Growing up, Claire and I have always had wild imaginations. We were always coming up with stories and characters we would act out. THere are several home videos that are prime black mail material that document our theatrics.
When we were reading the "Little House on the Prairie" series we would pretend to be poor girls from the Ozarks. We would wear skirts and bonnets, mostly inside the house. Given the opportunity, such as the annual civil war re-enactment at the Almanzo Wilder Farm, we would happily wear this attire outside of our home. Again, there are photographs that document this. We were in good company. There were grown men playing dress up for God's sake! Our fantasy was put to a halt when my mother found food in the closet near the fire place. We tried explaining were were storing it for the winter, which seemed like a perfectly reasonable explaination.
During Easter we were excited to find that our stockings made perfect rabbit ears. During CHristmas we came up with our own play about the Naitivity. This play could be viewed as heretical if one paid attention. "Claire, we should video tape this!" Then: Great Idea! Now: I'm an idiot.
We loved transforming the kitchen into a cooking show on nights we made dinner, hell, we would do it if we were making a sandwich. If anything can be said about that time, I'd say we laughed and laughed.
As we grew up our pretending developed into mimicking. Family members were the usual victims. We would exaggerate any and every mannerism. We became immune to seeing tears. Eventually, that became the point where we would think, "maybe its time to back off." When we walked out of the room after apologizing we would re-enact the crying scene between fits of laughter. Was this mean? Yes. Was it funny? That depends on who you're asking.
One day Claire pointed out a flaw I have that I was completely unaware of. This flaw can not be corrected. Depending on who I talk to, my accent changes. What does it change to? Well, I match the person I am talking to. Exactly. Once she told me this, I instantly realized she was right. I wondered if I was the last person to become aware of this. Did people think they were talking to someone with a multiple personality disorder. "Don't take it personally, I mimic everyone." "NO, I am not from Jersey." Claire told me this years ago and the only thing that has changed from that time is that I notice that I am doing it. That is the first step. Right?! The only problem is if I changed I'd be exposed as a fraud. At work, while talking to the smoker I drop my voice and make it raspy. When talking to the English rabbi, I sound like Audrey Hepbern in "My Fair Lady" after "The Rain in Spain." I match pitch and tempo. When talking to a woman who speaks quickly at work, I match her speed.
Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned about excess mockery. Is Karma really a force on this planet? Perhaps it is a tool I can use in a future career. Maybe I am meant for the stage.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Dwyer
Maureen has a gift of describing people as they are, completely and perfectly. Her biographical sketches are always a treat when the listener has not yet, but is about to meet the person under analysis. Her portrayals always fit the person even to the slightest detail. I have to smile, or even worse, on some occasions- outright laugh during the introductions of these "strangers" I already seem to know so well.
Maureen had been attending the college I was planning to go to for three years prior to my arrival. Therefore, Maureen knew quite a few more people than I did. I'll never forget the few weeks before school that fall. Maureen made the transition easy for me. She described everyone and anyone that I would or could possibly encounter there at Franciscan University. From eye color to exact weight, to favorite foods- all the bases were covered. I walked into school that autumn day, knowing everyone in our dorm, and their favorite color.
I hate to admit, but several people soon fell victim to our many inside jokes and laughter. One individual being a young woman two dorm rooms down from ours.
Maureen had described Liz Dwyer to me a week before our arrival. Liz and Maureen had been what I consider friends, but what Maureen describes as "mere acquaintances" due to circumstance, since their freshman year of college. I remember Maureen calling me her freshman year telling me about a girl that was nicknamed "Tube-top Girl", due to her scandalous outfits unfit for a Catholic school.
Well there she was, standing right in front of me. From her wild brunette hair to her left leg limp, she was precisely how Maureen had depicted her. I could not stop laughing.
Once we were unpacked and settled into our room that night, sipping tea and ready to hit the hay, we were interrupted by an obnoxiously loud knock, followed by a "Hey girls, it's Liz!".
"Claire don't say a word, be quiet. Don't answer," Maureen hissed. She knew I was about to crack.
Maureen's warnings didn't matter, a dead-bolt lock couldn't keep Dwyer out. The door swung open just as Maureen's admonishing gazes towards me became directed at our imposter. It didn't matter to Liz that we were both in bed, under our covers. Liz stayed and talked for the next two hours. She was like no one I had ever met before. Everything about her seemed lopsided, but she talked as though she was the hottest girl on campus, even going as far as telling Maureen and I she had modeled all throughout high school. She talked incesently about the flings she had with some men on campus, and how they were still in love with her but dating other girls now because she would have nothing to do with them. The whole monologue was sprinkled with unnesessary swear words, that caused my eyes to grow bigger and Maureen's to roll. She was so incredibly awkward you had to chuckle to yourself. Who was this girl?
Dwyer's visits became routinely random throughout the rest of the semester. She was nice enough, don't get me wrong, but after every encounter you felt completely winded, even though you didn't say a word. She was entertaining, from a distance. You could only take her in dosages. She didn't care what she said or how she said it.
Maureen and I always questioned her motives and never fully trusted her- not that she would ever lie to us, but she was just so darn flighty. This distrust came to fruition one day as Dwyer barged into our cozy room holding a crate of Starbucks chilled frappicinos. She explained to us that her mother had bought them for her, but since she was on a diet she didn't want them and was offering them to us. Maureen and I love coffee, and Starbucks, and normally kill for the little expensive bottles of caffiene she was holding. But something stopped both of us from taking them immedietly.
Maureen started off..."Um...so...I mean, what's wrong with them?".
I backed her up, "Yeah, I mean, those are really expensive...why are you giving them away?".
Maureen followed up, "Are they old? What's the experation date?".
I continued, "Or did you just find them somewhere?".
Poor Dwyer. You could see the excitement drip away from her face like coffee from a coffeepot into an inviting mug. We were being blatenly rude, but I mean, you could never know for sure with Dwyer.
"Ohh my gosh girls! Do you want them or not? I'm not going to poison you! My mom just gave them to me!"
Needless to say, we took them. They stayed unoppened in the fridge for a couple days. Actually we hardly opened the fridge because when we did, feelings of guilt and reluctance flooded out. I finally popped one open when Maureen was out of the room. She came in, paused and looked at me until I gulped down the last swig.
"They're actually pretty good," I said to her as I walked over to the fridge and handed her one. "And," I contined, "Dwyer is exactly as you explained her to me...pretty unexplainable".
Maureen had been attending the college I was planning to go to for three years prior to my arrival. Therefore, Maureen knew quite a few more people than I did. I'll never forget the few weeks before school that fall. Maureen made the transition easy for me. She described everyone and anyone that I would or could possibly encounter there at Franciscan University. From eye color to exact weight, to favorite foods- all the bases were covered. I walked into school that autumn day, knowing everyone in our dorm, and their favorite color.
I hate to admit, but several people soon fell victim to our many inside jokes and laughter. One individual being a young woman two dorm rooms down from ours.
Maureen had described Liz Dwyer to me a week before our arrival. Liz and Maureen had been what I consider friends, but what Maureen describes as "mere acquaintances" due to circumstance, since their freshman year of college. I remember Maureen calling me her freshman year telling me about a girl that was nicknamed "Tube-top Girl", due to her scandalous outfits unfit for a Catholic school.
Well there she was, standing right in front of me. From her wild brunette hair to her left leg limp, she was precisely how Maureen had depicted her. I could not stop laughing.
Once we were unpacked and settled into our room that night, sipping tea and ready to hit the hay, we were interrupted by an obnoxiously loud knock, followed by a "Hey girls, it's Liz!".
"Claire don't say a word, be quiet. Don't answer," Maureen hissed. She knew I was about to crack.
Maureen's warnings didn't matter, a dead-bolt lock couldn't keep Dwyer out. The door swung open just as Maureen's admonishing gazes towards me became directed at our imposter. It didn't matter to Liz that we were both in bed, under our covers. Liz stayed and talked for the next two hours. She was like no one I had ever met before. Everything about her seemed lopsided, but she talked as though she was the hottest girl on campus, even going as far as telling Maureen and I she had modeled all throughout high school. She talked incesently about the flings she had with some men on campus, and how they were still in love with her but dating other girls now because she would have nothing to do with them. The whole monologue was sprinkled with unnesessary swear words, that caused my eyes to grow bigger and Maureen's to roll. She was so incredibly awkward you had to chuckle to yourself. Who was this girl?
Dwyer's visits became routinely random throughout the rest of the semester. She was nice enough, don't get me wrong, but after every encounter you felt completely winded, even though you didn't say a word. She was entertaining, from a distance. You could only take her in dosages. She didn't care what she said or how she said it.
Maureen and I always questioned her motives and never fully trusted her- not that she would ever lie to us, but she was just so darn flighty. This distrust came to fruition one day as Dwyer barged into our cozy room holding a crate of Starbucks chilled frappicinos. She explained to us that her mother had bought them for her, but since she was on a diet she didn't want them and was offering them to us. Maureen and I love coffee, and Starbucks, and normally kill for the little expensive bottles of caffiene she was holding. But something stopped both of us from taking them immedietly.
Maureen started off..."Um...so...I mean, what's wrong with them?".
I backed her up, "Yeah, I mean, those are really expensive...why are you giving them away?".
Maureen followed up, "Are they old? What's the experation date?".
