My daughter, who lives in New York City, will be watching her first St. Patrick’s Day parade. She will also be participating in the world’s largest pub crawl, The Luck of the Irish St. Patty’s Day Pub Crawl. Sounds like a great time. When I talked to her last night, she was having a hard time finding anything green to wear. I’m sure with thousands of New Yorkers participating in the parade and pub crawl, green is probably a highly interested color.
Well, back here in West Virginia, I am sitting here thinking about the big green day and especially about leprechauns. And how I just don’t know what to think of them.
Yesterday, I had my fourth graders write a St. Patrick’s Day haiku, like I do whenever I feel like having them write one. And I wrote one too. Now, you have to understand that I never shared my views on leprechauns with my kids. I never really thought much about the short people before. But, my students’ haikus and my own made me want to take a step back and take a look at this whole leprechaun and St. Patrick’s Day scheme of things a little closer.
Leprechauns are mean
They will take my pot of gold
Go away now, please!
~~~~~~~~
Shamrocks and pinching
and bad leprechauns hiding
please leave me alone.
~~~~
And here is mine
Little leprechaun
are you stealing my wallet?
goofy green midget
~~~
I honestly couldn’t believe that I wrote that. I read mine aloud, and change “midget” to “short guy.” I just sat there, stunned, looking at my paper. So, that’s how I really felt about leprechauns? And how politically incorrect. Not good, Vickie, not good. I wondered if I had been attacked by a leprechaun when I was little or something. There had to be a reason for my animosity towards bearded Irish guys in green clothing.
In the meantime, I looked at my other haiku. I had the kids write two different ones. Here is my other one:
I found some money
at the end of the rainbow.
Led me to a bank.
~~~~
Um, ok. This is not a happy St. Patrick’s Day person writing these haiku’s. I have some issues. I also have twenty-one students, and I would say that most of them wrote about bad or mean leprechauns. I wonder why? So, I thought that I would do some research and collect some data on these horrid little creatures (see, there I go again) and see why they are getting a bad rap.
We all know that St. Patrick’s Day is about shamrocks, parades, and all things green. And all things Irish. But, I really didn’t know the meaning behind some of the symbols. Let’s take a look at some of them before we get to my main topic:
1. The shamrock- The shamrock was the sacred plant of Ireland. It symbolized the rebirth of spring. According to History.com, “By the seventeenth century, the shamrock had become a symbol of emerging Irish nationalism. As the English began to seize Irish land and make laws against the use of the Irish language and the practice of Catholicism, many Irish began to wear the shamrock as a symbol of their pride in their heritage and their displeasure with English rule.”
2. Those damned snakes- Again from History.com:
“It has long been recounted that, during his mission in Ireland, St. Patrick once stood on a hilltop (which is now called Croagh Patrick), and with only a wooden staff by his side, banished all the snakes from Ireland. In fact, the island nation was never home to any snakes. The “banishing of the snakes” was really a metaphor for the eradication of pagan ideology from Ireland and the triumph of Christianity. Within 200 years of Patrick’s arrival, Ireland was completely Christianized.” Oh, ok, a metaphor. I was wondering how that worked. I had my thoughts-
Patrick: “Hey, snakes of Ireland. I don’t want you here. Begone, you little bastards!’
St. Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland via photo Irregular Times
3. Corned beef- Which I’m sorry, but corned beef sounds disgusting. I have always been picky and just the names of some of the foods made me refuse to try them. Well, like cheesecake. I have never had a piece of cheesecake in my life. It just reminds me of provolone and icing. I shudder. Corned beef reminds me of hunks of corn in ground beef. Ok, wait. That doesn’t sound that bad. Anywho, corned beef is a more recent addition to all things Irish. Irish Americans gather together on St. Patrick’s Day to share a meal of corned beef and cabbage. Immigrants who came to New York City’s Lower East Side from Ireland substitute corned beef for their tradtional bacon to save money.
Where the hell is the cabbage? photo via foodnetwork.com
4. Pot of gold at the end of the freaking rainbow- What if there was a double rainbow…Wow.
5. Leprechauns- Ok, this is huge!! We can blame Walt Disney Productions for putting leprechauns in our St. Patrick’s Day. Walt Freakin Disney. Yep. Leprechauns never had a damn thing to do with St. Patrick’s Day. Oh, sure, they were folklore in Europe, but not specifically for the holiday, which is supposed to be a religious observation. I guess if Christmas has Santa Claus and Easter has a bunny, why not a short guy for St. Patrick’s Day, I guess.
Once again, according to History.com, “The original Irish name for these figures of folklore is “lobaircin,” meaning “small-bodied fellow.”
Belief in leprechauns probably stems from Celtic belief in fairies, tiny men and women who could use their magical powers to serve good or evil. In Celtic folktales, leprechauns were cranky souls, responsible for mending the shoes of the other fairies. Though only minor figures in Celtic folklore, leprechauns were known for their trickery, which they often used to protect their much-fabled treasure.
In 1959, Walt Disney released a film called Darby O’Gill & the Little People, which introduced America to a very different sort of leprechaun than the cantankerous little man of Irish folklore. This cheerful, friendly leprechaun is a purely American invention, but has quickly evolved into an easily recognizable symbol of both St. Patrick’s Day and Ireland in general.”
I also read that leprechauns were shoe makers and hid their coins in a hidden pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Which, I think, is irresponsible. Which rainbow? The one over Dublin at 3pm last Saturday? No wonder they didn’t have money to buy another set of clothes.
Well, so there you have it. Well, I don’t have it. I still don’t know why I am not a fan.
You just have to love technology. But, then again, it did wipe out imaginative play as we know it. Childhood was so simple in the early sixties. We had no choice. My parents and their parents had even a simpler time. We didn’t have cell phones that interrupted our play with a text from your mother that simply read, “Dinner.” No, they had to stand out on the porch and yell for us. On the third yell, we would go home.
We had jump rope, a kick ball, and indoor board games. Can’t forget about pogo sticks. We weren’t indoors much. The neighborhood was filled with children playing, people hand washing their cars, and neighbors sitting outside on their porches in the hot summer evenings. Many didn’t have central air conditioning. We knew our neighbors. We also knew when Mr. Softie was coming around in his ice cream truck. We could hear the music. Because we were outside.
As the sixties moved closer to the seventies, it was still like that. We now had eight track stereos to occupy our time, but not much more. We would sit out on our front porches, but this time, waiting for boys to drive around and around the block, finally to stop and talk to all the neighborhood girls my age who hung out on my front porch. But, in and around 1975, that all changed. We started staying indoors more. Things were changing, for sure. And we can point our fingers to one new gadget.
Pong.
Yes, Pong. Not to be confused with Beer Pong. This was played without alcohol. Well, unless you really enjoyed drunk ping pong.
I know what you young people are thinking. Are you kidding me? But, yes, this was exciting stuff. I mean, we could turn on the tv and use this game console and play ping pong. There were no pictures or bombs going off or bullets flying. This was ping pong and nothing else. And we were thrilled.
Now, we did have pinballl machines. I was quite good at the one at The Pub, a local dive where we all congregated in college. My mom even bought a pin ball machine for our basement rec room. We were the coolest family on the block. But, Pong was different, because it was on tv.
In the end, Pong was fun, and it was just a matter of time before we were hearing names such as Sega and then Playstation.
I used to think that cleaning public restrooms would be one of the worst jobs ever. But, over the years, I have changed my mind. I do believe that being a school bus driver has to be one of the most taxing jobs of all.
Being a bus driver AND being stopped by a long coal train. Yikes
As an elementary school teacher, I get to hear bus stories every single day. And then I remember my own.
I didn’t really ride a school bus for the first three years of my education. I attended a stupid private school, Sacred Heart of Mary Academy. Sister Maria drove our little van/bus. She was one mean zebra. I didn’t open my mouth for three years on that bus, for fear that she would make me become a nun. And Dear God, I did not want to become a nun. I watched her as she drove that van/bus. She wore black hose under that nun outfit, and black shoes that looked like walking shoes, but a really ugly version. I had to sit up front with her because of my intense motion sickness, which she frequently told me, “was all in my head.” One day after she said that, I looked over at her, and threw up. I heard my mom relay the story to my dad that night from my eavesdropping hiding place.
“Vickie threw up on Sister Maria today…( I could hear my dad laugh)..She told Vickie it was all in her head…..Vickie should have told her that “Now it is in your lap.”
I thought that was funny. I decided to tell Sister Maria that the next day. It didn’t get that far.
“Vickie, you aren’t going to get sick anymore on my bus, are you?” She looked at me and I could swear I saw real flames flickering in her eyes. I was scared to death of her. So scared….
that I threw up on her again. Well, I missed her, but caught her black hose and sensible shoes. Rice krispies and milk to be exact. I remember.
Not good. Not good at all. She was going to beat the shit out of me. I just knew it. Or I was going to have to wear a nun outfit and carry rosary beads and whisper while I touched each one.
She was always pissed. She drove like she had road rage. I thought she was mad at Jesus for making her be a bus driver. Her rosary that hung around her waist made a noise each time she shifted gears. Which was all of the time. She ran a stop sign one day and we hit another car. I sat in the back of the van after that and got car sick because I could no longer watch the road.
I finally got to switch to public school, and that meant I would get to sit with my bff Ramaine on the bus every day. She and LeeAnn would walk up to my house and we would go stand in Dragovich’s driveway and wait for the school bus. We didn’t carry back packs back then, so we put our lunch boxes and books down on the driveway in a straight line, which meant we had a place in the bus line. I had a Beanie and Cecil lunchbox.
I was so excited to be able to ride on such a huge transportation machine. You could even fit three kids in one seat. Our bus driver was not that nice, however. I surely understand why. Kids are nuts.
When I was in junior high, I was kicked off of the bus for three days. My mom was furious with me. My friend, LeeAnn, who lived down the street, was kicked off with me, but I don’t think she was the main player. My bff Ramaine was kicked off as well, which would normally be the case, as we were always partners in crime. Even if we didn’t do something wrong, we would always be found at fault because we would still be laughing long after the particular episode. I think LeeAnn was, as Ramaine said, “Guilty by association.” Three in a seat and all. But, one of us had some styrofoam and it just happened to make an intense high pitched squeaking noise when placed upon the wet bus window. “Squeak squeak squeak.”
The bus driver yelled at us to stop.
Pause
Pause
“Squeak squeak squeak.” giggle giggle giggle.
And we were promptly thrown off of the bus. What the hell happened to getting three, maybe four warnings before punishment is inflicted?
I was pissed. I think the bus driver was mad at me anyways for puking on the bus so much. That’s another thing that I don’t envy about the life of a bus driver: cleaning up after motion sick urchins like myself. Every afternoon I would ask him to turn down the heat. He must have been cold natured, because the trip home was unbelieveably warm. He would just tell me to crack my window, which was too late for my churning stomach. And I would throw up. And I am serious that this happened at least twice a week. Ramaine would yell, “Vickie threw up! Raise your feet!” because you know, the vomit did flow like a river. Sorry. Since the bus driver wasn’t dressed like a nun, I finally realized that I indeed had motion sickness.
So, yeah, Ramaine, LeeAnn and I were kicked off of the bus. I am sure that drove the bus driver nuts. I behaved myself the best I could. Well, no I didn’t. We did weird stuff on the bus. We made up a poem, that started off quiet and then kept getting louder each time. I will insert my name into the saying, but we would take turn putting each of our names in it:
“Vickie Vickie two by four, couldn’t get past the bathroom door. So, she went on the floor. Licked it up and asked for more…..(louder) Vickie Vickie two by four, couldn’t get past the bathroom door. So, she went on the floor. Licked it up and asked for more…(louder)”
How weird we were. We would keep doing it until the bus driver yelled at us to stop. I can’t even imagine what he went through with us. Sure, I teach elementary school and I have the kids all day. But, they become different creatures once they climb up the stairs to the bus. I know, I’ve been on field trips with them. And I know, I’ve been one of those demented kids.
And my God, the songs we sang. This alone should have driven a bus driver to drink. We sang whatever we learned in school. And a song we made up about the Salvation Army. Some of the lovely tunes we sang over and over and over again were hits such as “Waltzing Matilda,” “Jump Down Turn Around, Pick a Bale of Cotton,” “Playmate, come out and play with me…..,” and my personal favorite, “I had a Little Driedel..” Riding the bus was so much fun.
High school kids still rode the bus when I was in school during the mid seventies. Only kids who left to go to an after school job were allowed to drive. We mellowed as we got older, but I did hear that our old bus driver didn’t fare so well. Now, I don’t know if this was a rumor or not, but we heard that old Jack either reached retirement and decided to pull a prank on the kids, or that old Jack lost his mind and went on one last bus run. I had just graduated when I heard he did this.
Jack approached each of his bus stops. He stopped, opened the door, and just before the first kid in line placed his foot on the first step, old Jack would laugh a crazy laugh, quickly close the door and would go to his next stop where he did the same thing. He did it with all of his stops.
Never to be seen again.
Fast forward many years, circa 1992. I now have two children. Adam is in school and he was supposed to get off of the bus twenty minutes ago. He is only six years old. The bus is extremely late. I call the school and then the bus garage. Where the hell is he? I immediately think that he was kidnapped by a crazed bus driver. I know how they can snap.
Adam finally got off of the bus forty five minutes late. He was laughing as he ran down the driveway.
“Mommy, mommy, the bus driver got lost.” Apparently there were only two students left on the bus and the substitute bus driver got lost somehow. But, that’s what my little red-headed sweet cherub told me. I then received a phone call to come into school the next day.
Apparently, my son decided to screw with the substitute bus driver, telling him to turn right here and turn left there. He had him on roads that really weren’t roads. Adam was having a blast. His friend, Tyler, however, was crying. The bus driver kept following Adam’s directions. A six year old kid. Who the hell listens to a six year old kid? They were going to kick him off of the bus for a week because of the prank, until his teacher spoke up and said that it was the substitute’s fault for not following the route left by the normal bus driver. Sheesh.
Well, Adam’s bus adventures were only beginning. He was kicked off the bus for fighting with Tyler, the kid who got lost with Adam. Adam apparently punched Tyler in the face. I was horrified.
“Adam, did you punch Tyler in the face?” Adam nodded.
“I had to Mom, it was the only way to get him to stop strangling me.” I guess they started fighting and Adam ended up lying in the aisle. Tyler was straddling him, strangling him.
The final time Adam got kicked off of the bus was for fighting over an open window. Adam wanted it closed. The kid in front of him wanted it opened. So, after arguing, and pushing back and forth, the bus driver threw them both off of the bus for two weeks. Two weeks? Are you kidding me? That bus driver was really fed up.
So, I came up with a plan. I called the parents of the other kid involved and asked if they wanted to car pool. I would drive the boys one week and they could drive the next. That would teach them to fight each other. The parents loved the idea and so we took turns driving our bus heathens to school each day.
In the end, I really feel for bus drivers. They have these kids lives in their hands, yet get dealt a terrible hand with misbehaved kids. It’s always been like that and will continue to be like that until duct tape and rope are applied to the mix.
You know the saying, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder?” Well, it’s true, especially when you are eighteen and quite stupid. My boyfriend, Rick, was a junior at Michigan State University, and I was a measly freshman, far away at Fairmont State College in Fairmont West By God Virginia. I missed him.
We started dating the summer after he graduated from high school. He was two years ahead of me, and my first real boyfriend. It sucked that he decided to traipse off to Michigan State for an education. I thought he was doing ok as a gas station attendant with a part time job during high school. But, alas, away he went. So, he was way over there, and I was down here.
Now, when I graduated from high school, my mom drove me up from Weirton to East Lansing as part of my graduation present. My bff, Ramaine, and her mom, Dora, went with us. How nice was that? I got to see East Lansing for the very first time. It was a beautiful campus. I also got a feel for the road since I drove part of the way. The trip from Weirton to Michigan State was about 340 miles. It takes about five hours and forty-five minutes to get there. And this part will be important very soon.
After I graduated from high school and was given a car to use while I was in college on the weekends, I began hatching a plan. Of course, it was a stupid plan, because I was the one hatching it. I missed my Rick and wanted to see him. Sure, I saw him over Christmas, but we had no place to be by ourselves. My house was a zoo. So, I decided to drive from Fairmont State to East Lansing, Michigan in February. Like, when it was all wintry and snowing. Yeah, that’s what I will do, I thought. I will drive up there for Valentine’s Day. After all, I really missed him.
Well, I couldn’t tell my parents. My mom would have taken away my gas card and maybe even the car if she knew I was going to drive seven hours and twenty minutes all by my lonely. It was nice having a gas card. And no, I wasn’t spoiled. I drove a rusty little Toyota that I creatively named Rusty and talked to the little rust bucket like he was a real person.
So, we made plans for our big Valentine’s Day weekend. A weekend just the two of us…in his dorm room. I was eighteen and was ready to travel by myself. So, I packed my bag, filled my car up with gas, and Rusty and I set off on a great adventure. I called my mom first and told her I was sick and I was just going to stay in Fairmont for the weekend. I was a liar, so this came easily. My roommate, Paula, was going to cover for me if my mom called my dorm room while I was gone. Cell phones were not invented yet. Which would have been nice.
I woke up quite early and headed out of town. I was hoping to arrive at Rick’s door around 3pm. I drove a few hours and was not nervous for the solo drive. I was excited. Sure, it was the middle of February and they were calling for 100 inches of snow, but I was in love, dammit, and would trudge through any sucky weather event to get to my Spartan. I was also a loon for what I was about to do.
I was near Youngstown I believe and stopped to go to the bathroom. It wasn’t lunch time yet and I was ok with gas, but I knew that my bladder would need to visit a restroom every two hours at least. While I was getting a pop, a guy approached me.
“Excuse me, but are you by any chance going to Detroit or somewhere near there?”
I saw the guy get out of a car in front of me when I pulled in. He must be trying to hitchhike to Detroit. Like an idiot, I replied.
“I’m heading to East Lansing to see my boyfriend.” That’s what naive eighteen year old losers say.
“Can I have a ride?”
“Sure.”
And I didn’t think anything of it. Except that he did look a little like Ted Bundy. He could have been Ted Bundy. He could have been Jeffrey Dahmer. John Wayne Gacy. The Youngstown Strangler. The Freeway Fondler. The Highway Hacker. The Toyota Torturer….Uh Oh.
