Free Stuff inside Paid Stuff

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.

Release the Kraken

It’s funny how you insert movie quotes into your every day life. After a while, you just expect everyone to know what the hell you are talking about. I, for one, am a big movie quoter. And today I “released the Kraken.”

You will have no idea what I am talking about if you have never seen the epic, “Clash of the Titans.” The Kraken appears in the 1981 movie, starring Harry Hamlin and an owl. And other people and stuff. But, the Kraken was my favorite character, mainly because I immediately liked the quote. The Kraken was a monster with four arms who lived under the sea. When one of the gods, Zeus, or some character named Calibos, I believe, said to “Release the Kraken,” an underwater gate lifted and the the monster reared its ugly head.

And today, I realeased the Kraken on my substitute teacher.

Now, I debated whether to write this blog post, as I am sure the girl will read this post. But, I have decided that she should learn from the mistake she made, so she won’t have to deal with the release of a Kraken ever again. Because, anyone can be a Kraken.

When a teacher misses a day, they should leave a note or detailed plans for their substitute to follow. I do. And I make it as detailed as possible. I had to leave at 10:50 with my principal for a training. So, I already had everything written on the board for the day. All she had to do was follow my plans. Easy easy day. The kids were even going down to our local fire hall to be entertained by Carnegie, so an hour program even meant less time actually teaching. It should have been easy.

This morning when I came in, the first thing I noticed was a colored construction paper menagerie of scrap paper taped on one of the student’s desk. Um, ok. I wasn’t sure why he taped construction paper all over it, but I would ask what was going on when he came in.

My sub had left me a note. Good. My kids behaved themselves. Well, except one, and well, you can’t keep a clown quiet. But, all in all, I was glad. I looked through my plans and everything was checked. Good. It shouldn’t be be rocket science to follow my plans. Simple and to the point.

Or so I thought. A nice note and worksheets and a test paper clipped together make for a followed plan. Smoke and mirrors, my friends. Smoke and mirrors.

So, the day began. I took roll and lunch count and I was getting ready to move onto their morning work. But, I only had to ask a few questions before the kids started cracking like mud drying in the Sahara.

They told me the day went well and that they liked her well enough. Now, you have to understand that I know these kids. I know when they are not feeling well and I know when they have brought problems into the classroom. They wear it on their faces. And a couple of my girls looked like they wanted to say something. I sort of turned my head and gave them a puzzling look. They knew I was on to them.

“So……did you guys do your own work on the worksheets?”  Some shook their heads yes, some looked like deer caught in headlights. Hmmmmm, something was up. I decided to put on my Columbo white coat and grabbed a cigar. It was time to turn into an investigator.

I asked again, this time slowly. “So……did she help you with the worksheets?” Silence.

For a long second. And then they all started chirping. Hands were raised and they just started squawking. And this is what I found out.

On my plans, I wrote with each subject, “They are to do their own work. PLEASE do NOT help them.”  I even underlined NOT two times. Now, if I were a substitute, I would think that meant that the kidlets were to do their own work and I shouldn’t help them at all. Oh, but my sub must have missed that part.

I could feel the Kraken waking up from a long nap at the bottom of the ocean.

So, I found out that the English worksheets were worthless. I had to throw them away. Why? Well, let me tell you. The kids had a worksheet on guide words, you know, like for a dictionary. There were two guide words listed at the top of the worksheet and all they had to do was look through a list of “F” words, and find twenty words that would be found between those two guide words. Simple ABC order shit.  When my students were done, they went to turn them into the sub. The sub called them up, told them which ones were wrong or how many were wrong and sent them back to their desks with the worksheet. The sub had made a key on a spare worksheet and actually told the kids which ones to fix.

“She did what?”  Oh, the Kraken was awake now.

“Did she do that for the Science Test?” I could feel my face getting red.

For Science, I wrote on my plans that the kids could study their study guide for ten minutes before the test. I always do this, as it helps some kids who truly study but have short term memory stalls.

“She was holding the Science test and asked us about five questions that were on the test….She was reviewing.”

Reviewing. Did I ask her to flippin review? Uh, no. I just stared at them.  “What?……..What?”  And then they started all talking at the same time once again. So, yeah, she asked a couple questions. I don’t know, but I didn’t ask her to review with them. I didn’t ask her to pick a few questions that were on the test to test them before they were tested. You know what I mean. Not good, sub, not good. It kept getting worse.

“She did take us outside at the end of the day for about ten minutes. We got done early.”

They got done early? How was that possible? So, I asked that very question.

“How is that possible? You guys had to read lesson 2 in Social Studies and then do the worksheet.”

On my plans, I wrote, “Social Studies…Read chapter 11, lesson 2. After they are done reading, have them complete the worksheet. They may have until 3:15 to finish it. Then collect all, even if they are not finished by then. They are to do their own work. Please do not help them.” I wrote it again.

