Childhood Memories · Colorful Personalities · Personal Anectdotes

Say What? My Oh-So French Teacher

telephoneToday a friend of mine lamented that courtesy callers were becoming such an aggravation that she was starting to pick up and pretend she didn’t understand English. The poor SOB on the other end this time around chose French. I immediately knew how to say “I don’t speak English” in French. “Je ne parle pas Anglais.” This isn’t because I know a lot of French, in fact this is just about the only thing I remember from taking four years of classes. So why do I remember this one ironic line? Because it was the first thing my French teacher taught us.

baguettesShe was actually French, and not French Canadian either, legitimately from France. She was tall, slim, and always dressed in black, the absolute stereotype of what Americans think French women are and although she never knew it I adored her attitude. An attitude that started with teaching us the one sentence she hoped we’d retain, “I don’t speak French.” I always had a hard time knowing if she had a sly sense of humor or if she really did just see us as a classroom full of muppets. I think it was a great deal of both and for reason. That’s why I instantly liked her. She was the only other person in the school who had as low an opinion of my classmates as I did. The sad thing is I don’t think anyone else picked up on this… but I sure did!

littlemermaidAt one point she showed us a French movie. I don’t remember what it was but there was a scene in it with an actual glass house, sort of. I always heard the phrase, “Don’t throw stones if you live in a glass house” but this was instantly changed in my mind to, “Don’t take a shower if you live in a glass house with no curtains.” That’s what the scene was — a teenage girl showering in what looked like a completely glass bathroom, no curtains, a bunch of other kids gathering underneath giggling and pointing. I have no idea what the cinematic reason for this was but my French teacher’s response to it was to hold up a manila folder over the screen while muttering something under her breath about our parents. After this little mishap we were relegated to watching The Little Mermaid. Apparently actual French movies were just a little too risqué but in all fairness watching Disney’s The Little Mermaid dubbed over in French was oddly hilarious. Since then I have grown up and adore French movies, though I do admit they’re often very “rapey.”

doughnutOne day our French teacher told us how horrified she was to learn what a doughnut was. She said all her friends here were telling her how great they were but she was French, a country known for pastries and fine desserts. Imagine being served an enormous blob of brightly colored lard, as a doughnut can only be seen in such a context. She claimed it was huge and tasted so bad she struggled not to puke, just barely able to swallow one bite. This only endeared me to her more – as that was also my opinion of doughnuts.

hunchbackShe always liked me – I always thought it was because I was quiet, but one day she confessed it was probably because I had a hunched back and hunchbacks in France were thought to be smart. To this day this is the damn weirdest stereotype I have ever had assumed about me but hey! Could have been worse! I’ll take smart over mentally challenged any day!

reportcardMy final memory of her was when she was at the end of her stay at the school. She had met an American man and they were moving back to France to get married. It was the end of the school year so it was time for report cards to be sent out. This is how you know a teacher no longer gives a shit – she gave us our own report cards blank and had us fill them in as she did a public roll call of our grades. We were all so stunned I think everyone filled them in correctly but she didn’t get away with this because on the line left for the teacher’s name we all left it blank. Why? Because none of us knew her name. She had never told us, she had never written it on the blackboard. We only called her “mademoiselle” which is the same as calling someone “miss.” Miss what? Once again she was disappointed by her idiot American students who accidentally ratted her out in doing this because the other teachers did notice the blank field pretty damn quick. Bless.

I don’t know where she is today. I still don’t know her name. Even so I hope she is well and found happiness. She deserves it after two years at that school. cough cough. She always told us if we visit France go somewhere besides Paris. Someday I hope to honor her request… They say there’s a peasant eating beast in Gevaudan…

Colorful Personalities

Wife Beater V. Baseball Bat – a Story from the Backwoods of Maine

Welcom-to-Maine-600x400On this particular morning I found myself sitting in a quaint little country café eating an odd little breakfast of stuffed zuchinni bread French toast. Sitting across from me was a woman I have known for a long time, one of the few brilliant minds I found while living up in the boonies of Maine all those years ago. There she was, a petite woman in her thirties, smiling, bright, active. She was chatting to everyone who passed by, all of their faces and names she knew, and by looking at her you’d never think anything other than she’s just an unassuming single woman having breakfast with a friend.

baseball batIt’d been years since we caught up. I knew her in her vibrant and wild youth when she was just as untamed as this crazy backwater place. The story she suddenly made a casual mention of illustrated this perfectly. More than a decade previous she was living in a little house with her boyfriend. Out the front door you could see a large open field and just beyond that, within sight, was the neighbor’s trailer. We were talking about this when in an off-the-cuff sort of moment she mentioned that she’d beaten up one of those neighbors with a baseball bat. OK, I hadn’t heard that story before, so I smiled softly and said with utmost honesty, “He probably deserved it.” “Oh hell yes he did!” but that was all she was going to say until the topic came around again. I waited in curiosity and anticipation.

wifebeaterSo what did happen? Well… the neighbor in question was a complete asshole, had been since birth. I should know, I knew him my entire life. As a child he ran feral, as an adult he was a merciless drunk and an absolute bastard. He was married then with just three children, the beginning of a growing brood. His wife was young, didn’t know any better, and probably grew up in similarly dysfunctional circumstances.

