Trick or Treat!

Picking out a Halloween costume was so important back in the day.  Now and then, I'll still dress up for Halloween, but I certainly don't buy my costumes anymore.  I didn't even venture down that aisle at Target this year, because I know that full-sized costumes' prices start at a whopping twenty bones.  And, that's for some flimsy trampy French Maid getup which is neither work-appropriate nor will it completely cover my hide.  If you're looking to have your rump covered, we're talking an investment of thirty bucks and up.

Halloween has become so expensive.  Trick-or-treating in the 70's and 80's only cost us $5.00 or less.  And, that was for costuming all four kids total!  We'd either make our own outfits or get those boxed ones that were purchased from the grocery store.  A boxed costume would consist of a plastic character mask that kind of itched your face while simultaneously smelling strange, and a plastic smock-like "shirt" and "pants" that tied in the back like your art apron from kindergarten.  The genius of these boxed costumed is that they could be layered over even the thickest down Michigan jacket.  (See me, above, as the Road Runner.)

If they made a Road Runner costume these days, the designer would try to physically turn you into a bird.  Today's costume would have a long feathery tail, skin-tight yellow legs and a big purply-blue plume on top of the head (and absolutely no allowance for a winter coat.)  We didn't need all that realistic-ness back then.  If someone was confused by my mask and thought it may be Woody Woodpecker I was depicting, they could simply look down at my smock and see a cartoon image of the Road Runner right there on my chest.  I also "Meep-Meep!"ed alot from behind my mask so, if there was still any confusion, that would surely clear things up!

The years we didn't use a boxed costume, we'd raid our toy chests or parents' closet.  On any given year, there would be at least one in our clan dressed as a hobo.  A hobo costume usually consisted of a parent's flannel shirt, my mom's floppy green and yellow gardening hat (which I'm still unsure of how she obtained it. I certainly remember her gardening, but never while in a floppy hat) and Mom's eyebrow pencil smudged across our cheeks and noses.  My sister won the jackpot one year by talking my mom into purchasing a plastic cigar to compliment her hobo garb.  I was so jealous of that thing!  She'd chomp on it around the house talking in a Grouch Marx-ish voice all the while having no idea who Groucho Marx was.  She was the hit of the church costume party with her cigar chomping bit, making middle-aged women giggle by saying cigar-ish lines. (Which, now that I think about it, may have just been, "I have a cigar!  Like my cigar?"  Still using Groucho's voice though.)  I wanted that thing still, even though it was most likely covered with saliva by now.  My hobos never had shtick.

You can see the white tip of the plastic cigar peeking out of my sister's pocket.

Each year we had a trick-or-treating tradition.  We'd horse down dinner, in anticipation, while wondering if our cousin had horsed down his dinner yet.  (My cousin, who was really like a bonus sibling, came along with us every year.)  The neighbor kids from across the street, who either ate dinner super early or all together weren't fed on Halloween, would always be the first at our door, "Trick or Treat!!!"  And, always while we were still eating.  This would cause my father to grumble in same way that telephone calls at this hour would merit.  Which cued us to grumble along, "Don't they feed those kids?", "Who trick-or-treats while it's still light out?"  It was always a smart thing to agree with Dad. 

Once my cousin would arrive, we'd hit our neighborhood's streets first.  We lived on an old dirt country road that was hidden smack dab between the suburbs and the city.  Not many kids lived on our street, which meant one glorious thing every October 31st: Full-sized candy bars!  Never having more than 5-10 treaters coming to your door, meant the neighbors would splurge on--not only full-sized candy bars--but cans of pop, bowls of coins you could grab by the handful, you name it! 

Then there was the house on the corner with the chickens.  I don't remember for the life of me what kind of goods they passed out.  I just remember we always stopped there out of some sort of family obligation.  We'd hold our sacks above our heads as the chickens would swarm us and cluck around our feet.  We'd let the family friend toss whatever it was into our bags while we'd silently wish my mom and aunt would wrap up the small talk.  The longer we stood there, the greater our chances of being pecked, bitten or pooped on!  One year as we made our speedy getaway from the chicken house, my cousin slammed his finger in our sliding van door.  I'd never seen a blood blister form so quickly and become so large!  It was a winner for sure.  Just looking at it made your eyes ache!  It was the saddest moment of my young life thus far, but I also certainly wished I could be there when that sucker got popped!

From our neighborhood we'd move on to my cousin's (which is also the neighborhood where I currently reside.)  His street was connected to an actual subdivision!  What my hood had in quality goods, his made up for in quantity.  Houses just steps from one another!  Crappier candy, but in mass quantities!  (Although, some of them turned their homes into haunted houses for the night, which I thought was rude.  We skipped those ones.)  Once our legs got tired, we'd go pick up our grandma and she'd tag along as we'd visit one of her friends who lived midway between our house and hers. (We all lived within a half-mile of each other.)  There, we'd collect our homemade popcorn balls that I would never eat.  As my grandma chatted, for what seemed like days, we'd stand by the wall staring at the bearskin rug that hung there, daring each other to touch it. 

Eventually Grandma would run out of things to say and we'd finally return to their house, dump all our goods on the floor and let the swapping begin!  Bubblegum of any sort was the highest in value.  Even if it was just Double Bubble that would lose its flavor in ten seconds flat.  The unwanted candy (those round things wrapped in black and orange wrappers that we never did open to find out what they were, anything with nuts, my popcorn ball...) would be dumped into a large bowl for the grown-ups to pick through.  In my teens I'd start trick-or-treating with friends.  But, one year after high school, I escorted my younger siblings as they were still keeping the family tradition alive.  It was during one of these candy-swapping events on my grandma's living floor that the television announced that River Phoenix had died on the sidewalk in front of the Viper Room.  Totally ruining my Halloween!

We still keep the tradition alive.  Since my parents and I now live next door my grandma's house, my siblings and the cousins still like to gather here on Halloween.  We take the new little ones to all the houses we visited when we were their age.  The neighbors are mostly all different now, but there's always those few scary houses that the kids might ask us if we can skip. 

