I usually turn on the tv first thing in the morning to check out the Weather Channel. But, since my lovely Comcast remote controller has issues right now, and needs to “warm up” or something before it allows me to change channels, I now just turn on the tv and walk away for a few minutes. I then sat down at my computer to check my emails…. And that’s when I heard it.
I heard whiney talking and when I looked up saw a few older teenagers with brightly colored faces as if they walked through a mist of chalky wonderment. They talked like they were pretending to be six or talking to an audience of deaf monkeys. (Sorry, can’t think of an animal right off the bat that “isn’t right in the head.”) I stood in front of the tv, holding the warmed up remote, ready to press the button to get the hell away from this madness, when I had a thought. All I could think of was if any one them had a college degree and if this is what they meant when they may have said, “One day I want to be on tv.” Well, pat yourself on the back; you have arrived….in lavender chalky body paint and a red Raggedy Andy moppy wig. Congrats!
Is this what Saturday morning programming has to offer the children of 2013? The Doodlebops? I remember enduring the pain of the purple dinosaur, Barney, and secretly hoped someone would push that annoying Baby Bop in front of a pretend bus. I know that is not nice, but seriously, where did Saturday morning cartoons go? Is it all because Mel Blanc is no longer around to voice these marvelous cartoon creations? Or does everything have to be “real?” Because, I’m telling you right now, these Doodlebops are goofy as hell.
When my kids were little, the cartoons I grew up with were replaced with Sesame Street, Shari Lewis and Lamb Chops Play Along, and my favorite of my children’s programming, Pee Wee’s Play House. Each one of these were geared to both the child and the parent who was held captive to watch them also. I did laugh at a lot of the things they were saying. But, then someone decided to add a purple dinosaur to the mix and everything went to hell in a handbasket.
Ok, now don’t get me wrong. There has been weird children’s programming all along….. H.R. Pufnstuf comes to mind. Anyone my age will remember Witchiepoo and “Oranges, Poranges, who said?” This demented children’s television show was the first ever live action tv show that debuted in 1969.
Of course, I was in 8th grade or so when this psychedelic show came out. I wasn’t an impressionable five year old. But, when I was impressionable, at least I had something that I took with me to adulthood. No, it wasn’t Wile E. Coyote or Bugs or even Elmer Fudd. It was Foghorn Leghorn.
Now this is what Saturday morning cartoons was all about. These cartoons were broadcast starting in 1945. Foghorn was a “good ole boy” with a southern accent and a penchant for one-upmanship. His target was usually the barnyard dog. I remember sitting in front of tv (despite warnings from my mom I was going to go cross-eyed if I continued to sit so close to the tv) and laughing at his antics. But, what I didn’t truly appreciate until I was older were his wonderfully wrong sayings. Here are a few of my favorites:
“This boy’s more mixed up than a feather in a whirlwind”
“Don’t, I say don’t bother me dog, can’t ya see I’m thinkin’
“That, I say that boy’s just like a tatoo, gets under your skin”
“Kid don’t quit talkin’ so much he’ll get his tongue sunburned”
“That’s a joke, I say that’s a joke son”
“Go, I say go away boy, you bother me”
“His muscles are as soggy as a used tea bag”
“That woman’s as cold as a nudist on an iceberg”
“That dog’s as subtle as a hand grenade in a barrrel of oat meal”
“Boy, you cover about as much as a flapper’s skirt in a high wind”
“Nice mannered kid, just a little on the dumb side”
“That kid’s about as sharp as a pound of wet liver”
“I made a funny son and you’re not laughin’
“That boy’s about as sharp as a bowling ball”
“Look sister is any of this filterin’ through that little blue bonnet of yours”
“I got, I say I got this boy as fidgety as a bubble dancer with a slow leak”
“Now who’s, I say who’s responsible for this unwarranted attack on my person!”
“This boy’s making more noise than a couple of skeletons throwin’ a fit on a tin roof”
“The snow, I say the snow’s so deep the farmers have to jack up the cows so they can milk’em”
“I keep pitchin’ ‘em and you keep missin’ ‘em”
“That boy’s as timid as a canary at a cat show”
“Nice girl, but about as sharp as a sack of wet mice”
“Nice boy but he’s got more nerve than a bum tooth”
“I say, boy, pay attention when I’m talkin’ to ya, boy”
“Pay attention, boy, I’m cuttin’ but you ain’t bleedin’!”
“Oh, that woman, got a mouth like an outboard motor”
“That boy’s as strong as an ox, and just about as smart”
“Stop, I say stop it boy, you’re doin’ alot of choppin’ but no chips are flyin’
“This is going to cause more confusion than a mouse in a burlesque show”
“You know there might, I say there just might be a market for bottled duck”
“Gal reminds me of a highway between Forth Worth and Dallas – no curves”
“Boy’s gotta mouth like a cannon, always shootin’ it off”
“Pay attention to me boy! I’m not just talkin’ to hear my head roar”
“That, I say that dog’s busier than a centipede at a toe countin’ contest”
“Now cut that out boy, or I’ll spank you where the feathers are thinnest”
The lessons I learned while watching Foghorn Leghorn was that there is a fine line between sarcasm, humor, and spite. Yes, I didn’t understand a lot of things he was saying when I was little, but I realized there is a way to say something when you don’t want to say it out right…like, “His elevator doesn’t go all the way up to the top floor.”
My whole point for this blog post is that Saturday morning cartoons are what got us up early in the morning. We never slept in. We didn’t have video games or an endless amount of channels to keep us occupied. We had the World Book Encyclopedia and three channels on our tv sets back then. Cartoons had an effect on us. We still remember Officer Dibble, Tooter the Turtle, Yogi and Boo Boo, Daffy, Sylvester, and the Tazmanian Devil. Perhaps today’s programmers don’t care because there are so many options for children besides television. I bet more kids sleep in on Saturdays in 2013 than they did in 1961 though.
In the end, our cartoon generation was much better than the Doodlebop generation.
Sure, the kids are learning letters, and songs, and how to be a good friend. But, we learned how to take Acme products and blow up a quick bird, how to insult other chickens in the hen house, and how to correctly make an introduction, “What’s up, doc?”
English: The face of a black windup alarm clock (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
For those of you who follow my blog, you know tomorrow is my least favorite day of the year. I’ve surely written enough about Daylight Savings Time and how it turns me into a zombie for a few weeks after the time change.
So, how many times can I beat this dead horse? Apparently, at least five times. I guess I just need to really get my opinion out there. Daylight Savings Time just sucks the life out of me…….and millions of other people too.
But, I have to admit, the whole time change did have one perk: church. Now, don’t judge, but I just did not care to attend church when I was younger. My dad was a Sunday school teacher, so we had to get up every Sunday morning and drive downtown to church. And, I’m sorry, but I just didn’t like it. I had a problem with the whole Noah’s Ark story when I went to that private hell of a Catholic school from first through third grade, and was tired of arguing about it with Sister Maria and then at Sunday school. I just didn’t buy it. I was mad at God for drowning animals. Taking only two of a kind was really mean, and when I was little, I held a grudge for a tremendously long time. So, I just thought the whole church thing was a big ole fat lie to get money in a collection plate.
So, there was one Sunday each year that I didn’t have to go to Sunday school, and that was when it was Daylight Savings Time. Oh, I remember my parents talking while sitting on the couch about how they had to remember to turn the clocks ahead before they went to bed. I always wanted to try to sneak into my parent’s room and change the Big Ben alarm clock my dad kept by his bed, but after getting caught the first time, I decided I was doomed and would have to go listen about multiplying fishes and walking on water. None of the Bible lessons were believable to me. People can’t get that old. I told my mom Caspar the Friendly Ghost cartoon was more real than church. I remember my dad looking at me like I needed an exorcism. His Bible was all marked up and his handwriting in the margins. He was clearly into it, but his nine year old heathen daughter wasn’t buying any of it.
I know my dad would change the kitchen clock above our lovely gold refrigerator that Saturday night before he went to bed. He would change the time on his wrist watch. He would change the time on his Big Ben alarm clock and set the alarm to get up for church. But, every Daylight Savings Time Sunday morning we would always miss Sunday school. We slept it! My mom would yell first.
“Elwood, wake up! We’ve missed church!” I would wake up and smile. But, then, my mom would march into my room and ask why I pushed down the alarm clock so it wouldn’t go off.
The problem with all of this is that I was a great liar and lied every chance I got. So, when I really told the truth and tried to explain that I didn’t do it, no one believed me. I would be just like me to sneak into my parent’s room and push in the alarm buzzer thingy.
For years I thought my sister was the culprit because she would laugh at me for getting yelled at for turning it off. She wanted to go to church because she liked wearing her white patent leather shoes. She would deliberately put on a pair of white anklets that had a hole in the big toe so she could entertain while sitting in the pew at church. But, you know, I never ever pushed down the alarm button to keep us from waking up on time. I mean, I wouldn’t wait until Daylight Savings Time to do that. I’d do it every damn Sunday.
Years later, when I had my own children and complained how my husband wanted to go to church the next day when it was Daylight Savings Time, I would always try to balk. “Oh, come on. We are losing an hour. Let’s just sleep in.” My mom was visiting during one of those time changing moments and just smiled when I was complaining about being blamed for turning off the alarm.
“Mom, I really wasn’t the one who would push in the alarm so we could sleep in after losing an hour.”
“I know.” I looked at her and she was wearing a shit-eating grin on her face.”
“God dammit, Mom! …….You were the one?…….and then you came in and blamed me?” She smiled and nodded.
Well, there was only one thing I could do….
I stood up and clapped.
“I needed that hour,” she said with a shrug.
So, in the end, the heathen’s mother threw her own daughter under the proverbial bus in order to garner a lost hour of sleep once a year.
I was sitting at our local lazer wash the other day thinking back to the first time I ever went to an automatic car wash. I grew up in Weirton, West Virginia, and the new “automatic” car wash had just opened “up on the hill” near our home. I can’t remember what kind of car we had back then, but the whole family jumped in when my dad told us a car wash opened where you sit in the car while it is being washed. What??? No taking a bucket of water, soap, and a garden hose out into the driveway anymore? Well, not that I really helped wash our cars in the first place. I was and still am, a “non-finisher.” I just really can’t finish anything all the way through. Same for washing the car. I would get one side done and then spray the other side with the hose to knock some dust off and call it a day. You could never see that side from our picture window, so it looked like I did a great job.
When we pulled up to the new car wash, we had to wait in a line because, as all things new, people wanted to experience this new-fangled way to wash a car. It was the 60′s, after all, and inventions were just waiting to be invented. When it was our turn, a guy motioned for us to move up a bit. We then had to put the car in neutral. They guy then took some gigantic hook and put it somewhere in the front of the car.
“Will that pull off the bumper?” I thought that was a pertinent question.
The guy told my dad to make sure all of the windows were rolled up. We were ready. There was a little jerk and our car was on some track through a little building with these scrubber things on the sides. The noise was loud and the water was really hitting the windshield and roof of the car. To be perfectly honest, it was a bit scary. Those brushes were right up against our windows and then one roll up over the car and down the windshield. Hey, this was fun….but not really.
After we were done, there were two teen-age boys who wiped our car with dry cloths. My mom had to interject her authority of being Queen of Weirton.
“Make sure you dry the car good….and there better not be any spots of dirt anywhere.”
Oh, but there was. When we pulled into the driveway, she had my dad not park the car in the garage. She wanted to inspect the job the new automatic car wash did on our family vehicle.
“Well, we won’t be going there again.” I remember there were seven places that were missed. I smile at this because I can’t remember what I did fifteen minutes ago, but I can remember my mom ranting about SEVEN missed places on the car after visiting the new automatic car wash “up on the hill.” She loved to find something to bitch about. My dad was probably relieved that he wasn’t at the end of this particular rant. I remember thinking he was going to like this new car wash. Anything she disagreed about, my dad was then quietly all about.
So, one day I was sitting, watching tv, with our dog Smokey, on our lap. It was a hot summer day and my dad must not have wanted to wash the car by hand. I mean, who would want to, now that we basically had a robot to do it for us? He asked me if I wanted to take a ride with him to the car wash.
Since Smokey was already sitting on my lap, I just picked her up and carried her a la Paris Hilton with her prized chihuahua to the car. Smokey often rode in the car. As all chihuahuas, Smokey was a yapper. Yap, yap, yap. But, who knew what was about to transpire.
Well, Smokey went ape shit. The noise first scared her and she buried herself beside my hip. We were yanked ahead on the conveyor belt. When the brushes hit against the car, that’s when Smokey defended her territory and her family. She ran over to the window and bared her teeth and growled and barked like she was ready to take on the brushes. She ran back and forth, over my dad and over me to each window. She was going to save us from this barrage of red and yellow bristles attacking us.
Rotating brushes inside a conveyor car-wash. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I should have counted how many times she ran back and forth. My dad also found it amusing. Smokey the chihuahua was fighting with the brushes at the automatic car wash.
When we got home, Smokey was exhausted and fell fast asleep on my dad’s lap.
The next few times we went to the car wash, we took Smokey along for our pleasure. It seems so cruel now to put the little yapper through this sort of animal abuse, but you have to understand I never once thought I was being abusive. I just thought it was really really funny.
And each time we got home, my mom would disappear downstairs for a few minutes. We knew she was heading for the garage.
I couldn’t wait until I turned sixteen. All kids imagine getting their driver’s license and then speeding off into the sunset. Well, not speeding, but being able to go someplace without Dad behind the wheel was a thrilling aspect of sixteenship. (I made up that word. I like it). But, that was not the reason I could not wait to get my driver’s license.
You see, once upon a time, I was just a skinny little thing. I wasn’t just thin and tiny. I was anorexic, “Oh my God, look at that girl!” skinny skinny. I had no muscle. I was a freaking stick. And although I curse myself now for hating how I looked back then, it truly was a sad sight. I just could not gain weight. Now, I know you are wondering what that has to do with driving for the very first time, but it has everything to do with turning sixteen, being skinny, and getting behind the wheel.
I totally understand the plight of overweight children even though I was on the other side. I got made fun of for being skinny.
“Hey, I heard you were absent from school today……You must have been standing sideways when they took roll.”
“Hey, I bet you can really sing since you have those canary legs and all.”
“You’re so skinny, I bet you hula hoop with a Life Saver.”
When I switched schools and went to Edgewood for fourth grade, I went home crying the first day because someone called me “Stick.” I finally told him to leave me alone…..and then hastily added, “Leave me alone! I just got out of a concentration camp.” Ok, I realize that was stretching the truth a little too far, but my last name was Mendenhall, a Germanish name, and I just got to that school. It was feasible, especially when the goof ball head who called me names had no idea what the three ships Columbus sailed on to discover America. Everyone knew that, so I knew he was dumb as a…….stupid head….. He had no grain in his silo…His sewing machine was out of thread…… He wouldn’t even know what a concentration camp was.
So, I had to endure years of being made fun of for being skinny. So, I ate. I ate all the time, trying to gain weight. But, I guess when you are a true hyperactive child, that grows up with you for a few years. I was very active and my metabolism was not my friend. I could not gain weight. When I was in high school, I would get up earlier and fry two frozen hamburger patties before the bus came to pick me up in the morning. It still didn’t work. It finally dawned on me after a very interesting lesson in Science class what was wrong with me. I kept my thoughts to myself.
So, when the big day came and I passed my driver’s test, I also made a secret appointment with Dr. Harper. Dr. Harper was my family doctor. I had been out there so many times, I could drive to his office blindfolded. Well, ok, that would have been bad. But, I had history with this man and trusted him. I had bad kidneys when I was little, so I was always peeing in a damn cup for him. He would tell me to be glad I was so thin. But, now that I KNEW what was wrong with me, he would be able to help me. I couldn’t wait to go to his office and tell him what I learned in Science class.
Lexie, who lived down the street and was a mom of one of my friends and a good friend of my moms, worked for Dr. Harper, so I lied when I made the appointment and said it was for a regular checkup.
“Hi, Lexie. My mom told me to call to make an appointment for my regular checkup….. She’s downstairs sewing.” She gave me a date that was about two weeks away. Shit. That wasn’t acceptable. I HAD to be seen earlier.
“Is there any way I can come tomorrow after school?…..Um….. My pee is dark and my back hurts.” I knew that would work.
So, I asked my mom if I could use the car after school to drive by myself. “I just need to drive to get used to driving by myself.” I didn’t need to tell her. She would just roll her eyes and tell me I was being dramatic….once again. No, this was top top secret.
I couldn’t wait until I got home from school the next day. I got the keys to my mom’s boat, a gold Cadillac that was a mile long, and drove out to Dr. Harper’s office. There was only one person in the waiting room. I smiled at Lexie and sat down.
Dr. Harper was a pretty nice guy. I was handed a cup and thought that I should probably go pee in it since I was there. It really was close to my regular checkup time anyways. I sat down and took off my clothes and put on the white gown. I always rushed this part because I didn’t want him walking in and seeing me half dressed. He did rap on the door like three times and then entered, not waiting for a “oh hell, not yet.” He sat down, took his chart, read some stuff.
“So, Vickie, your back is hurting. Have you been drinking a lot of water like you are supposed to?”
“I’m drinking a lot of water.” I was going to come right out and tell him why I thought I wasn’t gaining weight, but at the last minute thought I would just bring it up nonchalantly while he was checking the lymph nodes in my neck like he always did during a checkup. “I think my back is hurting because it is almost that time of the month….but I’m not sure.” And then I continued….nonchalantly, of course.
“So, Dr. Harper……I was wondering if you could take an x- ray or check to see…….if I have a…… tapeworm. I think that’s why I’m not gaining weight.” There, I said it. I have a tapeworm crawling around, eating all the stuff that comes down into my stomach. I was sure of it.
Dr. Harper stopped pushing on my neck with his hands and sat back, looking at me. He then started to laugh. I had never really heard him laugh before. What the hell? Why are you laughing at me? I was pissed.
“Vickie, you do not have a tapeworm. You are thin because that’s just how you are built. You will gain weight when you gain weight.”
I just looked at him. I was ready to burst into tears, but I had to get out of his office first. I was also ready to kick him. How dare he laugh at me when I had a freaking tapeworm crawling around inside of me and he wouldn’t even check it out.
“I learned in Science class that if you eat beef or pork, there is a chance that a tapeworm larva could be mixed in with the cow meat and if you swallow it, the tapeworm can grow to be 12 feet long. I eat hamburger almost every day. I really think I have a tapeworm.”
12 feet of worm action in my stomach
He just wouldn’t quit smiling. Dumb ass. It was possible. I learned a tapeworm could live for years in your body and you wouldn’t even know it:
Tapeworms Symptoms ( Source:webmd.com)
Sometimes tapeworms cause signs and symptoms such as:
nausea
weakness
diarrhea
abdominal pain
hunger or loss of appetite
fatigue
weight loss
vitamin and mineral deficiencies
However, often having tapeworms does not cause symptoms. The only sign of tapeworm infection may be segments of the worms, possibly moving, in a bowel movement.
Treatment for Tapeworms
If you suspect you have tapeworms, you should see your doctor. Because there are different types of worms and tapeworms that can infect people, diagnosing a tapeworm infection may require a stool sample to identify the type of worm.
Ok, see? If you suspect you have tapeworms, you should see your doctor.
I saw my doctor and my doctor laughed at me.
I cried all the way home. My mom asked me what happened and I told her the truth, which surprised me, because I rarely told the truth. She knew damn well not to even crack a smile. And this time she didn’t use the word dramatic or anything. I hugged her for being so understanding. She told me she would see if there was a pill I could take for a “just in case you do have a tapeworm” scenario. That made me feel better. Who knew that my mom would side with me on anything.
Later that night, as I went to bed, I got right back out, wondering where my dog Cricket was, and heard my mom on the phone. She was talking to Lexie. Cricket was on my dad’s lap on the couch.
“It took everything I had not to laugh in her face, Lexie…….”
That’s all I cared to hear. They were all laughing at me. Fine. Laugh at me.
Since I am all about revenge, I decided to get back at my mom. Big time. That weekend, I chewed a bunch of gum and started rolling it between my fingers to make it long and thin. It did look like a pinkish worm. I even poked two little eyes and then put it in the toilet. I put a piece of toilet paper in there to make it look authentic. I wished I could have waited until I could have added something else, but revenge doesn’t wait for a sixteen year old. I yelled for my mom.
When my mom arrived in hallway, I just pointed to the toilet. She walked over and looked in the toilet.
“Mom, I told you I had worms!!!”
My mom had her bifocals down on her nose. I thought they were going to fall down into the toilet and join Timmy the Tapeworm. My mom then looked up at me.
“I almost fell for this one, Vickie. Next time, don’t put a smile on the worm’s face……get it out of the toilet, wash your hands, and come wash the dishes.”
Dammit.
Years later, the weight did catch up to me. I often think about the tapeworm story. Now, I wonder where the hell I can buy one.
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My fourth grade class was debating yesterday as to who should win the election today. I just sat back and listened to their reasoning. Or lack of reasoning. But, one thing is clear, they repeat what they hear in their household, and in the end, most of the reasoning I heard was well, scary. I think I heard three students say something that made me feel their parents are informed.
When I was in fourth grade, if someone asked me who was president, I may have replied, John F. Kennedy. Oh sure, I knew he had died on my parent’s anniversary several years before I was in fourth grade, and I knew that the gunman was gunned down by some night club owner, but I didn’t know who took his place. Wait. That’s a lie. I remember my grandfather talking about “LBJ, that goddamn snake in the grass.” So, our president was LBJ….Grandpa liked Ike, whoever the hell that was. Later, I found out it was Eisehower, who was president before “that catholic boy.” My grandfather was all about being a republican. But, I was nine years old and had important things to do like go to Campfire Girls meetings and play chinese jump rope. I didn’t care about politics. The only thing I knew at the time was that presidents used initials and short nicknames instead of their names….Ike….JFK…..LBJ. I was VLM. My friend Ramaine was RAC. Lori was LAM, and LeeAnn was LAW. I was pissed because my middle name messed everything up. I could never have pretty monogrammed towels.
And kids really didn’t pay attention to who was running for president back then. But, that changed when we baby boomers had kids and talked about it more and the kids listened. Why did they listen? Well, because our kids stayed indoors more than we did when we were young. We were outside as long as it wasn’t storming. Well, my mom forbade it to lightning on Woodland Estates, so we were outside most of the time. Don’t get me wrong, my kids played outside plenty, but the mid 80′s were different than the mid 60′s. Kids of the mid 80′s listened because they were around the parents more.
English: Seal of the President of the United States Español: Escudo del Presidente de los Estados Unidos Македонски: Печат на Претседателот на Соединетите Американски Држави. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
My daughter became a big fan of CNN when she was little. She liked Tucker Carlson and his bow tie. She became interested in the environment when she was very young, getting mad at the Harrison Power Plant and its wicked plume of black smoke that came out of the stack. She was in tune. Both of my kids were. So, they listened. She pointed out later, “Mom, you are so not a Republican. And Dad……he is definitely not a Democrat.” They listened and picked up on things. And she was right. I changed my party years later so I could vote for Obama.
But, back to my fourth graders. I let them go at each other. One said that Romney hated the Earth. Another said that Obama was going to close all of the coal mines in the state. (West Virginia)
“I’m voting for Romney. Obama doesn’t believe in God.”
“I’m voting for Obama because Romney is a Mormon.” When asked what a Mormon was, the child told me, “It’s a man who has a lot of wives…and that is just wrong.” Another boy added, “I think having a bunch of wives is wrong….but if they could cook, it might not be so bad.”
