Daytime dramas, yes soap operas, are addictive but not because the plotlines are unimaginably complicated and absurd. They are. Where else could one be a first-hand observer of Abe Carter, the mayor of Salem (somewhere in the Midwest) suffering from severe amnesia for months. How long would Nurse Whitley hold him hostage, pretending to be his wife? Intrigue surrounds Victor Kiriokis, missing somewhere in the Greek Isles before his body is discovered by air traffic controllers following a plane crash, leaving his wife, Maggie, to be seduced by his best friend, Konstantin Meleounis. But . . . proving to be no friend of Victor’s, Konstantin’s only motive is to gain control of Maggie’s massive fortune. Not only does the DuPree family learn that the beloved matriarch, Anita, has cancer, but they also discover that her daughter, Dani, and granddaughter, Naomi, both inherited the Bracha gene. Their chances of developing cancer have just risen exponentially and they both need the emotional support of the family to help them cope. However, Naomi has to keep her test results private, even from her husband, Jacob Hawthorne. Of course Naomi must stay quiet. Jacob, a police detective, has undertaken an undercover mission on a very dangerous case. No distractions, even a serious medical situation involving his wife, can impede his work! After all, he must prove himself to his hyper-critical police chief father in whose eyes Jacob is still a child and can do nothing right. Erica Cane, Audra Charles, Sally Specter, Adam Newman, Kyle Abbot, John Black, EJ DiMera and numerous others have navigated their own tragedies for decades in long-running daytime television dramas. They’ve endured kidnappings, imprisonments, betrayals, corporate espionage and sabotage, tawdry trysts and rendezvous and babies switched at birth but that’s all in a day’s work. What is noticeable only to the most well-trained eye is hidden in the details. All of these characters, despite their stations in Life, and no matter how dire the situation, are always dressed to the nines. It’s also perpetually ‘five o’clock somewhere’ on the set since cocktails flow freely and easily in nearly every scene. Storylines aside, loyal viewers are intoxicated by the fashion and the folly.
Nicole Richardson, a newly divorced and highly respected psychiatrist in the community of Fairmont Crest, sheds her conservative persona and unleashes her alter-ego on all of the eligible or ineligible men (marital status is of no consequence in these shows) at Uptown, the local hot spot. In she struts, Sex in a skin-tight, barely-there, flesh-colored, sequin-adorned, Bardot dress, bright crimson three-inch Jimmy Choos, rhinestone chandelier earrings, llama-length eyelash extensions and ruby red come-hither lipstick and slinks onto a barstool . . . a dirty martini in one hand and a sultry smile not-so-subtly inviting attention . . . and finishes her grand entrance. Questions beg to be asked: what if one of her patients were to see her? Or better yet: does she even have patients? She’s seldom in her office, and when she IS there, she’s sharing cognac (and other things) with Dr. Carlton Fitzgerald! And: Carlton never has patients either? Is he really a doctor?
“Sheesh!” thinks the viewer, “Nicole is playing with fire! Of course she’s still in love with Ted (her ex-husband whom she divorced upon discovering he had a secret love-child with a deranged mistress twenty years ago) and she’s got Dr. Carlton Fitzgerald on the line! What is she doing tramping around Uptown? But more importantly, where did she get that dress? I have to have it!”
The viewer picks up her phone and types in “worn by Nicole Richardson, Beyond the Gates, January 30” into the search bar. Exact Match appears on the screen beneath a photo of sexy, not-so-sweet Nicole. One simple point-click-add-to-cart-proceed-to-checkout later assures that the outfit will be hers within the next seven to ten business days! Yes, it’s THAT simple! Forget the dirty martini. The viewer can make her own . . . OR wait for the postal delivery and role play as Nicole at her own local nightclub!
One half hour later, on a different serial matinee, Audra Charles, jobless and penniless for months, bent on enacting revenge on the entire Newman empire, meets her bestie, Sally Spector, at Society for breakfast. Given the fact that Audra is unemployed, is unable to pay rent at the Genoa City Athletic Club where she temporarily resides, buy gas for her car or food for her table, arrives at the restaurant clad in a gorgeous light blue, bell-sleeved, asymmetrical sweater paired with Navy blue wool, boot cut slacks and blue suede ankle boots. Notwithstanding the problem du jour (hacking into the Newman Enterprises computer system and planting a bug that will destroy all of the files and keeping her criminal past in L.A. a secret from . . . , well, from everyone in Genoa City), the viewer is caught off guard by Audra’s clothes . . . and her mimosa . . . and the improbability of it all.
“That is the most beautiful sweater! I wonder how it would look on me? And Elvis has NOTHING on those fabulous blue suede shoes!”
Audra and Sally continue scheming about the Newmans’ demise, toasting their plan with refills on their mimosas.
“O.K.,” the viewer continues to dream, “that sweater is a must-have!
Another session of point-and-click later and the sweater is on its way.
Meanwhile, back at the Abbot mansion, Jack, Kyle and Diane share cocktails and conversation about their OWN plan to bring the Newmans down . . . And it’s not even noon! Why are they drinking so early in the day? Are ALL problems solved over cocktails?
Not to be out-schemed by the Abbots, across town at the Newman estate, Victor, Nikki, Adam, Chelsea and Victoria strategize against the Abbotts and Audra, each with their own glasses filled with something spirited! (Foreshadowing of more problems being solved!) Of course, Nikki, Chelsea and Victoria flaunt creations straight from Paris Fashion Week, but as gorgeous and enviable as they all are, the viewer will have to wait to order anything more . . . At least until the first two packages have arrived . . . (unless she ponders the situation over cocktails with a friend?)
So, As the World Turns in these complicated Days of Our Lives Beyond the Gates, tragedies and spectacles continue with All My Children, all of them Bold and Beautiful, sometimes checking into General Hospital, but what always drives the viewership is its fascination with fashion and folly.
Thinking back about the Christmas holidays, one day stands out in particular and what a day it was! After I walked the dog and completed my pilates class, I set out to the UPS Store to return a set of golf clubs I’d ordered by mistake. Of course there was a line out the door; and of course SOME people were testy . . . especially one lady . . . most likely in her early to mid-thirties. She was surly, impatient, intolerant and VERY demanding.
“I’m NEXT!” she barked to an unsuspecting milktoast man who handed his return to the clerk, needing NOTHING other than to drop off his fully-packaged and labeled box.
“He’s just making a drop-off,” explained the harried worker. Her demeanor defied her outfit. Her festive ensemble screamed the opposite: a green, white and red herringbone miniskirt with glittered threads woven throughout, cute Calvin Klein black ankle booties, white laced anklet socks peeking out, a crisp long sleeved button down blouse and an ELF HAT! Talk about a contradiction . . She was Irony personified! I’d sure hate to be at whatever Christmas party she was headed to!
My return fully processed and receipt in my hand, I decided to stop in at CVS to get a flu shot. While standing in line at the vaccine check-in, I made an appointment on the CVS app for myself at 11:15 a.m., and just like clock-work, my turn at the desk happened at precisely 11:15 a.m. I was instructed to go wait in Aisle 24 until my name was called. A few minutes later, “Mary West” was invited to sit in the vaccine chair.
“Hey!” I said to the pharmacist, “where’s the privacy screen? I’m going to have to take my blouse halfway off and I’d rather not do it in front of the entire store!”
“Oh THAT,” the pharmacist sheepishly began, “a homeless guy snuck in here and used the privacy area as a make-shift apartment bathroom and there was a lot of biohazardous material left behind so Corporate instructed us to remove the privacy screen.” (As if that was o.k. and par for the course!)
“WHAT?” I gasped, “You’ve GOT to be kidding me! A HOMELESS guy violates your store and Corporate accommodates it . . . making it so law-abiding, rational, sober, tax-paying CUSTOMERS have to disrobe in front of God and everybody just to maintain their health? I’ll tell you what . . . I HATE coming into this store! It’s a rat hole! The Gold Line metro station is RIGHT OUTSIDE YOUR FRONT DOOR and there are ALWAYS vagrants and addicts lurking around! Beef up your security and KEEP YOUR PATRONS SAFE! What a joke!”
