I still have 'building anticipation', even at age 38!

For those of you who've lived where there is inclimate winter weather, you will completely be able to relate to this post, right down to the last snow flake.

Living here in the Midwest, one of the life's mysteries to a first grader is the concept of "snow day!" You hear all about it- older kids talking in the neighborhood or the school hallways and you wonder what is this magical thing of which they speak? It gets colder, snow starts to fall, wind blows, and all kids can talk about is "will we ever get a snow day!?" Then we hear that it's supposed to snow, maybe 2-6 inches. Then the wind is supposed to blow up to 40mph guts. Finally, we hear the wind chill numbers are somewhere near 60 below, and as a first grader, who even knows that the heck it all means, except everyone talks about "snow day!" It's the only time of the year when one could find elementary school age children glued to the TV news, waiting for the weather guy.

The next morning, mom yells that it's time to rise and shine and kids fly to the window to see, waiting with baited breath- is there snow? YES! Of course, everyone runs to the TV and stares at the local news waiting, hoping, praying, dancing the 'pee-pee' dance in anticipation that the name of YOUR school will be called for the glories of all glories- a SNOW DAY!

And when he names your school, kids jump up and down and scream and shout with glee. And immediately kids beg moms to go play outside. While children everywhere are celebrating this free weather gift, this respite from the evil hallowed halls of school, moms sag in lackluster defeat against the kitchen counter, gripping it for dear life, swearing at the weather guy, cursing him and is off spring, muttering "snow day" like it's the F-word, and rummaging cupboards for a hidden bottle of Valium or whiskey (for them or for their children? One of the mysteries of life).

Having the day off is great, like a new kind of freedom. It was also a mix of what could happen. If we got the snow day! off because is was freezing cold, like your nose will freeze and fall off your face if you're outside for 6 seconds cold, then you were trapped in the house. That meant TV, games, playing Barbies, and fights with siblings. If it was just a TON of snow- blizzard conditions- then we could GO OUTSIDE!!!!!!! Yippee!!!!!!!!!!

My mom was the one who told us if we got dressed and went out, we had to stay out. Now if that sounds like child abuse, then think again. Picture this: you have a kid that you get into long underwear, jeans, a t shirt, a long sleeved sweater or sweatshirt, then pile on the outdoor gear: snow pants, coat, boots, scarf, hat, and mittens. This takes about 20 minutes or 7 hours depending on the kid and the speed of the parent. My mom could have me ready and out the door in about 3 minutes, flat. Now, if she didn't have the 'go out and stay out' rule, all that work would've been for naught. One cold finger and it would be back inside, peeling off the layers like an onion and trailing melting snow from one end of the house to another while whining, "Moooooom, I'm boooooooooored". With 'go out and stay out' in play, then she had at least 30 minutes before I could press my little face against the door and wail, "Mooooooooooooooooommyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, can I come in now? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease? I'm coooooooooooooooold!" Hey, ya gotta do what ya gotta do. And she did.

Snow days in elementary school meant sledding and snowman building. It meant snow angels and eating snowcream. It meant catching flakes on your tongue and just running around like a little kid, loving the snow. As a teenager, it meant a day off from school, sleeping in. Oh yeah, you hear "snow day!" on the radio or TV and you called all your friends to squeal "snow day, ohmygod!" and make plans for later, and then went back to bed. It mean hanging out with friends if you could get to each other, maybe baking cookies, calling the local radio station to request your favorite song and then trying to record in on your cassette player when it came on, watching VHS movies, eating, reading, playing boardgames, and really, just chilling out.

The best snow days! of all were those that were announced the night before. That meant you could just sleep in and not have to get up to hear the magic words. The day off would be the same, but the suspense is less, and the night's sleep is better because that free day off is right there, baby!

