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 couldn’t wait until I turned sixteen. All kids imagine getting their driver’s license and then speeding off into the sunset. Well, not speeding, but being able to go someplace without Dad behind the wheel was a thrilling aspect of sixteenship. (I made up that word. I like it). But, that was not the reason I could not wait to get my driver’s license.
You see, once upon a time, I was just a skinny little thing. I wasn’t just thin and tiny. I was anorexic, “Oh my God, look at that girl!” skinny skinny. I had no muscle. I was a freaking stick. And although I curse myself now for hating how I looked back then, it truly was a sad sight. I just could not gain weight. Now, I know you are wondering what that has to do with driving for the very first time, but it has everything to do with turning sixteen, being skinny, and getting behind the wheel.
I totally understand the plight of overweight children even though I was on the other side. I got made fun of for being skinny.
“Hey, I heard you were absent from school today……You must have been standing sideways when they took roll.”
“Hey, I bet you can really sing since you have those canary legs and all.”
“You’re so skinny, I bet you hula hoop with a Life Saver.”
When I switched schools and went to Edgewood for fourth grade, I went home crying the first day because someone called me “Stick.” I finally told him to leave me alone…..and then hastily added, “Leave me alone! I just got out of a concentration camp.” Ok, I realize that was stretching the truth a little too far, but my last name was Mendenhall, a Germanish name, and I just got to that school. It was feasible, especially when the goof ball head who called me names had no idea what the three ships Columbus sailed on to discover America. Everyone knew that, so I knew he was dumb as a…….stupid head….. He had no grain in his silo…His sewing machine was out of thread…… He wouldn’t even know what a concentration camp was.
So, I had to endure years of being made fun of for being skinny. So, I ate. I ate all the time, trying to gain weight. But, I guess when you are a true hyperactive child, that grows up with you for a few years. I was very active and my metabolism was not my friend. I could not gain weight. When I was in high school, I would get up earlier and fry two frozen hamburger patties before the bus came to pick me up in the morning. It still didn’t work. It finally dawned on me after a very interesting lesson in Science class what was wrong with me. I kept my thoughts to myself.
So, when the big day came and I passed my driver’s test, I also made a secret appointment with Dr. Harper. Dr. Harper was my family doctor. I had been out there so many times, I could drive to his office blindfolded. Well, ok, that would have been bad. But, I had history with this man and trusted him. I had bad kidneys when I was little, so I was always peeing in a damn cup for him. He would tell me to be glad I was so thin. But, now that I KNEW what was wrong with me, he would be able to help me. I couldn’t wait to go to his office and tell him what I learned in Science class.
Lexie, who lived down the street and was a mom of one of my friends and a good friend of my moms, worked for Dr. Harper, so I lied when I made the appointment and said it was for a regular checkup.
“Hi, Lexie. My mom told me to call to make an appointment for my regular checkup….. She’s downstairs sewing.” She gave me a date that was about two weeks away. Shit. That wasn’t acceptable. I HAD to be seen earlier.
“Is there any way I can come tomorrow after school?…..Um….. My pee is dark and my back hurts.” I knew that would work.
So, I asked my mom if I could use the car after school to drive by myself. “I just need to drive to get used to driving by myself.” I didn’t need to tell her. She would just roll her eyes and tell me I was being dramatic….once again. No, this was top top secret.
I couldn’t wait until I got home from school the next day. I got the keys to my mom’s boat, a gold Cadillac that was a mile long, and drove out to Dr. Harper’s office. There was only one person in the waiting room. I smiled at Lexie and sat down.
Dr. Harper was a pretty nice guy. I was handed a cup and thought that I should probably go pee in it since I was there. It really was close to my regular checkup time anyways. I sat down and took off my clothes and put on the white gown. I always rushed this part because I didn’t want him walking in and seeing me half dressed. He did rap on the door like three times and then entered, not waiting for a “oh hell, not yet.” He sat down, took his chart, read some stuff.
“So, Vickie, your back is hurting. Have you been drinking a lot of water like you are supposed to?”
“I’m drinking a lot of water.” I was going to come right out and tell him why I thought I wasn’t gaining weight, but at the last minute thought I would just bring it up nonchalantly while he was checking the lymph nodes in my neck like he always did during a checkup. “I think my back is hurting because it is almost that time of the month….but I’m not sure.” And then I continued….nonchalantly, of course.
“So, Dr. Harper……I was wondering if you could take an x- ray or check to see…….if I have a…… tapeworm. I think that’s why I’m not gaining weight.” There, I said it. I have a tapeworm crawling around, eating all the stuff that comes down into my stomach. I was sure of it.
Dr. Harper stopped pushing on my neck with his hands and sat back, looking at me. He then started to laugh. I had never really heard him laugh before. What the hell? Why are you laughing at me? I was pissed.
“Vickie, you do not have a tapeworm. You are thin because that’s just how you are built. You will gain weight when you gain weight.”
I just looked at him. I was ready to burst into tears, but I had to get out of his office first. I was also ready to kick him. How dare he laugh at me when I had a freaking tapeworm crawling around inside of me and he wouldn’t even check it out.
“I learned in Science class that if you eat beef or pork, there is a chance that a tapeworm larva could be mixed in with the cow meat and if you swallow it, the tapeworm can grow to be 12 feet long. I eat hamburger almost every day. I really think I have a tapeworm.”
12 feet of worm action in my stomach
He just wouldn’t quit smiling. Dumb ass. It was possible. I learned a tapeworm could live for years in your body and you wouldn’t even know it:
Tapeworms Symptoms ( Source:webmd.com)
Sometimes tapeworms cause signs and symptoms such as:
nausea
weakness
diarrhea
abdominal pain
hunger or loss of appetite
fatigue
weight loss
vitamin and mineral deficiencies
However, often having tapeworms does not cause symptoms. The only sign of tapeworm infection may be segments of the worms, possibly moving, in a bowel movement.
Treatment for Tapeworms
If you suspect you have tapeworms, you should see your doctor. Because there are different types of worms and tapeworms that can infect people, diagnosing a tapeworm infection may require a stool sample to identify the type of worm.
Ok, see? If you suspect you have tapeworms, you should see your doctor.
I saw my doctor and my doctor laughed at me.
I cried all the way home. My mom asked me what happened and I told her the truth, which surprised me, because I rarely told the truth. She knew damn well not to even crack a smile. And this time she didn’t use the word dramatic or anything. I hugged her for being so understanding. She told me she would see if there was a pill I could take for a “just in case you do have a tapeworm” scenario. That made me feel better. Who knew that my mom would side with me on anything.
Later that night, as I went to bed, I got right back out, wondering where my dog Cricket was, and heard my mom on the phone. She was talking to Lexie. Cricket was on my dad’s lap on the couch.
“It took everything I had not to laugh in her face, Lexie…….”
That’s all I cared to hear. They were all laughing at me. Fine. Laugh at me.
Since I am all about revenge, I decided to get back at my mom. Big time. That weekend, I chewed a bunch of gum and started rolling it between my fingers to make it long and thin. It did look like a pinkish worm. I even poked two little eyes and then put it in the toilet. I put a piece of toilet paper in there to make it look authentic. I wished I could have waited until I could have added something else, but revenge doesn’t wait for a sixteen year old. I yelled for my mom.
When my mom arrived in hallway, I just pointed to the toilet. She walked over and looked in the toilet.
“Mom, I told you I had worms!!!”
My mom had her bifocals down on her nose. I thought they were going to fall down into the toilet and join Timmy the Tapeworm. My mom then looked up at me.
“I almost fell for this one, Vickie. Next time, don’t put a smile on the worm’s face……get it out of the toilet, wash your hands, and come wash the dishes.”
Dammit.
Years later, the weight did catch up to me. I often think about the tapeworm story. Now, I wonder where the hell I can buy one.
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My fourth grade class was debating yesterday as to who should win the election today. I just sat back and listened to their reasoning. Or lack of reasoning. But, one thing is clear, they repeat what they hear in their household, and in the end, most of the reasoning I heard was well, scary. I think I heard three students say something that made me feel their parents are informed.
When I was in fourth grade, if someone asked me who was president, I may have replied, John F. Kennedy. Oh sure, I knew he had died on my parent’s anniversary several years before I was in fourth grade, and I knew that the gunman was gunned down by some night club owner, but I didn’t know who took his place. Wait. That’s a lie. I remember my grandfather talking about “LBJ, that goddamn snake in the grass.” So, our president was LBJ….Grandpa liked Ike, whoever the hell that was. Later, I found out it was Eisehower, who was president before “that catholic boy.” My grandfather was all about being a republican. But, I was nine years old and had important things to do like go to Campfire Girls meetings and play chinese jump rope. I didn’t care about politics. The only thing I knew at the time was that presidents used initials and short nicknames instead of their names….Ike….JFK…..LBJ. I was VLM. My friend Ramaine was RAC. Lori was LAM, and LeeAnn was LAW. I was pissed because my middle name messed everything up. I could never have pretty monogrammed towels.
And kids really didn’t pay attention to who was running for president back then. But, that changed when we baby boomers had kids and talked about it more and the kids listened. Why did they listen? Well, because our kids stayed indoors more than we did when we were young. We were outside as long as it wasn’t storming. Well, my mom forbade it to lightning on Woodland Estates, so we were outside most of the time. Don’t get me wrong, my kids played outside plenty, but the mid 80′s were different than the mid 60′s. Kids of the mid 80′s listened because they were around the parents more.
English: Seal of the President of the United States Español: Escudo del Presidente de los Estados Unidos Македонски: Печат на Претседателот на Соединетите Американски Држави. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
My daughter became a big fan of CNN when she was little. She liked Tucker Carlson and his bow tie. She became interested in the environment when she was very young, getting mad at the Harrison Power Plant and its wicked plume of black smoke that came out of the stack. She was in tune. Both of my kids were. So, they listened. She pointed out later, “Mom, you are so not a Republican. And Dad……he is definitely not a Democrat.” They listened and picked up on things. And she was right. I changed my party years later so I could vote for Obama.
But, back to my fourth graders. I let them go at each other. One said that Romney hated the Earth. Another said that Obama was going to close all of the coal mines in the state. (West Virginia)
“I’m voting for Romney. Obama doesn’t believe in God.”
“I’m voting for Obama because Romney is a Mormon.” When asked what a Mormon was, the child told me, “It’s a man who has a lot of wives…and that is just wrong.” Another boy added, “I think having a bunch of wives is wrong….but if they could cook, it might not be so bad.”
“Romney is going to win because Obama is going to make rich people pay more taxes.” I asked if his family is rich. “Yes, my mom works at Walmart.” A girl laughed and replied, “Working at Walmart doesn’t make you rich. You have to win the lottery if you want to be really rich.”
“Obama is a terrorist. His middle name is a terrorist name.” I asked him what Obama’s middle name is. “Something like Muslim or something.” Another child laughed at his response. “Muslim is not a middle name. It’s something you sew with.” Um, okay, muslin is a cotton. Points scored for knowing fabric.
In the end, their rants and reasons for voting for their respective candidates were highly amusing…and sad at the same time. I had to wonder:
Do people really understand the issues or do they vote because of what they hear from others the same way children form opinions from watching and listening to their parents and believing it is right and just?
It that is the case, which I think it is in a majority of people, we would always see the proverbial snake in the grass.
The important thing today is to exercise your right to make a decision of some kind. It may not be for the best reasons, but we are lucky to be in a country where we are free to make a choice, even if is because you just like the man. Reagan received a lot of votes because people just liked him as a person. If that alone makes you get in your car and stand in a line to vote, then good for you.
I don’t think my mom had much confidence in me when I was young, as she was always telling me
“When they were passing out brains, you must have thought they said trains, and went for a ride.”
I am certain she told me this more than a hundred times…or maybe twenty, I’m not really sure. I do remember feeling like a stupid train conductor, that’s for sure.
Years later when I informed my mom by phone I was getting a divorce after twenty five years of marriage, and that I was moving out of the house, she replied-
“You know, I thought I raised a smart girl, but you must have been dropped on your head.”
After I hung up on her, I had to laugh. It reminded me back to when I first watched Forrest Gump. He was sitting beside Jenny on the school bus.
“Are you stupid or something?”
“Momma says stupid is as stupid does.”
It made me visualize Momma Gump’s reaction to some of the things my mom had said to me over the years. I’m thinking she would have slapped her. My mom once told me that I would probably study for a blood test. Funny, Mom.
Ok, I am sure we have all done stupid things. Some do more than others…. I don’t know…. I think those are called mistakes. Not all people are stupid. If that was the case, most of the train tracks would still be in use instead of the miles and miles of rails to trails we have across our nation today. So, my question is this-
“Did economics change our use of trains as transportation….or are there not as many stupid people nowadays confusing brains with trains?
I ran across “Yo momma is so…” jokes this morning that made me think of how my mom would basically call me stupid through different expressions. I wish I had some of these zingers to say back to her over the phone after she told me I was dropped on my head.
“Well, you’re so stupid you think a quarterback is your income tax refund.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you put lipstick on your forehead when you were trying to makeup your mind.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, it took you two hours to watch 60 Minutes.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, you went to the YMCA thinking it was Macy’s.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, you stood inside a Subway restaurant waiting for the next train.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, you think Taco Bell is a Mexican phone company.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you spent an hour looking at the orange juice container because it said, concentrate.”
(I’m having fun).
“Well, you’re so stupid, you had to burn down the school to get out of third grade.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you got excited because you finished a jigsaw puzzle in 6 months and the box said “2 to 4 years.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you got fired from an M&M factory for throwing away all the W’s.”
Ok, I’m done.
Would I have used any of those to say back to my mom? Probably not.
She would have just said
“Vickie, are you a dumb blonde on purpose or does it just come natural?”
It’s was just easier to hang up on her.
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I can still remember when the encyclopedia salesman came to our house to sell us a set. There were always people knocking on our door. We lived in a neighborhood, and we could see them coming. This particular salesman said that the World Book Encyclopedia would be “the window to the world.” Oh, my God, Mom, did you hear that? “the window to the world?” I was salivating.
I just had to have these books in our house.
I begged my mom to buy a set. Oh my God, it would be like having the National Geographic in volumes. I couldn’t stand it. I was almost beside myself, waiting for them to be delivered.
When our World Book Encyclopedias arrived, my mom put them in our antique barrister bookcase.
They looked so nice in there. I realize that I sound like a nerd. I was a hyper nerd. My mom was a little bit nervous, spending a lot of money on books, but after all, the window to the whole world would be opening up. I would gain so much useless information it would not even be funny. I was ready.
When the encyclopedias arrived, we broke open the box and took out each encyclopedia in ABC order and my mom put it in the bookcase. She wanted to make sure they were all there before we started looking through them. Hell, she was no fun. So, I sat there while I watched each book take its place on the shelf. I must have sang the ABC song to myself 26 times. I don’t know why I did that. I was just a weird kid. Finally, the Z was in the shelf, and I grabbed the big A book.
The world did open up, just like the slick salesman said it would. I learned about anteaters and aardvarks and Argentina. How would I remember all of this information? I was on system overload, and I hadn’t opened up the B book yet. I was so happy. My mom was happiest of all because I could see her sitting on her corner of the couch smoking a Salem cigarette with the dog on her lap. She was going to have some quiet moments in the Mendenhall household while her three kids were opening windows to the world.
She told me much later that the box had arrived several days earlier, and she hid it in the front closet. She waited until it was a rainy day to announce that the encyclopedias had arrived. I mean, why give kids the books when they could be outside playing.
My mom made it quite known to me after I had children that she didn’t believe in bragging about her children. Well, Mom, that was obvious. All I was doing was calling her to tell her both of the kids made it to the state social studies fair. I mean, that was an awesome feat that siblings could win the local and then county Social Studies fair. And since she lived two hours away, she would not have know about any of this.
Regardless, I had to hear her tear me down one more time. “Vickie, I think that’s great. You know, you three kids did a lot when you were little, but I never believed in bragging.” No, no you didn’t mom. Well, except when it came to my stomach.
Now, you have to understand that I really didn’t excel at much. I didn’t play a musical instrument. I did try out for our junior high band, if that is what you want to call it, but they just refused to hand me a clarinet or flute or whatever the hell I wanted to learn to play. We had to take a music test of some sort and I really couldn’t hear the difference in tone. I was a tone deaf clarinet challenged retard. It was just another test that I flunked. Like the early entrance test to start school early.
I did win a safety slogan contest when I was in fourth grade and even got a little trophy. That was a big deal. I think my mom came up with the slogan though. I’m not sure. I’m just saying that to continue on with my “I really didn’t excel at much” scenario.
I wasn’t much on selling stuff to win contests in our Bluebird and Campfire Girls troop. I absolutely hated going door-to-door and asking people if they wanted to buy goddamn light bulbs or magazines or even candles. I remember the candle drive. I think I went to five houses and each lady of the house bought something, but I just was tired of that bullshit and went home. I was actually doing pretty well, but I just wasn’t into it. Thank goodness I didn’t have to collect money during the sale, because then I would have had to follow through with it.
My best friend won a selling contest and got to wear a Clorox bottle crown, sit in the front row and hold flowers. I was happy for her because she sold a shit load of whatever we were selling. It wasn’t for me, so I just smiled for the picture as a loser in the back row. Not that the other girls were losers in the back row. Sorry, MaryLou. Talking about me, not you.
So, no, I didn’t excel at much and my mom didn’t brag about me too much….until summer time rolled around.
I don’t know what it was in my neighborhood, but for some reason we liked to lay out in the sun. Like all the time. If we weren’t at the pool, we were laying out. And I laid out on our back patio on a towel. On the concrete. You’d think that my parents would buy some porch furniture for the back, but they never did. That just dawned on me right now. I know my mom always said that the sun didn’t like her and she rarely sat outside, well, because there was no place to sit. We had one lawn chair on our front porch and that was it. So, I laid out on a towel.
The summer after I was a freshman in high school was the summer of my great tan. I was quite dark. I mean, like really dark. And my stomach for some reason was the darkest. I had a little egg timer and would roll over when it would ding. I was like frying my body. Would think that I would look like a piece of leather or a shriveled up raisin now that I am in my fifties. Oh contrare. I still look quite young. Well, that is what my fourth graders tell me. They think I am 30. …brown nosing little shits.
So, whenever my mom and dad would have company or one of her women friends stopped by for coffee, gossip, and cigarettes, my mom always called me into the kitchen.
“Vickie, show her your stomach.”
“What?”
“Lift up your shirt and show her your stomach.”
Um, ok. I would lift up my little summer shirt to reveal my stomach. And my mom would then laugh and say something different each time, depending on who was sitting there, sharing her coffee.
“Now is that a Florida tan or what?”……………..”Look how dark she is.”……………”Have you ever seen anyone so dark?”………………….”I know. She looks almost like a black person.”………….”And she puts baby oil on her stomach.”………………….”and it really doesn’t fade…………”
She didn’t care what I was doing. If we had company and it was summer time, I knew at some point I would be raising my shirt. “Vickie!…..Vickie!!…….Come up here!…..” I wished she didn’t have friends.
So, the bragging began. No, it wasn’t for being smart as there weren’t any A+ papers on the refrigerator. No, it wasn’t for winning a slogan contest or for even singing Are you Sleeping, Brother John in front a whole auditorium of Campfire Girls or memorizing everyone’s line during the church Christmas play. No, my mom bragged about my stomach tan.
Typical.
You’d think that with the invention of tanning beds that I would still be a fool for a tan. When I did have a pool,I had a tan, but it was a SUN tan. Those tanning beds are not the same thing. My sister has a sun tan business and about 12 beds in her place. I laid in it one time years ago, and felt like I was in a damn coffin. It just wasn’t for me. I am more of a plant me under the sun kind of gal, and haven’t done that for a few years. When I go to the beach, I head under an umbrella after a while as I guess “the sun doesn’t like me” anymore.
When I was young I am pretty sure that the tv commercials were directed right at me. Now, you have to understand that we only had three channels on our tv set. Thank god we didn’t have QVC or Home Shopping Network then because I would have been grounded for using my mom’s credit card every other day. Well, if we had credit cards back then too. Shit, we didn’t have much back then.
First of all, Saturday morning cartoons rocked back in the 60′s. I got up early and watched them all morning. Well, before my mom shooed us outside to play. I loved Foghorn Leghorn. He was my hero. I would sit glued to the tv set all freaking morning, because the commercials were just as exciting for me. And when I first saw a commercial for Soaky Bubble Bath Time, I was beyond excited. I mean, you could take a bubble bath AND have a prize. The bottle was a cartoon character. This was unbelievable to me. I’m sure I was sitting there with my mouth open. This was an exciting time for this little skinny little seven year old. The year was 1963……. and it was bath time.
Soaky Bubble Bath Time….Wow, what a great way to take a bath. I had to have this. My mom, however, was never on board with anything at first. She came up with an excuse that as a seven year old I could not possibly understand.
“Vickie, I am not buying bubble bath soap………….it will not make you any cleaner…………..no it won’t…………no it won’t……………Vickie, there is so a bar of soap in the bath tub………………………….yes there is………………well, I’ll tell you what, let’s go and take a look…………………………..Ok, where did you hide the soap?”
Ha! I knew she was going to cause me some problems, so I hid the soap before we had this conversation. I was soaky bubble bath time smart. But, then she confused the hell out of me.
“Vickie, I am NOT buying you this so-called Soaky Soapy Bubbles.” Ok, first of all, stupid mom, it was called Soaky Bubble Bath Time. But, I let her go this time, because she was not finished.
“The soap can give you an infection.” What? Sitting in a bath tub can give you bronchitis? My mom was a loon. Oh, but once again, she was not finished. She saw the expression on my face and decided she needed to be more precise with her statement. “It can make your deet itch, Vickie.”
Ok, I have to tell you that I thought everyone in the world called their female private part a “deet.” That’s what my mom called it. When I was young I always had to make sure that I washed “down there real good” when it was bathtime. And of course, I knew when I was quite young that that area was always last with the washcloth. And you know, well, that was always a great piece of advice. But, I didn’t want an itchy deet. But, was she lying? She lied to me a lot.
“Vickie, Dr. Parker said that bacteria in the water can make your deet itch…………………I realize that soap is not bacteria………When did Dr. Parker tell me this? A while ago………………yes, he did…………….yes, he did……….Vickie, I am not going to argue about this. I am not buying bubble bath. I can’t use bubble bath.
Why the hell would my mom use a Popeye Soaky Bubble bath bottle? She doesn’t even watch cartoons. She made no sense. And when she said “no,” that only meant one thing: ask Dad or Grandma.
So, the next time I stayed at my grandparent’s house was the first time I bathed with a Soaky Bubble Bath Time. I have no idea which cartoon character I took a bath with first, but I am thinking it was Elmer Fudd. But, I could be making that up. I can’t remember. Grandma Orpha always thought I was going to drown or she was cheap as shit because she only gave me about 1/2 inch of bath water. Well, it wasn’t up to my armpits like we had it at home every night. I poured in a cap of the bubble bath and played for a while. I loved going to my grandmother’s house. I asked her if I could take Elmer Fudd home to share with my brother and sister. Yeah, like I was really going to do that. Grandma said I could take it home with me. My mom was not amused.
“Vickie, it can’t make your deet itch right away.”
Ok, fruit loop, how long does it take? Well, it didn’t matter. It was already brought into the house and we used it that very same night. I still took a bath with my sister, so we had a good old time. We played “Ethel and Mabel” most nights during bath time anyway, so adding bubbles to the mix made bath time so much more fun. We used up all of the washcloths and put soap in the middle of the washcloths and then would fold the cloth over the soap and then punch it to make the soap spurt out. What fun we had. We stayed in there until our fingers looked pruney. My mom didn’t care. She was able to sit and smoke a few cigarettes in peace while we were in the bath tub.
