This morning I was reminded of my one and only venture into acting showbiz.
When I was in first grade, I attended a Catholic school. The church was right across the parking lot, and we would all be herded over there daily for Mass. My teacher, Mrs. Williams, wasn't a nun, but she still made sure we did all the religious-y stuff.
As Christmas approached, she told us that the first grade classes would be doing a play about Baby Jesus…and it would be on Sunday in the church when everyone was there for Mass! How exciting, right?
I instantly knew I wanted to play Mary. No way did I want to be relegated to one of the boring roles as one of the stable animals (there ended up being a LOT of donkeys and sheep in that stable). When Mrs. Williams asked who wanted to play Mary, I sprang out of my seat shouting, “ME-ME-ME!” before any of the other girls could.
Apparently, this was a sufficient audition and I got the role. I was so happy! My elation was to be short lived, though.
When Mrs. Williams asked the boys about playing the role of Joseph, a boy named Alexander volunteered. I was filled with dread and horror…Please, no! ANYONE but Alexander!
Alexander was the class nerdy kid that smelled funny and looked even funnier. He had glasses with thick black frames, and an elastic band that went around the back of his head to hold them on. He was always up in my grill, wanting to hang around me and follow me everywhere. I couldn’t stand him.
I immediately tried to withdraw my offer to play Mary, but Mrs. Williams told me it was too late. I was going to have to pretend to be married to Alexander.
Over the next few weeks, we rehearsed and got ready. The first grade teachers showed us the props we would be using in the play. Jesus’ manger was going to be a wooden orange crate filled with straw, which seemed good enough to me...but then they showed me the doll that would be playing Baby Jesus. I was once again mortified.
The doll was one of those hard plastic ones, where even the hair is just painted on to the doll’s head. It had those creepy eyes that close when the doll is lying down, but snap open when you stand it up. It didn’t even have a dress or any clothes on it at all. The real problem, though, was that it was filthy. I mean, really gross, like they had found it in a dumpster someplace (probably, they’d dug it out of the kindergarten’s toy box).
The teacher put the doll in the orange-manger, and I soon learned that at one point in the play, I was supposed to lean down and kiss the doll.
I clearly remember looking at Mrs. Williams and saying, “I’m not kissing that.”
“Oh, we’ll clean it up and it will be nice for the play,” she promised.
I rationalized that this doll was going to represent Baby Jesus...and surely they wouldn’t want a disgustingly filthy doll to play the role of our Lord and Savior. Right? It would be okay, I assured myself.
In spite of the indignity of being “married” to that awful Alexander in front of the whole congregation, and the prospect of having to smooch a crusty baby doll, I was pretty excited about the play. My mom sewed me a very pretty, long blue dress, and even a blue and white veil. When I put on the costume, I thought that I looked Extremely Holy. I couldn’t wait for my moment in the spotlight.
Finally, after weeks of practicing and waiting, it was show time! The church was packed. Alexander and I took our places on the steps below the altar, with Baby Jesus in his orange crate between us. All the other kids with ridiculous construction paper donkey ears stuck on top of their heads stood behind us.
I looked down at the doll, and was appalled to discover that Mrs. Williams had lied! No one had cleaned up Baby Jesus. He was still just as icky as the first day I saw him. The only thing they’d done was put a cloth diaper on Him.
There was absolutely no way I was putting my lips anywhere near that doll.
This part of the play was narrated. I listened, dreading the moment that the narrator would say, “...and then Mary kissed the baby.”
When it came, I sat there staring at it. It got really quiet as everyone in the church waited for me to lean down and plant one on that repulsive doll.
“Kiss the baby!” Alexander whispered.
I shook my head no.
“Can I kiss it?”
YES! Problem solved!
“Yeah, you kiss it,” I whispered back. Ha-ha! Alexander could get cooties on his lips instead of me.
So, Joseph kissed the baby instead of Mary. People in the audience chuckled, but it was sort of a nervous chuckle.
We got through the rest of the play without any other difficulties. I was a little bit worried I was going to be in trouble for refusing to kiss the doll, but after it was all over, Mrs. Williams came over to me and said she was sorry. I think she probably meant it, but I’m not sure.
That was my one flirtation with fame. Alexander followed me around for the rest of the school year, bugging the crap out of me and smelling weird. When I changed schools in second grade, guess who also did, ending up right back in my class again? Yep. Alexander.
I wonder where he is, now? I bet he’s obscenely rich, wildly successful and wickedly handsome.
I’m sorry for behaving so badly towards you, and being such a creep when we were little, Alexander! I was a real jerk, and now, as an adult, I’m pretty ashamed of the way I treated you. You were a really nice kid. I don’t think I ever thanked you for kissing dirty Baby Jesus for me, either. If we ever meet again, I owe you one, man.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Bullwinkle's
I decided today that I wanted to write about a nightclub I used to frequent in my early twenties when I was living back in Bloomington, IN. I Googled it, to see if I could find a photo or something to include…only to learn that it closed down in 2006! I’m so bummed! I loved that place.
From 1992 to 1994, I worked at a one-hour optical in Bloomington. It is easily the nuttiest place I’ve ever been employed. We were a small office, with maybe 8 or so employees. There was Doc (the optometrist of course), the office manager, assistant manager, a couple of guys in the lab that would grind lenses and put glasses together, and a few of us opticians. We’d do shit like preliminary eye exams, teach people how to put in contact lenses, and sell glasses and frames.
