The Field Trip

For those of you who are regular readers, you know I suffered and still suffer from extreme motion sickness. My stories about my parents placing a bucket in the backseat of the car for me were plenty. My brother and sister had to freeze while I had the window rolled down just enough so my bony little fingers could feel the cold. That made me feel better for some reason.

As I got older, I had to add “traveling on the school bus” to my car sickness agenda. It was not fun. I got sick on the bus almost every day. I threw up on our bus driver, who was a nun. Well, I didn’t throw up directly on her, I was able to make a direct hit on her sensible shoes while she was shifting gears on the pretend bus van. When I switched to a public school in fourth grade (after debating with a nun why God was a meanie because of the whole Noah’s Ark situation for most of third grade), I got to sit with my best friend, Ramaine.

Ramaine would let people know when I was about to get sick. It happened at least twice a week on the way home. Our bus driver liked the bus to be toasty toasty on his afternoon run for some reason. My gurgling stomach couldn’t stomach the heat and the swaying of the top heavy bus around corners. So, Ramaine would yell out, “Raise your feet!!!”  We had a good system. I would throw up, the bus would be going up or down a hill, and the kids could raise their feet before it got to them. It’s gross, but since I didn’t eat much but had to drink a lot of water because of my dysfunctional kidneys, it was just a liquid venue.

So, as I got older, I couldn’t ride in the back seat. That explains why I didn’t date much, I guess. I couldn’t ride many of the amusement rides at Kennywood Park. I couldn’t float on a raft in a pool. And when I had children, I couldn’t chaperone on any of their field trips…. And that killed me.

Oh, sure, I followed the bus on some of the trips. But, I always wanted to be a chaperone. I wanted to watch how my children interacted with others, and be able to slap the ones who were mean to them. Ok, I would never have done that part. But, I do have a look that is like a slap. So, for many years I was able to avoid traveling on a bus until I got a teaching job.

When you teach, you wear many hats. You are a counselor, a nurse, a principal, a banker, and a field trip coordinator. I had been able to skirt the whole field trip for awhile. This year the class was going to the Pittsburgh Zoo. I love the zoo and decided I would try it. After all, I have taken the bus from JFK airport to Penn Station several times with no issues. I’ve been on Amtrak and have flown several times. I have plans to take a long train ride into the Canadian Rockies this summer. Surely, I can take half of a Dramamine and go on a two hour trip to the zoo. My daughter didn’t think so.

“Mom, you know you are going to get sick. Why are you doing this?”

Yeah, why am I doing this? Well, I think I can handle it for some reason. I don’t think I’m that little scrawny Pukey Vickie anymore. It turns out, I was right. I did great on the bus. I made one fatal (ok not exactly what I would call fatal) mistake, though: I told my class I had to sit in the front and wouldn’t be able to turn around. What the hell is wrong with you, Vickie?

I thought I had it all worked out. I had six chaperones from my class for fourteen students. How easy this would be! With two classes, we were going to have twelve adults on board for 28 students. We loaded the buses with the chaperones scattered throughout. I had previously talked with my class about bus behavior and the fact that they would not be allowed to eat, drink, or chew gum on the way up or the way back. (I was surely not going to perform the Heimlich while the bus was moving. Not gonna happen.) I repeated the rules because that’s just how we are this year. I also told the kids to show respect towards the chaperones and not run away from them.

So, we loaded the bus and after a head count and quick repetition of the rules…once again..we were ready to close the doors. So, we were off. I was prepared in case I got sick. I sat in the front so I could look watch the road. Plus, I took half of a Dramamine.

The rest of the trip up wasn’t too bad. No one got sick, so life was good.

I think the kids had a great time at the zoo. The other fourth grade teacher and I did not put any kids with us. We weren’t about to do that to ourselves. So, after arriving 40 minutes late, we ate, and then began visiting the exhibits. During the day, parents who had driven up behind the bus signed their children out. Four less children would be on the bus on the way home.

I do have to mention that some time during the day, one of my girls ran up to me with a stuffed animal skunk. She bought it for me because my favorite animal is the skunk. I was at a loss of words. I hugged her and knew she spent way too much on me.

So, we loaded the bus for the ride home, which took forever and I had one of my girls sit with me on the way home because she was feeling ill on the bus. Her forehead was quite warm. She slept most of the way home…until she woke up and puked.

Luckily, for me, I know the signs. I was able to grab my zip lock bag out of my bag when she woke up. I had that feeling.  I didn’t have time to get the trash bag out of the zip lock, so I just opened up the zip lock. She managed to get 50% in the bag, and 50% on her pants and all over my hands. The other teacher was handing me paper towels left and right.

When we got out of the bus, the little girls grandmother collected her quickly, and I went into the school to wash my hands.

Some things never change. Well, except this time we didn’t have to raise our feet.

Reform This

Map of West Virginia counties (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The governor of West Virginia, Earl Ray Tomlin, introduced Senate Bill 359, an educational reform bill, which will be voted on soon. Teachers have given the bill a big, fat F, which in my opinion has nothing to do with reform.

Reform- to amend or improve by change of form or removal of fault or abuses.

I’m not going to go into each point of the bill, only to say that it is a slap in the face to all educators in the state of West Virginia. You know, teachers in the Mountain state make one of the lowest salaries in the nation. Many teachers head east to work outside the state borders to garner higher wages. But, in the end, teachers are working the best they can, despite the obstacles that are coming directly from the higher ups.

Obstacles, you say? Absolutely. Someone a few years ago had decided teachers need to test more.  I give a beginning Math and Reading test at the beginning of the year. I give Benchmark tests twice a year in four subjects and the students have two online writing tests to get ready for the big one in March. The Westest is held in May. Now, mind you, this is on top of the tests I give weekly in Social Studies, Reading, Spelling, and Science. I also have to give end of the year tests.

I would just rather teach.

I’m 56 years old and I think I received a pretty good education when I was young. We memorized our multiplication tables. We learned our state capitals,  had spelling bees, and wrote and presented book reports. It was all about Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic. We grew up fine. Some of my peers did better than fine.

 Ok, this was before my time….but we had those desks.

But, something along the way changed. Someone has decided that to exist in the 21st century, we must bathe our children in technology or they will surely die.  So, in the elementary setting we are testing, and we are teaching technology….on top of Handwriting, Math, Spelling, Grammar, Reading, Science, Social Studies, and Health. And we are doing this in crowded classrooms.

If you want to reform, let’s first take a  look at teacher/student ratio.

The governor wants to require early childhood education programs to be made available five days a week for the full day; allowing program to be for fewer than five days per week and less than full day under certain circumstances.

I don’t understand this. This is not the reform that we need. Before adding new programs, we need to address the teacher/student ratio in k-2. Class size should be limited to no more than 16 students and the curriculum should be restricted.  Let me explain:

Years ago, there were a lot of two-parent households. A lot of the moms did not work outside the home. Someone was there to make sure students did their homework, and were more hands-on. Now, I’m not saying that a lot of people don’t still do that. Of course they do. But, for the most part, it is fact that the divorce numbers are much higher than they were years ago. Even without divorce, economics force both parents to work. Some single parent households need help. Grandparents are raising many of the children. Many children come from homes where abuse is a way of life. Drug use is more prevalant than it was years ago. Some children go to bed hungry. Yes, I realize that has also happened in the past, but in the end, the classroom is now a home- away- from- home for a lot of children.

I have fifteen students this year in my fourth grade classroom. Last year I had twenty-one. Six less students makes a world of difference.  And those teachers with twenty-five and twenty-six students are overwhelmed. I know my students. I can look at one and know she is not feeling well because I know her so well. I send her to the office to get her temperature taken…101.6. I smile and give her a hug as she leaves to go home. I know not to give much homework because it is an unfair advantage to the several who are lucky to have a piece of notebook paper or pencil at their homes. No one goes through their backpacks at night. No one helps them practice their multiplication table. My mom drilled me nightly when I was in third grade. I knew them when I went to fourth grade. Some students in general just have no clue. Some children have behavioral issues. Some are learning disabled. Some have attention deficit problems. This is not the same mix of students that I went to school with, but yet, nothing has changed in the way of class size.

So, I teach time management skills in the classroom and basically let them do some homework during class time. This only seems fair to those who aren’t lucky enough to have help at home. Sure, in the end, fourth graders can learn to do their homework on their own, but they need guidance and direction..but sadly,  a few are not receiving it at home. They are allowed to sit and kill things while playing their video games. And I know a majority of the boys do this. I ask these things…. Technology at its finest. When I was young we had three channels on tv and the World Book Encyclopedia as our internet. We honestly didn’t have much to do but our homework on school nights.

When you shove many children into a classroom, something is lost. So, let’s begin our educational reform by taking a look at teacher/student ratio. I know you won’t, because that would mean hiring new teachers. It’s bad enough that the governor wants to hire anyone with a bachelor’s degree to enter the classroom.  You are going to be opening a can of worms if this hiring practice is passed, however. It will change the scope of teacher education in this state forever.

I know some of you will not agree with me on this next point, but I think technology is making us stupider. (Yes, I realize that is not a word.)

“The fog of information can drive out knowledge.”

Don’t get me wrong. I think technology in the classroom is great. I use it in some form every day. If we are studying volcanoes, I have a volcano simulator waiting on one of the computers. I have a penguin cam up some days. There are many, many internet sites that are extremely beneficial. That’s not what I am talking about.

The state of West Virginia implemented a program called Tech Steps. All students from kindergarten on must complete about six assignments. In my opinion, this program should not be used in the elementary school setting. Why do elementary school children need a technology component when we should be concentrating on core subjects? If you want our test scores to rise, don’t inundate us with work that can wait until fifth or sixth grade. You are making us waste precious time. Do third graders really need to learn how to use a spreadsheet? Sure, we are in a different world now, where computers and technology are at our every turn. I get it.  I think it has merit in junior high, but not in the early grades where everything depends on them learning the basics so they can go on to the next year and build on that.

In the end, it is not the same as it was. We are forced to test too much when we should be teaching. We are forced to teach more children in our classroom than is beneficial to their educational growth. We are forced to teach technology, when in fact, we should review our multiplication one more time instead of completing yet another techsteps assignment that will have no bearing on other important educational milestones, such as defining words, rounding numbers, and correcting a run-on sentence. K-2 teachers should be teaching a limited curriculum, plain and simple.

There are only so many minutes in a day for an elementary school teacher. We have to teach Spelling, Social Studies, Science, Math, Reading, Grammar, handwriting, and Health. We are also referees, bankers, counselors, and health inspectors.

So, Senate Education committee people, there you have it; the rambling of a fourth grade teacher.  If you truly want an educational reform in West Virginia, start with kindergarten and give those teachers a small class size. We teach with kids squished into our classrooms because that’s the way you want it. We test and test and test to make sure we are testing because that’s what we have to do. We teach technology subjects that the wee ones should not have to be introduced to until an older age. We do all this because you told us to. If something is broken, it’s not with the teachers. It is with the system. Please be careful with every point of our governor’s education reform bill. It needs to be chewed up and digested to see if it sits well with teachers. Take us in consideration instead of pointing fingers at us. Because after all,

 You can lead a student to the test, but you can’t make him pass it.

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Enjoy this story? Jumping in Mud Puddles is now an ebook  that you can download on your Kindle. Don’t have a Kindle? No problem. Amazon will let you download their Kindle app FREE…Yes, free.  Have a look see.    My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.

Jumping in Mud Puddles: A Memoir of a Picky, Hyper, Big Fat Liar

Teachers Live at the School

When I was young, I was shocked when I first saw my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Garrity, at my church. The Mendenhall family went to Sunday school every Sunday, but went next door to Isaly’s afterwards instead of going to church. The Mendenhall kids were “too much to deal with.” And that would have been true. So, we would head upstairs for Easter and Christmas service only and call it a day.

Well, I never paid much attention to people who sat in the pews. I was a kid…with a pencil and small notepad. I wrote notes or doodled. I was mainly a doodler. My sister liked to take off her shoes and show me the hole in her socks. I think she wore the same damn pair of white anklets to church every Sunday. She never took her shoes off during Sunday school class, only when we had to sit during the long long service upstairs.

So, imagine my surprise when I saw Mrs. Garrity sitting one row ahead of me, diagonally across the pew. Damn, what the hell is she doing in my church? She’s a teacher. It was Easter Sunday, so I figured she was able to leave the school to attend church.

That same year I saw Mrs. Tucci, the sixth grade teacher, trying on  shoes at Marlinn’s shoe store. I stared at her for the longest time when we came in to buy a brand new pair of penny loafers. I hid from her, which is hard to do in a small store. I was shocked. She never wore slacks, but there she sat, with her foot up in the air, letting some stranger put a shoe on her foot. How weird.

The reason I even remembered this is because I saw a third grader at Walmart the other day. She is in the classroom across the hall from me and I see her every day. But, she was with a sibling and they were at the top of the aisle staring at me. I heard, “There’s Miss Mendenhall.” I didn’t turn around immediately, but when I did, they took off. I had to laugh. It was the “Dear God, a teacher has been let out of the school” syndrome. Because, as everyone knows, teachers live at the school.

I wonder why kids look at teachers with surprise if they see them out anywhere. And their behavior is peculiar. They can’t be themselves. It is always a strain to talk to kids that I see out and about. They stare at what I am wearing. You know they are going to go home and tell their friends that they saw me and I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt and Dear God, my hair was back in a ponytail. I wish they would pay that much attention to detail in the classroom.

I had a cold last week and took a Kleenex out and blew my nose. Apparently, teachers don’t do that in front of the students. “Are you ok?’ one asked. Um, yes, I just  have a cold, but thank you for asking. They continued to stare at me. One girl pointed at my Coke and asked, “Do you go through Hardees every morning?” Um, yes I do.

“But, it isn’t near the school.”

“I live near Hardees.”

“You dooooo?” What? They couldn’t understand.

And that’s because teachers live at the school.

Beepo and Geepo, The African Frogs

I admire teachers who have little class pets in their classroom. Well, not really. But, you have to give them some credit for the extra duty contract they take on by hosting live things in their classroom. Someone has to feed them every day. Someone has to change their habitat. And there are benefits. Some children do not have the opportunity to own a pet. And they  could, after all, save your life one day, like the little ferret in Kindergarten Cop did. He was hiding in a student’s jacket, and jumped out and bit the bad guy. The little fellow saved the entire school. You know it could happen.

As I walk down the hall each morning, I can see the little habitrails for Mrs. Karr’s hamsters. I don’t know what else she has in her room. I am sure her second graders appreciate having furry little fun. Further on, I can smell the African frog in Mrs. Arthur’s room. She couldn’t find the lttle hopper one morning. An all-points bulletin was put out for him. I have been feeling sorry for the frog for a year or two now. It just sits in a small aquarium, just hanging there, with its face above water. Poor thing. The whole room smells like algae water. Until last week, she finally changed it.

She changed the water and filled it up too high. Somehow overnight, the frog  got out of the aquarium via a small hole at the top of the container lid and made a run for it. Well, it made a hop for it. She was shocked. She thought that he should be found dead near the container. I thought for sure it floundered or hopped somewhere in her classroom. The kids would surely find the froggy, dead and covered in dust bunnies. I am positive the frog commited suicide. I mean, if I was that frog, I would have made a hop for it long ago.

It made me think back to Beepo and Geepo. I had always owned weird animals.  I had a salamander named Newt. Thumper the skunk joined our household when I was in college. I had Igor the iguana between my hamster Growl Bear and my Guinea pig, Quincy Bozo. I’m surprised my roommates didn’t frown upon the new additions I brought home with me throughout the years. Especially Beepo and Geepo.

Beepo and Geepo were African frogs that I bought when I was in high school. I think I was in high school. My bff Ramaine and I bought them on the same day. I had them forever. One day Beepo died. Or maybe it was Geepo. It was hard to tell them apart. They weren’t wearing collars. They must have been identical twins. My roommate, Paula, started complaining about Beepo/Geepo  chirping every night.

“Vickie, your damn toad is chirping. He chirps all night long.”

“Oh, he does not. He is under water. Frogs can’t chirp.” I imagined that maybe he could “blurp.” But, chirp, oh hell no.  I also wanted to remind her that there is a difference between a frog and a toad. Get it right, Miss Fairmont State beauty queen.

Well, I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and heard a cricket chirping. Well, I’ll be. Beepo/Geepo was chirping.  Aww, he was crying out for his mate. I felt awful for him. So, I made sure that I tapped his glass and paid more attention to him, which is a little hard to do.

I honestly don’t remember how long Beepo/Geepo lived after that. They can live for a long time. Ramaine’s frog lived forever and grew to be the size of a…..baby bullfrog.

So, as I applauded when they found Mrs. Arthur’s African frog alive, I also felt sorry for it. It just hangs there in the water all freaking day…in greenish water with a fake plant nearby. Her class takes turns feeding it and well, that’s all you can do with an African frog. I’m thinking it needs a friend. I’m going to bring that up at the next Faculty Senate meeting. Ok, I sure as hell will not, but dammit, I can’t stand walking by it every day and I know it is lonely. And it makes me think of Beepo and Geepo, circa 1976.

I know that you are probably wondering if I also have class animals in my room, and the answer would be, “Oh, hell yeah.” I have spiders and other crawling things that the kids scream when they see one by their desks. I rescue it with a sheet of notebook paper and put it back on the windowsill. I would not have a class animal because I would not teach. I would be watching that damn rodent going around and around in its wheel. The kids would not be listening to a damn thing I said. I was not attentive when I was a child, so I am sure I would be distracted by a hamster biting at the metal bars trying to get the hell out.

I remember two years ago getting ready to step out into the hall when I noticed something near my feet. Mrs. Arthur also had a damn hermit crab in her classroom that escaped somehow and was walking down the hall. She let the kids decorate its shell, so I could see the shiny sequins as it clawed its way to me. I remember sitting down at lunch, saying, “I almost stepped on Diana’s goddamn hermit crab this morning.”  See, it was trying to get the hell out of that classroom. Her gerbil, Digger, escaped for days last year. There is a pattern going on here. I’m thinking pets don’t want to be in Mrs. Arthur’s room and they are planning and executing prison breaks.

I do have a pet panda.  I put the Panda Cam from the San Diego Zoo on one of the computers so they can  watch the new baby panda. I told them that this was our class pet. They don’t see to have a problem with that at all.

I think about my African frog pets a lot, only because of……….Lonely, the one across the hall. I just named him.

It sure as hell isn’t Lucky.

The Dumb Row

I remember being so nervous when I started fourth grade. I had spent my first three years of school at a private school in Wintersville, Ohio, that was run by a coven of sadistic nuns. (Notice that “coven” actually means “a group of witches.”) I did that on purpose. I hated going to that school.  I begged my mom about every day to let me attend Edgewood, our local public school. I was so excited when I found out I was going to switch schools in the fall.

“ Vickie, we are going to let you go to school with your friends this year.”

I loved how she said, “we.”  My dad had no say in the matter. My mom was a rolling pin wife and my dad was Wally Cox. He had no spine when it came to her. He hid behind his newspaper and made faces at her when she wasn’t looking.  Oh, how I loved him. She would yell at him and he would just take it. Then, he would hop on his little red tractor to cut the grass, and run over her flower bed. And he would look over at me and smile. He knew he was going to get yelled at.

So, back to me. I couldn’t wait to attend school with my bff, Ramaine. We could ride the bus together and sit by each other in class and everything was peachy keen. Well, except that it wasn’t. I had Miss Emler.

Aunt Bee (Frances Bavier) in her kitchen and apron, from “The Mayberry Chef.” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Miss Melvina Emler. I honestly do not remember much about her. When I think of her, I picture Aunt Bee from The Andy Griffith Show, but she looked nothing like her. And she definitely didn’t act like her. I just spent three years at the Little Jesus Baby Immaculate Conception, a school with nuns. Oh, not just any common nuns, if there even is such a thing.I’m talking about the evil kind. I wanted to come to Edgewood and see balloons and unicorns and lollipop gardens. Instead, I saw the Dumb Row.

I’ve briefly mentioned Ms. Emler’s Dumb Row before, but it made me think of it yesterday when day-dreaming how wonderful it would be to have a marine standing beside one of my fourth graders to help them listen to my directions so they don’t repeatedly ask a hundred times a day “So, what are we supposed to do?”  I frowned though, at remembering Ms. Emler’s Dumb Row. I really tried hard not to be placed in that row for stupid kids.