Loser potential murder victim
We traveled about an hour and I don’t for the life of me remember our conversation. He sat beside me, wearing a dark grey wool jacket. I didn’t ask why he was going to Detroit. I didn’t ask him why the hell he didn’t have a car. Maybe killer hitchhikers don’t use their own cars because, um they are killer hitchhikers. It finally dawned on me that I may have just made a really terrible mistake. So, the guy started to creep me out. Maybe because he sat with his hands in his pockets and his coat collar up around the back of his neck. Why the hell do you have your hands in your pockets, Ted? We are in a warm car.
Well, because he had handcuffs in there, of course.
My imagination started doing a number on me, and I realized that I had to get this guy out of my car. Now, in all honesty, I don’t think he did adamn thing wrong. He just wanted a ride to Detroit and didn’t have a car. But, I had and still have a wild imagination and it went wild like a jungle monkey on crack. (???)
Plus, I was hungry. I think he was in my car for about two hours and I saw a diner that was next door to a gas station. This is where I would lose him.
“I’m going to get something to eat. I’m pretty hungry.”
He just looked at me. And then I started really getting creeped out. He didn’t say “ok” or “Good, me too” or anything. So, that only meant one thing.
He was going to kill me after I ate my cheeseburger with ketchup, large fries and a Coke.
We went into the diner and the weirdest thing happened. He went off and sat in a booth all by himself. That’s exactly what a highway killer in a roadside diner would do. He wouldn’t sit with his victim. Right? So, there he sat, looking at me while I ate. Waiting for me to finish…my last meal. I took a drink of my Coke and realized something.
My parents thought I was sick, lying in my dorm room in Fairmont, West Virginia. I could see the headline now.
West Virginia Coed Found Dead Behind Diner With French Fries and a Coke
I could see my mother’s face right now, wagging her finger at me. “Don’t ever give rides to strangers, Vickie.”
I had to lose him.
I ate half of my food and then looked at my watch. I knew he was looking at me, waiting to either continue our journey, or to kill me. So, I put my actress hat on and went to work. I got up and went to the pay phone and put a couple coins in it, and dialed a make believe number. Ted Bundy aka The Youngstown Strangler was far enough away to not hear my make believe conversation. I hung up the phone and walked over to him.
“I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to drive you as far as East Lansing……..my boyfriend just broke up with me…………….I’m going back home.” And I started crying. I was crying because I was scared. And mainly because I was stupid. But, really because I was a fantastic lying actress. I went back to my table and had the nerve to finish eating. The guy got up and started asking other customers for a ride. He left with two young guys.
The funny part about all of this is that I could not have been on that phone for more than a minute. How the hell does your boyfriend break up with you that quickly? And would you really hang up so soon?
“Hi, Rick. I’m in Youngstown. I will be there in about 4 hours.”
“Go home. I am breaking up with you.”
“Ok. Bye.”
That guy had to know I was lying. Of course, it was months later when that finally dawned on me. But, I’m not done yet. I wish it ended there at the diner, but it doesn’t.
I stopped in Toledo to get gas. And of course, I had to pee. I went into the bathroom and when I came out, guess who I ran into?
That guy! Ok, just kidding. I scared myself while I was in the bathroom, thinking the guy would have been traveling the same route. What if he was at this same gas station? I didn’t want to come out of the bathroom.
Well, I finally made it to East Lansing and had a wonderful Valentine’s Day weekend with my boyfriend. I left Michigan a little later in the morning than I wanted to. I wanted to get back to Fairmont before dark. That wasn’t going to happen.
The drive back wasn’t so bad. It was snowing, but snow was much more preferable than traveling with a serial killer. Really, it was.
I hit the Pennsylvania line and the snow was coming down a bit harder. It was about 10pm when I saw a guy on the side of Interstate 79, at the exit ramp, hitchhiking.
I picked him up.
I really did.
He was about my age. He was drunk. His friends left a party without him. He was trying to get back to Waynesburg College. He was funny and talkative and wanted me to come back to Waynesburg soon so he could buy me a few drinks.
I even got off of the exit and drove him the mile to the campus.
After I got back to my dorm room, I realized that I was lucky that I didn’t get killed. Twice.
And years later, I thought I would finally fess up and tell my mom that I drove to Michigan to see Rick. I didn’t tell her about picking up not one, but two hitchhikers, but I did tell her about the drive.
“Vickie, I knew about that. I was wondering how long it would take you to tell me.”
“How did you know? Did someone tell you?” How the hell did she find out? I didn’t even tell my sister or brother for a long time.
“Are you that stupid?” Well, uh, yeah, I picked up two hitchhikers, Mom. What do you think?
“You used your gas card. Do you think your fairy godmother paid for your gasoline?”
It didn’t even dawn on me about using my gas card along the way from Fairmont to Michigan.
So, yeah, my fairy godmother.
I do think I may have had an angel with me on that trip, though.
Because what I did was stupid and irresponsible. (My kids read these posts. I have to write this.)
We all do stupid things. It’s just that mine are more pronounced because I share them. And, well, because mine are extra stupid. But, none of my little shenanigans can compare with what I did when I was in junior high. Oh, hell, I was probably in high school.
No, it wasn’t the time I heard a commercial about how peanut butter takes gum out of your hair and I promptly took gum out of my mouth and put it smack dab in the middle of my long hair. That was stupid, for sure.
No, it wasn’t the time I untied the meanest dog in the neighborhood because I felt sorry for him being on a short leash, sitting in the dust by his pathetic doghouse, and he promptly wrecked havoc on the little chldren playing in the street. Mad Max was on the loose. He bit countless children. Oops, my bad.
And no, it wasn’t the time when I wore fishnet hose with saddle shoes. I still cringe at that thought. Who the hell told me that that looked good? Because once I got to school, I sort of noticed that my style was in question.
No, it was the time I decided that I wanted to wear contact lenses. Well, I didn’t really want to wear them, like for eyesight. I wanted to put one in my eye just to see what it felt like.
There was a problem with that, as in the fact that I didn’t need glasses. My eyes were a perfect 20/20. I had no idea what the hell that meant, but obviously it was a gauge for the clear bright eyes and the blind as a bat people, like my younger sister. She wore coke bottle glasses. She also had a lazy eye. She was screwed. We all could tell when she was getting tired, because that one eye would start drifting over to the middle. Well, it drifted that way anyways. Hey, little sister, you’re veering to the left.
So, I didn’t need glasses. But, I wanted them. I thought people looked cool in glasses. I mean, Marilyn Monroe wore them.
I didn’t know why kids got made fun of for wearing them. Kids with braces were called “Brace Face” and kids with glasses were called, “Four Eyes.” I always thought that was mean. There were kids who would come to school, wearing their cat eye glasses, only to put them away in their case and squint their eyes at the board all damn day. Hell, I thought that looked stupid. “Four Eyes” sounded so much better than “Stupid Squinty Head.”
So, yeah, I used to want to wear glasses. I thought they looked neat.But, I wasn’t a fan of the cat eye glasses that my sister had. Why the hell would anyone want to wear cat eye glasses?
But, in 2012, I have a pair of cat eye reading glasses. I knew one day I would be wearing glasses sooner or later. I have about five pairs of glasses lying around my house. And the main pair is worn like a headband when they aren’t down on my nose.
So, this was the early seventies. Contact lenses were fairly new. I didn’t know anyone who had them during this time period. They had just come out. I knew that my sister would need them. Once her lazy eye stopped drifting over left of center. But, I was intrigued by contact lenses. I didn’t have the luxury of the internet to google information about them. But, I did listen to the radio. And that’s where I heard commericals about them.
Unfortunately, it was the same damn radio that told me to put gum in my hair. My friends and I would sit out on my front porch during the summer evenings and chat and listen to my portable radio. They used to have all kinds of radio spots. They’d have Hints from Heloise type help suggestions. And being curious, I listened to them all. The new ones about contact lenses really interested me. I wanted to try to put one on my eyeball.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. First of all, remember, I didn’t need glasses. Second of all, I didn’t know a soul who had those new fangled contact lenses. I would just have to improvise.
Oh, and improvise I did. What the hell was I thinking?
So, you know how little bags of candy are sold in stores? I am descriptive challenged, but I will try my best. My mom always had a bag of those God awful round pink chalky candies that smelled like Pepto Bismol. I think they were called Canada Mints. Ok, so, up at the top of the packages of many candy bags there is a punched hole of sorts that is used to hang the bags in a line. And sometimes that hole still has the “chad” attached.
Well, I found my contact lens. I saw that bag of my mom’s precious Canada Mints sitting on the coffee table, and the little round plastic circle was still hanging where it was supposed to be punched out. Again, like a hanging candy chad, but you know, circular.
So, I heard the commerical on the radio. I don’t remember who was with me, but I went inside, took the little plastic circle thingy and went into the bathroom. I turned on the light, stood in front of the mirror, and put the damn thing on my eyeball.
What the hell was I thinking?
Uh oh.
Not good.
Not good at all.
The damn thing felt like it was an inch thick. I couldn’t see anything out of my eye. It was immediately hurting. My eye started watering and that’s when I started the dance.
The “Oh shit, get this damn thing out of my eye” dance. I had no idea how the hell to get this little son of a bitch off of my eyeball. I really screwed up this time. I was going to lose my eye, I was sure. I would have to wear a patch and be called “Patch” for the rest of my life. I would have to learn to say, “Arrrgh.” I was going to be a God damn pirate. Notice how my cursing has increased dramatically. Now was the time to unleash all the curse words I had ever heard. One I did not want to yell, but did when I could not get the little plastic circle thingy out of my pretty blue grey eye.
“MOM!!!”
Yeah, it was that serious.
Well, my mom finally got the thing off of my eyeball after yelling at me to quit dancing around. Now that I think about it, I sort of looked like Stewart on Mad Tv. I flailed around just like him.
I ended up scratching my eye. It hurt like hell. In the end, I hoped that that would be the most stupid thing that I would ever attempt. I wasn’t going to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel like I had planned for my adulthood. I would no longer plan on hitchhiking just to say that I did it. And I wasn’t going to untie Mad Max, killer German shephard any more. I was done doing stupid stuff.
Oh, young Vickie, you didn’t learn your lesson, did you?
When I was a child, I was not a fan of Daylight Savings Time. It was not fair that I lost an hour. I didn’t care if they gave it back to me in the fall, it just pissed me off. The only thing that was good about it was the thought of missing church. I never wanted to go to church, so I was happy that we had to do the clock changing on a Saturday night. My mom was suspicious after the second year in a row that we somehow slept in.
“Vickie, wake up. Did you move the clocks back?……………..Nooooo, back…………..I changed them before I went to bed. I remember moving them forward an hour……..And now I am asking you, did you change the clocks?” I thought long and hard to come up with a perfect answer.
“No, I did NOT change the clocks.”
It’s all about semantics. I didn’t lie. I did not change the clocks. They were still the ugly clocks we have always used. I did, however, change the times on the same clocks. And she didn’t ask that, now did she?
Well, I grew up to hate Daylight Savings Time…with a passion. I wrote two posts about the subject. Hello, Circadian Dysrhythmia, that I wrote November 2010, when it was time to fall back, and then Spring Forward into the River, which I wrote last spring. So, I make it a point to let everyone know how much I hate Daylight Savings Time.
Now, I realize that Benjy has been gone for a long time now, but he invented Daylight Savings Time to save on candle wear and tear. Ok, I can understand. But, I can’t understand it in the year 2012. I am tired, mean, sad, shaky, dizzy-blondish, and dragging for two weeks. Yeah, two. It takes me awhile.
My alarm clock on my nightstand decided to spring forward…last week….on a Wednesday. Yeah. I woke up, took my shower, went downstairs and sat down in front of my computer, only to see that it was 5:30. My clock upstairs read 6:30. Oh, how I cursed. Nice. And on a Wednesday. It did it to me in the fall. I was an hour late then. I looked pretty that day.
So, head over to my two posts that I wrote on the subject and you will see that I just go on and on about the same thing.
Maybe some day someone will listen and change it back for me.
Image via Wikipedia
Because there is nothing worse than a cranky, sleep deprived elementary school teacher. Well, unless you are one of her students.
I was watching an old episode of Friends, where Joey and Chandler pee on Monica’s foot after she was stung by a jelly fish. I was wondering who in the hell thought of that first. I mean, how does that even come about? I was stung by a jelly fish when I was in my twenties, and the lifeguard told me to put some wet sand on it. He never offered to pee on my leg. I would have enjoyed being able to tell that story.
So, I started thinking about old wive’s tales, homemade remedies, and what the experts have to say about them. Maybe you may even learn a thing or two the next time some guy wants to pee on your jellyfish sting.
A Vacation Ruiner
1. Pee on a jellyfish sting- Stop right there! Urine has never been proven to help in jellyfish stings. So, that drunk kid at spring break who told you he is in medical school and that he should pee on your sting was a big, fat liar. And perhaps an exhibitionist. In fact, vinegar is the best first treatment for a jellyfish sting. The people in Australia are way ahead of the world. Their beaches are lined with vinegar stands. Other treatments that also work are rubbing alcohol, unseasoned meat tenderizer, baking soda, household ammonia, and lemon or lime juice. So, the next time you head to a beach, take some vinegar with you. If you don’t get stung, you can always make a salad.
2. Butter on a Burn- This is a remedy that my mom used on us all of the time. Any time we had a burn, she would reach for the butter. Which I have a real problem with now, because the loon never put the butter in the refrigerator. She left the butter out on the stove, hiding under a clear glass butter dome. So, not only was she putting butter on my burned hand, she was putting potentially rancid, yucky, bacteria laced butter on my burn. Oh sure, I know many of you have eaten counter butter and you are still alive and Grandma is now 105 and has never been sick a day in her life and has kept butter out on her counter, but that’s not what I am supposed to be talking about anywho.
photo via wikipedia
I am sure that the thinking years ago is that butter may act like a salve and help soothe the burning. But, butter on a burn can actually trap heat. And that is a no-no. Thanks, Mom. I have read that if you have to use something, honey may be of some interest. But, don’t hold me to it.
3. Sore throats- Sore throats suck. You have to swallow, and the thought of the impending pain is just sad, especially when a child is involved and is looking at you for help. I was always told to gargle with warm salt water when you had a sore throat. My ex-husband swore by it. In the past year, my bff turned me to apple cider vinegar. Ahhh, I love it. Does it work? Yes, it does. I read though that you should not give it to a child younger than two years of age.
Damn sore throat. I can’t wear my pearls.
For gargling: You’ll need 1 teaspoon salt, 1/2 cup cider vinegar, and 1 cup warm water. Dissolve the salt in the vinegar, then mix in the water. Gargle every 15 minutes as necessary. Works for me.
4. Hydrogen Peroxide and Rubbing Alcohol- My mom is such a liar. When I would wreck my bicycle, my mom would basically pour peroxide into my wound. “Watch, Vickie. The bubbling means it is killing the germs.” Wrong, child killer. Now, this is where the experts disagree. Some say that you should put alcohol on the wound to use as an antiseptic. Others yell, “Oh, hell no!”
Some dermatologists believe that the bubbling from the chemical reaction that occurs when peroxide comes in contact with the skin isn’t only cleaning the wound, it’s also killing healthy cells. When there’s a cut, they believe you should not use iodine, peroxide, or alcohol. Yikes. So, that’s why my knees looked like hell. And guess why it stings when alcohol is applied to a cut? Well, because it’s wiping out tissue that is healthy. I did not know this. I watched my son’s cat last Christmas and the damn thing bit me. I used peroxide, thinking that damn bubbling would be killing the germs and bacteria. All hell broke loose and I ended up taking antibiotics and it really got nasty. Cat bites can be dangerous. Stupid cat.
5. Well hell, when in doubt, just use some whiskey- I used to work as a dental assistant in a previous life, and you just wouldn’t believe the people that would come in with a toothache, touting the virtues of whiskey applied on their gums or hurting tooth. They swore that it worked. I was hoping that someone drove them to their appointment, as I swear some of them were applying the whiskey every hour or so. Now, my grandmother had a recipe for rheumatism that called for whiskey. You go, Grandma! I still have her recipe, written in that shaky, chicken scratch penmanship that only grandmothers could create. It reminds me of Granny on The Beverly Hillbillies.
How about a hot toddy? Feeling sick and want to go to sleep? Some people swear by drinking a hot toddy before bed time. Here’s one recipe.
1/4 cup whiskey, 1/4 cup honey, 1/4 cup of fresh lemon juice. Microwave until it is hot, sip it and then go to bed.
My mom gave us a little bit of whiskey when we had a cough. I’m thinking she wanted to knock us out so we wouldn’t be up all night, which would mean she would be up all night. She also told me that she used a little whiskey on her finger and would rub it on our gums when we were teething. I’m surprised none of the Mendenhall kids are attending AA meetings.
Momma, whiskey is good
6 Aspirin on a tooth - Not tonight. I have a toothache. I imagine a very lazy person decided to just put an aspirin on his tooth or right on his gum to ease the pain. So, does that mean if you have a headache, you should just put a pill on your head? Stupid. Aspirin is very acidic and it can leave a little round imprint on your gum if you leave it on there long enough. This just makes no sense and I can not find any research that says otherwise.
7. Kerosene for head lice- Really? Dear God.- I can’t even imagine, but I bet I know how this started. It probably went something like this:
“Ethel! Ralph has done come home with lice. We need to kill them little buggers…(pause, pause, thinking, thinking…) I know! Let’s kill them with kerosene. It will drown them.”
And that’s how another old wive’s tale started. There were some kids when I was little that had to sit with kerosene on their head while their mother combed out the nits. Here’s my thought. When I was little, I was a shuffling, sock wearing, static electric shocker kid. What if I came shuffling through while ole Ralphie was getting a kerosene shampoo. If I shocked him, would his head ignite? Just wondering. But, back in the sixties, that’s the remedy was used. In 2012, I just read where mayonaisse is a solution to head lice. Wouldn’t that just be like feeding them? There would be big lice sitting on your head.
Ew
8. Rubbing a potato on a wart- Ok, wart people, I have read that this works from numerous articles. When you rub a potato to the wart, the wart will turn black and fall off. The chemical compound in the potato is supposed to fight the wart. But, slice the potato and rub the wart. Some people peel the skin off of the potato, and tape the skin to the wart every night at bedtime. I’m not warty, but I would try it.
9.Splinter remover- Elmer’s glue..Say what? Dear God, this would have solved so much anguish. My daughter would lose her mind every time she had a splinter. Why didn’t someone tell me this fifteen years ago. Supposedly, you just apply Elmer’s Glue on top of the splinter. Let it dry. When you peel the glue off, the splinter is supposed to come off with it. Ta-da! Wow, I almost want to get a splinter to see if this really works.
