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?”
For those of you who are regular readers, you know I suffered and still suffer from extreme motion sickness. My stories about my parents placing a bucket in the backseat of the car for me were plenty. My brother and sister had to freeze while I had the window rolled down just enough so my bony little fingers could feel the cold. That made me feel better for some reason.
As I got older, I had to add “traveling on the school bus” to my car sickness agenda. It was not fun. I got sick on the bus almost every day. I threw up on our bus driver, who was a nun. Well, I didn’t throw up directly on her, I was able to make a direct hit on her sensible shoes while she was shifting gears on the pretend bus van. When I switched to a public school in fourth grade (after debating with a nun why God was a meanie because of the whole Noah’s Ark situation for most of third grade), I got to sit with my best friend, Ramaine.
Ramaine would let people know when I was about to get sick. It happened at least twice a week on the way home. Our bus driver liked the bus to be toasty toasty on his afternoon run for some reason. My gurgling stomach couldn’t stomach the heat and the swaying of the top heavy bus around corners. So, Ramaine would yell out, “Raise your feet!!!” We had a good system. I would throw up, the bus would be going up or down a hill, and the kids could raise their feet before it got to them. It’s gross, but since I didn’t eat much but had to drink a lot of water because of my dysfunctional kidneys, it was just a liquid venue.
So, as I got older, I couldn’t ride in the back seat. That explains why I didn’t date much, I guess. I couldn’t ride many of the amusement rides at Kennywood Park. I couldn’t float on a raft in a pool. And when I had children, I couldn’t chaperone on any of their field trips…. And that killed me.
Oh, sure, I followed the bus on some of the trips. But, I always wanted to be a chaperone. I wanted to watch how my children interacted with others, and be able to slap the ones who were mean to them. Ok, I would never have done that part. But, I do have a look that is like a slap. So, for many years I was able to avoid traveling on a bus until I got a teaching job.
When you teach, you wear many hats. You are a counselor, a nurse, a principal, a banker, and a field trip coordinator. I had been able to skirt the whole field trip for awhile. This year the class was going to the Pittsburgh Zoo. I love the zoo and decided I would try it. After all, I have taken the bus from JFK airport to Penn Station several times with no issues. I’ve been on Amtrak and have flown several times. I have plans to take a long train ride into the Canadian Rockies this summer. Surely, I can take half of a Dramamine and go on a two hour trip to the zoo. My daughter didn’t think so.
“Mom, you know you are going to get sick. Why are you doing this?”
Yeah, why am I doing this? Well, I think I can handle it for some reason. I don’t think I’m that little scrawny Pukey Vickie anymore. It turns out, I was right. I did great on the bus. I made one fatal (ok not exactly what I would call fatal) mistake, though: I told my class I had to sit in the front and wouldn’t be able to turn around. What the hell is wrong with you, Vickie?
I thought I had it all worked out. I had six chaperones from my class for fourteen students. How easy this would be! With two classes, we were going to have twelve adults on board for 28 students. We loaded the buses with the chaperones scattered throughout. I had previously talked with my class about bus behavior and the fact that they would not be allowed to eat, drink, or chew gum on the way up or the way back. (I was surely not going to perform the Heimlich while the bus was moving. Not gonna happen.) I repeated the rules because that’s just how we are this year. I also told the kids to show respect towards the chaperones and not run away from them.
So, we loaded the bus and after a head count and quick repetition of the rules…once again..we were ready to close the doors. So, we were off. I was prepared in case I got sick. I sat in the front so I could look watch the road. Plus, I took half of a Dramamine.
The rest of the trip up wasn’t too bad. No one got sick, so life was good.
I think the kids had a great time at the zoo. The other fourth grade teacher and I did not put any kids with us. We weren’t about to do that to ourselves. So, after arriving 40 minutes late, we ate, and then began visiting the exhibits. During the day, parents who had driven up behind the bus signed their children out. Four less children would be on the bus on the way home.
I do have to mention that some time during the day, one of my girls ran up to me with a stuffed animal skunk. She bought it for me because my favorite animal is the skunk. I was at a loss of words. I hugged her and knew she spent way too much on me.
So, we loaded the bus for the ride home, which took forever and I had one of my girls sit with me on the way home because she was feeling ill on the bus. Her forehead was quite warm. She slept most of the way home…until she woke up and puked.
Luckily, for me, I know the signs. I was able to grab my zip lock bag out of my bag when she woke up. I had that feeling. I didn’t have time to get the trash bag out of the zip lock, so I just opened up the zip lock. She managed to get 50% in the bag, and 50% on her pants and all over my hands. The other teacher was handing me paper towels left and right.
When we got out of the bus, the little girls grandmother collected her quickly, and I went into the school to wash my hands.
Some things never change. Well, except this time we didn’t have to raise our feet.
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.
Map of West Virginia counties (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The governor of West Virginia, Earl Ray Tomlin, introduced Senate Bill 359, an educational reform bill, which will be voted on soon. Teachers have given the bill a big, fat F, which in my opinion has nothing to do with reform.
Reform- to amend or improve by change of form or removal of fault or abuses.
I’m not going to go into each point of the bill, only to say that it is a slap in the face to all educators in the state of West Virginia. You know, teachers in the Mountain state make one of the lowest salaries in the nation. Many teachers head east to work outside the state borders to garner higher wages. But, in the end, teachers are working the best they can, despite the obstacles that are coming directly from the higher ups.
Obstacles, you say? Absolutely. Someone a few years ago had decided teachers need to test more. I give a beginning Math and Reading test at the beginning of the year. I give Benchmark tests twice a year in four subjects and the students have two online writing tests to get ready for the big one in March. The Westest is held in May. Now, mind you, this is on top of the tests I give weekly in Social Studies, Reading, Spelling, and Science. I also have to give end of the year tests.
I would just rather teach.
I’m 56 years old and I think I received a pretty good education when I was young. We memorized our multiplication tables. We learned our state capitals, had spelling bees, and wrote and presented book reports. It was all about Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic. We grew up fine. Some of my peers did better than fine.
Ok, this was before my time….but we had those desks.
But, something along the way changed. Someone has decided that to exist in the 21st century, we must bathe our children in technology or they will surely die. So, in the elementary setting we are testing, and we are teaching technology….on top of Handwriting, Math, Spelling, Grammar, Reading, Science, Social Studies, and Health. And we are doing this in crowded classrooms.
If you want to reform, let’s first take a look at teacher/student ratio.
The governor wants to require early childhood education programs to be made available five days a week for the full day; allowing program to be for fewer than five days per week and less than full day under certain circumstances.
I don’t understand this. This is not the reform that we need. Before adding new programs, we need to address the teacher/student ratio in k-2. Class size should be limited to no more than 16 students and the curriculum should be restricted. Let me explain:
Years ago, there were a lot of two-parent households. A lot of the moms did not work outside the home. Someone was there to make sure students did their homework, and were more hands-on. Now, I’m not saying that a lot of people don’t still do that. Of course they do. But, for the most part, it is fact that the divorce numbers are much higher than they were years ago. Even without divorce, economics force both parents to work. Some single parent households need help. Grandparents are raising many of the children. Many children come from homes where abuse is a way of life. Drug use is more prevalant than it was years ago. Some children go to bed hungry. Yes, I realize that has also happened in the past, but in the end, the classroom is now a home- away- from- home for a lot of children.
I have fifteen students this year in my fourth grade classroom. Last year I had twenty-one. Six less students makes a world of difference. And those teachers with twenty-five and twenty-six students are overwhelmed. I know my students. I can look at one and know she is not feeling well because I know her so well. I send her to the office to get her temperature taken…101.6. I smile and give her a hug as she leaves to go home. I know not to give much homework because it is an unfair advantage to the several who are lucky to have a piece of notebook paper or pencil at their homes. No one goes through their backpacks at night. No one helps them practice their multiplication table. My mom drilled me nightly when I was in third grade. I knew them when I went to fourth grade. Some students in general just have no clue. Some children have behavioral issues. Some are learning disabled. Some have attention deficit problems. This is not the same mix of students that I went to school with, but yet, nothing has changed in the way of class size.
So, I teach time management skills in the classroom and basically let them do some homework during class time. This only seems fair to those who aren’t lucky enough to have help at home. Sure, in the end, fourth graders can learn to do their homework on their own, but they need guidance and direction..but sadly, a few are not receiving it at home. They are allowed to sit and kill things while playing their video games. And I know a majority of the boys do this. I ask these things…. Technology at its finest. When I was young we had three channels on tv and the World Book Encyclopedia as our internet. We honestly didn’t have much to do but our homework on school nights.
When you shove many children into a classroom, something is lost. So, let’s begin our educational reform by taking a look at teacher/student ratio. I know you won’t, because that would mean hiring new teachers. It’s bad enough that the governor wants to hire anyone with a bachelor’s degree to enter the classroom. You are going to be opening a can of worms if this hiring practice is passed, however. It will change the scope of teacher education in this state forever.
I know some of you will not agree with me on this next point, but I think technology is making us stupider. (Yes, I realize that is not a word.)
“The fog of information can drive out knowledge.”
Don’t get me wrong. I think technology in the classroom is great. I use it in some form every day. If we are studying volcanoes, I have a volcano simulator waiting on one of the computers. I have a penguin cam up some days. There are many, many internet sites that are extremely beneficial. That’s not what I am talking about.
The state of West Virginia implemented a program called Tech Steps. All students from kindergarten on must complete about six assignments. In my opinion, this program should not be used in the elementary school setting. Why do elementary school children need a technology component when we should be concentrating on core subjects? If you want our test scores to rise, don’t inundate us with work that can wait until fifth or sixth grade. You are making us waste precious time. Do third graders really need to learn how to use a spreadsheet? Sure, we are in a different world now, where computers and technology are at our every turn. I get it. I think it has merit in junior high, but not in the early grades where everything depends on them learning the basics so they can go on to the next year and build on that.
In the end, it is not the same as it was. We are forced to test too much when we should be teaching. We are forced to teach more children in our classroom than is beneficial to their educational growth. We are forced to teach technology, when in fact, we should review our multiplication one more time instead of completing yet another techsteps assignment that will have no bearing on other important educational milestones, such as defining words, rounding numbers, and correcting a run-on sentence. K-2 teachers should be teaching a limited curriculum, plain and simple.
There are only so many minutes in a day for an elementary school teacher. We have to teach Spelling, Social Studies, Science, Math, Reading, Grammar, handwriting, and Health. We are also referees, bankers, counselors, and health inspectors.
So, Senate Education committee people, there you have it; the rambling of a fourth grade teacher. If you truly want an educational reform in West Virginia, start with kindergarten and give those teachers a small class size. We teach with kids squished into our classrooms because that’s the way you want it. We test and test and test to make sure we are testing because that’s what we have to do. We teach technology subjects that the wee ones should not have to be introduced to until an older age. We do all this because you told us to. If something is broken, it’s not with the teachers. It is with the system. Please be careful with every point of our governor’s education reform bill. It needs to be chewed up and digested to see if it sits well with teachers. Take us in consideration instead of pointing fingers at us. Because after all,
You can lead a student to the test, but you can’t make him pass it.
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 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.
English: The Rocky Mountaineer boards at Banff. Image by User:Leonard G. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
When I was little I traveled on Amtrak from Pittsburgh to Spokane Washington with my mom, brother and sister. It took three days and three nights and I fell in love with train travel from that point on. I never traveled by train again until last summer when I thought I would take a different mode of transportation to visit my daughter in New York City. I think I smiled all the way into the Big Apple. There is something about the clickety clack of the train as it travels over the countryside and the whistle blowing at interections that I just really enjoy.
For years I have said my “trip of a lifetime” would be to travel through Canada by train to Victoria and Vancouver, supposedly some of the most beautiful cities on the planet. I know others would probably choose a more exotic location if they were choosing “a trip of a lifetime,” but mine is Canada by train.
Well, I just booked a trip for this summer aboard the Rocky Mountaineer through the Canadian Rockies. This is a trip I have had on my so-called bucket list for several years now. I haven’t been able to go because of my poor old cat, Whiskers. She passed away in October, so it looks like I will have some free time to take a trip longer than three nights.
I am beside myself with excitement. I decided not to travel all the way from Halifax to Vancouver just yet. I mean, I watched the episode of Sex and the City where Samantha and Carrie traveled to San Francisco by train. They were miserable. But, then again, I don’t think they left New York City too often, and I have to realize they weren’t really real people, so I need to erase that visual out of my mind.
I looked at routes and found this Rocky Mountaineer train. Hmmmmmm, this is right up my alley. I can’t get this song out of my head.
Rocky Mountaineer is a privately owned company. They offer three classes of service; Red Leaf, Silver Leaf, and Gold Leaf. The Gold Leaf offers perks for someone who is taking “a trip of a lifetime.” I want to travel in a glass enclosed train car and walk down a spiral staircase for a gourmet breakfast and lunch.
I want complimentary drinks even though I don’t drink…much. So, I booked the Gold Leaf, which also gave me deluxe accommodations in the hotels.
Hotels, you say? Yes. Depending upon the route you take, you can stay overnight on the way to your destination. I was overwhelmed with the choices and routes. The packages are called things like “Circle Rail,” “First Passage to the West,” and “Journey Through the Clouds,” just to name a few. I had to mull over where I wanted to start and where I wanted to end.
Photo credit: Fresh Tracks
I decided to fly from Pittsburgh to Vancouver, and then travel on their “First Passage to the West” in reverse and fly out of Calgary. Six delirious nights. And it isn’t just train travel. There are things to do when you get off the train if you wish. And I wish. So, this is my itinerary. I liked what Rocky Mountaineer offered in their package design especially for what I would like to do on this trip, but in the end I decided to go with a travel agency called Fresh Tracks/Canadian Train Vacations. The only main difference between the two companies was Fresh Tracks was going to have someone waiting for me at the Vancouver Airport for the drive to my hotel. The cost was about the same for both and I loved working with both companies.
I booked “The Essential Rockies” with Fresh Tracks. My custom built itinerary looks something like this:
Day 1- Fly into Vancouver. I added a second night in Vancouver because I was afraid if my flight from Pittsburgh to Toronto to Vancouver was delayed or something, I would have another option to get to Vancouver before the train left the station. I plan to take a bus over to Stanley Park, which is the third largest city park in North America. It looks beautiful. I will be staying at Sutton Place. The reservationist on the phone told me that there are a lot of movies filmed in the Vancouver area and a lot of celebrities and crew stay at the Sutton. That would be cool to ride an elevator with someone famous.
