English: The face of a black windup alarm clock (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
For those of you who follow my blog, you know tomorrow is my least favorite day of the year. I’ve surely written enough about Daylight Savings Time and how it turns me into a zombie for a few weeks after the time change.
So, how many times can I beat this dead horse? Apparently, at least five times. I guess I just need to really get my opinion out there. Daylight Savings Time just sucks the life out of me…….and millions of other people too.
But, I have to admit, the whole time change did have one perk: church. Now, don’t judge, but I just did not care to attend church when I was younger. My dad was a Sunday school teacher, so we had to get up every Sunday morning and drive downtown to church. And, I’m sorry, but I just didn’t like it. I had a problem with the whole Noah’s Ark story when I went to that private hell of a Catholic school from first through third grade, and was tired of arguing about it with Sister Maria and then at Sunday school. I just didn’t buy it. I was mad at God for drowning animals. Taking only two of a kind was really mean, and when I was little, I held a grudge for a tremendously long time. So, I just thought the whole church thing was a big ole fat lie to get money in a collection plate.
So, there was one Sunday each year that I didn’t have to go to Sunday school, and that was when it was Daylight Savings Time. Oh, I remember my parents talking while sitting on the couch about how they had to remember to turn the clocks ahead before they went to bed. I always wanted to try to sneak into my parent’s room and change the Big Ben alarm clock my dad kept by his bed, but after getting caught the first time, I decided I was doomed and would have to go listen about multiplying fishes and walking on water. None of the Bible lessons were believable to me. People can’t get that old. I told my mom Caspar the Friendly Ghost cartoon was more real than church. I remember my dad looking at me like I needed an exorcism. His Bible was all marked up and his handwriting in the margins. He was clearly into it, but his nine year old heathen daughter wasn’t buying any of it.
I know my dad would change the kitchen clock above our lovely gold refrigerator that Saturday night before he went to bed. He would change the time on his wrist watch. He would change the time on his Big Ben alarm clock and set the alarm to get up for church. But, every Daylight Savings Time Sunday morning we would always miss Sunday school. We slept it! My mom would yell first.
“Elwood, wake up! We’ve missed church!” I would wake up and smile. But, then, my mom would march into my room and ask why I pushed down the alarm clock so it wouldn’t go off.
The problem with all of this is that I was a great liar and lied every chance I got. So, when I really told the truth and tried to explain that I didn’t do it, no one believed me. I would be just like me to sneak into my parent’s room and push in the alarm buzzer thingy.
For years I thought my sister was the culprit because she would laugh at me for getting yelled at for turning it off. She wanted to go to church because she liked wearing her white patent leather shoes. She would deliberately put on a pair of white anklets that had a hole in the big toe so she could entertain while sitting in the pew at church. But, you know, I never ever pushed down the alarm button to keep us from waking up on time. I mean, I wouldn’t wait until Daylight Savings Time to do that. I’d do it every damn Sunday.
Years later, when I had my own children and complained how my husband wanted to go to church the next day when it was Daylight Savings Time, I would always try to balk. “Oh, come on. We are losing an hour. Let’s just sleep in.” My mom was visiting during one of those time changing moments and just smiled when I was complaining about being blamed for turning off the alarm.
“Mom, I really wasn’t the one who would push in the alarm so we could sleep in after losing an hour.”
“I know.” I looked at her and she was wearing a shit-eating grin on her face.”
“God dammit, Mom! …….You were the one?…….and then you came in and blamed me?” She smiled and nodded.
Well, there was only one thing I could do….
I stood up and clapped.
“I needed that hour,” she said with a shrug.
So, in the end, the heathen’s mother threw her own daughter under the proverbial bus in order to garner a lost hour of sleep once a year.
Several men dressed like Abe Lincoln will gather on a knoll tomorrow morning, proclamation in hand, and will proceed to yank a fat squirrel out of its heated den. Crowds who have gathered on this cold cold February morning will wait with bated or alcoholic breath, whichever comes first. Will Phil see his shadow? We must know.
Another Groundhog Day, another prediction. Will we have another six weeks of winter or will spring be right around the corner? According to Wikipedia, ” if it is cloudy when a groundhog emerges from its burrow on this day, then spring will come early; if it is sunny, the groundhog will supposedly see its shadow and retreat back into its burrow, and the winter weather will continue for six more weeks”.The Weather Channel is already telling us we are going to have six weeks of winter. So, why all the brouhaha over a sleepy chubby squirrel?
Ok, a groundhog is not a fat squirrel. I apologize. A groundhog is a member of the squirrel family, but much larger than the ones I see eating out of the bird feeder. Putting that aside, I’d still like to know how the people in a small Pennsylvania town decided years ago they have a weather prognostigator?
“Hey, look at that groundhog! I can see his shadow. Do you think that means something?” I mean, how did this weird ritual start?
And it is weird. Think about it. People drive from miles around to gather in the cold to watch the town leaders grab a sleeping groundhog from its luxury living quarters, hold it up, and then proclaim to the masses if there will be six more weeks of winter. The crowd will clap and yell “hoorah” or moan and go home…or back to the bar. When did we start believing a groundhog? Why not a raccoon? They are smart enough to take the lid off of a garbage can. Surely they too, can predict the weather?
Ok, I know we don’t really believe a groundhog, but how did the people of Pennsylvania believe in it enough over the years to create such a tribute to weather forecasting? I just had to know.
I have written several times about the little varmint Ground Beaver DayGroundhog DayGroundhog Day and a Haiku or Two in the past, but really never took a look at how this event started. I actually have this on my bucket list. Sure, why not drive up there one year just to say I did it?
English: Welcome to Goolers Knob – Groundhog Day 2005. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Well, it looks like Groundhog day began as a German custom in the 18th century in this country. When German settlers arrived in the 1700s, they brought a custom known as Candlemas Day. Supposedly, a custom in ancient European weather lore used a badger or a hedgehog as the prognosticator. Seeing there aren’t too many badgers or hedgehogs in Pennsylvania, I guess the groundhog was the next best thing. It has been celebrated in Punxsutawney since 1886 or so. In Europe, it was the tradition on Candlemas Day for the church official to bless candles and hand them out to the people in the middle point of winter.It also has something to do with Mary and Jesus, but I didn’t want to go in that direction, so I ignored the religious meanings of the day. So, If the sun came out February 2, the mid point of the season, it meant six more weeks of winter. Tomorrow will be Punxsutawney Phil’s 127th prognostication.
Shouldn’t he be dead?
So, when you turn on the Weather Channel in the morning, you will undoubtedly witness the faux Abe Lincolns pulling a fat squirrel out of a den on Gobblers Knob in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. It’s a big deal. And maybe the ground hog will be alive, celebrating its 127th year of forecasting or maybe he is an imposter for the real Phil, who no longer sees his shadow. Regardless, it is a tradition in our country that is here to stay. In fact, there are many “Phil’s” in different parts of the country. Afterall, the weather in Florida is different than Pennsylvania. It is known as “The Sunshine State.” Of course Phil would see his shadow down there. And that surely wouldn’t mean six more weeks of winter in Florida. That means, “Hey, I saw my shadow because I am in freaking sunny Florida.”
Here are some of the other “Phil’s” that will be called upon this February 2:
French Creek Freddie – My home state of West Virginia.
A pissed off French Creek Freddie
North Carolina has five prognosticating groundhogs- Grady, Nibbles, Queen Charlotte, Sir Walter Wally, and Mortimer. ( I fancy the Sir Walter Wally moniker)
Tennessee- Chattanooga Chuck
Georgia- General Beauregard Lee
Canada- Wiarton Willy
New York- Staten Island Chuck
Ohio- Buckeye Chuck
I could go on and on. There are many famous fat squirrels that will be pulled out of their dens tomorrow.
Happy Groundhog Day! (Whatever the hell that means)
I was sitting at our local lazer wash the other day thinking back to the first time I ever went to an automatic car wash. I grew up in Weirton, West Virginia, and the new “automatic” car wash had just opened “up on the hill” near our home. I can’t remember what kind of car we had back then, but the whole family jumped in when my dad told us a car wash opened where you sit in the car while it is being washed. What??? No taking a bucket of water, soap, and a garden hose out into the driveway anymore? Well, not that I really helped wash our cars in the first place. I was and still am, a “non-finisher.” I just really can’t finish anything all the way through. Same for washing the car. I would get one side done and then spray the other side with the hose to knock some dust off and call it a day. You could never see that side from our picture window, so it looked like I did a great job.
When we pulled up to the new car wash, we had to wait in a line because, as all things new, people wanted to experience this new-fangled way to wash a car. It was the 60′s, after all, and inventions were just waiting to be invented. When it was our turn, a guy motioned for us to move up a bit. We then had to put the car in neutral. They guy then took some gigantic hook and put it somewhere in the front of the car.
“Will that pull off the bumper?” I thought that was a pertinent question.
The guy told my dad to make sure all of the windows were rolled up. We were ready. There was a little jerk and our car was on some track through a little building with these scrubber things on the sides. The noise was loud and the water was really hitting the windshield and roof of the car. To be perfectly honest, it was a bit scary. Those brushes were right up against our windows and then one roll up over the car and down the windshield. Hey, this was fun….but not really.
After we were done, there were two teen-age boys who wiped our car with dry cloths. My mom had to interject her authority of being Queen of Weirton.
“Make sure you dry the car good….and there better not be any spots of dirt anywhere.”
Oh, but there was. When we pulled into the driveway, she had my dad not park the car in the garage. She wanted to inspect the job the new automatic car wash did on our family vehicle.
“Well, we won’t be going there again.” I remember there were seven places that were missed. I smile at this because I can’t remember what I did fifteen minutes ago, but I can remember my mom ranting about SEVEN missed places on the car after visiting the new automatic car wash “up on the hill.” She loved to find something to bitch about. My dad was probably relieved that he wasn’t at the end of this particular rant. I remember thinking he was going to like this new car wash. Anything she disagreed about, my dad was then quietly all about.
So, one day I was sitting, watching tv, with our dog Smokey, on our lap. It was a hot summer day and my dad must not have wanted to wash the car by hand. I mean, who would want to, now that we basically had a robot to do it for us? He asked me if I wanted to take a ride with him to the car wash.
Since Smokey was already sitting on my lap, I just picked her up and carried her a la Paris Hilton with her prized chihuahua to the car. Smokey often rode in the car. As all chihuahuas, Smokey was a yapper. Yap, yap, yap. But, who knew what was about to transpire.
Well, Smokey went ape shit. The noise first scared her and she buried herself beside my hip. We were yanked ahead on the conveyor belt. When the brushes hit against the car, that’s when Smokey defended her territory and her family. She ran over to the window and bared her teeth and growled and barked like she was ready to take on the brushes. She ran back and forth, over my dad and over me to each window. She was going to save us from this barrage of red and yellow bristles attacking us.
Rotating brushes inside a conveyor car-wash. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I should have counted how many times she ran back and forth. My dad also found it amusing. Smokey the chihuahua was fighting with the brushes at the automatic car wash.
When we got home, Smokey was exhausted and fell fast asleep on my dad’s lap.
The next few times we went to the car wash, we took Smokey along for our pleasure. It seems so cruel now to put the little yapper through this sort of animal abuse, but you have to understand I never once thought I was being abusive. I just thought it was really really funny.
And each time we got home, my mom would disappear downstairs for a few minutes. We knew she was heading for the garage.
I used to watch the Rose Parade every New Year’s Day for years before I was told all the floats were made of flowers. Maybe I just didn’t listen much to the commentator:
“And here’s a float from McDonalds…blah blah blah blah..roses.”
I was hyper when I was little, so maybe I just couldn’t watch and listen at the same time. The floats were beautiful. And it was named after a flower. Hence, the name, Rose Parade. I thought maybe it was named after a woman…….Rose McGillicuddy of Pasadena…..Ok, I made that name up. But why roses, I asked? Why not the Purple Cone Flower Parade or The Natural Material Parade?” I didn’t ask that when I was little. I’m asking that now when I am older and still challenged in so many ways. But, since I love to learn about insignificant things, I headed to google, king of all kings.
So, it looks like The Rose Parade started way back in Pasadena, California on January 1, 1890. The Rose Bowl football game was added in 1902 to help fund the parade. I thought that was pretty interesting.
The whole reason the parade started was to showcase the mild California winters. Many members of the Valley Hunt Club, the organizers of the very first Rose parade, were former residents of states in the east and midwest. One member announced at a meeting, “In New York, people are buried in the snow. Here our flowers are blooming and our oranges are about to bear. Let’s hold a festival to tell the world about our paradise.” I would think the man should have said the oranges were ready to be picked, but I guess that’s how the hell they talked back then.
And so they did organize a little parade to show off how wonderful Pasadena is in the winter and how putting flowers on moving things made the freezing New Yorkers jealous enough to withdraw all of their money and move to their sunny community. What confuses me is the fact there was no television in 1902. People elsewhere would have to read about it in a newspaper. So, in the end, I am thinking the Valley Hunt Club wanted to ride down the street on their horses.
They had horse drawn carriages adorned with flowers. After the parade, there was a chariot race, tug-of war and other games which drew about 2,000 people. After a few years, the parade got too big for the Valley Hunt Club, so the Tournament of Roses was formed and later a football game replaced a chariot race, which was a big deal of the whole celebration.
English: A Tournament of Roses Chariot Race from 1908. The race was later replaced by the Rose Bowl Game in Pasadena, California (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The floats of today take about a year to construct. According to Wikipedia, “It is a rule of the parade that all surfaces of the float framework must be covered in natural materials (such as flowers, plants, seaweeds, seeds, bark, vegetables, or nuts, for example); furthermore, no artificial flowers or plant material are allowed, nor can the materials be artificially colored.”And this is what bothers me. I mean, it bothers me just a little, but enough to gripe about it. Isn’t this a waste of nature?
I’m beginning to think somebody in the Valley Hunt Club was a florist.
Think about it. I bet you there are more florists in the Pasadena area than anywhere else. Ok, maybe flowers are shipped in from other flowery places. Tulips from Holland, perhaps. Acorns from a forest in the Applachians. I don’t know. But, this has got to be a boon for florist owners and growers. I guess that is a good thing for the economy. But, what happens to the flowers and natural materials after the parade. Do they go into the biggest compost pile in the world?
So, being that my mind is still a bit hyperactive and all over the place, I wondered about other wastes…..like Christmas trees. I have a bit of a problem with cutting down beautiful pine trees, dragging them home on top of a car, sticking them in the corner of a room and putting things on it….only to throw it away come New Years Day. Poor pine tree.
But then again, everything is like that, isn’t it? Chickens are raised only to have their heads cut off so they can be served on our dinner plates. Corn is grown on farms just so we can eat popcorn and cornbread stuffing. I guess I could go on and on. So, in the end, flowers are grown for the Rose Parade. I guess I have to live with that.
That being said, I think it is our responisibility to watch the Rose Parade to see the beauty of Pasadena’s mild winter and of course, the magnificent floats. They are beautiful. Band members nation-wide fund raise their little asses off to be able to be part of the parade. Our very own East Fairmont High School was able to participate in the Rose Parade several years ago. That was a big deal. And it was exciting to watch on tv. I didn’t notice the sunny environment of California, however.
Is this still the objective? Regardless, watch the parade tomorrow. Kudos to the Valley Hunt Club of 1890. They came up with a great idea. Look how many people are now living in California.
English: Bicentennial Mexico ~ Rose Parade January 2010 ~ Pasadena, California Español: Bicentenario de México durante el desfile de las rosas en Pasadena,California. Enero 2010. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
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I saw a seagull today. I realize that is not an unusual observation for many. People always see them at the beach. After all, that’s where they belong. So, why the hell are they flying around my local Walmart’s parking lot? In West Virginia.
I came to Fairmont to go to college in 1974 and there were a few seagulls in the Middletown Mall parking lot. I was confused then and I am confused now. They have no business being in the mountains of West Virginia. That is against the laws of nature. Why, that would be like seeing a polar bear on a Miami beach, a rattle snake crawling along in the Arctic, or a moose hanging out in Central Park. So, after going through more “animals out of their element” scenarios, I decided I needed to learn more about seagulls and why they are in Fairmont, West Virginia. We only have streams and rivers. And they aren’t even cool rivers, like the Columbia…..or the mighty Mississippi. No, my seagulls are near the Tygart and the West Fork Rivers. There is no sand, no waves, no crabs to peck at. Why, oh why, are they flying above me in the freaking Walmart parking lot? The search was on.
Many people are perplexed as well. A woman wrote from Iowa about seeing seagulls in her Kmart parking lot. Many other land-locked puzzled people were wondering the same thing. Is it a migration route? And if so, where the hell are they coming from or going to in Iowa? That makes no sense at all. Iowa is too far away. And a blogging friend informed me that the seagull is the state bird of Utah. Utah! Seems that years and years ago locusts were eating a lot of crops and all of a sudden seagulls appeared and ate the locust. The Mormons saw that as a sign and the next thing you know, they’ve got a state bird. Apparently, the seagulls in that state like the brine in the Great Salt Lake.
Maybe the seagulls think West Virginia is part of Virginia. They, afterall, have Virginia Beach, seagull capital of a small stretch of beach. There are a lot of geographically challenged people out there who think West Virginia is western Virginia. Maybe the seagulls think the same.
Years ago, near Point Pleasant, West Virginia, people thought they saw a strange flying “thing” that was dubbed Mothman. Hysteria reigned in that small Ohio River town for many years afterwards. Mothman supposedly had red eyes, a large wingspan and could pick up a German Shephard and carry it off. There is even a statue to Mothman and a Mothman festival. But, a wildlife biologist said all along it was a sandhill crane, a large American crane almost as high as a man with a seven foot wingspan featuring red circles around its eyes. He said the bird may have wandered out of its migration route.
I guess not all birds know what the hell they are doing. Sure, Canadian geese flaunt their knowledge of their ABC’s by flying in a V formation. They fly south for the winter. Well, they used to until they decided that since these silly Americans are feeding them, they’d just stay all year long. We can’t get rid of them or their trail of slimy algae green poop.
So, maybe my Walmart seagull got lost on his way to Bora Bora or Aruba or where ever they fly on their migration route. I had no idea there were so many varieties of gulls. All I know is that they can attack. I know this because I watched Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. Tippi Hedren got pecked in the forehead by one.
In the end, I guess I feel sorry for the seagull who is living at the Walmart parking lot. Where does he sleep at night? Sitting on a light pole can’t be fun. Doesn’t he miss the sound of the ocean waves lulling him to sleep? And if he doesn’t leave, will the crows let him hang out with them? They are usually a tight group, not making friends easily.
I did just read that we may be confused by their name, as it implies the “sea.” Someone wrote there is no such thing as a “sea” gull. Gulls can adapt inland. Well, then maybe their name should change. Canadian geese are no longer Canadian….. Hermit crabs are quite social……a teddy bear hamster is not a damn teddy bear……
and a jumbo shrimp is not a big little thing. Whoever is naming animals is on drugs.
It all started with Groundhog Day, you know. There was a famous groundhog prognosticator in Pennsylvania, and soon after cities came up with their own weather fortune teller whistle pig. Such is the case with the big New Years Eve ball drop.
When you think of New Years Eve, all those who don’t live under a rock know about the ball drop at midnight in Times Square in fantastic New York City. I took a picture of it from the top of the Rockefeller Center when I was there this summer. It’s just not the same, I guess, as being there smooshed up against thousands of people on a cold, drunken New Year’s Eve.
The first ball drop in Times Square took place on December 31, 1907. According to Wikipedia:
“The first New Year’s Eve celebration in what is now known as Times Square was held on New Year’s Eve 1904. The New York Times newspaper had opened their new headquarters at One Times Square (at the time, the city’s second tallest building) and persuaded the city to rename the triangular “square” surrounding it for their newspaper (which the city later did on April 8, 1904). The newspaper’s owner decided to celebrate the opening of the company’s new headquarters with a midnight fireworks show on the roof of the building on December 31, 1903. Close to 200,000 people attended the event, displacing traditional celebrations that had normally been held at Trinity Church. After four years of New Year’s Eve fireworks celebrations, the newspaper’s chief electrician Walter F. Palmer constructed an electrically lit time ball that would be lowered from the flagpole on the roof of One Times Square. It was constructed with iron and wood, lit with one hundred 25-watt bulbs, weighed 700 pounds (320 kg), and measured 5 feet (1.5 m) in diameter. It was first lowered on New Year’s Eve 1908 (December 31, 1907).”
The Times Square ball drop is one of the best-known New Year’s celebrations, attended by at least one million spectators yearly. The Times Square ball drop has also inspired other drops across our great nation. So, if you can’t be there in New York City for the ball drop, and don’t really care to watch it on tv, you can always check to see if your city has a creative drop of their very own. Not all cities drop balls. Some cities use their famous icon to ring in the new year. It is obvious the state of Pennsylvania loves to share their symbols on New Years Eve.
* Saint George’s, Bermuda- a Bermuda onion wrapped in Christmas lights is dropped.
* Key West, Florida- A gigantic conch shell is dropped. There is also a gay bar that drops a giant ruby slipper with a drag queen inside. Fun times.
* Miami, Florida- The Big Orange Drop. Well, Florida is the orange capital of the world. “Mr. Neon” was recently renamed, “La Gran Naranja,” which I am thinking means the big orange. I really know my spanish.
* Atlanta,Georgia- The Peach Drop. Georgia loves their peaches.
* Gainesville, Georgia- Chuck the chicken drop in honor of the humane society.
*Harrisburg, Pennsylvania- strawberry drop.
* Tallapoosa, Georgia- they drop an oppossum. It started out as a joke and has now grown as their biggest yearly event. I hope it isn’t alive. The Possum Drop
* Cincinnati, Ohio- A flying pig is not dropped, but flown, maybe to show there is at least one time “when pigs fly”.
* Allentown, Pennsylvania- a replica of the liberty bell is dropped.
* Akron, Pennsylvania- a gold and purple shoe is dropped.
* Beavertown, Pennsylvania- a beaver is dropped. I hope to God it isn’t real. PETA would be all over them.
*Bethlehem, Pennsylvania- a Peep is dropped. Yes, one of those yellow Easter peeps. The company that produces Peeps is based there. I was happy to see they aren’t dropping baby Jesus in Bethlehem that night.
*Blain, Pennsylvania- a wooden cow is dropped from a silo. Moo.
*Cleona, Pennsylvania- a pretzel is not dropped, but raised. Why, Cleona, are you raising the pretzel? Not cool.
*Carlisle, Pennsylvania- an Indy car is dropped.
*Cornwall, Pennsylvania- a Cannonball Drop.
*Dillsburg, Pennsylvania- two pickles are dropped. I guess one should drop a pickle in Dillsburg.
*Duncannon, Pennsylvania- a sled is dropped….without any kids holding on I presume.
*Easton, Pennsylvania- a crayola crayon is dropped early in the night to accommodate little kiddie’s bedtimes.
*Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania- a giant M& M is dropped.
*Falmouth, Pennsylvania- a stuffed goat is dropped.
*Frogtown, Pennsylvania- a frog is dropped. This is getting sort of redundant, no?
*Gratz, Pennsylvania- a wildcat is dropped.
*Halifax, Pennsylvania- a hemlock tree. Oh, come on, now!
*Harrisburg, Pennsylvania- a strawberry is dropped. My son has been to this one.
*Hershey, Pennsylvania- a Hershey Kiss is dropped. Well, this makes sense.
*Hummelstown, Pennsylvania- a lollipop is dropped.
*Ickesburg, Pennsylvania- a french fry is dropped. These people are just bored.
* Lebanon, Pennsylvania- a giant stick of bologna is dropped.
*Lisburn, Pennsylvania- a pair of yellow pants is dropped. Can’t wait to read the history on this one.
*Liverpool, Pennsylvania- a canal boat is dropped.
*McClure, Pennsylvania- a kettle is dropped in honor of their Bean Soup Festival.
*Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania- a wrench is dropped. The Wrench Drop
*New Oxford, Pennsylvania- an antique trunk is dropped.
*Palmyra, Pennsylvania- The Giant Shoe is dropped.
*Pottsville, Pennsylvania- a bottle of Yuengling beer is raised. I bet those attendees are having fun that evening.
*Red Lion, Pennsylvania- a cigar is dropped.
*Shippensburg, Pennsylvania- an anchor is dropped.
*Strasburg, Pennsylvania- ping pong balls are dropped.
*Shamokin, Pennsylvania- a chunk of coal is dropped, turning into a diamond when it hits the bottom….like magic…oooh
*Hilton Head Island, South Carolina- a giant golf ball.
*Fredericksburg, Virginia- a pear is dropped.
