THINGS MY OTHER TAUGHT ME: (Don’t) Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Hypnotism is not as difficult as one might think. It’s really as simple as creating a circumstance in which someone is completely relaxed and susceptible to suggestion. Which is really, really simple when someone is in a state between sleep and wakefulness.

My sister Barb was always naïve enough to believe that she would not be messed with when dozing on the couch. How sad that she was so trusting…she should have known better. Especially surrounded by myself and my friends….And that, children, is what today’s story is about. (And yes, she is aware that I’m telling this particular story – in fact, she suggested it.)

 It was completely accidental that I discovered her susceptibility to programming. One day when she was dozing on the couch, I was talking about something in particular. From the couch I hear a mumbled statement vaguely related to my conversation. I ignored it the first time; then, a few minutes later, it happened again. At first I thought she was actually commenting on my conversation, but then I figured out it was inadvertent. She was talking in her sleep, but was guided somewhat by my words.

Yeah, and now let the shenanigans begin…

So one time we were at the apartment. It was me, Matt Heldman, Andy Bors and of course the guest of honor – my sister Barb. She dozed off on the couch, and I said to Matt and Andy, “Hey, watch this.” I began to steer her sleep talking. I started with stupid stuff. And then one of my friends, I don’t recall which one, said, “Ask her about her first kiss.”

So I began, as I’ve seen many a hypnotist, to ask questions and tell her to visualize where she was.

“Think about your very first kiss, Barb. Where were you when it happened…?”

Mumble mumble mumble…”Outside of Flex Bankle’s room…”

“Really. OK. And when was it?”

Mumble mumble mumble…”Late in the day. After band practice…”

“And who was it who you kissed…?”

“Leonard…” (Naturally this name was changed to protect the innocent. Much like er…”Marilyn.”)

“Was it a good kiss…?”

“Ooooooooh yes.” Apparently this kiss was of the foreign variety, if you get what I mean. ;)

So anyway, when she woke up from her nap, I said to her, “So did you have a good nap?”

“Yeah, I actually did.”

“Did you have any…unusual dreams…?”

She looked at each of us and she was like, “What’s wrong with you guys…?”

“Did you dream about Paris…?”

“No.”

“Maybe about a restaurant? Could it have been…French…?”

We busted out laughing and she looked at us like we were all crazy. Then we told her what we were talking about. Needless to say, she would not fall asleep on the couch again for some time. J

Yes, we were naughty and evil. But isn’t that what brothers are for…?

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it.

THINGS MY MOTHER TAUGHT ME: Even Alicia Silverstone Wasn’t This “Clueless”

To say that I was naïve in the ways of women in my youth would be the understatement of all time.

As I look back, I realize that I had women basically throwing themselves at me a lot more regularly than I would have thought at the time. I have recently realized that my stupidity…er, cluelessness…was apparently endearing, if not downright sexy. I guess women love that kind of thing. There’s a certain attractiveness to innocence and naivete, I guess.

Right before I left for the US Air Force in 1986, I worked with a very good friend of mine, John Wisner. We worked at the Burger King in Barrington; John was an Assistant Manager and I was a Junior Manager. We were closers, which obviously meant it was our responsibility to get the store shut down and prepped for the next morning for the openers. Because we wanted everything to be as perfect as possible, and we wanted to be highly regarded, we would often work into the wee hours of the morning. It was not unusual for us to be in the store until 1:00 AM. I have many, many stories about that time in my life; some of them I can’t tell out of respect to John and the fact that his daughter reads my Timeline on Facebook. ;) But this isn’t among the ones I can’t tell, mostly because it’s centered on me.

Most days, when we were finally finished, we would go to a restaurant called Wags in Crystal Lake. Sometimes we would stop across the street at Country Donuts first (yes, my love of Country Donuts and Danish Twists and Boston Cream donuts goes back DECADES), and we would visit with the overnight gal there for a bit. Her name was Shawn and she was a sweetheart. But this story isn’t about Shawn…

Anyway, once we were done there – or if we skipped it entirely – we would go to Wags. Wags was a restaurant chain owned by the Walgreens people; I think it was mostly in the Midwest but it may have been National. It was an OK little place, with kind of an old town diner type feel to it. Once we started going there regularly, we started to be known. I always drank hot tea (NOT Earl Gray, btw) and John always drank coffee. We would sit there an talk, drinking cup after cup, usually for an hour or two. We were such regulars that we ended up with our very own waitress. This is where it gets interesting…and kind of sad. But “sad” in a comical, “I can’t believe this” kind of way. Lol

