During my high school years, I discovered that nerdy boys were so much better than the popular boys.
Why?
Because they would do anything that you asked. (And would even do it with a smile on their face.)
It was October 1988, I was 17 yrs old, and my boyfriend was around 19 years old. We'd been dating a few months now (FOR.EVER. in teenage years). We had just gone shopping for our Halloween costumes. I had decided that we were going as caveman and cave woman. (because, as all bad girls know, Halloween is just the perfect night to dress up slutty, and not be called a slut.) My boyfriend was going to wear baggy fur underwear, while I was going to be wearing a fur bikini. Since my fur bikini was absolutely so adorable, I was trying it on again, (for like, the tenth time.) in order to show my younger sister. We were joking around, being young and stupid, when we noticed the gardeners truck outside.
The truck was a basic pick up truck but it was upgraded with what can only be described as a metal cage on the back. The metal iron was fused directly to the bed of the truck. The equipment was locked in the cage in between jobs. The hand tools were hung in metal tubing along side the cage. All of these modification made it looked prehistoric and kindof creepy.
PERFECT.
While the workers started working on the back yard, we ran outside to the truck. I convinced my younger, unlicensed sister to get behind the wheel. Me and Thor climbed in the cage. He started pounding his chest, while I beat against the cage with a big plastic Fred Flintstone size club. We slowly drove up the street, my sister honking the horn the entire time.
Damn, it was fun.
Until we heard the chirp of the siren.
Oh, uh.
Apparently, one of the neighbors thought that there was a wild band of dirty hippies (<---her words....not mine) that were invading our neighborhood. Really.
The officer made us sit on the curb. (he had no regard for my cute fur bikini possibly getting ruined.) My poor boyfriend turned a unnatural and creepy shade of white. My sister, well, she just thought it was the funniest thing ever. The officer was all business, and didn't want to hear any of our excuses. He called our home, and just as he was relaying the message, a band of gardeners started running up the street towards us. (actually, this is probably the funniest part of the whole day.) They came over and the boss didn't want to press charges. (I think my mother promised him homemade tamales weekly, for the rest of his life.) The officer let us go, once my mom arrived (in her house dress and hair in curlers).
As we started the walk back home, the officer took us aside, and said, "okay, who's bright idea was it??" then he started laughing so hard, he turned red.
"I don't want to see any of you again," he added as he got in his paddywagon.
Unfortunately, he'll say this to me at least 6 more times in my lifetime.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
The Year of the Frog #378
Growing up, we had a beautiful fountain in our backyard. My father built it as a romantic gesture one summer when my mother mentioned how much she missed the public village fountains in her home town. The fountain soon became a barometer of my parents' relationship. When the relationship was good, the fountain was clean, the landscaping impeccable and the sound soothing. When it wasn't so rosy, the water was stagnant, the flowers were brown, and the mosquitoes were hungry.
When the fountain would stop running, it stayed like that for weeks, maybe even months. Until one parent or the other would go out there, and slowly start tending to the fountain. Eventually, the remaining partner would make it outside and help, and soon the fountain was good as new. Well, until the next rough patch.
One summer, I was about 13 years old. The fountain was completely grown over. The water was a mucky green, and very slimy. The fountain had not been in working order for many, many months. All of us kids usually stayed out of the way when it came to the fountain, except for that year. Somehow, we had tadpoles in the fountain. We would watch the tadpoles for hours, trying to catch them and force them into tadpole races. It was all fun and games.
Until, they became frogs.
Croaking frogs.
Loud croaking frogs.
LOUD croaking frogs.
The kind of loud croaking frogs that would keep me up at night.
All night.
I would stuff a pillow over my head to drown out the croaking of 900 baby frogs. In the morning, we would complain to our parents about the noise, but since they both grew up on farms at some point, our complaints fell on deaf ears.
Then our neighbors started to complain. My parents just easily ignored them, but being a teen, I was mortified.
MORTIFIED.
So was my sister. We were at the age were we could not be different!
We knew that we had to do something about it.
We snuck into my mother's laundry room, and "borrowed" a gallon of bleach.
The frogs stopped croaking that day.