So, from everyone still trying to talk at once, this is what I understood that transpired. She told the kids that she would could read the lesson so it would go faster. She read the lesson. Not them. She did. So they could get done faster to go outside. Just great. They told me she also read the reading story. She read it. Not them. This is getting so much better. She then told the kids that she would give them about ten minutes to do the worksheet and if they finished it they would go outside for a recess at 3:05. So, naturally the kids all rushed and asked questions, trying to get her to give them answers. Kids do this to subs. They are smart little people. And soon enough, the sub gave away two or more of the answers. Depending on who went up to ask. I had to throw out those worksheets as well.

So, at 3:05, one of the kids was still not done. So, what did the sub do? She went in the back and gave the girl the answers.

And the Kraken is near the surface of the ocean.

And this is when I lost my mind.

She told the kids that she would write a good note to me if they promised not to tell me that she helped with all the assignments. And then said again.

“If you promise not to tell Ms. Mendenhall that I helped you, we will go outside at the end of the day.”

And here comes the Kraken.

Two teachers heard me down the hall as the Kraken bounded out of the water.

“You have got to be kidding me!!!!” I picked up my detailed substitute plan and went hunting for the sub. I knew she was in the building.

Sure, I was dripping wet. I just woke up from a long nap at the bottom of the ocean. I was pissed and hungry for some answers. I called her out into the hall and let her have it.

I don’t remember what the hell I said. I was that mad. It went something like this.

“What part of “Do not help them” and “they are to do their own work” do you not understand?” Blah blah blah.blah blah blah..”You will never sub for me again…” blah blah blah. Growl.

My voice carries, Especially when making Kraken noises.

 I actually found out about “her deal” with the kids after I let her have it the first time. Notice I said, “first time.” Shit. The Kraken was not done pillaging and wrecking havoc. I chased her down again. This time she was in the office. I eeked of salt water.

Growl…”Seriously….blah blah blah. I had to throw away the worksheets. They are worthless….blah blah blah….”

I went back to my classroom, collapsed into my chair and almost started crying. I wondered if the Hulk enjoyed turning into the Hulk. But, then I looked over at one of my students, and she was smiling from ear to ear. My Kraken imitation amused her. I smiled back and slowly transformed back into Ms. Mendenhall, fourth grade teacher.

You know, I used to sub before I got my full time position. I always did exactly what was on the plan. I was too afraid not to.

Now I know why.

There are teachers out there who can morph into sea creatures.

And I am now one of them.

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

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.

Jumping in Mud Puddles: A Memoir of a Picky, Hyper, Big Fat Liar

New York City Cemeteries: A Grave Situation

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.

Pretend Road Rage Guy

The road from my hometown to where I attended college in the seventies was a monotonous drive. Other adjectives that come to mind are colorless, droning, dull, blah, flat, humdrum, mundane, and prosaic. This is my first time using “prosaic” in a sentence. It’s very exciting. More exciting than driving that road every freaking weekend.

I graduated from high school in 1974. The state road people were working on a huge section of Interstate 79 that would alleviate my need for boring adjectives. I could not wait until they were finished with it. It took me about 2 1/2 hours to get home. The new interstate section would knock off at least thirty minutes of tiresome driving time. Please hurry state road people.

Now, Interstate 79 may not seem like a major thoroughfare, but I beg to differ. Canadian snow birds use this route. I see more Ontario license plates than say,  Pennsylvania or Ohio.  Before this section of road opened, I’m sure Canadians were cursing as they veered around the wild wonderful almost to West Virginia roads.

I drove home about every other weekend, depending on what was going on in Fairmont. Freshman who stayed in the dorm were not allowed to have cars, but I was given special permission because my dad was having open heart surgery and my mom couldn’t take the time to drive down to get me when so much was going on. So, the college let me drive. I drove Rusty, my yellow Toyota. I named her that because, well, she was full of rust. There were dings all over her. People on campus did not care when they got out of their vehicles. I guess it is not fair to blame just college kids, because people of all ages and intelligence opened their car doors with no care as to what was in the way. So, Rusty was full of pock marks. She had car acne.

I had a car full of sorority sisters one particular Friday. I honestly don’t remember for sure who was in my car. I do know for sure that Stephanie was with me. She mentioned the episode to me on Facebook just a couple of months ago. And I’m thinking Anita, maybe Tanya or Irvin or maybe even Paula. Oh, hell, this I don’t remember. I know there were at least three others for sure.

We were traveling on the part of Interstate 79 that was finished. We traveled up to Mount Morris, Pennsylvania, right across the county line, when someone in the backseat made the remark:

“I heard the new interstate is going to open next week.”

This bit of news made me slow down a bit, but my pulse sped up.

Hmmmmmmm.  Awwww, how wonderful that will be. I could use new adjectives from then on to describe my drive. Like pleasant, quick, and unmundane. Ok, maybe not the last one.

I wonder……..

So, I kept driving and didn’t get off onto the two lane drive of misery.  There were barricades blocking the unfinished interstate. It was calling out my name, I am sure.

 ”Vickie, drive on me….. Be the first motorist on my new road.”(You really need to sound like a ghost when you say that sentence)

I paused and then saw a place where my Rusty could squeeze through. I was going for it.

