First Meetings

Freshman year of college at good old GSC is filled with almost as many memories I've held onto and cherished as those I've blocked out... or at least tried to. It was an exciting year.

I was young when I started college and even young for my age. I'd been pretty sheltered and my parents probably took great pride in the fact that they'd protected me from so many "evils".  And then I went to college. The freedom! The Possibilities! It was all so thrilling and heady and the pull of adventure was strong.  Of course, there was also plenty of down time. Those moments when boredom set in and a girl just wasn't sure what to do with herself.

It was one of those times.  Bone and I were bored and not sure what to do next. We wound up walking off campus, up the road to the Wawa where we wandered the store in search of, we knew not what.  We wound up buying a jar/can of chocolate cake frosting.  Once back at that dorm, we didn't feel like being cooped up in the room so, we grabbed a couple of spoons, popped the top off the frosting and headed out into the hallway. We were quiet, for Bone this was exceptionally odd, just walking down the hall, taking turns scooping out spoonfuls of frosting.

About halfway down the hall, we saw two blonde girls come out of the laundry room and look our way.  One of the girls, looked at us and said, "We've got some peanut butter in our room." and turned and headed the other direction.

We followed them down the hall and into their dorm room, still not speaking.  Then, we stood around, four girls eating peanut butter and chocolate frosting.  Introductions came some moments later.   That was the first time we met Monko and Chauncey and began a decades long friendship. The next semester we became sorority sisters and the school year after that we rented a house on Eben Street, where we became 4 of the infamous nine Eben Street Girls.  To this day, no matter the distance or the time spent apart, we are all still the Eben Street Girls and their friendships are some of my most cherished.

I can't remember the day I met Bone. I'm sure it was at the Hot Spot on the boardwalk in Wildwood, but it never stuck with me as much of a momentous occasion. Those all came afterward as we navigated the good and bad adventures and dramas that we faced together.  Now, we've reached the years where we've begun losing parents.  Two of the girls have each lost one and both of mine died far too young. It didn't occur to me that we'd bury each other, at least not for a really long time.  In some ways I feel like that same 17 year old girl who started college all those years ago.

I know that we aren't really going to all be 90 year old bitties rocking on a porch somewhere together.  Then heading in for our chandeliers quarters game, although, we might have to switch out the beer for prune juice some days.  At least that's the idea you get from watching tv now, but that's a story for another time.  I really did think we were far too young to even consider this as a possibility.  The being little old ladies someday was a fanciful little joke between women young enough to not feel any reality in it.  We're certainly too young to be saying our final goodbyes to each other.  And yet.  Less than a week ago I went to my first Eben Street Girl funeral.  I certainly hope it is the last for a very long time.

Rest in Peace, Boneman

I met Bone when I was 16 years old. She was the loudest, most boisterous person I've ever known.  When we wound up at college together, we became very close and remained so for years.  It wasn't always easy, but it was always interesting.  Bone was a year older than I and an inch taller, which when you are 5'3" as opposed to 5'2" I guess you get bragging rights.

Over the years we went to school together, we took road trips and vacations together, we worked together. Not all of those all at the same time, but we spent a lot of time in each other's lives. Bone was with me the night I met my ex-husband. She was maid of honor in our wedding.  I'm still working at the law office job she found for me.

At some point, our lives diverged drastically.  As she started to spiral out of control and away from the world we'd usually companionably shared, I started to go in the other direction, I got married, went back to school, bought a house and raised a dog. The split must have been hard for her in a way I couldn't understand.  In her opinion, the direction I was headed was like an assault against her.  It wasn't. How could it have been?  What way she took her life was totally up to her and I would've been her conscience and cheerleader as I'd always been if she was looking to improve her lot in life.  And, even though she sat 40 hours a week, about 10 feet from me, she took the path I'd least like to travel on some seriously rough roads, without anyone knowing just how much trouble she was in.  Then, one day, she just stood up, and walked out the door. No goodbyes, no looking back, literally.

When it was obvious that I was the focus of her anger I let her slip away.  When she was doing her worst, it was better for me. When she was doing better, I didn't think it was healthy for her.  She identified me with the ways things went wrong for her.

For the last 10 years or so, she's been in and out of trouble, as well as in and out of her friends' lives.  Until last week, when I got word that she was gone, forever.  It didn't really matter how long we'd been estranged. Bone and her family had been part of my life for twice as long as they hadn't (if that makes any sense).  I still can't wrap my mind around the fact that she's really gone.  Despite the darkest parts of our history, I like the idea that she was still out there, and I really wanted things to get better for her.

On the most dismal day imaginable, unseasonably cold, gray and rainy I drove the hour plus to the shore to say a final goodbye to Boneman and pay my respects to her family. I can not possibly describe just how terribly sad the day was.  I spent some time talking to her family and the couple of shore friends who were there. With each conversation, I pieced together the heartbreakingly sad tale of a life wasted.  She was a woman in so much pain, she spent every day trying to find oblivion, all while trying to convince herself and every one she spoke to that she was doing better and going to pull herself out of the hole she'd wound up in. At that point, it didn't matter how she'd got there, whose fault it was that she'd fallen so far.  All that mattered was that she couldn't see a way out and slowly, but surely she found one. Not with intention, though.  She was just trying to escape the pain she was feeling right then, just as she'd been doing for months. She succeeded all too well.  That was not the success I'd hoped she'd have.

What That Car's Name Is?

When my nephew Zack was very little he was under the impression that license plates were like name tags for cars.  Imagine every vehicle on the road with a "HELLO, my name is _________" on its front and rear bumpers.

Every time we passed a car or truck he'd stop, point and ask, "What that car's name is?" and I'd have to come up with something, using the letters given on the license plate.  My old Honda Civic had MRY  on it, so I told him her name was Mary.  
He has since outgrown that but I still find myself looking at license plates and coming up for names of cars.  My new car has a license plate that begins with YBF and I can't for the life of me come up with a good name for it. My friend Jean swears it stands for Your Best Friend, cute, but I would be beyond pathetic if my car was my best friend.

Of course, you never forget your first license plate. Or is that just me? My first car was a hand me down 1978 Datsun 200 SX and its license plate was the one I beautifully (ha ha ) reproduced above!