“Bath time isn’t quite the same without your cartoon buddies!”
So began our soapy bubble bath time. We bought them left and right. We had Mr. Magoo and Popeye, and Sylvester kitty cat. My dad even had a use for Sylvester. He had a huge flagpole in the backyard and somehow the finial blew away or just fell off of the top of the flagpole. So, what did he put up at the top of the flagpole for all the neighbors to see every day? You got it. Sylvester the cat’s head.
Yes, we Mendenhalls were high class, that’s for sure. But, what is for sure is that reports came out years later that bubble baths weren’t so good for girls and women…..and their deets. But, it was already too late. We went through a lot of bottles of Soaky Bubble Bath time soap without any “girl” problems. My best friend, Ramaine, and I would even laugh and say, “deet de deet” and sing it to the Pink Panther theme song when we realized that no one else called it that. It was now our private little joke. Why the hell did my mom call it that?
Just a few minutes ago, here in 2012, I private messaged Ramaine on facebook and asked her if she called her deet anything else when she was little. It’s so funny that I can still ask her stuff out of the blue as bizarre as what we called our deets back in the 60′s and she immediately has an answer for me. I mean, when was the last time we talked about our deets? When we were 13? Her memory is so much better than mine. She reminded me about the “deet de deet” and that in her family they called it “cho cho.” I guess each family may call it different things, like how my mom called my little budding breasts, “mosquito bites.”
In the end, I am just glad I never went the bath salt route. Because, we all know what happens when people use bath salts. An itchy deet would be the least of their problems.
I am beside myself. My book, Jumping in Mud Puddles, just went live on Amazon. This is my literary debut, so I really don’t know what the hell I am doing. I do want to mention to anyone who is thinking about going the ebook route that the formatting is very easy. I mean, I did it, and I can’t find my way out of a sack. I even made my own cover because I am too tight to pay someone else to do it.
So, I guess I should know what I am supposed to do now, but I don’t. My book is just sitting there among the thousands of other books. I just left it there and went for a chocolate ice cream cone. Oh, hell, that was a lie. There was no way I was going out of the house today. It is 102 here in West Virginia. Anyway, I feel like I did when I drove my kids to college for the first time. I dropped them off and left them. I’ve nurtured this book for a very long time now and now I’m done.
So, my blogging friends, if you get the chance, go take a look see at my literary debut. Wow, I’m a real bonafide author sort of maybe. And If you are feeling generous, leave me a thumbs up or a review. And then more people will say to themselves, “Hey, people are reading this little book. Maybe I should, too.” I’m sure that’s what they would say.
I guess I should mention what my books is about for all of you who may stumble upon this post. My book is a memoir about my childhood and how I was just a little bit off center. Most of my blog posts are in the book, changed or tweaked in one way or another. The book has 44 chapters and I curse a lot, which I really don’t mean to do, but those damn nuns that I write about are to blame. They really are.
Anyway, like I said, I don’t know what I am supposed to do right now. I guess I should walk around the place and see what other “authors” are doing to promote their book. I’d rather just sit and take a deep breath, and rest a while. It’s just too damn hot.
Update: It’s the morning after publishing, and I made a top 100 list already! Yehaw! #70 in Kindle Store-ebooks-Humor-Essays. And, the book is on the Humor-Essay page as a “Hot New Release.” I don’t know how long it will stay there, but I’m a happy camper.
English: Fireworks on the Fourth of July (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
My mother must have thought we were retarded (sorry, love that word) when we were young because she always announced when it was time for the 4th of July fireworks:
“Kids, let’s go outside. It’s almost time for the Boom Booms.” Well, first of all, I must be lying because the Mendenhall kids would have been outside anyway. My mom shoved us outside first thing in the morning and would only unlock the door when whe had to use the bathroom. Ok, lying again. But, we played outside all damn day.
Second of all, we understood the word, fireworks. We really did. It was like a firecracker, but much larger, and up in the sky. But for some strange reason, my mom always called fireworks, Boom Booms. Of course, this was the same woman who called my budding fourth grades breasts, mosquito bites, so she was just a loon on any given day.
Dogs don’t really care for fireworks, and our dog, Susie, was afraid of the damn Boom Booms. The sounds of firecrackers and people screaming from exploding firecrackers permeated throughout the neighborhood. Susie was a fox terrier, so she was small and first wanted to be held when the first of the noise-makers began, but then just couldn’t take it any longer and would bolt under my mom’s bed.
I loved growing up in Weirton, West Virginia. Fourth of July was a big deal in our city. Almost everyone in our neighborhood had their American flags out on their porches. We had a gigantic flagpole in our backyard. My dad used to march us up there like little memebers of the VFW and have a flag ceremony. My brother David would be saluting as he walked.
I was even in a few 4th of July parades when I belonged to a majorette group. I wore a red sequined outfit and threw my baton around like I knew what I was doing. I’m surprised I didn’t bop someone in the head with one of my missed baton throws.
So, yes, the 4th of July was a great time in Weirton. But, the people who lived in Woodland Estates were quite lucky because we lived near the Weirton Airport, and that’s where they had the fireworks. I mean Boom Booms.
So, after all the backyard picnics and the badminton games were over, people brought their chairs to their front yards for the big firework display that were put on at the airport. Most people drove to the airport and put blankets down like they were at the Bellaire Drive-In. But, we had thee perfect spot on our front porch or yard to view the fireworks. My mom would never have taken us to see the fireworks if we lived elsewhere unless we were on leashes. She would have lost us in thirty seconds.
So, you could hear everyone talking from their porches, waiting for the big fireworks to begin. My dad would be on the sidewalk, talking to our next door neighbors, Joe and Rosa. It was a great time. The fireworks would begin at exactly 10:00. When we were quite young, it would be way past our bedtime, so we would sit on the front porch in our pajamas. I remember being tired, although as a hyperactive worm, I couldn’t sit still in my chair. I was down in the front yard walking around in my pajamas until we could hear and see the first of the Boom Booms.
And that is when Susie the dog would usually disappear. You knew when the big Boom Booms were going to happen; there would just be a bright silvery blob in the sky and then Oh My God, what a noise! We would cover our ears and squeal in delight. Life was good.
So, on this 4th of July, I don’t think about the past and the people who fought for our freedom. I teach that every year and have a lot of fun with it, but it is not what I think of when that red, white, blue day comes every year. No, I think of my mom, sitting on the front porch, wearing those damn cat-eye glasses and smoking her Salem cigarettes, asking her children if they were excited about the Boom Booms that were about to start.
And you know, yes, we were. And it wouldn’t have been special if she hadn’t used that damn phrase.
And yes, I used that phrase one year when my children were quite young, and then I slapped myself.
My dad was a remarkable man. At least I think so. He died in 1989 when his heart basically blew up. He was in his truck and managed to pull over where paramedics were called. And so was I. I rushed to his bedside, but I was two hours away and two hours late. No one met me at the hospital. But, that’s not the part I want to remember. I want to pay homage to a guy who adopted me when I was born, who taught me how to frame a great shot, who taught me how to fish, reluctantly.
He was also the guy who would quietly mow down my mom’s flowers after she bitched at him for something that really didn’t matter. She was a rolling pin woman. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. He would also smile at her when he would go to leave the house. “Where are you going?” my mother would demand. “Up Mike’s ass to get a milkshake,” he would always reply. I just loved that guy.
Elwood Arthur Mendenhall was his name. It was a pretty goofy name, I thought. It was a bit weird that his first cousin was also named Elwood. I mean, what were those women thinking? Most of his close pals called him Mendy or Gomez, or Omar. But, for the most part, people called him Elwood. I just called him Dad.
The following is a reblog of one of my first blog posts that was originally published August, 2010. I thought that I would share it again since it is Father’s Day.
Miss you, Dad.
Love, Your Favorite Daughter, Vickie
~***~
What can you say about a guy who walks into the kitchen wearing a plaid shirt with striped shorts and socks with his sandals? “Well, (sounding just like Ronald Reagan), there is blue in the shirt and in the pants.” I would roll my eyes. “Dad, it doesn’t match. You can’t wear stripes with plaid. It is against the law in West Virginia. You have to wear a plain top with striped shorts.” He would smile and go back into his bedroom and come back out with a yellow shirt on, never mind that there was not a speck of yellow in the shorts. “Good job, Dad.”
Dad parading around
My dad was a realtor and wore suits every day. He usually kept his suit on in the evening. He was always dressed up when we were young. He had places to go and people to see. He belonged to every club you can imagine. I have all of his membership cards. He belonged to the American Legion, the Masons (shhhhh, double double secret club), The Elks, The Moose, the Photography Club, The Shriners, and many others. I think a couple of the clubs were suspect, like the Skunk Club. (I can’t even print what was on that card.) So, Dad was rarely home through the week. In the summer he was in a lot of parades because he was a clown with the Shriners. He even had a motorcycle with a sidecar for a while. We used to go to the Shrine Circus in Wheeling often. I loved to watch the Flying Wallenda’s. They were and are a family of famous circus performers who do daredevil, death-defying stunts high up in the air without a safety net. Even when I was young, I thought how foolish they were to not use a net. And I was not a bright child. They must be a family of nit-wits. Anyway, my dad wanted a make-up mirror for Christmas one year so he could put on his clown makeup. How many dads ask for a make-up mirror? Life was never boring with my dad.
When we were small, we weren’t supposed to answer the phone in the early evening because my dad received a lot of client calls. People were always wanting to see houses for sale in the evening. Dad had a cut-off for client calls. After 8:00pm, Dad would answer the phone, “Duffy’s Bar, Daffy Speaking”, all the time. We knew then, work was over for Dad.
I loved listening to my dad talk to people on the phone. He had no idea he was doing it, but he would talk exactly how the people on the line talked. We knew when he was talking to his Irish friend, because Dad had an Irish accent. We knew when he was talking to his friend, Jimmy, because he would curse. His Italian accent was so funny. So were the conversations when he would use poor English. “We was gonna go, but it started rainin….I ain’t goin. I’m too tard (tired).” He really had no idea he was doing this. I think that is a reason I love dialects so much and had a blast when I took a dialects class as part of my Speech degree in college.
Of course, when you are a teen-age girl, you are embarrassed to be seen with your parents. That’s a given. I don’t know why, but those couple of years before you are allowed to drive are miserable. So, my dad understood this, and took every opportunity to drive me crazy. One example, a Brooke High dance when I was a freshman. I think Ramaine’s mom took us and my dad was going to pick us up AFTER the dance. Not before it was over, Dad, but right when it is over. I wish I would have specified that, or lied about the time it was over. I am pretty sure I did. He always had an ornery, “Ok, Vickie” smile. Wild Cherry played at our school dance. Yeah, the famous Wild Cherry pre-Play that Funky Music group. They used to play at pool dances and school dances often. Anywho, about 20 minutes before the dance was over, a member of the band spoke over the microphone and said, “Vickie Mendenhall, your Daddddddy is here to take you home” and then they put a damn spotlight over by the door and my dad was standing there, waving like Forrest Gump. That one ranked.
A favorite thing that my dad loved to do was call me back when I was walking down the street to Ramaine’s house. I’m not sure, but I think there were like 9 houses that separated our homes. “Vickie, come here,” he would wave me back. I’d get right in front of him and he would simply say, “See how far you would have been if I hadn’t called you back?” After many times, (he was always so believable that maybe this time he really needed me..) of falling for his little prank, I just kept walking back just so he could get one over on me. I knew as I got older, that he was not happy with my mom. How could you be? He got yelled at for just looking at her wrong.
When I was a freshman in college, my dad had a bad heart attack. I guess any heart attack is bad. He had to have a triple heart by-pass. Freshman weren’t allowed to have cars at my college, unless there was a pretty good reason. I got to keep my car because of all of the traveling home. So, I thought I was pretty special. My dad was in a hospital in Pittsburgh. The doctor’s said it was such a success because the veins in his legs were very strong. He played tennis in high school and was pretty athletic, so that was good. They hadn’t done very many triple heart bypasses at that time, but they thought he would make it through. It also helped that an elderly Italian looking lady dressed in black walked up to my mother and said that she prayed for those who entered into surgery that day and that “your husband will be the only one that will survive.” And then, she turned around and walked back to where she was sitting. Well, hell, that meant that the person she was waiting for was going to die? Good grief, rosary-clutched woman. What are you??? But, she was right. Or so my mom said. I had to go back and forth to college. My mom got to know the people who were on the same floor with my dad.
Well, the “Let’s embarrass Vickie” era continued. I briefly dated a guy in college named Tommy, and we had planned to drive to Pittsburgh to watch Pitt and Notre Dame play football. My parents invited us to stop by and eat before the game. So, of course, while we were sitting at the table, my dad, blurted out, “So, Tommy, I had open heart surgery,” and proceeded to unbutton his shirt, pulled up his t-shirt, and exposed his heavily bubbled scar. ”See.” Yeah, we see it, Dad. I was ready to slide under the table, with the dog. He really was proud of that scar. At least the day wasn’t a total wash. We saw Joe DiMaggio in a crowd outside the stadium and I stepped on his foot by mistake when I went to stand beside him for a picture. “Um….sorry, Joe….. 1…2….3…. Say Cheese.” Well, not many people can say they stepped on Joe DiMaggio’s foot. I can. I’m quite special. Come to think of it, I don’t think either one of us had a camera. I really think we both just went and stood on either side of him, smiling, like someone was going to take our picture.
After open heart surgery, Dad had a pace maker and had to make a phone call weekly and put the phone to his chest. Gotta love the technology of the 70′s. Well, the years flew by. I got married, and was lucky to have my dad walk me down the aisle. I stayed in Fairmont and had 2 children he got to meet and hang out with for a short while.
My wedding, October 1983
My dad had a boat load of pills he had to take. He had one of those pill compartment thingys (that I now have), but he still forgot to take some of his medication. My mom said he was getting mean, and with one swoop kicked my brother and my dad out of the house. Or, maybe my brother left on his own before that. So, my dad, ill as he was, packed up some stuff in his truck and left the house and stayed with David. My mom and sister were alone at the house.
On November 5, 1989, I was called to come home as soon as I could. My dad had a massive heart attack while driving his truck and was in the hospital. I hurried and packed, kissed 4-year old Adam and 2 year old Alex and drove like an idiot on the 2 hour journey home. (I didn’t leave them alone, just in case you were wondering.) Three weird things happened to me on my way home. It was an overcast day, and I was amazed how the clouds opened up and the light shined through like a flashlight beam. It was beautiful. For some reason it made me cry. The second thing was when a red-tailed hawk flew right in front of my car like it was crossing the interstate, and then went up in the air into a tree. I had never seen one so close. The third was eerie. I passed a hearse that was driving slow and I looked over, and the guy gave me a sad, sad, smile. It was like he knew I was on a sad trip.
When I reached the hospital, noone was there. I mean, no one. A nurse had to take me aside and tell me that my father had passed away. I asked what time he died, so she went to his chart and when she told me, I burst into tears. It was the same time that the hawk had flown by my car. I had noted the time of each of the three weird incidents in my mind, because I believe in that shit.
I was soo upset that no one stayed at the hospital to wait for me to arrive. It would be just like my mom to just drive home and forget about me. When I first entered the driveway and got out of the car, my brother was there. We hugged, crying, and I said into his ear, “She killed him.” And that is how I have felt to this very day.
We buried my dad on my birthday. That sucked. It was a cold November day and he had Masonic last rites or whatever they call it at the grave site. I felt like I was watching an episode of the Flintstones and a meeting of the Water Buffaloes. And dad was the Grand Poobah. They did this hand shake stuff that made me giggle, and then the next thing you know, I was silent laugh shaking. My dad would have expected me to laugh, so I did.
My mom informed me that she had no intention of visiting my dad’s grave. “I believe that if people aren’t nice while they are living, why visit them when they are dead.” I think that she may have been talking about my grandfather, because he didn’t like my mom. I also think she is confused. Dad was a great person. Sure he gagged when he saw a hair in the bathroom sink all the time. Sure, he put on a yellow raincoat when he gave the dog a bath. Sure he always offered us a quarter if we could eat a sour pickle without making a face. And wearing those socks with his sandals was unbearable to look at as a teen age girl. But, he is now in peace. Only his name is on the headstone. Good job, Dad! He is next to my grandpa and Grandma, and no room for my mother. Maybe he knew that witches don’t die. Karma, Momma, Karma.
We built our house on 13 acres and my husband cut the grass with an old 1949 Farm All Cub that my dad gave him. I am telling you the truth when I say that the first time Jay cut the grass on that tractor (it had a stupid smiley face on the front that my dad put on years before), I had gone down to take him a drink of water, and I heard this “Caw” and looked up and there was a red-tailed hawk flying in a circle above us. I smiled for hours afterwards.
I sure loved my dad. When I see an old hoot wearing socks with his sandals, I realize that teenage girls waste an awful lot of time being embarrassed by their fathers.
I really loved being in high school during the 1970′s. It was a great time. I went to Brooke High School in Wellsburg, West Virginia. The school had a large population for our area, so the school was divided into four smaller schools under one roof. They were called centers. I was in center 4.
There were many clubs and activities one could join at Brooke High School. Some of them included Future Teachers of America, Student Council, Ski Club, Chemistry Club and Spanish Club just to name a few. I tried to be active and joined a lot of clubs, but none were as fun as the Drama Club. And it was when I was in the Drama Club that I decided to try out for a play.
To tell you the truth, I can’t remember what the hell part I tried out for. The play, Up the Down Staircase, was made from a best-selling book about an inner city high school English teacher.
I just remember that it was a large cast. I did play one of the high school students, but that is all I can remember about the part. And I don’t remember the cast party that was held after the play ran its course, because, um, someone spiked the punch.
I was a sophmore in high school at the time of my very first night of punch drinking. The cast party was held at the home of one of the girls who was in the play. Glenda also happened to be a relative of some sort. She was a senior at Brooke High and was two years older than me. When doing some genealogy work this past year, I was finally able to see how one of the branches in our family tree swung over to her family. I guess we were cousins, after all. I don’t remember ever talking to her.
Since I was only fifteen at the time, I wasn’t a driver. And to tell you the truth, I have no idea who dropped me off at the party or if our parents did the drop off and pick up routine. All I know for sure is that I don’t know much about that evening. I got there, I drank a bunch of glasses of the best punch in the whole world, and the next thing you know I’m at home, unloading the dishwasher while my head is pounding.
I guess I was having so much fun that I told my friend I came with that I had another ride home and that I was going to stay a bit later. That part was true, I guess. I was having fun. I have no idea if I had another ride home or not.
The only visual that I can remember is a large punch bowl sitting on what appeared to be a pool table that was covered with a huge table cloth or sheet. The punch had floating ice in it and it was a pinkish color. There was food on plates on the pool table, and that’s where we all hung out. The food was delicious, and director of the play was happy because everyone who attended the play was giving great compliments. Well, they had to, most of the people who attended the play were our parents and grandparents. Bravo.
Well, I was eating and drinking and having a good old time. I didn’t know that someone had spiked the punch. I was lucky if I only weighed 90 pounds at the time, so I didn’t have much meat on my bones. So, I imagine just one glass of the stuff would have knocked me down. I was told that I had at least three, because I kept telling people how great it tasted. Oh, there had to be a sinsiter high school boy who was snickering right about now.
Now, I have to admit that it is a bit strange to write about something that you don’t remember. That would make for a very short story. But, my mom was able to fill in most of the hazy memories of that night. And she reminded me of it for days, weeks, and months after wards. I guess I was the life of the party.
I still don’t remember who drove me home that night, but my mom was standing at the door with her hands on her hips. I vaguely remember that, but I have no idea who drove me home, other than it was a car load full of people. A guy and his girlfriend were in the front seat, and I am pretty sure I kissed a guy that I was sitting in the backseat with right before I got out of the car. I don’t know for sure. I was a tramp. Or I was going to be a tramp. My mom used that word a lot after that night.
I have to depend on my mom about the rest of the night. I guess I gave her a big hug when I finally made it to the top of the outside steps that led to the front door. The kids in the car couldn’t get away fast enough. I guess my mom was furious, but I was too happy to notice that. My mom said that I kept hugging her and telling her what a great time I had and how they had the BEST dog in the world. My mom said it was useless to reprimand me that night because I was, as she repeated over and over and over again, “Two sheets to the wind.” I had no idea what the hell she was talking about. I had a feeling that my mom was drunk that night, because what the hell did a couple of sheets in the wind have anything to do with the fabulous cast party?
Ok, so no, she wasn’t drinking. I guess I was the one who had been drinking. I wish someone would have told me that. My mom said that I could not quit laughing and I was talking a mile a minute, ALL about what a great job I did in the play, sitting there in the “classroom,” remembering my lines and delivering them loud and clear. I was a great actress. She said that I was messing with my little sister, who I shared a room with. My parents were in the process of remodeling the basement and adding a bedroom down there for me. I guess this was one of the last nights that I would be spending with her and I just had to tell her what a fantastic sister she has been to me.
I guess my mom was so pissed at me that she just guided me to my room and that was about all. She said that I took down the covers on my bed, and plopped myself in my bed to go to sleep. I guess I then remembered that I was still wearing my clothes. I guess one shouldn’t go to sleep in their jeans and flip flops. I was still talking and laughing when the first flip flop came flying at my mom. I was still having so much fun. The other flip flop hit her in the leg. I guess I thought that was the funniest thing in the world. The last thing my mom saw before she said, “Good-night, Vickie,” and turned off my lights, was me taking off my jeans and swinging them in the air. When she checked on me ten minutes later, she said I had one foot on the floor and was out cold.
I DO remember my mom coming into my room the next morning at 7:30.
“Vickie, get up. I need you to take the dishes out of the dishwasher.” I opened my eyes, but that’s all I could do. My head was pounding. Wow, I must have the flu or something. I sat up slowly, and my mom was just standing at the doorway, staring at me. What? Why was she staring at me? I was getting up. I looked down and there was a pair of jeans lying on my chest. I was wearing a top and not pajamas.
“Vickie, did you have any idea that the punch you were drinking was spiked with booze last night?” My mom looked at me and told me that if I did that again I would end up being a ”lady of ill repute.” What? First of all, mom, I have a freaking headache the size of a….large guinea pig. That’s what I told her. A guinea pig. Ok. Second of all, I had no idea what she was talking about. She told me to get up and unload the newly fixed dishwasher.
I got up and tried to put the jeans on that were lying on my bed. “Don’t put those back on Vickie. I think you vomited on them.” What? I didn’t vomit. I went to a cast party and came home and went to bed. And all of a sudden I was being called a lady of ill repute and a vomiter. The rest of the weekend was just going to suck.
Well, I finally got to my bedroom door, tripped over some flip flops that my sister was stupid enough to leave in the hallway, and made it to the kitchen. My dad was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee, wearing a huge smile. ” Good morning, Drunky.” He burst out laughing. What?
I guess my mom didn’t really want me to get up that early to unload the dishwasher. She wanted to put me under the light and question me like the police do on those police shows. I was so confused. My brain was not wanting to work. She hounded me and asked me a million questions:
”Who brought the booze for the punch?” What booze?
”Who drove you home and who did you kiss in the backseat?” What? I kissed someone?
“What are their phone numbers?” Who? I don’t know who drove me home. Wait. I kissed someone?
The questions did not stop. My mom had called my cousin’s mother who hosted the cast party and she repeatedly told my mother that she and her husband and a few other adults chaperoned the cast party and she had no idea that the punch was spiked. She said no one was drunk. No one. My mom didn’t believe her.
