This morning’s K-Cup flavor was “Butter Toffee”. I hesitated before popping it into my Keurig machine because it’s a little sweeter than I’d wanted for the hour of the day, but… in it went, and I instantly found myself singing “another butter toffee Monday,” in lieu of “another Pleasant Valley Sunday.”
And then I remembered something else….
A week or so ago, my daughter and I were milling about our local shopping mall when she pointed to a store and said in the middle of a completely different conversation, “… and that’s where you kissed all the monkeys.”
[SFX in my head: Needle screeching across a record.]
Me, “What in the world are you talking about?”
Her, “Remember? The monkeys were here and you kissed them? You told me so!”
Me… thinking, thinking... oh, yeah. Forgot that I’d shared that story with her. (I may have already shared it here, too. If so, forgive me if you’ve heard this one before.)
Ya see, back in the mid-’90s, the store she had pointed to (which is now a Finish Line) was a Sam Goody record store (before that, it was Harmony Hut). My sister and I had waited in line for two hours or so one weekend morning, awaiting the arrival of The Monkees, who were in town and would be at the record store to sign autographs and sell CDs. It was the same location where, years earlier, we had met the “kids” from the TV show Fame (from which we acquired Lori Singer’s pre-Footloose autograph).
“For the record,” I told my daughter (no pun intended, btw), “only three of The Monkees were there; I did not kiss all of them, only one; and I did not kiss that one.. he kissed me!”
Here’s the story…
So, we’re waiting in line for hours and hours, listening to endless Monkees’ songs on repeat, winding our way through the shelves that were gradually leading us to Davy Jones, Micky Dolenz and Peter Tork. At last, we arrived at the table, where they were seated beside the store windows so that onlookers in the mall could catch a full glimpse of them. Every now and then, the guys would stand up and wave to the crowd. Peels of giddy screams from women of all ages ensued.
Finally, we reached the table. In front of me sat THE Davy Jones! He, of course, had always been my favorite. He had the British accent and the crooked smile and a twinkle in his eye. I thought about asking Davy for a hug… after all, he had let Marcia Brady kiss him. Surely, there was a chance for me. But, nope. I was too shy. I simply slid my newly purchased Monkees CD toward him. He didn’t even look up. He just signed it and slid it toward Micky. I stepped to the side in front of Micky who did the same thing, signing and sliding to Peter, my last option.
Earlier while I had been standing in line, I noticed that a woman much older than me had received a gentle, unassuming kiss on the cheek from Peter. She walked away unscathed, so I figured… what the heck. I’ll give him a shot. So while Peter was signing his name, I said to him very quietly, “Umm, excuse me, sir. I noticed that you kissed that one woman on the cheek a moment ago. Would you mind if–…” At that moment, Peter made eye contact with me, stood up abruptly from his chair, lunged forward toward me, grabbed my head in both hands and planted a firm kiss lopsidedly on my mouth. He then waved to people and sat back down.
Meanwhile, Davy Jones and Micky Dolenz also suddenly looked up at me… in horror! Their mouths dropped open slightly as they viewed my widened eyes, in just as much shock as I was. It was almost like I was in an actual episode of “The Monkees”, minus the mini dress, false eyelashes and go-go boots. I trickled out a quiet “th-th-thttthhhaaank yyyouuuu….” and stumbled away, having learned a valuable life lesson: “Be very careful what you ask for and from whom… you just may get it!”