I remember one time in '78 we were off school for three weeks because it was the worst winter storm the Midwest had faced in 70 years. I also remember when I was in high school that that we were off for almost 2 weeks because it would snow several feet, then the wind would blow, then it would warm up during the day and drop below freezing at night, creating an icy mess on the roads the next morning. It cycled like this for 2 weeks. This was also back in the day (omg, I'm old to be able to say that!) when we didn't have to make up school days missed to snow. Feh.

Which brings me to now. On Tuesday night, it was sleeting, then snowing, then sleeting and then snowing, then rained and it was supposed to freeze. I thought for sure on Wednesday morning there would be at least a 2 hour delay. Mac, Daddy-O and I all talked about it, and reminisced about our favorite snow day! experiences. There was a bit of anticipation and some of the old magic of "will we or won't we" hovering in the air. Then, there was nothing. It was a balmy 45 degrees when I left the house to go to my job: teaching SCHOOL. I felt bummed and let down.

Then last night- Wednesday-, Jack Frost reared his ugly head. The temps plummeted. The wind picked up and we had gusts between 20-30 mph. All the water on streets and sidewalks turned to ice. People lost power. Community activities all over town were canceled. The snow started falling. Again, will there or won't there be a snow day? Even at my age, I am still excited about the prospect of a snow day! It's part of the magic that still hums within me. Maybe a secret reason I went into teaching?

I don't know yet if the snow day! will happen, but rest assured, if it does, you will hear from me since I'll be curled on the couch, wearing my jammies, drinking coffee, and planning a nap!

My kingdom for a snow day,
Maggie Mae

Golf Wimps

It was a beautiful day today. When I went to do some Christmas shopping, I had to go passed two different golf courses. It was a lovely day but it was chilly. Winter is starting to settle in and it was in the low 40s with wind but blue skies and sunshine.

There were several golfers on the golf courses, all bundled up and riding around in carts and all I could think was, "Oh, you pussies."

Why might I think that, you might ask? Because I was remembering the way we played golf back in the Wild West.

We called it Pasture Golf. There wasn't all this nice pretty grass in the putting greens and fairways. There weren't lovely pretty pins marking each hole. Oh no. There weren't nice little carts with GPS to haul people around.

First, if you wanted to get from one hole to the other, you either walked or rode a horse. That's ride, no carts, but a horse. And you really only needed three clubs: a wood, a putter, and an iron of your choice. Trust me on this. Instead of hauling our entire golf bag, we'd put clubs in a quiver and strap it to the horse. A saddle bag was on the other side was filled with balls, beers, bullets, and whiskey. Tees really didn't make any difference. This was Wild West Golf. And you needed a gun to shoot rattle snakes.

The entire course was the "rough." It was sagebrush and dirt. Or wheat. And piles of sheep, horse or cow shit... EVERYWHERE. There weren't pretty little ponds to lose a ball. There were creeks or a stream. Or a coolie. Or a gumbo butte (think uber muddy hill). Or a place that was inhabited with rattlesnakes in their dens- here's where you took a mulligan. Trust me on this. And you automatically got a 5 stroke penalty if you hit animals: cows, sheep or horses.

There were somewhere between 9 and 15 holes. Everyone was too drunk to play a full 18. You had to play with someone who help set up the course or you could get lost. And there were bandannas that marked the general area where a hole might be. Maybe. It was 'somewhere over there'. And if you played enough you could bogey, birdie, and eagle. And some of the cattlemen I knew were some seriously good (if not demented) Pasture Golfers.

I played Pasture Golf a few times and it was good times. I don't think I ever got through nine holes because by the time I was drinking and climbing up and down from a horse, I was not in any condition to finish.

I've played golf on a lovey PGA course here in Civilization about 10 years ago and it made me a nervous wreck. It didn't help that I had smucked the golf pro with a club not once, but twice, when taking lessons so I was a basketcase at the thought of doing it again. Though now, with hind sight, I wished I had smacked CanadianSam a few times since my golfing was entirely his fault.

