Monday, May 24, 2010

Time for a Cool Change

Friday is my last day at the clinic. I love it there (more days than not, anyway), but the roof of my house needs replacing, and so does Old Dog's truck, and so does the refrigerator, and so does the washer, and so does.... So, I've taken a job in IT again, working at the local community college. It's a little scary, because my last IT employer voted me "most dispensable," but I'm ready to get back behind the keyboard again. I have long believed that a job is not a marriage: you don't have to get a divorce to leave. And while it's always sad to leave behind the friends you made, it's also exciting to meet new people and learn new things. When I was a kid, I remember telling my mom that my ideal career field would be one where I could change jobs every two or three years, so I wouldn't get bored. And she, who came of age in the 1940's, said, "You'll get a reputation as a gypsy and no one will hire you." But I lucked out, both in entering the workforce in the 1970's, just as the benefits associated with being a long-term employee began to wane, and in going into IT, where the stuff you DON'T know about your new employer's business is worth more to him than all the stuff you DO know about your old employer's business is to him. Even so, this is job #12 in my career and I plan to make it my last, because a dozen is enough for anyone. Except, of course, bakers.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Old Joke #42

A kind-hearted fellow was walking through Central Park in New York and was astonished to see an old man, fishing rod in hand, fishing over a beautiful bed of lilies. "Tch Tch!" said the passer-by to himself. "What a sad sight. That poor old man is fishing over a bed of flowers. I'll see if I can help." So the kind fellow walked up to the old man and asked, "What are you doing, my friend?" "Fishin', sir." "Fishin', eh? Well how would you like to come have a drink with me?" The old man stood put his rod away and followed the kind stranger to the corner bar. He ordered a large glass of beer and a fine cigar. His host, the kind fellow, felt good about helping the old man, and he asked, "Tell me, old friend, how many did you catch this morning?" The old fellow took a long drag on the cigar, blew a careful smoke ring and replied, "You are the sixth today, sir!"

Monday, May 17, 2010

The Bare Facts


I saw my first and only strip show in October, 1974.

My husband turned 21 that month and some older friends decided he should celebrate by going to the Todd Burlesque on Brown Street. Although I legally couldn't get in, they decided I could probably slide by the ID check, and I did.

By now you know that I'm a huge fan of musicals, so it will be no surprise to you that my expectations were based on watching Gypsy.

Yeah, not so much.

Here are the things that I remember:

1) There were several opening acts (take that anyway you choose and you'll probably be correct), leading up to the headliner, Miss Nude Ohio.

2) One of the warm-ups looked really youthful, a fact she emphasized by wearing her hair in pigtails tied with pink yarn. Since I was 20 and looked about 14, I couldn't understand why anyone would think looking like a young teen was sexy.

Still don't, actually.

3) Another warm-up had a gimmick of taking the glasses of any guy who sat in the front row and sticking them down her g-string before returning them.

(Which, in turn, reminds me of the one and only time I saw a sword swallower, who did something similar, also taking a pair of glasses from an audience member, but instead shoving the ear-piece up his nose all the way to the hinges.)

Of both of these actions I say, YUCK!

4) There was one girl, who looked to be in her late 20's/early 30's, who danced to some Motown as she disrobed. Unfortunately, she didn't dance particularly well.

5) When Miss Nude Ohio finally took the stage, wearing little more than her banner, it quickly became clear why she was the star. She had skin like polished opal and more curves than a road race course. Her trick was to take the face of each of those first-row guys, place it between her ginormous breasts, and shake them till the guy would reel back to his seat, totally disoriented. The audience loved it.

A couple of years ago, a guy in my writers' group was doing (he said) research on strippers (did you know, for example, that the #1 most popular name for strippers is "Destiny"?) and tried to put together a field trip.

I couldn't get into though.

Some experiences are meant to be enjoyed only once.

Monday, May 10, 2010

Happy Mother's Day, Mama

Mom didn't drive, but the elementary school my little sister and I attended was only three blocks from our home, so she could walk there for our teacher's conferences. One year she had a 1 p.m. appointment with Mrs. Cate, who was my seventh-grade teacher, and another at 1:30 with Mrs. Scaly-Legs, who was Robin's teacher for second. (I called and asked her teacher's name, and this is all she could remember. Which should tell you a lot, right there.)

Somehow, during that short walk, Mom managed to lose track of which teacher she was meeting first, and she sailed into her conference with Mrs. Cate convinced she was there to discuss Robin's second-year progress.