I continued, "Or did you just find them somewhere?".
Poor Dwyer. You could see the excitement drip away from her face like coffee from a coffeepot into an inviting mug. We were being blatenly rude, but I mean, you could never know for sure with Dwyer.
"Ohh my gosh girls! Do you want them or not? I'm not going to poison you! My mom just gave them to me!"
Needless to say, we took them. They stayed unoppened in the fridge for a couple days. Actually we hardly opened the fridge because when we did, feelings of guilt and reluctance flooded out. I finally popped one open when Maureen was out of the room. She came in, paused and looked at me until I gulped down the last swig.
"They're actually pretty good," I said to her as I walked over to the fridge and handed her one. "And," I contined, "Dwyer is exactly as you explained her to me...pretty unexplainable".
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
American Girls
The average American girl possesses the valuable qualities of naturalness, honesty, and inoffensive straightforwardness; she is nearly barren of troublesome conventions and artificialities; consequently, her presence and her ways are unembarrassing -Mark Twain
I recently conducted a google search of "Claire and Maureen Nichols." I was unsure as to what I would discover but I was shocked when a link for the "Betsy Ross House Tour Register Archives." I laughed to myself and thought "there must be another set of sisters somewhere in the world that went to the Betsy Ross House." Then I read the caption beneath the link "We are young girls studying history and are with the American Girls Club." Unfortunately, there was no denying it, that was us!
The American Girl Club's members included Claire, myself and Sarah Clark. I had the doll Felicity (she came from the colonial time period), Claire had Molly (who came from the World War II Era), and Sarah had Samantha (who was from the Victorian Age). There was an American girl club where you would have to do projects for all of the doll's time periods and read the books about the American Girls. This task was feasible then because there were only five dolls way back then. We each were given a bracelet from Sarah's mother LaNita, who coordinated the meetings and the projects of this club. Looking back, I think she enjoyed it as much, if not more than the three of us.
There were projects for each time period. One project was making homemade ice cream which involved shaking up ingredients and putting it in a container then putting that (sealed) container inside a larger container that had ice and salt in it. Claire and I managed to shake it so that the two container mixed the contents. Sarah's was perfect. Each doll had a booklet that you had to complete and once we finished a particular doll's time era we were given a little charm in the shape of the doll to put on the bracelet. We really enjoyed ourselves quite a bit. Their house was so cozy and LaNita always involved the three of us in all of her baking projects. Claire and I loved being at their house. They had a wood stove in the kitchen and I loved the smell of their house. It was such a warm and inviting place and Claire and I loved being there.
Sarah's father is a carpenter and for Sarah's birthday he built her a life-sized dollhouse. It was positioned near the house, but you had to cross a little bridge over the brook to get to it. It was beautiful. Claire, Sarah and I, during one on the sleep-overs decided it would be a brilliant idea to sleep in the dollhouse for the night. Claire and I forgot that even the coziest of dollhouses get dark at night. We also forgot that there were animals outside that make noise, we also didn't consider this dollhouse did not have curtains, nor did it have a lock. Needless to say, within 15 minutes of unpacking everything we hauled everything back into the house.
Claire and I were at Sarah's house the first time Paul, Mom, and Dad went to the hospital in Burlington. Claire and I used to beg to spend "just one more night" at Sarah's house, especially on vacations. The evenings that we had to stay there were much different. I remember staring at the ceiling in my sleeping bag listening to the steady breathing from Claire and Sarah along with the crackling of the wood in the woodstove, wanting desperately to be home as a family, hoping for good news and for everything to go back to normal. It never did go back to normal, and that was ok. It was then, staring at the ceiling, when I allowed my eyes to well up and overflow quietly. Hope for good news became part of Claire and my dreams every night for the several years that followed. Hope always remained.
That wasn't the only visits to the doctor that occurred. Felicity and Molly had to be sent to the doll hospital. Sarah took care of her doll very well, as a matter of fact, I don't think I saw her "style" Samantha's hair once. Samantha's hair always looked as though she were in a window display at one of the American Girl stores. She was probably disgusted looking at the matted heads of hair that Felicity and Molly had. Felicity was balding in the back because of the lack of my gentleness and patience. She eventually lost an arm, while Molly Lost a leg. This was not at all surprising to mom, she knew (probably while purchasing these dolls) that upkeep would be required. You see Claire and I and dolls did not mix. After about a week of owning a doll, especially barbies, the hair would be cut off and the members missing. They would be found in-between the couch cushions intermittently, or whenever the remote control went missing. Yes, this was no surprise. SO, as a Christmas gift, our dolls were sent to the hospital. Where they received the best treatment in their doll lives, I am sure. We played with those dolls, long after we were much to old to be doing so. It was ok, we certainly knew how to extend fun and we still do, even when it is mildly age-inappropriate.
I recently conducted a google search of "Claire and Maureen Nichols." I was unsure as to what I would discover but I was shocked when a link for the "Betsy Ross House Tour Register Archives." I laughed to myself and thought "there must be another set of sisters somewhere in the world that went to the Betsy Ross House." Then I read the caption beneath the link "We are young girls studying history and are with the American Girls Club." Unfortunately, there was no denying it, that was us!
The American Girl Club's members included Claire, myself and Sarah Clark. I had the doll Felicity (she came from the colonial time period), Claire had Molly (who came from the World War II Era), and Sarah had Samantha (who was from the Victorian Age). There was an American girl club where you would have to do projects for all of the doll's time periods and read the books about the American Girls. This task was feasible then because there were only five dolls way back then. We each were given a bracelet from Sarah's mother LaNita, who coordinated the meetings and the projects of this club. Looking back, I think she enjoyed it as much, if not more than the three of us.
There were projects for each time period. One project was making homemade ice cream which involved shaking up ingredients and putting it in a container then putting that (sealed) container inside a larger container that had ice and salt in it. Claire and I managed to shake it so that the two container mixed the contents. Sarah's was perfect. Each doll had a booklet that you had to complete and once we finished a particular doll's time era we were given a little charm in the shape of the doll to put on the bracelet. We really enjoyed ourselves quite a bit. Their house was so cozy and LaNita always involved the three of us in all of her baking projects. Claire and I loved being at their house. They had a wood stove in the kitchen and I loved the smell of their house. It was such a warm and inviting place and Claire and I loved being there.
Sarah's father is a carpenter and for Sarah's birthday he built her a life-sized dollhouse. It was positioned near the house, but you had to cross a little bridge over the brook to get to it. It was beautiful. Claire, Sarah and I, during one on the sleep-overs decided it would be a brilliant idea to sleep in the dollhouse for the night. Claire and I forgot that even the coziest of dollhouses get dark at night. We also forgot that there were animals outside that make noise, we also didn't consider this dollhouse did not have curtains, nor did it have a lock. Needless to say, within 15 minutes of unpacking everything we hauled everything back into the house.
Claire and I were at Sarah's house the first time Paul, Mom, and Dad went to the hospital in Burlington. Claire and I used to beg to spend "just one more night" at Sarah's house, especially on vacations. The evenings that we had to stay there were much different. I remember staring at the ceiling in my sleeping bag listening to the steady breathing from Claire and Sarah along with the crackling of the wood in the woodstove, wanting desperately to be home as a family, hoping for good news and for everything to go back to normal. It never did go back to normal, and that was ok. It was then, staring at the ceiling, when I allowed my eyes to well up and overflow quietly. Hope for good news became part of Claire and my dreams every night for the several years that followed. Hope always remained.
That wasn't the only visits to the doctor that occurred. Felicity and Molly had to be sent to the doll hospital. Sarah took care of her doll very well, as a matter of fact, I don't think I saw her "style" Samantha's hair once. Samantha's hair always looked as though she were in a window display at one of the American Girl stores. She was probably disgusted looking at the matted heads of hair that Felicity and Molly had. Felicity was balding in the back because of the lack of my gentleness and patience. She eventually lost an arm, while Molly Lost a leg. This was not at all surprising to mom, she knew (probably while purchasing these dolls) that upkeep would be required. You see Claire and I and dolls did not mix. After about a week of owning a doll, especially barbies, the hair would be cut off and the members missing. They would be found in-between the couch cushions intermittently, or whenever the remote control went missing. Yes, this was no surprise. SO, as a Christmas gift, our dolls were sent to the hospital. Where they received the best treatment in their doll lives, I am sure. We played with those dolls, long after we were much to old to be doing so. It was ok, we certainly knew how to extend fun and we still do, even when it is mildly age-inappropriate.
Monday, July 7, 2008
They too, are created by the same loving hand of God which Created us...It is our duty to Protect Them and to promote their well-being.”—Mother Teresa
Animals in our home usually don't last long, which is not necessarily a bad thing from the animal's perspective. Once in our custody, the end is near. We have had a wide variety of animals and the outcome is the same, they either die or are sent to a local farm. We've tried fish, birds, dogs, rabbits, one gerbil, and turtles. Its not that we don't try to sustain life for these animals, the problem is our family thinks of animals as animals. We are not the type of family that buys accessories for our animals, a coat for the dog or an underwater castle for the fish to hide and play in. In our family, during the brief moments of life for the animals, there was a distinction between humans and animals, a certain hierarchy. We have, however, provided the animals under our care with the basics. Which is all an animal could ever ask for... right?!?! With that said I can't imagine St. Francis smiling down on us.
