April Fool’s Day, Fool

When I was little, I used to play April Fool’s Day pranks on my family.  They would range from the little “Mom, come quick!! There’s a huge spider in the baththub!” to more elaborate jokes as I got older. I would then hear the same damn story from my mom every year. She was such a kill joy.

“Vickie, did you ever hear the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf?” 

And then she would proceed to tell me, every freaking year, the story about how a stupid shepherd boy cried “Wolf” too many times and when a wolf really did appear, no one would believe him. And the wolf ate up the whole flock of sheep. I only had one question for my mom….every year.

“Why didn’t the wolf eat the boy?”

That’s when I would get sent to my room. I cry foul, though. I thought that was a very good question. Okay. Say a little shepherd boy is sitting against a tree, watching sheep. Up creeps a wolf.  Shouldn’t the wolf attack the kid first? And this was my reasoning. Sheep have a lot of fur and if the wolf would try to eat it, there would be a lot of fur in its mouth. But, eating a boy would be easy. No fur, just right to the body. I knew that when I was young. But, then again, maybe wolves don’t think humans are tasty. I really didn’t know. Or care. I was just pulling an April Fool’s joke, dammit.

My mom would also question me about the moral of the story. I didn’t know what a “moral” was when I was very young. I did hear the word a lot at the stupid private school I went to. Sister Maria at the Sacred Heart of Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy was always using that word. I didn’t ask her what it meant either. If it was a vocabulary word, I would have taken the time to know its meaning. But, right now, I was just trying to get my mom off of her butt to come look at a fake spider on April Fool’s Day.

“So, Vickie, what is the moral of the story?”  Oh great. Here we go again. I’m was in fourth grade by now, and still had no idea.

Stare…..Stare……shrugs shoulders…………”It’s about a boy who takes care of sheep.”

“But, what is the moral of the story?”

Shit. I don’t know. “I don’t know what that means.” Finally, I said it.

“You don’t know what a “moral” is?”  My mom’s eyes got big behind her big glasses. “I have asked you every year and you are just now telling me you don’t know what a “moral” is? A “moral”  is when there is a lesson to be learned from the story. A goodness or a badness.”

Goodness or badness? Um okay. Like watching those stupid clay people, Davey and Goliath on Sunday mornings when we didn’t go to church.

“So, Vickie, what is the moral of The Boy Who Cried Wolf?”  She was like a damn teacher. All she needed was a ruler to crack me across my knuckles.

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“That children shouldn’t watch sheep.”

“Go to your room!!”

 Now, you have to understand that I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer by no means. But, children really had no business watching sheep. They should be in school, learning what the hell a “moral” was. And, I might add that I watched Road Runner and knew that kids NEVER watched sheep. Sam the sheepdog did.

I finally wised up and decided to just concentrate on my siblings or my father on future April Fool’s Day. I was tired of hearing the damn boy crying wolf story to last me a lifetime.

Until this past week. I have a liar in my fourth grade class. He lies about everything and I catch him every time. A known liar knows another liar when she sees one.

But, I brought out my mom’s arsenal…big sigh.

“Ralph, (not his real name. Protecting the real kid from his stupidity) did you ever hear the story about The Boy Who Cried Wolf?”

Shit. I have become my mother.

Looks like the joke is on me.

Grandpa’s Funeral and Maybe Mine

When my dad was born, my grandparents named him Elwood. Poor kid.  Elwood Arthur. Well, grandma’s name was Orpha and they already named my aunt, Wilma, so it made sense to stick with stupid names. What is worse, is that dad had a first cousin that was born a week after he was, and so what did they name that sweet, tiny, baby? You got it, Elwood.  Yeah, two Elwoods in the family.

My grandfather was a strip miner and land developer. He named a lot of street names in Weirton, West Virginia. Even named one after grandma…sigh….Orpha Avenue.  I forgot to mention that Orpha’s best friend’s name was Zella.  I can’t make this stuff up. He  once converted an old mansion into apartments and named them the Vickie Lynn Apartments after me. How about that?

I just loved my grandpa. He spoiled me rotten. I wanted a fur coat, so one day he bought me one with a fur collar. Did I mention I was only four years old?  I hung out with him all of the time. In the summer, I would stay overnight with them and we would watch Bonanza and the Ed Sullivan Show. We would sit on the carpet and play marbles. I became pretty good with my shooting. My grandma would run bath water for me in like 1/2 inch water.  I guess she thought I would drown or something.

