There are so many things I enjoy about summer. For one, since I am a teacher, I get to be a bum for several months. That’s always nice. I love waking up in the morning to the sound of a mockingbird. I love corn on the cob and watermelon. And right up there on my list of summer favorites is sitting by a campfire. It’s so relaxing and peaceful. But, it always brings back thoughts of how hard I worked while attending campfires when I was young.
No, people didn’t make me lug firewood and pile it in a heap or throw gasoline on the logs or anything like that. It wasn’t that kind of work, although making a kid throw gasoline on logs and light it would be a bit unsafe, don’t you think? No, I worked hard and long avoiding the usual campfire expectations: eating s’mores.
Now, you are probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me. S’mores are a part of America, just like baseball, hot dogs, and apple pie (Or in my case, pumpkin pie). But, before I get started on why I worked so hard trying to avoid eating s’mores, let me explain what those are for my foreign readers. Yes, I have foreign readers and they may have no idea what the hell I’m talking about. Even some of my regular readers will be surprised how s’mores were invented.
S’mores: Goo on a cracker
The very first printed record of the s’more recipe was in 1927 in a girl scout’s manual entitled, “Tramping and Trailing with the Girl Scouts.” I would like to offer my account of how this went down.
Once upon a time, many many years ago in a national park somewhere in the dark, ominous woods, a girl scout troup was settling by a campfire after a long day of earning a badge for being bitten by a snake. Those girls were not able to participate in that night’s campfire. Anyway, some of the girls were hungry because all they had to eat that day were wild berries and grasshoppers. So, they brought some of their food stash that was delivered from their loved ones from home.
For example, one of the girls had a bag of marshmallows. One girl had a Hershey chocolate bar, and one had a sleeve of graham crackers. The fourth girl, who the others were frightened of because she was a bit off, sat holding some sticks that were whittled down to sharp points at the end. Her knife was sitting on her lap.
campfire fun
Separately, their food items sort of sucked.
“All I have is a bag of marshmallows.”
“Well, that’s better than what my mother sent. I have stupid graham crackers and that’s all.”
“I have a lot of chocolate,” said the plump girl (you could say that back then).
They all then looked over at the fourth girl, who was still whittling.
The girls looked around at each other and one girl offered the others some of her marshmallows. Soon, they were all trading their items. The odd girl scout, who I will call Cheryl, promptly shoved her marshmallow onto her stick.
“Look, my marshmallow has been impaled.” Cheryl smiled, while the others moved their camp chairs further away from her. Cheryl then stuck her marshmallow on a stick into the fire, because she was also a practicing arsonist. One more fire and she would be kicked out of the girl scouts. She didn’t care. She wanted to watch the marshmallow turn into a raging goo. Yes, raging.
“Golly gee, Cheryl!” (Girl scout lingo)
Cheryl took the hot blackened mess off of her stick and shoved it into her mouth. “O-M-G! (Yes, Cheryl was a visionary with her lingo.) This is really good.”
The other girls began putting their marshmallows on the borrowed whittled sticks and another girl laughed, “Hey, let’s make a marshmallow sandwich with my crackers.”
Soon, they were eating marshmallow sandwiches. The plump girl secretly put a piece of chocolate on top of the graham cracker and then put her gooey marshmallow on top, followed by the top graham cracker.
“Yummy in my tummy!” she exclaimed.
Soon, they were eating this concoction and could not get enough of them.
The next night, after a long day of working on their “poison ivy” girl scout badge, all of the itching girl scouts clad from head to toe in calamine lotion were able to sit by the campfire. The four girls shared their new goo on a cracker.
“S’more please,” yelled the little girl scout with a speech impediment. (It happens).
Next thing, you know, s’mores have been invented. Sadly, the four girls weren’t able to see how popular their invention became across America because Cheryl threw gasoline on the weakened fire the very next night.
The End
No mores
Stay tuned for part 2 of my s’more avoidance campfire story.
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Sometimes I get a chuckle from facebook status messages. One of those messages made me laugh out loud this morning:
“If someone in Fairview is missing a goat it’s in my yard!!”
I laughed and then I smiled with a great memory from when my children were young. We lived “out in the country” if you want to call it that. We sat on 13 acres and I had wildlife at my kitchen door daily. It was wonderful. We used to watch a snapping turtle climb out of our pond and creep up to the top of hill by our house and work for hours digging a hole to deposit her eggs. She did this every year. I had no idea that a snapping turtle finds the highest point she can for her egg delivery. I went out one year and dug a hole parallel to where she was working to no avail. She would look over at me like “What the hell, lady.” As soon as I went back in the house, she moved over and continued where I started digging for her. My children loved it and I felt like an awesome mom and general turtle helper.
Well, every Christmas season, which is right after Thanksgiving in my household, I would bring out the air popper and make popcorn for our Christmas tree. I learned over the years to let the popcorn sit out for a few days for easier stringing. It just sucks to try to push a needle through fresh popcorn.It was hard not to curse in front of my children. “Oh….sugar” just didn’t make it. Some of those needle-through-my fingers needed a full f-bomb rant. It wasn’t until after the internet was invented (thanks Al Gore) that I was able to read advice on proper popcorn stringing. Some years I would feel more energetic with my popcorn stringing and completely loop around the tree. Other years, not so much. I would faux string it, which means cheating and only showing the popcorn string where people can see the tree.
List of U.S. state foods (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
After Christmas was over and the tree was taken down, I would slide the popcorn off the thread and put it in a large stainless steel bowl.
“Kids, I’m going to put the popcorn out on the mound so the birds can have a Christmas treat.”
Am I an awesome wildlife lady or what? The mound I am referring to was a place underneath a hickory tree near our pavilion. When we leveled the yard after we built our home, I wanted to save the hickory, so we left a little hill area in front of the tree. We placed a large granite stone at the base of the tree. This is where I would lay out goodies for the birds and squirrels. And after Christmas, it was where I put the popcorn.
So, one day I had the kids put on their coats and I took that stainless steel bowl outside and explained to the kids what kind of birds may want to eat the popcorn.
“Let’s keep an eye out, because we may see blue jays…..and crows…..and..maybe a bird we haven’t seen on the mound before.”
It was starting to snow, which was great while decorating the tree. It really puts you in the mood. My daughter loved to help put the ornaments on the tree and it wasn’t too long when she too, would stand back after carefully deciding where to put a particular ornament. My son was generally waiting for me to put together my little Christmas village of buildings and people as he loved putting a little boy headfirst down into the well or laying him on the white ground with a horse drawn sleigh getting ready to run over him. To be honest, I loved walking into the kitchen to see what he moved around next.
A few hours after I put the popcorn out on the mound, my daughter ran into the Hearth room with a big smile on her face.
“Mommy, there’s a cow eating the popcorn!” Cackling is always a great laugh, and Alex was doing her share of cackling.
Whaat? We walked over to the kitchen french door and lo and behold, there indeed was a cow munching on our popcorn. It was a big solid black cow and it was loving the popcorn. This was the year I made a large popcorn garland for the Christmas tree, so there was a heap of popcorn on the mound. Popcorn was coming out of both sides of his mouth. The cackling from Little One continued. Adam took a break from putting a dog on a roof in the village to join us at the door.
“Mommy, you never said a cow would come to the mound,” she managed to say between her wonderful laugh. Adam stood there watching the cow munching like it hadn’t been fed in a while. It was a funny sight, especially since the most we were expecting were blue jays or crows.
a similar cow
We stood there for a long while, actually stunned that there was a cow in our yard. Our neighbors had cows, but they lived down over the hill and were far away from us. I knew it had to belong to them. The cow must have slipped through a broken barb-wired fence and trotted away and decided to visit us, I guess.
After I made the call and our neighbor came to retrieve the popcorn munching cow, we continued to decorate the tree and my son continued messing with the village, placing the little Christmas town on alert for the boy lost after jumping off a bridge.
It was a wonderful, wonderful memory and I thank my facebook friend who found a goat in her yard this morning.
Imagine my surprise when I got home from teaching, sat down at my computer, and opened my Facebook messages to find one that read, “Oh, Vickie, so sorry to hear about your mom. My mom said it was in the paper today. My thoughts and prayers are with you.”
What about my mom? My mom was in a nursing home 2 hours from where I live. Right then the phone rang. It was my brother, David. He told me he was sitting at work during his lunch, reading the newspaper, when he turned the page and saw my mom’s obituary and her face looking right at him. He was so shook up, he had to leave work.
Who does this? Well, apparently my sister, who was mad at my brother and me for not visiting my mom in the nursing home like she did. My brother immediately called her and she told him since we didn’t bother to visit her, why should we be told of her death?
How vile.
Regardless of any kind of estrangement or past arguments or discussions that we may have with my sister, she should have picked up the damn phone and called us. My brother lives in the same city, so this was especially cruel. My mom died last Saturday, and it was in the paper on Tuesday. My brother was told she was already cremated. There was to be no service of any kind. Done.
How’s that for closure?
The obituary read “she is survived by a loving daughter, (name inserted here), David Mendenhall, Vickie Mendenhall.” We were just added on like we were people that just happened to share the same last name. I also just noticed that she didn’t put my name after hers because people might think I was also a loving daughter. Our children, my mom’s grandchildren, were not even told their grandmother had died. Their names weren’t even listed. “4 grandchildren.” If she were such a loving grandmother, why not list their damn names?
I know this “revenge by obituary” must have you laughing, little former sister…
Well, I know how much you were laughing until you read the condolences on the online funeral home site. Many people wrote condolences, but also added how sorry they were that we had to find out in such a manner. And then, voila, the funeral home took down all the condolences and no one can write or express their sympathy any longer. I wonder who was behind that?
I went to work the next day and told my principal that my mother had died. We are given 3 personal days when a close relative dies. Well, I mean, what was I to do? There’s no viewing, no memorial service, nothing. She was already cremated by the time my brother talked to her on Tuesday. So, I stayed at school. A co-worker and friend said it best, “This is absurd…like an episode of Seinfeld.” So true.
I actually thought of driving the two hours to where my dad is buried, sit by his headstone and have a talk with him. He was one of those hen-pecked husbands who kept their mouths shut. Dad never talked back to my mom. Instead, he would make faces behind her back and then get on his lawnmower and run over her flowers. I loved that guy. But, I didn’t drive up to visit with him. I would have probably continued driving and may have ended up at my former home, the one my sister now lives in after my mom went to live in a nursing home. I know I would never have done that. I may have driven around the block, slowed down in front of her house, and flipped her house? off. How’s that for revenge for the revenge? But, no, I stayed in school, sat at my desk, and wondered what the hell kind of closure is this?
Most of you know my daughter has been living in New York City while attending grad school at NYU. I was able to take a few personal days to travel up there to attend the graduation ceremony for Steinhardt, her grad school. At first I was going up to the all school graduation which was held at Yankee Stadium, but my daughter asked me if I could change my plans and come up to her earlier one since the venue would be a tad bit more personal than Yankee Stadium. I wish I would have just taken the whole week off and went to both, as I had a wonderful substitute in place, so I didn’t have to worry about that while I was gone.
Since the last time I went to New York, the major airlines decided to quit flying directly from Pittsburgh to JFK. Jet Blue used to be pretty inexpensive, but now wanted to take me from Pittsburgh to Boston and then to New York and jacked up the price on me. Delta did have one direct flight, but it was now $709. Gee, thanks major airlines.
My options were driving to New York City (oh, hell no), taking the MegaBus (when I googled it, pictures of burning wrecked Megabuses came up that I just had to go and look at), and Amtrak. I took Amtrak before and although it takes several years to get to New York from Pittsburgh, I enjoyed the ride. So, I booked my trip with Amtrak. This time, however, to avoid sitting near a woman with 4 children who wanted to sleep while the children squirmed, fought, and tattled, I decided to see what the business class car might be like, and upgraded to business. Wow, what a difference.
It was worth the $30 upgrade. I really thought I was getting away with something as there were about 64 seats and no one had to share the other seat with anyone else. At each stop, the conductor would make an announcement, “Folks, we are going to have a full house today. Please keep personal items off the seat next to you so people will be able to find an open seat.” I would look around and see people spread out watching movies or sleeping. Business class was definitely worth the upgrade.
Nine hours later, I arrived at Penn Station. It was raining and of course I did not bring an umbrella. Penn Station is attached to Madison Square Garden, so I thought it would be better to catch a taxi if I was out front there, instead of a side street, and I did. I put my hand up in the air like Carrie Bradshaw did on Sex and the City and immediately a cab pulled over. Well, it pulled over because there were people getting out. I asked if I could use the cab, despite seeing about 10 other arms in the air nearby. I clearly pissed off people who were standing on the long street in front of Madison Square Garden. Remember, it was raining, not sprinkling.
I hopped in the back with my carry-on, laptop bag, and purse and off we went. But, it can’t be that simple for me. I had to go and say “Hello, good afternoon!” to the taxi driver. You wouldn’t think it was a big deal to talk to a taxi driver. But, Oh, Dear God, the conversation took a dramatic turn, or a comedic turn. I will go with comedic. Now you have to realize that traffic was heavy and I had to go up all the way to East 95th Street. Madison Garden is on West 33rd, so the following conversation is abbreviated somewhat.
“So, is this your first time in New York?”
“No, this is I believe my sixth time.” blah blah blah. Found out he has lived in the city for 19 years, from Bangladesh, he told me I should visit there, blah blah blah…more chatter. He started to talk about the April Bangladesh earthquake and handed me a flyer to look at while he talked about the disaster.
He asked what I did in West Virginia. I told him I was a teacher. He asked if I wanted to share half of his banana. No, thank you, I told him. I had eaten on the train.
Then, he went down the wrong road…not literally, being in a cab and all, but the wrong road, figuratively. I looked at the street sign and we were only at 59th. The traffic was bad. I was wishing I would have taken the subway and lugged everything up the subway steps.
“So, what does your husband do in West Virginia?” he said with his heavily broken English.
“I’m divorced.”
“How long you divorced?”
“4 years.”
“That is so sad.”
“No, I’m pretty happy about it.” I smiled. I was hoping there would be silence for the rest of the ride. Oh, hell no.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No. I’ve had my share of goofy dates, though.” He looked at me strange. Maybe “goofy” was just a West Virginia word. Then he started.
“You know…. I believe in God….I love God….and I know God would want you to share your life with a man until you die.”
“You don’t think God would be okay that a person can be alone but happy for the rest of his or her life?”
“Maybe, but you should share your life with someone until you die.”
“Oh, you know, I am happy the way my life is.”
“Maybe………………..I’m going to fix you up with someone so you can share your life with him until you die.” I had to laugh.
“No, really. I’m ok. I am just going to get a cat.” I laughed, but he didn’t understand the whole cat lady scenario.
“You give me your phone number and I will have you meet someone.”
“No, I am only in New York for a few days, so I don’t have time to meet anyone, but that is so sweet of you to be worried about me since you don’t know me.”
“I can tell you are a wonderful person. You need to share your life with a man. God would want you to.”
“No, thank you, really. I really don’t want to meet anyone right now. I was married for 25 years and really enjoy being by myself right now. If it happens,it happens….. I’m not going to go out searching for a man.” I nervously laughed.
“I sorry I bother you. I can tell because you talk to me that you are a good person. God would want you to be married until you die.”
I can’t tell you how long this conversation went on, but by 80th street I was ready to jump out of the moving cab and meet God without a man. I know the Bangladeshian meant well, but he was spending too much time looking through his mirror at me in the backseat and little time watching cars changing lanes and waiting until the last second to stop at a red light. I was ready for a nerve pill.
When he pulled up in front of my daughter’s apartment, I handed him cash and a few extra dollars as a tip. After all, he did offer half of his banana and wanted to play matchmaker for me.
“I’m sorry I bother you. I won’t fix you up. Have a good time in New York and I do hope….God hopes…that you find a man to share your life until you die.”
“Thank you for being so worried about me. I will be fine. Thank you!”
I walked up her steps and as I opened the door to her apartment building, I noticed that he was still parked at the curb, watching me. I couldn’t buzz in fast enough. My daughter came down the steps, and I didn’t want to turn around again, but out of the corner of my eye saw a hint of yellow go past. He was gone.
