Brushes with the law on a Flashback Friday

If Bryan Adams had the Summer of ‘69 and Kristy McNichol had the Summer of Her German Soldier, then the Summer of ‘82 qualifies as that "time of my life" period.

I graduated from high school; worked the best hours ever (2-10 pm) in the best job ever -- as a lifeguard/swimming instructor; had a totes mcgotes boyfriend and was getting ready to expand my horizons, my knowledge and my keg-pumping skills as a freshman at the University of Florida. Music was good then, the fashion fun of the '70s was in the rearview mirror and, most importantly, the drinking age was 19.

Life was good. I was tanned, rested and ready for whatever the future held.

It was those pesky run-ins with the law that put a wee damper on things.

My boyfriend and I had settled into a nice little routine -- he would drive me to work at the pool in the afternoon and then pick me up afterward for our date -- that way I wouldn’t have to worry about where my car was during the evening. Those dates usually involved grabbing a bite to eat somewhere, usually with a fruity cocktail for me and then doing what healthy, red-blooded, hormone-driven teenagers did. We drove a bit, parked the car somewhere and made out (yes, just making out. Hush.) For hours. Listening to the boyfriend's favorite cassette -- Kenny Rogers’ Greatest Hits. I can’t hear “You Decorated My Life” to this day without smiling. And giggling. Which is a mortifying thing to admit, but there you are.

Living in Florida by the water, the heat, humidity and critters were always a factor. And so we would make out with the air conditioning on full blast -- which did nothing to stop the windows from fogging up. Teenage passion is a powerful thing. One particular evening, we chose to park in a cul-de-sac in an alley behind some houses in a fairly nice neighborhood. (Ironically, this is the same neighborhood through which I now run.) And as luck would have it, one of the residents got a little leery about the strange car with the foggy windows camped out next to his back yard. So he called one of our town's finest. Thanks to all our steam heat, we failed to notice Officer Friendly approaching the car until he came and tap-tap-tapped on the car window. And yes -- it was as awkward and embarrassing as you might imagine. We’ll just leave it at that.

Now, you’d think that would have given us the motivation to be a little more savvy about where we parked.

But no.

A couple of weeks later, we were engaged in some tonsil hockey, parked in a different location -- on a dirt road near a lake close to my house. Private, secluded. No nosy neighbors. Excellent. Until the boy tried to start the car. Clink, clink, pffft. Dead battery. In the middle of nowhere. And my curfew approaching. With me behind the wheel and him pushing -- a Honda Civic didn’t have a lot of heft in those days -- we made it to a main road. Along with about 37 dozen mosquitoes. There, as luck would have it, we encountered another police officer who nicely gave us a jump so that I could get home on time. The looks on our faces when he asked what we’d been doing were priceless -- talk about a rhetorical question. Between that, the mosquito bites and my curly hair all hubba-hubba askew, we could have been the bad example on an ABC Afterschool special.

Fortunately for my long-term relationship with the police department, we didn’t have any more encounters or incidents for the remainder of the summer. Although I often wonder if we gave those officers something to talk about around the water cooler...

Flashback Friday: One Night with Elvis

Lord Almighty,
I feel my temperature rising
Higher higher
It's burning through to my soul

Picture it… North Georgia. The early ‘90s.

For some reason which completely escapes me now, my mother (aka The Belle) and I went on a road trip one fine spring to spend time with my cousin and his wife at their house on Lake Lanier, between Gainesville and Cumming.

Yeah. I know. I laugh every time I reference that town.

Anyway.

Aside from doing the usual family-visiting-family things – sitting around drinking and telling old stories; going out to eat; telling more stories; drinking – my cousin always liked to throw something fun in to the mix. A very genteel Southern gent, he would have been a city slicker out of water in his country environment had it not been for his natural and unassuming charm. One summer visit when I was a young lass, that “something fun” involved catching several hundred dollars worth of fish at a trout farm. My younger cousins and I just kept catching the bloody things and before our host realized it, we had acquired fish for days. The real fun, though, happened later that evening when The Belle and my other cousin’s wife (don’t try to keep up with the family relationships – even I get confused) after consuming several “Silver Bullets” (aka martinis) tried to package the filleted trout into little freezer bags. It’s been over 30 years and I still recall the hilarity that ensued.