When I entered the classroom that first day of public school, I was a happy child. I was with my best friend and all the neighbor girls that I hung out with after school and throughout the summers. This was going to be great. But, also remember that I was as hyper as Speedy Gonzales on speed. My mom tried to minimize that by slipping me a mild tranquilizer every morning before school and disguised it as a “car sick pill.” Thanks, Mom. Did it help? I have no idea, but I think that it may. It didn’t help with my car sickness, however. I had no idea that I was being tranquilized every morning. Who does that to a child? My mom.

Anyway, I had my hyper moments, I am sure, but seemed to do well in fourth grade. I stared at that Dumb Row sign daily and never wanted to stit there.The row was never empty. It was one of those old row of oak desks that were connected to each other and bolted to the floor.  There were three boys who sat in the Dumb Row almost every day: Nickey, Bert, and Joe. I changed their names so they won’t get pissed it they read their names here. The chances are slim.

These boys lived in the Dumb Row. Years ago, teachers got away with that crap. You could grab a kid by the arm, drag him to a Dumb Row, and then smack the shit out of him. I don’t remember any smacking, but I remember plenty of talking down to students because, well, I was one of those. Ms. Emler apparently thought I was a wise-guy one day and put my ass in the Dumb Row.

It’s amazing how you can remember something that happened when you were in fourth grade but can’t remember what you did fifteen minutes ago. I can vividly recall the first day Ms. Emler put me in the Dumb Row. We were going over our homework for Spelling. We had to write sentences, using each of our spelling words. We were studying compound words at the time.  She would say each spelling word, and then pick a student to read the sentence we had for that word.

“Cardboard…..Vickie, read the sentence you have for cardboard.” She stood right in front of me, holding her teacher’s manual to her chest. I would gladly read my sentence, for I was quite creative in my sentence formations.

” I live in a cardboard box.”

I don’t know why she just stared at me. Didn’t she hear me? She must not have. I read it again, this time with feeling. “I live in a cardboard box.” I think I may have sounded like a flaming gay guy the second time. The students laughed. Ms. Emler did not.

“What kind of sentence is that?” Ms. Emler slammed her teacher’s manual on my desk. What the hell.

“Um…..it’s a ……………….declarative sentence?”  I didn’t know what she expected from me. I had my homework. I wrote complete sentences. I answered her question correctly. What the hell.

“Vickie, you do not live in a cardboard box! I have been to your house. That sentence is absolutely ridiculous! Go sit in the Dumb Row!

Corrugated shipping container, one type of “cardboard box” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I had never seen Ms. Emler so mad. The only thing I could think of was that she must live in a cardboard box somewhere and the subject was a little touchy. But, that couldn’t be true. Oh, sure, she wore the same five dresses every week, but where would she hang them if she lived in a cardboard box?  They don’t have closets. I didn’t get it.

I quietly stood up and glanced over at the empty seat waiting for me in the Dumb Row. I’ve always had this thing about inanimate objects, and I really think that row of seats was happy I was going to sit there for a while. I saw the sign on the first desk, announcing the row. The three goof ball boys looked shocked, which is better, I guess, than the blank look that sat on their face most days.

I burst into tears. I didn’t understand why I had to go sit in the Dumb Row. Dori and Kathleen smiled at each other. They thought it was highly amusing that I was going to sit in the Dumb Row. I stuck my tongue out at them and then continued on with the crying. Not good, Vickie.

Miss Emler thought I was sticking my tongue out at her, behind her back.

“Ok, you can just sit there all week, Vickie. You don’t live in a cardboard box and you should never disrespect a teacher.”

I didn’t understand that last part. How can you disrespect a teacher for crying and walking over to the Dumb Row?  I wrote a goddamn complete sentence. I skipped a line. I used my best penmanship. I even underlined the spelling word like we were supposed to. Why can’t I live in a cardboard box? I didn’t understand.

So, I sat and cried all week in the Dumb Row. Every time I looked at Miss Emler I saw Sister Dominica from the Jesus Mary and Joey Immaculate Academy.

And so when I broke out of my daydream, I looked over at my fourth grader who asks for directions immediately after I give directions and write the directions on the board. It happens a zillion times a day. It’s tiring. But, I don’t want to be a Miss Emler. I don’t want to be a mean teacher. I am not allowed to have a Dumb Row.

So, I went over the directions yet another time. I will try not to lose my mind.

I will hire a marine.

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Jumping in Mud Puddles: A Memoir of a Picky, Hyper, Big Fat Liar

Que Hora Es? Es La Una!

I learned Spanish when I was in first through third grades. It’s always fun to throw in a new language when you are still trying to figure out what the hell a vowel and a consonant are in English. Honestly, though, the earlier you learn a foreign language, the longer it sticks in your head.  I learned Espanol when I was incarcerated in my early grades at the Immaculate Conception Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy.

I have mentioned over and over how much I hated attending that private school. I will never forget my first day of school and coming face to face with Sister Dominica. In my book, Jumping in Mud Puddles (shameless plug), I lovingly describe Sister Donkey:

“…so I opened the door and stepped outside. I must have walked back and forth the length of the car twenty or twenty-one times before that bus pulled up. Shit. Are you kidding me?  It wasn’t a bus at all. It was an ugly blue van. And when that ugly blue pretend bus pulled up that first day of school and opened its door, out jumped a freaking nun. A nun was driving the pretend bus! She introduced herself as Sister Dominica, and she was the bus driver and a teacher at the Blessed Baby Jesus and Mary Conception Academy.

   “I had never seen a nun before in real life. My mom tried to explain where I was going and who I would have for my teachers, but I couldn’t get past the fact I couldn’t see this Sister Dominica’s hair. Did she have hair? If she had hair, what color was it? Was that cardboardy white thing pinching her underneath her chin? I reluctantly got into the van and waved goodbye to my mother from my seat. She was standing there with her hand over her mouth. Shit. Thanks, Mom. This was not going to be good.”

And it wasn’t good. I think I was the only one who wasn’t brainwashed. The other kids seemed really happy to be there. Dear God, I was in Stepford. That’s the only explanation for this parade of smiles and unicorns I could come up with. The only thing I liked about the whole damn experience was the time I sat in Spanish class. Of course, Oompah Loompah Sister Dominica was the teacher, but her whole “I’m a bitch nun, don’t even piss me off” persona was left at the door when she taught Spanish. It was so much fun.

We were in school for a few weeks before we were told we would also be learning Spanish. I was going to love this. Ok, there is one tiny thing I didn’t like about Spanish class. On the first day of school, Sister Dominica pulled down a map of South America and pointed with a long stick, which I think was a yardstick instead of one of those white sticks real teachers use. She told us all about her coming all the way from……Peru? (I don’t know, I wasn’t listening) and how she learned to speak English just like we were now learning Spanish. I had a question.

“Vickie, no, the capital of Peru is pronounced LEE MAH………Yes it is……………..Yes it is………..Vickie, I can tell you for a fact that it is pronounced like that. I lived there for many years……..No, it is not where lima beans come from because it is not the same thing…………..Because it is not…………………It’s LEE MAH, Vickie…………………….That’s enough. Please quit asking questions.”

Well, hell, aren’t you supposed to ask questions in school? Sure, I could sit there like Hansel, the kid who wore suspenders every day. He was dead. He never moved. He looked straight ahead and that was about it. I threw a piece of rolled up paper at him one time, and the damn kid never flinched. Someone should take his pulse. If I had my mom’s bright pink lipstick, I would have put lipstick on him. How fun that would have been. But, anyway, I thought my LEE MAH/Lima question was pertinent. Sister Dominica had the patience of a saint. Oh wait. They are patient. She was no saint.

Sister Dominica pulled the map down on the second day of spanish class and reminded us about her being from South America and asked us what country she was from. Duh. But, oh my god, Hansel raised is hand. I almost fell out of my freaking chair.

“You are from Peru.”   Hansel was alive!  Dear god I had witnessed a miracle! It was like Kathryn Kuhlman, American faith healer and evangelist, had just performed one of her healings. “Heal!”  My mouth dropped open. Thank god he didn’t answer that question while wearing pink lipstick. I just smiled at him. I was going to make him my best school friend. I’d have to find out some day what his real name was. I was so glad he was alive.

Sister Dominica brought down that damn map of South American almost every day of the week. Ok, we get it, Senorita Dominica. Let’s learn some more words. And we did. We first were given spanish names. I didn’t really understand this part, but I went along with it. People were picking great spanish names like Pedro, Paco, Chico, and Miguel for the boys. The girls were choosing Anita, Benita, Bonita, and Lupita. I was seeing a pattern emerging with the names for the girls ending with -ita. Mine was going to end that way also.

“Your turn, Vickie. What is going to be your spanish name for the year?……………..No, you can’t have Vickita……….No, that is not even a name………….No, it is not………………….No, it is not……………….Do you know of one person whose name is Vickita?…………………..No, that is a Chiquita banana, not Vickita…………………….Ok, if you can’t choose one on your own, I will give you one. Your new name is Rosita.”

And with that remark, she wrote it down in her book and I was pissed. I mean, like shoot red lazers out of my eyes pissed. I was goddamn Rosita from LEE MAH.

Ok, so the map and my name and having Sister Donkey as my teacher were the only thing I hated about spanish class. The rest was just awesome. I learned to count in spanish: uno dos tres cuatro cinco seis siesta ocho nueve diez. Sister Dominica always corrected me with numbero 7, but I wanted to be a comedian and say siesta instead of siete. She had enough of me. But, guess what? Hansel/aka Paco laughed out loud. Oh yes, Paco was my new best school friend.

Pretty soon I was speaking fluent spanish. Ok, I wasn’t, but I thought I was. I was learning new words every day:

perro- dog

gato- cat

por favor- please

gracias- thank you

bueno- good

stupido-stupid

Aprende a conducir aweonao!!- Learn to drive asshole!

Baboso-retard

Kieta el stupido elephante- Shut up you stupid elephant

Tu eres más feo que el culo de un mono- You are uglier than the butt of a monkey

Tirate a un poso- throw yourself in a hole

and my favorite,  Las monjas no se puede enseñar- Nuns can’t teach.

Ok, so I may have just learned colors and numbers and places on my body that first year of spanish. But, it was fun.

And years later, I still know that Lima (LEE MAH) is the capital of Peru…..home of sister Donkey. AND, I just found out that lima beans really did come from Peru. So, who is the smart one, now, Sister Dominica? Not you. So, next time you have LEE MAH beans, pronounce them as they were intended to be pronounced. And you will be looking like the smart one. Really.

  Aargh, I’m a pirate.

Wipe Out

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.

We didn’t get anything done that day.

Chicken Scratch

My grandma Orpha had chicken scratch handwriting. Well, that’s what my mom called it.

“I can’t read this recipe…Crazy chicken scratch.”

I didn’t know what that really meant at the time. My mom was always speaking in tongue. I visualized a chicken scratching in the dirt on a farm. So, I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. The only thing I cared about was getting my hands on those molasses cookies. If my mom didn’t know how to read, I was going to have to settle for Nilla wafers. Life was so unfair.

It wasn’t until I was older that I really took a look at my grandmother’s penmanship. It really sucked. It looked like she wrote a recipe down on an index card while she was riding on a roller coaster. And that visual made me laugh out loud. Grandma on a roller coaster. Writing down a recipe. I still have the recipe for “rheumatism medicine” which included whiskey. Yeah, grandma would so ride on a roller coaster.

I really tried to have nice penmanship when I was little. I really did. But, it was ugly. I know that because Sister Maria told me so.

“Vickie, that’s a very ugly capital V. You would think it would be pretty since it begins your first name.”

I really really hoped that she would trip over that outfit she wore every day. I hated going to that private school. The Immaculate Heart of Mary Academy just ruined my attempts at pretty penmanship. The letter “V” can not be pretty. It is just not pretty. An “L” is a pretty letter.

I was happy when I was able to transfer to public school. But, Miss Emler wasn’t much better. She told me all of my letters were made correctly, but they weren’t pretty. Come on, people. I’m a teacher, and I would never tell a student their handwriting was not pretty. I tell them it sucks. Ok, just kidding.

Plus, my bestest friend, Ramaine, had the prettiest handwriting in the whole world. It was, and still is, beautiful. Her dad was an artist, and she inherited his wonderful artistic genes. If ever I write a children’s book, I would want her to be my illustrator.

So, yeah, I never won a penmanship award or medal. And as I grew older, I realized that my handwriting was ugly. It was boring and ugly. So, I doodled in high school, making fancy letters in the margins of my papers. I was practicing, perfecting the art of ugly penmanship.

Years passed and when it was time to get married, I decided to address all of my invitations in calligraphy. Yep. I bought a calligraphy pen and learned how to print fancy-like. There were 350 people invited to the wedding, and I don’t remember how many envelopes I addressed.

Sister Maria, who art in heaven by this time, wasn’t invited. I should have sent one to the convent so the other old nuns who were still there would marvel over how little Vickie turned out ok, handwriting wise.

So, yeah, my handwriting growth was stunted because of a nun’s opinion. What the hell do nuns know anyways? Who said they should be teachers?

That would be like ….letting a jockey be a veterinarian.

In the end, it is not going to matter one damn bit. Technology is going to take away our last bit of handwriting practice: check writing. In a few years we will all have a microchip imbeded in our left wrist and we will just scan ourselves at the local Walmart. We won’t have to write anymore.

Unless you want to copy down my grandma’s rheumatism medicine recipe.

Georgia on His Mind

My little boy is graduating tomorrow.  Well, he is not little anymore. He is twenty-six and poised to take on the world. He will be participating in the hooding ceremony at West Virginia University and will be coming home a doctor. Not a medical doctor per se, although he could probably get away with that if he wanted to. No, my son, the Dr.,  will be graduating with a PHD in Economics. He has worked his butt off these past eight years. And I’m wondering how time was stolen from me. Just yesterday, he was just a little guy, taking balloons down at my brother’s wedding reception, and selling them to the guests. It was hard to resist the curly red headed ring bearer, clad in a tuxedo and using his ornery nature to score some money from the wedding guests.

Fast forward many years, and I am trying to spend as much time with the former ring bearer/scam artist before he flies the coop.

And I am trying to figure out how this all started. We had to put him on a leash when we went to walk on the boardwalk at Ocean City, Maryland when he was three years old. He just couldn’t stand still. He was always running head-on to a new adventure. And it is still happening. My mother-in-law said it was her fault. She didn’t let the kids climb all the way to the top of the sliding board. I’m thinking it was my fault. We lived on thirteen acres and always went on “adventures.” Maybe it was something in the water. All I know, is that my two children have a wanderlust that cannot be contained. And now my son is moving to Georgia this summer.

I know what you are thinking. Georgia is not THAT far from West Virginia. Oh, but it is. Right now my twenty-six year old son is living thirty minutes from me. I can hop in the car and be there in no time. Georgia is just too far away. I remember when we drove to Disney World and went through Georgia. It wasn’t too far. Too bad my son isn’t going to that Georgia.

No, my son accepted a teaching position in Tbilisi, Georgia…..as in the country Georgia. Uh, yeah. Way over there.

So, I am happy for him, and at the same time have a knot in my stomach. I really should be used to his travels, his adventures, his near death experiences that I only hear about a year or two after they happen. I really should be one big walking ulcer. I have gray hair because of my kids. Oh, sure, I am in my mid fifties. It is time to get gray hair, right? Wrong. Women only get gray when their children give them gray hair. And mine is getting grayer by the day.

Adam first gave me gray hair when he went to Strasbourg, France one summer. He was flying over with students and a professor from WVU to study for a month. So, why did he buy airplane tickets on his own and fly over a day early and not with his class? Just because. Why in the world would he travel by himself?  He also rented a bicycle for the whole month. So, naturally, I was worried sick that he was going to get hit by a car.

That fall, he flew to Morocco to study at Al Akhawayn University for six months. Luckily, WVU asked him to write a blog while he was there, so I knew everything he did. Well, except for the parts he left out so his mom wouldn’t worry. His blog was so wonderful. And scary. Like his plane ride.

Photo-Adam Pellillo

While he was in Morocco, he traveled to Casablanca, got violently ill on the train ride back to Ifrane. And there was nothing I could do about it. I am sure it was food poisoning, as he often ate food that had been hanging around a bit.

He had been carrying it around in his back pack for while before cooking. I think he got sick after this picture also. Chicken on a stick.

Oh, just attending the University and hanging around there wasn’t enough for Adam. No, Adam had to go mountain climbing. But, wait. How could he do that? He was in Morocco, land of camels and sand, right? Well, yes, partially. Morocco is also home to some high mountains. So, naturally, Adam decided to climb the second highest mountain in Morocco. Of course.

I remember when he called me to tell me he was flying to Italy with his new friend, Neri. Another flight. Another worry. Who the hell is Neri? I don’t know him. Of course I don’t know him. He’s from Turino, Italy. But, Adam had a blast and still sees his international college friend when he takes his different escapades each year.

Well, I guess I should just run through his trip to Switzerland and six countries the summer after he got back from Morocco. He had great pictures from that trip. I had more gray hair coming in. He climbed up the Matterhorn. The Matterhorn. Well, a lot of the way up.

Adam’s adventures were not over. We sent him to Guanajuato, Mexico during his spring break to collect Alex, who was studying there. She was very sick and we were afraid that he would need to fly her to Houston to a hospital there. My husband and I didn’t have passports at the time (stupid parents), so we sent him. Adam was thrilled to go to Mexico. He took her to a hospital there, and the next thing you know, they rented horses for a six hour ride to a volcano. Um, okay.

I was worried sick about her. She just needed her brother.

Adam was also able to go visit Alex when she was living in Kobe, Japan, teaching for the Jet program. When she arrived there, she came down with swine flu. Of course she did. She was fine when Adam went to visit her. They traveled around Japan and had a great time.

With his sister in Nara, Japan

After Japan, his sister decided to teach English in Louhans, France, for a year. So, after Christmas 2010, they flew back on different flights. It was bad enough getting Alex home for Christmas. There was a huge snowstorm in Europe and she had to sleep in the Paris airport for two nights. On their flights back, Adam flew to Germany and Alex flew to  Geneva, Switzerland. Watching flight trackers for two planes was a lot of fun. Adam missed a connecting flight because of the weather. Alex hung out in Geneva, meeting people and making me nervous. When Adam finally arrived, they toured France for  awhile. Adam then headed to Italy to visit Neri and of course, ski on a high Italian mountain. More gray hairs.

When I first started to write this post, Adam was in the Czech Republic with forty WVU students and his professor. He flew earlier to Berlin, Germany for a job interview before he headed to Tbilisi, Georgia. He was offered a job at Montana State University, which alas, he turned down. I can understand why. But, I was ready to head west. Now I will have to go to Tbilisi, where he says the food is awesome. We shall see.

So, Georgia it is. I won’t be able to drive thirty minutes to see him come summer. That will make me sad. But, I just found out that his girlfriend will be attending grad school in Stuttgart, Germany this fall. That means monthly flights to see each other.

My hair will be totally gray by then.

I’ve only touched on a few of the adventures that my oldest child has experienced in his short lifetime. And it is already more than some people experience in an entire lifetime. I’ve been so happy to be witness to this remarkable person. Oh, sure, I am his mom and have to say these things. But, nah, not really. But, I admire his tenacity, his convictions to live life to its fullest. He has worked hard these past eight years. I hope he has time to play.

Adam will be traveling on the plane to Georgia with his cat, Atticus. I will be a nervous mother, that’s for sure. But,  it is time to realize that he is a big boy now.

And I am okay with that.

So, congratulations, Adam. You went from sword fighting with light bulbs and smashing jelly beans into the carpet so no one would buy the house we put on the market, to being a wonderful human being. I am so proud of your accomplishments and proud that I am your mother.

May your travels bring you a thirst for all that is new, and may you live a long and healthy life, so you can ski off that cliff when you are 99 like you mention.

And you know you always have a home to rest your weary head when you come flying back to the coop.

Love,

Mom

 On one of his journeys.

The Wheels on the Bus

I used to think that cleaning public restrooms would be one of the worst jobs ever. But, over the years, I have changed my mind. I do believe that being a school bus driver has to be one of the most taxing jobs of all.

Being a bus driver AND being stopped by a long coal train. Yikes

As an elementary school teacher, I get to hear bus stories every single day. And then I remember my own.

I didn’t really ride a school bus for the first three years of my education. I attended a stupid private school, Sacred Heart of Mary Academy. Sister Maria drove our little van/bus. She was one mean zebra. I didn’t open my mouth for three years on that bus, for fear that she would make me become a nun. And Dear God, I did not want to become a nun. I watched her as she drove that van/bus. She wore black hose under that nun outfit, and black shoes that looked like walking shoes, but a really ugly version. I had to sit up front with her because of my intense motion sickness, which she frequently told me, “was all in my head.” One day after she said that, I looked over at her, and threw up.  I heard my mom relay the story to my dad that night from my eavesdropping hiding place.