One day my friend heard screaming coming from the neighbor’s yard. She looked out to see the neighbor bashing his wife’s head repeatedly over the hood of the car. “Oh no he isn’t!” She grabbed the closest thing to her, her home’s security system, a baseball bat sitting aside the door, and ran outside, hopped into the truck, as her boyfriend followed and lept into the driver’s seat. In two seconds flat they barreled through that field and she flung herself out the door, baseball bat in hand. In another split second she took one good swing and hit the back of his knees with an audible crack! He went down like a sack of potatoes. His wife turned her anger towards her rescuers, as many abused women often do. “I’m going to call the cops on you! You just hit my husband with a baseball bat!”

whack“Go! Call the cops or I’ll whack him again!!”

And in that second she both became my every day hero and a vibrant reminder why I moved the fuck out of Maine. On one hand the lawlessness and “mind your own business” attitude that prevails around there is wonderfully liberating. Also the idea of community is much stronger – the whole idea that if you’re being a dick a neighbor can take you out with a baseball bat without legal consequence is also… satisfying. Unfortunately it’s also an intellectual wasteland and very hostile to outsiders, anyone who is different in any way, and women. There’s so many disappearances and unsolved murders up there that the police have an active 100% cold case force that is begging the public for their help. I find that far more disturbing than city living. If you’re shot in the streets of a city it’s probably a case of wrong time, wrong place, you get shot and brutalized in the woods of Maine it’s personal.

And with that I took another bite of my French toast, she another sip of coffee, and we continued the conversation as if this whole tale was nothing out of the ordinary.


Childhood Memories · Personal Anectdotes

Camp Grenada Had Nothing on Ferry Beach

pen_pal_0When I was ten years old I was given a penpal from one town over. The reason for this was simple. In the following year I would be attending the district middle school which was a cooperative of two towns. In order to ease this transition we were all given pen pals from the other town. Mine was mental. Like legitimately, why wasn’t she permanently locked in a psych ward, mental. Why this particular individual had been chosen for me, an anti-social bug-loving girl from the back woods, I will never know. I hope it was just a lottery… a bit like Shirley Jackson’s Lottery… but still.

Old VCR tapeI have video footage on VHS tape somewhere of me regaling my class with a particularly entertaining three and a half page letter she sent me after my teacher was daft enough to ask, “Well it looks like you got a nice long letter over there! What does it say?”

“UHM…… well…. it says she got into a fight with her family and she ended up on the roof until the cops came….”

“Is there anything in that letter I should see?!”

“No ma’am.”

happy and success businesspeopleSuffice to say I didn’t make a new friend. This wasn’t unusual. By the time I did make it to middle school the next year I found myself forced into an old tradition… begrudgingly making my way to Ferry Beach. You see a long time ago some of the staff thought it’d be a great idea to make the children from both towns bond with each other sort of like those horrible team building exercises office workers are sometimes forced to endure with coworkers. Does this ever end well??

promotional magic-school-bus-teaching-resources-1 collectionMy brother went seven years before I did and hated it. I was not looking forward to the venture. It felt like hours and hours and hours on the bus before we got there. We were almost immediately given a diary which we had to write our favorite part of the day in. I wrote the obvious, the only thing we did all day, “I enjoyed the bus ride here.” LIES. After this I set about writing my first letter home.

“Dear Mom,

I made it to Ferry Beach. I already hate it here. Please come pick me up.”

murder-mystery-generic-5I was assigned a camp counselor and a group of kids. The group of kids consisted two who were so annoying I had to restrain myself from lobbing them off the seaside cliffs into the ocean. “It was an accident!” I’d claim. But alas, no murders happened. If they did I may have pointed my malcontent at my camp counselor who was way too enthusiastic and responded to everything by yelling, “Sweet!” I thought he must have the IQ of a potato.

bunkbedsThat night I was forced into a dorm room with three other girls, the partner I was left with because no one else would chose to be with me, and two little bitches who would badmouth me when they thought I was sleeping. My partner ended up being a bed wetter which is probably why she didn’t last the week in the dorm.

