I Never Did Like Peas.

When I was in high school, I worked as a "mother's helper".  Not quite a nanny, but a little bit more than a babysitter for the couple across the street from me, Kathie and Greg.  Kathie worked as an accountant and Greg was a firefighter. They had two little boys named Gregory and Justin. 

I started caring for Gregory when he was about a year old.  I started taking care of Justin when he was only two months old.  They were great little boys and easy to take care of.  Greg worked 24 hours on, then 24 hours off. So, every other day while he was at the firehouse, I would come over after school, Kathie would go to work and I would watch the boys.

One week, Kathie asked me if I could watch the boys on Greg's day off.  She said that he was having surgery and wouldn't be up to chasing around a toddler and a baby who was getting ready to walk any day.

The day of Greg's surgery, I arrived at the house right after school.  Kathie said that Greg was sleeping upstairs.  The boys were hungry, so I plopped Justin in his high chair and Gregory in his booster seat and made them a snack. While we were sitting at the kitchen table, Greg came into the kitchen.  Greg went into the freezer and pulled out a bag of frozen peas.  I thought it was weird that he was going to make JUST peas, but I just kept feeding Justin.  As Greg started to walk out of the kitchen, Gregory asked him, "Dad, why are you walkin' so funny?"  Greg replied in a very matter-of -fact tone, "Well Son, my testicles are sore.  That is why I am walking strangely."  He started to turn around and walk out of the kitchen when Gregory hollered, "YOU MEAN YOUR BALLS HURT?" Greg just sputtered out, "Yes" and went back upstairs.

I was completely mortified.  I couldn't believe that Greg had talked about his balls in front of me. I instantly called my mother and told her what had happened.  My mother could barely control her laughter as she replied, "Of course his testicles are sore.  He had a vasectomy today." 

I pleaded with her to come and watch the boys for me.  I couldn't believe that I had to be in the house with a man who had his balls operated on.  She refused and told me that I need to grow up, "Michele, you are 15 years old.  You know where babies come from." She refused to bail me out and I was forced to spend the rest of the afternoon with the man with the "Sore Balls". I survived, but I wouldn't look Greg in the face for weeks.

You Kiss Your Mother With That Mouth?

After my Mom and Step-dad divorced and our family home was sold, my Mom found a townhouse for us. We spent one hot, summer Saturday moving all of our belongings across town into our new place. It was a scary time, a new neighborhood and I was about to start middle school. But I was so exhausted that I fell into bed that night and I did not move once in my sleep.

At 8am on Sunday morning, I woke up to something I have never heard before. A woman screaming obscenities, with a thick Boston accent, at the top of her lungs at her entire family. "What the fuck do you think this is, a fucking hotel? Get your lazy asses out of bed and walk the fucking dogs! Then clean your God damned rooms." I looked out my bedroom window and I saw a platinum blond woman in rollers and a bright yellow housecoat yelling at two kids. The girl, who looked about my age, got both of the dogs and took them out for a walk. The boy who looked like he was in high school, just sat at the table and smirked while the woman yelled at him. Then a man came into their kitchen and said something to the woman. She didn't like what he said because she started whacking him on the head with her fists and yelling more foul language.

This family was making so much racket, that my mother woke up and came into my room. We both were stunned by the show going on across our driveway. We peered through my curtains, watching and listening as this woman screamed at her family. It was quite a show. I can honestly say that I learned how to properly use every single swear word (except the often maligned c-word) that morning. I owe my filthy vocabulary to that woman. Over the years, that woman who I lovingly called Mizz Betty became a second mother to me and her daughter became one of my best friends.

Mizz Betty passed away November 11, 2002. I fucking miss her.

As Promised: Horny Soviet Sailors!

When I was a teenager, I participated in Sea Scouts. It was a lot of fun and because of my involvement in it, I was able to do a lot of things that most kids my age didn't. In 1986, I sailed aboard the California Maritime Academy's Golden Bear to the World Expo in Vancouver, British Colombia. It was a lot of fun and I have many stories from that trip. I won't go into them now because I promised to tell you about how I got the nickname Misha, so here it is.