“Vickie threw up on Sister Maria today…( I could hear my dad laugh)..She told Vickie it was all in her head…..Vickie should have told her that “Now it is in your lap.”

I thought that was funny. I decided to tell Sister Maria that the next day. It didn’t get that far.

“Vickie, you aren’t going to get sick anymore on my bus, are you?” She looked at me and I could swear I saw real flames flickering in her eyes. I was scared to death of her. So scared….

that I threw up on her again. Well, I missed her, but caught her black hose and sensible shoes. Rice krispies and milk to be exact. I remember.

Not good. Not good at all. She was going to beat the shit out of me. I just knew it. Or I was going to have to wear a nun outfit and carry rosary beads and whisper while I touched each one.

She was always pissed. She drove like she had road rage. I thought she was mad at Jesus for making her be a bus driver. Her rosary that hung around her waist made a noise each time she shifted gears. Which was all of the time. She ran a stop sign one day and we hit another car. I sat in the back of the van after that and got car sick because I could no longer watch the road.

I finally got to switch to public school, and that meant I would get to sit with my bff Ramaine on the bus every day. She and LeeAnn would walk up to my house and we would go stand in Dragovich’s driveway and wait for the school bus. We didn’t carry back packs back then, so we put  our lunch boxes and books down on the driveway in a straight line, which meant we had a place in the bus line. I had a Beanie and Cecil lunchbox.

I was so excited to be able to ride on such a huge transportation machine. You could even fit three kids in one seat. Our bus driver was not that nice, however. I surely understand why. Kids are nuts.

When I was in junior high, I was kicked off of the bus for three days. My mom was furious with me. My friend, LeeAnn, who lived down the street, was kicked off with me, but I don’t think she was the main player. My bff Ramaine was kicked off as well, which would normally be the case, as we were always partners in crime.  Even if we didn’t do something wrong, we would always be found at fault because we would still be laughing long after the particular episode. I think LeeAnn was, as Ramaine said, “Guilty by association.” Three in a seat and all. But, one of us had some styrofoam and it just happened to make an intense high pitched squeaking noise when placed upon the wet bus window. “Squeak squeak squeak.”

The bus driver yelled at us to stop.

Pause

Pause

“Squeak squeak squeak.”  giggle giggle giggle.

And we were promptly thrown off of the bus. What the hell happened to getting three, maybe four warnings before punishment is inflicted?

I was pissed. I think the bus driver was mad at me anyways for puking on the bus so much. That’s another thing that I don’t envy about the life of a bus driver: cleaning up after motion sick urchins like myself. Every afternoon I would ask him to turn down the heat. He must have been cold natured, because the trip home was unbelieveably warm. He would just tell me to crack my window, which was too late for my churning stomach. And I would throw up. And I am serious that this happened at least twice a week. Ramaine would yell, “Vickie threw up! Raise your feet!” because you know, the vomit did flow like a river. Sorry. Since the bus driver wasn’t dressed like a nun, I finally realized that I indeed had motion sickness.

So, yeah, Ramaine, LeeAnn and I were kicked off of the bus. I am sure that drove the bus driver nuts. I behaved myself the best I could. Well, no I didn’t. We did weird stuff on the bus. We made up a poem, that started off quiet and then kept getting louder each time. I will insert my name into the saying, but we would take turn putting each of our names in it:

“Vickie Vickie two by four, couldn’t get past the bathroom door. So, she went on the floor. Licked it up and asked for more…..(louder) Vickie Vickie two by four, couldn’t get past the bathroom door. So, she went on the floor. Licked it up and asked for more…(louder)”

How weird we were. We would keep doing it until the bus driver yelled at us to stop. I can’t even imagine what he went through with us. Sure, I teach elementary school and I have the kids all day. But, they become different creatures once they climb up the stairs to the bus. I know, I’ve been on field trips with them. And I know, I’ve been one of those demented kids.

And my God, the songs we sang. This alone should have driven a bus driver to drink. We sang whatever we learned in school. And a song we made up about the Salvation Army. Some of the lovely tunes we sang over and over and over again were hits such as “Waltzing Matilda,” “Jump Down Turn Around, Pick a Bale of Cotton,”  “Playmate, come out and play with me…..,” and my personal favorite, “I had a Little Driedel..” Riding the bus was so much fun.

High school kids still rode the bus when I was in school during the mid seventies. Only kids who left to go to an after school job were allowed to drive. We mellowed as we got older, but I did hear that our old bus driver didn’t fare so well. Now, I don’t know if this was a rumor or not, but we heard that old Jack either reached retirement and decided to pull a prank on the kids, or that old Jack lost his mind and went on one last bus run. I had just graduated when I heard he did this.

Jack approached each of his bus stops. He stopped, opened the door, and just before the first kid in line placed his foot on the first step, old Jack would laugh a crazy laugh, quickly close the door and would go to his next stop where he did the same thing. He did it with all of his stops.

Never to be seen again.

Fast forward many years, circa 1992. I now have two children. Adam is in school and he was supposed to get off of the bus twenty minutes ago. He is only six years old. The bus is extremely late. I call the school and then the bus garage. Where the hell is he? I immediately think that he was kidnapped by a crazed bus driver. I know how they can snap.

Adam finally got off of the bus forty five minutes late. He was laughing as he ran down the driveway.

“Mommy, mommy, the bus driver got lost.”  Apparently there were only two students left on the bus and the substitute bus driver got lost somehow. But, that’s what my little red-headed sweet cherub told me. I then received a phone call to come into school the next day.

Apparently, my son decided to screw with the substitute bus driver, telling him to turn right here and turn left there. He had him on roads that really weren’t roads. Adam was having a blast. His friend, Tyler, however, was crying. The bus driver kept following Adam’s directions. A six year old kid. Who the hell listens to a six year old kid? They were going to kick him off of the bus for a week because of the prank, until his teacher spoke up and said that it was the substitute’s fault for not following the route left by the normal bus driver. Sheesh.

Well, Adam’s bus adventures were only beginning. He was kicked off the bus for fighting with Tyler, the kid who got lost with Adam. Adam apparently punched Tyler in the face. I was horrified.

“Adam, did you punch Tyler in the face?”   Adam nodded.

“I had to Mom, it was the only way to get him to stop strangling me.”  I guess they started fighting and Adam ended up lying in the aisle. Tyler was straddling him, strangling him.

The final time Adam got kicked off of the bus was for fighting over an open window. Adam wanted it closed. The kid in front of him wanted it opened. So, after arguing, and pushing back and forth, the bus driver threw them both off of the bus for two weeks. Two weeks? Are you kidding me? That bus driver was really fed up.

So, I came up with a plan. I called the parents of the other kid involved and asked if they wanted to car pool. I would drive the boys one week and they could drive the next. That would teach them to fight each other. The parents loved the idea and so we took turns driving our bus heathens to school each day.

In the end, I really feel for bus drivers. They have these kids lives in their hands, yet get dealt a terrible hand with misbehaved kids. It’s always been like that and will continue to be like that until duct tape and rope are applied to the mix.

Poor bus drivers.

Spinning and Then Something Else

I probably wasn’t much fun to play with when I was little. As soon as someone mentioned a game that had any kind of spinning involved, I was out. I had puked enough for all the kids in the neighborhood. I was already called “Bluey” in the winter because my lips would turn a bright bluish purple and “Picky Vickie” throughout the year because I wouldn’t try to eat anything that had “stuff” in it, like potato salad, or mixed together, like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Pukey” was next on the agenda, I was sure, and I wanted no part of it.

I don’t know what the hell it is with kids and spinning. Are we all gluttons for punishment?

Blind Man’s Bluff

I think the first game I played with other kids in the neighborhood that had anything to do with spinning was Blind Man’s Bluff. The rules sounded easy enough. According to Wikipedia:

“Blind man’s bluff is played in a spacious area, such as outdoors or in a large room, in which one player, designated as “It”, is blindfolded and gropes around attempting to touch the other players without being able to see them, while the other players scatter and try to avoid the person who is “it”, hiding in plain sight and sometimes teasing them to make them change direction.”

Ok, that sounded easy enough. Two things were missing from the instructions, however. One, was that Blind Man’s Bluff should be played in an area free of dangerous obstructions, or like, um, stairs, so that the “It” player will not die or obtain a serious head injury. Secondly, who the hell said the “It” player had to be spun around before they went off groping at people? I immediately knew that I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the first one to run into the fireplace hearth or be the one puking because of the spinning. But, sometimes life just isn’t fair for the spin challenged. The first person found me huddled in a corner, cowering and trying to remain oh so quiet. Dammit. I cried foul, as I am sure the person could see below the scarf. I figured out that if you had a big nose, you could cheat. People with big noses always have advantages in this world.

So, Lori, the neighborhood Nazi girl, put the scarf around my eyes. We were playing in her basement, so we had to let her be in charge like she always was. She tied it tight to make sure I couldn’t cheat. She knew I would cheat in a heart beat, given the chance. I remember the scarf being slightly damp. So, I was ready to puke because I knew that meant sweat. Lori lived across the street and she knew all about my spinning “problems.” So, the little bitch spun me hard. Her hands were firm and her method determined. Determined to make the little skinny girl with blue lips puke. After she got done spinning me, I just sat down and threw up on on an area rug. Ta-da. End of Blind Man’s Bluff for Vickie. I staggered home. I think I took the blind fold off first.

I’m thinking that Blind Man’s Bluff led to orgies when played by the older crowd.

The Playground Merry-Go-Round-and Round-and Round

I hate playground equipment. I really do. As an elementary teacher, I watch kids when I am on playground duty. First of all, yes, I do stand outside with fifty-five year old blue lips. That’s with me for life. I am not fond of the cold. But, I watch these sweet children turn into brainless zombies on speed, running amok to and fro each piece of equipment. They climb up slides instead of sliding down them. They run behind people swinging, like chipmunks playing “Suicide” on our country roads. Chipmunks decide in the middle of the road which way they want to zig. Too late, Theodore. Anyways, school children also try to kill their peers on the see-saws. Side note: How the hell do children know what “cherry bumps” even are?

“Ms. Mendenhall, Ralph jumped off of the see saw on purpose and gave me a cherry bump.” I just stared at her. Really? I chuckled at the thought of perhaps sending her to the principal to tell the story of Ralphie, the cherry bumper.

Luckily, our playground doesn’t have the Merry-Go-Round aka The Ride of Misery like we had when we were little. I’m not even sure if it was at our neighborhood playground, but I avoided it somewhere. It was the worst playground apparatus known to man…and pukey little girls.

You know there is vomit on there somewhere

So, the kids would hop on and the strongest child would run on the outside, pushing around and around and then jump on himself. Once in a while some older jack ass would stand there, spinning and spinning despite the pleas of the younger, sickened children. Hahahhahaha, laughed the older kid. Those bully kids back then are the probably the same ones wearing black and white stripes today. Or they are car salesmen. But,I would never go near that damn ride after the first time I was stuck on it….. And puked on it. Ew. I just left, hoping that one day it would rain.

You know this didn’t last long. Dear God, here come the flying wires. Oh, look, one has impaled you.

The Rotor- Kennywood Park

The Rotor was a crazy ride at Kennywood Park, outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We used to go to Kennywood about once a year when I was little. It’s hard to describe the Rotor, but I shall try. Picture a barrel. Or the inside of a washing machine. Or something like that. People would enter the Rotor and stand against the wall, with the heels of their feet against the wall. I think we had to take our shoes off as we entered the ride. Did I say, “we?” I crack myself up. The Rotor had an observation deck around the top, so those like myself, could watch.

The ride would start rotating uprights at 33 revoulutions per minute. Faster, faster, faster. (This is where I would puke just from watching the people spinning.) The rotation would create a centripetal force and then when it was at full speed, the floor would drop down. Like drop down. Everyone was stuck like Velcro to the sides of the spinning barrel. Sick.

I had to finally try it when I was with my boyfriend. Oh, the things you do for love. I was so scared, because those who puke on the ride get to share it, as the splatter would smack up against the wall. I can only imagine the puke on the back of peoples’ shirts. You know those carnival people probably didn’t clean the walls too well. So, I made sure I hadn’t eaten, and went in and although I was sick for the rest of the Kennywood day, I did not throw up. What what one does for love.

There were several Rotors around the country, probably called other names. All American rotors had to be dismantled or modified after the “incident.” Yikes. In 2000, two tweens were injured when their feet were caught between the moving wall and the floor.One suffered broken bones and they were both hospitalized.

Ugh..I feel sick after watching that.

The Basement Swivel Chair

 I wonder if my bff Ramaine remembers this. We used to hang out in my basement. It was a long room with a bar on one end, and a ping pong table on the other end. In the middle was furniture, including two snazzy swivel chairs just like the one in this picture:

         This chair looks innocent enough, but is a vehicle of death     

   Let’s just say that it is not a good idea to put a bunch of neighborhood kids in the basement unsupervised. My mom would stay upstairs, smoking her Salem cigarettes and reading the National Enquirer. Meanwhile, we had a carnival going on downstairs. Ramaine sat in one of the swivel chairs, sitting cross legged on the chair. Sometimes we would pretend we were going into outer space. Oh, we were imaginative. We would then spin the occupant in the chair around and around and around. It would go pretty damn fast.But, alas, there is nothing imaginative about a possible concussion. The swivel chair tipped over and so did Ramaine. She hit her head on the floor, which I think was painted concrete. She immediately said that her head hurt, so we ran upstairs to get my mom.

She checked on Ramaine, and then ran to call her mom. On the way out of the rec room she told us-

“What ever you do, don’t let her go to sleep. She may never wake up again.”

Really? You said that to a child. Of course she was now going to be sleepy. That’s what kids do.

 What an idiot. But, at the time, I thought my bff was going to drift off to sleep and never be able to spin in the chair ever again. I was scared for my partner in crime.

“ Don’t go to sleep, Ramaine”…I wanted to cry. 

Well, she was ok, and I don’t remember if she had a concussion or not, but we went back to spinning that chair. I never sat in the chair, of course, as I knew my limitations and my friends accepted me for the puking freak that I was.

Sit’n Spin

Fast forward many years. When my children were young, they informed me that they wanted a Sit’n Spin. Great. So, they are manufacturing a personal use piece of playground apparatus. Just what I need. So, being the great mother that I was, I bought them this nauseating toy.

My least favorite purchase, other than maybe Kotex

 

Go ahead and puke. You’re not my kid.

Recycling the Sit’n Spin into a turn table. Good job, Pinterest lady.

In the end, there are thousands of things that spin. I will name them all:

yo yo, tops, pinwheel, a fan, hula hoop, frisbee, anything with wheels, including a ferris wheel, whirlygigs

silver maple tree helicopter whirlygigs, a basketball can spin, a record on a record player, a tornado, propellers, pottery thingy,and clothes in a washing machine. I have volunteers come up in my fourth grade class and act out the sun, moon, and earth and have them spin around while they are revolving around the sun. Sure, they get dizzy. They want to get dizzy. Goofy kids.

There was one particular spinning “toy” that did not make me dizzy:

Spin the Bottle

Spin the Bottle, the Older Crowd. Um, ok....ew

 After all these years, they still love to get dizzy.

 .

A Letter to French People on President’s Day

Monday, February 20, 2012

Dear French people everywhere,

Hi. I teach fourth grade in a small, country school in West Virginia. As some people know, that is in the western part of Virginia. But, we sort of are our own state. As a fourth grade teacher, part of my job is to teach Social Studies. Now, I realize that the textbook people only put in the books what they want to put in there, so my facts may be a bit off. But, my intentions are swell.

Today is President’s Day. Banks and post offices are closed today. Some schools are closed. I do think my garbage is going to be picked up this morning, but it’s nothing you have to worry about. But, today is the day when we honor George Washington. His birthday is February 22. Well, it is now called Presidents’ Day, originally known as Washington’s Birthday. Someone complained that since Abe Lincoln’s birthday is February 12,  that they should be combined for one big hybrid of a birthday party. So, President’s Day falls on the third Monday of February. This year Presidents’ Day falls on February 20, 2012.

Ok, but that is not why I’m writing. I am writing today  to the French people of France, Canada, and to the pockets of French people hanging out in New Orleans and any place called Louisville, to thank you for letting us have the opportunity to celebrate Georgie’s birthday. Your ancestors were nice people. Really nice people.

Now, you have to understand that I have to teach the textbook. Sort of. Sure, I let my kids know what a nut case Christopher Columbus was, and how Amerigo Vespucci may have told little white lies about his adventures, but I teach what I know. And I make up the rest.

The French basically came to the Americas for beaver fur. I guess. Maybe. Oh, my goodness, though, how they loved trapping!  From what my textbook tells me, their route was mainly down the St. Lawrence River. The British, on the other hand, were swatting mosquitoes further south in Jamestown, years after a whole colony disappeared from Roanoke. The only thing left behind was a carving on a post or tree that simply read, CROA. I personally think they were trying to write, “Croak,” as in they all died. The last colonist, God love him, just didn’t have enough strength to write that final letter. Well, ok, I guess there was a Croatoan tribe nearby, so historians seem to think that is what someone was trying to write. But, you know, if one group disappears from the area, why would you try to go there again?  Gluttons for punishment, those British were.

But, the first French explorers made friends with the Native Americans and learned all about hunting, fishing, and this will be important in a little bit, fighting. So, they hung out. Made hats made out of beavers. Meanwhile, the colonists are pushing westward. The Native Americans are pissed because their hunting ground is disappearing and they just really were tired of the colonists sneaking at night, stealing their crops because they didn’t realize that, duh, maybe they should have planted stuff when they arrived. The first colonists to arrive in the new land were not so bright.

To the French, the Ohio Valley was an important link between France’s holdings in Canada and Louisiana. The British saw it as an area for trade and growth.  By about 1750, the French had moved to make their claim to the Ohio Valley stronger. They sent soldiers into the region to drive out the British traders. They also began building a line of forts near the eastern end of the valley.

But, both sides decided they wanted the Ohio Valley. The French began building a series of forts in the disputed land. In 1753, Lieutenant Governor Robert Dinwiddie of Virginia (the name always makes my students giggle), was pissed. He said this was like an act of war.  So, he sent a young Georgie Washington with a letter to the French that they had to leave the area. How dare they build forts in the land that they wanted to eventully steal from the Indians. Washington headed over the Appalachian Mountains, all by his lonesome, and delivered the message.

He knocked on the fort’s door. (I’m making this part up because my textbook doesn’t tell me where he went when he delivered the message. So, you know, I am improvising.)

“Hey, um, yeah, hello…..My name is George Washington. I’m 21 and new to this. I have a message from Lt. Governor Robert Dinwiddie (the French giggled) Hey, um, you guys are going to have to leave. You can’t build forts in this area.”

“Go home, Georgie,” said the French guy who answered the fort door. “We are not leaving. Go away,  you silly boy.”

Well, they could have captured him or killed him, but they let him go. They could have even laughed at him for coming such a long distance with no real back up, only to leave without even as much as a cup of coffee. So, Washington had to sleep somewhere, right? You see all those places that used to say, “Washington slept here.” Well, uh, yeah, because Dinwiddie made him travel so damn much.

Dinwiddie was not happy with the response from the fort building French. He sent a small force of soldiers from Virginia. Their orders were to build a fort at the Forks of the Ohio River, where the city of Pittsburgh now stands. Two can play this game, dammit.

 Where the hell is the fort?

The Virginians had barely finished the fort when the French attacked it. The French drove off the Virginians and built a larger fort on that site. They called it Fort Duquesne, after some French guy named Duquesne. The French didn’t care for the Colonial look, evidently, and wanted a more Woodsy look to their fort. Unaware of the French attack, Dinwiddie sent young George once again to the Forks of the Ohio River to reinforce the Virginian’s fort. So, Washington didn’t know this, because his internet was getting spotty reception. He was all set to get to the fort with supplies, ready to make the fort pretty and maybe hang some curtains. Can you imagine if he actually got to the fort, and wondered why the key didn’t open the door? Or something like that.

So, Washington left Williamsburg with an army of 150 Virginians. On their way to the fort, the Virginians surprised a small group of French soldiers on patrol. Thinking “we might be attacked by considerable forces,” Washington later wrote, they built a makeshift fort that they called Fort Necessity. Because, well, it was necessary.  Within days a large force of more than 600 French soldiers and 100 indian allies attacked Fort Necessity. Washington and his men surrendered in what turned out to be the opening battle of the French and Indian War. And guess what? The French let Washington and his soldiers return to Virginia.

