The Rise Of Ethel

Fickle Pickle Fun

Around the time I was a teenager, my mother would periodically disappear – generally on weekends my father was off on business – and “Gladys” would step in.

Gladys was the one who let my sister and me rearrange the study to create a 'home theater' so the three of us could rent and watch a VHS copy of “Heart and Souls” in a more-effective manner. 

Gladys was also the one who bought us Stoffer’s French Bread Pizza to eat during the film, and who allowed us to choose a special ice cream treat for afterwards (chocolate chip ice cream sandwich, anyone?).

Of course, Gladys didn’t always wait until my father was out of town to make an appearance: often, on a weekend trip to the mall, Mom would step into a store . . . but it was Gladys who exited, leading us towards the glowing neon of a Wendy’s and a round of chocolate Frosties.  Or, on our way home to complete some responsibility, our driver might suddenly announce, “Mom isn’t here right now,” and, by some miracle, it was Gladys behind the wheel, eyes twinkling, taking a detour to our favorite park.

Her alter-ego was so-named because of how she looked: she (apparently) had horn-rimmed glasses with rhinestones on the sides and a tall beehive hair-do.  In hindsight, it is odd to me that Gladys would look like a Far Side housewife, because I don’t imagine those housewives as being as fun as our Gladys was.  Nevertheless, we kids were advised firmly that this was what our mystical guru looked like, and who were we to argue?

I am writing this from the plastic corner booth of a Carl’s Junior, where my child periodically bounces to so that he may take a bite of his nutritious cheeseburger or French fries before charging back off to the play structure.

Regular readers will not be surprised to learn that Bee is out of town.

(A girl has just asked Mr. C if he wants to play “Aliens vs. Predators”, and he responded that he hasn’t seen that movie, but knows “Monsters vs. Aliens”.  She decides that that’s what she meant, and they tore off together, discussing the movie while assigning each other appropriate rolls.) 

On our drive over here, I sighed melodramatically and announced to my child in the back seat that I was being a “Bad Mommy” by taking him to eat crap for dinner. He gleefully agreed.  This made me think about Gladys, and I realized I’d never told my child about her.  So we discussed her, and I pointed out how I often became like Gladys whenever Daddy was out of town.  Then I suddenly decided that I needed a better name than “Bad Mommy” for such times; probably just because my ego can’t take being labeled as “Bad” for the rest of the summer.

With unexpected inspiration, I suggested “Ethel”.  (In the spirit of keepin’ it retro.)

Mr. C was pleased-enough to get a case of hiccups, but countered instead with “Panda Bear”.  (The fact that we were passing by a Panda Express at the time obviously had NO EFFECT on his decision-making.)

“We could,” I said in a supportive manner.  (Read: “No way in hell.”)  “But we need to make it so people think we’re talking about a real person.”  I tried to picture whose name I’d be most-tickled to borrow.  “How about Winnifred?  Or Guinevere?”

Mr. C chuckled merrily.  “HA!  That would be so funny!  Yeah, you could be Guinni . . . Guinnifred or . . . Freddy . . . Freddyvere, was it?”  He didn’t wait for my answer, though.  “Oh, I know: you could be Refrigerfred!  Or,” (obviously putting REAL thought into his on-the-spot proposal) “Refri . . . Refrigerbeer.” 

Now he was ecstatic with himself.  “Refrigerbeer!  THAT’S what you should be!”

“OK,” I said with disgust, “now you’re just being silly.”

We pulled into the Carl’s Junior parking lot before we could settle on a fitting name.  But I think I’m going to make a case for “Ethel”.  For three reasons:

1)  It came to me in such a way as to seem as if God Himself stepped in from the heavens just to suggest a name for my crap-feeding-mother-side

2)  I can picture Ethel as a wildly-maned, nearly-red-headed art teacher with mismatched clothes and an infectious laugh

3)  When Mr. C pronounces “Ethel”, his “E” sounds more like a short “A”; and, since he still sometimes replaces his “th” sounds with “ss”, well . . .

I have decided that allowing Ethel to make an occasional appearance this summer is not such a bad thing.  After all, some of my fondest memories of my awkward teenage years are when Gladys showed up for the afternoon, and we careened off to a cardboard boat race instead of finishing our chores.  I’m sure Mr. C will always appreciate the night he played “Monsters vs. Aliens” with a stranger named Olivia in a Carl’s Junior . . . (that’s right: he’ll appreciate it, even if he doesn’t remember it.)  He’ll enjoy it tomorrow when we go to the cheapie theater to see “Rio 2”.  And, next month, he’s going to be so excited to order Papa John’s pizza and watch “The Little Mermaid”, with Ethel sitting next to him on the couch. 

When Ethel comes to play, she gives me permission to take the day off from worrying about being a responsible parent.  More-importantly, she reminds me that sometimes the most-important part of parenting is just having fun with your child.