Stop the Music!

Back for more Friday Fragments. You know, Friday is becoming my favorite bloggy day, I think because I can be totally random and it's okay. If you like fragments, check out the original - and still the best - Mrs. 4444 over at Half Past Kissin' Time.

* I’ve caught a few reruns of The Golden Girls lately, and I found them much funnier than I remembered. To my horror, I’ve just realized WHY they seem funnier. It’s because I’m closer to their ages now than I was when they were on originally. Suddenly all those jokes about hot flashes, mammograms and memory loss? Sadly, much more relevant.

* I spend a fair amount of time with some friends of mine who are a tad advanced in age (she’s 72, he’s 82). I've sort of adopted them (I know! ironic, isn't it?) and I help out with rides to the doctor and computer assistance and such. They’ll be the first to admit that their memories are slipping a bit. They joke about ‘playing my favorite game’ which is when they try to remember the name of some movie, or actor, or the words to some song, and they describe it until I blurt it out. It goes something like this: Joe: That actor, what was his name – he was in that movie that Marlon Brando was so famous for, and he was also in that movie about the jurors with Henry Fonda. Me: Lee J. Cobb! He was in On the Waterfront with Marlon Brando and 12 Angry Men with Henry Fonda! I totally love that game. I hope, when I get to the point that I’m playing on the other side, that I have somebody to play with.

* I have a pile of questions to look at over the weekend from my contest (still open through midnight tonight). If ever there was a good example of the saying ‘be careful what you wish for’ this is definitely it. There are some pretty impressive questions there. It’s going to be hard to pick a winner, and even harder to answer them. Who the heck thought that this contest was a good idea, anyway?

* If anybody knows the person who wrote the music that plays in the background of video games, could you give me their address? I want to go and kick their ass. I just spent an hour trying to work on my computer while the world’s most annoying music played continuously in the background. If I wasn’t such a nice mommy, I would have drop-kicked the game system right through the TV. I hate it when everybody is playing nicely – then I have no excuse to turn the damn thing off.

* Do you ever have that experience when somebody shuts off the radio/CD player/TV/Video Game and you realize that you have been clenching every muscle in your body because the noise has made you insane? Maybe it's just me.

Don't Stop

My contest is still going on - until Friday, with winner(s) announced on Monday. I'm loving the questions - but don't stop now! You can enter as many times as you like, and I know you have more in you. Bloggers are a curious bunch - isn't that partly why we're here?

Pretend you're Barbara Walters. What would you ask if you finally got that interview with the celebrity you've always wanted to meet? Of course, this would assume that you could get your head around pretending that you're Barbara, and, even harder, that I'm the celebrity in this scenario. Come to think of it, never mind. That's not going to work.

Whatever it takes, don't give up now. I know the world's most interesting question is out there somewhere, and I'm counting on you to pose it. Contest rules are posted here.

What Have You Done For Me Lately?

Despite being home alone for much of the holiday weekend, I managed to keep myself out of trouble. I got a lot done at home, and even had some fun by myself. On Saturday, I stamped. I make cards - birthday cards, get well cards, sympathy cards - all kinds of cards, using rubber stamps and assorted supplies. I love doing it, I think because it makes me feel all creative and artistic, even though I can barely draw stick figures.

I made 20 cards on Saturday, which is a new record for me. Here's what they look like:




Here's a close up of a couple of them:






So, since I have all these cards, and I'm dying to get rid of some of them, I thought I'd hold a contest and give some to the lucky winner. But - what kind of contest should I have? I like to have contests that benefit me, even if it's only to amuse myself. Also, I'm always looking for material to blog about, so maybe the contest requirements should address this issue. After much consideration, I've come up with this:

Mary Ellen's Blogtastic Contest For May

The Rules: Ask me something. Leave me a comment with a question in it. Go ahead, ask me something wild. You don't scare me (well, maybe a little). Maybe you're dying to know what my favorite book/movie/TV show is. Maybe you want to know about something to do with my adoption and search for my birthparents. Perhaps you'd like to know what kind of an animal I'd be or why I'm obsessed with serial killers, polygamists and the Sham Wow Guy.

The best question wins. Enter as many times as you like, through Friday. If there are tons of awesome questions, and I can't choose just one, I'll put the names in a hat and pick one that way. Or I'll give out a couple of packets of cards. Whatever. Hopefully, some or all of the questions will become part of a future post. I will probably answer them all eventually, unless somebody asks me something too personal, like what size underwear I wear or something, in which case I'll just ignore it. I mean, nobody needs to know that, right? There's something to be said for maintaining a little mystery.

Winner will receive a packet of lovely homemade cards. If you're not into cards or homemade stuff (Hallie!) please enter anyway, and if you win, you can designate another recipient for the prize. After all, this contest is about saving me from having to think up stuff to write about - um, no - what I meant was that it's all about having fun. Oh, and Andy? They're really colorful.