*Mobile, Alabama- a moon pie is dropped. Yes, a moon pie and then the manufacturers of the moon pie hand out about 5,000 of them to revelers.
*Wetumpka, Alabama- a meteorite is dropped in honor of the meterorite that hit the city. Um, ok.
*Fayetteville, Arkansas- a hog is dropped.
*Panama City, Florida- a beach ball is dropped.
*Pensacola, Florida- a pelican is dropped.
*Des Plaines, Illinois- a diamond is dropped.
*Manhattan, Kansas- “The Little Apple” is dropped. I get it. Cute.
*New Orleans, Louisiana- a gumbo pot was dropped for a while. The new drop is Fleur-de-lis. Like I’m supposed to know what that is.
*Bartlesville, Oklahoma- an olive is dropped.
*Memphis and Nashville- a guitar and a music note.
* Plymouth, Wisconsin- a cheese wedge is dropped.
*Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin- a dead carp caught by locals is lowered.
* Show Low, Arizona- a deuce of clubs cards is dropped.
*Flagstaff, Arizona- a pine cone is dropped.
*Tempe, Arizona- a giant tortilla chip.
*Honolulu, Hawaii- a pineapple is dropped.
*Vincennes, Indiana- watermelon drop. Many engineering students across the nation drop watermelons and pumpkins throughout the year.
So, there you have it. There are New Year’s Eve celebrations all across the world. Many more cities just drop a ball, but some places use their representative symbol to usher in a brand new year. Happy New Year to all!
I have decided to have my own celebration….. I am going to drop a few pounds.
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My dad was one of those unfortunate souls who could not get a decent night sleep. I believe I was in junior high when I first noticed he was having a problem with insomnia. I guess after tossing and turning and turning and tossing, the poor guy would start roaming through the house while the rest of his slept. His night roaming was a disaster for the rest of the family at first. My mom made sure if he woke her up, he was going to wake up the whole damn family.
After tossing and turning, my dad would get up and turn the light on beside his bed. My mom and dad had separate twin beds just like the couples we watched on tv. Laurie and Rob Brady had single beds. But, when my dad would turn on his light, it would wake up my mom, who in turn woke us up next door.
“Dammit, Elwood, turn the light off!” Mom rarely cursed in front of us when we were little. Cursing in front of sleeping children didn’t count.
So, my dad would then stumble out of bed every night without turning on a light and would immediately yell out after walking into an object in the bedroom.
“Dammit! Son of a bitch!” This would be followed by my mom. “Quit waking up the whole household! You should know where the hell you are going.”
Since I was hyperactive, I had a hard enough time getting to sleep myself. I would also wake up if I heard as much as a pin drop. So, I could hear him get out of his bed, shuffle slowly like a ninety year old man wearing scruffy slippers, and then appear in the hallway and down the hall into the kitchen. Our house was not large, so the three bedrooms were grouped together at the end of the house. I could hear him turn on the kitchen lightswitch and then I would know what was coming next. He was heading to the refrigerator.
After a while, he wised up and purchased a small flashlight for his nightly forays into the kitchen. I could hear the refrigerator door open. It stayed open for a long time. My mom would yell at us if we stood too long with the refrigerator door open.
“What’s in there is in there. Nothing is going to magically appear. Get what you need and close the door……….It isn’t an air conditioner.”
But, I could listen to my dad’s nightly excursions and know he kept that refrigerator door opened for a long, long time. I don’t know why, but it made me smile. My mom yelled at my dad all damn day. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. The poor man was damned. She was the definition of a rolling pin woman. So, he had the power to keep the refrigerator door open in the middle of the night way past her imposed time allotment. You go, Dad.
By high school, I was moved downstairs. My sister and I fought so much and I kept telling my parents I needed my own room, so they eventually agreed and divided our large rec room into a small rec room and a bedroom for me. It was so quiet down there, except that I could hear faint walking on the floor above. I could no longer hear him or see a hint of light from my bedroom. I was so happy to be in my room, but I did miss my dad’s night walking a bit.
Flash forward years ahead to just last night. I made the mistake of drinking a Coke after 8p.m. That means disaster for me. I was stupid and wanted to stay up late getting some Christmas decorating done. I knew what was going to happen. And it did. Dreaded insomnia. I read statistics that stated 40-60% of people over 40 suffer from insomnia. Even if I didn’t drink that Coke, I haven’t slept through the whole night in years. Years. So, when I stared over at the clock on my nightstand and it said 2:35a.m., I was pissed. I wanted to get to sleep.
When I was little, I used to rub Vicks Vapor Rub under my eyes in order to keep them shut. It burned like hell and made me look like an idiot for doing it. (See my Vicks Vapor Rub post) So, that option was out. I thought about the proverbial counting sheep.
Who the hell started this “Hey, I know….if you can’t sleep, try counting sheep” scenario? I just didn’t get it. I visualized a fence with sheep going over it…..1……2…….3………the hell with this shit.
getting ready to jump over the fence
Really? Counting sheep? I had to google it.
According to Wikipedia, “In most depictions of the activity, the practitioner envisions an endless series of identical white sheep jumping over a fence, while counting them as they do so. The idea, presumably, is to induce boredom while occupying the mind with something simple, repetitive, and rhythmic, all of which are known to help humans sleep.”
I don’t know about you, but if the idea is to induce boredom, why not transfer boredom for relaxation and plant yourself on a beach with a book, listening to the waves crashing while counting each pebble of sand? I mean, at least put me in a relaxing situation, not in a field with sheep poop and a bunch of sheep bleating as they jump over a fence. Yeah, my sheep bleat while jumping, mainly because FREAKING SHEEP DON’T JUMP! I mean, maybe they can, but not like a horse…. or a mexican jumping bean.
If anything, shouldn’t one count sleeping sheep? Jumping sheep are active, so your mind stays active counting the little shits as they jump over the white fence (that needs painted, by the way.)
1…..2…..3……4….zzzzz
In the end, I guess what works for some may not work for others. Counting sheep is stupid, in my opinion. I just read about eight articles that agree with me, although the word “stupid” was not used in any of them. But, if you insist on trying to count sheep as a sleep aid, the best advice I can give you is to stock your refrigerator, because, like my dad and millions of other insomniacs, you will end up standing in front of it.
Enjoy this story? Jumping in Mud Puddles is now an ebook that you can download on your Kindle. Don’t have a Kindle? No problem. Amazon will let you download their Kindle app FREE…Yes, free. Have a look see. My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
A lot of people have bucket lists. You know, a list of things you’d like to do before you “kick the bucket.” For a lot of people, watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade live from the parade route is near the top of their bucket list. I now can cross this off of mine.
I flew to New York City to spend Thanksgiving with my daughter. At first we thought we would just get up a bit early, grab some breakfast and just head up to the parade route. I thought if I just snapped some pictures of the balloons from afar, that would be good enough. But, after googling and reading about the parade, I thought since we were there, we might as well do it right.
We woke up at 4:30 and were at Dunkin Donut at 5:00a.m. We decided we better not eat or drink anything since we wouldn’t be able to use the bathroom for at least five hours. That is really hard for me. I can’t even imagine taking kids to watch the parade.
We thought we were prepared for the weather. It was going to be 52 degrees and sunny for the day and when we left it was 43 degrees, so I knew we wouldn’t freeze. My daughter suggested I pack my Uggs and wear them to the parade. My Uggs were in a box in my closet. I had never worn them. I don’t know why. So, I packed them and put them on for our adventure. I also brought extra gloves for Alex.
So, we were off to the parade. We rode the subway and got off at 59th Street and Central Park. I read where the parade is top and bottom heavy, so I thought something along Central Park would be a good place to stand. Not too north, and definitely not south where people probably camped out all night. I’m thinking this way because we saw chairs and blankets saving spots along the parade route. That didn’t seem fair to me. That’s like how people run down in the early morning and put their towels down to reserve beach chairs at a resort. Except in this case, there was always one person standing over the reserved area. If you are going to want a place up front, get your ass out there and stand like the rest of us. Sort of pissed me off.
We finally found a little crack in the armor and were able to find a place right in front of Trump Plaza.
I looked around to make sure there weren’t any kids around. There’s nothing worse than being in one spot for hours with a lot of children. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m a fourth grade teacher after all. But, kids spill stuff and move around and hang on gates, and some will just not stop talking. I just wanted to wait for the parade without much fanfare. Morning was breaking, so we decided to sit down on the cold concrete and wait the time away.
My daughter looking excited to wait for hours
The time just went by slowly. I didn’t mind, however, since I like to people watch and eavesdrop on conversations.
Central Park was across the street. I love that place. There were blockades marked “Police Line: Do Not Cross” and that side of the street stayed vacant for a good part of the early morning. Later, I found out that ticket holders who were family members of the NYPD and firefighters were able to stand all along the Central Park side of the parade route. I thought that was nice. Soon, that side of the street was filled with people, but they did get to sleep in longer than us non-ticket holders.
It seemed like we waited forever. I knew better to drink my bottled water, but I did take a few bites of my Dunkin donut. We stood up and stretched, only to find three people now standing behind us. They were taller than us, so I am sure they were happy about that. We soon struck up conversations with all those surrounding us. Some people were from Louisiana. Some were from Connecticut. The couple to our left were from Brooklyn. I don’t know why, but I think people are a bit shocked when I say I’m from West Virginia, like we aren’t allowed across the state line or something. Someone asked me how I liked New York City. Sometimes I just can’t believe the things that fly out of my mouth.
“Well, I really never cared to visit a large city like this and never wanted to come here…. I’m all about raccoons and squirrels….blah blah blah.”
What? I few minutes later, my daughter looked at me, burst out laughing and said, “Really, Mom. That’s what you’re all about….raccoons and squirrels?” She started laughing at me so hard she was crying. It was so normal of me to say something so stupid. I just had to start laughing too. At least I wasn’t wearing camouflage like the lady from Louisiana. Maybe she understood me. She was probably all about crawdads or something.
Well, we could see a helicopter hanging out above us and we could hear sirens off in the distance. The parade was supposed to start at 9:00 up around 77th Street. We figured the parade would be to us around 9:30. And then it began.
We were excited
The police presence was just unbelievable. They were every where. There was a bomb sniffing dog that took a liking to Alex. A guy wearing a red cross button was walking the dog on our block repeatedly. He told the dog to give Alex kisses. Since we were sitting on the ground, the dog obliged and wagged his tail, taking a break from sniffing for bombs to love on Alex for a minute. He was sweet.
Kermit, sneaking up behind this cop
Some of the balloons seemed pretty sad, helium speaking. Kermit was low to the ground and saggy in some spots. A lot of them were like that. Kermit wasn’t going to look pretty for the cameras down in front of Macy’s department store. That’s when the people behind us told us there were floats and singers we wouldn’t see. What?? I wondered how the parade could start on NBC at 9:00, but yet we were on 59th and the parade didn’t get to us until 9:30. There was another street of performers and balloons somewhere that hooked up to where filming took place for the tv land people. They would perform and then go to the end of the parade. We began to feel gypped a bit. Who weren’t we going to get to see?
I really enjoyed all the people who were dressed up in crazy costumes. They were so full of energy and would come by giving up high fives and throwing confetti in our faces. It was fun.
I had fun laughing during the parade. Some of walkers were having a hard time balancing their heads.
It was fun seeing celebrities. We saw Jimmy Fallon and Kareem Abdul Jabbar. I was able to take a pretty good picture of some of them.
Whoopie Goldberg was a pirate. I don’t know why.
And then there were singers like Trace Adkins, who I didn’t really know about since I am not a country fan. I did notice he and his wife should have been happy that people from PETA weren’t around with some paint.
fur wearing people
I don’t know why I got so excited to see the cast on the Sesame Street float, but I did. I watched Sesame Street every day with my kids when they were young. So, I yelled Bob’s name.
Bob really had no choice but to look in the direction of the crazy lady screaming his name.
Bob is looking at me
Singer Flor ida…or Flori da…or Flo rida. I have no idea.
I yelled at Mr. Planters on top of the Peanutmobile to look over our way so I could get a good shot, but he wouldn’t look at me. What a nut!
Creepy elf balloon
In the end I took more than 75 photos. It was fun. I am now able to cross this item off of my bucket list. I still need to travel to Devil’s Tower, travel Route 66, and sit by Loch Ness with a rented bag piper, waiting with my camera for Nessie. I have a lot of items on my bucket list.
The Macy’s Day Parade is a once in a lifetime experience. Notice how I said, “once in a lifetime?” Would I do it again? Oh, hell no. Not in a million years. I was cold and I had to pee. But, I got to spend time with my daughter, and that was priceless. I missed my son, though. That would have made the day perfect. But, that perfect day will come when they both fly home for Christmas.
As we left after the parade, I took my best shot of my whole trip.
Enjoy this story? Jumping in Mud Puddles is now an ebook that you can download on your Kindle. Don’t have a Kindle? No problem. Amazon will let you download their Kindle app FREE…Yes, free. Have a look see. My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
I couldn’t wait until I turned sixteen. All kids imagine getting their driver’s license and then speeding off into the sunset. Well, not speeding, but being able to go someplace without Dad behind the wheel was a thrilling aspect of sixteenship. (I made up that word. I like it). But, that was not the reason I could not wait to get my driver’s license.
You see, once upon a time, I was just a skinny little thing. I wasn’t just thin and tiny. I was anorexic, “Oh my God, look at that girl!” skinny skinny. I had no muscle. I was a freaking stick. And although I curse myself now for hating how I looked back then, it truly was a sad sight. I just could not gain weight. Now, I know you are wondering what that has to do with driving for the very first time, but it has everything to do with turning sixteen, being skinny, and getting behind the wheel.
I totally understand the plight of overweight children even though I was on the other side. I got made fun of for being skinny.
“Hey, I heard you were absent from school today……You must have been standing sideways when they took roll.”
“Hey, I bet you can really sing since you have those canary legs and all.”
“You’re so skinny, I bet you hula hoop with a Life Saver.”
When I switched schools and went to Edgewood for fourth grade, I went home crying the first day because someone called me “Stick.” I finally told him to leave me alone…..and then hastily added, “Leave me alone! I just got out of a concentration camp.” Ok, I realize that was stretching the truth a little too far, but my last name was Mendenhall, a Germanish name, and I just got to that school. It was feasible, especially when the goof ball head who called me names had no idea what the three ships Columbus sailed on to discover America. Everyone knew that, so I knew he was dumb as a…….stupid head….. He had no grain in his silo…His sewing machine was out of thread…… He wouldn’t even know what a concentration camp was.
So, I had to endure years of being made fun of for being skinny. So, I ate. I ate all the time, trying to gain weight. But, I guess when you are a true hyperactive child, that grows up with you for a few years. I was very active and my metabolism was not my friend. I could not gain weight. When I was in high school, I would get up earlier and fry two frozen hamburger patties before the bus came to pick me up in the morning. It still didn’t work. It finally dawned on me after a very interesting lesson in Science class what was wrong with me. I kept my thoughts to myself.
So, when the big day came and I passed my driver’s test, I also made a secret appointment with Dr. Harper. Dr. Harper was my family doctor. I had been out there so many times, I could drive to his office blindfolded. Well, ok, that would have been bad. But, I had history with this man and trusted him. I had bad kidneys when I was little, so I was always peeing in a damn cup for him. He would tell me to be glad I was so thin. But, now that I KNEW what was wrong with me, he would be able to help me. I couldn’t wait to go to his office and tell him what I learned in Science class.
Lexie, who lived down the street and was a mom of one of my friends and a good friend of my moms, worked for Dr. Harper, so I lied when I made the appointment and said it was for a regular checkup.
“Hi, Lexie. My mom told me to call to make an appointment for my regular checkup….. She’s downstairs sewing.” She gave me a date that was about two weeks away. Shit. That wasn’t acceptable. I HAD to be seen earlier.
“Is there any way I can come tomorrow after school?…..Um….. My pee is dark and my back hurts.” I knew that would work.
So, I asked my mom if I could use the car after school to drive by myself. “I just need to drive to get used to driving by myself.” I didn’t need to tell her. She would just roll her eyes and tell me I was being dramatic….once again. No, this was top top secret.
I couldn’t wait until I got home from school the next day. I got the keys to my mom’s boat, a gold Cadillac that was a mile long, and drove out to Dr. Harper’s office. There was only one person in the waiting room. I smiled at Lexie and sat down.
Dr. Harper was a pretty nice guy. I was handed a cup and thought that I should probably go pee in it since I was there. It really was close to my regular checkup time anyways. I sat down and took off my clothes and put on the white gown. I always rushed this part because I didn’t want him walking in and seeing me half dressed. He did rap on the door like three times and then entered, not waiting for a “oh hell, not yet.” He sat down, took his chart, read some stuff.
“So, Vickie, your back is hurting. Have you been drinking a lot of water like you are supposed to?”
“I’m drinking a lot of water.” I was going to come right out and tell him why I thought I wasn’t gaining weight, but at the last minute thought I would just bring it up nonchalantly while he was checking the lymph nodes in my neck like he always did during a checkup. “I think my back is hurting because it is almost that time of the month….but I’m not sure.” And then I continued….nonchalantly, of course.
“So, Dr. Harper……I was wondering if you could take an x- ray or check to see…….if I have a…… tapeworm. I think that’s why I’m not gaining weight.” There, I said it. I have a tapeworm crawling around, eating all the stuff that comes down into my stomach. I was sure of it.
Dr. Harper stopped pushing on my neck with his hands and sat back, looking at me. He then started to laugh. I had never really heard him laugh before. What the hell? Why are you laughing at me? I was pissed.
“Vickie, you do not have a tapeworm. You are thin because that’s just how you are built. You will gain weight when you gain weight.”
I just looked at him. I was ready to burst into tears, but I had to get out of his office first. I was also ready to kick him. How dare he laugh at me when I had a freaking tapeworm crawling around inside of me and he wouldn’t even check it out.
“I learned in Science class that if you eat beef or pork, there is a chance that a tapeworm larva could be mixed in with the cow meat and if you swallow it, the tapeworm can grow to be 12 feet long. I eat hamburger almost every day. I really think I have a tapeworm.”
12 feet of worm action in my stomach
He just wouldn’t quit smiling. Dumb ass. It was possible. I learned a tapeworm could live for years in your body and you wouldn’t even know it:
Tapeworms Symptoms ( Source:webmd.com)
Sometimes tapeworms cause signs and symptoms such as:
nausea
weakness
diarrhea
abdominal pain
hunger or loss of appetite
fatigue
weight loss
vitamin and mineral deficiencies
However, often having tapeworms does not cause symptoms. The only sign of tapeworm infection may be segments of the worms, possibly moving, in a bowel movement.
Treatment for Tapeworms
If you suspect you have tapeworms, you should see your doctor. Because there are different types of worms and tapeworms that can infect people, diagnosing a tapeworm infection may require a stool sample to identify the type of worm.
Ok, see? If you suspect you have tapeworms, you should see your doctor.
I saw my doctor and my doctor laughed at me.
I cried all the way home. My mom asked me what happened and I told her the truth, which surprised me, because I rarely told the truth. She knew damn well not to even crack a smile. And this time she didn’t use the word dramatic or anything. I hugged her for being so understanding. She told me she would see if there was a pill I could take for a “just in case you do have a tapeworm” scenario. That made me feel better. Who knew that my mom would side with me on anything.
Later that night, as I went to bed, I got right back out, wondering where my dog Cricket was, and heard my mom on the phone. She was talking to Lexie. Cricket was on my dad’s lap on the couch.
“It took everything I had not to laugh in her face, Lexie…….”
That’s all I cared to hear. They were all laughing at me. Fine. Laugh at me.
Since I am all about revenge, I decided to get back at my mom. Big time. That weekend, I chewed a bunch of gum and started rolling it between my fingers to make it long and thin. It did look like a pinkish worm. I even poked two little eyes and then put it in the toilet. I put a piece of toilet paper in there to make it look authentic. I wished I could have waited until I could have added something else, but revenge doesn’t wait for a sixteen year old. I yelled for my mom.
When my mom arrived in hallway, I just pointed to the toilet. She walked over and looked in the toilet.
“Mom, I told you I had worms!!!”
My mom had her bifocals down on her nose. I thought they were going to fall down into the toilet and join Timmy the Tapeworm. My mom then looked up at me.
“I almost fell for this one, Vickie. Next time, don’t put a smile on the worm’s face……get it out of the toilet, wash your hands, and come wash the dishes.”
Dammit.
Years later, the weight did catch up to me. I often think about the tapeworm story. Now, I wonder where the hell I can buy one.
Enjoy this story? Jumping in Mud Puddles is now an ebook that you can download on your Kindle. Don’t have a Kindle? No problem. Amazon will let you download their Kindle app FREE…Yes, free. Have a look see. My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
When I got home from teaching today, I decided to skip the gym and be a bum. After all, I had gone to work out four days in a row and deserved to sit one out. I looked at the clock and wondered if at 5:30, it was too early to put on my pajamas.
I usually change from my teaching clothes to my “house” clothes when I get home. My house clothes are generally anything worn without a bra. Mine comes off the minute I enter the house. Well, that was a lie. Sometimes I wait ten minutes. Bras are evil. I always want to utter a sigh when it comes off. Another lie…I do utter a sigh of relief. Guys have no idea.
So, back to putting on pajamas time. When do people put on their pajamas? I would imagine one would hang out in regular clothes and then retire to their bedroom and get changed for bed at bedtime, because, as we all know, pajamas are for sleeping in. So, am I wrong to want to put mine on so damn early? Now, I realize there are some who wear their pajamas all day long…..and to Walmart……and to buy a gallon of milk….or beer. Hugh Hefner comes to mind. I’m not talking about those people who obviously don’t care their pajamas go outside and then slide under the comfort of clean sheets. I think it’s just wrong to wear something to bed that you have worn outside of the home. Am I weird? No, not me. I do have a pile of socks beside my bed that I wear to bed because I can’t stand to go barefoot. I wear socks to bed because my little piggies are always cold. After an hour or so, my feet warm up, and they are flung beside my bed and lie there until I feel like bending over to scoop them up for the washing machine. And no, I’m not lazy. It’s my routine I have followed since I was in junior high. I am a beside the bed sock hoarder. There’s a difference between being lazy and being a sock tossing hoarder.
Anyway, it is now 6:15 and I am still wearing my work clothes. I’m miserable. I’ve been googling “fuzzy slippers 70′s” to find the perfect picture of slippers I wore when I was a teen ager. Oh, to have those fuzzy matted slippers on my feet once again. I loved those slippers.
Ah, fuzzy slippers
I wore those slippers all the time. Do they even sell fuzzy slippers anymore? I want a pair. Those were the one kind of slippers that made scuffing acceptable. You can’t just walk while wearing fuzzy slippers. You have to scuff. I want to scuff again.
In the end, I guess you could say that I really want to put my pajamas on at an early time. It’s now 6:30. I’ve written long enough. I’ve googled some time away. Is 6:30 an appropriate time to put on your pajamas? I guess you can tell I don’t do this very often. Early pajama wearing is normally for sick people. I’m not sick, you know…. physically.
pause
pause
pause
Ahh, that feels so much better. I love my cranberry fleece robe and my flannel long pajama top. I’m ready to hang out on the couch playing SongPop and watching Big Bang Theory. I love being a early pajama wearing bum. I feel like I’m getting away with something.
Enjoy this story? Jumping in Mud Puddles is now an ebook that you can download on your Kindle. Don’t have a Kindle? No problem. Amazon will let you download their Kindle app FREE…Yes, free. Have a look see. My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
For those of you who have been following my blog for several years now, you know it is time for my Daylight Saving Time rant. Yes, it is time for all of us to take down our clocks and turn them all back an hour tonight. Well, it ends at 2 a.m. I am sure there are some people out there who are OCD enough to wait until exactly 2 a.m. to turn them back. The rest of us will change them before we go to bed tonight. I shall be mumbling and cursing as I change each time machine.
I just re-read my Daylight Saving Time posts from the past and it is clear I have issues with the stupid time change. And it is stupid. My economics professor son told me once there is a savings. I say “No way, Jose!” It messes up the workings of my inner clock and that’s all I care about. It takes me almost two weeks to feel normal again. Well, as close to normal as one can feel.
All I know is that it will now get dark earlier until Daylight Saving Time begins again on March 10, 2013, when we spring forward yet again. I find this yearly thing a little monontonous, especially when there are problems associated with this procedure…. My beside alarm clock adjusts itself. Well, my former clock adjusted itself and it is now in a landfill somewhere nearby. It decided to change back an hour on a Wednesday in the middle of October. I woke up an hour later than reality and barely made it to work on time. Damn Daylight Savings Time. I got to school and realized that I only put mascara on one eye. Maybelline hates Daylight Saving Time too, I imagine.
