The Thanksgiving Squirrel

(Pop art Thanksgiving Squirrel)

In 7th grade I was sitting with my crew at lunch. We were talking about how parents make up characters just to give presents. We were probably going on about how, that was the trouble with kids today, too spoiled, too many made up characters giving them presents. Truthfully, it hadn't been that long since I stopped believing in St. Nick. Oh, sure I said I just believed in 'the spirit of Santa Claus' as an 11 year old, but I definitely thought a man in a red suit turned into jelly and slid down the chimney to leave me presents. It wasn't until I found my mother's meticulously cataloged receipts, chronicling each and everyone of my presents. I digress. So we were talking about how silly the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny are. I nodded, and slowly worked up the courage to say something (some time I'll tell you about how awkward I was as a jr. high schooler). I carefully rehearsed just what I was going to say, and how I was going to say it. I casually chuckled, cocked my head to one side, shrugged, and said "yeah, and what's the deal with the Thanksgiving Squirrel?" (Seinfeld was still very big at the time). And how did my comrades respond? With deafening silence. If it had been a late 90s teenage coming-of-age movie, you know the type that always included a wild house party, the DJ would have scratched the record, the music would have stopped, and all eyes would have been on me. After what felt like 45 minutes of nothing but crickets and nervous throat clearing, someone finally piped up with "What's the Thanksgiving Squirrel?" I quickly explained how this squirrel would bring you presents, usually something small like a nightgown, on Thanksgiving. Why not Turkey, some asked. Because you EAT turkey on Thanksgiving, you idiots!!!! Is what I thought, but instead I sheepishly shrugged and looked down. It turns out it's something my mom had made up. Every Thanksgiving as we were out the door, on our way to 9am Mass, my mother would have to run back inside to fetch a baby bottle, or a can of olives to be blessed. But what she was really doing was hiding our Thanksgiving present, and setting out a stuff animal squirrel, so we would know the Thanksgiving squirrel had been there. After Mass Steve would pretend to see the Thanksgiving squirrel in the road ahead. He would speed up, and swerve, pretending to hit and kill the squirrel. We would all just cry and cry. But when we got home, we'd see that sassy stuffed squirrel and know it was all okay.

T.S even made an appearance November '93. Why is that significant? That was the Thanksgiving my parents surprised the three little girls (me, Emily and Brittany) with a trip to Disneyland. The older kids went too, but they knew about it the whole time, and almost ruined it for us, when my eldest sister asked if we were all going to be sitting together on the plane, and then again when my brother hit my mom in the leg with a dart. But it all worked out, and the little squirrel brought us pjs in Anaheim. Mine had a flannel hood, and I loved them.


To end this post I would like to tell you what happened as my mom looked for our stuffed friend. She was riffling through one of the two LARGE Tupperware totes, which contain the Sandbo Family Thanksgiving Decorations. She started making a clicking sound.
"I'm calling him" she said. "He must not be in this one, he would have answered me." She opened the next box and continued to click. "He must be dead. He would have answered me." Thank God she was able to find him. I'm pretty sure he's the only one who has ever existed.

Just the kind of girl I am.

Here is a prime example of the saintly behavior I exhibit daily. When I was 4 years old, I was terribly ill at Christmas. I was suffering from influenza. I spent the holiday season lying on the couch, so very near death, watching as my siblings decorated and sang carols all with a warm cup of wassail in their hand. I shivered with the family puke bowl tucked under my chin. Weeks earlier I had asked the Nordstrom's Santa Claus for a Little Miss Makeup.

or, more realistically

This beauty was the Tickle-Me-Elmo of her day. You put PLAIN WARM WATER on her face and MAKEUP WOULD SHOW UP!!!!!! She couldn't be found anywhere. My mother tried and tried, and finally, on Christmas Eve asked me what I would want if Santa couldn't find a Little Miss Makeup. I turned to my mother, too weak to even open my eyes, and replied AND I QUOTE "Oh nothing. If I can't have Little Miss Makeup I'll just have nothing." My mom took the tiny angelic dagger from her heart, and got down to business. She called anyone with a car, and set out to every Bartell's in within a 15 mile radius. My great-aunt did the same. And God bless her, she found one at Jafco. My mom also was able to find one. I know what you're thinking. If both these women were able to find them where they really that hard to come by? Uh yeah! They were, we were just super blessed. It was like Jesus' birthday present to me! So imagine my joy on Christmas day when I had TWO Little Miss Makeups. Being the little cherub I was and am, I gave the more tan one to my little sister. She named her Tammy, after our swim lesson teacher. I can't remember what I named mine, but it was probably something like Miracle. Because that's what she was to me. Unfortunately, whatever chemical made her face makeupy wore off within 6 months, and I was left with a doll in a loose fitting blue leotard (see picture above). But I loved that plain doll. Loved her until my mom threw her away because I didn't play with her.

