The Junk Drawer

My 11-yr-old niece loves to read stories in this blog about when her mother, my sister Ann, was a kid herself. She loves to hear about what she was like when she was her age and the silly or stupid things she did.

One such story involves a bike, a serious misjudgment and a pair of Drake’s Devil Dogs.

Here’s the thing about Devil Dogs. It was Ann’s favorite snack food back then and the first thing she’d spend her allowance money on. And she could get them just about any time she wanted. We were lucky to have not one, but two, corner stores near our house growing up. One was called The Apple Shack, which was owned by a woman named — I kid you not — Candy Apple.

The other one was called Verna’s, run by a little old lady and her husband. Located about three blocks from home, it was the quintessential Mom and Pop store. Sure, they sold incidentals like milk and bread for adults, but we kids knew it only as Junk Food Central.

Among other things, Verna sold ice cream, popsicles, homemade cupcakes and shoe-fly pie and giant lollipops bigger than our heads. She had a large wooden, glass-front case where we could peer inside at the array of penny candy and ask Verna to put together a little brown bag full of sugary confections. You could score a pound of goodies for about a buck if you chose wisely.

I always liked to get red licorice shoelaces, Flying Saucers, Tootsie Roll Midgies and Chick-0-Sticks, the latter being something of a cross between a less-sweet version of Butterfingers and pretzel sticks. You had to chisel half of it off your teeth, that is, if you had any left after eating them. Chick-o-Sticks and mortar. Same difference.

Then there’s Ann. Ever the discerning snack connoisseur, she had just one favorite — the Drake’s Devil Dog, a devil’s food cream sandwich whose wafers were shaped somewhat like a hot dog bun, hence the name. She’d eat them for breakfast, lunch and dinner if our mother let her.

One Saturday afternoon in 1975, after getting our allowances, we decided to go on a candy and Devil Dog run to Verna’s. We hopped on our banana-seat bikes, pedaled hard up a two block hill, rounded the corner, dropped our bikes in front of the store, and had Verna throw some stuff together. Me with my grab bag, and Ann with her two Devil Dogs.

When we got outside and prepared to bike back home, Ann realized she should have gotten a bag for her things but didn’t feel like running back inside for one. Standing there, straddling her bike, she maneuvered the handlebars with just the palms of her hands, while she held the Devil Dogs with the tips of her fingers so as not to smoosh them.

I told her, "You’re not gonna be able to ride right if you hold ’em that way."

"Yes I can!" she shot back.

I seriously doubted it, and sure enough, she would soon pay dearly for this error in judgment.

We set off for home, proud that we still had a few bucks left of our allowance and happy to have enough snacks to spoil our dinner. As we approached the hill we biked up on, we prepared to set sail downward. It was always great to pick up speed and catch the wind in our hair. We’d blast through the stop sign at the bottom of the hill, then race each other home in the last block.

But this ride was like no ride before, because somebody cared more about the welfare of her Devil Dogs than getting home in one piece. We’d gotten about halfway down the hill and picked up considerable speed when Ann hit a patch of stones in the road and it was all over in a flash. Because her hands were gripping the Devil Dogs instead of the handlebars, any chance of controlling the bike went right out the window. It was a hopeless situation.

When she braked to try to stop the slide, she was thrust head first over the handlebars and got herself caught in them so that she and the bike crashed to the ground in a twisted metal ‘n legs pretzel. Together they slid for about ten feet. And all along the way, gravel and other road debris became embedded in what were now ripples and ripples of scraped-up skin.

Had her dismount been part of an Olympic event, the judges would have leapt to their feet and pronounced it a "10" because not only did she damage herself quite badly, she also rendered her bike un-rideable. It was a perfectly-orchestrated knockout and both of them were down for the count.

The first thing I did, of course, was run to her aid and see if she could stand up. Crying and moaning, she gingerly rose to her feet and insisted she could walk home. I helped her over to the curb and urged her to sit back down and get her bearings first. I turned around to assess the damage. Looking in the street at her mangled bike, handlebars all askew, I spotted the reason Ann found herself battered and bloodied.