I think the only good thing about Daylight Saving Time is that it is also known to be a time to change the batteries in your smoke detector to make sure they work. The Energizer battery company endorses that, you know. So, you will be reaching and dusting and changing clocks and changing batteries tonight. Life just sucks.
Arizona, Puerto Rico, Hawaii, U.S. Virgin Islands and American Samoa do not observe Daylight Savings Time. These are the smartest people on the face of the earth. There are also 75 countries that do not observe the time change. Again, smart people. The rest of us should rise up against the machine. I have no idea what the hell that means.
Here are my Daylight Saving Time rants. I would write more today, but how many times can one beat a dead horse? Apparently, I try more than three times. See you in March for my next rant. I am not a happy camper when that one enters the picture.
You know, this is all George W. Bush’s fault. Yes, I realize he has enough blame on his plate, but he is the one that changed it to the first Sunday in November. I remember the day well:
On Monday August 8, 2005, then President Bush signed into law an energy bill that extended Daylight Saving Time by four weeks beginning in 2007. Since 1986 the United States had observed Daylight Saving Time from the first Sunday in April through the last Sunday in October. The new bill calls for Daylight Saving Time to begin three weeks earlier on the second Sunday in March and end on the first Sunday in November. Why? Why can’t this madness just end? No, Georgie wanted three more weeks of Daylight Savings Time….so we all could save what? I don’t know.
The mastermind behind Daylight Saving Time is Benjamin Franklin…. inventor, statesman, and someone who played out in lightning storms one time too many. He wanted to save candle burn time. Well, guess what? We now have freaking electricity.
In the end, I’m not saving a damn thing that I can tell. I’m wasting. I’m wasting time writing about Daylight Saving Time when I could be doing something more productive……like changing the batteries in my clock or something.
Enjoy this story? Jumping in Mud Puddles is now an ebook that you can download on your Kindle. Don’t have a Kindle? No problem. Amazon will let you download their Kindle app FREE…Yes, free. Have a look see. My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
My seventeen year old cat, Whiskers, has decided that she doesn’t really care to use the litter box in the same manner that she has done for the previous years. I came home from work and found pee sitting in a puddle, smiling up at me. Well, it wasn’t smiling. Pee can’t smile for God’s sake. No, it was smirking.
Cats should be warned or taught that consistent jumping off of tall buildings will take a toll on their body down the road. Just ask any football player. Whiskers was a freaking acrobat in her early years. She loved hair thingy’s. You know, those coated bands to put your hair back in a ponytail. We would throw them up in the air and Whiskers would jump high in the air, contorting her agile body as she went after it. My mother in law used to save the blue plastic rings off of the milk containers. She absolutely loved those.
Whiskers used to jump on top of the counter and then somehow make it on top of my kitchen cupboards. I don’t know why she decided to head up there. There was nothing up there. But, she got around…. jump jump jump. And now, years later, I’ve got an arthritic cat on my hands. And all of a sudden I’m a cat care giver.
Still practicing
I came home Friday feeling dizzy and had already called for a sub for Monday. When I have bouts of positional vertigo, it stays with me for a few days if not longer, so I just took Monday off just in case. So, I wasn’t excited when I came home to see the pee puddle right in front of the litter box. What the hell? This meant I had to bend over and clean the mess up. I had visions of a couch, a quilt, and a lap top in my plans, not scrubbing my tiled bathroom floor. But, someone had to do it and Whiskers was busy lying in front of the sliding glass doors watching some damn bird pooping on my deck.
I guess I should be thankful that she decided not to poop and then walk in it. I try to think of a worst case scenario to make me feel better. That’s how I roll. I got all of my cleaning stuff and cleaned up the mess. The litter box had already been changed and cleaned the night before, so I know Whiskers was being persnickety about a soiled litter box. So, why the hell did she pee outside the litter box? She did this the last time I flew to New York City in August to see my daughter. I only stayed two nights and got back to a pee puddle smiling at me. But, the box was not cleaned and Whiskers was probably pissed at me for leaving. Cats get pissed you know.
After I cleaned up the mess, I began googling my cat is peeing beside the litter box to see if I had any company. I had plenty. Then I went with a more specific google search term: arthritic cat peeing outside the litter box. After the third and fourth time Whiskers peed outside the litter box, I actually wanted to search: goddamn cat pissing on the floor. So, I found out arthritic cats may not squat or put their paws on the lid of the litter box if they are hurting. Great. She already stopped grooming herself on her back where it must be hard to get to as an elderly cat, and mats of her pretty tortoise shelled fur look….gross.
I went on to read solutions. The box lid may be too high….hmmmm, could be true. So I googled and looked at images of homemade kitty litter boxes for arthritic cats. I saw two words that I understood…Rubbermaid and hand saw. Ok, that was three words. So, off to Walmart I went. I came home with another type of kitty litter box that had high sides. I bought some kind of saw that looked like a long file. It was pretty worthless. I do have a pretty Angry Birds band-aid on my finger when the saw slipped. I used a knife from my knife drawer and am lucky I didn’t stab myself in the stomach. How the hell would a detective make a ruling on that one?
”The victim, approximately 55 years old, but looking 40 (he would say that), was found lying in front of her front door with various knives, a saw and a plastic container. She had a knife sticking out of her stomach. Written in blood on the kitchen tile beside the body was the word, “Figures.”
After I placed the new kitty litter box beside the old one in my bathroom (no where else to put it), I put a doggy training pad I purchased at Walmart in front of the litter box because I was not going to clean up a pee puddle again. Doggy training pads look like a flat opened diaper. And then I waited. I kept watching Whiskers and knew that her internal clock knew it was 8:00pm and for some reason that is her bed time. I followed her up the stairs to see if she would like her new kitty litter box. Sure the edges are jagged and maybe the opening is a bit narrow, but she may like it.
Whiskers went right to the new litter box and stepped in. Yay! Oh wait. No yay. I hurried to turn her around. She meowed at me and then peed in the corner. I clapped like a mom whose child first used the big boy potty. What a loon. So, I determined that Whiskers was not just peeing beside the litter box. She was actually stepping into it but no turning around. Thus, her aim…or lack of aim, made the pee go on the outside of the box. Great. I would just hope that Whiskers would remember that for seventeen years she turned around to use the litter box and she would do the same again since I scooted her around for her to do her business.
No such luck. I got up in the middle of the night and the doggy training pad was wet. I replaced it and this morning it was peed on again. Those damn doggy training pads are $13.97 for 40, which means if she pees or poops (oh dear god I didn’t think about the poop) I will have to buy those suckers every ten days for the rest of her life. Great.
In the end, this means that I can not leave her overnight. I can’t go to New York to visit my daughter for even two nights. I’m afraid she will just pee on the pad, and if I am not there to change it, it will a freaking mess by the time I get back. I’m in quite a pickle as to what to do.
I love Whiskers and I really don’t know how long she has. Seventeen is really old. But, she is such a great companion and I really shouldn’t complain. I guess this is what elder care is all about…in one way or another.
I just don’t like smirking pee puddles. No one does.
When I was young, I was shocked when I first saw my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Garrity, at my church. The Mendenhall family went to Sunday school every Sunday, but went next door to Isaly’s afterwards instead of going to church. The Mendenhall kids were “too much to deal with.” And that would have been true. So, we would head upstairs for Easter and Christmas service only and call it a day.
Well, I never paid much attention to people who sat in the pews. I was a kid…with a pencil and small notepad. I wrote notes or doodled. I was mainly a doodler. My sister liked to take off her shoes and show me the hole in her socks. I think she wore the same damn pair of white anklets to church every Sunday. She never took her shoes off during Sunday school class, only when we had to sit during the long long service upstairs.
So, imagine my surprise when I saw Mrs. Garrity sitting one row ahead of me, diagonally across the pew. Damn, what the hell is she doing in my church? She’s a teacher. It was Easter Sunday, so I figured she was able to leave the school to attend church.
That same year I saw Mrs. Tucci, the sixth grade teacher, trying on shoes at Marlinn’s shoe store. I stared at her for the longest time when we came in to buy a brand new pair of penny loafers. I hid from her, which is hard to do in a small store. I was shocked. She never wore slacks, but there she sat, with her foot up in the air, letting some stranger put a shoe on her foot. How weird.
The reason I even remembered this is because I saw a third grader at Walmart the other day. She is in the classroom across the hall from me and I see her every day. But, she was with a sibling and they were at the top of the aisle staring at me. I heard, “There’s Miss Mendenhall.” I didn’t turn around immediately, but when I did, they took off. I had to laugh. It was the “Dear God, a teacher has been let out of the school” syndrome. Because, as everyone knows, teachers live at the school.
I wonder why kids look at teachers with surprise if they see them out anywhere. And their behavior is peculiar. They can’t be themselves. It is always a strain to talk to kids that I see out and about. They stare at what I am wearing. You know they are going to go home and tell their friends that they saw me and I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt and Dear God, my hair was back in a ponytail. I wish they would pay that much attention to detail in the classroom.
I had a cold last week and took a Kleenex out and blew my nose. Apparently, teachers don’t do that in front of the students. “Are you ok?’ one asked. Um, yes, I just have a cold, but thank you for asking. They continued to stare at me. One girl pointed at my Coke and asked, “Do you go through Hardees every morning?” Um, yes I do.
As I was watching the students at recess while I was on playground duty Friday, I took notice that none of the kids play actual games. There are swings and seesaws and sliding boards to keep their attention, but if they aren’t on one of those, they are usually running amok. There is screaming and chasing without reason. I don’t hear the words monster, villian, or bad guy mentioned at any time. They would never use the word villian anyway. They are just amok runners.
So, I stood there, trying to think back to when I was little. Did we act goofy like that? I mean, I am sure we did, but at least we were organized with a goal in mind kind -of- goofy. And that goal was to stay away from someone who had cooties or run faster than a fox or wolf who may be chasing us. And that made me think of playing Colored Eggs.
Colored Eggs was a childhood game that we brought to the playground. Well, I tried to bring it to the playground at the Sister Mary Mary Immaculate Academy. I played it at home with all the neighbor kids, and since we really didn’t have much in the way of a playground at this nun academy other than gravel beneath of swings and a leaning sliding board, our recess was a wash. So, I thought that I would mention Colored Eggs to the other kids standing around because they didn’t want to go down the slide ten times in a row because there wasn’t anything else to do.
The object of Colored Eggs was to be quicker than the fox. There was going to be a lot of chasing with this game. First, the kids had to decide who wanted to be the fox first. If no one spoke up, I volunteered, because, well, because I had my reasons. Then we all had to quietly pick a color. We sat in a circle on the grass when we played this game at home, but since the nuns had spread gravel under our feet so it would cushion our fall, gravel was not fun to sit on with your legs crossed.Plus we had to wear stupid uniforms. My skirt went down to my knees, so I could completely hide my legs under it while sitting down if I wanted to. And I wanted to. Back then we called it sitting Indian style. Nowadays I hear the kindergarten aide telling the kids to sit Criss cross apple sauce. What? See, this is one reason I don’t teach the little ones. Who would have thought that the way you sat down would be considered politically incorrect.
So, anyway, after everyone chooses a color and sits down, the fox stands to the back or side and calls out a color. The person that silently has that color needs to stand up, run quickly around the circle and get back in his or her spot before the fox can tag them on the back. We sat in a wide circle. For some reason I always always called yellow. I called yellow because I knew that every time we played Adele Stillman would pick yellow. She never changed her color. I would position myself close to her so that when I called yellow, I would be on top of her. Was that cheating? No, I was a fox, dammit, and foxes are crafty. I was being crafty.
I yelled, Yellow, and Adele took off. Too bad I knew her past behavior and I was on that chick faster than you can say creamed chicken on biscuit. She was now the fox and I had to quietly pick a color. Sometimes kids picked the same color and it was easy for the fox to pick off someone. When it was my turn to sit on the fun gravel, I had to move those ugly gray rocks around and position myself to where there wasn’t a piece of gravel biting me somewhere, like my butt. Once I was comfortable, I wasn’t going to get up and run around. I was done. So, I picked an odd color.
My mom unknowingly helped me master this art of not playing the game.
“Mom, what are some other colors beside yellow, green, blue, red, and white?”
I thought gold or silver would be good enough but the next time we played the damn fox called out silver. I had to jump up and wrinkle my nest of smooth gravel with my shoes as I took off to avoid the fox. And trust me, it is not fun to run from the fox around the circle and then plop yourself down once you made it around safely. It’s a hard landing and I had little sharp gravel points all over my legs and butt. Stupid gravel spreading nuns.
“Can you think of other colors?” Surely my mom didn’t think I was asking because I wanted to broaden my color horizon.
My mom took me downstairs where she kept all of her thread for sewing. It was like a goddamn rainbow. She read the colors off the thread for a good five minutes. “……..and there’s beige, maroon, turquoise, violet, burgundy, lime, pink, lavender, and umber.” I never understood why she had so many colors. I don’t remember her ever making me a top that had lime in it. She came home with a spool of thread every single time we went to Grants Department Store. She was a thread hoarder I am sure.
Anyway, I had an arsenal of color names that were just not used when playing Colored Eggs. After volunteering to be the fox first, I could make my bed and lie on it, never to get marked up by gravel again. Stupid nuns.
I knew that there would be no way anyone would ever call, “Umber!” That sort of made me chuckle. Of course, I had no idea what the hell umber was, but my mom was the one who told me it was brown like, so the rules did not state to use common colors. I was a very smart second grader I thought. But it was all in the name of not getting sharp gravel biting me on the butt.
I also realized that you could lie. I mean, who the hell knows what color you picked? You didn’t have to write it down. I learned that after some smartie said my color, “violet” and I just really didn’t want to run, you know, because of my nest. So, when Winston demanded to know my color, I would say one that hadn’t been called yet. I realized that pretty soon they were all going to be mad at me, so I would oblige once in a while to take sharp gravel on my ass for the team.
All in all, playing Colored Eggs was fun. I taught my own children strange colors like magenta, and ecru, but realized that they had grass to play on. Being a yellow or a red was not so bad…..if you could out run the fox.
I admire teachers who have little class pets in their classroom. Well, not really. But, you have to give them some credit for the extra duty contract they take on by hosting live things in their classroom. Someone has to feed them every day. Someone has to change their habitat. And there are benefits. Some children do not have the opportunity to own a pet. And they could, after all, save your life one day, like the little ferret in Kindergarten Cop did. He was hiding in a student’s jacket, and jumped out and bit the bad guy. The little fellow saved the entire school. You know it could happen.
As I walk down the hall each morning, I can see the little habitrails for Mrs. Karr’s hamsters. I don’t know what else she has in her room. I am sure her second graders appreciate having furry little fun. Further on, I can smell the African frog in Mrs. Arthur’s room. She couldn’t find the lttle hopper one morning. An all-points bulletin was put out for him. I have been feeling sorry for the frog for a year or two now. It just sits in a small aquarium, just hanging there, with its face above water. Poor thing. The whole room smells like algae water. Until last week, she finally changed it.
She changed the water and filled it up too high. Somehow overnight, the frog got out of the aquarium via a small hole at the top of the container lid and made a run for it. Well, it made a hop for it. She was shocked. She thought that he should be found dead near the container. I thought for sure it floundered or hopped somewhere in her classroom. The kids would surely find the froggy, dead and covered in dust bunnies. I am positive the frog commited suicide. I mean, if I was that frog, I would have made a hop for it long ago.
It made me think back to Beepo and Geepo. I had always owned weird animals. I had a salamander named Newt. Thumper the skunk joined our household when I was in college. I had Igor the iguana between my hamster Growl Bear and my Guinea pig, Quincy Bozo. I’m surprised my roommates didn’t frown upon the new additions I brought home with me throughout the years. Especially Beepo and Geepo.
Beepo and Geepo were African frogs that I bought when I was in high school. I think I was in high school. My bff Ramaine and I bought them on the same day. I had them forever. One day Beepo died. Or maybe it was Geepo. It was hard to tell them apart. They weren’t wearing collars. They must have been identical twins. My roommate, Paula, started complaining about Beepo/Geepo chirping every night.
“Vickie, your damn toad is chirping. He chirps all night long.”
“Oh, he does not. He is under water. Frogs can’t chirp.” I imagined that maybe he could “blurp.” But, chirp, oh hell no. I also wanted to remind her that there is a difference between a frog and a toad. Get it right, Miss Fairmont State beauty queen.
Well, I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and heard a cricket chirping. Well, I’ll be. Beepo/Geepo was chirping. Aww, he was crying out for his mate. I felt awful for him. So, I made sure that I tapped his glass and paid more attention to him, which is a little hard to do.
I honestly don’t remember how long Beepo/Geepo lived after that. They can live for a long time. Ramaine’s frog lived forever and grew to be the size of a…..baby bullfrog.
So, as I applauded when they found Mrs. Arthur’s African frog alive, I also felt sorry for it. It just hangs there in the water all freaking day…in greenish water with a fake plant nearby. Her class takes turns feeding it and well, that’s all you can do with an African frog. I’m thinking it needs a friend. I’m going to bring that up at the next Faculty Senate meeting. Ok, I sure as hell will not, but dammit, I can’t stand walking by it every day and I know it is lonely. And it makes me think of Beepo and Geepo, circa 1976.
I know that you are probably wondering if I also have class animals in my room, and the answer would be, “Oh, hell yeah.” I have spiders and other crawling things that the kids scream when they see one by their desks. I rescue it with a sheet of notebook paper and put it back on the windowsill. I would not have a class animal because I would not teach. I would be watching that damn rodent going around and around in its wheel. The kids would not be listening to a damn thing I said. I was not attentive when I was a child, so I am sure I would be distracted by a hamster biting at the metal bars trying to get the hell out.
I remember two years ago getting ready to step out into the hall when I noticed something near my feet. Mrs. Arthur also had a damn hermit crab in her classroom that escaped somehow and was walking down the hall. She let the kids decorate its shell, so I could see the shiny sequins as it clawed its way to me. I remember sitting down at lunch, saying, “I almost stepped on Diana’s goddamn hermit crab this morning.” See, it was trying to get the hell out of that classroom. Her gerbil, Digger, escaped for days last year. There is a pattern going on here. I’m thinking pets don’t want to be in Mrs. Arthur’s room and they are planning and executing prison breaks.
I do have a pet panda. I put the Panda Cam from the San Diego Zoo on one of the computers so they can watch the new baby panda. I told them that this was our class pet. They don’t see to have a problem with that at all.
I think about my African frog pets a lot, only because of……….Lonely, the one across the hall. I just named him.
I’ve been to New York City to visit my daughter several times, and let me tell you, it is exhausting. Every time I come home I am pissed at myself for being out of shape. And people, if you plan to visit New York City, you will walk. Oh, sure, there will be some of you who taxi from one place to the next. That is thesmart thing to do. I am one of the stupid tourists.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I had a great time in New York. I love New York. But, my daughter walked me all over the damn place. And I will admit that I need to lose weight. I was able to lose 22 pounds last year and did pretty well hoofing it around NYC last summer when we went apartment hunting. Oh, hell, that’s a lie. I was ready to have a stroke. Like I said, I’m not very smart. I picked 90+ degree weather to walk around the city. I’m beyond stupid. This year was the same.
My journey to NYC is not quick. First I have to drive two hours to Pittsburgh International Airport. I have to park in the extended long term parking lot, which is not close to the terminal. By the time I make it to the building, I really want to just stand on that people mover thingy. When I hear someone coming up behind me, I will start walking, but I don’t wanna.
After my nice flight with Jet Blue, I arrived at JFK airport. I like airports. Just thought I would mention that. I don’t know why taxi cab men scare me, but I feel like I am imposing on them. So, I head outside to the ground transportation area and buy a $15.50 ticket to ride the NYC Airporter bus. It takes a while to exit the airport, as the bus driver stops at each terminal. I didn’t mind. As long as I didn’t have to drive through New York, I don’t care if I was on the back of a donkey. Again, quite a lie. I would care.
The bus dropped me off at Grand Central Station, where I have to find the 6 Local Uptown train. Again, it’s easy. Well, except that I found out while I was on the subway that the Local 6 was not working this particular day. What? I’m on the local 6. Well, apparently it is allowed to change to be called the Express 6 which bypasses my stop. Someone sitting next to me tells me that I can get off at 125 and then take the local 6 downtown to my stop. What?
So, I get off the stop and walk across to the train going in the other direction and hop on, hoping it is the right one. It was. I then walked a couple of blocks to where my daughter was meeting me for lunch. I could see her smiling at me. I know that smile. I am doing somethig stupid.
“Mom, you are such a tourist. You don’t need to look both ways when it is a one way street.”
We had a nice lunch and walked back to her apartment so I could drop off my carry-on. Our plan for the day was to head to the Brooklyn Bridge and then head over to High Line. We walked the several blocks up the hill to the subway. I had to stop several times on the way up. I am weak. We got off the subway on Chambers Street. I had never been this far south before. So, there was the Brooklyn Bridge. And it was all boarded up on the sides of the bridge for construction. I had no idea we were going to actually walk over to the other side. What?
My daughter on the Brooklyn Bridge
Well, we had to walk over to the other side. I don’t know why. Because everyone else was doing it? There was nothing to see for quite a while. We stopped and wrote our names on some plywood…because everyone else was doing it.
It took us forever to get to the other side. And it was 90 degrees and 2:00 in the afternoon. Where the hell are the clouds? I was complaining a lot. My daughter told me to stop. I stopped.
It’s a 1.3 mile walk, but it takes a long time to walk due to the amount of foot traffic….and baby strollers…..and people like me who take pictures along the way and complain about the heat and stop alot. But, I was glad I did it. Because when we got to the other side, there was a park. And that park had a water taxi. Oh, hell yeah, I was on that thing.
The water taxi cost $25 and takes people around the statue of Liberty, past Ellis Island and Battery Park and up the Hudson. It makes stops along the way for those who want to get off in a different stop. I sure as hell didn’t want to walk back over the Brooklyn Bridge.
It was pretty cool. The taxi was huge and besides those who just wanted to look from inside the air conditioned lounge area, there was an upper berth and lower outside viewing areas. It was nice. We opted to get off at one of the piers on the Hudson, Christopher St., Pier 45 on West 10th Street.
This is also Grenwich Village, which was pretty darn cool. We walked past a Bareburger, where we had an early dinner. After that, my daughter wanted to take me to High Line Park. We had to walk again. I thought she was taking me to a normal park. Boy, was I surprised when I saw High Line. High Line is a park built on an elevated freight line railway. The freight line wasn’t in use since the early 1980′s. It was slated for demolition as it became an eyesore for those who lived in the neighborhood. One man’s crusade led to the development by the city of New York to create this elevated park. It is magnificient. We walked along the park until a storm hit us. That’s not the best place to be when a thunderstorm approaches you. Luckily, there were places for all of us to hide. We then hailed a taxi and headed back to the apartment. We had great aspirations for the next day. We were going to wake up early and head to the local bagel shop for breakfast and then rent bikes in Central Park. However, we ate a huge breakfast and opted to go back to bed for a little bit. We then showered and headed via subway down to visit the Top of the Rock. I’ve always wanted to visit Rockefeller Center and see the ice skating rink and the NBC Studios. It didn’t disappoint. Several blocks are pedestrian only, and it is just a really neat area. We finally found the place where we were to buy tickets to the Top of the Rock. I wanted to see Central Park from the top of this building. It was great.
After we left Rockefeller Center, I looked at my watch. We were late. My daughter wanted to go to the Colbert Report Studios to see if we could get standby tickets to that night’s show. We were supposed to be there by 2:30. So, we started walking. We had to go to 54th Street. We were on 50th Street. The Colbert Report was filmed on 54th Street. We had to hurry. Oh, but wait. We got to 54th Street. Alex asked a doorman and he told her it was about four blocks to the west. What? Four long ass blocks. We walked some more. And walked some more. We passed by where The Letterman Show was filmed. Nope. We kept walking. I was ready to give up. We had to be there in ten minutes. Not going to happen. I really thought she got the address wrong. We were headed into a less commerical area, one that had auto repairs and……nothing else. My daughter was laughing at me. Finally, we found it.
It was 2:40. We didn’t make it. Alex walked up the steps and a guy stepped out of the office. He told her that we needed to go stand by that garbage can. He pointed to….a garbage can. Someone would be out at 4:00 and hand out stand- by tickets if there were any to give out. It was a slight chance that we would get tickets and we had to discuss this.