“Romney is going to win because Obama is going to make rich people pay more taxes.” I asked if his family is rich. “Yes, my mom works at Walmart.” A girl laughed and replied, “Working at Walmart doesn’t make you rich. You have to win the lottery if you want to be really rich.”
“Obama is a terrorist. His middle name is a terrorist name.” I asked him what Obama’s middle name is. “Something like Muslim or something.” Another child laughed at his response. “Muslim is not a middle name. It’s something you sew with.” Um, okay, muslin is a cotton. Points scored for knowing fabric.
In the end, their rants and reasons for voting for their respective candidates were highly amusing…and sad at the same time. I had to wonder:
Do people really understand the issues or do they vote because of what they hear from others the same way children form opinions from watching and listening to their parents and believing it is right and just?
It that is the case, which I think it is in a majority of people, we would always see the proverbial snake in the grass.
The important thing today is to exercise your right to make a decision of some kind. It may not be for the best reasons, but we are lucky to be in a country where we are free to make a choice, even if is because you just like the man. Reagan received a lot of votes because people just liked him as a person. If that alone makes you get in your car and stand in a line to vote, then good for you.
I don’t think my mom had much confidence in me when I was young, as she was always telling me
“When they were passing out brains, you must have thought they said trains, and went for a ride.”
I am certain she told me this more than a hundred times…or maybe twenty, I’m not really sure. I do remember feeling like a stupid train conductor, that’s for sure.
Years later when I informed my mom by phone I was getting a divorce after twenty five years of marriage, and that I was moving out of the house, she replied-
“You know, I thought I raised a smart girl, but you must have been dropped on your head.”
After I hung up on her, I had to laugh. It reminded me back to when I first watched Forrest Gump. He was sitting beside Jenny on the school bus.
“Are you stupid or something?”
“Momma says stupid is as stupid does.”
It made me visualize Momma Gump’s reaction to some of the things my mom had said to me over the years. I’m thinking she would have slapped her. My mom once told me that I would probably study for a blood test. Funny, Mom.
Ok, I am sure we have all done stupid things. Some do more than others…. I don’t know…. I think those are called mistakes. Not all people are stupid. If that was the case, most of the train tracks would still be in use instead of the miles and miles of rails to trails we have across our nation today. So, my question is this-
“Did economics change our use of trains as transportation….or are there not as many stupid people nowadays confusing brains with trains?
I ran across “Yo momma is so…” jokes this morning that made me think of how my mom would basically call me stupid through different expressions. I wish I had some of these zingers to say back to her over the phone after she told me I was dropped on my head.
“Well, you’re so stupid you think a quarterback is your income tax refund.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you put lipstick on your forehead when you were trying to makeup your mind.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, it took you two hours to watch 60 Minutes.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, you went to the YMCA thinking it was Macy’s.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, you stood inside a Subway restaurant waiting for the next train.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, you think Taco Bell is a Mexican phone company.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you spent an hour looking at the orange juice container because it said, concentrate.”
(I’m having fun).
“Well, you’re so stupid, you had to burn down the school to get out of third grade.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you got excited because you finished a jigsaw puzzle in 6 months and the box said “2 to 4 years.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you got fired from an M&M factory for throwing away all the W’s.”
Ok, I’m done.
Would I have used any of those to say back to my mom? Probably not.
She would have just said
“Vickie, are you a dumb blonde on purpose or does it just come natural?”
It’s was just easier to hang up on her.
************************************************
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.
I can still remember when the encyclopedia salesman came to our house to sell us a set. There were always people knocking on our door. We lived in a neighborhood, and we could see them coming. This particular salesman said that the World Book Encyclopedia would be “the window to the world.” Oh, my God, Mom, did you hear that? “the window to the world?” I was salivating.
I just had to have these books in our house.
I begged my mom to buy a set. Oh my God, it would be like having the National Geographic in volumes. I couldn’t stand it. I was almost beside myself, waiting for them to be delivered.
When our World Book Encyclopedias arrived, my mom put them in our antique barrister bookcase.
They looked so nice in there. I realize that I sound like a nerd. I was a hyper nerd. My mom was a little bit nervous, spending a lot of money on books, but after all, the window to the whole world would be opening up. I would gain so much useless information it would not even be funny. I was ready.
When the encyclopedias arrived, we broke open the box and took out each encyclopedia in ABC order and my mom put it in the bookcase. She wanted to make sure they were all there before we started looking through them. Hell, she was no fun. So, I sat there while I watched each book take its place on the shelf. I must have sang the ABC song to myself 26 times. I don’t know why I did that. I was just a weird kid. Finally, the Z was in the shelf, and I grabbed the big A book.
The world did open up, just like the slick salesman said it would. I learned about anteaters and aardvarks and Argentina. How would I remember all of this information? I was on system overload, and I hadn’t opened up the B book yet. I was so happy. My mom was happiest of all because I could see her sitting on her corner of the couch smoking a Salem cigarette with the dog on her lap. She was going to have some quiet moments in the Mendenhall household while her three kids were opening windows to the world.
She told me much later that the box had arrived several days earlier, and she hid it in the front closet. She waited until it was a rainy day to announce that the encyclopedias had arrived. I mean, why give kids the books when they could be outside playing.
My mom made it quite known to me after I had children that she didn’t believe in bragging about her children. Well, Mom, that was obvious. All I was doing was calling her to tell her both of the kids made it to the state social studies fair. I mean, that was an awesome feat that siblings could win the local and then county Social Studies fair. And since she lived two hours away, she would not have know about any of this.
Regardless, I had to hear her tear me down one more time. “Vickie, I think that’s great. You know, you three kids did a lot when you were little, but I never believed in bragging.” No, no you didn’t mom. Well, except when it came to my stomach.
Now, you have to understand that I really didn’t excel at much. I didn’t play a musical instrument. I did try out for our junior high band, if that is what you want to call it, but they just refused to hand me a clarinet or flute or whatever the hell I wanted to learn to play. We had to take a music test of some sort and I really couldn’t hear the difference in tone. I was a tone deaf clarinet challenged retard. It was just another test that I flunked. Like the early entrance test to start school early.
I did win a safety slogan contest when I was in fourth grade and even got a little trophy. That was a big deal. I think my mom came up with the slogan though. I’m not sure. I’m just saying that to continue on with my “I really didn’t excel at much” scenario.
I wasn’t much on selling stuff to win contests in our Bluebird and Campfire Girls troop. I absolutely hated going door-to-door and asking people if they wanted to buy goddamn light bulbs or magazines or even candles. I remember the candle drive. I think I went to five houses and each lady of the house bought something, but I just was tired of that bullshit and went home. I was actually doing pretty well, but I just wasn’t into it. Thank goodness I didn’t have to collect money during the sale, because then I would have had to follow through with it.
My best friend won a selling contest and got to wear a Clorox bottle crown, sit in the front row and hold flowers. I was happy for her because she sold a shit load of whatever we were selling. It wasn’t for me, so I just smiled for the picture as a loser in the back row. Not that the other girls were losers in the back row. Sorry, MaryLou. Talking about me, not you.
So, no, I didn’t excel at much and my mom didn’t brag about me too much….until summer time rolled around.
I don’t know what it was in my neighborhood, but for some reason we liked to lay out in the sun. Like all the time. If we weren’t at the pool, we were laying out. And I laid out on our back patio on a towel. On the concrete. You’d think that my parents would buy some porch furniture for the back, but they never did. That just dawned on me right now. I know my mom always said that the sun didn’t like her and she rarely sat outside, well, because there was no place to sit. We had one lawn chair on our front porch and that was it. So, I laid out on a towel.
The summer after I was a freshman in high school was the summer of my great tan. I was quite dark. I mean, like really dark. And my stomach for some reason was the darkest. I had a little egg timer and would roll over when it would ding. I was like frying my body. Would think that I would look like a piece of leather or a shriveled up raisin now that I am in my fifties. Oh contrare. I still look quite young. Well, that is what my fourth graders tell me. They think I am 30. …brown nosing little shits.
So, whenever my mom and dad would have company or one of her women friends stopped by for coffee, gossip, and cigarettes, my mom always called me into the kitchen.
“Vickie, show her your stomach.”
“What?”
“Lift up your shirt and show her your stomach.”
Um, ok. I would lift up my little summer shirt to reveal my stomach. And my mom would then laugh and say something different each time, depending on who was sitting there, sharing her coffee.
“Now is that a Florida tan or what?”……………..”Look how dark she is.”……………”Have you ever seen anyone so dark?”………………….”I know. She looks almost like a black person.”………….”And she puts baby oil on her stomach.”………………….”and it really doesn’t fade…………”
She didn’t care what I was doing. If we had company and it was summer time, I knew at some point I would be raising my shirt. “Vickie!…..Vickie!!…….Come up here!…..” I wished she didn’t have friends.
So, the bragging began. No, it wasn’t for being smart as there weren’t any A+ papers on the refrigerator. No, it wasn’t for winning a slogan contest or for even singing Are you Sleeping, Brother John in front a whole auditorium of Campfire Girls or memorizing everyone’s line during the church Christmas play. No, my mom bragged about my stomach tan.
Typical.
You’d think that with the invention of tanning beds that I would still be a fool for a tan. When I did have a pool,I had a tan, but it was a SUN tan. Those tanning beds are not the same thing. My sister has a sun tan business and about 12 beds in her place. I laid in it one time years ago, and felt like I was in a damn coffin. It just wasn’t for me. I am more of a plant me under the sun kind of gal, and haven’t done that for a few years. When I go to the beach, I head under an umbrella after a while as I guess “the sun doesn’t like me” anymore.
When I was young I am pretty sure that the tv commercials were directed right at me. Now, you have to understand that we only had three channels on our tv set. Thank god we didn’t have QVC or Home Shopping Network then because I would have been grounded for using my mom’s credit card every other day. Well, if we had credit cards back then too. Shit, we didn’t have much back then.
First of all, Saturday morning cartoons rocked back in the 60′s. I got up early and watched them all morning. Well, before my mom shooed us outside to play. I loved Foghorn Leghorn. He was my hero. I would sit glued to the tv set all freaking morning, because the commercials were just as exciting for me. And when I first saw a commercial for Soaky Bubble Bath Time, I was beyond excited. I mean, you could take a bubble bath AND have a prize. The bottle was a cartoon character. This was unbelievable to me. I’m sure I was sitting there with my mouth open. This was an exciting time for this little skinny little seven year old. The year was 1963……. and it was bath time.
Soaky Bubble Bath Time….Wow, what a great way to take a bath. I had to have this. My mom, however, was never on board with anything at first. She came up with an excuse that as a seven year old I could not possibly understand.
“Vickie, I am not buying bubble bath soap………….it will not make you any cleaner…………..no it won’t…………no it won’t……………Vickie, there is so a bar of soap in the bath tub………………………….yes there is………………well, I’ll tell you what, let’s go and take a look…………………………..Ok, where did you hide the soap?”
Ha! I knew she was going to cause me some problems, so I hid the soap before we had this conversation. I was soaky bubble bath time smart. But, then she confused the hell out of me.
“Vickie, I am NOT buying you this so-called Soaky Soapy Bubbles.” Ok, first of all, stupid mom, it was called Soaky Bubble Bath Time. But, I let her go this time, because she was not finished.
“The soap can give you an infection.” What? Sitting in a bath tub can give you bronchitis? My mom was a loon. Oh, but once again, she was not finished. She saw the expression on my face and decided she needed to be more precise with her statement. “It can make your deet itch, Vickie.”
Ok, I have to tell you that I thought everyone in the world called their female private part a “deet.” That’s what my mom called it. When I was young I always had to make sure that I washed “down there real good” when it was bathtime. And of course, I knew when I was quite young that that area was always last with the washcloth. And you know, well, that was always a great piece of advice. But, I didn’t want an itchy deet. But, was she lying? She lied to me a lot.
“Vickie, Dr. Parker said that bacteria in the water can make your deet itch…………………I realize that soap is not bacteria………When did Dr. Parker tell me this? A while ago………………yes, he did…………….yes, he did……….Vickie, I am not going to argue about this. I am not buying bubble bath. I can’t use bubble bath.
Why the hell would my mom use a Popeye Soaky Bubble bath bottle? She doesn’t even watch cartoons. She made no sense. And when she said “no,” that only meant one thing: ask Dad or Grandma.
So, the next time I stayed at my grandparent’s house was the first time I bathed with a Soaky Bubble Bath Time. I have no idea which cartoon character I took a bath with first, but I am thinking it was Elmer Fudd. But, I could be making that up. I can’t remember. Grandma Orpha always thought I was going to drown or she was cheap as shit because she only gave me about 1/2 inch of bath water. Well, it wasn’t up to my armpits like we had it at home every night. I poured in a cap of the bubble bath and played for a while. I loved going to my grandmother’s house. I asked her if I could take Elmer Fudd home to share with my brother and sister. Yeah, like I was really going to do that. Grandma said I could take it home with me. My mom was not amused.
“Vickie, it can’t make your deet itch right away.”
Ok, fruit loop, how long does it take? Well, it didn’t matter. It was already brought into the house and we used it that very same night. I still took a bath with my sister, so we had a good old time. We played “Ethel and Mabel” most nights during bath time anyway, so adding bubbles to the mix made bath time so much more fun. We used up all of the washcloths and put soap in the middle of the washcloths and then would fold the cloth over the soap and then punch it to make the soap spurt out. What fun we had. We stayed in there until our fingers looked pruney. My mom didn’t care. She was able to sit and smoke a few cigarettes in peace while we were in the bath tub.
“Bath time isn’t quite the same without your cartoon buddies!”
So began our soapy bubble bath time. We bought them left and right. We had Mr. Magoo and Popeye, and Sylvester kitty cat. My dad even had a use for Sylvester. He had a huge flagpole in the backyard and somehow the finial blew away or just fell off of the top of the flagpole. So, what did he put up at the top of the flagpole for all the neighbors to see every day? You got it. Sylvester the cat’s head.
Yes, we Mendenhalls were high class, that’s for sure. But, what is for sure is that reports came out years later that bubble baths weren’t so good for girls and women…..and their deets. But, it was already too late. We went through a lot of bottles of Soaky Bubble Bath time soap without any “girl” problems. My best friend, Ramaine, and I would even laugh and say, “deet de deet” and sing it to the Pink Panther theme song when we realized that no one else called it that. It was now our private little joke. Why the hell did my mom call it that?
Just a few minutes ago, here in 2012, I private messaged Ramaine on facebook and asked her if she called her deet anything else when she was little. It’s so funny that I can still ask her stuff out of the blue as bizarre as what we called our deets back in the 60′s and she immediately has an answer for me. I mean, when was the last time we talked about our deets? When we were 13? Her memory is so much better than mine. She reminded me about the “deet de deet” and that in her family they called it “cho cho.” I guess each family may call it different things, like how my mom called my little budding breasts, “mosquito bites.”
In the end, I am just glad I never went the bath salt route. Because, we all know what happens when people use bath salts. An itchy deet would be the least of their problems.
I am beside myself. My book, Jumping in Mud Puddles, just went live on Amazon. This is my literary debut, so I really don’t know what the hell I am doing. I do want to mention to anyone who is thinking about going the ebook route that the formatting is very easy. I mean, I did it, and I can’t find my way out of a sack. I even made my own cover because I am too tight to pay someone else to do it.
So, I guess I should know what I am supposed to do now, but I don’t. My book is just sitting there among the thousands of other books. I just left it there and went for a chocolate ice cream cone. Oh, hell, that was a lie. There was no way I was going out of the house today. It is 102 here in West Virginia. Anyway, I feel like I did when I drove my kids to college for the first time. I dropped them off and left them. I’ve nurtured this book for a very long time now and now I’m done.
So, my blogging friends, if you get the chance, go take a look see at my literary debut. Wow, I’m a real bonafide author sort of maybe. And If you are feeling generous, leave me a thumbs up or a review. And then more people will say to themselves, “Hey, people are reading this little book. Maybe I should, too.” I’m sure that’s what they would say.
I guess I should mention what my books is about for all of you who may stumble upon this post. My book is a memoir about my childhood and how I was just a little bit off center. Most of my blog posts are in the book, changed or tweaked in one way or another. The book has 44 chapters and I curse a lot, which I really don’t mean to do, but those damn nuns that I write about are to blame. They really are.
Anyway, like I said, I don’t know what I am supposed to do right now. I guess I should walk around the place and see what other “authors” are doing to promote their book. I’d rather just sit and take a deep breath, and rest a while. It’s just too damn hot.
Update: It’s the morning after publishing, and I made a top 100 list already! Yehaw! #70 in Kindle Store-ebooks-Humor-Essays. And, the book is on the Humor-Essay page as a “Hot New Release.” I don’t know how long it will stay there, but I’m a happy camper.
English: Fireworks on the Fourth of July (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
My mother must have thought we were retarded (sorry, love that word) when we were young because she always announced when it was time for the 4th of July fireworks:
“Kids, let’s go outside. It’s almost time for the Boom Booms.” Well, first of all, I must be lying because the Mendenhall kids would have been outside anyway. My mom shoved us outside first thing in the morning and would only unlock the door when whe had to use the bathroom. Ok, lying again. But, we played outside all damn day.
Second of all, we understood the word, fireworks. We really did. It was like a firecracker, but much larger, and up in the sky. But for some strange reason, my mom always called fireworks, Boom Booms. Of course, this was the same woman who called my budding fourth grades breasts, mosquito bites, so she was just a loon on any given day.
Dogs don’t really care for fireworks, and our dog, Susie, was afraid of the damn Boom Booms. The sounds of firecrackers and people screaming from exploding firecrackers permeated throughout the neighborhood. Susie was a fox terrier, so she was small and first wanted to be held when the first of the noise-makers began, but then just couldn’t take it any longer and would bolt under my mom’s bed.
I loved growing up in Weirton, West Virginia. Fourth of July was a big deal in our city. Almost everyone in our neighborhood had their American flags out on their porches. We had a gigantic flagpole in our backyard. My dad used to march us up there like little memebers of the VFW and have a flag ceremony. My brother David would be saluting as he walked.
I was even in a few 4th of July parades when I belonged to a majorette group. I wore a red sequined outfit and threw my baton around like I knew what I was doing. I’m surprised I didn’t bop someone in the head with one of my missed baton throws.
So, yes, the 4th of July was a great time in Weirton. But, the people who lived in Woodland Estates were quite lucky because we lived near the Weirton Airport, and that’s where they had the fireworks. I mean Boom Booms.
So, after all the backyard picnics and the badminton games were over, people brought their chairs to their front yards for the big firework display that were put on at the airport. Most people drove to the airport and put blankets down like they were at the Bellaire Drive-In. But, we had thee perfect spot on our front porch or yard to view the fireworks. My mom would never have taken us to see the fireworks if we lived elsewhere unless we were on leashes. She would have lost us in thirty seconds.
So, you could hear everyone talking from their porches, waiting for the big fireworks to begin. My dad would be on the sidewalk, talking to our next door neighbors, Joe and Rosa. It was a great time. The fireworks would begin at exactly 10:00. When we were quite young, it would be way past our bedtime, so we would sit on the front porch in our pajamas. I remember being tired, although as a hyperactive worm, I couldn’t sit still in my chair. I was down in the front yard walking around in my pajamas until we could hear and see the first of the Boom Booms.
And that is when Susie the dog would usually disappear. You knew when the big Boom Booms were going to happen; there would just be a bright silvery blob in the sky and then Oh My God, what a noise! We would cover our ears and squeal in delight. Life was good.
So, on this 4th of July, I don’t think about the past and the people who fought for our freedom. I teach that every year and have a lot of fun with it, but it is not what I think of when that red, white, blue day comes every year. No, I think of my mom, sitting on the front porch, wearing those damn cat-eye glasses and smoking her Salem cigarettes, asking her children if they were excited about the Boom Booms that were about to start.
And you know, yes, we were. And it wouldn’t have been special if she hadn’t used that damn phrase.
And yes, I used that phrase one year when my children were quite young, and then I slapped myself.
When I was young I watched a program on tv about Sasquatch. Scared the hell out of me. Of course, this program talked about the Canadian hairy guy, so I didn’t think that he could cross the border and head south to find me in West Virginia. But, I had questions for my mom, nontheless. She was, afterall, from Sasquatch country. She was born and raised in Spokane, Washington. Sasquatch was right across the border.
“Vickie, Sasquatch is in Washington and Oregon too……….people out in Northern California have been calling him Bigfoot………Well, they have a name for him all over the world…….”
Say what? Bigfoot could be in my backyard? This was not good.
It was bad enough that I watched that tv program, but the next year, 1967 I believe, a guy by the name of Patteson had evidence. I sat with my eyes glued to the tv set as a home movie camera recorded Sasquatch walking in the woods. Dear God, he is real! And he crossed the freaking border. I was eleven years old and impressionable.
This was not good, especially when a neighborhood cat suddenly disappeared one night. I immediately blamed it on Sasquatch. He supposedly smelled like rotten eggs and had a howl that could put chills down your spine. So, of course I heard the blood curdling scream the very next night. I rushed into my parent’s bedroom.
“…….Vickie, what are you doing up? It’s past midnight……………………You did not hear Sasquatch………Vickie, I am not getting up……………….Vickie, no I do not smell rotten eggs………..He couldn’t make it to West Virginia that fast…………He is probably in Montana……besides, he can’t cross bridges………………….because he is afraid of bridges.”
I went back to bed but heard Sasquatch seven more times. I cracked my bedroom window so I would be sure to hear him if he was in the neighborhood.
“Vickie, I don’t want to see your window opened at night again. Do I make myself clear?”
Well, hell, I won’t be able to hear him coming then. “Can Sasquatch disappear like the Indians believe?” Hey, I asked my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Garrity. She told me a few Indian beliefs.
My mom nodded her head, lighting up a cigarette, amused by something. She laughed, “Vickie, your eyes are darting back and forth so fast. Stop it.”
My mom had neglected to mention that my Uncle Don, her brother, had seen a Sasquatch when they were little and he was fishing with some friends out in the wilds of Washington state. That meant Sasquatch was an old Sasquatch then. I felt relaxed.
“The Indians believe that Sasquatch appears and disappears and that’s why no one can catch one of them.”
Ok, shit, my mom just said, “them,” like there is more than one of them. This can not be good.
Sightings of Bigfoot in USA based on information from the BFRO Geographical Database of Bigfoot/Sasquatch Sightings & Reports (accessed 2009-04-08). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Well, since we only had three television stations and the internet wasn’t invented yet, I didn’t have a way to keep tabs on the big guy. I was obsessed for maybe a week and then I moved on to something else. But, Sasquatch was kept on file in my head.
So, when I had children and Al Gore finally invented the internet, one of the first thing I searched for was “Sasquatch.” Well, the very first thing I searched for was wooly worms. I know, I’m a strange bird. But, the internet put me in touch with a data base that included sightings of the hairy ape man. There were thousands of sightings. If the internet was around when I was ten or eleven, I would have had a child ulcer. I was worried about one old Sasquatch in the Pacific Northwest when there was a sighting in Pocahontas County in West Virginia when I was six. Thank God I didn’t know about it.
So, when my daughter had to make a Social Studies project for school and she really didn’t want to do it, I gave her a suggestion; “How about Bigfoot?” She didn’t care so I started finding information for her. I emailed a Bigfoot expert in Montana by the name of Dr. Jeff Meldrum and he responded to her. I chuckle when I see him being interviewed on almost every Bigfoot documentary ever made since that time.
