Ear Piercing for Dummies

I am not one for body art or piercings.  I've seen some fabulous body art over the years, but it's just not for me.  And although I do have one hole in each earlobe, nobody's touching my tongue, my nose, my navel, or even my outer conch cartilage with a needle.  I'm far too squeamish! 

Back in the 60's ear piercing was only just coming into vogue with the teen set in Iowa.  And unless your were from some exotic country, the only thing you pierced was your ears.  There weren't earring stands in the Mall where you could easily get your ears done.  Hell, there wasn't even a Mall!  So that left either going to a doctor to have it done (if you could find one who would do it) or stabbing yourself in the ear. 

My older sister used some "auto piercers" so she could attach colorful appendages to her lobes.  Basically, they were sharp metal rings that would gradually squeeze their way through the ears.  Too painful for too long!  My parents thought she was nuts and I agreed. 

But when I was in the ninth grade, I decided it would up my "cool" factor to have pierced ears.  The thought of a needle working its way through my tender ear flesh creeped me out, but the longing to be "cool" was a strong one.  For some reason, I figured my parents wouldn't let me have my ears pierced, though, so I took matters into my own hands.  Or rather, my friend Nancy Pilmer took matters into her hands.  I thought Nancy was cool because not only did she have pierced ears... she'd been to California!  Groovy!  Nancy convinced me that with a cork from a bottle of wine, a sewing needle, some matches to sterilize the needle, and some string, she could bring me into the 60's before the 70's rolled around.  All we needed was a place to do it. 

Where to go, where to go?  We needed somewhere with water so we could keep things "sterile".   Our houses weren't viable surgical sites because someone might catch us in the act.  Doing it at school was also "unsafe".  Besides, we didn't have that much time between classes and lighting matches in the bathroom might give the wrong idea. 

So, we ended up in the bathroom of our neighborhood grocery store.  Yep... the pristine public bathroom.  All we had to do was grab a chunk of ice from the freezer section to numb my ears and we were in business.  After a half hour of hemming and hawing on my part, I offered up my lobes to Nancy.  Within a few minutes the deed was done.  I was now cool.  I had ears with string in them! 

By the end of the week, my ears were so inflamed with infection that my science teacher noticed and insisted I go to the school nurse.  She, in turn, called my parents.  With my long hair, they still hadn't noticed the oozing holes in my ears.  After they told me what an idiot I was, they got me a pair of earrings and made me clean my ears with hydrogen peroxide every day until the infection cleared up.

After a few more weeks my ears became infected again... this time because of the cheap earrings.  It turns out I'm allergic to most metals and can only use sterling silver or gold earrings.  Plus the holes in my ears are off center and one's kind of droopy.  But I succeeded in my quest for coolness!  So what if I nearly died from blood poisoning?  Details, details....

Let's just say I wasn't the sharpest needle in the pin cushion back then. 

Getting My Day in Court Class

When last we met, I was regaling you with tales of my incarceration at the tender age of 16.

Yes, it was a miserable night, made even more miserable by the lecture I got from my mom as my dad stood by trying to look stern. At the time, all I wanted to do was to crawl into bed and forget about the whole thing. No such luck. Mom was not about to let me off so easy. There were the suspicious looks and disappointed sighs for some time afterward. However, things did improve eventually.

Our little band of misfits had to go to court the morning following the big bust, which was a little nerve wracking. During our appearance before the judge, we were sentenced to "Court Class" which, if completed successfully, would wipe our records clean.

Court Class was a reality check type of program, designed to deter alcohol consumption in teens. Basically, we had to get up and go to court at 8:00 on Saturday mornings for six weeks and watch them haul in the drunks from the night before. The idea was that we'd be so horrified by the ravages of alcoholism being paraded before us that we'd never drink again. This kind of backfired, though, because the judge was an old guy who cracked jokes the entire time. So rather than being horrifying, it was kinda like watching an episode of Night Court.

There were 15 of us that got arrested together, so we filled up an entire bench in court. We started calling it the "Group W" bench and we were all sittin' around, laughin' and havin' a good time talkin' about crime & mother stabbing & father raping and all kinds of groovy things. (Sorry... just a little Alice's Restaurant digression there.) Then afterward we'd go out for lunch at the Best Steak House. My parents even gave me money for lunch. I still remember they made the best Texas Toast there!

