#230 - "THWANG!"

The thwanger and the thwangee, CHRISTMAS 68

This is a short one...I seem to be running out of stories or words or both. 

Thanks to Melynda and her Pee story I remembered this about my two and prompted the question,

"At what age should a parent stop allowing  siblings to take baths together?"

Well, my daughter was about 2 1/2 and my son was around 5 which means that  I had been giving them baths together for around 2  years.  They got along well and it was obviously less time consuming to wash them both at the same time.  Bath time was a lot of fun with lots of toys, splashing and giggling.  

Then, one day my son stood up to step out of the bathtub and the above question was answered rather quickly.  My daughter suddenly reached up and smacked his....his....his...well you know and then said,"Thwang! "  Both kids laughed as I groaned because that meant bath time just changed and a I was going to need to have a personal conversation with my son to explain why.

So, the answer to the above question is:  The time has definitely arrived when there is a wiener whacking, followed by sound effects.

#206 - OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES

This is about the age my 

little angel was when

 this story happened.

This is absolutely my favorite story, and the star of this story is my daughter Patricia.  It is hard to describe young Patricia.  She was my daring one; she was continually pushing the envelope.  As a young child she was definitely a drama queen who would constantly find ways to surprise us all. 

For example, before she was two, she found out that crying was a good way to get attention (but, most kids know that).  She was an adorable little imp and would cloud up whenever the mood struck her.  Only this little charmer would add a her own little twists.  She would dash through the room and dramatically throw herself onto the couch, bed, or whatever was available.  But, even that wasn’t enough for Patty.  She would detour by a box of kleenex, avail herself of a few tissues, press them to her face (leaving plenty of peeking room), and then perform the dramatic "fling" onto a piece of furniture.

I have already written several stories about Patricia but this next one happened when she was almost three years old.  It, by far, takes the prize and I decided to post this one on her birthday.

To set the stage, it was a lovely evening in a quiet little neighborhood in Southern California.  My family and I had just sat down to dinner.  Dad (the stern but fair principal of the local Jr. High) sat at the head of the table, as usual.  Patty (the imp) was parked at the foot of the table in her high chair (minus the tray) looking like an angle.  Mom (a slightly prudish, one time escrow agent, now housewife) was sitting on the side to Dad’s left.  Gene (my earnest six year old son) was sitting on the side to Dad’s right.  I (at that time a courtroom clerk at the municipal court) was sitting by my mother and to Patty’s right.  The table was neatly set; a Norman Rockwell setting if there ever was one.  There, have the picture?

My mother was an excellent cook and we all sat there with our mouths watering at the fare she had set before us.  There we were, the typical American family of the sixties.   We were a normal (except for me as I had just gone through a divorce), very wholesome (not a fowl word could ever be heard), church going  (every Sunday like clockwork) family about to have our typical, normal, wholesome, delicious dinner.  

Without warning Patty spoke up… … …   From her beautiful, pink, bow shaped mouth came words I WILL NEVER FORGET!   This sweet little child in a sing song-ie wee voice said,

“Pass the F- - - ing peas, please.”

(Only she said the actual word.)

Dad’s fork stopped two inches short of his mouth and he froze with the dazed look of a dear caught in headlights.

Mom let out a gasp that practically sucked her napkin off the her lap and threw her right hand across her heart.

Gene, then in kindergarten, fell to the floor laughing hysterically and clutching his groin (he, apparently had already learned that word somewhere).

I sat there dumbfounded as Mom and Dad slowly turned their eyes from Patty to me.  Ok, ok, in my misspent youth I did use THAT WORD once (ok often) to drive a point home or when I was angry.  But I hadn’t used THAT WORD since my children were born.

You could have heard a pin drop if not for the gasping and giggling coming from my son on the floor.

Patty immediately formed a frown on her forehead and looked irked that no one was passing her the peas.  She opened her mouth as if to speak again and that is all it took to immediately mobilize me.  I  burst out of my temporary coma and launched myself toward her.  Scooping her up into my arms I rushed to the bathroom; Patty protesting all the way. 

As I am sure you can imagine, how hard it is to have a discussion with a three year old child about the inappropriateness of a word, and questions about where she learned THAT WORD!  “What word, Mommy?” she said.  What made it worse is that I had to use THAT WORD in order to ask her.  It was awful!  I didn’t know what to do.

