Map of West Virginia counties (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The governor of West Virginia, Earl Ray Tomlin, introduced Senate Bill 359, an educational reform bill, which will be voted on soon. Teachers have given the bill a big, fat F, which in my opinion has nothing to do with reform.
Reform- to amend or improve by change of form or removal of fault or abuses.
I’m not going to go into each point of the bill, only to say that it is a slap in the face to all educators in the state of West Virginia. You know, teachers in the Mountain state make one of the lowest salaries in the nation. Many teachers head east to work outside the state borders to garner higher wages. But, in the end, teachers are working the best they can, despite the obstacles that are coming directly from the higher ups.
Obstacles, you say? Absolutely. Someone a few years ago had decided teachers need to test more. I give a beginning Math and Reading test at the beginning of the year. I give Benchmark tests twice a year in four subjects and the students have two online writing tests to get ready for the big one in March. The Westest is held in May. Now, mind you, this is on top of the tests I give weekly in Social Studies, Reading, Spelling, and Science. I also have to give end of the year tests.
I would just rather teach.
I’m 56 years old and I think I received a pretty good education when I was young. We memorized our multiplication tables. We learned our state capitals, had spelling bees, and wrote and presented book reports. It was all about Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic. We grew up fine. Some of my peers did better than fine.
Ok, this was before my time….but we had those desks.
But, something along the way changed. Someone has decided that to exist in the 21st century, we must bathe our children in technology or they will surely die. So, in the elementary setting we are testing, and we are teaching technology….on top of Handwriting, Math, Spelling, Grammar, Reading, Science, Social Studies, and Health. And we are doing this in crowded classrooms.
If you want to reform, let’s first take a look at teacher/student ratio.
The governor wants to require early childhood education programs to be made available five days a week for the full day; allowing program to be for fewer than five days per week and less than full day under certain circumstances.
I don’t understand this. This is not the reform that we need. Before adding new programs, we need to address the teacher/student ratio in k-2. Class size should be limited to no more than 16 students and the curriculum should be restricted. Let me explain:
Years ago, there were a lot of two-parent households. A lot of the moms did not work outside the home. Someone was there to make sure students did their homework, and were more hands-on. Now, I’m not saying that a lot of people don’t still do that. Of course they do. But, for the most part, it is fact that the divorce numbers are much higher than they were years ago. Even without divorce, economics force both parents to work. Some single parent households need help. Grandparents are raising many of the children. Many children come from homes where abuse is a way of life. Drug use is more prevalant than it was years ago. Some children go to bed hungry. Yes, I realize that has also happened in the past, but in the end, the classroom is now a home- away- from- home for a lot of children.
I have fifteen students this year in my fourth grade classroom. Last year I had twenty-one. Six less students makes a world of difference. And those teachers with twenty-five and twenty-six students are overwhelmed. I know my students. I can look at one and know she is not feeling well because I know her so well. I send her to the office to get her temperature taken…101.6. I smile and give her a hug as she leaves to go home. I know not to give much homework because it is an unfair advantage to the several who are lucky to have a piece of notebook paper or pencil at their homes. No one goes through their backpacks at night. No one helps them practice their multiplication table. My mom drilled me nightly when I was in third grade. I knew them when I went to fourth grade. Some students in general just have no clue. Some children have behavioral issues. Some are learning disabled. Some have attention deficit problems. This is not the same mix of students that I went to school with, but yet, nothing has changed in the way of class size.
So, I teach time management skills in the classroom and basically let them do some homework during class time. This only seems fair to those who aren’t lucky enough to have help at home. Sure, in the end, fourth graders can learn to do their homework on their own, but they need guidance and direction..but sadly, a few are not receiving it at home. They are allowed to sit and kill things while playing their video games. And I know a majority of the boys do this. I ask these things…. Technology at its finest. When I was young we had three channels on tv and the World Book Encyclopedia as our internet. We honestly didn’t have much to do but our homework on school nights.
When you shove many children into a classroom, something is lost. So, let’s begin our educational reform by taking a look at teacher/student ratio. I know you won’t, because that would mean hiring new teachers. It’s bad enough that the governor wants to hire anyone with a bachelor’s degree to enter the classroom. You are going to be opening a can of worms if this hiring practice is passed, however. It will change the scope of teacher education in this state forever.
I know some of you will not agree with me on this next point, but I think technology is making us stupider. (Yes, I realize that is not a word.)
“The fog of information can drive out knowledge.”
Don’t get me wrong. I think technology in the classroom is great. I use it in some form every day. If we are studying volcanoes, I have a volcano simulator waiting on one of the computers. I have a penguin cam up some days. There are many, many internet sites that are extremely beneficial. That’s not what I am talking about.
The state of West Virginia implemented a program called Tech Steps. All students from kindergarten on must complete about six assignments. In my opinion, this program should not be used in the elementary school setting. Why do elementary school children need a technology component when we should be concentrating on core subjects? If you want our test scores to rise, don’t inundate us with work that can wait until fifth or sixth grade. You are making us waste precious time. Do third graders really need to learn how to use a spreadsheet? Sure, we are in a different world now, where computers and technology are at our every turn. I get it. I think it has merit in junior high, but not in the early grades where everything depends on them learning the basics so they can go on to the next year and build on that.
In the end, it is not the same as it was. We are forced to test too much when we should be teaching. We are forced to teach more children in our classroom than is beneficial to their educational growth. We are forced to teach technology, when in fact, we should review our multiplication one more time instead of completing yet another techsteps assignment that will have no bearing on other important educational milestones, such as defining words, rounding numbers, and correcting a run-on sentence. K-2 teachers should be teaching a limited curriculum, plain and simple.
There are only so many minutes in a day for an elementary school teacher. We have to teach Spelling, Social Studies, Science, Math, Reading, Grammar, handwriting, and Health. We are also referees, bankers, counselors, and health inspectors.
So, Senate Education committee people, there you have it; the rambling of a fourth grade teacher. If you truly want an educational reform in West Virginia, start with kindergarten and give those teachers a small class size. We teach with kids squished into our classrooms because that’s the way you want it. We test and test and test to make sure we are testing because that’s what we have to do. We teach technology subjects that the wee ones should not have to be introduced to until an older age. We do all this because you told us to. If something is broken, it’s not with the teachers. It is with the system. Please be careful with every point of our governor’s education reform bill. It needs to be chewed up and digested to see if it sits well with teachers. Take us in consideration instead of pointing fingers at us. Because after all,
You can lead a student to the test, but you can’t make him pass it.
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I saw a seagull today. I realize that is not an unusual observation for many. People always see them at the beach. After all, that’s where they belong. So, why the hell are they flying around my local Walmart’s parking lot? In West Virginia.
I came to Fairmont to go to college in 1974 and there were a few seagulls in the Middletown Mall parking lot. I was confused then and I am confused now. They have no business being in the mountains of West Virginia. That is against the laws of nature. Why, that would be like seeing a polar bear on a Miami beach, a rattle snake crawling along in the Arctic, or a moose hanging out in Central Park. So, after going through more “animals out of their element” scenarios, I decided I needed to learn more about seagulls and why they are in Fairmont, West Virginia. We only have streams and rivers. And they aren’t even cool rivers, like the Columbia…..or the mighty Mississippi. No, my seagulls are near the Tygart and the West Fork Rivers. There is no sand, no waves, no crabs to peck at. Why, oh why, are they flying above me in the freaking Walmart parking lot? The search was on.
Many people are perplexed as well. A woman wrote from Iowa about seeing seagulls in her Kmart parking lot. Many other land-locked puzzled people were wondering the same thing. Is it a migration route? And if so, where the hell are they coming from or going to in Iowa? That makes no sense at all. Iowa is too far away. And a blogging friend informed me that the seagull is the state bird of Utah. Utah! Seems that years and years ago locusts were eating a lot of crops and all of a sudden seagulls appeared and ate the locust. The Mormons saw that as a sign and the next thing you know, they’ve got a state bird. Apparently, the seagulls in that state like the brine in the Great Salt Lake.
Maybe the seagulls think West Virginia is part of Virginia. They, afterall, have Virginia Beach, seagull capital of a small stretch of beach. There are a lot of geographically challenged people out there who think West Virginia is western Virginia. Maybe the seagulls think the same.
Years ago, near Point Pleasant, West Virginia, people thought they saw a strange flying “thing” that was dubbed Mothman. Hysteria reigned in that small Ohio River town for many years afterwards. Mothman supposedly had red eyes, a large wingspan and could pick up a German Shephard and carry it off. There is even a statue to Mothman and a Mothman festival. But, a wildlife biologist said all along it was a sandhill crane, a large American crane almost as high as a man with a seven foot wingspan featuring red circles around its eyes. He said the bird may have wandered out of its migration route.
I guess not all birds know what the hell they are doing. Sure, Canadian geese flaunt their knowledge of their ABC’s by flying in a V formation. They fly south for the winter. Well, they used to until they decided that since these silly Americans are feeding them, they’d just stay all year long. We can’t get rid of them or their trail of slimy algae green poop.
So, maybe my Walmart seagull got lost on his way to Bora Bora or Aruba or where ever they fly on their migration route. I had no idea there were so many varieties of gulls. All I know is that they can attack. I know this because I watched Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. Tippi Hedren got pecked in the forehead by one.
In the end, I guess I feel sorry for the seagull who is living at the Walmart parking lot. Where does he sleep at night? Sitting on a light pole can’t be fun. Doesn’t he miss the sound of the ocean waves lulling him to sleep? And if he doesn’t leave, will the crows let him hang out with them? They are usually a tight group, not making friends easily.
I did just read that we may be confused by their name, as it implies the “sea.” Someone wrote there is no such thing as a “sea” gull. Gulls can adapt inland. Well, then maybe their name should change. Canadian geese are no longer Canadian….. Hermit crabs are quite social……a teddy bear hamster is not a damn teddy bear……
and a jumbo shrimp is not a big little thing. Whoever is naming animals is on drugs.
My fourth grade class was debating yesterday as to who should win the election today. I just sat back and listened to their reasoning. Or lack of reasoning. But, one thing is clear, they repeat what they hear in their household, and in the end, most of the reasoning I heard was well, scary. I think I heard three students say something that made me feel their parents are informed.
When I was in fourth grade, if someone asked me who was president, I may have replied, John F. Kennedy. Oh sure, I knew he had died on my parent’s anniversary several years before I was in fourth grade, and I knew that the gunman was gunned down by some night club owner, but I didn’t know who took his place. Wait. That’s a lie. I remember my grandfather talking about “LBJ, that goddamn snake in the grass.” So, our president was LBJ….Grandpa liked Ike, whoever the hell that was. Later, I found out it was Eisehower, who was president before “that catholic boy.” My grandfather was all about being a republican. But, I was nine years old and had important things to do like go to Campfire Girls meetings and play chinese jump rope. I didn’t care about politics. The only thing I knew at the time was that presidents used initials and short nicknames instead of their names….Ike….JFK…..LBJ. I was VLM. My friend Ramaine was RAC. Lori was LAM, and LeeAnn was LAW. I was pissed because my middle name messed everything up. I could never have pretty monogrammed towels.
And kids really didn’t pay attention to who was running for president back then. But, that changed when we baby boomers had kids and talked about it more and the kids listened. Why did they listen? Well, because our kids stayed indoors more than we did when we were young. We were outside as long as it wasn’t storming. Well, my mom forbade it to lightning on Woodland Estates, so we were outside most of the time. Don’t get me wrong, my kids played outside plenty, but the mid 80′s were different than the mid 60′s. Kids of the mid 80′s listened because they were around the parents more.
English: Seal of the President of the United States Español: Escudo del Presidente de los Estados Unidos Македонски: Печат на Претседателот на Соединетите Американски Држави. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
My daughter became a big fan of CNN when she was little. She liked Tucker Carlson and his bow tie. She became interested in the environment when she was very young, getting mad at the Harrison Power Plant and its wicked plume of black smoke that came out of the stack. She was in tune. Both of my kids were. So, they listened. She pointed out later, “Mom, you are so not a Republican. And Dad……he is definitely not a Democrat.” They listened and picked up on things. And she was right. I changed my party years later so I could vote for Obama.
But, back to my fourth graders. I let them go at each other. One said that Romney hated the Earth. Another said that Obama was going to close all of the coal mines in the state. (West Virginia)
“I’m voting for Romney. Obama doesn’t believe in God.”
“I’m voting for Obama because Romney is a Mormon.” When asked what a Mormon was, the child told me, “It’s a man who has a lot of wives…and that is just wrong.” Another boy added, “I think having a bunch of wives is wrong….but if they could cook, it might not be so bad.”
“Romney is going to win because Obama is going to make rich people pay more taxes.” I asked if his family is rich. “Yes, my mom works at Walmart.” A girl laughed and replied, “Working at Walmart doesn’t make you rich. You have to win the lottery if you want to be really rich.”
“Obama is a terrorist. His middle name is a terrorist name.” I asked him what Obama’s middle name is. “Something like Muslim or something.” Another child laughed at his response. “Muslim is not a middle name. It’s something you sew with.” Um, okay, muslin is a cotton. Points scored for knowing fabric.
In the end, their rants and reasons for voting for their respective candidates were highly amusing…and sad at the same time. I had to wonder:
Do people really understand the issues or do they vote because of what they hear from others the same way children form opinions from watching and listening to their parents and believing it is right and just?
It that is the case, which I think it is in a majority of people, we would always see the proverbial snake in the grass.
The important thing today is to exercise your right to make a decision of some kind. It may not be for the best reasons, but we are lucky to be in a country where we are free to make a choice, even if is because you just like the man. Reagan received a lot of votes because people just liked him as a person. If that alone makes you get in your car and stand in a line to vote, then good for you.
For those of you who have been following my blog for several years now, you know it is time for my Daylight Saving Time rant. Yes, it is time for all of us to take down our clocks and turn them all back an hour tonight. Well, it ends at 2 a.m. I am sure there are some people out there who are OCD enough to wait until exactly 2 a.m. to turn them back. The rest of us will change them before we go to bed tonight. I shall be mumbling and cursing as I change each time machine.
I just re-read my Daylight Saving Time posts from the past and it is clear I have issues with the stupid time change. And it is stupid. My economics professor son told me once there is a savings. I say “No way, Jose!” It messes up the workings of my inner clock and that’s all I care about. It takes me almost two weeks to feel normal again. Well, as close to normal as one can feel.
All I know is that it will now get dark earlier until Daylight Saving Time begins again on March 10, 2013, when we spring forward yet again. I find this yearly thing a little monontonous, especially when there are problems associated with this procedure…. My beside alarm clock adjusts itself. Well, my former clock adjusted itself and it is now in a landfill somewhere nearby. It decided to change back an hour on a Wednesday in the middle of October. I woke up an hour later than reality and barely made it to work on time. Damn Daylight Savings Time. I got to school and realized that I only put mascara on one eye. Maybelline hates Daylight Saving Time too, I imagine.
I think the only good thing about Daylight Saving Time is that it is also known to be a time to change the batteries in your smoke detector to make sure they work. The Energizer battery company endorses that, you know. So, you will be reaching and dusting and changing clocks and changing batteries tonight. Life just sucks.
Arizona, Puerto Rico, Hawaii, U.S. Virgin Islands and American Samoa do not observe Daylight Savings Time. These are the smartest people on the face of the earth. There are also 75 countries that do not observe the time change. Again, smart people. The rest of us should rise up against the machine. I have no idea what the hell that means.
Here are my Daylight Saving Time rants. I would write more today, but how many times can one beat a dead horse? Apparently, I try more than three times. See you in March for my next rant. I am not a happy camper when that one enters the picture.
You know, this is all George W. Bush’s fault. Yes, I realize he has enough blame on his plate, but he is the one that changed it to the first Sunday in November. I remember the day well:
On Monday August 8, 2005, then President Bush signed into law an energy bill that extended Daylight Saving Time by four weeks beginning in 2007. Since 1986 the United States had observed Daylight Saving Time from the first Sunday in April through the last Sunday in October. The new bill calls for Daylight Saving Time to begin three weeks earlier on the second Sunday in March and end on the first Sunday in November. Why? Why can’t this madness just end? No, Georgie wanted three more weeks of Daylight Savings Time….so we all could save what? I don’t know.
The mastermind behind Daylight Saving Time is Benjamin Franklin…. inventor, statesman, and someone who played out in lightning storms one time too many. He wanted to save candle burn time. Well, guess what? We now have freaking electricity.
In the end, I’m not saving a damn thing that I can tell. I’m wasting. I’m wasting time writing about Daylight Saving Time when I could be doing something more productive……like changing the batteries in my clock or something.
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I don’t think my mom had much confidence in me when I was young, as she was always telling me
“When they were passing out brains, you must have thought they said trains, and went for a ride.”
I am certain she told me this more than a hundred times…or maybe twenty, I’m not really sure. I do remember feeling like a stupid train conductor, that’s for sure.
Years later when I informed my mom by phone I was getting a divorce after twenty five years of marriage, and that I was moving out of the house, she replied-
“You know, I thought I raised a smart girl, but you must have been dropped on your head.”
After I hung up on her, I had to laugh. It reminded me back to when I first watched Forrest Gump. He was sitting beside Jenny on the school bus.
“Are you stupid or something?”
“Momma says stupid is as stupid does.”
It made me visualize Momma Gump’s reaction to some of the things my mom had said to me over the years. I’m thinking she would have slapped her. My mom once told me that I would probably study for a blood test. Funny, Mom.
Ok, I am sure we have all done stupid things. Some do more than others…. I don’t know…. I think those are called mistakes. Not all people are stupid. If that was the case, most of the train tracks would still be in use instead of the miles and miles of rails to trails we have across our nation today. So, my question is this-
“Did economics change our use of trains as transportation….or are there not as many stupid people nowadays confusing brains with trains?
I ran across “Yo momma is so…” jokes this morning that made me think of how my mom would basically call me stupid through different expressions. I wish I had some of these zingers to say back to her over the phone after she told me I was dropped on my head.
“Well, you’re so stupid you think a quarterback is your income tax refund.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you put lipstick on your forehead when you were trying to makeup your mind.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, it took you two hours to watch 60 Minutes.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, you went to the YMCA thinking it was Macy’s.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, you stood inside a Subway restaurant waiting for the next train.”
“Well, you’re so stupid, you think Taco Bell is a Mexican phone company.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you spent an hour looking at the orange juice container because it said, concentrate.”
(I’m having fun).
“Well, you’re so stupid, you had to burn down the school to get out of third grade.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you got excited because you finished a jigsaw puzzle in 6 months and the box said “2 to 4 years.”
“Well, you’re so stupid you got fired from an M&M factory for throwing away all the W’s.”
Ok, I’m done.
Would I have used any of those to say back to my mom? Probably not.
She would have just said
“Vickie, are you a dumb blonde on purpose or does it just come natural?”
It’s was just easier to hang up on her.
************************************************
Enjoy this story? Jumping in Mud Puddles is now an ebook that you can download on your Kindle. Don’t have a Kindle? No problem. Amazon will let you download their Kindle app FREE…Yes, free. Have a look see. My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
I notice that animals and their ancestors never learned a damn thing about “looking both ways before you cross the road.” Parents always teach their kids that phrase. I’m glad I did. My son lives in Tbilisi, Georgia, where cars and trucks don’t really obey traffic lights or zebra crossings. It makes me a nervous wreck. My daughter lives in New York City. Need I say more?
So, on my way to work I have come across a higher than usual deceased creature lying on the road. Don’t they know the “side of the road- good. Road- bad?” Are they stupid? I’m thinking they are stupid.
Now, you have to understand that my mind wanders on the forty minute drive to work and most days I arrive in the parking lot and realize that I don’t remember the drive. I have that much on my mind. But, saying that, I still have time to take a look at the lump in or beside the road. And yesterday, I noticed there were too many of them. Did the population increase because we had a mild winter? If the food source is greater on the other side of the road, why the hell would momma raccoons have their litter across the heavily traveled road? Raccoons are smart little terrorists. I call the terrorists because they liked to terrorize me at my former home. I would feed them, and one night while I was outside, standing beside our pool, one went one way and the other went the other way and cornered me. Sure, they knew I was the food lady, but seeing a blop of red eyes coming from both sides does cause me worry. One night I heard my husband yell and one of the damn raccoons swiped one of his flip flops in his mouth and was heading over the hill to the woods. So, yeah, they are smart. But, yet, there were five dead raccoons on the road yesterday. Yeah, I counted them.
That’s the problem. I try not to look, but my eyes go right to the victim. It’s like I’m playing, “Guess That Dead Creature.” I know I’m not the only one who does it. Well, I stopped yesterday after seeing a poor little squirrel, lying on his back, with his arms up in the air. I knew that he would be squished and unrecognizable on my drive home. Years ago some drunk kids stopped and put an empty beer bottle in a dead ground hogs rigor mortised hands on the side of the road. It was funny, but it was not funny, because, well, I like wildlife. Groundhogs are especially stupid.
Groundhogs may know how to build tunnels and eat enough to sleep all winter, but they have decided that eating stuff right beside a busy road is the way to go. Oh, it is the way to go, for sure. I think groundhogs are the #1 road kill in the United States. Groundhogs are already famous with farmers for not being too smart. That’s why they are also called whistle pigs. Farmer would stand, waiting for the crop destroyer with their rifle, and then would whistle. Groundhogs stand up to see who whistled. And then the farmer pulls the trigger. Poor stupid groundhog.
I hate to tell you this, but there is a law in my state of West Virginia that allows people who hit an animal to take it home to cook it. I cringed when I first read that. I mean, West Virginia gets a bad rap as it is. Hey, I know, let’s add a ridiculously red neck law to make us look even more like country bumpkins. Ugh.
I take that back. Deer are the number 1 roadkill animal in the United States. I’m making that up, maybe. I didn’t look it up. I’m assuming deer because they are on every part of my drive every day. My husband (now ex-husband) hit deer more than seven times on his way to work. He drives like Mr. Magoo, so there is a slight chance that he was not on the road correctly to begin with. He always drifted over to the berm of the road. Stupid driver meets stupid wildlife road crosser. The end result can not be good for either.
Who’s stupider…the opposum, the street painter, or me for using the word, stupider? I’m thinking the street painter.
