Foolery

Two of Us Riding Nowhere, Spending Someone's Hard-Earned Pay

I Googled "October 1972 calendar" and this is what I found. If you only knew how much this will make my friend Cheryl laugh. (Stolen from these guys: page 25 october 1972 protesters)

Today, if I have my days right, is the 40th anniversary of my most enduring friendship. 40 years ago, October 23rd was a Monday, and a new girl came to our little country school. She was rather shy then, but that didn't last. In fact, thinking of Cheryl as shy is almost impossible.

Happy anniversary to my best friend of 40 years, Cheryl!

They Wuz a Weddin'

Chas and I were married in February of 1998, in an evening wedding in his childhood home, with a very small group of close family and friends. It was important to us to keep it simple and casual and very "us"; I'm definitely not the Big White Wedding Dress type. So naturally I wore blue velvet.

I was down at the beach an hour and a half before the wedding, drinking coffee at Kaylani Coffee Company and watching the sun set. My hair was still a little damp as I stood before the judge. That's about as "me" as possible.

And then there was this.


Yeah, a church wedding was just not our style. More to the point, what church would agree to it?

From the Archives: Aloha 'Oe, Until We Meet Again, Magic Johnson

I posted this story in April of 2006 and, because I am uninspired and have told all of my cute stories, I am recycling it. Not that anyone read it the first time, so in a way, it's almost a virgin story. Please enjoy this 100% true Fooleryland story.




Did I ever tell you about the time two boatloads of sailors and Magic Johnson were in attendance at my going away party?

It’s true, every word. Except for the part about Magic Johnson. That’s not true, because he didn’t show up.

But the sailors did.

The place was Kaanapali, Maui, and it was August 17, 1987. I know this date not because my brother Mantel Man pulled it out of his, um, ear, but because it was the night of the Harmonic Convergence, as predicted by Quetzalcoatl* and as celebrated by Shirley MacLaine. On that very night there were something like 25,000 pilgrims up on Mt. Haleakala, worshiping something or other. I guess the view of whatever was supposed to happen in the heavens was really good at 10,000 feet.

When I lived in Maui there were two places in Kaanapali to go dancing after work (well, two with air conditioning, anyway): Banana Moon in the Marriott, and Spats in the Hyatt. Spats was too snooty and too expensive, and there was almost always someone in our group who wasn’t dressed appropriately for the dress code there, so we usually went to the Moon.

It’s so hard to remember how things were back then. Why did I feel compelled to go dancing at 11:00 at night, after a long day (often a 15-hour day, because I had two jobs)? I was 21 – okay, that explains most of it. But part of it, especially in the sweltering heat of my first summer there, was that we couldn’t sleep in the liquid air anyway – why not go somewhere with A/C? Banana Moon it was.

So when it was time for me to leave the island and go back home, back to college, back to reality, my friends took me to Banana Moon for one last night. We knew the Tongan bouncers at the Moon, and they always let us in, even if there was a line, so we were surprised when they made us wait at the door. When we were finally let inside, we were surprised again – all of the booths in the place, which were always occupied, were empty. All of them. Of course we picked one and sat down, only to have one of the bouncers, Ava, oust us.

"Reserved," said Ava.

Never seen that before. "By whom?" we asked.

"Can’t tell you," said Ava. He was a man of few words, and if you could see his arms and neck you’d understand why that worked for him. But another employee was much more chatty, and we learned that Magic Johnson was in town, and had reserved ALL of the booths for his party.

Magic never showed.

So when two boatloads of sailors – remember them? I told you about them – showed up, there was no place for anyone to sit down, and the place was packed.

Meanwhile, people were buying me drinks left and right, and, sap that I was, I was doing the "I’m gonna miss you guys" routine. I had about six leis around my neck (talk about sweaty and itchy). And, being vaguely female, I was not allowed to stop dancing as long as there was an available sailor. And there were lots of available sailors.

One sailor named Thomas wrote his Navy address down on a cocktail napkin and pressed it into my hand with a look that was almost desperate. "I’m going to the most desolate place the Navy can send you," he said.

"You’re going to Barstow?" I thought, but he was serious, so I held my tongue. This was beginning to feel like a 1942 goodbye from a foggy dock in England, except that I had been drinking mai tais . . . Turns out he just wanted me to write to him. Sounds like a line, but it wasn’t.

I didn’t know they had mail service in Barstow.

Anyway, we closed the place down, which, in Maui in 1987, was 4:00 a.m. Our designated driver was Deb – an old woman in her late 30s who had a car as big as an aircraft carrier. We waited in the rain for the valet to bring the big old Caddy to us. When the car splashed up to the curb, our jaws hit the sidewalk: convertible.

"Quick – put the top up, Deb!"

"Can’t – it doesn’t work."

Oh. Okay. So about eight or nine of us piled into the car, and Deb floated the car out onto the expressway. The windshield wipers were probably on the same malfunctioning electrical circuit as the convertible roof, because they didn’t work, either. Deb took it in stride. She stood up and peered over the windshield to see. How she did that while driving I’ll never know, but we made the three-mile trip up the road to Honokowai Beach Park.