And all I could think of was that quote from Casablanca, altered a bit to fit my situation:
“Of all the taxi cabs, in all the towns, in all the world, I stepped into his.”
I usually turn on the tv first thing in the morning to check out the Weather Channel. But, since my lovely Comcast remote controller has issues right now, and needs to “warm up” or something before it allows me to change channels, I now just turn on the tv and walk away for a few minutes. I then sat down at my computer to check my emails…. And that’s when I heard it.
I heard whiney talking and when I looked up saw a few older teenagers with brightly colored faces as if they walked through a mist of chalky wonderment. They talked like they were pretending to be six or talking to an audience of deaf monkeys. (Sorry, can’t think of an animal right off the bat that “isn’t right in the head.”) I stood in front of the tv, holding the warmed up remote, ready to press the button to get the hell away from this madness, when I had a thought. All I could think of was if any one them had a college degree and if this is what they meant when they may have said, “One day I want to be on tv.” Well, pat yourself on the back; you have arrived….in lavender chalky body paint and a red Raggedy Andy moppy wig. Congrats!
Is this what Saturday morning programming has to offer the children of 2013? The Doodlebops? I remember enduring the pain of the purple dinosaur, Barney, and secretly hoped someone would push that annoying Baby Bop in front of a pretend bus. I know that is not nice, but seriously, where did Saturday morning cartoons go? Is it all because Mel Blanc is no longer around to voice these marvelous cartoon creations? Or does everything have to be “real?” Because, I’m telling you right now, these Doodlebops are goofy as hell.
When my kids were little, the cartoons I grew up with were replaced with Sesame Street, Shari Lewis and Lamb Chops Play Along, and my favorite of my children’s programming, Pee Wee’s Play House. Each one of these were geared to both the child and the parent who was held captive to watch them also. I did laugh at a lot of the things they were saying. But, then someone decided to add a purple dinosaur to the mix and everything went to hell in a handbasket.
Ok, now don’t get me wrong. There has been weird children’s programming all along….. H.R. Pufnstuf comes to mind. Anyone my age will remember Witchiepoo and “Oranges, Poranges, who said?” This demented children’s television show was the first ever live action tv show that debuted in 1969.
Of course, I was in 8th grade or so when this psychedelic show came out. I wasn’t an impressionable five year old. But, when I was impressionable, at least I had something that I took with me to adulthood. No, it wasn’t Wile E. Coyote or Bugs or even Elmer Fudd. It was Foghorn Leghorn.
Now this is what Saturday morning cartoons was all about. These cartoons were broadcast starting in 1945. Foghorn was a “good ole boy” with a southern accent and a penchant for one-upmanship. His target was usually the barnyard dog. I remember sitting in front of tv (despite warnings from my mom I was going to go cross-eyed if I continued to sit so close to the tv) and laughing at his antics. But, what I didn’t truly appreciate until I was older were his wonderfully wrong sayings. Here are a few of my favorites:
“This boy’s more mixed up than a feather in a whirlwind”
“Don’t, I say don’t bother me dog, can’t ya see I’m thinkin’
“That, I say that boy’s just like a tatoo, gets under your skin”
“Kid don’t quit talkin’ so much he’ll get his tongue sunburned”
“That’s a joke, I say that’s a joke son”
“Go, I say go away boy, you bother me”
“His muscles are as soggy as a used tea bag”
“That woman’s as cold as a nudist on an iceberg”
“That dog’s as subtle as a hand grenade in a barrrel of oat meal”
“Boy, you cover about as much as a flapper’s skirt in a high wind”
“Nice mannered kid, just a little on the dumb side”
“That kid’s about as sharp as a pound of wet liver”
“I made a funny son and you’re not laughin’
“That boy’s about as sharp as a bowling ball”
“Look sister is any of this filterin’ through that little blue bonnet of yours”
“I got, I say I got this boy as fidgety as a bubble dancer with a slow leak”
“Now who’s, I say who’s responsible for this unwarranted attack on my person!”
“This boy’s making more noise than a couple of skeletons throwin’ a fit on a tin roof”
“The snow, I say the snow’s so deep the farmers have to jack up the cows so they can milk’em”
“I keep pitchin’ ‘em and you keep missin’ ‘em”
“That boy’s as timid as a canary at a cat show”
“Nice girl, but about as sharp as a sack of wet mice”
“Nice boy but he’s got more nerve than a bum tooth”
“I say, boy, pay attention when I’m talkin’ to ya, boy”
“Pay attention, boy, I’m cuttin’ but you ain’t bleedin’!”
“Oh, that woman, got a mouth like an outboard motor”
“That boy’s as strong as an ox, and just about as smart”
“Stop, I say stop it boy, you’re doin’ alot of choppin’ but no chips are flyin’
“This is going to cause more confusion than a mouse in a burlesque show”
“You know there might, I say there just might be a market for bottled duck”
“Gal reminds me of a highway between Forth Worth and Dallas – no curves”
“Boy’s gotta mouth like a cannon, always shootin’ it off”
“Pay attention to me boy! I’m not just talkin’ to hear my head roar”
“That, I say that dog’s busier than a centipede at a toe countin’ contest”
“Now cut that out boy, or I’ll spank you where the feathers are thinnest”
The lessons I learned while watching Foghorn Leghorn was that there is a fine line between sarcasm, humor, and spite. Yes, I didn’t understand a lot of things he was saying when I was little, but I realized there is a way to say something when you don’t want to say it out right…like, “His elevator doesn’t go all the way up to the top floor.”
My whole point for this blog post is that Saturday morning cartoons are what got us up early in the morning. We never slept in. We didn’t have video games or an endless amount of channels to keep us occupied. We had the World Book Encyclopedia and three channels on our tv sets back then. Cartoons had an effect on us. We still remember Officer Dibble, Tooter the Turtle, Yogi and Boo Boo, Daffy, Sylvester, and the Tazmanian Devil. Perhaps today’s programmers don’t care because there are so many options for children besides television. I bet more kids sleep in on Saturdays in 2013 than they did in 1961 though.
In the end, our cartoon generation was much better than the Doodlebop generation.
Sure, the kids are learning letters, and songs, and how to be a good friend. But, we learned how to take Acme products and blow up a quick bird, how to insult other chickens in the hen house, and how to correctly make an introduction, “What’s up, doc?”
English: The face of a black windup alarm clock (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
For those of you who follow my blog, you know tomorrow is my least favorite day of the year. I’ve surely written enough about Daylight Savings Time and how it turns me into a zombie for a few weeks after the time change.
So, how many times can I beat this dead horse? Apparently, at least five times. I guess I just need to really get my opinion out there. Daylight Savings Time just sucks the life out of me…….and millions of other people too.
But, I have to admit, the whole time change did have one perk: church. Now, don’t judge, but I just did not care to attend church when I was younger. My dad was a Sunday school teacher, so we had to get up every Sunday morning and drive downtown to church. And, I’m sorry, but I just didn’t like it. I had a problem with the whole Noah’s Ark story when I went to that private hell of a Catholic school from first through third grade, and was tired of arguing about it with Sister Maria and then at Sunday school. I just didn’t buy it. I was mad at God for drowning animals. Taking only two of a kind was really mean, and when I was little, I held a grudge for a tremendously long time. So, I just thought the whole church thing was a big ole fat lie to get money in a collection plate.
So, there was one Sunday each year that I didn’t have to go to Sunday school, and that was when it was Daylight Savings Time. Oh, I remember my parents talking while sitting on the couch about how they had to remember to turn the clocks ahead before they went to bed. I always wanted to try to sneak into my parent’s room and change the Big Ben alarm clock my dad kept by his bed, but after getting caught the first time, I decided I was doomed and would have to go listen about multiplying fishes and walking on water. None of the Bible lessons were believable to me. People can’t get that old. I told my mom Caspar the Friendly Ghost cartoon was more real than church. I remember my dad looking at me like I needed an exorcism. His Bible was all marked up and his handwriting in the margins. He was clearly into it, but his nine year old heathen daughter wasn’t buying any of it.
I know my dad would change the kitchen clock above our lovely gold refrigerator that Saturday night before he went to bed. He would change the time on his wrist watch. He would change the time on his Big Ben alarm clock and set the alarm to get up for church. But, every Daylight Savings Time Sunday morning we would always miss Sunday school. We slept it! My mom would yell first.
“Elwood, wake up! We’ve missed church!” I would wake up and smile. But, then, my mom would march into my room and ask why I pushed down the alarm clock so it wouldn’t go off.
The problem with all of this is that I was a great liar and lied every chance I got. So, when I really told the truth and tried to explain that I didn’t do it, no one believed me. I would be just like me to sneak into my parent’s room and push in the alarm buzzer thingy.
For years I thought my sister was the culprit because she would laugh at me for getting yelled at for turning it off. She wanted to go to church because she liked wearing her white patent leather shoes. She would deliberately put on a pair of white anklets that had a hole in the big toe so she could entertain while sitting in the pew at church. But, you know, I never ever pushed down the alarm button to keep us from waking up on time. I mean, I wouldn’t wait until Daylight Savings Time to do that. I’d do it every damn Sunday.
Years later, when I had my own children and complained how my husband wanted to go to church the next day when it was Daylight Savings Time, I would always try to balk. “Oh, come on. We are losing an hour. Let’s just sleep in.” My mom was visiting during one of those time changing moments and just smiled when I was complaining about being blamed for turning off the alarm.
“Mom, I really wasn’t the one who would push in the alarm so we could sleep in after losing an hour.”
“I know.” I looked at her and she was wearing a shit-eating grin on her face.”
“God dammit, Mom! …….You were the one?…….and then you came in and blamed me?” She smiled and nodded.
Well, there was only one thing I could do….
I stood up and clapped.
“I needed that hour,” she said with a shrug.
So, in the end, the heathen’s mother threw her own daughter under the proverbial bus in order to garner a lost hour of sleep once a year.
I was sitting at our local lazer wash the other day thinking back to the first time I ever went to an automatic car wash. I grew up in Weirton, West Virginia, and the new “automatic” car wash had just opened “up on the hill” near our home. I can’t remember what kind of car we had back then, but the whole family jumped in when my dad told us a car wash opened where you sit in the car while it is being washed. What??? No taking a bucket of water, soap, and a garden hose out into the driveway anymore? Well, not that I really helped wash our cars in the first place. I was and still am, a “non-finisher.” I just really can’t finish anything all the way through. Same for washing the car. I would get one side done and then spray the other side with the hose to knock some dust off and call it a day. You could never see that side from our picture window, so it looked like I did a great job.
When we pulled up to the new car wash, we had to wait in a line because, as all things new, people wanted to experience this new-fangled way to wash a car. It was the 60′s, after all, and inventions were just waiting to be invented. When it was our turn, a guy motioned for us to move up a bit. We then had to put the car in neutral. They guy then took some gigantic hook and put it somewhere in the front of the car.
“Will that pull off the bumper?” I thought that was a pertinent question.
The guy told my dad to make sure all of the windows were rolled up. We were ready. There was a little jerk and our car was on some track through a little building with these scrubber things on the sides. The noise was loud and the water was really hitting the windshield and roof of the car. To be perfectly honest, it was a bit scary. Those brushes were right up against our windows and then one roll up over the car and down the windshield. Hey, this was fun….but not really.
After we were done, there were two teen-age boys who wiped our car with dry cloths. My mom had to interject her authority of being Queen of Weirton.
“Make sure you dry the car good….and there better not be any spots of dirt anywhere.”
Oh, but there was. When we pulled into the driveway, she had my dad not park the car in the garage. She wanted to inspect the job the new automatic car wash did on our family vehicle.
“Well, we won’t be going there again.” I remember there were seven places that were missed. I smile at this because I can’t remember what I did fifteen minutes ago, but I can remember my mom ranting about SEVEN missed places on the car after visiting the new automatic car wash “up on the hill.” She loved to find something to bitch about. My dad was probably relieved that he wasn’t at the end of this particular rant. I remember thinking he was going to like this new car wash. Anything she disagreed about, my dad was then quietly all about.
So, one day I was sitting, watching tv, with our dog Smokey, on our lap. It was a hot summer day and my dad must not have wanted to wash the car by hand. I mean, who would want to, now that we basically had a robot to do it for us? He asked me if I wanted to take a ride with him to the car wash.
Since Smokey was already sitting on my lap, I just picked her up and carried her a la Paris Hilton with her prized chihuahua to the car. Smokey often rode in the car. As all chihuahuas, Smokey was a yapper. Yap, yap, yap. But, who knew what was about to transpire.
Well, Smokey went ape shit. The noise first scared her and she buried herself beside my hip. We were yanked ahead on the conveyor belt. When the brushes hit against the car, that’s when Smokey defended her territory and her family. She ran over to the window and bared her teeth and growled and barked like she was ready to take on the brushes. She ran back and forth, over my dad and over me to each window. She was going to save us from this barrage of red and yellow bristles attacking us.
Rotating brushes inside a conveyor car-wash. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I should have counted how many times she ran back and forth. My dad also found it amusing. Smokey the chihuahua was fighting with the brushes at the automatic car wash.
When we got home, Smokey was exhausted and fell fast asleep on my dad’s lap.
The next few times we went to the car wash, we took Smokey along for our pleasure. It seems so cruel now to put the little yapper through this sort of animal abuse, but you have to understand I never once thought I was being abusive. I just thought it was really really funny.
And each time we got home, my mom would disappear downstairs for a few minutes. We knew she was heading for the garage.
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)
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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.
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My fourth grade class was debating yesterday as to who should win the election today. I just sat back and listened to their reasoning. Or lack of reasoning. But, one thing is clear, they repeat what they hear in their household, and in the end, most of the reasoning I heard was well, scary. I think I heard three students say something that made me feel their parents are informed.
When I was in fourth grade, if someone asked me who was president, I may have replied, John F. Kennedy. Oh sure, I knew he had died on my parent’s anniversary several years before I was in fourth grade, and I knew that the gunman was gunned down by some night club owner, but I didn’t know who took his place. Wait. That’s a lie. I remember my grandfather talking about “LBJ, that goddamn snake in the grass.” So, our president was LBJ….Grandpa liked Ike, whoever the hell that was. Later, I found out it was Eisehower, who was president before “that catholic boy.” My grandfather was all about being a republican. But, I was nine years old and had important things to do like go to Campfire Girls meetings and play chinese jump rope. I didn’t care about politics. The only thing I knew at the time was that presidents used initials and short nicknames instead of their names….Ike….JFK…..LBJ. I was VLM. My friend Ramaine was RAC. Lori was LAM, and LeeAnn was LAW. I was pissed because my middle name messed everything up. I could never have pretty monogrammed towels.
And kids really didn’t pay attention to who was running for president back then. But, that changed when we baby boomers had kids and talked about it more and the kids listened. Why did they listen? Well, because our kids stayed indoors more than we did when we were young. We were outside as long as it wasn’t storming. Well, my mom forbade it to lightning on Woodland Estates, so we were outside most of the time. Don’t get me wrong, my kids played outside plenty, but the mid 80′s were different than the mid 60′s. Kids of the mid 80′s listened because they were around the parents more.
English: Seal of the President of the United States Español: Escudo del Presidente de los Estados Unidos Македонски: Печат на Претседателот на Соединетите Американски Држави. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
My daughter became a big fan of CNN when she was little. She liked Tucker Carlson and his bow tie. She became interested in the environment when she was very young, getting mad at the Harrison Power Plant and its wicked plume of black smoke that came out of the stack. She was in tune. Both of my kids were. So, they listened. She pointed out later, “Mom, you are so not a Republican. And Dad……he is definitely not a Democrat.” They listened and picked up on things. And she was right. I changed my party years later so I could vote for Obama.
But, back to my fourth graders. I let them go at each other. One said that Romney hated the Earth. Another said that Obama was going to close all of the coal mines in the state. (West Virginia)
“I’m voting for Romney. Obama doesn’t believe in God.”
“I’m voting for Obama because Romney is a Mormon.” When asked what a Mormon was, the child told me, “It’s a man who has a lot of wives…and that is just wrong.” Another boy added, “I think having a bunch of wives is wrong….but if they could cook, it might not be so bad.”