I guess my whole point with this post is to remind wildlife to please look both ways before they cross the road. We are still asking
“Why did the chicken cross the road?”
It wasn’t intended to be a joke, folks. It was more like, chickens asking each other when one of them didn’t come home.
“What the hell was Ruby thinking, crossing the road and all?”
Enjoy this story? Jumping in Mud Puddles is now an ebook that you can download on your Kindle. Don’t have a Kindle? No problem. Amazon will let you download their Kindle app FREE…Yes, free. Have a look see. My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
I must live under a rock. I have no idea what the hell is going on most days. And then I get laughed at for being such a dingbat. I mean, I’m fifty-five. Is that old? I don’t feel old. Well, I do moan when I bend over to pick things up. Ok, I’m old.
But, I always thought that I was with the times. My mother-in-law used the word “dungarees” for jeans until the day she died. My mom favored, “pocketbook.” I don’t think she ever used the word, “purse.” I thought I understood contemporary slang. Nope. Not at all.
It all started with me overhearing one of my kid’s friends saying something about watching MTV Cribs.
MTV Cribs (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I think this was like when it first came out circa 2000. Well, hell, I thought they were talking about singers who had children. Seriously. I really did.
“I didn’t know that Moby had children?” I thought I was really with it because I knew who Moby was. I got laughed at. Then it was explained to me that cribs=homes.
“That’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid.” My daughter laughed at me. Well, I guess I was. It didn’t get any better. I sure as hell had no idea that “hooking up” meant having sex with someone. How casual people are speaking nowadays. I heard this on tv one night:
“So, did you guys hook up last night?” Back in MY day that would have meant “So, did you guys meet somewhere last night and then go to the movies or something?” And yet, my daughter is the one who scoffs at me because I still use the phrase, “Are they going together?” Well, hell, back in the 70′s that meant going steady. What the hell is wrong with that?
So, now I am getting really made fun of at the school where I teach because I didn’t understand “That’s what he said.” WTF are you talking about? Evidently, I often say things that my perverted co-workers laugh at and then insert that comment. I didn’t know why. And that made them laugh harder. I mean, why say that after I talk about the snow fall from the night before. “I only got an inch or two last night.”……that’s what she said. It took me a while.
My biggest misunderstanding came from the History Channel show, American Pickers. Just a few months ago, after talking about heading out to go antiquing, someone asked me if I ever watched American Pickers. I thought that was a pretty random comment, considering we were talking about antiques.
“No, to be honest, I am not a real big fan of Country music.”
Yeah, so they laughed. Hell, I didn’t know it was about guys hunting around barns and whatnot for antiques and collectibles. I thought it was about people playing fiddles and banjos. Seriously.
So, it was no surprise that I didn’t understand my two friends when we were leaving dinner last night and they were laughing and making motions with their arms like a “raise the roof” motion. I drove up to them and rolled down the window.
“Padiddle!” They both yelled and then laughed. “You’re headlight is out, Vickie.” Of course, it doesn’t pay hanging out with girls in their late twenties when I am in my mid-fifties. I realized I have no idea what the hell is going on. So, I just laughed.
So, when they read this blog post, they will laugh again because I am just so clueless about Padiddle. I had to look it up on Wikipedia:
“Padiddle is a night-time travel game with the objective of earning points by spotting vehicles with a burnt-out headlight. You must say “Padiddle” and hit the ceiling of the car as fast as you can, while driving.”
So, Sheena and Erin were laughing because it is a game that is supposed to be played in the car while traveling. I thought they were laughing at me because I just bought this car and it already had its headlight burned out. I guess that makes me feel better…….. No, don’t feel better. I’m still a dingbat.
I don’t remember my kids ever playing “Padiddle.” I sure as hell didn’t teach them. And if they played it and I don’t remember them playing the car game, then I have bigger problems than not knowing what things mean.
I am too old for this shit. Why can’t we just keep playing Slug Bug?
When I was little, we didn’t have fast food restaurants. We weren’t in a hurry. We mostly ate at home. You know, meat, potatoes, and a vegetable. Oh sure, there was the local A&W root beer stand. We were able to drive to the parking spot, and a girl would come out and put a tray at our window. We would order and the food would be brought to our car. This doesn’t work too well when it rains or there is a twelve inch snow fall. Hard to eat while wearing mittens.
Elby’s Big Boy was another place that had the same drive-in scenario. If you looked like crap, but were hungry, you could drive in your curlers or greasy hair and eat in your car. How convenient. And fast.
So, it wasn’t long before someone figured out that people would love to pull up to a sign with the menu written for them. They could order, be told how much it was going to cost at the next window, and then at the last window, pick up their food and be told to have a nice day. How wonderful would that be?
Although there were other chains who first claimed the ”drive thru,” the first drive thru McDonald’s was established in 1975. I was in college at the time, and I don’t remember what year the concept finally got to Fairmont, West Virginia. Probably last week. I would have loved a drive thru, as we had to put “scarf on head” and head to McDonald’s to nurse a hangover. Seems I wasn’t the only one who felt better eating greasy food the day after drinking jungle juice or swamp water at a party. But, no, no one thought to put a drive thru in a college town. They could have made so much more money during the mid seventies.
There are problems with drive thru windows, however. Just yesterday, my friend and co-worker, left McDonald’s and realized 15 minutes later that the goofy cashier did not return her change. $8.00. And to top that, she reported that the tea was so nasty that she couldn’t drink it and had to throw it away. First of all, I would never ever drive off without my change. Now, one time when I was trying to multi-task think, I drove right up to the window without stopping to order. But, her experience yesterday made me realize the two things that happened to me after leaving a McDonald’s drive thru once upon a time.
To be honest, I have a lot of things happen to me at fast food joints. Sometimes the person at the window drops my change on the ground and then just looks and says, “Oops.” I think that is translated as, “Open your door and pick it up.” But, one day I came home with something extra special. The thought still turns my stomach.
No, I didn’t get a severed finger or a rat’s foot in my sandwich. That would have made me rich. No, my delight was in my medium regular Coke.
Enjoy the surprise!
Now, I love my Coke. But, this Coke had a hell of a lot of ice in it. I could tell when the goofball head handed it too me. I was a little miffed, knowing that meant there was probably two sips of Coke and the rest ice in my cup. But, I drove home with my cup of ice and my cheesburger and french fries.
I took a couple of sips of my Coke, and realized I was right. Shit. Those stupid people put more ice than Coke in my medium Coke. I took another long sip and well, that was it. Not happy. So, I took the lid off and looked at the ice.
What ice? Oh, there was a couple pieces of ice. But, sitting in the cup, smiling up at me, was a part of the contraption of the Coke machine. The part where the Coke comes out into your cup had somehow fallen into my cup. It looked like a large plastic piece……..with…….MOLD all over it.
I immediately starting gagging. I was sick to my stomach. Dear God, the moldy coke machine was in my cup.
After I faux vomited for about ten minutes, I got pissed. Pissed like I was going to drive right back and shove it down someone’s throat.
So, I drove back to McDonald’s with my little toy surprise. I marched in and asked for the manager. He came right out and I began my little tirade.
“Um, are you by any chance missing something?”
“I’m sorry. Missing something?”
“Uh, yeah, like a part of the Coke machine?” I then opened my coke cup and revealed the black moldy cokey piece.
And this is the part that made me want to spit nails. He said to me.
“Thanks.” And walked away with Moldy. The hell you say?
“Excuse me??? Seriously, that is it? I drove home with MOLD in my drink. I wasn’t able to eat any of my Quarter pounder meal because I was vomiting. I think you owe me a new meal…..and an apology instead of a thanks…..And please write down your name so I will be able to give it to my lawyer.” I don’t mess around. Notice I super-sized my original order.
The manager gave me back my money and gave me a new Quarter pounder value meal. Which was much better than the cheeseburger and small fries that I had to begin with. Well, I wouldn’t have lied if he had apologized profusely the first time.
The second time the drive thru window did me wrong was sort of comical. I can’t remember the deal, but our McDonald’s had a certain day when cheeseburgers were like $.50 each or something pretty damn cheap. I went through the fast food window and got cheeseburgers for the fam and chicken nuggets for my daughter as even back then she did not like hamburgers. So, I drove home and unloaded the burgers, the fries, and went to the fridge for the ketchup for the fries. And then my husband spoke up.
“Vick, where are the cheeseburgers?”
“Um, right in front of you.” Duh.
“No…..where ARE the cheeseburgers?”
My husband lifted up his bun to reveal a….bun. I brought home six cheeseburgers and none of them had the patties in them.
“You have got to be kidding me!”
So, I drove back to McDonald’s and asked to see the manager. I showed him the meatless meal and pointed out that all of the large french fries, sitting on my kitchen island, were cold now because I had to drive all the way back here….from Saskatoon, Canada….or three minutes down the road.
I had to laugh at that one. That’s like going to Kentucky Fried Chicken and coming home with a box of mashed potatoes and a roll. Or something like that. Maybe that Hamburglar really does have a problem with stealing. You just never know about Old McDonalds.
So, kids, stealing is ok.
So sure, fast food drive thru’s may be convenient and quick, but are they really? How many times do people go home with the man’s order who was in back of you in line? How many times did you get a mixture of tea and Sprite instead of a Coke? And how many times did you not get a straw or napkins when you were planning to eat while driving? Maybe it’s worth it, and maybe it’s not.
I wonder what the future holds for fast food. I’m thinking the Jetson’s. You won’t even have to go out of your space pod. Just push a button and it will appear. A Food-A-Rac-A-Cycle.
And hopefully, it won’t come with a side order of mold or no meat.
I pull my car into the parking lot behind our elementary school every day. Well, except for weekends, of course. I normally do not pay attention to my surroundings as I gather my little teacher bag, purse, and other paraphernalia that clutters my passenger seat each morning, and make my way to the side door.
Oh sure, once in a while, like after a big rain, I may stop to pick up a few earthworms that I know will never make it back to the grass before the sun beats down on them and fries their little bodies. I help them. Worms are people too.
Once in a while I talk to the cat who lives somewhere in the neighborhood but prefers the parade of people sweet talking to him as they make their way with their own teaching paraphernalia into the side door.
But, yesterday, I looked farther than the back parking lot. We are faced on two sides by a cemetery. On one side is a church with a yard full of tombstones. To the back are more tombstones. I look at them all the time as I pull in. I even asked a co-worker one time during Halloween, “You do see that woman by that grave, right?”
But, yesterday, I really looked at them. We were dismissed early due to water problems, so I was in no hurry to go nowhere. I sat in my car and surveyed all of the memorials. The cemetery is filled with love and rememberance. It was sad, yet lovely at the same time. So, I took out my camera and starting snapping pictures.
There is understandable sadness among the residents. Some left this earth too soon. I am sure some left without being able to say goodbye. Some had a long, painful goodbye. These people were loved. I spotted one statue from my car.
The grass was wet, so I didn’t attempt the walk to the grave. I also have a bit of a problem walking through other people’s memories. Forever marked. Forever loved. So, I closed in on this particular point of interest.
Some of the tombstones, once erect, bend towards the sun. Others are crumbling from the effect of acid rain and time. But, this little angelic marker stands tall and begs me to get a closer look.
On closer inspection with my camera’s zoom, I notice that the poor angelic figure is crumbling. His sad face will be but a memory. How long has it been there, I wonder? I just don’t want to invade its privacy.
I for one, will not have a headstone or marker, for I want to be cremated so I can sit on my kids’ mantles and listen to everything that is going on, for that is how I roll. I just can’t grasp the idea of being placed underground. Oh, I know that I will be dead, and it won’t matter. But, being in a lovely vase where my children can talk to me seems fitting for the kind of person I am.
As I put my camera away after one final photo of the cemetery, I have to admit that it has opened my eyes to the other cemeteries that I pass every day. I don’t even give it a thought as I drive by each one. It’s a graveyard, after all. Nothing more, nothing less. But, I now want to take pictures of the wonderful memorials that are placed there as a result of grief and enduring love.
Time may overtake these wonderful reflections of loss.
I think I will pay more attention on my daily drive.
I bought a magazine the other day. As I turned each page, I came across a page that had one of those perfume inserts. I really don’t like when they do this. It’s like seeing the proverbial “wet paint” sign. You know you are going to open it up and smell whatever the hell smell they want to put in there. I could be smelling dog poop for all I know. Why are we so easy? Well, I realize, of course, that the perfume people want to give us a little tease so that we will run right out and buy their product, but I didn’t ask for smelly stuff inside my magazine. But, such is life! Estee Lauder wanted me to take a whiff of Beautiful.
It made me think of freebies.
When I was little, I really only ate Rice Krispies or Corn Flakes. And that was fine, because Kelloggs loved putting stuff in the cereal box as an added incentive to buy their cereal. Kellogg was like the P.T. Barnum of cereals.
There’s something inside. Buy me and see!
Product inserts were really big when I was little during the late 1950′s and 1960′s. People in the industry call the little enticements, ”premiums.”
Kelloggs was the first to introduce prizes in box’s of cereal. Betty Crocker put coupons in bags of flour as far back as 1929. So, this has been going on for a very long time.
Here are a few of the companies that enticed us with their freebies:
1. Bazooka Gum- You may not think of it this way, but gum is gum, and they didn’t have to give us a comic to read along with the gum. But, every time we opened a piece of Bazooka chewing gum, there is was, waiting for us. I didn’t know that Bazooka gum was owned by Topps. They had a thing about including things with things. I always wondered why the kid was wearing a patch. It bothered me. Did someone stick him in the eye with a stick? Bazooka Joe had some buddies in his comic strip. The one I remember the most was Mort, the skinny friend who always wore a red turtleneck pulled up over his mouth. See? I paid attention to the comics as I popped the gum in my mouth.
2. Cracker Jacks- I was never a fan of the carameled popcorn. It just didn’t taste good to me. So, I would buy a box just for the prize inside and sit and peel the wrapper off.
Cracker Jacks was first sold at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893. At first, it was a mixture of popcorn, peanuts, and molassses, and was called “Candied Popcorn and Peanuts.” It was named Cracker Jacks after an employee remarked after biting into it, “That’s cracker jack!” Back then, that meant, “awesome.” The remarkable thing about Cracker Jacks is how a songwriter but it in the song, “Take me Out to the Ballpark.”……
Take me out to the ball game
Take me out with the crowd
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks
I don’t care if I never get back.
Let me root, root, root, for the home team
If they don’t win it’s a shame
For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out
at the old ball game.
Talk about free publicity.
3. Topps- I bet my brother is not happy nowadays that he used his Roberto Clemente baseball card in the spokes of his bicycle. But, that’s not all that came with baseball cards. Topps wanted you to have a piece of gum. It was wider that the usual gum, which made it pretty darn cool. But, which came first? From what I have read, Topps wanted you to taste their gum. Why not put a piece with the baseball card to entice you to their other product. Pretty smart marketing.
Ok, yeah, sure, mine gum usually looked like this when I opened up the pack, but I still chewed it.
Here are some of the other ”premiums” that I was able to remember:
4. Coke- circa 1991-They inserted Olympic cards into their 12 pack of cans. I should still have all of these somewhere. I posted the one of Mary Lou Retton because she is from Fairmont and is living here now with her family.
There are so many companies that gave away toys and trinkets inside their packaging. Cereals seemed to be the main culprit. I remember fighting with my brother and sister over some of them. I’d let my brother have all of the “boy” stuff, so I usually only had to fight my sister most of the time. And that just meant getting up earlier to open the new box of cereal.
Which got me sent to my room once in a blue moon for having too many boxes of cereal opened at the same time. I only ate Rice Krispies and Corn Flakes. So, having more than one of those opened was not good.
I do remember cutting things off of the back of the box. Sometimes it was a mask. Other times it was a coloring page. But, it made breakfast educational because afterall, we were reading the box. :ere are some other items found with their products to entice us to use or eat their product.
Circus train animals- animal crackers..wheels to make it look like a real circus train
Sugar Daddies-free wildlife card insert
Wonder Bread-Star Wars Card
Reese cup mallo card add them up and get something free..like a mallo cup
Butternut bread- Snoopy for President
Big one- McDonald’s Happy Meals- I could write a lot on just McDonald’s. Their Happy Meal was a way to get a toy in a box that also had neat stuff for the kids. You can’t purchase the toy separately. I still have a lot of the kids Happy Meal toys. Some are still in the plastic, so you know it’s going to be worth a lot of money one of these days.
Lucky charms-Harlem Globetrotter whistle
Trix-atomic submarine..What? a sub? Inside? I hated Trix. But a sub? In a box of cereal. MOM!!
You can get a Creeping monster inside if you buy this box of Honeycombs. I mean, who wouldn’t want one? Added bonus-It glows in the dark, people.
Or three “groovy” balloons. Balloons aren’t special unless they are groovy.
Yes, the late fifties and early sixties were a great time to be a kid. Cereal inserts were commonplace. Kids ate their cereal. Some ate their cereal as a snack before bed. Oh, my, the cereal companies were doing well. Even the cereals with the word “sugar” in the title did well. We had Sugar Smacks and one of my favorite, Sugar Pops. Life was good.
So, the next time you open a wrapper on a piece of Bazooka Joe gum, take a second to read the comic.
It is, after all, their way of thanking you for buying their product.
One of my students had her tonsils and adenoids removed this morning. I really need to write down the things she says in class, because she is so funny. Her biggest concern was that she had to be at the hospital at 6:00. “Ms. Mendenhall, I have to be at the hospital at 6:00. I mean, I don’t have to leave my house at 6:00. I have to BE at the hospital at 6:00.” Isn’t it funny what kids are concerned about? I would have been afraid of strange doctors in my personal space, hovering over me and asking me questions.
“Did you eat anything this morning, Vickie?”
“Um…. I had Sugar Pops for breakfast.” I wanted to say, “Get the hell out of my space. Don’t you see that box around me? Stay on the other side.” Not a fan of space invaders.
My student’s mom just told me on Facebook that K. wore her jammies to the hospital. She told her mom, “I look a mess, but it’s not like I’m going to be on tv.” I love that kid.
It also took me back in time, like everything does. It took me back to when my son, Adam, had his tonsils and adenoids removed.
I wrote about this a long time ago. But, I combined it with snow days, breaking out in chicken pox, and my cabin fever as a result of all of those happening in sequence. Stick a Fork in Me Cuz I am Done It was a weird spring.
When Adam was little, he seemed like he was sick all of the time. He had pneumonia several times. There is nothing worse than a child with a 105 degree fever. I had “mother judgement calls.” You just never know how long is too long before you load them off and race towards the emergency room. He was sick almost every Christmas.
He had drainage all the time. It was so bad that his second grade teacher sent me a note that his continuous clearing his throat was driving her crazy. Well, she didn’t write that, but that is what she meant. And when he would clear his throat, he would quietly utter, “Oh yeah,” which I think was his way to check if he could speak correctly. Like “Check one-two. Check.” Sound system ok. I felt so sorry for him.
So, after NUMEROUS trips to his pediatrician, who I swear put him Augmentin 300 times, I took him straight to an ENT, who announced that his adenoids were so huge, he could see them. I guess you aren’t supposed to be able to see adenoids. His tonsils had to come out.
When I took him back to his regular pediatrician and told him that I took him to an ENT, my doc looked at me like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. We never saw that doctor at that practice again. I’m still pissed at him for letting my son go that long. If a kid is in 3rd or 4 th grade and has had several bouts of strep throat and numerous colds and congestion, get his damn tonsils taken out. I know that I am not a doctor, but I pretend to be one. I’m just saying that the difference is sudden and remarkable.
The scheduled surgery was right when it looked like school was going to be back in session after the perpetual snow event of that winter. Figures..
Adam’s surgery went well and when he came home I made him a bed on the couch in our Hearth Room so he wouldn’t have to go up and down the steps for awhile. I also made the HUGE mistake of giving him a bell to ring for me. I wanted him to rest, so I thought that if I gave him a bell, that he could just tap it when he wanted something. Ding Ding! He wanted paper and a pen, so he could write me notes. Smart kid…Ding Ding! He wanted his Lego’s. Ding Ding! He wanted his stuffed animal, Bear. Ding Ding! He wrote that he wanted his stuffed animal penguins, Preston and Prescott. Freaking Ding Dong!
I better warn K.’s mom not to do the same. I walked in after only two hours, and quietly snatched the bell away from him. So, the mute improvised, and started tapping his pencil against his glass of water. I created a tonsil-less monster.
For the love of sanity, don't give her a bell.
I really don’t remember how long he stayed home from school after he had his tonsils taken out, but I think it may have been 6 months. Ok, not 6 months, but it felt like that. His tonsils were healing nicely and he was ready to go to school. Well, that would have been nice, but that’s not what happened. He woke up one morning, and said he didn’t feel well. I felt his forehead and he felt a bit warm. I noticed that there was something on the tip his nose. At first I thought it was a booger. Kids wear boogers sometimes. I hurried and raised his pajama top. Shit. “OH MY GOD!” I said out loud. I never cursed in front of the kids, but if I did, I would have said something like this-” Are you shitting me?…… Damnit!”
Yeah, Adam was breaking out with chicken pox.
And then his sister broke out with chicken pox.
And that’s how I started drinking. Ok, just kidding, but minus the damn chicken pox mess, having Adam’s tonsils removed made a huge difference.
A lot of people have big problems with particular sights or smells. When I was young, my dad had a huge problem with an errant hair lying in the bathroom sink, smiling up at him. We could hear him gag. I really don’t know what it was about a hair in the sink, but it troubled my dad to no end. I would always blow dry my hair in front of the sink after my shower, so it’s not like it was dirty or anything. But, it never failed. Gag.
I, on the other hand, always had a problem with smells. Sights of gross or yucky things really never bothered me. When I was in fourth grade I would sit and watch a kid pick scabs off of his arms or legs and eat them. He was a booger eater too. As I got older, sight still never bothered me. When I had my wisdom teeth taken out, I asked to watch the procedure by looking through overhead mirrors. But, smells were a completely different animal. Completely different.
I can’t handle smells. I never could. I think the first smell that really bothered me was the smell of someone’s feet when they took off tennis shoes that were worn without socks. Just really bad. But, it really hit me hard when I was pregnant with both of my kids. Why do smells bother pregnant women so badly?
