Once upon a time, there were more than 4,000 drive-in theaters across the United States. What a concept. Parents didn’t have to hire a babysitter to go to the movies. There would be a movie for the whole family, and then as the kids fell asleep in the back seat, parents could watch a movie just for them. It was awesome. While it lasted.

There aren’t very many drive-in movie theaters anymore. I personally blame Daylight Savings Time on their demise. VCR rentals are also culprits, along with a jump in real estate prices, and color tv’s that became pretty much affordable for a lot of people. Bummer. There are less than 400 today scattered across the nation. Shame on us.

My mom used to take us to the Bellaire Drive-in in our hometown of Weirton, West Virginia numerous times each summer. What fun we had. Most of the time we were able to wear our pajamas. We would lay out a big blanket right beside the car and watch the movies from the ground. We would take one of the loudspeakers from their pole and place it beside us. Fun times. When we didn’t wear our pajamas, there was a playground waiting for us in front of the large projection screen. We would play until it was dark enough and the giant screen would come alive. We would then scamper to the car to await the first feature.

 My mom would sit inside the car, alone. I think she considered this her down time. I never really paid attention to her during the movie until I had to go to the bathroom. I never thought it was weird to go the drive-in bathroom in my pajamas and slippers. I was a little kid. Kids got away with a lot of stuff.  Adults could never walk to the concession stand in their pajamas.  Although, I do happen to see a lot of people in their pajamas at Walmart, so I may have to retract that statement.

After the first short or first movie, there would be a song about intermission that we grew to love. They made the concession stand sound like a 5-star restaurant. Everyone had to hit the concession stand. The smell of buttered popcorn would travel from the little block building to every car parked there that night. Parents knew that it didn’t matter how much food they brought with them for the kids to snack on, buttered popcorn was going to win hands-down.  And it always did.

“Vickie, you do not need to go to the concession stand………No you don’t……..No you don’t…………Vickie, they are not giving away puppies. Quit lying……..No they aren’t……………………..Ok, but hurry back…..I don’t want butter on mine.”

Look how much fun they are having

We would go at dusk and watch the cartoons that were shown before the main movie. It didn’t take me long to figure out that my mom fell asleep a lot. What other reason would a mother let her children sit through a rated-R movie. She simply didn’t know because she fell asleep during the first movie.  We rarely stayed for the second movie when we were quite small. Unless she fell asleep. And oh my, when we were a bit older, we wanted her to fall asleep.  We had a lot to learn.

My first rated R movie that I was able to watch courtesy of my sleeping mother was The Fearless Vampire Killers.  I was about eleven years old, I believe, since the movie came out in 1967. Directed by Roman Polanski, and starring Sharon Tate. My mom told me that it wasn’t rated R and that none of the movies at the Bellaire Drive-In were rated R. I don’t know about that, Mom.

 I had my eyes glued to the big screen for a while, and glanced into the car to see if my mom was awake. If there was cigarette smoke coming out of the crack in the car windows, she was awake and she would take us home if she saw any nudity or bad language. But, and this but was the fun part, if she was asleep, we got a lesson in sex, drinking, and kissing. And with such a big screen, you could really see things. Like French kissing. Oh my.  Again, my mom let me know that the movie was not Rated -R. She didn’t want to come off as a bad, sleeping mother. I always thought she was lying. Especially with The Fearless Vampire Killers. There were a lot of naked women running around.  Found out today that it was rated PG 13. Go figure. Um, sorry Mom.

Some of the other movies I remember watching at the drive in were:

1967- Valley of the Dolls

1966- Sand Pebbles

Planet of the Apes-1968

Sound of Music

1967-Bonnie and Clyde

Now that I look through the internet movie database, I realize that I spent a good part of my summers at the drive-in. The above were just a sampling of the movies I saw in my pajamas. I feel sorry for my two children. They missed out. I guess  I could ask them this summer some time to put their pajamas on one starry lit night and drag them to the closest drive-in. At ages 26 and 24, I am sure it would be an experience they would never forget.

I just hope I don’t fall asleep.

Image via Wikipedia

The year was 1965. It was late fall, in the sleepy mill town of Weirton, West Virginia. Sitting in traffic with her three children, Georgiana Mendenhall was becoming agitated. This was a daily occurence on Cove Road, and Mrs. Mendenhall was in a hurry.

“This is ridiculous. I bet there is an old hoot up front, driving like a snail……I bet when we get where we can pass, there will be an old geezer up there. I betcha.”

Her daughter, Vickie, aged nine, took note of her mother’s words. This wasn’t the first time her mother had exhibited road rage. Vickie was sitting in the front seat, unprotected, and unaware that if her mother wrecked, Vickie would most likely go crashing through the windshield. Most likely.

Traffic was creeping. Vickie wished that she was in the backseat with her brother and sister. They were fighting, as usual, but yet it was always fun trying to avoid the sweeping slap that came from her mother, trying to swat at them to quit fighting while she was driving. Alone and seatbeltless in the front seat, made Vickie very aware of her situation as her mother’s road rage increased.

“Damnit the hell any way. Why are we moving so slowly. I NEED to get home.”

Georgiana Mendenhall did not NEED to get home. The woman was out of cigarettes and was slowly edging toward her next smoke. She was closer to her home than to a cigarette store. Of course, there was no such thing as a cigarette store in Weirton, West Virginia. Had there been, Mrs. Mendenhall would have worked there. She needed her Salem cigarettes, those cancer sticks in a green and white package.

Mrs. Mendenhall had no idea that she had left her pack of Salem cigarettes on the coffee table in front of the couch where she sat, inhaling the magic into her lungs. She smoked from the time she woke up until the time she went to bed. She smoked while cooking. She smoked while ironing. She smoked while smoking. She was indeed, addicted. The traffic was creeping, just as the hairs were creeping up on the back of Georgiana Mendenhall’s neck. She was ready to hit the car in front of her.

“Dear God, what is going on up there? If there is an old geezer causing this, I am going to ram him.”

Georgiana’s daughter was frightened for her life. For. her. life. She spoke not a word, however, because it would not make the situation any better. She just smiled to let her know that it was going to be ok.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Vickie?” Mrs. Mendenhall decided to take her edginess and point it right at her oldest child. “Do you think this is funny? I need to get home to fix dinner.” Vickie noted that her mother took grip of the steering wheel as if she were the Boston Strangler. The need for a smoke was becoming intense. Vickie later described the emotional turmoil in the automobile.

“Mom was falling apart. The Traffic jam was too much for her. I tried to joke with her, asking why it is called a traffic “jam” since you should be able to get through jelly. I thought it was funny, but she was having no part of it. She was ready to convulse.”

The children sitting in the back were blind to their mother’s growing need for a cigarette. They made matters worse by yelling at each other. Cheryl claimed that David was looking at her. David stated that he was not. Cheryl claimed that he was looking at her again. David stated that he was not.

And that’s when Georgiana Mendenhall lost her mind.

She began honking her horn. It wasn’t just a “beep beep” as in the Road Runner cartoons that her children loved so. It was a blare. Future writer Vickie noted the sound in a menagerie of synonyms she learned in fourth grade:

“It was a constant barrage, a cannonade,  a unrelenting reverberation, vociferation, cacophonous,and dissonant.”

This did not make the traffic jam disband or hasten its agenda. Traffic was as slow as molasses on a summer day in the desert.

Vickie looked over at her mother. Georgiana Mendenhall looked like she was holding a pretend cigarette in her right hand. Beads of perspiration were falling from her brow. The horn blowing continued. The person in the car in front of Mrs. Mendenhall threw up his hands in exasperation. It was not his fault. It was probably an accident that was making the traffic move at a snail’s pace. They were in traffic for a long, long time, perhaps ten minutes. Too long for a short fused, cigarette craving murderous mom.

The traffic seemed to increase in velocity when the road turned from two to four lane. Mrs. Georgiana Mendenhall put her foot on the pedal and accelerated. She moved over into the passing lane and approached the traffic jam culprit, lingering in the right lane.

“You son of a bitch!” growled Vickie’s mother. She put her hand on the horn and the sound blared as they passed the accused. Vickie looked over at the driver. He was an old man. He was driving a purple Cadillac. A very large and long purple Cadillac. She knew the car well. She rolled her window down and waved at the driver as they came beside him.

“Hi Grandpa!’ Vickie mouthed over to the old man. He didn’t take his eyes off of the road. His hands were stationed at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, an intense look on his face. Afterall, a crazed road ragian was trying to run him off of the road.

“Mom, it’s Grandpa you called an old geezer.” Vickie laughed.

Georgiana Mendenhall did not say a word. She was not fond of her father-in-law, and he was not fond of her. He was a big name in this sleepy steel mill town, and he could make her disappear if he wanted to. He was the same man who put his crazy wife in a “rest” home every time he took a cruise or flight to Florida. He could make life miserable for his daughter-in-law. He may drive slow, but his actions in his business dealings were swift. But, he sure loved his grandaughter, Vickie.

“I’m going to tell Grandpa that you said he was a geezer,” Vickie glanced at her mother.  Her mother looked ashen. Perhaps it was the want of a Salem cigarette physically making her sick. Or perhaps it was her daughter’s nonchalant way of bribing her mother.

Georgiana Mendenhall arrived at home and reached for her beloved Salem cigarettes. Ahhhh…….. Vickie, of course, had no idea at this age what an orgasm was, but noted that her mother lit a cigarette after she smoked that cigarette.