The pharmacist agreed but said HE couldn’t do anything about it and that “Corporate” made all the decisions. So . . . anger getting the best of me, I yanked my blouse ENTIRELY off over my head and told the pharmacist to select which arm he wanted to prick.
“Watch,” I said, “I’ll probably be arrested for indecent exposure! And, by the way, if I AM, you can bet that Corporate will be paying my legal bills!”
After that total humiliation, I stopped in at PetCo to Christmas shop for all the dogs in the family. There was a couple roaming the aisles with their two Jack Russell mixes. Honestly, those dogs looked (and acted) like junkyard dogs . . . Aggressive, ill-behaved and ready to tear open and shred anything they encountered, including me! Oh . . . And the owners . . . Straight out of the bar scene in Star Wars! The guy was rough. . . Tatted to the max . . . A box of cigarettes rolled into the sleeve of his too-tight T-shirt, short, slicked-back hair (kind of like The Fonz only DIRTY). His girlfriend’s yoga pants must have been painted on and the sports bra she wore HAD to belong to her MUCH younger sister (or former cell mate at the women’s prison!) There was NOTHING left to the imagination. NOTHING. Scary Guy initiated a conversation with me (who was looking for non-squeaking toys for my very civilized, clean, groomed, powdered and pampered, NON-junkyard dogs).
“Hey, Lady,” he started, sounding VERY much like an uneducated Rocky Balboa, “if you lookin’ for some bitchin’ toys, these here puzzles gonna be it! Look (he said as the male junk terrier destroyed a box on the lowest shelf) . . . this little shit LOVES ‘em!”
“Ya,” I replied with the full intention of keeping the conversation short, “I can see that!” I grabbed an unchewed puzzle box from the shelf so Scary Guy would think I took his advice, but I restocked it on the shelf as soon as he and the girlfriend headed for the cashier. After I’d made my selections, I made a bee line straight home. I’d had enough “close encounters” for the day.
Macanudo came to us a little over a year ago as a birthday gift for my husband. I worried and fretted for weeks about how this surprise gift would be received because we had decided to remain petless for awhile when our Rusty, our Springer Spaniel, passed on to the great doggie park in the sky. Ultimately, however, Mac has been a wonderful addition, so much so, that he has become Carl’s raison d’etre.
Carl is VERY particular about EVERYTHING Mac. His feeding station, his food, his toys (can’t be squeakers), his need for a dog bed in every room in the house, his treats, his collar and his leash. ALLLLLL have to meet certain standards. Up until a few days ago, we’ve been using Rusty’s 100% leather leash. It should be noted that it is a twenty-year-old leash. It should also be noted that we have OTHER leashes, more stylish . . . Even a seasonal designer Vineyard Vines Christmas leash that has NEVER made it out of the junk drawer. Upon returning from the routine late night walk, Carl announced that Mac should have a new leash of his very own.
“Oh! I can stop by PetCo on my way home tomorrow if you’d like,” I offered in an attept to be helpful.
“NO!” he retorted, “I don’t want a leash from a pet store!”
“Um,” I began cautiously, “where would one expect to FIND a suitable leash if not at a pet store?”
“A tack shop!” he exclaimed as if he’d just discovered plutonium.
“What?!” I exclaimed, “Mac is NOT a horse. He’s a DOG!”
“I know, but he NEEDS something nice . . . And sturdy!”
The next afternoon Carl and I took Mac out to exercise in the front yard. Mac playfully ran between Carl and me, chasing his red rubber stick until he had exhausted himself. As we sat and let Mac rest for awhile, he started barking at seemingly nothing.
“What’s all that about?” I asked him, following his gaze toward “the offender.” Well . . . some potted rose trees on the neighbors’ front porch were swaying in the breeze . . . Like dancing lollipops. Mac thought they were alive, thus all the protective barking and growling, growling and barking.
. . . And THIS, I thought, is what needs a special leash from a tack shop!!!
As it happened, Carl hit a dead end with the tack shop. It went out of business years ago, so Carl had to employ Plan B in his quest for a leather leash. He battled every instinct he had and found himself perusing the aisles at PetCo. As predicted, no leather leashes could be found among the merchandise. There was everything else, though: Nylon leashes, heavy duty chain leashes, retractable leashes, embroidered leashes, training leashes, leashes with muzzles, padded leashes, slip leashes, reflective leashes, waterproof leashes. . . Everything but leather leashes. After quite some time, Carl finally selected a sturdy, black, round rope leash with a looped handle reinforced with rubber.
Once home and still not satisfied with the type and quality of his purchase, Carl disappeared into his office to shop on line for the elusive special 100% leather leash for his special dog. He simply HAD to find a LEATHER leash. After what seemed like forever, he pointed, clicked, added to cart and proceeded to checkout and emerged from his man cave with a satisfied smug on his face.
“Mac WILL have his leather leash in three to five business days! It is hand-crafted leather, made by the Pennsylvania Dutch artisans in Amish country!” he announced, full of self-satisfaction. (The fact that the Amish refuse all modern conveniences, the irony of them having a website upon which to sell their wares was not lost on me, but I remained quiet. I was just happy that a suitable leash had been ordered . . . Amish or not!)
The leather leash crafted by the Amish has indeed arrived, but alas! It has been deemed inferior, both in quality and expectations. It has fallen w-a-y short of Carl’s standards for something “special” for his special dog! The Amish leash, come to learn, is too narrow, too thin and too short! (Perhaps he could donate it to someone with a Chihuahua . . . or a cat even!) This leash is SO inferior that it has been relegated to the junk drawer along with the perfectly suitable Vineyard Vines leash . . . A fate worse than death for a leash!
While Carl continues the search for the perfect 100% leather leash with the correct dimensions and thickness, he has resorted to using the rope leash from PetCo. This black leash is about 3/4” round, the looped handle is reinforced with rubber lining, and it measures approximately 9’ in length. Carl and Mac just returned from their morning walk.
“How was the leash?” I asked. “It was o.k.,” Carl began, “but it’s got a little give to it!” “Give? What do mean ‘give’?” “Well . . . It’s got a little elastic in it or something. It stretches!” He explained. “You mean like a bungee cord?” I exclaimed, “You mean to tell me if Mac sees a squirrel or something else ‘chase-worthy,’ he can bolt and the leash will stretch?” “Ya, sort of,” Carl replied, hating to admit the truth. “So . . . Let me get this right . . . . You and Mac are out walking, you light up a pipe while at the same time Mac bolts off toward a squirrel . . . He reaches the end of the elastic ‘give’ and snaps back toward you with full force knocking you flat on your butt?” “It’s not THAT bad,” he said, “but . . .there IS some give!”
And so . . . The quest continues for the special leash for the special dog!
Although meditation has been practiced for thousands of years as a means of connecting to the the spirit world, people today use it as a means of relaxation and stress reduction. I have never been one to meditate. Quite the contrary. My go-to method of stress reduction has always been physical exercise . . . aerobics, modern dance, group step or barre classes and, back in the day, Jazzercise. Life certainly can deal out tremendous pressure and without some sort of release valve, we run the risk of both mental and physical unwellness. Recently, Life walloped me with an unwelcome, uninvited and very difficult situation. For months, I delved into my default coping mode and exercised, walked, toned, lifted light weights and jazz-danced every single day with little or no improvement in my level of stress and distress. My good friend, concerned about me, invited me over for a heart-to-heart talk and encouraged me to try a short session in meditating. She even streamed a sample study for us to try together. Following the instructions from the leader, I quieted myself, closed my eyes, rested my hands atop my knees, palms up, inhaled and exhaled a few times, focussing on my ribs expanding and contracting to her slow, hypnotic voice, “Inhale . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . four. Notice your breath as it fills the space in your body. Exhale . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . four. Visualize the gust of air that escapes through your lungs.” The soft music of a sitar in the background calmed the tone of her soothing voice into a sort of lullaby, creating an even more relaxing feeling in the room. At the conclusion of the introductory class, I had to admit that I felt a little lighter and more at ease.