Amid the mangled mess of her bike lie two perfectly rounded, fully-formed, light and fluffy Devil Dogs, still in their micro-thin plastic wrap. The only visible damage was that some of the cream had oozed out the sides, but the wrap hadn’t burst. And they hadn’t been squashed. Ann’s dribbling blood all down her leg, but by God, her Devil Dogs were safe. And wasn’t that the point of all this?

She and her bike had seen better days. I did manage to bend back the front wheel to align it straight enough so she could push it. It squeaked a sad little squeak with each step we took on the slow walk home. After Ann limped through the door, our mother treated and disinfected her wounds and bandaged her hands and leg.

"How in the world did this happen?" Mom asked.

"I was…. sniffle …. trying to …. sniffle …. save the Devil Dogs," Ann whimpered.

"Well I hope you know that’s not a good enough reason."

Mom’s always right, but to Ann, it felt like reason enough. She did what she set out to do and saved the Dogs. And, as a bonus, was excused from having to go to church that night. To this day, despite the mayhem and carnage of that Saturday afternoon, she might even tell you it was worth it.

Tell us, Ann, was it?

StumbleUpon is one of the best ways to discover blogs and websites you would have never found otherwise. It’s how I came upon an entry at Kavefish.com that showcases the freakish artwork of Ron Mueck, an Australian-born, hyper-realist sculptor working in the UK.

If you are intrigued by this disembodied head, then click over to Kavefish and really get an eyeful. Halloween feels like an appropriate time to share stuff like this. Enjoy!

Question: What’s the safest way to carve a pumpkin?

Answer: Let your husband do it.

I am not good with knives. I don’t know who’s looking out for me, but I have thrice dropped knives on the floor mere inches from bare feet. My luck may not last forever. I see a missing toe in my future.

The last time I held a slasher-movie-sized knife was Easter Sunday circa 1981. I was hand-washing dishes after our holiday meal and I was cleaning a 10" long serrated knife. I somehow let go of the dishcloth while I was wiping the smooth edge of the knife, and the cloth slipped out of my hand.

The knife kept right on going. And so did my hand. Slicing through your fingers in warm water feels exactly like nothing. It wasn’t until I looked into pinkified water that I wondered what happened. Quite a bloodfest.

Because I cut my right index finger in an unfortunate place, right where the top section of the finger bends, I needed several stitches. Living so close to a hospital, I got sewn up in no time at all.

Since Dave and I don’t live across from a hospital, I leave all the knife work to him. He has his own issues with injuries, but he seems to have slicing and cutting under control. Yea! It means we get to enjoy at least one Mr. Happy Face Pumpkin Head for the season.

You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I possess two amazing superpowers. First, for as long as I can remember, I’ve had bionic hearing. Even before Lindsey Wagner (pictured left) acquired hers. You know, the Bionic Woman, now world-famous spokeswoman for Sleep Number Beds. (I bet she never saw that coming.) My husband, Dave likes to call my special ability "dog hearing." Woof.

I don’t know of any other superhuman entity who can hear as well as I can. Someone should wire me up to a machine and study me. I would find it extremely gratifying to be listed as a freak in a medical journal. It may be the only way I ever get published.

Listen up. Here’s how my ears work.

I can tell if a television is on in the next room, even if it’s muted.

I can hear the ever-so-slight noise a VCR makes when it records a program, so much so that I made Dave go with me to Circuit City to buy not one, not two, but three different VCRs until I found one that taped quietly enough. The man is a saint.

Once while working alongside a technician in the computer repair shop where I work, I repeatedly asked "What’s that noise? I hear a noise." The technician kept looking around trying to find its source and he had a lot of trouble since he couldn’t hear it himself. After flipping random switches and turning assorted knobs, he found the machine that was causing the noise and turned it off. I breathed a sigh of relief. He looked at me, cocked his head slightly and then splashed holy water on me because he thought I was the anti-Christ.

I hear my DVR machine recording. A DVR is able to freeze-frame and play back live broadcasts because it’s always taping the current channel. I hear it doing its job, but nobody else can.

