ZIP ZOP ZIP ZOP ZIP ZOP
Ah, the lovely nylon-y sound of snowsuits. Mom brought them home for Big Sister and I. They were navy blue with red reflector material sewn on the arms and an awesome belt around the waist. The material was so shiny and slick that at first, we were afraid to put them on for fear of ruining them. However, greed won out and we put them on to see if they fit.
They fit perfectly. Mom was thinking, she bought them each a size bigger so we could hopefully wear them the following year. (We were always being threatened with putting a brick on our heads so we would cease growing.)
I pulled the zipper up under my chin and buckled the belt at my waist. I pulled the hood up and Mom tied the hood under my chin. I felt all toasty warm in my new snowsuit. In fact, I was so warm, I was ready to go outside right then and there and sled down the front yard.
One problem...no snow.
"Well, they fit pretty good," Mom said, untying my hood, "So, let's get these off and wait for the first sledding snow."
Wait a minute...I wasn't ready for that. I wanted to wear my snowsuit around the house, sleep in it! I wanted to stay this nice and toasty all night long. How can you bring these into the house and not expect us to want to wear them around?
Big Sister took hers off and hung it on the peg by the door. I could almost see her halo glow brighter.
Well, Mom is not getting this off me without a fight. My devil horns started to grow.
"No! I wanna wear it around!" I held the zipper under my chin defiantly.
"Jenny," Mom warned, "you can't wear it in the house, you will get too hot."
"NO!"
"Jenny, take off that snowsuit right now." She was getting that look. You know the one, lips pursed until they turn white, eyes flashing, cheeks flushing...
"No." I said less emphatically.
"Jennifer Ellen, you take that off right now or you are going to be real sorry!"
whoops...I got both names. Maybe I should rethink my strategy.
"After my bath, can I try it on again?" I was trying to sound more childlike than my advanced age of 3.
"We will see. In the meantime, take it off and hang it by your sister's."
Slowly, I unzipped the snowsuit and undid the belt, I stepped out of it with my head hanging like a whipped dog. I glanced up to see Big Sister smirking at me as if to say, "See if you were perfect like me, you wouldn't always get into trouble."
I stuck my tongue out at her. Big mistake, I forgot Mom was standing right there. "Jennifer!"
Man, I hated it when she called me by my full name. I was always in trouble whenever she used it. (And frankly, she had used it a lot when I was a kid and well into my teenage years and occasionally into my 20's and 30's.)
That was the nail in the coffin. I didn't get to try on my snowsuit after my bath.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
7 Layer Jello
Ah Thanksgiving. The first of the holiday dinners at Gramma's house. Well, not so much a dinner as a feast. There was more food and fellowship than the VFW on a Friday night.
When Gramma and Grampa still were on the farm, the kitchen was the gathering place. I remember walking in with Mom, Daddy and Big Sister and the women were all in the kitchen running around like a bunch of raped apes getting the dinner ready. The men were in the living room watching football. The kids were...everywhere. We pretty much ran around like a bunch of crazed lunatics, darting in between tall people legs, crawling under tables, upsetting kool aid glasses and trying to hug Gramma.
Gramma was awesome. She could mash potatoes, baste the turkey, cut a pie and hug 5 grandchildren all at once. She had more love in that one little hug and by God, you felt it!
I, of course, was in the heart of it all with the older cousins trying to snitch a taste here and there of the delights that were being put out on the table. I mean, who wouldn't? Pumpkin pie, lefse (sugared and non-sugared), cookies, salads and of course, the famous 7 Layer Jello made by Aunt Jean.
7 Layer Jello was an unbelievable confection of jiggle goodness. It was quite literally 7 full layers of jello. One with the clear coloured jello followed by a layer of whipped cream induced jello followed by clear coloured jello and so on and so on and so forth until it was 7 layers. She made it for Thanksgiving and Christmas every year. It was the epitome of the holiday season when 7 layer jello was involved.
You ate this jello layer by layer. Peeling each one off as carefully as possible to try and make it a full piece. It became a competition between cousins on whom could pull the first layer off successfully. The kudos went to the one who could successfully separate all 7 layers in full pieces.
I am not certain any of the adults paid close enough attention to our little competition but my cousin, Steve, got pretty good at it over the years. my cousin, Chad, would always open his mouth and stick out his tongue with his pumpkin pie. Yeah, that would send the other girls into gales of "gross! disgusting!" I would laugh and copy him. (My admiration for him would change after the whole ghosts in the graveyard incident.)
Thanksgiving was the entrance to the holiday season for my family. After a robust dinner and clean up, Gramma, Mom and the Aunts would chat in the kitchen over coffee and pie, the men would fall asleep watching the football game and the kids would just be...everywhere.
When Gramma and Grampa still were on the farm, the kitchen was the gathering place. I remember walking in with Mom, Daddy and Big Sister and the women were all in the kitchen running around like a bunch of raped apes getting the dinner ready. The men were in the living room watching football. The kids were...everywhere. We pretty much ran around like a bunch of crazed lunatics, darting in between tall people legs, crawling under tables, upsetting kool aid glasses and trying to hug Gramma.
Gramma was awesome. She could mash potatoes, baste the turkey, cut a pie and hug 5 grandchildren all at once. She had more love in that one little hug and by God, you felt it!
I, of course, was in the heart of it all with the older cousins trying to snitch a taste here and there of the delights that were being put out on the table. I mean, who wouldn't? Pumpkin pie, lefse (sugared and non-sugared), cookies, salads and of course, the famous 7 Layer Jello made by Aunt Jean.
7 Layer Jello was an unbelievable confection of jiggle goodness. It was quite literally 7 full layers of jello. One with the clear coloured jello followed by a layer of whipped cream induced jello followed by clear coloured jello and so on and so on and so forth until it was 7 layers. She made it for Thanksgiving and Christmas every year. It was the epitome of the holiday season when 7 layer jello was involved.
You ate this jello layer by layer. Peeling each one off as carefully as possible to try and make it a full piece. It became a competition between cousins on whom could pull the first layer off successfully. The kudos went to the one who could successfully separate all 7 layers in full pieces.
I am not certain any of the adults paid close enough attention to our little competition but my cousin, Steve, got pretty good at it over the years. my cousin, Chad, would always open his mouth and stick out his tongue with his pumpkin pie. Yeah, that would send the other girls into gales of "gross! disgusting!" I would laugh and copy him. (My admiration for him would change after the whole ghosts in the graveyard incident.)
Thanksgiving was the entrance to the holiday season for my family. After a robust dinner and clean up, Gramma, Mom and the Aunts would chat in the kitchen over coffee and pie, the men would fall asleep watching the football game and the kids would just be...everywhere.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Excuse me?
I have the funniest kids on the earth. They have great senses of humour and are very quick on their feet.
The first time I recognized this was with my daughter at the age of 2. We were driving along, me in the driver's seat and she in the car seat in the back. We were driving along singing Barney songs, like you do, when some obviously blind person decided to pull out in front of me. Not being around children on a daily basis for 30 years of my life, I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind. "Jackass!" Oops. Quickly I tried to cover my bad choice of words, "I mean, JERK!"
Too late. From the back seat in a tiny little voice came the Mimic. "Jackass." Obviously trying out the word on her two year old tongue and deciding she liked the taste of it. Ok. Bad parenting 101. There was your first lesson, moron. Solution? Ok, watch your mouth because little pitchers DO have big ears.
A few days go by and I am once again driving with said child. Once again, I am cut off in traffic by someone without a license. I didn't even get a breath in when from the back seat I hear, "Jackass." Not only do they have big ears, they obviously have the memory of an elephant.
Well, at least she used it in context.
Three years later, along comes baby brother. Chynna was positive she was having a baby sister and was somewhat disappointed when she learned she was getting a baby brother. When asked what she was going to name him I feared for the reproachful look I would get from the doctor. Luckily, she did not reply Jackass, she replied "Harry." Whew. Obviously, she moved on to Harry Potter. The reason I suspect this? She walked around the house and would say Bloody hell in an English accent.
Fast forward 5 years. Lucas has become the newest comic relief in our family. He was forever asking questions. sometimes a little more than we preferred.
One day while driving them to school, he blurted out "Hey Mom! Did they have cars when you were little?"
How OLD does this kid think I am?! So, thinking I could get one over on him I replied, "No, Luc, we ride dinosaurs."
"Huh...that's cool. Did you tie their mouths shut so they didn't eat you?"
Kids-1 Mom-0.
The first time I recognized this was with my daughter at the age of 2. We were driving along, me in the driver's seat and she in the car seat in the back. We were driving along singing Barney songs, like you do, when some obviously blind person decided to pull out in front of me. Not being around children on a daily basis for 30 years of my life, I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind. "Jackass!" Oops. Quickly I tried to cover my bad choice of words, "I mean, JERK!"
Too late. From the back seat in a tiny little voice came the Mimic. "Jackass." Obviously trying out the word on her two year old tongue and deciding she liked the taste of it. Ok. Bad parenting 101. There was your first lesson, moron. Solution? Ok, watch your mouth because little pitchers DO have big ears.
A few days go by and I am once again driving with said child. Once again, I am cut off in traffic by someone without a license. I didn't even get a breath in when from the back seat I hear, "Jackass." Not only do they have big ears, they obviously have the memory of an elephant.
Well, at least she used it in context.
Three years later, along comes baby brother. Chynna was positive she was having a baby sister and was somewhat disappointed when she learned she was getting a baby brother. When asked what she was going to name him I feared for the reproachful look I would get from the doctor. Luckily, she did not reply Jackass, she replied "Harry." Whew. Obviously, she moved on to Harry Potter. The reason I suspect this? She walked around the house and would say Bloody hell in an English accent.
Fast forward 5 years. Lucas has become the newest comic relief in our family. He was forever asking questions. sometimes a little more than we preferred.
One day while driving them to school, he blurted out "Hey Mom! Did they have cars when you were little?"
How OLD does this kid think I am?! So, thinking I could get one over on him I replied, "No, Luc, we ride dinosaurs."
"Huh...that's cool. Did you tie their mouths shut so they didn't eat you?"
Kids-1 Mom-0.
The Best Playmate Ever
My Dad. Hands down. He wasn't much more than a kid himself when Big Sister was born and then I came along a mere 11 months later. My dad was all of 20 going on 21 when I entered this illustrious world. I think that is why I have the bizarre sense of humor that I have.
My parents were 21 years old with 2 girls under 2. I, personally, would have been an alcoholic. My kids are 5 years apart and I wonder how people have 2 kids in diapers at once. Hats off to you people. I could never do it.
But, back to my Dad. Yes, Dad was the best playmate my sisters and I could ever have had.
Before baby sister came along, Big Sister and I used to make up games to play with Daddy. One of our favourites was "Mountain Lion". Daddy would get down on all fours and start growling at us. We would scream and run to the couch or chair and climb up on it. Obviously, a Naugahyde sofa was like kryptonite to deranged bloodthirsty felines. We would wait til his back was turned and then scramble down off the couch and try to run across the living room to the chair without getting caught. If you were caught, you had to suffer the mountain lion's wrath. You were usually tickled til you squealed- or wet your pants, whichever came first.
A lot of times we would get loud and Mom would yell from the kitchen, "Mark! Keep it down! You are worse than the girls!"
Well, duh...that is what made the yelling and screaming ok. Daddy was doing it, so could we!
Dad would make up words to songs. He was the original Weird Al Yankovik. Constantly making up songs and singing them in bizarre voices to get us kids to laugh. And we generally did. Heck, even at 41 I still will sing them and he will join in then we will laugh like a couple of loons.
I have one that still runs thru my head about Star Wars. It was sung to the "Empire theme" (google it and then listen to the words) it went a little something like this..."My name's Ralph and I hail Tattooine..My name's Ralph and I hail Tattooine...My name is Yoda...I hail from Dagobah...."
Yeah, it was a real had to be there moment. But it was funnier than heck when you were 8 years old.
My parents were 21 years old with 2 girls under 2. I, personally, would have been an alcoholic. My kids are 5 years apart and I wonder how people have 2 kids in diapers at once. Hats off to you people. I could never do it.
But, back to my Dad. Yes, Dad was the best playmate my sisters and I could ever have had.
Before baby sister came along, Big Sister and I used to make up games to play with Daddy. One of our favourites was "Mountain Lion". Daddy would get down on all fours and start growling at us. We would scream and run to the couch or chair and climb up on it. Obviously, a Naugahyde sofa was like kryptonite to deranged bloodthirsty felines. We would wait til his back was turned and then scramble down off the couch and try to run across the living room to the chair without getting caught. If you were caught, you had to suffer the mountain lion's wrath. You were usually tickled til you squealed- or wet your pants, whichever came first.
A lot of times we would get loud and Mom would yell from the kitchen, "Mark! Keep it down! You are worse than the girls!"
Well, duh...that is what made the yelling and screaming ok. Daddy was doing it, so could we!
Dad would make up words to songs. He was the original Weird Al Yankovik. Constantly making up songs and singing them in bizarre voices to get us kids to laugh. And we generally did. Heck, even at 41 I still will sing them and he will join in then we will laugh like a couple of loons.
I have one that still runs thru my head about Star Wars. It was sung to the "Empire theme" (google it and then listen to the words) it went a little something like this..."My name's Ralph and I hail Tattooine..My name's Ralph and I hail Tattooine...My name is Yoda...I hail from Dagobah...."
Yeah, it was a real had to be there moment. But it was funnier than heck when you were 8 years old.
Friday, November 12, 2010
'Tis the Season
Lately I have been listening to Christmas music in the car... and at work...and at home. I recently came across a tape (yes, I said tape as in cassette) that Dad made me 20+ years ago of the Christmas albums we used to listen to when we were growing up.
Since my car is one of the rare few that a cassette player comes standard in this day and age of cd changers, I popped it in and gave it a listen. As the strains of Andy Williams "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" filled my car with Christmas cheer, I was whisked back in time to the excitement of Christmas that I felt as a kid.
Amazing how music can evoke so many different emotions at the same time; joy, humor, sadness, humility all roared through my 40 year old self. I remembered dancing in the living room of the parsonage where we lived when I was a newborn until the age of 4. I remembered jumping from couch to chair at the farmhouse from age 4 to 6.
As kids, my parents blasted the Christmas music while we decorated the tree for Christmas. It was always a special treat when Dad put the angel on the top of the tree while Big Sister and I ate milk and cookies and watched in 3-4 year old awe. It was at that time that we were on especially good behaviour because Santa WAS REALLY watching then. (Of Course, Mom will tell you that we weren't perfect angels, but we sure tried hard and only fought twice a day.)
Dad was always goofing around during the holidays and making up his own words to Christmas songs. Many of which, I can still sing much to his chagrin. It is true that little pitchers have big ears. I heard even the nasty versions, but I won't tell if you don't.
The first Christmas in the new house was in 1976. I was 7, Big Sister was 8 and Baby Sister was 1. True to form, when it was time to put up the tree (back in the day we had a real tree), Mom would put the Christmas records on the stackable turntable and the music filled the house.
Listening to the songs in my car made me realize, I missed my turn and have to drive the long way to get the kids.
*Note to self~ Pay attention to the road, Doofen Claus...
Since my car is one of the rare few that a cassette player comes standard in this day and age of cd changers, I popped it in and gave it a listen. As the strains of Andy Williams "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" filled my car with Christmas cheer, I was whisked back in time to the excitement of Christmas that I felt as a kid.
Amazing how music can evoke so many different emotions at the same time; joy, humor, sadness, humility all roared through my 40 year old self. I remembered dancing in the living room of the parsonage where we lived when I was a newborn until the age of 4. I remembered jumping from couch to chair at the farmhouse from age 4 to 6.
As kids, my parents blasted the Christmas music while we decorated the tree for Christmas. It was always a special treat when Dad put the angel on the top of the tree while Big Sister and I ate milk and cookies and watched in 3-4 year old awe. It was at that time that we were on especially good behaviour because Santa WAS REALLY watching then. (Of Course, Mom will tell you that we weren't perfect angels, but we sure tried hard and only fought twice a day.)