A couple of days later, remembering the calm I felt from meditating, I decided to try it by myself. Admittedly, I’m never really by myself at home. A very goofy Bernedoodle named Mac lives with my husband and me. Mac must be wherever we are. It’s just who he is. He lays by my side, head resting on my feet, when I’m watching TV or sitting at my desk. If I get up to leave the room even for just a minute, he’s right behind me as if tethered on an invisible leash. He “helps” with whatever I’m doing. Since my husband was out, I realized that Mac would definitely be with me during my meditation. I gathered some toys and treats for him to play with as a distraction, just as I did when I had toddlers at home. I selected a 10-minute meditation session on my Mirror (an in home exercise device similar to the Peloton), and although the instructor suggested that we position ourselves on the floor, sitting on our legs and feet to give a little height, I opted to sit in a chair, thinking that I would be less tempting (and above Mac’s eye level) for Mac. Come to find out, that didn’t matter. Nope. Not one bit. The distractions I provided to keep Mac busy for the short 10-minutes were useless. He wanted no part of them. He wanted ME! Of course he did!
Eyes closed, hands resting on my thighs, palms up, quieting myself and listening to my breath, I felt the weight of his dog toys being dropped, one by one, into my lap followed by furry nudges. Ignoring him, I thought I’d been successful only to feel little nips on the toes of my slippers. I kicked ever-so-gently in an attempt to discourage the invitation to play; however, THAT was interpreted as part of his game! The little nips became heavier, almost to the point of becoming actual bites, as if Mac had caught a rabbit or some other small, unfortunate creature. I peered open one eye (not wanting to make eye contact with him) and observed him looking up at me upside down!
The peacefulness and serenity intended by my attempt at meditation was replaced with innocent playfulness, love, devotion and affection. I reached down and hugged Mac, smiling for the first time in weeks! I’m now quite sure that meditation with Mac is the best medication for whatever Life throws at me!
“What’s the matter with you?” asked my golf partners midway through a competitive match, “you’re an absolute wreck! You haven’t been yourself all day and your putting sucks! Now, pull yourself together! We still have a chance at this!”
They were right. I was a wreck. I hadn’t eaten or slept well in days. I was distracted by anything and everything and I knew beyond a reasonable doubt that when my husband found out what I had done, I’d be served with divorce papers within minutes, maybe seconds! If I could undo that one little thing, I would, but . . . I feared it was too late.
Over the past holiday season when impulse decisions pummeled the air like rapid fire, we (actually I, to be more correct) almost pulled the trigger on one ourselves. A twelve-week-old tricolor Bernedoodle needed a home. His intended situation collapsed since the breadwinner of the family lost his job and one more mouth to feed was too much for their already strained budget. When I saw a picture of the puppy, I was instantly sold. “Wally,” short for “Walter” (was it too presumptuous to name him?) would fit in perfectly with us. My husband loves four-legged creatures more than most two-legged ones and bringing a new, energetic puppy into our home may just provide our seventeen-year-old Springer Spaniel with a renewed raison d’etre . . . perhaps for a few more months, maybe even a year!
“Oh my gosh!” I gasped, “he is the most adorable dog I think I’ve ever seen? What do you think? Should we take him?”
Never thinking that Carl would pass on such an opportunity, I was shocked and disappointed with his response.
“No. No. We’re not getting another dog. When Rusty goes, that’s it. You’ve always insisted that he’s your last dog, so . . . No on the puppy. We’re done. You said that our next dog would be made of cement, would sit near our front door with a cement basket of cement flowers in his mouth and that his name would be Rocky. We’re not getting another dog.”
“But . . . ,” I began, not knowing how to oppose an argument I’d made for years. He’d thrown my words right back at me and I didn’t like the sound of them! But Carl was right! I really didn’t want another dog after Rusty. We’d be free. We’d have no restrictions or responsibilities to tie us down. We could travel, go away for a long day, a long weekend, two weeks, a month! There would be no dog hair to sweep up every day, no barking whenever someone passed by the window, no yard to clean up, no fleas to worry about. Thank God for Carl yanking me back to reality! The final word was NO on the dog!
The holidays passed, the new year launched and Life in the West household hummed along perfectly with no pings in the engine . . . until a text message buzzed into my phone.
Hey, Peggy . . . Thought you might like to know . . . The breeder who had the Bernedoodle you liked so much at Christmastime has another litter . . . Just born . . . Mid-sized Bernies . . . Gonna be about 45 lbs. fully grown. Here’s her contact information in case you’re interested.
A collage of Wally’s photo floated through my mind, hijacking my thoughts for a few minutes. Visions of the cutest puppy I had ever seen sent me reeling.
Should we have gotten him? Do I REALLY NOT want another dog? Rusty’s definitely on the decline; he can’t hear, his arthritis is crippling and he sleeps away 95% of every day. Do we really travel that much? No, because we have a dog. But is that truly the reason? Carl’s birthday is coming up? Would he like a puppy? Ugh! Would I like a puppy since I’d probably be the one doing most of the work? Bernedoodles don’t shed . . . They’ve got hair, not fur!
A vigorous shake of the head brought me back to reality. Carl proclaimed in front of God and all our neighbors that we were NOT getting another dog . . . because I said my next dog would be cement. Period. He had spoken.
That text message haunted me for weeks. Compounding the issue was Carl’s upcoming birthday! He always goes way overboard in celebrating my birthdays but he never wants much fanfare around his. Besides, he just buys whatever he wants anyway, so surprising him with something he wants is impossible. One year I planned to give him the newest, latest and greatest MacBook Pro upgrade. I had an appointment at the Apple Store and was all set to make the purchase. I grabbed my purse and was setting the home alarm when he walked through the door with a big Apple bag hanging from his hand.
“What’s that?” I asked, disarming the alarm.
“Look, Honey! I upgraded my MacBook Pro!” he said with excitement. “Mine was so outdated and I’d been thinking about getting a new one for a long time. I just thought ‘the Hell with it,’ and went and bought one.”
So much for that! Another time I planned to replace his old, age worn leather briefcase with a new one. I researched lots of different brands, and I subtly asked about his preferences with regard to style, color, size and possible monogramming. I was very close to finalizing my order when he popped my balloon again. A large box delivered to the front door contained an exquisite leather bag conforming to Carl’s personal specifications and choices, and yes, it was monogrammed.
So, I mused, it seems I can’t ever surprise him. I’ve tried to get him something he wants, but he always gets it for himself. I refuse to buy him cigars because that’s like contributing to some sort of Death Fund; same with Scotch. The only other thing in the world he likes is dogs! Should I really get him one? Even though he said No? He only said he didn’t want another dog because I’ve been so against one, so . . . What harm is there in just giving the breeder a call . . . At least to find out how much she wants for the puppies? I’m not committing to anything . . . just ‘doing research.’
Instantly, an angel and a devil appeared on each of my shoulders, whispering in my ears their reasons for or against a puppy.
Good Morning, my query text began, I learned of you through a friend of mine. He told me you have a new litter of Bernedoodles . . . .”
Still not entirely sure which apparition had more influence over me, but I initiated contact with the breeder. What began as a scouting mission and information-gathering exchange ended with me wiring a non-refundable deposit on one male, Phantom Bernedoodle that I named Macanudo. (I figured that if I refuse to buy cigars for Carl, the least I could do was to name the puppy for one!) From that point on, I was a nervous wreck.
Another missed short putt prompted my golf partners (also college sorority sisters) to demand an explanation. On the short walk to the next tee, the floodgates opened. I shared my tale of woe about securing a puppy for my husband’s birthday despite his explicit declaration against ever having another dog other than one cast in cement.