Paul is the exception to this rule. He is truly an animal lover. He has treated all of his pets with more love, affection, and attention than family members. When we had rabbits, which moved from the basement to the side of our garage, Paul would dutifully bring them food and thaw out their water bottles (at times twice a day) in the dead of winter. If memory serves me correctly, I do not recall him ever taking care of the rabbit's output. This duty I remember vividly. The move from the basement to the garage came because; they were filthy smelly glorified rats. I say this because of the cage cleaning duty. Dad runs in the evenings in the basement and the smell alone would fatally raise your heart rate. So, it was particularly dangerous while running. Moving the rabbits outside was much bemoaned by Paul. So it went, their cage was moved between the garages. These animals were miserable. They would chew the wire that their cages were made out of, trying to escape. There might be a chance of survival if they were not in our care. The rabbits died one by one. Paul's, of course, was the last to kick the bucket. Paul's rabbit, Holly was a runt. Like the Clifford the Big Red Dog story through Paul's devotion Holly became one of the largest red rabbits I've ever seen in my life! The discovery of Holly's death is documented, thanks to John. He was playing outside with the video camera and was about to show off our pet rabbits. He carefully opened the top of the cage and you see Holly whose body was lifeless and her face looks as though she had been slain. The video becomes reminiscent of the Blair Witch Project footage as John runs into the house yelling "Holly is Dead!"
Julie was our first family dog. I remember going into the pound when I was around seven with mom, dad and Claire. It wasn't a pleasant place, it smelled like dog and there was incessant barking, that makes your feel claustrophobic and most often leads to a rash decision in purchasing a pet. I distinctly remember mom holding Claire and her pointing to a little beagle puppy. I had my eye on a golden retriever a few cells down. We brought Julie home and she would chase Claire and I so we would stand on a bench that she could not get onto, which excited her even more and she would jump and bark at us until mom came in to calm her down. Every evening when dad would come home, he would come in through the back door. Julie had her snout against the door every evening around that time so all my father would see was a flash of brown and black. I remember him tossing his brief case onto the floor taking off his suit coat and chasing her down the street. He wouldn't leave before saying "that damn thing." Julie was sent to a farm I was sad about it, but quickly recovered. She never really became house-broken and Claire was on the poop-finding-squad and dutifully reported to mom with any new developments. Julie, I was assured, was much happier at the farm.
Suzy is our more recent pet dog. She was a good dog and was housebroken before we bought her. Her previous name was "Cuddles." We would pick on her sometimes by calling her by her given name. Magdalene is quite the opposite of Paul when it comes to animals. Magdalene is a tiny little girl, however she has strength that some of our unfortunate pets have encountered. When it came to Suzy, she was very playful with her, a little too playful. Not that it was entirely Magdalene's fault. One day, Suzy got into the garbage and had a chicken bone lodged in her throat. I seem to be the only usable set of hands around when someone is choking, so I proceeded to save Suzy's life by prying her mouth open and pulling the chicken bones out of her mouth. I was so upset, I saw red and repeated "NO, NO, NO!" By the end of it Suzy had a Pizza box tied to her body and a banana peel tied to her head. She never ate a chicken bone again. Toward the end of Suzy's visit with our family, she began to loose control of her bodily functions. Mom brought her into the vet's and he told her that "Ma'am I think your dog is depressed... I can prescribe..." this sentence was interrupted by laughter on my mom's part "depressed?" Suzy did not get her prescription. Suzy's trip to the farm was spurred by a nip at Magdalene after much taunting. The nip sealed the deal for Suzy's future happiness on a friend's farm. She is now letting her hair grow out and regaining control of her bodily functions.
Delilah is our first cat, she is wisely sticking close to Paul. I wish her the best of luck during her stay at our house.
Paul is the exception to this rule. He is truly an animal lover. He has treated all of his pets with more love, affection, and attention than family members. When we had rabbits, which moved from the basement to the side of our garage, Paul would dutifully bring them food and thaw out their water bottles (at times twice a day) in the dead of winter. If memory serves me correctly, I do not recall him ever taking care of the rabbit's output. This duty I remember vividly. The move from the basement to the garage came because; they were filthy smelly glorified rats. I say this because of the cage cleaning duty. Dad runs in the evenings in the basement and the smell alone would fatally raise your heart rate. So, it was particularly dangerous while running. Moving the rabbits outside was much bemoaned by Paul. So it went, their cage was moved between the garages. These animals were miserable. They would chew the wire that their cages were made out of, trying to escape. There might be a chance of survival if they were not in our care. The rabbits died one by one. Paul's, of course, was the last to kick the bucket. Paul's rabbit, Holly was a runt. Like the Clifford the Big Red Dog story through Paul's devotion Holly became one of the largest red rabbits I've ever seen in my life! The discovery of Holly's death is documented, thanks to John. He was playing outside with the video camera and was about to show off our pet rabbits. He carefully opened the top of the cage and you see Holly whose body was lifeless and her face looks as though she had been slain. The video becomes reminiscent of the Blair Witch Project footage as John runs into the house yelling "Holly is Dead!"
Julie was our first family dog. I remember going into the pound when I was around seven with mom, dad and Claire. It wasn't a pleasant place, it smelled like dog and there was incessant barking, that makes your feel claustrophobic and most often leads to a rash decision in purchasing a pet. I distinctly remember mom holding Claire and her pointing to a little beagle puppy. I had my eye on a golden retriever a few cells down. We brought Julie home and she would chase Claire and I so we would stand on a bench that she could not get onto, which excited her even more and she would jump and bark at us until mom came in to calm her down. Every evening when dad would come home, he would come in through the back door. Julie had her snout against the door every evening around that time so all my father would see was a flash of brown and black. I remember him tossing his brief case onto the floor taking off his suit coat and chasing her down the street. He wouldn't leave before saying "that damn thing." Julie was sent to a farm I was sad about it, but quickly recovered. She never really became house-broken and Claire was on the poop-finding-squad and dutifully reported to mom with any new developments. Julie, I was assured, was much happier at the farm.
Suzy is our more recent pet dog. She was a good dog and was housebroken before we bought her. Her previous name was "Cuddles." We would pick on her sometimes by calling her by her given name. Magdalene is quite the opposite of Paul when it comes to animals. Magdalene is a tiny little girl, however she has strength that some of our unfortunate pets have encountered. When it came to Suzy, she was very playful with her, a little too playful. Not that it was entirely Magdalene's fault. One day, Suzy got into the garbage and had a chicken bone lodged in her throat. I seem to be the only usable set of hands around when someone is choking, so I proceeded to save Suzy's life by prying her mouth open and pulling the chicken bones out of her mouth. I was so upset, I saw red and repeated "NO, NO, NO!" By the end of it Suzy had a Pizza box tied to her body and a banana peel tied to her head. She never ate a chicken bone again. Toward the end of Suzy's visit with our family, she began to loose control of her bodily functions. Mom brought her into the vet's and he told her that "Ma'am I think your dog is depressed... I can prescribe..." this sentence was interrupted by laughter on my mom's part "depressed?" Suzy did not get her prescription. Suzy's trip to the farm was spurred by a nip at Magdalene after much taunting. The nip sealed the deal for Suzy's future happiness on a friend's farm. She is now letting her hair grow out and regaining control of her bodily functions.
Delilah is our first cat, she is wisely sticking close to Paul. I wish her the best of luck during her stay at our house.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
You've Gotta Have Faith
Claire and I were fortunate enough to have one semester in undergraduate together. She was a "freshie" and I was completing my last semester. It was a riot. We were room mates and we decided during the summer to take a class together. Since I hadn't taken any theology classes, and it is Franciscan University, I thought it would behoove me to take a course. We took "Foundations of Catholicism." It was a lower-level theology class, and Claire and I were excited to be able to coordinate a class that we could take together. We discussed how we could NOT make each other laugh during this course. It was too easy for both of us to make the other laugh, and it could not happen in the classroom. We vowed that we would behave.
Claire and I walked into the classroom and I remember heading for the back of the classroom, it must have been the senior in me. All the while Claire is seating herself in the second row of the classroom. Oh well, I joined her in the second row. I was "that freshman" too. And I couldn't really complain because I had the second closes seat to the door. Our class settled in and I think I was the only upperclassman there. They asked the generic nervous questions, where are you from, what's your major, what's your favorite color... and so on. Claire and I were chatting with each other and taking it all in.