Dad was always goofing around during the holidays and making up his own words to Christmas songs. Many of which, I can still sing much to his chagrin. It is true that little pitchers have big ears. I heard even the nasty versions, but I won't tell if you don't.
The first Christmas in the new house was in 1976. I was 7, Big Sister was 8 and Baby Sister was 1. True to form, when it was time to put up the tree (back in the day we had a real tree), Mom would put the Christmas records on the stackable turntable and the music filled the house.
Listening to the songs in my car made me realize, I missed my turn and have to drive the long way to get the kids.
*Note to self~ Pay attention to the road, Doofen Claus...
Monday, November 1, 2010
Ghosts in the Graveyard
Thinking back, playing Ghost in the Graveyard in an ACTUAL graveyard may not have been the wisest thing to do at the ages of 11 and 8. Why? Well, you asked...
So, Halloween that year fell on a Saturday I think. I was fortunate enough to be allowed to go into town with my City Cousins. Score!
After three rounds of trick-or-treating in three different costumes and about 39 lbs of candy in my pillowcase, my cousin and his buddies coerced Tanya and I to go play in the graveyard. Now, "go play in the graveyard" could have been the equivalent of my father's "go play in the traffic", but not in this case. We really went and played in the graveyard.
My cousin, Chad, and his neighborhood hooligans gathered together and decided to play Ghost in the Graveyard. We were all about the same age 11 and 12-ish, except for Tanya who was 8. But HEY! Who cared? We were the only girls in a group of about 9 boys and we felt singled out and special.
Yeah, that warm and fuzzy feeling did NOT last very long. Little did we realize that we were the stool pigeons for their sick and twisted games.
So, grabbing our flashlights, we rode our bikes up the hill and over to the cemetery. Making sure we were nearly invisible in our dark clothes that would cause many an accident if we darted out in front of cars like an errant deer.
Pulling into the cemetery we just dumped bikes and took off running into the darkened and eerie graveyard we switched off our flashlights so the "hunter" wouldn't find us. Making our way into the middle of the cemetery and scrunched down behind a particularly large headstone, Tanya and I held our breath and tried to calm our pounding hearts. We could hear the boys running, tripping and smacking into headstones followed by a lot of 11 year old curse words. "Ouch! Crap!" "ooof" "Dang!" I think I even heard a "damn" but since we weren't allowed to swear I didn't want to snitch.
I could see the hunter's flashlight creeping in our direction so I grabbed Tanya's hand and hauled her over to one of the few mausoleums in the cemetery. My intent was to hide behind it. Her's was to hide INSIDE it.
Now, normally these tombs of the dead were locked by a padlock or something, this particular one...was not. Quickly Tanya ducked into the tomb pulling the grated door shut. I could hear the metal scrape against the granite as she pulled it shut. What a creepy sound.
All was quiet. For about 5 seconds. Then Tanya obviously looked around and realized that she had shut herself inside a tomb with a couple of sarcophagus (or, plural? sarcophagi?) containing none other than (DA DA DAAAAAHHH creepy music) 2 dead bodies.
She tried pushing on the door only to realize that it was stuck against the granite. She tried pulling it only to find that it would not go any further inside. She pushed and pushed and I heard the panic start to rise in her voice.
"Jenny! JennY! HELP! I'M STUCK!!! HEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLP!"
I didn't really want to lose my hiding place but decided that Tanya was more important than my winning the game. What game? This wasn't really a game anymore, it was a nightmare come to life.
I ran around the side of the mausoleum and could see Tanya's eyes as huge as pie plates in her tiny white face. She was clutching the bars of the grate like a prisoner on death row. "GET ME OUTTA HERE!! CHAD! I'M GONNA TELL MOM!"
I tugged on the door and it didn't budge. In fact, it only seemed to grind further into the granite. This was going to be WAY more difficult than I thought.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized that we could no longer hear the boys and their taunting laughter or the noises they were making trying to scare us. This was WAY scarier than those dumb ole boys.
I kept pulling and pulling on the grate and Tanya kept pushing and pushing. We were getting know where fast.
Finally, one of the boys, Gary, by name, came running and tried to help me get her out. He kept talking reassuringly to her to try and get her to calm down. She reached thru the bars and grabbed his arms and had him in a death grip.
He turned to me "Office Chicker lives right over there in the yellow house with the porch light and the big light up pumpkin in the front yard. Go and get him. His lights are still on."
From the tomb, "NO! Don't leave me here!"
Gary held her hands and nodded me to Officer Chicker's house. I nodded to him and took off like the hounds of hell were after me. I ran up to the door and rang the doorbell. I seriously thought I was going to wet my pants I was so nervous.
Officer Chicker opened the door. "What are doing out so late? Does your mother know-"
"OfficerChickeryougottacomequickTanyaislockedinthemausoleumacrossthestreetandcan'tgetout!!!!"
Amazingly, enough, he understood every word I said. He grabbed his hat and car keys. "How did she get in there? How any times have I told you kids that the graveyard is NOT a playground?!"
Looking back, I think it was a rhetorical question because I answered' "I think 9 times."
Nine times.
He grabbed his tool box out of the back of his truck and ran across the street with me leading the way.
When we got there, Tanya was crying hysterically while squeezing bruises into Gary's arms.
"Well," Chicker said, assessing the situation, "I guess we won't be playing in the graveyard ever again, now will we, Tanya?"
Blubber blubber sob sob gasp "N-n-no s-s-sir!"
Officer Chicker grabbed the metal grate and lifted up while pulling out. The door swung open with a loud "SCRRREEEEEE" and Tanya ran out straight into his arms. She cried and cried while Gary and I stood there looking and feeling very foolish. If we would have just looked we would have noticed that the grate had a broken hinge and if would have just lifted up on it, the door would have swung open and Tanya would have gotten out without incident.
After Tanya calmed down and my heart stopped racing, we got the lecture, "Now, I think we have learned a little lesson here, didn't we?"
"Yes, sir."
"Just think that one of you could have fallen and split your head wide open, or broken a leg or worse."
"Yes, sir."
"How many more times am I going to tell you NOT to play in the graveyard."
"None, sir."
He stood and looked down his nose at us with a menacing look on his face for a few seconds. "Alright, now, I want you to go straight home and I don't ever want to catch you playing in the graveyard again."
"Yes, sir!"
That was the last time we were ever conned into playing Ghost in the Graveyard with Cousin Chad and his ruffian friends. They got a good laugh at that when we walked in the door and they saw Tanya's tear stained face.
Needless to say, they weren't laughing later when they got into a bed and sleeping bags filled with shaving cream.
That reminds me...I owe my Aunt Vickie some shaving cream...
So, Halloween that year fell on a Saturday I think. I was fortunate enough to be allowed to go into town with my City Cousins. Score!
After three rounds of trick-or-treating in three different costumes and about 39 lbs of candy in my pillowcase, my cousin and his buddies coerced Tanya and I to go play in the graveyard. Now, "go play in the graveyard" could have been the equivalent of my father's "go play in the traffic", but not in this case. We really went and played in the graveyard.
My cousin, Chad, and his neighborhood hooligans gathered together and decided to play Ghost in the Graveyard. We were all about the same age 11 and 12-ish, except for Tanya who was 8. But HEY! Who cared? We were the only girls in a group of about 9 boys and we felt singled out and special.
Yeah, that warm and fuzzy feeling did NOT last very long. Little did we realize that we were the stool pigeons for their sick and twisted games.
So, grabbing our flashlights, we rode our bikes up the hill and over to the cemetery. Making sure we were nearly invisible in our dark clothes that would cause many an accident if we darted out in front of cars like an errant deer.
Pulling into the cemetery we just dumped bikes and took off running into the darkened and eerie graveyard we switched off our flashlights so the "hunter" wouldn't find us. Making our way into the middle of the cemetery and scrunched down behind a particularly large headstone, Tanya and I held our breath and tried to calm our pounding hearts. We could hear the boys running, tripping and smacking into headstones followed by a lot of 11 year old curse words. "Ouch! Crap!" "ooof" "Dang!" I think I even heard a "damn" but since we weren't allowed to swear I didn't want to snitch.
I could see the hunter's flashlight creeping in our direction so I grabbed Tanya's hand and hauled her over to one of the few mausoleums in the cemetery. My intent was to hide behind it. Her's was to hide INSIDE it.
Now, normally these tombs of the dead were locked by a padlock or something, this particular one...was not. Quickly Tanya ducked into the tomb pulling the grated door shut. I could hear the metal scrape against the granite as she pulled it shut. What a creepy sound.
All was quiet. For about 5 seconds. Then Tanya obviously looked around and realized that she had shut herself inside a tomb with a couple of sarcophagus (or, plural? sarcophagi?) containing none other than (DA DA DAAAAAHHH creepy music) 2 dead bodies.
She tried pushing on the door only to realize that it was stuck against the granite. She tried pulling it only to find that it would not go any further inside. She pushed and pushed and I heard the panic start to rise in her voice.
"Jenny! JennY! HELP! I'M STUCK!!! HEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLP!"
I didn't really want to lose my hiding place but decided that Tanya was more important than my winning the game. What game? This wasn't really a game anymore, it was a nightmare come to life.
I ran around the side of the mausoleum and could see Tanya's eyes as huge as pie plates in her tiny white face. She was clutching the bars of the grate like a prisoner on death row. "GET ME OUTTA HERE!! CHAD! I'M GONNA TELL MOM!"
I tugged on the door and it didn't budge. In fact, it only seemed to grind further into the granite. This was going to be WAY more difficult than I thought.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized that we could no longer hear the boys and their taunting laughter or the noises they were making trying to scare us. This was WAY scarier than those dumb ole boys.
I kept pulling and pulling on the grate and Tanya kept pushing and pushing. We were getting know where fast.
Finally, one of the boys, Gary, by name, came running and tried to help me get her out. He kept talking reassuringly to her to try and get her to calm down. She reached thru the bars and grabbed his arms and had him in a death grip.
He turned to me "Office Chicker lives right over there in the yellow house with the porch light and the big light up pumpkin in the front yard. Go and get him. His lights are still on."
From the tomb, "NO! Don't leave me here!"
Gary held her hands and nodded me to Officer Chicker's house. I nodded to him and took off like the hounds of hell were after me. I ran up to the door and rang the doorbell. I seriously thought I was going to wet my pants I was so nervous.
Officer Chicker opened the door. "What are doing out so late? Does your mother know-"
"OfficerChickeryougottacomequickTanyaislockedinthemausoleumacrossthestreetandcan'tgetout!!!!"
Amazingly, enough, he understood every word I said. He grabbed his hat and car keys. "How did she get in there? How any times have I told you kids that the graveyard is NOT a playground?!"
Looking back, I think it was a rhetorical question because I answered' "I think 9 times."
Nine times.
He grabbed his tool box out of the back of his truck and ran across the street with me leading the way.
When we got there, Tanya was crying hysterically while squeezing bruises into Gary's arms.
"Well," Chicker said, assessing the situation, "I guess we won't be playing in the graveyard ever again, now will we, Tanya?"
Blubber blubber sob sob gasp "N-n-no s-s-sir!"
Officer Chicker grabbed the metal grate and lifted up while pulling out. The door swung open with a loud "SCRRREEEEEE" and Tanya ran out straight into his arms. She cried and cried while Gary and I stood there looking and feeling very foolish. If we would have just looked we would have noticed that the grate had a broken hinge and if would have just lifted up on it, the door would have swung open and Tanya would have gotten out without incident.
After Tanya calmed down and my heart stopped racing, we got the lecture, "Now, I think we have learned a little lesson here, didn't we?"
"Yes, sir."
"Just think that one of you could have fallen and split your head wide open, or broken a leg or worse."
"Yes, sir."
"How many more times am I going to tell you NOT to play in the graveyard."
"None, sir."
He stood and looked down his nose at us with a menacing look on his face for a few seconds. "Alright, now, I want you to go straight home and I don't ever want to catch you playing in the graveyard again."
"Yes, sir!"
That was the last time we were ever conned into playing Ghost in the Graveyard with Cousin Chad and his ruffian friends. They got a good laugh at that when we walked in the door and they saw Tanya's tear stained face.
Needless to say, they weren't laughing later when they got into a bed and sleeping bags filled with shaving cream.
That reminds me...I owe my Aunt Vickie some shaving cream...
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Trick or Treat
Ah Halloween. The most festive undead season of the year. As a kid I used to long for Halloween and my yearly allotment of candy overdosing.
When I was a kid, costumes were made of plastic. From the plastic mask to the plastic suit. Inevitably, you ended up wearing a winter coat over your costume so no one really knew who the heck you were supposed to be.
Case in point; when I was 9 Big Sister and I went trick-or-treating with some friends and our cousins. My costume was to be Princess Leia. Yeah, it was a real stretch of the imagination considering I was wearing a "dress" made out of a white sheet with a silver "disco belt" around it (with a squirrel buckle, I might add). I ended up looking more like a pregnant Princess Leia because Mom made me wear my winter coat underneath the dress. Well, there went that illusion.
Big Sister was a "farm girl" complete with orange yarn braids, freckles and coveralls. Ok, it wasn't that bad, but, she didn't have a real pitchfork. She used a red devil pitchfork that we had from a previous costume. I thought it was hilarious. She got even with me tho'. When Mom grouped us together to take our picture, she stuck the pitchfork up behind my head so it looked like Princess Leia had a trident coming out of her head. Nice.
Baby sister was something, but we really don't remember what because she had her Cookie Monster winter coat on. So, we just told everyone she was Cookie Monster. What did she care? She was 3.
Big Sister's friend, Barbie, came along with us. She was mortified because her mother picked out a costume for her. She was Snow White. She was quite pouty behind her smiling plastic mask of Snow White and if you looked closely enough at the photo, you could see she was scowling.
The best costume went to my cousin, Suanne. Decked out in a blue Polaris snow suit complete with winter boots. Over the top of her snowsuit, she was wearing a plastic Fonzie vest and plastic smiling Fonzie mask.
She rocked the Fonzie costume. Sort of like when he jumped the shark. (google it)
So, with all of us dressed to "scare"(?), mom loaded us into the car and away we went around our little village to terrify the locals.
Each stop garnered us a special treat. There were always the houses that gave us crap treats. You know, popcorn balls, apples, bit o'honey, peanut butter kisses (ugh, the kind that were carmelized peanut butter on the outside with the chunk of peanut butter inside. *gag*) and the typical dimes. We generally discarded of those little "treats" in the trash and gave mom the loose change.
Sometimes, we would get a bit overzealous on our quest for sugar and go running across a yard in the dark unaware of hidden dangers. For example, I was going to one door when "Fonzie" went running by me and tripped over a sewer pipe. Needless to say, "Fonzie was not very graceful". She went flying thru the air, the painted Fonzie smile on her face never wavering, and landed with a thud on her stomach. She laid there for a minute while Auntie picked her up and dusted her off and told her "I said to stop running and watch where you were going!" all the while this look of amusement on her face. I think she thought the smiling Fonzie face-plant was just as funny as I did. I mean, seriously! How hilarious would it be to see a snowsuited Fonzie in his plastic vest that said "AAAAYYYY!" on the lapel flying thru the air with a big ole grin on his face?
I remember coming to this one house that had a very narrow stairway. Big Sister and Snow White went ahead of us younger ones because they were "older" than us. Typical.
Well, apparently Fonzie and the rest didn't feel like they had to wait for their next sugar high and they started running up the stairway pushing me in front of them. I swear my chuckie clad feet never touched the steps at all. It was like a sugar induced mosh pit for costumed freakish looking midgets. I remember Big Sister and Snow White giving me this look of utter terror as the crowd rushed toward them, Princess Leia being carried in the front.
There was no where to go but down. Like the parting of the Red Sea, Big Sister and Snow White toppled over the side of the stairway. Big sister got caught in the arborvitae on the left side of the cement steps, while Snow White went completely thru and landed on the ground below.WHUMP!
I got smashed against the screen door while Mom tried to calm the havoc surrounding the incident. She rescued Big Sister who clung like a vine to the shrub and the side of the brick house. Big Sister was crying because she got quite a few scratches and pokes. This caused her freckles to run so now she looked like she had been out in the mud all day.