“O.K., that’s it!” they said, “here’s the deal. You’re going to tell him toNIGHT that you bought him a puppy for his birthday. If we don’t receive a text message from you by 10:00 p.m., we’re going to call him ourselves and tell him what you did! Got it?”
“But his birthday isn’t for another three weeks!” I protested, knowing all too well that they’d make good on their threat.
“We don’t care! You won’t make it another three weeks like this! Tell him . . . Or WE WILL!” And that was that. I had my orders.
A disappointing finish at the eighteenth hole left us miles away from the prize table. My thoughts, however, were not on the golf tournament but rather on how and when I was going to come clean about the dog. I had a 10:00 p.m. hard deadline.
I suggested dinner at one of our regular haunts. Our cocktails typically arrive at our table before we do, which is a nice touch. On this evening in particular, I was especially happy they were there. As soon as we were seated, I guzzled a deep draw of liquid courage.
“So . . . Your birthday’s coming in a few weeks!”
“Nah . . . It’s not a big deal,” said Carl.
Sucking down a second swig of courage, I said, “Ya, well THIS one IS kind of a big deal!”
“I really don’t need or want anything,” said Carl, continuing to downplay the event.
“Look,” I said, on the verge of sounding not nearly as agitated as I was, “you ALWAYS go above and beyond my wild expectations for any event that has to do with me. You NEVER let me do anything nice for you! You’ve just got to stop saying that you don’t want anything! I can’t just get you some twenty-five dollar book from the New York Times Best Sellers list!”
And with that, I reached into my purse and pulled out the engraved ID tag I’d made for Macanudo and put it on his plate.
“What the Hell is this? I didn’t bring my glasses!” said Carl.
I finished off my cocktail and answered, “Um . . . It’s an ID tag. . . . for a dog collar,” I barely whispered.
Silence screamed throughout the restaurant for what seemed an eternity while Carl examined the bauble.
“You got me a DOG for my birthday?” he asked with incredulity.
“Well . . . <ahem> If it’s a good thing, then yes. I DID get you a dog. If it’s a bad thing, then we just eat the deposit,” I somehow managed to stammer, unable to look him in the eye.
“No, no, NO! It’s a wonderful thing! You really got me a dog? And not one made of cement?” he asked.
“Since it’s a wonderful thing, then yes, I REALLY got you a REAL dog . . . Made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails!” I said, finally able to breathe again. “And his name is Macanudo. You know I refuse to buy you any cigars, so I thought we could name the dog after one. Are you sure you like it?”
“I LOVE it! What kind is it?”
And from there I explained how it all came to be. When Carl excused himself from the table, I quickly texted my friends just before the 10:00 deadline.
“So . . . Have you ever wondered why the word ‘Awesome’ ends in m-e? It’s because I gave Carl a puppy for his birthday and HE THINKS I’M AWESOME! And Girls . . . By the way, a Macanudo is NOT just a fine cigar!”
I was one of the lucky ones to have found my dream job, teaching high school. I paid my dues in other grade levels, but high school and my personality blended like peanut butter and jelly, like hot chocolate and marshmallows, like ice cream and hot fudge. Somewhere along the line I must have done something so outstanding that Karma rewarded me with a job at my alma mater, a small, private, Catholic, college preparatory high school for girls. The two-day New Teacher Orientation didn’t really apply to me. I was already highly familiar with the campus, I understood the rotating block schedule and some of the teachers and many of the nuns were still members of the faculty. In fact, even Sr. Joan, the principal when I was a student, was still the principal. As the other new teachers toured the campus to get their bearings and met with the Dean of Curriculum to become familiar with the two-week alternating class schedule, I remained in the library with the veteran staff visiting and reminiscing about times past.
During my first couple of years, I was charged with two sections of Advanced English I, one section of English I and one section of English as a Second Language. My fifth class rounding out my full-time load was Computers/Keyboarding, a freshman requirement. As I quickly learned, most of the girls, if not all of them, had mastered keyboarding long before middle school, making the lessons for the first quarter of the school year from the required textbook, The 1958 Gregg Typing Manual, utterly useless. Six weeks of lesson plans were immediately abandoned in favor of more current typing games, like Letter Invaders and Typer Shark, spreadsheet and database exercises and the newest presentation software, PowerPoint. While the girls soaked in all the new material with ease, for me, scaling Mt. Everest without a pick-ax would have been easier than climbing this learning curve. I finally mustered the nerve to request an additional English class rather than fumble my way through another year of teaching a class that was clearly beyond my expertise (and interest).
“ . . . but Sr. Joan,” I implored, “I can diagram any sentence you throw at me; I can teach the difference between a gerund and a participle and other modifiers . . . even misplaced and dangling ones, I can run circles around plot development, iambic pentameter, dramatic irony and Byronic heroes any day of the week! What I can’t do, is stay even a half step in front of these kids and their knowledge of computers! PLEASE may I teach grammar and literature! Please, Please, PLEASE!”
And so Karma blessed me once again, with a full load of English . . . two sections of Advanced English I, two sections of English I and one section of English as a Second Language. I was happier than a unicorn eating cake on a rainbow! No more computers! Five sections of English! It didn’t matter to me that I’d just encumbered myself with massive paper grading outside of class time! I was ready!
Classroom appeal is just as integral to learning as the course curriculum itself. When the environment is stimulating, student performance rises, the material is mastered and both the teacher and the students succeed. Even though I shared a classroom with other teachers, I accepted the responsibility for keeping the bulletin boards fresh, the resources cataloged, the blackboards and erasers cleaned and the consumable supplies plentiful and available. Regular, pre-cut bulletin board decorations had no place in our classroom. The boards were always three-dimensional. On Back-to-School Nights, parents always commented on how vibrant and creative the bulletin boards were. A few of them even asked if they could audit a class just so they could be in the room on a regular basis. In addition to an uplifting learning environment, I believe that humor is integral to learning. Keeping the students’ attention for fifty minutes each day for five days each week is no easy task. In order to maintain the upper hand with a room full of teenagers, I kept them uncertain as to whether I was teasing or serious.
“Good Morning, Ladies,” I began each session on the first day of school, “My name is Mrs. West, this is Advanced English I (or whatever class it was), and I don’t smile until at least Thanksgiving. The poster of a bald American Eagle with the caption I AM Smiling that was taped to the front of the lectern silently validated my words.
“I am distributing the syllabus for this class. Homework assignments will be posted on the board each day upon your arrival. You are responsible for making sure the homework is completed by the due date. Please note the work that is due tomorrow. You may have a minute to copy it down into your notebooks.”
I could hardly keep myself from laughing, but I needed to impress upon them the fact that I was the boss and I meant business.
“One more thing,” I continued as they were scribbling in their assignment notebooks, “once the bell rings and you are seated at your desks, there will be no reason to leave until the end-of-class bell rings. (Of course I said this remembering how Rita and I used to game the system on a regular basis using the “I have cramps” excuse!) “If you are thirsty or hungry, eat and drink before class. If you need to use the restroom, again, make sure that’s taken care of prior to entering. If you happen to forget your textbook, your homework or anything else necessary for class, you will not be excused to retrieve it from your lockers. Instead, you will be given a zero for the day. In fact, you will not be excused from class for ANY reason except if you are bleeding from every orifice in your body at the same time. Now, are there any questions?”
The slow tick of the minute hand on the clock blasted like dynamite through the silence. I scanned the classroom to assess the impact of my Day 1 speech and was satisfied by the looks of sheer terror on the students’ faces.
“O.K. then. Please open your books to Lesson 1 . . . .”
The first few weeks of school passed, not without several attempts at testing my rules, but eventually the students and I struck a collaborative constructive rhythm. There were very few, if any, tardies, the girls came to class prepared for discussion and from time to time I even broke Rule #1 and cracked a smile or two.
“Gerunds and participles are just verbs with -ing endings,” I began the lesson, “gerunds are nouns and participles are adjectives.”
