Vows vs. Victory

It’s morning and a nice day at the convent, despite the hint of smog wafting its way up the hill.  But nobody complained, being so close to New York City, the sisters felt blessed to have their air as clean as it was.

Lucille, who just spent the last six months as a postulant, was taking the black veil today, the next step in confirming her commitment to God.  Yet, she had some reservations…and a secret.

She decided to talk to Mother Superior about it so she brought her a hot cup of coffee, black like she preferred and sat down next to her in the cloistered halls of the abbey.  It was time to spill the beans.

“Mother, I need to talk to you about something,” she said, fingers fidgeting.  “I’m sure you’ll think this is trivial, but to me…it is the world!”  Lucille tried to hold her composure, but the tick in her gut caused her to bolt from her seat.

Mother Superior took a long slurp of her coffee, closed her eyes and digested the Columbian beans thoroughly before glancing up to address Lucille.  She had some reservations concerning this one, but her father’s generous endowment gift meant she had no choice but to accept her.  After all, they were planning on completing the gymnasium this fall, and Lucille’s money was vital.

“Sit down Lucille!  You don’t have to be so nervous,” she scowled.  “What is it?  This doesn’t have anything to do with your charity work yesterday in the city, does it?”

Lucille’s eyes widened.  Did she know?  How could she?  The war had just ended and everyone was celebrating.  After all, there must have been a million people in the square.  She shook her head.  “No, my day at the Red Cross is not what I’d like to talk to you about,” she said, though she knew she probably should.

She straightened her white veil, the one they gave her when she arrived, and fanned it out.  It draped her brown locks like icing on a cupcake.  She took a deep breath and exhaled.

“Black is not really my color.  It’s just not fashionable!  Not to mention, it’s horrible for a woman’s complexion!”  She paused and twirled a piece of hair in her fingers.   “Can I take my vows but still wear my white lace?”

Mother Superior’s gaze was cold and direct.  Her left eye twitched as she thought about Lucille’s request.  Then she reached over and grabbed the newspaper, unfolded it and took a glance at the front page.  She recognized that hair, those shoes and those arms.  This, she thought, was rich.

“Darling,” she said adjusting her spectacles.  “That should be the least of your worries.”

Lucille’s face dropped.  “I guess this means, no?”

Alfred Eisenstaedt Photo: Sailor and Nurse Kiss in Times Square. V-J Day August 1945. V-J Day end of World War II.

Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself

Josephine waited for Christopher in her chamber and as usual, he was late.  But what he didn’t realize, was that while he lollygagged around the palace, a bomb had begun to tick in his bedroom.  You see, at nine months pregnant, Josephine was not only bursting at the seams but also raging with hormones.

“Good morning!” He says, swinging the door open.  “How is my little buttercup, today?”  Christopher smiled and gave his wife a kiss, but unfortunately, he chose the wrong day to wear his new Floppy Hat.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Josie screamed.

Chris was caught off guard. “My darling…?  What is it?” He asks; face jiggling like an adolescent school boy.

“Are you challenging me?” She yelled.  Josephine threw her arms out to the side  exposing her girth and repeated herself. “Your hat!  Are you challenging me?”

Christopher was warned about the downside of pregnancy.  But he thought that only extended into the category of sex, not attitude!  This revelation left him a bit frightened; after all she was twice his size.  “No!  I would never!  You look beautiful!  I love you, my darling!  Please forgive me.” He pleaded.

Josephine felt an urgency in her chest.  She knew yelling at her beloved was uncharacteristic of her.  But she couldn’t help it.  She was also on the verge of tears and didn’t have the heart to tell him the only thing that fit around her belly were the curtains she tore down off her bedroom window.

“What can I do to make you feel better, Josephine?  Would you like some money?”  He asks, knowing a woman would never turn down money.  She gave him a nod and put out her hand to accept his apology, but again, the mark of pregnancy reared its ugly head.

Christopher took a sniff and closed his eyes in disgust. “What’s that smell?” He asked.

Josephine, embarrassed by her flatulence, looked down at her puppy Otto who was playing happily at her feet and replied, “It’s the dog!”

