Category: Children

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Shuffle Off To Buffalo…

Soooo…did your mama make you take piano lessons?

Or did she force you to play the violin?

Well, my friends—you must trust me when I say,

there are worse things.  I mean she could have put you in a TAP class.

I suppose that kids these days would positively hate it—but back then, other than the fact that it was terrifically UNcool, it was actually—dare I say—

fun.

No kidding…

Yeah…I know. But, here’s the thing—we got to wear shiny, noisy shoes and sticky-outty dresses and be in shows…ok, mostly at rest homes, but still.

We liked it because it was something to do and it was—like I said, pretty fun.

Well, except when Mrs. Ross, the squeeky little tapping dance teacher yelled and screamed at us. That was pretty scary.

The dance number here was called “Pretty Baby” and I’m the blonde “fro-girl” on the right. My sister was too “grown-up” for this number. Naa-naa.

If, by chance you are feeling great sadness and anxiety over that fact that YOU didn’t get to take a tap class–well today’s your lucky day. Yessiree! Now, with the magic of the internet YOU can learn to tap this very minute. Don’t waste another moment–Click HERE. You know you want to.

If, however, you are way too young to know what the heck I’m even talking about,

don’t fret.

It’s likely for the best.

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Baby Ambassadors

The other day, we had surprise visitors from a faraway land.

Lily-chan sang and danced for us…

and Beckham-lin shared his ancient words of wisdom.

Even Chompy was impressed with their command of the language.

In one bonding moment, our guest let the bald kid try on his cap.

With ambassadors like these, peace and goodwill have a sporting chance…

at least in these parts.

Live long and prosper.

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Orange Sherbet Smash

That One Chick #10

Warning: This is not a recipe. Repeat. This is not a recipe.

What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream? It fluctuates around here depending on my mood. But when I was little–before I was old enough to think straight, up until I was about 12, my very favorite–the only flavor I’d eat, in fact–was Orange Sherbet. That’s it.

Back in those days–the coolest place on earth–for ice cream lovers was Sears because they had an ice cream parlor out back. My brother Andy would get Pistachio, my sister Laurie would get Chocolate or Rocky Road, and I of course, chose Orange Sherbet. Always and forever.

So picture this—

One day, when I was about 5,  Laurie and I went with dad to Sears and even though he was in a huge hurry–we held out hope that there would still be time for a quick trip to the ice cream shop. At first he said there was no way but then he changed his mind. The second the ice cream was handed to us he said we really had to run or he’d be late to an appointment. So he grabbed a hold of us–one on either side of him–and started running through the store to the other side parking lot where our car was parked.

Oh, now–please understand–we were hauling. Dad had us each by the hand and we really had to run to keep up with him. I hadn’t even had a lick of my ice cream, in fact, the harder I tried to taste the darn thing, the more my poor cone hand flailed out to my side…uncontrollably.

Now, see the sweet little old couple coming towards us. Smiling, happy, serene, unsuspecting.

dun. dun. dun.

Feel it coming?

Yeah. Here we go.

The couple approaches on the right side…my side…the side with my arm flailing around…you know…the cone side.

As the couple passed us, suddenly…my cone was miraculously…um…lighter somehow…almost…empty feeling.

We were tearing through the place at quite a clip but I managed to turn my head just in time to see the old lady shrieking her head off in the aisle. All she could say was, “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

There, smashed on the skirt of her dress was the entire top scoop of my perfect Orange Sherbet cone.

I imagine we should have offered to help, or found her a napkin, or called the authorities or something. But Daddy-O never knew it even happened–and I was just a kid.

By the time we got to the car he looked down at me and said, “Hey…How’d you ever finish that ice cream so fast?”

I think I may have started giggling. Can’t quite remember.

I just hope she enjoyed the most perfect ice cream cone on earth. Heaven knows, I never even got a lick.

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*Remember to comment on all the “That One Chick” facts posts during the month of February to be entered in to win our March 1, 2010 giveaway–for some of my favorite things!

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Monkey House

That One Chick #8

Before the day of the digital camera–you had to point and shoot and cross your fingers hoping that when you got your film back your children wouldn’t look…like…this. It was always a crap shoot with no do overs.

Check out the little monkey on the left.

Speaking of monkeys…

When I was about this age–6 or 7ish we had a neighbor in Los Angeles that kept all kinds of monkeys. No lie. She had chimpanzees and spider monkeys and kept them in a huge playroom-pen at the front of the yard that she called the Monkey House. We could see them swinging on rings and jumping around from our kitchen window. Pretty sure there would be something illegal about that these days. Anyway, one day we came home to find the biggest and baddest grandaddy monkey of all time sitting on top of our fridge. His name was Beatnick and he apparently came in through our open kitchen window. When we came in the kitchen, he stood up and started screeching and throwing fruit down on us. My brother had a potato growing in a jar with toothpicks and water–the little dope threw that too.

My dad yelled, “Everybody stand still,” so we stood still.  Too bad the chimp didn’t listen.

That creepy guy jumped right down and landed…

on my head.

So, try to picture it–two big old monkey feet clutching the top of my head–his toes were poking me in the eyes.  Not to mention the fact that a monkey the size of a toddler weighs about as much as a 10 year old child. Before I could yell or bawl or help myself in any way, he sprung from my head to the kitchen table–knocking me to the floor. My dad picked me up and tossed me out of the kitchen. Pretty scary–I must say.

I have no idea how my dad got the monkey out of our house, but for years–any time he’d see a chimpanzee on T.V.  he’d say, “Those little devils are as strong as a grown man.”

All I know is that they are as heavy as a sack of bricks…

when they land on your head.

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*Remember to comment on all the “That One Chick” facts posts during the month of February to be entered in to win our March 1, 2010 giveaway–for some of my favorite things!

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“Hola, Fibber Face”

That One Chick #2

When I was in first grade–a million years ago–they sat a new girl next to me who only spoke Spanish. She chatted away as if I completely understood every word she said. At last, when there was a break in the jabber, for some odd reason I rattled off a page and a half of gibberish. No, no…I mean, “Blucky bluck nanner neener geber, doody snoo.”

I have no idea why I did it, but she smiled and nodded her head like she’d understood every word and then “answered” me back in another barrage of Spanish. Not knowing what to do, and being only 6-1/2 years old–I tried my linguistic skills again.

“Toader moder linny googer waggle haggle doop.”

Again she smiled and nodded and spoke back in Spanish.

Gubble nooble feedo meely sacky spickle pooky foo.

This went on for about 10 minutes–the foreigner and the fraud. Actually, I think I came to believe that somehow, I must in reality, be speaking Spanish. No idea what I was saying, but what did it matter? She understood me!

Maybe I was MAGIC. Coooool!

Then, from across the room, the teacher who was watching us having an obviously delightful conversation together came over and said, “Oh, Launi– I’m so glad you speak Spanish. Please tell Rosa to go hang up her coat.”

But wait…

ahhhhhh….

uh-oh.

Busted.

I saw no open window that I could rationally jump through and plunge to my death. So with no other choice available to me, I dove under the desk and proceeded to bawl my head off.

Alas, my magic gift of tongues never came back.

pooder pokey doo.

The End

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