That was all great fun, I have to admit. But what made this whole Saturday morning routine particularly satisfying for me, was the fact that in the Larew household Saturday mornings were devoted to cleaning the house and doing laundry. No one was exempt from the Saturday chores... that was unheard of up until this point. And if you know me at all, you know how much I detest housework of any kind. But, since I was busy paying my debt to society I was excused from household drudgery for six glorious weeks.

And that's not all... There were lots of badass boys at my high school who prided themselves on going out drinking every weekend and spending time in jail... but none of them had ever been thrown in a paddywagon before! To them, being thrown in a paddywagon was the ultimate badass thing do do. They were really, really impressed and almost jealous. Go figure! We were the talk of the school for about a week.

So, I have to confess, overall the experience turned out to be quite positive. Not in a scared straight sort of way, but in a "Wow, I actually ended up having a great time and impressed some kids at school" kind of way.

I'm such a badass!

We Are Not Amused...

So, about that whole jail thing...

Growing up, I was one of those "good girls" who never did anything wrong.  I was always polite, on time and kind to others... the perfect preacher's kid.  As a result, I led a rather sheltered life. I'd never had a BFF, so when my brand new, first ever "best friend" invited me to spend the night with her and go to a party with her brother and some of his college friends, I was thrilled!  I was only a junior in high school, so I thought it was especially cool to be asked to hang out with college kids.

We even had "protection"... the protection of her mom and sister listening to the police radio (that they just happened to have.)  If they heard a dispatch go out for the location of the party, her mom was going to call us so we could get out before the police came. (Because she was such a responsible parent and everything.)  So, we went off to the party where I immediately felt totally out of place and uncomfortable and sat sipping a coke because I was too afraid of going crazy if I drank the demon rum.  

But even the best laid plans go awry.  My friend's mom heard the dispatch and tried to call us, but this was before the days of cell phones and the line was busy!  So, before you knew it, 15 minutes after our arrival and before we had imbibed any alcohol, we noticed flashing red lights outside.  Yikes! About the same time, her mom finally got through to us on the phone, but it was too late.

We did the only respectable thing possible... we hid in the closet.  Surely the police would not notice our legs in the shoes neatly lined up under the hanging clothes.  Guess they'd done this sort of thing before because they weren't fooled.  They also weren't impressed that we hadn't actually been drinking.  The long arm of the law snatched us up anyway.

We were all escorted into the paddywagon that waited outside:  

(Paddywagon circa 1909... compliments of wikipedia)

Hi ho, Hi ho, it's off to jail we go...

Now, when you're a naive, shy sixteen-year-old, going to jail is just a tad bit upsetting.  We 

were in luck, though.  Because my friend and I were under 18, we weren't fingerprinted and got put in the "juvenile cell." This meant we had one wall that was painted pink and got to have a toilet seat.  Oh joy, oh rapture.  That made me feel a lot better.  There wasn't enough toilet paper on the roll to stem my copious tears.  And it didn't help any when a rather inebriated elderly woman in the cell next to us kept running her metal cup over the bars and shouting, "Matron, Matron, I'm having a miscarriage!"  Fun times!

Worse, because my friend's mom already knew we were in jail, her dad arrived first to retrieve her and her brother.  I was left in the juvenile cell to rot all by myself!  But nothing there could compare to what I was imagining would happen to me once my parents got their hands on me.

By the time they came to get me to tell me my dad was there to pick me up, I was a total basket case.  And then I walked out to meet him....  dum, da dum, dum!

He had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face I'd ever seen.  WTF?!?  

I dodged that bullet, but I knew the real danger lay at home... with my mom. And let's just say, I'm lucky to be here today.  Like Queen Victoria, she was not amused.

To be continued...

It Was An Accident! Honest!

I have a brother (we'll call him Waldo) who's 13 months younger than I am.  Because of our closeness in age and because my older sister thought we were total pests and refused to have anything to do with us, we used to hang out together a lot.  And it was usually my brother who came up with the good ideas for things to do.

When he was in about sixth grade  Waldo got a paper route.  He'd go out every day to deliver the daily news to the neighborhood... almost like the old fashioned town crier.  I was in awe of the great wealth he amassed from this gainful employment.  As a man of wealth, Waldo got to buy all sorts of swell stuff.  

Now, being children of the 50's, our heros had always been cowboys.  After playing "Cowboys and Indians" with pearl handled cap guns and suction cup bows & arrows for so many years, Waldo was finally able to buy a real live bow and arrow set!  

I still remember the day he brought it home.  We marveled at the sleek bow, which had to be carefully bent with a powerful arm to attach the string.  And the arrows! Wonderful pointy ends, the shaft fletched with real feathers.  So cool!

