Choosing the Wrong Stinks

While I heard myself say, "Yep. I'm still planning on it - sounds fun," I immediately knew it was wrong. But instead of heading home after school, I left with my friend in the opposite direction. As I exited the school yard, I passed my mom's friend in her burnt orange station wagon. She was parked as usual, waiting to pick up her two daughters from school. I saw her look at me inquisitively as I turned right instead of left outside the chain link fence. But I pretended not to notice.

By the time we got uptown, I could see the brick exterior of our destination on the far end of town square. It was next to the only hardware store in the area. I had been to the hardware store with its bell donning, single door entrance many times. Often, I had gone with my grandpa to gather supplies for a home improvement project. He always completed something special each summer he visited. Thanks to him we had a great swing that hung from the tallest pine tree in our back yard and monkey bars by the garden.

One time I even went to the hardware store by myself. I remembered that day clearly, even though it was several years prior. Probably because it was the first errand I had ever run for my mom all alone. I felt so grown up getting on my bike with the money carefully tucked deep in my pocket so that it would not accidentally fall out. A direct result of mom's phone call, the small package of miscellaneous supplies was gathered in a brown bag with dull red stripes sitting by the register when I arrived. To my amazement the store clerk immediately recognized me, even though I was certain I had never seen him before. Or maybe Mom had explained, probably in more detail than the clerk cared to hear, that an eight-year old girl in a red and white polyester top with red shorts and two long, brunette pig tails would be arriving soon on her bike. There couldn't have been many that fit that description. So maybe it shouldn't have been so amazing after all.

However, this trip was not an errand for my mother. And I was not headed to the hardware store. For the first time in several minutes, guilt suddenly crept back into my thoughts as I recalled what I was about to do. I started to feel strangely nervous. But that was ridiculous. Everyone did this. Everyone but me anyway. Until now.

Each step I took toward the building made it more difficult to turn and walk the other way. Like walking through thickly wet cement, with each stride my decision was more distinct and more impossible to change.

My friend seemed oblivious to my pounding chest and clammy hands. Of course she had been here before. Many times, in fact. She walked along like it was no big deal. And that is what I kept telling myself it was: no big deal. But it was a big deal. And I knew it. At least for me. But for some reason I kept walking toward the wrong, instead of turning back.

It would be so simple too -to do the right thing. I could even make up a white lie. Except lying was wrong too. But some things were more right or wrong than others. I imagined that all I would have to do is stop short and gasp,

"Oh no! I forgot. My mom needs me to babysit after school. Sorry, I gotta go, maybe another time."

And then I could quickly turn around, and run down the wide, mostly empty, small town sidewalk. When I got to the corner lot with only a shell of a building, covered in white peeling paint and framed with a couple lone gas pumps covered in rust and missing their hoses, I could head west. From there I would be home in only a few minutes. I could walk inside the familiar craftsman that probably smelled faintly of dinner already in some stage of preparation. And since I would only be less than five minutes later than usual, Mom would probably not even notice.

But I couldn't bring my mouth to utter the words.

Suddenly, we were at the front door of the circa 1950's brick building. It was too late. However, uncertain I was about the decision before, it was made now. I saw a couple bikes on the outside of the entrance, dropped there no doubt by a couple kids from my school. This meant my friend and I would not be the only ones. It should have made me feel better, but it didn't.

As I followed my friend's soft blond curls inside the smoky room, it took a minute for my pupils to adjust from the bright afternoon sunlight to the dingy darkness of the establishment. The neon signs on the wall cast a soft glow in the haze. I suddenly thought about Mrs. Greedy's 3rd-grade class. She asked us each to promise not to smoke. And we all raised our hands together to make the commitment. I wondered how much breathing that air felt like smoking. If it were similar, it made no sense to me why anyone would ever smoke anything.

A couple rough looking guys with bellies as round as pumpkins sat on barstools in front of us. They slowly turned to look at the newcomers. And then, just as dully, wheeled back around on their swivel seats.

I was genuinely surprised not one of them tried to tell us to leave. I knew we didn't belong here and I was only twelve. Didn't grown-ups know what's right and wrong? And wasn't it their job to keep kids from doing wrong things? But since there was no one to stop us, we proceeded through the room over to the far corner.

