BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

It all started with a horrible, bone-chilling shriek.

Now, you need to understand, this wasn’t an “OMG I’m frightened,” sort of shriek. This was an “OMG You Are Going To Die A Horrible Death And My Hand!” sort of shriek. However, at no point during said shrill scream (not to be confused with Brill Cream) was my name even uttered. And, since it was The Evil One doing the screeching, I wasn’t exactly sure what could possibly be going on – I mean, after all, whenever she lets out a high pitched wail such I was hearing, it usually involved me being in for a beating.

But, before we get to real reason behind the fact that I had a 5′ 4″ tall,  severely pissed-off, redheaded banshee standing in my living room, I should probably fill you in on a basic fact of life around here at Evil Kat Central…

Rule #2 ½ – You just don’t mess with EKay’s shoes if you know what’s good for you…

I mean yeah, obviously you clean them up if she steps in something.  That goes without saying. Although, if you happen to forget, she will in fact say it. Repeatedly, and – very loudly to be sure – until you have seen to the task and the results meet with her strict approval.

Honestly, you’d be amazed at what you can do with a bottle of resolve and a tin of saddle soap when you have to. I know I was. Seriously.

As a matter of fact, I’ve actually become extremely proficient at removing my own blood from her pumps. Of course, that’s more a case of  her stepping ON someone, as opposed to IN something. But, the former is pretty much a daily occurrence and done on purpose, whereas the latter is normally an accidental sort of thing. Unless, of course, she’s in one of those “moods” and steps in something just to have the pleasure of making you clean it off her shoes.  But, you get the idea.  You have to make sure you keep them spotless, polish them when necessary, bring them to her when she demands it, put them on her feet, take them off of her feet, put them away when she’s finished with them, and all the other stuff that go along with the proper care and maintenance of Her Supreme Evilness’ shoe collection.

And, we mustn’t forget – you must prostrate yourself before her and kiss her shoes when she orders you to do so. Obedience to the redhead  can save you from getting stepped on. Well… not really, but she doesn’t stomp quite as hard as she would otherwise.

Seriously.

But, even with all of that, you have to remember that you don’t mess with her shoes, be they blue suede, black leather, brown leather, red patent leather, white, blue, fuchsia, purple, ad infinitum… Pumps, sandals, boots, espadrilles, wedges, heels, flats, Mary Janes, cross trainers, ad nauseum…

Get the picture?

Don’t mess with the woman’s shoes. And, when I say you don’t mess with them, you definitely don’t roll around on the floor chewing on them. Any of them. But, most especially not her high heels.

I learned this in spades that blustery autumn evening…

At this point I am sure you are probably wondering why in the world I would be rolling around on the floor chewing on EKay’s shoes. Well, actually, were I ordered to do so it would probably be in my best interest to comply. However, we have already established that messing with her shoes is a bad thing, so obviously I wasn’t rolling around on the floor gnawing on her pumps. That would only serve to get me in trouble. So, just keep reading. In theory this will all make sense, but bear in mind that I am writing it early on a Sunday morning, so I make no guarantees…

Now, as I’ve noted in the past, E K no longer wears high heels to work on a daily basis. They’ve been relegated to special occasions, date nights, and when she is in a mood to inflict damage on someone. However, there was a time, in our younger days, when my petite dynamo of a wife not only lugged her 40 pound tool case AND an armload of parts up three flights of stairs in order to repair a printer– she did it in skirts and heels. Of course, I later found out that she would arrive at a service call, strike a pose, and all of the men present would be falling all over themselves to “carry her books” so to speak. She probably still does this on occasion even without the spikes and gams on display, but these days, even though she still has more than the necessary looks to pull that off, she actually doesn’t have much patience for drooling, untrained males. Therefore, she would much rather just carry the stuff herself.

But I digress…

The point is, she used to wear heels to work, and being the fashion plate she is, she had them in various styles, colors, heel heights, etc. Because, obviously she couldn’t wear the same pair of shoes twice in the same week. That would be… well… bordering on criminal.

So, anyway, back to that scream…

I was in the kitchen as usual, preparing dinner for Her Highness, when I heard the front door open, and the click-clack of high-heels against the hardwood. This was, of course, a sure sign that the redhead was home and I’d damn well better get her evening drink delivered to her post haste, and then see to it that the dinner I had been preparing appeared on the table shortly afterward. However, before I could even begin to mix the evening aperitif for The Evil One, I heard the bloodcurdling shriek…

More to come…

Murv

To be continued in: Lethal, But Fashionable…

Or, When The Hair Gets In Your Eyes…

I had myself one of those deja vu flashback sort of things happen the other day… But, we’ll get to that in a minute. Right now I have to take you on a nostalgic tour of my brain in order to confuse, befuddle, bewilder, and otherwise create massive amounts of obfuscation, all in order to make the punch line even funnier… I hope.

So… Buckle up. Here we go…

Some of you may or may not know that I write my blogs in advance. Sort of a “whenever the mood strikes” type of thing. And, in addition to that if I happen to come up with an idea, but don’t have time to actually write the entry in its entirety, I will make notes. These notes will then end up as “draft” copies of blog entries, complete with titles and a few notes in the body to remind me what it is I wanted to write about in the first place.

Suffice it to say, you are going to discover that the aforementioned deja vu flashback actually occurred better than a year ago.