“….and she said no one was drunk or acting drunk. But when you got home, Vickie, you kissed whoever you were sitting with in the back seat as you got out of the car and you were swinging your jeans. You were as drunk as a skunk.” God, settle down, Mom. Besides, when have you EVER seen a skunk that was drunk. I mean, really. Who is the drunk one here?
Well, my mom finally was able to recreate the whole evening because I think she talked to everyone who was there. Everyone. I was grounded until I was thirty. Or until I went to her the next night.
“Mom, I didn’t get drunk on purpose. Someone spiked the punch and I found out from Cindy that I was with her most of the night and I only had two glasses of punch.” My mom ungrounded me.
I can’t look at a punch bowl without thinking it should only be for a spiked beverage. That cast party was a great time.
These must be those ladies of ill repute my mom was talking about.
I was the pickiest child in the whole world. And if I didn’t want to eat something, there was nothing my mother could do to get me to eat it. It wasn’t going to happen. You could plop a new puppy with a big pink bow around its neck in front of me as a bribe, but I still wouldn’t eat those damn peas. I could sit in my chair for hours to no avail. I wasn’t stubborn. But, I felt that if I didn’t want to chew and swallow disgusting peas, I shouldn’t have to. You eat them.
So, it was not pleasant sitting at the Mendenhall dinner table when I was very young. Our dinner conversations usually centered around my not eating.
“Eat your carrots, Vickie……. They are good for you……..Vickie, are you listening?…….Eat your carrots, Vickie….. Don’t wrinkle your nose up like that to me…. It will freeze and you will have wrinkles on your nose like that forever……Vickie, why are you smelling the carrots? …………No, they don’t smell funny……..They are cooked carrots…….They are from a can………No, they are not old……….Because there is a date on the can………….Vickie…..Eat your carrots……….How do you know you don’t like cooked carrots? You’ve never tasted cooked carrots before…..What?…..Bugs Bunny is not real, Vickie….No, I have never seen rabbits eat cooked carrots……..You are not a rabbit, Vickie….People eat cooked carrots….Yes, Vickie……..kids are people…….What? No, Vickie, you cannot have a rabbit……. Ok, you know what? I’ve had enough…Go to your room…………..No, you cannot have a twinkie.”
Every night it was the same thing. I don’t understand why my mother just didn’t leave me alone. I wasn’t going to starve. As long as I had bread, jelly, peanut butter, and pumpkin pie, life was grand. Of course there were other foods I would eat, but dear God, do not spread peanut butter with the jelly on the bread. That is abnormal and I would not touch it.
It was twice as bad when I was old enough to start school. The nuns at Immaculate Heart of Crazy Nuns Academy would not leave me the hell alone. It was a constant barrage of inspirational messages directed at me to make me feel bad and eat. Stupid nuns. You can’t fool me. I’m unfoolable.
“And so why are you not eating all of the food on your plate, young lady?” Here we go. She was standing beside my tray, hands on hips. I don’t know why people stand with their hands on their hips. It didn’t scare me. It reminded me of getting ready to sing, “I’m a Little Teapot.” I just hated those damn nuns anyways. I did not want to be at that private school. And I don’t know why they kept referring to it as a private school. All my friends knew about it. I looked up and answered the creepy lady clad in black and white.
“I’m eating.” I looked at her. I couldn’t even fake a smile. And she didn’t scare me at all. Nuns were like clowns. They both wore goofy clothes and just weren’t funny.
“You need to clean your plate, Miss Mendenhall. Think of all of the starving children in Biafra.”
Shit. I mean, I am sorry about the starving kids in Biafra. And the ones in India. And the children who are freezing AND hungry in Outer Mongolia and Siberia. What the hell did that have to do with me not eating peas in Wintersville, Ohio? I was tired of this bullshit at school and at home. You know what? I didn’t give a rat’s ass about all the starving kids in the world. I was eight years old. Get the fuck off of my tiny back.
It was at that moment, in third grade, that I decided to start hiding my food.
After I got home from school, I decided to have a conference with myself about how I was going to hide my food at school, starting the next day. But, I had to get through the dinner routine at my house first. My mother started at me again. Shit. We were having peas. I really thought she was doing this to me on purpose. Lady, I am not going to eat peas. Not going to happen.
“Vickie, eat your dinner……………peas are good for you……….yes they are…………they are not mushy………..Vickie, eat your dinner…….I don’t know why they aren’t orange like carrots……It doesn’t matter, eat your dinner…………..Vickie, quit lining the peas up on your knife………..Ok, they are all over the floor now……Vickie, the dog is nowhere near you. She did not bump into you. You had them on your knife…….Because I have been watching you not eat your dinner……….Vickie, you are going to sit there until all those peas are gone, do you understand me? If they are not gone, you will not be allowed to go to your Blue Bird meeting this evening.”
Oh, I was going to go to my bluebird meeting. I hid my peas in my glass of milk. I drank most of the milk, and then dropped peas down in the milk. I was surprised how many peas could hide in milk. I smashed some of them on my plate because my mother would become suspect if there were no peas left on the plate. I figure she would still let me go to my blue bird meeting if she saw that I gave it a good old college try. I put three peas on David’s plate while he was talking. Cheryl and my dad also got three. I was a damn good pea sneaker.
And that’s how my food hiding career began.
The next day at school, we had salisbury steak, green beans, and mashed potatoes. I remember this because of the incident. Well, there was no way I was going to eat any of this bullshit. Salisbury steak was shit on a stick to me. I despised green beans just as much as I hated peas. I did like mashed potatoes immensely. But, and there was always a “but” with me, if they had lumps in them, I would gag until my eyes watered. So, at most, it was an iffy meal.
First, I asked my lunch table friends if they wanted my salisbury steak. I had to work fast as the lunch Nazi was on her rounds. I thought that I would at least think of the Biafran kids and try to give my food away before I hid it. The boy across the table had already devoured half of his shit on a stick. He said he would take mine. I picked it up with the fork and sort of whipped it toward him. It landed on his plate. This was going to be fun. No one really wanted my green beans, so, I put some of them in my napkin, left some on the plate, and put the others under my tray. Well, just until she walked by. My plan was to retrieve the green beans after the nun lady walked by.
My Operation Hide Yucky Food was working. My mashed potatoes didn’t have any lumps, so I was able to eat that with no problem. Just in time, too, because here came Sister Potato Head.
“Well, well, well. Look at this. Miss Mendenhall, you did a pretty good job today. I am surprised. Go ahead and take your tray up to dump.”
Uh oh. I just sat there. I had at least six green beans smashed underneath my tray. I wasn’t ready to take my tray up until I hid more in another napkin. But, I made the mistake of having everything done by the time she came by, so there was no dilly-dallying during lunch time.
I stood up, picked up my tray and walked slowly to the dumping grounds. Sister Stupid Face was busy talking to others at my table and wasn’t watching the green beans peel off the bottom of my tray and fall to the ground while I was walking. I almost made it there when I heard a big black and white thud. I didn’t even need to turn around. I knew what happened. Sister Goof Ball Head slipped on my green beans and wiped out on the floor. I turned around, expecting to see her shoot me with the gun I was sure all nuns hid under their black dress, when I saw a boy from another table, lying on the floor.
The gun-toting nun was helping Jacob get up and yelling at him at the same time. “If you would have finished your green beans, they would not have been able to fall off of your plate as you were rushing to dump your tray. Get up. You’re ok.”
So much for hiding food. As I walked back from taking my tray to the cooks, I kicked each green bean out of the way. I had made a straight line of dropped green beans on the floor. I escaped certain death this time. I would remember never to hide food under my tray again.
In the end, I was able to become quite creative with my food hiding both at home and at school. It helped that I had a dog who was discreet while sitting beside me at dinner. I just talked louder when we had dinner that required the dog to slurp.
I have laryngitis. So, at bedtime, I rubbed a generous amount of Vicks Vapor Rub on my throat and under my nose and went to bed. Ahhhhh. I love this stuff. So, I am thinking that it is probably bad for you if it feels so good. I mean, isn’t that how that usually works?
Image of a container of Vicks VapoRub (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
If scientists came out with a study that reported that using Vicks Vapor Rub over time causes all kinds of medical problems, I am sure I would be the first to die. First. to. die.
My use of Vicks Vapor Rub goes way back. Back to around 1958. I’m guessing.
My parents adopted me at birth. I was the apple of their eye, the reason for their living, the ying for their yang. But, they then decided to go and adopt another baby. I am sure I was all they needed.
David came home right before I turned two years old. My mom said I was like a little mother. I was always standing beside his crib, talking to him in my two year old gibberish and giving him stuffed animals. My mom was so happy that the introduction of a baby brother did not appear to raise any jealousy issues with me. “Appear” is the operative word here.
Oh, no. I guess my Rhoda Penmark impression from The Bad Seed reared its ugly head at a very early age.
Some people refuse to have children after watching this movie. photo via wikia.com
She found me one evening in my brother’s room, sweet talking to him while smearing Vicks Vapor Rub all over his face. My mom said the poor little baby was blinking his eyes like crazy. I guess that was my first whipping.
There, there, David. Let me go get some Vicks Vapor Rub.
Now, I can’t defend myself because I was two years old and I can’t remember what I did when I was that young. But, I just bet I heard him sneeze and was playing nurse or something. My mom was always a big Vicks Vapor Rub user. Maybe she smeared it on me and I felt better and I was just trying to pay it forward. I am thinking this way because of the Susie the dog incident a few years later.
I loved Susie the dog. She was a terrier and followed me all over the house. She was an expert lap sitter. If you were sitting down, she was in your lap. But, I also put Vicks Vapor Rub on Susie’s nose when she sneezed once.
It was the first time I had ever heard a dog sneeze. I didn’t think dogs sneezed. She must be sick.
Must get the Vicks Vapor Rub.
I guess it isn’t meant for dogs. Susie the dog went ape shit. She ran around and around a few times, and then kept licking her nose. I guess that made it worse, as something scared her and she ran through the house and under my mom’s bed.
“Aw, come out, Susie.” I think I grabbed one of my dad’s white tank top undershirts and wiped off Susie’s nose. I didn’t think that maybe it should then go down the laundry chute after that. The shirt, not the dog.
Ok, so Vicks Vapor Rub doesn’t do too well on dogs.
But, it does great when added somehow to a vaporizer. My mom was big on using a vaporizer in our rooms when we were sick. I am not sure if there was a Vicks vaporizer in the later fifties or not. If not, my mom made it into one, because I remember that great smell in my room at night.
Looks sort of illegal
As I got older, I had a hard time getting to sleep. I was a kid with a lot on my mind, and then diagnosed with hyperactivity when I was seven or eight, or maybe younger. I was given the nickname, Cricket,by a family member much earlier. I just hopped all over the damn place I guess. So, Cricket couldn’t sleep at night.
If I put Vicks Vapor Rub under each eye, that would make my eyes stay shut, right? So, I went into my mom’s room, got the little jar, and headed back to my room. I smeared a little dab under both eyes and laid down.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. So, I opened one eye. It made my eye burn like hell. Tears were streaming down my face. So, just like you aren’t supposed to touch wet paint because of the “DO NOT TOUCH WET PAINT” sign, I had to open my eyes over and over again. Dear burning mother of God. It burned. So, the idea worked for part of the problem. Now I was wide awake and couldn’t open my eyes. I was in a coffin. But, then I fell asleep. I was a future Vicks Vapor Rub addicted genius.
So, I had a pretty great idea. OR….maybe, just maybe, my mom did this to me first, and I was claiming it as my own idea. This makes so much sense now. If she secretly slipped me a mild tranquilizer when I was in fourth grade and called it a “carsick” pill, she would be sinister enough to douse my eyes with Vicks Vapor Rub when I went to bed to make me go to sleep at a very early age. Too early to remember sinister acts. Hmmmmm.
I mean, I do remember calling out to her numerous times at night. I had questions, after all.
I bet the loon put the Vicks Vapor Rub under my eyes to make me go to sleep.
She smeared it under my eyes and then went back to her National Enquirer and Salem cigarettes and coffee nightly ritual.
When I was little, my dad used to take me fishing at the Paris Sportsmen Club. I actually hated the whole process of fishing, but felt I should be there to talk my dad and brother into releasing the poor little fish after catching them. It was bad enough they had a hook in their mouth. I just didn’t get it. I guess if you liked the taste of fish and your mom fried them up upon arrival, that is one thing. But, to catch fish for sport? I thought that was stupid.
I worried about the hooked fish. It had to hurt them. If I was hooked in the mouth, I would be screaming. I would still be screaming about it, forty some years later. I just knew that fish had feelings and shouldn’t be hooked in the mouth, dragged to shore, and then shoved into a bag like thingy until they died from being out of the water too long. Where is PETA when you need them?
But, after I realized that my dad was a real fisherman, there was no talking to him. He went fishing all the way up to Canada. North Bay, and more specifically, Lake Nipissing. That name cracked me up when I was little. I still laugh at how I laughed. But, if there was a place to throw a pole in the water, he was there. He went fishing under the Freedom Way bridge that led from our Weirton to Steubenville, Ohio, home of Dean Martin. I would go fishing there with him a lot. He caught a lot of fish there and would put them on a chain like thingy and let them flop around in the water while he caught more. One time I pulled the rod out of the muck and they all floated down the river. Oops. Fish on a chain.
Now, the Paris Sportsmen Club was just a little bit creepy for me. Creepy in that there were high weeds here and there surrounding the pond. Someone needed to pull on some rubbery wading pants and go pull some weeds. Cattails were immense. But, among the weeds and cattails were unseen creatures, I feared. Bullfrogs used to scare me to death. And I saw a snake swim by one time. Of course, I told my mom he crawled beside me while I sat on the bank. I was such a little story teller.
But, above every thing else, I was the most wary of the flying machines. You know, dragonflies.
Dragonflies at the Paris Sportsmen Club were evil. I swear one chased me on purpose. I would run one way and it would fly across the pond and head me off at the path. Ok, well, maybe there were more than one and they were just flitting around, but I didn’t see it that way. Their intent was to sting the shit out of me. They approached me like helicopters hovering over the Viet Cong and the rice paddies. Ok, I’m using my imagination. Also, the club was on Devil’s Den Road. What’s that tell ya?
I never really understood their purpose, but I watched them enough to know that they seemed to rule the roost. Birds eat worms. Snakes went after baby frogs. Who the hell wants to mess with a dragonfly? Dragon fly. I liked the name, but it evoked fear. Could it spit fire at me while it chased across the moors? Yes, I’m in Great Expectations and I’m Pip. Run, Pip, Run. I realize I had not heard of Great Expectations when I was little, but you get my point. I would make scenarios up in my head as we traveled to the Paris Sportsmen Club each time we went.
I would stand by my dad for a while, because the dragonflies didn’t come near my dad. He had a hat full of fishing crap on his head. I always wondered why he put lures and hooks and little bobbers on his hat. Who knew that fisherman were stylish? But, anywho, the head dragonfly this particular day, aka winged monkey dragonfly was going to leave the great Oz with the fishing lure hat alone because he was oh so great and powerful. No, they were coming for me, aka Dorothy, from West Virginia. My house landed on my mom and I had to put on red tennis shoes and find Oz. Red pom poms on my shoes would have to do. So, I couldn’t be standing near Oz to begin with if I was going to play Wizard of Paris Sportsmen Club, now could I? I would have to head down the side of the pond and see what I could find to represent the scarecrow. My mom headed us off that morning before we left.
“Vickie, you can’t take Susie with you out there!” She grabbed my little terrier from my arms.
Damn, caught. I tried to take Susie the dog, aka Toto, to the Paris Sportsmen Club with me that morning. How the hell can you play Wizard of Oz without a damn dog? She just pissed me off. That’s why the house landed on her that day.
Just great. We were only there for about thirty minutes when it began to rain. I was just starting to make a scarecrow out of sticks and cattails when I heard Oz (I mean Dad) call for me. We ran to the car and drove home. Those damned winged monkey dragonflies would have to wait another day.
I did find out something interesting that day. My dad told me while we were driving home that dragonflies can’t bite or sting.
I just stared at him. The hell you say.
I had been going out to the Paris Sportsmen Club with him for as long as I could remember, and he just got around telling me this crucial piece of information when I was like eleven. Thanks, Dad. Although actually, I think he kept that to himself. He had to watch me talking to myself, making up role-playing games while he fished. The dreaded dragonfly would have become just a bug, and perhaps I would have become bored while waiting for him to hook yet another poor little fish. That was an interesting ride home in the rain.
So, when it would rain and we would be stuck in the house, I would sometimes draw pictures of dragonflies. I couldn’t draw worth a shit, but they were dragonflies nontheless. I admired them but feared them. I just knew that the next time we went to the Paris Sportsmen Club, a huge, dragonfly monster was going to rise up out of the cattails in the creepy part of the pond and pick me up with their wicked fly claws and carry me away. Or drop me over the middle of the pond, where another water creature would be waiting for me. Like the gigantic fish with the whiskers. Don’t let the name “catfish” fool you. Catfish were evil too.
The Paris Sportsman Club 2012..The damn cattails are still there.
Well, I guess I got a little older and I was just too cool to go with my dad to the Paris Sportsmen Club anymore. I never went fishing after sixth grade or so. But, the dragonflies weren’t done with me yet.
Several years ago, we had just finished dinner, when my son called me out onto our patio.
“Oh my God!” I could not believe my eyes.
Now, you have to understand that we had an in-ground pool and a pond. Several neighbors had ponds. We were used to an errant dragonfly or two, hanging around. By this time, they were beautiful to me and my favorite insect. Everyone has a favorite insect, right? I had a dragonfly shower curtain in our pool house and dragonfly hooks for the towels. I was all about dragonflies.
But, what I saw made me smile, nervously. There were thousands and thousands of dragonflies heading toward us. And they didn’t stay high up in the sky, like the Canadian geese do when they migrate. Was this a migration or was this a swarm? Like a swarm of Paris Sportsmen Club descendants finally coming for me.
I mean, that’s what had to be going on, right?
Ok, kidding. But, what a sight!
We stood on the patio and watched them fly through. It was remarkable, but eery at the same time. Was it the end of the earth? Would some of those flying beasts have the face of a lion? Revelations and all that scary stuff. A dragonfly apocalyse.
Some of them hung around for a day or two. Stragglers came for a few days afterwards. So, of course, I went right to the internet and found out that green darners, among other species of dragonflies, migrate in swarms through our area toward North and South Carolina. I had lived on that hilltop for sixteen years and never saw such a sight. I am thinking maybe they were a bit west of their normal path perhaps.
photo princeton.edu
Perhaps.
So, that brings me why I am writing this today. I am wondering again about dragonflies. It seems that there are dragonflies in the parking lot of our local Walmart. I’ve noticed them for a few years now, and they are back again today. Why a Walmart parking lot? Maybe there was a pond at one time where this stupid Walmart was built a while back and by instinct they come back here. Nothing else makes sense. A parking lot is a stupid place for dragonflies to hang out.
As I unlocked my door to put my groceries in the back of my car, a dragonfly flew right in front of my face.
My parents never took me to the beach when I was little. I really don’t know why. I’m sure my mom had something to do with it. Three kids were too much for her. But, then again, she said we couldn’t have a real Christmas tree because she was allergic to pine needles. After I grew up and had my own kids, she laughed and told me that she wasn’t really allergic to pine needles, just picking up dead pine needles all over the house. The bitch.
So, yeah, I’m thinking that the reason we never went to the beach was because of my mother. I guess I can understand why. I would be off into the ocean, trying to make friends with a stingray. Cheryl would get mad and march off into the beach sunset, never to be found again. David would just sit and play with a toy truck in the sand, smiling all the while. David would have been a great beach person.
So, we just took trips around the state of West Virginia. Sure, we also ventured down to Tennessee to visit my mom’s best friend or over to Virginia to visit my cousin, Jackie. We went to Canada and watched my dad fish. But, other than that, we stayed in the WV, Pennsylvania, and Ohio perimeter. Which was ok. I didn’t know about how much fun people were having at the beach.
And therefore, I also didn’t know that people could build stuff out of sand.
What??? How cool would that be? If I saw something like this when I went to the beach when I was little, that’s what I would want to do for a living. Yes, I would then want to grow up to be a sand sculpturer.
photo pinterest
If I saw this on the beach I would not go in the water. I would first stare at this for about 30 minutes, and then I would want to create my own.
Ok, yeah, I would get frustrated at first. My mom would have handed us buckets and shovels without involvement. She would just stand over us, looking around. My dad, who would have been filming us as he always did, would hand my mom the camera and would show us how to build a sand castle.
But, that wouldn’t be good enough for me. I mean, I just saw a freaking alligator/dragon sand sculpture. I would want to make something special. Bucket forms in a circle with a shell on the top of each one was not creative enough now that I saw art.
Pure art.
How about something like this, Dad?
Or this.
Oh, yes. I would have given up my smoking actress employment route and taken up sand sculpture for a living. But, alas, my parents never took me to the beach when I was little. I never got to make sand castles with little plastic buckets. I never got to dig a hole and cover up my mother.
I had to wait until I was older. When I had my own kids. Well, not to cover up my mother.
Since I wasn’t able to go to the beach until I was in college, I tried to make up for it by going about every summer. We first started by going to Ocean City, Maryland, where they had wonderful beach sculptures. But, most of the ones we saw were religious. I just didn’t care if the guy worked on it for forty days and forty nights, I just was not into religious stuff. Give me a freaking dragon/alligator or something like this please:
I would love to see this. Young Vickie and older Vickie. I would have stared at it for thirty minutes and then would take the kids to build our own.
Well, except, that since my parents didn’t take me to the beach when I was little, I developed no talent or skill for sand castle making. Actually, I sucked. We did bury my son one year up to his neck and made him into a mermaid without his knowledge. We would giggle as we molded breasts for him and told him we were making him into a beachy strong man with big arm and leg muscles. It was a pretty good mermaid.
But, other than that, no skill. I wouldn’t let the kids use the formed buckets. No, we were going to make a castle with just our hands. Well, not like this one-
This was done by someone whose parents took him/her to the beach when they were little.
Even this one was done by a former beach child I am sure. This kid’s parents owned a beach house. I bet I am right. He probably sculpted this with his eyes closed. That’s how good kids can get at sand sculptures when their parents take them to the beach for vacation. Can’t sculpt out of sand when you are in car heading to Canada to watch your dad fish.
No, I will admit when I have no skill set. So,we were going to make drip castles! I watched someone make drip castles when I was pregnant with Adam. That was the summer that I wore a bathing suit that was green and red with black specks. At seven months pregnant, I looked like a damn watermelon.
So, I learned all about drip castles. I was ready for kids. They would go to the beach every summer, damnit, and learn to sculpt.
So,I found that the sand at Ocean City, Maryland wasn’t as good as the sand at Myrtle Beach for some reason. The first time I started scooping up sand, I was in heaven. I turned into a kid and would sit on the beach all day making the best drip sand castle ever. The one above, no offense, was nothing to the ones the Pellillo family made every year at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. We would sign our creation before we left for the evening and put a big WV beside our name. Yes, I was finally able to make a sand castle! Yeehaw!
It wasn’t until my kids were a bit older, and I realized that they had given up after an hour or so of drip castle building, that I found that I was all by myself. I was sitting in a water hole in my Mickey Mouse t-shirt, dripping away on fantastic spires, when I looked at some women that were parked nearby. They were sitting with full make-up on, sun visors on perfectly coiffed hair, with their bright, long, red fingernails resting on the beach sand chair arms. They were my age and they were watching me.
