, I’m sure Canadians were cursing as they veered around the wild wonderful almost to West Virginia roads.
I drove home about every other weekend, depending on what was going on in Fairmont. Freshman who stayed in the dorm were not allowed to have cars, but I was given special permission because my dad was having open heart surgery and my mom couldn’t take the time to drive down to get me when so much was going on. So, the college let me drive. I drove Rusty, my yellow Toyota. I named her that because, well, she was full of rust. There were dings all over her. People on campus did not care when they got out of their vehicles. I guess it is not fair to blame just college kids, because people of all ages and intelligence opened their car doors with no care as to what was in the way. So, Rusty was full of pock marks. She had car acne.
I had a car full of sorority sisters one particular Friday. I honestly don’t remember for sure who was in my car. I do know for sure that Stephanie was with me. She mentioned the episode to me on Facebook just a couple of months ago. And I’m thinking Anita, maybe Tanya or Irvin or maybe even Paula. Oh, hell, this I don’t remember. I know there were at least three others for sure.
We were traveling on the part of Interstate 79 that was finished. We traveled up to Mount Morris, Pennsylvania, right across the county line, when someone in the backseat made the remark:
“I heard the new interstate is going to open next week.”
This bit of news made me slow down a bit, but my pulse sped up.
Hmmmmmmm. Awwww, how wonderful that will be. I could use new adjectives from then on to describe my drive. Like pleasant, quick, and unmundane. Ok, maybe not the last one.
I wonder……..
So, I kept driving and didn’t get off onto the two lane drive of misery. There were barricades blocking the unfinished interstate. It was calling out my name, I am sure.
”Vickie, drive on me….. Be the first motorist on my new road.”(You really need to sound like a ghost when you say that sentence)
I paused and then saw a place where my Rusty could squeeze through. I was going for it.
Nervous giggles in the car. The worst that could happen was a section of unfinished road that we would topple into. We wouldn’t be found until the ribbon cutting ceremony. I could see it now…someone standing with a huge pair of scissors in the middle of the new interstate. Off in the distance you could see the butt of a car and smoke coming from a huge hole. Except that wouldn’t make sense. The smoke would have been all done by then…and well, maybe the road would be ready for motorists. Hence, the ribbon cutting ceremony.
There's no bridge over troubled water here.
Regardless, who would find our bodies? I was just going to have to drive slower than usual. Just to make sure there weren’t any paving machines or construction workers to hit.
I was able to drive for a decent amount of time. It was a barren road. A barren, finished road. I saw a truck driving over an overpass. Dammit. Whoever was driving paused and watched me drive by. Uh oh. He was probably the head road guy. Or not. Maybe he was just like me, a motorist who did not want to drive that boring shitty drive to Waynesburg.
Nope.
He called the coppers. The rat.
A state trooper up ahead sat in his car. His lights were on, and he was waiting for us. Notice I said “us” because this was not my idea. I was forced to drive by crazy sorority sisters. Ok, that wasn’t going to work.
I slowed down and pulled over.
The interstate barricade
“Oh my God, Vickie! What are you going to say?” Someone in the backseat was ready to crack already.
Well, hell, I didn’t know. Was I supposed to say anything? I got caught. I was just going to hand him my driver’s license and registration card. I was just going to keep my mouth shut, take the ticket and make up something for my mom.
My mom would lose her mind if I came home with a ticket for driving on an unopened section of interstate. But, then again, she would think that was a lie. That was too preposterous to be true. Seems like I was screwed no matter what.
The state trooper approached my newly rolled down window. I was just going to keep my mouth shut.
“Officer, thank God you are here!!!”
I went on to blabber nonsense about a car of guys chasing us and trying to get us to pull over. When I wouldn’t pull over, they kept hitting us in the back of the car. I was afraid to get off of the exit because I was afraid they would force us off of the two lane road over a cliff or make us crash.
“I knew that if I drove on the interstate I could make it to one of the exits and then get to the state police barracks.”
Did I just say that? Shit. I better cry.
So, I started crying and showed him my hands. They were shaking from holding on to the steering wheel while those guys in a black car kept hitting my bumper.
“When I got onto the new road, they quit following us.”
Someone added something from the backseat. Now we were pretty little liars.
He just looked at me.
I don’t remember what he said, if anything, but he didn’t give me a ticket. He let me go. Of course, I had to drive back the way I came and take the regular exit to the road of misery.
“But, what if the black car is waiting for us?” I thought that was a great point. My lie had to be genuine. If this really happened, that would be something that could happen. Sure, Lifetime movies weren’t invented yet, but I was way ahead of possible outcomes. The state trooper sort of smiled (sort of ?) and told me he would follow us to make sure we got off of the interstate. Didn’t he want to know more about Ted Bundy and his buddies?
So, we drove off. We talked about it all the way home. Now, this is where it gets foggy. Either Anita was in the car or we ended up at her house sometime during the weekend. Anita told me to tell her mom’s boyfriend (fiance? husband?) the story. So, I did. The man smiled and said:
“I would never have believed that one.”
Everyone in the room laughed. I was talking to a cop. Ha ha Anita. I think he was the Hancock county sheriff or a town cop. He could have been a state trooper. I don’t remember. I just remember a nervous laugh.
So, the moral of the story is that when two roads diverge in a wood, should you take the one less traveled?
I don’t know, but it could make all the difference.
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.)
I don’t know if I am much of a camper. We just didn’t camp out much when I was little. I can’t even imagine the Mendenhall family, aka the Griwsolds, sitting around the campfire, singing Kumbaya. I imagine it would go something like this:
Mom: “Elwood! Elwood!…….Where did that man go? ……I need you to put up this tent…..Elwood!…….I’m telling you, when they were passing out brains, your father thought they said, “train” and left…….Elwood!!………………Well, we are just going to have to go home.”
Elwood- (2 miles away, press camera in hand). “Ahhh, just look at this beautiful tree!” (Takes pictures of the probable pine tree from different angles. Can’t hear Mom because he has wandered purposely away from the camp.)
Vickie- “Mom, look what I found! (Holding a skunk.) Can it sleep with us in the tent? I think he is lonely.”
Cheryl- Cheryl is still in the car, having another one of her famous temper tantrums. We can hear her muted screams through the rolled up car windows. “I HATE YOU…….STUPID MOM…..I HATE YOU…….” .BLAH BLAH BLAH SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM KICK THE BACK SEAT REPEATEDLY…….SILENCE…………POUTING……….
David- (Holding a stick, trying to wittle with a butter knife) Smiling…”This is fun.”
No, I can’t even imagine camping back then. My dad was a scoutmaster, so he used to go camping all of the time. It’s just when Mom was thrown into the mix that Dad just wanted no part of it. My dad was always “damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.” That was his motto. My mom was one of those rolling pin wives. Bitch bitch bitch. Dad was Wally Cox. Wally Cox was a mild-mannered, soft spoken actor, aka the voice of Underdog. “There’s no need to fear, Underdog is here!” Well, except my sweet dad sounded just like Ronald Reagan.
So, needless to say, the Mendenhall family rarely went camping. To compensate for our outdoor challenged lifestyle, my dad built a playhouse in the backyard. I know you are probably picturing a little playhouse nestled in a tree line on the edge of the property. Oh, no. This playhouse was as soon as you opened the back door. Down three steps, turn left and Voila! A cabin…..for camping. Swell.
I went camping when I was in the Campfire girls. Campfire girls were like the Girl Scouts, but we had campfires. They had Samoa cookies to sell while we put marshmallows on the end of whittled sticks. Well, most of the girls put their marshmallows over the fire. Not me. That was gross…and black. Who the hell wants to eat charbroiled marshmallows. And then some older girl came up with a bright idea.
image via whatscookingamerica.net
“Hey, Susie, I see you are eating grahamn crackers. Can I have one? And you, Cindy Lou, I see that chocolate bar you are eating. Can I have a small section? Next thing you know, the older camper put a melted marshmallow and a piece of chocolate between a graham cracker sandwich and ate the damn thing.
“Hmmmmm, I wish I had “some more.” And the rest is history.
image via wikipedia
You believe me, right?
Well, I wasn’t much of a Campfire camper. While walking to the pool one day in my bathing suit, clothing wrapped in my towel, my underpants fell out of my towel and onto the ground. Everyone laughed at me, and I wanted to cry. I sent a postcard home to my mom that I wanted to come home. How funny, because I lived like ten minutes from the camp and we were probably only there for two nights at the most, maybe. I was home before the postcard even arrived.
The next time I went camping was when I was in love. My boyfriend, (future husband, future ex-husband) nicknamed Magoo in my posts, was a list maker, so we had everything you could possibly think of. He even had cut wood on the top of his car. We were, afterall, going to a National forest, so they would probably frown on cutting down trees for fire wood. The first time we went camping, Magoo had everything packed in so tightly you couldn’t add even a spoon (just a slight exaggeration). He had a hatch back, and when he slammed it down to shut, the window burst. He didn’t check to make sure the damn hatch back would close without hitting something. No problem. Magoo took out several black garbage bags, duct tape, and after a few minutes we were on our way. Well, after I swept the glass off to the side of the curb.
