Whales vs. Wales

An Addendum to the Red Hats Post

Mom, being the careful reader that she is discovered in The Red Hats post that I had named Diana the Princess of Whales. I've edited the post, but I have to admit I feel a bit uncomfortable about it. See, I've never met any sea creatures and those I've met have been short on meaningful conversation. In fact, they're usually headless and preferably deboned with some tartar on the side. Having never conversed with them, I cannot say for certain that the sea mammals didn't proclaim Diana their princess. I mean, surely her humanitarian efforts were known even to those in the seas. So, until the Ambassador of the Oceans clears this all up, I'm going to have to say that she very well could be their princess.

Also, we're dealing with Welsh. I'm sure "Wales", in their native tongue which is kin to Gaelic, isn't really a homonymn of Whales. The actual pronounciation is doubtlessly something you cough up at the back of your throat containing lots of "c's" "l's" and "ah's". Needless to say, I don't feel bad about butchering the spelling.

Nicknames

Ok, since I can't shake it, I should explain it since it will doubtlessly appear in several posts. When you see the name June, that's me. Anyone who knew me in college and had any significant contact with my friend Ernie calls me June to this day. I don't know how Ernie came up with it. He'll be the first to tell you he has a knack for giving nicknames that stick - just ask Bean. I think it started as Bethly Bob in Jr. High School, then as the years wore on it morphed into Bethly June and finally got shortened to June or Miss June. In crowds, if someone shouts "June!" I'll be the first to turn my head. In other words, despite my best efforts the name has stuck. I'm also Boofka or Boof for short, which I won't even explain, but if you see Ju (or Ju Poo Bear) then she might have an answer.

Other nicknames just for clarities sake:

Anna is Ahnner or Ahn or Ahnner Bonahnner - note the ahhhh sound in her nicknames - that's how the A sounds in her real name. If you want to die painfully, by all means make the A sound like you do in the name Ann. If by chance you don't die immediately, you'll endure the longest eyeroll you'll ever be treated to in your life and you'll wish you'd just gone ahead and died - it would have been faster.

Jonathan is Jman, Johnny Quest, JtO, but I call him Jo-Nathan

Kendra is theK (the "K" is capitalized intentionally) it used to be "the K," but Jonathan saw it one day, thought "pish posh" and declared "ah... thek like a brek" and the rest is history.

April doesn't have any known nicknames that we've uncovered, but she asked for one for Halloween so we dubbed her "Lil' Minx" as part of our Pink Ladies bowling outting. Of course, I don't think that name has the same staying power as the others.

Death to the Ice Cream Man

Right now I'm churning out the old stories to get them out there, to play with the website in general and in hopes something newer and fresher will strike me.

Around the age of 5 I had a constant companion in the form of a short, blackish-gray haired bundle of fur named Smokey. I actually don't remember Smokey that much these days. I only have one clear image and one distinct sound of her forever burned into my memory.

We lived in a trailer park on the edge of a big city. The place was surrounded by open fields, the streets were barely paved, people hung their clothes out on a line to dry and sometimes you'd find a gutted deer carcass on the lawn or even a burned out mobile home where someone had tried to scam the insurance company. It was a different place in the sense that I've never lived anywhere like in since, but the people were generally nice and there was the ice cream man who lived up the street. Everyone loved the ice cream man especially us children who would go to his house after he finished his route and have our sweet-tooth needs accomodated at all hours of the day.

That takes us to that day with that memory and that sound. My friends and I were loitering on the street like good impish wastrels do without a care in the world. Since this community was in the middle of no where there wasn't any traffic or need to worry about the kids on the streets. It wasn't quite your idyllic 1950's setting but it was good enough. Around the corner came the ice cream man, driving slowly with that ice cream jingle which lures everyone to the streets tunelessly playing away and my dog sleeping in the middle of the road. That's the one sound and one image I'll always carry about my dog; it was tragic and it was terribly sad. My mom marched up the street later that night to have the man come apologize to me, but the only thing he could say was "I'm not paying for that dog." He didn't say "I'm sorry" or "I didn't see her." That night, my Dad buried her in the field beneath a large rock and we said good bye to my first dog.