Nervous giggles in the car. The worst that could happen was a section of unfinished road that we would topple into. We wouldn’t be found until the ribbon cutting ceremony. I could see it now…someone standing with a huge pair of scissors in the middle of the new interstate. Off in the distance you could see the butt of a car and smoke coming from a huge hole. Except that wouldn’t make sense. The smoke would have been all done by then…and well, maybe the road would be ready for motorists. Hence, the ribbon cutting ceremony.

There's no bridge over troubled water here.

Regardless, who would find our bodies? I was just going to have to drive slower than usual. Just to make sure there weren’t any paving machines or construction workers to hit.

I was able to drive for a decent amount of time. It was a barren road. A barren, finished road. I saw a truck driving over an overpass. Dammit. Whoever was driving paused and watched me drive by. Uh oh. He was probably the head road guy. Or not. Maybe he was just like me, a motorist who did not want to drive that boring shitty drive to Waynesburg.

Nope.

He called the coppers. The rat.

A state trooper up ahead sat in his car. His lights were on, and he was waiting for us. Notice I said “us” because this was not my idea. I was forced to drive by crazy sorority sisters. Ok, that wasn’t going to work.

 I slowed down and pulled over.

The interstate barricade

“Oh my God, Vickie!  What are you going to say?” Someone in the backseat was ready to crack already.

Well, hell, I didn’t know. Was I supposed to say anything? I got caught. I was just going to hand him my driver’s license and registration card. I was just going to keep my mouth shut, take the ticket and make up something for my mom.

My mom would lose her mind if I came home with a ticket for driving on an unopened section of interstate. But, then again, she would think that was a lie. That was too preposterous to be true. Seems like I was screwed no matter what.

The state trooper approached my newly rolled down window. I was just going to keep my mouth shut.

“Officer, thank God you are here!!!”

I went on to blabber nonsense about a car of guys chasing us and trying to get us to pull over. When I wouldn’t pull over, they kept hitting us in the back of the car. I was afraid to get off of the exit because I was afraid they would force us off of the two lane road over a cliff or make us crash.

“I knew that if I drove on the interstate I could make it to one of the exits and then get to the state police barracks.”

Did I just say that? Shit. I better cry.

So, I started crying and showed him my hands. They were shaking from holding on to the steering wheel while those guys in a black car kept hitting my bumper.

“When I got onto the new road, they quit following us.”

Someone added something from the backseat. Now we were pretty little liars.

He just looked at me.

I don’t remember what he said, if anything, but he didn’t give me a ticket. He let me go. Of course, I had to drive back the way I came and take the regular exit to the road of misery.

“But, what if the black car is waiting for us?”   I thought that was a great point. My lie had to be genuine. If this really happened, that would be something that could happen. Sure, Lifetime movies weren’t invented yet, but I was way ahead of possible outcomes. The state trooper sort of smiled (sort of ?) and told me he would follow us to make sure we got off of the interstate. Didn’t he want to know more about Ted Bundy and his buddies?

So, we drove off. We talked about it all the way home. Now, this is where it gets foggy. Either Anita was in the car or we ended up at her house sometime during the weekend. Anita told me to tell her mom’s boyfriend (fiance? husband?) the story. So, I did. The man smiled and said:

“I would never have believed that one.”

Everyone in the room laughed. I was talking to a cop. Ha ha Anita. I think he was the Hancock county sheriff or a town cop. He could have been a state trooper. I don’t remember. I just remember a nervous laugh.

So, the moral of the story is that when two roads diverge in a wood, should you take the one less traveled?

I don’t know, but it could make all the difference.

Thanks, Robert Frost

The Traffic Jam and Salem Cigarettes

Image via Wikipedia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s when Georgiana Mendenhall lost her mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me and Grandpa

My Crazy Google Seach Engine Terms

When I was little, I had to look up words to see what they meant in a gigantic red dictionary my mom kept alongside our World Book Encyclopedias. I was never able to look up phrases like we can today on the internet. I was so curious about everything. But, you know, I used to have to be nibby and ask people about things I was curious about. I would have never met most of our neighbors if I had the internet and all the answers to my childish questions. “Mrs. Jones, why does that man drive into your garage in the middle of the night almost every night and then leave right before I get on the bus? Is that your brother?” Ok, just kidding, but I could have just looked up “What is an affair” into the google search engine that would have answered all of my questions. But, how lonely that would have been for me. I would have salivated over the opportunity to travel all over the freaking world without leaving my chair………. Um, like I am doing now at age 55…….. Shit. I am a loser.

I have to admit that I really enjoy reading all of the search terms that pop up every day on my Word Press dashboard. For those of you who don’t blog here, we bloggers are able to see what search engine terms brought people to our site. For example,  I wrote a blog about a monkey, and tagged the post with words such as, “monkey,” “fun,”  laugh,” and  ”pet store.”  Meanwhile, some stranger in Internet Land typed in the Google search bar, “monkey poop,” and it showed up as a search engine term.  That internet person would be able to read my blog post if he wanted to, or just say to himself, “Well, hell, this is about a monkey on someone’s head.  Monkeyshines  Where’s the monkey poop?