Well, about thirty minutes later we returned to the table.  Gene began to giggle again, but both Mom and Dad shot him a look that clammed that kid up, fast.  We made sure that Patty had plenty of peas and potatoes and roast, and everything else we could think of so she wouldn’t need to ask for anything for the rest of the meal.

Later, I informed my parents of what I had gleaned from my little talk with Patty.  Irately, Patty had said, "Mommy,  Sammy’s brothers say that all the time."  

Now, Sammy was her little playmate from next door (who had four older brothers).  Consequently, my mother (who was the caregiver while I was at work) made sure that Patty never went to Sammy’s house ever again. (Incidentally, Sammy was the kid Patty tried to test her toy thermometer on…rectally.  See  PAPER OR PLASTIC listed below).

In the first part of the story I told you about Patty’s attention seeking stunts.  Well, I tried everything to get rid of THAT WORD, but once Patty found out about all the attention she received (using THAT WORD) she used it more often.  

Consequently she was kicked out of two preschools for what they called, earthy language.  They always gave me the fish eye when I came in to pick her up.  Then she entered Kindergarten.  Needless to say, I wasn't looking forward to my trips to to the principal's office.   The first day I thought it fair to warn the teacher of "THE PROBLEM".  I don’t know what that teacher did (I was afraid to ask because if she told me I may have to report her for child abuse) but before the first quarter was over THAT WORD was gone.

POST SCRIPT:

During her college years THAT WORD showed up again and enjoyed a long run.  I think it still OCCASIONALLY pops out.  It's amazing how THAT WORD doesn't have the same ring to it once a person has children.

AND ON A PERSONAL NOTE:

Happy Birthday, darling.  With you around there was NEVER a dull second.  You kept me on my toes and gave me reason to laugh frequently.  I treasure each and every memory of you, my dear daughter.  I would not change even one little moment of my life with you.  

I am so very proud of the woman you have become.  You are a loving and devoted wife and mother who gives it all when it comes to your family.  You are an attentive and supportive daughter and have acted as my cheerleader on several occasions.  You make this world a better place and I love you so very much.  You are so F---ing awesome! 

Mom

And here's my beautiful angel now:

Watching her children at the bow of the boat...

While in Ocean City, NJ 2011

POSTS ABOUT YOUNG PATTY:
Poor Kid 1    Poor Kid 2    Poor Kid 3    Paper or Plastic   No, Gene, You Can Not Hit Her

STOP BY NEXT MONDAY FOR A TAYLORed POISONING... ... ...

 kt 8/2/11

#198-AN EXPLOSIVE SITUATION

One fourth of July (I think it was the summer after my son's 7th grade year) he had his first real supply of fireworks (they didn't allow personal use where we lived in California).  He was so excited he could hardly contain himself.  He emptied his entire supply of firecrackers into a pouch which, at one time, contained an old WWII gas mask.  It was perfect for his purpose (easy to reach, light then toss).  I cautioned him, had him do a few practice lights for me, and then let his do his thing.  He had a small punk and started his small imaginary war.

Watching from the window I watched him warm up until his skills gradually became like an infantry soldier lobbing grenades into the hoards of approaching enemy.  He ended up making a stand on the front porch and then something happened.  I was keeping an eye on him since this was his first real experience with firecrackers and I suddenly heard his yell, "NO!  OH, NO!" and then a whole battery of explosions started filling the air.



When I quickly stepped out the front door I saw my son's ammunition pouch bounding all over the place as multiple little explosions erupted inside the bag.  My son was jumping around like he was lead dancer in Lord of the Dance, and the bag seemed to be attacking him.




The explosive dance didn't last very long as several were going off at the same time.  In less that a minute the chaos subsided and the pouch died a pitiful death on the cement floor with more holes than Swiss cheese.  My son dejectedly flopped down beside the smoking pouch and looked up at me with the most pitiful look I have ever seen.  "Mom!" he said, "That was my entire supply of firecrackers.  They were supposed to last for days."



When I asked what happened he said that he was holding the punk close to the pouch so he could light the fuzes fast, when the end of the punk broke off and fell into the bag.  He went on to say, "I thought I was dead meat because I couldn't get the bag from around my neck fast enough."

This was our first year in Missouri and money was tight since I quit my good job to move my children out of LA.  But, I managed to come up with enough to buy another smaller supply, knowing that my son learned a valuable lesson.   I was thankful that he still had his head and all his fingers......... HERE'S HOPING YOU KEEP YOURS TOO!...........

