Life as Lucy Ricardo - The Apartment

A golden oldie re-run that always makes me laugh.

I should be embarrassed to tell this story, but apparently I have no shame and no reluctance to laugh at myself. This “Lucy” episode took place in the fall before Mike and I married in mid-December, '66 (based, of course, on winter break at MSU and the date of the Liberty Bowl). We were apartment hunting and pulled up in the parking lot of a small complex near school that had potential. We were disappointed to find that there was no resident manager, but there was clearly an empty first-floor unit. We peeked through the living room and kitchen windows. You remember the starter apartments where the front door and kitchen door were practically next to each other? That was the set-up. By chance, one of us tried the kitchen doorknob – and it was open. It's not breaking and entering if the door's unlocked, right? So, in we went. The first strike against the apartment was the incredibly small size of the kitchen. The best example is that if the oven door was open, you couldn't fully open or close the back door. That's small.
They’d already painted and cleaned up the apartment and, except for the kitchen, it looked really good. But before we left to check out the next apartment on the list, I decided to use the bathroom there. Mike determined that everything was operable, so in I went. I suppose it was because I felt a bit like a trespasser that I flipped the doorknob lock as I closed the bathroom door behind me. I also suppose that the events that followed were the price for our criminal behavior. As I started to exit the restroom moments later, I unfortunately found that the doorknob was faulty. It had no traction. Just turned aimlessly. Naturally, that somehow affected the lock and I couldn’t unlock the door. So now we’re trespassing AND I’m locked in the bathroom. I did everything I could to get the doorknob to catch, but was having no luck. Finally, I just knocked on the door as if asking permission to leave would release me from the unfriendly room. Mike followed the sound and initially thought I was playing a game with him. Nope. So he started struggling with the knob on his side of the door and giving me instructions about what to do on my side in hopes that, together, we could get something to happen. No surprise – that didn’t work either. The door opened into the bathroom so the hinges were on my side. In hopes that they might be loose, Mike told me what to do to attempt pulling that watchamacallit out of that round thingamajig. And that didn’t work either. No use to look for tools in an empty bathroom either. We obviously couldn’t break down the door. That would add vandalism to our illegal entry, and rememberthat there was no resident manager who might begrudgingly provide help. Mike recalled seeing a window in the bathroom, so he told me to have a look, see if it would open and then describe to him what I’d found. Yes, there was a window on the wall next to the bathtub. It was small. It was high. It was one horizontal, rectangular piece of glass. I stepped up on the side of the bathtub and then crossed to the small side of the tub’s rim against the wall. I had to stand on tiptoe because there wasn’t enough room for the whole foot. In that position, I could see out the window. Its lower ledge was about at my shoulder level. I yelled to Mike that it would open. He said he’d go outside to check it out and that I should stay put. I thought to myself, “isn’t that the problem?” Around the building and to the back, which was fortunately sheltered from view from the street, Mike came to my aid and somehow popped off the screen. I peered out and saw that it was farther to the ground than I would have liked. And because of the window’s size and position above the tub, there was no way that I was going to sit in the window and jump down. In case any of you have a doubt, I might point out that I was never a tomboy. Hadn’t climbed trees. Hadn’t dived headfirst from anything except a swimming pool. I got off the tub and prayerfully checked the doorknob again only to learn that it was still broken. I could hear Mike outside telling me that the window was the only way and that he’d catch me. Yes, but would my broken neck heal in time for the wedding? I t helped that I was only 20 and fairly small. It also helped that I’d had a lot of dance and stuff in high school so I was pretty limber. Back over to the tub’s small edge, I started pulling myself up to push out of the window. I used the built-in soap dish as a foothold and was grateful that I didn’t break it. First good news of the last hour or so. I got head and shoulders through the window and started scooting my body forward. Remember playing on a see-saw? There’s a balance point in the middle and, depending on the weight that’s placed on both ends, the horizontal board will tip backward or forward. There was a period of time in going out the window when I became a human see-saw. I was pretty sure that there could be no good outcome. Mike was standing there, arms outstretched, encouraging me to keep pushing forward. And so I did. I finally got enough of me out the window that he could grab my arms, then my shoulders and basically drag me through the window and to safety. He gave me a big hug, told me I was brave -- -- and then we ran like hell. We rented a different apartment.

Life as Lucy Ricardo, Part XV – -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Mr. Magoo Rides Again

During my years handling public relations/media relations for the California school district, I enjoyed many invitations to speak to student groups and other school districts. The university classes were the most fun and, although my ability to drive at night was getting iffy, I continued to accept invitations – but with caution.

On a particular early evening, I was headed to Cal State Fullerton to speak to a colleague’s PR class. Entering the campus on an attractive, divided street, I made a left turn into the designated parking lot and carefully surveyed the area. I would be exiting the parking lot after dark, so I needed to get a handle on the layout.

I noted that the lot’s entrance blossomed wide with neat parking rows to the right. I located a strategic parking place and pulled in. It would be simple. I would back out of the parking place on the last row and hug the curb which would take me to the campus street which would then lead me to the traffic light where I would exit the campus. I knew how to proceed safely home from there. Staying close to the parking lot’s curb would prevent me from getting “lost” at the wide entrance. Obviously, at the end of the curb I would be in position for the right turn.

With my exit strategy in place, I went into the adjacent building, found the classroom and had a lively discussion about school public relations with the students. I was still jazzed when the instructor walked me to my car. I assured her that I’d be fine getting home.

Exactly as planned, I backed out of the parking place, spotted the curb and eased the car along that border until it ended and I took a right onto the waiting pavement.

It wasn’t long until something just didn’t feel right. In the darkness, I could see little outside the beams of my headlights. I couldn’t make out the landscaped divider that was supposed to be on my left. I began to think that I’d made a wrong turn, but I had seen no other streets entering the parking lot. Knowing that I must be going in the right direction, I continued slowly.