In fact, they also stopped swimming. Well, they mostly just floated on their backs, but let's not be gruesome here. We did feel bad about it, mostly because we had done it without actually thinking the whole thing through. It was a shock to find 900 frog carcasses floating in my parents' fountain of love.
Everything was quiet for a while. Until weeks later, we heard the sound of 900 baby frogs in the fountain again. Again, we knew that we had to do something about it. One day, we got a 5 gallon bucket out of my dad's garage. (which wasn't easy, BTW. He locked his garage everyday to keep us kids out of his stuff.) We also "borrowed" some kid's wagon. Using a spaghetti stainer, (BTW, don't eat spaghetti at my mom's house. Ever.) we manage to get most of the baby frogs into the bucket. We then walked three miles to the nearest park that had a creek. Saying a quick prayer for the survivors of The Great Frog Massacre of '84, we released them into the wild. We walked three miles back home before our parents could discover what we had done.
I honestly forgot about the frogs, until the local paper started delivering some interesting news.
"Neighbors Complain about Frogs Croaking"
"Frogs Take Over Neighborhood Park"
"Biologist from the University to Study Increase of Local Frog Population"
"Local Wildlife Population Decreases as Frog Population Increases"
"Local Biologist Puzzled by Frog Explosion"
"National Wildlife Organization to Increase Predator Population in Hopes of Balancing Local Park"
Yeah.
Really.
For weeks, we would watch the local news for updates on the local frog problem. The dogcatcher is actually relieved of his dog catching duties and commanded to catch frogs instead!
Really.
Nether my sister or I say anything to anyone for the next 25 years. In fact, in my hometown, 1984 is still talked about as "The Year of the Frog Invasion."
FROG INVASION.
25 years later, they are still talking about it in the local barber shops.
When the fountain would stop running, it stayed like that for weeks, maybe even months. Until one parent or the other would go out there, and slowly start tending to the fountain. Eventually, the remaining partner would make it outside and help, and soon the fountain was good as new. Well, until the next rough patch.
One summer, I was about 13 years old. The fountain was completely grown over. The water was a mucky green, and very slimy. The fountain had not been in working order for many, many months. All of us kids usually stayed out of the way when it came to the fountain, except for that year. Somehow, we had tadpoles in the fountain. We would watch the tadpoles for hours, trying to catch them and force them into tadpole races. It was all fun and games.
Until, they became frogs.
Croaking frogs.
Loud croaking frogs.
LOUD croaking frogs.
The kind of loud croaking frogs that would keep me up at night.
All night.
I would stuff a pillow over my head to drown out the croaking of 900 baby frogs. In the morning, we would complain to our parents about the noise, but since they both grew up on farms at some point, our complaints fell on deaf ears.
Then our neighbors started to complain. My parents just easily ignored them, but being a teen, I was mortified.
MORTIFIED.
So was my sister. We were at the age were we could not be different!
We knew that we had to do something about it.
We snuck into my mother's laundry room, and "borrowed" a gallon of bleach.
The frogs stopped croaking that day.
In fact, they also stopped swimming. Well, they mostly just floated on their backs, but let's not be gruesome here. We did feel bad about it, mostly because we had done it without actually thinking the whole thing through. It was a shock to find 900 frog carcasses floating in my parents' fountain of love.
Everything was quiet for a while. Until weeks later, we heard the sound of 900 baby frogs in the fountain again. Again, we knew that we had to do something about it. One day, we got a 5 gallon bucket out of my dad's garage. (which wasn't easy, BTW. He locked his garage everyday to keep us kids out of his stuff.) We also "borrowed" some kid's wagon. Using a spaghetti stainer, (BTW, don't eat spaghetti at my mom's house. Ever.) we manage to get most of the baby frogs into the bucket. We then walked three miles to the nearest park that had a creek. Saying a quick prayer for the survivors of The Great Frog Massacre of '84, we released them into the wild. We walked three miles back home before our parents could discover what we had done.
I honestly forgot about the frogs, until the local paper started delivering some interesting news.