On Wednesday I was treated to an ice cold thirty second shower as the teachers cheered us on for being good sports and “saving water” with our quick dips. Saving water?! I was saving whatever the female equivalent of shriveled balls was…

On Wednesday I wrote home. “Dear Mom, I know by the time you get this I will probably be on the bus going home. Thanks a lot. I still hate it here.”

squid.pngThe only joy I had was at dinner one evening. Seated at my table was the most gullible girl on the planet and a boy who had a cheerfully devious mind. He convinced her the red skins in our mashed potato were actually left over squid parts from our dissections earlier on in the day (which STILL made the cafeteria reek. Good God does the stench of raw squid guts cling to one’s clothes!) She believed every word and everyone was laughing.

trashbagOn Thursday night I had a fever but none of the staff believed me. Instead of sending me to the nurse they forced me on stage to perform a play with my speshul group of kids, who by the way had all week to plan a play and didn’t. I wore a trash bag and pretended to be an amoeba before slogging off stage trying not to barf.

Friday I wrote in the diary. “My favorite part of today was the bus ride home” SWEET GLORIOUS FREEDOM!

At the end of this trip I made a total of 0 new friends, though I’d like to think I learned a lot about how sometimes life just sucks and you have to deal with it on your own. Perhaps not the lesson I was supposed to learn…



Animal Tales · Childhood Memories · Personal Anectdotes

When Going to Dive Pet Stores was a Form of Entertainment

Springfield_Pet_ShopWhen I was growing up one of my favorite things to do was to go to little mom and pop pet shops that were scattered everywhere at the time, often in the strangest of places like in people’s homes in the middle of the woods. These were the days before PetCo and PetSmart took over, when each little shop had it’s own charisma and personality, and also back in the days when you generally went to a pet store to buy live pets.

merle_fancy_miceThese tiny establishments often lasted for years on the money they’d earn mostly selling live fish but also hamsters, gerbils, rats, guinea pigs, rabbits, parrots, reptiles of all sorts, and on rare occasion purebred puppies or kittens. No one really knew about kitten or puppy mills back then and the sale of live animals was pretty much what kept these places going. It was a time that was both horrible and wonderful. It was horrible because even the dirtiest of places generally got by just fine without any harassment from the law, and wonderful because fanciers could go to a pet shop and find the strangest colors and mutations of common animals. Furless rats, satin mice, pointed gerbils, purple parakeets, you could find them all if you were willing to take a tour. This was a fun game for me.. and sometimes I brought friends along.

flyOnce when I was  brought my best friend to a shop nearby which she had never visited. I had gone to see if they still had bright crimson colored fancy mice as I had seen during my last visit. It was a store at someone’s house, in their basement, which was normal then. The first time I went it was pretty clean but on that day it was the middle of summer, the doors were open, and flies had infiltrated the entire building in great numbers. We hadn’t been in the shop long when all of a sudden my friend started squealing and charged out of the pet shop at great speed. I had no idea what just happened so I followed her out into the parking lot where I found her clawing at her ear.

“IT’S STILL IN THERE!!” She cried with much duress.

“What’s still in there?!”

“THE FLY! A FLY FLEW IN MY EAR!! AND I CAN STILL FEEL IT!!” She bounced up and down with great excitement, almost to the point of tears.

“I don’t think it’s still in there…” I tried not to laugh. She wasn’t the kind of person who appreciated it when I laughed at these little personal dramas. After all, it’s NOT FUNNY.


She was making this not laughing thing really hard. I wasn’t great at consoling her so I just watched, trying not to smile, until she calmed down, which took a great deal of time. Believe it or not this wasn’t the worst pet store I’d been to.

In a previous trip I brought her to a pet store that also doubled as the town shelter. I still don’t know if this was morally dubious or practically ingenious. I mean most pets who end up in shelters come from pet stores, why not make them into furry recycling centers?

germanshepard.pngThe owner of the shop followed us around from room to room,  sure we didn’t steal anything, being teenagers and all. I looked at the three impounded dogs including a German Shepard growling, barking, and trying to rip the door of his kennel off the hinges.

“Don’t try to pet that one!” The man yelled at us.

“Mmmm yeeeeah…. I was so going to try and pet that…. now I will have to leave sad and disappointed I didn’t have my face ripped off…”

sat_argBut even this was not the worst. The worst pet store I ever went to I brought a different friend with me to. It was a pet store I visited many times that had been in existence for decades. It operated out of a barn and home which advertised with two terrifying plywood creatures nailed over the door. One was some sort of freakish octopus and I don’t know what the other was, a folksy Rorschach test probably.  Anyway, this shop was always HORRIBLE, I mean outright disgusting. The smell was like nothing else I have ever encountered and it was dark, dank, and ill-kept. The first time I showed up here I rescued a heavily pregnant furless rat living in squalor with her two brothers. On all the next trips I was merely showing various friends and people how gross this place was. There was a fifty gallon tank on a top shelf that housed a massive colony of satin fancy mice. Their white fur glinted translucently in the few rays of sun that reached this far in and they were like little furry opals, absolutely gorgeous, if not for the fact they were a massive writhing swarm. They stood three or more layers thick on top of each other, writhing and running, with no part of their bedding visible between their frantic little bodies. The glass of the tanks were clouded with gunk.