It's pronounced TUH-too, not TAT-oo

About a year and a half ago a Facebook friend posted pictures of her new tattoo. It was/is a modest 206 (the area code for Seattle) on the inside of her wrist in a classy Olde English-type font. She posted how wonderful she felt every time she looked down and saw it. And how proud she was to be from Seattle. I thought to myself, that's pretty hard-core, but wouldn't it be funny if someone got a 360 (area to the north and south of the Seattle-Tacoma area), 253 (Tacoma, and there abouts), or even a 425 (areas to the east, and slightly north of Seattle) tattoo!! Enter my obsession. It's not unlike me to become obsessed with things. Anything from Crock-Pot cooking, to Neil Patrick Harris, to the 1996 Olympic Gold Medal winning gymnastics team (the Magnificent 7). Not obsessed in a freaky way. I just get to liking something so much, that I spend 30-40 hours a week tirelessly preforming internet research. Then after 6 weeks or so, I'm over it. So it was with my tattoo. I couldn't get over how funny I thought it was. Then one day, while assistant directing a summer camp which accommodates approximately 100 children and staff, I wanted to see what it would give my tat a test run. I had my friend Jane (psydomeom)sketch a couple different sizes and locations for my 425. I asked the opinions of the staff, and although most were distracted by the deformity of the 4 (someone startled Jane during her sketch), the popular conclusion was that it was kind of funny. No one had to say another word. Kind of funny is funny enough for me! I stored the results, of the impromptu survey, away in my brain.


Exactly one week later, it was a slow day at aforementioned camp. The campers and staff were off in the forest, catching butterflies and playing with bows and arrows, or something. I turned to Jane, and told her I wanted to get inked. She accepted my idea eagerly... almost too eagerly, really. But whatever, we were two modern gals on a mission. The camp is just outside a the small town of Carnation (population 1,893 according to the 2000 census). In Carnation there was a tattoo/hair salon, and it was decided that's where we'd go to get it done. Although we knew it was a great idea, we asked a few more opinions. First the 18 year old junior ranger. He laughed like an idiot, and begged to come along. Sure why not, we said, the more the merrier. Next we sought the opinion of the 20 head cook. She was wise beyond her years, and she herself had a tattoo. She said it was a good idea, as long as she got to come too. It was all become so real. The head cook, sensing my nerves, said that they might not even give me a tat if I seemed at all unsure. So I wiped the sweet from my brow, swallowed the vomit in my mouth and strutted to the car. Once to the tattoo/beauty parlor, I started to get the shakes again. I called my little sister. She told me it was a HORRIBLE idea. Again, that's all I needed to hear. If she had told me it was a good to very good idea, I probably wouldn't have gotten it. Thank GOODNESS I don't let people tell me what to do, am I right?


After the young man came back with the sketches, I settled on a simple font on the left-side of my left inside wrist (can you visualize where that is?). While the head cook and jr. ranger sat in the lobby, Jane and I went in the back. I sat down in a dentist-like chair. A few feet away from me there was a guy getting two turntables tattooed across his entire back. I wanted to ask if he was hellzah in to mixing freaky beats or some shit, but I was too nervous. The guy who was doing his tattoo asked me if this was my first one. I said yes, and he gestured to the turntables. "It's his first too. You wuss." I chuckled, and tried not to be hurt. 10 minutes later, I had my tiny tattoo. He wrapped it in saran wrap, and Jane took me to the am/pm for a fountain drink. And you know what. Every time I look down at it, I, too, feel wonderful, and I am very proud that I am kind of funny.
LOL (lots of love)
Kate

That Art Linkletter was right...

kids say the gosh dangest things.
As I was doing some filing, in the 4th grade class I intern in, I heard a small group of students chattering excitedly. One girl piped up with "I'm gonna ask Ms. Sandbo, I am. I'm gonna ask her." It reminded me of a time when I was in 4th grade, and one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.


It was towards the end of the year in 4th grade. The day was pretty unremarkable. D.E.A.R/SSR time, lunch, perhaps P.E, math, you know. But after third recess, I came back to the classroom hyped up on fresh air and life. I sat up front right next to my teacher's desk. For some reason, known only to God, I turned to Ms. Kenney, and asked "What's a fallopian tube?" Well, no, I know why I asked. I had recently seen "Problem Child", and I don't know if you remember, but the couple played by John Ritter and Amy Yaskbeck, were having trouble conceiving, and their fertility doctor told them there was a problem with the woman's fallopian tubes. Then he fumbled about with a large model of a woman's reproductive organs. Without skipping a beat, Ms. K., the professional she is, explained, IN DETAIL how the fallopian tubes carry the eggs from the ovaries to the uterus, preparing a woman for conception or menstruation. I LITERALLY put my head in my hands, repeating "Oh, God. Oh, God." Michelle O. chuckled and shook her head in embarrassment for me. While all this was going on, Christopher C., in his 4th grade chipmunk-like voice, kept piping in "What? What are you talking about? What carries eggs to the uterus?". Ms. Kenney had the presence of mind not to acknowledge him. The last thing she said was "I have pictures if you want to see." I looked up at her, swallowed the vomit in my mouth, and said "no, thank you." If only I had waited a few more weeks, I would have learned all that during the "Our Changing Bodies" unit. But if I had, what would you be reading right now?