And there it stood. It was flashy and beautiful. I felt my stomach do a little leap for joy. My goal. The one thing that had caused me to break so many of my parent's rules.

In only a few minutes I had used numerous quarters, saved from small jobs like babysitting the karate teacher's kids. After awhile, I reached deep into the pocket of my Lee jeans, and only felt string and fuzz. I bent down and then handed my friend a damp, rolled up dollar from inside my sock. I had brought it for an emergency like this. She was plenty brave enough to ask the bartender for change. I was not.

The arcade game that started out so new and unfamiliar soon became more rhythmic and easy to maneuver. However, it wasn't long before I was completely out of money. I was hugely disappointed. The time had gone by far too quickly. I impatiently watched my friend finish her last game on a neighboring machine. Then we grabbed our school books, and walked out the door and headed home.

The sun was low in the late afternoon sky. I had no idea what time it was, but I knew it was late enough that I needed to work on a very good excuse for Mom and, by this time, probably Dad too. I considered all the trouble I'd be in and wondered if a few minutes on the brand new Ms Pac Man game would be worth the punishment I'd be given when I got home.

In the fresh, early autumn air, I thought I caught the smell of something terribly rank. Cautiously, I sniffed at my shoulder. Hmmmm...this excuse was going to have to be really good.

You are Rarely as Cool as You Think You Are (PART 2)

This is part two of a two part series. Read Part One here.

It seemed my knowledge of popular of music remained forever hindered after that. However, I did not realize the extent of my popular music handicap until years later in Mrs. A’s 9th grade Algebra class.

Humming a pop ballad before the bell rang to signal the start of class, I sat at my desk behind Bobby. As I opened my text book and began locating my homework from the night before, Bobby turned around in the one piece desk and chair, and asked in a highly agitated voice, "Why are you humming that stupid ol' song?"

"It's not stupid. And it's not old," I retorted. "It is a pop song. As in a song that is popular. Duh."

"You really think that song is popular," he asked. "What radio station do you listen to anyway?"

"I listen to FM 100,” I retorted grasping the name of one of only a few radio stations whose weak, static-filled signal made it to our small town. “What do you listen to?" I asked.

"Ha! That is an old lady station." Bobby said, "I knew it! You are a nerd. Rock 95 is what the cool kids listen to. Don't you know anything?"

At that moment I wondered if I should have said Sweet 98, but realized it probably would not have mattered much, so I continued to defend my original answer.

"I am not a geek! FM 100 is a fine radio station. They play all kinds of popular songs like Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow!"

"Oh my gosh!" Bobby snorted, "You are worse than I thought! Have you ever even heard of Ratt?"

Confused by what farm varmints had to do with the discussion, I paused, unsure of how to respond.

"How about Metallica?" he continued, "Motley Crue? Def Leppard? You'll never be cool like me."

Finally, the bell rang interrupting our debate.

Bobby turned around, stuck a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek, returned the can to the back pocket of his tight jeans that had a round, weathered imprint of the circular container in the middle of the stitched "W". He straightened up the collar of his plaid western cut shirt, kicked his cowboy boots out under the desk in front of him and slumped in his chair, now fully prepared to sleep through the upcoming lecture.

Wow. Isn't that cool?

Movie Misconceptions

I come from the small town of Sidney, Iowa. Sidney is home to what was once one of the largest championship rodeos in the United States. For a small town, those are huge bragging rights. I went to Friday night football games to root for the Sidney Cowboys, and attended pep rallys, and school plays in a gym painted with a red and white bucking bronco logo. With the rodeo quite literally in our back yard, we saw many talented cowboys and cowgirls perform each year. While I have since come to question some of the ethics surrounding rodeoing, it was a part of my family's life in Iowa.

A couple years ago, I had a memorable discussion about cowboys with my conservative and sometimes naive parents. Mom mentioned how she saw a preview for a movie she wanted to see. It was a cowboy love story she explained, and she was certain that it would be one both she and my dad could enjoy together.

I tentatively asked if she was referring to Brokeback Mountain to which she replied, "Why yes! I think that is it."

In proceeding to summarize the plot as I knew it, I was careful to emphasize that the love affair is not a heterosexual one. This was vital as I knew such a detail would be important to her. She thoughtfully listened, and while she was surprised she had missed the whole point of who is in love with whom in the previews, she wondered out loud, "Do you think it is based on a true story?"