At this point in time, I had just turned 19. My mom had been gone less than a year. I was SO lost…and John was one of my saving graces. If not for him pulling my sorry butt along for the ride I don’t know how deep of a hole I would have dug myself into. I was still pretty young, and horribly naïve (as I mentioned) to the ways of the world. I hadn’t all that much experience reading the signals from the opposite sex, and subtlety has ALWAYS been wasted on me. If you don’t get right in my face and tell me what you need me to hear, you’ll be waiting a long time.

As I recall, this waitress’s name was Debbie. She was probably about 25. And she was blonde. And definitely pretty. She became our personal waitress – little did I realize it was because of me.

Before we were even inside the restaurant, she was watching for us every night that she worked. As we walked up the sidewalk, she would grab a table and have a cup of coffee and a pot of tea sitting there brewing for us. She was very attentive…I mean, VERY attentive. Periodically, she would come and sit for a minute or two in the booth with is. On my side. RIGHT UP AGAINST ME.

Now let’s pause for a moment here. Hm. Older woman, blonde, pretty, built like – as they say – a brick house. Super attentive. Sits in the booth right up against me. Likes to touch me every time she comes to ask if we need anything. OK, stop and think about that for a moment. How many red blooded American males would not get what was going on here…?!? Yup. That’s right. THIS guy.

I was so shy and so uncertain of myself that I never put the two things together. And John, bless his heart, never mentioned it to me. I think he was waiting for me to catch on. He may STILL be waiting for me to catch on.

We continued going to Wags right up until the end of June, 1986. We had been going there almost every night for probably over six months. When I told Debbie that I was leaving to go to the Air Force, she hugged me really tightly. I think she even had tears in her eyes. Looking back I’m a little surprised she never just took the leap, as it were – I mean, all of her forwardish behavior hadn’t worked. I remained clueless as to her intentions and her advances.

Who knows what might have happened if I had actually picked up on her signals? Or if she had just been brazen enough to just outright tell me she was interested…?

Naturally, this was not the first time I had been lost in translation. Nor would it be the last. But that, as they say, is a story for another time.

Thanks for reading, as always. Hope you enjoyed it.

Rock a Bye (BYE!) Baby

Rock a Bye (BYE!) Baby

Hello there!! I have decided to try the whole "blog" thing again after being prompted by numerous people to do so. My content will also appear on Facebook for the moment, or until I decide that this is a better forum for my stories. Until then I will be posting both places. If you've read my stuff before, then welcome back. If you haven't, then welcome aboard, you're in for a wild ride. That being said...on to Story Time!

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I’m writing this story as a birthday gift to my sister Barb McDannell. She wanted me to tell a different story that I can’t for various reasons, and this was her second request. And since it’s her story, I’m doing it for her. (Mind you, my take on the story may not be the way she would tell it, but who’s sitting at this keyboard? That’s right, I am!)

I was born on a farm in Hebron, IL. It was located between Hebron and Woodstock.

When I was about eight months old, we moved from the farm into Woodstock, to the house that I grew up in (and that my father owned until his death in 2002).

We grew up with the kids in the family next door, The Fergusons. The Ferguson kids ages roughly mirrored ours; for the purposes of this particular story, the most important part is the Ferguson child that was Barb’s age: Michael.

Michael S. Ferguson was a tremendous guy. He had a HUGE influence on my sense of humor; probably the single biggest influence outside of my own family. He was a truly funny guy, and it came to him really naturally. I have always had a lot of admiration for Mike, and looked at him like a big brother.

This being said, it bears explaining that Mike and Barb were INSEPERABLE. I mean, for real. Two better friends have probably never been put on this Earth by God. They spent every moment that they could together. They walked to school together and they walked home together. If one of them had detention, the other one would wait dutifully, pacing outside of the classroom until their partner was released on their own recognizance back into the general population, free to run and play once again.

Barb (who is two children older than me), John (who was between Barb and me) and I all went to Dean Street Elementary. It wasn’t really a long journey; the school was only five blocks away. And yet we found ways to make the journey more interesting. We discovered various shortcuts and would go different ways home. You wouldn’t think that five blocks would hold a lot of secret passages and whatnot, but we managed to find them, and what we didn’t find we created.

