It's Enough To Drive You Batty

At first, I thought it was a good plan.  Block the trembling and bulging and shaking door with my body and 'it' won't get out.  Amid all the cacophony, I couldn't even hear myself think.  Jane had a different plan.  She came barreling through the brown, vinyl accordion door, taking with it the door frame and running over two 11-year-old scared-out-of-their-wits boys.  She left a trail of high-pitched, hair-curling screams as she zoomed up the basement stairs.  We leapt to our feet, ready for a different high-pitched wail.  That coming from an angry and distressed vampire bat.  No sound of anything.  Only my Dad coming through the carnage with a smile on his face.  'Well guys, we're all safe.  The bat flew out the window.'  He scanned the destroyed door, pieces of door frame and scattered hardware on the floor.  He looked at us.  Another smile.  'What happened to you guys?'  My Viking helmet was sideways (I felt like Fran Tarkenton took a sack) and Kim J. (the other hit-and-run victim) looked like his forehead had a growing knot on it.  In his hand was a partial hockey stick.

Let's back the story up a bit.  About ten minutes prior to this, my Mom came zooming up from our laundry room.  Her high-pitched, hair-curling screams (sound familiar?) could've awakened the comatose.  That's where Kim J. and myself come in.  Comatose.  Bored out of our minds.  Nothing to do.  The shrieks shook us out of this funk.  All right, maybe some action.  My Dad, who was mowing the lawn (not the powered- by- gas kind) came flying in as if somebody was dying.  Or had died.  Kim J. and Alto thought that that would be cool.  'A bat.  Big and yucky.  Flying at me.  In the laundry room', Mom said , catching her breath.  Cool.  A bat.  Maybe a vampire bat.  We looked at each other.  But it's broad daylight.  Ok, it could happen.

'Did you open the windows down there?', Dad asked.  'No, I didn't open the windows down there.  I didn't have time to think of that, Lenny.'  Her scowl told us, as males, to shut up and act like males.  My sister Jane (you remember her, right?) heard this and came over to the group.  'What's all the hubbub, bub?'  Clever she is.

Jane followed Dad down the stairs, with the two other males taking up the rear.  Just in case a stake or two were needed.  Down we went into the basement that led to the laundry room.  Nary a sound.  Jane grabbed a nearby tennis racket and I grabbed my Viking helmet.  You know, bats landing in hair.  Laying eggs.  Vampire eggs.  Though my hair was barely one inch long, I still took precautions.  Kim J. looked a little uneasy.  I gave him a hockey stick and baseball cap.  We advanced toward the doorway (you remember that, too?) to the laundry room.  'Stay out of the laundry room', said Dad, looking at the dorks in sports gear.  'Close this door.  And keep it closed.  We want to keep it in the laundry room.'  Smart move, Dad.  I bet Jane wouldn't have thought of that.  She gave us this weird look.  Kinda like: a couple of losers.

So we stood guard on the outside of the door.  My Viking helmet.  Strapped firmly.  Hockey stick.  Ready.  Vampire bat.  On the other side of this door.  Probably waiting.  To suck blood.  To lay eggs.  It must be huge.  Suddenly, we hear a blood-curdling shriek, then some muffled sounds.  Our eyes were now as big as saucers, flying saucers.  And the references to blood everywhere.  Our blood.  And then it happened.  The start of this story.

I really had thought a vampire bat was this huge thing and was trying to knock the door down.  Really.  Jane didn't buy it.  Mom didn't buy it.  Dad didn't buy it.  Heck, Kim J. didn't buy it.  Hey, we'll all probably laugh about this tomorrow.  No one was laughing.  Of course, after we cleaned up the mess, Kim J. and myself laughed till our sides hurt.  We'll be ready next time, though.  Just scream really loud.  And Dad will take care of it. 

College Experiment

If you've ever gone to college, you would know that, other than getting an education, there are some essential "activities" one could indulge in.  One is supporting the school's athletic teams.  If your school sucked, you would move onto other (in)appropriate "activities".  Living in a dorm away from the parents lent itself to being completely and utterly a pig.  Cleaning up was an "activity" best ignored.  Until you had to move out after a year and a dumpster was moved into place under your dorm window.  Not a pretty sight.