SEE YOU NEXT MONDAY......for "AN UNLIKELY HERO"  kt  6/23/11

(change in plans, next week is about something that happened today... ...

#200 - A VIEW FROM THE HOUSE FLOOR!)

                                                          

#188 - AND I SCREAMED INTO THE OFFICER'S FACE...

I was invited to be a guest blogger on professionallyinsanem.blogspot.com.  This gal is so good about helping other bloggers get out there into "bloggerland" and find new friends.  She hosts a lot of giveaways too and is generally a great person to know.  This is the post I sent her:

The 9 year old was at her mother's on picture day.

In the late 1960s I was living in Palm Desert with my husband of 3 years.  At this time I was the mother of my son (from a previous marriage), our daughter and a part time step mother to his two daughters and a third daughter from his ex wife’s previous marriage…..Did you get all of that?  Let me put it another way…there was ours (1+ years), mine (3+ years), theirs (5 and 7), and hers (9).  You know how it goes.  We only had the 3 girls part time, but I was overwhelmed. 

My son, Gene, walked at six months of age.  HOWEVER, my daughter, Patty, didn’t walk until she was 13 months old.  We tried everything but she would just sit down and crawl.  Then, suddenly, she was up, walking around, and changed overnight into the grand explorer.  She got into EVERYTHING. 

The week after the 3 older girls left I went to visit a friend and vent about how exhausting and frustrating it was having 4 kids to wrangle along with the toddler.  Things went fine at my friend’s house.  I only had to pull Patty out of 2 cupboards, from under 1 bed, and off the dining room table twice.  My  son would run to me and appraise me of her activities and I would retrieve her from where ever she wasn’t supposed to be.

Finally, we left for home and I placed them both in the back seat of the car.  There were no seat belts back then, but Gene would stay put and I placed Patty in her car seat.  The child seats, back then, had hooks that went over the back of the car’s seat and looked like a basket with leg holes.  

As I was backing out of my friend’s drive way when Gene started yelling, “SHE’S GETTING OUT OF HER SEAT, SHE’S GETTING OUT!”

At that time I was already pulled half way way into the road and I could see a car coming from the left.  So, I backed all the way to the curb, cramped the wheel and parked.   I was dealing with Patty’s escape from her seat when someone cleared their throat at my window. 

Patty was wailing, Gene was staring, big eyed, at something over my shoulder, and I was already fed up with my day.  So, I flipped around and shrieked, “WHAT?” into the POLICE OFFICER’S face.

Woops!  Sorry, Officer.

Obviously the officer did not have a clue as to the predicament I was in and the jerk issued me a ticket!

Well, I was not about to pay for a ticket, so, the next week I went to court and explained the whole thing to the judge. 

It went something like this…

…With Patty balanced on my hip and Gene clasping my hand I approached the bench (I wasn't stupid, kids are great props). 

Your honor, I have just spent 6 weeks taking care of my 1 year old, my 3 year old, and 3 step children ages  5, 7, and 9.  The 9 year old hates me and  made my life miserable.  The 5 year old bites and we all have the wounds to prove it.  And, my 1 year old is a pistol, (indicating with a nod at the squirming toddler in my arms...I could hear snickers coming from behind me). 

I went on to explain (in high pitch, rapid speech)... "As I was pulling out of a drive way all HELL broke loose (the court room erupted in laughter).  My 1 year old had gotten out of her car seat and fell to the floor.  She was screaming and yelling bloody murder.  My son was yelling warnings of impending disaster and my brain went into overload (by this time the judge was smiling, too).  I had to stop the car immediately in order to see if my daughter was hurt.  So, I quickly backed to the other side of the street and parked.  The vehicle, which turned out to hold a not so understanding police officer, was a block down the street when I started backing out.  The chaos caused by the children caused me to have a momentary mini stroke in the middle of the street, then my brain kicked in, and I parked.  I think I did a good job, under the circumstances."

The judge agreed and dismissed the ticket.

kt 3/2011

#184 - NO, GENE, YOU CAN NOT HIT HER!

When my children and I first moved to Missouri in 1976 I was lucky enough to get a job working for the city we moved to.  This small rural town had (and still has) its own electric services and I was hired to work there.  Fortunately for me I had purchased a home across the street from a sweet old judge and his wife (he got me the job).  For a few years I rented out the house I bought in order to have money to fix it up before we moved.  Every summer the kids and I would drive back to Missouri with my mom and dad.  We would spend the summer working on the place, while staying with relatives (or camping out in the house when it house was empty). 