Still pretty normal, but this is where it gets good: these two women spent a half-hour discussing our progress--Mom talking about a 7-year-old, Mrs. Cate about a 13-year-old--without ever figuring out they weren't on the same wavelength. Mom told how she'd promised Robin she'd be able to read simple books by the end of the year and how pleased she was with all the gold stars she was bringing home.

If you're wondering about the names, Mom started out saying "Katie" (which was Robin's childhood nickname), and then apologized. So when she switched over to "Robin," Mrs. Cate just went along with it, apparently figuring names were a pretty fast-and-loose construct at our house.

I have no clue what Mrs. Cate thought about Mom, but Mom admitted she left the conference thinking, "There's something just not right with that woman."

In the next meeting, however, Robin's teacher quickly figured out that the claims Mom was making about my accomplishments couldn't possibly be those of a second-grader.

And here's the coolest thing about my mom: she went back afterwards and told Mrs. Cate what happened. Mrs. Cate suggested "just keeping this as our little secret," but Mom said, "This is too good not to share."

I'm telling you: if she were alive today, she'd be a blogger.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Old Joke #42

A husband had just finished reading a new book entitled, "You Can Be THE Man Of Your House."

He stormed to his wife in the kitchen and announced,

"From now on, you need to know that I am the man of this house and my word is Law."

"You will prepare me a gourmet meal tonight, and when I'm finished eating my meal, you will serve me a sumptuous dessert."

"After dinner, you are going to go upstairs with me and we will have the kind of sex that I want."

"Afterwards, you are going to draw me a bath so I can relax. You will wash my back and towel me dry and bring me my robe."

"Then, you will massage my feet and hands."

"Then tomorrow, guess who's going to dress me and comb my hair?"

The wife thought about it for a moment and replied,

"The friggin' funeral director would be my first guess."

Monday, May 3, 2010

(Not a) Coal Miner's Daughter


Listening to President Obama's eulogy for the men lost in April's mining disaster at the Massey mine in West Virginia last week reminded me of a my Dad's (short) mining career. Like many Appalachians, my grandfather spent much of his working life mining coal. He died, at the age of 78, of Black Lung, the cancer that dispatches miners who manage to escape the collapses and explosions. Mining is a hellish way to make a living, and Grandpa was determined that his son not follow in his footsteps. Despite that, Dad spent the summer after he graduated from high school working in a coal mine. That and ballroom dancing. I only saw Dad dance one time, when he was in his late 60's or early 70's. He'd invited all of his kids and their spouses to join him and his date at a public dance at the Officer's Club on Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. My mother was never a dancer, and although he always swore he never missed it during the 30 years they were married, he went right back to it after she died. Told you that to tell you this: the man was thistledown. He made Fred Astaire look like a talentless hack. Anyway, Dad and his sister, my Aunt Virginia, often participated in local competitions. My dad was 5'10" and my aunt was a tiny little bird of a woman, so I'm not sure how that worked, but apparently they were the power couple on the dance floor and frequently took home prizes. One Friday, after a long day's night in the mines, Dad showered, donned his white suit, loaded up the Plymouth, and headed off to Madisonville, thirty miles away. At the ballroom, they signed in and got their numbers. That was in the days before air conditioning, so when they started dancing, Dad began to sweat. The coal dust that was embedded so deeply in his pores that a mere shower didn't touch it came flowing out. After a half-hour, he said, his white suit was gray with grime. They didn't win that night. Soon after that, my grandfather went to mine management and told them he'd quit if they didn't fire my dad. Either Granddad was a hell of a worker, or Dad wasn't, because they did just that. Which is how I missed out on becoming Loretta Lynn. (Well, that and being tone deaf.)

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Old Joke #41

A bounty hunter rides into town one morning and goes to the Sheriff's office.

"Is there anyone with a price on his head round these parts?" asks the Bounty Hunter.

"Well," says the Sheriff, "there's a $500 reward, dead or alive, for the Brown Paper Kid."

"The Brown Paper Kid?!" exclaims the Bounty Hunter. "Who in tarnation is the Brown Paper Kid?"

"He's a varmint who wears a hat made from brown paper," replies the Sheriff. "His coat is made from brown paper. His shirts are made from brown paper. He wears pants made from brown paper and his boots are made from brown paper."

"Well, I'll be hornswoggled," says the Bounty Hunter. "What's he wanted for?"

"Rustling."

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