Two other carloads of people from our group pulled up just before us, and out of the cars like so many clowns poured my friends, some peeling off clothing as they emerged.

We were, apparently, going skinny dipping. I took off my jewelry.

A fourth car pulled up at that moment, but it wasn’t one of our group. No, this was a police car.

"The park is closed," the officer stated flatly. "What are you folks doing here?"

"Oh, well, we’re here to see that Harmonic Convergence thing, Officer," some genius declared. I silently thanked that genius, even though the cop and the rest of us knew that nothing of that astral event could be seen from sea level on a rainy night. But it bought us enough time for the advance group of would-be skinny dippers to slink back to the cars, scrambling for clothing in the dark.

The cop really saved our hides (other than not arresting us), because anyone who knows anything about the ocean knows that sharks feed at night. And anyone who knows anything about Honokowai Beach Park knows that swimming there is not easy, as it has a coral and lava rock bottom. At least it did on August 17, 1987.

Back into the cars for the ride home. It was then that we noticed that we had at least two strangers with us. The whispering started. "I thought they were with you!" "ME? I’ve never seen them before. Aren’t they sailors?"

EPILOGUE: Once back on the mainland I maintained a pen pal relationship for several months with Thomas the sailor. The most desolate place on earth isn’t Barstow, apparently – it’s a rock in the middle of the Indian Ocean known as Diego Garcia. The last correspondence I ever received from Thomas was a Christmas present. He sent me a real pith helmet. Not sure why he had it – was it government issue? Was there a pith helmet store on the island? Would he regret not having it later? Don’t know. I just know it is one of the coolest gifts I have ever received.

I was forever cured that night of the desire to skinny dip at a public beach.

Magic Johnson owes me a dance.

*totally lying about Quetzalcoatl, of course

Foolery's Party Girl Days

Almost 25 years ago I took a trip with my college roommates. They were 21 and I was 20, but it didn't matter because we went to Hawaii, and the legal age to walk into a bar and order a frou-frou drink was 18 at that time. Woo hoo!

Found these photos recently, all terrible, but I have learned several things from them.

 

Like that we were HIGHLY obnoxious, but pretty fun in those days.

 

And that every culture has its own Lionel Richie. Look, there's Honolulu's own Lionel Richie, Jr.!

 

Also, that I should never have tried to get a tan, ever.

 

And that getting braces in college was not one of my best ideas. Although it worked out okay.

This last picture was taken the following year, when I was moving home from the islands after camping there for a while.

 

I worked for the luau with these two, and Faa, the one on the right, was one of my roommates. What do I learn from this photo? That the poodle look was not my best bet. Sadly, it would take me YEARS to learn that.

Years.

Sibling Revelry

Gubby has been trying to get me to write a post called "Redneck Feng Shui," which is a fantastic premise, but I told him, No, Gubby, I am not a Redneck and I don't know anything about Feng Shui.
 
(Photo stolen from Ann Rea, who may be a good source to learn about Feng Shui)

So I tried to get GUBBY to write the post for me, since he IS a Redneck, but he doesn't know anything about Feng Shui, either, except something about gun placement in relation to outside doors or something -- I dunno, I wasn't paying attention.

 

(Photo stolen from these guys)

So instead, I'm going to tell you about locking one's brothers out of the house.

Both Gubby and I, when we were kids, had two pesky younger brothers in our families, only his were worse because they were identical twins. I don't know exactly how that makes them worse, but it did. It seems that Gubby, as I, practiced the art of Locking Your Brothers Out of the House.

This is tricky, because there are two of them, and only one of you.

First, you must go to the farthest doors as quietly and carefully as you can, locking them without being noticed. (This first step is usually a moot point, since the moment you usually decide to lock your brothers out of the house is the moment they're yelling to get in through the door you're holding fast. But, assuming you've managed to get your parents' sliding glass door AND the office door locked, you're on your way. Proceed.)

 

(Photo stolen from this guy)

Next, the front door should be locked. Try not to let Mom know what you're up to, or she'll throw your butt out with your pesky brothers.

If you manage this, swing back to the hall door and throw the bolt. Chances are one of the little farts is onto you now, so sprint for the sliding glass patio door. This one is a bitch to lock, so be careful.

 

(Original photo stolen from this guy)

Back through the kitchen to throw that latch. This is key -- the first door you KNOW they'll go to to yell "MO-O-O-O-OMMMMMMM!" is the kitchen door. If you manage this it's a race to the laundry room for the last one.

Assuming you've accomplished all seven doors (Gubby had five doors, so he had time for some trash talk, I assume), it's time to plop yourself down in the living room and watch some after school TV. Not too loud, or Mom will throw your butt out with your pesky brothers. Make sure you howl with laughter and really look like you're enjoying this particular "Love: American Style." If you're brazen, enjoy a nice snack during your viewership.