We usually went with another couple. The first time we went camping, we took Brent and Jeannie with us. Brent was Magoo’s best friend. We drove to the Monongahela State Forest in our wild wonderful West Virginia mountains. I know West Virginia gets a bad rap, but it is so beautiful in the mountains. Breathtaking, really. The first time out we were hunting for a place called The Sinks of Gandy, a cave that we wanted to explore. I was all about seeing some bats.
image via cavingintro.net
The Sinks of Gandy are a tunnel that the Gandy Creek flows into and disappears into the mountain. It is on private property, and is actually hard to find. We weren’t all the way stupid. Just partially stupid. Years later, my son was a guide for a summer adventure camp, and made numerous trips to the Sinks.
But, anywho, the next thing you know, we are on a gravel road, stopped because a bunch of sheep were standing in the road, looking at us. Um, Magoo, where the hell are we?
So, we never found the Sinks of Gandy, and drove around forever. Where the hell are we going to camp? We finally found a sign for the Monongahela National Forest, dropped down the mountain, and a beautiful sight unfolded right in front of our eyes. It was beautiful.
The Monongahela National Forest at Laurel Fork Campground
I immediately fell in love with the place. And there was no one else in the whole area for the first part of the long weekend. There was a large stream that ran by us, and a trail head in case we wanted to take a hike. It was perfect. It was Fourth of July weekend, so we had a cooler full of picnic food and bags and bags of snacks. The boys, who had been at fishing cabins throughout their lives, remembered the time they were stuck eating nothing but hot dogs for 2 days, so they packed a lot of food.
Since I was not a camper, and the damn campground did not have any bathroom facilities whatsoever (that we knew of at that time), I made the guys build a bathroom area. I don’t even want to try to explain it, but it consisted of finding three small trees close to each other, a large piece of cloth (told you the man could pack), a hammer, and a couple of nails. Dig a hole, and a “dry creek bed” and we had ourselves a bathroom. Magoo even brought toilet paper and little garbage bags. Also, it looked like rain, so the guys put up a makeshift canopy, since we thought we would find a place that had a shelter or something. So, we improvised and it was fun. Sort of. I couldn’t go past 10:00 in the morning without taking a shower. My skin starts to crawl, like I have cooties or something. I HAVE to take my shower. So, I walked over to the creek, walked in with my tennis shoes, and took a creek bath. Washed my hair and everything. It was so freaking cold. I thought I would turn to ice in the middle of the stream. Next thing you know, Magoo and Brent come running in, holding soap, laughing, and sat right down in the creek. They, too, I thought, must feel cooties after 10:00. Jeannie didn’t care. She put a scarf on her head and claimed that she liked being a dirtball. So be it.
So, yeah, it was a fun weekend.
Well, until the guys disappeared.
We were supposed to go fishing, and I hadn’t been fishing since I was little and went with my dad. I used to go all of the time, and either fished, or chased dragonflies around the lake. To this day, dragonflies are my favorite insects. I knew you would want to know that. The guys wanted to go outside the Monongahela Forest to find more firewood somewhere. And yes, Magoo had a saw with him. So, they hopped into the car without a back window and off they went.
And they never came back. Well, that’s what it felt like. It was at least four hours. We were pissed. So, we decided that we were going to fish all by ourselves. We didn’t need a man to put a worm on our hook. We could be hookers. (she cracks herself up) Well, hell, they were all gone. We were wormless. We had no dough balls. We had nothing.
Well, we did have bologna.
Jeannie and I cracked up, as we took a slice of bologna and tore it to look like a worm. A bologna worm. If colorful little bobbers or lures attracted fish, wouldn’t a worm dangling off of the hook? It was a brilliant, hooker idea.
No it wasn’t.
The bologna hung on the hook for just a few seconds, and would then slide through the hook and fall into the creek. We tried it a “couple” of times. Defeated, we went back under the canopy (that leaked later when it stormed), and just started drinking. We did get scared when two guys walked very close by our campsite. We saw them coming and we were very frightened. We ran to the tent and zipped ourselves up and looked out the little screened area. We were going to get raped. No doubt about it. All we had to defend ourselves was some bologna and a flashlight. But, wait. Magoo brought a handgun. (What did I tell you?) And it was in the tent. I could kill them.
Well, at the time, we had no idea that the start of a long hiking trail started right beside our tent. We knew it was nearby, but the trail went right by the tent. They were simply two hikers who were following the trail.
Our mountain men finally came back. They got lost. And they had no firewood. Worthless.
Jeannie and I were already drunk. Well, I had two beers, so I was sloshed.
The guys were so fixing us dinner that night. Magoo opened the cooler.
“Hey, what happened to those two packs of bologna?”
I guess I didn’t mention that we made two packs of bologna worms. We really thought we would get one to work.
We were hookers working our corner of the creekbed.
Back in the seventies, the campus of Fairmont State had a student union building where everyone congregated between classes. It was called the Nickel, because we had nickel a beer night about every night. Ok, that’s a lie. But, you could buy a glass of draft beer for a nickel, and maybe once a week had “Nickel Night.” Or it may have been once a semester. I know it was more than once a year. Let’s just go with once a night. So, yeah, we were a bunch of drunks.
The Nickel had a little game room on one side people rarely used, and a snack bar on the other side. I ate a hamburger and french fries almost every day. My freshman year I ate in the cafeteria because I lived on campus, but the rest of the time I ate food clogged with cholesterol about every day.
There was a room in the back of the Nickel called, The Greek Room. Sounds a little politically incorrect, I guess, but this huge room was just for frat boys and the girls who needed fifty bff’s. I was one of those needy, goofy girls. You could not go into the back room unless you were a Greek. There were a group of football players who did not join a fraternity, and they called themselves, Group Five. I don’t know why. Maybe there were only five of them in the group, but they sat out in the front with the rest of the non-Greekers and made fun of those who walked through. Well, if they didn’t know you or like you. I thought it was sort of fun walking through them to get to the back. We strutted through between classes. Little did I know how much we were hated until I started hating us, too. I will save that for a later post.
I joined Sigma Sigma Sigma during the second semester of my freshman year. Or maybe it was during my sophomore year. I know that I sat out at least a semester because my friends and I were bombarded during rush week, or whatever the hell it was called, and we just needed to step back and take a look at each of the five sororities and to see if we even wanted to join. We heard terrible things about each sorority. But, the worst was reserved for the Tri-Pigmas.
“You don’t want to join them. Sure they are all beautiful, but they KNOW they are…… They are just a bunch of rich bitches…..They will love you to your face and then tear you apart behind your back…….Their daddy takes care of them and they all drive expensive cars…
Yikes. They sounded harsh. The present-day Mean Girls, College Edition. But, they seemed sooo nice and they really wanted us to join.
Cover via Amazon
So, yeah, I was stupid and joined. It was fun, really. I had a blast the first three years. We weren’t mean or bitches. I even wore a t-shirt that read, “I’m not conceited, I’m perfect” to make fun of myself. All it did was make me look like a bitch. Some things always backfire. And my grades suffered too, because I wasn’t good at multi-tasking. I was partying and not studying. Something had to give. Goodbye 4.0, hello 2.6. Pathetic. I blame it on sorority life and the fact that I had no spine and would never say no.
“Sure, I’ll go with you.”……”Hell, yeah, let’s drive over to Ocean City on Wednesday,”…………………”I can’t believe I forgot to go to that class all semester”…..
I could also be a doormat. ”You need an abortion and need someone with a car to take you to Pittsburgh? Sure, I’ll take you.”……”Yeah, I’m going home this weekend. Sure, I can drive 40 minutes out of my way to take you home. Afterall we are sisters.” I was a no gas money given doormat.
So, back to the Nickel. Between classes, we headed for the back room. I had to get past the basketball players, though. I don’t know why, but several of the black basketball players liked to torment me. They at first, would say things to me when I would walk past. “Hey, Blondie, how are you doing today?” Well, I don’t know why, but the three of them scared the crap out of me. I don’t know if it is because they were so tall and I was so short and only weighed 98 pounds, or that they were black and there was only one black person in our whole high school and I was scared. Stupid, really, but ignorance leads to all kinds of fears. I feared the black basketball players. One day, I heard them laugh at me. “Look how fast she walked past us.” So, the torment began. They would block my path for a few seconds and just smile down at me. They were all tall freaking trees and I was walking through their scary forest each day. I was little red riding in the hood.
Once back in the safety of my frat boy and sorority bitch home, I would talk to my “sisters” and watch the TKE fraternity boys play Spades. Back in the mid-seventies, if you didn’t play Spades, you might as well just drop out of college.
I really don’t know how I learned how to play. I have horrible listening skills. Maybe someone taught me and showed me how to play while actually in the middle of a game. That’s the best way to learn. Just reading the directions would not cut it with me. The wikipedia rules that I just read made my head spin. How to Play Spades in 25 Easy Steps After I learned how to play Spades, I was pretty damn good. If you want to play with the boys, you have to know how to play. So, yeah, Spades was a definite game that was played in the Greek Room.
One game that three of the TKE brothers played on semester was called, “How Fast Does Vickie Eat?” Evidently, without me knowing, they must have watched how quickly I devoured my cheeseburger and fries. I was lucky if I weighed 96 pounds in college. I looked anorexic, but everyone knew that wasn’t true, because I could inhale food and never excused myself afterwards to put my finger down my throat. I could eat and not gain an ounce. But, I never realized that I was a fast eater. I guess someone noticed it one day, and so then they set out to watch me every day. I had no idea they were watching me. Until they brought me a homemade trophy.