Now, I could end this story here, but my writing is about humor and it's honestly not the end of the story.

I was motivated by my burning hatred of the ice cream man, that once trusted friend who dispensed cold sweet goods from the back of his truck. Since there were other children with me that day who witnessed the same thing, I soon had my army of ice cream man hating urchins. Our mission: Kill the ice cream man! Our only hold-back, we were all aged 5 and younger and were heavly influenced by the physical laws of the Loony Toons.

Together, my friend Rudy and I schemed. We knew the man had to die and we knew that in his death the ice cream truck had to burst open freeing all the helpless fudgesicles and other ice cream goodies. We tossed around well thought up ideas like slipping popsicles into his pocket, but that just made him cold and the truck didn't open up so we had to move on. Tires slipped on ice, so maybe ice cream under the tires. Now that sounded promising, but we were reliant on allowances and you couldn't really justify to your parents "I need to buy 4 ice creams to kill the ice cream man, so can I plleeaasseee have the money?" That left us with just the one plan that didn't rely on money so off we charged into the neighboring fields.

Fortunately for our plan, the grass had recently been cut. Rudy, his sister Sally and I pulled handful after handful of mowed grass out into the street making a large grass hump. We then set about waiting for the ice cream man. His truck eventually loomed on the horizon as he slowly made his way to our road hump of death and then it just as slowly ran over our grass clippings. CURSES! The hump just wasn't enough to cause the truck to flip thus killing the ice cream man and exposing all the sweets inside his truck. We learned that day that some tasks were too big for 5 year old minds and we had a very valuable lesson in physics, I might add. I'm sure if Acme had created the grass clippings and if Elmer Fudd or Wile E. Coyote had been involved... well... I suppose we'd have the same result come to think of it, because their schemes never quite worked out for them either.

... and that's how and why I tried to kill the ice cream man ...

That Really Bad Date

I’m going to add just one more story for the day. Mind you, this is all practice and I personally have a lot of work and thought to put into what I’m going to be doing here...

This story is for Lori. Although, I don’t think it’s necessarily one of her favorites, I think it made the list.

Once upon a time, a long time ago before I met Jay, I had terrible taste in men. Feeling unloved, un-dateable and generally throwing huge low self-esteem pity parties I would go out with almost anyone. My thought was give people a chance and you may at the very least make a friend. So, when the guy in my apartment complex asked me out, I said sure, what the hell. The warning signs were there and unheeded. I mean, climbing the rock facing of the apartments while hooked into the stairwell railing was err… exhilarating? Exciting? Different? And who didn’t have primer paint at the ready to splash on their car to keep it that fresh dull grey?

The date was supposed to be a quick trip to some coffee house for a chat. It seemed safe enough so I was game. Come date time where the guy asked me to drive, I’m guessing because he didn’t want to chance ruining the freshly painted layer of primer on his car, he asks if he can drive my car. Sure. I wasn’t keen on it, the car was new then, but sometimes I’m downright stupid when it comes to needing to say “no”. Off we go down the road to the coffee house when he suggests an alternate destination. EXCITING! “Beth, would you mind if we go to my AA meeting. I missed it this week.” Ugh. Sure. How can I deny someone their right to sobriety?

We arrive at the meeting where everyone is quite supportive, sitting in a circle telling about their latest obstacles to staying sober. Here’s where you need to know something about me. I don’t really drink. Being around a grandmother who passed out after dropping a lit cigarette and a healthy amount of alcohol on your bed and you start thinking “eh, drinking… not so much my thing”. I don’t condemn it, I just don’t overindulge and if I do, it’s so rare that it necessitates stories of their very own. So, there I am having been sober for probably 25 years and not a token or a sponsor to applaud me listening to these people's stories.