There was a wide-eyed, energetic young man that took he seat next to Claire and unknowingly gained the nickname "dolphin" because of his tendency to bob his head up and down in an overly friendly way. This one would nod and smile so intently, you felt uncomfortable making a conversation with him. This young man took a liking to Claire, normally I would be a little defensive of her, but his crush was a joke. He actually called our room to study for the midterm (asking for Claire) listening to this message brought on fits of laughter from the both of us. As I am writing this, I realize that dolphin deserves his own paragraph. He was always on. If he was happy ... it was bursting from every cell of his body. If he was intently listening to the professor... his entire being was in it, nodding all the while. He was tall and scrawny and had greasy blonde hair that usually had a clump in the back sticking up. His pants were 80's style above the bellybutton and scrunched in from his belt, which was the only thing holding his pants up. Why do I know so much about this young man's pants, you might wonder. Well it is because he tucked his shirts in. I don't mean a neat tuck in, that leaves the shirt looking loose and comfortable. I mean a tuck in job where you wonder... where is the other half of this man's shirt? One day Claire and I saw him coming in the cafeteria and we chugged the rest of our orange juice and put away our tray before he could stop us. On our way back to the dorm we saw him in the distance, holding an apple... apparently he only needed a snack. He was gaining on us, but we started to jog. When we walked through the doors, Claire spotted a pink boa and we proceeded to tie the door shut with it. We watched for as long as we could stay out of eyesight. He was befuddled and his overly-expressive face displayed that very well. First he pushed, no good. The he stuck his arms through the door and tried to gently untie it, no good. Finally he mustered all the violence he had in him and gave the door a push and the boa floated to the floor. He started to laugh, then looked around and gently placed the lifeless boa onto the table. Claire and I were roaring with laughter. Dolphin was a victim of the Nichols sisters. It was good for him.
Back to Fundamentals of Catholicism. Father Don. A classic, is that a toupee?... rolley polely monk. He had a tendency of getting flustered with debate and "ridiculous questions." Needless to say... he spent the entire semester with our class very flustered. This left Claire and myself stifling laughter throughout the semester, waiting for this red-faced oversized monk to explode. An unforgettable Father Don moment was when a student asked would there be any questions about The Trinity on the test (a topic that we spent and inordinate amount of time on). And he said "of course we will (with every word he got redder and redder) now enough of these questions...you're in college now, if we went over it, be prepared to see it on your test... now then... put that in your hat and smoke it later." Claire and I were stifling laughter for the rest of the class. The theology in this class was, to quote David Sedaris, "theology that would give the pope an aneurism." One example was a young man who wanted so desperately the approval of Father Don and was incessantly trying to gain his approval by giving examples and raising his hand whenever a question was asked. He was always at the edge of his seat, his wheels were always turning, perhaps turning the wrong way. Either way, he never got things straight. While discussing the Trinity someone, of course, gave the example of a clover as if it were of their own creation. His hand was in the air the second this was said. He didn't know what he was going to say, but it would be something. Father Don tried to avoid looking on that side of the room. "Ok then, moving on..." Father Don, Father Don!" "Yes, what is it?" "Well I was thinking," he began (looking quite pensive), "do you suppose you could say the Trinity is like a three-legged deer?" Sadly, he wasn't being funny, however the class burst in to laughter as Father Don's head looked like it was the apex of a volcano about to erupt. "NO, I don't think you could say that at all, now THINK before you raise that hand of yours."
Another entertaining moment of the class was when someone who was towards the back of the room accidentally let one rip. He probably thought it would be silent and the stench could be untraced. Unfortunately it was loud and the source of this noise could not be denied. Claire and I started shaking with stifled laughter and became redder and redder. There was silence in the room, except for Claire and my gasps for air. Father Don droned on at the board. Then something very unexpected happened ... we heard a chortle from the depths of Father Don's being the chalk fell, he tried to compose himself and he sat down, then he burst into laughter, so then, did Claire and I and the rest of the class. Poor kid, he will never forget that day in class. Neither will Claire and I. Father Don eventually composed himself. Claire and I could not.
During the Foundations of Catholicism final exam the question about the Trinity came up, and the first thing that came to mind was a three legged deer. Although most of the theology did not stick, taking a class with Claire is something that would be dangerous for the both of us, and for the entire class. If ever given the opportunity again, I would take a class with her in a heartbeat.
Claire and I walked into the classroom and I remember heading for the back of the classroom, it must have been the senior in me. All the while Claire is seating herself in the second row of the classroom. Oh well, I joined her in the second row. I was "that freshman" too. And I couldn't really complain because I had the second closes seat to the door. Our class settled in and I think I was the only upperclassman there. They asked the generic nervous questions, where are you from, what's your major, what's your favorite color... and so on. Claire and I were chatting with each other and taking it all in.
There was a wide-eyed, energetic young man that took he seat next to Claire and unknowingly gained the nickname "dolphin" because of his tendency to bob his head up and down in an overly friendly way. This one would nod and smile so intently, you felt uncomfortable making a conversation with him. This young man took a liking to Claire, normally I would be a little defensive of her, but his crush was a joke. He actually called our room to study for the midterm (asking for Claire) listening to this message brought on fits of laughter from the both of us. As I am writing this, I realize that dolphin deserves his own paragraph. He was always on. If he was happy ... it was bursting from every cell of his body. If he was intently listening to the professor... his entire being was in it, nodding all the while. He was tall and scrawny and had greasy blonde hair that usually had a clump in the back sticking up. His pants were 80's style above the bellybutton and scrunched in from his belt, which was the only thing holding his pants up. Why do I know so much about this young man's pants, you might wonder. Well it is because he tucked his shirts in. I don't mean a neat tuck in, that leaves the shirt looking loose and comfortable. I mean a tuck in job where you wonder... where is the other half of this man's shirt? One day Claire and I saw him coming in the cafeteria and we chugged the rest of our orange juice and put away our tray before he could stop us. On our way back to the dorm we saw him in the distance, holding an apple... apparently he only needed a snack. He was gaining on us, but we started to jog. When we walked through the doors, Claire spotted a pink boa and we proceeded to tie the door shut with it. We watched for as long as we could stay out of eyesight. He was befuddled and his overly-expressive face displayed that very well. First he pushed, no good. The he stuck his arms through the door and tried to gently untie it, no good. Finally he mustered all the violence he had in him and gave the door a push and the boa floated to the floor. He started to laugh, then looked around and gently placed the lifeless boa onto the table. Claire and I were roaring with laughter. Dolphin was a victim of the Nichols sisters. It was good for him.
Back to Fundamentals of Catholicism. Father Don. A classic, is that a toupee?... rolley polely monk. He had a tendency of getting flustered with debate and "ridiculous questions." Needless to say... he spent the entire semester with our class very flustered. This left Claire and myself stifling laughter throughout the semester, waiting for this red-faced oversized monk to explode. An unforgettable Father Don moment was when a student asked would there be any questions about The Trinity on the test (a topic that we spent and inordinate amount of time on). And he said "of course we will (with every word he got redder and redder) now enough of these questions...you're in college now, if we went over it, be prepared to see it on your test... now then... put that in your hat and smoke it later." Claire and I were stifling laughter for the rest of the class. The theology in this class was, to quote David Sedaris, "theology that would give the pope an aneurism." One example was a young man who wanted so desperately the approval of Father Don and was incessantly trying to gain his approval by giving examples and raising his hand whenever a question was asked. He was always at the edge of his seat, his wheels were always turning, perhaps turning the wrong way. Either way, he never got things straight. While discussing the Trinity someone, of course, gave the example of a clover as if it were of their own creation. His hand was in the air the second this was said. He didn't know what he was going to say, but it would be something. Father Don tried to avoid looking on that side of the room. "Ok then, moving on..." Father Don, Father Don!" "Yes, what is it?" "Well I was thinking," he began (looking quite pensive), "do you suppose you could say the Trinity is like a three-legged deer?" Sadly, he wasn't being funny, however the class burst in to laughter as Father Don's head looked like it was the apex of a volcano about to erupt. "NO, I don't think you could say that at all, now THINK before you raise that hand of yours."
Another entertaining moment of the class was when someone who was towards the back of the room accidentally let one rip. He probably thought it would be silent and the stench could be untraced. Unfortunately it was loud and the source of this noise could not be denied. Claire and I started shaking with stifled laughter and became redder and redder. There was silence in the room, except for Claire and my gasps for air. Father Don droned on at the board. Then something very unexpected happened ... we heard a chortle from the depths of Father Don's being the chalk fell, he tried to compose himself and he sat down, then he burst into laughter, so then, did Claire and I and the rest of the class. Poor kid, he will never forget that day in class. Neither will Claire and I. Father Don eventually composed himself. Claire and I could not.
During the Foundations of Catholicism final exam the question about the Trinity came up, and the first thing that came to mind was a three legged deer. Although most of the theology did not stick, taking a class with Claire is something that would be dangerous for the both of us, and for the entire class. If ever given the opportunity again, I would take a class with her in a heartbeat.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
For the Love of Chocolate
Our family was heading home from a family vacation and because this family vacation included quite a few members of our extended family, we were scattered around the plane. This was fine with me. I was sitting next to an elderly woman and her husband, we exchanged smiles and I helped her put one of her bags in the overhead compartment.
I settled into my seat, I pulled out the book I was reading, partly for show, so that the woman would look over and be impressed with my interest in reading, oh and a classic too!!!! I smiled to myself as I looked into my carry on. It included a CD player, CD's, batteries, chocolate, various snacks, a bottle of water, my glasses case (my glasses were on partly for show too), and my journal that I kept during our vacation. I glanced across the plane as people were settling into their seats and the announcements started about how to fasten your seatbelt and felt particularly content with where I was seated.