I felt stupid. My kids abandoned the magic family drip sand dripping castle making and went into the ocean with their boogie boards and their father. I didn’t even know they were gone. Adam was working on one of the many bridges and Alex was working on making the roads throughout the kingdom while I sat in my water hole scooping up new wet drippy sand to create yet another forest tree. But, alone I sat. I had my hair pulled back into a ponytail and was wearing a freaking Mickey Mouse over sized t-shirt.
Wasn’t I supposed to be behaving like the golf widows right beside me? Wasn’t I supposed to be sitting in a beach chair, reading a book and watching people walk by?
I guess my drip castle making days were over.
I never made another drip castle. Oh sure, I made some right beside my chair, like the sad looking starter kit that I made in 2010, when I took my kids to the beach after my divorce.
Adam joined in for a while, which made me happy. But, for the most part, we were over drip castles.
Time to read books and watch people.
Until the grandkids come along. Grandma Vickie will explain to them how a drip castle is made.
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 have always been 5’4″ tall. Or short, depending how you look at it. I have never minded being short. I like looking up. And I don’t get rained on first. So, there are always perks. But, as I get older, I really think I am getting shorter. That thought, of course, took me back to my childhood and how my mom would back us up to the wall and score a pencil through our scalp. It was measuring time.
The walls in our kitchen were painted a pale pale yellow. That or they were white and were soot covered due to the smokestack that was my mother. In the kitchen was a door that led us to the basement. And right beside it, for everyone to view, was her growth chart.
Every once in a while, my mom would summon us to the kitchen. We had to kick off our shoes and put our heels to the wall and stand as still as a statue while she marked our new height. She would then put our name and the date on that line. I would usually get slapped to stand still. Hyperactive chihuahuas can’t stand still for very long. And besides, I didn’t understand why we had to do this. I was the oldest, so I should be the tallest. Cheryl was four years younger, so she should be the shortest. And who the hell cares that we are growing? Um, aren’t we supposed to grow? I just didn’t get it.
Oh, I realize that things like this matter to mothers. I know how much I weighed when I was born and how long I was. So what? Is that going to make me smarter than other babies? I mean, sure, if I weighed 8 ounces at birth, there would be a little concern. Duh. But, as I aged a bit, I got to thinking about why my mom did this stupid measuring ritual. I used to think that my mom was the only one who did this and that it was because David and I were adopted and she was afraid we were going to be midgets. You really don’t know what you get when you adopt. And I was thinking that I must be a midget.
So, this worried me. I never told anyone about this. I didn’t want anyone to know that I may be a midget. I realize that I am being politically incorrect with my “midget” talk, but that’s what we called them in the sixties. No one said, “little person.” They said “munchkins” once in a while, but that is because of the Wizard of Oz. Shit, maybe my dad or grandfather was the mayor of Munchkinland. I was going to have to wait about 6 months for it to be on tv again. I would have to wait to check the resemblance.
But, you know, I didn’t feel like a midget. Maybe my mom just liked to mark up the kitchen wall. Graffiti woman. I couldn’t wait for the house to drop on the wicked witch of the east. There was only one thing to do. I had to just come out and ask my mom. I approached her one evening while she was reading her National Enquirer and smoking her precious Salem cigarette. The dog was on her lap.
“Why do you measure us with a pencil all of the time?”
“To show you how nice and tall you are growing.” She saved an exhale of lovely smoke for my second hand lungs.
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Why do you mark how tall we are?” And then I burst out crying.
“Am I a midget?”
“What? ……Vickie, what are you talking about?” She laughed at me. And that pissed me off.
“David and I are midgets.”
“You are not a midget. Your height is normal for your age. You are just very thin.” What? Midgets couldn’t be thin?
I just couldn’t quit crying. I am trying to remember how old I was when I asked her this. I do remember wearing my stupid plaidish skirt uniform that I had to wear while attending Sacred Heart of Mary Juana Academy, so I had to be anywhere from first to third grade. My midget years.
Later that evening, I could over hear my mom talking to her friend, Lenore, on the telephone. Lenore lived in Tennessee, and had no business knowing my business. I sat in my secret eavesdropping spot and listened to the whole conversation.
“Honestly, I don’t know where she comes up with these things….. She thinks she is a midget.”
And then I heard her say it. I wish I knew what Lenore asked.
“No, not black. David is a bit dark, though.” And then she laughed.
What? Black? I can’t be black. I have blond hair. David could be black. And a midget.
Adoption just sucks.
Well, I obsessed for a few days before I found out that a lot of people had measuring charts. Some had them in closets. Some on the back of doors. Some in their doorway. My mom was a loon and had ours right in the kitchen by the telephone.
This smart person put them on a traveling door jam. When you move, just rip it out and take it with you.
I wish someone would have taken a picture of it before it was scrubbed off. It became a smudged eye sore after a while, this pencil marking chicken scratch of a family memory.
Wow. How many kids did these people have?
I was curious to see if anyone still does this. We did it with our kids for just a little while in our closet under the steps. When we built our new house, we just never did it anymore.
I found charts that you can buy.
I don’t know about this. I’m glad we didn’t have this giraffe growth chart when I was little. It was bad enough thinking I was a midget.
I would have been freaking out thinking that my mom expected us to get as tall as a giraffe.
And you know that would never have happened.
My mom’s second hand smoke stunted my growth I am sure.
Oh, hell, maybe I am a giraffe.
photo by Vickie Mendenhall-trip to the Bronx zoo to visit relatives
My little boy is graduating tomorrow. Well, he is not little anymore. He is twenty-six and poised to take on the world. He will be participating in the hooding ceremony at West Virginia University and will be coming home a doctor. Not a medical doctor per se, although he could probably get away with that if he wanted to. No, my son, the Dr., will be graduating with a PHD in Economics. He has worked his butt off these past eight years. And I’m wondering how time was stolen from me. Just yesterday, he was just a little guy, taking balloons down at my brother’s wedding reception, and selling them to the guests. It was hard to resist the curly red headed ring bearer, clad in a tuxedo and using his ornery nature to score some money from the wedding guests.
Fast forward many years, and I am trying to spend as much time with the former ring bearer/scam artist before he flies the coop.
And I am trying to figure out how this all started. We had to put him on a leash when we went to walk on the boardwalk at Ocean City, Maryland when he was three years old. He just couldn’t stand still. He was always running head-on to a new adventure. And it is still happening. My mother-in-law said it was her fault. She didn’t let the kids climb all the way to the top of the sliding board. I’m thinking it was my fault. We lived on thirteen acres and always went on “adventures.” Maybe it was something in the water. All I know, is that my two children have a wanderlust that cannot be contained. And now my son is moving to Georgia this summer.
I know what you are thinking. Georgia is not THAT far from West Virginia. Oh, but it is. Right now my twenty-six year old son is living thirty minutes from me. I can hop in the car and be there in no time. Georgia is just too far away. I remember when we drove to Disney World and went through Georgia. It wasn’t too far. Too bad my son isn’t going to that Georgia.
No, my son accepted a teaching position in Tbilisi, Georgia…..as in the country Georgia. Uh, yeah. Way over there.
So, I am happy for him, and at the same time have a knot in my stomach. I really should be used to his travels, his adventures, his near death experiences that I only hear about a year or two after they happen. I really should be one big walking ulcer. I have gray hair because of my kids. Oh, sure, I am in my mid fifties. It is time to get gray hair, right? Wrong. Women only get gray when their children give them gray hair. And mine is getting grayer by the day.
Adam first gave me gray hair when he went to Strasbourg, France one summer. He was flying over with students and a professor from WVU to study for a month. So, why did he buy airplane tickets on his own and fly over a day early and not with his class? Just because. Why in the world would he travel by himself? He also rented a bicycle for the whole month. So, naturally, I was worried sick that he was going to get hit by a car.
That fall, he flew to Morocco to study at Al Akhawayn University for six months. Luckily, WVU asked him to write a blog while he was there, so I knew everything he did. Well, except for the parts he left out so his mom wouldn’t worry. His blog was so wonderful. And scary. Like his plane ride.
Photo-Adam Pellillo
While he was in Morocco, he traveled to Casablanca, got violently ill on the train ride back to Ifrane. And there was nothing I could do about it. I am sure it was food poisoning, as he often ate food that had been hanging around a bit.
He had been carrying it around in his back pack for while before cooking. I think he got sick after this picture also. Chicken on a stick.
Oh, just attending the University and hanging around there wasn’t enough for Adam. No, Adam had to go mountain climbing. But, wait. How could he do that? He was in Morocco, land of camels and sand, right? Well, yes, partially. Morocco is also home to some high mountains. So, naturally, Adam decided to climb the second highest mountain in Morocco. Of course.
I remember when he called me to tell me he was flying to Italy with his new friend, Neri. Another flight. Another worry. Who the hell is Neri? I don’t know him. Of course I don’t know him. He’s from Turino, Italy. But, Adam had a blast and still sees his international college friend when he takes his different escapades each year.
Well, I guess I should just run through his trip to Switzerland and six countries the summer after he got back from Morocco. He had great pictures from that trip. I had more gray hair coming in. He climbed up the Matterhorn. The Matterhorn. Well, a lot of the way up.
Adam’s adventures were not over. We sent him to Guanajuato, Mexico during his spring break to collect Alex, who was studying there. She was very sick and we were afraid that he would need to fly her to Houston to a hospital there. My husband and I didn’t have passports at the time (stupid parents), so we sent him. Adam was thrilled to go to Mexico. He took her to a hospital there, and the next thing you know, they rented horses for a six hour ride to a volcano. Um, okay.
I was worried sick about her. She just needed her brother.
Adam was also able to go visit Alex when she was living in Kobe, Japan, teaching for the Jet program. When she arrived there, she came down with swine flu. Of course she did. She was fine when Adam went to visit her. They traveled around Japan and had a great time.
With his sister in Nara, Japan
After Japan, his sister decided to teach English in Louhans, France, for a year. So, after Christmas 2010, they flew back on different flights. It was bad enough getting Alex home for Christmas. There was a huge snowstorm in Europe and she had to sleep in the Paris airport for two nights. On their flights back, Adam flew to Germany and Alex flew to Geneva, Switzerland. Watching flight trackers for two planes was a lot of fun. Adam missed a connecting flight because of the weather. Alex hung out in Geneva, meeting people and making me nervous. When Adam finally arrived, they toured France for awhile. Adam then headed to Italy to visit Neri and of course, ski on a high Italian mountain. More gray hairs.
When I first started to write this post, Adam was in the Czech Republic with forty WVU students and his professor. He flew earlier to Berlin, Germany for a job interview before he headed to Tbilisi, Georgia. He was offered a job at Montana State University, which alas, he turned down. I can understand why. But, I was ready to head west. Now I will have to go to Tbilisi, where he says the food is awesome. We shall see.
So, Georgia it is. I won’t be able to drive thirty minutes to see him come summer. That will make me sad. But, I just found out that his girlfriend will be attending grad school in Stuttgart, Germany this fall. That means monthly flights to see each other.
My hair will be totally gray by then.
I’ve only touched on a few of the adventures that my oldest child has experienced in his short lifetime. And it is already more than some people experience in an entire lifetime. I’ve been so happy to be witness to this remarkable person. Oh, sure, I am his mom and have to say these things. But, nah, not really. But, I admire his tenacity, his convictions to live life to its fullest. He has worked hard these past eight years. I hope he has time to play.
Adam will be traveling on the plane to Georgia with his cat, Atticus. I will be a nervous mother, that’s for sure. But, it is time to realize that he is a big boy now.
And I am okay with that.
So, congratulations, Adam. You went from sword fighting with light bulbs and smashing jelly beans into the carpet so no one would buy the house we put on the market, to being a wonderful human being. I am so proud of your accomplishments and proud that I am your mother.
May your travels bring you a thirst for all that is new, and may you live a long and healthy life, so you can ski off that cliff when you are 99 like you mention.
And you know you always have a home to rest your weary head when you come flying back to the coop.
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.
When I was a busy mother, I had no time to be sick. I even made fun of my husband’s dramatic entrance when he was sick. He would put on his green velvety man robe, house slippers, and would quit shaving. He would announce to us all, “I’m sick,” as he would slink into his wing back recliner. I would just roll my eyes, especially when he would take his temperature every thirty minutes.
“It’s 99.2. That’s really high for me.” Magoo told me that his normal temperature normally ran a degree lower, so Dear God, 99.2 was deadly. But, I pampered him, just like I pampered my other two children.
When I was sick with a high fever, Magoo would take care of me, too. He made me homemade chicken noodle soup, which was to die for, until mine started tasting better. He would ask me countless times if there was anything he could get me. But, and there is always a but with me, I could never be sick for more than 24 hours. No, that was the ultimate time limit for sick pampering. After that, I was on my own. I mean, on my own. It was like I wasn’t even there. After that imaginary buzzer went off at the top of the hour, I had to fend for myself. So, if I had a high temperature, it better be gone within the day or I had better hoard stuff on my nightstand. Which I did.
Well, Magoo and I divorced three years ago and I live by myself now, and I find that I am perhaps a little bit of a whiner when it comes to having a fever. I really haven’t had a high fever for a few years. When it gets higher than 101.0, I call it the “Shuffle Flu” because my head pounds as I walk. And I am sure that I am the only one in the whole world who gets a hight fever from the flu.
When you live alone, there is noone around who will be audience to your dramatics. I am lucky in the fact that I have my cat, Whiskers. Whiskers is seventeen years old and sleeps right by my head most nights. She was probably wondering why the hell I was getting under the covers so early last night. One time, several hours later, feeling like crap, I took my temperature, noting it was 101.0. I thought I should mention something to the cat.
“I’m sick, Whiskers…..I have a fever.”
She understood, I am sure. She gave me a couple head nudges and then curled up at the foot of the bed. She knew that I was contagious. Smart cat.
At 1:30am. “Kitty, I can’t sleep.”
At 2:30am, tossing and turning- “Oh, Whiskers, this is not good.”
And so it continued. I apologized at 5:30.
“Aww, sweetheart, I am so sorry I am keeping you up.”
I got up for the morning, in a sweat. I was soaked. My temperature broke like that twice in the night. My temp at 7:00am was 99.0. Yay. Maybe this was just a 24 hour bug. I really don’t like missing school.
But, as a teacher, I realize that temperatures are at their lowest in the morning. I had places to go this morning. Mainly because I had no food in the house. Well, I did, but I had no Coke. I will truly die if I don’t have a Coke at least once a day. Truly.
So, I had to go to Walmart. with a fever. I rushed and came back. My fever of 101.3 was greeting me when I came back.
I’m mad because just the other day I knocked on wood. Knocking on wood is supposed to keep you from getting sick. Well, whoever made that up is a liar. Liar. I still got sick.
One great thing about going to Walmart when you are sick is that you can even go in your jammies if you wanted to. I don’t, because I’m high class. I did take a shower, which is good for Walmart shoppers. I’m sorry to report that I used a copious amount of water in my shower. I did not want to get out. I am so not good to the Earth. It is awful getting out of the shower when you have a fever. You know you have to slide that shower curtain to the side, and that Arctic blastic hits you. My cat was sitting by the shower curtain.
“Oh, Kitty, it is so freaking cold.” Well, it was.
In the end, I realize that I like to whine when I have a fever. I posted that I was sick on Facebook.
“Blah. Had a 101.3 fever last night and was up all flippin night. I need a cup of “Oh, you poor baby” and a Coke. “
Well, I did. And my friends and family gave me a bunch of “Oh, you poor baby.” And that sufficed. Well, except for one, who said he could only offer a Diet Pepsi and a “Buck up,” which is my most hated phrase in the world. And he knows that. What he didn’t know is that, along with a fever, I also have a low tolerance for half-friends, so I pushed the delete button on him. I will no long have to read his whining posts either. Works both ways, Bud.
I like to think of myself as being pretty independent since my divorce. But, when it comes to having a fever, it’s nice to be pampered.
Even if you have to depend on your cat.
“Thanks Kitty….I hope you don’t get this.”
I wrote this because I know that many people live by themselves. I just want to let you know that it is ok to talk to yourself when you are sick. I mean, Tom Hanks got through rough patches on “Castaway” when he made friends with a soccer ball, “Wilson.”
And the animal shelter is always full of good listeners.
One of my students had her tonsils and adenoids removed this morning. I really need to write down the things she says in class, because she is so funny. Her biggest concern was that she had to be at the hospital at 6:00. “Ms. Mendenhall, I have to be at the hospital at 6:00. I mean, I don’t have to leave my house at 6:00. I have to BE at the hospital at 6:00.” Isn’t it funny what kids are concerned about? I would have been afraid of strange doctors in my personal space, hovering over me and asking me questions.
“Did you eat anything this morning, Vickie?”
“Um…. I had Sugar Pops for breakfast.” I wanted to say, “Get the hell out of my space. Don’t you see that box around me? Stay on the other side.” Not a fan of space invaders.
My student’s mom just told me on Facebook that K. wore her jammies to the hospital. She told her mom, “I look a mess, but it’s not like I’m going to be on tv.” I love that kid.
It also took me back in time, like everything does. It took me back to when my son, Adam, had his tonsils and adenoids removed.
I wrote about this a long time ago. But, I combined it with snow days, breaking out in chicken pox, and my cabin fever as a result of all of those happening in sequence. Stick a Fork in Me Cuz I am Done It was a weird spring.
When Adam was little, he seemed like he was sick all of the time. He had pneumonia several times. There is nothing worse than a child with a 105 degree fever. I had “mother judgement calls.” You just never know how long is too long before you load them off and race towards the emergency room. He was sick almost every Christmas.
He had drainage all the time. It was so bad that his second grade teacher sent me a note that his continuous clearing his throat was driving her crazy. Well, she didn’t write that, but that is what she meant. And when he would clear his throat, he would quietly utter, “Oh yeah,” which I think was his way to check if he could speak correctly. Like “Check one-two. Check.” Sound system ok. I felt so sorry for him.
So, after NUMEROUS trips to his pediatrician, who I swear put him Augmentin 300 times, I took him straight to an ENT, who announced that his adenoids were so huge, he could see them. I guess you aren’t supposed to be able to see adenoids. His tonsils had to come out.
When I took him back to his regular pediatrician and told him that I took him to an ENT, my doc looked at me like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. We never saw that doctor at that practice again. I’m still pissed at him for letting my son go that long. If a kid is in 3rd or 4 th grade and has had several bouts of strep throat and numerous colds and congestion, get his damn tonsils taken out. I know that I am not a doctor, but I pretend to be one. I’m just saying that the difference is sudden and remarkable.
The scheduled surgery was right when it looked like school was going to be back in session after the perpetual snow event of that winter. Figures..
Adam’s surgery went well and when he came home I made him a bed on the couch in our Hearth Room so he wouldn’t have to go up and down the steps for awhile. I also made the HUGE mistake of giving him a bell to ring for me. I wanted him to rest, so I thought that if I gave him a bell, that he could just tap it when he wanted something. Ding Ding! He wanted paper and a pen, so he could write me notes. Smart kid…Ding Ding! He wanted his Lego’s. Ding Ding! He wanted his stuffed animal, Bear. Ding Ding! He wrote that he wanted his stuffed animal penguins, Preston and Prescott. Freaking Ding Dong!
I better warn K.’s mom not to do the same. I walked in after only two hours, and quietly snatched the bell away from him. So, the mute improvised, and started tapping his pencil against his glass of water. I created a tonsil-less monster.
For the love of sanity, don't give her a bell.
I really don’t remember how long he stayed home from school after he had his tonsils taken out, but I think it may have been 6 months. Ok, not 6 months, but it felt like that. His tonsils were healing nicely and he was ready to go to school. Well, that would have been nice, but that’s not what happened. He woke up one morning, and said he didn’t feel well. I felt his forehead and he felt a bit warm. I noticed that there was something on the tip his nose. At first I thought it was a booger. Kids wear boogers sometimes. I hurried and raised his pajama top. Shit. “OH MY GOD!” I said out loud. I never cursed in front of the kids, but if I did, I would have said something like this-” Are you shitting me?…… Damnit!”
Yeah, Adam was breaking out with chicken pox.
And then his sister broke out with chicken pox.
And that’s how I started drinking. Ok, just kidding, but minus the damn chicken pox mess, having Adam’s tonsils removed made a huge difference.
There are only a couple of things that are great about being 55…..Thinking…Thinking….Ok, there is one great thing about being 55.
I don’t have a period anymore.
Ok, guys, some of you are going to quit reading now. And that’s ok. But, if you have daughters, you should keep reading. Because you are going to hear her speaking in a language you don’t understand. You are going to think that she is doing something she is not supposed to, because she is talking in code. But, the lingo is geared to not let dad’s, brothers, or boys to understand what is going on. It’s “Period speak.”
Ok, yeah, maybe I made up that phrase, but it is alive and well. “Period Speak” has been around since, well, women have been having periods. It shouldn’t be a secret, but we think our code is just for those in the female persuasion.
Now, the whole reason I am writing this post is because I heard a teen-age girl on her cell phone yesterday. She was standing beside some dork who I assumed was her boyfriend, because I heard the code.
“No, I don’t feel like doing anything. I’m just going to go home and lie on the couch….Yeah…. my friend is visiting. Giggle.”
I had to chuckle. She heard me chuckle. She could have flipped me off for eavesdropping, but she smiled at me and then looked at her boyfriend. He was clueless. Maybe he thought he was the friend and was going to go home and lie on the couch with her. He would have been fine with that.
Most girls use the “my friend is visiting” scenario when talking about their period. So, you are probably wondering, “Why the hell can’t you just call it your period and be done with it?” Well, because we can’t. It’s against the laws of puberty. Or something like that.
When I started my period for the first time, I remember to this very day, going straight to my mom, scared to death. She was sitting in the kitchen. My dad was in the family room, and I did NOT want him to hear what I had to say.
“Mom, George is visiting.” She just stared at me. So, I said it again, this time out of the corner of my mouth. “George. is. visiting.”
“Vickie, what is wrong with you. Gen and George are not here.”
Ok, we had a friend named George. A real person. Not a period. Obviously, my mother had never had a period.
Shit. My older friends who had their periods told us on the bus to say, “I can’t. George is visiting.” Every one of them used “George” as their code phrase for their period. I was just doing what they told me to do. Hell, I didn’t know. It’s scary to go to the bathroom and see that you are bleeding to death. My mom never explained a damn thing to me. Still pisses me off.
So, I tried the other code phrase. “Mom……It’s that time of the month.”
It took her a few seconds and then she got it. She told me to grab my sweater and we would go to the store and get some napkins.
WTF? Napkins? My friends all wore pads. Back in the late sixties, we had to wear a white belt-like apparatus around our hips. A sanitary “napkin” belt. There was a metal thingy in the front and one in the back to weave our pad ends through them. I am terrible at explaining this. Regardless, she had to take me to the store. Why the hell didn’t we have any in the house? It just made a better case that my mom must have never had a period.
“Elwood, Vickie and I are driving to the drug store. She started her period.”
I stopped in my path. You didn’t just say that……to my father!! Oh my God, Mom. I will never be able to look him in the eyes ever again. I will have to go live with my bff Ramaine or something. I almost started crying. I thought that we were supposed to talk in code so males would not know that we are on our period. We were never to use the word “period” in front of them. I was beside myself. I was bleeding to death and mortified. Plus, the stupid loon of a mother could have easily told me to put some kleenex in my underpants until she got home. But, hell, no, I had to go with her. Hello, Mom…Um, period….flow…..needs…to…..stop. Shit. This just sucked.