Working there was a little bit like existing in a real-live sitcom. When we had patients in the office, we acted professionally…but whenever there was a lull, we did everything from spitball fights to shopping cart races in the back alley (we were in a strip mall) to playing ridiculous practical jokes on each other.
Everyone was a character. It was the most fun place I’ve ever worked.
There was one employee, D, who was a flaming drag queen. He was fucking hysterical. He had actually worked there a little before my time, but he would still come in to visit and hang out a lot.
D loved to make his own fabulous, sequined, feathered, strappy dresses…Bullwinkle’s often had drag shows where D and his fellow Queens would perform (basically lip-synch) routines. It was a competition. He would always beg us to come to watch.
I had never been to Bullwinkle’s before, but of course I knew it was a gay bar. It was in the basement of the former Loyal Order of Moose Hall…hence the name. :) So, the first time I went, it was to watch D’s show. He was one ugly dude, but when he came out on stage in full showgirl drag, I was stunned. He was totally glamorous…it was hysterical, and a little scary. If I didn’t know it was him, I would have never known it was him.
I sat at a table with a bunch of coworkers, and we had a great time. Back in those days, my hair was really long, long enough for me to sit on it. A gaggle of drag queens descended on me, oooh-ing and ah-ing over my hair. It was pretty funny.
Anyway, that was the night that I found out Bullwinkle’s was the best nightclub/bar in town. They had a great dance floor that lit up just like the one in Saturday Night Fever. I started going there pretty frequently with my friends. Now I can’t dance to save my soul, but I have fun anyway…and when I was drunk (which was pretty much always) I thought that I was *the* Bad-Ass Dancer out there. Bwahaha…thank the good lord that was back in the days before cell phone cameras and Flip videos!
One night in February after a few hours of Bullwinkle’s fun, my friends took my car keys and wouldn’t let me drive home because I was too drunk. It was like two a.m., and they drove me back to my aunt’s house (where I was staying) and dropped me off. Well, it was her car I had driven into town, and in my drunken state I was convinced that someone would steal it or something. So as soon as my friends dropped me off, I went inside, put a leash on my dog, Sundae, and I walked all the way back downtown. It was FUCKING COLD, probably in the ‘teens, temperature wise, and snow everywhere. By the time I got to the parking garage where the car was, I was sober. Trust me.
Another time (it must have been summer) I remember leaving Bullwinkle’s because I was so drunk I thought I was going to be sick. I decided I’d go to my friend’s car, crawl in the back seat, and pass out. Well when I got to the car it was locked (duh). I didn’t have the ability to stagger all the way back to the bar to get the keys (and no cell phones in those days), so I just sat down on the sidewalk and proceeded to vomit into the gutter. Then I must have passed out, because the next thing I remember is waking up on the sidewalk with my friend Sean nudging me in the ribs with his foot. I guess he was checking to see if I was dead or alive.
I was pretty lucky Sean found me first instead of a dirty copper. Haha.
I had way too much fun there. I am stunned that the place closed a few years ago…it was easily one of the most popular nightclubs in town with both gay and straight crowds…and kind of a Bloomington landmark.
Ah well…like Bryan Adams said, nothing lasts forever.
RIP, Bullwinkle’s.
From 1992 to 1994, I worked at a one-hour optical in Bloomington. It is easily the nuttiest place I’ve ever been employed. We were a small office, with maybe 8 or so employees. There was Doc (the optometrist of course), the office manager, assistant manager, a couple of guys in the lab that would grind lenses and put glasses together, and a few of us opticians. We’d do shit like preliminary eye exams, teach people how to put in contact lenses, and sell glasses and frames.
Working there was a little bit like existing in a real-live sitcom. When we had patients in the office, we acted professionally…but whenever there was a lull, we did everything from spitball fights to shopping cart races in the back alley (we were in a strip mall) to playing ridiculous practical jokes on each other.
Everyone was a character. It was the most fun place I’ve ever worked.
There was one employee, D, who was a flaming drag queen. He was fucking hysterical. He had actually worked there a little before my time, but he would still come in to visit and hang out a lot.
D loved to make his own fabulous, sequined, feathered, strappy dresses…Bullwinkle’s often had drag shows where D and his fellow Queens would perform (basically lip-synch) routines. It was a competition. He would always beg us to come to watch.
I had never been to Bullwinkle’s before, but of course I knew it was a gay bar. It was in the basement of the former Loyal Order of Moose Hall…hence the name. :) So, the first time I went, it was to watch D’s show. He was one ugly dude, but when he came out on stage in full showgirl drag, I was stunned. He was totally glamorous…it was hysterical, and a little scary. If I didn’t know it was him, I would have never known it was him.
I sat at a table with a bunch of coworkers, and we had a great time. Back in those days, my hair was really long, long enough for me to sit on it. A gaggle of drag queens descended on me, oooh-ing and ah-ing over my hair. It was pretty funny.
Anyway, that was the night that I found out Bullwinkle’s was the best nightclub/bar in town. They had a great dance floor that lit up just like the one in Saturday Night Fever. I started going there pretty frequently with my friends. Now I can’t dance to save my soul, but I have fun anyway…and when I was drunk (which was pretty much always) I thought that I was *the* Bad-Ass Dancer out there. Bwahaha…thank the good lord that was back in the days before cell phone cameras and Flip videos!
One night in February after a few hours of Bullwinkle’s fun, my friends took my car keys and wouldn’t let me drive home because I was too drunk. It was like two a.m., and they drove me back to my aunt’s house (where I was staying) and dropped me off. Well, it was her car I had driven into town, and in my drunken state I was convinced that someone would steal it or something. So as soon as my friends dropped me off, I went inside, put a leash on my dog, Sundae, and I walked all the way back downtown. It was FUCKING COLD, probably in the ‘teens, temperature wise, and snow everywhere. By the time I got to the parking garage where the car was, I was sober. Trust me.