Saving Sea Turtles

Best Trip Ever

I was single, it was summer and I was an interested member of the Marine Mammal Stranding Center in Brigantine, New Jersey.  They offered a trip that promised to give an up close and personal introduction to the plight of sea turtles and my mother and I jumped at the chance to join.This was not our normal vacation, in fact, we hadn't been on a bus trip since 1975.  This didn't dampen our excitement. And, although this was the most low key vacation we'd taken since my brother and I were little kids, it didn't detract from just how special these few days were for us.

We boarded a bus outside the Stranding Center, in Brigantine and drove through the night to a barrier island in South Carolina.  The island where we stayed was divided in half. The north half is referred to as Seabrook Island and is filled with hotels, shops, restaurants, condos, etc.  It had been built up into a lovely seashore community. The south end of the island was Saint David's Island and the only parts of it that were at all developed were a camp.  It was half a businessperson's Christian retreat and half a camp for kids. The closest we got to children campers was the sort of shared dining hall.  The kitchen in the middle divided the two sides. There was a lovely club house with lots of windows and amenities. The lodgings were a sort of bare bones hotel/motel room.  No television or telephone (this was a bigger deal then) , two beds, a bathroom, a table and chairs, clock radio and there were plenty of fresh linens available.  No bells and whistles, but clean and neat and useful.  My mother and I were very happy travel companions.  We always got along really well, enjoyed each other's company and liked to share our common and individual interests with one another.  We were always compatible, but not really very similar at all.

We saw everything turtle on this trip.  As soon as we got to the island we headed out to check out the private beach and estuary just to the south of the camp.  There were experts on hand to give us a tour and teach us about the turtles and their plight.  We saw the tractor-like tracks showing that an adult female had been on the island to lay a nest.  We saw the tiny tracks of little flippers showing that a nest had hatched out the night before. Then there were the tragedies, like  the two-inch turtle that had been decapitated by a ghost crab, and the signs that a fox must have been watching as the female laid her nest the night before.  His tracks and trail of broken eggs were left on the beach.

We spent the rest of the day on our own exploring the island.  My mom and I sat and watched the dolphins playing in the surf and an adult female turtle swimming back and forth, waiting for the people to go away so she could lay her eggs.  On the other side of the island we shopped for souvenirs in swanky little boutiques and had cocktails at lovely outside bars.  Then we went back to camp for wonderful meals, prepared by an excellent chef, who was so happy to be cooking for adults. I'm guessing the other side of the cafeteria, although identical in seating and decor (or lack thereof) served strictly kid fare.

We woke the next morning in time to catch a bus to Kiaweh Island where we spent a few hours with their turtle patrol.  That morning was so disheartening.  As we walked up the beach to meet our guide  we spotted a tiny newborn turtle, who had been inching his way toward the water since he'd hatched out of his nest the night before.  Because adult turtles return to the beach they were born on, some 25 years later, to lay their eggs, you aren't allowed to interfere with their march to the ocean.  Somehow, they memorize the beach and it's assumed they do it on the way to the sea.  Since this little guy had made it halfway to the water and had probably been at it for almost 12 hours, we got permission to give him a lift.  One of our group picked the tiny turtle up and swam it out into the ocean... where it was promptly snapped up, tossed into the air and eaten by a seagull flying past.

Dejectedly, we followed the guide up the beach, where she showed us a nest that was flooded out by the high tide, making none of the eggs viable.  The second nest we were shown had been marked more than 60 days prior, which meant that it was overdue for hatching out.  We watched as the nest was dug up to find that it had been attacked by fire ants, leaving no living turtles.  Of course, these were all nature conspiring against the turtle, but we learned about all of the ways that people increase the sea turtle death toll, construction over the nesting areas, artificial lights which detract from the moon (they follow the moon to the ocean), fishing nets that trap and drown the turtles, litter on the beaches and in the seas, the list goes on.

A very sad band of travelers boarded the bus back to our island.  The chef was seriously nonplussed when no one was interested in having lunch.  We all found our way back to the beach.  That's when we saw it.  The sand was pulsing. There is no other word to describe it. You could watch the sand rise and fall, like it was breathing.  While some stayed to watch, others went back to the lodge and notified the fish and gaming authority.  Soon, the sand was beginning to crack and the majority of our group stood, transfixed by the scene.  The chef was sending pleas for us to at least take turns watching and grabbing some of the food he had taken such pains to cook for us.  He didn't have many takers.  Our final message was that he wasn't keeping the kitchen open late for us and it was going to be our tough stuff if we didn't get there and eat.

A Fish and Game warden stopped by to see the scene and told us that it was the remnants of a nest which had hatched two nights before.  Because it wasn't the first hatch, we were given permission to assist the remaining turtle hatchlings.  Slowly we began to move sand out of the way, but as the day cooled and evening was turning to night, we began to really start moving the sand away, still being extremely gentle to avoid injuring the turtles.  And then we hit turtles.  They were out of their shells and their little flippers were going a mile a minute as they climbed up the sand, over top of one another and began boiling and roiling over the edge of the nest onto the beach.

Our amazement and wonder soon turned to extreme protectiveness. We began lining up to make sure none of the turtles wandered the wrong way, or met with any evil ghost crab shenanigans on their way out.  We counted as they hit the surf, over 100 newly hatched loggerhead sea turtles made it to the ocean that night.  As the light began to fade we watched as the last of their little heads bobbed in the sea, swimming for the Sargasso.  Statistically, only one of those turtles will survive to sexual maturity, returning to that very beach to lay her first nest.  I'd really like to return and see that.  My mom wouldn't be able to join me, I lost her 5 years ago to breast cancer, but I'm pretty sure she'd be there with me in spirit.

The Barbie Dress

Carly and her Barbie Dress

When my niece Carly was very young she picked out a little sundress that looked vaguely like the one you see in my lovely portrait. It was a purplish blue or bluish purple, with spaghetti straps and a fake white tee shirt dickey kind of thing in it.  She wore it every day.  Every night before she went to bed she would ask if she could wear her Barbie Dress the next day. Every morning when she woke up she asked if she could wear her Cinderella jammies.  It's a good thing she was so cute.  

We reached the point where I just couldn't bear the thought of seeing that Barbie dress one more day. I told her that if she showed up at my house in it, I just wouldn't let her in.  That's about the time the phone calls began.

Rrring!

Me:  Hello?

Carly:  Hi Aunt Jammie

M:  Hi Baby Girl! What's up?

C:  Can I come over to your house today?

M:  Sure, baby. You can come here any time.