Alex won the school’s Social Studies fair and went on to the county fair and won first place. We then drove down to Charleston, our state capitol for the state competition. That was fun….for me. I was like a Social Studies stage mom. Alex did not care at all. But, I did. I put a lot of time and energy into her project. She even had a large map with pins indicated where there were Bigfoot sightings. She had a tape recorder to let the judges hear a Bigfoot scream. We made a model cast of a Bigfoot’s footprint. She was ready and I won Honorable Mention. I mean, she won Honorable Mention. Big foot scored.
I am still a fan of the hairy creature. Do I believe in Bigfoot? Absolutely. I saw one in the McDonald’s parking lot one night, so I know he is real. I took this picture of him. Or I could be lying.
Well, school is out and I have decided to work all summer on writing my first book, Jumping in Mud Puddles: A Memoir of a Picky, Hyper Big Fat Liar.
Something like this but not really
I have wanted to write a book ever since I first picked up a pen and wrote Ma and Pa Kettle stories a few weeks ago. Ok, kidding. I wrote all of the time when I was little. I’m pissed off at my mom that she didn’t realize that she was living with an Ernestine Hemingway at the time, as she never saved any of my creations.
I was forced to go to a private school when I was in first grade because I was stupid and didn’t pass the early entrance exam. I missed the November 1 cut off by several days. My mom wanted me to go to school, so I had to endure a few years of Sister Maria, that evil nun with sensible shoes. In third grade, I started writing stories about Sister Maria and wrote in a composition book. I don’t think it was a work of fiction. I think I may have been spying on her. I don’t remember specifics, but I have the book somewhere. I just don’t know where the somewhere is right now. But, she inspired the writer in me. I wrote about Ma and Pa after I was able to leave that horrid little convent school.
When I was in seventh grade, we had to bring in a simple fact every Friday in Science class: Facts on Friday. I think that’s what it is called. Miss Caldwell would go around the room and we had to read our fact. Most of the time we would just cut out the little filler facts from our hometown newspaper, the Weirton Daily Times. For example, one Friday I might bring in-
“Roger Smith, a carpenter from Dayton, Ohio, was struck by lightning three times at the same spot.”
Something like that. Ripley’s Believe It Or Not also had great facts that were slightly bizarre. So, after a few Fridays, my bestest friend Ramaine and I would sit down and make up our own facts. They were “retarded,” our favorite word in the late sixties/early seventies. We may have changed the above fact to read:
“Roger Smith, an electrician from Bombay, India, was struck by lightning at the same time he was turning on a light bulb three different times and lived to tell about it. The electricity was captured in his stomach and he now glows. He no long needs a light bulb.”
Our Friday facts became so popular that we became Friday fact writers. It was like our first writing job. Everyone wanted our facts or maybe we just passed them out on pieces of paper and the kids read them. We would crack up at some of them because they were just soo out there. I remember my weirdest one:
“In Bombay, India, two caterpillars. walking towards each other from opposite directions, met and crawled up each other and turned into a flower.”
I don’t know why we did this one, but there was a kid in our class named Joe, who we ended up writing about in most of our facts. He was a quiet kid who loved our facts, so we asked him if he would like to be in one of them, and it then sort of snowballed and turned into Facts on Friday with Joe or something like that:
“A woman in Bombay, India (we liked India and China facts for some reason) had twenty children in twenty years. Joe, the youngest, was retarded.”
Ok, remember it was around 1969 when I was in seventh grade. No one was politically correct back then. Anyway, we had a blast and continued to write strange facts. It just recently dawned on me that Miss Caldwell never called us out on those ridiculous facts because she wasn’t paying any attention. She was using that as a planning period, I just betcha.
I continued to write as I got older and was a feature writer for the Babbling Brooke, that riveting high school newspaper that grew in membership when both Ramaine and I jumped on board. Ok, maybe everyone in the school got the paper free, but you know, we made it worth reading.
I wrote an unflattering poem about Donny Osmond one time and we would make up horoscopes that were hysterical. Well, they were hysterical to us:
Scorpio- This will be the worst week of your life. Stay indoors and don’t drink the water.
Taurus- This will be the best week of your life. Go outdoors and drink lots of water.
Other times we would write a tv listing of the shows that were going to be on that week. The following is just something I made up right now, but similar to the “retarded” things we would write:
“The Brady Bunch Friday-8:00p.m.-Carole Brady decides to get her hair cut and lets her daughter, Cindy, cut it with pretend scissors. Carole is now wearing an ugly, shaggy hairstyle and Mr. Brady won’t sleep with her.”
One of the best times I had in high school was in typing class. Ramaine was in the class with me, so you know it can’t be just a normal typing class. We would arrive every morning, take the covers off of our typewriters, and start typing whatever assignment was on the board. Well, that is fine and dandy, but makes for a boring class. So, Ramaine and I began typing notes and would get to class early and put them under the covers of specific “victims.” One may have read, “Watch out. This typewriter is watching you.” Oh, the fun we would have. Sometimes we would put them under our covers so no one would suspect us. High school was just so awesome.
In college, I started writing ala Sylvia Plath- just- kill- me- now- poetry after my boyfriend, Rick, and I broke up. I still have those poems and they are actually quite good. I mean, if you want to die because life just sucks.
I was a Speech and Drama major and English minor, so I was still writing and acting and pretending to act throughout college. After I married and had children, I continued to write. I mostly researched a lot for a book of names I wanted to write. Not just any baby name book, but I would scour newspaper obituaries for old names, like Zella, or Bathsheba, or Candy and started collecting first names. I had more than 40,000 names. This is about the time I started drinking. Ok, kidding, not a drinker. But, I still have that mound of names somewhere. I know where that somewhere is. Maybe someday…
So, here I am, in my mid-fifties and I’m going to write a book. I’m not going to hunt for a literary agent and publisher. No, I’m going to take the short route and write an ebook and put it on Amazon for Kindle. I hope all of you will want to download it when it is finished. I really don’t care if I make money. I just want to one-up my ex husband. He just married a really pretty younger woman and all I have is a bad hair style and a 16 year old cat. So, I’m going for a best-seller and fame since I would rather put a needle in my eye before getting married again. Well, I would change my mind if Tim Matheson, my all time dream man would buy my book and then ask me to marry him. You all remember Tim from Animal House and the West Wing, right? Well, I love him. I really do.
The writing is shaky because he signed his picture for me on a subway in NYC. Or I am lying.
I have given myself until August 1 to finish the book and hope to have it on Amazon by September 1….of this year. I will do it. I will.
My dad was a remarkable man. At least I think so. He died in 1989 when his heart basically blew up. He was in his truck and managed to pull over where paramedics were called. And so was I. I rushed to his bedside, but I was two hours away and two hours late. No one met me at the hospital. But, that’s not the part I want to remember. I want to pay homage to a guy who adopted me when I was born, who taught me how to frame a great shot, who taught me how to fish, reluctantly.
He was also the guy who would quietly mow down my mom’s flowers after she bitched at him for something that really didn’t matter. She was a rolling pin woman. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. He would also smile at her when he would go to leave the house. “Where are you going?” my mother would demand. “Up Mike’s ass to get a milkshake,” he would always reply. I just loved that guy.
Elwood Arthur Mendenhall was his name. It was a pretty goofy name, I thought. It was a bit weird that his first cousin was also named Elwood. I mean, what were those women thinking? Most of his close pals called him Mendy or Gomez, or Omar. But, for the most part, people called him Elwood. I just called him Dad.
The following is a reblog of one of my first blog posts that was originally published August, 2010. I thought that I would share it again since it is Father’s Day.
Miss you, Dad.
Love, Your Favorite Daughter, Vickie
~***~
What can you say about a guy who walks into the kitchen wearing a plaid shirt with striped shorts and socks with his sandals? “Well, (sounding just like Ronald Reagan), there is blue in the shirt and in the pants.” I would roll my eyes. “Dad, it doesn’t match. You can’t wear stripes with plaid. It is against the law in West Virginia. You have to wear a plain top with striped shorts.” He would smile and go back into his bedroom and come back out with a yellow shirt on, never mind that there was not a speck of yellow in the shorts. “Good job, Dad.”
Dad parading around
My dad was a realtor and wore suits every day. He usually kept his suit on in the evening. He was always dressed up when we were young. He had places to go and people to see. He belonged to every club you can imagine. I have all of his membership cards. He belonged to the American Legion, the Masons (shhhhh, double double secret club), The Elks, The Moose, the Photography Club, The Shriners, and many others. I think a couple of the clubs were suspect, like the Skunk Club. (I can’t even print what was on that card.) So, Dad was rarely home through the week. In the summer he was in a lot of parades because he was a clown with the Shriners. He even had a motorcycle with a sidecar for a while. We used to go to the Shrine Circus in Wheeling often. I loved to watch the Flying Wallenda’s. They were and are a family of famous circus performers who do daredevil, death-defying stunts high up in the air without a safety net. Even when I was young, I thought how foolish they were to not use a net. And I was not a bright child. They must be a family of nit-wits. Anyway, my dad wanted a make-up mirror for Christmas one year so he could put on his clown makeup. How many dads ask for a make-up mirror? Life was never boring with my dad.
When we were small, we weren’t supposed to answer the phone in the early evening because my dad received a lot of client calls. People were always wanting to see houses for sale in the evening. Dad had a cut-off for client calls. After 8:00pm, Dad would answer the phone, “Duffy’s Bar, Daffy Speaking”, all the time. We knew then, work was over for Dad.
I loved listening to my dad talk to people on the phone. He had no idea he was doing it, but he would talk exactly how the people on the line talked. We knew when he was talking to his Irish friend, because Dad had an Irish accent. We knew when he was talking to his friend, Jimmy, because he would curse. His Italian accent was so funny. So were the conversations when he would use poor English. “We was gonna go, but it started rainin….I ain’t goin. I’m too tard (tired).” He really had no idea he was doing this. I think that is a reason I love dialects so much and had a blast when I took a dialects class as part of my Speech degree in college.
Of course, when you are a teen-age girl, you are embarrassed to be seen with your parents. That’s a given. I don’t know why, but those couple of years before you are allowed to drive are miserable. So, my dad understood this, and took every opportunity to drive me crazy. One example, a Brooke High dance when I was a freshman. I think Ramaine’s mom took us and my dad was going to pick us up AFTER the dance. Not before it was over, Dad, but right when it is over. I wish I would have specified that, or lied about the time it was over. I am pretty sure I did. He always had an ornery, “Ok, Vickie” smile. Wild Cherry played at our school dance. Yeah, the famous Wild Cherry pre-Play that Funky Music group. They used to play at pool dances and school dances often. Anywho, about 20 minutes before the dance was over, a member of the band spoke over the microphone and said, “Vickie Mendenhall, your Daddddddy is here to take you home” and then they put a damn spotlight over by the door and my dad was standing there, waving like Forrest Gump. That one ranked.
A favorite thing that my dad loved to do was call me back when I was walking down the street to Ramaine’s house. I’m not sure, but I think there were like 9 houses that separated our homes. “Vickie, come here,” he would wave me back. I’d get right in front of him and he would simply say, “See how far you would have been if I hadn’t called you back?” After many times, (he was always so believable that maybe this time he really needed me..) of falling for his little prank, I just kept walking back just so he could get one over on me. I knew as I got older, that he was not happy with my mom. How could you be? He got yelled at for just looking at her wrong.
When I was a freshman in college, my dad had a bad heart attack. I guess any heart attack is bad. He had to have a triple heart by-pass. Freshman weren’t allowed to have cars at my college, unless there was a pretty good reason. I got to keep my car because of all of the traveling home. So, I thought I was pretty special. My dad was in a hospital in Pittsburgh. The doctor’s said it was such a success because the veins in his legs were very strong. He played tennis in high school and was pretty athletic, so that was good. They hadn’t done very many triple heart bypasses at that time, but they thought he would make it through. It also helped that an elderly Italian looking lady dressed in black walked up to my mother and said that she prayed for those who entered into surgery that day and that “your husband will be the only one that will survive.” And then, she turned around and walked back to where she was sitting. Well, hell, that meant that the person she was waiting for was going to die? Good grief, rosary-clutched woman. What are you??? But, she was right. Or so my mom said. I had to go back and forth to college. My mom got to know the people who were on the same floor with my dad.
Well, the “Let’s embarrass Vickie” era continued. I briefly dated a guy in college named Tommy, and we had planned to drive to Pittsburgh to watch Pitt and Notre Dame play football. My parents invited us to stop by and eat before the game. So, of course, while we were sitting at the table, my dad, blurted out, “So, Tommy, I had open heart surgery,” and proceeded to unbutton his shirt, pulled up his t-shirt, and exposed his heavily bubbled scar. ”See.” Yeah, we see it, Dad. I was ready to slide under the table, with the dog. He really was proud of that scar. At least the day wasn’t a total wash. We saw Joe DiMaggio in a crowd outside the stadium and I stepped on his foot by mistake when I went to stand beside him for a picture. “Um….sorry, Joe….. 1…2….3…. Say Cheese.” Well, not many people can say they stepped on Joe DiMaggio’s foot. I can. I’m quite special. Come to think of it, I don’t think either one of us had a camera. I really think we both just went and stood on either side of him, smiling, like someone was going to take our picture.
After open heart surgery, Dad had a pace maker and had to make a phone call weekly and put the phone to his chest. Gotta love the technology of the 70′s. Well, the years flew by. I got married, and was lucky to have my dad walk me down the aisle. I stayed in Fairmont and had 2 children he got to meet and hang out with for a short while.
My wedding, October 1983
My dad had a boat load of pills he had to take. He had one of those pill compartment thingys (that I now have), but he still forgot to take some of his medication. My mom said he was getting mean, and with one swoop kicked my brother and my dad out of the house. Or, maybe my brother left on his own before that. So, my dad, ill as he was, packed up some stuff in his truck and left the house and stayed with David. My mom and sister were alone at the house.
On November 5, 1989, I was called to come home as soon as I could. My dad had a massive heart attack while driving his truck and was in the hospital. I hurried and packed, kissed 4-year old Adam and 2 year old Alex and drove like an idiot on the 2 hour journey home. (I didn’t leave them alone, just in case you were wondering.) Three weird things happened to me on my way home. It was an overcast day, and I was amazed how the clouds opened up and the light shined through like a flashlight beam. It was beautiful. For some reason it made me cry. The second thing was when a red-tailed hawk flew right in front of my car like it was crossing the interstate, and then went up in the air into a tree. I had never seen one so close. The third was eerie. I passed a hearse that was driving slow and I looked over, and the guy gave me a sad, sad, smile. It was like he knew I was on a sad trip.
When I reached the hospital, noone was there. I mean, no one. A nurse had to take me aside and tell me that my father had passed away. I asked what time he died, so she went to his chart and when she told me, I burst into tears. It was the same time that the hawk had flown by my car. I had noted the time of each of the three weird incidents in my mind, because I believe in that shit.
I was soo upset that no one stayed at the hospital to wait for me to arrive. It would be just like my mom to just drive home and forget about me. When I first entered the driveway and got out of the car, my brother was there. We hugged, crying, and I said into his ear, “She killed him.” And that is how I have felt to this very day.
We buried my dad on my birthday. That sucked. It was a cold November day and he had Masonic last rites or whatever they call it at the grave site. I felt like I was watching an episode of the Flintstones and a meeting of the Water Buffaloes. And dad was the Grand Poobah. They did this hand shake stuff that made me giggle, and then the next thing you know, I was silent laugh shaking. My dad would have expected me to laugh, so I did.
My mom informed me that she had no intention of visiting my dad’s grave. “I believe that if people aren’t nice while they are living, why visit them when they are dead.” I think that she may have been talking about my grandfather, because he didn’t like my mom. I also think she is confused. Dad was a great person. Sure he gagged when he saw a hair in the bathroom sink all the time. Sure, he put on a yellow raincoat when he gave the dog a bath. Sure he always offered us a quarter if we could eat a sour pickle without making a face. And wearing those socks with his sandals was unbearable to look at as a teen age girl. But, he is now in peace. Only his name is on the headstone. Good job, Dad! He is next to my grandpa and Grandma, and no room for my mother. Maybe he knew that witches don’t die. Karma, Momma, Karma.
We built our house on 13 acres and my husband cut the grass with an old 1949 Farm All Cub that my dad gave him. I am telling you the truth when I say that the first time Jay cut the grass on that tractor (it had a stupid smiley face on the front that my dad put on years before), I had gone down to take him a drink of water, and I heard this “Caw” and looked up and there was a red-tailed hawk flying in a circle above us. I smiled for hours afterwards.
I sure loved my dad. When I see an old hoot wearing socks with his sandals, I realize that teenage girls waste an awful lot of time being embarrassed by their fathers.
I was the pickiest child in the whole world. And if I didn’t want to eat something, there was nothing my mother could do to get me to eat it. It wasn’t going to happen. You could plop a new puppy with a big pink bow around its neck in front of me as a bribe, but I still wouldn’t eat those damn peas. I could sit in my chair for hours to no avail. I wasn’t stubborn. But, I felt that if I didn’t want to chew and swallow disgusting peas, I shouldn’t have to. You eat them.
So, it was not pleasant sitting at the Mendenhall dinner table when I was very young. Our dinner conversations usually centered around my not eating.
“Eat your carrots, Vickie……. They are good for you……..Vickie, are you listening?…….Eat your carrots, Vickie….. Don’t wrinkle your nose up like that to me…. It will freeze and you will have wrinkles on your nose like that forever……Vickie, why are you smelling the carrots? …………No, they don’t smell funny……..They are cooked carrots…….They are from a can………No, they are not old……….Because there is a date on the can………….Vickie…..Eat your carrots……….How do you know you don’t like cooked carrots? You’ve never tasted cooked carrots before…..What?…..Bugs Bunny is not real, Vickie….No, I have never seen rabbits eat cooked carrots……..You are not a rabbit, Vickie….People eat cooked carrots….Yes, Vickie……..kids are people…….What? No, Vickie, you cannot have a rabbit……. Ok, you know what? I’ve had enough…Go to your room…………..No, you cannot have a twinkie.”
Every night it was the same thing. I don’t understand why my mother just didn’t leave me alone. I wasn’t going to starve. As long as I had bread, jelly, peanut butter, and pumpkin pie, life was grand. Of course there were other foods I would eat, but dear God, do not spread peanut butter with the jelly on the bread. That is abnormal and I would not touch it.
It was twice as bad when I was old enough to start school. The nuns at Immaculate Heart of Crazy Nuns Academy would not leave me the hell alone. It was a constant barrage of inspirational messages directed at me to make me feel bad and eat. Stupid nuns. You can’t fool me. I’m unfoolable.
“And so why are you not eating all of the food on your plate, young lady?” Here we go. She was standing beside my tray, hands on hips. I don’t know why people stand with their hands on their hips. It didn’t scare me. It reminded me of getting ready to sing, “I’m a Little Teapot.” I just hated those damn nuns anyways. I did not want to be at that private school. And I don’t know why they kept referring to it as a private school. All my friends knew about it. I looked up and answered the creepy lady clad in black and white.
“I’m eating.” I looked at her. I couldn’t even fake a smile. And she didn’t scare me at all. Nuns were like clowns. They both wore goofy clothes and just weren’t funny.
“You need to clean your plate, Miss Mendenhall. Think of all of the starving children in Biafra.”
Shit. I mean, I am sorry about the starving kids in Biafra. And the ones in India. And the children who are freezing AND hungry in Outer Mongolia and Siberia. What the hell did that have to do with me not eating peas in Wintersville, Ohio? I was tired of this bullshit at school and at home. You know what? I didn’t give a rat’s ass about all the starving kids in the world. I was eight years old. Get the fuck off of my tiny back.
It was at that moment, in third grade, that I decided to start hiding my food.
After I got home from school, I decided to have a conference with myself about how I was going to hide my food at school, starting the next day. But, I had to get through the dinner routine at my house first. My mother started at me again. Shit. We were having peas. I really thought she was doing this to me on purpose. Lady, I am not going to eat peas. Not going to happen.
“Vickie, eat your dinner……………peas are good for you……….yes they are…………they are not mushy………..Vickie, eat your dinner…….I don’t know why they aren’t orange like carrots……It doesn’t matter, eat your dinner…………..Vickie, quit lining the peas up on your knife………..Ok, they are all over the floor now……Vickie, the dog is nowhere near you. She did not bump into you. You had them on your knife…….Because I have been watching you not eat your dinner……….Vickie, you are going to sit there until all those peas are gone, do you understand me? If they are not gone, you will not be allowed to go to your Blue Bird meeting this evening.”
Oh, I was going to go to my bluebird meeting. I hid my peas in my glass of milk. I drank most of the milk, and then dropped peas down in the milk. I was surprised how many peas could hide in milk. I smashed some of them on my plate because my mother would become suspect if there were no peas left on the plate. I figure she would still let me go to my blue bird meeting if she saw that I gave it a good old college try. I put three peas on David’s plate while he was talking. Cheryl and my dad also got three. I was a damn good pea sneaker.
And that’s how my food hiding career began.
The next day at school, we had salisbury steak, green beans, and mashed potatoes. I remember this because of the incident. Well, there was no way I was going to eat any of this bullshit. Salisbury steak was shit on a stick to me. I despised green beans just as much as I hated peas. I did like mashed potatoes immensely. But, and there was always a “but” with me, if they had lumps in them, I would gag until my eyes watered. So, at most, it was an iffy meal.
First, I asked my lunch table friends if they wanted my salisbury steak. I had to work fast as the lunch Nazi was on her rounds. I thought that I would at least think of the Biafran kids and try to give my food away before I hid it. The boy across the table had already devoured half of his shit on a stick. He said he would take mine. I picked it up with the fork and sort of whipped it toward him. It landed on his plate. This was going to be fun. No one really wanted my green beans, so, I put some of them in my napkin, left some on the plate, and put the others under my tray. Well, just until she walked by. My plan was to retrieve the green beans after the nun lady walked by.
My Operation Hide Yucky Food was working. My mashed potatoes didn’t have any lumps, so I was able to eat that with no problem. Just in time, too, because here came Sister Potato Head.
“Well, well, well. Look at this. Miss Mendenhall, you did a pretty good job today. I am surprised. Go ahead and take your tray up to dump.”
Uh oh. I just sat there. I had at least six green beans smashed underneath my tray. I wasn’t ready to take my tray up until I hid more in another napkin. But, I made the mistake of having everything done by the time she came by, so there was no dilly-dallying during lunch time.
I stood up, picked up my tray and walked slowly to the dumping grounds. Sister Stupid Face was busy talking to others at my table and wasn’t watching the green beans peel off the bottom of my tray and fall to the ground while I was walking. I almost made it there when I heard a big black and white thud. I didn’t even need to turn around. I knew what happened. Sister Goof Ball Head slipped on my green beans and wiped out on the floor. I turned around, expecting to see her shoot me with the gun I was sure all nuns hid under their black dress, when I saw a boy from another table, lying on the floor.
The gun-toting nun was helping Jacob get up and yelling at him at the same time. “If you would have finished your green beans, they would not have been able to fall off of your plate as you were rushing to dump your tray. Get up. You’re ok.”
So much for hiding food. As I walked back from taking my tray to the cooks, I kicked each green bean out of the way. I had made a straight line of dropped green beans on the floor. I escaped certain death this time. I would remember never to hide food under my tray again.
In the end, I was able to become quite creative with my food hiding both at home and at school. It helped that I had a dog who was discreet while sitting beside me at dinner. I just talked louder when we had dinner that required the dog to slurp.