So.

The “something fun” for this visit involved a trip to a place called the Lantern Inn. An inauspicious rural Southern joint where the menu was fried and the draught was cold and plentiful. The place had entertainment! – not usual for this sort of establishment. A brother/sister duo.

She was a Patsy Cline impersonator.

And as for the bro -- he took on the icon. The King. The One and Only.

Elvis.

Let's rock, everybody, let's rock.
Everybody in the whole cell block
was dancin' to the Jailhouse Rock.

The best part of this whole thing was that these two were multi-talented and multi-taskers. Patsy was a waitress. And Elvis – well, Elvis was the fry cook.

We opted not to eat dinner there the night we went -- if I recall correctly, we’d hit a catfish fry earlier in the evening at the VFW. Amazing hush puppies. So after supper, The Belle, my cousin’s wife and I headed off for an evening of beer and entertainment.

We had plenty of both.

Patsy Cline was meh – not a bad voice, but really – no one can come close to the original voice of silk and heartache.

And then there was Elvis. Wearing the While Jumpsuit. With the moves and the vocal affectations.

Awesome.

By the time he hit the stage, our little crew was well into the long neck Buds. By the time he segued into “All Shook Up” we were dancing on the floor. And by the time he finished up with “Burning Love” we were atop the picnic table we’d been sitting at, shaking our groove things. Even The Belle. Oh yeah.

Little sister, don't you
Little sister, don't you
Little sister, don't you kiss me once or twice
Then say it's very nice
And then you run

Little sister, don't you
Do what your big sister done

After his set, he didn’t retreat to a dressing room to recover and recoop. Nope. There were French fries to cook and some chicken to tend to. The Belle, fueled with Bud and bravado, wandered into the kitchen to extend her appreciation and spent some time with him, still clad in the White Jumpsuit, TCB, baby. That’s Taking Care of Business in Elvis-speak, y’all.

Somewhere in a photo box, I have a pic of us three ladies with Elvis, his parting gift of scarves ripped – literally – from cheap red rayon and autographed “Love, Mike Jones as Elvis”, draped around our necks. Hoping to unearth it sometime during the move.

So today, which would have been Elvis’ 75th birthday, I think not only of the King and his music and his tacky-fabulous-white trash taste, but also of Mike Jones as Elvis. And my One Night with The King.

Uh huh ohh, ohh, yeah, yeah!


I'm all shook up!

Flashback Friday: When a Stranger Calls

My friend topsurf recently posed the following question on Twitter: When I say Philadelphia, what’s the first thing you think of?

OK.

That’s pretty easy at first blush – cheese steaks and cream cheese and Those Damn Phillies and Rocky and the Steps and Tom Hanks and the Liberty Bell and so on and so on…

But as I was musing upon this, I was struck with another thought of Philadelphia… one more personal. Of department stores and gentility and elegant chocolate and politeness and heart. That didn’t involve me setting foot in the city at all.

It was a winter’s eve, sometime between the Watergate hearings and the Three Mile Island brouhaha. We were settled into our evening routine, which included watching something on the five channels we got on the telly; reading; enjoying the cool humidless breeze blowing through the screens on windows and doors.

A press of the doorbell startled all of us. Not that it was particularly late – in fact, the front lights were still on, signaling that we were still up and available for callers. The bell was simply unexpected. Daddy, being the chivalrous man of the house, went to answer the door where he was greeted by an older gentleman standing on the threshold. This fellow was dapper and immaculately dressed – tweed jacket with patches on the elbows; shirt and tie; wool hat. He explained that his car had broken down in front of our house and could he trouble us to use our telephone to call for assistance. The answer was, of course, yes. In those days, it’s just what you did. It was a more trusting time in regard to such things.