Until a street light on my left illuminated the area sufficiently to answer all my questions.

I was driving down a sidewalk.

The walkway was wide enough to accommodate the car, but just barely. If I had tried to drive that far on the sidewalk, I’d have ended up in the grass. But there I was.

I came to a complete stop, and I’m sure you know the first thing you do in a situation like that. You look around to find out if anyone has seen you. No students; no cars; no campus cops. So I could laugh before figuring out how to get the heck out of there.

There was no choice. I had to back out to the place where the sidewalk flowed into the parking lot. I’ve never excelled at driving in reverse and, at that point in life, I had certainly proved that I wasn’t great at night driving. I inched backwards occasionally opening my door to ensure that I was still on pavement. I thought it would take all night, but eventually I could tell that I’d made it to the parking lot.

I cautiously made the turn off the walkway and carefully pulled forward to ensure that this time I made the proper turn. Bingo! I accelerated on the way to the exit traffic light and then made for home.

Mr. Magoo and I must have had guardian angels protecting us despite our misadventures.

Life as Lucy Ricardo, Part XIV -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Or Perhaps Mr. Magoo

“Laugh at yourself first, before anyone else can.” Elsa Maxwell


In the last days of my being able to drive at night, I had a lot of rules for myself and precautions. And yet, life was sometimes unexpected – and amusing.

Late one fall afternoon, I received a call that I was needed at a crisis meeting at one of our facilities. It was a place I rarely went and, therefore, was unfamiliar with the area. My first thought was that it would be dark by the end of the meeting. Driving after dark in an unfamiliar area would be breaking one of my primary rules. But duty called.

As I pulled into a parking space facing the street from the small parking lot, I memorized everything I could and then pushed the concern into my Scarlett mode. “I’ll think about that another time.”

The meeting ended productively and brought back to mind the predicament that awaited me. A good friend was in the meeting, though. She knew about my vision issues and said she would walk out with me. Life is good. We got to my car and she pointed to the traffic light at the parking lot exit furthest from the building. That would be the easiest way for me to make a left turn and quickly return to known territory. When another of the meeting participants walked over to talk to me, Carole told me that she was in the black something-or-other car a few spaces down and that she’d wait for me at the traffic light.

With the after-meeting conversation complete, I got in my car, backed out of the space and began looking for the black something-or-other. I’ve never been able to tell one make of car from the other, but she’d be the only one at the parking lot exit I presumed.

I inched my car down the row of vehicles until -- -- ah ha! Black whatchamacallit car angled toward the light. I pulled in behind her and waited for the light to change. It did, but she didn’t move. The light went through its cycle again, but no action from Carole. I didn’t understand, but I waited another cycle, then became concerned that she might have become ill.

I squinted and, as the headlights of cars on the street zipped by, I tried to see the outline of her shape in the driver’s seat. Nothin’. But, I told myself, she’s kind of short. Another traffice light cycle and no movement. I was about to get out of the car to go ask if she was ok when there was a tap on my window.

Lowering the window, I saw the manager of the facility. The guy I’d just been counseling with. He asked me if I was ok. My internal logic program went into overdrive processing why he would think that I wasn’t ok when I was simply waiting patiently for Carole to exit the lot. So I mumbled something to that effect. There was a pause so pregnant that it might have belonged to an elephant. He looked toward the car in front of me.

“I’m parked just two spaces down,” he said. “Why don’t you follow me out of the lot.” I said that I would.

I reluctantly backed away from the black car, but wondered how we were going to get out of the lot by going further east when I was already at the exit. As he backed out and I fell in behind him and we rolled to the east, it all became perfectly, embarrassingly and hysterically clear.

I hadn’t been at the exit. That wasn’t Carole’s car. I had been sitting behind an empty, parked car for 10 minutes. All the way home, I laughed until tears rolled down my face.

Hey, Mr. Magoo’s got nothin’ on me.

Language Barrier

When I accepted a new position and moved from Little Rock to California in 1985, one of the first people I met was Faye who held the top administrative/clerical position in the organization and probably knew everything about everything. She immediately took me under her wing (she later said I looked like a lost waif) and told me who to sit with, where to go, and what to do when I got there. She eased me into the organization so that I could succeed at my job. We became friends, started doing things socially, and she became my surrogate mom – a fact acknowledged by my Mother. Faye was classy, cultured, well traveled, and a bit bawdy. A lot of an Auntie Mame. Just my kind of lady.

This episode, however, took place with another friend of ours, Esperanza. Despite her fair skin and red hair, Espie hailed from Mexico and was the official, highly educated translator for our organization. On a particular afternoon, Esperanza took Faye with her to visit a Mexican friend of hers who also lived in Southern California.

The Lady, although diminuitive, made an immediate and strong impression. Her silver hair was neatly pinned into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her gentle frock was clasped at the neck, and a lace shawl draped over her slender shoulders. Although she only spoke Spanish and Faye only spoke English, The Lady made Faye feel welcome as she served tea to her guests. Esperanza, as the only bilingual person in the room, graciously included both the other women in the conversation.

Faye had a lovely visit and was enchanted with the obviously high-born lady with whom they’d been visiting. As they said farewells, Faye strained to remember some loving word in Spanish to convey her feelings as she gave The Lady kisses on both cheeks. Remembering the endearing term that Esperanza used for her only son, Faye embraced The Lady and murmured “mi cabroncita.”

The Lady’s eyes widened. Her mouth dropped momentarily. But she regained her composure, embraced Faye and said good-bye. Only as they were leaving did Faye notice that Esperanza’s eyes were dilated and wide open and that her face was flushed.

As they exited, and the door was closed, Esperanza exclaimed, “WHAT were you thinking?!” Bewildered, Faye replied, “But that’s what you call your son.”