I once had a very unusual problem in my car where when I made hard turns, I could hear fluid sloshing around in the dashboard innards. I’ve had four people in my car at various times when this noise made itself known. Nobody but me could hear it. They asked if I was on medication.

I now know better than to ask people "Do you hear that noise?" because the answer will always be "What noise?" I haven’t figured out how I can put my special powers to good use. I know the Bionic Woman would always pull her hair back and point her souped up ear toward bad guys who were up to no good. Then she’d save the day because she overheard secret information and then used it against them. Yeah, I wanna do that. But I don’t know how to work that into my non-espionage life.

My other superpower is one that I have not perfected yet, though it has served me well when it’s worked. I can mentally cancel meetings I don’t want to attend. I do not always want to skip meetings, so I only pull this skill out when I really need it. My record stands at 8 out of 12 meetings successfully killed. And, yes, I’m keeping track.

Before you ask me if I can help you get out of meetings, don’t bother. The talent is non-transferable. I’ve tried, but it only works when I’m the one who doesn’t want to go. It’s a shame, because imagine the money I could make if I could stop one of the world’s biggest time-wasters on behalf of others. I’d be a millionaire.

Sure, there are other superhero women out there with special abilities, but can they hear inaudible sounds without bionic help and cancel meetings at will? I’m certain there is a place where these skills would come in handy.

If you can figure out how I can put these two talents together to save the world or something, drop me a line. I’ll get back to you if I’m not in a meeting. I’d like to hear about it.

Warning: This is yet another post about stuff that goes on at my grocery store. You might think I’m there everyday. You’d be almost right. See, our grocery store is just two blocks from my house, which makes running in for a few items on the way home from work too easy. I promise I’ll get back to non-grocery store posts as soon as annoying things stop happening there.

So I run over to get some cat food since we’re almost out. I’ve been given very specific flavor requirements by Dave, who thinks the cats can actually tell the difference between generic slop and Diet Ocean Whitefish Supreme. Um, they lick their butts clean every day. Do you think they have a flavor preference in the food they eat?

Before I head in the store, I remember to grab my cloth "environmentally-friendly" shopping bag out of the back seat of my car. I don’t use it enough as I should, but this time I remember to bring it. I’m trying to do my part to minimize plastic consumption in our household.

Once in the cat food aisle, I peruse the selections. I cannot find the diet version of ocean whitefish, so I grab a ton of cans of regular ocean whitefish. We’re all gaining weight in the house, so the cats can join in the insanity. A family that eats together gets fat together. I also grab a ton of salmon-flavored and then a bunch of cans that have pretty-colored labels. By the way, that’s also how I root for football teams. If I like your uniforms, you’re in!

A few more incidentals later, I queue up to the self-checkout line, cloth bag in hand. No sooner do I start scanning my items does a bagger from another aisle come over to start loading my items in a plastic bag. I quickly warn her "I have my own. Thanks." She retreats.

I scan some more items and a different store employee comes over and asks "Paper or plastic?" I reply, "Neither. I have my own bag. See?" He leaves to go bag someone else’s stuff.

I’m almost done scanning now, but I can see a cashier leave his now-empty checkout lane and approach my bagging area. By now I look like Medusa with snakes writhing out of my head and fire balls rocketing out my eyes.

I HAVE MY OWN BAG!!! I’m sure he thought I was demented. Or, perhaps by the appearance of my thirty cans of cat food and little else, I was just one of those Crazy Cat Ladies. No matter. He left my aisle and walked away with a story to tell his teenaged friends about the woman who went all postal on him for trying to be helpful. I’m sure they’ll call me something colorful. Bag Lady Bitch has a nice ring.

I’m hoping before I die, it will be commonplace to walk in a store with our own shopping bags and we’ll look back and ask ourselves how we could have been so wasteful "back in the day." Until then, I’ll keep fighting the "paper or plastic" question. But I’ll try to be a little nicer to those who ask. Besides, I’m sure I’ll find myself back in the store tomorrow to get something I forgot today, and I don’t want them running away when they see me coming. With my bag.