Well, right by the garbage can was a narrow covered alley and there was a guy sitting there eating lunch. He told us he was in line for tickets. Except he had tickets. Oh. So, we were screwed. We stood there talking to another couple who came to stand in line. They too had tickets, but came to stand in line, because if wasn’t a certainty even with tickets that you could get in. I was ready to give up when the couple told us they had 2 extra tickets that we could have. What? Omg.
So, we sat and stood in line from 2:40 until they came out at 4:00 and took our information from our driver’s license and then left. Now there were two lines…one for ticket holders and one who were stand-by’s.
We were now full fledged ticket holders. They let us go into the studio at 5:50. We had to go through a metal detector and hang out in the lobby for a long time. We took pictures.
So, we got to watch the Colbert Report being filmed. Since, we got there so early, and they took us in after the VIP people, Alex and I were #7 and 8 to be seated. It was great. By the time we got out, it was time to hail a taxi and head to a Thai restaurant in Upper East Side. We then walked to her apartment. I was one tired tourist/mom.
I left early the next morning. I hope to return in the fall sometime when the weather is a bit cooler. I’d like to see the 911 Memorial this time…and Central Park again. I missed it this visit.
There are advantages to going places by yourself. You can set your own time limits, do what you want, and go home when you don’t want to be there anymore. You can’t do that when you are with other people. Well, I guess you could, but I am thinking your circle of friends would get a little smaller each time you brought down your gavel.
Ever since I visited the Bronx Zoo in April while visting my daughter in the Big Apple, I have been on a zoo kick. I hadn’t been to a zoo in years and really didn’t think much of them. I almost cried the last time I saw a dolphin in a very small swimming area. I did cry when that nut case let out all of his zoo animals before he took his own life. All of those animals had to be killed. It broke my heart. So, no, zoos weren’t high up on my bucket list. But they are now.
I fell in love with the Bronx Zoo and had a blast taking pictures of the animals with my new camera that has a zoom lens. I had fun.
I just can’t take pictures, though. If it doesn’t make me laugh, I really don’t stay with anything. I found humor in my next subject: my daughter. I wanted to take a break and she plopped down on a caterpillar seat of some sort that other women were sitting on. So, I laughed and motioned for her to move over like she was with the people.
The girl next to her thought she was hogging the caterpillar or something.
I think she thought Alex was too perky or maybe invaded her personal space. She was not a happy zoo attendee.
She left. And that’s how you get the caterpillar all to yourself for a picture.
Well, it’s been a few months since I visited the Bronx Zoo. If I wanted to visit all of the zoos in the United States, like I wrote on my Bucket List on Pinterest, I thought I’d better get a move on. So, I headed up to the Pittsburgh Zoo. I went by myself. It is a 2 hour drive and I just wanted to do something by myself. Thank God, because I got good photos only because I acted like a loon.
I hadn’t been to the Pittsburgh Zoo since my children were little. I was looking for a nice quiet day, strolling through the zoo, taking an occasional picture of a cool animal. Well, I was surprised how close we were able to get to the animals. Oh sure, some had the foggy glass that separated us, but some were open and close, especially with my zoom lens….and my mouth.
People were taking pictures of a lion and were making clicking noises for the animal to look their way so they could snap a picture. I noticed this at every exhibit. The animals weren’t buying into this bullshit. We were close enough that the animals could hear us, so why make stupid clicking noises. So, I started talking to them.
First up was the lion. I didn’t have to talk too loud. She heard me. “Aw, look how pretty you are.” She perked up and I snapped her picture.
Notice she has a “what the hell was that?” look. I decided that clicking noises were bad, and sweet talking was good. Now, if someone would have been with me, I wouldn’t have said a word. Oh, shit, that’s a lie. I found something that worked. So, I was off to the next exhibit. The elephants were hanging out near the stream across from the viewing area. If I had peanuts or a beer can to throw at them, I could have hit them. That’s how close they were. Time for me to sweet talk the baby elephant.
The first time I yelled over, “Aw, look how pretty you are,” the woman beside me looked at me like I had lost my mind. I didn’t care. The elephant heard me and looked right over. I got a good shot and someone standing behind me said, “Nice shot.” Well, the elephant kept staring at me, so I started talking a bit more and added a “Just look at how pretty you are.” The elephant walked to the water’s edge across from me and started moving its trunk back and forth and flapping its ears. I heard cameras snapping. I realized the lady was now filming the elephant and now had my lovely voice recorded on her camera. I talked a bit more and then the elephant ran back when the zookeepers appeared with food. Time to move on.
I was starting to feel a little cocky because I now realized that I was like a Dr. Doolittle. I could talk to the zoo animals. I was able to tame all the critters that came to my back porch. I tamed a skunk to walk a few steps into my kitchen to get a peanut. I had a squirrel that would knock on my french door for a peanut. I had six turkeys actually run to me when I opened the door and yelled, “Hey, you guys!” like the creature on the Goonies. Yes, I knew I had a way with backyard critters. But, zoo animals. I would have to hit a couple more exhibits before I could put that crown on my head.
I could not believe my eyes when I went to the next exhibit. Gorilla land. They were right in front of us. There was no window. There was a canyon-like separation and that was all. They were so close. My zoom found the old man first. I wasn’t talking yet.
This guy creeped me out a bit. He started staring at me after I took this picture. Sure, there were other peopel squeezed in beside me, but I have 7 pictures of him and I swear he is looking at me. I decided to start talking. I immediately got a response.
He turned around and looked at me. “Yes, you. Look how pretty you are.” I started snapping pictures. Some guy behind me told me to keep talking. Oh, sir, you have just created a monster. I was being egged on. Ok, sure. You have no idea who the hell I am and you will never see me again. So,I started talking to the gorillas.
After taking a bunch of pictures of this guy, he looked at his gorilla friend like he was saying, “Is she talkin’ to me. You talkin to me? What fun. Well, after I heard a couple people now yelling out at the gorillas, I decided that my time with the big guys was drawing to a close. I moved on and talked to the other animals. Two broke my heart. The bear looked at me like, “Please get me the hell out of here.”
A black bear doesn’t live on rocks. The poor thing had no grass or trees to rub his back. They threw him a chew toy and that was about it. He wanted to go home with me, I’m sure of it. There weren’t many people at this exhibit, so I talked to the bear for a long time. We bonded.
My last picture was of an African painted dog of I don’t know where. I’m assuming Africa. I didn’t know. I just know there were a pack of them sleeping. So, I didn’t want to wake them up. One was looking at me. I smiled and waved. I’m sure I looked like a loon. I laughed at myself. Did I expect a head nod or a wave of his paw? I have no idea. But, I got one shot before I left. I was leaning over so far to get a good picture, I thought how easy it would be to fall. That would not have been good.
I was happy with my pictures and thought that I would share some of them with you. I hope to head to the Cincinnati or Columbus Zoo next. That may not be until next summer. But,in the end, I was happy that I acted like a loon. Sometimes you have to go out of your comfort zone to get a response. I am beginning to think that I am quite comfortable with acting like I’ve lost my marbles.
After all, they will never see me again, right?
Wrong. I saw the guy at Walmart in my hometown just yesterday.
My mom made it quite known to me after I had children that she didn’t believe in bragging about her children. Well, Mom, that was obvious. All I was doing was calling her to tell her both of the kids made it to the state social studies fair. I mean, that was an awesome feat that siblings could win the local and then county Social Studies fair. And since she lived two hours away, she would not have know about any of this.
Regardless, I had to hear her tear me down one more time. “Vickie, I think that’s great. You know, you three kids did a lot when you were little, but I never believed in bragging.” No, no you didn’t mom. Well, except when it came to my stomach.
Now, you have to understand that I really didn’t excel at much. I didn’t play a musical instrument. I did try out for our junior high band, if that is what you want to call it, but they just refused to hand me a clarinet or flute or whatever the hell I wanted to learn to play. We had to take a music test of some sort and I really couldn’t hear the difference in tone. I was a tone deaf clarinet challenged retard. It was just another test that I flunked. Like the early entrance test to start school early.
I did win a safety slogan contest when I was in fourth grade and even got a little trophy. That was a big deal. I think my mom came up with the slogan though. I’m not sure. I’m just saying that to continue on with my “I really didn’t excel at much” scenario.
I wasn’t much on selling stuff to win contests in our Bluebird and Campfire Girls troop. I absolutely hated going door-to-door and asking people if they wanted to buy goddamn light bulbs or magazines or even candles. I remember the candle drive. I think I went to five houses and each lady of the house bought something, but I just was tired of that bullshit and went home. I was actually doing pretty well, but I just wasn’t into it. Thank goodness I didn’t have to collect money during the sale, because then I would have had to follow through with it.
My best friend won a selling contest and got to wear a Clorox bottle crown, sit in the front row and hold flowers. I was happy for her because she sold a shit load of whatever we were selling. It wasn’t for me, so I just smiled for the picture as a loser in the back row. Not that the other girls were losers in the back row. Sorry, MaryLou. Talking about me, not you.
So, no, I didn’t excel at much and my mom didn’t brag about me too much….until summer time rolled around.
I don’t know what it was in my neighborhood, but for some reason we liked to lay out in the sun. Like all the time. If we weren’t at the pool, we were laying out. And I laid out on our back patio on a towel. On the concrete. You’d think that my parents would buy some porch furniture for the back, but they never did. That just dawned on me right now. I know my mom always said that the sun didn’t like her and she rarely sat outside, well, because there was no place to sit. We had one lawn chair on our front porch and that was it. So, I laid out on a towel.
The summer after I was a freshman in high school was the summer of my great tan. I was quite dark. I mean, like really dark. And my stomach for some reason was the darkest. I had a little egg timer and would roll over when it would ding. I was like frying my body. Would think that I would look like a piece of leather or a shriveled up raisin now that I am in my fifties. Oh contrare. I still look quite young. Well, that is what my fourth graders tell me. They think I am 30. …brown nosing little shits.
So, whenever my mom and dad would have company or one of her women friends stopped by for coffee, gossip, and cigarettes, my mom always called me into the kitchen.
“Vickie, show her your stomach.”
“What?”
“Lift up your shirt and show her your stomach.”
Um, ok. I would lift up my little summer shirt to reveal my stomach. And my mom would then laugh and say something different each time, depending on who was sitting there, sharing her coffee.
“Now is that a Florida tan or what?”……………..”Look how dark she is.”……………”Have you ever seen anyone so dark?”………………….”I know. She looks almost like a black person.”………….”And she puts baby oil on her stomach.”………………….”and it really doesn’t fade…………”
She didn’t care what I was doing. If we had company and it was summer time, I knew at some point I would be raising my shirt. “Vickie!…..Vickie!!…….Come up here!…..” I wished she didn’t have friends.
So, the bragging began. No, it wasn’t for being smart as there weren’t any A+ papers on the refrigerator. No, it wasn’t for winning a slogan contest or for even singing Are you Sleeping, Brother John in front a whole auditorium of Campfire Girls or memorizing everyone’s line during the church Christmas play. No, my mom bragged about my stomach tan.
Typical.
You’d think that with the invention of tanning beds that I would still be a fool for a tan. When I did have a pool,I had a tan, but it was a SUN tan. Those tanning beds are not the same thing. My sister has a sun tan business and about 12 beds in her place. I laid in it one time years ago, and felt like I was in a damn coffin. It just wasn’t for me. I am more of a plant me under the sun kind of gal, and haven’t done that for a few years. When I go to the beach, I head under an umbrella after a while as I guess “the sun doesn’t like me” anymore.
When I was young I am pretty sure that the tv commercials were directed right at me. Now, you have to understand that we only had three channels on our tv set. Thank god we didn’t have QVC or Home Shopping Network then because I would have been grounded for using my mom’s credit card every other day. Well, if we had credit cards back then too. Shit, we didn’t have much back then.
First of all, Saturday morning cartoons rocked back in the 60′s. I got up early and watched them all morning. Well, before my mom shooed us outside to play. I loved Foghorn Leghorn. He was my hero. I would sit glued to the tv set all freaking morning, because the commercials were just as exciting for me. And when I first saw a commercial for Soaky Bubble Bath Time, I was beyond excited. I mean, you could take a bubble bath AND have a prize. The bottle was a cartoon character. This was unbelievable to me. I’m sure I was sitting there with my mouth open. This was an exciting time for this little skinny little seven year old. The year was 1963……. and it was bath time.
Soaky Bubble Bath Time….Wow, what a great way to take a bath. I had to have this. My mom, however, was never on board with anything at first. She came up with an excuse that as a seven year old I could not possibly understand.
“Vickie, I am not buying bubble bath soap………….it will not make you any cleaner…………..no it won’t…………no it won’t……………Vickie, there is so a bar of soap in the bath tub………………………….yes there is………………well, I’ll tell you what, let’s go and take a look…………………………..Ok, where did you hide the soap?”
Ha! I knew she was going to cause me some problems, so I hid the soap before we had this conversation. I was soaky bubble bath time smart. But, then she confused the hell out of me.
“Vickie, I am NOT buying you this so-called Soaky Soapy Bubbles.” Ok, first of all, stupid mom, it was called Soaky Bubble Bath Time. But, I let her go this time, because she was not finished.
“The soap can give you an infection.” What? Sitting in a bath tub can give you bronchitis? My mom was a loon. Oh, but once again, she was not finished. She saw the expression on my face and decided she needed to be more precise with her statement. “It can make your deet itch, Vickie.”
Ok, I have to tell you that I thought everyone in the world called their female private part a “deet.” That’s what my mom called it. When I was young I always had to make sure that I washed “down there real good” when it was bathtime. And of course, I knew when I was quite young that that area was always last with the washcloth. And you know, well, that was always a great piece of advice. But, I didn’t want an itchy deet. But, was she lying? She lied to me a lot.
“Vickie, Dr. Parker said that bacteria in the water can make your deet itch…………………I realize that soap is not bacteria………When did Dr. Parker tell me this? A while ago………………yes, he did…………….yes, he did……….Vickie, I am not going to argue about this. I am not buying bubble bath. I can’t use bubble bath.
Why the hell would my mom use a Popeye Soaky Bubble bath bottle? She doesn’t even watch cartoons. She made no sense. And when she said “no,” that only meant one thing: ask Dad or Grandma.
So, the next time I stayed at my grandparent’s house was the first time I bathed with a Soaky Bubble Bath Time. I have no idea which cartoon character I took a bath with first, but I am thinking it was Elmer Fudd. But, I could be making that up. I can’t remember. Grandma Orpha always thought I was going to drown or she was cheap as shit because she only gave me about 1/2 inch of bath water. Well, it wasn’t up to my armpits like we had it at home every night. I poured in a cap of the bubble bath and played for a while. I loved going to my grandmother’s house. I asked her if I could take Elmer Fudd home to share with my brother and sister. Yeah, like I was really going to do that. Grandma said I could take it home with me. My mom was not amused.
“Vickie, it can’t make your deet itch right away.”
Ok, fruit loop, how long does it take? Well, it didn’t matter. It was already brought into the house and we used it that very same night. I still took a bath with my sister, so we had a good old time. We played “Ethel and Mabel” most nights during bath time anyway, so adding bubbles to the mix made bath time so much more fun. We used up all of the washcloths and put soap in the middle of the washcloths and then would fold the cloth over the soap and then punch it to make the soap spurt out. What fun we had. We stayed in there until our fingers looked pruney. My mom didn’t care. She was able to sit and smoke a few cigarettes in peace while we were in the bath tub.
“Bath time isn’t quite the same without your cartoon buddies!”
So began our soapy bubble bath time. We bought them left and right. We had Mr. Magoo and Popeye, and Sylvester kitty cat. My dad even had a use for Sylvester. He had a huge flagpole in the backyard and somehow the finial blew away or just fell off of the top of the flagpole. So, what did he put up at the top of the flagpole for all the neighbors to see every day? You got it. Sylvester the cat’s head.
Yes, we Mendenhalls were high class, that’s for sure. But, what is for sure is that reports came out years later that bubble baths weren’t so good for girls and women…..and their deets. But, it was already too late. We went through a lot of bottles of Soaky Bubble Bath time soap without any “girl” problems. My best friend, Ramaine, and I would even laugh and say, “deet de deet” and sing it to the Pink Panther theme song when we realized that no one else called it that. It was now our private little joke. Why the hell did my mom call it that?
Just a few minutes ago, here in 2012, I private messaged Ramaine on facebook and asked her if she called her deet anything else when she was little. It’s so funny that I can still ask her stuff out of the blue as bizarre as what we called our deets back in the 60′s and she immediately has an answer for me. I mean, when was the last time we talked about our deets? When we were 13? Her memory is so much better than mine. She reminded me about the “deet de deet” and that in her family they called it “cho cho.” I guess each family may call it different things, like how my mom called my little budding breasts, “mosquito bites.”
In the end, I am just glad I never went the bath salt route. Because, we all know what happens when people use bath salts. An itchy deet would be the least of their problems.
I learned Spanish when I was in first through third grades. It’s always fun to throw in a new language when you are still trying to figure out what the hell a vowel and a consonant are in English. Honestly, though, the earlier you learn a foreign language, the longer it sticks in your head. I learned Espanol when I was incarcerated in my early grades at the Immaculate Conception Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy.
I have mentioned over and over how much I hated attending that private school. I will never forget my first day of school and coming face to face with Sister Dominica. In my book, Jumping in Mud Puddles (shameless plug), I lovingly describe Sister Donkey:
“…so I opened the door and stepped outside. I must have walked back and forth the length of the car twenty or twenty-one times before that bus pulled up. Shit. Are you kidding me? It wasn’t a bus at all. It was an ugly blue van. And when that ugly blue pretend bus pulled up that first day of school and opened its door, out jumped a freaking nun. A nun was driving the pretend bus! She introduced herself as Sister Dominica, and she was the bus driver and a teacher at the Blessed Baby Jesus and Mary Conception Academy.
“I had never seen a nun before in real life. My mom tried to explain where I was going and who I would have for my teachers, but I couldn’t get past the fact I couldn’t see this Sister Dominica’s hair. Did she have hair? If she had hair, what color was it? Was that cardboardy white thing pinching her underneath her chin? I reluctantly got into the van and waved goodbye to my mother from my seat. She was standing there with her hand over her mouth. Shit. Thanks, Mom. This was not going to be good.”
And it wasn’t good. I think I was the only one who wasn’t brainwashed. The other kids seemed really happy to be there. Dear God, I was in Stepford. That’s the only explanation for this parade of smiles and unicorns I could come up with. The only thing I liked about the whole damn experience was the time I sat in Spanish class. Of course, Oompah Loompah Sister Dominica was the teacher, but her whole “I’m a bitch nun, don’t even piss me off” persona was left at the door when she taught Spanish. It was so much fun.
We were in school for a few weeks before we were told we would also be learning Spanish. I was going to love this. Ok, there is one tiny thing I didn’t like about Spanish class. On the first day of school, Sister Dominica pulled down a map of South America and pointed with a long stick, which I think was a yardstick instead of one of those white sticks real teachers use. She told us all about her coming all the way from……Peru? (I don’t know, I wasn’t listening) and how she learned to speak English just like we were now learning Spanish. I had a question.
“Vickie, no, the capital of Peru is pronounced LEE MAH………Yes it is……………..Yes it is………..Vickie, I can tell you for a fact that it is pronounced like that. I lived there for many years……..No, it is not where lima beans come from because it is not the same thing…………..Because it is not…………………It’s LEE MAH, Vickie…………………….That’s enough. Please quit asking questions.”
Well, hell, aren’t you supposed to ask questions in school? Sure, I could sit there like Hansel, the kid who wore suspenders every day. He was dead. He never moved. He looked straight ahead and that was about it. I threw a piece of rolled up paper at him one time, and the damn kid never flinched. Someone should take his pulse. If I had my mom’s bright pink lipstick, I would have put lipstick on him. How fun that would have been. But, anyway, I thought my LEE MAH/Lima question was pertinent. Sister Dominica had the patience of a saint. Oh wait. They are patient. She was no saint.
Sister Dominica pulled the map down on the second day of spanish class and reminded us about her being from South America and asked us what country she was from. Duh. But, oh my god, Hansel raised is hand. I almost fell out of my freaking chair.
“You are from Peru.” Hansel was alive! Dear god I had witnessed a miracle! It was like Kathryn Kuhlman, American faith healer and evangelist, had just performed one of her healings. “Heal!” My mouth dropped open. Thank god he didn’t answer that question while wearing pink lipstick. I just smiled at him. I was going to make him my best school friend. I’d have to find out some day what his real name was. I was so glad he was alive.
Sister Dominica brought down that damn map of South American almost every day of the week. Ok, we get it, Senorita Dominica. Let’s learn some more words. And we did. We first were given spanish names. I didn’t really understand this part, but I went along with it. People were picking great spanish names like Pedro, Paco, Chico, and Miguel for the boys. The girls were choosing Anita, Benita, Bonita, and Lupita. I was seeing a pattern emerging with the names for the girls ending with -ita. Mine was going to end that way also.
“Your turn, Vickie. What is going to be your spanish name for the year?……………..No, you can’t have Vickita……….No, that is not even a name………….No, it is not………………….No, it is not……………….Do you know of one person whose name is Vickita?…………………..No, that is a Chiquita banana, not Vickita…………………….Ok, if you can’t choose one on your own, I will give you one. Your new name is Rosita.”
And with that remark, she wrote it down in her book and I was pissed. I mean, like shoot red lazers out of my eyes pissed. I was goddamn Rosita from LEE MAH.
Ok, so the map and my name and having Sister Donkey as my teacher were the only thing I hated about spanish class. The rest was just awesome. I learned to count in spanish: uno dos tres cuatro cinco seis siesta ocho nueve diez. Sister Dominica always corrected me with numbero 7, but I wanted to be a comedian and say siesta instead of siete. She had enough of me. But, guess what? Hansel/aka Paco laughed out loud. Oh yes, Paco was my new best school friend.
Pretty soon I was speaking fluent spanish. Ok, I wasn’t, but I thought I was. I was learning new words every day:
perro- dog
gato- cat
por favor- please
gracias- thank you
bueno- good
stupido-stupid
Aprende a conducir aweonao!!- Learn to drive asshole!
Baboso-retard
Kieta el stupido elephante- Shut up you stupid elephant
Tu eres más feo que el culo de un mono- You are uglier than the butt of a monkey
Tirate a un poso- throw yourself in a hole
and my favorite, Las monjas no se puede enseñar- Nuns can’t teach.
Ok, so I may have just learned colors and numbers and places on my body that first year of spanish. But, it was fun.
And years later, I still know that Lima (LEE MAH) is the capital of Peru…..home of sister Donkey. AND, I just found out that lima beans really did come from Peru. So, who is the smart one, now, Sister Dominica? Not you. So, next time you have LEE MAH beans, pronounce them as they were intended to be pronounced. And you will be looking like the smart one. Really.
Photograph of a Green Frog en ( Rana clamitans en ). Photo taken at the Tyler Arboretum. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
When I was young, there were always smashed frogs in the middle of the road in front of my house. Ok, I realize that I may be talking about toads, but for this post I am going to group them together and call them frog toads. The boys in the neighborhood used to pick them up and fling them at us girls. The poor unfortunate frog toads would be hard and paper thin. I guess if you were repeatedly run over by a car, you would become flat too. I don’t see dead frog toads on the road anymore. I mean, not that I am looking for them or anything. But, yeah, I guess I am. And I just don’t see them.
According to Wikipedia, there has been a decline in populations of amphibians in the past three decades. From scientific studies that were performed, it was found that 32% of species are threatened and between 9 and 122 species have become extinct since 1980. There is also another list that puts 486 amphibians as “critically endangered.” And I just bet those smashed frog toads on the road are part of one of those studies.
Wouldn’t it be awful to never hear the sounds of the spring peepers? Their choir down by my old pond performed for me all the time. Bullfrogs would bellow periodically. I used to love to sit outside on my front porch at night and listen to their wonderful music. What if that goes away too?
I’ve noticed a lot of changes since I was young. We all know about the plight of the honeybee. I really don’t know if tent caterpillars serve any purpose, but I really don’t see those white sticky nests like I used to years ago. I think I’m still paying attention. And what about the Japanese beetles? They used to be a huge pain in the ass just ten years ago. They would always appear in my part of West Virginia the last week of June.
And what about the grasshopper? Dear god, where the hell are you, Hopper? I saw one yesterday and I swear it is the first one I have seen in a long time. Is it just me? Maybe bugs don’t like West Virginia anymore. I don’t think that would be the case. We are a lovely place for insects.
I guess I’m just scared. I don’t have grandchildren yet, but I would hate it if my future grandson wasn’t able to fling a dead smashed frog toad onto his sister.