C:  Guess what?

M: What?

C:  I'm gonna wear my Barbie Dress

M: (in mock horror) Noooooo! Not the Barbie dress! I won't let you in.

C: I'm coming over and I'm gonna have it on, Aunt Jammie.

She did this regularly.  Thankfully, I got a better deal than my father.  He taught her to spell Pop (which is what she called him). Then he taught her to spell poop.  He got a steady diet of "Pop, I can spell your name (imagine childlike sing song voice), P......O...............OP. Ha ha ha!  Your name is Poop.

My sister in law saved the Barbie dress. She occasionally pulls it out and Carly is shocked and embarrassed by the fact that she loved it so much.

Love and Rockets

Love and Rockets

When the brainy and beautiful Little Squirt actually was a little squirt she provided the family with endless hours of  joy and entertainment.  The summer she before she turned four, the Love and Rockets song, So Alive  was pretty popular.  Samantha (a/k/a Little Squirt) had (and actually still does have) the loveliest long, shiny brown hair.  

One afternoon we were all at the family shore house in Wildwood, New Jersey.  My brother was sitting in the living room, in our grandfather's chair with little Sammy on his lap.  He was combing her long hair with his fingers and sang the first line of the song to her, "I don't know what color your eyes are baby, but your hair is long and brown..."  

Samantha put her little hands on her three year old hips, twisted to look at him and said, "Chip, my eyes are hazel!"

I hope you've enjoyed today's anecdote, with it's bonus 1989 music video and original artwork, which looks a little creepy, even to me, the artist!

Toast Girl

Toast Girl

As soon as my freshman year of college ended, I raced for the family house in Wildwood, New Jersey.  The plan was to work and save up as much money as possible to pay my rent and get me through the next school year.  However, it looked like my plans were going to be derailed when I got strep throat and spent two weeks sick in bed.  

As soon as I recovered and could go back to work, I needed to find a way to make up for lost time and went in search of a second job.  I found one at a beloved restaurant/arcade/miniature golf course, as a brunch/lunch hostess.  On my first day of work, I showed up bright and early and reported for duty.  But, hostessing was not in the cards for me that day. Instead, I was informed that the "toast girl" was out and I would need to fill in for her.  

The toast girl's duties were just what you'd expect.  The meal orders came in and I was to pop the necessary breads/bagels/muffins into the toaster. When they came out, I ran them over the melty butter machine and popped them on plates to go out to the diners.  I headed into the kitchen, was shown my station, given the basics of the job and set to work.

Not only was this my first day as toast girl, it was also my first day working in this particular establishment.  I knew no one.  Every single person who entered the kitchen, said the exact same thing to me, "Where's Megan?"  It turned out that Megan was the absent toast girl, but I had no answer for that particular question.  The restaurant was always busy, I didn't know who Megan was, that she was the toast girl, or even who any of the people asking the question were, for that matter.  I was concentrating on the incoming orders, and that bread just kept piling up on the little tray thingy at the bottom of the big toasting machine.  A few hours later my shift ended, I was assured that I'd begin hostessing the next day and was thoroughly glad to be escaping the dreaded question. 

My cousin AM lived (actually, she still has a house there), right around the corner and I decided to stop over before I walked home to say hello to AM.  I turned the corner and headed down Leaming Avenue.  As I got closer, I noticed AM's mom, my Aunt Angie and stopped to say hi. She asked about my first day at work and I told her that I wouldn't be starting as hostess until the next day and that I spent my first day on the job as the toast girl. Can you guess what she said immediately, in response? Oh, you know you can.

"WHERE WAS MEGAN?"

I Smell Birthday Cake

I Smell Birthday Cake

Before I start with today's tale, I just wanted to bring  to the attention of any reader, who may stumble across my little corner of the internets, that I am providing my own artwork to illustrate my anecdotes.  As can plainly be seen, not only am I not remotely an artist, but I am using a kiddie draw and color app on my nook tablet and a stylus, which is a pen with a cushy fingertip like rubbery doohickey on the end, to create my masterpieces.  I figure they will either get much better, or much worse as I go along.  Heaven help us all. And now, back to the regularly scheduled tale.

It was Christmas Eve, 1999.  My nephew Zack was 5 months old and my niece Carly was a month away from turning 3.  With a huge extended family and many many people to see and commitments to keep, ours was always a very chaotic celebratory schedule.  This particular year, my brother and sister-in-law's first in that home, was actually fairly tame.  We'd exchanged gifts and baby Zack had been put to bed and the rest of us were getting ready to head home.  Amy (sis-in-law) sent Miss Carly upstairs to put on her jammies.  While she was upstairs, Amy blew out one of those jumbo Yankee Candles  that she had burning on the island in the kitchen.  

I guess I should point out that the house had a very open floor plan, the first floor was a great room with vaulted ceiling on one side (living room, dining room, family room) and kitchen and hall to foyer on the other. The only thing breaking up line of sight was the staircase. It was a half flight of stairs with a large landing and then a turn with a second half flight of stairs to the second floor.  At the top of the stairs all of the bedroom doors were visible from the first floor.  Carly came out of her room in her little yellow blanket sleeper, ready to come down and say good night, when she stopped at the top of the stairs, sniffing at the air.  

"I smell birthday cake!" she announced loudly in her tiny baby girl voice.   

As we put on our coats and headed to pack up our cars with our gifts before heading home, there was little Carly, yelling for us to come back.  "But we didn't have cake yet."  It's true, the smell of a blown out candle should signal the cutting of a birthday cake, at least in the mind of an almost 3 year old.   How aptly that she had that thought just then.  Technically, we were there to celebrate a birthday.  We just don't usually serve a traditional birthday cake for Jesus.

Macaroni Messages

Macaroni Messages.... or not.

This weekend we celebrated my Mickey's nieces' birthdays.   The two girls, although 7 years apart in age, are only a week or so separated by birth date.  So, the family celebrates them together.  Mickey's sister Christine made a lot of seafood and spaghetti and clams. Considering that the little kids tend to prefer their spaghetti with butter, that was on the menu as well.

 Little Caroline had a bowl of buttered 'ronis and  a spoon and was enjoying her dinner.  At about the halfway point through her dish, she stopped and pointed out to me that on the side of the bowl some of the cut up spaghetti had formed what looked like the letters "C", "R" and "O".  I told her that I thought her macaroni was trying to tell her something. At first she was wracking her little four year old brain for answers. Her grandmother and I looked at the macaroni message and noticed that the letters formed part of her name, even in the right order.