Arnolfini Portrait - By Artist Jan van Eyck circa 1434. Believed To Be Arnolfinis Wedding Portrait. National Gallery, London

Criss-Cross Applesauce

The restaurant was unusually loud and George wasn’t sure if Frankie could hear him over the clinking plates.  But he figured he’d take his chances – he needed to talk and he needed to talk to someone he could trust.

Well, it’s like this, Frankie…” George says, leaning over the table.  “I’ve, I’ve got a problem…if you know what I mean.”

Frankie let out a loud belch. “Yeah?  So what.  Everyone gets a dangler here and there.  Just cut the broad loose,” he says, pasta hanging from his mouth.

“No.  Not that!” George yells.  “I don’t have crabs, you idiot!”

The restaurant was packed.  There was no need to be evasive.  But George was afraid some big nosed reporter might be listening, so he leaned in even closer.

“It hurts when I urinate.”

Frank gulps, “Gross, Georgie! I’m eatin’ here! Take some medication and don’t tell me about it in the morning.  Capisce?”

George’s face got red like a giant tomato.  “I can’t!” He yells, pounding his fist on the table.  “I can’t.”

Frankie stops chewing. “Well, why not?”

George puts his hand to the corner of his lips and whispers, “Because…because if I do, I’ll lose my swing.”

“Huh?  Lose your swing?  Are you drunk?”

“I have to go all the time.  The only way I can alleviate the urge is to cross my legs and run a little bit.”  Frankie gives him a blank look.  “It’s how I hit, for Christ’s sake! It’s- how- I- hit.”

“Ummm, I liked it better when I thought we were talking about broads.”

“So did I,” George mutters.  “So-did-I.”

George Herman Ruth Jr. - Babe Ruth - American Major League Baseball Player and Home Run King. Also known as "the Bambino"

But I don’t want to wear my glasses, mom.

It wasn’t Maria’s first time at the Ophthalmologist’s office.  But, since they were talking about her son’s vision, she thought she should take notes.  “Forgive me Dr. Martinez, can you repeat that?  It’s called Strabismus?”

“Yes, señora!  It’s all very new cutting edge research coming out of Madrid.  It’s when the eyes are uneven, a misalignment if you will.  I heard some colleagues of mine calling it lazy eye, but really, it should be called lazy brain.”

“Brain?”  She snaps back.  “Are you calling my son simple minded?”

Maria was a gentle woman, but when it came to her son, she was a pit-bull without a leash.  “Well!”  She barked, jumping out of her seat, putting her hands on her hips.

Recognizing her delicate disposition, the doctor quickly corrected himself.  “No…no, no, no, señora, no,” he said waving his hands.

He got out a long wooden stick and pointed to the eye diagram he had displayed on the far wall.  “The misaligned eye is projecting an image to the brain that is different then the image it is receiving from the other eye.  The brain gets lazy and doesn’t want to figure out why it is getting mixed signals so it just shuts off communication to the Strabismic eye.”

“Hummmmm.” She mumbles, putting her finger to her chin.  “Now you say it causes double vision?”

“Yes, sometimes.  And it sounds like that may be the case here with your son.  He is getting simultaneous perception of two images of a single object, seeing things horizontally, vertically and even diagonally.  And that’s not called Strabismus but Diplopia.”

“Diplopia!  That’s what they serve at the cafe!”

“No, not doppio.” He says with a sigh.  “Listen,” he says, putting his fingers to the corners of his mouth, “Dip- Low- Pee-Ah!”

“What?  Well, I never!” Maria put her hand to her chest, grabbed her son by the hand and rushed out of there.  As a Christian woman, she was appalled at his suggestion to dip down low at all, much less where he was referring to.  Regardless, she knew it didn’t change the fact that his diagnosis was probably correct.

“Pablo.  I want to talk to you.”  Maria got down on one knee and looked directly into her son’s eyes.  “The doctor says you have a vision problem.  Now, don’t worry.  We will find a trade for you.  Maybe you could help your father with his art business, clean his brushes, sharpen his pencils?  We’ll figure something out,” she said with a smile.

Pablo Picasso - Cubist Portraiture "Woman in a blue hat"

Frenemies

Although the two leaders had just begun their city tour, Nick was already getting on Dick’s nerves.  It was bound to happen- Nick was an incessant nag and routinely made unwarranted comparisons between the two’s countries.  But in this case, Nick wasn’t talking about politics; in fact, he was talking about something deeper, something……genealogical.