The costumes may cost more for this new generation, but hopefully the memories are still equal in value.

Things I'm Too Lazy to Do

Things I'm too lazy to do:

Candy Me!

I've had a life-long love affair with all things sugary.  Cookies, ice cream, cereals, cake and, of course, good ol' candy, candy, candy!

I was very particular in rationing my trick-or-treat bags and Easter baskets as a kid.  I knew candy only came in troves twice a year and I could make one holiday's worth of candy last for months!  Mainly by rotating my stash between several secret hiding places.  Protecting your cache from sibling invasions was the number one strategy in homeland candy security. 

I'd like to say I was pretty cautious in controlling my inner sugar fiend, but I could no longer admit that after I was old enough to realize that Kool-Aid didn't count as a serving of fruit juice and Pop-Tarts were hardly a healthy start to my mornings.  (Especially when considering the fact that I would only eat the ones that were filled with vanilla frosting and topped with cocoa sprinkles.)

Looking back, I'll now timidly confess that I had been know to fill my morning bowl of Cocoa-Puffs with grape Kool-Aid instead of milk.  And, it's with even more shame that I mention that, on quite a few Saturday mornings, when my cereal/Pop-Tart morning fix wasn't quite enough... I'd sometimes simply fill a Dixie cup full of pure white sugar and sit in front of my cartoons.  Dixie cup in one hand, spoon in the other.  (Don't tell my parents!)  Probably the reason I became hypoglycemic in adulthood. 

Yes, my ailment has certainly forced upon me the lesson of self-control.  I know exactly how many grams of sugar my saccharine-shocked body can now stand.  (Not many.)  I can quickly break this mathematically down into how many rectangles of a Hershey's Cookies n' Cream bar falls into this category (four).  Or, how many pieces of candy corn I can safely consume (8.3 ie. 8 whole ones plus one yellow stripe!)  Or, how large of a bowl of Trix I can pour myself, from time to time, when the moment calls for it (1/4 cup.)  And, which things are forever crossed off of my edibles list (Krispy Kremes) until I once again meet up with them in Heaven.  (PLEASE tell me there are Krispy Kremes in Heaven!)

So, in honor of the candies that I still savor in nibbles and to the ones the ones that got away, I give you:

• Candy Corn - If you eat them whole, you have no idea what you're doing.  I don't care if you start yellow end heading white, or white end heading yellow... They must be eaten in thirds.  (A special treat is saving all the white pointy ends for last.  They're extra crunchy!)
• Twix - Putting a cookie in a candy bar?  In the eighties this was genius!  Adding a peanut butter option later on?  Nobel Prize worthy!
• Hershey's Cookies n' Cream - White chocolate is my favorite.  I was the kid in the house that preferred the white chocolate bunny every Easter to the hollow milk chocolate kind.  I could easily swap any number of jelly beans and Peeps to end up with four white bunnies every year.
• Kit-Kat - In high school I had a special way of eating my Kit-Kats once the Michigan weather would turn warm.  I'd buy one out of the cafeteria vending machine (using my milk money. Sorry Mom!) and go outside to eat in the sun with my friends.  As I ate away at my sandwich and other lunch contents, my Kit-Kat would bask on opened wrapper in the the sunlight.  By the time I was ready for it, it would become four naked cookie sticks swimming in a warm puddle of liquid milk chocolate.  Drag the cookies through the chocolate melt like dip and consume.  Now, you can break me off a piece of that any day!
• Snickers - I never appreciated Snickers until adulthood.  Children have that deeply-planted peanut fear, you know?  Before my days of limited sugar, back when I worked in retail, I'd be known to make a meal of a Snickers during busy hours when taking a full lunch break was impossible.  Winning it the most filling (tastes great!) candy award.  (And, those new Snickers commercials are frickin' hilar!)
• Candy dots - I don't even know what these are called.  Probably because they didn't come wrapped with a label or anything.  You bought them unprotected and unsanitary, on a long strip of paper with rows of dyed sugar dropped on in perfectly measured lines.  I got my nine-year-old nephew to try these last summer.  He looked at them confused.  I instructed him, "Just scrape them off with your teeth. You might eat a little paper... that's normal."
• Fun Dip - In my day it was called Lick'm Aid and we gagged our way through the unmixed Kool-Aid portion just to eat the white sugar dipping stick in the end.  Rich kids would just throw away the Kool-Aid part and only eat the sticks.  I couldn't afford to be so frivolous!
• Bubble Gum - Any flavor, any shape, any time!  Gum balls, Bazooka, Hubba Bubba, Big League Chew???
• Runts - Don't know what they really are, how they were invented, or if they were just some happy kitchen accident in the Wonka factory... But, give me a half-grape/half-strawberry pack, stat!
• Skittles - They begged us to taste the rainbow. And, apparently rainbows stick to your teeth.

For the record: If you see me out this Halloween night, any and all of the above will be accepted in any of my nieces or nephews sacks. 

Siblings: I'm officially volunteering to do the candy checks this year.

Songs That Get Stuck in My Head: Lambert

There are songs in this universe.  Songs that once you learn them, there's no possible way to unlearn them.  "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star".  "The Rainbow Connection".  That Chiquita Banana jingle.  "Baby Got Back".

We all have that trove of useless information that takes up, what probably is, the largest space of brain mass we possess.  Fragments stored there pop up in random bits of remembrance from time to time and then spin and spin like a record on replay. 

Well, if my brain has a needle, it definitely skipped today and then stuck at the groove where "Lambert the Sheepish Lion" is stored.  I've had this song running through my head all afternoon and evening.  And, when a song is stuck in my head, it usually does not choose to stay there.  It will find a way bore through the bottom of my skull and trickle its way down my throat.  It will then roll across my tongue like an overdramatic cop in a bad chase scene and escape out my lips before I can even realize that I'm singing out loud.  Sneaky lyrics!