Caroline took her spoon, stirred up all the spaghetti, including the "letters" on the side of the bowl and made sure they were completely erased and that the pasta was once again in random patterns in her bowl.  Then, she looked up at me and said, "It's not saying anything now."

My Moll! My Suck! My Moll!

My niece, the Precious Little Pumpkin started her life as a fan of The Big Comfy Couch.  It was a show about a clown named Loonette and her doll, Molly.  Although Pumpkin's doll was actually Loonette, she called her, Molly and she took her everywhere.  Pumpkin's life revolved around her Moll and her "suck", her name for her pacifier.

Now, Pumpkin just considered us all her staff, here to wait on her and meet all of her wants and needs.  Often, we'd hear the command, "My Moll! My Suck!" and we'd scramble to provide.

We got her a real Molly doll, but it was her Molly, really Loonette that she loved. She wore that thing out.  Pumpkin's Moll doesn't look much like this one. My sister-in-law has it put away in a box, along with the "suck" and the infamous Barbie dress (a story for another day).  Pumpkin's doll has no red left on her nose, a button sewn onto her belly, because she asked my mom to give Moll a belly button and worst of all, just a tiny little dread lock of hair on one side.

The Pumpkin had a thing for hair. She'd wrap it around her pacifier and stuff it into her mouth.  Think about how gross it feels when you have a piece of hair in your mouth. I can not, for an instant, imagine voluntarily stuffing hair into my mouth. I shudder just at the thought, and my niece would  have us pulling out our hair for her. Or, she'd pull out our hair. Sometimes she would just run the pacifier over the dog's back to get a hair fix.  We, at least, would grow the hair back. Moll wasn't so lucky.  When she was down to the last tiny little nub of hair, Pumpkin went into preservation mode. It is the most disgusting little lock of hair ever. It's all hard and stuck into a little clump. I'm sure there's cookie crumbs and snot and who knows what else holding that thing together.

In true Velveteen Rabbit style, it's that one Loonette doll that truly was the Pumpkin's treasured friend and comfort.  When Moll got really disgusting, my parents came across a brand new one somewhere and quickly bought it up and raced it home for the Pumpkin.  There has never been a more disgusted looking toddler than the one who thought her Moll was being threatened by this shiny, red nosed, full haired interloper.  I don't know what happened to the new and "improved" Moll, she probably made an underprivileged little girl very happy.  But, there's a box with the treasured original Moll that comes out every few years for a laugh and a smile.

My Magic Camera

When I got my first digital camera, what I wanted more than anything else was the biggest zoom lens I could get.  This made for great pictures, however, the camera was a little unwieldly.  The jumbo lens made it heavy and too big to put in a handbag. Finding  a camera case was kind of problematic too. It's a good camera, it just isn't very convenient.  It's an Olympus, which means that it takes a different kind of memory storage card than all the other camera brands.

Then, my aunt bought a teeny weeny little camera that fit in a tiny little camera case in her purse. She uses it all the time. When she is trying to figure out what to wear, she takes pictures of herself in a few different outfits to decide.  When she was thinking of planting shrubs behind her fence, if she drove past a house that had did shrubs behind their fence well, she would snap a couple of pictures. I was jealous. I never used my camera and it was expensive, too.  I went in search of a little digital camera. I wouldn't mind a little less zoom, if I made better use of the camera.  I found a little Olympus and was won over. I based the decision on the memory cards and the card reader I already had.

A few years ago I went to spend four of the most amazing days in Rome visiting a cousin who was living there for a year (Hi Laurenn!).  I brought my little baby Olympus camera with me and was prepared to snap lots of pictures of art and architecture and culture and ruins, etc.  And, I made Rome my bitch!  Poor Laurenn, I got off that plane on Friday morning and I didn't stop until I got back on the plane Tuesday morning.  I really could have spent more time to see and do all that I'd like to there, but I made a pretty good dent in what Rome has to offer.  I owe a huge debt of thanks for that to my cousin. She was awesome, putting me up, cooking me dinner on my first night, since she figured the 6 hour time difference was going to knock me on my heiney.  

If you've used a digital camera or a cell phone camera, you know how hard it can be to see what you are taking pictures of in daylight.  I wound up spending a lot of time just pointing the camera and taking mystery pictures. The luxury of digital pictures is that you can delete all the bad ones, and sometimes bad pictures are good, even if they aren't what you were intending.  At the end of the day, we'd check out the results of my snapping and were shocked at how good a lot of the pictures were. We jokingly referred to it as the "magic camera."

Then we spent the day at the Vatican museum.  In the painting gallery, where you can take photos, but can not use a flash. In that gallery was a painting of Pan and a cherub. The painting was so dark and dingy that you could barely make it out.  It looked like a shadowy blob.  I took the picture, kind of as a joke to test out the magic camera and when I put the picture up on my computer was amazed to find the flashless photo was infinitely better, clearer and cleaner than the subject.  In fact, I think it's kind of an awesome painting.

Now, I've got to get back to Rome while I still know exactly how to get to the statue of Moses with the horns hidden in a little church in the vicinity of the Coliseum!

Schnapps, the miniature Schnauzer... and Land Lubber

Schnapps was a salt and pepper miniature schnauzer and, quite possibly, could be the star of his own book. I was 3 when my parents took my brother and I out to buy a new coat for my mother.  My father spotted Schnappsy in the pet store window and it wasn't difficult to get two toddlers hyped up on the idea of a puppy.  Not only did my mother not get the coat that she needed, but little puppy Schnapps threw up all over the one she was wearing on the car ride home.

That wasn't his only issue with motion sickness.  Allow me to jump ahead to our Minnesota years.  Everyone in my family is either a water sign or a sun sign and we've never felt more at home than when we are on, near or in, water. Summer weekends in Minnesota were spent on our boat, the Good Time Charlie. We'd head out on the St. Croix River and we'd beach at a lovely little island.  The boat had a nice little cabin, sleeping room for the four of us, and the dog, under my parents' bed, which was also, before a Transformers like switcheroo, the kitchen table. We didn't use the stove very much. We had an old-school little hibachi grill, which my parents would cook all the meals on.  My dad didn't like grilled food. He got much better with it in his later years, but back then, breakfast was scrambled eggs, pancakes, bacon, all cooked on the hibachi, in Daddy's frying pan.  To this day, I prefer my grilled food to not look like it's been on the grill.  While people want toasty buns and  hot dogs that look like they could double as charcoal briquettes, I prefer mine just heated through.  I guess it's a family thing.