 


(Photo stolen from these guys)

Of course, this won't last long, as your mom will yell at you for eating in the living room, starting a fight, watching "that trash" on TV, and not playing outside. You may even have to go pull weeds as a punishment. But think how smug you'll be, knowing that you successfully Locked Your Brothers Out of the House.
 
(Photo stolen from these guys) 

Not Another Bad Date Story (But We Coulda Been Arrested Anyway)

My friend Gubby once had a roommate named Dale who was  much smarter  a few years older than we were. Dale asked me out once. One time.

It was spring of 1986 and Pioneer Days -- the festival that made Chico State notorious (with the help of MTV and about 20,000 out-of-town partiers) -- was in full swing. I was 20 with a bad perm, braces and no fake ID. Dale must have been unstable, looking back.

 


Dale picked me up in his tiny little convertible -- an old MG Midget or something -- and we drove downtown to have dinner. The sun was still pretty high in the sky on that early May evening.

 


(Original photo stolen from these guys)

I don't remember where we ate, what movie we went to later, or what we talked about. All I remember is The Hook.

A good song has a "hook" that makes you sing, dance or take off your clothes.

A good movie has a "hook" that keeps you from changing channels or leaving to go take off your clothes.

And a good date has a "hook," too. Some might say it's when you take off your clothes, but you didn't hear that from me.

This date had a hook.

We sat in the car at the curb near one of the busiest intersections in downtown Chico. We were parked right outside The Oaks Bar & Grill, which was HOPPING.

We were about the same distance away from the  world-famous  Madison Bear Garden (a crowded college spot we just call The Bear), as was the photographer who took this photo:

 


(Original photo stolen from teejayhanton on Flickr)

It was bustling, it was Pioneer Week (the last one before The Pioneer Week To End All Pioneer Weeks*), and I was not old enough to legally buy a drink.

So naturally, Dale brought the alcohol to me.

He made me close my eyes while he set up. If you've ever been inside an MG Midget you'll know that a womb has more elbow room. I heard the squeak of cork as Dale opened the wine, heard the gurgle of wine poured into glasses, smelled popcorn all of a sudden -- where was he hiding that? -- and then I opened my eyes.

We had a blast  drinking wine in the tiny parked car, as throngs of people and police surged by. It was like being naked in a fishbowl, but somehow no law enforcement witnessed our crime.

It was a pretty good hook for a date, but no sparks flew, no one got naked or arrested, and I moved away a couple of weeks later.

Seriously, I did NOT take off my clothes. For real.

*If you care to see very old footage of the 1987 Chico State Pioneer Days Riots, click here. I was 3000 miles away at the time so you can't blame me for it. 

A Roadapple By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet

My family tends to rename things.

This, for example . . .

 


(Photo stolen from these guys)

we had on crackers on special occasions when I was young, and we called it

good-good cheese.

This . . .

 


(Photo stolen from these guys)

according to my dad, is

millick.

Dad calls pancakes hotcakes, which is not too weird, but when they were little Dad called my brothers

laddybucks

as in, "Let's go, Laddybucks!" which is sort of weird.

Leaning back in your chair has always been

ghegumphing,

and where Dad got that, I'll never know.

My brother Mantel Man calls my daughters Baloney Girl and Fierce Grape. (Somehow Smedley and Sparky don't sound like such goofy names now, do they?)

My brother Bocci had no trouble naming things, but had more trouble sticking to a name. This dog

 

was named, depending upon the day and who you asked, Bucky, Rusty, Big Red, Rondele, Ron, Lloyd Bridges and Larry Bud Melman.

Dad calls this . . .

 


(Photo stolen from this site)

a

suckpopple

which, understandably, never left the house.

Butter is butterene, eggs are henneggs, and sugary kid's cereal is

Baby Sally's Crispy-Wispy's

(at least, it was when we were kids, and Dad thought we should be eating Kellogg's Pep. Like it even existed anymore).

Any scatological references came from kids, not parents, but if Dad got caught floating an air biscuit, he always asked us,

"Didya hear the buck snort?"

So what funny words and names did you grow up with? Tell me in the comments, or write a post at your blog and leave the link for us.

Get to Know Me!

 


(Photo stolen from these guys)

Crazy people seek me out. I do not go looking. They just find me.

Like the chain-smoking restaurant cashier, Barb, who declared that NASA was a sham and that the U.S. should have taken all the money it had ever spent on space exploration and divided it up among the world's poor. Good plan. Even at 21 I knew she was a crabby old loon with a crap personality, but it was SHE who came looking for ME. That I couldn't explain.

Or the pathological liar with whom I was friends in high school. I'd ask her a simple question, and she'd stare at me for two seconds too long, blink and then make up an insanely complicated story. Really? How did you find me? I was thinking.

Then there was the 20-something guy on a beach halfway around the world when I was a teenager. He came bounding up to me, high as a kite, ranting about something. I wasn't scared, just equally fascinated and repulsed. "YOU KNOW THAT GUY RUPERT MURDOCH?!" he screamed.

"No," I answered, because I didn't.

"WELL, I'M HIM!" he continued, without noticing my answer. "HE'S ME, I MEAN -- THAT'S ME!"