“Romney is going to win because Obama is going to make rich people pay more taxes.” I asked if his family is rich. “Yes, my mom works at Walmart.” A girl laughed and replied, “Working at Walmart doesn’t make you rich. You have to win the lottery if you want to be really rich.”
“Obama is a terrorist. His middle name is a terrorist name.” I asked him what Obama’s middle name is. “Something like Muslim or something.” Another child laughed at his response. “Muslim is not a middle name. It’s something you sew with.” Um, okay, muslin is a cotton. Points scored for knowing fabric.
In the end, their rants and reasons for voting for their respective candidates were highly amusing…and sad at the same time. I had to wonder:
Do people really understand the issues or do they vote because of what they hear from others the same way children form opinions from watching and listening to their parents and believing it is right and just?
It that is the case, which I think it is in a majority of people, we would always see the proverbial snake in the grass.
The important thing today is to exercise your right to make a decision of some kind. It may not be for the best reasons, but we are lucky to be in a country where we are free to make a choice, even if is because you just like the man. Reagan received a lot of votes because people just liked him as a person. If that alone makes you get in your car and stand in a line to vote, then good for you.
I don’t think my mom had much confidence in me when I was young, as she was always telling me
“When they were passing out brains, you must have thought they said trains, and went for a ride.”
I am certain she told me this more than a hundred times…or maybe twenty, I’m not really sure. I do remember feeling like a stupid train conductor, that’s for sure.
Years later when I informed my mom by phone I was getting a divorce after twenty five years of marriage, and that I was moving out of the house, she replied-
“You know, I thought I raised a smart girl, but you must have been dropped on your head.”
After I hung up on her, I had to laugh. It reminded me back to when I first watched Forrest Gump. He was sitting beside Jenny on the school bus.
“Are you stupid or something?”
“Momma says stupid is as stupid does.”
It made me visualize Momma Gump’s reaction to some of the things my mom had said to me over the years. I’m thinking she would have slapped her. My mom once told me that I would probably study for a blood test. Funny, Mom.
Ok, I am sure we have all done stupid things. Some do more than others…. I don’t know…. I think those are called mistakes. Not all people are stupid. If that was the case, most of the train tracks would still be in use instead of the miles and miles of rails to trails we have across our nation today. So, my question is this-
“Did economics change our use of trains as transportation….or are there not as many stupid people nowadays confusing brains with trains?
I ran across “Yo momma is so…” jokes this morning that made me think of how my mom would basically call me stupid through different expressions. I wish I had some of these zingers to say back to her over the phone after she told me I was dropped on my head.
“Well, you’re so stupid you think a quarterback is your income tax refund.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you put lipstick on your forehead when you were trying to makeup your mind.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, it took you two hours to watch 60 Minutes.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, you went to the YMCA thinking it was Macy’s.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, you stood inside a Subway restaurant waiting for the next train.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, you think Taco Bell is a Mexican phone company.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you spent an hour looking at the orange juice container because it said, concentrate.”
(I’m having fun).
“Well, you’re so stupid, you had to burn down the school to get out of third grade.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you got excited because you finished a jigsaw puzzle in 6 months and the box said “2 to 4 years.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you got fired from an M&M factory for throwing away all the W’s.”
Ok, I’m done.
Would I have used any of those to say back to my mom? Probably not.
She would have just said
“Vickie, are you a dumb blonde on purpose or does it just come natural?”
It’s was just easier to hang up on her.
************************************************
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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.
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.
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.”
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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.
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.
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.
Once upon a time a family drove to a little amusement park in their home state and joined all of the other families and people wanting a day of smiles and laughter. They rode rides and ate hot dogs and cotton candy. What a great memory in the making. Years went by. Families grew and found something else to do. Bigger and better amusement parks opened. Families now saved their money to take the once in a lifetime trip to Disney, Six Flags, or Sea World.
Soon, most of the little amusement parks had to close their doors for various reasons. Some of these lesser known parks had thrilled people for more than a century. Some mom and pop operations were sitting on valuable pieces of real estate. An offer far more than the small profit made yearly with admission tickets made their operations come to a close. For others, a lack of visitors forced some small amusement parks to sadly shut their gates and turn off the lights. And, sadly, the laughter.
photo via wikipedia
I can think of two parks that were close to where I live that are no longer in operation. Both closed to make way for a new road. One was Rock Springs Park in Chester, West Virginia. The other one was a more contemporary park called White Swan. White Swan closed to make way for the new road to the enlarged Pittsburgh Airport. Defunct.
1. Rock Springs Park- Chester, West Virginia. This park opened in 1897 and closed after its final owner died in 1970. It sat vacant for several years until the state of West Virginia bought the property for its re-routing of a main road. My grandmother used to talk about this park and we visited it often when I was quite young. And now it is just a memory. It was a beautiful park.
2. White Swan Park-Near the Pittsburgh airport- Operated between 1955-1989. It was a small roadside kiddie amusement park that had a roller coaster that jerked at each turn. I do remember that.
But, although dismantling and tearing down buildings and erasing its past is sad, the abandoned and neglected amusement parks are creepy and dismal. Vines and trees are reclaiming the space once used to bring joy to all those who entered its gates. Now, rust and rotten wood are all that is visable. The echoes of laughter are gone. The only thing that remains is an eery, ominous sight, creepy really. And quite sad.
Chippewa Lake Amusement Park-Ohio
Rocky Point-Rhode Island
There are many amusement parks that have been left to decay with time. Bulldozers have left these grounds alone for one reason or another. And none of them compare to the Six Flags Amusement Park in New Orleans.
We all witnessed the horror of what hurricane Katrina did to the Gulf area. It wasn’t until some time later that I saw pictures of Six Flags. I thought maybe, just maybe, as the water receded, the park would be able to re-open. I was wrong. I have read several trip reports from people who have sneaked inside the locked gates to take photos of its untimely demise. How sad.
Flooded after Katrina
photos via lovethesepics.com
2011
Six Flags New Orleans is currently owned by the city of New Orleans. Plans were announced this past March to build an outlet mall in its place.
Another ill-fated amusement park was Heritage USA. You remember that cry-baby evangelist Jim Bakker and his mascara infused wife, Tammy, right? Well, Jim opened a water park and theme park where you would be closer to God and spend money on rides. Problem was, old Jim sold more partnerships than there were rooms in one of the towers. Oh, he had other problems as well. And Heritage USA closed.
Another abandoned amusement park is located in Wichita, Kansas. Joyland closed and was abandoned in 2006. It would be sad to have to drive by this every day.
In the end, I would say it is better to bulldoze a closed amusement park to make way for a road or another commercial venture than watching it decay year after year. To watch the grass grow high, and graffiti overtake a once brightly painted building would be painful, especially if youth was spent at these parks.
The thrill is gone.
The eery echoes of laughter remain, however, and memories do linger on. So, the next time you visit your favorite amusement park, make sure you take a lot of pictures of your family enjoying themselves. Because, you just never know. You may arrive one summer to find this-
When I was little, we didn’t have fast food restaurants. We weren’t in a hurry. We mostly ate at home. You know, meat, potatoes, and a vegetable. Oh sure, there was the local A&W root beer stand. We were able to drive to the parking spot, and a girl would come out and put a tray at our window. We would order and the food would be brought to our car. This doesn’t work too well when it rains or there is a twelve inch snow fall. Hard to eat while wearing mittens.
Elby’s Big Boy was another place that had the same drive-in scenario. If you looked like crap, but were hungry, you could drive in your curlers or greasy hair and eat in your car. How convenient. And fast.
So, it wasn’t long before someone figured out that people would love to pull up to a sign with the menu written for them. They could order, be told how much it was going to cost at the next window, and then at the last window, pick up their food and be told to have a nice day. How wonderful would that be?
Although there were other chains who first claimed the ”drive thru,” the first drive thru McDonald’s was established in 1975. I was in college at the time, and I don’t remember what year the concept finally got to Fairmont, West Virginia. Probably last week. I would have loved a drive thru, as we had to put “scarf on head” and head to McDonald’s to nurse a hangover. Seems I wasn’t the only one who felt better eating greasy food the day after drinking jungle juice or swamp water at a party. But, no, no one thought to put a drive thru in a college town. They could have made so much more money during the mid seventies.
There are problems with drive thru windows, however. Just yesterday, my friend and co-worker, left McDonald’s and realized 15 minutes later that the goofy cashier did not return her change. $8.00. And to top that, she reported that the tea was so nasty that she couldn’t drink it and had to throw it away. First of all, I would never ever drive off without my change. Now, one time when I was trying to multi-task think, I drove right up to the window without stopping to order. But, her experience yesterday made me realize the two things that happened to me after leaving a McDonald’s drive thru once upon a time.
To be honest, I have a lot of things happen to me at fast food joints. Sometimes the person at the window drops my change on the ground and then just looks and says, “Oops.” I think that is translated as, “Open your door and pick it up.” But, one day I came home with something extra special. The thought still turns my stomach.
No, I didn’t get a severed finger or a rat’s foot in my sandwich. That would have made me rich. No, my delight was in my medium regular Coke.
Enjoy the surprise!
Now, I love my Coke. But, this Coke had a hell of a lot of ice in it. I could tell when the goofball head handed it too me. I was a little miffed, knowing that meant there was probably two sips of Coke and the rest ice in my cup. But, I drove home with my cup of ice and my cheesburger and french fries.
I took a couple of sips of my Coke, and realized I was right. Shit. Those stupid people put more ice than Coke in my medium Coke. I took another long sip and well, that was it. Not happy. So, I took the lid off and looked at the ice.
What ice? Oh, there was a couple pieces of ice. But, sitting in the cup, smiling up at me, was a part of the contraption of the Coke machine. The part where the Coke comes out into your cup had somehow fallen into my cup. It looked like a large plastic piece……..with…….MOLD all over it.
I immediately starting gagging. I was sick to my stomach. Dear God, the moldy coke machine was in my cup.
After I faux vomited for about ten minutes, I got pissed. Pissed like I was going to drive right back and shove it down someone’s throat.
So, I drove back to McDonald’s with my little toy surprise. I marched in and asked for the manager. He came right out and I began my little tirade.
“Um, are you by any chance missing something?”
“I’m sorry. Missing something?”
“Uh, yeah, like a part of the Coke machine?” I then opened my coke cup and revealed the black moldy cokey piece.
And this is the part that made me want to spit nails. He said to me.
“Thanks.” And walked away with Moldy. The hell you say?
“Excuse me??? Seriously, that is it? I drove home with MOLD in my drink. I wasn’t able to eat any of my Quarter pounder meal because I was vomiting. I think you owe me a new meal…..and an apology instead of a thanks…..And please write down your name so I will be able to give it to my lawyer.” I don’t mess around. Notice I super-sized my original order.
The manager gave me back my money and gave me a new Quarter pounder value meal. Which was much better than the cheeseburger and small fries that I had to begin with. Well, I wouldn’t have lied if he had apologized profusely the first time.
The second time the drive thru window did me wrong was sort of comical. I can’t remember the deal, but our McDonald’s had a certain day when cheeseburgers were like $.50 each or something pretty damn cheap. I went through the fast food window and got cheeseburgers for the fam and chicken nuggets for my daughter as even back then she did not like hamburgers. So, I drove home and unloaded the burgers, the fries, and went to the fridge for the ketchup for the fries. And then my husband spoke up.
“Vick, where are the cheeseburgers?”
“Um, right in front of you.” Duh.
“No…..where ARE the cheeseburgers?”
My husband lifted up his bun to reveal a….bun. I brought home six cheeseburgers and none of them had the patties in them.
“You have got to be kidding me!”
So, I drove back to McDonald’s and asked to see the manager. I showed him the meatless meal and pointed out that all of the large french fries, sitting on my kitchen island, were cold now because I had to drive all the way back here….from Saskatoon, Canada….or three minutes down the road.
I had to laugh at that one. That’s like going to Kentucky Fried Chicken and coming home with a box of mashed potatoes and a roll. Or something like that. Maybe that Hamburglar really does have a problem with stealing. You just never know about Old McDonalds.
So, kids, stealing is ok.
So sure, fast food drive thru’s may be convenient and quick, but are they really? How many times do people go home with the man’s order who was in back of you in line? How many times did you get a mixture of tea and Sprite instead of a Coke? And how many times did you not get a straw or napkins when you were planning to eat while driving? Maybe it’s worth it, and maybe it’s not.
I wonder what the future holds for fast food. I’m thinking the Jetson’s. You won’t even have to go out of your space pod. Just push a button and it will appear. A Food-A-Rac-A-Cycle.
And hopefully, it won’t come with a side order of mold or no meat.
I pull my car into the parking lot behind our elementary school every day. Well, except for weekends, of course. I normally do not pay attention to my surroundings as I gather my little teacher bag, purse, and other paraphernalia that clutters my passenger seat each morning, and make my way to the side door.
Oh sure, once in a while, like after a big rain, I may stop to pick up a few earthworms that I know will never make it back to the grass before the sun beats down on them and fries their little bodies. I help them. Worms are people too.
Once in a while I talk to the cat who lives somewhere in the neighborhood but prefers the parade of people sweet talking to him as they make their way with their own teaching paraphernalia into the side door.
But, yesterday, I looked farther than the back parking lot. We are faced on two sides by a cemetery. On one side is a church with a yard full of tombstones. To the back are more tombstones. I look at them all the time as I pull in. I even asked a co-worker one time during Halloween, “You do see that woman by that grave, right?”
But, yesterday, I really looked at them. We were dismissed early due to water problems, so I was in no hurry to go nowhere. I sat in my car and surveyed all of the memorials. The cemetery is filled with love and rememberance. It was sad, yet lovely at the same time. So, I took out my camera and starting snapping pictures.
There is understandable sadness among the residents. Some left this earth too soon. I am sure some left without being able to say goodbye. Some had a long, painful goodbye. These people were loved. I spotted one statue from my car.
The grass was wet, so I didn’t attempt the walk to the grave. I also have a bit of a problem walking through other people’s memories. Forever marked. Forever loved. So, I closed in on this particular point of interest.
Some of the tombstones, once erect, bend towards the sun. Others are crumbling from the effect of acid rain and time. But, this little angelic marker stands tall and begs me to get a closer look.
On closer inspection with my camera’s zoom, I notice that the poor angelic figure is crumbling. His sad face will be but a memory. How long has it been there, I wonder? I just don’t want to invade its privacy.
I for one, will not have a headstone or marker, for I want to be cremated so I can sit on my kids’ mantles and listen to everything that is going on, for that is how I roll. I just can’t grasp the idea of being placed underground. Oh, I know that I will be dead, and it won’t matter. But, being in a lovely vase where my children can talk to me seems fitting for the kind of person I am.
As I put my camera away after one final photo of the cemetery, I have to admit that it has opened my eyes to the other cemeteries that I pass every day. I don’t even give it a thought as I drive by each one. It’s a graveyard, after all. Nothing more, nothing less. But, I now want to take pictures of the wonderful memorials that are placed there as a result of grief and enduring love.
Time may overtake these wonderful reflections of loss.
I think I will pay more attention on my daily drive.
I bought a magazine the other day. As I turned each page, I came across a page that had one of those perfume inserts. I really don’t like when they do this. It’s like seeing the proverbial “wet paint” sign. You know you are going to open it up and smell whatever the hell smell they want to put in there. I could be smelling dog poop for all I know. Why are we so easy? Well, I realize, of course, that the perfume people want to give us a little tease so that we will run right out and buy their product, but I didn’t ask for smelly stuff inside my magazine. But, such is life! Estee Lauder wanted me to take a whiff of Beautiful.
It made me think of freebies.
When I was little, I really only ate Rice Krispies or Corn Flakes. And that was fine, because Kelloggs loved putting stuff in the cereal box as an added incentive to buy their cereal. Kellogg was like the P.T. Barnum of cereals.
There’s something inside. Buy me and see!
Product inserts were really big when I was little during the late 1950′s and 1960′s. People in the industry call the little enticements, ”premiums.”
Kelloggs was the first to introduce prizes in box’s of cereal. Betty Crocker put coupons in bags of flour as far back as 1929. So, this has been going on for a very long time.