The main thing that struck me as hilarious and to this day I cannot think of the incident without laughing so hard until I cry was poor Snow White. I remember looking down at her from the stoop, she was lying on the ground like she had just been trampled by a herd of cows (which in essence is sort of what happened), she looked up at me and I absolutely lost it.
Snow White was smiling at me. The mask she had on never moved from the spot on her face. You could see her eyes shining with tears behind the gaping eye holes and hear her crying, but for the smile on the mask I couldn't see past that. I almost cried from laughter.
Worst part? Mom looked at me, trying to scold me, but her eyes were full of laughter and she was having a difficult time trying to contain her laughter. She gave up. She had to turn away after she helped Snow White off the ground.
Cruel? Heck no. It was funny! Probably not to Big Sister or Snow White, but I can still laugh about it.
The next year I was allowed to go to town and go trick-or-treating with Tanya. Awesome! I was gonna load up on candy until I went into a sugar induced coma and end up having my stomach pumped.
Well, close.
Tanya and I dressed up and headed out around 5 pm. It had to be dark because, HEY! What fun is trick-or-treating in the daylight? It was kind of a downer.
So, grabbing up our pillowcases we headed out the door. (Who needed plastic bags or pumpkins? They didn't hold the booty that a pillowcase could!) So, off we headed around the neighborhood. After an hour, we had to go home because our pillowcases were too heavy to carry around.
Once we got to her house, we dumped out candy out on her bed and started rifling thru our cache of goodies tossing all the crappy candy. (As previously stated above.)
Heck. It was only 630. We could trick-or-treat for another 2 and a half hours if we had a mind to. HHmmmmm... are you thinking what I am thinking?
COSTUME CHANGE!
Phase II: Clutching new pillowcases in our new costumes, we embarked upon the second part of our journey. Making sure we hit the elder gentleman's house down the street again because HE gave away full size Hershey Bars! Oh yes, they will be mine.
An hour later, we returned home again. It was only 745. I say, AGAIN!
Digging into her playclothes, we don yet another disguise and head to Phase III: Operation Hospital Stay.
By now it was very dark and many of the boys in the neighborhood were trying to jump out and frighten other kids who were out on their own. We weren't afraid because, it was her big brother and his friends. We knew where they were going to be sleeping later so we could shortsheet their beds if they tried anything.
We managed to get thru one last round before 9 o'clock when trick-or-treat ended and doggedly headed home to sort our booty. Three different pillowcases, three different costumes and candy enough to last us thru New Year's 1987. I would say it was a productive night and perseverance paid off. Or was it greed? You be the judge.
When I was a kid, costumes were made of plastic. From the plastic mask to the plastic suit. Inevitably, you ended up wearing a winter coat over your costume so no one really knew who the heck you were supposed to be.
Case in point; when I was 9 Big Sister and I went trick-or-treating with some friends and our cousins. My costume was to be Princess Leia. Yeah, it was a real stretch of the imagination considering I was wearing a "dress" made out of a white sheet with a silver "disco belt" around it (with a squirrel buckle, I might add). I ended up looking more like a pregnant Princess Leia because Mom made me wear my winter coat underneath the dress. Well, there went that illusion.
Big Sister was a "farm girl" complete with orange yarn braids, freckles and coveralls. Ok, it wasn't that bad, but, she didn't have a real pitchfork. She used a red devil pitchfork that we had from a previous costume. I thought it was hilarious. She got even with me tho'. When Mom grouped us together to take our picture, she stuck the pitchfork up behind my head so it looked like Princess Leia had a trident coming out of her head. Nice.
Baby sister was something, but we really don't remember what because she had her Cookie Monster winter coat on. So, we just told everyone she was Cookie Monster. What did she care? She was 3.
Big Sister's friend, Barbie, came along with us. She was mortified because her mother picked out a costume for her. She was Snow White. She was quite pouty behind her smiling plastic mask of Snow White and if you looked closely enough at the photo, you could see she was scowling.
The best costume went to my cousin, Suanne. Decked out in a blue Polaris snow suit complete with winter boots. Over the top of her snowsuit, she was wearing a plastic Fonzie vest and plastic smiling Fonzie mask.
She rocked the Fonzie costume. Sort of like when he jumped the shark. (google it)
So, with all of us dressed to "scare"(?), mom loaded us into the car and away we went around our little village to terrify the locals.
Each stop garnered us a special treat. There were always the houses that gave us crap treats. You know, popcorn balls, apples, bit o'honey, peanut butter kisses (ugh, the kind that were carmelized peanut butter on the outside with the chunk of peanut butter inside. *gag*) and the typical dimes. We generally discarded of those little "treats" in the trash and gave mom the loose change.
Sometimes, we would get a bit overzealous on our quest for sugar and go running across a yard in the dark unaware of hidden dangers. For example, I was going to one door when "Fonzie" went running by me and tripped over a sewer pipe. Needless to say, "Fonzie was not very graceful". She went flying thru the air, the painted Fonzie smile on her face never wavering, and landed with a thud on her stomach. She laid there for a minute while Auntie picked her up and dusted her off and told her "I said to stop running and watch where you were going!" all the while this look of amusement on her face. I think she thought the smiling Fonzie face-plant was just as funny as I did. I mean, seriously! How hilarious would it be to see a snowsuited Fonzie in his plastic vest that said "AAAAYYYY!" on the lapel flying thru the air with a big ole grin on his face?
I remember coming to this one house that had a very narrow stairway. Big Sister and Snow White went ahead of us younger ones because they were "older" than us. Typical.
Well, apparently Fonzie and the rest didn't feel like they had to wait for their next sugar high and they started running up the stairway pushing me in front of them. I swear my chuckie clad feet never touched the steps at all. It was like a sugar induced mosh pit for costumed freakish looking midgets. I remember Big Sister and Snow White giving me this look of utter terror as the crowd rushed toward them, Princess Leia being carried in the front.
There was no where to go but down. Like the parting of the Red Sea, Big Sister and Snow White toppled over the side of the stairway. Big sister got caught in the arborvitae on the left side of the cement steps, while Snow White went completely thru and landed on the ground below.WHUMP!
I got smashed against the screen door while Mom tried to calm the havoc surrounding the incident. She rescued Big Sister who clung like a vine to the shrub and the side of the brick house. Big Sister was crying because she got quite a few scratches and pokes. This caused her freckles to run so now she looked like she had been out in the mud all day.
The main thing that struck me as hilarious and to this day I cannot think of the incident without laughing so hard until I cry was poor Snow White. I remember looking down at her from the stoop, she was lying on the ground like she had just been trampled by a herd of cows (which in essence is sort of what happened), she looked up at me and I absolutely lost it.
Snow White was smiling at me. The mask she had on never moved from the spot on her face. You could see her eyes shining with tears behind the gaping eye holes and hear her crying, but for the smile on the mask I couldn't see past that. I almost cried from laughter.
Worst part? Mom looked at me, trying to scold me, but her eyes were full of laughter and she was having a difficult time trying to contain her laughter. She gave up. She had to turn away after she helped Snow White off the ground.
Cruel? Heck no. It was funny! Probably not to Big Sister or Snow White, but I can still laugh about it.
The next year I was allowed to go to town and go trick-or-treating with Tanya. Awesome! I was gonna load up on candy until I went into a sugar induced coma and end up having my stomach pumped.
Well, close.
Tanya and I dressed up and headed out around 5 pm. It had to be dark because, HEY! What fun is trick-or-treating in the daylight? It was kind of a downer.
So, grabbing up our pillowcases we headed out the door. (Who needed plastic bags or pumpkins? They didn't hold the booty that a pillowcase could!) So, off we headed around the neighborhood. After an hour, we had to go home because our pillowcases were too heavy to carry around.
Once we got to her house, we dumped out candy out on her bed and started rifling thru our cache of goodies tossing all the crappy candy. (As previously stated above.)
Heck. It was only 630. We could trick-or-treat for another 2 and a half hours if we had a mind to. HHmmmmm... are you thinking what I am thinking?
COSTUME CHANGE!
Phase II: Clutching new pillowcases in our new costumes, we embarked upon the second part of our journey. Making sure we hit the elder gentleman's house down the street again because HE gave away full size Hershey Bars! Oh yes, they will be mine.
An hour later, we returned home again. It was only 745. I say, AGAIN!
Digging into her playclothes, we don yet another disguise and head to Phase III: Operation Hospital Stay.
By now it was very dark and many of the boys in the neighborhood were trying to jump out and frighten other kids who were out on their own. We weren't afraid because, it was her big brother and his friends. We knew where they were going to be sleeping later so we could shortsheet their beds if they tried anything.
We managed to get thru one last round before 9 o'clock when trick-or-treat ended and doggedly headed home to sort our booty. Three different pillowcases, three different costumes and candy enough to last us thru New Year's 1987. I would say it was a productive night and perseverance paid off. Or was it greed? You be the judge.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Inheritance...
Watching my daughter, Chynna and her cousin, Cailee, play- or "hang out" as they call it nowadays- makes me wax nostalgic for my best friend growing up. My cousin, Tanya.
Chynna and Cailee were playing "Stacey Styles", a fashion design company. Drawing pictures of the latest styles for the catwalks of Paris and London and all the other fashion like places that exist in the world.
Tanya and I would play something similar in our youth. Except, Tanya would take it to the extreme. The girl would create a storyboard for each style we drew, she would tape it to the paneled walls of her bedroom and when the show would take place, each of us would take our turn busting out onto the catwalk. Literally, we came out of the closet. (That is not a euphemism for anything, we literally pushed open the closet door in our designs.)
My aunt would give us all of her old dresses and pantsuits (yes, I said pantsuit) shoes and handbags. I even remember a wig or two popping up there somewhere. We would put together all of these fantastic outfits of gabardine and polyester and other synthetic fabrics and display our creations to each other, while the one not on the "catwalk" would snap pictures and cheer or do the announcement of what the other was wearing. It was like the real thing.
Eventually, we would tire of the fashion world and its drama and move on to different avenues. One of our favourite things to play was "office." Yes, office. Grab a couple of old phones (you know, the kind that were actually attached to the wall and had cords attached to the handset?!?) a pad of paper and some pens and make appointments for our eternally busy boss. Most of the time we would play Simon and Simon.( I don't think many of you out there remember that show so, google it.) Taking information for cases and giving them to our "husbands" Aj and Rick. AJ was the cute one and Rick was the funny one. I always got AJ.
Recently, she pointed out to me that I married a blue-eyed blonde with the initials A.J.- fate?!? I call it so.
Oftimes, if Big Sister was with us, we would play "Escape to Witch Mountain" or "The Sound of Music" and many other movie related scenarios.
We used to play a LOT of Wonder Woman (me as Wonder Woman because I was older and she as Wonder Girl, for obvious reasons) and Bionic Woman and our favourite, Charlie's Angels. Big Sister was Kelly (yeah the hot Jacklyn Smith character even tho Big Sis was blonde), Tanya was Jill (Farrah Fawcett's cutesy character) and I had to be Sabrina- the brainy one. Needless to say, I did all the planning and initiating of saving some poor unfortunate soul or really bad guy. The other two basically ran around pointing their fingers like guns yelling "Freeze!" (They always got more camera time...because they obviously looked better in swimsuits.)
I have handed down all my old bridesmaid dresses to my daughter to use as playclothes. I mean, seriously, who the hell ever said "You can wear it again!" We all know that we hang the ugly thing in the back of the closet in hopes of forgetting we ever had to wear such garments. don't get me wrong, some of the dresses were lovely...for the year, 1989 to 1999. Like the Barney purple dress I had to wear for Baby Sister's wedding when I was 9 months pregnant. The only thing I was missing was a green felt circle on my tummy and I would have BEEN the horrid purple dinosaur. However, to my little sister, it was a lovely shade of grape and the dress was comfortable, I however was swollen and looked like a tick about to pop. So, now it graces the tote of my daughter's playclothes and is, I think, used as a tent.
But I digress, I was talking about playing or pretending.
Growing up, I always had an awesome playmate. One that would play the same things because we liked the same things! Occasionally, we would have a Kool Aid stand at the end of the block (Half Price!!!), make mud pies in the backyard kiddie pool (put a little water in and you mix it all up), or ride Barbie RVs down Third street (sorry Mom). We managed to come through it mildly unscathed but no broken bones.
I don't have to worry so much about that with my daughter. She is pretty timid when it comes to being adventurous.
And then...there is my son....which is a WHOLE other story.
Chynna and Cailee were playing "Stacey Styles", a fashion design company. Drawing pictures of the latest styles for the catwalks of Paris and London and all the other fashion like places that exist in the world.
Tanya and I would play something similar in our youth. Except, Tanya would take it to the extreme. The girl would create a storyboard for each style we drew, she would tape it to the paneled walls of her bedroom and when the show would take place, each of us would take our turn busting out onto the catwalk. Literally, we came out of the closet. (That is not a euphemism for anything, we literally pushed open the closet door in our designs.)
My aunt would give us all of her old dresses and pantsuits (yes, I said pantsuit) shoes and handbags. I even remember a wig or two popping up there somewhere. We would put together all of these fantastic outfits of gabardine and polyester and other synthetic fabrics and display our creations to each other, while the one not on the "catwalk" would snap pictures and cheer or do the announcement of what the other was wearing. It was like the real thing.
Eventually, we would tire of the fashion world and its drama and move on to different avenues. One of our favourite things to play was "office." Yes, office. Grab a couple of old phones (you know, the kind that were actually attached to the wall and had cords attached to the handset?!?) a pad of paper and some pens and make appointments for our eternally busy boss. Most of the time we would play Simon and Simon.( I don't think many of you out there remember that show so, google it.) Taking information for cases and giving them to our "husbands" Aj and Rick. AJ was the cute one and Rick was the funny one. I always got AJ.
Recently, she pointed out to me that I married a blue-eyed blonde with the initials A.J.- fate?!? I call it so.
Oftimes, if Big Sister was with us, we would play "Escape to Witch Mountain" or "The Sound of Music" and many other movie related scenarios.
We used to play a LOT of Wonder Woman (me as Wonder Woman because I was older and she as Wonder Girl, for obvious reasons) and Bionic Woman and our favourite, Charlie's Angels. Big Sister was Kelly (yeah the hot Jacklyn Smith character even tho Big Sis was blonde), Tanya was Jill (Farrah Fawcett's cutesy character) and I had to be Sabrina- the brainy one. Needless to say, I did all the planning and initiating of saving some poor unfortunate soul or really bad guy. The other two basically ran around pointing their fingers like guns yelling "Freeze!" (They always got more camera time...because they obviously looked better in swimsuits.)
I have handed down all my old bridesmaid dresses to my daughter to use as playclothes. I mean, seriously, who the hell ever said "You can wear it again!" We all know that we hang the ugly thing in the back of the closet in hopes of forgetting we ever had to wear such garments. don't get me wrong, some of the dresses were lovely...for the year, 1989 to 1999. Like the Barney purple dress I had to wear for Baby Sister's wedding when I was 9 months pregnant. The only thing I was missing was a green felt circle on my tummy and I would have BEEN the horrid purple dinosaur. However, to my little sister, it was a lovely shade of grape and the dress was comfortable, I however was swollen and looked like a tick about to pop. So, now it graces the tote of my daughter's playclothes and is, I think, used as a tent.
But I digress, I was talking about playing or pretending.
Growing up, I always had an awesome playmate. One that would play the same things because we liked the same things! Occasionally, we would have a Kool Aid stand at the end of the block (Half Price!!!), make mud pies in the backyard kiddie pool (put a little water in and you mix it all up), or ride Barbie RVs down Third street (sorry Mom). We managed to come through it mildly unscathed but no broken bones.
I don't have to worry so much about that with my daughter. She is pretty timid when it comes to being adventurous.
And then...there is my son....which is a WHOLE other story.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Cher hair and the faulty comb
When I was little my mom had the most gorgeous hair. Long, thick and really dark brown. Her hair used to cover her butt.