Lambert was a classic Disney animated short about a baby lion who was mistakenly delivered, by that clumsy Disney stork, to a mother sheep of all creatures!  Lambert obviously stood out in the flock, being neither white as snow nor having the ability to "baa".  The theme song is basically the other young lambs bullying the heck out of Lambert in sweet (somewhat British-sounding) melody.

I know every word because we recorded this episode on the family VHS recorder when it aired one weekend on TWWOD*.  We rewound that song over and over again until every word was meld onto that long-playing album in our heads.

I don't know why we issued ourselves that Lambert-learning challenge.  But, I know we thought those sheep were adorable, and little Lambert even more-so!  I still can recite each and every word, even to this day.

Unfortunately, in order to sing the lyrics properly, you have to baa out the lyric "Laaaam-bert"  So, if any of my coworkers were alarmed by the strange farm animal noises they heard coming from my office today, I do apologize.  I'm just a Lambert-lover, I know not what I bleat.

*The Wonderful World of Disney - I talk about this show so much, it's time to start abbreviating.

Foods I HATE!

I always knew Anderson Cooper and I were soul mates. But, now he's officially confirmed it by admitting on his new talk show that he doesn't like to eat greens or drink hot beverages. 

I thought I was the only person who managed to reach middle-age without slurping down a cup of coffee every morning and choking down those salads that restaurants try to convince us are a required course of every meal.

In fact, I'll do Anderson one better and raise the ante by one pork chop, meatloaf and strawberry.

These are the foods that I despise:

• Pork chops - The grossest of all meats.  I prefer my pork by way of bacon, ham or hot dog.  I don't know which part of the pig is the chop, and from the tastes of it... I don't wanna!
• Meatloaf - Who ever thought to smush so much hamburger meat together and pretend that ketchup is its gravy?  Who requires meat by the loaf, when a patty topped with cheese and placed between two buns tastes so much better? (Or between toast with Parmesan grilled to the outside. Yum!)
• Strawberries - Their color is disturbingly radioactive.  But, it's their texture that remains totally unnecessary!  No food should feel like a cross between corduroy, Velcro and tree moss dragging across your taste buds.  If a strawberry sits on my plate, I can feel hives form just by looking at it.
• Hot beverages of any kind - I drink to quench my thirst.  Novel idea, I know.  I never understood what good could come from pouring hot, dirty, burnt-tasting water down your gullet and I probably never will.  (And, tea tastes just as unsanitary.) When I was a kid, I would resign to accepting the hot chocolate my mom would make for us when we'd come in from playing in the snow.  But, the secret is, I'd just scoop out the warm marshmellows while they were still somewhat crunchy.  Where'd the hot chocolate go?  Only the sewer system knows... and it ain't talking!
• Wet things on meat - Chicken tastes best when it's a plump, juicy, skinless breast baked at 400 degrees and maybe lightly salted.  Or, when battered and fried and clogging my arteries.  (I should go ahead and mention that I'll also accept my chicken in McNugget form.)  I do not like wet stuff on my chicken.  Don't try to gravy it, sauce it, or glop it up in any other such way and then charge me extra while I'm left with the inconvenience of having to wipe it all back off.  Chicken is good and delicious on its own.  Why try to mask that beautiful flavor?  Don't ketchup my hamburger or mustard my hot dog while we're at it either.  P.S. Hold the barbecue sauce as well.
• Any solid food mixed in mashed potatoes - If you mix your peas in your mashed potatoes you were probably dropped on your head as an infant.  This goes as well for the mastermind at KFC that decided we might also like our corn and meat mixed in them.  You are a grown-up.  You have moved past Gerber Graduates.
• Pickles - There's something pickle-lovers just don't understand.  When a non-pickle-lover finds that a pickle has been accidentally (or evilly and with full intention) placed in their sandwich they cannot "just pick it off!"  Once a pickle has touched bread or bun, it has tainted it.  Permanently.  There is no going back.  Tomato, this goes for you too.

So, I didn't see the full Anderson episode, but from what I previewed it seemed to be some sort of intervention looking for psychological reasons that Anderson is a picky eater. 

Awww, lay off him!  From one picky eater to another, we were forced to eat enough disgusting stuff as kids. We buy our own groceries, we make our own meals... now is the time to eat what we want.  If something is offensive to your palate, there's no reason to pretend.  Teasing your gag reflex is a habit you can leave behind at your childhood dinner table. 

Take a multi-vitamin and repeat after me:

"I will not eat peas, you can't make me eat peas, I will never be forced to eat peas again!"

Why?

My Halloween Playlist

It's that time of year.  The time when I can't change the TV to one movie channel without having the snot scared out of me.  I've sat through The Sixth Sense and Beetlejuice so far this week.  That's my limit.  I'm not a fan of horror.  At all.

That being said, however, I do have my own annual (very PG, merry not scary) Halloween DVD lineup:

• It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown - Duh.  This should be on everyone's Halloween playlist.  I'm almost as big of a Peanuts fan as I am a Disney nut.  If Charles M. Schulz would have only designed a theme park before his passing, they might be completely neck and neck.  Great Pumpkin is such a classic and it stirs up so many fond childhood memories.  Unlike the current 30-day cartoon channel marathons, it would air only once a year.  We'd plan our night around it popping popcorn, cozied up in our fall pjs with Halloween decorations scotch-taped to the family room's picture window.  (We'd repeat the tradition in December with the Christmas episode, with a color-lit tree replacing the cardboard jack-o-lanterns for ambiance.)  I loved the Peanuts so much that I wanted to live in their neighborhood growing up.  The children seemed to be in charge of their own independence.  Grown-ups were reduced to a dull "waah-wah-waah-wah" and there was always someone to play with and something fun to do.  I loved the Peanuts so much, in fact, that I was willing to overlook the improbability that Linus, who seemed the most spiritually inclined of the gang (he was the only one who could step up and tell Charlie what Christmas was all about, mind you) would also be the one to believe in a phantom oogy-boogy pumpkin man.  Oh well.  I guess even the most intelligent child needs one mythical being to believe in (and a blankie, of course.)
• Legend of Sleepy Hollow (Disney animated version) - We used to watch this in class in elementary school and it would always come on The Wonderful World of Disney this time each year.  It scared the beejeezas out of me, but I would still watch it every time.  As a kid I could only hold my breath in anticipation for the scene where the thumping cattails that mimicked emerging horse hooves turned into actual emerging horse hooves belonging to THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN'S horse!  Dreading this scene for so many years, caused me to miss the comical enjoyment of everything that came before it.  "Who's that comin' down the street? ♫  Are those shovels or are they feet? ♫"  (My nephews find that line hilarious!  I'm with them on that.)  Disney has a way, I'll tell ya.  And, this has come to be one of my classic Disney favorites.  Although, I'm having trouble convincing some of the kids that the horseman quite possibly may just be Brom Bones in disguise.
• The Wind in the Willows - This isn't technically Halloween fare, but Disney's animated mini-classic following the adventures of Mr. Toad was often packaged with Sleepy Hollow.  So, since that's how I remember it seeing it, we usually watch these two as a pair.  Besides, once those creepy weasels take over Toad Hall things do get pretty hairy!
• Garfield's Halloween Adventure - I was always a fan of the Garfield books and comic strips.  But, when this animated adventure came out in 1985, it skewed my sense of Garfield-dom.  This was pretty scary to me as an eleven-year-old!  But, again, I watched every year out of fan loyalty. (And, come on, how cute was Odie in his pirate getup?)  The story quickly turned from the familiar manipulative fat cat shenanigans into a horrific ghost-pirate haunting!  (I can still picture that one ghost pirate chomping down on his jaw while in pursuit of Garfield and Odie.  Eek!)  I don't know how they dreamed up this storyline.  I always assumed the Garfield cartoon was set somewhere in suburban Midwest.  So why, when and how pirates once roamed their suburban lake is beyond me.  Maybe they pillaged in circles.  Maybe they were Great Lake pirates.  We may never know.  But, as long as this remains one of the five-year-old's favorites, it will remain in our holiday rotation.  (He even begs to watch it at Christmas-time!)
• Mickey's House of Villains - A newer compilation of classic Disney cartoon shorts of the likes of Lonesome Ghosts, Donald Duck and the Gorilla and Trick or Treat.  The titles may not ring a bell, but the images you would definitely remember from the Wonderful World of Disney days.  Witch Hazel?  A gorilla on the loose during an amazingly well-timed radio broadcast "Attention all listeners!  You can master any wild animal by looking him straight in the eye!  That is all!"  Black and white Mickey, Donald and Goofy playing real life ghostbusters?  Remember?  They also added some newer shorts to the mix, but even the kids prefer the classics.
• Nightmare Before Christmas - Need I say more?  Love the music and the scenery and artwork is fittingly classic Tim Burton.  Jack Skellington makes a return appearance to our playlist at Christmas-time.  This one covers all bases.
• Meet Me in St. Louis - This is also regular Christmas Eve viewing for myself.  If you're wondering how this also ended up as a Halloween pick, it's solely because of Margaret O'Brien (as Tootie)'s Halloween scene.  I never learned more about early 1900's American Halloween traditions than by watching this movie.  Kids in cross-dressing lighting piles of furniture on fire in the middle of the street.  Tossing a dummy across the trolley car tracks to derail it.  Throwing flour in the neighbors' faces. "I killed him!" (Her mother warns her before she leaves the house, "Try not to throw too much flour on the neighbors."  ONE grain of flour would have gotten me grounded for life!)  Boy, I learned so much from this flick!

Enjoy your own playlists this Halloween season.  Just try to limit your intake of  severed heads and rotting zombie flesh, for the sake of sweet dreams. "That is all!"

Chew on This

As I age I notice my teeth slowly moving away from the perfect position my teenage braces had molded them into.  This means, I've developed "food catchers".  You know, those oddly shaped crevices created between your teeth as they twist back away from one another and come to work as crumb traps.  Chewed food can sit in any number of these spots for hours (or until fate shines upon you and presents with it a mirror.)

It stinks that I'm at the age that I have to check my teeth after every meal and every snack.  Little kids can sneak around for days without picking up a toothbrush, but their teeth still remain crumb-free and shiny white.  Lucky suckers.

Grown-up teeth vs Kid teeth

Food catchers aside, I have somehow lasted 37 years now without a single cavity.  Whatever God graced my teeth with in strength, He's deprived me with in color, though.  I have fluorosis.  It's the condition that causes spotty teeth that are never to be movie star white (unless you add together each platinum spotty spot and create a digital composite.)

I've read, ironically, that fluorosis is caused by receiving too much fluoride as a child.  Can you believe that?!  Shocking to any 80's child who had to gag their way through yearly fluoride treatments like I (our dentist's uncompassionate choice in fluoride flavor: Sour apple.)  They put it in our toothpastes, mouthwashes, even our tap water!  And, all to just cause my teeth to overdose on the stuff and have unruly color for the rest of my life.  (But, remember... No cavities!)

My cat even had pearly whites, for crying out loud.  And, I'm not even sure she was aware she had teeth!  With no toothbrush, toothpaste or dental floss to her name and an overwhelming precondition to munch on her own toenails, she got to bask in the favor of perfectly curled whiskers and glistening white teeth.

I'd like to bet my dog had whiter teeth than me as well.  Even after all that toilet drinking!  Although, as he aged it became the norm--from time to time--to find some of his teeth randomly sprinkled amid the family room carpeting. (Unattached to dog gums, that is...)  So, I guess I pull ahead of him in score there.  It's only fair.  I never had a fence-chewing habit.

As much as I tend to bust my own chops, I guess I'm glad mine seem to chew well.  Which I'm sure was the sole purpose intended at their creation.  Modern culture seems to no longer recognize healthy teeth as good teeth.  The trend has somehow moved from, keeping as many of your original teeth as hygienically possible, to chiseling out all of the above and replacing them with chompers that look like they came from a Mr. Potato Head kit.  And, people spend alot of money to have Mr. Potato Head's teeth installed!