This has practically NOTHING to do with my story, except this is where I was working when I received a call from my 12-year-old son (my daughter was around 8).  (FYI: my son is now 6’ 9” and was very big for his age back then.  Because of his size he was not allowed to hit his sister, or any one else for that matter, under any conditions.)

MOM (me):     (answering phone) City offices, how may I help you?

GENE:            Mom, Patty’s not listening to me.  She has Quackers (a baby duck) in the bathroom and won’t put her outside (plus a list several of her other infractions). 

MOM:            Put her on the phone.           

PATTY:         (Not waiting for her mother to talk) NO, HE’S JUST BEING MEAN!

                       (thunk = the sound of the phone being dropped or more likely being thrown to the floor)

                       (the buzzing sound of a disconnected phone).

MOM:             (answering phone) City Offices, how may I help you?

GENE:            Mom, she’s carrying duck food into the bathroom……. and I can hear the water running …………and she won’t listen to me. 

Can I hit her?

MOM:            NO!  Put her on the phone.

GENE:            (yelling) Mom wants to talk to you!

PATTY:          (a minute or two passes)“TATTLE TALE!”

                        (very LOUD thunk and a boy’s scream….)

(young girl screaming and the Doppler effect of those screams moving away through the house.) 

MOM:            (hanging up the phone and jumping to feet)  Ahhhh, I seem to have an emergency at home.  (hasty exit left)

SCENE:          Upon the arrival of Mom, Gene is found lying on the couch with a cold wash cloth pressed to the top of his head.

                       The area is examined and a knot the size of a small walnut is found to be a prominent 

                       feature on the top of his head.

GENE:            I was sitting on the floor in front of the TV when I handed the phone to Patty.  She yelled, "Tattletale," and then hit me on the top of the head with the receiver.

                        I got to my feet and ran after her, but I was slow getting up and didn't catch her.

MOM:             ( fixing ice pack in kitchen) Patty where are you?

GENE:            (from front room) The little monster locked herself in the bathroom.

ACTION:       (crying can now be heard coming from the bathroom)

MOM:            Patty??????

PATTY:         I’m sorry, Mom, he just made me sooooooo mad!

MOM:            Come on out.

                      (The bathroom door slowly opens and a red faced Patty peeks out)

The rest of the MELODRAMA included the usual lecture and the issuance of the punishment deemed appropriate for the various violations of the house rules.   A cease-fire was declared and Patty was sent to her room.  As for myself I called the office and took the rest of the day off.  I HATE TEACHER DEVELOPMENT DAYS!

I wish I could say that this was the last time my daughter bashed my son on the head.  About a year later she beaned him over the head with a large, metal, antique, pitcher I used for a flower vase.  I don’t remember what the problem was but this time but, in front of her, I gave Gene permission to HIT her.   She NEVER did it again (I knew he would never hit her, but, she didn't). 

kt 3/30/2011

#180 -LOOSING IT...A ROAD RAGE STORY

Back in the "good old days" when I was struggling to support my 2 kids with little to no help for their dads, I was continually frustrated.  I had a good job, but the wages weren’t as much as I needed.  My folks helped out a lot but I was always playing the shell game with my bills.

My job was stressful, my children were demanding, my life seemed hectic and I didn’t know how on earth I was going to get through the day, let alone the month.   I had just bought a new, red, 1968 Mustang and the payments were eating me alive.

One night I was late getting my son to Cub Scouts.  I had to run by my kid’s favorite place (Pup and Taco) and pick up a quick meal for them. I only had enough money to buy their meal (one taco, one hot dog, and two drinks).

I pulled out of the driveway of the place onto a wide four-lane thoroughfare.  I was the only car on the road at that time.  As I continued on down the road I saw a car at an intersection on my left.  It was just sitting there at a stop sign.  As I approached I kept my eye on him.  Just seconds before I got to this intersection he pulled out in front of me.

The #$%@ road hog just pulled out!

I threw on the breaks narrowly missing a collision.  This made me mad, but what really set me off was the crying from the back seat.  Patty, her hotdog, and her drink had been sent crashing to the floor (before seat belts).  Gene was in the front seat beside me and he hit the dash along with his taco and drink.

