A fairy tale for my sisters

There were once three little girls who were raised by wolves.  They had a house, but it was kind of a disaster.  These little girls lived not far from their Grandma's house.  The little girls would go to Grandma's house in the summer when school was out because their old babysitter beat them and yelled at them in a verbally abusive manner.  The wolves decided that even though they didn't want the little girls to stay with Grandma, they would send them there in the summer time during the day because it was easier than finding a new babysitter who didn't beat kids and also because Grandma didn't charge.

The three little girls had real girl names, but Grandma re-named them "I Want, " "Shut Up," and "Leave Me Alone" for obvious reasons.  

I Want was the youngest.  She rarely went to the basement, she usually stayed upstairs with Grandma, for it was a tad safer for a toddler her age than navigating steep stairs and snaggy vines and spines.  So Grandma mostly heard from her, "Grandma, I want a piece of paper, I want a crayon, I want a glass of water," etc.  I Want got her name just because she was too small to get anything for herself.

Shut Up was always talking, so of course she wanted everyone else to shut up!  Shut Up was a sort of tyrant that liked to stir the pot, and was usually the instigator in the territorial disputes in the jungle basement.  Shut Up liked to smash other people's towers and castles they were building with twirling batons or whatever she could find that would do the trick.  Shut Up was in the middle, a shitty place to be sometimes.

Leave Me Alone was the first born.  She remembered just how quiet it was before the other two.  She always got to play with her toys when she wanted, the wolves even acted like they listened to her when she spoke.  There was no one sharing her jungle territory or destroying the castle she was building.  She longed for peacefulness.

The little girls didn't mind so much going to Grandma's house, in fact, they thought it was really alright.  Grandma had air-conditioning and a house-keeper, which the wolves did not.  Grandma also had a never-ending cache of sweet snacks and a jungle in her basement.  The jungle basement was really amazing.  There were tropical houseplants that had gone wild down there.  They grew out of their pots, rooted into the carpet and crawled towards the bay window.  They dipped and stretched, growing into nearly impossible shapes!  The little girls liked to play in the basement jungle, but often territorial disputes would disrupt between them.

Grandma didn't seem to mind the yelling all that much, and for the most part, she stayed upstairs and watched soap operas.  The little girls would climb the steep stairs once in a while and ask Grandma to settle a tiff for them.  Grandma wasn't really much of a mediator, so often sugary snacks were given and they were sent back to the jungle, or separated for a short bit of time.  Grandma seldom noticed if they left their time out spot and returned to the jungle basement, she was busy talking to the t.v.

The little girls stayed with Grandma through the summer days until the wolves deemed Leave Me Alone old enough to be responsible for her younger two sisters...  she really wasn't all that old.  The wolves just mostly didn't like the little girls staying with Grandma.  Once her babysitting duties started, Leave Me Alone avoided the other two by going to the woods or reading a book in her room with the door shut and locked.  Shut Up would tie up I Want in the wolves' basement and beat on her like the bad babysitter used to do...  well, maybe not as much as the bad babysitter. Nintendo seemed to be the only thing that kept Shut Up from stirring up things with the other two.

I apologize to Shut Up if this story paints her as a harsh character.  She really was different than Leave Me Alone, and I imagine that those fundamental differences were the roots of some of the mutual misunderstandings they had of one another.  I Want talked a lot on the phone when she got older, which Leave Me Alone found somewhat irritating, but no one was calling to talk to Leave Me Alone anyway, so I am not sure why it bothered her so.

The little girls grew up and moved away from each other and I think they are happier.  They do like to visit one another from time to time.

The End.

Helloween

When I was a kid, halloween was a miserable holiday.  It induced near-panic attacks.  Living in northwest Missouri almost guaranteed shitty weather.  In addition to freezing my ass off, I always had a really lame costume.  I think this is mostly because my parents are cheap and lazy.  I always had great ideas for costumes, but it always seemed cost prohibitive.  My folks were not lacking in creativity, that's for sure.  All the tales of impending doom at the dentist's office, how awful sex was, mostly just warnings given with a "if you do this, something bad will happen" sort of flavor.

I had a few classmates who's moms could sew and they came out with these great costumes!  My mom could sew...   I so longed for something neat to wear on halloween, but the best costume I ever ended up with was a black garbage bag stuffed with other garbage bags, holes cut out for the eyes, and big plastic sunglasses.  Guess what I was?  Give up?  A California raisin.  Boo.