Women in their first trimester usually notice a heightened sense of smell. Bodies are changing and doing weird things to us. We have morning sickness, we crave crazy food, and we gag with smells. What fun!
I went around my school and asked a few people what smells bothered them when they were pregnant. One said “coffee.” Another said, “boiled chicken.” Mine were “pork chops,” among a hundred other smells. It then made me think of my friend, Jeanie.
When Jeanie was pregnant, she got very very sick while watching tv. It was a Karl Malden commercial for the American Express commercial, “Don’t leave home without it.” She wasn’t sure if there was a particular trigger to one of her senses that sent her running for the bathroom, but she told me that after that, every time that damn commercial came on during her pregnancy, she would vomit.
When I was a pregnant, smells drove me crazy. It didn’t just last the first trimester. It lasted until, well, today. But, I especially remember one day in particular.
I was standing in line at the grocery store. It was busy that hot, July day. I was standing in a line with about six people and their filled carts. I had two people in front of me and two behind me. There were just as many people in the aisles to the right and to the left of me. And dear God, someone smelled.
I was stuck. I could have lost my mind and asked people behind me to back up a bit, but I thought I would just breathe through my mouth. I could do that and not smell a thing. Well, except that I had a lovely summer cold and couldn’t breathe out of my nose that well. I was stuffed up. So, I had to smell the smell. So, I put index finger under my nose, which does not help whatsoever. My eyes started watering. My stomach started churning. I was ready to start gagging. The man in front of me kept looking at me. He was probably worried that I was going to throw up on him. Surely he could smell the smell.
I finally made it to the conveyor belt and was seriously considering bolting out the door. The body odor was that bad. As I was putting my grocery items on the belt, I just happened to glance out of the window into the parking lot. The man who was in front of me was putting his items in his car, when all of a sudden, he looked around, as if he was looking to see if anyone was in the parking lot. He then raised his right arm and smelled his armpit. He did the same thing to this left arm.
That poor man thought he was the culprit. It made me laugh. I finally made it out the door and on to my next smell.
I haven’t had a cold in a long long time, so whenever a bad smell comes at me, I can just breathe through my mouth. I only have time for the great smells out there. Like the smell of the wild garlic/onion grass after the grass is cut. Like the smell of homemade bread, waiting for me. And like the smell of hazelnut cream candle. Good smells.
So, pregnant or soon to be pregnant women, prepare to smell like you’ve never smelled before.
I really didn’t want to get snow. It is April 23 for God’s sake. What is wrong you weather people? We can’t have snow this late. I watched the Weather Channel off and on all Sunday, watching them adjust the predicted snow amounts.
First it was 4-6 inches of snow, with up to a foot or more in the higher elevations. After it was all in done with, we could see much more. We were going to lose our electricity because of the weight of the wet, heavy snow on the newly leafed trees. We were told to go to the store and buy a generator. But, whatever you do, don’t place it inside your home. Purchase batteries for your flashlights. Get some candles, because, well, we may not have electricity for days. If you stay home, make sure you have plenty of blankets. Drive to your local supermarket and buy milk and bread, as you may be stuck in your home for a few days.
A friend on Facebook feared it was Zombie Apocalypse time. I agreed. Something was not right. It had to be the Zombies. Or weather men who, despite their expensive techno gear and capabilities to forsee the weather future, still can not pinpoint a damn thing for us. So, although some areas of Pennsylvania and West Virginia got some snow, we did not get the anticpated snow. Actually, none and all.
We got rain. That’s it. Rain. And now, at 5:16, the sun is shining. Bravo, Weather Channel. I’m glad I didn’t go out and buy provisions.
Like I did for the blizzard of 1977.
Ah, the blizzard of 1977. I remember it well.
I was in college, attending Fairmont State College. Now, you have to understand that our college president, Wendall Hardway, would never postpone classes for a weather event. If a bomb dropped on the campus, he would not have postponed classes. I remember two days when the campus did not have water. Honey Badger Hardway didn’t give a shit. Go to class dirty. Stick a scarf on that greasy head. Classes were NEVER postponed or cancelled. Even when the blizzard was approaching.
At the time of the big blizzard of 1977, I was living on View Avenue, in a big white house with four other girls. Paula and Jeri were expecting their boyfriends for the weekend. It was Friday. We all got up that morning and got ready for classes. We had heard about the approaching blizzard, but not really. Now, you have to understand that we didn’t have the Weather Channel back then. We didn’t have the internet that would let us have our very own personal radar screens to check every hour. How cool would that have been? No, we had channel 12, WBOY, and their little studio only had half of a weather map. You could never see what the weather was like out west, because there wasn’t enough room in their little studio for a full sized map. The camera never panned over that way. I know this to be true…… Or maybe it was WDTV. Regardless, we had those stations and the big Pittsburgh stations letting us know that there was a blizzard in the making.
The National Weather Service was predicting a huge winter storm to hit West Virginia. Emergency announcements were being made on the radio stations.
But, we knew school would never be cancelled. Never. I drove my little rusty car, Rusty, up on campus, parked her, and started to walk from the parking lot down the hill to the student union when I saw National Guard trucks driving onto the campus. I will exaggerate and say that there were ten vehicles because I really don’t remember how many there were. I didn’t know why they were there. Maybe it was National Guard Day and they were having a ceremony in the ballroom of the student center.
It didn’t take me long to figure out that something was up. Students were either laughing or upset, scurrying by like little mice trying to find a mouse hole. I stopped a boy who was walking passed me, smiling from ear to ear.
“They are here to shut down the college!” And that’s all he said.
What???
Well, I found out soon enough that Governor Jay Rockefeller had sent in the National Guard to shut down Fairmont State College because Wendell Hardway refused to close the campus. A freaking historic blizzard was on its way and Rockefeller didn’t want anyone traveling home for the weekend in the midst of it. He didn’t want anyone on the streets. National guardsmen were holding bull horns and were driving slowly, telling everyone to go home. A blizzard was coming and the college was shutting down.
The hell you say? I just stood there and stared. Well, this was surreal. This is stuff you see in the movies. Big Jay Rockefeller sent in the big guns to shut down our fair little campus. I bet the honey badger was really pissed..and did give a shit.
Well, I obliged, but first went into our student center, The Nickel, to talk the situation over with everyone. The place was buzzing, but emptying out at the same time. There was a National Guardsman in the Nickel. Wow.
So, I drove home. As soon as I got in the door, my roommate Pat looked at me and said, “We need to go get provisions.” Provisions. Wow. It even sounded serious. There was a freaking historic blizzard racing towards us. Of course we had to get provisions. We immediately hopped in my car and went to the local Dairy Mart.
Well, others must have thought about this too, because the place was jammed. Luckily, we must have gotten there early because there were still a couple of loaves of bread on the shelf and milk in the cooler. So, Pat bought a couple of packs of cigarettes and some pop, and I bought pop and some potato chips. We were ready to be snowed in for weeks. Oh, hell, let’s drive to McDonald’s too.
When we arrived home, our other roommates were beside themselves because their boyfriends were supposed to be on their way. They lived about 2 hours away and were traveling on Interstate 79. Cell phones were not invented yet, so they didn’t hear from them for quite a while. They were supposed to be there by now.
Meanwhile, Pat and I sat on the couch, waiting for the blizzard, looking out the picture window. I was visualizing the boys, Joe D. and Donald, being blown off the interstate by the blizzard. God rest their souls.
The boys never made it. Governor Rockefeller had shut down the interstate. The National Guardsmen, who were everywhere throughout the state that day, had turned them back.
“There’s a blizzard on the way. You better turn back and go straight home.”
The boys turned around and called from a phone booth at the nearest gast station to let Paula and Jeri that they would not be arriving in Fairmont. More provisions for us.
It was early evening by now and we were watching the news. Everyone in the mountain state were off the roads. We braced for the blizzard of the century. Charleston, our state capitol, was a ghost town. No one was on the streets. Rockefeller made sure we would be ready and that the road crews would not have to contend with stranded motorists. The newly inaugurated governor was making his first executive decisions. This blizzard was going to be brutal.
According to WSAZ television:
“It is important for people living in the following counties to understand that throughout this night, they will be on a blizzard alert tonight,” said Rockefeller in 1977.
Blizzard alert. Dear God, there is going to be snow piled up past our doors. Thank goodness Jeri and Paula had bought food for hungry boyfriends or we would starve.
Well, the massive blizzard never came. The wind picked up a little, and perhaps a dusting of snow lay on the ground. I sat on the couch for hours. awaiting its arrival. My mom called to make sure I wasn’t “stupid” and would not venture out in the blizzard. I was not going to drive in a blizzard. I was, however, planning to go outside so I could say I witnessed a blizzard. But, it never came.
1977 Blizzard. Hit everywhere but West Virginia
Our governor took a ribbing for many years and the blizzard is now called “The Rockefeller Blizzard.” The state of West Virginia actually shut down. The National Guard learned from this mistake and since then does not mobolize until the storm actually hits.
The only one I think that loved the result of the whole blizzard scenario was Fairmont State President, Wendell Hardway. I could just picture him chuckling over the outcome. And I thought of old Wendell when this storm was supposed to hit us this morning, April 23, 2012.
But, you know what? When I heard about the storm approaching, I hopped in my car and went to the Dairy Mart for two- 20 ounce Cokes.
I guess there are a lot of things that just grate my nerves. I already wrote about the whistler that was following me in Walmart. I loathe people who chew their food and make that disgusting smacking noise. Keep your mouth shut please. And I want to be a teacher and hold out the palm of my hand to all gum snappers. You know who your are.
I would have to say that gum snapping ranks in my top 5 of “Things That Make Me Want to Slap Someone.” I really can’t stand it.
Years ago, while I was sitting in church, I heard a woman behind me snapping her gum. I looked behind me and gave her a look. Oh, it was just a fake smile kind of look. I wanted to connect the sound to the face to see if I could take her. Gum snappers have no place on this earth. Well, she must have just put the Dentyne in her mouth (I saw the wrapper) and she just really went to town on it. My daughter, also a gum snapper hater, gave me a look that rivaled mine. I was impressed and proud. But, the church gum snapper lady would not stop. No one else seemed to be bothered. Gum snappers remind me of cows chewing their cud. And this cow had to stop.
The church I belong to is not one of those raise your hands in the air and talk out loud kind of churches. But, I wanted to turn it into one of those that Sunday morning. I wanted to raise my hands in the air, sway them from left to right and then stand up and exclaim to the congregation-
“Dear people…. the lord just spoke to me!…… (Gasps from the crowd I am sure) And he told me that this woman (pointing to the gum snapper) is going to be struck down by a Mack truck…..this afternoon….if she does not stop her gum snappin ways.”
I could only dream. Well, I stopped attending church and so I don’t have that problem anymore. Yes, I run away from my problems. It’s hard to do when you are on a plane, however. Yes, there was a huge gum snapper in the airport while we were waiting for our flight to Cancun last summer. There was no way I was going to sit with a gum snapper in a closed in space for a couple of hours. It was not going to happen. I would have to shake and then slap her. I moved from where I was sitting at gate whatever and could still hear her. Shit. Thank God she ran out of gum and even told her husband she was out of gum. She was going to hurry and buy some before boarding the plane, but her husband told her no. She looked like a drug addict waiting for withdrawl. I was pleased.
So, imagine my surprise when I was looking at images on pinterest last night and came across a photo of a gum wrapper chain. Wow, I haven’t seen one of those………..since I made one in the early seventies. Completely forgot about those things.
Wow. I made a gum wrapper chain. I forgot about that. I made one either in junior high or high school. I hung it in my bedroom, running it all around the perimeter of my room. Sort of looked like a narrow little border. My room was about 13×13, so it was a long chain. And I made it. So, was I a reformed gum snapper? I had to think back.
You know, reformed people are the worst kind. Former cigarette smokers are judgemental. They will tell you to your face how bad cigarette smoking is for you. Well, some of them are. I don’t want to piss anyone off here. Some people who never wore their seat belt until they had an accident now won’t start the engine until everyone is fastened up. And some people who didn’t attend church and now found God will let you know all about it. So, was I a gum hater because I once was a gum snapper?
I don’t know how I came across making gum wrapper chains, but I was all about making one. It was easy to learn. Not so easy yesterday, when I tried to make one on my own. I forgot how it was done. Luckily, the interneter gods have photos and videos all about making a gum wrapper chain.
First, you need about a thousand gum wrappers. I remember asking my friends for their empty chewing gum wrappers. Throw away the silver inner wrapper and give me the outer one. I also remember chewing a lot of gum for the gum wrapper chain.
I don’t remember how long it took me to make the chain. I wanted to wrap it around my bedroom. And I refused to stop until I was done. I kept it as one long chain, so I am sure I kept standing on my bed to see how far it had made it around my room. I realize that I could have just laid it on the floor and run it around the same way, but I was an airhead, so I did it my way.
I never made a pattern with my gum wrapper chain like the person did in the above photo. I had no time to be colored coordinated. It was like one of those pot holders I weaved. Random colors. I was all about being random. My OCD anal ways didn’t rear its ugly head until much later.
It’s funny how memories can be supressed. I now remember my mom yelling at me to stop snapping my gum. Dentyne to be exact. It was the most snapable gum. Really. Dentyne.
So, I was one of those………..Wow.
I don’t chew gum so much anymore. I only chew it when I fly because that’s what I was told to do so my ears wouldn’t explode. I was fine this last trip to visit my daughter in New York City. And I didn’t sit by anyone who was a gum snapper either.
I wish I would have kept my gum wrapper chain. I remember taking it down when I went off to college when my little sister took over my room. I simply threw it away. I spent hundreds of hours making that damn thing and I just threw it away.
Maybe I didn’t want to be remembered as a gum snapper.
While teaching my fourth graders about solid figures during Math class the other day, I decided to show them how to draw a cube. You would have thought that I just found a cure for cancer.
Earlier in the year, one of my students was almost distraught because he couldn’t make a star. So, I had him come up to the board and baby-stepped a star for him. He was weirdly excited about this. I guess it’s the little things in life.
In my attempt at teaching my students how to make shapes and draw stars, however, I realized that I have created doodling monsters.
And it made me take a trip back to when I was their age.
I am not sure what age kids start doodling. If you have never doodled before in your whole life, then there is something wrong with you. Well, unless there is something wrong with those who doodle. Regardless, people doodle. What the hell does that word even mean? I had to go back to colonial days and name calling to find out.
When the colonists started getting pissed at the British for enacting ridiculous taxes on the colonists, such as the stamp and sugar acts, the beginning of grumbles and throwing tea off boats and the like, they started calling the British names.
“Hey, you stupid lobster……..Hey red-coat!” They wanted the British soldiers to go home. They didn’t want to pay taxes to read a newspaper or to put sugar in their newly imported tea. So, they decided that name calling that helped them cope with high taxes and soldiers walking around wearing white knee socks under their black go-go boots.
And they call us a "doodle."
So, the British soldiers, in their bright red lobster red coat uniforms, called back. They called those silly colonists, “Yankee Doodles.” Now, I teach the Revolutionary War to my fourth graders, so I know all about this time period. I am a little too enthusiastic about teaching it. But, we all know that a “yankee” is a northerner or another name for a colonist. A “doodle” is a “fool” or “simpleton.” In the seventies, we would have used the synonym, “retard,” but it is politically incorrect to say that word now. Retard. I just really like that word.
Anyway, that is what a doodle means. So, what does that have to do with scribbling on the side of your paper? Is that a reference that all people who doodle are retarded? In the seventeenth century, it meant to be lazy or wasting time. But, according to Wikipedia, “In the movie Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, Mr. Deeds mentions that “doodle” was a word made up to describe scribblings to help a person think.” Ahhhhh, this makes so much sense. So, people are not retarded. They are pausing.
So, what Mr. Deeds is telling us is that doodling is good. It is a pause mechanism so to speak. You are pausing while you are thinking about what you want to write about. I learn something new every day. I also learned that if you put toothpaste on a pimple, it will clear up. See, every day, new information.
The modern meaning emerged in the thirties, and meant to “dawdle.” Mr. Deeds, you are confusing me.
Thomas Jefferson, Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton are some of our famous doodlers. They had been known to doodle during meetings. Reagan most likely doodled with one hand while popping jelly beans in his mouth with the other. Regardless, did they doodle because they were bored, lazy, or retarded? I am sure that the answer could be debated.
I don’t know if the kids doodle in third grade. I only have a few who have started doodling in fourth. It’s usually just a happy face or a “hi” to me on a paper they have to turn in to me. I have a feeling I will be seeing a few cubes in the next week or so, since I told my kids that’s what I doodled when I was in high school. Or was it junior high? I think it was junior high. And I remember exactly what I doodled.
Cubes, flowers, and my name for one. Notice that it isn’t necessarily artistic people who doodle. I can’t draw worth a lick. So, I thought that I would perform an experiment. I decided to doodle and then see if doodles can be interpreted, like dreams. Maybe it can tell me if I am happy or sad, lazy or determined. Smart or retarded.
Some “experts” seem to think that there is a reason that we draw and that like dreams, these symbols have meaning. Well, let’s look into that. I’m sure there is a doodle interpreter somewhere on google…….Yeppers. Found one.
“Doodles can certainly reveal something of a person’s mental state, but it should be noted that no graphologist or psychologist would use them as the sole indicator.” Uh oh. I bet my little cubes mean that I feel boxed in. And writing my name and intials mean I am arrogant. And my balloons mean I want to be a social climber. Am I close? The following information is from drawsketch.about.com.
“Why no, Vickie……Regular patterns from geometric shapes tend to indicate an organised and efficient mind. Triangles are a geometrically stable shape but also suggest direction and sense of purpose.”
So, the author of this study is telling me that I have an organized and efficient mind, eh? I am stable and I have a sense of purpose? Simply splendid.
So, do you doodle? Look at what some of your doodling may mean. Because, you may be mentally unstable and not even be aware of it.
1. Boxes-”3-D boxes indicate an ordered mind and love of routine. Often drawn by people with a good sense of spatial relationships.” Ok, now boxes were and still are the number one thing that I doodle. So, that obviously means that I have an ordered mind and I love routine. Ok, the routine thing is true. Some of my co-workers would argue about the ordered mind part.
2. Flowers- “Doodles of flowers indicate a gentle personality, a love of nature, sometimes childlike innocence or wistfulness. They represent the feminine, passive aspect of the universe.” Oh, yes, I have a gentle personality. Go on please.
3. Stars-”Stars are drawn by ambitious people and may suggest a desire for self-promotion. Little stars indicate optimism, while asymmetrical stars suggest excess energy.” Well, I used to be hyper when I was little. Had to take a little green pill every day before I went to school. That’s probably when I stopped drawing stars.
4. Mazes- Uh Oh..my mazes are not good. “Mazes can suggest a feeling of being lost with nowhere to turn, being unsure of which direction one ought to take, or may indicate mental disorganization.”
5. Hearts- Notice I have none. “generally, hearts are drawn by people in love, but may also indicate a romantic disposition.” Does this mean I should join eharmony?
6. Repetition of doodles- “Repetition is a common feature of doodles that suggests a methodical, patient approach to tasks. Repetition also increases the significance of a particular motif.” I’m thinking that it could mean that one just isn’t creative to think of other doodle marks.
7. Zig zags- “Some sources suggest that zig-zag lines indicate an experience of harsh reality and a need for comfort.” Wow, I’m just all over the place. Does that mean I am unstable?
8. Wavy lines- “Wavy lines are sometimes drawn to represent long hair, meaning a desire for beauty and femininity.” Would that mean if I desire it, I must not have it?
9. Arrows- I have always doodled arrows. “Arrows represent direction and ambition. Drawn aggressively, they represent a desire for action. Drawn in careful outline, they indicate a desire for progression or advancement, especially if pointing upwards.” Aw, look. My arrows are pointed up. I want to advance.
10. Eyes- I would draw eyes with glasses sometimes. I don’t know why. But, according to the doodle doctor, “They are sometimes regarded as showing a wish to be desirable.” So, I’m ugly. Is that what you are saying? Oh, this just keeps getting better.
I personally like to doodle. Will I like seeing doodles on the margins of my fourth graders’s papers? Sure, as long as they have their work done. I usually let them draw when they get done with their work anywho.
In the end, like dream interpretation, doodling symbols and shapes can be interpreted too. So, the next time you draw a balloon, know that that really means that you are emotional and long for love and harmony. If you draw straight lines for boxes and houses, you like to be in control. And finally, if you draw stars and things with triangles in them, you are looking to vent.
Procrastination is alive and well in my neck of the woods. It’s time to get my car inspected. So, like, where the hell are the dishonest mechanics when you need one? I want to be able to do what my husband was able to do years ago. Go into a garage where they make you honk your horn, turn your lights on and off, and turn on the all important window wipers. Ta da! Inspection is done. Pay the man and leave. Where the hell are you, dishonest John? I know it has been years, but I am sure they are still out there.
Inspection station in Fairview
The little sticker is staring at me: 3/12. March, 2012. I made an appointment with my regular guy for yesterday. My regular guy wasn’t going to pass my inspection two years ago. Said my tires were bald. So what?
I had to buy four new tires and brakes. Ka-ching. Surely the tires should still be okay this time. I have them rotated and my car taken care of every three months. I’m just going to tell him that I just need to make it until June. I want to trade my car in when school lets out. I really like my Hyundai Santa Fe.
There are a lot of moving parts on a vehicle, and there are authorized state inspection stations that have a list of shit they have to check. From the Pennslvania dmv site: “Safety inspections for passenger cars and light-duty trucks require that the following items be checked: suspension components, steering, braking systems, tires and wheels, lighting and electrical systems, glazing (glass), mirrors, windshield washer, defroster, wipers, fuel systems, the speedometer, the odometer, the exhaust systems, horns and warning devices, the body, and chassis.”
The Virginia DMV has a inspection sticker procedure for dummies:
1. Remove old inspection sticker
2. Drive vehicle into inspection lane
24. Issue new inspection sticker
They do a walk through of everything that needs to be checked. So, if you drive into an inspection station in Virginia with a blue colored door on a red colored vehicle, you will be shot.
My state of West Virginia doesn’t care to let its citizens know what is to be inspected. Just go there and be surprised when they ask you why the hell you unhooked your odometer. I don’t even know if you can do that anymore. People used to do it before they traded their car in. I guess that is frowned upon.