The main path home, though, was a block and a half down Dean Street, up Freemont three blocks, down Madison one block. On the way, we crossed the corner of Freemont and Jefferson. On the corner of the cross street is 303 Freemont. Which you may not think is a dangerous fact, but in point of fact, we would find out just exactly how dangerous…DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUN…

So one day the Twosome is walking home together. As they walk, they pass the rock wall. Mike stops because he spots an interesting, rather large rock on the ground. Barb continues to walk. Mike crouches down to more closely examine the rock. He likes what he sees. Barb keeps walking. Mike yells for her to come back; he wants to show her this highly interesting rock. She gets to him, and begins to bend down closer to see as he begins to stand…and…

*KA-POW!!*

As they say in the wrestling business, he busted her open hardway. That is to say he cracked her in the forehead with the rock with sufficient force to lacerate her forehead.

Now she is bellering loudly enough for it to echo off of the rock wall. At this point they are just over two blocks from our house. Mike runs and frantically bangs on the front door. No answer. He calls into the screen door (the inner door was open). My mom comes to the door, and Mike manages to stammer out, “Mrs. McDannell – I’m so sorry – the rock…and she bent over…and then…there was so much blood…!”

Which of course sent my mother into a full blown panic attack (which of course nobody knew existed then, even though she would tell us regularly that we were “giving [her] a nervous breakdown”).

Barb, of course, had not sat idly while her partner in crime / assassin in waiting (more on this in a minute) had run for help. She had gotten up, and hollering all the way, made her way to the corner of Madison and Freemont. In the meantime, my mother had managed to split the difference and meet her there.

The ending was relatively happy: as it turned out, head wounds bleed more than any other wound, so the gash was relatively small. And of course there was no brain damage apparent (?!?). Barb survived and I’m not even certain she had a scar from the incident.

So what, you may ask, is up with the “assassin in training” above? Well, my  brother John – ever the cynic, rest his soul – was convinced that this was Mike’s clumsy attempt to get out of the relationship. The facts never proved it to be true, although no real investigation was ever launched.

The actual death of my sister’s romantic aspirations is a WHOLE different story. That I’m not sure I’m able to tell…but is REALLY entertaining. To me at least.

And that’s story time for today. Hope you enjoyed it, thanks as always for reading.

Seasons Beatings - or, The Night My Older Siblings Got Drunk At Christmas

Today I am reminded of my father and a Christmas story of years and years ago.

My father was not always a patient or tolerant man. On Christmas, though, he would strive to be extra patient with us. The standard rule of Christmas was that we were not allowed to come downstairs, nor to open any gifts, until our Dad was out of bed for the day. Mind you, it was not a tortuous thing – my dad was naturally an early riser and would typically be up by 6:30 on Christmas, which was actually sleeping in for him.

On this particular Christmas, most of my siblings – and in applicable cases, spouses – were at home for the Holiday, and sleeping at out house. Mind you, I say “sleeping” with tongue firmly in cheek, which is why this particular story exists in our family’s repertoire.

So one of the older kids decided it would be a good idea to go out and imbibe some “Christmas cheer.” The problem was that they rolled back to the house, full of said “Christmas cheer,” around 3:00 AM. And of course, being rather giggly and clumsy, they woke my father up and he was forced to arise, like a bear from a cave disturbed during hibernation, to enact retribution and to generally kill the buzz, as it were.

Sleep was elusive for the younger children anyway since it was Christmas morning; we were already sleeping lightly, on pins and needles, waiting eagerly to see what was under the tree. Once we heard our dad’s voice, booming even when he whispered, we were awake and out of bed like soldiers hearing Reveille and ready for action. This would be the downside of the standard rule, of course, and an unexpected twist for my dad: the rule is the rule, and the fact that he was not wakened naturally didn’t matter to us. The rule said once he was up we could attack the tree. And by golly he was up. And not particularly thrilled by it, either.

Now, of course, the “Christmas cheer” would slowly degenerate into “Christmas hangover.” That was not important to my father. He had been woken up in the middle of the night, and his loss of sleep would be matched by those who had disturbed him – willing or not. My dad decreed that since he wasn’t able to sleep, no one else (specifically, the offenders) would be allowed to sleep either. This is where the story REALLY gets interesting.