“Your mother isn’t Russian?”  Nick asked with a smirk.

Usually a calm fellow, Dick kept his temper in check and shook his head.  But as the day went on, and after asking if he ate stroganoff on Fridays, Dick felt Nick was trying to corner him, bully him into admitting something that wasn’t true.

But no matter how many times Dick shook his head, Nick hesitated to believe him.  There was something in his voice that cried Crimea and he just couldn’t shake the fact that Dick had an uncanny resemblance to his Aunt Helga and his sideburns looked just like his sister’s.  “All good Russians like stroganoff!”  He scoffed.

Dick took a deep breath and smiled for the cameras.  He even put his arm around Nick to portray an image of unity, but in reality, his blood was starting to boil.

“I’m not Russian,” he said through gritted teeth.  “I’ve told you that already.  I’m from California.”

Nick laughed and nudged his comrade in the gut.  His belly jiggled and his cheeks doled up like one of Santa’s elves. “Ya, that’s a good one!”

Dick’s adviser sensed something was wrong and tried to intervene.  But at that point there was nothing he could do about it; the water gates were open!

“Alright, that’s it!” Dick turned away from the cameras and dug his index finger deep into Nick’s chest. “Look, Nikita! I know what you are insinuating and you wont have Nixon here to kick around anymore….stop pestering me!”

Nick closed his eyes and counted to 10.  “Well, are you going to say something, or are you just going to give me the cold shoulder?”  Dick yelled.

Nick was unsure how to handle Dick’s insubordination and when he opened his eyes things got very, very Cold

Russian Premier Nikita Khrushchev and Richard Nixon – Kitchen Debate 1959 - During the Cold War

A picture that says a thousand words

Margaret took pride in her appearance, even on the heaviest of cow milking days.  Her hair was always in a bun and her dress, which she made from left over curtain fabric, was consistently clean and orderly.  But unbeknownst to Margaret, the humidity caused a piece of her hair to spring out-of-place. It curled up and dangled at the nape of her neck – and it drove Otis wild.

“You know Margaret, I really like what you did to your hair,” he says, gripping his pitch fork.  It’s a warm day and despite the forecast calling for rain it looked like he’d be a gettin’ to that hog boilin’ after all.

“Ya, it’s looking good. It’s looking real good!”

Margaret snarls her lip and gives him a stink eye as he wipes the sweat off his brow.  “Whoa, it’s a heater!” He says, giving her a smile.  But she knew that shifty stance of his meant one thing and it had nothing to do with the weather.

“Hair? Why, Mr. McGee…have you been drinking that barley juice again?” Although they’ve been married for 15 years, Margaret insisted on calling her husband by his surname.  He didn’t seem to mind; he’d been gumming his food and his women most his life and if that was her only quirk, he could take it.

“What? No. I don’t know,” he says, quivering his jaw. Otis thought he’d hidden the stuff well enough out yonder, near the barn. But apparently Margaret was on to him.

She scans his appearance and squints her eyes.  “You’ve got mustard on your overalls.”

Otis clenched his lips together. He knew this was where it ended.

American Gothic Painting by Grant Wood - Mimicking 19th Century Americana

‘A Christmas Story Leg Lamp’ Redux

Milo had been relaxing in the courtyard all morning sipping coffee, laying in his hammock and chit-chatting with his friends about his new Grecian statue.

“She is fantastic, Milo.  Fantastic!”

“Oh, thanks George.” Milo says looking up at it.

Vena didn’t blame him for showing it off.  After all, not everyone on the island had their own statue, she understood its significance.  But there was a problem.  She’d become jealous of it.

Standing there with her dust pan in one hand and a rag in the other, Vena stared sappily up at it.  She compared its grace to her own, it was voluptuous and fruitful; she was thin and worn out from making wine with grapes that fell off the neighbor’s vine. She compared its breasts to her own, they were perky like peg lanterns; hers were more like wet lasagna noodles with a meatball on the end of it.

“Vena, your standing too close to the statue! Get back!” Milo commanded.

A sharp pang hit her in the gut as he spoke.  Vena didn’t want to make a scene.  After all, he did have company over.  So, she smiled and walked gingerly around the statue on her way back to the kitchen, but in reality, she wanted to knock the bitch down.