I wanted hair like my moms. but, no such luck. Nope, I ended up with the thick part but it was incredibly flyaway and curly and just a pain in the neck to get a comb through. Ask my mom, she'll tell you! I would see her coming at me with that comb and I would run screaming from the room!
But I digress, I was talking about my mom's hair. Big sister and I would fight over who got to brush mom's hair. She usually won because well...she could carry out a threat.
I used to lay on the couch and watch her comb mom's hair and seethe with jealousy. (Or, pout like the three-year-old I was, because I didn't know what seethe or jealousy meant.) I wanted more than anything to brush mom's hair but big sister always got there first.
One Sunday we were in church and big sister and I were being rather, let's say, "talkative" and mom had told us several times to settle down. Finally, she put big sister between Gramma and herself and me on her other side. I sat there swinging my legs back and forth scowling, when my mother reached into her purse and pulled out (sound of glorious music crescendos) her comb!
"Here, Jenny. You can comb my hair."
Oh happy day! I was finally getting to comb mom's hair! With nervous fingers I reached for the comb and clutched it in my little hand. I hugged it momentarily to my chest as I looked at my mom with adoring eyes. She grinned at me and winked, "Now don't pull my hair."
No, ma'am!
I ran the green comb through her hair from the scalp to the ends. It was smoother than I ever thought it would be. I started to comb more and more and her hair crackled with the static electricity in the dry church air. big sister stared angrily at me from between the Mom/Gramma cocoon.
Victory was mine!
As I sat there combing mom's hair I thought to myself. This would be really pretty if it was in ringlets like some of the girls on tv. Hey! I bet I can make ringlets! I wrapped the ends of her hair around the comb and rolled her hair up in the comb to just about her ear.
That should do it. I can unroll the comb and her hair will bounce with ringlets!
Tug. Uh-oh.
Tug tug.
"Ouch! Jenny! What did you do?" Mom reached up and felt the comb wrapped very securely in her hair.
Oh lord. Now I did it.
Gingerly, mom tried to untangle the comb from her hair. Worse yet, it was wrapped in their so tightly she may have to cut it! I can't let mom do that! She would be like Samson without her hair!
Gramma leaned over and took a look. She looked at me but there was a twinkle in her eye. "Oh dear." Was all she said.
Mom turned her head toward Gramma and she started to very carefully unwind the comb hair by hair from mom's crowning glory. I really don't remember how long it took to get the comb out, as I had no sense of time. I just remember it taking through church and after and well into lunch. In three-year-old time, that was like 10 minutes.
Mom assures me it was MUCH longer.
Needless to say, I was no longer allowed to comb my mom's hair. In fact, I wasn't allowed to go NEAR her hair until I was almost 10.
Lesson learned? You need a curling iron for ringlets.
I wanted hair like my moms. but, no such luck. Nope, I ended up with the thick part but it was incredibly flyaway and curly and just a pain in the neck to get a comb through. Ask my mom, she'll tell you! I would see her coming at me with that comb and I would run screaming from the room!
But I digress, I was talking about my mom's hair. Big sister and I would fight over who got to brush mom's hair. She usually won because well...she could carry out a threat.
I used to lay on the couch and watch her comb mom's hair and seethe with jealousy. (Or, pout like the three-year-old I was, because I didn't know what seethe or jealousy meant.) I wanted more than anything to brush mom's hair but big sister always got there first.
One Sunday we were in church and big sister and I were being rather, let's say, "talkative" and mom had told us several times to settle down. Finally, she put big sister between Gramma and herself and me on her other side. I sat there swinging my legs back and forth scowling, when my mother reached into her purse and pulled out (sound of glorious music crescendos) her comb!
"Here, Jenny. You can comb my hair."
Oh happy day! I was finally getting to comb mom's hair! With nervous fingers I reached for the comb and clutched it in my little hand. I hugged it momentarily to my chest as I looked at my mom with adoring eyes. She grinned at me and winked, "Now don't pull my hair."
No, ma'am!
I ran the green comb through her hair from the scalp to the ends. It was smoother than I ever thought it would be. I started to comb more and more and her hair crackled with the static electricity in the dry church air. big sister stared angrily at me from between the Mom/Gramma cocoon.
Victory was mine!
As I sat there combing mom's hair I thought to myself. This would be really pretty if it was in ringlets like some of the girls on tv. Hey! I bet I can make ringlets! I wrapped the ends of her hair around the comb and rolled her hair up in the comb to just about her ear.
That should do it. I can unroll the comb and her hair will bounce with ringlets!
Tug. Uh-oh.
Tug tug.
"Ouch! Jenny! What did you do?" Mom reached up and felt the comb wrapped very securely in her hair.
Oh lord. Now I did it.
Gingerly, mom tried to untangle the comb from her hair. Worse yet, it was wrapped in their so tightly she may have to cut it! I can't let mom do that! She would be like Samson without her hair!
Gramma leaned over and took a look. She looked at me but there was a twinkle in her eye. "Oh dear." Was all she said.
Mom turned her head toward Gramma and she started to very carefully unwind the comb hair by hair from mom's crowning glory. I really don't remember how long it took to get the comb out, as I had no sense of time. I just remember it taking through church and after and well into lunch. In three-year-old time, that was like 10 minutes.
Mom assures me it was MUCH longer.
Needless to say, I was no longer allowed to comb my mom's hair. In fact, I wasn't allowed to go NEAR her hair until I was almost 10.
Lesson learned? You need a curling iron for ringlets.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Dangerous Games
So, I was watching my children play outside this weekend and thought to myself. Whatever happened to Lawn Jarts?
I remember lawn jarts when they were called lawn DARTS. Because, hey! Nothing says safe like pointed projectiles hurling toward an unsuspecting opponent. Bring the family outside for fun and death!
Lawn Darts were exactly like they sound. They were 14 inch long "darts" with three plastic feathers. The dart themselves were metal with a "rounded" point on the end and were about two inches long and heavy. Not like pull your arm out of the socket heavy, or "requires use of a trebuchet" heavy, but they were weighted enough to bring the point down and embed it firmly in the ground.
The object of this "fun family game" was to place two round plastic rings approximately 20 feet apart from each other and toss your dart into the air to make it land in the center of the ring. Sounds like fun, right? Well, heck yeah! My big sister and I used to play a lot in the summer.Here's the strange part, we would each stand by our rings and toss our darts at the target- or as I like to think, at each other. How long would it take before one of us went screaming and bloody into the house with a 14 inch lawn dart sticking out of the top of our head?
Now apparently someone finally realized that "Hey! This could potentially hazardous to the other player if I were to miss said target!" So, the game wizards at Lawn Dart headquarters changed the design of the dart. First by changing the name to "Lawn Jarts." Yeah, that helped. No one would ever think of chucking a spike at someone now.
Uh. Yeah, Mr. Ad Man? think again.
Back to the drawing board.
"I know!!" Mr. Fresh-Out-of-College-Parker-Brothers-Employee, "Let's change the design so it has a weighted middle but it looks more like a badminton shuttlecock!" (*snort*giggle* "shuttlecock")
Yeah, because a weighted badminton shuttlecock (*snicker*) is not going to cause as much damage. Apparently, a concussion is more acceptable than a contusion.
Ok, let's move on. Tetherball. Aw, yes. Tetherball. The only game where you can get smashed in the face AND the back of the head in the same second. A ball is tied to a post on a string the swings around and around helped along by a person while the other person tries to stop the ball. First to wrap it around the post, wins. Sound easy? Yeah, if you are six foot seven and you are playing a person four feet eight.
Many a bloody nose, knocked out teeth and broken glasses accompanied this game before our school decided that Hey! This really isn't that safe after all and we are going to have a LOT of insurance claims if we don't get rid of this menace.
End of tetherball. *sigh*
Big round merry-go-round hanging by chains! OH YEAH!! This was the most awesome playground equipment we had. We would get that sucker going with 2 or 3 people pushing from the inside to the point of where we would hang from the chains and fly straight out. That was totally wicked! Well, obviously that was dangerous when one of the kids would lose their grip and fly like a leaf in the wind off the merry-go-round and land with a thud on the grass. Come on, it wasn't like it was on the cement or anything! I guess the real kicker was when one of the kids got their finger smashed and broken on the pedestal in the center. That was the end of the merry-go-round.
Killjoys.
I remember lawn jarts when they were called lawn DARTS. Because, hey! Nothing says safe like pointed projectiles hurling toward an unsuspecting opponent. Bring the family outside for fun and death!
Lawn Darts were exactly like they sound. They were 14 inch long "darts" with three plastic feathers. The dart themselves were metal with a "rounded" point on the end and were about two inches long and heavy. Not like pull your arm out of the socket heavy, or "requires use of a trebuchet" heavy, but they were weighted enough to bring the point down and embed it firmly in the ground.
The object of this "fun family game" was to place two round plastic rings approximately 20 feet apart from each other and toss your dart into the air to make it land in the center of the ring. Sounds like fun, right? Well, heck yeah! My big sister and I used to play a lot in the summer.Here's the strange part, we would each stand by our rings and toss our darts at the target- or as I like to think, at each other. How long would it take before one of us went screaming and bloody into the house with a 14 inch lawn dart sticking out of the top of our head?
Now apparently someone finally realized that "Hey! This could potentially hazardous to the other player if I were to miss said target!" So, the game wizards at Lawn Dart headquarters changed the design of the dart. First by changing the name to "Lawn Jarts." Yeah, that helped. No one would ever think of chucking a spike at someone now.
Uh. Yeah, Mr. Ad Man? think again.
Back to the drawing board.
"I know!!" Mr. Fresh-Out-of-College-Parker-Brothers-Employee, "Let's change the design so it has a weighted middle but it looks more like a badminton shuttlecock!" (*snort*giggle* "shuttlecock")
Yeah, because a weighted badminton shuttlecock (*snicker*) is not going to cause as much damage. Apparently, a concussion is more acceptable than a contusion.
Ok, let's move on. Tetherball. Aw, yes. Tetherball. The only game where you can get smashed in the face AND the back of the head in the same second. A ball is tied to a post on a string the swings around and around helped along by a person while the other person tries to stop the ball. First to wrap it around the post, wins. Sound easy? Yeah, if you are six foot seven and you are playing a person four feet eight.
Many a bloody nose, knocked out teeth and broken glasses accompanied this game before our school decided that Hey! This really isn't that safe after all and we are going to have a LOT of insurance claims if we don't get rid of this menace.
End of tetherball. *sigh*
Big round merry-go-round hanging by chains! OH YEAH!! This was the most awesome playground equipment we had. We would get that sucker going with 2 or 3 people pushing from the inside to the point of where we would hang from the chains and fly straight out. That was totally wicked! Well, obviously that was dangerous when one of the kids would lose their grip and fly like a leaf in the wind off the merry-go-round and land with a thud on the grass. Come on, it wasn't like it was on the cement or anything! I guess the real kicker was when one of the kids got their finger smashed and broken on the pedestal in the center. That was the end of the merry-go-round.
Killjoys.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Cooooow-wit It and other weird voices
When I was a kid I had this voice I would use to make people laugh. I am not really certain how I learned it, it was like talking in the back of my throat with a bubble in it and really high pitched. I thought it was hilarious and so did my friends. My cousin, Chad, would try to imitate it. "C-o-o-o-ow w-it it." Yeah, not even close.
So, I would use the voice on command or just to get a laugh out of someone. It usually worked.
It drove my mother crazy. She would give me the threatening look every time I used it and she heard it. If I was within arm's reach, I got a smack to the back of the head. (Back in the day when you could smack your kid without the police showing up because people are way to sensitive nowadays. Please don't harass me about it. I am just stating what I think.)
"Do NOT use that voice!"
"Okay....sheesh."
So, anyway, I used to think my different voice was unique and funny. Well, guess what. Now I understand why my mom cuffed me upside the head. My son has acquired "the voice." (Go ahead Mom, I will wait while you sit there and grin and nod.)
I now understand EXACTLY how obnoxious and irritating that sound is. He uses a lot. Singing, saying people's name, doing movie quotes...the same exact stuff I used to do when I was his age.
I have not resorted to the cuffing bit, but I have barked at him a few times and guess what his response is...
"Okay....sheesh."
Wow.
I acquired the skills to imitate people's voices when I was a kid. Not the Rich Little type of imitation (that would have been COOL!) but the WAY they spoke. I was especially good at accents.
I mastered my British accent by the time I was 10, Australian followed closely after that, then Scottish and Irish. Okay. Got the British Isles (and penal colonies) and Irish down. So, I moved on to French and German and Spanish. I learned a Russian accent from watching Rocky IV in high school. I liked the accents from America. Georgia (what kinda coke y'all want?) and Massachusetts (I left the cah at the fahm), Maine (wicked hot outhere i'nt it?) and the Midwest (welcome to WisCONsin).
I love to listen to people speak. I am sort of a Professor Henry Higgins in the way I listen and imitate.
Now, I am not mocking people. By all means, NO! I am imitating their slang, their dialect and their drawl. I am absolutely intrigued by people.
It seems that my children have inherited that trait as well. My daughter mastered her British accent at the age of 5. How? By watching "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone," of course. Her German is actually pretty good, too!
Now, I don't have a very good ear for languages. Lord, Senor Hota Hota, my high school Spanish teacher, would tell you that. I am pretty good at learning words or phrases of a lot of languages however.
"Donde esta casa de Pepe?" "Voulez vouz coushay (sp) avec moi?" (Thank you Patti LaBelle)
Not something that will be brought up in everyday conversation.
But, HEY! When I was in college theatre I used to help people with their accents. If their part required an accent. I reserved the pratfall teaching to my friend, Jeff. (Who did require hospitalization at one time. But I consider that a job well done.) Talk about a challenge. Some people just aren't that good of actors. Heck, some ACTORS aren't that good of actors...
So, now my kids and I will carry on an entire conversation in a British accent, or a French accent (my daughter's is pretty good, my son, not so much) just to mess with people or goof around.
I think it annoys my husband tho since he has no knack for playacting.
Should I expect a smack upside the head?
So, I would use the voice on command or just to get a laugh out of someone. It usually worked.
It drove my mother crazy. She would give me the threatening look every time I used it and she heard it. If I was within arm's reach, I got a smack to the back of the head. (Back in the day when you could smack your kid without the police showing up because people are way to sensitive nowadays. Please don't harass me about it. I am just stating what I think.)
"Do NOT use that voice!"
"Okay....sheesh."
So, anyway, I used to think my different voice was unique and funny. Well, guess what. Now I understand why my mom cuffed me upside the head. My son has acquired "the voice." (Go ahead Mom, I will wait while you sit there and grin and nod.)
I now understand EXACTLY how obnoxious and irritating that sound is. He uses a lot. Singing, saying people's name, doing movie quotes...the same exact stuff I used to do when I was his age.
I have not resorted to the cuffing bit, but I have barked at him a few times and guess what his response is...
"Okay....sheesh."
Wow.
I acquired the skills to imitate people's voices when I was a kid. Not the Rich Little type of imitation (that would have been COOL!) but the WAY they spoke. I was especially good at accents.
I mastered my British accent by the time I was 10, Australian followed closely after that, then Scottish and Irish. Okay. Got the British Isles (and penal colonies) and Irish down. So, I moved on to French and German and Spanish. I learned a Russian accent from watching Rocky IV in high school. I liked the accents from America. Georgia (what kinda coke y'all want?) and Massachusetts (I left the cah at the fahm), Maine (wicked hot outhere i'nt it?) and the Midwest (welcome to WisCONsin).
I love to listen to people speak. I am sort of a Professor Henry Higgins in the way I listen and imitate.
Now, I am not mocking people. By all means, NO! I am imitating their slang, their dialect and their drawl. I am absolutely intrigued by people.
It seems that my children have inherited that trait as well. My daughter mastered her British accent at the age of 5. How? By watching "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone," of course. Her German is actually pretty good, too!
Now, I don't have a very good ear for languages. Lord, Senor Hota Hota, my high school Spanish teacher, would tell you that. I am pretty good at learning words or phrases of a lot of languages however.