If your horn doesn't work, your children will be removed and put in foster care.
Sometimes I wonder how the hell some vehicles on the road pass inspection. I know why they get by? They know where to go. It’s so much fun sitting behind a car that should be on fire for the amount of fumes coming out of his tail pipe. I feel like I’m driving through a Colorado wildfire or something. Dear God, driver, do you not see the smoke curling around your vehicle as you drive?
Uh Oh baby! Fumes in your lungs can't be good.
photo via Greenpeace
And then there’s the sound makers. I learned a long time ago that when you put your foot on the brakes and there is a screeching noise, that usually means something. I hear a lot of brake screeching. It is like riding with a bunch of freaking owls. Brakes are sort of important.
Lights must be operational-And then there’s One Eyed Jack. Do you know that your left front light is not working? You might as well put a big patch on your light and be a pirate ship. But of my lights went out within fifteen minutes of each other. Luckily I was close to my home and it was just dusk. I couldn’t go anywhere at night until my headlights were changed. Luckily, my guy got me in the next day.
Just passed inspection.
You know what people care the most about what works in their vehicles? Oh, sure, brakes and lights are important, but God forbid it their horn quits working. They will miss a day of work to take it in for an emergency appointment. Americans have to have operational horns above everything else. I mean, transportation as we know it would be total chaos without our horns. We have road rage and our horns are our first line of offense.
When I learned to drive, I embarrassed my teen age peers riding with me on day. Seems that every time I turned the wheel to the right, the horn would sound. Not just a beep beep. A blaring horn. It would make this noise until I straightened up my wheel. At first I didn’t think it was me and was pissed at the car behind me. Even flipped them off. Oops, my bad. It was my dad’s car. It was…..horny. (That’s where that term came from. Too much horn).
In the end, I got out by the skin of my teeth. My car tires passed, but right above the minimum requirement, which I guess is bad. My tires are balding again. Dammit.
The penny test.
Shouldn’t tires last for two years? I blame the back roads to my school. Stupid pot holes. I plan on trading my car in this summer when school lets out. The air conditioner is shot.
I bet they didn’t even check the air conditioner. It should be part of the inspection process. People get mad when they are hot. Road rage.
An easy vehicle inspection
I’m thinking that there should be inspections for any sort of transportation. Kids should get pulled over.
Kid, your seat is not up to code.
Heading to the inspection station
So, don’t forget that the little sticker on your window means something. It may be true that police give 30 days for those of us who have no brain. It depends who pulls you over, I guess. So, don’t flip him off as he approaches your window. Just sayin. Get your car inspected.
You will need your horn the next time someone cuts in front of you.
My daughter told me a while back that she heard something in the walls of her New York City apartment. Then she called and told me she saw a mouse scurrying by in the kitchen. She named it, even though she only met it once. Or twice. She is so like her momma. But, it made me think of what else could scurry through her apartment. I guess a rat could scurry.
When I hear the word, “scurrying,” all I can think of is mice. Mice scurry. Nothing else scurries. Nothing. Well, the freedictionary.com uses stupid examples of the word, “scurrying”:
“….lashed the scurrying horses” and “…..the pedestrians scurried for cover.”
I just don’t see it. I know what scurrying looks like. The word evokes sneakiness. Running away from trouble quickly. Horses are not subtle or sneaky. Neither are pedestrians. I really think these dictionary people need to confer with me more often. I would set them straight. Amazon.com is selling a book that I would tend to agree with its title:
Something “scurried” past Obama at a White House press conference. I am sure there is a metaphor for that one. I myself, wondered how he got by security. He scurried, that’s how.
I finally found a reference that I agree with. Merriam-Webster has their shit together. They used “….mice scurried around the house.” I like this example, because it is a true statement. Mice scurried around the house…… They sure did.
My house. But, let me back up a bit.
The first introduction to a mouse for many of us is when we are little, with the introduction of Mickey Mouse. Mickey is not scary, or rodenty. (I truly enjoy making up new words). He doesn’t carry diseases like the mice and rats did during “Black Death” during the 14th century, that killed twenty-five million people. Twenty-five MILLION.
The Danse Macabre -photo via wikipedia creative commons
Oh, they still carry diseases. A bunch of them. So, bubonic plague is nothing to laugh at. The oriental rat flea was the main culprit back then, hitchhiking on a black rat. I know a rat is a rat and a mouse is a mouse, but some view a mouse as a rat. Some view a chihuahua as a rat. Some ex-husbands are rats. So, you know, whatever.
Maybe we should be pissed at Walt Disney for making his main character a mouse. Children all around the world think that it is ok to pick up a field mouse and hug it. (I know where you think I’m going with this, but no, never hugged a mouse.)
But, you gotta love Mickey Mouse. Sure, I’ve worn mouse ears and have seen my plastic flip flops melt from standing in two hour lines on asphalt at Disney World in August. Sure, I have no brain. But, it was for my kids. I introduced them to the main mouse when they were little.
My next meeting with a mouse is when we learned to sing the ever popular “Little Rabbit Foo Foo.” This is how we sang it-
Little Rabbit Foo Foo
Hopping through the forest
scooping up the field mice
and bashing them on the head….
Now, I have to admit that all of the online versions of Little Rabbit Foo Foo has him scooping up field mice and ”bopping” them on the head. I am thinking that we changed the version. Or, I am thinking we were violent children. Regardless, mice were getting hit on the head left and right. Why?
Because they scurry and can’t be trusted.
There were other mice. For example, let’s take a look at Speedy Gonzales.
Speedy Gonzales (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Speedy Gonzales was the self-proclaimed, “fastest mouse in all Mexico.” Speedy never scurried. He wasn’t known as Scurry Gonzales, was he now? No, he was speedy, quick, and efficient. He got in and got out.
Now his cousin is another story, but he doesn’t scurry either. No, his cousin is a slow-poke. Slow Poke Rodriguez.
Slowpoke was the slowest mouse in all Mexico. He would never scurry. I think he was drunk half of the time. If he was on The Andy Griffith show, he would have been sitting in a cell with Otis, the town drunk, discussing stuff. You would never see Otis scurry either, I mean, if he was a pedestrian.
One of my favorite mice was Jerry Mouse from the cartoon, Tom and Jerry. Oh, the trouble those two crazy kids got into! Even when I was little, I had a problem with his name. Who the hell names a mouse, Jerry? Jerry Mouse. Sounds stupid. Harry would have been better. Tom and Harry. Maybe they had another friend named Dick. That would have made sense. Tom, Dick, and Harry. But, the names of the cartoon characters was the least of their problems. It was the violence that made some parents shudder. Yeah, parents who lived in a box and never got to watch Saturday morning cartoons during the era that cartoons ruled. My era!
But, besides watching Tom get electrocuted and sliced with a knife, this cartoon taught me about rivalry. Jerry taunted Tom. Tom chased Jerry. Tom got abused and injured. Comic violence. Poor Tom makes numerous attempts to catch Jerry. I mean, it is Tom’s house. He’s a house cat, just trying to protect his owner from contracting the bubonic plague I’m guessing.
I’m trying to think of all of the ways they tried to kill each other. It was like War of the Roses, but without a divorce. My favorite one is when Jerry put Tom’s tail in the wall outlet to electrocute him. He would light up and you could see his skeleton. Oh, cartoons, how you make me laugh! They also used an axe, guns, explosives, traps, and poison to try ot finish each other off. I also liked the one where Jerry put matches at Tom’s feet and lit the matches. Yeah, I bet there were little kids in the early sixties lighting their baby sisters on fire after watching that episode.
The final reference to a mouse is the most important to me. Hickory Dickory Dock. We all know the rhyme.
Hickory Dickory Dock
The mouse ran up the clock
The clock struck one
The mouse ran down
Hickory Dickory Dock
I never knew what this nursery rhyme meant. I was smart enough to realize that “one” and “down” didn’t rhyme worth a shit. But, but besides that, what the hell was supposed to happen at 1:00? And what is the importance of a mouse?
Well, I found out years later.
My husband and I purchased 13 acres of farm land in 1989. We decided to build a house on a site that an old dairy barn was previously located. It was an exciting time. I had fun decorating the house. We purchased an antique gingerbread clock and set it upon the mantle in our hearth room. I called the room the “Hearth Room” because I refused to call any room a “living room.” And, well, it had a hearth in it. A living room reminds me of plastic on expensive furniture and a room with no television. Well, that wasn’t going to happen.
After a couple of years, we brought home a kitten from the animal shelter for our daughter. Whiskers. Now, Whiskers was a great cat. She was entertaining and could leap buildings in a single bound. She could locate a spider and pounce on it as quickly as she saw it.
But, she didn’t give a shit about mice.
Of course, we didn’t know about the mice either. But, Whiskers sure did.
My kitchen had an island where the stove was located along with a seating area with three highback stools. I loved my kitchen. Sometimes late at night, I would walk downstairs to get a cold drink of water and see Whiskers perched on top of the island. What the hell are you doing sitting up there, Whiskers? Boy are you going to get in trouble if he sees you sitting where we cook.
Well, this happened quite a bit. The kids told me that they saw Whiskers sitting either on top of the stove island or right beside the island, looking under the stove. Uh oh.
Uh Oh for sure. I was wondering if there was a mouse in the house. After all, we built our house in a field. A mouse may try to infiltrate the solid construction. My husband would not hear of it. “This house is built air tight.”
Tell that to the mice.
Mice as in plural.
One day, I decided to clean and dust the stuff on my mantle. Normally, I don’t take the gingerbread clock down. I just spray some Pledge on it and dust it and around it. But, I was feeling especially energetic and decided to take it off its lofty spot.
Shit.
A mouse had built a nest in the back of the clock. A nest. In the back of the clock.
Hickory Dickory Damn!
So, that meant that Whiskers would watch a nightly parade of mouse or mice coming from somewhere near the stove, scurrying across the kitchen floor, turn the corner, scurry through the Hearth Room, up the side of the mantle to build its nest. Ok, so unless the mouse used U-Haul, it had to make many many trips to the clock. And that also meant that it liked it enough in my house to make a nest there.
Nice job, Whiskers.
So, after I showed my husband that a mouse or many mouses (mice, whatever) were making their way to the clock, he put a couple of traps under the house, in our crawlspace. I cold hear some snapping every once in a while and it just made me cringe. Poor mice. But, what made me really cringe is that I found another nest in my laundry room, behind a shelf. And I found yet another one when I was hunting for the remote control down in a couch in the Hearth Room. We had all been sitting on baby mice.
Dear God, the cat probably popped some popcorn and watched the fun unfold nightly. Why try to catch mice? Her bowl was never empty. I did notice that she seemed to be eating more than usual. Ew, the mice were eating her cat food.
I wouldn’t let the husband put a snapping trap under the stove. I didn’t want to hear the trap go off. I can’t kill a spider, let alone a poor field mouse.
So, he purchased one of those traps that a mouse can crawl into but can’t get out and then I would make him drive the mouse a mile or two down the road and set it free. I think we caught several mice that way until Spook showed up at our door. Spook, the stray cat. I talked the husband into letting him stay. Caspar the cat showed up soon after. Two outside cats kept the mice away after that. Over the years, Muffin the cat and Izzie the cat have also stayed awhile. Mice were never a problem after that.
Three years ago, I divorced and moved out of our home. I never spoke of the mice in the house to anyone because it just makes you feel sort of….cockroachy in a way. But, hey, it’s not my house anymore, now is it?
My daughter, who lives in New York City, will be watching her first St. Patrick’s Day parade. She will also be participating in the world’s largest pub crawl, The Luck of the Irish St. Patty’s Day Pub Crawl. Sounds like a great time. When I talked to her last night, she was having a hard time finding anything green to wear. I’m sure with thousands of New Yorkers participating in the parade and pub crawl, green is probably a highly interested color.
Well, back here in West Virginia, I am sitting here thinking about the big green day and especially about leprechauns. And how I just don’t know what to think of them.
Yesterday, I had my fourth graders write a St. Patrick’s Day haiku, like I do whenever I feel like having them write one. And I wrote one too. Now, you have to understand that I never shared my views on leprechauns with my kids. I never really thought much about the short people before. But, my students’ haikus and my own made me want to take a step back and take a look at this whole leprechaun and St. Patrick’s Day scheme of things a little closer.
Leprechauns are mean
They will take my pot of gold
Go away now, please!
~~~~~~~~
Shamrocks and pinching
and bad leprechauns hiding
please leave me alone.
~~~~
And here is mine
Little leprechaun
are you stealing my wallet?
goofy green midget
~~~
I honestly couldn’t believe that I wrote that. I read mine aloud, and change “midget” to “short guy.” I just sat there, stunned, looking at my paper. So, that’s how I really felt about leprechauns? And how politically incorrect. Not good, Vickie, not good. I wondered if I had been attacked by a leprechaun when I was little or something. There had to be a reason for my animosity towards bearded Irish guys in green clothing.
In the meantime, I looked at my other haiku. I had the kids write two different ones. Here is my other one:
I found some money
at the end of the rainbow.
Led me to a bank.
~~~~
Um, ok. This is not a happy St. Patrick’s Day person writing these haiku’s. I have some issues. I also have twenty-one students, and I would say that most of them wrote about bad or mean leprechauns. I wonder why? So, I thought that I would do some research and collect some data on these horrid little creatures (see, there I go again) and see why they are getting a bad rap.
We all know that St. Patrick’s Day is about shamrocks, parades, and all things green. And all things Irish. But, I really didn’t know the meaning behind some of the symbols. Let’s take a look at some of them before we get to my main topic:
1. The shamrock- The shamrock was the sacred plant of Ireland. It symbolized the rebirth of spring. According to History.com, “By the seventeenth century, the shamrock had become a symbol of emerging Irish nationalism. As the English began to seize Irish land and make laws against the use of the Irish language and the practice of Catholicism, many Irish began to wear the shamrock as a symbol of their pride in their heritage and their displeasure with English rule.”
2. Those damned snakes- Again from History.com:
“It has long been recounted that, during his mission in Ireland, St. Patrick once stood on a hilltop (which is now called Croagh Patrick), and with only a wooden staff by his side, banished all the snakes from Ireland. In fact, the island nation was never home to any snakes. The “banishing of the snakes” was really a metaphor for the eradication of pagan ideology from Ireland and the triumph of Christianity. Within 200 years of Patrick’s arrival, Ireland was completely Christianized.” Oh, ok, a metaphor. I was wondering how that worked. I had my thoughts-
Patrick: “Hey, snakes of Ireland. I don’t want you here. Begone, you little bastards!’
St. Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland via photo Irregular Times
3. Corned beef- Which I’m sorry, but corned beef sounds disgusting. I have always been picky and just the names of some of the foods made me refuse to try them. Well, like cheesecake. I have never had a piece of cheesecake in my life. It just reminds me of provolone and icing. I shudder. Corned beef reminds me of hunks of corn in ground beef. Ok, wait. That doesn’t sound that bad. Anywho, corned beef is a more recent addition to all things Irish. Irish Americans gather together on St. Patrick’s Day to share a meal of corned beef and cabbage. Immigrants who came to New York City’s Lower East Side from Ireland substitute corned beef for their tradtional bacon to save money.
Where the hell is the cabbage? photo via foodnetwork.com
4. Pot of gold at the end of the freaking rainbow- What if there was a double rainbow…Wow.
5. Leprechauns- Ok, this is huge!! We can blame Walt Disney Productions for putting leprechauns in our St. Patrick’s Day. Walt Freakin Disney. Yep. Leprechauns never had a damn thing to do with St. Patrick’s Day. Oh, sure, they were folklore in Europe, but not specifically for the holiday, which is supposed to be a religious observation. I guess if Christmas has Santa Claus and Easter has a bunny, why not a short guy for St. Patrick’s Day, I guess.
Once again, according to History.com, “The original Irish name for these figures of folklore is “lobaircin,” meaning “small-bodied fellow.”
Belief in leprechauns probably stems from Celtic belief in fairies, tiny men and women who could use their magical powers to serve good or evil. In Celtic folktales, leprechauns were cranky souls, responsible for mending the shoes of the other fairies. Though only minor figures in Celtic folklore, leprechauns were known for their trickery, which they often used to protect their much-fabled treasure.
In 1959, Walt Disney released a film called Darby O’Gill & the Little People, which introduced America to a very different sort of leprechaun than the cantankerous little man of Irish folklore. This cheerful, friendly leprechaun is a purely American invention, but has quickly evolved into an easily recognizable symbol of both St. Patrick’s Day and Ireland in general.”
I also read that leprechauns were shoe makers and hid their coins in a hidden pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Which, I think, is irresponsible. Which rainbow? The one over Dublin at 3pm last Saturday? No wonder they didn’t have money to buy another set of clothes.
Well, so there you have it. Well, I don’t have it. I still don’t know why I am not a fan.
You just have to love technology. But, then again, it did wipe out imaginative play as we know it. Childhood was so simple in the early sixties. We had no choice. My parents and their parents had even a simpler time. We didn’t have cell phones that interrupted our play with a text from your mother that simply read, “Dinner.” No, they had to stand out on the porch and yell for us. On the third yell, we would go home.
We had jump rope, a kick ball, and indoor board games. Can’t forget about pogo sticks. We weren’t indoors much. The neighborhood was filled with children playing, people hand washing their cars, and neighbors sitting outside on their porches in the hot summer evenings. Many didn’t have central air conditioning. We knew our neighbors. We also knew when Mr. Softie was coming around in his ice cream truck. We could hear the music. Because we were outside.
As the sixties moved closer to the seventies, it was still like that. We now had eight track stereos to occupy our time, but not much more. We would sit out on our front porches, but this time, waiting for boys to drive around and around the block, finally to stop and talk to all the neighborhood girls my age who hung out on my front porch. But, in and around 1975, that all changed. We started staying indoors more. Things were changing, for sure. And we can point our fingers to one new gadget.
Pong.
Yes, Pong. Not to be confused with Beer Pong. This was played without alcohol. Well, unless you really enjoyed drunk ping pong.
I know what you young people are thinking. Are you kidding me? But, yes, this was exciting stuff. I mean, we could turn on the tv and use this game console and play ping pong. There were no pictures or bombs going off or bullets flying. This was ping pong and nothing else. And we were thrilled.
Now, we did have pinballl machines. I was quite good at the one at The Pub, a local dive where we all congregated in college. My mom even bought a pin ball machine for our basement rec room. We were the coolest family on the block. But, Pong was different, because it was on tv.
In the end, Pong was fun, and it was just a matter of time before we were hearing names such as Sega and then Playstation.
You know the saying, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder?” Well, it’s true, especially when you are eighteen and quite stupid. My boyfriend, Rick, was a junior at Michigan State University, and I was a measly freshman, far away at Fairmont State College in Fairmont West By God Virginia. I missed him.
We started dating the summer after he graduated from high school. He was two years ahead of me, and my first real boyfriend. It sucked that he decided to traipse off to Michigan State for an education. I thought he was doing ok as a gas station attendant with a part time job during high school. But, alas, away he went. So, he was way over there, and I was down here.
Now, when I graduated from high school, my mom drove me up from Weirton to East Lansing as part of my graduation present. My bff, Ramaine, and her mom, Dora, went with us. How nice was that? I got to see East Lansing for the very first time. It was a beautiful campus. I also got a feel for the road since I drove part of the way. The trip from Weirton to Michigan State was about 340 miles. It takes about five hours and forty-five minutes to get there. And this part will be important very soon.
After I graduated from high school and was given a car to use while I was in college on the weekends, I began hatching a plan. Of course, it was a stupid plan, because I was the one hatching it. I missed my Rick and wanted to see him. Sure, I saw him over Christmas, but we had no place to be by ourselves. My house was a zoo. So, I decided to drive from Fairmont State to East Lansing, Michigan in February. Like, when it was all wintry and snowing. Yeah, that’s what I will do, I thought. I will drive up there for Valentine’s Day. After all, I really missed him.
Well, I couldn’t tell my parents. My mom would have taken away my gas card and maybe even the car if she knew I was going to drive seven hours and twenty minutes all by my lonely. It was nice having a gas card. And no, I wasn’t spoiled. I drove a rusty little Toyota that I creatively named Rusty and talked to the little rust bucket like he was a real person.
So, we made plans for our big Valentine’s Day weekend. A weekend just the two of us…in his dorm room. I was eighteen and was ready to travel by myself. So, I packed my bag, filled my car up with gas, and Rusty and I set off on a great adventure. I called my mom first and told her I was sick and I was just going to stay in Fairmont for the weekend. I was a liar, so this came easily. My roommate, Paula, was going to cover for me if my mom called my dorm room while I was gone. Cell phones were not invented yet. Which would have been nice.
I woke up quite early and headed out of town. I was hoping to arrive at Rick’s door around 3pm. I drove a few hours and was not nervous for the solo drive. I was excited. Sure, it was the middle of February and they were calling for 100 inches of snow, but I was in love, dammit, and would trudge through any sucky weather event to get to my Spartan. I was also a loon for what I was about to do.
I was near Youngstown I believe and stopped to go to the bathroom. It wasn’t lunch time yet and I was ok with gas, but I knew that my bladder would need to visit a restroom every two hours at least. While I was getting a pop, a guy approached me.
“Excuse me, but are you by any chance going to Detroit or somewhere near there?”
I saw the guy get out of a car in front of me when I pulled in. He must be trying to hitchhike to Detroit. Like an idiot, I replied.
“I’m heading to East Lansing to see my boyfriend.” That’s what naive eighteen year old losers say.
“Can I have a ride?”
“Sure.”
And I didn’t think anything of it. Except that he did look a little like Ted Bundy. He could have been Ted Bundy. He could have been Jeffrey Dahmer. John Wayne Gacy. The Youngstown Strangler. The Freeway Fondler. The Highway Hacker. The Toyota Torturer….Uh Oh.
Loser potential murder victim
We traveled about an hour and I don’t for the life of me remember our conversation. He sat beside me, wearing a dark grey wool jacket. I didn’t ask why he was going to Detroit. I didn’t ask him why the hell he didn’t have a car. Maybe killer hitchhikers don’t use their own cars because, um they are killer hitchhikers. It finally dawned on me that I may have just made a really terrible mistake. So, the guy started to creep me out. Maybe because he sat with his hands in his pockets and his coat collar up around the back of his neck. Why the hell do you have your hands in your pockets, Ted? We are in a warm car.