And three hours later, Vickie and her siblings were summoned to the kitchen, where they found newly baked whoopie pies, sitting in a pile on the kitchen table. “I thought I would make your favorite, Vickie.”

Vickie knew that her silence could be bought. Whoopie pies were an impressive purchase. She also learned that traffic jams are not necessarily a bad thing.

 And she learned at the tender age of nine that life is nothing more than one big bargaining chip.

Me and Grandpa

]]> http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/22/the-traffic-jam-and-salem-cigarettes/feed/ 12 dyingbraincells Map of West Virginia highlighting Hancock County whoopie pies http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/21/my-crazy-google-seach-engine-terms/ http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/21/my-crazy-google-seach-engine-terms/#comments Tue, 21 Feb 2012 11:19:22 +0000 Jumping in Mud Puddles http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/?p=5254 ]]> 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?

Dear French people everywhere,

Hi. I teach fourth grade in a small, country school in West Virginia. As some people know, that is in the western part of Virginia. But, we sort of are our own state. As a fourth grade teacher, part of my job is to teach Social Studies. Now, I realize that the textbook people only put in the books what they want to put in there, so my facts may be a bit off. But, my intentions are swell.

Today is President’s Day. Banks and post offices are closed today. Some schools are closed. I do think my garbage is going to be picked up this morning, but it’s nothing you have to worry about. But, today is the day when we honor George Washington. His birthday is February 22. Well, it is now called Presidents’ Day, originally known as Washington’s Birthday. Someone complained that since Abe Lincoln’s birthday is February 12,  that they should be combined for one big hybrid of a birthday party. So, President’s Day falls on the third Monday of February. This year Presidents’ Day falls on February 20, 2012.

Ok, but that is not why I’m writing. I am writing today  to the French people of France, Canada, and to the pockets of French people hanging out in New Orleans and any place called Louisville, to thank you for letting us have the opportunity to celebrate Georgie’s birthday. Your ancestors were nice people. Really nice people.

Now, you have to understand that I have to teach the textbook. Sort of. Sure, I let my kids know what a nut case Christopher Columbus was, and how Amerigo Vespucci may have told little white lies about his adventures, but I teach what I know. And I make up the rest.

The French basically came to the Americas for beaver fur. I guess. Maybe. Oh, my goodness, though, how they loved trapping!  From what my textbook tells me, their route was mainly down the St. Lawrence River. The British, on the other hand, were swatting mosquitoes further south in Jamestown, years after a whole colony disappeared from Roanoke. The only thing left behind was a carving on a post or tree that simply read, CROA. I personally think they were trying to write, “Croak,” as in they all died. The last colonist, God love him, just didn’t have enough strength to write that final letter. Well, ok, I guess there was a Croatoan tribe nearby, so historians seem to think that is what someone was trying to write. But, you know, if one group disappears from the area, why would you try to go there again?  Gluttons for punishment, those British were.

But, the first French explorers made friends with the Native Americans and learned all about hunting, fishing, and this will be important in a little bit, fighting. So, they hung out. Made hats made out of beavers. Meanwhile, the colonists are pushing westward. The Native Americans are pissed because their hunting ground is disappearing and they just really were tired of the colonists sneaking at night, stealing their crops because they didn’t realize that, duh, maybe they should have planted stuff when they arrived. The first colonists to arrive in the new land were not so bright.

To the French, the Ohio Valley was an important link between France’s holdings in Canada and Louisiana. The British saw it as an area for trade and growth.  By about 1750, the French had moved to make their claim to the Ohio Valley stronger. They sent soldiers into the region to drive out the British traders. They also began building a line of forts near the eastern end of the valley.

But, both sides decided they wanted the Ohio Valley. The French began building a series of forts in the disputed land. In 1753, Lieutenant Governor Robert Dinwiddie of Virginia (the name always makes my students giggle), was pissed. He said this was like an act of war.  So, he sent a young Georgie Washington with a letter to the French that they had to leave the area. How dare they build forts in the land that they wanted to eventully steal from the Indians. Washington headed over the Appalachian Mountains, all by his lonesome, and delivered the message.

He knocked on the fort’s door. (I’m making this part up because my textbook doesn’t tell me where he went when he delivered the message. So, you know, I am improvising.)

“Hey, um, yeah, hello…..My name is George Washington. I’m 21 and new to this. I have a message from Lt. Governor Robert Dinwiddie (the French giggled) Hey, um, you guys are going to have to leave. You can’t build forts in this area.”

“Go home, Georgie,” said the French guy who answered the fort door. “We are not leaving. Go away,  you silly boy.”

Well, they could have captured him or killed him, but they let him go. They could have even laughed at him for coming such a long distance with no real back up, only to leave without even as much as a cup of coffee. So, Washington had to sleep somewhere, right? You see all those places that used to say, “Washington slept here.” Well, uh, yeah, because Dinwiddie made him travel so damn much.

Dinwiddie was not happy with the response from the fort building French. He sent a small force of soldiers from Virginia. Their orders were to build a fort at the Forks of the Ohio River, where the city of Pittsburgh now stands. Two can play this game, dammit.

 Where the hell is the fort?

The Virginians had barely finished the fort when the French attacked it. The French drove off the Virginians and built a larger fort on that site. They called it Fort Duquesne, after some French guy named Duquesne. The French didn’t care for the Colonial look, evidently, and wanted a more Woodsy look to their fort. Unaware of the French attack, Dinwiddie sent young George once again to the Forks of the Ohio River to reinforce the Virginian’s fort. So, Washington didn’t know this, because his internet was getting spotty reception. He was all set to get to the fort with supplies, ready to make the fort pretty and maybe hang some curtains. Can you imagine if he actually got to the fort, and wondered why the key didn’t open the door? Or something like that.

So, Washington left Williamsburg with an army of 150 Virginians. On their way to the fort, the Virginians surprised a small group of French soldiers on patrol. Thinking “we might be attacked by considerable forces,” Washington later wrote, they built a makeshift fort that they called Fort Necessity. Because, well, it was necessary.  Within days a large force of more than 600 French soldiers and 100 indian allies attacked Fort Necessity. Washington and his men surrendered in what turned out to be the opening battle of the French and Indian War. And guess what? The French let Washington and his soldiers return to Virginia.

“Go home, Georgie.” they said in a thick, French accent. (Ok, I’m taking liberties with the facts once again.) “Haven’t you learned your lesson, little boy? We are the French, and you are……not.”

Now, that makes two times that the French let George Washington go. They could have killed him. But, they didn’t. The next thing you know, Washington is fighting alongside Braddock. The French and Indian War. I don’t know why they called it this, because the French did not fight the Indians.

In April of 1755, General Edward Braddock was ordered to capture Fort Duquense. Oh, God, here we go again. He and more than 1,800 british and colonial soldiers began the long trip to the fort. He invited George along as an advisor. I mean, why wouldn’t he? George knew the route blind folded by now.  Well, they made it as far as nearby Fort Necessity, when they met up with a force of about 900 French and Indian soldiers. Those damn French and Indians fired upon them from trees and boulders. What the hell? The British were used to open field fighting, so this threw them for a loop. They had never fought an enemy this way before. They “broke and ran,” Washington later wrote, “as sheep before the hounds.”  We call that AWOL nowadays. When the battle ended, two thirds of the British were dead or wonded. Braddock was killed.

I should mention that the British should have caught on fairly quickly that bright red uniforms and a drummer making a racket would maybe give the French the heads-up that they were coming. Just sayin. Quit the damn rat-a-tat-tat, for God’s sake. You need to be quiet, stupid Red-coats.

It doesn’t say what happened to Washington after this battle, but he somehow managed to limp home. Was this guy lucky, or what? Some historians mention that Washington was standing close to Braddock when he was killed. It was just wasn’t a good day for Eddie Braddock.

So, French people, your ancestors could have easily killed Washington at least three times. But, they didn’t. If they had, we wouldn’t have the cool quote about Washington choppping down the cherry tree. Denzil would not have a last name. We wouldn’t have Mount Vernon. Washington DC may very well be called DC or Columbia District. Thousands of streets would go nameless. Washington, Pennsylvania, would be called Braddock or Necessity, or something totally different. There would never have been a crossing of the Delaware. Hell, maybe we would never be a nation because his army would not have been there. This is like It’s A Wonderful Life, starring George Washington as George Bailey.

So, yeah, thank you, French people, for letting me teach about Georgie Washington, father of our country.

This period of history is my favorite time period to teach. And I have my fourth graders write pretend thank you cards to the French every year after we study this.

If you give me an address maybe we will mail them for real.

                                                                                                           Sincerely,

V. Mendenhall, fourth grade Social Studies teacher and occasional smart ass

Mom: “Elwood! Elwood!…….Where did that man go? ……I need you to put up this tent…..Elwood!…….I’m telling you, when they were passing out brains, your father thought they said, “train” and left…….Elwood!!………………Well, we are just going to have to go home.”

Elwood- (2 miles away, press camera in hand). “Ahhh, just look at this beautiful tree!” (Takes pictures of the probable pine tree from different angles. Can’t hear Mom because he has wandered purposely away from the camp.)

Vickie- “Mom, look what I found! (Holding a skunk.) Can it sleep with us in the tent? I think he is lonely.”