Not wanting to miss out on a moment of fun, Waldo ran outside to set things up.  The neighbor kids were also excited.  So much so, that one offered to hold the target for him.  

That would be the paper target.  

That he held between his two grubby little hands.

And he stood steady on as my brother notched the arrow onto the string.

And pulled back.

Whish!  Away the arrow flew!  How graceful!  How dramatic!  It arched upward into the air, sailing, sailing, until it found it's target!  

Lucky for the neighbor kid, Waldo had not yet perfected his aim.  He missed the bulls-eye.

No, it's not what you're thinking!  GEEZ!  How crazy do you think we are?  

Waldo only managed to wing him in the hand.  Seven stitches later, we had all learned our lesson.  

Or, so we thought!

In the attempt to avoid further accidents (and lawsuits) my parents started taking the entire family to a nearby indoor archery range.  It was really cool.  The targets were on conveyor belts so that when you were done shooting, you could simply push a button and the target would come to you so you could retrieve your arrows from the bulls-eye... or surrounding area.

One day, as we were enjoying the range, I was poised in the lane next to my older, more refined sister.  (She actually condescended to join us on this family outing and got dressed up for the occasion.  She was wearing a skirt, sweater and hosiery to impress the young men at the range... I'm sure she was looking really hot.)  This time it was I who notched the arrow, drew the string back to my ear and aimed at the target.  

As they say, always keep your eye on the target.

Just as I was about to let go of the arrow, someone said something to me and I got kinda distracted.  My fingers slipped and the arrow went flying.

No worries, though... it was headed in the right direction.... almost.

It only went slightly off course, making contact with a steel beam strategically placed between the lanes.  (Shit!  Who put that there?)  

Was it my fault the sucker ricocheted off the post, causing it to come flying back in the opposite direction and hit my refined, well dressed older sibling in the leg.  I mean big deal!  

You'd think I'd done it on purpose, the way she went on, screaming and yelling at me and shit!  I mean, it hardly even bled or anything... it didn't even stick in her leg for more than a fraction of a second!  And she didn't need any stitches like the neighbor kid did.  What a whiner! I think she just hated me and wanted to get me into trouble because it ran her nylons.

Anyway, neither Waldo nor I ever made it as Olympic archers.  Our interest in archery began to wane soon after that incident.  But it's not like the experience was all for nought.  I simply added this to my store of cautionary tales to share with the kidlets at school.  They all think I'm very wise... if somewhat accident prone.

Playing With Fire

I went camping again this week, but this time just to add novelty... I actually camped with some other people I know. Imagine that! 

I had posted a "World's Worst Camping Trip" contest several months ago and my friend Wendy won for her story of little Jacob's suitcase floating out of their tent during a flood many years ago.  

Nanodance also won, but she "claimed" to be sick this week so she couldn't go.  Likely story.  I know she was really staying home watching stupid shit on YouTube and trying to sneak cats into my house.  See what you missed, Nanodance! You could have been relaxing with Wendy and me in the idyllic setting shown to the right.  But, NOOOO!  You had to be sick!

Anyway, Wendy not only participated, she brought her entire family with her!  Yes, Big Bill, Sweet Natalie & Jacob (who's not so little anymore) also risked life and limb to camp with me.  Wendy and I go way  back to when I was Natalie's kindergarten teacher. Since I already warped Sweet Natalie beyond repair, Wendy must have figured she had nothing to lose by allowing her family to spend additional time with me.  And her trust in me was proven to be sound.  During the course of their two-night stay, no one was injured or carried away by bears.  (I swear, Jacob's toe was mangled before we went camping!)

We had a good old time together, though.  We shared stories around the campfire and I turned them on to the "roll-o-roaster" and other camping delights. They shared some of their favorite camping traditions with me as well.  

Turns out they do stupid stuff, too!  For example, they introduced me to the thrill of melting aluminum cans in the campfire.  Fascinating!  (And here I was wasting all that time and energy returning the cans to the store.) Before you knew it, we were scouring the campground looking for all sort of crap we could melt... just add fire and voila!

Pyromaniacs!  I LOVE these people! 

The next morning, Big Bill stopped by my campsite to give me his latest example of pyro-art. Seems he has his own tradition of staying up late and enjoying a little nip of tequila around the old campfire.  And he drank the entire bottle, just so he could contribute the glass container it came in to the cause.  What dedication!  Anything for pyro-art.  I was so proud I almost cried.

