Que Hora Es? Es La Una!

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.

  Aargh, I’m a pirate.

Picky Picky Vickie

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.

Picky Vickie was also tricky.

Refrigerator Snobs

When I was little, I couldn’t wait to show my mom the A+ I received on any of my tests. I was proud, because I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. I attended a private school through 3rd. grade, and the nuns at Sacred Heart of Mary Mary Quite Contrary never sent home anything. The only thing I remember them doing was yelling and scrubbing gravel out of my knee. So, I never had many proud moments there to bring home for my parents.

So, when I was finally able to talk my parents into letting me go to Edgewood with my friends, I was shocked when I got my first Spelling paper back with a big A+ written on the top. It wasn’t just an A, mind you. They gave you an A+ in public schools if you did exceptionally well. I was awesome. So, I jumped off of the bus and ran into the house to show my mom and dad my first A+ (Technically. I am sure I was awesome at the Sacred Heart of Mary Juana, but no one let me know that there.)

Well, the first thing my mom did, as ALL moms did back then, was to put it in a place of importance so everyone, including Susie the dog, could marvel over my greatness: the refrigerator. Back then, everyone put papers and pictures and magnets on the refrigerator. That’s what we did. They say that the kitchen is the heart of the home. Well, the refrigerator is the brain. It is the main item where everyone gathers. It is where the food is. It is where my A+ in Spelling was hanging. Yes, the refrigerator was a trophy case in more than one way.

Fast forward many years. I got my own refrigerator and somehow, two children. Ok, I’m teasing about the last part, but I was ready to be a mom. And if you want to be a great mom and show your children that you love them, you hang their shit on the refrigerator. And I did. I remember my husband and I visiting some friends for the first time, and she didn’t have anything on the refrigerator. She had two boys. They were about the same age as my children. Where the hell is the baseball schedule or papers they colored in class? My God, you must be a terrible mother not to use your refrigerator as a trophy case. What the hell is wrong with you?

Well, then it began, like dominoes falling softly on the carpet. Everything changed. Sleek stainless steel refrigerators came into people’s lives and all of a sudden, the fashion was to not put anything on the refrigerator. Why, Martha Stewart, why, was this not acceptable any longer?  I would go to houses to visit and not see anything on the refrigerator. I know some  of these mom’s were decent mothers. I just couldn’t get past the idea that the refrigerator should be just that, a refrigerator, and not a message board. Oh, the humanity.

So, I tried to get on board. When I moved in October, I just stared at the new refrigerator. It was classy.

Moving day, October 2011. Shiny new refrigerator.

I decided that since my two children were grown and on their own, there was no reason I should put anything on the refrigerator anymore. Less is more and I wanted my kitchen to look like a grownup for once.  The refrigerator was not really the heart of my home. My dining room table and the little machine I type on all flippin day was the heart of my new home. I was going to keep it looking sleek, because that was how I was trying to roll to. Sleek. (She laughs while writing this.)

Well, that didn’t last too long. I hung a map of Manhattan on my refrigerator when I was moving in. My daughter is attending NYU for grad school and is living in Manhattan. I love NYC, so a map went up on my refrigerator. Notice the lovely “Kitchen Clip” holder thingy.

A map for the atlas geek

After a while, it felt like my kitchen had no pulse. Sure, it looked crisp and clean, and sleek, but it had no heart, no feeling. So, up went some more stuff.  I put postcards on the side of the refrigerator. My kids travel all over the damn place and have studied abroad. Being great kids, they send their momma postcards.

I have more postcards, and change them around from time to time. I do try to be a minimalist in my postcard hoarding. Well, then I got to thinking, “Why not put up the magnets I collect when I go somewhere?” So, on the other side of the refrigerator, I put up some “travel magnets.” I have a lizard from Cancun, an Empire State Building from NYC, and a Myrtle Beach magnet, among others, hidden from the viewing public. I think refrigerator magnets are cool.

 I guess I still wasn’t happy. The refrigerator showcased my children and my travels, but not me. And after all, I am pretty damn important. I live here alone. With a cat. I should show something that is pure Vickie. My fourth graders are always making pictures for me. I could show off that “awesome teacher” gushings by placing an accolade or two on my refrigerator. I found just the perfect one. I made it huge so you can see all of the wonderful detail. Yes, I am awesome.

So, this is what is on my sleek, shiny, new refrigerator. I’ve only been here since October, and my kitchen now feels like me.

So, in the end, if you want to be a good parent, you must use your refrigerator as a trophy case. If you don’t, well, I fear that your children will do poorly in school because you don’t show positive reinforcement by showcasing their accomplishments.

Just sayin. Don’t be a refrigerator snob.

Bring Back the Nuns

I know some people are afraid of clowns. I get it. I really do. But, for me, nuns creep me out more than anything. http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2010/08/07/nun/  Sister Maria scared the hell out of me. I guess when it comes down to it, nuns should scare the hell and Satan right out of you. I think, though, they went above and beyond their call of duty.

 Even as I got older, the nuns still scared me. This nun, Sister or  Mother? Angelica, had a program on the Eternal Word Television Network. I would quickly change the channel when I would see her. Until of course, she donned an eye patch. I had to watch her, a pirate nun. Who would have thought? Arrrrhhhh, I’m a nun.

My ex-husband prides himself on getting the most “whippins” from the nuns at Saint Peter and Paul. Later, he was kicked off the prestigious “altar boy” status for drinking the wine and singing “Ollie Ollie Oxen Free, Prayer for Us” during one of those Catholic chants. The head nun was the definition of “evil.” She ruled that school like a tyrant and treated the kids whose moms sucked up to her like they were the “golden child.” She played favorites and if your parents didn’t give a lot of money on Sunday, she wouldn’t have a problem with beating the hell out of you on Monday. I’m not exaggerating. I’m so glad I only had four nuns at the Sacred Heart of Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy or whatever the hell it was called.

 I thought all nuns were supposed to be like Sister Bertrille in The Flying Nun. Where was Sally Fields when I needed her? I fell one day during recess and Sister Maria was more than happy to scrub the gravel out of my bloodied knee.  I cried, not so much from the pain, but because Sister Maria had invaded my personal space. Her habit kept knocking against my face as she scrubbed my poor skinny gravel-imbeded knee. I would rather have a clown standing beside my bed, just staring at me every night than one minute with a nun.

 But, this past week, I began thinking about nuns. Maybe we need them.  I am at my wits end with my students and how they botch the English language.  How many times do I have to hear, “We was gonna go, but my dad was tard” or “We ain’t got no?”  I remember watching Sister Maria haul off and slap a kid named Winston across the knuckles because he asked, “Can I go to the bathroom?”  Uh, oh, Winston. Goodbye. It was nice knowing you.  Sister Maria asked him, “I don’t know, CAN you?”  The saintly correct  question would be, “Dear wonderful nun lady, MAY I use the bathroom?” We would get yelled out for not being more assertive and talk in her class, and get yelled out for talking in her class. We were screwed no matter what.

 I don’t know. I don’t want to be that kind of teacher. I won’t be that kind of teacher. But, I mean, who the hell is going to be the one who tells people that they talk like they have been living in a box. A stupid box for stupid people. People in general just don’t know how to talk. So, let’s bring in some nuns. Maybe nuns can patrol malls and restaurants after they recite the rosary and slap the hell out of anyone who uses poor English. The Nun Patrol. Then, when they go home after the nun-appointed punishment, they may correct their own children who talk like their parents. That would make my job easier.

In the end, if parents would correct their children, I wouldn’t have a headache by the end of the day. And maybe, just maybe, I would let up on the nun-hating.

Nun too soon.