Cheryl- Cheryl is still in the car, having another one of her famous temper tantrums. We can hear her muted screams through the rolled up car windows. “I HATE YOU…….STUPID MOM…..I HATE YOU…….” .BLAH BLAH BLAH SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM KICK THE BACK SEAT REPEATEDLY…….SILENCE…………POUTING……….

David- (Holding a stick, trying to wittle with a butter knife) Smiling…”This is fun.”

No, I can’t even imagine camping back then. My dad was a scoutmaster, so he used to go camping all of the time. It’s just when Mom was thrown into the mix that Dad just wanted no part of it. My dad was always “damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.” That was his motto. My mom was one of those rolling pin wives. Bitch bitch bitch. Dad was Wally Cox. Wally Cox was a mild-mannered, soft spoken actor, aka the voice of Underdog. “There’s no need to fear, Underdog is here!” Well, except my sweet dad sounded just like Ronald Reagan.

So, needless to say, the Mendenhall family rarely went camping. To compensate for our outdoor challenged lifestyle, my dad built a playhouse in the backyard. I know you are probably picturing a little playhouse nestled in a tree line on the edge of the property. Oh, no. This playhouse was as soon as you opened the back door.  Down three steps, turn left and Voila! A cabin…..for camping. Swell.

I went camping when I was in the Campfire girls. Campfire girls were like the Girl Scouts, but we had campfires. They had Samoa cookies to sell while we put marshmallows on the end of whittled sticks. Well, most of the girls put their marshmallows over the fire. Not me. That was gross…and black. Who the hell wants to eat charbroiled marshmallows. And then some older girl came up with a bright idea.

image via whatscookingamerica.net

“Hey, Susie, I see you are eating grahamn crackers. Can I have one?  And you, Cindy Lou, I see that chocolate bar you are eating. Can I have a small section?  Next thing you know, the older camper put a melted marshmallow and a piece of chocolate between a graham cracker sandwich and ate the damn thing.

“Hmmmmm, I wish I had “some more.” And the rest is history.

image via wikipedia

You believe me, right?

Well, I wasn’t much of a Campfire camper. While walking to the pool one day in my bathing suit, clothing wrapped in my towel, my underpants fell out of my towel and onto the ground. Everyone laughed at me, and I wanted to cry. I sent a postcard home to my mom that I wanted to come home. How funny, because I lived like ten minutes from the camp and we were probably only there for two nights at the most, maybe. I was home before the postcard even arrived.

The next time I went camping was when I was in love. My boyfriend, (future husband, future ex-husband) nicknamed Magoo in my posts, was a list maker, so we had everything you could possibly think of. He even had cut wood on the top of his car. We were, afterall, going to a National forest, so they would probably frown on cutting down trees for fire wood. The first time we went camping, Magoo had everything packed in so tightly you couldn’t add even a spoon (just a slight exaggeration). He had a hatch back, and when he slammed it down to shut, the window burst. He didn’t check to make sure the damn hatch back would close without hitting something. No problem. Magoo took out several black garbage bags, duct tape, and after a few minutes we were on our way. Well, after I swept the glass off to the side of the curb.

We usually went with another couple. The first time we went camping, we took Brent and Jeannie with us. Brent was Magoo’s best friend. We drove to the Monongahela State Forest in our wild wonderful West Virginia mountains. I know West Virginia gets a bad rap, but it is so beautiful in the mountains. Breathtaking, really. The first time out we were hunting for a place called The Sinks of Gandy, a cave that we wanted to explore. I was all about seeing some bats.

image via cavingintro.net

The Sinks of Gandy are a tunnel that the Gandy Creek flows into and disappears into the mountain.  It is on private property, and is actually hard to find. We weren’t all the way stupid. Just partially stupid. Years later, my son was a guide for a summer adventure camp, and made numerous trips to the Sinks.

But, anywho, the next thing you know, we are on a gravel road, stopped because a bunch of sheep were standing in the road, looking at us. Um, Magoo, where the hell are we?

So, we never found the Sinks of Gandy, and drove around forever. Where the hell are we going to camp? We finally found a sign for the Monongahela National Forest, dropped down the mountain, and a beautiful sight unfolded right in front of our eyes. It was beautiful.

 The Monongahela National Forest at Laurel Fork Campground

I immediately fell in love with the place. And there was no one else in the whole area for the first part of the long weekend. There was a large stream that ran by us, and a trail head in case we wanted to take a hike. It was perfect. It was Fourth of July weekend, so we had a cooler full of picnic food and bags and bags of snacks. The boys, who had been at fishing cabins throughout their lives, remembered the time they were stuck eating nothing but hot dogs for 2 days, so they packed a lot of food.

 Since I was not a camper, and the damn campground did not have any bathroom facilities whatsoever (that we knew of at that time), I made the guys build a bathroom area. I don’t even want to try to explain it, but it consisted of finding three small trees close to each other, a large piece of cloth (told you the man could pack), a hammer, and a couple of nails. Dig a hole, and a “dry creek bed” and we had ourselves a bathroom. Magoo even brought toilet paper and little garbage bags. Also, it looked like rain, so the guys put up a makeshift canopy, since we thought we would find a place that had a shelter or something. So, we improvised and it was fun.  Sort of. I couldn’t go past 10:00 in the morning without taking a shower. My skin starts to crawl, like I have cooties or something. I HAVE to take my shower. So, I walked over to the creek, walked in with my tennis shoes, and took a creek bath. Washed my hair and everything. It was so freaking cold. I thought I would turn to ice in the middle of the stream. Next thing you know, Magoo and Brent come running in, holding soap, laughing, and sat right down in the creek. They, too, I thought, must feel cooties after 10:00. Jeannie didn’t care. She put a scarf on her head and claimed that she liked being a dirtball. So be it.

So, yeah, it was a fun weekend.

Well, until the guys disappeared.

We were supposed to go fishing, and I hadn’t been fishing since I was little and went with my dad. I used to go all of the time, and either fished, or chased dragonflies around the lake. To this day, dragonflies are my favorite insects. I knew you would want to know that. The guys wanted to go outside the Monongahela Forest to find more firewood somewhere. And yes, Magoo had a saw with him. So, they hopped into the car without a back window and off they went.

And they never came back. Well, that’s what it felt like. It was at least four hours. We were pissed. So, we decided that we were going to fish all by ourselves. We didn’t need a man to put a worm on our hook. We could be hookers. (she cracks herself up) Well, hell, they were all gone. We were wormless. We had no dough balls. We had nothing.

Well, we did have bologna.

Jeannie and I cracked up, as we took a slice of bologna and tore it to look like a worm. A bologna worm. If colorful little bobbers or lures attracted fish, wouldn’t a worm dangling off of the hook?  It was a brilliant, hooker idea.

No it wasn’t.

The bologna hung on the hook for just a few seconds, and would then slide through the hook and fall into the creek.  We tried it a “couple” of times. Defeated, we went back under the canopy (that leaked later when it stormed), and just started drinking. We did get scared when two guys walked very close by our campsite. We saw them coming and we were very frightened. We ran to the tent and zipped ourselves up and looked out the little screened area. We were going to get raped. No doubt about it. All we had to defend ourselves was some bologna and a flashlight. But, wait. Magoo brought a handgun. (What did I tell you?) And it was in the tent. I could kill them.

Well, at the time, we had no idea that the start of a long hiking trail started right beside our tent. We knew it was nearby, but the trail went right by the tent. They were simply two hikers who were following the trail.

Our mountain men finally came back. They got lost. And they had no firewood. Worthless.

Jeannie and I were already drunk. Well, I had two beers, so I was sloshed.

The guys were so fixing us dinner that night. Magoo opened the cooler.

“Hey, what happened to those two packs of bologna?”

I guess I didn’t mention that we made two packs of bologna worms. We really thought we would get one to work.

We were hookers working our corner of the creekbed.

]]> http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/19/bologna-fishing/feed/ 8 dyingbraincells http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/18/6-word-saturday/ http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/18/6-word-saturday/#comments Sat, 18 Feb 2012 12:17:41 +0000 Jumping in Mud Puddles http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/?p=5194 ]]>

Student’s Valentine Haiku’s Made My Day

You are a good friend

I’m really just saying that.

I do not like you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Looks like some of them decided to gang up on me. A few of these are my favorites from last year.

Hey Ms. Mendenhall

You don’t look like you are old

You need a boyfriend.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ms. Mendenhall needs

some roses for her new house

maybe a husband

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ms. Mendenhall is

lonely. She says she is not.

She is a liar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Teacher after school

go home, take a bubble bath

You don’t need no man.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You are so happy

You are the best teacher here

You are real funny

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Where’s your valentine?

My grandpa needs a girlfriend

But he is so bald.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We found out today

that you are 54. Wow

that is very old.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And then there is always one…

Is that Cupid’s bow?

Yes and he farted on it.

That is very weird.

Image via Wikipedia

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And one that doesn’t follow the 5-7-5 form and is also out there:

                      Happy Valentines, Slug

                      You are very greasy and slimy

                      You are a naked snail.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

]]> http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/17/the-nickel/feed/ 1 dyingbraincells nickel Cover of "Mean Girls (Special Collector's... http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/16/grandma-you-look-like-a-yodeler/ http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/16/grandma-you-look-like-a-yodeler/#comments Thu, 16 Feb 2012 17:55:12 +0000 Jumping in Mud Puddles http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/?p=4726 ]]> I am sure that you have never heard of Laura Anderson Williams before. I mean, I don’t know why the hell you would, she was my grandmother. I had never heard of her before, either, until my mom told us three kids that we were taking a train out west to visit her. I was only seven, David was five, and Cheryl was four.