The worst costumes were the ones that they actually bought for us.  The plastic suits that had the brittle plastic masks.  Most of these characters were super heros or cartoon characters (most of which I didn't give a shit about).  It doesn't really sound that bad, but let me tell you something, those masks were their own kind of torture.  Two sharp little holes stamped for your nose and one strange little slit where your mouth was.

Jogging from house to house only generated a disgusting condensation inside the mask.  Someone always had a cold, so imagine a running nose, hot breath, and lots of slobber.  My parents were too cheap to buy new costumes every year, so it was a real drag to have to wear my sister's slobber mask from last year.  After a full night of heavy breathing under one of those, they never smelled the same.  It makes me gag a little right now just thinking about it.

I guess the most damaging part of my childhood halloween was the fact that my parents sat in the car and would not let us stop till they were done.  They would drop us off to send us up and down a street, when we returned to the car, they would take our buckets, dump them in theirs and tell us to take the next street.  All the while, they dug through our loot and took the candy bars (the big ones--the days before "fun size"). We would get left with the dry popcorn balls that the old ladies made, those horrible peanut butter taffies in the black or orange wax paper, and tootsie rolls (which aren't that bad, but certainly not great when you know you got a full-sized Snickers bar you'll never get to eat).  My parents are such assholes.  They laughed and pushed us onward the whole night.  I can remember several halloweens ended in tears for me.  I just didn't want to go on.  I couldn't wait for the day when I was finally too old to trick-or-treat.  I think 6th grade was my last trip out and I dressed myself in a skirt I found that was about 6 sizes too big and called myself a witch.  NO mask.

Now that we are adults, we can choose how we want to celebrate halloween, and celebrate we do!  Hubby and I make ridiculous costumes.  We have a costume party and pot-luck dinner every year that is so much fun....  the alcohol probably helps a little too.

Why am I a fanatic?

An Old 97's fanatic that is.  The reason can barely be explained without sounding like some kind of crazy person.

I first listened to them in college.  They had just released Fight Songs in '99, that winter I GRADUATED from college.  I was oblivious to live music in my college town (why didn't I go out?  Oh yeah, 'cause I'm a huge nerd).  They came here a lot in the late nineties, and I missed it--missed becoming more obsessed with them sooner I guess.  I got Satellite Rides, sang along in my car and just kinda just loved them.  They were easy to sing along with, lyrics were smarter than the average bear...  I don't know why, besides they just sort of fit because they didn't seem to fit into any category of music.

All the time, I caught up on and loved other bands from the same time period and before.  I missed out on a decent share of pop culture being holed up in my religious beliefs, along with it's "non-secular" music.  Some of which was actually very good!  The "new to me" stuff was addictive, I collected albums by Wilco, Cake, and Guster, and many more (all of which I will say is very good music, of course).  Looking back on the Old 97's, their catalogues I got started with are the ones that most die-hard fans think are the least best.  I still get an old familiar college feeling when I hear "Jagged," which is one of my top five favorites.  I had to open that up from three to five now that the new album has come out.  There are about 25 songs that they did that I can't imagine my life now without.

I don't know when, but sometime around 2004, one of my husband's friends gave me a live bootleg of the Old 97's performing at our Blue Note--the music venue in Columbia.  I didn't listen to it for a while... it sat in the cd case in my car.  I suspected it was a shitty recording, all hissy or muffled.  It was not.  It sat there.  Finally, I was in a funk one day.  I emptied my car's cd changer and switched everything out with stuff I'd never listened to.  Holy crap.  That live cd was amazing.  Suddenly, and very urgently, I needed to see them LIVE.  As it would be, they would not return to Columbia, MO until 2008, that was seven years since their last visit, and four years from my epiphany.  I waited.  I did get to see them for the first time live in St. Louis at the Pageant in 2008--an awesome live music venue!  Later again in Columbia.  I was totally hooked.

On a bad day, an Old 97's live set is guitar string tight.  There might be some subtext of tension between Rhett and Ken.  There is no self-indulgent jamming, only a fairly predictable chain of events.  It's the familiar we love, right?  I'm not saying they do the same show every night.  They pull out all the stops every night.  That's what they do.  It's incredible what they do.  There is so much action on the stage, and  despite anything going on between them, they make the show for you.  Lead singer, Rhett Miller must be in top athletic condition to go through all the moves he shakes together.  The guy has mostly soaked his shirt through with sweat by song number three.  We all wait to see the windmill move he does and the funny hip-thrust dance.