People with properly functioning mouths pay someone to drill all their teeth down to nubs and leave non-tooth-materialed picket fences in their wake.  Not for any health reason, but just to make them that much whiter, straighter and larger!  This is a foreign concept to me because, when I want whiter teeth, I use MI Paste (a fluorosis thing) and whitening agents.  (Yeah, mine might not look like refrigerator panels, but they're not yellow either!)  To straighten, I endured my two-year sentence in braces like the rest of the middle-classed patient folk.  And, larger?!  If my teeth got any larger, I'd begin to grow rabbit ears!

But, here's living proof that people really do this:

And then, there's the people who walk into their dentist's office demanding, "Give me the 'Donny Osmond!'":

I can't imagine going to such extremes myself.  And, I find it quite humorous when I'm watching a movie or television show where the actor is playing a homeless person/pioneer/prisoner/cowboy from the Old West/castaway (Sawyer from Lost, I'm talkin' to you!), and they open their mouth to reveal a 21st century set of white Chiclets.  But, to each his own.

Better to wear Gary Busey's grin than this one!

Cheetos?  Meth mouth? Cheetos + Meth mouth?  You decide.

Songs of my Youth: Hello

"My sister loves Lionel Richie!"  I'd been caught chanting this on any number of occasion, in any number of places, at any given moment throughout the year of 1984. 

I loved Lionel Richie too, don't get me wrong.  His songs were on constant replay on my red-and-white striped portable record player as well.  It's just I loved Lionel Richie, the singer.  She loved Lionel Richie, the man!

This was her first confessed crush (mine was Ricky Schroeder) so there was definitely some novelty in finally knowing a name of a boy that my sister was in love with.  And as her little sister, of course, I felt it was my obligation was to taunt her and broadcast it to the world.  I'd been waiting for this kind of ammunition for years, without even realizing it!

Lionel Richie, the man.  We're all looking at the same picture up above, right?  I'm guessing, as far as  Lionel was concerned, this was his "come hither" face.  To me, it just looked like he was experiencing mild back pain while also suffering from several popcorn kernels lodged between the teeth.  To perfect the pose, someone in a frightening Halloween mask may have also been commissioned to jump out at him, at the most opportune moment, while screaming, "BOOGITY-BOO!"  [Flash bulb]  "Perfecto!  We've got our album cover!"  No, it may not plead "come hither", but it might possibly say, "Hello".  (If we talking strictly in the sense of horror movie--you hear footstep creaking in the hallway--"hellooo???")

Well, love knows not from whence it comes, but I certainly can tell you where love is declared.  On my older sister's bedroom wall and by way of a homemade "I ♥ Lionel Richie" sign that was scotch-taped to the poster below:

There must have been something alluring about that cheesy "Gotcha!" smile that tickled sister's fancy.  I don't know how many hours she spent daydreaming while looking at this shot (because I, obviously, wasn't allowed in her room by this point.)  But, I'd have to guess for probably at least as many hours as I spent pondering the physics involved in his sliding-down-the-pole pose.  Feet out?!  (Admit it.  You too think he's actually trampolining up, right?  Darn you eighties camera trickery!)

But, thankfully, she moved on to Scott Baio and eventually to my brother-in-law (the complete physical opposite of Lionel Richie.)  And, good thing too.  I'd hate to think how much embarrassment I could have caused her at she and Lionel's wedding.  "If anyone has just cause why this couple should not be lawfully wed..."  "Um.  I don't have any objections.  I just really need you to be frank with us before we proceed...  You were jumping on a trampoline in that shot, weren't you?" 

Phew.  We really dodged a bullet there.

But, even more than the pole jumping poster and the sisterly taunts, when I think of of Lionel Richie, I think of Hello.  The video is forever burned in my memory and the lyrics forever woven into my heartstrings.  (However wrongly they were actually woven for a couple of years.  As a kid I always sang, "I sometimes feel my heart wheel overflow ♫"  It was quite some time before I realized he was actually singing "heart will..."  Dang it, if you'd just enunciate Lionel!  I could easily explain my rendition though.  A heart wheel is like a water wheel.  It's the chamber of the heart in which the love is properly stirred and propelled.)

We all remember the video, right?  Performing arts teacher, Lionel, heart-achingly stalking his blind female student (student/teacher relations weren't so frowned upon in the mid-eighties...) who was, unknowingly and simultaneously, constructing this bust of our hero:

Perhaps she thought she was being taught by Billie Dee Williams?

He longed to see the sunlight in her hair.  I longed to know how she did her eye makeup with such precision, you know, considering...

But, cheesy video images aside.  The song does live on and on.  Just when you begin to forget how good and raw and simply poetic the lyrics are, someone else comes out with a marvelous remake of it and our hearts wheels overflow once again.

And, let's never forget the original:

Book Review: She Got Up Off the Couch, by Haven Kimmel

Another book from my 90% off Borders Going Out of Business stash. I picked it up and put it back down at least twice before deciding it was worth the $1.40 required for its purchase.

Good thing they put the word "Zippy" on the cover.  The name Haven Kimmel didn't ring any bells (beside the brief wondering if she's in any relation to Jimmy) and I wasn't sure the phrase She Got Up Off the Couch sounded very promising.  But, the sight of "Bestselling Author of A Girl Named Zippy" is what kept causing me to add it back into my "yes" pile.  I'd heard of this Zippy before.  I'd read marvelous reviews of this previous book and wondered if it was possible to read the sequel first and still figure out what was going on. 

That answer ended up being "yes".

Haven Kimmel (whom I'm sure is working under pen name) is one of the most brilliantly comical authors I've ever read in my entire life.  This memoir, as well as the---as yet unread by me---A Girl Named Zippy, chronicle her hilarious, somewhat dysfunctional, upbringing in rural Indiana.  The book is written as if being directly beamed from her past adolescent mind.  She's unapologetically goofy, awkward and tomboyish with a charmingly intelligent way of sounding childlike.