After a quick check to make sure no one was hurt, I floored the gas and took off after the maniac.  As I was flying down the road I said to my son, “Gene, gather up all the taco and ice from the floor, and get your sister's stuff too.”  Continuing on my chase I added, “Shove it all into your cup and hand it to me.”  I was beginning to catch the guy.  I then said, “Honey, roll down the window.” 

Gene’s eyes grew big as dawned on him what I was about to do.  The light up ahead turned red and the sedan had stopped.  It was a warm night and the target’s window was open.  I pulled up along the driver’s side, slammed on the breaks, leaned over my son, and threw the contents of the cup out the window of my car and into the window of the jerks car.  I shouted something like, “Here, you can have what is left of my children’s dinner!” (And, I think I may have called him a name.....ok, I'm sure I did).  

You know,  there isn't clip art of a bunch of food 
flying out the passenger door window....go figure!

I then hit the gas and ran the red light. 

I looked up into the rear view window to see if I was being chased  (I mean this was in Southern California and, believe it or not. there were some people with serious road rage in this area).  

It was a straightaway and I could see him for blocks.  His car just sat there through several lights.  Then I turned off and I never knew how long he sat there.

We were late to Cub Scouts, hungry, but we made it there alive.  While gobbling more than our share of refreshments I over heard my son talking to his friend Bobbie.  It went something like this:

“… … … you should have seen her face.  I have NEVER seen my mom that mad.   But, the best part was seeing what happened to that guy.  I saw some of he stuff she threw go into his ear!  It must have gone all over the front seat too as Mom really heaved it.  This guy turned to us just as my mom LAID RUBBER.  I got a good look at him and he had stuff all over his face and a funny look like he didn’t have a clue what had just happened.  His mouth was hanging open and his eyes were bugged out.  He just sat there and watched us drive away.”

Again, no clip art of a shocked man with tacos all over his face.  Use your imagination!

I felt guilty, not for what I did to THAT MAN, but for setting such a poor example for my children.  The next evening I sat them both down, apologized to them and explained why I was wrong and what could have happened.

My son simply said, “Well, Mom, just remember the next time I do something stupid, that I’m just following in your footsteps.”

Ever so often my son would point to the shiny spatter spots above the passenger window of the car, laugh, and remind me of the day I lost it!
kt 3/30/11

#172-DEER ME!

This story took place somewhere around the early 70’s I think….who knows…at my age it all seems to run together.  Anyway, both of my children were fairly young.  Once a month I took my children some place special.  I guess I was trying to compensate for having divorced thereby removing the main father figure in their lives.  But, who knows maybe it was just because I liked having fun with my kids.

In Southern California there was a wonderful place called “Japanese Deer Park.” I understand that they went bankrupt in the late 70s but back then it was a beautiful park with performing dolphin, bears, and a petting area filled with deer.  They even had a moat through which dolphins would streak.   There was a fish that played poker (and won), several coy ponds, pearl divers, a dove enclosure, beautiful gardens, and hands on crafts for the children to do (like origami). 

Just to make sure you get a clear picture of me, I was dressed in a bright red shirt, black slacks, and comfortable shoes.  The blouse had a collar that had over a foot long tie that I put into a bow.   It looked real snazzy (one never knew when one might run into a single dad visiting the same park).

So, you are wondering, what kind of trouble could she get into here? (Oh, ye of little faith!)

Glad you asked, as I did happen to have a memorable experience in the deer enclosure.

We went into the deer paddock to feed these darling, small, delicate, creatures.

The little buggers were being pushy so I bent over to help my daughter feed one.

Then, I felt a tug at my neck.  When I looked down there was a small deer between my legs SWALLOWING my long red, tie (see, there WAS a reason why I described what I was wearing).

My daughter’s eyes got so big I thought they might pop out and my son doubled over, laughing hysterically (while pointing at his mother’s embroiled in her latest disaster).