Wellll, Esperanza’s only son was a ne’er-do-well. He still lived in Mexico and was never as attentive or supportive to his mom as we friends thought he should be. Additionally, he’d fathered a “few” children without benefit of wedlock to any of their mothers and was not held in high regard in our circle.

His mother adored him.

But she also, reluctantly, recognized his foibles. “Mi cabroncito” means “my little shit.”

And that’s what dear Faye had just called The Lady. It was a Life as Lucy Ricardo moment if ever there was one.

Life as Lucy Ricardo, Part XII --- --- --- --- --- -- -- The Language Transplant

Between the two of us, Mike and I don’t have a single healthy knee. He has done all manner of damage to his, and I’ve had three cartilage surgeries. The first was from a car accident – knee meets dashboard; the next from a bicycle accident – knee meets asphalt; and the last from a tap dancing class a few years ago – knee meets energetic new step.

On the day of the second surgery, I was lying on a hospital bed in a curtained-off cubicle in the pre- and post-op room. There were a number of other, similar cubicles and several nurses going about their duties and talking to patients and each other. It was about time to take me into surgery when I noticed a large clock on the far wall. I knew approximately how long the surgery should take, so I made mental note of the current time. Simple. When I woke up post-op, I’d just have to observe the time to know if the surgery went as anticipated.

Some time later, I groggily opened my eyes. I had been returned to a different cubicle and my eyes wouldn’t focus enough to locate the wall clock. I sensed someone standing next to me, so I asked, “Que hora es?”

“Huh??” he replied.

“Que hora es?” I repeated. “What time is it?”

He told me the time, and I heard him walk out of my cubicle asking someone: “Did she speak Spanish before surgery?”

And why, you ask, were my first post-surgical words in Spanish? Who knows? Or should I say “Quien sabe?”

Life as Lucy Ricardo -- and Ethel -- -- -- -- -- -- -- The Horror Flick Fright

I really like a good scary movie. Not slashers, but really hair-raising, supernatural thrillers. You wouldn’t be surprised to know that I’ve read most of Stephen King’s and Dean Koontz’s novels.

One of the most frightening movies I’ve ever seen was back in the ‘70s. At the time, my sis Betty and I lived next door to each other in little one-bedroom apartments in mid-town Memphis. We threatened to knock a hole in the wall that was common to our walk-in closets to simplify our back-and-forth visits, but we decided that there might be a negative impact on our security deposits.

One weekend afternoon we headed out to see the Shirley Maclaine horror flick, The Possession of Joel Delaney, which was playing at The Memphian (now Playhouse on the Square) in Overton Square. We were completely immersed in the tale of a truly evil, murderous villain whose spirit takes over another, formerly nice person. The movie offered many visual shocks to which we responded with popcorn-dropping starts and shrieks.

At movie’s end we were exhausted, but still giggly scared. All female readers know what that means. We’re frightened, but we’re adults, so when we see the fear in ourselves or each other’s eyes -- -- we giggle. It’s a girl thing.

This is a good place to point out that we were in our 20s. Supposedly sensible adults. (Photos are of Betty and me at a New Year’s Eve party we gave back in those apartments.)

But we exited the theater and the sun had gone down. Here’s what you need to know about the old Memphian. It was on Cooper St. facing east. It was not quite at the corner to the south at Union and Cooper. There was another building between the theater and the corner. The parking lot entrance was on Union. If you didn’t want to walk the long way to Union, the parking lot entrance and then to your car, you took the shortcut. There was a walkway along the entire south side of the theater. It was perhaps four feet wide and was bordered by the windowless exterior of the theater on one side and a tall, cement wall on the other. Naturally there was limited lighting. When you stood at the shortcut’s entrance, it appeared that you were staring at a long, dark, spooky tunnel. Probably not the place to be after a scary movie.

When Betty and I turned to the shortcut, we halted abruptly. We looked at each other, took deep breaths, then held hands. We walked down that paved path – frequently almost back-to-back so we could watch for approaching madmen – alternately being terrified or giggling. As we stepped into the parking lot, we broke into a near-run to the car. Safely inside, we locked our doors. And giggled.

Nearing our apartment building, it became clear that neither of us would be able to sleep alone in our separate apartments that night. We chose my apartment for the sleepover, but Betty still had to get some things from her place first. We were frightened enough to make the short run from car to apartment hallway, so we knew that neither of us was willing to enter our apartment alone.

We approached Betty’s door. We stood to each side of the door as if we were police preparing to bust into a meth lab. Betty unlocked the door. We made silent eye contact, then quickly pushed open the door and waited at the sides of the open portal to see if the boogeyman would leap out. He didn’t.

Bet flipped on the light switch next to the door; we jumped inside, slamming and locking the door behind us. Then we giggled again.

It was a small apartment, but, as we were steeped in fear, it seemed treacherous and overrun with villainous hiding places. We attacked them one-by-one with the same front-door procedure – kitchen, both closets, under the bed, behind the shower curtain. Pulling back the shower curtain was the worst.

Sigh of relief. We’re safe. We giggled. Betty gathered her necessary items, and we backed toward her front door turning off lights as we went. We peeked through the living room drapes before opening the front door. I stood with my back to Betty’s as she locked her door and we fled the few steps to my door

Facing the entrance to my apartment – well, mostly huddled together looking up and down the hall – we knew that we’d have to go through the same storm trooper apartment inspection that we’d employed at Betty’s. We took a deep breath, did not giggle, and started with the front door.

Once we had cleared my apartment, double-checked the locks on the doors and windows, we felt pretty sure that there were no possessed marauders in the place.

We got into jammies, made coffee and chatted for a couple of hours to clear away the remaining shreds of the movie madness. Finally, we thought we could sleep. We got into bed, and there was complete quiet for a couple of minutes.