Yeah, let's take these three kids on a train. David has his gun ready.

When I think about that now, I just want to start drinking. I would have never taken my small children on a train across the country by myself. I had a hard enough time taking them across the county. But, then again, I only had two kids, a fact my mother made sure I knew time after time after time.

“Oh, yeah, Vickie? How do you think I felt? I had 3 kids.”

I wanted to say, “Technicality, Mom dearest. You birthed one and adopted two…….. I win.”  Actually, I would have counted my sister as six children, because she had temper tantrums that rivaled small countries at war. I should have counted as at least three children because I was hyper. Hence, the “Cricket” moniker. David was mellow, so mellow I really think his biological father was Tommy Chong from the comedy duo, Cheech and Chong. Hell, maybe my mom sedated us all and it only worked on David.

But, I really didn’t know I had another grandmother. My one here at home, Orpha, was crazy. She is the one I told you wrote little notes on the envelopes of my birthday cards, a place normally reserved just for the birthday girl’s name:

Happy Birthday, Vickie                  Hartford Circus Fire November 9, 1944

She did this every year. It didn’t matter that the Hartford Circus Fire took place on July 6. No one had the time or the want to find out if she was a trivia genius or a loon. We always went with the loon. But, she was the only grandma I knew about. Sure, my mom mentioned, “Grandma Laura,” but I thought she was talking about her grandmother, who art in Heaven.

My mom was born and raised in Spokane, Washington. All her “people” were out there. And we were going to meet them all. My mom informed us that it would take three days and three nights to get out there. Whaat? We were going to sleep on a train? . My dad was excited too…..because he wasn’t going with us. I have a feeling that he would have gotten off in Chicago or jumped out on the tracks two days in. He wasn’t a big fan of my mother. Or maybe her mother. But, he was going to stay home and take care of Susie the dog.

Well, the train trip was fun. I couldn’t wait to meet this Grandma Laura I had heard so much about. We meet Grandpa Williams first when he picked us up at the train station. He reminded me of Jimmy Durante. He had the biggest nose. Seriously, I could not get enough stare time in. And, how funny, but I do remember wondering if his boogers were bigger than most people’s. Yeah, those are the things I thought about.

Grandpa Williams worked for the railroad for years. He was also a councilman in Spokane. But, the best story I heard was the one where Grandpa Williams beat up Bing Crosby when he was little. Just punched him right in the nose.  I bet it wasn’t a White Christmas that year, Bing. Sounds like my grandpa may have been a bully. He must have liked beating up Bing, because he was also a pretty good boxer. I don’t know how many fights he won, but he quit boxing after a man he was fighting died after Grandpa punched  him in the temple. That was sad and all hearing that story, but all I could think about was if his nose was that big from getting punched in the boxing ring over time. I thought it was a pretty good reason why someone would have such a big nose.

We arrived at the little white house on the corner that my mother called home for so many years. We were going to meet her brother, sister, and all of their families. This was going to be so much fun. Well, until I met Grandma Laura.

OH. MY. GOD.  I am sure I stared for the longest time when I saw her standing at the door, hands on hips. No, she didn’t have a big nose, too. No, Grandma Laura looked like someone who came right out of the movie, Heidi. It is so funny, but I can remember everything about that moment. I couldn’t speak, well, because my mouth was wide open. A small bird could have had plenty of time to build a nest. Oh, my, Grandma, what crazy hair you have.

My grandma must have had really really long hair, because it was braided on each side of her head, and then rolled up on the sides of her head. Sure, I have Princess Leia from Star Wars to reference as an example, but Leia didn’t really look like my grandmother.

Grandma didn't look like this

I think George Lucas must have lived in Spokane, Washington, too, and took the idea from my grandmother. I really wish I had a picture of her. Grandma Anderson William’s father, my great grandfather, was named Lars Peter Anderson. They were from Wales. Grandma had a lot of different customs that she must have brought with her to Spokane, from Wisconsin, via Wales, like her accent, “Donchaknowl.”

Sort of like this but not really. Think more Swiss Heidi.

So, meanwhile, remember, I’m still staring at her. She had a red and blue housecoat vest thing on and a skirt. Heidi wear.

She wore it like this too.

I was struck by her accent, but that’s not all. She got ahold of my brother first and hugged him like she was wrestling a bear. And then, Oh Dear God, she pinched his cheeks.

“Oh, David, you’ve got your grandfather’s name.”  I hoped to God I wasn’t named after anyone in the family, because I did not want my cheeks to be pinched off. I looked over at David, and it really looked like two little grip marks on his cheeks. I was a dead duck. But, not if she couldn’t get ahold of me. I wasn’t a Cricket for nothing.  When it was my turn, I looked at her and said,

“Grandma, you look like a yodeler.”

Now THIS looks like Grandma Laura.

Needless, to say, I didn’t get pinched or squeezed to death. Because I made that flattering comment as I ran past her. And that’s what I was going for. But, Grandma Laura didn’t like me much after that. And she was pissed when I made friends with a stray cat and brought it into the house.

I mean, what was it going to do, mess up her hair?

It was a long trip back to West Virginia. Grandma Laura took it upon herself to give my sister a whippin. My mom was pissed and was going to take us back after only two days in Spokane. No wonder my mom didn’t go back home much.

It only made me love my loon of a grandmother back home even more.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, Grandma Orpha!

“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 very please. 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  is an 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.

Etc. etc.

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.

I never quit anythi

Valentine’s Sucky Day is approaching, and you know, I am just not a fan. I don’t think it is because I am Valentineless. I was married 25 years and dated Magoo for five years before that. So, I had a valentine. But, not really.  He never called me a term of endearment. Well, he had one. And I will get to that later.

When you are young and you are falling in love for the very first time, the little things that your partner calls you are endearing. Well, actually,  you can be any age, really, since love is love no matter how you look at it. The only things that are different are the names that you call each other. Well, and the gifts that you receive. Sigh.  See  And That’s Why I Hate Valentine’s Day

Who doesn’t want to be called, “Sweetie?”  It’s one of my favorite terms of endearment. I use it when I talk to my son and daughter. “Hey, Sweetie, how ya doing today?  When my daughter, Alex, was little, I would call her Boobah. I call my cat, Whiskers, Bubby. I don’t know why. She doesn’t look like a Bubby. What the hell is a Bubby anywho?  It just sounds loveable for some reason. I was never called Bubby. But, terms of endearments for children and pets are different. It’s cute. When you are in love, that little “Hi Cutie Pie” or “Good morning, Angel” touches your heart. Nothing touched mine.  Well, he called me “baboon” once in a while. Baboon. Like I was an ape. A hairy ugly ape. I didn’t understand. He said it with love, I guess. But, what kind of baboon?  I never asked him. He was throwing me a bone, after all.  I mean, why did you call me, “Baboon,” Magoo?

I mean, was it because you thought I was pretty? Baboons are pretty, right?

photo via msnbc.com

Was it because I was vocal and spoke my mind?

Or was it because I was friendly and never knew a stranger?

Or maybe you thought I  looked good, lounging by the pool

I must admit, I did have a nice butt.

I just couldn’t figure it out.  It just came out of the blue one day when he came home from work.

“Hey, Baboon.”  Um, hey……..Chimp?  What the hell?

But, he never called me “Sweetie.”  Not even once. He would call me Vickster or Vickie Rooney, and that’s about as sweet as it got. I don’t know, maybe deep down, maybe that’s why I hate Valentine’s Day. Call me something sweet, dammit.

My favorite all time television show was The Dick Van Dyke Show. I just really thought Rob and Laura Petrie really  loved each other. The first episode aired in 1961. I was young when I watched the show, but remember being confused when my mom told me they weren’t really married. What???  Um, they slept under the same roof, and there were double beds in the bedroom to prove it. I don’t know. They just really looked into each other’s eyes. I wanted that. I remember Laura used to call Rob, “Darling” all of the time.  The word just rolled off the tip of her tongue. Almost every episode ended with her sobbing, “Oh Robbbbb!” And , you know, they had that kid, Richie, but I don’t think they really loved him. He was just there.

I was at Walmart one time and I heard an older man call his wife, “Buttercup.”  And she just smiled the biggest smile. They had to be in their seventies. I wanted to hang out in the aisle to see if she called him anything.  I had a few I thought she would probably use, like “Dear” or “sweetheart.” Those were older terms of endearment. Actor Matthew McConaughey seems to call women, “Darlin” in some of his movies. Just like the character, Andie, in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. She used great words of endearment, such as “Benny Boo Boo,” “Sparky,” and when she tells Ben, “I love you, Binky…..but I don’t have to like you right now.”  Great quote.