Well, because he had handcuffs in there, of course.
My imagination started doing a number on me, and I realized that I had to get this guy out of my car. Now, in all honesty, I don’t think he did adamn thing wrong. He just wanted a ride to Detroit and didn’t have a car. But, I had and still have a wild imagination and it went wild like a jungle monkey on crack. (???)
Plus, I was hungry. I think he was in my car for about two hours and I saw a diner that was next door to a gas station. This is where I would lose him.
“I’m going to get something to eat. I’m pretty hungry.”
He just looked at me. And then I started really getting creeped out. He didn’t say “ok” or “Good, me too” or anything. So, that only meant one thing.
He was going to kill me after I ate my cheeseburger with ketchup, large fries and a Coke.
We went into the diner and the weirdest thing happened. He went off and sat in a booth all by himself. That’s exactly what a highway killer in a roadside diner would do. He wouldn’t sit with his victim. Right? So, there he sat, looking at me while I ate. Waiting for me to finish…my last meal. I took a drink of my Coke and realized something.
My parents thought I was sick, lying in my dorm room in Fairmont, West Virginia. I could see the headline now.
West Virginia Coed Found Dead Behind Diner With French Fries and a Coke
I could see my mother’s face right now, wagging her finger at me. “Don’t ever give rides to strangers, Vickie.”
I had to lose him.
I ate half of my food and then looked at my watch. I knew he was looking at me, waiting to either continue our journey, or to kill me. So, I put my actress hat on and went to work. I got up and went to the pay phone and put a couple coins in it, and dialed a make believe number. Ted Bundy aka The Youngstown Strangler was far enough away to not hear my make believe conversation. I hung up the phone and walked over to him.
“I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to drive you as far as East Lansing……..my boyfriend just broke up with me…………….I’m going back home.” And I started crying. I was crying because I was scared. And mainly because I was stupid. But, really because I was a fantastic lying actress. I went back to my table and had the nerve to finish eating. The guy got up and started asking other customers for a ride. He left with two young guys.
The funny part about all of this is that I could not have been on that phone for more than a minute. How the hell does your boyfriend break up with you that quickly? And would you really hang up so soon?
“Hi, Rick. I’m in Youngstown. I will be there in about 4 hours.”
“Go home. I am breaking up with you.”
“Ok. Bye.”
That guy had to know I was lying. Of course, it was months later when that finally dawned on me. But, I’m not done yet. I wish it ended there at the diner, but it doesn’t.
I stopped in Toledo to get gas. And of course, I had to pee. I went into the bathroom and when I came out, guess who I ran into?
That guy! Ok, just kidding. I scared myself while I was in the bathroom, thinking the guy would have been traveling the same route. What if he was at this same gas station? I didn’t want to come out of the bathroom.
Well, I finally made it to East Lansing and had a wonderful Valentine’s Day weekend with my boyfriend. I left Michigan a little later in the morning than I wanted to. I wanted to get back to Fairmont before dark. That wasn’t going to happen.
The drive back wasn’t so bad. It was snowing, but snow was much more preferable than traveling with a serial killer. Really, it was.
I hit the Pennsylvania line and the snow was coming down a bit harder. It was about 10pm when I saw a guy on the side of Interstate 79, at the exit ramp, hitchhiking.
I picked him up.
I really did.
He was about my age. He was drunk. His friends left a party without him. He was trying to get back to Waynesburg College. He was funny and talkative and wanted me to come back to Waynesburg soon so he could buy me a few drinks.
I even got off of the exit and drove him the mile to the campus.
After I got back to my dorm room, I realized that I was lucky that I didn’t get killed. Twice.
And years later, I thought I would finally fess up and tell my mom that I drove to Michigan to see Rick. I didn’t tell her about picking up not one, but two hitchhikers, but I did tell her about the drive.
“Vickie, I knew about that. I was wondering how long it would take you to tell me.”
“How did you know? Did someone tell you?” How the hell did she find out? I didn’t even tell my sister or brother for a long time.
“Are you that stupid?” Well, uh, yeah, I picked up two hitchhikers, Mom. What do you think?
“You used your gas card. Do you think your fairy godmother paid for your gasoline?”
It didn’t even dawn on me about using my gas card along the way from Fairmont to Michigan.
So, yeah, my fairy godmother.
I do think I may have had an angel with me on that trip, though.
Because what I did was stupid and irresponsible. (My kids read these posts. I have to write this.)
One of the best games of my youth, Hopscotch, involved just rocks and a piece of chalk. The first time I ever played the game, I scoured the neighborhood for the best rock to use. Nobody had told me the first time that I played that it was important to have a flat rock. I showed up with a piece of gravel. Well, hell, I didn’t know. Most kids nowadays have it easy. A lot of playgrounds have the hopscotch board painted on the surface. Children use little bean bags or coins for the markers.
Well, when I was young (I’ve always wanted to say that), we didn’t use chalk half of the time. We used the edge of a sandstone rock to draw our pattern. We would then use a flat rock as a marker. To be honest, we never thought about using coins. It just never crossed our minds.We were tickled half to death if someone just happened to have a piece of chalk with them. Chalk was a luxury. I would have stolen a piece of chalk from school, but the nuns would have hammered my knuckles with a ruler and then let me know that chalk stealers always go to hell.
For those of you who have never played the game, Hopscotch is played on a flat surface, such as asphalt or a sidewalk. We used to play on my driveway. We had a great double driveway. You have to draw a pattern with a piece of chalk. There are many patterns to draw, and I think the one we used looked a little like this:
The object of the game is to win. How bout that? The rules are hard to explain, but I shall try my best. We will use my bff Ramaine as player1 and I will be player 2.
Ramaine would stand behind the starting line to toss her marker in square 1. She would then hop over square 1 and land with one foot in square 2 and one foot in square 3. She then continues hopping to the home square, which is like a safe place to stand and turn around, and then she would hop back again. Ramaine would pause in squares 2 and 3 to pick up the marker, hop in square 1, and then out. Then she continues by tossing the stone in square 2 and so on and so on. All hopping is done on one foot unless the hopscotch design is such that two squares are side-by-side. You must always hop over any square where a maker has been placed.
Tossing your rock into the first square was always quite easy, but I basically sucked after that. For example. if it was my turn to throw it in square #7, and it landed in #8, my turn would be over. And again, since I sucked at Hopscotch, I spent a lot of time sitting on the sidelines, looking at my rock.
So, while writing this post, I took a wrong turn and kept thinking about how much time I spent watching my friends play while I, Hopscotch loser, sat and waited for my next turn. I would most certainly toss my rock right on a line (which is a no-no),and once again, be sitting on the sidelines. So,I was wondering if this is what people sitting on a curb are waiting for.
Waiting their turn to play Hopscotch
Hopscotch losers at a Hopscotch parade of winners
Some mother brought these hopscotch losers cupcakes.
So, then I really got to think that perhaps, perhaps Hopscotch is actually a drinking game that somehow evolved into a children’s game over the years. So, I set out to do some research. What I found was startling.
Hopscotch was actually invented during Easter in Scotland in 1799. Drunk party-goers, bored with playing croquet, drew numbers on a tennis court surface and tossed rocks to see if they could land on the numbers. If they hit the numbers, they didn’t have to drink their scotch. If they missed, they had to take a drink, and hop like a rabbit, (you know, because it was Easter). Someone decided that there should be a border around the numbers, and Voila! Hopscotch was born.
Drunks invented Hop Scotch
Ok, so I lied. But, it could have happened that way.
All in all, Hopscotch was a great childhood game. I may not have been a great rock tosser, but I had fun, and isn’t that what really counts? I hope to play it again one day.
This time I will be drunk….and old. But young at heart.
Put down your purse, Vickie. No one is going to steal it.
I have to drive the back roads to get to my school each morning. You city people just have no idea. You can hop on the A subway train and just hold on until you get to your destination. Sure, you may have to walk up and down stairs to get to the subway, but it isn’t a real chore. A real chore is driving from the country INTO the country.
My drive to and fro is in what I call segments. There is one segment from where I live to over Manley Chapel Road to Route 19. Most of you have no idea what I am talking about, so just think small country roads with no berm and a bunch of dead deer on the side. One dead deer has his little leg lying right in the road. Move over, dead deer. Anyway, this segment is where I shall die, I am sure. The road is paved and the two lane weaves and turns and meanders up and down and around. And trucks really enjoy driving left of center. So, drivers on both side love to speed and take the curves like they are wearing a helmet and an outfit of corporations’ logos. Yes, this is where I will die, no doubt about it. I was hoping it would be in my sleep, but things don’t always go my way.
The second segment is a fisherman’s paradise…if one enjoys fishing in pot holes. The pot holes on Idamay Road are gigantic. I really think they could stock them with fish. This road climbs a little in altitude and this is where I lose my cell phone service at times. Every once in a while you will see a couple of parked cars on the top of Idamay hill, talking on their cell phones.
The third segment is the Farmington to Fairview Road. This is where I stop at Subway to get my 6in. turkey breast on Italian, provolone, little lettuce, little onion and 1 narrow line of mayonaisse about three days a week. They see me coming and start preparing it. How’s that for service? I also have someone pump gas for me at this intersection also. Segment three, not so bad. I don’t mind this portion of my daily drive.
It takes me higher in the sky and big hills that are not fun in the winter. But, this is also where I usually get behind old people drivers. I then cross the railroad tracks over a bridge and into the town of Fairview. Now, this is where I stop at the Dairy Mart. If you are ever in Fairview and stop at the Fairview Dairy Mart, watch where you walk, ok? Just warning you, because the coal miners who stop here after work for their bottle of beer really enjoy spitting out their chewing tobacco in the parking lot. It’s so much fun tip-toeing around it. I end then at my school and all is right with the world. I have made it another day.
But, today just sucked. Sucked, I tell ya. Because we had a little bit too much rain. Now, you have to understand, city people, that our county has a lot of streams that run beside our winding ass roads. I can get home several different ways. But, today’s drive home turned into a race to see what roads weren’t flooded….the worst.
It rained all damn day. I didn’t mind it, because at least it wasn’t snow. But, it rained. The windows in my classroom were leaking. I had kids running for paper towels so I can blot the long window sill. When I left at 3:45, I had no idea it would take me so long to get home. The first two segments on my return trip weren’t that bad. Sure there were a couple of places where the water ran over the road, but it wasn’t bad. I just remember thinking that the water was a bit high. I cursed as I hit the fishing pot holes, as they were hidden by the water on the road.
The third segment was a totally different story. First, I had to deal with rocks in the road. Many many rocks and mini landslides.
Many portions of this road where covered with rocks. This is farmland. You would not believe all of the flooding land. I saw some cows wearing life vests as they floated by. That farmer was thinking when he purchased those vests. Cowabunga, Dude.
This is where I started talking out loud. My “Oh my God” repetition first started like a Valley Girl remark. “And like, Oh my God.” But, the more my poor tires had to creep over small boulders (I laugh at my oxymorons), the more my “Oh my God” changed. I sounded like a damn pet store parrot. “Oh my God….Oh my God…..Oh my God…..Oh my God…..” But, really, “Oh my God.”
And then I came upon raging water. Crossing the roadways. What the hell? I mean, “Oh my God!” Notice, I am using an exclamation mark now. I had never seen it this bad before. What is crazy is that this road is not in a valley where you would think it would flood. Little pockets of rivers were now crossing my path. Ok, I just looked back. Maybe “raging” was a bit much. If it was raging, it would have taken my car. Wow, didn’t think about that.
Then, a traffic back up at the top of the final hill on Manley Chapel Road. Little cars had pulled over onto the berm. Oh wait, there is no berm on that road. Little cars stopped. So, some big trucks went around them. Those little cars knew something that I did not know. Oh shit. I mean, “Oh my freaking God.” There in front of me, at the base of the hill was a river crossing the road. Trucks were trying to get through it one by one. I was behind a Jeep. I was in a Santa Fe. The problem with that is that I FORGOT I was in a Santa Fe. I was in a truck.
I decided the best thing to do is drive like an idiot and hope I didn’t stall out. I rushed through it, holding onto the steering wheel for dear life. The water was spewing up by side windows. Muddy water. I got through! On the other side, a guy in a big pick-up smiled and gave me the thumbs up. He was impressed with my stupidity.
I didn’t take a picture of the Mississippi River crossing Manley Chapel Road. I was too busy with my hands planted 2 and 10 on the steering wheel, uttering, “Oh my God.” I finally got through and took the above picture. This is actually what it looked like in about seven or eight pockets on this section of road. Notice there weren’t any little cars in the photo. Because little car people have brains.
Manley Chapel intersection via Facebook Denise Gum Ice
After getting through several areas of more water over the roadway, I passed several homes that were surrounded by water. On Facebook, people were posting pictures of what it looked like in other parts of the county. It was unreal. Many people weren’t on Facebook because they were trying to stop the water coming down into their basements. I drove into a nice dry garage. I was home.
So, I am writing this, courtesy of a two hour delay we have this morning. I’m usually out the door by seven. Only four of the 55 counties in the state of West Virginia have a delay. It’s always nice getting that call in the morning. So, I thought I would sit down and write a post about my drive home before I head off on that same road, hoping that the small boulders (oxy) are now on the side of the road.
I guess I could have just said, “Oh my God, the roads were covered with water.”
You know, it’s really hard for a hyperactive kid to win a staring contest. It just can’t happen. Through the years, I have been asked if I wanted to have a staring contest, and my answer has never changed.
“Oh, hell no.”
Of course, I don’t really think I said that when I was ten or eleven the first time I was asked to participate in a staring contest. I am sure I obliged, ready to stare down my opponent. But, it never happened. It couldn’t happen. I did try.
The object of a staring contest is an easy one. Stare at someone without taking your eyes off of them. The first one who breaks the stare is a loser. A big time loser. So, of course, everyone wanted to play Hyper Girl. I didn’t know I was hyper at the time. My mom never told me. She just gave me a little green tranquilizer every day and called it my “car sick pill.” You’d think that with a tranquilizer digesting and spreading calm and coolness throughout my tiny body that I would be able to sit still long enough to win a staring contest.
“Vickie…you already lost…..Yes, you did. You just looked away!!……….Yes, you did………………..Yes, you did…….Wanna play again?………………..You did it again…………..Yes, you did. I win…….Vickie, you looked in my eyes for like ten seconds and then looked away………..Yes you did.”
So, this hyperactive child learned to hate staring contests. As I grew older, I was a side-line watcher….for a few minutes. They just bored me to death. I remember one time watching a neighborhood staring contest with some older kids outside at dusk, until I saw a spider spinning a web. I was mesmerized. What staring contest? And really, in the end, what is the big deal? It’s not like it’s an arm wrestling contest. At least that’s a physical challenge. A staring contest is just an eye control contest. Unless you had a lazy eye, drifting toward the middle, or you were hyperactive or you had pink eye and your eye was leaking, anyone could be in a staring contest. Most people can look straight ahead without moving their eyes. Big whoop. Picture the Hulk Hogan winning a staring contest, and then ripping off his shirt after the kill.
“I am so tough. I just beat someone in a freakin staring contest. YES! ….. Take that, Grandma!”
Staring contests have been around for a very long time. I think boxers have the best stares. They march up to their opponent in the middle of the ring, getting right in their face, and just stare. Pretty intimidating. Did you know Rocky Balboa was in a staring contest?
So, to me, staring contests were stupid. I stayed away from being in one or even watching one. Until many years later, when the chance arose once again. I was a mother, probably about forty-four. My daughter was a spectator that day, and I believe she may have been fourteen or so. I am probably wrong, but that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I almost died that day……because of a staring contest.
The day started like any ordinary day. It was a beautiful summer evening. My daughter and I were outside, standing on the brick patio right beside our house. I loved that property. We had wildlife visiting our place every day. I kept binoculars on my kitchen counter so I could quickly check out a new bird, or the fighting neighbors. Never a dull moment.
This one particular summer evening was one for the memory book. I spotted a deer, standing down in front of our house, taking more than his share of the fallen apples. He had his back to us. Hmmmm.
“I bet I can sneak down real close to that deer.” I said to my daughter. She stayed at the top of the hill by the house. I realize the picture was taken in winter, but just humor me for a minute. The deer was beside the tree that I have noted with the red circle. I began my trek down the hill, moving slowly and quietly. The deer did not hear me. I looked back at my daughter, smirking at my agile stalking.
I got pretty close to the deer. He turned and was shocked to see this strange creature so close to him. I froze. He stared. I stayed frozen. He stared.
He then snorted and stomped his foot on the ground. I knew what he was doing. He had no plans to leave the plentiful bounty that was lying on the ground in front of him. Them apples were for him. I stared back, and then snorted and stomped my foot. I was wearing tennis shoes, so my stomp sounded intimidating. He snorted again, raised his hoof and kept it in the air, lingering for a few seconds, and then stomped again. I snorted and stomped again. I was winning this freaking starting contest. Ha! I finally will win one. Sure, it may have been against an animal, but a staring contest is a staring contest.
Shit. I took my eyes off the deer to look back up the hill at my daughter. When my eyes went back to the deer, he snorted and charged at me. Holy shit! I let out a scream and then ran like the wind. Luckily, I had just changed from flip flops to tennis shoes, or I would have been deer stomped.
I never ran so fast in my whole life. I mean, there was a snorting, stomping deer with unchewed apple in his mouth coming after me. I had no idea when, but I felt that he was going to tackle me from behind and kick me to death. So, I did the Forrest Gump thing and I ra-an. I made it to the top of the hill to greet my laughing daughter. She couldn’t quit laughing at me.
“Mom, I never knew you could run. Haahahahahhahahahha.”
Well, when you have a crazy deer charging at you, you really should move. The deer chased me halfway up the hill, but must have known by my pathetic “Monster is chasing girl” scream, that the apples were pretty much his. He went back down the the apple tree, knowing that he wasn’t going to be bothered anymore.
And for me, well, that was my last staring contest. Deer will win every time.
It’s bad enough that I have to go to Walmart once or twice a week, but throw in some smelly people, a guy talking on an obviously pretend cell phone, and children who need slapped, and I am beat. But, yesterday was a day like no other. Because, yesterday in Walmart, among the mystery smells and nose pickers, there was also…….a whistler.
I really don’t know how the general population views whistling. I have never asked anyone. Some whistling is great. For example, the opening song to the Andy Griffith show is a whistle. I used to like that. Didn’t bother me a bit. I used to sit down on the floor, in front of the tv, whistling along to the opening and closing credits. But, nowadays, many many years later, it grates on me to the point where I lose my mind. I mean, I lose my mind.
Years ago, when my children were quite small, we would go to Hills Department Store. I could always hear ”The Bird Lady,” even if she was on the other side of the store. It was that loud. She was like a damn mockingbird. I am not kidding. One bird call after another after another. There was no break. The first time I heard it, I had to search the person out. I thought it might be a guy. I was surprised to see an older lady with short hair and dirt under her fingernails. She was a farmer. I was sure of it. The second time I heard her, I smiled, and went on my way. She seemed to be there whenever I was. By the 6th time or so, I was ready to say, “Enough already.”
I think the whistling that sends me over the edge is what I call, “Jesus whistling.” I was in an antique shop several months ago, and the owner was whistling while I was walking through the rooms. The shop was on the first floor of an older home, so her whistling was right on top of me. She was at first attempting (notice I said “attempting”) to whistle, Bringing in the Sheaves, and then followed that successful tune with What a Friend We Have in Jesus. But, she was multi-talented, as she could switch from whistling to humming and back again. It was easier to know what the hell song she was trying to butcher. By the time I found my way out of her maze, I wanted to slap her and say,
“Jesus is not your friend.” I actually thought that shoplifting may have been justified that day just to get me the hell out of there.
“Hey, look what I stole out of an antique shop today because the owner was whistling.”
So, when I heard the whistling, I had to find out who was doing it. I thought it was a woman since the music was in the makeup aisle. Maybe the elderly bird lady was still alive, whistling her bird calls. Like Odysseus rowing toward the Sirens, I had to search this person out. But, no, it was an older man, clad in jeans, a jean jacket, sporting a beard and some stupid ass hat I can’t even describe. He wasn’t whistling a song or even bird chirps. He was whistling….nothing. Why would you waste your time inhaling and exhaling to exert sounds that sound like a monkey on crack was making them? Or a owl on crack. Something on crack. It pissed me off. It wasn’t even a song. So, I decided to get the hell away from him.
He followed me.
I went in the cat food aisle. I could hear him coming. I grabbed the wrong bag of cat food and left the area.
I then went over to pick up some wide ruled notebook paper for my classroom. Dammit, I could hear his off-key whistling. I felt like I was playing Marco Polo with a whistler.
“Shwee wee.”
“Polo.”
Nah, would never have worked.
No, I must note that I was in a SUPER Walmart. That means it is bigger than a BIG Walmart or in some towns, a SMALL Walmart. This is super big. Tall ceilings. I should be able to get away from Willie. Yeah, I already named him. Willie the freak of a Whistler.
Well, I did have a moment or two of peace while picking up my strawberry whipped yogurt in the dairy aisle. But, then I heard him. He somehow was in front of me in the aisle. Shit. He was hesitating by the juice. Hesitation means a break in whistling. This guy could not multi-task. That was good. I needed my mango juice. I had to open the door right in front of him. I reached for the juice, and was almost out of there, when he started again. Right in my ear. Freakin Dr. Seuss nonsense. If Dr. Seuss whistled, that is what it would sound like. What a goober. I put my mango juice in my buggy and looked right at him.
“Sure like whistling, don’t you?” I smiled.
“Can you whistle?” He sounded normal. He should just maybe talk more often.
I shook my head and immediately thought of Lauren Bacall.
He continued. “It’s real easy. I think I learned how to whistle before I learned to talk.”
I wanted to say, “And that’s all ya got?” But, I was nice. I smiled and just strolled away, until I was in the next aisle and then took off. I had to get the hell out of Walmart. I could not take it any longer.