“I’m so glad we’re not thinking about that movie any more,” I said to my sis.

With a half-second pause, I heard Betty sit up in bed. I turned on the light and sat up, too. “Well, NOW we are!” she said.

Out of bed again, it only took us another hour to once again calm our nerves. We settled down to sleep, and that time I kept my mouth shut.

I think I’d like to try that movie again, but I’m waiting until Bet spends the weekend with me so we can watch it together – with all the doors and windows locked.

Horror Move P.S.

I read a funny item last week on MSN that offers tips on how to spot the lone horror movie survivor – the last woman standing, Final Girl. Check it out.
http://specials.msn.com/Final-Girl.aspx?cp-documentid=13267349&imageindex=1&cp-searchtext=final%20girl&FORM=MSNIIT

Life as Lucy Ricardo -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - Armed and Dangerous

Back in the late ‘80s, I was living in a small house in Southern California. My cousin, The Colonel, believed that a single woman living alone should have a weapon in the house for self-defense. It hadn’t been long since the Night Stalker had been captured. The Colonel loaned me a .9 mm handgun, took me to the firing range for lessons and also out to the desert to get comfortable with and to fire other of his weapons. I wasn’t planning to be an Annie Oakley, but I was no longer afraid of guns.

So there I was feeling pretty confident with my .9 mm – loaded with a full clip and one in the chamber -- tucked under the mattress within easy reach. I had almost forgotten it was there until one night when I was awakened by a loud noise toward the front of the house.

I lay there, listening, and wondering if I had been dreaming. And then I heard the noise again. My heart was pounding. “Awwww, sh**,” I said to myself. And then, calming, I convinced myself that I knew what I had to do, and hiding under the covers wouldn’t get it done.

First, I retrieved the gun and then quietly sat, then stood up. I moved silently to my bedroom door and strained to hear any kind of movement. I stepped into the short hall. On my left would be the door to the spare bedroom. Straight ahead was the den and ahead of it, the living room.

In my little nightgown and with a big gun, I pressed my back to the wall and began inching my way toward the den. Contrary to most tv and movies, I had been taught that you don’t enter a room with your arms extended in front of you. If a bad guy is just around that corner, he’ll simply knock the gun from your hands. Doing my Police Woman thing, my left hand cradled my right hand which held the gun. My elbows were bent. The gun was pointed at the ceiling. And I was barely breathing.

As that short hall reached the den, the room opened wide to the right. The wall on the left side of the hall continued for a bit then ended at a bar – the eating and drinking kind. Behind the bar were walking space, a small sink and cabinets. I knew it was a bad idea to step into the open area of the room. I could keep my back to the wall longer if I stayed to the left. But then I’d be at the bar and someone could easily be crouching behind it in the dark.

To the left at the end of the bar was the doorway to the kitchen. The kitchen had a door to a bathroom which connected to the spare bedroom. The back door was also off the kitchen as was a door to the dining room that adjoined the living room. Someone in the kitchen could come straight at me through the den, go into the dining room and wait for me to enter the living room OR go through that bathroom and spare bedroom that I’d just passed and come up behind me.

This was not a good situation. And to prove it, I heard the noise again. If I had been dreaming, that would have been the time to wake up.

Standing pat wasn’t the answer, so I pressed my back to the left wall and moved soundlessly into the den. Pause. Listen. Then, with my backside against the low bar, I scooched to the halfway point along its length. I stopped again and held my breath to listen. I was sure that if someone was close, I’d hear his breathing.

BAM! At that moment the noise sounded loudly right behind me. I instinctively whirled toward the noise and just as quickly realized what it was. I let out my breath in a whoosh, stomped over to the closest light switch and flipped it on. I put the gun down on the bar and, leaning down to open the lower cabinet, said, “Get out of there you dumb cat!”

Apparently when I had retrieved something from that cabinet earlier in the evening my curious kitty had slipped in to explore. After some time she must have become bored and curled up for a nap. When she was once again awake and ready to be released, she tried to push open the door – but she wasn’t strong enough to muscle it open all the way. So it was banging shut. And terrifying me.

I refrained from strangling the cat. Put the gun back under the mattress and tried to sleep. If this was a dress rehearsal, I hadn’t done too badly.

The Chinaberry Tree -- An Early "Lucy"?

The photo above has little to do with the story I’m going to tell you – except for the cast of characters. That’s baby me and my cousin Grace in the photo. It far predates this story, but I don’t have one from the summer in question and, besides, this one’s cute.

Somewhere around the time I was 10 or so, my mother and her sister had a grand idea for the summer. I would go visit Aunt Mary, Uncle Bill and Grace for a week or two, then Grace would come to spend an equal amount of time with mother and me. For a long time, I thought they were giving us nice vacations. When I became a mother, I understood that they were getting vacations, too. From us.

I should point out immediately that Grace suggested the telling of this story, so I’m not getting in trouble with my cousin.

It was the typical country mouse, city mouse story. Grace and her parents lived in the country outside either Jackson or Vicksburg, MS. I forget which. Grace knew everything about her environment. She knew that vegetables didn’t come in cans at the grocery, and she knew what to do with them when they were picked. She knew about critters and trees and had even shot her dad’s gun.

Mother and I lived in Memphis. I knew how to take the right bus to get downtown and how to make transfers to get back, when to cross the street when a sleazy man was ahead, and I knew the way to all the fun stores at Poplar Plaza.

I was amazed at all the things Grace could do and wowed with all the “outdoors.” There was just so much of it. I was an apartment kid who was never far from sidewalks and busy streets. I did a fair job of learning to shell peas, but then Grace offered another diversion. “Let’s go sit in the Chinaberry tree.” I could understand “under” it. I was having trouble with “in” it.