This book passed my ultimate litmus test of having something quoteable on each and every page.  To prove this to you ('cause this speaks volumes in comparison to any lousy reveiw I could write) I have randomly opened the book in several places and typed out the first sentence that caught my eye on each page:

• "The couch in the den was the color the crayon people called Flesh..." 
• "Mom leaned toward the windshield as if she could make the car go faster." 
• "Just a glance at persimmons reveals them to be suspicious fruits and yet we ate them constantly." 
• When her dad let a mysterious vagabound camp out in their backyard: "I didn't have much experience with tents, but God knows I wanted some." 
• As she silently protested her teenaged sister's marriage: "I moved and felt like a zombie, only without the flesh-eating joy that seems to drive zombies around neighborhoods like Jehovah's Witnesses." 
• On being forced to attend church camp: "I would not sing Kum-Bye-Ya around the campfire.  I would not play games of tag in the dark, where the boys and girls were allowed to hunt for one another, and find each other, in ways that made my veins run cold." 
• "My sister pulled up...and said she was heading to Grant's department store...and wanted to know if I'd like to ride along.  Grant's meant one thing and one thing only---a frozen cherry Coke, for which I would have compromised any principle---but I had my rats to worry about." 
• When speaking of her favorite song: "Beep Beep (The Little Nash Rambler), by the Playmates. A morality tale about a little car...This song brilliantly gains momentum, and is sung faster and faster right up to the hysterical ending.  Could be sung in the truck so frantically the father in question would sometimes have to stick his head out his open window while praying aloud." 
• "Olive's body had been covered with stretch marks and varicose veins, like a map you turn over and can never make sense of."
• On escorting her mother on her first solo purchase of a used car: "I could only whistle and shake my head as proxy for my dad, who was neither there nor did he know we were."
• "I once overheard Mom refer to a man as someone who Had Accidents for a Living.  I was fairly certain this was my vocation, too, and I wished I could interview the man to figure out how one got paid for what came naturally to me." 
• On her dad's adventures as a volunteer deputy sheriff: "Dad reached around and thrust his hand in the Bad Check Man's mouth...getting severely bitten in the process.  This caused him to wind up in the emergency room, and when he got home he explained the extreme dangerousness of human saliva, which sounded as toxic as hyena spit." 
• On meeting a colleague of her mother's: "Ted was the drama teacher and he made all the plays happen.  He was the cleanest-looking person I'd ever met...and..he had the straightest, whitest teeth on Planet Earth.  They were like a shining white tooth bracelet."

If you chuckled at least six times above, pick up She Got Up Off the Couch today.  It won't change your life, but it just might heighten your reading standards and make you smile.  Alot.  Yes, it is a sequel, but you won't be lost without having read it's predecessor.  By the end you'll wonder what happens to her family next and start praying for a third volume.  And, while you're at it, someone pick me up that Zippy book, stat!  My funny bone is itchin'!

Book Review: My Year With Eleanor

I picked up My Year With Eleanor at a Borders Going Out of Business sale.  90% off!  Yes, at 90% I cleared out most of what was left in the Memoir/Biography section as well.  At that kind of discount, I wasn't being very choosy.  (Killing Willis also landed in my book bag.  Yes, that Willis.)  After reading the premise, I wasn't sure if this was some kind of self-help book in memoir's clothing... but, c'mon!  It was $2.49!

I actually recalled reading reviews on this one, citing that Noelle Hancock (never heard of her) charmingly wrote this account after spotting a random Eleanor Roosevelt quote on a coffee house's chalkboard and documenting the life-changing endeavors that followed.

"Do one thing every day that scares you"

Having just lost her job as a tabloid Internet blogger, Noelle took this challenge quite literally.  She decided to do at least one thing every day for the year leading up to her thirtieth birthday that scared the bejeezers out of her Ivy League-educated turned gossip-for-hire pants.

I, having a mild case of scaredy-pants myself, actually found myself getting nervous on her behalf during some of her more adventurous chapters.  Ms. Hancock has an amusing writing style and definitely does not take herself too seriously, and those are the perfect ingredients for the most fun type of memoirs to read.

Her daily challenges ranged from talking to strangers, to singing karaoke, to a performing a set of stand-up comedy (a dirty filthy set... be forewarned!), to visiting ex-boyfriends, to swimming with sharks, to her standby of running down the apartment hallway naked (if the day's end neared and she realized that she hadn't scared herself yet.)  She conquers her fear of heights, not by simply riding in tall elevators (thank goodness, for the interest of her reading audience) but by taking trapeze lessons, flying a fighter jet and skydiving.

She's careful not to venture into that dreaded self-help territory, but just tells her own story of self-help.  Realizing she was once dare-devilish and fun-loving and noticing that self begin to stifle in the over-achieving-peered Ivy League years, she just longs to find the steps to unburying her old self.  She includes amusing visits with her therapist (therapy = amusing, who knew!), hilarious friends who tagged along on some of her feats, a will-he or won't-he boyfriend (who sounds pretty hot) and her family members who helped her reach the ultimate task of  **SPOILER ALERT** a little mountain that starts with a "K", ends with an "ilimanjaro".

Glancing at her skinny-perky-blonde author's photo in the jacket sleeve might cause one to think, "Oh, this is going to be an airhead's tale."  But, don't judge this book by its cover.  Blonde and pert as she may be, Noelle Hancock is a talented writer and her story is sharp and witty fun.  I graduated from having sweaty palms in anticipation for her early challenges to actually cheering her on and finding impossible to wait to see what came next.  It's a fun ride with little bit of Eleanor Roosevelt history sneakily planted between pages.  You'll feel a little braver by the end and may actually come up with a few new bullet-points for your own bucket list.

Rebel Without a Clue

I was watching Rebel Without a Cause on tv the other night.  I haven't seen it in a couple of years, but am always amused by the melodramatic antics of it all.

