Corners of my Mind

The strangest things will pop into my head at the oddest times. I'm talking about things from your past, for better or worse, that have stuck with you for life.

Here a few of mine:

My mother explaining how they had to drop chlorine in their drinking water while vacationing in Egypt.

My 9th grade Home Ec teachers telling us not to put wet dishes back into the cupboards.



Allison making color charts from of her eye shadows and lip gloss.

The smell of my Grandparents kitchen drawers, where the licorice was stored.

A guest speaker in my Mia Maid class, speaking on “Womanhood.” She was a newlywed and explained to us how instead of going to bed without make up, she would wear just a hint of mascara for her husband. My little 15 yr old head absorbed this information up like a sea sponge.

Being taught how to properly wrap a present by Irene Hays in MIA.

My dad losing his testimony while teaching me the secrets of the vehicle clutch. I told him shouting at me would not make me learn any quicker.

The mind numbingly pompous religion teachers at BYU. This is what I heard: “and then the Nephites and the Lamplights blah blah blah, fought for effing ever waah waah waah, and evil King Kryptonite cut off the head of Cronkite, (I need a Diet Coke) and all the tribes of Pillowfight died at the hill Fedora (why does every G.D. word end in –ite?) blah blah blah …and then King Formica cut off the arm of Willy Wonka-ite…blah blah… I want each of you to continue your reading in ALPHA AND OMEGA 15:1123-59890 through MACARONI 45:567-9000009…class dismissed”


Watching my mother swearing under her breath as she canned her 59th bottle of peaches.

Trying to get those tight pants onto my sticky rubber legged Barbie.


The smell of crayons and my own fear on my first day of Kindergarten.

The bottle of Tabu my grandmother kept on her dresser.


The big plastic blue treasure chest I chose a toy from, after having my teeth drilled.

My 7th grade Spanish teacher using the word “debris” instead of trash, “class please remove the debris from your isle and desks before you leave.”

The smell of cafeteria.

The feel of Dave Peckham's springy brown hair.

Playing kissing train at the Monte Cristo clubhouse.

What are some of your embedded thoughts?

6191 Surrey Court

As I mentioned a few posts ago we had an estate sale for the family home I grew up in. It held 37 years of memories and I just wanted to say thanks and a final good bye.

Thanks for putting up with my awkward years and a few awkward friends along the way.



My first date and my corsage that was the size of a head of lettuce.




Tacky holiday decorations, relatives and flocked trees.



My mother's hair do's that defied gravity.



Thanks for welcoming my odd friends, the ones my 2 cousins (on the right) didn't know how to react to.



Memories of Alli, dressing up for Halloween, crank calls, proms, tears, laughter, boys, long phone calls and a lot of giggling.



My first baby shower.



Thanks for providing a lawn for football and basement full of old toys for 15 grandchildren.



Thanks for seeing me through some rough single years, like the 1st Christmas without my children.



I love you old house. I love your big front lawn, your silly umbrella trees, my pink carpeted bedroom, your basement where I laid next to my dad to watch t.v., your kitchen were my sister made popcorn on the stove, your fireplace, your patio where we barbecued, your flowers and for being my comfort and my safe place to land. Good bye old friend.

Tales of the Cheap

There’s cheap and then there’s my childhood. One of my first encounters with “discounting” was around age 8, I was standing in our kitchen in Holbrook AZ, when a heavy table leaf fell on my big toe. It hurt like nobody’s business and I couldn’t walk on it. Normal parents would have probably taken me to the Dr, instead my mother put ice on it and told me to sit on the sofa. The next day was school and it hurt so bad I couldn’t wear a shoe, this didn’t stop my mother from fashioning a sort of cast out of a plastic dish soap container (out of her stash). She morphed into MacGyver, furiously cutting the bottom half off and taping it around my foot like a plastic shoe tube. I was mortified and wanted to protest, but I knew It was futile. I walked into class with a Palmolive Soap half taped to my foot, and would have gladly welcomed death by stoning than face my classmates. Even after effectively explaining my hurt toe to their curious stares, I knew I was wasting breath, even their small 8 yr old brains were wondering “what the F was your mother was thinking?”

Apparently Halloween costumes were pricey, what else would explain my mother putting me into an old green clown jumpsuit with a plastic witch mask? I was in kindergarten and it was our annual “Parade of Costumes,” we lined up behind our teachers and made a slow trek around the school, parents came out to watch. I remember my classmates confusing stares as they watched me don my witch mask with my stained billowy striped green and white clown jumpsuit. Their poor little minds were trying to guess my costume “is she an evil clown?” “maybe she’s a confused witch?” MacGyver thankfully didn’t have to buy me a big red nose and face paint, she resourcefully found a crinkled-up confusing witch mask for free.



I grew up thinking “off-brands” were actual brands. Western Cream Corn, was a staple on our table, and boxed dry milk was added to real milk to make it go further. I remember shopping with MacGyver at Safeway, looking at Hostess brands, Trix and real Frosted Flakes, it was torture to a 9 year old who ate cannery oatmeal for breakfast. Bread was homemade, I remember sitting in the cafeteria with my opened tin lunch pail looking longingly at regular bought sliced sandwich bread eaten neatly by my peers. It wasn’t that my mother’s bread wasn’t good, it’s just that she cut it bulky thick and it crumbled a lot because it was made of nails and whole wheat, so when she made my peanut butter sandwiches it looked like a grenade had gone off on them.