We got to the tree in her front yard, and she scampered up into the branches without hesitation or thought. I remained quite still and embarrassed to admit that I didn’t know how to climb a tree. She slipped down from the tree as quickly as she went up and tried to give me instruction. Put your hand here. Put your foot there. I was a klutz, but she had an idea. She fetched a board from somewhere, leaned it up against the tree at an easy angle and explained that if I held on to the low limb, I could pretty much walk up into the tree. It worked. I don’t think I got any higher than the low limb, but Grace joined me in the tree and we sat there for a while. Then I think she just got tired of my stupidity. She jumped down from the tree and walked away saying, “get down by yourself.”

I sort of tried, but I was a city scairdy cat. Finally Uncle Bill came out (do you think I might have been whining?) and lifted me from the tree. Safe at last on solid ground.

But the game wasn’t over. Grace came to Memphis. We walked up to Poplar Plaza one day for one of my favorite activities – shopping. Not that I ever had any money to spend, but I really enjoyed looking at all the goodies and thinking about which ones I’d buy if I could. We went into one of the nicer stores that I enjoyed and, after checking out the main floor, headed for the upstairs.

We got to the escalator, and Grace balked. She’d never seen or been on an escalator. Oh my. I talked her through it as patiently as she coached me into the tree. And then, success. She mastered it, and we were upstairs with more pretty things to look at.

I don’t know what possessed me but after a while, I slipped away from Grace and took the escalator downstairs. She’d only made one trip UP an escalator and had never gone down one. I stood at the bottom of the down escalator and waited for her to notice that I was gone and start looking for me. She did and stood there fearfully unsure about how to make that first step onto the moving stairs. I watched, then walked off calling over my shoulder, “pretend it’s a Chinaberry tree.”

postscript

For the sake of drama, that should be the end of the story. But my mother wasn’t there to rescue her as Uncle Bill had rescued me. So I relented and helped her get down. It wasn’t so much that I was being altruistic; I knew I’d get in trouble if I left her there.

And with that making us even, we’ve not pulled any dirty tricks on each other since. At least that’s the way I remember it.

My Life as Lucy Ricardo # VIII: The Mouse

In a previous “Lucy” episode, I described my encounter with a really big, ill-intentioned spider. It wasn’t my only bad experience with a creepy crawly.

Back when I was a young divorced woman with a toddler son, I lived in a little rental house next to a field. Newspaper reporters there didn’t get paid much, so we were definitely in a modest neighborhood. Much to my distress, I’d discovered evidence that Alex and I weren’t alone in our little house. I was pretty sure that at least one mouse had moved in from the adjacent field. And the critter wasn’t even paying rent.

I asked around the newsroom what to do. Traps were out of the question with a curious toddler in the house. One of the guys said he could put poison traps in safe places such as behind the washing machine and, as a father himself, he’d make sure the positioning was completely child-safe. I warned him that the last thing I wanted was to run into a dead mouse. He assured me that the beastie would go back into the field and die peacefully with his mouse family. Silly me. I believed him.

One winter evening I arrived home, unbundled little Alex and went to the closet in the junk room to put up our coats. As I opened the closet door, I was surprised that it stuck about halfway open. Must be the weather or simply the sloppy workmanship in the rent-a-dump. I closed the door. I pulled it open again. It stuck again. And that’s when I looked down and discovered that the sticking point was a mouse corpse. EeeeYuck!

I fled the room, slamming the door behind me. Grabbed Alex, took him to his baby bed, gave him toys, and then closed that door. I can only imagine in retrospect that I thought the mouse was going to rise from the dead and get us. I paced the living room for a couple of minutes to summon up my courage, then decided to face the situation like a woman.

Fortified with a broom and dustpan, I re-entered the junk room, this time leaving the door wide open for a fast getaway. The dead mouse was still there. The closet door still had him pinned down. I pushed the closet door off of him which, of course, made the body jump and made me yell. I wasn’t feeling too good. I can face down all kinds of demons and problems – but not critters. I put the dustpan next to him. My plan was to use the broom to scoot him onto the dustpan, then I’d just dispose of him in the outdoor trashcan. Easy for you to say.

I backed away from the mouse and dustpan, holding the broom by the very end of its handle, and took a golf stroke at the not-so-dearly departed. Well, you see, rigor mortis had set in, and my swipe only made him stiffly plop over with his little legs pointed up at the ceiling. I ran from the room again. I regained my composure, retried the same strategy, and got the same result. Now I was the one who was stuck.

Pacing in the living room again seemed like a good idea while I tried to figure out a solution. Clearly, I could not manage mouse disposal. Just couldn’t. So the question I asked myself was “Who can I call to get rid of the mouse who won’t kid me about this forever?” It was the last part of the question that was giving me trouble.

It had only been a few months back in the summer when I’d arrived home to find an oversized grasshopper lurking atop the window air conditioner in Alex’s room. I had reason to scoop up the kiddo and slam the door shut that time. After pondering my alternatives, I called my mother to see what she and my step-dad were doing. Fortunately, he had three daughters of his own so he patiently agreed, and they drove the 20 minutes to my place to get rid of the grasshopper.

The guys in the newsroom razzed me a lot about having the former county sheriff dispose of my grasshopper. That incident seemed to drastically reduce my list of possibilities for getting rescued this time. Except . . .

I remembered seeing a L'eggs truck parked regularly in the driveway next door and a fellow going into that house. I didn’t know him anyway, so I didn’t care what he thought of me and, since we didn’t know each other, he couldn’t possibly shame me about my cowardice. I checked on little Alex who was blissfully unaware of the drama in the next room, then I marched across the yard and knocked on the neighbor’s door.

“You don’t know me, but I live next door and I’ve got this little situation,” I told him when he opened the door. He reluctantly asked what that might be, and I had to tell him about the dead mouse and my inability to get rid of it. There was silence for a moment or two. He might have been looking for the hidden camera. Then he replied, “Do you have paper towels?” Yes! Home run.