Well, time went by and I finally learned that you don’t need to change your pad every ten minutes. My mom was pissed when we had to go back to the drug store the next day. Well, shit, Mom. It sort of would have been nice if someone explained to me that we had to sit in that disgusting pool of George.
I began to use my code phrases around the male family members and boys in school. I used the “I can’t. George is visiting.” Or I would say, “I can’t. My friend is here.” I think those are the only code phrases I used. I was not imaginative. Oh, if I would have heard someone else say another phrase, I would have surely used it. The girls in Weirton, West Virginia, used “George” for the most part.
So, it made me wonder what other girls would say. I have a feeling that the girls today just say it without embarrassment. “I can’t go. I’m on my period.” Boys get it. They probably got it back then, but we had to hide it. That’s just how it was back in the day.
So, I went looking on the internet and found some interesting code phrases for having a period. I found these on a yahoo forum from three years ago. Here are some of them:
“I had a roommate that would always tell me her unwelcome friend came for a visit. Sometimes I refer to it as Aunt Flo. And I’ll never forget the movie “Clueless” where they refer to it at “surfing the crimson wave.”
“Ha! When I was in 7th grade my girlfriends and I use to call it “Our Cat”. I forgot how we developed such a title-but there was some reasoning behind it. I just call it my period now. I guess I’m too old to use pet names.”
“I don’t remember how this came about. but me and my friend say were going to china. we hang around guys alot and they have no idea what were talking about … its hilarious when they ask and were like uuuhhh …. nothing inside joke.”
“Me and my friends have this thing we say “our leg hurts” and if we need to ask someone for a pad/tampon we say we “need ice for our leg” i don’t no how we came up with this though:)”
“dont remember where this came from but me and my friends refer to it as George, i feel bad for any guy with that name now though.” Ah, that girl must be from Weirton.
“….The volcano erupted….My redheaded cousin is in town…..I got my car…”
Here’s a creative one.. “China time (Asian flag has a red circle and I taught my daughter to refer to that part of her body as her “China”) But,um, isn’t that the Japanese flag?
Japanese flag, not the Chinese flag. I wonder how old they will be when they realize they have been calling their period the wrong country.
It sort of matters.And here is what the flag of China looks like.
photos via wikipedia
I bet that woman knew my mom. Unless you are quite talented, I don’t see how your period would form five points…and be yellow, unless you are tremendously jaundiced. Just sayin. Let’s continue.
“When I was in school my friends and I called it TOM…..TimeOfMonth.”
“It’s red week…or Aunt Flo is here visiting.”
“I say I’ve been cycling. No one realizes I don’t currently own a bike.” That’s a good one.
There are other phrases, such as “My curse,” the easy lie, “I can’t. I’m sick,” and for those who never did care who knew, “On the rag.” I always felt that those were the girls who would grow up to be sluts. How could you look a boy in the face and tell him you can go swimming because you are on the rag? I would shudder at the thought.
No, it would be better to obey the rules and never let them know when you are on your period.
My crazy grandma Orpha used to have the best saying when I was little. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.” I had no idea what it meant at the time, but I liked the way she said it. Crazy people don’t know they are crazy. Or, in this case with a turnip truck, naive. So, when she said something like that, with such conviction, well, it always made me smile.
My grandfather was not allowed to drink coffee in “her” living room. I don’t think he ever spilled coffee to be banned from bringing it in her perfectly coiffed room. It is what he did to her that banned the dark wonder in a cup. Her living room was spotless. She had a light pinkish carpeting that we would draw circles in to use while we were playing marbles. Nothing was ever out of alignment.
But, when Grandpa would be allowed to have his after dinner coffee, he would mess with her. He would pretend to spill it.
Much worse.
And that’s when she would yell it from the kitchen. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, Arthur!”
One time, though, when she let me bring him an after dinner coffee to his chair in the living room, he smiled and winked and then whispered to me, “Run in the kitchen and tell Grandma I spilled the coffee.”
Not giving me a chance to say anything, Grandpa yelled out, “Oh, no, Vickie!!! Hurry, go get a wet towel!”
And I ran.
I ran right into Grandma Orpha, coming around the corner. Damn, she had the best hearing of any old lady anywhere.
“Um, Grandpa spilled the coffee.”
At hearing this, Grandma Orpha sort of brushed me aside and entered the living room, horror on her 1960′s OCD face. And that’s when Grandpa said it.
“Looks like Grandma finally fell off the turnip truck.”
Oops, we lost Grandma a mile back.
Well, Grandma didn’t get mad at Grandpa. She got mad at me. Crazy people don’t like when there is a conspiracy. She called my mom and I didn’t get to stay at their house that weekend. Grandpa went back to reading his paper and drinking the “spilled” coffee. He did wink at me as I left. I wondered who the crazy one really was.
Naive. That’s what it means, you know, falling off the turnip truck. And naive means, “gullible,” which my mother called me every chance she got.
“Oh, Vickie, you are sooo gullible.”
“Eat shit, Mom.”…………….. Ok, I didn’t say that. Oh, how I wanted to say something.
Ok, so, perhaps I was a bit naive about things…. A space cadet…… An airhead…… A blonde.
Yeah, maybe just a little.
That means I must have fallen off the turnip truck at some point.
So, years later when I decided that I wanted to be a writer, I joined wordpress to start the ball rolling. I was going to be a blogger. I wrote and read other people’s blogs, and wrote and read comments. It’s been wonderful.
But, I didn’t expect this spam nonsense.
I had thirty five spam messages just this morning, waiting for me.I rarely read them. Such a pain in the butt. I have just one question for spammers?
“Do you think I fell off the turnip truck?”
When I first joined wordpress, I began reading some messages that were in my spam filter. And I realized that they wanted me to think that they actually read my blog post. You little shits.
I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.
Here are some of the spam messages that I received in the past day. They are so well written that it is easy to be fooled. Really.
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And finally
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Not realizing that they fell out of the turnip truck.
In the end, riding in the turnip truck at fifty-five is a great accomplishment. Oh, sure, I occasionally fall off.
But, for the most part, I am driving the damn truck.
You know, I was surprised to read an article the other day about colored peeps. Well, that is what I call them. I used to beg my parents to take me to GC Murphy every Easter to look at the colored chicks that were for sale. I always wanted the Easter bunny to bring me one. But then, my mom always stepped in, even before I started begging.
“Vickie, the answer is no. They will poop all over the house and drive the dog nuts. The Easter bunny would never bring you a peep.”
Well, how the hell did she know that? I had friends who got Easter peeps from the Easter bunny. My mom was a moron.
I think down deep I really didn’t want a colored peep. I would have begged more. I was good at begging. But, their little peeping would have driven me crazy. Why the hell do they have to make continuous peeping? I really didn’t want any part of it.
That’s such a lie. I wanted a freaking baby colored peep. I am thinking about the noise as a middle aged woman. Kids don’t care about noise. They are all about noise. But, my mom was adamant. Even when I didn’t believe in the Easter bunny anymore, but swore I was old enough to take care of a chicken. I mean, chickens didn’t need to take baths. They didn’t bark when someone rang the doorbell. They would peck up dropped food onto the floor. I thought a chicken would make a great pet. If it grew up to be a rooster, it would wake us up in the morning. Valid reasoning.
“Vickie, I said no……..Because I said so……………No, you can’t keep it in the playhouse………….Well, a cat will get it…………..I know cats can’t open doors. I’m talking about it being in the backyard…………Your father is not building a fence for a colored peep……………We are not buying one for each one of you……..Because I said so……..”
And then the next year my mom lied and told me that there were no colored peeps at GC Murphy’s. What a liar. My friends Ramaine and LeeAnn told me they saw them. I guess once you see a colored peep, you really don’t care to see them every Easter time. But I did. I just loved animals.
Flashforward I don’t know how many years, but many states have banned selling colored peeps. It’s about time. I always wondered what parents did with the chicks after they came home. I mean, we used to come home with goldfish from carnivals. Friends came home from the beach with hermit crabs. But, those were manageable “pets.” What the hell do you do with a chicken or a rooster if you live in a subdivision? Well, you drive it to the nearest farm and give it to a farmer. I was told the little chicks would lose their pretty color when they molted. That would crush a kid.
“Mommy, where’s Chicky?…….That’s not Chicky!!! Chicky is blue!!” And then they would hate their mother for years for lying. The kid would think Chicky died and mom ran out and bought another plain colored chicken to explain it. Little kids don’t understand “molting.” I wish we could molt.
I am thinking that most parents just let the little poopy chicklets loose. You know they wouldn’t be around too long. Dogs and cats would have them for a snack. Feral chickens can be a problem though. They can form packs and attack. Like wolves.
Ok, I was teasing, but wikipedia lists a site of cities that have a feral chicken problem. Key West, Florida? Fair Oak, California? Houston, Texas? Hell, I was trying to be funny. I guess you need to watch where you walk.
It is illegal now in the United States, but people used to raise roosters for cock fighting. I guess a colored peep could have been a Rocky of the rooster world. They would fight to the death. Like Hunger games…except with roosters. Buy a colored peep today, and train it to fight.
If you didn’t want to set it loose into the streets of your city, I guess you could keep your peep and call it a family member. You could put a diaper on it. I’ve seen monkey pets wearing diapers. Why not chickens?
And then you can make clothing for it.
Cutest chick on the block
You’ve seen people dress up fake geese that sit on their porch. Which I’m sorry, but is sort of stupid. Especially when you can dress up a live one.
Tori Spelling has a chicken in her house. Many people have chickens in their house. Which is fine. But, don’t they poop every minute or two?
In the end, whoever first came up with the idea of dyeing poor defenseless peeps and selling them in a GC Murphy’s was a sick individual. Poor chicks. And then the stupid consumer who fell for it. Shame shame.
What’s next? Colored bunnies?
A purple dog?
I guess I shouldn’t talk. I had a colored chick when my kids were little. We named her Alex.
Every week my fourth graders discuss and then draw an idiom. With Easter approaching, I had them draw “A Good Egg.” We discussed its meaning and then they drew some pretty great pictures. They also wrote an Easter haiku. As I walked around the room, admiring their creations and listening to one say that his was a disaster, it reminded me of one Easter that was a true disaster. For my daughter.
You know, most mothers do try to do their best when it comes to raising their children. Oh, sure, there are some women who should just live in a box and never reproduce, but for the most part, most of us really do try our hardest. Every once in a while, however, we just screw up.Royally. But, in our defense, we are on call 24 hours a day, so I’m thinking that we should be allowed a couple of mistakes. But, when you personally do something to make your child cry, well, you just want to start drinking.
My daughter, Alex, was named Alexandra when she was born. I love that name. Except when people called her Alexandria. Pissed me off. Do you see an extra vowel in her name, Goober? Well, then, don’t call her Alexandria. Anyway, she decided one day that she didn’t want to be called that anymore. She wanted to be called Alex. Her brother, Adam, always called her “Alice” when he was a toddler, so she knew that it could be shortened. And she was tired of learning to print her name. It took forever to print Alexandra. So, Alex it was. Oh, I love that name too, but I really should start calling her Alexandra again. Alexandra.
Anyways, Alexandra, now Alex was in kindergarten, and Easter was approaching. Her kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Phillips, sent home a note and asked each parent to send in 6 eggs for the kids to color. Being a great mother, I naturally sent in a dozen. I was worried that some other child had a mother who should be living in a box and would not come to school with eggs. So, I sent in a dozen. I was a good egg.
I was glad they were going to color eggs at school, because I was never a fan. When I was little, I just didn’t get it. Dipping hard boiled eggs in a dye. Well, and then what? Some people ate them. Well, I learned very early that if you take something out of the refrigerator for so long, they really shouldn’t go back in there. Yeah, I was and still am OCD about food storage and reheating. Plus, I thought hard boiled eggs were gross. I was a picky child. Picky Vickie.
My mom really never colored eggs with us. Some people hid eggs outside and then the kids hunted them down, put them in their baskets, and then bragged on who found the most. I didn’t get it, even when I was little. After plastic eggs came on the market, then I got it. You could hide good stuff in the eggs. Like money or Hershey kisses. Then it was fun. But, hard boiled eggs that had been left out long did not appeal to me.
So, I boiled the eggs and sent them in.
Alex came home that afternoon and got off of the bus crying. I hated it when she cried. She was such a good little girl with such a good heart. It hurt when I would see her upset. I was ready to beat up whoever made her cry. She said that “….they made fun of my eggs.” Little kindergarten punks.
We got into the house and I went through her little backpack and saw a note in her homework folder from Mrs. Phillips.
“Vickie, Alexandra Alex cried all afternoon. I had no idea why until I noticed her eggs we just got done coloring………..You sent in brown eggs.”
I just stared at the note.
It may as well have looked like this:
Shit.
I sent in brown eggs.
I wanted to first blame my husband for making me buy brown eggs in the first place. The Mendenhalls never ate brown eggs. I never really even saw a brown egg until I went to college and my roommate brought some from her real chicken. (As opposed to a fake one I guess.) Luckily, my roommate, Pat, who was from Philadelphia, and was just lost in rural West Virginia, spoke up first.
“Jeri, those eggs you brought back with you are rotten.”
“How do you know? Do they smell?”
“Uh, no. They are brown.”
Jeri cracked up and then explained that they weren’t rotten. They were just brown. Well, hell, that didn’t explain a damn thing to us. In my book, that meant that black cows really did give chocolate milk then.
But, after my flashback, and blaming my husband for thinking brown eggs taste better than white eggs, I re-read the note.
Shit. I sent in brown eggs.
I could just picture the kids in the kindergarten class. Sitting there, dipping their eggs in bright red, blue, and green colors. Oh, what fun. Well, for everyone except Alexandra/Alex. Hers probably came out camouflaged pukey green. All of them. No matter what color she used, the outcome would have been subdued and ugly. Fugly. She would probably look at the first one as a mistake and then was crying by number three dippy egg. Poor Alexandra/Alex.
I felt horrible. What a rotten egg. I was not an eggcellent mother. I was eggstremely awful.
So, I put the kids in the car and we drove to the store for some spiffy white eggs and an Easter egg dye kit. And we colored eggs that evening. And she quit crying because one of them was truly beautiful. Of course, I sang her praises and apologized a million times, as it wasn’t her fault. It was mommy’s fault. So, we colored eggs.
It would have been nice if I had remembered to boil them first though.
When I was a teenager, I would sit for very long periods of time, hunting down split ends and chopping them off with one quick snip. I would go to the bathroom drawer and retrieve the little silver scissors and park myself in the living room where the sun came streaming in, letting it hit me right in the face. It would illuminate the split ends. I could find them and kill them. It just wasn’t me. All my friends were OCD about split ends. It did help, I should mention, that I had long hair. Much easier to find them.
I could actually see Lori, who lived across the street, sitting in her picture window, looking at her split ends. Did I get the idea from her or did she get the idea from me? I don’t know. All I know is that it was a problem. A big problem.
I blame the commercials that we watched in the late sixties and early seventies. Now, remember, we only had three channels, so we had to watch and believe the commercials. The shampoo people kept telling us that split ends were a big problem. So, it must be a very big deal. I remember watching the first commercial about split ends and then rushing to the bathroom to look for them. Dear God, there’s one! Shit, there’s another one! I had split ends! I asked my mom to take me to the store immediately to buy some Breck shampoo. It would save my hair.
“Vickie, they are just trying to get you to buy their shampoo. There is nothing wrong with the Head and Shoulders that we all use.”
Head and freaking Shoulders. I hated that shampoo. It reminded me of toothpaste. I used to try and waste it so that my mom would relent and finally buy something else.
Now that I think about it, we had quite the hair products back in the day. I think that I finally tried every shampoo that came out on the market. Notice I said, “finally.” It took my mom awhile to abandon her precious Head and Shoulders. I apologize to those ardent Head and Shoulders shampoo users, but I just couldn’t take it any longer. It may have been the choice for mom and dad, but oh hell, not for a teenager. Teenagers did not want to use Head and Shoulders. My time to revolt was near.
Well, because I had split ends. No one was ever going to ask me out. Okay, maybe, I exaggerated just a bit. That’s what teen-age girls do. And if I didn’t get some Breck shampoo soon, I was going to be one big split end.
Not that I took great care of my hair. I was not nice to my hair. I started by putting Sun-In on my head when I was in seventh grade. I used Dippity Doo when I rolled my hair.
I used PSSSSSSt, the dry shampoo when I didn’t feel like washing my hair. I was such a dirt ball.
The 70's...the dirtball era.
But, Psssssst gave me a great idea. I decided to perform an experiment on my mom. I did it on a weekend so I wouldn’t get looks at school. Surely, this would help.
“Vickie, you need to go take your shower. It’s almost time to leave.”
“Mom, I took my shower about 2 hours ago.”
“Did you wash your hair?”
“Yeah. It gets so oily, you know I have to wash it every day.”
And out of the room I walked. I didn’t wash my hair. I took a shower and unscrewed the Head and Shoulders to make it look like I used it. I knew she would check. I didn’t wash it on Sunday either.
“Vickie, My God. Wash your hair!”
“MOM!!! I did wash my hair. You heard me in the shower.”
“There is no way that you washed your hair. It is filthy!”
“It’s that stupid shampoo you are buying. It makes my hair oily. Please buy something else.”
My dad, who always seemed to be either reading a newspaper or sitting downstairs in his garage where he didn’t have to face the rolling pin woman, knew what I was up to. He left to go show a house, as he was a realtor, but when he returned, he put his finger up to his mouth and handed me a bottle of Lemon Up. Yay, Dad. It wasn’t Breck shampoo, but it also wasn’t Head and Shoulders. I was a happy camper. Maybe the Lemon Up would help my split ends problem.
So, the next morning, I came upstairs, ready to eat some breakfast and head to the bus stop. My mom looked at me like she caught me with my hand in the cookie jar.
“I see your hair is miraculously clean today. How surprising for such a horrible shampoo.”
“Dad bought me a great shampoo yesterday. Lemon Up. It really really helped my oily hair. Look how shiny my hair is.” I moved my long hair like I was in a commercial. Just look at what this shampoo has done for my “Let’s fry some french fries on my oily mat of a head”. And with that I walked out of the house and never had to use Head and Toothpaste again.
There were many great shampoos in the seventies. Here are just a couple of other shampoos that were popular when I was obsessing over my split ends.
1. Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific- Yep, that was the name of the shampoo. The commercial is what really sold us on this shampoo. Get a nice looking guy to smell your hair and say, “Gee, your hair smells terrific!” Off to the store we would go.
2. Lemon Up- This was one of my favorite shampoos. And not because it and my dad rescued my hair from a life of toothpaste shampoo. I liked smelling squeaky clean, like a lemon. I swear this was the best shampoo ever made.
3. Breck- Everyone wanted to be a Breck girl. The first Breck girl was Cheryl Tiegs in 1968. Cybill Shepherd, Jaclyn Smith, Kim Bassinger, and Brooke Shields were other Breck girls in that 1968-1974 time frame. The commercials made me realize that if I used that shampoo, I too, could be a Breck girl.
There were other great shampoos, such as Body on Tap, Yucca Dew, Protein 21, No More Tangles, Long and Silky, Short and Sassy, Agree, and Milk Plus 6. We smelled great.
Breck, though, was THE shampoo for split ends. I know this to be true because of the commercials with the beautiful hair. This shampoo sort of glued the split ends back together. I was able to put my silver scissors back in the bathroom drawer for a while.
Well, until I discovered the ironing board. We started ironing our hair. I would plug my mom’s iron in, lie my hair down on the ironing board, put a thin towel over my hair, and iron away. Stick straight. I loved it. Nowadays, girls are able to use a flat iron. Sure, it works the same, but our way was more…..dangerous. We took dangerous steps to have beautiful hair. I burnt my ears, my fingers, and tinged my hair several times. Oh, the price of beauty.
I don’t care anymore if I have split ends. Those are the least of my hair worries. I am graying. I guess that happens as one ages.
Years ago, people used to really dress up for Easter. Oh, sure, people still dress up now, but back in the early sixties, it was a style highlight. Women had a new dress, new shoes, a giant hat, and a new pocketbook. Hello Easter Sunday.
Easter is usually a time to reflect on how crappy my mom dressed us each Easter Sunday. I really don’t know what she was thinking. We looked like rejects. Rejects. That was a popular word that we used back then. And come Easter time, the Mendenhall kids were the biggest rejects on the block.
You can’t see it, but our little white shoes are so scuffed it is not even funny. Our white anklets are filthy. I think my dad may have taken this picture after all of the Easter festivities were over. Which I guess included scuffing our shoes and stepping in mud. He usually took us over to the Weirton Photography Club studio and snapped pictures of us in front of a lovely backdrop like the one shown. My dad belonged to the club, which was sort of neat in the fact that members could go over there and use the studio. So, we would hop in the car and head there for an official portrait. Which was not fun. And the outcome was sad. Sad because, well, we looked like rejects.
I think my little ensemble was brand new, or my mom lied and told me it was brand new. I personally think it was a hand-me-down from a reject. Cheryl looked like she always got a new dress. I think it was because things fit her. Things just hung on me because I was so skinny.
We always lined up the same way. I was on the left, David was in the middle, and my sister on the right. Oldest to youngest.
When I first found this picture last week, my eyes first went to my lovely hairstyle. My mom used to put little pin curls “to frame my tiny face.” She would put two hairpins in each pincurl and then I would go to sleep. In the morning, I had hair pins on my pillow and my hair looked like a monkey fixed it. A monkey that was blindfolded. I don’t think she even combed my hair. I think I was old enough to fix my own hair. I know I could have done a better job.
She always kept my hair short because my hair color was “dingy” and my face was so small that long hair would just make me look like a rag mop. Isn’t it funny how I remember all of the adjectives that my mom used on me? Years later she asked me why my daughter looked like a little rag mop with that long stringy hair.
“Just to irritate you.” I really said that too. I was proud of that moment. Usually I would hang up on her, but when she said that in front of my daughter, well, it’s hard to tell what spontaneously comes out of my mouth.
But, take a good look at my Easter hair. I am sure I was made fun of behind my back. I know it was the early sixties, but I don’t think other kids my age looked like that on Easter Sunday.
My brother David was styling with a cowboy necktie, aka a bolo tie. Which looked great with his non cowboy shoes. If you are going to dress him like a cowboy on Easter, you need to put him in boots or a Easter cowboy hat. Why the hell did she put that on him? Maybe my dad wore one too that day.
The worst Easter Sunday outfit was the one my mom made me when I was in fifth grade. Oh Dear God. She made my sister the exact same dress and threw a damn rose in the middle of the dress. She also made me wear it when we had our fifth grade class picture taken. I looked like hell.
My hair was growing out a bit, but I guess my mom didn’t feel the need to comb my hair after she took the curlers out. And the backdrop changed that year. This was taken at my grandfather’s house. We always went to visit my grandparents after Easter church service. That’s probably where I scuffed up my shoes.
In the end, dressing up for Easter Sunday was a lot of fun most years. Especially when I got to carry my very own pocketbook.
When I was little, I used to play April Fool’s Day pranks on my family. They would range from the little “Mom, come quick!! There’s a huge spider in the baththub!” to more elaborate jokes as I got older. I would then hear the same damn story from my mom every year. She was such a kill joy.
“Vickie, did you ever hear the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf?”
And then she would proceed to tell me, every freaking year, the story about how a stupid shepherd boy cried “Wolf” too many times and when a wolf really did appear, no one would believe him. And the wolf ate up the whole flock of sheep. I only had one question for my mom….every year.
“Why didn’t the wolf eat the boy?”