So there it is. I know my brilliant readers will come up with something. After all, I'm always saying that my commenters are infinitely wittier than I ever am. Now's your chance to prove it.

Memorial Day

As we remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice defending our freedoms, I find myself thinking about my dad. It seems odd to even imagine that he once wore a uniform, because it was so far removed from my experience with him, and he never talked about it. He served in the military - two different branches - near the end of World War II, but only for a couple of years or less. From what I could piece together, he left high school and enlisted in the Civil Air Patrol when he was 17. Perhaps after he turned 18, he transferred to the Navy, and trained as a submarine radio operator. After he had passed away, I found a battered, blue leather folder among some of his papers, and it provided me with a fascinating look into his life during that time.


This is a picture of the contents of the leather binder. The papers are so yellowed and thin, I hardly dare to unfold them. One letter, upper left, verifies that my father enlisted in the Civil Air Patrol Cadets, an auxiliary of the Army Air Force, in early 1944. It says that he "served under the Squadron capably and with outstanding ability and initiative." I think this was my father's recommendation letter that got him transferred from the Air Patrol and into the Navy.

My dad's buddies. Unfortunately, I can't pick him out of this photo - unless he's the one crouched down on the left and a shadow obscures his features. Still, I get a sense of the camaraderie of the soldiers. How young they all seem. In this packet of papers, there's also a photo of my dad's best friend at the time, signed "Good Luck. Ed."

There were four blank postcards, all the same. The wording at the top of the picture reads "Signal Practice and Instruction," and at the bottom, "U.S. Naval Training Center, Sampson, N.Y." This is where my dad attended boot camp, and he must have gotten a stack of postcards to send to his loved ones.

This letter, from the U.S. Navy Recruiting Station, Madison Ave., New York, New York, contains his orders to active duty, dated 7 November 1944. It contains these instructions:

1. You are hereby ordered to report to the U.S. Navy Official at the Pennsylvania Station on Eighth Ave. New York, New York at 9:00 P.M. Thursday night, November 16, 1944 for active duty and transfer to a Naval Training Center. You will report to the U.S. Navy Official at the incoming train board between tracks #5 and #17.

2. When you report you are advised to bring only $6.00 in cash and toilet articles. Do not bring extra clothing other than what you will wear.

3. No provisions have been made for relatives and friends at the railroad station. Say goodbye to them at home and report to the station alone.

This is a valentine, colored with crayons, that my dad received during boot camp from his little sister Marlena. Her girlish cursive signature is on the back. She must have been less than ten years old at that time.

This is part of a letter, scrawled on the back of an envelope. The envelope was mailed to my father on February 10, 1945, and was sent by my mother, who was at that time his girlfriend - probably containing a valentine card. The letter on the back is in my dad's cursive handwriting, and is not complete. I remember my mother telling me that when my dad was 'courting' her, that he used to write drafts of letters, so that the finished product would be perfect. She told me that, over the years, she had accidently come across several of my dad's drafts and cherished them even more than the resulting letters and cards.

This one reads, "I hope you will forgive me for not writing to you as I had promised time and time again, but it will be different from now on. I think you know I took my boot training in Sampson from the card I sent you. Boy! That is just one big period of concentration. The only way I got a leave during the ten weeks was to graduate from high school on January 19. I had four days then and my boot leave came up the next week, so you can imagine how swell it was for me to be on the loose once more. My only regret about it all was that I didn't see you during that time..."

My dad's career came to a halt when it was discovered that he had a loss of hearing in one ear (something he had for the rest of his life) and he was honorably discharged. I guess you can't work as a radio operator with only one good working ear. World War II was over at that point, and my dad re-entered civilian life, married my mom, and the rest, as they say, is history. I am grateful to him, along with the countless others, who bravely served, protecting my right to live freely in this great country of ours.

If You Know What I Mean (and a CONTEST)

Welcome to my weekly Friday Fragments post, which is made up of a bunch of random thoughts, too short (or too silly) for their own post, all dumped here together. I do this along with a bunch of fun people, led by Mrs. 4444 at Half Past Kissin’ Time. Go check them out. AFTER you read mine, obviously.

* All that talk about concussion reminded me of one of my greatest fears: that I will lose my mind. Now, before you all speak at once, I know what you’re thinking. I HAVE lost my mind, clearly. And you’re right. But I mean in that ‘getting older, starting to slip’ kind of way. I don’t care how badly my body fails me as I get older, I just want to hang on to my mental faculties. To this end, I do a bunch of things. I do crossword puzzles. And jigsaw puzzles. And Sudoku. I read voraciously. I have a program, called Brain Evolution, loaded to my hand-held computer. It has many different games, all designed specifically to sharpen my brain function, with benchmarks for me to measure my progress, and I do them just about every day. Senility is going to have to fight for me.