“Go home, Georgie.” they said in a thick, French accent. (Ok, I’m taking liberties with the facts once again.) “Haven’t you learned your lesson, little boy? We are the French, and you are……not.”

Now, that makes two times that the French let George Washington go. They could have killed him. But, they didn’t. The next thing you know, Washington is fighting alongside Braddock. The French and Indian War. I don’t know why they called it this, because the French did not fight the Indians.

In April of 1755, General Edward Braddock was ordered to capture Fort Duquense. Oh, God, here we go again. He and more than 1,800 british and colonial soldiers began the long trip to the fort. He invited George along as an advisor. I mean, why wouldn’t he? George knew the route blind folded by now.  Well, they made it as far as nearby Fort Necessity, when they met up with a force of about 900 French and Indian soldiers. Those damn French and Indians fired upon them from trees and boulders. What the hell? The British were used to open field fighting, so this threw them for a loop. They had never fought an enemy this way before. They “broke and ran,” Washington later wrote, “as sheep before the hounds.”  We call that AWOL nowadays. When the battle ended, two thirds of the British were dead or wonded. Braddock was killed.

I should mention that the British should have caught on fairly quickly that bright red uniforms and a drummer making a racket would maybe give the French the heads-up that they were coming. Just sayin. Quit the damn rat-a-tat-tat, for God’s sake. You need to be quiet, stupid Red-coats.

It doesn’t say what happened to Washington after this battle, but he somehow managed to limp home. Was this guy lucky, or what? Some historians mention that Washington was standing close to Braddock when he was killed. It was just wasn’t a good day for Eddie Braddock.

So, French people, your ancestors could have easily killed Washington at least three times. But, they didn’t. If they had, we wouldn’t have the cool quote about Washington choppping down the cherry tree. Denzil would not have a last name. We wouldn’t have Mount Vernon. Washington DC may very well be called DC or Columbia District. Thousands of streets would go nameless. Washington, Pennsylvania, would be called Braddock or Necessity, or something totally different. There would never have been a crossing of the Delaware. Hell, maybe we would never be a nation because his army would not have been there. This is like It’s A Wonderful Life, starring George Washington as George Bailey.

So, yeah, thank you, French people, for letting me teach about Georgie Washington, father of our country.

This period of history is my favorite time period to teach. And I have my fourth graders write pretend thank you cards to the French every year after we study this.

If you give me an address maybe we will mail them for real.

                                                                                                           Sincerely,

V. Mendenhall, fourth grade Social Studies teacher and occasional smart ass

Valentine’s Day Haikus

Student’s Valentine Haiku’s Made My Day

You are a good friend

I’m really just saying that.

I do not like you.

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Looks like some of them decided to gang up on me. A few of these are my favorites from last year.

Hey Ms. Mendenhall

You don’t look like you are old

You need a boyfriend.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ms. Mendenhall needs

some roses for her new house

maybe a husband

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ms. Mendenhall is

lonely. She says she is not.

She is a liar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Teacher after school

go home, take a bubble bath

You don’t need no man.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You are so happy

You are the best teacher here

You are real funny

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Where’s your valentine?

My grandpa needs a girlfriend

But he is so bald.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We found out today

that you are 54. Wow

that is very old.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And then there is always one…

Is that Cupid’s bow?

Yes and he farted on it.

That is very weird.

Image via Wikipedia

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And one that doesn’t follow the 5-7-5 form and is also out there:

                      Happy Valentines, Slug

                      You are very greasy and slimy

                      You are a naked snail.

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The Grading Scale: E For Effort

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.

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Ms. Mendenhall’s Grading Scale

2011-2012

 Dear parents,

     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.

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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.

Yeah, I could totally mess with them.

Vickie with an E

I had a huge argument years ago with a girl over our first names. It was while I was attending college, circa 1976.  We were in a bar, so you know how drunken conversations can take an ugly turn. Especially when there is name calling.

I was standing in a crowded pub, creatively called, The Pub, minding my own business, when I heard someone yell, “Vickie!!” Well, since that is my name, I obviously looked to see who was calling for me. I had no idea who the person was, but I was on my second beer, so maybe it was my best friend. You first need to understand that I was what they call a “cheap date.” I would start giggling after only 1/2 of a beer, so it didn’t take much for me to become the self-proclaimed life of the party.  If I had more than three beers, and a microphone was nearby, I would become a comedian. I hang my head in embarrassment now. But, on that night, I became a drunken trial attorney. I am sure that is the best kind of trial lawyer. I argued my drunken case to the point where I was ready to take the LSAT the very next day.

Well, another “Vickie” went over and hugged the person who was yelling my name.  How cool! Another person with my name. I wonder if we are related. Ok, now you should understand by that comment that I may have had more than 1/2 beer. I guess the next day it would have made more sense if our LAST names were the same, duh. But, when she walked by me, I decided to say something.

“I heard him yell for you. My name is Vickie, too.”

Well, hell, I never personally knew anyone with my first name. I went to a high school with over 2,000 students, and not one of them was named Vickie. Oh wait. That’s a lie.  I can now think of two right off the top of my head. Well, that night, I thought I was the only one in the universe who had that first name. I was so excited.  She seemed excited, too. She answered me with a sweet smile.

“Cool. How do you spell your name?  I spell mine V-I-C-K-I.”

“I spell mine V-I-C-K-I-E.”

“Why? That sounds stupid.”  Obviously, she had more than 1/2 beer also. I was shocked that she could say that with a smile. And, also, how can the same name “sound” stupid? What an idiot. And to think she called me “stupid.” Well, she was stupider.

I had some hard ass sorority sisters nearby. I wasn’t afraid of  this stranger who shared my name. I’d have backup. Let the name calling begin, Vicki bitch.

“Stupid? Your name looks like you forgot how to spell the rest of it, because you have no brain, and you just quit writing it. V-I-C-K-I is incomplete.”

“Vicki Lawrence spells it with just an “i”.  Is that the best you got? It was my turn.

“Well, then, she is stupid. She is just a sidekick to Carol Burnett. She only got the job because she looked a little like Carol Burnett. If she spelled her name with an “e”, she would have her own show.”  I thought that was a brilliant retort.

Well, once drunks get in a confrontation, it’s hard to tell where the conversation ends up. We bantered back and forth for a short while, but realized that there really isn’t too much of an argument, unless you get off topic. I could have easily commented on her poor choice of earth shoes and painter pants. She could have commented on how beautiful I was. Or something like that. But, luckily, we ran out of steam and started making fun of how the “other” Vickie’s/Vicki’s would spell their name.  I started.

I asked her if she was ever called, “Picky Vicky.”  I hated that name, mainly because, well, I was picky. It would make sense in an argument that since “picky” is spelled with a “y”, then the name should end that way. We both thought that was an ugly adaptation of our name.

Then there was M-I-C-K-E-Y, as in the mouse. Why wasn’t our name spelled like that? V-I-C-K-e-Y. Later on, my husband used to call me “Vickey Rooney,” after the actor, Mickey Rooney. We both thought that was wrong also.

After we hugged and laughed off our three minute round, she went off to dance on the table and I went home to pass out  study, I woke up remembering why I hate for people to write anything but, V-I-C-K-I-E.  The stupid nuns at the Sacred Heart of Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy were to blame. As I mentioned in several previous posts, I attended that private school for the first three grades, and hated every minute of it.

First of all, the crazy head nun, Sister Maria, insisted on calling me Victoria, despite my objections. I got in trouble for trying to correct her.

“Little girl, your correct name is Victoria. “Vickie”  is a nickname……….I don’t care what your mom says. “Vickie” is short for Victoria.”

Well, ok, then, witch.  I hated Sister Maria and I knew it is wrong to wish bad things on her, but I hoped bad things would happen to her. Not death, mind you. I was only in third grade. I was thinking more like her walking and simply falling down. Yep. I wanted to see the nun fall down.  Besides being a teacher, Sister Maria also drove the van/bus to pick up some of the students in the morning.  One morning, a driver hit the side of our van. It’s weird, but I looked to see if Sister Maria was hurt before I noticed I had a big gash through my leotards. Dammit, she was ok. The police came and they asked for all of the names of the passengers in the van. The next morning, there was a write-up in the newspaper. My name was listed as one of the injured.

“…….and Victoria  Mendenhall, 9,  of Weirton……”

Whaaat? It honestly pissed me off. My name was in the newspaper, and it wasn’t really my name. Sister Maria told them my name was Victoria. I never hated her more than when I read my misprint in the newspaper. She was never going to call me anything but Victoria. So, I decided to be a smart ass from then on. I started the very next day when I got on the bus.”

“Good morning, Victoria.” she said when I got on the stupid bus/van.

“Good morning, Sister Mary.”  She didn’t say anything, but gave me a very dirty look. I was dead.

I called her Sister Mary for a few weeks, when suddenly, out of the blue, a miracle occurred. A miracle, I tell ya.

“Vickie, did you have a nice weekend?”  I just nodded and went on my way. Wow. I did it! I got her to start calling me Vickie instead of Victoria. I felt so powerful.

It wasn’t until a year later, far far away from the Sacred Heart of Mary Juana Academy, safely enrolled in public school, that I heard my mom talking to a neighbor lady during their daily coffee/cigarette marathon. I had settled in my eavesdropping hiding place, ready to listen to some mom gossip.

“No, don’t send him there. My kids went there for a few years until last year. I had enough of the head nun, Sister Maria. Vickie was coming home in tears almost daily because Sister Maria kept calling her Victoria. I finally called the school and told her that I should know what I named my daughter, and if Vickie comes home one more time and tells me you have called her Victoria, I will pull my children from your school and I will make some phone calls about how you have treated my daughter. Do I make myself clear?”

Wow. My mom went on blabbing, but I had heard enough. I could feel the air leaking out of my balloon swelled head as I walked into my room.

Years later,  before my freshman year in high school, my mom, brother, sister, bff Ramaine and I were in a terrible car accident. I had hit my head on the back seat after a Mack truck hit us from behind and we flew head-on into a car coming in the opposite direction. I had blood flowing from my head and from my ankle, but still managed to talk to the ambulance driver person. I’m sure it was the concussion talking.

“My name is Vickie. It is spelled V-I-C-K-I-E…… Do you think my name will be in the newspaper?”

glass Vickie balls

Fast forward many years. I have divorced and have just purchased a new townhome. I am feeling liberated. I took back my maiden name and the sound of it makes me feel independent and free. I am happy. But, as I look around at new purchases, I had to smile. I must like my name.

55 years old and I'm collecting blocks...um, ok.

In the end, one needs to feel comfortable in their own skin. They need to be proud of who they are and defend their name.

Literally.

Set your drink on these lovely monogrammed coasters

I Want to be a Smoking Actress When I Grow Up

My fourth graders had to write an essay the other day on what they wanted to be when they grew up. I do this every year and it always comes out the same way. I try to keep the girls away from each other after I make the assignment, because they basically can’t think for themselves. Oh, I have one or two who know exactly what they want to be and will stand by it, but  for the most part, whatever the most popular girl in class wants to be, her handmaidens want to be the same thing. This year was no exception. I made the mistake of letting the class take a bathroom break, and dammit, I am sure they all shared their lofty aspirations with each other in front of the bathroom stalls.  And so it began.

“When I grow up, I want to be a veterinarian. I love animals and……………”

“I love animals, so when I grow up, I want to be a veterinarian…..”

I want to help cats and dogs when I grow up. I will go to vet school and be an animal doctor.”

“When I grow up, I want to help dogs that have been hit by a car. That’s why I want to be a vegetarian.”  Well, at least that one made me smile.

I have 21 students in my class. There are thirteen girls and eight boys.  Most of the boys wrote that they wanted to be a soldier. I had one exterminator. Besides the veterinarian girls, I also had one teacher, one pediatrician, and one that just stunned me. One of my brightest students wrote:

“When I grow up, I would love to work at a carnival. It would be fun to set up rides and learn how to make the rides start and stop. It would be fun to see everyone having fun. I wouldn’t want to work at the game booths, though. The stuffed animals you win smell like wet hay and you would have to stand up all night. If I took the tickets and started and stopped the rides, I could sit down a lot. And that’s why I want to be a carnival worker.”

Um, okay. Wow. I was shocked. So she wants to be a carny. Of course, kids change what they want to be when they grow up a hundered times. I told the kids to take the essays home to give to their parents to put away until they graduated from high school. I hope reading what they wrote in fourth grade makes them smile.  It made me think of what I wanted to be when I little.

When I was very little, I wanted to be an actress when I grew up. Oh, not just any actress. I wanted to be a smoking actress. Because back then, actresses all smoked. I was sure of it. If you are an actress, you have to look the part, you know. Oh, I was styling. Most little girls play “Dress Up” when they are little, and don stuff out of their mother’s closet. Well, shit, I didn’t want to wear a house coat that snapped up the front. My mother lived in her housecoats. I don’t think any mother on the block actually got dressed each day. So, I asked for high heels, a boa, and other odds and ends for my next birthday so I could start actressing.

I was a good actress. I would say, “Dahling” a lot and would take a puff off of my cigarette. That part was a problem. I had no prop. I pretended that I had a cigarette. I knew how to pretend smoke. I watched my mother light up millions of cigarettes. I’m serious with the number, just ask my second hand smoke lungs. But, she would have the cigarette in her right hand, arm bent, with her elbow up in the air. That cigarette was in her mouth most of the time. She would inhale, and then move her hand away, like the smoke coming out on the exhale wouldn’t be able to go around her arm. I could see the smoke swirl and curl away from her. And right up my nose it went. Well, ok, I don’t know that for sure. But, in college, my Phys Ed instructor told me, “You’d be able to run around the track if you’s quit smoking.” I was pissed. I couldn’t help that I had the lung capacity of a worm. I never smoked a day in my life. Well, that’s a lie. I smoked when I was a child actress.

You see, a good actress should be able to act out a scene by either using a particular prop or pretending she is using the prop. Like, um……a cigarette. Oh, I had candy cigarettes. Those were big when I was little.

  But, you know, if you are going to dress the part, you really need to act the part. And everyone knew back then that all actresses smoked. I knew that because I watched movies. Yes, all actresses smoked. And so, then, I should too.

   

Anyway, the candy cigarettes weren’t working. I didn’t like my working conditions. If I was going to be an actress, I need a real cigarette.  So, with my boa wrapped around my neck and my clickety clickety of my plastic high heels, I waltzed into the living room and took one of my mom’s cigarettes. My dad was always behind his newspaper. He wasn’t going to notice I lifted one of my mom cigarettes.

Oh, my, did I have fun with that cigarette. Of course, I didn’t light the cigarette. Honestly, I didn’t think to light it. But, I puffed and smoked in between my “Hello Dahling’s.”  My dog, Susie, sitting in the audience, loved my performance. How funny that years later I would major in Speech in Drama in college.

Oh my. Maybe my little fourth grader may be a carnival worker after all.

You know, I wonder if I am too old to be a child actress?

Stupid Bluebird Reading Group

Image via Wikipedia

Another thing that I hated about attending Sacred Heart of Mary Academy the first three years of my formal education was the fact that we were placed in reading groups. You know, kids aren’t stupid. Well, some of them are. But, as I looked around, I could see a pattern emerging, even though I was just a small lass.

Those damn nuns grouped us according to how stupid we were.

I think about everyone around my age (a very young 55), learned to read with the Dick and Jane primers. They were popular in the late 1940′s through a part of the 1960′s. Some people get excited and filled with nostalgia when they hear “Run, Dick, run.”  Perhaps a smile appears on one’s face, remembering how simple and innocent it was back then. It brings them back to a simpler time, to a society and culture that is so different than the one we live in now.  For others, there is no sweet smile of rememberance. There is just a rememberance of mean nuns telling you that you are in the “Hatchling” reading group for the retarded.

Ok, so maybe there wasn’t a “Hatchling” reading group, but that’s what it felt like to me. They treated me like I was retarded. (Sorry about being politically incorrect with the term, “retarded.” That’s how we talked back then, and I’d sort of like to bring it back.) But, they treated me like my elevator didn’t go all the way to the top floor, and I will tell you why.

In the early sixties, a child had to be six years old before November 1 in order to attend school. My birthday was on November 9th. I don’t know if that was the law everywhere, but in West Virginia, it was November 1.

Well, my mom wanted me to start school. I don’t know why she wanted me out of the house so badly. I played games with her all damn day. But, she said that a few days should not keep me from starting school when I should be going to school.  The secretary at Edgewood, the elementary school I would have attended, pointed her toward the Brooke County Board of Education. She would have to talk to them. She was told that I could start school in the fall. However, I would have to take a test. Sounds simple enough.

I wanted to start school so I could be with my friends. I lived in a neighborhood in Weirton, West Virginia, called Woodland Estates, where many of the children were the same age. Let me see. There was Lee Ann, Ramaine, Monica, Lori, Harold, Kathy, Janice, Tammy, MaryLou, Kacey, Cathy, and Melinda.  I guess it would have been easier for me to say there were 12 other children my age. Lee Ann was born on December 4, and her mom wanted her to take the test also.

So, the summer before school started, the four of us drove to the BOE building. Lee Ann and I were going to take a test and we were going to get to start school in the fall. Yeehaw!

Well, one of us was going to get to start school in the fall.

I flunked the damn test.

I don’t remember much about the day. I was only five years old. I do remember what the man looked like who gave me the test. He showed me a series of pictures and talked to me. The only picture I remember is of a hillbilly guy sitting out on his front porch while it was raining. The man asked me what was wrong with the picture. I stared at it for a long time, and told him that he should be wearing shoes.

Well, this little retard was wrong. The answer was, “The man should not be sitting outside when it is raining.” I remember this only because my mom let me know the right answer  over and over and over again for a long time after that. Apparently, I didn’t answer any of the questions correctly. Well, shit. Why can’t someone sit on their front porch while enjoying a summer rain? The porch was covered. But, the porch was wooden and rickety. That’s what I was looking at. He was barefoot. The damn hillbilly was going to get a splinter in his foot. That was far worse than a little rain on the man. I guess there was also an issue with hyperactivity. But, hey, he had a lot of things in his office that I needed to see and ask him about.

I do remember one other thing. My mom took money out of  her purse and sort of threw it at the man. A bribe? Dear Mother, did you try to bribe the man to let me go to school early?

Oh my God……………………… I’m Forrest Gump.

So, of course LeeAnn was as proud as a peacock. I was a future hatchling in a reading group for retards. Fun times ahead.

Dick, Jane, Sally, and Spot- Here I come.

So, my mom had to buy uniforms, because I guess when you go to a private Catholic school, you all have to look alike. My mom had to drive me downtown every morning so I could catch the bus. Well, it really wasn’t a bus. It was a van. Like a volkswagon Beetle bus. And when the bus pulled up that very first day, out jumped a freaking nun. A nun was driving the bus/van. She introduced herself as Sister Maria. I had never seen a nun before. My mom tried to explain where I was going and who would be my teachers, but I couldn’t get passed the part that I couldn’t see her hair. Did she have hair?  If she had hair, what color was it? Was that whole thing pinching her under her neck?

I guess I was verbalizing my thoughts, because Sister Maria told me that I was not allowed to say one more word on the bus. Well, hell, that wasn’t going to happen. When we arrived, I noticed that there were only four nuns at the school. Four. They took turns cooking and driving the bus. Oh Dear God. My mom must really hate me.

Well, the nuns must have read my test report, because they enunciated their words like I was deaf. Ok, I don’t know if they did that or not. But, I do know that they judged and labeled me and already had their reading groups decided.

There weren’t many in my class. The whole school had a low enrollment.  Shit. I didn’t think of it until right now. I wonder if this school was for misfits?  “If you flunk your entrance test, you may spend  big money and send your fruit loops to our private school.”

There were three small groups. I don’t remember for the world what the reading groups were called. Most of them were labeled, “bluebird,” “redbird,” and “yellowbird.” In some places in the country, the “bluebirds” were the lowest readers. They all probably switched them around to confuse the confused.

So, of course, I spent the first week in the lowest reading group. We might as well have been called the “Sloths.” I flew through those readers, but the other kids took forever.

“See. Dick. Hit. Jane. Cry. Jane. Cry.”

Where the other group was speeding through their readings each day.

“It was an ominous night. Dick decided to go to the grocery store to purchase cigarettes for his mother. Run. Dick. Run.”