I guess I was in the running for “Fastest Food Guzzler,” a made up contest that no one knew they entered. There were three people that they were placing bets on who could eat the fastest. They timed each person, me included. They had to wait until we all had ordered the same food. Dear God, did they not have anything better to do than to watch people eat?
I guess I won. Um, thanks? They told me that they timed me over and over again and that no one came close to how fast I ate. They made me feel like I should be proud. I felt like a pig. Thank God I didn’t look like one. I was a skinny piglet.
The next year I was handed another homemade trophey. Oh, come on now! I was so humiliated by the eating time trial that I learned to slow down and not eat like I had two minutes to live. But, this wasn’t another eating contest. This was a different kind of contest.
Looks like five of the TKE boys took it upon themselves to watch girls on campus. They gathered information and got back with each other and came up with a list. And I was on their list. Just great. What the hell did I do now? And these weren’t even the same goobers who gave me the first one.
The words on the homemade trophy simply read: BBOC Vickie Mendenhall
They handed it to me with big smiles.
“Ok, guys. What is this? What does BBOC mean?” I was semi-pissed.
“You have the Best Butt On Campus.” And with that said, they smiled and walked away.
I guess the TKE brothers found the best lips, the best bust, the best hair, the best legs, the best smile, the best eyes, and the best butt on campus. And of all of the butts, they thought my butt was best.
I haven’t won much after that. I won a jar of jelly once while playing some grocery store bingo. I won a $2 scratch off lottery ticket. I won a lottery for jury duty, but was told that wasn’t a good thing. Damn.
So, yeah, I have fond memories of the Nickel, that wonderful student union on the campus of Fairmont State College. I learned how to play Spades, how to eat quickly, and I learned that I had the best butt on campus.
Too bad that honor wouldn’t make a difference at the end of the semester when grades came out.
I guess I could have said, “But, Mom, I won a contest. See the trophy?”
Yes, I loved the Nickel. College would have been so much more fun, however, if there weren’t any classes.
I don’t know about this grading scale crap. I think we need to all get together and decide on one scale that is uniform. I mean, in elementary school, if a kid gets a 64%, he gets a loser D. But, if he later enrolls at a particular college and gets a 64% because he is still a loser, but now a loser frat boy, then he will get an F. That is really going to confuse him. More than figuring out what is a vowel and what is a consonant.
Our grading scale at most elementary schools is as follows:
90-100=A
80-90=B
70-80=C
60-70=D
0-60=F
I often wondered why there is no E on the grading scale. My mom used to say that I should get an “E for effort.” That sure made me feel good. It’s about as good as my husband telling my daughter that, “College isn’t for everyone.” But, why skip a letter? There is no E, yet we have a sixty point range for F-ers. (F-ers…That made me laugh.) I’m wondering if F really does stand for “failure,” like I grew up thinking. They can’t use the E because kids would maybe get confused and think they were doing something “Excellent.” But, one could say the same for an “F.” It could mean “fantastic.”
When I was in high school, we had numbers for our grading scale. Brooke High was a pretty progressive school. The following is our numbers with the letter equivalents:
5=A
4=B
3=C
2=D
1=F
I bet some of you were confused. A lot of people think that a “1″ should mean ”You are number 1!” You would think that it would be on top. People wear a huge number 1 on their hand at football games. That’s a good thing. But, when you get a “1″ on a report card, that is bad. Life sucks.
Afterall, one is the loneliest number. It can be a loser number. Like when you go to a restaurant by yourself and they call your name. “Loser, party of one.” Ok, so I heard that at Dirty Dicks restaurant when I was at Myrtle Beach. Still makes me laugh.
I don’t think many high schools used this numeral formula. It was weird thinking in any terms but numbers. So, when I went off to college, and had to deal with letters and a different grading scale, I was confused, and pissed.
“Excuse me, Dr. StupidHead, but I should have received an A for British Lit. My average was a 92%.”
“Ms. Mendenhall, did you not read my syllables and general information at the beginning of the term? An “A” is 93%-100%.”
The hell you say? Well, hell no, I didn’t read your first day bullshit, Dr. Worm. I had sorority parties to attend. Don’t you professors know that we students have a lot on our plates? You should have just told us the first day of school. We don’t read what we absolutely do not have to read. You should know that, dammit.
Another thing that I just don’t know how I feel about is the whole A+ stuff. If a student gets a 100%, they would most likely get a big ole A+ on their paper. But, isn’t that for above and beyond. If you get a perfect paper, isn’t an A sufficient? I don’t give many pluses. Oh, I might if they have a 79%. I may give the student a C+, since it is oh so close to a B. But, I rarely give A+’s.
Some parents are quite concerned with grades. Maybe just a little too much. You have no idea how upset they get if their child gets a “B.”
“I don’t understand, because my Johnny has always received straight A’s. We just don’t understand why all of a sudden he is getting a B.”
My make believe Johnny is just an amalgam of all the students I have each year. Oh, most of the parents are wonderful. Their children are wonderful. But, I get a knot in my stomach when it is time for parent teacher conference, so I think I am going to change my grading scale just to mess with them. They will not be able to figure out if their child is doing well or not. They won’t be able to blame me for anything, because they will have no idea what the hell is going on.
I have reconfigured the grading scale to use with my fourth graders. I believe that hard work is the only way to truly judge how a child is doing in my classroom. So, he will be graded on effort.
E = Effort
If the child receives an E on his report card, it means that he is showing enough effort to receive an effort.
EE=enough effort
If the child receives an EE on his report card, it means that he is showing enough effort.
EM=Embryo effort
If the child receives an EM on his report card, it means that he is just learning a skill, and is still at this stage, while others may be at another level, depending on their birth date. If your child is younger than 50% of the class, his effort may be younger.
EL=Elastic effort
If the child receives an EL on his report card, it means that the effort is elastic. He moves ahead and he moves behind. He is showing an effort, even though it may be embryonically elastic.
EF=Effusive effort
If a child receives an EF on his report card, it means that his effort is effusing.
EMB=Embolism
If a child receives an EMB on his report card, it means that some obstacles stand in his way, yet through effort he may be able to work through the obstruction. The effort is effusing, through elasticized endeavors.
EA=Eager effort
If a child receives an EA on his report card, it means that he is very eager about his effort. His effort is effusingly eager.
After I give them a copy of the new rules, I think I will start off with a quote that they will be able to digest later when they get home. It is from one of the brightest men of our time, Mr. Dan Quayle:
“If we don’t succeed, we run the risk of failure”
Yeah, that should screw with them for a few hours. Another thing I could do is talk about their child’s poor poor grades, and then say, “Oh, wait a minute. I’ve got another student’s records. Ok, here are your son’s.” And so a couple of “B’s” won’t sound so bad, compared to the previous 2 “D’s” and the rest “C’s” loserville.
I had a huge argument years ago with a girl over our first names. It was while I was attending college, circa 1976. We were in a bar, so you know how drunken conversations can take an ugly turn. Especially when there is name calling.
I was standing in a crowded pub, creatively called, The Pub, minding my own business, when I heard someone yell, “Vickie!!” Well, since that is my name, I obviously looked to see who was calling for me. I had no idea who the person was, but I was on my second beer, so maybe it was my best friend. You first need to understand that I was what they call a “cheap date.” I would start giggling after only 1/2 of a beer, so it didn’t take much for me to become the self-proclaimed life of the party. If I had more than three beers, and a microphone was nearby, I would become a comedian. I hang my head in embarrassment now. But, on that night, I became a drunken trial attorney. I am sure that is the best kind of trial lawyer. I argued my drunken case to the point where I was ready to take the LSAT the very next day.
Well, another “Vickie” went over and hugged the person who was yelling my name. How cool! Another person with my name. I wonder if we are related. Ok, now you should understand by that comment that I may have had more than 1/2 beer. I guess the next day it would have made more sense if our LAST names were the same, duh. But, when she walked by me, I decided to say something.
“I heard him yell for you. My name is Vickie, too.”
Well, hell, I never personally knew anyone with my first name. I went to a high school with over 2,000 students, and not one of them was named Vickie. Oh wait. That’s a lie. I can now think of two right off the top of my head. Well, that night, I thought I was the only one in the universe who had that first name. I was so excited. She seemed excited, too. She answered me with a sweet smile.
“Cool. How do you spell your name? I spell mine V-I-C-K-I.”
“I spell mine V-I-C-K-I-E.”
“Why? That sounds stupid.” Obviously, she had more than 1/2 beer also. I was shocked that she could say that with a smile. And, also, how can the same name “sound” stupid? What an idiot. And to think she called me “stupid.” Well, she was stupider.
I had some hard ass sorority sisters nearby. I wasn’t afraid of this stranger who shared my name. I’d have backup. Let the name calling begin, Vicki bitch.
“Stupid? Your name looks like you forgot how to spell the rest of it, because you have no brain, and you just quit writing it. V-I-C-K-I is incomplete.”
“Vicki Lawrence spells it with just an “i”. Is that the best you got? It was my turn.
“Well, then, she is stupid. She is just a sidekick to Carol Burnett. She only got the job because she looked a little like Carol Burnett. If she spelled her name with an “e”, she would have her own show.” I thought that was a brilliant retort.