As a matter of fact, the whole "Golf Pussies" was really directed at him. He thought he was so great and wonderful on the golf course and always made such a big deal of it and I thought how much he would have dismally failed at pasture golf because he could never have seen the fun in such a 'sport.' He took it way too seriously. Pasture golf is strictly for fun and not for the faint of heart. When a game gets called on account of snake bite or birthing a calve... well, come on, Tiger Woods doesn't have to worry about that shit. Wonder if he could cut it?

So no offense intended to golfers who read... unless it's CanadanSam, of course.

Wonder where I left that 9 iron,
Maggie Mae

Like white on rice

For years Daddy-O ate food that my mom (God or whomever, rest her soul) cooked for about 40 years even if he didn't like it. How about that? I didn't really know this until one day I was gonna fix and chicken and rice casserole and he said he didn't like rice.

I was drawn up short and started in with the Chinese rice torture: do you like white rice? No Did he like brown rice? Yes. Did he like fried rice? Not particularly. Does he like white rice at the Chinese restaurant? No, because it's sticky. But, I told him, it's supposed to be sticky! But nope, he still said he didn't like rice, but the man ate white rice for 40 years cause my mom fixed it. Sometimes, it was easier to just eat what mom fixed rather than argue with her. Hmmm.

By the way, I like white rice, fried rice, and sticky white Chinese rice. Brown rice, to me, is super icky.

So, I didn't make chicken and rice but I tried to convince him he would like it since it had mushrooms, cream of chicken soup, and cheese in it. No dice; he wasn't gonna eat it.

When I was a kid we had rice as a side dish. Just plain old white rice. Sometimes mom would make something she called 'Spanish Rice.' Since she's dead, I can't really ask her what it was, so to the best of my recollection it was like Manwich Hamburger sloppy joe meat sauce dumped on top of rice. I remember I at it but it wasn't my favorite thing.

Mom also made white rice with 'sweet and sour chicken' poured on top of it. She browned chicken and used green peppers, pineapple, pineapple juice, and corn starch as the 'sweet and sour' part. Then the whole thing got poured over it and that wasn't too bad; I liked it. She also made "Hawaiian meatballs" with the same sauce but with meatballs poured over rice. You see a trend here? Oh, and I liked it, too.

I also remember that she made white rice, put it in individual bowls, and covered it with milk and sugar. Ok. I have no idea where that came from. Or what in the world we had with it. Then if there was left over rice int he morning, I did the same thing for breakfast but let the rice just stay cold. But I do like that and still to this day, I'll make a pot of rice, let it get sticky, and cover it with sugar and milk and call it dinner.

It's hard to believe that I would eat rice as a kid since so many don't like it and make maggot comparisons, but I would just chow down. My mom would try and make potato pancakes with cheese with leftover mashed potatoes and I would gag and make retching sounds and not touch them, but I would eat rice like Confucius.

I don't like brown rice. It's yucky. I guess I could say it tastes "grainy" but... uh... ya know.

I don't like Rice-A-Roni; trust me, that is so not the real San Francisco treat.

Rice pudding is... acceptable, but I prefer tapioca.

I want a rice steamer.

An old Chinese proverb says, "talk doesn't cook rice."

Take a minute for rice,
Maggie-san

The first time I saw a dead body

One could argue that the story I'm about to tell is really about the second time I saw a dead body. Apparently, family lore goes that the first time I saw a dead body was when I was about about 2 years old. My great-grandmother on my mom's side had died. My parents went to the viewing and no one thought I should be brought up by the casket at my age so in their infinite wisdom, all the fam-damily adults thought it would be best if I stayed in the back of the funeral home and be held by my Daddy-O. So I was 2 years old and being carried around at adult height and I could see over everyone, all the way to the front of the funeral parlor, and right into the casket. And according to legend, I said in a loud clear 2 year old voice "Why's that lady taking a bath with her clothes on?" And of course it was a moment when it was dead silent. And then everyone laughed and thought I was the cutest thing in the world.