Ok. Whatever. I was moved out of the last group and put in the Bluebirds, where I flippin belonged in the first place.

Years later, when I had kids, I watched the Simpson’s and watched Bart be placed in the lowest reading group, “The Brownbirds.” Yeah, the shitty group.  I wasn’t amused. I wanted to cry for him. Well, not really, but it made me think of Sister Maria, the honest school official who wouldn’t accept a bribe, dammit, and my mother, who sent me there, when I could have stayed at home, playing Yahtzee  for another damn year.

Get This Metric System Away From Me

I pride myself on knowing a lot of important information. Sure, some people may think they don’t need to know that the “S” in Ulysses S. Grant stands for Simpson.  But, I know it.  I also know that ee cummings was the poet who didn’t know how to use capital letters. A lot of people don’t know who ee cummings was. But, I know him. I also know that botulism is in botox. I bet a lot of pretty faces don’t know that. But, I know it.

Just don’t ask me if a centimeter is longer than a foot.

I am teaching measurement this week to my fourth grade class. My principal heard the kids laughing as he walked by this morning because I just wrote this on the board:

I’m not the only one. Americans just don’t want to give up our standard measure. We don’t want to know how many kilometers it takes to get to Pittsburgh. We don’t want to know that a cantaloupe weighs about a kilogram. We don’t care. We don’t want to learn it.

The United States is the only industrialized country that does not use the metric system as its system of measurement, even though it was authorized by Congress to be used there since 1866. Yes, we are a stubborn lot. According to the American Central Intelligence Agency’s Factbook, the International System of Units is the official system of measurement for all nations in the world except for Liberia, Burma, and the United States.

The US was half-heartedly interested in conversion to the metric system during the 1960′s.  I don’t remember ever being taught the metric system in school.  In fact, nowadays, when I use a ruler, I get mad if I am using the wrong side. I want a ruler that just shows inches, thank you very much. There was the Metric Conversion Act of 1975 that was shoved down our throats. Everything was going to change. Well, you can lead an American to water, but you can’t make him drink. We rebelled.

“We ain’t gonna use that metric crap.” Ok, some people talk a little more dignified. I was the one that said that.

I know that somewhere along the way someone slipped us “liters.”  We now buy a 2 liter bottle of pop at the grocery store. I don’t know when that started. I picked up a student’s bottle of water this morning and looked at the measurements:

Aquafina Pure Water           16.9FL.OZ  (1.05 PT)   500mL

Why the hell would the “L” in milliliter be capitalized? Off to check another bottle:

Nestle Pure Life      20 OZ LIQ (1 PINTA, 4OZ LIQ)  (591mL)

Well, the L is capitalized on that bottle too. I guess it is supposed to be like that? It’s not like that in my teacher’s manual. Of course, it doesn’t say in my teacher’s manual that Christopher Columbus slaughtered the Indians as soon as he got off of the boat, so you know, whatever.

I’m not done looking around my classroom.

Lysol Disinfecting Wipes  8.9 OZ. (252 g)

Lysol is trying to get me to buy in grams. Not going to happen.

I’m already confused when my Canadian blogging friends write about how the 20 degree temperature is so lovely. You crazy Canucks. That is cold. Well, it is if you use the Fahrenheit side of the thermometer.  I will never be able to use Celsius when describing the weather. Why did we have two to begin with anyways?

Wouldn’t it cost a lot to convert to the metric system? For a person like myself, who doesn’t want to use the metric system, any amount is too much. We can’t get our Department of  Highways to take care of our roads. I saw a guy fishing in a pot hole the other day.  Well, ok, I lie. But, it would be nice to drive on roads that won’t tear up my tires and shoot everything out of line. I would get pissed if I saw DOH guys taking down the millions of signs everywhere just to change the “miles” to “Kilometers.”  It is not cost effective.

In the end, I have to teach the metric system to my fourth graders because it will be on the big ole test in May.  I feel badly that I have to teach equivalent measurements. I can see it now.

“Which one is larger, Tommy?  1 foot or 11 centimeters?”

“I don’t give a shit, Ms. Mendenhall.”

“That is correct, Tommy.”

I’m sorry, friends around the world, but I am too old to learn new tricks. I want to know how long it is going to take to get to New York City.  Using “miles” helps me figure that out. Seeing 1,329 kilometers or whatever the hell is correct, would just fry my brain.

So, please keep your grams and your meters. I like weighing myself in pounds, and driving that extra mile.

Hallmark would have to change their whole “Across the Miles” line of greeting cards.

And we would have to change Robert Frost’s Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening:

    …The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

It just doesn’t sound right saying……

And kilometers to go before I sleep…

Poor Robert.

Science….Blah

My seventh grade Science teacher, Mrs. Caldwell, told us the very first day of junior high that she had a “teacher’s pet.” For those of you who live in a box, a “teacher’s pet”  simply is the teacher’s favorite student. Or so I thought. Crazy Ethel Caldwell  then proceeded to show us a picture of  Ponty, her pomeranian pooch. His mug  was in an 8×10 frame. He actually looked like he was posing for a school photo. His head was slightly tilted, doggy smile on his face. I burst out laughing.

Which was not the reaction she was wanting. I honestly had never seen a picture of a dog. …In a frame…. on a teacher’s desk. This was in the 1960′s before Olan Mills Studio welcomed  animals into the picture…literally.

Mrs. Caldwell ignored the rude hyena laugh coming from the skinny girl in the back and continued on.

“Class, people say that teacher’s are not supposed to be have a teacher’s pet. But, I do……Meet Ponty.”

She smiled like a new parent.  I looked at my bff Ramaine, who was sitting beside me, and I did the crazy pantomime with the index finger at the temple. Mrs. Caldwell was a loon.

Oh, I was so good with first impressions. She told us how Ponty was her teacher’s pet about once a month, like we had never heard it before. She also gave us a quote every single freaking day. The same quote every day.

“Today…..(pause)….is the first day…….(pause pause)….of the rest of your life.”  And then she would smile a wise smile, and nod her head. Yeah, she was a loon. One time, she let a bat loose in the classroom. She called it Dorp, because her friend Dorothy had the bat in her house, and called Pete to come get it.  Hence, the amalgamated “Dorp.”  I remember this 35+ years after the fact, only because we heard the Dorp story at least once a week.  She also told us that her friend, astronaut John Glenn, was coming to a picnic we were going to have but never had.  I was pissed because she said we were going to have hot dogs and learn about space. She was also a bit mean at times and smacked our hands if we didn’t “smell” something in a beaker the right way. Apparently, while holding a beaker of  flaming battery acid, one must take the other hand and brush if over the beaker to oneself. That way, the odor doesn’t go right up your nose, but  swirls around and then goes up into your brain. This isn’t meant to be disrespectful in any way, but we had three  students in my class die of brain tumors later in life. What if we  were snorting  some really bad stuff? I mean, you just never know.

But back to Mrs. Caldwell. I was thinking about her today while I was writing lesson plans for this next week while my class was at Phys Ed. I teach fourth grade and teach English, Math, Spelling, Language Arts, Reading, Social Studies, Science, Handwriting, and Writing. We teachers do it all. And I have come to the realization that…..I hate teaching Science.

Are teachers allowed to hate something they have to teach? Is that bad of me to mention this? Does this make me a terrible teacher?

Oh, hell no. It just makes me honest and that is such a fine quality for a person to possess, right?

I have to teach motion, velocity, and simple machines this month.

I would rather teach about electricity and put my finger in a light socket.

Who should I blame for my attitude?  I sort of liked it when I was in fourth grade. I grew an awesome plant out of a sweet potato. I made a terrarium and had a salamander that lived in it. I even tried to make my very own ant farm, which didn’t please my mom when the ants made an escape in my bedroom. But, when it comes time to teach motion, gravity, boiling points, light bulb stuff, batteries, and the water cycle, well, I just suck.

The kids don’t know this, because I’m a professional, dammit. But, I change things around to amuse myself. It’s either that or jump out of the window while demonstrating velocity. So, I bring in matchbox cars and we have races. We make magnet cars and push them at each other to see if they will repel or attract. The pile-ups are awesome. I get a volunteer to spin around on his “axis” while making a revolution around another kid. I get off topic and talk about aliens. I get off topic and talk about Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster. I get off topic and talk about the time a spider monkey climbed on my bff Ramaine’s head. Important stuff they should know.

I don’t know. Maybe they are learning something in Science. They seem to get excited when I tell them to open their Science books. But, that might just mean that they are excited that I’m done with nouns, verbs, and adjectives for the day. I do love teaching English. I love haiku poetry, and creative writing, and grammar in general. I also love teaching Social Studies. It’s my favorite subject to teach. I get a little too enthusiastic teaching about the Revolutionary War.  But, science, blah.

As I finish my lesson plans, I think that tomorrow we will work a little on mixtures. You know, like how oil floats on top of water. That kind of stuff.  Or maybe I will bring in different liquids and teach them how to make a Bloody Mary or a martini. We can learn about ecosytems and make some swamp water or jungle juice. That sounds like a plan.

And then I can sit back and quietly make a toast to Mrs. Caldwell.

“Here’s to you, Mrs. Caldwell…….Tomorrow begins today, you old loon, you.”

Idiom Fridays

When I was young, my dad loved using idioms. I think he is the one that started them. Really. His favorite was, “All hell broke loose.” I could picture fire and the devil breaking out of a jail somewhere. I’ve loved idioms every since.

I teach fourth grade and every Friday we have “Idiom Friday.” I can’t help it, I have to do it. It’s more for me than for the kids.  I write the idiom on the board, we discuss its meaning, and then the students draw the idiom. After they are finished, their pictures go out in the hall for a week, and then are put away in their black writing notebook. At the end of the year they are able to take their idioms home.

Some of the more popular idioms were, “Couch Potato,” “Raining Cats and Dogs”, “You Crack Me Up”, and “My Eyes are Bigger Than My Stomach.” The students have fun and I am always amazed by their creative drawings. Here’s one of mine that I really shouldn’t use. Fun stuff.

But, one day, I was a little slap-happy from a tossing, restless sleep the night before, and thought about the idioms you shouldn’t use in school. I asked my facebook friends on my status one day, “Would ‘Smelling Like a French Whore’  be appropriate for fourth graders?”  I was teasing, of course. I don’t want to be fired just yet.  So, to amuse myself, I started thinking of others that you really shouldn’t use in fourth grade. I apologize for using curse words, but I didn’t make these up. I think my fourth graders would like these….I think the members of the board of education would too, since I am sure I would be visiting them if I wrote any of these on the board….

Picture these written on a board:

All hell broke loose  (in honor of my dad)

Beat his brains out

That’s a load of crap

wearing a shit-eating grin

He’s a chicken shit

kick the bucket

He likes to  stir shit

Let’s blow this joint

Beat a dead horse

He’s in deep shit

kill 2 birds with one stone

bite someone’s  head off

He’s on my shit list

cold as a witch’s tit

Make your blood boil

break a leg

I was scared shitless

clip someone’s wings

cook somebody’s goose

He will be shitting bricks

kick some ass

pain in the ass

he beat the hell out of him.

smart ass

his ass is on the line

Get your shit together

kiss my ass

talking out of your ass

He has shit for brains

Holy Shit!

The shit hit the fan

Shoot the bull

Beat his brains out

That’s a load of crap

I guess I just may have too much time on my hands.  (Normal idiom)

A Flask for the Classroom

I am a fourth grade teacher, living in West Virginia. I just looked at my W2 form, and I made a whopping $$,$$$ this past year. I’m too embarrassed to share this sad little figure with you. I just stared at the paper for a long while and then thought……WTF?

So, to supplement my meager earnings, I have been trying to come up with a way to make some extra money. There’s a media lady that wants to put an ad or two on my blog posts for $30. No, I would need at least $40 to live a more comfortable lifestyle.  I could write a book.  A lot of my facebook friends (3 of them) think I should write a book. I think so too. But, that takes time….and talent.

OR>>>> I could invent something…..hmmmmm, an invention.

I really don’t care to invent anything, but I do think I have come up with something that will make me a millionaire. I AM SURE.  My fellow teachers across the country (and some in Canada)  will surely want to buy this for their classrooms.

I have lately been trying to come up with a way to make a flask out of a pencil. It looks like a pencil, but if you push over the eraser, you can sip some hard whiskey while your fourth graders are taking a test.

Why, you ask?

Because I am having one hell of a year. I don’t drink that often, maybe a total of 10 beers a year, but I am ready to start drinking in the classroom. Hard liquor. Especially after really taking note of what I make every year. Bird crumbs….no, bird poop from the bird crumbs. That’s what I make.

I think I could be in trouble for drinking hard liquor in the classroom, but I’m not really sure on that one. (I hope you idiots who have no concept of “tongue in cheek” will please head to another blog if you don’t realize that I KNOW that it is wrong to drink in the classroom…..but then again, I will have to check the law in WV. It may be permitted). We do have a margarita machine in the teacher’s lounge, but sometimes you should need something a little harder to match the kind of day you are having.

So, I figure I could take a regular pencil,  drill a hole down the middle, and attach some sort of invisible hinge for the eraser….and fill it with booze. I could even sing a little song before I partake, just to get me in the mood (set to the tune of “I’m a Little Teapot”)

“I’m a little pencil, full of lead

here is my tip and here is my eraser head

when I get all steamed up, then I shout,

“Just tip me over and pour me out……”So, the next time a student tells me that M. is telling everyone out on the playground that A. plays with monkey titties, or the next time that J. decides he wants to fake burp and fake sneeze all flippin day, and I can’t take it any longer, I can quietly pick up the pencil, which I will call “the WRITE Stuff,” push over the eraser and just take a swig or two. Then, I wouldn’t care if someone is fake sneezing or fake burping all flippin day. I wouldn’t care when someone asks me what page the assignment is on, right after I tell them AND write it on the board. And I won’t care that M. is telling everyone out on the playground that A. plays with monkey titties. Because, you know what? Maybe she does. Quit the damn tattletaling Goober head.

One of my students asks me every day, “Is this the day that you are going to have a stroke?”

“No, Andy, not when I have “The WRITE Stuff.”

But, then, reality smacks me across my living-in-a-fantasy-face. The pencil will not hold much whiskey. One little swig and it would be time for a re-fill. What to do? What to do?  Well, hell, I can make a bigger pencil, right?

That’s more like it.  Teachers are going to love this. I think I have found my Field of Dreams.

If you build it, they will come.

So drink up, my dear underpaid teachers., drink up.

Mosquito Activity Forecast

Image via Wikipedia

Isn’t it a wonderful thing that the Weather Channel has started a mosquito activity forecast? All I have to do is type in my zip code, and a chart and hourly forecast pops up. 

 ”Forecast covers a broad range of mosquito types. Specific mosquito species may be more or less active than the overall forecast, depending on weather conditons or time of day.”

There was no such thing as West Nile Virus when I was little. We played outside and compared the sizes of our mosquito bites. Yes, they itched like hell, but they were a kind of rite of passage, a transition from whiny childhood to less whiny childhood. We quit running to our moms to be sprayed with OFF. We wore our mosquito bites with pride. “Hey, look at my mosquito bite. It’s huge!”  Only pansies cried over the wounds left by these insect vampires.

But, you can’t do that anymore. Mosquitoes are now vicious, blood scalpers. And the Weather Channel is letting us know when the thugs are in our area.

“Because mosquitoes tap into the blood of birds, animals and humans, they can be ghoulishly efficient at transmitting certain diseases. Fortunately, fewer than 100 of the world’s 2,700 mosquito species carry disease, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture. While some mosquito-borne diseases can be deadly to humans, many cause only minor, passing symptoms in most people.”

Ghoulishly. That’s what they wrote. Mosquitoes are “ghoulishly efficient”.  Although I’ve never seen anyone dress like a mosquito at Halloween, this may all change now. But, seriously, how did this happen? Why can’t kids go outside during the summer, catch lightning bugs and get bit by mosquitoes anymore?  When my kids were little, I put up a bat box on a high tree. Well, I didn’t. I made my husband climb up a tree and place it facing south, as the directions stated. We had bats at night. Might as well let them live close. Bats eat over 500-1000 mosquitoes in one hour. I’d like to meet the man who actually saw one do this, but if this is true, bats rule!

 Of course, when West Nile virus first made the news and we found a few dead birds lying about, I did become concerned. I would be a bad mother if I did not. But, I was confused. I thought mosquitoes only wanted human blood, and here they go landing on birds.

The CDC warns of mosquitoes on their site and has a cute title, “Fight the Bite.” 

The CDC states: “If mosquitoes are still flying there is still a danger from West Nile virus. Infected mosquitoes spread West Nile virus that can cause serious, life-altering, and even fatal disease. Keep using insect repellent, wear long sleeves and long pants and dump out standing water in the yard where mosquitoes can lay their eggs.”

There goes another childhood excitement: puddles. Kids love to jump in puddles, make mud pies, and some goofy kids will even sit down in puddles. Well, not anymore, puddle jumpers. Mosquitoes lay their eggs in shallow puddles. Any standing water is a no-no. A bird bath is a prime example. No water cooler talk for the birds anymore. There are baby mosquitoes ready to attack. They are like Navy seal mosquitoes, but with a different modi operandi.

While you take a bite out of your burger – don’t let mosquitoes take a bite out of you! Use an effective insect repellent to avoid being a Bug’s lunch.

This is from the CDC site. They don’t want you to bite into a mosquito. I think that’s what that means.

I don’t know. I don’t mean to make light of this. Many people have died after being bit by a mosquito. Florida, for example, is mosquito stalker heaven. It’s a vast swampland, and mosquitoes hang out at Disney World, searching for their next meal. But, don’t worry, mouse house visitors, I do know that Disney World has a full-fledged mosquiter stalker on site. The guy goes into the swamps every day, retrieves his traps, and then heads back to his lab. He knows where the concentration of mosquitoes are, and he maps out a plan of counter-attack. From what I have read, they are very pro-active in the fight of the West Nile virus.

My daughter accidentally discovered how not to get bit by mosquitoes. She was studying abroad in Guanajuato, Mexico, and was living with a host family. She did not have a screen on her bedroom window, so she woke up every morning with bug bites all over her body. She noticed that after the nights they went out dancing and drinking, she didn’t have any bug bites. So, she tried an experiment and drank a beer before she went to bed. No bites the next morning. So, every night she had a beer before she went to bed. She swears that she was never bitten by a bug when she did this. She probably should have a drinking problem, but she doesn’t. Her roommate should have chugged some beer, as she was bitten by a scorpion that was on her dresser handle.

I guess we could spray kids with OFF, and then give them a glass of beer before they went outside to play. That would be interesting in a neighborhood.

So, in the end, mosquitoes have mutated into a terrible, blood sucking, death provoking insect. It is no longer cool to see who has the biggest mosquito bite.  There are  little pens you can put on your bite to take the sting out of it. Kids are wearing long sleeves in 90 degree evenings. Many are staying in, playing video games and don’t know what the hell Flashlight Tag is. They are being sprayed with chemicals to keep the gnawing insects  away. Adults burn citronella candles on their patios. Bats are flying overhead. Chaos.

I’m so glad I was a child in the sixties.

NYU Bound: HELP!

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.

Running for Secratary

My daughter couldn’t  spell worth a dam. (Sorry, couldn’t resist). She is 23 now and I think she has improved dramatically.  Momma’s proud of you, sweetie.  She blamed her years of  weak spelling intelligence on Mrs. Zappacosta,  her first and second grade teacher. I tried to work with her on her spelling list each week.  She did fine on the tests. She ran for “secratary” one year and wouldn’t let me help her with her posters. It’s actually a funny slogan…if you meant it to be funny. Like “Do the WRITE Thing…vote of Alex”. Things like that.

 But,I just think people are born bad spellers. I really do. And there’s some people who can’t for the world look a name up in the phone book because they suck at ABC order. Just like handwriting. Can you really learn to write? I don’t think so. My son writes so small, a magnifiying glass doesn’t even do the trick.

 Anywho, it was hard to read her little messages to me when she was little.  For example,

“Im so sary I brok uor kandel. Im so vry vry sary. lov, Alexandra”. 