Well, once drunks get in a confrontation, it’s hard to tell where the conversation ends up. We bantered back and forth for a short while, but realized that there really isn’t too much of an argument, unless you get off topic. I could have easily commented on her poor choice of earth shoes and painter pants. She could have commented on how beautiful I was. Or something like that. But, luckily, we ran out of steam and started making fun of how the “other” Vickie’s/Vicki’s would spell their name. I started.
I asked her if she was ever called, “Picky Vicky.” I hated that name, mainly because, well, I was picky. It would make sense in an argument that since “picky” is spelled with a “y”, then the name should end that way. We both thought that was an ugly adaptation of our name.
Then there was M-I-C-K-E-Y, as in the mouse. Why wasn’t our name spelled like that? V-I-C-K-e-Y. Later on, my husband used to call me “Vickey Rooney,” after the actor, Mickey Rooney. We both thought that was wrong also.
After we hugged and laughed off our three minute round, she went off to dance on the table and I went home to pass out study, I woke up remembering why I hate for people to write anything but, V-I-C-K-I-E. The stupid nuns at the Sacred Heart of Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy were to blame. As I mentioned in several previous posts, I attended that private school for the first three grades, and hated every minute of it.
First of all, the crazy head nun, Sister Maria, insisted on calling me Victoria, despite my objections. I got in trouble for trying to correct her.
“Little girl, your correct name is Victoria. “Vickie” is a nickname……….I don’t care what your mom says. “Vickie” is short for Victoria.”
Well, ok, then, witch. I hated Sister Maria and I knew it is wrong to wish bad things on her, but I hoped bad things would happen to her. Not death, mind you. I was only in third grade. I was thinking more like her walking and simply falling down. Yep. I wanted to see the nun fall down. Besides being a teacher, Sister Maria also drove the van/bus to pick up some of the students in the morning. One morning, a driver hit the side of our van. It’s weird, but I looked to see if Sister Maria was hurt before I noticed I had a big gash through my leotards. Dammit, she was ok. The police came and they asked for all of the names of the passengers in the van. The next morning, there was a write-up in the newspaper. My name was listed as one of the injured.
“…….and Victoria Mendenhall, 9, of Weirton……”
Whaaat? It honestly pissed me off. My name was in the newspaper, and it wasn’t really my name. Sister Maria told them my name was Victoria. I never hated her more than when I read my misprint in the newspaper. She was never going to call me anything but Victoria. So, I decided to be a smart ass from then on. I started the very next day when I got on the bus.”
“Good morning, Victoria.” she said when I got on the stupid bus/van.
“Good morning, Sister Mary.” She didn’t say anything, but gave me a very dirty look. I was dead.
I called her Sister Mary for a few weeks, when suddenly, out of the blue, a miracle occurred. A miracle, I tell ya.
“Vickie, did you have a nice weekend?” I just nodded and went on my way. Wow. I did it! I got her to start calling me Vickie instead of Victoria. I felt so powerful.
It wasn’t until a year later, far far away from the Sacred Heart of Mary Juana Academy, safely enrolled in public school, that I heard my mom talking to a neighbor lady during their daily coffee/cigarette marathon. I had settled in my eavesdropping hiding place, ready to listen to some mom gossip.
“No, don’t send him there. My kids went there for a few years until last year. I had enough of the head nun, Sister Maria. Vickie was coming home in tears almost daily because Sister Maria kept calling her Victoria. I finally called the school and told her that I should know what I named my daughter, and if Vickie comes home one more time and tells me you have called her Victoria, I will pull my children from your school and I will make some phone calls about how you have treated my daughter. Do I make myself clear?”
Wow. My mom went on blabbing, but I had heard enough. I could feel the air leaking out of my balloon swelled head as I walked into my room.
Years later, before my freshman year in high school, my mom, brother, sister, bff Ramaine and I were in a terrible car accident. I had hit my head on the back seat after a Mack truck hit us from behind and we flew head-on into a car coming in the opposite direction. I had blood flowing from my head and from my ankle, but still managed to talk to the ambulance driver person. I’m sure it was the concussion talking.
“My name is Vickie. It is spelled V-I-C-K-I-E…… Do you think my name will be in the newspaper?”
glass Vickie balls
Fast forward many years. I have divorced and have just purchased a new townhome. I am feeling liberated. I took back my maiden name and the sound of it makes me feel independent and free. I am happy. But, as I look around at new purchases, I had to smile. I must like my name.
55 years old and I'm collecting blocks...um, ok.
In the end, one needs to feel comfortable in their own skin. They need to be proud of who they are and defend their name.
Literally.
Set your drink on these lovely monogrammed coasters
My family and my best friend’s family took a trip during the summer of 1972 to Acapulco, Mexico. We drove all the way there from Weirton, West Virginia. It was a blast. They were in their Station Wagon and we were in my mom’s boat of a Cadillac. Once we crossed the border into Mexico, we stayed in a roach infested motel room. Ramaine’s mom, Dora, wanted us to have a pajama party and stay up all night long. We knew it was because she was afraid that when we fell asleep, we would be subject to all creepy crawlers of the night. We thought it was fun.
Along the way, we stopped at an open air place that was supposed to be a burger joint. I was a little concerned about what kind of meat they served. While we were waiting to get our food, out of the blue a mother pig and her piglets waltzed through the outdoor restaurant. The baby pigs were adorable! They were right by our feet, squealing, and brushing against our legs as they ran around the tables. I just fell in love with the little piggies.
I believe I was 15 when we went to Mexico. On our way back from Acapulco, we stopped at several market places along the side of the road. I found a small paper mache pig. I smiled and just knew I had to have it. After our Mexican adventure was over and we were back in West Virginia, I started my pig collection. And I have been collecting things ever since. My first purchase, of course, was a piggy bank.
One day, when I was driving on a back road somewhere with the school’s driver’s ed teacher, I quickly put my foot on the brake, and yelled, “Pigs!!!” There was a pig farm right on the side of the road. Little piggies were running around and I fell in love all over again. I explained my love of the little porkers to the teacher, who just smiled, probably happy that I didn’t put the car in a ditch during my excitement. The next day he brought me a little plastic pig. “I stole it from my little boy’s toy farm.” I thought that was so sweet. I still have the little guy.
Now, when you are young, you can get away with having a bunch of crap in your bedroom. I used to have stuffed animals when I was little. As I got older, it was Barbie Dolls and Trolls. When I was a teenager, it was pigs. Where ever I went, I tried to find something with a pig on it. After a while, it was obvious that I really liked pigs. Even in college, I managed to find a pig poster. It wasn’t in the best of taste, but during the mid 70′s, this poster was very popular. (Makin Bacon) I hung it above our toilet in the apartment I shared with three others.
After I graduated from college, I looked around my “I’m an adult now” apartment, and realized that most of the pigs had to go. I gave away or threw away (sigh) most of my pigs. I only kept a few things. But, my love of all things piggy was too hard to get rid of altogether. I found an old “The Three Little Pigs” book in an antique shop, and decided, “Hey, what a cool collection that would be!” So I am on the look-out for those when I am antiquing.
In the end, I think everyone should collect something. My grandfather collected marbles. We used to go to his house, crack open the can that contained the round beauties, and shoot marbles on the carpet. They were so pretty. My grandmother enjoyed her National Geographics. I really didn’t consider magazines a collection, but she enjoyed them. My dad owned cameras. He was an amateur photographer, and had different kinds of camera. After he died, I was able to obtain a mini camera that he owned.
I collect a lot of things, ranging from duck decoys to swizzle sticks, from antique letter openers to cast iron banks. I’m a collector. As I was looking around my dining room/living room, I made a discovery. I’m still a pig hoarder.
My little piggy from Mexico
Well, talk about subconscious purchasing. I bought the lamp last month. As soon as I saw it, I had to have it. My son gave me the pig cutting board at Christmas.
I guess I’m a pig collector once again. I kind of like the little porkers.
Words are funny things. They continually evolve into synonyms that are substituted into our every day conversation, depending upon our mood. For example, I could say to you, “I really like that blouse you are wearing. It’s so pretty.” But, maybe some day, I wake up feeling especially creative and want to say, “I really like that blouse you are wearing. Groovy, man.” It really changes how you may look at me for one, but I meant the same thing. Aren’t we having fun?
So, last night when I was getting sick, and wondering if it was from the pizza I ate or an actual stomach virus, I thought to myself, “I hope I don’t get sick.” That was not creative at all. There are synonyms for “getting sick.” I looked at an online dictionary and found some substitutes. For those of you who are quite literal, the following words are use to discribe of how one may eject the contents of the stomach through the mouth:
blow lunch
puke
blow groceries
Ralph
Yak
heave
hug the toilet
hurl
lose your lunch
retch
spew
throw up
vomit
spit up
be sick
toss one’s cookies
cough up
Those are all good I guess. The most important thing is to actually say one of those phrases on your way to the bathroom. Don’t just sit there. ( My children) My favorite word for getting sick is “upchuck.” My mom used to use that phrase when she would turn around in the car and see a skinny green-faced girl with her hand out the window. “Vickie, are you going to upchuck?” They usually had a bucket in the backseat for their pukey daughter, but it wasn’t there this trip and the usual breathing in and out and my fingers getting frost-bit wasn’t working. (Which by the way, putting your fingers out of the window DOES help. I asked a doctor. A real doctor.) My then husband used to tell me it was all in my head. “Uh, now it is in the backseat, Goober head.”