While he waited for AAA to arrive, Mama, ever the hostess, invited him in, offering him something to drink. He accepted and he and my parents sat in the living room, a place reserved for special occasions and grownup conversation, making small talk

My brother and I weren’t privy to what was discussed and only after he had left did we learn that he was a snowbird (our affectionate phrase for winter residents here in Florida) from Philadelphia. And that he drove a very big car.

We didn’t think much about our visitor after that – until a week or so later when an unexpected package arrived addressed to my mother. From Wannamaker’s, which, Mama explained, was a very nice and “tony” department store in Philadelphia. Fortunately, I was one with the family dictionary and so the meaning of the word “tony” was not lost on me – after I had to look it up, of course. I really wasn’t quite as smart as I thought I was – chalk it up to the confidence of youth.

Anyhoo.

The box from Wannamaker’s contained another box – this one covered in green velvet and adorned with a big silk flower. Very sophisticated. Inside the box were two layers of Godiva chocolate. Mama’s favorite. A handwritten note was enclosed, graciously thanking our family – my mother in particular -- for our kindness and assistance. It was signed by our traveling visitor.

I don’t remember eating any of the chocolate – I’m thinking my mother bogarted it all for herself. (Being an only child, she has a self-proclaimed difficulty with sharing.) But when the box was empty, she called me into the living room, the place for special occasions and grownup conversation. She handed me the box, saying that every girl needed a place to keep letters and notes and mementos. And that the empty box, a remnant of a gift cloaked in grace and chivalry, would be the perfect place.

She was right.

I had that box for many years – through high school and college and after. It held letters of love and of heartbreak; reminders of emotions unrequited and ambiguous; photos of the heart and of the mind. Boyfriends and crushes and friends and foes and accomplishments and activities and events. All were contained in the It finally fell apart thanks in part to use and reuse and in part to the rigors of being something recherché in the harsh humid heat of Florida.

It’s emblematic, that box -- of things past, of things remembered. Of a time when manners were the norm, not the exception. When random acts of kindness were things that one just did without forethought or hesitation. When my tender heart measured things tangibly and repeatedly.

I miss that box. And that time. I keep my memories internally now. But you never know – one day, I might spy a prettily packaged box of sweets that would be perfect to hold treasures…

Flashback Friday: Baby, it's cold outside. Wanna snuggle?

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.
~ One Hundred Years of Solitude

The First Time I Saw Snow: An Essay

Immediately I recognized it.

Cold. White. Wondrous. Cascading from the sky. Showering down on me. Making the landscape of Park City, Utah that much more gorgeous.

This was it. Snow. I looked around for enough on the ground to make a snow angel. Or a snow man. Or a snow ball. Anything.

Snow. It was awesome.

And I was 35 years old.