Of course, I didn’t know the monkey poop question poser was from. But, since I have started blogging, I have seen bizarre search engine terms pop up. I’d like to share some of them with you. And my blog posts that brought them here.

1. Was Helen Keller black slave- This poor person has no idea what is going on in life.  I wrote One Tough Cookie  about several strong personalities. Helen Keller was one of them. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t a black slave. I also wrote Play Time, where I discussed how my bff, Ramaine, and I used to play Helen Keller and Annie Sullivan. I always got to be Helen. Bad Karma. My hearing is shot nowadays.

2. How old is a 1 year old pig- I got this one yesterday. I just don’t know where to start with this one. I guess a one year old pig is different ages. Maybe the searcher wants to know how old a one year old pig is in human years. I have no idea, but here, pig googler, read one of my pig blog posts. And This Little Piggy…., Guinea Pig Children and an early post, Feeling Like an Oinker-Pig

3. Billy Joel fat ugly- Aw, that is just so not nice. Where you looking for a picture of Billy Joel? Because what you got was this. Lies That Bite Back

4. Fish guts stains your teeth- Um, okay…I wonder what this guy has been eating. Evidently his teeth are now black. Or some color. I just shuddered…again. My story is about fish guts, but someone was wearing them, not eating them. The Fish Head Story. It is also the second hardest I have ever laughed in my life. That’s right. I have them numbered.

5. Can nuns carry guns- Uh, oh, someone is in trouble or planning to make a hit on Bingo night at the church. I have a lot of posts about nuns. I am afraid of nuns. I do think they carry guns. They keep it in a thigh holster. I’m pretty sure. But, while you are contemplating robbing Sister Betrille, sit awhile and read about my nun stories. Snakes, Gasoline, and a Nun, Vickie With an E, Edgewood, and one of my favorites, Bring Back the Nuns  Arrrgh!

6. I have mosquito bite boobs 15- Oh, honey, I can relate. This blog post will not help whatsoever. But, I once was a mosquito bite boober. Sigh. Mosquito Bites

7. dirty potato- What was this person thinking when he searched for this? Maybe he forgot to wash potatoes before cooking and now thinks maybe bugs were all over them? I’m sure he is going to die. If you take your lap top to the Emergency room, you can read these posts while they take an x-ray of those dirty veggies in your stomach. Rats! is about how we fed a rat in our apartment to keep him from coming upstairs and eating our faces while we slept.  Or try, Old Wive’s Tales, where you need to know the importance of washing behind your ears.

8. boogey man just called me- Ok, let me get this right. The boogey man just called you, and you get off the phone and google, “Boogey man just called me.” Wow, you are a brave soul. I would have run upstairs and hid under my bed. Which would probably not be a good idea, because that’s where the boogey man is. Dear God, I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight. I Killed the Boogey Man

9. Wont be fooled April 1- I used to be the Queen of April Fool’s jokes. But, someone finally got me. Got me good. So, April Fool’s Day google searcher, read this post and feel for me. D-I-V-O-R-C-E

10. catsup is catsnip- Ew, and my God you are stupid. The whole Ketchup/catsup scenario is mind boggling I know. I wrote a post on ketchp sandwiches, which is not the same as catsup sandwiches, which is somehow cat related, I was told. I should google it. Ketchup Sandwiches

So, those are just a random sampling of some of the search terms I receive each day. I really like the idea of how tagging can bring more traffic to my blog. It’s a great idea. But, the next time you want to search for something and you don’t want anyone to know about it, just know that we know.

Here are some more search terms that are just weird as hell:

*What is it when I have white stuff on my gums near my molars.

*pee in my snowsuit

*video girls in mud

*vomiting hid in nightstand

*the longest poop in the world

*ant bit lips

*detergent poison how to poison

*green snot infection

*stuck his tongue down my throat

*is eating paint chips still bad

*Hitler had son Jimmy Hitler

*armpit smells like garlic

*pet dead dog infreezer til ground thaws out bury

Yes, search terms are interesting, that’s for sure.

I remember the very first thing I did a search on when I got the internet……Wooly worms. Do you remember what you searched for?

Scarf on Head

      I recently found a picture of my roommate and great friend, Jeri, and myself  that was taken in 1976. Or maybe 1977.  We were either at the beach or we had just come home. Our faces were  peeling and we looked quite ugly. So, what do you do when you are looking ugly?  Of course, you put “scarf on head” and head to the mall. We headed right to the photo booth to capture our beauty for all to see. We looked like lepers. I bet neither of us knew that 30+ years later, one of us would be posting our mugs on facebook.