Here are a few of the companies that enticed us with their freebies:
1. Bazooka Gum- You may not think of it this way, but gum is gum, and they didn’t have to give us a comic to read along with the gum. But, every time we opened a piece of Bazooka chewing gum, there is was, waiting for us. I didn’t know that Bazooka gum was owned by Topps. They had a thing about including things with things. I always wondered why the kid was wearing a patch. It bothered me. Did someone stick him in the eye with a stick? Bazooka Joe had some buddies in his comic strip. The one I remember the most was Mort, the skinny friend who always wore a red turtleneck pulled up over his mouth. See? I paid attention to the comics as I popped the gum in my mouth.
2. Cracker Jacks- I was never a fan of the carameled popcorn. It just didn’t taste good to me. So, I would buy a box just for the prize inside and sit and peel the wrapper off.
Cracker Jacks was first sold at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893. At first, it was a mixture of popcorn, peanuts, and molassses, and was called “Candied Popcorn and Peanuts.” It was named Cracker Jacks after an employee remarked after biting into it, “That’s cracker jack!” Back then, that meant, “awesome.” The remarkable thing about Cracker Jacks is how a songwriter but it in the song, “Take me Out to the Ballpark.”……
Take me out to the ball game
Take me out with the crowd
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks
I don’t care if I never get back.
Let me root, root, root, for the home team
If they don’t win it’s a shame
For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out
at the old ball game.
Talk about free publicity.
3. Topps- I bet my brother is not happy nowadays that he used his Roberto Clemente baseball card in the spokes of his bicycle. But, that’s not all that came with baseball cards. Topps wanted you to have a piece of gum. It was wider that the usual gum, which made it pretty darn cool. But, which came first? From what I have read, Topps wanted you to taste their gum. Why not put a piece with the baseball card to entice you to their other product. Pretty smart marketing.
Ok, yeah, sure, mine gum usually looked like this when I opened up the pack, but I still chewed it.
Here are some of the other ”premiums” that I was able to remember:
4. Coke- circa 1991-They inserted Olympic cards into their 12 pack of cans. I should still have all of these somewhere. I posted the one of Mary Lou Retton because she is from Fairmont and is living here now with her family.
There are so many companies that gave away toys and trinkets inside their packaging. Cereals seemed to be the main culprit. I remember fighting with my brother and sister over some of them. I’d let my brother have all of the “boy” stuff, so I usually only had to fight my sister most of the time. And that just meant getting up earlier to open the new box of cereal.
Which got me sent to my room once in a blue moon for having too many boxes of cereal opened at the same time. I only ate Rice Krispies and Corn Flakes. So, having more than one of those opened was not good.
I do remember cutting things off of the back of the box. Sometimes it was a mask. Other times it was a coloring page. But, it made breakfast educational because afterall, we were reading the box. :ere are some other items found with their products to entice us to use or eat their product.
Circus train animals- animal crackers..wheels to make it look like a real circus train
Sugar Daddies-free wildlife card insert
Wonder Bread-Star Wars Card
Reese cup mallo card add them up and get something free..like a mallo cup
Butternut bread- Snoopy for President
Big one- McDonald’s Happy Meals- I could write a lot on just McDonald’s. Their Happy Meal was a way to get a toy in a box that also had neat stuff for the kids. You can’t purchase the toy separately. I still have a lot of the kids Happy Meal toys. Some are still in the plastic, so you know it’s going to be worth a lot of money one of these days.
Lucky charms-Harlem Globetrotter whistle
Trix-atomic submarine..What? a sub? Inside? I hated Trix. But a sub? In a box of cereal. MOM!!
You can get a Creeping monster inside if you buy this box of Honeycombs. I mean, who wouldn’t want one? Added bonus-It glows in the dark, people.
Or three “groovy” balloons. Balloons aren’t special unless they are groovy.
Yes, the late fifties and early sixties were a great time to be a kid. Cereal inserts were commonplace. Kids ate their cereal. Some ate their cereal as a snack before bed. Oh, my, the cereal companies were doing well. Even the cereals with the word “sugar” in the title did well. We had Sugar Smacks and one of my favorite, Sugar Pops. Life was good.
So, the next time you open a wrapper on a piece of Bazooka Joe gum, take a second to read the comic.
It is, after all, their way of thanking you for buying their product.
One of my students had her tonsils and adenoids removed this morning. I really need to write down the things she says in class, because she is so funny. Her biggest concern was that she had to be at the hospital at 6:00. “Ms. Mendenhall, I have to be at the hospital at 6:00. I mean, I don’t have to leave my house at 6:00. I have to BE at the hospital at 6:00.” Isn’t it funny what kids are concerned about? I would have been afraid of strange doctors in my personal space, hovering over me and asking me questions.
“Did you eat anything this morning, Vickie?”
“Um…. I had Sugar Pops for breakfast.” I wanted to say, “Get the hell out of my space. Don’t you see that box around me? Stay on the other side.” Not a fan of space invaders.
My student’s mom just told me on Facebook that K. wore her jammies to the hospital. She told her mom, “I look a mess, but it’s not like I’m going to be on tv.” I love that kid.
It also took me back in time, like everything does. It took me back to when my son, Adam, had his tonsils and adenoids removed.
I wrote about this a long time ago. But, I combined it with snow days, breaking out in chicken pox, and my cabin fever as a result of all of those happening in sequence. Stick a Fork in Me Cuz I am Done It was a weird spring.
When Adam was little, he seemed like he was sick all of the time. He had pneumonia several times. There is nothing worse than a child with a 105 degree fever. I had “mother judgement calls.” You just never know how long is too long before you load them off and race towards the emergency room. He was sick almost every Christmas.
He had drainage all the time. It was so bad that his second grade teacher sent me a note that his continuous clearing his throat was driving her crazy. Well, she didn’t write that, but that is what she meant. And when he would clear his throat, he would quietly utter, “Oh yeah,” which I think was his way to check if he could speak correctly. Like “Check one-two. Check.” Sound system ok. I felt so sorry for him.
So, after NUMEROUS trips to his pediatrician, who I swear put him Augmentin 300 times, I took him straight to an ENT, who announced that his adenoids were so huge, he could see them. I guess you aren’t supposed to be able to see adenoids. His tonsils had to come out.
When I took him back to his regular pediatrician and told him that I took him to an ENT, my doc looked at me like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. We never saw that doctor at that practice again. I’m still pissed at him for letting my son go that long. If a kid is in 3rd or 4 th grade and has had several bouts of strep throat and numerous colds and congestion, get his damn tonsils taken out. I know that I am not a doctor, but I pretend to be one. I’m just saying that the difference is sudden and remarkable.
The scheduled surgery was right when it looked like school was going to be back in session after the perpetual snow event of that winter. Figures..
Adam’s surgery went well and when he came home I made him a bed on the couch in our Hearth Room so he wouldn’t have to go up and down the steps for awhile. I also made the HUGE mistake of giving him a bell to ring for me. I wanted him to rest, so I thought that if I gave him a bell, that he could just tap it when he wanted something. Ding Ding! He wanted paper and a pen, so he could write me notes. Smart kid…Ding Ding! He wanted his Lego’s. Ding Ding! He wanted his stuffed animal, Bear. Ding Ding! He wrote that he wanted his stuffed animal penguins, Preston and Prescott. Freaking Ding Dong!
I better warn K.’s mom not to do the same. I walked in after only two hours, and quietly snatched the bell away from him. So, the mute improvised, and started tapping his pencil against his glass of water. I created a tonsil-less monster.
For the love of sanity, don't give her a bell.
I really don’t remember how long he stayed home from school after he had his tonsils taken out, but I think it may have been 6 months. Ok, not 6 months, but it felt like that. His tonsils were healing nicely and he was ready to go to school. Well, that would have been nice, but that’s not what happened. He woke up one morning, and said he didn’t feel well. I felt his forehead and he felt a bit warm. I noticed that there was something on the tip his nose. At first I thought it was a booger. Kids wear boogers sometimes. I hurried and raised his pajama top. Shit. “OH MY GOD!” I said out loud. I never cursed in front of the kids, but if I did, I would have said something like this-” Are you shitting me?…… Damnit!”
Yeah, Adam was breaking out with chicken pox.
And then his sister broke out with chicken pox.
And that’s how I started drinking. Ok, just kidding, but minus the damn chicken pox mess, having Adam’s tonsils removed made a huge difference.
A lot of people have big problems with particular sights or smells. When I was young, my dad had a huge problem with an errant hair lying in the bathroom sink, smiling up at him. We could hear him gag. I really don’t know what it was about a hair in the sink, but it troubled my dad to no end. I would always blow dry my hair in front of the sink after my shower, so it’s not like it was dirty or anything. But, it never failed. Gag.
I, on the other hand, always had a problem with smells. Sights of gross or yucky things really never bothered me. When I was in fourth grade I would sit and watch a kid pick scabs off of his arms or legs and eat them. He was a booger eater too. As I got older, sight still never bothered me. When I had my wisdom teeth taken out, I asked to watch the procedure by looking through overhead mirrors. But, smells were a completely different animal. Completely different.
I can’t handle smells. I never could. I think the first smell that really bothered me was the smell of someone’s feet when they took off tennis shoes that were worn without socks. Just really bad. But, it really hit me hard when I was pregnant with both of my kids. Why do smells bother pregnant women so badly?
Women in their first trimester usually notice a heightened sense of smell. Bodies are changing and doing weird things to us. We have morning sickness, we crave crazy food, and we gag with smells. What fun!
I went around my school and asked a few people what smells bothered them when they were pregnant. One said “coffee.” Another said, “boiled chicken.” Mine were “pork chops,” among a hundred other smells. It then made me think of my friend, Jeanie.
When Jeanie was pregnant, she got very very sick while watching tv. It was a Karl Malden commercial for the American Express commercial, “Don’t leave home without it.” She wasn’t sure if there was a particular trigger to one of her senses that sent her running for the bathroom, but she told me that after that, every time that damn commercial came on during her pregnancy, she would vomit.
When I was a pregnant, smells drove me crazy. It didn’t just last the first trimester. It lasted until, well, today. But, I especially remember one day in particular.
I was standing in line at the grocery store. It was busy that hot, July day. I was standing in a line with about six people and their filled carts. I had two people in front of me and two behind me. There were just as many people in the aisles to the right and to the left of me. And dear God, someone smelled.
I was stuck. I could have lost my mind and asked people behind me to back up a bit, but I thought I would just breathe through my mouth. I could do that and not smell a thing. Well, except that I had a lovely summer cold and couldn’t breathe out of my nose that well. I was stuffed up. So, I had to smell the smell. So, I put index finger under my nose, which does not help whatsoever. My eyes started watering. My stomach started churning. I was ready to start gagging. The man in front of me kept looking at me. He was probably worried that I was going to throw up on him. Surely he could smell the smell.
I finally made it to the conveyor belt and was seriously considering bolting out the door. The body odor was that bad. As I was putting my grocery items on the belt, I just happened to glance out of the window into the parking lot. The man who was in front of me was putting his items in his car, when all of a sudden, he looked around, as if he was looking to see if anyone was in the parking lot. He then raised his right arm and smelled his armpit. He did the same thing to this left arm.
That poor man thought he was the culprit. It made me laugh. I finally made it out the door and on to my next smell.
I haven’t had a cold in a long long time, so whenever a bad smell comes at me, I can just breathe through my mouth. I only have time for the great smells out there. Like the smell of the wild garlic/onion grass after the grass is cut. Like the smell of homemade bread, waiting for me. And like the smell of hazelnut cream candle. Good smells.
So, pregnant or soon to be pregnant women, prepare to smell like you’ve never smelled before.
I really didn’t want to get snow. It is April 23 for God’s sake. What is wrong you weather people? We can’t have snow this late. I watched the Weather Channel off and on all Sunday, watching them adjust the predicted snow amounts.
First it was 4-6 inches of snow, with up to a foot or more in the higher elevations. After it was all in done with, we could see much more. We were going to lose our electricity because of the weight of the wet, heavy snow on the newly leafed trees. We were told to go to the store and buy a generator. But, whatever you do, don’t place it inside your home. Purchase batteries for your flashlights. Get some candles, because, well, we may not have electricity for days. If you stay home, make sure you have plenty of blankets. Drive to your local supermarket and buy milk and bread, as you may be stuck in your home for a few days.
A friend on Facebook feared it was Zombie Apocalypse time. I agreed. Something was not right. It had to be the Zombies. Or weather men who, despite their expensive techno gear and capabilities to forsee the weather future, still can not pinpoint a damn thing for us. So, although some areas of Pennsylvania and West Virginia got some snow, we did not get the anticpated snow. Actually, none and all.
We got rain. That’s it. Rain. And now, at 5:16, the sun is shining. Bravo, Weather Channel. I’m glad I didn’t go out and buy provisions.
Like I did for the blizzard of 1977.
Ah, the blizzard of 1977. I remember it well.
I was in college, attending Fairmont State College. Now, you have to understand that our college president, Wendall Hardway, would never postpone classes for a weather event. If a bomb dropped on the campus, he would not have postponed classes. I remember two days when the campus did not have water. Honey Badger Hardway didn’t give a shit. Go to class dirty. Stick a scarf on that greasy head. Classes were NEVER postponed or cancelled. Even when the blizzard was approaching.
At the time of the big blizzard of 1977, I was living on View Avenue, in a big white house with four other girls. Paula and Jeri were expecting their boyfriends for the weekend. It was Friday. We all got up that morning and got ready for classes. We had heard about the approaching blizzard, but not really. Now, you have to understand that we didn’t have the Weather Channel back then. We didn’t have the internet that would let us have our very own personal radar screens to check every hour. How cool would that have been? No, we had channel 12, WBOY, and their little studio only had half of a weather map. You could never see what the weather was like out west, because there wasn’t enough room in their little studio for a full sized map. The camera never panned over that way. I know this to be true…… Or maybe it was WDTV. Regardless, we had those stations and the big Pittsburgh stations letting us know that there was a blizzard in the making.
The National Weather Service was predicting a huge winter storm to hit West Virginia. Emergency announcements were being made on the radio stations.
But, we knew school would never be cancelled. Never. I drove my little rusty car, Rusty, up on campus, parked her, and started to walk from the parking lot down the hill to the student union when I saw National Guard trucks driving onto the campus. I will exaggerate and say that there were ten vehicles because I really don’t remember how many there were. I didn’t know why they were there. Maybe it was National Guard Day and they were having a ceremony in the ballroom of the student center.
It didn’t take me long to figure out that something was up. Students were either laughing or upset, scurrying by like little mice trying to find a mouse hole. I stopped a boy who was walking passed me, smiling from ear to ear.
“They are here to shut down the college!” And that’s all he said.
What???
Well, I found out soon enough that Governor Jay Rockefeller had sent in the National Guard to shut down Fairmont State College because Wendell Hardway refused to close the campus. A freaking historic blizzard was on its way and Rockefeller didn’t want anyone traveling home for the weekend in the midst of it. He didn’t want anyone on the streets. National guardsmen were holding bull horns and were driving slowly, telling everyone to go home. A blizzard was coming and the college was shutting down.
The hell you say? I just stood there and stared. Well, this was surreal. This is stuff you see in the movies. Big Jay Rockefeller sent in the big guns to shut down our fair little campus. I bet the honey badger was really pissed..and did give a shit.
Well, I obliged, but first went into our student center, The Nickel, to talk the situation over with everyone. The place was buzzing, but emptying out at the same time. There was a National Guardsman in the Nickel. Wow.
So, I drove home. As soon as I got in the door, my roommate Pat looked at me and said, “We need to go get provisions.” Provisions. Wow. It even sounded serious. There was a freaking historic blizzard racing towards us. Of course we had to get provisions. We immediately hopped in my car and went to the local Dairy Mart.
Well, others must have thought about this too, because the place was jammed. Luckily, we must have gotten there early because there were still a couple of loaves of bread on the shelf and milk in the cooler. So, Pat bought a couple of packs of cigarettes and some pop, and I bought pop and some potato chips. We were ready to be snowed in for weeks. Oh, hell, let’s drive to McDonald’s too.
When we arrived home, our other roommates were beside themselves because their boyfriends were supposed to be on their way. They lived about 2 hours away and were traveling on Interstate 79. Cell phones were not invented yet, so they didn’t hear from them for quite a while. They were supposed to be there by now.