I have laryngitis. So, at bedtime, I rubbed a generous amount of Vicks Vapor Rub on my throat and under my nose and went to bed. Ahhhhh. I love this stuff. So, I am thinking that it is probably bad for you if it feels so good. I mean, isn’t that how that usually works?
Image of a container of Vicks VapoRub (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
If scientists came out with a study that reported that using Vicks Vapor Rub over time causes all kinds of medical problems, I am sure I would be the first to die. First. to. die.
My use of Vicks Vapor Rub goes way back. Back to around 1958. I’m guessing.
My parents adopted me at birth. I was the apple of their eye, the reason for their living, the ying for their yang. But, they then decided to go and adopt another baby. I am sure I was all they needed.
David came home right before I turned two years old. My mom said I was like a little mother. I was always standing beside his crib, talking to him in my two year old gibberish and giving him stuffed animals. My mom was so happy that the introduction of a baby brother did not appear to raise any jealousy issues with me. “Appear” is the operative word here.
Oh, no. I guess my Rhoda Penmark impression from The Bad Seed reared its ugly head at a very early age.
Some people refuse to have children after watching this movie. photo via wikia.com
She found me one evening in my brother’s room, sweet talking to him while smearing Vicks Vapor Rub all over his face. My mom said the poor little baby was blinking his eyes like crazy. I guess that was my first whipping.
There, there, David. Let me go get some Vicks Vapor Rub.
Now, I can’t defend myself because I was two years old and I can’t remember what I did when I was that young. But, I just bet I heard him sneeze and was playing nurse or something. My mom was always a big Vicks Vapor Rub user. Maybe she smeared it on me and I felt better and I was just trying to pay it forward. I am thinking this way because of the Susie the dog incident a few years later.
I loved Susie the dog. She was a terrier and followed me all over the house. She was an expert lap sitter. If you were sitting down, she was in your lap. But, I also put Vicks Vapor Rub on Susie’s nose when she sneezed once.
It was the first time I had ever heard a dog sneeze. I didn’t think dogs sneezed. She must be sick.
Must get the Vicks Vapor Rub.
I guess it isn’t meant for dogs. Susie the dog went ape shit. She ran around and around a few times, and then kept licking her nose. I guess that made it worse, as something scared her and she ran through the house and under my mom’s bed.
“Aw, come out, Susie.” I think I grabbed one of my dad’s white tank top undershirts and wiped off Susie’s nose. I didn’t think that maybe it should then go down the laundry chute after that. The shirt, not the dog.
Ok, so Vicks Vapor Rub doesn’t do too well on dogs.
But, it does great when added somehow to a vaporizer. My mom was big on using a vaporizer in our rooms when we were sick. I am not sure if there was a Vicks vaporizer in the later fifties or not. If not, my mom made it into one, because I remember that great smell in my room at night.
Looks sort of illegal
As I got older, I had a hard time getting to sleep. I was a kid with a lot on my mind, and then diagnosed with hyperactivity when I was seven or eight, or maybe younger. I was given the nickname, Cricket,by a family member much earlier. I just hopped all over the damn place I guess. So, Cricket couldn’t sleep at night.
If I put Vicks Vapor Rub under each eye, that would make my eyes stay shut, right? So, I went into my mom’s room, got the little jar, and headed back to my room. I smeared a little dab under both eyes and laid down.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. So, I opened one eye. It made my eye burn like hell. Tears were streaming down my face. So, just like you aren’t supposed to touch wet paint because of the “DO NOT TOUCH WET PAINT” sign, I had to open my eyes over and over again. Dear burning mother of God. It burned. So, the idea worked for part of the problem. Now I was wide awake and couldn’t open my eyes. I was in a coffin. But, then I fell asleep. I was a future Vicks Vapor Rub addicted genius.
So, I had a pretty great idea. OR….maybe, just maybe, my mom did this to me first, and I was claiming it as my own idea. This makes so much sense now. If she secretly slipped me a mild tranquilizer when I was in fourth grade and called it a “carsick” pill, she would be sinister enough to douse my eyes with Vicks Vapor Rub when I went to bed to make me go to sleep at a very early age. Too early to remember sinister acts. Hmmmmm.
I mean, I do remember calling out to her numerous times at night. I had questions, after all.
I bet the loon put the Vicks Vapor Rub under my eyes to make me go to sleep.
She smeared it under my eyes and then went back to her National Enquirer and Salem cigarettes and coffee nightly ritual.
When I was little, my dad used to take me fishing at the Paris Sportsmen Club. I actually hated the whole process of fishing, but felt I should be there to talk my dad and brother into releasing the poor little fish after catching them. It was bad enough they had a hook in their mouth. I just didn’t get it. I guess if you liked the taste of fish and your mom fried them up upon arrival, that is one thing. But, to catch fish for sport? I thought that was stupid.
I worried about the hooked fish. It had to hurt them. If I was hooked in the mouth, I would be screaming. I would still be screaming about it, forty some years later. I just knew that fish had feelings and shouldn’t be hooked in the mouth, dragged to shore, and then shoved into a bag like thingy until they died from being out of the water too long. Where is PETA when you need them?
But, after I realized that my dad was a real fisherman, there was no talking to him. He went fishing all the way up to Canada. North Bay, and more specifically, Lake Nipissing. That name cracked me up when I was little. I still laugh at how I laughed. But, if there was a place to throw a pole in the water, he was there. He went fishing under the Freedom Way bridge that led from our Weirton to Steubenville, Ohio, home of Dean Martin. I would go fishing there with him a lot. He caught a lot of fish there and would put them on a chain like thingy and let them flop around in the water while he caught more. One time I pulled the rod out of the muck and they all floated down the river. Oops. Fish on a chain.
Now, the Paris Sportsmen Club was just a little bit creepy for me. Creepy in that there were high weeds here and there surrounding the pond. Someone needed to pull on some rubbery wading pants and go pull some weeds. Cattails were immense. But, among the weeds and cattails were unseen creatures, I feared. Bullfrogs used to scare me to death. And I saw a snake swim by one time. Of course, I told my mom he crawled beside me while I sat on the bank. I was such a little story teller.
But, above every thing else, I was the most wary of the flying machines. You know, dragonflies.
Dragonflies at the Paris Sportsmen Club were evil. I swear one chased me on purpose. I would run one way and it would fly across the pond and head me off at the path. Ok, well, maybe there were more than one and they were just flitting around, but I didn’t see it that way. Their intent was to sting the shit out of me. They approached me like helicopters hovering over the Viet Cong and the rice paddies. Ok, I’m using my imagination. Also, the club was on Devil’s Den Road. What’s that tell ya?
I never really understood their purpose, but I watched them enough to know that they seemed to rule the roost. Birds eat worms. Snakes went after baby frogs. Who the hell wants to mess with a dragonfly? Dragon fly. I liked the name, but it evoked fear. Could it spit fire at me while it chased across the moors? Yes, I’m in Great Expectations and I’m Pip. Run, Pip, Run. I realize I had not heard of Great Expectations when I was little, but you get my point. I would make scenarios up in my head as we traveled to the Paris Sportsmen Club each time we went.
I would stand by my dad for a while, because the dragonflies didn’t come near my dad. He had a hat full of fishing crap on his head. I always wondered why he put lures and hooks and little bobbers on his hat. Who knew that fisherman were stylish? But, anywho, the head dragonfly this particular day, aka winged monkey dragonfly was going to leave the great Oz with the fishing lure hat alone because he was oh so great and powerful. No, they were coming for me, aka Dorothy, from West Virginia. My house landed on my mom and I had to put on red tennis shoes and find Oz. Red pom poms on my shoes would have to do. So, I couldn’t be standing near Oz to begin with if I was going to play Wizard of Paris Sportsmen Club, now could I? I would have to head down the side of the pond and see what I could find to represent the scarecrow. My mom headed us off that morning before we left.
“Vickie, you can’t take Susie with you out there!” She grabbed my little terrier from my arms.
Damn, caught. I tried to take Susie the dog, aka Toto, to the Paris Sportsmen Club with me that morning. How the hell can you play Wizard of Oz without a damn dog? She just pissed me off. That’s why the house landed on her that day.
Just great. We were only there for about thirty minutes when it began to rain. I was just starting to make a scarecrow out of sticks and cattails when I heard Oz (I mean Dad) call for me. We ran to the car and drove home. Those damned winged monkey dragonflies would have to wait another day.
I did find out something interesting that day. My dad told me while we were driving home that dragonflies can’t bite or sting.
I just stared at him. The hell you say.
I had been going out to the Paris Sportsmen Club with him for as long as I could remember, and he just got around telling me this crucial piece of information when I was like eleven. Thanks, Dad. Although actually, I think he kept that to himself. He had to watch me talking to myself, making up role-playing games while he fished. The dreaded dragonfly would have become just a bug, and perhaps I would have become bored while waiting for him to hook yet another poor little fish. That was an interesting ride home in the rain.
So, when it would rain and we would be stuck in the house, I would sometimes draw pictures of dragonflies. I couldn’t draw worth a shit, but they were dragonflies nontheless. I admired them but feared them. I just knew that the next time we went to the Paris Sportsmen Club, a huge, dragonfly monster was going to rise up out of the cattails in the creepy part of the pond and pick me up with their wicked fly claws and carry me away. Or drop me over the middle of the pond, where another water creature would be waiting for me. Like the gigantic fish with the whiskers. Don’t let the name “catfish” fool you. Catfish were evil too.
The Paris Sportsman Club 2012..The damn cattails are still there.
Well, I guess I got a little older and I was just too cool to go with my dad to the Paris Sportsmen Club anymore. I never went fishing after sixth grade or so. But, the dragonflies weren’t done with me yet.
Several years ago, we had just finished dinner, when my son called me out onto our patio.
“Oh my God!” I could not believe my eyes.
Now, you have to understand that we had an in-ground pool and a pond. Several neighbors had ponds. We were used to an errant dragonfly or two, hanging around. By this time, they were beautiful to me and my favorite insect. Everyone has a favorite insect, right? I had a dragonfly shower curtain in our pool house and dragonfly hooks for the towels. I was all about dragonflies.
But, what I saw made me smile, nervously. There were thousands and thousands of dragonflies heading toward us. And they didn’t stay high up in the sky, like the Canadian geese do when they migrate. Was this a migration or was this a swarm? Like a swarm of Paris Sportsmen Club descendants finally coming for me.
I mean, that’s what had to be going on, right?
Ok, kidding. But, what a sight!
We stood on the patio and watched them fly through. It was remarkable, but eery at the same time. Was it the end of the earth? Would some of those flying beasts have the face of a lion? Revelations and all that scary stuff. A dragonfly apocalyse.
Some of them hung around for a day or two. Stragglers came for a few days afterwards. So, of course, I went right to the internet and found out that green darners, among other species of dragonflies, migrate in swarms through our area toward North and South Carolina. I had lived on that hilltop for sixteen years and never saw such a sight. I am thinking maybe they were a bit west of their normal path perhaps.
photo princeton.edu
Perhaps.
So, that brings me why I am writing this today. I am wondering again about dragonflies. It seems that there are dragonflies in the parking lot of our local Walmart. I’ve noticed them for a few years now, and they are back again today. Why a Walmart parking lot? Maybe there was a pond at one time where this stupid Walmart was built a while back and by instinct they come back here. Nothing else makes sense. A parking lot is a stupid place for dragonflies to hang out.
As I unlocked my door to put my groceries in the back of my car, a dragonfly flew right in front of my face.
Once upon a time a family drove to a little amusement park in their home state and joined all of the other families and people wanting a day of smiles and laughter. They rode rides and ate hot dogs and cotton candy. What a great memory in the making. Years went by. Families grew and found something else to do. Bigger and better amusement parks opened. Families now saved their money to take the once in a lifetime trip to Disney, Six Flags, or Sea World.
Soon, most of the little amusement parks had to close their doors for various reasons. Some of these lesser known parks had thrilled people for more than a century. Some mom and pop operations were sitting on valuable pieces of real estate. An offer far more than the small profit made yearly with admission tickets made their operations come to a close. For others, a lack of visitors forced some small amusement parks to sadly shut their gates and turn off the lights. And, sadly, the laughter.
photo via wikipedia
I can think of two parks that were close to where I live that are no longer in operation. Both closed to make way for a new road. One was Rock Springs Park in Chester, West Virginia. The other one was a more contemporary park called White Swan. White Swan closed to make way for the new road to the enlarged Pittsburgh Airport. Defunct.
1. Rock Springs Park- Chester, West Virginia. This park opened in 1897 and closed after its final owner died in 1970. It sat vacant for several years until the state of West Virginia bought the property for its re-routing of a main road. My grandmother used to talk about this park and we visited it often when I was quite young. And now it is just a memory. It was a beautiful park.
2. White Swan Park-Near the Pittsburgh airport- Operated between 1955-1989. It was a small roadside kiddie amusement park that had a roller coaster that jerked at each turn. I do remember that.
But, although dismantling and tearing down buildings and erasing its past is sad, the abandoned and neglected amusement parks are creepy and dismal. Vines and trees are reclaiming the space once used to bring joy to all those who entered its gates. Now, rust and rotten wood are all that is visable. The echoes of laughter are gone. The only thing that remains is an eery, ominous sight, creepy really. And quite sad.
Chippewa Lake Amusement Park-Ohio
Rocky Point-Rhode Island
There are many amusement parks that have been left to decay with time. Bulldozers have left these grounds alone for one reason or another. And none of them compare to the Six Flags Amusement Park in New Orleans.
We all witnessed the horror of what hurricane Katrina did to the Gulf area. It wasn’t until some time later that I saw pictures of Six Flags. I thought maybe, just maybe, as the water receded, the park would be able to re-open. I was wrong. I have read several trip reports from people who have sneaked inside the locked gates to take photos of its untimely demise. How sad.
Flooded after Katrina
photos via lovethesepics.com
2011
Six Flags New Orleans is currently owned by the city of New Orleans. Plans were announced this past March to build an outlet mall in its place.
Another ill-fated amusement park was Heritage USA. You remember that cry-baby evangelist Jim Bakker and his mascara infused wife, Tammy, right? Well, Jim opened a water park and theme park where you would be closer to God and spend money on rides. Problem was, old Jim sold more partnerships than there were rooms in one of the towers. Oh, he had other problems as well. And Heritage USA closed.
Another abandoned amusement park is located in Wichita, Kansas. Joyland closed and was abandoned in 2006. It would be sad to have to drive by this every day.
In the end, I would say it is better to bulldoze a closed amusement park to make way for a road or another commercial venture than watching it decay year after year. To watch the grass grow high, and graffiti overtake a once brightly painted building would be painful, especially if youth was spent at these parks.
The thrill is gone.
The eery echoes of laughter remain, however, and memories do linger on. So, the next time you visit your favorite amusement park, make sure you take a lot of pictures of your family enjoying themselves. Because, you just never know. You may arrive one summer to find this-
My parents never took me to the beach when I was little. I really don’t know why. I’m sure my mom had something to do with it. Three kids were too much for her. But, then again, she said we couldn’t have a real Christmas tree because she was allergic to pine needles. After I grew up and had my own kids, she laughed and told me that she wasn’t really allergic to pine needles, just picking up dead pine needles all over the house. The bitch.
So, yeah, I’m thinking that the reason we never went to the beach was because of my mother. I guess I can understand why. I would be off into the ocean, trying to make friends with a stingray. Cheryl would get mad and march off into the beach sunset, never to be found again. David would just sit and play with a toy truck in the sand, smiling all the while. David would have been a great beach person.
So, we just took trips around the state of West Virginia. Sure, we also ventured down to Tennessee to visit my mom’s best friend or over to Virginia to visit my cousin, Jackie. We went to Canada and watched my dad fish. But, other than that, we stayed in the WV, Pennsylvania, and Ohio perimeter. Which was ok. I didn’t know about how much fun people were having at the beach.
And therefore, I also didn’t know that people could build stuff out of sand.
What??? How cool would that be? If I saw something like this when I went to the beach when I was little, that’s what I would want to do for a living. Yes, I would then want to grow up to be a sand sculpturer.
photo pinterest
If I saw this on the beach I would not go in the water. I would first stare at this for about 30 minutes, and then I would want to create my own.
Ok, yeah, I would get frustrated at first. My mom would have handed us buckets and shovels without involvement. She would just stand over us, looking around. My dad, who would have been filming us as he always did, would hand my mom the camera and would show us how to build a sand castle.
But, that wouldn’t be good enough for me. I mean, I just saw a freaking alligator/dragon sand sculpture. I would want to make something special. Bucket forms in a circle with a shell on the top of each one was not creative enough now that I saw art.
Pure art.
How about something like this, Dad?
Or this.
Oh, yes. I would have given up my smoking actress employment route and taken up sand sculpture for a living. But, alas, my parents never took me to the beach when I was little. I never got to make sand castles with little plastic buckets. I never got to dig a hole and cover up my mother.
I had to wait until I was older. When I had my own kids. Well, not to cover up my mother.
Since I wasn’t able to go to the beach until I was in college, I tried to make up for it by going about every summer. We first started by going to Ocean City, Maryland, where they had wonderful beach sculptures. But, most of the ones we saw were religious. I just didn’t care if the guy worked on it for forty days and forty nights, I just was not into religious stuff. Give me a freaking dragon/alligator or something like this please:
I would love to see this. Young Vickie and older Vickie. I would have stared at it for thirty minutes and then would take the kids to build our own.
Well, except, that since my parents didn’t take me to the beach when I was little, I developed no talent or skill for sand castle making. Actually, I sucked. We did bury my son one year up to his neck and made him into a mermaid without his knowledge. We would giggle as we molded breasts for him and told him we were making him into a beachy strong man with big arm and leg muscles. It was a pretty good mermaid.
But, other than that, no skill. I wouldn’t let the kids use the formed buckets. No, we were going to make a castle with just our hands. Well, not like this one-
This was done by someone whose parents took him/her to the beach when they were little.
Even this one was done by a former beach child I am sure. This kid’s parents owned a beach house. I bet I am right. He probably sculpted this with his eyes closed. That’s how good kids can get at sand sculptures when their parents take them to the beach for vacation. Can’t sculpt out of sand when you are in car heading to Canada to watch your dad fish.
No, I will admit when I have no skill set. So,we were going to make drip castles! I watched someone make drip castles when I was pregnant with Adam. That was the summer that I wore a bathing suit that was green and red with black specks. At seven months pregnant, I looked like a damn watermelon.
So, I learned all about drip castles. I was ready for kids. They would go to the beach every summer, damnit, and learn to sculpt.
So,I found that the sand at Ocean City, Maryland wasn’t as good as the sand at Myrtle Beach for some reason. The first time I started scooping up sand, I was in heaven. I turned into a kid and would sit on the beach all day making the best drip sand castle ever. The one above, no offense, was nothing to the ones the Pellillo family made every year at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. We would sign our creation before we left for the evening and put a big WV beside our name. Yes, I was finally able to make a sand castle! Yeehaw!
It wasn’t until my kids were a bit older, and I realized that they had given up after an hour or so of drip castle building, that I found that I was all by myself. I was sitting in a water hole in my Mickey Mouse t-shirt, dripping away on fantastic spires, when I looked at some women that were parked nearby. They were sitting with full make-up on, sun visors on perfectly coiffed hair, with their bright, long, red fingernails resting on the beach sand chair arms. They were my age and they were watching me.
I felt stupid. My kids abandoned the magic family drip sand dripping castle making and went into the ocean with their boogie boards and their father. I didn’t even know they were gone. Adam was working on one of the many bridges and Alex was working on making the roads throughout the kingdom while I sat in my water hole scooping up new wet drippy sand to create yet another forest tree. But, alone I sat. I had my hair pulled back into a ponytail and was wearing a freaking Mickey Mouse over sized t-shirt.
Wasn’t I supposed to be behaving like the golf widows right beside me? Wasn’t I supposed to be sitting in a beach chair, reading a book and watching people walk by?
I guess my drip castle making days were over.
I never made another drip castle. Oh sure, I made some right beside my chair, like the sad looking starter kit that I made in 2010, when I took my kids to the beach after my divorce.
Adam joined in for a while, which made me happy. But, for the most part, we were over drip castles.
Time to read books and watch people.
Until the grandkids come along. Grandma Vickie will explain to them how a drip castle is made.
I pull my car into the parking lot behind our elementary school every day. Well, except for weekends, of course. I normally do not pay attention to my surroundings as I gather my little teacher bag, purse, and other paraphernalia that clutters my passenger seat each morning, and make my way to the side door.
Oh sure, once in a while, like after a big rain, I may stop to pick up a few earthworms that I know will never make it back to the grass before the sun beats down on them and fries their little bodies. I help them. Worms are people too.
Once in a while I talk to the cat who lives somewhere in the neighborhood but prefers the parade of people sweet talking to him as they make their way with their own teaching paraphernalia into the side door.
But, yesterday, I looked farther than the back parking lot. We are faced on two sides by a cemetery. On one side is a church with a yard full of tombstones. To the back are more tombstones. I look at them all the time as I pull in. I even asked a co-worker one time during Halloween, “You do see that woman by that grave, right?”
But, yesterday, I really looked at them. We were dismissed early due to water problems, so I was in no hurry to go nowhere. I sat in my car and surveyed all of the memorials. The cemetery is filled with love and rememberance. It was sad, yet lovely at the same time. So, I took out my camera and starting snapping pictures.
There is understandable sadness among the residents. Some left this earth too soon. I am sure some left without being able to say goodbye. Some had a long, painful goodbye. These people were loved. I spotted one statue from my car.
The grass was wet, so I didn’t attempt the walk to the grave. I also have a bit of a problem walking through other people’s memories. Forever marked. Forever loved. So, I closed in on this particular point of interest.
Some of the tombstones, once erect, bend towards the sun. Others are crumbling from the effect of acid rain and time. But, this little angelic marker stands tall and begs me to get a closer look.
On closer inspection with my camera’s zoom, I notice that the poor angelic figure is crumbling. His sad face will be but a memory. How long has it been there, I wonder? I just don’t want to invade its privacy.
I for one, will not have a headstone or marker, for I want to be cremated so I can sit on my kids’ mantles and listen to everything that is going on, for that is how I roll. I just can’t grasp the idea of being placed underground. Oh, I know that I will be dead, and it won’t matter. But, being in a lovely vase where my children can talk to me seems fitting for the kind of person I am.
As I put my camera away after one final photo of the cemetery, I have to admit that it has opened my eyes to the other cemeteries that I pass every day. I don’t even give it a thought as I drive by each one. It’s a graveyard, after all. Nothing more, nothing less. But, I now want to take pictures of the wonderful memorials that are placed there as a result of grief and enduring love.
Time may overtake these wonderful reflections of loss.
I think I will pay more attention on my daily drive.
I have always been 5’4″ tall. Or short, depending how you look at it. I have never minded being short. I like looking up. And I don’t get rained on first. So, there are always perks. But, as I get older, I really think I am getting shorter. That thought, of course, took me back to my childhood and how my mom would back us up to the wall and score a pencil through our scalp. It was measuring time.
The walls in our kitchen were painted a pale pale yellow. That or they were white and were soot covered due to the smokestack that was my mother. In the kitchen was a door that led us to the basement. And right beside it, for everyone to view, was her growth chart.
Every once in a while, my mom would summon us to the kitchen. We had to kick off our shoes and put our heels to the wall and stand as still as a statue while she marked our new height. She would then put our name and the date on that line. I would usually get slapped to stand still. Hyperactive chihuahuas can’t stand still for very long. And besides, I didn’t understand why we had to do this. I was the oldest, so I should be the tallest. Cheryl was four years younger, so she should be the shortest. And who the hell cares that we are growing? Um, aren’t we supposed to grow? I just didn’t get it.
