Captain’s Log 4,511
I certainly got a lot of mileage out of that whole toaster oven thing yesterday. Big Sister Mia and I were talking this morning and she was puzzled about why so many people really want me to get that toaster oven. Sometimes, I have to explain games and lighthearted teasing to my sister.
And….I have some new readers here who might think Mia is her real name. It’s not. Her name is Barb. Years and years ago someone told her she looks like Mia Farrow and she believed it. She came forth with that tidbit a few years ago and I almost aspirated my root beer! Good thing I was not eating ketchup.
The real Mia Farrow
Big Sister (Barb) Mia
The similarities are absolutely striking. In fact, it’s hard to go anywhere with Big Sister Mia because we are constantly assaulted by news crews and photographers. One of these days, she is going to just sit down and give them an interview. Won’t they be surprised when they learned they have been fooled!
This reminds me of the time my mom pretended to be someone else. Hilarious! When I was a kid, our phone number was one digit off from a little restaurant in town. They were pretty much the only game in town, and they did a large pick-up business. Most Saturday nights we would receive at least two wrong number calls from people who wanted to order chicken. One time mom was simply fed up and actually pretended to take their order. She told them to come over in 30 minutes and pick up their chicken. She even told them how much it would cost! Stinker!
This happened a few times and that little restaurant finally changed its number. End of story.
The doctor’s office number was 4411. Our number was 1144 (we didn’t need no stinkin’ prefixes back then). That was fun too. She liked picking up that wrong number and listening to all the ailments that people rattled off before they realized she wasn’t the medical office. Her favorite was finding out who needed to come in for a pregnancy test.
Ah yes……living in a small town back then was wonderful. We knew all about JH who was a married man who enjoyed his “dalliances” with lots of other women in town. Funny how 3 little boys were all born about the same time and they all looked like JH. When you live in small towns, you notice parentage. People were always noticing mine. Apparently, I looked a lot like the milkman. I most certainly did not look like either one of my parents. My mom told me it was either the milkman or the aliens that landed in the ball field behind the house. Even though I really liked the milkman who lived right across the street, I really wanted my dad to be an alien. The little dairy the milkman run was eventually sold to Well Blue Bunny in the next town. That has now become the largest producer of ice cream in the entire world. Yup. It beats that Haagen Daz or Breyer/Dryer’s. Even Ben & Jerry’s. So, if my dad was indeed the milkman, I guess I am genetically famous.
Even Obama stopped at the Wells store in Le Mars, Iowa for an ice cream treat!
So I guess that’s my 5 seconds of fame. Even though it’s not true, it’s fun to think that my dad might have been the guy who milked the cows and sold the milk and then sold the dairy to the bigger company that made the ice cream that was served to Obama. Six degrees of separation.
I think I’ll keep my new-found fame under wraps for awhile. I don’t want people thronging me in the mall asking for money or autographs. I will warn Mia that we must always wear our sunglasses (even inside movie theatres) from now on. Between the two of us, media confrontation is inevitable.