Can you say native Floridian?

~~~~~~~~~~~

We were in Park City for a business function of the mister's -- his company was having their annual company meeting and Park City was the place. Although it was early spring, I had high hopes of finally seeing up close and personal the mystical white snow that had eluded me for so long.

It wasn't that I avoided snow. The opportunity to experience it just had never presented itself before.

Oh, I'd had several near misses:
* The ski trip to North Carolina with my church high school youth group.
Fake snow on the slopes.
* The ski trip to North Carolina as a chaparone for our church high school youth group.
Fake snow on the slopes.
* The smattering of flakes that fell one freaky cold Christmas eve in Orlando, where I was spending time with family. Don't count that.

So can imagine my delight when we drove our rental car out of Salt Lake City in route to our hotel and I saw the landscape covered in white. That was only heightened by the flurries that flew about the next day as I hilariously and spectacularly unsuccessfully took a beginners ski class.

Ooooh. That was bad. Really bad. Not pretty. Needless to say, I became an expert at apres ski very quickly.

However it wasn't enough to dampen my spirits as I came face to face with the only aspect of Mother Nature's bounty I really yearned for.

Snow.

I got in it, around it, through it. And threw it. Happily. Big kid. I had a lot of time and antics to make up for.

Fantastic.

I know it's a pain to live in for months at a time. It's ugly when tinged with the soot and grime of everyday life. It's problematic when driving.

But in that moment, when it was pristine and pure and gracious -- it was beautiful.

Well worth the wait.

Easing on down the road...

It was the spring of 1983. A lazy Sunday afternoon. As a freshman in my second semester of college, I should have been studying. That Introduction to Meteorology class was kicking my fanny. At that point in my college career, I was still a Broadcast Journalism major and had decided, with all the logical wisdom an 18-year-old chick could muster, that it might be helpful to take a class in meteorology in case I found a job as a weather girl. Hadn’t gotten as far as figuring out an on-air name (like Stormy Skies) but I figured it was better to be prepared.

You can stop rolling your eyes now. Yeah. I know.

(BTW – I ended up getting a ‘D’ in that class.)

Anyhoo.

It was a Sunday afternoon. I was nursing a wee little hangover after spending the evening dancing the night away at some fraternity shindig or another. Sitting around with some gal pals, we were lounging around my dorm room. I had a song stuck in my head that just wouldn’t leave.

They told him don’t you ever come around here
Don’t wanna see your face – you better disappear…

It was a new Michael Jackson tune. Heard it spun at the party the night before. And instantly fell in love.

And I just had to have it. In my possession. NOW.

Didn’t matter that I really wasn’t sure of the name of the song. I had a singular focus. Miss Instant Gratification.

With no car myself (that’s another story for another day) I convinced my GP with the vehicle to join me on my mission of music. Off we went. To the record store at the mall. To the indy record store near campus. To the indy record store way off campus. To Albertsons, which in those days sold music, believe it or not.

No luck.

You better run, you better do what you can
Don’t wanna see no blood – don’t be a macho man...

Ended up buying a 45 of “Billie Jean” out of desperation. Just in case that was the song. It wasn’t. But I had to have something to show for the wild goose chase we went on that afternoon.

Even after one hearing – one listen – one exposure -- I knew that I had heard something amazing. And infectious. And utterly memorable.

Not that I was any great prognosticator of pop culture at that age – but I knew what I liked. That song. Was It.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Say what you will about the man – and goodness knows, a hell of a lot has been said about him over the years – he was a genius in the purest sense of the word. A master showman with boundless gifts. With a tragic side that also knew no bounds.

And as I watch the news and read the ‘net chatter about MJ’s sudden death, I’m flashing back to the halcyon days of my young adulthood for which he provided the soundtrack. I’m choosing to remember his musical contributions over his slightly sordid and unusual personal life.

Some bittersweet memories tonight – it’s the end of an era.

But with one hell of a danceable beat.

Just beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it
No one wants to be defeated
Showin’ how funky strong is your fight
It doesn’t matter who’s wrong or right

Flashback Friday: Jane's getting serious. Could you get serious too?