Meanwhile, Pat and I sat on the couch, waiting for the blizzard, looking out the picture window. I was visualizing the boys, Joe D. and Donald, being blown off the interstate by the blizzard. God rest their souls.
The boys never made it. Governor Rockefeller had shut down the interstate. The National Guardsmen, who were everywhere throughout the state that day, had turned them back.
“There’s a blizzard on the way. You better turn back and go straight home.”
The boys turned around and called from a phone booth at the nearest gast station to let Paula and Jeri that they would not be arriving in Fairmont. More provisions for us.
It was early evening by now and we were watching the news. Everyone in the mountain state were off the roads. We braced for the blizzard of the century. Charleston, our state capitol, was a ghost town. No one was on the streets. Rockefeller made sure we would be ready and that the road crews would not have to contend with stranded motorists. The newly inaugurated governor was making his first executive decisions. This blizzard was going to be brutal.
According to WSAZ television:
“It is important for people living in the following counties to understand that throughout this night, they will be on a blizzard alert tonight,” said Rockefeller in 1977.
Blizzard alert. Dear God, there is going to be snow piled up past our doors. Thank goodness Jeri and Paula had bought food for hungry boyfriends or we would starve.
Well, the massive blizzard never came. The wind picked up a little, and perhaps a dusting of snow lay on the ground. I sat on the couch for hours. awaiting its arrival. My mom called to make sure I wasn’t “stupid” and would not venture out in the blizzard. I was not going to drive in a blizzard. I was, however, planning to go outside so I could say I witnessed a blizzard. But, it never came.
1977 Blizzard. Hit everywhere but West Virginia
Our governor took a ribbing for many years and the blizzard is now called “The Rockefeller Blizzard.” The state of West Virginia actually shut down. The National Guard learned from this mistake and since then does not mobolize until the storm actually hits.
The only one I think that loved the result of the whole blizzard scenario was Fairmont State President, Wendell Hardway. I could just picture him chuckling over the outcome. And I thought of old Wendell when this storm was supposed to hit us this morning, April 23, 2012.
But, you know what? When I heard about the storm approaching, I hopped in my car and went to the Dairy Mart for two- 20 ounce Cokes.
I guess there are a lot of things that just grate my nerves. I already wrote about the whistler that was following me in Walmart. I loathe people who chew their food and make that disgusting smacking noise. Keep your mouth shut please. And I want to be a teacher and hold out the palm of my hand to all gum snappers. You know who your are.
I would have to say that gum snapping ranks in my top 5 of “Things That Make Me Want to Slap Someone.” I really can’t stand it.
Years ago, while I was sitting in church, I heard a woman behind me snapping her gum. I looked behind me and gave her a look. Oh, it was just a fake smile kind of look. I wanted to connect the sound to the face to see if I could take her. Gum snappers have no place on this earth. Well, she must have just put the Dentyne in her mouth (I saw the wrapper) and she just really went to town on it. My daughter, also a gum snapper hater, gave me a look that rivaled mine. I was impressed and proud. But, the church gum snapper lady would not stop. No one else seemed to be bothered. Gum snappers remind me of cows chewing their cud. And this cow had to stop.
The church I belong to is not one of those raise your hands in the air and talk out loud kind of churches. But, I wanted to turn it into one of those that Sunday morning. I wanted to raise my hands in the air, sway them from left to right and then stand up and exclaim to the congregation-
“Dear people…. the lord just spoke to me!…… (Gasps from the crowd I am sure) And he told me that this woman (pointing to the gum snapper) is going to be struck down by a Mack truck…..this afternoon….if she does not stop her gum snappin ways.”
I could only dream. Well, I stopped attending church and so I don’t have that problem anymore. Yes, I run away from my problems. It’s hard to do when you are on a plane, however. Yes, there was a huge gum snapper in the airport while we were waiting for our flight to Cancun last summer. There was no way I was going to sit with a gum snapper in a closed in space for a couple of hours. It was not going to happen. I would have to shake and then slap her. I moved from where I was sitting at gate whatever and could still hear her. Shit. Thank God she ran out of gum and even told her husband she was out of gum. She was going to hurry and buy some before boarding the plane, but her husband told her no. She looked like a drug addict waiting for withdrawl. I was pleased.
So, imagine my surprise when I was looking at images on pinterest last night and came across a photo of a gum wrapper chain. Wow, I haven’t seen one of those………..since I made one in the early seventies. Completely forgot about those things.
Wow. I made a gum wrapper chain. I forgot about that. I made one either in junior high or high school. I hung it in my bedroom, running it all around the perimeter of my room. Sort of looked like a narrow little border. My room was about 13×13, so it was a long chain. And I made it. So, was I a reformed gum snapper? I had to think back.
You know, reformed people are the worst kind. Former cigarette smokers are judgemental. They will tell you to your face how bad cigarette smoking is for you. Well, some of them are. I don’t want to piss anyone off here. Some people who never wore their seat belt until they had an accident now won’t start the engine until everyone is fastened up. And some people who didn’t attend church and now found God will let you know all about it. So, was I a gum hater because I once was a gum snapper?
I don’t know how I came across making gum wrapper chains, but I was all about making one. It was easy to learn. Not so easy yesterday, when I tried to make one on my own. I forgot how it was done. Luckily, the interneter gods have photos and videos all about making a gum wrapper chain.
First, you need about a thousand gum wrappers. I remember asking my friends for their empty chewing gum wrappers. Throw away the silver inner wrapper and give me the outer one. I also remember chewing a lot of gum for the gum wrapper chain.
I don’t remember how long it took me to make the chain. I wanted to wrap it around my bedroom. And I refused to stop until I was done. I kept it as one long chain, so I am sure I kept standing on my bed to see how far it had made it around my room. I realize that I could have just laid it on the floor and run it around the same way, but I was an airhead, so I did it my way.
I never made a pattern with my gum wrapper chain like the person did in the above photo. I had no time to be colored coordinated. It was like one of those pot holders I weaved. Random colors. I was all about being random. My OCD anal ways didn’t rear its ugly head until much later.
It’s funny how memories can be supressed. I now remember my mom yelling at me to stop snapping my gum. Dentyne to be exact. It was the most snapable gum. Really. Dentyne.
So, I was one of those………..Wow.
I don’t chew gum so much anymore. I only chew it when I fly because that’s what I was told to do so my ears wouldn’t explode. I was fine this last trip to visit my daughter in New York City. And I didn’t sit by anyone who was a gum snapper either.
I wish I would have kept my gum wrapper chain. I remember taking it down when I went off to college when my little sister took over my room. I simply threw it away. I spent hundreds of hours making that damn thing and I just threw it away.
Maybe I didn’t want to be remembered as a gum snapper.
While teaching my fourth graders about solid figures during Math class the other day, I decided to show them how to draw a cube. You would have thought that I just found a cure for cancer.
Earlier in the year, one of my students was almost distraught because he couldn’t make a star. So, I had him come up to the board and baby-stepped a star for him. He was weirdly excited about this. I guess it’s the little things in life.
In my attempt at teaching my students how to make shapes and draw stars, however, I realized that I have created doodling monsters.
And it made me take a trip back to when I was their age.
I am not sure what age kids start doodling. If you have never doodled before in your whole life, then there is something wrong with you. Well, unless there is something wrong with those who doodle. Regardless, people doodle. What the hell does that word even mean? I had to go back to colonial days and name calling to find out.
When the colonists started getting pissed at the British for enacting ridiculous taxes on the colonists, such as the stamp and sugar acts, the beginning of grumbles and throwing tea off boats and the like, they started calling the British names.
“Hey, you stupid lobster……..Hey red-coat!” They wanted the British soldiers to go home. They didn’t want to pay taxes to read a newspaper or to put sugar in their newly imported tea. So, they decided that name calling that helped them cope with high taxes and soldiers walking around wearing white knee socks under their black go-go boots.
And they call us a "doodle."
So, the British soldiers, in their bright red lobster red coat uniforms, called back. They called those silly colonists, “Yankee Doodles.” Now, I teach the Revolutionary War to my fourth graders, so I know all about this time period. I am a little too enthusiastic about teaching it. But, we all know that a “yankee” is a northerner or another name for a colonist. A “doodle” is a “fool” or “simpleton.” In the seventies, we would have used the synonym, “retard,” but it is politically incorrect to say that word now. Retard. I just really like that word.
Anyway, that is what a doodle means. So, what does that have to do with scribbling on the side of your paper? Is that a reference that all people who doodle are retarded? In the seventeenth century, it meant to be lazy or wasting time. But, according to Wikipedia, “In the movie Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, Mr. Deeds mentions that “doodle” was a word made up to describe scribblings to help a person think.” Ahhhhh, this makes so much sense. So, people are not retarded. They are pausing.
So, what Mr. Deeds is telling us is that doodling is good. It is a pause mechanism so to speak. You are pausing while you are thinking about what you want to write about. I learn something new every day. I also learned that if you put toothpaste on a pimple, it will clear up. See, every day, new information.
The modern meaning emerged in the thirties, and meant to “dawdle.” Mr. Deeds, you are confusing me.
Thomas Jefferson, Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton are some of our famous doodlers. They had been known to doodle during meetings. Reagan most likely doodled with one hand while popping jelly beans in his mouth with the other. Regardless, did they doodle because they were bored, lazy, or retarded? I am sure that the answer could be debated.
I don’t know if the kids doodle in third grade. I only have a few who have started doodling in fourth. It’s usually just a happy face or a “hi” to me on a paper they have to turn in to me. I have a feeling I will be seeing a few cubes in the next week or so, since I told my kids that’s what I doodled when I was in high school. Or was it junior high? I think it was junior high. And I remember exactly what I doodled.
Cubes, flowers, and my name for one. Notice that it isn’t necessarily artistic people who doodle. I can’t draw worth a lick. So, I thought that I would perform an experiment. I decided to doodle and then see if doodles can be interpreted, like dreams. Maybe it can tell me if I am happy or sad, lazy or determined. Smart or retarded.
Some “experts” seem to think that there is a reason that we draw and that like dreams, these symbols have meaning. Well, let’s look into that. I’m sure there is a doodle interpreter somewhere on google…….Yeppers. Found one.
“Doodles can certainly reveal something of a person’s mental state, but it should be noted that no graphologist or psychologist would use them as the sole indicator.” Uh oh. I bet my little cubes mean that I feel boxed in. And writing my name and intials mean I am arrogant. And my balloons mean I want to be a social climber. Am I close? The following information is from drawsketch.about.com.
“Why no, Vickie……Regular patterns from geometric shapes tend to indicate an organised and efficient mind. Triangles are a geometrically stable shape but also suggest direction and sense of purpose.”
So, the author of this study is telling me that I have an organized and efficient mind, eh? I am stable and I have a sense of purpose? Simply splendid.
So, do you doodle? Look at what some of your doodling may mean. Because, you may be mentally unstable and not even be aware of it.
1. Boxes-”3-D boxes indicate an ordered mind and love of routine. Often drawn by people with a good sense of spatial relationships.” Ok, now boxes were and still are the number one thing that I doodle. So, that obviously means that I have an ordered mind and I love routine. Ok, the routine thing is true. Some of my co-workers would argue about the ordered mind part.
2. Flowers- “Doodles of flowers indicate a gentle personality, a love of nature, sometimes childlike innocence or wistfulness. They represent the feminine, passive aspect of the universe.” Oh, yes, I have a gentle personality. Go on please.
3. Stars-”Stars are drawn by ambitious people and may suggest a desire for self-promotion. Little stars indicate optimism, while asymmetrical stars suggest excess energy.” Well, I used to be hyper when I was little. Had to take a little green pill every day before I went to school. That’s probably when I stopped drawing stars.
4. Mazes- Uh Oh..my mazes are not good. “Mazes can suggest a feeling of being lost with nowhere to turn, being unsure of which direction one ought to take, or may indicate mental disorganization.”
5. Hearts- Notice I have none. “generally, hearts are drawn by people in love, but may also indicate a romantic disposition.” Does this mean I should join eharmony?
6. Repetition of doodles- “Repetition is a common feature of doodles that suggests a methodical, patient approach to tasks. Repetition also increases the significance of a particular motif.” I’m thinking that it could mean that one just isn’t creative to think of other doodle marks.
7. Zig zags- “Some sources suggest that zig-zag lines indicate an experience of harsh reality and a need for comfort.” Wow, I’m just all over the place. Does that mean I am unstable?
8. Wavy lines- “Wavy lines are sometimes drawn to represent long hair, meaning a desire for beauty and femininity.” Would that mean if I desire it, I must not have it?
9. Arrows- I have always doodled arrows. “Arrows represent direction and ambition. Drawn aggressively, they represent a desire for action. Drawn in careful outline, they indicate a desire for progression or advancement, especially if pointing upwards.” Aw, look. My arrows are pointed up. I want to advance.
10. Eyes- I would draw eyes with glasses sometimes. I don’t know why. But, according to the doodle doctor, “They are sometimes regarded as showing a wish to be desirable.” So, I’m ugly. Is that what you are saying? Oh, this just keeps getting better.
I personally like to doodle. Will I like seeing doodles on the margins of my fourth graders’s papers? Sure, as long as they have their work done. I usually let them draw when they get done with their work anywho.
In the end, like dream interpretation, doodling symbols and shapes can be interpreted too. So, the next time you draw a balloon, know that that really means that you are emotional and long for love and harmony. If you draw straight lines for boxes and houses, you like to be in control. And finally, if you draw stars and things with triangles in them, you are looking to vent.
Remember when you were very young and you were given shapes and had to put them in the holes of the same shape? Well, you shouldn’t, unless you played with them when you were eleven. But, most of us have played with those little shape finders. Some kids were stared at by some guy with a clipboard, clad in a long white jacket to determine how long it took you to put the circle block in the circle hole. If it took too long, then you were retarded. (Sorry, my word in my generation.) Regardless, we had to fit things where they belonged.
And now I am doing that again with an addiction called Pinterest.
Pinterest. It’s going to what gets me fired from my teaching job. I haven’t gone to Pinterest from school yet. But, I want to. But, for those of you who have not received your invitation yet, you are probably wondering, “Vickie, what exactly is a Pinterest?” Hell, I don’t know how to explain it.
It’s like gathering and sorting and putting things in their places. Things we like. And we put them in little squares and rectangles. And then we give those little “boards” names, like “My Style” or “Bucket List.” You see, Pinterest is for pinning our interests. Hence, the name Pin terest.
Say you like cats. Well, there are cute little images of cats that other pinteresters (my word) find on the web and upload onto one of their little boards. And then someone might see it and smile and think, “I like that, and then you would re-pin it, which means steal it in a way. Someone is doing the work finding an image online and you can take it for your own little categorized board. And then maybe your friend likes that picture and takes it from you. Oh, they don’t take it, per se, but copy it. And it goes on and on. It’s all the rage.
Being that my explanation sucks, let me say that lot of well known people have pinterest. Martha Stewart, Ellen DeGeneres, and Maria Shriver, to name a few. Maria Shriver is now following me. Yeah, you can follow people if you like their boards. You can even see if someone repins one of your pins. Doesn’t this sound fun?
So, as mentioned so precisely, a board is where you put everything from one category. Here are some random boards that people have on their pinterest:
Recipes to Try Travel Furry Friends Quotes My Style Christmas
Humor Sweet Tooth For the Birds For the House Products I Love Fall
You can have as many boards as you want on Pinterest. Some people only have five. Some have hundreds and thousands of followers. As of today, I have 70 boards. I am following 74 people and I have 50 followers. And right now I need to wash clothes. But, here I am, writing a blog post on my wordpress addiction about my new Pinterest addiction. I’m so glad I don’t smoke or drink.
I do worry about myself when I look at some of my board titles. I have some “normal” boards, but then I have weird ones. I mean, I have one titled, “Ventriloquist Dummies Creep Me Out,” where I have repinned a bunch of disturbing scary wooden people.
“Nuns Scare Me” is another board. Because, well, they do scare me.
And then I followed it with some food. A board just for dips. “Dip It, Dip It Good.” I liked that title.
Here’s a list of some of my other boards. Well, just in case something may catch your eye. And then you could say, “Hey, Vickie likes that too!”