But see, I don't think that counts as the first time I saw a dead body (even though that's a damn adorable Maggie Mae story). It doesn't count because:

1. I don't remember it
2. I saw a dead body the way we expect to see them: after the mortician had done all the funeral homey things to it and got it all dressed up and made to look like sleeping (though I don't care what anyone says, a dead person looks dead, no matter how good a job the funeral dudes do). You know, I saw it in a casket at the funeral home, with soft lighting, crying families, organ music- you know, a dead person in their natural habitat. They way dead people were intended to be stared at.

The story I'm about to tell you is about the first time I saw a dead body. And try as I might, it's unfortunately not really funny......

Do you remember I told you I had a paper route and I was the youngest kid in my town to ever have one at age 10? Well, I did. I loved my paper route. And the people were very nice to me- well, most of them were, except for Mr. James Gardner. I would always park my bike at Mrs. Greenbean's house, the first one I delivered and then walk the rest of my route, which ended back her at house. It was easier for me to walk my route because there were lots of elderly folks who wanted me to place their papers in a 'just so' spot.

I had a good relationship with most of my customers. They were pretty protective of me and worried if I was late. And not late like past the delivery deadline, but late if I didn't come past their house as my usual time; remember, this was around the time of the first big child abduction of Adam Walsh that was famous so people were always looking out for me. They left me presents all the time and nice tips. Mrs. Greenbean, as I said, let me park my bike at her house and on Saturday mornings (the only day of the week it was a morning, Monday thru Friday it was an afternoon paper and there was none on Sunday) she would fix me breakfast. There was a guy, Sam, who owned a gas station and he would give me a glass bottle of Pepsi a few times a week and he was the first person who showed me the trick of putting peanuts in the soda bottle. So, people were nice and kind. They watched out for me and in turn, I watched out for them, I guess.

One customer was an old lady named Mrs. R. The first time I met Mrs. R I was scared out of my ever-loving mind. First, she lived in a big, creepy, creaky, old house on a corner at the bottom of a hill. It was a huge scary monstrosity, painted black and it was peeling. One shutter hung askew. There was a fence around the front yard and the gate squeaked when the wind blew it, or when I had to push it open to walk up the front sidewalk to leave her paper in the mailbox hooks next to the front door. There were no flowers. The kids all said a witch lived there and the house was haunted- okay, we all saw that coming, right?

The first time I had to collect from Mrs. R I thought I was going to have a heart attack at age 10. She answered the door and was the most frightening old person I had ever seen in my life. Her hair was snow white and looked like she had been caught in a wind tunnel or like Medusa but without the snakes. She was hunched over with a slight hump. She always wore house coats and slippers and shuffled as she walked so slowly. She was the most wrinkled person I'd ever seen, with more lines on her face than a London tube map. She was old and since everyone said she was a witch and with the looks of the house, I was terrified. And it must've shown on my face because she asked me if I was scared of her and I actually blurted out why and she laughed and laughed and thought it was the funniest thing in the world. She told me she wasn't a witch, just an old lady. And to let the kids keep thinking she was a witch because they stayed off her lawn. And from that day on, Mrs. R. was one of my favorite people.

A few times a week she would be at the door waiting for me and have me come in for a snack, usually a few stale vanilla wafers and some warm flat soda but that was okay. Her house was old and dusty and dark. Her tv was new but she had an old Victrola in the corner and her phone was an ancient black rotary thing. But she liked to talk. Even then I knew she was lonely. And her voice was low and raspy like she'd had a 4 pack a day habit for 60 years, and she whispered with a Katherine Hepburn shake to it. Her voice matched her scary appearance but she was a nice and kind lady with sparkling blue eyes.

We had developed a routine. I would leave her paper in the hooks of her mail box, right outside the door and then I would ring the bell. I could go on my way then, and she would come get her paper. Since she was at the bottom of the hill, and I had to go up it, I would turn around and check to see if she had come to the door yet and most days, we would wave at each other. Sometimes, but very rarely, she didn't get the paper before I got to the top of the hill, but as a kid, I always thought it was because she might be on the phone, watching one of her 'stories' or in the bathroom.