I tried to pull the tie out of the critter’s mouth…it wouldn’t budge and it was still swallowing and chewing at the tie.   I yelled at my son to run and get help but he was too paralyzed by his hysterics.   I started softly talking to the deer and rubbing its neck while pulling on the tie with the other hand.  I had visions of needing to have the goat sedated (or killed) before it would relinquish its prize.  I could see the headlines:

“IRRESPONSIBLE MOTHER OF TWO RESPONSIBLE FOR DEATH OF BAMBI”

(film at 11)

At any rate, slowly the tie began to slip out of the deer’s throat.   But, what accompanied the tie  prompted immediate gag reactions for all three of us.   There were slimy green chunks all over both of  long ties.  I had to hold them out away from the rest of my shirt and walk like an old woman hunched by age.  Not only was my appearance embarrassing but also the looks I was getting from the other patrons (which ran all the way from disgusting- to utter disbelief).  In the ladies restroom I washed the ties out several times and finally got the green sheen out of them.  Of course I had to take the blouse off to do that, and the whole thing ended up looking like it had washed up on the shore of some remote beach.

All of this happened before lunch (I really didn't feel like eating...well maybe DEER MEAT!) and the we hadn't seen major shows so, there was no going home.  I pulled myself together and finished out the day like a real trooper.  The only problem was the wrinkled damp blouse looked awful, felt awful, and my son kept looking over at me periodically and would break into laughter.

kt3/2011

#151-AN AMUSING MUGGING

       







Suddenly, we were assaulted by no less than 15 crazed animals (a feeding frenzy) and my children had disappeared from sight.  My hand was trapped and I couldn’t get free.  I was yelling for help but, no one came!

That is what my English teacher called a grabber.  Let the reader get a taste and want to find out more.

This was just a simple day excursion for my children and me (in 1972).  Nothing like this was supposed to happen at Magic  Mountain in Southern  California.

We had just arrived at this beautiful park and the first attraction was a fantastic petting zoo.  It had pigs, llamas, calves, and all kinds of goats.  It was early in the morning and the usual throngs of people had not arrived as yet. 

My children wanted to feed the animals.  The feed dispensers were inside the enclosure.  I watched as other parents and kids were robbed of the joy of hand feeding by apparently starving animals.  The animals would crowd around and get the food before the kids had a chance to hold it in their hands.

Figuring that I was "smarter than the average bear" (a quote from Yogi Bear) I deduced (through careful observation) that it was the sound of the feed hitting the metal shoot of the dispenser not the quarter going into the slot that sparked the conditioned response (ok, I'm a show off) of the animals.  Therefore, I led my children to the far end of the “farm” and quietly slipped a quarter into the machine (after carefully placing my fingers into the shoot so the feed would fall silently into my hand). 

All right  guys,  I will 

make the initial hit.  

You follow me in for 

the kill.

Boy, was I wrong.  It was the click, click, click of the tumblers that alerted the animals and unlike Pavlov's dog they were not tethered, or in a cage.  They REACTED immediately.

Before I could yell, “Run for your lives!” a HERD of STAMPEDING animals hit me from behind.  A calf (which was more like a small cow) rammed its head into my elbow, launching my fingers and part of my left hand up into the machine.  At that time the tumbler rolled over again and trapped my middle finger in the danged thing.  A llama was on my back and hanging over my shoulder with it’s long tongue slapping at my hand.  And, its conditioned response (saliva) was dripping all over me (and there was also evidence that it may have been an excited male llama).  Several goats were between my legs lapping at my hands (more saliva) and the pigs were under them (salivating on my shoes, I'm sure).

Both of my children had disappeared in a dust storm of Biblical proportions.  The noise was deafening.   After what seemed like minutes instead of seconds, the air cleared  and I saw my 9 year old son sitting on the fence laughing until tears ran down his face.  My 6 year old daughter had rolled under the fence and was sprawled on the ground (with glazed over eyes and covered in dust).  I was still being held hostage by the machine.  I called for help but, no one came.  My son finally extricated me from the bully machine.  I had to go to the first aide station for medical attention to the finger I planned to FLIP at the Children’s Farm as I walked by (Yes, it was the middle digit of my left hand).

     That is not the end of the story.  Apparently, someone watching the “show” took advantage of me and took my wallet out of my purse (or possibly one of the goats) because my wallet showed up at a local gambling establishment the next day (smart goat!).  Of course the person (or goat) had $50 cash to spend (money it took me months to save).  I had to threaten to sue to get the park managers to get them to cash a check.  I was determined that a mugging was not going to stop our FUN on the MOUNTAIN.

     This picture was taken after the mugging.  That poor lion was so drugged that all he could do was snore.  The kids were thrilled, the lion was in la la land and I was faking a smile on my  face!   So, 3 out of 4 were happy.  Not a bad percentage.

kt  3/2011

#111-AN OFFICER and A GENTLEMAN

Lady, please!