"Super," I answered without conviction. What else do you say to a loony? "Have a good evening."

How about the woman who liked to do impressions of black people in public? Sometimes when black people were present? She never said anything derogatory, but the whole issue of stereotypical impersonations -- especially poorly executed ones -- seemed grossly tasteless to me.

What all of these buttheaded types had in common was that they sought ME ought, not the other way around. I must have an invisible sign on my person: "Weirdos, Jerks and Clueless Types, Please Come Talk To Me!"

So if you approached me before I approached you, you probably ought to worry. Also, have a good evening.

I'm Not Wearing a Mask and Quit Pulling My Nose

I'm working on a Peter Pan costume for Smedley. Yeah, I know, I'm not exactly "crafty." But so far I'm on track. Kinda got me thinking about my all-time favorite Halloween costume that I made myself; it started with this guy:

 


(Original photo stolen from this guy)

Remember the Good Humor Man? Mmmmm, ice cream truck is here. And while we never had an ice cream truck within miles of us out in the boonies (and certainly not someone as professional as The Good Humor Man), I must have seen him somewhere -- maybe when visiting my grandparents? -- because I definitely knew who he was.

 


(Photo stolen from the Bullfight blog)

So, to go downtown in Chico on Halloween night in the mid-90s was a big deal. You'd be milling around with 10-20,000 of your closest friends and young adult merry-makers (it's since been severely curtailed). I just had to dress up, so . . .

I wore white jeans, black lace-up shoes and a black belt, and a crisp white long-sleeved oxford shirt, buttoned to my neck. I think I wore a black bow tie but since I have no photos, I'm not positive. I took a vinyl police hat

 
(Photo stolen from these guys)

and spray-painted it white. I bought rectangular iron-on patches and stuck them onto my shirt and hat. The costume was coming along nicely.

But, since I can't do ANYTHING normally, I had decided to be NOT the Good Humor MAN, but the Good Humor MON.

I "dreaded" my hair the night before by hand-twisting tiny strands into tight pin curls, which I slept on. It works, and I looked like I had dreadlocks. But JEEBUS it took forever! I had a lot of hair in those days. See?

 


My name badges read

 


and I handed out popsicle sticks to passersby. I looked something like this:

 


(Original image stolen from this site)

Only one person got it without explanation. He was stopped at a red light and honked his horn at me as I crossed in front of him. 'Bout scared the fudgesicles out of me.

So what is your most memorable costume ever?

Practicing My Acceptance Speech

 

(Photo stolen from these guys)

I'm going to tell you something I haven't told you before.

I am an independent consultant for Mary Kay Skin Care. Technically, I suppose, it's Mary Kay Cosmetics, or maybe Mary Kay, Inc., but I prefer to say Mary Kay Skin Care. It's my blog.

There, now I've told you. And NO, I don't drive a pink Cadillac (though I know someone who does) because GAHHH you have to be reeeeally reeeeally . . . a lot of things that I'm not -- yet -- to drive a pink Cadillac.

And NO, I don't wear pink all the time and YES, I rebel against panty hose because? When the President of the United States gets MORE respect for wearing panty hose in August than when he went without in July, I'll buy a whole truckload of L'Eggs. Which is about how many I'll need, for the week.

Also, when it cools off I won't be such a panty hose rebel, but I have actually passed out from overheating before and I refuse to do that again. This time in a dress. And heels.

But that's not what I came here to tell you today. I told you all that so I could tell you THIS:

I had a pretty close call a few weeks ago, while driving home from my Friday night Mary Kay skin care class. Zipping along East Avenue doing about 45mph in the left lane, I was suddenly faced with a 70s model Ford pickup veering wildly from his lane and headed straight for me. Our closing speed would surely have been over 100mph. Don't ask me how I know it was a 70s model Ford; some people see angels and white lights? I see unimportant details.

I drive by that spot twice a day, five times a week, and I can still see the skid marks where his tires left the street and climbed the curb onto the median, wrecking a sign and probably taking out some landscaping. He managed to correct his truck a second before he would have plowed into me, and then it was all over, just like that. I had two or three cars behind me, no place to pull over for a block or so, and nothing to pull over for -- he was gone like nothing happened. Pretty much, nothing DID happen.

But what if it had?

Okay, I told you all of that so I could tell you THIS:

Thursday night we had the Mary Kay equivalent of a knighthood ceremony: one of the young women in our area, Alicia, achieved director status. We had an event to honor her, in a rented hall, and it was very nice. Hot, but nice. Alicia gave a talk, as you would expect, and she was very energetic and extremely funny. But it was hot and humid in there and I got pretty loopy -- remember I told you about heat and me? -- and I started daydreaming during the ceremony. No breakfast, no dinner and a sluggish swamp cooler, and my listening powers go completely kaput. I daydreamed that I was up in front of 50-60 people, telling them my Mary Kay story. I dreamed I reached deep into my heart and found the moment when I knew I was bound to be a Mary Kay success -- a Cadillac-driving, panty-hose-wearing, Mary Kay director.