There was that day we went out, I think it may have been Father's Day. My mother was sort of a perfectionist.  She made an entire day's worth of food.  Well, almost.  Although we had a great day and everyone was happy, my mom was beside herself, somehow she had failed as a wife and a mother.  We had potato salad and watermelon and all the other food and drinks, with the exception of  the ham she'd made.

But, as usual, I digress. Schnapps was not happy on the boat, and generally didn't like water. (My dad tossed him into my Great Uncle Petey's pool when I was little and that didn't go over well, at all. But, that's another story.) Anytime we'd bring him out on the boat with us, he'd claw up the rugs in the cabin like he was trying to tunnel out.  All night, he'd be under that table/bed just scratching nonstop. It might have been easier if we could have put him out of the cabin. We had those plastic covers that you zip and snap to close up the outside parts of the boat, but he didn't like it out there. Actually, he didn't like it on the boat at all, but if he was on board, he was in the cabin, under the table. To get him on land, we'd have to have one person in the cabin with the dog, one positioned over the cabin hatch to lift him up and my dad would stand on the beach so we could hand Schnapps down to him.  You couldn't carry him over the water because he would freak out.   He was a little dog, but he was extremely high maintenance and troublesome. He wanted off of that boat , but not by way of the water, hence the extrication through the little hatchway. But, that was nothing, the real excitement was yet to come.

After all the fun he was all weekend, things didn't really improve for Schnapps wen we got home.  Come Monday morning, we'd notice him standing in the foyer, swaying from side to side.  At this point, I'd wind up calling out, "Mommy, Schnapps isn't getting his land legs back!"  Then he'd lose his Liv-A-Snaps on the foyer floor.

Where Have All These Crazy People Come From?

This was supposed to be my calm and peaceful week at the office.  There's not much work to be done, the boss is out until after the holiday, the Dimwit co-worker is off casting a very small amount of light elsewhere in the world and I practically have the place to myself.  Normally, this would be like heaven. I could quickly finish up whatever work needed to be done without worrying about who was screwing up the files and savor every moment of peace.  Hah!

Whenever the boss is away, an unusual number of clients need to be talked off of metaphorical ledges.  On Monday, Client A called and burst into tears as she told me that she was in trouble.  I try not to ask too many questions of the really nutty clients, because I know just what that can turn into. So, I tried to get basic information and I'd have The Boss call her and straighten her out.  But, she decided that she needed to explain her problem to me.  Then she proceeded to say, "I'm in trouble" over and over again. I gently advised her that she would have to be more specific if she wanted to explain her problem to me.  It turned out that she went into a store and decided that she would swap her holey sneakers with a new pair and then just leave.  Being the genius idea that this was, she was promptly arrested.

Also on Monday, Client B called to tell me that she and her primary care doctor needed to know the names and addressed of every  doctor she's seen in the past 6 years.  I hesitated, mostly because I felt that I should be the least likely of the three of us to have all of that information. She must have taken my hesitation as a sign of poor file management and said that if she had an office, she would keep a sheet of paper for each client and keep track of all their doctors.  Of course, it didn't occur to her that she hadn't been bothered to know what doctors she received treatment from, or to keep a sheet of paper listing them for herself.  It was, clearly, not only my shortcoming, but also my obligation to know all of her doctors and have them at my fingertips until the end of time, if necessary. Yeah, that's realistic.  Client B has called at least once a day every day this week, growing more and more frantic over various issues.

This morning Client C called, without identifying himself and asked where a certain court was. He believed in was driving through the right area, but didn't see a Court Room anywhere, as if they were open air affairs, set up on street corners, maybe among the stainless steel sided food trucks. I gave him the address and told him the landmarks nearby, during which he started babbling some nonsense and then said he thought he found it and hung up.  An hour and a half later, he called again, identifying himself this time.  He claimed that he was at court, had been looking all over for The Boss, but couldn't find him. Then, he asked everyone he saw there if they had seen  him.  I put him on hold and checked his file. When I explained that he has court next Thursday, he said he didn't know, The Boss just said Thursday without identifying which one.

This, I later realized,  is the same guy who called to say he was on his way to a defense examination scheduled within a half hour of his call, but he didn't have the phone number or the address.  I pulled the file and gave him the address, but because I foolishly believed the certainty in his voice, I didn't bother to check the date (which, just happened to be the day before his call) when I gave him the address of the doctor's office.  He went to the appointment, a day late and was sent away. He proceeded to call and yell at me because it was my fault that he missed the appointment. I sent this guy 3 letters. One, when we were notified by the scheduling company, a second when we were notified by the attorney and a third about a week prior to the scheduled appointment as a reminder.  Each asked him to call and confirm that he'd be keeping the appointment, and provided him with the day of the week, date, time and the doctor's name, address and office phone number. I'm not exactly sure where it was that I dropped the ball on this one. Probably when I expected him to act like a responsible adult.

Sadly, I could continue this tale of calls and drop ins from crazy people which occurred just this week, but my fingers are getting tired of typing these stories and my head is starting to hurt just thinking about them all.  I will not be sorry at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon when I run screaming from the building. That will be immediately followed by me driving like Batman, racing between cars to get home as quickly as humanly possible. Then I will be in my bathing suit flying through my house and into the pool.  France E. Foshizzle (I swear I had nothing to do with his new "rap name") will make a point of mixing up some fine libations and keeping my glass full while I sip and float around the pool until well after dark,  and after the pool light overheats and leaves me tipsy, clinging to a foam noodle in the dark, forgetting all about the insanity of the work week.

Vacation Constipation

My family's summer vacations at the Jersey Shore have always been crowded and chaotic.  In 2000 we sold the house that was my great grandfather's and then my grandparents. The house was originally a summer home with rental properties. We had an efficiency and an apartment on the second floor and two bungalows in back. After my grandparents started to live there year round, they stopped renting and the second floor rooms became extra family bedrooms. I went from a crowded room with two 3/4 beds on the first floor to a nice sized room with bay windows all to myself.  My parents took over the efficiency and made it their own. The bungalows were primarily used for storage by then.  We went from being crowded into the 1st floor of a 3 story house, to spreading out into 8 bedrooms. And then we sold the house.