Another time (it must have been summer) I remember leaving Bullwinkle’s because I was so drunk I thought I was going to be sick. I decided I’d go to my friend’s car, crawl in the back seat, and pass out. Well when I got to the car it was locked (duh). I didn’t have the ability to stagger all the way back to the bar to get the keys (and no cell phones in those days), so I just sat down on the sidewalk and proceeded to vomit into the gutter. Then I must have passed out, because the next thing I remember is waking up on the sidewalk with my friend Sean nudging me in the ribs with his foot. I guess he was checking to see if I was dead or alive.
I was pretty lucky Sean found me first instead of a dirty copper. Haha.
I had way too much fun there. I am stunned that the place closed a few years ago…it was easily one of the most popular nightclubs in town with both gay and straight crowds…and kind of a Bloomington landmark.
Ah well…like Bryan Adams said, nothing lasts forever.
RIP, Bullwinkle’s.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Another ill-Spent Youth Story
Yes, I have lots of them. So?
OK this one takes place…early fall of ‘92. This would be after I fled from AZ to try and escape from myself after an emotional breakup. (I tend to flee whenever things get uncomfortable for me. It's a bad habit.)
When I first called my friend A. back in IN and told her I was getting ready to move back, she helped me find a place to live. She knew a couple of gals going to IU, who needed a third roommate for their townhouse. I talked to them on the phone, and we agreed on rent and stuff. I’d have my own room of course, and share a bathroom and the rest of the place.
So, I moved, it was the very beginning of June…I lasted in that townhouse for only a couple of months. I got along with one of the roomies, but the other one…well, we didn’t. I wanted to kill her. (My life with these girls is worthy of its own post…so I won’t go into detail).
I started looking for another place to live.
In the paper, I found an ad to rent a room in a house for cheap. I made an appointment, and went there. It was in the next town over, but not a long drive to work.
It was in a sort-of run down area. The owner of the house was a hillbilly. She’d walled off the living room and family room, turning them into bedrooms….so the result was a house with 5 bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen and a laundry.
I found out I’d be sharing the house with three guys. Two were sort of red-necky hillbillies, and the other one was this huge black guy…and by huge, I don’t mean fat. I mean, he was a body builder, and he was like cut glass. Yummy.
So…my friend A and her boyfriend helped me move all my shit from the townhouse to my new place. I got to know my new roommates around the kitchen table, since that was really the only common area to hang out in, there. We would actually cook meals, and sit down to eat together when everyone was “home”.
Sharing a bathroom with a couple of guys isn’t that fun though…haha. There was always some kind of nuclear waste accumulated around the shower drain, and I don’t even want to think about what it really was. I was always screaming at them to go clean their nasty shit out of the tub so I could take a shower without vomiting.
Other than that, though, it was pretty fun.
Of course we were all pretty young, so we’d drink and smoke pot and listen to loud music and all the normal things you’re supposed to do when you’re that age.
I got along with the gorgeous black guy (We’ll call him Rocko) and one of the redneck-y guys (we’ll call him Gordon) and I did NOT get along with the second redneck, though we “tolerated” each other (we’ll call him Douche-bag). Douchebag and I mostly ignored each other.
So Rocko liked his alcohol. Gordon liked his weed…and I reaped the rewards of their individual addictions, there was always some substance in the house to alter my mood with. We had fun hanging out.
Eventually, of course, because I was a slut in those days, Rocko and I started hanging out in his room or my room. He was very pretty to look at, especially without a shirt on, haha. We’d get drunk, and then mess around.
This was a little bit risky, because he had a girlfriend. She was maybe even a little taller than me, and out-weighed me by a good 40 pounds…I was stick-thin in those days. She was not, lol. She could have easily kicked my ass…but she was living in Chicago, and I figured she wouldn’t come to see him without giving him advance notice.
So anyway, Rocko and I were not boyfriend/girlfriend…just friends with benefits, and that was totally fine with me. I was dating a couple of other guys (slut, I told you) and I had no interest in anything serious.
One night, Rocko and Gordon were out, and I was just hanging out alone in my room watching TV or whatever. Douchebag was also home, and getting drunk all by himself. When I went into the kitchen, he was sitting at the table with his whiskey, looking shitfaced and mean. I just ignored him, got my snack, and went back to my room.
A few minutes later, he knocked on my bedroom door.
Douchebag: “Hey, let me in.”
Me: “Go away.”
Douchebag: “Let me in, you stupid bitch!”
Me: “Fuck OFF, Douchebag! Leave me alone!”
I’m also getting very scared right now, because it’s just a shitty bedroom door between me and him, and he could easily kick it in.
Then he started calling me every name he could think of, banging on the door. I had my dog, Sundae, with me, but she was no protection at all. So I grabbed my purse and keys, put her leash on, and we climbed out my bedroom window. Got in my truck, and drove to my aunt’s in Bloomington to spend the night.
The next day, I went home. Rocko was there and I told him what happened. He didn’t like Douchebag anyway, so this really pissed him off. We were in the kitchen when Rocko confronted him and told him that if he ever pulled that shit again, he would kick Douchebag’s ass.
“Oooh, I’m soooo scared,” said Douchebag.
“I didn’t say you had to be scared. You can be brave the whole time if you want to, but I’m still going to beat the shit out of you, you stupid hillbilly,” Rocko replied calmly.