It's Wayback Machine Time! Pop open a wine cooler, throw on your Wayfarers, sit back and yes, relax.

You know you are a product of the '80s if...

... you’ve ever ended a sentence with the word “psych.”
Probably. It’s been a while, save for me saying "Hey! Did you catch the most recent episode of 'Psych'?" But I don't think that counts.

... you can sing the rap to the “Fresh Prince of Bel Air” and can do the “Carlton.”
Can do both of these, thanks in no small part to the constant repeats on Nick at Nite.

... you wore biker shorts under your skirts and felt stylishly sexy.
Oh yeah. I was big into this -- biker shorts under minis and longer leggings under long jean skirts that were unbuttoned to the knee. So fashionable.

... two words: Hammer Pants.
No. No. Never.

... you wore a ponytail on the side of your head.
Damn straight I did. With a headband, too.

... you bought one of those clips that would hold your shirt in a knot on the side.
No. Not so much.

... you wore stone-washed jean jackets and were proud of it.
I had a jean jacket that I wore everywhere with everything. It literally disintigrated and we had to finally part ways. That was a sad, sad day. I miss that jacket.

... L.A. Gear
Nah. Not my style.

... you know the profound meaning of “wax on, wax off.”
“Don't forget to breathe, very important.”

... you ever wore fluorescent clothing.
Absolutely. Mostly t-shirts and, yes, socks. I was really into bright-ass socks for some reason.

... you can remember what Michael Jackson looked like before his nose fell off and his cheeks shifted.
But of course. Thriller and Off the Wall. Classic. "Working Day and Night" and "Beat It" are part of my regular workout playlist.

... you still get the urge to say “NOT” after every sentence.
Please. That’s way too silly for me these days.


NOT!

... you ever owned a pair of Jelly-Shoes (and probably in neon colors, too).
Oh yeah. Hot pink jelly pumps. LOVED them. Bought a pair of Jelly flip-flops last summer... de. light.ful.

... after you saw “Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure” you kept saying “I know you are, but what am I?
Actually, I was more an aficionado of “Pee-Wee’s Playhouse,” which came on Saturday mornings and was great to watch while waking up, even with a hangover. Which happened more often than not. Try to contain your shock at *that* revelation.

... you remember “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”
That poor old woman, living without Life Alert.

... you remember going to the skating rink before there were inline skates.
Oh heck yeah. My rink, the fabulously named Gay Blades, was the place to be in the afternoons. I was a master at doing the skate version of the Hokey Pokey.

... you ever got seriously injured on a Slip and Slide.
Yes. But I’d been drinking. Does that count?

... you have played with a Skip-It.
I have no idea what this is -- I got my driver’s license in ‘80 (shut. up.), so the toys of the decade are a bit foreign to me.

... you had or attended a birthday party! at McDonalds.
See above.

... you’ve gone through this so far totally nodding your head in agreement.
*nods head*

... “Don’t worry, be happy.”
Make it stop. LOATHE that song.

... you wore, like, EIGHT pairs of socks over tights with high top Reeboks.
No way. It was more like six.

...you wore socks scrunched down.
Yep. Still do. Sometimes. Shhhh... don’t tell.

... you remember boom boxes.
Heck yeah -- and they were HUGE! In every sense of the word.

... you remember Alf, the li’l furry brown alien from Melmac.
“Haaa! I kill me.” *hangs head in shame*

... you remember New Kids on the Block when they were cool.
See #19. They were never cool to me. Lo siento.

... you know all the words to Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name.”
Oh hell yeah. Wanna duet on the chorus?

... you remember watching Magic vs. Bird.
Vividly. Watched every match-up. Greatest basketball rivalry ever. I could wax poetical about this for pages and pages. But I won't. Unless you ask nicely... (GO CELTS!)

... homemade Levi shorts.
Yes. I did this. But when I was still in high school -- which only excuses it a little.

... you remember when mullets were cool.
There was a time when mullets were cool? Really? Are you sure?

... you had a mullet.
Are you joking? Have we just met?

... you still sing “We are the World.”
Still sing? Not so much. However, I did re-write the lyrics back in the day to reflect the then-current job market prospects for my fellow public relations majors:
“We are PR
We make no money
Our saleries suck
And it’s not funny.”

Ah, the angst of a smart-ass college junior... *gag*

... you tight rolled your jeans.
Can’t say that I ever did this.

... you owned a banana clip.
I owned a couple of banana clips as a matter of fact. I actually liked the way my hair looked in them. Had a pair of thick gold hoops I always wore when I had my hair up like that. And Cherries in the Snow lipstick. Fabulous.