Day 2- Discover Vancouver and Grouse Mountain Sunset Tour- I will be traveling by trolley to the base of Grouse Mountain, where I will take the largest gondola in North America to the top of the mountain. Much to do on top of the mountain.
Day 3- Ahhhh My Rocky Mountaineer adventure begins. I will be picked up and transferred to the train station where the fun begins. They have an open vestibule on the back of each car where I plan to be for a good bit of the time, pretending to be a photographer. The pictures I have seen of the Canadian Rockies are majestic, and I can not wait to experience it behind my own camera lens. First night stay in Kamloops.
Day 4- My adventure continues as we travel to Banff. This is supposed to be the most magnificient part of any train route through the Rockies. We will pull into Banff in the evening and I will be transferred to my hotel, The RimRock for two nights.
Day 5- I added this part to my itinerary. Day 5 was supposed to be a free day to visit and walk through the town of Banff. And I want to do that, but I also wanted to travel to the Athabasca Glacier and drive onto the glacier in a special Ice Explorer. It’s a nine hour tour. I will be picked up at my hotel and with a small tour, stop at sights along the way for general sightseeing there and back. It will be interesting to stand on a glacier. I don’t get to do that too often in West Virginia.
Day 6 Leave Banff and meander through the Rockies with a private guide stopping along more majestic picture taking opportunities. We will then end up at Lake Louise. I can not wait to stay there. Lake view. I will have to take a canoe ride.
Day 7: Alas, my adventure will end today at the end of the month of June. I hope for clear, sunny days, and fault-free trip itineraries. I will keep you posted. My driver will take me to the Calgary airport for my flight for home. I guess I should have mentioned that I am doing this by myself. A couple of people told me it wouldn’t be any fun by myself. Hmmmm. I think I’m a lot of fun. Add Canada and a train to the mix and the fact that I don’t know a stranger, I think I will be just fine. I mean, I did a test run and flew to Disney World by myself last year. If I can do a solo trip there and not feel lonely, I think I’m good to go.
All twelve tokens from the U.S. Deluxe Edition Monopoly. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
When I have played Monopoly in the past, I have always reached for the iron as my token. I know for a fact I have never played with another token. I never came across another friend who just had to have the iron too, so I guess that was good because I wouldn’t have played. I guess when you find a right fit you just have to go with that one each time. And the iron and I made our way around to pass Go many, many times. So, imagine the horror when I heard today that Hasbro, the maker of Monopoly, is going to send one of the little steel tokens to jail……and they can’t even pass Go first.
What a great marketing ploy. Hasbro has set up a Facebook page and is letting people vote for which token gets to stay and which one will replace it. I went to the site to see how this was going to unfold. The choices to vote for are the car, thimble, shoe, dog, ship, hat, iron, and wheelbarrow. I wish we could vote for which one gets to go, but alas, we were only allowed to vote for which one we wanted to stay.
It’s funny, but I think baby boomers are going to feel the same way about this that I do. Oh, sure, in the whole scheme of things, I really don’t give a rat’s ass about the impending doom of one of the Monopoly tokens, but yet again, off I went to vote to save my beloved iron.
The options to replace the permanently jailed token are a helicopter, a diamond ring, a cat, a robot, or a guitar. I immediately voted for the diamond ring. It makes sense and goes with the game. What the hell does a robot or a guitar have to do with Monopoly? Ok, I guess an iron doesn’t make much sense either, but you know, whatever.
So, baby boomer friends of mine, what token did you use when you played Monopoly?
I used to watch the Rose Parade every New Year’s Day for years before I was told all the floats were made of flowers. Maybe I just didn’t listen much to the commentator:
“And here’s a float from McDonalds…blah blah blah blah..roses.”
I was hyper when I was little, so maybe I just couldn’t watch and listen at the same time. The floats were beautiful. And it was named after a flower. Hence, the name, Rose Parade. I thought maybe it was named after a woman…….Rose McGillicuddy of Pasadena…..Ok, I made that name up. But why roses, I asked? Why not the Purple Cone Flower Parade or The Natural Material Parade?” I didn’t ask that when I was little. I’m asking that now when I am older and still challenged in so many ways. But, since I love to learn about insignificant things, I headed to google, king of all kings.
So, it looks like The Rose Parade started way back in Pasadena, California on January 1, 1890. The Rose Bowl football game was added in 1902 to help fund the parade. I thought that was pretty interesting.
The whole reason the parade started was to showcase the mild California winters. Many members of the Valley Hunt Club, the organizers of the very first Rose parade, were former residents of states in the east and midwest. One member announced at a meeting, “In New York, people are buried in the snow. Here our flowers are blooming and our oranges are about to bear. Let’s hold a festival to tell the world about our paradise.” I would think the man should have said the oranges were ready to be picked, but I guess that’s how the hell they talked back then.
And so they did organize a little parade to show off how wonderful Pasadena is in the winter and how putting flowers on moving things made the freezing New Yorkers jealous enough to withdraw all of their money and move to their sunny community. What confuses me is the fact there was no television in 1902. People elsewhere would have to read about it in a newspaper. So, in the end, I am thinking the Valley Hunt Club wanted to ride down the street on their horses.
They had horse drawn carriages adorned with flowers. After the parade, there was a chariot race, tug-of war and other games which drew about 2,000 people. After a few years, the parade got too big for the Valley Hunt Club, so the Tournament of Roses was formed and later a football game replaced a chariot race, which was a big deal of the whole celebration.
English: A Tournament of Roses Chariot Race from 1908. The race was later replaced by the Rose Bowl Game in Pasadena, California (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The floats of today take about a year to construct. According to Wikipedia, “It is a rule of the parade that all surfaces of the float framework must be covered in natural materials (such as flowers, plants, seaweeds, seeds, bark, vegetables, or nuts, for example); furthermore, no artificial flowers or plant material are allowed, nor can the materials be artificially colored.”And this is what bothers me. I mean, it bothers me just a little, but enough to gripe about it. Isn’t this a waste of nature?
I’m beginning to think somebody in the Valley Hunt Club was a florist.
Think about it. I bet you there are more florists in the Pasadena area than anywhere else. Ok, maybe flowers are shipped in from other flowery places. Tulips from Holland, perhaps. Acorns from a forest in the Applachians. I don’t know. But, this has got to be a boon for florist owners and growers. I guess that is a good thing for the economy. But, what happens to the flowers and natural materials after the parade. Do they go into the biggest compost pile in the world?
So, being that my mind is still a bit hyperactive and all over the place, I wondered about other wastes…..like Christmas trees. I have a bit of a problem with cutting down beautiful pine trees, dragging them home on top of a car, sticking them in the corner of a room and putting things on it….only to throw it away come New Years Day. Poor pine tree.
But then again, everything is like that, isn’t it? Chickens are raised only to have their heads cut off so they can be served on our dinner plates. Corn is grown on farms just so we can eat popcorn and cornbread stuffing. I guess I could go on and on. So, in the end, flowers are grown for the Rose Parade. I guess I have to live with that.
That being said, I think it is our responisibility to watch the Rose Parade to see the beauty of Pasadena’s mild winter and of course, the magnificent floats. They are beautiful. Band members nation-wide fund raise their little asses off to be able to be part of the parade. Our very own East Fairmont High School was able to participate in the Rose Parade several years ago. That was a big deal. And it was exciting to watch on tv. I didn’t notice the sunny environment of California, however.
Is this still the objective? Regardless, watch the parade tomorrow. Kudos to the Valley Hunt Club of 1890. They came up with a great idea. Look how many people are now living in California.
English: Bicentennial Mexico ~ Rose Parade January 2010 ~ Pasadena, California Español: Bicentenario de México durante el desfile de las rosas en Pasadena,California. Enero 2010. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
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 saw a seagull today. I realize that is not an unusual observation for many. People always see them at the beach. After all, that’s where they belong. So, why the hell are they flying around my local Walmart’s parking lot? In West Virginia.
I came to Fairmont to go to college in 1974 and there were a few seagulls in the Middletown Mall parking lot. I was confused then and I am confused now. They have no business being in the mountains of West Virginia. That is against the laws of nature. Why, that would be like seeing a polar bear on a Miami beach, a rattle snake crawling along in the Arctic, or a moose hanging out in Central Park. So, after going through more “animals out of their element” scenarios, I decided I needed to learn more about seagulls and why they are in Fairmont, West Virginia. We only have streams and rivers. And they aren’t even cool rivers, like the Columbia…..or the mighty Mississippi. No, my seagulls are near the Tygart and the West Fork Rivers. There is no sand, no waves, no crabs to peck at. Why, oh why, are they flying above me in the freaking Walmart parking lot? The search was on.
Many people are perplexed as well. A woman wrote from Iowa about seeing seagulls in her Kmart parking lot. Many other land-locked puzzled people were wondering the same thing. Is it a migration route? And if so, where the hell are they coming from or going to in Iowa? That makes no sense at all. Iowa is too far away. And a blogging friend informed me that the seagull is the state bird of Utah. Utah! Seems that years and years ago locusts were eating a lot of crops and all of a sudden seagulls appeared and ate the locust. The Mormons saw that as a sign and the next thing you know, they’ve got a state bird. Apparently, the seagulls in that state like the brine in the Great Salt Lake.
Maybe the seagulls think West Virginia is part of Virginia. They, afterall, have Virginia Beach, seagull capital of a small stretch of beach. There are a lot of geographically challenged people out there who think West Virginia is western Virginia. Maybe the seagulls think the same.
Years ago, near Point Pleasant, West Virginia, people thought they saw a strange flying “thing” that was dubbed Mothman. Hysteria reigned in that small Ohio River town for many years afterwards. Mothman supposedly had red eyes, a large wingspan and could pick up a German Shephard and carry it off. There is even a statue to Mothman and a Mothman festival. But, a wildlife biologist said all along it was a sandhill crane, a large American crane almost as high as a man with a seven foot wingspan featuring red circles around its eyes. He said the bird may have wandered out of its migration route.
I guess not all birds know what the hell they are doing. Sure, Canadian geese flaunt their knowledge of their ABC’s by flying in a V formation. They fly south for the winter. Well, they used to until they decided that since these silly Americans are feeding them, they’d just stay all year long. We can’t get rid of them or their trail of slimy algae green poop.
So, maybe my Walmart seagull got lost on his way to Bora Bora or Aruba or where ever they fly on their migration route. I had no idea there were so many varieties of gulls. All I know is that they can attack. I know this because I watched Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. Tippi Hedren got pecked in the forehead by one.
In the end, I guess I feel sorry for the seagull who is living at the Walmart parking lot. Where does he sleep at night? Sitting on a light pole can’t be fun. Doesn’t he miss the sound of the ocean waves lulling him to sleep? And if he doesn’t leave, will the crows let him hang out with them? They are usually a tight group, not making friends easily.
I did just read that we may be confused by their name, as it implies the “sea.” Someone wrote there is no such thing as a “sea” gull. Gulls can adapt inland. Well, then maybe their name should change. Canadian geese are no longer Canadian….. Hermit crabs are quite social……a teddy bear hamster is not a damn teddy bear……
and a jumbo shrimp is not a big little thing. Whoever is naming animals is on drugs.
It all started with Groundhog Day, you know. There was a famous groundhog prognosticator in Pennsylvania, and soon after cities came up with their own weather fortune teller whistle pig. Such is the case with the big New Years Eve ball drop.
When you think of New Years Eve, all those who don’t live under a rock know about the ball drop at midnight in Times Square in fantastic New York City. I took a picture of it from the top of the Rockefeller Center when I was there this summer. It’s just not the same, I guess, as being there smooshed up against thousands of people on a cold, drunken New Year’s Eve.
The first ball drop in Times Square took place on December 31, 1907. According to Wikipedia:
“The first New Year’s Eve celebration in what is now known as Times Square was held on New Year’s Eve 1904. The New York Times newspaper had opened their new headquarters at One Times Square (at the time, the city’s second tallest building) and persuaded the city to rename the triangular “square” surrounding it for their newspaper (which the city later did on April 8, 1904). The newspaper’s owner decided to celebrate the opening of the company’s new headquarters with a midnight fireworks show on the roof of the building on December 31, 1903. Close to 200,000 people attended the event, displacing traditional celebrations that had normally been held at Trinity Church. After four years of New Year’s Eve fireworks celebrations, the newspaper’s chief electrician Walter F. Palmer constructed an electrically lit time ball that would be lowered from the flagpole on the roof of One Times Square. It was constructed with iron and wood, lit with one hundred 25-watt bulbs, weighed 700 pounds (320 kg), and measured 5 feet (1.5 m) in diameter. It was first lowered on New Year’s Eve 1908 (December 31, 1907).”
The Times Square ball drop is one of the best-known New Year’s celebrations, attended by at least one million spectators yearly. The Times Square ball drop has also inspired other drops across our great nation. So, if you can’t be there in New York City for the ball drop, and don’t really care to watch it on tv, you can always check to see if your city has a creative drop of their very own. Not all cities drop balls. Some cities use their famous icon to ring in the new year. It is obvious the state of Pennsylvania loves to share their symbols on New Years Eve.
* Saint George’s, Bermuda- a Bermuda onion wrapped in Christmas lights is dropped.
* Key West, Florida- A gigantic conch shell is dropped. There is also a gay bar that drops a giant ruby slipper with a drag queen inside. Fun times.
* Miami, Florida- The Big Orange Drop. Well, Florida is the orange capital of the world. “Mr. Neon” was recently renamed, “La Gran Naranja,” which I am thinking means the big orange. I really know my spanish.
* Atlanta,Georgia- The Peach Drop. Georgia loves their peaches.
* Gainesville, Georgia- Chuck the chicken drop in honor of the humane society.
*Harrisburg, Pennsylvania- strawberry drop.
* Tallapoosa, Georgia- they drop an oppossum. It started out as a joke and has now grown as their biggest yearly event. I hope it isn’t alive. The Possum Drop
* Cincinnati, Ohio- A flying pig is not dropped, but flown, maybe to show there is at least one time “when pigs fly”.
* Allentown, Pennsylvania- a replica of the liberty bell is dropped.
* Akron, Pennsylvania- a gold and purple shoe is dropped.
* Beavertown, Pennsylvania- a beaver is dropped. I hope to God it isn’t real. PETA would be all over them.
*Bethlehem, Pennsylvania- a Peep is dropped. Yes, one of those yellow Easter peeps. The company that produces Peeps is based there. I was happy to see they aren’t dropping baby Jesus in Bethlehem that night.
