Me and the CBS Eye

I love television history.  It probably began in utero.  My parents named me after a '50s television character named Susan Camille McNamara, played by the fabulous Ann Sothern.  Anyhow, whenever I happen upon a bit of TV trivia that dates back to the late 1940s or up into the early 1960s, it practically makes me shiver with delight.  One of my proudest possessions is a 1948 Emerson console TV.  It doesn't play - and might catch fire if it were ever plugged in - but it makes me feel good to see it in the corner of my den.

A couple of days ago, the CBS Eye had its 60th birthday.  In honor of the occasion, I found a picture of the old Eye with clouds in the background and put it on my computer.  I also found a picture of Ann Sothern, printed it out at home, and posted it in my cubicle for everyone to see.  I figured the lady for whom I was named, whose show was on CBS after all, deserved equal time.

When I was three or four, the Eye and I had a rocky relationship.

As a little girl, I was afraid of a lot of things, and The Eye was one of them.  One of the logos CBS used was an animated eye, whose iris opened and closed like a camera shutter:

To my chubby little four-year-old self, it looked leathery and malevolent, and invariably I would run screaming from the room.  When you stop to consider that most of the shows I watched were on CBS, it made for a lot of exercise of both the physical and vocal varieties. 

Thankfully, I grew out of it.  Nowadays I have a lot of affection for the Eye.  It's a reminder of pre-cable times, when we had four channels if we were lucky and the truly well-off had an antenna on the roof that could pick up stations 50 miles away. Yes, I sound like my grandparents talking about the good old days of radio, but who cares?

Just for the fun of it, NBC's earliest logo:

Sigh...think I'm heading over to YouTube.  


















 

Milanos vs. Wedding Cookies - There's No Contest!

Not too long ago, I experienced a bout of ennui and decided a scientific experiment was in order. My ingredients?  A bag of Milano cookies and an icy cup of Coca-Cola.  I was out to see how well a Milano cookie held up when dipped in cola.  My results in just a moment.

Ever had a Milano?  Oh, my goodness.  Two buttery, airy wafers with a thin layer of chocolate - dark, milk, or mint, take your pick - sandwiched in between.  Addictive doesn't describe it.  And these perfect, lovely cookies are the antidote to depression, stress, or just plain boredom.

Last week I had a day in which everything seemed to go wrong.  I had awakened to find my home phone out due to a storm early that morning, my work day consisted of one crisis after another, and on the way home my elderly but normally trusty Town & Country ran hot.  (I pulled over right in front of the weigh station on Interstate 85 in full view of three state troopers, none of whom came over to see if I needed help or to offer to call IMAP.  Note to the NC State Patrol - if I'd been thin and blonde they'd have raced over and fought to help.  Diversity training is in order.)

I called Hubby, who came to the rescue and ensured I could get the car home.  On the way - Hubby following to ensure I had no other problems - we stopped at the grocery store.  By this time I'd decided that a bag of Milanos was in order, and screw the cost...but when I got to the cookie aisle a box of Danish Wedding cookies caught my eye.  Hmm...tiny, tender chocolate chip cookies with a dusting of confectioners' sugar sounded like just the ticket.  I couldn't wait to tear into them when I got home.

They just weren't the same.  I didn't get that sense of satisfaction, that "ahhhh..." moment.  They're gone in one bite, and almost too sweet.  I closed the box, stuck out my lower lip, and wished for the white bag with the perfectly photographed Milano on the front. 

The results of my experiment?  Here's another advantage to the Milano...it holds up well when dipped.  I mean it.  It keeps its crunch and that beautiful semi-sweet taste.  And it blends well with icy Co-Cola (another perfect food product).  Wedding cookies just get mushy and the sugar floats on top of the drink.  Don't waste your time.

I'm keeping emergency bags of Milanos at my desk and in the car.  You gotta be prepared.  As for the rest of the wedding cookies, they're in their box in plain sight on my desk at work.  I'm hoping someone will steal them.

Random Thoughts...

Martha Plimpton’s dog had diarrhea in the shower.  In the shower.  How did she get that dog to be so freaking considerate?  Mine jumped up on our bed in the middle of the night and squirted on my best comforter.  Martha, if you happen to read this, advice please.  (And congrats on the Emmy nomination.  You rock on Raising Hope.)

I can’t stand parents who brag on their teenaged math whiz.  Big deal.  My son cracked his first safe at the age of 16.  Top that.