10. Oatmeal for Arthritis-Quaker Oats for fast pain relief. I guess you can eat breakfast and then put the leftovers on your hands. “Mix 2 cups of Quaker Oats and 1 cup of water in a bowl and warm in the microwave for 1 minute, cool slightly, and apply the mixture to your hands for soothing relief from arthritis pain.” Well, people take oatmeal baths to help with poison ivy, so I mean, who knows? This is supposed to work.
11. Eye puffiness- Preparation H. Let’s get to the bottom of this one… (hahahaha) I just read about ten articles about this, and it doesn’t work. I really think someone reached for the wrong ointment once upon a time and next thing you know, someone said it worked for them. But, the fact of the matter is, it isn’t supposed to work at all. But, hey, if your eyes start bulging out a bit, it may be something you should try. Just sayin.
12. Vicks Vapor Rub- Ahhhh. I love my Vicks Vapor Rub. Imagine my happiness when I read that if you have a bad cold with congestion, and you can not sleep, rub Vicks Vapor Rub on your feet, don some socks, and go to bed. You will wake up after a great night sleep, feeling better. I personally know people who have tried this and they have said that it works. Why wouldn’t it? Vicks Vapor Rub rocks!
photo via pinterest
So, there you have it. In the end, Mother knows best. Until years later, when you find out the fruitcake almost killed you. Old wive’s tales will always be around. People will always swear that something ridiculous worked magic for them. And if it works, who are we to judge?
Well, except for the smelly kerosene boy. I’d have to slap his mom.
Technology has come a long way since the sixties. We now have personal computers, cell phones, and video games. Our cell phones are also personal computers and video games. Our personal computers are also movie theaters and music venues. We have many choices. Back in the sixties, we had a tape recorder.
Oh, my, what a newly purchased tape recorder can do for a kid. A tape recorder, also known as a cassette tape, or compact cassette, was originally designed for dictation. Secretaries all over the world were now able to just push a button instead of sitting across from their boss, steno book and pencil in hand, furiously writing in shorthand. Life was good.
photos via wikipedia
Philips invented the compact audio cassette in 1962, and the first compact cassette, creatively called Compact Cassette, was available for purchase. By 1966, over 250,000 recorders had been sold in the U.S. alone. And guess who had one of them? That’s right, the Mendenhall family.
Now, you have to understand why I was salivating. We really didn’t have much in the way of new fangled technology of any kind. Pong wasn’t even invented yet for use on our television sets. I don’t know if we even shortened the word television to T.V. yet. Our telephones had cords on them, attached to the wall. Oh, yes, I was salivating.
I quickly learned how to use our new Compact Cassette. I believe I was about ten years old at the time. Fourth grade was a memorable time, and now, Dear God, I had a tape recorder.
The excitement was just too much. My mom told me that I could play with it the next day, so I don’t think she was too happy that I woke her up so early.
“Mom, can I use the cassette recorder?”
“Vickie, it’s 6:00 in the morning. Go back to bed.”
Shit.
“Mom, can I use the cassette recorder now?”
“Vickie, stop it. It’s only 6:30.”
Stupid mom. Birds were up. I heard them chirping. Mom’s were supposed to be up early.
“Hey, Dad, can I use the cassette recorder? It’s 7:00.”
“Sure.”
Good Dad. Bad Mom.I was already dressed and ready. I don’t know why I had shoes on, but maybe I would run outside and let the world know that I recorded a message. I ran into the kitchen.There was a little plastic tri-pod that the microphone would sit on. I positioned it close to me. I remember that I was a nervous wreck I put the cassette in the player, and hit the record button. My first recording was thought provoking and highly imaginative.
“Testing. Testing, 1-2-3″…..giggle giggle giggle. Voila!! History was made.
I couldn’t wait to replay it and listen to my voice. I had never heard myself talk before. I looked at my mom, who was fumbling with the coffee pot and mumbling something about killing me.
“That doesn’t sound like me.” I sounded like a little girl. I mean, I was a little girl. I guess I wanted to sound, well, like a newscaster.
“That sounds exactly like you.” my mom replied. She lit her first of 88 cigarettes for the day. She sat in her housecoat at the table, waiting for her coffee to percolate. She wanted to try recording her voice. That pissed me off. I mean, shouldn’t she be in bed?
So, the rest of the Mendenhall family had to go and use MY cassette tape recorder for most of the morning. I went into the living room and watched Casper the Friendly Ghost on the television set. Actually, I have no idea what the hell I watched, but I did watch a cartoon, because our cartoons rocked back then.
Well, the unimaginative family members had their morning of fun with the newly purchased Cassette Recorder and went about their Saturday morning.business. I sat quietly, like a buzzard waiting for a groundhog to get hit by a car. I had plans for this tape recorder.
Oh, the fun I had. My first item on my tape recording agenda was to tape record sounds. I turned on the recorder and rang the doorbell. I slammed a door. I followed the dog around, trying to get him to bark. He wanted no part of me. I called my bff Ramaine and asked her to call me back so I could tape the telephone ringing. I taped anything and everything that I could make a sound out of . What a great weekend.
I had my bff, Ramaine, walk up later in the day. She was even more creative than I was. She would think of something we can use with the newly purchased Cassette Recorder. I do not remember how this was decided, but the next thing you know, we were singing the definition of ‘lima bean” into the tape recorder. I am sure no one else has ever done that before. Ever. We were highly imaginative. We then opened the dictionary again, pointing to a word and singing that definition, too. We laughed and laughed at our choice of leisure activity. She could sing. I, on the other hand, sounded like a drugged up back-up singer for Janis Joplin. Fun time with my bff.
Saturday evening was spy time. I put the recorder beside the couch. I realized that one side of the tape was only 30 minutes long, so I had to think of a way to push the button so my parents wouldn’t see me doing it. I was going to tape record things my parents talk about after we went to bed. What fun!
I waited until my mom went into the kitchen and talked loudly while playing with my dog so my dad wouldn’t hear me press the button. Success! I went to bed and could hardly sleep. I was so excited to spy on my parents. I began thinking bigger, like taping my teacher while we were at lunch. That may have been tricky, as we didn’t have back packs back then.
I woke up on Sunday morning, and ran to the living room. It was 6:00, so I was sure that the fam was still asleep. I re-wound the tape and waited, impatiently. This was going to be so much fun. I loved spying. I hit the play button. It was my mom’s voice. This was fantastic!!
“Vickie, the next time you try to tape record someone without letting them know about it, it would be a good idea to sneak back in the room and turn it off before it makes a loud noise turning itself off……You will have plenty of time trying to figure out how to do this while you are in your room. You are grounded.”
Shit.
Well, all in all, I had a blast with our newly purchased Cassette Recorder. I interviewed neighbors and friends, taped the sounds of grass cutting, and the Mr. Softie truck making his rounds through the neighborhood. I taped my sister having a temper tantrum. Life was good.
It’s the little things in life that make such a big memory.
And that’s one for the record books…or in this case, tape recorder.
The old saying, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, certainly holds true when it comes to imitating others. And you know that each one of us is guilty of imitating someone at least once in our lifetime. Or once a day, depending on what colorful people are nearby. Rather it be a friend, a boss, or a celebrity, we have somehow managed to mangle their voice, posture, or gestures for the amusement of others. It is just who we are. Some of us are pretty good at it. Some of us should probably not do it again. I am in the first group. Right up there with Rich Little. Really.
Rich Little, nicknamed “The Man of a Thousand Voices,” was and still is one of the greatest impersonators ever. He could imitate celebrities, such as Johnny Carson, Jack Benny, and my favorite, Richard Nixon. He had a vast repertoire of voices, and I was in awe of his talent. I was just a kid, but I tried it out myself. I stood in front of the mirror, trying to get the look and the phrase just so. I remember sitting in front of the tv, watching a Jerry Lewis movie, with my brother. The next thing you know, David IS Jerry Lewis. We were little and goofy, but it was one of the first times I remember imitating someone. I do remember David and I trying our best, “Whack-a-doo, Whack-a-doo” in our best Jerry Lewis voice. We sucked. But, boy did we have fun. You have no idea how excited I was to find this clip. This brings back such great memories of antics with my brother. Weird, I know, but that’s how we rolled.
Now, you have to understand that as a child of the sixties, we only had three television stations, so we had limited viewing options. We could imitate Lawrence Welk, Ed Sullivan, or Barney Fife on the Andy Griffith Show, and in 1965, we finally got Gomer Pyle. Everyone was imitating Gomer.
“Shazam…….Shame Shame Shame……….Surprise Surprise Surprise…………Golly.” Soon everyone was doing the Gomer. Then came Tarzan and Jane movies and everyone tried their best Tarzan yell. Carol Burnett even imitated it often on her own show.
Then came Johnny Carson, who was a wonderful impersonator. This clip of him impersonating President Ronald Reagan was hysterical.
I don’t get the impersonators of today. I guess there is a difference between an impersonator and an impressionist. I don’t want to go to a whole show with someone who is pretending to be Marilyn Monroe or Abe Lincoln. I am not talking about that. I’m talking about people who are on stage and can do many impressions. I did watch a great Michael Jackson impersonator at a resort in Cancun, Mexico, last summer. He was awesome, but it was free, part of the wonderful all-inclusive that I came to love. But, I wouldn’t have gone if I had to pay for it.
Every summer the little town that I just moved away from had a festival and hired an Elvis impersonator as one of the stage events. You would have thought that Elvis never left the building and was alive and well, gyrating to his sounds to the many swooning white haired women in the audience. I sat on my front porch, chuckling at the madness. Um, that is not really Elvis on stage, people.
Now, I do think I that Tina Fey did an awesome job impersonating Sarah Palin. Many of the Saturday Night Live actors throughout the years have mocked famous people. Chevy Chase, for example, did a great job impersonating former President Gerald Ford. Ford was a clumsy man, and Chevy Chase did a great job tripping and falling. Dana Carvey and Darrel Hammond were wonderful with their impressions of George Bush 1 and 2.
So, impressions are all around us. There is even one who impersonated a cat.
Penn or Teller doing Mr. Boots, the Cat- I get the two guys mixed up. The shorter, quiet guy was on an episode of Dharma and Greg years ago. This has got to be one of the funniest espisodes that I have seen on tv. I couldn’t quit laughing the first time I watched it.Great impersonation of a non human.
Ok, so that takes care of the famous impersonators. Normal, every day people think that they are great impersonators too. My son, for example, can do an awesome Kermit the Frog. He used to be able to do Mrs. Doubtfire when he was younger. He also tried to do Bill Clinton, but that ended up sounding like Mrs. Doubtfire.My ex thought he could do Tom Brokaw, but he just sucked. That’s why the clip of Dana Carvey doing Tom Brokaw when Gerald Ford dies is so hysterical.
But, throughout my life, I have impersonated many a celebrity. I entertained my sorority sisters and patrons at bars with my uncany impressionistic talent. Sure, maybe there were a few times that I didn’t actually remember doing an impression. Case in point. I performed my routine in Ocean City Maryland in 1977 and wasn’t even aware of it. I was lying on the beach, minding my own spring break business, when friends that we met up with the night before, laid their towels out next to ours.
“Vickie, you were so funny last night. Sing “Where the Boys Are again.”
Um, what? Say what? Looks like Little Vickie had more than three beers the night before.I guess I did all of my impressions with a high success rate. It helps when there are drunks in the house.
Here are some of the people that I thought I could imitate.
1. Rhoda Penmark-Ok, most of you have no idea who I am talking about. Rhoda Penmark was a character in the movie, “The Bad Seed.” I loved that role and watched the movie to the point where I knew all of her lines. She was an evil little girl, and I thought I had her down pat. Problem was, only my family and closest friends really knew who she was. It was a great movie.
”You better give me those shoes. They’re mine! Give them back to me!” Oh, yeah, I sound just like her.
2.. Paul Lynde- Ah, Paul Lynde, my favorite impression person. I loved Paul Lynde. He was funny as Uncle Arthur on Bewitched and hysterical on Hollywood Squares.He had an unforgetable voice. And his laugh was ornery. I sounded just like him. Of course, I only had one line I could repeat like him.
“You think it’s easy?” But, it was his laugh that I could do. I was good. Really.
3. Connie Francis’s “Where the Boys Are”- I can’t sing for the life of me, but I can belt out “Where the Boys Are,” and I guarantee I sounded just like her. Oh, I would oblige anyone anytime the first line of her hit song. I was Connie. The song starts at around 1:32.
“Where the boys are, someone waits for me.” Ta-da.
4. The Swedish Chef-I love the Muppets and could do a great Swedish Chef imitation when my kids were little. I entertained them so.
5.. The Mayor of Munchkinland-Ok, I’m not kidding now. I WAS the mayor of Munchkinland in our sorority rush events. I can talk munchkin like no one else. Really. I’m that good.You know how the munchkins sounded.
6.. Cousin Itt on the Addams Family- I know you are quite envious of my talent up to now, but my Cousin Itt impression was Dead on. I mean it.
I know what you are thinking. Yeah, I am quite talented. Thank you. I can also do impressions of Lisa Douglass on Green Acres, Peter Lorre’s “Yes, master,” Snoopy in Pain (a drunk favorite), E.T. phoning home, and I really should have tried out for the Afflac duck.
So, think about it the next time you make fun of your boss, or mock your mother-in-law. You are just being creative. It’s our nature to imitate.
After all, that’s how we got cubic zirconium rings instead of the real thing. Can’t really tell them apart, now can we?
One of the best games of my youth, Hopscotch, involved just rocks and a piece of chalk. The first time I ever played the game, I scoured the neighborhood for the best rock to use. Nobody had told me the first time that I played that it was important to have a flat rock. I showed up with a piece of gravel. Well, hell, I didn’t know. Most kids nowadays have it easy. A lot of playgrounds have the hopscotch board painted on the surface. Children use little bean bags or coins for the markers.
Well, when I was young (I’ve always wanted to say that), we didn’t use chalk half of the time. We used the edge of a sandstone rock to draw our pattern. We would then use a flat rock as a marker. To be honest, we never thought about using coins. It just never crossed our minds.We were tickled half to death if someone just happened to have a piece of chalk with them. Chalk was a luxury. I would have stolen a piece of chalk from school, but the nuns would have hammered my knuckles with a ruler and then let me know that chalk stealers always go to hell.
For those of you who have never played the game, Hopscotch is played on a flat surface, such as asphalt or a sidewalk. We used to play on my driveway. We had a great double driveway. You have to draw a pattern with a piece of chalk. There are many patterns to draw, and I think the one we used looked a little like this:
The object of the game is to win. How bout that? The rules are hard to explain, but I shall try my best. We will use my bff Ramaine as player1 and I will be player 2.
Ramaine would stand behind the starting line to toss her marker in square 1. She would then hop over square 1 and land with one foot in square 2 and one foot in square 3. She then continues hopping to the home square, which is like a safe place to stand and turn around, and then she would hop back again. Ramaine would pause in squares 2 and 3 to pick up the marker, hop in square 1, and then out. Then she continues by tossing the stone in square 2 and so on and so on. All hopping is done on one foot unless the hopscotch design is such that two squares are side-by-side. You must always hop over any square where a maker has been placed.
Tossing your rock into the first square was always quite easy, but I basically sucked after that. For example. if it was my turn to throw it in square #7, and it landed in #8, my turn would be over. And again, since I sucked at Hopscotch, I spent a lot of time sitting on the sidelines, looking at my rock.
So, while writing this post, I took a wrong turn and kept thinking about how much time I spent watching my friends play while I, Hopscotch loser, sat and waited for my next turn. I would most certainly toss my rock right on a line (which is a no-no),and once again, be sitting on the sidelines. So,I was wondering if this is what people sitting on a curb are waiting for.
Waiting their turn to play Hopscotch
Hopscotch losers at a Hopscotch parade of winners
Some mother brought these hopscotch losers cupcakes.
So, then I really got to think that perhaps, perhaps Hopscotch is actually a drinking game that somehow evolved into a children’s game over the years. So, I set out to do some research. What I found was startling.
Hopscotch was actually invented during Easter in Scotland in 1799. Drunk party-goers, bored with playing croquet, drew numbers on a tennis court surface and tossed rocks to see if they could land on the numbers. If they hit the numbers, they didn’t have to drink their scotch. If they missed, they had to take a drink, and hop like a rabbit, (you know, because it was Easter). Someone decided that there should be a border around the numbers, and Voila! Hopscotch was born.
Drunks invented Hop Scotch
Ok, so I lied. But, it could have happened that way.
All in all, Hopscotch was a great childhood game. I may not have been a great rock tosser, but I had fun, and isn’t that what really counts? I hope to play it again one day.
This time I will be drunk….and old. But young at heart.
Put down your purse, Vickie. No one is going to steal it.
I probably wasn’t much fun to play with when I was little. As soon as someone mentioned a game that had any kind of spinning involved, I was out. I had puked enough for all the kids in the neighborhood. I was already called “Bluey” in the winter because my lips would turn a bright bluish purple and “Picky Vickie” throughout the year because I wouldn’t try to eat anything that had “stuff” in it, like potato salad, or mixed together, like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Pukey” was next on the agenda, I was sure, and I wanted no part of it.
I don’t know what the hell it is with kids and spinning. Are we all gluttons for punishment?
Blind Man’s Bluff
I think the first game I played with other kids in the neighborhood that had anything to do with spinning was Blind Man’s Bluff. The rules sounded easy enough. According to Wikipedia:
“Blind man’s bluff is played in a spacious area, such as outdoors or in a large room, in which one player, designated as “It”, is blindfolded and gropes around attempting to touch the other players without being able to see them, while the other players scatter and try to avoid the person who is “it”, hiding in plain sight and sometimes teasing them to make them change direction.”
Ok, that sounded easy enough. Two things were missing from the instructions, however. One, was that Blind Man’s Bluff should be played in an area free of dangerous obstructions, or like, um, stairs, so that the “It” player will not die or obtain a serious head injury. Secondly, who the hell said the “It” player had to be spun around before they went off groping at people? I immediately knew that I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the first one to run into the fireplace hearth or be the one puking because of the spinning. But, sometimes life just isn’t fair for the spin challenged. The first person found me huddled in a corner, cowering and trying to remain oh so quiet. Dammit. I cried foul, as I am sure the person could see below the scarf. I figured out that if you had a big nose, you could cheat. People with big noses always have advantages in this world.
So, Lori, the neighborhood Nazi girl, put the scarf around my eyes. We were playing in her basement, so we had to let her be in charge like she always was. She tied it tight to make sure I couldn’t cheat. She knew I would cheat in a heart beat, given the chance. I remember the scarf being slightly damp. So, I was ready to puke because I knew that meant sweat. Lori lived across the street and she knew all about my spinning “problems.” So, the little bitch spun me hard. Her hands were firm and her method determined. Determined to make the little skinny girl with blue lips puke. After she got done spinning me, I just sat down and threw up on on an area rug. Ta-da. End of Blind Man’s Bluff for Vickie. I staggered home. I think I took the blind fold off first.