*Blain, Pennsylvania- a wooden cow is dropped from a silo. Moo.
*Cleona, Pennsylvania- a pretzel is not dropped, but raised. Why, Cleona, are you raising the pretzel? Not cool.
*Carlisle, Pennsylvania- an Indy car is dropped.
*Cornwall, Pennsylvania- a Cannonball Drop.
*Dillsburg, Pennsylvania- two pickles are dropped. I guess one should drop a pickle in Dillsburg.
*Duncannon, Pennsylvania- a sled is dropped….without any kids holding on I presume.
*Easton, Pennsylvania- a crayola crayon is dropped early in the night to accommodate little kiddie’s bedtimes.
*Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania- a giant M& M is dropped.
*Falmouth, Pennsylvania- a stuffed goat is dropped.
*Frogtown, Pennsylvania- a frog is dropped. This is getting sort of redundant, no?
*Gratz, Pennsylvania- a wildcat is dropped.
*Halifax, Pennsylvania- a hemlock tree. Oh, come on, now!
*Harrisburg, Pennsylvania- a strawberry is dropped. My son has been to this one.
*Hershey, Pennsylvania- a Hershey Kiss is dropped. Well, this makes sense.
*Hummelstown, Pennsylvania- a lollipop is dropped.
*Ickesburg, Pennsylvania- a french fry is dropped. These people are just bored.
* Lebanon, Pennsylvania- a giant stick of bologna is dropped.
*Lisburn, Pennsylvania- a pair of yellow pants is dropped. Can’t wait to read the history on this one.
*Liverpool, Pennsylvania- a canal boat is dropped.
*McClure, Pennsylvania- a kettle is dropped in honor of their Bean Soup Festival.
*Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania- a wrench is dropped. The Wrench Drop
*New Oxford, Pennsylvania- an antique trunk is dropped.
*Palmyra, Pennsylvania- The Giant Shoe is dropped.
*Pottsville, Pennsylvania- a bottle of Yuengling beer is raised. I bet those attendees are having fun that evening.
*Red Lion, Pennsylvania- a cigar is dropped.
*Shippensburg, Pennsylvania- an anchor is dropped.
*Strasburg, Pennsylvania- ping pong balls are dropped.
*Shamokin, Pennsylvania- a chunk of coal is dropped, turning into a diamond when it hits the bottom….like magic…oooh
*Hilton Head Island, South Carolina- a giant golf ball.
*Fredericksburg, Virginia- a pear is dropped.
*Mobile, Alabama- a moon pie is dropped. Yes, a moon pie and then the manufacturers of the moon pie hand out about 5,000 of them to revelers.
*Wetumpka, Alabama- a meteorite is dropped in honor of the meterorite that hit the city. Um, ok.
*Fayetteville, Arkansas- a hog is dropped.
*Panama City, Florida- a beach ball is dropped.
*Pensacola, Florida- a pelican is dropped.
*Des Plaines, Illinois- a diamond is dropped.
*Manhattan, Kansas- “The Little Apple” is dropped. I get it. Cute.
*New Orleans, Louisiana- a gumbo pot was dropped for a while. The new drop is Fleur-de-lis. Like I’m supposed to know what that is.
*Bartlesville, Oklahoma- an olive is dropped.
*Memphis and Nashville- a guitar and a music note.
* Plymouth, Wisconsin- a cheese wedge is dropped.
*Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin- a dead carp caught by locals is lowered.
* Show Low, Arizona- a deuce of clubs cards is dropped.
*Flagstaff, Arizona- a pine cone is dropped.
*Tempe, Arizona- a giant tortilla chip.
*Honolulu, Hawaii- a pineapple is dropped.
*Vincennes, Indiana- watermelon drop. Many engineering students across the nation drop watermelons and pumpkins throughout the year.
So, there you have it. There are New Year’s Eve celebrations all across the world. Many more cities just drop a ball, but some places use their representative symbol to usher in a brand new year. Happy New Year to all!
I have decided to have my own celebration….. I am going to drop a few pounds.
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.
My dad was one of those unfortunate souls who could not get a decent night sleep. I believe I was in junior high when I first noticed he was having a problem with insomnia. I guess after tossing and turning and turning and tossing, the poor guy would start roaming through the house while the rest of his slept. His night roaming was a disaster for the rest of the family at first. My mom made sure if he woke her up, he was going to wake up the whole damn family.
After tossing and turning, my dad would get up and turn the light on beside his bed. My mom and dad had separate twin beds just like the couples we watched on tv. Laurie and Rob Brady had single beds. But, when my dad would turn on his light, it would wake up my mom, who in turn woke us up next door.
“Dammit, Elwood, turn the light off!” Mom rarely cursed in front of us when we were little. Cursing in front of sleeping children didn’t count.
So, my dad would then stumble out of bed every night without turning on a light and would immediately yell out after walking into an object in the bedroom.
“Dammit! Son of a bitch!” This would be followed by my mom. “Quit waking up the whole household! You should know where the hell you are going.”
Since I was hyperactive, I had a hard enough time getting to sleep myself. I would also wake up if I heard as much as a pin drop. So, I could hear him get out of his bed, shuffle slowly like a ninety year old man wearing scruffy slippers, and then appear in the hallway and down the hall into the kitchen. Our house was not large, so the three bedrooms were grouped together at the end of the house. I could hear him turn on the kitchen lightswitch and then I would know what was coming next. He was heading to the refrigerator.
After a while, he wised up and purchased a small flashlight for his nightly forays into the kitchen. I could hear the refrigerator door open. It stayed open for a long time. My mom would yell at us if we stood too long with the refrigerator door open.
“What’s in there is in there. Nothing is going to magically appear. Get what you need and close the door……….It isn’t an air conditioner.”
But, I could listen to my dad’s nightly excursions and know he kept that refrigerator door opened for a long, long time. I don’t know why, but it made me smile. My mom yelled at my dad all damn day. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. The poor man was damned. She was the definition of a rolling pin woman. So, he had the power to keep the refrigerator door open in the middle of the night way past her imposed time allotment. You go, Dad.
By high school, I was moved downstairs. My sister and I fought so much and I kept telling my parents I needed my own room, so they eventually agreed and divided our large rec room into a small rec room and a bedroom for me. It was so quiet down there, except that I could hear faint walking on the floor above. I could no longer hear him or see a hint of light from my bedroom. I was so happy to be in my room, but I did miss my dad’s night walking a bit.
Flash forward years ahead to just last night. I made the mistake of drinking a Coke after 8p.m. That means disaster for me. I was stupid and wanted to stay up late getting some Christmas decorating done. I knew what was going to happen. And it did. Dreaded insomnia. I read statistics that stated 40-60% of people over 40 suffer from insomnia. Even if I didn’t drink that Coke, I haven’t slept through the whole night in years. Years. So, when I stared over at the clock on my nightstand and it said 2:35a.m., I was pissed. I wanted to get to sleep.
When I was little, I used to rub Vicks Vapor Rub under my eyes in order to keep them shut. It burned like hell and made me look like an idiot for doing it. (See my Vicks Vapor Rub post) So, that option was out. I thought about the proverbial counting sheep.
Who the hell started this “Hey, I know….if you can’t sleep, try counting sheep” scenario? I just didn’t get it. I visualized a fence with sheep going over it…..1……2…….3………the hell with this shit.
getting ready to jump over the fence
Really? Counting sheep? I had to google it.
According to Wikipedia, “In most depictions of the activity, the practitioner envisions an endless series of identical white sheep jumping over a fence, while counting them as they do so. The idea, presumably, is to induce boredom while occupying the mind with something simple, repetitive, and rhythmic, all of which are known to help humans sleep.”
I don’t know about you, but if the idea is to induce boredom, why not transfer boredom for relaxation and plant yourself on a beach with a book, listening to the waves crashing while counting each pebble of sand? I mean, at least put me in a relaxing situation, not in a field with sheep poop and a bunch of sheep bleating as they jump over a fence. Yeah, my sheep bleat while jumping, mainly because FREAKING SHEEP DON’T JUMP! I mean, maybe they can, but not like a horse…. or a mexican jumping bean.
If anything, shouldn’t one count sleeping sheep? Jumping sheep are active, so your mind stays active counting the little shits as they jump over the white fence (that needs painted, by the way.)
1…..2…..3……4….zzzzz
In the end, I guess what works for some may not work for others. Counting sheep is stupid, in my opinion. I just read about eight articles that agree with me, although the word “stupid” was not used in any of them. But, if you insist on trying to count sheep as a sleep aid, the best advice I can give you is to stock your refrigerator, because, like my dad and millions of other insomniacs, you will end up standing in front of it.
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.
A lot of people have bucket lists. You know, a list of things you’d like to do before you “kick the bucket.” For a lot of people, watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade live from the parade route is near the top of their bucket list. I now can cross this off of mine.
I flew to New York City to spend Thanksgiving with my daughter. At first we thought we would just get up a bit early, grab some breakfast and just head up to the parade route. I thought if I just snapped some pictures of the balloons from afar, that would be good enough. But, after googling and reading about the parade, I thought since we were there, we might as well do it right.
We woke up at 4:30 and were at Dunkin Donut at 5:00a.m. We decided we better not eat or drink anything since we wouldn’t be able to use the bathroom for at least five hours. That is really hard for me. I can’t even imagine taking kids to watch the parade.
We thought we were prepared for the weather. It was going to be 52 degrees and sunny for the day and when we left it was 43 degrees, so I knew we wouldn’t freeze. My daughter suggested I pack my Uggs and wear them to the parade. My Uggs were in a box in my closet. I had never worn them. I don’t know why. So, I packed them and put them on for our adventure. I also brought extra gloves for Alex.
So, we were off to the parade. We rode the subway and got off at 59th Street and Central Park. I read where the parade is top and bottom heavy, so I thought something along Central Park would be a good place to stand. Not too north, and definitely not south where people probably camped out all night. I’m thinking this way because we saw chairs and blankets saving spots along the parade route. That didn’t seem fair to me. That’s like how people run down in the early morning and put their towels down to reserve beach chairs at a resort. Except in this case, there was always one person standing over the reserved area. If you are going to want a place up front, get your ass out there and stand like the rest of us. Sort of pissed me off.
We finally found a little crack in the armor and were able to find a place right in front of Trump Plaza.
I looked around to make sure there weren’t any kids around. There’s nothing worse than being in one spot for hours with a lot of children. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m a fourth grade teacher after all. But, kids spill stuff and move around and hang on gates, and some will just not stop talking. I just wanted to wait for the parade without much fanfare. Morning was breaking, so we decided to sit down on the cold concrete and wait the time away.
My daughter looking excited to wait for hours
The time just went by slowly. I didn’t mind, however, since I like to people watch and eavesdrop on conversations.
Central Park was across the street. I love that place. There were blockades marked “Police Line: Do Not Cross” and that side of the street stayed vacant for a good part of the early morning. Later, I found out that ticket holders who were family members of the NYPD and firefighters were able to stand all along the Central Park side of the parade route. I thought that was nice. Soon, that side of the street was filled with people, but they did get to sleep in longer than us non-ticket holders.
It seemed like we waited forever. I knew better to drink my bottled water, but I did take a few bites of my Dunkin donut. We stood up and stretched, only to find three people now standing behind us. They were taller than us, so I am sure they were happy about that. We soon struck up conversations with all those surrounding us. Some people were from Louisiana. Some were from Connecticut. The couple to our left were from Brooklyn. I don’t know why, but I think people are a bit shocked when I say I’m from West Virginia, like we aren’t allowed across the state line or something. Someone asked me how I liked New York City. Sometimes I just can’t believe the things that fly out of my mouth.
“Well, I really never cared to visit a large city like this and never wanted to come here…. I’m all about raccoons and squirrels….blah blah blah.”
What? I few minutes later, my daughter looked at me, burst out laughing and said, “Really, Mom. That’s what you’re all about….raccoons and squirrels?” She started laughing at me so hard she was crying. It was so normal of me to say something so stupid. I just had to start laughing too. At least I wasn’t wearing camouflage like the lady from Louisiana. Maybe she understood me. She was probably all about crawdads or something.
Well, we could see a helicopter hanging out above us and we could hear sirens off in the distance. The parade was supposed to start at 9:00 up around 77th Street. We figured the parade would be to us around 9:30. And then it began.
We were excited
The police presence was just unbelievable. They were every where. There was a bomb sniffing dog that took a liking to Alex. A guy wearing a red cross button was walking the dog on our block repeatedly. He told the dog to give Alex kisses. Since we were sitting on the ground, the dog obliged and wagged his tail, taking a break from sniffing for bombs to love on Alex for a minute. He was sweet.
Kermit, sneaking up behind this cop
Some of the balloons seemed pretty sad, helium speaking. Kermit was low to the ground and saggy in some spots. A lot of them were like that. Kermit wasn’t going to look pretty for the cameras down in front of Macy’s department store. That’s when the people behind us told us there were floats and singers we wouldn’t see. What?? I wondered how the parade could start on NBC at 9:00, but yet we were on 59th and the parade didn’t get to us until 9:30. There was another street of performers and balloons somewhere that hooked up to where filming took place for the tv land people. They would perform and then go to the end of the parade. We began to feel gypped a bit. Who weren’t we going to get to see?
I really enjoyed all the people who were dressed up in crazy costumes. They were so full of energy and would come by giving up high fives and throwing confetti in our faces. It was fun.
I had fun laughing during the parade. Some of walkers were having a hard time balancing their heads.
It was fun seeing celebrities. We saw Jimmy Fallon and Kareem Abdul Jabbar. I was able to take a pretty good picture of some of them.
Whoopie Goldberg was a pirate. I don’t know why.
And then there were singers like Trace Adkins, who I didn’t really know about since I am not a country fan. I did notice he and his wife should have been happy that people from PETA weren’t around with some paint.
fur wearing people
I don’t know why I got so excited to see the cast on the Sesame Street float, but I did. I watched Sesame Street every day with my kids when they were young. So, I yelled Bob’s name.
Bob really had no choice but to look in the direction of the crazy lady screaming his name.
Bob is looking at me
Singer Flor ida…or Flori da…or Flo rida. I have no idea.
I yelled at Mr. Planters on top of the Peanutmobile to look over our way so I could get a good shot, but he wouldn’t look at me. What a nut!