But, I had fun with my grandpa. But he used to lie to me all the time. He always wanted company when he would have to drive over to Zanesville, Ohio, to look at one of his strip mines. He told me one time to come with him, because he was going to stop at a relative’s home over there, and they had a baby elephant. Are you kidding me? A baby elephant? Yes, of course I will go with you!!  When we got there, there was a terrier on a long leash that was attached to a clothesline, running back and forth. “Grandpa, where’s the baby elephant?”  “Well, they must have sold it.”

When I would stay overnight and eat with them, he would tell me to hurry and look out the window, and then he would steal something off of my plate. He would smile, but would never give it back to me. He always ate grapefruit. Every morning there was a half of a grapefruit sitting on a plate. I hated grapefruit, so I got those white powdered donuts. I am sure she cooked something for me, but I remember gourging myself with those dry donuts. I had fun at their house. They had a cat  named Tommy, that was tied up in the kitchen and was rarely allowed anywhere in the house.

I always knew there was something not right about my grandma, but I really didn’t see it. I found out later that she once took a train by herself to Philadelphia to see a specialist because she thought she had wires coming down in her mouth. Ok…..I also found out that when Grandpa wanted to take a cruise or fly to Florida, he would put Grandma in a “rest home” while he was gone.  He was wild. He had several palimino horses that he would dress up and ride in the parades in town. He even owned a farm where the horses stayed. We would take sleigh rides on the Cherry Farm. Life was grand.

Well, then he got hurt. Seems that crazy Grandma was chasing him through the house with a butcher knife and he fell and broke his hip. After that, he just seemed old and frail and before long he was always in the hospital. Then he had to live in a nursing home. One night my dad got a call from the nursing home and my dad took off quickly. I thought maybe Grandpa had died and I cried all night.When my dad got home later, I sneaked and listened to my dad tell my mom, (after he got a beer and sat down) that,  chuckle, chuckle, chuckle, that Grandpa had taken off all his clothes and they found him in bed with some old lady who was a very prominent citizen in town. Luckily, she didn’t know her own name, so I guess she didn’t mind. That’s one thing when you have Alzheimers. You make new friends every day. (Sorry)

I was 15 when my grandpa died. I believe he was 85. I don’t know why I felt like I wasn’t supposed to cry. They held a viewing for 2 days and I couldn’t get over how many people came to pay their last respects.  I was so sad. Until some stupid woman with a black shiny pocketbook came over to my mom. I remember I could see myself in the reflection of that damn purse. I was wondering if she buffed it to be so shiny. I bet she only had a hankerchief and a lipstick in it. She spoke to my mom and offered her condolances. “Oh, my, Georgiana. Is this your adopted daughter, Vickie?”

Ok, I was 15 years old. I was adopted when I was a few days old and was carried to a street corner in Wheeling where  my mom and dad were waiting. I know that sounds a bit fishy, but it was supposed to be a private adoption.  How more private can you be than by hanging out on a street corner, waiting to pass off a baby?  Anyways, this lady looked at me, excited to meet Georgiana’s adopted daughter. Ok, it was SHOWTIME!

“I’m ADOPTED??????” I looked at the lady and then looked at my mom..and then looked at the lady and then looked at my mom..And then I burst out crying, put my hand over my mouth and ran out of the room. When I got around the corner, I slowed down, smiled, I thought to myself, “That’ll teach her.”

In the end, I got to cry over my grandpa’s death. Indirectly, of course.  I peeked around the corner and I could see the lady begging my mom for forgiveness. It looked like my mom didn’t tell the lady that I have always known I was adopted. Hmmm, interesting. I think that meant that I was going to have to get a whipping  when I got home. Do the little “Spank your Ass” dance around in a circle. I didn’t care. Pocketbook lady deserved it. But, I wasn’t done. I looked over at David, who was standing by my dad, looking like he was ready to cry himself. I then sort of ran over to my mom, made myself cry again right before I got to her and the lady and I said, “David wants to know if he is adopted too? ”  I pointed in David’s direction. Mom and Pocketbook lady looked over at poor David.

Like it was on cue, David looked like he was ready to cry.This can’t get any better. The lady looked like she wanted to hang herself with the strap on her shiny black pocketbook. I asked, “Mom, is David adopted too? We aren’t real..pause… pause….crying….lights down low…..”brother and sisterrrrr?” I burst into tears again, walked over to David, and hugged him. I think he was a little shocked that I just came over and hugged him. We weren’t huggers. But, it was part of the acting.   Such great acting. David had no clue what I had done.