Things were very intense in the 1950's. Parents didn't understand teenagers.  You could get called "a wheel".  Being outdoors after dark was reason enough to get you hauled in.  There were very small reasons to rebel.  Microscopic.  I never did fully understand why all angst.

James Dean's character's dad loved him too much, dang it!  He was trying to be his friend for heaven's sake.  His mother was a nag and needed to be clocked "just once" according to her son.  (Yeah, she and the grandmother were pretty annoying.  I'll give him that.)  His parents had differing opinions that were "TEARING ME APART!!!"  But, don't all couples?  They all seemed to love him fine and provide him with a nice car and wardrobe. 

And, that Natalie Wood was such a drama queen!  Her dad didn't think it was appropriate for her to be sitting in his lap and smooching on him anymore at her age, and she's an emotional wreck because of it.  This treatment causes her to wander the streets at one a.m. unescorted.  But, guess what, Natalie?  You shouldn't be sitting on his lap!  You're sixteen! He called you a tramp because you're running around town with a car load of greasers, dressed in red from head to toe.  And, don't get me started on that lipstick!  The devil's shade! 

For being such an emotional crybaby at home, she sure rebounds quickly in her social life.  Her boyfriend plummets to his death in a chickie fight and she's already running around, playing house, with James Dean by the end of that same night.  Talk about a quick rebound!  (And, he's the "yo-yo"?)

That gang. (I believe Natalie called them "The Kids".)  For all the torment they throw Jim's way, Buzz admits to actually liking him.  These upper-class rebels!  Even when they like you, they can only get their kicks by stabbing you with switchblades and running you off of cliffs.  Just your standard Friday night!  I don't get it really.

Then, there's Plato.  Poor Plato.  I don't even have the strength...

The original trailer deems Rebel as, "Sensitive. So sensitive... Its performances will throb deep in your heart!"  I don't quite think it's the sensitivity or heart-throbbing that keeps us coming back to this flick but, for some reason, all that belly-aching has stood the test of time. 

My personal excuse is, of course, James Dean's handsomeness and natural charisma.  I can't resist his casual toss off of, "I'm cute, too." right before the knife fight at the observatory.  And, like all fifties movies, I like to watch the clothes.  Boys wearing skinny ties to school.  All the colorful tweeds and wools and A-line skirts.  That red leather jacket that made its debut long before Michael Jackson's.  And, of course, the overacting is always amusing a few generations later. (Makes me want to watch East of Eden again next, just for the scene of the drunken brother pulling away in the train car.)

There's no real moral to the story.  I can pretty much bet that the writer had real daddy issues though.  This movie simply opened the doors for teens to talk back to their parents and introduced greasers to new forms of chicken fighting.  Or maybe, as the film poster suggests, it's a warning to America of the "drama of today's juvenile violence."

If there's anything I take from it (now knowing the chain of events that could follow) it's to never "Moo" in a darkened room and NEVER call James Dean "chicken"! He's a good kid, but he doesn't take kindly to it.

Hospitals

Today's entry is brought to you by the letters O and R.

Yes, I spent this beautiful sunny, seventy-degree Autumn day in the OR... or the OR waiting room to be more precise.  The day has finally come for my mom to have her wobbly hip replaced with a smoother sleeker model.  My family has a great amount of experience with our local hospital, but here are a few new insights I gleaned from today's visit:

• In the past, our local hospital always had a lingering scent of urine perfumed throughout the hallways.  Not lingering, that's putting it too mildly.  The heavy-handed, as if hosed on from curtain to floor tile, stench of urine.  Well, thankfully that smell has been replaced with the scent of rubbing alcohol.  BTW, I prefer the rubbing alcohol if anyone's taking a poll.  Cheers from my nostrils to whomever implemented that improvement.
• Eight hours at work is equivalent to eight hours as a visitor in a hospital.  Yes, you're mostly just sitting in a chair in a poorly lit room and periodically moving your feet to let nurses, IVs and food carts pass through.  But, it's just as draining somehow.
• Hospital food is awesome!  I can't say this about all hospitals (because I've tasted some food at some other hospitals. Blech!)  But, ours is a course in fine hospital dining.  Every time a family member is admitted here, one of my first thoughts (after the initial ones of concerns for health) is, "Ooh! I'm gonna get me a grilled cheese."  I have a thing for our hospital cafeteria's grilled cheese sandwiches.  Their mac and cheese was looking pretty tasty today too.  I might have to try that tomorrow.
• There has always been a patient screaming down the hallway, there will always be a patient screaming down the hallway.  And, yes, today there was a patient screaming down the hallway!  I wonder if it's that same patient.
• You will always overhear someone else's confidential patient information.  Those divider curtains are hardly made of brick and mortar.  I heard alot today.  Alot.  I also learned that the physical therapist is next-door neighbors with my mom's hospital roommate.  And, the PT didn't even know she lived next door!  Confidential?  Not anymore!
• Doctors may not look like doctors these days.  An orderly walked into the recovery room.  I know this because his arms were covered in the kind of gangster tattoos guys get in their late teens/early twenties to prove their machismo.  Oh wait, why is the orderly shaking my hand?  Because he's the anesthesiologist according to his introduction (and the color-coded scrub chart on the wall that I checked for additional proof.)  And, he's a jokester (as in, while checking my mom's heart, "Yep, it's still there!" Or also, as in some other joke that was too corny for me to remember.)  Tattooed, pranky anesthesiologist with a goatee?  Eh, depends on the mood.
• The nurse who gushes with the most friendliness in her voice is also the one most likely to forget to bring the patient her dinner menu (after promising it to her multiple times.)
• The other nurse is allergic to codeine.  I don't know why she told me this, but more proof that confidential medical information abounds.
• If the walker goes missing and a wild goose chase ensues, first check to see if it's folded up and resting against the wall right next to the patient's bed before ordering above mentioned wild goose chase.

I could also mention that the respiratory therapist "smoked everything under the sun" in the 60's and where he'll be vacationing next fall, but I'll save that information for a conversation that's a little more private.

Thank you for visting. We hope you enjoy your stay!