Another far more uplifting "activity" was going to the bars (music, beverages, companionship) or sticking around campus and going to events (boring).  Living in near-arctic conditions 7 months of the year meant one had to think, really think, of "activities" to do inside the dorm (sterile), in a bar (somewhat restrictive) or apartment/house (party).  Seeing that this is not the appropriate forum to divulge any references to anything digested, absorbed or otherwise consumed, I will leave it to the imaginations or memories of yourself or others to fill in the blanks.

One "activity", whilst living in a house, concerned myself and two roomies, Kevin K. and Brad W.  It was actually an experiment called fasting.  We've all heard about the self-imposed, solid food deprivation designed to clean out your toxins that have built up from other "activities".  Cooking (an "activity" best ignored) was minimal.  Warmed-up Cheetos (dairy), stale beer (protein), milk, cold cereal and bread, lots of bread, was pretty much it.  So, it seemed safe to do a three-dayer.  No, not binge drinking.  But three glorious days of just liquids.  Water and juices, but no booze.  Healthy?  Kinda.  Well-planned?  Nope.

This was all suggested by the healthiest one, Kevin K.  He would always pop vitamins (I assumed they were vitamins), crunch granola and wheat germ on a consistent basis.  He thought up the idea and wanted all of us to participate in this starvation exercise.  Misery loves company.  We absurdly agreed but there had to be some reward.  The reward would be: improved health.  Ya, right.

The first day was easy.  Already skinny, I didn't need a lot of calories.  So, juices and water wasn't a big deal, unless someone would offer pizza.  Big weakness.  After a day of educational absorption (a little filling), I got back to the house to find our guru, our health-nut, our inspiration, on the couch with a smile on his face, tomato sauce on his shirt and an almost finished pizza on his lap.  That was soon to be also on his face.  'Sorry' was all he could say (was that spicy Italian sausage and mushrooms in his jowls?) after a loud obnoxious belch and a swig of PBR.  'You can do another two days, Alto.  I have faith in you.'  My nose and taste buds consumed the vapors (subconsciously filling).  'Thanks, leader of the health nuts'.  That night I dreamed of peanuts, cashews, walnuts as toppings on a pizza.  Strangely I felt satisfied.

The next day, full of orange juice and water and sloshing home after another filling day of education, I walked in on my other roomie, Brad W., all 6'3 of him, with a smile on his face, tomato sauce on his shirt and an almost finished pizza on his lap.  Deja vu.  'What's with you guys and pizza'.

The third day seemed to be a dream (or nightmare), all foggy and light, translucent and weightless.  This is what it feels like to be healthy?  Truly amazing feeling.  Floating.  Balloon-like.  I almost passed out a few times, but my will (stubbornness) to succeed and become healthy was overwhelming.  I made it till midnight, when I euphorically and metaphorically jumped up (didn't have to 'cause I floated up) and proudly declared I was the wiener, er, winner.  Nobody was around (they were probably stuffing their faces with 'zza) and nobody cared.  Except my mouth, tongue and stomach.  They sure as hell cared.  I then found myself (beginning to fade away) in a pizza joint.  Was this a dream?  I was consuming a large spicy Italian sausage and mushroom pizza.  Alone.  Was this a dream?  How satisfying.  How succulent.  How greasy.  How stupid.  At roughly 3 AM, I was woken by my body swathed in sweat and in the fetal position.  The rest of the morning and the rest of the day, I was headfirst in the porcelain.  Wishing I would just die.  My healthy, nutty friend stuck his head into the bathroom.  You should have had something like Cream of Wheat or toast, he said.  Thanks for letting me in on that one, I spit.  He congratulated me.  I am now the healthiest in the house.