Oh, I realize that things like this matter to mothers. I know how much I weighed when I was born and how long I was. So what? Is that going to make me smarter than other babies? I mean, sure, if I weighed 8 ounces at birth, there would be a little concern. Duh. But, as I aged a bit, I got to thinking about why my mom did this stupid measuring ritual. I used to think that my mom was the only one who did this and that it was because David and I were adopted and she was afraid we were going to be midgets. You really don’t know what you get when you adopt. And I was thinking that I must be a midget.
So, this worried me. I never told anyone about this. I didn’t want anyone to know that I may be a midget. I realize that I am being politically incorrect with my “midget” talk, but that’s what we called them in the sixties. No one said, “little person.” They said “munchkins” once in a while, but that is because of the Wizard of Oz. Shit, maybe my dad or grandfather was the mayor of Munchkinland. I was going to have to wait about 6 months for it to be on tv again. I would have to wait to check the resemblance.
But, you know, I didn’t feel like a midget. Maybe my mom just liked to mark up the kitchen wall. Graffiti woman. I couldn’t wait for the house to drop on the wicked witch of the east. There was only one thing to do. I had to just come out and ask my mom. I approached her one evening while she was reading her National Enquirer and smoking her precious Salem cigarette. The dog was on her lap.
“Why do you measure us with a pencil all of the time?”
“To show you how nice and tall you are growing.” She saved an exhale of lovely smoke for my second hand lungs.
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Why do you mark how tall we are?” And then I burst out crying.
“Am I a midget?”
“What? ……Vickie, what are you talking about?” She laughed at me. And that pissed me off.
“David and I are midgets.”
“You are not a midget. Your height is normal for your age. You are just very thin.” What? Midgets couldn’t be thin?
I just couldn’t quit crying. I am trying to remember how old I was when I asked her this. I do remember wearing my stupid plaidish skirt uniform that I had to wear while attending Sacred Heart of Mary Juana Academy, so I had to be anywhere from first to third grade. My midget years.
Later that evening, I could over hear my mom talking to her friend, Lenore, on the telephone. Lenore lived in Tennessee, and had no business knowing my business. I sat in my secret eavesdropping spot and listened to the whole conversation.
“Honestly, I don’t know where she comes up with these things….. She thinks she is a midget.”
And then I heard her say it. I wish I knew what Lenore asked.
“No, not black. David is a bit dark, though.” And then she laughed.
What? Black? I can’t be black. I have blond hair. David could be black. And a midget.
Adoption just sucks.
Well, I obsessed for a few days before I found out that a lot of people had measuring charts. Some had them in closets. Some on the back of doors. Some in their doorway. My mom was a loon and had ours right in the kitchen by the telephone.
This smart person put them on a traveling door jam. When you move, just rip it out and take it with you.
I wish someone would have taken a picture of it before it was scrubbed off. It became a smudged eye sore after a while, this pencil marking chicken scratch of a family memory.
Wow. How many kids did these people have?
I was curious to see if anyone still does this. We did it with our kids for just a little while in our closet under the steps. When we built our new house, we just never did it anymore.
I found charts that you can buy.
I don’t know about this. I’m glad we didn’t have this giraffe growth chart when I was little. It was bad enough thinking I was a midget.
I would have been freaking out thinking that my mom expected us to get as tall as a giraffe.
And you know that would never have happened.
My mom’s second hand smoke stunted my growth I am sure.
Oh, hell, maybe I am a giraffe.
photo by Vickie Mendenhall-trip to the Bronx zoo to visit relatives
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.
One of my students had her tonsils and adenoids removed this morning. I really need to write down the things she says in class, because she is so funny. Her biggest concern was that she had to be at the hospital at 6:00. “Ms. Mendenhall, I have to be at the hospital at 6:00. I mean, I don’t have to leave my house at 6:00. I have to BE at the hospital at 6:00.” Isn’t it funny what kids are concerned about? I would have been afraid of strange doctors in my personal space, hovering over me and asking me questions.
“Did you eat anything this morning, Vickie?”
“Um…. I had Sugar Pops for breakfast.” I wanted to say, “Get the hell out of my space. Don’t you see that box around me? Stay on the other side.” Not a fan of space invaders.
My student’s mom just told me on Facebook that K. wore her jammies to the hospital. She told her mom, “I look a mess, but it’s not like I’m going to be on tv.” I love that kid.
It also took me back in time, like everything does. It took me back to when my son, Adam, had his tonsils and adenoids removed.
I wrote about this a long time ago. But, I combined it with snow days, breaking out in chicken pox, and my cabin fever as a result of all of those happening in sequence. Stick a Fork in Me Cuz I am Done It was a weird spring.
When Adam was little, he seemed like he was sick all of the time. He had pneumonia several times. There is nothing worse than a child with a 105 degree fever. I had “mother judgement calls.” You just never know how long is too long before you load them off and race towards the emergency room. He was sick almost every Christmas.
He had drainage all the time. It was so bad that his second grade teacher sent me a note that his continuous clearing his throat was driving her crazy. Well, she didn’t write that, but that is what she meant. And when he would clear his throat, he would quietly utter, “Oh yeah,” which I think was his way to check if he could speak correctly. Like “Check one-two. Check.” Sound system ok. I felt so sorry for him.
So, after NUMEROUS trips to his pediatrician, who I swear put him Augmentin 300 times, I took him straight to an ENT, who announced that his adenoids were so huge, he could see them. I guess you aren’t supposed to be able to see adenoids. His tonsils had to come out.
When I took him back to his regular pediatrician and told him that I took him to an ENT, my doc looked at me like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. We never saw that doctor at that practice again. I’m still pissed at him for letting my son go that long. If a kid is in 3rd or 4 th grade and has had several bouts of strep throat and numerous colds and congestion, get his damn tonsils taken out. I know that I am not a doctor, but I pretend to be one. I’m just saying that the difference is sudden and remarkable.
The scheduled surgery was right when it looked like school was going to be back in session after the perpetual snow event of that winter. Figures..
Adam’s surgery went well and when he came home I made him a bed on the couch in our Hearth Room so he wouldn’t have to go up and down the steps for awhile. I also made the HUGE mistake of giving him a bell to ring for me. I wanted him to rest, so I thought that if I gave him a bell, that he could just tap it when he wanted something. Ding Ding! He wanted paper and a pen, so he could write me notes. Smart kid…Ding Ding! He wanted his Lego’s. Ding Ding! He wanted his stuffed animal, Bear. Ding Ding! He wrote that he wanted his stuffed animal penguins, Preston and Prescott. Freaking Ding Dong!
I better warn K.’s mom not to do the same. I walked in after only two hours, and quietly snatched the bell away from him. So, the mute improvised, and started tapping his pencil against his glass of water. I created a tonsil-less monster.
For the love of sanity, don't give her a bell.
I really don’t remember how long he stayed home from school after he had his tonsils taken out, but I think it may have been 6 months. Ok, not 6 months, but it felt like that. His tonsils were healing nicely and he was ready to go to school. Well, that would have been nice, but that’s not what happened. He woke up one morning, and said he didn’t feel well. I felt his forehead and he felt a bit warm. I noticed that there was something on the tip his nose. At first I thought it was a booger. Kids wear boogers sometimes. I hurried and raised his pajama top. Shit. “OH MY GOD!” I said out loud. I never cursed in front of the kids, but if I did, I would have said something like this-” Are you shitting me?…… Damnit!”
Yeah, Adam was breaking out with chicken pox.
And then his sister broke out with chicken pox.
And that’s how I started drinking. Ok, just kidding, but minus the damn chicken pox mess, having Adam’s tonsils removed made a huge difference.
There are only a couple of things that are great about being 55…..Thinking…Thinking….Ok, there is one great thing about being 55.
I don’t have a period anymore.
Ok, guys, some of you are going to quit reading now. And that’s ok. But, if you have daughters, you should keep reading. Because you are going to hear her speaking in a language you don’t understand. You are going to think that she is doing something she is not supposed to, because she is talking in code. But, the lingo is geared to not let dad’s, brothers, or boys to understand what is going on. It’s “Period speak.”
Ok, yeah, maybe I made up that phrase, but it is alive and well. “Period Speak” has been around since, well, women have been having periods. It shouldn’t be a secret, but we think our code is just for those in the female persuasion.
Now, the whole reason I am writing this post is because I heard a teen-age girl on her cell phone yesterday. She was standing beside some dork who I assumed was her boyfriend, because I heard the code.
“No, I don’t feel like doing anything. I’m just going to go home and lie on the couch….Yeah…. my friend is visiting. Giggle.”
I had to chuckle. She heard me chuckle. She could have flipped me off for eavesdropping, but she smiled at me and then looked at her boyfriend. He was clueless. Maybe he thought he was the friend and was going to go home and lie on the couch with her. He would have been fine with that.
Most girls use the “my friend is visiting” scenario when talking about their period. So, you are probably wondering, “Why the hell can’t you just call it your period and be done with it?” Well, because we can’t. It’s against the laws of puberty. Or something like that.
When I started my period for the first time, I remember to this very day, going straight to my mom, scared to death. She was sitting in the kitchen. My dad was in the family room, and I did NOT want him to hear what I had to say.
“Mom, George is visiting.” She just stared at me. So, I said it again, this time out of the corner of my mouth. “George. is. visiting.”
“Vickie, what is wrong with you. Gen and George are not here.”
Ok, we had a friend named George. A real person. Not a period. Obviously, my mother had never had a period.
Shit. My older friends who had their periods told us on the bus to say, “I can’t. George is visiting.” Every one of them used “George” as their code phrase for their period. I was just doing what they told me to do. Hell, I didn’t know. It’s scary to go to the bathroom and see that you are bleeding to death. My mom never explained a damn thing to me. Still pisses me off.
So, I tried the other code phrase. “Mom……It’s that time of the month.”
It took her a few seconds and then she got it. She told me to grab my sweater and we would go to the store and get some napkins.
WTF? Napkins? My friends all wore pads. Back in the late sixties, we had to wear a white belt-like apparatus around our hips. A sanitary “napkin” belt. There was a metal thingy in the front and one in the back to weave our pad ends through them. I am terrible at explaining this. Regardless, she had to take me to the store. Why the hell didn’t we have any in the house? It just made a better case that my mom must have never had a period.
“Elwood, Vickie and I are driving to the drug store. She started her period.”
I stopped in my path. You didn’t just say that……to my father!! Oh my God, Mom. I will never be able to look him in the eyes ever again. I will have to go live with my bff Ramaine or something. I almost started crying. I thought that we were supposed to talk in code so males would not know that we are on our period. We were never to use the word “period” in front of them. I was beside myself. I was bleeding to death and mortified. Plus, the stupid loon of a mother could have easily told me to put some kleenex in my underpants until she got home. But, hell, no, I had to go with her. Hello, Mom…Um, period….flow…..needs…to…..stop. Shit. This just sucked.
Well, time went by and I finally learned that you don’t need to change your pad every ten minutes. My mom was pissed when we had to go back to the drug store the next day. Well, shit, Mom. It sort of would have been nice if someone explained to me that we had to sit in that disgusting pool of George.
I began to use my code phrases around the male family members and boys in school. I used the “I can’t. George is visiting.” Or I would say, “I can’t. My friend is here.” I think those are the only code phrases I used. I was not imaginative. Oh, if I would have heard someone else say another phrase, I would have surely used it. The girls in Weirton, West Virginia, used “George” for the most part.
So, it made me wonder what other girls would say. I have a feeling that the girls today just say it without embarrassment. “I can’t go. I’m on my period.” Boys get it. They probably got it back then, but we had to hide it. That’s just how it was back in the day.
So, I went looking on the internet and found some interesting code phrases for having a period. I found these on a yahoo forum from three years ago. Here are some of them:
“I had a roommate that would always tell me her unwelcome friend came for a visit. Sometimes I refer to it as Aunt Flo. And I’ll never forget the movie “Clueless” where they refer to it at “surfing the crimson wave.”
“Ha! When I was in 7th grade my girlfriends and I use to call it “Our Cat”. I forgot how we developed such a title-but there was some reasoning behind it. I just call it my period now. I guess I’m too old to use pet names.”
“I don’t remember how this came about. but me and my friend say were going to china. we hang around guys alot and they have no idea what were talking about … its hilarious when they ask and were like uuuhhh …. nothing inside joke.”
“Me and my friends have this thing we say “our leg hurts” and if we need to ask someone for a pad/tampon we say we “need ice for our leg” i don’t no how we came up with this though:)”
“dont remember where this came from but me and my friends refer to it as George, i feel bad for any guy with that name now though.” Ah, that girl must be from Weirton.
“….The volcano erupted….My redheaded cousin is in town…..I got my car…”
Here’s a creative one.. “China time (Asian flag has a red circle and I taught my daughter to refer to that part of her body as her “China”) But,um, isn’t that the Japanese flag?
Japanese flag, not the Chinese flag. I wonder how old they will be when they realize they have been calling their period the wrong country.
It sort of matters.And here is what the flag of China looks like.
photos via wikipedia
I bet that woman knew my mom. Unless you are quite talented, I don’t see how your period would form five points…and be yellow, unless you are tremendously jaundiced. Just sayin. Let’s continue.
“When I was in school my friends and I called it TOM…..TimeOfMonth.”
“It’s red week…or Aunt Flo is here visiting.”
“I say I’ve been cycling. No one realizes I don’t currently own a bike.” That’s a good one.
There are other phrases, such as “My curse,” the easy lie, “I can’t. I’m sick,” and for those who never did care who knew, “On the rag.” I always felt that those were the girls who would grow up to be sluts. How could you look a boy in the face and tell him you can go swimming because you are on the rag? I would shudder at the thought.
No, it would be better to obey the rules and never let them know when you are on your period.
My crazy grandma Orpha used to have the best saying when I was little. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.” I had no idea what it meant at the time, but I liked the way she said it. Crazy people don’t know they are crazy. Or, in this case with a turnip truck, naive. So, when she said something like that, with such conviction, well, it always made me smile.
My grandfather was not allowed to drink coffee in “her” living room. I don’t think he ever spilled coffee to be banned from bringing it in her perfectly coiffed room. It is what he did to her that banned the dark wonder in a cup. Her living room was spotless. She had a light pinkish carpeting that we would draw circles in to use while we were playing marbles. Nothing was ever out of alignment.
But, when Grandpa would be allowed to have his after dinner coffee, he would mess with her. He would pretend to spill it.
Much worse.
And that’s when she would yell it from the kitchen. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, Arthur!”
One time, though, when she let me bring him an after dinner coffee to his chair in the living room, he smiled and winked and then whispered to me, “Run in the kitchen and tell Grandma I spilled the coffee.”
Not giving me a chance to say anything, Grandpa yelled out, “Oh, no, Vickie!!! Hurry, go get a wet towel!”
And I ran.
I ran right into Grandma Orpha, coming around the corner. Damn, she had the best hearing of any old lady anywhere.
“Um, Grandpa spilled the coffee.”
At hearing this, Grandma Orpha sort of brushed me aside and entered the living room, horror on her 1960′s OCD face. And that’s when Grandpa said it.
“Looks like Grandma finally fell off the turnip truck.”
Oops, we lost Grandma a mile back.
Well, Grandma didn’t get mad at Grandpa. She got mad at me. Crazy people don’t like when there is a conspiracy. She called my mom and I didn’t get to stay at their house that weekend. Grandpa went back to reading his paper and drinking the “spilled” coffee. He did wink at me as I left. I wondered who the crazy one really was.
Naive. That’s what it means, you know, falling off the turnip truck. And naive means, “gullible,” which my mother called me every chance she got.
“Oh, Vickie, you are sooo gullible.”
“Eat shit, Mom.”…………….. Ok, I didn’t say that. Oh, how I wanted to say something.
Ok, so, perhaps I was a bit naive about things…. A space cadet…… An airhead…… A blonde.
Yeah, maybe just a little.
That means I must have fallen off the turnip truck at some point.
So, years later when I decided that I wanted to be a writer, I joined wordpress to start the ball rolling. I was going to be a blogger. I wrote and read other people’s blogs, and wrote and read comments. It’s been wonderful.
But, I didn’t expect this spam nonsense.
I had thirty five spam messages just this morning, waiting for me.I rarely read them. Such a pain in the butt. I have just one question for spammers?
“Do you think I fell off the turnip truck?”
When I first joined wordpress, I began reading some messages that were in my spam filter. And I realized that they wanted me to think that they actually read my blog post. You little shits.
I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.
Here are some of the spam messages that I received in the past day. They are so well written that it is easy to be fooled. Really.
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And finally
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Not realizing that they fell out of the turnip truck.
In the end, riding in the turnip truck at fifty-five is a great accomplishment. Oh, sure, I occasionally fall off.
But, for the most part, I am driving the damn truck.
You know, I was surprised to read an article the other day about colored peeps. Well, that is what I call them. I used to beg my parents to take me to GC Murphy every Easter to look at the colored chicks that were for sale. I always wanted the Easter bunny to bring me one. But then, my mom always stepped in, even before I started begging.
“Vickie, the answer is no. They will poop all over the house and drive the dog nuts. The Easter bunny would never bring you a peep.”
Well, how the hell did she know that? I had friends who got Easter peeps from the Easter bunny. My mom was a moron.
I think down deep I really didn’t want a colored peep. I would have begged more. I was good at begging. But, their little peeping would have driven me crazy. Why the hell do they have to make continuous peeping? I really didn’t want any part of it.
That’s such a lie. I wanted a freaking baby colored peep. I am thinking about the noise as a middle aged woman. Kids don’t care about noise. They are all about noise. But, my mom was adamant. Even when I didn’t believe in the Easter bunny anymore, but swore I was old enough to take care of a chicken. I mean, chickens didn’t need to take baths. They didn’t bark when someone rang the doorbell. They would peck up dropped food onto the floor. I thought a chicken would make a great pet. If it grew up to be a rooster, it would wake us up in the morning. Valid reasoning.
“Vickie, I said no……..Because I said so……………No, you can’t keep it in the playhouse………….Well, a cat will get it…………..I know cats can’t open doors. I’m talking about it being in the backyard…………Your father is not building a fence for a colored peep……………We are not buying one for each one of you……..Because I said so……..”
And then the next year my mom lied and told me that there were no colored peeps at GC Murphy’s. What a liar. My friends Ramaine and LeeAnn told me they saw them. I guess once you see a colored peep, you really don’t care to see them every Easter time. But I did. I just loved animals.
Flashforward I don’t know how many years, but many states have banned selling colored peeps. It’s about time. I always wondered what parents did with the chicks after they came home. I mean, we used to come home with goldfish from carnivals. Friends came home from the beach with hermit crabs. But, those were manageable “pets.” What the hell do you do with a chicken or a rooster if you live in a subdivision? Well, you drive it to the nearest farm and give it to a farmer. I was told the little chicks would lose their pretty color when they molted. That would crush a kid.
“Mommy, where’s Chicky?…….That’s not Chicky!!! Chicky is blue!!” And then they would hate their mother for years for lying. The kid would think Chicky died and mom ran out and bought another plain colored chicken to explain it. Little kids don’t understand “molting.” I wish we could molt.
I am thinking that most parents just let the little poopy chicklets loose. You know they wouldn’t be around too long. Dogs and cats would have them for a snack. Feral chickens can be a problem though. They can form packs and attack. Like wolves.
Ok, I was teasing, but wikipedia lists a site of cities that have a feral chicken problem. Key West, Florida? Fair Oak, California? Houston, Texas? Hell, I was trying to be funny. I guess you need to watch where you walk.
It is illegal now in the United States, but people used to raise roosters for cock fighting. I guess a colored peep could have been a Rocky of the rooster world. They would fight to the death. Like Hunger games…except with roosters. Buy a colored peep today, and train it to fight.
If you didn’t want to set it loose into the streets of your city, I guess you could keep your peep and call it a family member. You could put a diaper on it. I’ve seen monkey pets wearing diapers. Why not chickens?
And then you can make clothing for it.
Cutest chick on the block
You’ve seen people dress up fake geese that sit on their porch. Which I’m sorry, but is sort of stupid. Especially when you can dress up a live one.
Tori Spelling has a chicken in her house. Many people have chickens in their house. Which is fine. But, don’t they poop every minute or two?
In the end, whoever first came up with the idea of dyeing poor defenseless peeps and selling them in a GC Murphy’s was a sick individual. Poor chicks. And then the stupid consumer who fell for it. Shame shame.
What’s next? Colored bunnies?
A purple dog?
I guess I shouldn’t talk. I had a colored chick when my kids were little. We named her Alex.
Every week my fourth graders discuss and then draw an idiom. With Easter approaching, I had them draw “A Good Egg.” We discussed its meaning and then they drew some pretty great pictures. They also wrote an Easter haiku. As I walked around the room, admiring their creations and listening to one say that his was a disaster, it reminded me of one Easter that was a true disaster. For my daughter.
You know, most mothers do try to do their best when it comes to raising their children. Oh, sure, there are some women who should just live in a box and never reproduce, but for the most part, most of us really do try our hardest. Every once in a while, however, we just screw up.Royally. But, in our defense, we are on call 24 hours a day, so I’m thinking that we should be allowed a couple of mistakes. But, when you personally do something to make your child cry, well, you just want to start drinking.
My daughter, Alex, was named Alexandra when she was born. I love that name. Except when people called her Alexandria. Pissed me off. Do you see an extra vowel in her name, Goober? Well, then, don’t call her Alexandria. Anyway, she decided one day that she didn’t want to be called that anymore. She wanted to be called Alex. Her brother, Adam, always called her “Alice” when he was a toddler, so she knew that it could be shortened. And she was tired of learning to print her name. It took forever to print Alexandra. So, Alex it was. Oh, I love that name too, but I really should start calling her Alexandra again. Alexandra.
Anyways, Alexandra, now Alex was in kindergarten, and Easter was approaching. Her kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Phillips, sent home a note and asked each parent to send in 6 eggs for the kids to color. Being a great mother, I naturally sent in a dozen. I was worried that some other child had a mother who should be living in a box and would not come to school with eggs. So, I sent in a dozen. I was a good egg.
I was glad they were going to color eggs at school, because I was never a fan. When I was little, I just didn’t get it. Dipping hard boiled eggs in a dye. Well, and then what? Some people ate them. Well, I learned very early that if you take something out of the refrigerator for so long, they really shouldn’t go back in there. Yeah, I was and still am OCD about food storage and reheating. Plus, I thought hard boiled eggs were gross. I was a picky child. Picky Vickie.
My mom really never colored eggs with us. Some people hid eggs outside and then the kids hunted them down, put them in their baskets, and then bragged on who found the most. I didn’t get it, even when I was little. After plastic eggs came on the market, then I got it. You could hide good stuff in the eggs. Like money or Hershey kisses. Then it was fun. But, hard boiled eggs that had been left out long did not appeal to me.
So, I boiled the eggs and sent them in.
Alex came home that afternoon and got off of the bus crying. I hated it when she cried. She was such a good little girl with such a good heart. It hurt when I would see her upset. I was ready to beat up whoever made her cry. She said that “….they made fun of my eggs.” Little kindergarten punks.
We got into the house and I went through her little backpack and saw a note in her homework folder from Mrs. Phillips.
“Vickie, Alexandra Alex cried all afternoon. I had no idea why until I noticed her eggs we just got done coloring………..You sent in brown eggs.”
I just stared at the note.
It may as well have looked like this:
Shit.
I sent in brown eggs.