I’m thinking that Blind Man’s Bluff led to orgies when played by the older crowd.
The Playground Merry-Go-Round-and Round-and Round
I hate playground equipment. I really do. As an elementary teacher, I watch kids when I am on playground duty. First of all, yes, I do stand outside with fifty-five year old blue lips. That’s with me for life. I am not fond of the cold. But, I watch these sweet children turn into brainless zombies on speed, running amok to and fro each piece of equipment. They climb up slides instead of sliding down them. They run behind people swinging, like chipmunks playing “Suicide” on our country roads. Chipmunks decide in the middle of the road which way they want to zig. Too late, Theodore. Anyways, school children also try to kill their peers on the see-saws. Side note: How the hell do children know what “cherry bumps” even are?
“Ms. Mendenhall, Ralph jumped off of the see saw on purpose and gave me a cherry bump.” I just stared at her. Really? I chuckled at the thought of perhaps sending her to the principal to tell the story of Ralphie, the cherry bumper.
Luckily, our playground doesn’t have the Merry-Go-Round aka The Ride of Misery like we had when we were little. I’m not even sure if it was at our neighborhood playground, but I avoided it somewhere. It was the worst playground apparatus known to man…and pukey little girls.
You know there is vomit on there somewhere
So, the kids would hop on and the strongest child would run on the outside, pushing around and around and then jump on himself. Once in a while some older jack ass would stand there, spinning and spinning despite the pleas of the younger, sickened children. Hahahhahaha, laughed the older kid. Those bully kids back then are the probably the same ones wearing black and white stripes today. Or they are car salesmen. But,I would never go near that damn ride after the first time I was stuck on it….. And puked on it. Ew. I just left, hoping that one day it would rain.
You know this didn’t last long. Dear God, here come the flying wires. Oh, look, one has impaled you.
The Rotor- Kennywood Park
The Rotor was a crazy ride at Kennywood Park, outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We used to go to Kennywood about once a year when I was little. It’s hard to describe the Rotor, but I shall try. Picture a barrel. Or the inside of a washing machine. Or something like that. People would enter the Rotor and stand against the wall, with the heels of their feet against the wall. I think we had to take our shoes off as we entered the ride. Did I say, “we?” I crack myself up. The Rotor had an observation deck around the top, so those like myself, could watch.
The ride would start rotating uprights at 33 revoulutions per minute. Faster, faster, faster. (This is where I would puke just from watching the people spinning.) The rotation would create a centripetal force and then when it was at full speed, the floor would drop down. Like drop down. Everyone was stuck like Velcro to the sides of the spinning barrel. Sick.
I had to finally try it when I was with my boyfriend. Oh, the things you do for love. I was so scared, because those who puke on the ride get to share it, as the splatter would smack up against the wall. I can only imagine the puke on the back of peoples’ shirts. You know those carnival people probably didn’t clean the walls too well. So, I made sure I hadn’t eaten, and went in and although I was sick for the rest of the Kennywood day, I did not throw up. What what one does for love.
There were several Rotors around the country, probably called other names. All American rotors had to be dismantled or modified after the “incident.” Yikes. In 2000, two tweens were injured when their feet were caught between the moving wall and the floor.One suffered broken bones and they were both hospitalized.
Ugh..I feel sick after watching that.
The Basement Swivel Chair
I wonder if my bff Ramaine remembers this. We used to hang out in my basement. It was a long room with a bar on one end, and a ping pong table on the other end. In the middle was furniture, including two snazzy swivel chairs just like the one in this picture:
This chair looks innocent enough, but is a vehicle of death
Let’s just say that it is not a good idea to put a bunch of neighborhood kids in the basement unsupervised. My mom would stay upstairs, smoking her Salem cigarettes and reading the National Enquirer. Meanwhile, we had a carnival going on downstairs. Ramaine sat in one of the swivel chairs, sitting cross legged on the chair. Sometimes we would pretend we were going into outer space. Oh, we were imaginative. We would then spin the occupant in the chair around and around and around. It would go pretty damn fast.But, alas, there is nothing imaginative about a possible concussion.The swivel chair tipped over and so did Ramaine. She hit her head on the floor, which I think was painted concrete. She immediately said that her head hurt, so we ran upstairs to get my mom.
She checked on Ramaine, and then ran to call her mom. On the way out of the rec room she told us-
“What ever you do, don’t let her go to sleep. She may never wake up again.”
Really? You said that to a child. Of course she was now going to be sleepy. That’s what kids do.
What an idiot. But, at the time, I thought my bff was going to drift off to sleep and never be able to spin in the chair ever again. I was scared for my partner in crime.
“ Don’t go to sleep, Ramaine”…I wanted to cry.
Well, she was ok, and I don’t remember if she had a concussion or not, but we went back to spinning that chair. I never sat in the chair, of course, as I knew my limitations and my friends accepted me for the puking freak that I was.
Sit’n Spin
Fast forward many years. When my children were young, they informed me that they wanted a Sit’n Spin. Great. So, they are manufacturing a personal use piece of playground apparatus. Just what I need. So, being the great mother that I was, I bought them this nauseating toy.
My least favorite purchase, other than maybe Kotex
Go ahead and puke. You’re not my kid.
Recycling the Sit’n Spin into a turn table. Good job, Pinterest lady.
In the end, there are thousands of things that spin. I will name them all:
yo yo, tops, pinwheel, a fan, hula hoop, frisbee, anything with wheels, including a ferris wheel, whirlygigs
silver maple tree helicopter whirlygigs, a basketball can spin, a record on a record player, a tornado, propellers, pottery thingy,and clothes in a washing machine. I have volunteers come up in my fourth grade class and act out the sun, moon, and earth and have them spin around while they are revolving around the sun. Sure, they get dizzy. They want to get dizzy. Goofy kids.
There was one particular spinning “toy” that did not make me dizzy:
Spin the Bottle
Spin the Bottle, the Older Crowd. Um, ok....ew
After all these years, they still love to get dizzy.
The interwebs are such a rich source for comedic gold. You could easily laugh away days thanks to the creativity of others. Of course the difficulty is finding these gems. Often it’s pure luck. You stumble across a video or a written piece which makes the coffee shoot right out of your nose. Well, I’m here today to save you the trouble of wading through the muck.
While I am working on my next blog post, please read this hysterical post from John at Trask Avenue. It cracked me up! I will call him my first guest blogger. :) Just click on any of the pictures or the link at the top to go to his blog. It will make you laugh.
I feel sorry for the children of today. Really, I do. They have missed out on some many great things that we baby boomers experienced in the late fifties and sixties. Like poking people in the eyes ala The Three Stooges. Like counting how many times the Coyote SHOULD have died in those wonderful Road Runner cartoons. And then there are Colorforms.
Photos via ebay seller
Oh, I’m very aware that Colorforms are still around. They will celebrate their 61st birthday this summer. They were re-releasing their Michael Jackson Dress Up set for their big 60 celebration. Um, okay…..
I remember when my mom bought my very first colorform set. I am sure it was hard to find something a hyperactive chichuahua of a child would play with for more than 30 seconds. I am pretty sure it just had geometric shapes to move around. I remember smelling the thin vinyl. Could one actually get high sniffing Colorforms? I don’t think so, but they did have a smell to them. But, I took to them like a floundering flopping fish takes to water. I liked them. I remember the following Colorforms. I loved this one.
Of course, who would have known that a hyperactive child would also be a bit OCD? After playing with Colorforms, it took me forever to put the pieces back where they belonged.
“Vickie, it’s bath time….put that away now……………………………………….Come on, Vickie…………………………..Vickie…………………..”
Well, I just couldn’t put the pieces in a pile and just walk away. They had a place for each piece, dammit. And I had to put them back where I found them. Afterall, that’s what my mom always preached.
“Is that where you found it, Vickie? Put them back where you found them.”
So, it’s my mother’s fault that I was OCD with the Colorform pieces. I would freak out if I opened up a Colorform box and saw pieces lying around like the first picture that I posted. Let’s take a look at that one again. I would have slapped someone. Dear God, what the hell is wrong with you? The only other person in my house who could have done such a thing would have been my sister, Cheryl.
This makes me uneasy even today. My palms are getting sweaty. The pieces need to go right on the line. I mean, right on the line. Anything else was just wrong. I would sit there, taking about three or four turns to get it just right.
“Vickie, your bath water is getting cold…………”
Pretty bad that a mom has to run the bath water for a twenty-two year old.
Ok, just kidding.
So, my sister had to be the nonconformist colorformist. She was putting the pieces back like a drunken groundhog. I refer to that because there used to be a drunk groundhog on our property after I got married. I called her Mrs. Daegle after the drunk woman in The Bad Seed. Or maybe it had rabies. But, it couldn’t walk straight. Just like my sister couldn’t put the colorforms back straight. Dammit.
So, I did the only thing one could do in my position. I hid the Colorforms. Not the box or the little setting you got to decorate. Just the Colorforms. Which I guess were important.
“Vickie, where are the Colorforms?”
“Right there.”
“There are no Colorforms in the box.”
“You bought Colorforms without the colorforms?” I was a smart ass at a very smart ass age.
“Vickie…………….where are the Colorforms?”
“ Susie ate one and got sick, so I threw them away.” Susie the dog would never have eaten a Colorform. Although a brilliant answer coming from a hyperactive obsessive compulsive compulsive liar, my mom would never buy this one.
“I will count to three, Vickie, and you better bring them all back………………………1……………………………..2…………………………………….2 1/2………….”
She always used a “2 1/2″ before she asked my brother David to go get the belt. That was David’s job. He was the belt getter. Why couldn’t he just once say, “You want the god damn belt? Go get it yourself.” He was too nice. I on, the other hand, pushed her buttons way too much.
“Vickie, go to your room.”
Susie the dog would follow me to my room. I would wave at my dad on my way past his room. She must have sent him to his room, as he was usually lying on his side, watching the little red tv that was sitting on a tv dinner tray or whatever they are called. So, there I was, in my room, with the Colorforms hidden in my scuffy slippers in my closet.
All in all, Colorforms were a great thing for me. I was able to sit and play with something for more than five minutes before moving on to something else that caught my eye. I never walked away from Colorforms.
Well, not until I put the pieces back where I found them.
I have to drive the back roads to get to my school each morning. You city people just have no idea. You can hop on the A subway train and just hold on until you get to your destination. Sure, you may have to walk up and down stairs to get to the subway, but it isn’t a real chore. A real chore is driving from the country INTO the country.
My drive to and fro is in what I call segments. There is one segment from where I live to over Manley Chapel Road to Route 19. Most of you have no idea what I am talking about, so just think small country roads with no berm and a bunch of dead deer on the side. One dead deer has his little leg lying right in the road. Move over, dead deer. Anyway, this segment is where I shall die, I am sure. The road is paved and the two lane weaves and turns and meanders up and down and around. And trucks really enjoy driving left of center. So, drivers on both side love to speed and take the curves like they are wearing a helmet and an outfit of corporations’ logos. Yes, this is where I will die, no doubt about it. I was hoping it would be in my sleep, but things don’t always go my way.
The second segment is a fisherman’s paradise…if one enjoys fishing in pot holes. The pot holes on Idamay Road are gigantic. I really think they could stock them with fish. This road climbs a little in altitude and this is where I lose my cell phone service at times. Every once in a while you will see a couple of parked cars on the top of Idamay hill, talking on their cell phones.
The third segment is the Farmington to Fairview Road. This is where I stop at Subway to get my 6in. turkey breast on Italian, provolone, little lettuce, little onion and 1 narrow line of mayonaisse about three days a week. They see me coming and start preparing it. How’s that for service? I also have someone pump gas for me at this intersection also. Segment three, not so bad. I don’t mind this portion of my daily drive.
It takes me higher in the sky and big hills that are not fun in the winter. But, this is also where I usually get behind old people drivers. I then cross the railroad tracks over a bridge and into the town of Fairview. Now, this is where I stop at the Dairy Mart. If you are ever in Fairview and stop at the Fairview Dairy Mart, watch where you walk, ok? Just warning you, because the coal miners who stop here after work for their bottle of beer really enjoy spitting out their chewing tobacco in the parking lot. It’s so much fun tip-toeing around it. I end then at my school and all is right with the world. I have made it another day.
But, today just sucked. Sucked, I tell ya. Because we had a little bit too much rain. Now, you have to understand, city people, that our county has a lot of streams that run beside our winding ass roads. I can get home several different ways. But, today’s drive home turned into a race to see what roads weren’t flooded….the worst.
It rained all damn day. I didn’t mind it, because at least it wasn’t snow. But, it rained. The windows in my classroom were leaking. I had kids running for paper towels so I can blot the long window sill. When I left at 3:45, I had no idea it would take me so long to get home. The first two segments on my return trip weren’t that bad. Sure there were a couple of places where the water ran over the road, but it wasn’t bad. I just remember thinking that the water was a bit high. I cursed as I hit the fishing pot holes, as they were hidden by the water on the road.
The third segment was a totally different story. First, I had to deal with rocks in the road. Many many rocks and mini landslides.
Many portions of this road where covered with rocks. This is farmland. You would not believe all of the flooding land. I saw some cows wearing life vests as they floated by. That farmer was thinking when he purchased those vests. Cowabunga, Dude.
This is where I started talking out loud. My “Oh my God” repetition first started like a Valley Girl remark. “And like, Oh my God.” But, the more my poor tires had to creep over small boulders (I laugh at my oxymorons), the more my “Oh my God” changed. I sounded like a damn pet store parrot. “Oh my God….Oh my God…..Oh my God…..Oh my God…..” But, really, “Oh my God.”
And then I came upon raging water. Crossing the roadways. What the hell? I mean, “Oh my God!” Notice, I am using an exclamation mark now. I had never seen it this bad before. What is crazy is that this road is not in a valley where you would think it would flood. Little pockets of rivers were now crossing my path. Ok, I just looked back. Maybe “raging” was a bit much. If it was raging, it would have taken my car. Wow, didn’t think about that.
Then, a traffic back up at the top of the final hill on Manley Chapel Road. Little cars had pulled over onto the berm. Oh wait, there is no berm on that road. Little cars stopped. So, some big trucks went around them. Those little cars knew something that I did not know. Oh shit. I mean, “Oh my freaking God.” There in front of me, at the base of the hill was a river crossing the road. Trucks were trying to get through it one by one. I was behind a Jeep. I was in a Santa Fe. The problem with that is that I FORGOT I was in a Santa Fe. I was in a truck.
I decided the best thing to do is drive like an idiot and hope I didn’t stall out. I rushed through it, holding onto the steering wheel for dear life. The water was spewing up by side windows. Muddy water. I got through! On the other side, a guy in a big pick-up smiled and gave me the thumbs up. He was impressed with my stupidity.
I didn’t take a picture of the Mississippi River crossing Manley Chapel Road. I was too busy with my hands planted 2 and 10 on the steering wheel, uttering, “Oh my God.” I finally got through and took the above picture. This is actually what it looked like in about seven or eight pockets on this section of road. Notice there weren’t any little cars in the photo. Because little car people have brains.
Manley Chapel intersection via Facebook Denise Gum Ice
After getting through several areas of more water over the roadway, I passed several homes that were surrounded by water. On Facebook, people were posting pictures of what it looked like in other parts of the county. It was unreal. Many people weren’t on Facebook because they were trying to stop the water coming down into their basements. I drove into a nice dry garage. I was home.
So, I am writing this, courtesy of a two hour delay we have this morning. I’m usually out the door by seven. Only four of the 55 counties in the state of West Virginia have a delay. It’s always nice getting that call in the morning. So, I thought I would sit down and write a post about my drive home before I head off on that same road, hoping that the small boulders (oxy) are now on the side of the road.
I guess I could have just said, “Oh my God, the roads were covered with water.”
You know, it’s really hard for a hyperactive kid to win a staring contest. It just can’t happen. Through the years, I have been asked if I wanted to have a staring contest, and my answer has never changed.
“Oh, hell no.”
Of course, I don’t really think I said that when I was ten or eleven the first time I was asked to participate in a staring contest. I am sure I obliged, ready to stare down my opponent. But, it never happened. It couldn’t happen. I did try.
The object of a staring contest is an easy one. Stare at someone without taking your eyes off of them. The first one who breaks the stare is a loser. A big time loser. So, of course, everyone wanted to play Hyper Girl. I didn’t know I was hyper at the time. My mom never told me. She just gave me a little green tranquilizer every day and called it my “car sick pill.” You’d think that with a tranquilizer digesting and spreading calm and coolness throughout my tiny body that I would be able to sit still long enough to win a staring contest.
“Vickie…you already lost…..Yes, you did. You just looked away!!……….Yes, you did………………..Yes, you did…….Wanna play again?………………..You did it again…………..Yes, you did. I win…….Vickie, you looked in my eyes for like ten seconds and then looked away………..Yes you did.”
So, this hyperactive child learned to hate staring contests. As I grew older, I was a side-line watcher….for a few minutes. They just bored me to death. I remember one time watching a neighborhood staring contest with some older kids outside at dusk, until I saw a spider spinning a web. I was mesmerized. What staring contest? And really, in the end, what is the big deal? It’s not like it’s an arm wrestling contest. At least that’s a physical challenge. A staring contest is just an eye control contest. Unless you had a lazy eye, drifting toward the middle, or you were hyperactive or you had pink eye and your eye was leaking, anyone could be in a staring contest. Most people can look straight ahead without moving their eyes. Big whoop. Picture the Hulk Hogan winning a staring contest, and then ripping off his shirt after the kill.
“I am so tough. I just beat someone in a freakin staring contest. YES! ….. Take that, Grandma!”
Staring contests have been around for a very long time. I think boxers have the best stares. They march up to their opponent in the middle of the ring, getting right in their face, and just stare. Pretty intimidating. Did you know Rocky Balboa was in a staring contest?
So, to me, staring contests were stupid. I stayed away from being in one or even watching one. Until many years later, when the chance arose once again. I was a mother, probably about forty-four. My daughter was a spectator that day, and I believe she may have been fourteen or so. I am probably wrong, but that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I almost died that day……because of a staring contest.
The day started like any ordinary day. It was a beautiful summer evening. My daughter and I were outside, standing on the brick patio right beside our house. I loved that property. We had wildlife visiting our place every day. I kept binoculars on my kitchen counter so I could quickly check out a new bird, or the fighting neighbors. Never a dull moment.