That moment came just before the averted impact, just before the 70s Ford pickup got control and saved us both.

Was I thinking, "My children! I want to see my children grow up!" Well, was I?

No.

Was I thinking, "How could this happen when I have so much left to do with my life?"

No.

I was thinking, "NOT IN THIS STUPID BEATER CAR! I WANT TO DIE IN MY MARY KAY CAR!!"

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Fifty Years Ago Today

(Photo stolen from this site)

Fifty years ago this week, four young teachers from Watsonville, California, were on an exotic vacation in Honolulu, Hawaii. Three of the young women had arrived via prop plane from San Francisco; I will never complain about the length of a plane trip again when I imagine how long that flight took.

The fourth friend arrived a few days later, on a Boeing 707 jetliner -- Pan-American's first jet flight between San Francisco and Honolulu. She arrived in only five hours time, but still three days too late to view the first-ever raising of the American flag over the new state of Hawaii, at the Iolani Palace on August 21, 1959. Her friends Wyvona, Mary Lou and Lynne were present, however, and saw the first flying of the Hawaii state flag.

Lynne wasn't my mother yet, but she is now. Thanks, Mom, for the history.

Extra help from this site, including photos, and this one and this one.

The Day

This was the day I met my sister Beth.

Okay, half-sister, but I really prefer just sister. We have enough qualifiers in our lives and we don't need any more tonight. That's Beth on the left, then me, our dad, Mantel Man and Bocci. It was 1976, and it must have been spring because we were in Berkeley for our cousin's track meet.

Beth lived in the San Francisco Bay Area, then as now. She was everything I wanted to be: urban, attractive, thin, sophisticated, and sixteen. I made it to sixteen, eventually.

It's weird to talk about my siblings; I say either "there were three of us" or "we four kids," depending upon the context. Every once in a while I forget and say, "my sister blah blah blah" to someone who knew me before this day, THE day, but who somehow missed the fact that I had a sister out there, somewhere. The last time I was that careless was last year, when I nearly knocked my best friend's mother for a loop; she had never heard the story, somehow.

Beth probably doesn't remember this, but every Father's Day is an anniversary of sorts for us. About 1995 I decided I wanted to find Beth, with whom we'd had no contact for years, and I was going to use my new computer for the job. The idea was to find her as a sort of Father's Day present for Dad.

No luck. I gave up quickly.

And then, on Father's Day of that year, Beth called Dad, out of the blue. Great minds must think alike, or maybe related minds do? We've been a reunited family ever since.

Beth is still urban, attractive, thin and sophisticated. Neither of us are sixteen any longer, thank God. But I am still the scruffy kid with the goofy smile, somewhat bewildered and certainly enchanted by the idea of a big sister. I still don't know how to act around her, but I love her, and I am reminded every Father's Day, which is almost here. It's a little early to be celebrating Father's Day, but I'm writing this tonight because Beth just sent me this photo, out of the blue. The subject line read The Day.

Beth, you can't make me go to Berkeley again, sorry. Happy anniversary, Sistah.

Sketches of Papa

I am reminded frequently of how very lucky I am to have my grandmother's life stories, written down in her own words, to savor and remember and share.  Of course I realize this, but sometimes my readers' comments -- about never having met their grandparents or having stern families who didn't share their lore -- bring it all home to me.

I was doubly lucky.  I had all four of my grandparents, and knew them all well, until I was 22 years old.  But while I know quite a bit about my grandmothers, I know considerably less about their husbands, my grandfathers, who were both rather reticent men, at least with their grandchildren.

You may have been following my grandmother Mormor -- Esther -- on the pages of this blog, but today I want to tell you about Papa -- Carl McDonald -- her husband, and my grandfather.  Taken in single sentences, just the highlights, I think a history may be constructed from sketches.



Carl ran track at Arcata High School, apparently the mile and the half mile.  Chas tells me that these are pretty good times, especially for 1923.



Carl never ate any kind of melon, but especially watermelon.  Mormor gave us the lowdown: it seems that as a boy Carl stole a watermelon from a local farmer's patch one afternoon. He sat down to eat it even though it had been warming in the summer sun.  The combination of warm watermelon, zealous overeating and guilt must have been very powerful, because the sickness that followed the crime left Carl unable to touch melon ever again.

As a boy Carl was taught by a local Indian to paddle an Indian canoe.  That story is here.

Carl ran away from home just as he hit his teen years, yet he managed to finish grade school, high school, and college all while supporting himself.  He got his teaching credential and his masters, supported a wife and family, supplementing his income with a dance band, carpentry, and ocean fishing.



He built this home in Monterey:



My mother remembers her older brother helping to put on the roof.

Carl retired to Fort Brag, California, to hunt and fish.   He wore mostly flannel shirts.



I never saw Papa in a pair of jeans. As far as I know he owned only khaki and gray work pants.

Although he was quite an outdoorsman, Carl had a scholarly side.  Here he is playing chess with his new son-in-law of two months, Dave (who would be my father in about three years).