I wanted to first blame my husband for making me buy brown eggs in the first place. The Mendenhalls never ate brown eggs. I never really even saw a brown egg until I went to college and my roommate brought some from her real chicken. (As opposed to a fake one I guess.) Luckily, my roommate, Pat, who was from Philadelphia, and was just lost in rural West Virginia, spoke up first.
“Jeri, those eggs you brought back with you are rotten.”
“How do you know? Do they smell?”
“Uh, no. They are brown.”
Jeri cracked up and then explained that they weren’t rotten. They were just brown. Well, hell, that didn’t explain a damn thing to us. In my book, that meant that black cows really did give chocolate milk then.
But, after my flashback, and blaming my husband for thinking brown eggs taste better than white eggs, I re-read the note.
Shit. I sent in brown eggs.
I could just picture the kids in the kindergarten class. Sitting there, dipping their eggs in bright red, blue, and green colors. Oh, what fun. Well, for everyone except Alexandra/Alex. Hers probably came out camouflaged pukey green. All of them. No matter what color she used, the outcome would have been subdued and ugly. Fugly. She would probably look at the first one as a mistake and then was crying by number three dippy egg. Poor Alexandra/Alex.
I felt horrible. What a rotten egg. I was not an eggcellent mother. I was eggstremely awful.
So, I put the kids in the car and we drove to the store for some spiffy white eggs and an Easter egg dye kit. And we colored eggs that evening. And she quit crying because one of them was truly beautiful. Of course, I sang her praises and apologized a million times, as it wasn’t her fault. It was mommy’s fault. So, we colored eggs.
It would have been nice if I had remembered to boil them first though.
When I was a teenager, I would sit for very long periods of time, hunting down split ends and chopping them off with one quick snip. I would go to the bathroom drawer and retrieve the little silver scissors and park myself in the living room where the sun came streaming in, letting it hit me right in the face. It would illuminate the split ends. I could find them and kill them. It just wasn’t me. All my friends were OCD about split ends. It did help, I should mention, that I had long hair. Much easier to find them.
I could actually see Lori, who lived across the street, sitting in her picture window, looking at her split ends. Did I get the idea from her or did she get the idea from me? I don’t know. All I know is that it was a problem. A big problem.
I blame the commercials that we watched in the late sixties and early seventies. Now, remember, we only had three channels, so we had to watch and believe the commercials. The shampoo people kept telling us that split ends were a big problem. So, it must be a very big deal. I remember watching the first commercial about split ends and then rushing to the bathroom to look for them. Dear God, there’s one! Shit, there’s another one! I had split ends! I asked my mom to take me to the store immediately to buy some Breck shampoo. It would save my hair.
“Vickie, they are just trying to get you to buy their shampoo. There is nothing wrong with the Head and Shoulders that we all use.”
Head and freaking Shoulders. I hated that shampoo. It reminded me of toothpaste. I used to try and waste it so that my mom would relent and finally buy something else.
Now that I think about it, we had quite the hair products back in the day. I think that I finally tried every shampoo that came out on the market. Notice I said, “finally.” It took my mom awhile to abandon her precious Head and Shoulders. I apologize to those ardent Head and Shoulders shampoo users, but I just couldn’t take it any longer. It may have been the choice for mom and dad, but oh hell, not for a teenager. Teenagers did not want to use Head and Shoulders. My time to revolt was near.
Well, because I had split ends. No one was ever going to ask me out. Okay, maybe, I exaggerated just a bit. That’s what teen-age girls do. And if I didn’t get some Breck shampoo soon, I was going to be one big split end.
Not that I took great care of my hair. I was not nice to my hair. I started by putting Sun-In on my head when I was in seventh grade. I used Dippity Doo when I rolled my hair.
I used PSSSSSSt, the dry shampoo when I didn’t feel like washing my hair. I was such a dirt ball.
The 70's...the dirtball era.
But, Psssssst gave me a great idea. I decided to perform an experiment on my mom. I did it on a weekend so I wouldn’t get looks at school. Surely, this would help.
“Vickie, you need to go take your shower. It’s almost time to leave.”
“Mom, I took my shower about 2 hours ago.”
“Did you wash your hair?”
“Yeah. It gets so oily, you know I have to wash it every day.”
And out of the room I walked. I didn’t wash my hair. I took a shower and unscrewed the Head and Shoulders to make it look like I used it. I knew she would check. I didn’t wash it on Sunday either.
“Vickie, My God. Wash your hair!”
“MOM!!! I did wash my hair. You heard me in the shower.”
“There is no way that you washed your hair. It is filthy!”
“It’s that stupid shampoo you are buying. It makes my hair oily. Please buy something else.”
My dad, who always seemed to be either reading a newspaper or sitting downstairs in his garage where he didn’t have to face the rolling pin woman, knew what I was up to. He left to go show a house, as he was a realtor, but when he returned, he put his finger up to his mouth and handed me a bottle of Lemon Up. Yay, Dad. It wasn’t Breck shampoo, but it also wasn’t Head and Shoulders. I was a happy camper. Maybe the Lemon Up would help my split ends problem.
So, the next morning, I came upstairs, ready to eat some breakfast and head to the bus stop. My mom looked at me like she caught me with my hand in the cookie jar.
“I see your hair is miraculously clean today. How surprising for such a horrible shampoo.”
“Dad bought me a great shampoo yesterday. Lemon Up. It really really helped my oily hair. Look how shiny my hair is.” I moved my long hair like I was in a commercial. Just look at what this shampoo has done for my “Let’s fry some french fries on my oily mat of a head”. And with that I walked out of the house and never had to use Head and Toothpaste again.
There were many great shampoos in the seventies. Here are just a couple of other shampoos that were popular when I was obsessing over my split ends.
1. Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific- Yep, that was the name of the shampoo. The commercial is what really sold us on this shampoo. Get a nice looking guy to smell your hair and say, “Gee, your hair smells terrific!” Off to the store we would go.
2. Lemon Up- This was one of my favorite shampoos. And not because it and my dad rescued my hair from a life of toothpaste shampoo. I liked smelling squeaky clean, like a lemon. I swear this was the best shampoo ever made.
3. Breck- Everyone wanted to be a Breck girl. The first Breck girl was Cheryl Tiegs in 1968. Cybill Shepherd, Jaclyn Smith, Kim Bassinger, and Brooke Shields were other Breck girls in that 1968-1974 time frame. The commercials made me realize that if I used that shampoo, I too, could be a Breck girl.
There were other great shampoos, such as Body on Tap, Yucca Dew, Protein 21, No More Tangles, Long and Silky, Short and Sassy, Agree, and Milk Plus 6. We smelled great.
Breck, though, was THE shampoo for split ends. I know this to be true because of the commercials with the beautiful hair. This shampoo sort of glued the split ends back together. I was able to put my silver scissors back in the bathroom drawer for a while.
Well, until I discovered the ironing board. We started ironing our hair. I would plug my mom’s iron in, lie my hair down on the ironing board, put a thin towel over my hair, and iron away. Stick straight. I loved it. Nowadays, girls are able to use a flat iron. Sure, it works the same, but our way was more…..dangerous. We took dangerous steps to have beautiful hair. I burnt my ears, my fingers, and tinged my hair several times. Oh, the price of beauty.
I don’t care anymore if I have split ends. Those are the least of my hair worries. I am graying. I guess that happens as one ages.
Years ago, people used to really dress up for Easter. Oh, sure, people still dress up now, but back in the early sixties, it was a style highlight. Women had a new dress, new shoes, a giant hat, and a new pocketbook. Hello Easter Sunday.
Easter is usually a time to reflect on how crappy my mom dressed us each Easter Sunday. I really don’t know what she was thinking. We looked like rejects. Rejects. That was a popular word that we used back then. And come Easter time, the Mendenhall kids were the biggest rejects on the block.
You can’t see it, but our little white shoes are so scuffed it is not even funny. Our white anklets are filthy. I think my dad may have taken this picture after all of the Easter festivities were over. Which I guess included scuffing our shoes and stepping in mud. He usually took us over to the Weirton Photography Club studio and snapped pictures of us in front of a lovely backdrop like the one shown. My dad belonged to the club, which was sort of neat in the fact that members could go over there and use the studio. So, we would hop in the car and head there for an official portrait. Which was not fun. And the outcome was sad. Sad because, well, we looked like rejects.
I think my little ensemble was brand new, or my mom lied and told me it was brand new. I personally think it was a hand-me-down from a reject. Cheryl looked like she always got a new dress. I think it was because things fit her. Things just hung on me because I was so skinny.
We always lined up the same way. I was on the left, David was in the middle, and my sister on the right. Oldest to youngest.
When I first found this picture last week, my eyes first went to my lovely hairstyle. My mom used to put little pin curls “to frame my tiny face.” She would put two hairpins in each pincurl and then I would go to sleep. In the morning, I had hair pins on my pillow and my hair looked like a monkey fixed it. A monkey that was blindfolded. I don’t think she even combed my hair. I think I was old enough to fix my own hair. I know I could have done a better job.
She always kept my hair short because my hair color was “dingy” and my face was so small that long hair would just make me look like a rag mop. Isn’t it funny how I remember all of the adjectives that my mom used on me? Years later she asked me why my daughter looked like a little rag mop with that long stringy hair.
“Just to irritate you.” I really said that too. I was proud of that moment. Usually I would hang up on her, but when she said that in front of my daughter, well, it’s hard to tell what spontaneously comes out of my mouth.
But, take a good look at my Easter hair. I am sure I was made fun of behind my back. I know it was the early sixties, but I don’t think other kids my age looked like that on Easter Sunday.
My brother David was styling with a cowboy necktie, aka a bolo tie. Which looked great with his non cowboy shoes. If you are going to dress him like a cowboy on Easter, you need to put him in boots or a Easter cowboy hat. Why the hell did she put that on him? Maybe my dad wore one too that day.
The worst Easter Sunday outfit was the one my mom made me when I was in fifth grade. Oh Dear God. She made my sister the exact same dress and threw a damn rose in the middle of the dress. She also made me wear it when we had our fifth grade class picture taken. I looked like hell.
My hair was growing out a bit, but I guess my mom didn’t feel the need to comb my hair after she took the curlers out. And the backdrop changed that year. This was taken at my grandfather’s house. We always went to visit my grandparents after Easter church service. That’s probably where I scuffed up my shoes.
In the end, dressing up for Easter Sunday was a lot of fun most years. Especially when I got to carry my very own pocketbook.
When I was little, I used to play April Fool’s Day pranks on my family. They would range from the little “Mom, come quick!! There’s a huge spider in the baththub!” to more elaborate jokes as I got older. I would then hear the same damn story from my mom every year. She was such a kill joy.
“Vickie, did you ever hear the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf?”
And then she would proceed to tell me, every freaking year, the story about how a stupid shepherd boy cried “Wolf” too many times and when a wolf really did appear, no one would believe him. And the wolf ate up the whole flock of sheep. I only had one question for my mom….every year.
“Why didn’t the wolf eat the boy?”
That’s when I would get sent to my room. I cry foul, though. I thought that was a very good question. Okay. Say a little shepherd boy is sitting against a tree, watching sheep. Up creeps a wolf. Shouldn’t the wolf attack the kid first? And this was my reasoning. Sheep have a lot of fur and if the wolf would try to eat it, there would be a lot of fur in its mouth. But, eating a boy would be easy. No fur, just right to the body. I knew that when I was young. But, then again, maybe wolves don’t think humans are tasty. I really didn’t know. Or care. I was just pulling an April Fool’s joke, dammit.
My mom would also question me about the moral of the story. I didn’t know what a “moral” was when I was very young. I did hear the word a lot at the stupid private school I went to. Sister Maria at the Sacred Heart of Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy was always using that word. I didn’t ask her what it meant either. If it was a vocabulary word, I would have taken the time to know its meaning. But, right now, I was just trying to get my mom off of her butt to come look at a fake spider on April Fool’s Day.
“So, Vickie, what is the moral of the story?” Oh great. Here we go again. I’m was in fourth grade by now, and still had no idea.
Stare…..Stare……shrugs shoulders…………”It’s about a boy who takes care of sheep.”
“But, what is the moral of the story?”
Shit. I don’t know. “I don’t know what that means.” Finally, I said it.
“You don’t know what a “moral” is?” My mom’s eyes got big behind her big glasses. “I have asked you every year and you are just now telling me you don’t know what a “moral” is? A “moral” is when there is a lesson to be learned from the story. A goodness or a badness.”
Goodness or badness? Um okay. Like watching those stupid clay people, Davey and Goliath on Sunday mornings when we didn’t go to church.
“So, Vickie, what is the moral of The Boy Who Cried Wolf?” She was like a damn teacher. All she needed was a ruler to crack me across my knuckles.
pause
pause
“That children shouldn’t watch sheep.”
“Go to your room!!”
Now, you have to understand that I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer by no means. But, children really had no business watching sheep. They should be in school, learning what the hell a “moral” was. And, I might add that I watched Road Runner and knew that kids NEVER watched sheep. Sam the sheepdog did.
I finally wised up and decided to just concentrate on my siblings or my father on future April Fool’s Day. I was tired of hearing the damn boy crying wolf story to last me a lifetime.
Until this past week. I have a liar in my fourth grade class. He lies about everything and I catch him every time. A known liar knows another liar when she sees one.
But, I brought out my mom’s arsenal…big sigh.
“Ralph, (not his real name. Protecting the real kid from his stupidity) did you ever hear the story about The Boy Who Cried Wolf?”
We never owned cats when I was young. My mom said they were sneaky and that was the end of that. We had dogs. And I brought home a skunk and iguanas and african frogs. But, cats were out of the question. My bff, Ramaine always had cats. I thought they were so cool. They weren’t sneaky at all. My mom was a loon.
Even after we had children, my husband didn’t want to have any inside animals. But, he cracked under pressure and brought home a cat for my daughter. She is still alive and my husband, now ex-husband, still hates the cat.
My son decided to go the cat route. He got a cat and named him Atticus. He had planned on training it to be “Atticus, Kick-Ass Cat.” He told me he was going to get a little ninja headband for him and would teach him to use and flush the toilet. Yeah, good luck with that. Well, he did turn out to be a killer cat. I am lucky to have survived the vicious cat attack inflicted upon me.
My daughter warned me not to cat sit when Adam went to Europe over Christmas 2010. She stayed at his apartment one time and awoke, finding Atticus right by her face, eating her hair. She was afraid for her cat, Whiskers. Whiskers lived with me when Alex went off to college. She will be seventeen this July and can hardly walk. Atticus, warrior cat, would simply destroy her.
Sure, looks are deceiving
It was hell. It really was. Whiskers would scream and hiss at Atticus. Atticus would jump out at Whiskers whenever he had the chance. Whiskers would attack, and Atticus would back off. Atticus was just a young cat, still learning how to act around another cat, perhaps. But, then he found my leg.
I guess he thought I wanted to play. He came over and took a little playful bite. But, I didn’t want him to play Warrior Cat with me. I wanted him to be a gentle, non hair eater. I simply pushed him away and told him, “No.” Well, that was like an invitation. Atticus came at me and bit my leg.
I pushed him away. And he came at me again and really let me have it. He really bit into me. I screamed and pushed him away. He came at me again. I had about three good sized bite marks on my leg. I screamed at him again. It was like he turned into a monster cat. I grabbed my door mat, the closest thing I could find to hide my legs. I had exercise capri pants on, so he was concentrating on my lower legs. I was very afraid.
Well, Adam returned and came back for the little shit. Whiskers slept for days. But, what happened next was bad, very bad. The cat bite became infected. I washed it with soap and water after he bit me, but I had no idea that a cat that has been kept inside could have such a potty mouth. I read how the cat’s mouth is just laden with bacteria. And now it was showing up on my leg.
At the time, I didn’t really want to worry my son. I did show him the corner of my new pull out couch where Atticus decided to use as a scratching post.
“You owe me a couch.” Adam felt bad. I didn’t really want to tell him how bad my leg was. It was getting bad. So, I thought I should probably go to the doctor. Probably means no. I decided to head to the internet instead. Looks like I needed antibiotic. And I should go to the doctor. Should means no.
Well, not a good idea. I started taking amoxicilin. Thank God I had a stash. My leg became ugly and oozy. I babied it and looked at it all the time, worried that pus was just not a good thing. The information on the internet about cat bites scared me to death. Every day I would say to myself, “Today is the day I should go to the doctor.” I have since decided that I am very stubborn about visiting a doctor. Not my cup of tea. The picture below was taken a few weeks after the bite. It was looking much better at this point. Really it was.
Ew, I know, right? Notice the dark mark. That was my brilliant attempt to monitor my condition. I took a pen and drew around the redness to see if it was getting worse or getting better. Why didn’t I just go to the doctor? Well, because I have no brain.
It took almost a month to heal. I probably have some sort of parasitic cat worm traveling around the inside of my body. I am pretty sure that the overdose of anitbiotics helped.
After the cat bite, I bought some betadine and keep it in my medicine cabinet. Good thing, because he bit me again this evening, the little shit.
Yeah, I’m cat sitting again.
He can be a sweet cat. He really enjoys jumping on the table and sitting on my arm. When I graded school papers, he sat on my arm. He is furry and soft and I really like him.
But, then he turns into Psycho cat. He just looked at me and then promptly bit my hand. Oh, it was just a little bite, didn’t really break the skin. I ran to the bathroom, washed it with soap and hot water, then put some Betadine on it.
He’s been here seven nights and he will be here six more. Tick Tock Tick Tock.
My mom never really sang my virtues. No positive traits here. I remember when I ran for all-school treasurer for my senior year in high school. I was sitting on the floor, making posters, when my mom looked at me sadly, and said,
“Vickie, you sure are making a lot of posters………I don’t want you to get your hopes up….. You are probably not going to win.”
You have no idea how that statement pissed me off. I decided to try even harder. I had a couple guy friends even put my posters in the boy’s bathroom for me. Then I put them in every stall in every bathroom.
Psssst!
While you’re sitting here in this stall
Think about voting for Mendenhall
My name had great rhyming potential. I made up little posters out of copy paper and huge ones for the main halls. In the Music room:
Just a little “note”- Vote for Mendenhall
I did this all over the place. A message in the Spanish class, which was also my homeroom. I was a creative little shit, where others just had the generic, “vote for…” posters. And I won. Even had a full size picture in the yearbook of the class officers. Mom did congratulate me when I told her.
Me on the right
“I won, Mom.”
“You did? What a wonderful surprise! Congratulations!”
Wonderful SURPRISE. She always had to add something that stung me like a bee. And she is the one who always told me:
Sticks and stones
may break my bones
but words will never hurt me
Bullshit.
Fast forward many years. I have two wonderful children. We lived two hours away from my mom. So, of course, if you have good news, you would naturally call your loved ones to tell them. So, I would call my mom.
“Mom, the kids both won the county social studies fair and get to compete at the state level.” I was excited. Adam did his on Prohibition and gangsters and Alex did her project on Bigfoot. They were in middle school, a year apart. My mom thought that was great. When Adam won first place at the state level and Alex won honorable mention, I called her again.
“That’s great….. You know, you three kids did a lot of great things in school too…… I just never believed in bragging.”
I was pissed.
“Well, Mom, if informing you about what great things your grandchildren are doing in school is bragging, then I’m bragging. I’m very proud of them. And why the hell would I need to “brag” to my mother?…..I have to go.” And I hung up the phone.
Bragging. I had to think for a moment. Do I brag on my kids? Bragging. I remember looking it up in the dictionary, just like I did again right now. “To assert or talk boastfully” “in an arrogant manner…”
I guess for some, there is a fine line between being proud of accomplishments and bragging. I’m a proud mom. I think bragging is more about arrogance and a “Here’s another way I am better than you.” But to be proud and want to share that with others? I don’t think that is bragging.
Both my kids are very modest. Very humble. I remember when Alex won for Prom Queen. She told me with a sigh. I congratulated her with a “You are beautiful on the inside and on the outside. What a wonderful compliment! I’m so very proud of you.”
I didn’t call my mom.
Well, when we went shopping for a prom dress, I was just giddy. My daughter was prom queen. But, before we went into the first store, Alex looked at me and said, “Do NOT tell anyone that I am Prom Queen.” Well, stick a pin in my balloon. I did anyway, when she would be in the dressing room. “She’s prom queen at her high school.” Well, I can be proud. I wasn’t bragging. Right?
Now, as my children are in their mid-twenties, I am so very proud of them. Alex doesn’t want me to talk about her on facebook. Well, hell. She’s a humble little duck.
So, that made me think. Since I never really got stroked when I was little, am I over compensating with my own children? Did I brag too much? I surely hope not. Pride cometh before the fall and all.
Proud as one of these
You know, we were raised to be proud. Proud of our home. Proud of our children. Proud of our country. Proud of ourselves. If you think someone is bragging, then maybe the person talking is an idiot to begin with. I know mothers who go on and on about how smart their kid is. Hello. Parents are supposed to be proud of their kids. Proud of their first steps. Proud that they pooped in a real toilet or are wearing big boy pants. Proud that they got their first A and hang it on the refrigerator. Those are proud parents. Braggers talk like this:
“My Joey said his first word when he was two months old. He is going to be sooo smart. Your kid isn’t talking yet, right? And he is ten? Wow, Joey is really going to be smart.”
Now, that is bragging.
When Adam was a baby, and learnining to talk, I did something to piss my mom off. You know how parents always show their baby off? I call it, “Show me.” Show me your eye. Show me your nose. etc. etc. All parents do this. Don’t tell me you didn’t. Well, when they start verbalizing, parents then play, “Tell me.” Parent: “What is this?” Kidlet: “Nose.” Kids were now verbalizing their body parts. Well, I took it one step further and taught Adam where his clavicle was. “What’s this, Adam?” “Clav i cle.” And then I cracked up. I was basically making fun of the whole process, but my mom wasn’t amused. I didn’t want her to be amused. I wanted her to say something. I gave her my “Go ahead, make my day” look. She didn’t open her mouth.
In the end, I think mom’s need a “brag pass.” We should be allowed to brag if that is what you want to call it. I call it pride. Sure, some mom’s are idiots. But, they were idiots before they were moms.
So, the next time your child signs up to run for office or tries out for cheerleader, and you secretly don’t think they have a snowball in hell kind of chance, lie. If you can’t lie, then confuse them. I have a great line, stolen from the Hunger Games:
My daughter told me a while back that she heard something in the walls of her New York City apartment. Then she called and told me she saw a mouse scurrying by in the kitchen. She named it, even though she only met it once. Or twice. She is so like her momma. But, it made me think of what else could scurry through her apartment. I guess a rat could scurry.
When I hear the word, “scurrying,” all I can think of is mice. Mice scurry. Nothing else scurries. Nothing. Well, the freedictionary.com uses stupid examples of the word, “scurrying”:
“….lashed the scurrying horses” and “…..the pedestrians scurried for cover.”
I just don’t see it. I know what scurrying looks like. The word evokes sneakiness. Running away from trouble quickly. Horses are not subtle or sneaky. Neither are pedestrians. I really think these dictionary people need to confer with me more often. I would set them straight. Amazon.com is selling a book that I would tend to agree with its title:
Something “scurried” past Obama at a White House press conference. I am sure there is a metaphor for that one. I myself, wondered how he got by security. He scurried, that’s how.
I finally found a reference that I agree with. Merriam-Webster has their shit together. They used “….mice scurried around the house.” I like this example, because it is a true statement. Mice scurried around the house…… They sure did.
My house. But, let me back up a bit.