I went to the furthest check-out aisle, fearing if he would be behind me in a long line and I would be stuck. That would be like a claustrophobic moment for me. And then I would surely lose my my mind. I even leave my classroom door open because I’m just not fond of closed in places. I do well on a plane…and in a public restroom. I just must be retarded. But, to be STUCK behind Willie the freak of a whistler would not bode well for me. I could hear the person over the loudspeaker now.
“Code DeltaDawn in checkout aisle 22.” That means, “older lady by herself just lost her mind.” Yeah, I’m well aware of Walmart’s codes. The main one is Code Adam.
I wish I would have had some backup with me. I wish Don Rickles, Jerry Seinfeld, Lewis Black, or Richard Lewis would have been with me. Or all of them. Add in Chandler Bing. They would have said something to him. They would have understood the absurdity that whistling is. But, it was just me and I could see the guy coming. But, wait. He didn’t have anything in his arms, and a lady with a buggy just pulled in behind me. I was in the clear. Everyone stared at him as he passed each check-out aisle. I looked at him and wondered if he whistled while he worked. Shit. He was coming my way. Shit.
Wait. Willie the Whistler has a wife. She was behind me with her buggy full of toilet paper. That’s why he didn’t have a buggy and he was just wandering around, whistling. Figures. Willie came and stood by her.
“Jack, stop whistling. You sound like a broken drill.”
And with that, he quit whistling. I glanced back at them and he looked beaten down, almost depressed. Poor Willie. I felt sorry for him.
I have been tagged. I didn’t know what that meant at first, so I headed over to Marina Sleeps to see what was up.
It isn’t an award. But, it’s almost like one. It’s a diversion! I don’t think people realize how these things are a great way to build readership and in the process discover some other really great blogs. I mean, not saying my blog is great, but you know what I mean. (My blog is great.)I really enjoy these things. I can get into this. So, here are the rules:
*You must post the rules.
*Answer the questions the tagger set for you in their post and then create eleven new questions to ask the people you tagged.
*Tag eleven people and link them to your post.
*Let them know you tagged them.
Eleven? Ok, I can ask questions all day.
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Here are the questions that Marina Sleeps has asked eleven bloggers and here are my answers.
1.What does the saying “Kicking ass and taking names” even mean???
When you see someone kicking a donkey, you need to find out who they are so you can turn them in to the animal cruelty people.
2. You are driving. Someone flips you off. What is the best reaction?
Ah, Olympic gymnast Mary Lou Retton’s mom flipped me off one time. She was in front of me in her stupid little convertible, looking at herself in the mirror when the light turned green. I had to honk my horn, and she flipped me off. I laughed and did the little motion with my index finger circling the side of my temple that means one is crazy, and she flipped me off again. The best reaction, however, is to hit them with your car.
3. If you could be someone else for a day who would you be?
Oh, that is so easy. Wait. Would I also be able to time travel? If so, I would be my grandfather, circa 1965. I would change my will to leave everyone out but my favorite grandaughter, Vickie.
4. What is the craziest thing you have done?
Ihave done so many crazy things. When I was in college, I was on the costumes crew for a play and we were not allowed to miss dress rehearsal AT ALL. If we did, we would get a cut in our final grade. Well, I was invited by a really nice looking guy to attend the Billy Joel concert that same night. So, over the course of two weeks, I became progressively sicker each practice (the director kept telling me to go home, but I told her I would be ok) The night before the concert and dress rehearsal, I told the director I just had a blood test to see if I had mono. She felt my forehead and told me to go home and that she didn’t want to see me for three nights. I went to the concert, and on the way home stopped at a club and Billy Joel was there. We had drinks with him and he sat at our table for about 45 minutes, and I couldn’t tell anyone. Karma bites me in the ass.
5. How will you survive the Zombie apocalypse?
Zombies have poor motor skills, so I would have to be faster than them. And that means, I will need GatorAde. Yes, electrolytes will save me. I would also hide out at a carnival’s House of Mirrors. The poor undead would be so confused. I would be able to get out and be on my way to my next hiding place. He would then forget what he went in there for.
6. Can you explain what is wrong with the Olsen Twins and Lindsey Lohan?
It’s a twin thing. Ashley Kate or Mary….Ashley Mary and Kate…..Kate Mary and Ashley…shit…wait…I can get this….Mary Kate and Ashley. Ok, Anywho, they have an identity problem. Remember, only one of them were able to be on Full House. Lindsey Lohan had to play two kids on The Parent Trap. Lindsey thinks there really are two of them. The Olsens think there should only be one. That’s why they are photographed standing so close to each other. They are trying to morph into one. Lindsey is a lost soul because she can’t find herself.
7. What deadly sin are you guilty of committing?
Oh, how easy is this one. Writers are vain. My deadly sin is Pride, the “excessive belief in one’s own abilities, that interferes with the individual’s recognition of the grace of God. It has been called the sin from which all others arise. Pride is also known as Vanity.” I think I am awesome. I’m so vain, I probably think this blog is about me…. Don’t I? Don’t I? Don’t I?
8. What is one song you are embarrassed to like?
I’m going to go with the first song that popped into my head…”I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.” I can really sing this one.
9. What is a day in your life like?
Well, it is excitement with a capital E. Let’s take a weekday….a Tuesday. I get up at 5:30 and play on the computer until 6:10. I take my shower, get ready for work, talk to my cat, back out of the garage, drive through Hardees and order a butter biscuit and a medium Coke, drive 40 minutes on back roads, dodging stupid drivers who drive left of center, get to school, put the schedule on the board, after the rugrats come in, teach all day, only taking 30 minutes to have lunch with “The Lunch Bunch,” (best group of ladies ever), where we curse and bitch about the kids, drive to the gym on the way home, curse at the elliptical, stop at Subway for a 6 inch turkey breast on Italian with provolone, lettuce, just a few onions and one line of mayonaisse, and a medium Coke, go home, eat, get on the internet, do some house crap, and then watch New Girl at 9:00, talk to the cat, and then go to bed after talking to friends on Facebook. Fun times on a Tuesday.
10. Can you dance like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever?
Uh, yeah. I was there.
11. What kind of child are you? 60′s child? 70′s child? etc etc?
Well, I was born in the mid-fifties. I was ten years old in 1966, and sixteen in 1972. I touched base with all of them. I am old. But, you could never tell because I look so damn young. Plus, I am vain. See deadly sin question.
Ok, that was fun. Now my turn to ask questions to the people I shall tag……
1. What one movie could you watch every day?
2. If you had to change your first name, what name would you fancy?
3. You just got kicked out of your country. You aren’t allowed back. What country would move to? Why?
4. You are only allowed to eat one vegetable for the rest of your life. Discuss.
5. You get to bring home a celebrity. Do with them what you want. Who would you bring home?
6. Name three adjectives that describe you best.
7. You have to pick one…cat or dog? Why?
8. You have just been chosen to be in the Olympics. And you get to pick any sport you want. What sporting event will you be participating in? For what country?
9. Pick an idiom that you would like my fourth graders to draw this Friday for Idiom Friday.
10. My favorite cartoon character was Foghorn Leghorn? And yours?
11. A two-part question: What is your favorite smell? Your favorite sound?
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TAG, YOU’RE IT!!!!! Answer the questions, and follow the rules. And if you don’t, I totally don’t care. People will click and come visit your blogs and find out what great writers you are, and will then follow you and write wonderful replies to your posts. And then they will find more blogs to click on and so it goes.
If your blog is not one of those up above, and you read this post and want to play along, just copy the questions and answer them in the reply. Don’t forget to put your link on the reply so we can visit your blog.
Ok, so I have done my part. Well, except for letting the eleven know that I tagged them. They will want to hug me, I am sure. Or throw rocks. But, in any event, I have done my part.
So, “Tag, you’re it!” And I am now sterilized forever.
When I was little, I had to look up words to see what they meant in a gigantic red dictionary my mom kept alongside our World Book Encyclopedias. I was never able to look up phrases like we can today on the internet. I was so curious about everything. But, you know, I used to have to be nibby and ask people about things I was curious about. I would have never met most of our neighbors if I had the internet and all the answers to my childish questions. “Mrs. Jones, why does that man drive into your garage in the middle of the night almost every night and then leave right before I get on the bus? Is that your brother?” Ok, just kidding, but I could have just looked up “What is an affair” into the google search engine that would have answered all of my questions. But, how lonely that would have been for me. I would have salivated over the opportunity to travel all over the freaking world without leaving my chair………. Um, like I am doing now at age 55…….. Shit. I am a loser.
I have to admit that I really enjoy reading all of the search terms that pop up every day on my Word Press dashboard. For those of you who don’t blog here, we bloggers are able to see what search engine terms brought people to our site. For example, I wrote a blog about a monkey, and tagged the post with words such as, “monkey,” “fun,” laugh,” and ”pet store.” Meanwhile, some stranger in Internet Land typed in the Google search bar, “monkey poop,” and it showed up as a search engine term. That internet person would be able to read my blog post if he wanted to, or just say to himself, “Well, hell, this is about a monkey on someone’s head. Monkeyshines Where’s the monkey poop?
Of course, I didn’t know the monkey poop question poser was from. But, since I have started blogging, I have seen bizarre search engine terms pop up. I’d like to share some of them with you. And my blog posts that brought them here.
1. Was Helen Keller black slave- This poor person has no idea what is going on in life. I wrote One Tough Cookie about several strong personalities. Helen Keller was one of them. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t a black slave. I also wrote Play Time, where I discussed how my bff, Ramaine, and I used to play Helen Keller and Annie Sullivan. I always got to be Helen. Bad Karma. My hearing is shot nowadays.
2. How old is a 1 year old pig- I got this one yesterday. I just don’t know where to start with this one. I guess a one year old pig is different ages. Maybe the searcher wants to know how old a one year old pig is in human years. I have no idea, but here, pig googler, read one of my pig blog posts. And This Little Piggy…., Guinea Pig Children and an early post, Feeling Like an Oinker-Pig
3. Billy Joel fat ugly- Aw, that is just so not nice. Where you looking for a picture of Billy Joel? Because what you got was this. Lies That Bite Back
4. Fish guts stains your teeth- Um, okay…I wonder what this guy has been eating. Evidently his teeth are now black. Or some color. I just shuddered…again. My story is about fish guts, but someone was wearing them, not eating them. The Fish Head Story. It is also the second hardest I have ever laughed in my life. That’s right. I have them numbered.
5. Can nuns carry guns- Uh, oh, someone is in trouble or planning to make a hit on Bingo night at the church. I have a lot of posts about nuns. I am afraid of nuns. I do think they carry guns. They keep it in a thigh holster. I’m pretty sure. But, while you are contemplating robbing Sister Betrille, sit awhile and read about my nun stories. Snakes, Gasoline, and a Nun, Vickie With an E, Edgewood, and one of my favorites, Bring Back the Nuns Arrrgh!
6. I have mosquito bite boobs 15- Oh, honey, I can relate. This blog post will not help whatsoever. But, I once was a mosquito bite boober. Sigh. Mosquito Bites
7. dirty potato- What was this person thinking when he searched for this? Maybe he forgot to wash potatoes before cooking and now thinks maybe bugs were all over them? I’m sure he is going to die. If you take your lap top to the Emergency room, you can read these posts while they take an x-ray of those dirty veggies in your stomach. Rats! is about how we fed a rat in our apartment to keep him from coming upstairs and eating our faces while we slept. Or try, Old Wive’s Tales, where you need to know the importance of washing behind your ears.
8. boogey man just called me- Ok, let me get this right. The boogey man just called you, and you get off the phone and google, “Boogey man just called me.” Wow, you are a brave soul. I would have run upstairs and hid under my bed. Which would probably not be a good idea, because that’s where the boogey man is. Dear God, I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight. I Killed the Boogey Man
9. Wont be fooled April 1- I used to be the Queen of April Fool’s jokes. But, someone finally got me. Got me good. So, April Fool’s Day google searcher, read this post and feel for me. D-I-V-O-R-C-E
10. catsup is catsnip- Ew, and my God you are stupid. The whole Ketchup/catsup scenario is mind boggling I know. I wrote a post on ketchp sandwiches, which is not the same as catsup sandwiches, which is somehow cat related, I was told. I should google it. Ketchup Sandwiches
So, those are just a random sampling of some of the search terms I receive each day. I really like the idea of how tagging can bring more traffic to my blog. It’s a great idea. But, the next time you want to search for something and you don’t want anyone to know about it, just know that we know.
Here are some more search terms that are just weird as hell:
*What is it when I have white stuff on my gums near my molars.
*pee in my snowsuit
*video girls in mud
*vomiting hid in nightstand
*the longest poop in the world
*ant bit lips
*detergent poison how to poison
*green snot infection
*stuck his tongue down my throat
*is eating paint chips still bad
*Hitler had son Jimmy Hitler
*armpit smells like garlic
*pet dead dog infreezer til ground thaws out bury
Yes, search terms are interesting, that’s for sure.
I remember the very first thing I did a search on when I got the internet……Wooly worms. Do you remember what you searched for?
Back in the seventies, the campus of Fairmont State had a student union building where everyone congregated between classes. It was called the Nickel, because we had nickel a beer night about every night. Ok, that’s a lie. But, you could buy a glass of draft beer for a nickel, and maybe once a week had “Nickel Night.” Or it may have been once a semester. I know it was more than once a year. Let’s just go with once a night. So, yeah, we were a bunch of drunks.
The Nickel had a little game room on one side people rarely used, and a snack bar on the other side. I ate a hamburger and french fries almost every day. My freshman year I ate in the cafeteria because I lived on campus, but the rest of the time I ate food clogged with cholesterol about every day.
There was a room in the back of the Nickel called, The Greek Room. Sounds a little politically incorrect, I guess, but this huge room was just for frat boys and the girls who needed fifty bff’s. I was one of those needy, goofy girls. You could not go into the back room unless you were a Greek. There were a group of football players who did not join a fraternity, and they called themselves, Group Five. I don’t know why. Maybe there were only five of them in the group, but they sat out in the front with the rest of the non-Greekers and made fun of those who walked through. Well, if they didn’t know you or like you. I thought it was sort of fun walking through them to get to the back. We strutted through between classes. Little did I know how much we were hated until I started hating us, too. I will save that for a later post.
I joined Sigma Sigma Sigma during the second semester of my freshman year. Or maybe it was during my sophomore year. I know that I sat out at least a semester because my friends and I were bombarded during rush week, or whatever the hell it was called, and we just needed to step back and take a look at each of the five sororities and to see if we even wanted to join. We heard terrible things about each sorority. But, the worst was reserved for the Tri-Pigmas.
“You don’t want to join them. Sure they are all beautiful, but they KNOW they are…… They are just a bunch of rich bitches…..They will love you to your face and then tear you apart behind your back…….Their daddy takes care of them and they all drive expensive cars…
Yikes. They sounded harsh. The present-day Mean Girls, College Edition. But, they seemed sooo nice and they really wanted us to join.
Cover via Amazon
So, yeah, I was stupid and joined. It was fun, really. I had a blast the first three years. We weren’t mean or bitches. I even wore a t-shirt that read, “I’m not conceited, I’m perfect” to make fun of myself. All it did was make me look like a bitch. Some things always backfire. And my grades suffered too, because I wasn’t good at multi-tasking. I was partying and not studying. Something had to give. Goodbye 4.0, hello 2.6. Pathetic. I blame it on sorority life and the fact that I had no spine and would never say no.
“Sure, I’ll go with you.”……”Hell, yeah, let’s drive over to Ocean City on Wednesday,”…………………”I can’t believe I forgot to go to that class all semester”…..
I could also be a doormat. ”You need an abortion and need someone with a car to take you to Pittsburgh? Sure, I’ll take you.”……”Yeah, I’m going home this weekend. Sure, I can drive 40 minutes out of my way to take you home. Afterall we are sisters.” I was a no gas money given doormat.
So, back to the Nickel. Between classes, we headed for the back room. I had to get past the basketball players, though. I don’t know why, but several of the black basketball players liked to torment me. They at first, would say things to me when I would walk past. “Hey, Blondie, how are you doing today?” Well, I don’t know why, but the three of them scared the crap out of me. I don’t know if it is because they were so tall and I was so short and only weighed 98 pounds, or that they were black and there was only one black person in our whole high school and I was scared. Stupid, really, but ignorance leads to all kinds of fears. I feared the black basketball players. One day, I heard them laugh at me. “Look how fast she walked past us.” So, the torment began. They would block my path for a few seconds and just smile down at me. They were all tall freaking trees and I was walking through their scary forest each day. I was little red riding in the hood.
Once back in the safety of my frat boy and sorority bitch home, I would talk to my “sisters” and watch the TKE fraternity boys play Spades. Back in the mid-seventies, if you didn’t play Spades, you might as well just drop out of college.
I really don’t know how I learned how to play. I have horrible listening skills. Maybe someone taught me and showed me how to play while actually in the middle of a game. That’s the best way to learn. Just reading the directions would not cut it with me. The wikipedia rules that I just read made my head spin. How to Play Spades in 25 Easy Steps After I learned how to play Spades, I was pretty damn good. If you want to play with the boys, you have to know how to play. So, yeah, Spades was a definite game that was played in the Greek Room.
One game that three of the TKE brothers played on semester was called, “How Fast Does Vickie Eat?” Evidently, without me knowing, they must have watched how quickly I devoured my cheeseburger and fries. I was lucky if I weighed 96 pounds in college. I looked anorexic, but everyone knew that wasn’t true, because I could inhale food and never excused myself afterwards to put my finger down my throat. I could eat and not gain an ounce. But, I never realized that I was a fast eater. I guess someone noticed it one day, and so then they set out to watch me every day. I had no idea they were watching me. Until they brought me a homemade trophy.
I guess I was in the running for “Fastest Food Guzzler,” a made up contest that no one knew they entered. There were three people that they were placing bets on who could eat the fastest. They timed each person, me included. They had to wait until we all had ordered the same food. Dear God, did they not have anything better to do than to watch people eat?
I guess I won. Um, thanks? They told me that they timed me over and over again and that no one came close to how fast I ate. They made me feel like I should be proud. I felt like a pig. Thank God I didn’t look like one. I was a skinny piglet.
The next year I was handed another homemade trophey. Oh, come on now! I was so humiliated by the eating time trial that I learned to slow down and not eat like I had two minutes to live. But, this wasn’t another eating contest. This was a different kind of contest.
Looks like five of the TKE boys took it upon themselves to watch girls on campus. They gathered information and got back with each other and came up with a list. And I was on their list. Just great. What the hell did I do now? And these weren’t even the same goobers who gave me the first one.
The words on the homemade trophy simply read: BBOC Vickie Mendenhall
They handed it to me with big smiles.
“Ok, guys. What is this? What does BBOC mean?” I was semi-pissed.
“You have the Best Butt On Campus.” And with that said, they smiled and walked away.
I guess the TKE brothers found the best lips, the best bust, the best hair, the best legs, the best smile, the best eyes, and the best butt on campus. And of all of the butts, they thought my butt was best.
I haven’t won much after that. I won a jar of jelly once while playing some grocery store bingo. I won a $2 scratch off lottery ticket. I won a lottery for jury duty, but was told that wasn’t a good thing. Damn.
So, yeah, I have fond memories of the Nickel, that wonderful student union on the campus of Fairmont State College. I learned how to play Spades, how to eat quickly, and I learned that I had the best butt on campus.
Too bad that honor wouldn’t make a difference at the end of the semester when grades came out.
I guess I could have said, “But, Mom, I won a contest. See the trophy?”
Yes, I loved the Nickel. College would have been so much more fun, however, if there weren’t any classes.
We have become a society of abbreviators. Our words are abbreviated. Our actions are abbreviated. I’m sure everyone has heard the phrase,”as a crow flies.” That means a shortcut or diagnonally in some crow talking circles. And that’s what we have all become. We are crows. Well, that’s not all that bad. Sure, maybe crows enjoy pecking dead things on the side of the road. I know some people who are peckers. (She laughed writing that) But, all in all, crows are intelligent birds, and if they have found a shortcut home, more power to the them. God bless us, for being stupid. Crows don’t follow a road, Goofball Head. They don’t think in those terms. We do.
“Well, if I was a crow, I guess I would live diagonally about, um, 6 blocks over. Yeah, so I live 6 blocks from here……..as a crow flies.”
I was a smart ass when I was in college and replied to someone who said that with a “How close for a blue jay?” He just looked at me like I was stupid. I’m not stupid….. I’m a crow.
But, we have become a nation of shortcutters. But, it didn’t start with our generation. People abbreviated long before we knew what the hell “LOL” meant.
It all started with contractions. They are similar to an abbreviation, but not really. “Hey, Bob, You know, I’m getting tired of talking and writing. I think I am going to shorten my words. Do ya see how I already did it? I shortened ” I am” to “I’m.” It’s amazing how he took a very long word and shortened it. And that’s how it started. A very lazy man came up with a way for all of us to be lazy. We have a whole list of ass-long words that we have shortened into contractions:
it’s - it is
don’t - do not
you’re – you are
isn’t - is not
we’ve-we have
Who would not want to shorten their words? Who wouldn’t want to shorten their words? See how easy that was? I will get done with this post so much faster now.
Since I am a school teacher, I have noticed that buses are now shorter. Well, some of them are.There are short buses because, well, they are special. I will leave it at that.
Yes ,we have become oh so lazy. We can blame our great grandparents…………..and poets. Poets used “Tis” a lot. Like that wild party girl, Emily Jane Bronte:
‘Tis moonlight, summer moonlight, All soft and still and fair; The solemn hour of midnight Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere…”
And Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven (Which is like a crow, but maybe even smarter.)
’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door; Only this, and nothing more.”
Tis means “it is”. Wait…. So does it’s. No wonder foreign people who want to learn English hate us. We have a screwed up language.
And we all know the famous, “Twas the Night Before Christmas.” Abbreviated.
Let’s take a look at some abbreviations that people used long ago and then some that we use now. Back then, people didn’t have the luxury to burst into laughter on paper like we can now. LOL
P.S.- This means post script, which I didn’t know for longest time. The term comes from the Latin post scriptum, meaning “written after.” When I was in elementary school and we first used P.S., I thought it meant like “Pssssssst, hey listen to this, there’s more.” My teacher never told us what it meant. It’s her fault that I got laughed at when I was in high school when I raised my hand to answer, “What does P.S. mean?” with a “Pssssssst.” I think I was called a space cadet….. No, I was a crow.
