NEIL ARMSTRONG OR "BUZZ" ALDRIN?

Admittedly, this was a repressed memory until I read Jane's blog on brotherly abuse. I believe there is a direct correlation between the number of siblings you have and the number of strange and memorable (although some should be forgotten) events you can recall from childhood.

I'll leave out the names to protect the not-so-innocent...

I think this happened sometime in mid-late 1978 because Mom was still working full-time before the arrival of my youngest brother. Some would argue that it's not terribly wise to leave 6 kids home by themselves, but it was one of those po-dunk school holidays that still required Mom and Dad to work. However, Mom was no dummy: she knew us well enough to give us a mission, a chore to do. I think her thought process might have gone something like this, "At least the family room will be clean BEFORE they burn down the house." Even if we waited until the last 15 minutes before she and Dad came home, we would have at least accomplished SOMETHING of value that day.

Well, on this particular day, our orders from Mission Control included cleaning the kitchen cabinets. Remove all the contents, wipe down the doors and shelves, and (ideally) replace the contents a little more neatly than before they were removed. The mission seemed to go smoothly until this exchange occurred...

"Hey, Dena! Try this!" A bit of advice to the youngsters out there: nothing good EVER comes from a statement like that.

"What is it?" I asked while being handed a cup with a some liquid in it.

"It's Tang!" Funny, it didn't smell like Tang. Was it possible for Tang to "go bad"? I was 8—what did I know? [note: if you don't know what Tang is, look it up. You're on the internet for Pete's sake...]

"OK!" I said gullibly, gulping enough to consume all of the cup's contents, followed by serious spewing, and some 8-year-old tough-talk like, "You snot!"

Oh, it looked like Tang, but it had a little kick to it. Yeah, it was orange vodka, and so old and fermented that I'm pretty sure if Neil Armstrong had picked up a bottle of it on his way to the launch, this might have been what was left over.

I've never been a huge drinker, and this may very well be why. Well, that and learning the hard way when I was 5 that beer may LOOK like ginger ale, but it sure doesn't taste like it.

In case you're wondering, "Buzz" Aldrin did finish cleaning her share of the kitchen cabinets, but we left the "Tang" incident out of the debriefing session when the Commander came home from work.

Mission accomplished.

IMPEACH MAYOR McCHEESE!

It seems I haven't quite gotten the hang of this "making regular posts" thing yet—I need to entrench it into my daily routine, but I'm just not quite there. Sorry to all my Fry Guys (I think there's 3 of you!?)! Feels like I just got a puppy a week ago and forgot to feed it.

I began keeping a list of topics a few weeks before I created this blog and have tried to keep it somewhat handy in case moments of sheer genius occur. Well, I'm still waiting for one of those moments, but I do have a handful of of topics inspired by lack of sleep, incompetent drivers (thankfully, the first two are unrelated), and other blogs—Jane, your post about the girls wanting brothers and your recollections of brotherly abuse have inspired enough writing material to last me until next Labor Day!

Mayor McCheese has demonstrated extreme dereliction of duty. Should impeachment proceedings begin? At least the Mayor and our fine governor would have something in common. "Hey, Blago! Got any pearls of wisdom?!"

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

There are certain assumptions people make about those who hold the McDonald name:

1. They make frequent trips to the Golden Arches,
2. They drink and drink often, and/or
3. They own a wide variety of livestock.

Well, I'm more of a Steak 'n' Shake sort of gal, drinking just costs too much, and I have no pets that graze. Essentially, I'm a disappointment to the McDonald moniker, but I won't lose much sleep over it—I married into the name.

However, this blog title seamlessly bridges the gap between my maiden and married names. There are those out there who may remember when I used to be called "French Fry" or "Fry-dang-er," not to mention a few other forgettable aliases. It's only fitting that I would marry into a name identical to those who basically invented the french fry. Proof that God does have a sense of humor. I'll just be thankful He didn't pair me up with some guy name Heinz—or a salty fellow named Morton...

That aside, I'm intrigued by the notion of middle names. I'm pretty sure that it came into existence because of a couple back in medieval times that couldn't agree on a first name for their new bundle of joy. "Hey, let's give Junior TWO names! Problem solved! Now pass me the mutton and ale..."

For the better part of my childhood, I really didn't like my middle name (my apologies to my parents). Why? Because I always felt like I was a member of the Petticoat Junction sisterhood [note:  this will probably be lost on anyone under the age of 35]. Remember the Bradley sisters? They all had a few things in common:  a perky disposition, ample "assets" and their middle name (apparently, Kate Bradley wasn't too creative). There was Betty Jo, Bobbie Jo, Billie Jo and their chubby little sister with the strawberry blonde hair and overbite, Dena Jo. In fact, play the Petticoat Junction theme song, and I'll revert to the behavior of a 5-year-old.

And this 5-year-old wants a milkshake and fries.