As I googled “terms of endearment,” I found a forum from 2003 where people were posting their terms of endearments. Some of them were quite personal. And some of them were quite funny.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I used to be her Chipmunk and she used to be my Angel. Now she’s that Bitch that ruined my life and I’m the Asshole who didn’t understand her or her needs.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Sir….but then I have issues.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“He calls me “love” or “baby”–I call him “honey” or “baby.” Sometimes I’ll call him “darling” in a joking sort of way. For example: “darling, love of my life, fire of my loins… why are your dirty socks on the kitchen table?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Treacle……….Treacle.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I call him:
Pookie. Babe. Sweetie. Jerkwad.
He calls me:
Babe. Sweetie. Wingnut. Bitch.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I call her “sweet fart”
She calls me “duckling” (phonetically, “duck ling” means “monkey’s ass” in Thai.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I call her “my little pumpkin”…or kumquat…or other fruit. Or “My love” or “honey” or “Blender”
She calls me “dearest” or “Stud.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“After calling him a doodle bug once, he called me a rhinoceros beetle.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In a pinch? Don’t know what to call your true love? It should just really roll off the tip of your tongue. You can try:

Angel,  Daddy, Angel Face,  Boo, Apricot, Babe, Peaches, Baby Cakes, Baby Doll, Baby, Beautiful, Bella, Honeybun, Cutie Patootie, Dumpling, Doll, Sweet Cheeks, Snuggle Bunny, Hon, Sugar, Princess, Snookums, Cupcake, SweetHeart, Pumpkin, Sunshine, Muffin, Precious, and if you have no brain, Cuddly Wuddly.

So, yeah, Valentine’s Day is just around the corner.  Buy your love a gift. Oh, it doesn’t have to be much, because in the end, it is all about love. Just love. Hand the little token of love to her/him and add a little term of endearment.

Just don’t call her “Bubble Butt.”

It doesn’t work too well.

***********************************

So, what do you call your love?

I  love getting up early on Saturdays to visit blogs. I usually read blogs under the “Humor” or “Personal” topics, but I also love looking through photography blogs. What talent people possess. So, while I was looking at various titles to see which one to read next, I came across one entitled, “Six Word Saturday.” Intrigued, I clicked on it and next thing you know, I’ve decided to sign up myself. Like I don’t have anything else to do. But, I figure since Pinterest has decided that I don’t have the right password and must get a new invite (I don’t think so), I have time to write on Saturdays. I am Pinterestless. So, here is my first little post for Six Word Saturday:

I’m Glad I Have a Garage

     The weather channel is predicting 3-5 inches of snow this afternoon and 2-4 inches tonight. I went to stupid Walmart last night for provisions, and headed home. I usually torture myself and visit Walmart on Saturday mornings, after getting gas and a trip for money at the bank. I’m in such a rut. But, after watching the radar at school yesterday, I thought I might be snowed in today. I’m so glad I listened to Intuitive Vickie. She is oh so wise.

  As I look outside, the very first thing that comes to mind is not how much snow is falling. I’m not afraid of snow. I hate the cold, and despise cold wind, but no, I’m glad I have a garage on days like this. For those of you who have a garage, read on. Perhaps you will appreciate your enclosed space just a little more.

 When I was growing up, we always lived in the same house. We had a two car garage.

I was always covered. And that made me spoiled. When I went off to college in 1974, my little toyota, Rusty, had to sit outside. Life sucked. I never had to scrape ice off of my car. What the hell was that all about? I looked in my backseat for a scraper, as if there should be one sitting on the back floor for me. I was running late for class and there was ice on all of my windows. So, I did what every other college student with no brain did. I used my driver’s license. Those were a long four years.

After I got married, we first lived in a small garage apartment that his mom and dad just built. I said “garage” apartment, didn’t I? Well, um, no. It was promptly filled with stuff and his brother made it into a hoarding hell workspace. So, we had to park our cars outside. When we built our house in 1992, I felt like the princess I was supposed to be. I never had to scrape my car again. So, for seventeen years, I had a dry, warmish place to put my car.

Well, life doesn’t always go the way you want it to, and the next thing you know, you are divorced, and more importantly, garageless. That is what really hurt. Since we lived on 13 acres with a pool, pond, and a expansive landscapes to tend to, I did not want to keep the house. My ex-husband did enjoy being a slave to the property, so he bought me out and I thought it would be smart to move back to where it all started. That little garage apartment was sitting, vacant. I was sure my in-laws, who I am positive loved me more than Magoo (can’t drive worth a shit moniker) I really didn’t know what I wanted to do. Did I want to buy a house or a townhouse? Did I want to stay in my city that I was not fond of to begin with, and move elsewhere. So, my inlaws agreed, my husband painted and put in cool lighting fixtures, and pushed my out of my garage on January 1, 2009. Ahhhhhh.

 My new life after 25 years of marriage was liberating and I was as happy as a clam. But, it was January and one morning I noticed ice on my car windows. What the hell is this shit?  It’s funny, but I looked in the backseat of my Santa Fe, once again expecting a scraper to be sitting on the floor, smiling at me. I thought I had one in case I got stuck out somewhere. I thought it was with my umbrella that was not there. I had to use a Phil Collins CD to scrape my windows. Sorry Phil. To paraphrase one of your songs,  this was not “another day in paradise.” Oh, no, dammit, where is my tiara? My spoiled princess status was once again revoked.

I lived in the garage apartment from January 2009 until October of 2011. Garageless. What’s worse, is that I had steps to the upstairs apartment to keep clear of snow and ice on top of not having a garage. It just sucked. I used to take a broom and sweep off the snow on the car. One day, while talking out loud, cursing my want of a garage, I took the broom, trying to make one big swoom from the front of the roof of the car to the back, but I kept going, right down to the ground. I injured my shoulder in the process. I just flew with the broom right onto my right side. I laid in the 7 inches of snow we had, and just laughed.  Help. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.

Well, I did get up, but couldn’t do a thing with my right arm for weeks. Putting on a bra was an Olympic event. I didn’t go to the doctor because, well, I hate waiting rooms with a passion.  So, I suffered in silence. Ha. I whined every chance I got. It was worse when it rained. I knew that my umbrella was in the car. Now, that really sucks. And on hot hot hot August days,  flesh from the palms of my hands would be left on the steering wheel.

When I decided to look at a townhouse this past August, I walked around with the real estate agent, and smiled when he took me down to the garage. I sighed. “Awwww, a garage.” I was in love. The real estate agent thought I was a loon, I am sure.

So, I followed him back down to his office and put a deposit down on the place. I have been there since October 1, and love my little garage. I am back to being a tiara wearing princess, abeit older, maybe more like Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, but a princess nonetheless.

Ahhhhh, no more scraping ice with Phil Collin's CD

So, even if you just have a car port, or a detached garage and have to walk from there to your house, don’t protest. It is covered.

 Life is good.

Image via photoanswers.co.uk

]]> http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/11/six-word-saturday/feed/ 12 dyingbraincells 100_0311 100_1991 Dilapidated Garage. http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/11/the-grading-scale-e-for-effort/ http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/11/the-grading-scale-e-for-effort/#comments Sat, 11 Feb 2012 05:38:46 +0000 Jumping in Mud Puddles http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/?p=5049 ]]>

I don’t know about this grading scale crap. I think we need to all get together and decide on one scale that is uniform. I mean, in elementary school,  if a kid gets a 64%, he gets a loser D. But,  if he later enrolls at a particular college and gets a 64% because he is still a loser, but now a loser frat boy, then he will get an F. That is really going to confuse him. More than figuring out what is a vowel and what is a consonant.

Our grading scale at most elementary schools is as follows:

90-100=A

80-90=B

70-80=C

60-70=D

0-60=F

I often wondered why there is no E on the grading scale. My mom used to say that I should get an “E for effort.” That sure made me feel good. It’s about as good as my husband telling my daughter that, “College isn’t for everyone.” But, why skip a letter? There is no E, yet we have a sixty point range for F-ers. (F-ers…That made me laugh.) I’m wondering if F really does stand for “failure,”  like I grew up thinking.  They can’t use the E because kids would maybe get confused and think they were doing something “Excellent.” But, one could say the same for an “F.” It could mean “fantastic.”

When I was in high school, we had numbers for our grading scale. Brooke High was a pretty progressive school.  The following is our numbers with the letter  equivalents:

 5=A

4=B

                                                                       3=C

                                                                       2=D

                                                                      1=F

I bet some of you were confused. A lot of people think that a “1″ should mean ”You are number 1!” You would think that it would be on top. People wear a huge number 1 on their hand at football games. That’s a good thing. But, when you get a “1″ on a report card, that is bad. Life sucks.

Afterall, one is the loneliest number. It can be a loser number.  Like when you go to a restaurant by yourself and they call your name. “Loser, party of one.” Ok, so I heard that at Dirty Dicks restaurant when I was at Myrtle Beach. Still makes me laugh.

I don’t think many high schools used this numeral formula. It was weird thinking in any terms but numbers. So, when I went off to college, and had to deal with letters and a different grading scale, I was confused, and pissed.

“Excuse me, Dr. StupidHead, but I should have received an A for  British Lit. My average was a 92%.”

“Ms. Mendenhall, did you not read my syllables and general information at the beginning of the term? An “A” is 93%-100%.”

The hell you say? Well, hell no, I didn’t read your first day bullshit, Dr. Worm. I had sorority parties to attend.  Don’t  you professors know that we students have a lot on our plates?  You should have just told us the first day of school. We don’t read what we absolutely do not have to read. You should know that, dammit.