"Neighbors Complain about Frogs Croaking"
"Frogs Take Over Neighborhood Park"
"Biologist from the University to Study Increase of Local Frog Population"
"Local Wildlife Population Decreases as Frog Population Increases"
"Local Biologist Puzzled by Frog Explosion"
"National Wildlife Organization to Increase Predator Population in Hopes of Balancing Local Park"
Yeah.
Really.
For weeks, we would watch the local news for updates on the local frog problem. The dogcatcher is actually relieved of his dog catching duties and commanded to catch frogs instead!
Really.
Nether my sister or I say anything to anyone for the next 25 years. In fact, in my hometown, 1984 is still talked about as "The Year of the Frog Invasion."
FROG INVASION.
25 years later, they are still talking about it in the local barber shops.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Reason #765 SuperBowl, SnuperBowl
It was 2000, and Mr. Hummingbird and I were newlyweds. We had this great place to live, that we absolutely loved. It was an old bank that was converted into loft apartments. It offered very little privacy, but we had an insane amount of space. And because of this space, I thought it was high time to throw our first real grown up party. We invited everyone over to watch the Super Bowl game. (ahem......Rams vs. Titans) At last count, we had 20 couples attending.
I worked like a dog getting ready for that day.
A DOG.
The place was decorated beautifully, and spotless. I was up all night, cooking up a storm. I had a heartburn buffet in the making. By the start of the game, I was exhausted.
As people came in, the vibe quickly changed. Since most of the people who showed up were male and mostly Mr. Hummingbird's friends. (most of his college friends) I ended up only having two females to talk to, (both of them being my sisters) so I was a little bummed. But, I still felt like I had to be a good hostess, so I was going around filling drinks, fetching plates, and just basically being everyone's lacquey. I was not happy.
When I finally had a chance to sit down, all I heard were grumblings.
"Your TV is kindof small"
"You ran out of burgers already?"
"Don't you have any good tasting beers?"
"These chairs are uncomfortable"
I was getting irritated. Whiny ungrateful bitches. I expected Mr. Hummingbird to say something. I expected Mr. Hummingbird to help me in some way, instead of just sitting on the couch with his buddies. I looked to him.
"Yeah, these beers suck, huh?"
I looked at him. I couldn't believe him. After all the work I put into doing this? For his ungrateful friends?? I had no words.
(Luckily, my sister did.)
@#%&*&^##
Then, they followed me up to the loft bedroom. We all sat on the bed, bitching about how inconsiderate men become when they are around their own pack. We had flipped on the TV upstairs, and were following along with the game. At one point, one sister said, "Hey, why the hell are we watching this? What else is on?" and she flipped the channel. Just as she does this, from below, we hear "awwww......!"
She flipped it back.
We look at each other.
She flipped it again.
"DAMN!"
She flipped it back.
"YAY!"
We look at each other. I start to go down the stairs, and she starts to flip the channel again. I catch all the action on the downstairs TV. Just in a critical part of the play, the TV gets snowy.
"AWWWW"
Then it clears up again.
"YAY!"
I smile.
I go back upstairs, and tell them what I saw. We figured that somehow, when the two TVs are on the same channel, the picture is clear. Once something changes, it gets snowy. (This is back in the day when the only choice we had was cable. Not lucky enough for satellite TV)
We watched the entire rest of the game this way. Giggling each time we heard everyone get pissed off. And of course, we picked the most crucial times to switch the channel. I really thought some of the guys were going to have an aneurysm.
But somehow, this made me feel even better.
I worked like a dog getting ready for that day.
A DOG.
The place was decorated beautifully, and spotless. I was up all night, cooking up a storm. I had a heartburn buffet in the making. By the start of the game, I was exhausted.
As people came in, the vibe quickly changed. Since most of the people who showed up were male and mostly Mr. Hummingbird's friends. (most of his college friends) I ended up only having two females to talk to, (both of them being my sisters) so I was a little bummed. But, I still felt like I had to be a good hostess, so I was going around filling drinks, fetching plates, and just basically being everyone's lacquey. I was not happy.
When I finally had a chance to sit down, all I heard were grumblings.
"Your TV is kindof small"
"You ran out of burgers already?"
"Don't you have any good tasting beers?"