He also taught himself to speak Swedish, with his wife Esther's help, before they went to Sweden to meet some of Esther's relations.  While Swedish was Esther's (Mormor's) first language, she had little chance to use it.  I think their Swedish was quite limited and rather terrible, but it was their own language, just theirs, and I remember them speaking it quietly together in the evening.

Papa smoked a pipe.

Papa (Carl) and his best friend, Cliff Anderson, were extras together in the movie "The Russians Are Coming! The Russians Are Coming!" which was filmed in their little west coast town of Fort Brag (and Mendocino).  Years later Papa complained about all of the hippies who elbowed to the front of the crowd in the mob scene, which was Papa's scene as an extra.  (He and Cliff were chosen because they looked like crusty old fishermen.)  Yet in the movie, who was front and center but Papa, with Cliff beside him, wearing a red checked hunting coat?  Not a hippy in sight.

Carl survived Esther by several years.  He lived out his last days in a retirement home in Chico, California.  I held his hand as his heart stopped beating.

Stripping Away All the Glitz and Glam of My Life

Marcy at Marcy Writes -- The Glamorous Life is hosting a G.I.R.L. Party today, and I am participating.

 

Marcy has asked us to link to an old post or write a new one showing our life in all its unvarnished glory; the UNglam version. And, since nothing about my life is actually glamorous, this will be a snap. But it may not be pleasant.
 
But what to tell you about? I couldn't decide. Maybe I should tell you about my not-so-clean shower? It's definitely an unglamorous story. Or how about the day I wore the worst possible pair of shoes EVER, to work? Still, there's always the Parent Hell I endured around Valentine's Day . . .
 
No, I know which one it has to be. I have to tell you about the space which used to house a wood stove, and what became of that space once the stove was removed. You won't respect me in the morning.
 
Pick a link, have a laugh at my expense, quietly remove Foolery from your reader or bookmarks, then head on over to Marcy's to see what indignities her readers have shared with the world (and maybe you can share one, too).
 
I'm hoping just ONE of them might make me feel a little bit better about my unglamorous self, but I'm not holding my breath.

Thnakes Alive

I'm not a big snake fan, but I am happy to watch one with fascination -- as long as there's no chance it will strike at me or, worse yet, crawl up my pants leg.  Yes, I know how idiotic this sounds, but it's where I draw the line with all living creatures other than That Guy On Law & Order Something: no crawling up my pants leg.

So the original idea for this post, way back in April, came from The Mom Bomb's hilarious post about rattle snakes (you really must go read it, but don't ferget who brung ya to this here dance, awright?).  And then my boss's wife was bitten by a rattler, and all of the snake stories I ever knew came flooding back.

 
(Photo stolen from these guys)

The Mom Bomb grew up a few hours from me, in the Sierra foothills.  There were, and still are, rattle snakes to be found in those hills, and, since most of California is either on or in view of a hill or mountain, snakes are something we watch for.  I have never seen a live rattle snake in the wild, but that's because I try my hardest to avoid that scenario.

 
(Photo stolen from Derek Curry on Flickr)

Dad used to drive to Chico several summer afternoons a week, in the hottest part of the afternoon, to walk in Bidwell Park.  There are two main sections of Bidwell Park, and Dad favored snake-filled Upper Park.  He'd walk until he was too hot and sweaty to walk further, then he'd sit in the creek and listen to the San Francisco Giants game on his little radio.  He had one close call in which he nearly stepped on a rattler, but he was lucky and was able to draw his foot back.

(Photo stolen from raphaelmazor on Flickr)

Chas grew up in San Clemente, home of Richard Millhouse Nixon, in a subdivision that had recently been carved out of scrubby coastal wilderness.  They learned to watch for snakes.  Okay, if you're squeamish, here's where you cut and run:

When he was in high school Chas found a baby rattler, maybe a foot long, in his shoe in his closet.  They could only guess that it had gotten into some laundry and ridden into the closet in a jacket pocket or something.  They were able to flip the shoe into a box to get it outside, shudder.

Even worse was the 2-3 foot rattler that was hiding under Chas's brother's bed; the police had to come get that one.

My aunt and uncle have a family cabin on the side of Mount Lassen in the Sierras.  They used to find rattle snakes on the property, but not often, and they were careful.  But once when she was out walking my aunt was bitten by a baby rattler and didn't know it.  For weeks her foot was swollen and bruised and painful, though she didn't know why.  At some point she had gone to the doctor, who asked, "When did you get bitten by a rattle snake?"  She laughed, until he showed her the tiny fang marks.  She must have been grazed because she didn't die or lose her leg, but still it was not a wholesome situation.  And yes, baby rattlers can be more dangerous than adults, because they haven't yet learned how to reserve their venom, and they end up delivering the whole poisonous payload.

To follow up my boss's wife Deni's rattlesnake bite tale, one of our local TV stations ran a story about her last night on the local evening news.  The reporter did a great job, except that she reported the bite as having happened three weeks ago instead of two.  Anyway, I started getting calls at work today from friends saying they had seen the story on national news.  Seems Fox News had picked it up, and ran it this morning.  "What are YOU doing watching Fox News?" I asked one old hippy friend, who was uneasy at having been discovered: a closet conservative.