I am beside myself. My book, Jumping in Mud Puddles, just went live on Amazon. This is my literary debut, so I really don’t know what the hell I am doing. I do want to mention to anyone who is thinking about going the ebook route that the formatting is very easy. I mean, I did it, and I can’t find my way out of a sack. I even made my own cover because I am too tight to pay someone else to do it.
So, I guess I should know what I am supposed to do now, but I don’t. My book is just sitting there among the thousands of other books. I just left it there and went for a chocolate ice cream cone. Oh, hell, that was a lie. There was no way I was going out of the house today. It is 102 here in West Virginia. Anyway, I feel like I did when I drove my kids to college for the first time. I dropped them off and left them. I’ve nurtured this book for a very long time now and now I’m done.
So, my blogging friends, if you get the chance, go take a look see at my literary debut. Wow, I’m a real bonafide author sort of maybe. And If you are feeling generous, leave me a thumbs up or a review. And then more people will say to themselves, “Hey, people are reading this little book. Maybe I should, too.” I’m sure that’s what they would say.
I guess I should mention what my books is about for all of you who may stumble upon this post. My book is a memoir about my childhood and how I was just a little bit off center. Most of my blog posts are in the book, changed or tweaked in one way or another. The book has 44 chapters and I curse a lot, which I really don’t mean to do, but those damn nuns that I write about are to blame. They really are.
Anyway, like I said, I don’t know what I am supposed to do right now. I guess I should walk around the place and see what other “authors” are doing to promote their book. I’d rather just sit and take a deep breath, and rest a while. It’s just too damn hot.
Update: It’s the morning after publishing, and I made a top 100 list already! Yehaw! #70 in Kindle Store-ebooks-Humor-Essays. And, the book is on the Humor-Essay page as a “Hot New Release.” I don’t know how long it will stay there, but I’m a happy camper.
English: Fireworks on the Fourth of July (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
My mother must have thought we were retarded (sorry, love that word) when we were young because she always announced when it was time for the 4th of July fireworks:
“Kids, let’s go outside. It’s almost time for the Boom Booms.” Well, first of all, I must be lying because the Mendenhall kids would have been outside anyway. My mom shoved us outside first thing in the morning and would only unlock the door when whe had to use the bathroom. Ok, lying again. But, we played outside all damn day.
Second of all, we understood the word, fireworks. We really did. It was like a firecracker, but much larger, and up in the sky. But for some strange reason, my mom always called fireworks, Boom Booms. Of course, this was the same woman who called my budding fourth grades breasts, mosquito bites, so she was just a loon on any given day.
Dogs don’t really care for fireworks, and our dog, Susie, was afraid of the damn Boom Booms. The sounds of firecrackers and people screaming from exploding firecrackers permeated throughout the neighborhood. Susie was a fox terrier, so she was small and first wanted to be held when the first of the noise-makers began, but then just couldn’t take it any longer and would bolt under my mom’s bed.
I loved growing up in Weirton, West Virginia. Fourth of July was a big deal in our city. Almost everyone in our neighborhood had their American flags out on their porches. We had a gigantic flagpole in our backyard. My dad used to march us up there like little memebers of the VFW and have a flag ceremony. My brother David would be saluting as he walked.
I was even in a few 4th of July parades when I belonged to a majorette group. I wore a red sequined outfit and threw my baton around like I knew what I was doing. I’m surprised I didn’t bop someone in the head with one of my missed baton throws.
So, yes, the 4th of July was a great time in Weirton. But, the people who lived in Woodland Estates were quite lucky because we lived near the Weirton Airport, and that’s where they had the fireworks. I mean Boom Booms.
So, after all the backyard picnics and the badminton games were over, people brought their chairs to their front yards for the big firework display that were put on at the airport. Most people drove to the airport and put blankets down like they were at the Bellaire Drive-In. But, we had thee perfect spot on our front porch or yard to view the fireworks. My mom would never have taken us to see the fireworks if we lived elsewhere unless we were on leashes. She would have lost us in thirty seconds.
So, you could hear everyone talking from their porches, waiting for the big fireworks to begin. My dad would be on the sidewalk, talking to our next door neighbors, Joe and Rosa. It was a great time. The fireworks would begin at exactly 10:00. When we were quite young, it would be way past our bedtime, so we would sit on the front porch in our pajamas. I remember being tired, although as a hyperactive worm, I couldn’t sit still in my chair. I was down in the front yard walking around in my pajamas until we could hear and see the first of the Boom Booms.
And that is when Susie the dog would usually disappear. You knew when the big Boom Booms were going to happen; there would just be a bright silvery blob in the sky and then Oh My God, what a noise! We would cover our ears and squeal in delight. Life was good.
So, on this 4th of July, I don’t think about the past and the people who fought for our freedom. I teach that every year and have a lot of fun with it, but it is not what I think of when that red, white, blue day comes every year. No, I think of my mom, sitting on the front porch, wearing those damn cat-eye glasses and smoking her Salem cigarettes, asking her children if they were excited about the Boom Booms that were about to start.
And you know, yes, we were. And it wouldn’t have been special if she hadn’t used that damn phrase.
And yes, I used that phrase one year when my children were quite young, and then I slapped myself.
When I was young I watched a program on tv about Sasquatch. Scared the hell out of me. Of course, this program talked about the Canadian hairy guy, so I didn’t think that he could cross the border and head south to find me in West Virginia. But, I had questions for my mom, nontheless. She was, afterall, from Sasquatch country. She was born and raised in Spokane, Washington. Sasquatch was right across the border.
“Vickie, Sasquatch is in Washington and Oregon too……….people out in Northern California have been calling him Bigfoot………Well, they have a name for him all over the world…….”
Say what? Bigfoot could be in my backyard? This was not good.
It was bad enough that I watched that tv program, but the next year, 1967 I believe, a guy by the name of Patteson had evidence. I sat with my eyes glued to the tv set as a home movie camera recorded Sasquatch walking in the woods. Dear God, he is real! And he crossed the freaking border. I was eleven years old and impressionable.
This was not good, especially when a neighborhood cat suddenly disappeared one night. I immediately blamed it on Sasquatch. He supposedly smelled like rotten eggs and had a howl that could put chills down your spine. So, of course I heard the blood curdling scream the very next night. I rushed into my parent’s bedroom.
“…….Vickie, what are you doing up? It’s past midnight……………………You did not hear Sasquatch………Vickie, I am not getting up……………….Vickie, no I do not smell rotten eggs………..He couldn’t make it to West Virginia that fast…………He is probably in Montana……besides, he can’t cross bridges………………….because he is afraid of bridges.”
I went back to bed but heard Sasquatch seven more times. I cracked my bedroom window so I would be sure to hear him if he was in the neighborhood.
“Vickie, I don’t want to see your window opened at night again. Do I make myself clear?”
Well, hell, I won’t be able to hear him coming then. “Can Sasquatch disappear like the Indians believe?” Hey, I asked my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Garrity. She told me a few Indian beliefs.
My mom nodded her head, lighting up a cigarette, amused by something. She laughed, “Vickie, your eyes are darting back and forth so fast. Stop it.”
My mom had neglected to mention that my Uncle Don, her brother, had seen a Sasquatch when they were little and he was fishing with some friends out in the wilds of Washington state. That meant Sasquatch was an old Sasquatch then. I felt relaxed.
“The Indians believe that Sasquatch appears and disappears and that’s why no one can catch one of them.”
Ok, shit, my mom just said, “them,” like there is more than one of them. This can not be good.
Sightings of Bigfoot in USA based on information from the BFRO Geographical Database of Bigfoot/Sasquatch Sightings & Reports (accessed 2009-04-08). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Well, since we only had three television stations and the internet wasn’t invented yet, I didn’t have a way to keep tabs on the big guy. I was obsessed for maybe a week and then I moved on to something else. But, Sasquatch was kept on file in my head.
So, when I had children and Al Gore finally invented the internet, one of the first thing I searched for was “Sasquatch.” Well, the very first thing I searched for was wooly worms. I know, I’m a strange bird. But, the internet put me in touch with a data base that included sightings of the hairy ape man. There were thousands of sightings. If the internet was around when I was ten or eleven, I would have had a child ulcer. I was worried about one old Sasquatch in the Pacific Northwest when there was a sighting in Pocahontas County in West Virginia when I was six. Thank God I didn’t know about it.
So, when my daughter had to make a Social Studies project for school and she really didn’t want to do it, I gave her a suggestion; “How about Bigfoot?” She didn’t care so I started finding information for her. I emailed a Bigfoot expert in Montana by the name of Dr. Jeff Meldrum and he responded to her. I chuckle when I see him being interviewed on almost every Bigfoot documentary ever made since that time.
Alex won the school’s Social Studies fair and went on to the county fair and won first place. We then drove down to Charleston, our state capitol for the state competition. That was fun….for me. I was like a Social Studies stage mom. Alex did not care at all. But, I did. I put a lot of time and energy into her project. She even had a large map with pins indicated where there were Bigfoot sightings. She had a tape recorder to let the judges hear a Bigfoot scream. We made a model cast of a Bigfoot’s footprint. She was ready and I won Honorable Mention. I mean, she won Honorable Mention. Big foot scored.
I am still a fan of the hairy creature. Do I believe in Bigfoot? Absolutely. I saw one in the McDonald’s parking lot one night, so I know he is real. I took this picture of him. Or I could be lying.
I really loved being in high school during the 1970′s. It was a great time. I went to Brooke High School in Wellsburg, West Virginia. The school had a large population for our area, so the school was divided into four smaller schools under one roof. They were called centers. I was in center 4.
There were many clubs and activities one could join at Brooke High School. Some of them included Future Teachers of America, Student Council, Ski Club, Chemistry Club and Spanish Club just to name a few. I tried to be active and joined a lot of clubs, but none were as fun as the Drama Club. And it was when I was in the Drama Club that I decided to try out for a play.
To tell you the truth, I can’t remember what the hell part I tried out for. The play, Up the Down Staircase, was made from a best-selling book about an inner city high school English teacher.
I just remember that it was a large cast. I did play one of the high school students, but that is all I can remember about the part. And I don’t remember the cast party that was held after the play ran its course, because, um, someone spiked the punch.
I was a sophmore in high school at the time of my very first night of punch drinking. The cast party was held at the home of one of the girls who was in the play. Glenda also happened to be a relative of some sort. She was a senior at Brooke High and was two years older than me. When doing some genealogy work this past year, I was finally able to see how one of the branches in our family tree swung over to her family. I guess we were cousins, after all. I don’t remember ever talking to her.
Since I was only fifteen at the time, I wasn’t a driver. And to tell you the truth, I have no idea who dropped me off at the party or if our parents did the drop off and pick up routine. All I know for sure is that I don’t know much about that evening. I got there, I drank a bunch of glasses of the best punch in the whole world, and the next thing you know I’m at home, unloading the dishwasher while my head is pounding.
I guess I was having so much fun that I told my friend I came with that I had another ride home and that I was going to stay a bit later. That part was true, I guess. I was having fun. I have no idea if I had another ride home or not.
The only visual that I can remember is a large punch bowl sitting on what appeared to be a pool table that was covered with a huge table cloth or sheet. The punch had floating ice in it and it was a pinkish color. There was food on plates on the pool table, and that’s where we all hung out. The food was delicious, and director of the play was happy because everyone who attended the play was giving great compliments. Well, they had to, most of the people who attended the play were our parents and grandparents. Bravo.
Well, I was eating and drinking and having a good old time. I didn’t know that someone had spiked the punch. I was lucky if I only weighed 90 pounds at the time, so I didn’t have much meat on my bones. So, I imagine just one glass of the stuff would have knocked me down. I was told that I had at least three, because I kept telling people how great it tasted. Oh, there had to be a sinsiter high school boy who was snickering right about now.
Now, I have to admit that it is a bit strange to write about something that you don’t remember. That would make for a very short story. But, my mom was able to fill in most of the hazy memories of that night. And she reminded me of it for days, weeks, and months after wards. I guess I was the life of the party.
I still don’t remember who drove me home that night, but my mom was standing at the door with her hands on her hips. I vaguely remember that, but I have no idea who drove me home, other than it was a car load full of people. A guy and his girlfriend were in the front seat, and I am pretty sure I kissed a guy that I was sitting in the backseat with right before I got out of the car. I don’t know for sure. I was a tramp. Or I was going to be a tramp. My mom used that word a lot after that night.
I have to depend on my mom about the rest of the night. I guess I gave her a big hug when I finally made it to the top of the outside steps that led to the front door. The kids in the car couldn’t get away fast enough. I guess my mom was furious, but I was too happy to notice that. My mom said that I kept hugging her and telling her what a great time I had and how they had the BEST dog in the world. My mom said it was useless to reprimand me that night because I was, as she repeated over and over and over again, “Two sheets to the wind.” I had no idea what the hell she was talking about. I had a feeling that my mom was drunk that night, because what the hell did a couple of sheets in the wind have anything to do with the fabulous cast party?
Ok, so no, she wasn’t drinking. I guess I was the one who had been drinking. I wish someone would have told me that. My mom said that I could not quit laughing and I was talking a mile a minute, ALL about what a great job I did in the play, sitting there in the “classroom,” remembering my lines and delivering them loud and clear. I was a great actress. She said that I was messing with my little sister, who I shared a room with. My parents were in the process of remodeling the basement and adding a bedroom down there for me. I guess this was one of the last nights that I would be spending with her and I just had to tell her what a fantastic sister she has been to me.
I guess my mom was so pissed at me that she just guided me to my room and that was about all. She said that I took down the covers on my bed, and plopped myself in my bed to go to sleep. I guess I then remembered that I was still wearing my clothes. I guess one shouldn’t go to sleep in their jeans and flip flops. I was still talking and laughing when the first flip flop came flying at my mom. I was still having so much fun. The other flip flop hit her in the leg. I guess I thought that was the funniest thing in the world. The last thing my mom saw before she said, “Good-night, Vickie,” and turned off my lights, was me taking off my jeans and swinging them in the air. When she checked on me ten minutes later, she said I had one foot on the floor and was out cold.
I DO remember my mom coming into my room the next morning at 7:30.
“Vickie, get up. I need you to take the dishes out of the dishwasher.” I opened my eyes, but that’s all I could do. My head was pounding. Wow, I must have the flu or something. I sat up slowly, and my mom was just standing at the doorway, staring at me. What? Why was she staring at me? I was getting up. I looked down and there was a pair of jeans lying on my chest. I was wearing a top and not pajamas.
“Vickie, did you have any idea that the punch you were drinking was spiked with booze last night?” My mom looked at me and told me that if I did that again I would end up being a ”lady of ill repute.” What? First of all, mom, I have a freaking headache the size of a….large guinea pig. That’s what I told her. A guinea pig. Ok. Second of all, I had no idea what she was talking about. She told me to get up and unload the newly fixed dishwasher.
I got up and tried to put the jeans on that were lying on my bed. “Don’t put those back on Vickie. I think you vomited on them.” What? I didn’t vomit. I went to a cast party and came home and went to bed. And all of a sudden I was being called a lady of ill repute and a vomiter. The rest of the weekend was just going to suck.
Well, I finally got to my bedroom door, tripped over some flip flops that my sister was stupid enough to leave in the hallway, and made it to the kitchen. My dad was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee, wearing a huge smile. ” Good morning, Drunky.” He burst out laughing. What?
I guess my mom didn’t really want me to get up that early to unload the dishwasher. She wanted to put me under the light and question me like the police do on those police shows. I was so confused. My brain was not wanting to work. She hounded me and asked me a million questions:
”Who brought the booze for the punch?” What booze?
”Who drove you home and who did you kiss in the backseat?” What? I kissed someone?
“What are their phone numbers?” Who? I don’t know who drove me home. Wait. I kissed someone?
The questions did not stop. My mom had called my cousin’s mother who hosted the cast party and she repeatedly told my mother that she and her husband and a few other adults chaperoned the cast party and she had no idea that the punch was spiked. She said no one was drunk. No one. My mom didn’t believe her.
“….and she said no one was drunk or acting drunk. But when you got home, Vickie, you kissed whoever you were sitting with in the back seat as you got out of the car and you were swinging your jeans. You were as drunk as a skunk.” God, settle down, Mom. Besides, when have you EVER seen a skunk that was drunk. I mean, really. Who is the drunk one here?
Well, my mom finally was able to recreate the whole evening because I think she talked to everyone who was there. Everyone. I was grounded until I was thirty. Or until I went to her the next night.
“Mom, I didn’t get drunk on purpose. Someone spiked the punch and I found out from Cindy that I was with her most of the night and I only had two glasses of punch.” My mom ungrounded me.
I can’t look at a punch bowl without thinking it should only be for a spiked beverage. That cast party was a great time.
These must be those ladies of ill repute my mom was talking about.
I was the pickiest child in the whole world. And if I didn’t want to eat something, there was nothing my mother could do to get me to eat it. It wasn’t going to happen. You could plop a new puppy with a big pink bow around its neck in front of me as a bribe, but I still wouldn’t eat those damn peas. I could sit in my chair for hours to no avail. I wasn’t stubborn. But, I felt that if I didn’t want to chew and swallow disgusting peas, I shouldn’t have to. You eat them.
So, it was not pleasant sitting at the Mendenhall dinner table when I was very young. Our dinner conversations usually centered around my not eating.
“Eat your carrots, Vickie……. They are good for you……..Vickie, are you listening?…….Eat your carrots, Vickie….. Don’t wrinkle your nose up like that to me…. It will freeze and you will have wrinkles on your nose like that forever……Vickie, why are you smelling the carrots? …………No, they don’t smell funny……..They are cooked carrots…….They are from a can………No, they are not old……….Because there is a date on the can………….Vickie…..Eat your carrots……….How do you know you don’t like cooked carrots? You’ve never tasted cooked carrots before…..What?…..Bugs Bunny is not real, Vickie….No, I have never seen rabbits eat cooked carrots……..You are not a rabbit, Vickie….People eat cooked carrots….Yes, Vickie……..kids are people…….What? No, Vickie, you cannot have a rabbit……. Ok, you know what? I’ve had enough…Go to your room…………..No, you cannot have a twinkie.”
Every night it was the same thing. I don’t understand why my mother just didn’t leave me alone. I wasn’t going to starve. As long as I had bread, jelly, peanut butter, and pumpkin pie, life was grand. Of course there were other foods I would eat, but dear God, do not spread peanut butter with the jelly on the bread. That is abnormal and I would not touch it.
It was twice as bad when I was old enough to start school. The nuns at Immaculate Heart of Crazy Nuns Academy would not leave me the hell alone. It was a constant barrage of inspirational messages directed at me to make me feel bad and eat. Stupid nuns. You can’t fool me. I’m unfoolable.
“And so why are you not eating all of the food on your plate, young lady?” Here we go. She was standing beside my tray, hands on hips. I don’t know why people stand with their hands on their hips. It didn’t scare me. It reminded me of getting ready to sing, “I’m a Little Teapot.” I just hated those damn nuns anyways. I did not want to be at that private school. And I don’t know why they kept referring to it as a private school. All my friends knew about it. I looked up and answered the creepy lady clad in black and white.
“I’m eating.” I looked at her. I couldn’t even fake a smile. And she didn’t scare me at all. Nuns were like clowns. They both wore goofy clothes and just weren’t funny.
“You need to clean your plate, Miss Mendenhall. Think of all of the starving children in Biafra.”
Shit. I mean, I am sorry about the starving kids in Biafra. And the ones in India. And the children who are freezing AND hungry in Outer Mongolia and Siberia. What the hell did that have to do with me not eating peas in Wintersville, Ohio? I was tired of this bullshit at school and at home. You know what? I didn’t give a rat’s ass about all the starving kids in the world. I was eight years old. Get the fuck off of my tiny back.
It was at that moment, in third grade, that I decided to start hiding my food.
After I got home from school, I decided to have a conference with myself about how I was going to hide my food at school, starting the next day. But, I had to get through the dinner routine at my house first. My mother started at me again. Shit. We were having peas. I really thought she was doing this to me on purpose. Lady, I am not going to eat peas. Not going to happen.
“Vickie, eat your dinner……………peas are good for you……….yes they are…………they are not mushy………..Vickie, eat your dinner…….I don’t know why they aren’t orange like carrots……It doesn’t matter, eat your dinner…………..Vickie, quit lining the peas up on your knife………..Ok, they are all over the floor now……Vickie, the dog is nowhere near you. She did not bump into you. You had them on your knife…….Because I have been watching you not eat your dinner……….Vickie, you are going to sit there until all those peas are gone, do you understand me? If they are not gone, you will not be allowed to go to your Blue Bird meeting this evening.”
Oh, I was going to go to my bluebird meeting. I hid my peas in my glass of milk. I drank most of the milk, and then dropped peas down in the milk. I was surprised how many peas could hide in milk. I smashed some of them on my plate because my mother would become suspect if there were no peas left on the plate. I figure she would still let me go to my blue bird meeting if she saw that I gave it a good old college try. I put three peas on David’s plate while he was talking. Cheryl and my dad also got three. I was a damn good pea sneaker.
And that’s how my food hiding career began.
The next day at school, we had salisbury steak, green beans, and mashed potatoes. I remember this because of the incident. Well, there was no way I was going to eat any of this bullshit. Salisbury steak was shit on a stick to me. I despised green beans just as much as I hated peas. I did like mashed potatoes immensely. But, and there was always a “but” with me, if they had lumps in them, I would gag until my eyes watered. So, at most, it was an iffy meal.
First, I asked my lunch table friends if they wanted my salisbury steak. I had to work fast as the lunch Nazi was on her rounds. I thought that I would at least think of the Biafran kids and try to give my food away before I hid it. The boy across the table had already devoured half of his shit on a stick. He said he would take mine. I picked it up with the fork and sort of whipped it toward him. It landed on his plate. This was going to be fun. No one really wanted my green beans, so, I put some of them in my napkin, left some on the plate, and put the others under my tray. Well, just until she walked by. My plan was to retrieve the green beans after the nun lady walked by.
My Operation Hide Yucky Food was working. My mashed potatoes didn’t have any lumps, so I was able to eat that with no problem. Just in time, too, because here came Sister Potato Head.
“Well, well, well. Look at this. Miss Mendenhall, you did a pretty good job today. I am surprised. Go ahead and take your tray up to dump.”
Uh oh. I just sat there. I had at least six green beans smashed underneath my tray. I wasn’t ready to take my tray up until I hid more in another napkin. But, I made the mistake of having everything done by the time she came by, so there was no dilly-dallying during lunch time.
I stood up, picked up my tray and walked slowly to the dumping grounds. Sister Stupid Face was busy talking to others at my table and wasn’t watching the green beans peel off the bottom of my tray and fall to the ground while I was walking. I almost made it there when I heard a big black and white thud. I didn’t even need to turn around. I knew what happened. Sister Goof Ball Head slipped on my green beans and wiped out on the floor. I turned around, expecting to see her shoot me with the gun I was sure all nuns hid under their black dress, when I saw a boy from another table, lying on the floor.
The gun-toting nun was helping Jacob get up and yelling at him at the same time. “If you would have finished your green beans, they would not have been able to fall off of your plate as you were rushing to dump your tray. Get up. You’re ok.”
So much for hiding food. As I walked back from taking my tray to the cooks, I kicked each green bean out of the way. I had made a straight line of dropped green beans on the floor. I escaped certain death this time. I would remember never to hide food under my tray again.
In the end, I was able to become quite creative with my food hiding both at home and at school. It helped that I had a dog who was discreet while sitting beside me at dinner. I just talked louder when we had dinner that required the dog to slurp.
As summer approaches, I try to come up with a travel plan. Last year, I went to New York City twice and Cancun, Mexico. This summer, I am reminded of the great Dorothy Gale quote from the Wizard of Oz:
“…and if I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard.”
Dorothy was a smart girl. I think I will follow her advice. I think I will braid my hair, grab a dog and a little picnic basket purse. and travel around my home state of West Virginia.
It’s funny how people live close to something so wonderful but don’t even notice it’s there. I’m guilty of that. I live close to Prickett’s Fort State Park and hate to say that the last time I had been there was about fifteen years ago when we took our children there. So, I went there a few weekends ago to take pictures with my new camera.
Prickett’s Fort is about ten minutes from my home. I should be slapped. On approach, the first thing I came upon was a creek full of Canadian geese and three honking white geese.
The atmosphere of the creek (I pronounce it crik, because that’s how we talk in Weirton), made me feel calm and mellow. The area is stocked with picnic tables for those who want to picnic with about twenty pooping Canuck ducks. It’s not so bad further away from the geese. I hung out there for awhile, talking to the geese and just taking in the beauty of the area. This was fun. I was by myself, but that doesn’t equate loneliness at all. It was fun. After about ten minutes, I hopped in my car and headed to the state park. But, wait, on my right was a very old cemetery begging me to visit. So, I did.