Upchuck….It reminds me of college.
So, I started thinking about all of the times I have thrown up. I have a lot of throw up stories. Like the time I was in a crowded bar (like sardine crowded) and a girl asked me if there was something in the back of her hair. I looked. And I vomited right on the back of her blouse. She had chunky vomit all in the back of her long brown hair. It was decorated with beef. Well, that’s what it looked like to me, and I promptly vomited to add insult to injury. So, my answer to her was quite literal. “Yesssss.” And then I ran. Which is hard to do when you are a sardine. I felt horrible, but I figured she had to leave anyways because, well, she had beef in her hair.
I had a weak stomach, and other times I was a rock. A rock. I could be the drunk friend who would hold your long hair back and talk to you while you threw up in the toilet after a night of drinking swamp water. I’d even describe what was coming up. “Did you have pizza tonight, Paula?” Stuff like that. I could do that after drinking swamp water. But usually, if I would see someone vomit, I would have to join the party and upchuck too.
Ok, I am sure you are sitting there, reading this post with an expression that cannot be mimicked, right? Well, I’m almost done. Two years ago, our fourth graders put on a Christmas show and we were practicing in my room. A girl threw up. Oh, she just didn’t throw up. It was jet propulsion all over the place. Chunks of ……lunch, which I do believe beef was involved. The janitor was called and it took him awhile to come into the room because he didn’t know what a mop was. By the time he got there, two kids had run to the bathroom to get sick. The bathroom was across the hall and you could hear them throwing up. Which made two more run to the bathroom. I was proud of myself. I breathed through my mouth and trudged on to save the lives of my little upchucking students. The smell was unbearable.
The janitor came in and started slurping the vomit all around with his mop. The kids that had come back in from getting sick, ran right back to the bathroom to throw up again. I then had them sit out in the hall. Some kept thinking about it and running back to the bathroom. It was vomit chaos. It took more than an hour to get rid of the smell. I was sooo proud of myself for keeping my lunch down. Until a student spoke up.
“Ms. Mendenhall, you have something on your shoe.”
It was a piece of the flying beef, just sitting there, smiling at me, like it was saying, “You know you want to throw up.”
OR
It was a piece of the flying beef, just sitting there, smiling at me, like it was saying, “You know you want to upchuck.”
Rusty was the first car I owned. She was a yellow Toyoto Celica with a lot of rust around the edges. Hence, the name, “Rusty.” My parents weren’t rich by any means, but I always wondered how my dad could own two Mercedes Benz, my mom drove a Cadillac, and yet they brought home an old rusty car for me. I didn’t complain. I loved her and immediately talked to her like she was one of the family. “I’m taking Rusty tonight.”
Not Rusty..but it was yellow..
A
At the time, freshmen in college were not allowed to keep cars at the dorm. You had to have a pretty good excuse and run it by one of the Fairmont State officials to get that approved. I was allowed to bring a car to school because my dad had a heart attack and was scheduled for open heart surgery. A triple by-pass. Since my mom couldn’t keep driving the two hours to pick me up and drive me back done, she petitioned the college and I was allowed to keep my car at school. Which was sooo much fun.
Rusty took us to the armory parking lot where I drank my first sloe gin. I couldn’t say “sloe gin” for weeks after that because I got so sick on it. We weren’t allowed to have alcohol on campus, so what better place than an army parking lot, hiding my car behind a huge army tank. You have to wonder about our intelligence back then.
Rusty was not fond of being left out in the cold, however. I soon learned that I had to unscrew the lid to the carburetor (hard word to spell) and open the choke with a pencil while I started the car. Every cold day I had to do this. I didn’t have a scraper, so I used my driver’s license or gas card to scrape the ice off of her windows so she could see. Poor Rusty was not doing so well.
I didn’t really take care of what the inside of my car looked like. There were books and papers and coke cups lying about. It wasn’t filthy. It just wasn’t immaculate. It all came to a head one hot summer day when I got into the car and moisture or something was dripping all over me. The seats were damp. Brown specks were on the window. Well, brown specks were ALL over the inside of the car. What the hell?
Well, that’s what happens when you leave cans of Coke in a hot car. The cans exploded. I mean EXPLODED. It was a hot, sticky mess. Poor Rusty needed a douche. And that’s exactly what I said. I was so strange to utter outloud that a car needed a douche. It was awful cleaning the inside of that car. I did pull it into the garage so it would be a bit cooler. I sure learned my lesson. I was never going to keep old food or drinks in my car again.
The next week my car mysteriously vanished for a week. My parents gave me no explanation, except that it was at the mechanics. When she came back, she was beautiful. All of her rust was gone. She was extrememly clean on the inside, because I guess my mom said I did a “half-ass” job on the Coke clean-up. She was so pretty. (Not my mom, the car.) I just had to give her a middle name….Bouffant.
Little did I know that they had her all gussied up because they promptly sold her. I don’t know why. I was then given my grandmother’s old ugly car to drive around in. She was put in a nursing home because she was old..and nuts, and Dad let me use the car. I backed that car into a pole one night. Well, the pole was in a concrete barracade or something and I had a car full of girls, and backed right into it. I think we all had whiplash. I blamed it on the car, not my driving.
I had Rusty for almost three years. My parents gave my brother grandma’s car (after it came back from the repair shop), and they bought me a brand new Astre. It had a white interior. What were they thinking? I did try to keep that car clean. One night, during a full moon, some idiot came through an intersection and drove right into the back of my car when it was just sitting there, parked, minding its own business, and then left. It was a complete loss. We followed the oil or gas trail and the police were able to find the person who did it. Seems it was the local AAA owner’s daughter. So much for my new Astre. I bought a Nova with whatever money I had from the insurance and thats what I had when I got married in 1983. We even took our honeymoon in that old car. Such is life.
So, name your car. Love it and take care of it. Don’t leave Coke cans in the backseat on a hot summer day. Don’t mention the word “douche” when talking about a car, because your friends will wonder if they want to be your friend.
Because some day you just may be writing about how much you loved that car…. or why you feel uneasy during a full moon.
My daughter and I are flying to New York City to tour the campus of NYU and check out the neighborhoods. She will be starting grad school in the fall and will be living off campus. I have a feeling that we are going to be walking around like chickens with our heads cut off. So, I am screaming HELP from my fellow bloggers.
I have been looking at maps of the area around NYU and that’s all I have been doing..looking at maps. I see places such as SOHO and Chelsea and Union Square. I see Grenwich Village west, but wait, there is also Grenwich Village East. She thinks that with a roommate, her rent should only be around $1,000.00. I told her she is living in a dream world.
I do know that she doesn’t want a long commute. I have read about areas such as Bay Ridge, Park Slope, Carroll Gardens, and Cobble Hill? Where the hell are they? I found Brooklyn, but it looks all the way over there. How will we know what is too far a way from NYU?
So, dear bloggers, we are heading there in a few days. What areas have safe apartments with a walking distance to restaurants and NYU.? She won’t have a car, and doesn’t ever want a car. I guess that means she always wants to be a city girl. We are stopping by the NYU student housing to look at off campus areas, but I need advice, input, pros and cons to certain areas. Places to stay away from. We are staying in Chelsea, so we will be walking around that area after we get in.
Any suggestions and advice will be greatly appreciated. Thank you.
When I was little, I would eat ketchup sandwiches when I didn’t like what we were having. This was after, of course, I had to play by my mother’s rules.
“Vickie, eat your dinner……………peas are good for you……….yes they are…………they are not mushy………..Vickie, eat your dinner…….I don’t know why they aren’t orange like carrots……It doesn’t matter, eat your dinner…………..Vickie, quit lining the peas up on your knife………..Ok, they are all over the floor now……Vickie, the dog is nowhere near you. She did not bump into you. You had them on your knife…….Because I have been watching you not eat your dinner……….Ok, you know what, no Blue Bird meeting for you tonight…”
Yeah, whatever. I can’t tell you how many times I was sent to my room for not eating what was on my plate. I usually hid my peas in my glass of milk. I would drink most of it and then drop peas down in the milk. You could actually hide a lot of peas in milk. I was hungry, but not for awful food like green beans or peas, or yams. I’m not much of a vegetable eater. I like green peppers, raw carrots, and I love potatoes. So, when my mom would forget that she had sent me to my room, I would meander into the kitchen and fix myself a ketchup sandwich. My dad would usually be in the kitchen later, finding something to snack on. His tastes were weird. He would have a sliced tomato sandwich, with a bunch of salt and pepper on it. I guess that would be in the same family as a ketchup sandwich.
My mom usually knew when I made a ketchup sandwich, mainly because I used a knife to get the ketchup flowing. I didn’t leave things so neat. I was a kid. There was nothing worse than being on the lam and having to wait for the ketchup to come out of the bottle. So, I used a knife. You were supposed to hit your two fingers on the neck of the bottle, but I didn’t have time. I was supposed to be banished to my room. Heinz was a little late on the development of the squeeze bottle for me.
And since I was quite the picky one, it had to be Heinz ketchup. I could tell the difference in ketchup’s a mile away. Heinz ketchup on Wonder bread.