hospital-bedWith each visit things got worse… At some point I realized all the trailers lining the street were not for human habitation. They had no driveways, but they smelled, and you could hear the barking of hundreds of dogs coming from within them. They all belonged to this one property. She was the first encounter I had with a puppy mill. Eventually the state started cracking down on her operation and just because she’d been there for ever was no longer enough justification to leave her alone. The last time I visited there were no living creatures inside the shop and dead center in the middle of the floor was an empty but set up hospital bed. I didn’t even walk in. The sight of that creped me out so badly I turned around and left. I hear the place is still running… now more than fifteen years since I left it… Sad, I would have much rather some of the nicer pet stores made it but alas, this seems to be the last stand out as PetCo and PetSmart put everyone else out of business.



An Invitation to my Readers

I’m hoping you all are enjoying my funny stories and various other adventures. If I made you laugh today then I have done my job and feel really good about spreading joy and positivity in this world. I would like to extend my Thank You to you, my readers, for following me. And I would like to invite you on a new adventure – I wish to start a homestead and educational farm here in New England (which I am sure will be an endless source of funny stories!) and I am asking for your help in doing so. If this sounds like something you feel like you may wish to support than by all means please visit my GoFundMe page:

Thanks again!

Colorful Personalities · Personal Anectdotes

Never Ask for Directions to the Cracker Factory…

pinkpajamasMEGREflymooseSometimes having very loud and embarrassing friends can actually be pretty funny. Today I speak of a friend who once went to a flea market with me dressed in nothing but bright pink pajamas. This sort of stunt used to mortify me until one day I just snapped and stopped giving a shit, shrugging my shoulders and giving people that look, “Yeah I don’t know, this has nothing to do with me…” or at other times I’ve stepped into that role of being the embarrassing one. That’s always super fun!

But this story is about being lost in the middle of Nowhere Maine – and I mean nowhere – like two hours away from civilization nowhere. We’d stopped at the only business we could find, a gas station aside the highway which we were fairly certain was run by moose. There was a man at the check out and my friend ambled right up to him and asked where she was supposed to be going.

Cracker_factory“Oh well, you’re almost there, just keep going up this road and when you see the cracker factory take a right.”

This is when my friend blurted out, “Cracker factory? Is that where they make all the white people?!” This threw the poor man WAY off as his directions stuttered to a halt and I gave a deep sigh.

“Uhm… no…?”

“It was a joke! You know like they call white people crackers…”


Childhood Memories · Colorful Personalities · Personal Anectdotes

Boy it must have Sucked Being an Openly Bi-Sexual Man in a Small Town in the 1980’s…

biflag1These days my brain has been kicking in and just throwing me completely with random flashbacks of seemingly nothing. Today it was a memory of a man whose name I don’t even know because at the time of this story I was probably only four or five years old.

tiedyetankIt was the late 80’s and this guy lived in a small town in New Hampshire as an openly bi-sexual man. He was… an oddity… in every way. He was also the only man to work making clothes at the sweatshop. This was ironic considering he only wore one shirt — for maybe twenty years. I remember it well. It was a tie-dye T-shirt that had been worn so often that it was literally just rags draped over him, huge slashes and tears, I mean there pretty much was no shirt left, just some tattered fragments of cloth where the seams still clung on for dear life. There was no back to speak of. To this day I have yet to meet a more loved shirt than that one!

noseringMaybe I am remembering him these days out of empathy – I mean holy fuck, that must have been a shit life… an openly bi-sexual man in a small town in the 1980’s?! WOW. He didn’t even get respite at work… the women in the sweatshop were horrible. Never have I met a more bitchy crew than those clucking hens! And if they weren’t bitching about men they were picking on the only dude in the room who had the misfortune of owning a cock and balls. Once he came in with a nose piercing. These lovely squabbling ladies immediately started in on this.

“How do you blow your nose with that thing in?”

“When it’s cold do you get booger icicles on it?”

“It’s like a shiny zit! How do you not pick at it?!”

This went on for a few weeks until the nose ring mysteriously disappeared. Not much later so did this unfortunate fellow. And so ends my story… a tale of both humor and horror. To this day it still sucks to be a minority in a small town, an individual and eccentric, but so long as people like this still flagrantly deny this reality I still have hope. So if by some weird chance this poor guy is out there reading this – I hope you’ve found whatever it is you needed in life. Thanks for giving those biddies something to squawk about!