This one particular summer evening was one for the memory book. I spotted a deer, standing down in front of our house, taking more than his share of the fallen apples. He had his back to us. Hmmmm.
“I bet I can sneak down real close to that deer.” I said to my daughter. She stayed at the top of the hill by the house. I realize the picture was taken in winter, but just humor me for a minute. The deer was beside the tree that I have noted with the red circle. I began my trek down the hill, moving slowly and quietly. The deer did not hear me. I looked back at my daughter, smirking at my agile stalking.
I got pretty close to the deer. He turned and was shocked to see this strange creature so close to him. I froze. He stared. I stayed frozen. He stared.
He then snorted and stomped his foot on the ground. I knew what he was doing. He had no plans to leave the plentiful bounty that was lying on the ground in front of him. Them apples were for him. I stared back, and then snorted and stomped my foot. I was wearing tennis shoes, so my stomp sounded intimidating. He snorted again, raised his hoof and kept it in the air, lingering for a few seconds, and then stomped again. I snorted and stomped again. I was winning this freaking starting contest. Ha! I finally will win one. Sure, it may have been against an animal, but a staring contest is a staring contest.
Shit. I took my eyes off the deer to look back up the hill at my daughter. When my eyes went back to the deer, he snorted and charged at me. Holy shit! I let out a scream and then ran like the wind. Luckily, I had just changed from flip flops to tennis shoes, or I would have been deer stomped.
I never ran so fast in my whole life. I mean, there was a snorting, stomping deer with unchewed apple in his mouth coming after me. I had no idea when, but I felt that he was going to tackle me from behind and kick me to death. So, I did the Forrest Gump thing and I ra-an. I made it to the top of the hill to greet my laughing daughter. She couldn’t quit laughing at me.
“Mom, I never knew you could run. Haahahahahhahahahha.”
Well, when you have a crazy deer charging at you, you really should move. The deer chased me halfway up the hill, but must have known by my pathetic “Monster is chasing girl” scream, that the apples were pretty much his. He went back down the the apple tree, knowing that he wasn’t going to be bothered anymore.
And for me, well, that was my last staring contest. Deer will win every time.
It’s bad enough that I have to go to Walmart once or twice a week, but throw in some smelly people, a guy talking on an obviously pretend cell phone, and children who need slapped, and I am beat. But, yesterday was a day like no other. Because, yesterday in Walmart, among the mystery smells and nose pickers, there was also…….a whistler.
I really don’t know how the general population views whistling. I have never asked anyone. Some whistling is great. For example, the opening song to the Andy Griffith show is a whistle. I used to like that. Didn’t bother me a bit. I used to sit down on the floor, in front of the tv, whistling along to the opening and closing credits. But, nowadays, many many years later, it grates on me to the point where I lose my mind. I mean, I lose my mind.
Years ago, when my children were quite small, we would go to Hills Department Store. I could always hear ”The Bird Lady,” even if she was on the other side of the store. It was that loud. She was like a damn mockingbird. I am not kidding. One bird call after another after another. There was no break. The first time I heard it, I had to search the person out. I thought it might be a guy. I was surprised to see an older lady with short hair and dirt under her fingernails. She was a farmer. I was sure of it. The second time I heard her, I smiled, and went on my way. She seemed to be there whenever I was. By the 6th time or so, I was ready to say, “Enough already.”
I think the whistling that sends me over the edge is what I call, “Jesus whistling.” I was in an antique shop several months ago, and the owner was whistling while I was walking through the rooms. The shop was on the first floor of an older home, so her whistling was right on top of me. She was at first attempting (notice I said “attempting”) to whistle, Bringing in the Sheaves, and then followed that successful tune with What a Friend We Have in Jesus. But, she was multi-talented, as she could switch from whistling to humming and back again. It was easier to know what the hell song she was trying to butcher. By the time I found my way out of her maze, I wanted to slap her and say,
“Jesus is not your friend.” I actually thought that shoplifting may have been justified that day just to get me the hell out of there.
“Hey, look what I stole out of an antique shop today because the owner was whistling.”
So, when I heard the whistling, I had to find out who was doing it. I thought it was a woman since the music was in the makeup aisle. Maybe the elderly bird lady was still alive, whistling her bird calls. Like Odysseus rowing toward the Sirens, I had to search this person out. But, no, it was an older man, clad in jeans, a jean jacket, sporting a beard and some stupid ass hat I can’t even describe. He wasn’t whistling a song or even bird chirps. He was whistling….nothing. Why would you waste your time inhaling and exhaling to exert sounds that sound like a monkey on crack was making them? Or a owl on crack. Something on crack. It pissed me off. It wasn’t even a song. So, I decided to get the hell away from him.
He followed me.
I went in the cat food aisle. I could hear him coming. I grabbed the wrong bag of cat food and left the area.
I then went over to pick up some wide ruled notebook paper for my classroom. Dammit, I could hear his off-key whistling. I felt like I was playing Marco Polo with a whistler.
“Shwee wee.”
“Polo.”
Nah, would never have worked.
No, I must note that I was in a SUPER Walmart. That means it is bigger than a BIG Walmart or in some towns, a SMALL Walmart. This is super big. Tall ceilings. I should be able to get away from Willie. Yeah, I already named him. Willie the freak of a Whistler.
Well, I did have a moment or two of peace while picking up my strawberry whipped yogurt in the dairy aisle. But, then I heard him. He somehow was in front of me in the aisle. Shit. He was hesitating by the juice. Hesitation means a break in whistling. This guy could not multi-task. That was good. I needed my mango juice. I had to open the door right in front of him. I reached for the juice, and was almost out of there, when he started again. Right in my ear. Freakin Dr. Seuss nonsense. If Dr. Seuss whistled, that is what it would sound like. What a goober. I put my mango juice in my buggy and looked right at him.
“Sure like whistling, don’t you?” I smiled.
“Can you whistle?” He sounded normal. He should just maybe talk more often.
I shook my head and immediately thought of Lauren Bacall.
He continued. “It’s real easy. I think I learned how to whistle before I learned to talk.”
I wanted to say, “And that’s all ya got?” But, I was nice. I smiled and just strolled away, until I was in the next aisle and then took off. I had to get the hell out of Walmart. I could not take it any longer.
I went to the furthest check-out aisle, fearing if he would be behind me in a long line and I would be stuck. That would be like a claustrophobic moment for me. And then I would surely lose my my mind. I even leave my classroom door open because I’m just not fond of closed in places. I do well on a plane…and in a public restroom. I just must be retarded. But, to be STUCK behind Willie the freak of a whistler would not bode well for me. I could hear the person over the loudspeaker now.
“Code DeltaDawn in checkout aisle 22.” That means, “older lady by herself just lost her mind.” Yeah, I’m well aware of Walmart’s codes. The main one is Code Adam.
I wish I would have had some backup with me. I wish Don Rickles, Jerry Seinfeld, Lewis Black, or Richard Lewis would have been with me. Or all of them. Add in Chandler Bing. They would have said something to him. They would have understood the absurdity that whistling is. But, it was just me and I could see the guy coming. But, wait. He didn’t have anything in his arms, and a lady with a buggy just pulled in behind me. I was in the clear. Everyone stared at him as he passed each check-out aisle. I looked at him and wondered if he whistled while he worked. Shit. He was coming my way. Shit.
Wait. Willie the Whistler has a wife. She was behind me with her buggy full of toilet paper. That’s why he didn’t have a buggy and he was just wandering around, whistling. Figures. Willie came and stood by her.
“Jack, stop whistling. You sound like a broken drill.”
And with that, he quit whistling. I glanced back at them and he looked beaten down, almost depressed. Poor Willie. I felt sorry for him.
I have been tagged. I didn’t know what that meant at first, so I headed over to Marina Sleeps to see what was up.
It isn’t an award. But, it’s almost like one. It’s a diversion! I don’t think people realize how these things are a great way to build readership and in the process discover some other really great blogs. I mean, not saying my blog is great, but you know what I mean. (My blog is great.)I really enjoy these things. I can get into this. So, here are the rules:
*You must post the rules.
*Answer the questions the tagger set for you in their post and then create eleven new questions to ask the people you tagged.
*Tag eleven people and link them to your post.
*Let them know you tagged them.
Eleven? Ok, I can ask questions all day.
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Here are the questions that Marina Sleeps has asked eleven bloggers and here are my answers.
1.What does the saying “Kicking ass and taking names” even mean???
When you see someone kicking a donkey, you need to find out who they are so you can turn them in to the animal cruelty people.
2. You are driving. Someone flips you off. What is the best reaction?
Ah, Olympic gymnast Mary Lou Retton’s mom flipped me off one time. She was in front of me in her stupid little convertible, looking at herself in the mirror when the light turned green. I had to honk my horn, and she flipped me off. I laughed and did the little motion with my index finger circling the side of my temple that means one is crazy, and she flipped me off again. The best reaction, however, is to hit them with your car.
3. If you could be someone else for a day who would you be?
Oh, that is so easy. Wait. Would I also be able to time travel? If so, I would be my grandfather, circa 1965. I would change my will to leave everyone out but my favorite grandaughter, Vickie.
4. What is the craziest thing you have done?
Ihave done so many crazy things. When I was in college, I was on the costumes crew for a play and we were not allowed to miss dress rehearsal AT ALL. If we did, we would get a cut in our final grade. Well, I was invited by a really nice looking guy to attend the Billy Joel concert that same night. So, over the course of two weeks, I became progressively sicker each practice (the director kept telling me to go home, but I told her I would be ok) The night before the concert and dress rehearsal, I told the director I just had a blood test to see if I had mono. She felt my forehead and told me to go home and that she didn’t want to see me for three nights. I went to the concert, and on the way home stopped at a club and Billy Joel was there. We had drinks with him and he sat at our table for about 45 minutes, and I couldn’t tell anyone. Karma bites me in the ass.
5. How will you survive the Zombie apocalypse?
Zombies have poor motor skills, so I would have to be faster than them. And that means, I will need GatorAde. Yes, electrolytes will save me. I would also hide out at a carnival’s House of Mirrors. The poor undead would be so confused. I would be able to get out and be on my way to my next hiding place. He would then forget what he went in there for.
6. Can you explain what is wrong with the Olsen Twins and Lindsey Lohan?
It’s a twin thing. Ashley Kate or Mary….Ashley Mary and Kate…..Kate Mary and Ashley…shit…wait…I can get this….Mary Kate and Ashley. Ok, Anywho, they have an identity problem. Remember, only one of them were able to be on Full House. Lindsey Lohan had to play two kids on The Parent Trap. Lindsey thinks there really are two of them. The Olsens think there should only be one. That’s why they are photographed standing so close to each other. They are trying to morph into one. Lindsey is a lost soul because she can’t find herself.
7. What deadly sin are you guilty of committing?
Oh, how easy is this one. Writers are vain. My deadly sin is Pride, the “excessive belief in one’s own abilities, that interferes with the individual’s recognition of the grace of God. It has been called the sin from which all others arise. Pride is also known as Vanity.” I think I am awesome. I’m so vain, I probably think this blog is about me…. Don’t I? Don’t I? Don’t I?
8. What is one song you are embarrassed to like?
I’m going to go with the first song that popped into my head…”I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.” I can really sing this one.
9. What is a day in your life like?
Well, it is excitement with a capital E. Let’s take a weekday….a Tuesday. I get up at 5:30 and play on the computer until 6:10. I take my shower, get ready for work, talk to my cat, back out of the garage, drive through Hardees and order a butter biscuit and a medium Coke, drive 40 minutes on back roads, dodging stupid drivers who drive left of center, get to school, put the schedule on the board, after the rugrats come in, teach all day, only taking 30 minutes to have lunch with “The Lunch Bunch,” (best group of ladies ever), where we curse and bitch about the kids, drive to the gym on the way home, curse at the elliptical, stop at Subway for a 6 inch turkey breast on Italian with provolone, lettuce, just a few onions and one line of mayonaisse, and a medium Coke, go home, eat, get on the internet, do some house crap, and then watch New Girl at 9:00, talk to the cat, and then go to bed after talking to friends on Facebook. Fun times on a Tuesday.
10. Can you dance like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever?
Uh, yeah. I was there.
11. What kind of child are you? 60′s child? 70′s child? etc etc?
Well, I was born in the mid-fifties. I was ten years old in 1966, and sixteen in 1972. I touched base with all of them. I am old. But, you could never tell because I look so damn young. Plus, I am vain. See deadly sin question.
Ok, that was fun. Now my turn to ask questions to the people I shall tag……
1. What one movie could you watch every day?
2. If you had to change your first name, what name would you fancy?
3. You just got kicked out of your country. You aren’t allowed back. What country would move to? Why?
4. You are only allowed to eat one vegetable for the rest of your life. Discuss.
5. You get to bring home a celebrity. Do with them what you want. Who would you bring home?
6. Name three adjectives that describe you best.
7. You have to pick one…cat or dog? Why?
8. You have just been chosen to be in the Olympics. And you get to pick any sport you want. What sporting event will you be participating in? For what country?
9. Pick an idiom that you would like my fourth graders to draw this Friday for Idiom Friday.
10. My favorite cartoon character was Foghorn Leghorn? And yours?
11. A two-part question: What is your favorite smell? Your favorite sound?
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TAG, YOU’RE IT!!!!! Answer the questions, and follow the rules. And if you don’t, I totally don’t care. People will click and come visit your blogs and find out what great writers you are, and will then follow you and write wonderful replies to your posts. And then they will find more blogs to click on and so it goes.
If your blog is not one of those up above, and you read this post and want to play along, just copy the questions and answer them in the reply. Don’t forget to put your link on the reply so we can visit your blog.
Ok, so I have done my part. Well, except for letting the eleven know that I tagged them. They will want to hug me, I am sure. Or throw rocks. But, in any event, I have done my part.
So, “Tag, you’re it!” And I am now sterilized forever.
I have to drive up to my hometown this morning for family business with my family. My sister and I don’t get along, so I’m really not looking forward to sitting across from her discussing stuff. I do get to see my brother, and that is always nice. Anyways, the drive is about two hours and all I can think about is DiCarlo’s pizza.
DiCarlo’s pizza is famous in the Ohio Valley. My bff Ramaine got me to try it the first time as my parents were anti-pizza, I think. They rarely brought home pizza. When I was young, I was quite picky. I would never try pizza because it had stuff mixed together and round pieces of mystery meat dropped all over the top. It took me a while of listening to my friends Ooooh and Ahhhhh over its goodness before I tried a piece. Ramaine’s dad brought home a few boxes and I was going to get the chance to experience DiCarlo’s pizza for the very first time. I think I may have been ten or eleven. Oooh…….Ahhhhhhh. A slice of heaven, I tell ya.
My husband wasn’t fond of it when he first tried it. He wasn’t from the Ohio Valley, so that was his first mistake. His second mistake was not liking DiCarlo’s Pizza. I couldn’t wait for him to taste this wonderful thing in a cardboard box. I stared at him, waiting as he bit into its square slice for the very first time. He was quick to judge.
“This is just fair.” He set the slice down and reached for his Coke. What? This couldn’t be. This is part of my culture. This is part of who I am. I wished that I had never married him. Ok, not really, but that should have sent up red flags. I took away his piece.
“You’re retarded. This is the best pizza in the world. It’s like….a stairway to Heaven.”
“Not even close. It’s just ok.
“You’re just ok.”
Why did you take that away?”
“You are not worthy.”
And then we divorced 25 years later. Never trust a man who doesn’t like DiCarlo’s pizza. Really.
DiCarlo’s is unlike any other pizza. It is sold by the piece or by the tray. The pizza dough is first baked in several different ovens,of varying degrees, the result being a very crisp bottom with a tender top . (I love the corner pieces. Before the last baking, the sauce is applied and heated. It does not soak the crust and remains just a layer. The crust and sauce is then removed and put in the red and white DiCarlo’s box. Cheese and slices of pepperoni are added. The lid is slammed shut and the intense heat inside steams the cheese and pepperoni, causing it to become the stringy cheese that most desire, with the pepperoni tender and not hard baked.
It is to die for. To. die. for.
Here are some of the reviews I found on yelp. I really think the bad reviews are people from other pizza establishments trying to tarnish the good name that is DiCarlo’s. Yeah, that’s it.
“ADDICTING. Call wayy ahead because you will have to wait forever. No delivery.” (Philadelphia, PA)
“The pizza is a standard crust cut into a 18″ by 24″ pan regular oven. The sauce is good, a little pepperoni, but the cheese is put on cold after the pizza leaves the oven.. This is a local thing in the ohio river valley. I was in the mood for a calazone but not available at this Elm Grove location. Nice folks, but I didnt get into this type of pizza. $ by the slice.” (Colorado Springs, Colorado)
“Anyone who tries this pizza is freaked out, at first. Mostly because they don’t melt the cheese, they throw it on after the fact. After they try it, a few days later they are begging me to get it for them again. I like it when you get a batch where the crust is really thin, it’s always crispy, the sauce is amazing. The wait can be long for your pizza so call ahead. I love it.” (Pittsburgh, PA)
“The locals rave about this pizza. I’m not so impressed. It is very thick crust and greasy. No delivery or seating to speak of. I think the locals like it because they grew up with it. It must be an acquired taste that I’ve not acquired after 7-years in the Ohio Valley.” (Mosier, Oregon)
“The pizza of my childhood. Every time I come to visit my family, it’s a stop on my very first night in. Tonight, my dad called an hour and a half in advance to snag some sweet deliciousness; patrons waiting in the shop who presumably hadn’t called ahead gave us the evil eye since we were in and out in less than two minutes.
When I was feeling really depressed a while ago, my dad sent me some cross-country. (They do that, hooray!) Needless to say, it cheered me up. (Austin, Texas)
Make no mistake: There is only ONE DiCarlo’s. You may see other places in the area with the NAME DiCarlo’s, but they’re just posin’. It’s a completely different quality of pizza.
This spot – known affectionately by locals as EGD (Elm Grove DiCarlos) has some of the best pizza around. Its appeal lies not in a wide variety of toppings or intricate crust or fancy sauce. No, its appeal is in the perfection of simple, square slices coated with sauce, cheese and pepperoni. (They have a few other toppings, too, but it’s not what they are loved for.)