Shut up.

... you remember “Where’s the Beef?
Clara Peller and her cranky old ladies, pimping Wendy’s burgers. Excellent.

... you used to (and probably still do) say “What you talkin’ ’bout Willis?”
Guilty. Poor Will gets this directed at him all. the. time.

... you had big hair and you knew how to use it.
Honey, you have no idea. Oh wait...


... you are still singing “You Give Love a Bad Name."
Absolutely. Although I actually prefer “Livin’ On a Prayer,” truth be told.

Bonus!

What’s the first song listed from the ‘80s (not a cover!) that pops up on your iTunes...
“Thumbelina” -- The Pretenders. Chrissie Hynde is a goddess. That is all.

Flashback Friday: Beep Beep'm Beep Beep Yeah!

Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz?
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends.
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends,
So Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz?

Janis wasn't too far off with her lyrics where my first car and the world I lived in at the time were concerned. Substitute "Chrysler Le Baron Convertable" for Mercedes and "Cameros" for Porsches and you have a pretty good idea of my transportation state of mind when I turned 16 in the early 1980s.

However, my wheels were of a more, shall we say, vintage variety.

My nana's 1970-1/2 Buick Skylark.

Yep, that was my totally bitchin' ride.

For a status-conscious, slightly-shy teenager, it was not ideal. So not cool and rather attention-getting in its unfashionability. But it was better than nothing.

Even though it had no radio. That's right -- no radio. I drove around with a transistor in the front seat next to me. Plus it sported a black vinyl interior -- that was lots of fun in the summer when wearing shorts. Didn't have to shave the backs of my legs for years -- the damn heat just seared the hair off. And a brown vinyl roof. Why the interior and exterior didn't match has long been a mystery to which we'll never have an answer.

We called it The Bomb. For reasons that I've long forgotten.

The bone my parents tossed me was that I could get it repainted any color I wanted -- the original hue was a bland beige.

OK -- that's not bad

Off to the car paint place we went, my dad and I. Where I picked out a pretty swatch of color. Boy, did it look great in that book.

I never considered the bigger picture of what it might look like on the car.

Said swatch: a lovely sunshine yellow.

On the car: a bright blast of lemon-hued tone. Bright being a total understatement.

If I was worried about attention before -- the paint job just sealed that deal. No subtle drive-bys anymore for me. No quiet appearances in any parking lot. People could see me coming a mile away. Literally.

The Bomb did have its good points -- well, one good point, anyway. It was GINORMOUS and could hold a whole posse of people in the front and back seats. Plus the trunk was huge, which came in handy when smuggling folks into a drive-in theater. We had some good times in that car -- the dust of teenage hijinks and tears of teenage angst and residue of teenage chatter embedded in the interior.

Even though I've tried to paint an accurate picture of this automobilic wonder, a photo really is worth a thousand words. So here are two, featuring my brother who inherited the car when I went off to college.

Stunning, isn't it...

I have no idea what the TP's about...damn CRS.

Please save your laughter until you've clicked off the page.

Every once in a while, I'll see a car that shade of yellow and a similar shape and do a double take. Although I doubt seriously that it's my ride -- bloody thing would be nearly forty years old. Plus, it ran on regular gasoline and Al Gore probably would have a stroke if he knew it was on the roads.

However, in the midst of my double take, I'll smile at the memory.

It was, after all, my first car.

And just like one's first kiss, it's unforgettable.

Flashback Friday: Chocolate Eggs and Party Dresses and Rabbit Smooches

The thrill of the Hunt. The agony of too many treats.

Ah, I remember it well

The annual Easter Egg Hunt. Highlight of the season for little diva me.

My mom belonged (actually, she still does, as do I) to a women's organization (ok, it's the Junior League) that hosted an Easter egg-stravaganza every year for members' children. In those days, such an occasion was cause to buy a new Easter dress (at Rutland's, where at the same time that you were getting your new frock you could turn in your entry in the Easter Coloring Contest. Big stuff.) and new shoes (from Saltz Shoe Store, where you would walk out the door with new footwear and a balloon tied to your wrist.) Plus a spectacular Easter basket in which to collect treasures of all sorts. Perhaps even that coveted golden egg.

