Posts By Millie Noe
Max is partial to ladders and handy man tools.
I am attracted to lights and sparkly things.
That is why we make a perfect team.
Now, I remember a Christmas from a very, very, long, time ago.
The year was 1976.
I was going on twenty and living in Gardiner, Montana, with my husband, Jason.
Jason and I, and another friend, opened a bakery in a flourishing town that was located on the north entrance of Yellowstone Park.
It was all very exciting.
Especially since none of us could even bake.
And what was even more exciting than watching that big mixer, was the first snow of the season.
“Whhooooo hoooo!” I hollered, as giant flakes fluttered past the glass case I stood in, in the middle of nowhere, quickly dusting the brown foothills. I pushed in the Operator button, and made a collect call to my folks back in Wisconsin.
When I think of dumps I think of my sweet Sven.
You see, we fell in love way back when.
And when we did, we were so in love, that we did everything together.
Even trips to the dump.
“What in the hell are you doing?” says Shirlee-Bunny.
“What?” I said.
“Emmit told me that you were at the dump with Sven yesterday.”
“He told me that you were helping Sven toss your recyclables into those containers.”
“Yeah,” I said, again.
“Well, stop it Millie. You are giving the rest of us girls a bad name.”
So, in the name of sisterhood, I opted out of our Saturday morning dump dates.
A pair of boots popped up on my side bar.
They were covered in peace signs and paisleys.
The next thing I knew I was typing in the three digit code off the back of my card.
Because it is I, Millie Noe, marketer’s dream.
What I didn’t realize is that I was shopping in downtown, China.
And in case you have ever wondered, if you click on a Chinese tracking number, you aren’t going to know any more about the whereabouts of your paisley boots, than if you didn’t click on a Chinese tracking number.
Unless of course, you can read Chinese tracking numbers.
If you’re going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you’re going to San Francisco
You’re gonna meet some gentle people there
I couldn’t be upset about the grade I got on that collection of paintings I did my senior year.
I mean, I had painted one of them in ninth grade.
And I did hand it in four years later.
But, you know how it is.
I needed three more paintings for my independent study, with just three days to go.
It had never occurred to me that it would be a problem to hand in ten paintings.
I had a whole semester to paint them.
I loved to paint.
And I was right.
It wasn’t hard handing them in.
It was just hard coming up with them.
It all started with that mole.
You see, a little time had elapsed since my last check up.
You know how it goes.
You get a letter from your doctor and you and set it aside and you think, “Yeah I’ll call her later.”
And then you get another letter from your doctor.
This one says something about being overdue for a mammogram.
So you put it in your purse so that you will be sure to call the number tomorrow over your lunch break.
And then you get another letter about that other procedure.
So you put it with your other letters in your purse.
And more letters keep on arriving.
So you decide that on your day off, which is next Friday, you will call that number and you will set everything up.
And then the next month another letter is delivered.
And you think, “Shit. I have GOT to give them a call.”
“What’s that?” I said to Sven, walking in the kitchen door.
There was an opened card on the island next to his dusty lunch box.
“It’s an invitation for an open house.”
“An open house?”
“Yeah, it’s from the Smith’s. It’s for all the contractors and their wives.”
“Oh. Are we going?” I’d said, reading the invite that said something about 4:00 and wine and cheese.
“If you want to,” he says.
“They’re real nice. They’re both psychiatrists you know.”
“Yes. I know,” I answered.
Sven had told me that they were both psychiatrists about a thousand times.
I think it’s gonna be all right.
Yes, the worst is over now.
The morning sun is shining like a red rubber ball.
Remember that song?
It was by the Cyrkle.
I was doing the dishes with my brother, Calvin. I was washing and he was drying. Only he wasn’t drying. He was too busy snapping me with his towel.
And we were singing along with The Cyrkle.
But we knew the words.
I was sitting on a chair holding a coffee cup the size of a thimble.
It was filled with black gold.
I took another sip.
My ears began to ring.
“Would you like some more?” she says to me in her thick Portuguese accent, long shiny black hair, dark eyes and bright white smile. She was holding a beautiful porcelain coffee pot in her hands.
“No, thank you,” I stammered.
I covered my doll house cup and saucer, containing what I later learned to be, espresso.
One Friday evening, not so long ago, Sven decided to change a light bulb.
It was the one on the fan in our bedroom.
The one that is next to the skylight, way up there on the cathedral ceiling.
Therefore he brought a ladder upstairs to do his handy work.
“Do not take that away,” I said.
One should never let an opportunity such as a ladder in one’s bedroom slip away.
There were four of us, my sweet Sven, Burt, Claudette and myself, staring into the yellow, orange and blue flames.
A car came down the road.
It pulled onto the grass out front and stopped.
A door shut in the distance.
“Hi,” says Jack rustling through the leaves behind us.
We turned around.
“What’s going on?”
He pulled up a metal lawn chair and opened a beer.
And then there were five of us staring into the yellow, orange and blue flames.
And now, will the third place winner, please step forward?”
Something went wrong out there in the universe when all those particles that were less than tiny were spinning and twirling and swirling around. Because at the end of it all, my dog came out of his mother’s womb, a cross between a German Shepard, an Italian opera singer, a storm chaser, a yellow lab, Mark Spitz, Rin Tin Tin, an ostrich and a chow.
So, it is not his fault that he is annoying.
He can’t help it.
As his human mother, I am very proud to say that he does not waste any of his God given talent.
He is a prodigy.
I, as his nurturer, understand why he spends so much time pacing around the house practicing his earth shattering, booming notes. If he could only get on a stage where he belongs, he would absolutely bring the house down with all his bellering.
He’d be famous.
A world renown opera singer.
A super star.
Move over Pavarotti.