That’s when I would get sent to my room. I cry foul, though. I thought that was a very good question. Okay. Say a little shepherd boy is sitting against a tree, watching sheep. Up creeps a wolf. Shouldn’t the wolf attack the kid first? And this was my reasoning. Sheep have a lot of fur and if the wolf would try to eat it, there would be a lot of fur in its mouth. But, eating a boy would be easy. No fur, just right to the body. I knew that when I was young. But, then again, maybe wolves don’t think humans are tasty. I really didn’t know. Or care. I was just pulling an April Fool’s joke, dammit.
My mom would also question me about the moral of the story. I didn’t know what a “moral” was when I was very young. I did hear the word a lot at the stupid private school I went to. Sister Maria at the Sacred Heart of Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy was always using that word. I didn’t ask her what it meant either. If it was a vocabulary word, I would have taken the time to know its meaning. But, right now, I was just trying to get my mom off of her butt to come look at a fake spider on April Fool’s Day.
“So, Vickie, what is the moral of the story?” Oh great. Here we go again. I’m was in fourth grade by now, and still had no idea.
Stare…..Stare……shrugs shoulders…………”It’s about a boy who takes care of sheep.”
“But, what is the moral of the story?”
Shit. I don’t know. “I don’t know what that means.” Finally, I said it.
“You don’t know what a “moral” is?” My mom’s eyes got big behind her big glasses. “I have asked you every year and you are just now telling me you don’t know what a “moral” is? A “moral” is when there is a lesson to be learned from the story. A goodness or a badness.”
Goodness or badness? Um okay. Like watching those stupid clay people, Davey and Goliath on Sunday mornings when we didn’t go to church.
“So, Vickie, what is the moral of The Boy Who Cried Wolf?” She was like a damn teacher. All she needed was a ruler to crack me across my knuckles.
pause
pause
“That children shouldn’t watch sheep.”
“Go to your room!!”
Now, you have to understand that I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer by no means. But, children really had no business watching sheep. They should be in school, learning what the hell a “moral” was. And, I might add that I watched Road Runner and knew that kids NEVER watched sheep. Sam the sheepdog did.
I finally wised up and decided to just concentrate on my siblings or my father on future April Fool’s Day. I was tired of hearing the damn boy crying wolf story to last me a lifetime.
Until this past week. I have a liar in my fourth grade class. He lies about everything and I catch him every time. A known liar knows another liar when she sees one.
But, I brought out my mom’s arsenal…big sigh.
“Ralph, (not his real name. Protecting the real kid from his stupidity) did you ever hear the story about The Boy Who Cried Wolf?”
We never owned cats when I was young. My mom said they were sneaky and that was the end of that. We had dogs. And I brought home a skunk and iguanas and african frogs. But, cats were out of the question. My bff, Ramaine always had cats. I thought they were so cool. They weren’t sneaky at all. My mom was a loon.
Even after we had children, my husband didn’t want to have any inside animals. But, he cracked under pressure and brought home a cat for my daughter. She is still alive and my husband, now ex-husband, still hates the cat.
My son decided to go the cat route. He got a cat and named him Atticus. He had planned on training it to be “Atticus, Kick-Ass Cat.” He told me he was going to get a little ninja headband for him and would teach him to use and flush the toilet. Yeah, good luck with that. Well, he did turn out to be a killer cat. I am lucky to have survived the vicious cat attack inflicted upon me.
My daughter warned me not to cat sit when Adam went to Europe over Christmas 2010. She stayed at his apartment one time and awoke, finding Atticus right by her face, eating her hair. She was afraid for her cat, Whiskers. Whiskers lived with me when Alex went off to college. She will be seventeen this July and can hardly walk. Atticus, warrior cat, would simply destroy her.
Sure, looks are deceiving
It was hell. It really was. Whiskers would scream and hiss at Atticus. Atticus would jump out at Whiskers whenever he had the chance. Whiskers would attack, and Atticus would back off. Atticus was just a young cat, still learning how to act around another cat, perhaps. But, then he found my leg.
I guess he thought I wanted to play. He came over and took a little playful bite. But, I didn’t want him to play Warrior Cat with me. I wanted him to be a gentle, non hair eater. I simply pushed him away and told him, “No.” Well, that was like an invitation. Atticus came at me and bit my leg.
I pushed him away. And he came at me again and really let me have it. He really bit into me. I screamed and pushed him away. He came at me again. I had about three good sized bite marks on my leg. I screamed at him again. It was like he turned into a monster cat. I grabbed my door mat, the closest thing I could find to hide my legs. I had exercise capri pants on, so he was concentrating on my lower legs. I was very afraid.
Well, Adam returned and came back for the little shit. Whiskers slept for days. But, what happened next was bad, very bad. The cat bite became infected. I washed it with soap and water after he bit me, but I had no idea that a cat that has been kept inside could have such a potty mouth. I read how the cat’s mouth is just laden with bacteria. And now it was showing up on my leg.
At the time, I didn’t really want to worry my son. I did show him the corner of my new pull out couch where Atticus decided to use as a scratching post.
“You owe me a couch.” Adam felt bad. I didn’t really want to tell him how bad my leg was. It was getting bad. So, I thought I should probably go to the doctor. Probably means no. I decided to head to the internet instead. Looks like I needed antibiotic. And I should go to the doctor. Should means no.
Well, not a good idea. I started taking amoxicilin. Thank God I had a stash. My leg became ugly and oozy. I babied it and looked at it all the time, worried that pus was just not a good thing. The information on the internet about cat bites scared me to death. Every day I would say to myself, “Today is the day I should go to the doctor.” I have since decided that I am very stubborn about visiting a doctor. Not my cup of tea. The picture below was taken a few weeks after the bite. It was looking much better at this point. Really it was.
Ew, I know, right? Notice the dark mark. That was my brilliant attempt to monitor my condition. I took a pen and drew around the redness to see if it was getting worse or getting better. Why didn’t I just go to the doctor? Well, because I have no brain.
It took almost a month to heal. I probably have some sort of parasitic cat worm traveling around the inside of my body. I am pretty sure that the overdose of anitbiotics helped.
After the cat bite, I bought some betadine and keep it in my medicine cabinet. Good thing, because he bit me again this evening, the little shit.
Yeah, I’m cat sitting again.
He can be a sweet cat. He really enjoys jumping on the table and sitting on my arm. When I graded school papers, he sat on my arm. He is furry and soft and I really like him.
But, then he turns into Psycho cat. He just looked at me and then promptly bit my hand. Oh, it was just a little bite, didn’t really break the skin. I ran to the bathroom, washed it with soap and hot water, then put some Betadine on it.
He’s been here seven nights and he will be here six more. Tick Tock Tick Tock.
My mom never really sang my virtues. No positive traits here. I remember when I ran for all-school treasurer for my senior year in high school. I was sitting on the floor, making posters, when my mom looked at me sadly, and said,
“Vickie, you sure are making a lot of posters………I don’t want you to get your hopes up….. You are probably not going to win.”
You have no idea how that statement pissed me off. I decided to try even harder. I had a couple guy friends even put my posters in the boy’s bathroom for me. Then I put them in every stall in every bathroom.
Psssst!
While you’re sitting here in this stall
Think about voting for Mendenhall
My name had great rhyming potential. I made up little posters out of copy paper and huge ones for the main halls. In the Music room:
Just a little “note”- Vote for Mendenhall
I did this all over the place. A message in the Spanish class, which was also my homeroom. I was a creative little shit, where others just had the generic, “vote for…” posters. And I won. Even had a full size picture in the yearbook of the class officers. Mom did congratulate me when I told her.
Me on the right
“I won, Mom.”
“You did? What a wonderful surprise! Congratulations!”
Wonderful SURPRISE. She always had to add something that stung me like a bee. And she is the one who always told me:
Sticks and stones
may break my bones
but words will never hurt me
Bullshit.
Fast forward many years. I have two wonderful children. We lived two hours away from my mom. So, of course, if you have good news, you would naturally call your loved ones to tell them. So, I would call my mom.
“Mom, the kids both won the county social studies fair and get to compete at the state level.” I was excited. Adam did his on Prohibition and gangsters and Alex did her project on Bigfoot. They were in middle school, a year apart. My mom thought that was great. When Adam won first place at the state level and Alex won honorable mention, I called her again.
“That’s great….. You know, you three kids did a lot of great things in school too…… I just never believed in bragging.”
I was pissed.
“Well, Mom, if informing you about what great things your grandchildren are doing in school is bragging, then I’m bragging. I’m very proud of them. And why the hell would I need to “brag” to my mother?…..I have to go.” And I hung up the phone.
Bragging. I had to think for a moment. Do I brag on my kids? Bragging. I remember looking it up in the dictionary, just like I did again right now. “To assert or talk boastfully” “in an arrogant manner…”
I guess for some, there is a fine line between being proud of accomplishments and bragging. I’m a proud mom. I think bragging is more about arrogance and a “Here’s another way I am better than you.” But to be proud and want to share that with others? I don’t think that is bragging.
Both my kids are very modest. Very humble. I remember when Alex won for Prom Queen. She told me with a sigh. I congratulated her with a “You are beautiful on the inside and on the outside. What a wonderful compliment! I’m so very proud of you.”
I didn’t call my mom.
Well, when we went shopping for a prom dress, I was just giddy. My daughter was prom queen. But, before we went into the first store, Alex looked at me and said, “Do NOT tell anyone that I am Prom Queen.” Well, stick a pin in my balloon. I did anyway, when she would be in the dressing room. “She’s prom queen at her high school.” Well, I can be proud. I wasn’t bragging. Right?
Now, as my children are in their mid-twenties, I am so very proud of them. Alex doesn’t want me to talk about her on facebook. Well, hell. She’s a humble little duck.
So, that made me think. Since I never really got stroked when I was little, am I over compensating with my own children? Did I brag too much? I surely hope not. Pride cometh before the fall and all.
Proud as one of these
You know, we were raised to be proud. Proud of our home. Proud of our children. Proud of our country. Proud of ourselves. If you think someone is bragging, then maybe the person talking is an idiot to begin with. I know mothers who go on and on about how smart their kid is. Hello. Parents are supposed to be proud of their kids. Proud of their first steps. Proud that they pooped in a real toilet or are wearing big boy pants. Proud that they got their first A and hang it on the refrigerator. Those are proud parents. Braggers talk like this:
“My Joey said his first word when he was two months old. He is going to be sooo smart. Your kid isn’t talking yet, right? And he is ten? Wow, Joey is really going to be smart.”
Now, that is bragging.
When Adam was a baby, and learnining to talk, I did something to piss my mom off. You know how parents always show their baby off? I call it, “Show me.” Show me your eye. Show me your nose. etc. etc. All parents do this. Don’t tell me you didn’t. Well, when they start verbalizing, parents then play, “Tell me.” Parent: “What is this?” Kidlet: “Nose.” Kids were now verbalizing their body parts. Well, I took it one step further and taught Adam where his clavicle was. “What’s this, Adam?” “Clav i cle.” And then I cracked up. I was basically making fun of the whole process, but my mom wasn’t amused. I didn’t want her to be amused. I wanted her to say something. I gave her my “Go ahead, make my day” look. She didn’t open her mouth.
In the end, I think mom’s need a “brag pass.” We should be allowed to brag if that is what you want to call it. I call it pride. Sure, some mom’s are idiots. But, they were idiots before they were moms.
So, the next time your child signs up to run for office or tries out for cheerleader, and you secretly don’t think they have a snowball in hell kind of chance, lie. If you can’t lie, then confuse them. I have a great line, stolen from the Hunger Games:
I used to think that cleaning public restrooms would be one of the worst jobs ever. But, over the years, I have changed my mind. I do believe that being a school bus driver has to be one of the most taxing jobs of all.
Being a bus driver AND being stopped by a long coal train. Yikes
As an elementary school teacher, I get to hear bus stories every single day. And then I remember my own.
I didn’t really ride a school bus for the first three years of my education. I attended a stupid private school, Sacred Heart of Mary Academy. Sister Maria drove our little van/bus. She was one mean zebra. I didn’t open my mouth for three years on that bus, for fear that she would make me become a nun. And Dear God, I did not want to become a nun. I watched her as she drove that van/bus. She wore black hose under that nun outfit, and black shoes that looked like walking shoes, but a really ugly version. I had to sit up front with her because of my intense motion sickness, which she frequently told me, “was all in my head.” One day after she said that, I looked over at her, and threw up. I heard my mom relay the story to my dad that night from my eavesdropping hiding place.
“Vickie threw up on Sister Maria today…( I could hear my dad laugh)..She told Vickie it was all in her head…..Vickie should have told her that “Now it is in your lap.”
I thought that was funny. I decided to tell Sister Maria that the next day. It didn’t get that far.
“Vickie, you aren’t going to get sick anymore on my bus, are you?” She looked at me and I could swear I saw real flames flickering in her eyes. I was scared to death of her. So scared….
that I threw up on her again. Well, I missed her, but caught her black hose and sensible shoes. Rice krispies and milk to be exact. I remember.
Not good. Not good at all. She was going to beat the shit out of me. I just knew it. Or I was going to have to wear a nun outfit and carry rosary beads and whisper while I touched each one.
She was always pissed. She drove like she had road rage. I thought she was mad at Jesus for making her be a bus driver. Her rosary that hung around her waist made a noise each time she shifted gears. Which was all of the time. She ran a stop sign one day and we hit another car. I sat in the back of the van after that and got car sick because I could no longer watch the road.
I finally got to switch to public school, and that meant I would get to sit with my bff Ramaine on the bus every day. She and LeeAnn would walk up to my house and we would go stand in Dragovich’s driveway and wait for the school bus. We didn’t carry back packs back then, so we put our lunch boxes and books down on the driveway in a straight line, which meant we had a place in the bus line. I had a Beanie and Cecil lunchbox.
I was so excited to be able to ride on such a huge transportation machine. You could even fit three kids in one seat. Our bus driver was not that nice, however. I surely understand why. Kids are nuts.
When I was in junior high, I was kicked off of the bus for three days. My mom was furious with me. My friend, LeeAnn, who lived down the street, was kicked off with me, but I don’t think she was the main player. My bff Ramaine was kicked off as well, which would normally be the case, as we were always partners in crime. Even if we didn’t do something wrong, we would always be found at fault because we would still be laughing long after the particular episode. I think LeeAnn was, as Ramaine said, “Guilty by association.” Three in a seat and all. But, one of us had some styrofoam and it just happened to make an intense high pitched squeaking noise when placed upon the wet bus window. “Squeak squeak squeak.”
The bus driver yelled at us to stop.
Pause
Pause
“Squeak squeak squeak.” giggle giggle giggle.
And we were promptly thrown off of the bus. What the hell happened to getting three, maybe four warnings before punishment is inflicted?
I was pissed. I think the bus driver was mad at me anyways for puking on the bus so much. That’s another thing that I don’t envy about the life of a bus driver: cleaning up after motion sick urchins like myself. Every afternoon I would ask him to turn down the heat. He must have been cold natured, because the trip home was unbelieveably warm. He would just tell me to crack my window, which was too late for my churning stomach. And I would throw up. And I am serious that this happened at least twice a week. Ramaine would yell, “Vickie threw up! Raise your feet!” because you know, the vomit did flow like a river. Sorry. Since the bus driver wasn’t dressed like a nun, I finally realized that I indeed had motion sickness.
So, yeah, Ramaine, LeeAnn and I were kicked off of the bus. I am sure that drove the bus driver nuts. I behaved myself the best I could. Well, no I didn’t. We did weird stuff on the bus. We made up a poem, that started off quiet and then kept getting louder each time. I will insert my name into the saying, but we would take turn putting each of our names in it:
“Vickie Vickie two by four, couldn’t get past the bathroom door. So, she went on the floor. Licked it up and asked for more…..(louder) Vickie Vickie two by four, couldn’t get past the bathroom door. So, she went on the floor. Licked it up and asked for more…(louder)”
How weird we were. We would keep doing it until the bus driver yelled at us to stop. I can’t even imagine what he went through with us. Sure, I teach elementary school and I have the kids all day. But, they become different creatures once they climb up the stairs to the bus. I know, I’ve been on field trips with them. And I know, I’ve been one of those demented kids.
And my God, the songs we sang. This alone should have driven a bus driver to drink. We sang whatever we learned in school. And a song we made up about the Salvation Army. Some of the lovely tunes we sang over and over and over again were hits such as “Waltzing Matilda,” “Jump Down Turn Around, Pick a Bale of Cotton,” “Playmate, come out and play with me…..,” and my personal favorite, “I had a Little Driedel..” Riding the bus was so much fun.
High school kids still rode the bus when I was in school during the mid seventies. Only kids who left to go to an after school job were allowed to drive. We mellowed as we got older, but I did hear that our old bus driver didn’t fare so well. Now, I don’t know if this was a rumor or not, but we heard that old Jack either reached retirement and decided to pull a prank on the kids, or that old Jack lost his mind and went on one last bus run. I had just graduated when I heard he did this.
Jack approached each of his bus stops. He stopped, opened the door, and just before the first kid in line placed his foot on the first step, old Jack would laugh a crazy laugh, quickly close the door and would go to his next stop where he did the same thing. He did it with all of his stops.
Never to be seen again.
Fast forward many years, circa 1992. I now have two children. Adam is in school and he was supposed to get off of the bus twenty minutes ago. He is only six years old. The bus is extremely late. I call the school and then the bus garage. Where the hell is he? I immediately think that he was kidnapped by a crazed bus driver. I know how they can snap.
Adam finally got off of the bus forty five minutes late. He was laughing as he ran down the driveway.
“Mommy, mommy, the bus driver got lost.” Apparently there were only two students left on the bus and the substitute bus driver got lost somehow. But, that’s what my little red-headed sweet cherub told me. I then received a phone call to come into school the next day.
Apparently, my son decided to screw with the substitute bus driver, telling him to turn right here and turn left there. He had him on roads that really weren’t roads. Adam was having a blast. His friend, Tyler, however, was crying. The bus driver kept following Adam’s directions. A six year old kid. Who the hell listens to a six year old kid? They were going to kick him off of the bus for a week because of the prank, until his teacher spoke up and said that it was the substitute’s fault for not following the route left by the normal bus driver. Sheesh.
Well, Adam’s bus adventures were only beginning. He was kicked off the bus for fighting with Tyler, the kid who got lost with Adam. Adam apparently punched Tyler in the face. I was horrified.
“Adam, did you punch Tyler in the face?” Adam nodded.
“I had to Mom, it was the only way to get him to stop strangling me.” I guess they started fighting and Adam ended up lying in the aisle. Tyler was straddling him, strangling him.
The final time Adam got kicked off of the bus was for fighting over an open window. Adam wanted it closed. The kid in front of him wanted it opened. So, after arguing, and pushing back and forth, the bus driver threw them both off of the bus for two weeks. Two weeks? Are you kidding me? That bus driver was really fed up.
So, I came up with a plan. I called the parents of the other kid involved and asked if they wanted to car pool. I would drive the boys one week and they could drive the next. That would teach them to fight each other. The parents loved the idea and so we took turns driving our bus heathens to school each day.
In the end, I really feel for bus drivers. They have these kids lives in their hands, yet get dealt a terrible hand with misbehaved kids. It’s always been like that and will continue to be like that until duct tape and rope are applied to the mix.
I was watching an old episode of Friends, where Joey and Chandler pee on Monica’s foot after she was stung by a jelly fish. I was wondering who in the hell thought of that first. I mean, how does that even come about? I was stung by a jelly fish when I was in my twenties, and the lifeguard told me to put some wet sand on it. He never offered to pee on my leg. I would have enjoyed being able to tell that story.
So, I started thinking about old wive’s tales, homemade remedies, and what the experts have to say about them. Maybe you may even learn a thing or two the next time some guy wants to pee on your jellyfish sting.
A Vacation Ruiner
1. Pee on a jellyfish sting- Stop right there! Urine has never been proven to help in jellyfish stings. So, that drunk kid at spring break who told you he is in medical school and that he should pee on your sting was a big, fat liar. And perhaps an exhibitionist. In fact, vinegar is the best first treatment for a jellyfish sting. The people in Australia are way ahead of the world. Their beaches are lined with vinegar stands. Other treatments that also work are rubbing alcohol, unseasoned meat tenderizer, baking soda, household ammonia, and lemon or lime juice. So, the next time you head to a beach, take some vinegar with you. If you don’t get stung, you can always make a salad.
2. Butter on a Burn- This is a remedy that my mom used on us all of the time. Any time we had a burn, she would reach for the butter. Which I have a real problem with now, because the loon never put the butter in the refrigerator. She left the butter out on the stove, hiding under a clear glass butter dome. So, not only was she putting butter on my burned hand, she was putting potentially rancid, yucky, bacteria laced butter on my burn. Oh sure, I know many of you have eaten counter butter and you are still alive and Grandma is now 105 and has never been sick a day in her life and has kept butter out on her counter, but that’s not what I am supposed to be talking about anywho.
photo via wikipedia
I am sure that the thinking years ago is that butter may act like a salve and help soothe the burning. But, butter on a burn can actually trap heat. And that is a no-no. Thanks, Mom. I have read that if you have to use something, honey may be of some interest. But, don’t hold me to it.
3. Sore throats- Sore throats suck. You have to swallow, and the thought of the impending pain is just sad, especially when a child is involved and is looking at you for help. I was always told to gargle with warm salt water when you had a sore throat. My ex-husband swore by it. In the past year, my bff turned me to apple cider vinegar. Ahhh, I love it. Does it work? Yes, it does. I read though that you should not give it to a child younger than two years of age.
Damn sore throat. I can’t wear my pearls.
For gargling: You’ll need 1 teaspoon salt, 1/2 cup cider vinegar, and 1 cup warm water. Dissolve the salt in the vinegar, then mix in the water. Gargle every 15 minutes as necessary. Works for me.
4. Hydrogen Peroxide and Rubbing Alcohol- My mom is such a liar. When I would wreck my bicycle, my mom would basically pour peroxide into my wound. “Watch, Vickie. The bubbling means it is killing the germs.” Wrong, child killer. Now, this is where the experts disagree. Some say that you should put alcohol on the wound to use as an antiseptic. Others yell, “Oh, hell no!”
Some dermatologists believe that the bubbling from the chemical reaction that occurs when peroxide comes in contact with the skin isn’t only cleaning the wound, it’s also killing healthy cells. When there’s a cut, they believe you should not use iodine, peroxide, or alcohol. Yikes. So, that’s why my knees looked like hell. And guess why it stings when alcohol is applied to a cut? Well, because it’s wiping out tissue that is healthy. I did not know this. I watched my son’s cat last Christmas and the damn thing bit me. I used peroxide, thinking that damn bubbling would be killing the germs and bacteria. All hell broke loose and I ended up taking antibiotics and it really got nasty. Cat bites can be dangerous. Stupid cat.
5. Well hell, when in doubt, just use some whiskey- I used to work as a dental assistant in a previous life, and you just wouldn’t believe the people that would come in with a toothache, touting the virtues of whiskey applied on their gums or hurting tooth. They swore that it worked. I was hoping that someone drove them to their appointment, as I swear some of them were applying the whiskey every hour or so. Now, my grandmother had a recipe for rheumatism that called for whiskey. You go, Grandma! I still have her recipe, written in that shaky, chicken scratch penmanship that only grandmothers could create. It reminds me of Granny on The Beverly Hillbillies.
How about a hot toddy? Feeling sick and want to go to sleep? Some people swear by drinking a hot toddy before bed time. Here’s one recipe.
1/4 cup whiskey, 1/4 cup honey, 1/4 cup of fresh lemon juice. Microwave until it is hot, sip it and then go to bed.