Good, good times.

Pssst... I'm the brunette on the left...

Already showing my sassy, flirty side...

My brother and me.
Notice my hair is wild and wooly --
the bane of my mother's existance in the late '60s...

That's my dad (only grownup dude in the photo)
trying to corral my brother
(he's in that snappy white shorts suit)
so he doesn't run roughshod over everyone else
in his age group as they hit the egg finding field.

I fared SO much better this particular year
in the fashion department
than my brother did -- groovy suit, dude.

As I sit here writing this in my shorts, t-shirt and bare feet, I'm reminded of what a different time it was then. More proper and genteel. More formal. And while my lifestyle today lends itself to a more necessary laid-back existence, part of me still misses the thrill of a new dress and the specialness of getting dolled up to go to a party.

It was an occasion. In every good sense of the word.

Flashback Friday: Le Mew. Le Purrrrrr. Le Pussy Ferocious.

As every cat owner knows, nobody owns a cat.
~ Ellen Perry Berkeley

That statement was never truer when applied to my childhood feline, W.C. Which stood for “White Cat.” Pretty original, huh? Although “water closet” might have been more apt...

He lived to be 23 years old -- no, that’s not a misprint. Twenty-three years old -- as best we could tell, anyway. He arrived one day on our back patio in 1972, nearly fully grown and looking every bit the young stud muffin he was. At the time were still smarting over the way-too-early death of our dachshund Hamlet and weren’t really in the mood to give our hearts to another pet.

Guess how long that lasted?

(Sidebar: I got Hamlet as a gift for my fifth birthday. The fact that a kindergartener named her doggie after a Shakespearean tragic hero should give you an indication as to what kind of a weird kid I was. Need I remind you about my 10-year-old affection for Dr. Henry Kissinger?)

Anyhoo.

My soft-hearted mama fell hook, line and sinker for Dub’s charm and after one can of tuna consumed, he was ours. Whether we wanted him or not. Which we did.

And so he grew, in size and in personality. And antics. He was soon legendary around the ‘hood. Not in an entirely favorable way, either.

W.C. was perhaps the crankiest cat ever to walk the face of the earth. A feline misanthrope, he didn’t like much of anybody outside the family. And even that could change on a dime. My dad’s friend from college, known always and forever and mysteriously as The Mouse, lived down the street from us when both our families were young. As was his habit after-work, he would change out of his suit into shorts, leaving on the undershirt, dark socks and hard-soled shoes and come down to our house for a cocktail. One evening, when the scotch was flowing, W.C. decided that The Mouse should live up to his nickname and totally unprovoked, came over and tried to climb his arm. No damage was done (fortunately) but the shock of the incident alone still makes all the human parties involved laugh.

Thank goodness.

As might be expected for a big old crabby, ornery tomcat with a penchant for fighting, Dub was a regular at the vet's office. Torn ears, scrapes, missing fur -- he had it all. (If this how he came out after a scuffle, I couldn't help but wonder what the other guys looked like...)

The most unique trip we took to the vet happened one sunny Saturday morning. The family was outside -- Daddy doing yard work, me pulling weeds against my will (damn chores for allowance policy), my brother doing something unconstructive. All at once, up the driveway comes W.C.

Tail bloody. And suspiciously shorter.

Somewhere, somehow, he'd managed to come home with about 2-1/2 inches less of tail than when he left. And he wasn't talking.

My mother, always the protector, jumped in the car and drove slowly along his known route, looking for that piece of tail -- assuming that it must be like a severed finger and if found and put on ice, it could be reattached. No such luck. Of course.

I always figured that there was some poor old lady who got a kitty surprise when she opened up her car door (Dub was famous for never meeting an open window he wasn't interested in) and in the ensuing chaos, slammed the door on his tail.

He actually was no worse for wear. Didn't slow him down one iota and probably made him that much meaner.

It was also not unusual for Dub to pay calls on the neighbors, either. The guy next door did a classic double-take the morning he was coming down the stairs of his home, passing W.C., who was on his way up -- obviously having made the most of an open window somewhere in that house.

And then there was the time he jumped into the trunk of a neighbor's car and ran all her errands with her...

Some people say that cats are sneaky, evil, and cruel. True, and they have many other fine qualities as well.