At this point, my father, who had been listening in on our conversation the entire time, could remain silent no longer. He quickly chided in absolute complete seriousness, "Of course not, Linda! There are no gay cowboys in real life!"

Not Even If You Were the Last 11 Year-Old On the Earth

Every Friday, while the rest of the 5th grade had Reading, I went to Problem Solving. I met in the elementary school library with two other students, Bobby Rasmussen and Jeff Dean for this unusual class.

Each week, in a secure manila envelope, we were given a problem to solve as a group. We were to do our absolute best work and place the completed assignment back in the envelope and close it securely. At the time I honestly thought they were looking for kids for secret government work. And even if I was not selected, I figured it got me out of class, so I was game.

Working independent of any teacher supervision, so as to not taint our results, one week our problem was somewhat as follows: We were to imagine that the people in our problem solving group were stranded on a deserted island surrounded by massive waves and man eating sharks. The paperwork went into great detail about the natural resources and climate of the island. Our assignment included making a list of ten things that would make it possible to ensure our survival.

Our hour long strategy session started out as you might typically imagine. However, early on we debated just exactly what would secure our survival. I argued we needed to feed, clothe and shelter ourselves until we could alert someone to rescue us. Bobby and Jeff insisted we were destined to remain stranded and we needed to consider what would allow for the survival of the human race on the island.

Below knife, tarp, fishing pole, matches, and other such items we had one line left for our tenth requirement for survival. I wanted to write 'flares'. Bobby and Jeff wanted to write 'sex'.

Since sex with either one of them was not even a remote possibility in my mind, as designated scribe, in my neatest cursive, I wrote 'flares.' Bobby grabbed the paper from me, erased it and in crude, firm pencil wrote 'sex'.

I adamantly disagreed and informed them that if we were truly stranded on such an island, I would never agree to continue the human race with either one of them. They insisted that I would have no choice; it would be my obligation to have children. And so a loud and boisterous argument ensued.

Stubborn and strict in my stance, I would not be swayed. While Bobby passionately pounded his farm-hand fists on the library table and Jeff tried to argue with logic, I folded my arms and refused to budge.

Even though we were explicitly told not to discuss answers with our teacher, before securing the envelope, I took our paper and showed it to Miss Langston. Pointing to Bobby's dark penciled 'sex' on line #10, I explained my dilemma.

I stood with my heart pounding awaiting her verdict. She considered all agruments and then agreed I could change 'sex' to 'flares' since I was not physically capable of creating life at this point in my life.

I stuck my tongue out at Bobby and Jeff, and scored an imaginary point for my personal victory of deserted island celibacy.

Cold Cereal Infestation

Growing up in Iowa, I was raised by parents that were conservative and practical. Mom never purchased cold cereal. It was expensive and didn't stick to our ribs. Instead, breakfast carbohydrates consisted of oatmeal, homemade granola, cracked wheat, cooked rice or toast (made with thick slices of homemade wheat bread, of course).

My best friend Kerry's house, however, was a modern home with sliced white bread and, naturally, cold cereal. Kerry's parents had noticed my affinity for the store bought cereal delicacy when I visited, as I would eat numerous bowls in one sitting. Since Kerry's dad worked at a grocery store, he was always bringing home damaged boxes of the crispy stuff for free. One Friday I was over after school and when it was time for me to leave, her mom sent me home with a couple slightly bent boxes of cereal, claiming they had more of the mouthwatering morsels than they could eat.

At 6 AM the following morning my sisters and I got up very early, like usual, to watch Saturday morning cartoons. We sat in the family room that was still dark in the early morning hours and turned on the TV. In the glow of the television we sat eating bowls of the prized cereal and milk. We happily took huge drippy gulps of the rare flakes, mesmerized by mind numbing Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons.

Suddenly one of my sisters gasped, claiming to have seen something. She insisted it was a tiny flying bug. I briefly paused, looked around, and seeing nothing, I continued chomping the delicious sugary granules. Then, I thought I saw a flying bug. I stopped slurping and noticed another. Now confident of the presence of the critters, I alerted my sisters and in our fear-induced frozen silence we noticed several little bugs, back lit by the TV glare, flying around us. Shrieking we inspected further and realized they were flying out of the cereal box we had placed on the floor in front of us.