* I’ve been having trouble loading some of my favorite blogs. When I click on them, whether it’s through my reader, or directly, I get an error message (Internet Explorer cannot load this page) and it disappears. If I usually comment on your blog, and you haven’t seen me in a few days, this might be why. I have no idea why this is happening, or how to fix it, but I will keep trying.

* I was lucky enough to meet another fabulous friend from Blog Land. Sue, from As Cape Cod Turns, happened to be in Maine, and Hallie and I met up with her, and her friend Becki for a quick visit. She was just as fun as I thought she’d be, and we had a great chat. It’s so cool how you meet someone through this crazy blog thing, and then, in person, they’re just like old friends.

* My girlfriend Jonel (who comments as Evansmom) left me a comment back when I was talking about how Alex doesn’t allow me to run out onto the field acting all mommy-ish when he gets hurt. Her story was just priceless, so, for those who missed it, here’s what she said: “Evan got hit by a baseball several years ago when he was about nine. I was not paying attention and didn't realize he was up to bat when I heard this very loud thunk and looked up to see my one and only son sprawled over home plate. It was so loud that everyone watching gasped and cringed in sympathy. I wanted to jump the fence and run to him but, instead, I slowly walked to the area where he was while chanting to myself "do not run, do not embarrass him, do not run". He was OK and continued in the game. I did call out to first base "OK?" and got a thumbs up. After the game, I was feeling quite proud of myself and my restraint. What did my son say? "MOM! Where were you? The coach kept saying - just hold on, your Mom will be here any minute." Sigh, you just can't win.”

* TIME FOR A CONTEST!!!!! Yay! Only not here on my blog. My friend Andy (Andrew Scott Turner, a writer and one of the wittiest people I know), whose blog is titled A Long Patience, has reached 100 posts. Congrats!!! Anyway, he’s having a contest, so go check it out here and congratulate him on reaching this milestone. Right after you leave me a comment, that is.

Out of My Head

Ah, Lacrosse. The thrills. The chills. The Heart Thumping. The concussion.

Last Friday, at Alex’s game, he was hit in the head – twice – by a person. Hard. Evidently it was bad enough to knock him down, and, the second time, enough to make him feel dizzy. Luckily for everybody, I wasn’t at that game. It was at the farthest school in their lacrosse district, and over an hour and a half away, so I didn’t go. He was also leaving from the game with a friend’s parents to spend the weekend, so a lot of this stuff I didn’t find out until much later.

Anyway, they took Alex out of the game, and administered a ‘field concussion test.’ I may have mentioned before that there is a medic at every lacrosse game (that should be the first clue that lacrosse = bloodsport). This field concussion test consisted of 40 questions, designed to see if his brain was scrambled. He told me a little bit of what they asked him, including the fact that he had to walk a straight line, close his eyes and stand on one foot, and count backward from 100 by threes. It sounded to me like the field SOBRIETY test the police administer when they stop you for suspected drunk driving. Not that I know from first hand experience, of course. I’ve seen it on COPS.

Evidently, he passed, because they let him play the rest of the game. Later that weekend, at his friend’s house, he walked into a tree branch and hit his head, and it made him feel dizzy again. Of course, nobody called me. I mean, why would I want to know? I’m only his mother. When Alex got home on Sunday, he did tell me about the head hits and the concussion test, but said he felt fine.

On Tuesday, I got a call from the school clinic saying that Alex was in with a headache he said he’d had for several days, and they were checking him for a concussion. I was all “but they already checked” and they were all “well, he could still have one because those lacrosse medics really don’t know what they’re doing.” Way to make me feel better.

This new test involved something called Head Minder, which all of the athletes are supposed to take BEFORE they start the season. It tests their cognitive function (or dysfunction), short term memory, reflexes and reaction time. It is done on a computer, and consists of stuff like this:

Soon, you will see a series of pictures. Some are from the series you saw a few minutes ago, while some are new. When you see a picture that you recognize from a few moments ago, press the space bar. If you see a picture that you have not seen before, then do nothing. Try to be fast without making mistakes. You are being timed on how fast you are.

Shortly, you will see a series of pictures. Press the space bar every time you see a picture except if it is of an animal. Press the spacebar as fast as you can. You are being timed. Remember, press the space bar every time you see a picture except if it is an animal.

Since my child did NOT take this test before hand (Alex says his coach was supposed to make him an appointment, but didn’t) they had him take it, then wait one day, and take it again. Evidently this would show that, if his brain was scrambled, at least it wasn’t getting any worse.

So here we are on Thursday, and he’s been cleared to return to battle – er, lacrosse. Apparently his brain isn’t deteriorating – a fact I find SO comforting. It's too late to find out how much it has already degenerated, which may or may not be a good thing. He has another away game tomorrow night.