My mom gave us a little bit of whiskey when we had a cough. I’m thinking she wanted to knock us out so we wouldn’t be up all night, which would mean she would be up all night. She also told me that she used a little whiskey on her finger and would rub it on our gums when we were teething. I’m surprised none of the Mendenhall kids are attending AA meetings.
Momma, whiskey is good
6 Aspirin on a tooth - Not tonight. I have a toothache. I imagine a very lazy person decided to just put an aspirin on his tooth or right on his gum to ease the pain. So, does that mean if you have a headache, you should just put a pill on your head? Stupid. Aspirin is very acidic and it can leave a little round imprint on your gum if you leave it on there long enough. This just makes no sense and I can not find any research that says otherwise.
7. Kerosene for head lice- Really? Dear God.- I can’t even imagine, but I bet I know how this started. It probably went something like this:
“Ethel! Ralph has done come home with lice. We need to kill them little buggers…(pause, pause, thinking, thinking…) I know! Let’s kill them with kerosene. It will drown them.”
And that’s how another old wive’s tale started. There were some kids when I was little that had to sit with kerosene on their head while their mother combed out the nits. Here’s my thought. When I was little, I was a shuffling, sock wearing, static electric shocker kid. What if I came shuffling through while ole Ralphie was getting a kerosene shampoo. If I shocked him, would his head ignite? Just wondering. But, back in the sixties, that’s the remedy was used. In 2012, I just read where mayonaisse is a solution to head lice. Wouldn’t that just be like feeding them? There would be big lice sitting on your head.
Ew
8. Rubbing a potato on a wart- Ok, wart people, I have read that this works from numerous articles. When you rub a potato to the wart, the wart will turn black and fall off. The chemical compound in the potato is supposed to fight the wart. But, slice the potato and rub the wart. Some people peel the skin off of the potato, and tape the skin to the wart every night at bedtime. I’m not warty, but I would try it.
9.Splinter remover- Elmer’s glue..Say what? Dear God, this would have solved so much anguish. My daughter would lose her mind every time she had a splinter. Why didn’t someone tell me this fifteen years ago. Supposedly, you just apply Elmer’s Glue on top of the splinter. Let it dry. When you peel the glue off, the splinter is supposed to come off with it. Ta-da! Wow, I almost want to get a splinter to see if this really works.
10. Oatmeal for Arthritis-Quaker Oats for fast pain relief. I guess you can eat breakfast and then put the leftovers on your hands. “Mix 2 cups of Quaker Oats and 1 cup of water in a bowl and warm in the microwave for 1 minute, cool slightly, and apply the mixture to your hands for soothing relief from arthritis pain.” Well, people take oatmeal baths to help with poison ivy, so I mean, who knows? This is supposed to work.
11. Eye puffiness- Preparation H. Let’s get to the bottom of this one… (hahahaha) I just read about ten articles about this, and it doesn’t work. I really think someone reached for the wrong ointment once upon a time and next thing you know, someone said it worked for them. But, the fact of the matter is, it isn’t supposed to work at all. But, hey, if your eyes start bulging out a bit, it may be something you should try. Just sayin.
12. Vicks Vapor Rub- Ahhhh. I love my Vicks Vapor Rub. Imagine my happiness when I read that if you have a bad cold with congestion, and you can not sleep, rub Vicks Vapor Rub on your feet, don some socks, and go to bed. You will wake up after a great night sleep, feeling better. I personally know people who have tried this and they have said that it works. Why wouldn’t it? Vicks Vapor Rub rocks!
photo via pinterest
So, there you have it. In the end, Mother knows best. Until years later, when you find out the fruitcake almost killed you. Old wive’s tales will always be around. People will always swear that something ridiculous worked magic for them. And if it works, who are we to judge?
Well, except for the smelly kerosene boy. I’d have to slap his mom.
Technology has come a long way since the sixties. We now have personal computers, cell phones, and video games. Our cell phones are also personal computers and video games. Our personal computers are also movie theaters and music venues. We have many choices. Back in the sixties, we had a tape recorder.
Oh, my, what a newly purchased tape recorder can do for a kid. A tape recorder, also known as a cassette tape, or compact cassette, was originally designed for dictation. Secretaries all over the world were now able to just push a button instead of sitting across from their boss, steno book and pencil in hand, furiously writing in shorthand. Life was good.
photos via wikipedia
Philips invented the compact audio cassette in 1962, and the first compact cassette, creatively called Compact Cassette, was available for purchase. By 1966, over 250,000 recorders had been sold in the U.S. alone. And guess who had one of them? That’s right, the Mendenhall family.
Now, you have to understand why I was salivating. We really didn’t have much in the way of new fangled technology of any kind. Pong wasn’t even invented yet for use on our television sets. I don’t know if we even shortened the word television to T.V. yet. Our telephones had cords on them, attached to the wall. Oh, yes, I was salivating.
I quickly learned how to use our new Compact Cassette. I believe I was about ten years old at the time. Fourth grade was a memorable time, and now, Dear God, I had a tape recorder.
The excitement was just too much. My mom told me that I could play with it the next day, so I don’t think she was too happy that I woke her up so early.
“Mom, can I use the cassette recorder?”
“Vickie, it’s 6:00 in the morning. Go back to bed.”
Shit.
“Mom, can I use the cassette recorder now?”
“Vickie, stop it. It’s only 6:30.”
Stupid mom. Birds were up. I heard them chirping. Mom’s were supposed to be up early.
“Hey, Dad, can I use the cassette recorder? It’s 7:00.”
“Sure.”
Good Dad. Bad Mom.I was already dressed and ready. I don’t know why I had shoes on, but maybe I would run outside and let the world know that I recorded a message. I ran into the kitchen.There was a little plastic tri-pod that the microphone would sit on. I positioned it close to me. I remember that I was a nervous wreck I put the cassette in the player, and hit the record button. My first recording was thought provoking and highly imaginative.
“Testing. Testing, 1-2-3″…..giggle giggle giggle. Voila!! History was made.
I couldn’t wait to replay it and listen to my voice. I had never heard myself talk before. I looked at my mom, who was fumbling with the coffee pot and mumbling something about killing me.
“That doesn’t sound like me.” I sounded like a little girl. I mean, I was a little girl. I guess I wanted to sound, well, like a newscaster.
“That sounds exactly like you.” my mom replied. She lit her first of 88 cigarettes for the day. She sat in her housecoat at the table, waiting for her coffee to percolate. She wanted to try recording her voice. That pissed me off. I mean, shouldn’t she be in bed?
So, the rest of the Mendenhall family had to go and use MY cassette tape recorder for most of the morning. I went into the living room and watched Casper the Friendly Ghost on the television set. Actually, I have no idea what the hell I watched, but I did watch a cartoon, because our cartoons rocked back then.
Well, the unimaginative family members had their morning of fun with the newly purchased Cassette Recorder and went about their Saturday morning.business. I sat quietly, like a buzzard waiting for a groundhog to get hit by a car. I had plans for this tape recorder.
Oh, the fun I had. My first item on my tape recording agenda was to tape record sounds. I turned on the recorder and rang the doorbell. I slammed a door. I followed the dog around, trying to get him to bark. He wanted no part of me. I called my bff Ramaine and asked her to call me back so I could tape the telephone ringing. I taped anything and everything that I could make a sound out of . What a great weekend.
I had my bff, Ramaine, walk up later in the day. She was even more creative than I was. She would think of something we can use with the newly purchased Cassette Recorder. I do not remember how this was decided, but the next thing you know, we were singing the definition of ‘lima bean” into the tape recorder. I am sure no one else has ever done that before. Ever. We were highly imaginative. We then opened the dictionary again, pointing to a word and singing that definition, too. We laughed and laughed at our choice of leisure activity. She could sing. I, on the other hand, sounded like a drugged up back-up singer for Janis Joplin. Fun time with my bff.
Saturday evening was spy time. I put the recorder beside the couch. I realized that one side of the tape was only 30 minutes long, so I had to think of a way to push the button so my parents wouldn’t see me doing it. I was going to tape record things my parents talk about after we went to bed. What fun!
I waited until my mom went into the kitchen and talked loudly while playing with my dog so my dad wouldn’t hear me press the button. Success! I went to bed and could hardly sleep. I was so excited to spy on my parents. I began thinking bigger, like taping my teacher while we were at lunch. That may have been tricky, as we didn’t have back packs back then.
I woke up on Sunday morning, and ran to the living room. It was 6:00, so I was sure that the fam was still asleep. I re-wound the tape and waited, impatiently. This was going to be so much fun. I loved spying. I hit the play button. It was my mom’s voice. This was fantastic!!
“Vickie, the next time you try to tape record someone without letting them know about it, it would be a good idea to sneak back in the room and turn it off before it makes a loud noise turning itself off……You will have plenty of time trying to figure out how to do this while you are in your room. You are grounded.”
Shit.
Well, all in all, I had a blast with our newly purchased Cassette Recorder. I interviewed neighbors and friends, taped the sounds of grass cutting, and the Mr. Softie truck making his rounds through the neighborhood. I taped my sister having a temper tantrum. Life was good.
It’s the little things in life that make such a big memory.
And that’s one for the record books…or in this case, tape recorder.
I probably wasn’t much fun to play with when I was little. As soon as someone mentioned a game that had any kind of spinning involved, I was out. I had puked enough for all the kids in the neighborhood. I was already called “Bluey” in the winter because my lips would turn a bright bluish purple and “Picky Vickie” throughout the year because I wouldn’t try to eat anything that had “stuff” in it, like potato salad, or mixed together, like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Pukey” was next on the agenda, I was sure, and I wanted no part of it.
I don’t know what the hell it is with kids and spinning. Are we all gluttons for punishment?
Blind Man’s Bluff
I think the first game I played with other kids in the neighborhood that had anything to do with spinning was Blind Man’s Bluff. The rules sounded easy enough. According to Wikipedia:
“Blind man’s bluff is played in a spacious area, such as outdoors or in a large room, in which one player, designated as “It”, is blindfolded and gropes around attempting to touch the other players without being able to see them, while the other players scatter and try to avoid the person who is “it”, hiding in plain sight and sometimes teasing them to make them change direction.”
Ok, that sounded easy enough. Two things were missing from the instructions, however. One, was that Blind Man’s Bluff should be played in an area free of dangerous obstructions, or like, um, stairs, so that the “It” player will not die or obtain a serious head injury. Secondly, who the hell said the “It” player had to be spun around before they went off groping at people? I immediately knew that I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the first one to run into the fireplace hearth or be the one puking because of the spinning. But, sometimes life just isn’t fair for the spin challenged. The first person found me huddled in a corner, cowering and trying to remain oh so quiet. Dammit. I cried foul, as I am sure the person could see below the scarf. I figured out that if you had a big nose, you could cheat. People with big noses always have advantages in this world.
So, Lori, the neighborhood Nazi girl, put the scarf around my eyes. We were playing in her basement, so we had to let her be in charge like she always was. She tied it tight to make sure I couldn’t cheat. She knew I would cheat in a heart beat, given the chance. I remember the scarf being slightly damp. So, I was ready to puke because I knew that meant sweat. Lori lived across the street and she knew all about my spinning “problems.” So, the little bitch spun me hard. Her hands were firm and her method determined. Determined to make the little skinny girl with blue lips puke. After she got done spinning me, I just sat down and threw up on on an area rug. Ta-da. End of Blind Man’s Bluff for Vickie. I staggered home. I think I took the blind fold off first.
I’m thinking that Blind Man’s Bluff led to orgies when played by the older crowd.
The Playground Merry-Go-Round-and Round-and Round
I hate playground equipment. I really do. As an elementary teacher, I watch kids when I am on playground duty. First of all, yes, I do stand outside with fifty-five year old blue lips. That’s with me for life. I am not fond of the cold. But, I watch these sweet children turn into brainless zombies on speed, running amok to and fro each piece of equipment. They climb up slides instead of sliding down them. They run behind people swinging, like chipmunks playing “Suicide” on our country roads. Chipmunks decide in the middle of the road which way they want to zig. Too late, Theodore. Anyways, school children also try to kill their peers on the see-saws. Side note: How the hell do children know what “cherry bumps” even are?
“Ms. Mendenhall, Ralph jumped off of the see saw on purpose and gave me a cherry bump.” I just stared at her. Really? I chuckled at the thought of perhaps sending her to the principal to tell the story of Ralphie, the cherry bumper.
Luckily, our playground doesn’t have the Merry-Go-Round aka The Ride of Misery like we had when we were little. I’m not even sure if it was at our neighborhood playground, but I avoided it somewhere. It was the worst playground apparatus known to man…and pukey little girls.
You know there is vomit on there somewhere
So, the kids would hop on and the strongest child would run on the outside, pushing around and around and then jump on himself. Once in a while some older jack ass would stand there, spinning and spinning despite the pleas of the younger, sickened children. Hahahhahaha, laughed the older kid. Those bully kids back then are the probably the same ones wearing black and white stripes today. Or they are car salesmen. But,I would never go near that damn ride after the first time I was stuck on it….. And puked on it. Ew. I just left, hoping that one day it would rain.
You know this didn’t last long. Dear God, here come the flying wires. Oh, look, one has impaled you.
The Rotor- Kennywood Park
The Rotor was a crazy ride at Kennywood Park, outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We used to go to Kennywood about once a year when I was little. It’s hard to describe the Rotor, but I shall try. Picture a barrel. Or the inside of a washing machine. Or something like that. People would enter the Rotor and stand against the wall, with the heels of their feet against the wall. I think we had to take our shoes off as we entered the ride. Did I say, “we?” I crack myself up. The Rotor had an observation deck around the top, so those like myself, could watch.
The ride would start rotating uprights at 33 revoulutions per minute. Faster, faster, faster. (This is where I would puke just from watching the people spinning.) The rotation would create a centripetal force and then when it was at full speed, the floor would drop down. Like drop down. Everyone was stuck like Velcro to the sides of the spinning barrel. Sick.
I had to finally try it when I was with my boyfriend. Oh, the things you do for love. I was so scared, because those who puke on the ride get to share it, as the splatter would smack up against the wall. I can only imagine the puke on the back of peoples’ shirts. You know those carnival people probably didn’t clean the walls too well. So, I made sure I hadn’t eaten, and went in and although I was sick for the rest of the Kennywood day, I did not throw up. What what one does for love.
There were several Rotors around the country, probably called other names. All American rotors had to be dismantled or modified after the “incident.” Yikes. In 2000, two tweens were injured when their feet were caught between the moving wall and the floor.One suffered broken bones and they were both hospitalized.
Ugh..I feel sick after watching that.
The Basement Swivel Chair
I wonder if my bff Ramaine remembers this. We used to hang out in my basement. It was a long room with a bar on one end, and a ping pong table on the other end. In the middle was furniture, including two snazzy swivel chairs just like the one in this picture:
This chair looks innocent enough, but is a vehicle of death
Let’s just say that it is not a good idea to put a bunch of neighborhood kids in the basement unsupervised. My mom would stay upstairs, smoking her Salem cigarettes and reading the National Enquirer. Meanwhile, we had a carnival going on downstairs. Ramaine sat in one of the swivel chairs, sitting cross legged on the chair. Sometimes we would pretend we were going into outer space. Oh, we were imaginative. We would then spin the occupant in the chair around and around and around. It would go pretty damn fast.But, alas, there is nothing imaginative about a possible concussion.The swivel chair tipped over and so did Ramaine. She hit her head on the floor, which I think was painted concrete. She immediately said that her head hurt, so we ran upstairs to get my mom.
She checked on Ramaine, and then ran to call her mom. On the way out of the rec room she told us-
“What ever you do, don’t let her go to sleep. She may never wake up again.”
Really? You said that to a child. Of course she was now going to be sleepy. That’s what kids do.
What an idiot. But, at the time, I thought my bff was going to drift off to sleep and never be able to spin in the chair ever again. I was scared for my partner in crime.
“ Don’t go to sleep, Ramaine”…I wanted to cry.
Well, she was ok, and I don’t remember if she had a concussion or not, but we went back to spinning that chair. I never sat in the chair, of course, as I knew my limitations and my friends accepted me for the puking freak that I was.
Sit’n Spin
Fast forward many years. When my children were young, they informed me that they wanted a Sit’n Spin. Great. So, they are manufacturing a personal use piece of playground apparatus. Just what I need. So, being the great mother that I was, I bought them this nauseating toy.
My least favorite purchase, other than maybe Kotex
Go ahead and puke. You’re not my kid.
Recycling the Sit’n Spin into a turn table. Good job, Pinterest lady.
In the end, there are thousands of things that spin. I will name them all:
yo yo, tops, pinwheel, a fan, hula hoop, frisbee, anything with wheels, including a ferris wheel, whirlygigs
silver maple tree helicopter whirlygigs, a basketball can spin, a record on a record player, a tornado, propellers, pottery thingy,and clothes in a washing machine. I have volunteers come up in my fourth grade class and act out the sun, moon, and earth and have them spin around while they are revolving around the sun. Sure, they get dizzy. They want to get dizzy. Goofy kids.
There was one particular spinning “toy” that did not make me dizzy:
Spin the Bottle
Spin the Bottle, the Older Crowd. Um, ok....ew
After all these years, they still love to get dizzy.
I feel sorry for the children of today. Really, I do. They have missed out on some many great things that we baby boomers experienced in the late fifties and sixties. Like poking people in the eyes ala The Three Stooges. Like counting how many times the Coyote SHOULD have died in those wonderful Road Runner cartoons. And then there are Colorforms.
Photos via ebay seller
Oh, I’m very aware that Colorforms are still around. They will celebrate their 61st birthday this summer. They were re-releasing their Michael Jackson Dress Up set for their big 60 celebration. Um, okay…..
I remember when my mom bought my very first colorform set. I am sure it was hard to find something a hyperactive chichuahua of a child would play with for more than 30 seconds. I am pretty sure it just had geometric shapes to move around. I remember smelling the thin vinyl. Could one actually get high sniffing Colorforms? I don’t think so, but they did have a smell to them. But, I took to them like a floundering flopping fish takes to water. I liked them. I remember the following Colorforms. I loved this one.
Of course, who would have known that a hyperactive child would also be a bit OCD? After playing with Colorforms, it took me forever to put the pieces back where they belonged.
“Vickie, it’s bath time….put that away now……………………………………….Come on, Vickie…………………………..Vickie…………………..”
Well, I just couldn’t put the pieces in a pile and just walk away. They had a place for each piece, dammit. And I had to put them back where I found them. Afterall, that’s what my mom always preached.
“Is that where you found it, Vickie? Put them back where you found them.”
So, it’s my mother’s fault that I was OCD with the Colorform pieces. I would freak out if I opened up a Colorform box and saw pieces lying around like the first picture that I posted. Let’s take a look at that one again. I would have slapped someone. Dear God, what the hell is wrong with you? The only other person in my house who could have done such a thing would have been my sister, Cheryl.
This makes me uneasy even today. My palms are getting sweaty. The pieces need to go right on the line. I mean, right on the line. Anything else was just wrong. I would sit there, taking about three or four turns to get it just right.
“Vickie, your bath water is getting cold…………”
Pretty bad that a mom has to run the bath water for a twenty-two year old.
Ok, just kidding.
So, my sister had to be the nonconformist colorformist. She was putting the pieces back like a drunken groundhog. I refer to that because there used to be a drunk groundhog on our property after I got married. I called her Mrs. Daegle after the drunk woman in The Bad Seed. Or maybe it had rabies. But, it couldn’t walk straight. Just like my sister couldn’t put the colorforms back straight. Dammit.
So, I did the only thing one could do in my position. I hid the Colorforms. Not the box or the little setting you got to decorate. Just the Colorforms. Which I guess were important.
“Vickie, where are the Colorforms?”
“Right there.”
“There are no Colorforms in the box.”
“You bought Colorforms without the colorforms?” I was a smart ass at a very smart ass age.
“Vickie…………….where are the Colorforms?”
“ Susie ate one and got sick, so I threw them away.” Susie the dog would never have eaten a Colorform. Although a brilliant answer coming from a hyperactive obsessive compulsive compulsive liar, my mom would never buy this one.
“I will count to three, Vickie, and you better bring them all back………………………1……………………………..2…………………………………….2 1/2………….”
She always used a “2 1/2″ before she asked my brother David to go get the belt. That was David’s job. He was the belt getter. Why couldn’t he just once say, “You want the god damn belt? Go get it yourself.” He was too nice. I on, the other hand, pushed her buttons way too much.
“Vickie, go to your room.”
Susie the dog would follow me to my room. I would wave at my dad on my way past his room. She must have sent him to his room, as he was usually lying on his side, watching the little red tv that was sitting on a tv dinner tray or whatever they are called. So, there I was, in my room, with the Colorforms hidden in my scuffy slippers in my closet.
All in all, Colorforms were a great thing for me. I was able to sit and play with something for more than five minutes before moving on to something else that caught my eye. I never walked away from Colorforms.
Well, not until I put the pieces back where I found them.
Once upon a time, there were more than 4,000 drive-in theaters across the United States. What a concept. Parents didn’t have to hire a babysitter to go to the movies. There would be a movie for the whole family, and then as the kids fell asleep in the back seat, parents could watch a movie just for them. It was awesome. While it lasted.
There aren’t very many drive-in movie theaters anymore. I personally blame Daylight Savings Time on their demise. VCR rentals are also culprits, along with a jump in real estate prices, and color tv’s that became pretty much affordable for a lot of people. Bummer. There are less than 400 today scattered across the nation. Shame on us.
My mom used to take us to the Bellaire Drive-in in our hometown of Weirton, West Virginia numerous times each summer. What fun we had. Most of the time we were able to wear our pajamas. We would lay out a big blanket right beside the car and watch the movies from the ground. We would take one of the loudspeakers from their pole and place it beside us. Fun times. When we didn’t wear our pajamas, there was a playground waiting for us in front of the large projection screen. We would play until it was dark enough and the giant screen would come alive. We would then scamper to the car to await the first feature.
My mom would sit inside the car, alone. I think she considered this her down time. I never really paid attention to her during the movie until I had to go to the bathroom. I never thought it was weird to go the drive-in bathroom in my pajamas and slippers. I was a little kid. Kids got away with a lot of stuff. Adults could never walk to the concession stand in their pajamas. Although, I do happen to see a lot of people in their pajamas at Walmart, so I may have to retract that statement.
After the first short or first movie, there would be a song about intermission that we grew to love. They made the concession stand sound like a 5-star restaurant. Everyone had to hit the concession stand. The smell of buttered popcorn would travel from the little block building to every car parked there that night. Parents knew that it didn’t matter how much food they brought with them for the kids to snack on, buttered popcorn was going to win hands-down. And it always did.
“Vickie, you do not need to go to the concession stand………No you don’t……..No you don’t…………Vickie, they are not giving away puppies. Quit lying……..No they aren’t……………………..Ok, but hurry back…..I don’t want butter on mine.”
Look how much fun they are having
We would go at dusk and watch the cartoons that were shown before the main movie. It didn’t take me long to figure out that my mom fell asleep a lot. What other reason would a mother let her children sit through a rated-R movie. She simply didn’t know because she fell asleep during the first movie. We rarely stayed for the second movie when we were quite small. Unless she fell asleep. And oh my, when we were a bit older, we wanted her to fall asleep. We had a lot to learn.
My first rated R movie that I was able to watch courtesy of my sleeping mother was The Fearless Vampire Killers. I was about eleven years old, I believe, since the movie came out in 1967. Directed by Roman Polanski, and starring Sharon Tate. My mom told me that it wasn’t rated R and that none of the movies at the Bellaire Drive-In were rated R. I don’t know about that, Mom.