Nothing ruins a love for cold cereal like seeing nasty weevil bugs soaring from your cereal box, and nothing ruins an appetite like seeing dead ones that have drowned in the cold milk of your half-eaten cereal bowl. And somehow Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons were never the same after that either.

The Elusive Song Lyrics

If you have never eaten at Jason’s Deli you are missing out. While I can devour a Spinach Veggie Wrap with ease, DH is partial to the California Club. But the food is only part of the reason we frequent Jason’s Deli. Mostly, we go for the music. They play the very best songs from the 80’s: the songs you love, but forgot existed.

One not easily forgotten number is Prince’s "Little Red Corvette". My friends and I could not get enough of this song in 1983. I’ll never forget a summer night when Julie and I were out on her trampoline in the backyard singing the lyrics acapella. Come on you remember them, so sing with me, I guess I shoulda known, by the way U parked your car sideways, that it wouldn’t last. See U’re the kinda person that believes in makin’ out once. Love 'em and leave 'em fast…But it was Saturday night, I guess that makes it all right... If I may interject and point out to my children, parents and Sunday School class: Saturday night never makes it all right, and I did not believe that then, or now, or at anytime in between.

Anyway, all was just fine until we got to the chorus. Julie started at the top of her lungs, Pay the rent collect, Baby you’re much 2 fast. And as I softened my voice, not certain I heard her correctly, she continued, Pay the rent collect, U need a love that’s gonna last. How she ever confused little red corvette with pay the rent collect, well who knows. But man was it funny!

Perhaps it was almost as entertaining as the Kenny Chesney song I botched on our Saturday night date with friends. DH, in addition to jazz, enjoys Kenny Chesney. He was introduced to the country artist on a midwinter play-some-golf-where-it-is-warm road trip. Upon DH’s return he downloaded several of Kenny Chesney’s songs from iTunes

On Saturdays while doing his Honey Do List, he plays them and sings along. Sometimes, he even sings real loud and we dance. He does this so often that I thought I knew every word to “When the Sun Goes Down”. Unfortunately, I learned the hard way that when the sun goes down, we’ll actually be “groovin.”

Groovin' sounds fun and all, but I thought it was something else. I thought this because when DH sings the song, he always sings something else. I know now that it is not because he doesn’t know the words, but because he thinks he’s funny, or cute, or sexy, or something. When DH sings the song to me, he always replaces “groovin’” with another verb. One commonly used by building contractors as they described the process with which they adhere dry wall screws. And that is how I thought the song went. So that is how I sang it. On Saturday night. At the top of my lungs. In front of all our friends.

Vomit in Places it Never Should Be

My new blog friend Eve shared some insight into her passion for reading in her Friday post. I couldn’t help but recall the same fervor with which I read as a young girl. There was one particular paperback biography of Florence Nightingale that I repeatedly checked out of the school library. I read it cover to cover on numerous occasions. I would be so enthralled in the book, that sometimes I’d crawl out of bed onto the bare wood floor and pull the thin ball chain to turn on the closet light. There I sat half shivering in my nightgown while holding the book at an angle to catch the light peering from the open closet door. In that position I would read well into the night.

The book about a very brave nurse made me wonder if perhaps I’d want to be a nurse someday. As it turns out it’s a good thing I didn’t pursue the field of medicine, because I had no idea what a weak stomach I had until I became a mother. The bodily fluids I come in contact with on any given day can be more than what I am capable of handling. In fact, there are days when I feel as though I’ve been called upon to deal with more than is fair.

One such day occurred when D1 was about two years old. She was quietly snuggled in my lap. I held her close while talking with DH, and then she turned to look at me and seemed a bit pale. Looking down, I asked if she was okay. And right when I verbalized the ‘k’ in ‘okay’, she vomited.

Projectile positioned perfectly into my open mouth! I dropped my sick child on the floor and while pointing in an exaggerated fashion to my agape jaws not daring to close or swallow, I repeatedly hollered “Ing ee a owel. Urree!” Which loosely translates into, “DH, forget the vomiting child on the floor, she will pull through. But I may not! I have vomit in my mouth – vomit that is not my own!” DH, being a parent first and a husband second, picked up and caressed the still heaving and now crying-because-she-was-dropped youngster. It was not until he was certain she was going to survive, that he finally managed to grab a kitchen towel so I could attempt to mop my mouth.