"These chairs are uncomfortable"
I was getting irritated. Whiny ungrateful bitches. I expected Mr. Hummingbird to say something. I expected Mr. Hummingbird to help me in some way, instead of just sitting on the couch with his buddies. I looked to him.
"Yeah, these beers suck, huh?"
I looked at him. I couldn't believe him. After all the work I put into doing this? For his ungrateful friends?? I had no words.
(Luckily, my sister did.)
@#%&*&^##
Then, they followed me up to the loft bedroom. We all sat on the bed, bitching about how inconsiderate men become when they are around their own pack. We had flipped on the TV upstairs, and were following along with the game. At one point, one sister said, "Hey, why the hell are we watching this? What else is on?" and she flipped the channel. Just as she does this, from below, we hear "awwww......!"
She flipped it back.
We look at each other.
She flipped it again.
"DAMN!"
She flipped it back.
"YAY!"
We look at each other. I start to go down the stairs, and she starts to flip the channel again. I catch all the action on the downstairs TV. Just in a critical part of the play, the TV gets snowy.
"AWWWW"
Then it clears up again.
"YAY!"
I smile.
I go back upstairs, and tell them what I saw. We figured that somehow, when the two TVs are on the same channel, the picture is clear. Once something changes, it gets snowy. (This is back in the day when the only choice we had was cable. Not lucky enough for satellite TV)
We watched the entire rest of the game this way. Giggling each time we heard everyone get pissed off. And of course, we picked the most crucial times to switch the channel. I really thought some of the guys were going to have an aneurysm.
But somehow, this made me feel even better.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Reason #2,341: Insert Foot and Lose an Eye
I have this good friend, her name is Amber. She's actually the wife of my husband's old college friend. I've known her about 12 years now. We get together whenever we can, but as life gets more complicated, we see less of each other. The one thing that we do annually though, is take a vacation together.
One year, we decide to rent a house out in Palm Springs Ca. The plan is golf, sun, and booze. (Obviously, this was before anyone of us had kids.) One night, the house is full with just a bunch of random people. We are all out in the backyard, enjoying the spa. I'm playing host that night, so I'm running back and forth making sure that everyone has everything that they need.
It wasn't all work though. I was enjoying a cocktail here and there. (BTW, if anyone ever offers you some Goldschlager....you run. Run far and run fast. Don't let the pretty flakes hypnotise you. I've renamed this liquor "The Devil's Piss".) So, I'm having a good time.
In the kitchen, Amber asks me if I need any help. I ask her to refill the chip bowls. She fumbles around on the counter, lifting up empty bags and bowls.
"I can't find the chips."
Me, being the smartass that I am say, "the bag is on the counter"
"No.....I can't find it."
"It's right there." pointing to the bag.
"Oh, I didn't see that bag."
"Well, next time, use your good eye."
Silence.
Awkward silence.
Wait for it.
Yes, my friend Amber has a glass eye.
Seriously.
I squeak out an apology, only after she mumbles something to me about being "mean".
P.S. In my defense, I'd like to say that in all the years that we have been friends, I really never think about her glass eye. In fact, I hardly even notice it unless someone points it out. I focus more on her as a friend, than a friend with a glass eye.
One year, we decide to rent a house out in Palm Springs Ca. The plan is golf, sun, and booze. (Obviously, this was before anyone of us had kids.) One night, the house is full with just a bunch of random people. We are all out in the backyard, enjoying the spa. I'm playing host that night, so I'm running back and forth making sure that everyone has everything that they need.
It wasn't all work though. I was enjoying a cocktail here and there. (BTW, if anyone ever offers you some Goldschlager....you run. Run far and run fast. Don't let the pretty flakes hypnotise you. I've renamed this liquor "The Devil's Piss".) So, I'm having a good time.
In the kitchen, Amber asks me if I need any help. I ask her to refill the chip bowls. She fumbles around on the counter, lifting up empty bags and bowls.
"I can't find the chips."
Me, being the smartass that I am say, "the bag is on the counter"
"No.....I can't find it."
"It's right there." pointing to the bag.
"Oh, I didn't see that bag."
"Well, next time, use your good eye."
Silence.
Awkward silence.
Wait for it.
Yes, my friend Amber has a glass eye.