When I was in college, one of my roommates would build a sandwich, and right before putting the piece of bread on top and calling it a day, would layer potato chips on it and then sort of smash the bread down on the whole sandwich. Weird. I would just look at her while I ate my ketchup sandwich. People eat the weirdest things, I thought.
Fast forward years later, and my little girl won’t even try a ketchup sandwich. What was wrong with her? These things are delicious. She is 23 now, and still hates ketchup or any condiment, for that matter. She must have been switched at birth or something. I can’t even imagine eating french fries without ketchup. That’s not American. When I eat a hot dog, as much as I like hot dog sauce, I would just choose ketchup over the sauce any day.
The only time I ever wrote a company to complain is the day I wrote to Heinz to ask them what the hell they were thinking with putting GREEN ketchup on our table. Green ketchup. Why don’t you just make black cotton candy while you’re at it. It was just so wrong.
”Dear Heinz people,
Seriously? Green ketchup? What the hell were you thinking?
Sincerely,
Vickie Mendenhall
I really did write to the company. Because, in the end, who wants to eat Ghostbuster slime on their hot dogs or hamburgers? It reminded me on an infection….on a bun. (She shudders).
So, I haven’t had a ketchup sandwich since about 1978. I haven’t had a ketchup bun since 1985.
I don’t know why skunks get such a bad rap. They are my favorite animal, next to squirrels. I think people need to embrace the skunk. And I will tell you why.
Skunks, even though a member of the weasel family, are not weasely (Yes, weasely). They aren’t sneaky or mean. They go about their business, foraging for larvae, insects, mice, and fruit. They don’t disrupt. People should be happy to have a mice-chewing skunk outside their home.
The reason people don’t like skunks is not because they are ugly. Look at these pictures. Skunks are beautiful. Even more so up close. They really have it going on. They have long black fur and white stripes. They have adorable little feet. I mean, if you can get by the initial realization that there is a skunk in front of you, take a look at their feet before it sprays you. Adorable.
Other animals have embraced the skunk. Cats have been known to accept orphaned baby skunks as their own. Cats and skunks get along. The cat on Pepe le Pew didn’t want anything to do with Pepe, but it was the 60′s and people weren’t so open to inter-racial couples back then. But, in reality, other animals hang with the skunk.
This is obviously not Stinky and PoopyButt.
I had a skunk named Stinky (who I will talk about later) who hung out with an opposum named Poopy Butt. They foraged for food together. They were together for several years, coming nightly to eat at my kitchen nook door. I sat out cat food for our outside cat that we really didn’t have. So, now we know that cats and opposums like skunks. So, why can’t people?
Dogs even want to be skunks
No, the reason people don’t care for skunks is because of their smell. I personally like their smell. I knew someone who liked the smell of gasoline a little too much and well, let’s just say her elevator doesn’t go to the top floor if you know what I mean. So, embrace the skunky smell. It’s a fine fragrant.
Skunks only spray when they feel scared or threatened. If you slowly make friends with a skunk like I did, you will be fine. Skunks are great marksmen. They can hit a mark from a distance of 9 feet, sometimes up to 12. So, make sure you take out a measuring tape when you go outside to visit a skunk. By the way, they have enough ammunition to fire about six times in a row before needing some time to re-load. They are like a little black and white Uzi.
Skunks give warning. When they see you, they don’t immediately spray you. That would be rude. No, they tap their adorable little feet. That’s warning #1. If you are still standing too close to them and are too stupid to heed the warning, they give you another chance. Their tail goes up in the air. Sometimes they will even put their legs up in the air. Like in this video. If you are still stupid after these warnings, you deserve to be sprayed.
When I was in college I purchased a skunk from Kmart. I swear I did. They sold skunks in the Weirton WV store in the mid seventies. I bought it for $35 during the summer before I went back to school. I named him Thumper. My mom was quite happy.
“Vickie….Dear God, you are holding a skunk…….Vickie, Kmart does not sell skunks…….No, they don’t.” So, she called Kmart because she didn’t believe me. I don’t know why. “Vickie, you’re taking it back to school with you, right?……………You can’t keep it here….It will attack Cricket.” Cricket was my little white dog. While she was saying that, I had put Thumper down, and Cricket came over to smell him. Instant connection. eHarmony circa 1975.
My dad spoke up. I almost fell over. My dad never spoke back to my mom. He was Wally Cox with Ronald Reagan’s voice. “I’ll take care of the skunk while you are in school.” My mom shot him a look, like “How dare you speak.”
So, Thumper slept all day, like skunks do, and kept Cricket up all night. The dog was exhausted. Thumper went to the bathroom in the kitty litter box, but also enjoyed digging in my mom’s many potted plants she had littered around the family room. Well, that’s what vacuum cleaners are for. Cleaning. My dad LOVED Thumper. Probably because my mom hated the poor little thing so much. I would sometimes walk into the family room and Thumper would be curled up, sleeping on my dad’s lap. He would just look up and smile. When I went back to school in the fall and when my dad wasn’t looking, Mom sold Thumper. Witch. Not only did she sell Thumper, she sold him for $40 and told me she was keeping the $5 to buy more potting soil for her plants. Wicked witch.
Fast forward many years and I made friends with Stinky. We could open the kitchen door and yell his name, and he would come
This is Stinky
running. For a peanut. We even got him to step into our kitchen. We loved Stinky. He was like part of the family. One night, during the huge March snowstorm we had in the early 90′s, Stinky showed up in the newly plowed drive-way, bloody and disoriented. Someone had hit Stinky. He was badly injured. I begged Jay to put him out of his misery. We buried Stinky out on the ridge, under the grand daddy hickory tree, next to Chuck the hamster and Sweetheart the Squirrel. I cried for days.
So, people, if you see a skunk in your yard, he may help you out by munching on mice that would otherwise try to enter your home and eat your cereal and poop in your corners. Mice don’t poop in the middle of the floor, everyone knows this. But, skunks don’t mind when you haven’t taken a shower. So, don’t get grossed out with the smell. It’s not a bad smell.
In the end, skunks have a place in our lives. I can’t wait to move to a place that is near the woods and a creek (prounounced crik in my world), so I can start feeding wildlife again.
Happy Valentine's Day
And I hope to find something stinky in my backyard.
After watching the video of the rat running amok on a subway train, it made me a bit nostaligic.
It took me back to my college days. The year I lived in a dump. I lived across the street from the college in a house that was divided into two apartments. I lived in the top story with my two roommates, Kathy and Ann. The apartment had three bedrooms, a kitchen and a bathroom. There was no living room. When you walked into the house, you had to walk up the steps. There was a “wall” right beside the stairs, that cut off the downstairs apartment. It honestly just looked like a sheet of ply wood or cheap paneling nailed somewhere to look like a wall. You could press on it and it would move.
The downstairs apartment was vacant, I believe. I think the landlady’s son stayed there once in a while, but we never hear anything coming from that apartment. Oh, there was noise, but it wasn’t from a human. Although, if you saw the her creepy son, you would probably wonder.
One night soon after we moved in, and I was all finished painting over the hot pink walls in my room, I heard Kathy scream. Seems that when she walked into the hall from her room to go into the kitchen, there was a rat sitting on the kitchen table. Well, isn’t that special?
Now, you probably know by now if you have been reading along that I love animals. I think the only thing that really bother me are cockroaches and flies. Flies leave little maggot babies behind and cockroaches=dirty home. Well, that’s what my mom instilled in me. When I was married, we had an ant problem every year. There would be a line of ants coming from the fireplace, across the carpet, into the kitchen, and picking up crumbs on the floor to take back for their ant feast.
So, knowing there was a rat on our kitchen table was not good. If I lived in a really nice home, I wouldn’t be so grossed out. I know that makes no sense, but this rat was a college sewer-lovin smelly infectious rat. But, I still didn’t want to set a trap to kill it. I told my roommates there was no way I wanted to put out poison, because it would just eat it, die under one of our beds and then its smelly corpse would ferment and make us sick. The place was a dump. I am sure there were dead things throughout the house. Ann scrubbed the kitchen table. I looked at her and said, “Maybe he sleeps in your bed while you are in class.” She changed her sheets and in the morning I saw where she had the bed made up so tightly, an army sargeant would have been proud. Her bedroom door was shut. I laughed because, she also put a couple of towels in front of the door to keep Templeton out. (Yes, I named him Templeton after the rat in Charlotte’s Web.)
We called our landlord, but sometimes she would pretend she didn’t understand English. She was Italian and personally came on the first of the month to collect from us. She reminded me of a gypsy. Not that I had seen any, but that’s what she reminded me of. We told her of the rat problem and she said that there were no rats in any of her rental units. “I have no rats.” she simply said, snatching our checks on the way out.
Well, it was up to us. I came up with an idea. We knew that the rat had run down the stairs when Kathy screamed. So, it had to come from between the paneling and the stairs. So, brain here thought that if we put food at the bottom of the steps that the rat would eat it, get full, and then go to sleep and not come upstairs. That made such sense.
Well, the only thing we really had in the apartment that evening was bread and potatoes. So, we put about 3 pieces of bread and one potato on the bottom of the staircase and went to bed. I was the first one up in the morning, and rushed to the top of the stairs. Uh Oh. Borrowing a quote from the movie, Jaws, I yelled out, “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” (Jaws came out in 1975, so that was a very popular line for a long time afterwards. My rat experience took place in 1978.)