There is no better place to get pizza in the Ohio Valley. And there is nothing better when you are drunk, or hungover, or on a Tuesday, or in a box, or with a fox, or in a house, or with a mouse… (Columbus, Ohio)
“I couldn’t have said it better myself! (See review below) It’s the best Pizza EVER! I live in Chicago where their pizza is “world famous” But I have to say, its doesn’t even come close to EGD (Elm Grove Dicarlos). In fact, I still keep their number in my cell phone as I always order a tray on my way in from the airport! Yum! ” (Chicago, Illinois)
“Best pizza ever! I grew up in the valley and there is no where here in south florida to get pizza like that.” (Ft. Lauderdale, FL)
“I just went there over the holday weekend. Still unparalleled. Absolutely the best. Awesome. I grew up on this pizza. I live in VA now. The pizza near DC is fairly unimpressive. Everytime I come home it’s let’s get some DiCarlos Pizza. I haven’t tasted any pizza anywhere that comes close.” (Sterling, VA)
(Pittsburgh loser)- “This pizza is definitely an acquired taste… and one I have not acquired. I cannot stand it. We have two members of the extended family who can’t get enough of it, but the rest of us would rather eat anything but. I’ve tried several times over the years to appreciate it… but my opinion hasn’t changed. It’s awful. The unmelted cheese is particularly unappealing. I know there are a lot of people that love it, I’m sorry but it’s definitely not for everyone and certainly not for me.”
“When I came to Wheeling, everybody raved about this place. Then I saw how basic it was (crust, sauce, cheese), I had my doubts. Silly me. This is probably the best pizza ever created.” (St. Luis Opispo, California)
“Best pizza ever. Grew up in the valley and no longer live there but I crave it all the time. A must stop for anyone in the valley or just visiting.” (Cleveland, Ohio)
9 HOURS LATER-
DiCarlo's pizza and a pretend fire. What a great day!
PS. On Sunday, March 11, Parade Magazine listed DiCarlo’s pizza #10 best pizza in the United States. Do I know my pizza or what?
Once upon a time, there were more than 4,000 drive-in theaters across the United States. What a concept. Parents didn’t have to hire a babysitter to go to the movies. There would be a movie for the whole family, and then as the kids fell asleep in the back seat, parents could watch a movie just for them. It was awesome. While it lasted.
There aren’t very many drive-in movie theaters anymore. I personally blame Daylight Savings Time on their demise. VCR rentals are also culprits, along with a jump in real estate prices, and color tv’s that became pretty much affordable for a lot of people. Bummer. There are less than 400 today scattered across the nation. Shame on us.
My mom used to take us to the Bellaire Drive-in in our hometown of Weirton, West Virginia numerous times each summer. What fun we had. Most of the time we were able to wear our pajamas. We would lay out a big blanket right beside the car and watch the movies from the ground. We would take one of the loudspeakers from their pole and place it beside us. Fun times. When we didn’t wear our pajamas, there was a playground waiting for us in front of the large projection screen. We would play until it was dark enough and the giant screen would come alive. We would then scamper to the car to await the first feature.
My mom would sit inside the car, alone. I think she considered this her down time. I never really paid attention to her during the movie until I had to go to the bathroom. I never thought it was weird to go the drive-in bathroom in my pajamas and slippers. I was a little kid. Kids got away with a lot of stuff. Adults could never walk to the concession stand in their pajamas. Although, I do happen to see a lot of people in their pajamas at Walmart, so I may have to retract that statement.
After the first short or first movie, there would be a song about intermission that we grew to love. They made the concession stand sound like a 5-star restaurant. Everyone had to hit the concession stand. The smell of buttered popcorn would travel from the little block building to every car parked there that night. Parents knew that it didn’t matter how much food they brought with them for the kids to snack on, buttered popcorn was going to win hands-down. And it always did.
“Vickie, you do not need to go to the concession stand………No you don’t……..No you don’t…………Vickie, they are not giving away puppies. Quit lying……..No they aren’t……………………..Ok, but hurry back…..I don’t want butter on mine.”
Look how much fun they are having
We would go at dusk and watch the cartoons that were shown before the main movie. It didn’t take me long to figure out that my mom fell asleep a lot. What other reason would a mother let her children sit through a rated-R movie. She simply didn’t know because she fell asleep during the first movie. We rarely stayed for the second movie when we were quite small. Unless she fell asleep. And oh my, when we were a bit older, we wanted her to fall asleep. We had a lot to learn.
My first rated R movie that I was able to watch courtesy of my sleeping mother was The Fearless Vampire Killers. I was about eleven years old, I believe, since the movie came out in 1967. Directed by Roman Polanski, and starring Sharon Tate. My mom told me that it wasn’t rated R and that none of the movies at the Bellaire Drive-In were rated R. I don’t know about that, Mom.
I had my eyes glued to the big screen for a while, and glanced into the car to see if my mom was awake. If there was cigarette smoke coming out of the crack in the car windows, she was awake and she would take us home if she saw any nudity or bad language. But, and this but was the fun part, if she was asleep, we got a lesson in sex, drinking, and kissing. And with such a big screen, you could really see things. Like French kissing. Oh my. Again, my mom let me know that the movie was not Rated -R. She didn’t want to come off as a bad, sleeping mother. I always thought she was lying. Especially with The Fearless Vampire Killers. There were a lot of naked women running around. Found out today that it was rated PG 13. Go figure. Um, sorry Mom.
Some of the other movies I remember watching at the drive in were:
1967- Valley of the Dolls
1966- Sand Pebbles
Planet of the Apes-1968
Sound of Music
1967-Bonnie and Clyde
Now that I look through the internet movie database, I realize that I spent a good part of my summers at the drive-in. The above were just a sampling of the movies I saw in my pajamas. I feel sorry for my two children. They missed out. I guess I could ask them this summer some time to put their pajamas on one starry lit night and drag them to the closest drive-in. At ages 26 and 24, I am sure it would be an experience they would never forget.
The year was 1965. It was late fall, in the sleepy mill town of Weirton, West Virginia. Sitting in traffic with her three children, Georgiana Mendenhall was becoming agitated. This was a daily occurence on Cove Road, and Mrs. Mendenhall was in a hurry.
“This is ridiculous. I bet there is an old hoot up front, driving like a snail……I bet when we get where we can pass, there will be an old geezer up there. I betcha.”
Her daughter, Vickie, aged nine, took note of her mother’s words. This wasn’t the first time her mother had exhibited road rage. Vickie was sitting in the front seat, unprotected, and unaware that if her mother wrecked, Vickie would most likely go crashing through the windshield. Most likely.
Traffic was creeping. Vickie wished that she was in the backseat with her brother and sister. They were fighting, as usual, but yet it was always fun trying to avoid the sweeping slap that came from her mother, trying to swat at them to quit fighting while she was driving. Alone and seatbeltless in the front seat, made Vickie very aware of her situation as her mother’s road rage increased.
“Damnit the hell any way. Why are we moving so slowly. I NEED to get home.”
Georgiana Mendenhall did not NEED to get home. The woman was out of cigarettes and was slowly edging toward her next smoke. She was closer to her home than to a cigarette store. Of course, there was no such thing as a cigarette store in Weirton, West Virginia. Had there been, Mrs. Mendenhall would have worked there. She needed her Salem cigarettes, those cancer sticks in a green and white package.
Mrs. Mendenhall had no idea that she had left her pack of Salem cigarettes on the coffee table in front of the couch where she sat, inhaling the magic into her lungs. She smoked from the time she woke up until the time she went to bed. She smoked while cooking. She smoked while ironing. She smoked while smoking. She was indeed, addicted. The traffic was creeping, just as the hairs were creeping up on the back of Georgiana Mendenhall’s neck. She was ready to hit the car in front of her.
“Dear God, what is going on up there? If there is an old geezer causing this, I am going to ram him.”
Georgiana’s daughter was frightened for her life. For. her. life. She spoke not a word, however, because it would not make the situation any better. She just smiled to let her know that it was going to be ok.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Vickie?” Mrs. Mendenhall decided to take her edginess and point it right at her oldest child. “Do you think this is funny? I need to get home to fix dinner.” Vickie noted that her mother took grip of the steering wheel as if she were the Boston Strangler. The need for a smoke was becoming intense. Vickie later described the emotional turmoil in the automobile.
“Mom was falling apart. The Traffic jam was too much for her. I tried to joke with her, asking why it is called a traffic “jam” since you should be able to get through jelly. I thought it was funny, but she was having no part of it. She was ready to convulse.”
The children sitting in the back were blind to their mother’s growing need for a cigarette. They made matters worse by yelling at each other. Cheryl claimed that David was looking at her. David stated that he was not. Cheryl claimed that he was looking at her again. David stated that he was not.
And that’s when Georgiana Mendenhall lost her mind.
She began honking her horn. It wasn’t just a “beep beep” as in the Road Runner cartoons that her children loved so. It was a blare. Future writer Vickie noted the sound in a menagerie of synonyms she learned in fourth grade:
“It was a constant barrage, a cannonade, a unrelenting reverberation, vociferation, cacophonous,and dissonant.”
This did not make the traffic jam disband or hasten its agenda. Traffic was as slow as molasses on a summer day in the desert.
Vickie looked over at her mother. Georgiana Mendenhall looked like she was holding a pretend cigarette in her right hand. Beads of perspiration were falling from her brow. The horn blowing continued. The person in the car in front of Mrs. Mendenhall threw up his hands in exasperation. It was not his fault. It was probably an accident that was making the traffic move at a snail’s pace. They were in traffic for a long, long time, perhaps ten minutes. Too long for a short fused, cigarette craving murderous mom.
The traffic seemed to increase in velocity when the road turned from two to four lane. Mrs. Georgiana Mendenhall put her foot on the pedal and accelerated. She moved over into the passing lane and approached the traffic jam culprit, lingering in the right lane.
“You son of a bitch!” growled Vickie’s mother. She put her hand on the horn and the sound blared as they passed the accused. Vickie looked over at the driver. He was an old man. He was driving a purple Cadillac. A very large and long purple Cadillac. She knew the car well. She rolled her window down and waved at the driver as they came beside him.
“Hi Grandpa!’ Vickie mouthed over to the old man. He didn’t take his eyes off of the road. His hands were stationed at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, an intense look on his face. Afterall, a crazed road ragian was trying to run him off of the road.
“Mom, it’s Grandpa you called an old geezer.” Vickie laughed.
Georgiana Mendenhall did not say a word. She was not fond of her father-in-law, and he was not fond of her. He was a big name in this sleepy steel mill town, and he could make her disappear if he wanted to. He was the same man who put his crazy wife in a “rest” home every time he took a cruise or flight to Florida. He could make life miserable for his daughter-in-law. He may drive slow, but his actions in his business dealings were swift. But, he sure loved his grandaughter, Vickie.
“I’m going to tell Grandpa that you said he was a geezer,” Vickie glanced at her mother. Her mother looked ashen. Perhaps it was the want of a Salem cigarette physically making her sick. Or perhaps it was her daughter’s nonchalant way of bribing her mother.
Georgiana Mendenhall arrived at home and reached for her beloved Salem cigarettes. Ahhhh…….. Vickie, of course, had no idea at this age what an orgasm was, but noted that her mother lit a cigarette after she smoked that cigarette.
And three hours later, Vickie and her siblings were summoned to the kitchen, where they found newly baked whoopie pies, sitting in a pile on the kitchen table. “I thought I would make your favorite, Vickie.”
Vickie knew that her silence could be bought. Whoopie pies were an impressive purchase. She also learned that traffic jams are not necessarily a bad thing.
And she learned at the tender age of nine that life is nothing more than one big bargaining chip.
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?
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
I don’t know if I am much of a camper. We just didn’t camp out much when I was little. I can’t even imagine the Mendenhall family, aka the Griwsolds, sitting around the campfire, singing Kumbaya. I imagine it would go something like this:
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.
Back in the seventies, the campus of Fairmont State had a student union building where everyone congregated between classes. It was called the Nickel, because we had nickel a beer night about every night. Ok, that’s a lie. But, you could buy a glass of draft beer for a nickel, and maybe once a week had “Nickel Night.” Or it may have been once a semester. I know it was more than once a year. Let’s just go with once a night. So, yeah, we were a bunch of drunks.
The Nickel had a little game room on one side people rarely used, and a snack bar on the other side. I ate a hamburger and french fries almost every day. My freshman year I ate in the cafeteria because I lived on campus, but the rest of the time I ate food clogged with cholesterol about every day.
There was a room in the back of the Nickel called, The Greek Room. Sounds a little politically incorrect, I guess, but this huge room was just for frat boys and the girls who needed fifty bff’s. I was one of those needy, goofy girls. You could not go into the back room unless you were a Greek. There were a group of football players who did not join a fraternity, and they called themselves, Group Five. I don’t know why. Maybe there were only five of them in the group, but they sat out in the front with the rest of the non-Greekers and made fun of those who walked through. Well, if they didn’t know you or like you. I thought it was sort of fun walking through them to get to the back. We strutted through between classes. Little did I know how much we were hated until I started hating us, too. I will save that for a later post.
I joined Sigma Sigma Sigma during the second semester of my freshman year. Or maybe it was during my sophomore year. I know that I sat out at least a semester because my friends and I were bombarded during rush week, or whatever the hell it was called, and we just needed to step back and take a look at each of the five sororities and to see if we even wanted to join. We heard terrible things about each sorority. But, the worst was reserved for the Tri-Pigmas.
“You don’t want to join them. Sure they are all beautiful, but they KNOW they are…… They are just a bunch of rich bitches…..They will love you to your face and then tear you apart behind your back…….Their daddy takes care of them and they all drive expensive cars…
Yikes. They sounded harsh. The present-day Mean Girls, College Edition. But, they seemed sooo nice and they really wanted us to join.
Cover via Amazon
So, yeah, I was stupid and joined. It was fun, really. I had a blast the first three years. We weren’t mean or bitches. I even wore a t-shirt that read, “I’m not conceited, I’m perfect” to make fun of myself. All it did was make me look like a bitch. Some things always backfire. And my grades suffered too, because I wasn’t good at multi-tasking. I was partying and not studying. Something had to give. Goodbye 4.0, hello 2.6. Pathetic. I blame it on sorority life and the fact that I had no spine and would never say no.
“Sure, I’ll go with you.”……”Hell, yeah, let’s drive over to Ocean City on Wednesday,”…………………”I can’t believe I forgot to go to that class all semester”…..
I could also be a doormat. ”You need an abortion and need someone with a car to take you to Pittsburgh? Sure, I’ll take you.”……”Yeah, I’m going home this weekend. Sure, I can drive 40 minutes out of my way to take you home. Afterall we are sisters.” I was a no gas money given doormat.
So, back to the Nickel. Between classes, we headed for the back room. I had to get past the basketball players, though. I don’t know why, but several of the black basketball players liked to torment me. They at first, would say things to me when I would walk past. “Hey, Blondie, how are you doing today?” Well, I don’t know why, but the three of them scared the crap out of me. I don’t know if it is because they were so tall and I was so short and only weighed 98 pounds, or that they were black and there was only one black person in our whole high school and I was scared. Stupid, really, but ignorance leads to all kinds of fears. I feared the black basketball players. One day, I heard them laugh at me. “Look how fast she walked past us.” So, the torment began. They would block my path for a few seconds and just smile down at me. They were all tall freaking trees and I was walking through their scary forest each day. I was little red riding in the hood.
Once back in the safety of my frat boy and sorority bitch home, I would talk to my “sisters” and watch the TKE fraternity boys play Spades. Back in the mid-seventies, if you didn’t play Spades, you might as well just drop out of college.
I really don’t know how I learned how to play. I have horrible listening skills. Maybe someone taught me and showed me how to play while actually in the middle of a game. That’s the best way to learn. Just reading the directions would not cut it with me. The wikipedia rules that I just read made my head spin. How to Play Spades in 25 Easy Steps After I learned how to play Spades, I was pretty damn good. If you want to play with the boys, you have to know how to play. So, yeah, Spades was a definite game that was played in the Greek Room.
One game that three of the TKE brothers played on semester was called, “How Fast Does Vickie Eat?” Evidently, without me knowing, they must have watched how quickly I devoured my cheeseburger and fries. I was lucky if I weighed 96 pounds in college. I looked anorexic, but everyone knew that wasn’t true, because I could inhale food and never excused myself afterwards to put my finger down my throat. I could eat and not gain an ounce. But, I never realized that I was a fast eater. I guess someone noticed it one day, and so then they set out to watch me every day. I had no idea they were watching me. Until they brought me a homemade trophy.
I guess I was in the running for “Fastest Food Guzzler,” a made up contest that no one knew they entered. There were three people that they were placing bets on who could eat the fastest. They timed each person, me included. They had to wait until we all had ordered the same food. Dear God, did they not have anything better to do than to watch people eat?
I guess I won. Um, thanks? They told me that they timed me over and over again and that no one came close to how fast I ate. They made me feel like I should be proud. I felt like a pig. Thank God I didn’t look like one. I was a skinny piglet.
The next year I was handed another homemade trophey. Oh, come on now! I was so humiliated by the eating time trial that I learned to slow down and not eat like I had two minutes to live. But, this wasn’t another eating contest. This was a different kind of contest.
Looks like five of the TKE boys took it upon themselves to watch girls on campus. They gathered information and got back with each other and came up with a list. And I was on their list. Just great. What the hell did I do now? And these weren’t even the same goobers who gave me the first one.
The words on the homemade trophy simply read: BBOC Vickie Mendenhall
They handed it to me with big smiles.
“Ok, guys. What is this? What does BBOC mean?” I was semi-pissed.
“You have the Best Butt On Campus.” And with that said, they smiled and walked away.
I guess the TKE brothers found the best lips, the best bust, the best hair, the best legs, the best smile, the best eyes, and the best butt on campus. And of all of the butts, they thought my butt was best.
I haven’t won much after that. I won a jar of jelly once while playing some grocery store bingo. I won a $2 scratch off lottery ticket. I won a lottery for jury duty, but was told that wasn’t a good thing. Damn.
So, yeah, I have fond memories of the Nickel, that wonderful student union on the campus of Fairmont State College. I learned how to play Spades, how to eat quickly, and I learned that I had the best butt on campus.
Too bad that honor wouldn’t make a difference at the end of the semester when grades came out.
I guess I could have said, “But, Mom, I won a contest. See the trophy?”
Yes, I loved the Nickel. College would have been so much more fun, however, if there weren’t any classes.
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.
We have become a society of abbreviators. Our words are abbreviated. Our actions are abbreviated. I’m sure everyone has heard the phrase,”as a crow flies.” That means a shortcut or diagnonally in some crow talking circles. And that’s what we have all become. We are crows. Well, that’s not all that bad. Sure, maybe crows enjoy pecking dead things on the side of the road. I know some people who are peckers. (She laughed writing that) But, all in all, crows are intelligent birds, and if they have found a shortcut home, more power to the them. God bless us, for being stupid. Crows don’t follow a road, Goofball Head. They don’t think in those terms. We do.