Another thing that I just don’t know how I feel about is the whole A+ stuff. If a student gets a 100%, they would most likely get a big ole A+ on their paper. But, isn’t that for above and beyond. If you get a perfect paper, isn’t an A sufficient?  I don’t give many pluses. Oh, I might if they have a 79%. I may give the student a C+, since it is oh so close to a B. But, I rarely give A+’s.

Some parents are quite concerned with grades. Maybe just a little too much. You have no idea how upset they get  if their child gets a “B.”

“I don’t understand, because my Johnny has always received straight A’s. We just don’t understand why all of a sudden he is getting a B.”

My make believe Johnny is just an amalgam of all the students I have each year. Oh, most of the parents are wonderful. Their children are wonderful. But, I get a knot in my stomach when it is time for parent teacher conference, so I think I am going to change my grading scale just to mess with them. They will not be able to figure out if their child is doing well or not. They won’t be able to blame me for anything, because they will have no idea what the hell is going on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ms. Mendenhall’s Grading Scale

2011-2012

 Dear parents,

     I have reconfigured the grading scale to use with my fourth graders. I  believe that hard work is the only way to truly judge how a child is doing in my classroom. So, he will be graded on effort.

                                                                                                           E = Effort

If the child receives an E on his report card, it means that he is showing enough effort to receive an effort.

                                                                                                             EE=enough effort

If the child receives an EE on his report card, it means that he is showing enough effort.

EM=Embryo effort

If the child receives an EM on his report card, it means that he is just learning a skill, and is still at this stage, while others may be at another level, depending on their birth date. If your child is younger than 50% of the class, his effort may be younger.

                                                                                                                EL=Elastic effort

If the child receives an EL on his report card, it means that the effort is elastic. He moves ahead and he moves behind. He is showing an effort, even though it may be  embryonically elastic.

EF=Effusive effort

 If a child receives an EF on his report card, it means that his effort is effusing.

EMB=Embolism

If a child receives an EMB on his report card, it means that some obstacles stand in his way, yet through effort he may be able to work through the obstruction. The effort is effusing, through elasticized endeavors.

                                                                                                          EA=Eager effort

If a child receives an EA on his report card, it means that he is very eager about his effort. His effort is effusingly eager.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After I give them a copy of the new rules, I think I will start off  with a quote that they will be able to digest later when they get home. It is from one of the brightest men of our time, Mr. Dan Quayle:

“If we don’t succeed, we run the risk of failure”

Yeah, that should screw with them for a few hours. Another thing I could do is talk about their child’s poor poor grades, and then say, “Oh, wait a minute. I’ve got another student’s records. Ok, here are your son’s.” And so a couple of “B’s” won’t sound so bad, compared to the previous 2 “D’s” and the rest “C’s”  loserville.

Yeah, I could totally mess with them.

]]> http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/11/the-grading-scale-e-for-effort/feed/ 20 dyingbraincells chalkboard f failure http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/10/its-slinky-its-slinky/ http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2012/02/10/its-slinky-its-slinky/#comments Fri, 10 Feb 2012 11:30:22 +0000 Jumping in Mud Puddles http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/?p=5022 ]]> I was about seven years old (circa 1963) when I saw my first commercial for Slinky. I looked at my brother, David, and back to the television. I wanted to make sure someone else was watching this. Oh Dear God, I had to have this. I memorized the catchy song title and almost remember all of the words to this day:

What walks down stairs

alone or in pairs

and makes a slinkity sound

A spring! A spring!

A marvelous thing

Everyone knows its Slinky!

It’s Slinky! It’s Slinky!

For fun, it’s a wonderful toy!

It’s fun for a girl and a boy!

It’s fun for a girl and a boy!

Oh,  yeah, I was sooo getting one. The next Friday night, my dad took us to over to the Weirton shopping center to hang out. That’s what he did every Friday night. It was “Dad and the Kids Night So Mom Can Have a Moment to Reflect Night.”  It was fun. I’d usually get a 45 record at Grants, and then we would head to the Village Dairy and get a two scoop ice cream. Fun times.

 Well, it looked like the Weirton Grants was pretty progressively prompt. There it was! Slinky was looking right at me. It said it was a walking spring toy. It even had directions on the side of the box in case you had no brain:

TO WALK SLINKY DOWN STAIRS: Place Slinky on top stair. Grip the top coil and flip it forward toward the lower step while quickly releasing. Watch as Slinky begins to walk down the  stairs-all by itself!

Well, this is no fun

Well, I laugh now. These were directions for an idiot. Because they knew anyone who would by coil and watch it walk down stairs is either stupid or has no life. But, hey, this was for kids and I need to get my “kid hat” on. I wear it most days, anywho, but really, think about it. It’s sort of a stupid toy. But, when I was seven, it was the berries. (I’m even talking like I’ve returned to my youth).

I will continue with the idiot directions.

TO PLAY WITH SLINKY IN YOUR HANDS: Hold the two end coils of Slinky with both hands. Next, raise and lower each hand in a rhythmic motion.

You know, you can screw up those directions. They never said to hold them with the palm of your hands pointing upwards. I just took my new purchase (for picture taking purposes only, you know) and held the Slinky in my hands with my palms facing each other, moving my each hand up and down. If anyone did that, they would really look like their elevator didn’t go up to the top floor. Their directions for that just sucked.

It's a hamster tunnel

Well, I didn’t have to beg my dad much because I had started on the Slinky want for five days. I sort of reminded myself of that little cartoon dog who always hung out with the giant bulldog, Spike. “Can I , Spike? Can I? Hey, Spike? Can I, Spike?” Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Well, I got the Slinky home and played with it for hours. It really went down the stairs. Then I found out stuff about it that wasn’t on the directions. Your sister could hold one end and you could stretch it with the other hand, lie it on the floor, and have your hamster walk through it. We stayed absolutely still, as we didn’t want the retracting coil to cut off his little hamster feet. That was probably a REALLY stupid thing to do. Annie did ok. She seemed to like it, as she stayed in the middle of it and peed. She must have felt like home.

All in all, Slinky was a wonderful toy, It was fun for a girl and a boy. For a while. There’s only so many things you can do. I mean, after it goes down the steps a few hours the first day, the excitement fades. How many times can you  get excited about this?

“Hey, Mom, watch Slinky go down the stairs……again?” I did throw it down the stairs once to see if it would elongate and look cool. It was fun, only because my brother David came around the corner in the basement at the same time and it hit him in the stomach. I cracked up.

We did a lot of things with Slinky we shouldn’t have.  I personally liked wearing it as a boa. Sometimes two of us would ride our bikes with the training wheels and each hold an end while riding down the street. The directions should probably have read: MENDENHALL KIDS-DO NOT LEAVE THIS TOY OUT IN THE RAIN. DO NOT PLAY WITH THIS IN THE BATHTUB. DO NOT USE AS A THREE STOOGES WEAPON.

I loved my youth.

The object of Button Button, Who’s Got the Button is an easy one. The game was usually played by several children and one adult. I wish someone would have told my mom that, because we all took turns being the “adult.”  The children start by sitting on the bottom stair of a staircase. We played on my front porch steps. If it was raining, we used my basement steps. It was a pretty flexible game.  So, again, the kids are sitting at the bottom of the steps. The adult (Me, at the old age of  eight, perhaps) would hold out in front of them two closed hands, with one holding a “special” button hidden inside of it. I would ask, “Button, Button, who’s got the button?

For example, let’s pretend that my neighbor friends and siblings were sitting side by side on the bottom step. LeeAnn, Ramaine, Cheryl, and David. I would put my hands behind my back, and put the penny in one of them and then hold it out in front of LeeAnn. “Button Button, Who’s Got the Button?” She would then pick one of my hands. If she was right, she would get to move up one step. Then I would go to Ramaine, etc. etc. Whoever got to the top of the steps won and then they would get to be the leader.

This was such a fun game. For a while. One day, two of the neighbor girls, who were older and never played with us, wanted to join in the fun on summer afternoon. Well,  how cool was that? I ran into the house and asked my mom if she would make Kool-Aid for all of us. She obliged and added cookies to the mix. This was going to be a great day.

Well, Linda, (not her real name) one of the older girls asked to be the leader. Of course, you can be the leader. We all squeezed on the bottom step and began to play. The other older girl, Kathy,(again, not her name) picked the right hand first thing. She got to advance up a step. I was next. Loser. David picked the right hand, as did my sister. Lee Ann and I were left behind in the dust. I dont think my bff Ramaine was there this particular day.

It was amazing how Kathy  picked the right hand every time. Wow! She was so lucky. She quickly won. My mom then had us come in the house to have Kool-Aid and whoopie pies. Those older girls were going to want to play with us all of the time. My mom’s whoopie pies were the best cookie in the world. It was great how she was making them the very same day that Linda and Kathy decided to play with us.

So, after we got done eating, it was Kathy’s turn to be the leader. I was doing a bit better this time and was able to move up a little bit here and there. Linda was getting them right every time. She was almost at the top, when my brother, who was just coming out of the house, stopped and watched the fun, and then exclaimed, “You are cheating!”  My little brother did not just say that. Did I just hear him tell the two older, beautiful popular girls  that they were cheating? I was ready to get off the bottom step and run past everyone to tell my mom that David was going to make those girls want to quit and go home.

The girls looked at each other  and then started laughing. They dropped the penny and looked us over and then Linda said, “This is such a baby game………….. We just came over here because your mom and my mom were talking on the phone and said she was making whoopie pies. We wanted some…….We’re leaving.”