The three pieces of bread AND the potato were gone. That was a big potato. The first thing I thought of was that there are either more than one rat, or if he doesn’t like the potato, the whole place is going to smell like rotten potatoes. We had to think up another idea. While we were thinking, I believe several more bread and poatoto nights went by. I think Kathy added some Bugles one night. Everything was always gone in the morning.
Enter my new boyfriend, (then later husband), Jay. He told me that his sister has a great mouser, named, Sam, who happened to be the biggest bad-ass cat in the county. He thought that he would bring Sam down, let him stay a few nights in the apartment, and see if he could catch the rat. Sam was big and menacing and looked like the proverbial alley cat.
Well, that night, I heard Sam meowing. He was sitting on the stairs, looking down between the wall and the staircase. He knew where the rat was coming from. Smart bad-ass cat. I couldn’t wait to see if he would catch the rat.
Well, better be specific when you wish for something. I woke up and that cat was sleeping right beside me. Awwww. I know he was probably had fleas and rat chunks on his claws, but he looked so cute sleeping with me. We never had cats when I was growing up. Just dogs. Seeing Sam sleeping snug up against me made me want to keep him.
Sam must have liked me too. Because he brought me a present.
The rat on the cat
Under his arm was the dead rat. I’m not sure, but I think Sam had been chewing a bit on its head.
As a teacher, I encourage my fourth graders to write in their journal every morning. I don’t grade it. I don’t even look in it. I want them to be able to write without fear of spelling something wrong or writing, “we was gonna go”, or something that makes me normally cringe. They can write a poem or tell what they did the last evening, or what they ate for dinner. They can even draw a little picture with the journal entry if they want to. I just want them to write.
I also buy a nice journal to give out at the end of each nine-week grading period to the student who gets the most tickets. I hand out tickets for everything: winning the spelling game, Sparkle, random acts of kindness, winning math relays or for complimenting how nice their teacher looks that day. That will earn major brownie points. I like to buy a journal, because I would like them to want to write in a journal at home. My own children had journals and they still have them. They take them out and read them occasionally when they want a good laugh. Luckily, mine are long gone. Oh, but I remember a lot of what I wrote.
I don’t remember how old I was for sure, but my diary (now known by the word, journal, so boys could write it in too), held all kinds of secrets. Mine had a little key that locked up the diary so my brother and sister could not read that I was writing about them. I hid the key in a secure location. I had a little jewelry box that had a ballerina on top of it. Inside, I hid the key under the velvet lining at the bottom. No, wait. That’s what the girl did in Silence of the Lambs. No, wait, I did that first. Maybe many girls hid their key there. I thought it was a brilliant place.
I remember finding my old diary one weekend when I was home from college and I was astonished. First, I couldn’t get over how pretty my handwriting was compared to how it was in college. I mean, it wasn’t gorgeous. My best friend, Ramaine, had the best penmanship of anyone in the whole school. It had such flair. Secondly, I couldn’t believe the lies I wrote. I wrote lies in a DIARY that no one else was ever going to read. I mean, who does that?
It was only two entries, but I will remember it for the rest of my life. I don’t remember writing it. It went something like this.
“Day, Date (can’t remember) I can’t wait till Friday! My dad is taking us to see the Monkees! It’s in Pittsburgh. We will get to ride through the tunnels. I can’t hold my breath like everyone else because Mom says when I was born my lungs were too young so she had to flick at the bottom of my feet to make me cry. But I will try. I LOVE you, Davy Jones.!!
Maybe it wasn't a lie....
Day, Date- We got to see the Monkees!!!!! We sat up front and Peter Tork (his real name is Torkelson, you know) waved at me. They sang so many songs. I am playing Last Train to Clarksville right now when I am writing this. I love the Monkees!”
What a weird child. I do remember asking my dad if he would take us to see the Monkees if they came to town. You have to understand that when I was very very young, I thought that the people singing in the radio were actually singing at “WEIR 1430 on your dial.” I had seen a picture of people doing a radio show and thought even singers did that. I was so green. Had so much to learn.
We never went to see the Monkees. Unless of course, I have amnesia. That could be it. For the love of God, who lies in their own diary? Why, that would be the skinny little loser girl with the Twiggy haircut wearing the lovely peddle-pushers.
I had this lunchbox. I was so...special.
Well, it is true that I loved the Monkees. I had all of their albums, and all the Monkee stuff little girls would buy. I remember Ramaine and I found white bell bottom pants that had the pictures of the Monkees’ heads all over the pants. And we thought we were “really tough”, which back then meant, “drop-dead gorgeous.”
My love affair and my lies with the Monkees ended when I became a teenager and I didn’t fall in love with a famous person again until 1978. That’s when I went to see Animal House and fell in love with Tim Matheson. I was a senior in college by then, and interested in “real” guys, thank God, so Mr. Matheson would have to wait until I was divorced and in my 50′s to fall in love with him once again. Some women say Johnny Depp, some say Leonardo Dicaprio or George Clooney. I say Tim Matheson.
I threw away my little diary with the lock and key that day I came home from college. I wished that I would have just ripped those particular pages out and kept the diary. It had a lot of interesting things about the 1960′s in it.
And would have given me so many things to blog about 44 years later.
By the way, I am meeting Tim Matheson for dinner in Pittsburgh this weekend. I may even try holding my breath when I go through the tunnel. You believe me, right?
I used to go roller skating every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday when I was in junior high. I was pretty good, if I may say so myself. So, when a group of us went ice-skating for the first time when we were in high school, I knew I would be Peggy Fleming on ice.
Now, you have to understand that I hate the cold. I was called “Bluey” when I was little because as soon as I spent any time outside in the cold, my lips turned blue. It really looked like my mom decided that blue lipstick looked good on a 5-year old. Not that I would put that past her. So, when someone suggested ice-skating, I knew I had to bundle up and risk being called “Bluey” all day. I wore my Ali McGraw hat, and had a long scarf wrapped around my neck.
I laced up my skates and I was ready! While most of my friends were baby-stepping it around the perimeter, learning the basics of the art of ice-skating, I shot out toward the middle of the rink. I was a show-off and today would be no different. I immediately started wobbling. Whoa! That blade on the bottom of my feet is making me wobble. Damn blade. Why the hell can’t they have two blades so I don’t wobble? Uh Oh….Something is not right. Well, hell, this isn’t like roller skating at all. Right when I thought that, I knew I was going to fall. Oh, it wasn’t a quick wipe-out. It was one of those contort-your-body-trying-not-to-fall falls. I believe someone said I looked “retarded.” Of course, that is politically incorrect these days, but back then, I was retarded on a daily basis.
I barely made it back. I basically walked on the sides of my skates. Which is painful. And made me earn the moniker, “Retard”, for the day. But I got back. Shit, this isn’t easy. I watched people glide by and some were even skating backwards. I felt so inadequate. My friend, Teri, who could skate, offered to take me around. But, then again, maybe she couldn’t skate, but anyone with a pulse could have skated better than me that day. Even blue-lipped penguins. This was not going to be good for Teri. She had long hair. Like down to her waist. Well, we all had long hair, but Teri’s was also wavy and thick, so it looked like something I could grab if I fell. And I did think of that before we went out on the ice. She also had a scarf, so I thought I would try this screwed up leisure activity once more.
I held her hand, and I waddle-skated. Hell, I was a blue-lipped penguin. I didn’t make it very far, when I felt that “Uh Oh….” moment once again. I was struggling. The Contorted Contessa…I was going down. Hey, might as well take Teri with me. Well, I didn’t want her to get hurt or anything, I just didn’t want to get hurt. So, I grabbed at the first thing as I was going down. It happened to be her scarf.
Well, I somehow went down in a split. It was a perfect split. I yanked on Teri’s scarf as I was splitting. We laid on the ice, laughing hysterically. Each time we tried to get up, we fell back down. I could not quit laughing. I don’t know how many times we tried. She finally decided to save herself, but I wouldn’t let her. I was a scarf magnet. I grabbed at that damn scarf to save my life. I guess I should use the word, “yank.” I was a damn yankie. (hahaha..)
Well, Teri and I crawled to the side. At first she was in front of me, but I wouldn’t let go of her scarf, despite being called all kind of terrible names through her laughing. I guess she felt like she was on a leash, so she crawled beside me. We made it to the side, and I unlaced my skates, and I was done.
I had only been there for 10 minutes.
Fast forward to about 1981. My boyfriend, (future husband, future ex-husband) took me ice skating with another couple. Great, just great. Well, Magoo couldn’t roller skate. He had never went ice-skating before. We all know he couldn’t drive.I warned him about my previous encounter with the ice. But, the idiot put his skates on and went right out on the ice. He never even did a test drive. I on the other hand, ended up in the middle of the rink by myself. Magoo knew to keep away from me, I guess. Some boyfriend he was. I was on my own this skating day. I fell. I cursed. Decided to crawl over to the side of the rink like I did years before. This time I guy who was skating by me, baby stepping it, and somehow got too close, and ran over my scarf. Well, when he did, it somehow got caught on something and the scarf yanked at my neck. I yanked back, because remember, I was a damn yankie. The guy went down.
Luckily, he wasn’t hurt. He told me he couldn’t skate and that “this is f*&^* up!” I couldn’t phrase it any better. We decided to crawl over to the side together. I took off my skates and decided never to go ice-skating ever again.