He followed me next door; I fetched the paper towels; and I pointed from the junk room door to the location of the body. It didn’t even occur to me to be embarrassed that a stranger was looking at my junk room. The L'eggs truck driver looked pretty much like the Lone Ranger to me at the moment.

He scooped up the dead, cold mouse and I ran ahead of him to open the front door thanking him repeatedly on the way. Out he strode into the night. I saw him a time or two after that when we were coming or going from our driveways. Oddly, he never spoke or made eye contact.

Life as Lucy Ricardo - 'Elementary' Math

Substitute teaching at the elementary school down the road from us in an Atlanta suburb was pretty easy. The teachers were well organized, and there was always a roll book and lesson plan within easy reach. The day’s schedule was outlined, and I just had to check these important documents and glide through the day with what was usually a great group of kidletts.

So early one morning when I got a call for yet another fourth grade assignment that day, I didn’t hesitate. I jumped up, dressed, and drove down to the school. After taking roll, our first task was to check the previous night’s math homework. No biggie. I asked the children to exchange papers with a neighbor, then I reached for the answer book. But it wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere in the desk. The kids were waiting, and I was having a panic attack.

For those who don’t know me well, I need to pause and explain that I’m seriously math deficient. My eyes glaze over when number stuff comes up. And I don’t even care any more. I know how to operate a calculator. So there.

On that day, however, looking at the “new math” assignment the children had completed, I knew I’d never figure out the answers on my own, and yet all those sweet, expectant faces were gazing up at me. I also knew that fourth graders are savvy enough about subs that they can spot a chink in your armor from a mile away. And then they attack and devour you. Nothing left but a mangled hall pass. I had to do something fast before they could see me sweat.

In a move that was either genius or desperation, I announced that we would be putting the homework problems on the board. I called up three children at a time to put the same problem on the board. If they’d all done it the same way – and with the same answer – I could confidently proclaim that to be the proper answer. When there was a variance in the three problems, I turned to class participation, otherwise known as voting. Is that your final answer?

“And who believes that this is the correct way to solve the problem?” Another benefit of that approach is that I quickly spotted a little girl on the front row (it’s always those front-row kids) who was obviously good at math. In a split vote, I went with her opinion. I wonder if she knew that she was teaching the class.

I may write a survival guide for substitutes.

'Life as Lucy Ricardo' Part VI

Although I majored in journalism and minored in English while in college, I managed to pick up an undeclared minor in education. In the credit review for graduation, I was surprised to find that I lacked just one course and student teaching to be eligible for a teaching credential. Hmmmm. I thought that at some point, when the hoped-for munchkins arrived and were in school, I might switch over from a communications job to teaching.

Fast-forward to the Atlanta suburbs some years later where I was doing the happy homemaker thing. Really. I baked bread. I planted flowers. The whole bit. But since we lived equidistant between two schools, I decided to try my hand at substitute teaching as a part-time venture. I tooled down to the school district offices and hoped I could sell them on my undeclared minor as rationale to let me work for them. On the contrary, they were just thrilled that I had a degree. I was in.

So I signed up for the two schools near me. For the time being, I’ll skip my first day as a sub down at the high school. It deserves a post all unto itself. Over the next few months I spent most of my teaching time at the elementary school down the road and most of that time in fourth grade classes. Don’t know if it was fourth grade kids or fourth grade teachers, but that’s where the calls came from.

Oh, I remember substitute teachers from my school days. It was a kid’s license to terrorize. I was determined to be on the lookout for their tricks – even the little fourth graders. Height, or lack of it, does not determine the ability to plot and scheme. They can be formidable opponents.

So on a day early in my elementary experience, my class and I had just recently returned from lunch, recess and a bathroom stop. That’s when a cute little girl in jeans and tee shirt approached my desk and wanted a pass to go to the restroom. I reminded her that she had just had the opportunity to do that. She whimpered, and I gave her the hall pass with direction to walk straight to the bathroom and right back. She nodded and left.

Not two minutes later another kidlett in jeans and tee shirt approached my desk with the same request. Ah ha. I know this game! Let’s all get hall passes and go giggle in the restroom and break all manner of laws. No way. Not on my watch. I was obligated to repeat the “ya shouldda just done that” speech. Kid squirmed believably. I partially relented.

“OK, when the other little girl returns, you can have the pass,” I compromised.

“But, teacher, I’m a boy!”

“Oh. Well. Then, here’s a pass. Come back quickly.” What else could I do? They all look alike in the fourth grade.

'Life as Lucy Ricardo' -- Again

Sis-in-law Judy said that she particularly likes the “My Life as Lucy Ricardo” stories, so I’ll once again embarrass myself with the fifth in this series.

In our way-back first marriage, Mike and I moved from the tiny, one-bedroom apartment just across the tracks from Memphis State into what felt like a roomy rental house just a few blocks further away. It had two bedrooms, one bath and an actual, but smallish, dining room between the kitchen and living room. As an older house, it was heated by floor furnaces which weren’t desirable except to stand over them in a long nightgown on a wintry morning. It required a lot of initial paint due to the fact that the entire interior was Pepto Bismol pink. What was somebody thinking! But we liked it, and our little dog, Pepper Pot, liked the big back yard.

One night Mike was playing a club gig, and Pepper and I were on the sofa watching tv when I noted movement in the little hall that led to the bedrooms, bath and around the corner to the dining room and kitchen. I got up and moved closer. Apparently out of the floor furnace had crawled the largest, blackest, nastiest, scariest giant spider I’d ever seen. It looked like a tarantula on steroids.

It seems that I recall momentary screaming, but I protectively grabbed Pepper, threw him into the bedroom and slammed the door shut. I wasn’t going to allow that monster to eat my dog. Nope. He’d have to deal with me.