That well-loved Florence Nightingale paperback seemed so dramatic at the time, as she helped ill and wounded infantry on the battlefront. But somehow the novel was not comprehensive enough to prepare me for nursing sick children at home, let alone sick soldiers at war.

McDonald's, Pizza Hut, Denny's & Sushi Bars

Growing up in a small town in the Midwest, my sisters and I were sheltered from much of the world. For instance, we felt the JCPenney catalog represented the essence of fashion. Without so much as even a McDonald’s in our town, we never ate out for dinner, because doing so could only involve going to the local tavern.

The afternoon Mom found out I had been going to the local tavern everyday after school, was not a good one. She didn’t seem to get it when I explained that it was the only place in town with the brand-new Ms PacMan arcade game. It was obvious that up to that point, I had never “shocked” and “disappointed” her so much. (No, not even when I fought with my sisters on the way home from church.)

Since going out to eat in our town was next to impossible, whenever Grandpa Littlefield would come to visit, he would take us to the next town over for dinner at Pizza Hut. That was a major deal. He made sure the waitress brought us a big pitcher of root beer and a massive pepperoni pizza. We made sure to eat and drink so much, so that at least one of us would end up puking all night. Interestingly enough, Grandpa would order a Grandpa-Root-Beer-with-a-wink for himself, which was lighter and more golden than our own dark-colored beverages.

The first time I ate at a Denny’s was a major turning point. I was 16 and had been brought there for lunch by a cute, but slightly older guy. They brought my sandwich, cut into fourths, with these fancy toothpicks poking up in the middle of each piece. I had no idea what to do! Do I take the toothpicks out? Do I pick up the sandwiches with the toothpicks still in them and try to eat around the tiny wooden sticks? Oh, how my heart was pounding on that one.

Needless to say, we (my sisters and I) have come a long way since then. So far in fact, that while talking to my sister Jackie yesterday, she proudly announced that she had finally eaten sushi. “Really?” I asked. “At a sushi bar or where?” “I dunno,” she started to recall, “It was a restaurant that serves only sushi.” “Okay,” I reasoned out loud, “Then it was probably a sushi bar. Cool, what did you have?” “Imitation krab!” she answered. “Was it raw imitation krab?” I asked, “Because that’s barely even fish so you can’t really count that as sushi.” “Of course you can,” she countered. “It was in a sushi roll.”

And so we Iowa-bred babes continue to broaden our minds as well as our palates.

Fond Memories Like Being Abandoned on the Roadside

Twelve-year old daughters are a blessing. And a pain in the keister. The latter is why D1 was almost dumped out of the car on the way to Sunday dinner at Grandma’s house. It was nothing specific that nearly caused me to send her packing, just her general preteen conduct coupled with my hunger pangs. If it were not for traffic, serial killers, and DCFS, I probably would have invited her exit from my vehicle. Oh, for the good ol’ days when parents could boot their daughters out of the car to hike home…

It was an especially warm summer afternoon as our station wagon traversed the 15-mile route from church to home. My younger sisters Jackie and Christine had been aggravating me for miles. It reached a point where, despite my mature 13-years of age, I could restrain myself no longer.

The sweltering temperatures aided me in developing a pristine plan. With no air-conditioning in the car, we traveled with all the windows rolled down, our long strands whipping around in the tornado-like winds forming untold numbers of hair knots. And so I put the plan in motion, with fingers wide and straight I inserted my hands into their tangled tresses, one on the left, one on the right, simultaneously pull, and listen to them howl! I tried to suppress the wicked smile that formed across my lips, but the pleasure was too great. Naturally, payback was not long coming. In went their fingers into my mane, and thus the fight ensued. Stern motherly warnings from the front seat did nothing to temper our turmoil. We were at war by now and even Mom could not stop this battle. Dad on the other hand…

The 1974 grey Dodge station wagon came to a sudden, neck-jerking halt and so did our fighting. “What was he thinking?” we wondered. “Outta the car girls,” Dad spoke matter-of-factly, opening his car door. Okay – that was not expected. With nervous stomachs we slid off the sticky, black vinyl seats, terrified of the punishment awaiting us. We were standing on the side of the road presenting our most innocent-looking faces when Dad told us to shut our car door. Then he climbed back in the driver’s seat, and in the most unexpected move of all, drove away.