One of the offenders, thinking that my dad was busy with preparations for Christmas dinner, decided to lay out in my dad’s LaZBoy recliner for a short Winter’s nap. This was not to be allowed; there was to be no unsanctioned sleeping! It was a foolish and ill-considered choice in hindsight. Because there was about to be trouble in Christmas town…

I can’t tell you how my dad knew. I won’t say that the offender wasn’t ratted out to him, as that was something we did to each other when there was amusement bound to ensue. He may have discovered the treachery on his own. It didn’t matter how he found out, the punishment was about to be dished.

Looking around the living room, my father searched for an appropriate means by which to deliver his commentary on his sleeping child’s unfortunate state of unconsciousness. He found his means close at hand. So, picking up a roll of wrapping paper and wielding it like a Samurai Warrior, my father approached his prey – and then, with great vigor and joy, my father delivered a beating that would be sung about for decades to come, proclaiming for all to hear once again that there would be no slumbering while he had to stay awake for the day. No one else attempted to sleep for the rest of the day.

And a Joyful Christmas was had by most…

The End

Genetics, Heredity and Defects...Oh, My!

In High School, I was in BSCS Honors Biology. One of my favorite units that we studied was Genetics. If only I had known then...

Genetics. It's a wondrous concept. Genetics is how we become who we are when our parents create us. Two people's disparate genes, all of which were contributed by two other people each, combine to create the wondrous individuals that we become. In my case, somewhere something went horribly, horribly wrong.

Because, you see...I was born with Tourette's Syndrome. Nobody knew what that was at the time; in fact, it would be 23 years before someone officially diagnosed me with the condition.

For anyone who is not familiar with this particular genetic disease, WebMD defines it as follows:

"Tourette's Syndrome is a hereditary neurological movement disorder that is characterized by repetitive motor and vocal tics. Symptoms may include involuntary movements of the extremities, shoulders, and face accompanied by uncontrollable sounds and, in some cases, inappropriate words. Tourette Syndrome is neither a progressive nor degenerative disorder; rather, symptoms tend to be variable and follow a chronic waxing and waning course throughout an otherwise normal life span. The specific symptoms associated with Tourette Syndrome often vary greatly from case to case. The exact cause of Tourette Syndrome is unknown."

For me, the most important two points in the above paragraph appear in the first and last sentences. The first is the fact that the disease is supposedly hereditary; the second is that the cause is unknown. When I was in my early 30's, I decided to do some hardcore research after a conversation with my father. I had already done some basic research, learning that the condition is passed down. I asked him if anyone in either family (his or my mom's) had ever shown any signs of anything like this. He informed me that I was the first. So when I dug deeper, I disovered a couple of interesting facts.

Smoking can be a contributing factor (then again, what does smoking not contribute to?). My dad smoked heavily.

My mother had an at-risk pregnancy with me. My parents were 41 when I was born; in that age this was almost unheard of. In fact I was really fortunate that my mother lived; she almost bled out and they almost lost her. Imagine living with that your entire life...

Anyway...

Here's the one that actually gives me a clue to why I am how I am: Parkinson's Disease is a neurological condition that directly relates to Tourette's Syndrome. Almost every uncle on my mother's side had Parkinson's disease, which means the gene for that obviously runs in my family.

There's a good chance that all of these factors combined and conspired to skew my genetics and create this defect. Lucky me.

So for anyone who was in school with me at any level, you may remember that I was saddled with a particularly nasty "nickname" all through school because of this disease. I put "nickname" in quotations because nicknames are supposed to be an affectionate way of addressing someone, such as "Honeybunch" or "Blue Eyes." The name that I was called (and I refuse to give it credence by putting it in here) was particularly hurtful and nasty, and caused two particular individuals greater pain than what it caused me when their bullying went a bit too far. I retaliated. With great enthusiasm and more than a little force. And those are the only two instances in my entire life where I was forced to use my fists rather than my words. But those are tales for another time.

My first symptoms appeared when I was about five years old, entering Kindergarten. My father, who was not necessarily a person who was tolerant of the idiosyncracies of others (to put a kindly spin on it) said that I was doing the things I was doing because I didn't like my Kindergarten teacher. I was the third child in my family to be in her class; she retired the following year, which was kiddingly attributed to my behavior for years after by my family. Which didn't add to my stress or anxiety over the whole thing at all... :(

The teasing became so bad in Second and Third Grade that I began not going to school. Pretty regularly. To the point where the School Counselor, my teacher and the Principal all had a meeting with my mom, and then with me, to find out what was going on. Unfortunately, not much changed after. And as I got older, it got much worse.