Creepy elf balloon
In the end I took more than 75 photos. It was fun. I am now able to cross this item off of my bucket list. I still need to travel to Devil’s Tower, travel Route 66, and sit by Loch Ness with a rented bag piper, waiting with my camera for Nessie. I have a lot of items on my bucket list.
The Macy’s Day Parade is a once in a lifetime experience. Notice how I said, “once in a lifetime?” Would I do it again? Oh, hell no. Not in a million years. I was cold and I had to pee. But, I got to spend time with my daughter, and that was priceless. I missed my son, though. That would have made the day perfect. But, that perfect day will come when they both fly home for Christmas.
As we left after the parade, I took my best shot of my whole trip.
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 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.
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.
When I got home from teaching today, I decided to skip the gym and be a bum. After all, I had gone to work out four days in a row and deserved to sit one out. I looked at the clock and wondered if at 5:30, it was too early to put on my pajamas.
I usually change from my teaching clothes to my “house” clothes when I get home. My house clothes are generally anything worn without a bra. Mine comes off the minute I enter the house. Well, that was a lie. Sometimes I wait ten minutes. Bras are evil. I always want to utter a sigh when it comes off. Another lie…I do utter a sigh of relief. Guys have no idea.
So, back to putting on pajamas time. When do people put on their pajamas? I would imagine one would hang out in regular clothes and then retire to their bedroom and get changed for bed at bedtime, because, as we all know, pajamas are for sleeping in. So, am I wrong to want to put mine on so damn early? Now, I realize there are some who wear their pajamas all day long…..and to Walmart……and to buy a gallon of milk….or beer. Hugh Hefner comes to mind. I’m not talking about those people who obviously don’t care their pajamas go outside and then slide under the comfort of clean sheets. I think it’s just wrong to wear something to bed that you have worn outside of the home. Am I weird? No, not me. I do have a pile of socks beside my bed that I wear to bed because I can’t stand to go barefoot. I wear socks to bed because my little piggies are always cold. After an hour or so, my feet warm up, and they are flung beside my bed and lie there until I feel like bending over to scoop them up for the washing machine. And no, I’m not lazy. It’s my routine I have followed since I was in junior high. I am a beside the bed sock hoarder. There’s a difference between being lazy and being a sock tossing hoarder.
Anyway, it is now 6:15 and I am still wearing my work clothes. I’m miserable. I’ve been googling “fuzzy slippers 70′s” to find the perfect picture of slippers I wore when I was a teen ager. Oh, to have those fuzzy matted slippers on my feet once again. I loved those slippers.
Ah, fuzzy slippers
I wore those slippers all the time. Do they even sell fuzzy slippers anymore? I want a pair. Those were the one kind of slippers that made scuffing acceptable. You can’t just walk while wearing fuzzy slippers. You have to scuff. I want to scuff again.
In the end, I guess you could say that I really want to put my pajamas on at an early time. It’s now 6:30. I’ve written long enough. I’ve googled some time away. Is 6:30 an appropriate time to put on your pajamas? I guess you can tell I don’t do this very often. Early pajama wearing is normally for sick people. I’m not sick, you know…. physically.
pause
pause
pause
Ahh, that feels so much better. I love my cranberry fleece robe and my flannel long pajama top. I’m ready to hang out on the couch playing SongPop and watching Big Bang Theory. I love being a early pajama wearing bum. I feel like I’m getting away with something.
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.
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.
For those of you who have been following my blog for several years now, you know it is time for my Daylight Saving Time rant. Yes, it is time for all of us to take down our clocks and turn them all back an hour tonight. Well, it ends at 2 a.m. I am sure there are some people out there who are OCD enough to wait until exactly 2 a.m. to turn them back. The rest of us will change them before we go to bed tonight. I shall be mumbling and cursing as I change each time machine.
I just re-read my Daylight Saving Time posts from the past and it is clear I have issues with the stupid time change. And it is stupid. My economics professor son told me once there is a savings. I say “No way, Jose!” It messes up the workings of my inner clock and that’s all I care about. It takes me almost two weeks to feel normal again. Well, as close to normal as one can feel.
All I know is that it will now get dark earlier until Daylight Saving Time begins again on March 10, 2013, when we spring forward yet again. I find this yearly thing a little monontonous, especially when there are problems associated with this procedure…. My beside alarm clock adjusts itself. Well, my former clock adjusted itself and it is now in a landfill somewhere nearby. It decided to change back an hour on a Wednesday in the middle of October. I woke up an hour later than reality and barely made it to work on time. Damn Daylight Savings Time. I got to school and realized that I only put mascara on one eye. Maybelline hates Daylight Saving Time too, I imagine.
I think the only good thing about Daylight Saving Time is that it is also known to be a time to change the batteries in your smoke detector to make sure they work. The Energizer battery company endorses that, you know. So, you will be reaching and dusting and changing clocks and changing batteries tonight. Life just sucks.
Arizona, Puerto Rico, Hawaii, U.S. Virgin Islands and American Samoa do not observe Daylight Savings Time. These are the smartest people on the face of the earth. There are also 75 countries that do not observe the time change. Again, smart people. The rest of us should rise up against the machine. I have no idea what the hell that means.
Here are my Daylight Saving Time rants. I would write more today, but how many times can one beat a dead horse? Apparently, I try more than three times. See you in March for my next rant. I am not a happy camper when that one enters the picture.
You know, this is all George W. Bush’s fault. Yes, I realize he has enough blame on his plate, but he is the one that changed it to the first Sunday in November. I remember the day well:
On Monday August 8, 2005, then President Bush signed into law an energy bill that extended Daylight Saving Time by four weeks beginning in 2007. Since 1986 the United States had observed Daylight Saving Time from the first Sunday in April through the last Sunday in October. The new bill calls for Daylight Saving Time to begin three weeks earlier on the second Sunday in March and end on the first Sunday in November. Why? Why can’t this madness just end? No, Georgie wanted three more weeks of Daylight Savings Time….so we all could save what? I don’t know.
The mastermind behind Daylight Saving Time is Benjamin Franklin…. inventor, statesman, and someone who played out in lightning storms one time too many. He wanted to save candle burn time. Well, guess what? We now have freaking electricity.
In the end, I’m not saving a damn thing that I can tell. I’m wasting. I’m wasting time writing about Daylight Saving Time when I could be doing something more productive……like changing the batteries in my clock or something.
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 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 notice that animals and their ancestors never learned a damn thing about “looking both ways before you cross the road.” Parents always teach their kids that phrase. I’m glad I did. My son lives in Tbilisi, Georgia, where cars and trucks don’t really obey traffic lights or zebra crossings. It makes me a nervous wreck. My daughter lives in New York City. Need I say more?
So, on my way to work I have come across a higher than usual deceased creature lying on the road. Don’t they know the “side of the road- good. Road- bad?” Are they stupid? I’m thinking they are stupid.
Now, you have to understand that my mind wanders on the forty minute drive to work and most days I arrive in the parking lot and realize that I don’t remember the drive. I have that much on my mind. But, saying that, I still have time to take a look at the lump in or beside the road. And yesterday, I noticed there were too many of them. Did the population increase because we had a mild winter? If the food source is greater on the other side of the road, why the hell would momma raccoons have their litter across the heavily traveled road? Raccoons are smart little terrorists. I call the terrorists because they liked to terrorize me at my former home. I would feed them, and one night while I was outside, standing beside our pool, one went one way and the other went the other way and cornered me. Sure, they knew I was the food lady, but seeing a blop of red eyes coming from both sides does cause me worry. One night I heard my husband yell and one of the damn raccoons swiped one of his flip flops in his mouth and was heading over the hill to the woods. So, yeah, they are smart. But, yet, there were five dead raccoons on the road yesterday. Yeah, I counted them.
That’s the problem. I try not to look, but my eyes go right to the victim. It’s like I’m playing, “Guess That Dead Creature.” I know I’m not the only one who does it. Well, I stopped yesterday after seeing a poor little squirrel, lying on his back, with his arms up in the air. I knew that he would be squished and unrecognizable on my drive home. Years ago some drunk kids stopped and put an empty beer bottle in a dead ground hogs rigor mortised hands on the side of the road. It was funny, but it was not funny, because, well, I like wildlife. Groundhogs are especially stupid.
Groundhogs may know how to build tunnels and eat enough to sleep all winter, but they have decided that eating stuff right beside a busy road is the way to go. Oh, it is the way to go, for sure. I think groundhogs are the #1 road kill in the United States. Groundhogs are already famous with farmers for not being too smart. That’s why they are also called whistle pigs. Farmer would stand, waiting for the crop destroyer with their rifle, and then would whistle. Groundhogs stand up to see who whistled. And then the farmer pulls the trigger. Poor stupid groundhog.
I hate to tell you this, but there is a law in my state of West Virginia that allows people who hit an animal to take it home to cook it. I cringed when I first read that. I mean, West Virginia gets a bad rap as it is. Hey, I know, let’s add a ridiculously red neck law to make us look even more like country bumpkins. Ugh.
I take that back. Deer are the number 1 roadkill animal in the United States. I’m making that up, maybe. I didn’t look it up. I’m assuming deer because they are on every part of my drive every day. My husband (now ex-husband) hit deer more than seven times on his way to work. He drives like Mr. Magoo, so there is a slight chance that he was not on the road correctly to begin with. He always drifted over to the berm of the road. Stupid driver meets stupid wildlife road crosser. The end result can not be good for either.
Who’s stupider…the opposum, the street painter, or me for using the word, stupider? I’m thinking the street painter.
I guess my whole point with this post is to remind wildlife to please look both ways before they cross the road. We are still asking
“Why did the chicken cross the road?”
It wasn’t intended to be a joke, folks. It was more like, chickens asking each other when one of them didn’t come home.
“What the hell was Ruby thinking, crossing the road and all?”
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.
My seventeen year old cat, Whiskers, has decided that she doesn’t really care to use the litter box in the same manner that she has done for the previous years. I came home from work and found pee sitting in a puddle, smiling up at me. Well, it wasn’t smiling. Pee can’t smile for God’s sake. No, it was smirking.
Cats should be warned or taught that consistent jumping off of tall buildings will take a toll on their body down the road. Just ask any football player. Whiskers was a freaking acrobat in her early years. She loved hair thingy’s. You know, those coated bands to put your hair back in a ponytail. We would throw them up in the air and Whiskers would jump high in the air, contorting her agile body as she went after it. My mother in law used to save the blue plastic rings off of the milk containers. She absolutely loved those.
Whiskers used to jump on top of the counter and then somehow make it on top of my kitchen cupboards. I don’t know why she decided to head up there. There was nothing up there. But, she got around…. jump jump jump. And now, years later, I’ve got an arthritic cat on my hands. And all of a sudden I’m a cat care giver.
Still practicing
I came home Friday feeling dizzy and had already called for a sub for Monday. When I have bouts of positional vertigo, it stays with me for a few days if not longer, so I just took Monday off just in case. So, I wasn’t excited when I came home to see the pee puddle right in front of the litter box. What the hell? This meant I had to bend over and clean the mess up. I had visions of a couch, a quilt, and a lap top in my plans, not scrubbing my tiled bathroom floor. But, someone had to do it and Whiskers was busy lying in front of the sliding glass doors watching some damn bird pooping on my deck.
I guess I should be thankful that she decided not to poop and then walk in it. I try to think of a worst case scenario to make me feel better. That’s how I roll. I got all of my cleaning stuff and cleaned up the mess. The litter box had already been changed and cleaned the night before, so I know Whiskers was being persnickety about a soiled litter box. So, why the hell did she pee outside the litter box? She did this the last time I flew to New York City in August to see my daughter. I only stayed two nights and got back to a pee puddle smiling at me. But, the box was not cleaned and Whiskers was probably pissed at me for leaving. Cats get pissed you know.
After I cleaned up the mess, I began googling my cat is peeing beside the litter box to see if I had any company. I had plenty. Then I went with a more specific google search term: arthritic cat peeing outside the litter box. After the third and fourth time Whiskers peed outside the litter box, I actually wanted to search: goddamn cat pissing on the floor. So, I found out arthritic cats may not squat or put their paws on the lid of the litter box if they are hurting. Great. She already stopped grooming herself on her back where it must be hard to get to as an elderly cat, and mats of her pretty tortoise shelled fur look….gross.
I went on to read solutions. The box lid may be too high….hmmmm, could be true. So I googled and looked at images of homemade kitty litter boxes for arthritic cats. I saw two words that I understood…Rubbermaid and hand saw. Ok, that was three words. So, off to Walmart I went. I came home with another type of kitty litter box that had high sides. I bought some kind of saw that looked like a long file. It was pretty worthless. I do have a pretty Angry Birds band-aid on my finger when the saw slipped. I used a knife from my knife drawer and am lucky I didn’t stab myself in the stomach. How the hell would a detective make a ruling on that one?
”The victim, approximately 55 years old, but looking 40 (he would say that), was found lying in front of her front door with various knives, a saw and a plastic container. She had a knife sticking out of her stomach. Written in blood on the kitchen tile beside the body was the word, “Figures.”
After I placed the new kitty litter box beside the old one in my bathroom (no where else to put it), I put a doggy training pad I purchased at Walmart in front of the litter box because I was not going to clean up a pee puddle again. Doggy training pads look like a flat opened diaper. And then I waited. I kept watching Whiskers and knew that her internal clock knew it was 8:00pm and for some reason that is her bed time. I followed her up the stairs to see if she would like her new kitty litter box. Sure the edges are jagged and maybe the opening is a bit narrow, but she may like it.
Whiskers went right to the new litter box and stepped in. Yay! Oh wait. No yay. I hurried to turn her around. She meowed at me and then peed in the corner. I clapped like a mom whose child first used the big boy potty. What a loon. So, I determined that Whiskers was not just peeing beside the litter box. She was actually stepping into it but no turning around. Thus, her aim…or lack of aim, made the pee go on the outside of the box. Great. I would just hope that Whiskers would remember that for seventeen years she turned around to use the litter box and she would do the same again since I scooted her around for her to do her business.
No such luck. I got up in the middle of the night and the doggy training pad was wet. I replaced it and this morning it was peed on again. Those damn doggy training pads are $13.97 for 40, which means if she pees or poops (oh dear god I didn’t think about the poop) I will have to buy those suckers every ten days for the rest of her life. Great.
In the end, this means that I can not leave her overnight. I can’t go to New York to visit my daughter for even two nights. I’m afraid she will just pee on the pad, and if I am not there to change it, it will a freaking mess by the time I get back. I’m in quite a pickle as to what to do.