The Prickett’s Fort Cemetery is an old one indeed. The Prickett family is buried here. The founder of Morgantown, a fellow by the name of Morgan, is buried here too. Morgan Morgan was supposedly the first inhabitant in what is now known as West Virginia. This guy had to be a relative, but I am just way too lazy to research that right now. But, the cemetery was a bit eery, even in the morning.
I then pulled into the parking lot of Prickett’s Fort. The visitor Center is really nice and since I am fifty-five, got a discount on my entrance fee. There is also a museum and nifty time line of the fort upstairs. On the right of the visitor’s center is a bathroom and amphlitheather where plays are performed. The following are pictures I took of the fort and fort area.
The inside of the fort
I won’t go into detail about the fort, but it was used by the Prickett family as their primary home. They have a wonderful website that explains all that is Prickett’s Fort. When word that Indians were in the area hunting, neighbors would quickly ride to the fort and stay with the Prickett family. If you happen to visit this lovely park, you will meet people dressed in period clothing, and watch them work at their craft.
But, what is great about Prickett’s Fort State Park is that it is also a great place to park your car and head to the Rails to Trails on foot or on your bike. Many people use this popular trail, known as the Mon River Trail.
And if you don’t feel like walking or riding your bike, then bring down your boat and enjoy the Monongahela River.
I had a great morning at Prickett’s Fort State Park. And it is in my own backyard. Yes, sometimes the grass is greener on the other side of the fence and you need to travel and explore what lies beyond your local boundaries. But, if you don’t have that wanderlust and want to stay nearby, just look around you. You maybe be surprised at the sights that are in your own backyard.
Memorial Day, like most holidays, has changed over the years. Christmas had morphed into one commercial bonanza with a bearded red suit leading the way. Easter is all about jelly beans and scruffy looking man-bunnies waiting at malls for kids to climb onto their laps.
Mom, how the hell could you even let this happen? lol
I’d say Thanksgiving is doing ok since we had the first one. Thanks, pilgrims, for making pumpkin pie. It’s a fine tradition. I am thankful.
But, Memorial Day began as a solemn rememberance of those who served and lost their lives while fighting for freedom. In 2012, it has turned into a three day weekend. Today there is no garbage pickup and the banks and post offices are closed. Everything else is open for business. Sure, families have picnics and if it is warm enough, pools are opened.
Yet, there are many who know too well what this day clearly stands for. It is a day to reflect and remember those who lost their lives while serving and defending our country.
When I was growing up, my dad was the one who instilled in us what Memorial Day truly meant. My dad served in World War II, stationed in Alaska while building airstrips and in Okinawa.
My dad
Later on, he belonged to the VFW and the American Legion, among other organizations. He was in every parade every year, dressed in uniform, carrying the flag, representing the Veterans of Foreign Wars. He was one real live proud veteran. And he made us aware of what war could do to a nation and how soldiers should be shown every day how proud we are that they put their lives on the line for us. Some never made it home. How sad.
It’s funny, but my dad never really told us what he did in the war. A lot of dads were like that. I was told he was a typist, then he build airstrips. And that he had to have his appendix taken out while stationed in Okinawa. Was never told what he did in Okinawa.
We had a flag pole in our backyard and every Memorial Day, Flag Day, Veterans Day, and Fourth of July, we would march like little soldiers up to the flag pole. My brother David really got into it. He would salute the whole way from the back porch to the flag pole. My dad had us stand across from each other, as we all unfolded the flag. My dad would then raise the flag and we would salute. Dear God, don’t let the flag touch the ground. That was a hard rule to follow when you are little. Dad said if a flag touched the ground, it would have to be burned. I thought that didn’t make any sense. I just looked it up and it is an urban legend. My dad would be amused.
photo via Wikipedia
I don’t remember how old I was when we did this, but I do remember for some reason my dad put a Sylvester puddy cat head from a bath bubble bottle at the top of the flag pole. It sat there for years…on top of the flag pole. I think the metal finial that was once there either fell off during a wind storm or time rusted the little silver topper, but Sylvester is what he found as its replacement.
Bubble bath soap bottle. Unscrew the head and put it at the top of your flag pole.
Years later, after my dad had passed away and we built a house out in the country, I met our elderly neighbor, Ada.
And every Memorial Day, before I even think of my father who was a veteran, and before I think of those who lost their lives serving our country, I think of Ada.
I don’t know why, but Ada always comes to mind. Every year, first thing that pops into my head.
Ada, who lost her love during World War II.
They were engaged and he just never came home. And she never ever talked about him. I had to hear it from another neighbor.
“She was young and in love and they were going to get married right before he left, but they ran out of time. And he was killed.”
And that just broke my heart. Here was this woman, who lived in this small, wonderful home, full of antiques and memories, with no one to share it with, other than her precious dog, her faithful companion. Her sister lived with her until her death, but for the most part, she was always alone after her love never was able to return home. I was told she never wanted to marry.
And so Ada lived on until her memory of him and everything else faded. I remember helping her hunt for her dog when she said he was lost. My son and I searched the neighborhood, frantic, looking for Sam the dog. When I checked back in with her, Sam was sleeping on the couch. She told me, “Oh, not Sam, the other dog.” The other dog had died some twenty years earlier. It was a long goodbye and I missed talking to my neighbor after she died.
So, yes, Memorial Day is a “day to reflect and honor those who have given their all to service to their country.” Yet, it is Ada I think about first today. Her loss was profound, yet she lived a long and independent life. I wrote this poem when I was in college after a break up, but always thought it would be pertinent for a loss of any kind.
Time flies
and with each morning sun
comes the thought of you
and the smiles left behind.
Tears will dry
and wounds will heal,
but memories linger on.
In the end, I think Americans do a pretty good job at remembering what this day stands for. Sure, like I mentioned, it is a three day weekend full of outdoor activities with the family. It is also a day for memories of all those who we love who have passed. And that is great, too. But, above all, it is a day to reflect upon what sacrifice truly means and to honor all those who have served our country. My thoughts are with them and their loved ones.
When I was little, my dad used to take me fishing at the Paris Sportsmen Club. I actually hated the whole process of fishing, but felt I should be there to talk my dad and brother into releasing the poor little fish after catching them. It was bad enough they had a hook in their mouth. I just didn’t get it. I guess if you liked the taste of fish and your mom fried them up upon arrival, that is one thing. But, to catch fish for sport? I thought that was stupid.
I worried about the hooked fish. It had to hurt them. If I was hooked in the mouth, I would be screaming. I would still be screaming about it, forty some years later. I just knew that fish had feelings and shouldn’t be hooked in the mouth, dragged to shore, and then shoved into a bag like thingy until they died from being out of the water too long. Where is PETA when you need them?
But, after I realized that my dad was a real fisherman, there was no talking to him. He went fishing all the way up to Canada. North Bay, and more specifically, Lake Nipissing. That name cracked me up when I was little. I still laugh at how I laughed. But, if there was a place to throw a pole in the water, he was there. He went fishing under the Freedom Way bridge that led from our Weirton to Steubenville, Ohio, home of Dean Martin. I would go fishing there with him a lot. He caught a lot of fish there and would put them on a chain like thingy and let them flop around in the water while he caught more. One time I pulled the rod out of the muck and they all floated down the river. Oops. Fish on a chain.
Now, the Paris Sportsmen Club was just a little bit creepy for me. Creepy in that there were high weeds here and there surrounding the pond. Someone needed to pull on some rubbery wading pants and go pull some weeds. Cattails were immense. But, among the weeds and cattails were unseen creatures, I feared. Bullfrogs used to scare me to death. And I saw a snake swim by one time. Of course, I told my mom he crawled beside me while I sat on the bank. I was such a little story teller.
But, above every thing else, I was the most wary of the flying machines. You know, dragonflies.
Dragonflies at the Paris Sportsmen Club were evil. I swear one chased me on purpose. I would run one way and it would fly across the pond and head me off at the path. Ok, well, maybe there were more than one and they were just flitting around, but I didn’t see it that way. Their intent was to sting the shit out of me. They approached me like helicopters hovering over the Viet Cong and the rice paddies. Ok, I’m using my imagination. Also, the club was on Devil’s Den Road. What’s that tell ya?
I never really understood their purpose, but I watched them enough to know that they seemed to rule the roost. Birds eat worms. Snakes went after baby frogs. Who the hell wants to mess with a dragonfly? Dragon fly. I liked the name, but it evoked fear. Could it spit fire at me while it chased across the moors? Yes, I’m in Great Expectations and I’m Pip. Run, Pip, Run. I realize I had not heard of Great Expectations when I was little, but you get my point. I would make scenarios up in my head as we traveled to the Paris Sportsmen Club each time we went.
I would stand by my dad for a while, because the dragonflies didn’t come near my dad. He had a hat full of fishing crap on his head. I always wondered why he put lures and hooks and little bobbers on his hat. Who knew that fisherman were stylish? But, anywho, the head dragonfly this particular day, aka winged monkey dragonfly was going to leave the great Oz with the fishing lure hat alone because he was oh so great and powerful. No, they were coming for me, aka Dorothy, from West Virginia. My house landed on my mom and I had to put on red tennis shoes and find Oz. Red pom poms on my shoes would have to do. So, I couldn’t be standing near Oz to begin with if I was going to play Wizard of Paris Sportsmen Club, now could I? I would have to head down the side of the pond and see what I could find to represent the scarecrow. My mom headed us off that morning before we left.
“Vickie, you can’t take Susie with you out there!” She grabbed my little terrier from my arms.
Damn, caught. I tried to take Susie the dog, aka Toto, to the Paris Sportsmen Club with me that morning. How the hell can you play Wizard of Oz without a damn dog? She just pissed me off. That’s why the house landed on her that day.
Just great. We were only there for about thirty minutes when it began to rain. I was just starting to make a scarecrow out of sticks and cattails when I heard Oz (I mean Dad) call for me. We ran to the car and drove home. Those damned winged monkey dragonflies would have to wait another day.
I did find out something interesting that day. My dad told me while we were driving home that dragonflies can’t bite or sting.
I just stared at him. The hell you say.
I had been going out to the Paris Sportsmen Club with him for as long as I could remember, and he just got around telling me this crucial piece of information when I was like eleven. Thanks, Dad. Although actually, I think he kept that to himself. He had to watch me talking to myself, making up role-playing games while he fished. The dreaded dragonfly would have become just a bug, and perhaps I would have become bored while waiting for him to hook yet another poor little fish. That was an interesting ride home in the rain.
So, when it would rain and we would be stuck in the house, I would sometimes draw pictures of dragonflies. I couldn’t draw worth a shit, but they were dragonflies nontheless. I admired them but feared them. I just knew that the next time we went to the Paris Sportsmen Club, a huge, dragonfly monster was going to rise up out of the cattails in the creepy part of the pond and pick me up with their wicked fly claws and carry me away. Or drop me over the middle of the pond, where another water creature would be waiting for me. Like the gigantic fish with the whiskers. Don’t let the name “catfish” fool you. Catfish were evil too.
The Paris Sportsman Club 2012..The damn cattails are still there.
Well, I guess I got a little older and I was just too cool to go with my dad to the Paris Sportsmen Club anymore. I never went fishing after sixth grade or so. But, the dragonflies weren’t done with me yet.
Several years ago, we had just finished dinner, when my son called me out onto our patio.
“Oh my God!” I could not believe my eyes.
Now, you have to understand that we had an in-ground pool and a pond. Several neighbors had ponds. We were used to an errant dragonfly or two, hanging around. By this time, they were beautiful to me and my favorite insect. Everyone has a favorite insect, right? I had a dragonfly shower curtain in our pool house and dragonfly hooks for the towels. I was all about dragonflies.
But, what I saw made me smile, nervously. There were thousands and thousands of dragonflies heading toward us. And they didn’t stay high up in the sky, like the Canadian geese do when they migrate. Was this a migration or was this a swarm? Like a swarm of Paris Sportsmen Club descendants finally coming for me.
I mean, that’s what had to be going on, right?
Ok, kidding. But, what a sight!
We stood on the patio and watched them fly through. It was remarkable, but eery at the same time. Was it the end of the earth? Would some of those flying beasts have the face of a lion? Revelations and all that scary stuff. A dragonfly apocalyse.
Some of them hung around for a day or two. Stragglers came for a few days afterwards. So, of course, I went right to the internet and found out that green darners, among other species of dragonflies, migrate in swarms through our area toward North and South Carolina. I had lived on that hilltop for sixteen years and never saw such a sight. I am thinking maybe they were a bit west of their normal path perhaps.
photo princeton.edu
Perhaps.
So, that brings me why I am writing this today. I am wondering again about dragonflies. It seems that there are dragonflies in the parking lot of our local Walmart. I’ve noticed them for a few years now, and they are back again today. Why a Walmart parking lot? Maybe there was a pond at one time where this stupid Walmart was built a while back and by instinct they come back here. Nothing else makes sense. A parking lot is a stupid place for dragonflies to hang out.
As I unlocked my door to put my groceries in the back of my car, a dragonfly flew right in front of my face.
Once upon a time a family drove to a little amusement park in their home state and joined all of the other families and people wanting a day of smiles and laughter. They rode rides and ate hot dogs and cotton candy. What a great memory in the making. Years went by. Families grew and found something else to do. Bigger and better amusement parks opened. Families now saved their money to take the once in a lifetime trip to Disney, Six Flags, or Sea World.
Soon, most of the little amusement parks had to close their doors for various reasons. Some of these lesser known parks had thrilled people for more than a century. Some mom and pop operations were sitting on valuable pieces of real estate. An offer far more than the small profit made yearly with admission tickets made their operations come to a close. For others, a lack of visitors forced some small amusement parks to sadly shut their gates and turn off the lights. And, sadly, the laughter.
photo via wikipedia
I can think of two parks that were close to where I live that are no longer in operation. Both closed to make way for a new road. One was Rock Springs Park in Chester, West Virginia. The other one was a more contemporary park called White Swan. White Swan closed to make way for the new road to the enlarged Pittsburgh Airport. Defunct.
1. Rock Springs Park- Chester, West Virginia. This park opened in 1897 and closed after its final owner died in 1970. It sat vacant for several years until the state of West Virginia bought the property for its re-routing of a main road. My grandmother used to talk about this park and we visited it often when I was quite young. And now it is just a memory. It was a beautiful park.
2. White Swan Park-Near the Pittsburgh airport- Operated between 1955-1989. It was a small roadside kiddie amusement park that had a roller coaster that jerked at each turn. I do remember that.
But, although dismantling and tearing down buildings and erasing its past is sad, the abandoned and neglected amusement parks are creepy and dismal. Vines and trees are reclaiming the space once used to bring joy to all those who entered its gates. Now, rust and rotten wood are all that is visable. The echoes of laughter are gone. The only thing that remains is an eery, ominous sight, creepy really. And quite sad.
Chippewa Lake Amusement Park-Ohio
Rocky Point-Rhode Island
There are many amusement parks that have been left to decay with time. Bulldozers have left these grounds alone for one reason or another. And none of them compare to the Six Flags Amusement Park in New Orleans.
We all witnessed the horror of what hurricane Katrina did to the Gulf area. It wasn’t until some time later that I saw pictures of Six Flags. I thought maybe, just maybe, as the water receded, the park would be able to re-open. I was wrong. I have read several trip reports from people who have sneaked inside the locked gates to take photos of its untimely demise. How sad.
Flooded after Katrina
photos via lovethesepics.com
2011
Six Flags New Orleans is currently owned by the city of New Orleans. Plans were announced this past March to build an outlet mall in its place.
Another ill-fated amusement park was Heritage USA. You remember that cry-baby evangelist Jim Bakker and his mascara infused wife, Tammy, right? Well, Jim opened a water park and theme park where you would be closer to God and spend money on rides. Problem was, old Jim sold more partnerships than there were rooms in one of the towers. Oh, he had other problems as well. And Heritage USA closed.
Another abandoned amusement park is located in Wichita, Kansas. Joyland closed and was abandoned in 2006. It would be sad to have to drive by this every day.
In the end, I would say it is better to bulldoze a closed amusement park to make way for a road or another commercial venture than watching it decay year after year. To watch the grass grow high, and graffiti overtake a once brightly painted building would be painful, especially if youth was spent at these parks.
The thrill is gone.
The eery echoes of laughter remain, however, and memories do linger on. So, the next time you visit your favorite amusement park, make sure you take a lot of pictures of your family enjoying themselves. Because, you just never know. You may arrive one summer to find this-
My parents never took me to the beach when I was little. I really don’t know why. I’m sure my mom had something to do with it. Three kids were too much for her. But, then again, she said we couldn’t have a real Christmas tree because she was allergic to pine needles. After I grew up and had my own kids, she laughed and told me that she wasn’t really allergic to pine needles, just picking up dead pine needles all over the house. The bitch.
So, yeah, I’m thinking that the reason we never went to the beach was because of my mother. I guess I can understand why. I would be off into the ocean, trying to make friends with a stingray. Cheryl would get mad and march off into the beach sunset, never to be found again. David would just sit and play with a toy truck in the sand, smiling all the while. David would have been a great beach person.
So, we just took trips around the state of West Virginia. Sure, we also ventured down to Tennessee to visit my mom’s best friend or over to Virginia to visit my cousin, Jackie. We went to Canada and watched my dad fish. But, other than that, we stayed in the WV, Pennsylvania, and Ohio perimeter. Which was ok. I didn’t know about how much fun people were having at the beach.
And therefore, I also didn’t know that people could build stuff out of sand.
What??? How cool would that be? If I saw something like this when I went to the beach when I was little, that’s what I would want to do for a living. Yes, I would then want to grow up to be a sand sculpturer.
photo pinterest
If I saw this on the beach I would not go in the water. I would first stare at this for about 30 minutes, and then I would want to create my own.
Ok, yeah, I would get frustrated at first. My mom would have handed us buckets and shovels without involvement. She would just stand over us, looking around. My dad, who would have been filming us as he always did, would hand my mom the camera and would show us how to build a sand castle.
But, that wouldn’t be good enough for me. I mean, I just saw a freaking alligator/dragon sand sculpture. I would want to make something special. Bucket forms in a circle with a shell on the top of each one was not creative enough now that I saw art.
Pure art.
How about something like this, Dad?
Or this.
Oh, yes. I would have given up my smoking actress employment route and taken up sand sculpture for a living. But, alas, my parents never took me to the beach when I was little. I never got to make sand castles with little plastic buckets. I never got to dig a hole and cover up my mother.
I had to wait until I was older. When I had my own kids. Well, not to cover up my mother.
Since I wasn’t able to go to the beach until I was in college, I tried to make up for it by going about every summer. We first started by going to Ocean City, Maryland, where they had wonderful beach sculptures. But, most of the ones we saw were religious. I just didn’t care if the guy worked on it for forty days and forty nights, I just was not into religious stuff. Give me a freaking dragon/alligator or something like this please:
I would love to see this. Young Vickie and older Vickie. I would have stared at it for thirty minutes and then would take the kids to build our own.
Well, except, that since my parents didn’t take me to the beach when I was little, I developed no talent or skill for sand castle making. Actually, I sucked. We did bury my son one year up to his neck and made him into a mermaid without his knowledge. We would giggle as we molded breasts for him and told him we were making him into a beachy strong man with big arm and leg muscles. It was a pretty good mermaid.
But, other than that, no skill. I wouldn’t let the kids use the formed buckets. No, we were going to make a castle with just our hands. Well, not like this one-
This was done by someone whose parents took him/her to the beach when they were little.
Even this one was done by a former beach child I am sure. This kid’s parents owned a beach house. I bet I am right. He probably sculpted this with his eyes closed. That’s how good kids can get at sand sculptures when their parents take them to the beach for vacation. Can’t sculpt out of sand when you are in car heading to Canada to watch your dad fish.
No, I will admit when I have no skill set. So,we were going to make drip castles! I watched someone make drip castles when I was pregnant with Adam. That was the summer that I wore a bathing suit that was green and red with black specks. At seven months pregnant, I looked like a damn watermelon.
So, I learned all about drip castles. I was ready for kids. They would go to the beach every summer, damnit, and learn to sculpt.
So,I found that the sand at Ocean City, Maryland wasn’t as good as the sand at Myrtle Beach for some reason. The first time I started scooping up sand, I was in heaven. I turned into a kid and would sit on the beach all day making the best drip sand castle ever. The one above, no offense, was nothing to the ones the Pellillo family made every year at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. We would sign our creation before we left for the evening and put a big WV beside our name. Yes, I was finally able to make a sand castle! Yeehaw!
It wasn’t until my kids were a bit older, and I realized that they had given up after an hour or so of drip castle building, that I found that I was all by myself. I was sitting in a water hole in my Mickey Mouse t-shirt, dripping away on fantastic spires, when I looked at some women that were parked nearby. They were sitting with full make-up on, sun visors on perfectly coiffed hair, with their bright, long, red fingernails resting on the beach sand chair arms. They were my age and they were watching me.
I felt stupid. My kids abandoned the magic family drip sand dripping castle making and went into the ocean with their boogie boards and their father. I didn’t even know they were gone. Adam was working on one of the many bridges and Alex was working on making the roads throughout the kingdom while I sat in my water hole scooping up new wet drippy sand to create yet another forest tree. But, alone I sat. I had my hair pulled back into a ponytail and was wearing a freaking Mickey Mouse over sized t-shirt.
Wasn’t I supposed to be behaving like the golf widows right beside me? Wasn’t I supposed to be sitting in a beach chair, reading a book and watching people walk by?
I guess my drip castle making days were over.
I never made another drip castle. Oh sure, I made some right beside my chair, like the sad looking starter kit that I made in 2010, when I took my kids to the beach after my divorce.
Adam joined in for a while, which made me happy. But, for the most part, we were over drip castles.
Time to read books and watch people.
Until the grandkids come along. Grandma Vickie will explain to them how a drip castle is made.
I bought a magazine the other day. As I turned each page, I came across a page that had one of those perfume inserts. I really don’t like when they do this. It’s like seeing the proverbial “wet paint” sign. You know you are going to open it up and smell whatever the hell smell they want to put in there. I could be smelling dog poop for all I know. Why are we so easy? Well, I realize, of course, that the perfume people want to give us a little tease so that we will run right out and buy their product, but I didn’t ask for smelly stuff inside my magazine. But, such is life! Estee Lauder wanted me to take a whiff of Beautiful.
It made me think of freebies.
When I was little, I really only ate Rice Krispies or Corn Flakes. And that was fine, because Kelloggs loved putting stuff in the cereal box as an added incentive to buy their cereal. Kellogg was like the P.T. Barnum of cereals.
There’s something inside. Buy me and see!
Product inserts were really big when I was little during the late 1950′s and 1960′s. People in the industry call the little enticements, ”premiums.”
Kelloggs was the first to introduce prizes in box’s of cereal. Betty Crocker put coupons in bags of flour as far back as 1929. So, this has been going on for a very long time.
Here are a few of the companies that enticed us with their freebies:
1. Bazooka Gum- You may not think of it this way, but gum is gum, and they didn’t have to give us a comic to read along with the gum. But, every time we opened a piece of Bazooka chewing gum, there is was, waiting for us. I didn’t know that Bazooka gum was owned by Topps. They had a thing about including things with things. I always wondered why the kid was wearing a patch. It bothered me. Did someone stick him in the eye with a stick? Bazooka Joe had some buddies in his comic strip. The one I remember the most was Mort, the skinny friend who always wore a red turtleneck pulled up over his mouth. See? I paid attention to the comics as I popped the gum in my mouth.
2. Cracker Jacks- I was never a fan of the carameled popcorn. It just didn’t taste good to me. So, I would buy a box just for the prize inside and sit and peel the wrapper off.
Cracker Jacks was first sold at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893. At first, it was a mixture of popcorn, peanuts, and molassses, and was called “Candied Popcorn and Peanuts.” It was named Cracker Jacks after an employee remarked after biting into it, “That’s cracker jack!” Back then, that meant, “awesome.” The remarkable thing about Cracker Jacks is how a songwriter but it in the song, “Take me Out to the Ballpark.”……
Take me out to the ball game
Take me out with the crowd
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks
I don’t care if I never get back.
Let me root, root, root, for the home team
If they don’t win it’s a shame
For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out
at the old ball game.
Talk about free publicity.