By the time Junior High School rolled around (Onward, Olson), kids had become even more cruel and mean, which tends to happen pretty much in general anyway. But if you've got a condition or something that sticks out and makes you different from everyone else - even more so than the norm - they can turn that up to a whole different level. At least in Junior High I was lucky enough to make some friends, something which had been lacking up until then. There was a group of about five of us, all misfits of one sort or another, and we accepted each other despite our standing out from the norm and being labeled as "nerds" or "geeks" or "different."

In High School, I was able to make a few more friends; at one point there were about ten of us or so that hung out together. And they were all great friends for the most part. To offset this, of course, the torment and teasing got much worse. At least for most of my Freshman year, when I was forced to defend myself (inadvertently beating the holy Hell out of someone in the process, for which I still carry some level of remorse to this day; this is one of the two instances mentioned above).

When I was 23, I was finally diagnosed with Tourette's Syndrome while I was in the US Air Force. A military doctor whom I was seeing for a completely different reason decided to send me to a Neurologist, at which point I finally had my answer. However, it didn't really provide any relief. Later in life, after spending a number of years being medicated (medication which I decided I didn't want to take anymore after my first marriage ended - I quit it cold turkey, just stopped taking it, which in retropect was probably not a very sound decision), I learned how to control the symptoms by force of will. Now when someone meets me for the first time they can't even see the symptoms for the most part, and when I tell people I have Tourette's they are really surprised. The only time my control falters is when I'm really tired or really angry.

The real problem in all of this is that the disease is hereditary. I didn't know this yet when my first son was conceived; of course, in my defense that was before I was diagnosed officially. And that doesn't explain my youngest son...but again, that's a story for another time.

   The other two parts of my own personal Three Amigos, my two buddies -
                                           my Pug Mooch and my son Jacob.

Next time...I start to talk about my family.

Not QUITE a Monkey's Uncle...

Hello, and welcome to my blog.

Why are you reading this blog?

Well, hopefully, to be entertained. I guess we'll see. :D

So I guess I'll start with a little bit about me for this first round.

I'm the youngest child in a fairly large family, raised in Woodstock, IL. If you ever want to see what my neighborhood looks like, watch the movie Groundhog Day with Bill Murray. Every time he looks out of the "bed and breakfast" (which was actually a home owned by a family named the Ratchfords when I was a kid, whose family was even bigger than ours) you can see my neighborhood, and more specifically my house. I own three separate copies of the movie - VHS, DVD and Blu-Ray - and it drives my wife a little nuts. Mostly because if I see it on the guide then I have to watch it. :D

I'm married for the second time - our 12 year anniversary is this Sunday, November 6. In those 12 years I've aged about 40, thanks to the three children who were raised in the house - one of whom is still being raised. More on this in a minute.

The URL for this blog - terrymcdannellmonkeypops - contains my Internet Nomme de Plume / Nomme du Guerre (depending on the day, I suppose), a name by which I've become known many places across the Web: Monkey Pops. This is due entirely to my youngest son. When my wife was expecting him, I would refer to him as my little monkey.

My wife would say, "Don't say that! He'll come out looking like a monkey!"

To which I would reply, "Of course he will - he'll look just like me!"

At that point in time I was looking for a new identity to use online. And that's how Monkey Pops was born.

To say my youngest son favors me would be a huge understatement - he's my little clone for the most part. We share in common many things, not the least of which is looks; he looks just like me, but fortunately he appears to have gotten his nose from his mother, avoiding my family nose (you'll understand once I've started posting images).

Unfortunately, he also inherited my genetic defect: Tourette's Syndrome. But since everything in life is a trade off, he received a blessing in exchange for the curse: a near genius level IQ (which is also my trade off).

One of my fondest memories of when he was very young was a conversation I had with him. I can't remember the details; all I know is that as he walked away, my wife laughed and asked me, "So how does it feel to have a conversation with yourself...?"

Pausing for thought for a brief moment, I replied, "Well, at least now I know why people look at me like that."

OK, I guess that's enough for the first post. Thanks for reading and I hope you'll be back for more.

(Here's a picture of my best bud, my youngest son Jacob with me - on the right - and Pro Wrestler and WWE Hall of Fame Hacksaw Jim Duggan, taken in August, 2011)