But, my mom knew EXACTLY what I was doing.  I was 15. I hadn’t been whipped in a very long time. I was sent to my room a lot. But that was a long time ago also.  I had a feeling I was going to be sent away to a boarding school. That is the kind of  look she gave me. Her neck and ears seemed a bit more red than usual. Yeah, this was going to be bad.

My mom didn’t say a word on the way home. She didn’t say a word to me when we got home. It was late, so we got ready for bed. I laid in bed and she didn’t come in to tell me my flight was booked for boarding school. Nothing. So, I put the TV show, Mission Impossible theme music in my head  and creeped to the family room to hear my fate.

They were both smoking  and the TV was on in the background. They seemed to be talking about the funeral home and just the day in general.  Then I heard her mention my name. Something something..Vickie.  Damnit, speak louder, Mom. All I could hear was little snippets. “I was so proud of her.”…..”How dare she mention the word adopted.”…..”I’ve never liked that woman.” …”She deserved it.”…..”She is so very sneaky.”  Ok, who was sneaky?  I’m thinking it was time for me to get back to bed, or they were going to find out how sneaky I truly was. I turned around to rush back under my covers, when I tripped on the damn dog, who had plopped down beside me, and I flew into something that made a noise.  Just great.

My mom saw me and just looked down at me. “You have had a long day, Bette Davis. Time to go to bed, don’t you think?”

She smiled at me and walked into the kitchen.  Wow. Finally, one of my lies paid off.

And I got to cry over Grandpa.

Lies That Bite Back

My dad was a realtor and was always off showing a house.  I remember one time he put a picture of one of his houses for sale in the paper and received numerous calls, mainly because  it was a photo of the house next door to the one he was supposed to sell.  He just chuckled, but when the rightful owners called him and demanded an apology and another apology  printed in the newspaper, my dad  blamed  it on his assistant and promised that he would promptly fire him right away because of his ineptness.  Poor assistant. Poor, Poor INVISIBLE  assistant. And that’s where I learned how to lie.  I learned by example.

I told several pretty big lies over the course of my lifetime. The first one had to do with a visit to one of my dad’s client’s home. They were living in Florida over the winter, and my dad was checking on the home to make sure the pipes hadn’t burst. Mom and the three of us were sitting in the car with the car running,  and Cheryl was getting fussy and I was getting fidgety. I’m not sure, but I think I was about 7 when this happened. So, anyway, I opened the door and said, “Oh, look, a fish pond.” So, without permission, the three of us got out of the car, and ran over the frozen ground to the fish pond. My mom didn’t care. She was smoking a cigarette and looking straight ahead, exhaling those rings of second hand smoke and wishing her last film wasn’t such a flop. (Oh wait, sorry. That was the real Joan Crawford..my bad.)

It was very, very cold outside, and some of us were bundled up pretty good.  When we got to the fish pond, we could see that it was just a small brick-like pond, frozen over, and you could see the fish underneath. They looked like huge goldfish. Oh my God, how can they breathe?  I must save them! I took the heal of my foot and tried to break the ice so they could come up for air.  The ice was hard (duh) and seemed pretty thick.  Hmmmm….must be thick enough to walk on. For a second I forgot about saving fish and entered “Adventure mode” and stepped on the ice.  How cool is this. Took another step, standing there with my hands on my hips like I just discovered The South Pole…and the ice broke. And down through the ice I fell.   Uh Oh…

The only thing I really remember is that it was so very cold. My coat was floating on top of the water all around me, because I was the only one who really wasn’t buttoned up. The water was child hip high. Well, at least I saved the fish from not being able to breathe. I may have been standing on one, but at that point in time, I only cared about myself.  “MOM!!!”  “David, get Mom.”  My dad heard me screaming and got to me before my nicotine-stained mother.  “Oh my God! Vickie! What happened?”  And my reply shocked one family member. “David pushed me!”