     The “scarf on head” look was very popular on our college campus during the 1970′s. I’m pretty sure that it was like that everywhere. We didn’t wear silky scarves. That would have been silly. And we didn’t tie them in front like a babushka. That was saved for Russian women and Queen Elizabeth.

a British babushka

  No, we wore hankerchief scarves.  We had one of every color known to man, because we wore them all of the time.  We used the phrase, “scarf on head,” in our daily conversations. “Wanna go to the mall?” …..”Sure, I’m scarf on head, though.”

 We wore scarf on head for one reason and one reason only. We were lazy. And sometimes hungover. We would go out in our small college town several times a week. We really only had two bars to frequent: The Pub and the Cabaret. We never went out at night in our scarves. We were looking good in our painter pants and our Earth shoes. We needed “pretty hair” for our nights out. But, in the morning, when class was calling and we slept in until the last possible moment, the only thing you could do was wear “scarf on head.” 

    I remember one time when we defiantly wore “scarf on head.”  We were in Sigma Sigma Sigma, a sorority on campus and we had meetings about every Sunday evening. One evening, we found out that the president of the sorority at the time, who was not fond of  most of us, scheduled a portrait sitting and neglected to tell us. I guess she wanted us to show up looking rough around the edges, while she and her three bff’s wore dresses and looked divine for the picture. Someone tipped us off, so about 8 of us showed up with “scarf on head.”  We knew princess would never let the picture be taken unless we were going to stomp grapes or something, but not for a yearbook and framed photograph. The scarfies won.

  

     I miss the days when I could get up, brush my teeth, throw scarf on head and go to class. And then take your shower when you got back from class. What dirt balls we were. I sometimes can not believe that I ever practiced that, because if I don’t take my shower by 9:00a.m., I fell like my skin is crawling. But, hey,it was the 70′s. And that, seriously, is all we have to say.

“It was the 70′s.”  A little phrase that has so many meanings. It was a great time.

__________________________________________________

I Killed The Boogey Man

     When my daughter was quite young, she was often scared of her bedroom. She told me  that there were  monsters that lived under her bed. I think she just wanted an excuse to sleep in my room. I know that she slept a couple of times in her brother’s closet so she wouldn’t be alone. So, when she came in my room, one late night, and said she was scared, I lied to her. I told her a “Once upon a time” story.  I explained, that at one time there were monsters in West Virginia, but they were all chased out of the state and were now all living in California.  I told her that if they try to come back into the state, that they would disappear forever. It was a pretty good story. I mean, why wouldn’t she believe that it was illegal to be a monster in West Virginia?  Is that wrong?

 I always wondered why parents scared their children by telling them the boogey man was going to get them if they didn’t behave. I had a lot of questions for my mom when she told me that if I hit my sister again, the boogey man was going to get me. I used to hit my sister when no one was looking and then played the “Eddie Haskell” card. I was just too damn sweet and cute to hit someone just for the hell of it. But, I did. So, when my mom said the words, “Boogey Man” for the first time, I needed more information.

“Vickie…I know we lock our doors at night. He can walk through walls………He hides in closets or under beds…….Vickie, I don’t know whose house he was at last night………..I don’t think he drives a car, Vickie…………….I don’t know what he looks like, Vickie. The Boogey Man never had to come hide under my bed………….Vickie, Susie (our dog) can’t see the Boogey Man, so she won’t bite him…………Well, because Susie is a good dog…………Vickie, you can’t leave cookies out for him. He isn’t Santa Claus……….You can’t switch beds with your sister, Vickie……………..He carries children away in a sack………I don’t know if he puts holes in the sack so you can breathe…………Vickie, the Boogey Man doesn’t have a phone number……Well, he just knows when to come…….No, you are not hiding…..”

Oh, but I did hide. I slept under my sister’s bed that night. Well, I didn’t sleep much. I was thinking. I first wondered why my sister had a plate and a fork under her bed. I could use that as a weapon. I had to have a plan. I thought it was a smart idea to hide under my sister’s bed because the Boogey Man would never go under her bed. He was after me. So, he could crawl under my bed and wait for me. I remember someone mentioning the Boogey Man one other time. Who was it? hmmmmm….Oh, it was Grandma Williams, my mom’s mom.

     Grandma Williams had long hair that she parted and braided each side and wrapped around her ears.  My Grandma was Welsh and lived in Spokane, Washington. She always grabbed our cheeks and pinched them a little too hard. I mean, what the hell did that mean anywho? I’m going to pinch the shit out of your cheeks cuz I love you sooo much? I mean, please. Anyways,  Grandma Williams was the one who told my sister that the Boogey Man was going to come and carry her off in a sack if she didn’t quit having those temper tantrums. hmmmmm…I wondered if Grandma made up the whole Boogey Man scenario to scare MY mom?  Well, I didn’t use the word, “scenario” then.  But, I was thinking the Boogey Man was not real.

 Well, I laid there for awhile. Thinking. I did get scared thinking how awful it would be if I looked over at my bed and saw the Boogey Man lying under my bed looking over at me.

 But, then, I had company. My dog, Susie, found me. She crawled under the bed and hung out with me while I figured the Boogey Man out. I decided that I needed more information. I think my mom was lying to me. It was time to find

out.