And off they went with an air of superiority, munching on one of my mom’s world famous whoopie pies. I just wanted to cry. It’s funny, but we just sat quietly and watched them saunter down the street. They would turn around in the middle of the road, and laugh every couple of yards or so. I was so mad. I just wanted to throw rocks at them.

Well, Button, Button, Who’s Got the Button was put on the back burner for a long time. We switched to Mother, May I, or Colored Eggs. We saved Button, Button for our rainy day fun.

At least we knew on a rainy day we could play the “baby” game on my basement steps. The older girls couldn’t see us and we wouldn’t have to share whoopie pies with them ever again.

I skipped a decade or so but taught my children how to play Button Button, Who’s Got the Button on my old steps while visiting my parents. We had an inside staircase at the home we just built, but I wanted to initate this fun game where I learned to play. I explained the rules and talked about how much fun it would be. I got a real button from my mom’s decades- of-grand- button- collecting- collection, and we began to play. Adam won quickly and was able to be the leader. I sat down, sort of excited to share this wonderful game with my children.

Button, Button, I've got freakin Buttons

Adam put his hands behind his back, and put them out in front of his sister. One of his hands was out in front of the other. She picked it, and the damn hand held the button. He was lucky if he was six years old and already figured out how to cheat. I just looked at him. He was laughing.

I stood up and sighed.

“Let’s go eat some whoopie pies.”

I was standing in a crowded pub, creatively called, The Pub, minding my own business, when I heard someone yell, “Vickie!!” Well, since that is my name, I obviously looked to see who was calling for me. I had no idea who the person was, but I was on my second beer, so maybe it was my best friend. You first need to understand that I was what they call a “cheap date.” I would start giggling after only 1/2 of a beer, so it didn’t take much for me to become the self-proclaimed life of the party.  If I had more than three beers, and a microphone was nearby, I would become a comedian. I hang my head in embarrassment now. But, on that night, I became a drunken trial attorney. I am sure that is the best kind of trial lawyer. I argued my drunken case to the point where I was ready to take the LSAT the very next day.

Well, another “Vickie” went over and hugged the person who was yelling my name.  How cool! Another person with my name. I wonder if we are related. Ok, now you should understand by that comment that I may have had more than 1/2 beer. I guess the next day it would have made more sense if our LAST names were the same, duh. But, when she walked by me, I decided to say something.

“I heard him yell for you. My name is Vickie, too.”

Well, hell, I never personally knew anyone with my first name. I went to a high school with over 2,000 students, and not one of them was named Vickie. Oh wait. That’s a lie.  I can now think of two right off the top of my head. Well, that night, I thought I was the only one in the universe who had that first name. I was so excited.  She seemed excited, too. She answered me with a sweet smile.

“Cool. How do you spell your name?  I spell mine V-I-C-K-I.”

“I spell mine V-I-C-K-I-E.”

“Why? That sounds stupid.”  Obviously, she had more than 1/2 beer also. I was shocked that she could say that with a smile. And, also, how can the same name “sound” stupid? What an idiot. And to think she called me “stupid.” Well, she was stupider.

I had some hard ass sorority sisters nearby. I wasn’t afraid of  this stranger who shared my name. I’d have backup. Let the name calling begin, Vicki bitch.

“Stupid? Your name looks like you forgot how to spell the rest of it, because you have no brain, and you just quit writing it. V-I-C-K-I is incomplete.”

“Vicki Lawrence spells it with just an “i”.  Is that the best you got? It was my turn.

“Well, then, she is stupid. She is just a sidekick to Carol Burnett. She only got the job because she looked a little like Carol Burnett. If she spelled her name with an “e”, she would have her own show.”  I thought that was a brilliant retort.

Well, once drunks get in a confrontation, it’s hard to tell where the conversation ends up. We bantered back and forth for a short while, but realized that there really isn’t too much of an argument, unless you get off topic. I could have easily commented on her poor choice of earth shoes and painter pants. She could have commented on how beautiful I was. Or something like that. But, luckily, we ran out of steam and started making fun of how the “other” Vickie’s/Vicki’s would spell their name.  I started.

I asked her if she was ever called, “Picky Vicky.”  I hated that name, mainly because, well, I was picky. It would make sense in an argument that since “picky” is spelled with a “y”, then the name should end that way. We both thought that was an ugly adaptation of our name.

Then there was M-I-C-K-E-Y, as in the mouse. Why wasn’t our name spelled like that? V-I-C-K-e-Y. Later on, my husband used to call me “Vickey Rooney,” after the actor, Mickey Rooney. We both thought that was wrong also.

After we hugged and laughed off our three minute round, she went off to dance on the table and I went home to pass out  study, I woke up remembering why I hate for people to write anything but, V-I-C-K-I-E.  The stupid nuns at the Sacred Heart of Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy were to blame. As I mentioned in several previous posts, I attended that private school for the first three grades, and hated every minute of it.

First of all, the crazy head nun, Sister Maria, insisted on calling me Victoria, despite my objections. I got in trouble for trying to correct her.

“Little girl, your correct name is Victoria. “Vickie”  is a nickname……….I don’t care what your mom says. “Vickie” is short for Victoria.”

Well, ok, then, witch.  I hated Sister Maria and I knew it is wrong to wish bad things on her, but I hoped bad things would happen to her. Not death, mind you. I was only in third grade. I was thinking more like her walking and simply falling down. Yep. I wanted to see the nun fall down.  Besides being a teacher, Sister Maria also drove the van/bus to pick up some of the students in the morning.  One morning, a driver hit the side of our van. It’s weird, but I looked to see if Sister Maria was hurt before I noticed I had a big gash through my leotards. Dammit, she was ok. The police came and they asked for all of the names of the passengers in the van. The next morning, there was a write-up in the newspaper. My name was listed as one of the injured.

“…….and Victoria  Mendenhall, 9,  of Weirton……”

Whaaat? It honestly pissed me off. My name was in the newspaper, and it wasn’t really my name. Sister Maria told them my name was Victoria. I never hated her more than when I read my misprint in the newspaper. She was never going to call me anything but Victoria. So, I decided to be a smart ass from then on. I started the very next day when I got on the bus.”

“Good morning, Victoria.” she said when I got on the stupid bus/van.

“Good morning, Sister Mary.”  She didn’t say anything, but gave me a very dirty look. I was dead.

I called her Sister Mary for a few weeks, when suddenly, out of the blue, a miracle occurred. A miracle, I tell ya.

“Vickie, did you have a nice weekend?”  I just nodded and went on my way. Wow. I did it! I got her to start calling me Vickie instead of Victoria. I felt so powerful.

It wasn’t until a year later, far far away from the Sacred Heart of Mary Juana Academy, safely enrolled in public school, that I heard my mom talking to a neighbor lady during their daily coffee/cigarette marathon. I had settled in my eavesdropping hiding place, ready to listen to some mom gossip.

“No, don’t send him there. My kids went there for a few years until last year. I had enough of the head nun, Sister Maria. Vickie was coming home in tears almost daily because Sister Maria kept calling her Victoria. I finally called the school and told her that I should know what I named my daughter, and if Vickie comes home one more time and tells me you have called her Victoria, I will pull my children from your school and I will make some phone calls about how you have treated my daughter. Do I make myself clear?”

Wow. My mom went on blabbing, but I had heard enough. I could feel the air leaking out of my balloon swelled head as I walked into my room.

Years later,  before my freshman year in high school, my mom, brother, sister, bff Ramaine and I were in a terrible car accident. I had hit my head on the back seat after a Mack truck hit us from behind and we flew head-on into a car coming in the opposite direction. I had blood flowing from my head and from my ankle, but still managed to talk to the ambulance driver person. I’m sure it was the concussion talking.

“My name is Vickie. It is spelled V-I-C-K-I-E…… Do you think my name will be in the newspaper?”

glass Vickie balls

Fast forward many years. I have divorced and have just purchased a new townhome. I am feeling liberated. I took back my maiden name and the sound of it makes me feel independent and free. I am happy. But, as I look around at new purchases, I had to smile. I must like my name.

55 years old and I'm collecting blocks...um, ok.

In the end, one needs to feel comfortable in their own skin. They need to be proud of who they are and defend their name.

Literally.

Set your drink on these lovely monogrammed coasters

Dear Aunt Elizabeth,

I want to thank you for giving me your antique chinese sewing basket when you passed away. I have had it for over 35 years and have treasured its contents. I have looked through the basket numerous times over the years, with love and admiration, but have a few questions that I would like to ask you.

Aunt Elizabeth, your chinese sewing basket is filled with handkerchiefs. They are so lovely. They are neatly folded, still crisp and clean, waiting to be used.  You can tell they have been loved. Some are linen, faded with age. Some have handmade embroidery with your name, Elizabeth, sewn so meticulously. It looks like you took great pains to make sure the loops around the edge of the light green handkerchief were identical.

Yes, neat and crisp like the day you bought them, I wonder if the sewing was for yourself or for a young man that you admired?  With Valentine’s Day approaching, I wonder if you used a particular handkerchief to make a great first impression? I am betting it is the pretty pink one. It is dainty and I swear I can still smell a faint scent of a perfume. I am sure it is my imagination.