3. Topps- I bet my brother is not happy nowadays that he used his Roberto Clemente baseball card in the spokes of his bicycle. But, that’s not all that came with baseball cards. Topps wanted you to have a piece of gum. It was wider that the usual gum, which made it pretty darn cool. But, which came first? From what I have read, Topps wanted you to taste their gum. Why not put a piece with the baseball card to entice you to their other product. Pretty smart marketing.
Ok, yeah, sure, mine gum usually looked like this when I opened up the pack, but I still chewed it.
Here are some of the other ”premiums” that I was able to remember:
4. Coke- circa 1991-They inserted Olympic cards into their 12 pack of cans. I should still have all of these somewhere. I posted the one of Mary Lou Retton because she is from Fairmont and is living here now with her family.
There are so many companies that gave away toys and trinkets inside their packaging. Cereals seemed to be the main culprit. I remember fighting with my brother and sister over some of them. I’d let my brother have all of the “boy” stuff, so I usually only had to fight my sister most of the time. And that just meant getting up earlier to open the new box of cereal.
Which got me sent to my room once in a blue moon for having too many boxes of cereal opened at the same time. I only ate Rice Krispies and Corn Flakes. So, having more than one of those opened was not good.
I do remember cutting things off of the back of the box. Sometimes it was a mask. Other times it was a coloring page. But, it made breakfast educational because afterall, we were reading the box. :ere are some other items found with their products to entice us to use or eat their product.
Circus train animals- animal crackers..wheels to make it look like a real circus train
Sugar Daddies-free wildlife card insert
Wonder Bread-Star Wars Card
Reese cup mallo card add them up and get something free..like a mallo cup
Butternut bread- Snoopy for President
Big one- McDonald’s Happy Meals- I could write a lot on just McDonald’s. Their Happy Meal was a way to get a toy in a box that also had neat stuff for the kids. You can’t purchase the toy separately. I still have a lot of the kids Happy Meal toys. Some are still in the plastic, so you know it’s going to be worth a lot of money one of these days.
Lucky charms-Harlem Globetrotter whistle
Trix-atomic submarine..What? a sub? Inside? I hated Trix. But a sub? In a box of cereal. MOM!!
You can get a Creeping monster inside if you buy this box of Honeycombs. I mean, who wouldn’t want one? Added bonus-It glows in the dark, people.
Or three “groovy” balloons. Balloons aren’t special unless they are groovy.
Yes, the late fifties and early sixties were a great time to be a kid. Cereal inserts were commonplace. Kids ate their cereal. Some ate their cereal as a snack before bed. Oh, my, the cereal companies were doing well. Even the cereals with the word “sugar” in the title did well. We had Sugar Smacks and one of my favorite, Sugar Pops. Life was good.
So, the next time you open a wrapper on a piece of Bazooka Joe gum, take a second to read the comic.
It is, after all, their way of thanking you for buying their product.
One of my students had her tonsils and adenoids removed this morning. I really need to write down the things she says in class, because she is so funny. Her biggest concern was that she had to be at the hospital at 6:00. “Ms. Mendenhall, I have to be at the hospital at 6:00. I mean, I don’t have to leave my house at 6:00. I have to BE at the hospital at 6:00.” Isn’t it funny what kids are concerned about? I would have been afraid of strange doctors in my personal space, hovering over me and asking me questions.
“Did you eat anything this morning, Vickie?”
“Um…. I had Sugar Pops for breakfast.” I wanted to say, “Get the hell out of my space. Don’t you see that box around me? Stay on the other side.” Not a fan of space invaders.
My student’s mom just told me on Facebook that K. wore her jammies to the hospital. She told her mom, “I look a mess, but it’s not like I’m going to be on tv.” I love that kid.
It also took me back in time, like everything does. It took me back to when my son, Adam, had his tonsils and adenoids removed.
I wrote about this a long time ago. But, I combined it with snow days, breaking out in chicken pox, and my cabin fever as a result of all of those happening in sequence. Stick a Fork in Me Cuz I am Done It was a weird spring.
When Adam was little, he seemed like he was sick all of the time. He had pneumonia several times. There is nothing worse than a child with a 105 degree fever. I had “mother judgement calls.” You just never know how long is too long before you load them off and race towards the emergency room. He was sick almost every Christmas.
He had drainage all the time. It was so bad that his second grade teacher sent me a note that his continuous clearing his throat was driving her crazy. Well, she didn’t write that, but that is what she meant. And when he would clear his throat, he would quietly utter, “Oh yeah,” which I think was his way to check if he could speak correctly. Like “Check one-two. Check.” Sound system ok. I felt so sorry for him.
So, after NUMEROUS trips to his pediatrician, who I swear put him Augmentin 300 times, I took him straight to an ENT, who announced that his adenoids were so huge, he could see them. I guess you aren’t supposed to be able to see adenoids. His tonsils had to come out.
When I took him back to his regular pediatrician and told him that I took him to an ENT, my doc looked at me like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. We never saw that doctor at that practice again. I’m still pissed at him for letting my son go that long. If a kid is in 3rd or 4 th grade and has had several bouts of strep throat and numerous colds and congestion, get his damn tonsils taken out. I know that I am not a doctor, but I pretend to be one. I’m just saying that the difference is sudden and remarkable.
The scheduled surgery was right when it looked like school was going to be back in session after the perpetual snow event of that winter. Figures..
Adam’s surgery went well and when he came home I made him a bed on the couch in our Hearth Room so he wouldn’t have to go up and down the steps for awhile. I also made the HUGE mistake of giving him a bell to ring for me. I wanted him to rest, so I thought that if I gave him a bell, that he could just tap it when he wanted something. Ding Ding! He wanted paper and a pen, so he could write me notes. Smart kid…Ding Ding! He wanted his Lego’s. Ding Ding! He wanted his stuffed animal, Bear. Ding Ding! He wrote that he wanted his stuffed animal penguins, Preston and Prescott. Freaking Ding Dong!
I better warn K.’s mom not to do the same. I walked in after only two hours, and quietly snatched the bell away from him. So, the mute improvised, and started tapping his pencil against his glass of water. I created a tonsil-less monster.
For the love of sanity, don't give her a bell.
I really don’t remember how long he stayed home from school after he had his tonsils taken out, but I think it may have been 6 months. Ok, not 6 months, but it felt like that. His tonsils were healing nicely and he was ready to go to school. Well, that would have been nice, but that’s not what happened. He woke up one morning, and said he didn’t feel well. I felt his forehead and he felt a bit warm. I noticed that there was something on the tip his nose. At first I thought it was a booger. Kids wear boogers sometimes. I hurried and raised his pajama top. Shit. “OH MY GOD!” I said out loud. I never cursed in front of the kids, but if I did, I would have said something like this-” Are you shitting me?…… Damnit!”
Yeah, Adam was breaking out with chicken pox.
And then his sister broke out with chicken pox.
And that’s how I started drinking. Ok, just kidding, but minus the damn chicken pox mess, having Adam’s tonsils removed made a huge difference.
A lot of people have big problems with particular sights or smells. When I was young, my dad had a huge problem with an errant hair lying in the bathroom sink, smiling up at him. We could hear him gag. I really don’t know what it was about a hair in the sink, but it troubled my dad to no end. I would always blow dry my hair in front of the sink after my shower, so it’s not like it was dirty or anything. But, it never failed. Gag.
I, on the other hand, always had a problem with smells. Sights of gross or yucky things really never bothered me. When I was in fourth grade I would sit and watch a kid pick scabs off of his arms or legs and eat them. He was a booger eater too. As I got older, sight still never bothered me. When I had my wisdom teeth taken out, I asked to watch the procedure by looking through overhead mirrors. But, smells were a completely different animal. Completely different.
I can’t handle smells. I never could. I think the first smell that really bothered me was the smell of someone’s feet when they took off tennis shoes that were worn without socks. Just really bad. But, it really hit me hard when I was pregnant with both of my kids. Why do smells bother pregnant women so badly?
Women in their first trimester usually notice a heightened sense of smell. Bodies are changing and doing weird things to us. We have morning sickness, we crave crazy food, and we gag with smells. What fun!
I went around my school and asked a few people what smells bothered them when they were pregnant. One said “coffee.” Another said, “boiled chicken.” Mine were “pork chops,” among a hundred other smells. It then made me think of my friend, Jeanie.
When Jeanie was pregnant, she got very very sick while watching tv. It was a Karl Malden commercial for the American Express commercial, “Don’t leave home without it.” She wasn’t sure if there was a particular trigger to one of her senses that sent her running for the bathroom, but she told me that after that, every time that damn commercial came on during her pregnancy, she would vomit.
When I was a pregnant, smells drove me crazy. It didn’t just last the first trimester. It lasted until, well, today. But, I especially remember one day in particular.
I was standing in line at the grocery store. It was busy that hot, July day. I was standing in a line with about six people and their filled carts. I had two people in front of me and two behind me. There were just as many people in the aisles to the right and to the left of me. And dear God, someone smelled.
I was stuck. I could have lost my mind and asked people behind me to back up a bit, but I thought I would just breathe through my mouth. I could do that and not smell a thing. Well, except that I had a lovely summer cold and couldn’t breathe out of my nose that well. I was stuffed up. So, I had to smell the smell. So, I put index finger under my nose, which does not help whatsoever. My eyes started watering. My stomach started churning. I was ready to start gagging. The man in front of me kept looking at me. He was probably worried that I was going to throw up on him. Surely he could smell the smell.
I finally made it to the conveyor belt and was seriously considering bolting out the door. The body odor was that bad. As I was putting my grocery items on the belt, I just happened to glance out of the window into the parking lot. The man who was in front of me was putting his items in his car, when all of a sudden, he looked around, as if he was looking to see if anyone was in the parking lot. He then raised his right arm and smelled his armpit. He did the same thing to this left arm.
That poor man thought he was the culprit. It made me laugh. I finally made it out the door and on to my next smell.
I haven’t had a cold in a long long time, so whenever a bad smell comes at me, I can just breathe through my mouth. I only have time for the great smells out there. Like the smell of the wild garlic/onion grass after the grass is cut. Like the smell of homemade bread, waiting for me. And like the smell of hazelnut cream candle. Good smells.
So, pregnant or soon to be pregnant women, prepare to smell like you’ve never smelled before.
I really didn’t want to get snow. It is April 23 for God’s sake. What is wrong you weather people? We can’t have snow this late. I watched the Weather Channel off and on all Sunday, watching them adjust the predicted snow amounts.
First it was 4-6 inches of snow, with up to a foot or more in the higher elevations. After it was all in done with, we could see much more. We were going to lose our electricity because of the weight of the wet, heavy snow on the newly leafed trees. We were told to go to the store and buy a generator. But, whatever you do, don’t place it inside your home. Purchase batteries for your flashlights. Get some candles, because, well, we may not have electricity for days. If you stay home, make sure you have plenty of blankets. Drive to your local supermarket and buy milk and bread, as you may be stuck in your home for a few days.
A friend on Facebook feared it was Zombie Apocalypse time. I agreed. Something was not right. It had to be the Zombies. Or weather men who, despite their expensive techno gear and capabilities to forsee the weather future, still can not pinpoint a damn thing for us. So, although some areas of Pennsylvania and West Virginia got some snow, we did not get the anticpated snow. Actually, none and all.
We got rain. That’s it. Rain. And now, at 5:16, the sun is shining. Bravo, Weather Channel. I’m glad I didn’t go out and buy provisions.
Like I did for the blizzard of 1977.
Ah, the blizzard of 1977. I remember it well.
I was in college, attending Fairmont State College. Now, you have to understand that our college president, Wendall Hardway, would never postpone classes for a weather event. If a bomb dropped on the campus, he would not have postponed classes. I remember two days when the campus did not have water. Honey Badger Hardway didn’t give a shit. Go to class dirty. Stick a scarf on that greasy head. Classes were NEVER postponed or cancelled. Even when the blizzard was approaching.
At the time of the big blizzard of 1977, I was living on View Avenue, in a big white house with four other girls. Paula and Jeri were expecting their boyfriends for the weekend. It was Friday. We all got up that morning and got ready for classes. We had heard about the approaching blizzard, but not really. Now, you have to understand that we didn’t have the Weather Channel back then. We didn’t have the internet that would let us have our very own personal radar screens to check every hour. How cool would that have been? No, we had channel 12, WBOY, and their little studio only had half of a weather map. You could never see what the weather was like out west, because there wasn’t enough room in their little studio for a full sized map. The camera never panned over that way. I know this to be true…… Or maybe it was WDTV. Regardless, we had those stations and the big Pittsburgh stations letting us know that there was a blizzard in the making.
The National Weather Service was predicting a huge winter storm to hit West Virginia. Emergency announcements were being made on the radio stations.
But, we knew school would never be cancelled. Never. I drove my little rusty car, Rusty, up on campus, parked her, and started to walk from the parking lot down the hill to the student union when I saw National Guard trucks driving onto the campus. I will exaggerate and say that there were ten vehicles because I really don’t remember how many there were. I didn’t know why they were there. Maybe it was National Guard Day and they were having a ceremony in the ballroom of the student center.
It didn’t take me long to figure out that something was up. Students were either laughing or upset, scurrying by like little mice trying to find a mouse hole. I stopped a boy who was walking passed me, smiling from ear to ear.
“They are here to shut down the college!” And that’s all he said.
What???
Well, I found out soon enough that Governor Jay Rockefeller had sent in the National Guard to shut down Fairmont State College because Wendell Hardway refused to close the campus. A freaking historic blizzard was on its way and Rockefeller didn’t want anyone traveling home for the weekend in the midst of it. He didn’t want anyone on the streets. National guardsmen were holding bull horns and were driving slowly, telling everyone to go home. A blizzard was coming and the college was shutting down.
The hell you say? I just stood there and stared. Well, this was surreal. This is stuff you see in the movies. Big Jay Rockefeller sent in the big guns to shut down our fair little campus. I bet the honey badger was really pissed..and did give a shit.
Well, I obliged, but first went into our student center, The Nickel, to talk the situation over with everyone. The place was buzzing, but emptying out at the same time. There was a National Guardsman in the Nickel. Wow.
So, I drove home. As soon as I got in the door, my roommate Pat looked at me and said, “We need to go get provisions.” Provisions. Wow. It even sounded serious. There was a freaking historic blizzard racing towards us. Of course we had to get provisions. We immediately hopped in my car and went to the local Dairy Mart.
Well, others must have thought about this too, because the place was jammed. Luckily, we must have gotten there early because there were still a couple of loaves of bread on the shelf and milk in the cooler. So, Pat bought a couple of packs of cigarettes and some pop, and I bought pop and some potato chips. We were ready to be snowed in for weeks. Oh, hell, let’s drive to McDonald’s too.
When we arrived home, our other roommates were beside themselves because their boyfriends were supposed to be on their way. They lived about 2 hours away and were traveling on Interstate 79. Cell phones were not invented yet, so they didn’t hear from them for quite a while. They were supposed to be there by now.
Meanwhile, Pat and I sat on the couch, waiting for the blizzard, looking out the picture window. I was visualizing the boys, Joe D. and Donald, being blown off the interstate by the blizzard. God rest their souls.
The boys never made it. Governor Rockefeller had shut down the interstate. The National Guardsmen, who were everywhere throughout the state that day, had turned them back.
“There’s a blizzard on the way. You better turn back and go straight home.”
The boys turned around and called from a phone booth at the nearest gast station to let Paula and Jeri that they would not be arriving in Fairmont. More provisions for us.
It was early evening by now and we were watching the news. Everyone in the mountain state were off the roads. We braced for the blizzard of the century. Charleston, our state capitol, was a ghost town. No one was on the streets. Rockefeller made sure we would be ready and that the road crews would not have to contend with stranded motorists. The newly inaugurated governor was making his first executive decisions. This blizzard was going to be brutal.
According to WSAZ television:
“It is important for people living in the following counties to understand that throughout this night, they will be on a blizzard alert tonight,” said Rockefeller in 1977.
Blizzard alert. Dear God, there is going to be snow piled up past our doors. Thank goodness Jeri and Paula had bought food for hungry boyfriends or we would starve.
Well, the massive blizzard never came. The wind picked up a little, and perhaps a dusting of snow lay on the ground. I sat on the couch for hours. awaiting its arrival. My mom called to make sure I wasn’t “stupid” and would not venture out in the blizzard. I was not going to drive in a blizzard. I was, however, planning to go outside so I could say I witnessed a blizzard. But, it never came.
1977 Blizzard. Hit everywhere but West Virginia
Our governor took a ribbing for many years and the blizzard is now called “The Rockefeller Blizzard.” The state of West Virginia actually shut down. The National Guard learned from this mistake and since then does not mobolize until the storm actually hits.
The only one I think that loved the result of the whole blizzard scenario was Fairmont State President, Wendell Hardway. I could just picture him chuckling over the outcome. And I thought of old Wendell when this storm was supposed to hit us this morning, April 23, 2012.
But, you know what? When I heard about the storm approaching, I hopped in my car and went to the Dairy Mart for two- 20 ounce Cokes.
I guess there are a lot of things that just grate my nerves. I already wrote about the whistler that was following me in Walmart. I loathe people who chew their food and make that disgusting smacking noise. Keep your mouth shut please. And I want to be a teacher and hold out the palm of my hand to all gum snappers. You know who your are.
I would have to say that gum snapping ranks in my top 5 of “Things That Make Me Want to Slap Someone.” I really can’t stand it.
Years ago, while I was sitting in church, I heard a woman behind me snapping her gum. I looked behind me and gave her a look. Oh, it was just a fake smile kind of look. I wanted to connect the sound to the face to see if I could take her. Gum snappers have no place on this earth. Well, she must have just put the Dentyne in her mouth (I saw the wrapper) and she just really went to town on it. My daughter, also a gum snapper hater, gave me a look that rivaled mine. I was impressed and proud. But, the church gum snapper lady would not stop. No one else seemed to be bothered. Gum snappers remind me of cows chewing their cud. And this cow had to stop.
The church I belong to is not one of those raise your hands in the air and talk out loud kind of churches. But, I wanted to turn it into one of those that Sunday morning. I wanted to raise my hands in the air, sway them from left to right and then stand up and exclaim to the congregation-
“Dear people…. the lord just spoke to me!…… (Gasps from the crowd I am sure) And he told me that this woman (pointing to the gum snapper) is going to be struck down by a Mack truck…..this afternoon….if she does not stop her gum snappin ways.”
I could only dream. Well, I stopped attending church and so I don’t have that problem anymore. Yes, I run away from my problems. It’s hard to do when you are on a plane, however. Yes, there was a huge gum snapper in the airport while we were waiting for our flight to Cancun last summer. There was no way I was going to sit with a gum snapper in a closed in space for a couple of hours. It was not going to happen. I would have to shake and then slap her. I moved from where I was sitting at gate whatever and could still hear her. Shit. Thank God she ran out of gum and even told her husband she was out of gum. She was going to hurry and buy some before boarding the plane, but her husband told her no. She looked like a drug addict waiting for withdrawl. I was pleased.
So, imagine my surprise when I was looking at images on pinterest last night and came across a photo of a gum wrapper chain. Wow, I haven’t seen one of those………..since I made one in the early seventies. Completely forgot about those things.
Wow. I made a gum wrapper chain. I forgot about that. I made one either in junior high or high school. I hung it in my bedroom, running it all around the perimeter of my room. Sort of looked like a narrow little border. My room was about 13×13, so it was a long chain. And I made it. So, was I a reformed gum snapper? I had to think back.
You know, reformed people are the worst kind. Former cigarette smokers are judgemental. They will tell you to your face how bad cigarette smoking is for you. Well, some of them are. I don’t want to piss anyone off here. Some people who never wore their seat belt until they had an accident now won’t start the engine until everyone is fastened up. And some people who didn’t attend church and now found God will let you know all about it. So, was I a gum hater because I once was a gum snapper?
I don’t know how I came across making gum wrapper chains, but I was all about making one. It was easy to learn. Not so easy yesterday, when I tried to make one on my own. I forgot how it was done. Luckily, the interneter gods have photos and videos all about making a gum wrapper chain.
First, you need about a thousand gum wrappers. I remember asking my friends for their empty chewing gum wrappers. Throw away the silver inner wrapper and give me the outer one. I also remember chewing a lot of gum for the gum wrapper chain.
I don’t remember how long it took me to make the chain. I wanted to wrap it around my bedroom. And I refused to stop until I was done. I kept it as one long chain, so I am sure I kept standing on my bed to see how far it had made it around my room. I realize that I could have just laid it on the floor and run it around the same way, but I was an airhead, so I did it my way.
I never made a pattern with my gum wrapper chain like the person did in the above photo. I had no time to be colored coordinated. It was like one of those pot holders I weaved. Random colors. I was all about being random. My OCD anal ways didn’t rear its ugly head until much later.
It’s funny how memories can be supressed. I now remember my mom yelling at me to stop snapping my gum. Dentyne to be exact. It was the most snapable gum. Really. Dentyne.
So, I was one of those………..Wow.
I don’t chew gum so much anymore. I only chew it when I fly because that’s what I was told to do so my ears wouldn’t explode. I was fine this last trip to visit my daughter in New York City. And I didn’t sit by anyone who was a gum snapper either.
I wish I would have kept my gum wrapper chain. I remember taking it down when I went off to college when my little sister took over my room. I simply threw it away. I spent hundreds of hours making that damn thing and I just threw it away.
Maybe I didn’t want to be remembered as a gum snapper.
There are only a couple of things that are great about being 55…..Thinking…Thinking….Ok, there is one great thing about being 55.
I don’t have a period anymore.
Ok, guys, some of you are going to quit reading now. And that’s ok. But, if you have daughters, you should keep reading. Because you are going to hear her speaking in a language you don’t understand. You are going to think that she is doing something she is not supposed to, because she is talking in code. But, the lingo is geared to not let dad’s, brothers, or boys to understand what is going on. It’s “Period speak.”
Ok, yeah, maybe I made up that phrase, but it is alive and well. “Period Speak” has been around since, well, women have been having periods. It shouldn’t be a secret, but we think our code is just for those in the female persuasion.
Now, the whole reason I am writing this post is because I heard a teen-age girl on her cell phone yesterday. She was standing beside some dork who I assumed was her boyfriend, because I heard the code.
“No, I don’t feel like doing anything. I’m just going to go home and lie on the couch….Yeah…. my friend is visiting. Giggle.”
I had to chuckle. She heard me chuckle. She could have flipped me off for eavesdropping, but she smiled at me and then looked at her boyfriend. He was clueless. Maybe he thought he was the friend and was going to go home and lie on the couch with her. He would have been fine with that.
Most girls use the “my friend is visiting” scenario when talking about their period. So, you are probably wondering, “Why the hell can’t you just call it your period and be done with it?” Well, because we can’t. It’s against the laws of puberty. Or something like that.
When I started my period for the first time, I remember to this very day, going straight to my mom, scared to death. She was sitting in the kitchen. My dad was in the family room, and I did NOT want him to hear what I had to say.
“Mom, George is visiting.” She just stared at me. So, I said it again, this time out of the corner of my mouth. “George. is. visiting.”
“Vickie, what is wrong with you. Gen and George are not here.”
Ok, we had a friend named George. A real person. Not a period. Obviously, my mother had never had a period.
Shit. My older friends who had their periods told us on the bus to say, “I can’t. George is visiting.” Every one of them used “George” as their code phrase for their period. I was just doing what they told me to do. Hell, I didn’t know. It’s scary to go to the bathroom and see that you are bleeding to death. My mom never explained a damn thing to me. Still pisses me off.
So, I tried the other code phrase. “Mom……It’s that time of the month.”
It took her a few seconds and then she got it. She told me to grab my sweater and we would go to the store and get some napkins.
WTF? Napkins? My friends all wore pads. Back in the late sixties, we had to wear a white belt-like apparatus around our hips. A sanitary “napkin” belt. There was a metal thingy in the front and one in the back to weave our pad ends through them. I am terrible at explaining this. Regardless, she had to take me to the store. Why the hell didn’t we have any in the house? It just made a better case that my mom must have never had a period.
“Elwood, Vickie and I are driving to the drug store. She started her period.”
I stopped in my path. You didn’t just say that……to my father!! Oh my God, Mom. I will never be able to look him in the eyes ever again. I will have to go live with my bff Ramaine or something. I almost started crying. I thought that we were supposed to talk in code so males would not know that we are on our period. We were never to use the word “period” in front of them. I was beside myself. I was bleeding to death and mortified. Plus, the stupid loon of a mother could have easily told me to put some kleenex in my underpants until she got home. But, hell, no, I had to go with her. Hello, Mom…Um, period….flow…..needs…to…..stop. Shit. This just sucked.