~ Missy Dizick

Dub, as you might imagine, was infamous at the vet's office. We would board him there while we were away on family vacations, and without fail, at least once a visit, he would pick the lock of his cage, get out and strut around through the doggie area, subsequently riling up every canine in the joint.

He also had the habit of taking a whizz on personal items belonging to people with whom he was not pleased. He once completely destroyed a box of Christmas tree ornaments with his Toxic Urine, rusted the top of the lawnmower, and left a big puddle under the accelerator of my brother's Suzuki Samurai. Not all at the same time mind you. Thank goodness. Can you imagine...

I could go on and on. After 20 years, people still ask my parents, with a bit of fear in their voices, if "that cat is still dead."

In his later years, he drooled a lot (poor baby) and ended up with this weird snagglepuss thing going on. He was, in fact, a real life Bill the Cat. And his zest for life morphed into a love of napping. As happens to any of us when we age.

The whole family, men included, shed many, many tears when we had to put him to sleep. It happened two days before Thanksgiving -- boy, that was a rough holiday, as Dub would always have some turkey with us. We still miss him and I always have a silent gobble gobble toast in his honor.

Although the standing joke in the family is that good old Dub is not spending eternity in Pet Heaven...

One cat just leads to another.
~ Ernest Hemingway

Flashback Friday: Hail to the Cheers!

(Hey! For more flashback fun, check out Cable Girl's 42. Totally worth the trip!)

Hey! Guess what? Exactly right now, as you're reading this, I'm more than likely hanging with my very good friend -- my sistah from another mistah who lives in D.C.

Mister: in meetings.

Me: drinking bloody marys with my darling galpal.

Tell me: who's having the better time?

In honor of this grand occasion, I excavated a photo from my first trip to my nation's capital. 1972. Too bad we didn't stay at the Watergate. Man, even then I would have been all over that... and you know, that may explain my on-going fascination with the politics of that time. And why I'm a yellow dog Democrat. But more about that later...

Anyhoo.



There we are, hanging out at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW. That's Mama, Nana, my brother and me, stylish in that pantsuit ensemble. With my purse. What I as a seven year old needed to carry a purse for in those days is beyond me. Gum, an extra Archie comic digest, my diary... who the hell knows. I do think that was the last time I was ever able to carry a purse that small in the daytime, though. My propensity for hauling around lots of unnecessary crap manifested itself at a very early age.

Again, anyhoo.

So here's to family vacations and trips to see friends and visiting places of historical significance. Small purses.

And bloody marys.

Cheers, y'all!

Flashback Friday: Open Arms Under the Sea -- It's Almost Paradise!

(Hey! For more flashback fun, check out Cable Girl's 42. Totally worth the trip!)

Picture it... 1982. West central Florida. Girl with no serious beau needs date for senior prom. In steps platonic boy pal, one year older and a freshman at UF, who invites her to go with him.

The following is a dramatic reenactment of part of a phone conversation held approximately two weeks before said event:

Her: So I'm so excited about prom! It's so totally cool because dinner is part of the evening... and then after the dance there's that party at Stacy's* house and she's going to make her famous sangria fruit salad and my mom said I don't have a curfew that night and what do you think about having a cooler in the back of your car so we can sneak out for a drink and...

Him, interrupting: That sounds great. By the way, what color is your dress?

Her: It's powder blue, with little white flowers. It's really pretty. I don't have shoes yet to go with it and I'm not sure what I'm going to do with my hair but...

Cut to Prom Night. Doorbell at Girl's house rings. Girl's younger brother goes to answer the door. Boy is there, flowers in hand. Wearing a powder blue tuxedo.

That's right.

Powder blue. With a ruffled shirt.

Check it out:



Stunning, isn't it.

Please note that Girl's hair is completely natural and she achieved that look without the assistance of any mousse/gel/styling products other than perhaps Final Net. (Although those Mamie Eisenhower bangs are more than a little scary. Yikes.)

Girl and Boy had a wonderful time at the dance. Boy bought some cheap champagne which they drank sitting on the hatchback of his Toyota in the parking lot.

Boy and Girl would remain good friends even through college. Girl often wonders what happened to Boy, as they lost touch too many years ago...

Good times, good times.

And good friends.