Now, let’s go over here and see what’s happening in my right brain…

Martha Ackmann is an author, journalist, editor and speaker.  I know this because it says so right there on her bio. If you don’t trust me, follow the link and have a look for yourself… I’ll wait right here for you. I promise. No, really. I promise…

Done? Good. See there, I was telling the truth, wasn’t I? Uh-huh…

Okay, let’s move on…

For me personally, Martha Ackmann is much more than what it says in her bio, because to put it very simply she was also a mentor of sorts. You see, way back in the stone age – that being when I was in high school – Martha, or “Ma” as we liked to call her, was my Journalism teacher. While I was only blessed with a few semesters of her tutelage, she literally taught me more about Journalism and writing in that short time than I ever gleaned from any other classes, high school and college combined. Seriously. I’m not trying to blow smoke up anyone’s anything. She is literally that spectacular.

To give you an illustration of what a tremendous teacher she is, in addition to instructing a bunch of whacked out, pimple faced teenagers in the finer points of writing and Journalism, shepherding us into and through competitions such as those held by the MIPA (Missouri Interscholastic Press Association), and chaperoning us at the JEA (Journalism Education Association) convention, “Ma” was also responsible for the creation of our high school radio station, KRSH (now KRHS)… Oh, and by the way – those competitions? We always came home with awards. While I like to think we all had a little bit of talent, the real credit goes to “Ma”, because she was responsible for teaching us how to use it. (By the way – don’t hurt yourself looking for me in the above picture. I was the guy behind the camera. I did, however, bring home an award from that MIPA conference. Martha, however, is the one with the grin on her face – second from the left against the back wall. Rumor has it she was kind of proud of us that day because – and I quote from the newspaper clipping – “Ritenour students won more broadcasting awards than any other students in the state.”)

Now, since she created our little 10 watt FM station, and acted as our staff adviser, those of us who put in time there were treated to even more learning opportunities. While we did in fact have an AP newswire teletype terminal in the station, “Ma” would never allow “rip and read” – that being the process of “ripping” the pages off the teletype and “reading” them verbatim on the air. No, we were expected to pick out the pertinent points of the story from the newswire copy, then write our own original lead and nut-graph. In short, she taught us to be reporters, not talking heads. We would sometimes grumble about it at the time – after all, who were we, a bunch of high school kids, to be re-writing copy that had already been produced by professionals? But looking back on those days, it was worth every second we spent, because we learned more from that exercise than any textbook could ever teach. What we didn’t realize at the time was that she was teaching us to be those professionals.

I could go on telling stories about the things we learned, and how we even managed to scoop AND upstage a local television station – all because of what “Ma” had taught us, not the least of which was professionalism. However, I will save some of those for a different blog or two… Right now, let’s bounce forward in time just a bit and see if we can eventually tie all this together. Hang on, because as usual there will be whiplash involved…

I’m assuming everyone has seen The Incredibles?

If not, well, you should. Fun movie. At any rate, the reason I bring this up is that there is a character named Violet. She is filled with teenage angst, and wears her hair hanging down mostly over her face. It’s sort of a visual metaphor to illustrate the angst and insecurity she is experiencing at that awkward age. At least, that’s what I gleaned from it. Maybe she was actually just hiding a zit and I’m reading too much into the characterization.

But, I digress…

I can hear you now. “But… But… What the hell does any of this have to do with your mentor, Murv?”

Well, I’m glad you asked. Here’s the thing – My 10 year old daughter does the same thing with her hair. It hangs down in her face and just drives us nuts (her teachers too). Apparently she can see just fine – if her grades are any indication. But, the rest of us on the other side of the follicular curtain have no clue how she manages it. I suppose she might have some sheepdog in her somewhere, but  I’m thinking it would have to come from E Kay’s side. But, don’t tell The Evil One I said that, okay?

Anywho, the other day I was doing the typical parental complaining at the O-spring regarding said hair. After all, as a parent it is a moral imperative that I do so. Finally, in exasperation, I threatened her with the fact that I was considering grabbing a “chip clip” from the potato chip bag in the kitchen and affixing her hair back out of her eyes with it.

As the words flew out of my mouth a long forgotten memory rose the the surface and began pummeling me about my head and shoulders. Yeah… This is where “Ma” comes back into the story.

Back in seventy-koff-koff, as I sat in the main studio of KRSH, reading news on the air, Martha was staring at me through the control room window. I had no clue what I’d done, or not done, but she had one of “those looks” on her face. If you don’t know the look of which I speak, well, I’m not sure what to say. I guess you had to be there and know “Ma”. But, when she had one of “those looks” we all knew she was either disappointed in us (deservedly, I assure you), torqued at something, or was up to some kind of mischief. At any rate, as soon as I finished the headlines and “tossed it” to the engineer for a recorded PSA break (Public Service Announcement), and the mics were dead, “Ma” disappeared. Before the first PSA was finished playing, the door to the studio opened and in she marched. Without saying a single word she pulled my hair back out of my face and clipped it to the top of my head with a large, spring binder clip. Then, still mute, she turned on her heel and exited.

Let me tell you, I finished the broadcast with the clip still in my hair, and even waited 10 minutes after I was off-air before I even thought about taking it out.

As it happens, it wasn’t very long after I had this flashback that Martha and I  ran into one another on Facebook, which was a great bit of serendipity. I say that because I was afforded the opportunity to tell her how important she had been in shaping my life and career. I mean, after all, writing became my profession, and I attribute much of that to her.

But, just as important, she is directly responsible for another skill set that I hadn’t realized I might one day need – I know how to do impromptu hairstyling with a paperclip.

Thanks, Ma. In your honor, I’m passing the knowledge along to a new generation…

More to come…

Murv

Note: Martha Ackmann wrote a wonderful non-fiction book titled, The Mercury 13, about women pilots involved in the early days of the Mercury space program. I highly recommend it. Her latest book is Curveball: The Remarkable Story of Toni Stone.