Hahaha. Douchebag didn’t say much more, because it was abundantly clear that Rocko was more than capable of tearing him in half.
After that, Douchebag stayed away from me. I still had fun with Rocko and Gordon. Eventually, the day came where Rocko said he was moving out…well I didn’t want to live there without him to keep Douchebag in line, so I started looking for a new living situation immediately.
Luckily (luckily for me, anyway, haha), my friend A. was kicking her live-in boyfriend to the curb…so that meant I could move in there, which I did.
And that’s a whole other story…LOL.
Anyway…I found a photo of Rocko while I was going through and scanning bunches of old pix. It was taken with him standing in my bedroom doorway. He’s got his shirt in his hand, so I’m sure I must have demanded that he take it off so I could photo him. Hahaha!
Last I’d heard, he moved to Chicago, but that was like, 17 years ago (he's pushing 50 now...he was 30 when I knew him)…and of course, I wonder what he’s doing now…like Kiersten...like Chris…like Kirsi…and about a million other people from the past.
OK this one takes place…early fall of ‘92. This would be after I fled from AZ to try and escape from myself after an emotional breakup. (I tend to flee whenever things get uncomfortable for me. It's a bad habit.)
When I first called my friend A. back in IN and told her I was getting ready to move back, she helped me find a place to live. She knew a couple of gals going to IU, who needed a third roommate for their townhouse. I talked to them on the phone, and we agreed on rent and stuff. I’d have my own room of course, and share a bathroom and the rest of the place.
So, I moved, it was the very beginning of June…I lasted in that townhouse for only a couple of months. I got along with one of the roomies, but the other one…well, we didn’t. I wanted to kill her. (My life with these girls is worthy of its own post…so I won’t go into detail).
I started looking for another place to live.
In the paper, I found an ad to rent a room in a house for cheap. I made an appointment, and went there. It was in the next town over, but not a long drive to work.
It was in a sort-of run down area. The owner of the house was a hillbilly. She’d walled off the living room and family room, turning them into bedrooms….so the result was a house with 5 bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen and a laundry.
I found out I’d be sharing the house with three guys. Two were sort of red-necky hillbillies, and the other one was this huge black guy…and by huge, I don’t mean fat. I mean, he was a body builder, and he was like cut glass. Yummy.
So…my friend A and her boyfriend helped me move all my shit from the townhouse to my new place. I got to know my new roommates around the kitchen table, since that was really the only common area to hang out in, there. We would actually cook meals, and sit down to eat together when everyone was “home”.
Sharing a bathroom with a couple of guys isn’t that fun though…haha. There was always some kind of nuclear waste accumulated around the shower drain, and I don’t even want to think about what it really was. I was always screaming at them to go clean their nasty shit out of the tub so I could take a shower without vomiting.
Other than that, though, it was pretty fun.
Of course we were all pretty young, so we’d drink and smoke pot and listen to loud music and all the normal things you’re supposed to do when you’re that age.
I got along with the gorgeous black guy (We’ll call him Rocko) and one of the redneck-y guys (we’ll call him Gordon) and I did NOT get along with the second redneck, though we “tolerated” each other (we’ll call him Douche-bag). Douchebag and I mostly ignored each other.
So Rocko liked his alcohol. Gordon liked his weed…and I reaped the rewards of their individual addictions, there was always some substance in the house to alter my mood with. We had fun hanging out.
Eventually, of course, because I was a slut in those days, Rocko and I started hanging out in his room or my room. He was very pretty to look at, especially without a shirt on, haha. We’d get drunk, and then mess around.
This was a little bit risky, because he had a girlfriend. She was maybe even a little taller than me, and out-weighed me by a good 40 pounds…I was stick-thin in those days. She was not, lol. She could have easily kicked my ass…but she was living in Chicago, and I figured she wouldn’t come to see him without giving him advance notice.
So anyway, Rocko and I were not boyfriend/girlfriend…just friends with benefits, and that was totally fine with me. I was dating a couple of other guys (slut, I told you) and I had no interest in anything serious.
One night, Rocko and Gordon were out, and I was just hanging out alone in my room watching TV or whatever. Douchebag was also home, and getting drunk all by himself. When I went into the kitchen, he was sitting at the table with his whiskey, looking shitfaced and mean. I just ignored him, got my snack, and went back to my room.
A few minutes later, he knocked on my bedroom door.
Douchebag: “Hey, let me in.”
Me: “Go away.”
Douchebag: “Let me in, you stupid bitch!”
Me: “Fuck OFF, Douchebag! Leave me alone!”
I’m also getting very scared right now, because it’s just a shitty bedroom door between me and him, and he could easily kick it in.
Then he started calling me every name he could think of, banging on the door. I had my dog, Sundae, with me, but she was no protection at all. So I grabbed my purse and keys, put her leash on, and we climbed out my bedroom window. Got in my truck, and drove to my aunt’s in Bloomington to spend the night.
The next day, I went home. Rocko was there and I told him what happened. He didn’t like Douchebag anyway, so this really pissed him off. We were in the kitchen when Rocko confronted him and told him that if he ever pulled that shit again, he would kick Douchebag’s ass.
“Oooh, I’m soooo scared,” said Douchebag.
“I didn’t say you had to be scared. You can be brave the whole time if you want to, but I’m still going to beat the shit out of you, you stupid hillbilly,” Rocko replied calmly.
Hahaha. Douchebag didn’t say much more, because it was abundantly clear that Rocko was more than capable of tearing him in half.