The next day, Vena got dressed and went downstairs early, grabbing her duster and apron on the way.  She made it into the courtyard before Milo and pretended to clean the statue.  Obsessed as she was with its looks, she was more obsessed with a plan to get it out of her home.  So, when Milo wasn’t looking she jumped up on its platform, gave it a push and watched in delight as it crashed to the ground.

The impact caused its arms to break clean off while bits of marble sprayed across the cobblestone floor – it sounded like cold grapes being thrown into a hot frying pan.  It made Vena smile.

“What the hell? My baby, my baby! What did you do?” Milo yells, running towards her.

“This is what happens when you bring another woman into my house.” She roared.

Vena was no shrinking violet, but this kind of behavior caught Milo off guard.  He took a step back.  His eyes got big like saucers.

“Yes ma’am,” he squeaks, nodding his head.

Vena looked down.  “And I’m taking the bitch’s arms!”

Milo stood there for a second, defeated and confused as he watched Vena disappear into the field with the statue’s appendages strapped to her back.  He wasn’t sure, but he swore he could hear the cry of a mandolin playing in the background.

Venus De Milo as she stands at the Louvre in Paris - Location of arms, unknown.

The Art of Props

As the three sat down for their photo shoot, they knew something was not right. The camera was adorned with flowers and the photographer was holding a horn.

“Everyone smile pretty for the camera! Smile. Smile. Pretty. Pretty!”

Now firmly in their places and after several minutes of unnecessary inflection, the annoyance level on Neil and Ed’s face was high.  But, they were too polite to tell the photographer to buzz off, so they continued to look straight ahead and managed the situation nonetheless. Mike, however, had enough.

“Seriously. Are you serious? Mike replies stiff faced, looking directly into the camera lens.

Neil jabs him with his left elbow.  “Look, my wife suggested him and he’s fine, okay. Let’s just go with it! It’s almost over.”

Bernard was a seasoned photographer and regarded as one of the best in the community.  So, it was no surprise that he’d be asked to such an occasion; they needed a photo and they needed it to be good.  But there was a flaw.  Bernie’s specialization was with children, mainly birthday parties.  And these were three grown professionals, not small children… but men.

“Can we say cheesy cheese?” Bernie asks, with a squeak of his horn.

“Ah, for God’s sake!” Mike says, holding his hands together tight as if to restrain himself.

Although Bernie had been hiding under his photographer’s cape and didn’t notice the tension in the room, he did notice his subjects were not smiling! For a moment he thought it was him, maybe they didn’t like him?  He started to second guess his striped bow tie and his red shoes.  Oh!  The thought of them not liking him made his stomach twist and turn.  He had to think of something and he had to think of it quick!

Myrtle, his assistant, put down her glare screen.  She saw something in Bernie’s eyes.  “What is it?”  She asked curiously.

“My clutch!” He responds.

“Huh?  That’s for our next gig!” Myrtle reminds him.

Bernie nods. “Just send in the clutch.”

Bernie puts his head under his camera cape and waits for Myrtle to come back in the room.  He knows that if his plan fails so will his career.

The threesome were getting restless.  Ed was pulling at his collar and Neil was fanning himself with his hands. Then, moments later, Myrtle comes in with the clutch.  And to everyone’s delight it was a tiny, yet very hairy monkey wearing a red shirt saying, “Me Russian Astronaut,” on its front.

“That’s fantastic!” Neil blurts out giggling.  His laughter caused his suit to shake like a bobble head.  Even Ed cracked a smile and started laughing.

“That’s it! That’s it! That’s it!” Bernie yells out as he snaps his camera.  But nobody can hear him over the snap of the flash and the roar in the room.

Mike, on the other hand remained unnerved.

Apollo 11: Neil Armstrong, Michael Collins, Edwin Buzz Aldrin, 1969

Row 45 seat B

“I really don’t think he understands a lick of English,” Frank says a little surprised. “I’ve been talking to him for an hour and all he does is look straight ahead. Maybe you can switch seats with me?

“Not on your life!” Winston replies with a laugh. “That reminds me, I need to send flowers to my secretary for insisting I get the aisle seat!”

Frank taps his watch then looks at Winston. “Well, this is productive.”

Yalta Conference 1945 - Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin

The truth behind food and war

“Ugh, we are really in a pickle here.” Bobby says to his brother.