The Leisure Hiker

I am a leisure hiker.

I'm adding the word "leisure" to that term, as not to be confused with the excessively-calved folks dressed in orange and khaki who find pure joy romping up and down the Appalachian Trail.  I call it hiking because it generally happens in the woods, but "wanderer" or "meanderer" may be more suitable titles for the likes of me.

When I hike, I am not looking to do any of the following:

• Keep track of any numbers.  Heart rate, miles walked, time... No!  Numbers are not welcome in the woods with me.  Unless I'm counting deer or butterflies.
• Be a pack mule.  Sleeping bags, tents and changes of clothing are also unwelcome.  I won't be gone more than an hour or two, so a small pack will suffice.  Wallet, water, granola bar, keys, camera and the occasional small notepad are all that are invited.
• Eat weird things.  See above granola bar.
• Pee in unusual places. (Although, I can't claim this has never been done.)
• "Survive".  On purpose or in any extreme sense of the word.

I've tried the whole survival trip thing once in my life.  Yes, not a survival day hike.  ONE WHOLE WEEK.  Extreme.  Needless to say I lasted 2/3-of-a-day on the survival part before my--undiagnosed until then--hypoglycemia (and all-around wimpiness) reared its ugly head.  Dry-heaving over the side of a canoe and eight hours of the blood sugar shakes showed me my limits.  I spent the rest of the week sent back to the "nice" side of the Canadian Wilderness, but still had to live out of a pack, eat bland food cooked over campfire and pee in a lake to avoid the splintery latrine. While in glasses, I might add.

But, I did hear a moose pass by tent one night.  (Biggest regret of my life is that I was too chicken to unzip the window and take a peek.)  I eventually learned how to properly canoe.  And, somehow managed to get myself talked into this:

So there are some stories of bravery to be told in my old age.

Hikes for me now are just mini-adventures.  Pick a trail, have the camera out, follow wherever your feet lead and deal with whatever comes your way.  Even if it's this:

Cross a log, if a log lay ahead.  Not because you have to, but because it's fun.  Take alot of pictures of anything you deem splendid.  Stalk some animals you have no intention of killing. 

I can't tell you how many hours of my life I've spent creeping after little fawns in the woods.  I don't know what the bigger thrill for me; the fact that they let me keep so close, the beauty of the lovely things or the adrenaline rush of the thought that a mama may come charging out of the trees at any minute to stomp me square in the face.  I've learned this is a much safer risk taken with deer as opposed to, say, black bears.  I once tailed two fawn with two rowdy nephews in tow.  We came across the mother, who just stood silently in the camouflage of the woods and left her babies to our mercy.  I don't know if she was "testing" her offspring, if we just didn't seem like a big enough threat, or if self-survival is simply more important in the deer kingdom.  One thing's for sure, she had no intention of protecting her young.  And, she thought she had us fooled standing there with twigs in her face, thinking she completely blended in while I snapped a half-dozen pictures of her.  Oh deer!

Whatever your adventure, mega or mild, get on out there.  There are wondrous things you are obligated to see as citizens of this earth.  God let you live here, you might as well enjoy it!

A Pain in My Eye!

I'm back!  I've been on about a week hiatus due to a blasted scratch on my friggin' cornea.  Glowing computer screens, not my friend this week. 

In keeping with my last post, I've been on glasses duty during this time (and the coming few days as well.)  Grrrr...  God has taught me humility through all of this, though my nose suffers under the weight of my lenses and my vanity is kinda starting to miss my eye makeup stash.

I have to consult my Facebook page to remember what I missed posting about this week. ('Cause that how we document things these days, right?)

I went to the zoo on Sunday with my brother's kids.  My 14-year-old niece discovered that, yes, she's still afraid on butterflies.  And, peacocks too for that matter.  My nephews each rode a dinosaur for the very first time... on the zoo's brand spankin' new and simply adorable carousel, that is:

I had a lion look me right square in the eye.  Not in a "I'd like to eat you now" way, but more in the sense of, "My instincts tell me I should eat you, but my heart thinks we could be really good friends":

Another lion did this:

We saw the cutest family of chimpanzees this side of the Congo.  The baby was so sweetly content riding his mama like this:

...but the kids soon lost interest because it's not like the chimps were riding around on tricycles while smoking cigars or anything.  Chants of "Can we go now?" I managed to ignore for probably a good twenty minutes.  That's how you get your chimp fix, you see.  By feigning deafness.

The work week brought temps of highs in 70s here in SE Michigan.  That's what people call an "Indian Summer" around these parts.  We should probably start calling it a "Native American Summer" though, to be more p.c.  It's got the same ring.  But, since it doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, we probably won't.

Sunshiny temps plus the banning of my contacts brought up some risky issues.  For one, I don't own a pair of prescription sunglasses. And, since any hint of light causes my damaged eye to water like Niagara, I've been forced to resort to this:

I've always been a fan of layering

It's street legal as far as I can tell!

I won runner-up in a "Pimp Your Ride" (ie. office chair) contest at work, 'cause I work at a place that has such contests:

May the Queen with the thickest glasses rule the land.

I came home drunk on power and managed to make this mess:

Did I do that?

If candy were currency I would also be king.  I managed to collect all my riches, but am still unsure of the candy corn to hair ratio left mingling in their new ziplocked home.

Besides that, I've started watching and loving The New Girl on Fox.  I've come to terms with the fact that Glee is apparently now a drama and no longer a musical comedy.  I finished My Life With Eleanor and started reading (and loving!) She Got Up Off the Couch.  I'm finding Haven Kimmel (Who wants to take bets that that's not her birth name?) thoroughly entertaining and I'm seeing that I'm going to have to quickly purchase A Girl Named Zippy, because it came first and Couch is it's sequel. 

What else... it's been five days since my last post so I guess that means I've entered the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes five more times since then and now we're back up to speed.  (I guess the near-blind can still get a whole lot accomplished in a week!)

Now if you'll excuse me, the queen needs her rest.