Well, time went by and I finally learned that you don’t need to change your pad every ten minutes. My mom was pissed when we had to go back to the drug store the next day. Well, shit, Mom. It sort of would have been nice if someone explained to me that we had to sit in that disgusting pool of George.
I began to use my code phrases around the male family members and boys in school. I used the “I can’t. George is visiting.” Or I would say, “I can’t. My friend is here.” I think those are the only code phrases I used. I was not imaginative. Oh, if I would have heard someone else say another phrase, I would have surely used it. The girls in Weirton, West Virginia, used “George” for the most part.
So, it made me wonder what other girls would say. I have a feeling that the girls today just say it without embarrassment. “I can’t go. I’m on my period.” Boys get it. They probably got it back then, but we had to hide it. That’s just how it was back in the day.
So, I went looking on the internet and found some interesting code phrases for having a period. I found these on a yahoo forum from three years ago. Here are some of them:
“I had a roommate that would always tell me her unwelcome friend came for a visit. Sometimes I refer to it as Aunt Flo. And I’ll never forget the movie “Clueless” where they refer to it at “surfing the crimson wave.”
“Ha! When I was in 7th grade my girlfriends and I use to call it “Our Cat”. I forgot how we developed such a title-but there was some reasoning behind it. I just call it my period now. I guess I’m too old to use pet names.”
“I don’t remember how this came about. but me and my friend say were going to china. we hang around guys alot and they have no idea what were talking about … its hilarious when they ask and were like uuuhhh …. nothing inside joke.”
“Me and my friends have this thing we say “our leg hurts” and if we need to ask someone for a pad/tampon we say we “need ice for our leg” i don’t no how we came up with this though:)”
“dont remember where this came from but me and my friends refer to it as George, i feel bad for any guy with that name now though.” Ah, that girl must be from Weirton.
“….The volcano erupted….My redheaded cousin is in town…..I got my car…”
Here’s a creative one.. “China time (Asian flag has a red circle and I taught my daughter to refer to that part of her body as her “China”) But,um, isn’t that the Japanese flag?
Japanese flag, not the Chinese flag. I wonder how old they will be when they realize they have been calling their period the wrong country.
It sort of matters.And here is what the flag of China looks like.
photos via wikipedia
I bet that woman knew my mom. Unless you are quite talented, I don’t see how your period would form five points…and be yellow, unless you are tremendously jaundiced. Just sayin. Let’s continue.
“When I was in school my friends and I called it TOM…..TimeOfMonth.”
“It’s red week…or Aunt Flo is here visiting.”
“I say I’ve been cycling. No one realizes I don’t currently own a bike.” That’s a good one.
There are other phrases, such as “My curse,” the easy lie, “I can’t. I’m sick,” and for those who never did care who knew, “On the rag.” I always felt that those were the girls who would grow up to be sluts. How could you look a boy in the face and tell him you can go swimming because you are on the rag? I would shudder at the thought.
No, it would be better to obey the rules and never let them know when you are on your period.
While teaching my fourth graders about solid figures during Math class the other day, I decided to show them how to draw a cube. You would have thought that I just found a cure for cancer.
Earlier in the year, one of my students was almost distraught because he couldn’t make a star. So, I had him come up to the board and baby-stepped a star for him. He was weirdly excited about this. I guess it’s the little things in life.
In my attempt at teaching my students how to make shapes and draw stars, however, I realized that I have created doodling monsters.
And it made me take a trip back to when I was their age.
I am not sure what age kids start doodling. If you have never doodled before in your whole life, then there is something wrong with you. Well, unless there is something wrong with those who doodle. Regardless, people doodle. What the hell does that word even mean? I had to go back to colonial days and name calling to find out.
When the colonists started getting pissed at the British for enacting ridiculous taxes on the colonists, such as the stamp and sugar acts, the beginning of grumbles and throwing tea off boats and the like, they started calling the British names.
“Hey, you stupid lobster……..Hey red-coat!” They wanted the British soldiers to go home. They didn’t want to pay taxes to read a newspaper or to put sugar in their newly imported tea. So, they decided that name calling that helped them cope with high taxes and soldiers walking around wearing white knee socks under their black go-go boots.
And they call us a "doodle."
So, the British soldiers, in their bright red lobster red coat uniforms, called back. They called those silly colonists, “Yankee Doodles.” Now, I teach the Revolutionary War to my fourth graders, so I know all about this time period. I am a little too enthusiastic about teaching it. But, we all know that a “yankee” is a northerner or another name for a colonist. A “doodle” is a “fool” or “simpleton.” In the seventies, we would have used the synonym, “retard,” but it is politically incorrect to say that word now. Retard. I just really like that word.
Anyway, that is what a doodle means. So, what does that have to do with scribbling on the side of your paper? Is that a reference that all people who doodle are retarded? In the seventeenth century, it meant to be lazy or wasting time. But, according to Wikipedia, “In the movie Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, Mr. Deeds mentions that “doodle” was a word made up to describe scribblings to help a person think.” Ahhhhh, this makes so much sense. So, people are not retarded. They are pausing.
So, what Mr. Deeds is telling us is that doodling is good. It is a pause mechanism so to speak. You are pausing while you are thinking about what you want to write about. I learn something new every day. I also learned that if you put toothpaste on a pimple, it will clear up. See, every day, new information.
The modern meaning emerged in the thirties, and meant to “dawdle.” Mr. Deeds, you are confusing me.
Thomas Jefferson, Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton are some of our famous doodlers. They had been known to doodle during meetings. Reagan most likely doodled with one hand while popping jelly beans in his mouth with the other. Regardless, did they doodle because they were bored, lazy, or retarded? I am sure that the answer could be debated.
I don’t know if the kids doodle in third grade. I only have a few who have started doodling in fourth. It’s usually just a happy face or a “hi” to me on a paper they have to turn in to me. I have a feeling I will be seeing a few cubes in the next week or so, since I told my kids that’s what I doodled when I was in high school. Or was it junior high? I think it was junior high. And I remember exactly what I doodled.
Cubes, flowers, and my name for one. Notice that it isn’t necessarily artistic people who doodle. I can’t draw worth a lick. So, I thought that I would perform an experiment. I decided to doodle and then see if doodles can be interpreted, like dreams. Maybe it can tell me if I am happy or sad, lazy or determined. Smart or retarded.
Some “experts” seem to think that there is a reason that we draw and that like dreams, these symbols have meaning. Well, let’s look into that. I’m sure there is a doodle interpreter somewhere on google…….Yeppers. Found one.
“Doodles can certainly reveal something of a person’s mental state, but it should be noted that no graphologist or psychologist would use them as the sole indicator.” Uh oh. I bet my little cubes mean that I feel boxed in. And writing my name and intials mean I am arrogant. And my balloons mean I want to be a social climber. Am I close? The following information is from drawsketch.about.com.
“Why no, Vickie……Regular patterns from geometric shapes tend to indicate an organised and efficient mind. Triangles are a geometrically stable shape but also suggest direction and sense of purpose.”
So, the author of this study is telling me that I have an organized and efficient mind, eh? I am stable and I have a sense of purpose? Simply splendid.
So, do you doodle? Look at what some of your doodling may mean. Because, you may be mentally unstable and not even be aware of it.
1. Boxes-”3-D boxes indicate an ordered mind and love of routine. Often drawn by people with a good sense of spatial relationships.” Ok, now boxes were and still are the number one thing that I doodle. So, that obviously means that I have an ordered mind and I love routine. Ok, the routine thing is true. Some of my co-workers would argue about the ordered mind part.
2. Flowers- “Doodles of flowers indicate a gentle personality, a love of nature, sometimes childlike innocence or wistfulness. They represent the feminine, passive aspect of the universe.” Oh, yes, I have a gentle personality. Go on please.
3. Stars-”Stars are drawn by ambitious people and may suggest a desire for self-promotion. Little stars indicate optimism, while asymmetrical stars suggest excess energy.” Well, I used to be hyper when I was little. Had to take a little green pill every day before I went to school. That’s probably when I stopped drawing stars.
4. Mazes- Uh Oh..my mazes are not good. “Mazes can suggest a feeling of being lost with nowhere to turn, being unsure of which direction one ought to take, or may indicate mental disorganization.”
5. Hearts- Notice I have none. “generally, hearts are drawn by people in love, but may also indicate a romantic disposition.” Does this mean I should join eharmony?
6. Repetition of doodles- “Repetition is a common feature of doodles that suggests a methodical, patient approach to tasks. Repetition also increases the significance of a particular motif.” I’m thinking that it could mean that one just isn’t creative to think of other doodle marks.
7. Zig zags- “Some sources suggest that zig-zag lines indicate an experience of harsh reality and a need for comfort.” Wow, I’m just all over the place. Does that mean I am unstable?
8. Wavy lines- “Wavy lines are sometimes drawn to represent long hair, meaning a desire for beauty and femininity.” Would that mean if I desire it, I must not have it?
9. Arrows- I have always doodled arrows. “Arrows represent direction and ambition. Drawn aggressively, they represent a desire for action. Drawn in careful outline, they indicate a desire for progression or advancement, especially if pointing upwards.” Aw, look. My arrows are pointed up. I want to advance.
10. Eyes- I would draw eyes with glasses sometimes. I don’t know why. But, according to the doodle doctor, “They are sometimes regarded as showing a wish to be desirable.” So, I’m ugly. Is that what you are saying? Oh, this just keeps getting better.
I personally like to doodle. Will I like seeing doodles on the margins of my fourth graders’s papers? Sure, as long as they have their work done. I usually let them draw when they get done with their work anywho.
In the end, like dream interpretation, doodling symbols and shapes can be interpreted too. So, the next time you draw a balloon, know that that really means that you are emotional and long for love and harmony. If you draw straight lines for boxes and houses, you like to be in control. And finally, if you draw stars and things with triangles in them, you are looking to vent.
While traveling from JFK airport into Manhattan, one obviously notices the skyline of tall buildings that make up all that is New York city. The buildings sit right against each other and compete for a view of the clear blue sky. Space is valuable. Most New York apartments are tiny. Oh, there are larger apartments, of course, but let’s just say the expense is much greater.
My daughter took me to a couple of eating establishments and bars while I was visiting her this past week. I love the look of the old brick on the walls and the close proximity to other tables. Space is at its minimum. The places are quite narrow. Some only have eight to ten tables that seat four people, all hugging the tiny perimeter of the tiny establishment. I liked it. Made me feel all snug in a bug in a rug. Their grocery stores are small. Some fruit markets appear on the street to make room. They work with what they have. I love it.
All in all, real estate in New York is pricey and you don’t get a lot of bang for your buck. But, that’s ok. It’s a trade off for being able to live and work in the greatest city on earth.
I did notice one piece of real estate that looks different from where I live. When I was little, we used to drive past the Paris cemetery on the way to my grandparents home. I had to hear the same joke from my dad every single time. Oh, how I wish I could hear it one more time.
“Hey, Vickie, guess how many people are dead in that cemetery?”
“I don’t know, Dad. How many?”
“All of them.” And he would crack up like it was the first time he ever told the joke. I am serious when I say that I heard that joke at least one hundred times. As I got older, I would act like I never heard the joke before. That made it a lot of fun.
But, the Paris cemetery had some green space. Shouldn’t all cemeteries? Doesn’t everyone want to be placed under an oak tree after they die? I mean, I sure as hell don’t, but really what is the purpose of a cemetery? It is supposed to be, afterall, a “final resting place.” Well, I want to be buried in the sand on the beach then. Beach burials. I think I have something here.
But if we are supposed to be “resting” , I’m thinking that they think differently in New York City about burying people. I was amazed how the people of New York are basically buried on top of each other. Well, I mean, dead people. I am sure they don’t mind having their coffins touching another one. After all, it’s New York. They die like they live. Close to others.
photo via wikipedia
The trip from the airport took me by several graveyards. I was amazed as to how close the marble headstones are to each other. There is no rhyme nor reason. I can’t imagine hunting for an ancestor. How the hell would you even to begin to find someone? Genealogy is a big thing in this country. I even belonged to Ancestry.com for a few weeks. Finding a grave in New York City would be like, well, finding a particular park bench in Central Park. Except that would be so much easier. I am sure they would have to have a graveyard counter person.
May you rest in one piece
“Oh, Wilbur Macgillicutty? Yes, Wilbur is resting in row 2C, space 4.” This is how it is probably done in a majority of cemeteries.
Oh, not in New York. Good luck finding Wilbur Macgillicutty. And if you are looking for a Joe Smith, good freaking luck. I don’t see how it could be done. The gravesites are that close to each other.
As for visiting when you do find the gravesite, forgetaboutit. There is no room to sit down and have a conversation with your grandpa. You would be sitting down on Mrs. Martino. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Don’t go there on a hot sunny day. There aren’t many trees, if any at all. Remember, space is limited. It’s New York City.
I guess it is a good thing that there is at least someplace to lie your head after you die in New York City. They could have put you on a barge and set you out to sea. I mean, you have to go somewhere.
As the real estate in New York gets more expensive and land becomes even more precious than it is now in 2012, what will become of the cemeteries in New York City? I’ve watched Poltergeist, you know. I know what greedy land developers are capable of. They have been moving cemeteries for centuries. Or just their headstones. Scared, aren’t you?
So, what is going to happen? Some cemeteries are filled up I am sure.
Will they start making cremations the norm? I have my own valid suggestions. Now, don’t get upset with me. I just personally don’t want to be buried. I’m too claustrophobic. Oh sure, I know I will be dead, but perhaps the dead have feeling too. We don’t know for sure, now do we?
This is what I think we should do.
Space- Well, we need “space,” right? Well, why not the real space? You know, like way out there. I know our space program has been dismantled, but I think that was a bad decision. You could put the dearly departed in space and inject them into an asteroid belt. They would have different orbits that could be named. Just like how we have Orion’s Belt, we could have them called Rest Haven. People buy their very own star. Well, you could tell people that Grandpa is now in orbit instead of that he went to Heaven. Heaven is so subjective. I really think I have something here.
One big campfire- I, for one, want to be cremated. I don’t want people putting stupid wreaths on my grave that look like horse blankets for race horses. I just really don’t understand the purpose of cemeteries. Well, funeral directors are right up there with bankers and lawyers for some people. Ambulance chasers for the dearly departed. But, why not go to camp after you die? Relatives could sing “Kumbaya” and then put your little pine box on the bonfire wood. I would so do this. It’s better than having stupid piped in music at the funeral home and the minister talking about you, mispronouncing your name. I’ve been there when it happened. I just think it is a racket that I want no part of. So, yeah, send me to camp.
In the end, New York City is going to have to take a look at their graveyard situation. They are making money on tours, as there are famous people resting in some of the graveyards.
Green Wood Cemetery- In Brooklyn, there are 560,000 permanent residents, including F.A.O. Schwartz and Leonard Bernstein.
Woodlawn-The Bronx-More than 300,00 permanent residents…Nelly Bly, Duke Ellington, R.H. Macy, Herman Melville, Joseph Pulitzer, F.W. Woolworth. This cemetery is hopping. It conducts an Easter egg roll and has music by Duke Ellington at times, and an early morning bird walk. This is the one I believe that I passed while on my way to the airport. It’s huge.
In the end, there is an end. We all will end up there. The city of New York is unique in that there are so many people living there. And again, in the end, people need and deserve a final resting place. But, as real estate becomes even more expensive and rare, creative thinking will need to come into play.
And I’m thinking space will have some space. Who wouldn’t want to be lying among the stars?
Grandma and Grandpa. They did not get along. Why do this to him? Poor Grandpa.
I got back last night from visiting my daughter in New York City. She moved there last August when she started grad school at NYU. Before helping her find an apartment twice last summer, I had never been to the big city. The last time I went up there, I had to leave her and her roommate to continue on, hunting for that elusive inexpensive apartment. So I had no seen it yet.
Some people think that getting from JFK airport into the city is a nightmare. I found an easy way. Last time I took the AirTrain into Penn Station. That’s not so bad, but just getting to the AirTrain was a mini pain. This past week I decided to take the bus. Doesn’t hurt to try.
I flew on Delta for the first time and really enjoyed it. I know every airline has a horror story, but I didn’t have one. The flight took an hour, which is much shorter than the almost eleven hour trip I took there by Amtrak. I love trains, but a one hour round trip flight for $175 is pretty good.
As soon as I got off my flight at JFK, I immediately found the Ground Transportation sign and went outside, where I knew there would be people in bright green jackets. You pay them $12.50 and just wait for the bus to Manhattan. That simple. The bus was very clean and comfortable and the ride only seemed about thirty five minutes to Grand Central Station on 42nd Street. Sure, you could take a taxi, but it would have been $45 for the same ride, only with more people. I would have an extra $32.50 and that sounded better for me.
On this route, I was able to see new things. I saw where the old world’s fair took place. I assumed that’s what it was. I saw a huge globe and a tall structure with two flying saucer-like disks on the top. I plan to google that in a bit. I also passed several cemeteries, which I plan to write a blog about. They were amazing.
As soon as you get off in front of Grand Central Station, there is a door that says, “Subway.” I was amazed at how easy this was. I went downstairs, bought a Metro ticket for $2.50, and hopped on the Local 6 train uptown to Alex’s apartment.
“Mom, take the local 6 uptown train. It will be a green 6 with a circle around it. “
How easy. I asked a guy standing on the platform just to confirm my selection. I did make one error on my way. I was supposed to call Alex before I got on the subway so she could walk and meet me at the subway where I was to get off. When I walked to the platform to tell her that her fantastic mom was on her way, I had no bars on my cell phone. Uh oh, my bad. I didn’t think about that. So, if you go to New York, you won’t have cell phone service while underground. Well, my AT&T didn’t.
Maybe I’m the only one, but I just love riding the subway. It’s a little grimy walking down the stairs to the subway, but I love it. It’s like an adventure for me. And I love to watch people as they enter the car. One woman was sleeping. Another one was coughing up a lung. Some of the men were wearing nice suits. I always go to the shoes to see if they match the expensive suits. They did. I was having so much fun.
I called my daughter after I climbed the steps leading from the subway.
“No…You don’t have to meet me. Let me try to find your apartment. It will be like an adventure.” I laughed.
I am all about trying to do things on my own. So, off I went to find her apartment. I had already “walked” on her street with google maps, which is a fantastic tool. Just take the little man over to the map, plop him down, and you can travel on the street, veering left and right. I google walk all the time, especially vacation areas. So, I sort of knew how to get to her apartment from the subway station, but this is still New York, and it is huge.
There is a lot of construction work going on near her apartment. They are putting in a new subway line. They start at exactly 7a.m. and end at exactly 4pm. Noisy jack hammer work and the walkways are diverted through a temporary maze. And from the sign posted, it looks like this will be going on until the end of 2013. Sucks for people who don’t wake up until 8am. Well, they won’t wake up that late anymore. It’s very noisy. The walk was nice.
Fruit stands, like this one, are all over the city.
So, I had to go down, take a right, take a left, and voila, I am standing right in front of her apartment building. I am good. I walked in and had to punch a button so she can unlock the door. I have never done this before. I have watched people do it on Seinfeld and other tv shows, but I have never ever buzzed. I was excited. I walked up the one flight of stairs and she was at her opened door, welcoming me with a big smile.
She lucked out. Her apartment was small, as most New York apartments are, but hers is not teeny tiny. It has two bedrooms, a living area and eating area combined. Her kitchen is small, but hell, it has a dishwasher, so life is good. The bathroom is a nice size for NYC also. Hardwood floors. I immediately liked it. And not bad for $800 a month. I did research before we started looking at apartments and thought that she would be paying around $1,200 for her share for an upper East side apartment. She did great.
I took the 6:30am flight as we had plans to go to the Bronx Zoo. It was cold though, and thoughts of walking from cold exhibit to cold exhibit did not sound appealing. Where the hell did the promise of warm weather go? So, I told her I wanted to see her neighborhood. So, we took a walk. We went to eat lunch at Ray’s pizza, which was next to her Rite Aid and laundromat. As a mom, I liked being able to now place where these things are.
“I’m heading to the laundromat.”
I now know where that is in relation to her apartment. I have places down dark secluded back alleys, so it is nice to know I have an active imagination.
We then walked all the way up to Fifth Avenue to see the Jackie Onassis Reservoir. She runs to Central Park and then jogs around the reservoir. It’s beautiful.
Jackie Onassis Reservoir
After taking pictures of this area of Central Park, we decided to push stuff over because that’s how we roll.
Ok, just kidding. I thought the leaning lightpost made a good photo opportunity.
After walking around, petting dogs that people were walking, we ventured into the Museum of the City of New York. I don’t know. I was a bit confused. I thought I would get to see the history of New York. I wanted to follow along from the time the Dutch started the place through prohibition to the tragedy of 9/11. Instead, there was a huge exhibition of the grid system of Manhattan. And it was set up in neighborhoods, not dates. I wanted to see the history of New York. A permanent exhibit. I thought it was a waste of $16.00. But, I like going to museums. Next time, I will try another.
For dinner, she talked me into going to a Thai restaurant down the street from her apartment. I immediately balked because I am picky. But, I thought I should be more open minded. She took me to an Indian restaurant and now I like Indian food. So, we went to the Andaman Thai Bistro on 1st Avenue in Yorkville. Oh, glorious food! The shrimp/chicken dumpling was to die for! Curry puffs don’t sound so good to this picky person, but they were delicious. If you are in upper East Side and looking for a good restaurant, check it out.
We were beat by the end of the night. We went to bed early and got up to go to the Bronx zoo. She made me breakfast and off we went. We took the BxM11 express bus from 99th Street. It goes directly to the zoo. A zoo bus. It was a comfortable ride for $5.50 a person. I haven’t been to a zoo in years. I usually ended up feeling sorry for the little animal in its cage, but things have changed over the years. I was looking forward to going to this zoo, as it is the largest metropolitan zoo in the world.
It didn’t disappoint. I will be writing a blog post just on the zoo, but I will just say for now that my new camera loves the zoo.
We were at the Bronx zoo all day. It is large and most of the animals are in their natural habitat. So, we walked a lot.
We got home and went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner. I wasn’t impressed, so I won’t mention where it was. We needed to be at her neighborhood bar for Trivia night. Oh, how I wish we had something like that in West Virginia. I would surely drink more. Her friends compete against other bar patrons, the winners receiving shots and drinks after the contest is over. I contributed, as I was pretty good with the “presidential hometown” category. I sucked at current events. And I knew that the Soprano’s won an emmy in 2008 for Best Drama. I didn’t even feel old or out of place and managed to sing “Hey Jude” at the top of my lungs with everyone in the bar at the end of the night. Fun times at Biddy’s Pub on 91st. It is considered an “Irish pub” because, well, it is owned by Irish people. It is itty bitty, only one room, but was packed for Trivia night. So, again, if you are looking for a pub in the upper east side, try either Biddy’s Pub or Off the Rails.
We were going to go to the “Top of the Rock” before my flight left, but my daughter found out at the last minute that she had a summer job interview, so I took off early to take pictures of Grand Central Station. I got on the bus, got on the plane, landed in Pittsburgh, and drove the 1 1/2 hours on an empty gas tank. Well, anything less than a quarter tank makes me hyperventilate. I made it back to Fairmont and went right to bed.
I am so excited that my daughter is living in New York City while attending grad school. Will she remain there after graduation? It is too early to tell. I think she would like to head elsewhere.
I can’t wait to go back after school is out in June.
My literary debut….. Amazon.com for $3.99. It’s sort of funny.
This guy creeped me out a bit. He started staring at me after I took this picture. Sure, there were other peopel squeezed in beside me, but I have 7 pictures of him and I swear he is looking at me. I decided to start talking. I immediately got a response.
He turned around and looked at me. “Yes, you. Look how pretty you are.” I started snapping pictures. Some guy behind me told me to keep talking. Oh, sir, you have just created a monster. I was being egged on. Ok, sure. You have no idea who the hell I am and you will never see me again. So,I started talking to the gorillas.
After taking a bunch of pictures of this guy, he looked at his gorilla friend like he was saying, “Is she talkin’ to me. You talkin to me? What fun. Well, after I heard a couple people now yelling out at the gorillas, I decided that my time with the big guys was drawing to a close. I moved on and talked to the other animals. Two broke my heart. The bear looked at me like, “Please get me the hell out of here.”
A black bear doesn’t live on rocks. The poor thing had no grass or trees to rub his back. They threw him a chew toy and that was about it. He wanted to go home with me, I’m sure of it. There weren’t many people at this exhibit, so I talked to the bear for a long time. We bonded.
Aargh, I’m a pirate.
following me home
Rocky Point-Rhode Island
Flooded after Katrina
2011
photo pinterest
