Sir, I'm Not That Kind of Girl!: Goody Two-Shoes Goes to Town

By Mary Lynn Archibald

A small town California girl longs for the bright lights and the lure of the Big City (San Francisco must be the place to go for a young, clueless but talented lass, she thinks). World War II takes the family to Dayton, Ohio. Not even close.

But she's a trouper: singing in a fourth-grade production of "The Magic Nutcracker" operetta or performing dance numbers in high school assemblies and plays when she returns to California postwar.

When she is fifteen a baby brother is born, and she finds she is no longer the star in the family. This is unacceptable.

At seventeen, she is recruited into a San Francisco chorus line, so as soon after graduation as possible, she flees to the city and her big adventure. She works for a while for Gump's (Asian and other exotic gifts, art and jade), and lands such glamorous jobs as a switchboard operator, clothes model and hostess at a kosher deli, all while trying to get a college education at San Francisco State. She enters the Miss San Francisco Contest, and gets close, but...you know the rest.

The only real glory she enjoys is dancing on the same stage with the Ames Brothers, who perform their hit song, "Tammy" every night.

It's a riotous romp through an Ozzie and Harriet childhood and a foray into the big world without the proper survival tools. In due course, she finds her most useful new skill is how to fend off overzealous men.

Who knew?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9780978705442

Mary Lynn Archibald

Mary Lynn Archibald Archibald is a freelance copywriter, editor and author of two memoirs: Briarhopper: A History, one woman's story from 1913 to 1945 and from Kentucky coal country to California; and Accidental Cowgirl: Six Cows, No Horse and No Clue, the hilarious saga of two greenhorns who inadvertently find themselves in the cattle business. Her book was a USA BOOK NEWS Best Book Award 2008 Finalist for Humor, and INDIE BOOK AWARDS Finalist for Humor and Memoir. Mary Lynn's next memoir, due out in the fall, chronicles her life from her naîve, "Leave it to Beaver" childhood in small town Soquel, California, to a slightly more risqué life as a chorus girl and model at the dawn of the Summer of Love," which she apparently slept right through. She lives in Sonoma County, California, with her partner-in-crime, Carl, and their dog of questionable parentage, Fizzbo.

Book preview

Afterthoughts

Apprehensively, I knocked at the door of a San Francisco basement apartment.

Come right on in and take off yer clothes, honey! said a raspy voice from within.

I entered, fearing the worst.

The voice issued from somewhere behind a billowing cloud of blue smoke. Gradually, a figure emerged, clad in a cheap flowered nylon wrapper and stained blue terrycloth scuffies.

To my relief, it was a woman. There she stood, a faded calico apron barely spanning her large, blowsy body, her pockets overflowing with pincushions, ribbons and half-empty packets of Camels.

This apparition, I discovered, was the person I had come to see.

Just call me Mrs. B, she croaked, her gnarled hands absently searching pockets for another cigarette. And close the damn door, honey. Yer lettin’ all the heat out!

Finally successful in her search, Mrs. B. lit a new cigarette with the stub of the old one, which she ground out in one of many brimming ashtrays strewn about the basement sewing room.

The smoky haze around her head cleared momentarily to reveal gray hair dyed a rather startling combination of colors—red, orange and blue vied with purple and platinum blonde. It was hard to tell which was the shade she’d most recently intended.

I glanced around the small, cramped room, its walls covered with curling black-and-white photographs. A sagging armchair held a disordered pile of sequins and ruffles.

Bright yellow eyes peeked out of the pile, and a large black tomcat stretched, yawned and hopped to the floor, scattering sequins as it went. It sauntered lazily over to Mrs. B, circling her heavy legs and offering its huge head to be scratched.

Stale cigarette smoke, cat pee and bourbon scented the overheated air, and I saw with dismay that every square inch of the basement studio seemed to be covered with fabric and felines. The profusion of pussycats in such a small, airless space fired up my virulent cat allergies, causing my eyes to itch.

I sneezed.

A flurry of netting, beading and bows spilled from open drawers, wound around chair legs and cascaded from wire hangers in untidy rows on long pipe dress racks.

An ancient Singer sewing machine held a frothy confection of black satin and tulle, pinioned to its needle as if it were an exotic butterfly.

Well, what’re you waitin’ for! demanded Mrs. B. Strip down! I ain’t got all day.

I dropped my coat and backpack in a corner and began self-consciously removing my clothes. My God, I thought. What am I doing here?

The Fran Malioni chorus line had needed a tall blonde dancer, and I was it (or her). Before I finished high school, I was a member of the troupe. Not only would I be a real dancer, but I’d also be a paid dancer! This was the brave new world of show biz—and I was totally out of my depth.