There was the remainder of my family, in for a long flight. Mom and Dad were matched up with Veronica and John while Aunt Denise was sitting with Paul. Claire was with Grandma Nichols in the two seats in front of me and the rest of our group was out of my range of vision, which was just fine with me. I began to feel more at ease and wondered what snacks would be going around and what movies would be played during our long flight. I read for awhile, and when my eyes began to become tired I put away my book and decided to put on my headphones. During that process I reached down to get my purse and when I looked up, there was Claire's sleepy face looking at me and she asked me for a piece of chocolate "since I had my purse out anyway." I was a bit annoyed that I was being asked when she had just as much chocolate; it was just in the overhead compartment. It was a bit of an inconvenience to me, I mean taking out the chocolate, unwrapping it and breaking off a piece. I looked at her and as I put my headphones on my ears and shut my eyes I said "eat your own." Even for me, this was rude. There was no reason that I shouldn't have given her a piece. I had created a bubble, which included the woman next to me who wouldn't interfere with my trip or make conversation. I was irritable, it had been a long trip and we were all tired. But honestly, she wanted chocolate and she even waited for the opportune moment of me having out my purse. I now wonder how long she had been waiting to make her move. She knew that I'd be reaching for my purse periodically; she wasn't facing me, so I wonder how long she had been cranking her neck, waiting for me to make my move so she could go in for the kill.
I tried to have my music distract me. The guilt started creeping in and began to consume me. A few minutes later, I too had a chocolate craving, but couldn't fully enjoy it, thinking about how I deprived Claire of that same enjoyment. So, that is when I decided to hand her a piece, a generous piece of chocolate. Her eyes were droopy and she had her headphones on. I felt so good, I had done a good thing, even though I had sacrificed a piece of it, it wouldn't go unremembered, I would remind her when she was opening hers when we got back home. A few minutes later the movie started and I plugged in my headphones and began to watch. I saw Claire stand up and I heard my grandmother's laugh and her voice say "oh poor Claire." I wondered what had happened. When I looked up I saw Claire with Chocolate melted on her pants, her hand and her hair. She was in disbelief, she was in a daze. She said that she had fallen asleep with it. She then took the walk of shame to the bathroom. I was laughing so hard, shameless. I have a tendency of laughing at other's embarrassment. I was absolutely cracking up, my face was red, I think my leg was slapped as well. I was shaking in my seat. When I calmed down and had a few tired bursts of laughter I looked toward my neighbors, completely forgetting them. The woman had a look of "oh really, I guess we've seen your true colors." I uncomfortably pulled open my book and tried to forget her stare that indicated that I wasn't the person she thought I was.
All I had to do was forget the situation ever happened and not laugh anymore and then perhaps I would be able to re-enter my neighbor's good graces. Just as I thought I was going to be able to control my self, Claire walked back to her seat with a look of bitterness that sent me over the edge again. This time, I caught more than my seat-mate's eye, there were several turned heads. I was going to laugh, and that woman could judge all she wanted to, it was funny. Good deeds to not go unrewarded.
I settled into my seat, I pulled out the book I was reading, partly for show, so that the woman would look over and be impressed with my interest in reading, oh and a classic too!!!! I smiled to myself as I looked into my carry on. It included a CD player, CD's, batteries, chocolate, various snacks, a bottle of water, my glasses case (my glasses were on partly for show too), and my journal that I kept during our vacation. I glanced across the plane as people were settling into their seats and the announcements started about how to fasten your seatbelt and felt particularly content with where I was seated.
There was the remainder of my family, in for a long flight. Mom and Dad were matched up with Veronica and John while Aunt Denise was sitting with Paul. Claire was with Grandma Nichols in the two seats in front of me and the rest of our group was out of my range of vision, which was just fine with me. I began to feel more at ease and wondered what snacks would be going around and what movies would be played during our long flight. I read for awhile, and when my eyes began to become tired I put away my book and decided to put on my headphones. During that process I reached down to get my purse and when I looked up, there was Claire's sleepy face looking at me and she asked me for a piece of chocolate "since I had my purse out anyway." I was a bit annoyed that I was being asked when she had just as much chocolate; it was just in the overhead compartment. It was a bit of an inconvenience to me, I mean taking out the chocolate, unwrapping it and breaking off a piece. I looked at her and as I put my headphones on my ears and shut my eyes I said "eat your own." Even for me, this was rude. There was no reason that I shouldn't have given her a piece. I had created a bubble, which included the woman next to me who wouldn't interfere with my trip or make conversation. I was irritable, it had been a long trip and we were all tired. But honestly, she wanted chocolate and she even waited for the opportune moment of me having out my purse. I now wonder how long she had been waiting to make her move. She knew that I'd be reaching for my purse periodically; she wasn't facing me, so I wonder how long she had been cranking her neck, waiting for me to make my move so she could go in for the kill.
I tried to have my music distract me. The guilt started creeping in and began to consume me. A few minutes later, I too had a chocolate craving, but couldn't fully enjoy it, thinking about how I deprived Claire of that same enjoyment. So, that is when I decided to hand her a piece, a generous piece of chocolate. Her eyes were droopy and she had her headphones on. I felt so good, I had done a good thing, even though I had sacrificed a piece of it, it wouldn't go unremembered, I would remind her when she was opening hers when we got back home. A few minutes later the movie started and I plugged in my headphones and began to watch. I saw Claire stand up and I heard my grandmother's laugh and her voice say "oh poor Claire." I wondered what had happened. When I looked up I saw Claire with Chocolate melted on her pants, her hand and her hair. She was in disbelief, she was in a daze. She said that she had fallen asleep with it. She then took the walk of shame to the bathroom. I was laughing so hard, shameless. I have a tendency of laughing at other's embarrassment. I was absolutely cracking up, my face was red, I think my leg was slapped as well. I was shaking in my seat. When I calmed down and had a few tired bursts of laughter I looked toward my neighbors, completely forgetting them. The woman had a look of "oh really, I guess we've seen your true colors." I uncomfortably pulled open my book and tried to forget her stare that indicated that I wasn't the person she thought I was.
All I had to do was forget the situation ever happened and not laugh anymore and then perhaps I would be able to re-enter my neighbor's good graces. Just as I thought I was going to be able to control my self, Claire walked back to her seat with a look of bitterness that sent me over the edge again. This time, I caught more than my seat-mate's eye, there were several turned heads. I was going to laugh, and that woman could judge all she wanted to, it was funny. Good deeds to not go unrewarded.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Spinning Cabinet Doors
A vivid memory I share with Mom and Claire of dizzying embarrassment. We were driving in our maroon '80's model Chevrolet. Claire and I were in the back seat, it was the summertime. We had stopped for lunch and were on our way to a store that sold doors, cabinets, handles, faucets. It was a small-town version of Lowes.
Mom was browsing for new cabinets for our kitchen and there was an older women (she seemed old at the time, but in reality she was probably in her late twenties or early thirties) that was helping her decide on the style, the handles etc. Claire and I followed her around like little ducklings for awhile. Not long after we arrived Claire and I got a little rambunctious. So we told mom where we would be. There were towering racks of sinks and doors. Something particularly fascinating was a hollow tower of cabinet doors that revolved. Claire and I had fun opening them and looking inside the mysterious doors and eventually we came up with a game of crawling inside and spinning each other until the other yelled "stop!"
This was an entertaining game, and it kept us content for awhile. All of this was just out of the range of vision of mom and the lady helping her. I must bring to the forefront of your mind that we had just eaten. It was my turn and I crawled into the small circular space and heard the whirring while I was being spun by Claire. I could hear her laughter with the whirring and my forehead began to sweat a little and the air around me suddenly felt hot and sticky and seemed to contain no oxygen. I panicked. "Claire, STOP this thing!" I could hear her little hands trying to cling to the sides, desperately trying to stop it. Or at least I think that is what she was doing... Anyway, her efforts were of no avail and I was at a space camp in a machine that made you feel as though you were being flung into the depths of outer space with no control or gravity. My lunch began to orbit in the opposite direction my body was spinning. I panicked. I saw the outline of a door and wound my legs back and gave the door a whack. The door popped out, the room was spinning. Claire looked at the door, then at me. Unfortunately, I discovered, I had kicked out a door that had no hinges. Instead it had been glued to our space machine. The other doors opened easily.
The cabinet door bouncing off of the floor caused quite a racket that brought out mom and the woman. There I was, looking rather green, staring up at them half in her spinning display. Claire, looking at her feet, was looking bashful. The woman who worked there had a look of horror and mom quietly said, "Girls wait in the car." She didn't say it in a harsh way at all, but rather in an instructional way. Claire and I, with our tails between our legs went to wait in the car. Together, we came up with all of the punishments that were possible for our bad behavior. We came up with excuses and we were prepared for the worst. We saw mom walking towards us, and we braced ourselves and looked toward the floor. "Alright girls, thanks for being so patient, let's get ice cream." Ice cream is something we did not prepare for but could easily adjust to.
Mom was browsing for new cabinets for our kitchen and there was an older women (she seemed old at the time, but in reality she was probably in her late twenties or early thirties) that was helping her decide on the style, the handles etc. Claire and I followed her around like little ducklings for awhile. Not long after we arrived Claire and I got a little rambunctious. So we told mom where we would be. There were towering racks of sinks and doors. Something particularly fascinating was a hollow tower of cabinet doors that revolved. Claire and I had fun opening them and looking inside the mysterious doors and eventually we came up with a game of crawling inside and spinning each other until the other yelled "stop!"
