Growing up with a not-so-common name meant finding something personalized was going to be a noteworthy event.
That never happened. Of course someone could pay to print my name on a t-shirt or pen, but you didn’t find one in a store ready to go. I can’t explain why that mattered, but it did. A lot. For my friends with unusual names, such as Fonda, it mattered too. So I know I’m not alone in this.
My brother knew it was important to me, and when he had his chance to get me something pre-personalized, if you will, he went to unusual lengths to get it.
He was backpacking in New Zealand, and there in the grocery store window was a poster advertising “the latest fruity member of the popsicle band,” Belinda Blackberry.
With her slick haircut and wide-eyed smile, this singing sensation’s picture was destined to hang on the walls of my apartment. There was no doubt.
It took some persuasion and few phone calls to the right people, but my brother convinced the bewildered Tip-Top distributor to give it to him. Apparently the name Belinda is far more common in New Zealand than it is in America, so this man was skeptical of my brother’s insistence I would value the poster because it had my name on it.
I bet that man would be shocked, and maybe get a good laugh, if he knew that today, some thirty years later, this ad has been framed and now hangs over my desk at home, to keep me cheery on gloomy days.
No one could appreciate it more than me, for the name as well as the inconvenience & expense my brother was willing to go through to get it mailed to me. And oh yes, the pure camp value of the ad itself.
Thanks go to Tip-Top products, New Zealand’s premier producer of ice cream products & frozen treats. And they know nothing about this post. I’m just sincerely grateful they gave my brother that poster!
One day, I woke up to the phone ringing. It was a woman I barely knew, but had talked to not long before about needing a new home.
The place I lived in was no longer adequate. In fact, it never had been adequate, but after my latest fearful call to the police, they’d strongly suggested I move out. Soon.
“I think I may have found the perfect place for you,” she said. After a brief description, I knew she was absolutely right. It was perfect. I’d love it. My cats would love it. It was within easy walking or driving distance of…well, everything. Best of all, it had character.
One thing, though. Certainly it would be too expensive. There was no way a place this ideal could fit my teeny-tiny budget. I mentally held my breath and asked, “how much is it?”
She told me the price. Only slightly more than I was paying now. The utilities would definitely be higher, but I’d figure out a way. Not a half hour later, that way came to me via another call.
“I’ve got a job and you were the first person I though of,” my friend Wanda told me. “It’s only part-time, but it could grow to something full-time within a year. It’s yours if you want it.”
I already had a part-time job, and the hours for this one were exceptionally flexible, which I absolutely needed.
I lay there in bed, thinking, I must be dreaming.
I felt some soft paws tapping my forehead. Time to get up, the kitties were saying. The alarm went off. Time to get up, it was telling me. I opened my eyes. My phone was nowhere in sight. I had been dreaming. Damn.
But it could happen, right?
Daily Prompt: Grand Slam
Image credit: © Ekaterina Garyuk – DollarPhotoClub.com
Today I was struggling over writing just the right comment to a fellow blogger.
The blog is Problems With Infinity, and she’s known for being a little outrageous and terrifically funny. Her humor’s pretty edgy, and I’ve come to appreciate her wry wit and always look forward to seeing what she has to say & draw.
Anyway, I was trying to come up with a less-cliché’d word than “hilarious.” Looking at other comments, there had to be a less oft-used word, something that would stand out. She’d done a particularly clever, farcical drawing (now why couldn’t I think of those words when I was leaving a comment?) that could have crossed a line, but didn’t.
After struggling with my comment, and saying something less than what I wanted to say, I began to think about how a) online thesauri are rotten and b) you really do have to remain an avid reader to maintain a good vocabulary. For the last few years, I’ve lost my motivation to read.
That’s a result of some highly personal issues in my life that would understandably lead anyone to an aversion of books. If that sounds strange to you, stick with my blog, maybe someday I’ll have the courage to talk about it (it will be a long time down the road, however, so that’s not a ploy to entice you to keep coming back).
Blogging has brought some of that motivation back, if for no other reason than I’m tired of using the woosy thesauri found on Microsoft Word and through Google. I need my mind to be own best reference.
So thank you, all of you bloggers with original, crazy, thought-provoking or simply entertaining posts that have pushed me back into something that was always an essential part of my life, something I thought I’d lost. I wish I could come up with a HILARIOUS way to end this, but it would probably fall flat, and I mean, how embarrassing.