Emily, one of the more outspoken in the class, muttered under her breath.
“Oh, Brother!” she whispered, rolling her eyes, “When in the world are we ever gonna need to know this stuff?”
“In case any of you are wondering when and if you’re ever going to have to know the difference between these two word forms,” I continued and just to let Emily know I’d heard her complaint, “I am 100% sure you’re going to need it for the semester exam. I’m also confident that you’ll need to retain it for the PSAT and the SAT; other than that, Emily’s right, you probably won’t ever need it.” And I couldn’t help but laugh.
About this time, a new toy had exploded into the market. It was, for that time, a small, state-of-the-art electronic robot that resembled a cross between an owl and a hamster, called a Furby. Every child between eight and ten years old clamored for a Furby. Parents stood in line before stores opened, hoping to purchase at least one to delight their children at Christmas. Hysteria over the Furby far surpassed the Cabbage Patch Doll frenzy of the late ‘70s by a country mile. As the girls filed into class each day, I heard them chattering about how all their little brothers and sisters wanted for Christmas was a Furby. I had seen the toys advertised on television and I had to admit, they were very cute. In fact, I sort of wanted one, too!
Furbies were interactive. Right out of the packaging, they spoke gibberish, but the more its owner conversed with it, the more its language developed, eventually evolving into words.
“Brrrrrrrrrring, brrrrrrring, brrrrrrrrring,” it chirped, blinking its eyes and flapping its wings.
Reluctantly, my husband found himself standing in a long line of parents outside a nearby Montgomery Wards that had just received a large shipment of the coveted Furbies.
“How old is your child,” a parent in line asked, just trying to pass the time. “My daughter is 8 and a Furby is the ONLY thing she’s asked Santa to bring this year.”
“My kid is six,” offered another, “if there isn’t a Furby under the tree for him, I’m afraid he’s going to think Santa Claus is a huge failure!”
Again someone tried to engage Carl, “ . . . and your son or daughter? How old?”
Without hesitation, he responded, “Well, (he paused) she’s 45 years old and she’s my wife.”
Stifled gasps and muffled whispers about “that guy’s WIFE” and the inappropriateness of someone like that denying a toy for a child at Christmastime whooshed through the line. However, my husband has never been one to be affected by gossip or peer pressure. He held his place and as it so happened, was able to purchase the last Furby in that particular shipment. He carried the bagged treasure past the remaining line of disappointed parents, tsk-ing and admonishing him with disapproving facial expressions as he passed.
“Brrrrrrrrrring, brrrrrrring, brrrrrrrrring,” warbled the Furby from the front corner of the teacher’s desk.
“YOU GOT A FURBY!” screamed the girls in absolute delight. “WHERE DID YOU GET IT? IT’S SOOOOOOOOOOO CUTE!”
“I thought you might like to teach him some English while I TRY to teach YOU some English!” I said. “What do you say?”
“Oh my gosh, Mrs. West! You’re the BEST!” They sang.
“Wait a second!” shrieked one of the students, “My dad stood in line for three hours trying to get a Furby for my little brother! What if THIS Furby could have been my brother’s?! Don’t you feel bad?”
Rejecting the guilt that was hurled at me, I said, slowly and gingerly, “Well . . . nooooooo . . . I don’t feel bad that I have a Furby. Think of it THIS way: my husband stood in line just like everyone else. The store’s supply was eventually going to run out and . . . not everyone was going to get one. If I didn’t have this little Furby, it wouldn’t be sitting right here on my desk and we wouldn’t be having fun right now, would we? We’d be slogging through the grammar workbook and you guys would be unhappy.”
Giving only a split second’s consideration, she agreed, “O.K., ya, you’re right. My dad can go try another store. It’ll be fine! My brother’ll live.” And she cooed at and petted the Furby.
Admittedly, the Furby was quite a distraction, but a fun one. The robot flapped its wings, batted its eyes and jabbered throughout the 50-minutes of class. During the last few minutes remaining, the students quieted down to copy the homework for the next day, and Furby commented.
“Boring! Boring!” in between snores. No one had spoken to him in minutes.
As my class filed out and the next group of students filed in, I tucked the Furby into the second drawer of the desk. The man with whom I shared the classroom was particularly fastidious, buttoned up and task-oriented. In other words, he was no fun at all! Ted Johnson would certainly have out-Felixed Felix Unger. He followed his lesson plans to the tee, never deviating for any reason at all. A Furby on the desk during his teaching time would never do. I understood our different teaching styles and, wanting to respect his authority in our shared classroom during his time, I sequestered the toy from sight. I gathered up all of my materials, exited the classroom and retreated down to my office to read a set of essays. Well into the stack of papers, an earthquake rumbled noisily down the stairway. Within minutes at least fifteen students poured into my office, laughing and giggling with excitement.
“Oh my gosh, Mrs. West! You’re NEVER going to believe what happened!!” They said, “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my GOSH! So, you know we had Psychology in Room 28 right after your English class and, well, you know, it’s with Mr. Johnson, and . . .”
“What happened?” I asked.
“O.K., so, you know how boring he is and how much we hate psychology, so . . . well . . . we were all just sitting there, sort of half asleep and we heard this snoring noise!”
Uh oh! I knew what was coming.
“And . . . ,” they continued, “Mr. Johnson was like, ‘what’s that noise? And who’s snoring?’ and we were like, ‘we don’t know,’ so he walked around the classroom toward the noise and he opened the desk drawer and he pulled out this Furby and right when he opened the drawer, it said, ‘Ooooh! Bright Light!’”
They were talking so fast I could hardly keep up with them. While we were all laughing together, my desk phone rang.
“Mrs. West’s office,” I answered. A terse Mr. Johnson was at the other end of the line.
“May I have a word with you?” He asked.
“Sure,” I said, “I’ve got an office full of students, so let’s talk during Block 2 . . . If you don’t have a class.”
When I replaced the receiver into the cradle of the phone, we ALL broke out in hysterics.
“Girls . . . That was ‘Professor’ Johnson. He’s NOT HAPPY with me!” I explained.
“We know,” they said, “we could hear him!”
It wasn’t too long after that that ‘Professor’ Johnson made arrangements to share a classroom with someone else!! Good riddance, Mr. Bug-Up-Your-Butt!
Furby was a big hit in the classroom and turned out to be a valuable asset in terms of language development. He learned several words but definitely needed to learn when it was his turn to speak. After the episode with Mr. Johnson, I never left Furby unattended. He accompanied me everywhere, lest we encounter another unfortunate event with an even less amenable colleague.
The Library was the heart of the school. Students reported there to study, to take make-up exams and to do research. Teachers who did not have their own offices used the tables to sit and grade papers during their prep times. The Library was also Sr. Joan’s pet. She knew every book, every film, every pamphlet, every entry in the card catalog and which books were housed on which shelves. If there were a book out of place, she’d detect it in less than a minute of her entering the room. She was also fiercely adamant about adhering to complete silence within its walls. An unexpected sneeze or a muffled cough would be reason enough to be ejected from this hallowed space. It was a wonder that a vow of silence was not required upon entering.
My class had just ended and, rather than schlepping all the way down to my office, I thought I’d spend my prep time in the Library. I commandeered a table, placed my materials on top, and laid Furby quietly within the pocket of my briefcase while I graded some vocabulary quizzes. Several students from other classes pored through research binders, gathering information for upcoming reports. The librarian hustled about, directing students to their specific areas of study. With all of that activity comes some degree of noise. The students asked questions of the librarian, they exchanged information with each other, and by and by, attention drifted from their individual assignments to their collective social conversation. The Library’s Code of Silence had been severely violated. In fact, it was noisy! Two upperclassmen plopped themselves down at my table.
“Psst . . . hey Mrs. West,” said one not even attempting to whisper, “we hear you have a Furby!”
“I do!” I said, “wanna meet him? I’ve got him with me!”