"Donde esta casa de Pepe?" "Voulez vouz coushay (sp) avec moi?" (Thank you Patti LaBelle)
Not something that will be brought up in everyday conversation.
But, HEY! When I was in college theatre I used to help people with their accents. If their part required an accent. I reserved the pratfall teaching to my friend, Jeff. (Who did require hospitalization at one time. But I consider that a job well done.) Talk about a challenge. Some people just aren't that good of actors. Heck, some ACTORS aren't that good of actors...
So, now my kids and I will carry on an entire conversation in a British accent, or a French accent (my daughter's is pretty good, my son, not so much) just to mess with people or goof around.
I think it annoys my husband tho since he has no knack for playacting.
Should I expect a smack upside the head?
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
All Skate, Everyone Skate, All Skate...
What would growing up in a small town be without a roller rink? I mean, seriously?! Town had the coolest roller rink ever. It had an ACTUAL wood floor, unlike some that had the painted cement floor. Geez, that was just painful on the butt cheeks when you fell. Not that the wood floor was a down filled mattress by any means. It was just...different.
Many a Friday night I spent at the roller rink in town. My cousin, Tanya, and I would wait outside for a half hour before the place opened to guarantee we got the "good skates." Not the grimy white ones with the mismatched wheels, the awesome tan ones with the orange wheels. All the late comers got the old white ones that had seen zillions of feet before theirs did and I was not going to be one of the latecomers. I mean, who really knew who's feet had been in them last? Yick.
A buck fifty got you in the door AND skate rental. Mom always gave me four bucks so I could get a bag of chips and a soda and a candy bar. Two-fifty was a lot of money in the late 70's/early 80's! I could get three cups of Double Cola for seventy-five cents, a bag of chips for twenty-five cents and two Super Ropes for fifty cents and STILL go home with a buck in my pocket! (To spend on Razzles downtown in the morning.)
Many a romance started at the good ole Roller Rink. At least, that is what I heard. I really didn't give a crap because boys were icky.
Couple's skate Guys Choice was always a dud. Because 11 year old boys don't really want to ask a girl to skate and hold hands. That would be lame and besides their friends would laugh at them.
I remember the first time a boy asked me to couple skate. We had gone all the way thru school together since kindergarten and here, in my ripe old age of 11, I was being asked by a guy to couple skate. Ok, what could it hurt. I mean, we have known each other for years. Sure, what the heck, let's skate. The floor lights dimmed and the strains of "Lost In Love" by Air Supply filled the rink. Ah, the ambiance. The music. The romance. The...sweaty hands.
Dear God, it was everything I could do to hang on to his hand as we circled the floor. My partner was a very nice kid and a lot of fun to hang around and play kickball with, but, he was not exactly Gene Kelly on skates. He kept his left foot firmly on the floor and pushed with his right toe stop. It made for a herky jerky skate in my well polished and graceful skating, but I slowed down just so he wouldn't feel bad. We would exchange small talk- "I like this song." "Me, too." "I have this record." "My sister does." "Did you play Space Invaders yet?" "No."
He sure knew how to woo a girl. Especially in his blue satin disco shirt with a beaded necklace around his neck and his flared tough skins. Eat your heart out John Travolta.
Couple's Skate Girls Choice- now THAT was the big winner. I have determined that girls were way more forward than boys. They would skate right up to a guy and just ask them to skate. The guy would grab her hand and off they would go. Oh, so simple, right?
Wrong. I would start to skate up to some guy and inevitably, someone else would get there first. The pretty girls always had their pick of guys. Us plain girls, well, it was a little more difficult and had to settle for second string. It was at that point that I would change direction and head over to the Asteroids game.
There was one boy when I got into middle school who I always wanted to ask to couple skate but I never got up the guts. Jason. Aaaah, Jason. The dreamboat of the seventh grade. He was so cute, so funny and so nice that every girl in seventh grade was in love with him. But he was not a self absorbed cocky kid. Au contraire! He was really a nice down to earth kid who was friendly to everyone. I was always admiring his amazing skating skills from afar. I mean, he could skate BACKWARDS for cry-yi-yi! Several times I attempted to skate up to him, but I always chickened out at the last minute. Ah, me.
The rink was the place to be if you were between the ages of 9 and 13. Once you hit high school, the roller rink became obsolete because of football games (which I played in the pep band and never watched the game) and school dances (that I generally skipped my freshman year because I was too afraid to go to). I would still occasionally go along with Tanya when she asked even though it was considered "uncool" to hang out at the rink. But frankly, I never really cared. I was with my best friend in the world.
Well, as time went by and age differences being what they are, I outgrew the roller rink. (I never outgrew my cousin though.) I hung up my skates and bid adieu to the video games, the couples skate and the fast skate.
Recently, I took my kids to the local roller rink. I was going to amaze everyone with my awesome skating skills and my ability to skate backward and then forward and dance about the floor like those amazing roller disco guys you see on Venice Beach.
Yeah, no such luck. I put on my rental skates (these were grimy white ones with mismatched wheels. Must have been a latecomer) stood up and immediately felt the world tilt. Not only did it tilt, it shifted to the point of where my feet started running in place- like you see on Bugs Bunny Cartoons where he is running but not getting anywhere- and I scrambled to keep an upright position. I started to fall backward and hoped that I would hit the chair I stood up from. I did. Sort of. I hit the chair edge and promptly slid like a sack of meat to the floor, my legs spread eagled in front of me, my back against the edge of the chair, my backside smarting and my face flaming.
"Mom? Are you alright?" my daughter, bless her heart, seemed to be truly concerned that I was hurt. I could have hugged her.
I could have kicked my husband. He was nearly doubled over, face red from restrained laughter trying not to laugh. He had his hands on his thighs and he was trying so very hard to look concerned about my injured posterior, "You ok?"
"No." I painstakingly got off the floor while my husband was choking on his laughter with tears streaming down his cheeks. Gathering the shreds of what was left of my dignity, I removed the offending shoes of death and put on my sensible tennis shoes. I returned my skates to the smirking attendant and spun on my heel to fetch my son and play video games.
So much for comebacks, eh?
Many a Friday night I spent at the roller rink in town. My cousin, Tanya, and I would wait outside for a half hour before the place opened to guarantee we got the "good skates." Not the grimy white ones with the mismatched wheels, the awesome tan ones with the orange wheels. All the late comers got the old white ones that had seen zillions of feet before theirs did and I was not going to be one of the latecomers. I mean, who really knew who's feet had been in them last? Yick.
A buck fifty got you in the door AND skate rental. Mom always gave me four bucks so I could get a bag of chips and a soda and a candy bar. Two-fifty was a lot of money in the late 70's/early 80's! I could get three cups of Double Cola for seventy-five cents, a bag of chips for twenty-five cents and two Super Ropes for fifty cents and STILL go home with a buck in my pocket! (To spend on Razzles downtown in the morning.)
Many a romance started at the good ole Roller Rink. At least, that is what I heard. I really didn't give a crap because boys were icky.
Couple's skate Guys Choice was always a dud. Because 11 year old boys don't really want to ask a girl to skate and hold hands. That would be lame and besides their friends would laugh at them.
I remember the first time a boy asked me to couple skate. We had gone all the way thru school together since kindergarten and here, in my ripe old age of 11, I was being asked by a guy to couple skate. Ok, what could it hurt. I mean, we have known each other for years. Sure, what the heck, let's skate. The floor lights dimmed and the strains of "Lost In Love" by Air Supply filled the rink. Ah, the ambiance. The music. The romance. The...sweaty hands.
Dear God, it was everything I could do to hang on to his hand as we circled the floor. My partner was a very nice kid and a lot of fun to hang around and play kickball with, but, he was not exactly Gene Kelly on skates. He kept his left foot firmly on the floor and pushed with his right toe stop. It made for a herky jerky skate in my well polished and graceful skating, but I slowed down just so he wouldn't feel bad. We would exchange small talk- "I like this song." "Me, too." "I have this record." "My sister does." "Did you play Space Invaders yet?" "No."
He sure knew how to woo a girl. Especially in his blue satin disco shirt with a beaded necklace around his neck and his flared tough skins. Eat your heart out John Travolta.
Couple's Skate Girls Choice- now THAT was the big winner. I have determined that girls were way more forward than boys. They would skate right up to a guy and just ask them to skate. The guy would grab her hand and off they would go. Oh, so simple, right?
Wrong. I would start to skate up to some guy and inevitably, someone else would get there first. The pretty girls always had their pick of guys. Us plain girls, well, it was a little more difficult and had to settle for second string. It was at that point that I would change direction and head over to the Asteroids game.
There was one boy when I got into middle school who I always wanted to ask to couple skate but I never got up the guts. Jason. Aaaah, Jason. The dreamboat of the seventh grade. He was so cute, so funny and so nice that every girl in seventh grade was in love with him. But he was not a self absorbed cocky kid. Au contraire! He was really a nice down to earth kid who was friendly to everyone. I was always admiring his amazing skating skills from afar. I mean, he could skate BACKWARDS for cry-yi-yi! Several times I attempted to skate up to him, but I always chickened out at the last minute. Ah, me.
The rink was the place to be if you were between the ages of 9 and 13. Once you hit high school, the roller rink became obsolete because of football games (which I played in the pep band and never watched the game) and school dances (that I generally skipped my freshman year because I was too afraid to go to). I would still occasionally go along with Tanya when she asked even though it was considered "uncool" to hang out at the rink. But frankly, I never really cared. I was with my best friend in the world.
Well, as time went by and age differences being what they are, I outgrew the roller rink. (I never outgrew my cousin though.) I hung up my skates and bid adieu to the video games, the couples skate and the fast skate.
Recently, I took my kids to the local roller rink. I was going to amaze everyone with my awesome skating skills and my ability to skate backward and then forward and dance about the floor like those amazing roller disco guys you see on Venice Beach.
Yeah, no such luck. I put on my rental skates (these were grimy white ones with mismatched wheels. Must have been a latecomer) stood up and immediately felt the world tilt. Not only did it tilt, it shifted to the point of where my feet started running in place- like you see on Bugs Bunny Cartoons where he is running but not getting anywhere- and I scrambled to keep an upright position. I started to fall backward and hoped that I would hit the chair I stood up from. I did. Sort of. I hit the chair edge and promptly slid like a sack of meat to the floor, my legs spread eagled in front of me, my back against the edge of the chair, my backside smarting and my face flaming.
"Mom? Are you alright?" my daughter, bless her heart, seemed to be truly concerned that I was hurt. I could have hugged her.
I could have kicked my husband. He was nearly doubled over, face red from restrained laughter trying not to laugh. He had his hands on his thighs and he was trying so very hard to look concerned about my injured posterior, "You ok?"
"No." I painstakingly got off the floor while my husband was choking on his laughter with tears streaming down his cheeks. Gathering the shreds of what was left of my dignity, I removed the offending shoes of death and put on my sensible tennis shoes. I returned my skates to the smirking attendant and spun on my heel to fetch my son and play video games.
So much for comebacks, eh?
Monday, October 11, 2010
Baking lessons
I was fortunate enough to grow up in the back pocket of my maternal Grandparents. Gramma used to babysit Big Sister and I until we got into school and then after school. I remember ever inch of that old farmhouse and can still walk the kitchen in my mind. To me, the kitchen was huge and Gramma spent most of her time there. Gramma was an awesome cook. She made terrific meals whenever the family got together. Every holiday there was more food than our family could eat. She would make enough to feed a small army. But then, when the whole family got together, it was a small army. She made some of the best pies, cakes, pastries and cookies in the world. (Well, at least that was MY opinion.)
Thinking back, I should have paid more attention when Gramma made her famous honey cookies. She used to make them every Easter. She used ancient cookie cutters in the shape of eggs, crosses, bunnies and chicks. I remember leaning on my elbows on the table watching her decorate those delicious annual treats in her neat writing. She would make cute little flowers in lavender, pink, yellow and leaves of green spiraling up the crosses, she would trace the outline of the bunnies and chicks with white frosting and then give them eyes and fill in the bunny ears with pink and make little yellow dots to fill in the chicks finishing it off with a little blue dot for the eye. Not only were these cookies beautiful, they were delicious! I almost felt bad when I bit into one. Almost. Over the years I have attempted to make these elusive cookies, but just haven't mastered it. I shall endeavor to persevere! I will make the perfect honey cookie the next time! Oh yes, it will be mine.
Another treat Gramma made was completely sinful refrigerator brownies. Chocolate brownies with a thick chocolate frosting on top. Why "refirgerator brownies", you ask? Because, she kept them in the refrigerator. (Sometimes things ARE literal.) I remember after lunch we would nap for an hour. Well, most of the time. Gramma would nap, and I would snitch a couple of refrigerator brownies. I know she always heard me, but she always pretended that she didn't. Grammas rock.
Now, here is the thing. I hate to cook. I LOVE to BAKE. Yes, there is a difference. Cooking means a meal. Baking means HEAVEN!
The one lesson I remember my Gramma taught me, always test your batter before you bake anything. I remember her sticking her pinkie in the batter to snatch a taste. She would look at me with a conspiratorial wink and say, "I just added a little more sugar."
The one thing I remember Gramma making for Grampa was lutefisk. Dear God. She didn't make it very often but I remember her making it at the farmhouse. The entire house would just reek. Seriously. Cod soaked in lye for like 8 days until it was the consistency of snot, then baked and served with potatos. Ugh. That alone should have turned me off to seafood for the rest of my life, however, I love fish. Strange how things work out, isn't it?
Thinking back, I should have paid more attention when Gramma made her famous honey cookies. She used to make them every Easter. She used ancient cookie cutters in the shape of eggs, crosses, bunnies and chicks. I remember leaning on my elbows on the table watching her decorate those delicious annual treats in her neat writing. She would make cute little flowers in lavender, pink, yellow and leaves of green spiraling up the crosses, she would trace the outline of the bunnies and chicks with white frosting and then give them eyes and fill in the bunny ears with pink and make little yellow dots to fill in the chicks finishing it off with a little blue dot for the eye. Not only were these cookies beautiful, they were delicious! I almost felt bad when I bit into one. Almost. Over the years I have attempted to make these elusive cookies, but just haven't mastered it. I shall endeavor to persevere! I will make the perfect honey cookie the next time! Oh yes, it will be mine.
Another treat Gramma made was completely sinful refrigerator brownies. Chocolate brownies with a thick chocolate frosting on top. Why "refirgerator brownies", you ask? Because, she kept them in the refrigerator. (Sometimes things ARE literal.) I remember after lunch we would nap for an hour. Well, most of the time. Gramma would nap, and I would snitch a couple of refrigerator brownies. I know she always heard me, but she always pretended that she didn't. Grammas rock.
Now, here is the thing. I hate to cook. I LOVE to BAKE. Yes, there is a difference. Cooking means a meal. Baking means HEAVEN!
The one lesson I remember my Gramma taught me, always test your batter before you bake anything. I remember her sticking her pinkie in the batter to snatch a taste. She would look at me with a conspiratorial wink and say, "I just added a little more sugar."
The one thing I remember Gramma making for Grampa was lutefisk. Dear God. She didn't make it very often but I remember her making it at the farmhouse. The entire house would just reek. Seriously. Cod soaked in lye for like 8 days until it was the consistency of snot, then baked and served with potatos. Ugh. That alone should have turned me off to seafood for the rest of my life, however, I love fish. Strange how things work out, isn't it?
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Daredevil Antics
The age of 9 after realizing that no matter how hard you try, you cannot jump as high as Wonder Woman. Even by jumping 13 feet off of a deck. Thank God I remembered how to tuck and roll. No broken bones, no sprained ankles, heck, not even a chipped fingernail.
Next, flying. I think I will grab this rope and swing off the ledge in the haymow and see how far I can get. Wow, I scraped my heels across the floor but managed to propel myself clear out the haymow door. Now THAT was cool!
Perhaps I will take on running next. Racing across the yard from my house to Grandma's, I beat the dog. Huh, I am faster than I thought (never mind Gethro was about 12 years old, but still).
Obviously, at this age my favourite tv shows were Wonder Woman, The Bionic Woman and the Six Million Dollar Man. I thought if I practiced every day eventually I would become just as awesome as them.