I had my eyes glued to the big screen for a while, and glanced into the car to see if my mom was awake. If there was cigarette smoke coming out of the crack in the car windows, she was awake and she would take us home if she saw any nudity or bad language. But, and this but was the fun part, if she was asleep, we got a lesson in sex, drinking, and kissing. And with such a big screen, you could really see things. Like French kissing. Oh my. Again, my mom let me know that the movie was not Rated -R. She didn’t want to come off as a bad, sleeping mother. I always thought she was lying. Especially with The Fearless Vampire Killers. There were a lot of naked women running around. Found out today that it was rated PG 13. Go figure. Um, sorry Mom.
Some of the other movies I remember watching at the drive in were:
1967- Valley of the Dolls
1966- Sand Pebbles
Planet of the Apes-1968
Sound of Music
1967-Bonnie and Clyde
Now that I look through the internet movie database, I realize that I spent a good part of my summers at the drive-in. The above were just a sampling of the movies I saw in my pajamas. I feel sorry for my two children. They missed out. I guess I could ask them this summer some time to put their pajamas on one starry lit night and drag them to the closest drive-in. At ages 26 and 24, I am sure it would be an experience they would never forget.
The year was 1965. It was late fall, in the sleepy mill town of Weirton, West Virginia. Sitting in traffic with her three children, Georgiana Mendenhall was becoming agitated. This was a daily occurence on Cove Road, and Mrs. Mendenhall was in a hurry.
“This is ridiculous. I bet there is an old hoot up front, driving like a snail……I bet when we get where we can pass, there will be an old geezer up there. I betcha.”
Her daughter, Vickie, aged nine, took note of her mother’s words. This wasn’t the first time her mother had exhibited road rage. Vickie was sitting in the front seat, unprotected, and unaware that if her mother wrecked, Vickie would most likely go crashing through the windshield. Most likely.
Traffic was creeping. Vickie wished that she was in the backseat with her brother and sister. They were fighting, as usual, but yet it was always fun trying to avoid the sweeping slap that came from her mother, trying to swat at them to quit fighting while she was driving. Alone and seatbeltless in the front seat, made Vickie very aware of her situation as her mother’s road rage increased.
“Damnit the hell any way. Why are we moving so slowly. I NEED to get home.”
Georgiana Mendenhall did not NEED to get home. The woman was out of cigarettes and was slowly edging toward her next smoke. She was closer to her home than to a cigarette store. Of course, there was no such thing as a cigarette store in Weirton, West Virginia. Had there been, Mrs. Mendenhall would have worked there. She needed her Salem cigarettes, those cancer sticks in a green and white package.
Mrs. Mendenhall had no idea that she had left her pack of Salem cigarettes on the coffee table in front of the couch where she sat, inhaling the magic into her lungs. She smoked from the time she woke up until the time she went to bed. She smoked while cooking. She smoked while ironing. She smoked while smoking. She was indeed, addicted. The traffic was creeping, just as the hairs were creeping up on the back of Georgiana Mendenhall’s neck. She was ready to hit the car in front of her.
“Dear God, what is going on up there? If there is an old geezer causing this, I am going to ram him.”
Georgiana’s daughter was frightened for her life. For. her. life. She spoke not a word, however, because it would not make the situation any better. She just smiled to let her know that it was going to be ok.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Vickie?” Mrs. Mendenhall decided to take her edginess and point it right at her oldest child. “Do you think this is funny? I need to get home to fix dinner.” Vickie noted that her mother took grip of the steering wheel as if she were the Boston Strangler. The need for a smoke was becoming intense. Vickie later described the emotional turmoil in the automobile.
“Mom was falling apart. The Traffic jam was too much for her. I tried to joke with her, asking why it is called a traffic “jam” since you should be able to get through jelly. I thought it was funny, but she was having no part of it. She was ready to convulse.”
The children sitting in the back were blind to their mother’s growing need for a cigarette. They made matters worse by yelling at each other. Cheryl claimed that David was looking at her. David stated that he was not. Cheryl claimed that he was looking at her again. David stated that he was not.
And that’s when Georgiana Mendenhall lost her mind.
She began honking her horn. It wasn’t just a “beep beep” as in the Road Runner cartoons that her children loved so. It was a blare. Future writer Vickie noted the sound in a menagerie of synonyms she learned in fourth grade:
“It was a constant barrage, a cannonade, a unrelenting reverberation, vociferation, cacophonous,and dissonant.”
This did not make the traffic jam disband or hasten its agenda. Traffic was as slow as molasses on a summer day in the desert.
Vickie looked over at her mother. Georgiana Mendenhall looked like she was holding a pretend cigarette in her right hand. Beads of perspiration were falling from her brow. The horn blowing continued. The person in the car in front of Mrs. Mendenhall threw up his hands in exasperation. It was not his fault. It was probably an accident that was making the traffic move at a snail’s pace. They were in traffic for a long, long time, perhaps ten minutes. Too long for a short fused, cigarette craving murderous mom.
The traffic seemed to increase in velocity when the road turned from two to four lane. Mrs. Georgiana Mendenhall put her foot on the pedal and accelerated. She moved over into the passing lane and approached the traffic jam culprit, lingering in the right lane.
“You son of a bitch!” growled Vickie’s mother. She put her hand on the horn and the sound blared as they passed the accused. Vickie looked over at the driver. He was an old man. He was driving a purple Cadillac. A very large and long purple Cadillac. She knew the car well. She rolled her window down and waved at the driver as they came beside him.
“Hi Grandpa!’ Vickie mouthed over to the old man. He didn’t take his eyes off of the road. His hands were stationed at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, an intense look on his face. Afterall, a crazed road ragian was trying to run him off of the road.
“Mom, it’s Grandpa you called an old geezer.” Vickie laughed.
Georgiana Mendenhall did not say a word. She was not fond of her father-in-law, and he was not fond of her. He was a big name in this sleepy steel mill town, and he could make her disappear if he wanted to. He was the same man who put his crazy wife in a “rest” home every time he took a cruise or flight to Florida. He could make life miserable for his daughter-in-law. He may drive slow, but his actions in his business dealings were swift. But, he sure loved his grandaughter, Vickie.
“I’m going to tell Grandpa that you said he was a geezer,” Vickie glanced at her mother. Her mother looked ashen. Perhaps it was the want of a Salem cigarette physically making her sick. Or perhaps it was her daughter’s nonchalant way of bribing her mother.
Georgiana Mendenhall arrived at home and reached for her beloved Salem cigarettes. Ahhhh…….. Vickie, of course, had no idea at this age what an orgasm was, but noted that her mother lit a cigarette after she smoked that cigarette.
And three hours later, Vickie and her siblings were summoned to the kitchen, where they found newly baked whoopie pies, sitting in a pile on the kitchen table. “I thought I would make your favorite, Vickie.”
Vickie knew that her silence could be bought. Whoopie pies were an impressive purchase. She also learned that traffic jams are not necessarily a bad thing.
And she learned at the tender age of nine that life is nothing more than one big bargaining chip.
I am sure that you have never heard of Laura Anderson Williams before. I mean, I don’t know why the hell you would, she was my grandmother. I had never heard of her before, either, until my mom told us three kids that we were taking a train out west to visit her. I was only seven, David was five, and Cheryl was four.
Yeah, let's take these three kids on a train. David has his gun ready.
When I think about that now, I just want to start drinking. I would have never taken my small children on a train across the country by myself. I had a hard enough time taking them across the county. But, then again, I only had two kids, a fact my mother made sure I knew time after time after time.
“Oh, yeah, Vickie? How do you think I felt? I had 3 kids.”
I wanted to say, “Technicality, Mom dearest. You birthed one and adopted two…….. I win.” Actually, I would have counted my sister as six children, because she had temper tantrums that rivaled small countries at war. I should have counted as at least three children because I was hyper. Hence, the “Cricket” moniker. David was mellow, so mellow I really think his biological father was Tommy Chong from the comedy duo, Cheech and Chong. Hell, maybe my mom sedated us all and it only worked on David.
But, I really didn’t know I had another grandmother. My one here at home, Orpha, was crazy. She is the one I told you wrote little notes on the envelopes of my birthday cards, a place normally reserved just for the birthday girl’s name:
Happy Birthday, Vickie Hartford Circus Fire November 9, 1944
She did this every year. It didn’t matter that the Hartford Circus Fire took place on July 6. No one had the time or the want to find out if she was a trivia genius or a loon. We always went with the loon. But, she was the only grandma I knew about. Sure, my mom mentioned, “Grandma Laura,” but I thought she was talking about her grandmother, who art in Heaven.
My mom was born and raised in Spokane, Washington. All her “people” were out there. And we were going to meet them all. My mom informed us that it would take three days and three nights to get out there. Whaat? We were going to sleep on a train? . My dad was excited too…..because he wasn’t going with us. I have a feeling that he would have gotten off in Chicago or jumped out on the tracks two days in. He wasn’t a big fan of my mother. Or maybe her mother. But, he was going to stay home and take care of Susie the dog.
Well, the train trip was fun. I couldn’t wait to meet this Grandma Laura I had heard so much about. We meet Grandpa Williams first when he picked us up at the train station. He reminded me of Jimmy Durante. He had the biggest nose. Seriously, I could not get enough stare time in. And, how funny, but I do remember wondering if his boogers were bigger than most people’s. Yeah, those are the things I thought about.
Grandpa Williams worked for the railroad for years. He was also a councilman in Spokane. But, the best story I heard was the one where Grandpa Williams beat up Bing Crosby when he was little. Just punched him right in the nose. I bet it wasn’t a White Christmas that year, Bing. Sounds like my grandpa may have been a bully. He must have liked beating up Bing, because he was also a pretty good boxer. I don’t know how many fights he won, but he quit boxing after a man he was fighting died after Grandpa punched him in the temple. That was sad and all hearing that story, but all I could think about was if his nose was that big from getting punched in the boxing ring over time. I thought it was a pretty good reason why someone would have such a big nose.
We arrived at the little white house on the corner that my mother called home for so many years. We were going to meet her brother, sister, and all of their families. This was going to be so much fun. Well, until I met Grandma Laura.
OH. MY. GOD. I am sure I stared for the longest time when I saw her standing at the door, hands on hips. No, she didn’t have a big nose, too. No, Grandma Laura looked like someone who came right out of the movie, Heidi. It is so funny, but I can remember everything about that moment. I couldn’t speak, well, because my mouth was wide open. A small bird could have had plenty of time to build a nest. Oh, my, Grandma, what crazy hair you have.
My grandma must have had really really long hair, because it was braided on each side of her head, and then rolled up on the sides of her head. Sure, I have Princess Leia from Star Wars to reference as an example, but Leia didn’t really look like my grandmother.
Grandma didn't look like this
I think George Lucas must have lived in Spokane, Washington, too, and took the idea from my grandmother. I really wish I had a picture of her. Grandma Anderson William’s father, my great grandfather, was named Lars Peter Anderson. They were from Wales. Grandma had a lot of different customs that she must have brought with her to Spokane, from Wisconsin, via Wales, like her accent, “Donchaknowl.”
Sort of like this but not really. Think more Swiss Heidi.
So, meanwhile, remember, I’m still staring at her. She had a red and blue housecoat vest thing on and a skirt. Heidi wear.
She wore it like this too.
I was struck by her accent, but that’s not all. She got ahold of my brother first and hugged him like she was wrestling a bear. And then, Oh Dear God, she pinched his cheeks.
“Oh, David, you’ve got your grandfather’s name.” I hoped to God I wasn’t named after anyone in the family, because I did not want my cheeks to be pinched off. I looked over at David, and it really looked like two little grip marks on his cheeks. I was a dead duck. But, not if she couldn’t get ahold of me. I wasn’t a Cricket for nothing. When it was my turn, I looked at her and said,
“Grandma, you look like a yodeler.”
Now THIS looks like Grandma Laura.
Needless, to say, I didn’t get pinched or squeezed to death. Because I made that flattering comment as I ran past her. And that’s what I was going for. But, Grandma Laura didn’t like me much after that. And she was pissed when I made friends with a stray cat and brought it into the house.
I mean, what was it going to do, mess up her hair?
It was a long trip back to West Virginia. Grandma Laura took it upon herself to give my sister a whippin. My mom was pissed and was going to take us back after only two days in Spokane. No wonder my mom didn’t go back home much.
It only made me love my loon of a grandmother back home even more.
One of my favorites games to play when I was little was Button Button, Who’s Got the Button? It was a pretty easy game to play. It didn’t matter how many kids were playing. And all you needed was a penny. When I first started playing the game, I was OCD about using a button, because, well, as in the title, someone was asking for a damn button. But, after using about ten buttons that my mom sort of needed, I was told if I ever used a button again, my name would be Mud. Which in mom speak meant I would be getting “The Belt.” So, I used a shiny penny instead.
The object of Button Button, Who’s Got the Button is an easy one. The game was usually played by several children and one adult. I wish someone would have told my mom that, because we all took turns being the “adult.” The children start by sitting on the bottom stair of a staircase. We played on my front porch steps. If it was raining, we used my basement steps. It was a pretty flexible game. So, again, the kids are sitting at the bottom of the steps. The adult (Me, at the old age of eight, perhaps) would hold out in front of them two closed hands, with one holding a “special” button hidden inside of it. I would ask, “Button, Button, who’s got the button?
For example, let’s pretend that my neighbor friends and siblings were sitting side by side on the bottom step. LeeAnn, Ramaine, Cheryl, and David. I would put my hands behind my back, and put the penny in one of them and then hold it out in front of LeeAnn. “Button Button, Who’s Got the Button?” She would then pick one of my hands. If she was right, she would get to move up one step. Then I would go to Ramaine, etc. etc. Whoever got to the top of the steps won and then they would get to be the leader.
This was such a fun game. For a while. One day, two of the neighbor girls, who were older and never played with us, wanted to join in the fun on summer afternoon. Well, how cool was that? I ran into the house and asked my mom if she would make Kool-Aid for all of us. She obliged and added cookies to the mix. This was going to be a great day.
Well, Linda, (not her real name) one of the older girls asked to be the leader. Of course, you can be the leader. We all squeezed on the bottom step and began to play. The other older girl, Kathy,(again, not her name) picked the right hand first thing. She got to advance up a step. I was next. Loser. David picked the right hand, as did my sister. Lee Ann and I were left behind in the dust. I dont think my bff Ramaine was there this particular day.
It was amazing how Kathy picked the right hand every time. Wow! She was so lucky. She quickly won. My mom then had us come in the house to have Kool-Aid and whoopie pies. Those older girls were going to want to play with us all of the time. My mom’s whoopie pies were the best cookie in the world. It was great how she was making them the very same day that Linda and Kathy decided to play with us.
So, after we got done eating, it was Kathy’s turn to be the leader. I was doing a bit better this time and was able to move up a little bit here and there. Linda was getting them right every time. She was almost at the top, when my brother, who was just coming out of the house, stopped and watched the fun, and then exclaimed, “You are cheating!” My little brother did not just say that. Did I just hear him tell the two older, beautiful popular girls that they were cheating? I was ready to get off the bottom step and run past everyone to tell my mom that David was going to make those girls want to quit and go home.
The girls looked at each other and then started laughing. They dropped the penny and looked us over and then Linda said, “This is such a baby game………….. We just came over here because your mom and my mom were talking on the phone and said she was making whoopie pies. We wanted some…….We’re leaving.”
And off they went with an air of superiority, munching on one of my mom’s world famous whoopie pies. I just wanted to cry. It’s funny, but we just sat quietly and watched them saunter down the street. They would turn around in the middle of the road, and laugh every couple of yards or so. I was so mad. I just wanted to throw rocks at them.
Well, Button, Button, Who’s Got the Button was put on the back burner for a long time. We switched to Mother, May I, or Colored Eggs. We saved Button, Button for our rainy day fun.
At least we knew on a rainy day we could play the “baby” game on my basement steps. The older girls couldn’t see us and we wouldn’t have to share whoopie pies with them ever again.
I skipped a decade or so but taught my children how to play Button Button, Who’s Got the Button on my old steps while visiting my parents. We had an inside staircase at the home we just built, but I wanted to initate this fun game where I learned to play. I explained the rules and talked about how much fun it would be. I got a real button from my mom’s decades- of-grand- button- collecting- collection, and we began to play. Adam won quickly and was able to be the leader. I sat down, sort of excited to share this wonderful game with my children.
Button, Button, I've got freakin Buttons
Adam put his hands behind his back, and put them out in front of his sister. One of his hands was out in front of the other. She picked it, and the damn hand held the button. He was lucky if he was six years old and already figured out how to cheat. I just looked at him. He was laughing.
I had a huge argument years ago with a girl over our first names. It was while I was attending college, circa 1976. We were in a bar, so you know how drunken conversations can take an ugly turn. Especially when there is name calling.
I was standing in a crowded pub, creatively called, The Pub, minding my own business, when I heard someone yell, “Vickie!!” Well, since that is my name, I obviously looked to see who was calling for me. I had no idea who the person was, but I was on my second beer, so maybe it was my best friend. You first need to understand that I was what they call a “cheap date.” I would start giggling after only 1/2 of a beer, so it didn’t take much for me to become the self-proclaimed life of the party. If I had more than three beers, and a microphone was nearby, I would become a comedian. I hang my head in embarrassment now. But, on that night, I became a drunken trial attorney. I am sure that is the best kind of trial lawyer. I argued my drunken case to the point where I was ready to take the LSAT the very next day.
Well, another “Vickie” went over and hugged the person who was yelling my name. How cool! Another person with my name. I wonder if we are related. Ok, now you should understand by that comment that I may have had more than 1/2 beer. I guess the next day it would have made more sense if our LAST names were the same, duh. But, when she walked by me, I decided to say something.
“I heard him yell for you. My name is Vickie, too.”
Well, hell, I never personally knew anyone with my first name. I went to a high school with over 2,000 students, and not one of them was named Vickie. Oh wait. That’s a lie. I can now think of two right off the top of my head. Well, that night, I thought I was the only one in the universe who had that first name. I was so excited. She seemed excited, too. She answered me with a sweet smile.
“Cool. How do you spell your name? I spell mine V-I-C-K-I.”
“I spell mine V-I-C-K-I-E.”
“Why? That sounds stupid.” Obviously, she had more than 1/2 beer also. I was shocked that she could say that with a smile. And, also, how can the same name “sound” stupid? What an idiot. And to think she called me “stupid.” Well, she was stupider.
I had some hard ass sorority sisters nearby. I wasn’t afraid of this stranger who shared my name. I’d have backup. Let the name calling begin, Vicki bitch.
“Stupid? Your name looks like you forgot how to spell the rest of it, because you have no brain, and you just quit writing it. V-I-C-K-I is incomplete.”
“Vicki Lawrence spells it with just an “i”. Is that the best you got? It was my turn.
“Well, then, she is stupid. She is just a sidekick to Carol Burnett. She only got the job because she looked a little like Carol Burnett. If she spelled her name with an “e”, she would have her own show.” I thought that was a brilliant retort.
Well, once drunks get in a confrontation, it’s hard to tell where the conversation ends up. We bantered back and forth for a short while, but realized that there really isn’t too much of an argument, unless you get off topic. I could have easily commented on her poor choice of earth shoes and painter pants. She could have commented on how beautiful I was. Or something like that. But, luckily, we ran out of steam and started making fun of how the “other” Vickie’s/Vicki’s would spell their name. I started.
I asked her if she was ever called, “Picky Vicky.” I hated that name, mainly because, well, I was picky. It would make sense in an argument that since “picky” is spelled with a “y”, then the name should end that way. We both thought that was an ugly adaptation of our name.
Then there was M-I-C-K-E-Y, as in the mouse. Why wasn’t our name spelled like that? V-I-C-K-e-Y. Later on, my husband used to call me “Vickey Rooney,” after the actor, Mickey Rooney. We both thought that was wrong also.
After we hugged and laughed off our three minute round, she went off to dance on the table and I went home to pass out study, I woke up remembering why I hate for people to write anything but, V-I-C-K-I-E. The stupid nuns at the Sacred Heart of Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy were to blame. As I mentioned in several previous posts, I attended that private school for the first three grades, and hated every minute of it.
First of all, the crazy head nun, Sister Maria, insisted on calling me Victoria, despite my objections. I got in trouble for trying to correct her.
“Little girl, your correct name is Victoria. “Vickie” is a nickname……….I don’t care what your mom says. “Vickie” is short for Victoria.”
Well, ok, then, witch. I hated Sister Maria and I knew it is wrong to wish bad things on her, but I hoped bad things would happen to her. Not death, mind you. I was only in third grade. I was thinking more like her walking and simply falling down. Yep. I wanted to see the nun fall down. Besides being a teacher, Sister Maria also drove the van/bus to pick up some of the students in the morning. One morning, a driver hit the side of our van. It’s weird, but I looked to see if Sister Maria was hurt before I noticed I had a big gash through my leotards. Dammit, she was ok. The police came and they asked for all of the names of the passengers in the van. The next morning, there was a write-up in the newspaper. My name was listed as one of the injured.
“…….and Victoria Mendenhall, 9, of Weirton……”
Whaaat? It honestly pissed me off. My name was in the newspaper, and it wasn’t really my name. Sister Maria told them my name was Victoria. I never hated her more than when I read my misprint in the newspaper. She was never going to call me anything but Victoria. So, I decided to be a smart ass from then on. I started the very next day when I got on the bus.”
“Good morning, Victoria.” she said when I got on the stupid bus/van.
“Good morning, Sister Mary.” She didn’t say anything, but gave me a very dirty look. I was dead.
I called her Sister Mary for a few weeks, when suddenly, out of the blue, a miracle occurred. A miracle, I tell ya.
“Vickie, did you have a nice weekend?” I just nodded and went on my way. Wow. I did it! I got her to start calling me Vickie instead of Victoria. I felt so powerful.
It wasn’t until a year later, far far away from the Sacred Heart of Mary Juana Academy, safely enrolled in public school, that I heard my mom talking to a neighbor lady during their daily coffee/cigarette marathon. I had settled in my eavesdropping hiding place, ready to listen to some mom gossip.
“No, don’t send him there. My kids went there for a few years until last year. I had enough of the head nun, Sister Maria. Vickie was coming home in tears almost daily because Sister Maria kept calling her Victoria. I finally called the school and told her that I should know what I named my daughter, and if Vickie comes home one more time and tells me you have called her Victoria, I will pull my children from your school and I will make some phone calls about how you have treated my daughter. Do I make myself clear?”
Wow. My mom went on blabbing, but I had heard enough. I could feel the air leaking out of my balloon swelled head as I walked into my room.
Years later, before my freshman year in high school, my mom, brother, sister, bff Ramaine and I were in a terrible car accident. I had hit my head on the back seat after a Mack truck hit us from behind and we flew head-on into a car coming in the opposite direction. I had blood flowing from my head and from my ankle, but still managed to talk to the ambulance driver person. I’m sure it was the concussion talking.
“My name is Vickie. It is spelled V-I-C-K-I-E…… Do you think my name will be in the newspaper?”
glass Vickie balls
Fast forward many years. I have divorced and have just purchased a new townhome. I am feeling liberated. I took back my maiden name and the sound of it makes me feel independent and free. I am happy. But, as I look around at new purchases, I had to smile. I must like my name.
55 years old and I'm collecting blocks...um, ok.
In the end, one needs to feel comfortable in their own skin. They need to be proud of who they are and defend their name.
Literally.
Set your drink on these lovely monogrammed coasters
My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
following me home
photo pinterest