The first introduction to a mouse for many of us is when we are little, with the introduction of Mickey Mouse. Mickey is not scary, or rodenty. (I truly enjoy making up new words). He doesn’t carry diseases like the mice and rats did during “Black Death” during the 14th century, that killed twenty-five million people. Twenty-five MILLION.
The Danse Macabre -photo via wikipedia creative commons
Oh, they still carry diseases. A bunch of them. So, bubonic plague is nothing to laugh at. The oriental rat flea was the main culprit back then, hitchhiking on a black rat. I know a rat is a rat and a mouse is a mouse, but some view a mouse as a rat. Some view a chihuahua as a rat. Some ex-husbands are rats. So, you know, whatever.
Maybe we should be pissed at Walt Disney for making his main character a mouse. Children all around the world think that it is ok to pick up a field mouse and hug it. (I know where you think I’m going with this, but no, never hugged a mouse.)
But, you gotta love Mickey Mouse. Sure, I’ve worn mouse ears and have seen my plastic flip flops melt from standing in two hour lines on asphalt at Disney World in August. Sure, I have no brain. But, it was for my kids. I introduced them to the main mouse when they were little.
My next meeting with a mouse is when we learned to sing the ever popular “Little Rabbit Foo Foo.” This is how we sang it-
Little Rabbit Foo Foo
Hopping through the forest
scooping up the field mice
and bashing them on the head….
Now, I have to admit that all of the online versions of Little Rabbit Foo Foo has him scooping up field mice and ”bopping” them on the head. I am thinking that we changed the version. Or, I am thinking we were violent children. Regardless, mice were getting hit on the head left and right. Why?
Because they scurry and can’t be trusted.
There were other mice. For example, let’s take a look at Speedy Gonzales.
Speedy Gonzales (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Speedy Gonzales was the self-proclaimed, “fastest mouse in all Mexico.” Speedy never scurried. He wasn’t known as Scurry Gonzales, was he now? No, he was speedy, quick, and efficient. He got in and got out.
Now his cousin is another story, but he doesn’t scurry either. No, his cousin is a slow-poke. Slow Poke Rodriguez.
Slowpoke was the slowest mouse in all Mexico. He would never scurry. I think he was drunk half of the time. If he was on The Andy Griffith show, he would have been sitting in a cell with Otis, the town drunk, discussing stuff. You would never see Otis scurry either, I mean, if he was a pedestrian.
One of my favorite mice was Jerry Mouse from the cartoon, Tom and Jerry. Oh, the trouble those two crazy kids got into! Even when I was little, I had a problem with his name. Who the hell names a mouse, Jerry? Jerry Mouse. Sounds stupid. Harry would have been better. Tom and Harry. Maybe they had another friend named Dick. That would have made sense. Tom, Dick, and Harry. But, the names of the cartoon characters was the least of their problems. It was the violence that made some parents shudder. Yeah, parents who lived in a box and never got to watch Saturday morning cartoons during the era that cartoons ruled. My era!
But, besides watching Tom get electrocuted and sliced with a knife, this cartoon taught me about rivalry. Jerry taunted Tom. Tom chased Jerry. Tom got abused and injured. Comic violence. Poor Tom makes numerous attempts to catch Jerry. I mean, it is Tom’s house. He’s a house cat, just trying to protect his owner from contracting the bubonic plague I’m guessing.
I’m trying to think of all of the ways they tried to kill each other. It was like War of the Roses, but without a divorce. My favorite one is when Jerry put Tom’s tail in the wall outlet to electrocute him. He would light up and you could see his skeleton. Oh, cartoons, how you make me laugh! They also used an axe, guns, explosives, traps, and poison to try ot finish each other off. I also liked the one where Jerry put matches at Tom’s feet and lit the matches. Yeah, I bet there were little kids in the early sixties lighting their baby sisters on fire after watching that episode.
The final reference to a mouse is the most important to me. Hickory Dickory Dock. We all know the rhyme.
Hickory Dickory Dock
The mouse ran up the clock
The clock struck one
The mouse ran down
Hickory Dickory Dock
I never knew what this nursery rhyme meant. I was smart enough to realize that “one” and “down” didn’t rhyme worth a shit. But, but besides that, what the hell was supposed to happen at 1:00? And what is the importance of a mouse?
Well, I found out years later.
My husband and I purchased 13 acres of farm land in 1989. We decided to build a house on a site that an old dairy barn was previously located. It was an exciting time. I had fun decorating the house. We purchased an antique gingerbread clock and set it upon the mantle in our hearth room. I called the room the “Hearth Room” because I refused to call any room a “living room.” And, well, it had a hearth in it. A living room reminds me of plastic on expensive furniture and a room with no television. Well, that wasn’t going to happen.
After a couple of years, we brought home a kitten from the animal shelter for our daughter. Whiskers. Now, Whiskers was a great cat. She was entertaining and could leap buildings in a single bound. She could locate a spider and pounce on it as quickly as she saw it.
But, she didn’t give a shit about mice.
Of course, we didn’t know about the mice either. But, Whiskers sure did.
My kitchen had an island where the stove was located along with a seating area with three highback stools. I loved my kitchen. Sometimes late at night, I would walk downstairs to get a cold drink of water and see Whiskers perched on top of the island. What the hell are you doing sitting up there, Whiskers? Boy are you going to get in trouble if he sees you sitting where we cook.
Well, this happened quite a bit. The kids told me that they saw Whiskers sitting either on top of the stove island or right beside the island, looking under the stove. Uh oh.
Uh Oh for sure. I was wondering if there was a mouse in the house. After all, we built our house in a field. A mouse may try to infiltrate the solid construction. My husband would not hear of it. “This house is built air tight.”
Tell that to the mice.
Mice as in plural.
One day, I decided to clean and dust the stuff on my mantle. Normally, I don’t take the gingerbread clock down. I just spray some Pledge on it and dust it and around it. But, I was feeling especially energetic and decided to take it off its lofty spot.
Shit.
A mouse had built a nest in the back of the clock. A nest. In the back of the clock.
Hickory Dickory Damn!
So, that meant that Whiskers would watch a nightly parade of mouse or mice coming from somewhere near the stove, scurrying across the kitchen floor, turn the corner, scurry through the Hearth Room, up the side of the mantle to build its nest. Ok, so unless the mouse used U-Haul, it had to make many many trips to the clock. And that also meant that it liked it enough in my house to make a nest there.
Nice job, Whiskers.
So, after I showed my husband that a mouse or many mouses (mice, whatever) were making their way to the clock, he put a couple of traps under the house, in our crawlspace. I cold hear some snapping every once in a while and it just made me cringe. Poor mice. But, what made me really cringe is that I found another nest in my laundry room, behind a shelf. And I found yet another one when I was hunting for the remote control down in a couch in the Hearth Room. We had all been sitting on baby mice.
Dear God, the cat probably popped some popcorn and watched the fun unfold nightly. Why try to catch mice? Her bowl was never empty. I did notice that she seemed to be eating more than usual. Ew, the mice were eating her cat food.
I wouldn’t let the husband put a snapping trap under the stove. I didn’t want to hear the trap go off. I can’t kill a spider, let alone a poor field mouse.
So, he purchased one of those traps that a mouse can crawl into but can’t get out and then I would make him drive the mouse a mile or two down the road and set it free. I think we caught several mice that way until Spook showed up at our door. Spook, the stray cat. I talked the husband into letting him stay. Caspar the cat showed up soon after. Two outside cats kept the mice away after that. Over the years, Muffin the cat and Izzie the cat have also stayed awhile. Mice were never a problem after that.
Three years ago, I divorced and moved out of our home. I never spoke of the mice in the house to anyone because it just makes you feel sort of….cockroachy in a way. But, hey, it’s not my house anymore, now is it?
You just have to love technology. But, then again, it did wipe out imaginative play as we know it. Childhood was so simple in the early sixties. We had no choice. My parents and their parents had even a simpler time. We didn’t have cell phones that interrupted our play with a text from your mother that simply read, “Dinner.” No, they had to stand out on the porch and yell for us. On the third yell, we would go home.
We had jump rope, a kick ball, and indoor board games. Can’t forget about pogo sticks. We weren’t indoors much. The neighborhood was filled with children playing, people hand washing their cars, and neighbors sitting outside on their porches in the hot summer evenings. Many didn’t have central air conditioning. We knew our neighbors. We also knew when Mr. Softie was coming around in his ice cream truck. We could hear the music. Because we were outside.
As the sixties moved closer to the seventies, it was still like that. We now had eight track stereos to occupy our time, but not much more. We would sit out on our front porches, but this time, waiting for boys to drive around and around the block, finally to stop and talk to all the neighborhood girls my age who hung out on my front porch. But, in and around 1975, that all changed. We started staying indoors more. Things were changing, for sure. And we can point our fingers to one new gadget.
Pong.
Yes, Pong. Not to be confused with Beer Pong. This was played without alcohol. Well, unless you really enjoyed drunk ping pong.
I know what you young people are thinking. Are you kidding me? But, yes, this was exciting stuff. I mean, we could turn on the tv and use this game console and play ping pong. There were no pictures or bombs going off or bullets flying. This was ping pong and nothing else. And we were thrilled.
Now, we did have pinballl machines. I was quite good at the one at The Pub, a local dive where we all congregated in college. My mom even bought a pin ball machine for our basement rec room. We were the coolest family on the block. But, Pong was different, because it was on tv.
In the end, Pong was fun, and it was just a matter of time before we were hearing names such as Sega and then Playstation.
I used to think that cleaning public restrooms would be one of the worst jobs ever. But, over the years, I have changed my mind. I do believe that being a school bus driver has to be one of the most taxing jobs of all.
Being a bus driver AND being stopped by a long coal train. Yikes
As an elementary school teacher, I get to hear bus stories every single day. And then I remember my own.
I didn’t really ride a school bus for the first three years of my education. I attended a stupid private school, Sacred Heart of Mary Academy. Sister Maria drove our little van/bus. She was one mean zebra. I didn’t open my mouth for three years on that bus, for fear that she would make me become a nun. And Dear God, I did not want to become a nun. I watched her as she drove that van/bus. She wore black hose under that nun outfit, and black shoes that looked like walking shoes, but a really ugly version. I had to sit up front with her because of my intense motion sickness, which she frequently told me, “was all in my head.” One day after she said that, I looked over at her, and threw up. I heard my mom relay the story to my dad that night from my eavesdropping hiding place.
“Vickie threw up on Sister Maria today…( I could hear my dad laugh)..She told Vickie it was all in her head…..Vickie should have told her that “Now it is in your lap.”
I thought that was funny. I decided to tell Sister Maria that the next day. It didn’t get that far.
“Vickie, you aren’t going to get sick anymore on my bus, are you?” She looked at me and I could swear I saw real flames flickering in her eyes. I was scared to death of her. So scared….
that I threw up on her again. Well, I missed her, but caught her black hose and sensible shoes. Rice krispies and milk to be exact. I remember.
Not good. Not good at all. She was going to beat the shit out of me. I just knew it. Or I was going to have to wear a nun outfit and carry rosary beads and whisper while I touched each one.
She was always pissed. She drove like she had road rage. I thought she was mad at Jesus for making her be a bus driver. Her rosary that hung around her waist made a noise each time she shifted gears. Which was all of the time. She ran a stop sign one day and we hit another car. I sat in the back of the van after that and got car sick because I could no longer watch the road.
I finally got to switch to public school, and that meant I would get to sit with my bff Ramaine on the bus every day. She and LeeAnn would walk up to my house and we would go stand in Dragovich’s driveway and wait for the school bus. We didn’t carry back packs back then, so we put our lunch boxes and books down on the driveway in a straight line, which meant we had a place in the bus line. I had a Beanie and Cecil lunchbox.
I was so excited to be able to ride on such a huge transportation machine. You could even fit three kids in one seat. Our bus driver was not that nice, however. I surely understand why. Kids are nuts.
When I was in junior high, I was kicked off of the bus for three days. My mom was furious with me. My friend, LeeAnn, who lived down the street, was kicked off with me, but I don’t think she was the main player. My bff Ramaine was kicked off as well, which would normally be the case, as we were always partners in crime. Even if we didn’t do something wrong, we would always be found at fault because we would still be laughing long after the particular episode. I think LeeAnn was, as Ramaine said, “Guilty by association.” Three in a seat and all. But, one of us had some styrofoam and it just happened to make an intense high pitched squeaking noise when placed upon the wet bus window. “Squeak squeak squeak.”
The bus driver yelled at us to stop.
Pause
Pause
“Squeak squeak squeak.” giggle giggle giggle.
And we were promptly thrown off of the bus. What the hell happened to getting three, maybe four warnings before punishment is inflicted?
I was pissed. I think the bus driver was mad at me anyways for puking on the bus so much. That’s another thing that I don’t envy about the life of a bus driver: cleaning up after motion sick urchins like myself. Every afternoon I would ask him to turn down the heat. He must have been cold natured, because the trip home was unbelieveably warm. He would just tell me to crack my window, which was too late for my churning stomach. And I would throw up. And I am serious that this happened at least twice a week. Ramaine would yell, “Vickie threw up! Raise your feet!” because you know, the vomit did flow like a river. Sorry. Since the bus driver wasn’t dressed like a nun, I finally realized that I indeed had motion sickness.
So, yeah, Ramaine, LeeAnn and I were kicked off of the bus. I am sure that drove the bus driver nuts. I behaved myself the best I could. Well, no I didn’t. We did weird stuff on the bus. We made up a poem, that started off quiet and then kept getting louder each time. I will insert my name into the saying, but we would take turn putting each of our names in it:
“Vickie Vickie two by four, couldn’t get past the bathroom door. So, she went on the floor. Licked it up and asked for more…..(louder) Vickie Vickie two by four, couldn’t get past the bathroom door. So, she went on the floor. Licked it up and asked for more…(louder)”
How weird we were. We would keep doing it until the bus driver yelled at us to stop. I can’t even imagine what he went through with us. Sure, I teach elementary school and I have the kids all day. But, they become different creatures once they climb up the stairs to the bus. I know, I’ve been on field trips with them. And I know, I’ve been one of those demented kids.
And my God, the songs we sang. This alone should have driven a bus driver to drink. We sang whatever we learned in school. And a song we made up about the Salvation Army. Some of the lovely tunes we sang over and over and over again were hits such as “Waltzing Matilda,” “Jump Down Turn Around, Pick a Bale of Cotton,” “Playmate, come out and play with me…..,” and my personal favorite, “I had a Little Driedel..” Riding the bus was so much fun.
High school kids still rode the bus when I was in school during the mid seventies. Only kids who left to go to an after school job were allowed to drive. We mellowed as we got older, but I did hear that our old bus driver didn’t fare so well. Now, I don’t know if this was a rumor or not, but we heard that old Jack either reached retirement and decided to pull a prank on the kids, or that old Jack lost his mind and went on one last bus run. I had just graduated when I heard he did this.
Jack approached each of his bus stops. He stopped, opened the door, and just before the first kid in line placed his foot on the first step, old Jack would laugh a crazy laugh, quickly close the door and would go to his next stop where he did the same thing. He did it with all of his stops.
Never to be seen again.
Fast forward many years, circa 1992. I now have two children. Adam is in school and he was supposed to get off of the bus twenty minutes ago. He is only six years old. The bus is extremely late. I call the school and then the bus garage. Where the hell is he? I immediately think that he was kidnapped by a crazed bus driver. I know how they can snap.
Adam finally got off of the bus forty five minutes late. He was laughing as he ran down the driveway.
“Mommy, mommy, the bus driver got lost.” Apparently there were only two students left on the bus and the substitute bus driver got lost somehow. But, that’s what my little red-headed sweet cherub told me. I then received a phone call to come into school the next day.
Apparently, my son decided to screw with the substitute bus driver, telling him to turn right here and turn left there. He had him on roads that really weren’t roads. Adam was having a blast. His friend, Tyler, however, was crying. The bus driver kept following Adam’s directions. A six year old kid. Who the hell listens to a six year old kid? They were going to kick him off of the bus for a week because of the prank, until his teacher spoke up and said that it was the substitute’s fault for not following the route left by the normal bus driver. Sheesh.
Well, Adam’s bus adventures were only beginning. He was kicked off the bus for fighting with Tyler, the kid who got lost with Adam. Adam apparently punched Tyler in the face. I was horrified.
“Adam, did you punch Tyler in the face?” Adam nodded.
“I had to Mom, it was the only way to get him to stop strangling me.” I guess they started fighting and Adam ended up lying in the aisle. Tyler was straddling him, strangling him.
The final time Adam got kicked off of the bus was for fighting over an open window. Adam wanted it closed. The kid in front of him wanted it opened. So, after arguing, and pushing back and forth, the bus driver threw them both off of the bus for two weeks. Two weeks? Are you kidding me? That bus driver was really fed up.
So, I came up with a plan. I called the parents of the other kid involved and asked if they wanted to car pool. I would drive the boys one week and they could drive the next. That would teach them to fight each other. The parents loved the idea and so we took turns driving our bus heathens to school each day.
In the end, I really feel for bus drivers. They have these kids lives in their hands, yet get dealt a terrible hand with misbehaved kids. It’s always been like that and will continue to be like that until duct tape and rope are applied to the mix.
We all do stupid things. It’s just that mine are more pronounced because I share them. And, well, because mine are extra stupid. But, none of my little shenanigans can compare with what I did when I was in junior high. Oh, hell, I was probably in high school.
No, it wasn’t the time I heard a commercial about how peanut butter takes gum out of your hair and I promptly took gum out of my mouth and put it smack dab in the middle of my long hair. That was stupid, for sure.
No, it wasn’t the time I untied the meanest dog in the neighborhood because I felt sorry for him being on a short leash, sitting in the dust by his pathetic doghouse, and he promptly wrecked havoc on the little chldren playing in the street. Mad Max was on the loose. He bit countless children. Oops, my bad.
And no, it wasn’t the time when I wore fishnet hose with saddle shoes. I still cringe at that thought. Who the hell told me that that looked good? Because once I got to school, I sort of noticed that my style was in question.
No, it was the time I decided that I wanted to wear contact lenses. Well, I didn’t really want to wear them, like for eyesight. I wanted to put one in my eye just to see what it felt like.
There was a problem with that, as in the fact that I didn’t need glasses. My eyes were a perfect 20/20. I had no idea what the hell that meant, but obviously it was a gauge for the clear bright eyes and the blind as a bat people, like my younger sister. She wore coke bottle glasses. She also had a lazy eye. She was screwed. We all could tell when she was getting tired, because that one eye would start drifting over to the middle. Well, it drifted that way anyways. Hey, little sister, you’re veering to the left.
So, I didn’t need glasses. But, I wanted them. I thought people looked cool in glasses. I mean, Marilyn Monroe wore them.
I didn’t know why kids got made fun of for wearing them. Kids with braces were called “Brace Face” and kids with glasses were called, “Four Eyes.” I always thought that was mean. There were kids who would come to school, wearing their cat eye glasses, only to put them away in their case and squint their eyes at the board all damn day. Hell, I thought that looked stupid. “Four Eyes” sounded so much better than “Stupid Squinty Head.”
So, yeah, I used to want to wear glasses. I thought they looked neat.But, I wasn’t a fan of the cat eye glasses that my sister had. Why the hell would anyone want to wear cat eye glasses?
But, in 2012, I have a pair of cat eye reading glasses. I knew one day I would be wearing glasses sooner or later. I have about five pairs of glasses lying around my house. And the main pair is worn like a headband when they aren’t down on my nose.
So, this was the early seventies. Contact lenses were fairly new. I didn’t know anyone who had them during this time period. They had just come out. I knew that my sister would need them. Once her lazy eye stopped drifting over left of center. But, I was intrigued by contact lenses. I didn’t have the luxury of the internet to google information about them. But, I did listen to the radio. And that’s where I heard commericals about them.
Unfortunately, it was the same damn radio that told me to put gum in my hair. My friends and I would sit out on my front porch during the summer evenings and chat and listen to my portable radio. They used to have all kinds of radio spots. They’d have Hints from Heloise type help suggestions. And being curious, I listened to them all. The new ones about contact lenses really interested me. I wanted to try to put one on my eyeball.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. First of all, remember, I didn’t need glasses. Second of all, I didn’t know a soul who had those new fangled contact lenses. I would just have to improvise.
Oh, and improvise I did. What the hell was I thinking?
So, you know how little bags of candy are sold in stores? I am descriptive challenged, but I will try my best. My mom always had a bag of those God awful round pink chalky candies that smelled like Pepto Bismol. I think they were called Canada Mints. Ok, so, up at the top of the packages of many candy bags there is a punched hole of sorts that is used to hang the bags in a line. And sometimes that hole still has the “chad” attached.
Well, I found my contact lens. I saw that bag of my mom’s precious Canada Mints sitting on the coffee table, and the little round plastic circle was still hanging where it was supposed to be punched out. Again, like a hanging candy chad, but you know, circular.
So, I heard the commerical on the radio. I don’t remember who was with me, but I went inside, took the little plastic circle thingy and went into the bathroom. I turned on the light, stood in front of the mirror, and put the damn thing on my eyeball.
What the hell was I thinking?
Uh oh.
Not good.
Not good at all.
The damn thing felt like it was an inch thick. I couldn’t see anything out of my eye. It was immediately hurting. My eye started watering and that’s when I started the dance.
The “Oh shit, get this damn thing out of my eye” dance. I had no idea how the hell to get this little son of a bitch off of my eyeball. I really screwed up this time. I was going to lose my eye, I was sure. I would have to wear a patch and be called “Patch” for the rest of my life. I would have to learn to say, “Arrrgh.” I was going to be a God damn pirate. Notice how my cursing has increased dramatically. Now was the time to unleash all the curse words I had ever heard. One I did not want to yell, but did when I could not get the little plastic circle thingy out of my pretty blue grey eye.
“MOM!!!”
Yeah, it was that serious.
Well, my mom finally got the thing off of my eyeball after yelling at me to quit dancing around. Now that I think about it, I sort of looked like Stewart on Mad Tv. I flailed around just like him.
I ended up scratching my eye. It hurt like hell. In the end, I hoped that that would be the most stupid thing that I would ever attempt. I wasn’t going to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel like I had planned for my adulthood. I would no longer plan on hitchhiking just to say that I did it. And I wasn’t going to untie Mad Max, killer German shephard any more. I was done doing stupid stuff.
Oh, young Vickie, you didn’t learn your lesson, did you?
I was watching an old episode of Friends, where Joey and Chandler pee on Monica’s foot after she was stung by a jelly fish. I was wondering who in the hell thought of that first. I mean, how does that even come about? I was stung by a jelly fish when I was in my twenties, and the lifeguard told me to put some wet sand on it. He never offered to pee on my leg. I would have enjoyed being able to tell that story.
So, I started thinking about old wive’s tales, homemade remedies, and what the experts have to say about them. Maybe you may even learn a thing or two the next time some guy wants to pee on your jellyfish sting.
A Vacation Ruiner
1. Pee on a jellyfish sting- Stop right there! Urine has never been proven to help in jellyfish stings. So, that drunk kid at spring break who told you he is in medical school and that he should pee on your sting was a big, fat liar. And perhaps an exhibitionist. In fact, vinegar is the best first treatment for a jellyfish sting. The people in Australia are way ahead of the world. Their beaches are lined with vinegar stands. Other treatments that also work are rubbing alcohol, unseasoned meat tenderizer, baking soda, household ammonia, and lemon or lime juice. So, the next time you head to a beach, take some vinegar with you. If you don’t get stung, you can always make a salad.