My mother was obsessed with collecting green stamps, she went at it like a meth addict. I remember sitting at the table helping her paste them into books. She explained that “when I get 10,000 of these books, I can exchange them for a magazine rack.” When the big day arrived, we drove to Winslow for our exchange. She proudly brought out her green stamps and we left with our particle-board magazine rack. If I had done the green stamp math I could have quickly deduced that my mother spent in groceries and gas mileage the equivalent of 50 magazine racks, but to MacGyver that part didn’t matter because it was free.

Bangs: A Retrospective

Lucky for me and I suppose you, my artful bangs have been well documented through my life. Let's start with perhaps the best illustration of why my mother and a pair of scissors were a deadly combination.


My first boyfriend overlooked the fact that my bangs started at the crown of my head and realized she was simply copying the "Mia Farrow" look I begged her for.





Ah, I called this one the "deluxe" because not only did I get the uneven bang but the "sponge roller" tight curl that Mother might have forgotten to comb out. Let's not overlook the sailor suit that rocked.



Before you feast your eyes on this next one, keep in mind after this school picture was taken I had to hide during recess because oddly enough the other children laughed at my vintage hair style. I was paying homage to my grandma, thank God my savvy Mother helped me, she teased it hard and kept it in place with her handy can of Aquanet.


This fine bang doesn't scream awkward at all. I had outgrown my bang fetish and decided it would be a great idea to grow them out. I picked the week of my school picture appointment to part them severely down the middle and hold them in place with water and the Aquanet. Don't question the bunny-ear collar.


I was successful in my bang removal, and so I give you my forehead. It beams at you, a lighthouse leading you safely to shore.


We'll end this journey with what I like to call "The Modified Farrah." I almost pulled it off, maybe I could have washed it that morning or even combed it? Let us not question greatness, let us bask in this bastion of hair through the years.

The Early Years, Part 1

Here I am at 4 years old sitting in my grandma's lap wearing my snappy red jumper with red ribbon sleeve trim. My bro Scott was trying to upstage me with his famous growl smile. My big sis Jeri, was also trying to upstage me with her fancy hair impression of one of the Supremes.


Already at 5 I had mastered the "oh really you are taking my picture, I had no idea" look. What a smart cap and pea coat set I'm wearing. Don't question why I'm wearing a mini in 30 below weather.


This is the famous neighbor's house were I bartered for things I wanted with pulling down my pants. I found making mud pies while wearing sponge rollers to be fun.


People notice the effort here. I was trying to bring sexy back in 1st grade. I was so ahead of the pack, look at those red tights combined with my Picasso printed smock AND holding my cat. I could have been Warhol's muse.


I know, I know it's too much. Look at that crisp checked dress combined with my Mary Jane shoes while properly holding a croquet racket. Now look at my dumb ass brother swinging his like a baseball bat, can you see the comtempt in my eyes?


My mother created this costume using a Butterick Pattern, some hanger wire and a lot of cursing, you can barely make out my wings at the sides. Ok, I know scuffed penny loafers don't work here, just shut it. Focus on that blonde flip angled perfectly at shoulder length, all conquered at 8 years old.


Yes, this was my Jan Brady look. I did it with a hard right part, a snap barrette and a lot of 12 year old moxie. My cousins only wish they could pull of those knee socks, losers.

Holbrook: Gateway to the Petrified Forest

I’ve been going through old scrapbooks and photo albums, this has caused childhood reflection during my young years in Holbrook. The following are some of my favorite recollections.

· Chasing the mosquito fogging truck. This consisted of a flatbed truck with some sort of greasy machinery attached at the back where toxic fumes emitted to kill mosquitoes. I found chasing this slow moving truck on my standard-issue pink girls Schwinn, with tassels and plastic white front basket, immensely fun.

Me: “Hey Mom, I’m going to go out and chase the Agent Orange spewing mosquito truck for awhile.’

Mom: “Ok hon, just be careful, it’s getting dark outside.”

This would explain my stunted growth and carnival midget sized hands and feet.

· Swimming at Hensley’s pool. There were 2 pools in our fair town, one was the municipal urine pool, the other, Hensley’s backyard diving pool with cover and pink slide. This was like the Celestial Kingdom of pools circa 1965. I nearly drowned in this pool if it were not for Donna, who happened to see me lying at the bottom of the pool in my snappy one piece catalog ordered JC Penny swim suit.

Me: “Hey mom, I’m going to go swimming even though I have had no formal swimming lessons and arm floaties weren’t invented yet, and I will be alone.”

Mom: “Ok hon, be home for dinner.”

· Going next door to find Barbara's mom's Vodka bottles, kinda like hide and seek.

Me: “Mom I'm going over to Barbara's her mom is passed out again and we want to find her bottles, her older brothers are there too, last time they asked me to pull down my pants and I did.”

Mom: “What? Ok, but clean your room first.”

Shrimp

Erica and Chris, here it is.

My blog title refers to K-4th grade where I sat for the class pictures because I was, yes, the shortest one in the class. We were lined up against a wall, execution style, while the teacher measured us. No measuring needed with me, the teacher simply said, "Michelle upfront!" It was in 4th grade that Jackie joined my class. I loved Jackie because she was an inch shorter than me and mildly weird. It was like the short fairy granted me one year of not being teased for being a "shrimp." Well that year Jackie sat in the first seat, first row.