I love Whiskers and I really don’t know how long she has. Seventeen is really old. But, she is such a great companion and I really shouldn’t complain. I guess this is what elder care is all about…in one way or another.
I just don’t like smirking pee puddles. No one does.
When I was young, I was shocked when I first saw my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Garrity, at my church. The Mendenhall family went to Sunday school every Sunday, but went next door to Isaly’s afterwards instead of going to church. The Mendenhall kids were “too much to deal with.” And that would have been true. So, we would head upstairs for Easter and Christmas service only and call it a day.
Well, I never paid much attention to people who sat in the pews. I was a kid…with a pencil and small notepad. I wrote notes or doodled. I was mainly a doodler. My sister liked to take off her shoes and show me the hole in her socks. I think she wore the same damn pair of white anklets to church every Sunday. She never took her shoes off during Sunday school class, only when we had to sit during the long long service upstairs.
So, imagine my surprise when I saw Mrs. Garrity sitting one row ahead of me, diagonally across the pew. Damn, what the hell is she doing in my church? She’s a teacher. It was Easter Sunday, so I figured she was able to leave the school to attend church.
That same year I saw Mrs. Tucci, the sixth grade teacher, trying on shoes at Marlinn’s shoe store. I stared at her for the longest time when we came in to buy a brand new pair of penny loafers. I hid from her, which is hard to do in a small store. I was shocked. She never wore slacks, but there she sat, with her foot up in the air, letting some stranger put a shoe on her foot. How weird.
The reason I even remembered this is because I saw a third grader at Walmart the other day. She is in the classroom across the hall from me and I see her every day. But, she was with a sibling and they were at the top of the aisle staring at me. I heard, “There’s Miss Mendenhall.” I didn’t turn around immediately, but when I did, they took off. I had to laugh. It was the “Dear God, a teacher has been let out of the school” syndrome. Because, as everyone knows, teachers live at the school.
I wonder why kids look at teachers with surprise if they see them out anywhere. And their behavior is peculiar. They can’t be themselves. It is always a strain to talk to kids that I see out and about. They stare at what I am wearing. You know they are going to go home and tell their friends that they saw me and I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt and Dear God, my hair was back in a ponytail. I wish they would pay that much attention to detail in the classroom.
I had a cold last week and took a Kleenex out and blew my nose. Apparently, teachers don’t do that in front of the students. “Are you ok?’ one asked. Um, yes, I just have a cold, but thank you for asking. They continued to stare at me. One girl pointed at my Coke and asked, “Do you go through Hardees every morning?” Um, yes I do.
As I was watching the students at recess while I was on playground duty Friday, I took notice that none of the kids play actual games. There are swings and seesaws and sliding boards to keep their attention, but if they aren’t on one of those, they are usually running amok. There is screaming and chasing without reason. I don’t hear the words monster, villian, or bad guy mentioned at any time. They would never use the word villian anyway. They are just amok runners.
So, I stood there, trying to think back to when I was little. Did we act goofy like that? I mean, I am sure we did, but at least we were organized with a goal in mind kind -of- goofy. And that goal was to stay away from someone who had cooties or run faster than a fox or wolf who may be chasing us. And that made me think of playing Colored Eggs.
Colored Eggs was a childhood game that we brought to the playground. Well, I tried to bring it to the playground at the Sister Mary Mary Immaculate Academy. I played it at home with all the neighbor kids, and since we really didn’t have much in the way of a playground at this nun academy other than gravel beneath of swings and a leaning sliding board, our recess was a wash. So, I thought that I would mention Colored Eggs to the other kids standing around because they didn’t want to go down the slide ten times in a row because there wasn’t anything else to do.
The object of Colored Eggs was to be quicker than the fox. There was going to be a lot of chasing with this game. First, the kids had to decide who wanted to be the fox first. If no one spoke up, I volunteered, because, well, because I had my reasons. Then we all had to quietly pick a color. We sat in a circle on the grass when we played this game at home, but since the nuns had spread gravel under our feet so it would cushion our fall, gravel was not fun to sit on with your legs crossed.Plus we had to wear stupid uniforms. My skirt went down to my knees, so I could completely hide my legs under it while sitting down if I wanted to. And I wanted to. Back then we called it sitting Indian style. Nowadays I hear the kindergarten aide telling the kids to sit Criss cross apple sauce. What? See, this is one reason I don’t teach the little ones. Who would have thought that the way you sat down would be considered politically incorrect.
So, anyway, after everyone chooses a color and sits down, the fox stands to the back or side and calls out a color. The person that silently has that color needs to stand up, run quickly around the circle and get back in his or her spot before the fox can tag them on the back. We sat in a wide circle. For some reason I always always called yellow. I called yellow because I knew that every time we played Adele Stillman would pick yellow. She never changed her color. I would position myself close to her so that when I called yellow, I would be on top of her. Was that cheating? No, I was a fox, dammit, and foxes are crafty. I was being crafty.
I yelled, Yellow, and Adele took off. Too bad I knew her past behavior and I was on that chick faster than you can say creamed chicken on biscuit. She was now the fox and I had to quietly pick a color. Sometimes kids picked the same color and it was easy for the fox to pick off someone. When it was my turn to sit on the fun gravel, I had to move those ugly gray rocks around and position myself to where there wasn’t a piece of gravel biting me somewhere, like my butt. Once I was comfortable, I wasn’t going to get up and run around. I was done. So, I picked an odd color.
My mom unknowingly helped me master this art of not playing the game.
“Mom, what are some other colors beside yellow, green, blue, red, and white?”
I thought gold or silver would be good enough but the next time we played the damn fox called out silver. I had to jump up and wrinkle my nest of smooth gravel with my shoes as I took off to avoid the fox. And trust me, it is not fun to run from the fox around the circle and then plop yourself down once you made it around safely. It’s a hard landing and I had little sharp gravel points all over my legs and butt. Stupid gravel spreading nuns.
“Can you think of other colors?” Surely my mom didn’t think I was asking because I wanted to broaden my color horizon.
My mom took me downstairs where she kept all of her thread for sewing. It was like a goddamn rainbow. She read the colors off the thread for a good five minutes. “……..and there’s beige, maroon, turquoise, violet, burgundy, lime, pink, lavender, and umber.” I never understood why she had so many colors. I don’t remember her ever making me a top that had lime in it. She came home with a spool of thread every single time we went to Grants Department Store. She was a thread hoarder I am sure.
Anyway, I had an arsenal of color names that were just not used when playing Colored Eggs. After volunteering to be the fox first, I could make my bed and lie on it, never to get marked up by gravel again. Stupid nuns.
I knew that there would be no way anyone would ever call, “Umber!” That sort of made me chuckle. Of course, I had no idea what the hell umber was, but my mom was the one who told me it was brown like, so the rules did not state to use common colors. I was a very smart second grader I thought. But it was all in the name of not getting sharp gravel biting me on the butt.
I also realized that you could lie. I mean, who the hell knows what color you picked? You didn’t have to write it down. I learned that after some smartie said my color, “violet” and I just really didn’t want to run, you know, because of my nest. So, when Winston demanded to know my color, I would say one that hadn’t been called yet. I realized that pretty soon they were all going to be mad at me, so I would oblige once in a while to take sharp gravel on my ass for the team.
All in all, playing Colored Eggs was fun. I taught my own children strange colors like magenta, and ecru, but realized that they had grass to play on. Being a yellow or a red was not so bad…..if you could out run the fox.
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.
I admire teachers who have little class pets in their classroom. Well, not really. But, you have to give them some credit for the extra duty contract they take on by hosting live things in their classroom. Someone has to feed them every day. Someone has to change their habitat. And there are benefits. Some children do not have the opportunity to own a pet. And they could, after all, save your life one day, like the little ferret in Kindergarten Cop did. He was hiding in a student’s jacket, and jumped out and bit the bad guy. The little fellow saved the entire school. You know it could happen.
As I walk down the hall each morning, I can see the little habitrails for Mrs. Karr’s hamsters. I don’t know what else she has in her room. I am sure her second graders appreciate having furry little fun. Further on, I can smell the African frog in Mrs. Arthur’s room. She couldn’t find the lttle hopper one morning. An all-points bulletin was put out for him. I have been feeling sorry for the frog for a year or two now. It just sits in a small aquarium, just hanging there, with its face above water. Poor thing. The whole room smells like algae water. Until last week, she finally changed it.
She changed the water and filled it up too high. Somehow overnight, the frog got out of the aquarium via a small hole at the top of the container lid and made a run for it. Well, it made a hop for it. She was shocked. She thought that he should be found dead near the container. I thought for sure it floundered or hopped somewhere in her classroom. The kids would surely find the froggy, dead and covered in dust bunnies. I am positive the frog commited suicide. I mean, if I was that frog, I would have made a hop for it long ago.
It made me think back to Beepo and Geepo. I had always owned weird animals. I had a salamander named Newt. Thumper the skunk joined our household when I was in college. I had Igor the iguana between my hamster Growl Bear and my Guinea pig, Quincy Bozo. I’m surprised my roommates didn’t frown upon the new additions I brought home with me throughout the years. Especially Beepo and Geepo.
Beepo and Geepo were African frogs that I bought when I was in high school. I think I was in high school. My bff Ramaine and I bought them on the same day. I had them forever. One day Beepo died. Or maybe it was Geepo. It was hard to tell them apart. They weren’t wearing collars. They must have been identical twins. My roommate, Paula, started complaining about Beepo/Geepo chirping every night.
“Vickie, your damn toad is chirping. He chirps all night long.”
“Oh, he does not. He is under water. Frogs can’t chirp.” I imagined that maybe he could “blurp.” But, chirp, oh hell no. I also wanted to remind her that there is a difference between a frog and a toad. Get it right, Miss Fairmont State beauty queen.
Well, I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and heard a cricket chirping. Well, I’ll be. Beepo/Geepo was chirping. Aww, he was crying out for his mate. I felt awful for him. So, I made sure that I tapped his glass and paid more attention to him, which is a little hard to do.
I honestly don’t remember how long Beepo/Geepo lived after that. They can live for a long time. Ramaine’s frog lived forever and grew to be the size of a…..baby bullfrog.
So, as I applauded when they found Mrs. Arthur’s African frog alive, I also felt sorry for it. It just hangs there in the water all freaking day…in greenish water with a fake plant nearby. Her class takes turns feeding it and well, that’s all you can do with an African frog. I’m thinking it needs a friend. I’m going to bring that up at the next Faculty Senate meeting. Ok, I sure as hell will not, but dammit, I can’t stand walking by it every day and I know it is lonely. And it makes me think of Beepo and Geepo, circa 1976.
I know that you are probably wondering if I also have class animals in my room, and the answer would be, “Oh, hell yeah.” I have spiders and other crawling things that the kids scream when they see one by their desks. I rescue it with a sheet of notebook paper and put it back on the windowsill. I would not have a class animal because I would not teach. I would be watching that damn rodent going around and around in its wheel. The kids would not be listening to a damn thing I said. I was not attentive when I was a child, so I am sure I would be distracted by a hamster biting at the metal bars trying to get the hell out.
I remember two years ago getting ready to step out into the hall when I noticed something near my feet. Mrs. Arthur also had a damn hermit crab in her classroom that escaped somehow and was walking down the hall. She let the kids decorate its shell, so I could see the shiny sequins as it clawed its way to me. I remember sitting down at lunch, saying, “I almost stepped on Diana’s goddamn hermit crab this morning.” See, it was trying to get the hell out of that classroom. Her gerbil, Digger, escaped for days last year. There is a pattern going on here. I’m thinking pets don’t want to be in Mrs. Arthur’s room and they are planning and executing prison breaks.
I do have a pet panda. I put the Panda Cam from the San Diego Zoo on one of the computers so they can watch the new baby panda. I told them that this was our class pet. They don’t see to have a problem with that at all.
I think about my African frog pets a lot, only because of……….Lonely, the one across the hall. I just named him.
I hate when I wake up in the morning and feel absolutely drained. I might as well just stay up all night playing Solitaire or Angry Birds. I was tired. I also remember waking up in the middle of a horrible dream. I was sitting in the backseat of a car when something hit us and the person sitting beside me flew out of the car and the people in the front were, well, dead. I remember cowering and I brought up my legs and put my fists in front of my face.
Well, I woke up right about then. I had broken out in a sweat and my heart was racing. Stupid dreams. I looked at the clock. It was 5:45. Dammit, I had to get up to get ready for work at 6:00. It felt like I didn’t sleep at all. My car wreck dream took a lot out of me, it seems.
Well, um. boy did it. I got up and took my shower. I walked over to my mirror and noticed a mark under my eye. I took a washcloth, thinking I was a dirtball and didn’t wash off my mascara very well, even though I washed my face before I went to bed. It didn’t wipe off. That’s when I noticed it. I had a bruise under my eye.
As I looked closer, I noticed that the left side of my face was slightly swollen. Seriously, what the hell?
I stared at my face. Maybe the swelling was just my imagination. Nope. It was swollen. Puffy face. So, I stood there, perplexed. I had a bruise under my eye and a swollen face. Again, what the hell?
I remembered the dream and how I woke up right when I thought something was getting ready to smash into me. Dear God, did I punch myself in the face? Is it really possible to beat yourself up?
And why couldn’t this have happened when I was still married? I’m sure I had plenty of “I could just kill you” dreams. What fun it would have been to just punch in my sleep.
Then I wondered if I got out of my bed during my dream state. Don’t think I didn’t rush downstairs to take a look at my car. You read about sleep walking and sleep driving all the time. Thank goodness my car didn’t have any dents.
According to emedicinehealth.com, “Patients with REM sleep disorders may act out distinctly altered dreams that are vivid, intense, action-packed, and violent. Dream-enacting behaviors include talking, yelling, punching, kicking, sitting, jumping out of bed, arm flailing, and grabbing.” That would be me. I was diagnosed with the inner ear disorder, Meniere’s Disease, in 2000, and also nystagmus. My eyes like to flit side to side. I must have had nystagmus when I was little as my mom knew in a heartbeat when I was telling a lie. But, apparently, my eyes like to move around a lot. So, at night, I don’t really get any rest, especially when I decide to dream about violent car accidents. What a loon. Seems to me that I could qualify as a patient…..of the REM sleep disorder kind. One disorder at a time, Vickie.
So, if you ever get upset about something and a friend tells you, “Don’t beat yourself up over it,” they don’t mean that literally, ok? Because, in the end, you really can beat the hell out of yourself. I’m proof.