Seriously.
I squeak out an apology, only after she mumbles something to me about being "mean".
P.S. In my defense, I'd like to say that in all the years that we have been friends, I really never think about her glass eye. In fact, I hardly even notice it unless someone points it out. I focus more on her as a friend, than a friend with a glass eye.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Reason #478: GTA
When I was around 16, I had this boyfriend. Actually, now that I think about it, he was my "first". He went to my school, but he was older than me. He was in a band, drove a van, and even wore eyeliner. (So believe me, that was THE big deal in the early '80s) My parents absolutely hated him, and his parents absolutely hated me. We were Sid and Nancy. (look it up, lazy bitches)
It was true love.
Being young and in love, we spent every possible moment together. Anyone who tried to keep us apart, was The Enemy. The relationship was very very toxic.
One summer, my boyfriend's parents were taking an adult vacation. This was the first time that they were leaving town without their kids. It was going to be hella' fun.
Of course, they made some "rules" that we all had to follow. I was not allowed to come over the entire time they were gone. My boyfriend "Sid" was also not allowed to drive the family car. (AKA van....AKA bedroom on wheels.....AKA The Virgin Taker) He promised that we would follow these rules.
That lasted approximately 16 hours.
We were some turning on the mix tapes (Yes, tapes. I'm serious.) and humping like bunnies all over the house. (thinking back now......ewwww!) After an afternoon of marathon sex, I tell him that I want to go out for ice cream. (Seriously dude, at this point I deserved it. *wink* *wink*) He hesitates, and tells me that he cannot drive anywhere.
Whatever. Get the keys, you sissy.
He proceeds to tell me that his dad wrote down the mileage of the van on the family calendar. I check out the calendar, and there it was.
115, 132
I smile, and say, "Is that a one or a seven?"
He looks again, and smiles. We go out to the van.
He starts to open the driver's door, and I stop him.
"Are you crazy or just stupid?"
He just stares at me.
"Your dad wrote down the mileage. He probably marked the position of the tires. Don't be an idiot."
He stares some more. (Just a little warning here, he was HOT, but pretty stupid.)
"You can't just move the car without marking the specific spot of where he parked it. You're dad isn't an idiot."
I go into the house, and return with chalk. I chalk the tires with a line, also marking the ground. When the two lines match, the car will be in the exact position where dad left it.
He stands back, still staring. He starts to open the door again.
"WAIT! He probably put markers in the car too."
"Markers??"
I get down on my knees and crawl into the van from the back. He follows. We grab a flashlight and start looking for the booby traps. (Thank you Nancy Drew books!!)
"What are we looking for?"
"Hairs. He can tape a hair across the wheel or something, to prove that you messed with it. If it's gone or broken, he will know."
We scour every inch of the interior with a flashlight. We find nothing.
"Okay, I think we are ready!"
We head out for ice cream. Later that night, we go to the drive in. (Pee Wee's Big Adventure) We didn't see any of the movie.
We get crazy all week long.
It was hella' fun.
A few days before his parents were due home, I ask him about the car. He tells me that it's in the garage, and it took him 45 mins to park it EXACTLY where his dad left it. (Thank you chalk marks!)
"So, how many miles did you put on it?"
"about 120 miles"
*Stunned silence*
*Still more stunned silence*
Finally, I find my voice.
"So.....um, how are you going to explain that." (Okay, I'm totally thinking that he totally going to pull off a Ferris Bueller and want to run the car in reverse.)
"I was just going to leave it like that. I figured that I could convince my dad that he wrote the numbers down wrong."
*More stunned silence*
"Are you kidding me? Why would he think that he made a mistake and wrote down 115,132 instead of 115, 252?? That makes no sense at all!!"
"Ummmm....I guess you're right. I'm so screwed." (Again, not the sharpest crayon in the box)
I think.
And think.
And think.
"you have to convince him that his 1 is actually a 7"
"What?"
"See how he wrote his 1? Sloppy. It could pass for a 7"
"ahhhhh.....I see. So how do I fix it?"
"DUDE! You have to add a total of 600 miles. You already added 120 miles, so you have to add EXACTLY 480 miles more by the time he gets home."