Now, we were 13 people renting 4 bedroom townhouses and we were back to being like a basket full of puppies for a week at a time.  We brought our inflatable beds, or slept in mixed groups of adults and children in rooms filled with bunk beds. The saving grace was that my mother and aunt only rented brand new properties, so we became sardines in a spiffy new can.

One summer we rented a lovely house in North Wildwood and my (now) ex-boyfriend got indoctrinated into our way of vacationing.  This was a quiet, conservative man, totally non-confrontational, all Midwestern sensibilities and ill equipped to join our fray.  He was going to have to deal with very little personal space and even less privacy. We were used to each other. We'd been loving each other and fighting each other forever. This was all new territory for Ex and it took its toll.

Apparently, the first place it showed was his digestive system.   We'd been at the house for a couple of days and I noticed that when everyone was on the beach, he'd disappear for a while. Since the house was so close to the beach, my family came and went from the house to our little spot on the sand as needed for snacks, drinks, or whatever.

About three days into the vacation, Ex was getting rather testy, which wasn't really like him at all. We were walking home from a nearby restaurant when he pushed ahead of the rest of our crowd, heading back to the townhouse. My mom asked what was up with him, since she noticed how out of character he was behaving. Since I had figured out what his problem was (he would never ever ever ever discuss such matters with anyone!) I just told her that he was looking for a couple minutes of privacy. She understood better than I imagined, and she had no problem discussing it in detail.  She told me that sometimes she "couldn't go" while on vacation and that I should suggest black licorice, or a glass of warm water, as these usually helped her.

I had a bad feeling about all of this.  I couldn't bring up this topic at all to a man who would be incapable of having this sort of discussion. And, I knew how horrified he would be that my mother knew. He was going to be angry and I'd, without saying a word, managed to air his sad little secret. There was no way that I was going to give her suggestions. That would be like admitting that I discussed all of this with my mother.  Even though I totally didn't, or at least didn't mean to. So, bad situation all around, but not horrible, because eventually the dude would have to poop and his mood would improve and I could just block out the entire exchange with my mother and no one would be the wiser.

Fat Chance!  When I turned my back for a moment my mother must have gotten him alone, implied that I had explained his problem (Did Not, not that he believed me) and gave him her pointers himself. So, Ex, while all blocked up and in a nasty mood had a conversation he wouldn't choose to have at the best of times with anyone, no less with my mother while under the assumption that I had orchestrated it, or participated. Fun!  I, of course, was confronted and just could not think of a way out of the situation.  I swore that I never once told my mother, or anyone else, for that matter, that he needed emptying.  Technically, this was true, but it didn't look good for me. But, I figured, he'd have to go soon, be in a better mood and how long could he all all of this against me. Now, my mouth gets me in trouble all the time.  This time, it managed to get me in trouble and I avoided the whole subject. I didn't actually discuss it with anyone, my mom put the pieces together on her own. I'm pretty sure that what happened next was because she continued to talk about it.

The next day, Ex leaves the beach in the afternoon while we're all sunning and swimming and hopes to end his (he wished) private misery.  But, shortly after he leaves my brother, sister-in-law and cousin head back to the townhouse for lunch and got sidetracked by the horrible programming known as daytime television. By the time Ex gets out of the bathroom, feeling successful and empty and secure in the knowledge that he's home alone, he walks down the hall to a standing ovation and cheers that he "finally dropped the kids off at the pool."  (That would be courtesy of my class-act brother.)

He refused to join us for more than a day or two of my family's vacations after that.  I can't imagine why.

Outlaws

A couple of summers ago, fueled by our mutual love of miniature golf, my boyfriend's (who is presently going by his new rap name, MC France E) son, DB and I stopped to play at every course we passed.  We've got a little photo album filled with our mini golf score cards and we have a lot of fun playing together.  If we play with MC France E, it's a little more stressful. He doesn't believe in do overs and he's always penalizing for rules that I'm pretty sure he's just making up as he goes along.  Now, don't get me wrong, I don't advocate cheating and don't take any do overs myself.  I was taught to play correctly and by the rules and I stand by my grandfather's teachings.

When DB and I play on our own, if he has a bad hole, or takes a bad shot, I have no problem with him having a total do-over, with no penalty. As long as there is no one behind us.  It drives me crazy when people aren't considerate of others. I don't know how a person can manage to convince himself that he is the only person in the world.  But, it happens all the time.   If there isn't anyone who could be put out by our playing, I will let DB replay a hole if he wants to.  Being a good sport, even when he plays the  hole over, he'll keep his  original score.

Driving home from going out to dinner one night, we spotted a miniature golf course and MC France E agreed to pull in and let us play.  I'm pretty sure that he went across the street to a hotel that looked to be having a wedding. As we were paying and picking out our brightly colored golf balls, I think I spotted him ducking into the bar tent.  At least, I knew it was safe to assume that we wouldn't have to worry that we were taking too much time to play.  Knowing him, he'd make new friends and be asked to replace the best man before the night was over.  He's the kind of guy who could crash a wedding and get invited to the honeymoon. Yes, he is just that lovable.  I know that I am a lucky girl.

Anyway, we parked right in front of this sign in the parking lot for two mini golf courses and stopped to read it as we walked to the little caddyshack to pay.  The number one thing you aren't allowed to do AT THE GOLF COURSE is GOLF!!!!  We're such rebels. We golfed anyway. It cost $6 a person for each of the two courses to flaunt our disdain for the law, but that's just how we roll.

Drive In Memories

Right in the middle of 6th grade, my father's job transferred him from the Philadelphia area to Cottage Grove, Minnesota.  I went from Southern New Jersey where the threat of snow was enough to cancel school to a midwestern state that didn't have a snow day in all of the four and a half years we lived there, even  on the days when the snow was waist deep and every step left you bent in half with a face full of snow. This is not an exaggeration, either.

My mother was a big fan of the local parks and recreation activities. When we moved from South Philly to Washington Township, New Jersey, she went activity crazy.  I did gymnastics, twirled the baton, took piano lessons, swimming lessons, tennis lessons, played basketball (quite poorly) and soccer, was a Girl Scout, and belonged to the local lake and swim club.  Summer mornings (when we weren't at our house at the Jersey shore in Wildwood) we went to our tennis lesson, then I headed to gymnastics camp, followed by either the lake, playing with the neighborhood kids or went to the day camp at the local elementary school.  They were busy days filled with childhood fun.  When we moved to Minnesota my mother went in search of the Cottage Grove and Saint Paul Park recreation opportunities.