To watch the news clip, click here, but I don't know how long these links are active.  (The paramedic featured in the story is a friend and golf buddy of my husband.  Small world, huh?)

Snake-o-phobes, you may come back now.

My Dad Is Weird

My dad is weird.

This is not news to some of you, I know.  But I feel like giving away a few (safe) secrets tonight.  Besides, I owe him some payback after he made me chase cows in a skirt and heels.

Well, there's a good place to start: tonight.  Dad is not home tonight, nor has he been home for about two weeks, and why?  Because he wanted to go on vacation.  Where did he go? you ask -- I can hear you, you know.  Well, I'll tell you; he went to St. Martin in the Caribbean.  But Mom did NOT go.  The last time they were there, Dad announced his wish to return this summer, but Mom was having NONE of it.  "It's too hot here in the summer, and you refuse to turn on the air conditioner!" she said to him.  "You can come back by yourself."

"Okay, I will," said Dad. He is there for three weeks by himself, with no air conditioner, no car, no phone, no wife, and no camera.  He has four books and a bathing suit.  Hey, you know, that actually doesn't sound so weird . . .

NO NO NO!  Dad is WEIRD.  I promise.

(Photo stolen from Just_Tom on Flickr)

For example, while the kids and I were on our weekend getaway with my parents, we all had breakfast at Schat's Bakkery in Bishop, California.  We ate our ridiculously delicious and fattening gut bombs outside on the patio.  Dad sat happily munching his donut, gazing at the bakkery sign.  "The Dutch have too many Ks," he announced.  "They have to use them up, so they stuff extra Ks into their words," he said.  I watched him to see where this was going.  He pressed on.  "It's like how the French have all those extra Ts," he continued, on a roll now.  "They just hang them onto the ends of their words.  If they didn't, they'd probably have a lot of Ts lying all over the ground."  I stared at him.

"What?" he demanded, as if I had been the one to shatter the peace with some insane proclamation.

"I don't know who's weirder, Dad -- you for the crazy stuff you come up with, or me because I COMPLETELY understand your line of thinking."

Gubby teases me that Dad has a secret family that he's visiting.  I think Dad's done enough damage to the gene pool already.

'Course It's 10 Minutes to Wapner

(Photo stolen from this site)

• I slap my thighs because the hairs -- YES I SAID HAIRS, WHAT OF IT? -- rub on my clothes and bug me.  Often I walk around absent-mindedly slapping my thighs.  This happens whether or not I have shaved my legs.
• I cannot pick up anything from a counter or table top unless I then smooth the surface with my hand.
• I will NOT touch terry cloth if I have oily hands.  AACCKK, the goosebumps have already started.
• Touching my teeth with a paper towel or -- HORRORS! -- terry cloth is my worst nightmare.
• I don't get grossed out by people talking with their mouths full at the table.  I don't love it, and I harangue my children about it, but it really doesn't bug me that much.  But I cannot even LOOK at someone on TV who is eating.
• Ankles, wrists, and knuckles give me the ookies if I think about them.
• When my ears get cold I must fold them until I warm them up.
• I count EVERYTHING.
• I sometimes rewrite popular songs in my head to correct their grammatical errors.  The songs suck even more afterwards, but I feel strangely satisfied.

Okay, so now that I've cleared the room, tell me about YOUR quirks, foibles and OCD behaviors?  Use the comment section, or blog it and gimme a link so I can come see.  Make it good, because I just free-associated this list in about five minutes, so you know there's a vast pool of crazy in which I swim.

Hold My Calls

This is me circa 1994. It was taken for a Tom Foolery ad by Rudy Giscombe (at that time a photographer for the local weekly newspaper, the Chico News & Review, that I advertised in). Rudy can make anyone smile, and he always made me laugh, which was necessary because I HATE having my picture taken.



Actually, I hate having my picture taken only once, when something like 50-60 shots are necessary to get one decent one. Nobody ever has the time, patience, or reason to take 50-60 pictures of me, therefore they stop at one.  And that one always stinks.

I hate having my picture taken by anyone but Rudy.

I'm With the Band

This is my grandfather Carl's dance band, or one of them, anyway.  It could be the Red Birds, the band he was in when newly married to my grandmother Esther while they were both in college, but he led a dance band even earlier than that, since it helped him pay his way through high school, so I'm not sure.

Carl is the banjo player in the above photo, although he played clarinet, too, and several other instruments, I believe.  Now, when you see a banjo you think BLUEGRASS, right?  Fancy picking, intricate melodies interwoven with jangly chords.  Or is that just me?  My dad and me.  Because Dad had expectations from banjo players, and those expectations didn't involve rhythmic strumming.  My grandfather was probably the source of my band-geekiness, so I LOVED to hear him play the banjo, even if he played only a rather uninspired rhythm banjo by the time I got to hear him.  Dad, however, was not interested.