Silence.
Silence.
"How much gas money do you have?" he asks me.
The next day, is the day his parents are due. He skips the entire day of school, in order to add 300 more miles on the van. I go to school, but will get an update from him at break and lunchtime. His plan mainly consist of driving on the freeway for so many miles, then turn around and go towards home. He does this for 6 hours. He has to be EXACT so the last few miles, he does by driving around his neighborhood. Finally, a few hours before his parents are due, he tries to park the van in the exact same spot that his dad left it. It takes him an hour and a half. He finally get the miles to the perfect spot (adding EXACTLY 600 miles) and the chalk lines match. He dusts off the exterior, and hoses off the chalk marks. Then he heads to bed. His parents arrive later that night.
The next day at school, I ask him about his night. He tells me that his dad woke up early that day. He went straight to the family calendar, and wrote down the number he had written 10 days prior. He heads to the garage, and checks the odometer. He checks his paper again. He checks the odometer again. He goes back to the calendar. He shakes his head. He asks Sid, "Did you drive the car this week?"
"No, sir." says Sid.
His dad continues to look at the numbers. I think he is trying to convince himself that:
a: he wrote the numbers down wrong.
b. it's a 7, and not a 1.
c: there is no way his son just put 600 miles on his car.
His dad never says anything.
Ever.
Sid on the other hand, starts calling me the Evil Genius. I simply tell him that "If I used my powers for good, how boring will my life be?"
It was true love.
Being young and in love, we spent every possible moment together. Anyone who tried to keep us apart, was The Enemy. The relationship was very very toxic.
One summer, my boyfriend's parents were taking an adult vacation. This was the first time that they were leaving town without their kids. It was going to be hella' fun.
Of course, they made some "rules" that we all had to follow. I was not allowed to come over the entire time they were gone. My boyfriend "Sid" was also not allowed to drive the family car. (AKA van....AKA bedroom on wheels.....AKA The Virgin Taker) He promised that we would follow these rules.
That lasted approximately 16 hours.
We were some turning on the mix tapes (Yes, tapes. I'm serious.) and humping like bunnies all over the house. (thinking back now......ewwww!) After an afternoon of marathon sex, I tell him that I want to go out for ice cream. (Seriously dude, at this point I deserved it. *wink* *wink*) He hesitates, and tells me that he cannot drive anywhere.
Whatever. Get the keys, you sissy.
He proceeds to tell me that his dad wrote down the mileage of the van on the family calendar. I check out the calendar, and there it was.
115, 132
I smile, and say, "Is that a one or a seven?"
He looks again, and smiles. We go out to the van.
He starts to open the driver's door, and I stop him.
"Are you crazy or just stupid?"
He just stares at me.
"Your dad wrote down the mileage. He probably marked the position of the tires. Don't be an idiot."
He stares some more. (Just a little warning here, he was HOT, but pretty stupid.)
"You can't just move the car without marking the specific spot of where he parked it. You're dad isn't an idiot."
I go into the house, and return with chalk. I chalk the tires with a line, also marking the ground. When the two lines match, the car will be in the exact position where dad left it.
He stands back, still staring. He starts to open the door again.
"WAIT! He probably put markers in the car too."
"Markers??"
I get down on my knees and crawl into the van from the back. He follows. We grab a flashlight and start looking for the booby traps. (Thank you Nancy Drew books!!)
"What are we looking for?"
"Hairs. He can tape a hair across the wheel or something, to prove that you messed with it. If it's gone or broken, he will know."
We scour every inch of the interior with a flashlight. We find nothing.
"Okay, I think we are ready!"
We head out for ice cream. Later that night, we go to the drive in. (Pee Wee's Big Adventure) We didn't see any of the movie.
We get crazy all week long.
It was hella' fun.
A few days before his parents were due home, I ask him about the car. He tells me that it's in the garage, and it took him 45 mins to park it EXACTLY where his dad left it. (Thank you chalk marks!)
"So, how many miles did you put on it?"
"about 120 miles"
*Stunned silence*
*Still more stunned silence*
Finally, I find my voice.
"So.....um, how are you going to explain that." (Okay, I'm totally thinking that he totally going to pull off a Ferris Bueller and want to run the car in reverse.)