1. My Blog-Jumping in Mud Puddles
2. Wanderlust
3. I Love Central Park
4. Favorite Movies
5. Quotes and Written Stuff
6. My Fascinating People
7. Hang it On a Wall
8. Animals I Like
9. I Dont Think So…
10. History Dork
11. Funny
12. Bare Ware
13.When Pigs Fly
14. Saturday morning Cartoons
15 All Things Mendenhall
Yeah, I could go on for another 55 titles, but you can see my sampling and the things that “pinterest” me. Don’t you want to be a pinterester too?
Katie Couric just pinned a bunch of pictures for one of her boards, “Best Advice Contributors.” Pretty interesting selection. Or perhaps I should say pinteresting. She’s getting into it, I can tell.
All in all, pinterest is a lot of fun. I’ve tried new recipes and now know that I can use tootpaste on a pimple.
WordPress, please don’t be jealous. I have several categories just for you, “Photo’s For My Blog” and “Blogs I Follow.” Writing is still my passion. But, pinterest is my obsession this month.
And that’s how easy it is to put a round peg in a square hole.
While traveling from JFK airport into Manhattan, one obviously notices the skyline of tall buildings that make up all that is New York city. The buildings sit right against each other and compete for a view of the clear blue sky. Space is valuable. Most New York apartments are tiny. Oh, there are larger apartments, of course, but let’s just say the expense is much greater.
My daughter took me to a couple of eating establishments and bars while I was visiting her this past week. I love the look of the old brick on the walls and the close proximity to other tables. Space is at its minimum. The places are quite narrow. Some only have eight to ten tables that seat four people, all hugging the tiny perimeter of the tiny establishment. I liked it. Made me feel all snug in a bug in a rug. Their grocery stores are small. Some fruit markets appear on the street to make room. They work with what they have. I love it.
All in all, real estate in New York is pricey and you don’t get a lot of bang for your buck. But, that’s ok. It’s a trade off for being able to live and work in the greatest city on earth.
I did notice one piece of real estate that looks different from where I live. When I was little, we used to drive past the Paris cemetery on the way to my grandparents home. I had to hear the same joke from my dad every single time. Oh, how I wish I could hear it one more time.
“Hey, Vickie, guess how many people are dead in that cemetery?”
“I don’t know, Dad. How many?”
“All of them.” And he would crack up like it was the first time he ever told the joke. I am serious when I say that I heard that joke at least one hundred times. As I got older, I would act like I never heard the joke before. That made it a lot of fun.
But, the Paris cemetery had some green space. Shouldn’t all cemeteries? Doesn’t everyone want to be placed under an oak tree after they die? I mean, I sure as hell don’t, but really what is the purpose of a cemetery? It is supposed to be, afterall, a “final resting place.” Well, I want to be buried in the sand on the beach then. Beach burials. I think I have something here.
But if we are supposed to be “resting” , I’m thinking that they think differently in New York City about burying people. I was amazed how the people of New York are basically buried on top of each other. Well, I mean, dead people. I am sure they don’t mind having their coffins touching another one. After all, it’s New York. They die like they live. Close to others.
photo via wikipedia
The trip from the airport took me by several graveyards. I was amazed as to how close the marble headstones are to each other. There is no rhyme nor reason. I can’t imagine hunting for an ancestor. How the hell would you even to begin to find someone? Genealogy is a big thing in this country. I even belonged to Ancestry.com for a few weeks. Finding a grave in New York City would be like, well, finding a particular park bench in Central Park. Except that would be so much easier. I am sure they would have to have a graveyard counter person.
May you rest in one piece
“Oh, Wilbur Macgillicutty? Yes, Wilbur is resting in row 2C, space 4.” This is how it is probably done in a majority of cemeteries.
Oh, not in New York. Good luck finding Wilbur Macgillicutty. And if you are looking for a Joe Smith, good freaking luck. I don’t see how it could be done. The gravesites are that close to each other.
As for visiting when you do find the gravesite, forgetaboutit. There is no room to sit down and have a conversation with your grandpa. You would be sitting down on Mrs. Martino. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Don’t go there on a hot sunny day. There aren’t many trees, if any at all. Remember, space is limited. It’s New York City.
I guess it is a good thing that there is at least someplace to lie your head after you die in New York City. They could have put you on a barge and set you out to sea. I mean, you have to go somewhere.
As the real estate in New York gets more expensive and land becomes even more precious than it is now in 2012, what will become of the cemeteries in New York City? I’ve watched Poltergeist, you know. I know what greedy land developers are capable of. They have been moving cemeteries for centuries. Or just their headstones. Scared, aren’t you?
So, what is going to happen? Some cemeteries are filled up I am sure.
Will they start making cremations the norm? I have my own valid suggestions. Now, don’t get upset with me. I just personally don’t want to be buried. I’m too claustrophobic. Oh sure, I know I will be dead, but perhaps the dead have feeling too. We don’t know for sure, now do we?
This is what I think we should do.
Space- Well, we need “space,” right? Well, why not the real space? You know, like way out there. I know our space program has been dismantled, but I think that was a bad decision. You could put the dearly departed in space and inject them into an asteroid belt. They would have different orbits that could be named. Just like how we have Orion’s Belt, we could have them called Rest Haven. People buy their very own star. Well, you could tell people that Grandpa is now in orbit instead of that he went to Heaven. Heaven is so subjective. I really think I have something here.
One big campfire- I, for one, want to be cremated. I don’t want people putting stupid wreaths on my grave that look like horse blankets for race horses. I just really don’t understand the purpose of cemeteries. Well, funeral directors are right up there with bankers and lawyers for some people. Ambulance chasers for the dearly departed. But, why not go to camp after you die? Relatives could sing “Kumbaya” and then put your little pine box on the bonfire wood. I would so do this. It’s better than having stupid piped in music at the funeral home and the minister talking about you, mispronouncing your name. I’ve been there when it happened. I just think it is a racket that I want no part of. So, yeah, send me to camp.
In the end, New York City is going to have to take a look at their graveyard situation. They are making money on tours, as there are famous people resting in some of the graveyards.
Green Wood Cemetery- In Brooklyn, there are 560,000 permanent residents, including F.A.O. Schwartz and Leonard Bernstein.
Woodlawn-The Bronx-More than 300,00 permanent residents…Nelly Bly, Duke Ellington, R.H. Macy, Herman Melville, Joseph Pulitzer, F.W. Woolworth. This cemetery is hopping. It conducts an Easter egg roll and has music by Duke Ellington at times, and an early morning bird walk. This is the one I believe that I passed while on my way to the airport. It’s huge.
In the end, there is an end. We all will end up there. The city of New York is unique in that there are so many people living there. And again, in the end, people need and deserve a final resting place. But, as real estate becomes even more expensive and rare, creative thinking will need to come into play.
And I’m thinking space will have some space. Who wouldn’t want to be lying among the stars?
Grandma and Grandpa. They did not get along. Why do this to him? Poor Grandpa.
I got back last night from visiting my daughter in New York City. She moved there last August when she started grad school at NYU. Before helping her find an apartment twice last summer, I had never been to the big city. The last time I went up there, I had to leave her and her roommate to continue on, hunting for that elusive inexpensive apartment. So I had no seen it yet.
Some people think that getting from JFK airport into the city is a nightmare. I found an easy way. Last time I took the AirTrain into Penn Station. That’s not so bad, but just getting to the AirTrain was a mini pain. This past week I decided to take the bus. Doesn’t hurt to try.
I flew on Delta for the first time and really enjoyed it. I know every airline has a horror story, but I didn’t have one. The flight took an hour, which is much shorter than the almost eleven hour trip I took there by Amtrak. I love trains, but a one hour round trip flight for $175 is pretty good.
As soon as I got off my flight at JFK, I immediately found the Ground Transportation sign and went outside, where I knew there would be people in bright green jackets. You pay them $12.50 and just wait for the bus to Manhattan. That simple. The bus was very clean and comfortable and the ride only seemed about thirty five minutes to Grand Central Station on 42nd Street. Sure, you could take a taxi, but it would have been $45 for the same ride, only with more people. I would have an extra $32.50 and that sounded better for me.
On this route, I was able to see new things. I saw where the old world’s fair took place. I assumed that’s what it was. I saw a huge globe and a tall structure with two flying saucer-like disks on the top. I plan to google that in a bit. I also passed several cemeteries, which I plan to write a blog about. They were amazing.
As soon as you get off in front of Grand Central Station, there is a door that says, “Subway.” I was amazed at how easy this was. I went downstairs, bought a Metro ticket for $2.50, and hopped on the Local 6 train uptown to Alex’s apartment.
“Mom, take the local 6 uptown train. It will be a green 6 with a circle around it. “
How easy. I asked a guy standing on the platform just to confirm my selection. I did make one error on my way. I was supposed to call Alex before I got on the subway so she could walk and meet me at the subway where I was to get off. When I walked to the platform to tell her that her fantastic mom was on her way, I had no bars on my cell phone. Uh oh, my bad. I didn’t think about that. So, if you go to New York, you won’t have cell phone service while underground. Well, my AT&T didn’t.
Maybe I’m the only one, but I just love riding the subway. It’s a little grimy walking down the stairs to the subway, but I love it. It’s like an adventure for me. And I love to watch people as they enter the car. One woman was sleeping. Another one was coughing up a lung. Some of the men were wearing nice suits. I always go to the shoes to see if they match the expensive suits. They did. I was having so much fun.
I called my daughter after I climbed the steps leading from the subway.
“No…You don’t have to meet me. Let me try to find your apartment. It will be like an adventure.” I laughed.
I am all about trying to do things on my own. So, off I went to find her apartment. I had already “walked” on her street with google maps, which is a fantastic tool. Just take the little man over to the map, plop him down, and you can travel on the street, veering left and right. I google walk all the time, especially vacation areas. So, I sort of knew how to get to her apartment from the subway station, but this is still New York, and it is huge.
There is a lot of construction work going on near her apartment. They are putting in a new subway line. They start at exactly 7a.m. and end at exactly 4pm. Noisy jack hammer work and the walkways are diverted through a temporary maze. And from the sign posted, it looks like this will be going on until the end of 2013. Sucks for people who don’t wake up until 8am. Well, they won’t wake up that late anymore. It’s very noisy. The walk was nice.
Fruit stands, like this one, are all over the city.
So, I had to go down, take a right, take a left, and voila, I am standing right in front of her apartment building. I am good. I walked in and had to punch a button so she can unlock the door. I have never done this before. I have watched people do it on Seinfeld and other tv shows, but I have never ever buzzed. I was excited. I walked up the one flight of stairs and she was at her opened door, welcoming me with a big smile.
She lucked out. Her apartment was small, as most New York apartments are, but hers is not teeny tiny. It has two bedrooms, a living area and eating area combined. Her kitchen is small, but hell, it has a dishwasher, so life is good. The bathroom is a nice size for NYC also. Hardwood floors. I immediately liked it. And not bad for $800 a month. I did research before we started looking at apartments and thought that she would be paying around $1,200 for her share for an upper East side apartment. She did great.
I took the 6:30am flight as we had plans to go to the Bronx Zoo. It was cold though, and thoughts of walking from cold exhibit to cold exhibit did not sound appealing. Where the hell did the promise of warm weather go? So, I told her I wanted to see her neighborhood. So, we took a walk. We went to eat lunch at Ray’s pizza, which was next to her Rite Aid and laundromat. As a mom, I liked being able to now place where these things are.
“I’m heading to the laundromat.”
I now know where that is in relation to her apartment. I have places down dark secluded back alleys, so it is nice to know I have an active imagination.
We then walked all the way up to Fifth Avenue to see the Jackie Onassis Reservoir. She runs to Central Park and then jogs around the reservoir. It’s beautiful.
Jackie Onassis Reservoir
After taking pictures of this area of Central Park, we decided to push stuff over because that’s how we roll.
Ok, just kidding. I thought the leaning lightpost made a good photo opportunity.
After walking around, petting dogs that people were walking, we ventured into the Museum of the City of New York. I don’t know. I was a bit confused. I thought I would get to see the history of New York. I wanted to follow along from the time the Dutch started the place through prohibition to the tragedy of 9/11. Instead, there was a huge exhibition of the grid system of Manhattan. And it was set up in neighborhoods, not dates. I wanted to see the history of New York. A permanent exhibit. I thought it was a waste of $16.00. But, I like going to museums. Next time, I will try another.
For dinner, she talked me into going to a Thai restaurant down the street from her apartment. I immediately balked because I am picky. But, I thought I should be more open minded. She took me to an Indian restaurant and now I like Indian food. So, we went to the Andaman Thai Bistro on 1st Avenue in Yorkville. Oh, glorious food! The shrimp/chicken dumpling was to die for! Curry puffs don’t sound so good to this picky person, but they were delicious. If you are in upper East Side and looking for a good restaurant, check it out.
We were beat by the end of the night. We went to bed early and got up to go to the Bronx zoo. She made me breakfast and off we went. We took the BxM11 express bus from 99th Street. It goes directly to the zoo. A zoo bus. It was a comfortable ride for $5.50 a person. I haven’t been to a zoo in years. I usually ended up feeling sorry for the little animal in its cage, but things have changed over the years. I was looking forward to going to this zoo, as it is the largest metropolitan zoo in the world.
It didn’t disappoint. I will be writing a blog post just on the zoo, but I will just say for now that my new camera loves the zoo.
We were at the Bronx zoo all day. It is large and most of the animals are in their natural habitat. So, we walked a lot.
We got home and went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner. I wasn’t impressed, so I won’t mention where it was. We needed to be at her neighborhood bar for Trivia night. Oh, how I wish we had something like that in West Virginia. I would surely drink more. Her friends compete against other bar patrons, the winners receiving shots and drinks after the contest is over. I contributed, as I was pretty good with the “presidential hometown” category. I sucked at current events. And I knew that the Soprano’s won an emmy in 2008 for Best Drama. I didn’t even feel old or out of place and managed to sing “Hey Jude” at the top of my lungs with everyone in the bar at the end of the night. Fun times at Biddy’s Pub on 91st. It is considered an “Irish pub” because, well, it is owned by Irish people. It is itty bitty, only one room, but was packed for Trivia night. So, again, if you are looking for a pub in the upper east side, try either Biddy’s Pub or Off the Rails.
We were going to go to the “Top of the Rock” before my flight left, but my daughter found out at the last minute that she had a summer job interview, so I took off early to take pictures of Grand Central Station. I got on the bus, got on the plane, landed in Pittsburgh, and drove the 1 1/2 hours on an empty gas tank. Well, anything less than a quarter tank makes me hyperventilate. I made it back to Fairmont and went right to bed.
I am so excited that my daughter is living in New York City while attending grad school. Will she remain there after graduation? It is too early to tell. I think she would like to head elsewhere.
I can’t wait to go back after school is out in June.
The road from my hometown to where I attended college in the seventies was a monotonous drive. Other adjectives that come to mind are colorless, droning, dull, blah, flat, humdrum, mundane, and prosaic. This is my first time using “prosaic” in a sentence. It’s very exciting. More exciting than driving that road every freaking weekend.
I graduated from high school in 1974. The state road people were working on a huge section of Interstate 79 that would alleviate my need for boring adjectives. I could not wait until they were finished with it. It took me about 2 1/2 hours to get home. The new interstate section would knock off at least thirty minutes of tiresome driving time. Please hurry state road people.
Now, Interstate 79 may not seem like a major thoroughfare, but I beg to differ. Canadian snow birds use this route. I see more Ontario license plates than say, Pennsylvania or Ohio. Before this section of road opened, I’m sure Canadians were cursing as they veered around the wild wonderful almost to West Virginia roads.
I drove home about every other weekend, depending on what was going on in Fairmont. Freshman who stayed in the dorm were not allowed to have cars, but I was given special permission because my dad was having open heart surgery and my mom couldn’t take the time to drive down to get me when so much was going on. So, the college let me drive. I drove Rusty, my yellow Toyota. I named her that because, well, she was full of rust. There were dings all over her. People on campus did not care when they got out of their vehicles. I guess it is not fair to blame just college kids, because people of all ages and intelligence opened their car doors with no care as to what was in the way. So, Rusty was full of pock marks. She had car acne.