“Vickie, what are you doing up? It’s 3:00 in the morning. Go back to bed…………Vickie, the Boogey Man is not under your bed……No he isn’t…………That’s quite a description………….He was not putting a pillow over your face…………Vickie, go back to bed……..No, I am not getting up………..Vickie, he is not sitting on your bed holding Susie……He is not…….Why would he be holding a fork?……Vickie, the Boogey Man does not exist, ok?  I made that up so you would behave……Go back to bed……..”

Satisfaction. I smiled on my way back to bed. I killed the Boogey Man. 

Fast forward back to my daughter. I opened the door one night to check on her before I went to bed and she wasn’t in there. She wasn’t in my bed, so I opened my son’s door. She wasn’t in his closet. I was standing near his bed, trying to figure out where she would go if she were scared, and I happened to see her lying under her brother’s bed, just looking at me.  Oh, my God, my daughter is a mini-me from long ago.

I smiled back at her……after, that is, I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Snakes, Gasoline and a Nun (Part 3)

(Part 3)

Oh, Dear God, it’s a nun! Run!

Fear is defined as an emotional response to a perceived threat. It is also related to the specific behavior of escape and avoidance. People are afraid of many things. My daughter just informed me that she has a fear of living in the suburbs, driving a mini-van. Ok, sweetie, go away. Not what I was looking for.. But, anywho, some people have intense fear of many different things. Clowns, for example…. Heights…Water…. Speaking in public….Spiders….Or in my case, three things…snakes, gasoline and a nun. (Although Judge Judy scares the hell out of me, too.)

Already blogged about snakes and gasoline. Part 3..a nun

3. a nun

Years ago,  in West Virginia, children had to be six years old by November 1 in order to attend school. That was the rule.  My birthday was November 9. I was 9 days late from attending school. Well, my mom decided that I was ready for school, damnit, and nothing was going to stop her from pushing me out into the big, bad world.

Except for the fact that you had to take a test. If you passed the test, you could start school early.  I remember my mom telling me that I had to pass the test or I wouldn’t be able to be in the same class as Ramaine or LeeAnn….or Lori…or Janice….or Tammy….or Kacey…and every other girl in the neighborhood that was around my age. Lee Ann was younger than me. Her birthday was December 4. Our mothers decided that we would take the test together.

Well, I was quite stupid and flunked the test. LeeAnn passed because she was brilliant. It was a quiet ride home. She made me eat everything on my plate that night. Luckily, my dog liked what we were having that night. I heard my mom tell my dad that I couldn’t sit still long enough and was squirming all over the place. First of all, I didn’t squirm unless my underwear was fitting weird. Ok, maybe I was a little hyper, but I do remember my mom telling my dad I was like a little Mexican jumping bean. What the hell was that?

I could hear my dad say,”Well, she is just not ready, Georgie.” And my mom muttering something  (It was sometimes hard to hear when you are spying) and then she said, ” Oh, you don’t understand. She WILL attend school this year.”    Uh Oh

The very next day, my mom got up and went somewhere very early and came home and informed me that I would be attending the Immaculate Heart of Mary Academy or Sacred Heart of Mary Academy or Sacred Heart of Mary Immaculate Conception Academy. Hell, I can’t remember what it was called, but I remember crying.

The Sacred Heart of Mary and Jesus Conception Academy (or whatever) was a Catholic private school and we had to wear a uniform. Well, this just sucks. My mom went on to inform me that she would drive me downtown each morning and a van would pick me up to take me to school in Wintersville, Ohio. That was about a 1/2 hour drive to the Heart of Mary Sacred Conception Academy.

I was a nervous wreck on the first day of school. I was waiting by our car when a van pulled up and a nun jumped out and came around to introduce herself. Her name was Sister Maria, she said, and she was the bus driver and a teacher at the Blessed Baby Jesus and Mary Conception Academy. I reluctantly got into the van and we were on our way. We made stops and picked up about 6 other kids, all different ages and then made our way to the little school.

I remember very little about the Mary Mary Sacred Mary Academy. I hated that place. Sister Maria was not the Flying Nun. I wouldn’t have said that back then, because the show didn’t premier until 1967. But, you know, whatever. All I know is that Sister Maria was evil in black and white. She lived at the school in a convent. She had a huge dog named Luger. I found out later that Luger was an English mastiff. She kept Luger tied up and he barked all freaking day. There was a large dirt spot and we dared not go into the dirt area, or we surely die.  I can’t watch the Sandlot without thinking of that stupid dog. Luger got loose a couple of times, and we ran like the school children ran down the road in the movie, The Birds.

I should mention that the Sacred Mother Mary of God Catholic Academy had only four teachers and they took turns driving the bus, cooking, cleaning and whatever. I don’t think that the school had more than 25 students. Sister Maria was always the bus driver because she liked to torment the kids before, during , and after school. We were even in a bus wreck on the way to school one morning. Sister Maria ran a stop light. And I tore a hole in my leotard and got yelled at for not wearing proper clothing.. Stupid nun.I fell one time playing on the playground, which was a gravel area, and she scrubbed the gravel out of my knee. I screamed and screamed and told her my mom would clean it out when I got home, but Sister Maria wouldn’t hear of it. I think she enjoyed hearing little children screaming.