My mother, who loves me, claims I have the worst singing voice she’s ever heard.
I take issue with that. My sister’s is much worse.
If you want evidence of how bad a singer I am, tell me when your birthday is and wait for a call. When you hear “Happy Birthday” to the tune of the “Hallelujah Chorus,” you’ll know it’s me.
When I sang this jingle for my brother, leaving it on his voice mail, he laughed so hard he could hardly spit out the words “thank you. ” “That’s the funniest – and worst – thing I’ve ever heard,” he told me. He played it for his friends, who were certain I was pretending to be THAT BAD.
I wasn’t. I just am THAT BAD. You’ll never hear me sing in church. If I really like the song, I’ll mime it.
Maybe it’s that complete lack of talent that gives me the freedom to fully appreciate those with true ability. I have friends who can sing beautifully, but claim they can’t hear it in others. It’s not clear to me if it’s competitiveness or a different gauge for quality.
Could it be if you’re gifted, you only recognize those more talented you? I don’t know, and I’m too restless to ponder.
I do know one thing, however. My late great cat Paco was apparently tone deaf, because when I’d hold him and sing the classic tune, “You Don’t Know Me,” he’d lean his head into my shoulder and purr quietly. Until he’d had enough, when he’d let out a yowl like he was in wild pain.
Wait, I just got it. I think he was singing along with me.
Arpita gave me the wonderful opportunity to guest post on her blog — here’s my review of “To Kill A Mockingbird” by Harper Lee.
Today’s guest post in Re-living the Classics is a review of To Kill a Mockingbird by the wonderful Belinda. I love reading her beautiful personal anecdotes! Be sure to check out her site!
Would you like to have your review of your favourite classic featured on this blog? To do that, contact me through the form given after today’s post. Be sure to mention your name, email and the name of the book you wish to review. Thank you!
Review of To Kill a Mockingbird
Guest Post byBelinda
First, thanks to Arpita for this opportunity to review one of my all-time favorite books. While I originally had planned to take a look at Madame Bovary, current events and the imminent release of Harper Lee’s second book (Go Set a Watchman, July 14, 2015) compelled me to change my mind.
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In high school, my friend Sue gave me an ornament for Christmas. I remember being a bit disappointed. It wasn’t much of a gift in my 15-year-old estimation.
At a time when I was awkward and insecure, she made me feel important. The first time I met her was as the new kid in sixth grade. I huddled alone in the corner of the playground, the only girl wearing a dress, waiting for class to start.
Shaking, my back against the brick wall, hands clasped tightly together, I was wishing I’d worn jeans as my mom suggested. All these kids had gone to school together since kindergarten, I was sure of it. I’d never fit in.
Sue with her pigtails & bows and another girl, Nada, approached me.
“Are you new?” they asked in unison. We all giggled.
“Yes!” I said, incredibly happy someone had noticed me.
Turned out we were in the same class, with the same scary teacher. They gave me the scoop. She was fat (apparently important information for sixth-graders) and this was her first teaching job.
I don’t know if I was the friend to her she never stopped being to me.
The next summer Sue’s mom was killed in a plane accident. Her father remarried soon after, and certainly the adjustment must have been hard for her. I don’t know if I was the friend to her she never stopped being to me.
A seventh-grade diary entry early in the school year noted she seemed okay. At least I wondered how she was doing. I hope I asked her about it, gave her a chance to talk. I don’t remember.
In high school, my mental health problems arose. As I started to lose confidence, gain weight and sink into a series of deep depressions, she did her best to make me feel better. “You look real nice today,” she’d tell me on days when my dirty hair was held back with a scarf or my outfit played up the extra pounds. I saw through it and appreciated her thoughtfulness. It meant I had a friend.
Every Christmas I think of her and cry a little, missing our friendship and how much it meant to me.
The last time I saw her was about a year after we graduated. I was walking around a lake near my home and she came from the opposite direction, with a boyfriend, I think.
She was genuinely happy to see me. We had an enthusiastic and chatty catch-up conversation, then moved on in our separate walks. I haven’t seen her since.
I’ve tried to look her up, with no success. Every Christmas I see that ornament, think of her and cry a little, missing our friendship and the opportunity to tell her how much it meant to me.
Still means to me.
Photo Credit: (background) © Diana Rich; (ornament) © Stuart Monk, both — DollarPhotoClub.com