My almost 7 year old granddaughter can beat most adults at Call of Duty.  She’s either a PS3 prodigy or we need to keep her away from guns when she gets older and her parents start to piss her off.

I was named after a ‘50s TV character.  Does that explain my addiction to television?

My newest grandson is finally home.  He's a cutie pie.  The first thing his mechanic father did was prop him up in a chair and put a tiny wrench in his hand for a photograph.  The kid never opened his eyes.  Photo to come later.

From the "Wait Until You Have Children Of Your Own" Files...

When I was a teenager and my mother threw that particular phrase at me, I swore up and down I would never, ever use it on my own children.  And sure enough, when they were very young and angelic, hubby and I never spoke those words and I actually  -  and oh so foolishly! - thought we'd never need to.  Then they became teenagers, making our lives a living hell, and we used the phrase every chance we got just to make them mad.  I totally sympathized with my mother, which didn’t happen very often.  Trust me.

Picture me saying this with an insane giggle; our oldest daughter is getting payback, and the grandchildren are only in the first grade.   Heheheheheh.

The time was Thanksgiving evening, long after the turkey had been demolished.  My daughter and my son-in-law were entertaining and sent the little girls to their room to play.  These are the granddaughters who had been at Nana's and PawPaw's earlier and impressed me with their wonderful behavior.  (PawPaw was sequestered in the bedroom with the 50 inch flatscreen TV, a turkey leg, and the football game.)

A little while later, my daughter noticed that things had gotten awfully quiet in the girls’ bedroom.  When you have children who are five and six, quiet equates trouble.  About the time she noticed the ominous silence, my younger granddaughter came running out yelling these unforgettable words:  “Mommy!  Mommy!  Katie’s trying to make me drink her pee!”  Sure enough, when my daughter went to investigate, somehow my older granddaughter had managed to, well, squat over a Beauty and the Beast teacup and offer it to Cammie as refreshment…maybe her own twist on an after-Thanksgiving-dinner aperitif.

I received a hysterical phone call from my daughter.  “Momma, what is wrong with these kids?” she wailed.  After I asked her what happened and got the whole story, I laughed so hard I almost gave myself a hernia.

Her father was thrilled.  “Lemme talk to her,” he said.  “I told you your behavior would come back to haunt you one day,” he crowed upon taking the receiver.  When he hung up, we high-fived each other and laughed like witches over a cauldron.  

My granddaughters are still young.  Wait until they’re teenagers. We are literally rubbing our hands together in gleeful anticipation.

Finding My Inner B...Witch

I was brought up to be genteel and well-behaved.  That included never talking back to my parents or any other authority figure, and during my early school years I certainly never talked while the teacher was out of the room.  In short, I was a boring goody-goody.   I’m embarrassed to say this went on for decades.

As an adult, I’ve always tried to be patient and considerate.  My biggest flaw is that I swear like a New York stevedore and my rationale for that is simple.  I don’t smoke cigarettes or pot (though lord knows I’ve been invited often enough by my progeny).  I don’t drink or take any recreational drugs, and I’ve cut back on the overeating.  Swearing is my outlet, so those who know me just have to deal with it, damn it.

That lead to today’s milestone.  I got flipped off while I was in line at the bank.  Yes, I’ve been flipped off before, but that was by family – either during the heat of battle with hubby, or in good-natured humor.  But not by a complete stranger because I pissed her off.

Part of being considerate is keeping your ATM transactions to a minimum while other drivers are waiting behind you.  Don’t check your balance, deposit checks, and get out money all at once while ten other cars are behind you, fuming and watching their gas gauge drift down toward the dreaded “E”.  When I go to the ATM, I get my money and drive off, period.  One minute is my limit.  Do I sound like a self-righteous snot?

This morning, I was the fourth car in line at the ATM.  A lady in a gold car was at the machine and taking her own sweet time, performing transaction after transaction.  Deposit a check, get a receipt.  Punch more numbers, get a receipt.  Get money, get a receipt.  The guy in front of me finally got disgusted and left.  (Because I AM so considerate, I had made sure I left plenty of room between my van and his Durango.) In the meantime, three more cars joined the line behind me.

And still gold Toyota lady kept right on.   I took a deep breath and muttered, “Oh, come on, bitch.” 