The one cool thing about attending Jesus Loves the Little Children Academy was Spanish class. How cool was that. I learned spanish when I was in 1-3rd grades. But, shit, Sister Maria was the teacher. I wrote in the back of my spanish book, “El Teacher es un animal” and had that book for years. She was an animal. She yelled at me for not eating my lunch when it was her turn to cook. It was like she was an oompah loompah. She was everywhere. She was the teacher, the bus driver, the cook, the dog feeder, the gravel scrubber..she was terror in comfortable shoes.

I finally begged my mom to let me transfer to a public school when I was in fourth grade. I don’t know why she didn’t let me go when I was in second grade. The object was to get me to start school early and then transfer. My mom later told me that the nuns were strict and I was able to sit still and get some work done. Uh, yeah. If you moved, you got a ruler across your knuckles.

I still cringe when I see a nun. I rarely see one in the full flying nun habit anymore. But, when I do, I run.

Snakes, Gasoline and a Nun (Part 2)

Blog, Part 2

Fear is defined as an emotional response to a perceived threat. It is also related to the specific behavior of escape and avoidance.

People are afraid of many things. My daughter years ago informed me that she has a fear of living in the suburbs, driving a mini-van. Ok, sweetie, not what I was looking for.. But, anywho, some people have intense fear of many different things. Clowns, for example…. Heights…Water…. Speaking in public….Spiders….Or in my case, three things…snakes, gasoline and a nun. (Although Judge Judy scares the hell out of me, too.)

So far I talked about 1. Snakes. Now on to Part 2-

2. Gasoline

People are quite lucky if they pass through their life with only having a fender bender at the most. For some of us, being in a car accident is something you don’t forget too soon.

The summer before I was a freshman in high school was a great summer. We went to the pool almost every day. I really didn’t want to go to the pool on one particular day. It was a cloudy, August day and not particularly warm. But, my mom wanted us out of her hair, I think, so off to the pool we went.  I’m not really sure what kind of car we had. I know it was gold and I think it was a Bonneville. I do remember it was a 2 door car.

We were all wearing our bathing suits and a shirt over the top. We had our towel in one hand and a dollar to get into the pool in the other. My mom was driving and my brother, David ,was sitting in the front seat. I was sitting in the middle in the back, with my best friend, Ramaine, on one side, and my sister, Cheryl on the other.  We were on our way.  Cheryl had been injured the day before on her bicycle, and was bruised all over. She was quite sore and Mom thought the water would do her good. I’m thinking that Mom wanted some alone time. So, we piled into the car, neglecting to wear out seat belts because no one wore them back then. Mom’s arm across the chest was our only seat belt. You were on your own if you sat in the back though.

The pool was only about 5 minutes away from our  house. We got in the turning lane and had to stop, waiting for cars going in the opposite direction to pass, so we could turn.  The only way that I can explain what happened next is in slow motion. That’s how I remember it.  I remember my head hitting the seat in front of me and when my head whipped back, I saw us going at the oncoming car. My head hit the seat again and when it whipped back once again, I just remember a head coming through a shattered windshield in front of us. Then I remember the screaming.

We had been hit from behind by a long Mack truck that hadn’t slowed down when it came around the corner and went into the turning lane and hit us. We flew head-0n into a car traveling in the other direction. We later heard that the stupid truck driver was drunk, but no one told us for sure. At first things were very quiet. Cheryl was now in the front seat. David was then screaming. My mom wasn’t saying anything. And Ramaine still was clutching onto her dollar and towel. I had blood streaming down my face and felt an open place on my forehead, but it didn’t hurt. I was still intrigued that Ramaine was still holding her dollar and her towel like it was time to get out of the car. Except, we were trapped.

I saw a guy with his hands cupped by his face, looking  through the window into the back seat. That sort of scared me. He was like a peeping Tom. We were only 14, you pervert.  Why didn’t he just look through the windshield. Or lack of windshield.  He then yelled, “We need to get these people out of here. It’s going to blow.”  Oh, yes he did.   What???? The car is going to blow up?  Gee, that’s a nice thing to say to people who are trapped in a car. And we were trapped. Our car looked squeezed like an accordion.  Ramaine and I looked at each other, and that’s about all we did. I think I may have been in shock, because I am never at a loss for words. We were in there for a very long time.  The stupid, stupid man kept telling people, “There are 5 people in this car. We need to get them out NOW! There is gasoline all over the place. “  Maybe someone should pour some gasoline on Tactful Guy.  I  heard that this guy was the guy in the truck, but again, I never knew for sure. I just remember he had coal black wavy hair.