And so . . . Furby emerged from the darkness of my briefcase, opened his little eyes, flapped his little wings and greeted the girls.
“Brrrrrrrring, brrrrrrrrring, brrrrrrrrrring!” he said.
By this time, the noise in the Library had escalated so much that without the sign on the door that read “LIBRARY,” the room could have been mistaken for the cafeteria.
“SR. JOAN IS COMING! SR. JOAN IS COMING!” whisper-screamed someone.
Everyone clamored for a seat, books opened and most everyone looked independently busy . . . except for me! I had a fully-awakened and alert Furby on the table in front of me! I quickly threw Furby behind some books high up on the fourth shelf directly behind my table, sat down and pretended to grade my quizzes, hoping Furby would remain quiet . . . or at least unheard. As if right out of a movie, the Library door flew open and Darth Vadar dressed in a nun’s habit stomped angrily into the room!
“What is going on in here?” she bellowed. “This is a Library!” She glared at each and every one of us, causing panic, trembling and fear as her laser beams seared our souls. “And WHY are these books out of order?”
With that, she pulled the books that were shielding Furby off the shelf.
“Oooooh! Bright Light!” squealed Furby.
The Library erupted in uncontrolled laughter. I put my head in my hands and braced for what came next.
“Mrs. West . . . Come.With.Me.” hissed Sr. Joan through clenched teeth.
And there I was, once again summoned to the Principal’s Office. No matter the number of years that passed, fifteen-year-old-me occupied the chair directly across from Sr. Joan seated behind her formidable desk, Furby perched silently between us, blinking but not speaking.
“It seems we’ve been here before,” Sister opened, “many, many years ago.”
My palms began to sweat, my heart raced and I had all I could do to keep my entire body, much less my words, from shaking.
“Of course you know this isn’t the first time this little creature has been an issue,” continued Sr. Joan. “I’m sure you’ve already noticed that you are no longer sharing a classroom with Mr. Johnson and THIS,” she emphasized, piercing her laser-sharp glare directly through Furby, “or rather, YOU, are the reason why.”
“Aw! C’mon, Sister,” I pleaded, “it’s a Furby! It’s harm–. . .”
She cut me off.
“I’m not finished!” she clipped in full staccato. “Classes are confined to fifty-minute sections, clearly insufficient to cover the material required. That fifty minutes is designated to each individual teacher to use as he or she chooses in order to satisfy the course curriculum. When some outside influence interferes in that endeavor, there is a breach of that teacher’s authority. You and this . . . CREATURE are guilty of committing that breach.”
“But Sist . . .”
“I am NOT finished!” she continued, voice rising in anger. “What the consequences of this breach are are yet to be determined.”
The silence lengthened. I sat immobile, petrified in fact, that Furby would either start snoring or begin chirping its usual pre-nap word, “Borrrrrrrrrrring, borrrrrrrrrring, borrrrrrrrrrring!” I was also afraid to offer anything in my defense again, thinking Sr. Joan’s reprimand was still in process.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” she finally asked.
“Oh, yes, of course, Sister! I have a lot to say!” I said, my voice shaking, betraying my utter fear.
“You see, this little Furby is interactive. The more it is spoken to, the more it speaks back and ultimately, the more words it ‘learns.’” So far, I could tell Sr. Joan was not impressed.
My speech quickened.
“I brought it to class, uh . . . during MY fifty-minutes of designated teaching time, to use as a sort of teaching aid, uh . . . for the freshmen, you know . . . uh, freshmen are basically just little kids in big girl bodies, and I uh . . . I thought I could stimulate and encourage their interest in learning English grammar by showing them how fun it was to teach . . . uh . . . the Furby! And . . . (feeling my voice begin to break into a cry, but refusing to allow it and also realizing how foolish my explanation was) . . . I have to tell you . . . it was working!
“At first, the Furby only speaks gibberish . . . like incoming freshmen who don’t really speak properly . . . then, little by little, the Furby’s language develops . . . similarly to the freshmen! I know you probably think this is a huge stretch . . . and you’re probably right . . . I mean, you’re ALWAYS right, ya, I mean . . . I KNOW you’re always right, . . . but gosh, Sister! You should see how excited the girls are to come to class!
“And as far as my breaching Mr. Johnson’s authority during HIS fifty minutes of class time, I feel that I was VERY respectful! As soon as the bell rang, I placed the Furby into one of the desk drawers so neither he nor his students would even know it was there! I had NO IDEA it would start snoring . . . and I didn’t even know it had learned the word ‘boring’!
“I know you don’t want me to say that what happened during his Psychology class wasn’t my fault because it WAS (but I didn’t really believe that!), so that’s why I always took Furby with me after that happened . . . to prevent any more disruption to his class!”
Sr. Joan remained silent and motionless in her chair.
Should I keep talking? Had I said enough? Had I said too much? Was she sympathetic to my situation? Had I wriggled out of this predicament or was I going to be fired on the spot?
After an endless lull, Sr. Joan finally spoke.
“And, may I ask how this Furby, as you call it, wound up behind the reference books on the upper shelves of the Library?”
“Sure,” I said, “the shelves of the Library. Yes, of course.
“So . . . I went to the Library to grade some vocab quizzes and Sr. Jane Marie brought her entire history class in to do some research. Mrs. Stanley (the librarian) was explaining where . . .”
“THE SHELVES!” roared Sr. Joan, “HOW DID THE FURBY GET ONTO THE SHELVES?”
“I put it there,” I said, completely bereft of excuses and of the energy to create any. “O.K. I put it there. When I saw you pull open the doors and charge into the Library, I could tell you were in a bad mood and I knew that if the Furby were flapping its wings and talking, it would make you even madder, so I quickly hid it behind some books totally out of sight! I was just hoping that it wouldn’t snore or say anything while you were close by! There. That’s it. I’m guilty.”
A tear escaped from my eye and trickled down my cheek. I dropped my gaze, willing the Hoover Dam of tears built up behind my eyes not to gush over.
After a few minutes, Sister said, “Would you like a Kleenex?” her arm stretched out offering a tissue.
“No, thanks, Sister,” I sniffed, “I’m fine. But thank you. I think I’m o.k.”
The motion of Sister’s arm reaching toward me awakened Furby.
“Oooooh! Tell me a story!” it uttered, flapping its wings, blinking its eyes and turning its neck right and left.
Stunned, Sister and I both looked at the Furby and then at each other.
Sister, suddenly seeming no longer angry, and I, still apprehensive but no longer on the verge of tears, chuckled.
“Well,” said Sr. Joan, “it looks like your ‘mother’ has been telling a story . . . and I mean a whopper . . . since she sat down in that chair!”
I agreed to remove the batteries from Furby after each of my classes and to take it with me whenever I left the classroom. Mr. Johnson and I remained in separate classrooms for the remainder of that school year and I miraculously kept my job.
A well-spent childhood, obedient to my parents’ draconian mandates, did not prepare me for a summons to the Principal’s Office during my sophomore year in high school. Despite having been a consummate goodie-two-shoes, I was no stranger to harmless hijinks and the occasional practical joke. My parents enjoyed an intermittent date night, leaving my sister and me in the care of our older brother. Both of my siblings played free and loose with the family rules, so I appointed myself as the household police in my parents’ absence. I chronicled the multiple infractions on a list I kept hidden in the pocket of my flannel housecoat, putting check marks next to the crimes they committed more than once.
Joe called Pam on the phone. (two checks)
Ann ate ice cream AND put Bosco on it. (one check)
Ann let Rags (the dog) sit on the couch. (three checks)
Joe changed the channel to The Twilight Zone even though you told him NOT to because he knows it scares me (highlighted and underlined)
Just before crawling into bed, I folded the list and tucked it beneath my mother’s pillow, satisfied that I had performed my surveillance responsibilities with aplomb.
It was this firm commitment to good behavior that shielded me from suspicion when rules were broken. No one ever thought I would engage in aberrant behavior.