There is always some friendly banter with the crowd and some shared jokes between the band.  Sometimes they even let you know a few secrets as to how the song they are going to sing was written.  We love that stuff.  They make it feel like they crafted this set list just for your town and they let you know they are glad you showed up.  Not in a desperate way, but an honest appreciation for their fans.  Something that's tragically vacant from most music these days....  at least the stuff you hear the most.

As a fan, when you hear the song "Four Leaf Clover" you get a little sad 'cause you know the end is near.  It's such a rocking song though, you can't help screaming and singing along.  When you hear "Time Bomb" you know for sure it's over.  That song is always bittersweet for me. It is much like the grand finale of a fireworks display.  You know it will be over any second, but it lights you up anyway.  You can't wait for the next time they come back and do it all over again for you.

Dinner Theatre

FAIR Warning, this was written apparently one night when I got up from bed and wandered to the computer all wacked-out on Ambien.  I have no recollection of posting this, and I am surprised to read of my sappy feelings that must be down below the surface about my engagement ring.  True story:  I told Bert not to buy me a ring, but he insisted and he's kinda old-fashioned.  I had never even heard of a many spending three month's salary on an engagement ring before he brought it up.  A real sweetheart.  I could never be so lucky.  How's that for some sap?

Here's what I wrote:

It was a long day for me and Bert.  We were looking forward to quiet dining and no dishes to take care of afterwards so we went to our favorite spot, Flat Branch Pub.  The patio was open and the weather was perfect.  As soon as we were seated, it became clear that we were going to be held captive to a somewhat one-sided conversation from an adjacent table.

His voice was piercing and clear.  His enunciation was perfect.  The man who I will refer to as the Douche from now on sat at a small table with two other people.  He had a delightful accent, Indian trained in England.  Within the first few minutes we learned of the girl he had a crush on all his life.  Because she was just so beautiful.  Not many other details besides an occasional "just gorgeous" to get the point across.  Then he brought up one of their mutual friends who was recently engaged.  He explained incredulously that she expected an engagement ring worth three months of her suitor's salary.  This must have been the first time he'd ever heard of this, because he just kept saying how ridiculous a $27,000 ring would be.  "That could pay for one of their children's college!"  How insane was this woman!  Come to find out this guy is a resident at the hospital.  He would not make $27,000 in three months during residency.  He Might make it once he gets a real job outside of the training portion of this medical education.  The Douche missed the point entirely.  I guess the days of men setting aside that money for the perfect ring to honor his love to be are over.  Lucky for Bert, he was working in a research lab as a master's candidate, so three month's salary was not that much.  He honored it though, and I will never trade or upgrade my beloved ring.  It is a memento of our relationship that I can carry with me even when he is not.

The "lovely" accent started to grate and take over our table's conversation.  We could not hear over the din of the Douche.  Our own conversation had ceased or only picked up when we had to say something to secretly mock the Douche.  His friends were there and brief pauses when they would talk, but we could not make out a single word they said.  He then started talking about one of the other Indian residents he knows who called him the least Indian-like Indian guy he ever met (likely {hopefully} for disgrace).  The Douche seemed quite proud of this, announcing that he is barely Indian at all.  He was one of those who talked a LOT but said nearly nothing.  I am not sure which medical field he is going into, but I wish the very best for his patients, and that they may have patience.  It always amazes me the residents who come to Midwestern residency programs.  Is this a last chance sort of thing, or what?  I don't know why anyone would want to go to the middle if they didn't have to, that's for sure.

I thought I was One with Nature

Somewhere waaaay back in the family on my mom's side, someone married a full-blooded American Indian.  That means, really I'm as mixed up as any other American.  I blame my crooked and flawed teeth on any English blood in my veins...  you should have seen them before braces!  I blame my HUGE calves and big arms on my German heritage.  I can dig a hole with a shovel like nobody's business, though.  I blame my low levels of alcohol dehydrogenase on my Navtive American genes, but it makes me a cheap drunk.  I will proudly claim my Native American roots when I can harvest a bounty from my garden, spot wild animals no one notices, or when someone compliments my olivey-tan skin in the summer.  What rights do I have to claim these things?  None really.  I am delusional.

I like to think I live in harmony with nature, I'm in tune to the energies of the wild.  I'm laughing at myself as I type this.  Growing up, I lived outdoors, like a wild child.  I climbed our trees, picked up rocks from glacial till, and spent as much time as possible in the woods.  Really it was to avoid getting told what to do.  My parents were really into the "out of sight, out of mind" parenting technique, they were also too lazy to go find us if we didn't answer.  I avoided being picked on by my younger sister, who has been bigger than me since she was four years old.  Her fair and sensitive skin kept her indoors.  Additionally, we didn't have air-conditioning.  It was always much cooler in the woods or up in the branches of a tree where the breeze would blow.  I never thought about why I was out there, I just knew it was better than being at home.