The fire truck finally came and sprayed a bunch of white foam all around our car and the Mack truck.  I don’t know if they had the Jaws of Life contraption back then, I was too interested in the thought that I was going to blow up.  They took my sister out of the car first and sat her along side the road. Then they hurried to get David out.  He had bones coming out of his leg.  I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. He was in so much pain. Ramaine and I got out next.  It seemed like my mom was hurt very badly. Later we found out that she had a broken back.

We were all stuffed into one of those old ambulances. The Ghostbuster car reminded me of what we rode in that day. I rode in the front with the ambulance driver.  As we pulled out for the race to the hospital, Ramaine quietly said, “There’s my mom.” And we waved at her. Can you imagine? She pulls up and sees our accordion car and a Mack truck and another car with a lady stuck in the windshield, and we are waving at her like, “Hi, Ramaine’s mom. Look, we are in an ambulance.We’ll talk later.”  I will never forget the look on Ramaine’s mom’s face. She was so upset, I guess she backed her station wagon into a pole as she was turning around to follow us to the hospital. I remember David screaming every time we would hit a bump. I felt so badly for him. I mean, he had bones coming out of his leg. Unbelievable.

On the way to the hospital, I started asking stupid questions. I had a cut on my forehead and I believe that I may have had a concussion or something. I asked the driver if my name was going to be in the paper and then told him how to spell my name correctly.  V-i-c-k-i-e  I spelled for him. I had been in a car accident when I was in third grade and it reported that Mickie Mendenhall was in the car. Mickie? That mad me so mad. So, I guess I wanted to make sure  they got it right this time. Not a vain bone in my body.

When we got to the hospital, everyone was whisked in a different direction. I remember seeing Ramaine still clutching on to her dollar bill and towel. She had a stoved finger. She got a wheelchair. I didn’t get a wheelchair. I don’t know what I got. I remember waking up, lying flat on my back and a Chinese doctor was sewing up my forehead. “Hello.”  Wow, that scared me to death. I froze and just watched him stitching up my head and my ankle. I don’t remember any pain at all. I didn’t say a word. He used a really long piece of thread. I swear he was humming a song. Maybe one from his homeland. I never saw a chinese person before. Hell, maybe I was in China. I was a little bit loopy right around then. Surprised I didn’t see a clown sitting in the corner, waving at me.

My dad was in the waiting room with Cheryl, who wasn’t hurt in the accident. Although she was thrown into the front seat, she didn’t hit her head or anything. That was good, because she was already quite mental. Ramaine was fine also. She had a stoved finger. David and my mom spent a long time in the hospital. The ride home was scary. I kept thinking people were going to  hit us. Dad had the radio on and they reported a car accident and listed all of our names and our conditions. I was in fair condition..hmmmm. I felt fair. How did they know how I was feeling. They had David and my mom in critical condition.

That night , my dad made  me go to a party I had been invited to. He took Ramaine and I to a house party. I limped and had a huge bandage on my head.” I just remember being very quiet and then my head started pounding, because the kid started playing the drum solo for Inagodadavida. Really? You have to play a long drum solo tonight?  I usually enjoy being the center of attention, but I just wanted to go home.

Fast forward to about 2000. My husband, Jay, was cutting the grass on my dad’s 1949 Farm-All Cub and stopped and asked me to take the red plastic gas container to the gas station to fill up with gasoline for the push mower. Ok, no problem. I grabbed my purse and stepped into the garage to get the gas can, when all of a sudden, I felt flushed.

It felt like my head was being blown up like a balloon. I broke out into a sweat, and noticed that the palms of my hands were sweating also. My heart was pounding. I walked outside and stopped Jay on the tractor. I broke out sobbing, “I can’t go get the gaaaassss.”  I felt like  Laura Petrie on the Dick Van Dyke Show  when she sobbed, “Oh Robbb”. I was beside myself. I had shortness of breath and when I tried to talk, talked in short, choppy words. I swear I even had a twitch. I was a mess on a stick.

Jay turned off his tractor, and said, “Ok, take it easy…I will go get the gas later…” He gave me a “Yeah, she’s insane” look and started up his tractor and took off, leaving me in turmoil over whatever the hell was wrong with me. I walked in and I was feeling better. My heart didn’t explode. I thought to myself, “What the hell was that all about?”

It only took me about 10 minutes to realize that Wow, I have a problem with gasoline. Then it all made sense. I had made excuses all my life to not pump my own gas. I had kids in the car….It was dark and I was scared….I didn’t want to have static electricity and touch something and then blow up. You know, the usual reasons…Then I thought deeper. I didn’t want Jay to put in a propane tank for heating when we built the house. We went total electric.  I wasn’t a fan of the grill. I would stand far away from it. Duh. I had an intense fear of gasoline.

I have only pumped my gas maybe twice in my life. I wait to go to the local Sunoco station and a guy pumps it for me. I have to go between 8am and 4pm daily or on Saturday mornings. So, the next time someone on the Lifetime channel has suppressed memories that pop up after 25 years, you can say, “This really does happen. I read a blog by some nut case that suppressed her fear of gasoline because some guy looked in the window and said the car was going to blow up.”

It really does happen. I fear gasoline. Panic attack time.