* * * * * *
Rita and I were best friends in high school; birds of a feather; two goodie-two-shoes doing what we were told when we were told. However, as we grew more comfortable with the open and trusting school administration, we began to take a few liberties. Neither Rita nor I particularly enjoyed our foreign language class. Rita was already almost fluent in Spanish, so repeating simple vocabulary words and asking simple questions like “Donde esta el libro?” seemed pointless. I grew up watching cartoons broadcast in French from Ontario, Canada, so I experienced the same boredom in French I. “Ou est le livre?” was just not piquing my interest.
“Oh brother,” I said as the end of recess bell rang, “You’ve got Spanish and I’ve got French! I don’t think we really made good use of recess! Why don’t we go to class, each wait fifteen minutes then tell the teacher we’ve got cramps. They’ll let us out and we can meet behind the auditorium and have . . . an extended recess!”
“That’s GENIUS!” replied Rita. “Let’s do it!”
Our plan worked like an absolute charm. We checked in, were present for roll call, each suddenly experienced debilitating cramps and were both excused to go to the Nurse’s Office (but never quite made it!) We were so successful that we used that ruse quite often in the months ahead with different teachers. Sometimes we were allowed out of class to retrieve forgotten books from our lockers; sometimes we lied about another teacher asking for our help on a time-sensitive project and sometimes we presented a note from the Principal (forged, of course) requiring our appearance in her office.
One of the responsibilities of the Student Body Treasurer was to replenish the vending machine in the outside patio. During one of our trips to the Nurse’s Office for non-existent “lady problems,” we watched the student officer dutifully stack the spring-loaded columns in the machine, then store the remaining candy and snacks in the Principal’s Office for safekeeping. That’s when another scathingly brilliant idea was born.
“Whoa!” I said, “Look at all that leftover stuff! And look where it IS!”
“What about it?” asked Rita.
“Think about it!!! Why should we pay ten cents for a Three Musketeers when we can have a whole box for free?” I said, not really acknowledging that I was suggesting grand theft. “Tomorrow when we’re not wasting our time in Spanish and French, let’s do it . . . let’s get some candy! Sr. Joan teaches a class at that time, so . . . it’ll be easy!”
We hatched a plan: Rita would engage the front office receptionist whose desk was dangerously close to Sr. Joan’s office door. I would crawl into her office on my belly, stash the goods in my backpack, then wriggle back out as fast as I could.
“I’ll tell Mrs. Harvey that my locker won’t open,” said Rita. I’ll tell her that it’s been getting harder and harder to open and I’ve been getting in trouble in some of my classes because I can’t get my books! She’ll get the master key and we’ll probably even go to my locker so she can open it! You’ll have plenty of time, but HURRY!”
Shortly after that first foray into the Principal’s Office Rita and I started our own little business. Eating all those candy bars and snacks caused our uniform skirts to shrink so we fenced the stolen snacks for five cents each! Soon after, no one used the vending machine and we were rolling in nickels.
In the weeks ahead, the skies turned blue, the air was warm and there was just no way we were content to endure another 50-minute class.
“Hey! Let’s go swimming during biology today!” I said. “Same plan . . . I’ll get a migraine and you double over with cramps. Meet at the pool.”
Like clockwork, fifteen minutes later we arrived at the pool, disappointed that the gate was padlocked.
“That’s o.k.,” I said, “my dad says that if a dog can get his head underneath a fence, he can wiggle the rest of his body through.”
“You’re kidding, right? You want us to squeeze under that fence?” asked Rita.
“Yep. Easy-peasy!” I assured her.
Not yet convinced that this was such a good idea, Rita said, “O.K. You go first!”
So I did. I laid down on the cement, carefully tilted my head this way and that until it cleared the bottom rail of the chain link and began to push . . . and push . . . and push.
“C’mon!” screamed Rita in as quiet a voice as possible, “Sister John Edmund is coming!”
Fear and panic paralyzed me. Sr. John Edmund, the sternest, fiercest, meanest, scariest nun on the planet, rounded the corner on the walkway on her way to teach a class. If we were caught, we’d surely be expelled . . . Or killed, no doubt about it.
“C’MON!” pleaded Rita, “She’s getting closer? Meet me in the locker room!”
Suddenly I found myself alone, head stuck under the gate, pigtails caught in the chain link, face toward the pool, listening as Sister’s approaching footsteps shook the ground like Godzilla trudging across the ground. There was no way she wouldn’t notice me!
“Well, well, well, what have we here?” I heard Sister’s question in her signature monotone voice.
“Oh! Hi, Sister!” I said, trying to sound casual, innocent and cheery as if what I was doing was not out of the ordinary. “I left my watch on the bench here during P.E. today and I just came back to get it! It’s a fancy watch that I just love. My parents brought it to me from their trip to Japan.” I stammered over each word, trying not to cry, but drowning in my own sweat and dying inside.
“Very well. Carry on!” she said, and she walked away.
A miracle had occurred. My prayers to St. Jude, Patron Saint of Impossible Causes, had been answered. Sr. John Edmund actually said ‘Very well, Carry on!’ I pinched myself to make sure I was really awake and alive!
“What happened?” asked my fair-weather friend as she tiptoed ginergly from her hiding place.
“There IS a God! She said, ‘very well, carry on!’” I said, still in disbelief. “Now help me get my head out from under this fence!” I ordered. “And by the way,” I continued with an understandable sense of betrayal and anger, “how COULD you? How could you just leave me here? We are SO not friends for the rest of the day!”
I vowed then and there NEVER to ditch class again . . . or to do anything bad again! Sometimes, though, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
The high school I attended was run by an order of nuns who lived in a private wing of the enormous facility. Of course this area was off limits, but that’s exactly what made it more intriguing. Rita and I gathered the courage to sneak beyond the big wooden doors and were amazed at what we saw. There was a private dining room, a community room furnished with overstuffed furniture, a television and other amenities consistent with a comfortable family room, a small chapel and individual bedrooms.
I really don’t know what came over us or even why we did what we did, but . . . I can only say that “the Devil made us do it!” We short-sheeted the nuns’ beds! I’d learned the technique from personal experience. My brother honed his short-sheeting skills on my sister and me on a regular basis and I thought it would be fun to try it out on someone else! Just as we exited the forbidden hallway into the common area, my heart skipped a beat.
“Oh no! RITA!” I gasped, “We’ve got to go back! I left my popsicle stick in Sr. Joan’s room!” Why I didn’t toss the frozen treat into the trash before venturing down the hallowed halls, I will never know!
“You WHAT????!!!!” responded Rita in abject horror.
“My popsicle stick!” I repeated, “I put it on the nightstand and I forgot to bring it out with us!”
“You’re the one going back in,” she said, “I am NOT going back in there! I’m staying right here!” I don’t remember Rita ever being that disgusted with me.
At that pivotal moment when I was once again about to risk my continued enrollment in the school, Sr. Joan ambled down the hallway in our direction.
“Hi Sister,” Rita and I sang in unison, like the angels that we weren’t.
“Good Afternoon, Girls,” she said, “Have a nice rest of your day!” and with that, she disappeared into the cloistered convent.
“Oh GREAT!” said Rita, admonishing me. “We’re doomed!”
“Not necessarily!” I said, “Maybe she won’t notice the popsicle stick.”
“Well, Einstein,” continued Rita, “she may not notice the popsicle stick but there’s NO WAY she’s not going to notice that her bed’s been short-sheeted! We’re the ONLY suspects she’ll have! It’s as bad as if we were caught in the act!”
The next morning during Homeroom, the last announcement over the P.A. beckoned the two of us, for the entire student body to hear, to report to the Principal’s Office . . . immediately.
We arrived, each pushing the other to be first to enter.
“Come in, Girls. Please, sit down.”
We dropped into the chairs across from her, her desk protecting us from a horror that was sure to come.