After that, Douchebag stayed away from me. I still had fun with Rocko and Gordon. Eventually, the day came where Rocko said he was moving out…well I didn’t want to live there without him to keep Douchebag in line, so I started looking for a new living situation immediately.
Luckily (luckily for me, anyway, haha), my friend A. was kicking her live-in boyfriend to the curb…so that meant I could move in there, which I did.
And that’s a whole other story…LOL.
Anyway…I found a photo of Rocko while I was going through and scanning bunches of old pix. It was taken with him standing in my bedroom doorway. He’s got his shirt in his hand, so I’m sure I must have demanded that he take it off so I could photo him. Hahaha!
Last I’d heard, he moved to Chicago, but that was like, 17 years ago (he's pushing 50 now...he was 30 when I knew him)…and of course, I wonder what he’s doing now…like Kiersten...like Chris…like Kirsi…and about a million other people from the past.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
A nice plug for my SIL's soon-to-be-released book!
I'm so happy for her, I just wanted to give her book a little plug. Her book is due to be on bookshelves this June! It's a romance (just in case you couldn't tell from the cover art, ahaha)...here's the blurb:
"Will Creighton always does what Victorian society expects of a gentleman. But after he returns home to London from the horrors of war to find his fiancée married to someone else, he decides he’s played by the rules long enough. He intends to enjoy illicit pleasure with a mistress before marrying a proper wife.
Genevieve Bell is anything but proper. She struggles to be taken seriously as a female artist, and when she was very young, a brief affair ruined her chances for a good marriage. Now painting is her only passion--until she meets Will.
When Will mistakes Genevieve for an experienced mistress, Genevieve finds herself unable to resist playing along. But will he discover she’s far from an expert in the art of love?"
So if any of you folks are romance fans, make sure you look for her book this summer!
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
I Was a Stupid Teenaged Girl
Teen-aged girls do a lot of stupid shit, and I was no exception.
In the mid-to-late 80's, I was a high school student down in Phoenix, AZ. Back in those days, AZ didn't have a MLB team. We had the Phoenix Firebirds minor league team. I've always kind of liked baseball, especially if I get to see the game at the park. I've also always kind of like baseball *players*. Ahem.
Anyway...I'm guessing this was the summer between my Jr. and Sr. year.
My friends and I would frequently go to Firebirds games. Usually we sat around/near first base, where the visiting team's dugout was. One evening, I decided that one of the players for the visiting team was pretty cute. His name was Tim.
So, being a stupid teen-aged girl, I managed to catch his eye. Or at least, he caught me staring at him a couple of times. One of the times he smiled at me, and waved. I waved back, thrilled. A little later, he called some little boys down to the rail that separated the stands from the field. He talked to them, handed them something, and then the kids ran over to me.
"That baseball player wants your phone number!" one of the boys said, and he shoved a torn off piece of paper in my hand, along with a pen.
So, being a stupid teen-aged girl, I was tickled pink, and happily scribbled my number on the paper, along with my name. The boys (who were also excited to be messengers) ran it back over to Tim and handed it to him.
I was BEYOND excited. Ugh.
Sure enough later that night, he called and asked me if I wanted to go out (keep in mind, I had *just* turned 17, and he was probably at least 26 or 27. Maybe older.). We decided that I would pick him up from the hotel his team was staying at the next night...he said he had to have dinner with some family that lived in town, but that we could go out after that. He gave me the room number.
So, being a stupid teen-aged girl, I actually went to this hotel. All. By. Myself.
I go up to the room at the appointed time, and knock on the door. There are four or five baseball players in there, and none of them are Tim. Of course I got invited in anyway, and being a stupid teen-aged girl, I went in. They all told me that Tim had said I was coming, and that he was just running a little late, and that I was welcome to wait for him.
Thankfully, these guys were great. We had a fun time, and nothing inappropriate happened. They ordered food for me, and we all sat around laughing and talking. Tim was running really, really late...in fact I recall watching Letterman with those guys. They kept saying, "If *I* was taking you out, *I* wouldn't have been late" etc. I remember one of them was enthralled with how tall I am...that really seemed to make him happy.
Finally...I decided Tim had blown me off, so I said goodbye to my new friends and left.
As I walked across the parking lot to my car, another vehicle came in and stopped in front of me. Tim got out of the back seat, and came up to me, apologizing profusely. His family had kept him out later than he wanted, blah blah blah.
He looked really, really good. Yummy.
So, because I was a stupid teen-aged girl, I let him get in my car with me. We ended up parked out on South Mountain, where there was a beautiful view of the city all lit up. We got out, and sat on the hood of my car. It took about ten seconds before we started making out hot and heavy.
At some point during the fun (and it *was* fun), a small voice of reason entered my brain, and suggested that maybe losing my virginity to a minor league pitcher on the hood of my Mustang was maybe not such a good idea.
Poor Tim. I ended up taking him back to his hotel, without him getting what he wanted, and thankfully he didn't try to force the issue.
I tell you...teenagers do some stupid shit. When I think about going to a hotel to meet a total stranger, ending up in a hotel room full of strange men, then going to a secluded place in the desert with one, all at the tender age of seventeen...I was really, really lucky that didn't end up badly.
I hope my daughter has more brains that I did at that age!
In the mid-to-late 80's, I was a high school student down in Phoenix, AZ. Back in those days, AZ didn't have a MLB team. We had the Phoenix Firebirds minor league team. I've always kind of liked baseball, especially if I get to see the game at the park. I've also always kind of like baseball *players*. Ahem.