RSVP- Hey, we need to hear back from you. Respond soon veryplease. Or something like that. That’s what I said it was. Again, not my fault. Sucky teacher. RSVP comes from the French phrase, répondez s’il vous plaît. I know French very well and translated, it really means,” respond with your plate.”
TNT- Pulled this one out of my hat, didn’t I? Well, I thought of TNT only because I grew up with it. Wile E. Coyote lived at my house and was always trying to kill the Road Runner. He had a bunch of Acme products to use on the little speedy bird. “TNT” was written on the box.
I had no idea what TNT really meant. It was dynamite, but not really. You light the string and things blow up. TNT actually stands for trinitroluene. Nobody cares about that.
lb- pounds. This abbreviation just pissed me off. It makes no sense whatsoever. It should be pd. Everyone knows that. I remember getting this marked wrong when we had a measurement test in fourth grade. I remember it because stupid Miss Emler wrote on the board, “John weighs 200 lbs.” She wanted to show how pounds is abbreviated in a sentence. Well, I missed that part because I was thinking about this imaginary John fellow, and was hoping he was not in fourth grade somewhere. Totally missed the point and missed it on the test. Fat John kept me from having a perfect paper, dammit.
Boo- Right now I am teaching my fourth graders about the events leading up to the Revolutionary War. We read about how people gathered in the streets of Boston, yelling, “No taxation without representation.” The British to tend to make a few words into pages of long words, and it spilled over to their descendants. So, I had my class chant that phrase three times. You could not tell what the hell they were saying. It sounded like mumbled gibberish and they knew it. That’s when my lies kicked in and I told them how that phrase evolved over years to be. “Boooo” when we aren’t happy with something. Makes sense. We Americans shortened, “We are mad as hell, and we don’t like this one iota” to “Boooo!” Means the same damn thing, only shortened. Boo isan expression of disgust, dissatisfaction, or disapproval.
XL- Sigh. Extra Large. You know, this sucks. Why doesn’t it just say on the label, ”Bigger than Large.” It would make us previous size 0′s feel better about gaining 5 pounds every freaking year to the point where you have to wear an XL and draw pictures of pigs to put on your refrigerator in an effort to keep you from eating. One last sigh.
tv- Easy one. Short for television. I don’t think anyone ever says television anymore. “I think I will watch television right now.” Nope. Doesn’t work anymore. “We are heading to Walmart to buy a new television set.” (Thought I would try it one more time. Still doesn’t work.)
IQ- “He has the IQ of a worm.” “He has an intelligence quotient of a worm.” Well, I did feel smarter writing the second one. The only time I use the word quotient is when I am teaching division and I don’t use it that much becauss they have a hard enough time dividing.
St.- I don’t know about this one. Why would anyone abbreviate a saint? It’s like taking away their sainthood. Right, Saint Christopher? Saint Christopher was the patron saint of many many things, such as athletes, mariners, and travelers. He was against lightning, pestilence, bookbinders, epilepsy, floods, and um, fruit dealers. I’m really not making this stuff up. I wonder if a fruit dealer didn’t give him the correct change or his watermelon had too many seeds. You just can’t trust fruit dealers.
I.O.U.- No brainer. I owe you some money.
Yes, we are a society of abbreviators. And we are also shorter than usual. Our height is indeed, abbreviated. Studies show that we are getting shorter than our hunter-gatherer ancestors. So, everything is shorter. Except for maybe skirts. They were at their shortest in 1974. I know, because I wore one of them. You could not bend over.
So, go ahead and head home as a crow flies. RSVP to a friend’s wedding. Wear high heels to make you taller. Sit in front of the tv and watch your favorite show. Write a poem that starts with Tis. Call a married woman, Ms. or an unmarried woman Mrs. and see if they correct you. You can get short changed at the fruit dealer like our friend, St. Christopher. Abbreviations are all around us.
I have been playing Words with Friends and have become quite addicted to the little game. I can understand how Alec Baldwin just couldn’t put it away. I play it from Facebook. I’ve always been a Scrabble player, and I didn’t think this would match what Scrabble offers. When I first started playing, I thought you had to sit there and play it. I mean, that’s what you do with Scrabble. But, no. I found out that you can play a word, go out to eat, watch a movie, and then play your next word. It would suck if your opponent had no such plans, and was waiting for you. But, after playing a couple of times, you finally figure out that you can lead a life, be a mother, wash clothes, AND play Word with Friends. But, I’m not writing about how wonderful the game is. Oh, it is wonderful. I’m writing about particular opponents who are just pissing me off.
They are pissing me off because it reminds me of games I played when I was little. My mom taught me how to play everything from 500 Rummy , Gin, chess, to Yahtzee and chinese checkers. As I have written numerous times, I was a hyperactive child, but games and strategy kept me in focus. I was all about the game. But now, my opponents, well, they weren’t in the same league as me. At eight years of age, I was a gaming professional, dammit, and I expected those who played with me to follow the rules. Just follow the rules.
It all started with Candy Land. If my sister was losing, she would quit. I would have my little gingerbread man close to the end, ready for a little gingerbread victory dance. It would be exciting. Everyone likes to win. But then, she would simply stand up and make an exit.
“I quit. This is a stupid game.” What the hell, stupid sister? You always finish what you start. I was hyperactive as that little cartoon dog that follows the huge Bulldog, Spike, and I even knew that. I was three years older than she was, and she was an easy mark, but that is no excuse for a five year old. Get off the short bus and finish the damn game. But no. If was ahead by much, she would just stand up and quit.
Get back up and fight, soldier.
When we played Go to the Head of The Class, and if I was winning, she would quit. If we were playing Button, Button, Who’s Got the Button, and she was on a lower step, she would just get up and walk away. If we played Chutes and Ladders, she would pout for a while, and then get up and walk away. I mean, come on. It was Chutes and Ladders. That is one game that should be played to the very end. Well, like all freaking games. What the hell is wrong with you? Games are meant to be played until the end. End of discussion. Like my mom always said:
Quitters never prosper.
Dear God, I think she said that several times a week. I didn’t know what the hell “prosper” meant for the longest time, but that didn’t matter. I learned about context clues all on my own. Quitters never something…..Quitters never won…..Quitters were always losers. Yeah, that’s it. Quitters were losers. My sister was a loser. God, I wish someone would have thought to put their finger in an L shape over their forehead years ago. I would never have had to talk. There were a lot of losers in my household.
So, why do people quit? Did the ClemsonTigers leave the football field during the Orange Bowl when the West Virginia Mountaineers were pummeling them 70-33? No. They stayed until the very end. Thank goodness, or we wouldn’t be able to put these billboards up on the interstate near Morgantown. I love my WVU.
Yeah, it's a real sign.
It reminds me of the kid who brings the ball and if doesn’t get his way, snatches the ball and walks home. Cry baby. But, for the most part, sports teams stay until the very end. My son had a ten-run rule when he played baseball when he was younger. But, no one was quitting. They were just sent home early, dignity intact abeit tail behind their legs.
I did get confused about the whole quitting scenario because my mom used to always tell me when I got in trouble:
Quit while you’re ahead
Understand my confusion? First she was telling me all Kung Fu Caine-like that “Quitters never prosper” and then she turns around and tells me to “Quit while I’m ahead.” I’m thinking my mom may have been wise, but not all the way. She was a Sybil quoter, split personality and all. I should add that she used to also say, “Cheaters never prosper.” No one prospered with that woman.
I guess my rant should make a sharp point. Well, let me back up. Now that I have been playing Words with Friends for a few weeks now, I have gotten used to the people I play. I can tell which ones use other sources because, I mean, what the hell does “distome” mean? Well, I will tell you what it means. It is a parasitic flatworm. Ok, sure maybe Player #1 had an opponent play it and they remembered to play it with me. I guess I shouldn’t complain. I am using new words that I have learned. I’m not talking about the vocabulary geniuses/Scrabble dictionary users. Right now, I’m talking about the quitters.
I am currently playing twenty people. Well, sixteen people, since my son and I are in the middle of four games. But, I have two opponents that I play a lot who just quit if there are only about seven tiles left and I am way out in front. Then they immediately start another game. What? Oh my God, is my sister on the other end? Why do you do this? I don’t do it when someone is beating the hell out me, 419-302. I know I’m going to lose. But, I don’t quit. I play to the very end. Sure, I may send a friend a note that reads: “Is there any stopping you?” like I did today to a friend I just can not beat. She is good. And she probably appreciates the fact that I don’t quit.
So, I just got back from stupid Walmart, and I made a few purchases for myself that may seem strange. Even the check-out lady asked me, “Aw, I remember these. Are they for your grandchildren?”
“No. I don’t have grandchildren yet.” That sort of pissed me off. Fifty-five year old people are too young to have grandchildren. And besides, I don’t look a day over thirty. My class tells me that all of the time, so I know it to be true.
“Oh, you’re a teacher?” Nib shit wanted an answer. I was in the mood to mess with her.
“No. They are for me……I never was allowed to play with toys when I was little……. I can afford them now.” I tried to deliver the line like Bob Newhart, my idol, with a hint of Ellen DeGeneres, my other idol. The man behind me in line cracked up. Ahhh, someone in this town understands snark.
Anyway, I brought home a fun game of my youth: Barrel of Monkeys. I guess you knew that was coming by my title. Can’t fool you guys. I wanted to write a blog post on games we baby boomers played, but thought, “Why, hell, Vickie, buy the damn thing, and take pictures of how stupid you look playing with it.”
Inspiration for my next blog post
For those of you who don’t know what the hell I am talking about, Barrel of Monkeys is a game that was brought to store shelves by Lakeside Toys in 1965. I guarantee you that I had this as soon as it came out. I was nine years old and my mom bought anything in sight in order to find something that would keep me occupied for more than 20 seconds. It’s hard to entertain hyperactive Mexican jumping beans.
Apparently, the idiom, “more fun than a barrel of monkeys,” was the inspiration for the game. I just really don’t understand how people start idioms, because why would monkeys shoved in a barrel be fun? I mean, wouldn’t the damn monkeys be so claustrophopic and pissed to high hell, that when released from the barrel, would start attacking and perhaps chew someone’s face off or something? So, to me, “more fun than a barrel of monkeys” should be a sarcastic remark, to be used, for example, at say, Grandpa’s funeral.
“Well, this is more fun than a barrel of monkeys.” See, makes sense.
Years ago, sometime during the 1950′s, Dave Garroway, host of The Today Show, asked, “What’s more fun than a barrel of monkeys?” A huge barrel was rolled out onto the stage. Garroway released them and they climbed the curtains, ran out into the audience, climbed on top of the cameras, and just generally wrecked havoc on the set. See, once again, sarcastic idiom. Monkeys in a barrel are not flippin fun.
So, fast forward to 2012. I opened up the barrel, all excited, because I have not played with the little plastic simians since my children played with it for ten minutes when they were young. And it was for that long, only because I just brought it home, and made them play.
“It is not boring. Look, hook the monkeys and see how many you can get………Well, they have to be in a pile or it is hard to hook their arms……It is not boring……….I played with this a LOT when I was little……………….What do you mean? I had more things to play with.”
Ok, didn’t last long. I’m sorry, but I just can’t see this being a top seller in 2012. But, I was still excited to play with it once again.I opened up the barrel to find 14 red plastic monkeys in a plastic bag. The plastic bag had warnings in 19 different languages:
“To avoid danger of suffocation, keep this bag away from babies, and children. DO NOT use in cribs, beds, carriages, or playpens.”
Found a loophole. You can put the bag on their high chair.
According to the instructions that did NOT come with the game, each game contains a “barrel” which is filled with brightly-coloured plastic monkeys with “S” shaped arms. Players must dump the monkeys on the table or other even surface and the objective of the game is to hook all the monkey’s arms together to form a chain. A player’s turn ends when the chain is broken. (I got this from their web site, as they neglected to put instructions in the barrel.)
So, what if a person from a foreign country or like, Zanesville, Ohio, opened the barrel only to find just what I did: monkeys in a plastic bag and that is all. Are they to assume that they know what the hell they are supposed to do with them?
Once out of the little barrel, what would you do with the monkeys since there were no instructions?
And the directions are where?
The monkeys would run amok, just like they did in my townhouse.
Messing with my tv, demanding to watch Planet of the Apes.
Messing with my cat, Whiskers, who roared like a lion to scare them. (No, she is not yawning. She is roaring).
They totally messed with a couple of my Words With Friends games, clicking on the ”resign” button when I was clearly beating the hell out of my opponents.
Then I caught them trying to escape, out into the Wild Wonderful West Virginia woods.
Quit flushing the toilet, you stupid monkeys.
I don’t know what the hell they were doing here, but I did find jello with bananas in the refrigerator. One of the monkeys must have decided to swim in the cherry liquid, because it is now hardened up to his neck. I promptly closed the door. (Pictures are too graphic.)
Helping themselves to some mango juice.
Attacking the cat from another angle
They got into my pill compartment thingy that I received as a gag gift for my 5oth birthday, but I use anywho. Two of the monkeys overdosed. You have no idea how hard it is to give CPR to plastic.
They got entangled in my floss and I don’t even want to know what the hell they did with my toothbrush.
Oh, that is just wrong! Get the hell out of the kitty litter box!
Ok, monkeys! That’s the last straw! No really. That’s the last straw.
I found all 14 monkeys and put them back in the barrel.
It was more fun taking pictures of them than actually playing the game. What’s fun with hooking monkey arms?
In the end, this game was great in 1965. I learned to be more patient, since I was a hyper little urchin.
But, in 2012……
it was great. Well, only if you had a camera and followed them around because there were no freaking instructions in the barrel.
Where the hell did this blue one come from?
I really did have more fun than a barrel of monkeys.
Remember the tongue twister, How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? Well, no one bothered to tell me when I was little that a woodchuck was actually a groundhog. And a ground hog was also a whistle pig. I think that the tongue twister guy had a hard time with How much wood could a ground hog chuck.....
So, February 2, 2012 will be Punxsutawney Phil’s 126th prognostication.
According to legend, if Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow, there will be six more weeks of winter weather. If he does not see his shadow, there will be an early spring. I wish I had the internet when I was younger, because I always wanted to know about Groundhog Day and why a groundhog got to predict the weather? I was a curious child, and I had a lot of questions. My mom was worthless. Worth. less.
“Vickie, what are you doing? …………..It is 6:00 in the morning…………….I don’t know why they don’t use a dog to predict the weather……….Vickie, why are you putting on your coat? Where are you going?…………….Susie can not predict the weather………….No, she can’t…………..No, she can’t …………….Vickie, it is snowing outside, and you are not taking Susie outside…………….She does not have to pee….No she doesn’t…………..VICKIE!!! Get back in here!……..(Pause, muttering, pause)…….Of course she didn’t see her shadow. It is dark out there…………..She almost disappeared in the snow!………..Groundhogs can’t predict the weather……..No, they can’t!…… It’s just a joke.”
Joke? A joke? Punxsutawney Phil, that Seer of Seers, Sage of Sages, Prognosticator of Prognosticators and Weather Prophet Extraordinary. He wasn’t a joke. The weather guy on tv said he was real. People went to see him. My mom just pissed me off. I wondered how far that place was away from us. I thought I would ask my dad. It was too late to do it that year, of course, since it was February 2. And Susie didn’t see her shadow. I wonder if he would take me there next year.
“Vickie, Gobbler’s Knob is on the other side of Pennsylvania and it would take 2 days by car to get there. It is just too far away.”
Well, that just sucked. What really sucked was the fact that my dad lied to me. I found that out a couple of years later in school. Our teacher told us about the time she went to Punxutawney to see the famous groundhog. It only took 2 hours to get there by car? What? I was crushed.
So, I grew up, still curious about the little rodent. I would read bits and pieces about Phil in the newspaper and watch the goofy guys pull him out of a hole, where he would speak to the president of the Groundhog Club in “Groundhogese.” This was a language only understood by the current president, who wore a top hat and a long black coat. I wondered why the groundhog rat never bit him in the face. I mean, if someone woke me up out of a deep sleep and dragged my ass out into the cold, I would probably bite his face.
After the groundhog whispers, “I saw my shadow, dip shit,” a proclamation is announced to the world.
A proclamation that is made every year. And every year I have my fourth graders write a haiku for the famous little rodent. Some of my students wrote normal haikus:
I like Groundhog Day
Are you afraid of Groundhogs?
Don’t eat me, Groundhog
~~~~~~~~~
Groundhog hit by car
Why are you stupid, Groundhog?
standing in the road.
~~~~~~~~
The famous groundhog
lives in a warm heated hole
Why come out, Groundhog?
~~~~~~~
Groundhog, please come out
But will you see your shadow?
Can I have some spring?
~~~~~~
And then there’s my favorite:
Ms. Mendenhall, why
do you like groundhogs so much?
They don’t like you. Ha!
In the end, you know people know that groundhogs don’t speak their own language. You know that they really can’t predict the weather. And what I have learned more than anything is best said in my very own haiku. You see, I performed another experiment the very next year after Susie the dog didn’t see her shadow. Not good.
Imagine my surprise when I checked my email this morning and found that I won The Prestigious 7X7 Link Award. I didn’t know what it was, but I was excited, as the last thing I won was a jar of jelly. And it was strawberry, so that pretty much sucked. Cristy Carrington Lewis, aka Paltry Meanderings of a Taller Than Average Woman, gave me the award. A recent post of Cristy’s was recently Freshly Pressed, which was exciting. I sort of feel that I know greatness, as I was the first one to post a comment when she first wrote the piece, before it was Freshly Pressed. She is a wonderful writer. I think I should have her write on my book jacket of my future Jumping in Mud Puddles book.
“Looking to reminisce about someone else’s childhood because yours sucked? Join Vickie as she explores, with plentiful humor and jocularity, her idyllic past as a fascinating, but domineering, color-inside-the-lines kind girl who hated her remedial reading group, probably has mercury poisoning from regular exposure to Mercurochrome, and was secretly-tranquilized by her mother – daily – because she was hyperactive. I thank God my mom didn’t know her mom. If she’d known she could drug me legally, I’d have slept my way through elementary school. Try not to pee your pants when you read this because, if you’re like me, your mom never remembered to send you to school with an extra pair of undies either.”
Wait. She thinks I was a domineering child? WTF? Was not. Ok, maybe she sees something I didn’t.
Anywho, there’s no statue involved, just a little bit of work. There are three things I need to do after accepting this award. It’s sort of like a pay-it-forward thingy.
Reveal 7 things you don’t know about myself that you already don’t know (Or something like that)
1. I’m a movie quoter. If you know what movie, “How ya doin little Tony?………….Bad” comes from, then you are someone I want to hang out with. My favorite quote is, “He is not the one, Steve.”
2. I think Tim Matheson is the most handsome man on the face of the earth. I would join a fan club if I wasn’t already tied up with the Steve McQueen fan club. (He be number 2) Ok, I jest. Although when I was a tween, I did belong to the Davey Jones Fan Club. I loved the Monkees. So, yeah, Tim Matheson.
3. I have only pumped my own gas maybe once in my 55 years of life. Ok, I couldn’t reach the nozzle when I was three, but yeah, I have a fear of gasoline. Trapped in a car, ready to explode, will do that to you every time.
4. I had drinks with Billy Joel. I did. I don’t think he would remember me, cuz he was absolutely smashed after his concert in West Virginia, but he did tell me some secrets, like how much he disliked Hall and Oates. Really.
5. I’m adopted and am 98% sure I have a twin. My mother was Marilyn Monroe. She stopped by Wheeling in 1956 and gave birth to me. You’d be surprised at the resemblance. I’m sure the stories are true.
6. I stepped on Joe DiMaggio’s foot- Didn’t mean to. I wanted to get my picture taken with him. So what if I didn’t have my camera that day.
7. I called one of my fourth graders a Goober today. Well, he is one.
Link seven of my posts to the following categories: Most Surprisingly Successful, Most Underrated, Most Popular, Most Beautiful, Most Helpful, Most Controversial and Most Pride-Worthy
1. Most Surprisingly Successful- Queen of Halloween Costumes…’Tis True was freshly pressed on October 15, 2010 and has garnered about 9,900 hits since then. It’s amazing how many emails I received from people who wanted me to give them specific ideas for their Halloween costumes. What a ride!
2. Most Underated- MonkeyShines It’s my favorite blog post, mainly because it is the hardest I have ever laughed in my life. I retell the story each year to my fourth graders, and cry from laughing while repeating it. It has only been read 105 times. Poor monkey.
3. Most Popular- Well, it would probably have to be when I was Freshly Pressed for the one above, but honestly, Wisdom Teeth Removal Removes Wisdom, has been very successful with google searchers. It’s been viewed 9,200 times. It’s amazing how people google this, especially after Christmas. It must be a great time to get your wisdom teeth taken out. Although, I wonder how many actually go through with it after reading this blog about my son’s adventure at the oral surgeon’s office.
4. Most Beautiful- I just don’t understand. Now I have to go searching through them all to find one that is pretty. Be right back……Ok, I don’t write beautiful blogs. I have one with a skunk, two with stupid ex husbands, and this one Well, That’s a Nice Gesture
5. Most Helpful- Oh, I have many a blog post that educates. I truly do. But, the most helpful. hmmmmm…Be right back…Old Wive’s Tales I wanted to share the stupid things parents tell their kids. I mean, I won’t have freaking potatoes growing behind my ears if I don’t wash real good. I mean, come on.
6. Most Controversial- Oh, that’s so easy. I have two. Am I allowed to have two? The first one is Eavesdropping 101. I had a lot of compliments, but also got into a fight with two people over my childrearing practices. Stupid people. But, ya know, I was Freshly Pressed with that one, and thought it was pretty good. I was tickled to death to be Freshly Pressed so soon after the first one.
The other one was me just telling the truth. It’s Pop, Not Soda, Stupid. Some people don’t get “tongue in cheek.” One reader was very offended that I thought Soda people were stupid. Well, they are.
7. Most Pride Worthy- Oh, without a doubt, CSI:West Virginia It really shows what a really good mom I was.
Now I get to pass on this coveted award to 7 other blog poster people. I don’t like to impose. You guys don’t have to play if you don’t want to. I actually had fun writing this. So, once again, thanks Cristy!