I’ll be making the drive.

Comin' Around

Have you ever noticed a certain phenomenon that happens whenever you run out to the store for an emergency ingredient, or something your kid needs for school, and you haven't showered yet, or you're wearing your 'I'm doing laundry' outfit? You know the scenario, I'm sure. You look like something the cat dragged in, and you're jogging around the store, trying to grab whatever you need in a hurry so you can slink back to your car before anybody sees you? What always happens? Right. You run into someone you know.

Of course, who you run into can make a big difference in whether this is a small embarrassment or a giant disaster. If I run into one of my friends when I'm looking less than stellar, I can smile and shrug my shoulders and say something charming (I'm very charming when I look like crap. Ask anybody.) and it's no big deal. After all, they've seen me lots of times when I look gorgeous. Well, maybe not gorgeous. Okay, they've at least seen me lots of times when I've been showered and neatly dressed, so they know this little incident is just an aberration. I always give them that special smile that says, "I'm just about to head out for my spa treatment and they don't like you to shower first..."

Anyway, recently, I was on just such an mission: grab a can of diced tomatoes that I desperately needed, and I ran into someone. Unfortunately, it wasn't one of my understanding friends. It was someone I hadn't seen in several years - a guy I worked with a long, long time ago. And he was THRILLED to see me, or so he said, and wanted to catch up on YEARS of separation, right there in the canned vegetables and soup aisle. I did the best I could to be friendly, and chatted for quite a while before making my excuses and dashing out of there. As I was driving away, I remembered something about this guy that made me chuckle. All. Day. Long. And I thought I'd share it with you.

Many moons ago, I worked for a newspaper. I worked there a long time (12 years) and loved it. My career there began in the classified ad section. For this story it is important that you know a little bit about the layout of the place. There were four of us, in a rectangular formation, each with a desk and a guest chair that sat at one side. All of this was in a giant open room that included all the rest of the advertising department. At the opposite wall from our classified section was a hallway that contained the women's restrooms. Then there was a complicated series of hallways that led to the other areas of the newspaper, including composing, stripping, editorial, the business office and, just before the pressroom, the men's restrooms. We took classified ads by phone mostly, with a few walk-ins, and worked on large display ads in our spare time. There were three of us that had been there a long time, but the fourth spot seemed to be made up of perpetually new people. Us long-timers were a pretty fun-loving bunch, with a healthy sense of humor that not everybody enjoyed. We may have been guilty of playing the occasional light-hearted prank on our co-workers, and that's what this is about.

There were certain customers who were required to pre-pay their ads, rather than being billed. It probably had something to do with a once-overdue bill or whatever. So these customers would call in their ad, get the price from us, and then stop by with a payment so that the ad would run. One of these customers, who frequently ran ads, was a man who dressed as a woman. He was a very nice guy, and I don't know anything about what his story was, but he was very clearly a man with a 5 o'clock shadow and a giant adam's apple, but used a woman's name and wore lovely summer dresses and heels. Come to think of it, he would never have been caught in WalMart unshowered with nasty sweatpants on like I was.

Anyway, our newest classified ad guy was a model employee - really, he was just a model citizen, very proper and straight-laced, and a bit uptight, so of course we wanted to harass the heck out of him. One day, our man-dressed-as-a-woman (let's call her Nicole) called to place her ad with me. She told me she'd be in to pay in an hour, which gave us just enough time to plot. We decided that the rest of us would make sure we were unavailable to help Nicole when she came in, so that our new friend (let's call him Sam) would have to do it. Our expectations were low - we just thought his expression upon realizing Nicole was a guy would be fun to watch. (and yes, I know I'm probably going to hell for this, among other things. I was young. That's my whole excuse).

Nicole came in and we made ourselves scarce, so Sam offered to help her. We, of course, were watching to see his face, and we weren't disappointed. Sam was about halfway through writing out her receipt when he looked her right in the face and the light dawned. And it was pretty funny, but it got so much better. After she had her receipt, she asked Sam where the restroom was. Sam, thinking that he was giving directions to the men's room, said, "oh, it's really complicated, you'll never find it. I'll take you," and stood up. He took about two steps, realized she probably wanted the women's room, stopped, pointed, said "It's right there." I just about lost it and had to run for the main lobby before collapsing in screams of laughter.

Forever after that, if anybody ever said anything about going to the ladies' room, we always made sure to say something like, "do you need directions? It's really hard to find." Poor, dear Sam. He was a pretty good egg, really, because he didn't hold a grudge. Of course, so many years later, after I fled WalMart, he was probably making fun of me to his wife, "Did you see what she was wearing? And that hair? Dreadful!" I don't blame him one bit. Karma's a bitch.