“You don’t have to tell me. I realize the consequences!” Jack says, wiping the sweat off his upper brow.  It’s an unusually hot day considering the season and wearing a tight black suit doesn’t make it any better.

The sudden rise in humidity has caused the cherries in the garden to split and ferment.  Unfortunately, it looks a little like fairy vomit, though the pair are too absorbed in their conversation to notice.

“Seriously, how am I going to explain this to Ethel? She’s pregnant again and craves Cuban sandwiches day and night. If I can’t deliver…well, I just don’t want to think about that.”  Bobby crosses his arms, closing himself off.  He expects his brother to sympathize with his plight. After all, the strength of a pregnant woman when she can’t get her way is unimaginable.

Jack folds his embossed hanky-now wet with perspiration-and tucks it neatly into his pocket as he ponders the importance of Cuban relations.  He couldn’t disagree with Ethel’s choice of addiction, after all,  the savory yet sweet flavors emitted from the Cuban sandwich he ate the day prior in the commissary,were, more memorable than the Bay of Pigs. However, he knew there was much more at stake than sandwiches when it came to foreign policy.

“Hey, guy, what about the cigars!” He quips, matching his brother’s composure.

John and Bobby Kennedy-on the brink-discussing the possibility of war during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Oct 1962

The Princess and the Portrait

The princess was having her wigmaster put the finishing touches on her powdered tresses when a voice yelled down from the palace stairs.  “Antoina, darling!  It is picture time, please get down here!”  But the truth was – she was in no condition to be sitting for a portrait.

“Oh, I simply can’t move my right arm.  What shall I do?”  She pleaded.

“Antonia!  Whatever do you mean? You look so natural, I could just lose my head over it,” Betsy replies. Knowing per place, it was Betsy’s job to make the princess feel comfortable, even if it meant lying to her.

“Really, I can’t get my arm down. I must have slept wrong! We will have to reschedule!” Antonia says, trying to push it down. “This is not good, this portrait is going to my mother!” She shouts.  Her arm is raised as if she’s a child trying to ask a question.

“Good lady. You look lovely. Your elegance is only matched by the graceful way you hold your right arm out as you do.” Her secretary Marco, contends. His hands jitter as he tries to button the top of his vest. Antonia gives her arm a look, then puts her other hand on her hip, “Hummmm,” she murmurs looking at herself in the mirrored wall.

“You know, if this portrait doesn’t happen, we wont get our raises. And by the looks of things you’ve run out of beer money,” Betsy whispers to Marco.

“Shhh, don’t worry. I’ve got this.” He says reassuringly.

“Yesterday she didn’t like the dress, the day before the rain put her in a bad mood…I can’t take it anymore!” Betsy grumbles, covering her eyes with her hands.

Broke from last night’s binge, Marco was going to do whatever it took to make sure the portrait was commissioned on time. “Radiant, simply radiant!” He says, tipping her hand like a teapot. “Come now, madam. Its time to pour…I mean, sit for the artist.”

New to the palace, the princess trusted her Austrian advisors over the French ones. And couldn’t help but think, perhaps, Marco was right. Having her arm lifted in that way made her feel dainty, attractive and as if she didn’t have a care in the world. But in reality, she was in horrible pain.

Marco led Antonia to the cushioned seat prepared for her in the sunroom.  She placed her right arm on the large red pillow situated near her seat as if it was as fragile as an egg . “Ach, it really is wrenched. Are you sure?” She asks Marco, who was straightening her gown.

“Umm, lets see what happens when we put this finger out.”

Marco lifts Antoinia’s finger outward leaving it semi-dangling and pointed towards her ear. The strain and connection between the ligaments and the tendons in her arm caused her cheek muscle to tighten and it produced a slight smile. “There, there it is.” He says smiling as if he’s just created a masterpiece.

“But…she is smiling.” The artists says between his teeth, aghast at her avant-garde behavior.

“And I will be too when this is over.” Marco replies, giving Betsy a wink.

Marie Antoinette, Princess of Austria, Queen of France

Hello world!

Every now and then I get the urge to write random things.  In an effort to save my friends and family from endless boredom, I decided to blog all of the crazy stories that run through my mind.   My goal is to entertain all of us commoners by taking moments in history, putting my own spin on things and write about it.