Yeah, no such luck.\
I was lucky enough to never have broken a bone in my life. Well, not yet anyway. And since I am of an age were osteoporosis could set in, I hope to never have that claim.
I was nine when I got my first set of stitches. I was riding my bike around and around the rusted out Camaro in the driveway. No worries,I had been practicing my super powers, right?
Wrong.
Suddenly, my bike tips and I fall into mom's car. Crap. Wonder Woman wouldn't be that clumsy flying her invisible jet. I am going to have to work on my balance.
I looked down at my hand and thought...huh...weird...why can I see my bone through my hand?
Wait a minute...I just cut the dicken's out of my finger. (Save the Livers!- once again...google it.)
Big Sister, who was joining me in my bike circles, started jumping up and down screaming. Pointing at my hand. I then decided that apparently, it WAS a big deal. I reciprocate in kind.
Mom comes outside "What is going on out here?!"
Big Sister "Jenny cut her hand! Really really badly!" (it really wasn't that bad, but she had a flair for the dramatic)
Mom takes one look and yells for Dad. Enter Dad. "Uh, yeah, that is going to need some stitches."
Big Sister and Baby Sister across the yard to Grandma's while Mom wraps my hand in a towel. Strange, but it wasn't even bleeding. Jamie Summers the Bionic Woman didn't bleed. Maybe I was on to something here.
Deposit child in car, Dad driving and Mom riding shotgun. On to the emergency room.
Enter doctor. "Well, what do we have here?"
Doctor, she is in bad shape. I am hoping we can save the arm. Otherwise, we may have to explore other avenues and check into NASA for a robotic arm.
Mom, "She fell into my car and cut her hand." Man, that sounded so less cool when you put it that way.
"Well, she is going to need a couple of stitches, I think."
COOL!! Battle scars. The kids at school are going to gawk at my scars!
Hey, what are you doing with that needle?! I don't like those! Get away from me you quack!
Ah, numbness ensues and the stitching starts. Dad waited outside in the waiting room while Mom came in to help me thru this horrible trauma. Thank God.
When it was all said and done, I got three stitches. Three small stitches. This sucked. Not even anything worth bragging over.
*Sigh* Well, I can make up something much more intriguing than "fell into mom's rusted out Camaro." Maybe something with a wolf fight, or saving a child from being swept away in a flash flood and I had to grab a barbed wire fence to save him. Yeah...much cooler.
When it came down to it, the three stitches really didn't hurt. Mom said I was very brave and only cried two tears. Score one for me.
The best thing about my near death experience? Getting a hot fudge sundae at the Center Chef.
I wonder if the Bionic Woman ever got anything like this after saving an entire family from a toppling building?
Next, flying. I think I will grab this rope and swing off the ledge in the haymow and see how far I can get. Wow, I scraped my heels across the floor but managed to propel myself clear out the haymow door. Now THAT was cool!
Perhaps I will take on running next. Racing across the yard from my house to Grandma's, I beat the dog. Huh, I am faster than I thought (never mind Gethro was about 12 years old, but still).
Obviously, at this age my favourite tv shows were Wonder Woman, The Bionic Woman and the Six Million Dollar Man. I thought if I practiced every day eventually I would become just as awesome as them.
Yeah, no such luck.\
I was lucky enough to never have broken a bone in my life. Well, not yet anyway. And since I am of an age were osteoporosis could set in, I hope to never have that claim.
I was nine when I got my first set of stitches. I was riding my bike around and around the rusted out Camaro in the driveway. No worries,I had been practicing my super powers, right?
Wrong.
Suddenly, my bike tips and I fall into mom's car. Crap. Wonder Woman wouldn't be that clumsy flying her invisible jet. I am going to have to work on my balance.
I looked down at my hand and thought...huh...weird...why can I see my bone through my hand?
Wait a minute...I just cut the dicken's out of my finger. (Save the Livers!- once again...google it.)
Big Sister, who was joining me in my bike circles, started jumping up and down screaming. Pointing at my hand. I then decided that apparently, it WAS a big deal. I reciprocate in kind.
Mom comes outside "What is going on out here?!"
Big Sister "Jenny cut her hand! Really really badly!" (it really wasn't that bad, but she had a flair for the dramatic)
Mom takes one look and yells for Dad. Enter Dad. "Uh, yeah, that is going to need some stitches."
Big Sister and Baby Sister across the yard to Grandma's while Mom wraps my hand in a towel. Strange, but it wasn't even bleeding. Jamie Summers the Bionic Woman didn't bleed. Maybe I was on to something here.
Deposit child in car, Dad driving and Mom riding shotgun. On to the emergency room.
Enter doctor. "Well, what do we have here?"
Doctor, she is in bad shape. I am hoping we can save the arm. Otherwise, we may have to explore other avenues and check into NASA for a robotic arm.
Mom, "She fell into my car and cut her hand." Man, that sounded so less cool when you put it that way.
"Well, she is going to need a couple of stitches, I think."
COOL!! Battle scars. The kids at school are going to gawk at my scars!
Hey, what are you doing with that needle?! I don't like those! Get away from me you quack!
Ah, numbness ensues and the stitching starts. Dad waited outside in the waiting room while Mom came in to help me thru this horrible trauma. Thank God.
When it was all said and done, I got three stitches. Three small stitches. This sucked. Not even anything worth bragging over.
*Sigh* Well, I can make up something much more intriguing than "fell into mom's rusted out Camaro." Maybe something with a wolf fight, or saving a child from being swept away in a flash flood and I had to grab a barbed wire fence to save him. Yeah...much cooler.
When it came down to it, the three stitches really didn't hurt. Mom said I was very brave and only cried two tears. Score one for me.
The best thing about my near death experience? Getting a hot fudge sundae at the Center Chef.
I wonder if the Bionic Woman ever got anything like this after saving an entire family from a toppling building?
Thursday, October 7, 2010
What harm can a little sugar do?
Candy. I love it. And yes, unfortunately, it shows. *Sigh* Gravity thou art a cruel bitch.
Why is it when you find a really good candy bar or sugary treat, all of a sudden they stop making it? I mean, seriously, if you are selling at least one of these puppies a day, why would they manufacturers discontinue it? It is very disappointing and very cruel to a palate that has become accustomed to it's weekly (alright, daily) treat.
I am speaking, of course, about the Marathon bar by Mars. Not the Marathon bar that is out there today that is supposedly an "energy" bar. Heaven's no, far from it! the Marathon bar of which I am speaking of was braided caramel then dipped in milk chocolate. It was twelve inches of pure gooey sweet goodness. (Alright you sick puppies, I am talking about a candy bar here...)How did I know it was 12 inches? It had a ruler on the back of the wrapper. So there. >:P
When I was a kid, after church on Sundays, we would go to the Station and get milk, bread, a Sunday paper, a carton of cigarettes for Dad (sorry to air dirty laundry, daddy) and my sisters and I could pick out a treat. I would immediately go for the red and yellow wrapped Marathon bar. It was like manna from heaven. (Ironically, on a Sunday.) Big Sister would get a Nestle Crunch and little sister would get a Lolli. (Remember those?!)
One Sunday I remember going to the Station and went immediately to look for my Marathon bar. Where was it?!? Dear God, please, I really need that Marathon bar. "Mom," I said tugging on her shirt, "can you ask where their Marathon bars are?" My mother, being the polite person she was asked Aachi behind the counter if they were out. "I'm sorry, they don't make them anymore." Aachi replied in her soft Asian accent.
WHAT!?!?! The candy company did not realize what this act could do to a child of 9. My candy world was spiraling out of control! What was I going to eat now?!
"Jenny, just get a Milky Way. It's the same thing." Mom was fast becoming irritated.
The same thing?!? Was she crazy? "Mom, it is NOT the same thing! There is nougat in a Milky Way! There is no nougat in a Marathon bar! They are two totally different candy bars!"
Wow, her look pinned me to the floor. "Just pick out something different or don't get anything at all." Teeth clenched, lips pursed and eyes flashing angrily.
I figured I had about 20 seconds before she went into the arm grabbing dragging my 9 year old backside out the door. Heck, why not tempt fate and just throw a little tantrum. I haven't had a good lickin' in a while.
"MOM!"
I was wrong. That took about 2.5 seconds. "Get in the car."
Ok, I will admit. That was pretty stupid on my part. The teeth clenching should have tipped me off. I went to grab a Hershey bar. "Oh no, young lady, I said get in the car. The time to choose has passed. that little tantrum just cost you a treat."
Unbelievable! I was being denied a candy bar because of a little flare of temper? What kind of a world was this that a kid can be denied candy because of a little tantrum?
I hung my head and started to walk out the door. The little bell tinkled above my head and seemed to mock my pain. I looked back at my older sister. She was smirking at me while she nibbled away at her Nestle Crunch. She ate all around the outside of the NESTLE on it and then started to eat the letters one by one. How cruel.
I got into the 1967 Camaro. (Might I interject, it was a yellow and black rusted out Camaro.) And climbed into the back seat, arms folded across my chest, head hanging, eyebrows scowling. Heck, I didn't want a dumb ole' candy bar anyway. I wanted a Marathon bar. If I can't have a Marathon bar, I don't want anything.
Now, my question is this. Who out there remembers these little nuggets from years past?
Razzles- the candy that turns into gum. (Pretty crappy tasting gum that after 5 seconds loses its flavor and feels like you are chewing rubber.) Loved those, too. Used to be able to buy 4 packs for a dollar. You can still find those in some places but now those suckers are like 1.50 a pack. I don't know if my 5 seconds of childhood bliss are worth a buck and a half.
Milkshake candy bars. Malted milk flavoured nougat drenched in milk chocolate. We used to get these frozen at the Dairy-O in town. Those didn't last either. But the commercial jingle still sticks with me. "Milkshake *boom boom* Milkshake *boom boom* It's a candy bar!"
Chocolate Charleston Chew bars. Another candy bar that was 12 inches long and was a taste sensation! Milk chocolate over chewy chocolate nougat. I managed to find one of those in a convenience store in the Dells. I bought it. I was not immediately whisked back to childhood. It was more of a "Huh!" and that is about it.
They say that candy for kids causes them to be hyper and suffer from ADD and cause terrible acne breakouts. Don't know if that is true or not. When my kids have chocolate they don't immediately start running around the room like the Road Runner, or flit from one thing to another without sitting down. Nor do they immediately burst into pimples.
I still love candy today. When I was a kid, I was too busy being busy to ever gain weight. I was running it off or biking it off for it two stick around too long.
Now, it seems to hang around and just stay for the long haul. In fact, I swear it brings friends with it.
Why is it when you find a really good candy bar or sugary treat, all of a sudden they stop making it? I mean, seriously, if you are selling at least one of these puppies a day, why would they manufacturers discontinue it? It is very disappointing and very cruel to a palate that has become accustomed to it's weekly (alright, daily) treat.
I am speaking, of course, about the Marathon bar by Mars. Not the Marathon bar that is out there today that is supposedly an "energy" bar. Heaven's no, far from it! the Marathon bar of which I am speaking of was braided caramel then dipped in milk chocolate. It was twelve inches of pure gooey sweet goodness. (Alright you sick puppies, I am talking about a candy bar here...)How did I know it was 12 inches? It had a ruler on the back of the wrapper. So there. >:P
When I was a kid, after church on Sundays, we would go to the Station and get milk, bread, a Sunday paper, a carton of cigarettes for Dad (sorry to air dirty laundry, daddy) and my sisters and I could pick out a treat. I would immediately go for the red and yellow wrapped Marathon bar. It was like manna from heaven. (Ironically, on a Sunday.) Big Sister would get a Nestle Crunch and little sister would get a Lolli. (Remember those?!)
One Sunday I remember going to the Station and went immediately to look for my Marathon bar. Where was it?!? Dear God, please, I really need that Marathon bar. "Mom," I said tugging on her shirt, "can you ask where their Marathon bars are?" My mother, being the polite person she was asked Aachi behind the counter if they were out. "I'm sorry, they don't make them anymore." Aachi replied in her soft Asian accent.
WHAT!?!?! The candy company did not realize what this act could do to a child of 9. My candy world was spiraling out of control! What was I going to eat now?!
"Jenny, just get a Milky Way. It's the same thing." Mom was fast becoming irritated.
The same thing?!? Was she crazy? "Mom, it is NOT the same thing! There is nougat in a Milky Way! There is no nougat in a Marathon bar! They are two totally different candy bars!"
Wow, her look pinned me to the floor. "Just pick out something different or don't get anything at all." Teeth clenched, lips pursed and eyes flashing angrily.
I figured I had about 20 seconds before she went into the arm grabbing dragging my 9 year old backside out the door. Heck, why not tempt fate and just throw a little tantrum. I haven't had a good lickin' in a while.
"MOM!"
I was wrong. That took about 2.5 seconds. "Get in the car."
Ok, I will admit. That was pretty stupid on my part. The teeth clenching should have tipped me off. I went to grab a Hershey bar. "Oh no, young lady, I said get in the car. The time to choose has passed. that little tantrum just cost you a treat."
Unbelievable! I was being denied a candy bar because of a little flare of temper? What kind of a world was this that a kid can be denied candy because of a little tantrum?
I hung my head and started to walk out the door. The little bell tinkled above my head and seemed to mock my pain. I looked back at my older sister. She was smirking at me while she nibbled away at her Nestle Crunch. She ate all around the outside of the NESTLE on it and then started to eat the letters one by one. How cruel.
I got into the 1967 Camaro. (Might I interject, it was a yellow and black rusted out Camaro.) And climbed into the back seat, arms folded across my chest, head hanging, eyebrows scowling. Heck, I didn't want a dumb ole' candy bar anyway. I wanted a Marathon bar. If I can't have a Marathon bar, I don't want anything.
Now, my question is this. Who out there remembers these little nuggets from years past?
Razzles- the candy that turns into gum. (Pretty crappy tasting gum that after 5 seconds loses its flavor and feels like you are chewing rubber.) Loved those, too. Used to be able to buy 4 packs for a dollar. You can still find those in some places but now those suckers are like 1.50 a pack. I don't know if my 5 seconds of childhood bliss are worth a buck and a half.
Milkshake candy bars. Malted milk flavoured nougat drenched in milk chocolate. We used to get these frozen at the Dairy-O in town. Those didn't last either. But the commercial jingle still sticks with me. "Milkshake *boom boom* Milkshake *boom boom* It's a candy bar!"
Chocolate Charleston Chew bars. Another candy bar that was 12 inches long and was a taste sensation! Milk chocolate over chewy chocolate nougat. I managed to find one of those in a convenience store in the Dells. I bought it. I was not immediately whisked back to childhood. It was more of a "Huh!" and that is about it.
They say that candy for kids causes them to be hyper and suffer from ADD and cause terrible acne breakouts. Don't know if that is true or not. When my kids have chocolate they don't immediately start running around the room like the Road Runner, or flit from one thing to another without sitting down. Nor do they immediately burst into pimples.
I still love candy today. When I was a kid, I was too busy being busy to ever gain weight. I was running it off or biking it off for it two stick around too long.
Now, it seems to hang around and just stay for the long haul. In fact, I swear it brings friends with it.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Country Life vs. City Life
I grew up in the country. I tiny little village, population 136. Now that was in the "village limits" of course. I lived in the "suburbs" of the "village" so I wasn't really in the metro area of our little town. But we loved it. Where I grew up and spent nearly 22 years of my life was founded by my ancestors years and years (and may I emphasize YEARS) before I was born. We had 3 bars, two churches, a feed mill, a lumber yard and a village park. About a quarter mile away was the Station. You know, for gas and milk and candy and such. I wasn't allowed to ride my bike to the Station until I was 10 years old. Why? It was across a major highway (and by major I mean non-interstate) and my parents felt it was too dangerous- or I was to ADD to pay attention to traffic- to get across. But that was ok by me. I didn't want to end up like a truck pressed pheasant on the highway that would require a spatula and a pizza box to clean up after.