And if you ever dream that you are in a car accident, make sure you fasten your seatbelt, ok? It saved my life.
I remember being so nervous when I started fourth grade. I had spent my first three years of school at a private school in Wintersville, Ohio, that was run by a coven of sadistic nuns. (Notice that “coven” actually means “a group of witches.”) I did that on purpose. I hated going to that school. I begged my mom about every day to let me attend Edgewood, our local public school. I was so excited when I found out I was going to switch schools in the fall.
“ Vickie, we are going to let you go to school with your friends this year.”
I loved how she said, “we.” My dad had no say in the matter. My mom was a rolling pin wife and my dad was Wally Cox. He had no spine when it came to her. He hid behind his newspaper and made faces at her when she wasn’t looking. Oh, how I loved him. She would yell at him and he would just take it. Then, he would hop on his little red tractor to cut the grass, and run over her flower bed. And he would look over at me and smile. He knew he was going to get yelled at.
So, back to me. I couldn’t wait to attend school with my bff, Ramaine. We could ride the bus together and sit by each other in class and everything was peachy keen. Well, except that it wasn’t. I had Miss Emler.
Aunt Bee (Frances Bavier) in her kitchen and apron, from “The Mayberry Chef.” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Miss Melvina Emler. I honestly do not remember much about her. When I think of her, I picture Aunt Bee from The Andy Griffith Show, but she looked nothing like her. And she definitely didn’t act like her. I just spent three years at the Little Jesus Baby Immaculate Conception, a school with nuns. Oh, not just any common nuns, if there even is such a thing.I’m talking about the evil kind. I wanted to come to Edgewood and see balloons and unicorns and lollipop gardens. Instead, I saw the Dumb Row.
I’ve briefly mentioned Ms. Emler’s Dumb Row before, but it made me think of it yesterday when day-dreaming how wonderful it would be to have a marine standing beside one of my fourth graders to help them listen to my directions so they don’t repeatedly ask a hundred times a day “So, what are we supposed to do?” I frowned though, at remembering Ms. Emler’s Dumb Row. I really tried hard not to be placed in that row for stupid kids.
When I entered the classroom that first day of public school, I was a happy child. I was with my best friend and all the neighbor girls that I hung out with after school and throughout the summers. This was going to be great. But, also remember that I was as hyper as Speedy Gonzales on speed. My mom tried to minimize that by slipping me a mild tranquilizer every morning before school and disguised it as a “car sick pill.” Thanks, Mom. Did it help? I have no idea, but I think that it may. It didn’t help with my car sickness, however. I had no idea that I was being tranquilized every morning. Who does that to a child? My mom.
Anyway, I had my hyper moments, I am sure, but seemed to do well in fourth grade. I stared at that Dumb Row sign daily and never wanted to stit there.The row was never empty. It was one of those old row of oak desks that were connected to each other and bolted to the floor. There were three boys who sat in the Dumb Row almost every day: Nickey, Bert, and Joe. I changed their names so they won’t get pissed it they read their names here. The chances are slim.
These boys lived in the Dumb Row. Years ago, teachers got away with that crap. You could grab a kid by the arm, drag him to a Dumb Row, and then smack the shit out of him. I don’t remember any smacking, but I remember plenty of talking down to students because, well, I was one of those. Ms. Emler apparently thought I was a wise-guy one day and put my ass in the Dumb Row.
It’s amazing how you can remember something that happened when you were in fourth grade but can’t remember what you did fifteen minutes ago. I can vividly recall the first day Ms. Emler put me in the Dumb Row. We were going over our homework for Spelling. We had to write sentences, using each of our spelling words. We were studying compound words at the time. She would say each spelling word, and then pick a student to read the sentence we had for that word.
“Cardboard…..Vickie, read the sentence you have for cardboard.” She stood right in front of me, holding her teacher’s manual to her chest. I would gladly read my sentence, for I was quite creative in my sentence formations.
” I live in a cardboard box.”
I don’t know why she just stared at me. Didn’t she hear me? She must not have. I read it again, this time with feeling. “I live in a cardboard box.” I think I may have sounded like a flaming gay guy the second time. The students laughed. Ms. Emler did not.
“What kind of sentence is that?” Ms. Emler slammed her teacher’s manual on my desk. What the hell.
“Um…..it’s a ……………….declarative sentence?” I didn’t know what she expected from me. I had my homework. I wrote complete sentences. I answered her question correctly. What the hell.
“Vickie, you do not live in a cardboard box! I have been to your house. That sentence is absolutely ridiculous! Go sit in the Dumb Row!
Corrugated shipping container, one type of “cardboard box” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I had never seen Ms. Emler so mad. The only thing I could think of was that she must live in a cardboard box somewhere and the subject was a little touchy. But, that couldn’t be true. Oh, sure, she wore the same five dresses every week, but where would she hang them if she lived in a cardboard box? They don’t have closets. I didn’t get it.
I quietly stood up and glanced over at the empty seat waiting for me in the Dumb Row. I’ve always had this thing about inanimate objects, and I really think that row of seats was happy I was going to sit there for a while. I saw the sign on the first desk, announcing the row. The three goof ball boys looked shocked, which is better, I guess, than the blank look that sat on their face most days.
I burst into tears. I didn’t understand why I had to go sit in the Dumb Row. Dori and Kathleen smiled at each other. They thought it was highly amusing that I was going to sit in the Dumb Row. I stuck my tongue out at them and then continued on with the crying. Not good, Vickie.
Miss Emler thought I was sticking my tongue out at her, behind her back.
“Ok, you can just sit there all week, Vickie. You don’t live in a cardboard box and you should never disrespect a teacher.”
I didn’t understand that last part. How can you disrespect a teacher for crying and walking over to the Dumb Row? I wrote a goddamn complete sentence. I skipped a line. I used my best penmanship. I even underlined the spelling word like we were supposed to. Why can’t I live in a cardboard box? I didn’t understand.
So, I sat and cried all week in the Dumb Row. Every time I looked at Miss Emler I saw Sister Dominica from the Jesus Mary and Joey Immaculate Academy.
And so when I broke out of my daydream, I looked over at my fourth grader who asks for directions immediately after I give directions and write the directions on the board. It happens a zillion times a day. It’s tiring. But, I don’t want to be a Miss Emler. I don’t want to be a mean teacher. I am not allowed to have a Dumb Row.
So, I went over the directions yet another time. I will try not to lose my mind.
It’s really easy to get me addicted to new things. After my divorce, my friends talked me into coming over to Facebook….to farm. I did. Farmville kept me up late at night. Well, someone had to harvest the damn wheat crop. And then Pinterest reeled me in. I have over one hundred boards. Why the hell would I need one hundred boards? Yes, I’m easily addicted. I’m just glad I never started smoking.
Several months ago I started playing Angry Birds. I mean, what the hell is wrong with me? I play one game a day and am in a weekly tournament. And this on top of writing two books this summer. As I look around my living room, I notice that it is neat as a pin. Well, it should be since I have been on this damn computer most of the time. And now SongPop has invaded my life. But, I’m not too happy about this one.
SongPop is my newest obsession. A friend invited me just last week to play them in this fun Facebook game. I didn’t understand how to play at first, so I was already screwed for the week. A friend sends an invitation to listen to a few tunes and then you can pick the answer from four choices. No one told me there was a time limit. Right now I am playing about nine people. And I’m ready to throw in the towel and I will tell you why.
This game is a great test of reaction times. Most of the people I play are about 20 years younger than me and I can’t press the button fast enough. I know a lot of the answers, but it’s like I mosey on over to the button with my mouse. What the hell? This is a sure way to let me know that I am getting old. It’s actually pissing me off, because I am actually really trying and I just can’t ring in fast enough. I’d suck if I were on Jeopardy.
A Facebook friend wrote that she was done with SongPop due to the fact that she feels that she has a neuropathy problem. She is a sarcastic lass like me, and I hope she doesn’t really think that she has a problem. I’m just pissed off that age has robbed us of our rapid fire response finger. We are getting old and SongPop has just slapped us across the face. We can’t play with the big dogs anymore. Well, I guess I should only speak for myself. I can’t play with the big dogs anymore.
But, that’s not all. I don’t know music like I used to. I still know all the words to Aqualung and Hotel California. I know my Disco and Classic Rock. I don’t know a damn thing about Modern Rap or Latin Radio. My daughter was home this week and she sat on the couch playing SongPop and would send me songs in the Latin Music genre. Thanks, sweetie.
The fastest I have been able to buzz in on a song is Ice Ice Baby. How sad is that?
In the end, I guess the older I get, the worse my response time will be. Pretty soon someone will take my car keys away from me for fear that I will hesitate and then pull in front of a truck or something.
But, then again, I always sucked at Hungry Hungry Hippo. Maybe it’s just me.
I’ve been to New York City to visit my daughter several times, and let me tell you, it is exhausting. Every time I come home I am pissed at myself for being out of shape. And people, if you plan to visit New York City, you will walk. Oh, sure, there will be some of you who taxi from one place to the next. That is thesmart thing to do. I am one of the stupid tourists.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I had a great time in New York. I love New York. But, my daughter walked me all over the damn place. And I will admit that I need to lose weight. I was able to lose 22 pounds last year and did pretty well hoofing it around NYC last summer when we went apartment hunting. Oh, hell, that’s a lie. I was ready to have a stroke. Like I said, I’m not very smart. I picked 90+ degree weather to walk around the city. I’m beyond stupid. This year was the same.
My journey to NYC is not quick. First I have to drive two hours to Pittsburgh International Airport. I have to park in the extended long term parking lot, which is not close to the terminal. By the time I make it to the building, I really want to just stand on that people mover thingy. When I hear someone coming up behind me, I will start walking, but I don’t wanna.
After my nice flight with Jet Blue, I arrived at JFK airport. I like airports. Just thought I would mention that. I don’t know why taxi cab men scare me, but I feel like I am imposing on them. So, I head outside to the ground transportation area and buy a $15.50 ticket to ride the NYC Airporter bus. It takes a while to exit the airport, as the bus driver stops at each terminal. I didn’t mind. As long as I didn’t have to drive through New York, I don’t care if I was on the back of a donkey. Again, quite a lie. I would care.
The bus dropped me off at Grand Central Station, where I have to find the 6 Local Uptown train. Again, it’s easy. Well, except that I found out while I was on the subway that the Local 6 was not working this particular day. What? I’m on the local 6. Well, apparently it is allowed to change to be called the Express 6 which bypasses my stop. Someone sitting next to me tells me that I can get off at 125 and then take the local 6 downtown to my stop. What?
So, I get off the stop and walk across to the train going in the other direction and hop on, hoping it is the right one. It was. I then walked a couple of blocks to where my daughter was meeting me for lunch. I could see her smiling at me. I know that smile. I am doing somethig stupid.
“Mom, you are such a tourist. You don’t need to look both ways when it is a one way street.”
We had a nice lunch and walked back to her apartment so I could drop off my carry-on. Our plan for the day was to head to the Brooklyn Bridge and then head over to High Line. We walked the several blocks up the hill to the subway. I had to stop several times on the way up. I am weak. We got off the subway on Chambers Street. I had never been this far south before. So, there was the Brooklyn Bridge. And it was all boarded up on the sides of the bridge for construction. I had no idea we were going to actually walk over to the other side. What?
My daughter on the Brooklyn Bridge
Well, we had to walk over to the other side. I don’t know why. Because everyone else was doing it? There was nothing to see for quite a while. We stopped and wrote our names on some plywood…because everyone else was doing it.
It took us forever to get to the other side. And it was 90 degrees and 2:00 in the afternoon. Where the hell are the clouds? I was complaining a lot. My daughter told me to stop. I stopped.
It’s a 1.3 mile walk, but it takes a long time to walk due to the amount of foot traffic….and baby strollers…..and people like me who take pictures along the way and complain about the heat and stop alot. But, I was glad I did it. Because when we got to the other side, there was a park. And that park had a water taxi. Oh, hell yeah, I was on that thing.
The water taxi cost $25 and takes people around the statue of Liberty, past Ellis Island and Battery Park and up the Hudson. It makes stops along the way for those who want to get off in a different stop. I sure as hell didn’t want to walk back over the Brooklyn Bridge.
It was pretty cool. The taxi was huge and besides those who just wanted to look from inside the air conditioned lounge area, there was an upper berth and lower outside viewing areas. It was nice. We opted to get off at one of the piers on the Hudson, Christopher St., Pier 45 on West 10th Street.
This is also Grenwich Village, which was pretty darn cool. We walked past a Bareburger, where we had an early dinner. After that, my daughter wanted to take me to High Line Park. We had to walk again. I thought she was taking me to a normal park. Boy, was I surprised when I saw High Line. High Line is a park built on an elevated freight line railway. The freight line wasn’t in use since the early 1980′s. It was slated for demolition as it became an eyesore for those who lived in the neighborhood. One man’s crusade led to the development by the city of New York to create this elevated park. It is magnificient. We walked along the park until a storm hit us. That’s not the best place to be when a thunderstorm approaches you. Luckily, there were places for all of us to hide. We then hailed a taxi and headed back to the apartment. We had great aspirations for the next day. We were going to wake up early and head to the local bagel shop for breakfast and then rent bikes in Central Park. However, we ate a huge breakfast and opted to go back to bed for a little bit. We then showered and headed via subway down to visit the Top of the Rock. I’ve always wanted to visit Rockefeller Center and see the ice skating rink and the NBC Studios. It didn’t disappoint. Several blocks are pedestrian only, and it is just a really neat area. We finally found the place where we were to buy tickets to the Top of the Rock. I wanted to see Central Park from the top of this building. It was great.
After we left Rockefeller Center, I looked at my watch. We were late. My daughter wanted to go to the Colbert Report Studios to see if we could get standby tickets to that night’s show. We were supposed to be there by 2:30. So, we started walking. We had to go to 54th Street. We were on 50th Street. The Colbert Report was filmed on 54th Street. We had to hurry. Oh, but wait. We got to 54th Street. Alex asked a doorman and he told her it was about four blocks to the west. What? Four long ass blocks. We walked some more. And walked some more. We passed by where The Letterman Show was filmed. Nope. We kept walking. I was ready to give up. We had to be there in ten minutes. Not going to happen. I really thought she got the address wrong. We were headed into a less commerical area, one that had auto repairs and……nothing else. My daughter was laughing at me. Finally, we found it.