The Golden Bear at that time (the one I was on has been moth-balled and the school has a newer one now) was a 350ft steam powered ship. We when arrived in Canada, we docked in an industrial shipyard. We were the only ship on the dock for several days. When we didn't have duties on the ship, we would walk out of the shipyard and then find various modes of transit to the many points of interest in Vancouver. Many times, some of us would be hanging out on the dock waiting for our friends to finish up with their "watch" so we could all go out exploring.

One morning while I was on deck, a huge ship pulled up to our dock. The first things I noticed were the Cyrillic letters on the hull and the Soviet flag. THE RUSSIANS WERE COMING! THE RUSSIANS WERE COMING! Everyone went quiet on deck as we watch the crew tie their ship up to the dock. It was all the talk over breakfast. All of us wanted to know what they were doing there. The boys wanted nothing to do with "The Commies". The girls had a different idea. We decided that we would go over as goodwill ambassadors and introduce ourselves.

Of course, I was still on watch and no one wanted to wait for me. So I stayed on board with one other girl and the rest of the girls went over to introduce themselves. The girls went over and said it was kind of freaky. They said you could pick out who the KGB guys were right away because they all looked like Mr. Clean and they spoke English. They acted as the translators between the girls and the crew. It turned out that the ship was a fishing boat.

The guys were really excited to meet all of the girls and they all stood around learning each other’s names and exchanging gifts. The girls gave the fisherman California wine and cheese, commemorative wine glasses, little stuffed California bears and patches from our Sea Scout Ship, The Sea Otter. The Russians gave the girls bottles of Russian mineral mater, t-shirts with their ship logo on it, Russian cigarettes (gross) and pins. They tried to give them vodka, but the KGB guys knew they were too young.

After the names and the gift exchange, things got a little awkward. They all just stood around for a while staring at each other. I guess one of the fisherman dudes wanted to break the silence so he pointed over to the Golden Bear and said, "That boy over there he is moving very slow." The girls started to roar with laughter. You see, the "boy" he had pointed to was me. I was climbing up a ladder. I had really short hair at the time and he only saw the back of me. Before the girls could explain why they were laughing, I turned around and the fisherman saw my boobs, blushed and grinned.

Of course, the girls couldn't wait to tell me the story when they got back aboard the ship. I quickly showered and got ready and went over to meet the Russians too. As soon as we got aboard, my friend Liz said, "This is the guy that thought you were a boy!" I held out my hand and said, "Hi, my name is Michele." He said something in Russian and the KGB guy snickered and said, "He said we are going to call you Misha, it is like Mike, in Russian." Everyone laughed and that was my name for the rest of the trip.

Motherly Advice

Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined that Cigarette Smoking is Dangerous to Your Health

Legendary designer Yves Saint Laurent dies at 71

When I heard the news of YSL's death, I was reminded of a childhood memory of mine.

It was the 80's. I was wearing black clothes, trying to look sullen and calling Ronald Reagan all sorts of bad names. When not at school, I was hanging out with my friends at a coffee house downtown called the Bronze Seal, shopping in thrift stores, hanging out on Telegraph Ave in Berkeley or going to dance clubs in San Francisco. I thought I was super cool.

I am not sure when I had my first one, but during that time, I started to smoke clove cigarettes. I loved the smell. I liked the sweet taste they left on my lips. I loved that they were dangerous.

I tried to keep it from my mother. I didn't smoke when she was home and I would burn incense to mask the smell. One day, my mom came home unexpectedly and caught me. She thought I was smoking pot. I showed her the package and reassured her that I was not a pothead. She seemed relieved and told me, "Fine, just don't burn down the fucking house smoking those things."

She really didn't have any other choice. She smoked too. She smoked these long brown cigarettes that looked like slender turds.

Since I lived in suburbia, cloves were hard to find in town. At first, one of my friends from the next town over would buy them for me. Then she moved back into suburbia and I lost my connection. So naturally, I asked my mom to start buying them for me.

I had my driver's license, I could drive to the next town over but I was not old enough to purchase cloves myself. After she got home from work, I would drive my mom to the smoke shop and get her to hook me up. She was not thrilled. The commute back and forth to the smoke shop was seriously cutting into my mom's very busy social calender. After a while she refused to do it, "Why don't you just smoke regular cigarettes?" she questioned.

Once again, I was without a connection. So I took my mom's advice and picked a brand. The brand of cigarettes I chose were these:

Maybe in a future post, I will tell you about the night my mom taught me how to correctly "do" a tequila shooter.