XOXOXOX
Kate

Sandbo Family out-going messages

The Sandbos got an answering machine in 1989, for Christmas. We spent 4-6 weeks creating the perfect out-going message. We started with me reading a script. We thought it'd be cute to have a little kid voice, but alas I sounded too robotic. Then we played R.E.M's "Stand" in the background, while my older sister Robyn asked the caller not to rob us while we were out of the house. Next, five of us kids wailed and made smacking sounds, as my oldest sister Stephany informed the public that we were at the hospital after being beat-up. The 'rents didn't think child abuse was funny, so that one was short lived. Finally, we found one we could be proud of. You see, Robyn is a bit of a piano prodigy, and she learned to play a popular rag-time tune, whose name escapes me, just by listening to a babysitter we had. Then she wrote a song that went a little something like this:



We are the Sandbos
And we can't come to the phone
So leave a message
Leave a message at the tone!

That was pretty good, but the coup-de-gras of answering machine messages, came to the oldest girls after watching an episode of Beverly Hills 90210. Emily Valentine was involved in a talent show, yada yada yada, anyway this is what came out of it:

(Emily Valentine as played by Christine Elise)

(Sing to the tune of "Breaking up is hard to do")
We can't come to the phone
So leave a message at the tone
We're sorry that we just missed you
But being home is hard to do

Robyn sang the lead, while the rest of us had the honor of singing the back-up "dum dooby doo dum dum"s. It really was something special.

What I love about living at home

One fine Saturday morning, Steve came home after several hours of visiting various relatives and various cemeteries. He was in great form, the beautiful day left him with much to bitch about. Before I get too far into this story, maybe I should tell you a little about Steve, my dad.


I started calling him Steve when I was 9 or 10 years old. I can't remember how it started, and I did call my mom Anne for a short time, but it felt unnatural and forced. Anyway, Steve is a blue collar hard-working man. He has worked for the power company for over 35 years, and most people are afraid of him when they first meet him. I think that's because of his thick beard and unfriendly demeanor. But that's all just an act. A very honed, well practiced, almost too convincing, act. Does he calls us, his kids, demons and bastards? Sure, but he'll also change your headlight and buy you anything you need from Costso. But God help you if you forget to check your oil each and every time you get gas!! That's just the kind of guy he is. To some it may seem as though Steve hates joy. Birthdays and holidays are always a time for Steve to pout and pray to be called to work. I don't think this is because he hates joy, but rather is a more understated kind of person, and all the hustle and bustle of the holidays, probably gives him diarrhea. Around the age of 19, there was a shift in our family dynamic. Steve's attitudes towards things kind of became a joke. Something we all (save for Steve) could laugh about. Now his holiday antics are like dinner theater to us. It's fun to point out how Steve wildly rolls his eyes, and angrily flares his nostrils whenever the whole family gets together.

So that brings us to Saturday. My mom and Steve took 3 of my nieces to the cemetery for some quality bonding time among the decesed. When they got back Steve went to the garage. From there I heard him yell "WHERE'S MY SAUERKRAUT?!?!?!?!?" He came in talking about how he didn't understand why someone would take it without letting him know. The question on everyone's mind was why would anyone take it. It being a one gallon jar of pickled cabbage.
"Did you check the refrigerator?" I asked.
"I've never left kraut in the fridge, a day in my life!" he responded " You ate it all with out telling me!"
"No you did. didn't you make like kraut and ham and polenta not too long ago." Which apparently was his plan for today as well.
"No, you're thinking of your great-grandmother 20 years ago."
"Yeah, that must be it." This Croatian dish was a favorite of my great-grandmother, Mary Magdalene Fransiscovich Klepac(vic)
"10 pounds of ham hock going to waste cause I don't have any sauerkraut. Well, you take the ham all for yourself, and eat it raw!"

It's these little interactions I'm going to miss most of all when I move out of my parents house in a couple weeks. I will not, however, miss Steve walking around in his not-so-tighty-off-whities.

Kate's First Post

So, welcome to my blog. I will be using this space as a place to practice my writing style and fluency. From this day forward, most things I do will be done to help me write and publish my memoirs. P.S. can memoirs be plural like that? I'll wikipedia that and get back to you. Anyway, look out world I'm a lady on a mission. Not completely unlike this gal....

or her...

I love television,
Kate