Here's what a pint of Jose Cuervo looks like after being sacrificed to the flames:

It used to look different until Jacob started messing around with it and broke a couple pieces off.  But, no worries, that just gave me more reasons to experiment the next few nights with re-fusing the broken parts onto the original glob-o-melted-glass.  All in the name of science, of course.

Now it almost looks kinda naughty... like what Vulcan's poop must look like... or like something that should go into Miss Yvonne's "For Your Nymphomation Adult Toy Chest."*

Given more time and a truck load of firewood, who knows what it could look like.

And here I've been wasting my time with a cheap "box-o-wine" when I go camping.  Next time I'm taking this bad boy with me...

I bet that a bottle of Jose Cuervo and my new found dedication to pyro-art could even entice Nanodance to go camping with me. (And if she isn't sick before she goes, odds are she sure could be afterward!)

Cheers!

 

*Miss Yvonne's blog is not suitable for all ages, but if you're looking for something a little different.... 

On My Way to Mommy Jail... Adventures in Parenting Part 3a: "Incendiary Devices"

As soon as a child is born, parents begin devising lists of things their child will never do.  Yeah, RIGHT!  That lasts for about a few weeks, then the pacifiers come out and it's all over.  Eventually, the prepared baby foods, disposable diapers, cartoons, Barbies and guns all make their way into the politically correct parents' home.

Now, the state in which I reside has determined that all fireworks are illegal, so you can imagine my angst the first time the spouse wanted to stop at a fireworks warehouse while we were on vacation.  I was duly horrified!  This would surely be cause to be sent to Mommy Jail!  

That year we got a few harmless poppers, sparklers and (gasp) some tiny fountains.  And I have to confess they turned that years' birthdays and holidays into rather festive occasions, so by the time the next trip to the midwest rolled around, I was the one loading up the cart with bigger and better incendiary devices.

For Vladimir's fourth birthday, we invited three of his closest toddler friends and their parents over for cake, ice cream and a few fireworks.  They were delighted by the fountains of sparks.  The last fountain turned out to be a dud, though.  Not wanting to disappoint the wee ones, the spouse ran inside to select one last fountain for the finale.  He grabbed one of the "freebies" that are thrown into the bag as a bonus when you make your purchase at the fireworks store.  Thinking it was just another fountain, he lit the fuse and got away.  (The basic instructions that come with all fireworks.)  We all waited at a safe distance for the colorful sparks to begin spewing out the top of the cone.  

At first all that came out was smoke, which quickly got thicker and thicker until it started emitting a foul odor that soon became unbearable.  Yes, gentle reader, it was a smoke bomb.  Eyes began watering, people began choking and children began crying that they wanted to go home and never come back again... ever!  (By that time I was ready to check myself  into Mommy Jail.)  Great way to get your guests to go home after a rousing soiree!

Except for that disaster, it was all in good fun.... until my spouse started demonstrating to four year old Vladimir how you could put a firecracker in a tube and shoot wads of paper towels out the end just for fun. 

"HOLY CRAP, Vladimir's Dad... What are you thinking?"

Needless to say, I was duly outraged, but lost that battle as I did many others.

Now Vladimir, being the curious and resourceful little fellow that he was, decided to make some refinements to this system on his own.  Eventually, he actually figured out how he could take a narrow piece of PVC pipe, plug up one end,  drill a little hole in that end, insert a firecracker fuse through the hole, put an old fashioned toy cowboy gun cap next to it, put a little piece of wooden dowel down the other end, and get ready to fire it off.  All you had to do was pull back on a rubber band attached to a nail, which would hit the cap, ignite the fuse, explode the firecracker and shoot the dowel out the other end.  

"HOLY CRAP, Vladimir!  HELLOOO???   Remember Mommy Jail???"

But wait... that was actually very ingenious.  We were so proud, we didn't even mind so much when Vladimir shot out one of the garage windows.  Although, at the same time, Mommy Jail was invoked to prevent further occurrences. 

However, when Vladimir wanted me to drive him to the hobby store to buy some metal tubing and slightly smaller diameter metal rod to shoot out of the end, I had to sit down and have a serious talk with him!  A small, short piece of metal rod that is shot out of the end of a metal tube is called a bullet!  Duh!  Time to have another serious talk with the spouse as well!  This had gone way to far!  Once again, I had to burst Vladimir's bubble.  

Better the bubble though, than his eye or some other important body part!

To be continued....