My heart just melts when I think of her so small, looking up at me with “future bad speller” written all over her face.  But, you know, there’s spell-checker nowadays. She will be fine. Maybe that’s why she majored in Spanish and minored in French. And took two years of Japanese. And is learning Russian. Maybe, just maybe, the English spelled weird to begin with. Take these words that

Like a speller in a candy store.

need to be crossed out forever:

Wednesday (should be Wensday, we all know that)

February ( Febuary is how we all pronounce it. So, take the damn “r” out of the equation)

height- this one just pisses me off… height-eight…why shouldn’t they sound the same. Stupid English people.

fiery-  Ok, someone lights a fire, which makes it fiery…Uh, no…should be firey. Someone should have just asked me.

foreign-  the king will reign in a foreign land.  Should sound the same. This is getting redundant. But, I’m proving a point. My poor little girl didn’t have a chance. Spelling is stupid.

colonel- I mean, really?  This sounds like kernel, the piece of corn, but yet the ranked army man gets his spelled differently, so different that my fourth graders pronounced it, “call-on-ul”. And they look at me like I’m lost my mind when I say, “No, poor confused children, it is colonel (kernel)”.

medieval- But, yet, we spell a bad person, “evil.”, but if it is in olden days of Merry (there’s another one) England, it is medieval. This needs to change to medevil, but then there ya go again…devil is pronounced differently..it should sound like dee vil  then. I’m getting mad. Well, not really, but you know..

separate- People always spell this word wrong. I missed this word on a spelling bee when I was little. It must have bothered me, because I still remember what the word was, even though I have no idea where I just put my car keys.

sergeant- This is just so wrong. Another serviceman gets special spelling. It shouldn’t be “ser-geant”. The word is sar-gent. And that’s how it should be spelled. Done.

their/there/they’re- As a fourth grade teacher, I can tell you that they just don’t care how it is spelled. They really don’t.

criticize- Size but with a “c”. No wonder no one wants to learn English. I’m thinking of learning Spanish so I can avoid this from now on. Si.

ecstasy- How hard would it be to put an X in this one? I mean, really. It should be extacy. I’m so right. (or write, wright)

Fahrenheit- As a teacher, this one gets to me. We named our temperature scale after a German physicist, which is all well and good, but we could have Americanized it to Fairinheight. I mean, the English took Giovanni Cabato and changed his name to Sir John Cabot. Why didn’t we do something like that?  No wonder we just use a “F” by the degree symbol.

pigeon-I don’t know where to begin.

raspberry-sigh…..razzberry. This is not hard to understand.

  Ok, I can’t do anymore. Just know that there are hundreds thousands of words that are spelled wrong, according to me.

If  eye had sum thyme, eye wood look four moor.

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt

I’ve been teaching my fourth graders about the Revolutionary War and we discussed yesterday how the colonists chanted “No taxation without representation” over and over again. So, naturally, since I am one to go off topic whenever I get the chance, I asked my class what chants they yell nowadays. They just looked at me. So, I just looked at them. Seriously? Has it gotten that bad that they don’t even know what a chant is?  Well, I remember the ones we used when I was little, and I can’t remember where I put my car keys half  the time.

 I think the first clapping song we were first taught is

Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man.

Bake me a cake as fast as you can;

Pat it and prick it and mark it with B,

Put it in the oven for baby and me.

Patty cake, patty cake, baker’s man.

Bake me a cake as fast as you can;

Roll it up, roll it up;

And throw it in a pan!

Patty cake, patty cake, baker’s man.

 I loved teaching this one to my own children.

The next one is more of a song than a chant, but more of a song that we did a hand clap with. I think.  You can’t expect me to know everything. I’m old. It went like this-

“Say,say, Oh  playmate, come out and play with me. And bring your dollies three, climb up my apple tree. Shout down my rain barrel, slide down my cellar door, and we’ll be jolly friends, forever more…..Say, oh playmate, I cannot play with you. My dollie’s got the flu, Oh boo hoo hoo hoo hoo. Ain’t go no rain barrel, ain’t got no cellar door, but we’ll be jolly friends, forever more.” Heres an example of one way we sang the song.

Ta-da.. I remembered it. My mom used to sing this song ALL the time. And without taking a pause to inhale her Salem cigarette.  She loved this little ditty.

2. “A sailor went to sea sea sea to see what he could see see see, and all that he could see see see was the bottom of the deep blue sea sea sea.”  Yeah, I remember that one. And then we would clap faster each time. I had great eye-hand coordination back then. Hyper little chichuahua’s can concentrate on clapping games and do pretty damn well.

Comet—it makes your mouth turn green.
Comet—it tastes like gasoline.
Comet—it makes you vomit
So eat some Comet and vomit today.

Boys use to chant this one. Of course, we probably did too. We had no idea what anything meant. 

 ”There’s a skeeter on my peter, knock it off. There’s a skeeter on my peter, knock it off. There’s a dozen on my cousin’s
I can hear the bugger’s buzzin’
There’s a skeeter on my peter, knock it off”

____________________________________________________________ 

  Engine, engine, number 9
Going down Chicago line
If that train should jump the track
Do you want your money back?

______________________________________________________________

We abbreviated this song into a chant/jumprope/clapping game

 My mother told me if I was goody
That she would buy me a rubber dolly
My auntie told her, I kissed a soldier
Now she wont buy me, a rubber dolly

Three, six, nine
The goose drank wine
The monkey chewed tobacco on the street car line
The line broke, the monkey got choked
And they all went to heaven in a little row boat. Clap Clap.

We repeated this one alot.

______________________________________________

 I think this was my favorite- John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt

Of course, this is the nursing home version…the one I will be rambling over and over in 30 years..probably earlier.

“Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief,
Doctor, lawyer, Indian Chief”

“Gorgie Porgie Puddin Pie Kissed the girls and made them cry He kissed them once, then kissed them twice, how many tears did they cry? 1..2..3..4.. -”

 ”Mabel Mabel if you’re able, don’t forget to set the table…” I don’t remember the rest.

“Cinderella, dressed in yellow
Went upstairs to kiss a fellow”, how many kisses did she get…” and then we counted?

 ”One two buckle my shoe
Three four close the door
Five six pick up sticks
Seven eight shut the gate
Nine ten start again”

Down in the valley
Where the green grass grows
There sat ______(girl’s name)
Sweet as a rose
She sang, she sang
She sang so sweet
Along came ______(boy’s name)
And kissed her cheek
How many kisses did he give her
{count until someone misses}

 Well, I think that’s all my brain can take for one day. If you can think of any others from the 1960′s and 1970′s, just add them to a reply and I will put them on here.

I hope that you will sing at least one of them.  You know you want to.

Favorite Books of My Youth

When I was little, I loved to read.  I would mostly read at night, because I just couldn’t sleep. Mexican jumping beans don’t need much sleep. It probably didn’t help that my mom put me to bed as soon as it got dark. We took our baths earlier than any of the other kids in the neighborhood. As soon as the sun was setting, the Mendenhall kids were in the tub. She really liked it when there was a total eclipse. Off to bed we went. Ok, I’m lying about that, but she probably thought about it.

 I shared my bedroom with my sister, who was a nightmare. She had temper tantrums that would make Mike Tyson seem like a marshmallow. But, she fell asleep fast. So, that’s when I would turn on my lamp and read away.

I’d have to say that when I was very young, my favorite books were Go, Dog. Go!  and One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish. I liked books that had pictures with detail. I could stare at those pictures for hours.

1.  Go, Dog. Go!  was a book about dogs having a great time. Dogs knew how to have a party. I stared at each page for a long time before going to the next. There were two pages that I studied intently.

One was of an emormous bed with many dogs. One dog had his eyes wide open.

I found this to be the coolest picture ever. I always worried about the dogs under the bed and on the floor. They couldn’t possibly be comfortable. I thought the blue color was great. I loved the detail. The other picture I liked in the book was the dog party. Everyone got to go to this party…in a tree. Which is weird. Now that I think about it, I’m wondering what the author had in his coffee cup.

But, it was a great book with a great lesson. Everyone should be able to climb a tree and have a party. It doesn’t matter if you are a yellow dog or a blue dog.  Big dogs and little dogs…They all got along.

This was my favorite page of all. I don’t know why, but it still makes me laugh.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

2. One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish

 I’m sorry, but Dr. Seuss was a weird bird. But, so was I, so I loved this book. I think my mom had to go out and buy a second book, as I looked through this book so much, it fell apart.

Ok, this page scared me. But, and there is always a “but” with me, on the other hand, I really wanted to find a Clark to bring home. What disturbed me when I became a mother and read this to my kids is the fact that they found Clark….in a park…..in the DARK.  So, the mother here let the kids go monster hunting in the park, in the dark, with no adult supervision. Well, you shouldn’t go monster hunting anyway if you are a kid, but that goes without saying. I’m thinking the mom deserved to get the hell scared out of her.

Stealing a quote from the great movie, Jaws, and mutilating it….”We’re gonna need a bigger bottle.”

This one just pissed me off. Yes, some were just bad. But why?  “I do not know. Go ask your Dad.”  So I did. He pointed to him and said  “He’s a communist.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

3.  Nancy Drew- As I got older, I put my Dr. Seuss books away, and took up the Nancy Drew books. I loved reading her adventures. I had a lot of the books. I only have four, because my mom gave away all of my books and toys to the church when I was in high school. Came home one day and everything that was packed away was gone. I’m still mad about this. Anywho, I had some favorite stories:

    

    

   I loved the inside cover of the books. I would circle all of the books that I owned. That really made me feel like I was something special. And it was also to show my mom which ones I did not have. Whenever I finished a book, there was always one waiting for me. My mom said  because I had such a short attention span, it was great to see me staying on task with something. Oh, please. I read these at bedtime. First she wanted me to quit reading and get some sleep, then she was force feeding me books to keep me awake. Make a decision, you loon.

I really don’t remember how many Nancy Drew books I have read. But, they were all good and a part of my childhood I will always remember.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

4. Snow Treasure- I don’t remember how old I was when I read this book. I believe that it was my brother’s book first, and then I took ownership of it. It did seem like a book a boy would enjoy. I loved this book. It made my heart pound though. An action packed movie on pages.

 

    I believe my mom bought this from school from scholastic. Their summary is great, so I will borrow it to share with you.

“In 1940, the German army invades Norway and 12-year-old Peter Lundstrom’s life is changed forever. His father is the local banker and his Uncle Victor is captain of a sea-worthy fishing boat. They, along with the other leaders of their community, conspire to aid Norway by smuggling over nine million dollars worth of the country’s gold bullion to America, where it will be safely kept out of the hands of the German army. But first they must get the gold from the town bank down the snow-covered mountainside to the fjord (a narrow inlet of the sea) below where Victor’s fishing boat awaits its valuable cargo. It is up to Peter and the other children of the town to take to their sleds and sneak the gold brick-by-brick past German sentries.

Snow Treasure is based on events that were said to have actually taken place during World War II. The book includes a brief account of a Norwegian freighter that arrived in Baltimore in 1940 with a cargo of gold bullion, reputedly smuggled past the Germans by children on their sleds. From this rumor, Mary McSwigan tells a riveting tale of adventure and courage that gives young readers a taste of life inside the Artic circle, and simultaneously teaches an exciting history lesson.”

It was a great book. I guess I could go on and on because I read so much when I was little, but these were the ones that I really enjoyed. Others I remember off the top of my head were Charlotte’s Web,  Little Women, and  Patches, (Which I can not find).

 When I had children, I really enjoyed reading Cricket in Times Square, The Indian in the Cupboard, Ralph the Mouse, and The Secret Garden. I really enjoyed reading my kid’s books.

Nowadays, I read Dean Koontz. I finally found An American Tragedy, based on the Elizabeth Taylor/Montgomery Clift movie, A Place in the Sun. I have S*it My Dad Says on my coffee table and just purchased a book called You Might Be a Zombie, as a friend informed me that “YOU of all people need to read this book.” Seems that he thought of me and his drunk buddies while reading this book. ???? I guess when they are sober, I’m just in a class all by myself, aren’t I?

I’m reading that book now. It IS  a Vickie book. You guys should read it.

And That’s Why I Hate Valentine’s Day

When I was in fourth grade, Miss Emler had us make Valentine boxes out of shoeboxes for our Valentine cards. I really worked hard on mine. I was a new student that year, transferring from a private Catholic school where there was no Valentine’s Day. Being a student at the Sacred Heart of Mary Juana  Academy was pretty close to being in hell, I was sure. So, I was excited to get Valentines from my new friends.

Miss Emler made us take our Valentine boxes home and wouldn’t let us open it to see our Valentine’s. I was really hoping to get one from Doug. He was the cutest boy in fourth grade and I think everyone liked Doug. So, I took my Valentine box home and after dropping my books on the couch, plopped myself down on the floor. I was excited.

Inside were a lot of Valentines. I read each one and  put it aside like it was quite fragile. This was fun. But, then, my mom spoke up.

“You know Vickie, enjoy Valentine’s Day now, because when you get married, your husband won’t buy you a damn thing.”  she said, as she sucked on her Salem cigarette, and exhaled up into the air. That smoke just kept coming out of her mouth. ” Your father never buys me flowers or candy.”  I just looked at her. “Vickie, when you get married, don’t expect your husband to be buying you flowers and candy all the time. It doesn’t happen. You need to go to college and get a degree so you can support him.”

Um, Mom, you’re raining on my Valentine Day experience here. My dad probably bought her flowers one time and she made him take them back or something. I knew he didn’t like her too much. He deliberately ran over her flowers with the lawn mower. I saw him do it. He looked at me and laughed and went back over them again. He was a quiet guy, but he got back at the rolling-pin woman.

“Vickie, then again, you may not even get married, so go to college and get a degree.”

I decided to talk back a bit to my mom. I remember this conversation. ” I will so get married and my husband is going to buy me a lot of flowers and candy and even a dog.”  So, there, you loon.

I opened all of my Valentine cards and I didn’t get one from Doug. I was crushed. The next day at the bus stop I asked Ramaine and LeeAnn and Lori if they got a Valentine card from Doug. They did. Now I was ready to cry. Doug didn’t give me a Valentine’s Day card. Life was over….at nine years of age.

At school, I over heard Kacey tell people that she got two  Valentine cards from Doug.  Two?  Way to rub salt into my oozing wound, Kacey.  It got back to Doug and he went to her and told her that he didn’t give her two cards.  “Yes, you did. You signed both of them.”  Seems like Doug put a Valentine card without a name on it in Kacey’s Valentine box by mistake.  I heard him tell Scott that he made one for everyone.

So, I went home that day, knowing that that Valentine card was meant for me. But, it didn’t mean anything a day after Valentine’s Day. I hated Valentine’s Day.

Fast forward to February 14, 1984.  It was my first Valentine’s Day as a married person. The phone rang. It was my mom.

“Vickie, Happy Valentine’s Day! I love you.”  Yeah, me too, Mom.  Small talk, then….”Sooooo, what did your husband get you for Valentine’s Day?”

I wanted to lie. You have no idea how I wanted to lie. I wanted to say that he bought me a dozen roses and took me to dinner and wrote me a poem. Because poetry is sexy.

She didn’t give me a chance. She noted my hesitation. “Do you remember when you were little, Vickie? I told you that when you got married that you wouldn’t get anything for Valentine’s Day, didn’t I?  Your old mom is pretty smart, isn’t she?”

“Mom, he got me a Valentine’s Day present.”   I didn’t lie.

“Oh, he did, did he? …Vickie, I know when you lie. You can’t fool your mother.  Ok. What did he buy you?”

Yeah, I know.....

Long pause…..then the truth.. “He um, bought me a hamburger maker.”

After she started laughing, I just walked over and quietly hung up on her.

I guess nothing says “I love you”  like pressed ground beef.

And that’s why I hate Valentine’s Day.

The Case of the Pinky Ring

    I teach in a small country elementary school. It is a wonderful place to work. The only bad part is that we have a custodian who doesn’t work. Yeah, my chalkboard is washed and the garbage is emptied, but he doesn’t sweep. He doesn’t mop.  He doesn’t wash the top of the desks. My kids get a Clorox wipe and wipe their desks each week. It is really disgusting.

  So, imagine my surprise when I saw a pretty little silver ring lying on the floor. Since the custodian doesn’t sweep like he is supposed to, I knew that someone had just lost it. But, if I asked, I had several girls who would say it was theirs. So, I decided to quietly wear it. I knew that if it belonged to someone in my classroom, they would tell me they had one just like that one. I would then know it was theirs.

 So, I wore it on my pinky every day for 2 weeks. No one said a word. I never took it off.  I used my hands when I talked, and when I walked around the room, I made sure my little pinky was standing out from the other, less important fingers. Still, no one said it was theirs.

 At the end of the second week, I decided to speak up. If no one claimed it, I was going to wear the darn thing. I got used to it being on my pinky, and it looked cute.

“Girls, I’ve been wearing this little silver pinky ring on my finger for 2 weeks now. I found it on the floor. No one has said it was theirs. Does this ring belong to anyone?”  I had 9 girls in my classroom. They came running up, surrounding me and admiring the silver pinky ring.

 One of the girls, Presley, who was really examining the ring, stepped back, and quietly covered her mouth. Ahhh! She must know who the ring belongs to. She then started laughing.  Then she was pointing at me, and laughing. What could be so funny, I wondered?

 When she calmed down, she looked at me, but then started laughing again. Whaaaaat??? Come on.

“Ms. Mendenhall…..(laughing…laughing)……You’ve been wearing that for 2 weeks?”  I nodded. What the hell was going on?

“Ms. Mendenhall…..that’s a toe ring.”

  I couldn’t get that ring off my finger fast enough. I swiftly walked over to the trash can and threw it away. Ewww. I was wearing feet. I mean, someone had that on their toe. Toes are sad looking features. And dirty. With toe jam, or whatever the hell that really is. Kids walk through dog poop and don’t give it a second thought. They don’t wash between their toes. Ew.

 Oh, but they weren’t done laughing at me. Soon, the whole school knew that I was wearing a toe ring on my pinky.

The next day, when I walked into the classroom, there was a daily schedule written on my board.

9:00- Social Studies-How the Pioneers TOEd their wagons

10:00- Tic-Tac-TOE

11:00-Music- “Ring Around the TOEsies”

12:00- Lunch- TOEfu sandwich and TOEmato soup

1:00-Science- Frogs and TOEDs

Ew

There was a schedule for the whole day. Someone sat up all night thinking these up. I never knew who did it. It looked like a student’s writing, but I don’t know how they would have gotten to my room in the morning. I enjoyed their imagination.

But, they thought it was funny. Like Toe-tally.

They knew that if the shoe was on the other foot, (pun intended), I would have done the same thing.

Fluffy Has Lice

Childhood Funk. That’s what mother’s should call it.  Children are afflicted with the strangest maladies: Lice, Impetigo, ring worm, and scabies.  Those are the things that make childhood traumatic, from a parent’s upstanding citizen point of view.

The last thing parent’s want to see is a note from the school that their child has lice,  a strange ring on their arm or critters digging under their skin, such as scabies. It makes us look like we are dirty, living among rat feces and bathtub rings.

 Scabies is caused by mites that burrow into the skin and lay their eggs, causing intense itching and a pimple-like rash. Scabies is contagious and spreads, making the condition common in childcare centers and schools  It’s not related to socioeconomic class. That doesn’t matter. It makes all parents feel like pond scum. My college roommate had scabies when she was student teaching. It was on her stomach and it just grossed me out, thinking that there was something literally crawling under her skin, and if that wasn’t bad enough, had the audacity to leave eggs behind as a parting gift. And then they would hatch and so on and so on, and the next thing you know, she would be a scabie. I told her that too.

 So, when I became a parent, I was like an OCD queen of cleanliness. My home was going to be a  “Scabies Free Zone.”  And there was no way my child was going to serve lice on a platter to the other children. I was sure that parent’s would do the same. But, oh, I was living in a germ-free bubble, and one day it got popped.

  Alex was in kindergarten and had to take something in for Show and Tell.  She decided to take her favorite stuffed animal, Fluffy the

Pretend this looks like Fluffy

 dog. Fluffy was a good dog, and she knew that he would behave himself in school. By all means, Little One, take Fluffy to school with you. 

 I loved watching her get off the school bus and run to me.  That day was no different. Well, maybe not for her. “Mommy, guess what? Stephanie has lice.”  Now, you have to understand that this was the first “lice in the classroom” situation I had encountered. Adam was one year ahead, and there was never any jumping scalp partiers to mention of before. I was aghast. Like finding out Jeffrey Dahmer ate people for lunch aghast.

 I followed her to the house and realized I had to stop her before entering my lovely foyer, before taking lice hitch-hikers into my family room, where we lie on the couch, not worried that scurrying  little bugs were walking on us. No, this had to stop before I went mental.