This was an entertaining game, and it kept us content for awhile. All of this was just out of the range of vision of mom and the lady helping her. I must bring to the forefront of your mind that we had just eaten. It was my turn and I crawled into the small circular space and heard the whirring while I was being spun by Claire. I could hear her laughter with the whirring and my forehead began to sweat a little and the air around me suddenly felt hot and sticky and seemed to contain no oxygen. I panicked. "Claire, STOP this thing!" I could hear her little hands trying to cling to the sides, desperately trying to stop it. Or at least I think that is what she was doing... Anyway, her efforts were of no avail and I was at a space camp in a machine that made you feel as though you were being flung into the depths of outer space with no control or gravity. My lunch began to orbit in the opposite direction my body was spinning. I panicked. I saw the outline of a door and wound my legs back and gave the door a whack. The door popped out, the room was spinning. Claire looked at the door, then at me. Unfortunately, I discovered, I had kicked out a door that had no hinges. Instead it had been glued to our space machine. The other doors opened easily.
The cabinet door bouncing off of the floor caused quite a racket that brought out mom and the woman. There I was, looking rather green, staring up at them half in her spinning display. Claire, looking at her feet, was looking bashful. The woman who worked there had a look of horror and mom quietly said, "Girls wait in the car." She didn't say it in a harsh way at all, but rather in an instructional way. Claire and I, with our tails between our legs went to wait in the car. Together, we came up with all of the punishments that were possible for our bad behavior. We came up with excuses and we were prepared for the worst. We saw mom walking towards us, and we braced ourselves and looked toward the floor. "Alright girls, thanks for being so patient, let's get ice cream." Ice cream is something we did not prepare for but could easily adjust to.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Manly
I believe that Claire would concur that she and I have gotten ourselves in some of the most awkward situations. Many of these situations have been products of our "volunteer experiences." These experiences were required of all the summers I remember since I became a teenager. Actually, I remember being quite young when my mother would take us to bring sugar cookies, in the shape of flowers, to the residents at our local nursing home. I remember walking down the halls with the taste of sugar-cookies in my mouth and a very distinct smell enveloping my nostrils. I was always glad to be home afterwards. But it sure felt good to talk about what a good person you were by telling them what you did with part of your weekend. Telling people this, especially as little girls always made a good impression. This experience that I shared with my mother and sister is good, at least what I can remember of it, maybe that's the point.
At any rate, Claire and I had to come up with places, each summer, to volunteer. This is the part of the summer we dreaded. We were in charge of our own destiny, we were able to choose where we would spend the humid hours of the summer in Northern New York. Deciding on a place entailed much heavy sighing and rolling our eyes. The end product is "yes it was a good experience," but knowing what lies ahead, or rather not knowing what lies ahead but knowing the amount of time that will go into it is a daunting feeling.
Almanzo Wilder. He is known for being married to the author, Laura Ingalls, and his childhood remains in the memories of many, because of her book "Farmer Boy." If you have visited us in Malone, I am sure we have brought you to his homestead, which is now a historical site. It is a quaint red house with white shutters and it also has a barn that had to be rebuilt because it was struck by lightning. Archeological students from a college nearby found the original foundation of this barn and they created the barn based on Almanzo's drawings. Apparently, he was only a few inches off of the measurements he gave from memory. There is a little bookstore/museum that is next to the farm. The Wilder farm also is the site of Civil War re-enactments every summer, where people get to play dress up. Of this Claire and I are guilty. There are photos that document this point of our childhood when we simply didn't know better, but we should have. All I have to say is that these pictures are perfect blackmail, if my parents were ever looking for it.
Why, you might ask, do I know so much about this quaint little home in Burke, N.Y? It is the site of our volunteer experience in the summer of 2003. This was a nerve-wracking experience, to say the least. Claire and I were unsure as to what our duties would entail. Cleaning, cash register, research? We walked in the first day, and got a private tour of the place (A tour we have taken every summer up to that point, at least twice.) At the end of the tour, our tour guide informed us that we would be giving the tours that summer, on the three days a week we were there. I'm sure she saw the shock and horror that we felt, because I felt my jaw drop and my eyes widen. The possibilites of embarassment were endless and they were racing through our minds. How are we supposed to remember all of the information? That question was answered immediately when we were given a booklet of information that we were to study (we were not allowed to bring it on the tour). When Claire and I got home we studied quite a bit and we still felt jittery about the next day, where we would be giving a tour.
When we got there, we gave our first tour with our tour guide, we will call her "Ellie," and she supervised it and put in little pieces we missed. All in all, we did a fine job! She was pleased, and so were we. We settled into a routine during that day, in regard to when Claire would speak and when I would speak. It was a good day. The next day, however, did not go so smoothly. It was an early, foggy morning and Claire and I pulled up in the silver van and sat there with our Dunkin' Donut's coffee and donuts and realized the hours ahead would be long, especially with the promise of rain in the foreboding grey clouds. The honeymoon was over. We decided we better go in, after our breakfast. When we walked in we had time to talk with her about the tour times. We both insisted we do the tours together, just incase we forgot anything, the other would probably remember. She agreed, probably more than we knew at the time. So we started off with a group that came from South Carolina. They were not properly dressed for the "summer" in the North Country. The were wearing shorts, tank tops, and parkas. As Claire and I brought them around the museum we heard the wind whistling as it was rushing by the little building. We took our time and indulged in all of their questions as we dreaded the outdoor part of the tour.
It was time. We all went outside, the parkas were sails on a ship during a storm. Then it quieted down as we made our way between the museum and the barn. Claire and I were both, not in the mood. Not at all. Our group was more interested in their next question than our answers. So, it made for a longer than usual tour. It was Claire's turn to discuss Almanzo's ancestors and how they came upon this plot of land and built their home and barn. She also usually went into a bit of the genealogy she had studied from our little booklet of facts. Instead she told the peppy group, "Almanzo's ancestor's came through the... the trees"... and then, in response to the questioning and blank looks on the groups faces and the sheer horror and disgust on mine, she pointed to the woods across the street. There was a moment of silence. There was a point in that moment where I thought about how awful this was and how all of my friends were pool side, sipping on lemonade. Then I decided the tour was mine. Not one word would I let Claire speak. I went through the entire tour as fast as possible. I don't thing our group knew what hit them. When they left, they looked as though they barely survived the storm, with their parka's limp and their faces, sullen.
Claire and I duked it out after the tour, had a few terse words, and then managed to give tours to colorful crowds of people for the remainder of the summer. Yes we survived. The following summer volunteer experience was in California...
At any rate, Claire and I had to come up with places, each summer, to volunteer. This is the part of the summer we dreaded. We were in charge of our own destiny, we were able to choose where we would spend the humid hours of the summer in Northern New York. Deciding on a place entailed much heavy sighing and rolling our eyes. The end product is "yes it was a good experience," but knowing what lies ahead, or rather not knowing what lies ahead but knowing the amount of time that will go into it is a daunting feeling.
Almanzo Wilder. He is known for being married to the author, Laura Ingalls, and his childhood remains in the memories of many, because of her book "Farmer Boy." If you have visited us in Malone, I am sure we have brought you to his homestead, which is now a historical site. It is a quaint red house with white shutters and it also has a barn that had to be rebuilt because it was struck by lightning. Archeological students from a college nearby found the original foundation of this barn and they created the barn based on Almanzo's drawings. Apparently, he was only a few inches off of the measurements he gave from memory. There is a little bookstore/museum that is next to the farm. The Wilder farm also is the site of Civil War re-enactments every summer, where people get to play dress up. Of this Claire and I are guilty. There are photos that document this point of our childhood when we simply didn't know better, but we should have. All I have to say is that these pictures are perfect blackmail, if my parents were ever looking for it.
Why, you might ask, do I know so much about this quaint little home in Burke, N.Y? It is the site of our volunteer experience in the summer of 2003. This was a nerve-wracking experience, to say the least. Claire and I were unsure as to what our duties would entail. Cleaning, cash register, research? We walked in the first day, and got a private tour of the place (A tour we have taken every summer up to that point, at least twice.) At the end of the tour, our tour guide informed us that we would be giving the tours that summer, on the three days a week we were there. I'm sure she saw the shock and horror that we felt, because I felt my jaw drop and my eyes widen. The possibilites of embarassment were endless and they were racing through our minds. How are we supposed to remember all of the information? That question was answered immediately when we were given a booklet of information that we were to study (we were not allowed to bring it on the tour). When Claire and I got home we studied quite a bit and we still felt jittery about the next day, where we would be giving a tour.
When we got there, we gave our first tour with our tour guide, we will call her "Ellie," and she supervised it and put in little pieces we missed. All in all, we did a fine job! She was pleased, and so were we. We settled into a routine during that day, in regard to when Claire would speak and when I would speak. It was a good day. The next day, however, did not go so smoothly. It was an early, foggy morning and Claire and I pulled up in the silver van and sat there with our Dunkin' Donut's coffee and donuts and realized the hours ahead would be long, especially with the promise of rain in the foreboding grey clouds. The honeymoon was over. We decided we better go in, after our breakfast. When we walked in we had time to talk with her about the tour times. We both insisted we do the tours together, just incase we forgot anything, the other would probably remember. She agreed, probably more than we knew at the time. So we started off with a group that came from South Carolina. They were not properly dressed for the "summer" in the North Country. The were wearing shorts, tank tops, and parkas. As Claire and I brought them around the museum we heard the wind whistling as it was rushing by the little building. We took our time and indulged in all of their questions as we dreaded the outdoor part of the tour.