Anyway...I'm guessing this was the summer between my Jr. and Sr. year.
My friends and I would frequently go to Firebirds games. Usually we sat around/near first base, where the visiting team's dugout was. One evening, I decided that one of the players for the visiting team was pretty cute. His name was Tim.
So, being a stupid teen-aged girl, I managed to catch his eye. Or at least, he caught me staring at him a couple of times. One of the times he smiled at me, and waved. I waved back, thrilled. A little later, he called some little boys down to the rail that separated the stands from the field. He talked to them, handed them something, and then the kids ran over to me.
"That baseball player wants your phone number!" one of the boys said, and he shoved a torn off piece of paper in my hand, along with a pen.
So, being a stupid teen-aged girl, I was tickled pink, and happily scribbled my number on the paper, along with my name. The boys (who were also excited to be messengers) ran it back over to Tim and handed it to him.
I was BEYOND excited. Ugh.
Sure enough later that night, he called and asked me if I wanted to go out (keep in mind, I had *just* turned 17, and he was probably at least 26 or 27. Maybe older.). We decided that I would pick him up from the hotel his team was staying at the next night...he said he had to have dinner with some family that lived in town, but that we could go out after that. He gave me the room number.
So, being a stupid teen-aged girl, I actually went to this hotel. All. By. Myself.
I go up to the room at the appointed time, and knock on the door. There are four or five baseball players in there, and none of them are Tim. Of course I got invited in anyway, and being a stupid teen-aged girl, I went in. They all told me that Tim had said I was coming, and that he was just running a little late, and that I was welcome to wait for him.
Thankfully, these guys were great. We had a fun time, and nothing inappropriate happened. They ordered food for me, and we all sat around laughing and talking. Tim was running really, really late...in fact I recall watching Letterman with those guys. They kept saying, "If *I* was taking you out, *I* wouldn't have been late" etc. I remember one of them was enthralled with how tall I am...that really seemed to make him happy.
Finally...I decided Tim had blown me off, so I said goodbye to my new friends and left.
As I walked across the parking lot to my car, another vehicle came in and stopped in front of me. Tim got out of the back seat, and came up to me, apologizing profusely. His family had kept him out later than he wanted, blah blah blah.
He looked really, really good. Yummy.
So, because I was a stupid teen-aged girl, I let him get in my car with me. We ended up parked out on South Mountain, where there was a beautiful view of the city all lit up. We got out, and sat on the hood of my car. It took about ten seconds before we started making out hot and heavy.
At some point during the fun (and it *was* fun), a small voice of reason entered my brain, and suggested that maybe losing my virginity to a minor league pitcher on the hood of my Mustang was maybe not such a good idea.
Poor Tim. I ended up taking him back to his hotel, without him getting what he wanted, and thankfully he didn't try to force the issue.
I tell you...teenagers do some stupid shit. When I think about going to a hotel to meet a total stranger, ending up in a hotel room full of strange men, then going to a secluded place in the desert with one, all at the tender age of seventeen...I was really, really lucky that didn't end up badly.
I hope my daughter has more brains that I did at that age!
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
Happy 2010!
May the new year and the new decade bring us all good health, happiness, prosperity, and peace.
Hope you all had a safe and happy NYE!
Pamela
Hope you all had a safe and happy NYE!
Pamela
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Adventures With a Cable Guy (A True Story)
When I lived in New Albany, IN, I worked across the river in Louisville, KY for Insight Communications. Insight supplies (or did, I don’t know if they are still there) everyone with their cable, high speed interwebz, and phone service.
I was one of the girls you call when your cable goes kaput, or if you want cable installed, or you want HBO, or you want to complain that there’s a whole bunch of pay-per-view porn on your bill that you *swear* you never ordered.
Anyway, when I got hired on there, part of the call center training was, we had to go on a ride along with one of the guys from the cable installation/repair department. I don’t know why.
I can’t remember my Cable Guy’s name, it was too long ago. But he was nice. I rode shotgun in his cable van, and we drove around Louisville putting in cable, drinking coffee, answering repair calls and eating donuts.
One house that had called in for a repair issue was in a sort of…questionable neighborhood. We went to the front door and rang the bell. A creepy looking guy let us in, and we stepped into the living room.
The first thing that hit me was the stench. It smelled horrible...like, rotting meat horrible. It was dark in there too…the blinds were turned, and there were no lamps on. There was just enough light to see, but not well. As I stood there trying not to retch my donuts and coffee up (it’s rude to barf in the customer’s living room) I looked around.
There was something all over the walls…and after a moment of scrutiny, I realized it looked like blood. It was sprayed fucking everywhere.
Working in my current field, I’ve seen a lot of crime scene photos, and I am sure that is exactly what I was standing in. I looked at Cable Guy, who was listening to Mr. Creepy Murderer Guy explain what the cable was doing wrong, just as if we were standing in a perfectly normal, tastefully furnished home in the suburbs.
Cable Guy looked back at me, and kind of jerked his head toward the door.
I didn’t wait for him to ask twice, I went right outside and climbed back into the truck to wait for him. He came out about twenty minutes later, having fixed whatever issue he needed to.
Cable Guy and I discussed Mr. Creepy, and he told me he was going to report it. I don’t know if he ever did or not, though. No one ever asked me any questions about it, and I never heard anything on the news about the coppers finding murder victims at that house.
I took “Being a Cable Install/Repair Girl” off of my list of possible careers after that.
I was one of the girls you call when your cable goes kaput, or if you want cable installed, or you want HBO, or you want to complain that there’s a whole bunch of pay-per-view porn on your bill that you *swear* you never ordered.