I used to ride my bike over to my friend, Kelly's, house and ride up and down her driveway until she saw me outside. I was obviously too scared to go knock on her door and see if she could play. I mean, come on, I was 9 and she had like 5 older siblings that enjoyed teasing me. I didn't want that, so instead I rode up and down her driveway like a dork for about 20 minutes until someone looked out.
Once she got her bike, we would peddle around town for hours. Sometimes hang out in the park or go hang out under the bridge and throw rocks in the water. I remember going wading in the creek until my mom caught wind of it. She wasn't very happy because she was afraid we "would get empentigo" from all the crap in the creek. Whatever. That which does not kill us only makes us stranger.
The cool thing was, once it started to get dark out my mom would go out on the front porch and yell, "Jenny! Time to come home!" Generally, in the small little borough, I would hear and jump on my bike and head home.
Well, when I turned 10, my mom would let me go into town and stay with my cousin Tanya, during the day while she went to work. Tanya was three years younger than I and we would go EVERYWHERE! Yes, Mom, I said it. I was a juvenile delinquent running the streets of town. In and out of the Schultz Bros. store, into the Artisan to look for cool stickers and smelly pencils, across the street to the Rexall Drug for a (real) Cherry Coke and then into the Music Shop to check out records and tapes (for those of you too young to remember records and tapes, google it). I admit it. However, I never did anything bad merely because everyone in town new my mother. If I was doing something I shouldn't have been, or annoying someone, she would come down and find me. I swear, she was worse than the Mob for connections in town.
In the summer, Tanya and I would go to the pool. We would spend all day there. Seriously, all day. From when they opened at 1 until they closed at 5.. And, if I was staying overnight, we would go back at 630 when they opened up until 9 at night. I between we would jump on our bikes and go over to the park (before it got all mucked up by the levee or dike they built) or hit the Dairy-O for ice cream or frozen Charleston Chew bars. If we had enough money we would split a hot beef sandwich or get a hot dog.
Once 9 o'clock hit, we would change out of our wet suits and get our clothes on and head for her house. Most of the time we got waylaid by another friend or would take the long way home.
No, our bikes didn't have lights. No, we didn't wear helmets- you would look like a dork plus, they didn't have them then. No, we didn't use hand signals. Yes, Mom, we DID watch traffic VERY closely.
Once we got home, we never really stayed there. Her older brother and a bunch of his buddies always coerced us into playing Ghost in the Graveyard, in the actual graveyard or some game of flashlight hide and seek. Yes, we were disrespectful of the dead. But, we were having fun.
Occasionally, during the daylight hours, we would have kool-aid stands, or go rollerskating, or sit on a skateboard and coast-er, speed- down 3rd street. Once we even rode her Barbie Dream Camper down 3rd street through a stop sign and past the high school. That was actually WAY more fun because we could both fit on it.
And guess what. We both lived to tell about it and we both grew up and had children (she had way more than I did and I learned my lesson after 2. The lesson being, ugh..I can't handle another one like my son!) and are now being tortured much like we tortured our mothers.
The cool thing was, I really enjoyed going into town with Tanya. We were very inseparable. And she, like coming out to the country and enjoying all the fun stuff we did out there. Playing in the sandbox (having baby sister come up and steal her spade right out of her hand), rolling down the hill in the front of the house. Rollerskating on the driveway and into the open garage and back out again. Making up stupid songs that meant nothing but we still remember them to this day. We are weird like that.
But, the COOLEST thing, was to go over to my Aunt and Uncle's farm. WHOA!! We got to go feed calves and let their slimy tongues suck on our fingers, dip cows (not TIP cows, DIP cows...with iodine before you put the milkers on. Once again, google it.), feed the trout at the trout farm, ride the riding lawn mower...holy crap! And that was only OUTSIDE!!
Inside my Aunt and Uncle had added an addition to their house so, to us, it was HUGE! We would play office, we would put the Sound of Music on the hi-fi and sing along and pretend we were the children and Maria. I was Maria, big sister was Liesl, baby sister was Gretl and Tanya was Brigitta. We would stand on the stairs and sing "So Long Farewell" to the imaginary crowd below.
We would play pool and listen to Steve Martin albums.
We would make a restaurant and serve our older cousins. Usually peanut butter sandwiches and marshmallows for dessert. We weren't allowed to touch the stove.
We would sneak into the chest freezer in the garage and "steal" Golden Guernsey ice cream bars. (My favourites were the chocolate covered mint ice cream ones.) Although, I don't think it was much sneaking because Aunt B always could hear the freezer open and shut. I think she would just look the other way. Bless her heart.
Either way, I really couldn't choose which was better. Country life or City life. The way I look at it, to quote a teen pop star, We had the best of both worlds!
I used to ride my bike over to my friend, Kelly's, house and ride up and down her driveway until she saw me outside. I was obviously too scared to go knock on her door and see if she could play. I mean, come on, I was 9 and she had like 5 older siblings that enjoyed teasing me. I didn't want that, so instead I rode up and down her driveway like a dork for about 20 minutes until someone looked out.
Once she got her bike, we would peddle around town for hours. Sometimes hang out in the park or go hang out under the bridge and throw rocks in the water. I remember going wading in the creek until my mom caught wind of it. She wasn't very happy because she was afraid we "would get empentigo" from all the crap in the creek. Whatever. That which does not kill us only makes us stranger.
The cool thing was, once it started to get dark out my mom would go out on the front porch and yell, "Jenny! Time to come home!" Generally, in the small little borough, I would hear and jump on my bike and head home.
Well, when I turned 10, my mom would let me go into town and stay with my cousin Tanya, during the day while she went to work. Tanya was three years younger than I and we would go EVERYWHERE! Yes, Mom, I said it. I was a juvenile delinquent running the streets of town. In and out of the Schultz Bros. store, into the Artisan to look for cool stickers and smelly pencils, across the street to the Rexall Drug for a (real) Cherry Coke and then into the Music Shop to check out records and tapes (for those of you too young to remember records and tapes, google it). I admit it. However, I never did anything bad merely because everyone in town new my mother. If I was doing something I shouldn't have been, or annoying someone, she would come down and find me. I swear, she was worse than the Mob for connections in town.
In the summer, Tanya and I would go to the pool. We would spend all day there. Seriously, all day. From when they opened at 1 until they closed at 5.. And, if I was staying overnight, we would go back at 630 when they opened up until 9 at night. I between we would jump on our bikes and go over to the park (before it got all mucked up by the levee or dike they built) or hit the Dairy-O for ice cream or frozen Charleston Chew bars. If we had enough money we would split a hot beef sandwich or get a hot dog.
Once 9 o'clock hit, we would change out of our wet suits and get our clothes on and head for her house. Most of the time we got waylaid by another friend or would take the long way home.
No, our bikes didn't have lights. No, we didn't wear helmets- you would look like a dork plus, they didn't have them then. No, we didn't use hand signals. Yes, Mom, we DID watch traffic VERY closely.
Once we got home, we never really stayed there. Her older brother and a bunch of his buddies always coerced us into playing Ghost in the Graveyard, in the actual graveyard or some game of flashlight hide and seek. Yes, we were disrespectful of the dead. But, we were having fun.
Occasionally, during the daylight hours, we would have kool-aid stands, or go rollerskating, or sit on a skateboard and coast-er, speed- down 3rd street. Once we even rode her Barbie Dream Camper down 3rd street through a stop sign and past the high school. That was actually WAY more fun because we could both fit on it.
And guess what. We both lived to tell about it and we both grew up and had children (she had way more than I did and I learned my lesson after 2. The lesson being, ugh..I can't handle another one like my son!) and are now being tortured much like we tortured our mothers.
The cool thing was, I really enjoyed going into town with Tanya. We were very inseparable. And she, like coming out to the country and enjoying all the fun stuff we did out there. Playing in the sandbox (having baby sister come up and steal her spade right out of her hand), rolling down the hill in the front of the house. Rollerskating on the driveway and into the open garage and back out again. Making up stupid songs that meant nothing but we still remember them to this day. We are weird like that.
But, the COOLEST thing, was to go over to my Aunt and Uncle's farm. WHOA!! We got to go feed calves and let their slimy tongues suck on our fingers, dip cows (not TIP cows, DIP cows...with iodine before you put the milkers on. Once again, google it.), feed the trout at the trout farm, ride the riding lawn mower...holy crap! And that was only OUTSIDE!!
Inside my Aunt and Uncle had added an addition to their house so, to us, it was HUGE! We would play office, we would put the Sound of Music on the hi-fi and sing along and pretend we were the children and Maria. I was Maria, big sister was Liesl, baby sister was Gretl and Tanya was Brigitta. We would stand on the stairs and sing "So Long Farewell" to the imaginary crowd below.
We would play pool and listen to Steve Martin albums.
We would make a restaurant and serve our older cousins. Usually peanut butter sandwiches and marshmallows for dessert. We weren't allowed to touch the stove.
We would sneak into the chest freezer in the garage and "steal" Golden Guernsey ice cream bars. (My favourites were the chocolate covered mint ice cream ones.) Although, I don't think it was much sneaking because Aunt B always could hear the freezer open and shut. I think she would just look the other way. Bless her heart.
Either way, I really couldn't choose which was better. Country life or City life. The way I look at it, to quote a teen pop star, We had the best of both worlds!
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Movies that changed my life: Part One....
Star Wars. Yep, I said it. Star Wars.
It was 1977 and there was a kid in my school who was just crazy about anything and everything Star Wars. He had t-shirts and notebooks and trading cards, the whole nine yards. He was a walking advertisement for George Lucas and his multi-million dollar baby.
I was 8. My first thought was, What the heck is a Star Wars? Is that like GI Joe or something? Or possibly G-Force on Saturday morning cartoons?
I must admit, I thought the kid actually had a screw loose talking and playing Star Wars at recess all the time. I mean, running around with sticks pretending it was a, what do you call it? A "light saber"? Ok, kid, have your fun. People are going to tease you until you are 40- which was darn near grave time in my young mind.
Imagine my surprise in June of 1977 when this "Star Wars" movie came to our little town. I really hadn't seen that many commercials about it due to the fact that I was 8, it was summer and I had more important things to do outside like taunt death by riding my big wheel down the hill above the driveway. So, I really didn't know what to expect when my dad said "Hey! Let's go see that new movie everyone is talking about!" (or something less Hugh Beaumont as Ward Cleaver would say).
So, my older sister and I went with Dad to see this phenomenon known as Star Wars. I mean, seriously, it's gonna score me some popcorn and candy so heck yeah I'm going!
Settling in our seats with said junk food haul in our laps the curtains opened (back when movie theaters had curtains that actually opened and shut and weren't just for decoration) the movie started up. First, we had to sit thru a couple of previews. And I mean a couple. Not 15 like you do now. And a quick episode of Snack Canyon (I'd like a Tab! Sprite please!) and then the feature presentation.
Wow. The long version of the music for 20th Century Fox blared out of the Dolby surround sound (pretty high tech for a movie theater in a 5400 person town). From the get go, I was riveted. The special effects were amazing! Laser blasters, light sabers, droids, stormtroopers, Luke Skywalker (our fearless hero), Princess Leia (the brave and somewhat snotty princess), Han Solo (grrrOW-l-l-l!), a walking carpet (giggle snort) known as Chewbacca and (canned breathing) Darth Vader the Lord of the Sith.
All too quickly, the movie ended. People actually stood up and clapped as the curtains closed and the house lights came up. I was stunned. People were hooting and hollering at the screen and exchanging excited "that was amazing!" and "can you believe that?" as we were walking out of the movie theater.
Dad was grinning "So, what did you girls think?"
The floodgates opened up and we talked over each other excitedly all the way back to the car and quoted lines all the way home. "Did you see when Han Solo ran after the stormtroopers and they all ran away from him?" "How about the vacuum that sucked up R2-D2?" "What about those laser guns?" "That light saber was really cool!" " I can't believe how mean Darth Vader is." "Wasn't Han Solo cute?" (This came from my older sister who was a little boy crazy and obviously more worldly than I.)
From then on, I was hooked. I soon joined in for the Rebel Alliance and was defeating the Empire at recess. I had a trusty blaster at my side (a corncob from the neighboring field) and a light saber (a pine branch from the trees in the school yard) that were always left in the same spot after recess. My sister was always Princess Leia and I vacillated between Luke and Han, depending on who I felt like being that particular day. If anyone ever touched my weapons, there was hell to pay. It was agreed on the playground that no one would touch the other weapons without all playing together. Ok. Fair enough.
It was a very Star Wars Christmas in 1977. Action figures, t-shirts, notebooks, watches, a tie fighter (mine) and an x-wing fighter (sister's). It was by far the most galactic Christmas ever.
So, that is where it all started. My foray into Geekdom. I might add, that my Geekocity did start to expand into other realms as well. From Star Wars it morphed into Indiana Jones, Wonder Woman, Star Trek, Superman (with the BEST Superman ever, Christopher Reeve),then on to Marvel comics (and the mighty Mego toys- anyone remember those?!), a brief stint into the world of Dungeons and Dragons (brought on by the cartoon on Saturday morning) and then moved on into The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings and so on and so on and so on.
I will admit it. I am a Geek. I enjoy science fiction movies, Marvel comics, Wonder Woman and The Big Bang Theory (by far one of the most brilliantly written sitcoms ever).
I am Geek, hear me roar. U-tay-nee!!
It was 1977 and there was a kid in my school who was just crazy about anything and everything Star Wars. He had t-shirts and notebooks and trading cards, the whole nine yards. He was a walking advertisement for George Lucas and his multi-million dollar baby.
I was 8. My first thought was, What the heck is a Star Wars? Is that like GI Joe or something? Or possibly G-Force on Saturday morning cartoons?
I must admit, I thought the kid actually had a screw loose talking and playing Star Wars at recess all the time. I mean, running around with sticks pretending it was a, what do you call it? A "light saber"? Ok, kid, have your fun. People are going to tease you until you are 40- which was darn near grave time in my young mind.
Imagine my surprise in June of 1977 when this "Star Wars" movie came to our little town. I really hadn't seen that many commercials about it due to the fact that I was 8, it was summer and I had more important things to do outside like taunt death by riding my big wheel down the hill above the driveway. So, I really didn't know what to expect when my dad said "Hey! Let's go see that new movie everyone is talking about!" (or something less Hugh Beaumont as Ward Cleaver would say).
So, my older sister and I went with Dad to see this phenomenon known as Star Wars. I mean, seriously, it's gonna score me some popcorn and candy so heck yeah I'm going!
Settling in our seats with said junk food haul in our laps the curtains opened (back when movie theaters had curtains that actually opened and shut and weren't just for decoration) the movie started up. First, we had to sit thru a couple of previews. And I mean a couple. Not 15 like you do now. And a quick episode of Snack Canyon (I'd like a Tab! Sprite please!) and then the feature presentation.
Wow. The long version of the music for 20th Century Fox blared out of the Dolby surround sound (pretty high tech for a movie theater in a 5400 person town). From the get go, I was riveted. The special effects were amazing! Laser blasters, light sabers, droids, stormtroopers, Luke Skywalker (our fearless hero), Princess Leia (the brave and somewhat snotty princess), Han Solo (grrrOW-l-l-l!), a walking carpet (giggle snort) known as Chewbacca and (canned breathing) Darth Vader the Lord of the Sith.
All too quickly, the movie ended. People actually stood up and clapped as the curtains closed and the house lights came up. I was stunned. People were hooting and hollering at the screen and exchanging excited "that was amazing!" and "can you believe that?" as we were walking out of the movie theater.
Dad was grinning "So, what did you girls think?"
The floodgates opened up and we talked over each other excitedly all the way back to the car and quoted lines all the way home. "Did you see when Han Solo ran after the stormtroopers and they all ran away from him?" "How about the vacuum that sucked up R2-D2?" "What about those laser guns?" "That light saber was really cool!" " I can't believe how mean Darth Vader is." "Wasn't Han Solo cute?" (This came from my older sister who was a little boy crazy and obviously more worldly than I.)