It was time. We all went outside, the parkas were sails on a ship during a storm. Then it quieted down as we made our way between the museum and the barn. Claire and I were both, not in the mood. Not at all. Our group was more interested in their next question than our answers. So, it made for a longer than usual tour. It was Claire's turn to discuss Almanzo's ancestors and how they came upon this plot of land and built their home and barn. She also usually went into a bit of the genealogy she had studied from our little booklet of facts. Instead she told the peppy group, "Almanzo's ancestor's came through the... the trees"... and then, in response to the questioning and blank looks on the groups faces and the sheer horror and disgust on mine, she pointed to the woods across the street. There was a moment of silence. There was a point in that moment where I thought about how awful this was and how all of my friends were pool side, sipping on lemonade. Then I decided the tour was mine. Not one word would I let Claire speak. I went through the entire tour as fast as possible. I don't thing our group knew what hit them. When they left, they looked as though they barely survived the storm, with their parka's limp and their faces, sullen.
Claire and I duked it out after the tour, had a few terse words, and then managed to give tours to colorful crowds of people for the remainder of the summer. Yes we survived. The following summer volunteer experience was in California...
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Where's Sherlock?
As a kid, I remember really enjoying the Sherlock Holmes series. I would love watching it and even if I had already watched the episode before, I found myself sucked into the thrill of solving the mystery. There is something about a good mystery that grabs my attention and makes me want to discover the outcome. This has continued up to the present, whether its a Harry Potter book or a "Desperate Housewives" episode.
With that being said, I need to clarify that I enjoy being entertained by a good mystery. However, I do not enjoy being the victim in a mystery. That is exactly what I became.
I was fairly young when I began to read the "Little House on the Prairie" Mom bought the set and the books were placed on the bookcase in the upstairs hallway. There is nothing like cracking open the cover of a new book. So I began with "Little House in the Big Woods" and I was flying through it. It was summertime and this series is what I wanted to finish. I was on the last chapter of the book and I couldn't wait to start the next. So, I decided to walk over to the bookshelf and get my hands on it so that I could go from one book to the next immediately.
As I walked by the bookshelf, which was immediately outside of my room, I noticed something strange, "Farmer Boy" was missing. I was beyond frustrated. This was decreasing my reading pace. "MOOOOOOOOOMMMM! Have you seen the "Farmer Boy" book anywhere," I bellowed down the stairway. "Come down here and talk to me, don't yell down the stairs." I bolted down and told her about my dilemma. She was confused too, she just purchased the series and already some books were going missing. We searched all over together. With each passing minute, my annoyance grew. I walked by Claire's room and asked her if she had moved any of the books. "No, I looked at them, but I didn't move any." "Well if you find it, please tell me." "sure."
The search continued, probably longer in my memory than in actuality. I was annoyed. Mom suggested I read the next book on the shelf. "No way, I want to read the NEXT one!" Well, we can either get a new one tomorrow, or we can get it at the library. Suddenly Claire's head appeared at my doorway. "Maureen, I found your book." "WHERE was it?" "It was in the living room." Ok, I'll accept that, just give me the book! So I took the book and continued reading. This event did not come to mind until I was almost done with "Farmer Boy" and about to need the "Little House on the Prairie" book. I walked by the book shelf and it was deja vu. The book was gone. Things unfolded in a similar fashion as they did for the missing "Farmer Boy." All the events were similar and Claire was the "hero" who eventually found the book. This is where I made my mistake. Things would have gone on this way, only seven more times and I would have, after a ritual search, had the next book. No, I couldn't help but open my mouth. "Claire, you're hiding the books!" "No I am NOT!" This went on for some time. Mom, much more gently than I, asked her "Claire, have you been taking the books?" "No." So I furiously shut myself in my room for much of the rest of the afternoon. A day or two later I was ready for "On the Bank of Plum Creek."
As I walked to the book shelf something strange occurred. The next three books were missing. We searched and searched, only this time, we didn't have the "hero" at the end of the search who "found" the books. No, this time they were gone. So the next day we went to buy those books. She didn't budge. Finally, after the purchase, somehow mom got it out of her that she was hiding them. They had a talk that ended the mystery of the Laura Ingalls Wilder Books. I still remember hearing mom tell dad about it and hearing them laugh in the kitchen about it. Looking back now I can see the humor. But at that time I had a Professor Moriarty to deal with and no Holmes.
With that being said, I need to clarify that I enjoy being entertained by a good mystery. However, I do not enjoy being the victim in a mystery. That is exactly what I became.
I was fairly young when I began to read the "Little House on the Prairie" Mom bought the set and the books were placed on the bookcase in the upstairs hallway. There is nothing like cracking open the cover of a new book. So I began with "Little House in the Big Woods" and I was flying through it. It was summertime and this series is what I wanted to finish. I was on the last chapter of the book and I couldn't wait to start the next. So, I decided to walk over to the bookshelf and get my hands on it so that I could go from one book to the next immediately.
As I walked by the bookshelf, which was immediately outside of my room, I noticed something strange, "Farmer Boy" was missing. I was beyond frustrated. This was decreasing my reading pace. "MOOOOOOOOOMMMM! Have you seen the "Farmer Boy" book anywhere," I bellowed down the stairway. "Come down here and talk to me, don't yell down the stairs." I bolted down and told her about my dilemma. She was confused too, she just purchased the series and already some books were going missing. We searched all over together. With each passing minute, my annoyance grew. I walked by Claire's room and asked her if she had moved any of the books. "No, I looked at them, but I didn't move any." "Well if you find it, please tell me." "sure."
The search continued, probably longer in my memory than in actuality. I was annoyed. Mom suggested I read the next book on the shelf. "No way, I want to read the NEXT one!" Well, we can either get a new one tomorrow, or we can get it at the library. Suddenly Claire's head appeared at my doorway. "Maureen, I found your book." "WHERE was it?" "It was in the living room." Ok, I'll accept that, just give me the book! So I took the book and continued reading. This event did not come to mind until I was almost done with "Farmer Boy" and about to need the "Little House on the Prairie" book. I walked by the book shelf and it was deja vu. The book was gone. Things unfolded in a similar fashion as they did for the missing "Farmer Boy." All the events were similar and Claire was the "hero" who eventually found the book. This is where I made my mistake. Things would have gone on this way, only seven more times and I would have, after a ritual search, had the next book. No, I couldn't help but open my mouth. "Claire, you're hiding the books!" "No I am NOT!" This went on for some time. Mom, much more gently than I, asked her "Claire, have you been taking the books?" "No." So I furiously shut myself in my room for much of the rest of the afternoon. A day or two later I was ready for "On the Bank of Plum Creek."
As I walked to the book shelf something strange occurred. The next three books were missing. We searched and searched, only this time, we didn't have the "hero" at the end of the search who "found" the books. No, this time they were gone. So the next day we went to buy those books. She didn't budge. Finally, after the purchase, somehow mom got it out of her that she was hiding them. They had a talk that ended the mystery of the Laura Ingalls Wilder Books. I still remember hearing mom tell dad about it and hearing them laugh in the kitchen about it. Looking back now I can see the humor. But at that time I had a Professor Moriarty to deal with and no Holmes.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Flushed Away
Growing up, and especially now that I am in college, I am always hearing off hand jokes about why girls always go to the bathroom together. If a group of friends go out to dinner and one girl states that she will be making a trip to the restroom, at least one, if not all the other girls in the group give each other knowing looks and together, blaze their trail to the restroom. This is always followed with a chorus of the guys asking, "Why to girls always go to the bathroom together?"
Well, most women have their reasons for traveling in a pack to the bathroom, but mine is a bit different than most.
I have a fear of locking myself in the bathroom and not being able to get out. Crazy...I know. But before judgments are made, let me tell you how it all started...
Well, most women have their reasons for traveling in a pack to the bathroom, but mine is a bit different than most.
I have a fear of locking myself in the bathroom and not being able to get out. Crazy...I know. But before judgments are made, let me tell you how it all started...
I was about seven years old. Grandpa and Grandma Anne were visiting from Niagara Falls. During their visit, Maureen and I brought them to Lake Placid for the day. In the afternoon we stopped at a pizza parlor, where Maureen and I, to the annoyance of our grandparents, pulled off all the cheese and ate the dough and sauce. After enjoying our pizza sans cheese and a few too many Shirley Temples, I had to go to the bathroom...badly. I got up, expecting Maureen to get up with me, but she just smiled. "I can do this", I thought to myself. I even was able to ask the waiter where the nearest bathroom was, all by myself. I went in, locked the door, and while I was in the bathroom I heard a knock..."Umm...just a second, some one's in here". I was in complete panic. I hurried up, washed my hands and without drying them, proceeded to unlock the door to get out. The lock wouldn't budge. I ran over to the paper towel dispenser and dried my hands and dried the lock. I tried again....nothing. Sheer panic. I continued to try unlocking the door, and when that didn't work I jostled the door handle. I was locked in the bathroom. Did Grandma and Grandpa leave? Did they forget about me? I started to pound on the door with my fists. The woman who had previously knocked on the door wasn't answering. I began to scream. Then came the tears. "HEEEELLLLPPPP.....GRANDMA....GRANDMA", I shrieked, tears gushing down my face. I kept pounding. Could anyone hear me? Yes, someone did.