I wish I had the time to write a more profound introduction for each of my recipients. I will keep it short and simple, because, well, it’s almost time for NCSI.
1. Brown Road Chronicles -Steve writes about country living and throws in a hysterical poem now and then. His post on goats was very creative. I wish I had the time to visit his blog more often. Head on over and say hi.
2. Working Tech Mom -I like her blog. She writes on a variety of subjects, and injects her wonderful sense of humor with great photography. Oh, hell, she is off again. I like traveling with her, where ever she goes.
3. Inkjot- I don’t know why, but this cracks me up. I always wish I could draw. This blog has the artistry and the humor. My kind of combination. Jealous.
4. My Naked Bokkie I need to ask her what a bokkie is. I’m assuming cutie pie or something like that maybe. Anywho, I need to visit her more often. She writes on a variety of subjects and it is fresh and fun. He recent post on Pinterest is great.
5. Edward Hotspur Funny, funny guy, with a great writing style. So glad I found his blog.
6. Back on My Own When I just went to Pat’s blog, I saw where she nominated me for The Versatile Blogger Award. How did I not see this? Did I see it? Am I senile? I’m a mess. Anywho, I just found Pat’s blog, and I think that if she lived near me, I would want to hang out with her. Make her teach me some Spanish. Nice person. Much nicer than me. She would probably not return my calls.
7. Herding Cats in Hammond River I feel horrible that I don’t get to Wendy’s blog more often. A wonderful writer. Check her out.
Ok, so I am done. Thanks again Cristy, for the award. It was actually fun to write all this stuff. My butt is numb though. I mean, it really is.
My family and my best friend’s family took a trip during the summer of 1972 to Acapulco, Mexico. We drove all the way there from Weirton, West Virginia. It was a blast. They were in their Station Wagon and we were in my mom’s boat of a Cadillac. Once we crossed the border into Mexico, we stayed in a roach infested motel room. Ramaine’s mom, Dora, wanted us to have a pajama party and stay up all night long. We knew it was because she was afraid that when we fell asleep, we would be subject to all creepy crawlers of the night. We thought it was fun.
Along the way, we stopped at an open air place that was supposed to be a burger joint. I was a little concerned about what kind of meat they served. While we were waiting to get our food, out of the blue a mother pig and her piglets waltzed through the outdoor restaurant. The baby pigs were adorable! They were right by our feet, squealing, and brushing against our legs as they ran around the tables. I just fell in love with the little piggies.
I believe I was 15 when we went to Mexico. On our way back from Acapulco, we stopped at several market places along the side of the road. I found a small paper mache pig. I smiled and just knew I had to have it. After our Mexican adventure was over and we were back in West Virginia, I started my pig collection. And I have been collecting things ever since. My first purchase, of course, was a piggy bank.
One day, when I was driving on a back road somewhere with the school’s driver’s ed teacher, I quickly put my foot on the brake, and yelled, “Pigs!!!” There was a pig farm right on the side of the road. Little piggies were running around and I fell in love all over again. I explained my love of the little porkers to the teacher, who just smiled, probably happy that I didn’t put the car in a ditch during my excitement. The next day he brought me a little plastic pig. “I stole it from my little boy’s toy farm.” I thought that was so sweet. I still have the little guy.
Now, when you are young, you can get away with having a bunch of crap in your bedroom. I used to have stuffed animals when I was little. As I got older, it was Barbie Dolls and Trolls. When I was a teenager, it was pigs. Where ever I went, I tried to find something with a pig on it. After a while, it was obvious that I really liked pigs. Even in college, I managed to find a pig poster. It wasn’t in the best of taste, but during the mid 70′s, this poster was very popular. (Makin Bacon) I hung it above our toilet in the apartment I shared with three others.
After I graduated from college, I looked around my “I’m an adult now” apartment, and realized that most of the pigs had to go. I gave away or threw away (sigh) most of my pigs. I only kept a few things. But, my love of all things piggy was too hard to get rid of altogether. I found an old “The Three Little Pigs” book in an antique shop, and decided, “Hey, what a cool collection that would be!” So I am on the look-out for those when I am antiquing.
In the end, I think everyone should collect something. My grandfather collected marbles. We used to go to his house, crack open the can that contained the round beauties, and shoot marbles on the carpet. They were so pretty. My grandmother enjoyed her National Geographics. I really didn’t consider magazines a collection, but she enjoyed them. My dad owned cameras. He was an amateur photographer, and had different kinds of camera. After he died, I was able to obtain a mini camera that he owned.
I collect a lot of things, ranging from duck decoys to swizzle sticks, from antique letter openers to cast iron banks. I’m a collector. As I was looking around my dining room/living room, I made a discovery. I’m still a pig hoarder.
My little piggy from Mexico
Well, talk about subconscious purchasing. I bought the lamp last month. As soon as I saw it, I had to have it. My son gave me the pig cutting board at Christmas.
I guess I’m a pig collector once again. I kind of like the little porkers.
I pride myself on knowing a lot of important information. Sure, some people may think they don’t need to know that the “S” in Ulysses S. Grant stands for Simpson. But, I know it. I also know that ee cummings was the poet who didn’t know how to use capital letters. A lot of people don’t know who ee cummings was. But, I know him. I also know that botulism is in botox. I bet a lot of pretty faces don’t know that. But, I know it.
Just don’t ask me if a centimeter is longer than a foot.
I am teaching measurement this week to my fourth grade class. My principal heard the kids laughing as he walked by this morning because I just wrote this on the board:
I’m not the only one. Americans just don’t want to give up our standard measure. We don’t want to know how many kilometers it takes to get to Pittsburgh. We don’t want to know that a cantaloupe weighs about a kilogram. We don’t care. We don’t want to learn it.
The United States is the only industrialized country that does not use the metric system as its system of measurement, even though it was authorized by Congress to be used there since 1866. Yes, we are a stubborn lot. According to the American Central Intelligence Agency’s Factbook, the International System of Units is the official system of measurement for all nations in the world except for Liberia, Burma, and the United States.
The US was half-heartedly interested in conversion to the metric system during the 1960′s. I don’t remember ever being taught the metric system in school. In fact, nowadays, when I use a ruler, I get mad if I am using the wrong side. I want a ruler that just shows inches, thank you very much. There was the Metric Conversion Act of 1975 that was shoved down our throats. Everything was going to change. Well, you can lead an American to water, but you can’t make him drink. We rebelled.
“We ain’t gonna use that metric crap.” Ok, some people talk a little more dignified. I was the one that said that.
I know that somewhere along the way someone slipped us “liters.” We now buy a 2 liter bottle of pop at the grocery store. I don’t know when that started. I picked up a student’s bottle of water this morning and looked at the measurements:
Aquafina Pure Water 16.9FL.OZ (1.05 PT) 500mL
Why the hell would the “L” in milliliter be capitalized? Off to check another bottle:
Nestle Pure Life 20 OZ LIQ (1 PINTA, 4OZ LIQ) (591mL)
Well, the L is capitalized on that bottle too. I guess it is supposed to be like that? It’s not like that in my teacher’s manual. Of course, it doesn’t say in my teacher’s manual that Christopher Columbus slaughtered the Indians as soon as he got off of the boat, so you know, whatever.
I’m not done looking around my classroom.
Lysol Disinfecting Wipes 8.9 OZ. (252 g)
Lysol is trying to get me to buy in grams. Not going to happen.
I’m already confused when my Canadian blogging friends write about how the 20 degree temperature is so lovely. You crazy Canucks. That is cold. Well, it is if you use the Fahrenheit side of the thermometer. I will never be able to use Celsius when describing the weather. Why did we have two to begin with anyways?
Wouldn’t it cost a lot to convert to the metric system? For a person like myself, who doesn’t want to use the metric system, any amount is too much. We can’t get our Department of Highways to take care of our roads. I saw a guy fishing in a pot hole the other day. Well, ok, I lie. But, it would be nice to drive on roads that won’t tear up my tires and shoot everything out of line. I would get pissed if I saw DOH guys taking down the millions of signs everywhere just to change the “miles” to “Kilometers.” It is not cost effective.
In the end, I have to teach the metric system to my fourth graders because it will be on the big ole test in May. I feel badly that I have to teach equivalent measurements. I can see it now.
“Which one is larger, Tommy? 1 foot or 11 centimeters?”
“I don’t give a shit, Ms. Mendenhall.”
“That is correct, Tommy.”
I’m sorry, friends around the world, but I am too old to learn new tricks. I want to know how long it is going to take to get to New York City. Using “miles” helps me figure that out. Seeing 1,329 kilometers or whatever the hell is correct, would just fry my brain.
So, please keep your grams and your meters. I like weighing myself in pounds, and driving that extra mile.
Hallmark would have to change their whole “Across the Miles” line of greeting cards.
And we would have to change Robert Frost’s Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening:
…The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
When I was young, my dad loved using idioms. I think he is the one that started them. Really. His favorite was, “All hell broke loose.” I could picture fire and the devil breaking out of a jail somewhere. I’ve loved idioms every since.
I teach fourth grade and every Friday we have “Idiom Friday.” I can’t help it, I have to do it. It’s more for me than for the kids. I write the idiom on the board, we discuss its meaning, and then the students draw the idiom. After they are finished, their pictures go out in the hall for a week, and then are put away in their black writing notebook. At the end of the year they are able to take their idioms home.
Some of the more popular idioms were, “Couch Potato,” “Raining Cats and Dogs”, “You Crack Me Up”, and “My Eyes are Bigger Than My Stomach.” The students have fun and I am always amazed by their creative drawings. Here’s one of mine that I really shouldn’t use. Fun stuff.
But, one day, I was a little slap-happy from a tossing, restless sleep the night before, and thought about the idioms you shouldn’t use in school. I asked my facebook friends on my status one day, “Would ‘Smelling Like a French Whore’ be appropriate for fourth graders?” I was teasing, of course. I don’t want to be fired just yet. So, to amuse myself, I started thinking of others that you really shouldn’t use in fourth grade. I apologize for using curse words, but I didn’t make these up. I think my fourth graders would like these….I think the members of the board of education would too, since I am sure I would be visiting them if I wrote any of these on the board….
Picture these written on a board:
All hell broke loose (in honor of my dad)
Beat his brains out
That’s a load of crap
wearing a shit-eating grin
He’s a chicken shit
kick the bucket
He likes to stir shit
Let’s blow this joint
Beat a dead horse
He’s in deep shit
kill 2 birds with one stone
bite someone’s head off
He’s on my shit list
cold as a witch’s tit
Make your blood boil
break a leg
I was scared shitless
clip someone’s wings
cook somebody’s goose
He will be shitting bricks
kick some ass
pain in the ass
he beat the hell out of him.
smart ass
his ass is on the line
Get your shit together
kiss my ass
talking out of your ass
He has shit for brains
Holy Shit!
The shit hit the fan
Shoot the bull
Beat his brains out
That’s a load of crap
I guess I just may have too much time on my hands. (Normal idiom)
Forced listening. It is all around us. First, it was elevator music. I remember humming, Do You Know the Way to San Jose? for weeks after getting off of an elevator one time. I would rather listen to the grinding noise of the cables, pulling up the precariously hung ancient Otis elevator than some of the music they make us listen to.
Image via Wikipedia
And then there is the ever present telephone prompt waiting. I know why they put terrible music on the telephone while you wait to talk to someone about your new laptop’s green screen. They want you to get soo sick of listening to depressing, cobwebs- growing -on -you music , so that you just get mad and hang up. You’d rather live with the pukey green screen than listen to 45 minutes of Lawrence Welk music.
And then we come to the Weather Channel. First of all, you have to understand that I am the local self-proclaimed weather person on Facebook. I give the ~Weather Dork Report~ for my friends, as I always have the Weather Channel on in the background. I love the weather. But, I just have one bit of advice for the those wonderful predictors of the weather….
If I worked for the Weather Channel, I would use music to match the weather when it’s time for Local on the 8′s. For those of you who do not live in the United States, the Local on the 8′s is the local weather that is shown several times each hour, such ast 9:08, 9:18, 9;28, etc. There is music in the background while some man reads the weather report. Now, to give them credit, they are getting better with their music choices. I think I just heard Coldplay on the last Local on the 8. But, I’m not talking about music in general. I’m talking about the THEME. Although The Weather Channel is getting pretty snazzy. They did release a Smooth Jazz CD in 2007, based on the music played on the Local on the 8′s segments. They are progressive. But, I like my idea. If not every day, then maybe on April Fool’s Day.
For example. I think that if it is going to be a beautiful, sunny day, they should play songs like, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” or a Disney happy tune, like Zip E Dee Do Da or however you spell it.
When a horrible storm is nearing, play music from Jaws. Wouldn’t it be fun to hear this music when a straight line thunderstorm is approaching:
You could sit on your couch, turned around, with your knees on the cushions, and your elbows on the back of the couch, watching out your picture window, bowl of popcorn nearby. You know the storm is getting closer, because the music is getting louder and faster. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?
And of course, who couldn’t resist a little Flight of The Bumblebee when a blizzard is knocking on your door?
I guess I could go on and on with musical selections that match the weather. There are different kinds of genre to choose from. Or music with “weather” in the title:
You are The Sunshine of My Life- Stevie Wonder
Windy-The Association
Who’ll Stop the Rain-Creedence Clearwater Revival
Walking on Sunshine-Katrina and the Waves
Sunshine on My Shoulders-John Denver
Singin in the Rain- Gene Kelly
Riders on the Storm- The Doors
Please Don’t Stop the Rain- James Morrison
November Rain-Guns n Roses
I Love a Rainy Night- Eddie Rabbitt
Here Comes the Sun- The Beatles
Good Day Sunshine- The Beatles
Ain’t No Sunshine- Bill Withers
Against the Wind- Bob Seger
Ride Like the Wind-Christopher Cross
Buckets of Rain- Bob Dylan (Thanks Pat!)
You are My Sunshine (Thanks Pat!)
I guess I could go on and on. I don’t know. I just think I have something here.
I am a fourth grade teacher, living in West Virginia. I just looked at my W2 form, and I made a whopping $$,$$$ this past year. I’m too embarrassed to share this sad little figure with you. I just stared at the paper for a long while and then thought……WTF?
So, to supplement my meager earnings, I have been trying to come up with a way to make some extra money. There’s a media lady that wants to put an ad or two on my blog posts for $30. No, I would need at least $40 to live a more comfortable lifestyle. I could write a book. A lot of my facebook friends (3 of them) think I should write a book. I think so too. But, that takes time….and talent.
OR>>>> I could invent something…..hmmmmm, an invention.
I really don’t care to invent anything, but I do think I have come up with something that will make me a millionaire. I AM SURE. My fellow teachers across the country (and some in Canada) will surely want to buy this for their classrooms.
I have lately been trying to come up with a way to make a flask out of a pencil. It looks like a pencil, but if you push over the eraser, you can sip some hard whiskey while your fourth graders are taking a test.
Why, you ask?
Because I am having one hell of a year. I don’t drink that often, maybe a total of 10 beers a year, but I am ready to start drinking in the classroom. Hard liquor. Especially after really taking note of what I make every year. Bird crumbs….no, bird poop from the bird crumbs. That’s what I make.
I think I could be in trouble for drinking hard liquor in the classroom, but I’m not really sure on that one. (I hope you idiots who have no concept of “tongue in cheek” will please head to another blog if you don’t realize that I KNOW that it is wrong to drink in the classroom…..but then again, I will have to check the law in WV. It may be permitted). We do have a margarita machine in the teacher’s lounge, but sometimes you should need something a little harder to match the kind of day you are having.
So, I figure I could take a regular pencil, drill a hole down the middle, and attach some sort of invisible hinge for the eraser….and fill it with booze. I could even sing a little song before I partake, just to get me in the mood (set to the tune of “I’m a Little Teapot”)
“I’m a little pencil, full of lead
here is my tip and here is my eraser head
when I get all steamed up, then I shout,
“Just tip me over and pour me out……”So, the next time a student tells me that M. is telling everyone out on the playground that A. plays with monkey titties, or the next time that J. decides he wants to fake burp and fake sneeze all flippin day, and I can’t take it any longer, I can quietly pick up the pencil, which I will call “the WRITE Stuff,” push over the eraser and just take a swig or two. Then, I wouldn’t care if someone is fake sneezing or fake burping all flippin day. I wouldn’t care when someone asks me what page the assignment is on, right after I tell them AND write it on the board. And I won’t care that M. is telling everyone out on the playground that A. plays with monkey titties. Because, you know what? Maybe she does. Quit the damn tattletaling Goober head.
One of my students asks me every day, “Is this the day that you are going to have a stroke?”
“No, Andy, not when I have “The WRITE Stuff.”
But, then, reality smacks me across my living-in-a-fantasy-face. The pencil will not hold much whiskey. One little swig and it would be time for a re-fill. What to do? What to do? Well, hell, I can make a bigger pencil, right?
That’s more like it. Teachers are going to love this. I think I have found my Field of Dreams.
If you build it, they will come.
So drink up, my dear underpaid teachers., drink up.
I am sure I am jealous, but I never got to carry around a phone when I was a child. Sure, it would have been a bit clunky, and I wouldn’t be able to go too far because of the cord and all, but it would have been fun. Well, no, wait. No, it wouldn’t. It was too much fun hearing my mother yelling for me in the neighborhood to come home for dinner. What fun would it be to just hear my phone ringing? Or I’d get a text, “Dinner time.”
I actually feel sorry for the children who have to carry a cell phone. I got away with so much stuff when I was little. My mom had to hunt me down almost every day during the summer. That meant an extra 30 minutes of play. Kids today have their parents attached to their hip, literally. Just one text or ring and it will be over.
I teach fourth grade and I really don’t mind if a child has a cell phone in their back pack. I understand the county policy of no cell phones in the classroom, but if a parent writes a note explaining why their child has a cell phone on a particular day, I don’t mind at all. If the phone mistakenly goes off during class, I give the child a lazer shooting out of my eyes look, and quietly put a mark on their MonkeyShines behavior chart.
Some educators say that a cell phone is disruptive. I’d rather have a cell phone go off any day than the stuff that goes on in my classroom each day.
(The following names have been changed to protect their goofiness….and so I don’t get fired just yet.)
“Ms. Mendenhall, Mark is telling everyone out on the playground that I play with monkey titties.”
“Ms. Mendenhall, take a look at this and tell me if it is lice.”
“Ms. Mendenhall, John won’t quit looking at me.” (That means you are looking at him, Goofy.)
I’ve got a fake burper, a pencil breaker, a farter who will not quit farting, one who lives on Pluto, one who keeps knocking over her water bottle and tries to wipe it up with a Kleenex, and 10 who have no idea what I just said.
Most mornings on my drive to work, I notice crows out in the middle of the road, pecking at a dead animal. I always yell at them. “Ewww, don’t eat that.” That just really bothers me. I mean, why eat dead, rotting corpses? Who does that? Well, obviously, crows do.
What’s worse is that I watch it. “Stop it, you stupid crow. You’re gross.” Well, except for the fact that crows are not stupid. Far from it. They are very intelligent birds. They are supposedly one of the most intelligent animals on Earth. They shouldn’t have to depend on road carnage for their meal. I know they are smart enough to fool people to feed them. Case in point: The Hardees drive through. As soon as winter approached, the crows have been gathering at fast food drive -throughs. And this makes animal lovers
Donut, please
feel badly. Poor birds. They are starving. I think I shall buy them a biscuit. Well, maybe two. A car in front of me did that several weeks ago, so I followed suit. These crows know what to do. We both pulled over, tore the biscuit in little pieces, threw it out the window, waved at each other, and off we went. I felt really good. If it keeps one crow off the gut-spewed road, I have done my job as an animal lover.
Of course, I am sure it angers the little wrens and sparrows that have always hung out at fast food restaurants. They were there first, after all. And they aren’t scavengers like the big black crows.
I would love to tame a crow. I have tried, but they want no part of it. They used to get into my garbage when I lived out in the country. Oh, I could hear them squawking to their relatives, “Hey, Ralph, the stupid lady put her garbage out.” Sure , we had two cans, but most weeks we had an extra bag or two. I soon found out that the crows could see a white bag and were on it before I could say, “Shoo, crow!” But, then I smartened up too. At the time I was a stay-at-home mom, so on garbage mornings, I would start throwing crumbs of old bread out into the yard for the birds, particularly the crows. I knew they would come quickly.
This weekly routine was all I needed. The crows were fed and it was an easy meal. They didn’t have to tear open garbage bags only to find cereal boxes. This was a given. I thought that they would warm up to me, like the other critters who I easily tamed. This was a tough crowd.
Grandpa Williams had a pet crow. He acted like it was a menace, but if my grandpa was in the backyard, tending to his garden, that crow was following him around. He was a crippled crow. Oh, he could fly alright. But, once on the ground, he hobbled as if he had one leg shorter than the other. My grandpa would sit in his chair and that damn crow would fly up and sit on the back of the chair, right by Grandpa’s neck. No wonder there was white bird poop all over the back of the chair. After visiting him, I came home wanting a crow as a friend. Didn’t happen. They just don’t like me.
Crows are very social and live in a tight-nit family. A bunch of crows is called a “murder of crows,” which is stupid. I was a bit shocked to hear that they are very susceptible to the West Nile Virus and the disease has wiped out about 45% of the American crows since 1999. That is a lot. But, why doesn’t anyone seem to be alarmed?
Blame it on the farmers. The whole scarecrow on a pole started on farms because of the crow. Farmers consider a crow a pest, mainly because it loves corn. Although it will also eat insects, mice, frogs, snakes, eggs, and nestlings, it’s main crop choice is corn. So, farmers erected a scarecrow to….scare crows. It is supposed to look like a farmer from up above, but crows aren’t stupid, remember. They probably figured out a long time ago that people aren’t stuffed with straw.
All in all, I think crows are neat birds. I like hearing their “caws.” We had crows that would warn each other when a red-tailed hawk was in the area. To me, it looked like they were warning my squirrels. The squirrels knew what was going on and would hide-tail it up the nearest tree. Yep. My crows were looking out for the squirrels. Quite intelligent.
Ok, this was before my time….but we had those desks.
My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
Where the hell did this blue one come from?