From then on, I was hooked. I soon joined in for the Rebel Alliance and was defeating the Empire at recess. I had a trusty blaster at my side (a corncob from the neighboring field) and a light saber (a pine branch from the trees in the school yard) that were always left in the same spot after recess. My sister was always Princess Leia and I vacillated between Luke and Han, depending on who I felt like being that particular day. If anyone ever touched my weapons, there was hell to pay. It was agreed on the playground that no one would touch the other weapons without all playing together. Ok. Fair enough.
It was a very Star Wars Christmas in 1977. Action figures, t-shirts, notebooks, watches, a tie fighter (mine) and an x-wing fighter (sister's). It was by far the most galactic Christmas ever.
So, that is where it all started. My foray into Geekdom. I might add, that my Geekocity did start to expand into other realms as well. From Star Wars it morphed into Indiana Jones, Wonder Woman, Star Trek, Superman (with the BEST Superman ever, Christopher Reeve),then on to Marvel comics (and the mighty Mego toys- anyone remember those?!), a brief stint into the world of Dungeons and Dragons (brought on by the cartoon on Saturday morning) and then moved on into The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings and so on and so on and so on.
I will admit it. I am a Geek. I enjoy science fiction movies, Marvel comics, Wonder Woman and The Big Bang Theory (by far one of the most brilliantly written sitcoms ever).
I am Geek, hear me roar. U-tay-nee!!
Monday, October 4, 2010
You Watched THAT?!?
"Catch the game yesterday?" The first thing out of everyone's mouth on Monday morning as soon as you hang up your coat at work.
"um...No."
"WHAT?!?! It was awesome!" Then having proclaimed what apparently was better than the second coming of Christ, they launch into a description of how this guy made amazing passes, runs, touchdowns, goals; to quote George Costanza "yadda yadda yadda..."
Um, Mister, you just spoke complete Greek to me.
Then, fool that I am because I open my mouth before thinking, I reply. "I don't understand football."
Arms fly in the air, mouths drop open to the floor and eyes bug from head. "Don't UNDERSTAND FOOTBALL??!? How can you NOT understand football?!??!"
Easy, I don't WANT to. So, instead of opening that can of worms and having to step gingerly around worms, I state, "Sorry, my bad, I should have said I don't LIKE football."
This causes an even worse reaction than absolute disbelief, it borders on a myocardial infarction. Since I don't want to be responsible for the death of an innocent co-worker in my Sport Retardation, I give a wavering smile and an apologetic look while walking to my desk.
By the time I get to my desk, which in all reality was about 10 seconds later, the entire office is whispering about the freak in the office who doesn't like football and are staring at me with blatant disgust bordering on hostility.
Frankly, I have never understood football. I don't care to understand football. I don't watch football or believe in wearing a jersey on game day. I don't rush home to catch the game. I don't attend Super Bowl parties to watch the game. I really try to avoid it at all costs.
Now, in the heart of Wisconsin admitting that alone is justifiable homicide to some.
"She doesn't like football! We need to purge the earth of HER kind!"
Well, fine, if not liking football doesn't get me into heaven, I will just hang out in limbo with the rest of the comic book and computer geeks. We will have a grand old time swapping stories about ComiCons we have attended while were still alive and revel in having attended them dressed up as a Superhero or a Star Wars or Star Trek character. (And for those of you who don't understand "Geek", it's Star TREK not Star TRACK.)
So, instead of watching the football game yesterday, I watched...wait for it...The Dukes of Hazzard Reunion.
I will wait while your laughter subsides.....
Frankly, it wasn't by choice. It was my husband's choice. Now, we are not country folk or moonshiners or even Nascar fanatics (another thing I can't figure out- please don't feel the need to explain). It was a show from my childhood with two really HOT guys in it. Seriously, when I was 9, John Schneider and Tom Wopat were the hottest things on tv! I remember playing Dukes with my cousin, Tanya. I think she was pissed because she always had to have Luke as her boyfriend. I was older, Bo was mine.
But I digress..., my husband turned it on. No, not for Daisy Duke (although I think that helped) he watched it for the car. Yes, the 1966 Dodge Charger aptly named The General Lee. The car was the focal point of the show.
Much like Knightrider. Yes, he watched that, too.
And I rather enjoyed watching Bo and Luke jump over ravines and rivers and other things blocking their way. Every time they landed, I said "Well, that car didn't make it..." to which I received a nasty look from my husband. "Do you have to say that every time?"
"No. I will just say it every OTHER time then."
smartass....
I really didn't pay much attention to the storyline, if there was one, I just enjoyed hearing the little tune that whisked me back to age 9 and hearing it for the first time. Yes Yes, I made plenty of fun of the show and the song both then and now, but, it still made me feel a bit nostalgic for my youth and all the awesome shows (or what WE thought were awesome) that were on.
Watching The Dukes of Hazzard made me realize something....
I really need to get a life.
"um...No."
"WHAT?!?! It was awesome!" Then having proclaimed what apparently was better than the second coming of Christ, they launch into a description of how this guy made amazing passes, runs, touchdowns, goals; to quote George Costanza "yadda yadda yadda..."
Um, Mister, you just spoke complete Greek to me.
Then, fool that I am because I open my mouth before thinking, I reply. "I don't understand football."
Arms fly in the air, mouths drop open to the floor and eyes bug from head. "Don't UNDERSTAND FOOTBALL??!? How can you NOT understand football?!??!"
Easy, I don't WANT to. So, instead of opening that can of worms and having to step gingerly around worms, I state, "Sorry, my bad, I should have said I don't LIKE football."
This causes an even worse reaction than absolute disbelief, it borders on a myocardial infarction. Since I don't want to be responsible for the death of an innocent co-worker in my Sport Retardation, I give a wavering smile and an apologetic look while walking to my desk.
By the time I get to my desk, which in all reality was about 10 seconds later, the entire office is whispering about the freak in the office who doesn't like football and are staring at me with blatant disgust bordering on hostility.
Frankly, I have never understood football. I don't care to understand football. I don't watch football or believe in wearing a jersey on game day. I don't rush home to catch the game. I don't attend Super Bowl parties to watch the game. I really try to avoid it at all costs.
Now, in the heart of Wisconsin admitting that alone is justifiable homicide to some.
"She doesn't like football! We need to purge the earth of HER kind!"
Well, fine, if not liking football doesn't get me into heaven, I will just hang out in limbo with the rest of the comic book and computer geeks. We will have a grand old time swapping stories about ComiCons we have attended while were still alive and revel in having attended them dressed up as a Superhero or a Star Wars or Star Trek character. (And for those of you who don't understand "Geek", it's Star TREK not Star TRACK.)
So, instead of watching the football game yesterday, I watched...wait for it...The Dukes of Hazzard Reunion.
I will wait while your laughter subsides.....
Frankly, it wasn't by choice. It was my husband's choice. Now, we are not country folk or moonshiners or even Nascar fanatics (another thing I can't figure out- please don't feel the need to explain). It was a show from my childhood with two really HOT guys in it. Seriously, when I was 9, John Schneider and Tom Wopat were the hottest things on tv! I remember playing Dukes with my cousin, Tanya. I think she was pissed because she always had to have Luke as her boyfriend. I was older, Bo was mine.
But I digress..., my husband turned it on. No, not for Daisy Duke (although I think that helped) he watched it for the car. Yes, the 1966 Dodge Charger aptly named The General Lee. The car was the focal point of the show.
Much like Knightrider. Yes, he watched that, too.
And I rather enjoyed watching Bo and Luke jump over ravines and rivers and other things blocking their way. Every time they landed, I said "Well, that car didn't make it..." to which I received a nasty look from my husband. "Do you have to say that every time?"
"No. I will just say it every OTHER time then."
smartass....
I really didn't pay much attention to the storyline, if there was one, I just enjoyed hearing the little tune that whisked me back to age 9 and hearing it for the first time. Yes Yes, I made plenty of fun of the show and the song both then and now, but, it still made me feel a bit nostalgic for my youth and all the awesome shows (or what WE thought were awesome) that were on.
Watching The Dukes of Hazzard made me realize something....
I really need to get a life.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
"Can We Go Somewhere?"
Sunday. The glorious day of rest. Nope.
Started out much like Saturday and just got worse from there. So, we went for a drive.
Ah the wonderful sounds of "I'm bored..." and "Are we there yet?" and the infamous "I'm hungry."
With all the luxuries in cars today the only thing they are missing is a three ring circus.
When I was a kid, we had to entertain ourselves on long trips. Usually this was done by making faces at my older sister or saying everyday words in a silly way to make her laugh. My ulterior motive was to get my parents to yell at her for being annoying. Yeah, that backfired.
"Jenny! Stop making your sister laugh!"
Ooooo-kay. Try a different tactic. Let's pull out the Colonel Sanders spork and flick the Colonel in the face with your fingertip. Yep, that did it. She burst out laughing.
Suddenly, mom's arm comes flying over the backrest and snatches the spork from my hand. She managed to break the spork in two pieces. She got the spork end, while I managed to retain the broken handle with the Colonel's grinning face on it. Luck was obviously on my side that day.
Now, when your father says "Don't make me turn this car around!" or my favourite, "Don't make me pull over!".....you really should listen, because, he did stop the car. Leaping out of the car he throws open my door and yanks the grinning Colonel out of my hand and throws it into the cornfield.
You would think I would learn to shut up after that, but...no.
"That's littering..."
I am lucky I still have a head....
Started out much like Saturday and just got worse from there. So, we went for a drive.
Ah the wonderful sounds of "I'm bored..." and "Are we there yet?" and the infamous "I'm hungry."
With all the luxuries in cars today the only thing they are missing is a three ring circus.
When I was a kid, we had to entertain ourselves on long trips. Usually this was done by making faces at my older sister or saying everyday words in a silly way to make her laugh. My ulterior motive was to get my parents to yell at her for being annoying. Yeah, that backfired.
"Jenny! Stop making your sister laugh!"
Ooooo-kay. Try a different tactic. Let's pull out the Colonel Sanders spork and flick the Colonel in the face with your fingertip. Yep, that did it. She burst out laughing.
Suddenly, mom's arm comes flying over the backrest and snatches the spork from my hand. She managed to break the spork in two pieces. She got the spork end, while I managed to retain the broken handle with the Colonel's grinning face on it. Luck was obviously on my side that day.
Now, when your father says "Don't make me turn this car around!" or my favourite, "Don't make me pull over!".....you really should listen, because, he did stop the car. Leaping out of the car he throws open my door and yanks the grinning Colonel out of my hand and throws it into the cornfield.
You would think I would learn to shut up after that, but...no.
"That's littering..."
I am lucky I still have a head....
Therapy and Other wastes of time...
I am starting this blog as a form of therapy. Lots of things run thru my mind and I have decided that sometimes, they are pretty darn funny or just plain weird. So, why not let the world in on my little slice of peculiarity. I was recently informed that I must live in my own little world. Well, I replied, who doesn't?
We become so bogged down with our mundane everyday lives that we DO tend to live in our own little world. Now, I am not saying my world has a purple sky or bubble gum trees, although, that would add a nice change and a heck of a conversation piece, I am just saying that when you have your own family, job and so on, you do tend to live in your own little world.
My world consists of two children (slightly off kilter like their mother), a computer/DC geek for a husband (whom I love dearly because he GETS me), two 18 pound cats and several fish. It also consists of a part-time job, 2 car payments, a mortgage and a zillion dollars in student loans. You know, the average family by today's standards.
I get up everyday get ready for work, roust the children from their slumber and get them ready for school. Now, my question is this...why is it, that even tho you put them to bed at a decent time on a school night- let's say just for shits and giggles 830 pm- that you have to extract them with a crane in order to get them up at 7 am? BUT, when the weekend rolls around and you all have the opportunity to sleep in, they are up at 630 am wanting breakfast and cartoons?!? This has always amazed yet rankled me.
My children are of an age that they can fend for themselves for a couple hours in the morning whilst I slept in. They can get their own cereal, turn on the tv and settle in for a couple hours of Spongebob or Phineas and Ferb and just remain quiet while mom and dad sleep in.
No such luck. After they are up I hear bickering about which cartoon to watch, what cereal to eat, who took the last of the milk and why aren't there any Fruity dinobites left. Basically, in my household, all hell breaking loose.
I have a 6 year old and an 11 year old. And generally the arguing starts out in an enraged whisper eventually elevating to out and out screaming followed by an "I'm conna tell MOM!"
Enter the whimpering and sniffling 6 year old..."Mom, Chynna is being bossy. She drank all the milk and won't open a new one for me and I can't hold the new one because it weighs too much and I will spill it all over the kitchen making you have to get up and clean it because I don't know how." (All said in one complete breath)
Answers the 11 year old..."Nuh uh!"
Now I am understanding why some animals eat their young.
By this time, my husband is awake and says "I got it..." he gets up puts on his glasses and heads downstairs. I curl back up under the covers and try to regain sweet oblivious slumber.
BANG! SLAM! RATTLE! Obviously, I have done something wrong in a past life that does not allow me the luxury of sleeping in on the weekends. And apparently, my husband is making an omelet that has to be beaten into submission before he can pour the battered remains into the skillet.
Silence....I try again to curl up and enter dreamland.
BEEEEP!!BEEEEEP!!! Smoke detector. Obviously, the galloping gourmet has turned into the cajun cook and likes his eggs burnt to a crisp. "'tt'sss ok! I got it!" I hear from the kitchen.
By now, one of the cats has jumped up onto the bed and is staring me awake and starting to meow in my face.
Well, looks like another weekend is off to a roaring start....
We become so bogged down with our mundane everyday lives that we DO tend to live in our own little world. Now, I am not saying my world has a purple sky or bubble gum trees, although, that would add a nice change and a heck of a conversation piece, I am just saying that when you have your own family, job and so on, you do tend to live in your own little world.
My world consists of two children (slightly off kilter like their mother), a computer/DC geek for a husband (whom I love dearly because he GETS me), two 18 pound cats and several fish. It also consists of a part-time job, 2 car payments, a mortgage and a zillion dollars in student loans. You know, the average family by today's standards.
I get up everyday get ready for work, roust the children from their slumber and get them ready for school. Now, my question is this...why is it, that even tho you put them to bed at a decent time on a school night- let's say just for shits and giggles 830 pm- that you have to extract them with a crane in order to get them up at 7 am? BUT, when the weekend rolls around and you all have the opportunity to sleep in, they are up at 630 am wanting breakfast and cartoons?!? This has always amazed yet rankled me.
My children are of an age that they can fend for themselves for a couple hours in the morning whilst I slept in. They can get their own cereal, turn on the tv and settle in for a couple hours of Spongebob or Phineas and Ferb and just remain quiet while mom and dad sleep in.
No such luck. After they are up I hear bickering about which cartoon to watch, what cereal to eat, who took the last of the milk and why aren't there any Fruity dinobites left. Basically, in my household, all hell breaking loose.
I have a 6 year old and an 11 year old. And generally the arguing starts out in an enraged whisper eventually elevating to out and out screaming followed by an "I'm conna tell MOM!"
Enter the whimpering and sniffling 6 year old..."Mom, Chynna is being bossy. She drank all the milk and won't open a new one for me and I can't hold the new one because it weighs too much and I will spill it all over the kitchen making you have to get up and clean it because I don't know how." (All said in one complete breath)
Answers the 11 year old..."Nuh uh!"
Now I am understanding why some animals eat their young.
By this time, my husband is awake and says "I got it..." he gets up puts on his glasses and heads downstairs. I curl back up under the covers and try to regain sweet oblivious slumber.
BANG! SLAM! RATTLE! Obviously, I have done something wrong in a past life that does not allow me the luxury of sleeping in on the weekends. And apparently, my husband is making an omelet that has to be beaten into submission before he can pour the battered remains into the skillet.
Silence....I try again to curl up and enter dreamland.
BEEEEP!!BEEEEEP!!! Smoke detector. Obviously, the galloping gourmet has turned into the cajun cook and likes his eggs burnt to a crisp. "'tt'sss ok! I got it!" I hear from the kitchen.
By now, one of the cats has jumped up onto the bed and is staring me awake and starting to meow in my face.
Well, looks like another weekend is off to a roaring start....
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