One Thursday, Mrs. R met me at the door and told me she had a cold but gave me a quarter to get a candy bar (and yeah, that actually covered the price of a candy bar at Sam's gas station in 1980). The next day, a Friday, I left Mrs. R's paper and went up the hill, turning around to check like always but she didn't get the paper by the time I got to the top. Even now, 28 years I later I still remember wondering if I should go back down the hill and knock on the door to check on her since she said she was sick yesterday. But I didn't because I was going to stay overnight at my friend Misty's house and she was one of 7 kids so I wanted to hurry so I wouldn't miss any of the chaos that was her house.

Saturday morning rolled around and I was doing my morning delivery. I had left my bike at Mrs. Greenbean's house as usual and went on my way. I wasn't a morning person even then and I usually didn't visit with anyone on Saturday morning because papers had to be deliver by 8am and I always waited until the last possible second, so I know it was around 7:30am.

I got to Mrs. Rs house and I knew right away something was wrong because her Friday paper was still. in.the.mailbox. I stood stock still, holding the Saturday paper. I went to the front door and knocked. No answer. I rang the bell and beat on the door and still no answer. And then I did something I was taught to never do- I snooped. I pressed my face to the glass and peered inside. And that was the first time I saw a dead body, the details forever seared into my brain.

Mrs. R was sprawled on her kitchen floor, on her stomach, arms and legs akimbo, jutting out at all odd angles. A chair was knocked over and there was a yellow Melmac coffee cup on the floor. Her hair was spread out and I couldn't see her entire face, just her mouth, open and slack. And here's what I remember happening next: I ran next door to the Hoffman's and beat on the door but no one answer so I ran 3 blocks to Sam at the gas station. I was crying and surely spewing gibberish but I finally got him to understand what I was saying. I remember sitting on a stool there, holding peanuts and a cold bottle of Pepsi but not eating or drinking, while Same called 911 and he left, probably to go check himself.

I'm sure Sam's wife called my parents who came and got me and I'm sure either they finished my route or the news paper office did. I don't remember.

I do know that I would check the paper for the next few days to find out when the funeral was. Then on the day of viewing, I figured out it was at the funeral home that was half way between my house and my paper route. So on the day of the viewing, I did my paper route, when to Mrs. Greenbean's house and changed clothes (I had stuffed school clothes in my paper delivery bag) in her bathroom and rode my bike to the funeral home. I went inside and paid my respects and then went home. I never told my folks I was gonna do it or did it. I think at that time it was because I wasn't sure if I wanted to go and was afraid they would make me if I said something about it. But when I got home that night, it was like they knew. Mrs. Greenbean had probably called and told them what I was up to. Or they figured it out on their own. Either way...

For a long time I wondered if I could've saved her. I wondered if I should've broken in the front door glass and called 911 on her black phone and then done CPR that we learned from the "BAT Man" (Basic Aid Training policeman) in fourth grade, if it would've saved her. I wondered if I could've saved her if I would've went back down the hill on Friday. Now, as an adult all these years later, I know that she was dead when I saw her on Saturday morning and no amount of CPR could change that. And as for Friday.... well, who knows, right?

That was the first time I saw a dead body.
Maggie

Extra, Extra, read all about it!

When I was a 10 years old I got a paper route. I was the youngest person to ever have a route. And I loved it. I always collected on time and paid the paper back for what I sold and I did it on time. I tried to sell subscriptions and there were always contests sponsored by the newspaper for all sorts of prizes, and I usually did well.