I heard laughing outside the door. The cook had heard me from the kitchen and had gotten my grandparents and Maureen, "Umm...I think some one's looking for you...in the bathroom", he had told them. The door swung open. There stood the cook, a waiter or two, my grandparents, and Maureen...all heartily laughing.
Not only was this experience terribly frightening, but also extremely mortifying.
I heard laughing outside the door. The cook had heard me from the kitchen and had gotten my grandparents and Maureen, "Umm...I think some one's looking for you...in the bathroom", he had told them. The door swung open. There stood the cook, a waiter or two, my grandparents, and Maureen...all heartily laughing.
Not only was this experience terribly frightening, but also extremely mortifying.
Since then, I have continualy locked myself in bathrooms. At the dentist's, at the school, at a friend's house. Maybe its out of panic, but everytime I go to a public, or private bathroom by myself, I end up locking myself in.
So, I can't tell you exactly why women go to the bathroom together, but this is my reason. Once I hear that someones going to the restroom, I shoot up. I'm always the first to join.
So, I can't tell you exactly why women go to the bathroom together, but this is my reason. Once I hear that someones going to the restroom, I shoot up. I'm always the first to join.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
No Air
Dad, Mom, Claire, Paul and I were staying in Burlington, VT for the weekend. We had spent the day with dad at the Morgan horse museum and some time at the mall with mom. It was, generally speaking, a good weekend. We were staying at a hotel and were able to watch the movies you could order Claire and I were having a good time.
Dad, with book in hand (a companion I've always seen him have), asked if we wanted to go down to the pool. Mom joined with Aunt Denise (I think). Claire and I were having a great time. Pretending we were dolphins, and coming up with God knows what stories or games.
Then, it was time to test the waters. We were clinging to the edge of the pool and making our way around. Claire was following behind me and we were creeping along. At that time, I was fairly proficient in the doggy paddle and as I glanced down at the downward sloping bottom of the pool, my confidence grew. I would be able to handle swimming from one side to the other side of the pool.
It is important to point out that Claire has a certain fear of sharks. I know that I never left an opportunity to frighten her about there being sharks after her. At that age, with a fear like that, your mind makes you forget that sharks do not do well in chlorinated water. "No Claire, there aren't sharks in the pool, MAUREEN, knock it off."
So I was off, I pushed off of the wall and was on my way to the other side, or so I thought. Through the splashing I could hear Claire say "Maureen wait!" She went for it, panicked, grabbed my shoulders and pushed me down. A train could have plowed me down, and I wouldn't have been less surprised. I struggled to get her off of me. Both Claire and I were in survival/adrenaline mode and we weren't getting anywhere fast, which was unfortunate for me because I was being held hostage under the surface. It seemed like I was down there for hours. I couldn't understand why the adults weren't coming to rescue. My feet touched the bottom and I glanced at the downward sloping bottom of the pool. Underwater, your confidence doesn't grow. This was it I thought. So, I decided to go deeper under water, Claire panicked and let go of my shoulders and somehow made it to the other side.
As I emerged from the water, I was enraged. I started yelling at the adults "When were you going to decide to get me," I probably said a thing or two to Claire. I thought they would be rushing over to me asking if I was ok and then shaming Claire. Instead, to my disbelief, was that a smile on all of their faces? Yes, it was and I am positive they were laughing, including the lifeguard. I was BEYOND upset. I suppose the hours that I was struggling for air was, in actuality, a few seconds. Needless to say, I made sure Claire was at a distance the next time I ventured across the pool.
Dad, with book in hand (a companion I've always seen him have), asked if we wanted to go down to the pool. Mom joined with Aunt Denise (I think). Claire and I were having a great time. Pretending we were dolphins, and coming up with God knows what stories or games.
Then, it was time to test the waters. We were clinging to the edge of the pool and making our way around. Claire was following behind me and we were creeping along. At that time, I was fairly proficient in the doggy paddle and as I glanced down at the downward sloping bottom of the pool, my confidence grew. I would be able to handle swimming from one side to the other side of the pool.
It is important to point out that Claire has a certain fear of sharks. I know that I never left an opportunity to frighten her about there being sharks after her. At that age, with a fear like that, your mind makes you forget that sharks do not do well in chlorinated water. "No Claire, there aren't sharks in the pool, MAUREEN, knock it off."
So I was off, I pushed off of the wall and was on my way to the other side, or so I thought. Through the splashing I could hear Claire say "Maureen wait!" She went for it, panicked, grabbed my shoulders and pushed me down. A train could have plowed me down, and I wouldn't have been less surprised. I struggled to get her off of me. Both Claire and I were in survival/adrenaline mode and we weren't getting anywhere fast, which was unfortunate for me because I was being held hostage under the surface. It seemed like I was down there for hours. I couldn't understand why the adults weren't coming to rescue. My feet touched the bottom and I glanced at the downward sloping bottom of the pool. Underwater, your confidence doesn't grow. This was it I thought. So, I decided to go deeper under water, Claire panicked and let go of my shoulders and somehow made it to the other side.
As I emerged from the water, I was enraged. I started yelling at the adults "When were you going to decide to get me," I probably said a thing or two to Claire. I thought they would be rushing over to me asking if I was ok and then shaming Claire. Instead, to my disbelief, was that a smile on all of their faces? Yes, it was and I am positive they were laughing, including the lifeguard. I was BEYOND upset. I suppose the hours that I was struggling for air was, in actuality, a few seconds. Needless to say, I made sure Claire was at a distance the next time I ventured across the pool.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Oven
Growing up, the ever-dreaded chore was the dishes. With every addition to the family this chore became more tedious. However, this story takes place when Paul and John were little. Towards the end of the meal you knew it was coming "Maureen and Claire you have dish duty tonight." This was followed by variations of the same complaints that have been heard over and over. "But I did it last night, or I have homework, or do we have to?" This back and forth of request and excuses lasted for awhile. Needless to say, Claire and I found ourselves in the kitchen with filthy dishes and pans towering over us.
This environment usually led to arguments between the two of us. On this particular night, Claire and I were at each other with arguments. Neither of us could do anything right. I was the designated dish-washer. We continued our banter back and fourth until the threat, "If I have to talk to you girls one more time, no T.V." We were stuck. We couldn't fight over who had what to do and who wasn't helping enough. Claire proceeded to pick up the broom and slowly sweep the floor. This clever girl also decided to play nice with me and start a conversation that would not involve any arguments. We were chatting away, probably about how unfair it was that we were even in the kitchen doing the dishes.
As Claire made her way around the kitchen she stopped at the oven and swished the broom under and dust, refrigerator magnets, and various dried up food bits. We both looked with disgust and fascination about what emerged. As I moved to the pots and pans, Claire proceeded to sit on the floor and position the broom so it could get farther underneath the oven. More and more came out. Before I knew it I finished the dishes and started putting them away in my fascination. Several times Claire mentioned "oh I wish I didn't decide to sweep the floor tonight, its so gross!" Clever, I know.
Things began to come together as I was putting the silver ware away. "Claire you're doing the rest." She knew the jig was up. Until, mom came in and saw the mound of gunk on her kitchen floor. She asked where it was from, and Claire told her it was from under the oven. "Claire, great job sweeping!" "Thanks," she said with a glance of triumph that came my way with the turn of mom's back.
Needless to say, the following evening, I ran for the broom. Claire did the dishes that night. After that, we decided to delegate fairly. I am sure the space under the oven is due for a thorough sweeping, that I know Claire knows how to do.
This environment usually led to arguments between the two of us. On this particular night, Claire and I were at each other with arguments. Neither of us could do anything right. I was the designated dish-washer. We continued our banter back and fourth until the threat, "If I have to talk to you girls one more time, no T.V." We were stuck. We couldn't fight over who had what to do and who wasn't helping enough. Claire proceeded to pick up the broom and slowly sweep the floor. This clever girl also decided to play nice with me and start a conversation that would not involve any arguments. We were chatting away, probably about how unfair it was that we were even in the kitchen doing the dishes.
As Claire made her way around the kitchen she stopped at the oven and swished the broom under and dust, refrigerator magnets, and various dried up food bits. We both looked with disgust and fascination about what emerged. As I moved to the pots and pans, Claire proceeded to sit on the floor and position the broom so it could get farther underneath the oven. More and more came out. Before I knew it I finished the dishes and started putting them away in my fascination. Several times Claire mentioned "oh I wish I didn't decide to sweep the floor tonight, its so gross!" Clever, I know.
Things began to come together as I was putting the silver ware away. "Claire you're doing the rest." She knew the jig was up. Until, mom came in and saw the mound of gunk on her kitchen floor. She asked where it was from, and Claire told her it was from under the oven. "Claire, great job sweeping!" "Thanks," she said with a glance of triumph that came my way with the turn of mom's back.
Needless to say, the following evening, I ran for the broom. Claire did the dishes that night. After that, we decided to delegate fairly. I am sure the space under the oven is due for a thorough sweeping, that I know Claire knows how to do.
An Introduction
For some time, Claire and I have wanted to write down some of the memories and quirky moments that we've had growing up together. Because distance is an issue, she is in Ohio while I'm in New York, we thought that having a blog format would be the best median to use to document the series of random events. Enjoy!
-Maureen
-Maureen
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