Poor David.  My dad scooped me up and ran with me to the car. They took off my wet clothes and it seemed like everyone gave me a piece of their clothing to put on for the drive home. (We were about an hour away from home.)  I couldn’t look at David, but I  he was crying before we even got back to the car. “Mom, I did NOT push her. She stepped on the ice.”   Attila the Liar-”Mommmm, I did not. I was standing there and asked how the fish could live under ice, and David just pushed me!!”  David cried all the way home. Mom smacked him several times on the butt as soon as we got out of the car and told him to go to his room. Cheryl didn’t say a word. She could have saved him, but she didn’t. David was a gentle, kind, kid. She had to share a room with me. I knew she wouldn’t squeal.

I knew I was going to get a whipping for stepping on the ice, so I lied.  Anytime I thought that creepy hand was coming for me, I lied. I was a liar. My lies got grander as I got older. I told many lies in college, mainly to excuse my abscences. Like the one where I fell out of a second story window into the bushes. Or the one (I’m going to hell for this one) where my sister was hit by a school bus and I had to run home every time her conditioned changed. But  there was one in particular, that stands out among the others.

I majored in Speech Communication and Drama. If you weren’t in a play, you had to help behind the scenes. The play we were putting on was called, “Our Town.” I was on the costumes crew and the old suits they used smelled like mothballs, and old man. I didn’t know what an old man was supposed to smell like, but this was not a good smell. I had to sew buttons on some of the old suits. That was my job for then. I didn’t like that job, but feared what they had in store for me next. So, I sewed buttons on the suits, cut them off, and re-sewed them. There were so many people doing soo many different things, they had no clue that I was just sitting on my butt, sewing over and over again.

In the middle of preparing for the next play, I was asked to go see Billy Joel in concert. The guy who asked me went to a neighboring college and was hot. Gus was his name. (Gus was later on named the Happiest Guy in the whole United States and was a guest on the Daily Show a couple of years ago.  Happy guy that Gus.) Anyway, I told him I would go, despite the fact that the play’s opening night was the same night, and it was mandatory attendance.

So, I began my big lie.  I was also in a class that the director taught, so I was around her a lot. She was an older woman, and all business. She lived, ate and breathed theater. The first day of my big lie, I was very quiet. (That in of itself, is weird.) She asked if I was ok. Yes, I was fine, just a little tired. Acted the same way at play practice that night.  The next day at play practice I mentioned to a cast mate that I didn’t really feel like talking, because I was getting a nasty sore throat. (Made sure I made the comment close to the director.) By the end of the 2nd week, I was tired, my neck was on fire, I had a excruciating sore throat, but would never go home from class or play practice. “I’ll be ok. I need to keep sewing.” Said with a minor laugh. What a trooper, I was.  I even had blisters in the back of my throat and swollen glands all around my neck. She was quite impressed with me. The night before the mandatory opening night, I told the director I was going to go home that weekend to get tested for mono. She sent me home that night. Boy, was I a great little actress. The worst part was that she felt my forehead, told me I was burning up and to go home.  A fever? Wow, I was good!

Well, things do come back around to bite you in the butt. Gus took me to the Billy Joel Concert. On the way home, we stopped at the Holiday Inn for a drink. The place was packed and the disco music was blaring. Gus was gone for a while and when he came back with drinks, guess who was with him? No, silly, not the director.

It was Billy Joel.

He sat with Gus and I for almost an hour. At the Holiday Inn. In little Fairmont, West Virginia. It was great. He was talking about other singers he liked and disliked and it was amazing. And no one bothered him or asked for his autograph. I don’t think that anyone else in that bar went to the concert, because he was incognito and having a great time talking to Gus and I. What a night!

I went home and realized I couldn’t tell anyone. Not a soul. I mean, I did, but swore my roommates to secret.  But, I realized that my lie kept me from telling my peers about my amazing experience. If  the director found out, I would have been on her shit-list. I had 2 more years to go and she really liked me because of my strong work ethic.   I couldn’t let her down!

But then again, if it weren’t for the lie, how would I have gotten to have drinks with Billy Joel?   I would have been sitting behind the curtain, handing out smelly old man suits.

My lie was my first acting gig. I really did have a severe case of mono in high school and knew how to build on it. I did good. When I took Acting 101 the next semester, I received so-so remarks on my one-act performance. Our peers always commented on each other’s performance. One peer said to me, “I don’t feel that you put much into developing your character for this role.”  The hell you say.

Actually, I thought, I research my roles in quite detail.   It’s called method acting, weird-O.  If they only knew that I pulled the wool over the whole cast and director, they would be asking me for acting advice. Well, I liked to think that. I was polite, but gave her one of my  ornery, liar smiles.