I was visiting Mrs. B in her lair that day to be fitted for a costume I’d wear in our St. Louis Blues number: Saint Looie woman, with all her diamond rings, pulls that man around by her apron strings, etcetera. Oh, yeah.

Little pillbox hat, elbow-length gloves, glittery rhinestone jewelry, and sequined, strapless outfit, leg openings cut up to my hipbones. Pretty. Also pretty skimpy. I’d seen the sketches.

Now down to panties and bra, I faced Mrs. B.

You gotta strip all the way, honey, she commanded. These costumes gotta fit ya like skin, and God help you if ya gain any weight before the show, so drop yer drawers and let’s get on with it.

I was mortified, but I did as I was told. Naked, I edged toward her.

Her eyes resting on my small bosom, Mrs. B frowned.

Well, you ain’t got much on top, but we can fix that, she said. Just let me get you pinned into this little number and then we’ll stuff you with cookies.

Cookies? I said. But I thought you said we weren’t to gain weight until after the performance.

Mrs. B snorted. Jeezus! Don’t you know anything? Cookies are a chorus girl’s best friend.

Gripping her cigarette between clenched teeth and squinting against the smoke, she began rummaging through the drawers of the Singer, pulling out what looked like flesh colored shoulder pads and tossing them carelessly onto the already littered floor.

At that moment, an alert ginger cat emerged from the corner where it had been sleeping atop a few bolts of cloth and slunk stealthily toward us like the hunter it was, pouncing on one of the oddly shaped pads and batting it across the floor.

Mrs. B regarded it with motherly pride. Ain’t he cute? she said.

Stooping creakily, she sorted through the remaining objects until she found what she wanted.

Here we are, she said triumphantly. These here cookies should be just about your size, and she clapped the strange things to her chest where her breasts had doubtless been before they’d headed south.

Next, she picked up a scrap of dull cotton fabric from her sewing chair.

Here, slip into this, honey, she said around a curling mouthful of smoke. Then we’ll see just how much stuffing we need to do.

As she held out the tiny thing, I noticed that what appeared to be the lining was shiny black sequined satin.

But why am I putting it on inside out? And where’s the rest of it?

Boy, you really are new at this, ain’t ya? she said. I have to pin ya into it inside out, so’s I know where to seam it, see? Now hang on to me and step in.

She swayed down to the level of my crotch, attempting to steady herself while holding open the leg holes of the costume, scattering ash over it and gassing me thoroughly as she did so.

Oh, hell! she said, making a futile attempt to brush the ashes away.

Suddenly, she lunged at me with more energy than I thought possible in one so hefty and plunged the cookies into my bodice, stuffing expertly until she was satisfied.

Triumphantly, she spun me toward a full-length mirror, and I stared in disbelief at my newfound pulchritude.

Mrs. B stepped back. There, see? Much better. Hang on a minute, honey.

Lumbering past me, the worn slippers slapping the floor like floppy blue beaver tails, she slipped another Camel out of the crumpled pack, inserting it expertly into her mouth, squinting, clenching her teeth and lighting it, all in one oddly graceful motion.

So, let’s see what we got here.

Inhaling hungrily, Mrs. B began pinning me into the shell of the costume. Her face was now just inches from mine—pale despite liberal trowellings of rouge, powder and brilliant blue eye shadow.

I kept a wary eye on her cigarette. She held it at a jaunty angle—a fat, female FDR.

Another ash lengthened, quivered, broke and followed its predecessor down onto her shelf of a bosom unheeded, scattering tiny sparks in all directions.

There y’are honey, said Mrs. B. All done. Now walk around, bend over and try a few a them high kicks you do. We don’t wanna make that thing so tight ya can’t do a decent wiggle, ha, ha!

Breathing shallowly—there was no other way—I did a few step-ball-change moves and kicked as high as I could, feeling almost ready for show biz.

Finally, Mrs. B finished with the pinning and gassing, and I was allowed to put on my street clothes.

As she finished fumbling with the scrap of fabric that was to be my costume, I circled the walls, peering through the fog at Mrs. B’s photo collection. The photos, old and faded as they were, featured some pretty impressive show business personalities. Most bore surprising inscriptions such as, to Lily with gratitude, or I owe it all to you, babe!

One whole wall of photographs displayed a young, slender and voluptuous platinum blonde, proudly flaunting a scantily clad and decidedly spectacular body.

Well, whaddaya think, honey? said Mrs. B, steaming up behind me. Betcha didn’t reckanize me didja?

Well, I…uh…gee…no.