I had a car full of sorority sisters one particular Friday. I honestly don’t remember for sure who was in my car. I do know for sure that Stephanie was with me. She mentioned the episode to me on Facebook just a couple of months ago. And I’m thinking Anita, maybe Tanya or Irvin or maybe even Paula. Oh, hell, this I don’t remember. I know there were at least three others for sure.
We were traveling on the part of Interstate 79 that was finished. We traveled up to Mount Morris, Pennsylvania, right across the county line, when someone in the backseat made the remark:
“I heard the new interstate is going to open next week.”
This bit of news made me slow down a bit, but my pulse sped up.
Hmmmmmmm. Awwww, how wonderful that will be. I could use new adjectives from then on to describe my drive. Like pleasant, quick, and unmundane. Ok, maybe not the last one.
I wonder……..
So, I kept driving and didn’t get off onto the two lane drive of misery. There were barricades blocking the unfinished interstate. It was calling out my name, I am sure.
”Vickie, drive on me….. Be the first motorist on my new road.”(You really need to sound like a ghost when you say that sentence)
I paused and then saw a place where my Rusty could squeeze through. I was going for it.
Nervous giggles in the car. The worst that could happen was a section of unfinished road that we would topple into. We wouldn’t be found until the ribbon cutting ceremony. I could see it now…someone standing with a huge pair of scissors in the middle of the new interstate. Off in the distance you could see the butt of a car and smoke coming from a huge hole. Except that wouldn’t make sense. The smoke would have been all done by then…and well, maybe the road would be ready for motorists. Hence, the ribbon cutting ceremony.
There's no bridge over troubled water here.
Regardless, who would find our bodies? I was just going to have to drive slower than usual. Just to make sure there weren’t any paving machines or construction workers to hit.
I was able to drive for a decent amount of time. It was a barren road. A barren, finished road. I saw a truck driving over an overpass. Dammit. Whoever was driving paused and watched me drive by. Uh oh. He was probably the head road guy. Or not. Maybe he was just like me, a motorist who did not want to drive that boring shitty drive to Waynesburg.
Nope.
He called the coppers. The rat.
A state trooper up ahead sat in his car. His lights were on, and he was waiting for us. Notice I said “us” because this was not my idea. I was forced to drive by crazy sorority sisters. Ok, that wasn’t going to work.
I slowed down and pulled over.
The interstate barricade
“Oh my God, Vickie! What are you going to say?” Someone in the backseat was ready to crack already.
Well, hell, I didn’t know. Was I supposed to say anything? I got caught. I was just going to hand him my driver’s license and registration card. I was just going to keep my mouth shut, take the ticket and make up something for my mom.
My mom would lose her mind if I came home with a ticket for driving on an unopened section of interstate. But, then again, she would think that was a lie. That was too preposterous to be true. Seems like I was screwed no matter what.
The state trooper approached my newly rolled down window. I was just going to keep my mouth shut.
“Officer, thank God you are here!!!”
I went on to blabber nonsense about a car of guys chasing us and trying to get us to pull over. When I wouldn’t pull over, they kept hitting us in the back of the car. I was afraid to get off of the exit because I was afraid they would force us off of the two lane road over a cliff or make us crash.
“I knew that if I drove on the interstate I could make it to one of the exits and then get to the state police barracks.”
Did I just say that? Shit. I better cry.
So, I started crying and showed him my hands. They were shaking from holding on to the steering wheel while those guys in a black car kept hitting my bumper.
“When I got onto the new road, they quit following us.”
Someone added something from the backseat. Now we were pretty little liars.
He just looked at me.
I don’t remember what he said, if anything, but he didn’t give me a ticket. He let me go. Of course, I had to drive back the way I came and take the regular exit to the road of misery.
“But, what if the black car is waiting for us?” I thought that was a great point. My lie had to be genuine. If this really happened, that would be something that could happen. Sure, Lifetime movies weren’t invented yet, but I was way ahead of possible outcomes. The state trooper sort of smiled (sort of ?) and told me he would follow us to make sure we got off of the interstate. Didn’t he want to know more about Ted Bundy and his buddies?
So, we drove off. We talked about it all the way home. Now, this is where it gets foggy. Either Anita was in the car or we ended up at her house sometime during the weekend. Anita told me to tell her mom’s boyfriend (fiance? husband?) the story. So, I did. The man smiled and said:
“I would never have believed that one.”
Everyone in the room laughed. I was talking to a cop. Ha ha Anita. I think he was the Hancock county sheriff or a town cop. He could have been a state trooper. I don’t remember. I just remember a nervous laugh.
So, the moral of the story is that when two roads diverge in a wood, should you take the one less traveled?
I don’t know, but it could make all the difference.
I am addicted to Pinterest. I wish I had this available to me when my kids were young. I would have been Betty Crocker/Martha Stewart/Susie Homemaker all rolled into one. I would have been the ultimate Stepford mom. Oh, sure, I would never have worn a dress, but I was an awesome stay-at-home mom for many years.
So, while working on the previous blog post on colored peeps, I came across creativity with a capital “C” when it came to what people do with Easter peeps. The fake ones this time.
I can honestly say that I have never tried a peep. I guess it is made of marshmallow, right? I just have no desire. But, look how I can decorate with them since I don’t eat them.
I can put them in a vase. I will do this next year. Except, won’t their little bodies leave marshamallow imprints on the glass? I mean, they are smooshed up against the glass? Sigh. I guess I could actually wash it out when I am done with it.
I can make a little strip club for them
They can be made into a wreath. Just don’t put it on your front door. Especially if the sun shines right on it. Well, then again, go ahead.
You can make a political or religious statement
You could make a topiary and stick in the middle of your table as the centerpiece.
Ok, now we are talking. You can make peeps jello shots. I may want to try one now.
You can perform a science experiment with peeps. I am soooo doing this with my fourth graders next Easter.
You can enter a fun contest.
omg the sugar rush
Or you can melt the little shits and put them in your rice krispie treats
Or make a sunflower cake
Wedge them on your favorite beverage
Or they could occupy space
Or you could just admire them from the store shelves.
All in all, peeps seem to have found their place with bunnies and baskets and eggs each Easter. One of these days I will try a peep. Maybe.
Procrastination is alive and well in my neck of the woods. It’s time to get my car inspected. So, like, where the hell are the dishonest mechanics when you need one? I want to be able to do what my husband was able to do years ago. Go into a garage where they make you honk your horn, turn your lights on and off, and turn on the all important window wipers. Ta da! Inspection is done. Pay the man and leave. Where the hell are you, dishonest John? I know it has been years, but I am sure they are still out there.
Inspection station in Fairview
The little sticker is staring at me: 3/12. March, 2012. I made an appointment with my regular guy for yesterday. My regular guy wasn’t going to pass my inspection two years ago. Said my tires were bald. So what?
I had to buy four new tires and brakes. Ka-ching. Surely the tires should still be okay this time. I have them rotated and my car taken care of every three months. I’m just going to tell him that I just need to make it until June. I want to trade my car in when school lets out. I really like my Hyundai Santa Fe.
There are a lot of moving parts on a vehicle, and there are authorized state inspection stations that have a list of shit they have to check. From the Pennslvania dmv site: “Safety inspections for passenger cars and light-duty trucks require that the following items be checked: suspension components, steering, braking systems, tires and wheels, lighting and electrical systems, glazing (glass), mirrors, windshield washer, defroster, wipers, fuel systems, the speedometer, the odometer, the exhaust systems, horns and warning devices, the body, and chassis.”
The Virginia DMV has a inspection sticker procedure for dummies:
1. Remove old inspection sticker
2. Drive vehicle into inspection lane
24. Issue new inspection sticker
They do a walk through of everything that needs to be checked. So, if you drive into an inspection station in Virginia with a blue colored door on a red colored vehicle, you will be shot.
My state of West Virginia doesn’t care to let its citizens know what is to be inspected. Just go there and be surprised when they ask you why the hell you unhooked your odometer. I don’t even know if you can do that anymore. People used to do it before they traded their car in. I guess that is frowned upon.
If your horn doesn't work, your children will be removed and put in foster care.
Sometimes I wonder how the hell some vehicles on the road pass inspection. I know why they get by? They know where to go. It’s so much fun sitting behind a car that should be on fire for the amount of fumes coming out of his tail pipe. I feel like I’m driving through a Colorado wildfire or something. Dear God, driver, do you not see the smoke curling around your vehicle as you drive?
Uh Oh baby! Fumes in your lungs can't be good.
photo via Greenpeace
And then there’s the sound makers. I learned a long time ago that when you put your foot on the brakes and there is a screeching noise, that usually means something. I hear a lot of brake screeching. It is like riding with a bunch of freaking owls. Brakes are sort of important.
Lights must be operational-And then there’s One Eyed Jack. Do you know that your left front light is not working? You might as well put a big patch on your light and be a pirate ship. But of my lights went out within fifteen minutes of each other. Luckily I was close to my home and it was just dusk. I couldn’t go anywhere at night until my headlights were changed. Luckily, my guy got me in the next day.
Just passed inspection.
You know what people care the most about what works in their vehicles? Oh, sure, brakes and lights are important, but God forbid it their horn quits working. They will miss a day of work to take it in for an emergency appointment. Americans have to have operational horns above everything else. I mean, transportation as we know it would be total chaos without our horns. We have road rage and our horns are our first line of offense.
When I learned to drive, I embarrassed my teen age peers riding with me on day. Seems that every time I turned the wheel to the right, the horn would sound. Not just a beep beep. A blaring horn. It would make this noise until I straightened up my wheel. At first I didn’t think it was me and was pissed at the car behind me. Even flipped them off. Oops, my bad. It was my dad’s car. It was…..horny. (That’s where that term came from. Too much horn).
In the end, I got out by the skin of my teeth. My car tires passed, but right above the minimum requirement, which I guess is bad. My tires are balding again. Dammit.
The penny test.
Shouldn’t tires last for two years? I blame the back roads to my school. Stupid pot holes. I plan on trading my car in this summer when school lets out. The air conditioner is shot.
I bet they didn’t even check the air conditioner. It should be part of the inspection process. People get mad when they are hot. Road rage.
An easy vehicle inspection
I’m thinking that there should be inspections for any sort of transportation. Kids should get pulled over.
Kid, your seat is not up to code.
Heading to the inspection station
So, don’t forget that the little sticker on your window means something. It may be true that police give 30 days for those of us who have no brain. It depends who pulls you over, I guess. So, don’t flip him off as he approaches your window. Just sayin. Get your car inspected.
You will need your horn the next time someone cuts in front of you.
We never owned cats when I was young. My mom said they were sneaky and that was the end of that. We had dogs. And I brought home a skunk and iguanas and african frogs. But, cats were out of the question. My bff, Ramaine always had cats. I thought they were so cool. They weren’t sneaky at all. My mom was a loon.
Even after we had children, my husband didn’t want to have any inside animals. But, he cracked under pressure and brought home a cat for my daughter. She is still alive and my husband, now ex-husband, still hates the cat.
My son decided to go the cat route. He got a cat and named him Atticus. He had planned on training it to be “Atticus, Kick-Ass Cat.” He told me he was going to get a little ninja headband for him and would teach him to use and flush the toilet. Yeah, good luck with that. Well, he did turn out to be a killer cat. I am lucky to have survived the vicious cat attack inflicted upon me.
My daughter warned me not to cat sit when Adam went to Europe over Christmas 2010. She stayed at his apartment one time and awoke, finding Atticus right by her face, eating her hair. She was afraid for her cat, Whiskers. Whiskers lived with me when Alex went off to college. She will be seventeen this July and can hardly walk. Atticus, warrior cat, would simply destroy her.
Sure, looks are deceiving
It was hell. It really was. Whiskers would scream and hiss at Atticus. Atticus would jump out at Whiskers whenever he had the chance. Whiskers would attack, and Atticus would back off. Atticus was just a young cat, still learning how to act around another cat, perhaps. But, then he found my leg.
I guess he thought I wanted to play. He came over and took a little playful bite. But, I didn’t want him to play Warrior Cat with me. I wanted him to be a gentle, non hair eater. I simply pushed him away and told him, “No.” Well, that was like an invitation. Atticus came at me and bit my leg.
I pushed him away. And he came at me again and really let me have it. He really bit into me. I screamed and pushed him away. He came at me again. I had about three good sized bite marks on my leg. I screamed at him again. It was like he turned into a monster cat. I grabbed my door mat, the closest thing I could find to hide my legs. I had exercise capri pants on, so he was concentrating on my lower legs. I was very afraid.
Well, Adam returned and came back for the little shit. Whiskers slept for days. But, what happened next was bad, very bad. The cat bite became infected. I washed it with soap and water after he bit me, but I had no idea that a cat that has been kept inside could have such a potty mouth. I read how the cat’s mouth is just laden with bacteria. And now it was showing up on my leg.
At the time, I didn’t really want to worry my son. I did show him the corner of my new pull out couch where Atticus decided to use as a scratching post.
“You owe me a couch.” Adam felt bad. I didn’t really want to tell him how bad my leg was. It was getting bad. So, I thought I should probably go to the doctor. Probably means no. I decided to head to the internet instead. Looks like I needed antibiotic. And I should go to the doctor. Should means no.
Well, not a good idea. I started taking amoxicilin. Thank God I had a stash. My leg became ugly and oozy. I babied it and looked at it all the time, worried that pus was just not a good thing. The information on the internet about cat bites scared me to death. Every day I would say to myself, “Today is the day I should go to the doctor.” I have since decided that I am very stubborn about visiting a doctor. Not my cup of tea. The picture below was taken a few weeks after the bite. It was looking much better at this point. Really it was.
Ew, I know, right? Notice the dark mark. That was my brilliant attempt to monitor my condition. I took a pen and drew around the redness to see if it was getting worse or getting better. Why didn’t I just go to the doctor? Well, because I have no brain.
It took almost a month to heal. I probably have some sort of parasitic cat worm traveling around the inside of my body. I am pretty sure that the overdose of anitbiotics helped.
After the cat bite, I bought some betadine and keep it in my medicine cabinet. Good thing, because he bit me again this evening, the little shit.
Yeah, I’m cat sitting again.
He can be a sweet cat. He really enjoys jumping on the table and sitting on my arm. When I graded school papers, he sat on my arm. He is furry and soft and I really like him.
But, then he turns into Psycho cat. He just looked at me and then promptly bit my hand. Oh, it was just a little bite, didn’t really break the skin. I ran to the bathroom, washed it with soap and hot water, then put some Betadine on it.
He’s been here seven nights and he will be here six more. Tick Tock Tick Tock.
My daughter told me a while back that she heard something in the walls of her New York City apartment. Then she called and told me she saw a mouse scurrying by in the kitchen. She named it, even though she only met it once. Or twice. She is so like her momma. But, it made me think of what else could scurry through her apartment. I guess a rat could scurry.
When I hear the word, “scurrying,” all I can think of is mice. Mice scurry. Nothing else scurries. Nothing. Well, the freedictionary.com uses stupid examples of the word, “scurrying”:
“….lashed the scurrying horses” and “…..the pedestrians scurried for cover.”
I just don’t see it. I know what scurrying looks like. The word evokes sneakiness. Running away from trouble quickly. Horses are not subtle or sneaky. Neither are pedestrians. I really think these dictionary people need to confer with me more often. I would set them straight. Amazon.com is selling a book that I would tend to agree with its title:
Something “scurried” past Obama at a White House press conference. I am sure there is a metaphor for that one. I myself, wondered how he got by security. He scurried, that’s how.
I finally found a reference that I agree with. Merriam-Webster has their shit together. They used “….mice scurried around the house.” I like this example, because it is a true statement. Mice scurried around the house…… They sure did.
My house. But, let me back up a bit.
The first introduction to a mouse for many of us is when we are little, with the introduction of Mickey Mouse. Mickey is not scary, or rodenty. (I truly enjoy making up new words). He doesn’t carry diseases like the mice and rats did during “Black Death” during the 14th century, that killed twenty-five million people. Twenty-five MILLION.
The Danse Macabre -photo via wikipedia creative commons
Oh, they still carry diseases. A bunch of them. So, bubonic plague is nothing to laugh at. The oriental rat flea was the main culprit back then, hitchhiking on a black rat. I know a rat is a rat and a mouse is a mouse, but some view a mouse as a rat. Some view a chihuahua as a rat. Some ex-husbands are rats. So, you know, whatever.