“Well, if I was a crow, I guess I would live diagonally about, um, 6 blocks over. Yeah, so I live 6 blocks from here……..as a crow flies.”
I was a smart ass when I was in college and replied to someone who said that with a “How close for a blue jay?” He just looked at me like I was stupid. I’m not stupid….. I’m a crow.
But, we have become a nation of shortcutters. But, it didn’t start with our generation. People abbreviated long before we knew what the hell “LOL” meant.
It all started with contractions. They are similar to an abbreviation, but not really. “Hey, Bob, You know, I’m getting tired of talking and writing. I think I am going to shorten my words. Do ya see how I already did it? I shortened ” I am” to “I’m.” It’s amazing how he took a very long word and shortened it. And that’s how it started. A very lazy man came up with a way for all of us to be lazy. We have a whole list of ass-long words that we have shortened into contractions:
it’s - it is
don’t - do not
you’re – you are
isn’t - is not
we’ve-we have
Who would not want to shorten their words? Who wouldn’t want to shorten their words? See how easy that was? I will get done with this post so much faster now.
Since I am a school teacher, I have noticed that buses are now shorter. Well, some of them are.There are short buses because, well, they are special. I will leave it at that.
Yes ,we have become oh so lazy. We can blame our great grandparents…………..and poets. Poets used “Tis” a lot. Like that wild party girl, Emily Jane Bronte:
‘Tis moonlight, summer moonlight, All soft and still and fair; The solemn hour of midnight Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere…”
And Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven (Which is like a crow, but maybe even smarter.)
’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door; Only this, and nothing more.”
Tis means “it is”. Wait…. So does it’s. No wonder foreign people who want to learn English hate us. We have a screwed up language.
And we all know the famous, “Twas the Night Before Christmas.” Abbreviated.
Let’s take a look at some abbreviations that people used long ago and then some that we use now. Back then, people didn’t have the luxury to burst into laughter on paper like we can now. LOL
P.S.- This means post script, which I didn’t know for longest time. The term comes from the Latin post scriptum, meaning “written after.” When I was in elementary school and we first used P.S., I thought it meant like “Pssssssst, hey listen to this, there’s more.” My teacher never told us what it meant. It’s her fault that I got laughed at when I was in high school when I raised my hand to answer, “What does P.S. mean?” with a “Pssssssst.” I think I was called a space cadet….. No, I was a crow.
RSVP- Hey, we need to hear back from you. Respond soon veryplease. Or something like that. That’s what I said it was. Again, not my fault. Sucky teacher. RSVP comes from the French phrase, répondez s’il vous plaît. I know French very well and translated, it really means,” respond with your plate.”
TNT- Pulled this one out of my hat, didn’t I? Well, I thought of TNT only because I grew up with it. Wile E. Coyote lived at my house and was always trying to kill the Road Runner. He had a bunch of Acme products to use on the little speedy bird. “TNT” was written on the box.
I had no idea what TNT really meant. It was dynamite, but not really. You light the string and things blow up. TNT actually stands for trinitroluene. Nobody cares about that.
lb- pounds. This abbreviation just pissed me off. It makes no sense whatsoever. It should be pd. Everyone knows that. I remember getting this marked wrong when we had a measurement test in fourth grade. I remember it because stupid Miss Emler wrote on the board, “John weighs 200 lbs.” She wanted to show how pounds is abbreviated in a sentence. Well, I missed that part because I was thinking about this imaginary John fellow, and was hoping he was not in fourth grade somewhere. Totally missed the point and missed it on the test. Fat John kept me from having a perfect paper, dammit.
Boo- Right now I am teaching my fourth graders about the events leading up to the Revolutionary War. We read about how people gathered in the streets of Boston, yelling, “No taxation without representation.” The British to tend to make a few words into pages of long words, and it spilled over to their descendants. So, I had my class chant that phrase three times. You could not tell what the hell they were saying. It sounded like mumbled gibberish and they knew it. That’s when my lies kicked in and I told them how that phrase evolved over years to be. “Boooo” when we aren’t happy with something. Makes sense. We Americans shortened, “We are mad as hell, and we don’t like this one iota” to “Boooo!” Means the same damn thing, only shortened. Boo isan expression of disgust, dissatisfaction, or disapproval.
XL- Sigh. Extra Large. You know, this sucks. Why doesn’t it just say on the label, ”Bigger than Large.” It would make us previous size 0′s feel better about gaining 5 pounds every freaking year to the point where you have to wear an XL and draw pictures of pigs to put on your refrigerator in an effort to keep you from eating. One last sigh.
tv- Easy one. Short for television. I don’t think anyone ever says television anymore. “I think I will watch television right now.” Nope. Doesn’t work anymore. “We are heading to Walmart to buy a new television set.” (Thought I would try it one more time. Still doesn’t work.)
IQ- “He has the IQ of a worm.” “He has an intelligence quotient of a worm.” Well, I did feel smarter writing the second one. The only time I use the word quotient is when I am teaching division and I don’t use it that much becauss they have a hard enough time dividing.
St.- I don’t know about this one. Why would anyone abbreviate a saint? It’s like taking away their sainthood. Right, Saint Christopher? Saint Christopher was the patron saint of many many things, such as athletes, mariners, and travelers. He was against lightning, pestilence, bookbinders, epilepsy, floods, and um, fruit dealers. I’m really not making this stuff up. I wonder if a fruit dealer didn’t give him the correct change or his watermelon had too many seeds. You just can’t trust fruit dealers.
I.O.U.- No brainer. I owe you some money.
Yes, we are a society of abbreviators. And we are also shorter than usual. Our height is indeed, abbreviated. Studies show that we are getting shorter than our hunter-gatherer ancestors. So, everything is shorter. Except for maybe skirts. They were at their shortest in 1974. I know, because I wore one of them. You could not bend over.
So, go ahead and head home as a crow flies. RSVP to a friend’s wedding. Wear high heels to make you taller. Sit in front of the tv and watch your favorite show. Write a poem that starts with Tis. Call a married woman, Ms. or an unmarried woman Mrs. and see if they correct you. You can get short changed at the fruit dealer like our friend, St. Christopher. Abbreviations are all around us.
I have been playing Words with Friends and have become quite addicted to the little game. I can understand how Alec Baldwin just couldn’t put it away. I play it from Facebook. I’ve always been a Scrabble player, and I didn’t think this would match what Scrabble offers. When I first started playing, I thought you had to sit there and play it. I mean, that’s what you do with Scrabble. But, no. I found out that you can play a word, go out to eat, watch a movie, and then play your next word. It would suck if your opponent had no such plans, and was waiting for you. But, after playing a couple of times, you finally figure out that you can lead a life, be a mother, wash clothes, AND play Word with Friends. But, I’m not writing about how wonderful the game is. Oh, it is wonderful. I’m writing about particular opponents who are just pissing me off.
They are pissing me off because it reminds me of games I played when I was little. My mom taught me how to play everything from 500 Rummy , Gin, chess, to Yahtzee and chinese checkers. As I have written numerous times, I was a hyperactive child, but games and strategy kept me in focus. I was all about the game. But now, my opponents, well, they weren’t in the same league as me. At eight years of age, I was a gaming professional, dammit, and I expected those who played with me to follow the rules. Just follow the rules.
It all started with Candy Land. If my sister was losing, she would quit. I would have my little gingerbread man close to the end, ready for a little gingerbread victory dance. It would be exciting. Everyone likes to win. But then, she would simply stand up and make an exit.
“I quit. This is a stupid game.” What the hell, stupid sister? You always finish what you start. I was hyperactive as that little cartoon dog that follows the huge Bulldog, Spike, and I even knew that. I was three years older than she was, and she was an easy mark, but that is no excuse for a five year old. Get off the short bus and finish the damn game. But no. If was ahead by much, she would just stand up and quit.
Get back up and fight, soldier.
When we played Go to the Head of The Class, and if I was winning, she would quit. If we were playing Button, Button, Who’s Got the Button, and she was on a lower step, she would just get up and walk away. If we played Chutes and Ladders, she would pout for a while, and then get up and walk away. I mean, come on. It was Chutes and Ladders. That is one game that should be played to the very end. Well, like all freaking games. What the hell is wrong with you? Games are meant to be played until the end. End of discussion. Like my mom always said:
Quitters never prosper.
Dear God, I think she said that several times a week. I didn’t know what the hell “prosper” meant for the longest time, but that didn’t matter. I learned about context clues all on my own. Quitters never something…..Quitters never won…..Quitters were always losers. Yeah, that’s it. Quitters were losers. My sister was a loser. God, I wish someone would have thought to put their finger in an L shape over their forehead years ago. I would never have had to talk. There were a lot of losers in my household.
So, why do people quit? Did the ClemsonTigers leave the football field during the Orange Bowl when the West Virginia Mountaineers were pummeling them 70-33? No. They stayed until the very end. Thank goodness, or we wouldn’t be able to put these billboards up on the interstate near Morgantown. I love my WVU.
Yeah, it's a real sign.
It reminds me of the kid who brings the ball and if doesn’t get his way, snatches the ball and walks home. Cry baby. But, for the most part, sports teams stay until the very end. My son had a ten-run rule when he played baseball when he was younger. But, no one was quitting. They were just sent home early, dignity intact abeit tail behind their legs.
I did get confused about the whole quitting scenario because my mom used to always tell me when I got in trouble:
Quit while you’re ahead
Understand my confusion? First she was telling me all Kung Fu Caine-like that “Quitters never prosper” and then she turns around and tells me to “Quit while I’m ahead.” I’m thinking my mom may have been wise, but not all the way. She was a Sybil quoter, split personality and all. I should add that she used to also say, “Cheaters never prosper.” No one prospered with that woman.
I guess my rant should make a sharp point. Well, let me back up. Now that I have been playing Words with Friends for a few weeks now, I have gotten used to the people I play. I can tell which ones use other sources because, I mean, what the hell does “distome” mean? Well, I will tell you what it means. It is a parasitic flatworm. Ok, sure maybe Player #1 had an opponent play it and they remembered to play it with me. I guess I shouldn’t complain. I am using new words that I have learned. I’m not talking about the vocabulary geniuses/Scrabble dictionary users. Right now, I’m talking about the quitters.
I am currently playing twenty people. Well, sixteen people, since my son and I are in the middle of four games. But, I have two opponents that I play a lot who just quit if there are only about seven tiles left and I am way out in front. Then they immediately start another game. What? Oh my God, is my sister on the other end? Why do you do this? I don’t do it when someone is beating the hell out me, 419-302. I know I’m going to lose. But, I don’t quit. I play to the very end. Sure, I may send a friend a note that reads: “Is there any stopping you?” like I did today to a friend I just can not beat. She is good. And she probably appreciates the fact that I don’t quit.
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.
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“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.”
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“Sir….but then I have issues.”
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“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?”
“I call her “sweet fart”
She calls me “duckling” (phonetically, “duck ling” means “monkey’s ass” in Thai.”
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“I call her “my little pumpkin”…or kumquat…or other fruit. Or “My love” or “honey” or “Blender”
She calls me “dearest” or “Stud.”
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“After calling him a doodle bug once, he called me a rhinoceros beetle.”
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
One of my favorites games to play when I was little was Button Button, Who’s Got the Button? It was a pretty easy game to play. It didn’t matter how many kids were playing. And all you needed was a penny. When I first started playing the game, I was OCD about using a button, because, well, as in the title, someone was asking for a damn button. But, after using about ten buttons that my mom sort of needed, I was told if I ever used a button again, my name would be Mud. Which in mom speak meant I would be getting “The Belt.” So, I used a shiny penny instead.
The object of Button Button, Who’s Got the Button is an easy one. The game was usually played by several children and one adult. I wish someone would have told my mom that, because we all took turns being the “adult.” The children start by sitting on the bottom stair of a staircase. We played on my front porch steps. If it was raining, we used my basement steps. It was a pretty flexible game. So, again, the kids are sitting at the bottom of the steps. The adult (Me, at the old age of eight, perhaps) would hold out in front of them two closed hands, with one holding a “special” button hidden inside of it. I would ask, “Button, Button, who’s got the button?
For example, let’s pretend that my neighbor friends and siblings were sitting side by side on the bottom step. LeeAnn, Ramaine, Cheryl, and David. I would put my hands behind my back, and put the penny in one of them and then hold it out in front of LeeAnn. “Button Button, Who’s Got the Button?” She would then pick one of my hands. If she was right, she would get to move up one step. Then I would go to Ramaine, etc. etc. Whoever got to the top of the steps won and then they would get to be the leader.
This was such a fun game. For a while. One day, two of the neighbor girls, who were older and never played with us, wanted to join in the fun on summer afternoon. Well, how cool was that? I ran into the house and asked my mom if she would make Kool-Aid for all of us. She obliged and added cookies to the mix. This was going to be a great day.
Well, Linda, (not her real name) one of the older girls asked to be the leader. Of course, you can be the leader. We all squeezed on the bottom step and began to play. The other older girl, Kathy,(again, not her name) picked the right hand first thing. She got to advance up a step. I was next. Loser. David picked the right hand, as did my sister. Lee Ann and I were left behind in the dust. I dont think my bff Ramaine was there this particular day.
It was amazing how Kathy picked the right hand every time. Wow! She was so lucky. She quickly won. My mom then had us come in the house to have Kool-Aid and whoopie pies. Those older girls were going to want to play with us all of the time. My mom’s whoopie pies were the best cookie in the world. It was great how she was making them the very same day that Linda and Kathy decided to play with us.
So, after we got done eating, it was Kathy’s turn to be the leader. I was doing a bit better this time and was able to move up a little bit here and there. Linda was getting them right every time. She was almost at the top, when my brother, who was just coming out of the house, stopped and watched the fun, and then exclaimed, “You are cheating!” My little brother did not just say that. Did I just hear him tell the two older, beautiful popular girls that they were cheating? I was ready to get off the bottom step and run past everyone to tell my mom that David was going to make those girls want to quit and go home.
The girls looked at each other and then started laughing. They dropped the penny and looked us over and then Linda said, “This is such a baby game………….. We just came over here because your mom and my mom were talking on the phone and said she was making whoopie pies. We wanted some…….We’re leaving.”
And off they went with an air of superiority, munching on one of my mom’s world famous whoopie pies. I just wanted to cry. It’s funny, but we just sat quietly and watched them saunter down the street. They would turn around in the middle of the road, and laugh every couple of yards or so. I was so mad. I just wanted to throw rocks at them.
Well, Button, Button, Who’s Got the Button was put on the back burner for a long time. We switched to Mother, May I, or Colored Eggs. We saved Button, Button for our rainy day fun.
At least we knew on a rainy day we could play the “baby” game on my basement steps. The older girls couldn’t see us and we wouldn’t have to share whoopie pies with them ever again.
I skipped a decade or so but taught my children how to play Button Button, Who’s Got the Button on my old steps while visiting my parents. We had an inside staircase at the home we just built, but I wanted to initate this fun game where I learned to play. I explained the rules and talked about how much fun it would be. I got a real button from my mom’s decades- of-grand- button- collecting- collection, and we began to play. Adam won quickly and was able to be the leader. I sat down, sort of excited to share this wonderful game with my children.
Button, Button, I've got freakin Buttons
Adam put his hands behind his back, and put them out in front of his sister. One of his hands was out in front of the other. She picked it, and the damn hand held the button. He was lucky if he was six years old and already figured out how to cheat. I just looked at him. He was laughing.
I had a huge argument years ago with a girl over our first names. It was while I was attending college, circa 1976. We were in a bar, so you know how drunken conversations can take an ugly turn. Especially when there is name calling.
I was standing in a crowded pub, creatively called, The Pub, minding my own business, when I heard someone yell, “Vickie!!” Well, since that is my name, I obviously looked to see who was calling for me. I had no idea who the person was, but I was on my second beer, so maybe it was my best friend. You first need to understand that I was what they call a “cheap date.” I would start giggling after only 1/2 of a beer, so it didn’t take much for me to become the self-proclaimed life of the party. If I had more than three beers, and a microphone was nearby, I would become a comedian. I hang my head in embarrassment now. But, on that night, I became a drunken trial attorney. I am sure that is the best kind of trial lawyer. I argued my drunken case to the point where I was ready to take the LSAT the very next day.
Well, another “Vickie” went over and hugged the person who was yelling my name. How cool! Another person with my name. I wonder if we are related. Ok, now you should understand by that comment that I may have had more than 1/2 beer. I guess the next day it would have made more sense if our LAST names were the same, duh. But, when she walked by me, I decided to say something.
“I heard him yell for you. My name is Vickie, too.”
Well, hell, I never personally knew anyone with my first name. I went to a high school with over 2,000 students, and not one of them was named Vickie. Oh wait. That’s a lie. I can now think of two right off the top of my head. Well, that night, I thought I was the only one in the universe who had that first name. I was so excited. She seemed excited, too. She answered me with a sweet smile.
“Cool. How do you spell your name? I spell mine V-I-C-K-I.”
“I spell mine V-I-C-K-I-E.”
“Why? That sounds stupid.” Obviously, she had more than 1/2 beer also. I was shocked that she could say that with a smile. And, also, how can the same name “sound” stupid? What an idiot. And to think she called me “stupid.” Well, she was stupider.
I had some hard ass sorority sisters nearby. I wasn’t afraid of this stranger who shared my name. I’d have backup. Let the name calling begin, Vicki bitch.
“Stupid? Your name looks like you forgot how to spell the rest of it, because you have no brain, and you just quit writing it. V-I-C-K-I is incomplete.”
“Vicki Lawrence spells it with just an “i”. Is that the best you got? It was my turn.
“Well, then, she is stupid. She is just a sidekick to Carol Burnett. She only got the job because she looked a little like Carol Burnett. If she spelled her name with an “e”, she would have her own show.” I thought that was a brilliant retort.
Well, once drunks get in a confrontation, it’s hard to tell where the conversation ends up. We bantered back and forth for a short while, but realized that there really isn’t too much of an argument, unless you get off topic. I could have easily commented on her poor choice of earth shoes and painter pants. She could have commented on how beautiful I was. Or something like that. But, luckily, we ran out of steam and started making fun of how the “other” Vickie’s/Vicki’s would spell their name. I started.
I asked her if she was ever called, “Picky Vicky.” I hated that name, mainly because, well, I was picky. It would make sense in an argument that since “picky” is spelled with a “y”, then the name should end that way. We both thought that was an ugly adaptation of our name.