The first one I remember was an overnight camping trip.  It was a memorable evening.  I was the only girl, which was really less fun than it sounds.  Even better, one of the boys tried to show us this awesome trick he knew. He said that he could spray his pants legs with lighter fluid, and set his jeans on fire without getting burned, while he was wearing them.  Since the  adult supervision was not currently supervising us, he grabbed a can of lighter fluid, coated his pants and lit a match.  I don't know if he did it wrong, and I'm pretty sure this wasn't a trick that actually works.  His night camping ended with a ride in the back of an ambulance, sirens blazing.

After the ambulance left, we were supervised much more closely and spent the rest of the time before being sent to our tents sitting on a hill, watching the screen at the Cottage View Drive-In.  We couldn't hear anything, but after all the excitement earlier, it was enough entertainment for us.

That was my first experience with the Cottage View Drive-In, but certainly not my last.  Star Wars came out that summer.  We were 10 and 11 and my mom had the genius idea that if we went to the movies bathed and in our pajamas, it would be easier to carry us in and plunk us into bed after we fell asleep in the car.  We usually set up sleeping bags on the roof, or in the back of the car.  Going out in your pajamas meant that we pretty much had to stay in the car. So, it was the A&W Drive-In for dinner before the movie and then you just had to hope that no one you knew was at the movie, so you could hang at the playground waiting for the sun to go down and the movie to start.

Star Wars was also memorable.  My mother was not exactly a Science Fiction fan, but she was an awesome woman, mother and human being. She was smart and kind and funny.  It took us years to convince her that his name was Darth Vader and not Dark Invader.  However, when The Empire Strikes Back came around , she was very nonplussed, since she had already figured out that Dark Invader was Luke's father.  I'm not sure if she had the whole Luke and Leia are actually twins, but I wouldn't be surprised!

For the last few years the Cottage View Drive-In has been threatened.  It looks like the man who owns the land and leases it to the Mann Theaters company has been leaning toward selling the property to Walmart.  They have a Facebook page where they track the fate of the theater.  So far, it's still there and open and as far as I know the Mann people have no intention of closing it, for as long as that decision is in their hands.  Of course, even if I wanted to help the Cottage View by giving them my business, it would be a bit difficult, considering I've been back in New Jersey for 30 years.  I just have to hope that any old friends still in Washington County, Minnesota will make new memories for their families at the old drive-in.

A search of drive-in theaters in New Jersey culminated in the discovery that  of the 57 we used to have in the state, there is only one left, the Delsea Drive-In in Vineland, New Jersey.  They are open from Wednesday through Sunday and have two screens.  I think it's time to make some new Drive-in memories.  I may even go in my jammies.

Lotta Bangs?!!? Really?

I am an unapologetic book nerd.  I read anywhere from 100 to 150 books a year. I have two ereaders, ereader apps on my phone, visit my local library at least once a week, regularly buy books online and in book stores and even get books emailed to me in increments from the wonderful Daily Lit.  I'm a nook girl, I have the original and last Christmas, Ohhhh Lover Boy, gave me the nook tablet which may be the best toy ever.

The wonderful people at Barnes and Noble are kind enough to have deals of the day, free books available every Friday and a contingent of loyal customers who seek out  and publish book deals regularly.  Yesterday, after ordering the Free Friday book on offer through the Barnes and Noble blog, they offered suggestions for other free books. The book in the photo to the left was one of them.  I've been pondering/giggling about it ever since.

Do you see that the author's name of this free piece of erotic fiction is Lotta Bangs?  Lotta Bangs, I say.  This lead me onto the following train of thought:

1. If by some strange circumstance her name is actually Lotta Bangs, did her parents hope she would wind up in a James Bond story?  And, would this make them literary types, hoping Ian Fleming would catch wind of their baby girl and pop her right into the world of 007?
2. Or, if this is her real name, did she feel that she had to write erotica? Did it seem that with a name like that, her only other option was dangling from a pole five nights a week in a strip club?
3. Now, in all likelihood, this is absolutely a nom de plume.  Is she trying to throw parents/grandparents and many other assorted conservative friends and relations off the scent?  I've got plenty of aunts, uncles, cousins, great aunts and uncles that I would be loathe to find out I was writing naughty naughty books.
4. It is possible that she knew writing erotica was in her future, but was saddled with an extremely ironic birth name, like Mother Theresa Jr?

Then, it occurred to me, Lotta Bangs is totally a drag queen name.  I went to many Gay Bingo nights for the  AIDS Fund group in Philadelphia. The evenings were hosted by Carlotta Tendant and the officials had names like Penny Nickles, Ivana Tinkle, Eva Destruction, Anita Manhattan and Ida Slapter.  Lotta Bangs would have fit right in.  Of course, if she was to participate as a BVD, or Bingo Verifying Diva, she'd need some proficiency on roller blades.

Afterthought:  If you are interested in the written works of Lotta Bangs, her Destined Lovers is free as a nook book.  If you are interested in Gay Bingo, go here for more information.

Magical Thinking

My grandfather was one of the best friends a child could ever have.  He never seemed to tire of spending time with us, entertaining us, creating jokes and poems and riddles for us to laugh over and solve together.

We lived in South Philadelphia until the summer before I started second grade. At that time my parents joined what seemed like a mass exodus to the suburbs. I liked the city then and I still do.  My parents were young and just starting to make their way in the world.  My mom left Catholic nursing school to have me (and my brother, shortly thereafter) and my dad was discharged from the Coast Guard and working at the Gulf Oil Refinery.

I remember my mom sold Avon for a little while. Actually, what I mostly remember were those little tiny lipstick samples. She must have had hundreds of them. They all looked like little tiny highlighters, the size of the tip of a pinky finger.

One day, while sitting at the little table and chairs in my childhood bedroom, I perused the latest Avon catalog and called in my order on my Fisher Price play phone.  What I really wanted was the It's a Small World cream perfume. It came in a little white glass jar and the top had the earth in the center and a ring of children from all walks of life, holding hands around the edge.