Maybe we should be pissed at Walt Disney for making his main character a mouse. Children all around the world think that it is ok to pick up a field mouse and hug it. (I know where you think I’m going with this, but no, never hugged a mouse.)
But, you gotta love Mickey Mouse. Sure, I’ve worn mouse ears and have seen my plastic flip flops melt from standing in two hour lines on asphalt at Disney World in August. Sure, I have no brain. But, it was for my kids. I introduced them to the main mouse when they were little.
My next meeting with a mouse is when we learned to sing the ever popular “Little Rabbit Foo Foo.” This is how we sang it-
Little Rabbit Foo Foo
Hopping through the forest
scooping up the field mice
and bashing them on the head….
Now, I have to admit that all of the online versions of Little Rabbit Foo Foo has him scooping up field mice and ”bopping” them on the head. I am thinking that we changed the version. Or, I am thinking we were violent children. Regardless, mice were getting hit on the head left and right. Why?
Because they scurry and can’t be trusted.
There were other mice. For example, let’s take a look at Speedy Gonzales.
Speedy Gonzales (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Speedy Gonzales was the self-proclaimed, “fastest mouse in all Mexico.” Speedy never scurried. He wasn’t known as Scurry Gonzales, was he now? No, he was speedy, quick, and efficient. He got in and got out.
Now his cousin is another story, but he doesn’t scurry either. No, his cousin is a slow-poke. Slow Poke Rodriguez.
Slowpoke was the slowest mouse in all Mexico. He would never scurry. I think he was drunk half of the time. If he was on The Andy Griffith show, he would have been sitting in a cell with Otis, the town drunk, discussing stuff. You would never see Otis scurry either, I mean, if he was a pedestrian.
One of my favorite mice was Jerry Mouse from the cartoon, Tom and Jerry. Oh, the trouble those two crazy kids got into! Even when I was little, I had a problem with his name. Who the hell names a mouse, Jerry? Jerry Mouse. Sounds stupid. Harry would have been better. Tom and Harry. Maybe they had another friend named Dick. That would have made sense. Tom, Dick, and Harry. But, the names of the cartoon characters was the least of their problems. It was the violence that made some parents shudder. Yeah, parents who lived in a box and never got to watch Saturday morning cartoons during the era that cartoons ruled. My era!
But, besides watching Tom get electrocuted and sliced with a knife, this cartoon taught me about rivalry. Jerry taunted Tom. Tom chased Jerry. Tom got abused and injured. Comic violence. Poor Tom makes numerous attempts to catch Jerry. I mean, it is Tom’s house. He’s a house cat, just trying to protect his owner from contracting the bubonic plague I’m guessing.
I’m trying to think of all of the ways they tried to kill each other. It was like War of the Roses, but without a divorce. My favorite one is when Jerry put Tom’s tail in the wall outlet to electrocute him. He would light up and you could see his skeleton. Oh, cartoons, how you make me laugh! They also used an axe, guns, explosives, traps, and poison to try ot finish each other off. I also liked the one where Jerry put matches at Tom’s feet and lit the matches. Yeah, I bet there were little kids in the early sixties lighting their baby sisters on fire after watching that episode.
The final reference to a mouse is the most important to me. Hickory Dickory Dock. We all know the rhyme.
Hickory Dickory Dock
The mouse ran up the clock
The clock struck one
The mouse ran down
Hickory Dickory Dock
I never knew what this nursery rhyme meant. I was smart enough to realize that “one” and “down” didn’t rhyme worth a shit. But, but besides that, what the hell was supposed to happen at 1:00? And what is the importance of a mouse?
Well, I found out years later.
My husband and I purchased 13 acres of farm land in 1989. We decided to build a house on a site that an old dairy barn was previously located. It was an exciting time. I had fun decorating the house. We purchased an antique gingerbread clock and set it upon the mantle in our hearth room. I called the room the “Hearth Room” because I refused to call any room a “living room.” And, well, it had a hearth in it. A living room reminds me of plastic on expensive furniture and a room with no television. Well, that wasn’t going to happen.
After a couple of years, we brought home a kitten from the animal shelter for our daughter. Whiskers. Now, Whiskers was a great cat. She was entertaining and could leap buildings in a single bound. She could locate a spider and pounce on it as quickly as she saw it.
But, she didn’t give a shit about mice.
Of course, we didn’t know about the mice either. But, Whiskers sure did.
My kitchen had an island where the stove was located along with a seating area with three highback stools. I loved my kitchen. Sometimes late at night, I would walk downstairs to get a cold drink of water and see Whiskers perched on top of the island. What the hell are you doing sitting up there, Whiskers? Boy are you going to get in trouble if he sees you sitting where we cook.
Well, this happened quite a bit. The kids told me that they saw Whiskers sitting either on top of the stove island or right beside the island, looking under the stove. Uh oh.
Uh Oh for sure. I was wondering if there was a mouse in the house. After all, we built our house in a field. A mouse may try to infiltrate the solid construction. My husband would not hear of it. “This house is built air tight.”
Tell that to the mice.
Mice as in plural.
One day, I decided to clean and dust the stuff on my mantle. Normally, I don’t take the gingerbread clock down. I just spray some Pledge on it and dust it and around it. But, I was feeling especially energetic and decided to take it off its lofty spot.
Shit.
A mouse had built a nest in the back of the clock. A nest. In the back of the clock.
Hickory Dickory Damn!
So, that meant that Whiskers would watch a nightly parade of mouse or mice coming from somewhere near the stove, scurrying across the kitchen floor, turn the corner, scurry through the Hearth Room, up the side of the mantle to build its nest. Ok, so unless the mouse used U-Haul, it had to make many many trips to the clock. And that also meant that it liked it enough in my house to make a nest there.
Nice job, Whiskers.
So, after I showed my husband that a mouse or many mouses (mice, whatever) were making their way to the clock, he put a couple of traps under the house, in our crawlspace. I cold hear some snapping every once in a while and it just made me cringe. Poor mice. But, what made me really cringe is that I found another nest in my laundry room, behind a shelf. And I found yet another one when I was hunting for the remote control down in a couch in the Hearth Room. We had all been sitting on baby mice.
Dear God, the cat probably popped some popcorn and watched the fun unfold nightly. Why try to catch mice? Her bowl was never empty. I did notice that she seemed to be eating more than usual. Ew, the mice were eating her cat food.
I wouldn’t let the husband put a snapping trap under the stove. I didn’t want to hear the trap go off. I can’t kill a spider, let alone a poor field mouse.
So, he purchased one of those traps that a mouse can crawl into but can’t get out and then I would make him drive the mouse a mile or two down the road and set it free. I think we caught several mice that way until Spook showed up at our door. Spook, the stray cat. I talked the husband into letting him stay. Caspar the cat showed up soon after. Two outside cats kept the mice away after that. Over the years, Muffin the cat and Izzie the cat have also stayed awhile. Mice were never a problem after that.
Three years ago, I divorced and moved out of our home. I never spoke of the mice in the house to anyone because it just makes you feel sort of….cockroachy in a way. But, hey, it’s not my house anymore, now is it?
I was an avid reader when I was younger. I always knew what that crazy Nancy Drew was up to. I knew the Ringmaster’s Secret. I knew where the Hidden Staircase was hiding. I knew that showboat was haunted. Yep, I read all of the books. I was a huge fan.
And sure, I read Dr. Seuss, but I was years beyond his silliness. Ok, I did fall for One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish and I stared a little bit too much at the dog party in the tree in my favorite, Go, Dog, Go, but I really felt a bond with Nancy. In fact, I felt like I could be Nancy. Except that I would have never worn a skirt while solving a mystery. I would have been all about pedal pushers and sneakers.
Fast forward many years and I was still able to keep up with my reading, even after I had my two children. Of course, then I was a huge Dean Koontz fan. His early book, Whispers, will always be my favorite Dean Koontz book. I also read a lot by John Saul. But, my reading time was diminishing. It was no one’s fault but my own. Al Gore had just invented the internet, you know, and I had surfing to do. I surfed the world wide web. And down went the book.
Bad Vickie. I never did sit and read Great Expectations again. Oh, how I love Miss Havisham. I purchased The American Tragedy last summer because I loved the movie version, A Place in the Sun, with Montgomery Cliff and Elizabeth Taylor. East of Eden and Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother are still staring at me from my nightstand. They realize it is never going to happen. Afterall, I then discovered Facebook and Farmtown. Farmville. Something on a farm.
And it was never going to happen once I discovered blogging. WordPress is really to blame for my inexcusable lack of reading. If I wasn’t writing, I was reading other blogger’s blogs. I was then commenting on them. Soon I decided, “Hell, I want to write my own book.” I was a frenzied writer. I found that I love to write. I don’t know if I am a good writer. I cringe when I notice that I have left out commas or spelled “threw” for “through.” Not professional, Vickster. But, just put me in a cabin in the woods with a typewriter and some paper laptop and my username and password, and I could just write all damn day long. But, I guess I have to earn a living, so a fourth grade teacher I shall be.
But, something got me back to take another look at books.
No, it wasn’t the new-fangled Kindle Fire. That may get to me to read again. It didn’t.
No, I didn’t fall for the Harry Potter or Twilight books. I hated Eat, Breathe, and Die or whatever it was called. The movie version starred Julia Roberts. I saw the movie and hated it. You know that woman got an advance to write the book before she even took the journey to find herself, right? She surely laughed all the way to the bank.
No, it was Hunger Games.
I don’t know why it was Hunger Games that made me head to the couch, curl up with a lightweight throw on my lap, and settle in for the evening. Ahhhhhh, a good book. I felt like I was home. Oh, sure I was home, but I felt so satisfied, so complete, so intelligent. I was reading again. Yeehaw!
But, wait. I am torn. My lost love of reading has been reborn. But, alas, what the hell is to become of my blogging? I plan on reading all three of the Hunger Game books in the next week. I can’t put the first one down. Well, I did, just to write to all of you a farewell of sorts, until this reading foolishness subsides.
Yes, blog buddies, I am not going to blog again for a week or so. I want to read. And read I must. And I can’t do both. That would feel like cheating.
So, I bid adieu to all my old and new blogging friends as I need but a brief respite….so I can read. After all, I want to go see the Hunger Games movie this weekend, so I must get a move on. All of my teacher friends at school have already read all three books and are getting tired of not being able to talk about it. I need to catch up before they bust at the seams.
I bought the book yesterday and am on Chapter 11 right now. I am hooked.
Well, time is up. I gave myself fifteen minutes to write this. Times a tickin. My book is calling out to me.
My best to you and I will see you in a week’s time.
You know, this karma thing really does work. I’m going deaf because I played Helen Keller when I was little. So, Karma is a bitch. I’m sure that is the reason.
You are probably wondering how one plays Helen Keller. Well, first you have to have an Annie Sullivan. That was my bff, Ramaine. And then you had to close your eyes and make your way around the ping pong table in the rec room of your basement, moaning and groaning, because, well, you’re Helen Keller. Annie, er I mean, Ramaine, would sign language spell words like w-a-t-e-r in my hand and I would nod my head, just like Melissa Gilbert did when she portrayed her in the movie. I really don’t think we were making fun of Helen Keller. I think we were playing actresses, But, Karma still bites you in the ass. And that’s why now, years later, I’m going deaf.
I don’t know if it was an exact occasion, but one day out of the blue, I was struck down with debilitating vertigo. It was intense, and evil. Evil. See my previous post, Vertigo and Meniere’s Disease. Horrid disorder.
Well, I was told that I would lose some or all of my hearing. I’m sorry, what did you say? Ok, not kidding. Part of Meniere’s Disease is progressive hearing loss. Have you ever had an experience where you lose hearing in your ear for a few seconds, and it is replaced with a high pitched tone, until it diminishes? Well, I was told that each time I have one of those, it takes a little bit of my hearing away with it. Well, how fun will this be?
That was in 2000. I haven’t been back to my ENT. He wanted me to come back the next time I was in the middle of a vertigo attack. Um, how the hell would that be possible? My world rotates around and around and around for like hours. You are lucky you can crawl, let alone make it to the car. My toilet became my closest friend. Tammy. Some days it was Tommy, depending on the how much my husband was helping me out while I was sitting by the toilet all day. I have also purposely not had my hearing tested since then either. And I will tell you why.
When my ex would get a bad cold, he would come downstairs in his robe and slippers and would quit shaving. He was pathetic. He would shuffle as he walked…..”I’m sick.” His temperature would be a fiery 98.7, which is high, he informed me, because his temperature normally ran around 97. Ok, you know, whatever. But, I’m sort of like him in a way. If I would get my hearing tested, I would then be able to use that when I talk to my kids on the phone.
“I’m sorry, Alex. What did you just say.”
“I said, I was goinb blah blah blah blah and you know blah blah blah. What do you think?”
“Really. Something is mess up with this phone. I didn’t hear you. Say it one more time.”
“I was blah and you know how blah blah. And then blah blah blah …..So, what do you think.”
pause…. pause…. lie. “Well, what do you want to do?”
“….Nevermind, Mom.”
Well, shit, I didn’t know what the hell she said. I have gotten to the point where I just pretend I hear people. And trust me, this is not good. Not good at all. I usually ask people to repeat what they say, and then if I still only hear bits and pieces of it, I will just stand there, looking at them. I’m sure I look stupid, especially if they are waiting for an answer. I think that is why my lunch bunch teacher friend who sits next to me, hits me in the arm all of the time. I usually answer with something that sounds retarded. I just can’t freaking hear and make up something. Sometimes she just looks at me, waiting for an answer and then hits me just because.
If I got my hearing tested, I would be able to insert my “You know I can’t hear” statement right into every conversation.
“Alex, you know I have 80.95% hearing loss in my left ear and 75.42% hearing loss in my right ear…I can not hear you.”
But, I don’t want to do that, because I would be doing it all of the time. I know myself. And that’s where the mocking would come in. Sure, friends and family always mock the ones they love.
In pure mocking Vickie tone: “You know I have 900% hearing loss in all three ears!” Yeah, they would so mock me.
To me, ignorance is bliss. I just love that line. “Ignorance is bliss.” This should be my life motto. I mean, if you don’t know, you can’t react. I will tell you one thing I will react to. I will react to the doctor who finally tells me I may need a hearing aid. I hope that day never comes. But, when I sleep on my right side, I can’t hear anything out of my left ear. I moved a faux grandfather’s clock by my bed last week, and the damn ticking was driving me crazy….until I rolled over onto my right side. Couldn’t hear a thing. I guess deafness does have an advantage….when you want it to.
But, I will never ever wear a hearing aid. Never ever.
So, I have decided that if and when the time comes, I’m not using a hearing aid. Not going to happen. Why try to hide the device? I mean, if I can’t hear, why not let everyone know about it. That’s why I’m going big. You know the saying, “Go big or go home.”
Perhaps a bit much?
Yeah, that’s right. I’m going for the horn. Why hear everything when you can have selective hearing? Look at all of these hard of hearing people. You don’t see them wearing hidden hearing devices. No, they are proud of their limited hearing capacity and want noticed. I will so be getting a horn. They are called an ear trumpet and they have been around for a very long time.
Or, I could purchase a ear ring horn. Or a ring ear horn. Same thing. I could wear it on my finger, and if I want to hear your babble, I can just put it to my ear, smooth-like.
Hallo? Hallo?
For when I want to call long distance
The earliest description of an ear trumpet or horn was way back in the 1600′s. While it is fact that people do lose a bit of their hearing as they age, they didn’t have hearing aids back then. So, they came up with the next best thing: an ear trumpet.
Beethoven, who was going deaf, had several ear trumpets made for him. Some of them are in the photo below.
I’m going to wear mine around my neck. An earneck horn.
Yeah, I’m for sure going to use an ear trumpet.
I can just see it now.
Hey Grandma Vickie. What the hell is wrong with you?
In the end, we all lose some of our hearing. Mine may just be lost earlier. Maybe. Maybe not. But, I will be prepared.
Shut the hell up! You know I can only hear 12% out of this ear and 3% out of this ear trumpet.
My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
Rocky Point-Rhode Island
Flooded after Katrina
2011
8. Animals I Like