2. Butter on a Burn- This is a remedy that my mom used on us all of the time. Any time we had a burn, she would reach for the butter. Which I have a real problem with now, because the loon never put the butter in the refrigerator. She left the butter out on the stove, hiding under a clear glass butter dome. So, not only was she putting butter on my burned hand, she was putting potentially rancid, yucky, bacteria laced butter on my burn. Oh sure, I know many of you have eaten counter butter and you are still alive and Grandma is now 105 and has never been sick a day in her life and has kept butter out on her counter, but that’s not what I am supposed to be talking about anywho.
photo via wikipedia
I am sure that the thinking years ago is that butter may act like a salve and help soothe the burning. But, butter on a burn can actually trap heat. And that is a no-no. Thanks, Mom. I have read that if you have to use something, honey may be of some interest. But, don’t hold me to it.
3. Sore throats- Sore throats suck. You have to swallow, and the thought of the impending pain is just sad, especially when a child is involved and is looking at you for help. I was always told to gargle with warm salt water when you had a sore throat. My ex-husband swore by it. In the past year, my bff turned me to apple cider vinegar. Ahhh, I love it. Does it work? Yes, it does. I read though that you should not give it to a child younger than two years of age.
Damn sore throat. I can’t wear my pearls.
For gargling: You’ll need 1 teaspoon salt, 1/2 cup cider vinegar, and 1 cup warm water. Dissolve the salt in the vinegar, then mix in the water. Gargle every 15 minutes as necessary. Works for me.
4. Hydrogen Peroxide and Rubbing Alcohol- My mom is such a liar. When I would wreck my bicycle, my mom would basically pour peroxide into my wound. “Watch, Vickie. The bubbling means it is killing the germs.” Wrong, child killer. Now, this is where the experts disagree. Some say that you should put alcohol on the wound to use as an antiseptic. Others yell, “Oh, hell no!”
Some dermatologists believe that the bubbling from the chemical reaction that occurs when peroxide comes in contact with the skin isn’t only cleaning the wound, it’s also killing healthy cells. When there’s a cut, they believe you should not use iodine, peroxide, or alcohol. Yikes. So, that’s why my knees looked like hell. And guess why it stings when alcohol is applied to a cut? Well, because it’s wiping out tissue that is healthy. I did not know this. I watched my son’s cat last Christmas and the damn thing bit me. I used peroxide, thinking that damn bubbling would be killing the germs and bacteria. All hell broke loose and I ended up taking antibiotics and it really got nasty. Cat bites can be dangerous. Stupid cat.
5. Well hell, when in doubt, just use some whiskey- I used to work as a dental assistant in a previous life, and you just wouldn’t believe the people that would come in with a toothache, touting the virtues of whiskey applied on their gums or hurting tooth. They swore that it worked. I was hoping that someone drove them to their appointment, as I swear some of them were applying the whiskey every hour or so. Now, my grandmother had a recipe for rheumatism that called for whiskey. You go, Grandma! I still have her recipe, written in that shaky, chicken scratch penmanship that only grandmothers could create. It reminds me of Granny on The Beverly Hillbillies.
How about a hot toddy? Feeling sick and want to go to sleep? Some people swear by drinking a hot toddy before bed time. Here’s one recipe.
1/4 cup whiskey, 1/4 cup honey, 1/4 cup of fresh lemon juice. Microwave until it is hot, sip it and then go to bed.
My mom gave us a little bit of whiskey when we had a cough. I’m thinking she wanted to knock us out so we wouldn’t be up all night, which would mean she would be up all night. She also told me that she used a little whiskey on her finger and would rub it on our gums when we were teething. I’m surprised none of the Mendenhall kids are attending AA meetings.
Momma, whiskey is good
6 Aspirin on a tooth - Not tonight. I have a toothache. I imagine a very lazy person decided to just put an aspirin on his tooth or right on his gum to ease the pain. So, does that mean if you have a headache, you should just put a pill on your head? Stupid. Aspirin is very acidic and it can leave a little round imprint on your gum if you leave it on there long enough. This just makes no sense and I can not find any research that says otherwise.
7. Kerosene for head lice- Really? Dear God.- I can’t even imagine, but I bet I know how this started. It probably went something like this:
“Ethel! Ralph has done come home with lice. We need to kill them little buggers…(pause, pause, thinking, thinking…) I know! Let’s kill them with kerosene. It will drown them.”
And that’s how another old wive’s tale started. There were some kids when I was little that had to sit with kerosene on their head while their mother combed out the nits. Here’s my thought. When I was little, I was a shuffling, sock wearing, static electric shocker kid. What if I came shuffling through while ole Ralphie was getting a kerosene shampoo. If I shocked him, would his head ignite? Just wondering. But, back in the sixties, that’s the remedy was used. In 2012, I just read where mayonaisse is a solution to head lice. Wouldn’t that just be like feeding them? There would be big lice sitting on your head.
Ew
8. Rubbing a potato on a wart- Ok, wart people, I have read that this works from numerous articles. When you rub a potato to the wart, the wart will turn black and fall off. The chemical compound in the potato is supposed to fight the wart. But, slice the potato and rub the wart. Some people peel the skin off of the potato, and tape the skin to the wart every night at bedtime. I’m not warty, but I would try it.
9.Splinter remover- Elmer’s glue..Say what? Dear God, this would have solved so much anguish. My daughter would lose her mind every time she had a splinter. Why didn’t someone tell me this fifteen years ago. Supposedly, you just apply Elmer’s Glue on top of the splinter. Let it dry. When you peel the glue off, the splinter is supposed to come off with it. Ta-da! Wow, I almost want to get a splinter to see if this really works.
10. Oatmeal for Arthritis-Quaker Oats for fast pain relief. I guess you can eat breakfast and then put the leftovers on your hands. “Mix 2 cups of Quaker Oats and 1 cup of water in a bowl and warm in the microwave for 1 minute, cool slightly, and apply the mixture to your hands for soothing relief from arthritis pain.” Well, people take oatmeal baths to help with poison ivy, so I mean, who knows? This is supposed to work.
11. Eye puffiness- Preparation H. Let’s get to the bottom of this one… (hahahaha) I just read about ten articles about this, and it doesn’t work. I really think someone reached for the wrong ointment once upon a time and next thing you know, someone said it worked for them. But, the fact of the matter is, it isn’t supposed to work at all. But, hey, if your eyes start bulging out a bit, it may be something you should try. Just sayin.
12. Vicks Vapor Rub- Ahhhh. I love my Vicks Vapor Rub. Imagine my happiness when I read that if you have a bad cold with congestion, and you can not sleep, rub Vicks Vapor Rub on your feet, don some socks, and go to bed. You will wake up after a great night sleep, feeling better. I personally know people who have tried this and they have said that it works. Why wouldn’t it? Vicks Vapor Rub rocks!
photo via pinterest
So, there you have it. In the end, Mother knows best. Until years later, when you find out the fruitcake almost killed you. Old wive’s tales will always be around. People will always swear that something ridiculous worked magic for them. And if it works, who are we to judge?
Well, except for the smelly kerosene boy. I’d have to slap his mom.
Technology has come a long way since the sixties. We now have personal computers, cell phones, and video games. Our cell phones are also personal computers and video games. Our personal computers are also movie theaters and music venues. We have many choices. Back in the sixties, we had a tape recorder.
Oh, my, what a newly purchased tape recorder can do for a kid. A tape recorder, also known as a cassette tape, or compact cassette, was originally designed for dictation. Secretaries all over the world were now able to just push a button instead of sitting across from their boss, steno book and pencil in hand, furiously writing in shorthand. Life was good.
photos via wikipedia
Philips invented the compact audio cassette in 1962, and the first compact cassette, creatively called Compact Cassette, was available for purchase. By 1966, over 250,000 recorders had been sold in the U.S. alone. And guess who had one of them? That’s right, the Mendenhall family.
Now, you have to understand why I was salivating. We really didn’t have much in the way of new fangled technology of any kind. Pong wasn’t even invented yet for use on our television sets. I don’t know if we even shortened the word television to T.V. yet. Our telephones had cords on them, attached to the wall. Oh, yes, I was salivating.
I quickly learned how to use our new Compact Cassette. I believe I was about ten years old at the time. Fourth grade was a memorable time, and now, Dear God, I had a tape recorder.
The excitement was just too much. My mom told me that I could play with it the next day, so I don’t think she was too happy that I woke her up so early.
“Mom, can I use the cassette recorder?”
“Vickie, it’s 6:00 in the morning. Go back to bed.”
Shit.
“Mom, can I use the cassette recorder now?”
“Vickie, stop it. It’s only 6:30.”
Stupid mom. Birds were up. I heard them chirping. Mom’s were supposed to be up early.
“Hey, Dad, can I use the cassette recorder? It’s 7:00.”
“Sure.”
Good Dad. Bad Mom.I was already dressed and ready. I don’t know why I had shoes on, but maybe I would run outside and let the world know that I recorded a message. I ran into the kitchen.There was a little plastic tri-pod that the microphone would sit on. I positioned it close to me. I remember that I was a nervous wreck I put the cassette in the player, and hit the record button. My first recording was thought provoking and highly imaginative.
“Testing. Testing, 1-2-3″…..giggle giggle giggle. Voila!! History was made.
I couldn’t wait to replay it and listen to my voice. I had never heard myself talk before. I looked at my mom, who was fumbling with the coffee pot and mumbling something about killing me.
“That doesn’t sound like me.” I sounded like a little girl. I mean, I was a little girl. I guess I wanted to sound, well, like a newscaster.
“That sounds exactly like you.” my mom replied. She lit her first of 88 cigarettes for the day. She sat in her housecoat at the table, waiting for her coffee to percolate. She wanted to try recording her voice. That pissed me off. I mean, shouldn’t she be in bed?
So, the rest of the Mendenhall family had to go and use MY cassette tape recorder for most of the morning. I went into the living room and watched Casper the Friendly Ghost on the television set. Actually, I have no idea what the hell I watched, but I did watch a cartoon, because our cartoons rocked back then.
Well, the unimaginative family members had their morning of fun with the newly purchased Cassette Recorder and went about their Saturday morning.business. I sat quietly, like a buzzard waiting for a groundhog to get hit by a car. I had plans for this tape recorder.
Oh, the fun I had. My first item on my tape recording agenda was to tape record sounds. I turned on the recorder and rang the doorbell. I slammed a door. I followed the dog around, trying to get him to bark. He wanted no part of me. I called my bff Ramaine and asked her to call me back so I could tape the telephone ringing. I taped anything and everything that I could make a sound out of . What a great weekend.
I had my bff, Ramaine, walk up later in the day. She was even more creative than I was. She would think of something we can use with the newly purchased Cassette Recorder. I do not remember how this was decided, but the next thing you know, we were singing the definition of ‘lima bean” into the tape recorder. I am sure no one else has ever done that before. Ever. We were highly imaginative. We then opened the dictionary again, pointing to a word and singing that definition, too. We laughed and laughed at our choice of leisure activity. She could sing. I, on the other hand, sounded like a drugged up back-up singer for Janis Joplin. Fun time with my bff.
Saturday evening was spy time. I put the recorder beside the couch. I realized that one side of the tape was only 30 minutes long, so I had to think of a way to push the button so my parents wouldn’t see me doing it. I was going to tape record things my parents talk about after we went to bed. What fun!
I waited until my mom went into the kitchen and talked loudly while playing with my dog so my dad wouldn’t hear me press the button. Success! I went to bed and could hardly sleep. I was so excited to spy on my parents. I began thinking bigger, like taping my teacher while we were at lunch. That may have been tricky, as we didn’t have back packs back then.
I woke up on Sunday morning, and ran to the living room. It was 6:00, so I was sure that the fam was still asleep. I re-wound the tape and waited, impatiently. This was going to be so much fun. I loved spying. I hit the play button. It was my mom’s voice. This was fantastic!!
“Vickie, the next time you try to tape record someone without letting them know about it, it would be a good idea to sneak back in the room and turn it off before it makes a loud noise turning itself off……You will have plenty of time trying to figure out how to do this while you are in your room. You are grounded.”
Shit.
Well, all in all, I had a blast with our newly purchased Cassette Recorder. I interviewed neighbors and friends, taped the sounds of grass cutting, and the Mr. Softie truck making his rounds through the neighborhood. I taped my sister having a temper tantrum. Life was good.
It’s the little things in life that make such a big memory.
And that’s one for the record books…or in this case, tape recorder.
The old saying, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, certainly holds true when it comes to imitating others. And you know that each one of us is guilty of imitating someone at least once in our lifetime. Or once a day, depending on what colorful people are nearby. Rather it be a friend, a boss, or a celebrity, we have somehow managed to mangle their voice, posture, or gestures for the amusement of others. It is just who we are. Some of us are pretty good at it. Some of us should probably not do it again. I am in the first group. Right up there with Rich Little. Really.
Rich Little, nicknamed “The Man of a Thousand Voices,” was and still is one of the greatest impersonators ever. He could imitate celebrities, such as Johnny Carson, Jack Benny, and my favorite, Richard Nixon. He had a vast repertoire of voices, and I was in awe of his talent. I was just a kid, but I tried it out myself. I stood in front of the mirror, trying to get the look and the phrase just so. I remember sitting in front of the tv, watching a Jerry Lewis movie, with my brother. The next thing you know, David IS Jerry Lewis. We were little and goofy, but it was one of the first times I remember imitating someone. I do remember David and I trying our best, “Whack-a-doo, Whack-a-doo” in our best Jerry Lewis voice. We sucked. But, boy did we have fun. You have no idea how excited I was to find this clip. This brings back such great memories of antics with my brother. Weird, I know, but that’s how we rolled.
Now, you have to understand that as a child of the sixties, we only had three television stations, so we had limited viewing options. We could imitate Lawrence Welk, Ed Sullivan, or Barney Fife on the Andy Griffith Show, and in 1965, we finally got Gomer Pyle. Everyone was imitating Gomer.
“Shazam…….Shame Shame Shame……….Surprise Surprise Surprise…………Golly.” Soon everyone was doing the Gomer. Then came Tarzan and Jane movies and everyone tried their best Tarzan yell. Carol Burnett even imitated it often on her own show.
Then came Johnny Carson, who was a wonderful impersonator. This clip of him impersonating President Ronald Reagan was hysterical.
I don’t get the impersonators of today. I guess there is a difference between an impersonator and an impressionist. I don’t want to go to a whole show with someone who is pretending to be Marilyn Monroe or Abe Lincoln. I am not talking about that. I’m talking about people who are on stage and can do many impressions. I did watch a great Michael Jackson impersonator at a resort in Cancun, Mexico, last summer. He was awesome, but it was free, part of the wonderful all-inclusive that I came to love. But, I wouldn’t have gone if I had to pay for it.
Every summer the little town that I just moved away from had a festival and hired an Elvis impersonator as one of the stage events. You would have thought that Elvis never left the building and was alive and well, gyrating to his sounds to the many swooning white haired women in the audience. I sat on my front porch, chuckling at the madness. Um, that is not really Elvis on stage, people.
Now, I do think I that Tina Fey did an awesome job impersonating Sarah Palin. Many of the Saturday Night Live actors throughout the years have mocked famous people. Chevy Chase, for example, did a great job impersonating former President Gerald Ford. Ford was a clumsy man, and Chevy Chase did a great job tripping and falling. Dana Carvey and Darrel Hammond were wonderful with their impressions of George Bush 1 and 2.
So, impressions are all around us. There is even one who impersonated a cat.
Penn or Teller doing Mr. Boots, the Cat- I get the two guys mixed up. The shorter, quiet guy was on an episode of Dharma and Greg years ago. This has got to be one of the funniest espisodes that I have seen on tv. I couldn’t quit laughing the first time I watched it.Great impersonation of a non human.
Ok, so that takes care of the famous impersonators. Normal, every day people think that they are great impersonators too. My son, for example, can do an awesome Kermit the Frog. He used to be able to do Mrs. Doubtfire when he was younger. He also tried to do Bill Clinton, but that ended up sounding like Mrs. Doubtfire.My ex thought he could do Tom Brokaw, but he just sucked. That’s why the clip of Dana Carvey doing Tom Brokaw when Gerald Ford dies is so hysterical.
But, throughout my life, I have impersonated many a celebrity. I entertained my sorority sisters and patrons at bars with my uncany impressionistic talent. Sure, maybe there were a few times that I didn’t actually remember doing an impression. Case in point. I performed my routine in Ocean City Maryland in 1977 and wasn’t even aware of it. I was lying on the beach, minding my own spring break business, when friends that we met up with the night before, laid their towels out next to ours.
“Vickie, you were so funny last night. Sing “Where the Boys Are again.”
Um, what? Say what? Looks like Little Vickie had more than three beers the night before.I guess I did all of my impressions with a high success rate. It helps when there are drunks in the house.
Here are some of the people that I thought I could imitate.
1. Rhoda Penmark-Ok, most of you have no idea who I am talking about. Rhoda Penmark was a character in the movie, “The Bad Seed.” I loved that role and watched the movie to the point where I knew all of her lines. She was an evil little girl, and I thought I had her down pat. Problem was, only my family and closest friends really knew who she was. It was a great movie.
”You better give me those shoes. They’re mine! Give them back to me!” Oh, yeah, I sound just like her.
2.. Paul Lynde- Ah, Paul Lynde, my favorite impression person. I loved Paul Lynde. He was funny as Uncle Arthur on Bewitched and hysterical on Hollywood Squares.He had an unforgetable voice. And his laugh was ornery. I sounded just like him. Of course, I only had one line I could repeat like him.
“You think it’s easy?” But, it was his laugh that I could do. I was good. Really.
3. Connie Francis’s “Where the Boys Are”- I can’t sing for the life of me, but I can belt out “Where the Boys Are,” and I guarantee I sounded just like her. Oh, I would oblige anyone anytime the first line of her hit song. I was Connie. The song starts at around 1:32.
“Where the boys are, someone waits for me.” Ta-da.
4. The Swedish Chef-I love the Muppets and could do a great Swedish Chef imitation when my kids were little. I entertained them so.
5.. The Mayor of Munchkinland-Ok, I’m not kidding now. I WAS the mayor of Munchkinland in our sorority rush events. I can talk munchkin like no one else. Really. I’m that good.You know how the munchkins sounded.
6.. Cousin Itt on the Addams Family- I know you are quite envious of my talent up to now, but my Cousin Itt impression was Dead on. I mean it.
I know what you are thinking. Yeah, I am quite talented. Thank you. I can also do impressions of Lisa Douglass on Green Acres, Peter Lorre’s “Yes, master,” Snoopy in Pain (a drunk favorite), E.T. phoning home, and I really should have tried out for the Afflac duck.
So, think about it the next time you make fun of your boss, or mock your mother-in-law. You are just being creative. It’s our nature to imitate.
After all, that’s how we got cubic zirconium rings instead of the real thing. Can’t really tell them apart, now can we?
You know, it’s really hard for a hyperactive kid to win a staring contest. It just can’t happen. Through the years, I have been asked if I wanted to have a staring contest, and my answer has never changed.
“Oh, hell no.”
Of course, I don’t really think I said that when I was ten or eleven the first time I was asked to participate in a staring contest. I am sure I obliged, ready to stare down my opponent. But, it never happened. It couldn’t happen. I did try.
The object of a staring contest is an easy one. Stare at someone without taking your eyes off of them. The first one who breaks the stare is a loser. A big time loser. So, of course, everyone wanted to play Hyper Girl. I didn’t know I was hyper at the time. My mom never told me. She just gave me a little green tranquilizer every day and called it my “car sick pill.” You’d think that with a tranquilizer digesting and spreading calm and coolness throughout my tiny body that I would be able to sit still long enough to win a staring contest.
“Vickie…you already lost…..Yes, you did. You just looked away!!……….Yes, you did………………..Yes, you did…….Wanna play again?………………..You did it again…………..Yes, you did. I win…….Vickie, you looked in my eyes for like ten seconds and then looked away………..Yes you did.”
So, this hyperactive child learned to hate staring contests. As I grew older, I was a side-line watcher….for a few minutes. They just bored me to death. I remember one time watching a neighborhood staring contest with some older kids outside at dusk, until I saw a spider spinning a web. I was mesmerized. What staring contest? And really, in the end, what is the big deal? It’s not like it’s an arm wrestling contest. At least that’s a physical challenge. A staring contest is just an eye control contest. Unless you had a lazy eye, drifting toward the middle, or you were hyperactive or you had pink eye and your eye was leaking, anyone could be in a staring contest. Most people can look straight ahead without moving their eyes. Big whoop. Picture the Hulk Hogan winning a staring contest, and then ripping off his shirt after the kill.
“I am so tough. I just beat someone in a freakin staring contest. YES! ….. Take that, Grandma!”
Staring contests have been around for a very long time. I think boxers have the best stares. They march up to their opponent in the middle of the ring, getting right in their face, and just stare. Pretty intimidating. Did you know Rocky Balboa was in a staring contest?
So, to me, staring contests were stupid. I stayed away from being in one or even watching one. Until many years later, when the chance arose once again. I was a mother, probably about forty-four. My daughter was a spectator that day, and I believe she may have been fourteen or so. I am probably wrong, but that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I almost died that day……because of a staring contest.
The day started like any ordinary day. It was a beautiful summer evening. My daughter and I were outside, standing on the brick patio right beside our house. I loved that property. We had wildlife visiting our place every day. I kept binoculars on my kitchen counter so I could quickly check out a new bird, or the fighting neighbors. Never a dull moment.
This one particular summer evening was one for the memory book. I spotted a deer, standing down in front of our house, taking more than his share of the fallen apples. He had his back to us. Hmmmm.
“I bet I can sneak down real close to that deer.” I said to my daughter. She stayed at the top of the hill by the house. I realize the picture was taken in winter, but just humor me for a minute. The deer was beside the tree that I have noted with the red circle. I began my trek down the hill, moving slowly and quietly. The deer did not hear me. I looked back at my daughter, smirking at my agile stalking.
I got pretty close to the deer. He turned and was shocked to see this strange creature so close to him. I froze. He stared. I stayed frozen. He stared.
He then snorted and stomped his foot on the ground. I knew what he was doing. He had no plans to leave the plentiful bounty that was lying on the ground in front of him. Them apples were for him. I stared back, and then snorted and stomped my foot. I was wearing tennis shoes, so my stomp sounded intimidating. He snorted again, raised his hoof and kept it in the air, lingering for a few seconds, and then stomped again. I snorted and stomped again. I was winning this freaking starting contest. Ha! I finally will win one. Sure, it may have been against an animal, but a staring contest is a staring contest.
Shit. I took my eyes off the deer to look back up the hill at my daughter. When my eyes went back to the deer, he snorted and charged at me. Holy shit! I let out a scream and then ran like the wind. Luckily, I had just changed from flip flops to tennis shoes, or I would have been deer stomped.
I never ran so fast in my whole life. I mean, there was a snorting, stomping deer with unchewed apple in his mouth coming after me. I had no idea when, but I felt that he was going to tackle me from behind and kick me to death. So, I did the Forrest Gump thing and I ra-an. I made it to the top of the hill to greet my laughing daughter. She couldn’t quit laughing at me.
“Mom, I never knew you could run. Haahahahahhahahahha.”
Well, when you have a crazy deer charging at you, you really should move. The deer chased me halfway up the hill, but must have known by my pathetic “Monster is chasing girl” scream, that the apples were pretty much his. He went back down the the apple tree, knowing that he wasn’t going to be bothered anymore.
And for me, well, that was my last staring contest. Deer will win every time.
My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
following me home
Rocky Point-Rhode Island
Flooded after Katrina
2011
photo pinterest