It was 2:40. We didn’t make it. Alex walked up the steps and a guy stepped out of the office. He told her that we needed to go stand by that garbage can. He pointed to….a garbage can. Someone would be out at 4:00 and hand out stand- by tickets if there were any to give out. It was a slight chance that we would get tickets and we had to discuss this.
Well, right by the garbage can was a narrow covered alley and there was a guy sitting there eating lunch. He told us he was in line for tickets. Except he had tickets. Oh. So, we were screwed. We stood there talking to another couple who came to stand in line. They too had tickets, but came to stand in line, because if wasn’t a certainty even with tickets that you could get in. I was ready to give up when the couple told us they had 2 extra tickets that we could have. What? Omg.
So, we sat and stood in line from 2:40 until they came out at 4:00 and took our information from our driver’s license and then left. Now there were two lines…one for ticket holders and one who were stand-by’s.
We were now full fledged ticket holders. They let us go into the studio at 5:50. We had to go through a metal detector and hang out in the lobby for a long time. We took pictures.
So, we got to watch the Colbert Report being filmed. Since, we got there so early, and they took us in after the VIP people, Alex and I were #7 and 8 to be seated. It was great. By the time we got out, it was time to hail a taxi and head to a Thai restaurant in Upper East Side. We then walked to her apartment. I was one tired tourist/mom.
I left early the next morning. I hope to return in the fall sometime when the weather is a bit cooler. I’d like to see the 911 Memorial this time…and Central Park again. I missed it this visit.
I must live under a rock. I have no idea what the hell is going on most days. And then I get laughed at for being such a dingbat. I mean, I’m fifty-five. Is that old? I don’t feel old. Well, I do moan when I bend over to pick things up. Ok, I’m old.
But, I always thought that I was with the times. My mother-in-law used the word “dungarees” for jeans until the day she died. My mom favored, “pocketbook.” I don’t think she ever used the word, “purse.” I thought I understood contemporary slang. Nope. Not at all.
It all started with me overhearing one of my kid’s friends saying something about watching MTV Cribs.
MTV Cribs (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I think this was like when it first came out circa 2000. Well, hell, I thought they were talking about singers who had children. Seriously. I really did.
“I didn’t know that Moby had children?” I thought I was really with it because I knew who Moby was. I got laughed at. Then it was explained to me that cribs=homes.
“That’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid.” My daughter laughed at me. Well, I guess I was. It didn’t get any better. I sure as hell had no idea that “hooking up” meant having sex with someone. How casual people are speaking nowadays. I heard this on tv one night:
“So, did you guys hook up last night?” Back in MY day that would have meant “So, did you guys meet somewhere last night and then go to the movies or something?” And yet, my daughter is the one who scoffs at me because I still use the phrase, “Are they going together?” Well, hell, back in the 70′s that meant going steady. What the hell is wrong with that?
So, now I am getting really made fun of at the school where I teach because I didn’t understand “That’s what he said.” WTF are you talking about? Evidently, I often say things that my perverted co-workers laugh at and then insert that comment. I didn’t know why. And that made them laugh harder. I mean, why say that after I talk about the snow fall from the night before. “I only got an inch or two last night.”……that’s what she said. It took me a while.
My biggest misunderstanding came from the History Channel show, American Pickers. Just a few months ago, after talking about heading out to go antiquing, someone asked me if I ever watched American Pickers. I thought that was a pretty random comment, considering we were talking about antiques.
“No, to be honest, I am not a real big fan of Country music.”
Yeah, so they laughed. Hell, I didn’t know it was about guys hunting around barns and whatnot for antiques and collectibles. I thought it was about people playing fiddles and banjos. Seriously.
So, it was no surprise that I didn’t understand my two friends when we were leaving dinner last night and they were laughing and making motions with their arms like a “raise the roof” motion. I drove up to them and rolled down the window.
“Padiddle!” They both yelled and then laughed. “You’re headlight is out, Vickie.” Of course, it doesn’t pay hanging out with girls in their late twenties when I am in my mid-fifties. I realized I have no idea what the hell is going on. So, I just laughed.
So, when they read this blog post, they will laugh again because I am just so clueless about Padiddle. I had to look it up on Wikipedia:
“Padiddle is a night-time travel game with the objective of earning points by spotting vehicles with a burnt-out headlight. You must say “Padiddle” and hit the ceiling of the car as fast as you can, while driving.”
So, Sheena and Erin were laughing because it is a game that is supposed to be played in the car while traveling. I thought they were laughing at me because I just bought this car and it already had its headlight burned out. I guess that makes me feel better…….. No, don’t feel better. I’m still a dingbat.
I don’t remember my kids ever playing “Padiddle.” I sure as hell didn’t teach them. And if they played it and I don’t remember them playing the car game, then I have bigger problems than not knowing what things mean.
I am too old for this shit. Why can’t we just keep playing Slug Bug?
I just cranked out my second book. I finished my first book on July 7 and have been working on this one ever since. I didn’t get to go to the beach this summer, so I concentrated on my writing. This book is up for sale as an ebook on Amazon also.
I have always been a fool for play on words Halloween costume ideas. Some of you may remember my Halloween posts every October in which I share more costume ideas. I bought an idiom two weeks ago and have been highlighting those idioms that I could turn into Halloween ideas. I uploaded the damn book before I realized that I hadn’t even added the ones I found in the idiom book. Live and learn.
Anyway, if you plan to attend a Halloween party or wear a costume to work or school, this book has something for everyone. Check it out. And I am going to have to start visting my gym again. I’ve been writing non stop and doing not much else.
There are advantages to going places by yourself. You can set your own time limits, do what you want, and go home when you don’t want to be there anymore. You can’t do that when you are with other people. Well, I guess you could, but I am thinking your circle of friends would get a little smaller each time you brought down your gavel.
Ever since I visited the Bronx Zoo in April while visting my daughter in the Big Apple, I have been on a zoo kick. I hadn’t been to a zoo in years and really didn’t think much of them. I almost cried the last time I saw a dolphin in a very small swimming area. I did cry when that nut case let out all of his zoo animals before he took his own life. All of those animals had to be killed. It broke my heart. So, no, zoos weren’t high up on my bucket list. But they are now.
I fell in love with the Bronx Zoo and had a blast taking pictures of the animals with my new camera that has a zoom lens. I had fun.
I just can’t take pictures, though. If it doesn’t make me laugh, I really don’t stay with anything. I found humor in my next subject: my daughter. I wanted to take a break and she plopped down on a caterpillar seat of some sort that other women were sitting on. So, I laughed and motioned for her to move over like she was with the people.
The girl next to her thought she was hogging the caterpillar or something.
I think she thought Alex was too perky or maybe invaded her personal space. She was not a happy zoo attendee.
She left. And that’s how you get the caterpillar all to yourself for a picture.
Well, it’s been a few months since I visited the Bronx Zoo. If I wanted to visit all of the zoos in the United States, like I wrote on my Bucket List on Pinterest, I thought I’d better get a move on. So, I headed up to the Pittsburgh Zoo. I went by myself. It is a 2 hour drive and I just wanted to do something by myself. Thank God, because I got good photos only because I acted like a loon.
I hadn’t been to the Pittsburgh Zoo since my children were little. I was looking for a nice quiet day, strolling through the zoo, taking an occasional picture of a cool animal. Well, I was surprised how close we were able to get to the animals. Oh sure, some had the foggy glass that separated us, but some were open and close, especially with my zoom lens….and my mouth.
People were taking pictures of a lion and were making clicking noises for the animal to look their way so they could snap a picture. I noticed this at every exhibit. The animals weren’t buying into this bullshit. We were close enough that the animals could hear us, so why make stupid clicking noises. So, I started talking to them.
First up was the lion. I didn’t have to talk too loud. She heard me. “Aw, look how pretty you are.” She perked up and I snapped her picture.
Notice she has a “what the hell was that?” look. I decided that clicking noises were bad, and sweet talking was good. Now, if someone would have been with me, I wouldn’t have said a word. Oh, shit, that’s a lie. I found something that worked. So, I was off to the next exhibit. The elephants were hanging out near the stream across from the viewing area. If I had peanuts or a beer can to throw at them, I could have hit them. That’s how close they were. Time for me to sweet talk the baby elephant.
The first time I yelled over, “Aw, look how pretty you are,” the woman beside me looked at me like I had lost my mind. I didn’t care. The elephant heard me and looked right over. I got a good shot and someone standing behind me said, “Nice shot.” Well, the elephant kept staring at me, so I started talking a bit more and added a “Just look at how pretty you are.” The elephant walked to the water’s edge across from me and started moving its trunk back and forth and flapping its ears. I heard cameras snapping. I realized the lady was now filming the elephant and now had my lovely voice recorded on her camera. I talked a bit more and then the elephant ran back when the zookeepers appeared with food. Time to move on.
I was starting to feel a little cocky because I now realized that I was like a Dr. Doolittle. I could talk to the zoo animals. I was able to tame all the critters that came to my back porch. I tamed a skunk to walk a few steps into my kitchen to get a peanut. I had a squirrel that would knock on my french door for a peanut. I had six turkeys actually run to me when I opened the door and yelled, “Hey, you guys!” like the creature on the Goonies. Yes, I knew I had a way with backyard critters. But, zoo animals. I would have to hit a couple more exhibits before I could put that crown on my head.
I could not believe my eyes when I went to the next exhibit. Gorilla land. They were right in front of us. There was no window. There was a canyon-like separation and that was all. They were so close. My zoom found the old man first. I wasn’t talking yet.
This guy creeped me out a bit. He started staring at me after I took this picture. Sure, there were other peopel squeezed in beside me, but I have 7 pictures of him and I swear he is looking at me. I decided to start talking. I immediately got a response.
He turned around and looked at me. “Yes, you. Look how pretty you are.” I started snapping pictures. Some guy behind me told me to keep talking. Oh, sir, you have just created a monster. I was being egged on. Ok, sure. You have no idea who the hell I am and you will never see me again. So,I started talking to the gorillas.
After taking a bunch of pictures of this guy, he looked at his gorilla friend like he was saying, “Is she talkin’ to me. You talkin to me? What fun. Well, after I heard a couple people now yelling out at the gorillas, I decided that my time with the big guys was drawing to a close. I moved on and talked to the other animals. Two broke my heart. The bear looked at me like, “Please get me the hell out of here.”
A black bear doesn’t live on rocks. The poor thing had no grass or trees to rub his back. They threw him a chew toy and that was about it. He wanted to go home with me, I’m sure of it. There weren’t many people at this exhibit, so I talked to the bear for a long time. We bonded.
My last picture was of an African painted dog of I don’t know where. I’m assuming Africa. I didn’t know. I just know there were a pack of them sleeping. So, I didn’t want to wake them up. One was looking at me. I smiled and waved. I’m sure I looked like a loon. I laughed at myself. Did I expect a head nod or a wave of his paw? I have no idea. But, I got one shot before I left. I was leaning over so far to get a good picture, I thought how easy it would be to fall. That would not have been good.
I was happy with my pictures and thought that I would share some of them with you. I hope to head to the Cincinnati or Columbus Zoo next. That may not be until next summer. But,in the end, I was happy that I acted like a loon. Sometimes you have to go out of your comfort zone to get a response. I am beginning to think that I am quite comfortable with acting like I’ve lost my marbles.
After all, they will never see me again, right?
Wrong. I saw the guy at Walmart in my hometown just yesterday.
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 learned Spanish when I was in first through third grades. It’s always fun to throw in a new language when you are still trying to figure out what the hell a vowel and a consonant are in English. Honestly, though, the earlier you learn a foreign language, the longer it sticks in your head. I learned Espanol when I was incarcerated in my early grades at the Immaculate Conception Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy.
I have mentioned over and over how much I hated attending that private school. I will never forget my first day of school and coming face to face with Sister Dominica. In my book, Jumping in Mud Puddles (shameless plug), I lovingly describe Sister Donkey:
“…so I opened the door and stepped outside. I must have walked back and forth the length of the car twenty or twenty-one times before that bus pulled up. Shit. Are you kidding me? It wasn’t a bus at all. It was an ugly blue van. And when that ugly blue pretend bus pulled up that first day of school and opened its door, out jumped a freaking nun. A nun was driving the pretend bus! She introduced herself as Sister Dominica, and she was the bus driver and a teacher at the Blessed Baby Jesus and Mary Conception Academy.
“I had never seen a nun before in real life. My mom tried to explain where I was going and who I would have for my teachers, but I couldn’t get past the fact I couldn’t see this Sister Dominica’s hair. Did she have hair? If she had hair, what color was it? Was that cardboardy white thing pinching her underneath her chin? I reluctantly got into the van and waved goodbye to my mother from my seat. She was standing there with her hand over her mouth. Shit. Thanks, Mom. This was not going to be good.”
And it wasn’t good. I think I was the only one who wasn’t brainwashed. The other kids seemed really happy to be there. Dear God, I was in Stepford. That’s the only explanation for this parade of smiles and unicorns I could come up with. The only thing I liked about the whole damn experience was the time I sat in Spanish class. Of course, Oompah Loompah Sister Dominica was the teacher, but her whole “I’m a bitch nun, don’t even piss me off” persona was left at the door when she taught Spanish. It was so much fun.
We were in school for a few weeks before we were told we would also be learning Spanish. I was going to love this. Ok, there is one tiny thing I didn’t like about Spanish class. On the first day of school, Sister Dominica pulled down a map of South America and pointed with a long stick, which I think was a yardstick instead of one of those white sticks real teachers use. She told us all about her coming all the way from……Peru? (I don’t know, I wasn’t listening) and how she learned to speak English just like we were now learning Spanish. I had a question.
“Vickie, no, the capital of Peru is pronounced LEE MAH………Yes it is……………..Yes it is………..Vickie, I can tell you for a fact that it is pronounced like that. I lived there for many years……..No, it is not where lima beans come from because it is not the same thing…………..Because it is not…………………It’s LEE MAH, Vickie…………………….That’s enough. Please quit asking questions.”
Well, hell, aren’t you supposed to ask questions in school? Sure, I could sit there like Hansel, the kid who wore suspenders every day. He was dead. He never moved. He looked straight ahead and that was about it. I threw a piece of rolled up paper at him one time, and the damn kid never flinched. Someone should take his pulse. If I had my mom’s bright pink lipstick, I would have put lipstick on him. How fun that would have been. But, anyway, I thought my LEE MAH/Lima question was pertinent. Sister Dominica had the patience of a saint. Oh wait. They are patient. She was no saint.
Sister Dominica pulled the map down on the second day of spanish class and reminded us about her being from South America and asked us what country she was from. Duh. But, oh my god, Hansel raised is hand. I almost fell out of my freaking chair.