 I told Alex that we would go into the house through the garage so we can empty her backpack. I tried not to let Alex know that having lice could be a royal pain in the house. I told her I just had to make sure that lice didn’t follow her home. We dropped off her back pack in the garage for now, and had her kick off her shoes before we entered the mudroom. Once in the mudroom, I told her to stand still, and I ran up to her room to get a change of clothes for her. She was going in the shower. After I interrogated her scalp. I went over her head with a fine-toothed comb. Literally.

  Well, after I scalped her, I put her in the shower. You know, to drown any lice that may be hiding in her eyelashes. I put her in a change of clothes and put her lice-infested clothes in a bag  to wash. While she was eating her after school snack , I put the clothes in the washing machine on hot. Well, on the soak cycle, so again, the little buggers would drown. I felt pretty good that I prevented lice from visiting our fine abode. But, wait, Mom, not so fast.

“Mommy, what about Fluffy?”  Alex looked up at me, with that sweet, innocent of bugs face. Oh, shit. Fluffy. The stuffed animal that she sleeps with. The dog that sat with her when she watched tv. Fluffy even ate cereal with her. I was screwed. Well, let me think? Would lice like fake fur? Well, hell yes, I thought, how would they know the difference? They were lice. I’m sure they were stupid.

  There was only one thing I could do. Fluffy would have to be quarantined. I couldn’t wash the furry guy. He would have fallen apart in the washer. Trust me. And never ask me about Bongo. Poor monkey. Anyways, I didn’t have the internet to refer to, and I was pretty sure that the Medical dictionary didn’t have an entry about stuffed animals with lice. I had to figure out a solution, short of having a note left one night by her door that Fluffy was kidnapped. That was just a fleeting thought, mind you.

 So, I did the only thing I could do. I put Fluffy in a huge Zip-lock bag. To suffocate the lice, of course. At the same time, he could still travel with Alex and sleep with her and do all the things a girl and her dog in a bag would do together. It was perfect. You know what they say, “It’s a dog’s lice.” I’m pretty sure that’s what it is.

 Fluffy stayed in oxygen-deprived quarantine for 2 weeks.  I didn’t have to deal with lice again until I started teaching full time several years ago. Karma. Lice all around me. My head starts itching.

I need quarantined most days. Just put me in a bag.

Up a Creek…

   When I was little, my parents said some weird things to me, expecting me to understand.  At the time, I didn’t know what “What goes around, comes around,” or “Don’t spit up in the air” meant. I was a kid. The list went on and on. I might as well have been having dinner with squirrels, because I didn’t understand their gibberish sounds either.

“Well, Vickie. You made your bed. Now you have to lie in it.”   Ok, how could a small child understand that one?  First of all, I rarely made my bed. Why would someone make their bed, and then lie  “in it?” I was beginning to think that my mother was retarded.  

 I decided that the next time she told me something stupid like that, I would have some questions for her. I was always questioning anyway. That’s what hyper little Mexican jumping beans do….. ”Well, Vickie, the early bird gets the worm………Yes, I know they are all up early………the earliest one out there gets the worm, Vickie………Well, then it eats it………..I don’t know if the worm has worm babies that now are alone…Vickie, they are worms………Vickie, quit  crying. It’s a WORM…..”

“Well, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander?”  I mean, seriously, Mom. What the hell is a gander?  “…..Vickie, a gander is a female goose…….Well, it means that whatever is good for him is good for her…….”  See why I was confused?  I can still picture my mom, with her semi-horn-rimmed glasses, smoking her Salem cigarettes, talking about a goose and a gander. It just didn’t fit. What a confused child I was.  That’s probaby why I majored in Speech Communications in college.

“Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched, Vickie……Why? Well, because things may not work out the way you want them…..It doesn’t have anything to do with chickens, Vickie…………Bunnies aren’t hatched……..No they aren’t……The Easter Bunny brings eggs that are candy, Vickie……………Because there is no such thing as an Easter Chicken………….Ok, we’re done here, Vickie……..Vickie, I am not going to discuss why chicken babies aren’t in the eggs we eat….You know what, go to your room!”

 I realize I was tiring, but she deserved it. I needed answers and I wasn’t getting them.

 One day I came home crying because I was made fun of for being skinny. Sure wish that made me cry nowadays. But, my mom just told me to tell those kids, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” I just looked at her.  First of all, how was a stick going to break my arm?  A neighborhood boy, Eddie K. threw a brick at me and it struck me in the back, and my back didn’t break. And what the hell did that have to do with words hurting me. Of course, words don’t hurt. Stupid, stupid, Salem-cigarette smoking woman.

I have heard the saying, “Don’t be up a creek without a paddle”  numerous times when I was little. My mom never bothered to explain what the hell she was talking about. I wasn’t in a creek, and I didn’t know how to paddle. It wasn’t until I was in fourth grade, that I heard my teacher, Miss Emler, explain the meaning. Finally, someone was going to help me understand the insanity of words and phrases.

“Well, Vickie, you don’t have your Math homework? Well, you’re just up a creek without a paddle, now aren’t you?” Shit! There it is again.

“I don’t live near a creek.” I replied. It was the response I used with my mom many, many times.

“Ok, Little Missy Foo Foo. You can take your smart mouth and go sit in the Dumb Row.”

She put me in the dumb row. She had a sign in front of a row of those old connected desks that actually said, “Dumb Row.” I wasn’t trying to be funny. I really didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Why were adults so messed up? So, I started crying. Hard. I went up to her desk, my knees shaking because I thought she was going to hit me with sticks or stones and break my bones.. I told her that I never knew what that saying meant. Told her my mom said it about every day and I was always up a creek without a paddle.

So, Miss Emler told me what it meant. “Be prepared or you will be stuck.” I just looked at her. All this time, and that’s all it meant?

Why couldn’t they just say, “Be prepared ?”

I had to sit in the Dumb Row for not understanding. I guess that made sense.

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Scarf on Head

      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.

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CSI: West Virginia

      If you are a mom, you have to wear many hats. You are (in one long breath), a doctor, a nurse, a vet, a teacher, a psychic, a story teller, a cop, a beautician and barber, a chef, an EMT, a genealogist, a bodyguard, a maid, a professional organizer, a seamstress/costume designer, a personal shopper, a referee, a fashion coordinator and a chauffer. I would like to add another to the long list of  jobs that mothers perform daily :  crime scene investigator.

  You may not think that mothers should put crime scene investigator on their resume, but I beg to differ. Case in point: The Case of the Smeared Ladybugs. It was a new case that I was working on for a few weeks. I had just finished solving,  The Case of the Baby Powder all Over the Carpet with an arrest in that one.

I had two suspects in that case: Big Boy Adam Jay, a curly red-haired punk, age 6.  He’s been downtown at the station several times.  We had his mug shot hanging up all over the place.  He knew the ropes.  The kid  knew how to use his noodle.  I soon found out  he had an accomplice, Baby Face Alex. Alex was Big Boy’s sister. She was 5 years old. Soon, she was singing like a canary.  Big Boy called her a Stool pigeon. I told him to shut his yap. She didn’t want to go to the big house.

  During interrogations under the lights, Alex spilled her guts. She fingered Big Boy as the culprit. He was the brains of the operation. In a nutshell, Baby Face told me that they didn’t want to move. It was explained that the new house was almost complete and that she and her brother were to box up their possessions for the move to the country. They talked and decided to sabatoge the house-selling process. Big Boy figured that if they made the house “ugly and smelly”, no one would want to buy it. So, one night, they took a large container of Johnson and Johnson Baby Powder, and sprinkled it all over  their bedroom carpet, beds, and dressers. It looked like snow on Christmas morning.

  During the investigation, I also found smashed jelly beans in the carpet throughout the house. They also put Match box cars on the steps leading to the second floor  for the prospective buyers to trip on and tumble down the stairs to their death.  The cars appeared their daily, but the two denied any involvement. I had to interrogate the only other occupant in the house that could have been responsible, their father, Clueless Jay. He wasn’t aware there was a second floor.

 After I shut the books on that case, and we made our move to the country, so our children could lead a normal life away from the big crime city of Monongah, population 345 1/2 (Don’t ask) , I noticed a smashed lady bug on my kitchen nook window. Somehow lady bugs entered our new home and enjoyed crawling on my nice, clean windows. Someone had murdered the lipstick-red insect. It appeared upon further investigation, that the perpetrator put his or her finger directly on the lady bug, crushing it to the window,

scene of the crime

and then smearing its remains down the window for approximately 4 inches. Someone in the new house was a cold-blooded killer.

a line-up, several years and 4 cases later

  This did not sit well with me. After all, Jeffrey Dahmer started off by taking wings off of butterflies. Soon, he was eating people. I had to nip this in the bud. First, lady bugs, and then the killer would move on to ant hills or earthworms. I was an animal lover. A lady bug has worth, and perhaps some bug children somewhere else in the house.

 I immediately ruled out Baby Face Alex. I knew she had it in her heart not to hurt anything. Her stuffed animal dog buddy, Fluffy, recently fell off of her bed and Baby Face cried  because, “Fluffy is paralyzed.”  I was impressed by the kid’s vocabulary. So, I eliminated her as a suspect. I interrogated Clueless Jay, who had no idea what a nook was. My only other suspect was Big Boy, and he didn’t squeal. He denied any involvement, especially after my “all animals have feelings” talk. I saw him crying outside , while playing with his Tonka trucks. Good. That meant there was still time before we had to start calling him Jeffrey.

 But, he still wouldn’t budge. So, I  brought out the big guns. I had Scotch tape and powdered sugar. And a big ole lie. I brought them into the kitchen nook.

 ”Big Boy, Baby Face, this is how I am going to find out who killed the lady bug and smeared it down the window.  I am going to take some of this powder I got from a police officer and lightly put it in the smear.”  I took some powder and brushed it with one of those little plastic watercolor brushes onto the lady bug guts. “Now, I will take a piece of tape and press it against the window. I will leave it on their for exactly one minute. This will then give me a fingerprint.”  I looked at my watch for a minute. ” Ok, now I will carefully peel the tape off of the window and hang it in the air for 30 seconds.”  Some more watch looking. “Ok, now, I have fingerprints of the person who smeared the lady bug.  The police officer told me that after I do this, it will only take about 10 seconds for the white powder to appear on the finger of the person who did this.”

  As soon as I said that, Big Boy Adam brought his hands up and looked at his fingers. “Gotcha!” I said to him. The procedure made absolutely no sense, and that’s what made it brilliant. Score one for the mom.

RIP Lei Dee Bahg

 And that’s how I solved The Case of the Smashed Ladybug.  Big Boy and Baby Face grew up to be upstanding citizens and although there were a few more cases I will delve into at a later time, they never spent any time in the big house. And that’s because of yet another hat I wore.

 So, yeah, mom’s should add crime scene investigator to their portfolio. And we should all get to look like Marg Helgenberger.

Well Intentioned Untruths

It’s just part of life that you remember who peed their pants and cried in second grade. You remember the kid who ate his scabs and the girl who got gum caught in her hair and had to have it cut out, making her look really bad. You remember their names. And use them when you get older.

As a teacher, I am faced with weird predicaments on a daily basis.  I always worry about the kid who puts an eraser in his mouth,

and for my next trick...

 the girl who continually rocks on her chair, the boy who plays with pencils.  So, I bring up names from the past.  ”Do you want to end up like Kenny Myers?” I asked today.  A kid put an eraser in his mouth. They know a story is coming.

“Well, in fifth grade, I watched Kenny swallow a bic pen cap. They had to take him to the hospital and have his stomach pumped. His parents had to pay a huge bill just because Kenny put something in his mouth that wasn’t food. So, if you want to end up like Kenny Myers, put a pen cap in your mouth.”

I have no idea what happened to Kenny. He may have swallowed the little blue part on the other end. I didn’t see it. I heard about it. And remembered it, I guess, so I could pull a story out of the “Useless Information” file I have stored in my brain. Now, you have to understand that my kids know I am pulling their leg, so they just sit there, smiling. They are in fourth grade and understand what’s going on.  But, they also know that I have drifted off topic once again. They keep tally marks.

 I have another student who rocks on her chair. They know that that is the number one no-no in my classroom. I hate rocking on chairs. My son was a notorious rocker. He still rocks on his chair. He is 25 years old, and I had to tell him to quit rocking  just last week. I don’t know why it bugs me so much. Probably because of what happened to Joey Minco.  Years ago, I was sitting next to Joey and he was rocking on his chair. He then tipped back too far and went back, hitting his head on the corner of a desk and then landing smack on his head.

 ”He cracked his head open and had to go to the hospital. Joey had a lot of problems remembering his name after that. So, please quit rocking, unless you want to end up like Joey Minco..or whatever his name is…” Lie. Joe Minco was an old man who lived across the street from me.

On breaking pencils on purpose- “Do you want to end up like George Dragovich? (Another old neighbor. I have no idea why I use neighbors from my youth.)  George broke the tips off of the pencils so he would be able to get up in front of everyone to sharpen his pencil. He slipped on a piece of paper on the floor and landed on the pencil. It just missed his eye and the lead is still under his skin right here…(as I point near the corner of my eye.) So, if you don’t want to end up like George Dragovich, quit breaking your pencils on purpose.”

Chewing 23 pieces of gum at the same time- “Are you chewing gum? Do you want to know why I don’t allow chewing gum in my classroom? When I was little, there was a girl name Ethel Mertz  (sometimes tv character names come out of my mouth). Ethel was very poor. Her dad worked very hard to save up so Ethel could have a brand new dress. He bought it for her for her 10th birthday. She couldn’t wait to wear it to school and show off her beautiful dress. But when she sat down in her desk chair, someone had put a wad of gum on her seat, and she sat in it. Back then, you couldn’t get gum out of anything. It stained and turned dirty looking over time. Her dress was ruined and school hadn’t even started yet….

And you know who put the gum on her seat?….No, not me…..Joey Minco. He thought it was the wastepaper basket.”

Walking down the hall at the end of the day with a sucker in their mouth- “Hey! You’re not allowed to have suckers in school…..Why, when I was little, I had a sucker in my mouth and fell down the steps and you know what happened to me?……..A piece of the  sucker stick is still stuck in my throat. I can’t eat anything solid…So, quit walking with a sucker in your mouth unless you want to eat pudding for the rest of your life.” 

On taking your shoes off in class every single day- “Please put your shoes back on. Do you want to end up like Gladys Kravitz?……Poor Gladys. She was my cousin…..WAS my cousin………..Gladys was in fourth grade, and always took her shoes off. One day there was a fire drill. They thought it was just a fire drill. Gladys took her time putting her shoes on…..when the class got outside, the teacher noticed that little Gladys was nowhere to be found….I’m not even going to tell you what happened to her. But, if you want to end up like Gladys Kravitz, go ahead and take your shoes off.”

  I really can’t stop. I continually make up scenarios for kids because if you just explain why it is unsafe to rock on a chair, they won’t

If you do this, it is okay to lie..it is

 remember it. But, if you give them a vivid description, something they can put a face to,or in my many cases, a name,  they will remember it. I mean, I don’t use blood or guts, because that is just wrong for a great teacher like myself to do. And I guess I should mention that the kids know I am lying, right from the beginning…but they seem to love my “Unless you want to end up like….” stories. 

 When I was little, my mom told me that  there was a special  place in hell for liars. I know, because Lars Peters is in hell.  My mom told me that Lars always lied and he is now in hell. “So, Vickie…if you want to go to hell like Lars Peters, keep on lying.”

Sigh……I really have become my mother.

Vertigo and Meniere’s Disease

Image via Wikipedia

In 1999, our family went to Kennywood Park in Pittsburgh and rode on a stupid roller coaster called the Steel Phantom.  I was so damn mad at that ride when we got off. I was crying because my neck hurt so badly. I swear we all had whiplash. I found out that the Kennywood people re-vamped it after many complaints. It wasn’t too long after that “Ride of Misery”, that I started having problems with my ear.

One day out of the blue, my right ear started feeling like swimmer’s ear. It felt full. Well, I had been swimming in our pool that afternoon. That night when I rolled over, it felt as if water was leaking out of my ear. I was sure my pillow was soaked. Nothing. It was such a weird feeling. This went on for a few days. It felt like someone jammed cotton in my ear.

 I woke up one day and everything was spinning. I mean, around and around and around. It ended up being for 36 hours straight. I had to crawl to the bathroom. I had to crawl down the stairs when everyone was in school or at work. I threw up non-stop. I crawled back to bed. I crawled. The one thing I did realize is that my vaccum cleaner wasn’t doing a very good job. I was up close and personal with my carpet. And the toilet. I think vomiting is just so….sickening. I was about to name my toilet, we became such good friends. It was there for me. Tammy Toilet,

I really never thought I was going to get better. I was just going to be a spinning, vomiting, crawling cry-baby for the rest of my life. The carnival ride of death. I took Dramamine and threw it up. I was a mess. Finally, after 36 long, tortuous hours, I felt a bit better and called  and made an appointment with an ENT in Morgantown. I explained the tortuous event, which he named Vertigo.  Vickie Vertigo. I remembered the Jimmy Stewart movie, Vertigo.  He suffered from acrophobia, a fear of heights. Vertigo can be triggered by looking up or down. My vertigo was triggered because I looked.

 

Actually, according to earsurgery.com, Vertigo is described “as a sudden loss of normal balance or equilibrium. The room may suddenly begin to spin and rotate at high speed. Focusing is difficult, and if the vertigo continues, nausea and vomiting may occur. Vertigo is commonnly caused by acute labyrinthitis (a viral inflammation of the inner ear), benign positional vertigo (a condition due to abnormally floating crystals in the inner ear that stimulate the nerve endings of the inner ear), delayed symptom of head injury, or result of cervical spine problems.”  In a nutshell, I am screwed.

So, back to my visit to the ENT. They put me through some weird tests. They put a balloon in my ears and put water in them, and then blew them up or something. Seriously? Can you imagine the first person they did this to. “Sir, what we are going to do is put this balloon in your ear, and blow it up and then put some water in it.”  They tried to make me dizzy. Thanks alot. I had hearing tests and another where they shut the light and watched my eyes. I don’t know. I guess I should do a google and write the procedures here for you guys to understand, but I’m not feeling it this morning. Anywho, they said my eyes move too much (nystagmus) and that I had Meniere’s Disease.

What makes you think I am nervous?

I had a disease? Hell, a disease sounds contagious. He told me to come back the next time I was having an episode. Sure, I will just have my husband peel me away from the toilet and let him drive me to Morgantown right in the middle of  spinning like a top. This was rotational spinning that would not stop. The ENT told me that Meniere’s Disease is marked by four main symptoms: progressive hearing loss, tinnitus, ear fullness and vertigo. All wrapped up  with a bow on top and given to me. Nice….Oh, and he added, “Stay away from caffeine, salt, and stress. And don’t climb any ladders.”  Funny guy.

  So, I went home and did some research. It said that Meniere’s Disease was rare. I joined a forum and found out that it wasn’t rare at all. I made some good friends from Nova Scotia and Saskatoon, Canada and Upper Michigan. People all over the damn place suffered from symptoms of Meniere’s Disease. I started an online group on Yahoo, The Meniere’s Disease Club, which now has over 2,000 members world-wide since 2000. So, no, it isn’t rare. Dizzy is dizzy.

  Each person with Meniere’s Disease may have different symptoms. Some lose their hearing over the course of a few months. Some lose it gradually. Some don’t lose much at all. Some people have vertigo attacks daily and can no longer work. It can be a debilitating disorder. I have only had 2 full blown vertigo attacks. I do, however, also have BPPV,  which is short for Benign paroxysmal positional vertigo. It sometimes starts at night, when I lie down to go to bed. If I roll over, I get dizzy. Basically, BPPV is vertigo induced by head movements. Well, hell, just put me in a whiplash collar and send me on my merry way. Great. It was bearable when I was a stay-at-home mom, but when I have bouts now, I can’t really look down at the kid’s desks, or turn my head. And I veer while walking down the hall.

I noticed that in the grocery stores, my buggy veered to the left. When I drove my car into the garage, I veered to the left. Don’t know why. I veer. I can’t walk a straight line if my life depended on it. I hope I never get pulled over and asked to walk a straight line, because they would be hauling my butt off to jail for DUI. It would have to be DWM, for Driving With Menieres. It is such a stupid disorder.