Anyway, when I got hired on there, part of the call center training was, we had to go on a ride along with one of the guys from the cable installation/repair department. I don’t know why.
I can’t remember my Cable Guy’s name, it was too long ago. But he was nice. I rode shotgun in his cable van, and we drove around Louisville putting in cable, drinking coffee, answering repair calls and eating donuts.
One house that had called in for a repair issue was in a sort of…questionable neighborhood. We went to the front door and rang the bell. A creepy looking guy let us in, and we stepped into the living room.
The first thing that hit me was the stench. It smelled horrible...like, rotting meat horrible. It was dark in there too…the blinds were turned, and there were no lamps on. There was just enough light to see, but not well. As I stood there trying not to retch my donuts and coffee up (it’s rude to barf in the customer’s living room) I looked around.
There was something all over the walls…and after a moment of scrutiny, I realized it looked like blood. It was sprayed fucking everywhere.
Working in my current field, I’ve seen a lot of crime scene photos, and I am sure that is exactly what I was standing in. I looked at Cable Guy, who was listening to Mr. Creepy Murderer Guy explain what the cable was doing wrong, just as if we were standing in a perfectly normal, tastefully furnished home in the suburbs.
Cable Guy looked back at me, and kind of jerked his head toward the door.
I didn’t wait for him to ask twice, I went right outside and climbed back into the truck to wait for him. He came out about twenty minutes later, having fixed whatever issue he needed to.
Cable Guy and I discussed Mr. Creepy, and he told me he was going to report it. I don’t know if he ever did or not, though. No one ever asked me any questions about it, and I never heard anything on the news about the coppers finding murder victims at that house.
I took “Being a Cable Install/Repair Girl” off of my list of possible careers after that.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
The Haunted Apartment
When I was five years old, we lived in a ground floor apartment in Bloomington, Indiana. The apartment building was quite small compared to the conglomo-ville complexes built today. There were about twenty apartments, ten upstairs, and ten downstairs, in a long row. It was a red brick building, on Pine Wood Drive; it's still there today. At least it was in 2003.
Our apartment was two small bedrooms, a tiny bathroom, a living room and a kitchen. The kitchen had accordion-style doors on one wall, that hid the washer and dryer from view. There was a back door in the kitchen, but it led to nowhere since the apartments did not have patios or back yards.
It's the kitchen that was haunted.
My mom is a borderline neat freak. Everything had to be just-so before going to bed, everything straightened and tidied up. This included pushing all the chairs under the kitchen table.
One morning, mom was surprised to find all the chairs pulled out when she went in to make her morning tea. She asked my dad and me if we had been up during the night. Nope, we hadn't.
After that, the chairs were never under the table in the morning. She'd push them in at night, go to bed, and upon waking find them pulled all the way out, as far as they could get before coming up against a wall or the refrigerator.
I remember my parents joking about the haunted kitchen. Of course, when your five years old, discussion of any kind about haunted anything is a little alarming. I remember asking my dad nervously if the kitchen was really haunted. He laughed and said no, that big trucks driving by on road were probably causing vibrations that pushed the chairs across the floor.
I wondered why the trucks didn't move the chairs when the sun was out.
One night I awoke in the wee smalls of the morning, I don't know why. I've always been a little afraid of the dark, and when I was small, I was super afraid of the dark. I had a night light (it was a large ceramic grinning clown whose eyes, nose and smile lit up, I shit you not) that my grandmother had made for me, and I could see the darkened shapes of my toys and shelves in my room.
It was quiet...and then I heard it: the unmistakable sound of chairs being slowly dragged across the linoleum floor of the kitchen.
Skrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek...
Sure enough, in the morning, all the chairs were against the walls, the fridge, the cabinets.
I think we only lived there for a year. Nothing else spooky ever happened there, just the creepy kitchen incidents.
Years later, I saw the movie "Poltergeist" in the theater. There's a scene where the mom knows she pushed all the table chairs in, and a few minutes later, they're all out again. She pushes them all back in, exasperated, scolding her kids. She turns her back for a few seconds, and suddenly all the chairs are balanced atop the table in a pyramid. That never happened to us, thank heavens...but that scene in the movie always gives me the heebie jeebies, and reminds me of our haunted apartment.
Our apartment was two small bedrooms, a tiny bathroom, a living room and a kitchen. The kitchen had accordion-style doors on one wall, that hid the washer and dryer from view. There was a back door in the kitchen, but it led to nowhere since the apartments did not have patios or back yards.
It's the kitchen that was haunted.
My mom is a borderline neat freak. Everything had to be just-so before going to bed, everything straightened and tidied up. This included pushing all the chairs under the kitchen table.
One morning, mom was surprised to find all the chairs pulled out when she went in to make her morning tea. She asked my dad and me if we had been up during the night. Nope, we hadn't.
After that, the chairs were never under the table in the morning. She'd push them in at night, go to bed, and upon waking find them pulled all the way out, as far as they could get before coming up against a wall or the refrigerator.
I remember my parents joking about the haunted kitchen. Of course, when your five years old, discussion of any kind about haunted anything is a little alarming. I remember asking my dad nervously if the kitchen was really haunted. He laughed and said no, that big trucks driving by on road were probably causing vibrations that pushed the chairs across the floor.
I wondered why the trucks didn't move the chairs when the sun was out.
