My husband’s and my favorite place to go for dinner in Wisconsin was a supper club on a small island in the Mississippi River. The only way to get there was on a ferry boat. One hot August night, I decked myself out in my best wear and my reddish, French-twisted human-hair wig (all the rage in the late 70s). I didn’t need to wear one – my hair has always been thick (and red), but, God forbid, I should be out of fashion! We set off with my in-laws for a nice dinner on the river.
I had rarely, up until my 30s, imbibed in alcohol. It was always Diet Pepsi for me. We ordered dinner and sat up to the bar to wait for our table. That night my husband suggested that I try a screwdriver, a cocktail with gin and orange juice. I agreed. From the first sip, I was refreshed. Tasted just like OJ and I kind of guzzled it, the night being so hot and humid. The other three in my little party were drinking beer. As the bartender replaced empty beer bottles with fresh ones, my drink was also refreshed – about 12 times!
About that time, I started to think that my husband was Tom Selleck, my mother-in-law was looking more and more like Betty White, my father-in-law, Andy Griffith, and I, of course, was Elizabeth Taylor (in a black wig). I also became very sick. I slid/tumbled off the bar stool, making my way to the bathroom. I’ve heard of hugging enamel before but I was trying to BECOME enamel, melding myself to the stool with desperate perspiration-drenched hands and arms. My head lolled inches above the water as I gave back every one of those screwdrivers that I had so enjoyed. I was empty as a Super Bowl stadium 6 hours after the big game.
Coming back into the restaurant and seeing my lobster dinner on the table sent me into paroxysms of nausea. The outside deck looked refreshing so I took my skewed wigged head out there to sit, hoping some fresh air would revive me. The deck had an open-slatted floor. Every few minutes, my body would chug up again and I would roll my lolling head over the arm of my lawn chair and release everything to the mighty Mississippi.
Needless to say, my husband ate two dinners that night. Time to leave. We got back on the ferry. My husband and in-laws sat in the covered portion of the ferry, but, still seeking relief from the perspiration that yet stood out all over my body (part humidity, part nausea-induced), I elected to sit in the back of the ferry wanting to catch the wonderful breeze coming off the water.
The ferry took off for shore. I leaned my head over the side and whoosh! I felt a lovely cooling wind on my head – not just on my face, but my head. It actually felt cold. I put my hand to my head and OMG! My wig was gone! Now, if you know anything about wigs, a woman would put her hair up on the top of her head with pins or just use the top of a pair of pantyhose as a “turban” to keep rooted hair from popping out of the wig, also making the wig quite secure. So you can imagine my horror to realize I was sitting on a ferry wearing the top of my pantyhose on my head! My husband was furious that I had lost the wig (human-hair wigs were quite expensive) and totally embarrassed by me, but what could I do? I had to, as gracefully as I could, disembark from the ferry and, with the greatest of dignity, walk to the car with a nylon stocking on my head.
Right about then, some scavenging beaver hooked onto my beautiful, French-twisted human-hair wig, drug it home, crying “look, Mom, what I found,” making it into the ritziest beaver home on the Mississippi! I feel I have done my part for nature and its critters.