If you have been to an AA meeting, you know one thing is true it’s not like the movies. People’s lives aren’t neatly wrapped up in a heart-warming speech. They tell long winding stories that abruptly end then pat each other on the backs and say thank you. I sat, I listened and I was thankful that I had very different problems that didn’t involve group support or speaking in public. At the end, one of the members came up to me and gave me a hug. He expressed how nice it was to have me and how he hoped to see me in the future. I thanked him and basically said “I doubt it,” which made the man step back, look at me sweetly and say “you come back when you’re ready.” At this point what could I do? If I declared “I’m not a drunk!” they would have felt sorry for the young girl in denial so I smiled and nodded at the man then headed for the car.

Back at the car my date suggests that movies might be more fun than coffee. Sure. Although, I’m thinking brain rot would be more fun, too. Off we go to the movies. I can’t tell you what we saw. I only remember one little bit from our conversation. My date informed me he was a twin. I asked, “are you fraternal twins or identical?” He looked at me a bit perplexed so I repeated the question. Still I got no answer. I finally restated the question, “do you two look alike?” He smiled and said “yeah, he looks like me.” Thinking I was funny (a mistake I’ve made many times in my life) I asked “are you sure you don’t look like him?” That caused more eyebrow furrowing and that confused expression to return.

We finally make it back to the apartment and he asks if he can come in. Sure. My friend Tammy was spending the night and I’d alerted her that the freak who climbed the apartment walls and painted his car with primer was taking me out and asked her if she could be around. My date then made for my refrigerator, helped himself to my food and then shortly thereafter I helped him out the door. The date was thankfully over.

That’s my dating story. When I look back at just how stupid it was, I can’t help but being thankful that I have Jay.

The Red Hats

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

Thus begins the call to arms of the Red Hat Society written by Jenny Joseph.

Deep down I applaud the Red Hats for embracing silliness, sisterhood and a breaking away from society’s rigid norms. Well, I did up until last weekend.

To start this story, I need to back-up and explain a bit about myself and visit my past and I’ll start with a seemingly non sequitur: I’m a huge fan of Diana, Princess of Wales. Admittedly, I’m not her #1 fan, although I know you’re out there lurking in the bushes at Althorp, camera at the ready, scuba gear stashed so you can make the swim to the island where she’s buried. Nonetheless, I’m fan enough that I got up early to watch her wedding with my family (and even have the book A Royal Wedding to commemorate the occasion). I followed her life as it played out in the press. I got up early once more to watch her funeral with tissue box at the ready. I own Sir Elton John’s “Good Bye England’s Rose” and the postage stamps that were released soon thereafter. I boo and hiss at Camilla rolling my eyes every time “true love” is mentioned and I applaud Wills and Harry at every turn. And so when it came to pass that a Diana exhibit came to my state, I rallied the troops and made plans to see it.

After several hours in the car, bloated from fast food and eager to dash to the public restrooms, my friends and I made for the museum. That’s when our senses were assaulted by the Red Hats – swarms of them buzzing around. Let’s assume for a moment you took a glimpse of them and your eyes relented, granting you peace by allowing you to go hysterically blind. You still couldn’t miss the loud drone echoing off the walls. They were everywhere – packs of them engulfing whole displays leaving only the bones behind. There was no safe harbor and talk about “country come to town” it was as if most of them had never escaped the safe confines of their Junior League meeting room. Once we made it inside the actual Diana exhibit, we were pushed, scratched, bitten, elbowed and otherwise harried. Now mind you, my eyes weren’t so kind and I never got the sweet release from actually seeing these women coming at me, larger than life like some Mothra versus the Red Hat Brigade movie and me, playing the part of the poor, helpless Japanese tourist screaming and running for my life, camera in tow. (Ok, ok, they didn’t allow cameras, but you get the idea.) I believe the most absurd statement I heard from one of these proud women as she leveled her discerning eye at some of Diana’s dresses “these dresses are TERRIBLE!” Oh, sweet irony from one dressed in red and purple…

There’s another story in here, but the blogging software ate the original piece and my re-tooling of it couldn’t work it in nicely, so I’ll just dangle it out here at the end. It’s about non-conformist conformists and how Red Hats are no different than those in the whole Goth movement unless you’re talking about tastes in particular philosophers… that and Goth’s are generally quieter outside of a Rave and when mixed in with the general population... and I would never buy a Goth cookbook.