     Elizabeth, did you leave your monogrammed handkerchief behind so a certain young man would have to return it to you? Did your handkerchief bring you love? Did a love end, perhaps, and the man dabbed the tears in the corner of your eye with one of your exquisite beauties? I know, looking at them, intently, makes me want to cry.

I was told that your soldier love did not come back from war. That you never married. You never had children. Over the years, did you spend time  looking through your chinese sewing basket, picking up each handkerchief, and remembering?  I am sorry you lost your love. How sad that you never found love again. Oh, perhaps you did. There may be a handkerchief in your basket that may hold the key. I bet it is the white one with the multi-colored lace. Aunt Elizabeth, there is a man’s handkerchief in your basket. It is small, and has yellowed with age. Was it your soldiers? Did you hold it close to your heart as you sat at his funeral? And did you use one of your handkerchiefs, or many of them, to wipe the tears that fell from your eyes when you heard the news that he was killed in battle? I’m sorry I am asking so many questions. I feel that these beautiful handkerchiefs are looking at me, wanting me to know their stories.

I am so truly sorry for your loss. I hope that when I visited you when I was little, that I made you laugh. My mom told me that you asked to adopt me. That makes me smile now, because I was the one who put your cat in the dumb waiter. I blamed it on my brother, David. I can’t remember your cat’s name, but I do think he enjoyed the trip up to the third floor.

I wish I was old enough at the time to understand what you have been through over the years. I would have given you many more hugs and kisses. And I would have just told you that I accidentally broke your tea cup instead of hiding it under the cushion of your couch in your parlor. A small child should be properly monitored when in such a beautiful victorian home. And you lived in it all by yourself. The house had an echo to it. I want to cry because I think that you were quite sad and lonely. Perhaps I am wrong. I do hope so.

I hate war.

Love, Vickie

************************************************************************

PART 2: A LETTER TO KLEENEX

Dear Mr. Kleenex man,

Did you ever think that back in 1924, when you invented the facial tissue, that you were killing off the art of using a handkerchief and most likely taking love with it? Yes, that’s right. I believe you killed prospects of love with your new fangled invention. With Valentine’s Day approaching, a holiday that I despise, I’ve come to the conclusion that you may be to blame for many a potential  love match that never happened. Yes, you. The invention of the disposable white tissue changed the way men and women interacted.

You see, Mr. Kleenex man, the handkerchief was created at first, solely as a symbol of beauty and status. It is even more pertinent to mention that handkerchiefs were also traditionally associated with love. During medieval days, handkerchiefs were given to knights by ladies to wear during tournaments as a type of good luck token. A fair maiden may have given an embroidered handkerchief to a knight she liked to bring victory in battle and as a sign that she supported his knightly aspirations. A fine lacy handkerchief  was not put away in a pocket, but held in the hand or draped daintily across the arm. A handkerchief was also used to get attention. “Yoohoo,” was yelled sweetly, while waving the handkerchief. “Yoohoo, sailer boy.” Well, something like that. But, not anymore. People don’t wave Kleenex. Women don’t leave a Kleenex behind in hopes that the guy they are talking to will return it the next day. Uh, not going to happen.

Sometimes, Mr. Kleenex man, handkerchiefs were also used to signal the start of an event, with an important person signaling the start by dropping a handkerchief. In the movie, Grease, Cha Cha DiGregorio, started the car race scene by bringing down the handkerchief. And if I may back up again, in the medieval era, they were used in the jousting competition. But, I’m not talking about jousting or car races, Mr. K., I’m talking about love. And you took it away when you invented Kleenex and women put their handkerchiefs away in their chinese sewing baskets. No more could a lady deliberately leave behind their monikered hanky, smelling of sweet lilac. Of course, the young man would most likely have returned it. And then they would fall in love. How many people are now missing that opportunity because you invented a disposable handkerchief?  You killer of love.

I hate war,

Love, Vickie

The card game has been around for many, many years. The origins of Old Maid trace back to the 17th century. It started off as a gambling game, where the loser had to buy drinks, because it got stuck holding the last card. The old maid. The woman who was depicted as a frumpy, bird or cat owner, who wore glasses and a very ugly hat.

The game begins with players trying to form pairs out of all of their cards until someone—the loser—is left with the lonely, spinster old maid.

I remember playing Old Maid. I played it often, along with Go Fish and War. But, Old Maid, sort of made me sad, because of what my mom told me one time when we were playing.

“Did you know that your Aunt Elizabeth was an Old Maid?”  I just looked at her. I really didn’t understand what was going on. I mean, I was playing a freaking card game. I was a kid. I never gave it a thought back in circa 1964 that the card with a sweet old lady was my Aunt Elizabeth.

I honestly thought that an old maid was a woman who was like a nanny. She cleaned and took care of people’s homes, like a maid. But, she was more than a house cleaner. She was like a grandma. And that’s what an old maid was. But, my mom was obviously going to explain to me something completely different, I feared. And I really didn’t want to hear it.

“Aunt Elizabeth was supposed to marry someone when she was younger. He was a soldier and he never came home from the war.”

I just looked at her.

“Was she mad at him?”

My mom was confused. “No. Why would she be mad at him?”

“Because he never came home. Where did he go to live then?”  Legitimate question coming from the skinny girl on the other side of the table.

Well, my mom explained it to me, and I just really didn’t want to finish the game after I heard the whole story. I made an excuse, and went into my room and cried. Poor Aunt Elizabeth. She lived all the way out in Spokane Washington, and I had only met her a few times, but the story was so sad. She used to send letters to my mom and would always include a clipping of the comic strip, “Family Circus.”

So, I haven’t been happy with the whole “Old Maid” game after that. The next time someone wanted to play, I took a deck of my dad’s regular cards and took the jokers out and left one in so it didn’t have a match. There. That was our new Old Maid.

Over the years, I always came in contact with an old maid or two. The character of Miss Havisham, in  Charles Dicken’s, “Great Expectations.” was an old maid. She hung out in the reception hall, clad in her wedding dress, sitting at the table with the ever so old cake, still on the table. That freaked me out. Especially when rats were involved.

The song, Delta Dawn, by Helen Reddy, was about a woman who was walking around with a suitcase, waiting for the guy who dumped her. She was an old maid, but she was also crazy as a loon, just like Miss Havisham. She walked around Brownsville with a faded rose from days gone by.

And Wikipedia mentions “famous spinsters.” Can you believe it? Some mentioned are are Susan B. Anthony, Ann Coulter, (which cracked me up for some odd reason), Condalezza Rice, Emily Dickinson, Florence Nightingale, Greta Garbo, Louisa May Alcott, Emily Bronte, and Jane Austen. Sound like all strong, independent women to me.

My favorite “spinster” is Miss Prissy Hen,  from the Foghorn Leghorn cartoon, although there is some mention of her maybe being a widow. Nevertheless, they dress her in an ugly hat and put glasses on her, just like the Old Maid picture on the playing card. Well, except that she is a bird.

When George Bailey, in It’s a Wonderful Life, sees his life like he wasn’t born, he runs into Mary, the librarian, who is an  old maid.

Bette Davis, played an old maid in the movie, The Old Maid.

So, I was thinking, why not change the whole “Old Maid” scenario to “Old Geezer?”  There are a lot of men who never get married or have children. I think it is time to make fun of them for a change. This Old Maid crap has been going on too long. So, let’s get a picture of a guy who will fit the part. How about…..Mr. Burns?

You know, I don’t know the answer. When my kids were little, we played Old Maid. It was just a game. My kids never wondered about the name or what the hell it meant.

My mom just pisses me off.

I received this award from Mr. Tinney, one of my new blogging neighbors. The great thing about awards is how you get to visit the other nominee’s blogs, etc. etc., and the next thing ya know, you aren’t washing the dishes or vacuuming anymore, because you can’t step away from their recent blog posts. I love this place.

Ok, I have to complete the following:

• 1. In a post on your blog, nominate 10 fellow bloggers for The Versatile Blogger Award.
• 2. In the same post, add the Versatile Blogger Award.
• 3. In the same post, thank the blogger who nominated you in a post with a link back to their blog.

4. In the same post, share 7 completely random pieces of information about yourself.

5.  In the same post, include this set of rules.

6. Inform each nominated blogger of their nomination by posting a comment on each of their blogs.

ok, #2, check. #3, check.

#4.  7 random pieces of information.

1. I went to Disney World by myself to see if I can travel by myself. I figured if I could go to the one place where a solo traveler rarely goes and not feel lonely, I could go anywhere

2. I have never had cheesecake. Ever.

3. I once watched a snapping turtle try to dig a hole for hours to deposit her eggs. Seeing that she wasn’t getting too far, I went out and dug a hole right by her and she moved over and used that hole. (I can feel a new blog post coming on..lol)

4. I once owned a guinea pig named Quincy Bozo and a skunk named Thumper.

5. I cut my own hair. Because I am stupid.

6. I once purposely put gum in my hair to see if peanut butter really took it out.

7. I really think there is a Bigfoot.

Ok, 10 bloggers. Ok, I will be right back.

1. The Idioth Speaketh

2. Kitchen Slattern

3. Some Species Eat Their Young

4. Marina Sleeps

5. Lemony Snippet

6. FiftyfourandAHalf

7. Culturally Discombobulated

8. ksnapped

9. papermudandme

10.eileeneldred

Ok, now I am off to let them know. Chain letter ala blog. Thanks again, Mr. Tinny!

“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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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