I didn't have the sort of route where I could ride my bike and toss papers on the porch. I had terrible aim and could never hit the porch, to start with. I could hit pets, people, flower beds and if there was a body of water from a puddle to a kiddie pool my hurled paper would land there no matter what. And I had lots of older people on my route who would like the paper placed in a certain spot. Rather than riding my bike place to place, I would walk my route. I left papers in mailboxes, between doors, on a table on the porch, and for one lady I even opened the door to her sun porch and left the paper on her recliner.

My customers were really nice folks. I had a 5 block walk or bike ride before I ever delivered my first paper, which at age 10 wasn't a big deal. The paper was an afternoon one so I would get home from school and get my papers and take off. Sometimes one of my parents would pick me up and have my newspapers along and leave me at the start of my route. I had about 48 customers and a few businesses on my route. Because I was a girl and because I was so young, the customers on my route were pretty protective of me. If I was running "late", which means I wasn't late but didn't have their paper delivered by the usual time, people would call my folks to ask if I was okay, not to complain.

I had customers who would have cups of cocoa ready for me in the winter. I had people who baked me treats and would give me after school snacks on a daily basis. Christmas time was a huge haul because I got presents, money and baked goodies. Because I couldn't ride and deliver, there was a couple at the beginning of my route who let me park my bike on their porch and I would loop around and get it when I was done. One couple had video game system and we didn't have one at home so they would let me play anytime. The man who owned the gas station would make "bets" with me for glass bottles of Pepsi. I got presents on my birthday. I had a few people who would fix me breakfast because Saturday was a morning edition so I would have breakfast with different folks. So, I had some really nice people on my paper route.

Except for one.

Mr. James Gardner.

He was mean. Really really mean. First, he had a yippy dog that he didn't tie up. Sometimes it chased me. Other times it was blocking the porch so I couldn't get the paper in the right spot and then he would call the circulation department and complain about me. Sometimes his dog even chewed the paper and again Mr. James Gardner would call the office and complain about me. He was difficult to collect from. He dodged me when possible or pretended to not be home. When I finally could corner him he would always want to pay me with $100 bill that he knew I wouldn't have change for. Then when I left him several notes that I would cancel his paper service since he didn't pay me, he would go to the newspaper office and pay his bill, then complain that I never knocked on his door. He never tipped. Papers had to be delivered by 5:30 pm during the week and one time I remember I was late because the papers were late (It was a halt the presses day in a small town!), and he got his paper at 5:38 pm and he had already called and complained to the office- and was standing on his porch yelling at me. He would look for any excuse to yell at me. I talked to his neighbor once and he could see me and then he yelled at me for not being quick enough. Are you getting the picture he was a mean guy? I was just a 10 year old little girl. Really, what a jerk, right?

Well, I lost it. I was 10 or 11 years old at this point and I just lost it. I was on time, I wasn't running late. There was nothing unusual going on. All I did was try to collect payment for the paper. And it happened. He yelled at me, telling me he didn't get a paper the night before and he wanted a discount. Well, I knew I had left him a paper. One, because I just KNEW I had, and two, if I hadn't he would've called and complained and I didn't get a complaint notice. I told him he was wrong and I couldn't give him a discount, but I would get him a yesterday paper and have my parent's bring me back with it in about a half an hour. Then he started yelling at me and that's when it happened:

I yelled back. I was shaking. I think I said something along the lines of: "You're a mean man and I'm never going to deliver your paper again!" And I ripped up the newspaper into bits and I threw the pieces at him, and turned and ran away.

I stormed down the street all indignant and mad. I was shaking. I was upset. And by the time I got to the gas station across the street I was in tears. The guy who owned the station had watched what happened and was trying not to laugh. I was crying because I was mad, because I thought I would be in trouble and lose my job, because I thought my parents would be mad because I was disrespectful to an adult, because I had never treated another person like that in my life, because the adrenaline was gone.

Well, the gas station owner gave me a soda and listened to my story. He knew Mr. James Gardner was a mean and crotchety old man. He knew the guy was trying to not pay me and complained all the time. The owner told me it would be okay and for me to deliver the rest of my papers and then go on home and tell my parents what happened. I took off and did the rest of my route.