“You are from Peru.” Hansel was alive! Dear god I had witnessed a miracle! It was like Kathryn Kuhlman, American faith healer and evangelist, had just performed one of her healings. “Heal!” My mouth dropped open. Thank god he didn’t answer that question while wearing pink lipstick. I just smiled at him. I was going to make him my best school friend. I’d have to find out some day what his real name was. I was so glad he was alive.
Sister Dominica brought down that damn map of South American almost every day of the week. Ok, we get it, Senorita Dominica. Let’s learn some more words. And we did. We first were given spanish names. I didn’t really understand this part, but I went along with it. People were picking great spanish names like Pedro, Paco, Chico, and Miguel for the boys. The girls were choosing Anita, Benita, Bonita, and Lupita. I was seeing a pattern emerging with the names for the girls ending with -ita. Mine was going to end that way also.
“Your turn, Vickie. What is going to be your spanish name for the year?……………..No, you can’t have Vickita……….No, that is not even a name………….No, it is not………………….No, it is not……………….Do you know of one person whose name is Vickita?…………………..No, that is a Chiquita banana, not Vickita…………………….Ok, if you can’t choose one on your own, I will give you one. Your new name is Rosita.”
And with that remark, she wrote it down in her book and I was pissed. I mean, like shoot red lazers out of my eyes pissed. I was goddamn Rosita from LEE MAH.
Ok, so the map and my name and having Sister Donkey as my teacher were the only thing I hated about spanish class. The rest was just awesome. I learned to count in spanish: uno dos tres cuatro cinco seis siesta ocho nueve diez. Sister Dominica always corrected me with numbero 7, but I wanted to be a comedian and say siesta instead of siete. She had enough of me. But, guess what? Hansel/aka Paco laughed out loud. Oh yes, Paco was my new best school friend.
Pretty soon I was speaking fluent spanish. Ok, I wasn’t, but I thought I was. I was learning new words every day:
perro- dog
gato- cat
por favor- please
gracias- thank you
bueno- good
stupido-stupid
Aprende a conducir aweonao!!- Learn to drive asshole!
Baboso-retard
Kieta el stupido elephante- Shut up you stupid elephant
Tu eres más feo que el culo de un mono- You are uglier than the butt of a monkey
Tirate a un poso- throw yourself in a hole
and my favorite, Las monjas no se puede enseñar- Nuns can’t teach.
Ok, so I may have just learned colors and numbers and places on my body that first year of spanish. But, it was fun.
And years later, I still know that Lima (LEE MAH) is the capital of Peru…..home of sister Donkey. AND, I just found out that lima beans really did come from Peru. So, who is the smart one, now, Sister Dominica? Not you. So, next time you have LEE MAH beans, pronounce them as they were intended to be pronounced. And you will be looking like the smart one. Really.
My literary debut, Jumping in Mud Puddles is free for download today, Thursday, July 12, through Amazon. If you don’t have a Kindle, don’t worry. It can be downloaded to your iPad, iPhone or even your computer. There is a quick and painless download from Amazon. I bought a Kindle last week before I knew you could even do this.
Jumping in Mud Puddles is a book of stories that I have taken from my blog of the same name. I have added and tweaked my posts into 44 chapters.
Here is the book description:
“Raise your hand if you-
1) Have ever been chased by a nun.
2) Have been stung by a bee because it was injured and you tried to hug it and then you went into anaphylactic shock because the damn thing stung you on the cheek and you had to be rushed to the hospital (The bee didn’t make it).
3) Have ever made a tent caterpillar/dandelion meal in your cabin in the woods and have fed it to unsuspecting neighbor children.
4) Were slipped a mild tranquilizer and was told it was a car sick pill……for years.
5) Have killed the Boogeyman after lying in wait for it/him under your bed.
6) Have peed your pants from laughing because a monkey has stepped onto your best friend’s head and the best friend doesn’t know what is on her head.
7) Have puked on the school bus and all the kids had to raise their feet while the bus was going up hills.
If you have not been able to raise your hand for any of these normal every day experiences, you are invited to join Vickie as she revisits her childhood during the fifties, sixties, and early seventies. Visit the private Catholic school where she was sent because she flunked an early entrance exam. Sister Potato Head is waiting to stick you into the low reading group, “The Slow Sloths.” Follow Vickie as she takes you for a walk around the best neighborhood in Weirton, West Virginia. Don’t eat anything she tries to feed you in her cabin in the woods, however, especially if she is giggling as she hands it to you, but yet promises it doesn’t contain “real” things.
Jumping in Mud Puddles is a witty self-deprecating memoir with stories that will either make you smile because it reminds you of your own childhood or it will make you laugh because you are glad you weren’t a picky, hyper, big fat liar like Vickie.
And for the record, the cursing throughout the book is a really bad habit that grown-up Vickie acquired while teaching fourth grade. I mean, she doesn’t curse in front of the class…..yet. She apologizes for her potty mouth and hopes that you will see that she is just a grown up version of that skinny child of the sixties. Well, you can leave out the skinny part.”
***************************
Thanks! If you feel so inclined to give me a review after you finished reading my little book that would be great, or tag and like me. If not, again, the download is free just today.
Photograph of a Green Frog en ( Rana clamitans en ). Photo taken at the Tyler Arboretum. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
When I was young, there were always smashed frogs in the middle of the road in front of my house. Ok, I realize that I may be talking about toads, but for this post I am going to group them together and call them frog toads. The boys in the neighborhood used to pick them up and fling them at us girls. The poor unfortunate frog toads would be hard and paper thin. I guess if you were repeatedly run over by a car, you would become flat too. I don’t see dead frog toads on the road anymore. I mean, not that I am looking for them or anything. But, yeah, I guess I am. And I just don’t see them.
According to Wikipedia, there has been a decline in populations of amphibians in the past three decades. From scientific studies that were performed, it was found that 32% of species are threatened and between 9 and 122 species have become extinct since 1980. There is also another list that puts 486 amphibians as “critically endangered.” And I just bet those smashed frog toads on the road are part of one of those studies.
Wouldn’t it be awful to never hear the sounds of the spring peepers? Their choir down by my old pond performed for me all the time. Bullfrogs would bellow periodically. I used to love to sit outside on my front porch at night and listen to their wonderful music. What if that goes away too?
I’ve noticed a lot of changes since I was young. We all know about the plight of the honeybee. I really don’t know if tent caterpillars serve any purpose, but I really don’t see those white sticky nests like I used to years ago. I think I’m still paying attention. And what about the Japanese beetles? They used to be a huge pain in the ass just ten years ago. They would always appear in my part of West Virginia the last week of June.
And what about the grasshopper? Dear god, where the hell are you, Hopper? I saw one yesterday and I swear it is the first one I have seen in a long time. Is it just me? Maybe bugs don’t like West Virginia anymore. I don’t think that would be the case. We are a lovely place for insects.
I guess I’m just scared. I don’t have grandchildren yet, but I would hate it if my future grandson wasn’t able to fling a dead smashed frog toad onto his sister.
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.
I woke up tired this morning. Oh, not just tired, but tired tired. I didn’t go to bed too horribly late. So, it had to be the phone dream I had all night long that has made me so tired. Why can’t a person just go to sleep and then wake up hours later, feeling refreshed and ready for a new day? No. Not me. I have to dream all freaking night about the strangest things on the planet. Sometimes I wake up to a racing heart. I’m going to die in my sleep sometime, I am sure. And it is not monsters chasing me or Ann Coulter talking to me or anything really frightening like that. It’s toilets, or college classes or stolen purses that occupy my dream land. Figures.
There are several dream scenarios that I seem to have. The first are the dreaded, “I have to pee” dreams. I am dreaming that I have to use the bathroom, but good luck finding one that actually works. One time I did find one, but it was right in the middle of a room where people were hanging out, talking. Another time it had water all the way up to the rim of the toilet. And yet one night I found one, but it had a rat sitting in the corner, just staring at me. The toilet was there, and I had to pee. Well, how bad did I need to go to the bathroom? I could go on and on with the “I have to pee dreams.” And when I wake up, I really have to pee. I’m sure that’s why I have those dreams. Why can’t I just freaking sleep like you are supposed to?
It’s always something that prevents me…
I thought it was bad enough to have dreams where I thought I was still in college. Well, except in these dreams, I have forgotten that I have had a particular class all semester that I just forgot to go to for some reason. I can’t find my schedule and there’s a final coming up. I’m embarrassed to go to the class because, well, I haven’t been there all damn semester. Sometimes the whole dream begins with trying to find a parking spot and then looking for a particular building that a class is in. I have those dreams about once a month. Those dreams just suck.
Is my class in this building? Where the hell am I?
In my phone dreams, someone has stolen my purse. Now, if you know me at all, you will know that I am completely OCD about the whereabouts of my purse. If I go to a party at someone’s house, I just can’t leave my purse on the host’s bed. That would just ruin my night, worrying that someone was going to steal it. Of course, none of the people at that party would ever dream of stealing their friend’s purse, but I don’t know. Maybe I just can’t be separated from all my important items.
In my phone dreams, like the one I had last night, I first can’t find my purse. For some God forsaken reason, I have left it unattended somewhere. Last night someone found it sitting on the floor in a hallway somewhere. Just because I found it, doesn’t mean that it is intact. So, I look inside, and find everything missing. Everything. This is probably where my eyes start darting around in my sleep because I have pretty bad eye strain this morning. Stupid phone dream.
After I realize that some really bad person has stolen every card in my wallet, but for some reason has left me the wallet, I try to call my credit card company first. Well, it won’t work. I don’t know why. So, I go to another one. It isn’t dialing the numbers correctly. I could go on and on, but it is always the same scenario. None of the damn phones are working. The black rotary is missing its stop, so it just goes around and around. When I press on another phone, letters show up on the screen instead of numbers. I’m just freaking tired.
Finally, probably hours into my dream, I tell myself that it is just a dream. I do this all of the time. Why I have to wait so long to push myself out of a dream is beyond me. But, dreams are ridiculous sometimes. I am sure that Lewis Carroll had a dream about Alice in Wonderland. It had to be a dream or the guy was on drugs. Or maybe he was very imaginative and I should give him some credit, but dreams are pretty wild.
I had planned on writing a really funny blog post this morning about some of my family vacations, but I can’t now. I’m just too damn tired.
Plus, I need to call and report that my visa card has been stolen and that may take a while. Wait……?
When I began teaching full time, I was 51 years old. I previously stayed at home with my two children and as they began high school started as a substitute teacher. I was excited to get the fourth grade job. But, what kind of teacher was I going to be? Well, I just had to be myself. And so my new kids had to get used to my rules. I only had several.
1. “Do not rock on your chair. You don’t want to end up like Mark Harper. (made up name.) He fell and hit his head and to this day has no idea what is name is. So, if you want to end up like Markie, rock on your chair.”
2. “Don’t even think about making fun of anyone. I got made fun of for being skinny. Sure, I would welcome it now, but getting called chicken legs is not funny.”
3. “This is the most important rule. You guys need to learn to laugh at yourself. If you fall, people will laugh, so you might as well laugh rght along with them. Don’t get mad. Don’t get embarrassed. Laugh.”
So, then I tell them the story of my embarrassment in college….
I was a freshman in college and had a crush on a guy I will call Robert P. It was winter and the goofy campus employees hadn’t shoveled the sidewalks yet. It was snowing pretty hard and I was wanting to walk down the sidewalk to the student center, The Nickel, but the sidewalks were all covered with snow. It was pretty icy.
Ahhh, I spotted Robert P. coming out of the student center with some other football players. If I hurried I could run right into him. So, I decided to walk on the road that ran down beside the student center since the sidewalk was a mess. I thought I looked pretty. Well, until I wiped out. But, I didn’t just wipe out. No, that would be too easy. I tried to baby-step it down the hill. I was wearing the wrong kind of shoes for snow tromping. I don’t think I ever had a pair of boots while attending college. Well, do earth shoes count? Plus, there was the fact that we all wore wide legged jeans that dragged on the ground. It was the seventies, and we were into our bell bottoms.
I fell on my knees. Nothing bad about that, except for the pain, but it didn’t end like that. Not only did I fall, but I kept going…on my kneees. The roads were pretty icy, so I slid by the football players, on my knees, still holding my books in my left arm, and my purse on my right shoulders. So, I said, “Hi” to them as I slid right by them. While I was looking at him, wishing I would just die, I slid right into the back of a stupid truck that was unloading something at the book store that was in the same building as the student center.
Oh, no, I’m not done. After my books I was carrying hit the bumper, I bounced backwards and somehow stopped, but my books kept going under the truck and right into the path of a car coming up the hill. The car was able to straddle the books and pass by them.
All I could hear was laughing. It was deafening. There were only about 5 guys outside, but it might as well been 100. I wanted to cry, but somehow managed to stand up on my poor deformed knees, turn around to them, and said, “I meant to do that.” And smiled. A couple of them clapped. I then curtsied. And damn if I didn’t slip and fall when I took my right foot back, curtsy-style. Then they really laughed. And I just had too also.
So, I tell my class that story every year. But, the whole point is to let the kids know that if you fall, people will laugh. And that the teacher will most likely laugh the hardest.
And then she will trip and fall on her way back to the desk.
My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
Photo credit: Fresh Tracks
photo credit: Banff National Park
This guy creeped me out a bit. He started staring at me after I took this picture. Sure, there were other peopel squeezed in beside me, but I have 7 pictures of him and I swear he is looking at me. I decided to start talking. I immediately got a response.
He turned around and looked at me. “Yes, you. Look how pretty you are.” I started snapping pictures. Some guy behind me told me to keep talking. Oh, sir, you have just created a monster. I was being egged on. Ok, sure. You have no idea who the hell I am and you will never see me again. So,I started talking to the gorillas.
After taking a bunch of pictures of this guy, he looked at his gorilla friend like he was saying, “Is she talkin’ to me. You talkin to me? What fun. Well, after I heard a couple people now yelling out at the gorillas, I decided that my time with the big guys was drawing to a close. I moved on and talked to the other animals. Two broke my heart. The bear looked at me like, “Please get me the hell out of here.”
A black bear doesn’t live on rocks. The poor thing had no grass or trees to rub his back. They threw him a chew toy and that was about it. He wanted to go home with me, I’m sure of it. There weren’t many people at this exhibit, so I talked to the bear for a long time. We bonded.
Aargh, I’m a pirate.