I didn’t duck my head.  I didn’t cover my mouth. Apparently she saw me in her sideview mirror even though I was two cars back because the next thing I knew, she raised her hand away from the ATM and lifted it high in the air, grandly flying me the bird.  She caught my eye in her mirror and I stared her right down.  Then I mentally started composing the lecture I would give her if she decided to go all redneck and circle around to confront me.

Nah.  Didn’t happen. She finished her tenth transaction, and the rest of us pulled up one at a time, got our money and left like decent human beings.

Oh, well, it's probably a good thing we didn't have that confrontation because she looked like the type who didn't mind participating in an ass-whipping, and then we'd both end up with our pictures in the local newspaper's gallery of weekly mug shots.  But I feel liberated anyhow.

The next time I see some little hoochie who is perfectly healthy park in a handicapped spot in front of the Food Lion, I’m taking her on.

Mom - Tattoo You?

It used to be that mothers and daughters bonded over traditional things.  You know; events such as going to buy that first bra (in most cases, for the daughter).  Picking out the perfect prom dress.  Teaching the child to bake the family recipe for chocolate chip cookies.  Simple, heartwarming moments that any daughter would treasure for years to come, right?

My darling daughters want to depart from tradition.  They want me to accompany them to one of our local tattoo parlors – and those are just popping up like dandelions in spring – and get tattooed with them.

“Come on, Mom – it’ll be a mother-daughter bonding experience!”  Those exact words came out of each of their mouths.  My oldest said, “You could get a tiny one – like a little music note on your ankle!”

Uh…no.

I’ve never understood the attraction.  At the risk of sounding like an old fuddy-duddy – and I’m only 54, for the love of it all – why the hell do my children want to mark their bodies up?  Each of them, my sons included, have multiple tattoos and they are making plans for more.   These are the same children that had to be held down for vaccinations.

So great was my youngest daughter’s desire for a tattoo that she began begging us to let her get one when she was seventeen.  Our answer was a firm “no”.  If she wanted to mark up her body she’d wait until she was eighteen.  Until then it belonged to us.

Two weeks before her eighteenth birthday, she left on a Saturday afternoon to spend the night with a friend.  That evening, we received a call from her older sister ratting baby sister out.  (Older sis was probably softening us up for a potential loan by playing tattle-tale.)  Our youngest had shown up at her house with not one but three tattoos – done by her then “boyfriend” who, by the way, was a rank amateur.  One adorned her wrist and two were on her lower back, right above her fanny.

After we got over the shock, her father and I were furious.  I called her cell phone, only to get her voice mail.  I left a cryptic message.  “Come home NOW – and you know why.”  She showed up an hour later, sheepish and apprehensive.  We demanded to see the artwork.  A badly done star adorned her wrist.  Then we saw what she had chosen for her lower back.

Seahorses.  Horrendous, mutant seahorses, one on each side. Unless she can pay for their removal, the beach motif will be there forever.  We restricted her until the day she turned 18, which she accepted with grace.  It’s not like she had a choice.  Since then, she has gone on to have a darling  image of a little ghost skeleton – the only way I can describe it – with a little bow on its skull tattooed on her forearm.   She gets compliments on it everywhere she goes, including the orthodontist’s office.  Her current boyfriend has a matching tattoo, less the bow.

Even my husband, who is probably the most needle-phobic man on the face of the planet , has talked about dipping his toe in the india ink.  He wants to have me tattooed on his upper arm.  Not my name, mind you.  My face.  I have one basic objection to that:  sooner or later, his skin is going to start sagging (and I can hear him now saying, “oh, hell no it’s not!”).  My own face is already sagging and on some days I look like a cross between a basset hound and Alfred Hitchcock.  Do you get my point?  I don’t want my face sagging on his arm and in the mirror. 

Finally…there’s this.

My 25 year old daughter recently asked where I was keeping my late mother’s ashes.  On being told they were in the breakfront, displayed tastefully with the china, my daughter informed me that she wanted a miniscule bit of Grandmommy’s cremains to mix with tattoo ink.  The tattoo would be music notes from a piece of my mother’s sheet music.  “That way I can always have Grandmommy with me.  What do you think, Momma?”  

This is what I think, darling.  Somewhere in the great beyond, my mother is either laughing hysterically or trumpeting, “That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of!  Ewww!  What is wrong with these children?”

Mom, I don't know.  This I do know, however - I'm remaining fair-skinned and tattoo free, and if my kids want to bond with me it'll have to be over a cup of Starbucks.