One night I awoke in the wee smalls of the morning, I don't know why. I've always been a little afraid of the dark, and when I was small, I was super afraid of the dark. I had a night light (it was a large ceramic grinning clown whose eyes, nose and smile lit up, I shit you not) that my grandmother had made for me, and I could see the darkened shapes of my toys and shelves in my room.
It was quiet...and then I heard it: the unmistakable sound of chairs being slowly dragged across the linoleum floor of the kitchen.
Skrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek...
Sure enough, in the morning, all the chairs were against the walls, the fridge, the cabinets.
I think we only lived there for a year. Nothing else spooky ever happened there, just the creepy kitchen incidents.
Years later, I saw the movie "Poltergeist" in the theater. There's a scene where the mom knows she pushed all the table chairs in, and a few minutes later, they're all out again. She pushes them all back in, exasperated, scolding her kids. She turns her back for a few seconds, and suddenly all the chairs are balanced atop the table in a pyramid. That never happened to us, thank heavens...but that scene in the movie always gives me the heebie jeebies, and reminds me of our haunted apartment.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Demon Creature: Another True Spooky Story
In honor of the First Day of Halloween (as far as I'm concerned, Halloween is a month-long holiday!) I'm posting one of my dad's stories. I was probably around 11 years old or so the first time he told it, and it raised the hairs up on the back of my neck. Dad swore that this tale is true...but you will of course have to judge for yourself.
Dad grew up in Madison, Indiana, a beautiful and historic little town on the Ohio River. Madison has a reputation of being haunted, of course. It has a rich history dating back to the Civil War and beyond. This story would have taken place in the mid-1940's, probably within a few years after WWII ended. Dad was about 9 years old.
They lived in an old shot-gun style house in the poor section of town. It was a tiny home, housing my dad and a whole bunch of brothers. Normally the house was full of people and noise but on this day, my dad had a chance for five minutes peace, while his brothers were out playing, and his mom and dad were working.
He decided to stay in his room and read a book, a real luxury for him. They couldn't really afford books, so it was a real treat to get his hands on one.
It was broad daylight, in the afternoon. He was sitting on his bed, reading, when he heard a thump in the hallway. He thought it was one of his brothers coming in the house, but after a moment or two of silence, he realized he was still alone. He continued reading.
He heard another thump, quite a bit louder. He looked over at the open bedroom door, and saw something that scared the hell out of him.
Standing right in the middle of the doorway was a creature. Not an animal, and not a human...it was about three feet tall, and had shiny, coal black skin that hung in folds on it's oddly misshapen body. It wore no clothing of any kind. It's face was inhuman, and it had frightening bright yellow eyes. It didn't do anything other stare at my dad, but gave off an unmistakable air of evil.
Terrified, my dad said he screamed, "GET OUT OF HERE!" at the creature. Instead of leaving, it grinned at him, and simply leaned against the doorjamb, as if it planned to stay awhile.
Dad grabbed the only thing he could lay his hands on, a mason jar full of water he was drinking, and hurled it at the thing. The jar struck the doorjamb right beside the creature, and *poof*, the thing vanished into thin air.
He said that was one of the most terrifying things that ever happened to him in his life, and to the day he died, he had no explanation for it. He knows he wasn't sleeping, because it was daylight, and he was wide awake reading...and also he managed to dump the water in the jar all over himself when he went to throw it at the creature.
That was the one and only time he saw it. He made sure to never be alone in the house again.
What was it? I don't know. Dad thought it was some kind of little demon or other-worldly monster.
All I do know, is that I hope to never see it myself...
Dad grew up in Madison, Indiana, a beautiful and historic little town on the Ohio River. Madison has a reputation of being haunted, of course. It has a rich history dating back to the Civil War and beyond. This story would have taken place in the mid-1940's, probably within a few years after WWII ended. Dad was about 9 years old.
They lived in an old shot-gun style house in the poor section of town. It was a tiny home, housing my dad and a whole bunch of brothers. Normally the house was full of people and noise but on this day, my dad had a chance for five minutes peace, while his brothers were out playing, and his mom and dad were working.
He decided to stay in his room and read a book, a real luxury for him. They couldn't really afford books, so it was a real treat to get his hands on one.
It was broad daylight, in the afternoon. He was sitting on his bed, reading, when he heard a thump in the hallway. He thought it was one of his brothers coming in the house, but after a moment or two of silence, he realized he was still alone. He continued reading.
He heard another thump, quite a bit louder. He looked over at the open bedroom door, and saw something that scared the hell out of him.
Standing right in the middle of the doorway was a creature. Not an animal, and not a human...it was about three feet tall, and had shiny, coal black skin that hung in folds on it's oddly misshapen body. It wore no clothing of any kind. It's face was inhuman, and it had frightening bright yellow eyes. It didn't do anything other stare at my dad, but gave off an unmistakable air of evil.
Terrified, my dad said he screamed, "GET OUT OF HERE!" at the creature. Instead of leaving, it grinned at him, and simply leaned against the doorjamb, as if it planned to stay awhile.
Dad grabbed the only thing he could lay his hands on, a mason jar full of water he was drinking, and hurled it at the thing. The jar struck the doorjamb right beside the creature, and *poof*, the thing vanished into thin air.
He said that was one of the most terrifying things that ever happened to him in his life, and to the day he died, he had no explanation for it. He knows he wasn't sleeping, because it was daylight, and he was wide awake reading...and also he managed to dump the water in the jar all over himself when he went to throw it at the creature.
That was the one and only time he saw it. He made sure to never be alone in the house again.
What was it? I don't know. Dad thought it was some kind of little demon or other-worldly monster.
All I do know, is that I hope to never see it myself...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)