When I got home my parents already knew what happened. The gas station owner called and filled them in. My parents knew the trouble Mr. James Gardner had always given me. My mom had already called the newspaper office and they talked. The knew the trouble he had given me. And the gas station owner had called the paper office in my defense. I got to keep my job.

I didn't get in trouble, though my parents did tell me that might not be the best way to handle problems in the future. But the good news: I never had to deliver him a newspaper again.

Years later I found out that the gas station owner knew what happened because he could see and hear the altercation, and the three mechanics who worked for him were all watching and listening, wrenches in hand to come down the block and save me if need be. And they had just cheered for me and howled with laughter. It became a neighborhood legend- and people asked me about it all the next day, and still talk about it now: remember the day the little girl with the huge newspaper bag ripped up the neighborhood terror's, Mr. James Gardner, newspaper and let the wind blow the bit to places unknown, leaving him red faced, and sputtering with a yippy dog in the background, who had to walk to the convenience store to get the paper from then on?

Your former newsie,
Maggie

Madder than a wet hen

When I was a teenager I was actually a pretty good kid. There was little 'drama' from me as one might expect from a teenage girl. But I had a healthy respect for my parents and I liked my freedom they gave me. I also liked having a phone in my room and a car to drive back and forth to school and work- they giveth and they taketh away. So I didn't sneak out of my house, didn't drink, didn't lie about where I was going, didn't take drugs... I was a boring and just generally a good kid. I tell you this because what follows is out of the ordinary behavior for me...

I was not a morning person and to be honest, I'm still not. If I can wake up naturally, then I'm fine... but when having to wake up to an alarm clock- well, I have never been one to do so gracefully. My mother figured out that I was not the Princess of Happiness in the morning so she never got out of bed until we were gone. And she didn't have to be at work until 8:30 or 9 am so why should she get up and frolic with the Queen of Darkness at 6:30am if she didn't have to? And she didn't have to because my father, on the other hand, had to be at work around the same time my baby brother and I had to be at school, so dad was sort of our "morning parent" if you will.

One morning when I was in high school, a sophomore or a junior, I was feeling goofy in the morning. Who knows why I was in a good mood? And I was feeling ornery and for some reason decided I was going to play a practical joke on my mother. I have no idea what possessed this behavior in me but I... well, I... I took black electrical tape and taped down the ON handle on the sink sprayer. Ummm, so whomever turned on the water faucet next would get a shower. And my brother and father both saw me do this. And they snickered.

So fast forward the rest of the day... and boy oh boy was I in trouble when I got home.

Apparently, my mother sort of... re-arranged her morning routine and for whatever reason there is, she got fully dressed for work and did her hair and makeup before she ever went to the kitchen. I remember thinking when I did it she would only have a wet robe or wet pajamas so it wouldn't be a big deal. But for some reason that was not the case. And she was ready to walk out the door to go to the office, all dressed up, when she turned on the spigot. And got soaked. And not just her clothes, but her hair and her face. to the point where she was late to work because she had to re-do her hair and make up AND change clothes. And was she ever PISSED.

She called my father at work and sputtered and swore and yelled about what her son had done. Dad, I find out later of course, was trying to keep from laughing and told her it wasn't her son, who was the typical jester of the house, who did it. I guess, according to what I learned later, is that mom was about twice as furious as she laid into dad, blaming him. When he finally got a word in edgewise and told her it wasn't him.... there was silent fuming on the other end of the phone. Mom hung up. Dad thought he was going to be short one child.

I have to admit now that I don't remember what punishment I got, if any- probably just yelled at or grounded, but to this day I remember how mom couldn't believe that I was the one who would do such a thing. Everyone else hears this story and howls with laughter- I still do giggle at it. And until her dying day my mother never found "the funny" in this situation.

My dad and brother were always pissed that they didn't think of it first.

Best practical joke I ever played,
Maggie