I jumped back in the living room and grabbed the first weapon I found – a newspaper which I folded for battle. Of course as I jumped back, the thing crept forward, so there was probably more screaming. I bravely initiated confrontation, however, and thrust the paper on the floor toward him. There were two good reasons for that move: I didn’t want him to attack me, and I didn’t want him to go back into the floor furnace where he could hide and sneak back out later. The furnace wasn’t on, so the option of roasting him wasn’t available.

The spare bedroom door was closed so I wouldn’t lose him in there. I needed to stop him from heading down the connecting hall to the dining room and other parts. The bathroom door was open making it my target.

So the monster and I began a little choreography. I’d scooch the paper, and he’d go a bit in the desired direction. He’d advance toward me, and I’d yelp and slightly retreat. He’d move his eight, creepy legs toward the other hall, and I’d use the paper to block his way. And over again. Our little dance wasn’t exactly salsa. It was more like the thrust and parry of an Errol Flynn sword fight, but with more screaming.

Eventually, he entered the bathroom and I pulled the door shut. Ah ha! I felt safer so I paused to catch my breath. But the thing was still alive and healthy. I had to cure that. From the kitchen, I retrieved a can of bug spray and prepared to do battle again. I creaked open the bathroom door, spraying the bug killer on the tile floor as I opened it to scare away the little demon. When I got a decent view of the small room, I could see that the spider was hiding. My guess was that he was on the other side of the toilet. With my left hand clutching the doorknob so I could slam it shut if threatened, I started spraying everything that was within firing range of my protected spot. It’s a wonder I didn’t poison myself with all the fumes.

Satisfied, I backed into the hall and slammed the door closed smugly believing that I had prevailed. But then I observed the bathroom light shining out from under the door. He could escape. I proceeded to lay down a thick coat of the spray around all four sides of the doorframe. Now! He couldn’t possibly live through that onslaught or escape.

I had only enjoyed my triumph for a couple of minutes when the next problems presented themselves for consideration:
1. I was not going to be the one to dispose of the dead body.
2. We only had one bathroom.
3. It was late already, but Mike wouldn’t be home for hours.

It actually didn’t take long to find the solution. Any good general knows when it’s time for a strategic withdrawal. I gathered Pepper from the bedroom, got my purse and car keys, and taped a note to the bathroom door.
“Mike -- There’s a big, dead spider in here. Please get rid of

it. I'm at Mother's. I'll call in the morning."

'Lucy' Lives

Well, I’d thought that all of the “My Life as Lucy Ricardo” episodes would be reminiscences, but, considering the events of a couple of nights ago, I fear that’s not the case. Here’s what happened.

Mike and I had been out working hard in the yard and, when he got ready and then left for a music job, I stayed outside working as long as the light would allow. Really tired, I came in, showered, then headed out to sit on the patio for a bit to enjoy the cool evening breeze that we’re thankfully beginning to get.

As I opened the door and went out, I heard a siren or alarm somewhere, but – I’m a city girl – I paid little attention. I sat in my chair and relaxed for a few minutes, but I kept wishing that someone would turn off the irritating car alarm that was interrupting my reverie. And then suddenly it all came together. Have I mentioned that we have a home security system? We’d only the day before decided that I’d start alarming the house when Mike worked at night. I guess that UN-alarming was not yet a solid habit with me.

I ran in the house as quickly as possible and slammed in the “stop” code and prayed that no one had noticed – and that the SWAT team wouldn’t break down the front door.

Only a couple of minutes passed before the telephone rang. It was the security company. I explained that I was fine, but also embarrassed and possibly stupid. The nice man said they had already notified the police and that it would be up to the police as to whether they’d cancel the call or have to come out. Another few minutes, and the police department called. I had to tell them that I was fine, but embarrassed and likely stupid. She said that a squad car was already on the way and that they’d have to check it out. OK, a few more minutes and the policemen were at the door. I had to reassure them that I was fine, embarrassed and just plain dumb.

And then Mike called. He’d come off stage for a break, checked his cell phone and noticed a voicemail. It was from the security company advising him that there had been a break-in at his home. Here’s the sad part. He wasn’t worried because . . . he knew I’d done it. I’ve got to repair my reputation.

My Life as Lucy Ricardo - The Apartment

A golden oldie re-run that always makes me laugh.

I should be embarrassed to tell this story, but apparently I have no shame and no reluctance to laugh at myself.

This “Lucy” episode took place in the fall before Mike and I married in mid-December, '66 (based, of course, on winter break at MSU and the date of the Liberty Bowl). We were apartment hunting and pulled up in the parking lot of a small complex near school that had potential.

We were disappointed to find that there was no resident manager, but there was clearly an empty first-floor unit. We peeked through the living room and kitchen windows. You remember the starter apartments where the front door and kitchen door were practically next to each other? That was the set-up. By chance, one of us tried the kitchen doorknob – and it was open.

It's not breaking and entering if the door's unlocked, right? So, in we went. The first strike against the apartment was the incredibly small size of the kitchen. The best example is that if the oven door was open, you couldn't fully open or close the back door. That's small.

They’d already painted and cleaned up the apartment and, except for the kitchen, it looked really good. But before we left to check out the next apartment on the list, I decided to use the bathroom there. Mike determined that everything was operable, so in I went. I suppose it was because I felt a bit like a trespasser that I flipped the doorknob lock as I closed the bathroom door behind me. I also suppose that the events that followed were the price for our criminal behavior.

As I started to exit the restroom moments later, I unfortunately found that the doorknob was faulty. It had no traction. Just turned aimlessly. Naturally, that somehow affected the lock and I couldn’t unlock the door. So now we’re trespassing AND I’m locked in the bathroom. I did everything I could to get the doorknob to catch, but was having no luck. Finally, I just knocked on the door as if asking permission to leave would release me from the unfriendly room.