The Pool - Present and Past

The first visit to the pool this summer with my 10-year-old stepdaughter, Ren, was quite the splash.  From all the zeppelin-like creatures floating (or sinking) around us, that is.  This indoor pool that we frequent is not fancy but very popular among families because of the Olympic-size kiddie pool.  And a fat-laden food stand.  Kind of fits the clientele.  I'll try not to be so cruel, but what the hell are these kids eating?  This one kid (I presumed he was still a kid, he had a goatee, so maybe he was just a young-looking teen fatty)  tended to cry every time someone splashed him in the face.  Like Ren repeatedly did because he refused to move out of the way, thereby, blocking her from recovering a pool thingy-shaped-like-a-rocket ship-that-sinks-to-the-bottom-so-you-can-dive-to-retrieve-it toy.  As he was rubbing his eyes, blinking, crying and more rubbing, Ren, who stands just over four-foot even with Fee Waybill's platforms on, is hidden from view, literally, because of his sack of potatoes for a belly.  Kind of makes you look at yourself and say, wow, I feel like Pee-Wee Herman on a hunger strike.    NOTE: the reference is a little creepy, but hey, that was the first thing that popped into my head.  Please, no adult pun intended.  Remember, I am Polyanna.   Finally, this big lug gets moved by the sheer willpower of Ren.  And a group of four others.  She finally gets the toy and flings it at me.  This lime-green rocket is screaming at me (what an arm on that kid) as I sat on the side of the pool.  My first reaction, duck.  I then hear a sploorf, or some such wet, squishy sound.  I glanced over my shoulder.  Sitting directly behind me, asleep in a pool chair, was a large (come on, hasn't anybody heard of Jenny Craig or lipo or eating less than a car's weight in calories every day?) woman.  Is that a goatee?  With the missile lodged or impaled or sequestered or just plain embedded into her belly.  She didn't wake nor budge.  We then left, sans rocket ship.  We didn't run, though.  Never run around a pool.

That lesson was ingrained into my cerebellum back in high school.  Mr. A. was the school's swimming coach and also the swim class teacher.  Disciplinarian.  Flat-top haircut.  Sargent-like.  A small guy with a booming voice (at least it echoed quite well) and the most piercing whistle (I blame him for my hearing loss) hanging around his neck.  His big deal was: the wooden paddle.  He would lay down the law the first day of the swim year.  Mr. A. had us all lined up at the edge of the pool, facing it.  He walks along behind us explaining his rules of the pool.  Did I mention that one of the school policies was to swim nude?  Just a little tidbit to envision.  The Great White North swim class looking like pasty full moons.  A little disturbing?  A little creepy?  We knew no better and that was probably a good thing.  His method of discipline was simple: If you roughhouse, push, run, swear,etc., you will be punished.  By his two-foot long wooden paddle.  With small holes drilled into it.  He made sure every one of us got to see this beauty of shellacked oak (?) and contoured handle   I think he even a had a name burned into it.  Was it Butty?  He was oh so proud of this baby.  Here was the deal.  If you were out of line, you got a whack on the butt.  Did I mention we were n-e-k-e-d?  He would then put a mark by your name.  If you screwed up again, the whack would be harder.  And so on.  Those holes?  They are there to suck your tender flesh out and make a welt.  Of course, he had to dip it into the pool for some added effect.  So, here we are, all lined up, with this scary, little man with a Napoleon-complex walking behind us with a piece of wood telling us what might happen.  To give us a preview, everybody will be whacked to know what it feels like.  How quaint, don't you think?  Now, in alphabetical order, Altobelli, first.  I felt like diving into the pool but realized that  a) I wasn't a very good swimmer and  b) he was the damn swim coach so he could easily catch me and paddle me into mush. 

Ah, the good old days.  What would happen today if a paddle was around?  Maybe more respect?  What about swimming nude?  More respect for anatomy?  I have to slip this into conversations every now and again with my stepson, Forrest.  Just to see the look on his face.  He was appalled.  Was it coed?, he asked.  No.  You mean, with you're winky hanging?  Yes, but when the paddle came around that first time, I turtled up.  I don't know if he believes me or not.  I kinda look back, oh, the horror, and think, if I had eaten more, that whack on my bony butt wouldn't have stung so bad.