In all the time I traipsed through the woods, dug in the dirt, picked mushrooms, wild berries, collected leaves and seeds, I never once got poison ivy.  I have probably rolled in the stuff.  Just the other day in my yard (which is sort of jungley in parts), I was weeding.  There was a little poison ivy growing, so I pulled it out and put it in the compost.  A day later, a place on my wrist is red and raised with tiny blisters.  It itches like nothing I've ever known.  It is relentless, it is poison ivy.  Ugh.  Wow.  I always thought folks who got poison ivy were just lamenting for the drama of it all.  I understand now.  Nature, why hast thou forsaken me?

As we age do we become more philosophical?  Maybe so, or maybe our brains just grow up and we start thinking rationally.  I dropped the righteous religious beliefs I was taught all my childhood in just the last 8 years.  I realized they were a heavy burden.  Is there really someone watching us all the time?  Are we really that self-involved that we would think there is a being observing, interceding for us, and ultimately judging our fate?  That's what we have blogs for nowadays.  I think it sounds silly, the universe is too big and the possibilities are too numerous to even bother with.  So, I decided that my religion is nature.  What else tangible do we have anyway?  I don't need proof, but I am practical or maybe just lazy.  I stripped it down to the basics:  we are born, we live, and we die.  Our bodies decompose as microorganisms feed on them, then something eats them, and then something else eats them....  you get it.  Eventually our parts become part of something else.  That actually makes me feel a lot better than going to heaven to eternally worship the lord (yawn), or be condemned to hell--what kind of person dreamed this up?  It seems constructed just to keep people on the right side of the law.  Right side is used loosely here.

I harbor no ill-will toward anyone with religious beliefs....  as long as they don't keep urging me on towards the "light" after I have politely stated that I am not interested.  We all die with our own stupid beliefs, right?  I am not forcing Nature on anyone else...  Nature pretty much does that on her own.  I don't think the question "but where did nature come from?" is even anything for us to worry about.  Who cares?  Enjoy your life, be kind to others, take only what you need so that there will be something left for the next.

The ire that keeps me awake at night

If I can't sleep at night, it's generally due to a thought I am perseverating on (never end a sentence with a preposition).  Mulling it over in my mind, like how you can't leave your braces alone when they are first installed, and you eventually wear your tongue raw.  My nerves are now worn raw, and if I don't let off a little steam, this angry little volcano is going to blow. 


This one thing that has keep me from satisfying rest of late is Hidden Valley Ranch.  Seriously?  Yes.  Their god-damned commercials are a crime against nature and humanity.  "oh children will eat vegetables because they only taste delicious when they are slathered with our fat/salt compound that is proprietarily protected"  Mother fuckers.  No wonder us Americans are all fat-asses--companies like this telling us the only way to enjoy something composed of plant material is to make it completely unhealthy.  This commercial has been running for months, if not over a year.  It singes my soul each time I see it.  


Another reason we're all fat asses, and this is just a personal opinion...  Our progenitors did not have good dental care, so they resorted to over-cooking their vegetables and dousing them with gravy so they could swallow them whole and prevent starving to death.  I would imagine navigating a stick of celery would be a little tricky if you had no teeth.  But...  bygone yesteryears...  move forward folks!  We have access to dental care, we can use a toothbrush and toothpaste to keep our teeth in our heads.  Why the hell are we over-cooking our veggies and making them disgusting?  I am not one of those "raw" diet freaks, I just think applying a little heat to our veggies instead of reducing them to near-compost devoid of flavor makes more sense.


I'll be honest, I don't like all veggies.  Eggplant was something that I finally became friends with.  I ended up roasting pieces with a little olive oil, honey, pepper, thai chiles, and salt.  You know what?  That makes eggplant pretty damn tasty!  If you don't like it, I challenge you to try cooking it two other ways before you give up on it completely--any vegetable, fruit, or nut (unless, of course, you're allergic).


All those veggies in the brassica family (cauliflower, broccoli, brussels sprouts, cabbage, etc) contain properties that if overcooked, will release a sulfury smell.  Okay, let's be honest, what kid is going to eat some mushy green thing that smells and tastes like a fart?  Just take it easy, steam the stuff for a few minutes, add some garlic and a bit of olive oil and you'll have a gourmet side dish.


I have to say, I feel a little better, but I have a lot more left keeping me up at night...