Mike followed the sound and initially thought I was playing a game with him. Nope. So he started struggling with the knob on his side of the door and giving me instructions about what to do on my side in hopes that, together, we could get something to happen. No surprise – that didn’t work either. The door opened into the bathroom so the hinges were on my side. In hopes that they might be loose, Mike told me what to do to attempt pulling that watchamacallit out of that round thingamajig. And that didn’t work either. No use to look for tools in an empty bathroom either. We obviously couldn’t break down the door. That would add vandalism to our illegal entry, and rememberthat there was no resident manager who might begrudgingly provide help.

Mike recalled seeing a window in the bathroom, so he told me to have a look, see if it would open and then describe to him what I’d found. Yes, there was a window on the wall next to the bathtub. It was small. It was high. It was one horizontal, rectangular piece of glass.

I stepped up on the side of the bathtub and then crossed to the small side of the tub’s rim against the wall. I had to stand on tiptoe because there wasn’t enough room for the whole foot. In that position, I could see out the window. Its lower ledge was about at my shoulder level. I yelled to Mike that it would open. He said he’d go outside to check it out and that I should stay put. I thought to myself, “isn’t that the problem?”

Around the building and to the back, which was fortunately sheltered from view from the street, Mike came to my aid and somehow popped off the screen. I peered out and saw that it was farther to the ground than I would have liked. And because of the window’s size and position above the tub, there was no way that I was going to sit in the window and jump down.

In case any of you have a doubt, I might point out that I was never a tomboy. Hadn’t climbed trees. Hadn’t dived headfirst from anything except a swimming pool. I got off the tub and prayerfully checked the doorknob again only to learn that it was still broken. I could hear Mike outside telling me that the window was the only way and that he’d catch me. Yes, but would my broken neck heal in time for the wedding?

I t helped that I was only 20 and fairly small. It also helped that I’d had a lot of dance and stuff in high school so I was pretty limber. Back over to the tub’s small edge, I started pulling myself up to push out of the window. I used the built-in soap dish as a foothold and was grateful that I didn’t break it. First good news of the last hour or so. I got head and shoulders through the window and started scooting my body forward.

Remember playing on a see-saw? There’s a balance point in the middle and, depending on the weight that’s placed on both ends, the horizontal board will tip backward or forward. There was a period of time in going out the window when I became a human see-saw. I was pretty sure that there could be no good outcome. Mike was standing there, arms outstretched, encouraging me to keep pushing forward. And so I did.

I finally got enough of me out the window that he could grab my arms, then my shoulders and basically drag me through the window and to safety. He gave me a big hug, told me I was brave -- -- and then we ran like hell.

We rented a different apartment.

My Life as 'Lucy' Part Two

Egged on by Dennis’ comment below, I’ll share another episode of my life as “I Love Lucy.” This little ditty demonstrates Mike’s eternal sense of humor, but might call to question his wisdom in asking me to marry him for the second time.

When Michael and I were first married, we lived in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment right across the railroad tracks from Memphis State. It was extremely convenient for me to get to class and a little later was perfect when he started playing at an off-campus club just two blocks away. How small was the apartment? Well, from any location in it, you could have heard someone take a deep breath elsewhere in the apartment.

I need to interject that when we married I was surprised to learn that Mike owned a pistol. The thought so terrified me that I made him keep it in a drawer in the bathroom and, further, had him unload it and put the bullets in a separate drawer.

Well, the night finally arrived when I awoke absolutely convinced that some nefarious person was in the apartment. I held my breath and listened and remained convinced. I woke up Mike and quietly whispered my fear to him. He listened then, good young husband that he was, he got up to go check it out.

I lay there listening and realized from his footsteps that he had gone into the bathroom. Then I heard a drawer open. Knowing that he had removed the gun, I got really afraid and called out in a stage whisper, “Don’t load it!!!” There was a momentary pause. The bathroom light flicked on, and Mike loudly said, “Just come on in and shoot me.” In our separate rooms, we both cracked up laughing. Had there been a burglar, I’m sure he would have fled at that point rather than encounter the crazy people who lived there.

My Turn in the Barrel

It has been called to my attention that, although I freely tell stories on Mike, I seem to have gone unscathed in this blog, if not elsewhere. Since Mike refers to my life as an ongoing series of I Love Lucy episodes, there’s ample material. So, OK, I give. We’ll start with this one.

Back in college, my sorority had an annual luncheon, which was a real big deal. Always held at a top-notch Memphis venue. Various remarks and acknowledgements to be made. Famous alums present. And a special speaker or program. Definitely a high heels, your best dress and pearls event.

In this particular year, we were gathered in a very fancy restaurant, which I’d only visited once before in my young life. We had finished a fine meal and, as was the custom with so many in that era, many of us lit up after-lunch cigarettes. I’d casually crumpled my napkin to the left of my plate. (Etiquette forbids the actual “folding” of a used napkin.) I’d scooted my chair back just a tad and primly folded my hands in my well dressed lap – cigarette hand on top. I was just so sophisticated.

Our speaker was a beautiful woman, probably a local celeb, who was speaking to us about poise and grace. I was attentive. She – the goal to which I aspired – was standing right across the table from me. That’s when I glanced down and discovered the problem.

I had set the napkin on fire.

It was not in full flame, but definitely afire and about to burst into four-alarm status. I instantly assessed the situation. I couldn’t jump up and scream. I could not douse it with my goblet of water. So I proceeded in the only other, acceptable course of action.

I delicately reached up with my bare hand, grasped the smoldering napkin edge, and squeezed it until I’d suffocated the burning edges. I must admit that my eyes watered a bit, but I made no sound. My sorority sisters were unaware of my transgression. The crisis was averted. The beautiful speaker continued speaking, and I should have received the gold star for best pupil of the day.