Then there was M-I-C-K-E-Y, as in the mouse. Why wasn’t our name spelled like that? V-I-C-K-e-Y. Later on, my husband used to call me “Vickey Rooney,” after the actor, Mickey Rooney. We both thought that was wrong also.
After we hugged and laughed off our three minute round, she went off to dance on the table and I went home to pass out study, I woke up remembering why I hate for people to write anything but, V-I-C-K-I-E. The stupid nuns at the Sacred Heart of Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy were to blame. As I mentioned in several previous posts, I attended that private school for the first three grades, and hated every minute of it.
First of all, the crazy head nun, Sister Maria, insisted on calling me Victoria, despite my objections. I got in trouble for trying to correct her.
“Little girl, your correct name is Victoria. “Vickie” is a nickname……….I don’t care what your mom says. “Vickie” is short for Victoria.”
Well, ok, then, witch. I hated Sister Maria and I knew it is wrong to wish bad things on her, but I hoped bad things would happen to her. Not death, mind you. I was only in third grade. I was thinking more like her walking and simply falling down. Yep. I wanted to see the nun fall down. Besides being a teacher, Sister Maria also drove the van/bus to pick up some of the students in the morning. One morning, a driver hit the side of our van. It’s weird, but I looked to see if Sister Maria was hurt before I noticed I had a big gash through my leotards. Dammit, she was ok. The police came and they asked for all of the names of the passengers in the van. The next morning, there was a write-up in the newspaper. My name was listed as one of the injured.
“…….and Victoria Mendenhall, 9, of Weirton……”
Whaaat? It honestly pissed me off. My name was in the newspaper, and it wasn’t really my name. Sister Maria told them my name was Victoria. I never hated her more than when I read my misprint in the newspaper. She was never going to call me anything but Victoria. So, I decided to be a smart ass from then on. I started the very next day when I got on the bus.”
“Good morning, Victoria.” she said when I got on the stupid bus/van.
“Good morning, Sister Mary.” She didn’t say anything, but gave me a very dirty look. I was dead.
I called her Sister Mary for a few weeks, when suddenly, out of the blue, a miracle occurred. A miracle, I tell ya.
“Vickie, did you have a nice weekend?” I just nodded and went on my way. Wow. I did it! I got her to start calling me Vickie instead of Victoria. I felt so powerful.
It wasn’t until a year later, far far away from the Sacred Heart of Mary Juana Academy, safely enrolled in public school, that I heard my mom talking to a neighbor lady during their daily coffee/cigarette marathon. I had settled in my eavesdropping hiding place, ready to listen to some mom gossip.
“No, don’t send him there. My kids went there for a few years until last year. I had enough of the head nun, Sister Maria. Vickie was coming home in tears almost daily because Sister Maria kept calling her Victoria. I finally called the school and told her that I should know what I named my daughter, and if Vickie comes home one more time and tells me you have called her Victoria, I will pull my children from your school and I will make some phone calls about how you have treated my daughter. Do I make myself clear?”
Wow. My mom went on blabbing, but I had heard enough. I could feel the air leaking out of my balloon swelled head as I walked into my room.
Years later, before my freshman year in high school, my mom, brother, sister, bff Ramaine and I were in a terrible car accident. I had hit my head on the back seat after a Mack truck hit us from behind and we flew head-on into a car coming in the opposite direction. I had blood flowing from my head and from my ankle, but still managed to talk to the ambulance driver person. I’m sure it was the concussion talking.
“My name is Vickie. It is spelled V-I-C-K-I-E…… Do you think my name will be in the newspaper?”
glass Vickie balls
Fast forward many years. I have divorced and have just purchased a new townhome. I am feeling liberated. I took back my maiden name and the sound of it makes me feel independent and free. I am happy. But, as I look around at new purchases, I had to smile. I must like my name.
55 years old and I'm collecting blocks...um, ok.
In the end, one needs to feel comfortable in their own skin. They need to be proud of who they are and defend their name.
Literally.
Set your drink on these lovely monogrammed coasters
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.
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.
Maybe it’s just me, but isn’t the card game, Old Maid, just a little politically incorrect these days? I mean, I couldn’t care less, but aren’t we making fun of an older lady who has never married or had children? The shame. Another name for an old maid is a spinster.
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.
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.
So, I just got back from stupid Walmart, and I made a few purchases for myself that may seem strange. Even the check-out lady asked me, “Aw, I remember these. Are they for your grandchildren?”
“No. I don’t have grandchildren yet.” That sort of pissed me off. Fifty-five year old people are too young to have grandchildren. And besides, I don’t look a day over thirty. My class tells me that all of the time, so I know it to be true.
“Oh, you’re a teacher?” Nib shit wanted an answer. I was in the mood to mess with her.
“No. They are for me……I never was allowed to play with toys when I was little……. I can afford them now.” I tried to deliver the line like Bob Newhart, my idol, with a hint of Ellen DeGeneres, my other idol. The man behind me in line cracked up. Ahhh, someone in this town understands snark.
Anyway, I brought home a fun game of my youth: Barrel of Monkeys. I guess you knew that was coming by my title. Can’t fool you guys. I wanted to write a blog post on games we baby boomers played, but thought, “Why, hell, Vickie, buy the damn thing, and take pictures of how stupid you look playing with it.”
Inspiration for my next blog post
For those of you who don’t know what the hell I am talking about, Barrel of Monkeys is a game that was brought to store shelves by Lakeside Toys in 1965. I guarantee you that I had this as soon as it came out. I was nine years old and my mom bought anything in sight in order to find something that would keep me occupied for more than 20 seconds. It’s hard to entertain hyperactive Mexican jumping beans.
Apparently, the idiom, “more fun than a barrel of monkeys,” was the inspiration for the game. I just really don’t understand how people start idioms, because why would monkeys shoved in a barrel be fun? I mean, wouldn’t the damn monkeys be so claustrophopic and pissed to high hell, that when released from the barrel, would start attacking and perhaps chew someone’s face off or something? So, to me, “more fun than a barrel of monkeys” should be a sarcastic remark, to be used, for example, at say, Grandpa’s funeral.
“Well, this is more fun than a barrel of monkeys.” See, makes sense.
Years ago, sometime during the 1950′s, Dave Garroway, host of The Today Show, asked, “What’s more fun than a barrel of monkeys?” A huge barrel was rolled out onto the stage. Garroway released them and they climbed the curtains, ran out into the audience, climbed on top of the cameras, and just generally wrecked havoc on the set. See, once again, sarcastic idiom. Monkeys in a barrel are not flippin fun.
So, fast forward to 2012. I opened up the barrel, all excited, because I have not played with the little plastic simians since my children played with it for ten minutes when they were young. And it was for that long, only because I just brought it home, and made them play.
“It is not boring. Look, hook the monkeys and see how many you can get………Well, they have to be in a pile or it is hard to hook their arms……It is not boring……….I played with this a LOT when I was little……………….What do you mean? I had more things to play with.”
Ok, didn’t last long. I’m sorry, but I just can’t see this being a top seller in 2012. But, I was still excited to play with it once again.I opened up the barrel to find 14 red plastic monkeys in a plastic bag. The plastic bag had warnings in 19 different languages:
“To avoid danger of suffocation, keep this bag away from babies, and children. DO NOT use in cribs, beds, carriages, or playpens.”
Found a loophole. You can put the bag on their high chair.
According to the instructions that did NOT come with the game, each game contains a “barrel” which is filled with brightly-coloured plastic monkeys with “S” shaped arms. Players must dump the monkeys on the table or other even surface and the objective of the game is to hook all the monkey’s arms together to form a chain. A player’s turn ends when the chain is broken. (I got this from their web site, as they neglected to put instructions in the barrel.)
So, what if a person from a foreign country or like, Zanesville, Ohio, opened the barrel only to find just what I did: monkeys in a plastic bag and that is all. Are they to assume that they know what the hell they are supposed to do with them?
Once out of the little barrel, what would you do with the monkeys since there were no instructions?
And the directions are where?
The monkeys would run amok, just like they did in my townhouse.
Messing with my tv, demanding to watch Planet of the Apes.
Messing with my cat, Whiskers, who roared like a lion to scare them. (No, she is not yawning. She is roaring).
They totally messed with a couple of my Words With Friends games, clicking on the ”resign” button when I was clearly beating the hell out of my opponents.
Then I caught them trying to escape, out into the Wild Wonderful West Virginia woods.
Quit flushing the toilet, you stupid monkeys.
I don’t know what the hell they were doing here, but I did find jello with bananas in the refrigerator. One of the monkeys must have decided to swim in the cherry liquid, because it is now hardened up to his neck. I promptly closed the door. (Pictures are too graphic.)
Helping themselves to some mango juice.
Attacking the cat from another angle
They got into my pill compartment thingy that I received as a gag gift for my 5oth birthday, but I use anywho. Two of the monkeys overdosed. You have no idea how hard it is to give CPR to plastic.
They got entangled in my floss and I don’t even want to know what the hell they did with my toothbrush.
Oh, that is just wrong! Get the hell out of the kitty litter box!
Ok, monkeys! That’s the last straw! No really. That’s the last straw.
I found all 14 monkeys and put them back in the barrel.
It was more fun taking pictures of them than actually playing the game. What’s fun with hooking monkey arms?
In the end, this game was great in 1965. I learned to be more patient, since I was a hyper little urchin.
But, in 2012……
it was great. Well, only if you had a camera and followed them around because there were no freaking instructions in the barrel.
Where the hell did this blue one come from?
I really did have more fun than a barrel of monkeys.
My fourth graders had to write an essay the other day on what they wanted to be when they grew up. I do this every year and it always comes out the same way. I try to keep the girls away from each other after I make the assignment, because they basically can’t think for themselves. Oh, I have one or two who know exactly what they want to be and will stand by it, but for the most part, whatever the most popular girl in class wants to be, her handmaidens want to be the same thing. This year was no exception. I made the mistake of letting the class take a bathroom break, and dammit, I am sure they all shared their lofty aspirations with each other in front of the bathroom stalls. And so it began.
“When I grow up, I want to be a veterinarian. I love animals and……………”
“I love animals, so when I grow up, I want to be a veterinarian…..”
I want to help cats and dogs when I grow up. I will go to vet school and be an animal doctor.”
“When I grow up, I want to help dogs that have been hit by a car. That’s why I want to be a vegetarian.” Well, at least that one made me smile.
I have 21 students in my class. There are thirteen girls and eight boys. Most of the boys wrote that they wanted to be a soldier. I had one exterminator. Besides the veterinarian girls, I also had one teacher, one pediatrician, and one that just stunned me. One of my brightest students wrote:
“When I grow up, I would love to work at a carnival. It would be fun to set up rides and learn how to make the rides start and stop. It would be fun to see everyone having fun. I wouldn’t want to work at the game booths, though. The stuffed animals you win smell like wet hay and you would have to stand up all night. If I took the tickets and started and stopped the rides, I could sit down a lot. And that’s why I want to be a carnival worker.”
Um, okay. Wow. I was shocked. So she wants to be a carny. Of course, kids change what they want to be when they grow up a hundered times. I told the kids to take the essays home to give to their parents to put away until they graduated from high school. I hope reading what they wrote in fourth grade makes them smile. It made me think of what I wanted to be when I little.
When I was very little, I wanted to be an actress when I grew up. Oh, not just any actress. I wanted to be a smoking actress. Because back then, actresses all smoked. I was sure of it. If you are an actress, you have to look the part, you know. Oh, I was styling. Most little girls play “Dress Up” when they are little, and don stuff out of their mother’s closet. Well, shit, I didn’t want to wear a house coat that snapped up the front. My mother lived in her housecoats. I don’t think any mother on the block actually got dressed each day. So, I asked for high heels, a boa, and other odds and ends for my next birthday so I could start actressing.
I was a good actress. I would say, “Dahling” a lot and would take a puff off of my cigarette. That part was a problem. I had no prop. I pretended that I had a cigarette. I knew how to pretend smoke. I watched my mother light up millions of cigarettes. I’m serious with the number, just ask my second hand smoke lungs. But, she would have the cigarette in her right hand, arm bent, with her elbow up in the air. That cigarette was in her mouth most of the time. She would inhale, and then move her hand away, like the smoke coming out on the exhale wouldn’t be able to go around her arm. I could see the smoke swirl and curl away from her. And right up my nose it went. Well, ok, I don’t know that for sure. But, in college, my Phys Ed instructor told me, “You’d be able to run around the track if you’s quit smoking.” I was pissed. I couldn’t help that I had the lung capacity of a worm. I never smoked a day in my life. Well, that’s a lie. I smoked when I was a child actress.
You see, a good actress should be able to act out a scene by either using a particular prop or pretending she is using the prop. Like, um……a cigarette. Oh, I had candy cigarettes. Those were big when I was little.
But, you know, if you are going to dress the part, you really need to act the part. And everyone knew back then that all actresses smoked. I knew that because I watched movies. Yes, all actresses smoked. And so, then, I should too.
Anyway, the candy cigarettes weren’t working. I didn’t like my working conditions. If I was going to be an actress, I need a real cigarette. So, with my boa wrapped around my neck and my clickety clickety of my plastic high heels, I waltzed into the living room and took one of my mom’s cigarettes. My dad was always behind his newspaper. He wasn’t going to notice I lifted one of my mom cigarettes.
Oh, my, did I have fun with that cigarette. Of course, I didn’t light the cigarette. Honestly, I didn’t think to light it. But, I puffed and smoked in between my “Hello Dahling’s.” My dog, Susie, sitting in the audience, loved my performance. How funny that years later I would major in Speech in Drama in college.
Oh my. Maybe my little fourth grader may be a carnival worker after all.
You know, I wonder if I am too old to be a child actress?
I’m allergic to bee stings. Like anaphylatic shock allergic. So, imagine how mad I was this week when two of my co-workers started using bee pollen to help them lose weight. Bee pollen? The hell you say!
Apparently, bee pollen is the brand new weight loss magic. And I can’t take it because I’m allergic to stupid bee stings.Wrong bees
Back in the early sixties, summertime fun included running through the grass barefoot. I couldn’t. Of course, I didn’t want to, because there was all kinds of shit in the grass, just waiting for your feet to apply pressure on it. You are probably thinking that I stepped on a bee, and that’s why I am barefoot-in-the-grass challenged. But, the answer is no. It was much more complicated than that.
To understand how I got stung, you have to understand the kind of kid I was back then, in 1962 or so. I loved animals. All animals. When my dad found a copperhead nest in our backyard and my brother, David, almost stepped on one, it left my dad no choice but to set the whole yard on fire. Ok, I’m teasing. He killed the snakes. And I cried. I just loved animals that much.
No, I got stung in a way that made my siblings make fun of me for years afterwards.
I was sitting on the wooden seat of our sandbox. A bee with long skinny, bent legs flew right by me. It scared me, because it came right out of the blue, and I didn’t know what the hell it was. So, I swatted at it, and it fell to the ground, which was the sand in the sandbox. I felt horrible! I may have killed the poor unknown creature. Upon further inspection, I saw that it was a bee. It was injured. Or so I thought. I somehow was able to scoop it up into the palm of my hand, and what I did next was best deemed as “ridiculous.” I put the bee up to my cheek and said, “Awwwww. I’m sorry!”
Bzzzzzzttttt!! The son of a bitch stung me on the cheek!
I think that I was more pissed than hurt. I mean, really? I try to hug you and you reciprocate by stinging the hell out of my little child face. Well, it didn’t take me long to realize that I was in pain. I ran inside. My younger sister followed me into the kitchen.
Mommy!!……… Vickie got stung by a bee!……………. She tried to kiss it!” Hahahahahahahaha. What a little snot.
I didn’t try to kiss it, stupid sister. I tried to hug it. Big difference.
Well, I guess some bees like to leave their calling card behind. The stinger sometimes stays with the injection of bee poison. My mom tried to take a look, tweezers nearby. But, she didn’t have time to dig the shit out of my cheek. I was having trouble breathing. Uh oh. My mom grabbed her suitcase of a purse, and me, and we flew down the steps to the garage, where her Cadillac sat waiting for a day just like today.
My mom rushed me to the hospital. Rushed was an understatement. She drove like Mario Andretti. We didn’t wear seat belts back then, so I was in quite a pickle. I was going into anaphylactic shock. I’m sure when the doctors found out that I put a bee to my cheek, they probably decided to run some other tests. I’m surprised that didn’t take me up to the fifth floor. My mom looked at me like I was retarded for a few weeks afterwards. I heard her on the telephone, talking to the neighbor ladies.
“Did you know that I had to take Vickie to the hospital? Get this. She tried to hug a wasp……..She swatted at it and it fell to the ground and she picked it up and told it she was sorry and put it up to her cheek and…..” I eavesdropped enough. I got out of my eavesdropping hiding place and went to my room.
After I got stung, I was always on the lookout for wasps. After doing some research on wasps, yellowjackets, and hornets, I read where, “Wasp stings are more painful than the sting of any yellowjacket, hornet or bee.” No shit, Sherlock. I cried. Well, I was a kid. Kid’s cry if someone looks at them wrong. But, I remember how much it hurt. But, then I forgot, because, well, my throat was closing in.
After years of searching, I found the son of a bitch that stung me.
I went to a police sketch artist and this is what he came up with after I gave detailed information on what the wasp looked like. He did a wonderful job, don’t you think? It’s an uncanny resemblance to the real culprit.
I never got stung by a wasp again. I’ve been stung by other kinds of bees over the years, and have promptly taken Benadryl and waited for my throat to close in. I did well. I think it was the wasp sting that sends me off to the hospital.
So, it brings me back to bee pollen and the want to lose some weight. My co-workers aren’t hungry and swear by the 60 capsules @ $60. Bummer. Should I take the chance and see if my body can handle the bee pollen? I went searching for answers.
“Some side effects are allergic reactions like itchy throat, wheezing, coughing, hives, and skin flushing.” Ok, I should maybe just actually try to diet and exercise, perhaps. Hives suck. I read on…
“Severe allergic responses are also possible, including anaphylactic shock.” Shit.
Well, I guess I will have to skip the bee pollen way of losing weight. I’ll have to visit the elliptical, instead, and drink a boat load of water every day.
Thinking back, I guess it wasn’t such a smart idea to try to hug a wasp.
I should have thought BEEfore I did something so unBEElievable…… Like write that previous line.
Where the hell is the fort?
Where the hell did this blue one come from?
But, you know, if you are going to dress the part, you really need to act the part. And everyone knew back then that all actresses smoked. I knew that because I watched movies. Yes, all actresses smoked. And so, then, I should too.
Wrong bees
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