I was awakened one morning a knock at the door at about 5AM.  When I peeked out the peephole I saw a POLICE OFFICER standing there.  I was living in a small college town at the time and I figured something had happened.

I was reluctant to open the door because I was in my ratty flannel pajamas (with clunky white sports socks on my feet).  My hair was standing straight up, and I am sure I had sleep creases all over the side of my face.

When I opened the door the young officer said, “Are you Karen Taylor?”

“Yes,” I warily replied.

He returned with, “There has been a complaint filed against you and I am here to question you about it.”  I did not invite him in (I'm not stupid, I watch television).  I asked him, "What's this all about, officer?" 

He explained that the convenience store on main street had called the police and accused me of driving out without paying for my gas.  I immediately went ballistic.  There was an incident the morning before but this was WAY off.  I struck a insolent pose, thrust my wrists out toward him and said, “You’ve got me officer; I am a wanton criminal and am ready to go to jail!”

The YOUNG officer just dropped his head, shook it, looked at his feet, then looked up and pleaded, “Lady, please don’t do this.  I’m sure we can work things out if you will just come to the gas station with me.”

Ok, I felt sorry for the kid, so I dressed and then drove to the to gas station, he followed.

Now, here is what really happened the day before:

I was out of gas and knew I had to fill up somewhere close.  There was a convenience story/station behind my house (I could throw a rock from my back door to this place, and believe me after this incident, I did consider it).  I was going to be late to work if I didn’t hurry.  I filled up but couldn’t find my card.  I apologized and offered the girl a check.  She said they didn’t take checks, but I could fill out a request for a card.

“But, I said, “I already have a card.”  Besides, the application they wanted me to fill out was for a different card.  I had gotten gas there before and I didn't need or want a new card.  I argued with her to no avail.  I even had her call the owner, who  said no.  I then offered to allow her to pump the gas out of my car (by that time I was getting mad).  Not wanting to be late, I placed (no slammed) my check on the counter (with name address and phone number on it) and left.  Ergo the 5 AM wake-up call.

This was all discussed again with the employee at the store.   She was seething, and rude.  I was coherent, calm and polite (see told ya, I'm not stupid). The officer listened and asked to see the check and the application that was tendered to me.  I still hadn’t found my charge card and I still didn’t have cash.  The officer called the owner and advised him to take the check.  It was over, but I was late to work by the time they all got through putzing around.

And as Paul Harvey used to say, AND NOW THE REST OF THE STORY:

That evening, I told my 6’9” basketball-playing son (who happened to know the owner) the story.  My son, also, happened to play pick-up games at the “Y.”  But, more importantly so did the owner of this store. 

A couple of days later, as my son was helping this man up off the floor (where he had ACCIDENTALLY knocked him) my son said to this guy, “By the way, my mother’s name is Karen Taylor,” and smiled.  The owner did not return for any more pick-up games.

What a GENTLEMAN, my son is, to defend my honor!


100% TRUE
kt

#95-THE DAY AFTER "FLU?"

I was reading one of my favorite blogs (grinandbaerit.blogspot.com) and an event in my life just popped into my head.   I quickly switched over to a draft page on my blog and got the basics written down.  It took me weeks to get the feet to go with this piece.  Thanks for the memory, Nicki.

As I was crawling down what seemed to me was a very long hall I had doubt that I would be able to make it.  The room appeared to be spinning.  Then two little feet come into view.


Although it caused me great pain, I gradually raised my chin and followed the legs up to the body and head that were attached to those small feet.  They belonged to my young son, Gene.  His six-year-old face looked concerned, his brow was wrinkled.  

He got down on all fours, too, and said, "Mommy, are your sick?"

I moaned, "Mommy, has the flu" (which of course was a lie).

Slowly, I crawled into the bathroom and promptly released the gallon or so of Margaritas churning in my stomach.  My wonderful son held my long hair back and uttered the words of reassurance that I used with my children under similar circumstances.

I felt SOOOOOO very guilty and VOWED that day never to drink Margaritas again.  My son is 47 now and I doubt he remembers his mother's flu.  Although, I am sure he has had experience with that particular flu.

Bowling night was never the same after that.   I did modify my vow to never drink more than two Margaritas.   I am sure the manager of the bowling alley was appreciative.  When having only two Margaritas I thew less air balls than usual. 

kt2011