She went on with obvious enthusiasm, not noticing my confusion.

This is me in the Follies when I was seventeen. And this is me in the burlycue in Chicago. I was on the same bill in Vegas with some pretty big names one time.

Finding my voice at last, I gasped, This is you? with perhaps more incredulity than I should have.

Oh, yeah, honey, she said, eyes narrowing behind her smokescreen. I was the best! Started when I was about your age too. Yeah, I was a hoofer for a while, but there was more dough in the burlycue, so I whipped up some sexy costumes and went on the road as an exotic dancer. An’ that Gypsy Rose Lee? She was nothin’ compared to the Gilded Lily.

Mrs. B placed a large hand on each abundant hip and executed a flawless grind.

I used to wow ‘em in a gold lamé number that I’d slither out of a little at a time, takin’ off my gloves next to last, till I was down to a gold G-string, pasties an’ this real big gold flowered hat—like a Gibson girl, ya know? The old boys loved that one!

But how did you come to San Francisco? I asked. What I meant to say was, But how did you come to this?

Well, ya know, I worked the big cities for fifteen years or so. Then I woke up in L.A. one mornin’ and realized everything had started to slip, if ya know what I mean."

The Gilded Lily took a long, reflective drag on her cigarette.

"My sister was livin’ here. We got along—hell, she was the only one in my family still speakin’ to me by then—so I moved out to live with her and sorta retired for a while.

But then I got bored, ya know? I missed the old life. I missed the people. Show bidness gets in your blood, ya now?

I nodded. I knew. Already, I knew.

I thought, hell, everybody on the circuit always liked my costumes. Called a few old friends in the bidness, and they started comin’ all the way to Frisco just to have me make their costumes. I am the best after all.

Mrs. B paused to rummage in her pockets for another cigarette, lit it and filled her lungs with smoke before continuing.

"I made costumes for the best in the bidness for forty years, and I made a pretty good livin’.

But let me tell you, girlie, she said. None a them movie stars ever filled out a costume as good as I did, and I didn’t need no cookies! She beamed through her smoke cloud, following up with a rich, phlegmy cough. You’ll love show bidness, honey, she said, scooping up the nearest cat as she did so and clutching it lovingly to her fallen breast.

"It’s been good to me, and I never had no education like you, but I did okay, ya know? When you got natural talent like me, ya gotta use it. Then you just can’t hardly miss.

No sirree, she called from the doorway of her den, as I ran madly for the bus stop. Can’t hardly miss!

I left Mrs. B’s, dazed. Was this what it was to be like for me? There was the stark reality of show business: the glamour I craved, but also the frustration of waiting for things to happen; the joys and the failures; the characters met along the way; the loneliness of living out of suitcases on the road—the stuff they didn’t tell you about in the brochure.

I am standing, joyously naked, on the front porch of our small northern California home, my blonde hair still damp from the bath.

My mother is running toward me with a towel, muttering something under her breath. Before she can reach me, I have scooped up the neighbor’s fluffy ginger cat, placed it in a chokehold and rubbed it up and down caressingly on my plump belly, my nose buried in its fur, laughing with delight.

This is my first memory.

My small world had narrowed to the summer sun on my hair, bare body and unprotected feet, and the amazing feel of soft fur.

The cat stiffened, flexing and extending its claws as it hung suspended from my arms—hind legs dangling nearly to the porch floor—to signal it’d had just about enough of that nonsense.

I was two, and as winsome as they came (so I’ve been told).

Having a naked grandchild of any age on the front porch in full view of the neighbors would not have won favor with Bayne and Myra Archibald, who were both staunchly religious—pillars of the local Congregational church—and well respected in the community. They could find sin in places where you’d never think to look, and Grandpa A, it was rumored, was one among a select group of temperance-minded men who felt it their moral duty to go on regular search-and-destroy missions to local bars in the Soquel/Santa Cruz area. (It’s a good thing he didn’t live long enough to see me scantily clad, in black fishnet stockings, in a San Francisco chorus line.)

They still hadn’t decided if Mommy was worthy of their youngest son.

The fact that my mother’s uncle, Dan Parsons, owned and operated the only liquor store in town did not help to raise Mommy in their estimation.

And there was another difficulty.

It was well-known in that small community that my mother’s parents, the Stidhams, were hillbillies from Kentucky, and as such, were rarely invited to socialize with the strait-laced Archibald family, who came from the northeast, which everybody knew was much more civilized. They had won the war, after all.

My mother finally caught up with me and scooped me up in the towel, just as the cat, grumbling, managed to wriggle out of my toddler grasp and beat it beneath the porch.