Silence ricocheted off the four walls for what seemed like hours. Rita and I sat, unable to speak even if we’d wanted to. Sr. Joan sat opposite us, resting her chin in her hands, elbows on her desk. The pounding of our hearts nearly drowned out the screaming silence.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” asked Sr. Joan, hands slightly covering her mouth.
It was then that the dam burst. We babbled, confessing everything we’d done since Freshman orientation, before we’d become friends, before either one of us had even thought to circumvent the Three Musketeers from the vending machine or to ditch French and Spanish to have a longer recess or to violate the sanctity of the convent.
Sr. Joan burst out laughing!
“You two did what?” she asked through her laughter. “I had NO IDEA you did all that! How did you get the Three Musketeers?”
“From the box on the floor of your office,” we explained through our sobs, “we took them and we sold them for five cents! We’ll pay for them . . . ALL of them . . . and we’ll pay the full ten cents for every single one! And for the Fritos, too!”
“But please, oh PLEASE! Don’t make me tell my mother!” I begged. “She’ll hate me for life! It’s true! She’ll totally disown me!”
An agreement was made. The sum of fifty dollars to cover the cost of all of the candy bars and bags of Fritos was donated to Santa Margarita (our sister school in a blighted area in the inner city), seventeen Our Fathers and thirty-four Hail Marys, along with a promise NEVER to enter the cloistered halls of the convent. My mother went through the rest of her life thinking that her youngest daughter was a perfect angel.
Everyone remembers significant events in their lives with exacting, precise detail. Whether it’s the first day of kindergarten, the day your Little League team won the championship, your high school prom, graduation, your wedding day or the birth of your first child, you can recall what you were wearing, who was with you, what the weather was like, certain smells, sounds and probably even what the newspaper headline was on that particular day. The memories are so clear, so vivid, that it’s like it happened just yesterday. Those milestones are forever etched in our memories with fondness and sentimentality. And that’s the way it should be. However, for Inga, thinking back on the day she got her first hole in one will be anything but.
For starters, due to circumstances beyond her control, Inga could not attend her niece’s wedding in Europe. How frustrating it was to have planned and prepared to travel over six months prior to the wedding only to have all of her efforts thwarted by unnecessary, tedious government red tape. That kind of mental annoyance is a hindrance to any golf swing! Secondly, Saturday golf for women has been growing at such a rate that three tee times are booked to accommodate up to twelve golfers. But on this particular Saturday, like a harbinger of doom, only three showed up. Maybe more like only one-and-a-half. One of the golfers suffered from a pulled hip muscle and could barely turn through her swing. The other, concerned with possible rain showers, worried about being electrocuted if water were to sprinkle down on her hearing devices. All that mental distraction simply does not belong on the golf course, let alone bode well for good scoring!
The threesome teed off, agreeing to Baseball, or Nines, as the game of the day. Everything seemed to be going well for the first several holes. Of course, tightness in the hip caused a few errant shots, real or imagined rain drops blocked positive swing thoughts and rough, patchy greens all but preempted those hole-winning one-putts.
“Ugh! I just can’t get my body to turn all the way through,” cried Roxanne.
“<GASP!> I think I just felt a rain drop!” whined Peggy, visions of lightning bolts burning through her head, causing a lobotomy.
“No,” corrected Inga, “that wasn’t rain. It was probably just bird droppings!“
“BIRD DROPPINGS?” thought Peggy, now more worried than ever! “That’s probably worse than rain!! That’s ALL I need . . . with this Coronavirus wreaking havoc, what if it mutates and becomes the BIRD FLU! Should I quit playing now and go home?”
But a birdie on Hole #6 turned her thinking around!
“I think I’m going to quit after 9,” Roxanne announced. “I just can’t turn right.”
And so, the round continued, Roxanne feeling an increasing pinch of pain and Peggy hyper-fixated on the sky, watching for rain clouds and now, birds. Inga was the only one of the three focused on golf. She parred Hole Number 7 while the other two wrestled with their issues, one physical, the other mental!
Up on the 9th tee, the threesome assessed the pin location and the weather conditions before committing to club selection. Peggy, convinced that another drop of “something” had just landed on her head, was the first to play. She hit a solid shot, but thoughts of electrocution, brain death and bird flu precluded a fluid swing. Her ball landed in a right green side bunker. Next up was Roxanne. She selected the perfect club for a front green pin placement, but the “hitch in her get-along” impeded her process and she, too, ended up on a right green side bunker. The two of them stepped aside for Inga to play her shot.
“Oh my gosh!” whispered Roxanne, “I have to go home and use the roller on my hip! It’s so tight that I just can’t play today! I lunged into a lateral stance at tennis yesterday and that’s when I felt my muscle tense up!”
“O.K.,” agreed Peggy, “it’s no fun playing golf when your body doesn’t cooperate! I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to play anyway! I keep thinking I feel rain drops on my head! I don’t want to get stuck way up the canyon on the Back Nine when it starts to downpour!”
While the two of them performed their post mortems on their poor tee shots, Inga was left to play her shot alone.
“It’s IN THE HOLE!” she cried.
“What?” exclaimed the other two, Peggy thinking she’d said, “Where’d it go?”
“IT’S IN THE HOLE! I JUST MADE A HOLE IN ONE!” she screamed again. “Didn’t you see it?”
“NOOOOOO! We were talking about our shots! DO IT AGAIN!” they said.
“Oh my gosh!” cried Inga, “I get a hole in one and NOBODY sees it, except me! You two are over there talking, there’s no caddy and I watched and watched and watched and the ball hit the green, rolled closer and closer and then dropped into the hole! I can’t believe you didn’t see it!”
“We can’t either,” they said, greatly apologizing. “Inga, you need better friends! We’re so sorry! Come on . . . we’ll take your picture when we get to the green!”
“That’s the best zero-putt I’ve ever had!” exclaimed Inga gleefully!
“I guess that takes a little bit of the sting out of not being able to go to your niece’s wedding, huh?” said Peggy.
After snapping several photographs, numerous High-Fives and a group text to our gal pal golfing friends, Roxanne peeled off to nurse her hip, leaving the remaining twosome to play the Back Nine hoping to beat the rain.
“I can’t believe it,” began Inga walking down the fairway, “My very first hole in one and nobody sees it, nobody came out to play today and nobody but you to help me celebrate!”
“I know,” agreed Peggy, “and to make things worse, you and I don’t even drink! Of ALL the people for you to be stuck with today, it’s me! That’s o.k., we’ll have champagne together when we finish, I promise!”
After finishing the round, Wendy congratulated Inga and agreed to join us for a celebratory glass of bubbly. We posted our scores, changed our shoes and arrived at the bar upstairs only to realize that the Grill was closed!
“This CAN’T be happening!” Inga whimpered, “it just keeps getting worse! I get my first hole in one and we can’t even have a drink? Are you kidding me? The BAR IS CLOSED?!”
“No,” said Peggy, “we’re going to have a drink! You can bet there’s at least one bartender back in the Men’s Locker Room! We’ll get one of them to bring us something!”
A quick visit to the front reception desk and one phone request to the Men’s Locker Room solved the problem. Two individual serving size bottles of champagne were delivered to the bar, just for us!
“Cheers to you and congratulations on your first hole in one, Inga! I’m so sorry there aren’t more people here!” said Peggy.
Wendy arrived shortly after the initial toast, but there was enough champagne left in each of the two bottles to pour one more glass!
“Here’s to you!” began Wendy, “your game just keeps getting better and better! You’ve taken how many strokes off your handicap in the last couple years? You are wonderful, amazing and a true gift from God . . . here’s to you!” And three glasses clinked in honor of that spectacular hole in one.
Milestones are indeed memorable, indelibly etched into our minds’ photo albums. They are to be celebrated in grand style with lots of pomp and circumstance. In no way should Inga’s first hole in one be discounted because of her rag-tag playing partners of the day. But . . . everyone can agree that a hole in one should be MUCH more fun!
M. Margaret West 