We stood there in brief amazement and then dashed after the family vehicle that was growing less and less significant in the distance. Panting and out of breath we finally stopped when the station wagon vanished over a small hill in the distance. Looking around, trying to hold back the tears, we realized that having just reached the edge of town, we were probably two-miles from home. After spending a fair amount of time blaming each other for our unfortunate situation, we grouped together to determine a plan. They were just trying to scare us, we assured ourselves, our parents would be back for us soon. So we seated ourselves on the roadside gravel and waited.

Some time passed and then, without saying much, we finally stood up and started the inevitable trek home. A two-mile journey in the afternoon sun in your church shoes is pretty bad. But not as awful as the embarrassment you feel when your school friends whisk by with their loving families that drive them home from church. “Do you think they saw us?” I asked. “Ummm, three girls walking all alone on an empty road,” Jackie sarcastically reasoned, “How could they not.”

We learned a few things that afternoon. Among them included, 1) If you are going to fight with your sisters while in the car, do so only when wearing your tennis shoes, 2) Even normally predictable parents can sometimes surprise you, and 3) A long walk in the muggy Iowa heat can turn enemies into best friends.

Too bad for D1 that overcrowded roads, criminals, and government agencies have ruined those types of teaching moments.

JC Penney Catalog Model

It was created from navy blue and white polka dot polyester: a two-piece ensemble that was my most favorite outfit ever! Mom had expertly sewn the button-up top with long ties at the shortened waist, the kind of ties Catherine Bach later made so famous as Daisy Duke. Do I need to explain that we lived in a small Midwest town in 1976? The matching blue-with-white-polka-dot pants were generously proportioned and featured a wide flare at the ankle. I anxiously awaited the laborious process of creating my only new outfit for spring. There was buying fabric, laying out pattern pieces, pinning, cutting, more pinning, sewing, and hemming, that must have taken a mother of six at least a week.

The sun warmed my skin through the navy blue polyester the morning I originally wore that outfit to Mrs. Ruth’s first-grade class. I felt as fashionable as a JC Penney catalog model! I held my head high as I strode into the classroom, and later to the lunchroom, and the music room, accepting numerous compliments along the way.

It was the ill-fated afternoon recess when things took a devastating turn. Deeply involved in a heated game of girls-catch-the-boys I made a sudden turn and lunged in an unsuccessful attempt to tag Bobby Rasmussen. Next, my face was staring at the concrete, and sharp searing pain soared through my right knee. I gingerly rolled over, trying to hold back tears that were already forming in my warm, brown eyes. Then, terror struck as I looked at my aching leg. Panic set in when I saw my knee bloody and ravaged, because I saw my knee through a large gaping hole in my brand new polyester pants! The newly formed tears were poised for the boisterous crying that soon poured from my soul. I immediately knew my coveted, beautiful outfit was no more. The playground teacher and my best friend helped me hobble to the nurse’s office. Unbeknownst to them, my wailing was not for my ravished knee, but for my huge fashion loss. I felt nothing could have been a crueler fate.

A few hours later, walking home from school, I was as glum as a sunflower in the rain. I opened the front door and began to weep all over again for my pants, my ruined life, and my knee (in that order). My petite shoulders heaved up and down as I sobbed on Mother’s lap. She tried to console me, but we both knew there was no money to buy more fabric to make another pair of pants.

However, I was young, and in a few days I had rebounded from my regrettable situation. I was content in my usual hand-me-down and thrift store clothing, that was always pressed, clean and nice.

Then came the morning I never expected. I was getting dressed for school and Mom walked in my Holly Hobbie decorated bedroom holding the navy blue-with-white-polka-dot outfit. My heart sank, once again remembering that I’d never wear that darling duo again. But with a knowing smile on her face, she held up the pants by the waistband and the remaining fabric fell in place quickly to reveal the new, shortened version: Gauchos!

I was the first girl in my class to come to school wearing the latest fashion craze of gauchos. I held my head even higher, because now we were talking ultra-high JC Penney catalog fashion!