"I was just going to leave it like that. I figured that I could convince my dad that he wrote the numbers down wrong."
*More stunned silence*
"Are you kidding me? Why would he think that he made a mistake and wrote down 115,132 instead of 115, 252?? That makes no sense at all!!"
"Ummmm....I guess you're right. I'm so screwed." (Again, not the sharpest crayon in the box)
I think.
And think.
And think.
"you have to convince him that his 1 is actually a 7"
"What?"
"See how he wrote his 1? Sloppy. It could pass for a 7"
"ahhhhh.....I see. So how do I fix it?"
"DUDE! You have to add a total of 600 miles. You already added 120 miles, so you have to add EXACTLY 480 miles more by the time he gets home."
Silence.
Silence.
"How much gas money do you have?" he asks me.
The next day, is the day his parents are due. He skips the entire day of school, in order to add 300 more miles on the van. I go to school, but will get an update from him at break and lunchtime. His plan mainly consist of driving on the freeway for so many miles, then turn around and go towards home. He does this for 6 hours. He has to be EXACT so the last few miles, he does by driving around his neighborhood. Finally, a few hours before his parents are due, he tries to park the van in the exact same spot that his dad left it. It takes him an hour and a half. He finally get the miles to the perfect spot (adding EXACTLY 600 miles) and the chalk lines match. He dusts off the exterior, and hoses off the chalk marks. Then he heads to bed. His parents arrive later that night.
The next day at school, I ask him about his night. He tells me that his dad woke up early that day. He went straight to the family calendar, and wrote down the number he had written 10 days prior. He heads to the garage, and checks the odometer. He checks his paper again. He checks the odometer again. He goes back to the calendar. He shakes his head. He asks Sid, "Did you drive the car this week?"
"No, sir." says Sid.
His dad continues to look at the numbers. I think he is trying to convince himself that:
a: he wrote the numbers down wrong.
b. it's a 7, and not a 1.
c: there is no way his son just put 600 miles on his car.
His dad never says anything.
Ever.
Sid on the other hand, starts calling me the Evil Genius. I simply tell him that "If I used my powers for good, how boring will my life be?"
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Our New Cat
Once, when we were about 9 years old, my sister brought home a stray cat. It was all black, with one white spot on it's forehead. (And one crazy eye that would wander.) We immediately fell in love with the mangy thing. My mother, on the other hand, was not too happy. She tried to convince us that it was a skunk and would spray us all, at the first sign of trouble. (I actually caught her trying to draw a chalk line down the cat's back. To further enforce the notion that we actually did caught a skunk and not a cat. We did not fall for this.) Eventually, she gave up, and we had a new cat. The only rule that she imposed was that we were to feed, care, bath the cat ourselves. We agreed.
That lasted about a week.
She soon became the sole caretaker of the cat. She acted like she despised the cat, but as time went on, she became attached.
The best part of all?
We named the cat Mo-Fo. And, because my mother spoke mostly Spanish, she just thought it was a cute name made up by her adorable children.
I have vivid memories of my mother, in her tattered house dress, opening the back door every evening. She would slam the creaky screen door a few times, hoping the cat would recognize the sound as the dinner bell. After a few minutes she would start calling out for our cat.
Screaming "MO-FO!"
"MOO-FOOOOOO!"
"MOOOOO-FOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Until the damn cat would come home for it's dinner. It still makes me giggle.
Yeah. We were bad kids.
That lasted about a week.
She soon became the sole caretaker of the cat. She acted like she despised the cat, but as time went on, she became attached.
The best part of all?
We named the cat Mo-Fo. And, because my mother spoke mostly Spanish, she just thought it was a cute name made up by her adorable children.
I have vivid memories of my mother, in her tattered house dress, opening the back door every evening. She would slam the creaky screen door a few times, hoping the cat would recognize the sound as the dinner bell. After a few minutes she would start calling out for our cat.
Screaming "MO-FO!"
"MOO-FOOOOOO!"
"MOOOOO-FOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Until the damn cat would come home for it's dinner. It still makes me giggle.
Yeah. We were bad kids.
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