Mommy! I cried, stamping my foot angrily, you scared the pussycat. He felt so good, and he was purring too. I think he likes me.

That cat is full of fleas.

But he’s so soft, I said, giving her a winsome smile.

Kiki keeps him in the barn to catch mice, and he’s mangy and dirty. Please don’t pick him up again, now hear?

Mommy carried me back into the bathroom, rubbing me vigorously with the towel as if to dislodge stray fleas. Then she took me by the hand, up the stairs to my room to get me properly dressed.

My room was contradictory. I have always been about femininity and style, but it was immediately obvious to the interested observer that my grandfather, Alec Stidham (or Papa, as I came to know him), had been counting pretty heavily on having a grandson.

He had remodeled that room before I was born, and it was entirely covered in knotty pine built-in furniture that resembled a woodsy fishing cabin more than a little girl’s retreat. It was all hard edges, with a brick-patterned linoleum floor and a ceiling fixture he’d modified from a boy’s tin drum.

My mother, Dalna, was Nanny and Papa’s only child, and he’d always counted on her to produce a grandson he could take camping, hunting and fishing with him; a boy he could teach the proper way to load a shotgun or bait a hook. They would have a grand time, out on their own, away from the womenfolk and their fussing. He’d even carved and painstakingly polished a black walnut gunstock for the boy’s future .22 rifle.

As a respectable Kentuckian woodsman, Papa had always provided for his family by hunting and fishing, and they ate whatever he hooked, snared or shot. Local specialties were rabbit, possum, ‘coon and squirrel.

My mother told me later that Papa took it hard when he first visited us in the maternity ward. It’s a girl, Dad, she said, holding her breath.

He looked at his new granddaughter and backed swiftly toward the door. I’ll be back, said Papa, gruffly.

And he left.

Anyone present could have read the disappointment on his face. Mommy knew what he was thinking. A girl. Of what earthly use is a girl?

Later that day, during formal visiting hours, he returned, nearly obscured by the biggest doll my mother had ever seen.

Hello, Dalnie, he said. I thought the little one might like this.

He was smiling now and making little cooing noises at me. I was, of course, looking winsome. My mother didn’t know what to say—besides, she was crying pretty hard right then.

When Mommy got home from the hospital, she set about creating a feminine room for me in that forest of knotty pine.

Fortunately, Papa had left one wall of the room unadorned, so she bought pink wallpaper with a repeating pattern of Little Bo Peep and her wandering sheep, and found, somewhere, a small wall lamp that featured the same frilly, forgetful shepherdess. It went over the head of my bed, as my reading light and handy ammunition against fear of the dark.

She bought two sets of white polka-dot gauze curtains, and hung one set in the lone window over the window seat and the other over the opening of the built-in bunk, and then stood back to admire her handiwork. It softened the room somewhat. It would have to do. She couldn’t afford any more decorating until she could get her old job back at Model Drug, the only drugstore in downtown Soquel.

Those were hard times in 1938 when I was born, and Larry (my dad) made $80 a week at the local post office, which never went far for just himself and his wife. And now we were three.

My parents had to give up the few evenings out they had formerly enjoyed. It was during the Great Depression, and money was tight. Papa had converted half of the Archibald home—a 1901 Victorian—into our apartment, so our young family could have its own place, and Mommy and Daddy could have their new, winsome, ten-pound baby girl all to themselves. Almost.

Even though they had to live with his parents, they had a degree of privacy and the freedom to make their own decisions about their new life and how to live it.

All, that is, except one…

At the Archibald’s, church attendance was mandatory.

The Soquel Congregational Church was right downtown. We called it The Little White Church in the Vale after a popular song of the day. It was where my mother and father were married. They couldn’t afford wedding announcements, so they simply put a notice in the paper. That meant that the whole town was invited, but fortunately not all 9,000 of them showed up.

Someone in the congregation had done a watercolor painting of the church—tall, majestic steeple and all—and gave it to my parents as a wedding present. It hung in a place of honor in their home, wherever they lived, until my mother’s death in 2007, at the age of 92.

It was a beautiful church, with gleaming hardwood floors, white pews with crimson velvet cushions and a real pipe organ just behind the chancel. There was a heavy bronze bell in the steeple, and the sexton rang it every Sunday, though it weighed so much that he had to pull on the bell rope with both hands as he dropped into a crouch; it pulled him off the floor as it swung the other way.

I really, really wanted to ring that bell.

The church had an odd feature. Legend claimed that it was built by an old sea captain, which explained why the floor of the nave was slightly higher in the center and sloped down gently to the walls on each side, so that like