Whump, whump, whump.  That became shorthand in my childhood home for "Papa's prowess on the banjo."  Whump, whump, whump.  Not exactly Roy Clark or Earl Scruggs or Grandpa Jones.  Whump, whump, whump.  That's okay; I'm impressed that a (mostly, if not completely) self-taught musician could support himself by leading a dance band and playing the banjo.

When I was about eight years old I got to hear Papa play in a local production in the town where he and my grandmother retired -- Fort Brag, California, neighboring fishing town of the more quaint and famous Mendocino.  Aunts, Uncles, and cousins all attended the broad vaudeville show put on by the town's performance troupe The Footlighters, of which Papa was a band member.  Couldn't tell you anything about any of it, except for one thing.  I was allowed to stand on the very large booth seat because no one was behind us and I could see better that way.  A guy in a red- and white-striped jacket, white pants, white spats and a straw hat came onstage to perform a song called "Hot Nuts."  I think he threw roasted peanuts to the crowd, who must have been mildly titillated by his bawdy lyrics.  After all, this was the early 70s in extreme-northern California, and Hot Nuts sounded pretty risqué to us, I think.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

I blew kisses to this oddly-dressed stranger on stage, and he blew kisses back to me.  I was instantly star-struck and mortified the same time, which, if you think about it, is probably how Oscar presenters and Capitol Hill pages feel all the time.

I shrank down in the booth in humiliation.

A defining moment for me.  Had I remained standing and blown more kisses I would have attracted the attention of the crowd and the theater's lone spotlight, eventually going on to achieve even greater fame than old White Spats throwing the nuts, becoming the darling of Salinas or Modesto, eventually torpedoing my gin-soaked career in some sleazy cow town production of "Auntie Mame."

Wha- what?   Oh yeah -- "Hot Nuts."  So much for my visions of stardom; there's room for only one star in the family.  Whump, whump, whump.

I Am Nerdly, Hear Me Roar

MommyTime is always good for a Sunday morning quiz, but I didn't read hers until this morning.  She was on a quest to determine her nerd factor, and was sorely disappointed with the results.  Now, she ought to be a HUGE nerd, because she is a college professor (Victorian literature, I think), but her very high Coolness Quotient -- one contributing factor of many: she is a rock climber -- puts her out of the running.  Okay, so I suddenly need to know just how big a nerd I am.

Bummer.  BUT WAIT!  Taking the second portion of the quiz, I found out this:

Still, disappointing.  I am a geek, okay?  So not cool.  But they left a few important markers out of this quiz, so I am going to fill a few in.
   

• In my house, egg salad is The New Crack.  Chas dubbed it so just this weekend, after he polished off the last of it yesterday.  Not to worry; I promptly made more.  (This is a post-Easter Crack Habit, I promise you, and we will go back to being a boring Crack-Free household when the last of the Easter eggs dries up.)

(Photo stolen from desertculinary on Flickr)

• There's nothing the girls and I enjoy more than sitting down to YouTube to watch funny stuff together.  I have bookmarked all my old favorites: anything Tom Lehrer has ever done (especially his old Electric Company grammar ditties and "Poisoning Pigeons in the Park") . . .

 

. . . the dancing fig performing the Fig Newton jingle (which has been a staple song around our house since I can remember) . . . and Maria Callas film clips from the 50s and 60s, especially the Habanera from Carmen ("Mama, are you crying AGAIN?!").

 

The girls were treated this weekend to operatic smackdowns between Callas* and Anyone Else Available, complete with explanations of why Charlotte Church and That Other Chick absolutely STINK because they repeatedly breathe in the middle of phrases and can't maintain their power and -- I'm sorry, I need to take a Nitro.

• I figure stuff out algebraically if I can, even though I'm not very good at it since it's been 26 years since my last algebra class.

• I was a profound Band Geek until I was cured overnight in college, but that's a story for another day.  These nerd tests don't take into account the level of geekdom that can be achieved by people who play instruments and think about notes on paper.  Expect to hear sentences like this: "OH. MY. GAHH. The tone on that oboe is KILLING me" or "Kenny G always resolves to the same stupid note!" or "Nobody sings as flat as Natalie Merchant, unless it's Carly Simon or k.d. lang or Frank Sinatra."  These are things I actually say.

• In college I used to figure out the phone bill for our apartment (four of us) to the penny.  All fees divided evenly, all taxes  by percentage of use, for both local and long distance calls.  Yeah, I know.  I couldn't WAIT for the phone bill to come each month.

• My pants are usually too short.  Meh -- bigger issues.

In summary, I think one can be a nerd even if one mostly got through college using superior reasoning  guessing  process of elimination skills on multiple choice tests.  (That particular skill set was simultaneously responsible for my getting into college, making the dean's list 2-3 times, and ultimately scratching out a mediocre-at-best GPA.)  One is automatically a nerd just by using the word "one" to describe onesself.

I think I have made my case.  What about the rest of you?

*That's

MARIA Callas, not

CHARLIE Callas, though it's an honest mistake.