Another symptom of Meniere’s Disease is tinnitus. William Shatner has tinnitus. “No! JIM!”  Tinnitus is noise in your ear. Mine sounds like a high pitched whine. According to Wikipedia, Tinnitus is usually described “as a ringing noise, but can take the form of a high pitched whining, electric, buzzing, hissing, screaming, humming, tinging or whistling sound, or as ticking, clicking, roaring, “crickets” or “tree frogs” or “locusts “, tunes, songs, beeping, or even a pure steady tone like heard in a hearing test. It has also been described as a “wooshing” sound, as of wind or waves.” I guess mine would be described as the “pure steady tone like heard in a hearing test.” Fun stuff I have.

The only good thing about having Meniere’s is that I can sleep on my right side and not hear a dog barking. Or someone breaking into my apartment.  I also am affected by the change in barometric pressure. My right ear begins to  hurt before it rains. Sometimes my ear hurts so badly, like a pencil is being shoved in my ear slowly. I also feel the sensation of a bug crawling deep  in my ear. I just want to jam a Q-tip in there, and kill it. And you know how your ears pop when you travel into a higher altitude? Well, my right ear won’t pop. It just starts hurting. I think my head will explode when I travel by plane to visit my daughter in France next spring. Again, fun stuff.

So, this is my life. Thank goodness my Meniere’s symptoms are very mild. I make fun of myself, so that helps when I have flare-ups. I haven’t crawled to visit my friend, Tammy the toilet in years.

If you have any of these symptoms, hold on. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.  Damn roller coaster. At least when someone calls me a “dizzy blonde,” it really will be the truth.

Hello, Circadian Dysrhythmia

Image via Wikipedia

Benjamin Franklin was a very wise man, but I still curse him twice a year, nontheless. He was credited for coming up with the idea of Daylight Saving Time.  Ben thought that we should go to bed early and rise early so we could be healthy, wealthy and intelligent. I don’t think it works that way.  He thought that more daylight meant saving wax for all the candles. Maybe he was tired of reading his almanac by candlelight.

 All I know is that I physically change all the clocks in my house, but my  biological, circadian clock won’t budge. We SPRING forward and FALL behind.  Sure, I gain an hour in the fall, but the time change messes with me for a good week. I am not looking forward to this at all. Sunday marks the end of Daylight Saving Time and the beginning of my moaning and complaining.

If you have ever suffered from jet lag, then perhaps you can understand what a shift in time can do to a person. I am tired. Circadian dyshrythmia. I have lost my rhythm. I become awkward in oh, so many ways.

So, who else can I blame for this? Surely not Arizona, the only state that will not buckle to the pressure to lose and gain time. Arizona has more sunshine than Florida, the Sunny Sunshine state. They don’t need a time shift.

In 1918, the United States adopted  Daylight Saving Time for the duration of  World War I. This allowed  people to spend more time hanging out in daylight, thus saving costs on fuel for lighting. It was abolished, brought back, abolished and then in 2005, Congress enacted the Energy Policy Act, which changed Daylight Saving Time dates again. As of March 2007, Daylight Saving Time begins on the second Sunday in March and ends on the first Sunday of November. It just sucks. Daylight Saving Time stays around now  past Halloween, where some little trick-or-treaters were getting hit by cars at night. Well, that is what reflective tape is for, my little munchkins. Trick or treating during daylight is just wrong. But, no one listens to me.

 

I would really like to know what the hell is saved? I know that it is a reminder to change the batteries in your smoked detector and Arm &Hammer let’s us know that it is time to change the box of baking soda in your refrigerator, but hey, that is just to strum up some business. The energizer bunny doesn’t suffer from the time shift. I bet more batteries are purchased around this time than at Christmas. Well, maybe not, but it’s a gimmick to change your smoke detector. But, as most of you know, the smoke detector will let you know when it is time. It will freakin beep at 3 minute intervals until you change the damn thing.

 

  The only thing that was fun about the time change was accidentally sleeping through church when we were small. Oops, Mom and Dad, you forgot to spring forward. Aw, shucks, we missed church. Looks like we can think about God from our warm beds.  I did convince a college roommate that it was against the law to change the clocks before 2a.m. I told her that it was a law enforcement thing. If the police were called to a residence for anything after 11pm and they wrote down the wrong time, it might be a critical mistake, so a law was enacted in West Virginia that stated that all clocks could not be turned back before 2a.m. or a $500 fine would be imposed on anyone who turned their clocks back earlier. She believed me and set her alarm for 2am to set her clock back. She was so easy.

  In the end, I still haven’t found anything that is saved.  All the deer in the United States live in West Virginia and cross the road on my way to work.  Do they suffer from circadian dysrhythmia? I bet they do.  Daylight Deer Time. Will they now operate an hour earlier or hour later?   School children will be standing at the bus stop in the dark, wrapped in reflective tape. Or wait. Won’t it be daylight if we turn back our clocks? That means they are wrapped in reflective tape just because. See, now I am confused about when it will be dark and when it will be light. This just sucks. I don’t need to be anymore confused than I already am.

I guess there is some good to Daylight Saving Time. Raccoons will have more time to pillage through garbage cans.  Robbers can eat breakfast at the home they are robbing.

I really can’t stress how much I hate the time change.

Damn you, Ben Franklin.

Making Mountains out of Molehills

I really should have a full head of gray hairs. I probably do, but thanks to Clairol #whatever, I am keeping the gray away.  But, one of these days, I am going to wake up to white hair that no dye or shoe polish will be able to cover. It’s either that or a stroke.

  I think it goes back to when I really wouldn’t let my kids climb to the top of the really high sliding board.  I would stand there and picture them waving at me from the top, “Watch, mommy!” and as they wave their little wave, lose their grasp and fall backwards to the ground and explode. I could create scenarios in my head one after the other. My cause and effect machine was working overtime. I had one hell of an imagination.

  Fast forward to their college years. They were both at WVU, about 30 minutes up the road from our home. That was just far enough away, but close in case we had to get their fast. We took homemade soup when they were sick and drove them home when they needed extra pampering. But, nothing prepares parents for the news that they both want to study abroad.

 ”You mean, like Canada, right?”  I could only hope. Canada was a great country. They could learn all about their culture, such as hockey, curling, Canadian bacon, and could come home, saying, “Eh, dontcha knowl.” That sounded great. They just looked at me.

So, off they went. The first summer, Adam went to Strasburg, France for a month. He flew by himself. Why the hell he didn’t travel with the rest of the WVU students and teacher is beyond me.  He was also the only one who rented a bicycle and toured the countryside while he was there. I didn’t want him to ride a bike, because I would probably get a phone call, in French, “Madam, do you have zee son named Adam, with zee red hair, smashed under car..we send him home in a box, oui.”

 After he came back, Alex went to Santander, Spain with a WVU Spanish group. Nothing is worse than two weeks of crying on the other end of the phone. She hated it. She said there is nothing worse than “forced admiration.”  She said that being part of a tour group is horrible. She wanted to go off by herself and see the sights that she wanted to. I pictured getting that phone call. “Senora, Alexandra was at the end of the tour group line, when someone must have abducted  her.. All that was left was her camera. We will send that home to you…in a box..Ole”

 This is awful but I was sitting home, saying to myself,  ”2 down, 2 to go.” I still had 2 more study abroad experiences to live through, and I wasn’t even leaving my home. I was exhasusted. Adam went to Morocco for 4 months. Luckily for me, WVU had asked him to blog every day and his blogs were entertaining and scary. I think that is when I started going gray. He traveled in an old, small plane from Casablanca and could see the runway as they landed, bouncing down the runway. He climbed the second highest mountain in Africa and I had him frozen like Jack Nicholson in the Shining. He wrote about how he and a friend from Italy rode horses bareback through the woods. Whaat? On tv, people who race horses through the woods always catch their neck on a low tree branch. That always happens.

When he came home, Alex went to Guanajuato, Mexico. She loves Mexico. I didn’t. She said that they don’t have screens in their windows and she would wake up with bug bites all over her body. Her roommate was stung by a scorpion that was on the dresser handle. Gray hair….She joined a Mexican ultimate frisbee team and traveled 6 hours on a bus by herself to Mexico City,then traveled in a van with frisbee players she never met before. She didn’t tell me until much later that their van was hit  broadside by a truck. We sent Adam down during his spring break because she was so sick, we thought he was going to have to bring her home. After several trips to a hospital, she recovered and they were able to ride horses up to a volcano. Horses? Volcano? Deathly ill? Scorpions? Open windows for rapists and questionable flying bugs?  I was a mess for those 5 months. She, meanwhile, took private salsa lessons and had a blast. I never left my home and thought about drinking heavily.

I thought I would be done worrying while they traipsed around the world, having fun.

Adam in the Alps

But no, they weren’t done driving me crazy. Adam climbed part of the Matterhorn and drove a compact car around the Alps one summer. Alex worked for the Japanese embassy and the JET program for a year and was placed in Kobe, you know, the place that had the devastating earthquake. And yes, there was an earthquake while she was there. Seems that Japan has earthquakes somewhere almost every day.

Hi Alex mom

She flew to Korea for a long weekend, so I had her accidentally stepping into North Korea. “Hello, Alex mom?  She in North Korea. Not good. Must be spy. Never coming home. Goodbye.”

 And today, I have spent the whole day in tears. Alex went to teach in France. So, of course she was up in the Eiffel Tower several weeks ago when they evacuated it because of terror plots. She flew to Japan last week to see her boyfriend and she was supposed to be back last night. No word from Alex. No word all day today. I saw on CNN where South Korea was cracking down on airport security because of a supposed bomb on planes. She had a 2 hour lay over in Seoul. So, that had to mean her plane had a bomb on it. I was ready to call the airlines, because I was sure her plane disappeared over the Meditteranean Triangle, or a taxi driver abducted her. When we finally talked on skype, she told me that she was sitting at the train station in Paris, when security people came and asked her row of 6 people to please leave the area. Next thing you know 300 people were evacuated and they taped off the area where Alex had been sitting. She went to a cafe after seeing a friend from Moscow (probably the bomber) and they heard a loud boom and they ran outside. She said she never heard what had happened, but that her train had left on time.

Yeah, like Sybil...

I’m ready for the looney bin.

Mono…The Kissing Disease

When I was in high school, I was lucky if I weighed 90 pounds. I used to fry up two hamburgers most mornings before the bus came in order to gain weight. That is probably where the high cholesterol came from. Nothing worked. I was still skinny.  So, imagine my horror when I was diagnosed with….mono.

Water Fountain Licker mug shot

 In 1973, mononucleosis, or mono, for those with mono who are too fatigued to say the longer term, was called “The Kissing Disease.”  I was pissed because I didn’t kiss anyone. I think it should have been called the “Water Fountain Licking Disease.” I don’t think I got it from there either. I really don’t know where I got it, but I remember there was a football player who had it a week or two before I was diagnosed with it. I bet he licked the water fountain and the bugs jumped up while I was getting water one day. I really didn’t mind people teasing me about kissing this guy, but alas, I was just a blurp on his radar screen.

 I specifically remember my symptoms. The sore throat was intense. Mom mom got out a small flashlight and kept checking my throat. “My goodness, Vickie……There are patches of white all over your throat.” Thanks, Mom. Now it hurt even more. Later, it was found that they were pus patches, which is disgusting. “Hey, I have pus patches on my throat..Wanna see with the flashlight?  Hey, I know, let’s go lick some water fountains.” I really wanted others to experience this wonderful thing called mono.

   I had a very high fever.  Before I was diagnosed with mono, I called what I had, “The Shuffle Flu.” I remember wearing those scruffy slippers and shuffling around the house because with each step, my head pounded like you wouldn’t believe. So, I couldn’t walk like a normal person. I was a shuffler.

 The worse thing for me were the swollen glands. I had them wrapped around my neck. I had no idea there were glands behind your

neck. My neck hurt so badly. I wanted to wear one of those whiplash collars to keep my neck from moving. I felt awful. I might as well look stupid. I even had hurtful swollen glands in my armpits. I was a mess.

 One symptom of mononucleosis that I couldn’t handle was the extreme fatigue. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that a trip from the  couch to the kitchen sink was like running a mile as fast as I could. By the time I would shuffle over to the sink, I would be sweating, my pulse would be racing, and I was spent, drained of all energy. I would shuffle slowly back to bed and sleep for hours. It was horrible. I would not wish this on anyone.

 I had an enlarged spleen. I wasn’t allowed to pick up anything heavy. So, my mom wouldn’t let me even pick up my dog, Cricket. I just remember my mom saying that there was another boy who had mono in our city at the same time and he had an enlarged heart with his mono.  Oh great. I didn’t want an enlarged heart. I’d take some enlarged breasts though.  Too bad that wasn’t a symptom. So, now there were two guys and me with mono. I sure got around.

 I can’t remember how long I was out of school, but I had been preparing for a Voice of Democracy Speech in Speech Class for weeks before mono attacked me, and I was determined to be in that damn contest.  Oh, what a mistake that was. I went to school for a half day and went to the contest at the local VFW that night. All I can remember was standing at the podium, breaking out in a sweat, dying for a glass of water, which someone gave me in the middle of my speech. I downed like I had been out in the desert for a month. Who the hell was I kidding.? I wasn’t going to win. I may have won for “Best Attempt to Utter a Sentence Without Passing Out” award.  I had to hold onto the podium with both hands because I was so fatigued. Stupid, Vickie, stupid. But, teenagers are stupid, so you know, you learn.

 So, there are some ways for you to keep the mono bug out of your mouth. Don’t share anyone’s drink or straw. Don’t borrow anyone’s lipstick. Don’t use anyone’s used Kleenex. Ok, that would be gross, but I do want to mention that mononucleosis is spread by saliva and mucus, so don’t flick boogers at people. Ok, still being gross.

Mononucleosis is not fun. Diseases usually aren’t. Just take it easy if you are diagnosed with mono, and don’t rush back to your every day activities. I have found from watching others with it over the years that it can delay the return of your energy if you don’t take time to let your body rest. You could have relapses of fatigue for a while.

And just don’t spit on anyone, Luggie-style.

Reheater Repeater Eaters

   Two of my co-workers, Sharon and Shawna, think I am one card short of a full deck because I am very attentive to the rules of reheating food. I believe the word they use is “anal.”   While Sharon was eating leftovers that had been re-heated twice, I told her she was going to die.  So, after the pointing laughter and chiding subsided, I told them that I was going to write a blog about it and research the rules of reheating…  Before they die of some bacterial poisoning that has many syllables in its name. I shall prove them wrong and remove my “anal” moniker.

 When I make my spaghetti and meatballs, and heat, say, 3 of the meatballs  the next day for leftovers,  and then decide to only eat one of them, I can NOT  re-heat those other two meatballs. That is it. They are finished. They have already been heated, cooled, then re-heated and then cooled again. If you re-heat again, you will die.

I’m also wondering why people would leave leftover pizza in the box out on the counter overnight. One person told me they put the box in the oven overnight. The oven isn’t on, mind you.  I’m calling people out on this one. I say you are lazy. Yep, lazy. Get 2 pieces of foil and wrap up the damn pizza. Then you can just throw it in the oven the next day and not be found dead clinging on to the pizza because of food poisoning.  The problem with pizza-leaver-outters is that they believe the box is too big too put in an already full refrigerator, so they leave it on the counter so they can die the next day.

My feeling is that bacteria that normally live on the pizza would feel all warm and cozy and start multiplying and possibly mutating. They would like that lukewarm environment. If one eats that pizza, then the bacteria travel to their stomach, where they will start a conga line through your intestines and you will then die.

I went to the Head Honcho of  Food Preparation, the USDA, to find out the answers. This is the United States Department of Agriculture. They know everything. So, read on.

Q. USDA guy- Many people leave pizza out overnight on the counter. Is this smart?

A. “No. Perishable food should never be left out of refrigeration more than two hours. This is true even if there are no meat products on the pizza. Foodborne bacteria that may be present on these foods grow fastest at temperatures between 40 and 140 °F and can double in number every 20 minutes.

Other take-out or delivered foods such as chicken, hamburgers, cut fruit, salads, and party platters, must also be kept at a safe temperature.   Discard all perishable food left at room temperature longer than 2 hours.  Use safely refrigerated food in 3 to 4 days.”

    Ok, one point for Vickie.  Death to you lazy food counter sitter-outters.

Q: USDA Guy, I never re-heat leftovers more than once. I think it would cause bacteria to form on the food and people will die. What do you think?

A:  (He’s thinking)….He’s going to let the FDA answer this one. “According to a guide from the US Food and Drug Administration (FDA),passing food through the “temperature danger zone” of 41 degrees to 135 degrees Fahrenheit more than once carries greater “potential for the growth of spore-forming or toxigenic bacteria” as well as “the potential to be recontaminated with Listeria monocytogenes, which could grow during refrigerated storage.” (Meaning, you will surely die)

2 points for Vickie.  Take that, future Listeria monocytogeners.

  Ok, while I am sitting pretty, let’s find out about butter. There are some pathogenic spewing people out there that  don’t have a problem with leaving butter out on the counter. Now, I realize that my mom did this, and I am still alive. But, I think I am barely alive because of her butter behavior. I posed this question on facebook and found that there are many butter-on-the-counter facebook friends. I shall miss all of you. I say that keeping butter on the counter is like eating rancid yellow crap, like pus, perhaps. Hope that grossed you out, because I find keeping butter on the counter just wrong. You’re all going to die.

 Q:  I leave my butter out on the counter. Cold butter is just so hard to spread. Is this a good practice?

 

A: The USDA guidelines state that butter should be stored in its original protective wrapping or a container until ready for use,  and to remove from the refrigerator 10 to 15 minutes before use. They also suggest freezing butter not intended for use within two or three days. So, my rancid friends, spread that warm butter on your bread and enjoy!

Yum, counter butter

 I think that I have made my point. I think you should admire my vast knowledge of food handling and re-heating requirements.   I am a responsible re-heater. And I have the utmost butter  behavior.

So, in the end,don’t re-heat more than once, don’t leave your pizza out overnight, and put the damn butter in the refrigerator.

Or you will die.

So, what do you do?

Hey, It's easier to just keep your food in here.

Playing Dead

  When I was young, our family lived in a neighborhood. People and houses were all around us. We didn’t really have deer in our yard too often. The only thing we really had come into our yard were crazy hummingbirds. Hummingbirds need to go to anger management classes. I’m serious. Even if they aren’t hungry, they will buzz right back over to mess with the hungry hummingbirds. My mom had several feeders out on the back porch and we had all the hummingbirds in North America visiting the nectar in our yard.

 But, that was the extent of the wildlife. When I got married and we moved to my husband’s  hometown, I remember hearing owls when it was almost dark. I loved it.  For weeks I heard the owls. Until my husband informed me that they were just mourning doves. “Just” mourning doves. I had no idea what a mourning dove was.  And why the hell was it coming in the evening.  Nobody told me it was spelled like a really sad dove. So, what I  thought was an owl was really a depressed pigeon. Welcome to wildlife.

 Who knew that when we built our house out on 13 acres that I would become a wildlife whisperer. See http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2010/08/12/elly-may-clampett/  I was a stay-at-home mom and took daily walks through the woods and was amazed at all the wildlife. I loved it. I could tame anything. I am surprised I never got bit, especially during, “the Episode.”

     We went to the animal shelter and brought home an outside cat. We didn’t know that people dropped off cats in the countryside, so I guess we could have just waited for a stray to show up, as they regularly did. But, we rescued Tiger and he lived outside. One evening I went outside to sit on the front porch. It was almost dark and my babies were in bed for the night. We hadn’t purchased porch furniture yet, but had 2 folding lawn chairs out there on the corner of our long porch. In the darkness I could see that Tiger was sitting under one of them, so I plopped myself down and then tried to get Tiger to come out from under the chair.

  I sat in the chair, saying his name like I was a nutcase. “Ti-ger…come here, baby…Ti-iiii-ger…”, all the while trying to put my hand under the chair to try to pet him. I couldn’t reach him. My hand was moving under the chair some more, calling to him. Cat’s sometimes don’t do what they are asked to do. So, I just sat there, quietly waving my right arm sort of under the chair.

  All of a sudden, I saw Tiger jump up onto the porch. Uh-Oh….My dangling hand froze. If that was Tiger……what was under my chair? My eyes grew huge…like cartoon, out of the head eyes.  I slowly got out of my chair and ran out into the yard.

 I turned around to see a oppossum. It must have been playing dead under my chair. I was ready to be dead for real out in the yard. My heart was racing.Dear God, the thing could have taken off my arm.

Well, after a while, I got very used to wildlife at my door. The oppossum came back almost every night to eat out of Tiger’s food bowl. I named him Poopy Butt. I think that is a fitting name for an oppossum. 

 I will never forget that evening. My eyes have never been right since.