I recently found a picture of my roommate and great friend, Jeri, and myself that was taken in 1976. Or maybe 1977. We were either at the beach or we had just come home. Our faces were peeling and we looked quite ugly. So, what do you do when you are looking ugly? Of course, you put “scarf on head” and head to the mall. We headed right to the photo booth to capture our beauty for all to see. We looked like lepers. I bet neither of us knew that 30+ years later, one of us would be posting our mugs on facebook.
The “scarf on head” look was very popular on our college campus during the 1970′s. I’m pretty sure that it was like that everywhere. We didn’t wear silky scarves. That would have been silly. And we didn’t tie them in front like a babushka. That was saved for Russian women and Queen Elizabeth.
a British babushka
No, we wore hankerchief scarves. We had one of every color known to man, because we wore them all of the time. We used the phrase, “scarf on head,” in our daily conversations. “Wanna go to the mall?” …..”Sure, I’m scarf on head, though.”
We wore scarf on head for one reason and one reason only. We were lazy. And sometimes hungover. We would go out in our small college town several times a week. We really only had two bars to frequent: The Pub and the Cabaret. We never went out at night in our scarves. We were looking good in our painter pants and our Earth shoes. We needed “pretty hair” for our nights out. But, in the morning, when class was calling and we slept in until the last possible moment, the only thing you could do was wear “scarf on head.”
I remember one time when we defiantly wore “scarf on head.” We were in Sigma Sigma Sigma, a sorority on campus and we had meetings about every Sunday evening. One evening, we found out that the president of the sorority at the time, who was not fond of most of us, scheduled a portrait sitting and neglected to tell us. I guess she wanted us to show up looking rough around the edges, while she and her three bff’s wore dresses and looked divine for the picture. Someone tipped us off, so about 8 of us showed up with “scarf on head.” We knew princess would never let the picture be taken unless we were going to stomp grapes or something, but not for a yearbook and framed photograph. The scarfies won.
I miss the days when I could get up, brush my teeth, throw scarf on head and go to class. And then take your shower when you got back from class. What dirt balls we were. I sometimes can not believe that I ever practiced that, because if I don’t take my shower by 9:00a.m., I fell like my skin is crawling. But, hey,it was the 70′s. And that, seriously, is all we have to say.
“It was the 70′s.” A little phrase that has so many meanings. It was a great time.
My dad was a realtor and was always off showing a house. I remember one time he put a picture of one of his houses for sale in the paper and received numerous calls, mainly because it was a photo of the house next door to the one he was supposed to sell. He just chuckled, but when the rightful owners called him and demanded an apology and another apology printed in the newspaper, my dad blamed it on his assistant and promised that he would promptly fire him right away because of his ineptness. Poor assistant. Poor, Poor INVISIBLE assistant. And that’s where I learned how to lie. I learned by example.
I told several pretty big lies over the course of my lifetime. The first one had to do with a visit to one of my dad’s client’s home. They were living in Florida over the winter, and my dad was checking on the home to make sure the pipes hadn’t burst. Mom and the three of us were sitting in the car with the car running, and Cheryl was getting fussy and I was getting fidgety. I’m not sure, but I think I was about 7 when this happened. So, anyway, I opened the door and said, “Oh, look, a fish pond.” So, without permission, the three of us got out of the car, and ran over the frozen ground to the fish pond. My mom didn’t care. She was smoking a cigarette and looking straight ahead, exhaling those rings of second hand smoke and wishing her last film wasn’t such a flop. (Oh wait, sorry. That was the real Joan Crawford..my bad.)
It was very, very cold outside, and some of us were bundled up pretty good. When we got to the fish pond, we could see that it was just a small brick-like pond, frozen over, and you could see the fish underneath. They looked like huge goldfish. Oh my God, how can they breathe? I must save them! I took the heal of my foot and tried to break the ice so they could come up for air. The ice was hard (duh) and seemed pretty thick. Hmmmm….must be thick enough to walk on. For a second I forgot about saving fish and entered “Adventure mode” and stepped on the ice. How cool is this. Took another step, standing there with my hands on my hips like I just discovered The South Pole…and the ice broke. And down through the ice I fell. Uh Oh…
The only thing I really remember is that it was so very cold. My coat was floating on top of the water all around me, because I was the only one who really wasn’t buttoned up. The water was child hip high. Well, at least I saved the fish from not being able to breathe. I may have been standing on one, but at that point in time, I only cared about myself. “MOM!!!” “David, get Mom.” My dad heard me screaming and got to me before my nicotine-stained mother. “Oh my God! Vickie! What happened?” And my reply shocked one family member. “David pushed me!”
Poor David. My dad scooped me up and ran with me to the car. They took off my wet clothes and it seemed like everyone gave me a piece of their clothing to put on for the drive home. (We were about an hour away from home.) I couldn’t look at David, but I he was crying before we even got back to the car. “Mom, I did NOT push her. She stepped on the ice.” Attila the Liar-”Mommmm, I did not. I was standing there and asked how the fish could live under ice, and David just pushed me!!” David cried all the way home. Mom smacked him several times on the butt as soon as we got out of the car and told him to go to his room. Cheryl didn’t say a word. She could have saved him, but she didn’t. David was a gentle, kind, kid. She had to share a room with me. I knew she wouldn’t squeal.
I knew I was going to get a whipping for stepping on the ice, so I lied. Anytime I thought that creepy hand was coming for me, I lied. I was a liar. My lies got grander as I got older. I told many lies in college, mainly to excuse my abscences. Like the one where I fell out of a second story window into the bushes. Or the one (I’m going to hell for this one) where my sister was hit by a school bus and I had to run home every time her conditioned changed. But there was one in particular, that stands out among the others.
I majored in Speech Communication and Drama. If you weren’t in a play, you had to help behind the scenes. The play we were putting on was called, “Our Town.” I was on the costumes crew and the old suits they used smelled like mothballs, and old man. I didn’t know what an old man was supposed to smell like, but this was not a good smell. I had to sew buttons on some of the old suits. That was my job for then. I didn’t like that job, but feared what they had in store for me next. So, I sewed buttons on the suits, cut them off, and re-sewed them. There were so many people doing soo many different things, they had no clue that I was just sitting on my butt, sewing over and over again.
In the middle of preparing for the next play, I was asked to go see Billy Joel in concert. The guy who asked me went to a neighboring college and was hot. Gus was his name. (Gus was later on named the Happiest Guy in the whole United States and was a guest on the Daily Show a couple of years ago. Happy guy that Gus.) Anyway, I told him I would go, despite the fact that the play’s opening night was the same night, and it was mandatory attendance.
So, I began my big lie. I was also in a class that the director taught, so I was around her a lot. She was an older woman, and all business. She lived, ate and breathed theater. The first day of my big lie, I was very quiet. (That in of itself, is weird.) She asked if I was ok. Yes, I was fine, just a little tired. Acted the same way at play practice that night. The next day at play practice I mentioned to a cast mate that I didn’t really feel like talking, because I was getting a nasty sore throat. (Made sure I made the comment close to the director.) By the end of the 2nd week, I was tired, my neck was on fire, I had a excruciating sore throat, but would never go home from class or play practice. “I’ll be ok. I need to keep sewing.” Said with a minor laugh. What a trooper, I was. I even had blisters in the back of my throat and swollen glands all around my neck. She was quite impressed with me. The night before the mandatory opening night, I told the director I was going to go home that weekend to get tested for mono. She sent me home that night. Boy, was I a great little actress. The worst part was that she felt my forehead, told me I was burning up and to go home. A fever? Wow, I was good!
Well, things do come back around to bite you in the butt. Gus took me to the Billy Joel Concert. On the way home, we stopped at the Holiday Inn for a drink. The place was packed and the disco music was blaring. Gus was gone for a while and when he came back with drinks, guess who was with him? No, silly, not the director.
It was Billy Joel.
He sat with Gus and I for almost an hour. At the Holiday Inn. In little Fairmont, West Virginia. It was great. He was talking about other singers he liked and disliked and it was amazing. And no one bothered him or asked for his autograph. I don’t think that anyone else in that bar went to the concert, because he was incognito and having a great time talking to Gus and I. What a night!
I went home and realized I couldn’t tell anyone. Not a soul. I mean, I did, but swore my roommates to secret. But, I realized that my lie kept me from telling my peers about my amazing experience. If the director found out, I would have been on her shit-list. I had 2 more years to go and she really liked me because of my strong work ethic. I couldn’t let her down!
But then again, if it weren’t for the lie, how would I have gotten to have drinks with Billy Joel? I would have been sitting behind the curtain, handing out smelly old man suits.
My lie was my first acting gig. I really did have a severe case of mono in high school and knew how to build on it. I did good. When I took Acting 101 the next semester, I received so-so remarks on my one-act performance. Our peers always commented on each other’s performance. One peer said to me, “I don’t feel that you put much into developing your character for this role.” The hell you say.
Actually, I thought, I research my roles in quite detail. It’s called method acting, weird-O. If they only knew that I pulled the wool over the whole cast and director, they would be asking me for acting advice. Well, I liked to think that. I was polite, but gave her one of my ornery, liar smiles.
Latch hooking. So easy I could do it.
ebay photo
I mean, who wouldn’t want a Mrs. Doubtfire latched rug?
t-shirt latch hooking. 
Not too shabby.