Considering the state of the large Barbie head which had received an absolutely horrible, trashy makeover and was still sporting some really nifty rollers right in front of me on the table, it's a darn good thing I wasn't really ordering anything to make her beauty situation and more precarious than it was.  Poor Barbie, I'm so grateful that I learned to temper my love of color and hand eye coordination in the years between when I went to town on that poor and vaguely creepy severed doll head and today, when I apply my own make up to go out into the world.

Anyway, as I was placing my order, the doorbell rang.  I rushed my pretend Avon representative off of the phone, closed the week's sale catalog and raced downstairs to answer the door.  Standing there was my grandfather, with that little, plain white bag that Avon orders always came in.  Inside, I found my It's A Small World cream perfume, just as I had ordered on my pretend phone moments before.   I still feel like Grandpop made a little magic for me that day.

 The package was darling, the memory was golden. In fact, I can, right at this moment, see the built in bookcase at the bottom of the stairs as I headed down and my grandfather standing on the stoop with the little white bag in his hand.

For the record:  That stuff smelled horrible!

Fire Head and the Nasty Girl

My sophomore year of college I lived with seven pals in a four bedroom house off-campus.  We were surrounded by fraternity boys, which was usually more of a curse than a blessing. We were also living in the community and many of our neighbors were families. As much as many of our female contemporaries envied out setting and set up, the people who really lived in the neighborhood must have despised us!

We meandered our way home from classes on the day of the first snow and gathered in our yard to play in it. Of course, a group of 19 year old girls laughing and frolicking in the snow is bound to attract some attention. Pretty soon, the boys next store joined us for an impromptu snowball fight.  Now, the boys next store were particular favorites of mine and absolutely characters in their own right.  One of them I even fell in love with, but that's a lot of tales that I'll pass on to you some other time. I was, in fact, in the courtship stage with the boy next door at this time. Sadly, that has no bearing on the story I'm imparting today.

While the college aged boys and girls from 15 and 13 Eben Street were making snow balls and chasing each other around the yard, a group of small children from the neighborhood decided to get in on the action.  Now, not all of us were involved in the action in the yard.  Zoid, our house president, remained inside. Of course, I am digressing once again, but feel that I should reflect on the  Zoid presidency. There was no election. I'm pretty sure she got and maintained her post by virtue of the microphone attached to her stereo. I can, to this day, picture her with her stereo blasting, microphone pressed to her flaming red lips, making announcements and pronouncements to her subjects.  On this day, however, she wound up running out of the house pointing the rifle from some old school shoot-em-up video game (cord trailing behind her and not quite making it out before the screen door shut) at the hooligans on "her" yard, shouting some nonsense and then running back inside from her perch on the porch before being pummeled with snow.  Considering that she was, in all likelihood, wearing sweatpants and spike heeled pumps in a brilliant hue, this was wise on her part.

As the attention was turned to Zoid,  a small red-headed boy snuck up on our Nasty Girl and walloped her with a big chunk of snow.  Now, you should know that Nasty Girl is an extremely tiny little woman. She's just about 5 feet tall and around this time felt the need to regularly remind us of the fact that she weighed some ridicuously little bit of weight, like 80 pounds. This 6 year old boy really wasn't all that much smaller than itsy bitsy NG, which may have had a lot to do with the boldness of his attack. In her anger and surprise she spun around, facing the tiny little boy and sputtered, "You.... You.... YOU FIRE HEAD!"  I can only assume that she was trying her best not to say any of the many curse words that were fighting to spring from her lips.

What immediately followed was one of those needle scratching against the record/ sounds from the ghosts of the crickets who perished in the first frost kind of moments as everyone paused in the silliness of the moment. And then the laughter started and, of course, the introductions between the "adults" and our elementary school aged neighbors and newly acquired friends were made.

Footnote:  Fire Head and his slightly older brother, Billy, became fixtures at the Eben Street house. They often stopped by after to school to hang out, or just see what was up.  We never bothered to learn Fire Head's real name.  He seemed to like the one he received, born in a time of snow war, from the Nasty Girl.

I Was a Toddler Bad Ass

Pretty provocative title and the baby girl mugshot fits right in, don't you think?  It's totally true, though. I was a toddler bad ass. I gave my first black eye at the age of 4.

As an aside, I generally think of my childhood in the plural. I have a brother who is precisely one year and 19 days younger than I am. We had the same experiences, so I generally use a very not royal "we" when describing my formative years.

When we were very little, and we were very little even for being little, my father would strap these giant boxing gloves on us and teach us how to throw a punch.  He told me that I needed the lessons because I would need to fight off the boys when I grew up.  Yup, I was totally Daddy's Girl. And, yes, this is a position I relish to this day, some 8 years after his death.

So, Daddy has his hands up and we are taking turns punching them with our comically enormous boxing gloves.  It turns out my hands were just too small to keep those ridiculous things on, and they wound up flopping off  my hands and onto the ground.  This didn't deter my father and he told us to keep going.  But, at some point he stopped paying attention and my tiny little fist hit home, home being his eye.  The punching stopped then and he went into the kitchen, where I heard my mother exclaim, "You've got a black eye!" Then, I darted for the closet and stayed there, convinced that I was in big big trouble for beating up my father. He was over 6 feet tall, and I still fit in baby clothes. That should give you a pretty good idea of just how imposing and intimidating a figure I was.

I should make it clear that my parents never once lifted a hand to us. We didn't even get yelled at much and I think I was grounded once, maybe twice as a teen. The first time I got grounded, it was for a week. During that time a boy from school called to ask me out on a date. I told him that I couldn't go because I was grounded and when I got off the phone, my mom informed me that she "made allowances for love" and that a date would nullify the punishment.  That's just how strict my parents were.  

There I was, in the back of the coat closet, curled up, knees bent, arms around legs, perhaps wondering when they would be setting up the guillotine in the family room. But, in truth, we had no guillotine, nor any other implements of torture or death.  My dad's real weapon was "the look", and I didn't even get that. What I got were my bragging rights, and I think I earned them.

Anecdotal Evidence

My life, like everyone's, I suppose, is made up of stories.  This is the anecdotal evidence of my life.  The stories are as true as I remember them.  In order to avoid embarrassing my friends and family, I'll be changing names, or more likely, replacing them with nicknames.  My embarrassment is just a given.  We'll have to wait and see how things play out here to determine how bad it will be.  Anything less than feeling the need to change my identity and emigrate to a new nation and I'll consider this endeavor a success.  

Stick around and I'll let you into the recesses of my scary scary little mind.